Hello!! I love your fics!! How would they react if they saw you crying :((
they see you crying | 141 x reader
Price: Words are not his choice of comfort, nor is he very good at giving them. His physicality, however, is heavy and all-consuming. He will smother your doubt against his chest and replace your distress with the safety of being tucked in his arms, immune from hurt.
He doesn't need to ask you what happened. No, he's already figured that out. While Price holds you, he is busy plotting how to fix this. He will not let something like this cause you pain again.
Gaz: He knows that the last thing you need is an interrogation, so he won't force you to explain anything. Gaz would approach you from behind, arms around your waist, lips at your ear, and tell you the sweet nothings that just seem to make the tears fall harder.
When you feel safe enough to tell him, he listens. He coaxes out the answers and doesn't argue. He won't give advice, not unless you ask. He just wants to make sure that you feel heard.
Soap: He is definitely asking questions. His mouth is running a mile a minute - who, what, where, when - while his hands check over you for any injuries. Once he knows you aren't physically hurt, he would scoop you up in his arms and take you somewhere else.
Either the shower, so he can wash your hair for you and turn the water up real warm, or the bed, so he can bury his head against your chest and hold you tight, offering himself up as a stress toy.
Ghost: His first instinct is to get angry, but not at you. If you're upset, then that means something happened. He is so full of anxious energy, itching to go confront someone on your behalf. You would need to tell him to stay if you don't want him running out of the house.
If he stays, Ghost would make himself busy. Cleaning up, drawing you a bath, making you dinner, etc. He is serving you, hand and foot, until your tears are dry and you thank him with a kiss.
Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 1
masterlist
It must be the mother of all quarter-life crises for you to be as torn up about this as you are.
(‘Mother of all’—what an apt phrase for a time like this.)
Two of your friends have babies and suddenly it’s all you can think about. Chubby cheeks and wrinkly fingers; diaper bags stuffed to the brim and shrill baby screams piercing through the house.
You try to help them out as best you can in those first few months, coming over with dinner wrapped in foil and snacks in Tupperware for the exhausted parents, offering to help run errands or tidy up the place while they try to catch up on sleep. The picture perfect friend.
You never thought it’d hit you like this until it does. Baby fever à la max. Even the word ‘fever’ undersells it—the feeling that overtakes you is like a blazing inferno, burning away every other want or desire apart from the one currently tearing you asunder.
It’s all you can think about from that point on. Babies, babies, babies. The milky smell of their heads, the flexible cartilage of their noses, their pudgy, wrinkly yawns and soft sighs. You make excuses to visit, offering to babysit whenever they look like they could use a night out, your agenda so transparent that anyone with eyes could see it.
All you can think when you look at them is that your life has been looking a lot like a house of cards these days: all style and no substance.
They get in your head, alright. That ominous they; not a specific person or group, just a nebulous, widespread opinion permeating far too many corners of your world. All that fearmongering about babymaking windows and that talk of rapidly vanishing fecundity—your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when you come across a TikTok of a thirty-six year old calling her eggs geriatric—and by the end of it, you swear you can hear your biological clock booming between your ears, one swinging gong after another.
You’re able to keep the beast at bay for a bit by tricking yourself into thinking that it’s just in your head. Just one of those things. You’re getting older—of course at some point you’d start to worry about the things you never got a chance to do. FOMO. Regrets blooming into full-blown crises. It’s only natural that it would start to get to you eventually.
Trying to convince yourself of that is not enough to shake the damn urgency from your blood though. You’re like a dog with a bone, too many late nights spent scrolling through parenting forums and conception tips, neither of which are of much use to you as a childless, partnerless person not currently trying for a baby. What does it matter to you if smoking reduces your chances of getting pregnant by forty percent? You don’t even smoke.
You might actually want to have a baby though. Mindblowing after all this time, to think that maybe it wasn’t just a fleeting fancy.
Mindblowing, then abruptly terrifying.
Your present situation is a bit dire. It’s been several years since you last had a partner, none you ever would’ve ever considered having a baby with. Absurd—worse than absurd even. And despite everything, despite the self-imposed countdown ticking away in your head and the stress causing your spine to curl in a half-inch more every single day, you are, thankfully, not desperate enough to reach out to any of them.
So you try. For a short period of time, you make a real, concerted effort to find a partner, going on three dates in a week, each more appalling than the last. It’s the last one that breaks you, your date not only unbearably dismissive to the waitstaff but also entirely uninterested in discussing anything about your life, completely preoccupied with recounting the minutiae of his own life story.
A swing and a miss. You made an effort at least, put yourself out there. Tried to do things the old-fashioned way.
It’s the twenty-first century though, for goodness’ sakes; there are more ways to start a family than just the tried-and-true method.
And that’s how you wind up here, at a fertility clinic on a Tuesday afternoon, PTO plugged into your work calendar with a secretive little “Appointment” reason left for being out of office. It’s no office-busybody’s business though. They don’t need to know about the increasingly debilitating need to have a baby that’s been overtaking you these past few months.
It would clear a lot of things up, but it still isn’t anyone’s business.
The waiting room is a simple, unadorned roost of a room, the walls lined with plastic eggshell-like chairs for all the eggs soon to be hatched. An oddly sterile space for the purpose it serves. It would be a little uncomfortable if it weren’t like every other waiting room in existence, minus any snivelling sick people.
There are other people besides you. Or rather, there were people. People that have already come and gone, not quite so anxious as to turn up an hour early for their two o’clock appointment, their stomachs grumbling from skipping lunch.
