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halfmoth-halfman · 1 year

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our little secret

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Medic!Reader Synopsis: Soap finally gets all of his answers- and then some. Word Count: 7.4k Warnings: injury mention, pet death mention, child mention Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. part one. part two. part three.

Soap has been in his fair share of safe houses.

He knows what to expect when he hears the words: a sparsely furnished studio stocked with the bare essentials. It’s not a problem for him. Safe houses aren’t meant to feel like houses; they’re there to do their job– to keep their inhabitants safe.

So his confusion is valid when Ghost mumbles something about a “safe house” nearby, only to lead him through the dense woods of the mountains they’re stuck in to the coziest-looking cottage Soap has ever seen.

Soap’s frozen, unable to stop staring at the two-story stone house with dark ivy creeping up the grey stonework and an actual babbling brook winding around the right side of the house where it runs into a small pond in the front yard. He doesn’t know where Ghost, of all people, found the one safe house to come straight out of a fairytale.

“Fuckin’ hell Johnny, stop staring like you’ve never seen a house before.” Ghost’s hand harshly shoves into Soap’s shoulder, and Soap stumbles forward, turning back swiftly to glare at Ghost.

The Lieutenant had been particularly testy for this mission, seeming almost reluctant to take part in any aspect of it; regret had oozed out of every inch of Ghost from the moment he and Soap had touched down here, and Soap can’t figure out, for the life of him, why. It wasn’t like they were forced to be here; Soap was in the room when Price asked for volunteers for this mission. He remembers with exceptional clarity how Ghost perked up– as much a man like him could– and how the masked man was on his feet the second Price asked for volunteers.

If he was so eager for this mission, why did he seem so resistant to everything about it?

Tired and impatient with Soap’s lack of action, Ghost starts up the dirt path toward the cottage. It’s not hard to notice how he drags his steps, leaving small trails behind his boots. Soap follows hesitantly, keeping his head on a swivel as they approach the front door. Ghost tries the doorknob only to find it locked; his eyes slide shut, hand tightening around the doorknob before he lets his hand slide from the brass.

“Maybe we can–” Soap doesn’t get to finish as Ghost steps back to turn his gaze to the black iron sconce hanging next to the door. He pops one of the glass panes out with practiced ease, reaching in where Soap’s only now noticing there’s no lightbulb to grab a small golden key. He pops the glass back into place, sliding the key into the lock and turning.

The door swings open, allowing them into the pitch black of the house. For such a quaint-looking home, the endless void that greets Soap when he walks in is something lifted from a horror movie. Ghost shuts the door behind him, leaving Soap standing in the entryway that’s illuminated only by the misty grey of what little of the sun’s setting light is able to reach through the thick cover of the towering pines and low, looming clouds outside to shine through the small squares of glass on the front door.

“Take your shoes off,” Ghost mutters behind him.

“What?” Soap turns around– ready to ask why he should bother with etiquette for a safe house– but finds Ghost already hunched over, one hand on the wall beside him for balance as he unlaces his boots.

Soap copies him, unsure and so so confused. Ghost is as unbothered as ever, disappearing into the darkness of the house while Soap toes out of his boots. He places them next to Ghost’s, standing up right as the house illuminates in a soft amber glow.

It’s just as cozy inside as it is outside, and Soap is stupefied. His mind can’t comprehend the shadowy figure of death and destruction that is his Lieutenant among the picturesque interior of wooden countertops and decorative plants.

Ghost is none the wiser to Soap’s internal crisis, heading to a large armoire composed of deep brown wood that stands against the cream-colored wall next to the entryway. He pauses, leaning back to look at Soap over the edge of the lacquered door. “Weapons go in here.”

Soap joins him as Ghost unloads his weapons into the cabinet. The outside is unassuming— a normal, if a little taller than usual, armoire— which is why the interior catches Soap so off guard. A second set of doors— grated black metal with a keypad in the center— hang open to give them access to an impressive weapons rack that’s already half-stocked. Soap can’t help but gawk as Ghost works on hanging his knives— arranging them by handle color, then length. It’s done so casually, so routine, as if Ghost has done this a million times.

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know where to start. What the hell’s up with this “safe house”? How did Ghost find it? Did he set it up? It was hard enough picturing the masked giant in everyday civilian life, let alone browsing for the perfect rustic armoire or a faux fur rug fluffier than a cloud.

Ghost walks away, heading towards the kitchen with an unusual hesitance to his steps– like he’s trying to lighten his footsteps against the hardwood floor. Soap quickly stores his weapons, trailing behind Ghost with less caution.

The kitchen is just as immaculately decorated as the rest of the house– all creams and beiges, a large window above the sink with a collection of herbs growing on its sill, and little pops of color from the neatly organized pots, pans, and baskets sitting on the shelves.

Ghost rifles through the pantry with his back to Soap, and Soap can’t help himself.

“What’s-”

“Keep your voice down,” Ghost snaps, hushed and threatening.

“Why?” Soap huffs, gesturing to the empty space around them. “It’s not like there’s anyone else here!”

Ghost turns to face Soap with a swiftness that surprises the Sergeant, his shadowed eyes narrowed into a glare so fierce it sends an immediate shock of fight or flight through Soap.

“Simon?”

Your voice is soft and raspy and startles Soap so badly he swears his heart skips a beat. He whirls around to see you standing across the living room, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. Dressed only in a hoodie that’s obviously too big for you— and the perfect size for a certain Lieutenant— and a set of fluffy pajama shorts, you rub your eye with the heel of your hand, clearly having just woken up.

Ghost groans behind him, and everything in Soap’s head suddenly clicks together: Ghost’s reason for volunteering for this mission so quickly, his expectation of working on it alone, why he dragged his feet to bring Soap here. All of the puzzle pieces floating around in his mind slide into place as he watches you stumble into the living room, still half-asleep.

After your rescue, you’d been confined to the infirmary for weeks. The team had come to see you, sometimes lucky to catch you for the few minutes you could stay conscious long enough to entertain small conversations. You were put on immediate leave once you were well enough, and in the three months since then, no one has heard from you.

Soap’s glad to see you despite his mild guilt for disturbing you.

You look much better than when you left— less like you’d been repeatedly hit by a bus— and well on your way to recovery. There’s still gauze wrapped around your right thigh, and a few of the worst bruises are still present on your skin, in the process of fading. The only lasting injury Soap can see is the deep scar that trails along the left edge of your jaw from your chin to your ear; you’d had trouble talking while in the infirmary, pain buzzing through your jaw anytime you moved your mouth, but now you’re yawning widely without a single care.

You make it halfway to the kitchen when your eyes land on Soap; you freeze, brows knitting together in confusion.

“Soap?”

“Doc.”

“What’re you….” You trail off, spotting Ghost behind him. Soap watches how you take in their clothes, the dirt and dried blood stained into the fabric, and how your eyes glance over to the open weapons cabinet near the front door. The shift to Doctor Mode is instant; you straighten up, already looking them over for any possible injuries as you hasten your way to the kitchen.

“I’m fine, Doc,” Soap smiles, seeing some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “Lt. got a little roughed up, though.” Your head snaps to Ghost, and Soap steps aside, setting a gentle hand on your back to guide you and your concern toward Ghost. The Lieutenant glares at him over your head, but this time Soap smiles back, a knowing grin plastered on his face as you fret.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Ghost sighs, pulling his angry gaze away from Soap to stare down at you. He’s trying to seem stern, frustrated that you’re up and about, but you pay him no mind. It’s almost sweet, the way his gaze softens the moment he looks at you; he’s concerned for you as much as you are for him.

“‘m fine,” you mumble stubbornly. Ghost rolls his eyes as he lets you look over him. His eyes briefly flick up from your face to Soap before back down to you. Soap’s known Ghost for a long time; he’s learned how to read the subtle changes in those dark eyes, and he can see the way Ghost fights with himself before letting his eyes slide shut in resigned conclusion.

“You need to rest,” he sighs again, faint and gentle, as he lightly grabs your wandering hands and eases them off him. He glances up at Soap again, but Soap avoids his gaze, finding interest in the earthy green toaster and not even trying to hide his grin.

“I will, I will,” you huff. You step back from Ghost, pulling your hands from his to cross your arms over your chest. “Mission go okay?”

You’re talking to him now; Soap realizes when Ghost doesn’t answer. He turns to you with an easy, if a little cocky, smile and a half-shrug.

“Thought they could try and ambush us, but they were no match for us. Right, Lt.?” There’s a quiet, exasperated fuckin’ hell from Ghost, but you’re laughing— your smile not as wide on your left side— and Soap realizes how much he’s missed you.

“We needed a place to lie low for the night-” Ghost starts.

“And this was close by, I get it.” You maintain your smile, nudging Ghost’s arm with your elbow. “Surprised you got here before the storm started.”

“What? That poor excuse for cloud coverage outside? Hardly call that a storm,” Soap scoffs. You shrug, meandering to the cabinet that holds the cups and mugs.

“If that’s what you want to think,” you tease, but Soap is too busy watching Ghost as he watches you. “All I’m saying is-” The moment you reach up to grab a glass, there’s a hand on your waist and a sturdy body pressed against your back. “-Simon, I can reach just fine-”

He doesn’t listen, grabbing a glass and setting it in your hands while you pout up at him. You roll your eyes, stepping out from in front of him and smiling at Soap like nothing happened.

“All I’m saying is, I’ve lived here for a while; I think I can tell the difference between a little fog and a soon-to-be torrential downpour.” You fill your glass with water as you talk, batting Ghost away when he tries to take the full glass from you the minute you’ve filled it up.

“And since someone-” you send Ghost a pointed glare “-is in such a helpful mood, he can set you up in the guest room for tonight while I go back to sleep.” You saunter past Soap— as well as one can while healing— glass of water in hand.

“Good to see you again, Doc,” Soap laughs as you pass him. You send him a sly wink, playfully bumping his shoulder before heading upstairs.

A tense quiet looms over the kitchen as Soap and Ghost are left alone. Ghost is staring at him, and he’s staring back, neither one knowing how to break the awkward silence that surrounds them.

Until—

“So,” Soap starts, smug grin crawling across his face and vindication thrumming through his veins. “You and the Doc, eh?”

“Don’t fuckin’ start.”

With that, Ghost marches past him, heading for the stairs and, Soap decides this is going to be one of the top three missions of his life.

It’s 5:03 in the morning when Soap is awoken by the loudest clap of thunder he’s heard in his life.

It shocks him awake, shooting straight up from the bed, heart hammering and mind alert. It takes him a minute to realize there’s no immediate danger and that his biggest threat is the blue duvet tangled around his legs. Soap pauses, staring down at the soft blue blanket in confusion.

Why is he-

Oh.

Right.

Soap takes in the room— cozy just like the rest of the house— taking this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see if he can spot any clues, any slight hints that’ll give him insight on you and Ghost. The two of you are frustratingly thorough, as the only unusual thing he finds is the heavy blanket of rain pouring down the window.

Thunder rumbles above.

A door opens and shuts somewhere in the house.

Soap is of a curious mind— perhaps too curious for his own good— but that same intense inquisitiveness is what gave him enough of a glimpse to discover his Lieutenant’s secret marriage, so who is he to fight it?

He gets out of bed, ignoring the instant chill that comes with leaving the warm covers, and changes into the spare shirt and sweatpants you had Ghost give to him. As quietly as he can, he leaves the room, heading straight down the hall and toward the stairs.

The roll of thunder echoes above once more.

Something metal clatters downstairs.

Soap tiptoes down the steps, peering into the living room when he reaches the bottom step. The lights are off, save for the kitchen, where you sit at the small circular table, and Ghost stands at the counter near the sink, pouring boiling water from an old kettle into a black mug.

You’re still in your suspiciously oversized hoodie but have changed out of your fluffy shorts, trading them in for long pajama pants decorated with those colorful ghosts from pac-man. Ghost is dressed down significantly, only wearing a thin black t-shirt and matching sweatpants.

Soap should be surprised to see the balaclava still on, but he isn’t.

Ghost sets the mug on the table in front of you before he slides a chair over and sits down next to you. You sit up— almost dragging yourself into an upright position— looking far more exhausted than you had yesterday.

He watches you— attentive and alert in an almost too-intense way— shifting slightly with your every move. You either don’t notice or don’t care, messing with the tea bag and sipping from your cup. You wince when you swallow, and Ghost is leaning toward you, gloveless hand coming to rest just under your jaw. His thumb gently trails along the scar on your jawline, quiet murmurs exchanged and lost on Soap’s ears.

He should go back upstairs; it’s still early, and this seems like a moment he shouldn’t intrude on.

Soap takes one step backward, the woods beneath his foot whining under his weight and settling with a pop.

Your attention turns to the stairs, and Soap makes a snap decision. He stands up straight, heading down the stairs and into the living room, doing his best to seem casual and not like he was just spying on you.

Ghost pulls away from you, sitting back in his chair as you smile tiredly at Soap. Your voice is rough, more so than the tired rasp of someone who’s just woken up. “Mornin’, Soap.”

“Mornin’.”

“The storm wake you up?” you ask, setting your elbow on the table to set your chin in your hand. Soap shrugs, taking a seat across from you.

“I was already up,” he lies. You raise a brow, an amused smile that says you don’t believe him, but you don’t say anything. You lean back, grasping your mug with both hands and letting the warmth soak into your fingers.

He notices the mug first, streaks of the cartoon ghost with a crooked smile peering at him through your fingers. Then his gaze moves to your fingers, where he spots a solid black ring sitting comfortably on your left hand.

“You gonna ask about it?” you ask, grinning at him over the steam as you sip your tea. Soap coughs, rubbing his neck with enough sense to look sheepish. He chances a glance at Ghost, but the man’s eyes stay firmly on you. “It’s fine, Soap. I’m sure you have questions.”

He’ll probably never get this chance again.

Fuck it.

“I have a list,” Soap says, a little too eager, leaning forward on his elbows.

“You get three.” Ghost’s voice is flat and unamused– a stark contrast to your welcoming demeanor.

“Only three?”

“That’s one. You got two left.”

You scoff, reaching over to pinch Ghost’s arm. He grunts– more in annoyance than pain– giving you a half-hearted glare. It’s not ideal, but Soap will take what he can get. Sorting through the mental list of questions he’s been compiling since he first took notice of this little relationship, Soap tries to pick out the most important ones.

The group sits in silence while he thinks; you slowly work your way through your tea, grimacing around every swallow as the storm looms overhead. Thick raindrops assault the kitchen window, a steady waterfall pouring down the glass. Thunder booms overhead, less severe than before but startling all the same.

“Does Price know about…this?” he asks, gesturing to your ring.

“That’s your question?” Ghost scoffs.

It’s a question that’s confused him for months, so yes it is.

“He does,” you answer honestly. “So does my old Captain. They helped get all the legal stuff sorted out.”

“Legal stuff?”

“‘s a little difficult getting a marriage license for a dead man. Some strings had to be pulled.” You speak so casually as if that’s a normal thing to say. They’re around each other so often, Soap sometimes forgets that Ghost’s callsign is more than just a nickname; he’s a literal dead man walking, the living phantom of Simon Riley.

“Does anyone else know? Your old team? Laswell?” A cold chill shoots up his spine, “Did Shepherd know?”

“No,” Ghost sighs.

“My maiden name’s on all the paperwork. Price and Owens were thorough,” you explain. “No one knows but them…and now you, of course.”

Soap nods, fully understanding the weight of this secret he now bears, but he has to wonder-

“Would you've said anything? Eventually?”

You and Ghost share a look before you shrug, staring down into your half-empty mug.

“We talked about it.”

“After Las Almas,” Ghost adds. “Got too used to keepin’ it a secret and ended up never bringing it up.”

“Old habits,” you laugh softly. There’s a swell in Soap’s chest at the thought of you two trusting him enough to tell him about your marriage, even if it never actually happened. There were times when he wasn’t sure if Ghost even liked him, but after Mexico…there was a bond there that he’s realized wasn’t as one-sided as he may have assumed.

Your laugh dissolves into a hoarse cough, and Ghost is instantly on his feet.

“Back to bed, let’s go,” he orders, no room for negotiation. You roll your eyes, standing up slowly and favoring your right side.

“Make yourself at home, Soap,” you say in your gravelly voice, glancing out to the endless rain. “It looks like you might be stuck here a while.”

The storm doesn’t lessen for the rest of the morning and only worsens the following day; it’s clear he and Ghost will be here longer than initially intended.

Soap doesn’t mind, though.

He’s been given almost completely free rein of the house, presented with the rare opportunity to snoop without worrying about getting caught.

He notices the pictures on the third day as he’s coming down the stairs. There’s a tall, thin bookshelf on the wall opposite the bottom step filled to the brim with a vast collection of novels and a few picture frames.

He checks the top picture first, carefully pulling it from the top shelf of the bookcase. It’s a picture of Ghost standing in full gear, sunglasses on over his balaclava, holding a fully grown German Shephard over his right shoulder. The dog is looking to the side where you’re standing in matching gear, hands scratching behind its ears as you make a silly face with your lips pursed.

“Aw, I miss that dog.”

Soap jumps, nearly dropping the picture frame as you appear next to him, looking over his shoulder at the photo.

“Christ, you need a bell or something,” he mutters, setting the frame back on the shelf.

“Maybe you shouldn’t let yourself get so distracted,” you tease. You turn to the bookcase, a fond sigh as you look over the various photos. You let yourself sit in nostalgia for only a minute before glancing at Soap with a slight grin.

“You wanna see more?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You gather the pictures in your arms, leading Soap to the living room. You set the photos down on the coffee table and gesture for Soap to make himself comfortable on the sofa while you disappear into the hallway next to the kitchen. Soap sorts through the pictures. There’s one of Ghost sitting uncomfortably rigid in the back of a helicopter as you and Trip sleep on either side of him with your heads resting on Ghost’s shoulders. Another shows you with your old team, everyone dressed in civvies and sat around a bar table covered in empty glasses. The third is a duplicate of the one Soap had found in your desk in pristine condition.

“I have this if you want to look through it,” you say as you return a large black book in your hands. You hand it to Soap, and he flips it open while you make yourself comfortable next to him.

It’s a photo album.

An entire photo album of you and Ghost– and sometimes the dog and your old team, but that’s not important.

Soap flips through it in wonder and awe. “Who took all these?”

“My old Captain, mostly. Some were me or one of the others. I think there’s a couple Simon took in there, too.”

“What did I take?” Ghost wanders down the steps, stopping when he sees the album in Soap’s hands. “For fuck’s sake, why does he have that?”

“Don’t mind him,” you huff. You lean over a peer into the photo album, pointing at one in the bottom left corner. “That’s one of my favorites!”

It’s a picture of Ghost passed out on a tattered sofa, exhausted, with the German Shephard curled around his head as he uses it for a pillow.

“Riley was such a good dog,” you sigh wistfully. Soap snorts, glancing over to Ghost.

“Riley?”

“Wasn't my idea,” Ghost grumbles, looking directly at you.

“Didn’t think you worked on a team before, Lt.,” Soap says, handing the album over to you so you can flip through the pictures, pulling out ones you want to show Soap.

“It happened on occasion,” Ghost shrugs, thick arms folded across his chest. “Worked with Owens once before, and she was impressed enough to ask for me on certain missions.”

“And because he had a crush on the doctor,” you mumble, laughing to yourself as you slide another picture out. Ghost seems less than amused, but he doesn’t deny it.

“You were a doctor back then?” Soap questions. That doesn’t sound right. He’s seen you in the field with the 141, your uniform completely different from what you’re wearing in those pictures.

You hesitate, pausing in your picture collecting to knit your fingers together and pick at your nails.

“Of sorts.” Is all you say.

“It was a specialized position,” Ghost cuts in, walking around the back of the sofa to set his hands on your shoulders. “Interrogation Specialist.”

“So, you questioned people?”

“I tortured people.” You look up from the photos, meeting Soap’s eyes with a distant gaze he’s seen many times on Ghost.

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Is that why they called you Hornet?” Is what comes out of his mouth. It’s absurd enough to shock you out of whatever memory you were stuck in, tilting your head in confusion.

“No? Who told you that?”

“Grizzly. He said something about you being like a hornet in a beehive.”

You have to bite into your cheek to keep from laughing, and even then, a few giggles escape you. You relax into the couch, craning your head up to look at Ghost, “I mean, I guess that works.”

“If that’s not it, then why-”

“We didn't have a medic, so I had to stitch everyone up a lot. And most of the time, we didn’t have any kind of anesthesia, and I didn’t give any warning before I started poking with the sewing needle. Grizzly complained that I was like an aggressive bee, Trip told him those were called hornets, and that was that. Not as cool, right?” Soap wants to reassure you, but your attention is back to the book in your lap.

You gasp, pulling out a photo to hold it up to Ghost, “Remember this?”

Ghost’s answer is immediate, “Don’t show him that.”

