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yeyinde · 2 months ago

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PRAIRIE WOLF | hinterland

John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST. AO3. [PREV]

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?”

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

allusions to abuse. descriptions of injury. trauma.

The sound of rain pelting against glass rouses you from a threadlike sleep, one full of loose, spooling dreams and fractured memories.

(dirty, blood-drenched snow. a hole in your belly. the acrid burn of heated, melting metal in your nose. a grunt—

come on, Coyote, hold still—)

It hums there, even with your eyes open. Even as you blink into existence. Sitting on the edge; little clots, microcosms you can reach out and pop like bubbles. Hypnopompia. A strange place where dream and reality blur—surrealism in fatigue blue. Ghosts pulled into consciousness.

It's dark in the truck when you blink again, sluggishly mapping the features that stretch out before you, all shaded in black.

Through the windshield is a world of dark green. Thick, dense clouds gather above the angular tops of conifers and giant evergreens. Thunderclouds rumble overhead, groaning with the heavy rainfall that pours down over everything in a howling baptism.

Only the orange of the truck cuts colour through the thick deluge of blue-green and slate. Warmed by the heat of the engine. The cable-knit throw covers the red leather seats. It's as close to comfortable as you think you've ever been. Swaddled in a Levi's jacket tucked under your bare feet resting on the bench of the truck, hanging loosely over your shoulders. It smells of smoke—thick and dense, but sweeter, earthier than nicotine. Scorched pine and soot. Bonfires. Laced with sweat and oil and dirt—humus. Like the soil after a rain shower. A summer storm.

It smells good. You sink into it a little more—into this cosm that you know won't last. A blanket of succour, soft wool that tickles your nose and warms your cold hands. Chases away the tendrils of a grasping dream reaching for the edges of your periphery—all claws and teeth and misshapen memories.

Fractured bones. Burst blood vessels. A knot your belly—

The radio crackles as the truck drives down the winding highway, crooning something low and melodic through the static:

—stopped into a church I passed along the way—

The clock on the radio reads that it's just after seven. A jarring thought; the slow, sinking realization that everything happened in the span of hours. Ended only an hour ago. And now—

He's a wild animal you're not sure how to breathe around. A bear. His hand curls loosely over the steering wheel, the other braced on the ledge of the window, fingers tapping to the music spilling out, filling the cab.

He doesn't look over at you, but you get the feeling he knows you're awake. Watching him. Hunter. Hunted.

—well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray—

You thought you knew better. Come on, Coyote—

“Gonna stop and grab some burgers,” he grunts, a low growl barely an octave higher than the brassy singer on the radio. Softly spoken—or as soft as a man like him could manage—to not startle you. “Takeout. Tha’ alright with you?”

You're not sure what to make of it. Him, this. Being asked, maybe. That alright with you?

When you don't speak, he peels his eyes away from the road, glancing towards you. A brow raises. Waiting.

You shrug.

He grunts again. “Fine.”

His eyes slip down briefly to the metal name tag still pinned to the faded pink of your shirt, staring at the slanted words stamped into the enamel pin.

Taking them in. Their shape. Then:

“Why Coyote?”

Another shrug. It pulls at the hand-shaped, fist-sized ache in your shoulder blade. “It's what everyone calls me.”

“It's not your real name.”

“No.”

“Why do they call you Coyote, then?”

You think of a different weight on your shoulder. Heavy metal. Stale, warm beer and cigarette smoke coming in a puff of air over your cheek. Stay still for me, pretty girl. Gonna be in a world a’hurt if your squirmin’ makes me miss my shot—

A hand on your thigh. On your neck.

Hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

“They just do,” you mumble around the crooning verse that swallows the tremble in your voice. “They always have.”

Come on, Coyote.

John brings to you a small, rustic-looking drive-thru with a menu that has less than ten items on it.

It's made of log and glass and smells of sizzling grease. There's a small parking lot to the left of the rectangular shack with a big moose's head on the front. All long antlers and a broad snout.

MOOSEHEAD the sign reads in faded, firetruck red. home of the moose burger.

When he said drive-thru, you assumed McDonald's. Burger King. Harvey's. The small shack nestled in front of a looming, slate-coloured mountain was not what you were expecting, and as he twists the wheel, navigating the winding path to the bright yellow menu behind a brown box, something shifts in your belly. A knot. Hunger, maybe.

You can't remember the last time you ate. Not good for the baby.

“What d’you want?”

You blink through the haze of rain, the thick plume of condensation that gathers at the bottom of the window, and read the boxy letters pressed into the lit board. HAMBURGER. CHEESEBURGER. MOOSEBURGER. FRIES. SOFT DRINKS. MILKSHAKES.

John rolls the window down. The heavy scent of wet, oil-slick pavement and rust fills the cab.

The speaker crackles. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

“Moose burger and fries,” he grunts. “Coke to drink.” A glance is sent your way. “And—?”

“Um. The same.”

“Make it two of those.”

“Sure thing, hun. Come ‘round the front. Your order will be ready. Total is twenty-two seventeen. Thank you.”

He doesn't roll the window back up. Mist sprays against your arm, glistening under the smear of neon lights glistening through the wet windshield. It's cool outside. The mountain air is clean. Crisp.

You've never been to this part of town before. To this town, you suppose. An hour out from the flat valley that made up the port city. The bay at your fingertips. Claws in your neck—

It's nice here. Green. Dark. Everything shifts, like it's on an angle. A slope. And you know it is with the towering mountain that looked like craggy chevron from the valley below pressed, imposing and massive, at your back. Your ears pop at the elevation, and breathing is both easier and heavier at the same time.

The air is thin here, but you're so far away from that city, from him, that it doesn't matter if you suffocate now because it'll be your choice and not—

His hands on your neck. Ever try to run away from me again, Coyote, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do—

The bag is wet when he presses it into your arm. Dropping it down on your arched legs when you don't take it from him quick enough. You startle. Blinking. He doesn't glance over, just slides your drink into the cupholder beside his, and after a moment, mind reeling because how much did you miss just—

Thinking.

You hurry to settle into place. Legs twitching, sliding out from their protective curl against your chest—

A hand on your covered ankle stops you. “Don't need to move,” he murmurs, glancing at you briefly. But not—

Not really. Not looking at you but out the window, you realise, the truck dipping down on an angle as he hovers near the exit, waiting for the thin line of cars to pass before he turns back onto the highway.

“Get comfy.” It's a suggestion. “Eat.” But that's a command.

Your inside twist at the sound of it. Military, you remember Elliot saying. You feel it acutely in your bones, still thrumming, pulse tripping over that growling demand. Eat.

Your body moves without thought. Obeying. Hands snaking out of the warmth cradled on the back of his Levi's jacket, one he must have thrown over you in your sleep, and peel back the rolled paper bag that smells of grease and meat. It's warm in the bag. You fish out the first burger and can barely close your hand around the thick of it, blinking slightly in startled awe at the size.

Moose burger. A fitting name, but you think of home, suddenly, painfully, and wonder if it's real moose. Feel the clench in your belly at the thought. Of moose steak drenched in fat, seared on the stove. Moose stew in the slow cooker, left to tenderise in the simmering broth.

“Ain't real moose.”

You wonder how he knew, and can't be sure if you like the fact that he did. Guessed right. Chiselled inside of your head. Read you like an open book. It makes your pulse thunder, a roaring in your ears that dulls the scattered thunderclaps from above.

“Oh,” you say, and feel the disappointment trickling in, thick in your throat. “Just the size, then?”

He hums, and reaches into the bag, rifling around for a handful of fries. “Yeah. Jus’ the size. Ever had it before?”

You think of then, of being tucked inside pants that don't fit. A shirt that's too loose. Feet in boots a size too big. All tattered and aged, worn down. Holes. Patches where the fabric was ripped and sewn back together. Jagged lines from an unpractised hand. Loose threads. Knots. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to your skin. A plastic bag. A bruised apple that your teacher slipped you during the first recess. Leftovers.

Moose meat stew. Rabbit. Ew, Coyote's eating something weird again—

Thirteen and crouching behind a bush as your dad angles the gun over your head. Big boy, he whispers. Gonna be eatin’ good this winter. Look’it the size of ‘im.

The smell of duck fat sizzling in a pan. The crack of a beer can. Squeals of wood on slippery, cheap vinyl. Fried dough resting on the counter next to a tower of pop cans and an old Costco popcorn bottle filled with tabs. remind me t’send Robbie in the mornin’ to drop ‘em off. need the money for cigarettes.

Then:

Moose tonight. Go’an an’ get your sister.

It's mild. Like beef but better, you used to think. Less tangy. Less thick. Depends on the season, your dad would say. Best cut is when they're just on the end of their rut. When they're eating big. Getting nice and fat. Tastes better like that. A bull not in rut, a skinny one, ain't as good.

Moose is a strange meat. Prey animal, but it tastes nothing like a caribou or a deer. Rabbit. Not gamey, like a predator, either—like bear (braised black bear with gravy to make it tender; the fat stored away for later—another staple you think about). It's good. Different.

You miss it—even if the idea, the memories, that come with it make you feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. Empty.

Your tongue thickens. You don't think you can speak. Not right now. So you nod instead—this shallow, jerking thing. Too solemn. Too low. Chin to your chest.

John hums, and sinks the handful of fries into his mouth before he turns on the highway, one hand on the wheel. Knuckles raised. Marbled mountain peaks. Purple and red. Blotchy in the washed out glow of the dashboard. Swollen and painful looking but he doesn't even flinch when he grips the wheel, and the clotted scab peels, lifting off skin. Oozing thick, syrupy blood out from under the cracked shell.

He pulls back when it beads too much, wipes it on his shirt, careless and unbothered by the stain it leaves, and then puts his hand back on the wheel. Smeared ink black in the gloom.

That hand sunk into his—Sam’s—face. Caught on his sneer, knuckles tearing. Leaving blood between Sam's teeth. A split on his lip that made you think of the one—the ones—he left on yours. Tender and painful and swelling up in an instant. A pulsing throb, a heat.

Over and over again—

His hand rifles through the bag. “Eat,” he says again, low, muffled around the dangling end of a fry. “s’gonna go cold.”

It already is. Somewhat. A soggy, grease-soaked bun. Patty still warm. Dripping ketchup and mustard down the sides and onto the plastic wrapper. It's heavy. Thick. You bite the end flattened by the press of your thumbs, teeth sinking into the burger. Taste familiar on your tongue.

It's good, you suppose. Filling. You eat half before dropping it back onto the paper, reaching for the fries in the bag. Thick cut and crispy. Salted.

