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drgnflyteabox · 2 months ago

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lament [1]

part one -> honey || part two -> tbd

series masterlist

pairing: john price x fem reader summary: as you recover from prolonged illness, you meet a man on a hike in the woods just as strange things begin happening around you. tags/warnings: creepy / horror vibes, slowburn, phone sex, masturbation, injuries, mention of hospitals, pneumonia, mobility aids, softdom!price (for now), dubcon due to intoxication, tags will update as the story does w.c: 5.9k

The woods are a peaceful, meditative thing. You’ve been spending your mornings there walking with Diva, meandering through the local trails and venturing off for pictures of red mushrooms or Diva in her little yellow raincoat, sniffing something or other.

The trails were scarcely used and took a couple of hours to finish, a longer trek in taller trees that closed off the sunlight and created peace through insulation, like an echo chamber of wet pitter patter from rain the night before and the gentle calls of birds, broken only by the sounds of your hiking shoes crunching gently through pebbles and leaves.

Quiet. It’s just what you need, slowly erasing memories of bright fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptics. The trail isn’t elevated, it’s long, but not elevated. That’s important for your recovery, two months spent in a hospital bed attached to breathing apparatus.

Relief, freedom, as slow as your steps are and as beleaguered is your breathing, it’s pure relief. You’re no longer breathing through a straw, building strength walk by walk, spending time with Diva and watching her little tail wiggle under her coat. This time is good for her, too. You could sink to your knees and praise a higher being for the time off and sick pay policies your job has - so could Diva.

The shaking continues, your limbs still weak, muscles unused to standing and walking. You often find yourself sitting, on a log or a rock, and taking time to breathe and recover. Sometimes a granola bar makes its way into the mix, sometimes a handful of trail mix.

The last few times, there’s been a man. Tall, imposing, walking much quicker than you even with a brace around his knee. His posture tells you he takes himself pretty seriously, or he’s military, if there’s any difference.

Mutton chops, mustache, cargo pants. He’s been coming up behind you with sure steps, barely a limp even with his knee, and going by you so fast there's a breeze, makes you a little nervous to get mowed down.

Diva is weary of him. Her hackles raise, though she doesn’t bark, and she tucks close to you when he goes by. You don't feel unsafe, just a little surprised at the break in monotony no matter how tiny it is.

Doesn’t help that it’s pretty nice watching him go, that broad back and tight shirt, those well sculpted legs. Hey, you’re still sick and weak, still recovering. Sue me, you think, leaning on a tree when your lungs start burning again a little too much.

He stops, a few feet in front of you.

“You broken?” His voice is just as you imagined, rough maybe from smoking, maybe from overuse.

“What?” Broken?

“You alright?” He repeats, turning then. The quiet is a little oppressive now, with your struggle. You’re wheezing.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine-” you cough, dryly. “Just asthmatic.” It’s an easy explanation, you’re trying to get him to move on. You’ve never felt in danger, but it’s still the middle of the woods and he’s still a strange man.

“Need a hand?” He has to look down at you, even from a distance. His head is tilted down, arms folding across his chest, biceps calling to you like sirens.

You shake your head, squatting down as best you can, taking the breaths learned from your doctor and pulling out your steroid inhaler. One puff, two puff.

The man looks at you skeptically, eyes small and narrowed, flitting once to Diva who would fail as a service dog, but tries her best at guarding you despite being so small. Her gaze is pinpointed to him, as stiff as he is.

”Right, then,” is all he says before he’s back to his soldiers march.

You imagine him with horse blinders on and pulling a sled behind him, wheezing a laugh into the empty air.

Recovery is not linear. That’s what your doctor tells you, what you were told before you left the ICU, before you were discharged all together. There’ll be ups and downs, moments where you feel you’ve backslid to the point of having to start all over.

You get it, really. It’s a mantra. Recovery is not linear.

What they don't warn you is that it’s different when you’re actually feeling it, waking up weaker than ever and coughing, burning in your chest. It’s jarring, every cell in your body crying for oxygen and yet you aren’t low enough that you need to go back to the ER, just sit up in bed and stare out the window to the fortress of green that surrounds your house.

Recovery is not linear. You watch comfort shows - animated Halloween specials, a couple months too early. They fit the cooling temperatures, the slow yellowing of the trees.

Food is hard when you can’t stand for long periods of time, so you order in. Soup, and an extra chicken crunch treat for Diva on her dinner.

It’s only when you turn Charlie Brown off that you hear it.

Tap tap tap. Deliberate, timed taps, like a mini hammer on a mini nail. Quiet enough that your ears strain, and yet you can just barely catch the sound. It’s coming from the side of your house, opposite to your bedroom and closest to the living room you were just in.

Tap tap tap. Maybe it’s the vibe you put yourself in, but you shiver with apprehension. Could be an animal, you do live fairly far out, and by the woods. Your driveway is long, separated from the highway just outside of town.

Diva is usually a false alarm - she raises her hackles at the stove, she’s not trustworthy when it comes to alerting you. And yet you look, and find her standing straight up and staring at the wall the sound is coming from, lips peeling back.

Only there's nothing you can do. You aren’t gonna go check, not with your weak limbs and thin breath. Theres a landline in the kitchen with a long cord, and your cellphone. The best you can do is lock the windows and doors, which you do, shuffling so as to make the least amount of noise possible.

Next the lights and curtains, drawn and shut. You tuck a knife under your mattress, more for reassurance than anything, and close your bedroom door behind Diva.

The only reason you’re able to sleep is the bedroom door locks. The handle has one, and there’s a chain above that. You tuck into bed under the covers like a child hiding from their closet, straining to hear the tap tap tap. Sometime between you locking all the entries and exits, it stopped, but you’re still unmoored.

Your lungs fare better the next morning, eased by rest. You’re back in the woods by late morning, driving up to the trailhead through the canopy of trees. It really is beautiful, part of the reason you moved here, other than peace and quiet.

There's another car as you pull up, a reliable model in a dark colour, a surprise since you’re usually the first one there.

You park away from it in an effort to not be creepy, but still sneak a peak while Diva does her post-car ride shakeout and pee.

It’s the man from before, sitting in the front seat, talking on a phone. He looks serious, frowning, talking in a measured way but you can still hear the volume as you pass by.

He waves, and you wave back, giving him a little smile.

Diva leads the way, prancing into the woods without fear even as the leaves start blocking out the sun. She inspires you - a little dog, brave, braver than you were last night.

God, it was probably a rabbit or a possum stuck somewhere. Maybe a mouse, and though you hope it isn’t it is the season for them. Cooler temperatures means creatures trying to enter your house. Means you have yet to drive down to town and pick up insulation supplies for your windows before fall really hits and you’re freezing.

Making a mental note of that, you lean heavily on your walking stick and pause. It’s one of those days, needing more aid than usual after yesterday and more breaks.

Crunch.

“Sorry, honey,” the army man holds his arms up, seeming sheepish as you flip around to face him. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” your cheeks burn in embarrassment. “Just jumpy today.”

“That’s alright,” his eyes crinkle at the corners, softening at the edges. He’s approachable today, not speed walking through the woods like there's a pot of gold at the end. “Mind if I join you?”

Unexpected, but with your eyes at pec-height it’s an easy yes. You deserve a handsome escort for the second half of the trail, and your emergency alarm is tucked in your front sweater pocket if you need it.

“Sure,” you nod. “I’m pretty slow, though, just to warn you. Recovering.”

“That’s fine, I should be taking it easier anyway. Make my physio happy for once,” he gestures to his knee with a chuckle. “John.”

You tell him your name. John. It suits him, the masculinity of it, the simpleness too. He gives the impression that he’s careful about how he presents himself, that outside of this sudden friendliness he’s very closed off - the way he was when you’d come across him before. Now he calls you honey, and touches his fingertips to your back as you navigate a patch of rough terrain warped by roots.

“I’m off until my knee is battle-ready, again,” he says it like it’s a joke, but there’s a steel edge beneath his words. You ask about his job: contract work, he says, not self-employed but with pockets of free time.

“Did you move here recently?” The wind shivers the trees, chillier than last week, as you meander.

“Ah, didn’t move here,” he scratches his thumb with his nose. “Staying with a friend. Needed the fresh air.”

“I get it,” your shoulder brushes his arm. “That’s why I moved here too.”

“Helps your asthma?”

You pause for a moment, confused. And then.

“Oh!” You’re a little embarrassed. “I don’t have asthma, actually. I mean I could have it, or develop it. But really I had pneumonia for a while, really wiped me out.”

“Ah, I see,” his voice says surprised, but his face stays the same. You wonder if he notices. “Terrible, that. My mum had a bad bout of it a couple years back, gave us a scare.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” you aren’t sure how old John is, but you can assume it was dangerous for his mother to have caught such a bad infection. “How’s she doing now?”

“Much better. Healthy as a goat.”

“A goat?” You’re laughing, then. A giggle that has him smiling back at you. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

John hums when he doesn’t reply verbally, and nods like you’re giving a university lecture. The attentiveness is nice, but it makes you self conscious, unused to having so much attention so focused on you. And he is so focused, like you’re discussing nuclear launch codes or what a quark is or something important. Honestly, it makes you hide your face in an embarrassingly shy way, avoiding eye contact.

