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snowsinterlude · 5 months

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What Weighs in Your Heart.

+18, mdni

(priest coriolanus x f. reader, mdni!)

summary: the priest of panem's church was the one you confided the most, that's the only reason for you to confess your sins every sunday evening, and that's why you always stayed until late at church.

c.w: priest!coriolanus, christian reader, christian guilt, altar sex, slapping, mentions to blowjob, grinding, fingering, squirting, church sex, dirty talk, smut, nsfw, public sex, dacryphilia, degrading, praising, overstimulation, sub reader, religious imagery mentioned, priest kink, praying during sex, sex in public place, mdni!!

the sin - heinrich lossow, 1880.

a piece showing a nun moans and a priest holds her hips. based on the events of the last day of October 1501, where cardinal cesare de borgia, son of Pope Alexander VI, supposedly hosted a decadent dinner party.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀༺ ♱ ༻

every sunday, you spend your whole evening at the church, always so eager to please your religion and your god, but you knew deep in your heart that this was not your true intention.

you've waited until everybody left the church again, so you could ask father coriolanus to listen to your regrets on the confessionary – that's how far you can remember –, and with your moans echoing through the church and your pussy gushing around his skilled fingers, you cried out in pleasure, hearing his prays.

both of you weren't anywhere near the confessionary, if you looked up you could see the stained glass window with a image of Jesus Christ looking at you, and you'd immediatly look down again, the wet sounds of your cunt echoing through your eardrums.

"that the eyes of your heart may be enlighted, so you can repent for your sins and your place in heaven is reserved." he prayed, his fingers fucking your pussy relentlessly while his other hand held a rosary, praying for you. "tell me what weighs within your heart, my child."

you couldn't even speak an entire phrase without moaning, you didn't have any idea you were so wet and sensitive until the moment he pulled your panties aside.

"you didn't hear me?" he asked, curling his long fingers into your cunt. "confess me your sins."

you gulped down, crying from guilt and pleasure all at once.

"forgive me, f..father, for i have sinned." you started, legs spreading a bit more just so you could be met with a slap on your ass and a finger thrusting into your core. "fuck, father. i-i can't- i can't sp...speak!"

your eyes were closed shut, your mouth opened up to let him hear your squeal once he slapped your butt.

"the church is not a place for you to run your dirty mouth like that." he warned you, taking his fingers out of your core and making you suck on them.

"i'm sorry, father. please forgive me." you said, eyes swelling up with tears as he frowned at you, shaking his head negatively.

"tell me what weighs in your heart, so i can show you the path of god, my dear lamb." he said, both his hands on your hips while you shamelessly whined, grinding your hips on his stiffened dick.

"forgive me, father, for i haven't stopped sinning kn every lord's day and can't stop coming to the church only to sin." you said, your voice sounding to malicious to your liking. you truly hoped god would help you, the guilt in your heart was nothing near the pleasure you experimented on coriolanus's dick. "father, please. i can't stop thinking about you," you admitted, your own hand travelling down your stomach to reach for your swollen clit.

an action that, much to your sadness, was prevented by the priest towering on you. his hand held yours, caging them with the rosemary he held.

"you should know better than to indulge in such a dirty path, little lamb." he said, in a soothing voice while you thrusted back at him, crying for release. "look at you, you're on the right path to become satan's main worshipper. you're so dirty, so stained." you cried upon hearing those words.

"it is not my fault, father, i swear!" you cried out, your core clenching on air as it missed his cock inside you, throbbing inside you while he usually hit your ass. "it's not my fault! i-in god's plan, he made the devil so much stronger than any of those whose flesh is the main pleasure-" he gave you another painful slap, your lips gasping as the tears rolled down your cheek.

"so now it is god's fault that you are such a whore?" he asked you, grinding back at you, you mewled at his words.

"n-no, that was not what i said-"

"it is exactly what you said, lamb. you should watch your words." he said, the stern tone on your voice made you sob.

"i'm sorry, father. i'm sorry, i wasn't thinking straight, i- ah!" you sobbed, feeling the tip of his cock entering your core, your cries were too pleasant for him.

"this is what you wanted, right? this is why you're always here, looking at me with those pleading eyes that are always screaming 'fuck me, father.' isn't that right?" he asked you, a smirk curling into your lips as you nodded pathetically. "you can't help but crave what is not yours to have, can you? even if it's a priest's cock. i bet you fucked more priests in this life than any prostitute." he whispered into your ear, thrusting slowly into your pussy with a tortuous rhythm.

your brain felt too mushed up for you to even talk, so you sticked up with shaking your head negatively, your moans and cries being paused for you to mewl a bunch of no's.

"use your words, you are a bitch, but you're not dumb and nor are you mute." he said, his cock entering you entirely, filling you to the edge as you cried out in pleasure, his hand grabbed your boob aggressively, pinching your nipple as he turned you to face him. "do what i said."

"'m sorry, fa.. father! i'm sorry. i-i didn't fuck any priest other than you, i promise!" you cried out, the tip of his cock teasing your clit before entering you again.

"see? it wasn't that hard speaking up and using your voice for something other than begging for my dick." he said, looking into your eyes, and the smile he gave you was so pretty that you just knew that fucking in missionary would end up with you saying something forbidden, something dirty. he was right, you were stained after all. "you're such a good girl, can't believe you go around with my cum in your pussy looking that innocent." he chuckled.

he put your handcuffed hands on his neck, making you hug his neck before he made one of your legs wrap around him, thrusting into you until his tip teased just the right spot inside you.

"fuck! father, please, keep going!" you begged, crying as your head hide on the curvature of his neck.

he tugged your hair back, making your eyes meet his, the ones you were trying your best to avoid, the ones you knew that once you looked into, you would see the abyss of the fire of hell waiting for you. he leaned closer to you, his face mere inches of yours. he couldn't kiss you, no. it'd make everything worse- but god, his lips looked so pretty. so kissable. you wanted him to, and inside of you, your heart prayed he would. but he didn’t.

"you're so eager." he smiled, groaning as you squeezed his cock between your gummy warm walls and cried while he nibbled om your neck and earlobe. "but you heard what i said about your language. the church is no place for that." he said.

"but you- hah, god! y-you're always cussing around too! y-you called me a whore just two minutes ago!" you cried out, defending yourself in this situation was pathetic.

"because you are one, lamb." he said, chuckling as he kissed your tears on the right corner of your mouth. too close to your lips. "my language can be excused when i'm telling the truth," he paused, growling while his forehead leaned into yours. "your language, however, is just a bunch of fucks."

"f-father, please don't." you said, moaning while trying your best to pull away from his lips.

"'don't', what? 'don't cum inside this time'? 'don't suck on my neck'?" he asked, his eyes boring into yours as he thrusted faster and deeper into you. ah, you always looked so pretty when he fucked you and messed you up, such a slutty mess.

"d..don't kiss me," you said, for his surprise. and he chuckled at you. you could handle fucking a priest but couldn't handle a kiss? how cute. "you're too close to me, y-your lips- i want you to."

"be more specific," he groaned, his hips slapping in yours as his cock hit your cervix and his hand slapped your ass. "you want me to do what, dear?"

"i want you to kiss me." you pleaded, crying from humiliation.

"you told me not to." he said, teasing you as his thumb rubbed on your clit, making your walls squeeze him. he gasped, soft grunts leaving his mouth as he frowned, looking down to see his cock disappearing inside your pussy with each thrust.

"please do. p-please, please." you begged. this wasn't the first time you fucked him, but it would be the first time you kissed him, and in general, it would be the first time you kissed at all. "just this once. j-just today."

"pray." he demanded.

"what? no- not now. it's wrong. it's dirty" you sobbed.

"just like you. pray." he said again, torturing you as he montioned his hips in a slow, steady place. you gulped down, apologizing to jesus mentally before commiting the terrible sin you were about to.

"o-our father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy kingdom come-" you cried, your heart heavy with guilt. "t..thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses." you closed your eyes shut, overstimulation hitting you like a brick as you sobbed.

he begin thrusting faster in you, your voice melting at each rapid thrust that hit your uterus, his cock entering deep inside you, his balls kissing your core as his member throbbed inside you. "keep going." he said, and so you did.

"as we- ugh, coryo! as we forgive, those who- who tre... who trespass against us," you groaned, feeling your climax arriving. you held yourself, prohibiting yourself from cumming in such a time. "and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,"

he kissed you, his tongue tangled on yours. such a filthy kiss, such a messy kiss, took you over the edge. his hand brought you closer by your waist, fucking you relentlessly while his other hand held your head, kissing you roughly. you came first than him, a wet mess being made on him as you squirt on him, moaning into the kiss as he kept going, cumming inside you right after you.

"a...amen." you finished, shaking as he pulled his cock from you, kissing your tears alway.

