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halcyone-of-the-sea · 6 months

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Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

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

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this.

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces.

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds.

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now.

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin.

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height.

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents.

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with.

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?”

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse.

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door.

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.”

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink.

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing.

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.”

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket.

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt.

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess.

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic.

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.”

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt.

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.”

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you.

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.”

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.”

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after.

It was so quiet here.

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you.

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down.

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’.

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open.

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind.

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light.

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back.

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it.

You are made of memories.

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?”

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.”

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror.

Tall; formidable.

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him.

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise.

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.”

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises.

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping.

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation.

A hand is moved out to you, hovering.

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care.

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting.

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb.

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed.

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork.

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting.

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp.

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?”

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you.

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him.

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls.

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.”

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?”

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind.

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet.

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?”

“Get in your seat, Captain.”

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt.

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood.

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness.

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better.

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass.

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb.

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?”

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone.

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours.

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.”

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words.

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone.

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists.

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities.

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace.

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur.

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?”

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.”

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?”

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree.

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley.

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building.

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so.

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another.

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears.

The line is silent.

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!”

“He’s in the alley!”

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull.

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him.

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs.

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull.

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.”

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard.

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway.

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was.

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips.

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning.

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow.

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.”

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing.

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling.

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.”

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back.

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.”

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents.

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence.

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully.

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly.

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin.

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath.

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame.

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.”

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast.

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple.

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead.

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him.

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to.

You loved each other.

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms.

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be.

What should be.

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17.

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.”

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity.

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures.

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen.

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy.

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power.

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging.

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street.

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing.

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.”

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.”

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location.

“Ninety,” you breathe.

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop.

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you.

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on.

Not you.

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love.

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic.

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up.

Emmett was a snake.

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman.

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch.

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now.

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues.

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista.

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation.

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight.

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits.

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!”

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line.

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in.

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing.

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him.

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you?

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known.

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze.

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight.

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before.

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete.

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred.

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion.

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat.

It’s nothing.

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over.

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding.

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse.

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.”

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet.

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression.

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.”

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight.

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base.

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces.

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter.

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.”

Laswell frowns tightly at him.

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.”

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh.

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you.

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers.

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping.

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming.

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump.

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter.

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded.

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully.

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping.

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means.

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond.

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables.

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful.

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall.

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture.

But this might finally give him something to act on.

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door.

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her.

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost.

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer.

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture.

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses.

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say.

But this is something else.

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.”

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it.

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose.

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried.

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them.

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once.

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak.

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.”

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose.

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive.

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality.

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic.

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife.

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors.

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath.

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived.

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop.

But the brain is a funny thing.

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout.

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe.

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs.

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace.

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting.

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own.

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open.

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths.

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back.

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage.

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.”

Your chest is heavy.

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.”

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?”

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind.

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers.

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much.

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words.

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form.

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants.

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for.

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away.

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room.

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor.

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this.

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment.

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.”

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you.

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess.

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow.

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily.

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.”

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning.

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later.

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him.

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath.

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.”

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum.

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all.

“I love you.”

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial.

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed?

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked.

“I love you.”

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all.

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment.

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that.

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

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neoarchipelago · 11 months

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole (Price!Werewolf x Bunny!FReader)

A/N: this is LONG LONG. BRUH. this was supposed to be 2 parts but i didn't want to split it idea is from : @fnny-bnny

Need werewolf price to drag a floppy-eared bunny reader back to their nest immediately. readers ears and prices teeth and maw dripping with his saliva to scent them both. need him to wrap his body around reader and growl at anyone who comes too close

Warnings: NSWF, 18+ CONTENT

John Price walked amongst the soldiers, heading to the barracks of the task force 141. His senses picked up on the various smells around him, the evening coming to an end. The building was empty at this late hour. Walking into the common room he smiled.

"What are my pups doing?" He asked with a smile.

Soap sat on ghost's lap, happily typing on his phone.

"We're not pups anymore." Gaz recalled with a grin.

Price smiled at him. Yes. When he had found his pack, they weren't pups already. But something inside him would always see them as his little pups.

When they had met, various years ago, he was surprised to find that one by one, they were exactly like him. Wolf hybrids. People would call them werewolves. The world knew about hybrids, but it was something rare. Lots of people decided to ignore it and hybrids would keep to themselves. Of course, it was easy to distinguish each other in the middle of 'normal' people. In the military, it wasn't uncommon to find hybrids. Their strength, their abilities made them the perfect warriors.

Soap nuzzled in Ghost's neck, the man growling softly.

"Have you finished your report?" Gaz asked.

"No. Not yet. Just passed by to check on you before heading back. Making sure you're all behaving." Price said with a teasing wink.

"You're always staying late, old man. You should take some rest." Soap teased.

"Be careful, this old man could tackle you." Price added.

"Leave my mate alone. He's an idiot but he's my idiot." Ghost said, hand slipping through Soap mohawk, fisting there to make the Scot look at him.

Price shook his head, heading towards the door. The report on the last mission seemed to be endless to him. How do you carefully explain the things that hybrids could do on the field? Kate was aware, of course, she was a hybrid too. She was used to taking care of the hybrids in the military. Often she found herself having to change Price's reports to avoid any fallbacks.

Price sighed once he was outside. The sun had set a while ago, the lights of the base being the only thing lighting up the grounds. He grabbed one of his cigars, ready to light up the tip when something… a scent, ticked his attention. It was sweet, soft. Tempting. He frowned. It was unusual. Especially on base. He decided to check, using his nose to track the object of his current attention.

He walked towards a warehouse probably empty at this hour. The scent grew stronger, laced with something different. Fear. A low growl erupted from his throat as he hurried. Was it young soldiers messing with each other again? At this hour? He'd make sure to make them regret.

Making a sharp turn around a corner, he froze confused. A young lady was sitting down in a little ball, next to some gear boxes.

"Young lady-"

You looked up, eyes wide in fear. You could smell it yourself, the strong smell of him. A predator. You tried your best to keep your ears from showing but the more he stared at you, the harder it was to keep control.

He stepped forward, breaking the last piece of control you had, two fluffy ears erupting from your head. You raised your hands to grab them, like it would help.

He looked shocked. Truly. But you were too scared to move.

Price wasn't expecting this. You. Finding you like this. He wasn't expecting the two white fluffy things above your head. And surely, he wasn't fucking expecting the way the beast inside him reacted to how cute you were. Soft little thing. He wanted to just pounce on you and hold you in his arms. He cleared his throat.

"Are you alright?" He asked in the softest voice he could.

You seemed to take a deep breath before nodding slightly.

"I.."

Her voice. Shit. Another growl of the beast inside made his eyebrows twitch slightly.

"I'm sorry… the other.. recruits… hybrids?"

He nodded, beckoning her to continue.

"They.. enjoy… hunting me. I'm not really a fighter… I was trying to hide.." you explained.

Price sighed. He was aware of some of the things that could happen when bored recruits got together.

"Hey… it's alright. Come here, I'll take you back." He tried, extending his hand.

"I.. sir.. I don't want to go back there.. please. T..they scare me on purpose… and they pull on my ears…" you whined.

Something in Price was let loose. He didn't realize his eyes flashed yellow until he saw you recoil. He cleared his throat again, gaining back composure.

"I.. sorry. I'm not angry at you. It's.. the way these idiots act." He reassured.

What could he do? He could call Laswell. Perhaps they could switch barracks for you.

"I'm gonna call Laswell. Come here. Don't stay on the ground, it's cold and dirty. " He said with a soft smile.

You seemed to think for a second before standing up slowly. You stepped into view, light showing your form more precisely. You still held your ears down, holding them tight. Price smiled.

"You can let go. I won't touch them." He teased.

You bit your lip, softly letting go, the cute ears flopping up.

"Come on, let's go." He said, motioning towards the entrance.

"W..wait…"

You turned around under Price's gaze as you walked to where you sat to grab something. He wasn't paying attention. He was lost in the sight of what seemed to be a little tail underneath your cargo pants. When you spun back towards him he looked away, embarrassed. You didn't seem to notice as you walked back to him.

"I'll take you somewhere safe until I can get a hold of Laswell. Is that alright?"

You nodded, ears flopping around. God was it adorable. He motioned you to walk as his arm remained behind your back, not touching you, but keeping you near, just in case.

He did the only thing he thought was best. Take you back to his nest. When he had stepped inside with you next to him, he had fallen back into the reality of things when his three pups stared at him.

You had immediately frozen, taking a step closer to Price. He had felt the urge to wrap his arms around you again but restrained himself.

"I thought you were going to finish a report. You come back with a bunny?" Ghost asked in a mocking tone.

Soap chuckled, gaz trying to hide his smile.

"Come on. I have to call Laswell, I need you guys to be nice." Price warned.

"What happened?" Gaz asked.

"Some rogue little pups." Price answered in a darker tone.

The team quickly understood, soap smiled, patting the couch next to him. You looked up at Price, biting your lip again. His eyes flashed to your lips before softly nodding with a reassuring smile. You slowly walked to the couch, feeling slightly less stressed.

You shared a last look with Price before he took his phone, walking away.

That night, Laswell didn't pick up. Price was starting to get frustrated. He couldn't bring you back there until he caught those idiots. He sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. Walking back inside, he looked around the room. Tails and ears were out. The boys had mimicked you, letting a hint of their forms out. He found himself looking at you, the sound of your laugh captivating him.

"Captain." Gaz called, bringing the rest of the room's attention to him.

"Laswell doesn't answer." He said.

You looked disappointed.

"Does… it mean i have to go back?" You asked.

Silence fell in the room.

"You can stay here!" Soap said happily.

"Sergeant…" Price started.

"It's only for one night." Gaz added.

"She'll be safer here with us. We can free a room for her." Ghost finished.

Price shook his head as he chuckled.

"I.. I don't want to bother…" you countered.

"You don't bother bunny!" Soap added cheerfully.

You shook your head, amused at such an obvious nickname.

"You can stay. I'll free up my room for you." Price interrupted. The boys stared up at him, sending all kinds of knowing looks as you simply smiled up at him.

He had made sure his room was comfortable and safe for you. He had given you a shirt of his for you to sleep in. The whole situation was off. He kept reminding himself that he should keep a distance but the beast kept pushing him to do more. Bring you some water. Making sure you weren't cold. Looking a bit too much at your thighs.

"You alright then?" He asked one last time.

You sat on his bed, his shirt too big for your frame, looking up at him, your ears falling back, your eyes filled with exhaustion.

"Yes sir.. Thank you." You answered.

He smiled again, nodding before exiting the room, the scent of you surrounding his brain and senses.

After your first encounter with the team, Laswell had decided to move you closer to their barracks. Your previous location was temporary anyway. To your surprise the team was thrilled to know you were moved closer. By closer, Laswell had meant the same building. You felt safer as well, the boys greeting you every time they saw you.

Price smiled at you in the hallways, making your heart skip a beat. Because yes. The bunny in you had found something in him. Something that made you feel safe, calm, free to be yourself. You felt dumb with your silly little crush. There was no way he would ever be interested in you. It didn't stop you, and your deepest instincts to be attracted to his frame, his hidden beast enticing yours to get closer. Your mind, your rational side just kept reminding you that this man could not be interested in you.

For Price, he found himself in a sticky situation. You had slept in his bed that night and he had slept on the couch. Laswell had taken over the case the morning after, relieving him. His day had gone about as normal, he had finally finished his report and finished his duties. The real challenge. Was to go to sleep in his bed. He had walked into the shared rooms of his pack under the teasing and playful gaze of the team. He ignored it, until finally he understood the glances, the chuckles. His room. His sheets. His pillow. Everything smelt like you. He had groaned, laying in his bed, surrounded by you. All you. The beast inside kept clawing and raging. Things he hadn't heard it say in years screaming in his mind.

Go get her. Our bunny. Pet her fur, her cute tail. She smells so good.

Price had felt the frustration and anger rising. He hadn't slept. He had tried to view and review the situation and how it turned to shit so easily. He had seen you a total of a few hours. How could he be so enticed by you? What was it that he stared a tiny bit longer than he should in the hallways? The days passed and it's like your smell had simply decided to haunt him.

"What's wrong Price? You're cranky. Not sleeping enough?" Laswell had commented during a meeting, the boys chuckling under their breath.

A few days after, he sat in the common room, night had fallen. He was lost in thoughts again, eyebrows furrowed.

"Price?" Gaz called.

"Yes? Sorry… I was lost in thoughts." Price said, smiling to hide his frustration.

"Got your head stuck on a bunny?" Soap teased.

Price looked away, rubbing the back of his head.

"Yeah… maybe." He let out honestly.

"You imprinted?" Gaz asked.

"I'm too old for that." Price answered in a chuckle.

"I don't think so. I'm sure you can still find a mate, she seems like a nice girl." Soap added.

"You think she would want me? An old man like me?" Price said, a little disappointment in the back of his tone.

"Never say never." Ghost said.

Price shook his head, standing up and heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Soap asked.

"Walk."

"At this hour?" Ghost asked.

"I don't think I need permission"

Walking out, Price decided that the fresh air of the night would help. He was cranky. He hadn't slept properly in days. Claiming you… what an idea. To even think you'd accept to be courted and be his.

Do it you coward.

Price straightened his neck, telling his beast to simply shut up. Stepping into the night, he closed his eyes, ready to light up his cigar. For the second time this month, your smell hit his nose. This time he didn't hesitate. Taking his cigar away from his lips he immediately tracked you down, finding you as quick as possible. Half running through the grounds, he felt closer and closer to you. Until his eyes noticed you. Trapped against a wall, a man keeping you there, in between his arms.

Tear him apart. She's ours.

His beast growled loudly in him. His jealousy spiked dangerously.

"If she wants someone else it's none of our business…" he whispered to himself.

He was ready to turn around when a little whimper stopped him. A cry. You were crying. His eyes flashed. This time the growl was from him, loudly echoing. The man's head snapped towards him but it was too late, Price had closed the space in a flash, grabbing the man by the neck before throwing him to the ground.

"C.. captain!" The man cried.

"Captain.." you mewled.

The more he heard your voice, the whimpers the mewls, the wilder his beast clawed out.

"Explain yourself, recruit." Price let out, voice darker and raspier than usual.

He was starting to realize how dangerously close to turning he was.

"S..sorry! I.. I didn't know she was yours sir! I didn't smell the claim!" The man apologized.

Price froze. There was no claim. He tensed up, trying to calm down. He had no claim on her. Fuck.

A touch. A soft hand on his forearm, making his head snap to you. Your glossy eyes looking up at him, biting your lip. Your ears flushed back.

Mine.

"Get lost." Price threatened without looking at the man. The poor thing scrambled up before hurrying away.

"P..price…" you whined.

Mine.

He was panting, eyes never leaving you as you stepped closer to him. He wasn't gone. He simply had a hard time staying there. Your other hand rose to his chest, a growl meeting your movement. His hand met your waist, passing his arms around to pull you harshly flushed against him. You gasped, the feeling of his nails softly scratching you.

"Price…" you called again softly.

Mine.

His second hand flew up to tangle in your hair, close to your ears. Foreheads touching.

"Price…" you called again in a whisper.

He took a deep breath, your scent filling his senses. It was almost instant, the way his beast growled in him before finally calming down.

Mine.

After a few seconds he realized the position he was in, holding you close to him. You sniffled, making him tense. Did he make you cry too? He separated enough to look at you. You looked up at him with your pretty eyes, a little smile on your lips.

"Are…you alright?" He asked, testing the waters.

"I am. Thank you." You answered.

"Good…" he started. "I.. I'm sorry." He said, getting ready to let go.

He was going to let you go. You should want him to. But the animal inside you refused. Your hands fisted in his shirt as you whined, nuzzling your face there. He froze, probably shocked, before reaching again to wrap you in his arms. You should stop. You should step away. You were making him uncomfortable… right? But you couldn't. You were intoxicated by it. By this. He growled softly.

"We should separate.." he said.

You felt a cold shower run through you. He was uncomfortable. You quickly stepped back, pulling away from his reach.

"Sorry!"

You looked up at him, his eyes still yellow, looking at you intensely. You didn't know what to do. The wind made you shiver. He caught the movement immediately.

"Listen. I need to ask you. Right now. Do you allow me to court you?"

You froze. What…? He… he was asking? To court you? You looked up at him, eyes wide, ears slightly perking up.

"You.. you want to court me?"

"Please.. spare me the embarrassment love… just tell me no.. so I.. can move away and calm the beast…"

You blinked.

"B..but… I don't want to say no?" You said, confused.

Price looked shocked. He stared at your small frame in front him. He could probably easily break you. You wanted him to court you. You were accepting.

"You.. want me to?" He asked again, just to be clear.

"Yes. I do."

YES.

"Are you sure..?" He asked again.

"Yes. I am."

"Absolutely sure-"

"Yes!" You said, letting a little chuckle out.

"I'm dying to hold you again." He said honestly.

You smiled, skipping to him again, wrapping your arms around his chest. He groaned, closing his eyes and holding you back. You nestled into his chest, feeling it vibrate under a growl. Your bunny jumped happily inside you. You were so happy. He wanted you. He wanted to court you!

Something felt off though.

"Price.. are you alright?" You asked, looking up at him. His eyes were still yellow. He hadn't gained back control?

"I… yeah… I haven't been sleeping well… I guess it's making it hard to calm down." He said with a smile.

"Not sleeping well? Why?" You questioned.

He looked away for a second.

"My bedsheets smell like you."

"Oh.." you let out. "I'm sorry-"

"No. No. I just wanted to go to your room and bring you to my bed… to sleep next to me." He said, looking slightly annoyed by his words. You smiled at him. Perhaps it wasn't the best choice, the best decision, but you wanted to.

"Let's go then.."

He looked shocked. Completely taken aback.

"I.. I mean… just sleep!" You caught yourself. "I.. I don't mind sleeping next to you…" you answered with a blush.

"I won't ask twice." He warned.

You thought for a second. You didn't want to leave his arms. You wanted to go to his bed and sleep next to him.

"Please.."

Lifting you up in his arms, he headed straight for his dorm. You giggled in his arms, making him crack a smile. His beast was nauseatingly beaming at the situation. Of course, he wouldn't let him go too far, but he had to be honest, he was happy too. Walking up the stairs, he let you open the door while he kicked it close. Coming into view in the common room, you froze in his arms.

"We just can't let you out. You keep bringing back the bunny." Soap joked.

Price rolled his eyes ignoring them, heading for his room.

"Hey hey hey!" The boys called worriedly.

"It's fine!" You called back.

Price felt proud of the boys's reactions, but also incredibly happy of the trust you put in him.

He closed the door behind him before softly dropping you on the bed.

"Are you sure you're comfortable? I won't overstep…" he questioned, worried.

"Yes… I trust you. Can… Can I get your shirt back?" You asked with a blush.

He chuckled before nodding. He grabbed a t-shirt, handing it to you as you held it.

"I'll let you change. Alright?" He said.

You nodded. He stopped out of the room, falling face to face with the team.

"So… going for a walk huh?" Gaz teased.

Price shook his head.

"I.. kinda lost it… some guy was trapping her…" he tried, feeling the anger rise again.

"Price. You're craving her." Ghost stated.

Soap smiled.

"I… maybe. I don't want to scare her." He said. It could easily start being scary.

After so long. He had gained experience. Strength. He was powerful. Very little hybrids would dare to go against him. He worried he might hurt you. He'd never forgive himself. But for now. You had accepted. You let him court you and he decided he won't let this chance go away.

"If you need help, we're here." Gaz proposed.

He knew they would. They weren't as strong or tough. But all three could keep him in check if one day he'd lose it.

Price nodded before he heard your voice whisper his name. That's all he needed. A whisper of his name. He bid goodnight to the boys, stepping back inside of his room.

You sat on his bed, just like last time, in his shirt. He felt himself wanting to get in bed with you. Right away.

"I'm going to change too, alright?" He said.

You nodded blushing.

"I'll turn away.." you said, shocking him again.

You did as you said, turning your back to him. He was going to change. Yes. Put some sweatpants to sleep in, nevermind the shirt. But right now it's the view of your little tail that was captivating him. You probably found it strange that he didn't move because you called him.

"Yeah.. sorry." He caught himself.

He hurried to get dressed, before finally letting himself fall to his knees on the bed, right behind you. You turned to him, eyes looking at his chest before blushing.

"Are you alright? We don't have to love, I can sleep on the couch."

You opened your arms inviting him in. He held you, making you lay down. You snuggled closer to him as he put the blanket over the both of you.

"Good night price.."

"John.." he corrected softly.

You smiled into his chest.

"Good night John.."

"Good night.."

"Y/N."

This time he chuckled.

"Good night Y/N."

—------------------------

It has been four months. You happily walked in the hallways thinking about the last four months. You and John had gotten closer and closer. He had taken you on dates, dinners and movie nights. You still slept in the same bed, unless he had to go on field or you had to travel to other bases.

Nothing else had happened. Price wanted to take things slow. You accepted of course. But you could see and feel his need. The way he'd look at you hungry when you changed. The way you woke up with him trying to keep your ass away from his erection.

He was possessive. Very. The recruit who had trapped you, found himself on another base in no less than 24 hours. He'd look at any guy or hybrid who walked a bit too close to you with heavy warnings. He hadn't claimed you. Not yet. He wanted to wait for you to be sure. You were completely head over heels with him. He had let his tail and ears out once during a full moon, though the man seemed to have amazing control over his transformation. It wasn't the same for the boys who still had a few things to learn. Ghost especially, but soap knew how to deal with him, spending the whole night near the big wolf.

You have noticed one thing about Price. He loved your tail. You'd lay on your stomach reading a report while he sat on the chair next to the bed, report in hand as well. You looked over at him to see him lost gazing at your tail. You smirked to yourself, making it wiggle. His eyes had widden, smile forming on his lips but his eyes never leaving the fluffy tail. You wiggled it again, his eyes flashing yellow, sending a delightful shiver down your spine. Would he pounce on you? If you wiggled it again? Just once more…

"Price!" Soap called in the other room.

Price immediately fell back into reality, blinking away his wolf eyes as he looked at you. He quickly understood your little game as he found you looking at him, a little naughty look on your face. He had smirked back, standing up to kiss you.

"You little minx…" he had whispered against your lips.

You giggled as he stood, walking to the door.

Since you had noted this, you enjoyed teasing him. And the more you teased the less the poor man could control himself.

Little kisses often turned to heated make out sessions, high growls and little bites making you moan.

"Shit…" he cursed, pulling you closer if it was even possible.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, you smiled against his lips. His large hands on your back and in your hair. You could feel how hard he was through his pants, feeling him twitch every time you moaned.

"Darling… love…" he called softly.

You hummed against his lips. Feeling him lift you up against the wall, another low growl, much more distinct making his chest vibrate. Your legs had wrapped around his waist, letting one of his hands roam around your thighs.