He walks with you slowly, patiently down the path, arms crossed behind his back. Every once in a while either or the two of you laugh, which seems to bother Diva, whose been looking back at John suspiciously or trying to get between you the whole time.

“So sorry about that,” you really don’t know what’s gotten into her. Sure, she’s a pro at finding innocuous things suspicious, but you’ve been walking for a while now and she usually warms up when she realizes you’re okay with the offensive person or item.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” honey again. He sure knows how to make a lady flustered. “She’s just looking out for her mama, right?”

If your pussy reacts to that, it’s no one’s business but your own.

The air chills, day by day. John has begun joining you on your walks every other day, and sometimes you catch him jogging to the trailhead from the road instead of driving it. It makes you wonder where he’s, whether it’s close or he’s really pushing his knee, and whether or not he’s flirting with you when he shows up all sweaty in a tight shirt.

Another anomaly is that the tapping has returned, nearly every night. You’re scared every time, won’t even let Diva out for a final pee and have stuck to walking up at the buttcrack of dawn to make sure she’s taken care of.

Tedious, is what it is. Ridiculous. And yet when those little taps come, in different places around the house now, different walls, you hide under the covers with Diva growling her little growl at the bedroom door and try to sleep.

When cabin fever starts to set in, anxiety and insane thoughts like, what if someone is trying to break into my house? You decide it’s past time for a visit to town.

The trip serves many purposes, anyways. Diva needs treats, kibble, and a new ball. You need groceries, tampons, new socks. Overall worth it outside of the fresh air and human interaction with more than just one person.

“Hey! Hey you!”

You’re in the bakery, weighing with your hands two loaves of artisanal bread. Just the one will do, since your freezer is small, but you want both. Pumpernickel or dark rye? Which will go better with the honey ham sandwich slices?

“Hello? Earth to-”

Your deliberation is interrupted by a waving in your face. You realize Jo, your only real friend in town, has run across the street to catch your attention.

“Oh gosh, my bad,” you look down at your shoes, then reach for a hug. She squeezes you.

“That’s okay, babe, off in your own world?” She’s dazzling, too cute for such a small town. Her ringlets bounce on her shoulders and her mouth, which is always smiling, is stretched wide with mirth. Makes you feel warm inside that she cares for you.

“Trying to make a hard decision. You know, end world hunger or stop all wars.” Stupid, but she laughs. You love making her laugh, and if you were lesbian you’d have made a move on her. Maybe you were, just a little.

“Why not both?” Her hands find your shoulders and squeeze. It’s then that you notice someone behind her, a much taller someone. At first the muscled chest and thick neck make you think it’s John, and a small squeeze of jealousy grips your stomach.

Then you see the mohawk, the difference in height. This man is looking at you with a similar intensity, though, all piercing blue eyes, thick furrowed brows, pin-straight posture.

“You’re right,” your laugh is more awkward, then, motioning with your eyes to the man.

“Oh, I’m so rude,” she turns to him. “This is Johnny, we met a few weeks ago.”

A wink. Ah, they met a few weeks ago. You picture them in the only bar in town, low lighting and Jo looking like Botticelli’s Venus, plump cheeks and red lips. And yeah, Johnny’s pretty good looking. You’d laugh about the mixup and the names if it wasn’t rude.

“Nice tae meet ya,” his accent is thick, palm warm and rough against yours. “Shall we, lass?”

He’s talking to Jo. They exchange glances, him looking at you once so fast you almost miss it. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about the look he gives you, but you shake it off. Nerves, you think. From the taps.

“Right,” Jo looks a little sheepish, then. “We’re off to the movies, but nice to see you!”

You raise a brow. You can’t help it, it’s 10am. Jo laughs and they leave.

You bake, sometimes. It’s a good hobby for someone on a leave of absence with nothing much else to do but read, walk and play with her dog.

The oven sometimes scares Diva, and she curls up in your room indignantly until you’re done using it. You’ve always wondered why, since she came to you as a puppy and hasn’t got a single reason to be upset with the appliance.

Oh well.

You decide to bring brown butter chocolate chip cookies on your hike, hoping to see John and give him one. Your interactions haven’t progressed past leisurely chatting and walking together, but he’s a handsome man and you're still a little stir-crazy. At least with work, it wasn’t just hours on hours of uninterrupted alone time.

Funny how that works, isn’t it? You spend every day at work wishing not to be at work, and once you have the opportunity you have no idea what to do with yourself.

John loves the cookies. He takes two right out of the Tupperware, flattering you by groaning as he eats. The recipe is that good, but you think he might be putting it on a bit anyway.

It’s sweet.

“Fantastic,” he says, licking his fingers. You try not to look. “You bake often?”

“Just something to do, keeps me busy.” Diva has growled at John again, her second offense. She’s being a real heel today, rude and fussy. You elect to schedule a vet visit for a checkup soon.

“No one to keep you company in that house?” He stops when you need to stop, takes the opportunity to stretch his bad leg.

“What?” You take a puff of the inhaler, frowning a little.

“Are you lonely?” A weird question, but you chalk it up to small town weirdness.

“A little, but that one over there keeps me company,” as if she knows, she turns and yips. “What do you mean, that house?”

“You mentioned you live in your grandfather's house, no? Inherited it.” He chuckles at Diva.

“Did I? I don’t think…” you fully frown, thinking back to your conversations. Did you mention that? You haven’t even thought of it yourself for a while, not wanting to revisit painful memories. Your grandpa did pass you his house, but you’re usually more private than offering more than surface-level information to strangers.

“I believe so,” he looks deep in thought himself, squinting up at the umbrella of trees above you. That comforts you, the fact that he’s trying to recall. You’ve been so anxious lately.

“I must have forgotten, sorry. I’ve just been so scrambled lately.” John perks up at that, turning towards you as you finally continue walking.

“Scrambled?” His palm finds the back of your arm, the meat of it. He squeezes you, and it fills you with warmth. “How so?”

“Ah, well, just some animals around my house. I think,” you meet eyes, and he gets the best of you, so you elect to stare between his brows.

“Want me to take a look?” His tone is very serious. You shiver.

“I don’t think it’s necessary… I think there’s just some mice making a home for winter. I gotta call an expert,” He slides his hand down to your elbow, holding it gently. You’re nearing the end of the trail, the woods getting brighter around you. Diva marks her territory here more than anywhere else and yips at John again.

“I could do it for free though, honey,” the air drops where you are, a gust of wind creating a symphony of sound all around you. A little romantic, you think. Ridiculous.

“Well,” far be it from you to pass up free help. “Only if you let me pay you back somehow.”

“You have already,” he holds up the cookie Tupperware, shaking it gently.

“Then let me make you dinner. Whatever you want!” The enthusiasm in which you say it has you cringing at yourself, but mentally you justify it; it’s completely normal to invite a friend over, especially to pay back a favour. You’re not being obvious that you’re attracted to him at all, no sir. Definitely not scared and in need of comfort, Mr John sir.

“Sounds like a plan. I’m free after 7 o’clock.”

You elect to be cliche and make British food. Good British food, a proper roast. Something you’d had a few times with friends in pubs or that time you’d visited London as an exchange student. Hot, smothered in gravy, salty and perfect with a mug of beer British food. You really hope he likes it, that he doesn't think you’re weird or making fun of him for his accent.

John is a proper gentleman, so punctual that he knocks on your door the very second it turns to 7:30 on your oven timer.

Diva has to battle her hatred of the stove with her need to announce a guest, staying in hallway purgatory barking at both.

The smell of garlicky roast beef, rosemary and thyme, salt and boiling potatoes is rife in the air, no doubt spilling into the woods through your badly insulated windows.

The moment it hits John, you can see it. Your door opens, creaking, and his eyes fix to you so quickly it’s almost physical.

“Hey! Thanks for coming,” you open it, motioning for him to come in. “Don’t mind Diva, she’s not a fan of the oven being on.”

He toes his boots off, still staring, like you’re a prize heifer and he’s set on buying you at the farm auction. A little sexy, mostly nerve wracking. Diva peeks around the corner at him and the sound of her little nails on the hardwood breaks the tension.

“Smells like home,” he leans closer to you to put his coat up on the rack. “You really went through all this trouble?”

“It’s the least I can do for your help.” At that moment, he seems to remember.

“Right, the mice. Want to show me where you heard them, or can I not steal you away from the stove?” His voice deepens as he talks, intensifying, grating hot coals and growling like a bear. Blue, focused eyes find the half-apron you’re wearing. You swear his pupils dilate, but he shakes his head before you’re sure.

“I can show you, there’s still a few minutes left for everything.”

The air is biting outside, cold with the evening breeze and dark already. So dark you equip your biggest, brightest flashlight and walk around the house with him, explaining the taps all around.

“I figure it’s them trying to dig holes so they can get in,” you hand the flashlight to him, feeling your fingers brush, and shivering in response. “I’ve been too chicken to check, to be honest. I keep thinking it’s a person walking around, not some animal.”

