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cmncisspnandmore · 4 months

Text

All hands on deck.

Pairings: Poly!141 X F!reader.

Warnings: fluff, mentions of pregnancy complications (not in detail)

Word Count: 3209

Part 2

“Can you guys please stop screaming at each other?” You call out as you press your phone to your ear. The sounds of children yelling continued down the hallway, clearly they didn't care what you had to say. You let out a frustrated sigh, as the line continues to ring.

Where the hell were they?

It rings another 3 times as you lean against the bathroom counter, closing the door to try to block out the sounds from down the hall. It was going to cut to voicemail soon, just like the last 3 times you called. You start to pull the phone from your ear when it finally stops ringing and a very breathless voice answers.

“Sorry Mo Chridhe, I didn’t hear my phone ringin’” Johnny breathes.

“It's fine,” you mumble into the receiver, your hip bumping into the smooth quartz counter.

“It’s not, you sound defeated, what's wrong?” He asks, the sound of a bag clinking filters over the phone call.

“They just won't stop fighting, they’ve been at each other's throats all day, i don't know what to do anymore.” You sniffle, your eyes filling with tears, you blink them back staring at the ceiling light in effort to keep them at bay.

“They’re just kids, Love, siblings fight. Is that really all that's botherin’ you?”

You chew your bottom lip, “yeah I guess,” you sniffle.

There's another noise on the other line, followed by a gruff voice, “Who are you talking to Sergeant?” Price's voice is slightly garbled over the line.

“Oh just some bonnie lass,” Johnny replies cheekily.

“Hogging the wife all to yourself?” Kyle's voice is there too.

“Ain't hoggin nothin! She called me,” Soap defends himself. There's more static over the phone call. “Hey! Gimme back me phone LT!”

“Love?” Simon's gruff voice fills the line.

“Hi, Si…” you whisper, as the others bicker in the background. Johnny and Kyle arguing over who gets to talk next, and Price’s firm voice telling them to shut up.

“What's wrong?” Simon asks, “are the kids okay?”

“Yeah god, sorry, they're fine, they just won't stop fighting. It's driving me nuts, I think they just miss you guys.” You sigh as there's a loud crash from the living room, followed by even more yelling. “They’re gonna destroy our house..”

“We’re coming home,” and suddenly the line goes dead. You pull the phone away from your ear and look down at the screen. Your home screen staring back at you, it was a picture of the 5 of you. You were at the beach, Simon sitting under an umbrella with a book in his hands. You lean back against his legs, as one of his hands twirls a strand of your hair. You’re looking over at Johnny who was burying Kyle in the sand. Price standing behind them watching the whole thing with a smile on his lips.

You remember that day like it was yesterday even though it was almost 7 years ago now. It was the day that they all asked you to marry them, they had presented you with a large round diamond ring, the band containing their birthstones, each of their initials engraved on the inside. You had sobbed hysterically when they proposed. Each man took a few moments to tell you how you impacted their life in the best way. You never imagined you would marry one of them let alone all of them. While most people didn't think it was conventional and you often got strange looks when you told people you had not 1 but 4 husbands, you didn't care. Each one of your husbands gave you something you needed, and you did the same for them.

A child crying pulls you from your thoughts and you yank open the bathroom door. Your eyes landing on your 4 year old son, Theo running down the hall. His bottom lip is bleeding, as tears roll down his light brown cheeks. He runs to you, small arms up in the air as he wails.

“Theo what happened?” You lean down catching his small body as he crashes into you, smearing blood, snot and tears onto your baby blue t-shirt.

“Issly hit me!” he cries, his little hands coming to wipe at his eyes. You gently pull down his bottom lip, seeing only a small cut on the inside. A frown on your face as you glance back up at the doorway in which Theo ran from.

“Isla!” You call, picking the small child up and resting him on your hip. He presses his face into your shoulder, his messy brown curls tickling your chin. It only takes a moment for Isla to come around the corner, her blue eyes cast down at the ground. Shoulders slumped, light brown hair covering her face as she walks down the hallway towards you.

“Why did you hit Theo?” You sigh, and she looks up. She was pretty much a mirror image of Price. She had his blue eyes and nose, and if it wasn't for the shape of her lips you wouldn't think she was even yours.

“I didn't mean to hit him! He wouldn't stop climbing on me, I asked him to stop 3 times,” she looks at Theo, and then back to you.

“Isla you’re 6 years old, Theo is 4, he’s a lot younger than you, if hes doing something you don't like and he won't listen to you, you come and tell me. You don't use your hands to hurt someone. It's not nice. Now take Theo into the kitchen and help him clean up.

“Yes, Mama,” she nods, and takes Theo from your arms, carrying him past you to the kitchen. You sigh, running your fingers through your hair as you walk down the hall to the living room. It was a disaster, couch cushions on the floor, toys all over the place. A vase of flowers knocked over. A curtain rod half pulled off the wall.

“Seriously?” You mutter, your eyes flickering about the room and finally landing on Joseph and Kira. Kira sits on the coffee table, a book open in her lap, blonde hair pulled back into a messy french braid. Joseph sits next to her, poking her which she ignores.

“Kira, c’mon, stop reading your dumb book and come outside with me!” Joseph whines at his twin.

“It’s not dumb, you’re dumb.” She snaps back, neither having realized you're standing in the doorway.

“I’m gonna tell mom you're being mean to me again,” Joseph pushes her harder, and she snaps her book closed.

“Then I’ll tell Da that you're the one who broke his Rugby trophy.”

“You’re so boring! I hate you!” Joseph yells.

“Enough!” You snap, and both children's eyes meet yours. Joseph’s blue eyes wide as he realizes you heard their conversation. Kira’s brown eyes looking between you and Joseph.

“Kira, Joseph you are 7 years old. Can you please start acting like it? When i tell you to watch your younger siblings i mean it, but yet somehow Isla hit Theo and gave him a split lip and my living room looks like a bomb went off. Not to mention all of you have been fighting for the last week and I‘m not putting up with it anymore!” You press your hand into your forehead, a headache starting to pound behind your eyes. You shake your head slightly looking back at your twins. They were fraternal twins, but had two fathers. Kira was clearly Simons with her light blonde hair and brown eyes, Joseph resembled Johnny, right down to his mischievous personality. They were the first children to be born into your family. Their very existence became known on your wedding day.

You weren’t overly surprised that it was twins either, they ran in your family. The only real shock was when they had their newborn screening after they were born and they had wildly different blood types. Kira was B- Positive, like Simon, and Joseph was O- Positive like Price and Soap. Even though it didn't matter to you who their father was, you still had genetic testing done for each child. Just in case something happened and they needed blood, or god forbid an organ.

The doctors had called them Heteropaternal Superfecundation, an anomaly when twins have two different biological fathers. Now as you stare at Medical anomalies, you sigh. They were your oldest, the ones you counted on to help out with small things. “What is going on with you two lately?” You sit on the edge of the table.

“We miss Dads…” Kira mumbles, looking down at her book.

“We all do,” Joseph adds.

Tears well in your eyes, “I know it's hard when they’re away, and I know I'll ask you to help me more when they’re gone. I miss them too. But I think theyre coming home, at least that’s what Daddy said.”

“They're coming home? All of them?” Kira asks, her brown eyes widening.

“I think so, I called Da, and then I heard Dad and Papa, and then suddenly it was Daddy on the phone, as he said that they were coming home.” You shrug, and your children brighten at the fact that their fathers were coming home.

“ISLA! THEO! They’re coming home!” Joseph yells as he scrambles off the coffee table. Two sets of small feet race down the hall, and soon four of your children are standing in the messy living room.

“Theo, you pick up your toys, Isla help me put the couch back together, Joseph you can clean up the vase,” Kira turns to you, “Mama could you help with the curtain?”

“Oh so you want to clean up since your fathers are on their way?” You raise an eyebrow, and all of your children nod.

“Please mama, They’ve been on base for a month now..” Joseph blinks at you with his big blue eyes.

“Fine, I'll fix the curtain but it doesnt mean youre off the hook for your behaviors.”

It only takes an hour for the living room to be put back in order, it was amazing what your children could get done if they had the motivation to do so. You walk up the stairs to the second floor of your home, and gently push open the door to one of the bedrooms. The room is dark, and cool, a sound machine humming in the corner. You peek into the dark room, the light wood crib in the middle of the far wall, a small figure sleeping in the middle on their back. Hands up by their head as they sleep.