The truck smells of salt and grease, and when your stomach knots—too much food after too little for so long—you wrap the leftovers up and slip it back into the bag for later.

He doesn't say anything after that. His hand slides over the wheel as he turns up the winding road. Up, up. Deeper into the mountains where the air thins, and the trees thicken. An endless sprawl of darkness cut only by the muted gold glow of his headlights illuminating the wet, twisting pavement.

You sink into the silence. Feeling the heavy, warm weight of the half-eaten burger on your thighs. The stretch of leather beneath your ankle.

Heavy-lidded. Stuck in the sticky cobweb of fatigue and hyperarousal. Never really sleeping for more than a handful of hours at a time. Survival, you think. It's what the text in the pamphlet said, the one the lady shoved into your hands when you went to buy a pregnancy test from the store. It's not your fault: how to seek help for domestic abuse.

Her eyes were kind—like the paramedics. Oh, hun. It ain't your fault.

The problem is you don't think that's true.

He—Sam—was a good man before he met you, wasn't he?

But every so often, your gaze will slide towards his hand still curled around the steering wheel, knuckles split. Eyes suddenly heavy enough that you think you could fall asleep again.

His cabin is perched on the maw of a bay, accessible only by boat.

He seems hesitant as he unloads the luggage from his truck, throwing them into a sleek-looking fishing boat bobbing from where it's anchored in a dock. Wary. Watching you closely like he expects you to run.

And you know there should be trepidation. A strange man you've had less than a handful of conversations with, one who stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and is now herding you into a boat late at night.

Jarvis Inlet, he grunts. A place called Dark Cove. And then he looks at you, just stares, as if waiting for something. A fight, maybe. More questions. But you've slept in worse places, and the idea of being out of the rain as quickly as possible is more appealing than your potential doom.

You slide into the boat, hands curled into his jacket. He follows after a beat, unlatching the ties holding it to the dock, and steps inside, murmuring something when it shifts under his weight. Starts it up. He digs under his seat for a moment, rifling through a box, before grabbing something out and turning towards you. A blanket. He tosses it your way, grunting under his breath about keeping warm.

It's a short trip through the water. You spend most of it huddled under the blanket, hands squeezed between your thighs as he navigates around a massive, jutting rock with thick, dense conifers clustered along the sloping edges of the island.

You expected it to be higher up. Hidden in the mountains. But it sits at an arcing curve that cuts through the ocean. Tucked in the protective curl of his land is the still, ink blue waters of the bay before it bleeds into the sound.

Mainland is a craggy, green rock on the horizon. The ocean dips, dizzyingly vast and unfathomable, behind the jagged mass littered with the lights. A city in light polluted pointillism.

He pulls the boat up to a bigger one. A yacht. Sleek and white and bobbing in the waters. It's tethered to a dock out in the lake. A bridge connects it to the shore.

He reaches over when he cuts the engine, yanking on the makeshift hood you crafted from the loose throw until it covers more of your face. “Hold onto the railings when you walk. Gets slippery.”

John turns away after, hefting your meagre luggage on one shoulder as he pulls the tarp over the boat, shielding it from the rain. You step back onto the dock, back nudging the pristine boat behind you.

The world is awash in shadows. Dark, jagged peaks. Crooked trees drooping in the downpour. Ink black. An abyss that yawns out for an unfathomable stretch before kissing the dark mass of a mountain cutting out from the sprawling pool.

You've heard people say before that places like this can swallow you whole. Slip beneath the waves, turn behind a tree, and no one will ever see you again. But you've always found that sentiment to be wrong.

Cities are where you disappear. Indifferent places made of concrete and money. No one cares if you go missing, but out here—

You think this land spit you back out.

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding beside you. His hand is heavy on your waist. Urging. “This way.”

You follow, clinging to the firm hold he has on your back as you wobble along the slick bridge to the rocky embankment just up ahead.

The bridge continues even on land, sloping up in a set of stairs before coming to a stop on a small cliff above the beach.

You turn back towards the mainland when John stops, hand rifling through his pocket for the keys.

The distance, the knowledge that this mass you stand on—all soft, wet moss; peat soil—is so far away from that place that it clumps, black and jagged and imposing, against the shoreline is calming. In shades. Small increments, like the loosening of your shoulders. The ache there, too. The breath in your lungs comes a little easier when you stare down at the mainland, at the stretch of blue between it and you. The little thread in the distance that ties it together.

He nudges you quietly with the muted clearing of his throat. Not touching you, but—

Hovering. In sight. On the edge of your periphery. Making his presence known.

You're not sure what to make of it.

What to make of any of this.

His chin jerks towards the cabin bracket between a dense thicket of trees. “C’mon. Let's get you outta the rain.”

His cabin is modest in size.

The entrance is on a deck overlooking the bay. All open. Big, ceiling-to-floor windows. French doors. It's framed in thick cured timber. Logs stained a warm, honeyed brown.

Inside is simple in design, too.

The kitchen is to the left. A living room to the right. Straight across is a loft with a staircase angled into the kitchen. A small, dark hallway rolls out from beneath the balcony and leads to two bedrooms, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

The living room is cosy. An old, worn couch is pushed against the vaulted window overlooking the deck. A chair tucked beside it. Against the right wall is a hearth next to another big, open window angled into the forest.

A coffee table sits in front, cluttered with stacks of books—carpentry, woodwork—and pieces of wood. Blocks shaved down into the idea of an object. Incipient creations. A knife lays overtop. Pens, markers scattered around.

Along the log walls—all the same warm honey-coloured—are trophies. A moose head. Antlers. Books line the shelves. Newspaper rests in a thick stack by the armchair.

The kitchen is tucked into a nook, hidden behind an island. The same rustic brown as everything else, save for the faded, yellow refrigerator and the off-white stove.

Where a dining table might sit, is a workbench. Tools. A saw. It spills over the surface.

It's lived in, you know, but something about it feels detached. Cluttered madness, but—

Not really.

Everything, even in this disordered chaos, has a place. From the scattered markers to the books on the walls. It all fits some unseen cohesion even if you thought his house would have been neater. Military.

There's a blanket on the couch that catches your eye. The design—the pattern. Achingly familiar.

“Loft or bedroom?”

You tear your gaze away from it, swallowing down the acrid longing that surges in your throat. “What?”

He jerks his chin towards the balcony. “Wanna sleep up there or in the spare bedroom?”

“Don’t you sleep up there?”

“No. Used to. S’more of an office now.”

There's a guest house to the left of the cabin. A bachelor with the kitchen running into the bedroom. The washroom closed off. But it's not finished, he says, something frissoning over his expression. Knotting between his brows. Something about the look on his face screams don't ask because he'll never tell.

You glance away. It's not in you to pry. To care. Whatever secrets he keeps are his and his alone. Just like yours. Why Coyote—

The only other choice is the spare bedroom tucked inside the dark hallway beside his. Close. Barely an arm's length away—

“Loft.”

He nods like he expected it. Jerks his chin again towards the back, holding your duffle bag out for you to take.

“Showers through there. Go get warmed up. And I'll heat up some stew.”

The bag dangles on the width of his hand, swaying from the momentum. This ugly, tattered black backpack—

“I don't—I didn't bring any clean clothes—” it's embarassing to admit now that inside your meagre bag is nothing but four hundred dollars and an old, tattered blanket. A sweater. Dirty, bloodstained pants. Everything else is with—

With Sam.

The plan had been to cash your last cheque, and go back to the motel. Grab the rest. A stupid decision in hindsight.

There's a tick in his jaw. A terse set to his shoulders. He lowers the bag, letting it fall to the floor, collapsing in on itself. Empty.

“Nevermind,” you say, slipping the wet blanket from your shoulders, letting it pool in your arms. “I can just wear this—”

His eyes rive over the crumpled, wet uniform shirt. Faded pink—bubblegum, you think; with chocolate brown trim—and stained with grease. Coffee.

Another tick. His brow furrows. Knots. Anger slashing over his face, rucking three, jagged lines through his forehead.

“No. I'll bring you somethin’ to wear. Somethin’ warm. Gets cold out here. Go.” Another jerk of his chin. A command.

He does that a lot, you realise, shivering at the bite inside the cabin, the chill ghosting over your damp skin as he turns away from you, walking deeper into the house. Towards his bedroom. The broad expanse of his back bigger than anything you'd ever seen—

All height, and heft. Soft in the middle, but thickened with muscles. And with it, he commands. All biting, unignorable demands. Do this, eat. Go. Get warm.

You're used to it, you think. Being told what to do. How to act. Marionette on strings. All you're good for.

Sam used to say the reason you made him hit you so much is because you never listen. Gotta box you around the ears a bit, just for you to even pay attention to me, Coyote. It's not my fault, baby, you make me do it—

But there's something about his commands that sink beyond noise. Reaching into the slick, pulsing gyri, and sending off his own current of obeyance. Innate. Unconscious. He says eat and you find yourself taking a bite of a burger you didn't think you even wanted. Weren't hungry for. Chewing. Swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Again. Again. Again. Utters watch your step and your eyes drop to the slick ground, carefully treading the planks.

Get warm. Go shower. You drop the blanket on the back of the chair, covering up the other one, and walk towards the bathroom. Thoughtless. Head silent. Empty and still. Quiet for the first time since you were thirteen—

It's because you're tired, you think. Exhausted.

That's all.

But when you finally sink into the bed—lumpy and thick and perfect—sleep evades you. Skirts just out of reach until you're staring up at the log ceiling, thinking about nothing. Everything.

Sam. Blood on the pavement. The split in his knuckles. Grease. Burgers. Come on, Coyote—

The knot in your stomach—

Your hand goes there. Slips under the thick cable knit sweater he gave you to sleep in, the boxers that fit like loose shorts, and curls around your lower belly. Flat and empty because this thing inside of you isn't even really there. Small, the book said. Tiny. A speck.

A life-changing, mind-melting thing.

You—

A mother.

The thought is soaked in the rotten, fetid sludge of the past. Of your own mother with her dark hair and her hard eyes. Her strange moods. Don't touch me, Coyote. I don't wanna be touched right now, fuck. Can't you ever listen? Mercurial. How come you never hug me? Actin’ like I ain't your mom an’ shit. Shifting. Evolving. Changing shape depending on who she was with at the time—

Unravelling at the seams ever since your dad died. You look like your dad, Coyote. It makes me fuckin’ sick—

You can't think about it. Won't.

So you don't. Swallow it down. Cotton in your ears. Noise in the back of your head.