And so after the third couple goes in for their appointment with the specialist, you’re left on your own for a bit until a new person walks in.
A man this time, all by his lonesome.
And boy is he a specimen so fine that you can’t help but hope that he’s come to make a deposit. If they let you pick your donor based on build and gait alone, you think you’d have your man right here. You can barely drag your eyes away from him, glued to the rounded muscle of his back, gliding over the curve of his shoulders and up the thick of his neck.
After a brief conversation with the receptionist to check in, he drums his fingers across the counter and takes a seat on one of the little egg chairs along the wall facing yours.
Where he then proceeds to lift his head and lock eyes with you.
In retrospect, you wish you could describe it as a magical moment, but in reality, you just freeze in place, embarrassed at being caught staring. He’s a decently handsome enough man to be good fodder for any later self-care. Square-jawed and bearded.
Good hairline for his age, which you don’t want to take a crack at guessing, but if you had to, it would have to be somewhere around his mid-forties. Maybe late. But it touches him in just the right way, evident in the lines on his forehead and the pull of the skin around his eyes, his beard just ever so slightly flecked with the barest hints of grey.
The writing on the threadbare shirt he has on, almost hidden beneath the plaid shirt layered over it, is barely legible after countless washes. You can almost see straight through it. If you pinched the fabric between your fingers, you think your nails would poke right through. You could rip it right off him, get a better look at the dense pecs that you can just barely make out through his shirt.
You swallow, that thought catching you off guard.
Despite your own embarrassment, his gaze holds steady. Some people aren’t born with shame as a built-in foghorn. Some people look out into the world and genuinely believe it is theirs to conquer, raised on a diet of self-confidence and boldness, free-range audacity.
He’s bold enough, in fact, to rise to his feet and cross to the other side of the waiting room, taking a seat right beside you. He sits down beside you like you're old friends, like there's nothing strange about a man sitting beside a veritable stranger in a completely empty room.
It’s such a bold move that you don’t even know what to say at first, head turned towards him in the chair next to you now with some dumb expression on your face, gobsmacked.
“Can I help you?” you hear yourself ask, years of socialization coming to the rescue. Thank god the gears start turning in your head after that brief second of bewilderment.
“Not at all.” And what a voice too, as if his looks weren’t enough. All unintentional deep-chested purr, leonine English rumbling out of the depths of him, Northern accent to top it off. “Just thought I might introduce myself. Be polite, seeing as how we’re both here for the same reason.”
Unless he ran ahead of a wife still on her way up the elevator, you don’t think that’s the case. You glance around him just to double check the door. “Are we?”
“Maybe a pick-up instead of a drop-off in your case,” he concedes, a droll little note curled up in his voice. “But that’s not so different when the end result’s the same.”
You swallow and force an awkward smile, ignoring the way your heart speeds up. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, nice to meet you, um, circumstances aside.” You hold out a hand, which he doesn’t hesitate to take.
“Nothing wrong with the circumstances, but pleasure to meet you too, love.”
His palm feels huge around yours, a warm, firm grip that only yields a few moments later when you have to make an effort to pull your hand away, holding on for the fleetingest of seconds, long enough for a spark of anxiety to shoot through your chest.
You hope that’s the end of it when he finally lets go of your hand. Not because you don’t want to chat up an incredibly attractive stranger, but because you couldn’t imagine the timing being worse.
He, however, seems to have no qualms with carrying on. “Has it taken yet or are you shopping for donors today?”
It’s a horribly invasive question, but you answer it anyway, all buttoned-up and ginger. “Um. No, I’m just here for a consultation. There’ll probably be a lot of paperwork before, um…before we get started.”
“A lot of nonsense for something I reckon we could get done a lot easier together.”
It doesn’t register until it does. Then you just have to look at him and blink, confused.
“Excuse me?” you ask.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I haven’t got this wrong, have I? You said you’re here for a baby?”
“Uh, yes, that’s—that’s what I just said.”
“And I’m here to help someone like you have a baby. Seems like we’d be making both of our lives easier if we just skipped all the red tape and saved you the expense.”
“‘Save me the expense’?” you repeat, stunned.
“Won’t cost anything the natural way.”
You know what he’s insinuating, but you can’t believe it. You actually can’t believe that this man—a stranger, handsome as he might be, good-looking as he might be, husband-envy-inspiring as he might be—would openly proposition you in the waiting room of a fertility clinic. Offer to get you pregnant ‘the natural way’, as if it were a cold drink on a hot day. A side of fries with your order.
“I—I’m sorry, but that’s incredibly inappropriate,” you eventually wheeze out.
That gets a laugh out of him, one of those amused huffs that erupts out of him like a bear flicking a bee off its snout. “Can’t be cagey about this sort of thing, love. You have to be direct when you want to get things done.”
“You do know we’re in public, right?”
“I’d be happy to take this somewhere private.”
The heat under your cheeks might actually result in a physical burn. “I…think I’m going to find somewhere else to sit.”
“Ah, don’t worry about that, love, I’m gonna head out anyway.” A satisfied smile tugs at his mouth. “I think I got what I actually came for.”
Your frown deepens. “You haven’t even been called in yet.”
“Not what I meant.”
Before you can ask what he means, he shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you for just a second, but long enough for your heart to suddenly go wild and your pupils to go big as dinner plates.