Your youngest, Hope, was 9 months old, she was your miracle baby. You had always wanted a large family, to give each of your husbands as many children as they wanted but it hasn't worked out that way. While you were pregnant with Theo you had some severe complications that had left you on death's doorstep. You had actually died once while in labor with him, causing him to be born by emergency C-Section. You woke up to 4 very concerned Husbands who spent the next 2 months by your side as you recovered. They had all been hesitant for more children after that. Each of them worried that your body wouldn't be able to handle another pregnancy. But after a few years you had convinced them that you would be fine, you wanted more kids. It took almost a year of trying and a few miscarriages for you to get pregnant with Hope.

Thankfully your pregnancy had gone smoothly, no complications, and she was born on christmas day. Now she was a happy and healthy 9 month old, one of the easiest babies you had. She slept through the night almost immediately and rarely fussed.

She stirs as you walk into the room, her little blue eyes blinking open, a smile forming on her little lips as she sees you. She gives you a gummy smile, two bottom teeth on display proudly as she turns over in her crib, pulling herself up to stand in her crib.

“Well hi baby, did you have a good nap?” You smile at her, as she bounces in her crib. Tiny baby hands gripping the bars, as you walk over to her. You scoop her up into your arms, baby babble filling your ears as she claps.

“Your dads are on their way home! Papa and Daddy and Da and Dad, yeah, are you excited to see them?” You kiss her chubby cheek, and she laughs.

The sound of commotion downstairs makes you pause, a chorus of voices floating up the stairs. They’re home.

“Daddy! PAPA!” Isla yells.

“DA! DAD! PAPA! DADDY!” Joseph and Kira join in.

“Dadadadada!” Theo’s tiny voice is there too, his screeches growing louder as you get to the top of the stairs.

“Where's your mother?” Price asks, his commanding voice cutting through the excitement of the group.

“She went to get Hope up from her nap,” Joseph responds, your footsteps on the stairs. You round the corner into the front entrance of your home. Simon holds Theo in his arms as Theo pulls the skull balaclava over his head. Joseph and Isla hang off Kyle and Johnny, their arms wrapped around their waists as they hug them. Kyle strokes Islas hair back from her face as he smiles down at her. Joseph's face is pressed into Soap's stomach, as his hands gently squeeze his shoulders. John is crouched in front of Kira, he smiles at her, his fingers tapping the tip of her nose as she smiles.

“Hi Lovie,” Simon is the first to speak. His brown eyes search your face before they settle on Hope who is in your arms, chewing on her chubby little hand, drool trailing down her chin and soaking her onesie.

“Hi,” You smile, your eyes burning with unshed tears. Your gaze trailing over each of them as they reunite with their children.

God how you missed them.

“Joseph, Kira, Isla, take Theo and Hope to the backyard and play for a few moments. We need to talk with Mama, okay?” Kyle says softly, and the older children nod. Kira comes over and grabs Hope from your arms, she quickly walks Hope over to each of her fathers and allows them all to kiss her on the head before she brings her out to the garden. Joseph, Isla and Theo follow after them. Theo holding onto Josephs hand as he asks him to push him on the swing.

The door to the garden closes with a soft click and the room is quiet for once. You stare at each of your husbands for a moment. Your throat tight, eyes burning, lower lip wobbling. It’s Soap who moves first, boots echoing on the tile floor as he grabs your waist and pulls you into his warm chest.

“No tears Mo Chridhe, we’re home now,” he speaks into your hair, dropping a kiss onto your head. He squeezes you tightly before his hands come up to cup your cheeks. He gently kisses your lips, and then moves to the side. Allowing Kyle to take his place, Kyle's soft hands slip into your hair at the base of your neck as he studies your tearful eyes.

“Why didn't you say something sooner Baby?” He asks softly, his lips brushing over your closed eyes.

“Didn't want to bother you guys… I know your training recertification is important…” You sniffle.

“Nonsense,” Price grumbles, coming to stand next to Kyle. Kyle releases you and John pulls you into him. His beard tickles your cheek as he leans down to press his lips against your neck. He places feather light kisses along your neck up to your jaw and then finally your lips. “You are far more important, all you had to do was call and I would have made arrangements to do it at a later time.”

“I know.. I just.. I don't know,” you look down at the socked feet.

“Johnny and I will go watch the kids in the garden,” Kyle says, giving your shoulder a soft squeeze.

“Don’t forget that you’re important too, if you need us tell us. You can't shoulder everything alone. If you need a break you have to tell us Darling,” Price looks into your eyes, and you nod. “I’ll go fix us some dinner, yeah?”

He kisses you again, before the three of them disappear into the rest of the house. You can hear the children laughing as Kyle and Johnny join them in their games. The faint sound of the radio coming from the kitchen as John starts to cook dinner for the family. Only you and Simon remain in the front entrance.

His brown eyes study you as he leans against the door, his arms crossed over his chest. To anyone else they would think he was angry, his expression blank as he looked you over from head to toe. You shift under his gaze, and wipe the stray tears from your cheeks. You finally let out a small breath, your eyes meeting Simons.

“How do you know everytime?” You finally ask, and the corner of Simon's mouth ticks up.

“Don't know what youre talking about Lovie,” he grumbles as he pushes off the door and crosses the room in a few easy strides.

“Yes you do, you always know when I'm at my breaking point. I said 2 sentences to you, and yet you knew I needed all of you home,” you look up at him. The height difference between the two of you forcing you to crane your neck.

“I just know you, the others do too. We all knew something was wrong after we realized we had missed calls from you. I just wasn't going to listen to you try to tell us you’d be okay. They’re far more considerate of your wishes than I am.” Simon muses, his hand coming to brush a strand of hair from your face.

“What about your training?” You ask, leaning into his palm.

“Laswell will take care of it. We have more important things to take care of.”

“Simon…” You start to argue but he cuts you off, his hands coming to your waist as he yanks you closer, his lips on yours, silencing your argument.

“I was given orders to prepare you a hot bath,” he pulls away. “And then we’re all going to eat dinner together. Your husbands will bathe and put the older children to bed as you feed Hope her last feed, and then I’ll put her to bed. While i put her to bed, the others will be taking care of you. Okay?”

“You don't have too… you’ve all been bus-”

“Lovie, enough. We might be busy at base, but youre taking care of the most important things in our lives everyday. Without break. We work a lot, but you never get to stop. Your job is never ending, let us take care of them for tonight. Let us show you how much we appreciate you. Besides, we’ve missed you… so please, let us.” Simon cups your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.

You give a small nod. “Okay.”

Part 2

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #x reader #cod #cod x reader #task force 141 #141 x reader #poly relationship #poly!141 x reader #fluff

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comphy-and-cozy · 9 months

Note

oh I have a marty thot for sure! I’ve been thinking about riding his thigh while he sits back and just watches, kinda unimpressed at the show and telling you “you can do better than that, can’t you?”

Earn It

Pairing: Matt Martin x sugar baby!reader (f)

Universe: sugar daddy Marty

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Sugar daddy/baby dynamic, lap dance, semi-public/risque sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, choking, mild degradation, creampie, a little bit of cum play (lmao jfc).

Fridays are supposed to be celebratory; the end of the week, welcoming in a few days off to relax and reset. What they’re not supposed to be are stressful, non-stop, chaotic.

Yet here you are, already thinking about the large glass of wine you’re going to pour yourself when you get home; the only decision you’re planning to make for the rest of the night is red or white.

Setting your keys into the bowl on the table beside the door, you eye the pristine leather sneakers next to your shoe rack, but make no move to greet the person you already know is waiting on the couch. You knew you’d regret having the extra key made for him, that he’d show up unannounced like a poorly-timed pimple, but it’s not like you really could say no—not when you consider that he all but pays your rent.

When you round the corner, bag left on the quartz countertop (an upgrade he insisted on when you were signing your new lease), you finally offer him your attention.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he muses, glancing up from where he’s scrolling on his phone. You do your best to mask the shiver that runs down your spine when his eyes lock with yours. Based on the smirk that quirks up on his face, you’d wager a guess that you did a poor job of it.

“Hi, Matty,” you say. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You need a new dress for the charity gala,” he drawls.

