e-leohiss

[e-leohiss]

you can love a character and still admit when they’re wrong…. i love Captain Price but can acknowledge his flaws (he has none) and can hold his accountable for his wrongdoings (he’s never done anything wrong in his life) and call him out for his actions (which are always correct)

[e-leohiss]

"Debts & Owes" || A Soap MacTavish fan-fiction

Characters involved: Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Price, & Laswell, + others. Pairing: Soap x Fem!Navy!Reader Wordcount: 7.9K Contains: violence, blood, cursing, swearing, rage, abuse, near-death scenarios, aggression, vengeance, bit of fluff, slowburn, I-like-you-but-I'm-not-aware, Song link: Devil in a Dress - Teddy Swims

Autor's note: Finally dropped the final output for this Soap fanfic *weeps in Victorian*

**PLEASE DO NOT translate, repost, or in any way reformat my work on this site and on any other social media.

"Debts & Owes"

Fingernails impatiently tapped the clipboard’s surface. Kate Laswell checked the wall clock for the nth time since the minute-hand had passed four o’clock. Forty minutes were closing in excruciatingly slow and there was a lot they had to discuss. However, the last set of people required for the meeting have yet to show. 

Kate’s eyes shifted to the clock and the minute-hand struck the 8th. “C’mon, Laswell. Take a seat already, would you?” the Brit’s smooth voice pleaded to the Station Chief. She’d been leaning down on her palms bowed over the head of the desk for quite a while which disquieted the sergeant. However, she didn’t give in to Garrick’s plea.

To the right of Gaz, Soap scoffed as he flipped an unsheathed pocket knife in his hand, “Bunch o’ tardy toads they are. Professional my arse –”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, sergeant,” Captain Price chided. The Scot combed his mohawk back with a curse under his breath. Price shook his head and leaned back further on the edge of the desk with crossed arms. “Where the fuck is the Rear Admiral?” he questioned. He, too, was restless.  

Kate stood up straight. “Let’s give them a couple more minutes. We’re commissioned to work with the Navy for this operation so we will have to wait,” she reasoned. Though her expression exhibited a cool, spiking displeasure at the tardiness of their awaited guests. Kate had been given an update earlier that Rear Admiral Myers and her party had touched down on time. So, what could possibly be stalling them?

Gaz perked at the new information. “The Navy, you said?” his gaze shifted between Laswell and Price. “You interested in tellin’ the Navy Admiral to sod off if they show?” asked the third Brit in the room. The corner of Gaz’s mouth quirked, “You’re barking at the wrong tree, mate. Soap appears to be a better candidate than I.”

Soap scoffed yet his spirits seemed to lift at the topic. He pointed his pocket knife at Gaz and Ghost, “Naw jist haud on. Dinnae ken about that, but I’m gaunnie skelp a memo up those navy numpties’ unpunctual hides. Aye, make ‘em greet layk wee bairns.” he said.

Gaz released a half-suppressed laugh at Soap’s words that he didn’t fully understand, whereas Ghost rolled his eyes. “Fucking Scots,” he drawled. On the other hand, Price and Laswell chose to disregard Soap’s flippancy due to mutual thoughts…and because they were slightly amused. 

But their banter was cut short when the door rattled open. 

Speaking of the devil, Rear Admiral Myers sauntered in sporting the prominent dark navy blue service uniform. Her sleeves displayed two golden bands and above her chest two silver stars. The Task force formally acknowledged the presence of the rear admiral by standing up at attention, addressing the Navy admiral simultaneously. Kate met R.Adm. Loraine Myers halfway offering a handshake, “We’ve been expecting you, Rear Admiral Myers. I’m glad you’re here.”

“My apologies for my late coming, Chief Laswell. Got side-tracked a bit back there with a call,” R.Adm. Myers apologized, to which Gaz deliberately raised a daring brow at Soap. Laswell proceeded with brief introductions of herself and Task Force 141.

At last, the remaining navy sailors entered the meeting room led by an older soldier.

Laswell espied your five-member group which Myers noticed. “Laswell, here’s the team of the S.W.C.C. I mentioned before: Captain Benson, Lieutenant Junior Grade Hunter, and Lieutenants Griffs, Weston, and…” the admiral pointed at each respective sailor, ending with your surname. 

You all acknowledged Laswell and the Task Force. The captains even exchanged a couple of words between themselves. Both men were well-experienced through years or service yet Benson was on the older side. “Captain Price, I’m looking forward to working with you and your team,” said Benson, who grasped the Brit’s hand firmly. Price gave the slightly shorter man a curt nod, “Same here, Captain Benson. Hope the trip hasn’t made you all knackered.”

“Been a while since I’ve left my post, very refreshing. The air out here is less salty, if you ask me,” Benson jested. Smile lines decorated his cheeks under his salt and pepper scruff. 

Your team walked further in just as Laswell revived the projector. Soldiers from different military branches eyed each other's unfamiliar faces. Ghost, with his skulled balaclava on, received second looks. But being himself he simply looked back unabated. Surprisingly, one of the female sailors, named Hunter, paused behind him, bent down, and asked plainly, “‘Scuse me, sir. Not to be rude or anything but where can I purchase a cool mask like yours?”

Soap and Gaz, who sat on either side of Ghost, overheard. They exchanged looks — stunned by the woman’s boldness. Soap was about to interfere but someone got to it before he could act.

You landed a heavy hand on Hunter’s lower back eliciting a yelp from her. “Quit being rude, fool,” you scolded Hunter with a frown. Fortunately, none of the captains, the admiral, and Laswell had noticed the interaction as they were occupied skimming through each other’s printed files. 

You clicked your tongue, cocking your head to the side for her to continue walking. A sigh erupted from across the table, it was Lieutenant Frederick Griffs.

“Apologies, Lieutenant Riley. My comrade lacks proper manners when…inquisitive,” Griffs let out a strained cough. “We’ll sort her out ourselves after. Please, excuse her.”

“She’s all yours,” Ghost simply dismissed. He distinctly remembered a similar encounter with a certain Scot who demonstrated a rather bold greeting as well. 

You escorted Hunter as she rubbed the sore spot on her back. 

Ariel Hunter is the youngest in your group, 26 summers old, who still had the aura of a young-in. But, you and your group knew that she only seemed immature due to her curious nature. Honed exemplary skills of a promising sailor no doubt, but you looked out for her most times because the eldest-child-streak in you runs on auto-pilot. 

“Third hit today, really?” Hunter groaned. You pulled out the chair for her, “You’re incorrigible, Ariel. Keep your head straight, will ya?” 

Weston turned in his seat to present a teasing grin, “Yeah, Ariel, focus or else Ms. Sebastian here is going to be all up your ass. Poor you,” he used a thumb to point at you. Ariel snickered behind her hand at his joke referencing ‘The Little Mermaid’.

You flashed him a mocking grin while choosing a seat at the end of the table, right across a sergeant named MacTavish.

“Mind if I take this seat, Sgt. MacTavish?” you asked him. He looked up at you and shook his head. “No. Ye go ahead, Lieutenant.” You thanked him softly and took your seat. The minutes to follow required your full attention. 

