The Second Duchess
The Second Duchess
Y'all, Noona's brain worms got me again. AO3 | This will be two parts. | This will end bitter. A/B/O dynamics, vaguely victorian, there will be an actual ghost in part two, odd power dynamics.
When John found you, a foreign lady, visiting a neighboring earl, he thought he had found redemption.
His first wife had been designationless, like you. He and his pack, Johnny, Simon, and Kyle, had ill-treated the first duchess. Her final words, left in an open letter, lingered over them all, even now.
You were supposed to be better. Every tale of you spoke of your bravery, your dedication, your loyalty. I found them all to be lies. When my corpse haunts your memories, may you think on it with more fondness than you ever did me.
The people who claimed the right of parentage over you had sent you to a foreign court in the hopes that someone would take pity on you. Foolish attempt really. No one at home wanted you; no one here would either.
All your life you had been discarded. Set aside for your lack of designation, you learned to cope. The scarred skin at your neck where your gland had failed to grow in the womb became your favorite place to decorate. If not with necklaces, then with art. You had learned how to paint on your body and create wreaths that wound round your neck; you set new standards because you could not do much else. If people were going to stare, why not give them something to look at?
Running wild became your favorite way to use your lack of designation. You could ride a horse side saddle or sitting forward like a man. You could ride better than most men in either seat. The stable hands at home got used to a horse disappearing for a few hours. You always stabled the horses you used, fed them, and brushed them. They stopped complaining after they saw how well you cared for the animals.
You hired art teachers and painted nude bodies. Music teachers taught you how to listen to the lewd songs sung in the taverns and play them at dinner parties. Languages were mastered; the curses were the things you memorized first. The cooks blustered when you demanded to be taught, but when you threatened to hire someone to teach you they quickly gave in.
The maids taught you on the sly the cant and candor of the working class. When they told you of the needs in the community you worked directly with the women who headed each group in need. Connections were gathered like coins in a purse and guarded like a hen over her chicks.
Without quite knowing how you became a woman of influence. A whisper or a word in the right ear and you could turn the tide on harmful policies. If you declared a business untenable for their use of child labor or the way they treated their workers the working class would not patronize them again.
That same level of leverage never breached the bubble of the aristocracy; hence, how you found yourself shipped away to start again.
The weeks warning your mother had given you had been enough for any in your contact to fire off letters to kin and foe alike of your coming. Even letters to foes told of your abilities to conquer changes.
Dock workers had a penchant for overindulging in your country. Men overindulging left women and children bereft of comfort and stability. You had been working at the underpinnings of fact before you had been shipped off.
No one noticed where you wandered, even here in this new country. No one cared. Just this morning you had sat down with the head of the laundress of the city to see what pieces you could shift. Their letter had arrived first, and tending to their needs would become your first priority. They needed childcare.
Children often needed tending and older children needed to be taught reading, writing, and arithmetic. An aging governess or two could be convinced to play school teachers and a maid without a reference could become a tender. Most of the legwork would arise from connecting with the women who would care for and teach the children. The juxtaposing issue would be where to house them and the children during the day. The price per child needed to be reasonable to the laundress and enticing to the governesses and the maid.
Censure, while a familiar disrespect, never became easier to bear. It bit at your flesh like the slap of hands. You had been relegated to the piano in the corner of the room while the other women partook in after-dinner sherry.
You hated sherry. You hated all alcohol really but sherry most of all. It tastes of lies and disappointment in its syrupy sweetness. Shuttering those memories, you focused on playing through a key change and into a jaunty tune; lewd would be a more accurate word, for the song you had learned down at the docks.
All these thoughts swirled through your head as your fingers played without you. Being so deep in thought you failed to notice the men had rejoined the party.
The knuckles rapping the top of the piano before your eyes brought you back to your body. Your motions paused the last notes you played lingering in the air. It is doubtful anyone was listening to you anyway.
A broad man leaned against the piano. His hair was cut short and sprinkled with gray. A neatly maintained beard, sun-kissed wrinkles around his eyes, as well as the fine cut of his coat completed the look of a lord. Being unfamiliar with this county’s aristocracy you offered a demure smile.
“Can I help you, my lord?”
“Where did a thing like you learn a tune like that?” His voice is rich and cadence firm.
“It is astounding the things musicians will teach you for the right incentive.” Settling your hands back to the keys you began to play a medley of your favorite drinking songs.
“Why do you not hide it?” His voice is as a surprise as it is unexpected.
Decorum meant different things here. Like it being acceptable to ask about one’s secondary gender.
“Why would I hide something I am not ashamed of, my lord? I am not causing harm to others by existing,” you lift a brow as you glance at him quickly.
He stared at the paint ringing your neck. The style of dresses here, that your great aunt had draped you in despite your protests, involved low necklines and off-the-shoulder sleeves. The corset cinched around you held up the dress. You had painted flowers and vines. Now, if anyone stared overlong you could assume they were observing your skill with a brush and not the scar where your scent gland should be.
Transitioning into a light, airy tune that has been well accepted by “higher” society you stole glances at the lord. You had yet to be introduced, but his dismissal of decorum intrigued you. Not many men approached you for a chat, even less without being introduced as an oddity first.
“Would you take a turn around the room with me?”
And there went your interest. Like with anyone who did not conform to society’s standards, you were propositioned every so often. Pursing your lips, you don’t look at him again.
“If you can gain an introduction before I depart for the night, I will consider it.” Focusing back on your fingers you played around a key change into a moving piece.
This bit of music sounded a bit like weeping when you played it.
He would not find your aunt anywhere near this room. She had consumed a fair amount of dairy in the soup course and would be leaving rancid deposits for the maids to clean in the morning. Once she felt well enough to travel she would send someone to collect you to the carriage. No one else here could claim acquaintance to the point of introductions.
As you predicted the lord could be seen drifting from person to person questioning and pointing toward you where you played still. All shook their heads and peered around for your aunt. Nearing forty minutes later a maid approached you, hands clasped neatly in front of her white frock.
“Ma’am, your aunt awaits you in the carriage,” her voice is mouse quiet even as her eyes dart to and for.
“Thank you for telling me. Can you inform the butler I will need my things?”
The notes lingered before dying, suffocated under the volume of conversation. The lord noticed though. As you slipped around seats and finally into the front hall, he followed. The aged butler held out your shawl, gloves, and hat.
One glove on and buttoned at the wrist you started on the other one when he appeared. The lord gave a near-silent dismissal to the butler. When you turned you found your hat and shawl held hostage.
“My things, my lord,” your hand extended for your things.
“While I was not able to obtain a formal introduction, I wanted to introduce myself. Duke John Price, at your service.”
Plucking your bonnet from his hand, you hum. Duke Price glared at you as tied it in place.
“How wonderful I avoided the misfortune of being introduced to a duke then being as lowly as I am, hmm?” You glanced at his face.
His sun-kissed wrinkles are now plucked with frustration.
“Will you be returning my shawl or shall I brave the night with bare shoulders, Duke Price?”
You let the title remind him of his place in the scheme of life.
The blue of his eyes reminded you of the center of a flame, scorching in its heat. You saw the decision in the tilt of his head. Standing stiller than the statues you saw dotting this land, you did not fight when he settled the shawl around your shoulders.
“Travel safe. I look forward to our upcoming introduction,” Duke Price held to the end of the shawl as you stepped back.
“Must not have much to look forward to in this country,” you let derision drip from your tone.
One more step back and you are free. A hand behind your back finds the doorknob and you are out. Now the footmen are looking to the door as you descend the stairs.
“What kept you?” Your great aunt’s voice bites from the dark of the carriage.
“It took some time for the butler to gather my things,” you lie. Climbing in and sitting forward on the bench to peer out the door window, Duke Price watches you from the door.
Sliding back the darkness hides you from view.
John fired off a letter before the sun had risen. I have found her. I will return when wed.
It took weeks before he secured your acquaintance. He tried though, gods, the way he tried. You would have laughed if he didn’t disrupt so many damn meetings.
A local Chaplin had agreed to offer room and board to the two governesses and the two maids who would be watching and teaching the children. A different church, whose Bishop agreed, would serve as the care space and classroom. The two churches would have no fees, but negotiating the prices that would remain fair for the laundresses and the women caring for the children became the sticking point.
The women all raised their voices. It was as if they could shout a little louder than their neighbor they might be clearly heard. In times like these, you were grateful for your nose blindness. Someone had once explained that the overlapping scents of anger reminded them of a barn fire, acrid and dense.
You finished finalizing the numbers on your page before standing. Snatching up your mini abacus, because math in your head forever alluded you, you placed it in a pocket of your skirt. Both hands lifted your skirt. Once your feet could move freely, you stepped onto the chair and then onto the long table where the discussion had devolved.
Both boots planted firmly you released your skirt and shoved fingers in your mouth to whistle. The piercing sound cut through all of the noise. All of the women sat down and glowered at each other, and you.
Movement at the door of the room tipped your annoyance into rage. Duke Price stood in the doorway. This was the fourth meeting he had appeared in.
“The Duke of Price has two seconds to be gone from this room or he will be funding this project for a year.”
Your pointed glare and sharp words caused all the women at the table to turn and do the same. These were proud women. They would not accept charity, and the offer of it would be seen as offensive. The duke narrowed his eyes and stepped back into the shadows.
“Close the door, my lord. If you are incapable of such a feat one of these lovely women would be happy to assist.”
The iron lock clicking into place turned all eyes back to you. Pinching your fingers to the bridge of your nose you shut your eyes and took a deep breath.
“Here is the pricing that accommodates everyone. The women handling the children will not need to cover room and board, which will reduce their incoming monies. In turn, that reduces the burden per child for the laundresses. Now, you must decide among yourselves,” you open your eyes and scan the laundresses now, “If you wish to pay a per child fee or a flat fee. Tally your votes and inform me of your decision. This scheme will begin on the first.”