“Here,” he grunts, lifting a hip to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, flicking it open and plucking out a business card. He flips your hand over and puts it down on your palm. “That’s my number. When you’re done here, give me a call. I’m sure we can come up with something better than this.”
He taps the card in your hand with a finger. It ricochets through you, the tap rippling up your arm and chest, nearly rocking you back in your seat. Everything he does must be punctuated with the same echoing weight.
He nods to you on his way out, a secretive smile on his lips, just the barest hint of a lift that you might’ve missed had you not been staring at his face. All you can do is stare though, still absolutely floored, practically speechless as you watch him leave.
And then you’re alone again, in an entirely different headspace than when you first sat down.
“John Price?” the receptionist calls out from behind the desk suddenly, but with the man gone, there’s no one else in the waiting room apart from you. “Mr. John Price?”
You blink, stun-locked. You can’t have been the reason he decided to back out of his appointment at the last minute. He must’ve decided to bail at the last minute before throwing a Hail Mary in an attempt to get laid.
That has to be it. He wouldn’t leave because of a brief interaction with you.
The waiting room feels a lot emptier without him now that he’s gone, as if by being made aware of his presence, everything has been indelibly altered. Changed. Slightly less interesting somehow.
You hover somewhere between bewilderment and affront until a flicker of giddiness steals in. Tamp that back down. He's gone, and with him the impossible audacity of what just came out of his mouth. You stare at the door that he just disappeared through, lips parting around a reply you'll never get to deliver, then let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. The gall.
And yet, despite yourself, you can't quite smother the giddiness bubbling low in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers curl around the business card in your hand.
Eventually it’s your turn. You almost miss the sound of your own name until a lady in purple scrubs repeats it, sending you shooting to your feet. You follow her as she leads you down a hall and towards an open office just as clean and spartan as the waiting room. All there is in her office is a desk, a bookshelf, and a mobile ultrasound machine. Practically empty for all intents and purposes.
Ok lady, you think, sitting down across from her, what’s it gonna take to put a baby in me?
“Four thousand dollars,” she says matter-of-factly, the earlier part of your conversation long forgotten after hearing the price.
That just about knocks all the wind out of you. “Oh,” you bleat, the prospect of ever getting pregnant suddenly a sad and distant dream.
“Per cycle,” she further clarifies, much to your dismay, sliding a couple pamphlets your way. “We’re always hopeful that it’ll take on the first cycle, but we typically see about three to four cycles of IUI before conception occurs.”
IUI—intrauterine insemination. The sperm they have to shove up inside you to try and knock you up. At four thousand dollars a pop.
“There’s no…first time discount?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like the, um…like the home buyer’s loan.”
She seems vaguely apologetic when she shakes her head at least, though that doesn’t really ease the sting. “No, unfortunately. Most of our customers are first time parents, so—”
It wouldn’t make much business sense. “Yeah, no, I get it.”
You do your best to pay attention to the rest of the conversation and ask the right questions, but the sticker shock makes it hard to focus. At some point, the consultation must end because she sends you off with a folder full of pamphlets and QR codes to scan, and a follow-up appointment booked two weeks out for a blood test and a pelvic ultrasound.
No music on the drive home, just silence to let the events of the day marinate.
You know it’s likely just this clinic. It’s not like there aren’t other, probably cheaper clinics. But it’s the principle of the matter, the one factor that you hadn’t considered in this whole endeavour—you’d assumed, obviously, that raising a child in and of itself wouldn’t be cheap, but you hadn't even contemplated that the run-up to actually getting pregnant might be so cost prohibitive.
If you even get pregnant. You exhale in a rush, the thought hitting you like a sledgehammer. God, you might not even get pregnant. You might go through the whole treatment, waste thousands of dollars, and go half-crazy begging the universe to let you get knocked up, and it might not even take.
Dinner is a glass of white wine and burrito straight from the freezer, in no mood to cook or clean even a single dish. You should be cutting down on your alcohol consumption in anticipation of fertility treatments, but that’ll be a task for a later, less devastated you. You’ll rinse the hot sauce off your plate when you’re done eating and leave it in the sink for tomorrow morning.
It’s not how you wanted the day to end. You were hoping to come home invigorated and inspired, already prepping for the next steps in the process. Instead it feels like you’ve taken a massive step back.
Occasionally you like to look up flights to other countries just to imagine what it might be like to get away from your life for a bit, but the ticket price always brings you back down to reality.
This isn’t like that though; this isn’t some temporary flight of fancy or some pie in the sky that you’ll spend decades chasing down in your dreams, hoping for just a single bite or even just a whiff. This is something you actually, genuinely want. A baby. Something you can take with you into the future, something you can build your life around.
There’s got to be another way.
It’s a physical weight in your front pocket. You can feel it now, burning a hole in your hip. When you pull it out, the name John Price is printed on the card in a crisp, typewriter font, his phone number and occupation printed in the same sized font just beneath it.
You stare at the card long enough for your eyes to go dry. Blink. Breathe out, reluctance giving way to acceptance, as tentative as it might be. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ever happen. A fun night with a good-looking man, with the added benefit of getting a baby out of it, no strings attached. Not the most irresponsible decision anyone has ever made. Some people join the army, after all.
A shiver runs up your spine when you remember the way he worded it though. Sweat on your upper lip that you have to lick off, the salt sinking into the ridges of your tongue. You don’t think he meant turkey basters and plastic cups by getting it done ‘the natural way’. You saw the way he looked at you.