Memories on your skin. Ghosts in your veins.

Come on, Coyote.

You'd be a terrible mother, you think, and peel your hand away, knotting it into a fist by your side until your nails sink into skin.

There's something a little grounding about the pain this time.

You stare up at the ceiling all night until the sun rises, golden and warm, and spills in through the vaulted window.

Below you, you hear John stir. Rising.

You follow his lead.

He does odd jobs, he says.

Carpentry. Woodwork. Makes things that people want. That they need. Most of it gets sold in town—patio chairs, kayaks for the tourists—or by the few locals in the bay who need things made. Repairs, too. Easy fixes.

Most of it is on backlog, but he'll get the occasional phone call asking for something to be done.

And that's where you come in.

The loft has a small space made up of a makeshift office. A phone. A ledger. Papers. Pens. It's pushed up against the railing of the balcony, right across from the top of the stairs.

All you really have to do is answer when people call, take their information, and find out what they want him to build. He doesn't do cabins, he grunts. Say no. Always.

Everything else goes into the ledger for him to look at later.

“Don't worry,” he rumbles, scratching at the thick curls beneath his chin. “Most of the orders come from Elliot. You'll just be fielding local work. Kayaks, mostly.”

And he's not wrong. The first week, you get all of a single phone call—a woman down in Osoyoos who wants a kayak. Her information is penned into the thick, waterlogged ledger next to the other names. Contact information. He'll get back to you soon, you say, but John just grunts when you tell him about the woman.

Its mostly just—

Laying around. Organising the mess in the loft. The boxes he shrugs at, and tells you to put them in the closet along with whatever else is clogging the upstairs. Forgotten remnants he seems disinterested in going through.

Or watching him.

John fills space as easily as breathing. Makes noises. Commands. The order he's working on is spread out over the deck, and spills into the cabin. Little saws on the workbench. Tools. He wanders in and out with purpose, grabbing things, using them, putting them back. Silent as he works.

He's a mystery. An enigma. Seems unbothered by you being here, sinking your fingers into his things. He adjusts in that strange, quiet way of his. Makes dinner for two as if he'd been doing it the whole time. Leaves clean towels in the bathroom. Runs into town and comes back with clothes—from Savannah, he grunts out, thrusting the bag in your direction; Elliot's wife, said she'd be about your size—and pads, tampons, that he shoves under the bathroom sink. An extra toothbrush. Shampoo that isn't five-in-one and smells of honey and oats.

But it's not seamless.

Sometimes, you think he forgets. Walks in—caked in sawdust and covered in sweat—and peels his shirt up, baring his thick, hairy damp chest without a second thought, scrubbing his face, his neck, with the bottom of his stained shirt. Or rips it off. Comes in drenched in sweat, and reaches behind himself, one hand curling into the fabric against his nape, and pulls—

Broad, slick skin. All covered in a dense layer of fur.

Bearish.

Remembers himself only when you make a noise. A huff. Silent laughter because this whole thing is a little unreal—

He doesn't apologise, though. Just shrugs. Reaches for a face cloth he keeps slung around the back of the couch and pats himself dry.

Dinner is quiet, too. Sombre. He leaves food out for you, but eats between work. Often outside, reclining on the patio chair on the deck. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Has a cigar. Inhales his food before you've even put together a plate, and then the saw starts up again. Back to work.

It's tense. The atmosphere is thick. It feels like you're dancing around each other, trying to make room in a space too small for even just himself.

You stay upstairs most of the time. Staring out at the sprawl of glinting blue. The jagged green.

The bay is prettier in the daylight when the sun is high in the sky casting a golden yellow arch across the veridian world around you. Still. Silent.

The city was loud. Cars on the pavement. Horns. Chatter. Noise. People. An endless spill, a cacophony of life. Sirens. Motors. Barking commands.

Sam's condo downtown was never quiet. Too close to the harbour—foghorns, the roar of ships entering the port. Television playing something he was interested in at the time. The radio on. The sounds he made spilling out—fuck, Coyote. Can't you do anything right?

Noise, noise, noise—

More coffee. When's my breakfast comin’ out. Hey, cutie, what time you done work at?

You should really leave him, Coyote, because what the fuck? Have you seen your eye? It looks worse with makeup, come on, girl, you're fuck up our tips!

And now—

The saw. Scrape of a knife on wood. A grunt. Fuck. A loon in the distance. A splash. Watch your step on the deck, Coyote. Got shit everywhere. The lap of the sea against the rocks. The rustle of the trees in the breeze. Makin’ stew tonight. Want some? The ringing of the telephone. Etta James crooning on the radio. The knock of the metal boats against the dock. Grab yourself a beer if you want. Only got that or whiskey. Help yourself. The soft shlick of the fridge peeling open. The hum. Clink of a bottle on glass. The hiss when you open it. A saw. A splash. Rain on glass. The thunk of his boots across the deck. The soft thud of a door.

Anyone call? A grunt. The rip of laces as he peels his boots off. You shake your head, reaching for a bun. No. A sigh. Good.

Most of the noise is in your head.

Memories. Malformed dreams dancing in the recesses of your mind.

Crack of a twig. Hands on your throat. Come on, Coyote—

Inescapable.

Inevitable.

And that's what it all is, isn't it?

He stares at you, too. Sometimes you catch him watching in that careful, measured way of his. The same look on his face as before, in the diner—anger: what happened to you; wariness: whatever it is, don't bring it over here—but morphing. Shifting. Dropping from the curve of your neck tucked under the fold of a pink collar, bruises melting seamlessly into your skin, to the roll of his sweater over your midsection. Pausing there, like he's expecting to see something more than the curl of cream yarn woven together.

It makes you a little sick. Like that time when he and the paramedic hovered. You hate them both, you thought. Felt. An acid burn in your chest. Go away, stop staring. Stop gawking. Leave!

The woman in the drugstore. Oh, you poor thing. Pushing an unwanted pamphlet into your hands. Don't worry, hun, it'll get better.

People look at you and see what they wanted to see. Unwrapping you until they found the hurt below. A reason for their sympathy.

Because girls like you aren't deserving of pity unless you're all broken up. Shallow graves and forgotten names. A box collecting dust.

They looked for the marks, the bruises, and sighed with relief when they found them. Oh, you poor thing.

It's petty, and you hate yourself for it. Just a little bit. But you know how far sympathy will go before it dries up and oh, you poor thing becomes well, you kinda deserved it.

You're not special in this regard. All of your friends had similar stories growing up but what always set them apart is that people would have looked into that room, seen a grown man with his hand on their thigh, a sixteen-year-old child, and thought oh, your poor thing.

When it happened to you, their lips curled in disgust. Stay away from my husband, you slut—

Because at the end of the day, it's always your fault for looking the way you do.

("Like you want it," he grunts into your ear, spiteful and ugly, fingers digging in because they can.)

You figure it's only a matter of time John, too, stops finding reasons for his pity.

His charity.

Because, really—

"What makes you so special, Coyote?"

A pretty face. Split thighs.

The only thing you're good for is being on your knees—

Come on, Coyote. You should know this already.

But the dance continues.

He leaves in the mornings. Goes on runs. You haven't gathered the courage yet to go farther than the deck, too worried about the call of the forest. The sprawling blue. Of sinking into evergreen and sleeping forever—

John doesn't seem to mind your reclusiveness. Only a matter of time. He brings back books when he leaves the island. Little things for you to occupy yourself with. You never ask, won't. The fewer favours you owe, the more of yourself you can keep when the good Samaritan act has run dry.

You don't say thank you. It wasn't your choice to begin with. You clean up after yourself, but that's it. A guest in his house. Nothing more, nothing less.

You do your job, even though it's obvious it was a joke.

No one calls besides the woman in Osoyoos and Elliot—

Something that shouldn't have surprised you as much as it had. Military dogs, he once said as you poured him another cup of coffee. We tend to mingle.

But hearing his voice is a cruel relief. The only exception to the rule has ever been Elliot, a man who seemed to adopt an uncle stance when it came to you.

Kin, he'd said, and laughed when you scoffed. We're practically cousins.

“Might stop by soon. See how you're holdin’ up.”

“Don't bother. I'm fine.”

“Well, maybe I'll come bother Price. He loves it when I visit.”

“I'll pass on the message.”

“No, don't do that,” he laughs, loud and free. It tickles your ear. “He'll call the dock and tell ‘em not to rent me a boat.”

“Should take it as a sign, then. That John—Price doesn't wanna be around you.”

“Ah, cruel girl. You wound me.”

“You don't wanna get hurt, then stop calling.”

“Gotta check in on ya. You get into all kinda trouble when I’m not around.”

It makes you tense. Belly knotting. “No one asked you to do that, Elliot. I didn't ask you to.”

“You're a lot like Price, you know. Both of you…you don't like askin’ for help even if you need it.” He breathes into a line. A heavy sigh.

Elliot is a good man, you know. The best. But—

“I'm fine, Elliot.”

You tend to hurt people like that.

“You're a good kid,” he says instead. “Just—be gentle with him, huh? Been through a lot.”

“He's six foot and like, three hundred pounds. How much damage could I really do?”

More’in you think, is what he says after a long pause, low and solemn; voice full of things you can't unravel. Unwrap. And you scoff in response because what does he know? Huh, Elliot? Be so serious, ta.

A man like John—Price—could rip you apart before you even put a scratch on him.

“Not everyone hurts with their hands, Coyote.”

John's been through a lot. Please remember that.

Something has to break, you think.

And you can feel it, too. This thickness in the air. In the coil of his shoulders. The line between his brow. Anger, inward. The heavy, measured way he stares as he dances around you. Moving in circles. A clumsy routine built on mutual avoidance.

It's I didn't ask for help and don't bring that over here merging into a whitewater confluence. A narrow channel where one must go under first in order to fit.

You're tired of it being you, but you don't think a man like Price has ever backed down from anything in his life.

Stalemate, maybe.

Or—

It cracks after dinner when he lingers. Hovering in the kitchen as you slip down the stairs in search of something to fill the chasm in your belly. The thing growing—

He meets you there, shoulders tense. His head is bowed between them, hung low as he looks over the plans spread out on his workbench. You make to skirt around him, but he looks up when you get close. Pins you in place with his stare.

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

“Adoption,” you force out, squeezed between the ache of the past chiselling inside rotted marrow and the shape of your future; a hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

You were always meant to die, you think. Snuffed under the heel of a boot or at the end of a shotgun—the how never mattered much over the spread of a carcass on the ground. Inevitable, maybe. Just like—

Just like your mother.

