#cod x f!reader

John Price

The first time you wear your glasses around him. He's at a loss for words. You? You wear glasses. Does that mean you were supposed to before? Why didn't you tell him?

He stares at you before asking, "Have you always worn glasses?" Your answer, "Most on field work is when I wear my contacts. If I don't have to leave base or do any field work, I normally switch to my glasses to give my eyes a break."

God. Why are you so nonchalant about this. You're hotter with your glasses on. Why couldn't you see that?

He plans to fuck you while you wear those glasses. How can he not? The image of you on top of him, his cock buried inside you and the while you're still wearing your cute glasses.

Technically he intends on wine and dining you far more often than you think.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

He compliments you, says how they suit you and how good you look with them on.

He tells you, "You look more approachable with them on. I like you more this way."

He trusts you more when you wear them because he knows struggling with vision isn't easily done.

He courts you like there's no tomorrow. If that is any indication to go by.

John 'Soap' MacTavish

Now soap. He is way more FERAL when you have your glasses on.

To him, it screams dominant woman. In charge of the situation.

He would and will beg you to top him.

and he would be shameless about it.

The vivid imagery of you wearing your glasses and calling him a 'bad boy'? Instant hard on.

Simon Ghost Riley

He's the last one to notice that you wear glasses off the field. It's not like he doesn't care. It's not something he notices all that much if he's concentrating on something else.

Sometimes it's a "You look nice today." or something similar when he does notice.

"You do what you have to and I'll do the same." if he sees you being flustered over it. "No reason to make it more than what it is."

"But if you let me. I think it would better if you left them on later, if you catch my drift."

High achiever, don't you see? Baby, nothing comes for free

You were struggling to go over the wooden fence. Normally, you were a pro at jumping fences and running away from your problems. Like you did with your ex after he cheated on someone that looked like you but had more money than you.

Dead certain you were going to die alone with your shame is something you were trying to keep in your hands. It's one of the more emotional secrets you never felt people would understand if you told any of your friends.

Why would they understand you? Their world is far too different from yours. Perish the thought of them ever having to worry about money in the same way you do. And you like to keep your shame to yourself. Wrapped in layers in the hope they never see it.

If an artist were to paint you. The closest style would resemble Francisco Goya's mixed with Vincent Van Gogh's. You don't want to picture what that would even resemble let alone look like. Though you always imagine you were a painting that would end up rotting inside someone's attic. Never to be seen again.

They say I'm a control freak Driven by a greed to succeed Nobody can stop me

You were desperate for a promotion or even a raise of some kind. You didn't want to start job hopping because you were too scared of looking like you weren't willing to put in the work to earn it. You felt like you were targeted by some kind of god that enjoyed seeing you in pain.

Absurd reasoning. But sometimes it's the only reason that feels reasonable. You weren't even religious. Yet this was the reasoning you felt comfortable with? Odd. Some might even call it pathetic. Though. Those people are the ones you hate with a burning, yearning urge to smack an around a little.

Because why do people enjoy making fun of other people's misery? Power. People are in love with taking power from those who they deem worthless. People they deem unworthy of life or even love. Restrictions placed on you because they think you can't succeed or live a normal life.

You were tired of living a life that was constantly apologising for being born the way you are. Tired of chasing after people because you were scared of being alone or dying alone. There is always an invisible wall between you and the ability to ask for help.

'Cause it's my problem if I want to pack up and run away It's my business if I feel the need to smoke and drink and sway

Once you made it into your office, the cold air conditioning felt more balm than it had been yesterday. The dread of that man finding you out weighed the dread of what words will be thrown around about you between your coworkers.

There is a dozen pictures of your bunny sitting on your desk that passed three months ago. You're still mourning his loss. People don't seem to understand that it wasn't just a rabbit to you. His photos are still on your desk. Most of your coworkers have pictures of their spouse or children. You are certain they are sneering and calling you childish behind your back.

No one likes it when someone isn't conforming the norms of society. Even science is run rampant with misogyny. Anyone who says differently is either blind to it or pretending it doesn't exist. Either way, women in the field of science will have a hard time. It's unlikely to change unless change is enacted upon.

Until then. Women are always under scrutiny and undervalued compared to their male counterparts. Anyone who tries to imply otherwise? They're selling a bridge they have no knowledge of or care for. Regardless of whether they're wilfully ignorant or otherwise.

It's my problem, it's my problem if I feel the need to hide And it's my problem if I have no friends and feel I want to die

You bumped into one of your friend's boyfriends during a lunch break. The discomfort chewed at your nerves like they were about to combusting or ignite into flames. Secretly you were hoping he wouldn't see you or notice you or even look your way. You weren't dressed well enough in your mind to be looked at by anyone.

It didn't go nearly as well as you planned. As it turns out he was staring at you the moment you walked into the tiny store. The same play you enjoy buying your lunch from. Sure it wasn't ideal to buy your lunch every day.

As long as your budget allowed for it. You were buying your lunch there. As you were looking at what, you were thinking about having for lunch. You heard footsteps getting closer to you. "Funny bumping into you here." he said.

You slowly turned to look at him. "I'm sure it is." you replied, unsure where this conversation is heading.

"I'm Kyle." he started introducing himself. "I already know who you are."

Are you satisfied with an average life? Do I need to lie to make my way in life?

"I'm sure my first impression of me was both enlightening and magical." you remarked.

He laughed. "That's one way to put it." he smiled. "I wanted to check on you. And I wanted to apologise for how Price treated you this morning."

