#cod reader insert

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter One: News Crashing

Poly!TaskForce 141 x Omega!Reader

The Omega Pack Plan Masterlist

Summary: A change in procedure around base causes you to spiral as your world comes crashing down. There's only one way out of this and it starts with telling the truth.

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anxiety, Existentialism, Misogyny, Dismissive Attitudes, Angst, Rage

Mentions of: Medication,

A/N: Honestly, I'd been inspired by a few series (Standard Emergency Protocol and Pantry Solutions) I've read those and it caused me to want to write my own A/B/O COD AU, so I started this as a sort of funny fic awhile ago. I'm haven't entirely plotted out the whole story, but I have some ideas for the first few chapters. I was finally inspired to finish and post it because @cringeycookies liked the snippet I posted in a wip tag game. So thanks to everyone who inspired me, and a special thank you to @penelopepine for helping me with the dialogue and Price's reaction as I try to begin writing for them.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," the nurse responds, "we're no longer authorized to refill suppressants of any kinds for any purpose." With a push of the empty orange pill bottle back across the counter in your direction, she offers you an ugly forced smile.

"Is there really nothing we can do?!" You complain incredulously, "Nothing at all? What am I supposed to do with this?!" Taking the emptied bottle into your hands, you stare at the nurse with widened eyes and a wild look.

"There is no 'we'..." she rolls her eyes in response, focus returning to the papers before her. "But if you insist, you can always bring it up with your CO, or the Base Commander." She scribbles something out on the page, but you can hardly focus when your world is virtually crumbling apart around you. "Now if you don't mind, some of us actually have work to do around here."

Still stunned, you can't help the way your breathing picks up as your heart begins to race. About a month ago now there was a base-wide meeting where they'd finally cracked down and implemented a new program the government is trying out: OPP. The Omega Pack Plan. While it's uncommon for Omegas to even be recruited into the military to begin with, such a thing does exist. Regardless, the Base Commander gathered everyone in the Auditorium for a presentation to talk about the new program and how the army would implement it into the troops. Luckily, considering you're on an elite Task Force, it doesn't apply to you. At least... it didn't.

"What the hell is this?!" You yell, tossing the orange bottle in his direction.

He'd heard the stomps all the way down the hall and smelled you coming, so he's neither surprised by your appearance, nor startled by the toss of the bottle. John swiftly catches it in his hand as he looks up at you. "What?" He inquires, finally glancing down to examine what he's caught. "A pill bottle?"

"Captain, it's empty! They won't refill it- I can-"

A groan tumbles past his lips as he drags a hand down his beard. "Look, Panther-" referring to you by your callsign, interesting move. "There's nothing I can do, it's over my head now. I wish I could do something, but I can't." Sitting back in his leather chair, Price places the bottle on the desk; a faint rap of the plastic hitting the wood is the only sound between you momentarily before you hurriedly shut the door.

Panic begins to flood your system as you're not sure how to handle this. It's your turn to freak out. You know how this goes, you know the story now; ever since they'd implemented and dispersed the Omegas into the troops, they'd started implementing them into the Task Forces, and now they have to do so with the One Four One. Fingers curling in and out of shapes as you try to process your next move, you speak before you can even begin to plan what you're going to tell him.

"I- I'm- I..." You're pacing his office now, the heavy gaze of your Captain upon you as you try to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. The thing is, you're usually good with pressure- really good. It's your job to be good. It's just... this is different. This is your life, your livelihood at stake, the livelihood of all your future generations to come.

A sigh resounds throughout the office before you hear the low timbre of his voice. "Dove," he calls out with a gentle tone, "I want you to take a deep breath for me. Alright?" With the calm and even sound of your Captain's voice and the assured look on his face, you comply. Exhaling the last of your breath, you close your eyes and focus in on the deep intake of air through your nose. With the parting of your lips you slowly release it before giving yourself a moment.

When you open your eyes he gestures to the seat before his desk, though you know he won't take offense if you decline. Hesitant, one hand finds its way to the other, wrapping around your arm as you listen to him speak. "Now, can you explain what has you in this state? I assure you that there's nothing that can't be dealt with." You want to trust him, you know him--John Price--your Captain. He's always had your back, always made sure you felt comfortable in the Taskforce, always made an effort to check on you after things got rough.

You nod. Licking your lips, you search his blue eyes as you tentatively take the seat across him.

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it, alright? I can guarantee you that unless you're trying to tell me you're an Omega, nothing you say is going to shock me that warrants the amount of panic you're putting yourself through," Price chuckles. He's obviously joking, trying to break the tension with humor. Lips drawn upward into a small smile, the Captain stares at you expectantly.

"What if I am?" You whisper, eyes unable to tear from his visage as you try and gauge his reaction. Unexpectedly, silence fills the space between you and feels deafening in the small space. The growing comfort of his office these couple of months now feels like a cage you're forced to stay in, under watch, as you stare down your superior on the brink of a battle to the death. And that's what you do. His blue eyes bore into yours, skeptically shifting between your left and right as he seems to try and get a read on you.

All of the sudden you jump at the smack of his hands hitting the desk in front of him. He laughs at you.

He's laughing at you.

And you're sitting there with your guts spilled out, dread eating away at the pit in your stomach... and he's laughing. It feels like forever is passing you by as you stare at him in shock, this moment between the two of you frozen in time as nothing else persists.

"I understand what this was now," Price explains, still chuckling to himself as he shakes his head. There's a warm smile on his face that feels eerie considering the dire context of the situation at hand. "You got me! I fully believed you for a second there, too."

Eyebrows furrowing in dark realization, you can't help but stare at him wildly. "Wha-" You begin to question him and his line of thinking, but he cuts you off.

"This was all a prank, right? The bottle, the hysterics- you really outdid yourself, Sergeant." Leaning back in his chair, he props his ankle up on his other knee. "Because let me tell you, this was good. Better than anything Soap's cooked up in awhile. Did you come up with it yourself?" There's a cheeky grin on his lips. "Ah, I know you did."

Lips opening and closing like a fish out of water, you sit in the armchair across from him pale with a dazed look across your face. He doesn't actually think that this was...

"Well, with your little triumph in your pocket, I say we get back to work, yeah? I've got some new leads from MI6 that've just popped in." With that, the man stands from his desk and rounds it. "Garrick should be back around Tea. I'll see you in the Command Station then," he informs you. It's then that he passes by, a genial clap on your shoulder while he's at it.

Left stunned in silence, you can't help but grit your teeth, consequentially pronouncing your jaw as anger ebbs through your bloodstream. Breath getting heavier, you can't help but loathe the meeting tonight. Your Captain might be satisfied with the conversation, but all you feel is discouraged. He's abandoned you, left you alone in his office with a humiliating sense of betrayal and shattered trust. Almost like you hadn't just told him your biggest secret at all.

Punching the standard heavy punching bag hanging in front of you, you grunt, ignoring the pain that gnaws at your knuckles underneath the reusable hand wraps. Sweat builds on your brow as you continue to unleash your pent up anger on the gym’s equipment. How could he?! When had you ever pulled anything even similar to this? Never! And the fact that you’ve only been on the team for a handful of months only exacerbates the abandonment you’re feeling right now. He’s your Captain! Regardless of your feelings or the situation at hand, isn’t he supposed to be there for you? He’d promised from the get go to help you with whatever you need, and now the one time you go to him for aid it backfires in your face and leaves you without any sort of solution going forward aside from straight up telling the whole team the flat out truth, and God forbid! You can’t even begin to fathom how that’d go.

A pent up and frustrated yell almost akin to something of a growl emanates from you as you tear into another round of swift jabs and punches. Regardless of the situation at hand, you’ve been trying to build up your upper body’s strength and letting out the anger you’d accumulated over this morning’s events seemed like a perfect opportunity to let loose.

The stretches and treadmill routine didn’t take a lot out of you, but the weights, and now the punching bag definitely is starting to take its toll. Sweat beads at your forehead in rivulets that drip down the sides of your neck, down your scalp past your neck and between your shoulder blades. Tank top soaked in sweat, you breathe hard as your heart pumps rapidly in your chest. You would’ve wound up here at some point or another tonight, but the Captain’s discourteous response certainly led to an earlier workout time.

While others sparsely litter the gym’s floor, you pay them no mind and vice versa. It’s not uncommon for soldiers to be found blowing off steam or aiming to beat their highest reps on the weights. Yet, this gym is reserved for higher standing members of the Force, the gym on the far side of the base where there are less people, offices, and considering the regular army men train in the bigger gym closer to their quarters, it’s mostly other higher ranked officers in here.

“Captain’s lookin’ for ya,” Markowski, another Sergeant that you’d come to befriend on base announces from the doorway, having poked his head in after leaving a few minutes earlier. He belongs to a different Task Force.

A groan tumbles out of you as you realize it’s already that time. Just as the door clicks shut, your phone chimes loudly with the alarm you’d set earlier going off. A few quick swipes of your fingers, you turn the alarm off and unlock the device, seeing a number of messages flood your notifications.

Kyle: You hear they’ve bumped up the timeline? 😯

Johnny: “ https://Tiktok/Shattered.Rat567 ” Had me rollin’ 🤣👏🏻 Gotta check it, Bonnie

Simon: You coming to the meeting or not? 🤨

Johnny: Where r u? You’re usually first here 👀 Cap’s getting peeved, watch out

Not looking forward to the inevitable mess of a meeting before you, you don’t bother rushing to join the men. With a wash of your face in the women’s locker room, a speedy bathroom break, and a grab of the items you’d brought with you, you’re heading for the Command Station.

With the time Price set the meeting, you won't get to eat dinner till afterward. You'd be lying if you said you weren't annoyed by this entire situation, your agitation from neglecting your hunger earlier has certainly come to bite you in the backside.

While you don’t have time to respond to their texts, having set the alarm with only enough time to get back to your team’s Command ‘station’ albeit more like your headquarters before heading out. Speed-walking through the orderly halls with a haste perfectly common around here, you navigate with a well practiced knowledge. Though you’ve only been here coming up on six months soon, you’re well acquainted with this part of the base.

Rounding the corner, you’re in the hall, close. Yet, the worry of being late lingers in the back of your mind and adds another layer of annoyance on top of your residual anger buried deep down from this morning’s situation. You’d inevitably come up with your solution. It’s not one you like… but it’s the only logical option. Another turn and you’re striding into the big garage-like room.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Sergeant,” Price calls out to you. Lifting his eyes from the map laid out across your station's table, he glares in your direction.

“What took you so long?” Soap snaps, his brows slightly furrowed as he stares at you from the opposite side of the table, hands lazily wrapped around his vest’s straps.

A look at your watch tells you that you’re not even late, the meeting doesn’t officially start for another minute! But you are usually waiting on them. He’s got you there.

“Yeah, you’re usually the first one here. It’s not like you,” Gaz whispers under his breath as you sidle up alongside Ghost, Gaz standing diagonal to you right beside Price at the head of the table.

“Focus,” Ghost orders the men, his hands tucked in his hoodie’s pocket. You don’t fail to notice the way he subtly takes a step further away from you as soon as they start talking again. Price goes back to talking plans as Gaz is questioning the circumstances of the information the Captain had acquired earlier when he’d had to leave the office.

“Which is exactly why-”

A heavy exhale on your behalf leaves the men frozen as their eyes drift back to you. “Do you have something you’d like to say, Panther?” The Captain questions. Jaw clenched, you tear your eyes from the map they’d settled on.

“We’ve got a big problem,” you announce, cutting off the Captain as you finally raise your gaze to meet Price’s slightly widened blue eyes.

“Well, if you see something that needs changin’ then let’s hear it,” he responds. A ‘hmph’ follows as he crosses his arms over his chest and sits his weight back onto his heels.

“It’s not about the op,” you correct him. Tilting your head side to side you attempt to crack the kinks in your neck while standing a little straighter to appear more engaged and serious.

“And it’s more important than this? What we’re doin’ right now?” Soap questions, his hands dropping to rest on the table as he looms over it, eyeing you with frustration obvious in his irises.

“What is it?” Gaz asks, a quirk of his eyebrow garnering your attention for a split-second. He’s genuinely asking, and there doesn’t seem to be a hostility in his scent as he turns his attention to you. Then there’s Ghost, who you don’t even need to look at to feel his heavy gaze on you, waiting expectantly.

“Actually, it is,” you argue with Soap, anger beginning to boil in your belly, the frustration and angst having been left to simmer all afternoon. “I can’t believe you didn’t take me seriously when I came to you earlier,” you turn your anger on Price. He looks taken aback by the outburst, something you’re not known for.

“Dove,” he calls calmly, hands out in an attempt to pacify.

“Don’t-” you bark, starting to raise your voice without realizing it. “I came to you in confidance! Trusting you when you said you’d be there to help me if I ever needed it! How could you?” Gritting your teeth, you don’t realize how hard you’re breathing as your chest heaves with anger.

“Woah, woah-” Gaz sputters, “What-” holding his hands out to try and diffuse the argument.

“I let myself be vulnerable-” You continue to shout.

“Isn’t this something that shoul-” Soap attempts to dissuade, backing down as he puts his hands out.

“-and tell you the truth, and-” you’re lunging for him across the table. You’re held back by a massive hand on your shoulder. “You laugh in my face?! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You're suddenly pulled back, off your feet, and shoved into a metal chair that'd been nearby. Your Lieutenant is hovering over you, his cold eyes now tinged with a spark of anger as they bore into you scrutinizingly. There's the sound of commotion behind him, multiple voices overlapping, yet you can't see anything with that utter giant in front of you!

“Does anyone wanna explain what the bloody hell is goin’ on here?” Ghost snaps. It's only then when the man steps aside that you can see where everyone is. With both of you in your respective corners, you simply glare at the Captain from over your crossed arms out in front of you.

“Are you bleedin’ kidding me, ya Scally?” Price grunts as he shrugs Gaz’ hand off his shoulder. “You’re still on about it! When w-"

"That doesn't explain what happened, Cap," Gaz interrupts, stopping him from going off and getting them nowhere.

He groans, running a hand over his face once more before composing himself. Everyone waits for an explanation—you too—he’d been the first to speak, and you’re curious to hear what he comes up with. “She came into my office, bloody cryin’, tossing me a pill bottle, muttering about, saying she’s a-”

You don’t dare let him finish, not wanting him to be the one to finally say it, exposing your truth to the team. "Omega. I’m an Omega, ” you finish his sentence. While you’re scared to meet their faces, you take a deep breath and force yourself to do so.

"Christ," Price curses, fingers coming up to pinch the skin between his brows as he hangs his head.

Ghost's stoicism is nothing unordinary, and in fact, is somewhat a comfort considering you'd expected nothing less from him.

Gaz looks stunned for a moment, eyes flitting about the other’s faces before the serious look on his face morphs. Lips slowly drawing upward, you shouldn’t be surprised when he starts laughing. "Yeah right," Garrick teases, "and I'm actually the Prime Minister."

Yet, it's not just him. The uproarious laughter from your right only adds fuel to the already burning flame as the two other Sergeants laugh like idiots. All as if it's some poor joke with no consequences to anyone's life, and yet... it's the truth. At the end of the day, it doesn't change anything. At the end of the day, your life is still in jeopardy and they're treating it like some joke. Unable to form any sort of retort, you simply blink; stuck in a stupor raw, stung, and with a dumb look on your face.

Soap, rounding the table slaps Gaz on the back, his face flushed red from laughing so hard. "Yer makin' my stomach hurt. God," he eggs the other on between his dying chuckles and attempting to catch his breath.

"You're really just gonna stand there and laugh?!" You finally burst. Anger surely must be coming off your scent in waves, but you don't care. Standing from the chair, you don't flinch as Ghost swipes his arm out in front of you in case you were going for the Captain again. There will be no physical altercation on his watch.

"She already pulled this on me earlier, mind you, and now what? You're trying to pull it over on the lads' too, eh?" Price goads you.

"And I was telling the truth! You're the one who said I was joking," you point out. The volume of your voice is lost on you, partially blinded by the fury bleeding out.

"I suppose you never did admit to it being a prank," Price reasons, fingers grazing his beard as he runs them over it repeatedly in thought. "But how do you expect us to believe that when you clearly smell of a Beta?"

"Even on the battlefield, after everything we've been through-" Gaz starts.

"After yer all sweaty from a workout, too. I think we'd notice, Pan," Johnny argues, illuminating a legitimate point of consideration.

"Oh please," you mutter quietly to yourself. Shaking your head, you can't believe they're really all being this daft right now. "Like you have heard of those Scent Spritzers.”

There are various perfumes on the market specifically designed to alter one’s scent. Most use it smell like an Alpha when they’re not, or an Omega when they’re wanting to seduce an Alpha when going out. But Omegas posing as Betas was rarely heard of. You’re more than sure it happens more frequently than people know of, they just haven’t been caught. And in your line of work? It’s scarce. People are thoroughly vetted, but… you’d been on suppressants for a long, long time. And a Beta perfume only perfected your hiding.