But at least this way, this little thing leaching off of you, an unwanted seedling, will grow. Might have a chance to be different. Escape the generational trauma that plagues your lineage—an inherited curse. Inescapable. Maybe it'll be different. Better.

“I think—adoption might be best. Maybe.”

He says nothing, just stares in that strange, measured way of his. But then—

Why would he? It's not his kid. Not his choice.

It seems to dawn on him all the same. His jaw clenches tight, bruised knuckles peaking as he curls his fingers into a fist.

Something fractures over his expression. Gaze turning inward. Shuttered. Haunted by ghosts older than you, maybe. But he's good at shaking them off. Putting them away.

He catches your stare, eyes following it down to his bloodied knuckles, and his mouth pulls into a taut, absent smile. He knocks them on the wood once, twice. Leaves a drop of blood smeared on the grain.

“Alright,” it's strained, pinched. “If that's what you want.”

It is. It's an unfathomable kindness you wish your mother graced onto you. It—it—will understand. Eventually. With time. Once they realise the only thing in their future was sleeping in the back seat of a car while you worked odd jobs—waitress, stripper, labourer in a factory—and barely having enough money to scrape together to get a happy meal, they'll come to thank you for this choice.

You nod instead, and his lips twitch again in that mockery of a smile. Something shatters. Breaks.

There are more ways to hurt, Coyote, than with teeth and claws.

He peels away after a beat, muttering something under his breath about an order. A kayak the neighbours ordered.

You don't watch him leave. You're too busy staring at the smear of blood left behind, the smear he didn't seem to notice.

for those wondering what John's cabin looks like. Jervis Inlet is just perfect for this little fic.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #fic: prairie wolf #i hate picking names for people/ocs but i also have plans so the exbf couldn't be a nameless entity 😮‍💨#cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain john price #price/reader #price x you #captain price #cod price

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nastybuckybarnes · 2 months ago

Text

The Aftermath

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader

Summary: How can what's done be undone? Let's watch.

Warnings: Language, PTSD, Angst, Fluff, Injuries, Angst,

Word Count: 2.3K

A/n: I made y'all wait for this one lol. I hope you enjoy. Yes, there will be more so dont you worry. i really wanna try hammering out more of this and tbp cause i may or may not do another 12 days of ficmas or somethin but we'll see!

~*~

When Task Force 141 finally heads into the basement to free you, the scene before them has more than one of them sick to their stomach.

You're curled up in a ball, whispering to yourself in a language they're not familiar with, and when you finally catch a glimpse of them, it's like gas to a flame.

You're pleading, begging in that same language as you slowly back up, shaking your head at them as tears fall down your cheeks.

The words are desperate, spat with haste and fear, and it hurts Ghost's heart to know that the first time he's hearing your mother tongue is when you're trying to escape him.

"Mouse, it's me. You're safe, please. Please, s'just me," he tries, getting on his knees to seem less imposing.

You only scramble back further, holding your hands out in front of you in a pathetic attempt at protecting yourself from danger that doesn't exist.

The blood on your hand catches his attention and he's immediately looking for the source.

"You're hurt. Let me help, please."

You're hiccuping and sobbing, beyond consolation at this point and he's at a loss.

Slowly, he glances over his shoulder to his teammates, the ones who were so quick to follow the traitorous finger that was pointed in your direction.

Soap's eyes are on you, full of sadness and guilt, while Price has his eyes cast down to the floor.

They were just trying to protect their team. Their family.

An idea pops into Simon's head, and he slowly brings his hands to the chain around his neck.

He pulls off the necklace and holds it out in front of you, watching closely as your gaze slowly focuses on the silver pendant.

Your fighting lessens, breathing evens, and then you're reaching out with trembling fingers, gingerly brushing against the warm metal.

A soft word falls from your lips in the same language you were speaking before, and new tears well up in your eyes as you grab the necklace from him and hold it close to your chest.

Slowly, he backs up, motioning for the other men to get out of the way, and then he's swinging the cell door open as wide as it can go and carefully peeling his mask back.

Your wild eyes are focused on his face as he slowly reveals himself to you, and you feel your stomach flip.

"Simon?" You croak, voice scratchy and hoarse.

"S'right, little one. S'me. C'mon out now, you're safe."

You glance over at the other men in the room, your lip wobbling slightly.

"Don't look at them, look at me. Eyes on me, m'right here 'n m'not goin' anywhere."

Reluctantly, your eyes meet his again and he nods encouragingly at you.

Soap can feel his stomach tying in knots with every moment that passes, every word spoken between the two of you.

He never expected this to be the result of his accusations. Of his efforts to be a good soldier.

Slowly, you crawl toward the door, pausing every few seconds as if bracing yourself for an attack.

When you get to the doorway you take a deep breath, holding it as you cross the threshold.

And then a sob bubbles out of your chest and the dam breaks.

You're hiccuping and crying, reaching for Simon desperately, and he all but yanks you into his arms, shushing you quietly.

"I-I didn't do it!" You gasp, bloody hands grabbing handfuls of his sweater.

Simon only nods, rocking you gently in his arms.

"I know, lovie. I know."

"I-I'll be good! J-just don't... don't bring me ba-ack here, please!"

Price's jaw clenches hard, hard enough to almost crack a tooth. His hands are in tight fists by his sides and the lump in his throat is getting harder and harder to swallow.

Simon hadn't exactly been the most forthcoming with your personal information, your history, but in their search for you, they found your sketchbooks. It wasn't hard to piece together your past after that.

"Shh, it's okay. You're safe. You're never going to come back down here, I swear it. Let me take you upstairs."

Your entire frame is trembling in his arms, your bloodshot eyes focused on the men over his shoulder.

Your pupils are wide and your gaze is piercing, sharper than a blade and harder than the walls that seem to be closing in around you.

"Not safe," you whisper, tugging at his sweater then pushing out of his grip and crawling away.

"You're safe, Mouse."

"No, no not safe! Not here! Not with them!" You hiss, glaring at the men behind him.

"I try so hard! But everywhere I go you-you people... you try to hurt me! You lock me in cage! I do nothing wrong!" You're shouting now, voice hoarse and broken, but it makes Soap wince nonetheless.

You look between the men, the soldiers, and push yourself back until you hit the bars of the cell.

"I know your time here hasn't exactly been the easiest, but I swear I won't let anyone else hurt you," Simon tries, holding his hands up in surrender as he scoots closer.

"This... all of this... is because I met you," you finally whisper, the words slicing Simon to his core.

Because you're right.

From the kidnapping to the Corporal in the shower to the accusations. None of it would've happened if you'd never met the man.

"Her thigh" Gaz says softly, eyes focused on the blood darkening the fabric of your pants.

That snaps Ghost out of his feelings and his focus is on you once more. Your safety, your wellbeing.

"Mouse, you're hurt. Let me help you, please."

You glance down at your leg, the still-bleeding wound from yesterday, then cover it with your hand.

"Don't need help."

"You need medical help. Food, water. Please, Mouse." He glances over his shoulder at his teammates. "Leave."

With that one word, the three of them are gone, leaving you alone with your Ghost.

"S'just you n me now, little one. You know I'd never hurt you. Let me help you. Please."

You swallow hard, looking at him for a long silent moment before dropping your gaze back down to your thigh.

"I'll take you upstairs, we can go straight to medical and then-"

"No."

He frowns.

"No?"

"I-I don't want to see... anyone else. Only you."

He nods immediately, inching toward you carefully, as if you're a wild animal that could lash out at any moment.

It's not like he couldn't handle it, couldn't overpower you. But he wouldn't. Even if you did decide to lash out, he'd take it. S'what he deserves, after all. He should've been faster. Should've convinced Price sooner, killed both Jacobs and Matthews in that alley the first night he met you.

But he didn't.

"Can I touch you? I just want to see how bad it is." He motions to your leg.

Slowly, you give him a nod, watching through puffy eyes as he gets close enough to inspect your wound.

His hands are gentle when he touches you, tilting your leg to the side then looking back up at you.

"Let me take you out of here. Please."

"Where?"

"With me. Our quarters."

Ours. Not his. Ours.

Yours.

That's where you belong.

Up in your quarters with your Ghost and far far away from here.

Far from the holding cells that remind you too much of the cages you used to call home.

Far from people who would hurt you, lie to you, betray you.

Ghost's words from what feels like only days ago ring out in your ears, taunting you, humiliating you.

Johnny's not gonna let anything happen to you.

The man's own words when he'd cleaned that Corporal off of the bathroom floor.

You've saved my arse.....I owe you.

This is how they repay people?

Simon, upon seeing the distant starry look in your eyes, smooths his bare fingers over your wrist, tugging you gently toward him.

You follow wordlessly, lost in thought, in your mind, and he seems to recognize this.

"M'gonna bring you upstairs. Straight to our quarters, yeah? Nobody's gonna be around, I'll be quick."

He takes your silence as understanding and tugs his balaclava back on, then pulls you up into his arms and heads out of the basement and up the stairs.

A shiver rolls down his spine when he emerges in the hallway.

All of this bears an eery closeness to when he first brought you to base.

Your limp body in his arms, the looks from the poor few stragglers around base, the determination in his eyes and the pit in his stomach.

He hates it.

He hates that his team, the men he's supposed to be closest with, are the ones who've brought him back here.

The ones who've pushed you to this.

But he's not absolved of wrongdoing in this.

No, he's the one who closed the cell door behind you. He's the one who locked you in your deepest traumas.

He turned the key and tucked it in his pocket.

He's just as much to blame as they are.

His self-loathing comes to a momentary pause when he finally pushes open the door to your shared quarters.

He sets you down on the desk, much like he did the day he came back to find Corporal Jacobs dead on the bathroom floor, and grabs his first aid kit.

Expert fingers slip the blade of a knife into the tear in your pants, and then he's cutting the fabric away from your leg and spraying the wound with antiseptic.

His eyes dart up to your face, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort as he begins bandaging your wound.

He finds none.

Your eyes are still distant, as if you're not really here with him, and he feels his heart drop into his stomach.

"Mouse?"

Nothing.

Swallowing hard, he reaches for your face, smoothing his fingers over your cheek and jaw. To anyone looking, he's composed, but you feel his fingers tremble the tiniest bit as they meet your skin.

Your eyes flutter to his, pupils dilating slightly as you focus on him.

"You with me?"

You blink a few times then slowly nod, eyes staying focused on his.

"Yes... here... with Ghost."

His eyes get sad for a moment before he nods, tugging off his balaclava and dropping it onto the ground.