"I've heard worse from my parents." you snort.

The look of concern flashed across his face. Too bad you looked away from him when it happened.

"You realise normal people don't brag about being yelled at by their parents, right?" Kyle pointed out.

"And you do realise I am not paid enough to care, right?" you shot back.

You were hoping the conversation would end there. Oh, how wrong you are. As you were about to head back to your office to continue your work day, you were pulled away from the door to the lab. The bag with your lunch in it?

"Do you mind? Some of us need to go back to work, you know." you remarked, raising an eyebrow at him. His net worth combined with his earnings ensured that he never had to work a day in his life.

'If I had a dollar every time someone told me to 'talk it out' with someone, I would be a trillionaire by now.'

Your fifty-hour work weeks were haunting your eye bags harder than your deceased rabbit. 'Why is everyone assuming I have time for anything remotely fun? I get home, have dinner, bathe and go to bed. What time do I have literally anything else? Where are they finding time in all this fucking mess? Where? From my angle, there isn't any time whatsoever.'

'What was the point of talking if nothing my life changes? Oh must be nice to talk and still suffer from never having enough resources! MMMMTASTYMISERY.'

'That's it. I'm staying overtime. I'm tired of having no one waiting for me back at home.'

You were certain the conversation would be forgotten in a few hours. Certain of it completely as you worked into the late hours of the night. You looked at the clock. '9:30'. Everyone would be asleep or fucking right about now.

As you were about to finish the report, your supervisor wanted done by the end of the month. As you were about to finish for the day and head home. You walked over to the bus stop to see if there was any buses going past your home this late at night.

When you woke up the next morning. It was a Saturday. You were hoping to work today. Until you read the email from your manager. Cold dread sat at the bottom of your stomach. It was never good to hear from him. Never.

It was short. Blunt. Typical coming from someone who demanded progress. 'We need to talk about your performance'. You were prepared to get chewed out again.

You typed out in response, 'What time feels appropriate for you to discuss the matter of my job performance? If needed, I can start my job search and find different employment'. Your fingers on the touchpad hit send and waited for his response to come through.

You started cleaning your apartment again. From scrubbing the walls and floors to bathroom tiles. Distracting yourself from the potentially bad news you were going to get today. Vacuuming and having a cold shower to ensure that you don't fall asleep and miss the email from your manager.

As you were getting dressed and ready to meet with your manager that morning. Kyle and Price bumped into while you were pacing outside your manager's office. Nervous was an understatement.

Your hands are shaking. You looked like you were about to either cry or have a mental breakdown. Things weren't looking too good for you. You were muttering about writing up a resignation letter and escaping back to the countryside.

"Maybe if I went back to Yorkshire. Things would be better if left everything behind and settled for nothing." you were tired of being stepped on. Exhausted.

You were drafting a resignation letter while you were waiting for your manager.

"I think I wasted 13 years studying bioengineering." you said, mostly to yourself. Kyle and Price must have overheard this because before you can start typing out your resignation letter they were zipping around the corner.

The moment you were finished typing out your letter of resignation. Price tapped you on the shoulder, making you squeak in surprise. Printing out your resignation letter and clearing off your desk.

Hell never felt better than whatever this was about to be. Hell is going to be better than whatever this job wanted to take from you.

Your manager screamed at you the moment you handed him your resignation letter. Telling you that you were throwing away a chance at earning a lavish lifestyle and contributing to society.

You walked out and called your parents. Telling them they were right and you were heading home.

Kyle ran after you. You were walking further away to your apartment. It wasn't like you were going to need anything more than silence and the will to die alone.

They say I'm a control freak Driven by a greed to succeed Nobody can stop me

You weren’t sure what you were expecting from her. But you certainly didn’t expect her to talk about this.

“Have you thought about I don’t know dating?” she questions, batting her eyes like she was asking the most obvious question.

“No, I haven’t thought about that. I am too busy working to earn enough to live.” You answered. Again. The answer didn’t change since the last time she asked you this. You were certain she had forgotten on purpose.

“I thought you were dating, what’s his name? Brian?” she remarked, looking down right back to her phone in her hands. The loud chewing of her gum was continuing to drive you up the wall.

Talking to her was like talking to a brick wall. You’d answer the same questions, and she’d roll her eyes. “The last time I dated someone or attempted to was Brian. And that was during high school. I don’t think you understand how much I don’t have time for much of anything.” You mumbled, sipping your black coffee. The only kind you can afford. And even that is expensive for your blood right now.

It's hard enough to get people to take you seriously when you tell people that you enjoyed studying for your PhD in bioengineering.

“-And on top of that, I’m broke. No one wants to date a broke girl. No one. I’m not you. I’m not beautiful or funny. I work in a lab and commute for an hour by train.” You were tired of the same song and dance. You were always the one lagging.

You don’t see the point in dating because you can’t make time. What time is there? You wake up early, get ready for work, go to the train station and travel to work for an hour. You have to wake up early to make sure you’re always at the lab early.

“I wonder if it would be easier to die than to put up with this bullshit.” You remarked with a heavy sigh. Looking out the window. Laughter doesn’t pay bills. I need a raise, I don’t need a boyfriend. What’s the point of dating if you can’t even afford to date anyone? I don’t want to date someone and then have no time for them. It would be both cruel and unusual punishment for both of us.