"good girl." he said, kissing your temple. you pouted as he cleaned your tears, and after straightening your clothes and pulling his pants back, you were still shaking, your legs trembling from the intense orgasm you just had. "be a good lamb and sit there while i bring you water and clean myself, okay?"

and you nodded obediently, sitting on the first bench you could reach.

he was so gentle to you. so good. your brain thanked heavens that he made you pray during that, even if it was the biggest sin you've commited, you knew that if he hadn't done such a thing, you would tell him you loved him.

fuck, you're a terrible christian. and to think your parents were so proud of you being such a church girl.

tagging: @tiaamberxx

#coriolanus snow x reader #young coriolanus snow #the hunger games the ballad of songbirds & snakes #young president snow #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow imagine #tbosas smut #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #x reader #18+ mdni #mdni #coriolanus smut #smut #priest.kink #tbosas fanfiction #fanfiction

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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Let Me Lean On You

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader

Synopsis: You have a bad habit of putting yourself in harm’s way, enraging John to no end. But can you survive a wound like this? Or will everything you hate to love about John Price never see the light of day?

Word Count: 13.3K (yes this is a novel; yes this is longer than any English paper I’ve ever written)

Warnings: blood, wounds, heavy on the gore, swearing, violence, suggestive, angst, fluff, enemies-to-lovers type of relationship but you’re both down bad

A/N: This is heavily story-motivated (I’ve found out I can’t write anything not gigantically plot-oriented; I’m so sorry). I’ve taken that into account as this probably won’t do as well as I expect due to that fact. Nonetheless to those who interact -- thank you and enjoy! P.s. as always this is barely edited.

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

The blood was gushing too fast, pouring out of the wound like the gaping hole was nothing more than a faucet with the double handles thrown all the way on.

“Fuck,” You whimper, grasping pointlessly at the bullet wound in your abdomen with shaking fingers and sputtering breath. The blood slips out from under your fingers, cascading down the gear on your right thigh and splattering to the ground. Everything on that side of your body side was stained a vicious shade of red; sticky, heated, and pulsing.

All of it had gone wrong so quickly – Graves, Shadow Company, Alejandro Vargas, and Los Vaqueros.

“I should have seen it. Graves was never to be trusted,” You gasp out as you force yourself onwards, all but dragging your body through the dense forest to try and find shelter in the nearby city, “But Shepherd? Fuck me. I worked for that man for damn near five years and turns out he’s a traitor? Well…that’s what I get for trusting a bald guy, I guess.” Moaning out a curse, you rip open the medical pouch on your vest with vibrating fingers, the white stitched cross taunting you as you get it bloody. Your other hand clenches over the hole in your side as if that alone would stop you from dying, fingers slipping as more death splatters to the ground.

The rain was the worst part. A storm at night was terrible already, but here the rain created a shield of delirium as you hobbled on, with nothing to be seen beside the trees and rocks a few feet ahead of you. Even face-planting would serve as a death sentence for you. Who knew if you would be able to get up again?

Your black athletic shirt was sticking to you on the parts that your vest didn’t, and your cargo pants had come unstuffed from your black boots. Over your back, your modified SP-X 80 Sniper Rifle was ten times heavier than it should be, the barrel hitting the back of your numb knee at your uneven and sloppy pace. But you were far too stubborn to stop now. And pissed.

Tearing out a plastic-covered wrap of gauze and a rag from your pouch, you paused near a large bolder, panting like a dog as your lungs gasp for air. You tilt your head back as you drag the side of your shirt up, hearing the wet thump of a river of blood splashing into the flooded grass. Your skull connects with the chilled rock behind you as a wet cough in your throat bursts out into the sky.

“Okay,” You give yourself false confidence, moving to grasp the gauze with the side of your clattering teeth and grabbing the rag with both hands; you twist it to resemble a torpedo in shape. Looking down at yourself you have to suppress the bile building in your throat, coughing once more and feeling dark phlegm fly past your quivering lips, “Okay, okay, okay…I can do this. I can do it.”

Before you can stop yourself you twist the rag and shove it into your open wound, letting lose a wail of agony that’s thankfully covered by a slash of lightning over the black sky. Shoving it deeper, you feel it inside of your skin, moving like a parasite as your fingers splay over your skin. You grit your teeth and drop the gauze to the ground as the acidic feel of vomit rushes past your lips; with cracking knees you bend forward and release your guts into the grass, hacking until there's nothing left but regret and a vile taste on your tongue. Tears track down your cheeks as you breathe out a sobbing breath.

Through gritted teeth and blurry vision, you feel the rag peaking all the way through the entry and the exit points, and hope that the actions you’ve taken will buy you time to find Sergeant MacTavish and Lieutenant Ghost – if they were even still alive, that is.

“I swear,” You snatch the gauze from the ground, happy for the protective bag over the wrappings, as you sniffle with slurred words, ripping open the plastic with your teeth, “This is bullshit! If Price and Gaz are having a good time right now I’m telling Laswell to go pound sand the next time she tells me to go out in the field with these two. The Captain already gets on my nerves, but if I get to skip the part of hiking in the Mexican wilderness while I’m bleeding out– ”

A twig snaps off into the trees.

You immediately halt wrapping the gauze around your middle, securing the rag in place as it already begins to stain red. At your right thigh, your fingers brush the Basilisk Revolver as it lays dormant; heavy and cold to the touch as rain slides off its side. Your pulse, if possible, increases.

The only twigs I saw back there were large ones – and any animals in the area would have run from the Shadows popping off shots back on the road, Your body’s already moving, not focusing on the pain in your side as you tie off the gauze with such a tight knot it forces a grunted profanity from deep in your chest. You decide to keep the Basilisk in its holster, for now, instead favoring the combat knife at your shoulder and blinking away the rainwater and bitter tears from your eyelashes.

Not impressed, A deep raspy voice echoes in your brain before your grunt and force it down.

You unclip the clasp on the knife’s leather sheath before drawing the black metal, bringing it to your side; weaving behind rocks and trees as the light of the city in the distance gets larger. Behind you, you leave the noise of muffled voices with a nervous swallow. A gunshot would bring much-unwanted attention, and for all you knew you were all alone out here. You were being hunted.

Well, good for you that you always worked better alone anyways.

“I need to get to the city, try to radio the boys, and find a quick way out,” You grunt, wanting to itch the wound at your side as the rag pulls at the inside of your skin, making you feel unnaturally stuffed like a turkey. The skin around the fabric was undoubtedly bruising quickly, and already you could feel the pain pulsing like a bad headache leaving the skin hot and sweaty despite the cool rain and chilled winds. You just hoped you wouldn’t get an infection from this later, “If I’m lucky the radio signal will fix itself when I’m closer. If not I’ll need to slice a few necks and hope they have ear pieces I can snatch along the way.”

You had a bad habit of talking to yourself – as Price had pointed out on multiple occasions. Dodging a downturned tree, the houses in the distance begin to take shape, their colorful paint like a beacon dragging you in.

Captain John Price, You grumble before stifling a whimper at a spike of pain in your side, stumbling before you right yourself, or should I call him ‘ Captain Pain-in-my-Fucking-Ass?’ He acts like I can’t do my damn job – like I’m not one of the highest-ranking CIA Agents in the damn USA. Thinks he can handsomely swagger his way into a room and act like I’ll take his bullshit with a grin and a nod.

Your free hand connects with a stucco wall of a house on the outskirts of the city of Las Almas, the exterior painted a warm orange which was now stained with your crimson handprint. Sucking in a deep breath, you lick your lips and peak around the corner, conscious of the black void of the forest at your side.

Immediately your eyes land on the bodies.

Left to lie like useless sacks they’re sprawled in the street, limbs twisted and bent in grotesque displays as if it was an old renaissance painting. As a chill travels down your spine, you can’t help but call comparison to the grim artwork of Peter Paul Rubens's The Massacre of the Innocents. You never thought that a quick trip after a mission to a Canadian art museum would prompt a callback quite like this; in fact, you had prayed you’d never see anything like that painting in real life. But here they were, people, innocent people, of all ages gunned down en masse, with some visibly clutching onto loved ones; shielding children from the relentless downpour of bullets that now take home in their flesh. The small rivers running into the storm drains ran red with blood.

“Shadows did this?” You breathe out, voice small under the downpour as you blank at the sight ahead of you. The lightning strikes in answer, leaving a deep rumble in its wake. Or maybe that was just the enraged snarl that played off your lips, echoing into the streets like a rabid dog. A thought strikes you between fiery thoughts and clenched fists.

This just happened, Swallowing the mucus and blood in your throat, you shake your head from side to side to dispel your running thoughts, revenge later. I need to find the others.

Taking the nearest corner you stalk your way through alleyways, breaking into houses when needed when you heard shouting nearby, and carefully maneuvered your feet around more corpses.

“This is a fucking war crime,” You whisper, gripping your knife a little tighter and snarling as you spy two more dead bodies in the home you were now in; one was a woman in her late thirties, clutching another no older than ten, who in turn holds a blood-crusted tiger stuffed animal to her chest. Like a grim pack of Russian Dolls, one after the other, “Graves’ll hang for this. I’ll see to it myself if they make me. Shepherd too.”

You rip your eyes away before you have the chance to cry and go back to rummaging through a kitchen cupboard, finding a few spools of fishing net and a fabric needle in a spare parts drawer. Stashing them in your medical pocket, you reason with yourself that if worse comes to worst you’ll be forced to cauterize and stitch the gaping wound in your side by yourself. But not yet.

Find the boys.

Gripping the radio connected just above your breast, you press down on the button, sending out a signal through a blind channel. The static accompanies you for a moment as you catch your breath leaning on the kitchen wall and leaving a small sprinkling of blood behind.