Well, now Soap has to know.

You laugh, sliding the picture back into its place, but briefly look over to Soap, mouthing later with a wink.

Over the next few days, Soap learns more about your relationship with Ghost.

He learns that you met during a black-ops mission, where Ghost was meant to help escort your team– and more specifically, you– to a remote base to question some high-profile prisoner.

He learns that the two of you worked so well together for that first mission that Captain Owens made Ghost her go-to for any outside help if the team ever needed it.

He learns you spent years working together before the thought of becoming a couple even entered your minds.

And he learns that after that first time together, you and Ghost developed a specific set of rules for your relationship that’s only grown since.

You’ve told him a couple: no obvious affection in public, don’t compromise a mission for the other’s safety, respect each other’s space and the occasional need to spend time apart, no letters or phone calls unless it’s an absolute emergency.

Most were proposed by Ghost, but you agreed that it was for the safety of both of you.

He puts together clues about some of the other– possibly unspoken– rules when he watches the two of you interact. Ghost takes your health very seriously, and sometimes his tone borders on commanding when he tries to get you to rest or take medicine or drink tea without anything added to it. You sass him and roll your eyes, but do whatever he says every time. It’s the same when you ask him to get you something or try to get him to be a little nicer to Soap when he asks about some aspect of your marriage: Ghost will groan or roll his eyes but always bends to your will.

You don’t ask about each other’s missions, either. Soap watches you reorganize the weapon cabinet one day, noticing the blood on a few of Ghost’s knives. You ask if it’s his or Soap’s and if either of them needs to be looked at, but when they assure you they’re fine, you drop the subject.

The biggest question for him, though: the rings.

Ghost’s has found its way onto his finger– the first time Soap has seen it there, while you switch between wearing yours on your finger and on that thin chain around your neck.

It’s on your finger this morning, and Soap is fixated on watching you twirl it around your finger absentmindedly while you stare over the back of the couch at Ghost’s back as he makes breakfast.

(That’s another thing– Ghost has done most, if not all, of the cooking since they got here.)

“It’s weird to see him with a ring on,” Soap quietly laughs. You turn to him, pulled out of your husband-watching trance.

“Yeah, it’s not often we get to actually wear them.”

“One of his rules?”

“One of mine,” you sigh, gaze drifting back to Ghost. You fidget with your ring again, picking at its smooth, rounded edges with your nails.

“No wearing them where anyone can see ‘em, if one of us leaves for a mission then whoever’s staying behind keeps both of them, and if we both have to leave, the rings go in a small safe in my office.”

“That sounds-” Exhausting. “-thorough.”

“You’d be surprised how many captives forget about jewelry. It’s a whole lot easier to get information out of someone the minute you realize they might have someone they want to protect from you.”

There’s an edge to your voice, some kind of mix of nostalgia and resentment and regret.

But Ghost finishes breakfast and Soap decides it’s better not to ask.

Day six of waiting out this seemingly never-ending storm and the three of you are sitting in the living room cleaning your array of guns.

You’re wearing your own clothes for once, a dark cotton tank top and black sweatpants that lets Soap see the full extent of bruising and bandages around your arms. A long bruise stretches across your neck, still purple and blue, and Soap suddenly understands the uneven hoarseness of your voice.

Your hair is up, pulled out of your face so you can focus on your work. Soap can see the scar from the humvee on the side of your head as it disappears behind your ear.

The ear that hides your tattoo.

It’s a quiet afternoon; it’d be a shame to break the peace.

“When did you get the tattoo?” he asks anyway. You don’t answer until you look up and find him staring back at you.

“What tattoo?” you ask in genuine confusion.

“The little ghost behind your ear.”

Ghost freezes, head slowly turning to look at you. “What ghost?”

“Oh, that. I got it after Russia,” you shrug. “Whole mission was a total shitshow, but it reminded me how easily you can lose someone, so, after, I found the nearest shop and got it done.”

You return to your guns, but Ghost’s eyes are trained on you. Soap can see the gears in his head turning, and he briefly worries that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Thought we agreed: no marks, symbols, or tattoos.”

A sharp laugh escapes your mouth, eyes flicking up to Ghost in disbelief. “So if I check out that chaotic sleeve of yours, you’re telling me I won’t find a little hornet hidden somewhere in there?”

A beat of silence.

Ghost grunts and returns to his guns and you grin victoriously at Soap.

The power goes out on day nine.

Ghost is messing around with the fuse box. At the same time, you and Soap have decided to follow “sleepover law”, lighting the house up with candles, moving the sofa and coffee table to build a nest of pillows and blankets in front of the lit fireplace, and piling a collection of snacks nearby.

He can hear the two of you laughing in the living room, you exchanging old mission tales for stories about Soap’s nieces and nephews. Ghost sighs, his fourth and last idea to get the power back on failing miserably. He’s frustrated and annoyed and can feel that itch just under his skin that tells him to isolate.

To do that, he’d have to go upstairs.

And to get upstairs, he’d have to go through the living room and pass by-

Your laugh echoes down the hallway, and Ghost can feel some of the tension ease from his bones. The itch is still there– the immediate need to run and hide to deal with any sort of negative emotion by himself– but it lessens when he remembers you’re nearby.

He shuts the fuse box, deciding he’s not going to get anything fixed right now. Instead, he wanders down the hall, stopping just before he reaches the living room to lean against the wall and listen to you and Soap.

“I have to ask-” Soap starts, mischief laced in his voice, “-the mask. Does he ever take it off?”

“If he wants to,” you reply through gentle laughter.

“Really? So what if he doesn’t want to? Does he sleep with it on?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about when you two…”

There’s a brief pause before you snort and answer in a quiet purr, “Sometimes.”

“Nah, yer bum’s oot the windae!”

“...I don’t know what that means, but you asked!”

“You’re not serious!”

“Totally am! I mean…I wouldn’t’ve married him if I wasn’t into it.”

Ghost loves you more than anything in the world, but there’s nothing more he wants right now than for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him whole.

It’s late, almost reaching into the early morning hours, and Soap cannot sleep. He doesn’t know what’s keeping him awake; he just knows that no matter what he tries, he can’t fall asleep.

After the third hour of tossing and turning and grumbling, he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen. He does his best to keep quiet, all his stealth training kicking in.

He’s halfway across the living room when–

“Watch your step.”

It takes everything in him not to scream as your voice travels up from the floor. Soap looks down to find you lying on your back on the fluffy brown rug, your legs outstretched and resting atop the coffee table.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus! What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Came down here for some floor time.”

“Floor time?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” You raise your brows at him, reaching out to pat the empty spot next to you.

He stares down at you, but you meet his gaze, eyes wide and unblinking to the point it almost freaks him out. Soap relents, bending down to lay next to you. You clap your hands in victory, scooting over to give him more room.

Soap gets himself comfortable, crossing his feet on top of the coffee table next to yours. You two lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling in the quiet dark.

It is kind of calming, he has to admit.

“I used to do this with Riley,” you speak softly, barely above a whisper. “I’d lay down, and then he’d lay on me. At first, I thought he just wanted to use me as a pillow, but I think it was more of a grounding thing…he was a smart one, that dog.”

“What…happened to him?”

“He got old. K9 unit retired him, and Simon and I took care of him until…Simon was devastated when we had him put down. He refused to come back here for months after. Said the house was ‘too quiet’.”

“Could always have a kid or two,” Soap jokes. “House wouldn’t be quiet for a long while.”

“No,” you snap.

He sits up, propping himself on his elbows so he can face you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s not…you’re fine, Soap.” You release a long sigh, pulling your feet off the coffee table and sitting up straight. You stretch, back popping painfully from too much time on the ground.

“We’ve talked about kids,” you mumble, fingers moving to fidget with your ring. You look back at him– grey moonlight reflecting off your watery eyes. “Maybe in another life.”

Soap pushes himself to sit up completely, reaching out to settle a comforting hand on your shoulder. You flinch at the contact– relaxing when you realize you’re alright– and Soap pulls his hand away with an apologetic smile.

“Another dog, then? Or a cat? Ghost seems like a cat person.”

You make a sound, some sort of half-scoff, half-laugh that’s muddled by the knot in your throat.

“How 'bout a fish?”

“A fish it is, then.” Soap hears your watery laugh as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. You scoot back to sit next to him, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’ll name him Soap, just for you.”

"Thanks, Doc."

It’s a whole two weeks later from the day they arrived when the water has eased enough outside for Ghost and Soap to go out and check the roads.

You sit on the porch, tucked into a dry chair and another one of Ghost’s hoodies with a hot mug of tea warming your hands. Initially, you wanted to go with them, but Ghost refused swiftly and sternly. You argued that you needed the fresh air, and the compromise was made that you could settle on the porch and keep an eye out while they walked down the road.

Everything looked good, no mudslides, no floods, no fallen trees, so he and Ghost decided to head back and get ready to leave.

Soap spots you as they near the house, staring off towards the brook near the house. You look so calm, so serene that he almost hates to disturb you. But Ghost has no qualms about interrupting your peace as he marches straight up to the house. You don’t seem to mind, judging by the way your face lights up at the sight of him.

He’s had almost every question answered, Soap realizes as he watches Ghost offer you a hand to help you out of your chair, and you use the momentum to pull yourself up and kiss him on the cheek.

There’s only question left-

“Hey, Ghost?” he asks, once the three of you are back inside.

Ghost pauses his cooking, looking back at him over his right shoulder.

“How did you propose?”

“What?”

Soap expected that, but he hadn’t expected you to start snickering from where you’re perched on the counter next to Ghost with your head resting on his left shoulder.

“It’s just…I’ve been thinking about it for a while. And there’s no engagement pictures in that photo album so-”

“I didn’t.”

“You…what?”

“I didn’t propose,” Ghost sighs.

Oh…

Oh!

Soap turns to you and your triumphant– if a bit smug– grin. “I beat him to it.”

“By two days,” Ghost huffs, turning back to the food on the stove. “Patience is a virtue, but not one of yours.” You giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder over his shirt. Ghost nudges you away with a grunt. You lean back for a few seconds before setting your chin on his shoulder so you can stare lovingly at the side of his face. Ghost sighs, letting it happen and turning briefly to lightly tap his head against yours.

“How did you know?”

The question spills from Soap’s lips the moment he catches that little interaction.

“Know what?” you ask, turning to lay your head down, smushing your cheek on Ghost’s shoulder.

“That you wanted to propose. How’d you know you were the ones for each other?”

You sit up, eyes never leaving Ghost, who’s gone unusually still. An uncomfortable tension fills the air, swelling like a balloon ready to burst.

“It was after Sweden,” Ghost mumbles minutes later. He puts the stove on low heat and turns to you, your eyes meeting as he steadily holds your gaze. “We were clearing out that abandoned building, and you found this kid, couldn’t have been more than five…maybe six? They were so scared, but you managed to get them to calm down and come with us. We cleared the place but got ambushed as we were leaving. You gave me the kid and shoved me out of the back exit and-”

“Took a bullet meant for you,” you finish softly. Your hand comes up to graze just below your stomach, absentmindedly clenching the fabric over the spot.

The face you made when he’d brought up children flashes through Soap’s mind.

Maybe in another life.

“Didn’t realize how scared I was of losing you until that moment. You always seemed so sure, so indestructible, like there wasn’t anything that could kill you, like you’d always be there. And then you weren’t, and I thought that was the end until you finally got out of surgery. Wasn’t gonna let you get away after that.”

Tears well up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. You try your best to wipe them away, a smile of a million different emotions directed at Ghost. Ghost reaches out, sets a hand on your knee, and you meet his eyes before glancing over and realizing Soap is still there– grinning like an idiot.

“Well, I knew the day we met,” you laugh through your tears. Ghost scoffs, playfully squeezing your knee before returning his attention to the food. “It’s true; you can ask Firefly. Moment you started training with us and flipped Grizzly on his ass, I told her, ‘I’m gonna marry that man’.”

“Fuck off.”

They’re packed and ready to leave the next morning.

Soap’s tugging on his boots while Ghost locks up the weapons cabinet, and you stand off to the side, watching. You haven’t said a word all morning, just leaning against the wall with your eyes fixated on Ghost.

Ghost shuts the cabinet with a sigh as Soap finishes lacing up his boots. Ghost glances at him, different this time– a silent ask for a moment alone with his wife.

Soap gets the message, loud and clear.

“Don’t worry, Doc. You’ll be back in your infirmary treating our stab wounds soon enough.” You huff in amusement, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’ll see you soon, Soap.” He nods at you and turns to head out the door.

He leans against the wall just outside the front door, staring at the clear brook water that washes over smooth stones until he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks over and realizes he can see straight through the glass of the door where you and Ghost stand, feet apart from each other.

He should look away, get a head start down the road.

But when has he ever done that?

Instead, he watches Ghost slide the mask from his face, giving you a single nod before you launch forward and attach yourself to him. He holds you close like he’s trying to absorb you into his body, keeping you as close as physically possible. You pull back from him– only slightly– and Ghost wipes away the tears falling down your face. He reaches behind your neck, messing with the clasp of your necklace before his ring slides down the silver metal to meet yours at the bottom.

Your hands wind their way around the collar of his jacket, pulling him forward into a kiss he eagerly accepts. There’s no such thing as a goodbye kiss in the Riley household; goodbyes imply never seeing each other again, and that is a future neither you will accept. Instead, it’s a promise.

A promise to stay alive, to come back.

A promise either of you has yet to break.

You pull away, murmuring something against his lips. Soap’s never been a great lip reader, but it’s not hard to tell what you’re saying.

You better come back to me, Simon Riley.

Always.

Another kiss, and the mask is back on, slid into place by your steady hands. Ghost sets his forehead against yours, one last moment together before the inevitable separation.

Soap turns away when Ghost steps back from you, focusing his gaze on a small leaf on the ground until Ghost walks out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Let’s go, Sergeant.”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #mw fics #moth writes #private

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

I’ll Take the Night Shift

Pairing: Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Before you knew it, John was gone - taken from right under your nose and leaving you no choice but to retreat without him. But you would do anything to get him back, even go into the lion’s den itself.

Word Count: 15.2k

Warnings: Torture, blood & gore, V suggestive & some spicy bits, vulgar language, angst, found family tropes, eventual fluff, and comfort, injured Price would be the sweetest person idc, so much plot, briefly edited

A/N: The flashbacks are spicy because I said so. (Soap request being written after this). Enjoy!

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

You try to remember how you felt the first time they told you. Your combat vest was still on, that night vision rig still connected to your head and weighing about as much as John did when he rolled on top of you in the middle of the night. At your front rested the M13, its black and sleek metal bumping against your chest with every teetering step.

Black, on black, on black. Except for one item, hidden, kept close to heart, and even closer to mind at all hours. You were always aware of it, the metallic press that was ingrained into your body just as the caress of John’s fingers was, burning over your pulsing epidermis as it traveled.

Around your neck, your wedding ring sat heavily on its chain – gold more bright than the sun and kept safe and warm against the flesh of your breast under the numerous padded layers. Your face was bathed in sweat, lungs aflame with blood dripping from a knife puncture on your right thigh. Although the limb is bathed in crimson, the dark fabric of your pants hid most of it. But it couldn’t hide the red footprints in the dirt.

It was a Black Op in Finland – a target stashed away in a mansion that was clawing for breath in this dense forest with more viridian-colored trees than any you had seen before. Green seemed to breed in the small spaces, between rocks, up crackling bark; crunching under your black boots as you came to a shattering halt. Moss and tiny plants get crushed under your fierce steps.

If it was any other circumstance, you would have loved to drag your husband here for a vacation.

You had felt fear when they told you. Cold. Chest-tightening. Skin tingling as your limping body fought to focus on anything but the pain that was spiking in your leg, but that was simple when the words flew from Gaz’s lips with panic. Simon had stopped behind you as well, the two men dressed just as you were and holding their breath for your reaction. They knew it wouldn’t be good.

“The Captain isn’t responding. Soap can’t bloody find him.” The chill of the night was nothing compared to the dread that flooded your veins, eyes snapping forward blankly at flashing shadows as your panting breath was all at once sucked back down.

What?! Is all you can numbly think.

A brief stuttering inhalation ensues, your brain screaming as if banshees wail and smash against the bone of your skull with sharp teeth and blunt nails; tearing to try and get out. But you were not born to break at such a fickle emotion as fear in your bloodstream, or the adrenaline making your eyes vibrate. You were taught to act.

You’re turning on your heels and hiking back to the mansion without a word or hesitation, the world around you speeding by. In a single instant, the organ in your head promptly goes silent in a fell swoop of horrified realization. Everyone left in that mansion would be dead if you got your hands on them – ripped to tiny little pieces until that which was yours was returned unharmed and conscious into your arms.

You hold the M13 tight around the stock, jimmying it into your shaking grip.

“Whoa!” Gaz rushes to get ahead of your warpath – which didn’t take much as your wound was throbbing; making your head pound something awful.

It doesn't matter what I feel…Where is my John?

Dark hands grasp your shoulders tightly, shaking you as your lips turn into a snarl.

“Out of my way, Garrick,” You growl, face suddenly twisting into an image of pure animalistic rage, “I’m going to Soap’s position.”

Attempting to jerk out of the man’s hold, your skin crawls at the thought of John. He always answered the comms – always stayed within eyesight of his partner when placed with another individual. Your husband did not leave men behind. He would never leave Soap behind.

And that meant he was either dead or captured.

Your mind jumps to violent imagery. Your Captain, riddled with bullets and bleeding as he writhes in pain; left to die like a feral dog as he snaps at everything that moves. Or worse, taken and stashed away, far from you, and tortured for information. John would never break – they’d have to kill him anyway.

There was no version of this story that involved him living if you did nothing.

“Johnny isn’t at the mansion,” Ghost comments, popping up in the side of your vision as you have a stare-off with Gaz and releases the radio attached to his vest, “He was under heavy fire – had to pull back. Should be closin’ in on our position soon.”

“I’m still going back!” Growling, you snap your arms back and shoulder past Gaz, “You’re idiots if you think I’m leaving John by himself in fucking Finland surrounded by hostiles.”

But what if he’s already dead and I don’t know it? Can I handle that?

You grunt under your breath, trying to stop the sting of your eyes.

“Love,” The younger man pleads, Kyle’s dark eyes worryingly going from your thigh to your face, “You’ve got to be bloody joking with us. If you go back to that place you’re as good as dead. We have to pull back to the Evac Point. There are too many guns – we’re outnumbered.”

When you had joined Task Force 141 you had never expected to marry the older Captain of this rag-tag bunch. It had been surprising enough that you had been spotted by the brown-haired Brit at all, only seeing him once when he had come to teach a class of rookies on Counter-Terrorism. Naturally, the two of you had struck up a conversation – or, rather, you had forced him to speak to you. But how could you not? The man was about as handsome as they came. The gruff and gravel tone that rumbled his chest, his large build reminiscent of a brown bear, and how the muscles under his shirt had rippled when you snuck up on him. Physically, he was everything you wanted, and the same went for attitude once you got to know him.

And, hell, how could you look at someone like John Price and not get entranced by his eyes? Storm gray and raging waters; you swore you could see an entire world hidden in the flecks of silver as if he was carved from stone and his soul was pure electricity. But despite all of it, his serious face had seemed warm under that beard of his and that bucket hat on his head wasn’t helping. He seemed kind enough, and that had piqued your interest as you were constantly being surrounded by less-than-respectful men in the barracks.

In fact, your first sentence to him was, “How many times have you nearly lost that hat of yours mid-Op, Sir?”

You had snuck up while the rookies were working through a practice course down below the loft, where the two of you currently were. John’s head had snapped to the side, his constantly narrowed eyes widening a fraction. If you had to guess, he didn’t get snuck up on often.

But he had never met you before.

His arms were attached to the collar of his vest, and you saw the fingers tighten as his shoulder-width stance tensed below him. The shouts and calls of the people below blurred as you tilted your head, blinking innocently up at him, watching his lips move with heated thoughts.

You quite liked him looking surprised.

“Ma’am,” He utters in greeting, before letting out a deep sigh that makes you huff a laugh in turn. He seemed tired – stressed, “Very funny. Don’t suppose you’re part of the others down there, then, are you?”

“Unfortunately, no, Sir,” Your gaze filters to the flailing limbs and you watch with creasing eyebrows at the chaos, amusement deep in your blood, “I mean…they look like they’re having fun, at least.”

“Yeah, that’s a bloody exaggeration, that is,” His wrinkled forehead had creased, following the horrific sight as well, “Laswell told me that this group was promising.”

Your laugh makes his head fully turn back to you, blinking down and fighting the flick of his eyebrow in confusion.

“Oh, God, she told you that?!” Shaking your head you shifted your body to face him and stifled your chuckles. You say your name and utter out, “If you want someone who’s not going to sugarcoat things for her amusement, Captain Price, you come straight to me. Squad 5 is the one you want for Counter-Terrorism courses; certainly not 3. That’s a good way to get shot in the ass by your own guys.”