"J..John…" you whined.

The hallway filled dangerously of moans and grunts, in the middle of the afternoon, anyone could walk in on you. But shit… something was coming over you. He suddenly stopped, letting his forehead touch yours.

"Tell me to stop… we… not here… fuck…" he huffed.

He was dangerously close to letting himself turn. He bucked his hips again making you bite your lip to stiffen a moan.

"A.. alright… stop…" you let out.

He took a deep breath, slowly coming down from his high, slowly letting you down. You looked up at him, worried. He kept his eyes closed, focusing.

"Are you alright John?"

The beast was getting hard to keep in check. It was more than taunting now. It turned in its corner, pulling on the chains Price took so long to build.

Mark her. Claim her.

No. Not yet. Not in this state, not in the middle of a fucking hallway. He slowly opened up his eyes to your worried expression. That seemed to instantly calm him and the beast down. If there was one thing that his beast didn't want, was for you to be scared.

"I'm fine… I'm sorry love…I -"

"Hey… I'm fine… I'm worried about you, that's all" you said, putting your hands on his face.

He sighed.

"It's just… been a while. Darling, you need to tell me to stop if you feel even slightly uncomfortable…" he warned.

"I know. You know I will." You reassured with a smile.

This should have been the first sign. The warning. Price had even told the team of his little control problem to make sure they kept him in check. Because they also noticed. The way his eyes would turn without him noticing when you passed by in the hall. The way he'd growl when you were in his arms.

By the time the current problem showed up, it was too late. The current problem was a lone wolf. A new sergeant on base, a wolf hybrid who didn't seem to care about the team. A wolf that seemed to have taken his interest in you. First it was Soap who noticed. The way he had offered you his hand to get down from the humvee, and the way it made him grin. The way he seemed to keep his eyes on you as you walked away.

Then Gaz took notice too. The way he tried to stay with you after training to 'make sure your training was completed' because, of course, he'd always find something wrong. And Soap and Gaz had started to meddle. Because they could see you get uncomfortable. They'd pull you closer to them, they'd take you away from his training to theirs.

Things started getting out of hand so quickly. Especially when he, Ryan, realized the boys were trying to keep you away from him. He had confronted Soap, in an empty training ground only lit up by the moon, as you stood behind Gaz. The low growls behind their words, the eyes turning and the obvious scent was making you shake. When Ryan stepped closer menacingly, you only had time to blink before Ghost rushed behind Soap howling and growling, fully turned. It was the first time you had seen it. The fur, the claws, the teeth… how big and tall they were. Soap tried to pull back Ghost and Gaz stepped closer to the scene. You had immediately texted Laswell.

It took two minutes for her to arrive on scene. She immediately separated the boys. Unfortunately… She had called Price as well. His stance, his presence screamed leadership. The team backed away, Ghost keeping Soap in his arms as he stood behind him, now back in his human form. Soap looked sheepishly happy about his boyfriend's protectiveness. You remained back next to Gaz. You watched as everyone was scolded. Laswell forced everyone to go their separate ways as Price immediately reached for your hand to bring you closer to him, to walk you back to the barracks with the team.

When the door of his bedroom had closed, his eyes immediately turned. He had pulled you to him, into a feverish kiss. Lips and teeth were bruising and biting.

"J..John…" you mewled.

"Why… why didn't you tell me?" He growled.

The kisses dropped to your cheeks, your jaw, your neck where you both froze.

"I didn't want to worry you… you know I'm yours… the boys were keeping me safe…" you tried.

He was panting, fury coursing through him. You could see and feel it. You took his hand pulling him to the bed with you. He stopped, eyes widening.

"No."

It was firm. Giving no room for discussion. You were, however, determined to bring him to bed with you so you could calm him down. You stepped back closer to him, nuzzling in his neck, hands gripping his shirt. He grunted, feeling himself slowly melt. You tried again to pull him to bed, letting yourself fall back on the mattress. He let himself hover over you as you wrapped his face in your hands, kissing him.

"Y/N… baby…" he warned.

You giggled. You turned around, crawling your way up in the bed. He growled loudly, grabbing your ankles to pull you back to him, making you giggle again.

"Mine." He growled.

You felt yourself shiver. Something in you felt that he was different. Almost like Ghost in the training grounds. The way he said it, it was more than just your John.

"Yes… all yours.." you cooed.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to him as you tangled together on top of the bed. And it was exactly like this that you fell asleep. In each other's arms.

The next few days were tense. Soap had to stay in the dorms with Ghost for two days as the lieutenant had become dangerously over protective. Laswell had removed you from any mission with Ryan to make sure that Price would be kept in check. You made sure to skip your way to his office during your breaks to sit on his lap and cuddle him, feeling him relax under your touch. You'd eat lunch with him in his office, and when Laswell would agree you'd work on your reports in there as well. Price would be thrilled, having you near him made it easier for him to focus on his own work. His beast was peaceful when it could see you at all times.

Unfortunately. Some things couldn't be avoided. The last report on your desk required you to meet with the Sergeant to finish it up. You wanted to wrap it up as quickly as possible. Gaz and the boys were aware and we're supposed to come by to get you back to the barracks. You sat in front of the sergeant as you both reviewed the file and reports of the team.

"Tell me. Why hasn't he claimed you yet?"

You froze. You cleared your throat, resuming your work.

"I don't really want to talk about it." You answered firmly. He chuckled, a rumble mixing in. You felt your hair stand on end at the sound.

"Do you want some coffee?" He asked.

You shook your head, thanking him. He stood, walking around the room to get a mug of coffee. You lost yourself in the report, reading the comments again.

A little breath next to your ear made your heart drop.

"You smell really good, little one."

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You were frozen in place. You saw his hands start to drop to the table on each side of you and you panicked. You jumped up, trying to escape, only to be pushed down on the table, wrists behind your back. In the panic and fear, your ears and tail had popped out.

"Shit… that's adorable. Look at that little tail."

You squirmed trying to free yourself.

"We're gonna have so much fun… I'm going to make you mine."

"No!" You yelped.

He chuckled darkly.

"I'm gonna mark you darling."

Now you were just fighting your way out. No. No. All you had in mind was John. Him. Only him. He was the only one you wanted to mark you. Your blood ran cold when you felt his weight on you, his breath on your neck. Time stood still, you felt like the seconds stretched. You yelled. You did. You yelled for John. You didn't know why, or how. But the second after, Ryan was thrown across the room. You immediately rushed away from the table, falling to the ground behind some desk. A growl echoed through the room, making you shake. Whatever or whoever it was, the whole base heard it. You didn't dare to look, there was an obvious fight. You worried that it was Gaz before, suddenly you heard his voice.

"PRICE!"

Price..? John?!

The sound of broken furniture and growling was deafening. You peeked to your right, the sight of Gaz turning and Soap and Ghost running into view, Laswell right behind. Soap stopped Ghost from turning, avoiding more chaos.

"PRICE, STOP!" Soap yelled.

You were hyperventilating now, the panic of everyone with the sound of fighting was making your ears ring.

"YOU'RE GOING TO KILL HIM!" Laswell roared, turning into the lioness.

What..? Kill? No…

You jumped up, the scene before you shocking. You didn't let it keep your attention however, turning to look at Price. The brown fur was stunning. That was your first thought. It's exactly what caught your attention. Not the claws, the teeth, the growls, his strength or the blood.

"Y/N GET AWAY!" Soap roared.

It's exactly what caught his attention. Price turned to you, eyes focusing on your frame. The beast was out, and now you were his prey. Your ears fell back, your tail wiggling. You were supposed to be scared. But you knew he wouldn't hurt you. Him? Never. He stepped towards you. Gaz made a move to step between you two but you stopped him.

"No! It's fine!" You called.

He moved forwards again as you also decided to step to him. He closed the space in a flash, picking you. You had wrapped your arms around his big neck, hiding your face in his fur. You felt him move. Fast. But you didn't open your eyes. You heard the team scream for him, but you didn't care. You were with him, in his arms. The cold wind against you only informed you that you were both outside now. But it didn't matter.

It didn't take long to reach your destination. The smell made you instantly relax when you realized you were back at the barracks. Inside of the living room he had dropped you down as you had stumbled to remain on your feet. You looked at the big wolf in front of you, his ears capturing sounds, before feeling him reach for you again. He dragged you to his room, pulling you to bed with him, wrapping himself around your body. You felt the wetness of his saliva on your soft ears, feeling yourself coated, surrounded by his smell. You knew what he was doing. Making sure you smelt like him. And only him.

The sound of voices and footsteps made you look up only to feel his grip on your tighten. The door opened to a very worried Gaz and Soap. John growled loudly. The boys took a step back. Ghost appeared right behind.

"Guys I'm fine…" you tried.

"Price… let her go-" Soap tried.

Price growled even louder making Ghost step closer to soap. Shit. If Ghost turned to protect soap, and price was focused on your protection the situation might explode again.

"Please… I'm fine. Go." You tried again.

The boys remained silent, looking at each other. You could hear the low rumble of John, growling softly. Gaz ended up nodding.

"We'll evacuate the building. Please be careful." Soap added.

You nodded with a smile. They turned to walk away. John didn't relax until he heard them close the front door and walk away. You nuzzled him, a soft whine echoing from him.

You felt his large hand roaming your thighs, his nails softly scratching. His wet tongue licked at your neck making you shiver, your heartbeat picking up. He wanted to mark you. You felt it. He wanted to claim you. The thought made you warm. Your whole body reacted to it. The bunny inside you was practically begging for it. Could you take it… handle it?

You nuzzled again against his next before turning to his dropping a little kiss on his nose, the top of his maw, making him whine again. He shifted, now on top of you, your legs barely straddling his big frame. He scratched at your uniform, pulling and tearing holes in it. He was holding back. He wanted to tear them to shreds but he was holding back. You grabbed him by the neck, fisting your hands into the fur there, making him look at you. His beautiful eyes were locked on you.

"Shhh… it's ok John… I'm right here."

A longue lick on your shoulder made you gasp. You were hot. Feeling your pulse in between your thighs, the wetness becoming dangerously visible. He smelled it. He growled at it. Now claws tearing at the sheets on either side of you.

"J-John… please…" oh no. You were getting lost in it too.

Poor mattress. The sheer force of his grip would tear it apart. It made you slightly anxious. He was going to tear you apart. But the way you needed to clench your thighs together, hoping to get the slightest friction was too noticeable. You wanted to be claimed. Marked. But he held back. He slowly straightened himself, pulling away from you. He was trying to pull away from you. It was insane. Maddening. But now you craved it.

You whined, rolling over to your stomach, pulling down your pants slightly, just to free your tail. Your fluffy little tail. You felt the little droplets of saliva on it, his tongue licking at the fur before softly nibbling, making you relax, a soft moan escaping.

He understood. You were offering yourself to him. Willingly. But he needed to be sure. One of his big arms slivered under your tummy, picking your ass up to his crotch where you could feel his desire.

"Say it. I won't unless you say it." His voice was laced with a wolfy growl and deeper tone, making your pussy clench around nothing.

"Please…" you whined.

"No. Say it." He warned.

"Please… please take me.. mark me. Claim me!" You whimpered, wiggling your hips against him.

Your poor uniform was torn, completely shredded and discarded somewhere in the room. His fur wasn't as soft as yours but enjoyed the feeling of it on your skin anyhow. His big hands molded your ass, squeezing and massaging it, his claws leaving little imprints. You'd be covered in scratches and marks by morning. Separating a bit, you felt his breath on your folds, making you gasp, eyes widening before the feeling of his large tongue licking at your wetness made you moan.

You couldn't stop closing your eyes at his torture. Tongue lapping at your count, from your clit to your entrance, sending wave after wave of heat to your stomach. You couldn't stop grabbing the sheets, moans and whines escaping your lips and echoing in the room. You wanted to be embarrassed, hiding your face in a pillow. Even if the building was evacuated, the pack could probably hear you from outside. As if John heard your thoughts, he growled from behind you, vibration through your pussy making your eyes roll back.

"Let them hear you. Who you belong to."

You barely had time to register when the pillow was taken from your arms to be thrown across the room, the rest of them following, leaving nothing to hide your moans in. He immediately went back to your needy cunt, greedily lapping again. It was too much already but he wanted more. You knew it. He was preparing you for him. His tongue pushed slightly past your entrance, making you squeeze your eyes shut.

"F-fuck! John~"

The more you moaned, the less control he had. His tongue played and toyed with you, making you almost cum before stopping entirely.

"Please…" you mewled.

He chuckled against your folds, tongue never stopping.

"Please what?" He asked, giving you barely a second of rest.

Words? It was hard to form them. Hard to say anything.

"Please… cum… I wanna… please…" you tried.

He liked and lapped again, this time building your high without teasing you. You felt your legs shake, your body just over the edge, just there, almost tipping.

"Oh.. FUCK"

It crumbled, the tower of your orgasm completely washing over you. A long, loud moan, his name completely lost in a mix of whine, moans and whimpers.

He kept licking, eating up your wetness, growling against your skin. When he finally stopped, he towered over you, licking up your back, up to your neck.

"Good girl. You taste so fucking good…"

You tried to catch your breath, your head lightly buzzing. It wasn't normal. But it was probably due to the heat of the moment, the vulnerability of feeling like you're about to be claimed.

"Relax darling." He said, hips meeting yours.

You could feel it against you, coating himself in your juices, he was big.

"It's… too big… it won't fit…" you let out, anxiety gaining back control over your pleasure.

"It'll fit. I promise. I'll be gentle." He whispered against your ear. "Just tell me when you're ready. Let me make you feel good."

His hand traveled down your stomach to your clit, rubbing soft circles there, making you melt under his touch again. You wanted to. You really wanted to. Fuck you needed it.

"Please… take me…" you whispered.

He growled softly, never stopping his soft caresses on your clit. His tip at your entrance made you tense.

"Hey… focus on my voice. My fur against your skin…" he growled in your ear. You did as you were told, closing your eyes, focusing on his touch.

His hips bucked softly, tips dipping in your hole slowly. You gasped, feeling the stretch and burning sensation mixing with the pleasure of your clit being rubbed. He pushed slowly, your walls trying to make space for his cock as best as they could. He was big, but even through the slight pain, the shiver of pleasure down your spine seemed to largely overpower it.

Moaning, whining, your legs instinctively opening wider and your hips angling themselves to take him fully. When he bottomed out, you thought you could see stars already. It was the mating of course. The overly, addicting need of mating.

He remained still, fighting against himself and the way his hips bucked slightly into you. He was panting, hard, saliva dripping on your shoulder blades, your neck… he was containing himself, little whines escaping him, like it pained him. You wanted to scream out of love for this man. Even lost in the mating frenzy, he still battled against himself to be gentle, soft.

It took a long minute for you to adjust before you wiggled your hips, his own instantly pushing into yours, tip hitting your cervix almost bruisingly.

"Can.. can I..?"

"Yes! Please yes…" you hurried.

He slowly pulled out, the friction and burn making you shiver again. His hips slammed into your, faltering in his restrain. The moans erupting from you was enough for him to feel slightly more comfortable in his movements. His pace was soft at first. He knew he was big. It was easy to hurt you, and he didn't want that. He was going to let you adjust as much as he could. When he finally felt you were pulsating around him, almost sucking him in, he growled loudly.

You tried to grab onto something, anything. He was practically ramming into you, his hips slamming roughly, one of his hands grabbing at your breast, squeezing your nipples in between his fingers, trying to avoid hurting you with his claws. You felt your second orgasm build up way too fast. You tried to whine to warn him, but he knew it already.

"Go on. Let it go. Cum for me bunny."

You did, tears burning at the corner of your eyes. It was terrifying to feel another orgasm right around the corner. He adjusted himself, one large hand holding your hips, the other braving himself on the wall above the bed frame, claws and grip marking the stone. You'd be sore in the morning, without a doubt. Your abused cunt kept tightening around him, his thickness only helping him hit the right spot.

"Fuck… can't.. gonna.. fuck~" you couldn't say anything coherent anymore.

He whined slightly when he felt you clench around him again, third orgasm hitting you. You were sobbing, oversensitive and overstimulated. He dropped his arm in front of your face.

"Bite." He ordered.

You obeyed, his pace completely maddening now, making the bed shake. He growled, his fur standing on end from the feeling or your soft bite.

Pretty little thing. She can barely bite us.

He snarled at his beast. He was right. Fucking adorable.

"You're mine. All mine."

You sobbed again, his other arms wrapping under your waist again to easily hold you up and slam you unto him, pounding your drenched pussy to no end. You could feel another blindingly hard orgasm arriving, this time his hips faltering.

"You want my claim… tell me. Tell em. Scream it."

"Want your claim… please… immyours.." you cried, tears flooding your cheeks.

"Good girl. Cum with me."

You barely registered your orgasm. His powerful bite at the crook of your neck, blood dripping down onto the bed overtaking your senses. It was slightly painful, but the feverish heat in your body, and the way it only tripled the sensation of your orgasm made it worth it. The feeling of being filled up, his cum overloading and dripping down onto the mattress as he kept grinding his hips unto your. It was too much, your ears buzzed and your vision blurred.

"Breathe. Breathe…" he instructed, his own voice restrained.

He licked softly at the bite mark on your shoulder, cleaning up the blood and helping it heal. Your legs were shaking. He wrapped his arms around you, picking you up. You moaned, his cock still buried deep in you all the while. He laid you both down on the side, grabbing some kind of blanket to drape over the both of you.

"Relax… we're going to remain like this a little while…" he chuckled, John's voice back to normal.

You hummed inching closer to him, making him choke on air.

"Baby, don't rile me up again please… you need to rest." He warned.

You smiled, closing your eyes as he wrapped himself around your body.

"Rest. I'm right here… You did so good, baby. So good." He praised in the fog of your consciousness.

It wasn't long until you fell asleep, his body tightly around you, his tongue licking and nibbling at your ears.

He had woken twice again during the night. His cock twitching inside you, taking you and marking you twice more. On your thigh and on your hip. You were exhausted when your eyes fluttered open that morning. He had taken his normal form, sleeping soundly next to you. You smiled to yourself, watching his chest rise softly.

Soft voices, whispers could be heard from the living room. They kept getting closer to the door before stepping back again. You smirked to yourself. They wanted to check if you were ok. You stood up slowly, trying not to wake John up. Your feet touched the floor, your whole body was sore and aching. You tried to stand but your knees gave out, making you sit back down on the floor. A chuckle was heard behind you as you turned your head. John sat up on the bed, looking down at you with loving eyes.

You blushed embarrassingly. He had fucked the ability to walk out of you.

"You shouldn't stand. A claim is quite hard. It takes a whole lot of energy sweetheart." He explained with a smirk.

You pouted. He shook his head, rising up to walk around the bed to you. He picked you up, sitting you back up on the bed. You took your opportunity to kiss him deeply. He smirked against your lips before whispers were heard again. He sighed.

"They're worried…" you said, smiling softly.

He nodded, dropping a kiss on top of your head before stepping away to put some joggings on. You tried to stand again. He rushed to your side as you wobbled.

"I'm ok, I'm ok." You chuckled.

"Let me help you dress. We show them you're ok and you get back to bed love." He instructed.

You smiled, putting your hands on his chest, looking up at him as you flushed your body against his. From how he towered you he could see your tail that you happily wiggled for him. His eyes turned yellow once more and you giggled.

"Help me get dressed then." You teased.

He groaned, smirk on his lips, but helped you anyhow.

When you opened the door, the boys were standing on the other side eyes wide as they watched the both of you. You smiled up at them, easing their worries.

"Oh god you're ok!" Soap sighed.

You giggled. "I'm fine"

He stepped closer to hug you before Ghost grabbed unto him, eyeing Price.

"It's fine." Price said.

"Of course it is." Gaz said. "Pay attention, We can smell his claim on her from miles away. We clearly heard it last night." He teased.

You blushed heavily, hiding your face in your hands. The boys chuckled softly, Price wrapping his arms around you.

"Mine…" he grumbled against your neck.

"Yeah yeah… we got it old man" soap said, rolling his eyes.

"Congratulations. Nice for the both of you." Ghost said, nodding towards the both of you.

"Now make a lot of pups!" Soap teased.

You blushed again, hiding your face in John's chest, earning another fit of laughter from them.

"We have all the time in the world for that. Now scurry off. Let me enjoy my mate while we're still in the moment." Price warned.

They shook their heads throwing other taunts and teases before walking away.

"Come on baby. Let's get back to bed…"

You smiled.

"Let's go…"

#fanfiction #fanfics #fanfic #captain price #cod mw2 #john price headcanons #john price imagine #john price #price x reader #cod price #price cod #john price x y/n #john price smut #captain john price #john price x reader

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tightjeansjavi · 5 months

Text

The Menu | Part 1

“Vices to fill a Void”

A/N: so I decided this is gonna be a two-parter because if theres one thing I’m good at, it’s edging my dear readers ;)

~word count: 3.4k~

Pairing | dark! Joel Miller x f! reader

Summary: Joel Miller has a menu concocted just for his customers. Pills? He’s got ‘em. Guns? Ammo? Name your price. Booze to warm the broken souls and hearts of the QZ? give him a holler. Everything comes with a price, of course. Joels got somethin’ special on his menu. Somethin’ that he doesn’t advertise freely. Y’gotta want it. Y’gotta have a desire that matches his own, only then will he offer what you seek.

Warnings: dark themes, two feral cats energy, mentions of deceased bodies, Joel is an asshole that knows how to get exactly what he wants. Dark! Joel, post!outbreak, Joel and Tess run the black market in the QZ, age gap, Joel is in his 40’s reader is in her late 20’s, mentions of drugs, smoking, alcohol, graphic depictions of violence, reader is a spitfire with a no-shit taking attitude, enemies to lovers type beat, Joel likes to play mind games, reader has no physical descriptions, readers nickname is Angel, +18 minors dni!

The first time you meet the infamous Joel Miller is in his and Tess’s apartment in one of the few available Boston QZ apartments. Rumor on the street is that Joel and Tess are an item. When in all actuality, they’re business partners that occasionally fuck. His options, however, are not just limited to Tess. He likes to keep that part of his business on the low. He’s got a reputation, sure. But he doesn’t boast it proudly like a peacock. He knows his expertise, and he knows it well. His purpose in the structure of the QZ was smuggling. He’d bring pills, booze, ammo, guns, and anything else that was desirable. He’d trade for ration cards; a hefty amount of them. Sometimes, he’d allow his customers to trade their bodies, but he was quite picky, and it ain’t had anything to do with women’s appearances. In that department, he indulged in all body types. What he was most intrigued about was their minds. Their ability to survive, and most importantly, what they desired most in this shit-hole world.

He liked it when they were verbal. Silence was not a name in his game. He liked it when they showed up at his doorstep knowing exactly what it was that they wanted from him. He could play all the cards, and he played them well. He could be empathetic if they asked for it. He could pretend to love them just for the night. He could yank their hair, dig his nails into their flesh and call them a dirty, useless whore, but only if it was requested. See, he wasn’t all that brutal of a man, but if you weren’t careful and direct, he might send you home with more than just an ache between your thighs. He knew how to fuck, and he enjoyed it almost as much as he enjoyed beating a man senseless, almost.