“Soldiers, you are here to be informed that our target is a smuggling organization operating on the East shores. A covert mission with an assault team formed between Task Force 141 and the SWCCs, mission ‘Shark Coast’,” Laswell began. 

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

// 3:53 P.M. //

On the East coast within one of the hidden sites of the smuggling organization.

Soap pushed the battered door open and immediately ran to your crumpled form on the ground, walking right past the wounded corpse of a patrol guard that you’d taken down. The walls of the 3-story building weren’t going to hold much longer. The brittle concrete echoed throughout the compound sprinkling you in powder of cement. 

“Lieutenant! Ye awright, lassie?” He examined your body for signs of injuries even when you’d said you were good. “Thought I saw a familiar ally sneaking past the warehouse,” he hoisted you up by the arm. “Right, let’s get out of here.”

Your forehead scrunched further and critical eyes snapped to him. “MacTavish,” you spoke, voice hoarse, “what the fuck took you so long–”. The sudden urge to cough struck your tonsils. You coughed up the dust stuck in your throat spitting the mixture of saliva and dirt to the side. Soap stepped back to give you space at an arm’s length. You heaved, feeling the irritation in your throat alleviate a considerable amount. 

“Ten damn minutes of no response. Captain was about to burst a vein whether to come back for you or consider you K.I.A, sergeant,” you apathetically addressed the soldier. “Price wanted to stay back — refused to even get near the boat — but Benson agreed that I come look for you so everyone could exfil to secure intel at camp. Reinforcement will wait at the extraction point.”

But before Soap could explain why he had temporarily become M.I.A, small chunks from the ceiling began to drop. Both soldiers heard the metallic screeches around the building, solid pressure forcing metal to succumb.”Shite,” grunted Soap. Both of you ducked instinctively when a bigger portion of cement fell nearby.

“Take cover!” he shouted as the floor began to shake. Both of you leg it. Slinging rifles over your shoulders, you both maneuvered across the rubble heading straight for the desk by the opposite wall — the only furniture to shield both of you. You made it under the desk first, palms pressing up its surface to stabilize it. Soap gets underneath it beating the plummeting chunks and dirt a second early which would have landed on him. 

Eyes shut and faces turned the opposite way avoiding the cloud of gray powder that followed. “Fucking hell!” cursed Soap, coughing a bit into the crease of his arm. “No fucking shit!” you commented. Bits and pieces rolled over the edge of the desk overhead; all three floors projecting the wails of the collapsing building. 

You pushed up harder as the desk rattled. One hand goes down to check your radio, “Damn it all,” you cursed. You saw its wire torn right at the top, unmistakably caused by the physical fight with an enemy earlier. All of a sudden, Soap’s comms went off, his earpiece projecting mere glitches and static due to the weak signal; yet he spoke into it with hope that the receiver would catch his message. “Shark-Seven-One, negative on exit route –” a loud crash interrupted him. He doesn’t waste another second, “Building’s ‘bout to give out. Second floor fourth room on the right! We’re trapped!” But no clear response from the receiver came through. 

His comms weren’t working, that’s why.

Your thoughts are frenzied as you list the possibilities of your awaiting fate.

(a) I could be buried alive.

(b) We miraculously survive yet are halfway dead.

(c) I’d lose a limb or two, or paralyzed.

(d) Brain matter coats this sorry excuse of a building.

(e) We’re found but as good as dead.

Try me. Let it fucking try me. 

Your eyes scanned the area frantically. The wall to your left was almost entirely full of sliding glass windows. Large enough for a person to climb out of, luckily Soap can fit through. Your hands searched the pockets of your tactical bag for the dynamic rope. Soap noticed your sudden behavior. “Ye’ve got a plan, lass!” he exclaimed over the noise.

You cocked your head towards the windows explaining hurriedly,  “We rappel down and pray we’ve got some cushioning down there if we need to jump.” He mimicked you and pulled out a rope he had from his pack. “Getting buried alive isn’t my thing.”

You tied the rope around your thighs and waist. “Are you in?!”

The look in Soap’s eyes changed as he listened to you. His baby blue eyes shrouded with valor, “Aye, I’m with ye!” 

“Then keep up, Sarge!” You stepped out and bolted for the windows with cautious steps. You both heard glass crackle as the portion above the window breaks. A split in the glass lengthened gradually. Pressured by the time running out — you sent a gloved fist through the brittle barrier. “God damn —” you swore.

“Sufferin’ Jesus — are ye good?” he yelled. You replied sarcastically, “Jesus is perfectly fine.” 

Soap scoffed butwore a subtle smile as he tied the end of your ropes to the frame with haste before he slid it open for a wider exit. You ignored the pulsating ache of your fist as you swiped at the edges of the metal frame with a large portion of cement you’d picked up to clear off the shards.

Both of you peered down; twenty feet above, give or take. “There’s nothing,” you huffed. You’d both have to rappel all the way to the ground.

 A piercing crash outside the room had both of you duck out of reflex. Then a second crash —

“Jump, Soap!” He turned to face you, shocked. “You first–”

You grabbed the top of his vest and tugged it hard, giving him a firm, persistent look, “Show yourself out, or else I’m kickin’.”

Third crash. Fourth…

You pushed him toward the exit, twisted a section of his rope around the metal frame and both of your palms, and braced your foot on the window frame.

“Run for the open field once you get down. Now move it!” 

Soap quickly climbed out and took position by hanging on the edge of the window sill. He paused to look up at you. “I’ll see down there, L.T.,” he said, words solid they could have been stone. You nodded, “Affirm.”

He sucked in a breath then repelled his way down as fast as he could while you stabilized the rope for his safe descent.

Once his rope lost tension, you climbed out; you even lost your footing when a portion under your boot came off which made your heart pause in alarm. The air was thick in your nostrils as gray particles accumulated behind you. “Shit, shit, shit…” you chanted.

You mindlessly continued to talk to yourself out of stress, “Don’t be a coward. You’re a sailor who dives off the warship. Better I be shot between the eyes than be a damn pussy in this bitch–”

“Jump, woman!” Soap called out from a distance, warning you of the seconds that had passed unbelievably fast. Although you barely heard him over the noise as the second floor finally gave out right as you jumped with all your might. 

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

// 8:26 P.M. //

Within the heavily guarded grounds of the military campsite.

The dark of night mostly kept the camp shrouded from outsiders. Dim lights and lanterns lit the interiors and exteriors of the surrounding tents.

“If ye’d seen what she did, L.T.. A dare-devil, that lassie,” Soap voiced exasperatedly at his passive teammate. Task Force 141 had just finished being debriefed and both Soap and Ghost were headed in the same direction for a well-earned break. As soon as they had left Laswell’s tent, Soap began to run his mouth describing your near-death experience. 

“Jumping off a bloody window; hangin’ from a shabby branch as if ‘em messenger storks dropped her from the skies like those wee bairns carried in white sheets,” exclaimed Soap in disbelief; forehead crumpled and hands waving in the air as he walked backwards facing Ghost. 

Ghost rolled his eyes subtly at his companion’s behavior, “Quit that Johnny or you’ll lose your bloody footing—”

“And then the lass cursed at me! For not helping her down sooner!” Soap’s mind vividly replayed the scene of you hanging for dear life by arms and legs on the dingy branch, rope connected to the debris a few meters away pulling your hips down a bit. 

