My Partner, I Swear...

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

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. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 '𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞' 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? || 𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠 male!version

Prompts 27 of my Creeptober! Here is a link to the fem!version!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : könig x male!reader (reader wears a tux) 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : könig is sick of highschool, and on prom night he decides to summon the courage to do two things: get back at his bullies... and tell you how he feels. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.7 k 𝐚/𝐧 : gets dark, but, includes a cute stalker könig? is this a win or- also if you haven't watched carrie... spoiler alert 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : blood/gore, bullying, stalking, yandere themes, light smut (suggestive), chars are over 18+, slight angst, mutual pining, no use of y/n, alcohol

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. The neon lights sparkled off the disco ball and flooded the dark gymnasium. Party balloons lined the ceiling and dancefloor, kicked around lazily as couples and friends twirled to the music. Chaperones turned a blind eye to the obscenities that took place under the bleachers or right in the middle of the dance floor. Tongues tangling together with laughter and playful bites.

Someone probably spiked the drinks here for more 'fun'. Afterall, tonight the entire class was celebrating themselves as adults now.

König grimaced hard under his black mask, gritting his teeth together so hard he feared they might break. The black tie he failed to put on clutched in a white knuckle grip.

This school deserved to burn, to rot. Everyone on that damned dance floor didn't fucking deserve to enjoy the night. Not after the hell they had put him through this year.

His sad blue eyes flickered up for a moment.

Laughing and smiling, dancing together... His bullies still snickering amongst themselves, glancing the losers way.

König was sat on the bleachers, closest to the wall, his head hanging a little lower as a group of girls in pretty gowns giggled at him as they passed.

"Why is he still wearing that thing?" someone muttered over the music. Filling his face with shame under the hood.

He hated prom.

He had only come because he was forced to, and he couldn't quite leave either because they were picking him up after this.

It was a fucking nightmare. Even on the edge of everything, a specter looking in on the typical 'highschooler' experiences being made. Couples danced and friends threw their heads back in laugher... Meanwhile, he was in the darkest corner, trying desperately not be noticed.

Shoulders hunched to make him appear smaller than he was, unsure where to put his eyes... The anxiety in his veins making him tremble under his fine suit.

There was at least one saving grace to this unsavory night.

Cautiously, as if he was being watched, König peeked around the thrumming gymnasium. Silently seeking out the one person who comforted his thoughts.

You were sitting on the bleacher opposite of him, a drink in hand, smiling as you watched everyone dance.

His whole body stiffened at the sight, a deep flush burning down his neck as he tried to avert his gaze.

He couldn't ever really look away from you though. His crush, all throughout highschool... the one thing he bothered looking forward to.

He stole another glance upward and his breath caught in his throat.

You looked handsome in that suit. The fine fabric shimmering softly under the disco lights, almost glowing against the sidelines of the gym. König's eyes traced the fine way you had done your tie, wandering down your chest to your belt. His soft blue eyes greedily eating up the glimpses of your neck and lips.

He desperately drank in your form, the hidden curve of your waist, the soft column of your throat... "Scheiße..." he hissed, feeling the seat of his pants tighten as he watched you sip your punch. Just slowly swaying to the music.

König discretely adjusted his situation, licking his lips nervously before he glanced at the dancefloor to make sure no one was looking. They would give him so much shit if they saw him ogling you. The guy everyone wanted to dance with.

He stole another glance your way and felt his heart nearly stop dead in his chest.

Your eyes met his and you smiled at him. A light (possibly drunken) flush coating your cheeks as you waved shyly.

König instinctively looked away, heart beating a million miles an hour.

God what was wrong with him? He winced clutching his undone bowtie as if it were a lifeline.

This wasn't art class or history, where he could sit at the back of class and stare at you whenever he wanted to. This was prom night.

He imagined it completely different than this.

So many nights he spent picturing kissing you, feeling your soft lips pressed against his... maybe finally telling you how much his heart swelled at just a stolen glance. How complete he felt whenever he got a fleeting moment with you.

God, he treasured all of those moments. 'Accidentally' bumping into you in the hallway, watching you walk home after school... always afraid to confess.

Tonight had to be different... and he was running out of time.

Although he trembled, König glanced at the darkened stage at the front of the gym. People moved in the shadows, getting ready to announce the prom king and queen... and probably some more shitty speeches of how their youth was spent.

Tonight—contrary to what everyone spat at him—was his night, and it would be perfect. He just had to suck up his nerves before they got away from him.