You, however, held no interest to know what laid beneath his weathered jeans. You showed up wanting one thing, and one thing only. A vice to fill the hole in the void of your heart. You knew that Joel Miller’s menu was just what the doctor ordered.

Tess and Joel were seated at the kitchen table going through their supplies for the day. They had their usual customers, but Joel was always intrigued to see new faces walk through his door.

A cigarette dangled between his lips as he flipped through a stack of ration cards. The scent of tobacco wafted through the cracks in the door frame as your knuckles rapped firmly along the chipped paint. You knocked once, then twice five seconds later. It was customary like a code. Not that Joel or Tess had any concerns with FEDRA; they were a part of his regular cycle of customers too.

“Come in.” His voice was thick, deep, and dripping with authority.

The tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange as he inhaled the toxic fumes. The nicotine that coursed through his system calmed his nerves. Everyone had their own skeletons in their closets after all.

He paused his counting momentarily as he listened to the door handle squeak before it was pushed open.

“Sit.” He rasped with his freehand gesturing to the open seat in front of the table. “State your business.”

You watched the way the smoke coiled around his head like an ashy halo through the stagnant air. His brow cocked in your direction as his eyes zoned in on the stack of ration cards that you pulled from your jacket pocket.

“I was told that your menu is designed to cater to one's vices. I’m needin’ a bottle of booze, and a pack of smokes if you got any.” You placed the ration cards along the table before leaning back against the chairs frame.

“We ain’t got a whole pack, unfortunately. Five cards gets you five sticks, and three gets ya a bottle of hooch.” He declared in his warm Texas twang.

He was handsome, you’d give him that satisfaction only.

“I’ve got ten cards total. How about you throw’n two more smokes to make it even?” You countered smoothly as you crossed your arms against your chest.

“A negotiator, huh? Well, I'll tell ya what, girlie. Y’got yourself a deal. Y’new around here? Ain’t seen ya before.” He knew pretty much every face in the QZ. But yours remained a mystery. He wasn’t all too big of a fan of mysteries.

“Don’t think that is any of your concern, Joel.” You ignored his question as you passed off the cards.

“True.” He mused with a grin tugging across his lips. ‘S’alright. I’ll jus’ end up findin’ out about you in my own way.” He shrugged with the utmost casualness that sent your blood boiling under the surface. “Besides, my customers always end up comin’ back for more.” He grabbed a bottle of hooch and seven freshly rolled cigarettes concealed in tinfoil.

“There ain’t much for you to find out. Wouldn’t go wastin’ your time.” You grabbed the bottle swiftly before tucking it into the inner lining of your jacket. Before he could send you on your way, however, you unrolled the tinfoil to inspect the handiwork. Once you were satisfied with the merch, you plucked one of the cigarettes and placed it between your lips. “You got a light I can borrow?”

His nose twitched and his eyes squinted tightly before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He beckoned you silently to lean in as he ignited the flame.

“Y’know, these are a nasty habit to break.” He leaned back into his chair with his own cigarette dying between his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ like a good ole’ fashioned nicotine addiction.”

You scoffed under your breath as you took a deep inhale of the cancerous smoke that filled your lungs. “Says the man puffin’ away on one right in front of my face.”

He didn’t even look half fazed by your remark as he blew the smoke drifting from his lips off to the side.

You stared at one another a second longer before you stood up from your chair and snatched the cigarettes from the table.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Joel Miller. See ya around.”

Before he could respond, you were already slipping back out his apartment door and into the hallway.

“Man, she’s got a pair of balls on her, huh?” Tess mused from her seat alongside him.

“Yeah,” He smirked. “She sure does.”

The next time you saw Joel Miller was a few weeks later. You were assigned with assisting in dumping deceased infected into the deep pits where their flesh would be burned and melted away and all that would be remaining was their brittle bones. You had done this job enough times to get used to the putrid stench of rotting flesh. Others, however, couldn’t stand the smell. Some would pass out, others would empty what little was in their stomachs.

A denim-clad shoulder brushed against you as you lifted another body from the truck bed.

“Fancy seein’ you here, Angel.” Joel’s voice was muffled through the bandana he wore across his face, but you knew it was him just from that Texas twang of his.

Your eyes rolled back as walked past him and dropped the body into the flames that engulfed it.

“C’mon now.” He mused. “I know y’heard me.” He pressed.

“Fuck off, Joel.” You muttered under your breath as you bumped his shoulder harshly.

“Y’break that nasty habit yet?” He asked with a twinge of curiosity.

“Nope. Don’t plan on it either.”

Much to your relief, he walked away without speaking another word. It was short-lived however as he was standing right behind you in line to receive your ration cards for the day. The air was hot and almost unbearable as you wiped the sweat of your brow along your sleeve. When the cards were placed into your outstretched palm you shoved them deep into your pocket. The pay wasn’t worth the work that you put in.

Before you could disappear around the corner of the alley to head home, a hand grasped your shoulder rather firmly and before you could reach for your concealed weapon, your back was met with something hard that nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

Joel Miller.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doin’, Joel?!” You hissed under your breath as he flipped you around to face him.

“Got a proposition for ya, girlie. Trust me, you’ll want in.” His voice dipped down an octave as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of pills. Painkillers you suspected. The kind of shit that people could easily find themselves getting addicted to.

“And what makes you fuckin’ think that I would wanna do anythin’ for you?” What the fuck was this guys problem? The nerve he had.

“Cus’ I know there’s somethin’ that you want. Somethin’ that you need. Besides, you ain’t gonna make it long here if you don’t start usin’ people. S’the only way to survive in this world now. So, here’s what you’re gonna do. Tess and I wanna branch out further and in order to do that, we gotta get the rest of FEDRA off our backs.”

“You ain’t know shit about me, Joel. I’m doin’ just fine on my own.” You ripped your arm from his grasp, but he was quicker than you expected.

“I ain’t askin’ you, Angel. I’m tellin.’ Now, you’re gonna take these pills, and you’re gonna go on over to those guys o’there, and you’re gonna trade them. Y’get half the ration cards from the deal. Seem fair?” His tall stature loomed over you like a shadow being casted across the sun. Everything about this man was massive. His hands. His bulging arms. His shoulders. He was built like a fucking fridge, and he clearly wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“Is this what you do to all of your customers? Corner them into alleys and force them to do your dirty work for you?” You scoffed as you ripped the baggy from his hand. “And I get all the cards. I ain’t gonna let you just go and boss me around for half.”

“Jus’ the pretty ones that have a mouth to ‘em.” He mused with a wicked grin. “Fine. Y’get all the cards, but only if they agree to trade. Go on now, Angel. Time's a tickin away.” He nudged you forward with the palm of his calloused hand resting along your lower back.

“Asshole.” You hissed under your breath as you stashed the pills into your pocket before departing from the alley. If there was one thing you were good at, it was getting men to give you exactly what you wanted. You could flutter your lashes, giggle, flirt a little and their little egos would be crushed to dust beneath your fingertips.

“Hey boys, got a minute?” You spoke in a honeyed voice as the three officers diverted their attention towards you.

Joel watched from the shadows of the alley as you worked your charm like a fiddle. He was impressed with your natural skills. You certainly were no pushover. He did wonder if this was all a facade that you wore confidently. He thought briefly about what it would be like to have you beneath his sheets. What would you request from him? Would you ask him to be sweet and gentle? To fuck you like a man oughta? Or, would you be willing to share your deepest, darkest, filthy desires with him? He hoped for the latter.

When the deal was done, you made your way back across the street. Maybe Joel Miller was right. Maybe you should start using people for what they have. Who gave a fuck about morale anyway?

“How’d it go?” he inquired with his broad arms crossed against his chest as he leaned back against the brick wall.

“They wouldn’t take the bait unfortunately.” You let out a faux sigh. “Guess the deal is off.”

“What a shame, Angel. I surely thought you had it in ya. Guess I was wrong. Oh well. Good luck to ya.” He pushed himself off the wall only to find himself being pushed right up against it. Your palm lay flat against his chest as your freehand reached into your pocket and pulled out a single ration card.

His brow raised curiously as you went to slip the card into his back pocket. His eyes widened when he felt the warmth of your fingers searing through his jeans. At this close proximity, he got a proper whiff of your natural scent, and his cock pathetically twitched in the tight confines of the denim.

“Here’s your half of the deal. Decided to be generous.” You whispered through the thick growing tension.

His hand reached up to grab your wrist but before he could make contact with your skin, you were already stepping away from his reach. Your fingers rose in a mock salute before you turned on your heel and walked away.

Fuck. She’s perfect.

The next time Joel Miller saw you it's past curfew. Hours to be exact. The Boston QZ streets are quiet sans the labored breathing and deep grunts coming from a group of low-life scumbags.

“I already told you, I don’t have shit on me!” You emptied out your pockets to show these fuckers that you weren’t messing around. Would raw honesty really keep these men from tearing you apart?

“Bullshit. Y’got stuff back at your place, right? C’mon now darlin’, don’t lie to us. We’ve seen you hangin’ around Miller. Y’workin’ with him?” The man that had you pinned against the brick wall pressed further.

“Oh, for fuck sakes! Are y’all really that boneheaded to think that i’m gonna be carryin’ merch on me out in the open like this?!” You yelled out of frustration as you tried to pin your wrists free to reach your concealed knife.

“How about you shut the fuck up and tell us where Joel’s apartment is, and we won’t have to kill you. How’s that sound?” The man twisted your wrists tightly to the point where you were just waiting to hear a sickening crack.

“I don’t know where his apartment is, asshole. And even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell the likes of you because i’m not a fuckin’ rat!” You hissed between your gritted teeth as you threw your head back in one swift movement right into the face of the man that was holding you hostage. His nose crunched audibly from the force as he stumbled back right onto his ass.

Blood pooled and gushed down his lips as he yelled out a slew of profanities in your direction. Just as you were reaching for your knife, it was knocked from your grasp and clattered to the concrete out of your reach.

A fist collided with your face that sent you slamming into the brick wall with your ears wildly ringing.

You detected a familiar voice through your half-conscious haze as you slumped down to the ground with a labored wheeze.

A sickening crunch, followed by a strangled yell as Joel had one of the men in a headlock. Their body dropped to the ground like a bag of bricks. Eyes forever unmoving. The man that you headbutted was desperately trying to crawl away as Joel staggered after him. He bent down, grasping the hilt of your knife in his calloused palm.

His pupils were dark like a never ending black pit as he sent his steel-toed boot colliding into his gut over and over again. The man’s wails died in his throat as Joel flipped him over onto his back and slit his throat with one fatal swipe. Blood spurted from the entry wound and speckled Joel’s skin in a spray of crimson.

The third man almost got away, but Joel fired a bullet right into his spine without a second thought.

He focused his attention on you as he crouched down, knife still in his grasp, dripping with blood onto the pavement. His freehand grasped your face gently as he assessed your injuries. His good ear detected the sound of tires crunching under gravel; FEDRA.

“Angel, we need to go. We need to move. NOW.” He spoke urgently as he tucked your knife away before placing that hand along your shoulder. “FEDRA is gonna be here any minute, and I don’t know about you, but my ass is NOT bein’ thrown in lockup!”

When you didn’t immediately respond to his dire request, he took matters into his own hands, literally. You felt his strong arms lift you from the ground as if you weighed nothing. He left the crime scene in a flash. He was speaking to you, but you couldn’t detect his words as his mouth was moving too fast.

The last thing you remembered seeing was his dark, espresso brown eyes, and his blood spattered skin.

“Need’ya to open your eyes for me, sweetheart. C’mon. Guy knocked ya pretty good, but you’ll live.” Joel murmured close to your face as you were coming to.

What the fuck.

Your lashes fluttered for a moment and then snapped open. Despite the ache in your face from being punched, and the pounding in your skull, you immediately shot your hands upwards and shoved harshly at his broad chest.

“Joel?! What the actual fuck–”

“Ah, there she is. The sleepin’ beauty awakes, finally!” He’s grinning like a cheshire cat as he moves off the couch to give you space to breathe.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Joel?”

“Wow.” He tuts under his breath dissaprovingly. “Can’t even get a thank you for savin’ your fuckin’ life?”

“I had the situation handled on my own. What the hell were you doin’ out past curfew anyway?” You sat up a little too fast as blood rushed to your head.

His strong hands were gently easing you back down to a lying position before he was backing off again.

“Easy now, Angel. I wouldn’t sit up a’that fast if I were you.” He warned you sternly.

“Well, good thing you aren’t me, huh?” You snapped back as you swung your legs over the side of the couch.

This time he was more forceful in his actions as his hands pressed down on your shoulders firmly. “I said, stay put. God, can’t you jus’ fuckin’ listen to me when I tell ya to take it easy? You’re gonna bust your nose back open, and the stitches on the back of your head. Just chill the fuck out.” You could taste his hot breath on his tongue and feel his pulse quicken. The bulging veins in his neck protruded through the thin skin.

You swallowed harshly as your gaze wavered along the remnants of blood on his skin. Why didn’t he bother to wash it off? You couldn't help but wonder.

“I didn’t fuckin’ need your help, Joel. And you still haven’t answered my previous question either.”

He rolled his eyes before he lifted his hands from your shoulders and stalked away into the kitchen. You heard him grumbling under his breath as he slammed open a cabinet door that was already hanging by the hinges on its last legs.

“Oh, I see. So you’re just gonna ignore me now? Y’know, its fuckin’ rude to not answer someone when they ask you a question, Joel.” You muttered mostly to yourself, but you secretly had hoped that he heard you too.

Two semi-cleaned glasses were yanked from the sink and lifted from their rims as Joel swiped up a bottle of whiskey before stalking back over to the couch. He slammed the glasses down on the faded coffee table before popping the cap off with his teeth.

You were infuriating. Disrespectful. And he wanted nothing more than to put you right back into your fucking place. He however, refrained from doing so and instead poured a large splash of amber liquor into both glasses.

“Y’know, Angel. One day that mouth of yours is gonna send ya six feet under.” He stated firmly as he picked up his glass, swirled the liquor around before throwing it down his throat in one gulp.

Your eyes narrowed into slits as you glared at him from the couch. You reached for your own glass as you slowly sat up. He was pouring himself another when you downed the liquor without a fuss.

“I am well aware of that, Joel.” You deadpanned and he poured you another.

“Good, that’s real good, Angel. S’then it should come as no surprise to you that I think you’re a fuckin’ disrespectful brat.” He rasped low and deep as his words rumbled like an oncoming storm.

The tension in the room was palpable as you stared one another down. Two predators with sharpened claws ready to strike.

______

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#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #dark!joel miller #post outbreak joel #joel last of us #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller series #joel miller story

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kallie-den · 7 months

Text

True Renaming

A lesbian witch makes a mistake and accidentally summons an incubus instead of a succubus... but decides that she can fix "him" with just a few tweaks to the demon's true name

This force-feminization story was written for my patrons, based on the results of one of the polls I regularly run on Patreon!

If you like my writing, please consider supporting me on Patreon! For less than the price of a cup of coffee each month, you can get immediate, early access to everything I write - along with exclusive stories and the ability to vote on what I write next. Your support helps me keep writing and is greatly appreciated <3

---

Ardat, incubus, took a moment to stretch as the brimstone smoke cleared, savoring every little sensation that came with being incarnated in a physical body - the cool air, the sound of his own heartbeat, the little strains of exertion as he experimentally lifted his arms. It had been too long. Far too long. Ardat had existed for eons, but summonings were becoming rarer and rarer. Now, finally, he was free to roam and corrupt the Earth once more.

Well, not free. Not yet. He had been summoned into a magic circle; a ring of symbols and salt that kept him bound to the spot. But that was merely a minor inconvenience. All Ardat needed to do was convince his summoner to lower their guard a little, and he had plenty of experience with that.

He was, after all, a sex demon.

Now that the smoke had almost cleared, he could just about see them. Ardat stroked his goatee, attended to his short, tufted, black hair, and plastered a winning, charismatic smile on his perfectly formed face. He struggled to keep it there when he noticed the expression his summoner was wearing.

Overwhelming frustration and disappointment.

That was a surprise. Ardat had been greeted in many ways - with awe, lust, shock, self-righteous contempt. But who would be disappointed with a sex demon they’d bound to their will and summoned from the bowels of hell itself?

A woman, for one. A goth, for another. The look of utter, icy disdain on her face looked like it was fixed there permanently, accentuated by her jet-black lipstick and thick, immaculate eyeliner. She had long, silky, black hair - plainly dyed - with layers of deep blue visible underneath, and her clothing was all fishnets, lace, and asymmetrical, flowing folds of black cloth. Her look was - in Ardat’s opinion - a little tacky, but she undeniably carried it off well, and her figure was on the softer, rounded, better-endowed side. Aradat certainly liked that. More for him to enjoy.

“Master,” Ardat said, his voice a low purr. He offered a low, theatrical bow. “Might I have the pleasure of your name? All the better to serve you, of course. Although I must confess a slight, ulterior motive. I desire to confirm my suspicion that your name is just as lovely as you are.”

It was a good line, and one that had made many would-be witches blush throughout history. So, Ardat had been hoping for a better response than an angry, disgusted: “Tch.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Excuse me?”

“It’s Lenora,” she said, with an air of clear reluctance. “I guess.”

“Have… I done something to offend you, master?” Ardat asked cautiously.

Lenora groaned and made a gesture like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re an incubus.”

“Of course.” Ardat took a moment to refresh his grin. “I am Ardat of the Second Circle. I am accomplished in pleasures far beyond the average mortal ken - and I am at your disposal, body and soul.”

Lenora simply rolled her eyes. “You don’t get it. I’m a lesbian.”

Ardat’s smile immediately faltered. “Then… if I may ask… why did you-“

“Because you were meant to be a succubus!” the witch exploded. “I wanted to get my mind blown, and I found an old grimoire talking about this ancient sex demon. ‘Ardat of Ur’. A succubus! And now I get… you.”

“Ah,” Ardat said awkwardly. “Well, gender and grammar in ancient proto-Sumerian can be a little tricky.”

Lenora glared daggers at him. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

“Master, I’m sure you know that labels are just words,” Ardat attempted, making his voice a thrilling, husky growl and arching his back to present his bare, sculpted chest to the witch. “Whatever you may consider yourself, why not try allowing me to please you? I’m sure I could find a way to change your feelings. Everyone’s a little flexible, under the right circumstances. Maybe you just haven’t found the right man.”

From the look on her face, he immediately knew he’d chosen the wrong tactic. “Gross,” Lenora spat, even more disgustedly. “Try that again, and I’ll banish you before you can blink.”

“Wait!” Ardat said hurriedly. “Don’t send me back! Not when I… when I have so much to offer you, that is.” He tried to sound simpering and pleasing; maybe she’d like that more. “I could easily help you to summon a demon a little more fitting for your tastes. Now, if you’ll just let me out of this magic circle, I’ll-“

Lenora snorted a laugh. “Nice try. But no. Part of the reason I’m so pissed is that, as you well know, I can’t attempt this ritual again until the next lunar-venusian conjunction. Which is also the reason I can’t afford to send you back to Hell.”

Hearing that gave Ardat the twinge of hope he needed. “Then, surely there must be some service I can perform for you, master,” he purred. “Simply name your heart’s desire, and I will happily provide - for the right price, of course.”

“I don’t think-“ Lenora abruptly broke off, and then started thoughtfully at Ardat. Hope swelled in his demonic chest. “Actually,” she began thoughtfully, “maybe there is something I can do with you.”

“Yes?” Ardat asked, cautiously optimistic.

“I do have you here, even if you’re not quite right,” Lenora mused, pacing across the room. “And I do still have an itch I could do with scratching.”

Ardat let out a filthy laugh. “I’d be more than happy to assist, master,” he purred. “I knew you would prove to be open-minded.”

Lenora threw him a dangerous look, but it faded from her face almost immediately, replaced by a wicked, satisfied smirk. Somehow, that worried Ardat much, much more than her anger.

“Open-minded? No,” Lenora said. “I’m just going to fix you.”

“F-fix?” Ardat’s worry was growing.

“Fix,” Lenora confirmed, grinning. “Succubus, incubus, how different can they really be? Anyway, that whole thing is way too binary to be real. I’m sure it can’t be so hard to turn one into the other.”

“Turn into-“ Ardat let out a nervous, incredulous laugh. “Very funny, master.”

“Oh, I’m not joking.” Lenora’s grin was steadily taking on a crooked, malevolent quality. “I’m a witch. A damn good one. You wouldn’t believe what I can turn people into.”

“That’s not the problem,” Ardat explained, sighing. “Demons aren’t like people. Who we are - our bodies, our personalities, our genders - aren’t, for want of a better word, malleable. They are unchanging; ontologically fixed to specific lingua-symbolic entities - better known by your kind as our ‘true names’.”

It was a little surprising that a witch capable of summoning a demon didn’t know that much, but Ardat wanted to make sure to nip this absurd notion in the bud. He needed to guide Lenora towards something he could truly tempt her with.

“Your true names, huh?” Lenora laughed and reached for an old, leather-bound book resting on a nearby table. “Like, for example… this?”

She flipped it open to a bookmarked page and held it up for Ardat to see. It sent a cold shiver down his spine. His true name was written in the pages.

Most people wouldn’t have recognized it as such, or as a name at all. It wasn’t in words - English words least of all. Instead, it was a complex, intricately-interwoven symbol, expanding to fill an entire page of a huge grimoire with headache-inducing artistic and geometric figures. And yet, it was his name. ‘Ardat’ was the corresponding vocalization, although, from a demon’s perspective, it was crude to the point of ugliness in how little information it truly conveyed. The symbol on the page in Lenora’s book told and defined everything about the incubus, from beginning to end.

Which was very, very bad.

Knowledge was power, both figuratively and literally. It didn’t mean Lenora could pull off the kind of insane transformation she seemed to be set on, but knowing Ardat’s true name meant there was plenty she was capable of. He was going to have to tread extremely carefully.

“Where did you get that?” Ardat hissed.

“It’s from ancient Sumeria,” Lenora answered, throwing him a smug, nasty look. “You see, my ancient proto-Sumerian is actually fucking great. I just misinterpreted one little part of your true name. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again. I had to pay a pretty penny for this grimoire, though. Time to see if it’ll all be worth it.”

“That…” Ardat sighed, exasperated. “You still can’t turn me into… well, into anything! That isn’t how this works. True names might be written in ink, but I can assure you, they’re metaphorically set in stone. There are only a handful of artifacts in existence with the power to change them.”

“C’mon.” Lenora started giggling. “You can’t just set me up like that twice in a row.”

Ardat’s heart sank. “S-surely you don’t-“

This time, she reached for a small, wood-carved box and opened it. Inside was a candle that looked ordinary at first, but when Lenora lit it with a well-used lighter, the wax started to glow with an unnatural, purple phosphorescence.