“Don’t just stand there gaping like a fish and cut the rope you useless bastard!” you yelled at him as he stood stunned, gaping up at you from a distance.

He huffed at the memory, and it was almost as if he could hear your stern voice now.

Under his breath he muttered, “Jings, crivvens, help mah boab.”

Ghost shook his head. “It’s one thing your comms were bollocked or you’d’ve heard me cursin’ your ear off for not reaching the boat on time,” he blatantly commented.

Soap raised a taunting brow at him, “What’s the difference? Ye’d take pleasure cursin’ me anyway.”

“Hit the nail right on its fucking head.”

“— beat you Ford, drop it already!” Your sharp voice that pierced through the dark of night made Soap react instantly. He caught Ghost’s eyes scanning him up and down because of how tense he suddenly got.

Soap regained his composure before turning around to spot the source. And there you stood outside a large green tent with two of your comrades, Weston and Griffs. He and Ghost both watched as you landed a low kick behind Frederick Griffs’ legs; whose laughter doubled at your sudden aggression, side stepping out of your reach.

Gerald “Gator” Weston perked up when he noticed Soap and Ghost a few paces away. “Evenin’ fellas!” he called out with a hand up. “You two done for the day?” he asked.

You and Griff’s bicker halted to acknowledge Soap and Ghost who’d walked closer. Ghost nodded his head whereas Soap quirked his lips in recognition.

“Lieutenants. Aye, I’m accompanying Ghost for a quick smoke,” replied Soap. “Said I’d spook the others if I’m found alone out here,” Ghost added.

This caused the three of you to react and Soap’s grin to widen. Griffs chuckled, “Respectfully Ghost, with them shadows on your side, you’d be mistaken for a phantom.” 

“And you’re an idiot, Ford…” You commented lowly, using his nickname. Griffs held his hands up in surrender, a mischievous smile plastered on his lips, “My bad. Just kidding.” He tipped his head at Ghost. 

“Tell me something I’ve yet to hear,” Ghost scoffed.

“Thank you, Ghost but I’m passing that privilege to the next person  — oof!” 

You stepped in, “What he means, L.t. Riley, is that it is a privilege his tongue can wag even when threatened of being cut off.” You peered down at Griffs who was hunched over from your jab, and you fought the urge to grimace at him. Weston was busy containing his laughter behind his hand. 

Soap couldn’t help but be attentive with your behavior. He took note that you seemed to frequently keep your teammates in check, under control. And he couldn’t help but somehow trace the same behavior back when you had risked your life coming back to search for his missing ass, and perhaps to shoot him down yourself.

Weston spoke up, “And it seems Ford here deserves a couple of minutes to self-reflect on the matter,” he jerked his head towards Griffs, “so don’t let us keep you both from goin’ about. Have a good evenin’ then.” 

Griffs straightened his back carefully. His right hand hovered above his sore gut but he still managed to flash a pained smile at Ghost and Soap, waving a hand in the air. 

“Lassie.”

You looked up and found his eyes on you. Soap stood about three-feet away, yet strangely he felt near. Everything else even felt too quiet as you focused on him.

Odd. 

The feel of the air surrounding you had shifted quickly. You would’ve taken a step back weren’t it for the sight of his chin hovering above the top of his chest as he gazed at you through his eyelashes. “I just wanted to say…” Soap’s tongue fumbled as he said your name. 

Much odd.

Soap blinked in realization that he had been looking at you unusually longer than normal. His eyes alternated between you and whatever. “I’ve yet to properly thank you, havnae I?” Soap sounded more embarrassed as his own words sunk in. 

“Thank ye for getting me out alive. Ye saved us both. I could be laying in my grave — or in a jar, if it wasnna for you,” his boots shuffled the dirt underneath. His eyes met yours again, but this time without breaking eye-contact. “I owe ye one, Lieutenant… Truly.”

Soap may not have noticed himself but the sudden sincerity that coated his words had you momentarily stunned. “But, it was you who found me first. Remember?” you reminded him.

“I ken. But it was your idea. And yer threat that got my hide moving, remember?”

You scoffed as if to say, ‘alright, fine’. “It’s no problem, really. I was just doing my job. You’re welcome, Sgt. MacTavish,” you responded quite flustered.

“Soap — call me, Soap,” he corrected quickly. The corner of your lips quirked upward, “Alright, Soap. If you insist.” You offered him a hand, “Go by San, or Saint, whichever you prefer. Though I’m afraid I only earned such a title through a joke. May God forgive me.” You shook your head at the memory. Soap gave your hand a firm shake.

“Saint, eh? Cannae say it doesna fit ye.”

His accent took you a second to comprehend his words but you didn’t comment on it. “He said it suits you,” Ghost explained from behind.

Soap turned to him, “Och, none o’ that! She understood what I said, L.T.”

“Whatever sings you to sleep, Johnny.”

“Haud yer weesht!”

You and the others couldn’t help but watch amused at their exchange. ‘They both get along very well’, you thought. Soap turned to you again, “I’m serious. As long as I’m able, I’m at yer service…San. Ye have my word.”

Instinctively, you would’ve told him to think of such nonsense, that his words of gratitude were enough. But the look in his eyes, the very same look you’d seen back in the mission, were compelling.

You took a step closer to him, bringing a friendly fist upon his collarbone. “I see no reason not to take your word,” your hand dropped to your side. “I appreciate it, Soap.”

Soap’s expression brightened. His hand reached around to clap you on your shoulder.

“I kent ye wouldna.”

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

Days, weeks, till almost four months have passed with the team consumed in carrying out mission after mission against the smugglers. It was tiring for everyone due to battles being fought on both water and land.

Although soldiers — no matter how tough — always found a way to raise their spirits, as did you. And to your surprise, conversing with a certain Scotsman became a daily routine.

As the entire mission was coming to its near end, the sight of him from a distance had you thinking back to some of the memorable interactions with him from the past couple of months.

One time, Hunter had snatched your unfinished written report and ran straight out of the tent. Most probably to reference some ideas to include in hers. Coincidentally, Soap had been nearby.

“Ariel — your ass is mine!”

“Pipe down, lassie, or you'll be mistaken for a bear. And there are no bears here, ye ken.”

You crossed your arms. “Better a bear than a rubber bird. Ain’t that right, ”

His mouth stretched into a grin, “I aim to charm, milady.” He did a neck bow while his hand twirled in the air. “Dear damsel, how may I allay your misfortune?” 

You released a sigh at his gentleman-act but accepted his offer to help. “Tell you what,” I looked him in the eyes, “you get my papers back unripped, and I’ll consider our agreement fair and done. Hm?”

He clicked his tongue. “You cannae be serious about getting yer papers back as being equal as when ye saved me.” He walked closer, stopping to stand before you. “I’ll go an’ get ‘em but my debt still stands. Unpaid, mind ye.”

He returned a while later with your report, with its thief.

Or that one time when almost every team member had gathered to eat dinner by the bonfire and you’d taken upon yourself to tend to other’s needs so the hungry soldiers could eat undisturbed after a hurricane of duties.