Licking your tense lips, you utter, “This is Bravo 7-2 ‘Goldfinch’ reaching out over the Blind. Is anyone there? Over.” You release the button waiting impatiently as the seconds drag on.

Again your press down, “Ghost? Soap? Do you copy?”

Nothing.

Clenching your jaw another wave of pain travels up your feet, you wrench down on the button with a contorted face and snarl, “I swear to fucking high heaven, boys, if you don’t answer this goddamn radio I’m going to find your corpses myself and chuck them over a cliff–”

“Christ, Goldfinch, we get the bloody picture. Now stop your yammering and tell us where you are.”

“Oh, tell you where I am,” You grumble although a relieved sigh falls from your lips at the familiar Manchester drawl that belongs to your Lieutenant Ghost. You feel yourself deflate against the wall with a grunt, “We have Mr. Bossy over here. Where’s the ‘Please?’”

“Goldfinch–”

“Well, I can say it’s a pleasure to hear that American voice of yours, Ma’am. Good to know you’ll be joining us on our late-night getaway from the Shadows.”

There’s Sargent MacTavish, You huff out a breath in amusement.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Soap.” Pushing yourself off the wall with clenched eyelids, you take a step out into the open space of the dining room, “But the attempt was admirable—!”

A force slams you to the ground, finger releasing the radio abruptly as you let out a strangled grunt. Bracing your head for the blow to the floor you manage to twist yourself and land on your back, taking the brunt of the tackle to your spine and not your damned side. Not that it hurt any less. It was easier said than done, as even the sensation of hands on your thigh, trying to pry your Basilisk from its holster was sending spikes of pain radiating like a burning pike through your veins. Like hands were prying apart your skin with blunt nails.

You bring your knee up and twist your shoulders as the shrouded outline of someone on top of you slams to the side with a curse. Wrenching yourself up, you grab harshly onto the Shadow’s opposite shoulder and batter the man to the ground, effectively switching positions and barring him from grabbing anything before your knife finds home in his right eye. You hear the orb pop with a spray of fluid that washes your face as you force the blade deeper, listening to the now gasped pleas from the talking corpse under you. He grasps at your arms, trying to pry off your iron grip before you send the knife all the way to the hilt with a strangled yowl.

The man goes limp, and his arms fall from you with a thump.

Groaning your get to your feet and yank at your blade, placing a boot over the man's face and pulling until you hear the sweet clunk of metal separating from soft, pliable, flesh.

“God, man,” You glare down at the black-clad Shadow Company member, “did you really have to tackle me?” Grabbing at your side, you grunt at the feeling of blood through the gauze, before pulling your hand away to look at the damage, “That hurt like a bitch.”

It was only then you heard the yelling voices over the radio, calling your name.

“Yeah, yeah,” You press the button and effectively shut the boys up, standing dumbly in the torn-apart dining room and putting more weight on your non-injured side, “I’m fine. Shadow got the jump on me. Took care of it.”

Grimacing, you lightly flutter your eyebrows as the world spins for a second. Soap speaks first.

“Warn us next time, Lass,” He whispers, “Bout gave us a heart attack out here. Thought we lost you for a moment.”

In typical Ghost fashion, he only grunts his concern.

“Thanks, Soap, I’ll be sure to take that into consideration. I’ll call out ‘Soccer’ next time for a heads-up.”

“Oh, you are devious, Ma’am.”

“Any injuries, Goldfinch?”

You clean the remnants of flesh off the edge of your knife on your wet sleeve, stalking up the stairs of the house to case the place for other hidden Shadows. You didn’t bother checking the dead one – if he was desperate enough to attack you with his bare fists he lost his group and ran out of ammo a long time ago. That was probably Ghost’s fault if you had to guess.

“Pretty bad one in my lower abdomen,” You admit, pausing on a creaky step and peeling your ears to listen for any nose. When there wasn’t any, you continued up, “Stuffed a rag in it and wrapped it, so I’ll be good for at least a half-an-hour if I’m lucky. Ten minutes if not.”

“Bloody hell, Goldfinch, just now?” The words are drawn out in solidarity.

“Nah, back near the highway. And what can I say, Ghost, I don’t make a fuss. Does hurt like you’re getting your intestines removed though – wouldn't recommend.”

“How in the hell do you know what that feels like?”

“Trade secret, now, shh!” You get to a closed door at the end of a halfway and press your ear to the woodgrain, feeling water drip down your neck and from your nose to plunk against the floor. But you can’t help but flush at Soap’s next comment.

“I can see why Price likes her so much, L.t.”

That gives you pause, your pain momentarily forgotten in the shock.

L-Likes?! Your mind seems to come to a screeching halt, and you feel your eyes widen, horrified, The hell does he mean the Captain likes me? Price can’t stand the sight of me!

You briefly think back on the last mission you had gone on with the Captain and Sergeant Garrick with a tight chest – an intel Op. in the suburbs of Amsterdam.

The goal was simple and the plan was perfect; you and Laswell would link up with Captain Price and Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick in Amsterdam where the pair was tracking an AQ cell on the docks and figure out this missile fiasco. Ideally, the private plane you and your fellow Agent had gotten on would have flown faster – at least you would think it would until the knowledge that the ETA was upwards of two hours punched you in your gut.

You had scowled as you wiped down your rifle's inner workings with a rag, the bits and pieces you had added onto the weapon yourself taking up most of your time when cleaning. Picking up the larger scope with an annoyed hitch to your breath you had turned to Laswell as she gave orders to Price over the radio.

“Two hours? Laswell, I could have taught myself to fly and gotten us there faster.” Your superior had sent you a glance, lips twitching up.

“Still impatient, I see.”

“Rookie coming along?” That was the first time you had heard the Captain’s voice in a long time, and immediately you had picked up on the prodding question hidden under the first.

Who the hell are you dragging into my operation? Or even, Do I look like I have time to babysit?

Had he forgotten you so soon?

“Quite the opposite – Goldfinch is joining us.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“I’m freezing my ass off in a river right now, Laswell, but if I had the time I’d try and wrap my head around what you just said. Can’t say I’d find an ending that has nobody scratching their heads.”

You bring the scope to your eye, looking through the glass to make sure it’s as clear as it can be. Satisfied, you lower it and send a glance to the phone on the tiny table with growing rage and sarcasm, “I’m flattered, Captain.”

“Don’t be, Muppet. I’m guessing you still have a habit of running off-script – creating more problems than necessary that I have to clean up? I’d expect nothing less from a woman like you…you ROG?” You feel yourself bristle, heat rising to your face at the jab. Sure you had a hard-set conscious, but only good things came out of you running off on your own when placed with others.

Playing nice was never part of your job description, nor, in some special cases, was respect. You played by different rules than normal soldiers.

Laswell shifts in her seat but doesn’t tell you to stop when a low growl enters the cockpit. You place the cleaned scope onto the table carefully and narrow your eyes.

“Ironic, coming from a man who consistently disobeys orders like there’s no tomorrow. I can’t count how many headaches you’ve given Laswell since I’ve been by her side. And, Hell, at least I manage to get the job done without leaving a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth,” You lean closer to the phone with curled lips, “You, ROG, Captain?”

From there it had been narrowed glances and snide remarks when you and Price finally met face-to-face on the landing strip. Eyes heated with anger. Gaz had been pleasant, at least, and it was good to see the man again, you admit, but John was…well he was something.

Something handsome to put it plainly, and that fact drove you crazy.

You couldn’t deny your attraction to the older man’s physicality – not even the time of your first meeting years prior. He had biceps that were nearly the size of your head, and shoulders that spanned doorways all tight under a form-fitting shirt. Tall, with large muscular thighs that led up to a tapered waist you felt yourself getting nasty thoughts about all under those damningly tight black cargo pants. Fuck, the things he could do to you without even speaking. The outfit didn’t leave much to the imagination as you’d quickly snapped your gaze away before you started to drool.

Shit, you had thought when you stepped off the plane and saw the familiar face, the strong jaw under Price’s brunette hair with a funny bucket hat on his head. Small blue eyes that filtered over your frame and left you only slightly taken aback by the growing heat in your body when he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his pelvis jerking, I forgot he was so goddamned attractive. Maybe I should have waited to insult him until later.

The attraction had dissipated the second he had opened his mouth, however.

“So here’s the Goldfinch, eh?” John had muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and moving his legs to shoulder length under him, “I’ve re-read your file. I can say,” He sucks in a slow breath, lips falling into a line, “not very impressed.”

Not very impressed.

Laswell grunts under her breath at your side, sighing lightly, “Not now, John.”

“What?” He chuckles humorlessly, body tense, “Can’t blame a Captain for re-learning who he’s bloody letting tag along on a mission – particularly one who made his life hell in Serbia and nearly cost the team the mission because of her stubbornness. Not to mention an entire bloody city. Why is she here, Laswell? I don’t have time to babysit Muppets.” He snarls and glares at you all through the sentence, making your spine crawl with genuine unease. The jagged scar that sits between your ribs had burned in remembrance.