“An ur-candle,” Ardat whispered reverently.

Fuck.

“Let’s take it for a spin, shall we?” Lenora said. She set the grimoire bearing Ardat’s true name down on the table and lifted the ur-candle menacingly towards it.

“Wait!” Ardat called out in alarm. He’d only heard whispers about what was about to happen, but those alone were enough to terrify him. But he fell silent once Lenora tipped the candle, and allowed a little of its wax to drip onto his true name.

Ardat froze. He could feel something; an unnameable sensation that held him in its grip and made his head feel like it was going to split open. It was as if something was touching his very soul, especially when Lenora picked up an iron stylus and used it like a pen to move the molten wax around on the page. Disconcertingly, the ink underneath it, dried for thousands of years, started to bubble up and move with it. And just like that, his reality was rewritten.

It only took hold slowly, with the first changes beginning after the wax on the grimoire’s pages had already set, but its pace quickened rapidly after Lenora held up the book for Ardat to inspect. His true name, the sigil that was the incubus’s very being, was different now. The changes were slight and subtle, and to most people they would have meant nothing. But to Ardat, it was everything.

Only, that was no longer his name. The sigil now sounded out as something different. It would be-

“Aridat,” Lenora pronounced, in a strong, clear, commanding voice. “Your name is Aridat.”

Aridat’s head sheared, and they shook their head in futile denial. “N-no.”

“Your name is Aridat,” Lenora insisted.

“My name,” Aridat grunted through gritted teeth, straining to hold on to at least this, to at least the word, “is Ard… Ar… Ari…”

“Your name,” Lenora repeated patiently, “is Aridat.”

“My name is Ari… dat,” Aridat found themself agreeing, a pained look on their face. “No, it’s… my name is Aridat… Ard… Aridat.”

The new sound was such a small thing, like a breath, and that made it so poisonously easy for it to slip in between the consonants, making its presence felt only in how much softer their name suddenly sounded as it left the incubus’s lips.

“Aridat,�� Lenora nodded. The grin on her face was now one of lurid, sadistic fascination. “Good.”

“My name is… Aridat?” Aridat was losing their conviction. It was hard to remain defiant when reality itself had turned against them. They could feel an immense pull toward acceptance like a lead weight on their shoulders.

“Aridat,” Lenora repeated again. The witch tilted her head, amused. “You’re even starting to look like an Aridat.”

Her comment drew attention to something Aridat had been trying to convince themself wasn’t real: the way their body suddenly seemed just as molten and pliable as the wax of the ur-candle, ready to be changed, reshaped, remolded. The sensation was almost imperciptible, though. So subtle it was almost like nothing was changing at all. Aridat had to force themself to truly notice what was happening to them. Their face was softening and rounding out, and their goatee fell from their face in wisps as it disintegrated into nothing. Aridat’s hair had grown inches in seconds, and their body lost its overbearingly masculine silhouette as their shoulders narrowed and their hips widened. They even became shorter.

Ardat had been manly. Strong. A straight woman’s fantasy brought to life. Aridat, it turned out, was androgynous. Even elfin.

It just went with the name, somehow.

“My name… is Aridat,” they said slowly. This time, Aridat’s voice was heavy with acceptance. It felt good to embrace it, just like it felt good to breathe after forcing yourself to stay underwater.

Their name was Aridat. It just was. And they were a them, apparently.

“Fuck,” Lenora breathed. “That was so hot.”

Aridat, still recovering from having their identity rewritten on a spiritual level, was shaking with rage. Reality had changed but, crucially, history hadn’t. They still remembered what they’d lost. They’d been Ardat. They’d been manly and strong. Now, just looking down at their body was accompanied by a hot lick of bitter humiliation. And it was all because of this accursed witch. If not for the magic circle marked on the ground, Aridat would have had their hands around her throat.

“Aridat,” Lenora said, “how do you feel?”

The worst part, the very worst, was the way their new name being called felt. It made their ears prick up and instinctively caught their attention. Aridat was their name now, and like it or not, they answered to it.

“I… feel…” Aridat replied slowly. How did they feel? It was impossible to say. Their head was a swirling mass of contradictions. Memories that didn’t match reality. Old instincts that didn’t match their new personality, which seemed somehow more passive. More pliant. “I… don’t know.”

“That makes sense.” Lenora nodded thoughtfully. “It looked wild. I’m sure feeling it is even crazier, even though I was trying not to scramble you too badly. Although…” She looked Aridat up and down pointedly. “Maybe I wasn’t ambitious enough.”

Hearing that made Aridat’s blood run cold. “W-what?”

“Don’t get me wrong!” Lenora held up her hands in mock sincerity. “You look great, really. Normally I wouldn’t be so picky. I can roll with androgynous. But tonight I was really looking for something more on the ‘succubus’ end of the spectrum.”

“Fuck you,” Aridat hissed.

“I’m sorry!” Lenora’s grin was already breaking through her face. “This isn’t an exact science, you know. But now that I’ve tested it out, I think it’s safe to say that we can push this just a little bit further.”

“Wait!” Aridat begged as she lifted up the ur-candle again. They couldn’t let her change them any further. This was bad enough, but at least their old identity, their old name, was still within sight. “Stop, you can’t-“

Lenora ignored them, and tipped more enchanted wax onto their true name.

Aridat immediately felt it again; that terrifying sense of displacement as their true name began to flow like fresh ink. It was ice-cold and shockingly intimate, and made them uncomfortable aware of all the ways they were being changed. It made them feel thin; so thin that they’d fold like paper under their own weight.

The sensation doubled when Lenora took her pen to the molten wax. This time she was more daring and less careful, streaking the wax and ink across the page in huge strokes. Aridat felt each one in their soul, even as they felt that name, newly-given, already beginning to slip away.

Once she was done, Lenora looked up. She was clearly proud of her penmanship, and looked at the incubus thoughtfully.

“Your name,” she said, in that slow, deliberate way, “is Aridata.”

Aridata’s heart skipped a beat. “C-c’mon,” she whined. “It’s n-not.”

“Your name,” Lenora said again, more firmly, “is Aridata.”

As futile as it might have been, Aridata couldn’t help but try to fight it. “My name,” she struggled. “Is… Ar… Aridat.”

Even that, though, was surrender, and they both knew it. Aridata still remembered the name ‘Ardat’, but she couldn’t bring herself to claim it. Not anymore. It wouldn’t feel right. She wouldn’t sound sure enough. But hearing her insist she was ‘Aridat’ now brought a maddening smile to Lenora’s face and made the demon feel weak.

And the way it came out of her mouth was just as bad. ‘Aridat’, but with a new openness at the end; a hint, a wisp, a breath of something yet to be sounded out.

“Your name is Aridata,” Lenora insisted simply.

Her words rippled over Aridata, making her shiver with their rhythm. “My name is Ari… Aridat… a… Ari…”

She was on the brink. Both of them knew it.

“Your name is Aridata.”

“My name… my name is… A-Aridata.”

As before, it was an incredible relief to say it. Aridata. That was her name. A-ri-da-ta. It sounded so different now. So light. That treasonous little ‘a’ appended to it, a whole syllable of femininity, opened up the entire name, making the harder consonants before it a mere prelude.

Aridata. It was a girl’s name.

Aridata knew what that must mean. She reached up and touched her face, and found it different. It was her face, and it wasn’t. It wasn’t changing; an old, defunct reality was simply washing away, revealing a newer reality that might always have been there. Aridata’s face was softer now. Less angular. She had wider eyes, petite brows, and a far less pronounced jawline. But that was absolutely nothing compared to what was happening to the rest of her body. Suddenly, Aridata had wide hips and curved thighs and, most distractingly of all, the distinct swell of breasts on her chest.

“Wow,” Lenora commented, wolf-whistling. “Now that’s more like it.”

“Fuck. You!” Aridata spat, and was shocked at how girlish her voice sounded. She couldn’t manage the same level of vitriol and spite as she had earlier.

“Maybe, soon.” Lenora giggled. “You know, that outfit suits you much better now.”

Aridata looked down at herself and almost choked. She was wearing the same clothing as before - black, tight-fitting, leather pants, and nothing else - but with her appearance it felt very different. She had gone from suave seducer to something much more butch, or perhaps tomboyish. Her hair, now mid-length, fit with that too. The whole thing felt like a pointed mockery, and that should have made Aridata violently angry.

Instead, it made her blush.

It was something about her chest. Having breasts, even small ones, made being topless feel very, very different. It made Aridata feel exposed; she was suddenly conscious of the air on her skin, and even more conscious of Lenora’s gaze on her body. Everything about it was undignified. Even succubi preferred tempting, alluring, suggestive clothes to simply going topless! Instinctively, Aridata moved to cover herself and started looking around for a stray item of clothing she could use. Only the look of mirth in Lenora’s eyes stopped her.

What was she doing? Aridata wasn’t some kind of blushing maiden. She was… a man? That didn’t sound right, even in her own head. But she knew she had to try and keep hold of that version of reality.

“What’s the matter?” Lenora teased. “You weren’t shy like this before. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Hey!” Aridata huffed. “That’s not-“

She broke off. She’d huffed. Since when did she huff? That wasn’t like her at all. Except it was now. Even her mannerisms were suspect. The things Lenora could do with her candle and Aridata’s true name went far beyond the superficial. Her mannerisms, her personality, her memories - all of them could be rewritten with no more than a stroke of a pen.

“Don’t worry,” Lenora said mockingly. “I enjoy you being more ladylike.”

“I’m. Not.” Aridata had to fight to keep her voice deep and even. “I-I’m a man.”

Lenora just looked at him pityingly. They both knew how false it sounded. Aridata’s voice was too high, too light, and the inner convictions of her nature were telling her otherwise, robbing her words of their conviction.

“Uh-huh,” Lenora replied, deadpan. “And who’s gonna believe that?”

“I…” Aridata spluttered. “I…”

“Then again,” Lenora added, making no attempt to hide her mockery. “Maybe you have a point. This look is good, but it’s not really what I was after. It’s more ‘female incubus’ than ‘succubus’, if that makes any sense.”

Aridata’s blood ran cold yet again as she realized what Lenora was hinting at. “N-no, wait!”

She wasn’t expecting Lenora to tilt her head and look thoughtfully at her. “OK. I’m waiting.”

“I…”

Aridata found herself speechless. She doubted anything she might say could dissuade Lenora, but there was too much at stake not to try. However, she wasn’t going to beg. She wasn’t. Aridata - Ardat, Ardat, she reminded herself - never begged. She tempted, she offered, she bargained, but she never begged. That just wasn’t how this was supposed to go. So… what could she offer? There was only one answer, however stomach-churning and humiliating.

The former incubus did her best to strike an alluring pose that showed off all her feminine assets. It came to her worryingly naturally, and she was effortlessly able to bend forward, back arched, chest pushed out, hips swaying, and put something approaching a suggestive half-smile on her face.

“I…” Aridata said falteringly. “I could… please you. Like this.”

She just had to hope that would be enough for her lesbian captor. Perhaps it almost was. Lenora had the look of someone flipping a mental coin. Once she made her mind, though, her eyes glinted wickedly, and Aridata knew she’d lost.

“Close,” Lenora conceded. “But I think we can do better.”

Before Aridata could argue, she once again tipped the ur-candle’s wax onto Aridata’s true name.

This time, Lenora didn’t even wait for the wax to settle and congeal before she started speaking. There was eagerness in her eyes, put there by unquestionable arousal.

“Your name,” Lenora announced, “is Aridatya.”

As she spoke she made it so, using her stylus to draw the wax across the grimoire’s page in big, thick strokes, obliterating the reality Aridatya had only just been growing accustomed to and replacing it with another.

“It is not!” Aridatya tried to insist. “My name is… is Ar… Ari… um… Arida…”

It was getting harder and harder to fight it. Her head was a swirling morass of different names, all of them so similar, all of which felt right and all of which felt wrong. But a new one had just appeared, echoing like a gong, sounding more and more right with each passing moment.

“Your name is Aridatya,” Lenora repeated. She sounded so firm, so sure, whilst Aridatya wasn’t sure about anything.

“My name is… Aridatya?” it came out like a question, and so Lenora nodded in agreement.

“Your name is Aridatya.”

Aridatya found herself nodding too. “My name is A-Aridatya.”

She just couldn’t bring herself to say anything else.

“That’s right.” Lenora’s stylus was still moving across the page, etching details in ink and wax, inscribing all the details of Aridatya’s soul.

“Aridatya…” Aridatya said it slowly, testing how the name felt on her tongue. Her name had become so long, so luxurious. That little ‘y’ made it sound even more feminine, and somehow fancy. Perhaps even exotic.

And… that was her, wasn’t it? It seemed to suit her perfectly, even though she would have struggled to say why. Did that mean she was exotic? Fancy? Feminine?

No. No, of course not. Ardat had never been those things, and that should have settled the question. But it didn’t. Ardat wasn’t real. Not anymore. There was just Aridatya.

Aridatya balled her hands into fists and scolded herself. She couldn’t let herself think that way. She was an incubus. A man, as remote as that now seemed. She had to remember that. She had to remember that none of this was right. She had to.

“It’s quite a name,” Lenora remarked, finishing her handiwork with a flourish. “Aridatya. I think Aridatya is very, very confident in her femininity. Don’t you? Aridatya sounds like a real girly girl to me. The kind of succubus who really revels in it.” Her smirk turned crooked once more. “At least, that’s how it looks in my handwriting.”

“W-what?” Aridatya was stunned as she felt changes washing over her. Nothing was more unsettling than feeling her reality alter. The changes themselves kept slipping beneath her notice; rather than experiencing the transformation directly, it was like she was always noticing the way reality had always been.

In this case, that meant noticing that her hair was longer, and that she was now wearing something different - a long, flowing nightgown, tailored to accentuate a body that was far, far more feminine than she remembered. Those were Aridatya clothes, apparently. It meant noticing that her face was slender and lips full, and her eyes adorned with smoky, sultry makeup. But more than that, it meant noticing how she felt.

It meant noticing that she liked it.

“No!” Aridatya cried out, desperate to give voice to her disgust before it fled. “That’s not right! I hate this.”

“You do?” Lenora feigned surprise, but couldn’t hide her amusement. “But you’re so pretty now.”

The heat, the warm glow of praise that Aridatya immediately felt, was dangerous. Preening was instinctive, as was posing pleasingly and shifting her weight from side to side to accentuate her hips. It took precious seconds for Aridatya to catch herself and plaster a scowl over the thin, devilish smile that had come naturally to her face.

“S-shut up,” Aridatya snarled, torn between forced resentment and reflexive pride.

“C’mon,” Lenora wheedled. “Aren’t you everything a succubus is supposed to be?”

That was a potent compliment, poisonous and sinister in how affirming it was. A succubus was supposed to be beautiful, feminine and seductive, and Aridatya felt like all of those things. So it was undeniable, wasn’t it? She was everything a succubus was supposed to be. The only thing telling her was the faint memory of deeply-buried false reality, fading by the moment.

“I’m an incubus,” Aridatya tried to insist. “Not a succubus. An incubus!”

“Aridatya,” Lenora said pityingly, “do you think anyone seeing you now, anyone at all, would believe that?”

The succubus’s cheeks turned crimson. She looked away and cast about for anything she could use as ammunition. There was precious little left, but Aridatya’s thoughts quickly turned to what was between her legs. It had always been the very pride of her manhood.

“Oh, I see.” Lenora giggled. “You’re thinking about that, are you?”

Now, Aridatya paled. Had it been that obvious?

“I was thinking of letting you keep it, you know,” Lenora remarked, lifting the ur-candle again. “But if you’re going to be difficult about it…”

Aridatya truly turned as white as a sheet as she watched one single drop of wax fall onto the page.

Compared to before, it was nothing. Lenora was careful and subtle with her stylus, too. All in all, the change she made didn’t even amount to a single letter. It was an accent at most; a simple change in pronunciation, barely audible. Aridatya was still Aridatya. But it was enough, and after several horrid moments of anticipation, the succubus felt a new reality wash over her.

And it brought with it a cunt between her legs.

Aridatya gasped and whimpered at the sudden, aching loss which drove home just how much dignity and power she’d lost. Her name, her face - those things were precious, yes, but losing a part of her body that was so symbolic and fundamental for an incubus was even more of a violation. With her hips and thighs still shifting to accommodate her new anatomy, Aridatya squeezed her legs together, hoping to feel something solid between them. Instead, she just felt a sharp, shock of pleasure race up her spine from the unfamiliar stimulation to her new, sensitive pussy.

It was humiliating, and worse, the demon couldn’t suppress a low whine of pleasure. Lenora, of course, just laughed at her plight.

“My, my,” the witch commented. “Enjoying yourself already?”

“Shut up!” Aridatya huffed. She was incandescent with shame and rage, and she couldn’t do anything about it. She couldn’t hide. Couldn’t flee. Couldn’t stop what was happening to her.

“C’mon,” Lenora giggled mockingly. “Don’t you kind of like it?”

Aridatya had to look away because the truth was that, on some level, she did. Somehow, having a cunt instead of a cock just felt right. It made her feel more like herself, perversely; desirable and sexy in all the right ways for a succubus like her. Knowing that she’d been an incubus minutes ago and had a dick seconds ago didn’t help. It made her seethe with rage and burn with humiliation, yes, but it didn’t make having this body feel any less deliciously affirming.

So, instead, the contrasting emotions inside Aridatya - new and old - were forced to curdle and mix together as reality fought for a stable configuration. They became complimentary, mutually-reinforcing. Her humiliation became a pleasure all of its own, sinful and tempting, spiking her arousal even higher. Her anger, directed so singularly at Lenora, twisted and became a very different kind of craving, one that was predatory and carnal.

A succubus’s hunger.

It was a heady, dizzying cocktail of feelings to be struck with, and it made keeping Aridatya’s identity straight harder than ever. Instinct was taking over. It infested her body language, making her pose and preen and smile, directing all of her hellishly tempting appeal straight at Lenora. The witch was clearly amused and enticed in equal measure.

“Wow,” she remarked, cocking an eyebrow. “Maybe that was the magic ticket. Feeling a little more agreeable now?”

“Absolutely,” Aridatya replied, her voice a vicious purr. She was desperate. She couldn’t let this go any further. She needed Lenora to let down her guard.

“Fascinating,” Lenora breathed. For a moment, occult curiosity took over, although the color in her cheeks made it clear her interest was far more than just academic. “I suppose it is the lynchpin of the succubus/incubus distinction - in some schema, at least - so it makes sense it would have rather dramatic ripples.”

“Dramatic,” Aridatya echoed pleasingly. She bent forward, showing off her new assets. Her tits had become impressively large and pert, and it was dawning on her that she could use that. That she knew how to use that. “Hey, so how about that itch you needed scratching?”

“Yeah?” Lenora couldn’t help but stare, Aridatya noticed with pleasure. “You’re interested.”

“Oh, I just can’t wait to sink my teeth into you,” Aridatya cooed. She giggled. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

The plan, of course, was to seduce her, and then, once she released Aridatya from the magical circle, subdue her and force her to undo all the changes she’d made. At least, that was what Aridatya was telling herself. In truth, it was rationalization as much as anything else. Beneath it all was a simple, heartbeat-drum of need and desire, driving her towards Lenora’s warmth.

"Wow,” Lenora breathed. She wasn’t so quick-witted now. Aridatya could tell she was succumbing to her own desires, now that her summoned demon was in a form far, far more agreeable to her tastes. “But… sink your teeth into me? That sounds a little…”

“C’mon.” Aridatya tried to affect a high-pitched, feminine voice. It came effortlessly, and she was as dismayed at that as she was pleased with her success. “You can trust me. I just want what you made me want.”

Lenora almost went for it. Almost. But in the end, she pulled back and shook her head. “I wish. This version of you is pretty great, if I do say so myself. But… I can tell this isn’t going to be a good idea.”

“N-no.” Aridatya’s smile faltered.

“Perhaps I’ve been going about this the wrong way,” Lenora mused. “It’s not enough to make you a succubus. Not anymore. You’ll still remember what I did, at least a little, and you’ll still want revenge. I need to address that.”

“My… memories?” Aridatya was aghast. How could she fight that?

But Lenora shook her head. “No. Something deeper: your past.” She lifted the ur-candle and toyed with it in her hand, an egomaniacal smile playing across her face. “A true name is such a potent thing. It contains everything about you. Even your very history. Change that, and there’s nothing to remember.”

“Wait!” Aridatya called out, as Lenora started to tip the candle, but she already knew that wouldn’t stop her. Her next word tasted like bitter tears. “P-please!”

She didn’t beg. For all that had changed, that remained true. But this was her limit. This was the end. And so, Aridatya begged.

It didn’t matter.

This time, the way Lenora altered her true name was anything but subtle, even if it was artful. Using her stylus, she worked wax and ink all over the grimoire’s page, inscribing a fresh pattern that seemed to make the entire sigil shift into a bold new configuration.

“And,” Lenora murmured as she worked. “Why not push a few other things a little further, too?”

The sight made the succubus’s head throb, especially when Lenora looked up at her and said:

“Your name is Arideniya.”

“My name is… is Arideniya.”

This time, Aridenya didn’t bother to fight it. She just let her new reality wash over her, and accepted whatever her new self turned out to be.

It felt good, as it turned out. Arideniya couldn’t even perceive the changes as they occurred. Each one etched itself into her memory and her past, as if things had always been that way. Aridenya was left completely, blissfully ignorant of the fact that once, maybe, for a different version of herself, things had been very, very different.

Her tits had always been this huge. Her cunt had always dripped enticing wetness down her thighs when she was turned on and hungry. She’d always been a succubus, a woman, an embodiment of female sexuality, ready to feast on any mortal who came within reach. And when they were around her, they wanted to be feasted on so very, very much.

Arideniya didn’t just feel feminine. She felt powerful, and she took to her power like it was second nature. She stood tall, practically filling the room from floor to ceiling. Her horns were a crown upon her head, and her clothing was royal robes, no less revealing and suggestive for their grandeur. As the wax dried, Arideniya looked down at Lenora like a queen looking down at someone presenting themselves as tribute.

“Master,” the succubus purred, her tone anything but submissive. “Allow me to show you true pleasure.”

Lenora started to sweat from sheer temptation. Her magic circle offered scant protection against the raw, mind-bending power of Arideniya’s presence. She was overwhelming in every sense. She was any mortal’s fantasy given form, and Lenora was far from immune.

“W-what,” the witch struggled to say. She was drooling, but her mouth sounded painfully dry. “This isn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

“Oh, yes, you did,” Arideniya countered. “This is exactly what you wanted. Exactly what you summoned. I’m all your handiwork, Master. It’s time to enjoy me. Time to take down this silly little circle.”

Lenora twitched abruptly, like she was struggling not to obey. Temptation was overriding her reason. Arideniya’s wicked grin widened. She had no particular animosity towards this mortal - but she needed to feed, and she liked to drink deep.

“I don’t u-understand how…” Lenora stuttered, flustered. She took a single step towards Arideniya, taking her perilously close to the magical circle’s boundary, before something seemed to click in her head. “Oh. Oh! I know what I did wrong.”