John nods as you speak, squatting by your little tool shed, looking diligently and moving items as he needs to. Then, he looks up, smiling a little.

“Why don’t you head inside, darling? Let me take care of this.”

“Sure,” you squeak. Squeak. Your stomach makes a knot and you scurry like one of the mice he’s looking for back into the house to mash the potatoes and make the gravy.

You are quite proud of this meal, not a proper cook by a long shot but it looks and smells pretty good. The Yorkshire puddings are alright, too, and that was the hardest part. Plus, you think, it’s free food. He’s gotta be happy with the effort, even if he winds up not liking it, right? That’s something your mother always told you. Someone’s put in a lot of effort for this meal, she’d say, pointing at you with a long nail. Better eat it.

“Think I found the little buggers,” John startles you just a little as he comes in, toeing his boots off again. You’re plating his plate, huge portions of mash potato and roast carrot and brussel sprouts nestled to the beef. His eyes look at the plate, then to you, then down to your apron, and you pretend you can’t see him adjusting his pants.

This isn’t what you think it is, you remind yourself. Two friends, one lending a hand and the other paying them back. You don’t even know his last name.

“Oh god, how bad was it?” You ladle gravy over his portion, then yours, pretending to be unaffected when he walks into your kitchen and takes a huge sniff.

“Not too bad. I’ll have to come back with some traps, if that’s alright.” You want to say John, you can come back anytime, but you don’t.

“Glad to know it was mice at least,” that’s the truth. A feeling you didn’t totally realize you had turns from paranoia into relief. “I was really scared it was some creep walking around my house, trying to get in.”

“Here,” John takes his plate when you hand it to him, but puts his phone into your hands before you can get yours. “Put your number in there, honey. Call me if anything like that happens.”

Honey. You fucking love that, so much it renders you temporarily mute as you punch in your number. He doesn't let you bring your own plate to the table, picks it up while you’re busy and comes back to shepherd you there with a palm on your lower back.

“Thank you,” you say, struck timid by his casual and yet firm guidance of you.

Diva makes an appearance for supper, summoned by the smell of beef and the oven being turned off. Her little claws tip tap against the hardwood as she circles your chair, tucks herself under the table looking for scraps, and whines at John while he’s trying to eat.

You nudge her away from him with a socked foot, stuttering that she isn’t usually like this, honest, only for him to brush it off kindly.

After supper, when you’re full and you can’t handle him looking at you with those half-lidded, well-fed bear eyes anymore, you move to pick up the dishes and bring them to the kitchen.

“Ah ah,” John cuts in front of you, stealing the plates and cutlery. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

Useless to argue - he’s built like a brick shithouse. You’re forced to pack up the leftovers, one container for you and one for him to take home. For no reason other than you’re feeling especially soft and gooey, you wrap up a few homemade fig and date granola bars for him to take too.

“Thank you,” he gruffs, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, flexing his forearm muscles, making you hot again.

“It’s really the least I can-”

Snap. Fuck, the day that creepy noises don’t happen near your house is the day you convert to whatever religion that’ll make it happen. Both your heads turn to the living room window, where the sound came from, a crack in the otherwise quiet night air.

Anxiety curls in your stomach, sharp and dreadful. You try to remind yourself that you live in the woods for gods sake, there’s gonna be sounds, but that awful sense of danger is back and if you were Diva your hackles would be raised.

John frowns, wiping his hands on a towel. He doesn't seem as phased as you are, probably because he’s not worried over boogeymen haunting the forest like you are, but when he looks back at you and sees your fright he leans in and murmurs that he’ll go take a look.

“It’s okay, it’s probably one of my furry friends,” you try, but he shakes his head, putting a palm on your hip for a brief moment as reassurance and then he’s out the door.

God, you’re so nervous you whip out a bottle of wine, desperate for a little courage. The feeling is so strange, you’re used to feeling safe and cushioned by your home, by the forest. Even your little dog whimpers, tapping her way into the kitchen, rubbing her face on your leg like a cat. She’s a comfort still, something about there being a more nervous person (or animal) that inspires bravery. Still, you won't peek out the window.

The wine is good. A little too dry, but still good. A housewarming gift from your mother, even though she knew you didn’t drink unless it was social.

Or unless you were nervously waiting for some man to come back, having dealt with your problems for you. She’d weep to see you, aproned and wringing your hands and sipping red wine too quickly. Whatever, you think. There’s nothing wrong with letting him help.

John comes back in, maybe a few minutes later or maybe a half hour, you can’t tell. Your wine is half empty, and you feel awkward about it so you pour him one without asking.

“Think you’ve got more than one furry friend,” John says, laughter in his voice. In his fingers he’s got tufts of light brown hair, which he holds up. “Dinner, if you hunt.”

“Ah, I don’t,” and you wouldn’t. You’re fine eating meat or even purchasing it from a local hunter to eat, but there’s something in you that’s deeply uncomfortable with the idea. Maybe it’s cowardice, unable to do the dirty work and yet enjoying the fruits of someone else’s labour. Maybe you’re putting stock in something that really isn’t worth stressing over. Either way, you’re overthinking, and only stop when John steps into your space.

“Hey- you alright, darling?” You like darling too, just as much as honey.

“Yeah, sorry,” your hands find the wine glass you poured for him, and you hand it over. One thing about abstaining is that it hits you quickly, even with the big meal. “Want to sit? I’ve got a fireplace.”

You cringe at yourself, not meaning to sound so suggestive. Oh well, he doesn’t seem to mind, just nods and takes you by the elbow again to your living room.

“This all the heading you’ve got?” John asks.

“Er, no. I have to get my windows insulated for winter, then I can turn the heating on without it all going to waste. For now, I make do with the fireplace,” when you sit, Diva runs to you both and demands to be swaddled in her blanket. It’s an old knitted one, a college project finished between essay assignments and readings. There’s sentimental value there, especially with your pup who doesn’t even let the presence of a strange man come between her and her cozying up.

“I can help with that,” John says. Briefly, Westley pops into your head shouting As you wish! and it makes you smile.

“That’s okay,” you sip, tasting spice. Would’ve been good with dinner. “I owe you double now for helping me again.”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” Oh, he’s full of names - and getting bolder.

The conversation ebbs and flows naturally. Sometimes you both sit in silence, sipping, refilling glasses, staring at the fire. He’s easy to talk to, soothing, his confidence and sureness leaving you relaxed.

“I better get going,” he grunts as he stands, extending a palm to you.

“Are you okay to drive?” You’re half worried, half disappointed. There’s been a steadily building sense of heat between your legs the entire evening, brought on by his touches and his pet names and his taking care of you

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I live close-by.” That’s one mystery solved.

“Well, okay. But will you call when you get home?” If you weren’t three glasses in, you might be embarrassed. John crinkles his eyes at you while he puts his boots on.

“John?” You’re in your pajamas, face hastily cleaned with a makeup wipe. Your door is double locked again, anxiety beaten down by the wine.

“I’m home,” he sounds distant. You can’t really hear anything, just his breathing, the sounds of him taking off his coat and his boots. “You tucked in bed, sweetheart?”

“I am,” you breathe, eyes slipping, drunker than you thought you were. “Did you drive okay?”

“I did,” he laughs. His keys jingle and make a clamor as he tosses them. You imagine him in a house that fits him, a log cabin or a house built by hand, before remembering he’s talking with someone. Disappointment dampens you a little.

“I guess I should let you get to bed then,” you try to keep it out of your voice, but you’re curled on your side with a hand pressed against your clothed pussy and it’s hard not to be sad at the fact that you have no idea if he’s actually been flirting with you, or just being friendly.

“You sound disappointed,” either he’s perceptive, or you’re more obvious than you’re trying to be. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you without saying goodnight.”

A pulse, between your legs. You rub with all four fingers, moving the phone away from your mouth.

“That’s okay, I don’t want to keep you,” you scrunch your eyes shut, trying to stop, not being able to. You’re starved, really, haven’t been touched or talked to like you’re desirable in quite some time and he makes you feel safe. Taken care of.

“You touching that wet little cunt, sweetheart?” A shockwave, from your nipples tightening to your toes tingling, curling. You stop hiding, breathing whines into the phone.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble, biting your lips. It feels like permission, and maybe it is or maybe it isn’t, but you stuff your hand into your pants and start focusing on your needy clit. “I’m so-”

“Shh, sh, sh,” you hear a mattress creak, a grunt, and imagine him laying back. Maybe palming his cock. “That’s okay, baby, I could tell how needy you were.”

Panting, you stuff two fingers in your soft hole, grinding your palm into your clit. You hear him making sounds, quieter than you, but you’re straining to hear them.

He starts talking you through it, murmuring into your ear, calling you sweetheart and honey and baby, telling you to put three fingers in and to play with your tits.

“Go ahead and touch your nipples, sweetheart, go on,” his breath is growing laboured. “Needed to come so she could sleep, did she?”

For a moment, you think he’s talking about you.

“Poor little pussy needed some attention,” his voice gets rougher again, like when he walked in and saw that you had made him a roast. “Give it to her then, baby, go on, let her come.”