“Did you forget we’re Alphas, love? We’d be able to smell you across the room if you were,” Gaz taunts. There’s a puff of his chest that makes his cockiness even more annoying than usual.

"You really want to be an Omega? Dumb yourself down to some weak fragile thing?” Johnny jokes, nudging Gaz’ arm as he shakes his head.

“A doll who can get whoever she wants? Want to be nothing more than good for knockin' up and popping out pups?” Gaz adds on.

“Are you serious right now?” You test, seething under your skin as your hands ball up into fists. “How could you say that?!”

“It’s what people say,” Ghost comments.

“Nobody would want that and you’re out here lying about it,” Johnny pokes.

“We’re only trying to point out the flaws in your little rouse, Pan,” Gaz says, a smile lighting up his features as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"And what if I was lying, hm? Would that change anything you just said to me? How you feel about Omegas?" You scoff.

“This isn’t about your designation,” Price finally speaks. Fingers still weaved into his beard, his blue eyes lift to meet yours. “I see what this is about now, but there's nothin' to worry about, Dove.” Your Captain takes on a softer tone and all of the sudden you feel yourself start to get emotional as a twinge of sadness, of the hurt bleeding through upon understanding makes you feel seen.

“I know it's intimidating, the thought of having your first unmedicated heat, but we have medics here. It's natural. Heats, ruts, we all have them. And, hey... at least you're not an Omega, right?" Whatever relief you’d momentarily experienced sinks back down in your gut with the speed of a rollercoaster drop. It’s as silent as a stakeout, the only sound being people’s breathing. And the lack of yours.

It takes a moment to gather yourself, everyone’s eyes on you with the serious topic change. While sex and the downsides to a designation are something discussed with the boys, you’d often been left out. And to your comfort. "You know what? I can’t do this,” you retort. Backing from the group, you toss your hands up. “I guess you'll just have to wait and see," you bite back. With a whip of your hair over your shoulder, you head for the door.

The room is silent once more as everyone gawks. You’d never reacted in such a manner, had an outburst like that… this is… certainly different, and something they’re not at all used to.

“It’s because they took away her suppressants today,” Price explains. It might not have been something the group should be privileged to know. A private matter, really… but with the way you acted? He felt the men deserve an explanation, at least.

“That makes sense,” Gaz responds quietly, eyes still on the door you’d gone through.

“That’s no excuse,” Johnny counters, arms crossing over his chest with a scowl on his lips.

"Well... that went better than I thought,” Ghost comments with a shrug. “Back to the plan? We can fill her in later.”

[devil-in-hiding]

imagine joining the 141 and you’re basically Domino from Deadpool 2. They have seen you escape death by the skin of your teeth with a smile on your face and a happy ‘whoop’.

Soap has quite literally watched a bullet fly past your ear, not even nicking it, just for you to twirl and land a perfect headshot

Soap:… HOW THE FUCK DID YOU NOT DIE?!

[kiryoutann]

i feel like this was wayyy too cute not to share now, so… sneak peek??? and i'm convinced simon is the most patient girl dad out there.

Walking over slowly so as not to scare her, he then asked, “What’s goin’ on ‘ere then?”

Gianna whipped around in a flash like a criminal caught in the act, her big brown eyes gleaming with a touch of guilt but not a trace of fear. "I dropped my cereal," she confessed succinctly, mirroring a trait she had unquestionably inherited from her father.

He crouched down next to her. “’Ere, let me help you with that,” then reached out, taking the paper towel from her tiny hands and started cleaning up.

Gianna just watched him until she finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to make a mess.”

“’S alright, darlin’. Accidents ‘appen.” Simon stated, rising to his feet and tossing the used tissues into the trash can. He then turned his attention back to his daughter. “But you could’ve woke me up. I’d ‘ave helped you clean it up straight away.”

“I know, but you were sleeping. An’ mum says you sleep like a… like a… clog?”

At that, he couldn't help but chuckle. “I think you mean a log, love.” He corrected.

“Oh right!” The little girl exclaims, nodding her head. “Tha’s the word. You sleep like a log.”

“Yeah, alright, whatever yer mum says.” He glanced at the box of cereal still sitting on the kitchen counter, then decided to keep himself and his daughter away from it. “So cereal is no option then. What d’you want for breakfast instead?”

Without missing a beat, Gianna chirps, “Ice cream!”

Simon snorts, shaking his head. “Can’t ‘ave ice cream for breakfast, darlin’.”

Gianna tilts her head to the side, eyes looking up at him questioningly. "Why not?" she asked. “Mummy 'as coffee for breakfast, alllll the time!” she spreads her arms out for dramatic effect—he chuckles at that. Definitely got it from mommy.

“Yeah, don’t be like yer mum, alright?”

The girl frowns slightly. “But why not? Mummy’s pretty, an’ she cooks good food.”

Something he couldn’t disagree with. He nodded, reaching out to ruffle her blonde hair. “That she does, darlin’. But we still don’t want you havin’ coffee or ice cream for breakfast, alright?”

"Okay, then can we go to Uncle John's house?" she asked.

“An’ why’s that?”

Gianna bounced on her toes, her arms swinging. “I miss Buddy an’ Daisy!”

Simon groaned inwardly. Should’ve known she’d bring that up. Ever since that one time he brought her to Price’s place and she met his dogs, Gianna has been begging to go back. Every time after school—“Can we go to Uncle John’s house?” Every weekend—“Can we go to Uncle John’s house?” And the thing is, the bloody mutts aren’t even there anymore, not since Price and his missus divorced.

“The dogs ain't there anymore, love.” He watched her face fall.

"Why not?" she asked, eyes wide in confusion.

Simon shrugged. “Cause,” he trailed off, not really wanting to explain the whole messy divorce situation to a five-year-old. “Nevermind that. What d’you want for breakfast?”

Instead of answering, Gianna crossed her arms while frowning. “I don’t want breakfast. I want Buddy an’ Daisy!

A sigh escaped Simon as the results of his parenting bit him in the ass. Bloody hell, he had to stop surrendering to her big eyes and pouting lips—just like her mum. She had learned from the best, hadn’t she? Got him wrapped around her tiny finger. There was only one trick up his sleeve to get her to cooperate.

“If you don’t eat breakfast, then then we won’t be able to go an’ watch yer mum later.”

And sure enough, Gianna’s whole expression lit up, renewed. She gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth in an exaggerated gesture. Seems like he got himself a drama queen.

“We’re gonna watch Mum?!” she asked, full of hope.

Simon nodded, trying to maintain a serious expression but always failing because of her antics. “As long as you behave an’ eat breakfast.”

The five-year-old was cheering, jumping, and doing her little dances in unbridled energy—just like her mum. He guessed it was true what Garrick said that day the lads visited the two of you at the hospital after Gianna was born—“She’s a perfect blend of the both of you.”

[worms-for-brains]

Yn and past + present Johnny interactions

(I apologize for extremely loose sketches)

[op1umeyes]

corn maze + john price

synopsis - you go to a corn maze and get fucked by john

warnings - unprotected sex, pet names, ooc!john price

notes - trying to get back into the swing of things. who knows if this will last.

i need someone to match my freak. i need JOHN PRICE to match my freak guys.

like, i could definitely go for a quickie with him in a corn maze.

just think. its early in the season of fall- ordinarily too early for the pinterest couples and groups of friends to be swarming the corn maze and pumpkin patch. you sweet talked john into going and getting the first pick of the patch early on in the season because you knew you both may get called back to work.

you were both wearing jeans and boots- the wind had a slight nip to it now- and miraculously convinced your boyfriend to wear the deep red Henley that clung to his muscles so well. in return, he had picked out a blaringly bright orange sweater so you could ‘fit in with the pumpkins’ or some other bullshit that brought a smile to his face. 

john had let you lead him around the peacefully unpopulated grounds- purchasing apple cider and other odds and ends you saw fit. he knew that you just wanted one day to feel like a normal, regular, sane couple that didn’t have their hands soaked in blood every other day- literally or figuratively. and in all honesty, he didn’t mind letting you happily pull him along because the smile on your face was worth diamonds.

eventually, after you picked over all the shops and food stands, you stopped in front of the corn maze. “final stop, john. then you can take me home,” you mused, snuggling into his inhumanly warm side. 

your boyfriend hummed beside you. “finally,” he grumbled jokingly. The quiet chuckle he earned from his comment made his heart swell a little fuller. “alright, love. lead the way.”

Five minutes later, you had no clue where to go. Ironic, right? You cursed yourself- how could you not know how to escape some dumb corn maze?

Just as your feet started to ache, you lead the both of you into a corn with a couple hay bales in the corner. John followed you and chortled as you sat down on the bale. You could barely feel the pointy straw poking your ass. 

“Stupid maze,” you grumbled.

John’s eyes twinkled. “Let me eat you out, love.”

The casualness of his tone made your mouth open and close once. Twice. “John. My love. My heart. We’re in a corn maze right now.”

One step and he crouched doen to your eye level. The devilish smile that crinkled his eyes was softening your resolve and he knew it. “C’mon, love,” he cooed, brushing a lock of your frizzy hair from your eyes. “Just let me make you feel good, yeah?” 

Stupid man and stupid sexy voice, you thought spitefully, as John’s hands clasped around your waist. He slid his hands over the soft fabric covering your waist. As he leaned closer and pressed his lips to yours in an entoxicatingly slow kiss, he slid his large hands down to the meat of your thighs.

He drank in your moans, letting your hands latch onto the back of his neck. John parted your thighs with his hand. After breaking the kiss, he sank to his knees and tugged you forward before busying himself with undoing your belt buckle.

Waves of goosebumps picked at your skin. By the cold and by John’s skillful hands, tugging your pants and underwear sown far enough to feast his eyes (and eventually mouth) on your already soaked cunt.

Are you still with me here? Because I know John would eat you so good that your inner thighs would be bright red from the prickliness of his facial hair. But honestly, you didn’t care too much. Not after John forcing not one but two orgasms out of you.

Then he finally decided to lift you up and sit him on his cock. It was a miracle you were still concious enough to give him sass, saying “at least take me on a date first, John.” He had responded with a sharp thrust into your gushing pussy.

“You come on my tongue twice, and you’re the one giving me ?” John chides you, a roughness in his voice that made your pussy tighten. “Might want to watch your mouth, love.”

You stayed silent, letting him get used to the feel of you. Your body shivered and you wrapped your arms around John’s neck, voice breaking as you pleaded for him to ruin you: right here in a fucking corn maze.

“Please, John,” you moaned. He grabbed a handful of your ass and squeezed. your positioning was awkward but you knew John would take care of you. “I need it.”

Luckily for you, John didn’t feel like wasting any more time. He positioned his hands to be gripping your waist and started moving. Agonizingly slow, he lifted you up and down, John complied. Your breathless mewls were music to John’s ears as he slowly sped up his pace, fucking up into your core.

It didn’t take long for you to feel that white-hot ball of heat tensing up in your gut. This time, though, you were worried you’d cum too fast- too overstimulated from your previous orgasms.

“Fuuuck,” John groaned into your ear. “Squeezin’ me just right, love.”

John’s words sent a chill down your spine. You bit down on your hand until it bled. John’s speed only increased.

“I feel you clenchin’ around my cock, love,” John told you. The rasp in his voice only sent you closer to your high. “Takin’ me just right. Your pussy’s perfect, love. Like you’re made for me,” he rambled, fucking you so roughly you knew you’d have bruises.

You grip at his shirt helplessly as John repeatedly hits that spot inside of you that feels like heaven. “Christ, John,” you whimper out.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Like it when I tell you what a good girl y’are?”

Tears stream down your face and the coil in your gut is so hot, so alive, so ready. “I’m gonna- John- I’m… gonna-“

“Cum for me, darlin’,” John tells you, voice choked. “Cum on my cock.”

And Jesus Christ you do. You barely have time to slap a hand over your mouth before you cum. Salty tears drip down your face while you feel your thighs go lax as the coil snaps.

John’s warm cum spills into you as he pulls you down one final time and muffles his own groaning by shoving his face into your stupidly orange sweater.

It takes a full minute and a half for you to stop twitching in John’s arms. And even so, you can feel your breathing shudder ever so slightly.

“John?”

You feel rather than hear John’s rumble of a reply. Your hand cards through his hair and you attempt to calm your breathing.

“Are you ready?”

Another grumble.

So yeah. Also. I love him. I am a hot sexy loser. Goodnight everyone love you all im losing my sanity!

[luxcuriousao3]

This idea woke me up out of a dead sleep and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it, so here you go. I always see (and love) stalker!Simon this and obsessed!Price that. But how about our boy Johnny?

Note: from my research (5 second google search) an FE (further education) college is the Scottish equivalent of a community college, for my fellow Americans

warnings: nsfw, stalking, obsession, no noncon/dubcon

Johnny's on extended leave healing up from a nasty injury, and he decides to take a figure drawing class at a local FE college to keep him entertained during his new abundance of spare time. His art skills could use a brush up anyway, and hey, if he gets to stare at a bonnie lass without her clothes on for a few hours each day, that's all the better.

He doesn't quite anticipate just how obsessed he becomes with the model, though. How he jerks off to his own drawings of you, spilling his cum onto the paper like a glossy, vinyl finish.

He sketches you constantly, now, even outside of class, trying to capture your image from memory. But he can never quite get it right. And that he has to guess what your pussy looks like when your legs are spread bothers him endlessly, being the perfectionist that he is. So, he elects to do a little... extra credit. Never let it be said that Johnny isn't an overachiever.

It's easy enough to find out where you live, and concerningly easy to break in. He debates whether he can come up with a way to tell you that you need a better home security system without you calling the police on him, and gives it up as a bad job. But that's alright. With the amount of cameras and listening devices he installs--the latter purely for your own protection, of course, since he doesn't need to hear you to draw you--he's reassured that if anything were to happen, he'd know immediately and could come to your rescue. Can't have his new muse getting hurt, after all. He's never been so inspired.

[prettybean]

Inexperienced reader x Cod Characters +18

(Ghost, Price, König, Keegan)

!gn reader! tw: mention of “daddy” (Price only), nsfw, riding, bj

Ghost

"Simon, I've never done anything like this." Your boyfriend lovingly stared at you before placing you on his lap and straightening your hair with one hand. "Take off your underwear," he urged, massaging your thighs and assisting you in removing the last piece of clothing.

"You just have to sit down, love, be good and sit on my cock." He whispered hoarsely before pointing to his thick member and asking you to take it with one hand.

"Am I doing something wrong?" . You took his cock and aligned it with your hole, making him gasp. "Fuck, put it in." He practically forced you to accept all of him, pressing you down with both hands on your hips. "Now bounce, show me how good you are at riding me." He said kissing you on the lips, you gathered courage and started moving on his length awkwardly. You felt his cock pressing against your walls

 "Simon.. am I good?" you said putting your hands on your shoulders, while you desperately tried to come on him, extremely slowly.

"You're great, but now leave it to me"

Price

You've been seeing John for two months now, but you've never had the confidence to take things a step further and become more intimate. John knew he shouldn't force you, but it was getting increasingly difficult for him to hold back.

 "Baby, how about we try something new besides cuddling?" you heard the older one remark in a whisper as he gently kissed your neck. "Hm, what do you mean?" You spoke while looking into his eyes.

He didn't answer, so he forced you lie down on the bed and caressed your sides. "John, I'm not sure I know how to do this," you replied, before he turned you on your back.

"Trust daddy," John pulled down your jeans, causing you to gasp; you parted your legs and went on all fours for him. "See? "You're already great," he chuckled before pulling out a condom and tearing it open with his teeth in front of you.

"When you have my cock inside it will be beautiful, sweetie, I promise."

König

You spent little time together due to his work, and months had passed since your last encounter; you missed him in every way possible. You last saw him in the bedroom, naked next to you, after fucking you all night. His phone calls were the only thing that provided you any relief.

"Konig, I don't know what to do." You heard a faint laugh on the other end of the phone. "What do you want to do Schatz?" .

"I don't know how to pleasure myself." You answered meekly, but it wasn't completely a lie; you typically waited for Konig to make you cum, and you'd never had to masturbate alone. 

"Oh, such a little thing. Schatz, open your legs for me and listen to what I say." You place the phone next to you, open your legs, and insert your hand into your underwear. "You can't even wait for me to get home, what do I do with you?" You massaged your sex, groaning loudly so he could hear.

Konig smiled as he heard your moans. "So you know what to do; you just wanted to hear my voice and masturbate, right? What if I didn't make you come at all?"

Keegan

"Open your mouth," you were on your knees in front of him, her throbbing cock barely touching your mouth, wetting it with precum. "I don't have all day," he reminded you, playfully slapping your cheek with his length.