The opportunity came only a few minutes later when the song 'After Midnight' stopped playing.

You had risen from your spot, carrying an empty red solo cup to the trash by the doors, a lingering smile on your face. Tonight was fun so far, an experience to reflect back on at least, too distracted by the sudden screech of the mic to notice König.

The principal came onto the stage with a smile, introducing and thanking everyone who had helped out with prom prep.

While you faced forward, trying to get a glimpse of the stage, König finally stood up with an air of confidence. Walking over to you standing by the wall, his cold blue eyes flickering to the neon exit signs and light switches next to you.

He stood a head over everyone else already, his form becoming muscular throughout the year, ready to finally enlist in the army after this.

After all this highschool shit was over.

The only reason people picked on him was because of the hood he wore over his face. Teased him because of the stutter he once had. And outcast him because he froze whenever someone said 'hi'.

His black boots kicked up a few balloons as he walked over to you, confetti sticking to his soles as he closed the distance.

You finally glanced up at him as he stepped close, offering a soft confused smile that made his heart nearly fall out of his throat.

"I... needed to tell-tell you something," he stammered, mentally berating himself for being so nervous. He was finally standing in front of you, and surprisingly, he kept his eyes trained on your face.

Your... face.

His heartbeat thrummed in his ears, even as the principal began to announce that they would call up the proms' king and queen. You were so fucking hot, the way the soft lights danced across your skin...

He couldn't afford to freeze up this time.

Slowly, you watched as the young man lifted a rough hand to his head, peeling away the sacred black mask from his face. Inch by inch, he was finally laid bare for only you to see, his back turned from the stage where everyone's attention was, effectively blocking your view too.

Your eyes widened slightly, probably confused as to what he was doing. What showing his face to you meant. Those heavenly orbs of yours flickering across his features, drinking in the details. A strong nose and jawline, those familiar somber eyes of his glaring back, his dirty blonde hair was falling awkwardly over his brow. His entire face was flushed red from embarrassment, but he couldn't have looked more sure of himself.

"I... I really-" he trailed off, boldly stepping forward. One of his large arms reaching past your head to cage you against the wall, able to peer down at your lips.

Its not like he couldn't say it- he loved you, more than anything. More than this school. More than himself. More than you could ever fucking comprehend.

König leaned down abruptly, your soft gasp stolen as his lips pressed insistently against yours. He nearly groaned, closing his eyes as he claimed what he had always wanted.

You eventually melted into him. The sudden tension in your body slowly relaxing... and his breath hitched as he felt you place a gentle hand on his chest to steady yourself.

He leaned in closer, effectively forcing your back to press against the cold stones of the gymnasium with another gasp. König took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, hesitantly parting his lips. His tongue meeting yours.

The way you breathed into him, heated with the taste of fruit on your tongue made his pants tighten again. A satisfied groan melting in his throat.

"And our prom King and Queen everyone!" The principal announced with a flourish, the spotlights of the stage suddenly centered on the most popular couple in the school.

This couldn't have been more perfect.

You nearly broke the kiss when König pushed his body flush against yours. His dark desire for the things he could never have suddenly bursting like a dam in his mind.

This night was perfect.

He kept you pinned against the wall between his body, the cheers of the class roaring to life over the music for the voted prom 'royalty' who gushed and shared their own kiss on stage. The gymnasium suddenly filled with a blinding wave of silver and gold confetti.

At that moment, König's hand skidded across the wall, seeking the fire alarm switch. Flicking it on with one decisive motion.

Blood shot out from the sprinklers overhead, coating the entire dancefloor with slippery gore. Young men and woman alike screamed as the sirens blared over the music. The light from the disco ball fading as prom king and queen (and all their followers) were pelted in a rainstorm of warm blood.

You couldn't see what was happening around you. The young man in front of you effectively keeping you in place, keeping the horrors at bay, his icy blue eyes solely on you.

Blood dripped from his back, rolling down the sides of his face, painting a menacing picture as he grinned like a maniac... enjoying the sounds of people screaming-drowning in it and slipping over themselves to flee in their moment of panic.

"Götter..." he muttered, the crimson spraying lightly over your face before König blocked it again, "I love you, mien liebling," he finally confessed.

Betrayal of the Queen

Part 1

Endings:

Forgive

No forgiveness(Kofi/Patreon Only)

Yandere Sons take out the old hive(Kofi/Patreon Only)

A/N: Hii, this was available to kofi/patreon early, and some of the endings will be exclusively there! Also, the relationship between you and your bee hybrid sons is completely platonic! It’s pretty obvious in this fic but I get weird questions and just want to clarify. Thanks!

