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brainrotandbedrot · 1 month ago

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this is one of my favorite fics i’ve ever read

hopefully ‘mega’s in her healing era?? HOPEFULLY????

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 52: The Rucking Princess

Summary: Events lead to a hard decision having to be made, but in the end it might be good for everyone.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,129 words

Warnings: Alpha/beta/omega dynamics, a/b/o, alternate universe, military inaccuracies, angst, nightmares, PTSD, emotions, panic attacks, language

A/N: This one beat me up and stole my lunch money. Not entirely happy with it but enjoy!

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It’s too hot.

Sweat is sticking your sleep shirt to your skin, dampening the fabric uncomfortably. You’re squished up against Simon, Johnny’s back against yours. You’re not quite sure when you moved across the nest...or how for that matter. All you know is you’re too hot.

It’s suffocating in the room and for a moment you consider cracking the window just to get some air flow. That would leave things too open, too vulnerable though, so instead you suffer, laying there against Simon’s chest. You reach across Simon, grabbing his phone to check the time. Two in the morning. The cascade of alarms will start in a couple hours. You wonder if you’ll get a chance to lay in bed again this morning, or if John will decide today is a good day to hit the gym in the morning.

You actually managed to sleep a bit, judging from your migration from one end of the nest to the other. You won’t get back to sleep with the heat, though. You’re too awake, too aware of how warm it is in the room. Stifling, sweaty. You need freedom.

You wiggle your way out from between Simon and Johnny, Simon rolling onto his side in your absence, his arm stretching out to brush against Johnny’s back. For a moment you worry he might wake up from your movement. He’s quiet for a moment before he starts to snore again, the pillow shoved in his face muffling it a bit.

You sit back on your knees, tugging your damp shirt over your head. Gross, you think as you drop it onto the floor. You climb back into the nest into the empty space between Kyle and Johnny. They’ll migrate to you before they wake, but at least this way you won’t be so hot when they inevitably do.

You lay on your back, stretching your arms up overhead to try and cool off your body as much as possible. You stare up at the ceiling, tracing the shapes outlined from the nightlight on the floor next to the bed. Despite the thoughts racing in your head, your eyes begin to flutter shut, sleep starting to seep into your brain.

You’re jolted awake when an alarm goes off. Bodies move, quiet groans filling the room. It’s only one alarm this time, one coming from behind you. An arm peels itself off of your side, stretching up and over your head. You’ve cooled off significantly sans shirt, the blanket shoved down to your waist.

A body moves in the semi-darkness, John you think, and heads for the door. “Light.” He says seconds before the overhead light turns on. You bury your face in your pillow, groaning with the others at the sudden brightness.

The bed shifts in front of you, warm hands touching your skin. “Fucking hell yeah.” Johnny says, his voice rough with sleep. His hands have cupped your breasts, squishing them together. “I’d wake up at 5 every mornin’ if it meant I’d get bare tits in my face.”

You push against his shoulder, rolling yourself over onto your stomach. “Leave me alone.” Your voice comes out muffled thanks to the pillow you’ve burrowed yourself into.

“Up and at ‘em, muppets.” John says, moving behind you. A foot nudges yours. “You too princess.”

You groan, but refuse to move. The one morning you actually feel like sleeping and he’s trying to drag you out of bed. What happened to Mr. I’ll Do It Later? Where is he this morning?

The mattresses shift on either side of you, Johnny and Kyle rising from the nest. You groan again as your foot is nudged a second time, begrudgingly pushing yourself up to sit. The blanket pools around your waist, your hair in your face as you sit there, squinting in the bright light.

“C’mon princess.” John says, squatting down beside you. He drops a pair of cargo pants and a t-shirt in your lap. “No sleeping in today?”

“Why?” You whine, still sitting there. You can’t quite bring yourself to move yet.

“Long day ahead of us.” John says, digging through his dresser. “Got a lot of ground to cover.”

You don’t put much thought into his words, pouting but relenting. You push yourself up to stand, standing there in nothing but your panties. You barely remember owning the cargo pants. You’ve only worn them a handful of times, and you seem to remember them being in your own closet the last time you saw them. When had John grabbed them? Why had he grabbed them?

John pauses as he closes the dresser drawer, staring at you. You turn your head to stare back, your brows pulling into a frown. “What?”

“Nothing.” He smiles, stepping closer to you. “Just admiring the view.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before stepping over the nest to the bathroom.

A small smile tugs at your lips at the compliment. Still a charmer even at ass-o’clock in the morning.

You pull on the clothes, the t-shirt a plain black cotton shirt you also don’t remember owning. Granted, the last time you were here, you wore primarily stolen shirts from the members of your pack. They were more comfortable, and more comforting.

John leaves the bathroom, stepping back over the nest. He pauses to press another kiss to your forehead, his hand cupping your cheek. “Wear good socks.” He says before releasing you, heading out of the room.

You stand there for a moment, thinking over his words before shrugging, heading into the bathroom. You brush your teeth and wash your face, pulling your hair up before heading back out to the room. The barracks are quiet as you step over the nest, finding your boots waiting in the doorway. You slip them on and tie them before straightening up, looking down the hallway. It’s eerily still and quiet, your heart starting to thump hard in your chest. They wouldn’t leave you alone. They wouldn’t, even if it was just for a short while.

You step out into the hallway, moving slowly and quietly, almost as if something might jump out at any moment. Kyle’s door is open, the light on inside. You tiptoe towards it, eyes flickering between the doorway and down the hall, as if something might appear before you can get there.

Kyle’s sitting on his bed, lacing up his boots. He’s dressed similarly to you, cargo pants and a black shirt.

“Hi, love.” he says, glancing up at you before he finishes lacing his boots. He pushes himself up to stand, wiggling on his feet to ensure his shoes are tied just right.

“What are we doing?” You ask, picking up that something is going on.

“We’re rucking today.” He says, grabbing a very full looking backpack from his bed before approaching you.

“Rucking?” You frown, stepping back as he turns off his light.

“Nothing too serious.” He says, closing his door. “John wouldn’t drag you along a 20 kilometer hike.”

You haven’t quite mastered converting miles to kilometers, but that doesn’t sound fun either way. “Have you hiked that far before?” You ask, following him down the hallway.

“Further.” He says. “Out in the field you can go for a long time on your feet through forests, jungles, deserts.”

“Doesn’t sound very fun.” You say. “Can imagine it gets boring.”

“Sometimes.” He says. “Usually you’re so focused though that time flies.”

“Are you going to miss it? When you retire?” You ask, pausing with him at the door outside.

“I think there’s a part of me that will.” He says after a moment. “There will always be a part of me here in the military. I won’t regret it, though, if that’s what you’re worried about. I want to be there for you and John. Career soldiers don’t always adjust well.”

You’ve already thought about that. It’s going to be hard for John, and you’re not sure you’re prepared to give him what he’s going to need.

“Come on.” Kyle puts a hand on your back, steering you out the door. John, Simon, and Johnny are outside, standing around their own giant bags.

John turns as the door opens, you and Kyle stepping out. John picks up a much smaller bag, approaching you. “We’re rucking into the hills.” He says, helping you put on the backpack. “You’ve got a bladder, food, and a first aid kit.” He does the buckles for you, making sure it’s situated properly. “Much lighter load than us.”

“Do I have to go rucking?” You whine, tugging at the straps of the backpack.

“Would you rather stay here alone?” John raises a brow.

You think on it for a split second, debating in that moment whether it would be worth it, whether you could handle it. “No.” You say quickly. Rucking is better than being alone in this nightmare place.

At least you hope so.

“Move out.” John says, taking your hand before the five of you start walking towards the entrance gate.

It starts off well. You keep pace with John easily at the head of the pack, Johnny and Kyle behind you and Simon picking up the rear. It’s your usual formation, though you’re usually somewhere in the middle, protected from all sides. There’s less threats out here, though, out in the wilderness. Well, not really wilderness. You can still see the lights of the base when you look behind you.

The world around you is green, alive and blossoming in the cool spring air. It’s still a bit cold this early in the morning, the sun just breaking the horizon. Goosebumps form on your arms, but you know later you’re going to be thankful for the cool air around you.