He stared at you for a long minute before his eyes flickered down to your hand; he grunted and grasped it in his own.

You were correct – he was warm. Firm. The ingrained lines of his palms splayed over yours, and the flesh of your lips softened at the delicate way he was holding you. Like you were a prized weapon.

And you would have it no other way.

“Just Price is fine, Ma’am. Kate mentioned you in her call…You were in Romania in ‘04, Yeah? Quite the job to do by yourself…You ever think on joinin’ a team?”

Three months later Laswell was giving you a call saying you were getting a promotion and the rest was subtle glances that evolved into stolen touches in dark corners when no one was looking. It had been scary how instant the feelings were realized…you trusted John with your life, just as he did with you. That was the first feeling after lust and the one far before love – protectiveness for each other on the same level as wolves in a pack.

You can’t leave him behind.

“He’s the Captain–” Your lips begin to hiss out, eyes narrowed at the ground as you struggle along. You were weaker than you should have been – blood loss leaving you nearly on the ground after the retreat, “He’s my husband!”

Rage was easier than panic. Perhaps that was why John called you Lion for a callsign.

“...And you’re going to get him killed.” The remark makes you freeze. Ghost doesn’t move from behind you as the echo of his words bounces off the trees, but you feel his presence just the same as Gaz clears his throat awkwardly, “You go back, Aarre Virtanen will put a bloody bullet in ‘em. Not a chance he doesn’t.”

Aarre Virtanen. The target that had escaped the Force’s grasp like the weasel he is. Your eyes alight with rage, and cities burn in your iris.

“You’re just about the most impulsive person I’ve ever met, Love,” John mutters into your hair, running his fingertips over the hospital gown as he lays in the bed with you. Your eyes are closed, feeling your head rise and fall with the steady breathing in the Captain's chest – damn him, the way he touched you was hypnotic; putting you to sleep where the pain meds failed.

“Hm,” You groan, digging your head deeper into his peck and feeling him chuckle velvety.

“I need to teach you how to think plans through before you commit, Yeah? Else you’re going to keep getting hurt…and we can’t have that, eh, can we Sweetheart?”

“...If you’re gonna hold me like this when I get shot, I’ll make sure to take more bullets for you from now until the end of time.”

A puff of breath and a brush of coarse beard hairs over your scalp.

“You’re hopeless, you are. What am I supposed to do with you…?”

“Probably kiss me, Sir, but I’m not picky. You can fuck me too while you’re at it.”

A shuttering of leaves rips everyone out of their arguing, and in an instant three guns are held leveled at a dense bush, shaking in the moonlight. Every moment spent with John was flashing over your eyes like you were dying. Why was your breath getting strained? Why was your grip shaking?

“Friendly! Don’t go poppin’ off shots, it’s jus’ me!” Your stance lessens at the familiar Scottish drawl, air falling from your nose in a terse sigh.

Soap’s body pops out a second later, and you’re right next to him with a heavy heart, gripping him by the arm and digging. It was hard, holding yourself together with string and fraying cloth, but you had to. You can’t break…not now. The man's vision is locked on your face, and you don’t like the thinness of his lips as his expression is layered with guilt.

It mirrors against the desperation in yours, leaking into the tone coating your sentence like poison.

“Little Lady, I–”

“Where is my husband, Johnny?” Your face contorts, pulling back. He was supposed to be here, why wasn't he here? He took MacTavish with him because he needed an expert to detonate a bomb in the lower mansion’s tunnel structure. He said he’d be back soon…Where is he? “Johnny, please, he can’t…” Begging has never been implemented in your life. Never.

But for John, you’d do anything.

The man in question flinches back, the dried blood over his face catching your gaze in the dim light as you stop dead; your eyes slashed the distance between Soap’s visage and the gore over his cheeks. Up his arms. On his hands. Staining his chest like fucking finger-paint. Before you know it you’re backing up, eyelids fluttering like hummingbird wings and jumping from place to place as all you can see is red. Your hands are slippery, and you hold them limply ahead of you.

No, no, no. No, it can’t be.

“Holy shit, Soap,” Gaz whispers, voice horrified, and you feel his hand on your back trying to steady you, “Is that…”

Ghost’s dead eyes stay locked on the scene, narrowing behind his mask. The Scot’s head flows to the blood, quickly inhaling as his nose scrunches. His lips part in horror as he tries to calm you down, backing up a step.

But you can’t stop seeing red.

“Hen, now don’t do that – it’s not…I…He,” He stumbles over his words, swallowing thickly as you gape. Soap growls, splaying his hands, “Steamn’ Bloody Jesus! The explosive went off prematurely, fucken’ bastard of a device – whoever made it should get his neck rung – an’ the…the tunnel collapsed with us in it,” You just stare, and you wonder if your heart can hurt any more than it already is. At your side, Gaz blows out a slow breath, and over your back, you feel his grip tighten, “I tried to get him out of the rubble, Hen. But,” He stops, and one of his hands smacks against the top of his helmet, “Virtanen’s men got there first. God,” Johnny gasps your name, “I’m so sorry.”

But all you do is stare.

“Love,” Garrick lightly says, his breath on the side of your face, “Love, we have to move.”

But Gaz, You want to say; scream, as your stained fingers twitch when you level them with a heavy glare, Gaz I can’t leave him here

“He’s not dead.”

Ghost grunts, fixing the position of his gun over his chest; resting on hand on the end and looking off into the trees, “They’d keep ‘em alive. Try to get answers – who he is, who sent him…” The man trails.

Your heart fractures your ribs, ears ring like cicadas under your skin.

He’s not dead, You have to tell yourself so you don’t break down, looking at everyone around with veiled shock, He’s not dead.

The only reason the four of you were still standing around was that, in the absence of John’s leadership, you took point. It hit you suddenly, then, in that instant where the storm that was going on inside of your head was silenced. These men were under your wing – they needed you to take up the mantle; you needed to trust that John was alright. If only to keep the whole of the 141 safe and alive.

Gaz had shrapnel in his back; Soap looked like he was about to either turn around and go on a rampage or slump over with his head in his hands. And Ghost well…he was Ghost, but even so, his clothes were layered with blood and dirt. Not to mention yourself – your thigh has since gone numb.

…And we can’t stay here.

With your heart falling into a deep hole, you school your expression.

Don’t think about him. Don’t do it.

Your job has never been more difficult than at that moment.

“Evac Point is a ten-minute jog. L-Laswell’s expecting us.” The voice that comes out of your mouth isn’t yours, the tone is off and the structure is shaky at best and broken at worst. There was nothing more you could do, even if you knew you could drag your way back to the mansion and start a fight.

Gaz was right, you would die if you went back. And you can’t get John home safe if you were dead.

The team needs you to lead them just as your husband would.

So, avoiding all eye contact and the wide looks, you slip out of Kyle’s hold, feeling your leg sizzle with agony as you put weight on it. Garrick mutters your name, and Soap clears his stuffed throat; coughing into the night. Ghost is the one who loops his arm under your shoulders when he strides up behind you, and you flinch at the contact before closing your eyes and feeling bitter tears drip down your cheeks.

“We’ll get ‘em back, Lion,” The man glances down at you, skeletal face glowing bone white, “I give you my word.” But you don’t answer, just grimace and will away the feelings in your heart and the vomit in the back of your throat.

This is what John would want you to do, you know that – perhaps that was the only reason you were willing to leave and reevaluate at all – but, somehow, it still felt wrong.

Akin to betrayal.

The ring around your neck suddenly weighed more than the numb flesh of your leg as tears smack the moss mutely.

—

Laswell is sitting in the meeting room as a nurse wraps your thigh tightly. The sutures underneath pull at your flesh; making it stretch at a touch of a finger as you stand upright. The others had pleaded with you to sit down, but nothing would sway you. Not even the needle that had been going through your skin when you refused pain medication. Being on your feet made you feel better – like you were about to do something which would stop the thinness of your breath and the jump of your heart. Your weight was mostly on your uninjured limb anyhow, shifting as the affected pant’s leg was cut lengthwise and shoved aside as the gauze slowly wrapped around and around.

“When are we going after him,” You ask Kate, rubbing the sleep from your eyes but only succeeding in spreading dirt and blood all over your sockets, “I’ll be ready in five if you need me to be. All of us will.”

“Damn right,” Kyle nods, “Just give the order.”

The blonde sighs, and the other men in the room move on their feet in unease. No one was content sitting still – one of their own was missing. Soap in particular was taking it badly; almost as broken up as you about it.

“We can’t do anything,” Your rampaging heart clenches. You had been worried about that, “This mission was Black,” Laswell’s chair squeaks as she rises, a tablet in her hands and a scowl on her face, “Legally speaking, no one was ever in Finland in the first place. A blown power box was the cause of the explosion.”

“Kate–�� Gaz growls, but Soap cuts him off.

“This is clatty, Laswell!” He crosses his arms, the mohawk on his head pressed down from being in a helmet for so long making him look unhinged. When the helicopter had dropped the Force off at base, a meeting had immediately been called; that was over three hours ago, and still, nothing had been done. It was precious time, “Send out drones, recon forces, anything. Hell, send us back in – we'll take care of this.”

“Sergeant MacTavish,” Kate stares at him, and she spares a quick glance at you as the nurse stands quickly and leaves. You clench your jaw. Without John being here the room felt empty, devoid of a very important figure; you were no leader, but what choice did you have but to take charge, “Price knew the risks, and…Black Op means no take backs. He’s been in this a long time.”

“We all have,” You whisper, grunting as a shiver of fire runs up your leg.

In the back of your subconscious, you know everyone can see how shaken you are. Your eyes constantly rove to the corners as if shadows will suddenly take form and attack, your fingers twitch as if still around the trigger of a gun; when someone mentions John’s name your hand unconsciously reaches to grasp the ring around your neck. Gaz spares you looks, reaching up to fix the position of his ball cap with tense breaths.

Inside, the thoughts were running faster than you could catch them. Every moment you spent with your Captain – dinner dates, gifts that you told him not to buy you but he did anyways…the list went on including the moments spent together. They were distracting you. He was distracting you.

Was this how it felt to lose a vital part of you? Like torture? But your person knows what torture was like – it had never felt as painful as this before. You couldn’t recall in your memory a time when your chest had been this wound tight, fingers so shaky and weak. Your brain was what you would consider your best companion in these situations…but this was different. Common sense had abandoned you in the form of a square brown-bearded face and strong arms.

God, John, You press your fingers into your eyes until you see stars, Please be okay. Please. I’ll be there soon. J-just wait for me.

There was another voice as well, telling you that if you just told yourself he was okay you could get through this easier. You could break later – you needed to focus on getting your husband back.

That was all that mattered.

Laswell scratches at the back of her neck, and your hands fall back to your sides.

“We can’t do anything,” Kate repeats, and the subtle change in phonics leads your head to snap up. Her deep blues were already staring at you; boring into your soul. The others perked up as well when your body stills, listening with predatory attention, “Shame. I heard the target was planning on being at a get-together in a week at his property in Poland.”

Your pulse stills, and you find your wavering voice, “...Can’t fault the man, he has a weapon-smuggling business to run…He’ll need more potential clients.”

“Hm,” The boys look back and forth with bright eyes, teeth showing as their lips peel back, “Affirm.” Laswell saunters to leave the room, slipping past you. But before she brushes against your shoulder her face tilts to you. You smell her scent – bark and coarse linen – as she speaks, “You might want to clean up the armory and get your gear repaired. John wouldn’t stand for his team looking like shit it if he was here.”

Kate saunters out the door, and you watch her back as the barrier closes, standing in silence. Sucking down a slow breath, your gaze filters back to the boys only to find them already staring at you.

“Well,” Clearing your throat, your eyebrows twitch, “You heard her. We can’t do anything…officially.”

“I’d say we better go clean up, then,” Soap grunts, crossing his arms over his chest, and nodding his head to you, “Head off and get a good sleep.”

Gaz and Ghost spare glances, but look about as ready as you are.

“You sure you’re up for this, Love?” Garrick asks motioning toward your leg with a head nod as he moves closer, “We have no problem doing this by ourselves.”

“I took my vows just the same as he did,” You respond immediately, gripping the younger man by the shoulder and sending a small, weak, smile, “You think he’d stay behind if it was me?”

“I think he’d rather let Soap make him tea again. And we know how that went last time.”

You huff out a sound that resembles a laugh, but the Scot in question refuses to look at you; your eyes catch Ghost sending you glances before he motions with his head to the man. Turning to Gaz you nod.

“You take Simon and get the gear ready. We’re leaving tomorrow first thing.”

“Copy, Ma’am.”

Ghost pats your skull once before disappearing, “Keep your head on, Lion.”

The door once more closes, and silence overtakes the small room. Taking a deep breath that fills you with a wave of ease – even if for a moment – you focus on the second big problem after a brief second to close your eyes and think.

Johnny.

He avoids your gaze; fidgets with his hands more than he usually does. The men of the 141 were dear to you and in a way, the entirety of it was a big family of people who really didn’t belong anywhere but with each other. You cared about them more than you cared about yourself – one of them was your husband, but the rest were your brothers.

“You remember when I took a metal rod right through my lower leg?” You begin, hobbling closer and nearly laughing when the man takes a step forward to help with a grimace set on his lips. You raise a hand to stop him, “In Egypt about two summers ago?”

“You shoved me out of the way and got hurled through a window by a bastard with a knife, Hen. Landed in an industrial yard,” You stop a foot or two from him, attempting to get his attention while he stares at his feet and mutters like a kicked dog, “Yeah. Remember it clear as day. Price nearly had my head – knew right here that he was gonna marry you.”

The comment warms your heart.

“Did I ever blame you for standing near that window, Johnny?” You ask softly, tilting your head and catching his eye as he clenches his jaw in thought. The scar on the pale skin moves, and his stubble bunches.

“Never, Ma’am.”

“Then why would I ever blame you for an explosive that went off spontaneously – one that you didn’t even build in the first place?”

He stays silent at that, but his head slowly rises to face yours fully. You had never seen him look so guilty before, those blue eyes of his so hopeless.

“I couldn’t get ‘em out,” Soap whispers and before you know it you’re grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into an embrace, “I left him behind. How could I…?”

There was still blood on him, stuck in the makeup of his flesh like large bruises; dried, yes, but you nonetheless felt it. You found, though, that at that second, it didn’t bother you as much as it should have. The Sergeant’s arms hesitantly wrap around you and when you feel him press forward with his weight, your form loses tension.

“No one blames you, Johnny,” He's shaking when you tell him, “No one. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. Price,” Your throat tightens, “John knows how to handle himself, you know he would never be mad at you for retreating.”

Soap wetly laughs and places his chin on the top of your head; playing it off with a chuckle as the minutes stretch on, “I’ll just have to believe you then, Lion. Who’s to say I can go against my superior?”

Your arms tighten around him as a snort meets air, “You say that and when we get the real Captain back, I might not want to give up the position. The power’ll go straight to my head.”

“And it hasn’t already? Now that’s surprising, I could have sworn you were telling the others what to do not a second ago.”

There he was.

—

“I’m just saying, John, Fantasy beat out Nonfiction as a genre,” You shake your head, bringing the cup of coffee to your lips and sipping. Over the rim, you watch the Brit toss his beanied head to the side in disbelief.

“Negative, Dear,” The Café was mostly empty today, considering that it was so late at night you were surprised it was still open and that it was a Tuesday, “I’ll agree to disagree.”

“Name me one Nonfiction book that beats ‘The Hobbit,’ hm?” Your eyebrow raises and you place the cup down, “That’s right – you can’t!”

“‘The Guns of August’ to name one,” John raises a large brow, “do you want me to continue, Love? I’ve got quite the long list.”

It was one of the rare moments when the two of you had Leave together – once in a blue moon. These moments were so special it became tradition to spend every moment together despite the wounds or the fatigue. You both had just gotten back from an Op and rushed to change into civilian clothes and clean up together before leaving.

Admittingly, the shower took a bit longer than expected, but who could blame the two of you for taking advantage of a chance to please one another?

Across the table, your lover smirks, and you see his eyes dip to ogle the hickeys and beard burn on your neck with satisfaction. Under the table, you reel back a foot and kick his shin. Not hard, of course, but the message was received.

“Bloody Hell!” He sputters, looking back to glare comedically at you. His black athletic shirt was tight around his chest, making his muscles writhe under the fabric from where one arm sat over the back of his chair. You could imagine where you left nail marks down those abs of his; how his face had looked as you straddled his waist and used him.

“Don’t look so smug, bastard,” Your lips pull into an imitation of an annoyed frown, “Gaz is gonna make fun of me when we get back. I had a hard enough time trying to hide them when we were leaving!”

“Garrick?” John grunts from across the small table and the warm lights flicker above the two of you. His lips set forth a small smile, pulling his cheeks back and crinkling his eyes. The corner seat was the best in the café – allowing both privacy and a view of the windows and doors. Some things would just never die in the two of you, it seemed, “The Muppet can’t even pin you in drills, Sweetheart. If he teases you, just kick his legs out from under ‘em.”

“Encouraging violence between peers is not Captain behavior, Love. What would Laswell say?”

John grunts, “I couldn’t give a damn, Dear.”

While you roll your eyes and try to hide the adoring smile ripping open your skin at the man’s chuckle, you take notice of the street outside as time moves on. Staring out, your soft gaze dances over the illuminated areas of the street lights, finding old architecture and simply enjoying the scenery for what it was. When you were in the field, it was hard to take in the sights around you through the gun battles and tense situations; being able to take your time and admire was a gift. A calm silence falls over the café, and John hums gingerly from ahead of you as his knee brushes yours under the table.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” Blinking, you connect your eyes with his lovely blues.

The way he’s looking at you leaves your lungs tight, lashes fluttering over your cheeks as heat alights. His body had moved forward, hands and elbows on the table and leaning forward to gaze at you in reverence.

“John?” Your eyebrows turn in, lips flicking to a gentle expression of giddy embarrassment.

“Shh, Love,” He mutters, tilting his head to stare at you as your fingers fix the weight of his lent brown leather jacket over your shoulders, “Let me admire my wife, yeah? She gets lovelier every second.”

In your own little world, your head is floating as your eyes stay locked on an ocean with flecks of silver and storms. The air is thick, and around the leather, your fingers twitch with a want to embrace him; pull at the fabric of his shirt and rip him into a kiss over the table. Your heart skips beats.

Where was this coming from? You want to ask, but all that comes out is a huff as you tear your half-lidded eyes away.

“You’re making me all shy,” You grumble cheeks hot and on fire under the flesh. Your lips try to restrain a giggle, but your chest is too tight to hold anymore.

“That’s my job, that is. No use tryin’ to stop me now; you’re stuck with me.”

“I will kick you again,” You emphasize as fire burns down your neck and ears, heart suddenly too big for your body.

“Hm, I’d let you.”

“J-Johnathan Price!”

His chest-shaking laughter is contagious in the best possible way.

—

He remembers the explosion and then nothing more. It was like a ball of fire, carried on the wind before Soap even had the time to call out a detonation time; the device went off in the deep tunnels after the order had already been given to fallback. The fire was too heavy – you had taken a blade to the thigh and that had been it. John had called it off immediately.

Just when he and Soap were about to rush to the exit, the bomb went off without call or meaning. The tunnels were part of an old wine cellar – the target had converted them to be a quick back exit if anything went wrong and he needed to disappear.

The entire purpose of John taking Soap with him was to collapse the long stretches of rock and wooden support beams; to box Aarre Virtanen in the mansion like a bear in a trap but, of course, these missions could never go simply.

He remembers the explosion, and then nothing more.

The pressure of rock on his chest and gripping hands. Was Soap the one yelling at him to wake up? Shoving off the debris and ripping at his gear with grunted breaths? The barked orders were getting closer from all over.

Muppet, he should have just run.

But then the heavy presence had disappeared, and John knew he had been left behind; his thoughts, before it all left him, were only of you. How would you take it? The fact that he wasn’t coming home with you was sure to induce you into a rampage of gritted teeth and hurled curses. That was, perhaps, the worst thing that could happen. He prayed for one simple thing – that, no matter what, the boys would convince you to hold back.

And then he woke up in the room.

It was small; barren of anything besides the chair John was tied to. Under his feet was a drain, the silver metal glinting as the chilling overhead light cascaded down and left him blinking rapidly to push back the instinctual tears gathering in his ducts. As John moves his neck, it pops, making his jaw clench even as the bones ache deep under the layers of black and blue flesh.

His whole body hurts.

Blood is dried over his skin, and the world around him pulses as the stab of broken bones moves inside of him.

Concussion, He assesses, moving his wrists under the tight hold of rope from where they’re restricted behind his back; tied to the back of the metal seat. Still unable to focus his eyes, he continues to go down the list of injuries, broken ribs, John sucks in a sharp breath when he attempts to rotate his left ankle, and broken Fibula and Tibia. Bruises and lacerations everywhere…shit.