The women who handled the dirty laundry for the city nodded and rose. They spoke among themselves as they exited the room.
The older governess, Brenton, if you recall correctly spoke up now. Her white hair gleamed under her dowdy cap.
“Who will be supplying the learning materials? The pay for watching the children will not cover that.”
You climbed down as you thought over how to obtain the needed materials.
“There is an irksome lord that I will make pay for the displeasure of my constant annoyance.”
All four women shared a look. They had worked under several lords and ladies and knew this would be a formidable task.
“Well,” Miss Brenton clapped her hands twice, “We will leave you to your trial ma’am. If we can be of any assistance before our work begins, please reach out.”
“Thank you. I know this is going to be an odd period of transition for all of us.” Settling at the head of the table as the other stood, you gestured to the door. “Miss Brenton, if you don’t mind, could you play chaperone for a moment?”
“Must say, I am interested to see how this plays out.” Tucking her skirt back down Miss Brenton sat back down.
Pulling out a clean sheet you began to note down the needed items, chalk and chalkboards, readers, nappies, blankets, cribs, the list went on. The click of heavy-soled shoes stopped at your side. Paying it no mind, you continued. A second sheet joined the first, transferring a list of vendors that would help funnel money to the bottom where it was most needed. Some were spouses of the laundress, others were brothers, fathers, or uncles. All were low class and would provide solid work.
A total of three sheets filled you ensured each was dry before stacking them. Folding them into neat thirds, you turned and handed them to Lord Price.
“You are a difficult woman to make an acquaintance of,” he took the papers held in proffer. “What is this?”
“The bill.” Standing, you let the chair legs scrape against the floor. “Miss Brenton, can I interest you in having company on your walk home?”
The shrewd woman looked near apoplectic at your handling of a duke.
“This is a lengthy bill.”
If you didn’t know any better, you could have sworn there was a hint of a smile in his voice.
Lord Price’s eyes were upon you when you finally let your head finish turning. No smile graced his lips. Shame. For all he had made your last few weeks as painful as a throne in the thumb, he was nice to look at.
He wore a blue today. His eyes shone with the gold stitching on his jacket and vest.
“It has been extraordinary lengths you have gone to bother me; this seemed a fair request.”
Neither gaze shifts when Miss Brenton choked on air.
“Consider it done,” Duke Price tucked the list into his inner coat pocket. “May I join you ladies on your journey?”
“Of cour—”
You cut Miss Brenton off with a hand and a sharp look. Turning that sharp look on the lord, you speak your piece.
“No. I do not know what your intentions are with me, and frankly, I am tired of finding you amidst my business. The only men who pursue me do so for my,” you gesture to your scarred neck, “eccentricities.”
A string attached to your stomach could not have pulled tighter than if it were looped to a kite. This conversation made you wish you could skitter into a hole, a church mouse hiding from god. This would be the sixth time you had told a man no.
The duke huffed a laugh.
“I have enough eccentricities roaming my home. What I seek is a chance to see if we would get on well.”
His blue eyes left heated trails as they worked across your face. Goose flesh rose on your arms. Chest and further down where you dare not think of the flesh continued to rise. Every bit of you reacted.
“Why?” The question is breathy, haunted with questions.
Duke John Price held the sword of Damocles at your neck. The blade yearned for a taste.
You spent your days in the shadows. Confronting men who could take what they wanted was the only time you thought you knew what it was like to be whole. Acid bullied the back of your nose.
“I am in need of a wife. Someone who has the skills to manage others.”
He is not done. You don’t care.
“Choose any of your fashionably young countrywomen then.” Ripping your eyes from him, you stack your papers and close your ink well for travel. “There is a full troop of them yet unwed who would kill for the chance to lay in a duke’s bed. They have all been trained to manage households.”
The string in your body is cut. A tangle now lives in your chest.
“Miss Brenton, was it?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Can you give us the room for a moment?” The kind command would take more fortitude than the aged governess possessed.
A beseeching look to the matronly woman did not save you. Her wrinkles quivered as she slowly stood.
“I can give you three minutes m’lord.”
He inclined his head as if accepting a toast from a royal.
As the door swung shut you formed a plan. Stepping to the opposite side of the table, for distance and a barrier, failed. The toe of your boot caught the leg of the table. Papers fluttered from your hands as your knees cracked against the stone floor. Duke Price was there in an instant. He lifted each paper, laying it neatly in a stack.
Tears pricked at your eyes. You hadn’t moved from your fallen position. Head hanging to your chest you held back from weeping by the breadth of a string.
“Why will you not leave me be?” The words are harsh, strangled by the tightness in your throat.
“When hunting foxes, one strategy to attempt is sending them to ground. Where do they hide when they can no longer run?” His demeanor was cool, his voice soothing. “You run in circles, managing to better every bird, twig, and rock you brush against in your escape.”
Sniffing, you set about finding a handkerchief to wipe your face; you refused to face the laundress’ if they knew you used your skirts as rags.
A blue handkerchief in a gloved hand drifted below your nose. Lifting it, careful to not touch even his glove, you dab your nose.
Somehow you had managed to drip ink into the crease where your nail becomes flesh. Gloves hurt your hands after a time. You had managed to work around wearing them. No one noticed. No one ever noticed. And if they did they didn’t care to police a grown woman who had no prospects.
“I have a pack, they are wonderful and I would burn the world for them. I need a wife who can see. I am looking for someone who notices the needs overlooked, connects with those unheard, and sends war captains on impossible journeys. If you had allowed an acquaintance between us weeks ago, I could have courted you slowly.”
Duke Price holds out your papers. They crinkle in your delicate grip as you press them to your breast.
“I do not believe you.”
His cloth pressed to your nose cannot prevent all the vile feelings filling up your bones from injecting themselves into the words.
No one wanted you. Even the one who had lied in word and deed to make you believe he did.
Brokenness allowed you to see because you could not smell; that did not make you valuable.
“And what would make you believe me?” He curls nearly in half to peer up at you.
A duke is on his knees, craning his need to get a look at you. What the hell had this world turned into?
Sniffing again, you straighten. Plans. You can make plans.
“A contract. Legally binding even in marriage. Make it two. One to court me and become engaged and the second retaining my rights to leave this country unhindered, if I so desire, if marriage were to come to pass.” You study him now. The wheels are turning in his mind.
“And what of the consequences of reneging on either contract?” A single brow is lifted in your direction.
“I imagine your solicitor has worked with you a long time, my lord. If he does not think of something suitable, I would be happy to revise and return it for review,” you lift a brow in response.
Games were easier. The rules never changed. Once understood, you could slide below notice and return to living life and helping where you could.
The man before you lifted both cheeks into a full smile. Your heart dropped into your heels still below your butt. He had a beautiful smile.
“They will be at your door for review before the week is out.”
“You have not yet gained an acquaintance, my lord, it might be rejected at the door,” you gave him a saucy wink and a watery laugh.
“I think a contract will be introduction enough.”
He held out a hand. You shook it, grip firm. Twice it bobbed before he turned your hand over and laid a kiss on your knuckles.
Catching sight of your lifted brow from his position he threw you off balance, again.
You had been to sea. Once only, were you out during a storm.
Then you had clung to the railing until a man in a slicker had slid a rope around your waist and helped haul you below deck. That wild energy that had commanded you to land came now. This time though? You longed to dive below the waves. If only to see if the storm could touch the seabed below.
Solicitor Allchin sat stiffly in the sitting room of your great aunt’s home. He wore black as if born to it, hair flounced the appropriate amount to show he would be fastidious and dogged in a task.
Your nails, trimmed short, bite into the fabric coating the arms of the wing-back chair. The crazy fool had actually done it. Two contracts lay strewn on the tea table before you. Unable to continue to read, they had been thrown down.
“Allchin?”
The man startled at being addressed. He had been taking surreptitiously deep breaths. If anyone believed you to be afflicted with no scent gland upon meeting you would call them a liar.
“Yes ma’am?”
“What is your opinion of Duke Price?”
You refused to call him John. It felt like ceding ground in a war you didn’t intend to entrench in.
“He is a fair man, mostly. Cares well for those that he considers his, discards those he doesn’t.” Allchin spoke firmly. Confident in his honesty.
“Thank you. That will be all. I will return these with any adjustments within three business days.” Standing would be beyond your power. If you rose the only thing you would manage is the three steps to vomit in an oriental vase.
“Ma’am,” Allchin rose, tugging his coat neatly into place. “If I may? I have a question.”
“You may not.”
Rage fluttered in your chest with hummingbird wings; it stung your eyes, water filling them.
Allchin nodded once and saw himself out. Lifting the paperwork, you read what you could. He had tilted everything in your favor. If you agreed to an engagement you could keep it quiet until the bans were read. Either party could break the engagement and you would receive a settlement for cover “pain and suffering.” You would retain full autonomy and legal status as a person in the event of a marriage. Property bought or sold in your name would remain yours.
Working itself out seemed to be working in Lord Price’s favor.
Someone, and if you ever found them you might actually hurl them down the stairs, had told your great aunt about the visit and the paperwork.
“What is this I hear about an offer?”
The testy old woman had called you to her office like a child. She opened and shut a fan in one hand. Open. Shut. Open. Shut.
Blinking slowly, you release a breath.
“I did not think you could hear at all anymore, Aunt.”
Slam. The fan cracked against the edge of her desk.
“Do not test me, child! Have you had an offer?” Her frail voice betrays none of her age as she shouts.
Disdain drips from your canines like blood from a throat you clenched between your teeth.