They regret not appreciating your kindness and soft nature when they appoint their new queen.

She was taller, more lithe and graceful. They threw you out the second they saw her on the street. Your sons of course followed, shocked and devastated that their own fathers and fellow hive would do this to you!

You had served as the queen for nearly five years now, creating the new generation and caring for them with all your heart.

But you were a bit fragile, not able to bear as many young as the previous queen. The hive had loved you at first, adoring you endlessly, but when they noticed how little eggs made it to the birthing stage, they realized that you may not ever rebuild their hive in the way that they hoped.

They slowly began to stop caring for you as much, leaving your care to your sons. Some of the hive even went out and flirted with other females, leaving you to incubate those eggs with only your children by your side.

Most grew resentful, seeing you as nothing more than a burden to the hive.

By the fifth year, the only bees in the hive that had remained loyal to you were the very ones you birthed.

Your children disliked how you were treated, but stayed because taking you away may cause issues. Your safety was their top priority, but they were also deeply in tune with your emotions.

The hive stopped even pretending to care near the end, shunning you for not being a good enough queen. They buzzed around haughtily, being so bold as to bring other females into the hive right in front of you!

Your heart ached. At first you had truly loved that hive, sacrificing most of your human life and your body to bare eggs in a womb that could barely maintain them.

You had done so much, yet they didn't seem to care.

In their hearts they knew they were being cruel. But they were selfish and greedy, wanting the hive to flourish... but that couldn't happen with you around.

"She'll be banished."

Your sons stared at the council member in shock as they announced the decision. "Are you joking? She's the queen, you can't-"

"It states that if a queen is no longer fit to rule, then she will be banished and a new queen will be chosen. When a queen can't lay the right amount of eggs, she cannot function correctly."

One of your sons, the prince stepped forward, his wings buzzing threateningly. "You've treated her like garbage for years, and now you're going to abandon her? Is that really how we treat a queen?"

"Hardly a queen, if you ask me."

A female said, crossing her legs. The prince turned on his heels, hissing. "You shouldn't even be in this hive, the queen is the only female allowed-"

"She's not the queen anymore. Get her out and leave."

The bee hybrids watched in awe as every single son of hers stood. "If she leaves, we leave with her. You've all become so greedy, taking advantage of our mother and pushing her to her limits and expecting her to just roll over and take it. You're a disgrace to the bee hybrid name."

You were in tears when your crown was taken, crying into one of your son's chests. Your sons took up about 1/3 of the hive, and left with you.

The new queen had been already lined up to take your place. She was thin, tall, and beautiful, all that they could have asked for.

But she was also manipulative and cruel.

"The drones? Do we really need to help them? They're replaceable, aren't they?"

She crossed her legs, staring on in boredom as a worker bee reported to her. "But my queen, the drones are stuck in a storm, shouldn't we at least try to help them?"

"Of course not, I don't really care if they live or die.

I'm the queen, the most important. Shouldn't you just be happy I'm here and producing eggs?"

It quickly became obvious that the new queen cared not about her subjects, only about expanding her power and rule. The people starved, the babies hated their mother. She refused to even look at them once they were born, moving on to start another clutch.

The new queen picked only the most handsome and fit bee hybrids to mate with, creating only a small gene pool. This meant that the ones she mated with were constantly tired, and the others were increasingly sexually frustrated.

A few bee hybrids sat in a common room, depressed.

"Remember when the old queen would come down here and listen to our woes? She would mate with all of the hive, not just a select few..."

"The old queen made sure that the elders were taken care of. Not a single senior was left behind."

"She was so warm and soft, the new queen has no warmth in her body or soul."

They missed you.

But could they ever say they deserved you back?

Thinking of the years of neglect and mistreatment, of how they had taken your love and kindness for granted…

It all came to an end when the queen came before the council. She was as cold as ever, her eyes empty as she spoke.

"Thank you all for making me your queen and being so... stupid."

Her vacant eyes glanced over the room, and suddenly the smell of decay became almost overwhelming as her body began to wriggle and shift.

"That previous queen of yours had been keeping us at bay for nearly five years, and you let us in easily."

The new queen was ripped apart, parasite wasp larvae falling onto the ground and wriggling towards the nearest bee hybrid, attaching themselves and burrowing into their abdomen.