You don’t want to burden someone else with your workload. On days like today, you wonder why you’re even alive to begin with. Connections require good impressions, and you can’t afford to make any kind of good impression when you can’t afford new clothes without thinking about whether you have enough to pay the bills.

You wonder if your friend has lost her mind sometimes. With her four billionaire boyfriends, you sometimes that if her common sense flew out the window the moment she started dating them. Your phone is barely alive most of the time. You can’t bring yourself to look at it without crying in the reminder of how broke you are.

You stare at most days, tempted to throw it against the wall and watch it die completely. Maybe then the sense of time would die along with it. Maybe then you could let your soul die into a dark mass of nothing.

The last time you bought new clothes? Your 18 Birthday and the Christmas afterwards. Everything else? Came from thrift stores and second-hand from your older sister. The older sister who is the favourite, the one who didn’t have to pay for her education and the one who never did any wrong.

“You’ve seen my budget. There is no wiggle room anywhere.” You state defensively. “£1,500 for rent a month, £66.28 for my phone and internet bill, £100 for food, £50 for a pass for the train every month. Dying sounds simple. I don’t have to worry about bills if I die.”

A horrible thought. A thought you can't help but keep echoing from the back of your mind all the time. Beginning to accept what you have isn't what anyone wants. Let anyone alive in this modern age or even this modern century.

Possessed by the only thought, 'I need to, even if I have no one to come home to,'. It's the thought that keeps you stringing along the line alone because you are too much of a coward to end your life. Even if it were on your own terms.

A passing grace. Silently relieved, grateful, your grandmother is no longer amongst the living to see what kind of person you have started to become.

Selfishly and heartlessly, you miss the hallucinated crying woman that you used to hear outside your bedroom window. You always wondered where the sound went. If it even meant anything at all.

Arms wide open. Heartbroken. Questioning your purpose. Even wondering if you have one at all. Fear eats at you until the feeling of inner numbness follows. Who are you? What is the meaning of life? What does it mean to be alive? Is hell real? Am I doomed to die alone? Do I even deserve to be here? Is there anything I could have done to be better?

Even the self-help books you read on the way to work and on the way from work barely keep you stitched together. You were certain you had read at least dozens by now. Written down notes from them. Repeated them in the mirror before and after work.

The phrase ‘Money doesn’t buy happiness’ is often repeated to you whenever you express exhaustion or how tiresome it is to have more than half of your earnings drained on rent, bills and whatever is left over is for the food you eat. It feels like a weight. A heavyweight you find it impossible to shrug off.

And the echoing words feel more and more like a stab in the back. They don’t understand. Most importantly, refuse to understand that money would relieve your problems. You feel like a cowering dog whenever you’re anywhere near your friends after hearing how much more they’re getting paid. They earn more than you. They all did.

They don’t understand you in the ways you want to be understood. They don’t care about you in ways that you crave. You don’t know what it means to love someone. You can’t bring yourself to love someone because you were certain your lack of resources would make you both undesirable and unable to support them.

What’s the point of being in a relationship if you can’t do a thing to contribute to it? What’s the point of loving someone if you can’t give yourself to them without the clouds of doubt hanging overhead? Doubt drowns out the prosperity of anything blossoming with someone other than the hope of living to see another tomorrow. Living to see another day. It’s the only thing I can hold onto. The only thing that feels tangible enough to keep whole for myself.

Did the regret churn as bile in your throat whenever you remembered what could wait for you if you ever chose to move back into your childhood home? Yes. You stand in the middle of the hallway, motionless, remembering the last argument you had with them. The yelling echoes in your mind like you were 18 all over again.

You wonder what your parents would say to you. Even if you crawled back to them. Would they hate you the way you hate yourself? Anxiety crawled into your ribs and made its home there. There wasn’t a way to exterminate it without killing more of yourself. And the more you kill. The more the void overtakes. Whispering your own dark thoughts.

The ones you were certain everyone around you knew you were already thinking. You were certain they knew you were some kind of creature. Both repulsive and unkind. A creature condemned to loneliness and doomed to die by the overall narrative. Doomed by a set of cards handed to her by someone you didn’t care to know.

In your mind, you were Winter, and your friends were Spring. They were the beginning, and you were nothing but the bitter end. People endured your winter to move on and be with their spring. Something had to be wrong with you. Why isn’t anyone willing to help?

It would only be until you remembered that upcoming event that you decided something, anything had to give. Whatever it happened to be. Something. Anything needed to be accepted. Staring at the calendar on your fridge. Frowning like you were certain you were hallucinating the words on the calendar.

This couldn’t be right. You walk into the bathroom. The cold tiles bite into your bare feet. Splashing cold water on your face to wake up to what people call the ‘real world’. It doesn’t feel real to you. Fewer and fewer things feel real. Marching back into the kitchen. Straight to the fridge’s calendar. Certain the words written in red permanent marker will vanish into a blank square.

You threw hands at the calendar. As if to will the words away into a void. A wordless, joyless nothing. It didn’t do a thing to erase the words in front of you. It certainly provided entertainment for the pigeons outside.

The housewarming party, the invitation you were going to tell your friend that you couldn’t go to because your boss said to you that you needed to work overtime to cover the day you were away sick.

The invitation weighs heavily on your mind. You didn’t want to hurt her feelings. It wasn’t in your nature to be mean to someone else. You never yelled or shouted. Now the invitation starts to feel like a noose tied around your neck.

“What if I don’t go?” The words were uttered into the empty kitchenette before you could stop yourself. The whisper sent chills down your spine. Even your own brain feared the response your friends would show.