That’s all you need. You squeeze your nipples one last time, letting your tits out of your shirt and turning over to hump your hand unashamedly. Your clit drags against your palm still, hips desperately moving, listening to him grunting and groaning on the other side of the call, waiting to hear him come before you let go.

You shake, shiver, curl into yourself as your core tightens and explodes like an elastic band snapping. It’s great, just what you needed, and you’re half asleep by the end of it

“John..” you mumble into your pillow, just enough consciousness left to pull your hand out of your pajama pants.

“It’s alright, it’s time to sleep now, alright? Close your eyes.”

“Alright, John.”

“Good girl,” his voice is distant, sleep taking you, muscles more relaxed than they’ve been in so long.

You’ll deal with the rest in the morning.

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mie-png · 12 days ago

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Would the walker brothers survive in a Malaysian high school? LETS FIND OUT! Pt1

Beanie? TAKE IT OFF! unless its a songkok/kopiah🙂‍↔️

Yes bag

Yes collared shirt

Muttonchops? NO! SHAVE IT CLEAN AND REMOVE THE SIDEBURNS!

Results? Shoulder and up, passed✅

Torso area: gloves? Take it off! Unless you're wearing it for school marching competition!

Inner✅

Collared shirt✅

VEST WITH BULLETS?! COPS IMMEDIATELY

GUNS? COPS IMMEDIATELY

Results? 50-50, but will get at least 2 weeks suspension because guns and bullets.

Hips and lower: cargo pants? No! Change into slacks or treks!

GUN HOLSTER?! NO! COPS IMMEDIATELY!

hiking shoes? NO! WEAR SCHOOL SHOES AND BLACK SOCKS AND BLACK SHOES ONLY!

Results? 2 weeks suspension for gun holster and disobeying school outfit policy. If hes a student, he should wear school uniform or else he'll be sent outside immediately.

Overall? 4 weeks of suspension + parent(s) gets called over to school + stuff gets terminated by prefects + possibly a police report for bringing guns. FAILED❌❌❌❌❌

#hesh walker #call of duty ghosts #david hesh walker #cod ghosts #im bored

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fairyboygenius · 4 months ago

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everywhere, everything

simon “ghost” riley x original female character

a/n: new title how we feeling! laying groundwork mostly, we’ll get into more concrete plot very soon :) also if you requested something from the build-a-hybrid ask game i’m SORRY the brain worms have taken me over those’ll hopefully start coming out soon :) love love love you guys

no warnings :)

fic under the cut i kiss you on the forehead

As expected, Allie met everyone at breakfast the next morning.

She had woken up early, sleep schedule still fucked up by jet lag and the lack of a routine. Her routines took months to build up, but only a couple days of missing one could ruin it. Allie’s regulation was like a Jenga tower, and outside circumstances that disrupt routines always pulled the blocks that caused it to collapse.

But, whatever. At least there was room for her Keurig in her room. And Lola seemed to like the dog bed Laswell had purchased for her.

Allie showed up to the mess hall about five minutes early, sipping her sweet coffee as she leaned against the wall. Her military-issue cargo pants weren’t quite flattering- tight around her apron stomach and hips, loose everywhere else- but they were, functionally, just pants. Besides, her ass looked pretty great.

Still, as she fidgeted, twirling the ends of her braids, unease sat deep in her weary bones. These men, some of the best the SAS had to offer, were going to be her teammates and comrades. She’d patch up their wounds, they’d keep going out and getting hurt. Such was the cycle of an army medic. They’d be grumpy but hopefully grow to respect and tolerate her. She’d long accepted the community she longed for was not often found among war-hardened soldiers.

That didn’t stop her from hoping.

A loud, broguish Scottish accent bouncing off the high ceilings shook her out of her reverie. She looked up, spotting three men heading towards her from the same direction she had come from. These must be her hall mates, and future patients/pains in her ass.

The voice seemed to belong to the one in the middle, his close-cropped mohawk in desperate need of some styling. His blue eyes sparked, and his gait was hyper in a way that convinced Allie fairly quickly that he had ADHD. He’d be fun, she thinks- good for a drink after a stressful mission, or some sleep deprived conversations in a tent in Somalia.

The man on his left was a bit taller, bronzed skin glinting against a plain white T-shirt. He looked up then, smiling at her, and she managed a tired smile back.

As the group approached, her eyes quickly skated over the third member of the group. Taller than them both, black skull balaclava. Black hoodie and jeans. Something sparked in her chest seeing the way his thighs strained against jean fabric, his broad shoulders and big, gloved hands.

Down, girl.

“Hey, you’re our new medic?” The man who had smiled at her was standing right in front of her now. “I’m Kyle. Kyle Garrick, but they call me Gaz.” He gestured to his friends. “Mohawk is Soap, ski mask is Ghost.”

“Gaz, Soap, Ghost.” Allie nodded, pointing at each of them to associate the names with their faces. “I’m sure you’ve already been briefed on me, but I’m Allie. And this-“ Lola sat, as though she knew she was being introduced- “is Lola. She’s my service dog.”

Gaz nodded. “You waiting on breakfast?”

Allie let out a breathy laugh. “Woke up way too early. Fuckin’ jet lag.”

“Ah, tha’s righ’, yer American.” Mohawk-Soap- grinned. “Bit o’ a long trek for ye, then.”

“All this way for little ol’ us,” Gaz said, his voice teasing. “C’mon, the doors should be open. We’ll see what they have. Maybe we can get ya a full English.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I hate baked beans. The texture…” Allie shuddered. “Also, I don’t know what’s in blood sausage, and I’m frankly really scared to ask.”

“Smart lass.” Soap maneuvered to the front of the group, leading them through the line. Because of the jostling, Allie ended up in the back, just in front of Ghost. She turned back, giving him a friendly smile- it seemed like something she should do- and he just nodded back at her.

Not too disappointing, she hadn’t been expecting much more from ski mask guy. Not like he could smile back. But she had at least hoped to catch a glimpse of his eyes crinkling or some other indication.

Christ, she looked good.

Her hair wasn’t just red, as Simon had seen it in that photo- it was a plethora of colors. Copper, scarlet, rust, burgundy. Streaks of blonde framed her face, escaping from those goddamned braids. They caressed her freckled skin- oh, yeah. She had freckles. A line over her nose, dark brown pinpricks like stars against tan skin. Big brown eyes avoided eye contact, lashes framing them delicately. Teeth sunk into her plush bottom lip, examining the food options in the line. Full English, as Gaz had predicted. No blood sausage, but baked beans slopped on red trays, the liquid overflowing and coating the eggs in bean sauce.

Allie politely refused the beans and just got eggs and toast, and the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stood up. She had the slightest Southern accent. It wasn’t blatant, but there was something about the way she drew out her vowels that reminded him of sweet iced tea and wraparound porches. (He didn’t know much about the South.)

She was wearing a black long sleeve, almost skin tight, and the military-issued cargo pants that had no business looking that good on her. It was easy to let his eyes trail over the sway of her hips, the muscles in her thighs flexing under soft flesh, her plush ass. He almost forgot to tell the worker serving food what he wanted.

“Tha’ tea o’ coffee, lass?” he could hear Soap asking from all the way across the mess hall as he walked over and sat down across from her.

Allie took a sip from her travel mug. “Coffee. Milk and two sugars. I’ve never been much of a tea person. It’s just leaf water.”

“And coffee is just bean water.” The words come out of Simon’s mouth before he can stop them. Allie raised an eyebrow at him, a slight smirk on her features.

“Not a fan of bean water, I take it?”

“He’s a proper Brit,” Gaz said. “Only drinks coffee when he’s sleep deprived and we’re out of English Breakfast. What you got against tea?”

Allie shrugged, leaning down to scratch Lola’s head absentmindedly. “Oh, I like it. I just like coffee better, I guess.”

“We all ‘ave our preferences, right, Lt.?” Soap tried to goad him, but Simon just grunted and went back to his breakfast.

“Even if they’re wrong,” he grumbled, and Allie shot him a little smile, eyes glimmering with mirth. She playfully rolled her eyes, sipping from her coffee.

Breakfast was only 45 minutes, but they didn’t have anything scheduled until training at 0930- that’s when they found out Allie had been given a laminated schedule by Laswell last night- so they lingered. Simon learned that Allie’s laugh- or at least the version of it she did around others- sounded like wind chimes, light and musical. His deadened heart fluttered as she caught his eye. She looked away quickly, but that didn’t stop the blush from blooming on his cheeks. Thank fuck they were hidden.

Somehow, they all ended up moving as a unit. Allie was sandwiched between Soap and Gaz, looking a bit caught off guard. She had ended up roped into an argument about… something. Simon wasn’t listening to the specifics. He was more so focused on staring at the way Soap placed a hand on her waist, which Allie quickly moved away. Didn’t make a fuss of it or anything. It was fascinating, really, how she didn’t say anything or act like anything was wrong, yet Johnny still looked a bit like a wounded puppy at the rejection.