“I do, do I?”

He ignores your attitude, standing up to walk over to the island and setting the invitation in front of you. You glance it over, admiring the thick, black cardstock and gold foil detailing the casino-themed event taking place at UBS Arena next month.

“Black tie attire,” you hum. “I don’t have anything that’s black-tie appropriate.”

“That’s why you need a new dress.”

“And that’s why you’re here right now, sitting on my couch after a day from hell, full of back-to-back meetings, am I correct?”

Matt smiles again. “Already have a bubble bath going for you, my little brat. I’ll be here tomorrow at 9 to pick you up.”

You feel a little guilty for the sass, smiling bashfully at him as he plants a sweet kiss on your cheekbone on his way to the door. “Lock up behind me, darlin’.”

Goddamn him. Always knowing exactly how to charm you to get you to bend to his every will—but not without giving him the kind of attitude that makes his dick hard. A fair tradeoff, in your opinion.

That’s why you work, why your dynamic makes your relationship feel so smooth and seamless and… perfect. Except the part where he’s paying you to fuck him.

Either way, it’s how you find yourself walking along Fifth Avenue, following Matt as he leads you into stores with price tags that intimidate you so much, your cheeks get hot. He lets you browse on your own, warming you up a bit, picking out a few items for work along with a new Yves Saint Laurent purse.

Purchase after purchase. Item after item. The ease with which Matt whipped out his thick, black credit card—you know, the heavy ones that just feel luxurious—almost physically pains you as you try to do the mental math of what he’d spent today.

Finally, you follow him to the dresswear section of Bergdorf Goodman’s, admiring the ease with which he carries the multiple bags in his large hands. You feel well and truly spoiled, thinking to yourself that the dark green lace set he purchased at Fleur du Mal will come in handy later when it comes time to show your gratitude.

“This dress,” he murmurs against your temple, pressing an affectionate kiss to your skin as the fitting room attendant readies a room for you. “I want everyone there to imagine fucking you out of it.”

At this point, you’re used to his blunt and sometimes crude nature, but that doesn’t stop your skin from heating at his crass words. You can’t deny the warmth that radiates between your legs, though, at the thought of him showing you off, claiming you as his, publicly. And, well, how are you supposed to say no to him buying you a dress that’s worth more than your groceries for the month?

The selection is enormous, and you find yourself overwhelmed by the options—lace, chiffon, silk, crepe—all of it doesn’t mean much to you, so you rely on your stylist to select a few options that complement your body type. Matt sits quietly in the corner of the fitting room, watching you try on dress after dress, making barely any comment other than an occasional hum.

When the stylist leaves you to contemplate your options, you glance over your reflection, at the Alex Perry gown that stares back at you. It’s the first dress that feels right, and you can’t help the feeling of excited anticipation that fills your chest when you think about wearing it beside Matt at the gala. Maybe he’d wear that delicious gray suit that you like, the one you almost stained permanently humping his thigh like a fucking dog in heat.

“Is this the one you want?”

You do a final spin in the mirror, checking the various angles and standing on your toes to imitate your height in heels. It’ll need to be altered a bit, but you’re pleased with the way it fits your body and, more importantly, the way it makes you feel luxurious. With your nod, Matt leans forward and glances at the price tag hanging out of the back. His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, and you stew in discomfort for the few seconds before he’s sitting back, apparently approving of the price.

A wide smile forms on your face, feeling a bit like a child on Christmas morning at your excitement. You like Matt for far more than his wallet, but you can’t deny that it feels nice to be spoiled by him, to feel lavished by his gifts and special treatment.

“Think it’s time for you to say thank you, don’t you?”

Matt’s low purr snaps you out of your thoughts, eyes focusing back on the navy silk material that’s hugging your body. The corset bodice keeps you tucked in, accentuating the curve of your breasts, fabric draped across your middle and fastened in place with a large, glittering piece. But the real attention-grabber is the slit on the left side that goes up to your hip, revealing almost your entire leg.

You cast a glance at him in the mirror, a flutter in your chest when you see the way his eyes rake in your reflection. He hums, and though he told you it was your decision, you’re pleased that he likes what he sees.

“Thank you, Matty,” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. You lean forward and press a kiss against his lips, warm and soft—the kind you could fall into with ease. He smiles, crooked and patronizing as he tsks.

“Oh, sweetheart, you know that isn’t good enough. Look at all these bags—all for you. I think I deserve more gratitude than that, hm?”

The hidden meaning of his velvet words are enough to make you shiver, your heart chilling as you realize what he wants. His eyes glitter as he watches you, sees the recognition on your face and the hitch in your throat.

Your voice is hoarse as you whisper, “Here?”

Matt blinks, lazily, with a raised eyebrow, like he’s challenging to you to deny him. Of course you can’t, and he knows it. He leans back on the bench, his back resting against the wall and his legs spread comfortably. It’s a silent invitation, one you can’t refuse, and you find yourself moving to sit in his lap with a shaky gulp.

His hands weave their way to your hips, warm through the material of your jeans. “Good girl.”

With just the right amount of pressure, he encourages you to move your waist, swaying your hips as your ass brushes against his groin. He’s half hard, the bulge firm against you as you set a rhythm, listening for any other customers entering the dressing rooms nearby. The classy elevator music hums softly through the speakers while the silk covering your ass glides against his slacks in a filthy narrative.

A low hum of approval sounds from Matt’s chest, eyes glued to the way you work your hips. It isn’t long before you’re glancing behind you, meeting his eyes as he regards you with his easy, lazy gaze. Beneath the firm press of your ass, you can feel him hardening as the tick of your heartbeat increases in your throat. His signature smirk slides its way onto his face, smug, soaking in the fact that he’s got you wrapped around his finger, willing to do practically anything he asks you.

It isn’t long before he’s stiff, solid beneath you, and you feel an involuntary throb at the size of him. Every moment, you remain vigilant, ears perked for voices—or worse, the sound of someone’s gasp. It reflects in your movements, not lackluster but certainly not to your usual level of enthusiasm. There’s something about him when he’s like this—cocky confidence rolling off of him in waves, his gaze heating your skin—that drives you desperately, deliciously wild, a feral urge in you snatching control of your conscience.

But not right now. And he knows it.

He hums, displeased, and you have a split moment to register his disappointment before he’s purring, “Sweetheart, I think you can do better than that, can’t you?”

The velvet of his voice strokes the flame inside you, sending a wave of warmth between your thighs. Another throb against the stiffness under your ass. His hands remain at his sides, not offering any assistance. You can practically feel his lazy gaze on your ass, waiting patiently for you to react.

He senses your hesitation, knows the reason you’re timid—waiting for the fitting room attendant to come back at any minute and discover the lewd situation unfolding. So he changes his approach, voice honeyed and silky smooth. “Look at that gorgeous dress. Y’look fucking stunning in it, baby. But you gotta earn it, darlin’.”

You meet his gaze in the reflection of the mirror, see the glitter in them that tells you he’s serious, accepting the small nod he gives you. Bracing your hands on his meaty thighs, you resume your movements, pressing yourself into his groin with more force.

Matt’s words echo in your head as you work him—and yourself—into a frenzy. Earn it. He didn’t specify what his… end goal was, but from the glint in his eye you think it’s safe to assume it’s more than just a clothed lap dance in the middle of the dressing room.

How you ended up half-naked, thong tugged to the side, hands bracing yourself against the wall of the fitting room, you’re not sure; all you really know is the feeling of Matt’s weight behind you, so tall his face is almost out of your view in the mirror’s reflection. He’s not looking at you, instead focused on tapping the head of his erection against your ass.

You bite your lip to stifle a whine, staring at him in the hopes he’ll offer you just a glance so you can beg him silently to please, put it in. Eventually, he does, sees the desperation pooling in your eyes and chuckles smugly, pleased at the rash desire he finds in them.

“Arch it for me, sweet girl.”

Obeying, you press your ass out toward him, thinking you’d break your back right here, right now, if it meant he’d provide you with some relief. His warm palm presses against your spine, encouraging you to go further, and he hums in approval at the view you present him: expensive dress bunched over the swell of your hips, ass out, pussy dripping, eyes wanton and pleading with him in the mirror.

“You want it?” he asks, his voice so low you strain to hear it.