A small voice in the back of your mind, a hissing, “They’ll be fine without you. They’ll forget that you were ever their friend to begin with. You are a burden they want to get rid of without hurting your pathetic excuse you call feelings.”

“What if you don’t go? What if you disappear? What if you finally jump? If nothing matters anymore. Would my death even matter to them?”

“Maybe I can give her a gift on Friday and tell her I can’t make it this weekend?”

The week flew by, and the basket of gifts and the money spent plunged you deeper in debt. It wasn’t ideal. You know that. But nothing is ever what we idealise or hope for. Nothing ever would be. You were early. Hoping you would be able to tell her you were only going to be there for a few minutes, and then you were off again. Ringing the doorbell four times, four because one felt too little and five felt like it was far too much.

Things that you bought and the things you don’t need anymore. Mingling together in the basket like an offering you were too poor to give.

The hoodie is now five years old and thin. Hanging on your body like it was the only thing worth clinging to. Your sweatpants are only slightly younger by a good seven months. Your work boots are the only thing you own because they’re the only shoes you wear.

The man who answers the door is one of the guys she’s dating. You didn’t care enough to remember his name. The Mohawk, the Scottish accent and the jovial spirit felt like nails on a chalkboard. His grin is wide, his teeth are whiter than yours; clearly, his dentist was well paid for his work.

Before he could speak, you remarked, “I’m here to drop this off and head to work.” You interjected. Your eyebags are showing. The less time spent here. The better you were going to feel.

You shoved the gift into his arms. “Tell her I said sorry I couldn’t be better.” And you turned to run back to the train station. Before you could even start running away. A taller man appeared. The man probably wanted to look intimidating with the face mask of half of a human’s skull printed on it, which screamed emotionally distant try-hard.

Your sleep paralysis demon looked intimidating. The guy screamed ‘I’m too cool for you’ or whatever some emotional teenage boy would have mustered back in the early 2010s. “I have work. Tell her I’ll talk to her next week.” You stated. This guy is another of her expensive boyfriends, or as her friend liked to call her ‘boy toys’.

“She’s waiting for you.” He stated.

“I can’t afford to stay. She’ll understand.” You retort. You didn’t know the man, and you were willing to throw hands.

The much older man pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the passenger seat of the expensive car. Another example is that you were far too out of your depth here. You were determined to leave and then start her shift soon afterwards.

You slipped away, paying your bills quickly. To use as an excuse to pull out and show them that ‘I am too much in debt to be here’. The older man? You were certain he’d tell you to fuck off. He recognised you before you even said a word. The ID card in hand? It was your expired one.

You were the one who said ‘No. That can’t be done without studies to prove that it was possible’ and you bore the brunt of his yelling because your supervisor told you to tell him no.

This man marched all the way from his expensive car to where you were standing. Dread filled your senses. You recognised him now, and you then attempted to jump the fence to flee. You were certain that if you stayed, death would be around the corner. You didn’t reach the entire way over the wooden fence.

“I feel I must speak to you on a matter relating to you. And you alone. I have heard from three poignant birds.” you started. Indirectly mentioning Price, Soap and Ghost. Without giving, it away, the fact it was them who spoke to you at the same time. 

“I have feelings I need to resolve on the basis of the new information I have received. And I must implore you to sit down and listen to what I have to say. Rest assured, you are not in trouble in any way. Nor are you required to leave anywhere. You’re staying. OK? Ok.”

You paused pouring Gaz a scotch rather than a whisky, you didn’t know whether he liked one or the other more. So you went for the scotch instead. Brandy would have been a choice if you still had a full bottle left over from last year. But alas, you didn’t, and you were still waiting for your shipment from Manchester to come in. 

Setting down a coaster and the glass right on top of it on your redwood desk. Gaz had his mind racing, thinking it was something serious. Serious enough to get him kicked out. Despite the fact, you had no control over who left and who stayed. He was still nervous about it, which was endearing to you, but also a bit sad. 

“No need to be nervous.” you mentally kick yourself. ‘Of course he’s nervous. Saying don’t be. Won’t make him any calmer’. 

‘Better not keep him in here too long. He might get jumpy about it.’ you pondered. 

You kneeled down in front of him in a show of respect, reassurance that you weren’t going to do anything to him.

“I don't like it when they use the word pretty to describe you.” you told Gaz. “Before you get upset or think about getting upset about it. I have a good tangent to go on. And I don’t want any interruptions.”

“When you think of compliments, you think beautiful, hot, sexy, and every word in between. But when you have women look at you from the sidelines, they should be thinking, ‘He screams danger, passion, romance, irresistible’. They see a great looking guy and the first they tell you is ‘You’re so pretty. You deserve the world. You’re so pretty’. It’s a let-down. All that sexual tension to be call a mediocre word, as if you are commonplace or passable. It is an outrage. There is no romance within it, just a plain simple expression lacking the layers, the depth. The sauce of romance is missing.”

“The lack of depth inside the word is an insult. As a man with depth, with compassion buried inside your soul, you deserve more than the world, you deserve to have to be wrapped up and offered to you like the beauty you are. You are a man that deserves to be described with words that make the blood in my veins rush to my cheeks. And when I say it, I mean it with every bullet in my Ranger Sequoia, every silent whisper of my blades, and every step of these boots that have carried me through hell and back.”

