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cryptotheism · 1 year

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A Review of The Way Of The Shadow Wolves: The Deep State And The Hijacking Of America by Steven Segal

Alleged rapist and human trafficker, cop groupie, washed-up action movie star, and personal friend to Vladimir Putin, the paradox of Steven Segal is how he manages to stick around despite being –by damn near every account– a universally unpleasant vacuum of charisma. I could go on, but I feel that no introduction of Steven would be complete without the tale of the headlock. Legends tell of Steven’s conflict with legendary martial artist and hollywood stunt coordinator “Judo” Gene Lebell. Allegedly, the two fell into an argument on the set of the film Out For Justice. The crux being Steven’s claim that he was “immune” to being choked unconscious. Allegedly, LeBell called his bluff, and put the actor in a headlock. A headlock that resulted in Steven losing consciousness, and control of his bowels. Steven denies the story. He also wrote a book.

The book is garbage, but garbage in a way that can be easily overstated. I wanted to take a page from other reviewers of this book, and call the text what it is; a fever dream of exhausting mediocrity, swaddled in delusions of grandeur. I wanted to whale on it. I wanted to denounce it like some ridiculous fire-and-brimstone preacher of internet literary criticism. But this does not capture the core, the essence of Way of the Shadow Wolves. There is a paradox at the heart of this text, a contradiction that even now I struggle to describe. Because despite everything, despite the balls-to-the-walls premise, the disastrous prose, and the buckwild plot, this book is deeply and powerfully boring. To call it a fever dream is to imply that it might be exciting.

Some books are bad in a way that must be experienced firsthand. This is not one of those books. In a way, I feel that you’ve already read this book. You know Steven Segal. You met him in elementary school, when he told you he has “every black belt.” You met him in college when you tricked him into smoking a bag of oregano. You met him at your most recent family gathering, where you were trapped in an awkward one-sided conversation about “those people.” The bad-ness of Steven’s work is deeply familiar.

We have our boots. We have our waders. We have our shovels. But, before we wade into the shit, there is one more thing we need to get out of the way: The Shadow Wolves are real. In 1972 the United States government agreed to the Tohono O'odham Nation’s demand that border enforcement agents patrolling their land have at least one quarter native ancestry. The result being the specialized unit of Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers known as The Shadow Wolves. In the 2020 Sonic the Hedgehog film, Dr. Eggman states that they are who trained him in the art of tracking.

WAY OF THE SHADOW WOLVES

Let us cook Way of the Shadow Wolves from scratch. Think of every dogshit C-list action movie you’ve ever seen. Ideally, you want the trash cuts of post-9/11 hysteria marbled with ex-cia heroes and vaguely arab villains. Drop it all into a stockpot. Next, roughly dice some comic books and kung-fu movies, the more racist the better. Now add some datura, it doesn't matter if it's edible or not, because you saw a native American in a movie make something like that once and you’re totally 1/64th Cherokee. Add a whole can of Qanon and a whole can of racism. Boil until you have pacing thicker than mud.

Way of the Shadow Wolves is a police procedural meets a spy thriller, a fast-paced action drama about elite agents on the fringes of the law who have the huge sweaty meaty balls to do what needs to be done for our country. It is Steven's attempt at the action schlock he embodies as an actor. Our hero is John Gode: Shadow Wolf. Reservation-born native American tracker, ICE agent, and Kung-Fu master. I believe he might have been described at one point. If he was, I do not care. Steven does not care. It does not matter. John Gode is Steven, and he’s the most badass dude to ever not be gay. He is: Special Agent Shaman Cop. He’s gonna beat up the deep state. That’s all you need to really need to know. In fact, it is shocking just how little you need to know about this book.

We begin in a movie theater, where our protagonist is alone, watching the end credits of a movie about the atrocious treatment of native Americans on behalf of the united states government. When the film finally ends, John says to himself “It’s about time.” He gets up to leave. The chapter immediately ends. My compliments to the chef. A delightfully bland apéritif of a character introduction. Steven uses the essential point of first contact with our protagonist to tell us vital information like “He doesn’t like it when movies are long.” or maybe “He didn’t like this movie about the trail of tears.” It is unclear. To quote English-Albanian philosopher Dua Lipa, “Go girl, give us nothing.”

I have been dancing around the quality of the writing. It seems impossible to approach without the footing of a new paragraph, an opponent that requires full-focus, an all-out assault. It is nigh-incomprehensible. I hate comparing bad writing to drugs. It feels too easy. But there is a specific air to Way of the Shadow Wolves. There is a distinct cadence, simultaneously manic and lethargic, that comes from attempting to write while day drunk on over-prescribed amphetamines. And make no mistake, if Steven was not entranced by the muse of Too Many Uppers And Downers At The Same Time, if he wrote this thing stone sober, that is worse. Small quotes will not do the writing style justice, you must see for yourself how sentences flow into each other:

“The desperado’s mind went back in time to a small town in Mexico twelve years before, where he first met his two cohorts when they were thrown together by a tragic set of circumstances. Their parents had been gunned down by a cartel who was at war with a competing cartel for control of the area, which was a pathway to the American border near Nogales, Arizona. All three had been shepherded to a local mission where they were being cared for by the Franciscans, who were becoming overwhelmed by the growing number of children left homeless due to the rampant killings by the warring cartels . . .”

Labyrinthine. A paragraph structure that would feel more at home with Calvino, or Garcia Marquez at his most experimental, though stripped of its deft control and musicality. Segal will regularly change temporal perspective in the middle of sentences. A single run-on sentence will begin in the past, have a middle clause in the present, and then return to the past by the end. There is a downright massive cast of characters for a 200 page book. Damn near every chapter introduces three or four more names, and we are lucky if Steven describes them before discarding them entirely. This book is a slog. I find myself losing patience with Steven.

—

Some time has passed since I began writing this review. Originally, my approach was surgical disassembly. I was going to go over the plot, summarize its anatomy, pick apart its flaws with surgical precision. But the more I cut, the more I felt as if I was the butt of a joke. I was performing an autopsy on a clown, pulling sheets of colorful rope from its gut, and the cadaver was laughing at me.

There is a moment, about halfway through. A woman approaches John at a bar. An assassin, who later attacks John in the parking lot with karate. A furious series of crescent kicks, effortlessly blocked by John Gode, who punches her in the ribs and knocks her to the ground. Realizing that her martial arts are defeated, she draws her gun, but John Gode is too fast. He fires his own weapon before she can get the shot off, killing her instantly. “Her round went upward toward the sky as she fell backward with eyes wide open, seeing nothing.”

This scene stuck with me. It illustrates one of the critical flaws at the heart of Way of the Shadow Wolves. Nothing hurts John. Nothing even gets close. He does not struggle. He does not sweat. He does not bleed. Steven clearly intends this scene to be badass, a moment where his self-insert hero defeats a dangerous enemy without trying. This book is an action movie, but John’s untouchability makes every action scene read as a moment of profound and boring cruelty. This was not a contest of master martial artists. This was an adult kicking a child in the throat.

I find myself losing patience with Steven. I am running out of humorous ways to describe this vapid tripe. This is, in my mind, the greatest condemnation of bad writing. There is no hell lower than being boring to mock. I see myself as a sort of sommelier of the awkward and disastrous. I will be the first to tell you “Wait! Don’t throw that out! There are things to be learned!” But Steven repeatedly proves himself to be a sort of Alchemist of Shit, capable of transmuting theoretically interesting bullshit into just fucking nothing. If this book deserves credit for anything, it is its miraculous ability to squander its own premise.

Why write this? Any of this? Steven clearly does not read. Or, if he does, he seems to subsist entirely on a diet of comic books about monkeys that do kung-fu. Why write this? At some level it all comes down to “because Steven wanted to” right?

Right?

But I cannot shake the feeling. To call this book masturbatory is to imply that Steven might have enjoyed it. There is a desperation to the power fantasy here. To be feared by men, desired by women, revered by all, yaddah yaddah yaddah, all the same trite excretions of blunt masculinity. But there is something else. Steven wants the same thing that every conspiracy theorist wants; a simple world. A world he can understand. Steven is exhausted, overwhelmed with a world he feels he can neither effect nor understand. I am exhausted.

I fear my earlier allusions to expressionist novels may have been more spot on than I imagined. Way of the Shadow Wolves has a plot in the sense that Sunny-D contains fruit juice. Its presence is a formality, a ceremonial hat worn for tax purposes. The plot is there, but it is unimportant. This is not a text that can be debated with. Because within the world of the text, politics is not complex. It is not actually a web of interconnected groups, each with their own interests, rivalries, alliances, and historical contexts. Behind all of it is two things: Good guys, and bad guys. The good guys are all working together, and the bad guys are all working together.

I find myself losing patience with Steven. I fear my earlier allusions to expressionist novels may have been more spot on than I imagined. Way of the Shadow Wolves has a plot.

John Gode finds a human tooth in the desert. It belongs to a body, a body of a woman described in lurid detail. Nearby, he meets a young native American man, a man who calls himself Sweet Tooth. The body is missing teeth, missing hands, missing feet. A trademark cartel killing. A young native American man. “I’m gonna be like, your assistant right?” A buddy cop dynamic. Meeting the task force. Tailing an ICE van full of cartel soldiers. A hostage situation. A shootout in the desert. Far away, faceless men in suits with masonic ranks plan a mass killing. Some sounded like they had Arabic accents. Freemasonry. Interrogation with a snake. The corpse was a woman. The woman was a reporter. She had the evidence on a flash drive, evidence that proved the existence of the deep state. What if its all connected? A sex scene, or almost a sex scene. A sex scene interrupted. A shootout in the desert. Kung Fu assassins at a bar. A cartel defector. A shootout in the desert. What if its all connected. They’re working with the Jihadists. The USA is already “half latino.” The government is paying the cartels to ship Jihadists north across the border. They’re well-trained and well armed. You can’t trust anyone. A terrorist defector who hears the voice of the prophet. The ghost of John’s grandfather. The sun sets over the Sonora. A shootout in the desert. They kidnapped John’s mother. Bring them the flash drive. They’re planning to bomb the casino. A shootout in the desert. The police chief was a traitor. The Catholics are in on it. Its all connected. A shootout in the desert. Assault by night. Rescuing the hostage. A knife dipped in pigs blood. A pit of vipers in the sonora.

Steven ends a chapter with the line. “They had functioned like a well-oiled machine that had just saved two innocent lives. All lives matter. Do they not?”

I am tired. I find myself at a neighborhood block party, trapped in a conversation I’ve had a thousand times. This time the man on the other end is a sweaty divorcee in range glasses who looks like a sunburned thumb. Last week, it was a woman with a necklace of crystals and blonde hair bleached blonder. “Haha yeah” I say, looking down at my phone. “Burgers look good this year huh?”

Thank you to my Patreon supporters who made this review possible.

#Steven Segal Review

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puff0o0 · 17 days

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Hes so goofy I literally love him

(credits to @niktocallofduty for the image !!)

It pains me how underrated Nikto is, he's such an amazing character with an amazing storyline. AND HIS VOICELINESS??? AUUUGHHSHSHSHSHSHHDHD

So little content for a guy with such an interesting backstory. Like he was a CIA agent??? and he was captured?? escaped with his life and then became this brave soldier that never stopped fighting to protect those who can't protect themselves??? the torture is sad though :( my pookie bear did NOT deserve that

I love how they wrote his lines and I LOVE the voice they chose for him. It fits him so perfectly it's unbelievable, Gideon emery did such an amazing job with voicing him

His personality is hard to analyze (because he has many) and I really wish we got to see more of him so we could see more of how he's like. The only thing that is helping me is researching DID (which is what I belive he has, if I'm wrong please correct me) and colliding his canon personality with it

its so worth it in the end though

hes so pretty

his eyes are gorgeous

i sob everytime

Not a single time where he looks bad in all these images

hes so perfect

I also feel like so much content can be done with him and it's not limited to one category. he is such a interesting yet complex character and honestly deserves the world for all he's been through 😢

ANYWAYS, SMALL HCs

☆ He is the type of man to distance himself from you when he's upset so he doesn't take it out on you. Most of the time it's him taking a long shower or spending time driving around.

☆ He doesn't really go anywhere except sometimes sports bars, but that's a rare occasion as he doesn't wanna leave you alone too long

☆ but he can't be perfect all the time, sometimes he snaps and it leads to him taking some of it out

☆ He understands when you don't accept his apology and that you were hurt by his words and he makes sure he does everything he can to make up for it and prevent it from happening again

☆ he never wants to hurt you nor does he mean to hurt you. He tries his hardest to be away from you while he's having an episode

☆ he adores cuddling but he will never say it outright. He doesn't even correlate it to the word, just seeing it as a means of showing affection. His favorite way is holding you at night on top of him, almost as if you were a weighted blanket for him. ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡

☆ You always wake up away from him or without him as he's already up

☆ He'll wake you up with breakfast in bed sometimes

☆ He makes you breakfast in the morning, usually he picks but if you want something specific he'll try to make it. He has to practice it if he's never made it before though 𖦹 ´ ᯅ ` 𖦹

☆ His favorite meals are Kasha or Blini ₍^ >ヮ<^₎ .ᐟ.ᐟ

☆ His nicknames for you are: Куколка (doll), принцесса (princess), драгоценная (precious), Родная (sweetheart), and ангел (angel) ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

#wishes ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･#cod #cod mw2 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #Nikto x reader #nikto x reader #Andre nikto x reader #andre nikto x reader #Nikto x you #nikto x you #Andre Nikto x you #andre nikto x you #Nikto #nikto #Andre Nikto #Andre nikto #andre nikto

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forestshadow-wolf · 5 months

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Cw: mention of suicide (not graphic), (vague) mentions of torture

Vamp!ghost in a pure silver muzzle so he can't prey on anyone.

He got turned and muzzled by human!Roba because the torture got so bad that he killed himself, and Roba couldn't have that, so he had him bit. By vernon.

The sadistic bastard was stoked to be able to keep Ghost around a little longer as his "play thing"

The muzzle, little more than a cage for his face, was five horizontal bars with one bisecting the center vertically. At the base of the mask where it sat on his mandable was a hinge, so it could expand and contract because Roba still wanted him able to talk and scream, like the sick fuck he is.

It burned and bubbled and hissed as it seared onto his face, melting the skin so it would cling to the metal when it "healed"

With Ghost's newfound immortality Roba was able to have so much more "fun" with him. He kept him for years, cutting him open whenever he felt like it, just "to see what's going on in there". Branding him with silver to "see what it does" (like he didn't already fucking know). Starving him for months on end. And the muzzle never once came off. When he did get it was through a straw that he was graciously given a single pint of blood.

Then he got bored. And he threw him away. And still the muzzle wasn't removed.

No not thrown away. Buried. In a load of shit. In the desert. One last experiment. To see what Ghost could withstand. He was doomed to burn to death, and even then it was to starve for eternity, or drink through a straw for the rest of his life. He sure as hell wouldn't be getting the muzzle off himself.

One good thing he learned through all this. How far he could break before he truely broke.

Roba locked him in Vernon's reinforced casket, and threw away the key. It took two days of nonstop beating at the wood before he got out, even with the help of the deceased vampire's jaw.

It took 3 days of hiding, and 4 nights of running at inhuman speeds to find the nearest army base.

He also found out that to say he was "starved" wasn't exactly accurate, but there was no other way to describe it. How else you do describe a lack of a need to eat, and yet feeling your body weaken just the same. How else do you explain the feeling of his body using up the blood in him. The way his heart never beats so he needs new blood to replace what has been absorbed or turned into waste, later to be released as venom. What word do you use to describe that othern than "starved", but it's an inhuman kind of starvation, so completely NOT human.

When price found him he was sucking his fifth stolen blood bag dry. He truely was "starved" after so long of not feeding.

