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all-purpose-dish-soap · 19 days

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29 / 2.1k / soap soulmate au, part 6

...

Ghost looks up as Soap storms out of the weapons closet.

"Still herself, I take it?" Ghost asks.

"She's a stubborn pain in the ass is what she is."

As expected. Soap misses the dry amusement that crinkles the corners of Ghost's eyes very slightly. "Didn't talk, then," Ghost says.

Soap scowls. "Not a goddamn word we can use. She won't listen to reason. Thinks she can face down an army. Dense, irritating--"

"Strong-willed," Ghost says.

"To a damn fault. Canny see what I'm trying to do for her. I'm-- she's--" Soap can hardly articulate his frustration. He's got this sick feeling in his stomach like he's been kicked in the gut hard enough to make him hurl.

It's not just you being too stubborn to give up the intel. What happens when you’re freed? You’re not going to stick around. What if Graves snaps his fingers and you go right on back to him?

Soap lets out a rough sigh. "There's more than Graves keeping her from talking. I don't like it."

"You've got a plan?" Ghost guesses.

Soap nods. "Aye. I need to talk to Laswell--"

"Done." Ghost produces a beige folder and drops it into Soap's hands. "Had her look into it for you."

"I'll be damned." Soap flips through the pages in the folder. "Christ. Bloody thin file." He fans the pages inside like a flipbook as if checking for extra pages. "Where's the rest of it?"

"Not much there to dig up."

"Then she's gotta be missin' some--" Something catches Soap's eye as he skims through, and he pauses, lingering on a photo.

Hell's fuckin' bells.

"Think that'll help?" Ghost asks.

"I'd wager so."

"Good. You goin' back in?"

"Aye.” Soap folds the file into his jacket and gives Ghost a good-natured fist bump to the arm. Then he brushes past him, knocking into his shoulder.

Ghost grabs Soap’s arm again before he slips past. "We don't have much time. Price wants to move on Alejandro. Says if you can't get the intel, we go in blind. Rodolfo leads."

Soap sets his jaw. "How long?"

"Three hours. Tops." He claps a firm hand on Soap's shoulder and turns to leave. "Get some sleep."

…

A moment later, the metal grate door slides open. You straighten back up and steel yourself again.

There's something different about the way Soap carries himself this time. He's not wound as tightly. But the way his eyes settle on you is... odd. The shift in his expression puts you on edge.

He sits down across from you. "We've not got much time. If talking gets us nowhere, we'll try something else."

You lean back, mirroring his posture. "You gonna torture me?”

“That what you’re expecting?”

“Maybe. You ever tortured someone before?"

"Aye. Can't say I care for it, but I know how if that's what this takes." He examines you again with that sharp gaze. You don't feel like he's undressing you with his eyes anymore. It's more like he's searching for something. "Why ask? You want me to put my hands on ya?"

You ignore the mental image that imprints. "I want you to waste your time."

Soap smirks. "What I wouldn't give to let you waste my time. You, me, all this animosity between us... I've got a few negotiation techniques I'd very much like to try." He leans back into the chair, his hands folded in his lap with an easy grin. "But you're no' the type to break under pressure."

"Better men than you have tried."

"Tried torturing you?" His grin tightens just slightly. "Anyone I know? Names, locations?"

Your cheeks heat up again. At that, for some reason. "I can take care of myself."

"I know you can."

He produces the thin file and tosses it onto the table between you.

You look down at the papers that slide out. They're grainy and covered in redactions as if printed and bound, pulled from the deep end of some filing cabinet, scanned, rescanned, and printed again. But you glimpse your name. Your real name--the one printed on Johnny's skin, too. Your chest twists and your stomach sinks.

Soap sees the change in you and leans forward, elbows wide. He opens the file and pushes it across the table. "I'll do anything to protect you, darlin'," he says. "But I need information."

The file is everything you don't want anyone to know. But what catches your eye is that photograph. "Who else has seen this?"

"Me and Laswell. Maybe Ghost if he was feelin' nosy. Does Graves know?"

You pull on your cuffs, wanting to reach for the pages and push them away. "Captain Graves said he'd make this disappear."

Soap leans back, broad palm sliding out to touch the edge of the pages, and his expression softens for a moment. "Some things you can’t make disappear."

You look at him, twisted up with pain and anger. "So, what, if I don't talk, you're threatening to expose all this? Is that it? It won't work," you add with false confidence. "Captain Graves knows everything."

"What I want to know," Soap says, voice quiet, "is what he did with it."

"What?"

Soap leans forward again. "Did he threaten you? Did he say he’d make this go away if you worked for him, hold it over your head?"

"No!” you snap. “After this happened, I couldn't-- I was discharged from the military. I couldn't find work. He reached out to me. Said he didn’t mind if I had… history. Then he offered to have it scrubbed if I wanted.” You stare down at the papers. “He never threatened me. He helped me."

Soap lets out a breath. He was prepared to deal with something a lot worse than that. Maybe he hoped for something worse. If Graves were blackmailing you, the solution would be easy. He'd give you protection, offer to have Laswell erase that file from existence instead, CIA-style. After all, if Graves got his claws into you and onto his payroll that way, why couldn't he? Probably got you dirt fucking cheap, too. Bastard.

Part of Soap wants to press that angle. He could tell you Graves never intended to deliver on his side of the deal. But the truth is that Graves would've had little control over this. Seeing the state of the file, Graves likely did what he could to have it redacted, sealed, destroyed--but someone over his head intervened. Shepherd, maybe. There'd be nothing Graves could do.

Soap wants you more than anything, but the pain in your eyes when you look at these documents tears him up inside. He can’t manipulate you that way. Even if he got you to himself in the end, he'd never forgive himself.

"That's... that's good. He protected you." Soap crosses his arms, squeezing his fist hard around the object inside, the one he pickpocketed off Ghost a few minutes ago. Much as he hates Graves, the man kept you safe. But that's his job now.

"I don't care who you tell," you snap, suddenly full of anger and spitting fire. The sight of those pages puts you on edge. You feel like a cornered animal. "I'm not telling you a goddamn thing. Do whatever you want to me. You're no better than--"

"Am no' blackmailin' ya." Soap's expression sours. So much venom in that mouth of yours. He runs his thumb over his tightened knuckles to suppress his own temper. He's amazed at how easy it is for you to get under his skin, how you push all these buttons when he's the one who's supposed to be pulling the strings.

But he realizes how this must seem. You act tough, but you're vulnerable, exposed, and he has every reason right now to drive the knife in and twist it hard. Maybe he should. Going into the Las Almas base blind means danger for his squadmates.

Christ, he’s tired. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Darlin’, I... I know now you've done things you're not proud of. But that doesn't change anything. Not to me, not to Ghost-- hell, none of us would bat an eye. You don’t need to protect yourself anymore. I need you to talk to me. We're out of time."

He thinks this is about you protecting yourself? You shake your head. "If you’re storming the Las Almas base, you're going up against Shadows. You're asking me to help you kill my own."

"If that matters to you, then tell me how to get to Alejandro without alerting the guards. Nobody has to get hurt."

You scoff, looking away. "There's no way to do that and you know it."

"We don't have to shoot them if they stand down first."

"That's not going to happen. They'll shoot you on sight. It'll be a bloodbath."

"Not for us."

You close your eyes. "I know. That's what I'm worried about."

Soap lets out a frustrated breath. "We're going in whether you talk or not. The blood's on our hands. Not yours."

You keep your gaze angled away, clearly not believing that. "I don't see why you care about security. I don't see why you need intel at all. This is what you're good at, right? This is what 141 does. You break in doors, you kill people."

Soap grips the edge of the table. "The only thing gettin' you out of here is information. I don't care what it is or if it's useful. Price wants intel."

"I don't have it." Your voice is flat and cold. Whatever you can do to make him understand you're not worth the effort.

He leans in and grabs your chin, gently forcing you to look at him. "Then lie to me."

"What?" You stare at him, feeling pinned under that intense gaze. "Are you fucking insane?"

"Might be," A small, sly, half-smile curves his lips. "I'm also desperate, runnin' out of time, and at the end of my rope after starin' at you this long, knowin' I can't have you." He runs his thumb along your cheek. "Maybe I'm bankin' on you losin' your mind before I do."

You swallow. "You'll be waiting awhile."

He smirks. His thumb moves from your cheek to your chin, fingers trailing down the side of your neck. "Do you think you're a good liar?"

Before you can answer, someone bangs on the metal door, rattling it. Price's voice echoes in from outside.

"Get some sleep, Soap," he calls. "We're briefing soon. Give it a rest. We’ll press her for more intel after we’ve got Alejandro back.”

Soap tenses at the sound of Price's voice. "Wasn't planning on sleepin'," he calls back.

"Wasn't a question," Price calls back. You hear him walk away.

Soap withdraws his hand, letting out a soft curse.

"Why would you give your own Captain false information?" you hiss. "You could lose your job. You could get court-martialed. Even if it worked, what if Shepherd finds out? He's still in your chain of command."

"Guess that's a risk I gotta take."

"Then what if I tell you something that gets your teammates hurt, huh?"

"Won't happen. I'll be in the front when things get risky."

"Then how do you expect me to-- if it means you're the one who's--" You huff, words failing you. "You're so goddamn thick."

"Am I? Because here I am, tryin' to make plans and get a read on you, and all you wanna do is piss me off and run your mouth. I'm learnin' a lot." He tilts his head. "In fact, it's startin' to sound like you're worried about me."

"Absolutely not."

"Could always tell me the truth. Extra insurance if you do. Maybe it’ll keep me alive."

"You don't need it," you snap.

"I think I do." He leans in, crossing his legs and folding his arms. "Got a bad feeling about this one. No Shadow worth their salt wouldn’t send us straight to hell if it meant finishing the job. Especially Graves."

You feel another pang of dread in your gut. He's right.

He watches you for another long moment. Neither of you speak.

Finally, he stands, sighing deeply as he goes to the door. "Alright."

"Are you coming back?" The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them.

He pauses in the doorway. Then he turns back, staring at you like there's something he wants to say. He looks down at the stolen object still clutched in his hand--the key to your cuffs.

He opens the door, slipping through without another word.

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / [part 6] / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10

more Soap / masterlist tag

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 10 months

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hello!! i humbly ask for some price fluff… maybe sleeping on his chest or something or getting ready for bed

—Hum Me A Tune, Blue-Eyes

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [You listen to his heartbeat as he keeps you to his chest, his breath tickling your hair.] ❞

Your eyes are half closed and drooping farther by the second, a warmth so bone-deep blooming beneath the skin that it fully encapsulates your consciousness.

John keeps your head against his chest, one callused hand on the back of your skull and massaging in small circles. You hear him hum under his breath as he watches you; his own lids teetering up and down.

In the background, the gentle sound of the record player spits out Beethoven.

"You're makin' me sleepy," you whisper, nuzzling against John's chest and his shirt with a large sigh. The man grunts, and you feel his lips meet your scalp in a deep kiss. He smells like linen and beard oil.

Into your hair, John mutters, "Good." It's more a purr than anything else as you shiver at the sensation of his body grumbling from under you.

The living room is the picture of a Saturday afternoon—dishes in the kitchen sink, laundry in the basket to be put away; the couch you both lay on sinking with your combined weight. Sun streaming through the curtains.

You've forgotten how you both ended up in this position in the first place. Not that it mattered to you now.

"Like you here." The Brit huffs, the blue of his eyes dim and content. Pools of molten sapphire. It's as if whenever he holds you everything else falls away into a sheen of contentment.

There's no war here with you on his chest—no gunfire or yelling orders. Just the heat of your body and the swell of lungs as your chest bares down on him. John's lashes flutter.

"Course you do," you tease, slowly, before kissing his clothed chest. John stifles a chuckle, his lips curling along your scalp as his breath tickles your hair. His hands spread out along your back—curling as a snake would. Tight and firm. You don't mind in the slightest. "Careful, Captain...don't go sleeping on duty."

Briefly, you peek up at him through your addled haze. He lays a kiss on your forehead and his lips twitch as you continue. Such a greedy cuddler. "We still have sheets to put on the bed, y'know."

There was no way the both of you were leaving this couch. Not with John's large hands caressing your spine. Not with how you fit atop him so perfectly with your dead weight and adorable sleepy blinks.

This was fucking heavenly.

"Fuckin' hell," the brunette grumbles; he hikes you farther up as you let him drag you like a stuffed animal with a tiny grunt. John sighs, settling you. "Bloody forget about it. You're not movin' an inch."

"That a promise...or an order?"

"Both." You smile, letting his large lungs raise you up and down as if sleeping atop a grizzly bear. Maybe, you thought, you were.

"Sleep, Love," John whispers. "I'll be right here with you."

And as you close your eyes fully and slot your head under the man's chin, the gruff brunette joins not seconds later into the state of oblivion. Soft inhalations; greedy hands that anchor like steel. A scrape of beard hair against your ear.