But were you alright? Was the knife wound treated, wherever you were? Did Mactavish get out?

Groaning deep in his throat, the Captain shakes his head, noticing immediately the familiar weight of his gear was absent – his bucket hat and night-vision rig are gone as are the combat vest and M13. But under his shirt, one item is still there, pressed into his skin deeply.

Golden metal. The wedding band. At the very least, that item could bring him a sliver of comfort.

Narrowing his eyelids and scrunching his large nose, a bead of blood travels down a gash above his eyebrow.

“Fucken’ hell,” John growls, grunting and groaning as he forces his neck to right itself, lower body jerking forward to help relieve the pressure on his midsection.

Finally, the water over his eyes dissipates like a wave in the ocean and his ears cease ringing. But the buzzing of the light quickly takes its place and his nose twitches at the stench of black mold and gore. Everything was concrete – the walls, floors. Blinking, John’s eyes quickly snap around the room to take it all in; trying to find the weak points that may come in handy later.

There was only one door and no windows. When the Brit tried the rope around his wrists he found it was bound incredibly tight, even making the skin irritated at the slightest movement.

“Bloody bastard,” The Captain weakly mutters under his breath, shuffling in his seat, “First you stab my wife then you tie me up, is that it?”

Struggling does nothing but serve to make John angrier, and the pain can easily be thrown to the side when his thoughts run to you. They always did, but now more than ever, considering he didn’t know if you had also gotten captured and were only a concrete barrier away.

While he tries to force down the floating feeling of his brain, a sharp cough works its way from his mouth, jerking his body back and forth raggedly. John is so out of it that he missed the sound of the door opening, the violent squeaking of the metal hinges, and the scrape of concrete. Heavy shoes pound over the floor, and when the air finally returns to his rampaging lungs, blue eyes lock onto the man.

Aarre Virtanen stands with his hands behind his back, a smug expression staining his perfect, unscathed, face. The Target wasn’t more than thirty, dressed in a nice expensive suit and dress shoes on his feet shining with more polish than Price could begin to wrap his head around.

Muppet, The characterization was almost instantaneous, Pompous little Muppet. Lion would eat ‘em for bloody breakfast.

John raises a brow slowly as a dribble of blood slides down his nose and gets caught in his beard hairs. The two men stare at one another, eyes clashing.

“I’d like to imagine,” Aarre smirks down at the Captain, “That whoever sent you planned on my life being forfeit. Unfortunately,” John has to stop himself from laughing in his face, “As you can see, Sir, I am very much alive.”

Narrowing his gaze, Price runs down the length of Aarre’s twig-like form – Not much of a Smuggler, is he? His picture made him look bigger.

But all that meant was that he had others to do the dirty work for him, and John knew that, whatever basement he was cramped into, was guarded heavily just beyond eyesight.

The chances of escape were drawing up dry, and his tongue ran over his teeth.

“The real question is, however,” The thin man speaks, coming closer with a careful step. Nose twitching, the Brit can smell the disgusting odor of violent perfume; his head rears back in disgust that the Smuggler takes as fear. Aarre leans closer, “Who might you be? Your little friends managed to slip my grasp, but we got that bitch in the thigh–”

John’s head moves forward so fast all that was seen was a blur, and soon after a cracking of a nose meets damp air.

A muffled yell echoes off the cracked walls like a satisfactory reward to the Captain’s ears, and the brown-haired individual quickly shakes his head to the side to clear the bouncing of his skull.

Definitely a concussion. He hisses and rips at the bindings behind his back; all that gets him is bloody skin and blisters.

“You,” Aarre is stumbling backward, one hand grasping his broken and bleeding nose. Crimson splatters on the floor and ragged breathing rattle chests from both parties, quivering around the room, “You…p-pathetic little shit. Fuck!”

His tears only serve to make John smile, cheeks pulling back as a humorless chuckle enters the air. Feral satisfaction lives in his flesh.

“You better watch your language there, Mutt. It’s not proper to insult a lady who can’t be here,” John’s tone drops, nearly a growl as the deep rumble leaves a hunched over Aarre flinching back; the Captain’s teeth are bared like an animal. Feet sound off in the hallways – rushing boots booking it down a set of descending stairs, “To knock your fucken’ teeth in herself!”

Blood spits from John’s lips at the hiss, and his limp feet over the floor slump to the side as his legs fall open, body raging forward as if he could break the restraints. He wanted to – wanted to bash this little bastard's skull against the floor until he was unrecognizable.

How dare he say that? How dare he call you that?!

Pain could be shoved aside in this case, his anger was so overpowering when it came to you that it simply didn’t bother him. You defended him just as religiously, and John’s mind flies to glimpse a fast memory of you physically getting in the face of a man who had insulted him over some pointless football game at a bar.

“You better mind your tone,” You had spoken slowly, face calm and the perfect example of hidden rage shimmering under the surface. The Brit watched from the corner of his eye with a smirk on his lips; not at all opposed to letting you pick your battles and feeling his heart skip beats when his title falls, “When speaking to my husband like that.”

Aarre’s guards rushed through the door, guns held in hands, all immediately leveled on John’s head.

“Don’t!” The target gasps out, slapping one of the barrels to the floor and straightening himself, “Don’t.”

A deep smirk spreads the still-falling stream of crimson over the sides of his lips; the brown-haired man’s muscles are tense, stringing him up like a wire or a snake ready to strike. Torture was elementary to him, he’d gone through it all before and none of it had ever worked. He could take it, as long as you were far away from here.

“He’s going to have a buyer,” John’s eyes minutely widened in surprise, caught off guard, “Prep him for the flight to Poland. Don’t bother being gentle…the staff won’t mind if he comes in a bit damaged.”

—

Your fingers flinch forward as you shove the sapphire earring into your ear, the sharp point poking out the other end before you shove the backing on. Taking a deep breath, you feel the car under you bounce right as you ask your question.

“Gaz?” Lips thinning, you look through the limo’s glass separator and grimace at the man’s reflection in the mirror, “Are you sure no one knows what we look like? No one at the mansion saw our faces?”

“Lion, I’m promising you – it was too dark, and we were moving too fast for ‘em to get a clear picture.”

“Hm,” You grunt, flattening out the brown fur jacket over your form-fitting gown. The navy blue color was deep, reminding you of a Lapis Lazuli stone with veins of silver reflected in the jewelry around your throat and wrists.

Poland was cold this time of year, and as the expensive buildings whizzed past just outside the glass, your breath created condensation.

You were nervous, heeled feet shuffling over the tufted floor of the vehicle and sucking down slow breaths as a way to slow your heart. It had been a week without John at your side, and all the makeup in the world couldn’t hide the bags that had sprouted under your eyes; sleep had come in bouts of quick fatigue but then left just as swiftly. Your body wouldn't relax – couldn’t – until your husband was right beside you once more.

And if he was already dead…

Your hand goes to itch at your neck, catching on the necklaces, one specifically, before you force it back down with quivering effort. Attempting to shake out your head, your ribs suddenly feel like they’re strangling your organs, and all you want to do is take off this damn dress.

Kyle utters your name from the driver’s seat, and when you blink over to look at him, you find his eyes already staring back.

“When I went missing in the Congo – you raised hell to go and find me,” He tells you, focus flicking back and forth from the road to you, “If anyone can get intel on Price and bring him back, Love, it’s you. He’ll be just fine until then, yeah? Bloke’s probably already out and rushing to get back to you.”

“Think so?” Your lips form a smile, and on your forehead, a brow raises. John was stubborn, there was certainly a chance he was already free.

“Know so, Ma’am. Just you wait and see.” Snorting, you return to looking out the window, breath now noticeably more even.

There weren't many people who could make you keep a conscience; when you worked alone before 141 it was because no one else could keep up with your spontaneous plans or ideas. You were described in your file as a quick-witted and cunning nuisance for anyone on the opposite end of your weapon – whether that be your tongue or an actual gun just depended on the Op. But John and the other boys were more of a good influence than a bad one; in many ways, they were just the same as you.

Sometimes it felt nice to have people that understood you. Your actions, the small tics that gave away how you were feeling. No one else could do it like Task Force 141, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The rest of the ride was silent, and soon the city was peeling back to show off more extravagant houses with iron gates and cobblestone walkways. Properties the size of football fields take up your view, and your eyes blink at the extravagance; all you can’t help but wonder about is if the people that live there even know how many rooms they have.

When Gaz makes the final turn onto Aarre Virtanen’s land, you suck down a deep breath.

There were so many lights that the night sky is nearly re-illuminated with a bath of warmth – the people already inside can be heard out in the air, a chorus of phantoms just beyond eyesight who sing with alcoholic breath and gasp down smoke. You had been to many parties to infiltrate high-level organizations, but never had the stakes been so high.

Or so illegal.

When the car in front of you pulls out of the roundabout driveway, Garrick pushes on the gas to take its place. A moment of steel silence rings.

“Earpiece?” Gaz reminds softly, and you nod in response, tapping the appendage on your right side.

“Earpiece.”

“Alright…The rest of us’ll be listening – I’ll circle ‘round and be inside in an hour and Ghost is already there. He’s the waiter wearing the silver Jackal mask serving champagne near the back window. If anything goes wrong, Soap’s our sniper on the roof of the neighbor's house. Say the word and he starts popping shots to give you an exit.”

“Affirm,” Your hand is already reaching for the door, but the man stops you one last time with your name. You find his creased eyes in the mirror, brown a deep shade of concern.

“...You look beautiful, Love, Yeah? I’m sorry the Cap. isn’t here to see you like this – he’d lose his damn mind. Go all slack-jawed and trip over his own feet; God, I’d pay to see that.”

Lips delicately slide into a smile, and your face heats at the compliment. Letting out a light chuckle, you whisper, “I’ll see you in an hour, Sergeant.”

“Count on it. Stay out of trouble ‘till then?”

“Trouble? Since when have I ever gotten into trouble?” When you sneak out the door, a light chuckle bounces off the doors before they close, and your heels click against the ground like nails on a desk.

With a bitter determination entering your blood, your expression eases into a look of smug superiority as you begin to move forward and ascend the steps in front of the mansion.

Virtanen was inside those doors, and your ears twitch, listening to Gaz peel the car away into the night; plucking out the forged invitation from your jacket pocket, you can’t help but call John forward to memory. Carefully maneuvering your way up the last flight of stairs, you reach the doors and imagine your husband right behind you, clothed in a suit and tie like the one he wore to your wedding, waiting to take you by the arm and lend you strength.

Keep me aware, You want to ask his phantom, Make me see the hidden details so I can bring you home to me.

Invitation in hand – which Ghost had to go through quite the killing spree to get accurate – your lips flick into an easy smirk.

Your silver tongue would come in handy tonight, but you hoped you weren’t too tired to miss important social cues. You needed to figure out where John was by tonight, or there was the possibility of losing him forever. Aarre Virtanen was the target yet again, and you would do whatever was necessary to get information to spill from his mouth like prayers; the party was an obvious front to impress buyers.

And you could play that part quintessentially.

“Hello, Handsome,” Purring, you move fluidly, body swaying as you come to a stop, letting your fur jacket slip down around your elbows and display a delicious amount of skin around your adorned neck, “So sorry you’re stuck out here in the cold, I can’t imagine what a bore it’s been.”

The man couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, eyes wide as they bore into your form from behind a silver mask depicting a bird of prey. His eyes slip, and a very audible swallowing of saliva makes his throat jerk – the poor individual's face was undoubtedly beet-red, seen extending down his neck and ears.

“I-It’s really no problem, Ma’am,” He stutters, grabbing the slip of paper from your outstretched hand and barely opening it before he shoves it back into your chest, “You’re all good! Please, enjoy the hospitality of Sir Aarre Virtanen to the fullest of your abilities.”

“Why,” You show an all-teeth smile, “I’m sure I will.”

Slipping through when he opens the door, a woman in a cat mask offers to take your jacket to the coatroom, which you agree to immediately, and disappears a second later.

“Did you just flirt with the doorman, Hen?” Soap’s voice nearly startles you, but with a subtle flick of your hair, you play off the flinch as you step through the extensive foyer; slipping past other well-dressed individuals to make it to the ballroom, “Tch, naughty, naughty.”

“You’d be surprised,” You mutter and send a polite smile to a man who ogles your form, his eyes boring into your flesh, “How fast people can look over an invitation if you give them an incentive. Simon’s forger misspelled the street name.”

“Bloody fucken’ bastard,” Ghost growls lowly under the line.

“So vulgar, Simon,” You smirk, waltzing into the marble-floored ballroom and clearing yourself a path with wide eyes and stares, “We’re at a party. Aren’t you excited?”

“You’re not the one holding a damn plate of champagne, Little Lion. Feelin’ like I might bash someone over the head if they wave me over with a fucken’ finger again. Like I’m some damn mutt.”

Stifling a deep laugh, your fingers splay over your lips, “Easy, boy. Don’t go barking up the wrong tree.”

All you hear in return is a grumble and a muffled giggle from Soap. Gaz is most likely scrambling to get his tux on and tie a bowtie like how you taught him on the far street corner back in the city. Slowly, but surely, it was coming together.

Soon, You tell yourself and imagine a steady hand splayed over your back; digging into your skin.

“Excuse me?” A presence slips up to your left, and you turn with a slow head and an even slower smile. Already, your cheeks were hurting from the constant fake expression.

“Oh, hello, Love,” It’s a man who wears an all-black outfit, fitted with silver buttons and a red pocket square, “How can I help you?”

“That’s one of the target’s guards,” Soap slithers out over the line, “Saw ‘em scheming not five minutes ago near the snack bar.”

“I was wondering if such a beautiful woman might not humor me. I’m in desperate need of company for the auction later this evening.” Your smile turns deadly, a glint forming in your eye that should have deterred anyone who saw it – but sometimes people overlook the snake in the grass if it’s pretty, regardless of its fangs.

Getting close to this man got you close to Aarre. Your hand reaches up to caress the wedding ring on its chain.

“Well, how could I say no to such a dashing man? But you must tell me, where did you purchase your tux? My brother has been looking for one that looks the same; you understand, of course, the kind that hugs the body just right…”

—

“You’re a fucken’ minx, you are,” John moans under you, hips sputtering and jaw clenched. He’s panting as you finally slip off of him, choosing to collapse to the bed just by his side with a breathy sigh. Your legs are still shaking, but the deep-rooted ache of pleasure takes hold in your lower body nonetheless.

Chuckling while sucking down breaths, you smirk and turn your head to the side, finding deep blue already digging into your skin despite the glaze over the orbs. Perspiration leaks down his flushed forehead, getting caught in the hairs of his eyebrow before you reach up, and flick it away with a firm finger.

“And you’re a lousy bottom, Captain, how many times did I have to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?” You ask, eyeing the way the brown strands of John’s hair stick up at odd angles with growing amusement. He looked like a porcupine, “You don’t listen very well. I’ll have to fix that.”

“Damn woman,” He groans, turning his head away with a huff escaping his lips. Your ears twitch when he cracks his neck, stifling a chortle behind your fingers as he levels you with an unamused look, “Need to figure out a way to tire you out quicker. Gettin’ too old for this.”

“Hm,” Rolling your eyes, you shift till you’re laying on your stomach, legs sliding over the ruffled sheets, “I like you like this. Just perfect.”

“Yeah? Tell that to my hips, Love.” Now that really gets a laugh out of you, hiding your face down in the covers for a moment and feeling John’s eyes lovingly gracing down the curve of your spine.

Reaching over, your fingers grab onto the bare skin of his toned thigh and pinch.

Grunting in surprise, the Captain’s hand snaps to your wrist and grasps it as your giggles fill the air with softness. You turn your head up and rest your chin on your free hand, looking over and letting your eyes wash down John’s physique; a primal sense of possessiveness leaks into you when you know no one else gets to see him like this. The nail marks track down his pecks, over his abs and deliciously lower atop his navel, and over his neck and collarbone is the fresh array of black and blue hickeys. Just like you, his heart was still racing, seen moving under the skin.

He looked positively, beautifully, wrecked. The Captain’s eyes never left yours, side-eyeing you with a half-open mouth. A small sigh leaves his red lips.

“C’mere,” John mutters, and you squeak when his grip is suddenly pulling you right up next to his chest so that you were more than half lying on top of him.

Moaning out in contentment when you feel his heat leak into you, your body goes limp against the man; leg thrown over his upper thigh. Eyelashes flutter over your cheek when his large hand keeps you against him, settling on your ass heavily. He squeezes gently in payback for the pinch, and you smile, knowing he can feel it against his chest by the way he purrs like a cat as you press a kiss to his sweat-slick flesh.

The moment of content silence leads long, but just when your eyelids are nearing their final shut is when you hear it, muttered on teeth-bitten lips for the first time, though it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Love you, my Sweet Girl,” John mutters deeply into the air, but you’re already drowned in sleep, satisfied and more at ease than ever before.

But no matter, he’d just tell you again in the morning; make you say the same as he gripped your hips and used his tongue for more…carnal types of confessions.

You had no idea at that moment, but two years from that day, you’d both be married. Husband and wife in every sense – bonded and promised to each other until the sun and moon collided; till every city burned and only dust remained.

There was really no other pair so carefully crafted than the two of you.

—

“Here you are, Lovely,” The guard, whose name is Mikael, hands you a champagne glass as you both stride forward to the bidding room. It had been two hours of entertaining this man – dancing, flirting, brushing off compliments that made you want to hurl – but none of that mattered. No matter the cost, you would see this done with a smile and a knife through Virtanen’s eye.

“Thank you,” You sing, toasting with him and taking a slow sip. The liquid sits bitterly in your stomach, a rock that bounces around with every clipped step.

Choosing back-row seats, you sit in what could be described as a theater of sorts and place the glass on the floor. There was a large stage at the front, with rows upon rows of plush chairs.

How many people are here to buy smuggled contraband? You can’t help but wonder silently, eyes wide as more and more people flood through the doors.

“Do you usually get so many buyers?” Asking Mikael sweetly, you keep your gaze moving, filing every face into the back of your mind for later.

His hand moves to rest on the back of your seat, and you have to hold back a grimace, “This is more than the last times, but, uh…well,” Sensing hesitation, you shift closer and peer up into his eyes, blinking innocently and smiling.

“Well…what?”

You swore you heard Soap gag over the line and soon after a sharp shushing sound. At your side, Mikael’s expression gets giddy, pupils dilating as his vision darts down to your dress before righting itself.

“My boss has got something good tonight – a new piece of merchandise that everyone wants to get their hands on. Apparently, some people here have been waiting for a score like this for years.”

“Oh?” Wondering aloud, you lean back out of Mikael’s hold with a furrowed brow and ignore his light huff of annoyance in your ear.

Narrowing your eyes, you scrunch your nose at the thought.

‘New piece of merchandise?’ What the hell could that mean? The target mostly specializes in weapons – certain ones that are manufactured so that they can’t be traced…what could be so new?

“It’s starting, here,” The guard whispers as the lights dim, and hands you a golden-colored bid paddle designed with lace-like designs. You twirl it in your hands with an unimpressed look.

“How pompous can this guy get?” You mutter under your breath and startle when Ghost’s voice pipes up.

“Get me a new G18, yeah? Johnny lost my last one.” Resisting the sudden urge to cover up your face and hide your smile, you lightly hum in the back of your throat.

“I did not!” Soap starts a ruckus as the Auctioneer comes onto the stage, and you ignore the fast man’s voice as he begins a bid for a stack of RPGs – wheeled out in a crate by three other individuals in animal masks – in favor of the amusing argument, “I told ya’ where you could blood find it.”

“It was in the middle of an active war zone, MacTavish.”

“You’ve never complained about it before, ya’ bawbag. Canny be my fault if you don’t go an’ get it.” The Scots accent gets more prominent as the Auctioneer sells the current merchandise to a couple sitting two rows down, “‘I lost it’...utter shite.”

Gaz groans and you see a shadow near the door, leaning on the wood from the corner of your eye. The badly presented bowtie gives away who it is – you’d have to have John teach him how to do it properly when you got him back.

“Would the two of you shut up? Bloody hell, I’m about to scream.”

The bickering went on for a while, making your tight chest just a little looser. John would be proud of them.

“Finally,” The Auctioneer calls out, yelling over the crowd, “The grand attraction for tonight – a product put forward by our esteemed host Mr. Virtanen!”

Your body straightens, spine tensing, as Mikael tries to get your attention fruitlessly to talk about a product he won. You ignore the guard, watching with a unique type of hatred as the weasel of a man swishes his way on stage from behind the red curtain. Immediately all conversation in your ear is halted, and try as you might, a growl builds in your throat.

“Easy, Lion,” Simon mutters, but all you see is red; red around an expensive tux and a lithe form of the man who had stolen away your husband from you without thinking of the consequences. The bandages over his nose gives you cruel satisfaction that someone, whoever they were, had gotten a hit in.