John leads you on a path through the trees before you reach a road. He looks both ways before leading your pack across to the other side. A hill looms ahead of you, rising high into the purple sky. You’re going to climb to the top. You can tell already.

How hard can it be?

Hard.

Your legs are burning and you’ve barely gotten uphill. You’ve slowed a bit, fading from John’s side to somewhere between Kyle and Johnny. There’s a dull ache in your feet, the boots far from comfortable but you understand why John had chosen them. Anything else and you would have given up and gone back to the barracks by now. You’ve been chugging water, trying to keep yourself hydrated and you don’t even want to think about the food in your backpack weighing you down. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. It’s not very heavy, especially not in comparison to what the guys are carrying.

The redeeming factor is you can see their own struggle. There’s beads of sweat sliding down the sides of Kyle’s neck, his own steps slow and calculated. They’re still out of shape, not quite as much as you are, but still out of shape. You wonder if John will keep making you hike, even after retirement. He’s going to want to keep himself fit even if he doesn’t have to anymore, and you assume that’s going to mean a lot of running and hiking.

There was a time when you would have enjoyed that.

Now is not that time.

As the sun starts to move from the horizon up into the sky and the day starts to warm, you continue to slow down. You’re in front of Simon now, Johnny having gotten ahead of you as you stopped for a breath. Trees have surrounded you, and you had paused to lean against one for support. You’d love to sit, but you’re not sure you’d be able to get back up.

At least you’re on a real path. You suppose you could be fording through the underbrush like you did when you hiked with Price during that training exercise not long after your arrival on base.

How long ago that feels.

How easy it had been then.

By the time John finally stops, you’re the one at the back. Simon had passed you as you stopped again, and he’s constantly looked over his shoulder as you lagged behind them. You’re breathing hard, legs starting to shake from the effort of dragging yourself up this hill. It is a hill, nothing more, but to you it might as well be Mount Everest.

You’ve broken through the trees and found a clearing. You can see the areas below, mostly farmlands and the base in the distance. You don’t spend too much time looking at the view, instead you remove your backpack before flopping down on the ground. You don’t care that you’re getting dirty and wet in the damp grass. All you care about is taking a moment to rest your aching legs.

“You broken?” John asks, coming to stand before you.

“Yes.” You groan, closing your eyes. “My feet hurt.”

“Been a while since you’ve had to walk long distance.” He says, squatting down beside you. “Take a breath.” He says, opening your backpack. “And think about what you’d like for breakfast.” He pulls ration packs out of your bag. “You can have BBQ Breakfast Beans, or Breakfast Burrito Filling.”

Breakfast beans? You mouth in dismay. You thought mushy peas were bad but the idea of beans for breakfast? Appalling. The last thing you want to do right now is eat, much less eat baked beans first thing in the morning.

“Burrito please.” You say, continuing to lay there for a moment.

John rips open the MRE, getting set on making it for you. You’re grateful for that, your omega stirring happily at the thought of your alpha taking care of you while you’re in such a state. You’re sure you could figure it out, but in this state you’d be more likely to just skip eating entirely.

John’s not about to let you go hungry. Something about that has your stomach fluttering.

You push yourself up to sit, your back damp from the grass. The others have taken seats, working on their own MRE’s. You do feel a bit like you’re out in the field with them, the serious, concentrated looks on their faces, the full packs, the clothes. The only thing missing are weapons, though you assume Simon snuck a knife in somewhere. You know he almost always carries some kind of weapon, though you don’t doubt he has the ability to make anything into a weapon.

John hands you the MRE, the smell coming up from it rather interesting. It’s not necessarily bad, but you assume you’re not about to eat a gourmet meal. You’ve heard tales about MREs and how famously bland and plain they are. You can’t imagine living for days off of them.

If it wasn’t for your need for fuel you might not have eaten at all. The first bite takes a while to go down, the food chewy yet somehow dry. It tastes like cardboard with a hint of seasoning. The others eat without any problem while you attempt to look past the taste and texture of your “breakfast burrito filling.” What you wouldn’t give for a real breakfast burrito right now.

“Now I get why you don’t mind the mess food.” You say, dreading another bite but you’ve started to feel the pangs of hunger after your long walk.

“It’s not bad once you get used to it.” Johnny says with a mouthful of food.

“I’d rather not have to, thanks.” You say, taking another bite.

“Spoiled rotten, that one.” Kyle says playfully.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got used to home cooked meals.” You pout.

“We all did, princess.” John says. You’re not sure where this new nickname came from, except perhaps that you are a spoiled princess. You’re certainly acting like one. To be fair, though, this isn’t your life. It will never be your life. In a few weeks you’ll never have to think about it again.

John helps you put on your backpack again once the brief respite is over, despite the fact you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.

You’re prepared to turn back when John announces a forward march and starts walking further away from base. You let out a whimper, turning back to look at the direction you’d just come before staring at Simon’s back as he starts to get further away.

“Come on.” He says, turning back to look at you. “You heard him. Forward march.”

You pout, standing there dejectedly for a moment before you start moving, falling in line with the others.

You’re not sure what time it is. The sun is high in the sky, beating down on all of you as you trek along the road through farmlands. It feels like it’s been a year since you stopped for breakfast, sweat beading on your forehead and sliding down your face. Of course today had to be one of those rare hot spring days. What you wouldn’t give for a little breeze, just a little air movement to cool the sweat on your skin.

You’ve fallen behind, moving slowly at the back of the group. Simon keeps his eyes on you, turning back to check every once in a while to check that you’re still following. While just parking it on a rock and letting them disappear sounds like a great idea, at the same time you’d rather not be left alone in an unknown place on the side of the road.

So you march on, legs burning and feet throbbing.

When you’ve begun to feel like stopping and staying on the side of the road is a good idea, John finally calls the group to a stop. You don’t hesitate, shuffling off your backpack before plopping in the grass next to the road. You’re not entirely sure you’ll be able to get back up, but your feet thank you for the relief.

“I think that’s enough for today.” John says, approaching you.

“How far did we go?” You ask breathlessly, wiping your forehead.

“Roughly three kilometers.” John says.

“Three?” You stare at him in shock. “Coulda swore it was at least ten.”

“Just three.” He smiles, squatting down in front of you. “Think you can make it back.”

You stare at your own feet, your legs trembling just a bit under your pants. Can you make it back? Probably if you have to. The prospect of going back is enticing, though the idea of climbing the hill again has your toes twitching.

“Yeah.” You say unconvincingly.

“I’ve got an idea.” Johnny says, taking off his pack. He hands it off to Kyle before approaching you, holding out his hand.

You hesitate but take it, letting him pull you up to your feet far too easily. He turns around, behind down before motioning to you. It takes your heat exhausted brain a moment to realize what he’s doing.

“Are you sure?” You ask, staring at his sweaty back.

“Aye.” He says, motioning again. “Easier tae carry than the gear.”

You shrug before putting your hands on his shoulders, jumping up. He catches you easily, adjusting you as he holds you on his back. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on tightly.

“We’ll swap every so often.” Johnny says as Kyle straps his pack on his front. “One of us carries our lass, the others the bag.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You say. “I can walk.”

“We’d rather do this than listen to you whinging all the way home.” Simon says.

“I wouldn’t whinge.” You pout, but you’re secretly glad you won’t have to walk as far.

John picks up your pack, carrying it in his hand as you set off, finally heading back the way you came.

Johnny’s body is slick with sweat as he adjusts his hold on you every so often. It’s quiet among them as they walk, all of them staring to feel it, no doubt. It’s been a while since they’ve had to exert themselves like this, and you can imagine it’s a bit humbling. Months ago a six kilometer hike would have been easy. Now, you can imagine, it’s proving to be a bit exhausting. You probably could have managed a six kilometer hike a few months ago too, but now you’re certain your feet are bleeding in your shoes.

How far you’ve fallen.

Johnny is panting by the time you reach the base of the hill, his hands slipping from the backs of your knees. You slide off his back as he bends down, putting his hands on his knees as he tries to breathe.