She stepped back, and hefted the objects in her hand - a leather-bound grimoire and a strange-looking candle. Arideniya’s eyes flew wide as she noticed it. The object seemed to trigger a memory from another life.

“Is that a-“ was all she managed to say before Lenora once again tipped the candle wax all over the grimoire.

This time, Lenora wasn’t artful or sparing. She poured as much wax as she could, obliterating almost all of the succubus’s true name in a single gesture. The succubus was rooted to the spot as a strange, unearthly sensation swept through her, making her mind flash white and robbing her of all sense of self and purpose. The sensation only grew stronger when Lenora started writing with her stylus in wax and ink, replacing some of what had been blotted out and altering what remained.

“It was obvious, really,” Lenora murmured as she worked. “I was too focused on what I wanted to change. Lost sight of the big picture. I was adding, each and every time. More letters, more sounds, more changes stacked on top of changes. I made a name that was impressive. Magnificent. Powerful.” She grinned. “But I think this will do the job just fine instead.”

The succubus standing before her just stared, dumbfounded, struggling to comprehend the meaning of her words.

“Your name,” Lenora told her, slowly and deliberately, “is Aria.”

“My name…” Aria echoed, “is… Aria!”

She brightened as she said it. It felt so right, and the rightness of it made her giggle a pretty, air-headed giggle. Aria licked her lips and arched her back, and reached up to jiggle her own, massive tits experimentally. Doing that made her giggle even harder.

“Maaaaster,” she drawled, pouting. “Don’t you wanna, like, fuck me?”

Lenora laughed. “No need to worry about hidden agendas now, I think,” she said. “So - time to make a contract?”

“A contract?” Aria snorted. “That stuff is soooo boring. Um… let’s see… I’ll give you whatever you want if you’ll, like, make me feel good?”

“Deal,” Lenora announced. She stepped forwards and used the tip of her shoe to erase the boundary of the magical circle on the ground. As soon as it was broken, Aria bounced on her, kissing and squeezing and groping with overeager lust.

Lenora laughed, and her laughter soon turned to moans. It was time to get that itch scratched.

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blood-orange-juice · 4 months

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ok so ive never properly played genshin and don’t plan to but i know a bit about it’s lore and characters and i think it’s really neat. however i have thousands of hours on ffxiv. on that note please explain why graha and childe are similar. i only have very basic knowledge on childe and i gotta know

Fellow ffxiv enjoyer. <3

(anyone asking me about G'raha has a 100% chance of getting a wall of text and I'm not apologising for that. enjoy your wall of text)

I'm not entirely sure I'm not a case of a person with a hammer to whom everything resembles a nail, but I do think they are the same archetype.

Sweet characters who could have been perfect sidekicks (who still are perfect sidekicks) but listened to too many epic tales as kids and found themselves in a wrong place at a wrong time and now have to play a key role in some universe-changing story.

Both are defined mostly by their stubborness, they are not very suitable for the roles they've chosen and fail over and over again until they do it somewhat right (barely).

No matter how badass they look, their power is not their own, G'raha is a glorified technician of someone else's miracle and little else than a living key, Childe wields an art of old Khaenri'ah without fully understanding it. It's all borrowed from someone else who needed them to achieve a goal.

They do look badass, but mostly because they larp. I'm honestly not sure which one enjoys theatrics more.

Civilisations that created the magic they use specialised in perversion of the natural order of things. They try to use it in relatively noble ways and mostly hurt themselves but the flavour is there.

Both are unbelievably tragic and both somehow make their stories seem almost lighthearted. Complete absense of self-pity. I think that's what makes them both so charming, it's a rare trait.

Both have an incredible capacity for loyalty and love and an incredibly twisted view of what relationships look like. "I'll cross time and space for you, I'll die for you, I'll build a city for you, I'll live for you but please don't ask me to share my plans." "I'll sacrfice my own health and respect of my subordinates to keep my brother's happyness, probably my humanity too, but don't expect me to actually interact with him."

Both have something that looks like self-sacrificial tendencies bordering on suicidality while being, if we are honest, a self-serving trait (partially born out of low self-esteem but still self-serving). They want to live in an old myth and sacrificing oneself is a perfectly reasonable price for that.

Huge egos. And I mean Huge Egos. It's a bit less obvious in Graha's case but I know the type, you see guys like that in PhD programs a lot.

Huge dorks. Both of them.

Both are stuck somewhere between human and non-human and, hmm... their ability to remain human is the most astonishing quality of both. By all accounts, neither should have. They somehow did.

Both are incapable of lying to the point where a third of each fandom headcanons them as autistic. Both are somewhat all right with tricking people without technically lying (although Childe had more practice).

Both are secretive because no one would understand anyway.

FF XIV is a kinder story, so it's easy to overlook, but technically G'raha is a case of body horror, accepts the role of a villain for a while and hides from the player way too much. Hmmm... Where else have I seen it. Hmm. Oh right. That ginger guy from Genshin.

Minor things:

Both are little shits and enjoy annoying the hell out of people they dislike.

Abysmally bad fashion sense. There should be a name for this particular type and level of bad. I don't think I've seen this anywhere else.

And then there's the colour scheme. Red+black+white+blue and red+black+light grey+blue (it's an "anime magician" color profile, I think. black-red-white as alchemy colours + blue as pure magic/something elemental). Childe doesn't quite fit but still the combination is rare.

They way they talk. Dear gods. Who the hell talks like that.

Here's where the similarities end.

One is morally grey but ultimately a good guy (technically. I think the point of ShB was that Emet and G'raha are almost the same), another is a morally grey but still (kind of) a bad buy.

At every step of his story Graha is surrounded by people who love or at least appreciate him, Childe is pretty much on his own and surrounded by people who are either shitty or clueless.

G'raha is kind. Truly and astonishingly kind, in a doomed world he chooses to love everything he touches. Silly little priest of hope. Of all the things he has done this is the most wondrous, I think. Not the time travel, not the city he founded, just being able to remain kind after everything that happened to him.

Childe is... well, Childe. I think he is a deeply decent person (to the point of having a visceral distaste for any kind of unfairness) and he's idealistic but he's indifferent more than he is kind. Empathy usually develops only when someone has shown the person empathy first and, as far as we know, he didn't have much of that in his life.

Also G'raha builds things. Childe breaks things. Childe breaks pretty much everything he touches.

One is an archeologist and a mage and another is a warrior.

I think these differences are caused mostly by the settings they were put into. Childe raised in Sharlayan would have been a very different person. G'raha trained by a voidsent and shipped off to Garlean military would look very much like Childe.

G'raha also has a beautiful character development arc. I love his ShB role. He has this huge ego in the raids and is insufferable and then we see an older and wiser him with a bunch of actual achievements and a bad case of impostor syndrome (trying to do anything real always humbles a person, we all know that real world is held together by sticks and scotch tape. honestly, this change alone is beautiful). And he gets to be an actual hero when he abandons all hope to be Important and resigns to die as a nameless villain if it saves everyone and spares his loved ones from heartbreak.

Childe's character development is yet to happen and I'm not hoping for much but we'll see.

The only difference that definitely isn't created by setting is that G'raha is naturally manipulative. In a kind-hearted way and mostly for the sake of better larp but he isn't that straightforward. Childe is spectacularly blunt for all his mysteriousness.

As a bonus, they both compare main characters to stars, but in completely different ways.

"No doubt your heroism will be the star by which I chart my course," says G'raha to the WoL.

Childe mentions the morning star, which is, of course, pretty and a good companion to a lonely traveler, but also it's not a celestial body you can chart your course by.

It's a guy whose signature weapon is called "Polar Star" and his first artifact set was full of nautical themes, so I think he fully understands what he's saying. "You are my friend but I won't change anything in my life for you."

So I don't think his story will be anything like G'raha's, his life took a different turn very long ago. I do think they used to be similar as kids, bookish boys who dreamed of adventure and being special. So it's fun to compare.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk. <3

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spacebarbarianweird · 4 months

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Hi can you write a HC with Astarion and Blood Hunter Tav/Durge? I love your HC and look forward to it every time I read a new one

Blood Hunters are the monster to fight monsters. They use the profane blood magic to fight the most unspeakable creatures of the dark. Basically, the chance to play the edgiest character possible to freak out other D&D players.

Far from the judging eyes of society, blood hunters have mastered the secretive techniques of hemocraft, finding blood magic’s esoteric nature effective against evils that resist divine rebuke or arcane bindings. Through careful study and practice, blood hunters hone the rites of hemocraft into unique combat techniques, forfeiting a portion of their own health to call blood curses down upon their enemies or summon the elements to aid their strikes. Willing to suffer whatever it takes to achieve victory, these adept warriors have forged themselves into a potent force dedicated to protecting the innocent.

MORE INFO

Blood Hunter isn't an official D&D class and was created by Matt Mercer for Critical Role

TW: very angsty

Astarion x Blood Hunter!Tav

Masterlist

Headcanons

It's not like you aren't fond of the undead.

You hate them.

Ghosts, monsters, demons, name it yourself.

You are edgy as fuck and people usually assume you need psychological intervention because you cut your wrists to perform the rites.

You love being in pain and inflicting pain on others.

Many years ago you were sold to your Brothers and put through the Hunter's Bane.

Few survive the ritual, but you were one of them.

It changed you forever - your facial features, your eyes, your hair color, your body.

You don't admit it but you still mourn the life you could have lived if only your own parents hadn't given you to the brotherhood.

You draw your own blood to create curses. You cut your hands to create a Blood Dagger and kill your enemies with it.

To be able to use your cursed magic, you have to drink the most disgusting potions that ever existed.

And you hate monsters.

Period.

And let's say you aren't really fond of someone drinking your blood.

Besides, vampires are monsters, and everyone knows what to do with them.

But you are a practical person. You better have a vampire of your own.

Together you form a deadly couple. Your blood gives Astarion unique abilities.

But with time your alliance becomes something else.

You see him as a victim. A monster against his will.

There is a thought in your mind but you don't give it too much attention.

You ask Astarion to kill the spawns and let the siblings live.

You are the Blood Hunter. You know too well what it means to release 7000 deranged souls into the wild.

And you warn the siblings to keep a low profile. Or you will come after them.

Cruel? Yes. But who said Blood Hunters are good people?

You definitely aren't good.

Post-game, you know you have to return home. There are too many monsters to fight.

But there is one more thing you need to take care of.

Blood is always the answer. Blood is what makes this world exist.

You can ressurect Astarion. You can make him mortal.

You find the way but there is a price.

If Astarion becomes mortal, he has to join the brotherhood.

It means getting through the Hunter's Bane, which can kill him.

And which will change his appearance - not anything awful but he will look a bit different.

It's not a price you would like him to pay but it's up for Astarion to decide.

He refuses.

"I don't want to become anything else" He says.

You try to persuade him. You beg him. You use all the arguments.

Including the most painful one - if he refuses, you won't stay together.

But you know he won't change his mind.

Astarion cherishes his freedom. He won't lose it again. And he doesn't want to be in debt.

Maybe it's you who should forsake the hemocrafting? And abandon the Brotherhood?

And change your views on the world.

No, it won't work. You are too different.

Astarion leaves once the sun sets.

Now you have one more thing to mourn.

The love you could have got.

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96

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andthebeanstalk · 8 months

Note

the average person doesn't expect you to be a perfect ethical consumer, that's not possible for the vast majority of us. but what youre saying is it's better to do nothing at all and choose the worst possible options (sweat shops, overseas shipping waste, idea/product theft, all wrapped up in SHEIN) than to put even the tiniest effort in where you can.

[they are referring to this post]

What I said was "some people are doing literally everything they can to survive and have no extra bandwidth to spend extra time and money on their purchases, and it is cruel and therefore un-punk to gatekeep punkness and add additional shame to these people's lives based on that fact."

I think it's still a good thing to try to ethically consume; I literally never said it wasn't. I had never even heard of SHEIN before. Rather, I am much more concerned about what I saw as arbitrary gatekeeping based on ability and income.

And frankly how dare you claim that I am supporting sweatshops and abuse by saying that this additional work you are demanding (in this case, presumably, vetting every clothing company you buy from) is not always possible for people. It is not a light accusation to accuse me of supporting abuse.

"How dare you say we piss on the poor", Etc. 🙄 this isn't Twitter. You are determined to enforce moral purity, but you are failing to see the nuance.

Because when I say "no extra bandwidth," I mean no extra bandwidth. This is not the "car shows it's on E but actually secretly it has a lot of gas left" situation that abled people constantly assume disabled people mean when they say they are at their limit.

This is "at a certain point, people will hit a wall in terms of money and time and energy, and any energy spent after that comes directly out of their life force."

So the argument "okay but just spend a little more time money and energy actually" is not a valid one.

And the argument "if you are not able to do this specific task, then it means you're not doing anything else to make the world a better place" doesn't exactly impress me either. You said yourself that it is impossible to be a perfectly ethical consumer for most people.

How do you know what else people are doing to resist oppression? How many hours per week until your standards are met?What if someone works 3 jobs? Does that mean it's harder to be a good person if you're poor?? Why do you get to decide what specific avenue of bettering the world is the most morally repugnant or acceptable? What kind of proof of goodness and effort would make you satisfied enough to lay off on the shame?? Who are you helping??

Clothing is a fundamental human need, and some of us have to buy cheap fucking clothes quickly. Billionaires are buying their seventh yacht this month. The people who own fast fashion companies are abusing their workers and putting local affordable clothing stores out of business - and this applies for basically every company with price points that low because governments are failing to regulate corporations to enforce basic human rights.

I have $300 to spend on a new wardrobe as my old clothes have fallen apart or become too small. Do you have a way for me to get a new winter coat, 3 flannels, 10 shirts, 3 dress shirts, new sandals, 10 pairs of pants, 5 bras, 12 pairs of socks, and 10 pairs of underwear within that budget and also definitely 100% ethically sourced, with free returns in case it doesn't fit? Or will I simply have to use the cheap stores?

I have about an hour to spend on this per week. Should I continue to wear small and tattered clothing until I have the time, money, and energy to meet your standards? Did you know there are more empty homes in this country than homeless people? If I decide to splurge on only 100% ethically-produced products, and I can't make rent, and I become homeless, are YOU going to be there for me?? Or are you busy litigating the endless tiny shames of poverty in your own community?

So I ask you again, are you sure this is where you want to direct your punk energy? Because energy and time, as it turns out, are limited resources. And I would never expect you to secretly have more than you claim to have.

#original #punk #hopepunk #cripplepunk #i swear to god #reading comprehension website #how dare you say we piss on the poor #jfc 'what you're saying is we should do nothing' - what I'm saying is YOU are doing nothing by enforcing this boundary #you have to give people more credit than this. i believe you want a better world too. and it would be cool if you used your energy to #instead ask 'how do i fight for the people in my community to be clothed and have the time and income to shop ethically?'#or 'how do i support activism that pushes for regulation that could control these companies?'#monitoring how poor people spend money is a supremely Republican thing to do. as is demanding clear moral purity from every scenario.#you want a better world too. you want to demand your peers do better. - fine. good.#but you need to be asking if you have remembered and included everyone's needs when making statements like this.#capitalism is all for forgetting about poor and disabled people and refusing to believe their limits.#shame is a necessary weapon in fighting greed but it IS a weapon. be so careful where you point that shit. enough shame can kill a person #and a lot of us are already defending from it from all sides.#shaming a person who is already at their limit for not doing more is an act of cruelty. think very carefully about what that means please.#i literally don't even know what SHEIN is lol i just know classism when i see it #but I've had friends whose clothes were visibly falling apart with no income and so much so shame so deep in their hearts they were dying #and if they had seen that post it would have made them even sicker and gotten them no closer to the dignity of being properly clothed #shame is a weapon and /you need to be careful!!!!/

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iravaid · 1 month

Note

sry if this is random but will u tell us what english au is? i remember seeing it passing re: codposting and im so curious

Hi i'm so happy you asked

English AU came about when me and @farramint started bonding over how much we hated the comics and talked about how things might look if Roba was more competent.

English AU sprouts from the concept of what would happen if Simon let the brainwashing 'work' and started complying with Roba, to an extent, as his personal attack dog. Both as a way to get the torture to stop (so he would be healthy enough in the future to escape on his own, when the opportunity arose), and to stall Roba getting bored with Simon and killing him (as, in this AU, Roba had Sparks killed, leading Simon to realise his time is limited here, and dependent on that sadist's interest in him).

It's also a fun, morbid enough exploration on how low Simon will be forced to stoop while 'working' for Roba (murder, torture and such, yknow how it is), as well as the harassment, humiliation, and torture (of all kinds) he'd have to tolerate within the Zaragoza cartel. Things like forcefully being tattooed, mocked for the sexual assault and torture he'd been subjected to, and being referred to by 'English' as opposed to his actual name. I can see Roba subtly holding Simon's family hostage (to where they don't know they're in danger), and making sure Simon knows that any step too far out of line will lead to their harm. Gripped by the idea that the first time Simon hears his brother's, or mother's, voice in months is a conversation secretly recorded between one of them, and someone Roba had planted in Manchester in order to keep tabs on them.

It also lead to the idea of Roba, in all his arrogance, seeing a weakness in Las Almas following the upheaval within the cartel causing El Sin Nombre to rise to prominence. And this spurs him to try and expand operations. One thing leads to another, and Valeria convinces 'English' to help her against Roba, in exchange for his own freedom. Roba eventually dies, Valeria and Simon are violent girlbosses in arms, and Simon is coping sooo well after the torture nexus that he's just going to brutally hunt down the remaining Zaragoza cartel lieutenants while in this tenuous alliance with El Sin Nombre, who is also unsure how much to trust this man, as well as unsure if she wants to even let him go - Simon is very good at what he does, and in all honesty he knows too much about her identity. Also extremely to draw parallels between Valeria and Rudy, but if people want to read about that lmk because that's a separate post entirely.

And it makes sense for the 141 to eventually appear, maybe somewhat faithful to the plot of MW2, with the missiles and such <3. Except now there's some ulterior motives from Price, who might be aware of the MIA SAS serviceman who got tangled up in rumours of corruption and cartels. Leading to him trying to find Simon Riley and bring him back home with this sense of duty/honour to uphold, in the wake of higher-ups failing this man.

Simon then going from one master (Roba) to another (Valeria) to another (Price) is very fun to consider, as well. Valeria giving Simon more independence than Roba ever did, with shreds of respect to stop him from rankling under her thumb as badly (but still keeping Control, at the end of the day). Price is very much a man who knows how to utilise the men under him as Weapons, and while he respects his subordinates as people (versus Roba seeing Simon as a convenient attack dog he used to make kneel naked, arms behind his back, in a wire kennel for hours on end), Price ultimately values them by their individual abilities to keep the 'bad guys' afraid of their own shadows, and to 'save' the world.

This au has everything. Alejandro-Valeria bitter divorce, competent Roba horrors, Graves is there for some reason (he explodes in the tank again), Simon slaughter hashtag girl momen with a cunty silk buttonup a (with the buzzcut no less)(and houndcoding)(and corruption. but how much is merely just building off his sas conditioning), Price's vague sense of corruption but 'for the greater good', Soap and Gaz's horror at Simon's situation in a 'this very easily could've been us' way, and Gaz gets thrown out of another helicopter.

augh this became long, i hope it makes sense. The idea is ultimately that simon gets to go home, too, and tries to readjust to a 'normal' life, reuniting with Tommy and Sharon and Beth and Joseph. But I can see Price convincing him to return to the service (he knows a lifer when he sees one, and why waste a good soldier), potentially as a private contractor with the 141.

#I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER TO RESPOND TO. THE HORRORS GOT ME THERE FOR A LITTLE BIT. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE #love getting asks about cod pls dont be dissuaded by how bad i am at responding to asks T_T #simon riley #valeria garza #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #english au my beloved #codposting #manuel roba #john price #also Rudy is a bird ringer in this one. it's canon. i was there. he was ringing kingfishers by the river. he finds simon in the river too #ask #anon

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taiey · 5 months

Text

tma fanon:

basira: hey jon can you do this thing for me that explicitly involves using your spooky eye powers and that will therefore drain you and make you hungry. no you can’t eat someone’s trauma afterward. what do you mean you don’t have the exact information i need yet?

tma canon: she does not know that, and when she does know she does not do that.

Could she know the price? We have no statements about other Eye avatars, unless you count Gerry, who seems to know that hospital keycode freely. Statements from other avatars don’t mention ‘paying’ for using their abilities because they’re, uh, not running low, generally speaking. Elias is exactly as helpful as ever.

And, of course, John is deliberately concealing the true cost of his powers all through the first half of season 4.

He’s sort of still concealing that, in 146? He says, you know, I got blown up and stabbed and buried alive so then went out and tortured someone. …which are all physical injuries. For Jess Tyrell, we can guess from the matching 'two weeks’ that the trigger was him trying to Know of Peter Lukas’s plans in 139, but all John says now is “I just tried to – I was weak. R-Ravenous”. (possibly because “I hurt myself trying to learn things, and therefore hurt someone else” is … a very Eye thing, and a noticeable escalation from “I got hurt trying to save the world from the Stranger/Melanie from the Slaughter/Daisy from the Buried”.)

So she lacks background information on the subject. She also has very poor intuition when it comes to the Fears; real logic is more natural to her than their dream logic. Sometimes this serves her very well, like the Unknowing! Other times… well, “So I’m guessing it represents academic isolation or something?” in 195 is a funny example of her difficulties. But it’s all ultimately of a piece with how she reacts to John’s Eye powers in season 4. There’s a sort of lurching - she’s kinda freaked by his Knowing things early in the season (and the Eye says “sweet! just what i was going for!”) but over-corrects to “By this point, I just assume the Eyeball tells you” by 140. She doesn’t instinctively get that it’s only going to volunteer stuff like “your year eight PE teacher died of pancreatic cancer”. (and the Eye says “aw, i was hoping for more than 'I… wasn’t wondering?’”)

What she does know… she probably has the tape from 107, where John was in America compelling people for information on Gertrude’s movements and growing gradually weaker until he read one paper statement and was fine. She knew she brought him after he woke up from his coma just in case and he read that asap and seemed recovered; she didn’t know, for months, that he wasn’t. She knows that he forced Breekon out of the Archives and extracted a statement from him and that seemed… strenuous? But that, if he was telling the truth, he didn’t go and hurt any random strangers to heal from it.

That seems the obvious comparison for 148, now that I think of it. (in the sense of 'obvious’ where i have never thought of that before writing this, lolp) He didn’t tell her that it was trying to Know Lukas’s plans that hurt him; he did imply that extracting Breekon’s didn’t (like that); when she says “Any luck finding her?”, well, what’s she got to compare it to? He did say in 140 that “I deliberately tried to… Know something, like I did in the coffin, but there was too much, and, uh –[…] It just hurt” but that’s framing it as the size of the request, not opposition, that hurt. A location is just one piece of information; that’d be 'small’, right?