"I never have, Keegan," you confessed, avoiding his amused gaze, he didn't seem surprised. "Oh, I guess I'll have to teach you." He stroked your hair before running his thumb over the center of your lips, causing them to part slightly. "Behave and open your mouth for me." You obeyed, resting the tip of his cock against your tongue.

"Now start sucking, don't use your teeth." Keegan said softly, pushing your head against his member. You sucked weakly, closing his eyes, enjoying the taste of him. You heard him moan as he pushed your head against his cock faster and faster.

 "hold your breath". You held onto his legs, before pushing him away with tears in your eyes.

"I never thought you were this good at sucking cock" he chuckled, seeing you with your mouth open, ready to start again.

[injestedsoap]

inspired by the person who i guess is my muse at this point, @femalefemur.

18+ MDNI

reader beware you're in for-- nongendered reader with breasts and a pussy, role play, domesticity, rimming, pussy eating, a no mess cream pie, and pegging.

Your John MacTavish, your sweet Soap, was not stupid. He was, in fact, one of the smartest people you have ever known. Your favorite memory, to this day, was of him, fantastically drunk, reeling off every periodic element in order while balancing a full glass of beer on his forehead. He had finished the table and pounded the beer, obviously, and you had gotten contact drunk from the sloppy wet kiss he gave you. No, Soap was whip smart…. Most of the time. Because smart as he was, Soap was also afflicted with what your friend affectionately called ‘cum brain’ which is to say when he was horny John MacTavish had cum for brains and it was leaking out of his ears. 

And, now, look… you never felt good about exploiting this fact about him… but at the end of the day if it worked it worked, and it’s not like you just left him high and dry! Sometimes you wanted pancakes in bed and, you know, if you promised a good boy a blow job in exchange for brekky well that was just what being in a relationship was, really. 

You sighed, looking at the bathroom floor. You each did your part in the apartment. You didn’t have rotating chores or anything, but Soap didn’t mind laundry and you didn’t mind dishes and whenever the trash was full it was taken out but whoever was there at the time. You both hated sweeping but a Roomba from Kyle had solved that issue. The biggest issue was the bathroom. You both kept it clean enough but you couldn’t remember the last time you had given it a proper deep clean. You crouched down, looking at the dirty tiles and pulled a face. You really didn’t want to do this. You should, this was your crusade but… well maybe if you got the smaller stuff done you could talk Soap into the floor. 

You stood, arching your back and feeling it pop. Okay, you’d get started on laundry and have most of the chores done before he got back from base today and then you would see if you could talk him into a good grout scrubbing over the weekend. You picked up the hamper and saw the bright red jockstrap on top. Looking around the apartment out of habit you ensured the coast was clear before plucking the underwear from the hamper and inhaling your boyfriend’s dirty gym smell. You’d missed having him home. It was then, nose deep in the jockstrap, that you had an idea. You grinned, biting your lip and dropped the pair back into the hamper before heading to the washing machine, you had a trap to lay. 

You let out a happy giggle as Soap came in that evening, tossing his keys in the bowl and picking you up, spinning you around as he kissed you. You’d seen each other less than 9 hours ago but he’d been on deployment for nearly four months and it was worth celebrating every evening he was home as far as either of you were concerned. 

“You smell nice,” He said into your neck, snuffling at you, “Oh, did my sweet thing do laundry?” 

You kissed him and gave his mohawk a playful tug, “It’s Friday night,” You said, peppering him with kisses, “No chores tonight, just sex,” 

Soap made a noise in the back of his throat and you shivered, “Aye, I think we can do that,” He said before tossing you over his shoulder and delivering a loud smack to your ass, carrying you back to the bedroom. 

Trap baited, bait taken, time to snap it shut. 

Saturday morning rolled around warm and lazy. Soap was a heavy sleeper at the best of times and after four orgasms and a prolonged prostate massage you didn’t think he’d even move before 10. You kissed his slack sleeping mouth before wriggling out from under his arm and making your way to the laundry room. You started up the dryer again to get the wrinkles out of the clothes and then padded over to the kitchen, getting the kettle on for tea, starting the coffee pot, and pulling out some eggs and bacon. If all went according to plan, your boy was going to need the energy. 

About a half hour later a very naked Soap came plodding into the kitchen. He flopped over the back of your chair, nosing into your neck and nibbling on it before dragging himself over to the kitchen counter, pouring coffee and plating up some breakfast. He pulled his chair next to yours at the bar, resting his cheek on top of your head as he ate a strip of bacon and waited for his coffee to cool. When the dryer beeped he groaned and started to get up but you gave him a tap on the stomach and instead extracted yourself from under him and headed to get the clothes out of the dryer. 

“Thank ye, bonnie,” He mumbled, blinking his sleepy blue eyes and giving you a sweet smile. You grabbed him by the cheeks and kissed the bacon grease off his lips. 

You folded the laundry while Soap sleepily ate his breakfast. You made a careful effort to make sure the red jock didn’t enter your hands until you were sure that he had drunk at least half his mug of coffee and then you let out a little laugh. 

“Here, your outfit for the day,” You said, laying the jockstrap on the table in front of him. 

“Ooooh!” He said, his eyes waking up a little more as he accepted the ‘outfit’, he stood from the table and pulled them on, doing a little turn so you could see him from all sides. “How do I look?” 

“Very sexy,” You replied with a big grin. 

“Not,” Soap tapped his chin thoughtfully, “‘Incredibly’ sexy,” 

“Incredibly sexy,” You laughed, your palms were sweaty, you had to play this just right, “There’s only one thing that could make you not look sexy, honestly,” 

Soap clutched his heart, feigning hurt, “Bullshit, I can make anything sexy,” 

“Really?” You asked, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. 

“Oh aye,” Soap put a hand on his hip, god he really did look good. “Go on, we’ve got all weekend, what am I making sexy.” 

“I do not think,” You said, stepping closer to poke him in the chest, “You, or anyone, could make scrubbing grout look sexy,” 

“Mmh,” He said, covering his hand with yours and looking down at you, a smoulder in his sleepy, sexed out eyes. You held them, this was the moment, he was either going to call you on it or– Soap leaned in, his breath a mix of coffee and bacon and sleep, it was rancid and you loved it anyway, “You’re on,” He whispered before kissing you hard. 

And the trap snapped shut. 

There was a knock on the door and you looked up from the email you were sending, you checked the time and frowned. You hopped off the chair you were sitting in and walked toward the door, wrapping your silk robe around you as you did. 

“I’m sorry I think you have the–” you started as you opened the door before trailing off as you took in the tall man in the baggy jeans, stained white wife pleaser, and a low slung tool belt standing in the doorway. “C-can I help you?” You asked, startled and very aware of the fact that you were in nothing but a short silk robe and very expensive lingerie. 

“Aye,” He said, his voice a low Scottish rumble, “I think ye called for some,” he made a big show of adjusting his cock, “Help with the pipes,” 

You had to bite the inside of your mouth to keep from laughing as you looked up at him, “Oh, um, yes, please, if you could come in and help me with, uh, pipe,” 

Soap came into the apartment with such exaggerated swagger you had to duck behind him to stifle your laughter. “Please, uh, um,” You schooled your face into something resembling serious and stepped around him, “The bathroom is right this way.” as you walked Soap reached out to tug up your robe and you let out an offended gasp, smacking his hand away. “Just because my boyfriend is out of town on business doesn’t mean you can just grab anything you like,” You said primly, shooting him a dirty look over your shoulder. 

Soap let out a noise you didn’t even know how to classify and spun you around, pulling you in by the belt of your robe and running his hand down your back to cup your full ass, “Pretty shite boyfriend, leaving you all alone dressed like this needing help with,” He squeezed your ass before saying “Pipe,” and popping the ‘P’. 

You shuddered and it wasn’t entirely put on this time, you reached out to touch his chest, splaying your hand over the broad muscles and bit your lip, “Well… how about you see if you can get the pipe fixed… and then we’ll talk.” 

Soap leaned in, he had brushed his teeth before changing and his mouth was much nicer smelling now, “Let’s see what we can do about that pipe problem,” 

He let you go and swaggered his way over to the bathroom, you stood back and watched him turn on and off the sink, and then the tub, and then get down on his hands and knees, arching his back and giving you a peek of the top of his jockstrap over the waistline of his jeans. You bit your thumb, you had to admit it wasn’t not not sexy. 

He spread his legs, arching his back and shoving his round ass out, just the way you liked him when you broke out the strap. “Alright, I think I see the problem,” He looked over his shoulder back at you, you bit your lip and looked back, “But I’m gonna need the room.” 

You perched on the edge of your tub with a glass of wine Soap had insisted you needed and watched your boyfriend in nothing but a tool belt and the red jockstrap scrub the tile of your small bathroom. And you weren’t going to lie… it was extremely sexy. For some reason his maintenance man character had decided he needed to strip down to his underwear, you weren’t keeping track of the reasoning, something about his clothes being dirty and not wanting to get the floors dirty while he was cleaning them. He was committed to the tool belt though. He also needed to keep you in sight line of his ass the entire time. His round, hairy, ass, flexing as he scrubbed the tile, his tight pink hole winking at you with every full body scrub. You crossed your legs and took a sip of the wine. 

Soap pushed himself up, you watched his hole disappear and were still staring when you realized Soap had turned to look at you, his eyes mischievous. “Alright, well, looks like you should be good to go, love,” 

“Oh?” You asked, licking the wine from your lips as you raked your eyes over him “Am I good to go?” 

Soap gave a half grin and crawled over, rising up over you and stepping into the tub. You let out a little giggle, setting aside the glass of wine and laying back in the tub as he gripped the edges and leaned in over you with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “What ever will your boyfriend think?” Soap purred low in his chest.” 

“Oh I don’t know,” You replied, letting the robe fall open and giving Soap a beautiful view of your lingerie clad body, “he’s not as good a boy as you,” 

Oh and that worked. You watched his nipples peak and his cheeks flush, if there was one thing about Soap he loved being a good boy. “A good boy am I?” He asked, trying to keep the character going. 

“So good,” You said, reaching up and stroking his cock over the rapidly filling jockstrap “Coming in and fixing my pipes like that,” You squeezed his clothed cock “How about I fix yours now?” 

Soap did his best to not scramble out of the tub and instead climb out with as much dignity and swagger as he could muster. He then reached down, taking you by the hand and pulling you up, out, and into his chest. He reached down and grabbed you by the ass, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“You should take off your tool belt,” You whispered, your heels bouncing off his round ass as you tried to navigate not getting grease from a wrench on your panties. 

“I will when we get to the bedroom,” Soap whispered back before carrying you off to the bedroom. “So,” He said, dropping you onto the bed and then unbuckling his tool belt, letting it fall to the floor as carefully as he was capable. “How are you going to reward your good maintenance man, eh?” 

You giggled and crooked a finger. Soap crawled onto the bed, pausing briefly to shuck the jock strap, before leaning in and nosing your pussy sweetly. He kissed and sucked on your stomach before kissing up your chest until he was sucking and mouthing at your neck. You moaned, raking your fingers through his hair, your legs wrapped around his waist. 

“I love your ass,” You moaned, rubbing your ankles over it, “Please let me have your ass,” 

Soap moaned loudly against your neck. It had been a while since you had given him a good pegging and after being teased with his tight hole for an hour today you were dying to stretch him around your strap. 

“Please,” He grunted. 

You pulled him up and kissed him hard before rolling the two of you around so you were on top. He reached up, squeezing your breasts over your bra and surging up to kiss your chest. His cheeks were flushed hot and you pushed him between your soft breasts for a moment, enjoying the feel of his hot face and his hotter mouth on your skin before pulling back to get your strap and a bottle of lube out of the side drawer. 

“Hands and knees,” You said, your cheeks as red as his. 

Soap barely needed to be told, rolling over onto his front and then getting up on his hands and knees, arching his back, his cheeks spread enticingly.  

You leaned in, unable to help yourself, and gave his hole a deep, sloppy kiss. 

Soap let out a whimpering moan and you gave his ass a swat before pulling back and strapping on your harness. You watched as he winked his pretty pink hole at you and grinned, popping open the cap on the lube and, with no warning at all, poured a healthy glob right down his crack. 

Soap let out the cutest little noise at the feeling of cool lube sliding down his cheeks and before it could drip down onto the sheets you scooped it back up with your finger, sliding your index finger in up to the second knuckle in one go. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” He panted, his character fully forgotten as he pressed back onto your finger, forcing it deeper into his tight hole. 

“Good boy,” You cooed, acting like you weren’t just as affected by this as him, “Such a good boy, looking so sexy cleaning the grout for me,” 

“To-oooooo-ldja,” Soap moaned, bearing down as you slid a second finger into him and then quickly worked in a third. “Can make bloody anything sexy,” 

“You told me,” You agreed, twisting your fingers and grinning at the yelp from Soap as you rubbed his prostate. You were probably imagining that it felt a little tender after all the love it got last night. You leaned in and kissed the slope of his back, working your way up to kiss his broad back and rub your cheek against his soft body hair before rising up slightly and rubbing the tip of your silicone cock against his hole. “Ready for me?” You asked. 

“Been ready,” Soap grunted. 

You fucked in in one smooth motion and Soap yowled. 

“Cheeky.” You said before snapping your hips and getting to work. 

You worked your hips as you plastered yourself over his back, kissing his warm skin sloppily and reaching down to work his cock, sliding his foreskin over his heavy shaft in time with your thrusts. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Soap chanted over and over as you fucked him and tugged him in time. 

“I love you so much,” You moaned into his back, your sweat dripping down from your face to join his sweat pooling on his back, you leaned in and licked a stripe up his spine, “So fucking good to me, so fucking hot on your knees for me,” 

“I’m your big fucking handy man,” Soap babbled, “Your handy man, big strong– unf!” Every inch of Soap tensed up and lightning fast you grabbed the base of his cock, stopping his climax as he yelled and you pulled out. Taking off the harness as fast as you could and then quickly rolling Soap into his back and dropping your dripping wet cunt onto his throbbing shaft. You both moaned and you leaned down, panting into his mouth, and managed to whisper, “No mess.” The way his pupils blew out the color in his eyes told you he understood what you were saying and in four quick thrusts he was cumming deep inside you. You barely had time to enjoy the sensation before Soap was rolling you up onto your shoulders and he was between your thighs, burying his face in your pussy as he licked and sucked on your clit, his own cum coating his face along with your juices. 

“Soap!” You screeched, locking your legs around his head and burying your fists in his hair as you curled in on yourself and seized in a white hot orgasm. You were barely connected to your body as Soap lovingly licked you through it, you had to all but pull him away when the sensations were finally too much. 

You both lay there on the surprisingly clean sheets as you panted and let the sweat dry on your flushed bodies. Soap’s large hand fumbled across the bed to find yours, tugging it to rest on his stomach as he idly played with your fingers. 

“I have a suspicion,” He said, his voice raw. 

“Mhm?” You murmured.

“That you just wanted the grout cleaned.” 

You grinned. 

[soy-soi-si]

Okay but 141 or any cod men with a Reader exactly like Morticia Adams.

GIVE ME THEM ABSOLUTELY LOVING EACH OTHER, AND READER BEING A HUGE BAD BITCH. Give me a reader that knows her worth, and how to communicate with her Men! A reader that literally cannot be tortured because she will enjoy it. A reader that will tease, flirt, and bask her s/o in her attention and expect the same devotion.

[mphoenix-7]

Bitter Allies [Soap x Reader]

Chapter 10: The Cabin: Day 5 (pt.1)

Summary: You and Soap both struggle to sleep. You have nightmares all night while Soap tries to rationalize his feelings and help you cope with the nightmares.

Word Count: 6,821

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, swearing, angst, strong language, slight smut, nudity, graphic description of blood in nightmares

A/N: I had a few comments on Wattpad asking for a specific scene for this chapter, so I modified the chapter to include that. Please enjoy, like, comment, and reblog 🫶🏻

Masterlist | <- Previous | Next ->

Bitter Allies • Part 10

No matter what he does, Soap cannot get to sleep tonight. It not like he's too hot, and he wasn't horribly uncomfortable in his bed either. Yet, he's been tossing and turning for hours. While there was no way of telling time, he knows it has to be past midnight at this point.

He's not completely clueless as to what's keeping him up though. Any time he tries to quiet his mind, it always end up wandering back to the woman lying silently in her cot a few feet away from him. He can't stop thinking about you. About what happened today, or in this case, what happened yesterday. Within the last twenty-four hours.

It wasn't even the fact he faced off with a black bear. Hell that didn't really scared him much. He was a well traveled soldier was this point and had survived the wilds of Russia. He'd learned how to handle wild animals of all sorts. No, the thing bothering him was feeling like he almost lost you today.

Having sex with you just the day before had opened his eyes to new feelings he felt towards you. It was easy to push that down with time and put his walls back up. He could just call it a mistake and move on, pretend like it meant nothing. But something as drastic as hearing you scream in terror, begging for him to get to you, looking so frightened and small and vulnerable, shaking and sobbing as he held you... it was different than just having sex.