The house settles, the music plays, and the two Lovers sleep; dead to all else except one another's arms.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

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mockerycrow · 7 months

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Hi! I was wondering if you could do a one shot with gn!reader who gets hurt in a mission trying to save Ghost and as he feels bad for it, so he gets reader a small plushie (kinda like those for the key chain) and when reader wakes up doesn't know it was ghost how gave it to them

💙

KEYCHAIN (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist — 1.3k words

authors note; it’s your local author criticizing their writing non stop again!!!!!! i feel like i could’ve written this better idk i’m sorry, anon! i wrote this whilst focusing on other projects </3

[WARNINGS; violence, descriptions of stabbing and choking, gore, hospital settings, fluff at the end.]

Ghost did not expect you to do what you did. Someone somehow managed to get the jump on Ghost from behind, wrapping their arms around the man’s neck with a knife in their hand. It was right in the middle of Ghost claiming he cleared a building; in his defense, he had cleared the entire building of every hostile for the exception of one. You heard him grunt and choke before going radio silent, you decided that you were on your way to his location the second something sounded wrong.

Ghost gasps for air and reaches for a knife of his own, trying to stomp his foot down on the man’s foot, but the man grunts and laughs when Ghost discovers he’s wearing steel-toed shoes. Ghost struggles against the man, his head beginning to swim—when is the last time he’s been overpowered like this?—and Ghost manages to grab one of his knives, taking it out of the sheath—

Ghost’s vision goes white for a moment when he feels the man’s blade sink into his abdomen, the man shushing him in his ear. “It’ll be over soon, big boy.” The man hisses, carelessly ripping the knife out of Ghost’s gut, making his legs buckle. Ghost must have blacked out for a moment because the next time his vision and hearing work, he’s on the ground in immense pain, witnessing a figure fighting off the strong, armored man. Ghost hears someone cry out—is that you??—but his vision won’t focus just yet.

His ears are ringing as he puts a forearm against the ground, a groan leaving Ghost as his other hand goes to his gut, and he winces as he applies pressure to his stab wound, hot thick blood trickling between his fingers and onto the ground. Ghost’s throat aches terribly, so he clears it as his vision finally focuses and it’s you fighting off a man that’s bigger than him. His eyes widen as he shouts your name, his voice hoarse and broken, laced with panic.

There’s blood staining your uniform as Ghost lets go of his stab wound, and he groans loudly as he leans down and grabs his handgun out of his ankle holster. Ghost inhales through his teeth and he shakily aims his handgun, and holds his breath to steady his aim, and he pulls the trigger.

The bullet ripples through the air and rips through the man’s temple, causing him to stumble for a second before crumpling to the ground like a ragdoll. Unfortunately, you follow suit, a loud pained gasp leaving you as you land on your side. Ghost holsters his handgun and he calls your name again, fighting through the pain to quickly crawl over to you, blood trailing him. “Oi, oi—“ Ghost hisses, grabbing your shoulder and forcing you to roll onto your back.

There’s blood caking your uniform so horribly he doesn’t know where your wounds begin. It’s smeared against your neck and face, your eyelids fluttering from the pain. Your lips part and shut multiple times as your mind tries to comprehend what just happened. Ghost calls your name, a loud noise of pain leaving him, one hand pressing against his own wound whilst the other grabs your jaw to keep your head still.

Ghost hears Price shout your name through comms in an angry and panicked tone. “Ghost?? Fuckin’ hell, someone come in!” Ghost pants before he begins to tear the velcro straps off of your vest as he needs to know where you got hurt. He moves his hand off of his own stab wound—he is a bit lightheaded—and he presses down on his radio. “Ghost to Price, we’re both injured. One SW for me, I’m not sure how many for them.” Ghost croaks into the radio, trying to multitask.

“Bloody—where are you two?” Price demands through the radio, sounding a bit breathless. Ghost inhales sharply as he leans over, his body bending the wrong way as he grabs the front of your vent and he grunts loudly as he drags it off of you with one hand. He’s lost a bit of strength with the blood he’s lost. You gasp and grab for Ghost’s wrist as he begins to press down on one of your multiple stab wounds near your vital organs. “Building two, third floor.” Ghost responds with a strained voice. He notices your head rolling back, and you barely hear Ghost yelling.

Don’t let this be the end.

You ended up passing out from pain and blood loss, despite Ghost’s best efforts of keeping you awake. You slowly awakened in a plush setting, slight pain humming through your veins, your throat dry and aching. You twitch, your muscles heavy from not being used for a bit. You hear a monitor or two, which gives you an indication you’re in the hospital. Your eyelids fluttered open and luckily, the overhead light in your hospital room was not on. The curtains were drawn open, and the light streamed into the room.

You glanced around, seeing Soap with his journal in his hand, sketching something. It gives you a warm feeling in your gut and you glance over to your other side, seeing Gaz sitting there, holding.. your keys with a little fuzzy thing?

“What’s that?” You croak, causing both Gaz and Soap’s heads to snap to look at you. “Aye, look who’s awake!” Soap exclaims, grinning. He closes his journal and puts it on the ground next to his chair before he grabs a foam cup. Soap brings it to your lips, and you realize it’s water so you greedily gulp it down, the water soothing your throat. Gaz lets out a breath before he scoots closer, the crease in his eyebrows finally relaxing. “It’s nice to see you awake.” Gaz murmurs with a soft smile of his own.

Soap pulls away the cup and sets it back down. “How long was I out?” You question. “What even happened? It’s in sections for me..”

Soap and Gaz share a look before Gaz fiddles with the fuzzy thing in his fingers, your keys clinking around. “You saved Ghost. He was being overpowered and you found him, but uh..” Gaz winces a bit, causing your eyebrows to furrow as bits and pieces begin to flood back to memory. “—But you got injured yourself. Luckily lil’ ol’ LT got off with one stab wound. You? Ya got off with six.”

You blink for a moment. “Oh.” You utter, taking a moment to process that. “You had to have surgery which is why your throat aches so much, the tube.” Gaz explains, putting your keys and the fuzzy thing in your lap. “They said everything should heal normally, but you'll be out of commission for a while.”

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding and you nod, your hand reaching out and grabbing your keys. “And Ghost?” You ask, your tone tight, expecting the worst. “He’s alright,” Soap assures, causing you to look at him now with a look of relief. “He just left a bit ago to get some rest, since he can’t stay and lay hunched over.” Gaz chuckles and you can’t help the smile that appears on your face. You finally look down at the fuzzy thing attached to your keys; it’s a little keychain plushie of a black and white cat. You let out a soft “aww” before looking at Gaz, and then Soap. “Who gave me this?” You ask.

Soap and Gaz share a knowing look—a glance you can’t quite yet decipher—before they shrug and mutter stuff like “i don’t know..” and “no idea” when in fact they watched Ghost, in a wheelchair, wheel himself into the room and grunt for your keys. Soap had wordlessly handed them to the man, and they watched him put on the kitty keychain and made them promise to not tell them he gave it to you.

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sinkovia · 2 months

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-`♡´- ANON ASK -`♡´-

Anon requested that the ask be posted after the fic.

Pairings: SImon Riley x GN!Reader

Warnings: Angst.

As the days passed by, your once perfect relationship with Simon began to fracture. It seemed as though the idyllic days you once shared were slipping away, replaced by a constant tension that hung heavy in the air.

The source of the arguments seems to stem from your "nagging," as Simon puts it. But to you, it's an expression of love and fear - a desperate attempt to hold onto something precious in a world where loss and danger lurk around every corner.

From the beginning, you both understood the risks in your line of work, but it's only recently that the reality of those risks has begun to weigh heavily on your heart.

You've voiced your fears to Simon, your desire to retire together and find solace in a life far removed from the dangers of combat. But each time you broach the subject, Simon's reaction is the same - cold, defensive, and laced with hurtful words that cut deep. It's a cycle that plays out time and time again: he pushes you away with his sharp words, only to come crawling back the next day, remorseful and apologetic.

In those moments of reconciliation, he speaks to you with tenderness and warmth, promising that he's always careful on missions and that this is the life he wants. He reassures you that perhaps, in a few years' time, he could think about settling down. And each time, you find yourself giving in, desperate to believe that his words hold truth.

But as the fear and dread of losing him creep back in, the same arguments resurface, and the cycle repeats itself endlessly, leaving you trapped in a loop of hope and despair.

The tension in your life reaches a boiling point when you're summoned to the briefing room, where Captain Price lays out the details of a harrowing mission. Your heart sinks as you realize the gravity of the task at hand - infiltrating the heart of Makarov's forces, your fluency in Russian making you the only person who could do it. It's a suicide mission, with slim chances of success and even slimmer chances of survival.

As Captain Price outlines the high-risk, high-reward nature of the operation, your mind races with conflicting emotions. On one hand, success could mean a significant blow to Makarov's forces, potentially saving countless lives and shifting the tide of the war. On the other hand, the thought of risking your life - and potentially throwing away any chance of a future with Simon - fills you with fear.

You weigh the options carefully, torn between duty and personal desire. The stakes couldn't be higher, and the choice before you feels like a cruel test of loyalty and sacrifice. As you leave the briefing room, the weight of the decision hangs heavy on your shoulders, uncertainty clouding your thoughts as you grapple with the choice before you.

You step into your shared apartment, the weight of the impending conversation heavy on your shoulders. Simon is seated on the couch, absorbed in the television. With a heavy sigh, you make your way over and take a seat next to him, steeling yourself for what's to come.

"We need to talk, Si,"

Simon sighs and reaches to turn off the TV, a resigned expression crossing his features. "Here we go again," he mutters under his breath.

Your heart sinks at his dismissive tone, but you push forward nonetheless. “Price gave me a solo mission,” you watch his reaction closely.

Simon quirks a brow but remains silent, prompting you to continue. “He wants me to infiltrate Makarov's forces,”

“Sounds risky,” Simon comments, his tone neutral as he leans back on the couch, crossing his arms. You take a deep breath, "It's a suicide mission," you confess, locking eyes with him, searching for any sign of understanding or concern.

Silence hangs in the air as you wait for his response, “When do you leave?” he asks, his response devoid of the emotion you had hoped for.

Does he even hear you? Does he even care?

“Did you hear what I said? It’s a suicide mission. Do you even care Simon?” you press, desperation creeping into your voice.

Simon releases a frustrated breath, irritation evident in his demeanor. “Of course, I fucking care, y/n. But like I've said a million times before, we chose this profession. We know the risks that come with our job. Any of our missions could easily turn into a suicide mission.”

Your heart sinks at his callous response, the weight of his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “And if I died on a mission, would you be okay with that? With living without me? With going on with life without me?!” you challenge, tears welling in your eyes.

“Seeing how you're always fucking nagging me, yeah, maybe I’d be okay with that!” Simon's harsh words cut through you like a knife, leaving you reeling in disbelief.

Your lip quivers, and you shake your head, unable to comprehend the cruelty of his words. “You're being mean. You don’t mean that Si, I know you don’t,” you protest, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I do. I mean every fucking word,” Simon retorts, his voice rising in anger. “Do you know how easy it would be to find someone else who will give me what I want? I can never get peace when you're around. We are done, y/n. Don't bother coming home after your mission.”

The finality of his words crushes you, leaving you speechless and broken. With tears streaming down your face, you cover your mouth with your hand, muffling the sobs that threaten to escape. Simon turns on his heel and storms out of the apartment, leaving you alone in the wake of his harsh words.

With a heavy heart, you rise from the couch and make your way to your room, your mind consumed by the weight of the decision ahead. As you gather the necessities for the mission, a wave of despair washes over you.

If Simon wasn't in your life, what else did you have to live for? There had been multiple missions you had turned down in the past, knowing they were nothing but one-way trips. But now, without Simon by your side, there was nothing holding you back.

Stepping into Price’s office, you steel yourself for the conversation ahead. You inform him of your decision to go through with the mission, his surprise is evident, but he and Laswell offer words of encouragement, instilling in you a sense of hope. With your skills as an infiltrator and your Russian background, they assure you that you stand a fighting chance. After all, who would suspect one of their own?

Despite the uncertainty and the weight of the task ahead, a glimmer of hope begins to flicker within you. Within a matter of hours, you find yourself on a plane headed to Russia, the gravity of your decision weighing heavily on your mind. Simon however remains oblivious to your departure, unaware of the path you've chosen.

Back at home, he returns that night with your favorite takeout and a bouquet of flowers, his heart heavy with remorse and determination. With each step, he replays his apology in his head, rehearsing the words he's been meaning to say. He knows he's messed up, and he's desperate to make things right. He wants to change, to be a better man for you.

Simon's mind swirls with thoughts of seeking therapy, of learning to control his temper and his sharp tongue. He knows he's hurt you deeply with his words, words he never truly meant. He loves you more than anything, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to prove it. But as he steps into the house, the atmosphere is heavy with silence. The air feels cold and unwelcoming.

“Y/n?” He calls out for you, his voice tinged with concern, but there's no response.

