#soap x you

[penelopepine]

Little Kicks

141 reacts to feeling the baby kick for the first time. 

Price: 

It's late at night and Price is helping you with your nightly routine. He helped with rubbing some soothing cream onto stomach; it was something he honestly looked forward to every night now. To feel your pregnant stomach under his palm is something he would never deny himself; not even for a second.

The bedroom is quiet; your eyes are closed and clearly enjoying his touch. At least that was until you suddenly wince in pain. Immediately Price is on alert, "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Just-," you gasp and wince again, "Just the baby kicking me. "

Price releases a relieved breath hearing those words. He knows the little one has been more active as of late, and that the one light taps are slowly but surely getting harder.

"Here give me your hand! With how hard she's kicking inside there you might be able to feel it now."  

With your words Price reaches out and puts his hand on your stomach once more. He spreads his palm out wide hoping to feel even the lightest tap. And eventually after a few seconds he does! He can feel his baby girl kick his hand. 

Looking at you he sees that you have the softest smile on your face as you watch him. You know that this has been something he had been waiting for ever since you first mentioned it. He couldn’t help, but think how this was all he had ever wanted. Price wouldn’t change this moment for anything in the world. 

He moves himself up on the bed towards you, and pulls you into his arms. Doing so he makes sure to have one hand pressed on stomach as he whispers praises in your ear. 

Gaz: 

Gaz is in the living room building some furniture for the baby’s room when a gasp followed by a loud thud of something hitting the ground. He is immediately calling your name, and rushing to find you. 

Once in the kitchen he sees you standing in the middle of the room. You're obviously in pain, but you have a wide smile on your face. A tupperware container sits on the ground; the lip Is still on and luckily nothing spilled out onto the floor.

"What! What is it? Is everything alright?" Gaz quickly asks, coming to stand right in front of you. 

 "Give me your hand!" You excitedly exclaim while reaching for his hand and placing it on your stomach. 

 Confusion and worry quickly leaves him as he feels a sudden pressure press up against his palm. "Is that-?"

"It is!"

Gaz drops to his knees; his hand never leaves its spot. He loves you so much, and this pregnancy has only strengthened that bond he has with you. 

Everything in this moment is perfect, and he can't believe his life has turned out like this. How he ended up with you he'll never know, but he'll forever be glad he did. Gaz gives your stomach a kiss before rising to his feet, and leading you to the couch. All he wants to do right now is hold his family in his arms. 

Soap: 

Soap had his head right on top of your stomach as he talked to you and baby about how he couldn't wait for them to be born, and everything he had planned after that. When Soap had found out you were pregnant he was ecstatic, and would talk to the baby any chance he could. 

While doing so this time though a hard pressure hits him on his check. You gasp at the same time Soap jerks his head up to meet your eyes.

"Did she-?

"Was that-?"

You both say at the same time before focusing back on your stomach. Soap is immediately placing his head back on your stomach; waiting for the baby to kick him again. 

"Do it again, little lass, do it again!" He whispers repeatedly to the baby.

It only takes him a few short moments for it to happen again, and when it does Soap lets out an excited laugh. 

"I think she likes your voice." You affectionately mention to him while running your fingers through his hair. 

"Aye, just like her mama!" Soap reaches up and grabs your hand that's in his hair and brings it closer to him to give it a kiss before returning it where it once was. This right here was his favorite way to relax when home. 

Ghost: 

In the middle of the night Ghost feels you wiggling in his arms. Your pregnancy had been affecting your sleep so this was pretty normal, but before he can pull you closer to him he hears your pained wheeze. Instantly he’s wide awake and calling out to you. 

“Love, what’s wrong?” 

“The baby,” you gasp, “the baby is apparently wanting to be a football player, and decided that now is the perfect time to practice.” 

The relief he feels from those words are instantaneous. He hates that you’re in pain, but he would rather this than the worst possible scenario. “I’m sorry, love. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Can you talk to her? She always calms down when you do.” You sleepily ask him. 

And he does; if simply talking is what it takes to help both of his girls then he will do so. Leaning down towards your stomach he places one hand on it, and starts to speak. What surprises him though is that when he does he feels a light punch against his palm. 

That was the baby he realized. He felt her. A wave of love overflows inside of him, and for a second he thinks surely this can’t be real. There is no way his life has turned into something this perfect. 

[beloveds-embrace]

Fae au thought

One of them storming into her chambers only for her to be in the middle of a bubble bath. Completely bare of all things fae. So utterly human, so utterly vulnerable.

yes || masterlist || trying my hand at actually writing johnny’s accent

It was Johnny.

Of course it was Johnny.

The door slammed open with the force of a man too furious to remember propriety, the wood crashing against the stone with a bang that echoed like thunder down the gilded corridor and scattering the softly glowing wisps that floated lazily in your chambers like fireflies caught in honeyed light. The very walls groaned in protest, ancient ivy carved into the pillars flinching at the fury that surged in behind him. His voice followed, sharp, brimming with a fire he rarely let show in court.

"Where the fuck were you- ?!"

Every faelight in the room flickered, dimming in tandem with his rage. Then, silence; a heavy, suffocating silence.

You turned in the tub, water sloshing gently against porcelain as your hand rose to clutch at the side. Bubbles clung lazily to your shoulders, slipping down soft skin untouched by glamour or adornment. No jewelry curved your ears to points. No talon-shaped rings or flower-laced braids. No velvet. No corset. No thorns. Bare as a whisper, as a prayer. Soaked in steam and solitude, skin flushed from heat.

Only you.

Bare, human, and blinking at him like a deer startled mid-step in a clearing.

The fury drained from him in an instant.

Johnny’s lips parted, then closed. His eyes flicked- once, only once- before they dropped to the floor, jaw tightening with restraint. The fire had not gone out, but it was merely stifled now, banked beneath something deeper and rougher.

“Dinnae mean to…” he muttered, voice cracking low, throat bobbing.

You remained quiet, shoulders curling ever so slightly inward. The room, warm and fragrant with oils and rose petals, suddenly felt too still, too quiet, even though distant flutes played, music still drifting in from the spring festival below. One of the glass windows glowed a faint blue, letting in the moon’s touch. You reached for a towel, slow and deliberate, never taking your eyes off him.

And you- so achingly human- were the only thing in the room that didn’t shimmer. It made you seem all the more delicate.

“… You could knock next time.” You said, softly, not with anger, but with a tiredness that had settled deep into your bones. The kind that no glamour could mask. The kind even Thrain’s company barely eased. The kind that had nothing to do with being fae or queen or wife, and everything to do with simply being alone for too long. With being human in a place that did not welcome it.

Johnny didn’t leave, though, even if he should have.

Instead, he stepped back once- just once- and turned his head, gaze fixed on a tapestry like it had offended him personally.

“I thought somethin’’d happened,” he said, voice low and rough, accent thick. “Ye weren’t in yer chambers, or at the table. No one had a fuckin’ clue where ye’d gone. Court’s been crawlin’ all day- bastards won’t stop askin’ for more time wi’ ye. Price is snappin’. Gaz nearly stuck a blade in some prissy noble’s gut when he asked too sweetly where’d you gone. I dinnae even know where Si’s at an’ I’m almost too afraid to ask.”

You sank back into the water, letting the warmth cradle your frame.

“I just wanted a bath,” you whispered, sinking back into the bath, water lapping gently at your collarbone. The petals shifted around you, soft and luminous. “Not a title. Not another favor asked of me. Just…” Your fingers trailed across the surface, drawing circles. “To be myself. For a little while.”

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t heavy this time, and neither was it angry. Quiet.

After a moment, you heard the sound of boots stepping away. Not leaving- just moving. Then the faint scrape of wood against stone that had been etched with centuries’ worth of wards to keep wicked things at bay.

He was sitting, less like an advisor and more a knight keeping watch outside a princess’s door. But even closer than that.

“I’ll stay,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms as though daring anyone to argue with him- even you. “Not lookin’. Just… watchin’ the door.”

A pause. Then, in a voice so quiet you’d never think he was even capable of, Johnny sighed. “… Take yer time, queenie. Dinnae let me take this away from ye.”

You had no answer for that.

But when you rose, wrapped in soft linen and smelling of dusk-flowers and magic, your bare feet kissed the glowing floor, and your eyes met his- he didn’t look away this time.

Not even once.

(You told yourself it was not hunger that colored his eyes; you doubted he’d find a human attractive.)

[machveil]

John “Soap” MacTavish demanding kisses whenever you stop at a red light or sign - he’s hard leaning over towards you, you just have to look at him and he’ll peck your lips. seatbelt straining as he smiles at you, “Kiss toll, mo ghaol.”

Johnny that gets whiny when you don’t give him a kiss. come on! just look at him, pretty please? he’s giving you his best puppy eyes, lip dramatically stuck out in an exaggerated pout. please? just one kiss? it’s hard work driving you around - one kiss at every light should be enough to keep him going… or more, he isn’t complaining

Johnny that scrambles to hit the gas when someone honks behind the car - the light changed to green ten seconds ago but he was lost peppering you with kisses. his cheeks are a little warm because, even though no one really saw anything, it still feels like he got caught when they honked

[spurbleu]

141, and their dirty mementos

soap is an avid panty stealer. wholeheartedly believe that man digs through your undergarment drawer before deployment and pockets them- or he steals them off you in the morning. eats you out to wake you up and then slips your panties back over your raw cunt, pressing it down so your spend takes to the cloth. it doesn't get washed until he returns, and by then he's licked and sniffed it enough times that its more him than you.

price carries photos of you. the tasteful ones are on display- in his wallet you're smiling while at dinner. the one behind it, however, is him splitting you over his cock that same night, your smile wavering with spit and stupor. he's got more, some you don't even know about, and folds them in various pockets of his flak jacket for the lonely nights where he misses his wife. god forbid you send him one while he's deployed, you're getting the most violent lay when he gets home.

the week approaching his departure, gaz records sex over an audio tape. doesn't matter when or where, that man is kissing your sweaty forehead and reminding you, "into the mic, baby," as he ruins your spent cunt. plays them back on particularly long stakeouts, or the evenings he can't sleep to remind himself of who's waiting home for him. especially loves fantasizing about how you're likely making the same noises now, alone in your shared flat, chasing what only he can give you.

simon has a tattoo of you on his thigh. now, it's not actually of you, but it's a collection of reminders- finger print, your favorite flower, kiss mark, amongst other small details that appear to be random tracings at first glance. but not to him- not when he's fucking his hand staring at it, enjoying the images his mind conjures. half an ego trip- to know you so deeply, more than anyone, that looking at self-curated paraphernalia of his wife bring a vivid picture of you to mind. you can tease him for his poetic approach all you want, but he knows you stare at it.

[littlelunababi]

Dating Mctavish 🧼

I imagine he’d be just a bit tame at first. He didn’t want to scare you off with his antics. He’d be a gentleman nonetheless. He’d hold and open doors, help you with your heels, all the works because he’s in love.

He would then, start getting comfortable, and you’d see he’s a bit of a tease and an asshole, but you love it though. It’s kinda cute when he does it.

I also feel like he’d be handy and handsy. The door is squeaking? No problem, but he WILL grab a handful of your ass on the way to fix it. And on the way back to grab his tools, after seeing what he needed. And when he finished. And when he went to put his tools away.

I also feel like he’d be the type to DOG you out and count that as one round, and be ready to go again. Like- you cannot tell me his drive and stamina are not high.