The man said he was putting together a task force with the help and authority of a CIA agent. The man, Captain Price introduced him to a dryad, a nature spirit.

It's unusual for a spirits and sprites, especially ones so close to nature, to be in such a violent line of work. But here he was, nonetheless.

Price himself was a normal human, it's the only way the force was allowed to come into fruition.

Ghost was taken to a medic, to see if they could remove the constant burning silver from his face. But it was no use, the doctors said their tools were too soft to ceable to cut into his skin to remove the muzzle. And so there was nothing they could do, short of ripping the thing off, which would only cause more damage, and they didn't have the manpower to do so anyway.

So he stayed in the muzzle, donned a mask to avoid sun exposure, and price made sure to keep a constant stock of blood packs for him, even if sometimes he was reduced to dumping dehydrated pigs' blood into a glass of water, price made sure he was never "hungry" again.

Then price found soap. A natural born werewolf, he said. And he was all rambunctious and happy-go-lucky energy, or that's what it seemed like on the outside. Then Ghost learned that he was a sniper and demolitions specialist, with a wicked memory, and a background intense anti-interrogation training, and he has to wonder how much is for show.

It's only after they defeat hassan that soap asks about it. The muzzle. He knows he saw it when he removed him mask in Las Almas, but he said nothing about it, not did Ghost offer anything.

Soap says he thinks he can get the muzzle off, but they'll need to take leave, head back to his home. Ghost isn't sure how he likes the sound of that. He does want the burning silver off, but he's pretty sure he's heard that wolves and blood suckers weren't exactly friends. And while he's already dead, he can still be killed, and he definitely can't survive an entire pack of wolves (sans one)

Soap says it'll be fine, he'll vouch and/or protect(?) Him. Price encourages him to go, says he can finally get the stupid cage off. And gaz is laughing his ass off at his predicament, and just generally being unhelpful.

A phone call home to Mama Mactavish, explaining the situation had Ghost reluctantly agreeing to go, if only to appeasethe frantic woman. Soap requested 3 months medical leave for both of them, and price easily signed off on it, practically pushing them out the door.

Soap's home was nice, a fair bit or farmland with a large home that just seemed to radiate comfort.

Mama Mactavish was first to meet them at the door with a fresh batch of homemade danishes, she pulled them both into a bone crushing hug and ushered them inside. She didn't even flinch at the sight of the muzzle or the horribly "scarred" skin underneath or his fangs.

Simon wasn't so sure what to think about that, he'd never had this kind of kindness before. He didn't hate it. Everyone else was almost as friendly, and he couldn't tell if it was a pack of anomalies, or if the rumors were false. They even had fresh lambs' blood for him, warmed to perfection.

He and Johnny were given a day to rest and settle in, then they were being woken at the crack of dawn, to start collecting herbs and begin preparations. Mama explained that it was a family secret, so she swore him to secrecy.

He supposed it only made sense for a family of werewolves to know how to treat silver burns.

She put Johnny to work making so sort of... salve (us that what you call it? He wasn't sure), then mama had donned a pair of gloves and had him lay down with his head in her lap, she started massaging the salve into his skin around the muzzle.

It was slow work, and took hours to make even a small bit of progress, but progress it was. As more and more of the silver lifted, Johnny helped slide gauze underneath to prevent it from burning back on.

It took all day and most of the night to finally be able to lift the muzzle off, but Mama never once complained.

Simon thanked her profusely, and would be forever indebted to her, but she just waived him off.

A week later the wounds were still trying to heal over, and he knew by the end of their leave there would be little more than a faint scar over near-perfect skin.

There was one night that Johnny had joined him sitting out on the porch. One unable to sleep, and one who would never sleep again.

"Why did you help me?" It'd been running through his head since they arrived. "You hardly knew me."

"I know you enough." Johnny chuckled, knocking their shoulders together.

"But why?" He still didn't understand.

"You know what it's like to have the words 'echoic memory' on your file? I do. It's why I took all that extra training, put it to use a few times too. But nothing could have prepared me for being force-fed silver." Johnny shivered with a faraway look in his eyes. "The pain lasted months. I couldn't be active for nine months. I can only imagine what it must've been like to live with that on your face for years."

"Thank you."

Johnny nodded.

They spent the rest of the night there on the porch, at some point Johnny fell asleep on Simon, and Mama found them early in the morning.

#vampire au #vampire!Ghost #Human!Price #Dryad!Gaz #werewolf!soap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #mama mactavish is a lovely woman #soapghost #ghostsoap #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #also ghost is a fresh vampire in this #echoic memory!soap #just for funsies #el rambles

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 3 days

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You Call It Madness But I Call It Love

Chapter 14: You're All I'm Dreaming Of

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy. This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter fourteen of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 5.8K

Warnings: References to sex, Mentions of sex (not really explicit), Self-detrimental thoughts, Cursing, Drinking/Snorting Drugs, Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC, Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from Soldier Boy's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

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

Previously:

"Y/f/n Y/l/n?" The dark haired man asks, an accent tilting the ends of his words.

"Who's asking?"

He pulls out a badge, holding it up to the peep hole. "I'm Agent Butcher, this is Agent Campbell. We’re from the CIA, here to ask you a couple of questions about Soldier Boy."

You open the door to look at them. "The rapper?"

"What?" Agent Butcher looks confused.

"The rapper? Soulja Boy-" You arch a brow feigning confusion. "Because honestly I don't understand why the CIA would be asking me about that."

“No.” Agent Butcher holds up a photo.

You keep your face impassive. It’s a photo of Ben and you at a movie premiere the week before he left to go to Nicaragua.

“You’re here to talk to me about my mom?” You flit your eyes back to the two men standing in the doorway, easily slipping into the lie that you and Legend invented.

“Your mom?” Agent Campbell looks confused.

“Yeah. Indigo. Who did you think I meant?" You ask.

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

Present Day

*Soldier Boy POV*

The longer Ben sat in the motel room the more he thought of you. It wasn’t unusual. Ben was always thinking of you, even before he fucked everything up and before you two became supes, Ben rarely thought about anyone else. He hated that he did that, hated that you were always on his mind because he believed that he shouldn’t care about you as much as he did. Because why would you want someone like him? He was a fuck up before and after the serum and you deserved better. You always had deserved better.

When his cage had finally opened your name had been on his lips. He was ready to see you again, tell you how sorry he was, and how much he loved you. He hoped that it was you finally coming to take him away, but it wasn’t.

Y/n said she never wanted to see you again. Of course it wasn’t her.

He sighs and takes a bite of cheeseburger. His first one in 40 years, that the British fuck had gotten him, but it tastes like sandpaper, because he can't focus on anything but you.

"Well we know a few of your old team members are already dead." Butcher breezes pacing in the dingy motel room. "Countess, Gunpowder, Indigo-"

Ben reaches for his knife to grind up the oxy on the table in front of him, hoping that the pills will bring more relief than the whiskey.

It had been three days since he got out of Russia. Two since he visited Legend, when Legend told him that you were dead and Ben threw Legend's red armchair through the window of his apartment.

When Legend said it, Ben couldn't breathe, couldn't grasp that you were really gone. He didn't want to believe it.

You were all he thought the past 40 years, you were the only reason why he wanted to get the fuck out of Russia. He hated himself for what he had done, felt that he deserved the torture, but it was nothing compared to how he had tortured himself over the years.

The last thing he said to you often replayed in his mind and the way you looked when he said it burned against his eyes at night. He hadn't meant to hurt you, he didn't want to hurt you, never did. You were his oldest friend, the only person he knew that could be honest with him, call him out on all his shit, the only person who knew the real him, and the only person he could trust to be the voice of reason when he lost his temper.

And he threw you away like you meant nothing to him, when you were the only person who meant everything, the one person that he actually gave a fuck about.

Ben thought about your last night together often, remembered the dinner in the little restaurant when you wore a dress the color of his suit and looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen you as you danced to the song that always made him think of you. Remembered how he felt when he finally took you to bed, how each time you cried out his name it made him feel proud that it was him making you feel that way, that you wanted him as much as he had wanted you for so long.

Of course, then the memory of the next morning broke in his mind. When he woke up before you and held you closer than he'd held anyone else, slowly stroking your back and watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you slept and allowing himself to feel at peace. He couldn’t stop smiling in that moment because you genuinely wanted him to hold you close to him. When he woke up with you in his arms when you were children he feared that you wouldn’t want him to hold you, so he always pulled away, afraid of the rejection. He felt rejection from his father, but Ben knew that if you ever rejected him he wouldn't recover.

And then I rejected her, like a dumb fuck.

Ben was not a cuddler, he didn't think it was manly, but being there with you the morning after was different, and he believed he could have laid there for eternity listening to the soft beat of your heart where you rested against his chest and watch the gentle rise and fall of your body as you breathed. He had trailed his fingers along your spine as you laid on his chest, happy for the first time in his life.

When you told him that you loved him, he had been stunned. He remembered the soft blush of your cheeks and wide smile as you said it. He had wanted to say it back, to hear you say it once more, and to make love to you again while he said it- because he knew that’s what you had done together. He had fucked a lot of women, but that night with you was different, he cared how you felt, wanted it to be good for you, wanted to be everything you needed.

But the thought of you loving him scared him.

As much as it made him a pussy, Ben understood that it scared him.

You shouldn't love him because he didn't think that he could be what you wanted, that after all these years he couldn't be enough for you, and he believed that he shouldn't care for anyone as much as he did for you, because that meant weakness. That meant that every time you were on a mission together he would have to worry about you more than anything else. And Soldier Boy couldn't be weak.

So he pushed you away and ran to Countess. Ben's jaw tightens.

The psychotic bitch that sold me out.

It had surprised him, how recently she had died. Butcher hadn't taken responsibility for it as he had for Gunpowder, which made Ben curious as to who had done it.

"Are you sure that Indigo is dead?" Ben asks taking another bite of the hamburger, but it still tastes like nothing.

He wondered if that was because you were gone and then wondered if he'd ever be able to taste anything ever again.

"What?" Hughie looks up from his bag of food. "Why would you think that?"

"Countess. Y/n hated her." Ben takes a swig from the bottle of whiskey on the table to try and dissipate some of the sadness he felt when he thought of you being gone. "Who told you that y/n was dead?"

"Her daughter." Hughie answers.

Ben freezes, his muscles tightening as a sickening feeling rises in the pit of his stomach. "She-she had a kid?" The thought made jealousy burn in his chest. Someone else had loved you, someone else had been man enough to say the thing that kept him up at night.

Of course she had a kid. She said she wanted a family. I was just too fucking stupid and couldn't admit that I wanted to give her that, to give her anything she wanted because I fucking love her. Did I really think she was going to wait for me? After everything I did to her? After everything I said?

"Yeah-" Butcher shrugs. "Spitting image of her."

"She looks like her?" The thought of seeing you smile again makes something stir in his chest.

But it wouldn't be y/n. Ben reasons to himself. Because she’s gone.

His hand tightens on the bottle of whiskey and he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter in his hand as a wave of sadness comes over him. The memory of you and him at Fairmount Park, when you painted him briefly flashes across his mind and he allows himself to bask in your smile for a few fleeting moments before it’s gone. It makes him feel like he’d taken a knife to the chest at the thought that he’d never see it again and never hear you laugh.

"Yeah. Calls herself the same thing." Butcher continues.

"I want to meet her." Ben states taking one last drag of whiskey from the bottle.

"What?" Hughie chokes on his food.

Ben stands up. "I want to meet her. Where is she?"

"Oi, I don't think that's a good idea. She didn't really seem too keen on seeing you-"

"What do you mean?" Ben spits back, eyes narrowing.

Hughie shifts in his seat uncomfortably and Ben can hear Hughie's heartbeat quicken in fear.

"Don't be a pussy and just tell me." Ben snaps, becoming angry.

"She didn't want to talk too much about her mom. But she did mention how upset her mom was with you." Hughie states.

Ben felt the memories of the past creep up on him again.

Of course she was upset.

He remembered how broken you had looked the night you caught him and Countess. The look on your face forever sealed in his memory. He’d never seen you look so small. Honestly he was surprised that you hadn’t killed Countess that night. If he had walked in on anybody fucking you after the night you shared together, he knew that he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from killing them.

Because you were his.

He thinks about Howard briefly. Ben had almost killed him before you were supes when he called you his at the dance. It was also difficult to walk away when Howard hurt you.

Ben’s thoughts drift back to Countess. Her body had been burned beyond recognition, but her head was no longer attached. It would have taken an extreme amount of force for someone to do that.

Could she still be alive?

Ben thought about your ability. He was the only one who knew what it really was, that you didn't just come back from the dead, that your body was able to take the power of any supe that killed you. It made you incredibly indestructible, more invulnerable than him, even though he didn't want to admit that. He liked the thought that he was stronger than you because it meant that you needed him to protect you. He liked the thought that you needed him.

The day you both figured it out momentarily dances across his mind, making him tighten his jaw.

He remembered the sound of the gun and how you immediately pushed him out of the way to take the bullet for him, because you didn't know he was bulletproof and your gut reaction was to protect him.

Ben remembered how he held you when you took your last breath, watched the fear and pain in your eyes, mirrored in his own body at the thought of losing you, of trying to exist in a world where you weren't there. It was how he felt now.

Purposeless.

He remembered the broken feeling that rose in his chest when he heard your heart beat for the last time and how he begged internally for you to come back to him, because he didn't want to live if it meant losing you. He remembered gently brushing your hair back from your face as relief swelled in his chest when you came back and he clung to you like you had been gone a millennia. Of course after he had yelled at you for being so stupid, for putting yourself in that situation, tried to act like he didn't care as much as he did, but you'd only yelled back and refused to listen to him.

She was just so damn stubborn all the time.

"I don't care. I want to talk to her." Ben grabs the black leather coat that Butcher brought him and changes into a dark t-shirt and a pair of jeans. "Take me to her."

Butcher rolls his eyes. "Well, she did call the other day and say that she had some information for me." Butcher shrugs. "Let's go."

"But-" Hughie interjects.

"Oi Hughie. Calm down."

"She lost her mother. I don't think she wants any reminders of that."

"I promise I'll be gentle, cupcake." Ben rolls his eyes and pushes past Hughie to the door, the thought of seeing you again or just someone who shared your face enough to make him feel something for the first time in forty years.

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

"Oi, Y/n you in there." Butcher presses the call button on the outside wall of the brick apartment building.

Ben looks up and down the street, noting the people who are walking down the cracked sidewalks. It was weird to be back in New York, to be in a city that he lived in for so long and feel out of place. Hughie had tried to explain some things to him about the new century, but Ben was still confused, and honestly he didn’t care. The only thing he could focus on was you and the possibility of you living here.

Not you. He corrected. But maybe. He still didn't quite believe that you were dead, that you could die.

A minute passes and Ben is tired of waiting. He confidently walks up to the glass front door, and pulls with enough of his superstrength to break the lock and open it.

"What are you doing?" Hughie whispers following behind him, but Ben ignores the question strutting straight to the stairwell.

"What floor?"

"8th." Butcher says.

When they finally reach your door Ben pauses. He's not sure if he can look you in the eye, not after all of these years, if it really is you. And if it wasn't then what? What would I say to her daughter?

The thought makes the fear that he refuses to acknowledge grip his chest, the fear that you were dead followed by the feeling of purposelessness that seemed to follow him since he heard the news.

If it is her daughter, maybe she’ll tell me if y/n suffered, if she died thinking that I hated her.

The memory of the fight stirs in his chest as Butcher knocks on the door and waits. But nobody answers.

"Must not be home." Hughie shrugs. "We could call her-" He begins to say, but Butcher deftly picks the lock and the door swings open into the darkness.

As soon as Butcher opens the front door of the apartment and Ben steps through, all he smells is you. It's enough to confirm in his heart that it is you and not your daughter. He felt something in his chest stutter to a halt as he inhales the familiar scent of lavender and lemons. It was everywhere, all around him, flooding his senses.