“This is where I leave you.” Allie stopped in front of the gym door, extracting herself from the group. “I gotta to the medbay to help out for a bit- apparently, there’s a big group coming back from an intense mission. It was so nice to meet y’all, and I’ll see you at lunch. C’mon, Lola.” She tugged at her service dog’s leash.

Simon had to plant his feet to the ground to stop himself from following.

#call of duty #cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x oc #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #the silly :3 #original character #fat oc

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vampire-rodeo · 10 months ago

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they’re all just mad at me because they can’t handle my Star Trek Science Officer uniform and khaki cargo pants

#star trek #star trek tos

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piratesfromspace · 2 years ago

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What happens in Siberia… (141xReader)

Pairing: Reader x Ghost x Soap x Price x Gaz Rated: Very Explicit Word count: 2.7k Summary: the squad celebrates your first successful mission in their own way. Note: This is just pure filth, just bring me to horny jail at this point. In the same universe as my "Rain or Shine" fic. Reader callsign is "Rain", she's bi and autistic (I am autistic myself). Inspired to finish this wip by the queen @yeyinde and her Body Electric, go read it.

Content: group sex, oral, p-i-v, praise kink, size kink, alcohol, probably some warcrimes, overall canon typical violence

MASTERLIST // PART 1 // PART 2 // <> // PART 4 // PART 5

They are at the end of the world. Far East. Miles and miles of snow and ice and the occasional patch of dark trees. It’s just the five of them: Price, Soap, Gaz, Ghost and her.

They've been hiking for days now. Camping along the way, never really leaving their heavy gear. All-white winter jackets and pants, the gray of the kevlar vests, the black of their weapons. The blizzard makes everything blur. The cold - deadlier than any heat - numbs the fingers and the senses.

They're used to the humid furnace of the jungle, the burning sun of the desert, but the freezing temperatures of Siberia are seriously undermining their mood. It was the only way to discreetly reach the compound of this Russian oligarch they need to steal intel from. The mission was simple enough : reach the damn place, eliminate everyone in a surprise attack, find the hard drive with the info in it and wait for evac. Simple. The difficult part was getting there without being killed by the cold or the beasts living in those damned icy woods. Soap swears he saw a wolf the size of a jeep. Or maybe it was a bear. Hard to tell when you have to wear a ski mask so your eyeballs don’t freeze in your skull.

When the 141 strikes, they sweep the place clean. The handful of guards don’t stand a chance against them despite the weariness of the travel. They had found an entrance in the sewer system, reached the basement and its concrete walls, but when they climbed to the higher levels of the building, they suddenly found themselves in an imitation of a luxury cabin. Warm wood, white furs thrown on sprawling beige sofas, a fireplace big enough for a child to stand in it. A chef kitchen. Half a dozen bedrooms with king size beds and ensuite bathrooms.

The place is stocked for literal orgies. Champagne and vodka and cocaine - and the drawers in the bedrooms are full of condoms and lube. The kind of place rich assholes spend their winter vacation in when they go skiing in the Alps. It fits with what they know of the owner.

Once they secure the hard drive, and make sure nobody else is alive in there, they all stagger to the living room with a palpable relief. Evac will be there in a little less than 48 hours. Two whole days in Nowhere, Siberia, with nothing else to do except rest in this 5-stars chalet after days of miserable trek in the snow.

“I really need a shower” Rain mutters, and she makes a beeline for the main suite. Ghost follows without a word. When it’s just them and the core squad they don’t bother to hide anymore. It was Rain's first field trip as not just a supply manager. Of course they had her at the back of the group when they breached the building, Ghost the first to break in as usual. She did not even have to fire a single bullet. But she went in with her gun tightly clutched in her hand and her night vision goggles on nonetheless.

They are doing shots. Tsarskaya vodka, straight from Saint Petersburg. The hot meal has been the best she had in months thanks to the freezer of the pantry being full of stupidly expensive delicacies. Price, Gaz and Ghost are sprawled across the sofa, Soap and her are sitting on the plush fur carpet. They’re all down to cargo pants and T-shirts, a blessing after days in those heavy and cumbersome jackets. She could cry at the relief of feeling something else than the wooly inside of her gloves under her fingertips. Her limbs still ache from days of fighting the cold and sleeping on the ground, but the fatigue has been somewhat dulled by the vivid memory of Simon’s tongue between her legs when he dropped to his knees during the shower she took earlier. Her back is warmed by the fireplace, her belly is full and she still feels a bit light-headed from the fight. She wants nothing more than to indulge in the playful atmosphere and the many promises of those two full days of rest with her squad.

“A toast” Price starts, raising his vodka “to Rain - for her first mission accomplished!”

“Please Captain, you make me sound like a damn rookie. I’ve been in the team for a year now. And I’m older than Soap for fuck sake!”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

The easy banter goes on, more vodka burns her throat, she bares her neck and laughs - and Ghost’s eyes narrow with a glint.

Nah, I tell you, you're still a rookie. Oh yeah? I bet you could not think of something I haven’t done that MacTavish has. Easy, you never killed. Not because you never see me do it means I didn’t do it before. (there is a silence) Let’s lighten the mood… ‘bet you never kissed a girl. Come on, I’ve had more girlfriends than you, Soap. Never had a threesome? I did once back in college. Why, you’ interested, Gaz? (it’s a joke - but also not really)

It lasts for a while until Soap grins victoriously.

“You never kissed me.” he beams, even though it doesn't really make sense for the little game they’re playing. She’s too tipsy to care.

“If that’s the only thing to shut you up.” and she leans into him, grabs his thigh for balance and just like that - she kisses him. Her tongue breaches his lips and she can taste the vodka they’re drinking and the sugar of the russian caramel they had for dessert. The kiss lasts only a couple of seconds, but Soap is glass eyed when she sits back down.

Price lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rain...” “Thank you, Captain.” “John for tonight” “Thank you, John.” she whispers, tone low and suggestive. “I’m gonna get more dessert!” she announces all of a sudden - she had always craved sugar - and she bounces to the kitchen, leaving them all a bit stunned.

Price glances at Ghost. For once, he has no clue how he will react. To his girl openly flirting with others, to his girl initiating something they won’t be able to come back from.

“She decides.” Simon’s voice is even more gravelly than usual. “You follow.” he asserts, and that’s all the instructions they will get from him. It’s clear enough though - she’s the one in charge from there, Ghost trusts them to do as she says, and he trusts her to ask for what she needs.

When she comes back, she sits down next to Soap, leans heavily on him. He brushes her hair out of her pretty face, and she looks at him with intent, daring him to continue what they started. It’s like she provides him with a pool of gasoline, and hopes for nothing more than a spark to light it all and let the fire consume them both - and by a chain reaction consume them all.

He doesn’t resist and kisses her again. She lets him. She even moans against his lips when he grabs her nape. It’s like the match has been cracked, it’s too late now. No coming back from that. The flames are already spreading. Gaz falls on his knees behind her, strong hands on her waist, his mouth against her earshell.

“Is this okay? ‘This what you want?” She breaks the kiss just enough time to answer a breathy yes.

The rest is a blur. Someone removes her T-shirt, lays her down on the fur. Expensive vodka poured into the divot of her navel.

“It’s cold!” she protests with a laugh until Gaz laps the alcohol from her skin with a gaze so sinful it warms her right up.

Ghost is right there by her head, a hand spanning her neck, holding her jaw. Through his mask, he whispers sweet praises to her, walking her through it. Soap is playing with her tits, teeth grazing the gentle curve of her breast before his latches on one of the tender buds. Gaz is laying on his belly, tongue buried in her cunt. She’s still sensitive from what Ghost did just before during their shower, but Gaz is different in his approach, he takes his time, goes slow, licks her clit like they’ve got all night (they have).

He sinks one finger into her then a second. “Fuck she’s tight.” He exhales against her folds, half-wonder, half-worry. “Let me do it.” It’s Price - he’s been hovering around them all, carefully observing, waiting for the right time to step in. It’s not that easy for him, he’s their Captain, even though he had the intuition to forbid her to use his title earlier. But if they’re going to do this, he wants to do it right - right by her. He won’t let her be hurt on the battlefield, no reason to stop caring for her now.

He takes Gaz's place between her legs.

“Open your mouth for me darling.” he croons and he coats two of his fingers with her saliva, presses on her tongue and rewards her with a good girl when she licks at the rough pad of his fingers. Price sinks into her cunt again, gently fucks her with two fingers, scissors her open with an infinite patience. Gaz pets at her clit, circles slow and wide, not enough for her to come, but definitely enough to make her forget the burn of the stretching process.

They take turns making her shatter to pieces only to carefully rebuild her after. Soap takes her in long lazy strokes, before guiding her lips on his cock and she can taste herself on him - it’s enough to make her whimper around his flesh. Price maneuvers her on her hands and knees, grips her hips with large hands, fucks her in powerful thrusts and drown her in praises.

You’re so fucking pretty like this You tell me if it’s too much Fucking hell, you feel so good

She keens and laughs as she comes for the third time of the night. It’s a lot but they don’t stop, not as long as she welcomes them. Not as long as the embers of her desire are still shining gold. Gaz has her ride him on the couch, Ghost holding her waist to help her get up when her legs become too shaky. They work as one, just like they did hours before. They take care of each other in so many ways, it was just a matter of time before such a night would happen.