“I’m startin’ tae think ye did this on purpose.” He grunts.

John glances at you over his bent over form, giving you a sly wink.

Of course.

They all share glances, assessing which one of them is in the best shape to pack you up the hill. You almost feel bad, almost offer to walk it yourself, but you know better than to say anything when they’re offering to carry you.

“I’ll get her up the hill.” Kyle says, passing Johnny’s pack back to him.

“No, I’ll do it.” Simon says, unclipping his pack. “I’m in better shape.”

If you hadn’t been so exhausted, you might have laughed at Kyle and Johnny’s faces. He’s not wrong. He looks the least exhausted, though he was also the one that tried the hardest to keep himself in shape during your time at the cottage. He’s still in his mask, though how he’s kept it on in the hot sun you’re not sure.

Simon passes his pack off to Kyle who puts it on his front before he bends down, motioning for you.

He’s just as sweaty as Johnny, maybe more so. It’s definitely the mask, you think, as he adjusts his grip on you before picking up the rear of the column again. He smells like sweat, musky and damp, but you’ll take it over having to walk. Especially back up the hill. Anything but the hill.

Simon keeps pace with them as he carries you, not lagging behind a bit like Johnny had. He’s still breathing hard, deep and even as your pack climbs back up the path up the hill. It’s steeper on this side, and you’re not sure you would have made it. You feel bad for putting them through this, but at the same time, it was always the plan.

Could have been 20 kilometers.

You wouldn’t have made it that far. You’d have turned back and hiked on your own back to the barracks if John had decided to push that far. You’d risk being alone in the barracks over that. You’re kind of regretting not staying back now.

John stops at the top of the hill near the place you stopped for breakfast. Lunch, he says, before you hike the rest of the way to the barracks.

The MRE isn’t bad, not as bad as breakfast had been, but still not great. You eat it though, tired after a long day of hiking and being carried. You’re going to sleep great tonight, you think. You all will.

Despite your protests, Kyle carries you down the hill. You could have made it begrudgingly, but he insisted. He didn’t want to be the odd man out and not pull his weight too. So you gladly hitch a ride back to base, even as you cross the road to take the short path back to the main gate. How long ago it seems that you crossed that same road this morning.

Kyle carries you all the way back to the barracks. You get looks as you pass groups of soldiers, but you ignore them. Of course they’re talking about you, so weak you have to be carried by a member of your pack. Of course you are, though. You’re not a soldier.

You’re a princess.

Kyle finally lets you down as you reach the door of the barracks, John pulling it open. For the first time you’re grateful for the cool air inside, sweat still sticking your shirt to your back. You feel gross and sticky from your sweat and theirs. Normally you wouldn’t mind it, but the context of being covered in their sweat is different from what it usually is. Mixing sweat while fucking is one thing, mixing sweat while being packed along a three kilometer hike back to base is something entirely different.

“Showers and then meet back here.” John says, grabbing your hand before tugging you towards his room.

He kneels down in the doorway, picking one of your feet up. You grip the door frame to stay steady as he starts to untie your boot.

“How do your feet feel?” He asks, pulling the boot off your sore foot.

“Sore.” You say, wiggling your toes.

He pulls your sock off, rubbing your foot as he checks it for blisters. “You did good.”

“Were you planning that the entire time?” You ask, switching to your other foot for him.

“I figured one of them would offer at some point.” He says, pulling off your other boot. “It’s good practice for them.”

“Have you ever had to do that?” You ask as he peels off your sock, rubbing your left foot.

“Once.” He says, letting your foot go before standing to his full height. “I don’t like leaving men behind.”

He moves past you to take his own boots and socks off. You think over his words for a moment before you start to strip, piling your sweaty clothes with his.

He takes your hand once you’re down to your underwear, pulling you towards the bathroom.

Dinner that night tastes amazing.

You never thought you’d say that about the food from the mess.

After a day of eating MREs though, you’re more than happy to see mushy globs of food. It’s amazing how much perspective can change your opinions. You don’t complain, clearing your tray as hunger gnaws at your stomach. You’re exhausted and you can feel the ache of soreness starting to blossom in your legs and feet, yet you eat contently. The guys eat well too, scarfing down as much food as they can get. No doubt they’re feeling the effects of a long hike fueled by MREs. You’re not sure how they do it regularly after this small glimpse into what their lives are like in the field.

Well, sort of.

You weren’t being shot at.

You imagine their jobs contain a lot of that too.

Good thing you weren’t added to this pack to be part of that. You’d have died so quickly.

After dinner you head back to the barracks to settle in for the evening. John and Simon retreat to their offices saying something about paperwork and research while you, Johnny, and Kyle all head to the rec room. It’s been a while since you’ve sat in the rec room with anyone. You have missed the once safe space and its clinical charm. Its uncomfortable couch and stacks of varying genres.

“Let’s play cards.” Johnny says, pulling a pack out of the stack of games.

“You’re just going to cheat.” You say with a pout. You’re tired and you know you’re not going to be as sharp as you might have been otherwise.

“Will not, just for you.” He grins. “I’ll even let you cheat.”

It’s a tempting offer.

“Fine.” You say, taking a seat at the table with them. “Only I get to cheat.”

“No promises, princess.” Johnny gives you a wink.

You play a few rounds with them, losing every one despite your attempts at cheating. They’re too good, though you suppose that comes with a lot of practice. What else can you do during your downtime out in the field and here? You never were very good at games to begin with, but playing against strategy masters it was entirely hopeless.

John arrives as you lose your fourth game with a pout.

“You boys being mean?” He asks, approaching the table.

“We’re letting her cheat and she’s still losing.” Kyle says.

“I’m not very good at this, I told you!” You say, trying to defend your honor as much as possible.

“Here,” John says, motioning for you to move.

You get out of your seat, letting him take your place. He pulls you down onto his lap, wrapping an arm around you.

“Deal another round.” He says.

Johnny and Kyle share another look before doing as he says, dealing out another round of cards. You hold your hand up, John looking over your shoulder. He plays the cards for you, not even cheating and still the two of you manage to win.

“No fair.” Kyle says. “That doesn’t count.”

“Of course it does.” John says, shifting you on his lap. “Our girl got her first win.”

“How’d ye get so good anyway?” Johnny asks, stacking the cards back in the box.

“Practice.” John says simply.

“Yeah, you’ve had a lot of time to play, huh sir.” Kyle says with a smirk.

“Careful, Sergeant.” John warns him playfully. “Hate to make you run laps tomorrow.”

Kyle gets a worried look on his face, his lips sealing shut. You’re tempted to laugh, but you’re not certain you would be safe from that threat either. Not after your little hike today.

“Come on.” He says, standing from the chair. “Bed time. Early morning again tomorrow.”

You groan, pouting again but you know there’s no changing his mind. Gone are your days of sleeping in. He’s back in Captain mode, back in the mindset of the military, even if it is temporary. There’s no taking that side out of him. Even once he retires you know he’ll always carry those mindsets. Early mornings, set routines, that knowledge that if anything ever happens it might have been preventable had he been there.

While you’re excited to leave this world behind, you also know you’re in for a struggle once that time does come. The fight is far from over.

You’re pulled out of sleep by a sound. It takes your foggy brain a moment to fully wake up, to fully become aware of what’s going on. You’ve shifted from the middle of the nest to John’s side again, tucked up against his chest. It’s hot in the room again, sweat beading on your forehead.

There’s a breath of silence where you think you were mistaken, that you were woken abruptly from a dream when you hear it.

Footsteps.

You can hear them, quiet thuds in the hallway, the creak of doors as their opened. Your eyes train on the door handle of the room. You’re not sure if its locked. Did Simon lock it when he shut the door? You want to get up and check, you want to move but you can’t, locked in place by the fear. Your heart is hammering in your chest, rising up into your throat, cutting off your air.

Someone’s in the barracks.

You reach a shaky hand out, fumbling beside you as you find John’s arm. “John?” You whisper, listening to the footsteps getting closer. You shake him, fear bubbling in your stomach, rising up into your esophagus. “John.” You say his name louder, the footsteps getting closer and closer.