"Simon. You're here with Simon."

You let out a quivering sigh and nod, reaching forward to touch his face.

Red stains his pale cheek and you look to the source, brows pulling together when you see the blood on your fingers.

"What...?" You inspect your hands, the blood covering them, then drop your gaze to the half-covered wound on your thigh.

"Oh."

"Looks worse than it is. Just gotta stay off it a bit," he says softly, getting back to work until your wound is wrapped.

You say nothing, your gaze shooting back to your hands. Specifically, the necklace in your left hand.

"Want me to help put that back on?" He asks after a moment, watching the way tears fill your eyes as you nod.

He takes the necklace from you and carefully reaches around your neck, leaning in close to watch himself clasp it.

You're engulfed in his scent as he invades your personal space, and you can't stop your hands from darting out and grabbing onto his sweater to hold him there, to pull him close.

When the necklace is secure, he pulls back just enough to fix his footing, and then he's yanking you to the edge of the desk and wrapping you in his strong arms.

He hunches over the desk, dropping his head to yours and pressing kiss after kiss to the top of your head.

You wrap yourself around him, in him, as much as you can, pressing your face to his chest and burrowing into him deep enough to taste his soul.

He pulls you closer still, eyes squeezed shut tightly as he lets himself feel you. Really feel you.

Feel you in your pain, in your trauma, your helplessness. Feel you in your trust, your fear, your love. For him.

He feels you as much as he feels himself now, and all he wants is to take your pain away. Strip you of it even if it kills him.

But he can't.

So instead, he holds you close until you begin to tug away. And then he's taking your hands in his once more.

"I'll run you a shower, yeah?"

You nod wordlessly, eyes cast down as silent tears trek down your cheeks.

He moves swiftly, turning the water on and testing the temperature.

When it's finally warm enough, he returns to you, reaching for you only to freeze when you flinch back.

Refusing to meet his gaze, you slide off of the desk and step around him, cringing away when dusts his fingers over your arm.

The rejection stings, but he knows he has no right to feel hurt.

"I'll stay right here 'till you're done."

You say nothing, only close the bathroom door and turn the lock.

Simon ends up staying there for hours, long enough to realize that you're not coming out of there anytime soon.

With the lights off, he leans his head against the door separating you.

"I'll be right out here, if you wanna come out. Make sure I save a spot on the bed for ya, yeah?"

You say nothing.

He can hear the steady sound of your breath so he knows that -physically, at least- you're okay.

Sighing softly, he slides his hand down the door then turns away and takes a seat on the bed.

He sits there for a few minutes, hoping he'll hear the lock click, that you'll come to bed and the two of you will be able to put everything behind you.

But he's never been a big dreamer.

Instead, he settles down in bed, his eyes locked on the bathroom door, the faint light shining through the cracks.

Simon goes to bed that night with a full bladder and an empty bed.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost and mouse #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon/you #ghost/you #simon riley/you #cod fanfic #cod mwii

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milksuu · 10 months ago

Text

ᴀ ʀᴜʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱʜ & ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ───── ♛

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, implied kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, mention of blood/violence, mention of death

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

A gleam of orange blazed in the bleakness of night.

You watched from your hilltop window—the thatched roofs off the eastern slopes of Berk twisting and writhing in flames. Even from a distance, you heard the breaking moans of ceilings, the cracks and bends of collapsing wooden structures, and the piercing wails of scales met with sharp edges of iron. Despite The Red Death’s fall, dragon raids still plagued the lands.

Perhaps it was all a sign of retribution.

You were told to stay within the safe confines of your home. Your father hadn’t wanted to risk your life, considering how precious you’d become. The next Seer in line after Gothi, gifted with spiritual wisdom, healing, and authority of officiating the next chief.

But the price to pay had been steep.

The house was dark, not even the smallest candle lit. Nothing that would draw a glimmer of attention to the home. A creak ached the roof above, and you flitted your nose up to the rafters, drawing lines across the ceiling. Nothing but your shallow breaths filled the silent dark.

The hearth then erupted with flame and spark, jolting you from back to neck bone. Had you any voice, a strangled scream would’ve ripped from your throat. Twisting, you had almost forgotten to breathe. A figure shrouded in shadow and leather stood beside the crackling firewood. Light and dark danced in an undulating battle across the strangers’ features.

Revealing a horrifying familiarity.

“Hope you don’t mind if I warm this place up a bit.” That voice, boy-ish in tone, lacked any hint of innocence or niceties. He stretched a gloved hand towards the licking flames, doing nothing to warm the ice coating his insides. “Couldn’t help but notice you looked a little cold and...alone.”

A snap of wood made you flinch; addressing him with quivering lips and dilated eyes. Your long-lost greeting didn’t forebode well.

Every piece of leather tightened around his body as he shifted. Turning to ensnare you within his talon like stare. When embers casted a sheen across his face, you braced against the sight. Soft features long since abandoned, reforged into a visage of cold iron. Carved and littered with scars and nicks across his furrowed brows, cheeks, and clenched jaw line.

“Well, this is kind of embarrassing. Wait, no. That’s not the word I was looking for. More like—disappointing. That sounds like a better fit. For you and everyone else here.” Hiccup stalked forward, a contraption of metal clanking and scratching against the splintering floors. Each step clanged through you, until he stood one heartbeat away. “After all these years, I’d thought you’d have a bit more to say. And you want to know something else? Every night, I dreamed about how this conversation would go. Just like how I dreamed things could be better than what they were. Funny how you can plan for things to go a certain way, but then…”

He pressed his hands at each side of your head, the glass window behind begging to crack from the pressure. His scent permeated, forcing you to swallow. Once smelling of spring honey and rolling glades, now sundered to singe your senses like bone ash and lightning storms.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s a little different.” He placed a calloused finger into the dip of your clavicle. He dug and dug until your pained gasp fell deaf to his ears. Tilting his head, he curled the lip of his mouth. “So, just like Gothi, you gave up your voice. Good—great, actually. This works out better for me.”

The smile that crept over his lips never made it up to his eyes. Not like before. Those vibrant meadows sullied into a sickly, muddled green. Thick and ichorous, and dared you stare long enough, you could never trudge your way out. Afraid of being stuck within them, your hand slipped silently into the pocket of your dress, where your fingers brushed against the hilt of a dagger.

You drew it a mere inch before his hand captured yours, twisting until he pried it into his possession.

“Come on. We both know you were never good at fighting.” He chuckled, wagging the sharpest point between your trembling eyes. “I’ll admit it. I wasn’t either back then. That’s something we had in common…until I had to be. Guess that didn’t work out in anyone’s favor on this wet piece of rock. Now, did it?”

Your vision blurred. Screams of the village roared in your ears. Screeches of dragons pierced through the air, engulfed in smoke and fire. Having consumed so much in its wake, you felt the heat of chaos leech into the glass. Searing your back pressed against it.

“Woah. Hey, don’t cry. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He swept a rough thumb over a fallen tear stain. “Not all of them will die tonight. I mean, just think about it for a second. Can’t be chief and rule over a bunch of burnt corpses. How counterintuitive would that be?”

“As for you though…” he continued, and your heart stalled as he traced the cold metal down your flush cheek and neck, pausing just above your breastbone. “I’m only standing here, watching everything and everyone turn to ash around us, all because of you. And don't tell me you don't remember. When you mended my leg. Somehow kept me from bleeding out. Just before the entire village abandoned me.” His clouded eyes narrowed down. “Including you.”

Releasing you from his pinning weight, your legs wobbled. As if he hadn’t just snatched your foothold underneath. Terror kept your feet webbed in place, watching as he twirled your dagger in his fingers like a child's play thing. Crouching near the fire, he mindlessly poked and prodded at the stoking wood. He picked away a scrap of charred chipping, before plunging the blade into the flank of the burning log. You gazed at him, chest tight, aching. How he hadn’t flinched when the fire slicked around his hand like oil.

He dragged the smoldering stump from the hearth, creating a scorched line. When the licks of fire seeped into the house floors, he rose, one vertebra at a time.

“If I’m being honest, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

He unhooked a masked contraption from his belt buckle and tightened it over his face. The eye sockets were of yellow stained sea glass, and the mouth of it appeared like a muzzle of iron teeth.

“Leave something already weak, then crippled to survive on its own. Gambling on the high-stakes of death. So sure of the outcome, no one bothered to turn over a shoulder.” Hellfire rose and swelled in the reflection of his mask. “Maybe they should’ve.”

The rapid hunger of the hearth fire blazed and curled across the floor of the home. Heat lapped towards your skin, drawing out sweat from your pores. Dense smoke began filling the wooden death chamber. You inhaled the black snowflakes, searing your lungs once they melted inside you. You slapped a hard hand over your mouth, coughing and shuddering against it. A pang of panic willed your body to move. You attempted to open the window behind you, but to your horror, it had been welded to the frame.

Your eyes watered, hugging the wall as you traced it to the door. When the handle clattered against your pulls and tugs, a ghostly laugh floated around you. The metal was bolted shut from the outside. A bout of nausea cramped your stomach. Fear darted your eyes toward the stairs, where the flames hadn’t yet reached—but soon. Perhaps the window of your room hadn’t been tampered with.

You darted towards the steps, and before you could place one foot up, a black beast stalked from the darkness of the second floor.

The floating embers danced hauntingly over the onyx scales, and gashes rippled in the firelight. Revealing wounds healed twice, perhaps three times over. That body of night perfectly reflected it's master’s outward appearance.

And as you drowned in those feral slits of pure abandon, it was apparent they also shared the same broken, unmendable soul.

“Oh. You remember Toothless, don’t you?” Your face paled, backing slowly as the Nightfury slithered down the steps like black ink. A predatory growl rumbled above the snapping and collapsing wood around you. Hiccup sauntered to the dragon’s side, patting the thick of his neck, pulsing with power. Another laugh at your expense. “Looks like he remembers you.”

You fought the claw of unconsciousness raking over every part of you. Choking, straining against your hand pathetically covering your mouth.

“Since you did me a favor back then, I’m going to give you one last chance to make it up to me.” The mask muffled his voice, but the wickedness screamed, rattling your veins. “You can either choose to stay here and burn with the rest of Berk or…” he lifted a hand, hardly an invitation, but a devilish bargain. “You can choose me.”

In the thick of your pounding head and chest, you considered burning to death was the wiser option of the two. All that he was—what he’d inevitably become—held no promise of a life worth degrading yourself for. Nothing about you would be spared. And it wouldn’t be long till you dropped on hands and knees, begging for him to take your life. To end his drawn out game of torture. One he’d carefully crafted for years and years.