Ghost is finally shedding the last of his gear - he’s naked except for the mask. The flames of the fireplace frame his devilish figure with an unnatural glow - an Angel of Death, covered in so many scars he looks like he’s been to Hell and back a few times. Muscles rippling fat and strong under his skin, light trails of blond hair leading down to his leaking cock. Rain is not the only one to stare, but she’s the only one he sees, and when she pleads his name, he drapes his body over hers.

One of them has brought back lube from one of the bedrooms. Simon coats his length in the shiny liquid before burying to the hilt into her cunt. Despite the fair share of preparation, she’s still panting at the sudden pressure. Her little pained whimper has them suddenly on high alert. But Simon is handling her with the confidence she can take it, he offers shallow trusts and reassuring words until the burn of the stretch turns into blistering pleasure.

He brings her legs on his shoulders, his arms the size of her thighs, and if she already appeared small compared to the rest of them, Ghost is dwarfing her. Soap is mesmerized by it, how Simon’s dick fits inside her despite the absurd size difference. Ghost moves again and the change in position has him hit that spongy spot hidden just behind the bone of her pelvis that makes her moan and whimper. Johnny had already dreamed about it, imagined it, heard it from the other side of a door, but actually seeing her lips part around cries of pleasure under his lieutenant, it makes his cheeks burn even more than when he was the one hitting the end of her soft cunt.

He’s taken out of his trance by Rain’s pleading voice. Please Johnny she begs - and she begs so pretty he would do anything she asks him - and she catches his hand and brings it just where Ghost and her are connected. When he presses on her clit, she arches off the sofa, and when he keeps rubbing in time with Simon’s thrusts, she comes so hard she drenches his whole hand.

There is a pause in the non-stop sex, someone presses a glass of water to her lips, another digs his fingers into the muscles of her back. She closes her eyes and sighs in contentment, lulled by the soft crackling of the fire and the satisfied groans of her lovers. She thinks they’re all sated, but it’s her Captain - no, it’s John - that cups her cheek and asks oh so gently will you have me again, sweet thing?

How can she say no when he talks to her like this? She’s raw between her legs, delicate flesh all swollen and still wet, and she will regret it tomorrow - will she?. She nods, and he moves her back down on the pile of throws. His rough hand on her delicate neck, he feels the warm pulse of her life - he has her life between his hands everyday, tonight is just more literal. What did he think would happen back when she appeared on base for the first time?

Despite everything, she had survived her first few months with them, had embedded herself so far in their team, she is impossible to remove now. The men foolish enough to try would have to step through their fire. It was inevitable, actually. The squad swore to do anything to protect each other, and it’s even more obvious with her. One could mistake it for machismo, the reality is they do their best to understand what it’s like for her to live in this world made of ongoing threats - coming not only from their enemies but also from the other soldiers they sometimes share their missions with. The revelation that she had killed before - before them - is no real surprise for Price. He’ll ask her more, maybe, when the time is right. When the place they’re in will be no more than ashes and smoke, white and gray and covered in fresh snow.

When they are done, nerves raw and skin too sensitive to the touch, it’s her captain who carries her under the shower, letting the water soothe the last of their fever. Once he’s sure she can still walk, he reluctantly lets her go. She needs to be alone, needs to reset away from their eyes. You alright sweetheart? Was it too much? - Price is suddenly anxious, the pungent bile of doubt pooling under his tongue. Her temples burn, she’s a bit ashamed of what she’s about to say but here in a place that no one knows about and that will vanish from the surface of the earth, she feels like she can admit it, that her secret will be safe, thrown out in the blind blizzard of Siberia. It was perfect.

She steals the largest T-shirt discarded in the living room - Simon’s - before crashing into one of the beds. Ghost materializes by her side, like a cryptid she can’t quite get rid of even if she wanted to. He glues himself to her back. Check-ins and praises whispered in the icy black of the night.

Fucking hell, you were so -so good. Are you okay pet? Didn’t know you had this in you.

She finally falls asleep just as the foggy glow of dawn starts creeping up the dark sky. They still have one whole day and one whole night before packing up and dowsing the place in gasoline, before cracking a match and watching it burn. They’ll make the most of it.

NEXT PART

#ghost x reader #soap x reader x ghost #soap x reader #soap x you #price x reader #price x you #gaz x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #141 x reader #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfic #141 fanfic #task force 141 #soap x ghost

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military1st · 8 months ago

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Pentagon Ranger 2.0 Pants

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inthefairygrove · 2 years ago

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Morning rain and maroon hoodies

Worst Wednesday ever. First, you woke up late, rushing to get ready and almost forgetting your lunch. Then you run in the rain to the bus stop only to find out that you missed the bus. However you still have to go to school so you start your hike to school. Lucky one of your friends, Chan, was also running late and drove past, stopping to pick you up.

"Y/n it's raining outside! Why are you walking to school in the rain? You could catch a cold." He turns up the car's heater and digs in his gym bag for a towel. He hands one to you and you gratefully take it, drying off your drenched hair and lamenting about your now wet shirt. You both reach the school and rush inside to avoid looking like a drowned rat, meeting your friends at Minho's locker.

"Woah Y/n you're soaked! Did you walk here?" Minho spots you first, standing with Seungmin and Changbin, holding a bag of rice rolls.

"Ah, I missed the bus. I started to walk but Channie was running late and was able to give me a ride." You laugh awkwardly and try to wring out your shirt.

"You should get changed before you catch a cold Y/n. I think I have an extra gym shirt you can borrow." Changbin cuts in, digging through his bag before being interrupted by Seungmin.

"No need hyung. They can just wear my hoodie instead." He turns to a confused Minho and holds out his bag expectantly. Then he pulls his hoodie over his head, the action causing his shirt to ride up and show a sliver of his stomach before he fixes his shirt. You tune out what the boys are saying as you trace his features. His dirty shoes, baggy cargo pants, a worn oversized graphic shirt. His hair ruffled from pulling off the very hoodie that he was holding out to you. Meeting his eyes you can tell that he's pleading for you to take it.

" Just give me a minute guys." You huff and grab the sweatshirt, heading to the nearest bathroom to change. Pulling off your wet shirt you let the cozy maroon fabric of his hoodie engulf you. His cologne mixes with the scent of your shampoo, melting together to create a smokey floral aroma. The fabric settles over your cold body, ending at your thighs with the sleeves pushed up so you can use your hands. Grabbing your discarded wet shirt from the floor, you exit the bathroom to meet your friends again, this time at your own locker. Jeongin has arrived and joined the group since you last left, snacking on some of the rolls Minho brought for everyone. Between holding your wet shirt and struggling to keep your bag on your shoulder you are having trouble opening your locker. So, with a gentle hand to your shoulder Seungmin moves you to the side with a quiet 'I got this. Let me help.' He unlocks your locker with practiced ease and unloads the various books crammed into the torn tote bag. Jeongin hands you a plastic bag to slip your shirt in. You are left standing in between Seungmin, who has stolen your bag, and Minho, who is shoving food into your hands with a stern 'Eat.' You begrudgingly start to eat your rice roll and turn your attention back to Seungmin, who has since finished swapping out your books and is now standing at your side with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You offer him a bite of your rice roll which he accepts, leaning down to eat out of your hands, nose brushing against your hand.

"I would've held it up for you, ya know." You huff, taking another bite of the savory roll. The group begins their daily trek to class, splitting off as they head to their individual classes. Seungmin walks with you to class, comfortable silence washing over the two of you. The silence only breaks when you reach his first class of the day.

"I'll see you at lunch Minnie." you state, already starting to walk to your own class.

" I forgot to tell you something earlier." He calls out to you, you turn back towards him confused.

"What's up?" Tilting your head you look up at him, wondering what's making him so fidgety. He messes with his bag strap as he looks down at you fondly.

" You look good in my clothes."

#seungmin x reader #skz x reader #kim seungmin #kim seungmin x reader #stray kids x gender neutral reader #stray kids #stray kids x reader #high school au #skz #seungmin fic #seungmin fluff #seungmin x you

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o-craven-canto · 11 months ago

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Words borrowed from other languages in English

Very incomplete list, based mostly on The Languages of the World (3rd ed.), Kenneth Katzner, 2002 + a heavy use of Wiktionary. some notes:

Many of these words have passed through multiple languages on their way to English (e.g. Persian -> Arabic -> Spanish -> French -> English); in that case I usually list them under the first language that used them with the same meaning as English.

I generally don't include words whose ancestors already existed in Middle English, unless their origin was exotic enough to be interesting.

The vast majority of borrowings are terms very specific to their culture of origin; I generally only include those that are either well known among English-speakers, or of general use outside that culture. As always, this is largely subjective.