And for the first time in forty years he felt comfort, at peace. For a moment all thoughts of revenge, rage, and justice fades from his mind and he is left with the memory of you.

Ben immediately is transported back to those quiet moments when he settled into bed next to you after climbing through your window. When you would fall asleep before him and curl against him subconsciously, your hair tickling his cheeks and sending the soft smell over him. The nights when he’d wrap his arm around you as soon as you fell asleep because he was afraid to do it when you were awake, afraid that you would reject him like so many others did. Those nights with you outweighed any other time in his life. He remembered that each time he crawled through your window you smiled up at him, were happy to see him, so different than the home he left behind, where his father wouldn't look at him.

He remembered the nights after you took Compound V, when even after a hard day when he was a dick, you still allowed him into your bed, allowed him to sleep next to you. Those quiet moments in the late hours of the morning when you cuddled into his side and muttered words in your sleep that he couldn’t understand all the while he brushed your hair back from your face stayed with him. As much as he refused to admit to anyone, refused to show any emotion, being there with you, felt more like home than anywhere else.

That's why he asked you to come with him in the first place. He couldn't leave you behind. Maybe that was selfish of him, but he would not pretend to be unselfish, not when it came to you.

He thinks about all the suitors that he scared away before him and you left Philadelphia, all his friends who expressed interest in you only to have him drive them away, and of course the one that wouldn't leave. The one that bought you jewelry and finally asked you to marry him, another reason why Ben convinced you to come with him.

The jealousy was familiar. Ben didn't want to leave you behind, the thought that some other man would possess you or love you made his chest hurt. You were his. No one felt the way about you that he did, never would. No one would know you, care about you or understand you like he did, and no one knew you as long as he did. And although Ben had trouble expressing it, he knew that he loved you, he hated himself for being unable to say it. He couldn’t decide if admitting that he loved you made him a pussy or it was his fear of telling you that made him one.

Ben looks around the apartment, noticing the artwork on the walls, the messy studio table, and smiles. He remembered the way you always had a sketchbook with you, he used to tease you about it, but you would only roll your eyes at him and continue to draw. He loved watching you sketch, watching how focused you were as you created something so effortlessly. He remembered watching you paint with the watercolors he got you, feeling a swell of pride that he was the one who started that love. Ben had been afraid to give them to you, afraid that it was too thoughtful, but then he remembered how widely you smiled, how happy you had been.

The apartment felt like you.

And by now again he knows that it is you and perhaps that's worse, because now he has to face you and he doesn't know how to fix this, any of it.

You weren’t like him or anyone else. You didn’t bend under easy promises and gifts like the other women he had been with over the years. Your ability to read him and understand him meant that you were special. And you were. You were special to him.

He moves forward towards the darkened hallway.

"Hey wait-" He hears Hughie say behind him, but Ben ignores him.

Ben finds your bedroom easily and the smell grows when he opens the door. He takes in the controlled chaos of the room before his eyes fall on the suitcase on the large bed.

Where was she going?

Ben pulls your supe suit out of the bag and smiles at the memory of the day you first tried it on. You never wore anything form fitting, hid your shape under shirts and pants, but the day he saw you in this for the first time made his breath catch in his chest. He knew that you thought you were fat, but Ben never believed that. He loved every curve of your body, loved to trace them with his eyes when you weren’t looking and when you finally let him take you to bed, his hands. Seeing you in the suit for the first time was almost enough to push him over the edge, but he kept it together.

He notices the plane ticket on the edge of the bed, beneath the bag, and he pulls out the printed piece of paper, reading the fine print.

She was going to Russia. She was going to come get me even after I-

The emotion that rises in Ben's chest is unfamiliar. He did not like giving in to emotions the same way others did because he believed that made him weak, a lesson his father had ingrained into his mind. But this time he doesn't attempt to push it down. The plane ticket crumples in his hand as his jaw clenches tight. A part of him was relieved, relieved to know that somewhere deep down you still cared about him, maybe that meant that you would be willing to see him.

But he still didn’t know how to fix this. He'd never been good with words or apologizing or, well, love in general. He’d never loved anyone before you. He frowns at the thought of all the meaningless flings he'd had in the past. There was only one relationship with a woman he'd ever been in, with you, and he'd fucked it all up.

He kneels and reaches under your bed, looking for the box he knows will be there. It's a dark rosewood, one from your bedroom when you were a kid, but now it holds a different value. Ben sits on the end of your bed and opens it.

He had caught you with it a few times, usually when you started drinking or on your birthday, always on your birthday. It's why he never let you stay at home, he made sure you came out with him, because your mind would drift when you were alone and Ben didn't like the dark places it took you.

Ben rarely liked leaving you alone. Whenever he was on movie shoots in another country he would call you just to hear your voice, and even when he went to bed with someone else and they fell asleep he would stay up thinking of you, wondering if you missed him as much as he missed you, and wondering if you could sleep without him because he couldn’t sleep without you. Another reason why he pushed you away, believing that it made him weak.

The photo on top is unfamiliar to him, it's newer, and shows you standing with a young brunette woman outside of a college dorm. He traces the lines of your face with his thumb. He hadn't seen a picture of you in forty years, but you were just as beautiful as he remembered. The one that follows is also unfamiliar, you holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket, the baby’s hand wrapped around your index finger, and you looking down at it like it's your whole world.

The look in your eyes does something to him. He remembered when you looked at him like that, the morning when you woke up next to him and whispered those four little words to him that he always wanted to hear while holding his face tenderly between your palms, "I love you Ben."

When things got bad in Russia he would strain to remember the memory, remember the way you looked at him, the way the words sounded falling from your lips. The words that he always wanted to hear you say. The morning that he wished he could change and the disastrous night he wished never happened.

"We shouldn't be here." Hughie says to Butcher in the living room.

"She ain't home. We'll go when he wants to leave." Ben hears Butcher respond.

But Ben knew that he didn't want to leave, wouldn't want to leave. He had spent the past forty years away from you and he didn't want to spend anymore time apart from you, even if that made him a pussy, he didn't care.

"This isn't a good idea. Y/n didn't want him here-" Hughie tries again

"Oi, look at this. She's looking at flights." Butcher states, when he notices the laptop on the counter.

"What?" Hughie asks.

"If it ain't her, how would she know about Russia?" Butcher says back. Ben hears a rustling like Butcher is going through the trashcan “And take a look at this-“

Ben shuts out their conversation and pulls other photos out, finally pulling out strip of paper from a Photo Booth. It was the day he took you to a baseball game, before you were supes. You’d never been to one before and Ben had only been to the one his father took him to, when his dad got drunk and forgot Ben was with him. Ben frowns for a second but then looks back at the collection of photos on the strip. It was a good day. He had bought you a ridiculous hat, and you'd sat next to him looking radiant in the sunlight like you always did sketching him. Ben loved it when you drew him, it made him happy to know that when you looked through the pages of your sketchbook later that you were thinking of him. He often wondered if you thought of him as much as he thought of you. You'd both gotten drunk on cheap beer and when a woman yelled at you for being unladylike you flipped her the bird and said some choice words that made the tips of the woman’s ears turn pink.

Ben loved that about you, that you never seemed to care what others thought of you, especially your friendship with him. Everyone you knew had told you to keep a wide berth from him, but you didn’t listen.

Ben traces your young face in the photo with his fingertip.

Maybe she should have.

He turns back and pulls out a yellowed photo of you and your mother. Ben frowns at the expression on your face. You were never happy when she was around. He hated your mother, not just because she hated him, but he hated what she did to you. He hated that she made you feel ugly, when you were the most beautiful woman that he'd ever seen. Even as teenagers, Ben couldn’t help but notice how pretty your figure was and how you filled out the soft dresses you wore when you went with him on adventures through the city. He never thought you were too fat, if anything he liked your curves. The night you were finally together he worshipped them, wanted you to know that you were beautiful, to understand that he saw your beauty, because he knew that you still thought about what your mother said to you. He hated that she had such a hold on your life even though she had been dead for so long.

He hears a rattle along the bottom of the box and when he picks up the source of the noise he immediately wishes he hadn't. It's a single pearl, and Ben understands what it's from. It's from the necklace he bought you for your birthday, the one that you ripped off your neck when you found him with Countess. He had agonized over whether or not to get it for you, thought that maybe it was too thoughtful or rather was too romantic. But the look on your face when you opened the box made him feel like he’d swallowed the sun.

Ben's teeth clench together as a wave of guilt crashes over him remembering what he yelled at you, remembering what he did to you. He thought that it had been what he needed to do, that he needed to push you away because he didn't want to care about anyone else, at least not the way he cared about you.

He hadn’t thought it would hurt as much to say those things to you, but it had all but ripped his own heart out.

But even before you found them together all Ben felt was guilt. He wasn’t enjoying anything he was doing to Countess, all he wanted was to do those things with you. He thought it was necessary, that by doing those things with her he could somehow clear his head of you, but all it did was make him feel guilty and want you more.

He thinks about the days that followed before his mission in Nicaragua, when he agonized over calling you, over showing up to your apartment, but he couldn't. He couldn't face you. He hadn't been able to sleep those nights before the mission and wanted desperately for you to be there with him. Ben couldn't sleep when you weren’t with him. He hated that he'd finally gotten you and then lost you so quickly.

Ben notices a velvet box, and he sighs when he opens it. It's an engagement ring, the engagement ring that you showed him the night he asked you to come with him.

He briefly wonders if you thought that was his version of a proposal. That you believed, turning your back on your family and coming with him meant more.

I’m such a fucking idiot. I should’ve-

“It really is a shitty ring.” He mutters. And it was, it was all wrong for you. Ben knew what you liked and he couldn’t believe that this was what that asshole got you.

Why did she keep it? Because she wanted to remember what her life could have been like if I didn’t ask her to come?

Ben remembers when he asked you if he ruined your life, before everything exploded. He imagined that after that night you changed your answer, because how could you look at him, let alone want to be around him after what he did to you?

Ben examines the ring again allowing the memory of the night you showed it to him push its way into his mind. He remembered being scared, of course he’d never admit that, he wasn’t a pussy, but he acutely remembered the moment you showed it to him. The fear of losing you that struck him when he noticed it on your finger, as the weight of what it represented settled on his shoulders. He knew that the asshole who proposed would quickly turn you against him, and this time you’d believe it because you loved that dick or-

Ben reconsidered. She didn’t love him because she came with you. She loved you.

He remembers again what it was like to be with you in bed, when you whispered those words so tenderly to him and is struck with guilt all over again.

You had looked almost sheepish when you showed me the ring, like you were afraid to tell me-

Of course she was afraid to tell you. She wanted you to propose but you didn’t instead you fucking ruined her life and strung her along for 40 fucking years-

He never understood how you did that. Survived all those years with him while he fucked his way through everything that crossed his path. How you continued to stand by him when he was a dick to you and so many others. And yet you never let any other man into your life.

He remembers the night after you got between him and Noir, remembers asking you if you wanted to marry Howard, but you said no. The other things you said struck something within him. When you said you wanted someone to come home to, someone who would love you, a family. He remembers how you looked the night of your birthday in the restaurant, how you watched the couples around your table and smiled. He knew what you were thinking, and he had tried to show you that he could be that for you by taking your hand where it rested on the table even though it went against every instinct he had. He wanted so badly to give you those things, to make you happy. Ben didn’t want you to find that with anyone else. He would have loved to have a family with you, to be with you always the way you were always there for him, or were until he fucked it all up. He remembers asking you to marry him, apart of it had been a joke, just to gauge your reaction, but deep down he was curious. He hadn't expected it to hurt so much when you laughed him off.

Ben sighs. When you spoke about leaving Payback he was worried, worried that it meant you would leave him too and then who would he have? No one. It’s why he spent so many nights in your bed, with you curled up beside him. He didn’t want to be anywhere else.

He shuts the ring box with a snap and throws it back inside. The memory of the night you spent together is just on the edge begging to be let in. Ben indulged in that memory many times over the years, letting it strengthen him. Remembered every detail. It was the first time that he actually cared what someone else wanted in bed. He remembered how your cheeks blushed when you told him that you’d never had sex before and how you said that you wanted it to be him. He never imagined that you would want him the same way that he’d wanted you all those years.The exact reason why he drowned himself in so many other women, because he thought that’s what he needed to do. Because you deserved someone better than him, you always had.

The thought is immediately followed by what he yelled at you in the bathroom at the premiere, when he turned something that you believed to be special, one of the happiest nights of his life, into a cheap fuck.

He remembered the broken expression on your face. He'd never seen you look so small. Ben always admired how strong you were, but as soon as he said those things to you, he watched you crumble when he broke your heart.

Worse still was when he grabbed you. He fights the shudder, remembering how he grabbed onto your arms. As many times as you’d stood between him and the source of his anger, he’d never laid a hand on you but that night, he was just so damn frustrated. You were looking at him with those big eyes of yours that always saw through him, understood him, and he was frustrated because he wanted to tell you that he loved you that he always had loved you but he couldn’t. He couldn’t admit it because he was a man and damn it a man didn’t show emotions and he was Soldier Boy he didn’t need anyone-

His jaw clenches together so tight that he hears the click of his teeth.

But he did. He knew that all he needed was you.

I’m such a fucking asshole. Y/n doesn’t need me and I don’t deserve her-

Ben raises his head to look at your bedroom door as he hears the front door of your apartment swing open. And he freezes.

Because why would you want to see him? He had ruined your life.

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

A/N: Alright everybody we made it to the chapter right before the reunion!!! What will happen? Will she forgive him? Who knows?! Even me, honestly. 😂

Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist, please let me know. :)

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

Scratches in the Surface

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader

Synopsis: Investigating Shepherd was a mistake, but the betrayal of John Price hurt more than anything Shadow Company could do to you.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Talks of gore, torture, violence, swearing, blood, angst

A/N: Not really sure if I like this or not, but the idea was good so I kept it. Your codename in this is ‘Key.’ Part 2

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

The buzzing lights above you were going to drive you insane faster than the damn clicking of the man’s pen, but you endured the overstimulation of your brain with an expression of boredom.

Click, click-clack, click,

God, You clench your teeth together, either stop that, or I’m going to–

When you go to move your hands over the metal table, the cuffs around your wrists shriek as they slide. The man in front of you pauses, looking up from his file, the manila folder sitting tantalizingly close; your fingers curl over the paper cup to your right, grabbing it and dragging it to your lips.

As you sip the stale water, your eyes bore into the CIA Agent over the rim, unblinking and dead. Feeling the liquid travel down your throat and hit hard into your empty stomach, you watch the man tense in his seat, his eyes averting from your own quickly like you were a blazing fire. Suppressing a smirk, the man clears his throat.

You place the cup down delicately, leaving a small amount of water behind, right as the door behind the man opens loudly, creaking on its hinges and making you cringe.

Your gaze snaps to the familiar head of blonde hair that belongs to Kate Laswell, her stone-cold face more wrinkled since the last time you had seen her. The woman walks through the door, and the Agent gets to his feet quickly, leaving the file on the table.

“Ma’am,” He says, holding onto the back of the chair as he turns to face Laswell, “She hasn’t said anything since she arrived.”

“Thank you, Moore. I’ll take it from here,” Kate sighs deeply, her white dress shirt and black pants swishing as the air conditioning comes on. The lanyard around her neck makes a slight clinking noise as her name card jumps with her steps.

You tilt your head as far as the bandages around your neck allow, feeling the stitches on your throat pull painfully; you hoped your former friend could see the blood already staining the gauze.

The man leaves with clacking shoes, taking the godforsaken pen with him, and Laswell takes his seat. You couldn’t help but compare the scene to a transaction – you being the package thrown between unwilling participants. Not that you cared. The aches and pains in your body demanded retribution; you were more scar tissue now than skin.