He grunts, lifting his head and rubbing his eyes. “What?”

“Someone’s in the barracks.” You stumble over the words, your lips trembling from the adrenaline rushing through you.

Somehow he understands you, pushing himself up to sit. He tosses the blankets off, pushing himself up to his feet. He’s still for a moment, listening before he moves towards the door. You hold your breath, wrapping your arms around yourself. The others are stirring, sensing the disturbance.

You’re nearly hyperventilating by the time he reaches the door, his hand closing around the handle as he listens. You can’t hear much of anything besides the rush of blood in your ears. Your fingers and toes have gone numb, nails digging into the sides of your arms in panic.

John throws open the door, stepping out into the hallway. You nearly choke on your breath in fear, his body still as he stands halfway out of the room. You can’t hear anything, your ears starting to ring. You half expect him to fall back, a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead, or for someone to appear and attack him, but all he does is stand there.

He disappears from view, closing the door behind him. Your heart is thudding in your chest almost painfully as you wait for John or someone else to come back through. You’re panicking, shaking where you sit frozen in the bed.

John is gone for what feels like a lifetime. You should wake Simon, let him know what happened, that something could have happened to John. Why he’d go alone and unarmed, you’re not sure. Sure he’s probably more than capable of defending himself, but what if this person was better? Stronger? More prepared?

You nearly scream as the door opens, John appearing again. Relief floods through you, calming the racing of your heart just a little. John’s here, he’s alright.

“What is it?” Simon asks quietly.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” He says as he approaches you again. “Come on.” He whispers, grabbing your arms.

He hauls you to your feet, wrapping an arm around you as he leads you out of the room and into the hallway. Fear flows through you. What if John is in cahoots with the person that broke in? What if he doesn’t want to retire and this was all a lie and now he’s going to get rid of you? He wouldn’t do that...would he?

“John?” You whimper, unable to do anything but follow him as he leads you down the hall.

“Shh.” He shushes you gently, leading you into the rec room.

You half expect someone to be there, but it’s empty. Even the blinds are drawn down over the windows. John sits you down at the table before kneeling in front of you. He takes your face in his hands, thumbs wiping the tears sliding down your cheeks. When they started, you have no idea.

“Breathe.” He says, taking a deep breath in. “Nice and slow.”

You can’t. There’s too much going on, it’s all too much. Your fingers have curled in on themselves, twisting into mutated shapes from the lack of blood flow to your extremities. You’re panicking still, hyperventilating.

John rises from the floor, going over to the sink and running a paper towel under the water. He comes back, moving your hair out of the way before pressing it against the back of your neck. It’s cold, shocking you just slightly.

“I know you’re scared, but I need you to breathe.” He says firmly, holding the cold, wet paper towel against your neck. It feels good against your heated skin, sweat dripping down your face, mixing into a salty cocktail with your tears.

“I can’t,” You gasp, trying to mimic his breathing but you can’t. “I can’t.”

He pushes on your neck, bending your upper body down until your head is as close to your knees as it can get. Your hands fall limp at your sides, fingers starting to uncurl as the position forces your blood pressure down.

John hovers over you, keeping his hand over the back of your neck, guarding you in your most vulnerable state. Snot drips onto the floor along with droplets of tears and sweat. Neither of you care, John focused on trying to ground you as you come down from your panic attack.

Eventually you do calm, your breathing slowing back to normal. The tears don’t stop, still streaming down your face as John places a mug of hot tea in front of you. He takes the seat across from you, staring softly at your face.

“I checked every room.” He says quietly. “There’s no one here.”

“I heard them. I swear I heard them.” You say, your voice cracking.

“Dreams can be weird.” He says. “Sometimes you don’t realize you’re still asleep.”

“You don’t believe me.” You say.

“I didn’t say that.” He defends himself. “I’m just saying there could be other explanations.”

You sniffle, looking down into your mug of tea. It’s plain. The milk in the fridge had long ago gone bad and no one has gotten a replacement yet. You probably won’t drink it, but it’s a comforting gesture.

“I hate it here.” You whisper, closing your hands around the warm mug. It’s almost too hot to the touch, but you don’t care. It reminds you that you’re real, that this is real, that you are awake and this hasn’t been just one big bad dream.

“I know.” John says quietly. “I wish you didn’t have to be here.”

“I want to go home.” You say. You’re not entirely sure where home is. The cottage? Texas? Somewhere unconnected to any geography?

“We will.” John says. “Soon.”

“I don’t want to be here.”

He’s quiet as he takes a sip of his tea. His shoulders are hunched, hands curled around his mug, a mirror of your own position. He’s stressed. You can tell by looking at him. You’ve done nothing but cause him stress since you got here. Shame burns through you. How simple his life would have been if you hadn’t been introduced into it.

“We’ll figure something out.” Is all he says.

You take a sip of your tea anyway. Chamomile, to help you sleep. It’s late, the world outside the curtains dark and black, threatening. You can’t ignore the fear that someone might appear in the doorway of the rec room to take you away from them, to do them harm. To do you harm. You can’t shake that irrational fear that’s been plaguing you since your return to the accursed barracks.

You’re not sure you ever will.

It’s Friday, the promise of the weekend ahead of you looming closer and closer with every minute. What you’re going to do this weekend, you’re not sure, but you hope it involves getting away from the barracks. You’d take a weekend hiking trip if it meant you got to spend as little time in your nightmare as possible.

It’s just past lunch and you’re returning from the mess hall. John had sent the rest of you on ahead and hadn’t appeared during the meal. Fear strikes a chord in you at the idea of them having to leave so soon to go on a mission. That was always a possibility, something that you tried to ignore.

Would they force John to go too? He’s still their captain, still their leader until his paperwork is finalized. Will he be sent away? Will they all be sent away again? What will happen to you?

John is packing a bag when you get to his room.

Fear twists in your stomach, those thoughts continuing to flash through your head. They’re leaving. They’re being called away and you’ll be forced to stay here alone.

“Pack a bag of some clothes.” He says, tossing you a duffle bag.

“What’s going on?” You ask, letting the bag hit you before dropping to the floor. This is unexpected. Will you be going with them? Would they risk something like that.

“You’re going to stay with Johnny’s parents.”

The words take you by surprise. That’s not at all what you were thinking was happening. Of all the horrible ideas floating through your head, that was not one of them.

“What...what?” You frown, trying to process his words.

“Johnny’s parents have agreed to look after you for the next couple weeks while the paperwork gets processed.” John explains, stepping closer to you. “I’m sorry I was so selfish trying to keep you here, that I didn’t take this into consideration. I was so afraid of separation I didn’t think about how this would affect you.”

You blink in surprise at the apology, your brain still caught on the first half of the news. Johnny’s parents? You’re going to stay with Johnny’s parents?

“What?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say.

“Tomorrow we’ll be making the drive up to Scotland to Johnny’s parents’ place.” John says slowly. “They’ve agreed to let you stay with them.”

“Away from you?” You ask, finally starting to process his words.

He nods. “I know, separation is hard but you need to get away from this place.”

“Are you leaving on a mission?” You ask, your fears starting to twist in your stomach again.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I just want to make this as painless as possible and that means getting you away from here.”

Tears gather in your eyes. “But...I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” He says. “But I think this will be better for you in the long run. I know separation isn’t ideal, but it’s better than you being stuck here in a nightmare.”

This is coming from last night, from your waking nightmare. He knows how unhappy you are here, how much this place frightens you now. You don’t want a repeat of last night, how horrible you felt, how little sleep you got after that. It will be easier for them and for you if you do this, if you agree to go to Scotland. It’ll just be a couple of weeks. You’ve been separated longer than that before, but you’d had the rest of your pack with you. This time you’ll be alone with Johnny’s parents. You’ve never met his parents. You’ve never met any of their families.

“I’m...nervous.” You admit.

“Don’t be.” John says, pulling you into his arms. “They’re wonderful people. They’ll take good care of you, and I’ll be there before you know it to pick you up.”