INDO-EUROPEAN FAMILY (West and South Eurasia)

Hellenic

Greek: angel, chronometer, democracy, encyclopedia, geography, graphic, hieroglyphic, homogeneous, hydraulic, kudos, meter, microphone, microscope, monarchy, philosophy, phobia, photography, telephone, telescope, thermometer, and way too many other scientific or technical terms to count

Germanic

Afrikaans: aardvark, apartheid, fynbos, rooibos, springbok, trek, veld, wildebeest

Danish: Lego, simper

Dutch: brandy, bumpkin, coleslaw, cookie, deck, dock, dollar, freight, furlough, hodgepodge, landscape, maelstrom, noodle, Santa Claus, waffle, walrus, yacht

German: aurochs, bildungsroman, blitzkrieg, cobalt, dachsund, eigenvector, ersatz, gestalt, glockenspiel, hamburger, hinterland, kindergarten, kohlrabi, lager, poodle, quark, sauerkraut, wanderlust, yodel, zeitgeist

Icelandic: eider, geyser

Norwegian: auk, fjord, krill, lemming, narwhal, slalom, troll

Swedish: lek, mink, ombudsman, rutabaga, smorgasbord, tungsten

Yiddish: bupkis, chutzpah, kvetch, putz, schlemiel, schmaltz, schmooze, schtick, spiel, tchotchke

Slavic

Czech: robot

Russian: fedora, glasnost, intelligentsia, kefir, mammoth, pogrom, samizdat, steppe, sputnik, troika, tsar, vodka

Serbo-Croat: cravat, paprika

Celtic [many of these words are shared between the two languages]

Irish: bog, galore, gaol, geas, glen, orrery, shamrock, slob, whiskey

Scottish Gaelic: bard, bunny, cairn, clan, loch, ptarmigan, ?scone, slogan

Italic-Romance

†Latin: way too many, but ignoring the ones that were already naturalized in Middle English: a priori, arcane, algae, alumni, artificial, calculus, cancer, carnivore, cavity, circa, confide, dire, federal, flammable, homicide, interregnum, larva, lemur, magnanimity, manuscript, millipede, nebula, nimbus, nocturnal, octave, optimal, postmortem, senile, supernova, urban, verbatim, and countless medical or legal terms

French: the bulk of French (or rather Norman) borrowings occurred before Middle English, but to stick to my rules: aubergine, bourgeois, buttress, camouflage, capitalism, caramel, chassis, chauvinism, cheque, collage, elite, embassy, ennui, espionage, etiquette, facade, fondue, gouache, guillotine, infantry, lingerie, mauve, mayonnaise, mollusk, Renaissance, reservoir, sabotage, souvenir, turquoise...

Italian: allegro, aria, balcony, bandit, bravo, calamari, casino, cello, chiaroscuro, crescendo, contraband, contrapposto, fresco, gazette, ghetto, gusto, inferno, lagoon, lava, mafia, malaria, pants, quarantine, tempo, umbrella, vendetta, volcano

Portuguese: baroque, brocade, cachalot, cobra, creole, flamingo, petunia, pimento, zebra

Spanish: abalone, armadillo, bolas, bonanza, canyon, cargo, chupacabra, cigar, cilantro, embargo, gaucho, guerrilla, junta, manta, mesa, mosquito, mustang, patio, pueblo, rodeo, siesta, tornado, vanilla

Iranian

Persian: bazaar, caravan, checkmate, chess, crimson, dervish, divan, jackal, jasmine, khaki, kiosk, lemon, lilac, musk, orange, pajama, paradise, satrap, shawl, taffeta

Indo-Aryan

†Sanskrit: brahmin, Buddha, chakra, guru, karma, mantra, opal, swastika, yoga

Bengali: dinghy, jute, nabob

Hindi: bandana, bungalow, cheetah, chintz, chutney, coolie, cot, dungaree, juggernaut, lacquer, loot, rajah, pundit, shampoo, tom-tom, thug, veranda

Marathi: mongoose

Romani: hanky-panky, pal, shiv

Sinhalese: anaconda, beriberi, serendipity, tourmaline

DRAVIDIAN FAMILY (Southern India)

Kannada: bamboo

Malayalam: atoll, calico, copra, jackfruit, mahogany, mango, pagoda, teak

Tamil: curry, mulligatawny, pariah

Telugu: bandicoot

URALIC FAMILY (Northern Eurasia)

Finnic

Finnish: sauna

Saami: tundra

Samoyedic

Nenets: parka

Ugric

Hungarian: biro, coach, goulash, hussar, puszta, tokay

VASCONIC FAMILY (Northern Pirenees)

Basque: chaparral, chimichurri, silhouette

TURKIC FAMILY (Central and Northern Eurasia)

†Old Turkic: cossack, yurt

Tatar: ?stramonium

Turkish: baklava, balaclava, bergamot, caftan, caviar, harem, janissary, kebab, kismet, minaret, pastrami, sherbet, tulip, yoghurt

Yakut: taiga

MONGOLIC FAMILY (Mongolia and surrounding areas)

Mongol: horde, khan, ?valerian

SINO-TIBETAN FAMILY (China and Southeast Asia)

Tibeto-Burman

Burmese: ?marzipan

Tibetan: lama, panda, tulpa, yak, yeti

Sinitic [Chinese languages closely related, not always clear from which a borrowing comes]

Hokkien: ?ketchup, sampan, tea

Mandarin: chi, dazibao, gung-ho, kaolin, oolong, shaolin, shanghai, tao, yin-yang

Min Nan: nunchaku

Yue (Cantonese): chop suey, dim sum, kowtow, kumquat, lychee, shar-pei, ?typhoon, wok

TUNGUSIC FAMILY (Eastern Siberia)

Evenki: pika, shaman

KOREANIC FAMILY (Koreas)

Korean: bulgogi, chaebol, hantavirus, kimchi, mukbang, taekwondo

JAPONIC FAMILY (Japan)

Japanese: banzai, bonsai, dojo, emoji, geisha, ginkgo, hikikomori, honcho, ikebana, kamikaze, karaoke, koi, kudzu, manga, origami, pachinko, rickshaw, sake, samurai, sensei, soy, sushi, tofu, tsunami, tycoon, zen

KRA-DAI FAMILY (mainland Southeast Asia)

Thai: bong, pad thai

AUSTROASIATIC FAMILY (mainland Southeast Asia)

Vietnamese: pho, saola, Vietcong

AUSTRONESIAN FAMILY (maritime Southeast Asia and Oceania)

Western Malayan

Javanese: ?junk [ship]

Malay: amok, camphor, cockatoo, compound [building], cootie, durian, kapok, orangutan, paddy, pangolin, rattan, sarong

Barito

Malagasy: raffia

Phlippinic

Cebuano: dugong

Ilocano: yo-yo

Tagalog: boondocks

Oceanic

Hawai'ian: aloha, hula, luau, poi, wiki

Maori: kauri, kiwi, mana, weta

Marshallese: bikini

Tahitian: pareo, tattoo

Tongan: taboo

TRANS-NEW GUINEAN FAMILY (New Guinea)

Fore: kuru

PAMA-NYUNGAN FAMILY (Australia)

Dharug: boomerang, corroboree, dingo, koala, wallaby, wobbegong, wombat, woomera

Guugu Yimithirr: kangaroo, quoll

Nyungar: dunnart, gidgee, quokka

Pitjantjatjara: Uluru

Wathaurong: bunyip

Wiradjuri: kookaburra

Yagara: dilly bag

AFRO-ASIATIC FAMILY (North Africa and Near East)

Coptic: adobe

Berber

Tachelhit: argan

Semitic

†Punic: Africa

Arabic: albatross, alchemy, alcohol, alcove, alfalfa, algebra, alkali, amber, arsenal, artichoke, assassin, candy, coffee, cotton, elixir, gazebo, gazelle, ghoul, giraffe, hashish, harem, magazine, mattress, monsoon, sofa, sugar, sultan, syrup, tabby, tariff, zenith, zero

Hebrew: amen, behemoth, cabal, cherub, hallelujah, kibbutz, kosher, manna, myrrh, rabbi, sabbath, Satan, seraph, shibboleth

NIGER-CONGO FAMILY (Subsaharan Africa)

unknown: cola, gorilla, tango

Senegambian

Wolof: banana, fonio, ?hip, ?jigger [parasite], karite, ?jive, yam

Gur-Adamawa

Ngbandi: Ebola

Kwa

Ewe: voodoo

Volta-Niger

Igbo: okra

Yoruba: gelee [headgear], mambo, oba, orisha

Cross River

Ibibio: calypso

Bantu

Lingala: basenji

Kikongo: ?chimpanzee, ?macaque, ?zombie

Kimbundu: ?banjo, Candomblé, gumbo, macumba, tanga

Swahili: askari, Jenga, kwanzaa, safari

Xhosa: Ubuntu

Zulu: impala, mamba, vuvuzela

KHOE-KWADI FAMILY (Southwest Africa)

Khoekhoe (Hottentot): gnu, kudu, quagga

ESKIMO-ALEUT FAMILY (Arctic America)

Greenlandic Inuit: igloo, kayak

Inuktikut: nunatak

ALGIC FAMILY (Eastern Canada and northeast USA)