“Take it already…Where’s the water? Weird how you ask me as soon as you sit down, huh?...Captain, can I get you anything?...You too, Gaz? Anyone else want some water? Alright.” You made your way ‘round back the camp’s mobile kitchen in hope’s of this being a one-time trip.

You were preoccupied filling your hands with bottles of water when a hand unexpectedly plucked two from your clutch. “I’ll take it from here, San. Go on and eat yer dinner. Ye can take my spot over there, I’m done anyways.”

“I can manage. I’ll pass these around first then eat,” you declined and grabbed another bottle before turning on your heel.

He blocked your way. “Don’t you worry. I got it. Here, let me take them from ye,” he persisted. He left you the second he’d taken every single bottle.

“Now who ordered water?! Garrick? Didna you walk just fine seconds before? Here’s yer blasted water. Get you a spoon? There’s one by yer feet, wash it with yer water, eejit. You’re wasting fine utensils.”

And another, after a recon mission at a different hostile hideout that almost lasted two days.

“Medic! We need medic now!” someone yelled from the warship’s weather deck. 

Your speedboat was the last to exfil out due to the heavy cargo on board, causing your trio to be sitting ducks for the hostiles to take out. But using bullets wasn’t an option for them due to the fragile cargo. Whatever was in those couldn’t be damaged, and as their final attempt to retrieve the cargo, they utilized a chemical weapon called “mustard agent”. 

Luckily back up on-land were able to take the hostiles out making it possible for a narrow escape, but with a cost.

“I’m fine so help Ford!” you stepped back to steer clear of the two medical members. They had been attempting to calm you down since you got on the warship but your eyes always checked to see Ford. You tried to ignore the intense itch on your forearms as you held them up to avoid physical contact. A hand suddenly grabbed the collar of your vest forcefully. “Lieutenant!” bellowed Cpt. Benson.

You looked up at him with trepidation. Not because of him, but because of Ford’s state. You could hear the pained noises as other medics tended him. Benson jerked you back once, “Wake. Up.”

You both stared each other dead in the eyes. And with that look a lot was spoken. He immediately released his grip when you had realized your irrationality.

“Let them help you,” he motioned for the two medical soldiers. “Ford is in good hands, I promise. But if you die from infection, I’ll make sure to write your cause of death as ‘stupidity’.” Benson’s gaze shifted to look behind you. “Ah. Sgt. Soap, mind if I ask you to accompany Saint while she gets examined?”

You turned your face halfway to look behind you through the corner of your eyes. Soap wore a neutral expression as he replied, “Not at all, sir. I’ll stay with her.”

With that, he made sure you got everything you needed to recover the rest of the day. He’d even updated you on Griffs’ state, leaving you a handful of times to check for himself, even when you’d told him not to. No matter how many times you’d told him it was fine to leave you in the infirmary, he did not budge and continued to run his mouth to “entertain”. Soap accompanied you till past midnight to switch with Hunter, much to your relief.

Stubborn, mohawked Scot. 

Your hands may have been covered in blisters but your foot did the job in interrupting his rambling. Twice. 

Heaviness in the air.

A dark gray sky spread overhead. “Move aside,” Griffs grumbled. Gaz mimicked his movement, blocking him. “Easy, mate. Let them finish first, yeah?” Gaz reasoned, but was disregarded.

Griffs looked past Gaz to face Cpt. Benson. “Tell me which one did it,” he fumed. “Ford, get your head straight, son,” Benson ordered. “You’ll get your answers but I ain’t gonna listen to you actin’ like that.”

Every soldier present could see how infuriated your comrade was. Weston was angry as well but he controlled it far more better. His attention, however, was too focused on Griffs to notice your furtive movements headed elsewhere.

In the center of camp, soldiers crowded the front of the makeshift interrogation room. Soap and Ghost stood from the sides, each guarding an assailant. 

Three assailants had perpetrated the attack off-camp earlier and one of them was being questioned inside by the captains, including Laswell. Their group of six — now with three dead — ambushed the soldiers patrolling the camp in the early hours this morning. Hunter had been with the group doing her rotations.

She’s currently secluded in the camp’s infirmary being examined. One of the men was responsible for dislodging her right arm, plus a stab wound — unsure yet how many — aimed for the kidney.

How greatly you both wished to reciprocate an eye for an eye.

Griffs’s fury came from the battered state he saw his teammate in; your wrath came from the thought of Hunter’s suffering.

The captain turned on his heel to join the interrogation. “Damn it, Cap’n! I won’t kill the man!” he called after Benson. But he’ll wish he was dead, he mentally added. 

Everyone knew he’d charge with belligerence.

 Weston approached Griffs. “Listen to them, man. We need your head clear since more of them could come. I get how you’re doing this for Ariel’s sake, but don’t do it. Just — not like this.”

Unfortunately, reasoning with him was no use. Especially not when something upsetting caught Griffs’s eye.

“The fuck you smiling for, shitface?” Griffs reacted, chest heaving from anger. Everyone was stunned at his outburst but quickly found the cause.

One second their eyes were on one of the assailants; a second later they shifted to you.

No one had noticed you’d gotten close enough, except Ghost. The moment you pulled out your handgun, Ghost aimed his own at you. Your arm stiffened and hand tightened around the grip; gun’s muzzle aimed at the face of the smirking man guarded by Soap.

 “Got something you want to say?”

“San?” Soap exhaled under his breath and immediately lowered his gun as his gaze alternated between you and Ghost. He had reacted on reflex when he heard the cocking of a gun thinking it was an enemy. His heart fell when he saw you.

You took heavy steps towards the arrogant scum. “Pleas, prayers, confessions,” you spat, “now’s the fucking time to wag that tongue before I put a bullet through it — ”

“Stop there, Lieutenant!” Ghost commanded raucously. His warning fell on deaf ears but his finger hovered over the trigger. Soap’s eyes took in the dark look in your eyes, aggravation took over your senses. But, he empathized with your actions.

Soap knew the feeling all too well and decided right at that moment that he wouldn’t stop you. Not unless your intentions were to commit a grave mistake, only then would he interfere.

At the same time, Weston walked up behind you. “San, drop the gun.”

“I did,” confessed the man, adding fuel to the flames. “Too bad that girl didn’t kick the bucket or I’d’ve broken her neck too — “ Soap yanked him back by the collar tightly that made him choke. Griffs roared in frustration from the back. “Son of a bitch!”

Weston whispered in your ear hurriedly, “Give me the gun and I won’t stop you and Griffs from roughing him up a bit. No blades, just hands, clear?”

You give it thought.

Ghost lowered his gun as you surrendered yours. Soap’s eyes never left your face — taking in the fiery satisfaction that seemed to reflect in your eyes at the expense of your gun. Immediately, you advanced toward them and strode with feral purpose.

His organ lurched at the smirk that appeared on your lips, teeth peeking behind the flesh as it stretched. 

He drank in the sight, greedily.

Arrogance seemed to drain from the man’s face as you drew nearer. With the momentum of your last step you landed a forceful blow to his gut. The force knocked him back on to Soap, who only pushed him back forward.