Tears gather in your eyes as you hold John. You’re touched by this decision, by his willing separation. You are grateful at this opportunity to get away, even if it does mean leaving your pack behind. Your time with Simon and Johnny will be lessened, but it’s not as if you would enjoy the last few days you have with them here. You’ll be too stressed, to worried, too panicky to really appreciate it before you’re separated from them. Better to rip the bandaid off now and go somewhere you’ll be happier in the long run.

“Thank you.” You murmur against John’s chest, holding onto him tightly.

“I’m sorry it took this long.” He says quietly, kissing the top of your head. “But I know this will be good for all of us in the end.”

You know he’s right, even if you don’t want to admit it.

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#task force 141 x reader #poly task force 141 #tf 141 x reader #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john price #simon riley #johnny mactavish #kyle garrick #captain price #ghost #soap #gaz #i am so emotionally attached to this fic it’s not even funny #1+ year reading & going strong

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brainrotandbedrot · 1 month ago

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Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Thirteen: shadows

tw: violence

Sleep does not come easy.

Not even the comfort of a plush mattress can make the weight of slumber pull you beneath brackish waves, deep enough for the dreams to fester and swirl like poison in your mind. You lay flat on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling. It is dark, but nothing shines. The stars do not comfort you tonight.

You spend the late hours of the night listening to muffled conversations that bleed through the walls as people mill about outside. Drunkards attempting to stumble back home. Theatre goers and prostitutes dragging men back behind closed doors. You hear their debauched moans in the room above yours, the way the headboard beats against the wall—there is no God in Heaven above, just a cruel, sacrilegious man.

While the heat inside of you tells you that you ought to be scandalized, you can only feel rage. It boils over, still upset from dinner. John’s easy smiles can only placate you for so long before you’re brutally reminded about the blood that soaks his hands. Innocent men. Families torn to shreds.

How long until your blood joins them?

In the morning, breakfast is served downstairs in a private room. Soap and Riley smell strongly of lingering alcohol and sweat—Soap’s face turns so green you worry he might spew all over the skirt of your dress. Kyle yawns so often that you’re surprised he doesn’t fall asleep at the table, but those wide open sighs fade into a cheeky grin when John asks him how late he was out with some woman named Sofia.

John.

You do not look or speak to him for the entire meal.

He scarcely seems to believe you’re even at the table.

It isn’t long before you’re put to work. Laswell returns to the hotel to give you a more in depth tour of the rooms while John vanishes into the mess of a city that is Grand Hollow. The building is bigger on the inside than it appears on the out, with endless corridors for housing and closets and kitchens that appear out of thin air. When your mind seems to swirl too much from the mass amount of information being shoved into your head, Laswell decides on a job that’s better fitting for a woman of your nature.

Laundry.

In a courtyard behind the hotel that sits next to a fetid alley, there is a small building dedicated to cleaning the linens. Inside, you find large wooden buckets that seem to be ten times larger than the bath you used full to the brim with bedding. They soak in lye, breeding an aroma that smells peculiarly like roses, freshly cut from flowering bushes.

Several women work in other sections of the building, each wiping sweat from their brows as they beat the cloth into submission. Copper pots over fat fires boil water where women poke at them with sticks. Long washboards are used to scrub deeper stains from the bedding before they’re wrung out through a strange metal contraption that presses the water from the linens through two rollers.

“It’s called a wringer,” Laswell explains upon seeing your narrowed brows. “It’ll be your best friend. Trust me.”

For two weeks, you spend your days in this blistering building. It only takes one day for your hands to begin to dry and crack from the scalding water and unforgiving soap. Worsening around your knuckles, you find it difficult to grip your cutlery at dinner as your skin feels as if it’s stretching with each bend of your finger.

When you begin to bleed into the cleaning water, a woman who you’ve only heard been referred to as Nonna sighs and shakes a bony finger at you. Thinking she’s mad, you do not argue or fight her as she drags you away from the water and sits you in a rickety wooden chair.

She leaves for ten whole minutes before she returns with a small jar. Wordlessly, she slathers a pale yellow, fatty substance across your hands. It seeps into every crack that’s burrowed in your skin with a strong flowery aroma. Lavender, you realize.

“Lanolin,” Nonna says.

You hum. “How ironic.”

On Sundays, you rest. It’s something Laswell forces you to do, but it’s not something that seems to be upheld by the other women. Still working throughout the day, spines curved over buckets and boiling water, she says it’s so that you may still go to church and enjoy your day of rest.

It is—you realize—one of the few things that is familiar about Grand Hollow. Though it is a baronial building clad in pearl-white paint, and full to the brim of rooms that could fit the entirety of your small church back in Penmosa, it is still A House of God. You still feel His presence in the very marrow of the walls that creak like old bones that hum with the choir as they sing praise.

So you sit in the pews with your Sunday best on, head lowered and fingers intertwined as the preacher teaches his lesson. Reciting scriptures. Raising his hands to the congregation. He’s dressed better than your father usually does. His voice is softer, too. A true shepherd caring for a flock.

On the first day that you spent in that unfamiliar house of worship, you had to fight the terror that plagued you as you meandered out of the church. Each heavy step behind you felt like your father’s. Waiting, and impatiently so, with his hand grasping a stick and his tongue sharpened enough to draw blood. But there is no ichor to soak the floorboards that you can smell, and the only time the preacher looks at you is to smile.

You didn’t think they could.

Today is different. Your confidence and love soar like whiskey in your veins as your lips part to sing with the choir. There is comfort to be found in the fact that the hymns you grew up loving have followed you all the way out here in this strange, unfamiliar land. Closing your eyes, you sway to the angelic voices and the sonorous clinking of the piano, shoulders nearly knocking with the strangers seated on either side of you.

When you were a child, your mother used to sing like this. Lost in the tune, melody carrying her away to some far off land. Sometimes you would get worried that she would float away—that feathered wings would sprout from her back and carry her upwards, too far for you to reach. To prevent it, you’d always hold her hand when you sang. Even now your fingers twitch with bitter yearning.

The very moment she felt your little fingers poke her hand, she’d smile. It’s how you knew she was still there with you. Still within reach.

But when she opened her eyes, everything would vanish. Even her smile.

On the way back to The Twin Rose Hotel, you still find yourself humming old tunes that have long since been engraved in your mind. A self soothing habit of yours that you’ve cultivated for many years behind closed doors, forehead pressed against the wall behind your bed, knuckles tapping on the worn wood waiting for an answer.

It isn’t long before someone is joining you in your humming. Curious bleating from the sheep mother and her lamb cut through the streets, snagging your attention as you cross through an intersection. Surprised to see them still here, you pause on the corner as the lamb butts heads against the lamp post. Their wool is greying—no longer the stark white that they were once before, now muddied with the grime of the city, and what you think might be blood or rust.

After spending so much time here, both the ewe and lamb have grown more courageous around humans. The mother tenderly nips and licks at a woman’s hand as she crouches to pet her, rubbing the nub on the top of her head. The lamb chews on the hem of her dress, making her chuckle before weaning the creature off of the fabric.

You smile. It is comforting to know that you are not the only wild thing here.

Your sore feet welcome the sight of the hotel as you wipe the sweat on your palms off on the skirt of your dress. Though you’ve spent a few weeks here in Grand Hollow, you are not yet used to the rigid stone beneath your soles. In Penmosa, there are only patches of grass, slimy stretches of mud, and long packed dirt, leaving nothing but a mess of trails to follow until you’ve done enough circles to rival the rotations of the moon around the earth.

What little reprieve you find in the open mouth of the hotel’s beckoning doors dissipates like fine mist the moment your eyes settle on the sparse inhabitants of the pseudo-restaurant on the main floor. There are familiar faces—Laswell, her wife, and unfortunately, John Price.

It’s difficult to look at him without seeing the bounty that hangs over his head, held by the very same rope he ought to be hung with. He stares at you, cerulean eyes cutting across the room with the same sharpness as a speeding bullet. Fear strikes through your chest, then frustration. A bitter culmination of rage and confusion festers in your stomach, and though your tongue darts out as if to speak, your throat closes before you can make a fool of yourself.

“Oh, Lamb!”