Worry gnaws at him as he wanders through the darkened rooms, searching for any sign of you. Finally, he enters the bedroom, and his heart sinks as he sees a note lying on the bed, illuminated by the faint light filtering in through the window. With trembling hands, he picks up the note, his heart pounding in his chest as he reads your words.

Simon,

By the time you read this, I'll be on a plane to Russia. I've made the decision to go through with it, despite the risks, and I wanted you to know why.

I've heard your words echoing in my mind, the ones about finding someone else who will give you what you want, about never getting peace when I'm around. And so, I've decided to honor your wishes. Once I finish this mission, I'll find my own place, and you won't have to deal with my constant nagging anymore. Your life will finally be at peace, just as you've always wanted.

I want you to know that I've always turned down these types of missions in the past. This isn't the first time Price has offered them to me. But if I had known sooner that you didn't care whether I went on them or not, I would have gone sooner. I'm sorry for making your life so miserable, for not realizing sooner that I was the problem.

I hope that you find peace now, Simon. I hope that you find someone who can give you what you want, someone who can make you happy. You deserve that much, at least.

Take care of yourself.

Yours always, Y/n

With each word, his heart sinks deeper, the weight of your words bearing down on him with crushing force. Tears blur his vision as he reads your farewell, your words cutting through him like a knife. The realization of the pain he's caused you hits him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air as guilt gnaws at his conscience.

When he reaches the part where you promise to honor his wish and stay out of his life after your mission, Simon's heart shatters into a million pieces. The thought of you willingly walking away from him, all because of his own hurtful words and actions, is almost too much to bear.

He crumples the letter in his trembling hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he struggles to come to terms with the magnitude of his mistakes. The weight of regret hangs heavy in the air as he realizes the depth of the love he's lost, the love he may never have the chance to regain if you don’t come back from the mission.

The suicide mission.

In that moment, he breaks down completely, the full weight of his actions crashing over him like a tidal wave. Seeing how much he's hurt you, how much he's pushed you away to point that you accepted the mission, shatters him to his core.

With each tear that falls, Simon's resolve crumbles, replaced by a deep and profound sense of regret. He wishes he could turn back time, take back the hurtful words he's spoken, and hold you close, promising to never let you go. But it's too late now, and all he can do is sit in silence, praying to a higher form to keep you safe, to let you come back to him alive.

The next day, Simon walked into Price’s office, his heart heavy with worry and anticipation. He needed to know more about your mission, to find any shred of information that could ease his growing anxiety.

Price informed Simon that you had landed in Russia in the early morning hours. However, he delivered the news that communication would be sparse for at least a month. They had scheduled calls planned for updates on the mission status, but they would have to wait until the designated time for you to radio in.

Simon listened intently, understanding the protocol, but inside, fear and dread gnawed at him. The thought of you out there, alone and potentially in danger, filled him with a sense of helplessness.

As the first month passed, Simon waited patiently in the room with Price, every passing minute feeling like an eternity. But as the hours stretched on, there was no sign of communication from you. No Morse code, no call, no comm. Just silence.

Panic began to set in as Simon grappled with the uncertainty of your situation. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the nagging worry that something had gone terribly wrong. But Price remained steadfast in his confidence, assuring Simon that these things happened often, that perhaps you hadn't found the right opportunity to relay a message.

Despite Price's reassurances, Simon couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that gripped him. With each passing day, his fear for your safety only grew stronger, overshadowing any hope he tried to hold onto. But he knew he had to stay strong, to keep faith that you would return safely from your mission.

Month after month passed, and still, there was no word from you. Simon waited patiently by the phone in the comms room center, his heart heavy with worry and uncertainty. He refused to give up on you, clinging to the hope that you would come back to him, despite Price declaring you M.I.A.

Even as Price tried to reason with him, pointing out that none of your mission objectives had been completed in the time you had been gone, Simon remained steadfast in his belief that you were still out there, somewhere, fighting to return to him.

Even as the years passed Simon couldn't bring himself to accept the possibility that you might truly be gone, vanished from his life and the world forever. The thought of living in a world without you was unbearable, and Simon couldn't bear to entertain it.

The last words he had spoken to you echoed in his mind, haunting him with their cruelty. How could he have been so callous, so blind to the pain he was causing you?

Was this fate's cruel work, forcing him to confront the consequences of his actions? Was this punishment for his harsh words, for pushing you away when he should have pulled you close? Was this what he truly wanted, to be left alone in a world without you?

But even in the depths of his despair, Simon clung to a sliver of hope, refusing to let go of the belief that you would come back to him. He would wait for you, for as long as it took, holding onto the hope that one day, you would return to him and his world would be whole again.

Anon Ask- simon x reader but they are both in the military and reader gets assigned on a suicide mission but has a choice to go or not. reader and simon fight and then they decide to go. feel free not to do this no pressure!!! but if you will dont post the ask until after to make it a little angsty surprise!

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meowpupp · 3 months

Note

I can’t stop thinking about pup-soap getting muzzled for his play date with puppy-girl reader because he was to rough with her last time :(( he would be so whiny and sad but at this point he’d be lucky to be let off his leash

GAGGED

price who's so mean to johnny. he can't stand how teary you are after each session with the hybrid, poor body covered in dark hickies and bites. after all, you're his. even gaz isn't allowed to mark the soft fat of your body, so why would johnny?

so the next time johnny comes over, he's muzzled. a large, steel cage securely fastened to his face, jutting out almost two inches. he cant even kiss you! poor boy whining clawing at your plush body, desperate to have you close. his ears are all droopy, pouting as he tries to nuzzle your neck.

even when he's deep inside your little cunt, he's barely given any freedom. two of simon's thick fingers looping under his collar, ready to pull him away from you at a moment's notice.

the cold metal of johnny's muzzle nudges against your cheek, desperate to get close, arms wrapping around you, pulling your body as close as possible, lifting your hips to meet his. he's lost in your sweet cunt, body shuddering at the feeling of your walls hugging him. his hips slam against yours, claws digging into the fat of your hips, denying you even an inch of space.

his eyes are trained on your tits, watching them bounce with each harsh thrust. the poor pup is practically salivating, teeth gritting as he presses the muzzle against your sternum. he's almost tearing up, so desperate to be able to sink his teeth into your soft body, drooling against you.

but simon and price are so mean, the moment you finish cumming on his cock, simon yanks him back. his owner shushes him, his hand wrapping around johnny's cock, grip too tight and fast. his cock throbs, twitching as he cums all over your pudgy tummy, almost crying as he's denied your sweet little cunt, again.

#its so yummy #poor johnny goes through it HAHAHA #dw he'll get mercy soon #but image his jealousy when he sees all the marks gaz left on you :(#ARGH I LOVE THEM ALL #simons so fuckin mean to him though #price x chubby!puppygirl #puppygirl x goap #pupjohnny x pupreader #pupsoap x pupreader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #johnny x reader smut #johnny x reader #johnny mctavish x reader smut #johnny mctavish x reader #soap x reader smut #soap x reader

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hometoursandotherstuff · 7 months

Text

Does anyone have the dream of living like a cowboy on a vintage train in the wild west? Here's your chance- a 1925 train car (with lots of cool original stuff) is for sale in Bonner, Montana. 3bds, 1.5ba, $249K. Look at this gem.

The velvet sofa looks like it was an original bench seat.

Look at the neat wood unit in this compartment. They even left the original carvings and flaws.

This was a Pullman-Standard 3 compartment, 2-drawing room/Observation Lounge car.

Bedroom #1. It's being sold furnished. Very cool vintage wallpaper pattern and don't you love the barbed wire pattern, too?

Isn't this the coolest restored compact toilet and sink?

And, look at the stainless steel shower.

The bedrooms are kind of tight, but they're compartments. They have bunks to sleep 2, but the uppers are very close to the ceiling. This must be the primary b/c it has the bathroom.

This is nice, there's room for 6 people.

Rodeo cabinetry.

Lots of attention to details like antler fixtures and antique-y shades.

Commercial grade kitchen looks pretty much original. This is so cool.

An original private sitting compartment.

It was actually mechanically overhauled, too, in 1998. So, I don't know how it works, but I guess you can hook it up to a train? It does have to be relocated, to make it a permanent home. Someone will probably make it an Airbnb.

#unique homes #unique properties #converted train car #houses #house tours #home tour

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syoddeye · 26 days

Text

under the table

gaz x f!reader x price. ~2k words. +18 only. What is this? Who knows. Just wanted to write a little smut. Very loosely based off this. tags: dubcon, manipulation, semi-public fingering

Ten months into your marriage, you give into Kyle’s pestering. No, perhaps that’s an uncharitable way to phrase it. You finally accept one of his many invitations to meet his commanding officer, his Captain.

(Though, is there any other way to describe Kyle’s incessant requests? When he asks repeatedly over breakfast or on dates, or when he drapes himself over your back mid-fuck, slowing to a teasing grind in an effort to make you change your mind? Think you’d like him, babe, like him almost as much as–)

You tell him it’s weird to bring up his boss while he’s inside you, but he just laughs and wipes the sweat off your brow.

“He’s important to me. He saw my potential. Just like you.” And how can you refuse when he puts it like that?

You tell him one evening after dinner, drying the dishes as he washes. Ceramic meets steel in a clatter as he drops a plate to cage you into the countertop, pressing kisses to your neck. You can feel his big, pleased smile against your skin, the chorus of thank yous. He barely remembers to turn the sink handle before he drags you off to bed, dishes half done.

It’s only drinks at the pub around the corner, and you don’t know why Kyle’s stressing and fussing over your outfit. Not every day does your husband pick your outfit, so you play along. You perch on the end of the bed to judge the dresses he presents and laugh at the fact that he thinks you’re pulling on three-inch heels for a place with tacky floors.

Kyle relishes that you must lean on him the whole way to the pub, the impractical shoes seemingly bent on catching every crack in the walk. His grip around your waist tightens the moment you cross the threshold, his grin a sly crescent.

He settles you into a booth in the corner, stepping away to buy your drinks. Beneath the table, you tug at the hem of the dress he convinced you to wear. It’s a classic black number, short, one of his favorites, and a bit much for your surroundings. But the fact that he pulled it out tells you the end of the evening will be good for you, that you’ll be duly rewarded for finally agreeing to meet his Captain.

A man appears at the table, eyes giving your top half an unabashedly appreciative once-over. Your mouth falls open as he slides onto the curved bench, stammering out a protest.

“Excuse me, I’m–my husband is at the bar, I’m flattered, but I’m–“

“Easy, love, just wanted a moment alone. Get a look at you.” The deep timbre of his voice is practically a purr, his mouth an amused line beneath an imperial beard.

Your brow pinches in annoyance. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often anymore, not with the pretty ring on your hand. You make a point to lay it on the table. “I’m not here on display, so if you’d please fuck off–“

“Captain Price,” Kyle chirps, a pint in each hand. “See you’ve met the missus.”

A hand pinches your knee, and it’s not attached to your husband.

“I did. Spirited, like you said.” The hand retracts as Captain Price exits the booth, exchanging a look with Kyle you don’t quite understand. “Back in a tick.”

You watch the broad-shouldered man head for a drink, then glare at your husband. “‘Spirited’?”

“Aren’t you?” Kyle chuckles, sidling up until his leg is flush with yours. He pushes the lager to the space in front of you and slings his arm over the back of the booth. “Did he scare you, babe? He can be a bit friendly, but he’s harmless.”

You sincerely doubt it. ‘Friendly’ is a loaded word. It’s how you describe Kyle and his hands’ bad habit of wandering. Ask him, and he’ll say he’s simply smitten and proud to have such a cute thing for a wife. Like it is now, his arm practically lives across your shoulders or around your waist when you’re out and about until his hand ‘gets cold’ or ‘lonely’, and he slots it between your legs or rests it on the swell of your ass. ‘Friendly’ is not something you want his boss to be.

Cordial. Polite. ‘Friendly’ in the way bosses are supposed to be, detached and unassuming.

The older man scoots in close, muttering something about the noise, effectively sandwiching you between him and Kyle. You retreat into your husband’s side as their conversation kicks off, catching up after weeks of leave. A few names you recognize from Kyle’s stories sprinkle in, giving you minimal context. You drink your beer and nod when appropriate, but otherwise, you people-watch. Though, you don’t watch the right people.

Over your head, behind your back, Kyle stares at his Captain, gaze darting down every so often to how the fabric of your dress pulls taut over your sides. The sliver of lace from your brassiere peeking out underneath a dress strap. He watches a man he trusts with his life openly examine his wife’s profile, effortlessly carrying on the conversation without meeting Kyle’s eyes once.

“Have we bored you to tears, love?”

You lift your head, pressing against Kyle, when Price plants his forearm on the table to lean closer. “Not at all. I don’t mind listening, Captain.”

“Told you to call me ‘John’.”

“Sorry,” You apologize. “John.”

John hums, musing. “So she can listen.”