“And I know in my heart it is pathetic to say. But I feel like I must. I feel the burning urge inside me to let you know that you are not simply pretty. You are magnificent, you are formidable, you are strong, you are capable, and you are imperfectly perfect.”

Gaz continued to look at you, baffled, bewildered, he wasn’t thinking this could be an outcome. Taking the scotch glass into his hand, his knuckles tightening around it, like he was afraid of it falling out of his hand and shattering against the marble floor beneath him. 

You stood up to leave, only to have a warm hand press against your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. A silent plea for you to remain where you are. Regardless of whether your knees are hurting from kneeling on them. You didn’t pity him, and quite frankly this tangent of yours felt long overdue. 

Gaz remembered when you said, ‘It’s like you hate Latin, so you go to basic English to prove a semblance of pride because actual poetry looks too upperclassman. As if you can’t be bothered to learn a different language and you let yourself down by using one flavour of words.’

He remembered when you said, 'Chi tutto vuole nulla ha e di rabbia muore.' He who wants everything and doesn't get it, he dies of rage.

Gaz's eyes searched yours, as if looking for a hint of a joke in their depths, but all he found was sincerity and something else—desire. His hand on your shoulder grew heavier, the pressure grounding you both in the moment, as if the weight of his touch somehow keep the world at bay. He took a sip of his scotch, the warm liquid doing little to calm the tumult of emotions that roiled in his chest.

“I've never had anyone…describe me like that,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with something unspoken. The words hung in the air between you, a declaration and a question all at once. The silence stretched, filled with the crackling energy of unspoken confessions and the uncharted territory of feelings that had been steadfastly ignored for too long.

Neither did you. You didn’t get those words spoken to you. Not once. 

Who were you to deny them to someone else who needed it just much as you? 

But that’s the case, isn’t it? Saying words you desperately want to hear spoken to you.

There’s a saying for it, ‘Give unto others, as you would to receive. To be given in return’. No matter how many times you chant it to your broken soul. It didn’t feel like it mended it in any meaningful way. A mental detachment of sorts, you suppose. Feeling like a tether is cut from you and the real world around you. Like nothing felt real to your hands. 

You two stayed there in your office in tense yet comfortable silence.

You weren’t a small.

You were tall.

You were never considered a pretty little young thing like the women you envied around you. The anger at your circumstances, at yourself, burned inside you like a furnace and the only thing to fuel your wrath was bloodshed.

You're useless, aren’t you if you can’t be like the surrounding women?

What use is your existence if you're scaring people away?

Your charm lured in a victim for your boss. But you didn’t care.

Your boss being a pretty young blonde with enough money to make the oil barons wish she was their wife.

You shot three people in order to get to your target, you didn’t even look at them.

The gun felt light in your hands, the three bodies dropped pretty quickly. 

“Get in.” you ordered. Slamming the carriage door after getting in with him to deter from leaving. You pointed the gun in his direction, “I would hate for someone to get the wrong idea that we’re together.” you spoke in a low husky tone. The smell of his fear drifting to your nose. You might be enjoying this a little too much. Might.

You brought out the handcuffs and snapped them wright on his wrists. Your gloved fingers making sure he can’t simply run away without look too suspicious. 

Ghost called out to Price whom was shooting at the caravan as it rode off into the dirt and dust. They got there far too late. Like they always do. Too late to make any kind of real proper change. 

As soap looked around the medium-sized carriage for an escape route, “Sweetheart, Sugar, darlin. You’re goin no where. You’re stayin on that sweet arse of yours and accepting how things are for time bein.”  You whispered into his ear. 

“I don’t want this to become permanent. So I suggest you compose yourself. A lovely woman will make sure you’re well-fed and cared for. And you’ll be thankin the good lord for everything she is.” you winked at him. Right as the carriage bumped and jostled around along the uneven terrain. 

Price saw you in person the following week with information on a new target. The one who took Johnny MacTavish. The same women who killed three men without a single sign of remorse in her eyes. 

Finding none made his stomach drop.

His heart beats faster now. 

He knew you. The woman kicked out from the church his parents always went to on a Sunday morning. He remembered how a man kicked you in the stomach until you coughed up blood from the blunt force to your stomach. Always kicking himself for never standing up for you. 

Had he known you were forced to take this path alone, then. What would he have done? 

Your mother eventually passed from a cancer which ate at her mind as well as her soul. Your father cheating on her with the maids inside your manor. He thought his amassed wealth would grant him a front row seat straight into heaven by the time he died. Not that he have ever personally read the actual thing himself. He knew a few proverbs and apparently it’s all he ‘needed’. To your poor mother’s dismay, who had actually read it in her youth.

Your eyes looked into his, a wall of steel and stone standing before him. Unlike the woman who was beaten by men just because she couldn’t control her sexuality. The faint scar along the left side of your jawline, a memory and a reminder that men could never be trusted.

Why did you take Soap so aggressively? So much show of power from someone in a short amount of time. It was like you were begging to be shot down. 

But Price knew better than to take a book by its cover. He’s seen the same look in your eyes as the men he had taken to be his lovers years ago. The look of someone who had seen too much, felt too much pain, and was now numb to the world around them. Someone who could endure any amount of pain or punishment and keep coming back for more.

Price still speaks to your father. Not that he would admit this to your face. ‘A monster by association’ you would call him. Not like you would be completely wrong. But you wouldn’t be right at the same time. Though he knew you wouldn’t care for the complexities or details. 