You’re almost embarrassed at how fast you nod, not wanting to waste any time. He smirks again, and you know he’s biting back the urge to tease you, instead just offering, in all its simplicity: “Slut.”

There’s a brief moment where he allows his words to sink in, a flood of arousal seeping out of your bare, uncovered core, threatening to drip onto the faded wood flooring of the dressing room. You’re grateful that he didn’t make you beg—he usually does—but then he’s pressing into you without warning and a loud cry leaves your lips.

Your hand slaps over your mouth to muffle the sound, but he’s already gotten what he wants out of you, a more than obvious admission of the debauchery occurring just inside the fitting room. Instead, he focuses on the warm wetness enveloping his dick, watching the way your cunt sucks him in, greedy.

Despite his reckless attitude, he’s aware of the slap of his hips against your ass, and instead of jackhammering into you the way he wants to, he’s opted for hard, deep, slow thrusts; hard enough to have a soft, involuntary sigh every time he sheaths himself to the hilt inside of you. It’s the opposite of a quickie (even though that’s exactly what this is); instead, he’s diligent, indulging himself in the feeling of your tight walls throbbing around his length.

All things considered, you’re pleased with the minimal amount of noises sounding from your stall; though your body shivers when you hear the low groan rumble in his chest. With a glance in the mirror, you can see the way he’s watching himself pull out of your cunt, biting his lip at the sight.

Matt offers a light slap of his tip against your lips before he’s jutting his hips forward, subtly, to rub his length against your clit. The sensation makes you shiver, the slickness of his shaft sliding against the tender button, and you feel the shockwaves coursing through you at the movement.

With his free hand, he gathers your hair in his fist and yanks backward, arching your back until your head is resting against his chest. The sharp pain melds into pleasure, loving the way he knows exactly how to take control over your body to have you dizzy with lust. Hot breath fans over your ear, soft and subtle pants puffing air down your neck. “Fuck yourself on it, baby.”

His warm fingers press into your hips, urging you to move; you do, seeking out that delicious tingle when the fat tip of his cock brushes against your clit, running between your folds. You hear the pleased hum in your ear, quiet, and then the chuckle that follows when he slips into you, a loud gasp leaving your lips.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a low groan. “So fucking wet for me, just the way I like it.”

Matt urges you to keep going, biting back another moan at the feeling of him being buried inside you. Your hips roll him in and out of you, and Matt’s hand trails over your ribcage, groping your breast on its way up to finally land at your throat, fingers curling around the base and squeezing. “Makin’ too much noise. Someone’s gonna hear you, and then I won’t get to flood this pretty little cunt with cum, will I?”

Swallowing the urge to whine with need, you shake your head, trying to tell him with your eyes how badly you want that. His lips press softly against the place where your shoulder meets your neck, keeping eye contact with you through the mirror while he angles his hips in search of the spot that’s going to have you dribbling down your legs. He knows he’s reached it by the way your mouth falls open, your brows scrunching in pleasure when the nudge of him against your g-spot has your eyes fluttering shut.

He hums again, and you know he’s pleased—both with himself for reading your body like his favorite book, and with you for being obediently quiet. The hand around your neck tightens while the forceful punch of Matt’s hips grows more intentional, aiming for precision rather than speed.

The smirk in the mirror, flashed in your direction is enough to make you shiver in his arms. “You think you can stay quiet while you come for me? Hmm?”

You’re trapped—can’t nod, can’t speak, barely hanging onto your last shred of control before you’re succumbing to the release that rips through you. Your legs shake, lungs scrambling for breath as the wave crashes over you, hands clutching the wall in search of purchase. Tears prick at the rims of your eyes, blurring your vision.

Matty’s eyes glitter as he pulls out of you, grinning when he hears the slickness between your legs.

“Love it when she purrs for me.”

It’s only when you feel hot liquid oozing out of you that you realize he met his climax, too, burying the evidence deep within your core. Your shaky legs clench together in an effort to prevent his cum from seeping down your legs and onto the floor.

Matt’s hands linger on your sides to make sure you’re steady before he’s tugging your panties back in place and swooping the dress back over your hips. He hums at the creamy drips on the inside of your thighs, swiping up to collect it on his finger. You don’t even have to be told to open your mouth, eyes fluttering shut when he presses the salty mixture onto your tongue. He hums when your lips close around the digit, sucking it clean before he releases it with a pop.

His eyes are still dark when he presses the call button on the wall with a crooked grin, and when the attendant knocks gently on the door, he says simply, “We’ll take the dress.”

#matt martin fic #matt martin x reader #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #hockey smut

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brokenpieces-72 · 3 months

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I know that soap is closer to reader than some of the others, but I was wondering what her dynamic with the rest of the 141 is? - 🇰🇷 anon

Hey 🇰🇷 anon. In terms of dynamic it’s a few things for each person.

Johnny is the older brother who sometimes has to fill the dad role. He owns it too. While he doesn’t have a good grip of what being a jackalope hybrid that can shift into a wendigo is like he does what he can to at least make you comfortable. You are top priority, and it can become difficult to set aside your bond to get serious with you.

Kyle is your buddy. He looks out for you as does the rest of the team but if you just want to sit and not talk much or just chill he’s down. If necessary he helps keep you in line, while still being a bit softer about it. After hearing your story, he made sure to be close and watch over you, talking to your mores, encouraging you to be a teenager and try to make friends your own age if you can.

Simon at first thought you were going to be around for maybe a month tops. It’s been much longer than a month and he’s become your shadow. He keeps an eye on you from a distance. Simon lost his brother some time ago, over time he’s come to find a similar attachment. Simon doesn’t baby you, in fact it was his original goal to scare you off. He gives you the benefit of taking you seriously, especially after he learns you didn’t get to have much of a childhood.

Price is still trying to figure what exactly the dynamic between you two is. Not a man who spends too much time with kids and he originally didn’t want to have you on the team, you were an obligation. Some wild card that was being thrown in to the game because the rules said it could be there. Now he’s got a bit of a dad side to him, messing with you from time to time, keeping you in line and laying down the law when he has to.

Rodolfo is your mentor and friend. The dogs like having a younger human around and while Rodolfo might not be a dad he’s still a good teacher. Like Price he wasn’t sure how he felt about someone so young coming to the base, but it didn’t stop him from teaching you everything you needed to know or wanted to know. He likes having you around.

Alejandro is like your uncle, which means he gives you his opinion straight. There are still expectations he has and he pushes you hard, you don’t have limitations in his eyes. Despite this, he knows you can run low, and if you can’t go to Johnny then Alejandro will come to you. Rudy might show you the basics but Alejandro teaches you how to go beyond.

Horangi sees you as a stray cat that keeps coming by his back door. You’ll meow a couple times see if he comes around to greet you. Recently he’s started thinking about his own family, having distanced himself from them to keep them safe. Your habit of getting him to chuff in haetae form has made you into a bit of a brat in his eyes. You went from being the stray, to Horangi becoming the antisocial cat. He comes to you if he feels like, if he finds himself longing for that sense of family and companionship.

König is your big bestie. You’re each other’s safety net. You help each other every mission, and if either of you aren’t on a mission you wait patiently for the other to come back. You check in with him before and after, making sure he’s okay. If he passes out you come by regularly to see if he’s woken up yet. You tease each other, cuddle, and yes at one point you tried braiding König’s hair. König is intimidating in his size but next to you, he comes off softer.

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666 @bestbookfriends

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vivaanndsl · 3 months

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aryanndspl · 4 months

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Seiko Quartz Watches - Power To Change The Future Of Watches

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ravindsl · 5 months

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gauravndsl · 7 months

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Seiko Quartz Watches - Power To Change The Future Of Watches

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halfmoth-halfman · 2 years

Text

ii. a collection of strangers (a series of secrets)

Pairing: Mob Boss!Price x F!Reader Word Count: 7k Warnings: inaccurate translations (i don't speak russian or german lol), alcohol Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. prev | next

You return to the club the next day, determined to actually work this time.

The doors open easily—unlocked again—and you beeline for your cleaning cart, not giving yourself the chance to look at anything else around you.

You make it five steps towards the stage when—

“There you are!”

You look around in search of the sudden voice and spot Kyle—or does he prefer Gaz—sitting on one of the barstools, facing the stage. Mohawk stands next to him, leaning with his elbows on the bar top and drumming his fingers against the polished quartz. Bartender busies himself, wiping down glasses with his back to the other two.