“Where’d your smile go?” you mocked. “Forget about the bullet, so smile, asshole.” 

“You fucking cun—” You landed a second punch. His coughs doubled from the pain. Still, between broken breaths, he managed to make an empty threat. “I’ll kill you.”

He's painfully straightened back up by his hair. Soap tugged harder as the man thrashed against him.

Soap shot you a look, holding the man steady.

Do it. 

One look was all it took you to tighten your fists again then delivering three hard blows to the man’s stomach.

Third.

Fourth.

The fifth punch on his cheek.

Splat. He spat out a mixture of blood and saliva.

You breathed heavily as you scrutinized his state. 

He looked far better compared to Hunter’s. So you grabbed the halfway-unconscious man from Soap’s hold, dragging him roughly by the shirt as his legs struggled to catch up.

The man dropped to his knees and arms once you pushed him towards Griffs.

Griffs looked vengeful as he studied the weakened assailant whose smirk was long gone. His body thrummed with anticipation to finally get even. For Hunter.

“You wished you had broken her neck, you said?” he repeated dangerously.

Fear gradually enveloped the man, his legs scrambling to push against the dirt to get away from the soldier. “I had orders, okay? I was just following orders!” But he’s grabbed by the shirt once again hauled back up by Griffs.

The man wasn’t given a chance to respond when two punches pummeled the center of his face. “Your words, scum. Not theirs.” The consecutive punch that followed goes for his nose. 

Crunch.

 A string of blood and mucus seeped out his nostrils, stringing itself onto Griff’s knuckles.

A gurgled cry broke out. Weak, but panic-filled rush drove the man to push against the soldier. Holding on tighter, Griffs delivered a sharp and swift blow to the man’s forehead using his head.

“Mph —” Cross-eyed from the sudden blow, extreme dizziness clouded the man’s senses. “Fucking coward,” Griffs spat. He let go to flick the sap off his knuckles.

Another pair of arms wrapped around the man from behind.

“No, no! Please, stop. Get away from me!” the man cried out. You soldiers wouldn’t actually kill him on the spot… Right?

The muscles of your arms contracted around his neck, cutting his airway. 

“Ack —”

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two…

“Right. That’s it, both o’ you.”

With contempt, you released the unconscious man whose body fell sideways on the ground. “Johnny,” Ghost called out, and jerked his head towards you. “Get her out o’ here.”

Without delay, Soap led you away with his hand atop your shoulder guiding you forwards. 

Ghost’s authoritative voice gradually rendered the soldiers back to attention. He called out to Griffs, “Prop that sod somewhere else. You’ll bring him in, and he better be up an’ talkin’ by the time the boss asks for ‘im. ”

The lieutenant’s further instructions tuned out the further you got.

Now quiet and sobered, you followed the sergeant without resistance. Amidst the chilly air, his palm and arm gradually warmed your shoulders as it remained there. Soap’s silence was odd to you; he was never this silent, not even on duty. 

You picked up the pace which had him let go of you. You took a seat on the firm ground by the large roots of a tree. “Lost a tongue, MacTavish?” you asked without sparing him a glance.

Soap scoffed, feigning annoyance. “Och, again with the ‘MacTavish’, lass.”

You huffed from the ache in your hand that started to throb. Shallow peeled-skin had a fine layer of dried blood, but the rest of it was from the other guy and a mixture of other slimy substances.

You breathed in, then out. 

“If you plan on reporting us to the superiors,” you started, “it’d be wise for a promising soldier as you to get on with it; the faster the paperwork ‘bout our roughhousing gets done.”

Soap took his place on the other side of the tree; shoulder against it, weight leaning on one leg. “I’ll leave the decision to Ghost,” he answered, which you thought confirmed what you assumed: that you’ll end up suspended, or something fair. “But I wager he’d say ‘twas a disciplinary act. Probably less.” 

Soap saw how swiftly you eyed him through his peripheral. “Lieutenant Riley?” you asked with disbelief. Ghost would never let that ruckus go undisclosed, especially from the captains. The man doesn’t seem like the type of soldier to do such a thing. Plus, he seemed unbothered with shooting you down earlier till you passed your gun.

“You’re messing with me.”

Soap reacted with an upside down smile. “Am not.” He distinctly remembered the almost non-existent chuckle — more like scoff — from Ghost when both Griffs and you were passing the unfortunate man back and forth.

You slumped, unsure whether to believe his words or not.

“He wouldna stop a bonnie lass from getting her fill. A sight for sore eyes, you were.”

“‘Bonnie’?” you asked. Soap clicked his tongue at his forgetfulness that the Scottish slang was still new to you. “Means pretty. That gaze-stealing charm the likes of ye have.”

His answer is met with a stretched silence. 

“‘The likes of me’ — you calling me pretty now, sergeant?” 

Your teasing voice felt like a warm breeze seeping in the chilly air. Relieved by your response, Soap hummed in approval. “Bonnie and strong. Poor lad’s lights went out,” his tongue clicked with feign empathy. “I wouldna want to suffer a shameful fate by the same hands. I’d shit mah fuckin’ breeks — unconscious or no’.”

You bellowed a hearty laugh, eyes squinted from the stretch of your lips. Soap basked in the melting sound of your laughter warming his insides. It was his first time seeing you unguarded, all seriousness gone. It made his heart thicken knowing that he made you feel so. 

You stood as the last echoes of your giggles dissipated. Your head and heart were no longer heavy and throbbing. In fact, anger still lingered with the thought of Hunter being in the infirmary.

The sight of his raised brow and smirk was so contagious that you flashed him a playful one in return. “Bet you Scots shake people up with flattery. Nice trick, playboy. You got me.”

Soap relished with the nickname you called him, like he could flaunt it this second to anyone. His confidence grew by the second that at the height of the moment he spurted…

“Yer in luck. We only flatter the real bonnie ones we like.” Soap shrugged his shoulders as if to show triviality behind his reason. It was quite the opposite. 

He tried to mask his mini-confession by adding, “Well — people and whiskey.”

His words earned another fit of chuckles from you. “You like whiskey, huh?”

“ Aye. Hand me a glass of fine uisge, I’d nurse it the entire night.” His accent oozed. You watched as he swept a hand through his buzz cut hair.

Without really thinking you uttered the word, “Uisge… uisge…”

From his hair, his hand subtly moved down to cover the growing grin on his lips. “Uisge–beatha,” Soap slowly repeated in hopes to hear your best mimic. His hearing heightened with anticipation.

And you did not disappoint. 

“Uisge–beatha.” Before you could turn to see Soap’s reaction, he’s already walking away returning to camp. Confused as hell, you crossed your arms and waited a few seconds for him to call you to follow. He didn’t.

You were oblivious to notice how Soap flushed just from you mimicking him. He adored the way you put so much care in your pronunciation. His own reaction shocked him that he began to walk it off in hopes it would die down before you could see. 

You began to walk with rapid steps. “Where’re you going…Soap? Hey!” you yelled.

“You need to clean your hand. And I need a drink,” he said nonchalantly. 

“No drinking on-duty,” you reprimanded glaring at the back of his head, still unable to catch up.