The silence between the two of you is thick, eyes clashing in a mute battle of wills you know you’ll win. You’d had four years to squelch every ounce of weakness from your body – waiting, praying, for this moment.

Just as you imagined, Laswell breaks first.

“I never knew that Shepherd was capable of doing what he did,” Her hair collects in a bun at the base of her neck, and her bangs caress her forehead. The Agent’s style hadn’t changed, at least, “When you told me that I should–”

Kate stops mid-sentence.

You watch her gaze fall to your arms on the table and your fingers twitch.

Frowning, you suppose the widening of her eyes was about all the reaction you would get out of her; the one second of horror that sweeps Laswell’s eyes before the practiced calm resettles like mud in the water. But the satisfaction you garner is unparalleled.

“You ever been thrown into a tub full of glass, Kate,” Laswell flinches at the gravel in your throat, vocal cords ripping with every word, “It’s not that bad if you don’t move so much,” You smirk, letting the dry skin on your lips break open, “Kinda hard, though, when you have a million little knives digging into your flesh.”

“I didn’t…” Kate closes her eyes and sucks in a breath, looking away from the mangled remains of the skin of your arms, the more significant cuts starting at your elbow that jaggedly run down your forearm. Those ones weren't made by glass, but you didn’t tell the woman that.

Let her squirm, You pick up your paper cup, grasping the rim and the hard wire hidden in the fold, It’s been a long time since I had that effect on anyone. I want to get my edge back. I need my edge back.

Kate continues her previous sentence, placing her hands on top of the folder on the table and clenching them together. You bring the cup to your lips, sipping down the last few drops before letting your bound hands fall once more. You rest them on your lap and fiddle with the cup, shifting your shoulders to relieve the tension that sits there.

“I didn’t believe you at the time about Shepherd, Key, and that was my biggest mistake. I led an investigation the second you went missing but as far as everyone was concerned you had disappeared off the face of the earth. We had no leads, no information, and no trace,” She sighs, “You have to believe me when I say we did everything that we could too–”

“We?” You scoff, “We? You’re saying you had Price working on this?” You spit out the name as venom leaks from your tone; leaning forward you see shadows move from the corner of your eye.

You had nearly forgotten the glass window to your right, no doubt the multiple shadows barely seen behind the one-way were faces you had prayed to come and save you for all that time in the facility. You knew Price’s outline when you saw it – bulkier than the rest, large shoulders, and the bulge around his head because of that damn black beanie. The fidgeting was a new tick, though. Then again, it had been years. Maybe you had never really known him at all.

You blink, stuffing away that fact with a pounding heart.

Calm down, you growl to yourself, You’re in control. You…You are fucking in control. Don’t think about John Price.

“...That’s really cute. Do you want a medal? A pat on the back?” You grunt and shut down the conversation, noticing you’ve been crushing the cup in your grip under the table, the object shaking from the force of your fingers. Leaning back, you take in a slow breath, “It never really added to much, did it?”

To anyone besides Kate Laswell and John Price, no one would have noticed your sanity fraying at the seams inside your pounding brain. Licking your tongue over your teeth your eyes stay locked with Laswell’s as you feel panic build.

It’s a long time before the woman speaks again. She utters your real name under her breath.

“We tried everything to find you. But as I got sucked more and more into Shepherd’s world, allegations started to gain validity, and the news of your death–”

“And all it took was him losing three American missiles and his little Shadow Company friends killing more than half a city in Mexico?” You force out a chuckle, your white hospital t-shirt uncomfortable over the mass amounts of bandages digging into your skin. Kate brings a hand to her temple, rubbing it with shaking hands, “Yeah,” You deadpan, “They told me about that.”

“Do…Do you know anything about where he might be?”

“Shepherd?” You sputter out a harsh laugh that leaves Laswell swallowing, “what, do you think I’m the center of the gossip ring? They kept me in a fucking dark room for days at a time. The only thing I heard was the rats eating the corpses in the corner and the sound of my blood hitting the drain basin.”

You rose your right hand as far as the cuffs would allow and pointed your thump at the one-way glass, “Until your Toy Soldiers broke me out, that is.”

“Key,” Kate shakes her head and you know what bullshit she’s about to spill, “I can’t imagine what you went through for all those years. If we knew you were still alive I know Price and I would have–”

You tune out whatever Laswell says, fingers fidgeting under the table as you turn your head and itch the thin bandage over your chin with your shoulder, feeling stitches break open. The Ac unit was so damn loud, and that stupid buzzing of the lights.

Fuck, everything’s just too loud, You begin to bite on the skin of your bottom lip, peeling back the flesh until you feel blood dribble down.

Laswell calls your name, and you narrowly suppress a flinch, your eyes flickering closed before snapping back to the woman. You release your lip silently and live with the pain that breeds.

“What?” You numbly question, foot shaking under the table.

“How about I get you something to eat?” Kate draws out and you don’t like the concerned glance she sends to the glass as she shuffles forward in her chair, “They have those mini sandwiches in the cafeteria that you love.” The woman licks her lips, her blue eyes running over the noticeable bulges of bandages and gauze that span your chest and abdomen, down your thighs and legs. The bottoms of your feet, under your socks and shoes, even have wraps. All stained red.

“Not hungry,” You clear your throat through the lie.

“Key,” Kate whispers, “you’re skin and bones.”

“You think I don’t know that, Laswell?” The words set you off, snapping from your lips as your eyes flash and your face twists. The Agent tenses, shoulders locking tight, “I’ve looked like this ever since you and Price sold me off like a fucking dog with a rope around its neck!” Your wild eyes revel in the fear that sweeps Kate’s face. She doesn’t know you anymore, “That was you two wasn’t it? Or are my memories more fucked up than I know…? Huh?! Did the electrocution finally fry my brain?!”

Laswell’s eyes fall to the table.

“I trusted you!” You’re screaming now, guttural and savage; every so often your voice would break, and the shadows behind the glass were all straight as a rod except one, one who slightly hunches as if in guilt, “You both left me to die! I gave you evidence, I showed you facts and you turned me over like I meant nothing to you! Like I meant nothing to Price!” The words hurt you when you spit them out, and the stitches over your throat feel like they’re on fire.

Oh, God, John I wanted more than anything for you to find me – t-to stop it. Stop the pain, stop the torture. I need you. Where did you go, John?

“We couldn’t act on–”

“You trusted Shepherd more than you trusted me! That’s what you acted on. That’s the truth.” You turn your head to the ceiling, trying to stop the vile tears that coat your eyes as you suck in ragged breaths. Your ribs ache awfully.

A minute passes, then two.

The next words come out muffled with numbness, whispered from your bloody lips, “Their deaths are on you. I pass off my guilt of it.”

You could hear a pin drop. Hell, did they even know?

“The bodies in the corner…” Laswell whispers, and you hear her throat get clogged.

“What,” You snicker, “Your forensic team not identify them yet? The ones with their faces still on, that is?”

“Who are they, Key?” Kate whispers but you know she knows the answer already. So does Price.

You turn your head to the glass, finding that familiar shadow and boring your eyes into it blankly. Feeling your tears dribble down your cheeks, you smirk when the black on the other end turns its head away. The others shift nervously before you look back at Kate.

“Shane, Jax, Alice, and Sam.”

Laswell’s eyes snap downward to her clenched hands.

You lean closer, “Look at me,” You growl lowly, “Kate, look at me.”

Her eyes are red when they meet yours and you stifle a deep-chested laugh at the sight. A vicious smile blooms over your cheeks, teeth and all.

“He killed my fucking family, Laswell. My squad. My brothers and sisters that I never even involved in this because I knew how it could end if it went south. And they ripped them to fucking pieces while they were still alive,” You lift a free hand and throw your unlocked cuffs on the table, the small, thin, metal wire from your paper cup visibly stuck in the key slot. It rams onto the surface with a bang. Laswell flinches back, head snapping to the object in surprise, “That’s on you and Price. And I want it to haunt you just as it haunts me.” You tilt your head to the side, nodding towards the cuffs, “Good to see my nickname held up, at least. As you can imagine my tricks don’t work so well on rope or barbed wire.”

A ruckus sounds from the other room, loud shouting, and the rushing of feet. You lean back in your chair, slouching, and not soon after the door to the room slams open; John Price stands in the doorway with a stupid look on his face you can’t help but huff at.

“There he is,” You mutter, staring his blue eyes down as his large frame nearly hits the sides of the wall. You spread your arm out, elbows on the armrests sarcastically, “The other person I’m so eager to see.”

Laswell stands on shaky feet and exits the room, shoving past John as he stares at you. For a moment you see what you could on describe as guilt on his face before it's wiped away the next instant.

Not bothering to speak anymore – you’ve said your piece – you bring your hands up and caress the red skin where the cuffs had been. The area was more sensitive now that the flesh had been torn away time after time while you were held by Shadow Company in some godforsaken facility in the wilderness. You throw the remnants of the ripped-up cup onto the table.

The door closes nearly silently, and heavy feet pad forward. You could lie to yourself and say you don’t feel your heart pounding, but what use would it be?

John sits in Laswell’s chair before palming the once more left-behind file. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, as he slowly flips through the pictures. Pictures of you, of your once perfect body full of scars and burns and bruises over every inch. You swore you saw his fingers begin to shake as he turns another page.

John Price used to be something important to you. A friend, a mentor, and if time had permitted, perhaps he would have been something more. You don’t choose to dwell on these thoughts, but they haunt you still; how he would always prioritize your safety on missions, and give you a rare real smile when you impressed him. His laugh when you slipped out crappy jokes on missions together. The imprint of his calloused hand seemed to forever live on the back of your head, dragging you into a tight hug as you remember an OP in Romania.

On the mission, when a bullet had lodged itself between your third and fourth rib, the outcome had seemed grim – hopeless – but all John did was grab your cheeks and force your eyes on him as the Medic worked hastily, grunting and uttering calmly.

“Eyes open, Sweetheart. Keep them on me, eh…? There you go, atta girl. I’m right here,” It was safe to say you had chosen to stare at those unusually soft baby blues the entire time you were getting Evac. and John had dragged you into the ramshackle head-to-chest-hug the second you were stable, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Talking so sweetly you had wanted nothing more than him.

He had been so much more than a Captain to you.

But that was all so long ago, and the memories were rotted like tree trunks. He was just another face, a handsome one, yes – he still hadn't shaved his beard and the circles under his eyes looked darker than you could ever remember seeing them – but still that rugged charm that was John.

I trusted you, You want to scream at him, hit him, tear his throat out. But in the end, you did nothing, but you didn’t trust me.

The wrinkles around his eyes tighten as he sees the extensive claw shreds over your back on one of the printed sheets, the impression of dog teeth over your left shoulder blade and right thigh.

You feel a tightening in your throat.

“They liked their dogs,” You mutter, “That’s for sure.”

Price’s throat bobs.

“German Shepherd?” He asks, accented voice thick, picking up the picture and grasping it so tightly the corner creases.

“Nah, Doberman.”

“Hm,” He grunts, finally looking up from the picture to stare into your broken eyes. Against your better judgment, you look away first, not able to stand the unwavering blue with that specific emotion staining the iris. John was different from Laswell. He…He had meant more.

That’s why it hurt so much to be near him because he would always mean more.

Under the table, your feet shook. John cleared his throat, placing the image down and closing the file before he, in the buzzing of the lights and the whishing of the Ac, whispers your name under his lips.

You’re ashamed of the way it makes you feel like you could cry, your body freezing. Only he could utter it in that way. You had waited to hear him say your name every single day you were stuck with the Shadows.

“Save it,” You nod your head his way once, not looking up from your lap, “I don’t want your apology, Price. It’s done.”

The Captain’s head nods firmly, ever the gentleman, chin jerking as he clenches his jaw. John’s fingers close your file and he taps it with the back of his knuckles, prompting you to raise your gaze to follow the motion.

“I want every name you can remember, yeah?” You pause, for a moment you thought you hadn’t heard him correctly. Under the table, you can feel your knee spasm with nerves.

Picking your gaze up, you travel the length of Price’s tight gray shirt; looking over his combat vest and all the tiny pouches holding only he knows what. You settle on the man’s eyes with a small hitch in your breath. He looked furious, downright lethal.

John’s shoulders were tense, muscles vibrating with badly concealed anger. At his neck, he had a visible tendon from how hard he was clenching his jaw. Had he not read the file before now? Seen the pictures? Or was that not even the point? You frown, shifting in your chair with nervousness. Your head was all messed up.

Logically you knew his anger wasn't directed at you, but you could never be too cautious when it came to someone you haven’t seen in a while. Men had been the source of your problems for four years, and even if you knew John the thought remained that if you had changed so drastically, so could he.

At your silence, Price pauses, blinking a few times before he realizes his hand is clenched on the table, nails biting into his skin. He leans back into the chair with a heavy inhalation, bringing a hand up to rub over his face. John holds a hand over his mouth for a moment, eyes closed, and you watch him and his unsteady breaths that echo through the interrogation room. His chest sputters.

So now he cares, You ask bitterly, blinking away the anxiety in your bones with false calm, now he wants to help.

“Where was that anger when I asked you to help me investigate Shepherd?” You whisper, saliva stuck under your tongue.

John never answers and not a second later he’s standing and stalking out the door with measured steps, but manages to close the door softly behind him before his form disappears.

Come back, You want to plead the second the lock latches, your hands shaking violently in your lap, don’t leave me alone here, John. Don’t leave me alone. I-I can’t be alone again.

But you say nothing.

Outwardly no one can analyze your body language the way that the Captain or Laswell could. All they see is a blank slate waiting to be filled sitting stone-still in an interrogation room. Left alone, all you can do is force back the tears and listen to the loud buzzing and the whining of the Ac, trying with all of your might to forget Captain John Price and the damning comfort his presence still brings you after years of hell.

But how could you forget him? All of the good memories you have left are of him; the only ones untainted by blood or a dark room with no light. The shrieking of rats is like a symphony of death that plays on repeat in your head, digging into the small spaces in your ribs and intestines. But you welcome it because anything is better than thinking about John. Of the times you shared with him.

The betrayal itself is less painful than the memories.

#john price #john price x reader #John price x you #modern warfare #MW2 #cod #cod x reader #cod mw22 #cod x you #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #mw2 2022

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ohtobeleah · 8 months

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Bruises // Jake Seresin

Chapter Seven: [War Wounds in the Ward]

Summary: When help finally arrives, Jake believes it may be too late. The extent of both your injuries are finally revealed and the both you come face to face with the reality of just how long you’d been held in captivity for.

Series Warnings: Heavy themes of violence, sexual assault, torture. 18+ content. Minors DNI. Mature themes. Being held in captivity. Hostage style situation. Main character death! Whump, Angst. Conversations that discuss antisocial & antisemitism views.

Word Count: 7.4k

Author Note: THIS SERIES IS CONFRONTING, FICTIONAL, AND DEPICTS IMAGES OF TORTURE. DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT IF YOU BELIEVE THAT THIS SERIES WILL BE DETRIMENTAL TO YOUR MENTAL STABILITY. CURATE YOUR OWN TIMELINE.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

“We gotta move.” How this guy got the key to Jake’s cell he’d never know, but what was important was that he had it and he was here now. “We’ve got about ten minutes to get you both out to the medi-vac.”

You never would have guessed how quickly Jake Seresin could still move in order to put his body on the line for you. At the sight of someone coming into his cell yet again, rescuer or not—he was shielding you with everything he had. No one was touching you, not again.

Once the man was inside Jake's cell he took a knee to assess your current state. At the mere thought of anyone touching you Jake flinched and held you a little tighter. He wasn’t sure who he could trust, wasn’t sure if this was real or just some cruel joke. Another attempt to shatter any kind of hope.

“It’s okay Lieutenant, you can let her go.”