The mild condescension leaves a taste in your mouth, but Kyle squeezes your shoulder, soothing.

“She is, sir.”

John’s gaze is heavy, dropping to your mouth to your cleavage in one swoop before excusing himself to buy the next around.

“Kyle,” You turn, finding him staring at the back of John’s head. “Can we leave soon? I don’t feel well,” you lie, shifting in your seat.

“Really?” His eyes snap down, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You sure? You haven’t even finished your first.”

“Please,” you glance sidelong at John. I–We can skip to the good part at home.” Usually, the offer works. It gets him on his feet quickly, tugging you to the car or along the walk within seconds. But he hesitates, mirroring your quick look at John.

“One more drink,” Kyle insists, tugging you back into place and forcing you to face forward. His breath hits your neck as he dips his head to whisper into your ear. “Think you can handle it? Be good for me?”

The tone of his voice makes you consciously aware of your nipples protruding through the thin material of your bra, instantly rising to attention at the sheer promise behind his words. Without thinking, your knees press together, capturing his attention. You watch his tongue glide over his lip. Surely, he won’t. Not with his boss here.

His arm remains in place, and his free hand inches closer atop the table.

“Kyle, don’t.”

“Don’t what, babe?” He smirks, looking away as John reclaims his spot.

“Miss anything?”

“Not at all.”

While they return to their chat, you cannot disconnect as easily as before. Both men press against your sides despite the booth’s available space. Your heart thrums in your chest, ratcheted to a speed that makes you fidget. Twitch. Kyle’s honeyed words repeat in your head, and you subtly squirm, feeling the heat between your legs pulse.

You don’t notice Kyle’s hand slide off the table until his fingers cup your bare knee. You turn your head, lips parting, but he’s not looking at you. You swallow hard when he pulls, opening your legs. His name is on the tip of your tongue, confusion mixing with embarrassment, and it fizzles into a choked silence. Another hand, broader and more calloused, slips over your opposite thigh, searching.

The din of the pub meets the rush of blood in your ears. The edges of your vision blur, your thoughts static, and it isn’t until a finger drags up the gusset of your underwear that you come crashing into consciousness. You jerk, and two bodies of solid muscle keep you in place like bookends.

“Easy,” John purrs, repeating the movement, slower.

“Kyle–”

“It’s okay, babe,” He coos in your ear.

Your eyes fall to your lap, where Kyle’s hand wrenches your dress to your upper thighs, giving his Captain access. Indignation swirls, beating violently against your skull, a swell of shame racing with a rogue wave of want.

“We leave in a week, right? Cap could use a boost. Think you can send him off with something nice?”

“Kyle, I don’t–” Your breath hitches as a second finger joins the first in rubbing gentle circles, pressing into the dampening cotton. Your leg tries to reflexively close, and Kyle’s hand returns to your knee to stop it. Your hands, formerly weighed down by pure shock, reach for John’s forearm, sinking your nails into skin dusted in coarse hair.

“Babe–” Kyle starts sternly.

John tuts, unaffected by the angry marks you impress into his arm. “It’s alright, Gaz, I don’t mind. We’re just warming up, gettin’ used to the idea.”

No, no, you are not getting used to the idea. You’re not. You’re not letting him, Kyle’s boss, John, touch you like this in a pub where anyone could see if they stare too long. Any second, you’re going to yell. Tear Kyle a new one. Then John’s fingers deftly slide your underwear out of the way, and instead of a scream, a squeak pushes out as a finger pushes in. Kyle’s hand lifts from your shoulder to guide your face toward his for a kiss.

John’s finger dips in, teasing, and you hear him groan while Kyle’s tongue licks into your mouth, keeping you fixed to him until you need air. You suck it in through short pants, eyes glazed over with a cloud of lust. You’re stupefied and trembling, inhaling sharply when the finger sinks to the webbing and curls.

“How is she?” Kyle asks, pressing kisses to your temple as your chin dips to your chest.

“Warm, fuckin’ soaked,” John chuckles at how it makes you clench.

Your eyes, half-lidded, stare into the shadowed valley between your open legs. The table blocks the dim lamp above, but the slick on John’s digit, as it withdraws, catches the light. The noise of the bar ought to drown it out, and perhaps it does, yet you hear the lurid, wet sound of his finger plunging in.

The men hold their breath as you go offline, mouth opening and shutting several times like a fish dying in too-shallow of a tidepool. The hand continues its work, stoking a heat you want to both smother and feed.

“Kyle,” You try again, a breathier, whiny pitch to your whisper.

“I know, I know,” He kneads the fat of your thigh, knuckles bumping into his Captain’s.

The men exchange a few words you can’t make out. Your foggy eyes lift to scan the bar, some lucidity begging you to at least check for an audience. In the corner, there’s nowhere for someone to linger or gawk to catch what’s happening beneath the table. In a distant corner of your mind, it occurs to you that Kyle must’ve planned this.

A mounting pressure digs your fingertips into John’s arm harder and harder, which he responds to with a quicker, more insistent rhythm. Kyle’s hand grips your thigh, but there’s no need with how wide you spread them yourself. You bury your teeth into your lower lip, then slap a palm over your mouth. The heel of John’s palm grinds into your clit.

“Lookit you,” John puffs into your ear. “Thought you weren’t on display?”

You come, whimpering behind your hand, squeezing John’s finger in a vise.

Somewhere in the bar, a glass breaks, and a chorus of drunken voices boo. Two fingers slip out of your heat and pat the ruined cotton against your sopping cunt.

Outside, the temperature dropped considerably, not that you’d feel it with your husband’s arm over your shoulders and his Captain’s hooked around your waist.

The world’s fuzzy, their words clear.

“She’s a good girl, Gaz.”

“You ought to apply, sir. You might get lucky.”

“Why would I do that, when we’ve got her?”

#truly just wanted them to fuck around #part two? who knows!#lightly edited #posting this and skedaddling to host a dinner party #gazprice x reader #gaz x reader x price #price x reader x gaz #pricegaz x reader #x f!reader

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shotmrmiller · 4 months

Note

cbf!price signing the papers, putting them in his bag and driving home, he sends a text to you and Johnny-letting them know he has some news to share.

he walks in and is met with his wife already in tears at the table, immediately running into his arms and holding him tight. He’s confused, his hands stuck in the air as his eyes catch a positive pregnancy test on the counter and a hat that says “#1 dad”

FUCK!!

IM GAGGING!! YALL JUST TRYNA KILL ME THIS IS SO GOOD

The papers stay in his bag. There are no ifs, ands or buts. He breaks the news the next day, that he's to be a father too. Johnny's smile is shaky when he congratulates him, that he'll be the best father to his child, and shakes his hand.

Cordial. He almost wonders if he had dreamt what Johnny told him about you, about them.

Johnny stays coldly professional. The times he used to go out with the rest of the 141 to the bar? Ever since finding out that John's wife is expecting, it's become:

Nae, ah've got my wife at home. Another time.

The conversations between Johnny and the other two remain the same, he cackles, he play fights, he shoves them by the shoulder.

With John though?

There's a detachment. He's not rude by any means, it's just... not friendly? John hates it.

He hates not sitting together in his office as Johnny showed him pictures of you and your belly— innocent or racy.

He misses the quiet conversations they used to have during downtime in between missions.

John misses him, and he misses you. Terribly so.

But then his wife's belly starts to grow, and the both of you are put on the back burner. John may not exactly know where his feelings stand for his wife, but he absolutely loves the baby in her belly.

He bites his lip to stop himself from crying when he hears the baby's heartbeat during a checkup.

John begins to get over whatever was happening with Johnny, and in turn, you.

He was happy, until Johnny sprints down the hall one day, telling you to wait for him, don't have the baby yet, he's on his way.

John locks himself in his office and paces around the tiny room. That could've been his phone call too. John would've already been pulling the car around to the front to pick Johnny up and head straight home— to you.

Instead, he parks his car in the driveway of his home and rests his forehead against the steering wheel. He takes in one deep breath, then two, and steels his nerves just to be able to face his wife.

His wife who isn't you.

And then Johnny comes back a week later, drunk in love with you and his baby. It kills him when he shows anyone who's willing to see the pictures on his phone of the both of you, but he doesn't ever bother asking John if he wants to see them.

He blinks his tears away when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he looks at the number. His wife.

His heart sinks into his stomach. Is it the baby? Has something happened?

John walks into his office, answering the call as he shuts the door.

#cbf!price

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ladyelissarose · 10 months

Text

———————— ☠️

Maybe it was it’s silkiness that had you intrigued, or the innocence it held amongst the darkness and death that has you reaching for it as if it were gold.

“Come on.. its o- OW! oof!!”

“What the hell are you doing Sergeant!?”

Now held up- off your toes by the collar of your bulletproof vest, your Lieutenant Simon ‘the-fucking Ghost’ Riley is holding onto it with both hands as his eyes scan your face with disapproval.

One hand of yours was on his wrist, while the other cradled your head, for you bumped it hard when he had picked you up from under the tank.

But your head was still sharp enough to hear the million questions in his head, so you cleared your throat while you pointed towards the tank,

“I saw a-“

“Why were you under the tank Sergeant?

Someone could’a run your arse over- if not fuck it for the damn position you were in.”

Ok maybe his bluntness could be tuned down but yeah he was right anyways.

Of course, as you were reaching for your found treasure, your ass was in the air while you were on your knees, bent down trying to get a hold of what had caught your eye under the tank.

Embarrassment washed over you as the vision of you in the position came clear, but it dissipated quickly as you pointed back at the truck, eyes not leaving Ghost’s as he still held you up and at his face,

“Lieutenant-“

“What was so important- you realize your stuff should’ve been in the heli by now because we’re leaving?”

Yes you knew that- and jokes on him it was already packed up in the heli right next to Soap’s bag on top of Price’s because you never liked yours on the floor of the heli.

Anyways, that’s why you were spending your last few spare minutes lurking around the base outside. And while skipping around you heard the softest squeak, which halted your moves and got you looking for the next sound like a crazy woman.

Your poor Lieutenant was still scolding your ear off and a few times here and there you were looking in his eyes trying to look attentive, but your ears were still catching the sound that had you curious at first.

Eyes looking back at the tank as you vividly imagined what you could do to get your prize once your Lieutenant let you go, had Ghost growing irritated at your visible ignorance, hence he started shaking you as he finally had had it with you,

“Ok that’s it Sergeant! You’re not paying attention and acting like a child! Get in the heli now!”

Your jaw dropped and your puppy eyes came out, you knew it was useless to argue with your superior, but you’d hope he’d show mercy at your saddened state.

But the damn Ghost didn’t budge.

Placing you back on your feet and like a disappointed father he pointed towards the heli with a hand on his hip,

“If your not in that thing by the time I count to five, you’re not going on a mission with Soap for 3 weeks and you can’t Uber pizza to base for a whole month-“

“What-“

“Don’t make each punishment triple. Now go Sergeant- and sit where you know I’ll sit. Don’t move... or else.”

Your bottom lip jutted out in defeat, heart sinking as you no longer could get what you wanted. Like a child after getting scolded by your father- ‘Ghost’, you walked towards the heli with your head hung low.

Walking by and away from the tank was the toughest thing to do, but soon you made it in the heli, and sat where Ghost told you so. You’d have to have some steel ass balls to disobey his stern orders and do otherwise, but because you were you and no matter how it hurt, you listened.

Sitting by his favorite seat, you kicked your feet as you waited patiently for him to arrive. Soon you heard his thudding footsteps coming your way, not needing to look up because by now you’ve learned he sound of every single one of the 141’s unique footsteps.. and Lieutenant Riley’s was always light but had a soft ‘thud’ to it.. no matter how big and heavy he was, he walked like a confident deer, unseen or barely heard.

Your eyes were locked on your hands, playing with the fingers on your gloves that Price had gifted you, after you lost them while fishing. But soon a light but heavy plush plopped onto your hands.

“Meowww.”

“Awe!-“

“That’s for listening you bloody twat.”

Cold as ever despite doing the softest act by bringing you your prize, Ghost sat by you with a huff as he warned you supposedly threateningly,

“You do as much as touch me one bit, I swear I’ll geet-“

“It’s yeet-“

“Shut up Sergeant I’ll still toss his furry ass out-“

“But it’s a baby-“

“I warned you, now let me sleep. Oh and that thing stays in my office at base. You can come see it whenever but it stays there or around me when I’m out.”

You giggled and awed like an idiot in love yet you replied,

“Yes sir- and ah thank you Lieutenant!”

“Not a peep either-“

“Meowww..”

You shut your lip and squealed quietly as you cuddled your prize closer to your face, the kitten.

It was so soft and cuddly, white but covered in gray patches. It even reminded you of Ghost, it was perhaps all scratches and hisses.. but actually the softest, sweetest thing ever.

It purred in your hands as you cradled it close, and that made you the happiest soldier ever, how it found peace in one of the most broken people in the world.