Luckily, you are temporarily saved from John’s biting gaze as Lottie rushes away from the table, feet quickly tapping along the floor like a dog with too-long claws. The scent of rose washes over you, thick as if you’re in the midst of a garden. Wordlessly, she pulls you in for a hug, arms surprisingly tight around you as she clutches you to her chest.

“Oh, Lamb. Tell me! Tell me!” Releasing you, Lottie quickly does a little spin with her arms held out against her sides like a doll. She stops, gaze back on you, grin wide enough to nearly slice across her face. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” you repeat, stunned.

“About the dress, of course!”

Blinking, you give her outfit a quick once over as you fold your hands in front of you. Truly, her dress is a marvelous work of art, one you don’t even want to attempt to put a price on. A thick petticoat sits beneath swathes of blush pink fabric trimmed with delicate white lace and full pockets. Her bodice is embellished with tiny, handsewn roses and stitched stems to match with it. It’s as if a garden had died and was reincarnated into a human being.

“That’s a mighty fine dress,” you say, astonished. “Real fine, Miss Lottie.”

“Oh, thank you!” she squeals. She takes your hand into her own as her feet excitedly stomp against the ground, unable to keep still. “Katie bought it for me! Isn’t that so sweet of her? We ought to get you one, too. A nice, proper dress. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

You’re only able to talk about the prospect of dress shopping with Lottie for a short while before Laswell approaches and steals her away, chuckling as she mentions something about work upstairs. Feet following after them, you only make it halfway to the stairs. John Price, the inconvenient beast that he is, creates a bottleneck before you, blocking your path.

“Afternoon, Lamb,” he greets. Though you’ve avoided him for the past two weeks, he doesn’t look much different. Still cleanly cropped, still holding himself with the same self-importance he always has.

“Mr. Price,” you say bluntly.

A fork in the road—that’s all you try to see him as. Something to sidestep. An obstacle to ignore. Yet the moment you move to go around him and up the stairs, you find him in front of you again, always in your way.

“Do you have a moment, Lamb?” he asks. His voice is low, wary of listening ears.

“I’m very busy on Sundays,” you say, half sarcastic.

John’s chuckle is crass, and it sends a shiver down your spine as he reaches for your arm, fingers digging into your bicep. “I’m sure your god won’t mind a break from your kvetching for one moment.”

He doesn’t bother to wait for your response before his thumb presses against your artery, guiding you away from the stairs and toward the back of the room where the bar lays. You do nothing but huff and puff like an annoyed dog as he drags and seats you on a stool. Though there is no one to tend to the bar, John takes the liberty upon himself as he stalks to the line of liquor and beer bottles that line the shelves. It’s hardly lunch time, but he’s not at all ashamed of pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

“I have a proposition for you.” He’s got the glass in his hand, pinched between his middle finger and thumb, pinky supporting the bottom.

You stare at him, blunt and dull, hands folded in your lap and back straight as if this conversation is below you. “What is it?”

As John’s lips wrap around the rim of the glass, he raises his eyebrows at your tone. Whatever malicious words he wishes to spew at you gets swallowed down with his whiskey. “The boys and I need a little help with an errand.”

His words stoke the fiery coals pulsing in your chest, sending waves of unbridled heat searing through your veins. You wouldn’t be caught dead helping someone like John Price—the butcher of the Blackpeak Coal Mine workers.

“Why can’t Laswell help you? I thought we were parting ways after you brought me here. Really, I’m surprised you’re still lurking around Grand Hollow at all.” It’s a true feat keeping your teeth from snapping, but it’s an honor you can hardly claim as your eyes burn through the bar before you.

“Trust me, Lamb, you were not my first choice,” John chuckles sourly. “Blackpeak is a bit further than she’s willing to travel, and the task is simple enough for you to handle.”

“If it’s so simple then why don’t you just do it yourself?” you spit.

Cocking his head to the side, John places his glass down on the counter with a dull thud, obscuring your vision with the amber liquid. You’re already very much aware of where this conversation is headed—Blackpeak, bank, a robbery, a desecration of graves; something you want no part in.

“You know, I’m still not a fan of this attitude of yours, sweetheart,” John says, jaw tense and words smothered between clenched teeth.

“Then why are you dragging this out, Mr. Price?” you quip. “Weren’t you supposed to dump me here and move on? Go do whatever it is a scoundrel like you does?”

Something is wrong with his chuckle. It gets caught in his throat as he shakes his head, gaze falling low as he places his hands on the counter. It sounds like a wolf’s laugh—or a coyote squealing in the night. Predators surrounding you, closing in, maw glistening with want.

“You know, maybe that bastard who raised you got something right,” John muses. “Is that what you need? Huh, sweetheart? Need Daddy to bend you over his knee for a good spank?”

Your eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare,” you challenge.

“You and I both know I’m not above doing it right here in front of all these strangers, Lamb.”

This is the moment where your father’s daughter rears her ugly head. Nothing but suffocating skin desperate for a loving touch but teeth and tongue too sharp to properly ask for it. Palms flat on the counter, you place them dangerously close to John’s as you lean forward, rump rising off of the stool, face inching closer to his.

“Fine. Do it then. But there is nothing on God’s green earth that will ever get me to help you, John Price,” you seethe. “Not after what you did to those poor people in Blackpeak.”

There is a brief moment of indignation that overwhelms John’s face as he looks at you with sharp eyes, but it fades into guilt when the true meaning of your words snake around his throat. His gaze softens, knuckles no longer blanching against the counter as he leans back.

You’ve never seen a wolf cower before, but somehow it’s worse than watching one growl.

“Is that what all this is about?” he questions. His voice is soft now, laced with curiosity and a deep self loathing that’s almost hidden too far within him to sniff out. “Lamb, that stuff in Blackpeak, it’s-”

Metallic clattering interrupts John’s explanation as a man slams his hand down on the counter, coins rolling with the movement. It’s so sudden that you jump, shoulders curling as you glance to your right to spot a man dressed in a dark duster coat and black gloves. John’s misty eyes tear off of yours for a short moment before they narrow. Heat rises in his face in the form of red cheeks and a clenched jaw before he springs into action.

The moment his hand reaches for the revolver on his hip, the stranger has his arm around you. Chest pressed into your back, arm crossing over your front, digging into your collarbones—you squeal like a pig as he nearly drags you off the stool. Your hands grip the man’s forearm, fingers curling into the taut muscle that holds you still, but you’re silenced by the unmistakable bite of iron against your ribs.

“Howdy,” the stranger says bluntly. “I’ll take a glass of your finest brandy.”

Wide eyed, you stare at John with a trembling bottom lip, question dying on your tongue. He’s looking at where the barrel of the stranger’s gun kisses your flank. Open mouth. Hungry bullet. His own hand caresses the handle of his revolver, but the way the arm presses against your throat gets him to pause.

“No, this can’t be. John Price?” the man asks facetiously. “Funny running into you here.”

“What the fuck do you want, Vance?” John spits.

“Heard you were in town. Thought I’d pay you a visit,” Vance says flippantly. “The Sheriff of Blackpeak sends his regards, by the way.”

Something within you attempts to feel relief at the words this stranger speaks, but there is a contradiction of actions and words. An unsettling antilogy. If Blackpeak’s sheriff is being brought up, then this ought to be a good thing—John Price will be brought to justice, you won’t ever have to see him again, and you’ll be able to live out your life quietly. Just the way you always wanted to.

But this man—be he bounty hunter or otherwise—is no better than John Price himself if he’d so willingly press a weapon to you.

“Let her go, Vance.” John’s words are stern and leave no room for argument. His jaw is clenching worse than his fingers, fist curling around nothing, skin dreaming of a tender throat to squeeze.

Vance laughs—something short, like the squeaking of wood—before patting your shoulder. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“This is neutral ground,” John spits.

“Reckon you should come quietly, then.”

There is a brief moment when your hearing fades and you close your eyes, and in that moment the vague attar of lilies washes over you. It is the closest to your mother you have felt in years. The veil thins. It shears. Cotton and wispy—enough to be torn apart by the softest zephyr. You can almost feel her hands reaching for you; then, there is the bite. Iron in your ribs, digging, burrowing until it’s enough to meet something tender.