At least with sex, he could blame his new feelings on the fact you'd done something so intimate. He felt different towards you cause you made him feel good, because sex makes people feel closer to each other, because it was exciting and fun, because he normally didn't sleep around just for fun, so doing it as a one time thing was confusing for him. There were a million excuses to explain how he felt. But with what happened with the bear, he couldn't fully rationalize those feelings.

When he heard you scream, his blood ran ice cold. He'd never felt such panic at the thought that you might be in trouble. Even thinking about it now makes his heart beat a little faster. Then when he finally got to you, and you looked so scared, something in him just snapped. He wanted to protect you, but not in the same way he wanted to protect his brothers and sisters in arms. He couldn't explain it.

Once that bear had run off, all he wanted to do was get to you. Make sure you were ok. The thought of you being hurt filled him with dread. It wasn't like that with his other squad mates. If the 141 boys got hurt, he'd be worried and concerned, but with you he'd almost felt sick. He didn't think of himself as sexist, but maybe it was because you were a woman. But he'd worked with other women before and never felt that way about one he liked let alone you, who he couldn't stand.

Then when you started trembling, he could have died. He had to fight off the urge to wrap you up in his arms and hold you close to him. He probably would have had you not been naked. Even if he could brush or excuse everything else, this was one thing he couldn't explain. He had never felt such a stong urge to want to hold someone. The only other time he could think of having a feeling that strong would have been when his sisters got scared when they were kids. He'd certainly never wanted to hug Ghost or the others or any other female he'd worked with.

Then of course once you got inside, and you wouldn't shut up about how you almost died, that kept bringing up all those feelings tenfold. He couldn't stop thinking about himself not being fast enough. Not getting to you in time. Feeling panicked, filled with dread, wanting to hug you close to him and never let go.

He couldn't make sense of it. Had these feelings always been here, and they'd just been hidden behind layers and layers of hate and resentment? And when you'd finally cleared your minds, is that when it could finally come through. God... did he actually like you? And more than just another teammate.

Soap growls, slapping his hands over his hands and dragging them down. He was going insane. This cabin was making him absolutely insane. He wanted to go back so desperately to when it was simple, but there was no turning back now. Hell, he still had the rest of today with you and then two more days past that. But maybe it wouldn't be so bad. You had "started over" after all. You'd even done that stupid little bid of reintroducing yourselves to each other.

A huff leaves Soap as he thinks about that. Fuck it'd been so fucking cute. Your annoyingly adorable pout when he didn't shake your hand right away and even more adorable look when he had. He'd never thought of you as cute. Annoying fit, but not adorable. Something had changed, and he didn't like it, but he did.

He glances over to where you lay, fast asleep and breathing peacefully. You're on your side facing him, his liner pulled up right to your chin. It's so dark out he can't really make out your face. The wood stove between your cots, which normally did have a fire going during the night, was currently not being used. It was a warmer night, so he decided there was no point in starting a fire. The only light source was coming from the moon, but it was only a half moon. It barely illuminated the room.

Soap is about to give up on trying to sleep for the night and go to the kitchen and draw or maybe journal for a bit. Or as Gaz would say, write in his diary. Whatever you wanted to call it, writing things out helped get stuff off his mind.

He's about to get out of bed when he hears a faint whimper from your side of the tiny room. He stills for a moment, looking over at you when you do it again. Your cot makes the God awful creaking sounds it always makes whenever you move the slightest bit, and Soap watches you curl into a tight ball. You're starting to breathe heavy, taking very small gasps, and he knows you're having a nightmare.

You sound like you had right after the bear attack, only on a smaller scale. He frowns at he listens to you, only able to tolerate it for a few seconds before he's slipping out of bed and taking the two quick steps to your side.

He kneels down, able to see your face a little better now that he's closer. It's pinched up, your brows furrowed and lips turned downward in a frown. He feels the longing in his chest once again to hug you close to him and comfort you, but he won't let himself. Instead, he places a hand on your arm, giving you a very gentle shake to try and wake you up from whatever is plaguing you.

"Oi, lass." He whispers softly. "Hey, States. Wake up." He adds a little louder when you don't come out of sleep the first time.

You startle awake, taking in a big gasp of air and jumping. Your hand flies out to grab at his arm, and he lets you sit up. Your eyes are widened in fear, and he quickly tries to calm you down.

"Hey, easy." He tells you gently. "You were having a nightmare."

"O-oh.." He hears you weakly mutter. "I'm sorry, did I wake you up?"

Soap frowns at your question and shakes his head. "Nah, I was already up."

"Why are you still? Can't you fall sleep?" You ask, and he knows he can't tell you the real reason why he's awake. That he can't sleep because you were tormenting his mind.

"It's just a bit warm is all. I'm too hot to get comfortable." It wasn't a complete lie, just a half truth. "I'll be fine. Go back to sleep, aye?" He gets up, moving back over to his cot and setting down. He hears you mumble an "alright" before your cot starts squeaking again as you settle.

Soap stares up at the ceiling, you now in the forefront of his mind once again. All those odd unexplainable feelings from earlier had resurfaced, and he had to push them all back down once more. He just needed to sleep it off. Maybe his mind was just tired, and he wasn't thinking straight. That had to be it. He'd think more clearly in the morning.

He tries to sleep, but he still can't get himself to drift off. Cursing softly and kicking his blanket off in frustration, he fishes out his journal from under his pillow and gets up to go into the kitchen. It's not much brighter out there, but the small table sat by the window allowed for slightly more light to come in.

Opening his journal to a new page, he begins to scribble his feelings into the book. He writes about the argument from the morning, about the things he said to you. He writes about hearing your voice and how it made him panic. About the bear, how small you felt, about the moments right after and how he hates that you make him feel this way. He hated you long before this, and now he just had more reasons to add to that. More reasons to hate you.

But then why can't I hate you...

The last words he wants to write in his journal don't make it down onto the paper as his attention is torn away from the book. A sob is coming from the bedroom. Standing before his mind can catch up, he opens the bedroom and peaks inside. You're asleep again, he's pretty sure, back on your side and sobbing. Your breath has a panicked rhythm, more so than before.

And then, if it wasn't hard enough, he hears you call his name in a mumbled and slurred speech. Pleading with him, crying for him, and it's like his heart being ripped from his chest. Like he's reliving the encounter with you, and he can't stand it anymore.

In a few quick strides, he's back to your side, gently shaking you awake again.

***

Big black sharp claws, a horrible pain in your stomach, blood staining the clear water, guts floating up right before your eyes. Your guts. The pain is intense, feeling like a burning sensation. You scream, hands gripping onto black fur and pushing away the animal that is trying to bit at your throat. Your arms shake as you struggle to hold the beast back. You scream again, this time for the one man you know is here to help you.

Please, you don't want to die like this...

The bear's head turns and bites your arm, pain radiating where its teeth sink in. You let go, ripping your arm free, but also ripping the flesh from your arm and leaving the bones bare. You don't know how you haven't passed out yet.

As you look at your arm, screaming in horror at the all too real visual, the bear lunges, teeth sinking into your throat. Your head is pinned to the side as the pain sinks in, as breathing becomes harder.

Through your tears, you see him. Standing on the side of the lake shore, looking out towards you. His arms are crossed, his expression stern. You beg him to help you, the words coming out even despite the animal crushing your throat. You plead, reaching out your mangled arm to him, but he turns away. He disappears into the trees, leaving you behind.

You thought you could trust him... you remember starting over... why was this happening?

The bear forces you under water then, its large body pinning you to the bottom on the lake, head thrashing as it tears at your throat. You gasp, somehow able to breathe in the water, and when your eyes open it's pitch black.

The pressure is still on your chest, the burning in your stomach and neck, but you're able to move better. Maybe it let you go, but you can't see anything. You sit up, gasping and blindly grabbing at the air in front of you to grab the bear before it can get you again. You miss every time though until it grabs your arms again, and you cry out as you duck away, fearing it's going to get you again.

As you duck, your head sits something solid, and you pause. The pain starts to leave your body, besides your head, and you realize you're not in water anymore. You make out a window that has a tiny bit of moonlight shining through it and realize you'd hit your head right on the frame. Then your ears start to work and you hear someone saying your name.

"States please! You're having a nightmare! Lass, you're just dreaming, it's alright!"

You immediately recognize the Scottish accent, but you don't quite interpret the message he's giving. The freshest memory you have of him is of him walking away while you got mauled. You rip your arms away, trying to get away, but you can't. A hard wall blocks you in.

"No!! Get away! You left! You fucking left me to die!" You scream at him, still not in the right mind.

He puts his hands on your thighs by your knees, rubbing soothing shapes with this fingers. "Shhh, it's alright. You were having a nightmare. You're alright. Please, calm down. It's alright." He coos over and over again. "Just a nightmare. Deep breaths. Come back to me, hen."

Your breathing starts to slow slightly as your mind separates reality from dreamscape. Memories of what actually occurred flood your head, but now you're just left with the raw feeling of terror from what you made up. You cry, hands covering your face as you remember the fear, the pain, the feeling of teeth and ripping flesh.

You feel yourself move, being pulled into Soap's chest. His large arms wrap around your body and hold you firmly against him. He guides your head to lay on his shoulder, forehead tucked against his neck. You don't fight it, maybe because you're still kind of out of it, maybe because it feels nice. He's so warm, he's whispering gentle things to you in a deep voice, and his hands rub soft circles on your back as you sob.

"I've got ya... It's alright now. You were just dreaming. Just a nightmare." He repeats, one of his hands gently cradling the back of your head and bushing softly through your hair.

"I-I-t-it was-s hor-horri-ble..." You finally choke out, beginning to hyperventilate more than cry.

"I know... I know..." Soap says softly, holding you a bit tighter while you struggle for air. "It's ok though. Just breathe for me."

"It attacked me... I felt its teeth in my throat, and it cut me open, and you were th-there..." You're just making yourself upset all over again as you recall everything that happened. "You just watched. You wouldn't help, and then you left me..."

"Oh hell, lass..." Soap frowns as he listens to you somewhat explain your dream through broken words. "It wasn't real, hen. It wasn't real."

"But it felt real..." You whimper.

"Hey, look at me." Soap says gently, moving his hand to your chin and pulling you away from him just slightly. Your eyes meet his, and you can just barely make out the whites from his bright blue irises. "It was not real. I know it felt like it, but it wasn't. I know we fight a lot. I know we are a pain in each other's asses, but listen to me. You are still 141. I will always have your back. No bear is going to get you on my watch. You hear me? Don't you think for one second that I would just leave you. When I heard your scream, I never run so fast in my damn life to get to you."

You're left speechless when he's done. How do you respond to something like that? It was so sweet, so heartfelt, so not the Soap MacTavish you knew. You'd been seeing small glimpses of this softer side of his, but nothing like this. His words are a soothing balm to the terrors you dreamt of, and you've never been so grateful to have him here with you.

"Soap..." You whisper, holding his gaze and allowing your body to ease itself of tension. "Do you really mean that?"

"Of course I do." He drops his hand from your chin, settling it on your hips instead. "I don't want you dead. I don't not like you that much."

You laugh softly, probably because you're exhausted. It was a long day, and to top it off, nightmares sort of took a lot out of you. At least he didn't hate you. He wouldn't be here holding you in his arms if he did.

"Thank you." You tell him softly. "For everything. For coming to save me, for giving me your shirt, for making me soup, and calming me down, and... I really appreciate it."

"Don't do that. You don't need to do that. My mum would have beheaded me if she knew I didn't help a lady in distress. Plus, I just couldn't stand the sound of your cot when you thrash around." He grumbles, but you know he doesn't mean that.

"Well, my parents wouldn't be happy if I didn't acknowledge it." You throw back at him. "Plus I don't want to hear you bitch about how I never even said thank you."

"Brat." Soap chuckles. "Go to sleep. Don't need you to be grouchy tomorrow."

You're smiling, but it quickly fades at the idea of going to sleep. Despite Soap making you feel better, the nightmares still tickles at the back of your mind. Just waiting for you to shut your eyes so it can take over once more.

"I... I might stay up for a little bit." You say slowly.

"I know you're exhausted. You had a stressful day. Get some sleep, lass." He tells you softly, trying to gently push you to lay down, but you don't let him.

"But what if I have another nightmare?"

Soap pauses for a moment when you say that. You can't make out his expression in the dark, but you feel like he's clenching his jaw. There's a beat of silence before he continues.

"Then I'll be right here." He assures you. "You'll be alright."

"Well, I don't want to keep waking you up."

"Eh, you haven't yet. Still hadn't been able to get to sleep. Don't worry about me though." Soap starts to gently nudge you to get you to lay done. You're a bit reluctant, but you let him. You sink back onto your cot, the springs creating a symphony of whiny metallic screeches as you do. "Fucking hell, I hate your bed so much." He grumbles.

You roll your eyes, sighing heavily. You would argue more with him about your squeaky cot, ask him how he thinks you felt having to sleep on it, but you're actually pretty tired. So you opt to just lay back and hope you won't dream at all.

"Alright. But if I wake you up though I'm not gonna feel bad." You yawn softly.

"Yeah whatever, you-" Soap pauses to yawn as well. "Probably wouldn't have regardless." He finishes.

You giggle a little bit. "Goodnight, Soap."

"Night, States."

***

You're not sure what time it is, but you wake up in a cold sweat, Soap gently shaking your arm. Your cheeks are damp, and it still takes you a second to figure out that you're not dreaming anymore. Although you are getting quicker at coming around with each time he wakes you up.

You still grab his wrist in a death grip, breathing heavily as you look in the dark at him. He's still shushing you softly like he had the other times, though he sounds a lot more tired now. You're definitely waking him up.

"Hell, States. You're fine. Just another nightmare." He says, rubbing his face with his free hand when you won't let go of his other hand immediately. "It's alright, lass. Can you let go of my arm?"

You blink a few times, coming back once again. His words take a few seconds to register, and you release him once they do. You're far past feeling guilty now. You've woken him up a few times now. The nightmares are not letting up or going away.

"Sorry... Fuck what the hell is wrong with me..." You sigh, drying your cheeks on your shirt as you sit up. This was probably the fifth time now. It had to be close to 0400 but it's too hard to tell. The room was still in total darkness, so you know it's not quite 0700 yet.

Soap sighs softly, stinking down to sit on the edge of your bed, making the springs make a horrid noise. "There's nothing wrong with you. You're just dealing with a lot. Processing stuff. You'll probably be fine tomorrow."

"I want to be fine now." You complain. You felt bad for keeping him awake. If it was just you, you wouldn't care, but this was exhausting for Soap too.

"Unfortunately it doesn't work that way. Only thing you can do is just go back to sleep."

You can tell he doesn't really want to stay up with you. He wants to sleep, and you can't blame him. He's been up all night essentially and any sleep he is getting is being interrupted. You're honestly surprised he hadn't snapped at you yet.

"The sun's gotta be rising soon. I think I'm just going to stay up." You say, pushing the liner down and pulling your legs free.

"You don't know that. Could be only 0200 for all we know." He counters, but he doesn't push it. "But if you wanna stay up for a bit though that's fine. I just wanna sleep. I'm fucking tired."

You frown, watching as he gets up and drags his feet as he walks over to his side of the room. "I know you are. I'm sorry."

"Eh," Soap waves a hand back towards you as he crawls back into his cot. "It's fine. You can't help it." He yawns, the sound a little obnoxious and dramatic. "Just don't stay up too long." He adds, already half asleep the second his head hits his pillow.

"Alright." You agree, not even sure he's heard you. After a few minutes, he's already softly snoring.

You carefully try to get off your cot, wincing as the squeaking from the springs echo in the quiet room. Soap's snoring continues on uninterrupted though. Normally, you moving even the slightest bit would make him wake up and gripe, so that was a testament to how out of it he truly was.

The rest of the walk to the bedroom door is silent in comparison once you're off your cot. Even the slight squeak of the door hinges is nothing. Once you're in the kitchen, you can breathe a sigh of relief, glad to finally give Soap a little time to actually get some sleep. Though now you're cursed with trying to find something to do to occupy your mind.

It's far too dark to do something like read. You could use the flashlight, but you don't want to waste the batteries on something like that. You'd rather have it for emergencies. Cooking was also out of the question. The pots and pans and the smell of food would probably just wake Soap up again. Plus it was dark still. It was a little hard to cook without being able to see what you're doing.

You can, however, make yourself a drink. It was just a mixture of purified water from your cantina and a cherry flavoring packet, but it was something to occupy your mind for a few seconds and gave you something somewhat tasty to drink.

You set about digging through the box for the flavor you want, finding what you hope is a red and not an orange packet. When you tear it open though, a strong scent of cherry confirms it was the right flavor. You mix it into some water, trying to stir your cup quietly. Every time the spoon hits the side of the metal cup, it sounds so loud in the quiet night air.