How your Lieutenant knew about your fascination of the kitten under the tank was beyond you, and how his big scary self got it- but that’s why you loved the Ghost.

P.S. - Ghost wanted the kitten in his office because he found some sort of solace in it, like peace? And it reminded him of you, the way it found peace in him from the second he picked it up.

Plus he liked having you around too, for your presence helped him out in ways you didn’t even know. So, if that kitty was around, you’d be too.

#cod simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #simon riley fluff #simonghostriley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #ghost fluff #ghost simon riley #ghost call of duty #simon riley imagine #simon riley call of duty #simon riley fanfic #call of duty fluff #call of duty

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

Text

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORD COUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Fluff, mentions of death, being hunted, vulgar language, price in a tunic (yes this is a warning by itself), awkwardness, nakedness, suggestive (?), implied age gap, etc.

A/N: I'm feral over this AU, ong. A million kisses to the Anon that brought this to my attention-btw this is definitely becoming a mini-series.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your family told you to never go beyond the deep waterways of the cove, never to brave the open sea. Times were changing. The Harpies, when they weren't as shrewd about their feathers getting wet, would fly down from their tall mountain spires and tell stories—ones about the hunting ships.

They’d seen them, they said as your family listened on in horror from the rocks, dragging all manner of Merfolk up from the waters in large nets made of iron and hard steel. Spears that tore scales to take for profit. In other instances, the unlucky individuals were even sold to royalty to become showpieces in displays of high wealth and standing.

But it wasn’t just Merfolk. It was all manner of mystical beast and being. Hunted. Sold. Humans, your parents had told you, were not friends. They were greedy and selfish; more than often cruel.

And so they started to do the same unto them. Your family would lure them with their voices to the ends of the great ships that were brought close to your cove—watch as they hurled themselves from the sides into the grasp of the ruthless waves. They did it for you, they explained. To try and keep you safe.

For years they did this until they were gone too.

Suddenly the cove seemed more like a prison than a safe spot, and the Harpies no longer came to converse or tell news. Killed or taken you had no idea, but it was becoming fairly obvious that even interactions with your own people were impossible. Were you the only mermaid left? It was a good question to ask and one that you could never answer. All that you knew was that you had been alone for a very long time.

That was, before you first laid eyes on the fisherman.

You watch him now, yet again, from behind the sharp jutting body of the rocks; the water delicately bobs you up and down as your vibrant tail hangs limp in its otherworldly throes. Eyes softly wide and mouth parted in wonder.

He’s walking along the deck of a small ship—not the large and intimidating ones of the other men that sail the seas—with a strong form. A hat on top of his head of brown hair and a well-trimmed beard of the same color made him look gruff in appearance.

Your hands shift over the sharp black stone, and the nakedness of your top is covered by the long strands of your wet, uncut, hair. This man wore a plain white tunic and brown pants stuffed into large boots. Even as far as you were, you heard the soft whistled tune dancing in the shell of your ears. Delicate eyes watch, head slowly peeking out more and more.

He was tending to the nets he had on the bow and as you studied him you were mystified.

“Fascinating,” you whisper, unknown emotions swirling in you.

His muscles strain, large and expansive shoulders lead down to a tapered waist; legs that you blink at before glancing at your tail under the rippling water. There’s a large grunt before the fisherman’s net is thrown in a beautiful arc, hitting the water with a slap and a spray of liquid as it begins to sink. Startled, you flinch back, gasping loudly.

With a racing heart, you quietly scold yourself for the childish reaction, flicking your tail in annoyance. Slowly but surely, your head peaks back out with water dripping down the flesh of your shoulders.

But when you shift back into the open, you find a deep set of stormy blue eyes digging into your field of view. You freeze, seeing his lids go back in surprise and shock as your jaw slackens. A cold fear enters your veins at the new attention brought to you but you find yourself unable to look away.

The Fisherman is the picture of utter stillness, just as you are, like twin mountains of ancient stone. Your nervousness only seems to grow as he doesn’t do anything—teachings and lessons about those who walk on two legs and sail in ships poking holes into your mind.

Gawking and spying were one thing…but being seen meant death. You swallow stiffly and go tense, shifting to half-hide behind your rock.

“Oh, no,” your mouth murmurs, self-hatred and fear lining the tone. “Oh, no, no, no.”

And yet the Fisherman had not moved, nor made any attempt to pull his sinking net back into his boat. Fish panic in the rope grave they’ve been ensnared in. His eyes….why are they so curiously locked on you?

You spare one last glance before shoving away from the rock and disappearing under the water with a violent splash; making off for the deep underwater caves that offer salvation.

When you’re down there—in the darkness with only silent ripples of light to guide your eyes—you find it hard to stop thinking about the Fisherman and his strong jaw. His genuine awe at the sight of you.

Had he not heard the stories of the Merfolk of this region? Or…or were you truly the last of your kind?

The thought troubles you, and, riddled with anxiety, you go over to your store of shiny trinkets that you’d collected over the years; grabbing them in your hands and fiddling with them to try to put your mind at ease. The walls of the caves bare down on you and you hope you’d not just signed over your own death warrant.

Maybe he’ll go away, you offer yourself, face tight and tail curled close, maybe he’ll be afraid and won’t come back.

It was a pointless belief. They always come back—driven by greed or a righteous authority. Humans were cruel.

But your brain goes back to stormy blue eyes like pebbles and softly parted lips. Orbs glinting with wonder and shock. No attempt to shout or grab for the large knife you’d seen strapped to his belt.

A fisherman, you told yourself, who hesitated to go after the biggest fish of them all.

You didn’t quite know if that made you more afraid or more intrigued.

—

It was only after you’d spent three weeks in the underwater caves of the cove that you’d finally decided the coast was clear. You’d cautiously gone back through the winding seaweed and schools of marine life to hide in your little rock fort; afraid but brave. From under the waves in the calm of the water you’d scanned the surface for the shadows of a boat, anything to indicate that the man had returned.

Nothing.

Tension leaves your shoulders and you travel upwards, vibrant scales shimmering like jewels. You were quite close to the mainland, you would say, back to the shore to look out over the open entrance to your home. At the first sign of danger, the rocks would be your first point of shelter if you wished to remain hidden but continue to watch.

Ears popping as your head surfaces, you only look out with the water swaying below your eyes; nose and chin hidden. Sand from behind you shifts.

“Knew I’d seen something, then, eh?” Your heart lurches—brain flashing to hooks and nets; you shove yourself back under the water with a garbled gasp.

Fish around your form dash away as you frantically look back at the surface, your scales shining as the light hits them. Fingers tense in the water, you shift your body so that your form has its back to the floor of the cove and breathe quickly in your own mermadian way with shaking fins.

On the very edge of the shore, you see the shadow of a sitting body in the sand. He hadn’t moved, this Fisherman. Was waiting as inanimate as an empty shell.

What had he said? You ask yourself, hair disturbed by the flow of the waves above your head. A gentle back and forth. After a moment of contemplation, the large muscle in your breast slows itself and a nervous curiosity grows.

Yet still, the shadow stays completely motionless beside the occasional itch and brush as facial hair. Waiting.

Waiting to attack, your hand twitches in the water and you flutter your tail to take you closer to the open air, or waiting to see me?

Taking what you can describe as a deep breath, the top of your head once more breaks the top of the water; lashes dripping salty tear-drops as you blink away the sting. Every part of you is ready to disappear once more if things go south.

And then you lock eyes once more.

The Fisherman sits in the sand with his boots pushing up the granules—his right hand rests over his bent knee while the other keeps him up in a relaxed position from behind his back. You stare, the sun reflected in your eyes with a small glinting and hair in your vision. A foreign heat builds in your face when the man’s head tilts; tiny eyes narrowing as if he’d just proven a point to himself.

Why doesn’t he seem surprised?

There’s a moment of a smirk that slashes his hidden lips but it’s gone in a fraction of a second. His mustache moves as he speaks and your face slightly bobs lower instinctually. The Fisherman doesn't seem hostile—he has a kind of stern comfort to him.

Stubborn gruffness. And his accent only amplifies that fact.

“Well, wasn’t expecting to find you here,” his chest rumbles with his words. You find you quite like the sound of it. Shells grinding against each other and pearls that clatter in palms. Your eyes widen with innocence. The Fisherman clears his throat, still watching carefully as the water sloshes over his boots. “Else I would have stayed clear when I still could.”

Your hands tread water around you, tail flickering in small movements.

The man's gaze darts down to stare as well as he could through the ripples.

“Bloody Christ,” he murmurs to himself, returning your eyes once more, “thought you were all mostly extinct. Fuckin’ hell.”

“Extinct?” Your lips flinch, chin caressing the waves as brows pull up. The Fisherman blinks as if surprised to hear you speak. To be honest, you were half afraid you couldn’t either—how long had it been since you’d had a conversation above water? You spent most of your time passing comments to rare traveling Hippocampus and Sea Serpents.

Not that they could respond, of course.

By now your face had entirely left the water, that word startling you. Your chest tightens.

“What do you mean,” you ask the older man, this strange Fisherman who was shifting his weight in the sand, “extinct?”

Dark brows furrow and his back slightly straightens itself.

“You aren't exactly what I’d be calling common, Love. No one’s seen one of your kind in years.” Your face stills.

“Years?” Head angling itself down, you stare at your reflection in growing fear.

The Fisherman makes a move to stand, and you dart back swiftly. A pale hand is held in the air as if to sedate you.

“Easy, now.” It’s said softly, a grunt stuck at the beginning. A small moment passes before the man fully stands up, dressed similarly to when you’d seen him before.

Top, pants, hat. There’s also a flash of metal around his neck, some piece of jewelry hidden on the chain under the layer of his thin, flowy, tunic. Hands go to cross over his chest in a display of muscle gained from a long time of hard work.

You nervously plead for an explanation, “B-but that…that doesn’t make any sense! I’m not the only one left!”

“No,” the Fisherman slowly states, taking off the hat from his head and delicately placing it on the ground. “No, you’re not the last.”

His eyes dart along your visible body, trying to catch a glimpse of that tail that was in all stories about your kind.

“Your name, Ma’am,” he asks, blue returning to your own sights, “what is it.”

“Well, what’s yours?” You counter, getting snappy in your anxiousness. “You come into my home and expect me to answer to you? And where’s your fishing boat anyways—unless a male Selkie has suddenly managed to brave the deep sea?”

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but you had sworn the Fisherman had smiled at you; it was a swift slash of something that pulled his mustache back and wrinkled his face. An amused thing it was. A sort of tiny tease, in its own right.

Your heart beats steadily at the sight, eyes watching.

“Well, I suppose you’re right, then.” He scratches at his beard with one hand, still studying you with a tilt of his head. As if weighing what he should tell you. There was an air of intrigue but that did nothing to hide the hesitance. “I docked my boat in the sea cave, thought it would do more harm than good to leave it in the open. If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have shown, eh?” The Fisherman points and you look to the deep indent in the mountainside, the tiny ship visible as it stays stationary. You blink at it slowly.

“And you can call me whatever it is you like, I don’t bloody care, but I’m not inclined to tell one of the Merfolk my name—I may have come ‘ere, but I’m not fuckin’ daft, now.”

It was true, what he spoke of. Names to your people have a stark and violent purpose. To know one's name is to own a piece of that person’s soul. Songs gain more power, words grow into orders followed without thought. Not that it was your intention.

You glower, brows pulling in.

“A simple fisherman does well to know that it’s rude to speak ill like such in another’s home.” The man smirks, cheeks rising.

“Simple, am I?” The already expansive build of his shoulders widens as he leans back on his heels, water sloshing at his boots. His eyes glimmer like lighting with humor. The look makes your cheeks burn with warmth, throat swallowing saliva.

“Why are you here?” You avoid the question, treading water and letting your tail drift. Willing the water to cool your senses. It was obvious that this man wasn’t a hunter—foolish, perhaps, but no hunter.

Or maybe just confidently brave.

The Fisherman hums under his breath, grunting in the way you’d already come to associate with him. Rugged fellow, really. Weathered like a pile of old rope but still handsome, the sinews under the stain of dirt pure of color. You found yourself, however apprehensive, enjoying the squareness of his face; how the brunette’s hair would sweep in the warm breeze.

He was attractive.

“Fishing, Ma’am.” A broad sweep of one of his hands, “You have a proper cove. Plenty of places to cast.”

Your tight arms somewhat loosen.

“Just fishing?” Your voice darkens. “Then why is it you’re here on shore and not doing just that.” Tail flickering, it lightly brings you back from him, eyes always darting away to stare into the background of his form—at the dark shadows of trees behind the dark rocks. At the open mouth of the cove in case of extra ships.

If what he told you earlier was true, you were in danger just by living.

Extinct? Not seen in years? No, that can’t be right. A deep knot forms in your stomach.

“I may be human, Ma’am, but I believe myself to be above intrusion.” The Fisherman splays his hands by his waist and shifts his thighs. He seems serious again, like a wave going forward and back he seemed to always revert to a crafted visage of firm resolve. “This is your home, and I’m asking to ferry my boat here when able. Nothing else.”