The room erupted into a frenzy of bees being eaten alive while others tried to escape. Even after leaving the room, several council members were seized by infected bees, taking them down with the rest of the hive.

Only around 100 members of the original hive survived, and while they flew away from the remnants of their home, all they could think about was you.

In all your years of being queen, you had been fighting to keep them safe. You tried so hard, barely able to lay eggs due to the intense stress of taking on the imminent threat of the parasite wasp hybrids alone.

You hid all of the pain, all of the work you did just to give them some peace of mind… and they repaid you by abandoning you when you needed them most.

You hadn’t failed them as a queen, no. They failed you as a hive. The hive wouldn’t exist without you, and had quickly fallen to ruin with your absence.

All they could hope for was that you would forgive them.

~

You smiled to yourself, one of you infant sons sleeping on your lap as your new hive buzzed around you. Without all the stress that had been piled on you, incubating eggs was easy.

“Mother, I’ve prepared your dinner.”

One of your sons nuzzled his antennae against your forehead in a sign of innocent affection before setting your plate on your nightstand. Even when they got older, they were still your babies.

Your sons had quickly formed a hive with you after you were banished, and now you lived a happy life with them and the new bee hybrids that joined.

Any bees that had been ostracized were welcome to join, and your sons personally interviewed each new possible mate of the queen to make sure they wouldn’t betray you.

After all, they loved their mom, and wanted you to be happy over anything else. They didn’t care if you laid eggs or not, they could spend the rest of their days snuggling with and taking care of you and be perfectly content.

But you wanted to have more children, to make a new hive where you’d be loved and happy.

Of course, any wish you had would be fulfilled. They set off and gathered any bee hybrids they could, wanting their mama to find her confidence in being a queen again.

It felt nice to be able to mate again, to be loved intimately. The new bee hybrids were loving and gentle, appreciating every soft curve of your body answ kissing away any tears you shed from your lingering insecurities.

Your sons worked on building a hive and producing honey while the new bee hybrids helped you with creating new children to add on to the hive. You felt like one, big, happy family.

It all came to a halt when the bees guarding the entrance to your hive brought forth an intruder.

You instantly recognized him as a council member from your old hive.

Memories of all the awful things they said and the circumstances of your banishment came to your mind, making your breathing quicken.

“My queen-“

“Don’t you dare call her that, you scum!”

The prince said, standing in front of you protectively “She isn’t your queen anymore, you made that decision yourself.”

The council member hung his head in shame. “… I know. Trust me, we all regret that deeply.”

You gently pulled the prince to you, giving his antennae a gentle caress to calm him down. Even if he was a prince, he was still one of your sons, and they were all angry on your behalf.

When you stayed silent, the former council member continued. “The hive… it’s gone. The new queen was a pawn for the parasitic wasps.”

This caused your hive to buzz anxiously. Many of the new members were from broken or destroyed hives by those hybrids.

Some were just little ones, torn away from their mothers, watching as the queens that birthed them were killed. Their tiny bodies trembled as they clung to your side, of course you had adopted them.

“Why do you darken my doorway, saying such things in front of the children?” you said, gathering the terrified babies into your arms. “You have no business here, I’ve been banished.”

“My queen-“

The prince was across the room in a split second, holding a knife to the former council member’s throat. “Don’t make me tell you again, scum. That is my mother, not your queen.”

You lifted a hand, and the prince backed away slightly, but stayed within arms reach. “… what about the new queen’s children?”

“… most of them were infected with the queen’s parasites. Those that we could save were in a dire state, while the rest perished.”

You let out a distressed whine, clutching one of the orphans' hands to comfort them. It wasn’t easy being a mother and hearing about the death of children.

“And what do you want from me?”

He took a moment to think before speaking. “Shelter for the children… they’re scared and hungry, most of them have severe injuries and illnesses as well.”

“… alright. Basil, please contact the worker bees and have them set up a temporary quarantine room, with enough room to accommodate 30 children.”

You sat back down on your throne, peering down at the former council member. He had been someone you had loved, even mated with years ago. A few of your sons were a result of that… yet in this moment you resented him and all the previous hive had done.

“I will only be taking in the children.”

Before he could protest, he stopped himself and stood. “I understand… please, do not hate them because of what we did. They are innocent in this.”

As you watched over the construction of the quarantine room, you occasionally glanced outside.

Your former hive members, at least, what was left of them was gathered around. They gave up their children, only wanting their survival.

When they spotted you looking, they stared up at you with remorse and longing.