“I lost my childhood to bigotry and hate. I will not lose my adulthood to it as well. Any business between myself and any man who might make an offer is none of your damn business. Only those who care about my welfare are welcome to that knowledge.” The temperature in the room changed, flashing cool before heating up with a rage you knew waited to boil over.
Turning on a heel, you stride from the room.
Any calls from your aunt fall on deaf ears. You lock yourself in your room and squirrel away the paperwork. Not well enough.
One of the maids must have found them. Word reached you as you were fitted for a wedding gown that your aunt had offered a hefty reward for the person who could pry the information from you. You thank the young woman pinning the skirt and ask after her children. She smiles as she tells you of her daughters and their clumsy attempts at stitches.
Masterlist | Part 2
More Posts from Cerealkiller982 and Others
Hurt
super soldier!reader x lt ghost (and technically tf141 too)
cw: angst, gunshot wound, mention of needle pricks and piercing the skin
Part one Part two
a/n: phew this was a long chapter and i sped run the last two thousand words.. again. hope you all enjoy 💓
——————————
Ghost was enjoying the game; he always did. All he had to do was turn his thoughts off and stare at the screen and cheer with the others when his team finally kicked the stupid ball into the goal. That’s what it was supposed to be, so was his head still running? He couldn't shake it off, the unnerving familiarity that he couldn't quite place, all because of that damn soldier who looked at him with widened eyes. He had just brushed it off and carried the food and drinks back to the room with the few other operators who gathered.
“Soap! Damnit, how did you..” Gaz groans, although it was actually both of their faults that the drink had splashed onto them in the first place. Soap only scoffs, nudging him with his elbow as the soda starts to drip onto the floor too.
“Oi, ye know damn well yer the one who grabbed me.”
The two huff as they have to get up and head down to the bathroom just a little way down the corridor, washing their hands and wiping down their shirts from the splash.
“Hm? Wha’ ye lookin at?”
“Ghost’s rookie, or whatever. The super soldier– why’s the room door open?”
The pair give each other puzzled yet concerned looks, opting to go inform Ghost rather than try and investigate themselves. In Johnny’s opinion, he did not want to end up on the bad end of that kid–especially from the stories he’s heard–and Gaz couldn't disagree.
“The room door’s open?” As always, Price immediately fills with concern when the two report the news, thinking over the possibilities. You weren’t the type to be reckless like that; though if you were in a rush, it may have been possible. Still, it wouldn't be without a good reason and he couldn’t find a singular one for why you may have done that. Today’s just a regular day, that’s all.
“Ghost said the kid was celebrating their birthday. Maybe they went with whoever came to go out for a bit?” Soap offers, shrugging as he sticks another cheesy nacho inside his mouth. “What’s wrong Cap’?”
Price has gone deadly still, concern spreading across his features along with something akin to guilt. He was supposed to use the budget allocated for you to buy you what you wanted, to give you even an ounce of what you actually deserved, and he had completely forgotten despite the reminder now stuck on his lockscreen. Of course, he did warn you that he was a busy man and may not be able to make it, but dammit he was sitting here watching a football match. “That soldier.. I was supposed to be there, bringing all their party stuff. Yknow, snacks, cake..”
“They’ll understand, Price; probably don't even mind all that much.” Gaz offers, trying to console the obvious guilt seeping from the Captain’s tone. “They’ll just hang with their fellow soldiers. Y'know how the rookies like to mess around.”
“It’s not like that, Garrick.” His expression grows heavier, his hand rubbing the bridge of his nose almost the same way when a mission begins to run off track. “No one speaks to them apart from Ghost and me. They’re on their own.”
——
Ghost pushes the room door open, slightly confused on why Price has ordered him to go check, but he supposes having something go wrong with someone as strong as you was a reason for concern. Though, he really is convinced that it likely isn't a big deal in the slightest; maybe you, and whatever rookies idolised you, had decided to celebrate in the grounds–who bloody knows. He’s a bit surprised by how neat your room is, considering he’s never been in here before, but he had at least thought there’d be some snacks out or something for your supposed guests. He did find it a little weird if he was being honest, how you invited him to your birthday party. You were a young soldier and rookies loved to mess around; surely they’d come join in on the fun or at least take the opportunity to watch a good movie. And him? He was a gruff lieutenant who only wanted to push you to your limits. His hand brushes over the paper thin sheets, curious as to why they’re just as rough as the infirmary beds, not to mention the countless pill bottles on the nightstand. You may be trained by him, but he didn’t bother to look further than what the file typically specified.
His eyes catch on the wardrobe, spotting the uniform that you were wearing this morning hung up already. That was weird, and now that he looked at the contents better, your hiking boots and jacket were gone, only your combat trousers left behind. Just when he was about to check where you kept your knives, his eyes caught on the colourful wrapping of a present, instantly turning his head towards your dresser.
A box lies there, the lid half off. So you did receive a present, huh? He checks for a sender but no indication is left on the box–maybe they didn't bother since they gave it to you on purpose. Out of curiosity, he decides to peek inside, his stomach feeling strangely sick when he sees the gun laid inside the box. He was right to some degree then, that you were abnormal in the way you think, but was he ever so sane? He’s about to head back when he notices the paper beneath, folded over, and picks it up. His heart felt like it broke through his ribs when he read the first line, but the second? He was running back to the others, the box gripped tightly in his hand.
“Gaz, go check the cameras now; try to figure out where they headed.” Price’s voice is loud and authoritative, wasting no time in getting to the root of this matter, especially after seeing that note. Meanwhile, he’s got Laswell on dial, waiting for her to pick up. “John? What’s wrong?”
“Kate, I need the tracker on that super soldier now.”
———————
Ghost had wasted no time, Johnny in tow as they both headed towards the mess hall. It was on the second week you came; you had been late for training. When you eventually arrived, your clothes were wet, having just doused yourself in the shower. But what he did not forget was the remnants of crappy mess hall food stuck in your hair and the ridges of your boots, the sight not particularly one you donned often. Though what should’ve raised alarm bells in his head was passed off as nothing, and even when you attempted to explain, he cut you off, already demanding you to start with no warmups.
His boots thump heavily against the floor, purpose and vengeance written into every step as he searches for your pursuers. If that situation wasn’t enough of a clue, he was damn sure that the chef would’ve seen something that could relate to the matter. “You.” His voice is sharp, instantly catching the man behind the counter, who doesn't waste a second in giving him his full attention; it was almost as if he knew something. Of course he did; everyone knew that wherever Ghost went on a mission, you followed behind, and so vice versa. “Don’t waste my time now. You saw a soldier get food dumped on them. Who did it?”
“Sir..I dont know; there’s always arguments in here-“
Ghost’s hand slams down onto the counter, not oblivious to the flicker of fear in the man’s eyes, like someone who knew they were in the wrong. He wasn’t stupid; the lies were seeping through every stammer in his sentences. “I said, do not waste my time.”
“I-it was three male soldiers–” The chef spills all the information out to him, including their name and the troops they belonged to. Those soldiers would be lucky if they even saw his mask before they felt the blow.
“Lt! Laswell tracked them; they’re in the training cabins up the hills. Capt and Garrick are waiting by the front.” Soap rushes over and Ghost firmly nods, following quickly after him as he leads him outside the building with the others. Price mans the wheel as they drive through the forestry, bumping over branches occasionally; it’s dark out so eventually they have to climb out and walk the rest of the way, torches in hand. They’re drawing closer now, the tracker in Gaz’s hand beeping relentlessly. “Almost there-”
A loud bang echoes across the grounds, startling crows as they scream and caw all around. The four SAS look at eachother with widened eyes before running towards the cabin that is faintly in view. Three soldiers stand outside trembling at the sight of John Price himself and the man with the skull mask, a duo no one ever wants to cross, approaching them, rapidly.
—------------------------
You can hear murmurs outside, or perhaps it’s yells; you can't really tell after the gunshot. Ringing echoes in your head, bouncing off every corner of your skull and repetitively attacking your brain. Every sound has been slowed and muffled as your brain tries to catch up to speed with what's happening, except you’re not the average person, and your brain catches up too fast, too soon, making every feeling crash into you. Soft fur is held between your fingers, clutched desperately as a sickening smell fills your senses. You realise the yells are from yourself, twisting into screams as you clutch the furry creature held tightly against your chest. It’s You’re whimpering pathetically, the bullet that had sounded out from your enemy’s—no, comrade’s?—gun digging deep somewhere. The fox attempts to soothe you, nuzzling its dirty face against your neck, attempting absolutely anything to get you to stop the screams that make your eyes ache and your fingers tremble.
“Kid? Kid!” Two warm hands settle on your shoulders, snapping you back into reality. Men were shouting outside; your throat was dry, and there were no screams apart from the howls of the fox you tightly clutched. Your mouth was open, but no sound echoed, screams playing on repeat in your head like you’d been taught to when they stuck those needles in you. “Someone get a damn medic here now!” A stern voice shouts, but you don't understand until the fox nudges your arm, making a newfound pain sear through you as you look at the blood soaking the fur of the animal. You panic, beginning to squirm only to get soothed by deep brown eyes.
“Y-you—“
The words don't find your mouth, the man staring back at you as he strokes your hair, the blue eyed scot already looking intently at your arm before grabbing what supplies he usually keeps on hand.
“Gaz, Sergeant Garrick, I'm here to help. Stay awake for us now, okay? C’mon, tell me your name, soldier.”
You manage to murmur it out, but your attention is more focused on the way the fox snaps at Gaz’s fingers, stopping him from comforting you. “Kid, you’re gonna have to let go of the fox-“
You shake your head frantically, holding it tighter and it equally follows, staring at Gaz with menacing eyes. “No—It’s hurt! I can't— it got shot!” You exclaim, tears streaming down your face that you didn't know were there before.