“I don’t trust you.” Jake used his body to shield you as much as he could. He was done letting people hurt you, including himself. The man in the dark mask paused, but then in order to gain Jake's trust, he took that mask off, revealing his identity to Jake as he tried to reach out to gauge your pulse. “Please don’t hurt her, she’s been through enough.”

“I’m not gonna hurt her Jacob.” The man with silver hair and a cocky half smile confirmed. “My name is Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS, I’m gonna get the two of you out of here.”

“Who was the woman, the one who gave me the note?” Jake couldn’t stop thinking about her and her lifeless body. Who was she? How did she get a note from Rooster? How did she know help was coming? There were so many unanswered questions he thought he’d never get answers to.

“CIA—deep cover agent, she had sent out a coded message around the time the two of you went missing. Descriptions matched, your friend Rooster I believe?” Gibbs was still trying to find your pulse. “Yeah he told her to write a note out, give you something to fight for.”

“Hold tight, Stay alive—“ Jake repeated to himself just under his breath, the agent who wasn’t happy with how weak your pulse was nodded too.

“Which is exactly what she’s gonna have to do, let’s get her out of here before it’s too late.”

“Gibbs!” Another man came racing down the hallway. “Gibbs we gotta move!” He was dressed in the same dark uniform as Gibbs was. “They’re angry as shit, like ants! A hive of angry ants.”

“I thought I told you to distract and disturb?”

“Yeah well, change of plans—we gotta get the hell outta dodge, now!”

Jake wasn’t all that sure who to follow or what to think. He only knew two things for sure, one being he had to get you out of here while he still had a chance too. And two? He couldn’t run. He couldn’t come with you. He was damaged goods.

“I can’t go.” Jake confessed with a deep sigh as he handed you over to the man who’s just come racing in. He ran his finger down your cheek and tried to hold it together. Was this the last time he was ever going to see you? “She’s in a really bad way, please take care of her, get her out of here.”

“Lieutenant it’s now or never—“ Gibbs made sure to remind Jake.

“They put a pacemaker inside my damn chest alright! I can’t let my heart rate get above one forty!” Jake explained as the older man helped him to his feet. “The Commander has a remote control for it too, and I gotta be honest with you, I’m not all that keen on the idea of my heart exploding inside my fucking chest.”

“The Commanders dead.” Gibbs tried his best to bluff his way through this. He had to get Jake out of here, there was no backup plan. It was now or never and never wasn’t an option. “He’s gone, ain’t got no way to press that button.” DiNozzo knew as a matter of fact that Dennis Gervais was well and truly alive, because he’d just come from the same room that he was in. “So we focus on keeping your heart rate down and get you out of here.” All Jake did was nod as he looked at you just barely breathing, barely holding on for dear life. You’d been through so much—he owed you this much, to try till his dying breath to get you out of this hell. “DiNozzo you take Y/n, I’ll guard Jake here and we’ll get ‘em on the medi-vac before shit gets too out of hand.”

“On it boss.” Tony acknowledged the plan and knew the risks involved as he bent down to pick you up and pull your nearly lifeless body across his shoulders so that he could carry you. “Okay ma’am, sorry if this hurts a little.”

“We’re heading down the hall, taking the first left and making a run for the stairs that leads up to the ground floor—it’ll take us right out to the loading bay.” Jake couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Gibbs knew it was going to be a hard pill to swallow as the group started to make their way out of the cell.

“You mean to tell me there’s been an exit door right down the hall this whole time!!” It made him sick to his stomach. Freeform was right there all along. It made things so much worse knowing it was right there.

“We’re gonna get you home Lieutenant, just keep in step and don’t look back.” Gibbs commanded as he made sure his weapon was loaded. “Let’s get these two out of here DiNozzo.”

Jake watched as DiNozzo took off running with you slung across his shoulders. His heart ached on two fronts, one being he knew you were about to be safe, about to be away from all this. The other being he hated whenever you were away from him. When you were with him you were safe in his arms. Apart? He couldn’t help you.

There were guards slain in the hall from where gunfire had recently rung out, Jake tried his best not to get too caught up but he couldn’t recognise a single soul. None of them he knew from his time trapped. They were just foot soldiers.

“Take a left DiNozzo!” Anthony corrected his direction promptly as Jake followed, he was being careful to pace himself. He didn’t want the beeping to start, not now. It couldn’t, he was relying on everything he had left inside him to keep it down. To breathe steady, In and out.

“Right! Sorry!” Gibbs was the last one up the stairs, he was protecting his people, firing the odd shot at anyone who tried to stop them four of them from getting where they needed to go.

“Jake?” It was the softest of whimpers that escaped from your lips as DiNozzo carried you up the stairs. “Jake?” You mumbled again, only this time a little louder and more confused. “What’s going on?”

“You’re okay ma’am.” Tony tried his best to calm you before you had a chance to panic. “Jakes right behind me, I’m special agent Anthony DiNozzo with the NCIS.”

“Oh.” Was all you could say as you dangled over Dinozzo's shoulders. “Oh god someone found us.” It was more like you were trying to convince yourself this was real. “Someone came.”

“We did ma’am.” DiNozzo confirmed as he opened the latch on the door that led out to the loading dock. “We’re not out of the woods yet though, so just stay with us for a little while longer okay?” When he was finally able to unlock the heavy metal door, DiNozzo was delighted to see the medi-vac choppers coming in for landing. “Over there!” He shouted back at Jake and Gibbs before he took off running with you on his shoulders.

The sunlight burned Jake's skin as he stepped out into the light. God how long had it been since he’d felt the warmth of the sun on his usually tanned skin. He’d never been this pal, this skinny, this unkempt.

“There’s someone who wants to speak with you, Lieutenant.” Gibbs smirked as he escorted Jake across the snow and over to the helicopter that would be taking him back to the carrier. He handed him a radio, one of those sat nav ones.

Jake held it up so he could talk just as five F-18 Super Hornets came racing past to pepper the building with ammunition. It was a full takedown if there ever was one. A covert operation to get you and Jake back. The signal had been given and it was go time.

“What took you so long?” Jake wasn’t sure who it was going to be, but he knew they were all up there. All cheering that he was alive, that you were alive. That the pair of you were being rescued. Hey did however have a slight inkling as to who might answer. “What the hell has the Calvary been!”

“Hey Hangman.” Rooster bellowed through the radio as he flew closer to the building just to drop a missile on the southwest corner. “You look good!” Jake couldn’t contain his laughter, this was really happening.

“I am good, Rooster.” He remembered what he’d said all those years ago. “I’m very good.” Jake sighed as he watched his colleagues and friends dismantle the building you and Jake had been held hostage in for what felt like forever. “Now get us outta here!”

“We better keep moving, Lieutenant.” Gibbs ushered Jake over to the other medi-vac helicopter, it had all gone according to plan. Jake had kept his heart rate below one twenty as his watch kept telling him. You were being loaded into the other helicopter, strapped to a medical gurney and fitted with oxygen immediately. Jake watched on as the building the four of you had just come out of went up in smoke and flames. Insurgents scurried out for their lives at any exit they could take. “Let’s get these birds in the sky!”

“Yes sir.” The pilot copied just as Jake saw the man he’d been told was dead appearing out of the smoke, surrounded by insurgents with guns who aimed right for the two medi-vac helicopters.

“Come on probie help me get her strapped in.” Tony grumbled as he fiddled with the straps around the wheels of the bed you were on. He didn’t want it to budge. “How the hell did you get the easy job anyway!”

“Easy job!! I’ve been out here for ten minutes fending off enemy fire!”

“I thought you said he was dead!?” Jake hissed as he eyed off the man who’d put you both through hell. He couldn’t help but to say as he thought about making a break from the helicopter just to get his revenge from n the man who’s done so much damage. But he couldn’t, Jake wouldn’t do that as the helicopter began to rise from the snow covered ground. He wasn’t going to, not for any amount of money, you’d told him when the pair of you were first captured to never play the hero again—but Jake was a villain. A hero would sacrifice anything for the greater good. He’d see anything ax expendable.

But Jake would walk through fire and cross the seven seas for you, he had no such desire to want to play the hero. He just wanted to be safe again, with you. So knowing you were already safe, there was no reason to go back. There was no reason to want to be a hero.

“I lied—“ Gibbs sighed as he aimed his weapon. “Get us up in the air!” Jake knew the moment he saw The Commander standing there watching him escape that he wouldn’t let him go without a fight, without causing enough damage that he might not make it out alive. As the helicopters took off you sat up just to watch the group below you get further and further away.

You were safe. Jake was safe. You were finally getting out of this hell together. And then? Everything you thought you knew came crashing down around you as you watched what appeared to be Jake's lifeless body fall out of the side of the medi-vac helicopter. No. Not now, not after everything you'd been through.

“NNOOOOO!” You cried out from behind the oxygen mask you'd been given. “JAKE!!”

Jake first fell to his knees as his hand gripped at his chest. The pain was all too real, too overpowering for him to stay steady on his feet. The Commander stood grinning ear to ear as he watched Jake fall out of the Medi-vac that was in the process of taking off. It would have been a solid hundred metres give or take a few. But it was surely enough to break Jake's jaw on impact.

“You’re not going anywhere Seresin!” The Commander growled as he and his men ascended on Jake. Two of them pulled him harshly up by his forearms as they forced Jake to look up at the very man who had caused so many people so much pain. “Your girl might get out, but you–you won't ever see the light of day ever again.

“Take us back to the carrier!” DiNozzo ordered the pilot who had carried on his way. You were in complete hysterics. You couldn't leave, not without Jake.

“WE HAVE TO GO BACK!” With all your might you were trying to get up off the bed. “WE CAN'T LEAVE HIM!” You felt like you couldn't breathe, Jake had been your rock this whole time. You'd seen the worst in people but also seen the best in him. You couldn't leave him behind, you couldn’t betray him when he never once let you give up.

“Ma’am, Ma’am you need to try and relax alright, Gibbs will figure it out.” Tony reassured you just hoping that his boss could pull something together. “We’re not going to leave him here, but we need to get you back to people who can help keep you alive.”

“I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna kill you dead just because I can and for what it's worth? Your name will be forgotten once we are one word and one people, Jacob.” It was the worst kind of pain, a pain unparalleled to no other, the kind of pain that takes your breath away. That kind of pain that stops blood in its tracks, that shortens ligaments and tendons as you seize. “If only you’d just stayed the fuck away.” The Commander spat as he stopped Jake's heart, he fried the pacemaker in his chest past the breaking point and when his finger finally came off the little button in his hand: Jake was just thankful to have gotten to hear you say you loved him. Even if you only said it back to even the playing cards.

Jake knew you could never love him. Not after this, not after you’d gone through unspeakable agony all because of a split second decision he made.

“You’re not, you’re not going to win this.” Jake struggled out as he looked up at The Commander. “Dennis—“ That struck a raw nerve as The Commander reached for a handgun one of his men held. He wasted not a single second before peppering three rounds into Jake's gut.

“Maybe, but you won’t be around to see the outcome.”

Jake Seresin laid dying in the snow surrounded by insurgents as five F-18 Super Hornets laid waist into the building you'd both been held captive in—destroying every crevice, every brick. But ultimately it was just a little too late. You’d be okay though, you had to be. Jake had to believe that as his blood stained the China white snow he laid in.

The expected was always easier to accept than the unexpected.

“Everybody get to the evacuation points, if you see anyone you don’t trust? Kill them.” Jake could hear The Commander ordering his men before he kicked the heel of his boot into Jake's face. “Goodbye Lieutenant Seresin—you really did your country proud.” The condescending tone in The Commander’s voice really drove it home that all this had been for nothing. He was going to die, killed in action his final report would say.

The last thing Jake thought about as he laid in the snow watching as the medi-vac helicopters flew away, one of which had you finally safe on, was that he hoped you went on to live a beautiful life. Got back on your feet, healed from everything you were subjected to, went on to love and experience all the good the world had to offer. He thought about what kind of guy would be so lucky to marry you, have a life with you, raise your children, and watch you thrive. Because it wouldn’t be him. He was okay with that though because you were safe now, Jake Seresin was okay with dying so long as it meant you got the help you needed, that you deserved.

“I love you.”

Because you weren’t ever expendable. Not to him.

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

People have scars in all sorts of unexpected places. Like secret road maps of their own personal history. Diagrams of all their old wounds. Most old wounds heal, leaving nothing behind but a scar, but some of them don't. Some wounds you carry with you everywhere, and although the cuts are long gone: the pain still lingers.

“Where's Jake?” It was the only thing you could say as you fought off unconsciousness. “Where's Jake? Where is he?”

“Lieutenant Y/l/n we need to get you into medical so we can start you on IV fluids and antibiotics–” It was a voice you didn't recognise that replied to you as you were being wheeled off the medi-vac and onto the deck of the carrier. “Someone let the Swaine know we’re on route!”

“Where's Jake?” Why wasn’t anyone listening, why wasn’t anyone answering you? “Please someone tell me he’s okay, that he’s alive? Please?”

It truly was a spectacle on the deck, but in all the commotion of your big arrival no one was listening to what you were mumbling behind your oxygen mask. No one except for one sandy blonde aviator who was pushing past every person he had to in order to get to your side as they wheeled you across the runway. He’d barely shut off his F-18 before he was racing down the tarmac after you.

“Hey!” Bradley beamed as he reached your side, his hand slipped into your as he walked with the team who were in charge of getting you where you needed to go. “Hey, Hollywood, holy shit–�� He couldn't believe you were alive, sure none of them had ever given up hope and from the fleeting information they had been given during your time in captivity, he hoped that CIA agent was still alive, but still he couldn't believe you were actually back. It had been so long. “You’re safe now, we’ve got you.”

“WHERES JAKE!” It came out as an agonising scream until Rooster could see your tears. “Where is he Bradshaw?” As far as Bradley was aware Jake's rescue Evac was still in the process. He’d fallen and that's all Bradley knew for sure.

“He’s right behind you, they got him Hollywood, you don't have to worry anymore.” DiNozzo, the Special Agent in charge of escorting you back to medical, looked at the aviator across the gurney from him. He knew that Jake was still yet to be evacuated. He was still on the ground the last Tony saw. “You can rest now, it's alright, Jakes right behind you.”

“Oh–” You sighed as your entire body relaxed, it was a weight you didn't realise was compressing your chest. “Oh good.” It was only then did your body allow you to go into complete rest. You fell into unconsciousness seconds after being told that Jake was okay, he was coming, that he was right behind you.

“We’re losing her, we gotta move.” One of the officers informed Bradley as he stood still, watching as you were wheeled into the carrier. Not knowing if you were actually going to make it out of this hell alive.

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

Jake swore the chill of the snow would take him before his heart gave out. He couldn’t move a single muscle as he laid there on his back in the silence—only burning rubble seemed to break through the deafening silence of his last moments on earth.

He thought about you, the entire time. How your laugh would fill up the Hard Deck and how he’d roll his eyes in response. It was stupid really but Jake honestly thought if he didn’t get involved with you personally it would be easier to forget about the way you made him feel whenever you walked into a room.

“Y/n.” Your name sounded so familiar to him, so alluring and all consuming. “Y/n.” It brought him comfort in death. To whisper your name to himself as his life drained from him. “Y/n.”

“Not Y/n—“ Gibbs groaned as he pressed gauze into Jake's stomach and moved his hands to cover it. “Keep your hands on that.” He told Jake with a hushed tone, like he was trying to keep quiet. “Lift on three, one, two—three.”

“AAHHH!” Jake couldn’t help the agonising whelp that escaped his mouth as he was lifted up onto a stretcher. Had they come back for him? Surely not—at this point he was dead weight. Why on earth would they turn back for him?

“Get him on that medi-vac now!” Gibbs ordered as he stood and looked around, it seemed as though The Commander had been able to flee with a handful of insurgents. “Stop the bleeding as fast as you can.”