You had half the mind to tell Soap to take the shot but knew that if you did, John would be lost forever. Your Captain had always said violence and timing were the most important aspects of a mission – you had to politely disagree.

Ops could be accomplished without violence, though it was rare, it could still happen on occasion and timing was all relative. One person could say it was time to act while a million others disagreed; this was shown in your case. You wanted to rush the stage, tackle the thief, and beat his head in – Gaz, Soap, and Ghost would all disagree, of course, but that was because you were thinking only about John and nothing else.

What really mattered was cunning and drive. You had the silver tongue, and you, without a doubt, had the drive to see this through.

But nothing could have prepared you for what came next.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aarre Virtanen called out, his thin face ugly and punchable, “May I present the star of tonight's bidding wars – an esteemed and highly sought-after mystery man! Captain Jonathan Price!”

The curtain rolled back, and, tied to a chair with a light shining above his head, was John. Beaten. Bloodied. Barely recognizable besides the tufts of his brown locks and the glittering of golden metal under the ragged remains of his clothes. You can see his wedding band around his neck, and you go to grip your own in a flashing second. There was so much blood. Your heart ceased working, body suddenly very numb and stone-still despite the heat in it, as if you had been shot in the throat and all you could do was gasp out in panic. And gasp you did. It was involuntary, instinctual, like you could feel every ounce of pain and agony that he was undoubtedly in deep in your own marrow.

What?!

A loud, horrified, sound rips from your throat; the air was hard to suck down as your hand snapped to your mouth, muffling the exclamation of terror. Your eyes are so wide you’re afraid they’ll pop out of their sockets as you lightly hunch into yourself like a bug.

“Now, now!” Aarre Virtanen continues over the muttering of the crowd, oblivious to your panic in the back row. Mikael is giving you strange looks, lightly pulling away from you in confusion at your reaction; you don't register any of it, “I know what you’re thinking, my lovely patrons, but I can say without a doubt that this man–” He points to the limp figure, “Is the one and only Johnathan Price! Do you want to know why?” The crowd cheers, and in that instant you want to torch the entire building and laugh as it burns to the ground, “Because he and his precious 141 tried to attack me on my own property! The idiot’s explosive went off before they could run!”

Over the ruckus of gleeful laughter, Soap on the line is hissing curses under his breath, voice heated and full of hatred.

What I’m I supposed to do? Your mind’s running. For the first time in your career, you can’t focus clearly. Gaz is saying something in your ear, his shadow slinking closer step-by-step, and Ghost is nowhere to be seen or heard.

Oh, John, You feel like crying, eyes running from one injury to another as if he were just a punching bag – his body was broken, but still, you knew he hadn’t given anything away. In the chair, you can see the small inhalations of his lungs, jumpy and shaking, but he was still breathing.

“How did they figure out his name?” Simon grunts over the line, and his tone is the only one unaffected by emotion, even if you could feel the anger wafting out and mirroring your own.

His dog tags, You want to tell them, He keeps them in his vest pocket because he said he wanted to wear his wedding band instead.

Your hand tightens over your matching piece, one half of a promise to protect one another even in the direst of circumstances.

Freezing, you snap back into focus as the bidding starts with Aarre Virtanen laughing and clapping on stage like some demented jester. So be it. Your mind halts and a rage-induced calm encompasses you as your eyes stick like glue to John. Tossing the joke of a bid paddle at a startled Mikael’s lap and slipping past him, your heels connect with the floor with muffled thumps, carrying you down the middle of the aisle.

“Ma’am–!”

“Lion, what in the bloody hell are you doing?!”

“Playing the game,” You growl over the chaos in the comm, “Gaz, find a way to get on stage from behind one of the curtains,” People are starting to turn and look at you now, accusing glances that bounce off you like flies, “Soap, have a line of sight of the target – do not let him stray from it no matter what. And Ghost,” Your heart is speeding when Virtanen’s gaze snaps to yours, expression blanking. John groans weakly from where his head is downturned, and you can’t help but take a shaky breath at the sound, “Go find out where they store the sold items. Find something that’ll come in handy. Take out anyone you need, I give full Execute Authority.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” They all say it at once, and the line goes silent not a second after, flipped off so everyone can remain focused. Steeling your body, you put on a cloak of indifference, even as your eyes bug and sweat stains your palms – the stakes had never been this high, and if you messed this up…

The both of you would be going home in body bags.

If I had known he was going to be here, I would have come more prepared. A knife in a carry bag or a hairpin – Something. But John had stated before that he loved you for your intuition.

You simply needed to move your pawn piece and hope it wasn’t in the way of a bishop.

Sliding over your husband's slumped body once more, you have to rip your gaze away, else your cover be blown and everything falls apart before it’s begun as a sting forms in the back of your nose.

Just a little longer, Love, just hold out a little bit longer.

The Auctioneer halts when you stand just below the slightly higher plateau of the platform, and Aarre digs into your body with his dead face, body bent to stare down at you. All around you, the world is deathly quiet. A minute…two…

“And who might this be?” Virtanen spits, lips pulling into a sneer as his eyes crinkle, “I don’t have to tell you, Dear, that all purchases are final.”

Don’t look at John. Don’t look at him.

“You said this is Johnathan Price?” Your voice carries; it's stronger than you would have imagined, even as your legs shake, “Well, I don’t believe you.” You swore then that your Captain’s head moved slightly, his face turning to the side, but you can’t be sure.

Gasps are hidden behind hands and handkerchiefs.

“...What?” The smug look on the man's face falls in an instant, just as you had hoped it would – Virtanen relied on his power; ego, and unquestioned superiority. What you had to do first was break it down to a point where he was frothing at the mouth, “What is it that you are implying? That I would…lie to my loyal customers?!”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Your feet carry you away to the stairs, scaling them up to the stage and shoving past shell-shocked guards who didn’t know what to do, “Where’s the proof, Mr. Virtanen? I believe I would like to see it before I make any definitive financial choices. You could be selling us any stray British man you found on the street and we’d be none the wiser for it.”

There was a pause before a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

Aarre gapes at you, mouth opening and closing as his face gains a red sheen, blood rushing to his head and making his eyes rapidly flutter from the guests to you. Swallowing down saliva, you saunter up to John, fingers shaking as they reach out to brush his arm. You nearly break when his flesh flinches and becomes tense, muscles writhing as you hook a finger under his chin all too aware of the eyes on you from every angle. It helps that one of them is Soap, though.

Looping the digit under him, John’s beard scratches your skin just like it always did when you ran your hands over his cheeks or around his square face. Moving his head up, your grip vibrates with anxiety when you’re finally able to take a full look at his visage.

Please be okay, Love.

You can’t help the widening of your eyes when they lock on the bruises, the cuts, and scratches littering his large nose and forehead. His eyelids flutter over sunken cheeks, bags of severe color under his orbs as a rumble echoes in his battered chest.

Did they even feed him?

“I don’t – I don’t like what you’re implying, Miss!” The Target continues to prattle, but already your shoulders have squared, “I would never, in a million years, make such false claims–!”

When John’s eyes shutter open you seem to forget where you are entirely, head completely going silent off all fears or concerns. As the lids slide back, you notice one optic is bathed in red – the veins in the gentle sensory organ having been popped by relentless fists…but the other, oh, oh, the other. A shade so familiar it twists your lips and makes your heart clench. Storm gray; ocean blue, flecks of moonlight trapped just for you.

John’s focus is blurry, his mind confused and in need of a dark room with a glass of chilled whiskey to put on his forehead, but...that finger under his chin. His gaze narrows, lips pulling tight under his beard hairs as a shadow stands in front of him. Why did it feel so familiar? So…warm?

“John?” A soft voice graces his ears, leaving them twitching as his arms burn more than a thousand suns, “John, please, look at me.”

His face scrunches, eyebrows turning in. Blinking, the man only succeeds for a few moments, consciousness so rapidly fading because of the wear on his body, but a few moments was all he needed.

It was you – looking at him with terrified eyes, mouth slightly parted in awe. John’s heart skips beats.

She’s here? He questions, weakly moving his arms to try and embrace her before the rope stops his bloodied and shredded hands, Why? How? And…oh hell, is that a dress?

Blinking at the navy gown, his eyes widened at the heavenly sight in front of him. Was he dead? No, he realized, you wouldn’t be here if he was. But that was the only option to see something like this in front of him when he was where he currently was.

“L-love?” He gasps out, letting his full weight fall into your hold.

Your hand brushes over his beard, tangling in the bristles and flinching at the open wounds that you find.

“It’s me,” You whimper, “I’m right here.”

If possible, he gravitates toward you even more.

“--Are you even listening?!” Aarre Virtanen yells, and people are standing from their seats out in the crowd, calling out in confusion.

John murmurs out comments from under your grip, but they’re so weak you can’t make them out as he nuzzles your limb. From the corner of your eye, a figure rustles one of the stage curtains, held back in the shadows.

“I’m here,” Gaz says a second before Simon does.

“I found something that might come in handy...When I throw it, get Price out of there and take cover.”

“Soap?” You ask, voice low and gaining a sheen of ice. Slowly, your head tilts to the side, gripping your husband by the back of the head and drawing him to your stomach, caressing his scalp through his hair as he sighs into your dress.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Take it.”

“...With pleasure.” The ear-ringing shot fires off, breaking glass and rustling half-drawn curtains, but it meets its mark with expert precision.

Aarre Virtanen’s head pops like a balloon, and a moment later a smoke bomb is being chucked from halfway across the room by a Jackal-masked waiter with a strong arm. Before the guards can even get to their pistols around their thighs, Gaz has rushed through the smoke and sliced John’s bonds with a serrated cake knife. Both of you grab your Captain by one of his arms and drag him off to the side, disappearing just as the first screams wail out.

The 141 works like a well-oiled machine, and not five minutes later everyone is in the limo that Gaz had re-driven and parked down the dark roads of Poland, rushing off as you press table cloths against your husband’s leaking cuts. Tears dribble down your cheeks, with large hiccuped gasps as you lean over John – who could only barely keep his eyes open to look at you as Soap and Ghost watch anxiously from their seats.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack, y’know that,” You sob out, practically sitting on top of him to stop the crimson leaking over the cushions, “I need to keep a bell on you, my Love.”

Your wedding band sways just above his face, and his own glints below you, bunched on his collarbone.

“Go on,” He says in a low voice, eyes incredibly soft but still distant in a way that told you he was concussed. It was a miracle he was even conscious if you could admit it to yourself.

The man’s shaking hand travels to your cheek, brushing away tear tracks only to leave blood stains behind instead. He pulls away slightly, staring at the mark in disgust as his complexion gets even paler. Snapping your grip up, you bring it back, making him cup your flesh in his big hands and splay his fingers over your ear and weave into your hair.

John hums under his breath, “Beautiful.”

Then he goes limp, and you start screaming.

—

Stripping your face of makeup, you step into the shower with only your necklace on, letting the water slap against your head as you take a deep breath in. You lean forward, letting your head connect with the porcelain of the hospital’s washroom as your body begins to shake – finally allowed to fall apart and feel the genuine horror that had lived in you for a week straight.

John was just a door away in the hard bed of some random hospital Gaz had driven to. Quite recklessly, you should mention, but it’s not like it mattered.

Ghost was on the phone with Laswell, getting a protection detail in case anyone attempted to break into the room and stab someone with a scalpel, while Gaz and Soap also got ready for sleep. No one was leaving the hospital tonight. Garrick had explained the situation in broken Polish to the local authorities, and the staff was kind enough to give out a free office room with pillows and blankets. It was a good thing that the room was connected to John’s, otherwise, you might have refused…even if the bags under your eyes threatened to block your line of sight.

Wiping blood and grime from your body, you take less time than you should have in the shower – too occupied with being by your husband's bedside. The new stitches on your recently ripped-open thigh wound were red with irritation, but you had all but forgotten about it entirely.

They had only just gotten John stable an hour ago.

“They, uh,” Gaz’s eyelids crease, “I think they said that they had to re-” He halts, face going slack, and sending you a slow look, “restart his heart.”

“They nearly beat him to death,” You whisper, hands coming up to weave over the top of your head as you sob into the wall, “They…God, John. I was nearly too late.”

Your words trail off in a weak whimper, muffled over the sound of water and the whirring fan in the ceiling. What if you had been five minutes late? Three? Would he have…

Would he have died in your arms?

You spend the rest of the shower wondering, and as you dry yourself off and slip into sweats and a hoodie from the gift shop, your tears splatter the floor. Rubbing your nose, you sniffle; reaching to grab the ring and pull the chain out above the fabric. Your fingers caress the item for a minute or two, and your eyes flutter shut.

He’s okay, You tell yourself, He’s just a door away. He’s alive.

You open the door and let the steam waft, itching at your neck before you take a steadying breath. John lays still on the hospital bed, body hooked to machines that display screens and vital signs with glitching green lights that pierce your eyes as if a mocking little beast was behind the glass.

Your husband’s wounds are all stitched and glued back together; wrapped tightly and tucked in by your gentle hands with an extra blanket. He usually complained about how cold it was back at your shared flat in London and around the multiple bases the Force traveled to…you would hate for him to shiver here.

It was the least you could do.

Drawing your eyebrows in, the red ring around your eyes doesn’t help the sting, but still, you gaze at your husband with all the tender concern in the world.

If was determined, then, that you wouldn’t be able to sleep until he was awake; until you saw his eyes soften on your figure. Until he was tracing the very makeup of your genetics like no other being could even have a glimpse of you in their features – like the aspects of your form were holy and utterly unique, never seen besides out of legend and fable. You longed to bathe his flesh in the feeling of your touch. If you believed it hard enough, you could convince yourself that you could make him forget this ordeal, forget the wounds.

But you were no fool. A cunning nuisance, perhaps, but not a fool.

All you could do was wait for him to wake up, and so your socked feet carry over the tile and bring you to the chairs beside the bed, grabbing one and pulling it out. Your fingers intertwined with his, weaving the calloused pads and scared flesh that mirrored your own like an echo of history together.

Bringing his limb to your face, you rest your forehead on it, feeling the pump of his blood like a hymn and letting it calm you. A presence in the room makes your once closed eye crack open, slipping to the side. You had only just noticed him.

I really must be tired.

“Doctors say he’s stable,” Gaz mutters lowly, leaning against the wall in the far corner. It was like he had known you wanted someone to watch John while you couldn’t – even if only for a few minutes, “They came in while you were showering”

Your lungs inflate, “...Thank you, Kyle.”

You feel his eyes on you, but as you lay a gentle kiss on your husband's knuckles he speaks once more.

“You sure you don’t want to get some rest, Love? It’s late, y’know – sun’s gonna come up in a few hours around here.” It was a nice concern, and you knew that after Ghost’s call with Laswell that he’d get some sleep as well; Johnny was already snoring away, the sound nearly heard through the walls.

Gaz, well…

“And am I to expect my Sergeant to get some rest if I do that?” Your voice is hoarse and weighed down, but the message is clear. The man lets out a chuckle, pushing off the wall and coming over to you. He rests a hand on your shoulder and you lean into it.

“I have no problem watching over him for you – he’s my Captain too, Lion. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you have to carry the burden more than the rest of us.”

If you could have rolled your eyes, you would have. A teasing tone sneaks into your words as you snort.

“Gaz, and I mean this in the best possible way,” Your lips utter out, still gazing at John’s face as it scrunches and twitches in his sleep, “Respectfully, fuck off, yeah?”

A moment of silence passes before a thick laugh echoes out over the room.

“You act a lot like Cap. when he’s out of commission, Ma’am.”

“Of course I do,” Your grip travels up John’s arm, tracing old blemishes and kissing across bruises, “If he brings all the hard-headedness away with him, none of you lot would get anything done.”

An easy air keeps the both of you in a tight embrace and Garrick’s hand squeezes for a moment; a piece of you breaks open as your gaze slips to the floor.

“I’ll take the night shift. Please, I…,” Your voice borders on unheard, “I can’t sleep until he’s awake.”

He sighs but nods his head.

“Say no more. If you need anything, and I mean anything, you just come get me, yeah? Don’t worry if you have to be loud – been trying to get used to waking up abruptly anyways.” His hand disappears, and you huff.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. You better.” Gaz’s feet carry him away and through the side door, slipping into the office. A rustling of thin cotton is heard a moment later before the door completely closes on its own.

You stay in that chair for another hour and a half before John moves an inch. When you feel his finger twitch you jerk up, drool falling from your chin to the sheets before you wipe it off.

“John?” Breathing out a gasp, you shake your head to focus better, and pause when his hold on your hand suddenly gains strength. Your heart soars.

“...Love,” He grunts out, face scrunched, and tense.

At that moment you swear your body loses all weight, and you pull the chair closer as you wetly speak.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m right here. D-don’t move too much, just let the painkillers work.”

“Bloody things make my damn head lose,” He groans, head falling to the side on the pillow as his eyes flutter open.

You place his knuckles to your lips to hide the shuttered breath you take when you see his eyes – even if one was still red. It was still your John.

He looks at you for a moment, eyes glazed, with his jaw clenching and unclenching to gain bearing. The covers hide his chest, but you hear the way he breathes as his messed-up bedhead leaves you chuckling. But the longer you were chuckling, the more you wanted to cry, and soon nothing could stop the swell of vile sobs falling from your mouth.

“Oh,” John whispers out, voice weak as his digits twitch under your shaking lips, “C’mere, Love. None of that, now.”

Your body falls forward, and the man hides the grunt in his chest when you unintentionally hit his ribs as you burrow closer into his side. He doesn’t mind. John’s hand goes to the back of your head, weaving through the strands as the covers catch your tears – he’s looking down at you with such blatant worry it hurts.

He shouldn’t be worried about me, look what happened. He’s in the fucking hospital.

“Y-You,” You’re gasping for breath, chest tight and vibrating. ‘Take a breath’ it tries to tell you, but getting the words out was more important. John’s hand gets tighter, and he longs to kiss your forehead, “I didn’t know if you were dead, a-and then when they had you on stage I was trying so hard to keep it together, John. But…but then you were bleeding all over the car and I was screaming at you too–”

“Breathe,” Your husband pleads, authority leaking into the comment, “Please, Dear, take a breath for me, Yeah? I’m right here.”

You weep but do as he says, feeling the muscles under your grip move as he shifts his weight. Taking a deep breath, your nose is shoved into the fabric of the blankets, inhaling John’s scent and letting it encompass you entirely.

He was there. He was right there.

Letting out one last whine, your Captain prompts you to lift your head with a muted brush of his finger over your scalp. Pulling yourself up, you scrunch the bedding in your hands around John’s waist, practically leaning all the way over him. It was a good thing the bed wasn’t too high.

He smiles softly down at you, his grip moving to slip past your eyebrow and swipe away the salty water that itches your chin, “There she is. My beautiful wife”

Your watery chuckle wraps him in more warmth than any blanket ever could.

“Do you need anything?” You mutter after a minute of staring into each other’s eyes, head tilting to the side as your heart rate finally slows to a pace that copies John’s.

One of your hands goes to smooth his hair, carefully flattening down the patches and being mindful of the bandages and band aids over his visage. You swear he purrs at you, body rumbling under your chest.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead focusing on mapping out your face – as if for the first time. But when he does speak he brushes off the question entirely.

“I had a dream.”

“A good one?” You ask immediately, voice equally as low and vulnerable as his. In his orbs, you see stars blinking with every movement, deep hues of blue in every shade.

“Hm,” He affirms, a slow smile blossoming on his lips, “You were there.”

“That, my love, could mean many things.”

“No. Only one, Mrs. Price,” Your eyebrows raise, eyes watering as rogue drops tracks fall down your cheeks once more.

It was all so much. Getting him back; seeing him like this, having him talk to you like that again – with all the love in the world. He was beaten, but alive, and already awake beside the gargantuan odds.

But you didn’t marry him just because you thought he was buff and could give you a good time. You married him because he was John, and no one else could be.

John’s gaze washes over you, narrowed in that expression he always had on his face when he’s thinking. When he’s studying you with more care than anyone has in your entire life. Like he could figure out everything and anything about you in the way your lips curved, or how you looked at him so delicately as if he was made of glass and not stone or metal.

He could never understand how you loved him so much, how every bit of stardust was reflected into your body and leaked out of you whenever you moved.

How he managed to get you by his side…well, he’d never know. But the feeling was mutual.

“Oh,” Your thumb caresses his cheek, running over the bristles and skimming over the skin, “And what’s that, Mr. Price?”

“..Means I’ve been blessed to see you not only when I open my eyes…but when I close ‘em too.”

In Poland, two people are finally able to press their lips together for the first time in a long while; they themselves would say it felt like ages. That was expected, naturally, because a match such as the one made between you and Jonathan Price was forged with steel and tempered in rough waters. Nothing could break it.