Just for you, only for you.

Still, you clung to life. A measly mortal thread. Your shaking hand lifted, painfully reaching for his fingertips. One step forward, and the world spun in wisps of red and black. Your lungs and heart throbbed, practically seizing. A calculated arm caught you, cradling you wholly, close as any lover would.

“Good choice.”

You heard the waning words of approval, and through the fading light of your vision, something fastened over your face. Your last conscious breath had been clean, airy—a pleasant contrast to the toxic fumes.

Then, nothing.

#hiccup #hiccup x reader #hiccup imagines #hiccup haddock #httyd #httyd fanfiction #httyd x reader #httyd imagines #how to train your dragon #evil!hiccup #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere male #reader insert #x reader #fem reader

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minminbunny · 4 months ago

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Hybrid AU - Black Panther Hybrid! Lee Minho/Older Undercover Cop Gender Neutral! Reader

*smut part - AFAB/AMAB

💕Drabble Masterlist

❤️Ultimate Masterlist

Minho growled, his fur up and standing from your curious gaze. He snarled, baring in claws and fangs within the confines of his cage. You eyed him with an icy look, keeping your persona as an underground cop. Minho glared at you his posture wary and bracing to attack. The auctioneer pat on your shoulders, "A hybrid that one, black panther. His base price is around 1 million at least, if the owner kills him they'll still have a fur coat to make," he chuckled, hitting the cage with a static staff.

You clenched your jaw, "Seems profitable, let's see how it goes," you said, trying not to blow your cover as your eyes lingered on him. It didn't take long for the raid to take down the market. Quick, efficient and thorough. With some old-fashioned torture, they should be able to dig up the information they need. You went back to the room, cages of hybrids glaring at you with fear and anger.

You took out your badge, "You're not going to be sold. If you have family, let me know. I'll alert them," you said, removing your hat to show your genuine gaze. Most of the hybrids, relaxed after seeing the badge, except for one. Minho glared at you, his stance never changing since you first met him. You knelt down in front of the cage, "Do you have a family?" you asked, seeing the wary hybrid in front of you.

Minho huffed, shaking head. You pursed your lips, "Maybe I'll adopt you, but for now the nurses have to check your well-being and such," you said, giving him a subtle smirk. Minho blinked, taken aback by your blatant words. You chuckled, grazing his ears through the cage, "See you then, cutie," you teased, waking away from the cage.

"Thanks," you said, waving at the men who helped you move Minho to your house. You opened the latch and stared at him, "Still wary?" You asked, seeing Minho curl up at the back of the metal box. You sighed, placing down the necessary meal for him, "It's not laced or expired. Eat when you want to," you said, walking away from him. Minho gulped, his mouth pooled with drool at the sight, he slowly but surely went towards the meat. His tongue grazed the flesh, there was no odd taste or texture.

Minho huffed through his nose and chewed on the meat. You walked down the stairs with a towel around your shoulders as you dried your hair. Happy to see him eating. Minho flinched, dragging the plate deeper into the box with him. You chuckled, heating your dinner, "I'm not going to steal it, kitty. No worries," you teased, watching the microwave. You carefully placed your meal on the coffee table and looked at Minho through the darkness.

Minho licked his muzzle, wiping his face with his paw as he cleaned up the blood. You chuckled seeing the plate get pushed towards the opening, "Done already? I'm pretty sure I placed 6 fillets of steaks," you teased, seeing the licked-clean dish. Minho gave you a low growl, his tail flicking with annoyance. You nodded, eating your dinner, "Okay, okay. I got it," you said, giving him some space.

The routine stayed the same, once in a while Minho would allow you to wipe the sides of the box clean. You always loved those moments, it made your heart swell to know that he was comfortable. One day, you find yourself crying from exhaustion. Minho begrudgingly, got out from his box and laid by your feet. You chuckled through your tears, hand graze through his thick coat.

Minho huffed but didn't move away. He allowed your hand to stroke and grasp even with your tears dripping onto his ears. It didn't take long for you to pass out on the couch. Minho huffed again and jumped onto the couch, he nosed your nape, his muzzle close to your jugular. One bite and you would've died right there but he didn't. Minho laid half of his body across your lap. His big paws slowly made biscuits on your thighs as you slept.

Whenever people came by, Minho would stay in his box. His low warning growls were enough for people to stay away. It didn't take long for you to notice your clothes disappearing from your closet. You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking that you might have forgotten them at the dryer or something logical. Until it came a day when you had to clean Minho's box and found a stash of your clothes in a makeshift nest.

You looked at him with a raised eyebrow and only got a huff in return. You cleaned up but didn't mess up the nest, "Have you been shifting when I'm at work?" You asked, crossing your arms. Never once did you have to clean his faecal matter. Minho was through with those urges. He walked into the bathroom, did the deed, and walked back out like he had never shifted. Minho looked at you with a deadpan look and went back into the box. You sighed, "You could've just asked, silly cat," you said, letting him be.

NSFW BELOW CUT

AFAB

"Noona," Minho whispered, grinding your pillow while you were at work. His hips made quick movements as his tail pressed down on his leaking cock. His back arched as his orgasm shuddered through his body. Tremors of pleasure deafened his hearing for a moment. Just enough for you to witness his orgasmic expression without him knowing. You stood by the door, hesitant to make a move.

Minho opened his eyes and shifted back in shock. His cock dripped onto the pillow and his tail shot up straight. You smiled, "It's alright, kitty. We all have our needs except I didn't expect you to be using my pillow to get off, that's for sure," you chuckled, feeling bolder to stroke his ears. Minho purred at the stimulation, his cock throbbing against his torso.

He huffed, shifting back into a human, "Please have me feel good?" he rasped, voice husky from the pleasure and lust. You cooed, pulling him onto your lap, "Noona's got you," you said, kissing his nape as you wrapped your hand around his cock. Minho groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck. You chuckled, pumping his cock at a languid pace. Your thumb rubbed the underside of his cockhead.

Teasing that sensitive frenulum. Minho groaned, his thighs tensing up at the pleasure. You gulped, cock throbbing beneath your pants, "Such a pretty cock, kitty," you said, voice deep and breathy. Minho whimpered, moving your hand faster. You chuckled, picking up the pace to pump quicker, "Yes, yes. Noona knows," he teased, flattening his palm against his cockhead as you stroked his quick.

Minho's eyes flew open, the pleasure surging through his sense, "Hah, hah, cumming," he gasped, squirming within your hold as ropes of white painted his torso. You cooed, messaging his swollen testicle, "Look how much milk you made, kitty," watching Minho's cock spurt out more and more semen as he messaged there. Minho mewled, licking your nape with his barbed tongue. You winced at the rough drag but you knew he needed something to ground himself with. Minho purred, slowly drifting off to sleep as you took care of him.

AMAB

"Hyung," Minho whispered, grinding your pillow while you were at work. His hips made quick movements as his tail pressed down on his leaking cock. His back arched as his orgasm shuddered through his body. Tremors of pleasure deafened his hearing for a moment. Just enough for you to witness his orgasmic expression without him knowing. You stood by the door, hesitant to make a move.

He huffed, shifting back into a human, "Please have me feel good?" he rasped, voice husky from the pleasure and lust. You cooed, pulling him onto your lap, "Hyung's got you," you said, kissing his nape as you wrapped your hand around his cock. Minho groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck. You chuckled, pumping his cock at a languid pace. Your thumb rubbed the underside of his cockhead.

Teasing that sensitive frenulum. Minho groaned, his thighs tensing up at the pleasure. You gulped, cock throbbing beneath your pants, "Such a pretty cock, kitty," you said, voice deep and breathy. Minho whimpered, moving your hand faster. You chuckled, picking up the pace to pump quicker, "Yes, yes. Hyung knows," he teased, flattening his palm against his cockhead as you stroked his quick.

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mistydeyes · 1 year ago

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Hi,if you’re not busy can you write a fic of Cod characters with a cia agent gf ?

yes ofc! yk i love a good little government agent gf moment :)

a double life

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summary: From hidden occupations to a particular set of skill sets, the 141 learns to adapt to having a girlfriend who has all the right qualifications (and who could completely kick their ass).

pairing: Task Force 141 x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons/violence

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

price

"Sorry I can't be there to meet you, Price," Laswell spoke over the web camera feed, "got tied up in South America." Price nodded as he held the bridge of his nose, Laswell had promised her best field agent to act as a point person for their mission in New Zealand. However, just the thought of some middle-aged retired veteran or worse yet, hot-shot rookie, made his headache pound even further. "She's a good one, Price," Laswell reassured, "skilled in practically every major language and the best marks in her physical fitness examination." "Yes Kate, I read her file, but it seems like you failed to include a photo-" He was interrupted by a sturdy knock at the door. "Looks like she's here."

As you cracked the door open, you practically dropped the files that sat in your arms. "What are you doing here?" Price asked jovially and you could feel the breath release from your sternum, "didn't expect an on-base visit like this." As the pieces began to fit together, you realized he didn't know what you were actually there for. "John, Kate sent me here," you whispered as you shut the door gently, "heard you're going to New Zealand." As the realization hit him like an oncoming train, you braced for impact. "You-you work for the CIA?" he asked almost foolishly and you nodded in response. "I did say I worked in Virginia," you corrected, "and you had to know my surprise visit yesterday wasn't just a spur-of-the-moment thing." Price could feel his headache reach a fever pitch as he reviewed your file again. "Then what's with the name?" he asked, "you lie about that too." You let out a laugh as you explained, "People have nicknames and mother's maiden names, John." As you sat back in your chair and crossed your legs, Price wondered what he had done for the universe to gift him you.

soap

Despite your initial reservations, Johnny was quite good at keeping your occupation vague and nonchalant in conversation. You were honest about your work in central intelligence and he took that secret to the grave. Your long-distance relationship was written off as you working in some company in DC and no one batted an eye at your occasional inference at military strategy or surveillance techniques. When you returned home, you would always be sure to show him extra appreciation for his covertness. "Tryna make me patriotic?" he would joke before you would kiss him and stifle his laughs.