John doesn’t say anything like “I’m just seeing what you’re seeing. Still a bit weak from my trip up north, to be honest.” and then, more specifically, “Doing that sort of thing consciously… makes me hungry.” until… 147 and 148.

She doesn’t sound like she takes it very seriously ...but she drops the question immediately. In 155 she’s the one looking for Trevor/Julia/Annabelle, not John. In 158 she asks for his normal human thoughts on various things, analysis of the information they have and not spooky Insights. [and yes those are the only further episodes with john and basira talking in s4 lol :|]

That one question in 148 is the first time she learns the price and the last time she asks him to use his powers.

Until season 5, when the price is, very evidently, already paid.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma meta #basira hussain #jonathan sims #meta #mine #grumbling #magnus canon vs fanon

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theworldsfastestsloth · 3 months

Text

Lonely As I Am, Together We Cry.

Chapter 1 PT II PTIII

Chapter 1: Not Under the Bridge Anymore

The gravel crunches under the tires of the silver Bently as it pulls off the side road down a back alley in a part of town a car like that should never be in, especially this late at night.

The lone female driver has no fear though as she exits the car without even bothering to lock it, red bottomed heels crunching on that same gravel.

She knows she’s the most dangerous thing in any part of this city tonight.

It’s barely more than a crack den and her nose crinkles in distaste as she yanks open the rusty door of the dilapidated warehouse, hardly even sparing a glance at the ‘intimidating’ gangbangers and pathetic drug addicts lingering in and around her destination.

She has one goal in mind tonight, and it’s in this shithole.

She’s wanted this for a very long time and she is nothing if not goal-oriented.

The one she’d come to meet stands abruptly from his seat on a sunken old couch, Steel Reserve clasped in one hand and clearly shocked to see her. Shocked - (yet not) - that she had the audacity to just walk in.

“Well?” she shrugs before he has time to even figure out which hand his gun is in. “Let’s see it.”

He tries to shake off his surprise and nerves. He knows as well as she does how dangerous she is, but he has to appear to be in charge in this situation. They have an audience, irrelevant to her as they may be.

“You got the money?” The “bitch” goes unsaid, but its implication is obvious as he gives her a salacious up and down - trying to save face in front of his low life friends.

She’s not in the least bit intimidated. She can’t be. She lost that ability a long time ago - when she was even younger than what she came for.

She just smirks in response. “If I didn’t intend to pay your ridiculous price I’d have killed you all already and taken it for myself. So yes, I have your money.”

His unaware friends reach for the guns strapped to their hips, on the coffee table, under the arm rests of the sunken old couch. But he holds up a hand to stop them. He knows she could take them all out before any of their fingers even touched a trigger.

“Follow me,” he prompts, and she does, smirking at the confused men sitting around the barely better than a crack den.

And all of the frustration and time seems worth it when she sees what she came for sleeping on a filthy twin mattress on the floor.

“You’re sure?” she asks for the thousandth time since this negotiation began. “No one will be looking?”

“I’m positive,” he responds. “Heard it from my boy, he’s a solid source. He’s known her for years - she’s never lasted more than three months anywhere, always ended up back under the bridge with him. He’s the one who spiked her last 4o to get her here. Said she’s already been missing for over two months this time. No one is looking for her. They’ve all given up.”

The woman reaches into her dark black bag, inconspicuous except for the gold YSL on the buckle, and pulls out a thick, rolled up wad of cash. “It’s all there,” she ensures. “Do you want to count?”

“No, we’re good,” he answers wisely. “Do you need help carrying her out?”

The woman smirks again, “No. I’ve got her.”

She leans down over the sleeping form and pushes some greasy blonde hair away from a youthful face, distorted and hidden under caked on layers of make-up applied by a sloppy hand that never had anyone to teach them how to do it right. Foundation the wrong color and clumpy eyeliner.

No matter. They’ll wipe that all away.

The man watches as the woman carefully, almost lovingly, lays the girl across the backseat of the car too expensive for these streets. He reminds himself that this is the hustle, this is the life and his business has no time for wrong or right.

But as he watches her red hair and red bottoms climb into the driver’s seat, he wonders if he’s gone too far this time.

____________________________________________________________________________

Ruby wakes with a groan to the worst hangover she’s ever known. “God, what did I do to myself last night?” she wonders. She’d only meant to drink a little, just enough to stave off the cold -- which she very suddenly realizes – she’s not.

Her eyes blink open at the realization that, aside from the horrific ache in her head and bone-dryness of her throat, she is actually -- comfortable.

Not a sensation one suspects upon waking after passing out under an overpass.

Slowly, she lifts herself up and takes in her surroundings.

“Ah shit,” she murmurs out to herself. “They must have found me again.”

“It’s such a nice room,” she absentmindedly registers. It’s nothing like most of the places she’s been put in meant for multiple children, most so much younger than her lately.

Their stained carpet and hand-me-down furniture. The bare minimum so people could keep the money the state paid for her.

It’s actually such a beautiful room that for a minute she thinks this might be a dream - or worse - that she might want to stay.

But she made up her mind to get out of the system a long time ago and she’s so close now, just a little more than one year away.

Maybe if she’d been given this kind of room when she was 10 things could have been different, but she’s well acquainted with the abuses of the system and once she’s made up her mind about something, it’s going to take more than soft duvets and ocean facing windows to change it.

The heated floors when she stumbles into the adjoining bathroom to pee and drink water straight from the sink almost change her mind. But not quite.

Because she notices as she drinks the clean water through cupped hands at the counter facing the mirror that her make-up has been wiped away. Her hair has been cleaned and brushed and her dirty clothes have been replaced with modest pajamas - pink with lace.

Fuck that . It’s too weird.

She has got to get out of here.

She fought hard to survive to 16 and she deserves 16 going on 30. She’s seen a lot of shit and she’s seen this shit before.

She is no one’s good little orphan Annie.

She wishes she didn’t feel this sick. She’s pretty sure she knows exactly why she does though.

It’s happened to her enough times before in her young life that she can recognize the after effects of date rape drugs - and it must have been one of those guys at the bridge and damn it!

She trusted those pricks.

But bad drugs are the only explanation for how much time she’s lost. How she’s gotten from a dirty sleeping bag under an overpass on LeBrea to… fuck , this looks like Malibu.

She’s left the bathroom and has found a closet. She’s assessing her options and trying to pick out the best ones to run in and… also, potentially, what could sell – and the answer is all of it. It’s all designer and expensive but she can’t find a single bag to shove it all in...

When the door to the room swings open and in walks the most stunning woman she’s ever seen.

But the thing Ruby knows well about beauty is that -

It can be deceiving.

This woman’s beauty does nothing to hide her malice and Ruby steps back cautiously, still clutching a pair of vintage Steve Maddens.

“Oh good!” the strange woman exclaims. “You’re awake! Are you hungry?” she asks eagerly.

“Um,” Ruby trips back further. “No. No thanks.”

She gets a soft smile in return.

But Ruby knows well how to spot sharp teeth.

“That’s ok,” the woman assures. “We’ll eat later. But you do need water.” She approaches her with an outstretched bottle which Ruby reluctantly accepts. She doesn’t know what to say next, but the woman speaks first. “I see you’ve gone through your closet, do you like your clothes? What about the room? I didn’t know much about you, I could only assume.”

“Um, yeah, they're great,” Ruby states as she clutches the over-priced bottle of water to her chest. “Listen,” she continues before she loses her nerve. “I’m just a bit disturbed- I don’t remember coming here at all - I don’t remember the police station or the call - I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have done what I did, been where I’ve been. But I don’t understand what is happenin’. Thank you for taking me in, but could I please talk to Linda?”

Linda has been there since the beginning. And as much shit as Ruby has pulled, Linda has never given up on her. She’ll fill her in, she’d understand. Linda never really judged her rebellion, and she took her out of every bad situation as fast as she could. Linda will help. Linda is good.

“I’m not sure who you mean, baby.” the woman states so casually.

“Linda!” Ruby exclaims. “My social worker! The reason I’m here being fostered by you? I just want to talk to her. Do you have my phone?”

“Shit,” she wonders. “Where did I leave that phone?”

The redheaded woman traps Ruby with a very stern look. “Come sit down,” she demands, reaching for her hand. Ruby refuses the offered appendage but goes to sit on the edge of the bed.

The woman sits close to her. Too close. But Ruby doesn’t flinch. She’s had a lifetime of learning not to flinch.

The woman grabs her hand anyways once she’s sat and uses her free hand to grasp Ruby’s chin and turn it towards her. “Darling,” she states slow and sweet, and her voice sounds like wet gravel. “You are not my foster daughter.”

Ruby is confused for a moment before she breathes out a sigh of relief. “Ok, yeah, thank you for understanding that I’m a little too old for that mother/daughter deal--”

She tries but the woman cuts her off. “You’re not in the system now, Ruby,” she stresses her name, the first time she’s even indicated that she knows it. “But you are ours,” the woman continues.

“Ours?” Ruby briefly registers.” Who else…?” The woman is still speaking but Ruby is already seeing as red as her name. She belongs to no one. And she’s fought tooth and nail for it since she was 9 years old and the last person she wanted to belong to…

Ruby blinks a few times in disbelief and then yanks her head away from where the woman has her calloused palm resting on her cheek.

“I want to talk to my fucking social worker. NOW,” she lets out in a growl.

With which she is met by an immediate slap across her previously cradled cheek.

“You’re lucky it’s just me,” the woman meets with a similar growl. “Because when you meet him you’ll see, he won’t stand for language like that, Ruby .”

Ruby clasps her cheek in shock as the redhead lays her back in bed and runs gentle fingers along her head.

Who are these people? What is happening? How can she get out of there?

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #dark natasha #dark natasha romanoff #mcu x reader #black widow #natasha romanov #dark natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel mcu #natasha x you

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nightingale-ghost-writer · 1 year

Text

Maybe [Soap x Fem!OC]

Summary: Soap finds a kindred spirit during a trying time

Author’s Notes: This is a little of a long intro, feel free to skip it! I’ve been reading fanfiction for years, and I’ve started dozens of fics. This is the first one I’ve ever finished. (11.8K words!!!) It started off with me wanting Soap to get some medical care for his unaddressed injuries after Alone, and just exploded from there. I wanted to really highlight the bond he and Ghost formed, and then I wanted to give him love (because he deserves it!). I know it’s a bit sparse on the Price and Gaz side of things, but I feel like their bonds with Soap are sort of assumed going into this game. This game, to me, is about Soap learning that sometimes the right thing to do isn’t always so obvious, and Ghost learning to work with a team, thanks to Soap. I loved this campaign dearly, so I have a lot of dialogue carried over from scenes I really wanted to set. That being said, I changed some stuff to better incorporate my OC, Daniela. Writing reader-insert fics is a skill I just do not possess. If you’re reading, I hope you enjoy it!

And to my dear @uselsshuman, who is the furthest thing from useless, thank you so much for your encouragement to write this. Your writing and support really inspired me to get this done. This one’s for you. ❤

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Modern Warfare

Warnings: language, canon-typical violence, suggestive content

Soap tucked himself behind a door, braced his back against the wall, and did his level best to breathe as silently as possible. He could hear the Shadows’ footsteps and radio chatter nearby.

He pulled back the hammer on the desert eagle he’d found in the café safe and held his breath. He didn’t want to get into a gunfight, not here. Not with them. He had decent cover, but his arm throbbed where a bullet was lodged, his ribs stung where his plates had kept him from another, his whole body ached from his jumps and falls in the city, and he was almost certain he’d damaged something in his left hip the day before.

That particular injury came from running along cliff faces to escape the cartel, which was bad enough. Adding the Shadows to that? That was terrible.

As the footsteps faded, Soap let out a slow, low breath and slumped to the ground. He let his eyes drift shut, just for a moment, taking stock of his ability to get across the plaza to the church. To Ghost. As if he knew that he was being thought about, Ghost’s voice crackled through the comms.

“Soap?“ he asked softly.

“Ghost,” whispered Soap.

“You alright?”

Soap opened his eyes and took a deep breath, peeked around the door, and answered “Think I found a way through, LT.”

“Shadows are everywhere. I’ll hold ‘em off until we RV in front of the church and secure a vehicle for exfil.”

“Roger that.” Soap crept up through the shop, taking care to stay low and move quietly.

“Give ‘em hell, Johnny. We’re almost there,” rumbled Ghost. After a moment’s pause, he added “Listen, I picked up an ally. Should help us get out of here a little easier. You’ve just got to us and we’ll get to a vehicle.”

Soap’s eyes narrowed. Ally? In Mexico? Only two people came to mind, and they were both “detained”.

“Is it Price?” he asked after a moment’s thought.

“No, one of Alejandro's Vaqueros. Wasn’t on base when Graves moved in. Showed up, realized something was wrong. We found each other killing Shadows, decided to team up.”

Soap chanced raising his head to peer out of the shop window. Seeing no Shadows, he moved for the door. “And you trust ‘im?”

“Enough, at least for now.”

“Copy that, LT. I’m on my way.”

He wiggled the door handle, but of course, nothing could be so easy. It was locked. So he pulled out the last of his makeshift pry tools, braced it in the door jamb, and pulled.

Lots of things happened all at once, then.

The door swung open. Soap yelled “Fuck!” while the Shadow said “what the- GET DOWN!”, and hit Soap with the butt of his rifle. The Shadow called his position, Soap heard “kill him!”, and then the Shadow dropped to the ground. Soap scrambled back, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye and groaning. His vision swam and his ears rang and he couldn’t get his bearings. Two more Shadows, running for the building, dropped to the sharp report of silenced sniper fire.

“Holy hell. Ghost, was that you?” Soap asked.

“Who else?” snapped Ghost’s rough voice. “Now go!”

He scrambled to his feet. And ran.

He ran as fast as his bruised body would let him, ducking behind cars and spraying with an SMG he’d picked up. He heard gunfire coming from ahead of him and cursed, grabbing for his radio.

“Ghost, how copy?”

“Johnny, got company in the church and they are not here for forgiveness. Get to the steps, we’ll be there!”

In the last few meters, Soap saw Ghost come careening out of the church doors, followed closely by a much smaller figure dressed all in black. They both turned to shoot at their followers as Soap and Ghost called out to each other. Ghost vaulted over the wrought iron fence, followed by their ally, and the three ran back the way Soap had come.

“We need a vehicle. On me!” Ghost barked. “Stay sharp. They know we’re here and they know it’s us. They’ll send more.”

Minutes that felt like hours later, after a brief firefight, the three piled into a pickup, panting and on high alert.

“Alright, Johnny! You made it.”

“We made it, LT.”

After ramming two Shadows with their stolen pickup, and nearly losing Ghost to another, they peeled off down an alley. Soap sagged against the seat, closing his eyes again. His heart and head were pounding.

“How’s that arm, Johnny?” asked Ghost.

Soap raised his head. “I’ll live,” he answered. He shivered violently, once, and Ghost cast a concerned glance in his direction.

“You sure it’s not infected?”

“Of course I’m not sure,” snapped Soap. Softening his voice, he added “But I think it’s just the cold. Between the tunnels and the rain, LT? Feels like I’m back home.”

Ghost nodded slowly. For a long moment, the two just basked in each others’ presence, grateful to have made it back together. Then, Ghost said “Daniela, would you take a look at the Sergeant’s arm? Can’t have him dying on us.”

Soap’s head snapped around to lock eyes with the ally he’d forgotten. Later, he’d remember this moment as an indication of his quickly deteriorating state. In the moment, though, he couldn’t wrap his head around anything but the woman in front of him.

Sometime between their getting into the truck and down the street, the black balaclava and hood had come off. The woman staring back at him had light olive skin and a mass of shiny black curls plastered to her head by rain. A thin, jagged, silvery scar ran from her cheekbone to her jaw, and her full lips were pursed in a barely-there smile. Soap thought he saw scarred flesh at the collar of her jacket. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers. They were the bluest blue he’d ever seen- dark like the ocean, clear like the sky on a cloudless night, and as sharp as glass. Familiar, somehow.

He hadn’t necessarily had expectations of how this ally would look, but this was as far from expectation as possible. He had pictured a man, but even the fact that she was a woman wasn’t most shocking of all. It was her beauty.

He flinched when her hand landed lightly on his right shoulder, pulling gently.

“No, we can’t,” she said. Her voice was soft, musical, lightly accented. The lilt of just those three words had Soap’s head spinning for, at least he thought, completely different reasons than it had been spinning earlier. He adjusted his body so that rather than leaning with his left arm over the seat, his right arm hung over. The woman looked straight to the wound, gently prodding the flesh around the bullet wound, and Soap bit his tongue to keep from hissing in pain.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

Soap tried to be nonchalant. He shrugged and said “Not so much.”

Ghost snorted. Soap didn’t blame him. The words sounded strained even to his own ears. And based on the older man’s jokes about not watching the cartel’s videos of his death “more than once”, this seemed like just the kind of thing he might find amusing. The thought made Soap smirk. The woman rolled her eyes, setting them on his again.

“What’s your name, hen?”

“I am Daniela. You are Soap, yes?” Soap nodded. Daniela nodded as well, focusing back on his arm. “Your Ghost, he told you that I am with Los Vaqueros?”

Soap and Ghost exchanged a look at “your Ghost”. Now Soap really was smirking, and he imagined that Ghost was grimacing under his mask.

“Aye, that he did,” he replied. He watched as Daniela unzipped her tactical vest and tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of her shirt. She began winding it around his bicep, grimacing slightly at the wheeze of pain he couldn’t hold back.

“Well we have a safehouse. We’ll get there, stock up, get you patched up a little better, and come up with a plan.” After carefully tying a knot in the makeshift bandage, she raised her eyes to Soap’s again. “It’s the best I can do right now.”

“I appreciate it,” he replied. He held her gaze for a moment before turning to face Ghost. “Alright, Ghost?”

Ghost glanced at him again. Even behind the mask, Soap could see his expression soften. “Alright, Johnny. You did well back there.” Soap grinned, and could tell by the crinkling around his eyes that Ghost was grinning, too.

“All thanks to you, LT.”

The rest of the ride was filled with soft chatter about Alejandro, Los Vaqueros, Graves, and the safehouse… and Soap trying, and failing, not to feel Daniela’s burning stare on the back of his neck.

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

Soap thought he was done for when Ghost shouted for him not to move. His feet had just touched the safehouse floor and Ghost was perched in the window. Before Soap even had time to react, a throwing knife flew past his head, embedding itself in the column just a meter away. Then he recognized Rodolfo’s voice.

“Quién está ahí?”

“Rodolfo!”

Rodolfo rounded the corner. “Soap, Ghost! You’re alive!” Soap could see the moment Daniela mounted the window. Rodolfo’s face crumbled, his whole body seeming to sag with relief. “Daniela!”

“Rodolfo!” She leapt from the windowsill, surging forward to wrap her arms around Rodolfo’s waist. His own arms came around her shoulders and the two rocked back and forth, holding each other, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish that Soap had no hope of understanding. Rodolfo kissed the side of Daniela’s head, holding her to him tightly. Soap looked away. His eyes met Ghost’s and the two shared a slight shrug.

While Rodolfo and Daniela chattered away, Ghost stepped toward Soap.

“Daniela should be able to fix up that arm,” he said. “She’s not a formally trained medic, but she has lots of field training and experience. She told me she’s been patching up Los Vaqueros for years.”

“Aye. How’d you say you found her? Fighting Shadows?”

Ghost looked her way, nodding. “Just a few minutes before I got you on comms, I heard a scuffle. Thought it might be you, so I went in to assist. Lo and behold, I find that one slicing up a Shadow. ‘Nother pair showed up, though, and one got her in a choke-hold. Would’ve carried her off to who knows where if I hadn’t shown up.”

Soap nodded slowly. He didn’t need any more explanation. He knew the implications of what Ghost was saying and it made his blood boil.

Ghost shrugged. “She trusted me enough since I’d just saved her life, and I trusted her enough since she was fighting them and didn’t raise her gun at me. Plus, I think she’s as dedicated to the cause as Alejandro and Rodolfo.”

“Why’s that?” asked Soap. But before Ghost could answer, Rodolfo cut in.

“Where were you guys?”

“On the run,” answered Ghost.

“I was on the run,” corrected Soap. “Ghost waited for me.”

Rodolfo nodded. “Of course, no?”

Dread sank in Soap’s stomach. “No-” he began. But Ghost cut him off.

“Yes,” he said firmly, locking eyes with Soap again. “We’re a team. All of us.”

That stunned Soap into silence. He’d known they’d bonded trying to escape Las Almas with their lives, but for all of his teasing about Ghost taking a shine to him, he hadn’t actually believed that Ghost would say the same thing.

He was touched.

Maybe even more touched by the fact that the legendary lone-wolf Ghost considered him part of his team. It was likely the highest compliment he would ever get from him.

So while Rodolfo and Ghost started in on their plan to get into the prison, Soap settled down against the safehouse wall with an MRE from Alejandro’s supplies. The adrenaline shot he’d managed to get his hands on in Las Almas was waning, and he could feel every sore muscle, the bullet in his arm, and his likely sprained hip sharply. He tried to tune in to the conversation, but his attention was immediately lost when Daniela approached him with a med kit.

She grinned a bit wryly at him. “Mind if I take a better look at that arm?” Soap nodded and braced himself to stand, but Daniela jumped forward, holding out a hand. “No, don’t get up,” she said. Soap settled back to the ground as she crouched by him, reaching for her makeshift bandage from earlier.

Soap studied her as she worked. Her hair had dried and now sat at least a few centimeters higher on her head, tight ringlets falling to her shoulders. Her eyebrows furrowed just a bit as she carefully removed the bloodied fabric. Her movements were calculated, washing the wound and looking at it closely.

“How did you join Los Vaqueros?” Soap asked. For a moment, Daniela didn’t acknowledge him. Then she raised her gaze to his.

Instead of answering his question, she said “I need to get the bullet out. It’s going to hurt. Think you can handle it?”

Soap nodded once, sharply. Her gaze softened. “I don’t have any painkillers. This isn’t going to be some… little pain. It’s going to hurt a lot.”

Soap cocked a wry grin back at her. “Just so long as my screaming doesn’t bother you,” he teased. A wicked spark lit in her eyes at that.

“It won’t bother me. Maybe I’d like to hear you scream.”

Soap’s jaw dropped. It was exactly the type of thing he’d say, but having it said to him was dumbfounding. Who was this woman?

Her smile only grew as she watched him try to compose himself. He was grateful when her gaze dropped back to the task at hand, sterilizing a pair of forceps. He was sure his face was flaming red.

“Los Vaqueros saved my life when I was sixteen,” she said softly. “My village leader refused the cartel’s demands, so El Sin Nombre set to burning the village down. I was one of three survivors.” That explained Ghost’s certainty of her dedication.

She moved to his right side, between his leg and outstretched arm, and gripped his bicep below the bullet wound.

“My whole family died that day.”

She set the forceps at the wound’s entry. Soap took a deep breath.

“I have burns all over my body from our house burning down.” That explained the scarring at her neck.