Their wedding bands clink together as they pull back, glinting gold more vibrant than the sun…but not quite as warm or adoring as the looks in their eyes.

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allfearstofallto · 5 months

Text

The Sweetest Spoil of War

Yandere! Demon King Kirishima x Fem! Reader

Word count: 5k

Synopsis: a war ended with an unwilling marriage. The fighting ceases, but at the cost of your hand.

TW: Forced marriage, NSFW implications, size difference, mentions for Dub/Non Con, virgin! Reader, yandere/obsessive themes

AN: another one that has been sitting in the drafts for years!! But I finally finished this first part. Hopefully I'll have the second, more smutty part written up soon!!

A brush of blush across the cheeks. A swatch of color on the lower lip. Many swipes of a comb through your hair. The tightening of your bodice fixed your posture, and you were adorned with heavy jewels and rings. All the while, a celebration was happening outside.

It wasn’t a celebration you could see, you weren’t allowed to move a muscle, couldn’t even turn your head to look out the window, in fear that you may disrupt the many people who were spending their time making you beautiful. But it was one you could hear. As the maids picked and prodded at every part of your body, cleaning you here, applying makeup there, covering this, uncovering that, you listened to the happiness of the people. Your people. Well, technically not your people any more.

They popped fireworks and sang songs. Their cheers grew louder and louder as the minutes went by, as you got more and more dolled up. Street vendors loudly advertised their wares and you could hear children playing in the streets again. It was probably the first time they’d left their house in months, it was probably the first time it was safe enough to do so, they had every right to celebrate. But at what cost?

If they knew the price that was paid for their safety, the price they paid for freedom from the war, the war that they were losing, would they still cheer? Would they still dance and sing? Would the celebration still continue?

The price was you, of course. The second daughter of the King of the land and the gem of the nation, or so you were called. Good deeds came like second nature to you, they were as easy for you as breathing. The way you donated and volunteered was like nothing the royal family had seen. Your kindness was a tall tale spread around like wildfire and marriage proposals were in abundance for you. You were like a tourist attraction. Rather than coming to visit your country for sights, people would visit to meet you, as if you were some sort of celebrity.

Your nation was small, but what it lacked in land, it made up for in stocks and trade. It was a modest business that made more than enough money. But greed is a drug, one that your father was heavily addicted to. Expanding was a bad option, you always told him so, but your words fell on deaf ears, and as the farmers marched further and further upon land that wasn’t theirs, the true owners of it fought back.

For a year, your father insisted that the war with the rival nation could be won. You always wondered why he thought that. The land that he’d intruded on belonged to none other than the demon king himself, a man feared but rarely ever seen. His endeavors were like horror stories spread across the nation, and your tiny little country didn’t even have an official army. Rather, there were a few patriotic men who were sent off to fight first. There wasn’t much of them left to bury when they returned. Then who left was decided by draft. The first men were a warning for what was to come and everyone knew that. Moral dwindled when people began running away from their own country, rather than fighting for it.

Negotiations started when the supply chain got cut off by the demon king’s army and with a nation as small as yours, no other kingdoms were offering help. The talks were started through letters at first. Your father sat at his desk, lips in a tight grimace as he read the sheet of paper over and over again before writing his response in return. Things went on this way for months, the writing back and forth as war raged on right outside your door. Until the day he showed up.

You didn’t think that the demon king himself would come, but you watched out from your front door as the carriage pulled into the town. It was large and ornate, covered in shiny stones and what appeared to be bone as well. It was a mixture of the high class of the aristocrats and the barbarian ways of life of the demons. The hoofs of the horses clopped down the road and the carriage swayed ever so slightly side to side. The windows were covered so you couldn’t see him, but you knew he was in there.

The driver of the carriage himself was also a demon. A burly blond one with piercing, blood red eyes and horns like a ram. When he snarled at one of your citizens, you could see his teeth. They were sharp like the heads of arrows, like they could bite through the flesh of a mere human at any time. It made your skin run cold as you realized that all demons shared the same few traits, long nails, horns, and sharp teeth. You could only imagine what those natural advantages were doing against the measly weapons the army was given.

You could already feel your palms sweating as the carriage stopped in front of your castle. The entire family had to come out to greet guests, as were the rules, but all you wanted to do was slink back into your room and pray that the war would end naturally. And you weren’t the only one silently wishing to leave. You spared a glance out of your peripheral to the rest of the family and saw that they too stood stiffly, or did everything they could to avoid eye contact with the large carriage that casted an almost laughably ginormous shadow over your family.

The blond boy pulled at the reins of the horses, stopping them in front of the castle, before stepping down from his seat in front of the carriage. Even for a demon, his face was easy to read. He didn’t want to be here, and he most definitely didn’t want to have to be cordial. You could see the hatred for your father in his eyes, the way he wanted to just lunge at him and end things in this very spot, but he didn’t.

“His Highness, King Kirishima Ejiro,” he said almost sarcastically. Then he opened the door to the carriage behind him.

Big didn’t even begin to describe the man. He was humongous. Not only was he tall, but he was also thick with muscles and hands that looked like they could crush your skull with ease. You looked at him and you saw a demon. His hair was long and spiky, and unlike the companion he’d brought along who had curled horns, he stood straight up, only adding to his monstrous height.

The suit he was wearing was still adorned with demon-like paraphilia, bones and bottles filled with what you could only assume were potions. His scarred hands were covered in rings and the sly smile he gave your family showed you enough of his teeth to prove to you that you’d rather die than go near his mouth.

You didn’t know where to look, you could barely even think as he stood before you. His eyes weren’t red like his subordinate, rather, his were a beady, inky black color that scanned across your family. They were taking in every single sorrowful and fearful face, until they landed on you.

You felt your heart stop beating completely when he looked at you. Your breathing became shaky and you felt yourself about to lose consciousness from his gaze alone. Why was he still looking at you? The rest of the family only got a glance, but you, it seemed like he had to forcefully peel his own eyes away from you.

“You have a lovely family,” he said. His voice was deep, yet booming, it felt like your ankles were shaking, just from hearing him speak. If not for the fact that he scared the life out of you, you would’ve scoffed at him. A beautiful family that he was going to ignore when negotiations started. But maybe that was for the better.

He was led inside, following behind your father who was shaking in his boots. He had to duck to get through the door and his footsteps on the tile floor sounded more thunder cracking inside the walls of your home. He looked around with a strange look on his face, one that seemed almost enthusiastic, but that couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be happy while he was in enemy territory, not while he could easily be killed.

And that was the plan at first. Lure him in and have the army raid the palace, he’d be powerless since he expressed through his letters that he’d only be bringing one guard. Your father thought he was stupid or naive, but casting eyes upon him showed you that one guard was enough. Anything else would’ve been overkill.

They were in talks for what felt like a few mere moments and he was coming back down the stairs with a smile on his face. You’d long since hidden in your room to keep from having to entertain the blond demon that was sitting in your living room, but curiosity made you peek your head out when you head the door to the office open. Your father was aggressively shaking the demon king's hand, but you could see the horror in his face. There was sweat pooling on his forehead and he looked like he would throw up at any moment. You later found out why he looked that way.

At the dinner table that very night he announced that the war would be ending and the supply lines would open back up. There was a unanimous cheer from the family as you and your siblings argued over who would get to tell the people of the nation that they were free to roam the streets again. You were so ignorant. The way your father looked at you should’ve told you enough. It should’ve told you that the war wasn’t going to end with a trade or an apology, it was going to end with a wedding.

The fireworks continued to boom and crackle as they filled the night sky, while a little more blush was applied to your cheek. No one else in your family knew, they thought you were getting married to some commoner who you’d fallen in love with. Only you and your father knew the truth, and resent didn’t even begin to describe what you felt for him.

Your dress was too heavy, your hair was uncomfortable, you had to stand a certain way, or makeup would get on your collar and the entire look would be ruined. You looked beautiful, that’s what they said to you, but could they not see the hurt on your face? Or the fear? If they saw, they didn’t care, and you were guided down the stairs.

Past the home that you grew up in, the walls lined with family portraits, and your family themselves waiting for you at the bottom of the steps. Your mother was crying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. When she found out the truth, she’d be crying for real. They were going to find out eventually, you knew they would, you just wished you could see the aftermath of it.

A carriage was waiting for you, one of your family’s own. Normally in an aristocratic wedding, the carriage from the family of the groom would be sent to pick up the bride, but the story your father spewed gave an explanation. The man you loved was too poor to even afford his own carriage, but love doesn’t know money. You scoffed, but held your tongue. If it were for the sake of your family and your country, you’d go along with it.

You would ride your family’s carriage into the forest, about halfways to the demon king’s palace, then you would switch into one of his. That way, your family wouldn’t catch on, that way, they didn’t have to watch in horror as you were given away to a demon, even though your father knew that they wouldn’t allow something like this, but he did it anyway.

It was an unpleasant ride. People rarely ever traversed through the forest so the carriage shook and jolted. You were getting farther and farther away from the noises of celebration, farther and farther away from your people. If only for one night, you would like to celebrate too, the war was a horror that you were living in as well after all.

You pressed your lips together to keep from crying. You’d already cried enough and you truly didn’t know him or how he’d respond to your tears. You spent hours sitting in that chair getting ready for him, what if he were the type to get angry if just one thing was off? If your make up was smudged or your eyes puffy, would he kill you where he stood? You held it in and pretended to be strong.

The carriage stopped and your door was opened, the second he did. The driver gave you a knowing look as he offered you his hand to help you step down. His fingers were cold, that’s all you could think about as you looked over to see the new carriage that you’d be riding in. The same one that had pulled the demon king into your family’s palace. Your heart sank as you realized that he might be in there. You weren’t ready to meet him up close, not yet.

The blond demon was here again, standing at the side of the carriage. Horses from the demon kingdom always felt much larger. Like they were eight foot tall monsters and not animals. You couldn’t believe you were focusing on the horses, you were trying to look at anything, anything, that would keep you from having to get into that carriage. But he was already opening the door and the carriage from your nation had already turned and pulled away, not even waiting for the transaction to be completed.

That felt like the final straw. Being left behind by one of your own and stuck with a demon. A demon who was obviously sick of waiting for you and who looked like he was just going to force you inside himself.

“The king doesn’t like waiting,” he said, gesturing towards the door. With a meek nod, you walked towards it. Dead leaves crunched beneath your feet and the sound of an owl made the entire ordeal more ominous.

You looked to the demon, then back to the carriage door. He didn’t expect you to go in by yourself, did he? Even in your home nation, the gentleman would offer the lady a hand and help boost her up the step, a boost that was much needed, since demons were naturally taller and the step was too high for you to even reach on your own.

“What is it now?” he grumbled, eyes having already practically rolled into the back of his head.

The step seemed as if it came up to your waist in height, yet he asked you what you needed. “I obviously can’t get up there by myself,” you spat, holding your hand out for his help. You’d never felt the skin of a demon before and honestly, you didn’t want to now, but there was no other choice. The deal had already been made.

He didn’t even pass a glance at your hand, stepping closer to you, he placed his large palms around your waist and hoisted you up with little effort. You tried not to squirm in his hold, afraid that he might drop you. Even for a moment, you were so high up, before you were placed into the carriage, with the door being slammed shut in your face.

The carriage began to move before you were even fully seated and you were thrown back. If this was the way the demon kingdom treated their royalty, you could only imagine what was going to happen to you. But you tried not to dwell on it. Your chest was already tight with fear and sweat was beginning to bead on your forehead.

This was it, you thought to yourself, even as you gazed out the window, all you could think was that this would be the end of you. All alone, all by yourself. You wondered what your siblings were doing, what your mother was doing, if anyone was even thinking about you at all, of if the celebration was just too much for them to care.

The carriage swayed and thumped against the ground for what felt like hours. The pretty dress you were in had grown a bit damp from your sweat and you tried to fan yourself. You were nervous. Hot and nervous and all you could do was listen to the hooves of the horses as they hit the ground and wait for your eventual marriage.

Then everything stopped. Of course the carriage driver demon was rough with this as well and you were thrown off of the seat and onto the plush floor of the vehicle. You barely had a moment to catch your breath and regain your bearings before the door swung open quickly, making the whole carriage shake from the force.

Still on the floor, still a bit sweaty, with fearful eyes, you came face to face with the demon king. His teeth were once again what you noticed, those big, sharp teeth that were held in a mouth that was grinning at you cheerfully. He looked overjoyed to see you, even in your crumpled up, terrified state.

“By the gods,” he whispered quietly while still looking at you all over. It seemed like his eyes couldn't focus on one place. Your face, your hair, the swell of your breast, the small of your waist, from your heel clad feet, to your hair that was put into an ornate updo, he couldn't get enough, “You're even more beautiful the second time around.”

You were shivering. God you were shivering like you were freezing. Your stomach was in your ass and your heart felt like it was going to leap from your chest. All that time, all the time you spent being picked and prodded at in that chair, being made to look good for him, all that time and it just now hit you what was happening to you. It started before you could even think to stop yourself and while he looked you over like you were a gift from heaven itself, you began to cry.

Tears ran down your pretty cheeks, smearing your makeup in their wake and you started to hic and sob. You had no control over it and the way his smile fell when you began to weep, made you cry even harder. You were going to die by this demon's hands. You were going to die because your father, the coward that he was, sold you off.

Kirishima turned to look at his subordinate, his face a mix of emotions. So quickly, you could barely see it, he grabbed the blond male by the collar of his shirt and lifted him, “I thought I told you to make sure she was taken care off,” he growled those words between those closed sharp teeth.

“I did,” the blond male muttered back. His tone, his attitude, even the way he was looking at the demon king was disrespectful. He didn't seem the least bit afraid or even bothered by the fact that he was being scolded. If anything, he looked annoyed.

“Then why is she crying, Kastuki?” He spoke the words slowly before dropping the man back down onto the ground. He landed with a thud, but didn't protest, “I've told you about your driving. Humans are fragile! They can't handle something like that!”

He merely scoffed and rose from the ground, “Then do it yourself next time.”

Kirishima opened his mouth to speak, but stopped before he said anything. Instead, he focused on your trembling form, still sitting on the carriage floor, “Are you alright, darling?”

He tried his hardest to be gentle with his voice, to be quieter so not to scare you. He reached a hand out to you, but you flinched away from it. You didn't know what to say or even what to do. A part of you felt like the second you left this carriage, it would all be real, you'd really be engaged to this demon, you'd really be with him for the rest of your life.

He tilted his head at you, trying to give you a reassuring smile to the best of his ability, “I'm sorry if Katsuki scared you, but I promise nothing will hurt you.” He reached into the carriage and grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you closer to the door with ease, it was like you weighed nothing to him, “but we should really get you inside the castle and into something more comfortable.”

Your body was tense and you tried to think of what to do. A way out of this. How would you be able to run away from a demon, in the whole nation of demons? Would you even be able to go home? Would you getting away make a war start?

You couldn't even think about it to yourself, couldn't even respond before you were picked up by him and held against his firm chest. He was so much bigger than you, so much taller, being in his arms made it feel like you were fifty feet above the ground and all you could do was shiver.

He carried you into the castle. It looked nothing like your own home. It was more worn down, but somehow it was bigger. The tallest tower looked like it was piercing the clouds and the windows were the size of the doors you had back home. You sniffled and sobbed the whole time you were carried up the stairs, and when he finally reached out to open the front door, you finally managed to say something.

“P-please,” you managed to stutter out between your pathetic little hics.

“Oh, so she can speak,” he replied back a little too happily, “and here I was thinking you were mute. That wouldn't have bothered me though, you're still gorgeous.”

More tears ran down your face as you tried to regulate breathing, to get more words out, to hopefully beg for return home before the marriage was consummated, “My father…he…he made a mistake. I didn't want this,”

He kept walking into the castle as you spoke, the sound of his feet hitting the floor echoed off the walls. You were brought to a day room where he sat you down on a rather large couch, so big your feet just barely managed to touch the ground. He kneeled in front of you while you sat and cupped your cheek in one of his large hands, the more he touched you, the harder you seemed to cry, soaking his thick fingers with tears. He knew you were scared of him, but he just couldn't stay away.

“I know you didn't want this,” he cooed, his breath hitting your face, “I wanted this.”

Before you could speak, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours. The kiss was wet and suffocating and all you could do was sit there limply as he engulfed your mouth with his, tasting every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

He tasted of meat and alcohol, typical dishes for demons who were celebrating and his grip on you was firm. His hand had slithered down from your cheek to your shoulder, then to your waist. You couldn't pull away if you wanted to. Your strength and size was nothing compared to him, just one of his hands was almost enough to completely hold your back. You'd hurt yourself more if you fought back.

When he pulled back, you were panting, breathless. Your first kiss and it was so brutish and even worse than that, it was taken by a demon. Your eyes were still wet with tears and lips moist with saliva, but he was looking at you so longingly. The way you makeup was running from the sweat and tears, your hair disheveled from the kiss, the way your chest was rising and falling, he thought you were more enticing now than ever before.

“Such beauty doesn't exist amongst the demons,” he whispered against your lips, threatening to kiss you again, “I could've slaughtered everyone in that tiny, little kingdom, you know, and I was planning on it. Until I saw you.”

He traced up your back to where the buttons for your dress began. You could feel him fiddling with them, trying to get them to pull apart, but his fingers were too big and his nails too sharp. As more time went by with him unable to access your body, he grew frustrated until he just ripped the dress apart in the back. The fabric gave way easily to him. It was probably no harder than ripping paper.

“Your father didn't hesitate when I asked for you,” his hand was warm, almost hot, against your bare back as he kept ripping the fabric away, “a part of me was angry about that. His own daughter, his blood. He gave you away so easily. But I was also ecstatic. Even if you don't want me, I want you. I know how you feel about me, how I as a demon scare you…” the dress was pulled forward, over your shoulders, but he stopped there, “The war may be over on paper, but if you ask for it, I can kill him.”

You gasped, “Why would I want that? Why would anyone want that?” You were shouting and you didn't know why. Maybe it was because of how scared you were. Or how easily he mentioned killing someone. Or how a part of you actually wanted it. A small voice in your head wasn't upset about the idea of him killing your father for putting you in this predicament, and that scared you.

“He gave you away,” he stated plainly, “You have every right to be angry. Angry at him for giving you away,” he pulled the dress down so that it was sitting around your waist. His tongue, that large, hot tongue licked down from your neck to your now exposed breast, making your breath hitch, “and angry at me for taking you.”

“You could still give me back,” You begged quickly, hoping that maybe if he was showing some empathy, some care for what you were feeling, he would let you go.

He shook his head and gave you a knowing look, “I wish I could, but I know how you humans work.” He didn't hesitate to reach his hand up beneath the ripped fabric and tulle that was once the skirt of your dress, “you wouldn't be wed again anyways, not after what I'm gonna do to you.”

Your sobs grew even louder at the words. Despite your abstinence, you knew the implications of those words, you knew what he meant. Despite your lack of experience, you knew why he was spreading your legs and easing his body between them, you knew why he was ripping away at your bloomers, exposing your wet core to the cool air.

“I told myself I'd wait till the night of our wedding, but I fear myself slipping with need for you,” this “need” made itself known when he began to grind his hips against you, the fabric of his pants spreading your lips and rubbing directly against your clit, “They sent you here looking like this, and I'm supposed to contain myself?” he bit his lips with those sharp teeth of his, gripping the fabric of the couch so hard that he was ripping holes in it.

“I won't take you without your permission,” he stated, but he was still grinding his clothed cock against you,like his mouth and his body were two completely different entities. He was speaking one thing, but actively doing the opposite.

You whimpered as you felt him, your eyes just leaking tears. You couldn't speak a word, your labored breathing wouldn't let you. Your chest was heaving as you tried to open your mouth, with only sobs and pleads coming out. Instead you just shook your head, praying that that would be enough of him to stop.

Despite your begging he still pressed his lips to yours once more in another passionate kiss. This time he felt even more roughr than the last. Was this a game for him? You thought to yourself. Did he get off on watching you beg and plead, just to take you anyways.

But he stopped nonetheless and pulled away. It seemed like he was straining to even do that, the way he was looking back at you like he could pounce on you again. He let out a shaking, sigh and clenched his fist together before stepping back and finally giving you space away from his large form and body heat.

“The wedding will be held in three days,” he said with a forced smile. He picked up a blanket from the other couch and tossed it over you, covering your modesty. You held onto that blanket as if it were your life line, hiding your nude body behind it as you shivered and looked at him, “I can guarantee I'll stop now, but I'm not so sure about then.”

And with that, he was gone. He closed the door to the day room, leaving you alone in this large demonic mansion with only the ticking of a clock as your company. You were too afraid to move, too afraid of what was to come next. You didn't know where he wanted you to go or even if he wanted you to move at all.

But you did know what he wanted from you, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine.