You hadn't bothered stopping in front of Price on that landing strip, you didn’t even bother replying to him. Your eyes gain a hard sheen, even as your lungs sputtered with a very real panic. You’re sure he noticed the hitch in your breathing, though, and you saw something flash in his eyes before it was gone in the next instant.

Sashaying past all you do is call over your shoulder as you go to get ready for the mission – to go listen in on a Cartel and AQ meeting in an hour. You answer the Captain before Laswell has the chance.

“At least I know where to draw the line in the sand, Price.” You caught his dagger-like eyes over your shoulder, noticing Gaz shuffle at John’s side: cautious. Poor kid, he was getting dragged into all the drama.

You had never seen John’s eyes so blatantly full of distrust before. Blue laced with a deep gray that reminds you of a raging storm over an ocean. Lightning flashed every time he blinked. Cold. Calculated. They hadn’t always looked at you like that.

You told yourself a long time ago that you were nothing but a spent bullet to the older man, not worth the effort to pick up or care about.

You just need to wipe your hands of it. There was no changing his opinion of you…But why did you even care?

Even when you saved his life later that day at the café – putting a bullet through a Cartel member before he could blow Price’s chest out – all thwarted by a quick draw of your revolver, all the Captain had done was growl at you after the Basilisk was back at your hip. He had gripped your shoulder with a heavy hand that leaked molten heat. You hated the way your cheeks had flushed when you felt his hot breath on your forehead, the caress of his hard hip against yours.

“Stay out of my way, Finch,” he uttered before shoving past you to pick up the unconscious body of the target. Gaz had rushed forward to help and had spared you a sorry glance but nothing more.

It was like nothing you had experienced before, but he left behind a burning need to be recognized that made your chest sputter when he dismissed you.

Not impressed.

But that had been it. The next second you were shipped out with Ghost and Soap on account of your disapproval from the Captain and Laswell’s ability to see a dumpster fire beginning to smoke. Cutting the losses. Then you were hunting down Hassan in Mexico with adrenaline singing sweetly in your veins. You had been all too happy to be out of John’s seemingly never wavering sight. But still, you felt his eyes on the back of your neck, heavy and weighted with disgust. Everywhere you went and every bullet you fired you could hear his voice – not impressed.

Bullshit. His words shouldn't hurt this much. So, why do they? Why can’t I just let it go?

Back in the present, you shake your head to dispel the guilt of the broken and confusing relationship. You didn’t want any more enemies, least of all ones who in the right circumstances could be unbeatable allies. John was honorable, strong, and loyal, but just as stubborn as you, and that alone left a bad feeling in your stomach that nothing would ever change.

You swore you hated him but was that even true? How can you hate someone but still want their hands on your skin? Roaming under your clothes and gripping just the right places to make you squirm? Laying gentle kisses to your lips and whispering promises? Holding you to their chest...?

You draw your ear back from the door – not hearing anything inside that would make you suspect Shadows in the interior.

Grabbing the knob you twist and let it slowly open on its own, knife drawn and held firmly in front of you.

The shine of the street lights from outside cascades over the floor in muted colors, the many rugs muffling your footfalls as you move in; straining your ears above the raging weather. When nothing caught your attention outright, your hand moves to the radio as you turn and stare at the empty doorway.

“I’m just going to ignore whatever the hell you just said, Soap,” You huff, bringing your other hand grasping the knife closer to your abdomen wound, brushing it with your fingers before flinching, “Where are we meeting up? No offense, boys, but I’m in a bit of a hurry over here. We need to get out of dodge before the Shadows regroup and do a final sweep.”

“Church,” Ghost’s voice wafts out just as your eyes lock on children's toys littering the floor, a large pile of stuffed animals just to your left smashed into the corner, “near the center of the city. There are directions on every street sign. How far out are you, Goldfinch?”

“Not too distant I hope, we’re running out of time,” You hear Soap grunt over the line, obviously learning the ups and downs of Guerilla Warfare firsthand.

“I’m a good way in, but I'll have to check the street signs to know for certain how far and let you know.”

“Copy. Be cautious.”

You were about to leave when a lion stuffed animal bounced into your path, its dark eyes like voids against its tan coloring and flowing mane. A chilled breeze wafts in from under the window, bringing goosebumps up the length of your wet arms as your finger twitches. Freezing, your head filters over to the plushie corner with stilled breath. But even if you already knew what you were going to find, the pain of it didn’t hurt any less.

A young girl was huddled under the pile, gazing out with brown eyes that matched her lion, securely hidden under a multitude of her toys.

Someone placed her there, You think, noticing the signs of a rush in the way the rug was slightly up-turned at the corner, the closet across the room hastily half-closed in panic.

The bodies in the living room tell you what the story was. With glossy eyes, you quickly sheathe your knife before kneeling. Your mind was made before you thought about it – you had to get the child out of here.

Almost got him killed in Serbia.

“Erm,” Your voice makes her flinch, burrowing deeper. You suddenly wished you had taken the time to learn Spanish on the plane ride over, and perhaps known how to properly show someone you’re not a threat, “Eh…¿H-Hablas inglés?... Shit is that right?” Murmuring the last comment to yourself, your head tilts to the floor.

“¿Jilguero?” A thin voice murmurs out.

“I guess that's a no, huh,” You chuckle softly, swallowing down a groan when the motion tightens your chest. Your eyes flicker closed for a second before your breath comes out in deep pants.

Tiny feet hit the hardwood, and when you open your eyes a child no older than ten is standing in front of you, clutching the lion plush in one of her hands and clothed in a blue nightgown that brushes the floor. You blink carefully, and her dark eyes blink back.

“Jilguero,” She points with a tanned finger to your chest, and her soft face smiles.

“I-I don’t…” You sigh, itching the back of your head with a hand before licking your lips, “I don’t understand, I’m sorry. But we have to leave, okay, we have to go.” Emphasizing with the hope she subconsciously knows what you’re saying, you place your shaking hands to your knees and stifle a whimper with a bite to your lip. Forcing your weight down, you stumble to your feet and grip your hair in a tight fist.

When the spinning stops, you drop your bloodied fingers and force a smile onto your flushed face.

The girl walks slowly to your side and latches into a strap on your thigh, looking up at you with a hesitant twist of her lips. Nodding, you hope whatever strength you have left that you can guide this girl to the church and get her out of this city until everything dies down. Already, a burning hatred for Graves gains fuel, sending sharp spikes of adrenaline into the backs of your eyes and the base of your skull.

I’m gonna rip him apart with my bare hands.

Grabbing your combat knife, you keep a hand on the back of the girl’s head to guide her forward, but keep her carefully behind your thigh. If anything were to go wrong, you would be sure your body would take the brunt of it.

“Goldfinch, any updates?”

“You bleed out yet, Ma’am?”

You descend the stairs of the home and make a beeline for the back entrance, dodging the bloody massacre in other parts of the house. The girl follows silently but sends a wide-eyed glance up at your radio as her long brown hair swishes.

“I’m here,” You breathe, “found a kid.”

Steering the conversation away from your currently bled-through gauze the silence on the other end is strangling you.

“Do you think that’s smart?” Ghost knows what you’re doing, he’s not stupid, and Soap catches on not a second later.

“You’re taking it with you?!”

“Did you really just call a child an ‘it’ Soap? Come on now.” You open the back door slowly, peaking your head out, and see only an empty, flooded, cobblestone street. Abandoned cars and trash litter the city, “If I leave her here she dies. I don’t know if Price told you, but I draw the line at leaving innocents behind. I’m sure he mentioned Serbia at some point.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Goldfinch.”

You cut the line, looking down with a moment of contemplation at the girl with your lips pulled thin. But your chest beat with a surety that was deeply ingrained since childhood – what drove you into the life you lead now.

“Alright,” You whisper, “Here we go, Kid, keep close.”

She blinks, doe eyes wide as she tightens her hold on the plushie against her chest.

Hell, she doesn’t even know what’s going on. She doesn’t know…Fuck.

As you both step outside, your boots stomp where her bare feet slap, water splattering both of your heads as the rain still pours. The girl brings on hand to her head, trying to wipe away the racing droplets that fly down her cheeks. Stifling a laugh, you tilt your head and smirk.

Turing into the night, your side steadily burns more with every step you take, skin ripping as the rag drips a trail of crimson that’s wiped away by the storm not a second later.

“Jilguero,” The girl whispers, and with a tight face, you turn your gaze down. She points to your face and brings a finger to her lips, making little ‘shoosh’ noises that make your chest feel lighter.

“Yeah, Kid,” You mutter, “Jilguero.”

Playing copycat you bring the knife to your lips and shoosh before turning your attention back to the road, pulling forward into a back alleyway with iron wrought bars at the top of the walls. Light flows through the openings like a cage, making kaleidoscope images over your face.

The darkness spreads, and all you hear is the labored breathing of your sputtering lungs; tiny feet pattering at your side. But in your mind, there’s a brand like a curse and a voice that never leaves.

Not impressed.

The scar on your chest burns.

–

You never make it to the church.

Quickly picking up the girl, you duck behind an abandoned car as she yelps into your hold, dropping her stuffed animal. Shadows flooded the path ahead, leaking into the road from ransacked houses in groups. By now the rain had slowed – it was still coming down hard, of course, but it was just shy to the point of being safe to speak openly. Looking down, you place a finger to your lips, and a tanned finger mocks the action from the child at your side.