He would have your hands pinned above your head, your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks you into the broken bed. He’d bite your neck and lips before kissing you. He’d mutter in his accent too, “ya feel tha? Yeah? It’s makin’ ya drool Bonnie”, and trust he licked it right up too.

After you both came, he would slide between your legs and eat you quite literally like a starved dog. You’d grip his hair trying to pull him away, your cunt raw and sensitive but nothing is stoping this man, not unless you actually tell him to and you haven’t so.. womp womp.

Later, you’d be lying with your legs spread, letting the air cool your freshly cleaned body and sore cunt. He’d be grinning at you. Not at all sorry at your state and quite ready to worsen it. Yes, he’s addicted, and no, he can’t get enough, and yes he is a hound about it.

One thing he would LOVE though, is when you’re both in bed, and you ask him stories about some of his missions. More so, the blowing up bits. His eyes always sparkled a little when talking about it.

A cute little pyro-puppy 🥹

[gam3r-girli3]

Something something the boys are out one night and Soap confesses to Price over a few beers that his last girlfriend broke up with him because she claimed he didn't know how to eat her out properly.

It's forgotten about the next day, just a bit of locker room chat between men over a some drinks in their local pub, until Soap is called into Price's office one day to find you - his Captain's pretty wife - laid out on the desk, looking like a damn feast.

Price is kneeled down in front of you between your splayed legs, lapping hungrily at your cunt, and if your echoing mewls and cries are anything to go by, you seem to be enjoying it immensely.

Soap backs up, hand reaches behind him for the door as he stutters over apologies, unable to tear his eyes away from the erotic scene in front of him. He feels his cock stirring in his trousers despite the wrongness of it, the intrusion on a private moment between a husband and wife.

It's been so long since he last got laid, even longer since he got to taste a nice pussy. He can tell just by looking at yours that you've got a nice tasting one, the kind that lingers on his tongue days after, makes him ache and wake up hard just dreaming about it.

Price's head turns, but he doesn't look angry, far from it. His eyes glitter with amusement, mustache looking damp and chin shining with slick arousal from your weeping cunt.

Instead of ordering him to get out, the Captain invites him to come closer.

Hesitantly, still in a state of disbelief but far too turned on to leave, the Sergeant edges closer, swallowing thickly.

"Go on, lad. Give 'er a taste."

It's wrong, so wrong. Depraved. But he is depraved and he's so unbelievably horny.

Soap takes Price's place on the floor, knees leaning on the hard surface as his face gets up close to your pussy.

His eyes dart up to your face, as if checking to see your reaction, but you just smile coyly and give a short nod of reassurance. It's all he needs before he's diving in, suckling harshly on your puffy clit.

He hears you cry out, loud, feels your fingers fist in his hair - but you don't seem to be trying to hold him there, you're tugging. He raises his head, a struggle, looking to see what's wrong.

Behind him, observing, Price clicks his tongue in disappointment. "You're going too fast. You need to slow down. Savour it. Take your time."

Soap feels a flush of embarrassment.

Keeping his Captain's words in mind, he goes in again - but this time, he doesn't slurp, he laps. He slowly and painstakingly devours you, from your clit down to your soaked entrance. He savours the flavour, hums as your arousal dances on his tongue. Thinks back to his earlier thoughts and decides he was right; you do have a nice tasting pussy and he'll be getting off to this for weeks to come, chubbing up at just the mere mention of your name.

He can distantly hear you whimpering and sobbing over the thunderous drumming of his own heart, can feel you squirming, thighs clamping around his head every so often. Doesn't need to look to know the desk is fucking soaked, any paperwork under you destroyed with your juices (not that he's allowed much to escape, the greedy bastard that he is).

"There ya go, lad. She's almost there. A little more."

Price's encouragement only serves to make him work even slower, drawing out your impending orgasm deliciously. When you finally reach your peak, your back arches clean off the desk, legs twitching and quivering, your voice a beautiful high-pitched crescendo full of pleasure and relief that echoes in Soap's skull like a symphony.

Only once he's finished catching every drop of your release that escaped your cunt does he come up for air, licking his lips and tasting your arousal that's coating his mouth, chin, dribbling down his neck.

Soap turns his head to look back over his shoulder.

Price nods, a hint of pride in his voice as he says, "Well done. Next time I'll teach you how to make her squirt."

i don't know what this is and don't ask me how it came into my head

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

HYENA JOHNNY

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

you meet johnny at a bar.

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

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

and behind the bar, johnny.

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

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

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

"a mocktail.”

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

"i do."

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

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

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

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

"someone has to get them home alive."

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

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

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

"surprise me."

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

"that a threat?"

“nah,” he says. “just a promise.”

you watch him work.

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

and he’s a hyena. no mistaking it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"not bad," you admit.”

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

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

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

"confident, aren’t you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you tell yourself a lot of things.

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

but you don’t want to go.

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

so you go.

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

the work gala is everything you expected.

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

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

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

and that’s when you see him.

johnny.

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

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

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

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

johnny isn’t just attractive.

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

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

he grins. “last i checked.”

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

then back to him.

“what the hell are you doing here?”

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

your brow lifts. “you own a pub.”

“that i do.”

“so why are you working here?”

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

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

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

you narrow your eyes. “but?”

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

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

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

you exhale, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you take a sip.

pause.

lick the taste from your lips.

his smirk lingers, watching. waiting.

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

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

your pulse jumps.

“and how exactly would i do that?”

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

and just like that, you’re in trouble.

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

responsibility starts as a whisper.

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

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

you order another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so, he does the next best thing.

he steals your phone.

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

the lock screen slides open instantly.

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

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

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

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

you wake up to a headache and a mistake.

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

him.

your stomach flips before your brain can even process why.

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

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

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

a new contact.

johnny ;)

your stomach twists harder.

you blink at it.

once.

twice.

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

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

but you already know you’re going to look.

you swipe, and the screen shifts.

one unread message.

johnny: still alive, sweetheart?

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

you fail spectacularly.

you: barely. might never recover.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you: lies. slander. i demand proof.

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

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

but the messages keep coming.

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

you: surprisingly not dead.

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

it’s easy, too easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you: challenge accepted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the more he texts, the worse it gets.

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

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

johnny: long day?

you: feels like it

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

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

you: that’s bleak

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

you don’t have a response for that either.

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

johnny: what are you doin’ friday?

your stomach flips.

you: depends. why?

this time, the response doesn’t come immediately.

you watch the typing bubble appear. disappear. reappear.

johnny: takin’ you out. that’s why.

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

you: at your pub?

his reply is fast.

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

you: fair point. so where, then?

johnny: you’ll see ;)

you are, without a doubt, in trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

his rut slams into him like a sledgehammer.

hyena ruts are brutal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then he fucking whimpers.

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

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

and then— the door creaks open.

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

you’re there.

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

no.

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

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

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

you reach for him. and he folds.

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

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

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

he needs. he needs.

fuck, but he shouldn’t.

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

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

he can’t. he can’t.

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

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

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

it helps. just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your throat goes dry.

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

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

his breath hitches.

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

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

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

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

“…can i make it up to you?”

your brows lift.

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

you shift, tilting your head. “how?”

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

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

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

he’s trembling, cock leaking. and you—

you nod.

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

and then—

oh.

his tongue is warm.

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

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

and he doesn't stop.

doesn't hesitate. doesn't tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s perfect.

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

"johnny-!"

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

and johnny loses it.

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

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

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

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

he’s a mess. ruined. wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

his ears perk up. his breath hitches.

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

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

"fuck me..."

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

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

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

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

oh.

oh.

there is a lot of him.

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

"u-um- johnny, wait-"

he doesn’t wait. he pushes in.

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

"hnnngh- fuck-”

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

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

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

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

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

"johnny-"

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

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

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

again.

again.

again.

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

"fuck- fuck- fuck-"

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

and you— you’re drooling.

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

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

and he’s loving it.

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

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

"tell me- tell me y’need it-"

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

"tell me, bonnie-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but he doesn’t push his knot in.

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

well, now it’s too late.

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

and it does.

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

johnny knows.

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

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

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

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

and he’s right.

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

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

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

and then he comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you take your chance.

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

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

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

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

"no- bonnie- come back-"

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

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

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

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

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

a guy nicknamed 👻.

you hesitate, fingers hovering over the call button.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"is that ghost?"

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

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

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

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

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

the line goes dead.

[vinyls-xreaders]

it’s supposed to be a nice little dinner.

you, johnny, and his parents- your in-laws- tucked into your cozy little dining room, sitting close together at a table with fresh flowers you’d picked from your garden as the centerpiece and eating food you’d worked all day to prepare.

the four of you are supposed to be having a nice time catching up, laughing and getting to know each other a bit better since you’d only ever seen them at the wedding. not before. not after.

and despite your effort, it isn’t a nice little dinner.

you very quickly realize the reason you haven’t seen much of johnny’s parents is because they don’t like you.

the moment johnny welcomes them in- without you there because you’re finishing up on the kitchen- his mom is already asking, “finally leave tha’ lassie a yers?”

johnny snipes, “my wife is in tha kitchen, ma.”

you can’t help but overhear; they aren’t exactly talking quietly. mactavishes, you’ve learned, are all prone to talking louder than they think they are.

and their footsteps are the same way.

you just manage to tug a strained smile onto your lips as johnny comes into the kitchen, dropping a hand around your waist and pressing a kiss to your temple, wordlessly apologizing for what his mother has said even though he doesn’t know you’ve heard it.

so, yeah, you already know this dinner will be hell.

you lean into johnny and turn your head just far enough to press an answering kiss of forgiveness to his skin.

only to freeze when a voice grumbles, “ach, no’ a sight ah wanna see,” from just outside the kitchen. two pairs of footsteps follow the complaint into the room, faces painted with barely-hidden disdain.

it takes everything you have to hide the thread of shame stitching itself into your chest.

“hello,” you greet, voice smaller than you mean for it to be.

johnny picks up on it immediately. his hand twitches on your waist before pulling you closer. a frown tugs onto his lips for a moment, a too-brazen display of concern for you.

“what’d ye say?” johnny’s dad snaps.

your face burns hot as you repeat, “hello.”

“hello tae ye, too.”

you nod and squirm your way out of johnny’s arms to check on the dish that’s in the oven, studying it for longer than you need to. you can still feel their eyes on you, and your face heats up. to save yourself, you offer, “you can- you can go sit at the table if you’d like.”

“wha-“

johnny, unwilling to watch them embarrass you any further, argues, “ye heard her.”

he leads his parents out of the kitchen, grousing at them to back off of you, but their excuses float back towards you. “och, john, just tryna teach yer bird tae speak up. no one’ll ever listen tae her if she’s so quiet," and "why're ye tryna pick a fight wit' yer da, johnny-boy?"

you fumble around the kitchen aimlessly. anything you can think of to delay the inevitable of sitting down with them, you do.

you're about to start reorganizing your damn silverware drawer when johnny comes back in, the scowl on his face softening into a smile at the sight of you.

"ready?" he asks, and both of you know he isn't just talking about the food.