However, he loved testing your skill set and seeing if you were as trained of an operative as your file read. "Let's see what they teach you over there, Bonnie," he joked as he lined up his sights at the air gun range. You refrained from kicking him as you stood back to watch him. You almost let out a laugh when you saw his small pellet ricochet just slightly off target. "Hmm and that's why Ghost is your long-range weapons specialist," you teased as he got up and switched positions. You breathed in as you looked down your sights and positioned your rifle towards the farthest target on the range. "You Americans, always so fucking cocky," he muttered under his breath before you quickly shut him up with a quick shot directly into the center of the target. The metal hen spun around widely at your expert marksmanship and you exhaled your held breath. You stood up and tried to size up your tall boyfriend. "Best 2/3?" you offered and you smiled as he kissed your forehead before ushering you out of the way to try again. "Fucking CIA training," he whispered as he got into position again. "You say something, you glorified sergeant?"

gaz

It was 4 am when you arose from the bed and leaned into Kyle, taking in his warmth and seeking refuge from the cold London air. You could always rely on your boyfriend to be your human-sized space heater. As you laid your head across his chest, you could feel him stir lightly. "Time to go already, love?" he asked with his eyes still closed and you muttered in confirmation. You always knew what challenges came with living so far away from the States but you had someone who made it all worth it. He kissed your forehead lightly as you rolled off the bed. You tried to quietly make your way to the bathroom to let him get some more hours of precious sleep but upon your return, it was clear Kyle was more awake than before.

"You sure you don't need me to drive you to the airport?" he offered yet again as you dressed quickly in dress slacks and a blouse. "MI6 is sending a car," you explained as you collected your overnight bag, "just try to get some sleep, my love. I'll text you when I land in Langley." Despite your soft kiss on the cheek, Kyle still pouted as you pulled away. "Don't understand why you can't be a liaison officer for us," he mumbled but you ruffled his hair slightly. "When the position becomes available, I'll be the first application on there," you smiled, doing a final check of your things, "just tell Price to write me a hell of a recommendation letter." With that, you shared another long kiss as you slightly cringed at his morning breath. "I'll be sure to say hi to the cybercrime analysis team for you, hopefully, they'll actually take my advice this time," you laughed before exiting out of your apartment and embracing the cold English air you had grown to love.

ghost

When the question arose of your occupation, you would always smile and defer to being just an "American government worker." However, you always knew Simon had more than just an inkling as to your occupation. When you spoke about military strategy, and combat techniques, or even had various conversations in different languages over the phone, it was clear to him that you were more than just a civilian. The shock didn't even resonate with him when you uttered the words, "Paramilitary Operations Officer," it all seemed to fall into place. He wouldn't bat an eye when it came to long stretches of days that you were in minimal contact with him. "I'll be back," you would reassure as you pulled on a dark hoodie and headed out the door with a bag. Simon would always be there to clean your wounds and ice your bruises.

It was a shock when Simon hadn't heard from you in a month. You had left in the middle of the day in a black Mercedes that disappeared off the English skyline. It was the unfortunate timing that he had been on leave when you left and there had been no word from Price regarding a new mission. Every morning, he would turn over in your king-sized bed expecting to see you smiling back at him. However, the days dragged on without any information meeting his ears. You could practically still picture his terrified face when you turned the key into the door and slammed your bag down. Simon paused upon seeing your blackened eye and wrapped knuckles. The eye bags on your delicate face further added worry to the situation. "Don't ask," you whispered as you fell into his chest, "intel was shit." That was all Simon needed to lift you gently and place you back on the couch. As he held you in his arms with an ice pack to your eye, you slightly pulled away from his touch. "I promised I would come back, didn't I?"

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thechaoticcheese · 17 days ago

Text

TW: Severe Burning, Hitting, Lack of Care for the Reader

Wrongfully Accused - Chapter 1 - The Morning

You were chatting with Ghost, the two of you having your respective hot beverages clasped in your respective hands. The mood was light, pleasant. The normal morning drink with your good friend to start off each other's day right. While it was usually paired with whatever breakfast item was made that morning, the two of you decided to eat later, Gaz having promised to make something later. And usually you’d spend it with Gaz, but he was pulled into a briefing and you’d never pass up time to spend with your favorite masked man, especially since he offered after delivering the news. In the moment, you feigned sadness and pretended to pout, until Gaz gave you a quick kiss and a promise to be back to make breakfast as soon as he could.

You had just finished a poor dad joke that you've memorized from your book of 100 Different Dad Jokes that you got on your birthday earlier that year, when Price, suddenly, quickly walked into the commons room where you two resided, finding it surprisingly empty in the morning. You only barely noticed him as you attempted to drink some of the scolding liquid. Your lips quickly inform you that it was still way too hot. You always did dislike how hot Ghost preferred his tea.

“Y/N… I need you to come with me.” Price's gruff voice was urgent, anger itching at his lips. He was holding something back. You put your mug down and started to stand up confused.

“Why? What happened?” You asked, confusion filled your voice as Ghost looked between the two of you with even more of a bewildered look that only his eyes showed thanks to his balaclava. As your eyes met Price’s, his blues scolded with hatred. It caught you off guard.

“You know what you've done.” Price growled out as he started to approach you. He's never looked this scary.

Your legs hit the edge of the chair you were sitting on as you tried to step back, befuddlement swirled in your mind.

“I don't… I don't know what you mean.” You informed the pissed looking Brit.

“Price-” Ghost began as he started to stand up. Neither of you could have reacted to the older man's quick movements as he pinned you harshly onto the table. The left side of your face hit the cold wood of the tabletop with a thunk, the mugs shook threateningly. Yours wobbled until it collapsed over, splashing the molten contents onto your skin. A scream soon followed, it took a few seconds to realize that it came from you, by then, the pain was ebbing away. Price wordlessly cuffed your wrists tightly before he yanked at the chains that connected the two metal braces. It tore you off of the table, the cooled beverage dripping down your face, but it still felt warm against your unburnt skin. The skin on the upper section of your cheek and to the left of your eye were now a sickly pale white. The burn didn’t even hurt anymore.

“Shut up. We found out you were the spy. You have no reason to lie.” Price snarled against your ear.

Shock filled your body. What? What did he mean by that? You weren't a spy. You'd come from your birth place to serve and protect.

“I'm… I'm not! Ghost! Ghost… Please tell him.” You begged as you faced Ghost, Though, when you made eye contact with him, you were met with the most chilling expression. There was nothing in his brown eyes. It seemed to just be static. His dead eyes went from you into his mug, his hand gripped at the handle. You could tell that he was trying not to break the ceramic handle.

No.

“Ghost… Simon! Please! I'm not a spy! You know this!” Your voice cried out for him before you felt Price tug at the cuffs that felt a bit too tight on your wrist. Between the cold metal threatening to cut at your skin and the worry that Ghost would clam up again after everything the two of you did, haunted you. The two of you were back to square one, maybe even in the negatives of your friendship. Tears welled up in your eyes as you were dragged away, screaming and pleading with a man that was no longer present in the situation, taking a sip from his mug as you were dragged away.

“Jesus- Fuckin' shut it!” Price snapped, hitting your face just in time for Soap to leave his barracks, having heard the commotion. He hit you right on the burn, but you only felt the contact that barely graced the undamaged skin, the rest of the hit more felt like vibrations than anything.

“Price, Wat’re ye-” Soap started to ask before he was shot a glare from his superior. The Scot decided that he could receive an answer later, ducking back into the room without another glance. Your heart wavered at the closed door, a pit starting to form quickly in your stomach.

You knew it was worthless to beg. It'd only call attention to you. You needed to cooperate. And you hoped you could do that now that some of the shock had worn off. But there was one more unexpected person to see you. You noticed Gaz stopped in the hallway staring at you with wide eyes as you backpedaled to follow Price down the hallway. Shit, now your boyfriend saw. Your heart wrenched as it silently wished he didn’t see the state you were in, that he was told out of view of your sorry state. Yet again, if he saw you in the interrogation room… It’d hurt way worse.

“Price! … Price! ... JOHN!” Gaz called out,his voice getting more desperate and loud as his Captain ignored his cries to get his attention.

You soon feel yourself hit the solid man, not aware that he had stopped due to you being behind him and facing away. Though you could absolutely feel the heated glare he was giving the Sergeant who dared stop him from dragging your sorry ass to the nearest interrogation room.

“Capt’n. They’re burnt.” He told Price as he worriedly approached. Gaz had always cared for you, being the lover you’ve never had before, and you did your best to show him the same. He went to gently put his thumb against the burn, the rest of his hand following as it warmed your skin. But again, nothing was felt where your scolding beverage had hit your skin. His brown eyes swam with worry. Your heart fluttered at the show of kindness before you were torn away as Price spun around, dragging you with him as he pointed a finger in Gaz’s face.

“Do not take that tone with me Kyle.” Price growled. “Y/N has been outed as that fuckin’ spy we’ve been lookin’ for and I will not have your bleedin’ heart interrupt that.” Price growled towards Gaz.

“With all due respect Cap’.” Gaz started calmly. “If they’re hurt and they can’t feel it. They need medical attention. Captive or not. Y/N didn’t flinch when I touched it, which tells me that it’s bad.”

“Why should I give a rat’s arse about their state?” Price retorted.

“Because if it gets infected and gets into their eye then eats away at their brain, any questions you’d want answered would be gone.” Gaz replied, his voice being the soothing tone you’re used to in these dire situations. You only wish you could see his expression to see how he was handling the false information of you being the spy. Though, the vague description of you going brain dead from a burn sent shivers down your spine. Did Price really not care?

You could hear Price curse underneath his breath, “Fine. But you’re accompanying us to medical.”

“No arguments here Cap’.” Gaz replied as you were once again whipped around, now facing the voice of reasoning. You could see him put his hands down as his eyes worriedly looked down at you as you started to once again backpedal, feeling Price start to pull you along again, giving no complaints.

Your’s and Gaz’s eyes were locked on each other’s. You notice his brows furrowing as he soaked in what Price had said about you. There was this look in his eye that fed that pit in your stomach from before. He was hurt, betrayed from something that you didn’t even do. It was too much to take, so you tear your gaze away guiltily. Why were you feeling such shame? You did nothing wrong and you knew it. Hell, Gaz probably knew too.

Seeing as none of the four knew it was you, it had to be someone else. Who else would try to plant something. Not Laswell, she liked your guts too much. That and if that were the case, she’d be here in person, interrogating you right in front of Ghost. A few other suspects then pop into mind. There were a handful of new recruits that joined with you, and only three remained. It had to be one of them. You tried narrowing it down, brows furrowing deep in thought.

You must’ve been thinking for a long time, because you came back to your surroundings when you felt a hand roughly grab your chin, wincing as it yanked your head towards the medical professional. It didn’t take you too long to realize it was Price’s gloved hand. The look at the medic made you worry.