“--Found the three yet?” A shadow calls, and you tune in with a cocked eyebrow, eyes narrowed as your grip on your knife tightens.

“Nah, but I’ve heard comms are going silent from all different sections of the city. They’re out here somewhere. Cornered just like animals in a trap. We’ll flush ‘em out, then we go home and get our paychecks.”

A laugh.

“Yeah!” The previous Shadow yells out into the night, and you flinch slightly lower to the ground with a grimace, “You hear that?! We're gonna find you, Fuckers!”

“Jamie, shut the hell up!” Jovial slaps to shoulders echo, and you don’t repress the growl that builds in you, anger shimmering as you glare holes into the ground. Mistake.

“Aye, what was that?”

“Shit, you heard that too?”

Fuck.

Grabbing once more onto the girl’s arm you’re just about to make a reckless run for it when a small tapping catches your attention. You snap your head to a small window level with the ground, no bigger than a bookshelf cubby installed in the side of a dead house. Inside you see the scared face of a middle-aged man, dark-haired and sun-kissed skin, a beard over his cheeks.

He waves a hand wildly and cracks the window open, eyes wide and snapping from you to the street.

“¡Dése prisa! ¡Dése prisa!” Hesitating only a moment, you and the girl dart forward. Letting her shimmy her way inside first, you frantically look behind you as you place your free hand above the window; hearing footsteps splashing closer with a pounding heart.

“Come on, come on, come on,” You mutter, knees pressing into the ground. When the girl’s blue nightgown fully disappears, you swing your rifle over your head and shove it into the opening. Feeling hands grasp it not a moment later and yank it inside, you sheathe your knife and dive in feet first, body slamming to the ground with a grunt and a cloud of dust. Your vision gets blurry as you lay there, trying to get air into your lungs, nearly dry-heaving from the pain radiating through all of your nerves.

The window snaps shut.

“Get up,” A gruff voice ruffles your feathers as the back dots in your vision peel back, your survival instincts forcing unconsciousness away. Shit, you really needed a Medic, this was bad, “I said, get up!”

Panting, you drag yourself half-up with an arm, the other gripping the dripping gauze at your side. Blood hit the floor and your head feels like it's floating.

You feel your throat flex, turning your gaze to the same large middle-aged man that now holds your rifle against his shoulder, familiar gold-plated barrel now level with your pounding head.

“You fire that, you’re as good as dead.”

“I’ll take my chances,” The man wears a blood-stained white shirt and jeans. Around his neck a silver locket glints.

Your heart skips a beat as you grunt in answer, and you turn your head to look for the girl. Feeling your eyes widen when you find her in the hold of an older woman, who looks at you as she presses the confused girl’s head into her breast.

There’s a group here of at least fifteen people, huddled with fearful eyes. Most are women and children, but a few men watch you with distrustful eyes.

In the older woman’s grip, the girl pulls back and eyes the man holding your rifle. She points at you as you blink in delirium.

“¡Jilguero!” Your arm buckles, but with a wet cough you catch yourself before you hit the ground as your radio sizzles to life.

“Goldfinch, you copy? Haven’t heard from you in a while, Ma’am,” Your breath sputters in your chest as Soap’s voice filters out, but you don’t answer right away.

The man’s grip shakes the gun, but he keeps sending glances from you back to the girl. With a clenching of his jaw, he lowers the rifle.

“The only reason,” He growls, “you are here is because of her,” He looks at the child before walking over to you. Holding out a calloused hand as a peace offering, he continues, “If she wasn’t I would have let that Hijos de puta put a bullet in your head.”

“Goldfinch,” Ghost now weighs in, “report. Now.”

“I suggest you get that, Jilguero,” The many people around your two shuffle nervously, and your thoughts run.

How long before more Shadows break down the basement door of his place and find these people?

“What do I call you?” You ask the man, slapping your hand into his own and allowing him to pull you up with a choking breath.

“Just call me Manuel. Here,” He jerks his arm forward awkwardly, holding out your gun. It didn’t take an expert to know he had no clue how to handle the thing, “This is yours, I believe.”

“Word of advice, Manuel,” You send a slow smile his way before you grab and swing the weapon over your shoulders, “If you’re serious about using it, click the safety off next time.”

“Erm…”

You press the button on the radio as you look out the window, seeing a large group of flashlights descend into the darkness down further in the street. The Shadows were leaving.

“This is Goldfinch,” You flinch, fixing the weight on your legs, “No need to worry, boys.”

“That’s our job. Be lucky you have such enthusiastic partners whispering into your ear… You could have had Price barking orders instead.”

“Soap, never bring up the Captain. I can feel his hatred over the line just at the mention of his name.”

“Hatred? Is that what you think it is?”

“Both of you,” Ghost interrupts, and you have to hide a relieved sigh, “Shut the hell up.”

“Ah, you’re no fun, L.t.”

“Never said I was, Johnny.”

With that, you released the button and sank against the wall – utterly spent for the time being. Fisting at the wrappings around your middle, you draw them back just enough to peak at the damage to your side. Sucking in a deep breath sparks needles all along your ribs, but it’s all you can do to try and process the utter havoc that’s left of your flesh. The rag had helped stop the bleeding, but it had also made your flesh rip out in a way reminiscent of lightning, slowly making the wound bigger inch by inch.

It was drowned all the way through with crimson, and so too was the gauze. The sickly thick liquid you had felt when you were hobbling along in the streets hadn’t been rainwater. You had probably lost more blood than was good for you, by the way your limbs started to go numb and your fingers shook with shock.

“That doesn’t look good,” Manuel comments, having kept a close eye on you during your conversation.

“Yeah, doesn’t feel good, either.” Whimpering, you move the gauze and take the ends of the rag one at a time and ring them out, listening to the splatters of blood as they make slick pools on the floor. The pink skin of your insides is visible as your prod and pry. At least you know the bullet never hit anything important – you’d be dead by now. That didn’t make your dark thoughts take a break, though.

Trying to distract yourself and catch your breath, you send a glance around the room, looking at everyone present until you land on a flushed-faced Manuel. You weakly smirk, telling yourself not to scream as your legs nearly give out from under you.

“Don’t suppose you have a doctor in this room with you, huh?”

“Unfortunately not. I-I’m sorry,” You laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. Your eyes are glossy before you take a deep breath through the weight on your chest.

“No worries. Hey,” You try and straighten up, nearly doubling before you force yourself straight, “which way to the church? I have to meet up with my boys, and I, uh,” Chuckling as you stumble back into a wall you clutch your side numbly, “I just have to meet up with my boys.”

“You have a way out of the city?” Manuel perks up, taking a few steps closer to grab you by the shoulders. You flinch, but let him, watching his eyes fill with false hope.

“No,” His expression falls, “But if I make it there, I may find one. Ghost and Soap are some of the best men I’ve worked with. When we all get our brain cells clacking together, a plan’s sure to form.”

Probably not a good one, You keep the last portion to yourself with a grimace.

Manuel turns his head away before squeezing your shoulders and releasing you. You watch him look around the room, taking in terrified faces and tear-stained cheeks as the dark walls swallow the area. The man looks back as you struggle to keep upright, one arm behind you and hand splayed against the wall.

“You won’t make it there with that,” Manuel points to your side and shakes his head, “No way. Not a chance.”

“You want me to drag you all with me?” You raise an eyebrow, pushing off the wall and focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, stumbling to the basement door, “No. One was alright, but more than three is suicide. Everyone is–”

“--Safer here?” Manuel rushes after you, going to halt a few feet in front of the door with his arms out. He looked pitifully desperate, “Can you say that with certainty?”

You growl, shoving past him and side-stepping limbs on the floor that skirt out of your way, “No, but you have more of a chance.”

“Goldfinch, change of plans,” Your eyes widen at the breathy-toned Manchester accent entering the room, “Church is compromised – Shadows have the place torn up. Make for the Market. And no need to fret over Johnny, the bastards’ with me.”

“Shit,” You bring your hands to your head, running them over your hair and leaving streaks of blood in the strands before you grab the radio. You take a deep breath, “Copy.”

Saying the words so calmly feels like a betrayal of your emotions. You were anything but undisturbed. Swallowing the blood and mucus in your throat, you hesitantly turn your head to Manuel, side-eyeing him.

He smiles smartly, “The Market’s one mile up the road.”

“...I want everyone up and ready to go in two minutes. Move it.”

Hobbling to the door, you place your hand on the smooth texture as Manuel rushes to rouse the others. Taking a glance behind you, the girl stays close to the older woman who held her prior, clutching an apron that she wears. Your chest tightens as she stares at you.

Someone she knows, You think to yourself, good. They’ll look after her better than I could.

Two minutes come and go, and soon the small group is all standing holding meager belongings and family members to their chests.

“Alright,” You mutter, nodding, “You know how to shoot?” Looking at Manuel, you grab the Basilisk on your thigh, flipping it to hold into the barrel and point the grip at the blank-faced man, “It’s a revolver, so it has one helluva kickback on it – only holds five rounds too. If you have to shoot, make it count.”

“I-I’ve only shot a pistol before.”