With one further stride of your own, you knocked your shoulder against his arm. It was firmer than you thought. Curse his muscles. “That was for leaving me,” you said with a frown, staring ahead.

“I’m not drinking alcohol, I’m just thirsty. You, however, have that arse’s muck on ye with an open skin. It’s unsanitary, San.” Soap glimpsed at you. “Wash it thoroughly an’ I’ll patch it up for ye.”

Soap led you to the mobile latrines leaving you to wash up, whereas he left for the spare medical tent nearby to get the necessary medicine. Your shared tent with Hunter was closer compared to his. “I’ll meet you there.”

You’d been sitting on your bed, droplets of water dripping down your cheeks, chin, and fingers when he’d rejoined you. “I didn’t leave you looking like that,” he said amused as he drew nearer. You hummed, not bothered by your appearance. The cool water provided a refreshing sensation. 

“Do you want to stay in my good graces and help, or get kicked out?” His heart surged for the nth time that day seeing your heated temper spark from its brief slumber. 

Soap dropped down on one knee to your right while laying out the items on your bed by you. “Wee devil. Done with hands, using legs now?” he surmised. He offered up a hand and a raised brow asking permission.

You shot him a pointed look before placing your damp hand in his. He shook his head, hiding a small smile. He took an antiseptic wipe and carefully dabbed your knuckles with it. Observing his actions, you took note how precise his process was. He even cleaned the underside of your nails that hadn’t washed off entirely. 

“Thanks, Soap.”

“It’s nothing.”

You clamped your mouth shut from making him think otherwise. It is something you damn Scotsman.

“Consider us even. You don’t have to keep a lookout for me anymore.” 

He paused. For some reason, neither of you could look at the other. “You want me to stop?” he asked.

Soap felt how still you got, even your breathing paused a second too long. Your fingers in his palm pulsed a fraction before you nodded. “You’d waste your time if this went any longer.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Your eyes snapped to him. You took in the sergeant’s grim expression, even the brightness of his eyes were different. And based on the tone of his voice, Soap was angry. 

His expression had you confused all of a sudden, but sparked your own temper. “You don’t have to. I am telling you to stop.”

You were about to pull your hand back but his fingers clamped to your wrist. You bit back a swear and tugged harder. His hold slipped but he took you by surprise by lunging forward to pin you against your bed; arms caging you in place. His knees had pushed both your legs to the side preventing you from kneeing him in the crotch. 

You hissed, “How dare you —” 

His hand reached out to pin your wrist by your head. “Ye want me to stop?”

“Yes and get the fuck off me!”

Soap released a deep sigh, and shook his head. “Looking out for you, do you want me to stop?”

Your glaring eyes tore away to look past him. “Yes, and don’t make me repeat myself, asshole. Get off.”

The pad of his thumb on your pulse loosened. “Lying again,” he accused. Your heart rate and your behavior. He’d confirmed you were indeed lying.

Piece of shit. This idiotic piece of shit! You swore in mentally.

Seeing how emotionally strained you were, Soap did not like how he was the cause of it. He knew you would’ve fought against him harder but your confliction was apparent. You didn’t want to lay a violent hand on him. Not on Soap. Not on another good thing that made your job more bearable and worth it.

Soap fixated his gaze on your joint hands. “Back in our first operation, ye asked me if I was with you,” he said. “I am. I’m here an' we’re in this together. Just… say the word and I’ll get my hands bloody so you don’t have to.” He took another deep breath in. 

“I dinnae mind lookin' out for ye. It’s no' a waste of my time. Just, please, don’t push me away.”

As he waited for your reaction, subconsciously, he started to rub your wrist soothingly with his thumb; a quiet apology for pressing down on it earlier. 

“I’ll push you right now if you don’t get off of me.” Your sudden threat had him back off. Both of you were facing different directions, avoiding any accidental look at each other. “Sorry,” he muttered, the feeling of embarrassment creeping in. You covered your face with a hand, the ghost of Soap’s soothing touch left tingles. 

You couldn’t see how Soap had started to cave into himself from embarrassment. 

Soap couldn’t see how red your face had gotten. Or the palpitation of your heart.

Soap wanted to leave so bad but he wouldn’t, not when you haven’t given him an answer. He mustered up the tiny bit of courage he could. But your voice beat him first.

“Do whatever you want. I’m not the boss of you,” you breathed out exasperated with your feelings, dragging your palm down your face. “But if you cross a line, so God help me —”

'I'll get my hands bloody so you don't have to.' Your heart lurched.

You’re pulled back by the shoulder to properly face Soap. The shine in his eyes unmistakable.

“D'ye mean it, San?” he asked, elated with your answer. The frown on your lips dipped further but so did your flushed skin. He had a clear view of it now, and he drank it in as much as he could.

You wanted to escape from him. 

Soap withdrew when you stood. “Don’t follow me,” you spoke through clenched teeth as your hand swiped at your balaclava from atop your table. His longer legs caught up to you easily. Was even able to dodge your swinging arm while you demanded he leave you alone. 

He even held up the flap of the tent’s entrance as you marched past him. 

He was back to acting like his old self the moment you two were outside. “I dinnae like to leave ye. I'll keep ye company, wee Saint of mine.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph —

You pulled your mask down taut, shielding your identity from bypassers. One of the soldiers even called out to Soap as you walked — more like jogged — past. “Sergeant Soap! Garrick’s been wondering where you are. Said you’re needed by Cpt. Price —”

“They can manage without me! Thanks, chum!” Soap dismissed foolishly. Swatting his hand in the air like an insect was bothering him.

You turned back 'round to get up in his face. Scowling. “The captain’s looking for you, dumbass! You better get going or else I’m —”

“Or else you’ll, what?” he leaned down to your level. Smirk widening. Your brows, eyes, and nose bridge may have been the only skin visible but he caught sight of the slight tinge of red creeping beneath the hem.

He expected you to turn away and resume your escape, but he did not mind that you only stepped closer.

As if you weren’t close enough, you dared to challenge it. 

“You think I’m bluffing?”

“I dinnae believe it till I see it, lass.”

Your eyes pierced, accepting the challenge. “Bet.” 

the end

[e-leohiss]

"Here lies..." || A John Price fan-fiction

Author’s note: This is drama and my first fan-fic of Peepaw. As of now I'm not sure if I'm worth taking requests. Personally, John Price is the most comfortable character to write but I do want to write the others too.

Others being Konig, Simon, Johnny, and Kyle.

**PLEASE DO NOT translate, repost, or in any way reformat my work on this site and on any other social media

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Title: Here lies...

Main characters: John Price x F!reader Contains: Drama, heartbreak, broken marriage Wordcount: 2.2k Song link: My Mind (slowed & reverb) - Yebba

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Exposition:

John returned home with a new woman that his wife hardly knew about.

But she’s heard of her husband’s affair with another.

Her husband is a busy soldier, constantly absent due to his line of duty. He would only be home for 2 weeks at most–once almost nearing a month. To think the day had come that he would bring his new lover to their home. Did John even consider this as his home? 

His poor wife doesn’t think that he does. Not when he had just returned only to be leaving with duffel bags in hand filled with the rest of his portable belongings that he packed minutes ago.