"just about." you take the dish out of the oven and set it on a potholder on the counter. "can you get the salad out of the fridge?"

when you bring the food out, you find his parents seem to be scrutinizing every inch of your dining room. they nitpick a detail silently, nudge the other into noticing it, too, and have a wordless conversation with their eyes about it.

and when you and johnny set the food down and settle into the seat across from them, they turn that same kind of focus onto you, too.

you can't help but feel scraped open, like all your deepest secrets have been put on display. like they might somehow know about the time you went out drinking with your friends with a fake ID or the fender bender you got into when you were first learning how to drive just from looking at you.

shifting in your seat, you clear your throat and present the dishes with an almost quavering voice like you're in a food competition, staring down sneering five-star chefs that know a thousand times more about cooking than you do.

you might as well be, with the way their lips curl and their noses scrunch in sync.

no words are exchanged as the food is dished up, nor does anyone say anything as the four of you wait for the food to cool. it isn't until you're bringing a forkful to your mouth that the tense silence is finally broken.

“when are ye leavin’ fer yer next deployment?” his mom asks, the first thing she’s said all night that hasn’t been a poorly-disguised jab at you.

“next week," johnny answers warily.

she squints and scrunches up her nose, an expression that's on her face more often than not, you've found. “thought ye just got back a month er so ago..?”

“yeah.”

her lips twitch into a frown, and her eyes glance towards you before they find john once more. “ah mean maybe if ye hadda sweeter bird keepin’ yer house- margarie's daughter is still single-"

the tears that burn your eyes shock everyone- including you.

it's one thing for them to treat every bit of you with disdain- but it's another thing entirely to openly suggest that he replaces you.

“ma! that’s enough outta ye!” johnny finally snaps, tugging your chair closer to him and looping an arm around your waist to pull you against his chest.

except, you squirm out of his touch.

your chair squeaks as you push it backwards and stand abruptly, taking your plate and escaping without another word.

as you leave, his parents' excuses haunt you: "shouldnae've picked such a sensitive bird."

you can hear johnny cussing his parents out- can hear their absolutely outraged screeching, can hear their stopping and the slamming of the front door- but it doesn't matter as you hurry away from them.

taking refuge in your office, you drop into your chair and curl in on yourself.

after a while, johnny finds you there, your plate of food untouched and your knees to your chin, arms wrapped around them. there are tears in your eyes as much as you wish there weren't; they don't deserve to be cried over because that's exactly what they want from you.

"hey, sweetheart," johnny greets softly, kneeling before the chair you're curled up in. he reaches out to take your hands and squeezes. "ahm so, so sorry about them, doll. they'll never treat you that way again. swear it."

you uncurl slowly, reaching out with shaking arms to cling to johnny. "thank you," you croak, burying your face into his neck.

"ye deserve the world, darling. just wish they could see that," he mumbles before holding you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "someday, maybe. fer now, ye worked really hard on this meal, so let's enjoy it, yeah?"

you nod, smiling softly. "i love you," you murmur.

"i love you, too."

hope this makes sense lol, I’m half asleep

hope you enjoyed, and as always, if there’s some trope or character you wanna see, hit up my asks :)

thanks so much for reading and for all your support 🫶 i appreciate all of you!

[mrmilomoo]

Best to worst: Munching the box

18+ MDNI

Ranking TF 141 on how good they are at eating a girl out.

1. John Price - This one is pretty self explanatory. I mean, just look at him. Daddy. Need I say more? Obviously it goes without saying that he’s got the experience. Like a true gentleman, he wouldn’t dare take his cock out without getting you off on his tongue and fingers first.

2. Kyle Gaz Garrick - Hard to go wrong with natural talent combined with a healthy amount of experience and enthusiasm. Can confidently claim that he eats ass as well. For his pleasure.

3. Johnny Soap MacTavish - Enthusiast… perhaps a little too enthusiastic. Absolute munch. Disgustingly sloppy with it. Slobbering like a dog. Gets lost in the sauce.

4. Simon Ghost Riley- Depends on if he’s willing to lift the mask over his mouth. Never been in a long term relationship to hone the skill. Would be a quick learner though. He may be socially inept, but he knows how to take a hint. Especially when he’s got his face buried in it.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

When It Builds Up

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings: Overstimulation, anxiety spiral, reader experiences a breakdown (no physical harm), implied trauma responses, heavy comfort

Author's Note: This one is coming from personal experience. This was literally me today. Had a whole breakdown about the mess and everything so here we are :) also there is a bonus at the end.

Summary: The reader hits a breaking point after shouldering too much around the house—but their boys show up just when they’re needed most.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It starts simple.

Just a plate in the sink.

You stand at the counter after breakfast, staring at it. Not even in the sink, really—balanced on it. Whoever used it didn’t rinse it. The egg yolk’s drying to the porcelain, clinging in a way you know will take extra elbow grease later.

You wash it without a word.

Not because it’s a big deal. But because it nags at you.

You glance around: chairs askew, someone’s mug on the table, a sticky spot on the counter. You fix it all.

Johnny strolls by, still chewing toast. “Mornin’, love,” he mumbles around the bread. “You don’t have to do all that, y’know.”

You smile, small. “I know.”

But you don’t stop.

—

It’s been a long day. Everyone’s back from the field, bruised and tired, trailing boots and gear through the house. You bite the inside of your cheek when you see the mud on the rug. Breathe deep when Simon tosses his vest onto the couch without thinking.

They’re decompressing. Letting the day slide off their shoulders. You want to let it go too.

But you can’t.

So while they crash with beers and a game on low volume, you pick up after them.

You wipe the muddy prints. Fold the blanket Kyle left bunched in a corner. Pick up an empty bottle.

And the whole time, the back of your neck prickles like you’re being watched.

John’s eyes flick to you over the rim of his glass. He doesn’t say anything.

But you see the slight crease in his brow.

—

You go in to grab cereal.

Stop dead.

Someone moved the spices. All of them.

The turmeric’s in front of the salt. The basil is upside down. The cinnamon is next to the ketchup. The ketchup.

Your hand clenches around the shelf edge.

You don’t even eat cereal. You were just bored. Or anxious. Or both.

You close the door slowly and exhale through your nose, then reopen it and reorganize everything. Alphabetically. Then by size.

Johnny peeks in halfway through. “Whatcha doing?”

You smile too fast. “Just fixing a few things.”

He shrugs, oblivious. “Cool. Let me know if we run outta peanut butter.”

When he leaves, your hands are still trembling.

—

It’s overfull.

There’s a leak in the bag, staining the floor underneath.

You stare at it like it’s growing teeth.

You’d asked them to take it out this morning. Once. Calmly. Clearly.

And no one did.

You know they’re not doing it on purpose. But in your chest, it feels like the message is clear anyway: you handle it.

You grip the bin. Haul it out. Tie it. Clean the floor. Scrub until your knuckles burn.

They don't notice.

That’s the worst part.

—

It’s 11:49 PM. Everyone's eaten.

And left.

There’s food dried on the stovetop. Dishes stacked high. Cutlery with sauce caked into the grooves. Half a salad left in the bowl, wilting. Glasses. Grease. Smells. Crumbs.

Your chest tightens.

You can’t breathe.

You start cleaning. Rapidly. Desperately.

You don’t even notice the tears until the sponge slips out of your hand and you realize your vision’s blurred.

You don’t hear the footsteps behind you.

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

But when Simon calls your name, low and soft, you flinch so hard you knock a plate onto the floor.

It shatters.

You break with it.

—

“Shit, love—easy, easy.”

Simon is in front of you in a second, crouching low, but keeping his distance. He’s reading the panic in your posture, the quake in your shoulders. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”

You shake your head. You can’t. You can’t.

You’re on your knees before you realize it, hunched over the broken pieces on the floor, and your fingers won’t stop trembling. You can't stop crying.

“I can’t do it anymore,” you gasp. “It’s too much—I try, but it keeps happening and I can’t think—there’s always something dirty, something wrong, and I just—I can’t—”

He doesn't touch you yet. Just sets his hand on the floor, palm open beside yours.

“I know,” he says gently. “I didn’t know it was this bad. But I’m here now. We all are.”

The others arrive moments later.

John, all slow and careful, crouching next to you. Kyle with a blanket. Johnny barefoot and wide-eyed.

They gather around, quiet. Present.

They don’t scold. They don’t try to explain it away.

They see you.

And when you finally breathe again, when the tension starts to unravel just enough, John murmurs, “This is our mess too. We clean it together. From now on.”

You nod. Wipe your face. Whisper, “Okay.”

—

A Week Later

It’s Sunday.

Your favorite day now.

The house is still, sun drifting through the curtains. And the air smells like fresh citrus cleaner and laundry detergent.

You’re on the couch with a mug of tea, blanket around your shoulders, and a warm pressure at your side—Simon, reading silently, his fingers brushing yours every few seconds.

From the kitchen, Johnny hums along to a playlist as he dries the dishes. Kyle is reorganizing the pantry like a puzzle game. John walks in with folded towels and places them in the bin you keep beside the stairs. Each one just right.

They’ve picked up on your cues.

They notice the crumbs. The crooked frames. The laundry basket that used to sit ignored.

But it’s not just about the chores.

It’s the fact they try.

John hands you a small notepad and pen. “We were thinking—if there’s ever something we miss, jot it down. No pressure.”

Johnny sets a color-coded chart on the fridge titled: Operation: Tidy Squad.

Kyle laughs and adds, “Mission: No Crumbs Left Behind.”

And Simon simply leans in, presses a kiss to your temple, and says, “You’re not alone anymore.”

Your eyes sting. But this time, it’s not from overwhelm.

It’s love.

And it’s clean.

——

Bonus Scene

It starts with the best intentions.

Kyle had the idea—“Let’s cook her dinner, yeah? Whole thing. No help.”

Johnny called it Operation: Michelin-Star Madness.

Simon grunted approval.

John warned, “Let’s not burn the damn house down.”

…They got close.

You’d been sent upstairs under the guise of “go relax, love,” and were told very firmly not to come down until dinner was “ready.”

So you read in bed. But something smelled… off.

You tiptoe downstairs despite the warning.

And pause.

Your kitchen—your clean, color-coded, carefully organized sanctuary—looks like it hosted a food fight.

There’s flour on the floor. A trail of eggshells on the counter. A mystery sauce boiling over on the stove. Something was burning in the oven. The pantry door is open, and the spice rack looks like it was rearranged by a tornado.

And in the middle of it all, your four boys—frozen like deer in headlights when they see you.

“…Surprise?” Johnny offers weakly, apron askew and face smudged with something that might’ve been pesto.

You blink.

Simon clears his throat, holding a pan upside-down. “We were gonna clean it after. Promise.”

John sighs, muttering, “Bloody hell.”

Kyle adds, “The chicken was almost done.”

You just stare.

Then you laugh.

It bubbles out unexpectedly—sharp at first, then uncontrollable. You sink into a kitchen chair, wheezing as you wipe tears from your eyes.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, “you really tried.”

“We really failed,” John mutters, pulling burnt rolls from the oven and swearing under his breath.

But you wave him off. “You cared. That’s what matters.”

Simon grunts, “Still. Can’t leave it like this.”

And to your surprise—and deep relief—they all spring into action. No prompting. No hesitation.

Johnny starts soaking dishes. Kyle gets the broom. John wipes every counter, mumbling about proper heat settings. Simon re-sorts the spice rack silently, occasionally glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize where everything belongs.

You sit back. Wrap your blanket tighter.

And just watch them take care of it.

Of the house.

Of you.

They burn the chicken. They ruin dessert. The salad ends up a little soggy.

But the kitchen?

Spotless.