They’d be staying nearby while waiting for the children to recover, and the threat of the parasitic wasps still lingered.

Would you ever be able to forgive them, especially if it meant joining forces and gaining knowledge to protect yourselves in a world that was changing rapidly?

Or would you turn your back on them, just like they had done to you? It was only fair, and how could you trust them when they already betrayed you once?

The choice was yours.

Which ending do y’all want to see first?

—————

SFW TAGLIST: @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @peachesdabunny @misswonderfrojustice @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @zyettemoon1800 @kassandra-hawthorne @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @omglovelylaila @midromiell @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @hammerhead96 @bubblez-blop @snugglyshoji @wanderlustingcastaway @amberexe2 @an-ever-angry-bi @rainejiang @lostsomewhereinthegarden @idkccdfnfz @xrenka @arcticat @v3lv3tf0x @ghostiegirl56 @aerangi @kxnnxy @joviaschaoticmind @danielle143 @roxy776699 @katsukis1wife @chaoticevilbakugo @rainejiang @lostsomewhereinthegarden @idkccdfnfz @articat @ghostiegirl56 @aerangi @kxnnxy @roxy776699

Hell Has a Basement Floor (Welcome Home)

You are a mage. Nothing more. Your past accomplishments don't matter. They do

You are a mercenary. Nothing more. Your present deeds don't matter. They do

You are Ifrit. Nothing more. You don't matter.

That's how you operate these days; You sell your services to the highest bidder from corrupt government officials to cartels and don't stop until you're covered in ash and the screaming of your victims has left your heart ringing hollow and deafened the meek voice of the person you were. The bounties and warrants on your head are as meaningless as the blood money you receive, only pushing you to move and offer your grievous gifts to more buyers, leaving bloodstained boot prints behind as you walk without true purpose.

You've been able to avoid capture. Until now. You knew your current buyers would betray you, the signs were obvious, and you knew the only way you were going into custody was in a body bag. You had just hoped you'd be able to take the backstabbers with you before the cold muzzle of a gun was pressed to your temple. Unlike last time.

You're still not sure how that turned into you joining a military taskforce full of actual monsters.

--------------

Yep, this thing is officially happening lol. I'm gonna be looking to post the first chapter in like 1-2 weeks but no promises. Gonna be full of fucking angts and gore and smut. Most of it will be gn, but any sex is gonna be strictly amab reader.

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, coming soon :)

AO3:

@resident-cryptid @diejager @lovingtyrantkitten

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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Expanding on this.

warnings: perv!König, noncon groping, somno, titfucking

-

Best Friend!König who’s obsessed with your tits.

You’ve known each other since childhood, and while he shot up in height, you shot up in bra size. And König noticed. Mien Gott, did he notice.

He was around fifteen when he realized for the first time just how nice your breasts felt against his big body when he hugged you, so soft and warm. He started taking any excuse to give you long, drawn out hugs—though of course he told himself it was just because he loved you so much. You were the only person who didn't bully him, after all.

He rationalized how his gaze started to end up on your cleavage more often than your face, too. He was just so tall, that even if he tried to look into your eyes—and he did, Schatz, he really did! You have to believe him, he tried so hard—he could see straight down your top, anyway.

And, well, he was no saint—just a man. And your tits were so pretty.

Could you really blame him for looking? He just wanted to admire you…

He always insisted on driving you places once he got his license—he was a good friend, after all, and he liked being useful. That he got to throw his arm out across your soft chest every time the car in front of him stopped too suddenly was just a bonus.

As the years passed by, his obsession grew—especially after he found porn. Most nights, he fisted his long, fat cock to videos of women who looked like you having their breasts played with, abused, worshipped. He preferred the latter, but he couldn’t deny there was something thrilling about the idea of slapping your soft tits and watching them jiggle. He would be sure to kiss them better after, though.

Once, after a particularly rough mission, König showed up at your place beaten to hell, eyes scarily hollow. You immediately let him inside, pulled him down onto your couch, and held him as he cried. He laid his head on your chest, seeking the comfort only your breasts could give him, and you shushed him softly as you petted his hair. He wished desperately in that moment that he could pull your top down, latch onto one of your cute little nipples, and suckle to his heart’s content, but he settled for leaning more and more of his weight on you until you had to lay back on the couch, him on top of you with his face buried in between your tits as he feigned sleep.

He was far too heavy for you to move yourself, and clearly, you felt bad for him, because you let him stay like that the whole night rather than wake him up.