“It doesn’t need a skin graft, but I heavily recommend it. Either way they'd need ointments and medication-” It seemed like you had tuned in during their conversation.

“They’re a fuckin’ prisoner now, that’s not-” Price attempted to inject his protest before and even sterner response came from the medic.

“You brought me a patient and I am going to treat the patient the best I see fit Captain. You may not like it, and frankly I could care less of what their damn status is other than alive and well. I am taking them in for an emergency skin graft and you’re either going to help keep them still if they start to struggle or you’re going to sit back as I do my damn job.”

This shut Price up as you feel the grip that was keeping the cuffs closer together than necessary, go away. The medic led you to a cot and started to search your skin for suitable areas to grab a skin graft.

“Something hard to spot please.” You softly requested, glancing nervously at a silently steaming Price as his eyes bore holes into your soul as you sat on the cot, while Gaz only looked concerned.

“Gotcha. Don’t worry. Your skin is in pretty good condition most places, but your other cheek is the best bet we got for the location of this burn. Let’s get you some pain meds-”

“No pain meds.” Price gruffed out.

“Pain. Meds.” The medic growled back in response. “My medical, my rules. Do you want to be kicked out and out of view of your precious captive?” She glared over at Price who huffed in annoyance and shifted, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. He looked like he wanted to smoke then burn the end on your hand to put it out.

You were soon given pain medication on your other cheek. You shivered, it wasn’t cold or anything, but the realization that you got badly burned and the only one that cared enough to say something was Gaz. Your mind started to whirl. Were you just expendable to the rest? Did Gaz actually care like he showed? Or is it all in your head? It was probably just an act of kindness he wanted to act on despite the obvious situation of you doing something wrong.

“Hey.. Hey... Hey… Did you hear me?” The medic’s voice slowly sliced its way inside your brain to bring you back to reality and out of your spiral.

“Huh?” You responded softly.

“It’s going to be a bit before the numbing cream sets in. It might still hurt, if it does, don't move. We don't want to give you more wounds. In the meantime, take these antibiotics and pain meds. Pain meds are for the pain that’ll be after the grafting.”

“Alright.” The medic handed you a couple of pills and a small cup of water and you mindlessly took them.

“Good. The same goes for removing the burn. Do not move. I'd suggest you close your eyes until it's done… People often find it unnerving to see pieces of themself be removed without registering pain.” The calmness of the medic’s voice puts you in a false sense of security, because after you were cleared, you knew where you'd end up.

“Okay.” You hated that you only could muster out one word replies. It felt so disingenuous, but something told you that the medic understood.

She left your side to go grab more medical equipment, and in that time you stared at the floor, not noticing until you were in the middle of reading Gaz’s expression that your eyes had drug you to the only comfort in the room. He was leaning against the wall, his arms pressed against his ribs as his heel nervously bounced on the floor.

He still cared… Right?

You'd think after all of this time of the two of you dating you’d be able to tell if he was genuine or not. Maybe this situation was testing your judgement, not like you blamed yourself. You were just accused by a father figure that you were the one ruining missions, costing people’s lives, when you weren’t.

“Do you feel that?” Her soft voice returns to your ear. If she was touching something, you couldn’t feel it.

“No.” With that reply you closed your eyes and let the medic do her job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: It is 4:30 am, I should've been asleep 2 and a half hours ago but my mind needed this to be out before I sleep apparently. I hoped y'all enjoyed, I am def making this a miniseries, probably 5 Chapters max. If there needs to be any more warnings just let me know!

Inspire by this post.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

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vintagestarlight · 1 year ago

Text

Massage

Summary: You give Price a massage after he gets back from a particularly hard deployment.

Pairing: John Price x fiancée!reader

Word Count: ~1.5k

Warnings: mentions of injury(nothing too graphic), light sexual mentions, John Price(because let's be honest this man is a warning okay), fluff, 18+ MDNI

A/N: So Price won by a landslide in the poll😂 here's one of the fics I had planned so I hope yall enjoy! I did right this pretty drunk so apologies if it isn't great

Also, I didn't expect so many people to vote so thank you all so much!😭🫶🏼 Requets are also open!! Feel free to send in whatever you want just make sure it follows my blog rules! I've also got a few more fics in my drafts as well :)

***beware of typos(I tried my best to catch them all)

John turned the ignition off and his truck came to a stop. He looked at the house the two of you shared and smiled as he took in the warm glow coming from the window. Before you came into his life the house was cold and dark; he preferred coming home to this rather than the dark windows he used to. John opened the door and stepped out, wincing as he irritated the bruised muscles. This last deployment was harder than most; although everyone made it back alive, and for that he was thankful, going hand-to-hand with a mercenary ended with the mercenary dead but John fell from a metal walkway grate to the ground below. It resulted in a number of bruises, scratches, and a sprained shoulder.

John lifted his duffle bag out of the back seat and thought about how you would fret over the bruises that blemished his skin. You always checked him when he came home to see if he gained any new scars or broken body parts and he found it endearing. He walked slowly toward the door, his sore body preventing him from going faster. He dug in his pocket for his key and slipped it into the lock before stepping inside. “Love I’m home,” He called out, setting his duffle bag down by the door with a sigh of relief to have the weight off of his injured shoulder; he had a brace that kept him from moving his shoulder but it did nothing for the annoying pain of putting weight on it.

“Back here!” He heard your voice coming from the shared bedroom so he toed off his boots and walked down the hallway. He saw soft light coming from the bathroom and when he walked in he saw something that made his breath catch in his throat. You were in the bathtub with your hair loosely pulled back and sipping on a glass of wine, candles casting a warm illuminating glow. It wasn't anything overly sexual but it still made his face flush; here he was nearing forty and you made him feel like a school boy. “Hey love,” he said, taking in the sight of you before bending down and giving you a kiss. “I’m so glad you’re home,” You said, a heavy weight finally lifting off your chest at seeing your fiancée back in one piece. The black brace over his beige shirt was not lost on you but you didn’t say anything as you decided it was not as bad as it could be. “How’s the bath?” John asked. “You could always join me and find out,” You said, taking a sip of the red wine, looking at him over the rim of the glass. “Now how could I say no to that?” He smirked.

He took off the brace that was nothing but uncomfortable before undoing his belt and stripping off his pants. He slipped off his shirt, wincing as his shoulder twinged, and heard you gasp. “John!” You did your once over to ensure he hadn’t come home severely injured when your eyes landed on the bruises that colored his torso. “What the hell happened?” You asked, wincing when you thought about what could’ve caused such bruises. “If I told you that love, you’d be even more frantic,” He chuckled. “Don’t laugh John!” You chastised. John slipped in behind you after stripping completely, groaning at the warm water, and let you rest against him. “I’m sorry love but don’t freak out too much,” He replied. “They really do look worse than they are,” He added, planting a kiss on your head. He felt you relax more, as if you were afraid of hurting him, and he sighed. The weight of you pressed against him was actually comforting and he wrapped his arms around you. “At least you came home to me alive,” You said. “Just like I promised,” John replied, a long sigh leaving his body.

The two of you just sat there for a little while, your thumb absentmindedly grazing John’s arm; grateful to have your fiancée back. You felt him rest his head on your shoulder and his weary body sagged as he relaxed. You shifted and accidentally pressed your weight on one of John’s bruises and he grunted. “I’m sorry babe!” You said, turning around to sit on his lap carefully trying to avoid the purple-ish tender spots. “Don’t worry I’m tougher than I look,” He joked, running his hands along your sides. “You know,” You started, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I think I know of a way to make you feel better,” You said in a slow voice. “Oh yeah? I think I’m liking where this is going,” John replied, planting a kiss on your nose, then your cheeks, and finally your lips. ‘Hmm… I like the way you think but I was actually thinking about a massage,” You said. “Help those aching muscles,” You offered and smiled as he smirked. “Now that’s a good way to welcome a man home,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Why don’t you go lay on the bed and I’ll dry off and get the oil,” You suggested and stepped out of the tub.

You felt John’s hungry eyes on you and you grinned; John always made you feel desirable even on your worst day. You heard the water splash as John stepped out after pulling the plug, dripping water on the floor. You wrapped yourself in a towel and felt him swat your ass, eliciting a squeal out of you as he laughed. “Don’t take too long,” He said. John also grabbed a towel and quickly dried himself, being mindful of his injuries, and pulled on a clean pair of boxers. You emerged from the bathroom with a bottle of baby oil and saw John lounging on the bed, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watched your towel clad body. “See something you like?” You teased, before dropping the towel leaving you stark naked and John groaned. “I think you should stay like this all the time,” He said, a bit disappointed when you pulled on a bra and panty set. “I suggest you settle down; you’re not exactly in peak condition for sex,” You chuckled. “Come on turn over,” You said, and waited until he was laying on his stomach, arms relaxed.

You got on top of him and straddled his hips, taking notice of the scratches on his back. There were several silver lines across his body from his several years of military service. You had counted every scar on his body countless times so you could always know when he got new ones. But these scratches were new; red and fresh in contrast to the silver healed scars. You squirted a quarter sized amount of baby oil on your hands, rubbed them together, and pressed your hands firmly on John’s back. Using light pressure you began to knead his shoulders, mindful not to press too hard on his injured one, and firmly moved down to his lower back. “Jesus love,” John groaned. John felt himself further relax as you helped ease his aching muscles. You used your thumbs to press into his lower back and rub in small circles before continuing those small circles all the way up his back to his neck.

You loved feeling his skin underneath your hands; the way his muscles rippled when you touched him and it made you feel good that you were able to give him this attention. You heard grunts and moans as you continued to work on his back and shoulders, slowly massaging away the tension that rested in his muscles. You felt your tough military husband become putty under your hands and you couldn't help but grin. “You know I was thinking,” you said, feeling him tense as you needed a particularly large knot at the base of his neck. “What's that love?” He grunted, his voice slurring slightly as your hands slowly lulled him closer to sleep. “I know we had plans to go to that new French place for dinner but maybe we could stay in tomorrow?” You suggested to him. “Maybe just stay in bed and order takeout,” you continued, applying a little more oil onto your hands and rubbing your hands down his arms as he lazily nodded his head. “Would you like that?” You asked. When you didn’t get a response you looked down at his languid form and realized his breathing had become deeper and he started to snore a little. You smiled and slowly got off his back, careful not to wake him, and pulled the covers over him. “Good night John,” you whispered, planting a kiss on his cheek and turning off the lamp before climbing in bed next to him. You soon fell asleep and slept better than you had in months.

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