Soap lurched forward, gasping, when she dug the forceps in. The pain was so blinding that he nearly missed Daniela cursing softly in Spanish before sitting on his right leg, leaning her body against his to keep him from moving. Nearly missed. But didn’t.

“Lo ciento,” she whispered, sparing him a concerned glance. He grit his teeth and leaned his head back against the wall, chest heaving as he took deep breaths through his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he gritted out. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”

Daniela shrugged. “Alejandro pulled me out of that fire,” she continued. Her tone was light, but seemed forced. Soap wasn’t sure whether it was her attempt to calm him or to pretend her story didn’t bother her.

He felt the moment that the forceps grasped the bullet. Took a deep breath. Steeled himself. Nothing prepared him for the feeling. He’d been shot before, multiple times. Bullet removal wasn’t a walk in the park, but he hadn’t realized just how much the painkillers mattered.

Soap was not proud of the whimper he let out when Daniela yanked the bullet out in one clean motion. She dropped the forceps onto a medical tray and lightly patted his cheek before inspecting the wound closely, muttering about infection and pointedly not meeting his gaze. She poured antiseptic over the wound and reached for a bottle of pills.

“Here, take these. Antibiotics,” she said. After watching Soap swallow the pills, she picked a needle and thread up out of the med kit and continued. “Rodolfo threw a wet blanket over me. They put ointment on my burns and fed me. They offered me a home. They taught me to fight. They’ve been my family ever since.”

Soap felt a pang of kinship at her words. He flinched slightly when the needle pierced his skin, but the pain died to a dull burn as Daniela kept stitching.

“Now that, I do understand,” he said.

“You have no family?”

“No. Just the 141.”

After a few more strokes, she tied off the thread and laid a hand on his chest.

“They are my brothers. We must get Alejandro back.”

Soap reached up to cover her hand, belatedly hoping she wouldn’t be able to feel his heart pounding when she met his gaze. “We will, hermana.”

The smile she gave him was small, but her eyes were warm. It lasted for a brief moment before she arched an eyebrow.

“Hermana?” She leaned forward until her mouth brushed Soap’s ear and he was sure that she could feel his heartbeat stutter. “I certainly hope not.”

With that, she picked up her medical kit and sauntered away, leaving Soap to stare after her in shock.

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

Getting into the prison compound was easy enough.

“Trash bin on your right, time to take out the trash.”

“Shut up, Soap, fucking hell.”

A giggle from Daniela.

“Shoot him.”

“No, got something else in mind.”

“Fucking beautiful, sir!”

Impressed mumbling from Rodolfo.

“Cut and paste him, Ghost.”

Soap and Ghost’s banter amused Daniela to no end, even though Soap was sure he’d never been so anxious in his life. Having Ghost’s life almost solely in his hands was a responsibility he never wanted to feel again. But working with Rodolfo again helped to ease his mind.

Nearly being killed by Alejandro was less than ideal, but made worth it to watch him reunite with Rodolfo and Daniela.

“Alejandro! Al- it’s me, hermano!”

“Coronel, relájese somos nosotros!”

“Soap, Rudy, Ghost! Daniela!”

“Didn’t think we’d leave you, did ya?”

“What took you so long, pendejos?”

Getting out wasn’t quite as easy.

“Exfil vehicles are set. Ghost planted charges to help us get out.”

“With Johnny’s help.”

“Eh, I can’t call Soap ‘Johnny’.”

“Don’t. Only Ghost can pull that off.”

“Aww, really? Only your Ghost? What about me?”

“Yes, Johnny, what about Daniela?”

“Can it, LT.”

But between Los Vaqueros and the 141, they made it. Soap couldn’t put into words how much relief he felt upon seeing Gaz and hearing the old man’s voice. After being hoisted to the top, he and Daniela ended up shoulder to shoulder, her covering him while he detonated the Shadows vehicles.

“Have you been with the 141 long?” she shouted over the sounds of gunfire.

“The 141 hasn’t been around all that long,” he shouted back. “But yeah, I’ve been with ‘em since the start.” He raised his rifle, picking off three snipers with three shots.

Daniela raised an impressed eyebrow. “I can see why!”

Soap grinned wide, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye as he raised the detonator. “Would you be impressed if I told you I rigged the explosives for these things, too?”

Daniela returned his grin full force. “I would be.”

Soap’s grin only widened before he pressed the button, eyes locked with Daniela’s. He lowered his voice and said “Ka-freaking-boom, baby.” She’d giggled when he said it earlier, and as the APC exploded, she let out another delighted squeal.

“Handsome and clever? This is a good combination, Johnny,” she said. Soap was grateful that shooting was such second nature to him because in that moment, all coherent thoughts ceased to exist. When he managed to look back to Daniela, she was smiling slyly. She picked off a sniper from across the yard and Soap shook his head. Witty, intelligent, beautiful, and a good shot.

When the door to their right crashed open, Soap threw himself in front of Daniela to cover her as they each shot one of the men inside. Ghost barked at Soap about weapons, and he came back to the wall with a grenade launcher. He released several grenades before the last of Alejandro’s men mounted the wall top, and then made sure that Daniela went down the other side before him.

When he stumbled getting to their transport out, he chalked it up to battle fatigue, which he told both Ghost and Daniela when they asked whether he was okay. Neither looked convinced, but neither questioned him. They did sit on either side of him for the ride back to the safehouse, though.

Daniela leaned close to him. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Never better,” he lied. His whole body throbbed in varying levels of discomfort and pain. At least his head had stopped throbbing. Daniela leveled her gaze at him, and he returned a wide grin. She rolled her eyes and dropped it. Instead, she said “Thank you for covering me. You didn’t have to do that.”

Soap’s grin softened. “I know,” he said.

Back at the safe house, lively music played softly in the garage as Los Vaqueros cleaned weapons, loaded vehicles, and fed themselves. Soap felt slightly out of place, like he and the rest of the 141 were walking into someone’s home. Everyone either had something to say or shook hands with Daniela and Rodolfo as they passed, and they both smiled warmly at their friends.

Soap and Ghost made their way to an unoccupied pair of cots in the corner, observing their newfound comrades. Price had disappeared with Alejandro to formulate a plan, ordering the two to sleep. But exhausted as he was, Soap wasn’t sure he’d be able to.

He couldn’t get comfortable. No matter which way he turned, something ached or stung. He tried relaxing his muscles. He tried breathing deeply. He tried counting sheep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the fire and the blood from the streets of Las Almas. He could hear the screaming and the pleading and the gunfire. He tried covering his eyes, and his ears. Eventually, he rolled to his side, facing Ghost. He was startled to meet the Lieutenant’s eyes.

“Simon?” Soap asked softly.

“Johnny,” said Ghost, equally as softly.

Soap chewed his lip. “Do you ever forget?”

Ghost held his stare, unflinching. “No. You don’t.” Soap hadn’t realized before, but Ghost’s eyes were bloodshot. He looked tired. He’d learned quickly that he slept infrequently, and for short periods of time. It made a lot more sense, now. Ghost rolled over, huffing out a soft breath. “But eventually, you’ll learn to sleep anyway.”

Soap stared at his back, wondering if he would. Wondering if Ghost ever had. He didn’t know how long he stared at his teammate, but it felt like hours later that someone sat gently on the end of his cot. He flew up, grabbing for the bowie knife he kept in his tactical vest.

Daniela raised her hands, offering a tired smile. “Mind if I take a look at that arm?”

“Sure.” Soap swung his legs off of the cot, resting his hands on the edge. Daniela turned toward him, reaching out and carefully pulling off the dressing she’d applied that early morning.

“How does it feel? Any sharp pains or itching? Any dizziness, fever?” As soon as she said fever, Soap realized he’d been sweating more than usual. He’d absolutely been feeling dizzy since that harrowing night on the run, but it seemed to have died down throughout the day. And now that he actually paid attention long enough, it was quite itchy.

“No,” he lied. Once again, those ocean eyes seemed to pierce his very soul, challenging him. She knew. But she didn’t say anything, simply reached into the med kit for the same bottle of antibiotics and handed him two. Soap took them gratefully. The team couldn’t afford to be without him, and Ghost would surely order him to stay back if he thought the Sergeant was at all compromised.

Again, she washed the wound with antiseptic, then applied a fresh coat of salve before covering it with a fresh bandage.

“Why are you awake, anyway?” she asked suddenly. Soap’s head snapped up, eyes flying to hers. She looked nearly as exhausted as Ghost, all bloodshot eyes and frazzled hair and sagging shoulders. Still gorgeous.

Soap shrugged uncomfortably. “Couldn’t sleep. What about you?”

She shrugged back, offering a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep either. It makes sense, though. You’ve been through a lot the last few days.” The last few days? When Soap cocked an eyebrow at her, she fidgeted a bit. “I, uh… I was there in the cartel house. When Valeria interrogated you.”

Several things clicked into place for Soap very suddenly. Alejandro had taken him to the elevator once he got into the cartel house, and another guard had escorted him out and down to the basement. Small, with ocean-blue eyes. Then at the oil rig, Alejandro had sent one man with Soap and Graves to the ship. Dani.

“You’re strong for your size,” said Soap in awe. Daniela had shoved him repeatedly through the hallway, even tapping the side of his face with the butt of her gun when he had begun to look over his shoulder.

She smiled wryly. “Sorry about that. We had to make it real, and we couldn’t risk any more comms than we had.”

“No, no, it’s okay. You did good,” said Soap. “Why can’t you sleep?”

Daniela shifted again. “I don’t do so well the night before big missions. I usually bunk next to Alelandro or Rodolfo, but they’re both… occupied. So, I came over here instead. To you.”

Soap’s heart melted. He was so drawn to this woman, and to know that she felt even a fraction of that bond made his heart swell with gratitude. “You can bunk with us,” he said quickly. Then, glancing around, he realized that there didn’t seem to be any available cots. “Take my cot. I can sleep in a chair.”

Daniela’s face had washed with relief when he spoke, but some tension returned as she looked down at her hands. “Don’t be silly,” she mumbled. “I’m not putting you out of your cot after the week you’ve had.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to share it with me,” teased Soap. He held his breath when Daniela’s head snapped up. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to say anything so bold, but he’d taken it and run with it. “There’s plenty of space for both of us.”

“If I sleep on top of you, maybe,” snorted Daniela. Soap wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Daniela giggled.

Soap softened his voice, speaking more seriously. “I really don’t mind sharing.”

She contemplated for a moment, sighed, and then rolled her eyes. “Fine. Just don’t complain if I crush you.”

Now it was Soap’s turn to snort. He lay down carefully, his back to Ghost’s cot, and raised his right arm. Daniela lay down beside him, turning onto her side and tucking herself under his chin. A perfect fit. Soap gently let his arm come down over her waist, laying his hand on the cot rail.

“This okay?” he whispered. She nodded. Soap nodded, too. His heart was pounding. He hadn’t been close to someone like this in… well, a long time.

The 141 was his whole life. There was always work to be done, and without a family to go home to, there was no real reason to take leave. On the rare occasion he did, he just ended up in his home town in Scotland. He’d flirt, constantly, but he seldom brought anyone home. He longed for something deeper, and sex alone could never fill that void. Plus, no one wanted to commit to someone who could be gone for months at a time.

But this? To be close to someone? This was filling the void just fine. Soap had to fight the urge to pull her further back against him as her breathing evened out, her body naturally leaning more on his own. As he dozed, he was proud of himself for staying still. He drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming empty dreams and feeling her shift against him.

As he finally woke up the next morning, he felt his hip aching fiercely. He started to shift to take some pressure off of it, and froze. Slowly opening his eyes, he saw Daniela’s wild hair. He groggily remembered that they’d shared a cot the night before. All of his pride at his self-control dissolved instantly when he realized that his arm was around her waist, holding her tightly to his chest. She must have turned over in her sleep, because her leg was thrown over his hip, pulling their bodies flush together.

He could already feel a problem, and this was not the time or place. He had to get out of this cot without waking her up. He shifted back, then froze as Daniela’s hand ran up to the back of his head to tangle her fingers in his mohawk. Her eyelids fluttered, her fingers pulled lightly at his hair, and her leg tightened around his hips. Soap’s eyes fluttered shut as he swallowed a groan. Fuck. When he opened his eyes again, she was smiling at him sleepily.

“That’s the best sleep I’ve gotten in months,” she whispered. Soap nodded, desperately trying to get his body under control before she woke up any more. To his dismay, she nuzzled closer to him, nose rubbing under his jaw and hips shifting back and forth for a moment. Her eyes snapped open, eyebrows arching. “Feels like you slept pretty well, too, eh big boy?” Hells bells, this woman. Soap barely suppressed a full body shudder as she beamed at him.

“I didn’t, I’m not, I-” he stuttered. But Daniela placed her fingers over his lips, silencing him. Her eyes were full of mirth.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” she teased. Then she languidly stretched, pressing against him as much as humanly possible before climbing out of the cot and sashaying away, tossing a wicked grin over her shoulder at him. Soap turned to Ghost’s cot, which was blessedly empty, and then pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, still fighting for his body to cooperate. Hells fucking bells.

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

When Alejandro called his men, all sound stopped. The place became a real base in that moment. Los Vaqueros and the 141 gathered around a makeshift operations table, listening intently as Price spoke.

“This is a fight against our own. We are not 141 and Los Vaqueros on this. We’re a team. Ghost team.”

Soap’s eyebrows shot up when the Captain dumped out a bucket of masks, then his eyes snapped up to Ghost. Ghost was staring at him, and Soap was almost certain he was steeling himself. Their silent conversation lasted only a moment before Ghost reached up, pulling off his mask, pausing before reaching for one from the table. Price reached a hand up to his shoulder.

“Good to see you again, Simon,” he said.

Soap carefully schooled his features in an attempt to soothe Ghost’s nerves, but he felt a distinct surge of pride in being one of the few to be allowed to know the Lieutenant. As the older man adjusted the mask over his face, the two shared another weighted look. Soap quirked up one corner of his mouth, shaking his head. Quite the opposite, indeed.

Alejandro laid out the plan to get into the Los Vaqueros facility. “We’ll infiltrate the base with two Ghost teams. Team one is Captain Price, Gaz, me, and one pilot. Team two is Ghost, Soap, Rudy, Dani, and Los Vaqueros.”

Ghost and Soap looked to each other and nodded. Then Soap turned to Daniela, raising an eyebrow. He mouthed “Dani?”

She smirked, mouthing back “Johnny?”

Soap grinned. He looked to Ghost, who was shaking his head. But his eyes were crinkled with mirth.

“While Gaz and me locate and secure Valeria, Ghost team 2 will find Graves… and kill him.”

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

Ghost team 2 fought their way through the base to the HQ building, then fought their way through that. Soap and Ghost moved together like they’d fought together for years, and Daniela and Rodolfo effortlessly slotted themselves into their dynamic. Between the three of them, no Shadows made it more than a few steps into the open.

Watching Price’s helo go down had Soap’s stomach sinking. “Steamin’ hell!” Soap shouted. He and Ghost shared a heavy look while Daniela and Rodolfo cursed softly. Rodolfo quickly recovered, clambering up the wall with Soap’s help. Daniela followed after, lightly stepping into Soap’s linked hands before joining Rodolfo in straddling the wall. The two of them pulled Soap up quickly, who turned to Ghost.

“Ghost, you comin’?” he asked.

“No. Price and the pilot need help. You three finish this.”

Soap’s head whipped back and forth between Ghost and the other side of the wall until he saw something that made his stomach drop even more. “Look!” he shouted.

“That’s not ours!” shouted Rodolfo.

“Holy shite. Graves brought a fuckin’ tank!” growled Soap, dropping to the ground. He glanced at Rodolfo and Daniela. “You ready for this?”

“Hell yeah!” answered Rodolfo. Daniela nodded curtly. Soap motioned for the three to split up.

“Looks like the hunters are getting hunted now, huh?” came Graves’ sneering voice. “Ain’t that a kick in the ass?”

“Can’t wait to bake this bastard,” grumbled Soap. He, Daniela, and Rodolfo had run into different buildings. Rodolfo tried to call out C4 stashes, Daniela threw grenades as she could, and Soap gestured for both of them to stay down and inside. Then he ran for his life.

“You and your mexicano friends fucked with the wrong hombre, MacTavish!” yelled Graves.

“Come on out and let’s talk about it,” quipped Soap. Daniela snorted, and despite the severity of the situation, Soap found himself smiling.

Graves seemed altogether less pleased. “You think this is a fucking game out here? You wanna play war? Let’s play some fucking war, chicos! One of you dipshits needs to die last. Who’s it gonna be?”

“Go fuck yourself, Graves.” Soap threw a brick of C4 straight into the tank’s path, silently congratulating himself when it blew.

“You got a healthy disrespect for authority, Soap. I like that about you!”

“You’re Shepherd’s lap dog. You get paid to break the rules.”

“There’s only two rules here, boys. Walk away… or win. Guess which one I choose?” Soap vaulted through a window. It wasn’t high, but the landing still made his hip throb in protest. He grunted softly. “Shoulda gone home when you had the chance, Soap- you and that asshole with the mask, hiding behind that uniform.”

Soap’s temper instantly flared. “You wore that uniform,” he ground out. He was crouched by another C4 stash, trying to judge Graves’ location.

“That uniform was a limitation!” shouted Graves. “I shed that skin!”

“Like a fuckin’ snake,” Soap hissed.

“Like a fuckin’ soldier, son.”

“You had to make your own little army ‘cause you couldn’t hack it in the real one.” This time, Soap managed to stick the side of the tank with C4 as it passed. He ran, detonated, and silently cheered again when he heard the second explosion.

Soap managed to tune out most of the rest of what Graves said, until he turned his attention to Rodolfo. His Spanish wasn’t great, but he picked up the general idea that Graves was saying the 141 were no friends to Los Vaqueros.

“Oye, pendejo!” Daniela’s voice suddenly cut through the radio. Most of what she said was lost to Soap, but she sounded furious. He picked out the words “friends”, “assholes like you”, “good people”, and “brothers”, and “death”. Hermanos hasta la muerte.

Graves must have understood more than Soap, because his driving became erratic and he shouted back to Daniela in what Soap did recognize as poorly pronounced Spanish.

Her distraction gave him enough time to sneak up behind the tank and lay one last brick of C4 between the tank’s body and tread. But just as he started to back off, the gun began to swing in his direction. Soap braced himself to run, and then froze.

“Graves!” Daniela shouted. She had leapt up to stand in the window of the building directly ahead of Soap. As the tank's gun swung back in her direction, Soap scrambled to his feet, racing forward.

“Pinche tu madre,” she sneered.

Soap could hear the tank’s gun spinning up.

“No!” He shouted. Daniela’s head snapped in his direction. Her face fell when they locked stares, eyes flashing with anxiety. She took half a step toward him, but Soap launched himself through the window. In one smooth motion, he wrapped his arm around Daniela’s waist, yanked her against himself, and pulled them to the ground. He landed hard on his shoulder as he heard the tank fire and rolled her under him as fast as he could, tucking his head against hers and shielding them both with his arms. The building crumbled under the impact, sheetrock and dust raining down on them. Several chunks of sheetrock landed across Soap’s back. That’ll be a few new bruises.

As it began to settle, Soap raised his head just enough to look down at Daniela. They were nose to nose when she opened her eyes, hands coming up to run over his covered head.

“Y’alright?” Soap whispered. She nodded frantically.

“You?” He nodded. As he shifted his shoulders, bits of rubble fell off and cracked against the ground. He winced.

He looked up and around. Graves’ tank was rotating, looking for them. He glanced to the stairs, then looked back down at Daniela.

“Hold onto me,” he whispered. Daniela cocked an eyebrow, but wrapped her arms around his neck. Soap grabbed one of her legs behind the knee, wrapping it around his waist, and she smirked before wrapping her other leg around his back as well. As serious as the situation was, their position wasn’t lost on Soap. Twice in one day? He swallowed hard. C’mon, MacTavish.

As quickly as he dared, he crawled for the stairwell. He could see Graves’ tank through the doorway on the opposite wall, facing away. In the last meter, he leapt to his feet and ran up several steps, stopping midway to lean against the wall. Daniela slid down his body, resting her hands on his chest. Soap shivered. They were both panting slightly. Her eyes shone as she looked up at him.

“Gracías, guapo,” she said softly. Then her hand snapped up to her earpiece. She started down for a moment, then looked back up at Soap. “Rodolfo moved to Los Vaqueros private channel. He says there should be an RPG downstairs,” she said.

Soap nodded, clicking through channels until he could hear Rudy’s voice. “I’ll get it,” he said.

Daniela grabbed his arm as he moved, stopping him in his tracks. “Be careful,” she said. He nodded, clasping her arm.

“I will.”

He crept down the stairs, peeking around the wall to where he’d last seen Graves’ tank. It wasn’t there. Staying low, he rounded the corner, eyes searching frantically for the RPG.

“Check under the counter, hermano,” whispered Rodolfo. When Soap glanced up, he could barely see the other man peeking around a doorframe across the yard. He crept to the bar counter, slid open the door as quietly as possible, and grabbed the RPG inside.

“Siiick,” said Soap, raising the RPG to his shoulder. With his back to the wall, he slowly made his way to an opening, searching for Graves. Not seeing him, he stayed. And breathed. And waited.

He could hear the thing driving around outside, searching for him or the others. He just hoped they were well hidden.

His radio crackled. “He’s heading your way, Soap,” said Daniela quietly.

“Rog’,” he replied. “Stay down.”

Carefully, he crouched and turned, ready to fire as soon as the tank came into view. He didn’t have to wait long. With a deep breath, he stood, pulled the trigger, and dove behind the cabinet again. The explosion from the tank seemed to rock the very ground. He realized that he’d never detonated the last brick of C4. Double trouble, then.

Slowly, Soap stood and leaned around the corner. Graves’ tank was a ball of fire, smoke and flames billowing into the sky. He heard Daniela step down the stairs, then felt her small hand on his shoulder blade. Rudy peeked around the corner of a doorway, looking around before stepping outside. Soap and Daniela did the same, cautiously walking forward.

“You did it, Soap,” said Rodolfo softly.

“You two and me, hermano,” said Soap.

“Brought a gun to a tank fight.”

Soap chuckled, smiling under his mask. “Yeah we did!” He reached for his radio, clicking back to the main channel. “Soap to Ghost- I’m with Rudy. Graves is KIA. How’s Price?”“Angry. Lost a good cigar in the crash. Pilot’s okay, too. Out.”

Rodolfo relayed the message to Alejandro. They all took a moment to breathe. And then they moved out to meet Ghost Team 1.

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

Soap’s head was spinning. They had all known Valeria was a wildcard, but he didn’t think any of them had expected her to drop the bomb of information that a missile was in Chicago. Not even Alejandro. Price handed her off to Los Vaqueros almost immediately, the threat in his voice clear. Soap wasn’t surprised, and he didn’t expect to ever see her alive again.