“Well, then I hope you learn quickly. Safety’s off.”

Handing him the gun carefully, you swing your rifle over your shoulder and check the number of rounds you have left. Doing mental math as you shoulder the basement door open, you slowly ascend a set of stairs and end on the amount of twenty-five.

Your jaw clenches.

Graves had turned before you could re-stock in Alejandro’s facility, leaving you with the bare minimum.

Behind you, the group moves with muttered exhalations, whispering to each other fearfully. God, you could hear their heartbeats pounding in their chests without even looking; but it wasn’t like yours wasn’t beating just as fast.

Almost got him killed in Serbia.

“Shut up,” You growl to yourself, “Not now.” Leading them over the landing, your boots connecting with the hardwood floors; heading towards the front door as the world tilted. Bright colors shot across your vision like passing racecars.

“Easy there,” Manuel’s presence is heavy behind you, steady. You shuffle forward with a shake of your head.

The Market, You do a head count behind you as you grab the front door handle, I just need to make it to the Market.

Creaking the door open, you hold your rifle tighter as you stick your head out.

Empty.

“You stay on my ass, you hear me?” Throwing the inquiry over your shoulder you leave the house with your weapon scanning the streets, knowing that a Shadow could pounce from any angle. You had people to protect now; there was no bullshitting this.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Jilguero.”

“Very funny. Look, can’t you see me blushing.” Behind you, a nervous chuckle bounces off the dead houses, making an uneasy tremor wrack your spine. Keeping the conversation going, you wave the rest of the people over into an alleyway, watching them scurry to you and Manuel.

“‘Jilguero’ is Goldfinch in Spanish, I’m guessing?”

“You would be right, take the next left, but I can’t help but tell you that’s not much of a name,” The man whispers as you hear your feet splash in a puddle, taking a corner, “What do you call yourself – besides Goldfinch of course?”

You take the next left as directed, “Nothing.”

You make it to the market without having to fire a single bullet, though your knife has a few more stains to add to its sheen by the time everyone is staggering to a halt in the alleyway. Holding your hand up behind you to make them stop, you motion to the empty house to your left with two fingers and hear Manuel whispering in Spanish to help the civilians understand.

When they all safely make it inside, you and Manuel wait as the pitter-patter of rain hits your heads, dripping down your cheeks and chin. Swallowing, you look out over the empty stalls and businesses and grip your rifle, but the Shadows are nowhere to be seen in the reflections of windows or heard on the wind. A red pickup truck sits near an overturned booth, and you blink at it in contemplation.

Bright white street lights illuminate the city, creating dark spots over the cobblestone. Bringing a hand to your radio, your gun sits under your armpit, parallel to your chest as Manuel shifts nervously behind you. You hear his quick breaths and frown.

“Ghost, Soap, I’m in an alleyway just outside the Market. Where are you?”

“Copy,” Soap responds first, only a moment after an unsteady silence weighs on your shoulders, “We’re nearly there.”

“Copy,” You hesitate, “When you get here there’s a problem we need to address.”

“Anything deadly?”

“Heh,” Chuckling, your face twists in pain, “maybe.”

“We’ll get there as soon as we can, Goldfinch. Take it easy.” On the other end, the Sergeant was panting – running you realize. They must have really gotten into trouble leaving the Church, “Don’t want our favorite American kicking the bucket.”

“Favorite – I’m flattered.”

“Laswell takes a close second.”

“Less flattered.”

Soap’s laughter cuts out when the sound of running feet from across the Market draws your attention away from the small device. Snapping your hands to your rifle, you steady your stance with half-lidded eyes, though you still feel your hands shake.

Blood loss is one hell of a problem when you’re being hunted like an animal.

Across the road, two men rush out into the light, large frames creating more moving shadows as their steps bounce off the buildings.

“That’s them,” You turn to Manuel and nod your head, “Don’t shoot ‘em.”

The man lowers the Basilisk to his side.

Bringing your fingers to your lips, you feel your lungs sputter as you let out a thin whistle, impersonating a bird call.

Ghost’s masked face and Soaps tense one snap to you with their guns raised. Instincts still sharp as a blade despite the overwhelming circumstances they were in. Immediately the two noticed your disheveled form and shared a quick glance.

They rush over with pounding feet.

“Hells Bells, Goldfinch,” Soap grabs your shoulder with one hand, the other still clutching his gun with tight fingers as you stare at him blankly. He got over to you so fast you feel like you blacked out for a second, “You never told us it was this bad.”

Ghost grunts as he eyes Manuel, pointedly glaring at the revolver in his grip with untrustworthy eyes. He comments to you, “Can you keep going?”

“Always, Sir.” You respond immediately, a wavering smirk coming to your face. Letting Soap help you stand to your full height, you suck in greedy breaths, “But we have a bigger problem.”

The Scot scoffs, looking you over, “Bigger than a damn hole in your side?”

“Yes,” Nodding to the house where the group all huddle, you see their heads peaking out from under the window. The child’s little hands grip the windowsill like a kid on Christmas, trying to sneak the last cookie away, “namely a group of CIVs.”

Manuel takes a step forward, and you feel Soap's arm on your bicep tighten. He slightly moves to put you behind him, his shoulder bumping into your field of view. He had noticed the man before – they both had – but seeing your Basilisk in his hands had made them overlook his presence for a moment. If you had given the man your revolver, you trusted him with it, and seeing if you were alright took priority.

“Easy,” You mutter, “He’s with me.”

“The group is mostly women and children,” Manuel pleads, “If the men from before come back, they’ll all be killed. I have to get them out of the city, tonight.”

“That’s not our problem.” Ghost’s voice is cold and logical. He won’t endanger his squad’s lives, “You’re not our mission, and you’ve done fine so far.” They’ve all been put through the wringer, and dragging along others will attract attention that no one wants. It was more about saving his squad’s hide than the other way around.

But that’s a death sentence for the innocents who are watching from behind the window, eyes wide with fear. You made your decision the second you dragged them out into the street. They were your responsibility now.

“That’s nearly what she said,” The local man points to you and Ghost takes a step forward threateningly. In any other situation, the response from your boys would have been heartwarming.

“I’m not…leaving them here.” You force out from numb lips and feel more than see Soap whip his head down to you.

“Your joking! Lass, you can barely walk by yourself!”

“We don’t need another Serbia on our hands, Goldfinch. You’re coming with us.” Laughing, you shake your head at the Manchester man.

“Next time you see Price, tell him he was right, yeah? He’ll know what I mean.”

“Goldfinch,” Ghost thumps over to you, gargantuan body making you seem even tinier, “I don’t think you’re understanding me: that’s a fucking order, soldier.”

“Would now be a bad time to tell you I only take orders from Laswell?” You chuckle, shaking off Soap's increasingly tight grip; like he could drag you away into the night without you clocking him in the jaw. Your head turns to the red pickup with intent.

“Hotwire the truck – get the hell out of the city.”

“Bullshit. No way in hell are we leaving you here for the Shadows.” Soap spits, taking a step back from you and shaking his head so hard his wet mohawk sprays more water into your face, “I won’t stand for it. We leave here together, or not at all.”

“Graves’ll tear you to pieces if he finds you here,” Ghost stares you down with those unblinking eyes before looking to the tuck in the Market, “not to mention you’re wounded. You won’t last on your own, and with a group of CIVs to keep under check your chance of survival drops to zero.”

“Alejandro said he had a safehouse, yes?” You begin, not finding any other option for yourself to make them understand, “you know the way by road, Ghost, but he also explained a way through the mountains. It’s long, but it leads to the same place. I know the way. I can lead the people through it; get them to safety. I doubt the Shadows will follow beyond city limits – that's not their orders, and Graves is a little shit about that kind of stuff.”

A beat of silence. Soap clenches his hands and gnashes his teeth. He would be more difficult to persuade about this than Ghost. Too loyal to people; cares too much.

It’s not a bad quality to have, You say to yourself, but it clouds your judgment. Makes you…sloppy.

Something clicks in your head, but you don’t have the time to think about it before Ghost is answering you with a grave tone.

“That adds nearly half a day of hard hiking, Goldie…You sure you’re up for that?”

“You can’t seriously be considering this, L.t.!” Soap yells, voice bouncing over the rain, “She’ll die!”

“Better it means something, eh?” As his face drops, you send the Scot a small smile, “Soap…I can’t leave these people to die here. Never been able to, and I won’t start now. You can fight me on this, but you know it won’t end well for you.”

Manuel lets out a snort a few feet away but quickly shuts up when Ghost sends a glare his way.

You watch with guilt in your chest as the bear of a man’s shoulders deflate, eyes turning into that of a kicked puppy. Looking to the side, he grunts.

“...Let me look at the gunshot wound.” Soap gives in, knowing he can’t change your mind, and swings his weapon over his shoulders before ripping open his medical pouch, “No way am I letting you go without trying my best to patch you up.”

Pulling back the gauze and the remains of your shirt, you hike your vest up so he can get a better look as his fingers poke at the skin. The wound festers with sickness, puckered flesh-like lips around the sagging rag it clings to. You don’t even want to look at it, and judging by Soap's quick breath in, he doesn’t either. Ghost burns holes into the side of your face.