They’ve seen your type, your kind and your brood before. Thrown away like yesterday’s garbage. Thrown to the curb like you weren’t worth a damn thing. Not like you shown it on your face how much it bothered you. Not like you could get in somebody’s face and scream at them before. Not like you can now.

You never felt so free in your life. 

A pity, things came to a head this way.

He didn’t want you dead. He wanted you to bring MacTavish back to them. But it was certainly clear you weren’t going to do to just that. Not like you could defy your boss’s orders in the way he desired you to. If you did, you would be on the streets again, and who was he to tell you to leave a home you found on your own? 

Maddening to be sure. To be stuck between a rock and a hard place. You were making your own way to support yourself, your own way to bend the world to your own image and your own liking. Crafting it to your own whims and desires, like you enjoyed the thought of playing god to serve yourself alone.

Price had to regroup to the others. Before things got messy like it had last time. Three dead in the attempt to blockade you. Like a ram, you barrelled through like they weren’t worth a damn thing. Ruthless in your loyal servitude. A pity. It should have been him you were serving instead.

To have you bent over. 

What a sight that would be. 

But he knew your boss. The dinner party he’s invited to indicate as such. 

Hoping he would be able to sneak Johnny out of there. While she played hostess to her dinner guests with a fake smile. One which never seemed to reach her eyes. A plastered, well-rehearsed smile which looked haunting if you knew sadistic ways. There wasn’t much he could do for him from this far away. 

If you were there? It would be borderline impossible to get him out of that estate. No matter what. He couldn’t do a damn thing. 

“If she’s there, we won’t be able to get him back, Kyle.” price protested, waving at the naive man’s suggestion. “She’s like a dog with a bone, relentless, tenacious, a loyal bloodhound. And I don’t think it’s the money keeping her loyal, either.” 

He wasn’t wrong. You weren’t loyal to her for the money alone, were you? The money made things easier to swallow. Easy to deal with the eccentric nature of her whims of her sexual drive. You couldn’t be bothered to argue with the semantics of why you worked for her. The captives didn’t need to know. Anyone outside wouldn’t understand either.

Not in the ways you would have hoped to get. You would repent later. Repent tomorrow. But tomorrow is always one day away, and you were allergic to the thought of confession. To be brought to your knees because of something as fickle as truth. To escape the wooden pressures of the crucifix and sermons spoken from inside their little chapels won’t touch you again. 

Not while you still live and breathe. 

You were in the hands of a powerful woman married to an oil baron who was away for months at a time. Known for his thing for bringing in young mistresses to breed like some kind of rabid dog. You ignored how some woman would be paid to live there with his wife. Normally as well paid maids and servants. What better way to keep your marriage and the women you found attractive all in one place? 

According to him, it didn’t sound nearly as insane as his wife’s sadistic streak of kidnapping young men from the streets to play with as her one-way lovers. A way to cope with the sadistic desires from his wife, or did he enjoy it too much to take much of an issue with her actions? Who knew. As far as everyone else is concerned. Those men disappeared from the face of the earth.

Gone. Never to found again. Not even their loved ones ever knew what happened to them. But you did. Some of them died trying to escape. Mauled by vicious guard dogs on their front lawn or starved. 

You still remember when your boss spanked you hard enough to make cum like crazy. Not that you could ever explore that side of you. Not like you ever could. Not with the parents you have. “Call me mummy.” she’d hiss into your ear as she’d finger your clit. Masterfully. 

She knew your secret. The kind which could get you killed if the right kind of people knew about it. It’s how she kept you in check. The strangle hold on you was real. Even as Soap was forced to watch the same night, he was brought in to her estate. 

A bisexual woman of your standing? You wouldn’t last a week by yourself. You didn’t want them to that secret. The other being shunned by the church you used to attend with your parents. The church disowned you and threatened your parents to urge them to do the same. When your parents refused because they didn’t trust what the church tried to say.

With your mother dead.

Your father lost to himself with the lust of women and greed of the green dollar bills. 

Picking up a gun, learning how to shoot, learning how to intimidate, and learning to forgive yourself for hurting so damn much. 

You were finally good at something.

Scared men paid more. Scared men didn’t argue. And scared men didn’t survive.

Those who crossed you wished they never saw you. Those who survived knew what kind of monster lurked beneath your eyes. 

The most dangerous thing someone could be is a dangerous woman with nothing to lose and everything to gain. And you played up your dangerous look, and attitude to the absolute maximum. Unhinged in the ways you felt alive. Unhinged in ways men would be praised for. You didn’t need a mirror to know you looked every bit of the part of a dangerous gun slinging outlaw you made yourself into. Like you always wanted to be. Like you are meant to be. 

A cold-heart gunslinger because otherwise you would have been dead years ago. How your trench coat bellowed and how your bandana remained firmly on the lower half of your face. Hiding your identity. Keeping others from trying to find you or tracking you down. Covering your mouth in the covers of darkness. Either way, it worked well for you.

The stallion you rode on while the carriage was getting repaired in the workshop just outside of town. The black horse, a symbol of your capabilities and tenacious spirit. The woman you served had the audacity to still call herself, ‘Lady of the Sapphire Manor’.

You weren’t like her. You were never like her. Never fed into someone’s desire for company like she did with you.

The same manor is technically yours by all rights and reason in terms of inheriting after your mother passed on. It was little to no wonder as to who should own that manor. 

Your father was the first person you murdered. Tied him up on a wooden chair in the backyard, stacking every portrait containing his likeness painted or printed onto them into a bonfire formation. Piling them up around him like a final act of self realisation. He was asleep until you poured that gasoline over him. 