“I can help him then, can’t i? I’ll treat him.” Only then do you release your hold, letting Gaz lead the fox away with outstretched hands and a spare piece of food as bait. But you don’t understand. The fox is fine, there’s blood soaking the fur sure, but it’s not in an ounce of pain? So then.. where was the blood coming from? You look down at Soap as he crouches before your arm, and only now do you actually notice the pain stinging your arm, the tremble in your hands and the way your lips hurt from how hard you’ve bitten down. You’re bleeding, badly.
The next half an hour is a blur, between silent sobs that wrack your body, Soap managing to wrap up your arm as best as he possibly can with the gauze he keeps in his attire and Gaz repetitively trying to keep you awake. Still, you’re nowhere near being actually awake, heart thumping behind your eyes as you move in a daze, your super soldier capabilities stopping any sort of pain processing— an emergency response only you survived the experiments to produce. You’ve never been shot at before, contrary to popular belief, but it means that your mind can't keep up with all the emotional surges that come with pain and stressful situations. You’ve barely comprehend that Ghost was outside, too focused on the fact Soap had wrapped you up in his embrace, letting your face rest against his neck whilst he made sure to ease the pressure on your arm. You were still, way too still for someone who had felt every emotion as far as your dulled mind could feel only moments before, breaths so quiet as your eyes glaze over. One hand rests beneath your thighs, keeping you upright whilst the other rubs your back,holding you tight as possible as you try to understand in the slightest what is happening.
————————————-
You wake up in a medical room, or at least you assume it to be by the mostly sterile walls. Drugs contaminate your mind, leaving you in a sleep-induced haze as you blink up at the ceiling. You can only turn your head to the side, noticing the bandages around your arm but there was a strange beeping now, echoing louder and louder. Two nurses enter, each grabbing your wrist and restraining you.
Everything comes back now, the needles the third nurse carries, the blank look in their eyes, the masks they wear over their faces and the scrubs always the same shade of blue. The beeping loudens, your legs kicking wildly as you panic, unable to control the fear.
“Stop- i didn't do anything wrong! I did what I was told!”
You yell, unable to sit there and watch it go in again; you can't bear to watch your own skin be pierced without a single feeling to go alongside it. They draw closer, their eyes gaping holes into nothingness. The intern nurse isn't here to save you, your parents are signing the papers beside your hospital bed and your legs are strapped down, chest so tight you can barely push another breath out until-
Calm, quiet even, a warm hand pats your head. “Hey.. hey..” Your eyes blink open again, Gaz standing before you. It was still late, around 8:30 or 9 pm based on the position of the moon outside the window. It was slightly open, a few bushes outside, and not the best for an easy escape considering it opened inwards. It would’ve been better if—
“Kid?”
You blink up at him again; his hand was steady on your hair and properly rubbing at it now, looking at you with soft eyes. Still, you can't manage a response, only nodding quietly. “You’re safe now, okay?”
Safe. What an odd concept; would you ever really be safe? Have you ever been safe before? The soft beeps of the heart rate monitor pull your view to the side, your bare arms rubbing against the paper-like sheets and making you instantly recoil. Just the mere thought of being on these infirmary beds made you want to throw up, and it didn't help that you could faintly see an old needle in the bin beside the bed, fresh pin pricks on your arms. You were never supposed to have one again.
“Is your heart always like that?” He asks, gesturing to the monitor that you now finally look at, despite it being the first thing that caught your eye. It’s beeping, steadily, in an almost eerie way.
“It hasn't changed once, always a steady beat even when we hadn't bandaged you properly yet.” It makes your gut twist, knowing he sees you as abnormal but you are abnormal so you can't exactly feel that bad about it all.
“Yeah, it is.” You murmur quietly, looking down at the bandage around your arm now, the flimsy outfit that barely covers a thing and the prickly uncomfortable feeling that comes with being so vulnerable. But then again, you’re always vulnerable, it just depends if the person decides to take advantage of it.“I was.. made to be that way. It only goes higher when I'm working out or uh fighting. No other times.”
Gaz blinks at you in a way that makes your throat clog, but his hand is still rubbing your head. Your brain still refuses to comprehend it, afraid he’ll stop if you even think about the matter.
“Kyle. Price wants to talk to ye, i’ll look after ‘em.”
Soap enters the room, as he had introduced himself as in your pained haze a while ago. When was that even? You knew them all anyway— of course you did, who did not know the youngest soldier to join the SAS?
“Aye, you feelin’ any better?” He comes to sit beside your bed as Gaz leaves, a black container held in his hands. You watch as he adjusts the iv drip you hadn’t even noticed before, making sure it’s good on you before sitting back again. “Price wants me to have a little talk with you.” He murmurs, cracking open the lid of the container to reveal steaming food, more specifically the best you’ve ever smelt. It’s no Gordon Ramsay but it’s enough to even make you perk up, the smell of the saucy chicken and the spiced rice—and salad too? It was likely bland anyway, but it sure made your empty stomach rumble.
Regardless, Your mind locks in almost immediately; the food never looks that good, you may aswell take any chance to get a taste. “Why isnt Price here?” You knew better than to question him, but you did anyway, feeling betrayed at the mere thought that he sent his soldier to talk to you rather than himself. Doesn’t he know you’d walk to the ends of the earth to earn his approval?
“Him and Ghost have been.. dealing with your pursuers. Don't worry, they’ll be back.” That eases your head a little bit, but for some strange reason you don't quite believe Ghost would do that at all. Yet still, you were sure to get corrected if you dared to act up and ask again.
“After the medics patched up your wound, they realised you’re well.. malnourished to say the least. You needed an emergency IV drip.” He begins, scooping up a heaped spoon of the food. “We want to know why you haven't been eating— it’s not like there isn't food available.” Your mouth waters at the sight of his spoon; he’s just glad at the fact you look willing to eat rather than forcefully starving yourself. “There’s.. never much food left when i come back..” You start, but he doesn't believe it, staring at you with a raised brow. Even so, he lifts the spoon to your mouth, and you dont argue, chewing it down quickly.
“Aye, y’know ye can just tell the truth righ’ ? If ye do, I'll get ya food like this for the next two weeks. Or perhaps you just prefer hospital food?”
Everyone knows that hospital food is far from appetising, even for you who barely cares about what food goes into your body. But you can’t deny that eating those bland foods brings back memories you absolutely cannot have return right now, because no matter how much they experimented on you, they most definitely couldn’t stop your brain's base function— to remember. Still, it feels strange to speak up now, especially with the way the Scot is staring at you, his eyes a piercing blue and you feel seen, but it’s raw and ugly rather than relief that tingles your nerves.
What good would it even do? It’s not like they’re actually doing something wrong, right? Super soldiers exist to be unbeatable, therefore the notion of them beating or bullying you cannot co-exist with that fact. Unless, you were beatable, unless you did have weaknesses, unless you weren’t actually the prime of human being—
Unless you weren’t a real super soldier.
Soap lets out a sigh, snapping you out of his trance and the disappointed look that's written over his face is enough to resurface every reason relating to why you haven't been eating. Your brain is like a database, and his disappointment is the energy that fuels you to search and retrieve each incident that relates, just like the supersoldier machine they’d made you into. But there’s too many things to say now, and not enough words to convey them. You look up again, realising you’ve been staring at your hands for too long now just to realise he isn't even staring at you in contempt. No, he’s waiting, patiently, and you know this for sure because you can actually read the emotions on his face. With Ghost, everything was a guessing game, pushing your brain so hard to figure out the absolute best way to approach things whilst addressing every emotion you didn't know he was feeling. Sometimes he felt like a super soldier rather than you did.
”Soap?” You say quietly, and he perks up immediately, not expecting you to actually give in it seems, or really talk to him for that matter. “Mhm? Thinking about havin’ some good food?” A small smile slips onto his lips, trying to ease the tension in your body by a smidgen with a teasing tone.
“What if they don’t let me have the food, Soap?.” You admit quietly, repeating his call sign like it strings you back to this reality, keeps you grounded in this scratchy hospital bed. “Whose they?” He asks, his hand reaching out to rest upon your leg, rubbing it over the covers.
“The chefs, the soldiers—I don't know their names. I walk into the mess hall, at the end of lunch, and they tell me that my ‘friends’ have already taken my plate for me.” The words fall out, recounting the daily experience for the past three months, the one you can never change the course of.
“They know that they aren't my friends. They watched as I went to ask them for my plate, and they knew they’d throw it on me.”
Soap’s lips part as he stares back at you, shocked by the audacity of some of these soldiers, but even the chefs? He can understand the first time, they might have actually thought they were, but why continue to give those soldiers your plate if not to torture you?
Hazing was normal in the military, too normal, but it never lasted this long and usually after a superior saw, it got shut down immediately with a firm warning for wasting food and messing around. So why hadn’t Ghost stopped it?
”Why didn't you say anything?!”
Except it came with a slam of the door, the roughness of a voice too familiar, and the heavy boots of a man you feared since you woke. That wasn’t Soap’s words, no. “Lt? I thought you were with Price—“
“Go with Gaz, Johnny.” Your gaze lifts again, the throbbing on your arm almost unbearable or maybe it’s the fear spilling a cold sweat across your body. “You could’ve ruined everything! What the hell are we supposed to tell the superiors, huh? That you almost died over some stupid hazing?!”
Soap glances between you two, taken aback by his Lt’s sharp reaction to the situation, the tone that he’s only used with enemies who have almost brought the country to its knees if not for their task force. It’s not right.
“Lt—“
He doesn't back down, stepping forward to the bed you lay in, walking closer to the point Soap has had to stand up and step back for a moment, confused.
“You better have a damn good reason. All you had to do was speak up once— just say anything! But no; you love to keep your reputation don't you? Is that it? Is that why you never bloody told us?!”