And dinner?

Perfect—because they all pile onto the couch around you afterward, warm and tired, full of apologies and affection.

“Next time,” you say, lips twitching, “maybe let me help a little.”

“No way,” Johnny grins. “We’ve got a plan. Better one next time.”

Simon nods. “Fewer eggs involved.”

John chuckles. “Still not letting Kyle near the oven.”

Kyle shrugs, beaming. “Totally fair.”

And you sigh, sinking into them.

Because this? This is love.

Messy. Sincere. Willing to learn.

And clean in all the ways that matter.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[i-am-hungry-24-7]

[TF141 with A Reader That Can Fall Asleep Anywhere and Anytime]

Price’s heart skips a beat when he steps into the bedroom and sees your legs on the bed while the rest of your body just dangles from the edge of the bed.

He manhandles you back onto the bed and kisses you goodnight, but his poor heart gets surprised again when he goes to the bathroom in the morning and is welcomed by the sight of you dangling your legs on the edge of the empty bathtub this time and body lies in the tub.

He picks you up and you stir, murmuring that you were brushing your teeth when he asks you why you’re sleeping in the tub, and then drift back to dream in his arms with the toothbrush in your hand.

Soap is too used to your weird sleeping habit, so when he comes home and sees you lying with your head on the couch but hanging your legs over the back of the couch, he just scoffs a laugh and carries you to bed.

“Hey Johnny” you mumble when you feel him put you on the bed.

“go back to sleep” He kisses you and goes to shower, and when he finishes and goes back to your side, he shakes his head in disbelief when he finds you lying horizontally even though he just adjusted your position into a normal human one 5 minutes ago.

Gaz wakes up in the morning and walks to the living room just to witness you standing but bend over the kitchen counter, he almost thinks you’re dead and the haziness in his mind just vanishes in a second.

“babe wake up!” he knows you’re alive but still checks if you are breathing as he wakes you up.

“goo morni kyl I -&&:@/“ and he only watches you straight up for a greeting and then slump onto the counter to sleep again, while the tea you make is beside you.

Ghost

“What do you want for dinner?” He asks when you two sit together in front of the desk, he's using his laptop while you’re reading.

“What you want for dinner love?” He says again when he doesn’ t get a response from you.

“Love?”

He turns to face you after another silence, and finally, he discovers why you're so quiet, because you fall asleep while resting your head on your hand.

He grins while taking out his phone and records you, and (luckily) he captures your head slips out of your palm and slams your face on your book as you are totally unfazed and keep snoring.

[ocake]

good cop, bad cop

► ghost x female reader x soap

cw. smut, 2x1, dubious consent, oral, piv, angst, mc is traumatized; policemen! boys are there to ‘save’ her, a fair amount of infighting, obsessive/possessive behaviors, hinted stalking, hints and allusions of foul play, corruption, freeze response, soap is unhinged; ghost is the more ‘moral’ of the two but just as bad, p with plot, 18+ content

an. about 10k words of a fic i procrastinated on since Christmas :] anyways u can read this on ao3 if u want & reblogs/love is so so appreciated <33

The tires crunch over a gravel driveway.

There’s always the familiar face or ten in their line of work, but hers is a pretty one they find themselves wishing to both avoid and see more often.

It’s the neighbors who’ve called this time.

To be fair, the ringer usually varies between the grandmother next door or the guy and his daughter, but the little lady herself stays quiet. People care for her though, whether she’s aware of that yet or not.

Even the cats (bold: curling up to Johnny’s calf and sniffing his boot laces, Simon unable to shake them from underfoot) seem to hold some special affinity for her- because they walk the boys right up to her porch steps and purr. Must be their way of repaying her for all the cans of tuna she leaves out for them in the evenings.

It’s not the first time deputies have been dragged out this far down rural roads on behalf of the scared little thing next door, and Johnny has this nasty stirring in his gut that tells him it won’t be the last.

Domestic cases always struck a certain chord in Simon. Familiar but bitter. All that made it worser was the fact that it was near impossible to put it onto paper so long as the abuser in question walked the thin line of just plain shitty and bad-tempered and- yeah, okay, that guy definitely hits his girlfriend. It’s a liminal space that vermin like her boyfriend get to tread freely in; legally-speaking, they’ve broken no law until legally-speaking, the girl is dead. Found dumped in some ditch or crammed in the closet in a heap of bloody blankets.

And fuck if that doesn’t sound just awful.

Ghost has seen too much for one man alone, but his stomach twists at the idea all the same. He’s become a little fond of her. He hasn’t made any real attempt to deny that, and Johnny can only poke him for it until he’s accused of the same.

That bastard is a free man, as it stands, but Simon’s heard the yelling, you know. Caught the tail-ends of some verbally-scathing fight. His barbed words that leave her with unshed tears and near unresponsive when Johnny performs a wellness check while Simon pats down the fucker. Pulls him aside to tell him very politely to find some shitty motel for the night or someplace else to bum at.

That- those not so subtle warnings both men generously give to the douchebag- are not exactly permissible by the law they so rigidly uphold. But Ghost can’t really help the hostility that burns in his gut when he catches those glossy doe eyes quickly darting away from his as if he’d strike her in the face if she dared hold eye contact- and a few heavy touches during protocol pat-downs never fail to make the wanker obedient. Wards him off for a night or two.

Fuckin’ coward.

Johnny’s heard the dishes break before. They’ve never seen the bruises, though. Hard, physical evidence to tuck into a yellow file for an eternity in the metal bin. And she’s too frightened to offer him up and admit his crimes. Too scared to fess up to ‘em.

(As if being on the receiving end of his drunken fist makes you a fucking accomplice—

Oh, hardly, love. Hardly. Simon’s tried to tell you so with as much of a stoic face he can manage in brief chats before either hauling Romeo off to a 24hour holding cell or flipping the bird in the direction of the local inn. But you’ve got your head in the sand. Your heart in your mouth and your words on autopilot.)

N-No, sir, I’m fine, really. I swear. He just— We’re fine.

Trained dog.

Loyal mutt.

A good girl. Too good, maybe, for her own good.

It’s frustrating, a bit. But Simon understands, he does. Soap can’t fault her for that, either. She’s scared. It’s a traumatic response if they’ve ever seen one.

When they unload from the patrol car, Johnny tips his cap to a curious, familiar onlooker and she gives him a knowing frown. The caller, probably. She’d have to be interviewed or asked a few questions at minimum (the rudimentary stuff, like, so what’s going on tonight, why’d you call us out here?)

—But all that for later.

All that for after they ascertain she’s okay.

The absence of her boyfriend’s rusted pick-up in the gravel road is noted with a corrugated brow and an un-stuffing of Simon's hands from his pockets. The Scotsman nearly trips over one of the plastic geese stood in the lawn because he’s too busy reading his surroundings.

Bastard could’ve taken her… Maybe it finally reached the boiling point. The POS heard the familiar dial of nine one one and booked town with the poor thing in tow. Finally blew both their brains out like he’d been wanting- relayed by a very concerned Mrs. Smith from across the street with a shake of her cane.

She’d said she’d heard awful things come from the trailer home. That that young man needs Jesus. And the girl a real man to love her.

We’ll see about it, ma’am, Johnny’d said with a warm smile, the more socially gifted of the two, about gettin’ that bloke an audience with the big man upstairs.

(As for the latter part-… Well. He’ll keep it professional.)

Simon’s heart is knocking in his chest by the time he knocks on her frail door; it could blow down with a puff of cigarette smoke. It has before. It’s on its last leg, now. Has been for two months. That fucker needs to be put in a psychiatric ward if not a dungeon. If not a headlock where Simon's arm is so tight his ugly mug pops off and fucking rolls.

Any man who hits on their woman or the fairer sex warrants a response like that. Quick and efficient. Violent, very.

Johnny throws a nervous glance around the sordid trailer park and briefly contemplates scribbling down possible witness accounts- that neighbor is still on standby, after all- but the curtains rattle timidly at the window and he quickly forgets the thought.

Johnny’s antsy. Very antsy. Tonight feels different, somehow, the situation more urgent like it’s climbed steadily to its zenith. The air is balmy; early summer carries a fading warmth in its evening winds, and the salty reminder of the sweat beading on Soap’s forehead. Slicking his palms.

Many thoughts cycle through his head in that segment of time where he and Ghost crowd her tiny concrete steps, waiting for a sign of life opposite the door. Anything at all before one of them kicks it down.

They’d have reason to.

Seconds feel like hours. To hell with it— Johnny’s always been well-versed with the art of exaggeration— it feels like they wait there for decades, his heels clipping a restless tune against the cold grey, Simon’s shadowy hues fluttering with an uncommon anxiousness.

“Takin’ her time, ain’t she?”

“No tellin’ what happened, Ghost.”

“Could’ve ran with her... Taken off.”

Fuck. Yeah. That’s the shared fear, huh? Johnny begins to broil the more he’s left to his own inner dialogue. Not just because of the heat.

The brunet adjusts the shiny gold badge pinned to his muscled chest even though it’s perfectly in place, and forces a dry, harsh laugh. It lacks humor.

“That thing’s a skip on wheels… cannae have made it too far, aye? Who knows, perhaps we can intercept ‘em…”

Already assuming the worst has already happened: a learned habit integral to them both.

Ghost gives a grunt, and thus concludes their chat.

Fuck. He should’ve killed that bastard while he had the chance. To hell with not having enough proof of wrongdoing, he’ll do it now! If that bastard musters up enough stupidity to pull back up the bend, Johnny will shove a pistol to his fuckin’ head and turn off the bodycam—

He swears to that big man upstairs—

When the door finally, slowly opens, she’s hiding behind it with a shiner.

✦✦✦

Gloved hands certainly don’t deliver a cushiony touch when they help the thief into the backseat of the cruiser, but considering his brutish personality, Ghost is almost gentle.

Almost.

The suspect (although, the guy was quite literally caught with his hand in the tip jar; there’s very little speculation to be had on just what happened) isn’t their guy— their guy being the doped up asshole that split town and has yet to return to the shitty trailer park— unfortunately. But Simon, quite unexpectedly, wishes it was.

It’s fine, you know, unresolved leads and targets. It’s too common in their line of work to actually hold any real ire against. If they did, cortisol levels would be at an all-time high.

At least,… it’s usually fine. The occasional thug or do-badder will weasel out from law’s tight fist and ditch town, and then Ghost and Soap will have one less useless piece of shit to worry about until they do decide to come back.

The boys mostly take it like water off their backs. Easily. Sometimes frustrating, but what can you do?

They have a town- a familiar web of individual livelihoods- to keep safe right here, and what they won’t do is jeopardize that by embarking on some long, drawn-out journey when results aren’t even promised. For some asshole, no less, that’ll probably end up OD-ing or stabbed in some back alley by another one of his kind.

It’s cruel, but they chose that life. It’s only right they die in it. Simon thinks as much, at least. He made it out of the shithole while he still could, and he has zero regrets turning his back on his past. There’s always a choice. Always.

But this guy- the doll’s ever the romantic boyfriend—

Ghost tightens his palm unwittingly. The petty thief he’s tucking into the car winces and Ghost grunts in response, withdrawing his arm without much concern- but it does help him to refocus.

The job. Yes, that’s right. He’s on duty. Shouldn’t be thinking of her. Well, more than it’s required of him, anyway, extending from the bounds of what’s professional for a veritable enforcer of the law.