Kyle waves you over, saying something to the other two with a laugh. You glance back at your cart, then down at your watch.

You’ve got a few minutes to spare.

You make your way up the small set of stairs and lean back against the railing with your arms loosely folded across your chest. They’re dressed similarly again—varying versions of an all-black, form-fitting uniform—though this time, you have a better, up-close view of Mohawk and Bartender.

You’ve yet to see an unattractive employee.

Maybe that’s a qualifier to work here?

What does that say about you?

“Have you met Soap and Alex yet?” Kyle nods to Mohawk and Bartender, respectively. They give small nods, smiling politely, eyes quickly darting over your form. You smile back, returning their nods to seem polite, but your mind swirls with a single thought—

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

You look them over, cataloging them as much as they are you.

If you had to guess, you’d have thought Alex was Mr. Price’s son before Kyle. They look so similar—same blue eyes, same nose, and frighteningly similar facial hair. His hair is a few shades lighter than Mr. Price’s, and his mouth is thinner, but the resemblance is uncanny.

Whereas Alex has a suave confidence, Soap carries himself with a boyish charm. His mohawk is shaggy, a deep brown that’s too long to stand up, so it curls and falls back onto his head. His blue eyes are wide and friendly, watching you with equal amounts of curiosity and suspicion. There’s not much of a beard on his face—more like long stubble that stretches down his neck to where a black choker sits tight around his skin.

“I couldn’t find you yesterday,” Kyle says, settling back against the bar top.

“Yeah, I…I got sent home,” you admit, trying to laugh it off. Alex and Soap share a look, smirking at each other while Kyle raises a brow.

“When?” Kyle asks. “I was here first thing.” He looks over his shoulder to Alex, the man setting down a glass of what you assume is water and sliding it to Kyle.

“I thought I’d give myself a tour of the building, and...your dad caught me in his office.” Their attention snaps to you, concerned and curious.

“Doing what?” Soap asks, the Scottish brogue taking you by surprise. He turns to face you with his mouth pulled into a devilish half-smirk.

“Reading a book,” you answer. Kyle chuckles to himself as he sips from his glass, but Alex leans his elbows against the bar to get closer to Soap.

“Is that a euphemism for something?” Alex mumbles.

“Why would I know that?” Soap counters softly.

“Causing trouble on your first day? You’re gonna fit right in here.” Kyle smirks, setting his glass down and standing from the barstool. He steps toward you, gesturing to the open space of the club.

“I’ll show you around and help you get started,” he smiles, offering you his arm before leading you down the few steps into the main room. You turn to give a quick wave to Soap and Alex before giving your full attention to Kyle as he goes over the various rooms in the clubs.

It’s not an elaborate building, thankfully, and already kept surprisingly clean. You can’t imagine spending more than five minutes on a single room, but Kyle insists you take your time to carefully examine the space.

You know what he’s doing—humoring you and stretching your time to keep you working longer. They clearly don’t need a cleaner here, and judging by the fully stocked cleaning cart, you suspect they may already have one; it’s that, or one of them is a clean freak.

So, why? Why hire you for a job they don’t need? Had your sob story been convincing enough to actually get you hired here? Maybe Kyle’s humoring you?

You won't worry about it too much if it means you get a stack of cash at the end of the week.

Kyle leaves you to yourself in the kitchen, heading back into the main room to check on Alex and Soap. You take your time at his insistence, examining the beautifully expansive kitchen more than looking for something to clean. The place is spotless anyway, polished so well you can see your reflection in the stainless steel. There’s a door to the walk-in freezer—with no secret morgue hidden behind it—and another door at the back of the room that leads into the back parking lot next to the dumpsters.

Besides that, the only other exit from the room is the double doors separating the kitchen from the main room. It’s not ideal, but there are enough racks to knock over and hinder someone should you need to make a quick exit.

You pick through the ingredients, admiring the flawless organization—everything is labeled with proper names and expiration dates in neat handwriting. Occasionally you find a little sticky note hanging either from a rack or laying on a random pot, with varying types of chicken scratch written across them—all in Spanish.

Your Spanish is frustratingly basic—only able to carry on simple conversations and read short sentences. You had tried to convince your father to let you learn, but he had a strict curriculum for you, and Spanish wasn’t included in it.

You spend half an hour checking the ins and outs of the room before you decide you’ve spent enough time in the kitchen. You head out, letting the doors softly close behind you. You can hear voices coming from the bar, slowly approaching to stretch your time even more.

“So, how long do you think she’ll last?”

You pause at Alex’s voice, tucking yourself against the wall just before you can come into view of the bar.

“Who? The bird?” Soap asks. You peer around the wall, trying to catch a glimpse of the two. Kyle is nowhere to be seen, Soap sitting at the bar with a half-full beer, and Alex stood on the other side of the counter leaning on his elbows.

Alex scoffs, “Who else?”

“Seems like a tough lass,” Soap shrugs, taking a generous sip. “I give her a month.”

“That’s generous.”

“How long d'you have her pegged for, then?”

“Two weeks, max,” Alex answers instantly.

Soap lets out a low whistle, chuckling into his beer bottle

“Ye of little faith.”

Little faith, indeed.

And if you weren’t sure of this job before, you’ve suddenly found enough spite to fuel you for months to come.

You make it three weeks before you meet anyone else at The 141.

The days pass in relative monotony, everyone leaving you to your own devices. Kyle shadows you sometimes, offering small talk that’s more him asking you questions and you giving vague, barely enough answers to soothe his interest. You occasionally catch Ghost lurking around the darker areas of the club, meeting his distrustful gaze with your own bright smile and a teasing wink. Mostly, you see Soap and Alex, who are content to say nothing more than a few polite hello’s and goodbyes. They gossip like fishwives, though, whispering and murmuring to each other when they think you’re out of earshot.

Sometimes it’s about you—how long you’ll last, where you’re from, whether or not you’re single.

Other times you catch stories of people you aren’t familiar with. Two weeks ago, it was something about a couple fighting for the fifth time in three days, Alex and Soap wondering if they’d finally break things off. Last week, it was a three-day saga about a giant bug—you think it was a roach—in Soap’s flat. This week, you overhear what must be an old story about Kyle’s traumatic first time in a helicopter and his subsequent fear of heights.

You walk in, the early morning light following behind you, ready to spend your time kinda-sorta cleaning and eavesdropping on the continuation of Kyle’s third time almost falling out of a helicopter.

You look to the bar first when you enter, searching for Alex and Soap to give them the same polite smile and small wave you’ve given them every morning. Instead, you find the bar vacant and the two men absent.

But the club isn’t empty.

A man and a woman stand at one of the pool tables, cue sticks in hand, staring down at the balls scattered across the red baize. Well, the man is staring. The woman leans against her cue stick, head tilted mockingly at her partner.

The man’s dressed in a uniform similar to Ghost’s—all black and covering every inch of skin, only without the face cover—his black hair messily slicked back and thick brows furrowed in a mix of confusion and frustration at the game before him. His opponent stands across the table from him, her short, jet-black hair perfectly framing her tilted head. Dressed a bit more colorfully in a form-fitting black turtleneck with no sleeves tucked into deep red pants, she lifts a heeled boot to impatiently tap her toe against the floor and gives you a perfect view of her red bottoms. Both are adorned with various pieces of gold jewelry: a thin chain necklace and belt for her, and a watch and assortment of rings for him.

You can only describe them the same way you can the rest of the club’s workers—stunning.

She catches sight of you first, no movement except for the way her eyes sharply turn to meet yours. Her smile pulls to the side, tongue running over her teeth as her gaze slides back to her partner. You see her mouth moving, the man breaking his attention away from the table to look at her. She nods her head towards you, and he follows her direction.

You default to a smile, unsure of what to do in the lingering silence as they stare at you, and you stare back at them.

“You must be the new girl, yeah?” the woman asks.

“Yeah, I-”

The man speaks up, cutting you off, “The bird, right? Kestrel? Wren?”

“Canary.”

“I told you it wasn’t Wren,” the woman smirks, much to the man’s apparent annoyance.

“And you have to be right about everything, of course,” he scoffs. She gasps in mock offense, setting a manicured hand to her chest.

“And you two are?” you ask before they can continue.