What's worse? New wounds which are so horribly painful or old wounds that should have healed years ago and never did? Maybe old wounds teach you something, maybe they remind you of where you've been and what you’ve overcome. They teach you lessons about what to avoid in the future.

That's what Jake liked to think. Because as he let his head rest back against the stretcher and thought about how beautiful the embers of that god awful building were, he couldn't wait for these new wounds to become valuable lessons that didn't hurt as bad as they did now.

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

Every cell in the human body regenerates on average every seven years. Like snakes, we shed our skin. Biologically, we’re brand new people. It's imperative, change that is. You might look the same, you probably feel the same, but the change isn't visible. At least not for most people.

“She’s waking up—“ You barely heard it, the husk of a familiar voice that came from beyond the darkness. “Do you want me to leave?”

When people say things like ‘People don't change’ It drives scientists crazy, because change is literally the only constant in all of science. Energy. Matter. It's always changing. Morphing. Merging. Growing. Dying. It's the way people try not to change that's unnatural.

“No kid, no—“ Again, another familiar voice echoed beyond the darkness as you were brought back into the light. A steady beeping droned in the background monitoring your vitals. “You stay, I’ll go check on how Lieutenant Seresin is doing after surgery.”

The way people cling to what things were instead of letting them be what they are. The way you cling to old memories instead of forming new ones can be just as damaging as trying not to evolve. The way people insist on believing, despite every scientific indication that anything in this lifetime is permanent.

“Okay, yeah—let me know how he is?” Bradley asked as your dad, Commander ‘Hollywood’ Neven, tapped his shoulder as he sat by your bedside. Watching over you as you recovered from what had been some of the most extensive and exhausting surgeries Rooster had ever seen.

His mother had had a few operations in her battle with Cancer—but none of which came close to what he was told you were going through.

From the complete orthopedic reconstruction on your shattered wrist to the skin graft on your lower back, to the plastic surgery repair made to damage done on your face. Some scars would remain—but your surgeon was pretty hopeful that the swelling would go down. It made Roosters heart break.

“Roo—“ It was the first thing you managed to struggle out. Your throat was so dry as you tilted your head to the side just slightly to see him better. “Hi.” The light hurt your eyes, in a way it felt good to be out of the dark.

“Hey Hollywood.” Bradley smiled as he reached out to grab your hand. “Tell you what you know how to scare us, don't you?” You couldn't help the oh so soft smile that crept across your face when you realised you were home, that you were finally safe. “How you feeling?”

“Uh–” You didn't know what to say. Your entire body ached for various different reasons all the more painful to describe than the last. You were a plethora of injuries, a thesaurus of unspeakable acts of violence. And even though there wasn't a part of you that didn’t hurt, all your mind could think about was Jake. So you lied. You lied straight through your teeth. “I'm okay.” Bradley didn't believe it, not for a second. He had seen the state you were in when they airlifted you back to the carrier. And it seemed as though your number one priority hadn’t changed. “Where's Jake? Is he okay?”

“Hangman's–” You interrupted Bradley quicker than he could explain Jake's current status.

“I asked where Jake was Rooster, Hangman isn't Jake.” The man who had done everything he could to protect you wasn't Hangman. He was simply Jake. “So please, just tell me Jakes alive?” Bradley complied with your very specific request and told you what you wanted to hear first.

“Jakes alive.” He nodded. “But he's critical, he's been in and out of surgery for a few days Y/n.” Rooster had collected a series of coffee cups on the table in your hospital room, ranging in size and kind. He must have been here with you for a while. “Your dads seeing to it that he gets the best care.”

“How long have I been out?” You asked next, everything was blurry. You could remember bits and pieces of being rescued, but not many. You could hear the sound of the helicopter blades in your head, but faces were all distorted in your memory. You could remember Jake holding you, his warmth protecting you from all harm, but then you saw him fall. He fell. Over and over in your mind you watched Jake fall and then you heard your pain filled cries of pure heartbreak. “How long has it been?”

“Since we got back here, a few days–you've been on some pretty strong painkillers and the doctors just kept telling me you'd wake up when your body was ready.” It was nice to fill in the gaps. But there was one gap you weren't sure if you wanted to fill.

“And how long were Jake and I, you know, held for?” Bradley wasn't sure if he should be the one to tell you, but then again, if you wanted anyone else to tell you, you would have waited to ask them and not him. So he told you, point blank.

“Almost Three months.”

“Oh god.” Change is constant, how you experience change, that's up to you. “No, No no no it cant have been three whole months Rooster.” It can feel like death, or it can feel like a second chance at life if you open your fingers, loosen your grip and go with it, it can feel like pure adrenaline.

“Y/n?” Bradley frowned when he heard your heart rate monitor start to beep at a faster rate than the machine was comfortable with. “Are you okay?” You felt like you couldn’t breathe as your brain tried to process the harsh reality that you and Jake had been held prisoners for three whole months. Your airways were tightening, like someone had their hands around your neck and was squeezing, holding you down, choking you. “Hey! Hey, I need someone in here! Nurse!” Bradley jumped up to his feet and hit the panic button as you began to cry, panicking as your body didn't feel like your own.

“Oh god, I can't breathe!” You cried out. “Rooster, help!” Like at any moment you can have another chance at life. Like at any moment, you can be born all over again. Or die from the pure weight of it all.

“She's having a panic attack or something.” Rooster explained to the nurses who were first into the room. “I don't know what to do.”

“It's the Asthma, sir.” One of the nurses explained. “She needs ventolin.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

“You gotta wake up for me.” An induced coma, that's what the doctors had told you. That's what they said Jake needed in order to heal. In their words, his injuries were extensive, critical and very much life threatening. But while you watched Jake breathe through tubes and held his hand just to let him know you were there, you had to believe that he was going to be okay. That he’d pull through and you'd get to see his smile again.

“You don't get to leave me now you son of a bitch do you hear me?” You leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I'll be so pissed if you leave me here.” You snarled right in his ear so that he could hear you. “I'll come and find you in the afterlife and when I get there? I'll rain hell down on you for all eternity.” You weren't expecting a reply, not with Jake being in an induced coma and all. The tubes alone would have stopped him from replying even if he was awake. “Please wake up soon, I really miss you.” With your good hand, you gently ran your palm up his forehead and moved the hair that had fallen across his face away. The bruises were dark and extensive, but Jake was still there under it all. Under all the swollen and bruised skin and bone. Jake was still there. Your Jake was still fighting with everything he had. “I love you, please don't leave me.”

You sat back in your chair, the one you had been in since you were able to leave your own room during the day and visit Jake. You had to take your IV pole with you though, it was a non negotiable. You had to stay hooked up to antibiotics to fight off the infection in your lungs. It hurt to breathe, so the oxygen tank came too.

“How are we doing today Kiddo?” You dad asked as he came to visit you like he did every day. He, like all the other aviators that came to visit you and Jake, had gotten used to finding you up in Jake's room up in the intensive care ward.

“My lungs are on fire but it beats the alternative.” You only took your eyes off Jake for a second to acknowledge your father, who so far, hadn’t pried too deep into finding out details of your imprisonment. You knew he'd have to take off the farther figure hat and replace it with his Commander of the pacific fleet hat soon enough. “The doctors said they’re happy with Jake's stats, said he might be able to come out of the coma soon.”

“That's good to hear sweetheart.” Your dad replied as he stood at the end of Jake's hospital bed, eyes off the man who had kept you alive from what he could tell. “I've uh, i've organised for you to speak to someone, someone who might be able to help you start to process what you went through.”

“I'm not interested.” It was as dismissive as it could be. You had no intention of leaving Jake's side for any longer than you had to. You didn't want to talk to anyone about any of it, they wouldn't understand and you certainly had no desire to explain all your trauma to a complete stranger. “With all due respect, dad, I don't have any intention of returning to active duty, so a therapist signing off on a clearance form that I’m mentally capable of returning to work, isn't needed.” You added the explanation at the end without so much as looking at your dad. You had a sinking feeling in your gut the more you thought about it. The more you were told about the people you had been tasked to take down. To dismantle.

“Baby girl.” Your dad tried to reason with you as a father and as Commander. “You are a highly skilled weapons system officer, the Navy cannot afford to lose you.”

“But yet I wasn't good enough to not be labelled as expendable huh?” The room was cold, but your heart was colder now more than ever before. It made sense but at the same time it didn't. Why? Why would the man you looked up to, respected so much–do this to you?

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you know that I was sent on this mission? Why I was chosen over Bob and Fanboy, two highly skilled, highly decorated WSO that Jake already worked with and had worked with for years?” Your dad was silent. Of course he knew, he had to have known considering the stakes of the mission. It just hadnt crossed your mind until you were sitting at that dining table with The Commander being told details you weren’t privy to prior to your file being selected.

“I��” There was nothing your dad could say to change your mind about the situation. He knew, he had betrayed you.

“I almost died, dad.” You barely spoke above a whisper all the while you kept your eyes on Jake's face. “And you signed off on this mission, knowing that we were going in blind with half a file that contained only basic information.”

“We knew you were capable.” Your dad was firm with you, like a Commander would be. “I knew you were ready for this, and I knew you were capable of understanding the risks involved—none of us banked on Seresin not knowing how to let go.” So it was true. They all believed the same thing, that if push came to shove Jake would save himself, not his WSO, not his Wingman. No one.

“You used me as collateral in case it didn't go according to plan!”

“Darling, you cannot blame me for what happened—I signed off on the mission file, the admirals were given recommendations, your name and file happened to be one of many.”

“I need you to leave!” You snapped with tears streaming down your cheeks. Now more than ever you wished Jake would just wake up. “I need you to leave and I need you to understand that I don’t have any intention of talking to any therapist or physician or anyone!” It was then you took your hand out of Jakes to pick up one of the empty coffee cups on Jakes bedside table, one of the many you had begun to collect, and threw it at your dad. “Get out!”

He did. He did what you asked without a fight, knowing the consequences of his actions along with many others would come back to bite him. You and Jake were not letting this slide, not in a million years.

“Where is it?” You mumbled to yourself as you fumbled around your pockets for your inhaler. You didn’t understand the panic induced asthma yet, but you had been told how to manage it. “Where is it?” When you finally found the little red inhaler in the pocket of your hoodie, you took a single hit of the ventolin and tried to calm down.

“Miss Y/l/n, are you staying for morning rounds?” One of the doctors who had been looking after Jake asked as he came into the room. Followed by his interns.

“Yes please—“ You sighed as you got comfortable and reached out for Jake’s hand again. “And for the love of god Doc tell me you’re gonna wake him up soon?”

All he did was smile in return before looking over to one of his interns. A young female who looked all the more surprised that she was being called upon to present.”

“Uh this is Lieutenant Jacob Seresin, sustained three gunshot wounds to the middle abdomen that resulted in severe blood loss, major cardiac trauma resulting in a heart attack that left his right aorta damaged.” It was nothing you hadn’t heard before, could probably resight it all yourself by now you’d heard it so many times. “A broken mandible as a result from falling one hundred meters and multiple other injuries ranging from minor to major abrasions, bruises and laceration that all seem to be on the mend.” Hearing it every day didn’t get any easier. Until the last part that put fresh hope in your heart. You hadn’t heard that part before today.

“Due to be slowly woken from an induced coma as of today.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

“Today could be the day Y/n.” The first twenty four hours after surgery are critical. Every breath you take, every fluid you make, is meticulously recorded and analysed, celebrated or mourned. But what about the next twenty four hours? “You just have to remember that both of you went through hell, his body needs time.” Phoenix had brought your flowers. A kind gesture that put a sparkle in your eye for only a few minutes. You were back at Jake's bedside, curled up under a blanket in your chair with your IV poll still at your side. “You need time.”

“I just really need him to wake up—“ But what happens when that first day turns into two, three and four and then those days turn into weeks and possibly turn into months? “I’m starting to lose my mind—the longer he sleeps the more time I have to convince myself that they won.” You explained to Phoenix who fluttered about Jake's ICU ward room. Tidying up, making sure you had company. “That they broke him, me.”

“They apparently picked the guy up on the coast of Positano—“ It wasn’t the first time you’d heard it but it still felt so surreal to hear. “And that CIA lady's body was recovered a few days after you were rescued.” You’d never met her, but Jake had. The CIA and the NCIS were working together to get this guy long before you were assigned your mission. “So was Captain Hewens.” Phoenix made sure to remind you. “I don’t think he won Hollywood—if he won I don’t think you’d be sitting here.”

“He didn’t win.” The goal of any surgery is total recovery. To come out better than you were before. But for you and Jake? There was no certainty that the two of you could ever go back to the people you were before. “Ain’t no way he won.” Jake mumbled as he stirred slightly, his hand gripped yours back for the first time since you were able to visit. “He didn’t win—this is nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh my god Jake! You’re awake!?” You cried as you got as close to him as you possibly could. “Hi, hey I’m right here yeah? You’re gonna be okay.”

“I love you—“ Jake needed to say that. He needed you to know. “You’re okay? I’m not dead am I?”

“No, no you're not dead Jake.” You couldn’t help but to chuckle with utter relief. “You’ll know we’re dead, remember? when it’s just us, on a farm somewhere in the middle of nowhere, just the two of us.” You whispered as you pushed his hair up and away from his forehead.

“Count me in for that version of heaven.” He’d barely opened his eyes, but Jake had missed your smile oh so much. He would do anything to see it, like a damn fool head over heels in love, he’d do anything. “So we made it? We’re out?”

“We’re out, we’re home and we’re safe.” Some patients heal quickly and feel immediate relief. For others, the healing happens gradually and it's not until months or even years later that you realise that you don't hurt anymore. “You saved my life Jake Seresin—you never left me hanging.”

“I’ll leave you two alone for a little while.” Phoenix politely excused herself to go check in with the nurses station about notifying a doctor that Jake was awake. You appreciated it—because now that he was awake you weren’t leaving his side.

“Are you okay?” Jake asked as he just tried to focus on breathing. When he was finally able to open his eyes they were in you and never left. “Woah, I kinda forgot what you looked like without the dirt and grim, you’re beautiful.”

“Apparently I’ve got a pretty serious infection in my lungs that gives me asthma attacks when I get worked up but other than that I think I’m okay.” You explain knowing Jake would honestly want you to tell the truth rather than just say you were okay. “And the last thing my body was focused on was maintaining its cycle so I lost my period.” Jake knew why you were mentioning it. “Guess my body just knew what it had to do and not drop any eggs.” Jake squeezed your hand a little tighter and brought your palm up to his lips. “So no need to abort any insurgent fetuses.”

“How long?” You’d asked Rooster the same question, it ended in a panic attack. But again—if Jake wanted to know from anyone else he would have asked them and not you. “How long were we in there for?”

“Almost Three Months.” So the challenge after every surgery is to be patient. But if you can make it through the first few weeks and months? If you believe that healing is possible–then you can get your life back.

“Guess we’re gonna be pretty messed up for a while aren’t we?” Jake sighed as he fought back tears, this was hell on earth. His entire body hurt but not nearly as much as his heart ached looking at you with his head full of your screams. “But I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“I’m really thankful you’re alive too.” But that's a big if. “And I know that isnt gonna be easy, it’s gonna really hurt—and be really hard, we’re gonna have to work at this everyday.” You were trying to keep yourself together for Jake’s sake as you let your hand squeeze against his. “But I want to do that because I want you.”

“You sure about that hotshot?” Jake breathed in softly as his heart beat steady without any doubt that you were the love of his life. “I’m the one who got you into that mess in the first place.” When you nodded softly as tears fell freely down your cheeks, Jake knew one day he’d ask you to marry him.

“I want all of you, forever, you and me, everyday.” You added, but then there was the pause Jake was waiting for. He knew it was coming because he was thinking the same damn thing. “But we have to heal first, recover—I think the worst thing we could do for each other would be to go into a relationship when we’re literally being held together by glue and some staples.”