He’s pushed back by an arm across his chest, one that he breaks if not for Soap taking his momentary hesitation to block his path. “Johnny move—“
“Lord, Ghost! Why do you think they don’t want to speak up? Look at their face!”
Ghost’s eyes shift, listening to his sergeant despite the anger that courses through him. Though, when he looks at you he no longer sees the living weapon, the cocky rookie nor the monster the higher ups created. Your eyes are blown wide, just like the soldier that stopped him in his tracks earlier today, and he doesn’t find a hint of anything he used to describe you in your current state or ever to be honest.
No, you’re terrified, looking at him like he’s the monster himself.
—————-
no animals were harmed in the making of this fic
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Ok but what if some alien orgasmism took refuge inside you, perhaps a little alien tentcale or slug, maybe slime, what ever it may be, it's inside you mow.
It's changing you, day by day
Your chest grows and grows, your ass and hips grow and grow. You feel your hair starting to grow faster then normal, the new hair a unnatural color, far out of this world. But it's stuff you can explain
What you can't explain is the unbearable heat inside of you, growing and growing by the day. Having to grab toys to ease it, but it gets harder and harder, each passing day, each day seeing your new self in the mirror, it's driving you crazy. So lost in the heat you don't notice at first, your belly swell, swell slowly. The egg growing, 2 weeks since this all happened, and there you lay on your bed, bracing for impact as the organism floods your body with apphrodiacs, making the egg laying all the better.
But you need more, this was one egg, one unfertilized egg, you need more, more more! You call a friend up, have them "help" you as you ride them away, draining every drop of cum from them, letting them relax from a job well done by sucking your tits, leaking a weird dyed milk, but all it does it melt their sweet mind to keep going and going~
It's been a 4 months since you got changed, your hair is long and neon, your teeth fangs, a long neon tounge stretches out from your mouth, as you pant away. Your dark alien eyes look down to see your new self, a massive swollen belly, huge tits with wonderful servents by your side, drinking away all the excess milk, as you rub your belly, moaning away as another egg comes out. Perhaps you'll be at your record of 12 this time, but it doesn't matter, you'll have fun either way. Besides, hearing all the others who got infected by the alien orgasmism moan away as theyay away only drives you even more into lust, can't have them beating your record now can you~ you're the head layer after all
The end of a hard day
This is the first time I've written something like this, so please no harsh criticism :р(English is not my native language, so if there are mistakes, forgive me)
It was night outside, the stars were scattering across the sky like a million shards of a broken mirror. The moonbeams were illuminating the houses, the lights of which had already gone out, as fatigue after a hard day's work had taken its toll.The trees were swaying in the wind, like other plants. Only some residents who had worked until night were cutting through the empty roads, wanting to get home as quickly as possible. The same thought was in the head of the houltricker, another hard day that had left an unpleasant aftertaste in his chest, which he wanted to tear into small pieces. The medic's eyes were fixed on the road, and his hands were tightly gripping the steering wheel of the car, with some kind of nasty sound, similar to a grinding sound. His hair lay unruly on his shoulders, strands were coming out from under the elastic band, adding a special twist to his image.Fatigue was visible in his gray eyes. And then he was overcome by a feeling that the ground was gradually slipping away from under his feet, and there was a categorical lack of air. His mind was seized by panic, another bad experience with a patient who, after his psychological consultation, committed suicide, although everything was basically going well. He felt guilty, could not calm down and pounded the steering wheel with his hands, shouting something in the car. Passers-by probably thought he was a psychopath. Tears began to drip from his pale cheeks, which fell on his coat and black pants, he slightly pressed his lips, and then finally drove towards the house, bringing himself to his senses along the way, doing some breathing exercises. The dark red car finally parked near the house, in the yard, slightly disturbing the night euphoria. The brunette redid his bun, looking in the rearview mirror, and then glanced towards the window, checking if his love was sleeping, what if she was waiting? Seeing the light, a silly smile appeared on his lips, and his chest began to flutter pleasantly, as if a million butterflies had flown out to freedom. Pulling himself together, his feet finally came off the asphalt, he slowly moved towards the entrance, opening the door with a key. While his beloved worked, Semple was busy with household chores, and also went to college to hand in his diploma work. Because his chosen one has been working for a long time, and he has not graduated from any institution yet. Well, no matter, now he is almost officially a medical assistant. There was a sweet smile on the redhead's lips while he cleaned up and cooked dinner for himself and Houltricker. He danced a little to the music from the radio, slowly cooking. He knew that his medical worker would be late, because this was already the norm in their small family. At a certain hour, he looked out the window, noticing the car that had already become familiar, a smile immediately played on his lips, as bright as the sunlight, in the summer.And so, the key turned in the doorway and his boyfriend entered, Semple immediately ran out into the hallway, hugging Howl tightly.- Good evening, honey. Can you imagine, my diploma was finally approved, finally after weeks of humiliation and suffering! - the guy immediately changed the topic, starting to talk about his pastime, brushing strands of hair from his face.- Good, I missed you. - He kissed the guy on the temple, and then hugged him back tightly, burying his nose in the top of the guy's head.They chatted and soon went to the kitchen, spending the rest of the evening with dinner and watching a movie, probably a horror movie.
My partner, I swear...
So we both had a day off last week and we decided, fuck it, we were gonna go wandering, hit up a few thrift shops, even the actual mall for once... She suggested I wore a skirt and my collar, and I'm okay with this... Should have known from the glint in her eyes why she picked the one with an elastic waistband... But I thought nothing of it and we headed out. We'd been browsing around the first shop, when she gently shoves me into this little nook with a grin on her face. I feel tendrils running up my leg, and she kisses me deeply as she worms her way inside, muffling my noises, her finger hooked into the ring on my collar. She didn't pull away until she'd put two or three eggs in me. I'm flustered, I definitely came right there, but I manage to give her a glare. Can't have her always thinking I'm made of putty... even if I am, especially with a clutch stuffed into my belly. She smirked, and gave me a wink. Her hand keeps finding excuses to cup my belly, to touch me where she's filled me, wordless ways of saying *you're mine, and this proves it*... she even give the maternity section of the store a knowing look. I should browse that more often... She found another spot to yank me into, first, and in a heated moment of passion, I feel her slip inside me again, I quiver against her, and she put another few eggs in me... more than last time, but... I wasn't exactly counting, I just saw my tummy visibly puff up between us. "Is this what you plan on doing all day?" I moan softly into her ear, cradling my swollen belly. the feeling of my womb suddenly stretching to double its last size and then some leaves me breathless.
(Poly 141 x fem reader)
You had always been their sweetheart.
Soft, tender, and gentle- the heart of their home. The warmth in the spaces between them, the one they curled around after long days of violence, soothed by your touch and your voice, the way you cared for them without hesitation. No matter how much blood stained their hands, no matter what nightmares haunted their sleep, you were there. Unshaken. Unyielding in your love, hands gentle and soft as you cradled them close and warm.
So they had never needed to know about the things you kept buried.
The past you refused to unearth. The things you could do, the person you had been before them- before you had a home to call your own, before you had people who held you just as carefully as you held them.
They didn’t need to know, and you didn’t need to think about it.
Until they went missing.
You first learned something was wrong when John’s daily check-in didn’t come.
It had always been a habit of his, something he did without fail, no matter how far away he was. Just to let you know I’m breathing, love. That was what he had said, years ago, the first time he had explained it to you. You had teased him for it- What, you don’t trust me to not burn the house down?- but he had only smiled, voice steady and sure when he told you, I like knowing you’re safe.
It had never failed. Not once. Even when he himself could not text you, Lasswell herself assured you they were fine and merely had to be careful.
But now came the silence.
No messages. No calls. No updates.
You tried not to panic. They were on a mission, after all. Maybe something had gone wrong with their comms, or maybe they had been forced to go dark, and Lasswell was busy. It had happened before, and they had always come back to you, whole and alive, pressing their faces into your neck, murmuring apologies and reassurances.
But then a full week passed.
Then two.
And no one would tell you a thing and Lasswell wasn’t picking up, either.
You had tried- had called, had knocked on doors, had pushed until you were met with polite deflections and stone-cold refusals.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that information is classified.”
“There’s nothing we can share at this time.”
“We appreciate your patience.”
Patience.
As if you would sit here, helpless, and just wait. Hopeless, and helpless, and unable to do a single thing to help then.
No. No, you had done that before. You had waited before. And it had cost you everything.
You weren’t that girl anymore. You weren’t a victim of circumstance, hoping for scraps of kindness, praying for someone to do right by you.
If no one would help, you would do it yourself; because they were yours, and they were the best thing that have ever happened to you, and you weren’t going to lose them.
Tracking them down was easier than you expected.
You had spent years curating the image of someone soft and harmless, someone not worth keeping secrets from. And people loved to talk. Especially when they thought you were just a grieving, desperate woman trying to find a lost fiancé and his friends.
All it had taken was a few well-placed words, a few tearful looks, and doors had opened.
It had taken only days to pinpoint their last known location, then. After you’d hunted down Laswell, and had her help you. Though you were glad to see that she was working to find out where they were, as well, and merely lacked the manpower because of some general named Shepherd.
You filed the name away for later thoughts.
A warlord with connections to arms smuggling in Eastern Europe. An old base, abandoned by one regime and taken over by another. And your men had been sent in to dismantle it.
But they hadn’t come back. MIA, the reports said.
You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t care for those three letters. You moved.
You gathered supplies, mapped out your route, planned your approach with the precision of someone who had done it before. You emptied old caches, dusted off weapons you hadn’t touched in years, and set off.
The infiltration was clean; a single shadow among many, slipping between patrols, cutting down obstacles with silent, brutal efficiency. Years it may have been, you hadn’t gotten as rusty as you’d feared you’d be.