Something to make you wince.

No sooner than your pule leaves your mouth does the firing of a bullet ring through the air. Something warm and thick coats you—a fine mist settling over your skin and the side of your skull. Your eyes open just in time to feel Vance’s arm fall from you and John reach forward, fingers curling inside of your blouse.

“Up!” he orders.

Quivering legs force you to follow John’s barking, and with his aid, you’re scrambling over the top of the bar, cloth ripping on the corner as you’re dragged to the floor. More gunshots ring out in a terrible cacophony that leaves your ears pulsing with each crack. You squeal as John fires back. Wood splinters as bullets rip through the walls, ceiling, floors—everything. There’s not a single inch of this building that feels safe as people bark and shout at one another.

Gore is heavy in the air. The redolence of rose is quickly smothered by offals and meat—it reminds you of the butcher’s shop back home. Fresh kill. Venison. Tendons holding bodies together as they’re hung up on hooks for display. God’s creatures, here for your bidding. For sustenance. But you know that with each cry that fills the room, a life is snuffed out, and with it, every thought, desire, and love that made it human.

When it gets too much, you cover your ears with the palm of your hands, and you fill the song of violence with a tune of your own. A quiet melody. Something muttered beneath shaky breath.

“I am a poor wayfaring stranger.”

It’s not enough to drown out the gunshots, nor does it quell the terror rising in your throat, but it’s all you have. Even as the ringing quiets, and there’s nothing but thudding feet on the floor next to you, you hold it. Clutch it close. Keep it safe.

“I’m going there… to see my… my mother…”

“Lamb?”

“I’m going there… n-no more to… roam…”

“Love, look at me.”

Hands. Warm. Over yours. Pulling. Music fades out and the present snaps back into focus. Too sharp. Too tangible. When your eyes open, you see John. There’s blood. It soaks his shirt. His vest. A hole through his arm. Scraping through the flesh. Still, he chooses to hold you instead of himself. Cradling your face in his palms. Thumbs wiping the tears from your cheeks.

His touch ought to disgust you. Violent man. Violent hands. Instead, you lean into it. How he tethers you to the earth. You sniff, bottom lip still quivering. John’s head tilts to the side, chest deflating with a sigh.

“Oh, Lamb,” he breathes.

You don’t fight him when he helps you to your feet—that flame has been snuffed out of you. Smothered beneath blood and anxious bile. With a hand on your back, he leads you around the counter, and though he takes care to avoid the several fallen bodies on the floor, it’s impossible for him to hide them from your sight. They’re all men, clad in black, some with bandanas covering their faces, others with them blown clean off, leaving behind nothing but gnarly bone skewered flesh.

There are more voices. More bodies. Fresh and alive. Still drawing breath. You see Laswell. Her usually tight bun is askew, locks spilling from the band, fringe awkwardly stuck to the sweat on her forehead. Then, there’s Lottie. The front of her dress is soaked in blood, and the cotton clings awkwardly to her petticoat. Her hands are clenched, fingers curling into the skirt, babbling about the stain, and how she’ll never be able to wash it out, how the dress is brand new and now it’s ruined because of these men. Riley is the last of the familiar faces you recognize. Towering over the small crowd left over from the fight and the concerned citizens, he cuts across the floor, muttering something to John that your fuzzy ears can’t make sense of.

“Oh, Katie, it’s ruined! This is just awful,” Lottie babbles as she paces. “I don’t know what to do! Just awful! What a rotten group of people! What are we gonna do?”

“Breathe, Charlotte,” Laswell attempts to console.

“I can’t! I’m just so- so angry!”

“Umbra catervae.”

Riley’s blunt voice bleeds through the conversation, silencing it, and forcing all heads—including yours—to turn to him. He’s standing by the counter, fingers tracing over the coins Vance slammed on the table. Huffing, he picks one up and holds it between his forefinger and thumb, displaying it for John to see.

“Fuckin’ bounty hunters,” Riley snaps, tossing the coin back onto the bartop.

There is only a single beat of silence that follows. Then, there is movement.

“Lottie, why don’t you take Lamb up to the bath?” Laswell quietly suggests.

Her wild, untamed eyes land on you where you can see the makings of a fit begin to wind up in her gaze, but it quickly vanishes when she fully drinks you in. The shellshock. The blood. Her hands unclench as she floats across the room, taking you out of John’s grasp with a smile.

“Yes, a bath would be nice. Doesn’t that sound nice, Lamb?” Her voice is softer now. Tender. Like the petals of a flower.

When you don’t answer, she guides you towards the staircase anyway. She talks about nothing. Meaningless small conversation that’s enough to fill the empty space in your skull. As your feet trudge up the steps, your fingers begin to twitch—but when you reach for your mother’s necklace, you find a terrible absence around your throat instead.

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#john price x reader #dwsu #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #lamb my poor sweet summer baby

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brainrotandbedrot · 2 months ago

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Sorry i slutshame your hubby, it will happen again

#kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #kyle is my pretty princess angel boy #thoap would beg for my used panties #and i love both of them

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brainrotandbedrot · 2 months ago

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reunion :)

#soapghost #ghoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #they’re both so pretty #my little princesses #retired soap #i love retired soap #guys he got better mwiii wasn’t real

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brainrotandbedrot · 2 months ago

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This blog is pro tits and anti Nazi

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brainrotandbedrot · 2 months ago

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It's so weird to me when people are like 'but that will cost the government money!' So what? They're the government, they're supposed to be spending money. What, you want them to take your tax dollars and then do nothing with it? Lock it all up in a big government vault and just look at it? Why are you so scared of giving a third grader lunch or a homeless person a house.

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brainrotandbedrot · 2 months ago

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Am I getting a good grade in tumblr mutual?

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brainrotandbedrot · 2 months ago

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The men working on his crew today are too loud, too boisterous, too young, too content to stand around blabbering, taking the piss instead of doing their actual jobs

Getting into construction work following retirement from the SAS wasn’t exactly the idyllic image of sipping a daiquiri on the beach that his thick stack of discharge papers had painted in his head

But it kept his hands occupied and his mind busy, his daily stressors having shifted from cleaning blood out of his gear and patching broken bones every other day, to instead complaining about the rising price of lumber and pulling splinters out on occasion

Trading in his AR for a nail gun, swapping his tac vest for a tool belt, even turning in his skull mask for a hard hat, was surprisingly an easier adjustment than he’d predicted, the long hours and physical work meant he was too exhausted by the time he got home to spend much time doing anything other than preparing for the next day, a never ending cycle that kept him from being still for too long

It might have been some time since Simon Riley was on a battlefield, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still play the hero every once in a while

He’s stood at the top of a ladder, wiping the sweat off his brow as his other hand pats agains this tool belt, searching for the one tool he’s certain he forgot to bring up with him

“Pass me the claw head hammer will y-” Simon cuts himself off from asking the lad stood below him, when he notices he’s only talking to himself. Squinting through the glare of the afternoon sun shining in his eyes, he glances around the job site until he spots most of his crew gathered near the front gates

He rolls his eyes to himself as he begins making his way back down to solid ground, having spotted what had the men so distracted : a pretty bird stood on the other side of the fence

Simon can admit to himself, even he likes to partake in the occasional bird watching, he is just a man at the end of the day, but not when there’s work to be done, and they’re already more than a week behind on this job

“Alright you tossers, back to it!” He shouts to be heard over the group of men, a chorus of groans and grumbles echoing out before they’re slowly dispersing

“Ach, we were jus’ helpin ‘er out, sir!” A man who sounds like he’s been smoking all his life croaks out as he walks by

“Here, miss. He’s the one that might be able to give you an answer.” One of the younger men on the crew says, pointing a gloved hand in Simon’s direction

He follows the younger man’s gaze, expecting to find another curious bystander peeking at the work, perhaps a nosy neighbour who wants to know why such a mess is being made, hell maybe even one of the hens from the nearby college stopping by for a quick flirt