“Can we recover together? But unofficially?” Jake smiled softly as he reached out to cup your still bruised cheek. “Because I unofficially love you, and unofficially I think that I’m not going anywhere.” You let out a laugh, a laugh so pure it brought Jake back to life. He needed nothing but you, forever.

“Unofficially that sounds like a pretty good idea.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

Tags 🏷️ @americaarse @blindedbythelightt @tayl0rhuynh @athenabarnes @imaginecrushes @whyareallnamesgone @mjmaximoffbarnes @amiets2 @mads-weasley @gabbyella @ephemeralninon @xoxabs88xox @pedrohoe04 @starkleila @je-suis-prest-rachel @clancycucumber230 @maisie-rebloging-blog @callsign-barbell @obiwankenobis-lap @some-lovely-day @paperbag333 @callsign-magnolia @jhiddles03 @hardballoonlove @shanimallina87 @seitmai i @abaker74 @missemrose @starset21 @kmc1989 @phoenix1388 @emma8895eb @tsofo26 @itsmytimetoodream

#bruises // jake seresin #Jake Seresin whump #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin angst #jake hangman fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman x reader #top gun fan fiction #top gun hangman

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wordstome · 5 months

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Endless Nights - Price x Reader

I started thinking about Sandman again because of Barry Sloane as Destruction of the Endless and went back to reread everything Destruction is in, including his Endless Nights story. Now I can't stop thinking about Price x archaeologist reader...

1.7k, please forgive any archaeological or military errors I only took like 1 anthropology class two years ago

You've been on all sorts of digs, but this has got to be one of the most chaotic. Your team's been sent to this peninsula to unearth some recently discovered artifacts. They think it's remnants of a little-known indigenous population, and it's your job to dig everything up safely.

Only problem is, there's a military base on top of it.

"Maybe it won't be so bad. Military personnel are good at following orders," your coworker says while you're unpacking your tools.

You snort. "Yeah, but they're equally good at putting holes in things and blowing things up. I don't think they have a lot of respect for fragile ancient artifacts."

"Ouch," your coworker says, wincing and putting a hand to his chest in a mock expression of pain. "No love for our nation's bravest?" You roll your eyes at him.

"It's not like that. I'm just saying we need to be vigilant about keeping them away from work sites. Take no shit, as it were."

"With the military? Good luck, I guess."

It's not that you dislike or even distrust every single person who's ever been in the military, it's just that you don't have much faith in their ability to hold respect for your work. Archaeology is quiet, meticulous work, a far cry from gunfights and kicking doors in. You're going to be here for quite a while, and if you don't establish boundaries right out of the gate, you'll be fighting an uphill battle for the rest of the dig.

That's what you're telling yourself as you sit in a gray, featureless meeting room. You and your supervisor are supposed to be meeting with a John Price, a British SAS captain. Kate Laswell, an American CIA agent, told you he's the proxy you'll be cooperating with during the dig.

You're prepared for all sorts of men to walk through that door: a balding middle-aged man with a power trip, or perhaps some blustering meathead whose voice no longer goes lower than a shout. Instead, the man that walks through the door and shakes your supervisor's hand leaves you staring, just barely keeping it together enough so you're not drooling with your jaw on the floor.

He's hot.

Your head fills with static as he turns to you and hits you with possibly the most endearing smile you've ever seen on a man. It's not just that he's somehow pulling off the beard and mutton chops look, or that his rough British accent is making you feel some type of way down there. It's the way he walks, like it's heavy—

"Pleased to meet you," Price says, shaking your hand. His hand engulfs yours as he gives it a brief squeeze. It takes your every last brain cell to answer with something other than Please tell me you're not wearing a wedding ring because you're actually single.

The meeting consists of him and your supervisor laying ground rules while you nod mutely and try not to audibly moan when Price adjusts himself in his seat, his hips moving in a way that is definitely going to undo you if you think about it too hard.

You walk out of the meeting having barely survived, but confident that the whole ordeal was a one-time thing. He's just who you complain to if one of the soldiers stumbles into a work site and smashes one of the artifacts, after all. You'll never have to see him.

Except you do. Every day, multiple times a day, he's there. He's obviously got his own shit to do of course, but it's like you can't get away from him: walk into a tent, and he's there chatting to one of your coworkers. Eat a meal, and he's there talking to a squad of soldiers and clapping someone on the back with a hearty laugh. Turn a corner, and he's there to full-body slam into you—

"Pardon me, sweetheart. Didn't see ya there." You're ashamed to say you don't do much more than stare at him with what must be the most pathetic petrified doe eyes as he gives you a pat on the shoulder and goes on his merry way. That was like running into a solid brick wall...

It would be fine if it were just you having a silly little unreciprocated crush. You've had those before and survived. But what starts to get to you is the little things: the way his eyes flick to you when you enter his vicinity, accompanied by a nod. The way his eyes linger on you for a moment too long before looking away. The brief touches against your shoulders or hips when he's maneuvering past you in a small space.

Frankly, it's driving you crazy, and it's starting to show.

"If you dust that piece any harder, you're going to damage it," your coworker scolds you. You all but jump backwards from the piece you're working on. You'd been so absorbed in mentally dissecting his body language the last time you were in the same room as him that you'd brushed the piece far beyond the point of being clean.

This won't do. You have to do something about this.

Mercifully, you've been given your own individual room to sleep in, which is quite the luxury after a career full of sleeping in dusty tents or sharing bunks with coworkers. It also gives you enough privacy to...take care of business, as it were.

Obviously, you didn't bring any "tools of the trade" that weren't useful for your work, so it's just you and your hand past 11 pm. You feel beyond perverted, slipping a hand between your thighs as you think of Captain Price.

You can still feel the weight of his hands on your body, brief though they were, and picture what else those touches could be doing. Your own voice slips out in a moan as you imagine his, low and grumbling yet soothing while he pushes you into the sheets, that endearing smile turned devious and devastatingly sexy as he spreads you open for him with those hands of his and collects your wetness on his fingers...

Your heart jumps out of your chest as you hear a knock at the door. You all but fall out of bed, scrambling to pull on enough clothing to be decent. "J-just a minute!" you call, inwardly cursing yourself for how breathless you must sound.

You answer the door, flustered and a mess, to see the subject of all your fantasies staring there. For a split second, you're petrified by the possibility of Price having heard your desperate whines and whimpers and knocking on your door to politely ask you to quit cranking it in his barracks.

"Apologies, sweetheart. Hope I didn't wake you up?" His eyes are so striking, so sincere, that you know he could have woken you up from the best sleep of your life and you'd still be unable to be mad at him.

"No no, I was...no need to worry. What can I do for you?" you say, relief flooding through you. Of course he didn't hear you. He's not a total pervert like you.

"Well love, I...it's probably best if you come take a look for yourself," Price says, looking almost sheepish. Your heart sinks a little—this cannot be good.

He leads you out of the barracks towards one of the job sites, directing you towards a table with several excavated artifacts laid out. "One of my men thought it'd be wise to steal his mate's torch, had him stumbling around in the dark out here. He says he bumped one of these tables and heard something fall on the ground, and I figured you should know right away instead of waiting 'til the morning and having all sorts of people tramping through here."

You give him a brief grateful look before crouching down with a flashlight. After a bit of looking, you find the missing object: a thick shard of pottery, lying forlornly on its side by a table leg.

You reach forward to pick it up, but the captain has spotted it as well, resulting in his hand landing on top of yours over the pottery. For a brief, dizzying second, his hand lays heavy and warm over yours, and you could have sworn that his fingers had shifted as if to take your hand in his.

In a blink, the moment's over, and the captain's hand shoots back to his side. Trying not to make an utter fool of yourself, you push yourself back up to a standing position, examining the pottery shard with a discerning eye.

"Looks like no harm was done," you say to him with a smile. "Mayday averted."

"Good to hear. I'll make sure the knuckleheads who did this receive a thorough dressin' down for this incident." You're grateful that the warmth rushing to your face at his stern tone can't be seen in the dark as you carefully set the pottery back in its place on the table.

"I'll walk you back to the barracks. Can't have my favorite archaeologist stumblin' their way around themselves, now can I?" You nod mutely, unable to look at him for much longer than a few stolen glances.

The two of you are quiet all the way back to your door, where you stand in the hallway, fidgeting with your hands and feeling the urge to say something, anything. "Thank you," you blurt out. "For not waiting until tomorrow morning. There's no telling what foot traffic would have done before we noticed the missing piece."

"Your work's important, love. And while you're here, you're our guests. It'd be rude to not be taking care of your work, wouldn't it?" You nod shyly, basking in the warmth of his attention.

You're frozen to the spot as he leans in to whisper directly in your ear, his lips brushing against it. "Next time you're relievin' a bit of tension, feel free to stop by my quarters, yeah? I think you'll find there's a lot more I can take care of than just your work."

Your eyes go as wide as saucers as he winks at you. Before you can even process what just happened, he's already walking away from you down the hall.

Feeling like you've just been handed some delicious and forbidden secret, you whirl around to shut yourself into your room, sliding down with your back against the door to sit on the floor. Did that truly just happen? Are you hallucinating? Or had you fallen asleep by accident and you're really just having some beautiful, delusional dream?

It doesn't feel like a dream when you realize you're soaking wet.

God, I cannot wait until Barry Sloane's Destruction promo images drop. For reference, these are the posters we got for season 1:

To be very honest, I wrote this like a possessed woman in the span of like an hour. I don't think there's going to be a part 2 unless you guys really get me going with some new ideas 😅

Also, I don't have a tag list (because I write almost exclusively for one particular Austrian), but I will tag my beloved @danibee33, and @ceilidho, as thanks for giving me Barry Sloane brainworms.

#price x reader #captain price x reader #price x you #captain price x you #john price x reader #john price x you #john price #captain john price #captain price #cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #call of duty mw2 #mw2 #Barry sloane

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navybrat817 · 2 years

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You know, after we briefly chatted about this, I wasn't in a great mindset due to unrelated issues and debated setting WIPs on fire. Seeing them here is the fuel I need to light them up in the best way possible. Because fuck bad vibes. 🔥

Speaking of fucking, just imagine what the two of them are going to do when they get their hands on you again. You flipped through their fingers once. It won't happen twice.

Love and thanks! ❤️

#navybrat answers #gif ask #thirst ask #thot ask #nick fowler #lloyd hansen #when cia agents go bad #and we love them for it #future fic #you won't escape a second time #they won't let you #bonky n steeb #sending love ❤️#asks are always appreciated

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chadillacboseman · 2 months

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The Shepherd's Daughter - II

Pairing: Phillip Graves x F!Reader (Shepherd's daughter)

Warnings: Reader is a CIA agent. Mentions of terrorism, both foreign and domestic, blood, injury, guns, etc. Graves is a whiny, jealous little bitch boy, but when he gets his way OOOOOO. SPOILERS FOR MW2.

Summary: As punishment for the botched infiltration of a domestic terror cell, your father, General Shepherd, pairs you with Shadow Company to retrieve American war assets that have fallen into the wrong hands.

Word Count: 2k maybe?

Part ONE HERE

"Are you any closer to finding them?" Your father's voice was tense, on the verge of anger. You sensed that perhaps he had been into the whiskey he kept in his desk drawer ("for emergencies" as he so often joked).

There was no progress update to be given. Every lead you had chased with Shadow Company had been a dead end. You considered, for a moment, lying to him- spinning a tale and trying to make the situation less dire.

It would do you no good. He had an uncanny way of knowing when you were lying, even if all he had to go on was your voice.

"No, sir. We are not," the line was silent at that response and you instinctively tensed, awaiting the inevitable shouting that would come.

But it didn't.

Instead, his voice was even as he asked, "And how is Shadow Company performing?"

The question perplexed you. Did he think of you as his own personal spy? Had Graves been correct in his assumption that your father wanted someone to keep an eye on their operations?

"Well?" Impatient. Nothing the man hated more than waiting.

You took a quick glance around the room to make sure no Shadows had wandered in before answering, "They're...fine, sir. We just don't have many leads to go on."

"Fine?" His anger had finally bubbled to the surface, "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are they doing their fucking job or not?"

You held the phone at arm's length until he had finished his tirade before bringing it back to your ear for a rebuttal, "They're well-equipped, efficient. My...reputation makes it difficult to earn their trust, but they are tireless in their efforts."

A grunt of approval on the other end of the line. The deity had been appeased.

"I expect a report at the same time tomorrow."

The line went dead.

Graves watched you from across the room, his blue eyes unwavering as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the body of his rifle. You were staring out the cracked window, your hair moving ever so slightly with the push of the salt-soaked breeze.

You were pretty, something that Graves had began to notice the more time he spent with you. Something that ate at him- frustrated him beyond reason.

He still didn't trust you fully. Hated the way you took phone calls from the general behind closed doors. Graves knew you were reporting back to Shepherd about them- on good days, funding poured in from their benefactor, and on bad ones they barely scraped by with their lives.

"The general giving you grief today?" Graves called across the room.

You shrugged and made a face that distorted your features in the dim lighting of the safehouse. He chuckled and bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting to see if you'd relinquish any further details.

You didn't.

Graves chewed the inside of his cheek and decided to press his luck-

"You been tellin' him how we're doin'? That what the phone calls are for?"

You shot him another look, this time laced with your obvious annoyance at the question; he smiled in return, that disarming smile full of too-white teeth that could almost be mistaken for a shark's maw.

"Just askin', princess. No need for the venom."

He drawled out the cutesy nickname that made your face heat; the other Shadows had dropped it after you'd proved yourself to their standards, but Graves still used it, much to your chagrin.

"I tell him what he asks for," you spat the words a little more harshly than you intended, and you almost felt a pang of guilt when Graves raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"And what does he ask for?" he cocked his head, blue eyes shining under the exposed bulb in the ceiling, "how his lapdog is performing?"

"Your words, not mine, Graves."

"Mhm," he took a step forward and the aging wooden floor creaked under the sole of his boots, "Do ya tell him how my boys are run ragged chasin' his fuck up? How we're stayin' in shitholes like this-" he jerked his head around the room at the cracked walls and exposed wiring, "while he sits in his office?"

"Where are you going with this, Graves?" you sighed through your nose and folded your arms across your chest, "What do you want from me? I've been with you for weeks- if you don't trust me, then-"

Graves cut you off and took another step toward you, his hands still clutching his rifle to the point of whitened knuckles, "I wanna know what the high and mighty Shepherd junior is feeding her daddy dearest when no one is listening."

Something in you snapped.

You shoved him, hard, and he stumbled backward, his eyes wide before he caught himself. An expression flashed across his face that made your stomach drop as he tossed his rifle to the floor.

"Try that again," Graves snarled, his face now twisted in an almost eager grin.

You could try to defuse the situation- tell him this was pointless bickering.

But that something inside you fought back against the urge, burning white hot like a branding iron.

"C'mon, princess. Try it again."

That was the final straw.

You leapt forward and tried to level a knee into his gut, but anger made you sloppy. Graves elbowed you in the middle of your back, nearly snatching the air from your lungs.

"Sloppy work, Shep," he sneered and you brought your head up quickly, making connection with his chin with a crack that radiated through your own skull.

Graves stumbled backward and spit, a splatter of crimson hitting the filthy wooden floor before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Before he could recover, you lunged at him again, grabbing him around the middle and shoving him to the floor.

Graves let out a muffled yelp of surprise as you pinned him, the sharp point of your knee keeping him flat on his back. You unsheathed your knife and pressed the razor edge to his throat, savoring the way his pulse raced under his sweat-soaked skin.

"Give me a reason, Graves," you hissed through gritted teeth, "I'll tell him you started it. Make sure there's only one story."

"You gonna cut my throat? Do it then," he was still grinning and a small trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, "C'mon!"

He shouted the last word and you jumped, nearly granting his wish.