You're about done with your stirring and are about to go sit at the little table when you hear a stick snapping somewhere outside. You inhale sharply, your body going tense. You try to rationalize with yourself that it's nothing. Just a deer or something else. But of course your sleep deprived, stressed out, overactive, brain thinks it's the bear.

No matter how much you tell yourself it's nothing and to calm down, your heart rate just keeps getting higher and higher. You can't make yourself calm down. Even if your rational brain knew it wasn't in danger, that didn't keep all the sensors from firing off.

Then you hear another twig snap, this one closer to the cabin. A horrible shiver runs up your spine as you imagine it is the bear. Smelling you from outside, right outside the door. It could just bust down that door and get you. And it's dark out, its fur would blend in so well that you wouldn't even see it coming.

That's enough to set you off. Your hands shake as you try to place your cup down somewhere it won't spill. You just want to be back in your bed. Right by Soap. An extra door between you and whatever else is outside.

The cup doesn't quite make it though. What was most likely just a crab apple from a nearby tree falls and lands on the roof by the deck. It rolls from the roof and hits the deck, making a thumping sound, which makes you jolt. Your frazzled mind doesn't think it's a nut though. You imagine it's the sound of a bear knocking something over outside while it makes its way up onto the deck.

You are in full panic mode. Water spills over the rim of the cup as you jump, and you hurriedly set it down. Once your hands are free, you bolt back into the bedroom. You don't mean to, but you end up slamming the door in your hurry. It doesn't immediately occur to you how loud it was, but it was enough to wake Soap up.

The poor Scot jumps awake, the loud bang nearly giving him a heart attack. He's on high alert as his eyes search the darkness for what caused the loud sound. He's drawn instantly to your dark figure by the door, and he can hear you breathing heavily but quietly.

"States?" You hear him ask hesitantly. "What the hell? What's wrong?"

You flinch when you hear his voice. You'd managed to wake him up yet again. Though you feel an odd mix of guilt and relief. You hate to admit it, but there is a part of you that is happy he's awake.

"There.. there's something outside..." You say softly, as though the imagery thing out there would hear.

"What?" Soap asks. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"There was a noise! I heard something on the porch and-and-"

"Oh Christ." Soap sighs. "Lass, it's probably nothing." He tries to reassure you, but you don't budge. Your tense figure stays standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around yourself as you watch the door.

"But-"

Then you hear a loud bang, and your heart jumps to your throat. It definitely came from outside. There was no way something in the kitchen had fallen over. You quickly back up until you're at Soap's side, tears collecting at the rim of your vision. Your heart is pounding, and you're doing everything you can to not have a full panic attack.

"See! I told you! What if the bear is back!?" You cry out.

Soap up on his feet instantly. Seeing him so alert only makes you want to panic more though. If he is this ready to go, then it really could be that the bear was back.

"What are you doing?!" You ask him, unable to keep the panic from your voice.

"I'm just gonna go check it out. I'll be right back." He tells you rather calmly. You're anything but calm though.

"No! Don't do that! What if something happens?!" You grab his arm before he can leave, making him look back at you.

"I doubt the bear is back. That thing was scared shitless. Just stay here. I'll only be a minute." He gives your hand a little pat, and despite any further protesting from you, he leaves to go check the sound out.

You have an internal debate with yourself on if you should go with him or not. You are terrified to face off with that black bear again, but you also don't want Soap to be by himself if it is back. Sure, he scared it off the first time, but you wanted to have his back like he had yours. After a few seconds of going back and forth in your head, you finally give in and rush after him.

"Soap! Wait up!" You sigh, running to catch up with him in the kitchen.

By the time you get there, Soap has already grabbed the flashlight and is shining it out the windows on the side where the banging sound had come from. His hand is cupped by his eyes as he looks around.

"I don't see anything out there." He assures you as you stand close to him, too scared to look for yourself.

"Well the bear is black. Kinda blends in right now." You mutter, chewing on your lip.

Soap huffs softly, standing up straight again as he looks back over to you. "Most bears sleep during this time. I am pretty certain it's not out there.

"Then what was that loud sound? Huh?" You worry, frowning at him. Soap groans, and you watch in confusion and then panic as he goes the door. "Don't fucking go out there! Are you crazy?!"

He's already out the door though, shining the light outside and looking over the porch. You manage to make yourself go to the doorway, watching him helplessly as he scouts it out.

"There's a bucket out here that's been knocked over. It was pro- Jesus! Fucking!" Soap jumps suddenly, taking a quick step back towards the door, which makes you jump.

"What?? What?!?" You shout, bouncing on your heels slightly as you try to make yourself stay and not run. You feel like your heart is going to explode it's beating so hard.

Soap takes a deep breath, placing a hand over his chest to calm himself down. "Just a fucking raccoon. Scared the shit out of me. See, have a look." He motions for you to come look as he shines the light.

Your feet stay firmly planted, but you do strain to look outside, and you can see a raccoon in the middle of the yard, its eyes glowing due to the light shining on it. It's frozen in place, on its way back to the woods. Then it suddenly turns and runs the rest of the way back.

"It probably just knocked that bucket over. Looking for food or something." Soap pieces together, turning and heading back inside. He shuts the door and places the flashlight back on its shelf. "No bear though. Come on, let's get back to bed."

You still haven't left your spot, trembling as you still don't feel safe. You know it's irrational to think the bear is still out there, even though Soap just proved it was most likely just a raccoon you'd been hearing, but you can't help it. The only thing that makes you move is when Soap comes over and gently grabs hold of your hips, trying to pull you away from your frozen state.

You resisting at first, but it doesn't take much for Soap to get you walking back to the bedroom. Your arms are folded over your chest, shivering both from fear and because the opened door has let some of the chilly night air in.

"Fuck. You're shaking again." Soap sighs, his hand rubbing your back as he guides you through the bedroom door. "You need to relax and stop working yourself up."

"I can't help it!" You frown, your exhausted mind breaking down a bit. "I've had fucking I don't even know how many nightmares about it now. I'm so tired, but I'm scared to sleep. But if I stay awake, then every little sound makes me imagine the bear just stalking the outside of the cabin! I just want to sleep..." You let out a little sob.

"Oh, States... you're killing me." Soap sighs, giving your back a few pats. "Here, come give me a hand real quick." He leaves your side, and you watch him out over to your cot. You're confused at first and then wince as the railing of your bed make jarring sounds as he moves it.

"What are doing?" You ask him, plugging one ear to help mute the sound.

"I'm moving your cot next to mine for the night." He explains. "Come give us a hand." He walks around to the side and gives it a push, essentially doing all the work himself. The beds are already close to being next to each other.

"You really don't have to-" You try to protest, but with a final shove, the beds are now side by side, almost creating one mattress.

"There." Soap sighs, crawling over yours and settling onto his own. "Come on. I'm tired." He pats your mattress firmly. "Get your ass in this bed and go to sleep." He grumbles, readjusting his pillow and blanket while he speaks.

"Was that really necessary?" You question, though you really don't feel like arguing.

"Yes." Soap says firmly. "Now I don't have to keep getting up.  You have another nightmare, I'm just going to kick you. You start blabbering about a bear, and I can just slap you."

His explanation, though a little harsh sounding, makes you smile a bit. He was clearly doing this so you felt safer. Also probably cause he truly was sick of you waking him up, but the sediment was there. Slowly, you walk over to the bed and sink down onto the mattress, fidgeting until you get comfortable. It pulls a long groan from Soap.

"That sounds even worse up close..." He complains, making you smile again.

"We could trade cots you know." You offer, getting a dry laugh from him.

"Yeah, not a chance. Sleep tight, States."

"Sweet fucking dreams." You mumble back.

***

You're out in the middle of the lake, the sun is shining on your back as you scrub your front with a wash cloth. The water is warm for once, you notice. It feels like you're taking a regular bath back at your parent's home in the US, expect for the fact you're outside. You're completely unaware of your surroundings, not paying any mind to what's around you as you bathe. It's so peaceful out, you don't feel the need to.

A twig snapping somewhere off in the distance breaks the visage of peace. You gasp and quickly turn to scan the woods for any dangers. All you see is the lush greenery. The only movement is from the wind blowing through the leafs. You want to go back to bathing, but you just can't shake the feeling that something is with you.

Then a pair of red eyes can be seen in the middle of out of the bushes. The red is a stark contrast to the green leafs, and you find yourself freezing as you stare into them. Slowly, the eyes get closer, a nose and head appearing as a snarling bear shows itself. You gasp, feeling yourself shrink down. The fear that had been clawing at you starts up again, making your heart pound in your chest.

Then, you feel something behind you. Something sharp grabs onto your sides, teeth sink into the side of your neck. You scream, trying to get away, but the thing behind you pulls you back, not letting you escape so easily. Terror fills you, and you think the bear has somehow gotten behind you. But then the bear talks.

"Sorry, love. Didn't mean to frighten you."

A deep Scottish drawl fills your ears. You pause as the sharp, what you thought were claws, smooth out and turn into warm palms. The teeth biting down on your neck ease up, and the stinging feeling turns into the warm press of lips. You're confused for a long moment.

"S-Soap?" You question, trying to look behind you. It's hard to turn your head though when the person's head is pressed into the side of your neck, leaving delicate kisses over where teeth had once been. You know it's him though.

"Soap, th-there's a bear! We need to go!" You try to urge him, completely ignoring the fact that you're naked and he's kissing you. "It's over there! Please! It's going to get us if w-"

"Don't you worry about that. It's not gonna get you as long as I'm here." He promises, a hand sliding up your body and cupping one of your breasts. His thumb circles at your nipple, pulling a gasp from you.

"What the hell are you doing?" You question him, grabbing at his hands as they cup your breasts. You look down, the sight making you feel heavy all of a sudden. "We need to get in the cabin." You attempt to leave, but Soap tightens his grip, pulling you firmly against him. You feel his firm, definitely naked body, against your backside. Even more shocking, you can feel an even firmer something else pressing into your lower back.

"You're safe with me, lass. Nothing is gonna try to harm you as long as I'm here. So you can relax. I've got you, hen."

He starts to kiss at the side of your neck once more, hitting every spot that makes you weak in the knees. Your eyes remain on the tree line, scanning for that bear. There is no sign of it now though. There is no longer a feeling of fear. Just a warmth and a feeling of safety. You start to involuntarily relax, putting more weight back onto Soap and letting him hold you.

"There we are..." Soap whispers to you, his hands starting to dip lower now. It slides down your stomach, fingers teasing the sensitive skin just above your pelvis. "You're safe. Not gonna let anything get you, bonnie."

You sigh, eyes fluttering a little as you feel his hips begin to rub against your ass. His member is thick and firm against you and slippery from the water. He's starting to breathe in your ear, the puffs slow and steady, matching the intensity of his movements.

"You gonna let me take care of you? Let me make you feel good. Let me help you relax a little bit." He whispers to you softly, his kisses trailing up the side of your neck, sucking little hickies here and there.

You're finding it hard to focus on anything but him anymore. The lake, trees, cabin, bear. All seem to fade into the foreground. You want to talk, but it's like your tongue had gone numb. It feels heavy in your mouth, all senses dim. It only to heightens every touch, kiss, and movement of him. All you can manage in response to him is a soft hum.

Then wordlessly, you feel his slick member dragging down along your backside and settling between your legs. He feels so hot against your throbbing need. You feel yourself arching to try and move his cock head to your entrance. It nudges it softly, making your whimper. You can feel him probing, his swollen tip poking around, looking for its way in. And when he finds it, and starts to sink in, you vision gets blurry, and the dream starts to fade.

[sheeluvsme]

Let’s talk about how price is literally husband material …

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE HEAD CANNONS 🙋🏻‍♀️🙋🏻‍♀️🙋🏻‍♀️ I love this man sm …. I normally hate facial hair on a guy BUT GOD DAYM COD MEN PULL THAT SHIT OFF..

Mix of sfw and nsfw blurbs bc I’m a silly guy. I really enjoy writing this shit bc I literally will be kicking my feet twirling my hair .. ( warning fem body parts used!) as I write this shit LMAOO enjoy!!! Ps. Not proof read..I wrote this at like 4 in the morning

He literally is so good to you , you can’t even be like mad at him over ANYTHING.

There was a time he accidentally dropped his cigar and it caught the bare skin of your leg AND HE FELT SO BADDDDD

He literally can not stand the thought of you being hurt..

He DEF SENDS CARE PACKAGES WHEN HES OUT FOR MONTHS AT A TIME

Being gone for so long he always takes a shirt of yours DRENCHED in your most used perfume so when he sleeps he can trick his brain into thinking your there.

He would be a king of taking care of your son your period!!!

Your sitting there curled up trying to not wake him up but you are just in so much pain :// and his ass senses it through his slumber?:!:?:?

“ you alright love?” He mutters into your shoulder. GOD HIS MORNING VOICE IS HOT. He woke up from feeling you tense up and sigh and whine quietly from the pain. “ yeah. Just my period.” You mumble into your pillow. He carefully pulls his arm around you , “ where” he asks. “ what-?” You ask confused. “ where is it cramping now love? I’ll massage it for you.” He whispered. You can’t help but swoon because you got the best husband in the WORLD “it’s my stomach right now-“ and immediately he takes his hand rubbing your stomach. The pain is suddenly being soothed and you can finally un-tense. “ theree you go love. I got you.” He kisses your shoulder softly. “ I’ll stay like this for a bit and then ill grab your heating blanket and a cup of tea hm? “ you feel him smile against your shoulder.

He’s very caring towards you but let’s not forget how you treat him like royalty fr

He always comes back with SOMETHING wrong with his back , and he whines about it to you every time so you’ll massage his back for him. He always wins you over.

He thinks he’s def undeserving  of you, your so sweet to him! He’s not used to women liking him just because you love him as a person himself. He’s had past girlfriends that just liked him for money benefits. Not you though, you literally freak out when he spends WAY too much on you “ John price!?— how much was this necklace??” And he always smiles and says “ don’t worry about it. “ he has learned lots of money saving tricks from you , he calls you a penny pincher LMAOO, he thinks it’s cute though you worry about him spending to much money like he doesn’t got enough.

He absolutely adores when you wear his hat , he thinks your the cutest thing on planet earth but dear god he’d never let you near any of the shit he does😭

You get along with 141 pretty well and it makes price really happy.

You’ve all been to the bar numerous of times and he likes watching you and soap bicker about stupid shit “ you..you eat lamb stomach?” “ ITS CALLED HAGGIS AND ITS GOOD!!”

Ghost and price giggling in the background.

They know how much you mean to there captain so they also would do anything to protect you

Your at a bar with them and some guy try’s talking to you and grabs your shoulder THEN HE JUST SEES A BUNCH OF TALL ASS GUYS GLARING HIM DOWN LMAOO let’s hope Buddy wore brown pants 🙏🏻

NSFW !!

Price lovesssssss eating you out , LITERALLY ANYWHERE IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE. Especially if you had a shitty day at work , your in the shower trying to rinse off the day and suddenly you feel your not alone anymore..

Manz lifts you up on HIS SHOULDERS SO HE CAN EAT YOU OUT

He’s more dominant but he doesn’t mind you taking lead AT ALL

Man goes insane when you ride him

He can’t sleep , but you know he needs to. He hasn’t been sleeping much sense his last mission, he’s clearly stressed. Your hugging him..hugging turns to kissing. Kissing turns to groping, and then it turns to you ontop of him grinding against his bulge. “ fuck..let me take care of you, yeah?” You simply shake your head “ no captain. It’s time I take care of you.” He can’t deny your request when you look heavenly ontop of him. Helping each other slip off each other’s clothes, he loves looking at your tits , he finds how they feel so nice in his hands. He can’t help but grunt when you sit down on him and slowly begin to move your hips. His hands are gripped TIGHTLY against your hips. He can’t stop himself from using his hands to help move you and fuck you , he wants to be able to hit the deepest parts of you because honestly he fantasizes about getting your pregnant. He loves shooting a full load in you and praying you get pregnant, be there to take care of you , and most Importantly get to see a little baby made by you and him!!! Makes him go nuts , that’s why you and him fuck way too much around your cycle.

He is BIG into photos and videos of you.

He records videos of him fucking you and then watch them while he’s away, or he’ll take pictures to look at when he feels lonely on a trip!!!

He keeps a nude picture of you in his wallet ;)) soap was traumatized when price asked him to get something out his wallet and he found something HE DID NOT WANT TO SEE , soap has you and him down in his phone as ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ seeing that was horrific for him 😭😭

Thank you for reading <33 commissions open!!!

[cas-backwards-tie]

⟡ call of duty masterlist ⟡

specgru

taskforce 141

captain john price

simon 'ghost' riley

john 'soap' mactavish

kyle 'gaz' garrick

kortac

könig

konni

vladimir makarov

[emperor-palpaminty]

in which ghost and the hot doctor make out on the desk. sorry. this bitch keeps getting injured so it makes sense he would get in contact with the doctor a lot. Mentions sex stuff but not NWFS. Still gonna rate it 18+.