The door shuts with a clink and then Simon makes it all of five steps, wrapping around Price’s black and white-painted car, before the big guy himself stops him.

What he’s met with is a somewhat dissatisfied glare. (Not hostile by any means, no, the geezer has his cranky streak, sure, but he’s always been more lenient with him and Johnny... But dissatisfied.)

Capt’s eyes, a kind brown, wrinkle in preparation to scold him.

“Gettin’ a bit ahead of ourselves, are we?”

“Wot?”

Tan, leather-covered fingers move to adjust the cap on his head, “Held our guy a li’l snug back there, didn’t you?” And then suddenly, that singular trace of warmth in his eyes peters out into a steady, sort of paternal exasperation. “I’ve said it before, Simon. Getting rough with them will land yourself into a world of shite- last time, I was barely able to cover for your arse. D’you think Shepherd would look the other way again?”

Ghost sniffs. Blinks slowly— feels a prickling in his chest that time has made almost foreign- a prickling called shame- and kicks dirt over it. He glances from the positively pissed brunette to the cab behind him, spotting a hunched silhouette in the back of it, before looking back to Price.

“Don’t think he’d be particularly pleased.”

That earns him a curt clap on the shoulder and blunt fingers that actually manage to rattle him- but just slightly. Considering he’s creeping up on forty years old, John has done a laudable job at warding off a full-fledged dad bod (although, with his new baby boy on the way, it’s a nearer thing), but the dad strength is absolutely there. Oh, a hundred percent.

“No, he wouldn’t,” he says with a smile too tight to be fully genuine. Too curved. Simon’s observed it from a distance, and usually it only means trouble for whoever’s on the receiving end of it, but while his superior is in fact bristled over his minor transgression, it’s more an outburst of stress than anything else. Simon won’t lose his head for it.

Ghost’s acquiescence must dredge some sympathy from Price though, because he lets out a deep sigh and softens his grip on the blade of his shoulder.

“That case with the doll’s toying with you, innit?” The call-out is sudden, not foreseen.

“You’ve been reviewing the paperwork all week. Look, lad, you n’ Soap are my best men. If I get a call, I’m sending you two out first. If your head’s been screwed with- I need you to screw it back on,” His voice is calmer now, more genuine, too. It carries an affable, yet no less firm tone; the menthol whispers of cigarette smoke. Simon can hardly believe he made it a sentence without fishing one out from his pocket and lighting it, but right now isn’t the time to congratulate the old man on making it a day without falling back on his favorite vice. He used to say he’d eventually quit, but now he’s dropped the pretense entirely. He never will.

Captain’s words hit, though, in a way that’s a bit unanticipated from the blond- but he supposes it’s only natural that if he’d ever be read accurately, it’d be by his senior.

He pats Ghost on the shoulder one final time, “Don’t be chasing after shadows, alright?” If that muppet wants to run? You bloody let him. ‘Member: even if we don’t get to him right away, something else will.”

Chasing after shadows? Ah, that’s one way to put it. Actually, Ghost isn’t even so sure anymore if he wants to find the girlfriend-beating bastard: Price just got done lecturing him over poor conduct (not for the first time), but Simon knows that once he gets his hands on that slimy son of a bitch, there will be a whole lot more to mark him up for- poor conduct the least concern.

Maybe it’s for the better. Letting it go.

“Yes, sir.”

Simon delivers him a stiff nod, and then they part ways: the older one stepping for his car (if Simon cared more, he’d say a small prayer for the poor asshole in the backseat, in for a bad time if he tries to spark conversation with the grumpy driver), Ghost heading for his own vehicle with his cohort waiting inside.

The Scotsman is probably stewing in his own impatience, high as his energy levels are. Simon’s almost surprised he doesn’t approach the car and see his nose pressed to the fogged window, but—

“And Simon,” a gravelly voice calls.

He turns around.

“Relay that to Soap for me, would you?”

—Maybe it’s more than inherent, overabundant stamina that’s got his partner in cleaning up crime so wired.

…Maybe that whole case with the doll- the big blowout with her quote on quote boyfriend and his leaving after striking her in the pretty face-

Maybe it’s screwin’ with Johnny’s head, too.

✦✦✦

There came a time, after all his unfulfilled promises, vows to bettering himself- your relationship- that hope became the equivalent of stupidity. Naivety.

It’s only been two weeks since he slammed the door on your face and booked town, but you’re still reeling a little. The impact of it shook the home. Shook you. Over the course of a handful of days, you experience a strange dichotomy of tiredness and short bursts of energy that convince you you’re happy— for an hour or three, until the absence of him sinks in all over again. He left. He left you. And you’re glad for it. You’re safe for it. You’re destroyed.

How could he- How could he fucking leave you? After he made you this way?

Breathe.

The reminder comes in a bitten voice. Claws its way from the kinder recess of your brain, whatever is left of it.

Breathe.

That’s right. There’s still life left in the tank for you.

You peel the covers off you and slink to the bathroom. A girl peers back from a dirty mirror. Familiar but not. It’s a small effort to mask your shock that stares from your reflection- because for a moment, you’re stunned at just how tired you appear. You look unhealthy. Sad. Like… damaged goods.

And you miss him. You really, really think you do.

You’re much better off without him- that’s obvious. That’s never been the question, whether your general wellness would be vastly improved as soon as he sunk back into whatever hole he crept from. No, what you constantly found yourself questioning was whether or not you’d be able to recover after the whirlwind that is your boyfriend finally swept through. Would anybody else love you, was what your internal dialogue begged to know. Could anybody else love you?

What does that word mean, anyway? The girl in the mirror offers a weak chuckle. And then she releases her white knuckles from the marble counter- and she tears up the more she keeps her eyes steady on the bruised right one.

It’s a new low, even for him. His fist was too heavy, too fast, hurtling at you at a speed that left you with no time to react.

It’s a quiet affair, when you begin to cry.

Salty, bitter. Furious girl.

Truthfully, you were never quite allowed to be angry- or express any sort of emotion for that matter- so long as he shared the now empty slot of the bed beside you, but now that he’s disappeared, that wrath hugs you like a weighted blanket.

You hate him. You love him. You—

You wrap yourself in that heat. Sleep in it.

You wish you made good on all your countless, brittle promises to leave him before he up and decided to beat you to the punch- and in more ways than one. In this stupid trailer home, the lack of your (ex? does this equate to his dumping you?) boyfriend shuffling around chips away at you; the air feels stale, like there’s too much of it for you alone. Simultaneously, you can’t get in enough of it.

The world is closing in on you. Your chest hurts. Your veins heat with rage and brokenness, your pulse begins to jump sporadically and then you begin to hyperventilate every couple hours or so. Saying under your shivering breath, come back home. I’m sorry. I’ll be good- (and then, trying to recall ever not strictly minding your p’s and q’s around him-)

I’ll be better.

Ah, you’ve heard that one before.

It’s weird to hear it played back to you in your own voice, though, because it’s usually not you trying to butter him up and convince him to stay, but the other way around. You suppose the tables have sort of turned now, but still… You… You’d never hit him- not like he did you. Just the thought of it spears between your ribs and twists in like a corkscrew.

A feeling of disgust settles in its wake.

Oh, he’s left you so, so screwed, and yet the chief concern that possesses you all night is this:

Wherever your baby is, does he miss you, too?

✦✦✦

You think about leaving. Starting anew, somewhere.

Part of you has half the brain to want to plan it out, lay out a big meticulous blueprint for your life- carefully mark dots on a map and connect them with a newfound resolve. You’re young still (even if it feels you’ve seen it all, like he’s aged you). Hardly twenty two. When you were a little girl, you’d somehow come to the simple conclusion that all humans lived until the exact age of one hundred; if that’s true, you’ve got just shy of eighty years left in the tank.

You could make it.

The other piece of you doesn’t care for the destination- so long as it’s away.

In the corner of the yard, towards the side of your little home, sits a trashy RV your boyfriend bought as a scrap to remodel later. He never did. You guess he never will. Sometimes you curl up by the window and stare at it, dream of painting the rusted lines a girlish pink or refurbishing the weathered seats with neon leather.

You would be crazy and in love with life, traveling all over the country without giving so much as a rat’s ass about anything or- or him.

Your family hardly has the room in their heart for you. You’re no prodigal daughter, just a welcome absence in a bitter, hollow home. Between scars that don’t ever quite heal (because time is not an apology, as much as you may ache for it to in their stead) and a basal fear that you’ll step through the front door and turn twelve all over again, there’s no real want inside of you to go back to that place ever again. Maybe it’s why it was so easy for you to leave, to fall headlong into the pretty lies of a pretty, albeit temperamental man and decide to let him close the door of his pick-up behind you.

So… where do you go?

You don’t know.

You don’t know.

Your piece’a crap boyfriend left and took his piece’a crap truck with him. Doubt it’ll even carry him fifteen miles before it pops its tire and swerves him into oncoming traffic or a post on a street he swears wasn’t there when he blinked. There’s always the option of an uber or asking the kind old lady next door to use hers for a quick grocery trip, but without a means of transportation, you’re more or less stuck here.

You swallow a thick lump in your throat, dust your red knees off when you stand, and will yourself to pretend you don’t care about any of it. Any of it at all.

Bare feet swish over the crumb-ridden kitchen vinyl and you make a mental note to sweep it later. It’d be good to properly clean this place up, especially now that the number one mess-maker is gone (tossing his empty cans everywhere, leaving cigar butts by the kitchen sink and his thin flannel button-ups on the arm of the couch).

If you’re really trapped here, you might as well—

A knock draws you from your muddled thoughts. Just like that, the haze thins out; when you peek through the curtains and spy a familiar deputy, hands tucked under his armpits as he idly sways on your porch stoop, a clarity washes over you.

…Oh, right. Other people exist. It’s not just you in this world.

He’s whistling something. You hear it as he waits, trading energy between the balls of his feet, patience leaving in subsequent ticks on his face.

…But you’re a mess right now, no makeup, no bottoms, just a long shirt and panties, and one of your braids have unraveled in the short span you’ve spent just twirling and trudging from quiet threshold to threshold—

Another rap at the wood, piercing blue eyes catching yours as the curtains flutter shut with a surprised gasp- and you know you’ve no choice but to answer. He’s seen you. You can’t pretend he didn’t. That… would be awkward.

It’s… fine. You can just hide behind the door when you answer, like last time.

He’s a cop, anyway. You’re sure he’s seen it all.

Whatever happened with you, and your case?

It’s the usual.

✦✦✦

He’s here again.

Well, they both are. But sometimes they feel synonymous to each other- because they’re both endlessly gracious to you (in their own ways; Johnny is more open with his kindness, Simon more subtle) and have lent a hand more times than you can count. They both wear the same uniform, in any case, cloaked in the signature, police-issued garb and a thick belt to keep their gun and cuffs (and hands, when they don’t know where else to put them).

That’s mostly Johnny, though. In the past few months, you’ve learned a few things about him over impromptu housecalls and rides to the local market (because you’re literally stuck here otherwise, until you find a way to get your shit together), tucked in his passenger seat with your knees in your arms.

First of all, he’s a good guy. Not like some of the sleazy cops you see on television who abuse their impunity and talk from their ass every time they wave someone over with their hand. Johnny’s got a fairly big head, you’ll give that much, but his ego is all pretty harmless. Makes you think there must be someone back at the station holding a tight ship, because otherwise he’d have cut free from his leash a long time ago. He’s a big dog. You can tell he likes to bite, yes, but only the bad guys- which is actually a comforting thought.