The Scot’s finger prod at the rag, eliciting a snarl in turn from your mouth.

“Ask a girl out first before you go lifting her shirt up?”

He doesn't miss a beat.

“I’ll leave Price for that – if the man ever gets his shite together that is. You both deserve each other.”

“Stubborn bastards,” Ghost agrees, leaning back to look into the Market impatiently, “Make it quick Johnny.”

You feel your face heat to an unexplainable level, disbelief pulsing in your veins. All of these comments about Price – Price this, Price that. God, what were these boys trying to do here?

Ask me out? What the fuck is this man on? How many times do I have to tell him how much Price hates me before it takes hold?

But you stay quiet, holding your tongue as the Scot gets to work.

Soap can’t do much to help without making you immediately bleed out in front of him. They have no intense medic experience, no good equipment, and no hope of making the wound disappear into thin air like a magician: though you have no doubt Soap would have tried if it meant it would make you better.

All he does is apply an antibacterial solution and re-dress the wound, getting his gloves all bloody in the process as they drip crimson down into the street. As he packs more gauze around the rag to suck up more blood and try to stop the bleeding, you force back the nausea in your throat.

“Not a chance you have any Advil in that pack of yours, Suds?” Soap sends a serious look up at you, now going to string a long tourniquet around your waist. He ties it tight.

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“Damn, knew I was unlucky today, ” You pant.

Ghost steps forward, hands still gripping his gun, “Johnny,” He whispers, “We’ve got to go. Shadows on the move, I can hear ‘em coming.”

“Go,” You mutter, grabbing his hands in your own and forcing them away. Grabbing the rifle you had put aside, you take a few steps back from the boys who had just gone through hell to get back together and make it out. The only problem was they were now one member short, “I’ll get these people out of here and we’ll meet at the safe house in a day’s time max.”

“We better see you there, Goldie,” Ghost grumbles, “I never gave you permission to die on me.” He turns first, jogging his way to the pickup as shouts pick up on the other side of the city.

“Yes, Sir,” You snort, nearly feeling your legs give you before you right yourself. Soap stands still, watching with guilt-ridden eyes. He reaches into his medical pouch and produces a single white stick. You tilt your head.

“Adrenaline shot,” He explains, walking over to you and slipping it into one of your front pouches. He swallows thickly, “I better see you there, Goldfinch.”

You smile lightly, eyes crinkling despite the hopelessness of his tone, “Get Alejandro back in the meantime, yeah? He still has to play guitar for me at some point.”

—

Price has never felt like this before. His chest sputters, heart palpitating in his breast harshly. He knew how to respond to any situation imaginable – a gunshot, a stab wound, his comrades falling around him like flies and how to push on through it. But this…? Why did he feel like this now?

Where the hell is that damn woman, He feels his lips turn into a harsh frown as he enters the armory of the safe house, multiple racks of weapons and armored trucks passing in the corners of his eyes like phantoms.

It’s been two days since anyone had seen or heard from you, and in the meantime, Soap, Ghost, and Rodolfo had broken out the Mexican Special Forces from their overtaken HQ, and Price and Gaz had come in to assist. But still, there was no Goldfinch.

The Captain could tell the tension in his shoulders had gotten worse. When he hadn’t seen you with the boys breaking into Alejandro’s HQ to free the men…

It was like his heart had stopped working properly since.

“Ghost, Soap!” John calls, voice authoritative as it echoes off the wooden walls. Many of the Vaqueros in the room turn to look, backs unconsciously straightening at the Captains intimidating presence. The named men look up from the large brainstorming table they were hunched over. Alejandro and Rodolfo stand next to them while Gaz trails behind Price swiftly, watching the older man with concern, “Anything on Goldfinch?”

Soap glances at Ghost.

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Negative,” Ghost continues, straightening his spine, “I checked about a mile down the path – there’s no sign. Nothing from the radio either.”

Alejandro speaks up, his face twisting down into a frown as Price and Gaz make it to the table, “The mountains are difficult terrain – radio antennas can’t get a signal out through it. That’s why I hesitated to tell you the way when we first met,” He clenches his hands over the table, looking down at the map set over the wood, “Taking that path…It’s not something most of my men would ever dare to do.”

“And taking it injured – nonetheless with the wound that Soap described,” Rodolfo takes a glance at John, shaking his head with a hesitant look in his brown eyes, “It’s not promising, Captain.”

“The girl’s strong,” Soap grunts, tilting his head in denial as his jaw clenches, “Goldfinch is alive. We just have to wait–”

“We don’t have the time to wait, MacTavish,” Price interjects, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his legs shoulder-width apart, looking down at the map with hidden emotions. The mission came first…right?

Then why did John feel so fuckin’ bad about his decision?

“Graves’ll be vulnerable because of the prison break – on high alert, but that type of thinking always makes people like him sloppy. We have the advantage right now,” Price sighs, lowering his voice to no more than a grunt, as the bucket hat on his head tilts forward, “and I’d rather not lose it.”

A tense silence settles before Gaz speaks up.

“Are…you sure that’s best, Sir?” The man asks, “Goldfinch is one of us. We can’t just leave without her.”

“She made her choice, Sergeant, eh?” Price mutters, eyes snapping from one marked-out path on the paper as if he could find your body between the folds and red ‘x’s’ or if you’d magically appear from the fibers popping up with that damned happy-go-lucky smile that made him want to smash his lips against yours.

Price stills at the thought, hands tightening over the flesh of his arms.

Anyone could see John was pushed against a wall with this.

Graves, or you. The mission, or…you.

He’d never have brought you into this if it had been his choice – tried to shove you away from it with all his power already. But all he had done was force you right into the middle of this shitshow with all of your infuriating goodness. John wouldn’t have bothered to drag civilians into this; his mode of thinking was the needs of the many over the few, as you had pointed out to him in Serbia with such an outburst that the man was half convinced you would give yourself a heart attack. You were just so different from him.

That’s why you love her, A voice hisses in the back of his head.

I’d known she’d do something like this - put her damn life on the line like it meant nothing, Price clenched his teeth, and I sent her away anyways. I should have been here…fuckin' hell.

“We take back Alejandro’s HQ in two days,” John relents only slightly, cursing the hope in his chest singing that you would show up. You had to. Everyone at the table perks at the comment, not previously having any ideas of how to persuade the mission-focused man to relent in his choices.

Soap has a large smile blossom over his face, and he and Rodolfo share a mischievous look; Ghost shakes his head at the pair and their insurance of getting involved in whatever Goldfinch and the Captain had going on.

But it was incredibly confusing to everybody, to say the least.

Even some of the Vaqueros you had been friendly with looked at each other with smiles on their faces. None had wanted you to be presumed dead.

Price continues, “But I can’t do more than—”

“Alejandro!” A yell shatters the Safehouse, and soon one of the Colonel’s men comes springing into the room.

Everyone’s hands are on their weapons in an instant, bodies tense and ready to strike.

“Shit, is it Shadows?!” Gaz asks, but the individual rushes past and grabs Alejandro by the arm.

“¡Es Jilguero! ¡Ella está aquí! ¡Ella tiene sobrevivientes de Las Almas con ella! ¡Venga, rápido, coronel!”

“Jilguero?” Price asks with a hard voice, partially already knowing but not wanting to be disappointed, “What does that–”

“It’s her!” The man says, rushing past the others as everyone else immediately begins sprinting out of the room, talk of Shadows and strategy thrown to the side without a second thought.

It was you. Impossibly, it was you.

John doesn’t think as he rushes past everyone, adrenaline pumping from his heart down to his feet. He can’t seem to think about anything else besides you – your face, hair, body – and feels his stomach roll with an unidentified emotion. All that mattered was you, and he hated himself for it.

She’s back. She’s alive.

Price reaches the front door faster than anyone else, the packs on his vest weighing him down, and the gun over his shoulders jolts with every heavy step that slams to the dirt floor. He slams it open with a shoulder, feet skidding over the ground.

—

You don’t know where the pain stops and you begin. Stumbling forward you hear the happy cries of the people who had come into your care meeting the warm afternoon air, stirring the leaves and bushes.

“The safe house is just ahead, Jilguero,” Manuel keeps you upright with a hand around your waist, your arm over his firm shoulders. No doubt he was covered in your blood from head to toe – he’d been the sole thing keeping you on your feet for half the day.

You’d been forced to cauterize your bullet wound yesterday, and, admittingly, it was a shotty job. Your hands had been too shaky to hold your combat knife steady, leaving long sections of your side burned and blistered that weren’t even connected to the source of your problems.

But it had stopped the bleeding for a while, at least. Manuel had to stitch you up, using the fishing line and needle you had stuffed into your medical pouch when this nightmare had begun. That too was suspect to improvement, but the man had done the best he could while panicking over your unconscious, flesh sizzling, body. All things considered for his first time stitching skin, he had done better than expected.

The sutures had ripped open on the last stretch of the hike.

“‘Bout time,” You wheeze, forcing your feet to carry your forward. The amount of sweat, blood, and dirt that was caked over your body made you want to gag, but no one else was any better. You suck in weak, gasping, breaths.

“Let me walk,” Gasping, you begin moving away from Manuel the closer the outline of trees becomes.