You had never been squeamish. You had learned long ago that softness had no place in survival- but it could thrive and bloom in the aftermath, a stubborn weed that eventually makes way for a full bouquet.
But this was different.
This was fury burning in your blood as you carved a path forward, every movement precise- you couldn’t afford any less.
You didn’t stop, no matter what.
Not until you found them at last, and your heart ached something fierce abd sharp in your chest.
Caged. Beaten. Bound but not broken- and drugged.
I should have been more rough, you mourn for a split second. An easy death was more mercy than what was deserved.
John’s head lifted first, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Love-?”
Then Simon, bloodied but breathing, his body sluggish with whatever chemicals they had pumped into him. Every part of him was covered in blood and cuts.
Johnny’s voice, then, hoarse and raw, full of disbelief and worry. “No. No, you’re not- this insnae real-“
And Kyle, whose breath hitched as you knelt beside him, gentle fingers brushing against his bruised face.
They thought they were dreaming; they thought you weren’t real.
And maybe that was a… mercy.
Because if they had been clear-headed, if they had seen what you had done to get here, if they had watched the way you had cut down anyone in your path with merciless efficiency-
They would have looked at you differently.
And you couldn’t bear that. To have their illusion of your gentleness shattered like that…
So you played along.
Whispered reassurances, pressed kisses to sweat-damp foreheads, untied their bindings with careful hands. You coaxed them to move, guided them through the corridors you’d emptied, wiped away the blood that dripped from their skinz
And when they sagged against you, too dazed to fight, too lost in the haze of their drugged delirium, you held them-
Kept them safe, and brought them home.
Later, they woke in a hospital, clean and stitched and safe.
You were already there, fussing over them, your voice soft and sweet, your fingers gentle as you pressed cool cloths to fever-warm skin, brushed stray curls from foreheads, adjusted pillows and blankets with quiet determination. Dressed in something white and pink, the colors of innocence, nails cleaned of blood even if your hands will never be truly clean.
You looked the same as ever.
Pretty and delicate, their lovely girl, their tender-hearted sweetheart.
And for all that had happened, all that they had suffered, all that you had done-
They never suspected a single thing, and you didn’t tell them; didn’t tell them that there had been no extraction team. That there had been no grand military rescue- not even from the the same military that had abandoned them.
(His name was General Shepherd. You will not forget it- you’d need to carve his name on the bullet you’ll save just for him, after all.)
That it had been you.
Only you.
Only Laswell knew the truth, and she would keep your secret because she understood what it meant to protect the people you loved.
And if you had to carry this weight alone to keep them from ever looking at you like you were something other-
So be it.
You sat beside John, pressing a kiss to his temple as his fingers curled weakly around yours.
You smiled at Simon when his hand brushed against your knee, seeking reassurance, seeking you, his eyes tired.
You let Johnny hold you, his arms tight around your waist as he mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder, still half-lost in the remnants of the drugs.
And when Kyle murmured: “At leas’ you’re safe, pretty.” His voice thick with sleep-
You just smiled and ran your fingers carefully through his hair, and held them the way you always had.
And pretended that everything was exactly the same.
♡ My Cuddles! || König & Krueger
┊pairing : könig x gn!reader x sebastian krueger ┊content warning : fluff, slight jealousy, cuddles, a little suggestive, swearing ┊word count : 1.3 k ┊a/n : look-sometimes you just need two masked men who want to fight for your cuddles alright? *sobbing defending myself*
It was going to be a long fucking night, that much was for sure. The night watch duty was torn between the three of you: König, Krueger & Yourself.
With your hour already done, it was time to get a bit of sleep before the next one.
With the masks hanging ominously over their faces. The two Austrian men watched as you walked with a heavy step over the the only bed in the dim cabin. Eyes and intents hidden under dark fabric that blanketed their faces, neither relenting in their quest to keep their identities hidden.
Yet, both heads turned subtly, trailing after your retreating form.
Krueger was sitting in the corner of the one room cabin, shucking quiet pieces of wood onto the ground. Digging his blade into a piece of wood as he carved it out and looked it over, pretending to keep busy even if his eyes flickered over and stole a glance at you taking your boots off.
König meanwhile, was standing by the window, arms folded over his chest and leaning against the wooden walls. Glaring out into the dark snowy night, making sure nothing shifted or moved out there. Pretending somewhat that his blue eyes weren't also flickering occasionally across the room to watch you slip under the covers of the blanket.
Your soft, satisfied sigh made them both momentarily pause. The sudden tension in their shoulders making the two men glance at each other.
Krueger's sniper veil swayed slightly as he considered König, and König's eyes turned icy, brows furrowing. A silent shared sentiment passing between them.
They were both thinking the same thing.
Krueger was the first to move, nearly jumping to his feet. Setting his rough carving down on the table, twirling the blade between his fingers before sheathing it back into his belt.
Under his hood, König's mouth hung open slightly at the man's audacity. Watching rigidly and slightly panicked as the veiled mercenary stalked over to the side of the bed, looming over you with an aura of mischief.
"Sleeping soundly?" he murmured, leaning over to gauge your expression better. The edges of his veil bristling against your arm as he whispered, "Cold, schatz?"
Before you could turn and address the sudden intrusion, Krueger was already slipping his boots off and crawling in behind you with a grunt. Throwing an heavy arm around your waist as if he's done this a thousand times before.
König's eyes widened, the shock evident through the small windows in his mask. His watch completely forgotten the moment Krueger lifted his head up, checked to see that König was looking, and with a seemingly satisfied-smug-gesture, his arm tightened around your waist... pulling your body flush against his own. Your ass pulled back against his hips.
If Krueger could see the tall snipers face, he'd bet there was a vein throbbing against his temple, ready to burst.
König's eye twitched, gloves creaking in protest as they balled up into tight fists.
He crossed the room in a few strides, looming over the other side of the bed and damn near ripping the blanket off. "Was zum Teufel!" he whisper yelled harshly, icy eyes glued to Krueger's body against yours like he wanted to strangle him. "What the fuck are you doing!?"
Krueger hardly flinched, resting his chin on your shoulder innocently-the bastard. "I'm keeping meinen Kleinen Liebling warm."
"You are making things uncomfortable!" they continued to whisper shout to each other, as if you weren't quite literally stuck between the argument to protest yourself.
Kruger huffed, reaching a gloved hand to tilt your chin his way. Able to see your face over your shoulder.
Your face was the picture of perfection to him. Inviting, surprised, and a beautiful dark blush blossomed across the bridge of your nose, spilling onto the architecture of your face.
"Are you uncomfortable, schatz?" he purred the name out, unable to help the way his body was starting to react with you so close. You fit so perfectly against him... like you were made to fit in his arms. The bubble of warmth between your two bodies pleasant... and your hips pulled back against his was giving him ideas.
König watched on in horror and Krueger's gloved hand gave your hip and experimental squeeze. The color draining from his skin the moment you shook your head quietly. The blush painting your complexion all-telling.
König had no fucking choice but to back up then, if you had no protests then there shouldn't be any further discussion...
but he watched as Krueger cuddled his veiled face into your hair, breathing you in enthusiastically as you tensed. His actions making your pulse visibly jump under the delicate skin of your throat. Krueger's arms wrapping more firmly around your waist... wandering up to try and splay across your chest- and no way he was going to take that any longer.
A surprise to everyone, König had lifted the blanket hastily, inviting himself into the tangle of limbs.
A small surprised squeak came from your lips, the bed dipping as König climbed in quickly, his own arms wrapping around your back and pulling you into his chest. The two of them beginning to fight like two little boys on the playground.
"Verdammt, du großer bastard!" Kruger hissed as your shoulders were pulled away from his chest, the cold filling in your sudden absence. He gripped at your hips a bit harder, determined to pull you back.
"Halt die klappe! Du kleines arschloch!" König gritted out, much stronger than him.
Both of them huddled closer, leaving no inch for you to even squirm away. Their bodies brushing and squishing you lightly between them.
König reached over your shoulder, pushing insistently against Krueger, trying to peel him off your body like a bug. The sniper's hard chest and arm barring you against him.
Krueger was hardly taking the sudden childish act, retaliating with his own. His leg shuffled between yours, kicking at König's shins, trying to push him out of the bed that he had claimed first.
"Hey," you whispered, between their little scuffle. König's hand pushing at Krueger's veiled face, smearing his head away, while Krueger's foot was getting closer to kicking König in the balls. The two not noticing your growing exasperation.
"Hey!" you finally shot up, their limbs halting to glance up at you. For a moment, both feared you would get up and leave their arms empty. And just like that... they calmed, listening despite the scowls on their hidden faces.
"Both of you... just... be quiet and go to sleep... or don't, I don't care," you muttered, falling back into the bed with a soft thump.
The two of them watched your face quietly before turning to each other. An ominous 'you almost fucking ruined it' aura seeping from both of them.
"Just... stop fucking moving," you murmured sleepily. As much as they were, the two of them were actually really warm. Wrapping around you like the worlds best weighted blanket.
You relaxed against them, letting your eyes flutter closed to find a moments peace. The feeling of you softening made both of their heart flutter dangerously in their chests.
Begrudgingly, they complied, muttering quiet curses.