He’s good to you, to the elderly woman next door and her little rascal grandson who spams your doorbell until you agree to come out and look at the frog he caught. You’re thankful for Johnny’s presence in those times because he’s like a buffer between you and the things you can’t handle, a well-meaning but boisterous little kid a part of that.

The brunet sends him off with a ruffle of his hair, saying, ‘Alrigh, alrigh, leave the woman alone now, aye? Scamper off to yer gran, sure she’s worried boot where ye’ve gone,’ then he turns back to you on the porch step with a smile and takes a bite of his sandwich.

Secondly (and this falls under the first category you suppose, but this is more significant in your mind), he’s patient. Knows there’s something wrong with you- with your situation, that it’s left you a little sour and weak- but he never presses the envelope when it comes to the seedier details. I mean, the station’s already taken your formal story as well as the accounts of neighbors, so it’s not like he doesn’t know…

Even as he looks you in the eye, with his cerulean, rapt gaze that you swear doesn’t blink sometimes, you think he might be turning over the tale in his head. It’s one as old as time: girl falls in love with a fucked-up guy and pays for it.

Johnny stares hard, but he never stares like he’s judging, no…

Admiring, if nothing else. Albeit you’re not so sure what there is to admire— you’re some backroad hick with scars still fading and a sort of social clumsiness that only comes from rickety relationships and the hesitance to brush your fingers with his because they’re big and calloused and he could use ‘em to hit you. But he doesn’t. He never does. You wait for the blow and wait forever.

Ghost is like a ramrod. In all regards.

He doesn’t bounce from heel to heel all the time like his Scottish counterpart, wired with endless energy, no, he stands straight and tall and with his hands at his side. Big and unmovable. His eyes are a soft, dark brown but they’re cold. You were sure that first time you’d met him that he felt nothing- a man made of steel and the dents that misshape it. He seemed heartless.

It took a little time- and lots of careful observation, much overthinking- to realize it, but you were wrong. Simon is kind. (And you do call him that now, Simon; you’d said it on accident, but he didn’t seem to mind or shoo you off by saying something about oh no you gotta call me by my sign ‘cause i’m a big bad cop blah blah blah. He’d let out a microscopic breath and his lashes fluttered, and with a dip of his chin to acknowledge your profuse apologies, he’d muttered, s’alright. And since then he’s been Simon.)

And things have been alright, lately.

The boys drop by (sometimes alone, sometimes with the other in tow) for growingly frequent visits and sniff around your weedy little square of property like hounds, but they don’t find whatever the hell they’re looking for. Your boyfriend, probably. You think his scent’s gone cold ‘cause they haven’t found him yet.

You’ve never asked them.

Never mentioned it at all.

And again- thank God that neither of them prod for more information from you, but sometimes you see the silent question in their eyes. Aren’t you curious what’s come of him? Your boy?

But you don’t intend on spilling your heart out to these two kind-hearted, not quite strangers— not when they’ve already done so much for you.

There’s a little wriggling worm in the back of your head that begs to ask just why they’re so adamant on checking up on you at least thrice a week, but you don’t voice that either. It’s a somewhat harsh theory, but they’re probably just makin’ sure you didn’t kill yourself.

…‘Cause that’s what you are now, right? That’s how everyone’ll see you as. Pathetic and fragile like a tattered cardboard box with red tape plastered on each side.

And… It’s okay. You think you’ve come to peace with it. Ain’t nothin’ the folks around here can throw at you that’ll leave a mark; your mama and old man and ex-boyfriend did plenty a good job at that, and there’s also nothing they can say to hurt you because the voice in your head already screams it all.

That’s not to say your heart has hardened, though. No- it melts a little when Simon pulls out the barstool and mutters a soft thanks for the peanutbutter and jelly you fixed up for him. It even gives a weak little stutter when you unlatch the door and scamper off, Johnny’s eyes tracking your bare legs as you run to find shorts, his breathless chuckle ringing behind you.

Even then, in your old daisy dukes, he’s looking.

Stealing glances when you’re behind the counter pouring him lemonade; you assure yourself he isn’t.

He’s… a cop and, although he’s a whit flirtatious, he’s damn near programmed to survey every personage he comes across. With you, he’s looking for bruises and scars and- and you know what? He’s probably not even looking at all (even if you feel his eyes, that stark blue stare that harbors a hunger only men can really carry, burning into your profile long after you turn).

If somebody told you you lost it, you wouldn’t hurt for it, you’d just shrug and quietly understand.

Hey— The heat is certainly doing no favors for your mind fog: Lately, crowded on your narrow concrete porch step with Simon, you’re even deluded enough to think you feel his gaze on you, drifting along the slope of your cheek with an interest that frankly feels misplaced as you’re rambling on and on about the craziness of Honey Boo Boo.

(“Yeah, sweetheart? When you make supper tonight, put it on the telly. I’ll give it a look while I eat.”)

(“Y-You might lose your appetite. It’s not really a show you watch while eating-“

(“It’ll be fine.“)

He doesn’t tell you it’s impossible, that men like him never stop hungering. It’s hardly imaginable, anyway, to lose his appetite when you’ll be sitting there beside him, curled up on the sofa with a plate, pretty as fucking ever as he humors some shitty reality show for you.

He’s never told you, either, how gorgeous you are. Sometimes it’s all he wants to say because horrifically enough, he thinks you don’t know it, that all your self worth and awareness has been birched out of you by that asshole- but he quietly decides to leave that to Johnny.

That bastard’s always complimenting you. Even in the more private setting of their patrol car, bumping through familiar routes, the Scot’s running his mouth about how sweet you were today and how much that fucker didn’t deserve you and— fuck professionalism, can’t he just touch you? Just once-? Just. Ach, bloody hell, Ghost, I’d kill a man just to grab a fistful of her pretty hair and smell. Wannae hug her and wipe away all her fuckin’ memory of him.

Oh, he knows.

Simon will admit this much, with hands that clench the wheel and slacks that tighten a fraction at all the very vivid images his cohort paints for him of their doll: Johnny is annoying- endlessly annoying- but he’s right.

You’re perfect. Sugar sweet. Simon licks over his teeth without thinking when he’s talking to you (contentedly third-wheeling a conversation Johnny’s pulled you into) and feels his mouth water up. He wants to hold you, too, scorch away any and every idea of that shitty old boyfriend of yours, and tuck away your bangs that you let fall in your face because you’re instincively trying to hide from him.

Kindred and beaten. He wants to tell you you’re the same- but still, so much better than him.

…But all that for later.

✦✦✦

At your table, he digs into lasagna with a fork and foregoes cutting it into smaller bits with the knife. You suppose he can make anything digestible; with big enough teeth, you never have to worry. Beside him, Johnny drums his fingers- ungloved, his jacket folded with them on your sofa- on the wood and flashes you a smile when you catch his eyes.

You’ve hardly finished half your plate when you realize Johnny’s is empty. And now he’s just staring, sapphire hues remniscient of arctic plains skimming over you as you dip your chin to scoop dinner into your mouth.

It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking when he looks at you, what it is he’s seeing. You’d never admit that you feel a little unnerved by it. Even the fact that the two policemen who worked your case have become a tangible piece of your reality feels… Perturbing, almost. Four months scurry past with fast feet and leave you blinking back the dust. They weaseled into your sad little life in their own respective ways and you had nothing to say against it.

They were professional. Until they weren’t, until they were friendly.

And then they were friendly—

Johnny’s teeth, white and perfect, sharp under the buttery light of the fixture overhead, glint at you. You’re made to feel inexplicably self conscious by it. He says- with a tone that feels oddly suggestive, like there’s some hidden meaning to it- watching you with utmost interest as you eat, “Was fuckin’ delicious, hen. Ah think ah wannae second plate o’ it. Ye got some more?”

—Until they were not.

Bravely, you glance over to Simon and he’s wolfing down the last few spoonfuls. And he’s watching you, too, from the corner of his eye like some bird of prey.

Reaching over to gingerly pluck a napkin from its holder, you dot the corner of your lip (really just as a way to distract yourself as they stare) and offer a smile. “Y-Yeah, ‘course,” you nod backwards toward the stove where the tin sits, cracking a joke. “Just gotta get there before Simon does.”

It doesn’t exactly lighten the weird tension in the small space of your trailer home, but it alights Soap’s face with a dazzling grin. Johnny’s laugh is harsh, quick. Too amused. Once, it’d felt like a reward, like an audible confirmation that you were acknowledged in a pleasant, uniquely human way. It wouldn’t earn you a soft slap to the cheek (a wordless warning) or a cluck of a disapproving tongue. Johnny and Simon weren’t like that. They were good.

Two good men.

Your mouth feels dry.

Unease lodges deep in your throat. You swallow it down with some iced tea but it remains after the gulp.

So… maybe they aren’t exactly friendly anymore, or professional- like their shiny gold badges on their chest would demand of them- but they still showed up whenever they were called. Still shooed your crude, reckless boyfriend off the street when he was drunk and causing disturbances. And that day when he ran off and left you—

They were there for you.

Nobody else is there for you.

So yeah, okay, maybe this situation is a little strange, you’ll admit that much, and you vaguely wonder if their boss back at the station is even a mite aware of what his underlings get up to in the short windows their patrol trips will allow- but it’s not like you’re used to normal.

The boys are just a tiny bit weird with how they’ve been starting to forego the polite knocks and enter on their own accord, with how they hover when you’re cooking and how Johnny will absentmindedly pull you onto his lap on the couch before you squeak and alert him to reality- the reality that you’re just some stupid domestic case he handled, not his girlfriend. But you’re weird too, aren’t you? I mean, by that logic, you’re so, so far gone.

Damaged goods, a voice rings in the back of your head. You don’t thank it for its provision but it helps to steel your nerves, the reminder that you can manage these things because they’ve already struck you once before.

B-But again— I mean, your ex-boyfriend did leave you messed up… so maybe, just maybe, it’s all in your stupid head after all. You’re making these mountains out of molehills when it comes to their behavior.

Simon sets his utensil down. “Nah, go ahead, Soap. I had my fill,” he comments, and he’s right, he had a massive serving- but his gaze, umber and intense, consistently flickers back to you.

Your kitchen— no, your whole world— feels heavier with every cocksure syllable that comes out his scarred mouth. “Gotta save some room for dessert, anyway.”

You roll your suddenly dry lips to moisturize them before chiming, “d-dessert?”

You’d thought supper was it for tonight. You only have so much groceries to ration with the budget you’re losing and recipes to pull out your sleeve. In any case, the plan for this evening was to make the boys dinner (because they arrived- without prompting, per usual- and you figured it was the polite thing to do), and then send them on their merry way.

Once Johnny gets his seconds, they’re gone.

They’re supposed to be.

T-They’re staring- the both of them still. Staring hard.

Ghost snags your attention. Keeps it leveled intently, maybe a little nervously, on him. Johnny is just a blur of brown hair (his stupid mohawk he has no right to rock), sun-speckled skin and electric blue eyes beside him.

Ghost is all darkness from where you sit- pale skin broken up by colored scars, a black thermal and shadowy eyes; the only highlight in them, white and blocked, is the small portrait of yourself looking back at him. She looks healthy. But she still looks frightened.