#my hero academia #yandere my hero academia #yandere my hero #yandere my hero academia x reader #yandere kirishima #kirishima eijirou #kirishima x reader #yandere kirishima x reader #yandere my hero x reader #yandere x reader

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seonghwaddict · 1 year

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★ NEVER SAY NEVER. [ 004 ] rotten lemons.

synopsis. something about the eight most well-known boys of your campus just didn't sit right with you, so you never gave any effort to interact with them. but after a series of... interesting incidents, they can't seem to leave you alone. pairing. college students! vampires! ot8! ateez x fem! reader. genre. fluff, angst, eventual smut, college au, vampire au. chapter warnings. blood drinking. word count. 1.7k

　　　　　　　　chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v

Seonghwa, Yunho and Wooyoung returned to the house at around four in the morning, each carrying two crates. As soon as they stepped through the door, they were greeted by Hongjoong as he made his way down the stairs, blue tufts of hair bouncing on his head.

“How’d it go?” He asked over his shoulder as they followed him into the kitchen and dropped her crates on the countertop.

Seonghwa shrugged and opened the first crate as Wooyoung and Yunho moved to the living room. “The usual. The prices went up though, 300 thousand per five bags.”

With an understanding nod, Hongjoong took a seat on one of the island stools. He reached for a different crate and pulled it towards him, looking through it before pulling out a translucent white bag, a thick red liquid swishing around inside. After taking a look at the label, he snapped his fingers. A thin wine glass appeared on the counter and it didn’t take him too long to open the bag and pour its contents in the cup.

“Did you get some O neg for San? He said he’s running out,” he asked after taking a refreshing sip.

“Yeah, probably enough to keep him satisfied for a few months.”

While they were quite open to drinking any type of blood, they had preferences. Some of them preferred sweeter tastes (usually O or B-type blood as they taste somewhat like the sweetness you’d get from honey) and others preferred more sour tastes (such as A-type blood, a taste that resembled the slight sourness you’d get from a cherry). However, with San, he’d always been in a bit of a tricky situation…

O-type blood, specifically of the negative sort, is considered one of the rarer types of blood. The demand for it can get pretty high, which in turn also makes prices hike up quite a bit. Typically blood vendors wouldn’t have a lot of O-negative stocked which can sometimes be a bit concerning. Especially because that’s the only blood type that San’s body can process.

But, fortunately, they didn’t have to worry about that too much since their go-to vendor always had some of that prestigious type.

Around the country, there were different vendors for blood bags—blood-banks. Unfortunately, the closest one to their house was a 2-hour drive, so it was inconvenient to constantly go and come back with the bare minimum amount they would need for a week. Usually, the bags get stocked and sold to vampires and after a month, anything that wasn’t sold would be donated to local hospitals on behalf of a ‘private blood donation organisation.’

Of course, many vampires preferred to get blood directly from the source (A.K.A. suck it out of people’s necks themselves), since it had a sweeter, fresher taste. But, alas, this was also too inconvenient for the boys living in this lavish mansion. They’d have to consider too many things before sucking the blood directly from a human, so they opted for just buying it in bags.

“That’s more than enough I think.” Hongjoong swirled the blood in the glass one more time before downing the rest of it and wiping the excess on his chin with the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

Once Seonghwa finished moving all the blood bags to the fridge, the two men moved to the living room and joined the rest of their cluster mates. San, Mingi and Yeosang were playing some video game on the TV; Jongho sat in an armchair and read a book, occasionally glancing to see how the game was going; Wooyoung sat on the ground with his head in San’s lap and Yunho sat cross-legged on the couch, narrating the game like a football narrator.

“Yeosangie, did Y/N get home safe?” Wooyoung asked as the round ended and Yeosang passed his controller to Yunho. A fond smile stretched itself onto the blond’s face as he nodded gently, thinking back to the way you had slept so peacefully in his car, light snores filling the silence of the vehicle.

“Who’s Y/N?” San asked, tilting his head down to look at Wooyoung.

“She’s an art student. We were each paired with one to work on a project. She actually came over here a few hours ago so we could start working a bit,” he explained. “I like her, she’s very pretty. A bit stubborn though, I almost had to fight her because we couldn’t agree on something. But I don’t think she’s very fond of me.” He concluded with a pout.

“Jongho also met her before, more or less,” Yeosang added, looking at the youngest as he shifted in his chair, “she works at that bookstore that you go to sometimes.”

The theatre student in question looked up, blinking at the ceiling and tilting his head as he tried to remember. He grimaced “The one that smells like a rotten lemon?”

“No,” Yeosang was quick to deny, not wanting any of the men that hadn’t met her to get the wrong impression. “The one that smells delicious.”

They talked about you for another ten minutes, Wooyoung recounting his experience working with you and Yeosang explained how you two had met. His brothers poked some fun at him, making it sound like he’d fallen head over heels for the girl that regularly ordered an iced latte with triple sugar. He swatted their teasing comments away but blushed the shade of Jongho’s hair when Wooyoung mentioned he’d seen some sketches in her sketchbook that looked an awful lot like him.

“If he liked her I wouldn’t really blame him,” Seonghwa had laughed, perfectly straight white teeth on display. “She’s intriguing.”

So, yeah, they all agreed there was something interesting about you. The ones that hadn’t met you tried coming up with ways to meet you, and the ones that had tried coming up with ways to meet you again. All the while Wooyoung giggled, knowing he’d have to spend the most time with you and loving the fact he could rub it into everyone’s faces.

But, for now, they wanted to spend their weekend relaxing and being lazy without constantly thinking about some cute girl. (That was a lie. Even though they would deny it, Wooyoung couldn’t deny the way his mind wandered to you every hour, wondering what you were up to; Seonghwa thought of you every time he stepped into the kitchen and if he concentrated hard enough—which he did for a single reason—he was sure he could still smell your sweet vanilla aroma wafting through the air; Jongho worked his way through his books faster so he could go to your book store and Yeosang spent his day at work hoping you’d walk through the door.)

You didn’t really question it, but were still mildly confused, when you walked out of the art studio the next Monday and saw Wooyoung standing against the wall, waiting for you. Students ogled as they passed by him and some talked and laughed extra loudly to get his attention, but his eyes remained on you.

Approaching him, you raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

“Picking you up, obviously.” He rolled his eyes playfully, reaching for your hand and dragging you out of the building. “I had another idea. I want to be able to do more for this project, so I’m going to choreograph and film a dance that we could maybe display at the exhibition with, like, a projector or something. You know, so we both contribute to this—equally. How does that sound?”

When he stopped and turned around to face you, he had to stop himself from cooing at your face as you thought. Your face was directed at him but your eyes looked unfocused, lower lip caught between your teeth as you tried to visualise his idea. Finally, you gave an approving hum and nod.

“That actually doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea,” you nodded as he resumed leading you to wherever it is he wanted to go. “Maybe the paintings could be based on pieces of your choreography.”

“Yeah, that’s also a great idea!” He cheered enthusiastically, a bright smile different from the usual mischievous one you see plastered on his lips. “Oh, also!” He stopped again as he remembered something, tugging on the hand that he still held within his colder one to get you to face him. “We’re gonna be hosting a party, you should come!”

Now that was something a bit harder for you to agree with.

“Oh, I don’t know…” The insecurity in your face dwindled as your words trailed off. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

“Please, Y/N, just this once.” He gave you his best puppy eyes and pleading voice. “The rest of the guys want to meet you, and what better place than a party where you can let loose?”

You decided it was a tempting proposal. After a long, torturing pause, you finally sighed, “Fine. When is it?”

Excitement lit up on Wooyoung’s face and you could’ve sworn his brown eyes nearly started sparkling. “We were planning on Saturday, but we haven’t made the announcement yet so we could always change it if you want.”

The pure joy he felt faltered for a second as your face fell.

“I’m not available on Saturdays, so Friday or Sunday would work better for me if that’s ok.”

Instantly, he began nodding. “Yeah, we could do it on Friday. What do you do on Saturdays, if cou don’t mind me asking?”

Ah, shit. I did not think this far ahead. You smacked yourself mentally, scrambling to come up with a plausible excuse. If he found your hesitation suspicious, he didn’t say anything about it as he awaited your answer. Instead, he watched with interest, loosely swinging your conjoined hands from side to side.

“Oh, you know. I study and catch up on all the sleep I usually miss.”

Wooyoung narrowed his eyes at you, lips pursed and a contemplative hum ringing from him until he nodded and resumed his walk once again. “Okay. I’ll send you the address later, it won’t be at our house—last time someone broke the chandelier.”

“What chandelier?” Your brows furrowed as you briefly looked up to him. It was then that you realised he was still holding your hand, so as discreetly as possible, you tugged on it and hoped he would get the hint.

“Exactly.”

After a few more tugs it seemed like he finally noticed, his grip loosened and you were able to slip your hand out.

“Do you have any classes for the rest of the day?”

You shook your head after trying and succeeding to remember your schedule. “No, why?”

“Great, let’s go eat!”

　　[ lilo's notes ... ] this one's a bit short. i'm not really amazing at writing scenes that involve more than 4 people, but i've been getting better i think so it should be fine. we finally got some vampteez content in this chapter, hope y'all like that.

　　ଘ(੭˃ᴗ˂)੭ taglist ... @atinytinaa @marievllr-abg @legohwas @moonsangie @kiss-hwa @cqndiedcherries @ateezourstars @kitty4hwa @hyukssunflower @aestheticsluut @neohyxn @mrowwww @darkdayelixer @itsokaytobedumb00 @hwa-sans @purplelady85 @meginthebuilding27 @stopeatread @mothworked @foliea @euphoric-emily16 @teezers99 @mulletjoonsupremacy @imalildelulu @sunukissed @blehhhidk @ad0rechuu @d1am0ndw0lfxd @strawberry-moonpies @bluehwale-main @lightinythedark @stupefystudies @yandere-stories @skz-enthusiasttt @seongwin @huachengsbestie01 @galaxypox @seongwin @yuyunhoo @kyukyustar @seongfury @moonminji @lilactangerine @lelaleleb @asjkdk @honey-lemon-goose

　　NEVER SAY NEVER　©　seonghwaddict, 2023

#★ NEVER SAY NEVER — seonghwaddict #ateez #ateez x reader #seonghwa x reader #hongjoong x reader #yunho x reader #yeosang x reader #san x reader #mingi x reader #wooyoung x reader #jongho x reader #vampire au #college au #fluff #eventual smut

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cookiepie111 · 11 days

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A house is a Home

Synopsis: John decided the best place to make his nest is the readers' house. logically!

John price x black reader

A/n: please like and reblog! Bear price, deer reader. elements of a/b/o? And like the smallest bit of smut like 2 bullet points cause I could not for the life of me write smut. Credits to @ceilidho for her bear price. Not proofread

You loved winter in the countryside, staying with family, sharing nice meals. The sent of pine, the crunch of fresh snow under your feet.

It's different here, too fast-paced, crowded yet some how quite. You don't have big meals anymore or people who will come over. It's too lonely.

Working your living space was the biggest challenge, a cold and empty apartment you found no comfort in.It took some time to make it warm. A place to belong. A real home.

Maybe that's why the constant moving of chairs and table is making something churn in your stomach.

You built this home. To feel some comfort to be safe and warm like back. Friend or not, this was going too far .

He finally stops when the chair is against the cupboard eyes roaming over the chair, no care for the picture or ornaments now on the ground. 'Is he's done now? ' Only he starts going through kitchen cupboard then throwing pillows and blankets where the chair once was.

if a bear decides to build a home here, it's their's now.

Facing danger head-on? Not something you're good at. Running away from danger? Fantastic. That you can do well. Just not that well today. His arms are around you before you know it, pulling you back to the cushioned floor. It almost looks like a ... no..

There's fabric everywhere, it's hard to enjoy the soft furs, wool against your skin when your sinking into it. Can't make out where fabric starts and John ends, his body all over yours, smothering.

"You hadn't put on enough. Can't have the cubs going hungry. " There's drowsiness that carries in his voice, causing them to hang heavy in your ear.

"Gotta. keep you warm"

You know what is. The strange behaviour you brushed off the last few months, food orders to your house, stocking your cupboard, leaving his clothes over.

"John, uh, John wait. This isn't what you think it is ugh - "

His fingers hit the back of your mouth mapping out the flat planes of teeth.

"You got no bite mama bear, can't protect no cubs like this,"

Winter is here, and you're not the only animal who wants to stay close to loved ones in the winter

You suspect he might be a bit annoyed when he wakes up and release that what he tried to breed was not a bear but a deer but no it doesn't bother him only rolls over to hold you tight. You guys can just try again.

Sex with him is lazy and slow

It's always so hard to move after he's done with you, his cock, now soft still deep in you keeping his cum in.

#John price x black reader #call of duty x black reader #john price x reader #cookie writes #black reader insert #cod x black reader

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camillecrellin · 7 months

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Video Store — Angela Giarratana

Synopsis: You owned a video store. Spencer Agnew's favourite. He constantlly mentions it to his coworkers. What happens when Angela and Chanse pay the store a visit?

A/N: The synopsis is shit, I'm soo sorry. I hate this but please request some Angela/Smosh/Starkid stuff. I need to get my hyperfixation out somehow.

Word Count: 670

Warnings: mentions of death, swearing

Owning a business wasn’t easy. Especially for a dying media, but films and music were your passion. And so, when your mum passed, she left you her old corner store, which after a year long renovation you turned into what it was now. Your very own video and film rental shop.

Instead of Streaming was the name. A simulacrum of the past where you could rent or buy films, music, and video games.

And because of the niche need for physical media anymore, you knew almost everyone that came into the store. There was no way around it. You liked it. Despite not being a very social person, you knew that the people that shopped at your store shared the same interests.

Spencer Agnew was one of these people. A self-proclaimed film and video game nerd, he would come into your store about once a week to look over your new stock. And every now and then he’d bring people in from his work. Some of them even becoming regulars as was the case with Shayne and Damien.

Humming along to the sounds of Iggy Pop over the speakers, you went about your day refilling shelves to an almost empty store when the bell rang, signalling that someone was here.

Looking up you smiled at the two customers as the entered the store with wide smiles on their face. “Holy fucking shit this is soo cool.” The brown-haired girl gushed.

“Thank you, Spencer.” The man, who came in with the girl, sang making you quietly laugh to yourself.

“You’re Spencer’s friends?” You asked.

The pair looked to each other before the boy said, “You know him?”

“Yeah, I own this place.”

“Oh my God, you’re Y/n!” The girl squealed as she held onto the guy’s arm. Composing herself, she looked to you and continued. “Sorry he’s talked about you before; this place is like his man cave.”

“Oh yeah.” You chuckled. “I know.”

“If you need any help, just ask me.” You said, turning back to replenish the stock. “It’s 2 for 1 on the VHS’ but we rent VCR players assuming you don’t have one still.”

“Do you have any musicals?” The girl asked, making you whip back around to face the pair.

“Musical movies are just here, and the cast recordings are up the stairs with all the other music. We have them on vinyl, cassettes, and CDs.” You pointed to the locations.

“You really know your stuff.” The girl chuckled in an almost awe like way.

“Yeah, I love movies and I got a film degree so I guess I should do something with it.” You smiled at the girl, who nodded and walked over to the musical section of the DVDs.

It was around 10 minutes before the pair retreated, the guy having obviously embarrassed his friend as she seemed more on edge and nervous than before.

Carrying the MTV Legally Blonde proshot and the musical Nine, the girl came up to the counter.

Walking up to the checkout, you smiled. “Just those?”

“Yeah.” She nodded.

“Good choice.” You said, scanning the DVDs your hand reaching for a paper bag. “Well actually I haven’t seen Nine, but it looks decent.”

“Neither have I but it says it’s Italian so…”

You raised your eyebrows, making her friend speak up, “She’s Italian.”

Laughing, you looked down in embarrassment, “I should’ve guessed.”

Bagging up the items, you set up the card machine, telling the girl the price before she paid. As you went to hand her the bagged DVDs, your hands brushed, a blush creeping onto your face.

Gaining a small confidence, the girl spoke. “I’m Angela by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Angela.” You smiled as you gazed into her eyes before quickly realising that she came with a friend. “Both of you…”

“Chanse.” He introduced himself.

You thanked Chanse with a nod before turning back to Angela, “You should come here more often. I can give you some recommendations.”

Angela agreed, biting her lip. “I will.”

#angela giarratana x reader #angela giarratana #smosh x reader #smosh

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syncopatedid · 6 months

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Run with the Wind Novel (official EN release!)

The dream of Kazetsuyo fans to finally get the novel in English has MANIFESTED!!! I'm sure it's later news by now to a lot of us, but just putting it out there because you never know!

I'm not a huge fan of the cover arts of western publishers as much so I'm holding my breath to see how the final cover artwork is going to turn out, especially given the USD pricing they'd be asking for. But I'm hopeful it will be treated more as a classic title than YA. I do not think they'd be able to get rights to have the OG cover art to use so I'd expect them to come up with their own, and so I've been browsing HarperC's range to see what they tend to put out (anything but human stock photos please I am begging, pay for illustrators). These are some of their cover styles I'd at least be all right with...

...with some added caveats I don't care for (though I doubt my feedback counts since I'm not the market they need to appeal to), but can we NOT have those annoying love review bombs plastered all over the covers, please? Who the heck are all these people anyway. If you must, have them on the back of the cover; I swear people do pick up and turn over to read the synopsis. I don't know about you guys, but I personally think they have no business taking up the same space as the author who wrote the dang thing, only acceptable other name will be the EN translator/localizer, as they deserve credit.

But anyway, still good to have an official English version out, it's about time!

#Kazetsuyo MANIFEST!!!#YOU SHOULD ALWAYS STATE YOUR WISHES OUT LOUD #What a nice month to announce this news indeed.#Also so many questions like how they plan to translate the slogan “the mountains of hakone are”#“the steepest in the world” ... Is not what the OG texts actually say but it's a nice way of interpreting it and what the fandom likes most #So it'd be interesting to see what this version decides on

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definitelynotstable · 10 months

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I Like You Too [Gaz x fem!Reader]

AN: Hello! I missed Gaz and haven’t done much today so here, have this!

Synopsis: Movie night with the 141. You and Gaz are always the last to go to bed. Word Count: 1.2k Warnings: Price likes his whiskey. None otherwise! Gaz x fem!Reader and a bit of Soap x Ghost on the side <3 So much fluff and 141 family vibes <333

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Movie nights weren’t a new thing. In fact it was such an old tradition with such a convoluted history no one was quite sure whose idea it had been in the first place. All you knew was that – when on base – the 141 would crowd into the small lounge attached to the shared kitchen every Sunday night. Soap was usually the one to provide popcorn, his shelf always stocked; Ghost would find himself boiling the kettle and taking tea and coffee orders; you and Gaz always had the sweets, combining a variety from your individual stock piles and Price – Price would somehow find a way to sneak in some form of alcohol. The argument between you both was almost a tradition at this point:

“Fridays are for drinking!” You would snap, stealing his hip flask and wrinkling your nose as you took a sniff.

“Any day is for drinking.” Price would reply coyly, snatching it back.

And this would go back and forth till someone like Ghost would intervene, roughly wedging himself between you two on the ragged couch. Price and Ghost were given couch privileges because of their “bad backs” and Soap refused to let you sit on the ground because “a lass deserves better”.

You weren’t complaining. Soap would plop himself down in front of Ghost and lean back until the Lieutenant had no choice but to begrudgingly let the man sit comfortably between his legs. Gaz did the same with you, a bowl of assorted sweets in his lap – you were far more compliant in letting him settle between your legs.

“What’re we watchin’?” Price grumbles from your right, taking a swig from his hip-flask. You lean over Ghost to glare at him.

“Try not to sound too excited.” You scoff, attempting another swipe at his drink. Ghost catches your wrists easily and shoves you gently back to your side of the couch.

“Watch it, you two,” He growls and Soap lets out what can only be described as a giggle.

“I was thinking Princess Diaries?” Gaz says, turning around to look up at everyone, his cheek resting on your thigh.

“‘Princess Diaries?’” Price repeated back deadpan, “What are you, twelve?”

Gaz grins, a dangerous glint in his brown eyes, “Watch it Captain, I’m not above fighting for the cause.”

Ghost groans, resting his head on the back of the couch with a small thud. “I don’t care what it is, can we just pick something and hurry up?”

“It’s an important decision, Lt.” Soap says, moving his arms to sling over Ghosts thighs like they’re arm rests, “debate is essential to democracy.”

The man only raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Ok well I like the Princess Diaries,” you pipe up, resting your hand on Gaz’s shoulder – who turns around and offers you a sweet. “The movies are funny and sweet and an easy watch –“

–“It’s a goddamned series?!”

“We don’t have to watch all of them!” You reach over and manage to smack Price before Ghost intervenes.

“Okay, hold on.” Soap interjects, “We cannae nae watch all of ‘em.”