You could do it for a baby. Let him—and here, you have to squeeze your eyes shut and cover them with your fists—let him do what he has to do to get you pregnant. Cut out the middle man and just let him fit the heavy weight of his body over yours and pry your legs apart to let him sink between your—
i think i should put a warning in general for the rest of this comic: im a BIIGGG fan of body horror. this definitely doesnt mean anything for the next pages
You didn’t think Simon kept the silly things you gave him.
The man had his fixations: bones, bugs, dirt sometimes- he kept jars of it in his room, hidden under the bed for reasons he would not disclose. Wild life seemed to calm the man’s incessant anxiety, oddly enough. The rot, the violence and beauty intertwined in the forest. Humans tried to sanitize their existence, pretend they didn’t murder and fuck and shit themselves. The forest did no such thing- was upfront about its violence, its depravity.
Simon liked stuff like that, only ever had stuff like that.
So you never thought he’d actually keep the little skunk stuffie you’d gotten him. Just a 99 cent little beanie baby, black and white just like all his masks and clothes. You’d given it to him after a small shopping spree to the local thrift store, laughed about how he stunk just like it when you handed him the toy. It barely sat in his massive palm, the man staring down at it before stuffing it into his pocket with a grumble of something you couldn’t understand.
You couldn’t quite believe your eyes four months later, when you popped into his quarters in the night. Only there to grab some of his reports you’d forgotten, just to see the man actually sleeping for once- little skunk stuffie gripped tightly in his fist, the fabric of its tiny head pressed up against his face as he slept.
It was.. sweet. He still had that balaclava on, safe and tucked away in his own world. You debated taking a picture, before glancing at the shot gun next to his bed and deciding against it.
You hug Ghost extra tight the next day though, burrowing into his chest to hide your giddiness as he clutched onto your back. Massive hands gripping your shirt tightly, like he never wanted to let go- but couldn’t bring himself to cling to your actual body itself. Huffing your hair, rubbing his masked face against the top of your head like a weird cat.
Now imagine axolotl mer!reader being placed with salamander mer!ghost because his tank is the only one set up to your needs....
The sanctuary workers assume it will be fine, ghost has never been aggressive towards other mers, only the occasional staff member. You should get along well...right?
Except ghost takes one look at you, much smaller than he is with your external gills and makes the logical conclusion that you're a weird mer pup.
Now this strange new mer won't leave you alone, always circling around you and trying to curl over you when you sleep. He keeps calling for a pup even though there's clearly not one in the tank! Though...him bringing you food so often is nice...maybe you like him.
The workers, on the other hand, are coming to loathe ghost for the simple fact he refuses to let any of them near you. His instincts tell him to keep the pup safe after all, it doesn't matter of the pup is his or not!
How the hell they'll get him sedated for that surgery he needs, they have no idea...
ugh I'm obsessed heres a one shot for you gaz lovers
and guys? I FEAR I COOKED
Peasant!gaz x Princess!reader
THE WINDOW
the window. the window. your window, his favorite place to be, sneaking from his home in the village every night to go to the top of the hill where your fathers castle sat. he had learned long ago how to get in with out getting caught by guards. even had a latter of his own stashed in the bushes. he layed the latter against the wall and climbed, he climbed and climbed until he reached just the bottom of the glass, the last bit of the latter pressing against the window seal. he knocked gently for a long while "luv! lovie wake up!" calling out to you until you woke up, opening the window and popping out, perfect hair messy and eyes still sleepy
"Kyle shh! the guards will hear you!"
he stares up at you, his eyes sparkling at how much you care even when he's being reckless
"let 'em bloody see me, I'd do anything to be with you princess
she roll your eyes at his words, tho a slight blush creeps up your neck
"ugh really, I'll get in so much trouble! and they'll throw you in the dungeon again!" all he does is stare at you with the pretty green eyes, no a worry in the world. you sigh softly "hello Kyle..."
his expression softens further at the sight of you, his beautiful princess leaning out of her window just to speak to him it makes his heart do proper embarrassing flips in his chest. "aye I know I know. risking my neck to come see you luv."
you look down at him, starring before stating softly "i missed you..." he lets out a huff of a chuckle, his voice a bit quieter, almost vulnerable. "missed you more princess" he reaches up, fingers touching yours on the window seal, you can smell the river on his skin, must've washed before coming to you. you see a slight shift in his expression, before he starts speaking "the speak around the village is your father has arranged you a match? some price across the land?" he jaw is so tight it almost looks painful "I'd like to say I don't believe it luv." you sigh softly, you were told not to long ago and have had your time to make peace with it. "yes...John mactavish, they say he comes from a very wealthy family in Scottland" something twists deep in his gut at the mention of that name, Mactavish. he's heard of the man, some weathy shmuck with more coin then sense. he wrinkles his nose in disgust, looking much like a rabbit, just another one of his quirks that you love. "Scottish bloke, hm? bet he smells of sheep and haggis." his tone is bitter but there's plenty of genuine hurt underneath, his love betrothed to another.
you nod slowly, fiddling absently with the soft fril of your sleeve "I'm set to wed with him this fall" the corlor drains from his face, his eyes narrowing low as he glances at the cold ground low under him. the thought of you in another mans arms, a wealthy Scottish price no less, it makes him physically ill to think about. "the fall..." he repeats hollowly, forcing is back to yours, starring at you like his whole world is crumbling "that's only a few months away, why...why must you be taken from me so early?" his voice cracks.