“Alejandro,” the man smiles before he looks to his partner, and it instantly drops. She waves her sharp nails at him, and Alejandro rolls his eyes. “This is Valeria,” he says flatly.

“Nice to meet you both, but if you don’t mind I have to-”

“No, no, no, come join us for a round. You play, right, avecita?” Valeria returns your smile—all teeth and with a look that sets you on edge—holding her cue stick out towards you.

“Not well,” you laugh.

“Ah, that’s fine.” She waves you off, pulling the cue stick away to circle the table. She reminds you of a vulture, circling high above the clouds, waiting for its prey to die. “You can’t be any worse than Alejandro.”

She laughs, all tease and silk, trailing a hand along Alejandro’s shoulders as she walks past him. He huffs, harshly shrugging her off.

“You’d be surprised,” you mutter. Valeria turns to you, and you get a distinct feeling that this isn’t a woman who likes to be told no. “I can show you after my shift if you’re still up for it?” you offer.

She lights up at that, Alejandro scoffing behind her and mumbling something to himself.

“I’ll hold you to that.” She turns away from you and back to the game, and you hurriedly make your way to your cart.

They spend the entire morning at the table, playing round after round after round. Their banter echoes through the empty club, following you through every room. You don’t mind it too much; they’re more entertaining than Soap and Alex’s quiet gossip.

Valeria wins every game but one—the last round going to Alejandro in a win you’re convinced he was allowed to have. He celebrates the final round with some minor gloating and a kiss with Valeria that takes you by surprise.

They end just as your lunch break begins, and you stack your supplies back onto your cart. As you finish putting your things away, you hear a set of doors open, the mouth-watering scent of spiced meat flooding the room.

A third man walks out from the kitchen, wheeling a serving cart with a large, polished cloche sitting atop it. He pulls it over to Alejandro and Valeria, the latter immediately removing the covering to peek at what’s beneath while the former greets the man with a quick kiss. Valeria sets the cloche aside, revealing three bowls of what you assume is making that inviting smell. Alejandro praises the man, sliding an arm around his waist while Valeria picks up a spoon to taste whatever’s in the bowls.

It must be good, judging by the way she tilts her head back and moans. The man smirks triumphantly, Alejandro going beat red and turning away. He spots you, and you give him a small smile, looking back down at your cart in hopes he doesn’t realize you’ve been staring.

“New girl! Canary!”

Well, shit.

“Come meet Rudy,” Alejandro calls. You dust your hands off on your jeans, walking over with a sheepish smile. The man—the chef?—Rudy, leans in to whisper to Alejandro before giving you a courteous smile. His dark hair’s kind of messy, sticking to his damp forehead. His eyes are big and brown and just as quick as they are soft, with a jawline sharp enough to cut yourself on. He’s handsome—as everyone at this club seems to be—if a little standoffish.

“Nice to meet you,” you smile, holding your hand out to him. He shakes it, leaning forward to reach but not leaving Alejandro’s side.

“Likewise,” he smiles back. Valeria groans from the side, and the three of you turn to her, your eyes falling to the food. It’s some kind of broth filled with rice, potatoes, and various vegetables, with meatballs set in a small circle.

It looks as appetizing as it smells, and you try to ignore the painful way your stomach clenches at the sight.

“Did you make this?” you ask Rudy.

“I was just experimenting. We’re working on a new menu,” he explains, pink blossoming on his cheeks.

“Just experimenting, he says,” Valeria scoffs. “You have to add this. I’d kill a man for this.”

“You want to try some, Canary?” Alejandro asks, picking up one of the spoons to hand it to you.

“It’s a club recipe,” Rudy says, giving Alejandro a pointed look. “Meant to be shared with family.”

“Avecita hasn’t earned her wings yet,” Valeria laughs, warning laced through her voice. It’s a command. An order. Alejandro gives you an apologetic smile, setting the spoon back down on the table.

It’s fine. You get it.

You’d be afraid to go against Valeria too.

But you know that delicious smell will seep into the fabric of your clothes to follow you back to your motel. And maybe, just maybe, you can inhale that delectable smell and pretend that your peanut butter sandwich on slightly stale bread is the same unique recipe and that you might have a family to share it with one day.

Towards the end of the next week, you arrive at the club nearly an hour early.

The heat in your motel room had shut off in the middle of the night, leaving you stuck in the freezing cold of winter’s relentless bite and unable to fall back asleep. Bundled up in the only long-sleeved shirt you had and your denim jacket, you tried to huddle beneath your sheets, but the too-thin fabric did little to help.

Winter’s barely begun, and already she’s fixing to screw you over.

Note to self: Get the hell out of here before the cold months start.

You tried calling your landlord, even knocking on his door, but both attempts resulted in silence.

In the end, you left to your car—deciding to burn some cash for gas to drive around the empty streets and warm yourself with the heater. It smelled like burning dust and blew in varying levels of hotness, but it was better than the unwelcoming iciness of your motel room.

You drove until it was nearly time for your shift, pulling into the back parking lot of the club in the pale blue hours of the morning. With the seats unable to lean back, you sat up straight, head bobbed to the side, getting in a rough thirty-minute nap before your watch beeped at you.

Which leaves you here, crabby and sore as you fight to get your car door shut. It takes a few tries—and a frustrated kick or two—to get it closed and locked.

You wrap your arms around your middle, trying to seal the heat from the car inside your clothes. The walk to the front of the club seems too long a trek in the frigid air. You glance around, spotting the back door to the kitchen.

Why would they put a door there if it wasn’t meant to be used?

It’s open—the lights on—but all you can think about is the sudden rush of hot air that blasts into your face. You shut the door behind you, taking a moment to lean against the wall and revel in the warmth, careful not to let your eyes fall shut.

You give yourself a few minutes to let the warmth seep into your skin before pushing yourself off the wall and heading toward the main room.

You look to the bar first, searching for Soap and Alex out of habit. Neither are there, but there is a man sitting on one of the stools.

He’s dressed in a worn leather jacket, dark aviators covering his eyes, and slicked-back hair that you can tell from the shine is probably stiff and plastered to his head. He has a half-empty bottle of vodka—one of the expensive ones from the top shelf—sitting in front of him next to a half-empty glass and smokes a cigarette that he ashes on the bar top.

You’ve never seen this man before, and if you had actually gotten some sleep, you might have thought more about who he was. But today, you’re off your game and irritated at the pile of ash you’ll have to clean up, so instead, you call out—

“We’re closed right now.”

You don’t bother looking at him, making your way up the steps and grabbing an ashtray from the end of the bar top. You set it down in front of him—a little harsher than necessary—with a wholly unimpressed look. You know you must look a sight, wind-whipped with bags under your eyes.

“And we have these, y’know. In case you missed them.”

The man’s brows raise as he leans back, the lines of his forehead sinking deeper with the movement. You can’t see his eyes, but the way his head moves down, then up, then down again tells you everything you need to know about where he’s looking.

“He’s fine, Canary!” someone calls out behind you before you get to say something. You turn to the game tables, where you're met with a gaggle of your co-workers watching you in various stages of amusement.

Alex and Soap lean against one of the pool tables, snickering to each other while Kyle stands across from them, leaning back with a cue stick in hand and a poorly hidden smile on his face. Ghost and Alejandro stand on either side of the table, Alejandro looking down to hide his laughter and Ghost as unmoving and stoic as ever.

You look back to the man at the bar, then to the group, then the man, then the group again before you finally shut your eyes and take a long breath.

In, out. In, out.

Your father’s voice rings in the back of your head, blaring and disappointed: What have I told you? Always be aware of your surroundings!

Your left shoulder aches straight down to the bone.

In, out. In, out.

You’re not yourself today. You’re okay. You’re safe here.

“Did we scare you?” Alejandro laughs, the snickering behind him increasing.

“You all need matching uniforms, or hats, or something,” you speak up, your voice even and composure restored. “Hell, matching nail polish would work.”

“Nik doesn’t work here; he drives for my father,” Kyle explains, handing his stick to Ghost and heading toward the bar. You can’t help but let your eyes wander to the half-empty vodka bottle, turning back to Kyle with a raised brow. He puts his hands up, making a face that says it’s not his business, so you let it go. He smiles as he passes you—tight-lipped and apologetic like the one managers give to customers they can’t help.