“Dessert, pet,” he solidifies, gentle but firm. No room to argue here. He’s a cop anyway, not like you could get a good speaking point in when the threat of being cuffed will always dangle somewhere overhead.

But! They would never do that to you. Abuse their power. Abuse their manhood, hold your womanhood against you. Simon and Johnny are not like your boyfriend. Ex. Ex-boyfriend. They’re not.

“I- I don’t understand,” you laugh. “I don’t have anything to make.”

Johnny perks up, as if it’s his job to placate you, “Dinnae worry, bonnie. Ye’ll see soon enough. Me n’ Simon here got a lil’ somethin’ ta repay ya.”

“Wh- what, like a cake or something?” With a shake of your head, you pinch your brow and try to make your humor seem solid, real. But in the back of your head you know they’re trained to spot the faults, the little fractures in even the most rigid of personalities; to pin them and capitalize off them.

“I didn’t know it was my birthday.”

Soap chuckles again. There’s no doubt in your mind his mirth is genuine. “Ach. Not quite... Reckon you’ll be feeling like it, though,” he assures, unruffled as ever as your world spins. Not his world, he is fine from where he sits. “Happy li’l lass on her birthday.” It’s strange to see excitement- so audacious and stark- glimmering on a grown man’s face, but it’s there in abundance, softening weathered lines into an almost boyish look.

You’re fooled into a second of peace by it, until he shoulders the conversation- and the unspoken omen of it- over to his buddy.

“Tell her, Ghost. Lookit her- haha, she’s a curious one. Bet she’s jist as eager, aye?”

“Don’t get ahead o’ yourself, Johnny,” Simon murmurs, before his jaw flexes and he says after a thoughtful beat, regarding you quietly, “You’re scarin’ the girl.”

Are you scared?

You don’t know anymore. But if you are, you’re glad for their telling you about it. It’s hard to discern your feelings otherwise. You need the waving red stop signs and green lights to inform you of what’s happening inside of you and if it’s allowed.

It’s as pathetic as it is necessary.

As you clean up dinner, the boys circling behind you like vultures to roadkill as you helplessly busy yourself with the dishes as a last try at warding them off, you wonder where your baby is.

You wonder if he misses you there.

✦✦✦

It’s such a big stretch.

It takes your breath on the way in and when he bottoms out, you find yourself wishing for the couch to swallow you up in one of its crevices; you could disappear there and join the collection of missing pennies and dimes and go brainless for a bit. That’s a reprieve you don’t find, though, not here.

You should get those ideas of self autonomy and rest out of your pretty little head. You’ll always fall into the hands of some man- your abusive boyfriend or otherwise.

Four are roaming you, now, with all the reverence in the world but you don’t know how to respond to that touch. Soap’s fingers leave your forehead after he removes the lock glued there with a tut of his tongue, perspiring at your temple as your insides accommodate to the slow intrusion.

Simon thinks you’re something plucked from the renaissance era, your hair splayed around your head in a halo, one hand balled to your breast while the other presses into the cushion with discomfort.

The cushions are floral, a sage, ratty green patterned with what looks to be blushing carnation and their sprawling vines. It frames you perfectly: a nymphet in her garden, at home, with a distinct look of distress that’s almost painterly as he bullies his cock inside. It’s not like it’s the first time you’d laid on your back for a man- your ex- but it’s been a while, and even then it wasn’t anything this big.

Simon is monstrous and intimidating. You feel as if you’re being deflowered all over again. Startled and sweating.

“Gentle, Simon,” is all you can hope to plead for as, from your side, by the arm of the couch behind your head, a corded set of legs lumber over and stop.

Ghost lets out a grunt over you, voice strained as he stills his hips for a few moments. He’s kind enough to give you some time to adjust, but you think he needs the breathe as well. You fit him tighter than a latex glove and it’s hard to think, let alone make a reply but he manages.

“Being ‘bout as gentle as I can be, sweetheart.”

Inches from your head, Johnny bends over to ruck down his jeans and the too-tight, pesky denim, letting out a curse when he can’t peel them off fast enough. It’s been made very obvious just how eager the two were to become acquainted with you in a more physical way, but it’s Soap who takes the cake in embarrassing himself for it. Though to be fair, he doesn’t seem to mind much, kicking off his pants when they pool at his ankles, untucking himself from his briefs with urgency.

“Ach. Ye better be gentle with her. We owe her tha’, don’t we? Although…” Soap starts, a certain glint in his electric blue eyes that’s reminscient of glowing orbs between dark trees at night- the gaze of a beast- when you glance up. Your eyes are bleared when he cups your jaw under his palm and stoops over, sampling a weirdly affectionate kiss before grinning. That smile is just as predatory, even as his eyes soften into a delirious sort of fondness.

“S’pose we already did her some big favors, aye? Fixing things around her place, mowing the yard…” he drawls, “we even took oot the rubbish for our li’l babe.”

Simon stills at that. Tenebrous, heavy eyes dart across the bridge of your nose but you just moan and try to roll on your side to evade the fat cockhead that slithers through your walls, dead to all else but it. He lets out a deep breath, shifting impossibly closer on his knees and regathering your legs in his hands before giving an experimental thrust in. Testing the waters. Testing if you’re a screamer or a whimperer.

Johnny’s a whisperer— muttering filth in your ear as he awkwardly bends down again and collars you with a wet kiss to your neck. This whole arrangement feels less like a raunchy, impromptu hookup and more like two mutts pissing on a fire hydrant to mark it as theirs. Albeit, the brunet would call it your birthday, because this is a gift to you, right?

He looks like he’s got something to celebrate, anyway. Handsome face weighty with arousal as he gives his hardening length a few strokes, but his body language conveys mirth as he rocks on his heels.

“Isn’t tha’ right, pretty girl? Yeah? Ye don’t have ta nod yer head- jist go on and give Simon a nice li’l squeeze— Simon, d’ya feel her? Fuck. Yer so much better off without that—“

“Johnny,” the blond warns, and as Simon readjusts you once more for extra comfort, pulling you closer on his cock, you watch through a blurred lens as the strange fog in oceanic blues clears out, long lashes fluttering over drooping lids.

For whatever silent conversation of theirs you’re not privy to, Johnny acquiesces. Dust settles in the wake of that feral, almost victorious glint in the Scotman’s eye. He’s just a whit gentler as he straightens his spine and guides himself to your lips.

And, you know, in some parallel universe maybe you wouldn’t be sucking some good-cop-bad-cop’s cock as he feeds it to you in second-long segments. Puts you on a sort of portion control- but your belly already feels full with his buddy as he begins to set a slow pace, heeding your earlier plea, and you’ve not much appetite for it but he’s a giver anyway.

No, you’d be traveling on the road and cursing over potholes in a refurbished RV and in love with life—

“Fuuuckin’ hell,” The taste of him draws you back to real life. He’s salty, hot. Your lips wrap around him clumsily and you do your damnedest to not gag as it curves down your throat. He’s massive in his own right; thick and veiny and ready to go even if you hesitate at first.

Simon clamps his eyes shut, wanting to block the sight of his mate’s cock out, and Johnny’s crinkle with pleasure.

He hisses through perfect white teeth. “Wooh. There ye go. What a goooood fucking lass. Ye seein’ this, Simon-?”

“Tryin’ not to.”

“-Och- she feels so bloody good. Bet her pussy’s even sweeter-“

“Reckon it’d feel even better for all three o’ us if you shut your gob, Soap.” Simon snips, wetting his bottom lip as it gets hot and dry in the room and your small living space whirls with the patent smell of sex and sweat. It beads at your forehead, clumps up on the underside of your thigh that the blond keeps hitched up; trickles over the girth of his fingers and your face. When he spots it there on your jaw, he’s tempted to bow down and lick it up. Johnny’s member sliding in and out of your parted lips- swollen from all the prior kissing- wards him off well enough, though.

Head lolled on your shoulder, a calloused but bizarrely gentle hand supporting it as you hollow out your cheeks for Johnny, your eyes flit over to the coffee table. You barely catch it over the din of groans and loud vulgarity interwoven in sounds of praise- the vibration of a phone- but it’s there amidst the slapping skin and deep breaths and makes you look over.

Your phone screen lights with a message. Interest piques in you as you rapidly blink back the clouding of your tear ducts, thankful for the relief even if only mental to coax you from your present situation: the hands and fingers and eyes raking all over you.

It’s a notification of some sorts. An alert, you think, but not the atypical kind from a contact saved in your phone. It seems like it’s from an official account but you only spy the tail end of it before your screen fades to darkness.

“Lookit me, pet.”

We regret to— Identified— Something something- you’re not paying it all that much attention anymore because Simon aims a palm at your tit and gropes it, keen on the small whimper you reward him with even if it’s muffled around Soap as he cants himself past your stretched lips. Johnny likes it, too, practically preening as he tightens his clutch in your hair and croons down at you, rocking his hips into your wet, fucking divine mouth with a growing loss of self restraint.

He gets it, he has to be considerate and all— but damn it all if your tongue doesn’t feel fucking perfect as it licks up the flushed underside of him as his engorged tip squelches at the back of your throat.

You’re everything he dreamed of and then some.

Ghost’s voice, again, slithers through the barrage of noises as he seeks the wet heat between your thighs. “Sweetheart, have a look.”

You don’t really know if you want to, but you do have a look. Your eyes flit up to his before following his own to the juncture of you both, his fat cock spearing you open— the proof of it jutting in a subtle bulge along your abdomen. It’s horrifying. Something straight from an alien movie- a parasite wriggling inside you— but when you instinctively clamp down, Simon groans and looks like his breath’s been stolen when he meets your eye again. “Good girl. You’re a good girl.”

There’s a haze all around you. Sickening. Dizzying. The boys smell of the world outside and distinctly masculine; they don’t kick their boots off at the door and rather track all the mud inside- tainting you with it. This was your space. After your boyfriend left, it was supposed to be. And you were meant to be free.

Johnny lets out a long string of expletives as he nears his edge, heavy balls hitting your chin every so often when he presses the envelope on just how far he can reach down your throat before you start hurling out dinner. These two individuals were the only ones there for you when your whole world, without warning, started to cave at its middle, and you were always grateful for that, endlessly. But when the brunet comes down your trachea with a roar, holding your head in place as you gag, and tells you with a breathless grin to thank him for it-?

Fire lashes in you.

Your brow corrugates. A flash of anger, indignant and humiliated, arises from the baser part of you and the blond leans over you to slap Johnny away. “Gentle my fuckin’ arse. Don’t make her swallow that shite. Now piss off, lemme finish alone w’her.”

The gleeful look on Johnny’s face withers into a scowl. “What?! That’s no’ fair! C’mon, she knows it was just a joke. Tell the ghost, sweetie, tell him ye want me ta stick around.” He winks. “That it tastes good.”

After grudgingly swallowing it down, there’s certain moment where you just splutter, desperate to catch your breath as the cop- almost ruefully- slides his dick out from your mouth and deliberates on tucking himself back in. Then, Simon takes your face in his big paw and guides your eyes to his, his own dark caramel ones simmering with something intense, unable to be named.