As she gazed at both her husband and his muse, innards boiled whereas her exterior was passive.

She blamed herself the most, the ruin of their marriage. 

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Who knows how a woman would react if she saw the personification of her heartbreak before her person.

‘How do you kill your lover without killing yourself?’ A woman thought to herself. She stood still, and so did her heart. What could possibly be going through her head to become so still? 

It didn’t appear to be the “calm before the storm” kind. No. She was the unsettling aftermath of the disaster. 

Jonathan Price stood in front of her–stood between two women. John wasn’t looking at her. Instead he firmly stared at the floor. He chose to be a coward than to look her in the eyes as he spoke blunt blades of poison.

She broke her stillness to cut him off, “Jonathan.” He paused, but still refused to look her way. The new woman behind him shifted her eyes between the couple, discomfiture transparent on her face.

The heartbroken woman continued to focus on the visitor’s face; a tinge of satisfaction sparked in her when she noticed the new woman’s shoulders caving in from unease. ‘At least this one is looking at me,’ she thought.

Her low, toneless voice spoke again, “End this.” Jonathan’s head dipped down and heaved a generous amount of air through his nose. It took him a few seconds, but she saw the white sheets of paper in his grasp. Her limbs moved on their own accord. She lightly took the sheets from his hands and walked to the study to get a pen. Jonathan followed her a couple paces behind, his steps heavy and slow. As if it were the ticking seconds of a clock counting the duration of the dying home.

She placed the documents neatly on the desk as she sat feeling her muscles lose their strength by the second. Hell, the words seemed alien-like. She couldn’t read the damn content of the sheets. Her eyes skipped to regard the blank lines that remained unsigned. From within, more fragments fell off that made her chest more hollow.

She felt herself perish further.

Why would she sign it first?

She didn’t want this marriage to end. She did her best to nourish it. Thoughts of her husband always filled her mind. She would never seek feelings from another, not when she had Jonathan as hers.

But Jonathan did not think of her the same way. He did not think of his wife’s awaiting arms back home. He didn’t think of the constant worry his wife would always endure while he was away.

He did not remember his loving wife. 

There were no lies in their marriage and it was only now that she came to terms with those odious facts. Jonathan didn’t love her, not anymore.

And so it is.

Jonathan entered the study wrapped in solemnity. His face, however, stoic. Well, he was drenched to the bone with a captain’s ego, one of the traits she respected about him, and she still did up to this moment.

She placed a pen on top of the sheets. Jonathan understood immediately–a signal for him to make the first move. With three long strides he stood by the desk, pen in between his strong fingers. Her body stilled again when Jonathan’s hand raised but stopped midair. He readjusted the pen in his hold, his mind ran which caused him to falter.

“Dear–” he began, but his words got caught when he finally looked her way. He took in the sight of a broken woman. He couldn’t recognize his wife anymore. It’s like the color from her body faded into shades of gloomy greys. She would’ve looked serene in the yellow glow of the desk lamp weren’t it for the apparent wreck in her eyes and posture. Then her eyes laid on his. There it flickered: resentment. The tired look on her face crumpled as the corner of her lip raised.

“You should damn well treat her far better than you did me. Do you understand me, Jonathan?” Her silvery voice is tight. There it was, spoken anger. “She doesn’t deserve to feel this way–failure as a wife.” 

She placed her wedding ring on the desk with such care that it looked graceful to the speechless Jonathan, who had yet to sign the papers first. “In another life, I could have probably given you the family you deserved,” her voice cracked and her chest swelled with gradual pain at the sensitive topic. 

“How I wish I could provide that for you right now, John. But, nothing. I’m sorry.” 

She wanted to yell at the woman standing in the threshold of their home that she would not take him away from her. She refused to let another muse earn Jonathan’s attention; her role as his wife, as his equal. ‘You won’t take him away from me,’ she wanted to swear. ‘May these promises be written on stone, how much I want to remain by his side, by my John.’

Her mind went off alarmingly, ‘Damn her. I won’t leave him. Not John.’

Yet no such arguments came out from her.

How could she, when she blamed herself the most for her shortcoming as a wife.

A defect, unable to make John a father.

“I’m sorry we ended up like this. I’m sorry for hurting you so much when I vowed to put your happiness first.” Jonathan spoke thickly. He gulped, then surprisingly took a knee by the seat she sat on. “Our marriage may not have worked the way we promised it would, but I will take our memories together till the end of the line. I’ll always be grateful for your constant patience and effort. In another lifetime, we…” Jonathan’s words hung in the silence of the night as the endless possibilities ran in his head. Anything could have happened.

“If it makes you feel any better…curse, yell, scream, hurt me,” he said instead. “You can do whatever to lessen the pain–”

Her hand cupped his bearded jaw softly. With words full of conviction she said, “I won’t do that to you. Never you, John.” She smiled. She had the audacity to show him a smile.

The stoic mask of Jonathan Price fell apart the longer he looked at his wife. The longer he observed her the more he was convinced that a saint sat before him.

His left hand found itself atop hers to place it against his cheek. His rough digits massaging her smooth ones. “I don’t…” John whispered, his voice wavered with no trace of the soldier they knew him to be. He groaned, expressing his displeasure.

However, with a new-found purpose he stood and signed the papers quickly. He held up the pen for her to take, his face facing the other direction. Again with avoiding. She took the pen delicately. It took her a moment to follow-through but, at last, her signature appeared on the opposite side of John’s.

Her stare locked on the sheets that John collected hastily, his feet rooted to his spot. ‘Move. Move. Move.’ He chanted in his mind. 

“John,” the meek voice of his ex-wife called to him. He peered down at her seated form. Maybe it was the glass paperweight on the desk, or the picture frame, but something shattered. 

John bent down to capture her in his arms. Her body racked with pure heartbreak. Tears of blood could’ve been mistaken for the thick tears that cascaded down her cheeks. She cried so bitterly the back of his eyes boiled as he cradled her head on his collar.

Words tumbled out her mouth, “I hate you. You lied. Don’t leave me, John. John, please,” she begged, fisting his shirt. He pulled her tighter against him.

“I’ll always protect you, love. I’ll always put your safety first. Remember that. This, I swear. Don’t forget that.” He said to her with intensity as she kept calling him a liar.

“I have to go. Always take care of yourself. Put yourself first. I’m so sorry, dear.” And with one last kiss to her wet cheeks he unclasped her hands on his shirt and left the house, signed sheets crumpled in his fist.

He left her again, only this time it was painful. It was the last.

The woman waiting outside the door recoiled as the door slammed shut. John stood with his back to her and his head low with the doorknob forcefully in his grip. He didn’t wait for her as he began to walk towards the car. The woman felt the atmosphere shift when he walked past her. It was burning, and menacing. 

He hurriedly threw his bags to the backseat before stepping into the passenger seat. The woman moved swiftly, getting on the driver’s seat and revving the engine to life. She’s taken by surprise when he suddenly pounded the side of his fist onto the door. John’s breathing was deeply filled with aggravation as he tried to forcefully control his temper. 

“John?” She addressed the soldier without looking in his direction. “Step on it.” He seethed roughly as he glared out the window. With no further questions, she does as she’s told and stepped on the gas. 