you look down, your face drooping in pain just as great as his, it hurts and its so unfair "yes...my father is eager for their coin, he wants me married off fast." a low pained groan escapes him. he bows his head, forehead resting against the cold stone of the castle wall as he struggles to keep his composure. his princess, his everything, sold off to the highest bidder. "he'd sell his own daughter for coin? truly?"
you nod slowly, eyes traveling outside towards the sky, the beautiful moon and star on such a heinous night for you and your love. "he would my dear. he'd care more if I were born a son, but I'm not so this is the only way I am of use to him" his head snaps up, eyes blazing with a dangerous fire that makes him look less like your poor latter boy and more like someone who's gone feral. "you are worth this whole bloody castle and more princess." he reaches through the window, calloused finger tips barely brushing against your cheek, thumb wiping away the stray tear you didn't even notice had slipped down from your eyes. "I wont let him take you." you lay your hand over his, pushing it against your cheek so he is cradling you. "Kyle there's nothing you can do." his jaw clentchs tight, teeth grinding together. the cold hard truth of your words hurts, more than the first time he was caught at your window. he's a nobody, a simple boy from mud rain with nothing to his name but a desperate heart. "I..." he falters, his bravo cracking "i'v got nothing. no lands no title, not even a decent pair of boots to my name." more tears slip from your eyes, you look down at him choking on your own sobs as you speak "oh Kyle...I will miss you so dearly" something deep in his chest chatters. he leans his forehead on the window seal, knowing this is the brutal reality, he's losing the person he loves the most in the world to calls and politics. "I'll miss your until the bloody I die, my princess..." he pulls your hand to is mouth, pressing gently soft kisses along each of your knuckles. "I swear it. every.single.day." he says in-between each kiss. he lets you pull your hand away, both snaking around to his, cupping his face, thumb absently wiping the dirt on his off. he melts instantly into your touch, leaning his weight into your palm. its heartbreaking how perfectly he face in your hands, this dirty poor boy devoted to dearly to his princess. he turns his head to kiss your palm with desperate worship. "my princess..." he whispers, his lovely emerald eyes swimming in pools of absolute adoration. "remember me, yeah?" you smile down at him leaning down closer, breath tangling with his "forever and always my sweet"
you stay still a moment before pipping up almost bashfully "I...have a few gifts for you, if you'd take them?" he softens inside and out at the sweet tone, overcome with affection and heartbreak. he clings to the shaky latter with one hand, other on the window seal as he stepped up more. practically leaning into your window. "oh princess...you shouldn't be spoiling a poor lad like me" he whispers almost teasingly. though his eyes are already watering because he knows exactly what this is, a goodbye girl. "I'd take anything you give me love. absolutely anything from my princess is worth treasuring forever." you hum softly at his response, and treat into your room. only returning a moment later with a bag, and a large pouch bursting to the brim with gold coins. you let him peak inside the bag, in there a nice pair of boots, not fancy but more so study, good working boots that will last him long. with good quality clothes that don't look too expensive the last thing you would want is for someone to steal them from him. his jaw drops, staring at the treasures you've brought him like he's witnessed a miracle. proper boots, actual quality clothes, and a coin pouch that's bursting. its more wealth than he's seen in his entire life. "princess..." he breathes, completely overwhelmed, soft pretty tears slipping down his cheeks. "this is a fortune" you smile at him, what seems like not a cent to you is so much to him, being a royal comes with so much and one of those things is this, finding someone with so much less react to so much. it's adorable. "heh all for you my love." he can't even speak for a moment, throat tight with emotion. this is dowry, practically enough to start himself a new life, open the sewing place he's always wanted. but it means your really saying goodbye. he reaches through the window and takes the gifts into his arms with trembling hands, clutching them to his chest like they are sacred. he loves them he really does, but each jingle of the coins and each shuffle of the clothes feel like a nail in the coffin of their impossible love. "thank you my princess, from the deepest pits of my soul, I'm forever greatful to you." "anything for you my dear" you lean down to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, leaving a smuge of your lipstick behind "the guards will be doing their rounds soon...you must leave" the kiss makes his body shudder, a soft whimper escaping him as he looks up at you with those big sad eyes, he is a begger after all, its what they do best. he hears the guards, their heavy boots on stone, their torches flickering, he goes to start climbing down but stops looking back up at you "princess" you peak over the edge at him "yes?" "can i-no may I have one more kiss? a real one before I go?" his voice raw and pleading so desperately it makes your heart melt "of course..." he climbs back up quickly, urgently,until his face is level with yours again, his hands shaking as he cups your jaw. the kiss is everything they don't have time for, deep soft and lingering. he pours every suppressed "I love you" into it, every nightmare of losing you, every memory of your nights sharing a bed or just chatting away for hours. you moan into his mouth as he makes sweet love to your lips. "mmm...Kyle" he kisses you harder, at the sound of his name, a choked noise escaping him. this could very well be the last time he kisses his princess, his everything. you will be too busy and to guarded to come to him every night. the sun will rise and he'll have to leave you behind, gone to another man. it angers him so deeply.
you reach out of the window to wrap your arms around his shoulders, he just melts into you at that point. his arms snake firmly around your waist, pulling you as close as possible without forcing you out the window. the latter creaks threateningly beneath him, but he ignores it, focusing only on you, your taste your touch, your heavenly smell. he opens his eyes just a crack, he wants-no needs to look at his goddess. you put a hand on his chest, mumbling against his lips "nugh Kyle they are coming you must go..." he breaks the kiss as slowly as he can, a line of spit connecting your lips. you can feel his heated skin and heart pounding against his ribs hard "right of course, I apologies my lady, where ever are my manners..." he gives you one last look before descending down the ladder.