On your twentieth birthday, König made sure he would have two whole weeks of leave, so he could spend time with you and your perfect breasts. He didn’t have the best relationship with his family, and you didn't have a roommate at Uni, so you let him stay in your dorm. You weren’t going to make your best friend sleep on the floor, of course, so the two of you shared a bed. Nothing untoward happened until the fourth night, when you both got outrageously drunk. You curled up in the tiny bed together when you got back from the pub, and promptly knocked out.

When you woke up the next morning, though, it was to one of König’s massive paws slipped under the neck of your dress, cupping your left tit.

To say you freaked out was an understatement.

You jumped up like you arse was on fire, hollering at him, demanding to know what the fuck he thought he was doing. König, who had been dead asleep, actually fell out of the bed, looking up at you for once, his big, perpetually sad eyes wide with complete confusion and a little bit of fear. When he realized what you were accusing him of, he started stuttering apologies, mortified with himself. You thought it was because he had unintentionally groped you in his sleep, which was partially true. But the main reason he was so upset was because he hadn’t even gotten to enjoy it. He’d held your beautiful breasts for the very first time and he hadn’t even known! The thought made him tear up, and you quickly forgave him, telling him that you believed him—"Accidents happen."

Every time it happened after that, König let you believe it was still an accident.

The more time he spent in the military earning his fearsome reputation and seeing terrible horrors, the bolder he grew. Now, when he visited you in your flat and gave you those sad puppy eyes until you let him sleep in bed with you rather than on the couch, he did not merely cup your breast at night. He played with your nipples, rolling the sensitive little buds between his fingers, tugging and pinching and delighting in the sleepy sounds of pleasure you let out. You tended to wake up if he got his mouth on them though, so he restrained himself—at least until he was able to get you drunk. You slept like dead when you were wasted, and he had free reign over your amazing tits. He squeezed and sucked, kissed and licked, even fucked them, once. He’d been a little drunk too, that night, or he wouldn't have risked it—but seeing his massive cock nestled between your breasts was like a revelation. He found God in the warm embrace of your tits, and he made an offering in the form of his seed, spilling it all over your chest, neck, and lips.

It felt blasphemous to clean his come from your skin, like he was desecrating a sacred altar, but he knew you would hate him if you discovered what he’d done. And he couldn’t have that—he loved you, he always had and always would. You and your heavenly breasts.

y’know who gives the best blowjobs? soap and simon.

the pair of them are cheeky and playful when they're paired together.

it was johnny's plan. his idea was to corner you in and overstimulate you until you were reduced to nothing but a shaking, crying mess.

your thighs are forced open with your cock achingly hard, twitching at the sight of both men looming over you. simon's thick fingers grip your cock, leaning over you intimidatingly, his eyes half-lidded and a grin obviously plastered on his face with the way his eyes crinkle. god, you can barely meet his eyes before he grips your chin, tilting your head towards him to maintain eye contact while he jerks you off slowly.

you can feel johnny's lips and warm tongue against your heavy balls. he massages your ballsack while sucking on them, coating them in his drool. he chuckles at the reaction he gets out of you. all johnny wants to see is you begging, pleading with them for permission to come.

for the next couple of hours, you're nothing but their toy to use and play with.

simon will fuck your tight asshole. so unused, with your cock leaking all over your abdomen at the pleasure. you've been dreaming of this, you won't lie. you've been fantasising about the addictive sensation of simon's lengthy dick filling your holes, while johnny slaps his weeping dick against your cheek and orders you to tilt your head back and allow him to use your throat.

you're just a private, nothing in comparison to your sergeant and lieutenant.

your boner throbs and aches at the sudden lack of attention. before, they couldn't keep their hands off of your dick and balls, and now they were neglecting your poor, sore cock. you plead through deep breaths for them to jerk you off, tears rolling down your cheeks slowly with your bottom lip quivering.

“pathetic—so damn greedy, aye? yer’ gettin’ fucked by simon and suckin’ my dick, and yet ye’ still want more? dirty boy.” johnny growls out teasingly. he's so condescending and cruel with his words, he knows exactly how to rile you up.

the taste of johnny's bitter load lingers on your tongue. you choke out a string of incoherent words before you're coming all over yourself uncontrollably, strings of your hot arousal landing against your chest.

“didn’t say you could come, private.” simon grumbles out disappointedly, flipping you onto your stomach. his gloved hand pins your head down while he slaps and rubs his bulbous cock against your ass for a second round.

they'll go at it until you're obedient and know how to behave, until you're sobbing and babbling out an apology, offering your body to them in return for their forgiveness and sympathy.