You blink in surprise, brows pulling back.

He was…asking you?

“I…own the cove no more than the Manticore owns the desert,” your voice stutters, oddly touched by his sincerity. You pause and push yourself farther above a wave. This large man didn’t seem cruel to you. “I have no claim on the waters—they have been here longer than I. Do as you wish.”

While that should have been the end of it, you found his blue eyes continuing to watch you, head tilted like a shaggy dog. Thinking deeply with a slight parting of his lips and rising to his lids.

At the intensity of his silent wonder, your head goes light. Had you said something strange? No, it was just the truth. Then…why was this man’s face going to a modest pink shade? Why were his eyes darting away from yours and his feet shifting?

You narrow at him before he speaks, clearing his throat and crossing his arms.

“Alright,” the Fisherman mutters, chest rumbling.

A silence falls where your ears twitch to the lapping of the sea-foam and the feeling of blood in your veins which mirrors such movements. As you saw him do to you, your vision falls to the man’s body; looking across the tapering of his waist and the rolled sleeves of his tunic—showing off years of muscle

“I don’t suppose…” Your tail flinches from the sudden noise from the brunette, expecting him to swim over to his boat and get to his business. You stare and listen, and for the first time, you believe a mermaid has been entranced by another's voice. “That I’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again?”

The Fisherman speaks slowly, hands shifting on his biceps; thighs tense and settle. You allow the waves to connect and slide around your body and a feeling reminiscent of warm rocks in the sun grows in your heart.

Strange, this man. This serious-faced Fisherman who asks one of the Merfolk for permission over the waters we don’t control. You tilt your head to teasingly mirror the brunettes. He humphs in his throat at your action. I enjoy him.

At the first sign of danger you’d leave—but for now…talking felt good.

“Perhaps,” you say, lips twitching into a smile. “Would this nameless Fisherman enjoy the company of a mermaid? Not many would say yes.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not like those many, then, yeah?” He smiles, a small twitch of his lips. You begin backing up, getting to deeper water while maintaining eye contact. “I don’t care what you are, just that we have an agreement.”

“Very well,” your neck dips under the waves, tail momentarily peaking above the surface. Blue flickers to it, shoulders lowering in hidden awe. The Fisherman’s lungs still.

He hears your giggle before you dive under, disappearing swiftly down to your caves with a splash.

It’s a long while before the brunette picks up his hat and begins walking the length of the shore—strong steps taking him back to his ship with a tiny smile brightening his ruggedly handsome face.

He runs a hand over his chin and chuckles.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

—

You perch on the side of the Fisherman’s boat, golden comb in your grip as you run it over and over through your locks. Tangles and knots are rendered useless to the fine and beautiful make of the object, the handle covered in small barnacles and seaweed. A nice breeze wafts in the air, and behind you, the padding of feet goes across the deck. With the sliding of nets and a small whistling from the Fisherman, you feel your tail gently sway from side to side; the bottom under the water whose waves rise and lower the vessel.

It had been a week since your first meeting and you had become more relaxed about this man’s presence. He had been truthful—every day he would come and fish.

At first, you’d watch from the black rocks, sitting atop them and studying. More than once you’d see the brunette raise a hand in greeting when his boat had entered the cove; an acknowledgment that you were there and nothing more. No expectation for you to come over or speak to him.

Day after day you’d see the net being thrown from the side only to be reeled back by large arms, legs apart and firm to the deck.

On day four, you swam over and grappled onto the side of the ship, curious. Before you could even realize he instantly knew you were there—despite his back being to you—the Fisherman spoke in a cheeky tone.

“Come up, then, if you’re that interested. No use watching from the water.” So you had, with a bit more fire to your cheeks than you thought mermaids could handle.

Now it was routine. The human man would pull into the cove and you would sit on the side of his fishing boat, doing whatever you wished as he worked.

You pull your comb through the ends of your hair, placing it down after and closing your eyes before your hands grab the shiny strands, twisting them. Under your breath, you hum in tune with the Fisherman’s whistled song; the notes like a growing symphony in your head.

Song to Merfolk is sacred and revered—everything sings, in its own right, and deserves careful crafting to fully understand.

“You seem to enjoy that,” you startle to a stop, eyes popping open. Sharply looking over your shoulder, you pause your hands. Staring, the man has completely stopped his work; nets at his feet with slapping fish of all colors stuck in the rope’s limp weavings.

He squints at your confused face.

“Rhythm.”

“Oh,” you offer a smile and watch him look away only to kneel down and begin separating his quarry. “If you’re worried I’ll sing around you, think nothing of it—I know what that could cause.”

The Fisherman hums, amused at you, “I’m not. I was complimenting you,” the knife at his belt glints in the light. “You have a pretty voice, Love.”

You shyly watch him, hair partly covering your visage, and catch a glimpse once more at the necklace he seems to always wear. Silver and shiny but still hidden.

“If you knew about my species, you wouldn’t be saying that.” Explaining lowly, the man grunts, sending a look your way as he tosses a Cod farther up the deck—you watch it flop around for a moment.

“Well,” the Fisherman explains, hands pausing and body leaning closer as one of his knees connects to the wood. It’s a teasing whisper that slides into your drum, and you find yourself nearly shivering from it. Blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “I did. No worries, I’ll never tell.”

A deep chuckle joins a lighter one, and your tail shimmers in the open light; scales vibrant and rich-looking. From what the brunette can see on the deck—the smaller plates that extend all the way up your navel to stop at your belly button—you know he stares at them.

Not a greedy, evil, stare…just one of hidden admiration. It was of no surprise to you that he found it beautifully uncanny.

You have no idea how to read this Fisherman; have no idea what he wants. You think he doesn’t want anything. On your face, a strange calm settles.

“Tell me, Fisherman,” his gaze snaps from your scales to your face, momentarily stopping at the dip of your neck as you turn as fully to him as you’re able from your perch. Your hand rests at your side; spine twisted halfway. “Who are you? No, I don’t mean your name. I want your person. You don’t act afraid of me—of what I am.” He stays kneeling and lets the net rest for now, his heart beating steadily in his breast. “There is more to you than a human at sea, surely.”

Your words are not accusatory, they lacked any sort of confrontation. Curiosity, though, like enclosed treasure, was stuck behind your tongue. He surprises you by standing and beginning to walk over, boots thumping.

As he nears, he sits down with a huff on the edge, right next to you.

There’s a moment when you both stare into each other's eyes as you feel the world shift. Blinking up at him, at the closer range you take into account the ancientness of his eyes and how it seemed, for such an alone man, it was making him look far older than he was. Still older than you, yes, but the sentiment still stands.

With his hat having been retired not five minutes earlier onto one of the many ship’s barren tops, you saw the streaks of sun-bleached strands in his brown hair. You unconsciously reach for your comb but stay your fingers as they flinch over the gold.

Storm-blue carefully glances away before coming back to you.

“Not much to know, Love,” the Fisherman’s brow raises, “you understand?”

“No,” you say, honestly, head tilting at him. He looks surprised, breath hitching.

“It’s just…there’s not much to tell, Sweetheart.”

Humans are strange creatures.

Not knowing this word game, you take your hand away from the comb and bring it to his chest, slipping under the neck of his tunic to grasp at the necklace he always wears. A hand snaps to your wrist almost immediately—a startling speed that makes you flinch.

Above your heads, seagulls squawk at you, but all you can gaze into are those pure blue orbs. They trap you, drag you down far faster than a whirlpool into the briny depths of hypnotic appeasement.

Perhaps you were naive to the magical whims of males that walk on two feet.

The Fisherman’s jaw clenches, eyes tightly narrowed at you in hesitance and veiled threat. You blink at him softly, not doing anything besides twitching your fingers and widening your sight. Before long, his hold loosens but doesn’t leave, allowing you on whatever it was you were doing yet still touching your damp flesh.

Lips parting, you don’t make a fuss. Instead, you hum under your breath and allow his calluses to scrape you. The toughness becomes a stark contrast to your own make-up.

Feels nice.

Your digits peel out the article of jewelry and you shift closer to look; bare chest brushing against his. You can feel his pulse through the brunette’s tunic, the way his throat shifts in a tense swallow of nothing.

The necklace held two pieces of small, round, silver and said the following.

“Jonathan Price, Captain, 141st company under the King.”

As you read, your tail gradually begins brushing his leg in its swaying. Through it all, the large Fisherman only slants his chin down and watches, breathing half through his mouth and half through his nose. You hear his throat clear; feel his grip squeeze your wrist.

It is a small and taken-aback kind of noise. He doesn’t move his hand.

You are happy he doesn’t.

“You’re a…Captain?” Asking, you look up shocked and aren’t taken aback by how close your face was to his. Even if your cheeks begin to burn at the beard bristles itching your nose.

“...Yes,” breathe puffs over the lower half of your face. Your fingers detangle from the Fisherman’s necklace and let it thump to his chest. “I was. Left.”

Blinking, you whisper, steadily, “What’s a…Captain…?”

A small sound is made in the back of his throat and he releases your wrist and pulls back before a loud bark of a laugh jerks his chest. You stare in innocent confusion, hair falling over your shoulders.

“What?” Gripping his mouth, Jonathan Price grounds himself by gripping his thigh as he chuckles.

“No, no,” he takes a deep breath and releases his face, smoothing down his beard quickly with amusement stuck in his smile. “Bloody hell, it’s nothing. Nothing at all, Love.”

He sends you a warm side glance and you huff, moving back and picking up your comb, getting back to brushing your locks again. You are acutely aware that you now know the Fisherman’s name, but refrain from saying anything until he does. Now you know why he reacted in such a way.

Your tail twitches in the water as fish brush past it and the brunette begins with a soft look.

“I was in charge of a small group of men—we had a ship. Far larger than this old girl,” he pats the deck, and you slow your motion to show that you are listening, intrigued. “We did what was needed of us, but there was a thin line that needed to be drawn to keep every bastard sane.”

Blue meets your eyes and the man’s expression darkens. Your fingers twitch as the breeze ravages his hair, chest tightening.

“And yours?” You ask softly, entranced and open, “What was your line, Captain Price?”

He hums after a small silence, sighing deeply. Along the hull of the boat, the waves rock the vessel gently side to side, and your mythical attention seems to entrap him far better than your voice could. His face loses that dark edge, well-trimmed beard relaxes as his jaw does.

The past it seems, looms over him like a tsunami.

Reaching up a slow hand, his fingers brush the tendrils of hair that had slipped out of your hold and were dangling in front of your face; the Fisherman blinks and pushes them back behind your ear. By now your brush had long stopped and your breath was held in your chest. For the first time in your life, you think you feel yourself shiver at the delicate scrape of his skin on yours.

“John,” he mutters, and you suck down a shallow breath as he watches you like you were an idol of the Gods, “Just John.”

Your smile leaves his fingers pressing deeper into your scalp and, perhaps a bit naively, you welcome him to you like a bird to the sky. You liked his gruffness—his beard and his face. The lines on his forehead that you could imagine tracing as if they belonged on a map instead of the squareness of this Fisherman’s profile. Tiny sockets that hold sapphire stones.

“Maybe I left because I couldn’t stand seeing such beautiful creatures being put to the hook, eh?” Your eyes widen, tiny gasp leaving your lips.

Merfolk swooned with flattery, truth be told. They enjoy being doted on and praised; given gifts of both words and objects. You were no different.

Oh…did he call me beautiful?

John smirks at your reaction, taking his hand off of you and standing with a low chuckle. Your tail flutters at the sudden absence, head following after him as he walks back to his net with a sway in his step. You blink in astonishment.

“You’re a strange human, John,” calling to him, you grimace at the blatant disappointment in your bones at the lack of his skin on yours. At his humored hum, you sense your growing attraction to the grind of his vocal cords. His voice. “I don’t know what to think of you.”

“Then think nothing of me,” he explains easily, casually, re-gathering his nets in his toned arms. You try not to let your jaw slacken at the bulge under his tunic when he carries them. “I’m not offended by it, Love.” A sly look, “Do as you wish.”

Your tail twitches so violently you’re afraid you might break the side of the ship.

And so this strange dance between the two of you continued well into the longer months—John would come in his ship nearly every day and you would join him on the side of the deck. Sometimes you would hum for him and he would whistle a tune back, others there were long bouts of conversation about the ways of humans and beasts. John told you that the King had ordered the total extinction of all manner of ‘strange and unordinary’ creatures to secure his line safely to the throne.

When he had explained it, the mad had gone red with anger.

“Fuckin’ muppet,” he’d spit, fiddling with his knife as you watched a small distance away, playing with his silver necklace in your hands. You twiddled it around and liked how it shimmered like your scales did in the light. “Bloody thought I would just go along with the deaths of innocent beings. He had no facts—no proof to back up his claim. I’ve done things. Horrible things,” John explained to you, sending you a stiff look, “but I’ve not forsaken my damn mind to reality. Takin’ the piss.”