He’s prepared to offer a professional nod, maybe even a begrudging ‘Alright?’ if it appeases them, before he’ll be excusing himself back to the job, uninterested in getting home any later tonight than he already has to just to entertain some stranger

But of course, he doesn’t end up doing so, does he? Not when his hand comes up to block out the sun, his gaze peering through the chain link fence, and it’s you that his eyes land on

You, with your wide eyes fighting to appear confident, though the controlled panic running through them is clear to see from where Simon stands a few feet away from you

Your body tense as you push a small pram in place back and forth, back and forth, your attention jumping between the men and whoever must be tucked up under a pile of blankets in the stroller, presumably also the reason for your enticingly large cleavage, he allows himself think for a split second before averting his gaze

Simon sends the younger man away with a quick jut of his chin, before he’s taking a careful step towards you

“Wha’ can I help you with?” He tries in vain to mask the usual harshness in his tone, but with such a quick switch in his emotions it doesn’t come out sounding quite how he’d hoped, yet you don’t flinch away from him either

“I know-” you let out a frustrated breath, readjusting your grip on the pram’s handle as you steady yourself, locking eyes with his once again with a new vigour behind them this time around. “I know this is so silly of me, and I’m sure you’ve had lots of people botherin’ you, so uh, sorry for bein’ one of ‘em, but here I am.”

You let out a small chuckle to yourself, more self deprecating than anything else, but Simon finds himself offering the slightest bit of a smile in return, if only to ease your nerves

“Anyways, I can imagine you’re probably not allowed to tell but, uh, people have been saying this might be a daycare you’re building here.”

He knew what your question was going to be long before you’d opened your pretty mouth- everyone and their mother had been asking about the project

Limited childcare in the area meant that as soon as the first whispers of a new daycare being built had started to spread, parents and even parents to be had been poking their noses before shovels had even hit the ground

Opening his mouth to give you the same answer he’d given everyone before you, Simon finds the words dying on his tongue as the unmistakable sound of an upset baby comes from the pram, and a very small baby at that

“Shh, shh darling. It’s okay, baby. You’re alright, shh.” He can’t find it in himself not to step closer until he’s practically got his nose poking through the fence to get nearer to you both, eyes glued to the way your lips formed the sweet soothing words, peering towards the increasingly squirming bundle tucked away in the pram

“Tha’s a tiny one.” Simon practically whispers to himself, though he knows you’ve heard him when your eyes glance up to meet his. “Can’t be very old.” He remembers how small his nephew had been when he’d been born, and recognized that distinct newborn cry instantly.

“Just turned eight weeks.” You answer with a ghost of a proud smile dancing across your lips quickly as you gaze at your bundle of joy, a tidbit of information you would expect a new parent would be all too happy to talk about, though the elation quickly disappears from your face. “Unfortunately my job is uh, I have to go back to work soon, I’ve just really been needing to find a spot for her somewhere.”

“Have you told your boss to sod off?” He asks, biceps bulging as he crosses his arms and leans a shoulder against the fence. He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like the idea of a pretty little bird being all worked up and stressed about finding her new little baby bird somewhere to stay because her job is trying to force her to come back so soon

He also recognizes the fact that he doesn’t know you, that you’ve been a stranger to him up until about 60 seconds ago, and that he shouldn’t go involving himself in things that don’t regard him, but there’s something about this, something about you, that has him asking more questions that he should

Simon hardly realizes the corners of his mouth trying to smile along when you let out a small chuckle at his question, before your answer has him set back into his usual scowl. “No, I wish it were that simple.” you try to laugh again, though the sound doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you push some hair out of your eyes, Simon’s fingers twitching at his side

“No, they’re not forcing me to come back, it’s more of a- I need to work again. Money doesn’t exactly make itself, and it’s just me and her so…” you trail off, offering a meek shrug before you avert your gaze from his and go to fiddle with the baby blankets. “There- there just aren’t any daycare spots anywhere, and the waiting lists are months if not years long. And she and I just don’t pass through this neighbourhood often, so I’m worried that once that sign goes up announcing this is a daycare, that the spots are going to be taken up before I even have a chance to-”

“S’alrigh, s’alright.” Simon interrupts your rambling, a hand raised slightly in the air as though you were a spooked animal he hoped to calm. having heard everything he needed to hear. You look up at him with such sincerity in your eyes, he can tell you would do anything for that baby, that you likely aren’t above begging and pleading at this point, alone with a baby and short on options, he knows what he’ll do. Had pretty much made up his mind soon as he saw you, but now he’s decided.

“Just you and her, you said?” He asks quietly, absentmindedly nodding along with you when you confirm his question. “Well, I mean, I can tell ye that yes, this is meant to be a daycare ‘ere.” He speaks hesitantly, watching as the hope builds in your eyes at his words. He brings a sweaty palm up to rub the back of his neck as he breaks the news to you.

“But I couldn’t tell ye anythin’ about who we’re buildin’ for, love.” He continues, the term of endearment slipping past his lips unconsciously. “They just give us the blueprints and we do our part. Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout what or who’s takin ownership.” He watches that same sliver of hope that had started to grow quickly be snuffed out as you take in what he means.

“Oh. Well, I guess it makes sense.” You reply, evidently disappointed but too kind to push, too used to the recent defeats to expect anything else. “Thank you anyways, really. I appreciate you-”

“I’ll find out.” Simon says quickly, preventing you from bidding him whatever goodbye you were about to give him, keeping you here just a little longer.

“W-what?”

“I’ll find out. Who we’re building for. I’ll find you a name.”

“I- I- I don’t even- you really don’t have to do that!”

“Doesn’t matter what I have to do. I want to. So I will.”

He watches your face carefully now, seeing how you glance up at him with a different sort of apprehension in your gaze, almost like you’re truly taking him in for the first time, discovering something you weren’t expecting to find in him.

“Well, thank you. Truly.” You tell him, a smile so genuine gracing your lips that Simon finds himself choosing to smile back at you. The moment doesn’t last long however, when the baby starts to fuss again, your attention being drawn back to her. “I know baby, I know. I’ve got to feed you soon.”

Simon can’t help the deep blush that creeps up his neck and across his cheeks, unsure if it’s the way he enjoyed hearing you say ‘I know baby, I know’ a little too much or the idea of his own lips helping to ease that heavy ache in your swollen breasts that has him momentarily flustered.

“Maybe I could-” he clears his throat, pointedly avoiding looking at your chest and maintaining eye contact instead. “Maybe I could get your number or email or somethin’, to get back to you that is.”

“Oh! Yes of course! Here,” you say, digging through your pockets until you fish out a wadded up receipt. Simon pulls the pencil that’d been resting over his ear down and gently slips it through the fence over to you, watching with rapt attention as you bring the tip to the paper and write down what might be the most important numbers Simon ever learns. “There’s my number.”

He takes the pencil back from you and carefully accepts the paper you hand him, looking down at the name and smiley face you’ve left as well, whispering your name to himself before meeting your eyes once more. Before he can change his mind, Simon is tearing off the end of the receipt that’s still blank, and begins writing down his own name and number on it.

“If I don’t get back to you by the end of the week, you use tha’ to knock some sense into me, alrigh’?” He asks, slipping you the paper. He knows there isn’t a chance in hell he would forget about reaching out to you, about following through on this, but again, there’s something about you he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Thank you, Simon.” You answer, reading the name off the note he’s just given you, a small chill running down his spine at the sound of his name leaving your lips, the way you say it like it’s a name worth knowing. “Seriously, I can’t even tell you wha-”

The both of you can’t help but chuckle together when the baby’s cries cut you off again, you offering a sheepish smile in apology along with a small shrug of ‘what can you do?’.

“I’ll let you go, someone needs you more.”

“Well, we’re both very grateful to you, Simon.”

He stands there longer than he really should, watching the two of you walk off until you’re out of sight. The note you slipped him though? Well, that he holds onto until he’s clocking out, and maybe on the drive home as well, and maybe it’s the first thing to ever be hung up on his fridge in his flat, that little smiley face reminding him why a little bird watching isn’t so bad after all

I dunno ladies is this something???

#readwritealldayallnight #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #construction worker simon ……#weak in the knees

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