Edit: part 2 is here! Minors DNI. Smut hehe

Reblogs appreciated!

"You're all set, Riley." The doctor said, handing him his shirt. "Back to basic exercises and training starting tomorrow- no sparring for a week." The doctor, or Doc, he was told to call her- stood back, watching him unroll the fabric. "I have to admit, I'll miss the view." She teased, her loose medical coat swaying with the movement.

Ghost chuckled, lips smiling under the pushed-up mask. "You will now, won't ya?"

Doc hummed in mild agreement, gaze flickering in interest as her eyes drifted up to his jaw. "How's the stitches here?" She reached up, fingers a fluttering sensation over his face.

"Fine." Ghost tilted his head away, eyes following Doc's face. It was rounded, sweet, with a sinfully plump mouth and intelligent eyes. Her fingers moved over his skin, around the stitches- she was prodding it, gently, testing the area. "Good thing women like scars, innit, doc?"

She grinned, fingers turning, her knuckles stroking his jaw now. "Mm. I can vouch for myself, Ghost." She stepped away, picking up the clipboard, eyes still on him as he rolled the shirt onto his body. Plenty of touches had come from her end- some beyond what Ghost believed a regular medical examination typically called for.

"Tell me, doc." Ghost leaned forward on his knees, sliding off the examination table. "You flirt with all your patients?"

Doc looked up at him from looking at his chart. She smiled, brows cocking at the challenge as her eyes slid down his body. "Only the pretty ones, LT."

Ghost licked his lips, once, glancing back at the door. He slowly looked back towards the doctor, who watched him with eager eyes. His cock twitched- he would have been lying if he hadn't thought about her in every sense of the word 'carnal'. He shifted towards her, tilting his head. She sucked in a breath as if surpressing a sound, turning away from her desk. "Doc, seems like we finished a little early." He stepped towards her, slowly, walking at a leisurely pace.

She leaned back on her desk and dropped the chart behind her, eyes meeting his. "We did."

Ghost walked until he was inches in front of her, hands moving and pressing on the desk, either side of her.

Trapped.

Her eyes flashed up to his, a smile curling on the bright red lips. "You wear that lipstick for me, doc?" Ghost's finger ran under her chin, tilting it back to look up at him.

With a manner that was anything but bedside (more like, in the bed already), Doc looped a finger in the belt on his waist and tugged him in, eyes skimming what she could see of his face. "Depends. If you wanted me to, then yes."

"And if I didn't?" He craned his neck down, breath fanning over her face.

The sultry smile slipped into a sly one. "Then I would say you're wrong about that."

"Good sense, doc." Ghost leaned down, mouth crashing over hers. He stepped into her, pinning the back of her thighs to the desk. Doc's arms moved up, grasping his shirt, his mask, feeling him. Ghost groaned into the kiss, grinding his hips forward, just once, hard enough to get a preview of a moan from her against his mouth. She tasted sweet, foreign, but like want.

Ghost pulled away, reaching a hand up and brushing away at the lipstick, smudged now on her chin. He hummed in approval and stepped away. "What time?"

"Six."

"Done." Ghost called back, stepping out into the hall as he pulled his mask down. He grinned under it, pacing quickly towards the showers.

He had another doctor's appointment to get ready for. Albiet not of a medical nature.

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TRIGGER WARNING: the aftermath of surviving a suicide attempt. SUICIDAL IDEATION, DEPRESSION, possible past-eating disorder. depersonalization-derealization, detailed writing of vomit.

This story is written from the perspective of a biased omniscient narrator, keep this in mind as you read and don't take everything they say as absolute truth.

Please proceed with caution and consider your personal comfort and wellbeing before continuing.

Nine months of your inception. Within your mother's womb, you were cradled in warmth, your arrival anticipated without reservations—it seemed to matter not if you were nobody, if you were just you. What mattered was your very birth, the fact of your existence. Milestone after milestone was marked—your first word, your first stumbling step—each met with joy, creating an illusion that despite still grasping the basics and balancing on two clumsy feet, you would always be loved.

Lies. They are all lies. As you grow up, you realize the world is not as it seemed, and love is not that unconditional. You have to be something, someone, in order to be loved.

Being human means wanting to be unique, but not so different that it results in being deemed "troubled." Being human means having people insist you have dreams only to be forced to bury them deep and never revisit them. Being human means standing between two contradictions that ultimately make you a hypocrite. Being human is reaching for something and nothing. Being human is always wanting to be loved, loved, and loved.

You long to be an ordinary daughter, with no talents, no remarkable qualities. Just you. With a father who would take you out for ice cream simply because he loves you, not because you got an A in class; with a mother who cooks your favorite meal simply because it brings you happiness, rather than as a means to keep you confined at home during the weekends.

But that doesn’t get you anywhere, you know. There’s no celebration in being ordinary, no celebration in breathing another day. So you turn your life into one long series of attempts to be something worth staying for, worth loving. What a pathetic woman, one might say—always harping on about love, love, love. Shallow. Cliché. But I can’t help that that’s me.

You tried many times to persuade that little girl—who persisted inside you as you grew older, blowing out candles without a cake, with hopes that were gradually pared down until only one obstinate one remained: God, please, just once, I want to be happy. She lives somewhere inside you, permanently; you can’t get rid of her even if you wanted to (there’s something absolute about humans always trying to burn away their past selves—which, you think, is to fool the world that they were born this way).

You dislike her. That girl and her curiosity to keep searching for the light. Like a trapped baby animal, her little hands clawing at your pancreas every time you neglected her dreams—the old, worn-out dreams that you had buried to the depths of your soul. Made only to be forgotten. Unfortunately, she would never understand this—still believing that the world was so benevolent to give her what she desired.

And unfortunately, you don't have the heart to tell her either.

So, here you both are—you and the little girl—dancing in a denial created by one or the other. She in her naivety, you in your rejection of her. A deadly, dissonant duet; a bleak and morbid song that gnaws at your flesh. The burden of her hopes for the future bends your back; your sternum pops as she tries to find her way out of the confines of your ribs.

You dislike her—the girl—but you endured the sting her nails left as she carved red crescents into you. You also refused to let her leave—scooping her small body from the ichor-covered floor as gently as her father had done to her. This was your distraction for her, your coaxing to keep her. So she could only see you through the lying mirror in the bathroom. So she wouldn’t see the reality of who she was growing up to become.

Maybe it's shame. Maybe it's guilt. How she dreams of softer days—with flowers and citrus stains on her dress while basking in the glow of the spotlight, but you've become a rotting fruit, sour, bitter at the end. The blood inside you clots; black ink pours from your heart. Never will you reach that house. She dreams of being the brightest star while, once again, you let her down and-

You left the stage.

Your own consciousness feels like a tidal wave, pulling you back and forth between sleep and reality. The world around you feels hazy, the edges of your vision blurring as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings.

Something wet brushed against your cheek. Confused, you tried to jerk your head back, but the movement only spread the dampness further. You can barely recognize your own voice as it came out as a pathetic whimper of pain. Forcing your burning eyes open, you blinked into consciousness. You shifted again, your brow furrowing as you felt something rising through your gut and throat.

Without warning, you find yourself retching, your body convulsing as you expel the contents of your stomach onto the bed. The acrid taste filled your mouth, and you could smell the vomit staining the sheets beneath you.

It was at that moment that all of your senses rushed back to you. You hold your throbbing head; your body feels weak, and yet, your heart is beating so very fast. Extending your hand, you try to reach the glass sitting on the nightstand and finish it in one go. You no longer care where the glass ends up. Waiting and waiting, you hope the water can do something to alleviate every single pain you're feeling.

To your dismay, it does nothing more than ease your throat of the remaining bile. Your heart is still racing, your hands are still shaking, and your stomach feels like it’s being twisted and stabbed from within. Curling up into the fetal position, disregarding the pool of vomit you're lying in. Your fists are pressing into your abdomen, trying to dull the suffering, but all you get is another of your cries.

You feel like a stinky mess. Your hair is damp, matted, sprinkled with tiny particles of foul, sour smell. For an hour, you lie there like the dead, occasionally letting out a small groan from how torn your stomach is. The nagging feeling of needing to vomit keeps crawling up your throat, but time after time, it would pass, and nothing would come up, just a release of pent-up gas.

An hour later, the pain finally gives in, dulling. You scramble out of bed, walking towards the door, using the wall as support for your wobbly limbs. Reaching the bathroom, you try as hard as you can to ignore the empty pill bottles scattered on the floor and yank the cabinet open. You pop a few activated charcoal into your mouth, hoping it will at least do something. To make the pain go away.

You sit on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the tiled wall. The coolness of the surface is a welcome sensation on your sweaty body. You are aware of the thoughts brewing in your mind. You try to avoid them and look for distractions around you—a crack in the wall, a thin spiderweb at the corner.

But you’ve never been known for being a good escape artist. One thought slips out, and you’re left crying in the bathroom. You cry for yourself—you think this is the first time you’ve ever genuinely felt sorry for yourself. Funny, to feel so guilty when you’re the one who brought this on yourself. You feel like a narcissistic, self-pitying woman who somehow always manages to paint herself as the victim.

Knowing that you don’t deserve this—everything that led you here and the way you’ve treated yourself. In the rare moments of self-compassion, the many previous versions of you come running to you. You could almost guess what they’re thinking: "You erased me just to create this wretched person you’ve become?"

A chuckle escaped you, devoid of humor, yet full of the arrogance that only humans can possess. But it was short-lived, as tears quickly filled your eyes and broken sobs wracked your body. The untamed flame crawled up and licked your throat, preventing you from speaking. In fear that if you did, you would string together another word you would regret. You guess that's what you are, a human full of nothing but regret.

From how hard your heart beats, you can follow its rhythm without putting your hand to your chest. Thump, thump, thump. You wonder if the sound of its beats is bouncing off your rib cage, broadcasting as if it were an announcement.

The owner tried to kill it, but it survived.

It's unsettling, this feeling. The awareness that you are owed an apology, and yet you are the very person who caused yourself pain. Always looking at your imperfections with a magnifying glass but never acknowledging the good you try to offer. Always yearning to be someone else when it was you who brought yourself here. Despite your disgrace, you should have tucked yourself in as gently as you would have done anyone else.

The silence of your lonely apartment holds up a mirror that has been forced upon you. It demands that you face yourself—to stop seeing what isn’t there, to accept who and how you are. Your virtues and your vices. Your virtues. Your vices.

But with your black-and-white vision, you don’t have that ability. If you're not entirely good, then you're a terrible person, and vice versa. You consider half measures as crime, as inconsistency. Since when did you developed this perspective you didn't know. Given your mother, you suspect it’s hereditary—or if not, perhaps taught at an early age. This makes you realize that you will never make up for how horrible a person you are.

You sat in the bathroom for two hours. Once you feel a little better, you try to find your footing and stagger into the kitchen. The light from the refrigerator you opened casts a parallelogram of light into the dark room. You reach for whatever leftovers are inside, scooping up the cold pasta you made the other day with your bare hands and stuffing it into your mouth. A frown forms at the unfamiliar temperature, but you keep chewing. You quickly swallow, then move on to the next unheated meal.

You don't even know what to hope. You're unsure if stuffing your belly with food will help to calm your racing heart and trembling body, just as it did in the past when you purposefully denied yourself meals.

By some miracle (or perhaps some intricate bodily mechanism that you don't understand), it worked. After two more hours of dozing off in front of the television, you’re no longer sweating, and you no longer feel like you’re going to die right then and there. But not much else had changed. The silence in your apartment lingers on, and the numbness inside you is still there, if not yawning to the point of conjuring your brain into a state of stasis.

Getting up, you make your way back into your room. The sight is almost normal, except for the stains on your pillow and bedspread. You strip the sheets off the bed and throw them into the laundry bin—to your relief, the vomit hasn't seeped into the mattress underneath. You quickly replaced them. Everything seems normal, as if you hadn’t just tried to take your own life.

You always have the same way of arranging your four pillows—the plain one in the back, the two with floral covers in the front. You spread a new blanket on your clean bed before placing a warmer one on top.

Walking to the nightstand, you gather up the used tissue balls and your empty glass. You grab basically any trash you see and carry it out of the room. Reaching the main living area, you scan the room—by the window, at your stretching area, at the brown chair at the far end of the room, at your ivory couch, in between the piles of pillows, and at the perfectly square coffee table.

You lowered your eyes to the overflowing ashtray sitting in the middle. The object looks strangely out of place in your home because you don't smoke. You don't, but someone else used to.

With caution, you approach slowly like one would a wild animal. You stood right in front of the table. In front of the ashtray. The accumulated cigarette butts sit on the ashes that have long since cooled.

You pinch the edge of the ashtray with three fingers and pour the contents into the plastic bag you carry. Tilting the ceramic, you can see how it has gone gray underneath from the embers and cigarettes that were rubbed against it. There will never be another use for it. You tossed the ashtray in with the rest of the rubbish.

Finishing your frenzied cleaning, you step into the shower and rinse yourself under the cold water. Normally, the steady rhythm of the water flowing would relax your body, and it would be a signal for your mind to wander—to give you something to fret about. But today, there was nothing—just a vast, empty expanse of plain white, awfully quiet like the aftermath of a storm.

You ran your fingers through your hair, searching for a sensation. Nothing. There was nothing. It was as if your hands couldn't even touch your head—like a phantom unable to hold anything because it was from another world and did not belong in this reality.

Though as unusual as it is, you’ve experienced similar experiences before, leaving you somewhat used to it but still not able to deal with it. So, you accept it unwillingly, watching yourself go through your routine: “You” scratched at your scalp with your nails, digging deeper. White suds from your shampoo pooling in the shower drain. “You” finish your shower, wrapping a towel around yourself, and head to the bedroom to get dressed.

“You” sat down on the yoga mat, taking a moment to look in the mirror to ensure you're in the correct position for stretching. Next to the mirror is your duffel bag, filled with your ballet necessities – which has been sitting there for days, untouched because ballet has become nothing to you.

But “she” touches it—the “you” in your body. After finishing her stretches, she stands and rummages through her bag like you always do before class and rehearsal. A meticulous doppelganger, this one. She ties your hair into a bun with the same efficiency as you; glancing in the mirror a second time to make sure everything is perfect before she shoulders the duffel bag and heads for the door.

Wait, what is she doing?

Where is she taking you?

No ballet today—and there will be no ballet in the future. So where is she heading?

A skilled copycat. She knows just which subway line to take and precisely when to get off. You watch her climb the steps you've ascended countless times before, proceeding straight ahead and then turning onto the sidewalk where the crimson-painted flower shop is located. She walks and walks, seemingly unaware that her presence at the opera house will be questioned and unwanted. You want to scream at her to stop, to spare herself and you the embarrassment of rejection, but this invisible glass wall is so thick, it smothers your voice, preventing it from reaching her.

She continued down the deformed corridor, ignoring the surprised looks from the other dancers. At the end of the hallway—right where the open door to the prima ballerina’s dressing room was—stood Henri, his expression not much different from the others as he watched her barge in and immediately sit down at the dressing table like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place.

You hear Henri say your name, but wait for her response. He shuts the door behind him for more privacy before dropping his voice to almost a mumble, “What are you doing here?”

Unbothered, the doppelganger began to arrange her powders and makeup on the vanity table. She glanced in the mirror, making eye contact with the director. “Isn't tonight's show day?” she asked, remaining calm and composed as if she belonged here.

Henri stood there, baffled, the wrinkles on each side of his mouth accentuated by a frown before he called you again. The more he said your name, the more foreign it sounded to your ears.

“We’ve talked about this—Claudine is going to be the one playing the Swan Queen for tonight’s show and the next few performances.” He said in a no-nonsense tone, not up for discussion, not up for full-on defiance.

“You” averted her eyes back to her own reflection in the mirror, then dragged her foundation-stained fingers across her face, leaving a paler shade of her natural skin tone. “Just because I failed at the first show,” she pumped another dollop of the product, “doesn’t mean I can’t redeem myself.”

At her words, Henri opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but didn't. In his silence, the doppelganger saw the obvious cracks in his “inviolable” decision—it carved a smug smile on her face.

“So, where is Claudine now?” she questioned, a rhetorical one.

“She’s…”

“Late again?” she guessed (though it sounded like she was finishing the sentence for him), and his subsequent expression confirmed that her hunch was correct. She arched a brow in a “told you so” manner. “Claudine’s always got a problem being on time, didn’t you know?”

A sharp exhale escaped Henri. He pinched the bridge of his strong nose, muttering a curse under his breath in French. “You’re on,” he said, then approached the chair where “you” were sitting. “But for God’s sake, don’t disappoint me. I have a lot at stake here, and I don’t want any more disasters from you or Claudine.”

Leaning down, he brought his head closer to hers, their gazes locked in the mirror. “Perfection itself is imperfection,” he told her.