The man, Nik, laughs behind you, deep and rough as if he’s just woken up, clapping Kyle on the back as the young man joins him at the bar.

“Your dad finally found you a girl, huh?! Good for you! She’s a little plain, but not bad for проститутка. Ни рыба ни мясо, you know?”

If it were any other day, you’d have let it go, but your stress is bubbling up, roiling and mixing with your lack of sleep and irritation at the entire day until it boils over.

You round on him before you can stop yourself, “Я тебе покажу, где раки зимуют. Заруби ceбe на носу.”

Nik and Kyle look entirely taken aback—Nik more impressed than offended—and the snickering behind you comes to an immediate halt. You scold yourself for slipping as the room lapses into stunned silence.

Ghost is the first to break it.

“You speak Russian?”

It's an accusation, not a question; if he wasn't suspicious of you before, he certainly is now. You don’t blame him. You know what it means to hear Russian spoken nearby.

You feign ignorance, turning back to him with a slight tilt of your head.

“Yeah?”

His eyes narrow, staring you down as his hand clenches around the cue stick. “Didn’t mention that when you started,” he all but growls at you.

“No one asked,” you shrug, doing your best to downplay the situation. You glance over your shoulder at Kyle—ignoring the way Nik is now beaming at you.

“Can I get to work?” you ask, ready to find a small corner to hide in so you can nap somewhere that isn’t below freezing.

“Yeah, go ahead.” Kyle nods, and you nod back, heading for your cleaning cart. You can hear Alex and Soap whispering to each other, Alejandro’s voice joining in. Ghost’s eyes never leave you, his sharp glare following you the entire way, and then continuing to watch as you pack your arms full of supplies and head upstairs.

You peer down at him when you reach the top few steps, just as he looks away and off to the side. You follow his line of sight to the office doors, one swung open with your boss leaning against the frame and looking directly at you.

You look away, rushing the rest of the way up the steps.

You’re surprisingly busy during your seventh week; the club is in preparation for a big business party that’s supposed to be good for networking or something.

You’re kept in the dark about the goings on within the club. In truth, you prefer it this way—less chance to get attached. Not that you’re given much chance for attachment; everyone, save for Kyle, seems determined to keep you at arm’s length.

Soap sits at the bar, chatting quietly to Ghost as the masked man stands beside him. Soap faces forward, but Ghost leans back on his elbows against the bar top. They watch the stage, where a man you haven’t met works to lay out and adjust the sound equipment. They ignore you, for the most part, Soap giving you an occasional smile while Ghost fixes you with an annoyed glare every time you pass by. The man working on the stage hasn’t even looked in your direction.

It’s unexpectedly peaceful, and you work with impressive efficiency.

Kyle wasn’t strict about breaks—and his father hadn’t spoken to you since the day you met him—so you decide to take them as you see fit.

Halfway through your second break of the day, you pass by the stage, carefully navigating around the piles of cables and sound equipment. So focused on watching your steps, you don’t see the man drop down from the stage and directly into your path until you collide into his side.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” you say, staggering to keep yourself from falling over. The man is unmoved, not even sparing you a glance. His hair is a sandy brown—maybe dirty blonde—and sticks to his slightly damp forehead. His eyes are covered by a pair of dark sunglasses, but you think you catch a glimpse of brown from the side. He’s dressed in all black—what a surprise—but significantly more casual than anyone else you’ve seen. A fitted shirt turtleneck with rolled sleeves, gloves, and jeans; the only nonblack item of clothing on him is the large set of dark blue headphones covering his ears. You can faintly hear the echoes of a rock song coming from them.

He winds a long cable in his hands, nodding his head along to whatever’s blasting in his eardrums. You stand for a moment, waiting to see if he’ll say something or acknowledge you, but he doesn’t; the only thing he pays attention to is the cable in his hand.

When he gets to the end, the cable a perfect continuous loop, it’s been made clear you’re not needed—and probably not wanted—here. You take a step forward, fully prepared to move around the man, when he suddenly reaches out, holding the wound-up cable out to you.

You’re not sure what you’re supposed to do with it, but he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even look at you. He just holds it out, focusing on the various amps and cables in front of him on the stage.

Am I supposed to…take this?

You cautiously wrap a hand around the cable, waiting to make sure this is what he wants. The man moves into action, shoving the cable further up your arm, so it hangs at your elbow before picking up another one from the stage. He sets it in your hands, grabbing the end and beginning his winding once more.

“Um, excuse me?” you call out, watching the cable slide across your hand and into his coil. He doesn’t respond, working diligently and ignoring your existence entirely.

He finishes in record time, this time tossing the wound-up cable at you the moment he’s done. You stumble but catch it, barely being given enough time to hang it on your arm before he’s setting another cable in your hand.

This continues two more times before you give up, leaving him to his work and surrendering to your new life as his cable stand.

You’ve got both arms covered in cables, with two hanging from your neck, when you notice Soap and Ghost still at the bar. Ghost is sitting down now, facing away from the stage, but Soap—

Soap is leaning on his elbow against the bar top, smiling and laughing and definitely looking right at you.

He glances back to Ghost occasionally, carrying on whatever—what you’re sure is one-sided—conversation they’re having. You wait until he looks back at you, meeting his eyes and mouthing help me. His grin grows wider, if possible, shoulders shaking as he clearly laughs at you.

He looks back to Ghost, hitting the masked man on the arm a few times. Ghost barely turns his head in Soap’s direction, and Soap says something, nodding in your direction. Ghost looks over his shoulder, catching sight of you as Soap bursts with laughter.

“Lookin’ good, hen!” Soap yells out. You lift your left arm as high as you can with four cables wrapped around it to flip him off. All you get is a cackle in response.

Ghost, however, seems to take pity on you. He stands from the bar, making his way toward you with Soap traipsing behind. You let out a small sigh of relief, hoping he’ll take some of the cables, but he stops just next to you. He fixes you with that shadowy glare, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Your break ended ten minutes ago.”

You don’t know why you expected any different.

“Tell him that,” you scoff, nodding toward your unintentional captor. Soap chuckles, taking up the role of your savior and grabbing the cables from your left arm. Ghost moves to the man, pulling the headphones down around his neck. The man jumps, dropping his cable and turning to Ghost.

“Don’t mind Roach,” Soap says, nodding back at the man who’s nodding along to whatever Ghost is murmuring to him. “Lad’s got a bit of a one-track mind. You set him to a task, and he won’t stop ‘til he’s done.”

Soap takes the cables from your arms—the immediate relief bringing tears to your eyes—stacking them on the stage.

“His name is Roach?” you ask, peeling the large cables from around your neck.

“Sure is.”

You don’t know why you’re surprised. You’re talking to a man named Soap, of all things.

“Are these like codenames or something?”

Soap barks out a laugh, “Comin’ from the woman named Canary!”

“I—yeah, fair enough.” Soap gives you a wide, toothy grin, leaning back against the stage. You turn to watch Ghost and Roach, Ghost speaking quietly to him. Occasionally, Ghost looks up over Roach’s head and directly at you, glaring at you before returning his attention to Roach. You’d be nervous if you cared, but your attention is elsewhere as you watch Roach remove his gloves and gesture to Ghost. It doesn’t take long for you to realize.

He’s signing.

Your eyes are fixated on Roach’s hands, watching their fluid movement in awe. You try to catch what few signs you know, but they don’t seem to be discussing military tactics, so you’re at a bit of a loss.

Ghost must catch you because he clears his throat and startles you out of your gaze.

“You can go back to work now,” he states, harsh and non-negotiating. “We aren’t paying you to stand around.”

You kind of are.

Roach turns to you, facing you for the first time. He gives you a broad smile and signs something to you that makes Ghost roll his eyes.

“He says it’s nice to meet you,” Soap translates, watching as Roach continues. “And he’s sorry for not noticing you.”

“It’s fine. No harm done.”

Roach nods at you, turning back to Ghost, the conversation seemingly shifting to whatever he was working on.

“I’m gonna get back to it,” you tell Soap. “Don’t wanna get in trouble.” You send Ghost a not-so-subtle look that makes Soap chuckle.

“He just needs some time to warm up t’ya. Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he winks.