"Not worth the paperwork," you sheathed your knife, satisfied with the small cut you'd left in your wake. You made to rise from him, but he clapped a hand onto your thigh, holding you there.

A strange expression passed over his features for just a moment, then disappeared along with the pressure of his hand on your leg. You rose to your feet and offered him a hand, which he took before orienting himself.

"You gonna tell the general about this little spat?" Graves cocked an eyebrow and brought his hand to his throat, swiping the still trickling blood from the wound.

"Maybe."

The fight was absent from the next call with your father. It didn't seem worth the effort to explain that you'd briefly thought of killing the commander over a childlike argument.

There was good news to pass on anyway- Shadow Company had landed in Las Almas and the Mexican Special Forces seemed far more competent than the US Military back home.

Colonel Alejandro Vargas, in particular, was impressive among them. He and his second in command had already had a run-in with Hassan and the taskforce they were working alongside had been chasing down leads left and right before Shadow Company arrived.

The 141 and the Special Forces treated you with more respect than the Shadows had- they even seemed to seek your input, which was more than you could say for Graves and his men.

It was easier to spend time at the Las Almas base- it was warm, and for once, you weren't sleeping on a bare floor next to a dozen snoring soldiers.

Graves seemed annoyed with your enjoyment of their hospitality, but never mentioned it directly.

"It's good to have you around here, hermosa," Alejandro was bent low over a map of Las Almas, studying it with intensity, "Sometimes these men forget the little details."

You smiled and he returned it, a genuine grin that accented his handsome features.

From across the room, Graves glared at him, his lip curled in a barely-concealed snarl of disdain. Why it upset him so much, he had no idea- that alone frustrated him more than Alejandro's blatant flirting.

He wanted more than anything to wipe that smile off of the colonel's face, preferably with his knuckles.

"Graves?" you cocked your head and the sound of your voice cut through the swirling white noise in his head, snapping him out of his rage-fueled trance.

"What?"

You furrowed your brows and gestured to the map, "Alejandro's plan?"

Alejandro. So quick to call him by his first name.

"Small teams are probably better for this," the colonel repeated the plan slowly, as if Graves was a child who had been caught daydreaming, "Shepherd and I could-"

"No," Graves cut him off and you raised a brow, "She comes with me, she doesn't work for you, Vargas."

Alejandro seemed to have made a connection in that moment and a smirk ghosted over his lips at the realization, "Far as I know, she doesn't work for you either, sombra."

You glanced between them, sensing some unspoken tension that seemed to have formed behind your back.

"I should go with Shadow Company," you murmured quietly. For a moment, Graves looked triumphant, until you continued, "The general wants regular reports on their performance."

Alejandro chuckled and shot the commander a look of victory, "Wouldn't want to disappoint your bankroll."

You spent the next miserable night in a decrepit safe house, staring up at the ceiling as Graves breathed softly next to you. He hadn't said a word since the spat with Alejandro, and he'd tossed you your duffel with such force it had nearly knocked you off your feet.

Your back ached from the hard floor, and the early sounds of a thunderstorm were brewing outside the thin walls. You sat up in the darkness and rubbed your temples, contemplating the series of life fuckups you'd had to make to get to this point.

A loud crescendo of thunder shook the house and you jumped, barely stifling a yelp of fear at the sudden sound.

"Scared of storms, princess?" Graves mumbled from his position on the floor.

"Will you give it a rest, Graves?" you snapped and he chuckled.

There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again.

"How come you don't call me Phillip?" he pushed himself up to a seated position, his eyes barley visible shining in the dark.

"Because you're the commander," you said with a shrug.

"You call the Colonel by his name. Seems a little too familiar."

"Are you jealous?" you asked incredulously and he huffed out a noncommittal response you couldn't catch, "What is going on with you? Three weeks ago, you'd have been happy to have me out of your hair! Hell, before we landed in Las Almas, we nearly killed one another-"

"Yeah? Maybe I just don't want you shacking up with a foreign military leader when we're supposed to be focused!"

You sputtered indignantly, feeling your face grow warm at the accusation, "Shacking up? Really?"

"Yeah, really."

You took a blind swat at his face in the dark and he grabbed your wrist yanking you toward him until your chest was flush with his. In the pitch blackness, his eyes shone like a predator as he stared down at you.

His face was so close to yours now that you could feel his breath as it fanned over you; he was nearly panting, and you could feel the thrum of his heart under his fatigues.

You tried to pull away, but Graves tightened his grip with a growl, "I sat back while you spied on my men, slowed us down, and reported back to your piece of shit father. Then we land in Las Almas and you may as well have sat on that fucking prick's lap while he planned-"

Your free hand connected with his face with a crisp -SMACK- that rang out in the silent room. If it had hurt him, he didn't show it. Instead, he grinned and took hold of your free hand with his own before moving, swiftly, and knocking you onto your back with your arms pinned above your head.

You tried to wriggle free, but he shoved a knee between your legs for leverage and you felt a sudden pang of heat at the contact.

"Didn't your daddy ever teach you any manners?" He hissed through gritted teeth.

"Fuck you, Phillip," you spat his name and he laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound that fell flat in the darkness.

"Ask me nicely."

"Get the fuck off of me!"

"Wrong answer, princess," he thrust his knee up into you and you let out a strained gasp that made him laugh again, "See, you're givin' me mixed signals here." He brought his mouth down to your ear and you felt a jolt of electricity run down your spine.

"You want me to stop? I'll stop, but I don't think that's what you really want."

You didn't answer, your attention now too focused on his mouth as it neared your neck, hot breath sending your hair on end. When his tongue finally hit your skin, you had to stifle the sound that threatened to tumble past your lips. Before you could stop yourself, you bucked your hips, desperate for friction against his knee.

"That's more like it," he purred; his teeth came down, suddenly, on your pulse point and you gasped, back arching off the cold floor and sending your chest against his. Tomorrow, there'd be a mark there, glaring and obvious for everyone to see.

"Can I let your hands go?" Graves panted, his mouth still close to your ear, "you gonna go smackin' me again?"

"No," you tried to focus through the haze of lust that had taken root in your mind.

"Promise?" He asked, his voice smug.

Before you could answer, he released your wrists and one of his hands snaked under the hem of your shirt, rough fingertips gliding across your sensitive skin. His hand found your bra, deftly moving it up to expose your breasts to his fingers. He wasted no time taking one of your nipples between them, rolling gently until you let out a pathetic whimper.

"Wondered how good you'd sound," Graves' mouth found yours and he nearly crashed into you, kissing you like the desperate man he'd been since landing in Las Almas, "He's never gonna fuckin' hear this."

Alejandro. He had been jealous.

"C'mon, let me hear that pretty sound again, baby," he murmured; his knee ground into you once more and you moaned his name, his first name, and it sent his head into a daze.

You heard him fumble with his belt for a moment, then he tapped your buckle expectantly, prompting you to wriggle your way out of your pants. You tossed them aside in the darkness and shivered against the cold night air as it hit your bare skin.

"This ain't the way I wanted it to happen," Graves whispered as he ran a gentle hand up your inner thigh.

How long had he been thinking about it?

Swiftly, he grabbed your thighs and pulled your legs around his waist, lining himself up with you. Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself inside you, hands grasping desperately at your hips to pull you flush with him.

Graves dropped his forehead to yours, panting quietly as he let you adjust to him. His first thrust was gentle, slow and easy, as if he was testing the water.

"You gonna tell your daddy about this?" Graves set a bruising pace, thrusting into you with less restraint than before.

You didn't answer, unable to speak as his cock hit every sensitive spot deep inside you over and over again. You wanted to hate him, wanted to tell him what an absolute bastard he was-

But the words wouldn't come.

Instead, you clutched at his shoulders, moaning and whining like an animal in heat as he fucked you on the filthy floor of the safehouse.

This was a bad idea, surely. Sleeping with the commander could only come back to haunt you.

Graves thrust, hard, and the thought was pushed from your mind entirely as he edged you closer to release. It was clear he wasn't far behind as he panted and let his movement grow sloppy and erratic.

"Gonna cum inside you, baby, that okay?" Graves' voice shook as he spoke.

"Yes-" you gasped out the words as he gave you one final push that had the tension inside you snapping like a taut cord.

He was close behind you, thrusting sloppily until he was spilling inside you with a weak grunt. He stayed like that for a moment, panting, as sweat dripped from his face and pattered down onto you.

Already, you could feel the gentle throb of the bruise that was forming on your neck where he had bitten you earlier.

To your left, a radio crackled to life and Graves scrambled to grab it, listening intently to the chatter from the Shadows on the other end.

"Shit-" he tossed the radio to the floor and searched for his pants.

"What is it?" You asked weakly, still lying on the floor where he'd left you.

"141 has movement, pretty sure it's Hassan," Graves threw your pants to you and you wiggled your way into them. It had to be at least 3am and you were exhausted.

You searched blindly for something to cover your neck, but to no avail. You weren't thrilled at the thought of Alejandro seeing it, but decided you didn't care.

Graves led the way and you followed him out the front door, rifles drawn.

#phillip graves x reader #phillip graves #COD mW2

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terapsina · 7 months

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Now that the writers and actors strike is about to begin being felt (and as we wait for those greedy billion dollar companies who are refusing to negotiate fair pay and conditions to give up) here's 10 of my favorite (all around best) fully finished older series you should definitely check out if you haven't watched.

I mean it, these are the shows with continuously great writing and a satisfying endings that manage to actually deliver on their promises.

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1. Leverage - (containing 5 seasons, or 77 episodes) - trailer here.

Hitter, Hacker, Grifter, Thief and Mastermind. Heists and cons. Stealing from the rich and giving to their victims. They provide... leverage.

Meant for anyone who enjoys bad guys being the best good guys, who will burn down the lives of evil CEOs and then gloat in the background. Very satisfying.

Hands down the best example of a found family trope I've ever seen on screen. Barring none.

2. Killjoys - (containing 5 seasons, or 50 episodes) - trailer here.

Space Bounty Hunters. Another case of found family trope. Bisexual space princess assassin. Quippy sentient ship. Green alien goo. Evil lesbians (but like... in a good way). The warrant is all.

More seriously though, it's a story about three killjoys and the bounties they go after. Initially. And then they have to save the entire Quad from some very terrifying... stuff.

Contains one of the best friendships I've ever seen on television.

3. Orphan Black - (containing 5 seasons, or 50 episodes) - trailer here.

Found family trope but with clones.

Low level grifter sees a woman who looks exactly like her kill herself and plans to take over her identity long enough to cash out. Except then there's two other women who also look exactly like her. And apparently they're all clones and someone's killing them.

Enter a global conspiracy. Human experimentation. Lots of clone shenanigans. Some serial killings. And a few murders 💖.

4. Person of Interest - (containing 5 seasons, or 103 episodes) - trailer here.

Okay I'm beginning to see how I might have a found family trope issue.

Former CIA agent gets recruited by a reclusive billionaire computer programmer who developed a... machine that can predict acts of terror before they happen. But it also predicts 'irrelevant' acts of violence that will result in someone's death.

Unless someone interferes.

I'd really like to spoil some stuff to get you all to watch this one. But I'm going to maintain self control and just mention that early on they get a dog named Bear. Bear is a very good boy. Watch it for Bear.

Also for excellent commentary on rights of privacy, government surveillance and what does 'greater good' even mean? But mostly Bear.

5. 12 Monkeys - (containing 4 seasons, or 47 episodes) - trailer here.

The very best time travel show out there. What starts out as a confusing mess of causality basically exploding, by the end of the series all makes complete and total sense.

(when that final timey-whimey loop slid into place and revealed the entire pattern it was like a choir of angels started singing in the back of my head. It was freaking glorious).

Anyway, a man from a post apocalyptic future travels into the past to stop a plague from decimating nearly the entire world population.

He has the name of the man who released the virus and it's supposed to be a single trip. One trip. One bullet. Simple. Done.

Except then things keep escalating, and escalating until time begins eating its own tail and it might start looking like the end of the world might be a better ending than erasing all of time and space from reality.

Because when our guys screw it up, they screw it up GOOD.

And oh yeah... found family.

6. The Good Place - (containing 4 seasons, or 53 episodes) - trailer here.

A self-proclaimed Arizona dirtbag opens her eyes and finds out that she's dead and got accepted in the Good Place. Except that as soon as she arrives the Good Place starts glitching, and she really, REALLY needs to become a better person before she can be found out and kicked out to the Bad Place.

Luckily her assigned soulmate was a professor of ethics and moral philosophy.

One of the funniest, most thoughtful and clever comedies I've ever watched. Ever. The characters are delightful and by the time the final minute rolled around I had sobbed my heart out multiple times (which, as we all know, is a sign of the very best comedies out there).

As for the question of whether or not this too contains Found Fami- Yes! Obviously, yes.

7. Avatar: the Last Airbender - (containing 3 seasons, or 61 episodes) - intro here (couldn't locate the trailer but it's basically the same thing in this case).

The four nations lived in harmony. Until the Fire Nation attacked.

It's been a hundred years since the beginning of the war when two kids from the Southern Water Tribe find a boy frozen in ice and wake him up. A boy who's able to bend all four elements... though not very well.

Enter multi-nation flying road trip (thank you Appa, we love you most of all) as they try to find teachers for the Avatar and save the world.

Includes found family (shut up), amazing fight scenes, the most heartfelt and vivid characters ever, and the best example of a redemption arc actually done well.

8. Love Between Fairy and Devil - (containing 1 season, or 36 episodes) - trailer here.

This one gutted me. I'm saying this as a compliment. But it had to be said. Completely destroyed me. I just haven't been the same.

A love story between an Orchid Fairy and the leader of the Moon Tribe that starts out with her accidentally releasing him from millennia long imprisonment and then takes you through the caleidoscope of all possible human emotions (it's a body-swap comedy through the first part, then a romcom, then a dramatic romantic tale, and finally a tragic love story).

But it's such a satisfying slow burn.

And it carries this... humanity through the whole thing that makes it so visceral.

If you're a romantic who's very tired of instalove and characters dropping all their morals because 'ooh, attractive person' then you've got to watch this. Because this story does NOT take the easy road there.

(my more extensive rec for this series can be found here)

9. Star Wars: The Clone Wars - (containing 7 seasons, or 133 episodes) - fanmade trailer here (it was better than any of the official ones).

This series did so much. Introduced Ahsoka Tano, and made us love her. Gave names and faces and souls to the Clone Troopers (okay, it's the same face but you know what I mean), to a point where their endings during Order 66 destroyed me just as much as the ending of the Jedi Order. And somehow made me both love Anakin AND be a million times more angry with him.

There are some arcs in this series that might be a bit weaker. But there were some... god, there's a reason I love Clone Wars more than any other series or trilogy in this universe. And I'm not even a little ashamed to say it.

Must watch for Disaster Lineage shenanigans; for the vod'e; AND for the Jedi (who did their best okay? They always did their best 😭💔).

(and on the subject of found family... do I even need to comment)

10. Nikita - (containing 4 seasons, or 73 episodes) - trailer here.

A rogue assassin that escaped Division - covert government agency that takes recruits out of prison, fakes their deaths and then forces them to become spies and assassins - has come back to take it down. Brick by brick if she has to. With guns and explosives too when that works better.

Contains soooo many cool fight scenes. Is full of incredible characters you'll fall in love with (and hate with) very quickly. And most of all has an incredibly complex relationship of mentorship and friendship between two women that holds both great admiration and betrayal, real care and love as well as rage and hatred, forgiveness, mutual respect and an unbreakable kind of bond that so very rarely involves even one female character on TV, let alone two.

(as usual, found family tropes up the wazzoo).

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In conclusion. We all know there's going to be a large space between seasons of our favorite shows now (and some shows that aren't going to survive it). Let's fill that space with some excellent TV we haven't had a chance to see yet.

And direct the blame for the wait towards the right place (i.e. the studios).

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