you close your window and he makes it back over the fence before the guards manage to see him. he stares at the empty window for a long time before he starts walking away. he looks into the bag once more to admire what you've given him, but he sees something he did not notice before. a little silver chain poking out between the clothes, once he pulls it out he sees its a lovely heart shaped locket. "from your princess" engraved on the back. he smiles warmly as he opens it, a little photograph of you blowing the a kiss at the camera. his very favorite photo of you. oh princess...
cw: smut, MDNI, misogynistic behaviour, power imbalance, boot licking, foot job/boot job(?), use of the word "cunt"
This was a bad idea, you don't know what possesed you to say yes and go along with it in the first place, but now here you are. Palm pressed against the wall, feeling each and every crevice where the paint chipped, nail scratching at it even more to hold yourself up, kness threatening to give out at any moment. John is right behind you, plunging himself deeper and deeper with every thrust, the buckle of his belt hitting the back of your thigh in an increasing rhythm.
Maybe it was all the teasing during the day, him calling you into his office every 20 minutes to lecture you about the error in the report that was fine an hour ago when you gave it to him, the way you brewed his coffee or how your uniform was innapropriate even if you've been complaining for weeks that they gave you the wrong size.
The tension has been accumulating for a while, all the little comments and the mocking glances towards you every time it was your turn to do something. Making you feel like you needed to prove that you actually deserved your place amongst them and when you did it again and again, it was treated like some happy accident. All your qualifications and years of experience on the field pushed aside and ignored. It was infuriating, every chuckle making you grip the handle of the gun so tight, you were afraid it was gonna snap. Laswell warned you before your transfer that even amongst the elite task forces where everyone's talents were proved by their presence alone, you were gonna be pushed aside. "Grown men playing it like it's a boys' club" she said disdainfully.
Maybe it was naive of you to still hope for people to be reasonable, but the first time during briefing before a mission when Price said that a coffee would be nice and pointendly looked at you, it was hard to hide your dissapointment. All the moments when you would speak up and have your ideas and suggestions ignored only for Gaz or Soap to say the same thing a few minutes later and get an approving smile and a pat on the back from the captain. It didn't matter that you could hold your own during missions, your sniper skills on par with Ghost's, they would give you an indulgent smile at best or an exasperated sight at worst like you were some small dog barking at them and it was starting to go from cute to annoying.
You curse yourself for falling so easily into this trap, perhaps all the days of having to stay overtime to make up for errors that weren't yours, all that frustration and loneliness finally culminated to this moment. Mistaking Price's change in attitude for acknowledgement, desperately clinging to every crumb of approval tossed your way just to end up with your pants around your ankles and Price behind you in the supply closet.
His talk about you finally stopping trying to play soldier and behaving like a proper cunt sending a wave of shame all over your body and something else. All that fury that was buried under clipped smiles, pushed aside for the sake of keeping the peace at your expense. It's in the bits of old paint gathered under your fingernails, the grind of your teeth as your jaw clenches, the bitter taste in your mouth that you've gotten tired of swallowing.
When you hear him saying that he's getting close, your body moves on its own. He isn't ready for your hand pushing him away, stumbling on his ass on the cold floor. Before his shock could make way for anger, you press your boot over his cock, not outright painful, but firm and start moving your foot.
"Come on, didn't you say you were close? Go ahead and finish like this."
Price looks like he's about to argue, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is broken moan. A smirk starts streching on your face when you see him moving his hips against your boot, groaning all the way as spurs of cum get all over his uniform. His breath is heavy, a dust of red covering his cheeks. The small sound escaping his lips when your hand goes to the back of his head, fingers interlocking through his hair and pulling hard, only encourages you further, bringing his head closer to the concrete floor.
"Clean it up." You say it almost bored, the meeting is in 10 minutes, you should probably finish up here quickly and go.
A part of you expects him to refuse, to pull rank and throw you out, make all the years of your career amount to nothing in less than an afternoon. What he does instead is lower his head even more, obediently licking up the cum on your boot in slow motions. When he's done you let go of his hair, throwing his own words back at him, telling him that he finally behaves like the cunt he is. Before he can say anything more, you turn around and leave him there on the floor with his cum-stained pants around his ankles, the dark obscuring his erect dick. You leave the supply closet with a lightness in your step that makes any kind of future consequences worth it.
Thinking about ghost's baby not having the typical emotional support blanket...
No, instead she has one of ghosts masks.
It had fallen out of his bed when he tossed it onto the table the night before. Long deployment and missing his family making ghost lose focus enough to not notice it. Of course, the next morning baby was trying to do anything but eat her breakfast as was her constant goal.
Ghost had only turned around for a moment, but he nearly dropped the skillet when he looked back to see his sweet little girl with his mask in her tiny pudgy hands.
"No, no, we don't touch that, pumpkin–" ghost had tried to take the mask away. Thankfully one he rarely used, skull print directly on the balaclava instead of his hard-shell. It made him want to puke thinking of her holding that.
Only for baby to start wailing, little arms waving around and tiny feet kicking in despair.
Ghost had always had a weak spot for his daughter, no will to discipline her like you have. So a different mask, identical except for the fact this one has never seen battle, is placed into he hands while he coos "hey, it's okay sweetheart. Just had to get you a better one, yeah?"