You really doubt that, but you’ll take what you can get. You head back to your cart, glancing back to watch Soap join the two, clapping Roach on the back before sliding an arm around his shoulders. It’s sweet, the way they interact; Soap’s endless well of charisma and charm gives him the ability to make anyone feel at ease.

Roach signs something that makes Soap laugh, and you feel the smile growing on your face.

Until you look two inches to the left and meet Ghost’s bone-chilling glare aimed directly at you.

You roll your eyes, turning your attention back to your cart.

Needs time to warm up to me, my ass.

Kyle has the brilliant idea to rearrange the rooms on the second floor, recruiting you the moment you walk into the club. The entire morning is spent helping him move couches and game tables, and chairs with few breaks in between.

You’re trying to move one of the absurdly heavy tables down into the main room when Kyle gets a call. The two of you balance the table well enough on the steps before he pulls his phone from his back pocket to check the number.

“You mind if I take this?”

He doesn’t give you much choice, answering the call immediately after asking. It doesn’t sound like a particularly interesting conversation, and you tune it out in favor of using these few precious minutes to lean against the stair railing for a well-earned breather. You keep your side against the table while Kyle keeps a tight hand on the other end to keep it from sliding down the steps.

“No, no, that’s not—“ You’ve never heard Kyle raise his voice—he's always scarily calm, just like his father—but it goes up a few decibels now. You can’t help looking at him with mild surprise, raising a brow in question and concern. He smiles back at you—too quick to be genuine—before turning entirely away from you and speaking into the phone in hushed tones.

It takes another minute of heated whispering before he hangs up, turning back to you with another smile—apologetic this time.

“Everything alright?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah. Everything’s fine. Great. Um, would you mind if I just—“ He maneuvers his way around the game table, moving down the steps toward you. “I’ll be right back, I promise. I just have to have to go handle something.”

“What? We’re still moving this thing,” you try to reason, but he continues past you and down the steps in an unusually nervous hurry.

“It’s fine where it’s at! I’ll be back in ten minutes!” he calls back as he rushes towards the door.

“Kyle!”

“You’ve got this!” The end of his sentence is punctuated by the slamming of the front doors, and, just like that, you’re left in the club by yourself.

It takes far longer than ten minutes, and by the thirty-minute mark, you’re tired of waiting.

The table isn’t that heavy, right?

You could probably lift it yourself.

All you have to do is move one step at a time.

You make it two-and-a-half steps before you try to call it quits. You’ve taken Kyle’s spot further up the stairs, holding the table under its top with both hands to keep it from sliding down the half-step it’s stuck on and barreling down the rest of the staircase. It definitely is that heavy, and the worry that you won’t be able to hold it until Kyle—or anyone—gets back has seeped into your brain.

You don’t know how long you hold it—you can’t look at your watch without letting go of the table; a chance you won’t take—but the burn in your arms tells you you’ll be sore for the coming days.

You try counting backward, distracting yourself with a one-sided game of i-spy, thinking of all your favorite childhood movies. Anything to distract from the way sweat begins to collect on your palms.

You settle on deep breaths, looking up to the ceiling with a long inhale and exhaling with your eyes shut.

It works well enough, keeping your mind busy.

Too busy, it would seem, as you don’t hear the footsteps coming down the stairs behind you.

Your eyes shoot open as the weight is suddenly—blessedly—lifted from your hands. Stretching the soreness to a manageable degree with a soft groan, you turn to thank your savior.

The tallest man you have ever seen stands behind you, holding the end of the table in one hand. It hurt your neck to look Ghost in the eye for too long, but you have to crane your neck to even get a glimpse of this man’s chin.

He bends to get his hands under the tabletop and gives you a better view of his face.

Not that there’s much face to be seen.

All black from head to toe, just like Ghost. And just like Ghost, this man wears a mask covering the lower half of his face. His isn’t painted and is pulled up high over his hooked nose, almost reaching his bottom lashes. His hair is a rusty red, long enough to tuck behind his ears, with a few strands falling into his face as he lifts the game table and pulls it toward him.

He pauses, glancing over at you in surprise like he’s just noticed you’re there. His eyes are hazel, pale green mixing with a thick outline of soft brown. You don’t know if it’s the lack of black, smoky eye and permanent glare that Ghost carries, but something about this man seems far friendlier—puts you at ease with an uncomfortably new sense of safety.

He stares at you for a brief moment, taking in your figure, every-so-often flitting back up to your face. Without a word, he pulls the table back into a secure spot before standing up to his total—massive—height. He slides past you with a quiet “‘Tschuldigung.” until he stands next to the table.

Your jaw drops as he bends, sliding his hands under the table to lift it entirely off the ground. He carries it the rest of the rest down the steps without a word or so much as breaking a sweat. All you can do is follow behind, staring in disbelief at this helpful giant.

What the hell are they feeding these guys?

He sets the game table down at the bottom of the steps, nudging it out of the way with his leg like it’s nothing. He turns his head, catching you coming down the steps, and his deep-set eyes narrow, not in the cold, suspiciously dangerous way that Ghost’s do, but instead paired with the way his mask rises with his cheeks as if he’s smiling.

“Thank you,” is all you can say.

He nods, attention drifting from you to the rest of the club. You don’t know what—or who—he’s looking for, but it’s just the two of you here.

“I’m Canary,” you say with a small smile, moving down a few steps so you can be at eye level with him. He turns back to you, and you hold your hand out to him.

He grasps your hand gently, muttering something under his breath that you can’t quite catch before looking you straight in the eye.

“König,” he says with a small nod.

That explains the German, you laugh to yourself. König lets go of your hand, looking back around the club, and you can’t help but wonder—

When the hell did the 141 starting working with the Germans?

“Excuse me, but—” he says, looking back down at you, “—I’m looking for—“

“I’m back!” You both jump at the sudden shouting, turning just in time to see Kyle rushing in from the front doors, eyes still fixated on his phone. “I had to handle something. You can yell at me for it later, but I’m here now, so we can—“

He’s only a few steps away when he finally looks up and notices the two of you. His eyes travel from you to König, to the game table behind him.

“Guess you didn’t need my help, after all,” Kyle laughs.

“No, I definitely did,” you counter, folding your arms across your chest. Usually, you’d try to hide any wincing or evidence of pain, but you’re feeling petty. And if you exaggerate how much your arms hurt—just a little—Kyle will never know. “Damn near lost an arm.”

“It won’t happen again, I promise.” Kyle makes a small x over his chest, just above his heart, fixing you with that bright, customer-service smile.

“Have you seen your father?” König asks. His voice isn’t soft but quiet, speaking lowly but just enough for you and Kyle to hear.

“Not today,” Kyle sighs. “Anything I can do for you?”

König gives you a quick glance, looking back at Kyle, who seems to take the hint.

“We can talk in the office,” Kyle says, gesturing toward the back office. König nods, following Kyle as the young man heads across the room.

“You can head home, Canary! I appreciate the help today!” Kyle calls over his shoulder. König turns on his heel, walking backward without breaking his stride.

“Es hat mich gefreut Sie kennenzulernen. Um, nice meeting you!” he calls, giving you a quick nod. You return it, adding a small wave as he turns back around and disappears into the office with Kyle.

You let out a long breath, leaning against the railing.

British, American, Mexican, German...Russian. If your father were alive, seeing the extensive reach of The 141 would surely kill him.

Either that or he’d be offering you on a silver platter for the chance to sink his claws in; you knew how powerful of a bargaining chip you were. Had it happened, you’d have hated it, you’re sure. Fighting tooth and nail, scraping against the floorboards to keep from being dragged out of your home and sent into some stranger's arms.

Looking back on it now, though…

That might’ve been the better option. Better a silver platter than a silver cage, and no stranger could’ve been crueler than—

Your left shoulder burns, the muscles in your arm tightening into an unbearable vice.

Choices were given. Decisions were made.

The past is the past.

All you have left is the future.

Translations:

проститутка - a prostitute Ни рыба ни мясо - neither fish nor meat; an idiom used to describe someone who is average or not memorable Я тебе покажу, где раки зимуют - i will show you where lobsters (crawfish) spend the winter; "i’ll teach you a lesson; I’ll give you something to remember me by" Заруби ceбe на носу - make a notch on your nose; "mark my words" - ‘Tschuldigung - sorry; excuse me Es hat mich gefreut Sie kennenzulernen - it was a pleasure meeting you; nice to meet you

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