†Proto-Algonquin: moccasin, opossum, skunk

Cree: muskeg, pemmican

Mikmaq: caribou, toboggan

Montagnais: husky

Narragansett: ?moose, ?powwow, sachem

Ojibwe: chipmunk, totem, wendigo, woodchuck

Powhatan: persimmon, raccoon

SALISHAN FAMILY (Pacific coast at the USA-Canada border)

Chehalis: chinook

Halkomelem: sasquatch

Lushootseed: geoduck

IROQUOIAN FAMILY (Eastern North America)

Cherokee: sequoia

SIOUAN FAMILY (Central USA)

Lakota: teepee

MUSKOGEAN FAMILY (Southeast USA)

Choctaw: bayou

UTO-AZTECAN FAMILY (Southwest USA and north Mexico)

Nahuatl: atlatl, avocado, chili, cocoa, coyote, chocolate, guacamole, hoazin, mesquite, ocelot, quetzal, tamale, tegu, tomato

O'odham (Pima): jojoba

Shoshone: chuckwalla

Yaqui: ?saguaro

MAYAN FAMILY (Southern Mexico and Guatemala)

Yucatec Maya: cenote, Chicxulub

ARAWAKAN FAMILY (Caribbeans and South America)

†Taino: barbecue, cannibal, canoe, cassava, cay, guava, hammock, hurricane, iguana, maize, manatee, mangrove, maroon, potato, savanna, tobacco

Arawak: papaya

CARIBAN FAMILY (Caribbean coast of South America)

unknown: curare

Galibi Carib: caiman, chigger, pawpaw, peccary, yucca

QUECHUAN FAMILY (Andes)

Quechua: ?Andes, caoutchouc, coca, condor, guano, jerky, llama, mate, poncho, puma, quinine, vicuna

AYMARAN FAMILY (Andes)

Aymara: alpaca, chinchilla

TUPIAN FAMILY (Brazil)

[borrowings are often shared between these two languages]

†Old Tupi: ananas, arowana, Cayenne [pepper], jaguar, manioc, piranha, tapioca

Guarani: cougar, maracuja, Paraguay, petunia, toucan

CREOLE LANGUAGES (worldwide, mixed origin)

English-derived

Chinese Pidgin English: chopstick, long time no see, pidgin, taipan

Jamaican Creole: dreadlocks, reggae

Chinook-derived

Chinook Jargon: potlatch

EDIT 08-01-24: added lots more examples, especially African, Asian, and North American languages. Still not done. EDIT 17-01-24: finished adding examples, more or less. EDIT: 18-02-24: apparently not (cheetah). EDIT: 20-05-24: nope (mosquito); 30-06-24: jerky, mukbang, cello, glockenspiel, hodgepodge; 06-06-25: marzipan, lagoon, contraband, artichoke EDIT 02-11-24: finally expanded the French and Latin points. Also, added kudos, camphor, moose, and the Thai and Vietnamese sections.

#languages #history #how beauteous mankind is #feel free to add more

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atinylittlepain · 9 months ago

Text

Mr and Mrs Mountain: In Conversation with Steve and Jo Harrington

(National Geographic, 1993)

I sit down with the Harringtons on a sunny day in December in the living room of their Boulder Colorado home. They’ve just moved in, and they apologize for the few stray boxes still littering the dark wood floors.

“We’re not used to having all this space,” admits Steve Harrington, going on to describe how he and his wife spent most of the last three years living in sublets, tents, and the errant hostel, jumping from Boulder, where they’ve decided to call home, to various parts of the world for an awe-inspiring roster of expeditions. But their most frequently-visited location is Everest, of course.

“We leave around mid-March and can usually expect to be back in June. It’s become a pretty well-oiled machine by now.” What Harrington is referring to is their expedition outfit, Summit Trek, that has been in business since 1991. It’s 1993 when I sit down with the Harringtons, and they’re confirming their client list for an Everest expedition… in 1996. The next three years have already been all booked up. Why, you ask, does this young yet affable couple have a veritable waitlist to join their outfit? It’s simple, they’ve never lost a single client on any of their ascents, a rare feat for repeat Everest expedition guides.

“We really take a lot of pride in the safety of our trips. There’s more and more outfits every year that are willing to take clients up Everest, but it’s always been the getting back down that’s the tricky part,” says Jo Harrington, sitting on the arm of their worn leather couch, her arm draped loosely over her husband’s shoulders. She carries herself with a great deal more poise than her twenty-six years may allow her, a sort of wry steel to the way she speaks, chin tilted down, daunting and demure at the same time, as if Catherine Hepburn and Clint Eastwood had a lovechild with a particular athletic prowess. She wears her hair in two short braids, flyaways framing sharp eyes and dark brows. In a pair of rumpled khaki cargo pants and a thermal with the patagonia logo stitched into the chest (she has been sponsored by the brand for four years now), there is still a strange elegance to her, carried in quick hand gestures and a permanently rasped voice. First brought into the climbing world’s consciousness at the age of sixteen for taking home gold in the 1983 Climbing National Championships in her age division, Harrington, nee Taylor, would go on to rack up an impressive resume of climbs. She currently has conquered five of the seven continental summits, and still holds the women’s speed record for climbing El Cap.

“I’m going for Steve’s record the next time I get out to Yosemite,” quips Jo while her husband grins up at her. He currently holds the men’s speed record on El Cap.

Indeed, the Harringtons have become darlings of the climbing world, meeting in 1990 on both of their first ascents of Everest, and falling into a whirlwind relationship that would see them going into business together within the year as co-guides of their very own expedition outfit.

“I just wouldn’t leave her alone, basically. Asked her where she was going after Katmandhu and she said Boulder, and I said alright, I’m going to follow this woman wherever she leads me.”

“He was easy to be around. To climb with, to talk with, to suffer with. I knew that I could trust him as my partner from the start.” And that trust Jo speaks to seems to be the secret ingredient to what has made their outfit so successful.

“For an ascent to go as well as it can, there has to be almost seamless communication between guides. There can’t be any doubt that you have each other’s backs, that you’re going to do your job to the best of your ability because that’s the level of care and respect you have for each other,” says Steve, tucking a long brown lock of hair behind his ear. He is the picture of a dirtbag, reformed (his words), with his long hair and single silver hoop in his ear, a perpetual tan to his skin from all the years spent out in the weather, a ruggedly bright smile and dark eyes that crinkle knowingly as he speaks. He plays with the wedding band on his left ring finger, spinning it around as he talks with a quiet confidence. Harrington rose up in the climbing world through a sort of scrappy perseverance, spending his teen years hoofing it around the United States and climbing whatever he could get his hands on as fast as he could. Besides El Cap, he currently holds the speed record for the Moose’s Tooth in Alaska, as well as for Kings Peak in Utah. These days, he’s less interested in speed than he is in altitude.

“There’s no going fast on something like Everest, not if you want to come back down in one piece.” Jo nods at her husband’s words, and it is clear that this couple holds a deep respect for the mountain they summit every year, with a group of nine people that pay them to lead them to the peak. It would seem this respect is also part of what has brought them so much success as expedition guides, with Outside Magazine declaring Summit Trek as the “premier” Everest outfit for climbers who want the best of the best experience on the mountain. The going rate for an individual to join one of their expeditions certainly reflects this reputation. Excluding airfare and personal equipment, it will run you $75,000 to join a Summit Trek expedition. For context, this is almost double what most outfits charge, and $10,000 more than what Adventure Consultants, one of the other more reputable outfits, ask. When asked about this price point, Jo smiles.

“We understand that it’s a steep price we’re asking, but it reflects the quality of the experience we provide. People also have to understand that a good portion of that money is put right back into the business for permits and equipment. You get what you pay for, and when it comes to something like Everest, I’d like to think people are willing to pay more in order to get more out of the experience.” Her argument certainly seems to stand. Currently, with the additional help of infamous climber Eddie Munson as their other co-guide, respected mountaineer Robin Buckley running base camp communication, and climber-turned-physician Nancy Wheeler, the Summit Trek team has successfully taken 27 people to the Everest summit and brought them back down safely, with plans to take another 27 up in the next three years.

I asked the couple, who have now been married for just shy of a year, what it’s been like working together in such a dangerous context. They both seem to find this question amusing, sharing a quick

glance between them before Jo answers the question.

“I know I wouldn’t do this work with anyone else. We’re partners in every sense of the word and I love getting to do this work with my best friend.” Steve rests a hand on her knee, nodding and adding his own thoughts.

“Yes, it’s dangerous, but we’re a particular kind of people that seek out that kind of danger. We get to see and do crazy things together, it’s amazing. I think we’re very lucky to get to do this.”

My last question for the seemingly invincible couple, do they see themselves slowing down any time soon? Jo laughs.

“Well, you can only go up that mountain so many times before it takes its pound of flesh from you. We’re certainly not going to do this forever, and I think we’re definitely starting to think about putting down more roots for the future. But for now, we really love the work we do.”

...

series masterlist

#steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #steve harrington au #steve harrington story #honey baby love you be home soon #is this insane behavior?#yes #blame it on the new wellbutrin prx idk

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