König cradled your head close to his chest, smoothing down your hair with an almost imperceptible touch that belied his size, your leg bent delicately over his own... and Krueger held your hips, wrapping a gentle arm around your stomach, nuzzling his face into your shoulder. The quiet and calm finally seeping into the cabin.
everyone give anon a kiss for helping & correcting the translations :)
pls pls pls pls pls pls write something with hound getting a lil chubby during rehab pls i want to see him soft and comfy, being hand fed and cuddled. hound with a little tum from finally having not only enough to eat but enough rest to actually gain a little extra weight pls im in my knees characters getting a lil chub as a sign of healing my beloved
Okay here's a small brain fart for you:
You've gotten fat.
it's a rather egregious exaggeration, according to the two sergeants, but it's the first thing you think of when you look in the mirror. Your hard muscles still bulge beneath your skin when you flex, but now there's a layer of fat cushioning your frame — it smooths the planes of your abdomen, widens the circumference of your thighs and the breadth of your shoulders until you're popping the seams of your clothes, the layer of fat deepening the cleavage between your pecks whenever you cross your arms. Even your cheeks look chubbier than they had before.
You don't look like death warmed over, and you don't know how to feel about it. The psychologist says it's a good thing, your body finally figuring out it can slow down and focus on healing instead of constantly living on the edge of a knife.
But you just don't see it. It feels like you're regressing; Forgetting the harshness of the wild when you're collared and leashed by the fireplace, growing fat and lazy, complacent. A spoiled dog isn't loyal.
You let out a noise at the back of your throat when Johnny suddenly rushes into the small room you've been given, the door slamming open and closed. You don't have time to even say a single word before he's in front of you, "Hide me!" and then he's gripping your shit and pushing himself beneath it. Your frame is big enough to where you completely block him out, and his arms wrap as much as they can around your waist so he can cling to you.
You're rarely stunned to the point you don't know what to do, but this is one of those times.
A second later you hear a "MacTavish!" and loud footsteps rush down the hall, accompanied by loud swears and threats you can only assume are from Ghost.
Johnny waits still as a statue as the footsteps grow quiet, his breath washing over your skin from where his face is pressed against your chest. When they grow quiet he shuffles, a couple of seams popping in the already stretched out shirt until he pokes his head through the head hole of the shirt, resting his chin on the top of your sternum. "Thanks laddie, saved me skin there."
"Что блят?" Is the only thing your mind can force out, defaulting to Russian because you haven't been able to dig up your mother tongue from the grave the old you is buried in.
"Ah don't worry about it, the bloody dobber had it comin' with his bloody tea in chef Mike an' — Hmmm," His attention focuses on you, head disappearing beneath the shirt once again until only his stupid mohawk pokes out as his hands give an experimental squeeze at your sides, some of the fat getting trapped between his fingers. "Hey, have you gotten bigger? Ah could swear you weren't so fluffy before."
"That a nice way of calling me fat?" You feel the need to cross your arms, to hide the cushioning hiding your muscles. Ants gnaw on your skin where Soap touches you, his calloused palms sliding as far as they can and a strange sound rumbling in his chest when he registers that the space between both of his hands is indeed larger than it had been a couple of months ago.
"Nonsense!" He guffaws, "There's just more ta love." He hums, hands pinching the fat at your sides, evidently too content with your position as his human furnace to even think about detaching from you. "Oh yeah, you've filled out. Yae know hens love the dad bod, get some more hair on yer chest an' you'll be reeling the bucks in too."
"That-" You have to bite your lip when his hands suddenly shoot up to grope your pecks. He pushes them together and buries his face in the cleavage created. Your brain completely shuts off when he fucking motorboats you, shaking his head and making a sound right against your chest to the point you're sure you can feel the vibrations in your spine.
"MacT-avish!" The sound that escapes you is humorously high-pitched for someone of your size, your voice cracking as you feel your entire face grow hot.
He pokes his head back out like a whack-a-mole, a very pleased look on his face. "Yeeess?" He asks, sickly sweet. "Something the problem big man?"
"I-" You try, too many thoughts weighing down your tongue, "-You-" this time your voice cracks, "-why-" you hiccup, your lungs choosing this time to request air as you breathe in. You look in his eyes as best you can, but the way the sparkle makes it difficult for your body to stoke the flames of anger you've grown so used to feel. ". . . блят." You finally manage to say, your shoulders sagging.
He grins at you, his hands sliding down to pet the soft surface of your stomach, fingers pressing down to feel the hard muscle beneath the fat. "Aye, big bear of a fucker, you are." He grins and goes on his tippy toes, the shirt moving up with him before he lightly pecks your lips. "Yae look good like this."
"Yeah?" You grunt, trying not to show how the soft touch affects you but your ears feel like you'd dipped them into the pits of hell.
"Definitely." He's confident when his hands slides down to grope your ass, forcing another embarrassing sound from your chest. "Now how about we get some more food in yer belly? Make you the famous MacTavish pie."
𝐂𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬
𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚡 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏
After servicing the SAS for around 30 years it was finally time to retire and enjoy the time spent by the people you always protected. The Task Force 141, created by Price, was now led by Gaz and Soap after you and Ghost decided to retire as well following the old man, or rather “father”, that retired to spend time with Nik. After 2 years, you and Ghost reached the age of 55 and it was now time to put the guns away.
You and him still wanted to be in the frenetic life of constant alertness and the adrenaline rushing through your veins but after an incident that left you having to walk with a cane (you were not fully disabled, you just needed support, not always, your knee sometimes gave painful troubles. The problem, most of the time, was solved by wearing a medical device, a knee brace) and him to manifest phantom pains with constant migraines, the time to give up was finally here. After being discharged with honor and with badges of recognition, saying goodbye to Johnny and Kyle and making sure that these two would be able to lead the future of the task force, you two left the SAS forever.
Before leaving, a decision was made. During dull times when there was nothing to do, you and Simon discussed possible houses and flats to live in after retirement, these conversations started way before the deadline and sometimes it would end up with the two of you not having emitted the final verdict. You always wanted to visit Manchester and maybe live in it too as Simon always described it as an "ok" city. Eventually, an apartment was found and it was quite cozy too. It had a wall window (not fully glass) that was facing the west giving the possibility to gaze at the setting sun, it had an elevator too as you needed it. It took some time to get adjusted. It was a sort of challenge itself to buy the furniture as you and Simon had different tastes that were difficult to mix together and the fact that it was a struggle to arrange everything, but eventually your new house was done and was full of memories too.
The small table and the walls around the TV were full with photos of vacations as well as after missions times with your friends: the time in Las Almas, with Alejandro and Rudy, then there were Farah and Alex with Nikolai too. Other photos showed vacation trips with the whole 141 and your outer friends too. In the more intimate and more secured side, the medals achieved over time by you and Simon stood neat and clean, in the studio, in their cases showing the best of the best.
You two where 50 and still in great physical form despite your respective pains, you were accepted to work as a personal guard to assist the CEO of a very advanced High-tech company that helped in the reaserch in many fields…..it did pay very well….while Simon, who liked more quiet places was hired as an intelligence specialist where his tactical skills were put to use, formuling plans or mapping the perimeters, when squads of police or other special forces had to get their hands dirty. At the end of the day, when you both were home, you two got to spend the evenings on the couch watching some football or play matches in Call of Duty making some people rage quit since they couldn’t compete with veterans.
Sleeping was a challenge though, Simon had chronic pains over his whole body and sometimes the treatments were not really effective, he ended up waking up in the middle of the night with pains in his legs or arms (trust me they are unbearable. I say this as someone who sometimes has their legs and foot-fingers blocked for the amount of pain) that makes him become restless. Lucky for him you are there as you try and stop everything with a massage. To say thank you, he lets you sleep on his torso and wraps you around his arms if they don’t hurt and you do the same, giving him a small and content smile. If you are the one waking up with knee pains, he makes sure to try and make it lessen by applying some pain relief ointment.
Mornings are spent lazily if none of you have to work, usually you wake up with him being the big spoon while he had his head on your pillow, other times he wakes up with you on top of him with your arms sprawled on the bed. He rolls around, waking you up in the process, and giving you light kisses on your forehead and temples while caressing your exposed tummy, warm light usually fills the room finding its way to your exposed torsos filled with scars of all types, symbols of your endurance and courage.
As time passed white hair did begin to appear on your scalp and Simon noticed it while washing your hair in the bathtub.
‘’Pup, you have some white hair here and there…’’ he spoke as he massaged your scalp and cheek bones.
‘’Ah-…sigh’’
‘’Don’t worry about it, they look good on you’’ he smiled.
‘’Don’t joke about it, since you have some on your eyebrows too!’’
And so days were spent like this. You two were finally taking back the time ripped away from your work duty, callused hands traced the necks of one-another and scarred faces expressed the most sincere of feelings repressed by the ruthless requirements of the war world. Sometimes, the little things done with the heart, each day…are the ones that matter the most.
War, Royalty, and The conqueror PT1
poly 141 x reader (no gender)
Summary:
Your kingdom has been invaded by the neighboring kingdom ruled by the conqueror King John Price. The king had swayed many different people to his side: a disgraced assassin who tried to murder him, a runaway mage prince of the southern kingdoms, and a barbarian who was exiled from his clan. You, along with your parents, are being brought before the king in shackles. Your future is uncertain, but it seems your parents have ulterior motives they intend to use to keep their nobility and their status in court even if that means living under a conqueror. A reader x 141 fantasy AU fanfic.
Chapter 1: I am an heir not livestock.
WARNING CONTAINS MENTION OF WAR AND SLAVERY
Cold metal surrounds my ankles and wrists, biting into my skin, but the cold metal does little to quell the burning hot anger growing in my gut. These assholes invade our country with no warning, no reason; they didn't grant us the mercy of being able to fight back, and as I'm dragged alongside my father and mother into the throne room of the most feared man in the entire continent, I can't help but know that this could be the end of my life, my family's life, and our legacy.
The large wooden doors of the throne room open, bringing us inside. I turn my head to see my father straining against the guard who held his arm tautly. The guard, who was tightly gripping my arm, was uncaring about my worries for my parents even as my father received a painful punch to the jaw because of his noncompliance.