Having stated his piece, Henri straightened his back and turned to leave the room, leaving your doppelganger alone. The woman continued her makeup; applying contour according to the White Swan makeup portion, tapping the bristles on the blush and bringing it to fill in your cheeks, and finishing with a setting spray to set everything in place. It was all your exact routine.

Even though you weren't in her body, you could tell what she was thinking as she put the white faux feathers to either side of her head. She smiled at her reflection, proud of the end result of her appearance.

You’re not sure how Henri relayed the news to Claudine, but somewhere out there, she must be grieving for the opportunity that once again slipped through her fingers. Her dream was just a reach away from her—an almost—before it was cruelly snatched away from her. If you were a better person, you would feel sorry for her. You would also find similarities between the two of you.

But you and “she” both know that there is only one person eligible to play the lead role—the story of a swan floating aimlessly can only be played by a bloated corpse of a dreamer girl.

Nothing happened. And you are the Swan Queen.

Around twenty minutes later, a knock came at the door. “White Swan is up in ten!” a voice called out from the other side. The doppelganger turned her gaze in the mirror, examining her reflection one final time. Satisfied, she rose from the vanity chair and left the room to the backstage.

You watched as the swan flocks exited the stage in a graceful, synchronized glide. And then, without hesitation, “you” jumped into the spotlight, and the audience burst into applause at the entrance of the White Swan. Odette, with her arms spread wide like wings, opened her chest and pulled her spine back. She stood on pointe; her long legs took step after step, all in time with the harmonious plucking of the string instruments.

The pale light of the moon cast a silvery hue upon the solitary lake, a place that she and her flock of “swans” had been forced to call home for so long. During the day, they gather under the sheltering shade of the weeping willow tree that stands at the end of the lake. But when evening falls and the shadows grow long, they try to adapt to the unfamiliarity of the soft earth and the limbs of the girl they once were.

It was supposed to be yet another night of her cursed existence. So, when a man revealed himself from the darkness of the shadows and approached her, Odette couldn't help but feel terrified and flee, extending her arms as if she was about to take flight.

Who are you, stranger? She wandered in her thoughts. Was it coincidence that brought you here tonight, or is there another intent behind your appearance? Do you intend to harm me, just like the others who have come before you?

The crossbow in his hand should have spoken volumes (in another life, it would have been a worn and faded all-black leather jacket), should have been enough for her to stop wondering and run. To spare herself from more agony, to spare herself from piling on another curse she would have to endure. She ran—but not too far, still within his reach if he were to pursue her further. The only attempt at defense was her shielding her face with her hand—forgetting that she was no longer in swan form.

The man set down his crossbow and approached her slowly, stating that he meant no harm. Despite his reassurances, she still tried to elude him. Curious, he asked her why she was here. She halted her escape and attempted to stand still, explaining to him that she was the queen of the swans and that there was a lake nearby that was created from her mother's tears. And not far from here, there was a powerful evil sorcerer named Von Rothbart—it was he who cursed her into becoming a swan.

But—

You observed as your doppelganger placed her hand over the spot where her heart beats. "If the one who loves me marries me and swears to be faithful, then I will no longer be a swan.”

So gentle was his touch as he held her, as if she would perish if he were to apply any more force. She had always seen herself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of her—devoid of hope since her dreams had already been extinguished. Long had she borne the weight of this curse, believing that no such man—or such love—could ever prove her wrong.

But being in his arms now reignited the dwindling ember in her. She fell to his feet, her frail bone like brittle twigs. Before she knew it, his name spilled from her lips in a plea—for him to save her—for him to love and save her.

When he protected her from the sorcerer, she perceived him as a kind of savior. Were you the one written in the prophecy? To soothe her aching joints and tell her that she was worth saving—that she was not as far gone as everyone had led her to believe. Wide-eyed, she watched him declare his love—his promise to return for her. The scene came to an end, leaving the enchanted lake alone again.

(My heart is an overripe pomegranate; will you be the one to harvest it?)

The crimson curtain fell, signaling the end of the act. You watched as the doppelganger rushed off the stage. She passed by Henri, who stood in the wings, his expression full of concern as his head turned to follow her as she disappeared behind the door.

Entering the dressing room once more, the doppelganger shut the door behind her. Slowly, she approached the vanity table, sitting on the chair. She stared back at her image in the mirror, but her expression was similar to that of someone offering it to a complete stranger. Carefully, she began to remove the pristine white headpiece, placing it on the table's surface. She opened her eyeshadow palette and prepared to do her makeup for the Black Swan.

The white costume had been replaced by a lustrous black ensemble, adorned with sequins on the torso. Her makeup was bolder now, with heavier and more pronounced strokes around her eyes that would be visible even from the farthest reaches of the theater. On top of your head, a new headpiece rests, fancier and heavier.

It didn’t take long before a knock came at the door, and “you” left to return backstage.

With the heavy castle doors opening to the sound of trumpets announcing her entrance, Odile was confident she would win the favor of this prince. In her fiery blood that boiled like bubbling potion in a cauldron, she was well-versed in such things—gracing elegant balls in a flashy black dress that contrasted sharply with the unfortunate girl suffering under her father's curse and captivating everyone's attention without even trying.

Odile was made to be a social butterfly, albeit borrowing Odette’s appearance.

It was a mere game to her, nothing more than a side pleasure. When she caught sight of the unsuspecting prince, she struggled desperately to suppress a victorious smile. Even before she danced, this callow man seemed ready to offer her his heart on a silver platter. No wonder her father was so worried—this prince truly loved the white swan girl.

Poor soul, indeed. To perceive love as something lavish, rather than something to be used and thrown aside at will. How naïve. Odile would never be like that. If she were to speak truthfully, they would make a good pair—this swan girl and this prince.

And no, she had not come here in hopes of his love. Such a thing wasn’t in her lexicon. Love was a repugnant thing. She saw it as nothing more than a tool to manipulate, to control someone—like a rein on a horse, a whip on a cow. Love was a repugnant thing; it left you fretting about what someone thought and felt about you. She wouldn’t allow anyone to define her.

Under no one's critical eye, Odile flourished into who she wanted to be—dancing in whichever direction she desired. Agile, sharp, seductive. Brimming with confidence. Immune to the murmurs and jeers of others—let the dog bark, she wouldn’t allow anyone to define her. She wanted to be a star and she knew she would become the brightest star in the universe.

The red lip of that doppelganger curved upwards into a smile that was almost identical to the one the girl from the club had. If she were speaking verbally instead of in pantomime, you were sure her voice would sound exactly like hers.

Odile danced and danced, eluding the prince's grasp. But, unlike the timid Odette, she seemed to indulge in the thrill of the chase—a prize rather than a prey, toying with the man who so desperately desired her. Love was a repugnant thing, indeed. She continued this dance of cat and mouse. This game in which she knew full well who would emerge victorious.

(Instead of her falling at his feet, it was he who knelt before her.)

The doppelganger launched into the 32 fouettés, her body spinning with speed and precision. You hear the applause of the audience. The muscles in her legs rippled beneath the fluffy, black tutu as she spun and completed the variation.

You couldn’t remember how you made it backstage, but you find yourself on your knees—your stomach twisting itself into a painful knot. It's the same sensation you experienced hours ago—the unfinished consequences demanding your attention. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you're clenching your fists, and your face turns a deep shade of red as you grimace in pain.

The sound of multiple footsteps is heard as several dancers and crew members rush to your side, including the director—Henri. You can hear their concerned voices, one of them asking if it was cramps and another already rushing to find the medicine box they keep on hand. The backstage area turns into a chaotic scene, with you becoming the focus.

“Mon dieu!” Henri exclaimed. “What is happening? Tell me, where are you hurt?”

Trying to hold back your pained voice, you spoke in a breathless tone, “It's—it's nothing. I… I just… I need a moment.”

But Henri wasn’t buying it. Turning to one of the other dancers, he said, “Get Claudine. she’ll have to take over the rest of the performance.”

“NO!” You screamed, face flushed with a mix of pain and anger. How could it be so easy for him to replace you? How could he abandon you and find someone else who doesn't even know him as well as you do, thinking that is enough to fill your place? After hours of feeling empty, you almost forgot how burning anger can be. “I can do this. I know I can! Just give me a moment. I can finish this.”

Forcing yourself to get up as you had done a thousand times before, you bit your lower lip to hold back the excruciating burn. You clutched your abdomen, focusing your brain only on putting one foot in front of the other as you made your way down the corridor and into the dressing room.

When you turn to face the mirror, there you are waiting—you in your body. Slowly, you walk to the vanity, sinking down in the chair and hunching forward. You allow yourself a maximum of twenty seconds to steady your breathing, as well as to allow the suggestion to convince your mind and body that the pain isn't as excruciating as it feels, so it can stop exaggerating it.

Gritting your teeth, you reach for the cotton pads and makeup remover, wiping off the heavy, dark eye makeup of the Black Swan. The white is stained with black, tossed aside in a nearby trash bin. Then, you grab the same eyeshadow palette and use the brush to apply it across your eyelids.

As you lean in toward the mirror, your eyes narrow at a small patch of black that you missed—a stubborn remnant of the Black Swan makeup. Instinctively, you try to scrape it away with the tip of your nail. The action stings, causing your eyes to water. You try again, but the stain remains as a blemish on the supposedly pristine White Swan makeup. It will never be as clean as it was at the start.

At that moment, you did the last thing you thought you would do. You laughed. Tortured by the agony in your stomach and the stubborn black stain that marred your appearance, you laughed. You’ve never felt so alive—pain made you feel truly alive; anger made you feel real. Throughout your existence, you’ve seen yourself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of you. But now? Now, you’re filled with resentment, with betrayal. Up until now, you've been grieving, but now your grief has turned into anger.

Staring at your reflection, a mix of loathing and pity fills your heart. Why did you make me like this? What did I do wrong that you made me like this? Is it because I am a horrible person? Who made me a horrible person? Why did you let me live if I am such a horrible person? If I am truly irredeemable, why did you let me live instead of letting me die?

You laughed again, as if daring yourself to find a trace of real amusement in it. There was none. You kept laughing, your eyes locked on your own gaze in the mirror, waiting for that genuine spark of joy to ignite it—it never came. It was then that you realized that every time you performed this little “act,” the only person you had been fooling was yourself. Your lips began to wobble, a shaky breath escaping you as you lowered your gaze, your head bowing slightly. The stinging tears dripped onto the surface of the vanity table, dampening it.

When you stepped back onto the stage, the world was inundated in an overwhelming light, so bright that it almost burned your eyes. The flocks of swans around you scattered in pandemonium, aware of their imminent doom. You dance the dying swan—feeling every flabbiness of her joints, the trembling of her limbs as the curse seeped deeper into her blood – forever transforming her into a swan. The infamous Tchaikovsky score swelled around you as everything grew more intense.

In the hope of a happy ending, you find yourself scattered. If this were a pain of your own causing, perhaps you would find satisfaction in self-destruction. But this is not the case. The betrayal inflicted upon you is flaunted—paraded as a display of how foolishly you placed your trust. The artificial moon hanging overhead seems to gloat in your suffering.

You felt your steps lighten as you made your way up. As you reached the edge, the orchestra played to a climax, the drums echoing throughout the hall. Turning to face the prince, you met his gaze one final time before launching yourself off the surface.

The drums reached a deafening volume as you hit the mattress. Instantly, your surroundings seemed like a fever dream, with phantom sensations all over your body. You could hear the hurried footsteps of someone rushing towards you and the touch of something warm against your cold, sweaty forehead. “Something’s not right,” they said, “call an ambulance!” they shouted. It was odd how panicked they sounded when all you could think about was that empty chair in the front row—the one reserved for the man you were still waiting for even now.

Deep within your consciousness, a memory surfaces from your first recital in elementary school—where the younger you stares at the empty chair right next to Mother’s. It should've been occupied by the man the eight-year-old you had been waiting for—Daddy. He had promised to bring you flowers, to come and watch. Yet, the chair remained empty.

In both of those broken promises, somehow you find consolation. There's a peculiar reassurance in knowing that you’ve survived through something similar before, so you’ll overcome this one too. This is how most humans continue on, accumulating wounds atop wounds.

When you open your eyes, you blink against the blinding fluorescent light that illuminates the unfamiliar white ceiling above you. Confused, you sweep your gaze around for answers, trying to make sense of your situation. It takes you a few minutes to finally realize that you are in a hospital, on a patient bed, and connected to a dripping IV hanging from a steel pole next to you.

Memories of what had happened flood back into your mind, and instinctively, you search for any traces of pain. Strangely, it's nowhere to be found. You're unsure if this numbness is a product of another episode of detachment or if the pain has been dealt with. Nevertheless, you're grateful for it.

You furrow your eyebrows and reach for the call button. Within moments, a nurse appeared with her tired face, making you wonder how long her shift has been. It's just the two of you in the room, provoking the "stranger danger" in you until she flashes you a warm, kind smile that instantly dispels your concerns. She slowly approached your bed.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, you wonder how to answer the question. “I feel strange” is the best you can come up with. “What happened to me?”

The nurse's expression shifted. “Well now, it seems you may be suffering from a touch of… medication poisoning, love.” She meets your gaze,  indifferent to the awkwardness you feel. “Luckily, it appears your liver is still in good shape—if we'd gotten to you even a bit later, the outcome might have been different.”

It wasn't hard to understand what she was implying. The difference. Of course it was poisoning, you scoffed inwardly. There was no way you had taken those pills and mixed them with alcohol and not expecting this. But you couldn't bring yourself to admit it out loud, not with the nurse watching you so intently so you just nodded wordlessly.

“Now, while this may have been unintentional, I’m afraid the psychiatrist will still need to have a chat with you, just to make sure everything is on the up an’ up.”

Your head shot up at her words. “Psychiatrist?”

“Yep,” the nurse emphasized the ‘p’ with a pop. “We've seen cases like this before. Sometimes it's an accident, sometimes..." She paused, considering whether to continue, but ultimately decided not to. “Anyway, we just want to be absolutely certain you're getting the proper care and support you need so you leave the hospital healed an’ happy.”

Forcing a chuckle, you tried to play it off as nothing more than a simple silly mistake. “It was just a bit of a mix-up, that's all. I took some pills and had a few drinks; nothing to worry about, really.” You give her a sheepish smile, hoping it will convince her.

But then again, you know that being here means there’s little you can do to avert the truth. They have their ways of uncovering the real story—they had access to all sorts of analyses and evidence, and you’re sure they've probably already run tests on your bodily fluids when you were brought in unconscious. These people have spent years studying biology and chemistry, yet you believe you can fool them with half-baked excuses and foolish smiles.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” you murmured, voice lowered to a barely audible whisper. “It was just an accident, I swear. I never..”

The poorly constructed lie might seem very obvious to the woman—especially with the way you’re behaving right now. Fortunately, she didn’t call you out on it directly. If she suspected something, she didn’t voice it.

“This is just standard procedure, a’igh? Nothin’ to be afraid of, I promise!”

Fairly speaking, since she entered the room, this woman has displayed nothing but kindness and non-judgmental advice. She is a good, reassuring person, and you wish you could be a better patient for her. But you are not.

The immeasurable fear inside you has spread and seeped too deep for someone to pull you out. A psychiatrist. The thought of someone competent to dissect your head like an organism under a microscope—to effortlessly pinpoint every sore spot and chronic abscess, uncover the roots of your actions, and link them to your past and present selves. To have them write down a diagnosis of what's wrong with you, a label that ties everything together, fills you with both dread and impotence.

And what if, on the flip side, there was nothing wrong with you at all? What if this was all just a product of your own design—a wounded person’s need for another wound?

Out of concern, the nurse offered, “Would you like me to have her come in?”

“Her?”

“Sorry! Uh, seems when you came in, the first emergency number we had on file was disconnected. So we had a go at the second one on the list. Sabrina, right?”

At the mention of your cousin's name, you're reminded that you've listed her as your second emergency contact. While the thought of disturbing her honeymoon period is met with a pang of guilt, you find yourself nodding in agreement.

“Yes, please,” you murmured. “I… I would appreciate that.”

“Alright, love, I’ll fetch her for you straight away.”

As the nurse exited the room, a hush fell over the space; the only audible sounds were from the soft purr of the air conditioner and the muffled voices from the hallway outside. You adjust the pillow behind your back to find a more comfortable position. Waiting, your eyes keep darting towards the door for Sabrina to come through that door.

When the door finally creaks open, you feel a surge of relief, expecting to see Sabrina's blonde hair and cheerful presence. For her to rush to your bed and hug you just like she used to when you were children.

But when it dawned on you who the person was, your sense of relief dissolved as you sharply inhaled. It wasn't your cousin—it wasn't Sabrina. The middle-aged woman stepped through the threshold, the shape of her eyes bore a striking resemblance to yours. It was, you prayed, the only trait that you had inherited from her. From your mother.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull @olives10 @cricricorner @idrkman @strrynigghts @mims900

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[worms-for-brains]

What I mean by my previous post.