When you saw your beloved daughter chewing on the mask and babbling happily, you and ghost had a long talk.
The official story is your daughter getting attached to ghosts Halloween costume, kid's can be so silly in their obsessions, right? Or, that's what you tell the kindergarten teachers when you sweet girl decides to wear the mask all around school.
Ghosts team quickly learned not to make jokes about the masks true origin after you tore price a new on in the front lawn.
Simon didn't want to have a big, beautiful wedding. His ideal celebration would be to go to the courthouse and sign the papers, maybe go to the pub or party with your friends in your backyard.
You, on the other hand, already had a whole day planned out. From the colors of the napkins to the floral arrangement, you handled it all carefully. You never got mad, just quietly adjusted anything that didn't fit into your vision. You'd politely decline a bakery when they didn't have the exact decoration you wanted for your cake and found another one as quickly as possible.
One night while you and Simon were sitting in bed, you gasped, sitting upright. You shoved your phone into Simon's face.
"Look!" you exclaimed.
"I can't see if you hold the phone so close to my face," Simon grumbled.
When you held it further away, he saw the page you were on. A wedding painter.
Simon thought it was annoying. A random woman who didn't even know you trying to capture not only your physical appearance but also your energy. It was silly, the person lingering in the background and studying, watching, listening, painting, spying.
When Simon saw the painting though, he nearly cried. The colors were as vibrant as he remembered them and the painter was in love with you too, apparently. It looked like you, so much was obvious, but it also felt like you in a way he thought only he could see. Smile on your face, warm and kind, and your face glowing.
one night stand with simon, whom you met when he was off duty, and shortly you find yourself pulling this strange man by the hem of his shirt into your apartment, and you get very creative with all that you wish to try out in bed with this hot stranger.
he's hot enough, with huge muscles that strain against his thin compression shirt and you already find yourself drooling over the prospect of getting choked by his biceps alone.
moreover, with whatever little information you get out of him, it's obvious he's not exactly planning on staying here for long - and the liquor courage you gain from the margaritas you sipped throughout the night at the bar makes it easier to get lost in the heat of it all - thanking your little alcohol tolerance for making it harder for you to get embarrassed.
a night of pure animal instinct. skin on skin, nails dragging through his blonde tufts of hair and then trailing down to his back, leaving thin red lines as you try to cling onto him with each thrust making your mind recoil with how good it all feels.
of course, he leaves the next day. you expect as much, and you're quite satisfied with concluding your short-lived affair as you return back to tending to the demands of your drab, adult life.
so you're not sure as to how to react when you join an elite task force as an underling, only to find yourself clashing heads with your very new superior, lt. riley(you could feel his frustration rolling off of him in waves, although you're not sure why he's so agitated) - and you find it strange how familiar he feels, despite the mask and the anonymity.
After the briefing, Price asked Soap to stay around. Gaz and Ghost already stood up and left the room. He looked back at his Captain, only to see that his eyes were furrowed and his lips forming a grim line.
His heart dropped to his feet for a second, already thinking if he did something wrong and he's in for a bollocking. But Price only drew a long sigh and tapped his shoulder, his eyes softened. "Son, can you talk to Ghost later? He's quiet for a few days now. Only words I hear from him are yes or no. Worse, he only nods or grunts at me."
Soap was a bit shocked, but not really. He was noticing this behavior from Ghost since they came back to the base for the last minute mission Laswell had called them for. "'Course, captain. Anything you wan' me tae ask him?"
"Nothing in particular, just wanna check if something's troubling him in general. He's quiet, we all know that. But not this quiet."
"Aye, I'll see if I can find him," he nodded and excused himself.
He walked in the direction of the mess hall, deep in thoughts when someone grabbed his arms and tugged him into a corner.
"Lt! I was lookin' for you," startled, Soap exhaled and studied Ghost's face as much as he can with the usual hard mask and balaclava on. "Everything alrigh'? Price is worried, since you havna been talkin' for days. I am worried too."
Ghost looked around and made sure no one is near them. He pulled his mask off and stared back at Soap, now smirking and eyes hinting playfulness. Soap waited to see what Ghost is planning to do, but he stayed standing like a rock. Soap quirked his eyebrow, "What are ye on about, Ghost?"
Ghost stepped closer to Soap and sticked out his tongue. A silver stud piercing rests on it. Soap's mouth fell open, pleasantly surprised at the sight. "You got yer tongue pierced??"
Ghost nodded and smiled wider this time, like a proud kid showing his work. The dimples on his cheeks more noticeable now. He spoke with a bit of lisp, careful to pronounce the 's' in his words. "Didn't know we'd be called back sooner. Thought I'm gonna have it healed before the next op."
Fuck, this bastard. Soap inhaled as he relished the sight. His heart thumping on his chest, heat suddenly felt on his ears. He collected his thoughts and let himself calm down. He shaked his head in amusement. "Aye, that's why you cannae speak, you bampot!"
Ghost stepped forward and leaned closer to Soap's ear, "But this is for you, Johnny," then, he let his lips brush the skin on Soap's ear, "You'll know how it feels once my tongue is all over you."
With that, Soap felt the warmth on his cheeks and all the blood rushed down to his belly. He was painfully tempted to kiss Ghost and test how that damned stud piercing on his tongue feels on his own, will he taste the blood if he suck on it too hard? But he reminded himself that it's not gonna be a good idea for now. But still, will it feel cool on his skin when Ghost plants kiss and bite marks all over him? Or add a delicious sensation when it glides over his dick?