Neglected Beta!Y/N And the bad pack! 141

Part1.

(No user's names are mentioned, the user's description is as a female, angst,The changed nature of the characters, my vision on them,there may be mistakes in words -English is not my first language)

Omegas-gentle creatures with soft personalities, smells, and sincere purity-were what Pack 141 wanted, but their psychiatric records, their mental health records, unfortunately didn't allow the pack to have an omega. Eventually they'd either torture the poor thing or gnaw each other, so they were left to enjoy their rare encounters with girls.

Until at some point, in the midst of a conversation between old friends, Laswell did not offer Price an easier option - Take in the pack beta, to convince the commission distribution center that their pack is quite stable and able to live with omegas.

And it's got Price pretty damn hooked. Like be nice to the beta for a couple months and then they'll reward you with a full-fledged mate?

And they're going for it.

The whole pack was in awe of the idea, and even Ice Ghost couldn't help but grin when the beta contract was approved. Just a little bit more and they'd have a full-fledged member of the pack-a gentle and sweet omega...

When you arrived at the house, the Man with the Mohawk, Soap, that's what he called himself, kindly helped carry your suitcases to the door and your room, and the black-skinned guy with the charming smile kissed your hand upon meeting you, affectionately calling you "my lady."

Honestly, when you got the acceptance letter from the pack, fear and anxiety didn't leave you - usually all packs wanted omegas, but here, a pack that wanted a beta, who liked you and met you so kindly, couldn't have been more excited. Damn it, your legs were shaking before the meeting, because the fear of being unrecognized, unwanted in your own pack had been haunting you since your student days, when you found out that you were just an ordinary beta.

There were also advantages to the plan: no heat, no need to pretend to be nice, as omegas did, and complete freedom of action, that is, even on the street to walk is not so scary.

You spent the whole evening preparing for full acceptance into the pack, getting a tag was the most valuable and important thing for any omega and beta in the pack, as a sign of her need.

The dress was perfect, and the light makeup emphasized the natural beauty of your face while your hair framed everything in its softness. Well, the presence of a carefully chosen set of red lingerie added spice to it, making you smile to yourself and giggle quietly.

Hell, it's so long overdue that your legs buckle and get woozy and your palms sweat when you walk down to the living room and see the table where there were appetizers, five glasses, and a beer. Beer? Not exactly what you expected, but what if your alphas don't like fancy wine or champagne?

To hell with it.

You step closer and Price grins and picks up your shoulders, pulling you to the couch, letting you sit between him and Soap. Just the thought of their rough hands touching your body makes everything hotter, and you smile.

They laugh too, Soap takes you by the shoulders, chokes on your glass and gets carried away with the conversation again.

Glass after glass, you try to cut into the conversation but they just discuss their missions, hardships and training plans .You just keep quiet.

One last clink of glasses, and soon it's time to disperse: Ghost and Gaz are the first to leave, having gone upstairs, Price is yawning, and Soap is about to leave too, and shit, you feel the heat spill down your thighs at the thought of them waiting for you up there, and you stop Soap.

"John... Ahh.. What about the mark?" -you ask in a playful tone, to which the guy with the Mohawk smiles in surprise and says, "mark.., oh, yeah, right, honey."

You smile back, and he holds out the dirty plates to you with a satisfied grin.

"What's this?" - You mutter puzzledly.

"A little cleaning won't hurt, baby," he winks, and you, out of control, set off to wash the dishes with more enthusiasm than you've never washed them before.

Done. You go upstairs and adjust your dress before going to your room, but... it's empty. Puzzled, you look into Price's room - he's asleep, the soap is asleep, and you don't even bother to look in the ghost and gas room. Maybe they just drank too much and fell asleep.

That's what you were hoping.

But in the morning it was like no one remembered you, didn't say good morning or anything, and in the evening the gas just said he and the guys were going to the gym for a workout.

At seven o'clock at night? Must be some kind of evening membership. But no, and no again. At night, like a faithful dog in waiting, you're only greeted by awkward smiles, the smell of women's perfume mixed with omega pheromones, and it hurts.

"Where's my mark?" - You ask incredulously as Gaz giggles and Soap, the most talkative of them all, explains with a smile that it's still early. Early for what? Are they still looking at you? Is there something wrong with you?

Or is it because you're not an omega?

But no, you dismiss those thoughts and start cutting up a piece of raw meat, trying to cook it to make it more flavorful, but it's not Well done and it never will be. What's the point of trying, what's the point of trying if you're never gonna make it?