“Whoa, careful there,” He says, but lets you go. Manuel stays close, watching you limp to the treeline on unsteady legs, “Stubborn.” The man mutters under his lips.

“Heard that,” You snort painfully, slowly making your way into the open with one hand over your side, trying to keep the bleeding to a minimum.

When you enter the safe house’s clearing, your eyes squint against the light, turning your head away sharply.

“Goldfinch!” Gaz’s voice reaches you first, making you flinch from how loud it was. Lifting your head, you blink away the dots and lock onto the multitude of people all gobsmacked on the lawn. You raise an eyebrow glancing for a moment at the various civilians being embraced by Vaqueros.

Many were crying.

Family members? You ask yourself, watching with a small smile before looking back to the task at hand.

“Hell, you really brought out the welcoming comity, didn’t you? Miss me that much, boys?”

Soap points at you, beginning to make his way over, “You’re a damned day late, Ma’am! You should get written up for all the worry–”

Price places a heavy hand on the Scot’s shoulder, stopping him with a small skid across the earth.

Oh, fuck, You curse.

You hadn’t even noticed the Captain, too focused on getting somewhere to rest, and finally, put the burning behind your eyes to bed. God, did your side ache something awful.

“C-captain,” You laugh breathlessly, voice cracking and eyes nervously filtering about. Manuel leaves your side to go greet a Vaquero who claps him on the shoulder lovingly, “Good to see you, Sir.”

Silence.

He’s pissed.

Price takes a deep breath, and you see his chest inflate as he stares you down with those narrowed blue eyes that you love to hate. His body is partially vibrating with rage.

Not Impressed.

Nearly got him killed in Serbia.

“Price…I–” You’re cut off with a sharp bark.

“You disobeyed orders!” The enraged man begins, face becoming a deep red under his beard. You watch with tense shoulders as John begins stalking over, his feet so heavy on the dirt they create puffs under his feet. Everyone halts to listen, too afraid to intervene, “Ran off without the security of your squad! Put your life in danger and yourself above the mission!”

Your head sags, chin falling to your chest as you stare hard at the ground. Price’s shadow gets closer, his voice not falling as that authoritative tone rips into your self-confidence.

“Nearly got yourself killed! What do you think would have happened if you died? Who’s fault would that have been, Goldfinch? Oh, right, your sorry Muppet self!”

His body heat leaked into you as you took the words he spits at you, British accent becoming even more prominent as his rage rises to new heights. You’d never seen him this angry before. Against your will, glossiness coats the sheen of your eyes, collecting in your tear ducts. You could feel John’s ragged breath on the top of your head, rustling your hair. He was breathing so heavily you would have thought he had just run a marathon.

He’s so warm, dizzy, and more exhausted than you had ever felt before, you take a deep breath. It was getting harder and harder to stand every second. But you were so done with this cat and mouse game, Price, please, hold me. I’m tired.

You don’t know where the thought comes from, but this one you don’t try to fight.

“Is there anything you have to say for yourself, Agent?” John growls, and you look to see his hands clenched at his side. Shaking.

You don’t look at his face, content with watching his heart beat wildly in his chest, a small smirk growing on your lips. Maybe you’d just cracked the code for all of his attitudes, his supposed hatred.

Maybe he loved to hate you just the same as you did him.

Your head falls forward, hitting on his chest just above his heart. You feel more than see his chest still in shock as your forehead angles itself above the bulkiness of his pouches.

“You can yell at me all you want, John,” You whisper, “but let me lean on you, first. You’re warm.”

Price’s body jolts like you electrocuted him, but after a minute of steady breathing and feeling his eyes boring into the side of your pain-screwed face, an all-encompassing hand makes its way to your head. Finally. It presses into you, pushing your body just a little closer to the man who, up until this moment, had never understood. But, apparently, he didn’t understand you, either.

That was probably because both of you were stubborn bastards.

John’s breath tickles your ears as he tilts his head to the side, knocking it against yours as you feel that stupid hat hitting your scalp. You release a gentle sigh, letting the tension leak out of you as whispered conversations flow all around. But here, at this moment, all you think about is John. About the way his hand fit so perfectly at the back of your head, his thumb moving up and down in soothing motions that leave your eyes fluttering shut in safety. His other gravitated to your waist, carefully whispering over the bandages of your injury. Checking the wrappings and running calloused fingers over the bulk of the stitches.

Was this what you had been missing this entire time?

“Stay awake for me, sweetheart,” He mutters, anger turning into something else as John’s lips caress against your skin so sweetly it leaves you with tears tracking down your cheeks; muffled inhalations of sobbing breaths stuck in your throat, “You’re alright, now. I’ve got you.”

“Don’t let go,” You sniffle, body shaking despite your best efforts. The hand on the back of your head travels to your cheek, wiping away the rouge tears as his callouses scratch your skin perfectly.

Your eyes open slowly, locking immediately on deep ocean blue, with lighting striking every time eyelids closed delicately. You hadn’t seen those eyes so softly meeting yours since before Serbia.

“Never,” John whispers, thumb once more rubbing over your flushed cheeks, so close you could move an inch and your lips would connect. “Never again.”

All you do is smile, feeling the heat in the air become thicker the more you feel John's breath over your lips, his gaze flickering down before snapping back to your shimmering eyes once more.

But, unfortunately, there is a time and a place.

“Fuckin' finally!” Soap’s voice shatters the calm moment, rising above the chirping birds and jerking the two of you out of whatever was sparking, “Ghost you owe me a fifty!”

“Johnny, do me a favor and shut up, would you?”

Laughter bounces, but all you do is close your eyes once more, pulling away to nuzzle your face into John’s neck. Your arms stay limp at your sides.

“Think you can walk for me, Finch?” He asks lowly, pressing his lips to the side of your head and making your face turn into a bonfire as he leaves a kiss behind.

It was a promise – we’ll talk later.

Your pride rears its head inside your breast for a moment.

“Y-yeah,” You stutter, head pounding when you force your eyelids open to see the path ahead of you.

Price grunts.

“Stubborn,” Suddenly hands are gently moving you up into a hold, arms settling under your knees and over your shoulders. When he lifts you so effortlessly, you can’t help the gasp that escapes you. Your rifle sits uncomfortably along your back, but you don’t complain, because John had somehow managed to lift you without aggravating your wound further,. But of course he had – this was Captain John Price, “We’ll have to work on that, Agent.”

“No more than I’ll have to with you, Captain. You’ve got it worse than me.”

“Hm, you’re probably right.” Blinking at him, your eyes crease in confusion, but he only smirks, white teeth flashing.

Scrunching your nose, you put your head under his chin, forcing his head up with a grunt.

You grumble, “Tell Manuel to give my Basilisk back, would you?”

John walks through the threshold of the safe house, nodding to the others to tell them he can handle it as Gaz sends a smirk and a tweaked eyebrow his way. Price won’t even try to decipher that. The rest give you soft glances that you miss, and Alejandro knows he’ll have to thank you personally later for everything you did for Las Almas and its people. But he knows that right now there’s something special going on. He’ll wait.

The Captain chuckles at your comment, even if he doesn’t know who the hell ‘Manuel’ is, “Well, it’s your gun, isn’t it? Why don’t you tell him, eh?”

But all he felt was the sensation of your sleeping body slotted under his head, lips touching his Adam’s Apple and making him shiver as soft breaths fall. John pulled you impossibly closer.

Making his way to the corner, he carefully rested your body on an empty cot and waved over a Vaqueros with medical supplies and ample training.

As the Medic worked on you – lifting up your shirt to see the mangled remains of your side and the botched sutures – Price sucked in a quiet breath and watched with his arms folded over his chest.

In his head, he was telling himself to not reach out to you, let the Medic work, but when your unconscious face twisted in pain he didn’t hesitate. He snatched your hand with your own and watched the wrinkles in your forehead soften as his thumb rubbed the length of the back of your hand.

Pride blossomed in his chest. He could fix this mess he made; you both made.

He smiled.

“You impressed me, Goldfinch. Always have.”

—

Serbia: August 15th, 1700 Hrs. –

You swore if you lived, you would love John Price for the rest of your life.

“What in the bloody hell were you thinking, Muppet!?” The Captain screamed at you as he hand a tight compression to your chest, blood leaking from his fingertips and pooling on the ground, leaving your combat vest in tatters.

If you hadn’t been prioritizing those damned civilians this never would have happened. A knife to the chest is never a good thing, and John was sure that you were going to die under him as he screamed at you in anger and fear; eyes glossy.

An imposter in the crowd, a liar, and the second you had checked to see if the man was alright, he had struck.

John had seen you go down and immediately put a bullet through the man’s skull with an enraged yell. He watched you hit the ground like you meant nothing.

“I told you to run! Goldfinch, I fucking told you to run!” Blood shot from your mouth, splashing Price’s face in a spray of gore. Your eyes were fluttering.

No, no, no. Not like this.

“You never listen! Fuck!” Damn you for making him fall in love with you. Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. Always running into danger, going where he can’t follow, you gave him a heart attack every time you were away from his side.

“Keep your bloody eyes open, Goldfinch! Keep them on me…! Fuckin' hell…where's the damn Medic!?”

John Price swore to himself that, if you lived through this, he would hate you for the rest of his life.

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