The cold, biting, gasoline-soaked person who gave you life as Soap watched from the balcony in the second story of the manor. Soap saw you getting ready to murder your father in cold blood. This wasn't any old stranger you could emotionally detach yourself from. This was your bloodline.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t flinch.

Looking over to the woman in the balcony for approval. Her approval. ‘It’s like she needs it, like she craves it, to be owned completely instead of wandering around and wondering if you’ll ever fit anywhere.’ Soap pondered watching this as he remained tied up in his wooden chair. 

The match flicked to the match box, the fire burning the match stick to the gasoline covered man. As his pleas for mercy were ignored, as his screams splitting the night sky as the flames licked his flesh until he was nothing but burned flesh and bone. The flames reflected in your eyes. It’s clear kidnapping, keeping people hostage, tormenting hostages weren’t enough anymore. 

You’re no longer satisfied with small amounts of murder, mayhem, chaos, and pain. You wanted Soap to see the real thing. To smell the burning flesh from people who were the real monsters in the world, and you wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw everything. 

He wasn’t like the rest. He didn’t belong in your world. Just like you didn’t belong in his. You have a part to play. You played it so well.

A monster. A terrible beast. Unloved and unlovable. You had to play the role of the monster to survive.

Soap found him high as a kite walking to his lovers without his pants on with only fifty dollars to his name. Pockets full of opium. No memory of how he got inside the manor. Plenty of memories of all the horrors lying inside the depth of Sapphire Manor. Inflicted by you for the amusement of ‘The Lady’. 

“We’re dead price. DEAD long before we knew she existed. You don’t see it. You’ll never see it. I have seen it. We’re dead.” his nonsenual muttering as Soap gripped his face, rocking him side to side like they were in some kind of long term hospice centre on giant wheels. Too afraid to stop moving in the case, he heard the screams of the man he watched burn to death come back. 

“She killed her father Price. She turned him into a human bonfire and watched him burn.” Soap continued to blabber on and on. 

This all happened in a matter of four days and five nights. Breaking him until he couldn’t trust what he saw in the dark. Always checking to see if you were standing in the darkness. Checking outside his window every five minutes, sometimes hallucinating you were standing outside. 

You were never physically there. You haven’t been since you left him in the middle of town to walk home alone. Likewise, you weren’t a babysitter and you got what you wanted from him. An excuse to get more from your boss. A pay raise. 

Torture isn’t a one shoe fits all scenario. It is usually tailored to the individual targeted. But somehow your methods were brutal enough to break every man The Lady held within Sapphire Manor. The letter you had left in his pants that you gave through the mail slot. 

‘The lady holds no interest in a man who's lost his wits, Soap. Perhaps it's time for you to leave us. I return you to your ‘family’ what ever that is. Lest this be a reminder to keep your nose out of her opium business and shove off elsewhere. 

You turned him into a broken man. Like you have done so many times before with so many other men. A master of torture. A musician in the realm of pain, fear, and madness. You weave it well. You play with it like an artist who poked and prodded, working with your clay. Moulding people over and over. Swimming in the sea of your seemingly eternal madness. 

Taxidermy people sitting in various rooms, permanently frozen in their state of distress, stuffed and poised like hunters did with their animal trophies. Redesigned, redressed and posed in ways you wanted them to look. Another thing, The Lady took pride in her home. People would assume they were fake and none the wiser. Unless they knew of the method of how they came to be. They will never know the gruesome side. 

Your methods of torture evolve after each ‘failure’ finding what works and what needed to be changed. The opium haze of your victims made them easier for them to ply the information from their lips, easier for you to manipulate. You weren’t always so good at this, your first attempts were clumsy and lacked finesse, but with each soul you crushed, each man you bent to her will, you grew more adept, more skilled, more terrifying.

When it came to dosing them with morphine on the second day? The effect of the morphine made them susceptible to suggestion, one tool of many you used to help get you what you wanted from them. You didn’t have to get to the actual torture if they gave you what you wanted. Gentle whispered promises to stop if they talked. 

Was it really so hard to imagine soap gave in so quickly?

 You didn’t even need to get your hands dirty with the actual torture. 

Who knew imagery of darkness, formed and sculpted by your own hand, was enough to break people? 

Price shouldn’t blame him from folding so quickly. If you call being stuck there for four days and five nights relatively quick. Which, in terms of torture? 

It was a record.

The only one who went mad in such a short time. A sick, twisted form of pride gurgled inside you. Chewing at the leftover rage you kept in the furnace called your brain. 

The Lady had eyes everywhere in her manor, and you were just one set of eyes under her service. A gatekeeper. The one who decided who kept their sanity or not. If they even got to see the light of day again, that is. 

What you are now? He wouldn’t have guessed you would have become. He would have called anyone mad for thinking this would have happened anyway. That you were doomed from the start.

“He moved away,” you remembered Simon telling you, “right after the old man passed. Tommy took his wife and little Joseph and left a few hours later. They’d been plannin’ the move for ages, ever since our father got ill, but they never told me. Woke up the next day and…they were gone. Thought they’d gone to the lake a few miles east, so I checked there but no one had seen ‘em. Tavern wasn’t open, the inn’s ledger didn’t have their names or Tommy’s pseudonym. A week later, I got a letter from ‘im. Livin’ close to London, new life and no specters loomin’ over them. Joseph was sleepin’ well, Beth could finally relax her shoulders, and Tommy’d taken up apprenticin’ with a blacksmith like he’d always wanted to do. No invitation to join ‘em, to even visit ‘em. Haven’t seen ‘em since—Joseph’s probably…he’s probably a man now, nearly twenty? Wouldn’t recognize me even if I had a sign around my neck listin’ our memories together.”