You'll never be the right person.

It was Wednesday when you first caught Gaza in some girl's arms. "Colleague?" That's right. It's just a coworker, just another coworker, just.... Accept it so you don't feel your heart ache again.

The days go by the same, and it's very lonely here. No one hears or sees. Price and Ghost had a conscience and never brought anyone to your house. Is it yours? No.

"Just a little bit more, lads, and I can already see a delicate bird in a red apron circling our kitchen and cooking a delicious steak." says Soap with his trademark bright smile, reclining on the sofa.

"Better in red panties," Gas replies with a laugh, his eyes unconsciously rolling with satisfaction.

"better without"-Ghost's deep bass draws everyone's attention, and the rest of you let out an approving chuckle.

You're a good person, a really nice person, a great friend, and everyone knows it. But . You're a beta, and everyone realizes that.

If they told you at the distribution center that you were an omega, how much would things be different? How much brighter your life would be and how much more beloved you'd be by everyone around you?

"I need to go to the store," you interrupt in a surprisingly loud voice. You don't want to hear a word about it, you don't want to know, you want them to shut up. You don't want to endure this pain, this crushing feeling of your own worthlessness and inferiority.

Everyone visibly tenses, and Soap and Gaz look at each other - this evening, neither of them wanted to drive to the store, which is at least an hour away by car if you don't count traffic. They wanted to relax in a bar and maybe wake up in the arms of a charming lady, not in a damn store!

"Rock-paper-scissors!" - Soapy cheerfully suggests, and Ghost snorts in response, but agrees.

It's disgusting. It's disgusting to stand there and watch four big guys, alphas,who promised to protect you in the distribution center, swear to the administration that they're proud of this beta,That they love you,but competing to take you to the store because no one wanted to do it. No one.

It's not your fault you don't have a car. It's not your fault the rules are in place.

"Fuck! " John yells, and his face takes on an agonized expression, as if driving with you would be sheer hard labor, and desperation is written all over his face as he speaks, albeit with a smile: "Don't ride without me, boys! ".

It's a long drive to the store, but nevertheless, once you're in the supermarket, you start picking up your grocery list, walking through the departments with concentration, while MacTavish lazily walks along, looking at the grocery racks and sticking his hands in his pockets. You don't notice him walking away, noticing the cute girls with the sweetest scent of pheromone omegas.

That's a hell of a catch. The smile doesn't leave his face as he waltzes over to the liquor section, demonstratively grabs a bottle of expensive cognac, and winks at one of the girls, emitting more alpha pheromone.

"Who's the handsome one here?" says the boldest of the girls, attracting attention. They are all so beautiful, such bright and colorful girls in their beautiful dresses and heels, just fire stirring the alpha's senses.

"Looking for the company of sweet omegas"- he says with his trademark smile, and one of the girls, a blonde, giggles.

Damn it! When they're all over him, pressing their fragile bodies against his, hanging on his elbows, hugging, he's completely oblivious to everything,

He forgot about you.

Forgotten as he led the Omegas away from the store with the bags of liquor and snacks he'd grabbed at speed. He forgot when he put them in his car and drove away.

"More milk... Do we have coffee at home, John? " you say out loud, but get no answer and look up. There's no soap around. It's strange. You look around uncertainly, wondering if he went to get something on the list or to another department. You look around. You wander around the store in confusion until you decide to look out the window, thinking you'll see the soap there - maybe he decided to go outside the store for a smoke. You peek into the parking lot, but .... no car.

No car? Why? Did something happen? You carelessly pull it out of your pocket, dialing the maktavish's number. Nothing.

Shit. He had all money, and no soap, no price, no Gaz, not even a Ghost, no one picks up the phone. In desperation, you leave the cart almost in the middle of the store and hurry out, intending to find the soap, to try to call outside, hoping the whole problem is a bad connection.

It's dark outside, and there isn't a single car in the whole damn parking lot. Scary.

Your phone only has a couple percent charge, but you don't give up trying to call. Panicking at 1%, you only manage to send the phrase, "Please pick me up guys, I'm scared," before your phone goes off.

You sit down on the doorstep of the store and just stare at the road, hoping a car will stop and pick you up.

But it doesn't, and it's only the salesman who changes the store sign from "open" to "closed" as he walks away.

(I'm posting the second part right away. I don't understand why I'm drawn to the same topic, an incomprehensible melancholy)

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