John Price was known for being stoic most times, flashing a close-lipped smile occasionally, but how that changed when a silent tear trailed down his cheek. He had just left the love of his life back home drowning in despair. She wasn’t his wife any more and that made the damage in him a thousand times worse. 

================================================

An umbrella in hand, the sky wept sorrowfully as you.

Your mind flitted back to when Laswell appeared once again at the threshold of your home.

“I’m sorry we hid the truth from you.”

Who would’ve thought that the woman from before would be standing outside your home–your new home of almost a year–saying the most shattering news to you. You swallowed thickly. Mind still not fully comprehending the amount of information that Laswell had told you. 

“It was never supposed to be this way. However, a previous enemy had threatened to hunt you down in exchange for John executing his wife,” Kate took in a breath. “For the life of me, I don’t know how he knew that John had a wife. Turns out we had a mole who found John’s file and broke into his office.” Kate pulled out a picture from the folder she brought, a picture of a foreigner and a soldier wearing the familiar U.S uniform. The words began to construct in your head and they got heavier the more you listened.

“He managed to threaten John a couple of times but we weren’t convinced, calling it a bluff. Roughly a year before John and you…he was threatened once again, but this time we couldn’t risk it. Which led him to decide that cutting ties with you would be the best diversion.” Kate’s voice became softer as she continued. 

“We also had to convince you, so you wouldn't set foot at base. Rumors were spread about John having a different woman back at base so the mole wouldn’t discover your real location–” 

“Where’s John?”

Kate’s eyes snapped to yours when you spoke up. She noticed the atmosphere around you had changed. “When will he be coming here? No – when can I see him? I’m sure the mission’s done because you’re here.” You held your hands together, begging Kate to see how much you want to see John again. 

“I want to see my husband again. Please, Kate.” 

You continuously begged, and with that Kate’s shoulders appeared to sag from the pressure. She did not know how to tell you the terrible news. 

“You are a liar,” you said to John. “A horrible one.”

Chin quivered with another sharp intake of air. Nose is clogged, cheeks tear-stained, skin cold, eyes swollen and red rimmed. You kneel on the wet ground, sitting on the heels of your feet. You rearranged the flowers by your knees.

“You don’t like flowers, dear. Nothing to worry about this time though.” A choked laugh slipped through but vanished as another set of sharp breaths racked your lungs. John’s dog tags clinked against each other from the motion. 

“How I miss you, my love, it hurts.” Your fingers dig into the soft soil, reflecting your vulnerable state. “Wait for me. This time I won’t let you leave me so easily.”

The handwritten letter that came with all of his belongings burned in the back of your mind. The last paragraph you could recite word-for-word.

‘This is the only way, love. How I wish it wasn’t. But for you, I’d do anything. Even if it means leaving you in exchange for your protection.’

‘HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY 

CPT. JONATHAN PRICE 

BRITISH SAS

1985

PRESENT YEAR’

And soon, a new gravestone settled right beside it, with your name, year of birth and death. The promise written in stone.

‘WIFE OF CPT. JONATHAN PRICE’

~~end~~

[e-leohiss]

~~~***~~~***~~~ANNOUNCEMENT LOVELIES~~~***~~~***~~~***

I'm back and pretty sure I'm in my CoDMW era after Harry Potter. (It's the most happy I've felt in a while!).

And I wanted you all to know that I've finished writing a short drama piece about the dear Captain Jonathan Price and F!reader.

(edited) It's posted!

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I've been making CoDMW titok edits for a bit over a month now (@e.leohiss) but it was writing that I wanted to pursue the first time. WELL-- that didn't go as planned because I was overthinking a lot about my writing skills.

But now, at 11:50PM, I've decided to shove over-criticizing my work.

I'M SHARING WHAT I'VE MANAGED TO CREATE AFTER YEARS OF STARTING YET NEVER FINISHING

I leave it up to you, dear audience and reader, to judge my work. But I do hope (immensely) that you find it worth enjoying. I'll be posting Price's fanfic after 12 hours from now.

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I'm doing this for my pure enjoyment but enjoying it with more people (or even few honestly) is always embraced.

[e-leohiss]

~°~•>>•~°~

~(♡▪︎♡)~

[e-leohiss]

my dreamlank track #2 is finally uploaded!!

~~~*~**~* this audio could be for shifting purposes*~**~*~~~

((feel free to use by heading to my mixcloud page))

Youtube gave me 2 copyright strikes 4 months ago which was why I gave up trying to upload this on my channel but earlier I just found out about Mixcloud where DJs or artists could upload original and copyrighted music freely, which is why I am very very very HaPPy right now.

I can finally share my playlist with you all T_T bc I worked so hard on it back in February. I even created a 45 minute video to go with this playlist but mixcloud doesn't support mp4 files.

[e-leohiss]

presenting...my wallpaper of anime boyfies *maniac laughter**

**~*~~*~~*TiHiHiHiHiHiHiHi~~**~*~**~*~**

[e-leohiss]

poison

Fuck your pathetic lies that you use as excuses. Don't plant those poisoned berries in my garden.

[e-leohiss]

It feels so surreal that father and son reunite unexpectedly. They even got the same hair color lmao.

Bertie, who played as Scorpius in the 8th film, looks so mature.

Like soOoo mature.

TEACH ME HOW TO GLOW UP LIKE THAT, GEEZ.

Anyways, I'd love to see them act in the same film again 💫 and I've actually posted a tiktok about the Harry Potter cast with my fan-casted 2nd generation one.

If you wanna check out some of my content about hptiktok, just smash in: @elicaleohiss. Enjoy ;)

[e-leohiss]

Looking good in your 30s Draco. Butterbeer chears 🍺

~¤~¤~Got some screenshots from Tom's IG post in Harry Potter merch~¤~¤~

[e-leohiss]

not a question but i gotta say that i have a positive feeling you'll achieve your dream someday :) you do you boo hehe xx

Awww <3 <3 I'm not sure myself on what I intend to become or achieve but this eases my uncertainty. Thank you, sweety~ <3 <3

I do hope you are good, well, and feeling great about your entire being. May the heavenly skies sprinkle stars on your head forevermore!

[e-leohiss]

I did not understand the line "No mourners, No Funerals" Wouldn't it be the other way around? Only if there are funerals, we'd get mourners? Also, I haven't read the books so that was a bit vague for me

According to the author of Shadow and Bone/Six of Crows in an article that I found before - it means, "good luck".

"No mourners, no funerals" is used by the trio (Kaz, Inej, and Jesper) a few times in the series, especially in the books I believe.

hope this helps xx

[e-leohiss]

No mourners, no funerals.

*•~°~°•*translates as, "Good luck..."*•~°~°•*

[e-leohiss]

"I've risked my life for you.....just to be with you."

[e-leohiss]

[e-leohiss]

George Seferis, tr. by Edmund Keeley, from Collected Poems; “The Return of the Exile,”

[e-leohiss]

I can die incandescently happy

They already killed me with their authentic looks (James & Oliver) but this photo makes me feel like this would be Fred and George if they were born in the same generation as us Gen Zs.

**credits to "yasmim" on pinterest**