You watched as Simon brought the last of his clothes to the wash basin you were bent over. He’d decided that all linens from the larger bedroom needed to be washed thoroughly before they even caught a glimpse of your bedroom—which was now his, too. Every time he walked out of the old room, he wore a grimace and shuddered as if something cold passed through him. The specters of his past did, you supposed. Even you couldn’t enter the main bedroom without feeling a crushing weight on your shoulders.

Though he didn’t bring it up, you knew he was wondering if you’d given thought to moving out of the cabin and into town. To your credit, you were thinking about it, perhaps too much. How much it would cost, the physical and emotional labor of the move, and the changes to routines it would bring kept you awake at night and distracted you while you cleaned. You had a lovely scar forming on your palm from when your thoughts wandered too far while you were slicing apples to have with dessert.

You knew you wanted to move, for him mainly. You wanted the man you loved—even if you hadn’t said it outright yet—to sleep through the night and be unburdened. But there was information you needed, the security of knowing there was a solid plan and a handful of contingencies to support it, before you could jump into something so large. So, when he sat across the wash basin from you to sort through the sopping heap of clean clothes, you told him as much. He listened well, something you loved about him, and agreed with you on everything but the timing. Sooner, rather than later, was the request he firmly refused to change. You made it perfectly clear to him that if he wanted to live somewhere else soon, there could be no buying of the first available house. That the ‘somewhere else’ couldn’t be rundown or have suspicious airs about it. That earned a laugh from him that had your skin warming and your heart clenching.

“Price and ‘is wife have offered me a position at their tavern when we find a house we like. I’d be workin’ nights, mainly keepin’ an eye on patrons and stoppin’ any fights, and it would give me time during the day to set up the house,” Simon told you as he climbed into bed, freshly bathed and thoroughly exhausted from his day of looking at the few available homes in town.

You rolled to face him. Guilt lingered in your mind, he’d been doing all the looking while you tended to your patients and worked on packing things in the cabin for the eventual move. No matter how many times he told you to not feel guilt, your mind did the opposite and piled more of the sickening feeling on you. “And have you found a house?”

“There’s one I’m keen on. Two streets down from that bakery ya love and close enough to the town square that runnin’ to market or goin’ to see your patients won’t be a hike-and-a-half.” He traced your cheek with the back of his finger. “When ya go on your rounds tomorrow, I’ll come with. We can see it together, maybe see some others.”

“And there’s no issue with cost?”

That lop-sided grin that fixed the world even on the worst of days appeared. “My love,” Simon gave the tip of your nose a peck, “money’ll never be an issue for us. My father was many things—many horrible things—but one of the few positives about him was his money sense. He made a big show about gamblin’, drinkin’, whorin’ even, but he saved where he could—where it counted. The only thing I got from him that I like is that.”

“It’s a good trait.” You rolled the rest of the way, lying mostly on top of him. These days his body was always warm, and the harder edges were softening here and there. “Your warmth is another one. No fire could compare to this comfort.”

He hummed and began trailing the tips of his fingers along your spine. The sweet touch sent pleasant shivers throughout your body and you snuggled into him further. “You’re the cause of my warmth. Feedin’ me all that good food, makin’ sure I always have enough. I like it.”

You gave a simple ‘mhm’ and let your eyes fall shut. Simon only woke up once that night from a bad dream and, when he managed to bring himself fully into reality, fell asleep quickly to your musing about a possible life in town. He was healing, on his own and with your help. He showed you it was possible even if it wasn’t easy.

Just the outside appearance of the house he was keen on showed you why. Dark stone and wood exterior with textured glass windows and pretty shutters. The front door was heavy and the locks were new—Simon cited that as one of his favorite things since it meant you were more likely to be safe if someone tried to intrude. You had no complaints about the first floor, save for the dust but it wouldn’t take you more than half a day to get rid of it with Simon’s help.

The kitchen was spacious and the larder was nearly twice the size of one in the cabin. There was a proper dining room, too, and you couldn’t help but imagine all the meals and conversations that would be possible. Hosting Simon’s friends, the few apprentice midwives, even your siblings and their newish families, would be easy in terms of space. There’d be no need to worry about people nearly sitting on top of others or feeling crowded and uncomfortable.

Your favorite room, so far, was the parlor. It had a large fireplace, room for more than just an arm chair and modest settee. The walls had enough room for bookshelves and a trunk or two full of your knitting and embroidery materials. Given all the room, you’d be able to teach Simon a simple dance or two to do at festivals and there’d be plenty of room for your nieces and nephews to run around and cause havoc. The upstairs was nice, too, and spacious as well. Three bedrooms, one of which could be made into a study or some kind of workshop while. The second largest bedroom would be reserved for guests and if your sleep schedule fell out of line with Simon’s.

Muscled arms wrapped around you, tugging you back against Simon’s front and away from all your planning. “Like it?” he asked.

“Mhm. It’s pretty, nice location in town like you mentioned, and it doesn’t seem like it would be a nightmare to keep clean if we both tackle the chores like we’ve been doing,” you said. “I think we should make it ours.”