Muttering the last sentence to himself, you had felt your lips curve into a smile. “You have a proper conscience, John, done bad or not.”

“Yeah, well, Sweetheart, I’ll be done in soon enough.” You only stared with care-drowned eyes and caressed his necklace. When he had seen this, his body had deflated with an exasperated grunt.

You shared a chuckle and he got back to work; feeling his melting gaze drawn back to you every so often.

Later, yet again, you found your form on his boat, this time with his hands across the small of your back as you studied the blade of his knife.

“Careful, now. Don’t run your finger along the edge.” His free grip points to the sharp side—breath fanning your ear. You feel your throat tighten and nod, caressing a thumb on the leather handle.

John’s hand is hard on your bare skin and you sense his heat drilling past your veins into the very marrow of your bones. You unconsciously sigh when his fingers slide slightly higher, traveling the length of your spine; his scars catching on every knob of bone. Your exploration stills and your pupils widen.

His breath is on your neck, nose tilting as his jaw does just above the meat of your shoulder.

“Why’d you stop?” You stare off into the metal, lashes fluttering when his fingers finally curve at the swell of your neck. Lips drag on your flesh before a deep grumble of affection stems from John’s chest as he kisses your rapid pulse. “Distracted? Hm.”

“It’s,” you breathe out, scales reflecting light as your lower body shifts on the wood. His opposite hand circles your waist, drawing your back to his chest. Skin burns and thoughts go to liquid as you feel his roving muscle. “It’s g-good. Pretty—”

Words fail you as his lips continue to slowly travel.

“Could say the same,” John grunts; beard scraping down your flesh.

Your eyes flutter, head tilting to give more room at the same time you whisper out, violently shivering at the compliment, “John…”

“What is it?” The grip moves to run over your scales, right where your upper hips would be; the sensation of him caressing you with gentle, deep, rubs of his thumb was all it took for you to give in completely to him. “Go on, Love, speak.”

You take a breath and feel his heart beating steady along your back—the texture of his tunic. “What…are you doing?”

John moves your hair and places open-mouthed kisses on the back of your neck. He breathes in your scent and you turn your light head to stare unabashedly at his flushed face. Your tail sways, limp, over the side of the boat.

Blown pupils hide that sea-storm blue like a lock and key to dangerous thoughts and attraction.

In answer, his eyes flicker down to your lips hungrily and your gaze widens; a small sound in the base of your throat.

“You’re somethin’ beautiful, y’know that?” He says and you let him lean in closer to your face, eyes threatening to close when you take in the musk of human flesh and sweat. Rope and wood oil. John’s words make you shiver again, hairs standing on end—responding to that deep growl with a roaring in your ears.

You shouldn’t be enjoying this. Shouldn’t be enjoying his lips or his tight grip; his…his rough, large, hands that encapsulate your body and drown you. It terrifies you, this heart-stopping magnetism. You can’t get enough of him.

John presses his firm lips to yours, groaning into the connection as you sigh and part your mouth. Fingers shaking, you twist and place your hands on his chest, gasping mutely as his teeth nip into your lower lip and pull back before pushing back forward. Sparks of subdued pain mix with pleasurable agony at the scrape of his beard hair.

“Every inch of you…” John’s grip captures you closer, hands ensnaring you against his chest like deeply intertwined strands of fabric, squeezing as he licks his upper lip. He catches his breath shallowly. Blue eyes burn through you. “...is fucking perfection.”

You grab at his necklace and drag him back in, feeling him not waste a single moment to grip the back of your head and keep you trapped to him, tongues slipping out of mouths to tangle together like seaweed. Perhaps it was foolish, but a part of you knew that this Captain, this strange Fisherman—this Johnathan Price—was the only man or being on this planet, land or sea, who could make you feel like you could walk and fly all at once.

When he lifts you in his arms and drops you in his lap as if your body weighed as much as a pebble, you knew you’d brave the open ocean for this man in an instant. His arm drips with water as it slips under the joint of your tail; where your knees would be if you had them, and you whine into his mouth at the slip of his fingers.

Intoxicated, drunk off of his scent and his pressure.

A dangerous mix of two different lives.

It couldn’t last.

TAGS:

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sixhours · 1 month

Text

Remnants

Everything that’s left of her broken dreams is standing at the counter, returning her smile.

Rated: PG Length: 1k

Notes: Post-episode for Per Manum

Originally posted on AO3 1/6/2016

~*~

The apartment is shrouded in gray when she returns, the last of her hopes printed on an appointment summary in her coat pocket. Upon seeing her face, he wishes he’d thought to turn on a light, so she wouldn’t have to come home to more darkness, his slumbering form on the couch not enough to fill this newfound emptiness.

“It didn’t take, did it?”

Disappointment shines in her eyes. Forehead to forehead, he waits until her breathing is calm to offer something more substantial than a promise, but the warmth of her skin under his fingers disarms him, gives him pause.

His hands cradle her face as their lips touch for only the second time, her arms wind around his neck like an anchor, pulling him down into her sorrowful sea.

~*~

Dr. Parenti’s delivery was kind, but she felt the news like a gunshot. It’s worse than Emily, this intangible loss. Failure hasn’t washed away the image of a young girl with auburn hair and almond eyes, or a boy with a shy, quirked smile.

She loves them, the ghosts of her unborn children and all they represented: The intimacy of family life, ringing laughter and a mantle lined with photographs.

A child’s cry cutting through the night, hushed lullabies and the love-drunk smell of a downy newborn head.

Saturday morning cartoons followed by pancakes and bacon, spilled milk and syrup-sticky fingers.

The stillness of reality plays a harsh contrast to her imagination as she listens to the silence of what could have been.

~*~

He wants to punch a hole through her pristine apartment wall. He wants to hunt down the faceless men who did this to her and kill them with his bare hands, until he’s bloody and sore and near death himself. He wants to run, to put miles and years between them, until his bad luck can’t touch her any more.

Sometimes he wishes he’d never followed when she tried to resign from the Bureau, that he wasn’t so chickenshit as to ask her to stay after paying the price for her loyalty several times over.

He’d signed away his rights, but the thing that makes his face burn and his stomach clench with shame, is that he’d wanted this for himself as much as her. Selfish bastard, he thinks. Still a chickenshit.

So he steels himself, grits his teeth and holds her until she pulls away. He takes her hand, leads her to the couch, offers to make tea.

He’ll stay, because he doesn’t have the courage to let her go.

He’ll stay, because he doesn't have the right to mourn what was never his to lose.

~*~

Mulder is opening cupboards, running water. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, he washes the dishes and waits for the kettle, then swipes at his forehead, leaving a trail of suds across one cheek. The sight brings an unexpected smile to her lips.

Her heart sinks with the enormity of her grief and the weight of too many unspoken words. Everything that’s left of her broken dreams is standing at the counter, returning her smile.

~*~

He settles on the opposite end of the couch, letting the mug warm his hands. She stares into hers for a few minutes before taking a slow sip, closing her eyes. When she opens them, she’s looking at him with an expression he’s seen only once before in real life, and too many times to count in recent fantasy.

“I love you.”

He blinks. His mouth must hang open, because she’s smiling at him now, a sad, tired smile.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she murmurs, hiding what’s left of her pride in her cup.

~*~

“What would you have done?” she asks. If it had worked, she doesn’t have to say.

“I’d have asked you on a date.”

She pauses to steady her cup on the coffee table, the tea sloshing in her startled hands. “A date?”

“You know—nice clothes, awkward conversation, an expensive wine list, at one of those places that mixes the salad dressing while you watch.”

“Really.”

“Really,” he returns, ducking his head.

“You’d ask your newly impregnated, platonic friend and colleague on an honest-to-goodness date.”

His smile is embarrassed enough to be convincing. “Yeah. I, uh…I thought…if I could give you…give you that…”

He stops, frowns. Her throat is tight when she finally breaks the silence. “Give me what?”

The tea goes cold before he can answer.

~*~

He wakes with a sore neck and Scully’s nose pressed into his hip, a throw tangled around her shoulders. The Late Late Show plays in the background, casting muted shadows on the walls.

She stirs when he stretches, blinking up at him from beneath sleep-addled lashes, as if seeing him for the first time. He wonders if this is what it’s like to hold a newborn; heart filled to bursting with terrifying awe.

“Mulder?”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, stroking the hair from her temple. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Mmph,” she says, her breath warming his abdomen through his t-shirt. “S’OK. I should get up, anyway.”

He nods in agreement, drawing his thumb gently along the plane of her cheek, but neither of them move for a long time.

~*~

She emerges from the bathroom just as he’s finished washing the mugs. Bare feet peek out from oversized silk pajamas, and she surprises herself, wrapping her arms around his waist before she can lose her nerve.

“I’ll stay, if you want,” he murmurs, and she loves him for offering so she doesn’t have to ask.

She loves him for so many reasons. Someday she’ll count the ways, line them up, and tuck them away; programmed, categorized, and easily referenced.

“I’d like that,” she says instead, words muffled by the thrum of his heart.

~*~

She fits perfectly in the circle of his arms, the way he always imagined she would. He times his breathing to the rise and fall of her chest and whispers a blessing into her hair.

“I wanted more for you, Scully.”

Her arms tighten around him, but she doesn't answer.

He holds what little hope is shared between them, and prays that it's enough.

~*~

cc @today-in-fic

#the x-files #mulder x scully #fanfic #per manum

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leviackermanscleaningbuddy · 1 year

Note

Can you do 32 from the 4th and 9 from the 3rd image? I’m thinking something with mafia Minho 🤔 Thank u babes if you do it

Skz Prompt Game

Prompts: "If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god."

"Can we just exchange three words without you pulling a gun on me?"

Member: Lee Minho

Relationship: Mafia!Family FemReader x Minho

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst

Warnings: Mentions of guns, weapons, mafia and illegal dealings, Miscarriage

You didn't show any emotion on your wedding day.

You wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

As the man who ruled the rival mafia-your future husband, Lee Minho-took your hand in his and slipped on a diamond the size of a small city in front of the priest and a few members of family, you remained stoic.

You knew this was coming.

Knew you'd be auctioned off as soon as you turned of age to the highest bidder, the rivals that had the most to offer your father in way of an alliance.

It just so happened that Lee Minho and his gang-known only as "The Kids" on the streets-happened to have all that and more.

And you were to pay the price.

********************************************************************************

"You really have to go yourself?" You ask once more, disappointment clear in your tone, as you watch your husband pack his suitcase from your perch on the edge of the bed.

Minho sighs, long and heavy, and gives you a regretful sort of look as he tucks another one of his highly expensive suits into the safety of the travel set.

"Yes. This is a huge deal that's going down, and I can't trust anyone else to handle it safely."

You groan and fall back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling through the thin gauze of the curtains that hang in elegant strips above the huge bed.

"I understand that. Doesn't mean I'm happy about it."

You hear him chuckle, and then the bed sinks beneath his weight as his knees come to rest on either side of your hips, his hands beside your head.

He stares down at you with a soft, slight smile as you hold his gaze with a half hearted glare.

"Baby." He soothes, reaching out to smooth the crinkle between your eyes, the frown on your lips. You can't help but lean into his touch. "I'll be back before you know it."

He leans over to press a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, and moves away again to resume packing.

"She's going to be incredibly disappointed you know." You try one last guilt tactic, sitting up and smoothing your dress as you glance over to Minho, who has paused to meet your gaze once more.

Something akin to regret washes across his pretty features as he sighs once more.

"I know. But it can't be helped." Zipping up the suitcase, he crosses the room and pulls you into his arms, and you relax against his warmth for a few blissful seconds while he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "I'll be back in time for the party. I promise."

********************************************************************************

"You won't be hurt." Minho murmurs beneath his breath, sitting beside you in the back of the expensive limousine, as you pull away from the chapel and toward his family estate.

You've only heard of its grandeur.

"I can't promise you affection, but you will be well taken care of."

You scoff and continue to stare out the window, because now that the wedding is over, you can feel the anger, the pain, threatening to well up and consume you.

"Exactly what a girl wants to hear from her new husband on her wedding day." You retort back sharply, and something in Minho's eyes flashes in response.

He takes in a deep, steeling breath and holds your angry gaze.

"It's all I can offer you." He says stiffly, turning from you finally to glance down at his phone, a clear dismissal. "And I would take it if I were you. You and I both know how dangerous this world can be."

********************************************************************************

"Mommy, look!" Your daughter bounds across the large back garden and shoves a flower into your palm, and you glance down at it with a smile.

"Oh, that's pretty!" You remark, reaching out to tousle her long, dark hair, the same color as Minho's. "Where did you get this?"

She motions over her shoulder with bright eyes and a grin. "Over in the flower bed! By the tree!"

You laugh and put a finger to your lips, carefully tucking the yellow flower behind her ear. "Let's keep that our little secret, hm? I don't think Uncle Felix will take well to us tearing up his carefully curated flowers. Not when it took him so long to convince daddy to let him plant them in the first place."