I could feel myself flinch and shiver at the violence; it was simply barbaric! The discard of thousands of years of tradition for what? Some sick conquest? My thoughts were not allowed to be voiced as my parents and I were thrown to the cold marble floor of the throne room.
I grunt at the impact, my shoulder aching in protest. I twist my head to see my parents in a similar position in front of me; my heart aches in my chest at the sight of my parents, my mentors, the ones I care about more than anything, being thrown around carelessly like toys.
The sight made me rage internally; I know that in my current position anything that I do would just dig our graves deeper.
My mother glances behind her back, giving me a small, apologetic, wary smile that I return in kind. We might not live to see the day that these bastards die, but at least we'll die together as a family.
“That's quite enough, thank you gentlemen.” The rough voice echoes through the vast throne room, and my head swivels towards the deep timbre of his voice.
My eyes catch the bright gleam of the twisting metal dancing around the regal throne; my teeth grit together as I meet eyes with the person sitting atop the lavish throne.
King John fucking Price, former grand duke now king, was laid back, relaxing against the throne despite the sharp points protruding from the throne.
The rage kept bubbling in my chest. I looked to my parents, trying to offer them some semblance of comfort. We have lost, and we all know it.
I keep my head up, daring him to look away. I may have lost my home, and I will likely lose more, but I will not lose my dignity to this tyrant. Movement in the corner of my eyes directs my attention away from the king; it was my parents.
They were bowing their heads submissively, kneeling on the floor…
“Your majesty, please have mercy on us; we were fools; please spare us!” My father pleads with his head pressed against the floor; I watch the scene unfold with eyes wide; this wasn't real.
There had to be some manipulation, some trick committed by the king prince’s mage, to manipulate me into submission.
My eyes darted towards the mage standing arms crossed next to the king's throne.
The mage's deep brown skin complements the golden robes draped around his shoulders, the flowing fabric pulling taut around his waist by the golden belt. His hands were firmly clasped together, hidden under the flowy sleeves covering his slender arms.
There was no possible way this was an illusion. But why? I turn my head back towards my parents, my eyebrows creasing in confusion; my words catch in my throat as my father continues to plead.
“Your majesty, please have mercy, grant us mercy, allow us to keep living under your rule; we offer our heir up to you as a show of goodwill; please, your majesty, have mercy.”
I pause my body stilling. I did not dare to breathe as I looked at my father in shock.
He was offering me up.
Selling me.
I felt my heart swim as I watched, paralyzed, as the price rose on the regal eyebrow. “Oh? And what use would your heir possibly give me?” he questions, leaning forward, resting his head on his fist.
I watch as my father stutters, fumbling for a response before sputtering a response, “Pleasure! Y-you can use them as you please, your grace! Just have mercy on me and my wife. I beg of you!” My father's words echo throughout the throne room.
My knees are shaking; bile rises in my throat. I feel sick.
Tears well up in my eyes. I could feel my legs trembling, the world blurred around me, my breath caught in my throat.
I couldn't cry, not here, not in front of my parents…who just sold me off like livestock. I can't cry, not here.
‘Don’t fucking cry.’ I scowl silently to myself, but the growing pain is tightening in my chest. I can't contain it, my pain, my anger, my hurt.
A stray tear slips down my cheek, dropping down onto my worn tunic.
“It seems your heir is quite unhappy with your proposal.” A curt, deep timber voice interrupted my thoughts, and my head snapped up, my eyes scanning for the source of the voice.
My eyes land on a shadowed figure leaning against one of the tall marble pillars that lined the outer walls of the throne room.
The figure steps forward, and I feel my heart drop deeper into my stomach; the chalky white of a skull reflects the golden light streaming in from the large windows.
The man stepped further forward into the light, a silence of the room being broken by the thudding of boots against the marble floor as the man stepped towards the dais, the light glinting on the surfaces of the dark metal armor that encircled the man's silhouette.
He rose the dais before standing on the other side of the throne.
My heart jolted in my chest. This was no ordinary man; this was the unlikely general.
Rumors had spun that King Price had an assassination attempt sent out after him, but the assassin was captured, and instead of interrogation or execution, King Price spread the assassin and made the assassin a general in his army.
That means that this man was none other than a ghost. The man with no face.
A deep hum rumbles from Price's throat as he considers the ghost’s words. Before speaking, the guards lining the walls of the throne room stand at attention.
“Take them to the guest wing.” Price commands after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.
A pair of guards step towards me, their hands wrapping around my biceps as they tug me towards the door. My feet fumble beneath me, but I quickly regain my footing and begin walking.
The two guards lead me out of the throne room down winding hallways. My hands were still restrained by the cold metal shackles as well as my ankles, every step I took making them click together.
My mind is swirling. I was barely focused on where the guards were taking me; I'm still reeling from what my father said…
He was going to use me as a bargaining chip. His own flesh and blood. The disbelief swells up inside me.
‘No, that can't be it. Perhaps my parents think that they can regain our kingdom's freedom by doing this? That had to be it; they had to have a plan. That must be it; they're using this as an opportunity to tear down the conqueror. But…that was against the universal laws of warfare!
Why would my parents possibly do this?’ I think to myself, barely noticing the glances and stares that I'm given as servants pass by, but something catches my attention.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a large window looking out onto a vast garden decorated with many wildflowers and a grand oak tree in the middle, but what caught my attention the most was the man lying beneath the tree, a book laid across his chest as he lay…sleeping?
The man was wearing loose pants and a leather tunic, but what was most striking about him was his hair, which was slightly bound down the middle of his scalp, the sides of his head shaven down to a light fuzz, beads intertwined into the tightly matted mohawk that split down the man's head.
The guards led me past the window towards a large set of doors where another set of guards stood at attention, ignorant of the entrance. They sidestepped hands clasping around the door handles and prying it open; before I knew it, I was being shoved forward.
I barely had the time to get my bearings before the doors slammed shut behind me. I blinked, and once again tears began to form in my eyes, reality crashing down on me harshly and swiftly.
A sob catches itself in my throat. I was trapped. Alone in an enemy castle of the man that my parents just sold me to for…pleasure.
A sickening feeling twists in my gut as the gates finally release themselves, and I let myself cry, my body wracked with sobs as I clutch at my arms, pulling myself into a hug as I lay on the cold wooden floor.
“How in God's name will I survive this?” I ask myself aloud as if the answer would be given to me on a silver platter. The room remains silent save for my small sniffles and choked sobs.
Before I knew it, my eyes grew heavy, and I fell into a slumber I wished I didn't wake from.
I’m just imagining rugby players TF141. Price is the coach while Gaz, Soap, and Ghost are the players. You are their eager fanboy— always going to the games and first to buy merch. Following them on all social media and responding to all their posts.
We all seen rugby players and their bodies. Large beefy and hairy men just pressing against each other. TF141 is no different. So strong with their beefy muscular bodies— Soap and Price with the most good amount of hair on their chests and lower regions.
You would often find yourself jerking off or riding a dildo— imagining the silicon toy to be their dick. Moaning their names, wishing it was the real deal. You fantasized about the four men have the most perfect cocks. You know they have no idea you exist but that’s okay.
And they did notice you.
It was after a hard fought game that left them exhilarated and pent up at the same time. Price’s eyes monitored the crowd before laying them on you. As every one was leaving, the older man approached you. “I recognize you’re the fanboy? Me and the lads would like to meet you.”
You felt like passing out from those words. The coach was inviting you to meet them! This was a dream come true and you happily accepted the offer. You eagerly followed Price to the locker room— private section from the rest where the other players were.
Walking into the room, you were met with the three player completely naked, stroking their cocks. You stood shocked as you watched the scene, the three most sexiest men stroking their large erections.
“About damn time. This the lad who’s our fanboy? Look cute in those photos— now get to see you in person.” Simon grunts as he slows down his strokes and approaches you along with the others. All four men had you surrounded, Price was naked as well, his hairy beefy body pressing against your back.
You weren’t against this as your dream was reality. “Go on las, touch it.” Soap smirks as he waved his dick teasingly. You hesitantly touched it— was warm and thick in your hands, throbbing as you stroked it, the foreskin followed. Soap groans as he fucks your hand.
After that, you went from being their biggest fanboy to becoming their service boy. Satisfying their pleasures and stress after games or practice. All the men would stand in a circle and have you stroke their cocks and sucking— a bukkake circle. You happily accepted their thick loads of cum spurting on your face.
Then there was the actual sex. They rarely engaged in it before you came along. Now they’re feral whenever they fuck you. Your tight ass and moans of pleasure was music to them. You could determine that Ghost and Price were the biggest with average girth while Soap and Gaz were slightest above average with the greatest amount of girth.
You love it when the men fuck you dumb. You threw the toy away— demanded by Price since their dicks are the replacements. He doesn’t want you using that pathetic excuse now that you’re dealing with real cocks.
When it came to the sex, Soap and Gaz were more soft and passionate. Giving you praises and compliments. Their rough hands worshipping your body. Just wholesome.
Price and Ghost on the other hand— they’re more rough with Ghost being roughest. Price starts slow before ramming his cock deep into your ass— rearranging your guts. Ghost was just rough, he asked for your consent about it and you happily agreed to it.
Ghost would always prep you before fucking you like a sack of meat. His deep rough voice echoed into yours: “slut” “boytoy” “love being our whore” just degrading you. He left the most marks on your body— hickeys, bite marks, and hand prints.
At the end, the four men would work to clean your body. Washing you done and soothing your skin. Ghost would apologize for being rough while soothing rubbing your back. The four men basked in your presence.
It’s not greedy to have four husbands, right?
I just been feral for the last few days. More so than usual. These men just make me so 😩 keep this up and I’ll have all my requests for round 4 completed.
Tag list: @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @starboye @boypied @maxxioislost @sluttyhusband
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