Soap fought the headiness and stops himself imagining all the things he want to try with that piercing, as he reached out and kissed Ghost's jawline and cheeks. Delayed gratification. This will do for now. "I'll hold you to that, LT."
Now, he can't wait for Ghost's piercing to fucking heal and taste it.
👻🧼👻🧼
Hmm.. part 2?
I swear when I think of a random mundane stuff (like getting piercings), my brain instantly fires up, "what if this happens with Ghost and Soap?"
you tend to work late hours at this shoddy little diner that’s thrown smack dab in the center out in the midwest, the only thing surrounding you being empty fields going on for miles.
it’s looked at to be a little haven for people who are out at these ungodly hours—lone travelers in the middle of the night, truck drivers, or just the occasional creep.
so you’re certainly no stranger to interesting faces.
except the large man who comes in, donning all black head to toe with a matching balaclava covering the entirety of his face and head.
despite the sudden dryness in your throat, you put on the best customer service face and greet the man who could just barely even fit in the booth.
“what can i get started for you tonight?”
the man just looked up at you, endless pools of black swimming in his eyes which had stains of what looked to be some sort of face paint hastily scrubbed away, but still lingering.
“tea. black.” the man’s deep timber of a voice vibrated through your bones, causing chills to run down your spine in small prickles.
you just gave the man a tight-lipped smile and a strained nod, deciding that he probably didn’t want to talk and it was best to serve him and get him out as quickly as possible.
as you waited for the water to boil, you chanced a small glance over where the man sat. he just sat and stared straight ahead; no book, no phone, just blank.
you weren’t a stranger to odd individuals, but this man? something about him made your stomach feel heavy with unease. like a dog you weren’t familiar with that moved just a bit too soundlessly for your liking.
the shrill whistle of the pot broke you out of you stupor, shaking off the malaise and continuing on with the job you’re being paid to do—albeit, not much.
you dropped the piping hot mug off at the man’s table, mumbling a small ‘enjoy’ before continuing on with your closing duties. all you wanted was to get him out as soon as possible so you could go home, daydreaming about the warmth and comfort of your bed.
you waited it out in the kitchen area for the stranger to finish, trying to work yourself up just to ask if he needed the check. but when you peeked through the little window showcasing the main dining area, the man was gone.
left. without a single trace. you quickly exited the kitchen, jogging over to the table to see he didn’t even pay.
“cheap fuckin’ bastard!” you seethed, jaw clenched tightly and almost hard enough for your teeth to crack under the pressure. that inexpensive little tea will now come out of your paycheck.
with a hefty sigh, you began cleaning up the mess and decided it wasn’t worth getting heated over. he was just another low-life who was looking for a quick dose of caffeine, thinking he could outsmart the only waitress around. which he succeeded in doing.
after finishing up closing, you meandered your way out to the back where your car sat in the lonely parking lot.
it was eerie at night. no trees to conceal you from watching eyes; just limitless square feet of grass and even ground.
even sitting in your car, you couldn’t shake off the feeling like someone was watching you. the hair on your arms and neck stood on end, like your body subconsciously knew something your brain didn’t catch up to yet.
without another thought, you shoved the key in the ignition and turned it, just to be met with the sound of nothing. no engine, no radio turning on. just silence.
you did it a couple more times as if that would work, but. nothing.
“c’mon, you piece of shit!” your stomach twisted in tight knots, a living nightmare coming to life. this felt like some sick, and badly put together horror movie. at any moment now, some masked slasher was gonna come bolting out from the fields with a mission to kill.
instead though, that slasher never came. the silence was so loud that there was a persistent ringing in your ears, but somewhere below that shrill sound was the faint sound of someone’s breathing.
your heart nearly stopped. you even held your breath to make sure it wasn’t yours. you slowly looked into your rearview mirror, a pair of familiar dark eyes staring right back at you.
that was the last thing you saw before a vast gloved hand smacked over your mouth, and something sweet but also nauseating invaded your nostrils.
a deep, accented voice sounded wobbly as your head spun. “don’t worry, i’ll pay you back, bird.”
Sometimes you just have no idea what Zayne is thinking.
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
His tone gives nothing away. It’s merely a statement of a fact, one that makes you blink in surprise.
“I…yeah. It’s comfier than all my clothes.” It’s not the only reason, and you’re sure Zayne knows that.
You slip into bed, but when you turn to look over at him he’s no longer reading him book. Instead, he’s staring at you.
In a way that you definitely know what he’s thinking.
“Are you tired?” He murmurs as he leans down to kiss you, softly at first, but then grows a little needy.
“Nope. But I have to ask…is it the shirt?” You smile a little into the kiss, the expression only growing when the curve of his ears begins to grow red.
“It looks good on you.” He admits, shifting so he can settle between your legs. His hands run over your body, slowly inching the shirt up.
“I wear it when I miss you. Your trip was so long this time.” You can’t stop the longing in your voice, and it makes Zayne pause his actions.
“I know. I’m sorry I was away. Perhaps I should take one of your shirts with me the next time I go.” His thumb rubs the skin of your thigh, leaving his true meaning unspoken.
“I can spray one of my plushies with my perfume? Then you can cuddle it and pretend it’s me.” You smile to lighten the mood, and it clearly works given the quiet huff of laughter. Zayne leans closer, suddenly squeezing you in a hug.