“You don’t want him stickin’ his nose in our business, do ya?” He all but grumbles, “he’s had his turn-“

“With her mouth! I can go again once yer finished, Ghost,” he pops up a pointer finger, “dinnae underestimate—“

Briefly, Simon pauses, tosses him a quick look and barks, “Quiet, Johnny. You’ve had your go at her. Told you we should’ve bloody waited, she’s hardly ready for one o’ us, let alone both. Y’just couldn’t fucking wait?” (You get the inexplicable inkling that he’s making an indirect address to something else, then.) He sighs, steadies himself, refocuses on the moment and the way your cunt feels as it hotly mouths him in, lapping at his veiny sides. “Hop off it a moment, lad.”

Soap scrunches his nose. “She’s a strong woman. She can take it. Think ye should stop selling her short-“

“Both of you just stop already!” you murmur through the gap your hands make as they seal over your flushed face. You bushwhack yourself with the boldness of it all. It was long past the due time to grow a backbone but it was getting late and you were cranky and you still had to finish tidying the kitchen as soon as the boys took their leave. They’ve overstayed their welcome and as the reality of it all dawns upon you, the initial freeze response thaws into irritation.

“You two are both leaving right after—!”

A laugh, harsh and vigorous, cuts you off. “Ach, I don’t think so, hen. Cannae get rid o’ us that easily.”

Confusion reshapes you. Your face pinches and you look between the men anxiously as Simon resumes his pace again, clasping your hips on both sides as he drives himself home. You gasp and lie back again, fully recumbent as you cover your mouth. It makes you go numb all over again, the warmth of his body over yours stifling, his girth stretching you out deliciously as he repeatedly hits that one spot in you that points all rational thought to the door.

“But y-you have to leave—“

“Well,” Johnny cuts you off, then, and Simon doesn’t bother straightening him out this time. He lets him talk. He supposes, anyway, that for as dedicated as he is to his good cop role, he’s really no better than Johnny in this singular regard.

With you.

Blue eyes twinkle with delight. Simon’s grunting over you, his small sounds of pleasure picking up in volume and frequency, and you get the idea he’s gonna come soon.

Soap chuckles, knowing something you don’t, “Yer right, actually, hen. We are leaving. But yer comin’ with as well, aye?”

(Fuck your bastard ex-boyfriend for never fixing up that piece of shit RV in the back. Fuck him fuck him fuck him.)

✦✦✦

It doesn’t take much for Price to get Simon’s attention. A short, yet no less urgent word over his walkie is what has him in this time.

When he walks in, the chief greets him with a tight smile over the rim of his coffee mug and nods to the seat opposite his desk. “Simon, good to see you. Sit.”

So Simon does. He takes a few steps forward (it’s all it takes for his long legs to reach the center of his office), shuts the door behind him, and pulls out a chair. John’s desk is messy, though the blond knows that’s not how he prefers it— paperwork piled up in a small mountain, nearly spilling off the mahogany edges; there’s hardly even enough room for his steaming drink or the shiny little standee with his name on it, but he manages in one way or another.

Dark hues appraise the clutter for a second too long before finally returning the eye contact expected of him. He’s not used to feeling uncomfortable, Simon, but the more the clock hanging overhead the door clicks, the more Simon readjusts himself in the almost too-small leather chair and awaits his superior’s words.

They finally come. “You know why I called you in here today?” Simon’s also not used to feeling like a disobedient child called to have a chat with the school’s principal, but it crosses his mind for a moment anyway. He wets his bottom lip, and gives Price no verbal response. Better to wait it out, he thinks.

The brunet’s smile pinches as he gives a few fast blinks.

Ghost spots something, then, amidst the hodgepodge of documents and wayward pens. Under the small desk light with a crooked neck, by the phone stand, a yellow folder lay. It’s opened, unlike the other ones— and the tip of something peeks its head out, cold and black.

A videotape, he suspects- and a whole plethora of thoughts hail down on him, briefly, shadows revolving behind his brain- before returning the stare of the man in front of him.

Ghost sniffs. “…What you got there?”

Lightless, mildly curious eyes bore into warm brown ones. Searching for something.

A silent moment passes, but very slowly. Price ultimately looks down to the object in question and takes it in his big paw, untucking the rectangle-shaped item inside. He gives it a shake as he speaks, and Simon reads the diminutive wording scrawled in sharpie over a white label.

The date is a familiar one.

“This,” he starts, a sage sort of look in his eye as it widens- peers into Ghost’s soul and scours it- “is the motel a town over, one week ago.” He points his chin, with unwavering eye contact, to a crisp paper atop the stack, “and that’s the owner’s report of the body we found in one of the rooms. Any o’ this ringing a bell?”

Simon, boredly, or maybe thoughtfully, looks off to the side and offers a small, one-shouldered shrug. “You didn’t put me or my partner on that case,” he says simply, “Can’t say I’m familiar.”

He doesn’t exactly intend on it sounding like an excuse- and to Ghost’s credit, it doesn’t: his deadpan tone is too good for most of anything to slip through— but he wonders if his chief is regarding it as a truth or an alibi.

A beat passes. John smiles.

And as a reply to that, he folds his hairy hands over his desk and leans forward to emphasize his following sentiment; he speaks in a low murmur but it’s clear to the blond. Crystalline. He nods to Simon as he does, or maybe he nods to himself.

“It’s a familiar face, though, the body we pulled from the closet. A real fuckin’ mystery, innit? First thought I had was- how the fuck are we gonna break this to the poor doll? But I never got the chance to think long and hard on it. You know why?”

Another segment of quiet comes and goes. The blinds of the office are pulled, sealed shut, the event of any potential onlookers or nosy colleagues peering in precluded. It’s just him and John right now, but Simon can’t help but feel like the big man upstairs is looking too, that omniscient, godlike gaze tracking him, and he gets a feeling no different than it when he’s stood under the crosshair of another asshole’s gun.

He sniffs again, asks without much interest, “Why?”

His overling says with what seems as puzzlement but Simon knows very well is not: “Because the doll’s been reported missing yesterday by a neighbor. Said she hasn’t shown for a day and her grandson saw a car come and go.”

Ghost blinks and looses a sound that’s equally a scoff as it is a sigh. “Hell of a way to start off the week, yeah? Poor bird flew off… Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“She doesn’t have any means to, though. Fly off.” Price leans forward even more but Simon holds staunchly, perfect poker face and all. “Got any ideas, lad?”

“Called an uber, likely.”

A laugh, harsh and short. “An uber, yeah.” A deep sigh of exasperation through his nostrils- and then all semblance of cordial conversation between two officers goes out the window.

“You want to be honest with me, now? Or do I gotta drag Soap in here? M’sure he’ll have your stories tied up in one pretty bow for me, mm? All nice n’ neat? Or did you even fucking think that far ahead?!”

Johnny? That motormouth? Hell no. This situation is already fast to flee Simon’s hands, but it’ll all go to hell in a handbasket as soon as that gobshite’s involved. Mactavish can hardly maintain an inside voice (one that’s broken entirely when the doll’s brought up), and the blond knows he’ll flub with an alibi, entangle himself in a position he’d be hard-pressed to get out of. It’ll be one crazy match of twister that’s almost funny to think about but neither men laugh, rigid and sober.

Ghost swallows thickly. Wets his lip again; all his movements kept simple and slow. His heart skips just once, though. The phantom hand of guilt knocks at his heart. Simon buries it down before he opens his jaw again, “What d’ya plan to do, Captain?” Is all he says.

He has no real proposal here. It’s not his or Johnny’s first mishap, but it’s unclear whether or not he’ll be covered on this one— or if he even can be, what with the shiny black videotape inches away, hard and real.

Proof of wrongdoing.

Price maintains eye contact for another tense handful of seconds more before his gaze dips. He looks down at the tiny tape his hands dwarf, considers something. Careful and meticulous, mulling it over in his head.

Shadows pass through Simon’s.

…Better to wait this out, though.

The blond watches Price’s severe visage lessen by a fraction. He tucks the tape away. Reseals the folder and slips it beneath the mammoth stack of papers on his desk. Ghost doesn’t know all the nitty-gritty, who’s seen that tape or if it’s been duplicated, in possession of another but for what he can see here and now, it’s been buried.

“…About what, lad?”

Simon blinks. Price flashes a close-lipped smile, warm eyes just a bit too crinkled to be considered kind- not that Simon’s ever gave away his guise- and folds his hands.

The flaxen badge on his crisp uniform glints when Ghost, betraying nothing, rises from his chair- and it nearly blinds him on his way out.

He stops at the door just before leaving, though, as if his legs are bound by some inexplicable force. He looks partially over his broad shoulder, just halfway to make the clarification.

“…She’s alright, for the record. Safe.”

“I know, Simon. I know.”

Ghost hears the crisp sound of upright papers bumping against wood.

A cue to leave. He takes it.

Home is waiting for him, after all, with open arms. And knowing that Johnny’s no doubt doting all over her— okay, home is waiting for him with open legs, too.

Bastard just better not be hogging up all her attention.

[cupidsworstcrime]

Johnny would totally be a 'Can I hold it while you pee?' boyfriend.

Don't have a penis? Thats cool, but can he put your tampon in for you?

[beloveds-embrace]

Vampire poly 141 x reader where they don’t tell you they are vampires and you have no reason to suspect they are. Why would you? They are supernatural creatures, you’ve seen all four of them eat garlic bread, their reflections show in mirrors and refelctive surfaces.

But.

Sometimes they say and do such strange things- John talks about historical events almost as if they happened just a few days ago, and he was there. Simon’s storage room has antiques so old you have no idea how they have even survived, and he grumbles whenever you tell him he should sell them to see how much they’ll make. Kyle could navigate through the dark like it was second nature- like it wasn’t affecting him at all, and you’d always just wonder how. Johnny’s hands were always so cold to the touch, no matter tje weather or what he was wearing or where he was.

Still, all of those simply didn’t stick out that much to you. So you never suspected.

But still…

Lately, you’ve been waking up so very sore in the neck, weak and lethargic. Sore in the spot they all seemed to love kissing and nuzzling so much. You are so grateful for their help and care- they ply you with sweets fruits and oily fishes, leafy greens and nuts to help your body, and they hold you in their arms and let you rest as much as you need.

Though it still persists, and it gets especially worse when your period drops by. They are even more attentive, offering massages and forehead kisses and cuddles.

But now you wake up sore in the neck and thighs… as if they’ve been kept in one position for too long. At least you are miraculously very clean when you check, and you have four men spoiling you rotten.

[decaffeinatedcandycane]

Prince!Soap in an arranged marriage with a bride who runs away after the wedding. She is a bright and stubborn lass but no match for the bloodhound prince, who spends months tracking her down.

Soap, too, hates the arrangement, however, he doesn't want unnecessary bloodshed. He makes an offer to the princess - She agrees to live with him for the sake of both countries and Soap will let her live the way she desires (as soon as it is in the same castle as him).

The princess agrees to his conditions, and to her surprise, Soap doesn't bother her for anything - unless they have to make an appearance. He does bring her the occasional gifts, but as time goes by - he starts talking to her more, making excuses for them to spend time together, sleazily and shamelessly worming his way into her heart.

[barrackspredator]

Boyfriend!Soap who just loves his girlfriend. Carries a photo of you with him in his wallet. Also, has a photo of you in a heart frame on his office desk on base.

“Yeah, this is my wife 😼”

Some of his coworkers on base genuinely believe you two are married. No ring, no ceremony, but spiritually Soap is devoted to his missus MacTavish.

Bonus: a rookie was crying over his girlfriend breaking up with him, so in turn Soap did what he does

“Awww man, that’s tuff… my wifey would never!”