[endmeprettyplease]

Happy Birthday, Aнгел

A/N: idk what this is, other than self indulgent. I love Makarov sm, and I'm desperate to get back into writing. So if you guys have any requests for him, please send them my way. This can be read as og makarov or reboot. I had both in mind when writing it. Reader is female but with no descriptions of appearance. Translations at the end.

Vladimir Makarov x Fem!Insecure Reader

Warnings: BDSM elements, but bad etiquette, collars, overstimulation, reader is a bad person, makarov is definitely worse, no use of y/n, pet names, google translate (so sorry)

Summary: Makarov surprises the reader for their birthday.

Stepping into the elevator you reminisce on your evening. Deciding that last drink was probably a mistake. Although, even after tripping over yourself on the way to your door and fumbling with your keys a bit, you couldn’t wipe the smile from your face. The warmth of your cheeks from a good night out with friends outweighed any guilt. Until you stepped into your dark apartment. Suddenly reminded of what you were missing. The one thing you did want for your birthday. Likely the reason you’d drank a little more than normal.

Tossing your purse and shoes aside with a sigh. When your arrangement with the man who only identified himself as ‘Vladimir’ began, it was strictly business. Despite the very personal nature of it. You kept him company and he kept you comfortable. Luxury clothes, condo in the nicest part of the city, cash in hand for anything you needed. As long as you did as he asked, discreetly. You knew the inevitable, even as you agreed. That those long nights spent with him between your thighs and romantic dinners would stir feelings in even the strongest of willed.

Nearly a year in and you had been making breakfast watching the news when his image appeared. The same man still sleeping in your bed was plastered on screen beside the names of countless victims. “Makarov Strikes Again” in bold along the bottom. The eggs burned as your mug shattered. The coffee scalding your feet as it spattered but you didn’t move. You knew you had a choice to make. 

Moments later, Makarov had shuffled from the bedroom, hair spiked and ruffled from sleep. Looking incredibly irritated at his abrupt wake up call. A look that was somehow terribly endearing on him. You were fucked, you realised.  When his eyes found the t.v. he paused, slowly tracking his gaze back to you. Making your choice then, you merely smiled back, turning to retrieve some fresh eggs from the fridge. Decidedly unaffected by what kind of person your silence made you. Pretending not to know how it saved your life. 

The memory left your chest feeling hollow, in more ways than one. Against your conscience you had continued to turn a blind eye to his ‘work’. The way he made you feel, the life you lived because of him pulled a selfishness from you that you didn't know existed. Knowing his identity only fueled your need for more of his magnetic and dangerous excitement. More of him. The one thing he could not afford to give you. 

So as it was, you were alone in a condo far too big for just you, on your birthday. Makarov had informed you that morning he would not be in town for the night. Wishing you well with a bouquet at your door and a necklace probably worth more than your childhood home. The necklace itself weighing heavily around your throat, a reminder of what you gave up to have him. Leaving you to question if the loneliness and risk was worth the sparse attention. 

Sighing you felt notably more sober than when you stepped in the door, buzz sufficiently killed by your spiraling thoughts. You settled on going to bed, hoping you’d at least receive a call in the morning. If anything just to know he's safe and alive. You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and moved to walk towards your bedroom before something on your couch caught your eye. Heart pounding as you realised you were not alone. Maybe this is where it all catches up to you-

“Ангел.” Makarov slung his arm lazily across the back of the couch, turning towards you. “You had a good time, да?”

A rush of air left your chest in relief, nearly dizzy with it, quickly replaced by a thrill. “You’re here!” You rounded the couch in record time, happily tossing yourself into his lap. Taking a moment to examine him in the dark you could tell he had showered. The smell of his cologne and your shampoo fresh on his skin. Distinctly lacking his usual scent of cigarettes and gunpowder. His usual dress shirt was replaced by an undershirt and slacks. About as ‘dressed down’ as you'd seen him.  “Did you need to startle me? Why are you in the dark?” You pressed a quick kiss to his lips before pulling away. 

Makarov huffed, close to a laugh, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you close and with the other he gestured towards the large windows and sparkling skyline. “I was enjoying the view, though I much prefer this one.” Pinching your bottom for effect, you squeaked and batted his hand away.

“I’m so happy you made it, you said you couldn’t come.” You nuzzled into his neck, leaving soft kisses in your wake. You could feel the warmth of him through your cocktail dress and it was already buzzing in your head. Alcohol be damned. It had been weeks since he last visited and your need for him was quickly overtaking your senses. 

Vladimir merely shushed you, fingers scratching across your scalp. “I wanted it to be a surprise, it is such an important day after all.” Suddenly his gentle touch turned firm. Balling your hair into his fist as he wrenched you from him. Vladimir tisked, “I understand you’ve had an exciting night. But I expect better from you, моя любимая шлюха.” His voice was close to a snarl, eyes dark. 

Your heart dropped nearly as quickly as you did. Knees falling into the plush carpet between his feet. “I’m sorry, sir. I was just so happy to see you, but it is no excuse for forgetting my manners.” You twisted your hands in your lap, not meeting his eye. You could nearly never predict how he would react to anything. He flipped so quickly between emotions it was as terrifying as it was exciting. Heat already pooling in your cheeks and between your thighs. 

Vladimir’s fingers lifted your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. “Hush, I have no intention of punishing you tonight. You are forgiven.” His voice soft once again. Finally, his lips met yours in a proper kiss, as deep and unyielding as him. Eventually, you pulled away to breathe, already feeling slightly floaty. Overwhelmed by the feelings he brought out in you. 

“I have brought you something. Повернись.” He gestured with his hand. Quickly, you complied, spinning around on your knees. “Tonight,” Makarov began, behind you, you could hear him opening a box. “I wish to celebrate you.” He easily unclasped your necklace, delicately removing it and settling it aside. You heard a quiet jingle, like a charm bracelet. 

“Now, who do you belong to?” He asked, voice quiet, a thinly veiled threat. But you had never had a problem swearing your loyalty, not to him. 

“You, always you, Vladimir, sir.” 

“Всегда такая хорошая девочка.” He breathed, clearly pleased. A moment later cool leather wrapped around your neck. Thick and firm, smelling freshly polished. Your heart rate rising again as he tightened it around your throat. You could feel your jugular pulsing against the restriction, your mouth suddenly dry. 

Vladimir’s fingers ran along the edge of the collar before slowly cupping your jaw and tilting your head back. Forcing you to bend uncomfortably to follow him. “Tonight, you will take my gifts as I offer them. And you will thank me, да?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” 

The time it took for him to draw you into the bedroom and strip the dress he had bought for you was a heady blur. His hands always felt cold and calloused. His hands never let you forget what kind of man he was. How dangerous he is. And yet you willingly allowed him to arrange your nude body on the bed as he pleased. Hands bound to the rungs of the headboard. Heart in your throat, yet legs spread because it is what he wanted of you. 

Once satisfied Makarov stepped back, still fully clothed and looking unaffected by the scene, except for the growing bulge in his slacks. One reaction he couldn’t hide from you. Humming his pleasure he ran his eyes along your body and - he turned and abruptly left you. 

You blinked, disappointed but not entirely surprised. You wouldn’t put it past him to insist on rewarding you only to leave you naked and bound for later. He had done it before.  You breathed out a sigh and rolled your already stiff shoulders. Your collar feeling uncomfortably tight, you started to settle in for a long evening. But before you could begin to sulk he returned. Holding another box, black with a pink ribbon tied into a neat bow. 

Vladimir was smiling, teeth looking sharp in the dim light. He was excited, oh no. “Happy Birthday, Ангел. Would you like to open your gift?” He held the box towards you as you stared lamely back at him. The cuffs around your wrists clinking as you shifted your arms.

Huffing an almost laugh again, Makarov rolled his eyes. “Of course, not to worry, I can do it for you. This you will enjoy, I’m sure.” Carelessly he ripped to bow from the box, tossing it aside. Unlike how you, oh so carefully, unwrapped his gifts. You felt a shiver run down your spine, instincts kicking in as your brain had a moment to consider your situation. Maybe you’d finally outrun your usefulness, maybe- 

“Ah!” Tossing the box and tissue paper in the same direction as the bow he produced a small pink…vibrator. Finally breathing again, your panic passed. Despite his flair for the dramatic he wouldn’t hurt you, not in any way you couldn’t take. Not if you were good. And you were always good. The sparkle in his eyes and smirk on his mouth told you that he knew what you were thinking, and that he enjoyed sparking such reactions in you. 

Approaching the bed he looked down at you almost contemplative, as he often did. As if he wasn’t sure what he should do with you. Like a cat unsure if it should eat a mouse or bat it around a bit instead for entertainment. 

Moving onto the bed he encouraged your knees apart, the cool silicone in his hand running along your thigh. “Я скучал по тебе.” Sounding almost wistful as he clicked the vibrator on, it was small and curved and you knew exactly what it was for. Surprisingly gently, he dragged the vibrator across your already sensitive skin. Tickling your hips and stomach before he pressed it to your nipple and bent over to kiss you. 

The kiss becoming more frantic as he worked both of you up. Your arms already straining against your bonds, desperate to tangle your fingers in his hair, to touch him anywhere. Rocking your hips unintentionally you found how wet you were as you stained his slacks. Your slick heat pressing against him through the rough fabric. He enjoyed the friction and allowed the movement for a little longer, before pulling back again. Hand steadying your hips, nails biting into your skin. If he could not keep control of you, he could not control himself. 

“I may not have come here with the intention of punishing you tonight, but I will. If you make me.” There was a near snarl to his tone that caused you to lockup immediately. All movement stilling. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” You breathed, voice shaky. Was the collar tighter?

Makarov smiled again, “I know, мой питомец.” He moved back on the bed, lying between your legs. Grazing the soft skin of your inner thighs with the vibrator, the buzzing making you shake. Desperate not to disappoint him, you held fast and didn't move. “Хороший.” He seemed pleased, and rewarded you by suddenly pressing the vibrator to your mound, just barely above your clit. You twitched, stunned by the sudden stimulation but did not jerk away. Looking down you met his eyes, watching the smile spread even further on his face. Nothing pleased him more than obedience. Well, possibly suffering, but he seemed in a giving mood tonight. For better or worse. 

Vladimir moved closer to your sex, even his breath on you made you throb. Yearning for the mercy he was known to lack, you behaved. Lying still and vulnerable, just how he liked you. Slowly, he dragged the vibrator along the wet seam of your cunt. Stopping to press it harshly to your clit to watch your reaction. But he had trained you well, so when you didn’t flinch, instead tensing as well as you could, he moved to your opening instead. The vibrations along your slick walls made you choke. You wanted to call out to him, but knew better, he hadn’t asked to hear you. The curve to the silicone focused the vibrations perfectly on your most sensitive spot, and  you felt dangerously and embarrassingly close already.

“Хорошенькая маленькая шлюшка.” Makarov lifted his head, resting his cheek on your hip, fingers still pressing against the vibrator inside you. “Do you like your present?” 

You swallowed harshly, finding words hard to push past the leather constricting your throat. Suffocating, like him. “Yes, sir. Very…much, thank you.” You finally managed. Your world narrowing to nothing other than him and your need. He smiled again, almost boyishly, and began rocking his fingers, clicking the vibrator up another level. This caused a reaction that you simply could not fight. You threw your head back, cuffs noisly clanking again as your hands gripped the bed frame. A cry you had no chance of stopping leaving your lips. 

Despite this, Makarov only sped up his movements. Pressing the silicone into you relentlessly. You tried to think of anything not to come. But it felt like you didn't have a choice, he’d been gone so long. Just as you began to lose hope of being good tonight, Vladimir spit on your cunt. Your hips jerking in response. “Go ahead, you do not need to ask for permission tonight,”

The words had barely registered in your cloudy brain before you were coming messily onto his hand. Your slick running down his wrist. Had you been in your right mind you would’ve picked up on the danger in his words. He did not stop, forcing you to ride out your high as long as possible, even as you twisted in his grip. 

When tears started rolling down your cheeks he let up. Allowing you to take a deep breath. Vladimir shifted, moving away from you. You realized now he would finally fill you, you'd get to feel him inside. What you’d been gagging for all those weeks he’d been away. Relief filling you as you spread your thighs for him again. 

Yet, of course. 

Makarov tossed your legs over his shoulders and locked them in place with his arms. 

Of course, this wasn’t actually a reward. 

When his mouth descended on your overstimulated nerves you squealed. Hopelessly twisting and writhing against his unrelenting embrace. Wrapping his lips around your tender clit as he pressed the vibrator harder inside you. It didn't take long to draw you to the edge again. Fighting the painful pleasure as you sobbed openly now. You knew it was too good to be true, how many times has he taught you that?

Wailing through your second orgasm, you tried to wiggle away. Twisting against your binds, your wrists aching. You couldn't breathe, not between the collar and his relentless tongue. Makarov’s attack on your sex is ruthless, as he always has been. The more you struggled, the tighter he held you. Ignoring your protests in favor of his prize, you. Your addicting submission, desperation and most importantly, your forgiveness. It made him greedy, drunk on his power over you. So he drank and drank until he pulled a third and violent high from you. Squirting messily into his open mouth, thighs squeezing around his ears.

The moment he relented, you dropped limp. Panting like a dog and dazed, barely aware that Makarov had stepped off the bed to remove his clothes. 

“Ты так хорошо справился, ангел.” You heard him say, distantly. Like you were underwater. 

The next thing you registered being the freedom of your hands, tingling as blood finally moved into them freely. Though you barely had time to acclimate as he crawled on top of you. Painfully hard cock resting against your stomach. 

“Sir..?” You whined. Broken and desperate for more, less, him. You weren’t sure. But you knew, whatever it was, he knew, and could give it to you. 

Shushing you uncharacteristically gently, he dragged himself through your slick to your raw opening.  Pausing only to pull the vibrator from your sex and tossing it behind him, still buzzing. 

Vladimir filled you completely. Your walls still tender and throbbing from your last orgasms, making you feel as if he were spearing you. You felt truly flayed and open for him to use. And Makarov took full advantage. Starting a brutal pace, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming back in. You reached out, your manicured nails finding purchase on his back. Scratching his tattoos as your other hand steadied you against the headboard. Barely preventing him from fucking you through it. 

Vladimir’s head fell into your neck, lips spilling praise. A sloppy mix of Russian and English you couldn't even begin to decipher. Not when he was filling you so full and so deep. Your thighs locked around his hips. You wanted him deeper, closer. You never wanted him to leave. You knew what he did when he was gone. 

Wet fingers met your sopping clit, at a perfectly painful angle. Screaming, you tried to force his hand away, but your arms refused to cooperate. Flailing against him uselessly. “Come with me, шлюха.” He snarled, biting into your neck harshly below your collar. Regardless of your protests, you did. The moment you felt him fill you with his own release. With the ringing in your ears, you couldn't tell if you were screaming.  

Disoriented and… wet, you awoke. You could hear the bath filling as you were lifted into strong arms. “I’m very proud of you.” Makarov murmured. Slowly making his way to the bathroom and settling you in the tub. 

You relaxed for a moment as he left the room. Allowing the warm water to soothe your sore muscles. You reached for your neck and found the collar gone, only tender skin left in its wake. You felt more drunk now than you had when you returned home. The endorphins and adrenaline in your blood making your vision blur.  

When Makarov returned, proudly naked, he held a bottle of water to your lips. Which you greedily drank, slowly feeling your brain return to you. This was when he was most kind, most generous, most unlike himself. When he was freshly drunk on his own pleasure. Slowly he slid in behind you in the tub. Chest pressed to your back, arms holding you close. 

“Thank you, sir.” You sighed. Relaxing fully into him. 

You felt him smile behind you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Of course, I want my ангел to have the most… pleasant birthday.” Slowly his hand trailed down your stomach, reaching your hips before you even thought to protest. Fingers finding your still throbbing clit with practiced precision. Like it was his mission. 

“I- I can’t, wait… Please, sir!” You squealed, twisting against his arm, wrapped tight under your breasts. Water sloshing out of the tub and splattering across the floor. 

“You can, ангел, and you will. One more.”  His tone left no room for argument, though you were well past heeding warnings. Fighting the climax he intended to bring you, until the very last second. Screaming and thrashing in his arms as the agonizing pleasure wracked your body. Leaving you limp and breathless against him. 

“I knew you could do it, good girl.” Makarov purred, running his hands soothingly across your body. 

“Happy birthday, Моя любовь.” 

Translations:

Ангел - Angel

Да - Yes

моя любимая шлюха - My favorite whore

Повернись - Turn around

Всегда такая хорошая девочка - Always such a good girl

Я скучал по тебе - I missed you

мой питомец - My pet

Хороший - good

Хорошенькая маленькая шлюшка - Pretty little slut

Ты так хорошо справился, ангел - You did so well, angel

Шлюха - Whore

Моя любовь - My Love