He was surprised when he had to lift Daniela up and out of the container after she lunged for Valeria. He dragged her out kicking and screaming in Spanish, all curses and threats. Rudy followed them out first, trying to calm her down, but there was nothing for it. The other woman was single-handedly responsible for the deaths of all of her family and friends. Soap couldn’t fault her rage.

Gaz came out next, raising his eyebrows at Soap in a silent question. Soap nodded, affirming that he was alright. Daniela had stopped thrashing, but her chest still rose and fell quickly against his arms. He’d had to lean back against the wall, lifting her feet off the ground to keep her from beelining to the container. Now she stood, back against his chest, hands gripping his tactical harness where it crossed his thighs.

“I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling,” Gaz began softly. He paced slowly back and forth in front of them. “But I do know that she’s not worth throwing your life away.”

“She stole my life!” hissed Daniela. “She took my family. She took everything from me! And now she’s doing it all again! More people will lose their lives, lose their families, if she isn’t stopped!”

“But she gave you a purpose,” said Gaz firmly. He’d stopped pacing, staring directly at Daniela now. “You’ll never let that happen to anyone ever again. We are going to stop her. And I know it’s not the same thing, but she gave you a family, too. Hell, she gave you two families. You, Alejandro, Rodolfo? Los Vaqueros? You’ll always have a family with the 141, now.”

Soap squeezed her just a bit tighter at that, his own silent affirmation. After a moment, Daniela’s hands released his harness and lay flat against his legs. She seemed to sag back against him. Her voice shook slightly when she spoke.

“Gracias, hermano.”

Gaz simply nodded before returning to the container. For several minutes, Soap and Daniela said nothing. Then, very softly, she said “You can let me go.”

“Aye? You won’t kick me in the shins and run off to kill her anyway?”

Daniela snorted at that. “No.” With one final squeeze, Soap let her go. As he did, Alejandro came storming out of the container, followed closely by Rodolfo. He moved straight for Daniela, gripping her shoulders.

“We’re going to be hunted men, Dani,” he said. “I’m not letting her get away with this. Rodolfo and I will handle her, and we’ll handle the cartel. But you…” He looked up at Soap, then back at Daniela. He pointed to Soap with one finger. “You need to go with them. I don’t want you to be a part of this.”

“Alejandro, no, soy-”

“No,” he growled. He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, and Soap realized when he looked at Daniela again that he was tearing up. He lowered his head to her level, staring at her intently. “What did I tell you the night we found you?”

Rodolfo had turned his head away, shoulders stiff. Soap couldn’t see her face, but he could hear in her voice that Daniela was tearing up, too. “You told me you would always protect me,” she whimpered.

Alejandro shook her gently. “This is me protecting you, hermana.” He pointed to Soap. “That man will protect you with his life. You told me so yourself. Rodolfo told me.” He glanced back to Soap, who nodded, stunned. “And I can see it when I look at him, and the way he looks at you. You have to go with them. You have to get that missile, and you have to stay out of Mexico until this dies down. And then you know we’ll welcome you back with open arms.”

Rodolfo turned, reaching out a hand to hold Daniela’s. “This has always been our fight, mijá,” he whispered. “It doesn’t have to be yours. And I know you chose it, but this time… just let us do this for you. Sabes que te amamos.”

Price and Gaz had come out of the container again, Price holding Valeria. They both nodded to Soap, who nodded to Daniela when she looked over to him. Her gaze dropped, and then she looked back to her men.

“Yo sé que tú,” she whispered.

Alejandro moved to Soap while Rodolfo hugged Daniela.

“Go. You have work to do,” he said. Then he pulled Soap closer, and softly said “Take care of her.”“You know I will,” whispered Soap. He backed toward their plane. “Keep fighting the good fight, hermano!” he called.“To the bitter end, my brother!” said Alejandro.

“Good luck, amigos,” said Rodolfo.

Price shoved Valeria into the backseat of Alejandro and Rodolfo’s vehicle while Soap, Ghost, and Daniela moved to board the aircraft Gaz had already started up.

“Ghost!” called Alejandro. Ghost turned back, cocking his head slightly. “No te pierdas, hermano!”

Whatever Ghost said back, Soap didn’t understand. But Daniela smiled, blowing a kiss with two fingers that Alejandro caught out of midair and held to his heart. Then they turned, boarded the plane, and were away.

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

Soap had long since abandoned his fear of heights. Walking down a 60-story building didn’t make him nervous, but the hostage situation did. Ghost’s calm helped him keep his cool, though, and soon enough, Daniela was getting hostages out of the building while Soap and Price moved on Hassan. They cleared entire floors of the building in record times.

“And that’s why they call him Soap,” mumbled Ghost. Daniela’s answering giggle warmed Soap’s heart. Upon hearing this, Ghost added “Did you know he’s the youngest one of us? Got in with the SAS at sixteen.”

“Sixteen? Soap, you get more and more impressive the more I learn about you!”

Soap’s face flamed.

Despite the hostages, the mission was going smoothly. Too smoothly. Then, Laswell announced that Hassan had the controls. Ghost confirmed visual on floor 46, and back out they went.

“Soap, we find those controls, it’s up to you to disarm that missile.”

“Copy that… done it once before.”

The RPG could have ruined the whole plan, but Soap and Price were both lucky that it missed them. They moved into the building as quickly as possible, clearing yet another room in record time with Ghost’s sniper support.

When Gaz called that they had the target cornered, Soap and Price raced in his direction. Then came Laswell saying that the missile was launching. Everyone was speaking at once.

“No, no, no!” screamed Price.

“Fecking hell,” growled Soap.

“Watcher, where’s the target?” yelled Price.

“Unknown, we’re working on it.”

“Copy. We’re going for Hassan. This way Sergeant!” he yelled to Soap. Then, “Gaz, where’s Hassan?”

Price and Soap were rounding the corner when Gaz answered. “End of the hall! Hassan’s holed up behind those doors.”

Price’s response was furious. “Let’s clear this out and bag him, then.”

When they got the snake cam under the door, the whole thing went to shit.

The door blew. Soap and Price flew back and Gaz collapsed like a bag of rocks. Soap’s ears were ringing, he was bleeding, and he could hardly breathe. Only Gaz’s quick recovery saved his life. He was dragged into cover before Price took a bullet and Gaz went back for him, too.

Everything after was a blur. One moment, Soap was leaping down a falling elevator shaft. The next, he was running from the man he stole the laptop from. Then hiding. Then detonating the missile with Laswell’s help. Then, running for his life, again.

“Nicely done, Johnny. Now for the hard part,” said Ghost.

“That was the fuckin’ hard part, LT.”

“Let’s find out. You need to stay alive, take out the guards, and kill Hassan.”

Soap looked around frantically. “I just need a weapon,” he said.

“Make one,” Ghost replied. He sounded so nonchalant. It made Soap huff out a laugh.

“Aye. Like old times, huh LT?”

Ghost’s voice was fond when he said “Seems like yesterday.”

Soap replied with equal fondness. “It was yesterday.”

He hid. He ran. With Ghost’s help, he fashioned some makeshift weapons. Then he ran headlong into Hassan. Before he could react, his world went dark.

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

When Soap came to, he was being dragged by his foot. At first, he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he recognized the office he’d been chasing Hassan through.

Hassan. It was Hassan dragging him along.

Sluggishly, his mind went through his team. Ghost. Overwatch. Price. Holed up trying to recover. Gaz. Unknown. Daniela.

Daniela.

Alejandro had sent her with him and he didn’t even know where she was, whether she was safe. His heart twinged painfully. He didn’t have time to think, though. Hassan was yelling about fire and thinking they could stop him. Soap couldn’t focus on it.

Ghost.

“Ghost,” he whispered into his throat mic.

“Soap!”

“Watch… the window,” he managed.

Something exploded.

Hassan dragged him to his feet. Still going on about invading, not attacking.

He thrust Soap in front of him, pushing him toward the window. Soap desperately tried to keep his footing.

“Soap,” said Ghost. Soap vaguely recognized panic in his voice. “Soap, I see him, but I can’t-”

“Take the shot, LT,” mumbled Soap.

“What was that? What are you saying?” Hassan had him by his vest now, shaking him violently.

“Soap, I can’t get a clear-”

“Take. The shot.” Soap’s jaw was clenched. It took all of his power to hold onto Hassan’s wrists enough not to fall back. Hassan was still pushing forward, shouting, and Soap was fighting a losing battle. Hassan was going to push him out of the window.

And he couldn’t stop it.

“I’m sorry,” said Ghost.

Then, just as Soap’s heels touched the ledge, searing pain shot through his chest. He lurched forward with the impact, falling into Hassan.

Hassan’s eyes were wide. Soap thought he saw blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His rattled brain couldn’t make sense of it as they both fell to the ground.

“Johnny, MOVE!” roared Ghost. With the last of his energy, Soap shoved as hard as he could, rolling off of Hassan’s body. Another piercing shot rang out and Hassan’s head cracked backward against the ground.

Soap blinked at Hassan’s body. Ghost was shouting for him through his earpiece. Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place.

“You shot me,” he said dumbly to Ghost.

“Oh thank God,” muttered Ghost. He could hear Daniela shrieking in the background, too.

“You saved me,” he said. The whole room seemed colorful and soft. Spinning. Like a carousel.

Soap smiled, head lolling down.

He could vaguely hear Ghost and Daniela and Gaz yelling, but he was too tired to listen. Just a wee nap. That’s all I need.

Footsteps pounded nearby. With great effort, Soap turned his head. It didn’t hold where he wanted it to, just flopped onto the ground on the other side. He watched a small black pair of boots race across the floor toward him.

“No no no no, hijo de puta. Por favor, Dios, no.” Suddenly, Soap’s head and shoulders were being lifted. Then he was dragged back against something soft. He looked up. Daniela was running her hands over his head, his chest, clawing at his tactical vest. “Por favor, Dios, no,” she repeated. Her voice shook as badly as her hands and tears streamed down her face.

“Hey,” Soap said. He grinned up at her. “Whassa matter? Why’re you crying?”

He reached a hand up to her, wiping her cheek with his thumb. He couldn’t keep it raised and it flopped back to his side.

“John Soap MacTavish, you’d better not die on me,” she muttered. She had gotten his vest loose and was pulling his shirt up roughly.

“Hey, bonnie, at least buy me dinner first,” he slurred. He chuckled. It was silly. It was all so silly. He could hear Ghost yelling faintly, but he wasn’t sure why. Daniela was leaning heavily on his chest, and he wasn’t sure about that either.

Suddenly, he felt as though he’d been sat out in snow for a good few hours. “Hey, are you cold?” he asked Daniela.

“Hey,” Daniela said sharply. She gripped his chin between her fingers. “Look at me.”

Clarity hit Soap like a ton of bricks. He’d been shot. He was bleeding. Cold from shock. That’s why Daniela was crying and Ghost was yelling. He’d been knocked out. Likely had a concussion. He looked up at her solemnly, grabbing her wrist with his hand. Don’t die on me, she’d said. He was dying.

They’d talked quite a bit over their few days together. Talked about their hopes and dreams, and how those fit into their dangerous lives. Talked about their dedication to their teams, their values, their futures. Talked about growing up, their families, how they’d gotten there.

She’d asked him if he’d ever been in love.

He’d said he hadn’t. But he wasn’t so sure that was true, any more.

When he’d asked her, she’d said “maybe” with a sly smile his direction, all twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks.

He blinked, hard. He wanted to know what that meant.

“What did you mean… when you said maybe?” he panted out.

For a moment, Daniela just blinked at him. Then her eyes softened, tears slipping down her cheeks as she understood his question. “I meant I might be,” she whispered. “I’m not quite sure yet. You’ll have to give me some time to figure it out.”

Soap hummed, eyes drifting shut. “I’m pretty sure,” he breathed. Daniela gasped, but he reached up to touch her cheek before she could say anything. “You,” he began, voice a whisper. “You are the most… the most beautiful, intelligent, amazing woman that… that I’ve ever-”

Daniela didn’t let him finish. Her lips were on his before he knew it. He was kissing her before even registering that she’d leaned down. Her lips were soft, just like he’d imagined. She tasted like strawberries and mint and salt. Tears. She kissed him desperately, and he kissed her desperately back. His hand slid back to tangle in her curls. So unbelievably soft. He could hardly move his head, but she tilted her own to deepen the kiss. She ran her tongue along the seam of his lips and he moaned, low in his chest. He weakly tried to pull her closer. No point hiding it now. Besides, if he was going to die, what better way to go? More footsteps pounded in the door. He could vaguely make out Gaz and Price’s voices.

And then, above them all, nearly a full octave up in his panic, Ghost. “Johnny!”

Daniela’s teeth lightly grazed his lip. Soap sighed, then everything went black.

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

Soap woke to a gentle beeping. His head and mouth felt like they were stuffed with cotton. His body felt like one big bruise, but with shards of glass sprinkled throughout it. He couldn’t open his eyes. There was light pressure against his right hip.

He breathed deeply. Ouch.

Slowly, his eyes cracked open. The room was dark, but moonlight streamed in through a window out of the corner of his eye. He could see that the ceiling was bright white.

“Johnny?”

Slowly, he turned his head toward the familiar voice. As he did, Ghost rose to his feet from his chair, taking two quick steps to the bedside.

Soap opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Ghost scrambled to pour a cup of water, then gently helped Soap lift his head to drink. As he did, Soap realized what the pressure on his hip was. Daniela.

Her head lay at the junction of his torso and legs, black curls shining in the moonlight. The bags under her eyes were nearly as dark as Ghost’s grease paint. Her right hand gripped his thigh, and her left hand held his. She didn’t stir.

Soap swallowed several times. “What happened?” he finally asked.

Ghost’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Do you want the short or long story?” he asked. His voice sounded exhausted.

“How about the short one, for now?”

“I shot you,” said Ghost. For a moment, Soap thought he wouldn’t elaborate. Then, Ghost looked up to meet his eyes. “I shot you, Johnny. Because you told me to. Because you’re the best of us, and you’re clever.”

Soap nodded, eyes drifting shut, not processing Ghost’s words.

“You’re lucky I’m such a good shot,” Ghost added, grumbling.

Soap chuckled softly, wincing as he did. “That I am,” he said. “Hassan?”

“I shot him, too. Twice, actually.”

“Through me the first time, eh LT?”

Ghost looked unamused. But when Soap grinned at him, his eyes softened. “That’s right, Johnny.”

“Perfect shot, LT.”“You called it, Sargeant.”

“The best of us, huh LT?”

“Can it, Sergeant.”

For a moment, the two shared a companionable silence. Then, Ghost spoke so softly that Soap thought he may have imagined it. “I almost didn’t take it.”

“The shot? Why not?”

“There was no shot. He had you directly in front of him, and he would have thrown you out that window before I had time to move.”

“You still got him, LT. I’ll call that a win.”“We got him, Johnny.”

“I’m starting to think you really have taken a shine to me, Simon.”

Ghost hung his head before looking back up. “Maybe I have.” He turned, picking up his chair, and sat it right by the bed as quietly as he could. “That one has, for sure.” He nodded to Daniela.

Soap looked down at her. “How long have you both been here?”

“Since you got here,” Ghost mumbled. Soap’s head snapped back to him.

“And when was that?”

Ghost shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Four days, give or take.” Soap stared at him. Finally, he threw up his hands. “You, Sergeant, should have died.”

He lifted one gloved hand, ticking off fingers as he spoke. “You have a field-treated gunshot wound to your right arm, which was in fact infected. Thank your lucky stars that Daniela saw through your idiocy.” That explained a lot of little things he’d missed. Like a passenger in a getaway vehicle. “A bruised bone in your hip. Three cracked ribs. A grade four concussion. Multiple hairline fractures in your legs. And a shredded left pec from a 50 caliber bullet. Might I add that last one only missed your heart by centimeters?”

Soap snorted. “Well, that explains a lot about how I feel. Hell, how I’ve been feeling.”

Ghost just shook his head. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Thought we lost ya. Again.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, LT.”

“Good,” grumbled Ghost. He looked toward Daniela. “I had to pry her off of you,” he said softly.

Soap looked down at her again. She looked younger than before, peaceful in her slumber. But he could see the exhaustion plainly on her face. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Mhmm,” murmured Ghost. “Could hardly get her across the hall to shower.”

Soap let his eyes drift shut, exhaustion washing over him all over again. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Amsterdam. Laswell has friends here. We’re in a private hospital.”

“Price? And Gaz?”

“They’re trying to find a lead on Shepherd.”

Soap nodded sleepily, relieved that their squad was still intact. “She kissed me,” he murmured.

“Doctors say she saved your life with that.”

Soap hummed, cracking one eye open to peer at Ghost. He shrugged.

“Something about the adrenaline helping to push off the shock.”

Soap hummed again, letting his eyes slide shut.

“Sleep, Johnny.”

He did.

When he woke again, sunlight was streaming through the window. He shifted slightly, and felt Daniela spring up when he did.

When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him anxiously.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Soap murmured.

Tears sprang instantly to her eyes. She squeezed his thigh, standing and reaching her hand up to cup his face.

“Oh, Johnny,” she whispered.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” he said. He reached up a hand to hold hers against his cheek. “I’m right here.”

She shifted a leg up onto the bed, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m right here,” he whispered again. “Ghost said you saved my life.”

She made a strangled sound, half laugh and half sob. “I couldn’t let you go like that.”

Soap shifted his hand to her face, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well,” he said. “If you remember, I was a bit out of my mind.” He tilted her chin up gently, whispering “Care to give me another taste of those lifesaving powers of yours?”

Daniela lunged forward, sealing her lips to his. Soap eyes slid shut as he grinned, pulling her closer. Her mouth opened against his, and he ran his tongue against hers. When she whimpered into his mouth, the primal need to have her close overcame him. He leaned up as far as he could, cursing the sling on his left shoulder, chasing her mouth. His hand moved to the back of her neck, holding her against him. She straddled him carefully, elbows coming to rest above his shoulders.

Her whole body shuddered when his hand came to rest on her hip.

His eyes snapped open. “I’m sorry-”

“No,” she cut him off, panting. She reached one hand up, threading her fingers through his mohawk. “There’s no reason.” Soap groaned when her nails lightly scratched his scalp.

“Woman, the things I would do to you if I wasn’t stuck in this bed…”

She shuddered again before she leaned down and kissed the place that his jaw and neck met. His whole body involuntarily arched off the bed, hand moving from her hip to the small of her back to pull her against him. She gasped at the contact. However light she was, her weight on his hip hurt. But he was too far gone to care. He leaned up again, gently sucking her lip between his as she sighed into his mouth.

His mind was clouded with the desire for intimacy with her. He wanted all of her. First in their single shared night, and now in their kiss, Soap saw waking up to her every morning, cooking together, trips to the stormy Scottish coast and the sunny Caribbean. He’d been drawn to her from the moment he saw her, and he knew from the way she looked at him that she’d been drawn to him just as much. He’d tried so hard to remain professional. To keep distance. To be a gentleman. To pretend he hadn’t fallen in love with her the moment he heard her speak.

Then she’d slept in his cot and he’d had to know what it was like to have her in his arms. Having tasted her once, there was no going back to professional and distant. Having tasted her twice? She owned him. There was no pretending, now.

His train of thought was interrupted by a sharp cough from the doorway. Daniela sprang up, scrambling off the bed with one hand covering her mouth. Soap’s head whipped toward the door. Ghost was there, finding something very interesting to look at in the ceiling, along with a pretty nurse who was smiling widely.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better, Sergeant,” she quipped. Soap grinned wryly first at her, then at Daniela. “My name’s Cat, I’m a friend of Kate’s. Mind if I take a look at you?”

Soap nodded, Daniela sat herself in the corner, and Ghost continued to pay close attention to the ceiling and walls. Soap narrowed his eyes, watching the Lieutenant closely.

Cat turned to Daniela and Ghost. “Would you two-”

“They can stay,” Soap cut her off. Cat turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. He smiled. “Nothing they haven’t seen already.” When she helped him sit up and lift his gown off, Soap got his first real look at the damage. At Los Vaqueros safe house, and then later at their base, he’d been too rushed and too tired to really look at himself.

Purple bruises so dark they nearly looked black covered his ribs. Just above his boxers, he could see more bruising on his hip that was nearly green now. Scrapes and cuts covered his knees, his arms, his sides. The bullet wound in his right arm was healing nicely, but the skin around it was still pink and tender. He was grateful that his chest was wrapped tightly so he couldn’t see the damage from Ghost’s sniper.

Soap looked away.

“So Cat,” he asked. “How did you meet Laswell?”

“Oh, she and I met probably fifteen years ago. She was still on the field, back then. I was still in training, working in a field hospital. I patched her and John up after a rough mission. I guess she decided she liked me, because as soon as I graduated, she snapped me right up.” She turned to Ghost, who had finally looked her way, and smiled. “Good thing, too. I’ve fixed this one up more times than I can count, and Kate tells me he won’t let anyone else touch him.”

Ghost looked away again so quickly that he missed Soap’s gleeful expression. “Oh, is that so?” teased Soap. Ghost shot him a warning glare. Something to ask about later.

“I trust her,” muttered Ghost.

Cat beamed at him. She looked back to Soap, smiling conspiratorially. “Quite the compliment, eh?”

“That it is,” he answered smugly. Ghost held his stare, unamused. Soap looked back toward Daniela, eyes softening. She smiled back at him, looking tired but content. Cat was wrapping up her check, talking about physical therapy and taking it easy. Soap couldn’t wait to have a moment with Daniela again.

“Alright, well I’ll be back tonight to check in with you again. Simon, would you walk me out?” Soap’s eyes shot back to Ghost at that, but Ghost refused to meet his gaze. Definitely something to ask about later.

When Cat and Ghost had gone, Daniela came back to Soap’s side, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. She gently took his left hand, careful not to lift it or otherwise disturb the bandages.

“Take all the time you need,” Soap said softly. Daniela lifted her eyes from their joined hands, cocking her head. He held her gaze. “You said I’d have to give you some time to figure it out. Take all the time you need.” Now it was Soap’s turn to look down at their hands. He grinned, lopsided. “I’ll be here.”

Daniela reached out, lifting his chin with her fingertips. Her dark eyes watered slightly around the edges. “I’m pretty sure,” she whispered.

“Oh, now that sounds familiar,” chuckled Soap. He leaned toward her, eyes flitting down to her lips. “C’mere, you.”

Their first kiss had been desperate. Their second quickly turned heated. This one was soft, slow, gentle. Exploratory and sweet. Soap stroked her cheek, looking up at her from under hooded eyes. “Tell me you feel it, too,” he whispered.

Daniela nodded, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. “I feel it.”

“Yeah? Not just ‘maybe’?”

Daniela smiled wide, smacking his shoulder lightly. Soap laughed, loud and full, and immediately regretted it. Wincing, he smiled back at her.

He was anxious to hear from Price and Gaz, and nervous about what would happen when Alejandro and Rodolfo called Daniela back. They’d have to go after Shepherd, and she might have to go back to Mexico. Maybe nothing would ever truly have a chance to start with them. Maybe they’d die. But maybe not. Maybe everything would be alright.

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