Your daughter nods seriously and sits down on the bench beside you, swinging her legs as she idly observes the garden.

"Where is Uncle Felix?"

"He had to go out of town with daddy." You remark absently, smoothing a hand over her long hair as you glance over to the tree line. "Where's SuSu?"

Your daughter instantly becomes alert, leaping up from the bench and running across the garden to where she was last playing, calling for the dog.

"Suwon! Suwon! Here boy! C'mere!"

You smile and shake your head as, after a brief second, the large dark doberman appears from the trees, bounding happily toward your daughter, nub of a tail wagging wildly.

He's a good guard dog, a great one even, but the moment you had had Yeong-Ja, he had become a softie for the little girl, sticking beside her like glue, keeping her safe, but playing with her when the times called for it.

You were grateful for the loyal dog whenever Minho had to be away.

Yeong-Ja runs back over once more, Suwon close on her heels, and you stroke the large dog's head when he rests it briefly in your lap, looking up at you with bright eyes, your fingers playing with the thick, spiked collar he wears around his neck.

"Well." You stand up, grabbing Yeong-Ja's hand. "Shall we go ask cook what's for dinner?"

She nods eagerly, and you laugh, tugging her toward the house with you, Suwon trotting happily along behind.

********************************************************************************

The floor creaks behind you and you whirl, gun pulled from the bedside drawer, cocked and ready, held in front of you.

Minho stands in the doorway, his hands in his suit pockets, a look of tired resignation on his face.

It takes you longer than you care to admit to lower the gun.

"Can we just exchange three words without you pulling a gun on me?" He asks with slight amusement, taking a step into the room as you eye him warily.

It's been three months-three months since your father had given you to Minho and his gang, three months since the emotionless wedding, three months since you moved into his ridiculously huge house.

Three months, and yet, you still felt your hackles instantly rise as soon as he enters the room.

You'd been adamant about having separate bedrooms, sleeping in separate beds, and up until this point, Minho had been compliant, but you didn't know how much longer that would last.

He was bound to snap and demand an heir soon-sooner rather than later.

"I have to go away." Minho remarks, staring out the window now, down onto the garden's below, his hands behind his back.

You watch him silently and he sighs, turning to glance back at you now.

"I'll leave someone here to keep you safe obviously, but I thought I owed you the courtesy of notifying you regardless."

"How kind of you." You spit out before you can stop yourself, and Minho's eyes narrow slightly.

He takes a step toward you.

"You don't have to like me, princess, but you do have to tolerate me. And when I return-"

"You'll want to share my bed." You finish for him, and something strange flashes across his expression before he gets it back under control.

"Yes."

You shrug and look away. "It doesn't matter to me. I knew the life I was chosen for long before it came to fruition."

Minho doesn't say anything else, and after a few moments, his footsteps leave the room.

********************************************************************************

"Good night, jagi." You kiss your daughter's forehead and tuck the blanket up around her chin, before you walk to the door and flick off the light.

"Good night, mommy." She whispers back sleepily, already closing her eyes, as Suwon sighs heavily and rests his large head on the little girl's chest.

You smile to yourself and tiptoe from the room, leaving the door cracked in case the dog wants to let himself out in the middle of the night.

Your foot has barely hit the first stair, when the sound of the front door opening hits your ears, and you freeze, hands going white on the banister.

You look to the clock.

It's nearly midnight. And Minho had told you not to expect him or any of the men back until at least tomorrow.

Which means someone is in the house, someone who isn't supposed to be.

Slipping down the stairs to the second floor, you silently find the gun that is kept in the side table on the landing-Minho insists on keeping one in every drawer on every floor-and creep down a few more stairs, your eyes peeled against the darkness of the house, looking for any sign of the intruder.

The sound of a footstep from the main floor, and you raise the gun, holding it steadily in front of you as you descend, listening for another sound.

Another creak, closer this time, as you reach the bottom step.

You take in a steadying breath and turn, cocking the gun as you do so.

The light goes on in the foyer, and Minho is standing there, eyebrows arched and hands up as he realizes you're holding a loaded and ready gun in his face.

"Hello, darling."

You let out the breath you'd been holding since you first heard the door open, and drop the gun, un-readying it and tossing it on top of the chest of drawers against the wall before you throw your arms around your husband.

He chuckles, chin resting on the top of your head, and his fingers move up to stroke through your hair. "I guess I should know better than to try and sneak in this late at night without giving you warning."

You pull back to look up at him, trying to manifest a glare, but too happy to see him to do much. "Yes, you should. I could've shot you!"

Minho smirks, leaning over to kiss you, before he whispers softly against your lips, "Mmm. I love it when you talk dirty, baby."

You shove against him weakly, but he just laughs and pecks your lips once more before he pulls back, moving to finish unloosening his tie.

You realize there's blood speckling the front of his white shirt, and he must notice your gaze, because he says before you can ask, "It's not mine."

You feel relief sag your shoulders.

Minho smiles again, tugging you back up the stairs, the way you had come.

"But I could do with a long, hot bath regardless."

********************************************************************************

"I'm not going to take something you're not willing to give."

You glance up from where you're lying in the huge king bed, picking at the expensive comforter, feeling more than a little exposed in the sleep set the maids had picked out before Minho arrived home.

It's little more than negligée.

He's staring at you, hands resting on the wooden footboard, knuckles white.

He's tense, cautious, unsure. You can read it in the stiffness of his shoulders, the flexing of his fingers against the wood.

You're surprised you know him well enough to pick all those signs out.

"Why?" You question back sharply, unable to control the slight anger in your tone, the confusion. "Others have."

Minho's eyes flash dangerously at your words, and you shrink, feeling sufficiently cowed.

But then his words drip from his lips laced in lethality, dangerous, and they're not directed at you.

"If you say the word, all you will have to do is tell me their names and I will hunt them all to the corners of the earth."

You stare at him, mouth slightly agape, and watch as he flexes and unflexes his fingers in harsh, angry movements.

Something inside of your chest picks up at his obvious fury over anyone mistreating you.

Without really thinking, you glance down at the blanket covering you, and then back up to Minho.

"Are you going to take your suit off?" You ask quietly, and it's as close to an acceptance invitation as you can get in the moment.

Minho stares at you for a second, and then slowly reaches up to unknot his tie.

********************************************************************************

"I'm glad you're back." You admit softly, playing with the rings on Minho's fingers beneath the warm surface of the water, admiring the way the opalescent sheen of the bath oils reflects off his tan, scarred skin.

"Mmm." He hums in agreement, nuzzling his nose against your damp hair, breathing you in. "Me too."

"Yeong-Ja will be thrilled." You remark, leaning your head back against his shoulder to study him, a soft smile on your lips. "We didn't expect you till tomorrow."

"I know." He glances down at you, his expression softening as his eyes meet your own, and he lets out a rueful little laugh. "I've gotten soft in my old age. I used to live for the thrill of taking care of things myself, but now I just count down the minutes till I can return home to the two of you."

"Careful, Boss Lee." You tease, reaching up to push damp hair off his brow, admiring the perfect slope of his nose. Yeong-Ja had gotten the same one. "Someone will hear you talking about being weak and scheme to take you out."

Minho leans over to press a kiss to your mouth. "Never." He growls playfully, and you laugh.

Sinking down beneath the warm water, you bask in his presence for a few minutes in silence, playing idly with his fingers where they rest on your thighs, and then you ask quietly, "Did everything go alright?"

Minho sighs and rests his chin heavily on top of your head. "As well as could be expected. We had to put a few of the transfer drivers back in line, but nothing we couldn't handle."

You snuggle closer to him, pressing a kiss to his arm. "Good. I'm glad."

Minho makes a noise of agreement in his throat and presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

"Me too."

********************************************************************************

It's taken six months for Minho to finally trust you enough to let you be part of his meetings.

Six months, and you're now standing behind his chair silently, trying to keep track of all the plans, as the men at the large table in front of you argue over their next move.

"No way in hell that'll work." Changbin declares, crossing his broad arms over his chest and glaring Hyunjin down across the table. "It just won't."

"It's better than anything you've come up with." Hyunjin argues back, and Jisung rolls his eyes, sliding a map across the table to Seungmin.

"Min, try and decode where they're gonna buy next while these two dumbasses argue?"

Seungmin nods silently and begins to type away on his laptop.

"We don't know that they won't double back like they've done before-and then, if we're waiting on the route down-"

"That's dumb as fuck! Listen to yourself, man!"

"If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god."

"Okay, okay." Minho booms, and everyone goes silent, looking to their leader.

You have to give it to him. He knows how to command a room.

"We've got the beginnings of a solid plan." Your husband announces, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if he's fighting a headache. "Let's work from there and see where it takes us."

Everyone nods silently, and the men start to push back from the table, leaving the room.

Minho sighs, leaning his elbows on the large meeting table, and you try to resist the urge to go to him, to help, but your body doesn't listen to you, and you find yourself stepping forward, tentatively putting a hand on one of his shoulders.

"I'm sorry." You say quietly, and Minho turns to stare at you curiously.

"Whatever for, princess?"

You glance away, your cheeks red. "I'm sure you're stressed. My father is breathing down your neck, and now there's this problem with the shipments, and I haven't become pregnant-"

Minho's gaze hardens slightly. "You never need to apologize for things you can't control. Not to me."

You stare at him, mouth agape.

"I don't know if your father made you do that for him-knowing the bastard, I'm sure he did-but you don't ever have to grovel at my feet for mistakes that are not your own, princess."

Something warm and truthful settles over your body at his words.

Minho turns back to the plans laid across the table, a slight smile pulling at his lips now.

"But if you have any bright ideas for what the fuck I should do here, I'm all ears."

********************************************************************************

"Remember when you gave me Suwon for the first birthday of mine that we ever spent together?" You ask Minho, watching your daughter play happily in the garden with the dog in question and some of her new birthday gifts.

Minho chuckles, his arm around you, as he glances over at you with a smirk. "Of course I remember. I hated him for the first year and a half."

"You did not!" You protest, ribbing him in the side, even as he laughs and pins your hand between the two of you easily. "You just put up a front."

Minho rolls his eyes good naturedly. "That dog shit on our carpet and ruined more shoes than I could count."

"He was a puppy!" You complain, but you're biting back a smile.

"A very expensive puppy, who ruined very expensive shoes." Minho retorts right back, an amused look in his dark eyes.

"Yeah, yeah." You wave him away, sniffing and turning to watch Yeong-Ja put a sun hat on the long suffering dog trying to nap beside her in the shade. "But he's a good dog now. You have to admit."

"Maybe." Minho remarks idly, gaze going to your daughter and the dog beneath the tree. "Yeong-Ja loves the damn mutt, and that's good enough for me."

********************************************************************************

Felix finds you first after the maids had mentioned not seeing you all day, curled up in the middle of the bed, sobbing silently.

Minho had been away on some business, but the minute Felix called him, he made it home in record time.

When he bursts through the bedroom door not twenty minutes later, you can't even bring yourself to look at him, curled beneath the comforter, your arms wrapped around your middle.

Felix hadn't touched you, he hadn't dared, but he'd stayed at the side of the bed until Minho arrived.

"Don't touch her." Minho commands almost wildly and Felix steps back, holding his hands up in obvious compliance.

"Call a doctor." He barks out at the retreating man, and Felix leaves the room without another word.

The bed sinks under Minho's weight, and you shuffle further beneath the safety of the blankets.

"Princess. Look at me."

You hesitate, but do as he says, and Minho's feral expression of worry softens slightly as your teary gaze falls on his.

Immediately, the walls you've been building up crumble, and you're crying again.

"I'm so sorry, Minho. I don't know what happened-"

Minho doesn't even bother shucking off his shoes or his suit coat, he slides into the bed beside you, beneath the cover of the blankets, and tugs you into his arms, stroking your hair methodically as you continue to sob.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay."

"But there's so much blood-" You whimper out, and you don't dare to look beneath the blanket for fear of what you'll see.

"I know." Minho soothes, brushing the hair back from your forehead, as he presses a kiss against the crown of your head. "But the doctor will be here soon."

"Minho, the baby, I swear I didn't know, I swear it-" You're hysterical now, and everything hurts-your body, your mind, your soul-and Minho is there, strong and steady, stroking your hair, tugging you against his chest, whispering reassurances.

"I know, baby. It's okay. It's going to be okay."

********************************************************************************

You're sitting in the kitchen, watching Minho help Yeong-Ja make pancakes, when it hits you.

This life is nothing like what you thought it'd be.

And yet, its more than perfect.

Yeong-Ja laughs as Minho swipes batter across the tip of her nose, and Suwon excitedly barks around their feet, begging for scraps and happy to be included.

Minho glances over to you across your daughter's head, and gives you a wink.

He was right. It all turned out okay.

And in this moment, you're thankful that nothing ever worked out as planned.

It's even better.

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