You sigh, rubbing the space between your brows, “I suppose not. There are only two anyway.”

“Okay, how about this.” Gaz says, ever the mediator, “We watch the first one and if you don’t like it, we won’t watch the second. But, if I catch a single fuckin’ laugh come out your mouth Price, we watch ‘em both tonight.”

The Captain, sips at his whiskey, mulling it over. Finally, he twists the lid back on and leans over Ghost, his hand outstretched.

“We have a deal, Sergeant.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚

He laughed. You suppose Gaz knew he would, the man was always scheming. You caught a low rumble from the Lieutenant next to you as well, Soap looking over his shoulder up at him, catching your eye with a grin.

Two movies later and even the captain was rubbing his eyes; yawning. Soap pushed himself up, using Ghost’s legs as a support, stretching before offering the lieutenant a hand up. The man took it without question, and the two waved their goodbyes – Soap trailing after Ghost with a yawn.

Price followed soon after, tossing the empty flask down beside you on the couch. “Better luck next time, Sergeant,” the captain winked, leaning down to fist-bump Gaz before following the two others down the hall.

You stretch, joints popping as you sink back into the couch. “Why is it that we are the only two who ever clean up.”

Gaz chuckles, his head still resting on your thigh. “I think it’s the price we play for initiating thus each week.”

“We weren’t the ones to come up with this whole movie night thing,” you retort tiredly, eyelids heavy, “I can’t even remember who it was.”

“Neither,” Gaz gives your knee a pat and squeezes it gently, before clambering to his feet, “I’ve got it tonight, you rest –”

–“but,” you protest, attempting to lever yourself off the couch.

“Sweet heart.” Gaz looks at you with a challenging gaze, his hands on his hips, “You can barely keep your eyes open – trust me I can clean a few dishes.”

You hold his gaze defiantly for a few moments before relenting as your eyes flutter again; you slump into the couch and cross your arms. “Fine.”

Gaz smiles at your poor attempt to look grumpy, ruffling your hair with one hand, a bowl of sweets stacked into a bowl of popcorn kernels in the other. “Sleep, I’ll wake you when I’m done.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

He doesn’t wake you. You should’ve known. Instead, your eyes flutter open when his arms wrap behind your knees and back – pulling you against his chest. You shut your eyes quickly. This is nice. He doesn’t need to know you’re awake. He hums something softly under his breath as he comes to your door, pushing it open with his hip. He smells distantly of the cologne you got him for Christmas and dish-soap.

You can’t hold back the squeak that leaves you when he deposits you onto your bed. He chuckles under his breath, pulling your duvet up and over you.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

You mumble something incoherent and he laughs again, kissing your forehead. You can’t help the smile that crosses your face. Subtly was never your strong suit.

“I think I like you,” You whisper as he’s turning and reaching for the door.

“Hm?” He turns back towards you – did he hear that right? But you’re already asleep, softly snoring, cheek pressed into your fist as it clings to the blanket. He sighs, smile tugging at his lip as he watches you. You’ll both address it one day, this feeling that’s been bubbling up between the two of you.

“I like you too,” he echoes softly, knowing you can’t hear him. He spares you one last glance and yet another fond smile before he lets the door click shut behind him.

I like you too.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Masterlist

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cloveroctobers · 7 months

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DECEMBER PROMPTS 🧊 — 4. NERON “CREEPER” VARGAS

A/N: idea inspired by a required outing for me and encouraged by @darqchilddaydreamz 🤭 this is so unserious but not at the same time? I also don’t like how I learned to appreciate creeper after the fact? This is my first time ever writing for the man with a heart of gold. Smh. Him and Coco deserved better and in AU…Creeper & Coco would be the true besties. This is also somewhat that. Enjoy!

Synopsis: As a pizza chef you’re bound to keep your house just as stocked as your restaurant. However with a ice storm heading your way in two days…you persuade your husband, Neron to take you to the store to grab just a few extra things but soon find yourself in a battle with another shopper, who doesn’t know the first thing about personal space.

ADDED PROMPTS FROM HERE + I’m using: 3.) Shopping + 6.) “You’re really making me wear matching pajamas with you?”

WARNINGS: language + “reader” is given a name but not physically described yet I always have a black or woc in mind. + a sexual/steamy moment towards the end ;)

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙

What was supposed to be more of a in and out kind of thing, turned into at least a thirty minute adventure. Sure Mariatu could blame it on the tasteful playlist the grocery store was playing—currently, “let it snow,” by Boyz II Men & Brian McPetty but she’d take the blame when she got back outside to her husband.

The original plan was to run in and get five items: a pack of mineral water full of electrolytes for Neron, a pack of cocoa powder, eggs, toilet paper rolls, and disinfectant wipes.

With the way prices are in this economy?

Mariatu knew it was probably best for Neron to run in grab everything but he suddenly got a call from Coco that had to do with business—which the founded brothers always stood on—so she did the honors of slipping out. She honestly didn’t mind, shopping was always thrilling to her because she knows regardless of what she picked up—whether she needed it or not—the items would always be put to good use. Mariatu was never one to let anything go to waste, it was something her parents always instilled.

Perhaps that’s why the carriage was getting heavier as she explored every other aisle, ending up in the international section, just for some lady to eye the contents of her carriage before settling her judgmental eyes on Mariatu. Their eyes connected but one was less friendly than the other, which was enough for Mariatu to pick up the speed. The previous aisle was more of a game of “chicken,” since one boulder of a man thought the aisle was a one way, the frozen section had one of its fridges leaking onto the floor and the constant call to, “clean up aisle 21,” seemed to go unheard, and just from entering the store a mother had to excuse herself and her screaming child who thought it would be best to start knocking over one of the displays.

Those should have been enough signs for Mariatu to do what she was supposed to do. Although the upbeat Christmas music was enough motivation to just make this a speed round, Mariatu couldn’t help that she spent longer than expected; even if she had a mental list of what they needed. Soon she found herself making a circle in the store towards the organic and produce section.

Eyeing the pomegranate seeds, Mariatu makes a bee-line for the fruit. Parking her carriage upwards from herself, she picks up the container eyeing the expiration date and then the quality of the red toned fruit. From her peripheral she sees someone leaning by the front of her carriage. She thinks not much of it figuring that they’re simply looking at a item that aligns with the end of her carriage. Silently debating over the snack for a moment longer, she opts for the larger pack instead before adding it to the carriage.

Seconds after, the handle of her carriage digs harshly into her stomach as the customer pushes their hip into the end of the carriage to reach for a bag of jumbo grapes. Mariatu blinks to herself in astonishment as the man holds the bag up to the light and moves his hips to do the same movement again!

This time Mariatu yanks on the carriage and goes around the man but not without muttering, “this is how you say excuse me,” on her way as she continues on up ahead. Eyeing the bag of baby spinach, she decides against it after grabbing a few green juices not long ago and just as she goes to push away from the section, she can hear the irritating sound of a broken carriage wheel pushing behind her.

Ever since Mariatu was a little girl she had great senses. Some may call it a gift while others maybe oblivious but she’s almost always right in judging distances and sensing presences that may or may not physically be there. In this present time as Mariatu is briefly glancing from the cart to make sure she’s not forgetting something and watching where she’s going, she can feel and hear the carriage behind her getting too close for her liking. Just as she’s reaching the corner, she peers over her shoulder to the pale as ice skinned man with a beanie that barely covers his thin salt colored hair and in that moment they come to some sort of understanding.

His shoulders relax, his lips pursed, grip still strong on the handle, he seems to slow down as his eyes connect with Mariatu’s. The side-eye game was always strong and she whips her head back, ringlets of curls bouncing with her underneath her beret as she does, a satisfying smile begins to grace her lipstick painted lips while she gets ready to turn the corner.

That’s short lived as a bump of the carriage from behind pressed into her backside first, thrashing her forward, followed by the knocking wheel which clips her ankle. A yelp escapes her lips, gaining the attention of a cashier who’s handling the handicap section and Mariatu has to exhale the steam that’s probably seeping from her eardrums.

Rubbing at the stinging skin above her ankle socks in her trainers, she glares at the older man who looks sheepish at the fact that his carriage actually interacted with his target.

“What’s your problem? You bump my carriage out of the way instead of using your manners, which you clearly lack and now you wanna play bumper cars with my ankle?” Mariatu questions the man who lifts his shoulders nonchalantly.

“I needed grapes,” the man started, “you could have done what I did and placed your carriage to the right so that way you’re not blocking other items that fellow customers need.”

Mariatu scoffs in disbelief, “well I’m not you and the proper thing to do if you need to get something is say excuse me or patiently wait until I’m done.”

“Sorry…but no?”

“No?” Mariatu felt her eye twitch and just to think, she was having a pretty solid day off, considering it was only twelve in the afternoon but still!

“Yeah,” the man continued, “you’re in my way and I have places to be too. Don’t know if you know this but a ice storm is coming and I need—

“Excuse me, I don’t give two shits what you need. Everybody that’s in here needs something, so honestly you can take that entitlement and shove it up right your ass, Mr.” Mariatu stated to the man without raising her voice but her brows definitely did, which means she meant that shit, “and happy holidays.”

With that she sorta limps from the man, enjoying that she had the last say and that his presence was no longer felt as he scrambles to go to one of the other aisles instead of to the self-check out area, which Mariatu was headed to.

Mariatu braced herself heading back into the breezy sixty degree weather, slowly letting out a sigh to herself as she crossed through the parking lot. She spots Neron waiting outside of her bronco and jumps into action as he looks up in time. “Ten minutes huh?” He teases with a shake of his head as he unlocks the trunk.

She scrunches her nose at him as they maneuver around the cart, taking turns adding the bags into the back. It doesn’t take Neron long to pick up on the way Mariatu is walking different once they get down to the the last few bags. “What’s up?” He asks.

Mariatu shakes her head as Neron points at her leg, “I’ll tell you in the car.”

The hoodie wearing man dips his head and takes the task of bringing the carriage back to its spot after opening the door for Mariatu. Neron doesn’t miss a certain man looking over in his wife’s direction as Neron crosses the parking lot one more. Once he gets into the driver’s seat, it’s Neron’s turn to have his eyes in slits as the strange man starts tossing his bags into his station wagon.

“That man with the pedophile car…you know ‘em?”

Mariatu hums, looking up from her phone to follow Neron’s trail and immediately scoffs, “oh yeah, we got friendly not too long ago. That’s the man who tried to run me over after I told him he basically needs to learn some manners.”

Neron flicks his eyes to his right, “what happened?” He pressed and Mariatu has no issue giving her husband the quick rundown of what just occurred.

He’s rubbing at his lengthy beard in slight irritation but also pride. “Put your seatbelt on,” he commands and Mariatu tilts her head to the side at this.

However the hardened stare Neron shoots her way and then back out the window shield was enough for her to listen this time. The tatted man places one hand on the steering wheel, tightening his grip and sitting up straight—which was always enough indication that someone was about to float their ride…so Mariatu braced herself.

Rightfully so.

As soon as she blinked, they were across the parking lot blocking the man’s path from completely backing out from the parking space.

“Neron,” Mariatu hissed as he pressed his brimmed hat further down on his head then flung the door open, leaving it wide open as he walked in between the cars to get to the man’s driver’s side, knocking on his window.

Mariatu couldn’t exactly hear what Neron was saying to the strange man as he was crouched over, talking to him in a manner that would send a chill down anyone’s spine. Her heart rate picked up as she saw Neron reach into the rolled down window, possibly snatching the man up by the throat and then shoving him forward that his horn announced his face made contact with it.

With that Neron sniffs as he turns back to the bronco, holding a bag now as he climbs back into the driver’s seat. He plops the bag of grapes into Mariatu’s lap and says, “Poe Cramer sends his apologizes. Eat up.”

“Neron, what did you do that for? I thought I told you that I handled it.” Mariatu brings her eyes up from the fruit in her lap to the profile of her husband’s face who begins driving through the parking lot.

Neron dips his head, “and I’m proud of you, Cariño. But he assaulted you so I returned the favor. Roughed him up a bit, he’s lucky that’s all he got and that’s out of respect for my lady being somewhat a witness…that I didn’t take it further. got his name from his license—just in case you run into him again and he decides to start some more shit but I doubt it. I clocked his ass—that’s all. No harm, no foul.”

“I can’t,” Mariatu snorts resting a hand against her edges, “I love you and I don’t need you locked up before Christmas.”

“I’m just contributing to society so I know Santa would forgive me,” Neron shrugs with a slow smirk appearing on his lips.

Mariatu laughs, “Oh that’s what you want to call it?” Before kicking her ankle up and over her opposite knee to examine, “don’t know why some people get so shitty during the holiday season, especially if you didn’t do anything wrong to them! They just feel like it’s okay to take it out on strangers. Like? What you say fuck me for?”

“You don’t even gotta worry about him no more, trust me,” Neron laughs at the joke, “you good though?”

Mariatu nods reaching over to feed Neron a grape before pecking his cheek, “always with you by my side, baby.”

“Likewise,” Neron winks over at the woman he was ecstatic to call his wife, resting the palm of his hand on her thigh.

Back in the gated, yes gated! suburbs of their coastal mobile home after unloading and packing the groceries, the married couple made it their mission that today would be a easy day. They rarely had days off at the same time so Neron and Mariatu wanted to take advantage of this with Mariatu persuading Neron to go shopping today rather than putting it off for the busiest day—Saturday. Now they had the rest of the day just to be up in each others faces, spending quality time together.

She’s in the bathroom, tending to her night time skin routine, already solidifying they were in for the rest of the day, while Neron’s perched on the edge of the bed tuned into the weather channel. The bathroom door’s wide open as Neron says, “you know your pa is trying to get coco and I to come out to Wyoming, huh?”

Mariatu frowns, “that’s where he snuck off to? The hell is he doing out there?”

The woman knew exactly what her father was doing out there. He made it a mission to travel more after the lost of his wife three years ago but…Wyoming? Really? Very Kanye coded but a lot less unhinged.

“Starting a new business adventure. Plans to do something either with construction or a food truck for a rest stop…he’s weighing his options based on how those meetings go.” Neron informed, “he sounds real determined and said he’ll keep me posted while also sending his love to you.”

Neron and Johnny had their own business together that consisted of mechanics and all things restoration, computers and guns, you name it! After things went terribly south (she often found it hard at times that they both made it out alive) with the club, they figured this would be their best option and Mariatu couldn’t be more supportive of the two. In whatever way she was often confused on her father bringing up his multiple business ideas to her husband and good friend. Neron and Coco seemed quite comfortable making their roots here and not all over the place like her father commonly did.

Yet of course she understood networking being a business owner herself…she just couldn’t picture Neron or Johnny elsewhere now that they were secure here and out of the tainted Santo Padre.

Mariatu rolls her eyes at this, loving how Neron threw that in there but she knew this was true with the way her father’s brain was constantly running with ideas. He’s always been a hardworking, successful man but he also didn’t know when to slow down. He was getting older and it’s like Mariatu was always fighting to have time with him, she valued that considering the lost of her mother but perhaps this was all his way of grieving?

You tend to do that sometimes at the end of the year they say.

“Will he back for Christmas? Kwanzaa, maybe?”

Neron wouldn’t lie and he knew how important Mariatu’s relationship was with her parents, which he did not receive personally but he always had his sisters so he understood to some degree, “he didn’t say honey but I’m sure he’ll try.”

“Right,” Mariatu is quiet for some time before starting up her spin brush again for a few minutes before rinsing her face and continuing the rest of her work.

The room is thicker now with Mariatu’s inner feelings about it all but Neron knows not to push it. They were similar in that way, holding everything in but Mariatu was better in letting it out when she was ready while Neron struggled with his own issues of people not hearing him when he did speak. However he knew not to feel that way with his wife, they confided in each other countless of times and felt seen being vulnerable with each other. It’s what drove them forward through the hardships.

Neron’s not sure how long he’s dazed off but a pair of pants smack across his face, followed by a snort of laughter that belonged to no other than his wife. He blinks, gripping onto the printed pants and scowls as he eyes the same print that Mariatu is sporting. Except her’s are shorts and he gets to eye her smooth legs in them.

Licking his lips Neron rubs at his beard, fighting to keep his thoughts clean as she slips a printed long sleeve set over her camisole, “You’re really making me wear matching pajamas with you?”

“Uh huh,” Mariatu nods her head with a smile, “we’ll be cozy and cute.”

Neron mumbles, “And lookin’ like the elves on the fucken shelf.”

Mariatu cackles as Neron shakes his head in disagreement. She stands before him, resting her hands across his shoulders, massaging them while staring down into his tense but loving brown eyes. Neron doesn’t hesitate to wrap his solid tatted arms around her waist, while she gets comfortable locking her legs right around his hips so they’re face to face now.

“I think you need a little more persuading and a thank you.”

“A thank you?” Neron ponders as Mariatu nuzzles her nose against the man’s, who breathes her in.

Mariatu pecks his lips, then trails those kisses along his jaw and up to his large ear, whispering, “for always looking out for me and especially for today. Will you let me take care of you?”

She can feel Neron shudder against her and she knew that Neron just wanted to be loved in return for the love that he gave out. Mariatu had no problem providing that and the confirmation of his fingertips digging into her waist was all she needed to make their lips collide. The scratch of his beard against her chin, the weight of her clung to his body, the force of shoving him back against the sheets, scrape of her stiletto nails that greeted his skin briefly as she helped him out of his tops, kissing of his wounds that were buried beneath his tats, the trick of her tongue against the round of his raised flesh which contained a hooped piercing that always evoked a breathy moan from his lips, the teasing and pleasing to his lower region with only her mouth was enough to bring joy right out of Neron’s heart.

Mariatu took the reigns but Neron couldn’t let that slide without getting his hands on her in the way he wanted and the way they both needed as well. A shower and clean up routine later, both now sporting red festive wear, they’re lounging against the headboard together, container of pomegranate seeds placed in between them while the skies in San Didacus continue filling in with a gray haze.

Neron and Mariatu both meet each other’s eyes after the dark haired man settled on, one of his favorites, “Krampus,” (2015) after finding one of the cheesy romantic Christmas movies to be too corny for their tastes.

“Ready to keep the festive spirit going?” Neron asks, wrist draped over Mariatu’s shoulder while she curls into him, leg tossed over his torso.

Mariatu covers her yawn, “yeah I am, I don’t know about you but I don’t want any demons hunting this house, especially once some kids come along.”

“Nah, krampus don’t got nothin’ on me.” Neron tells with a grin, “he better ask Poe and check my resume.”

“I haven’t even seen that resume.”

“I’m keepin’ it that way. Like I said when we took those vows, you don’t got to worry about nothing on that end. Just the restaurant and the good parts of life that we’re building together only.” Neron reassured in which Mariatu nodded with a smile.

Neron leans forward capturing Mariatu’s lips in a brief kiss before brushing his lips against her forehead then tunes back into the movie.

One thing is true, this holiday, equally the pair hopes this season brings further blessings to their table after growing what they both went through. The little moments mean just as much as the big ones and when they frequently stare into each other’s eyes…maybe in the end they can always say that’s the best gift the universe could have ever gave them.

Continue the rest of my~5 days of Xmas~December anthology prompts here.

#Mayans mc #mayans fx #Mayans #mayans mc x reader #mayans imagine #mayans x reader #neron creeper vargas #creeper vargas #creeper Vargas x oc #creeper Vargas x reader #neron vargas x reader #johnny coco cruz #coco cruz #december prompts #queued #Joseph raymond lucero

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istorkyou · 1 year

Text

The Price Of Love (Modern!Ivar AU)

A Modern!Ivar x F Reader

Warnings - See individual chapters. STRICTLY 18+

Synopsis - Money isn’t everything.

Word Count - 1584

Note - This is the second fic I ever wrote and I’m not sure why I never posted it. I think I started writing The Arrangement not long after and kind of fell out of love with this one. Still, it’s been festering in my completed docs for well over a year so I figure I might as well post it 😬 It’s fluffy, and maybe a little cheesy (and by a little I mean a lot!) so if that’s your bag I hope you enjoy it!

Moodboard - The beautiful moodboard is made the magical, amazing @serasvictoria. Thank you so much xxxx

This was beta read by my aussie wife who has left Tumblr. All love, all the time Lou x

Tag List - Let me know if you want on or off :)@smears-and-spots @punkrocknpearls @youbloodymadgenius @momowhoo @zuxiezendler @not-another-viking-fanfic-blog @ivar-s-my-brat-tamer @pieces-by-me @heavenly1927 @berryonasummerevening @synnersaint @out-of-the-box-and-into-alchemy @petite-hime @serasvictoria @mimiiinspace @itsmysticalmystery @lonewolf471 @mylifeisactuallyamess @draculasbride-blog @love-all-things-writing @southernbe @redhead7799 @kaybee87 @ivarlover @ivarhoegh @idgafiamallthefandoms @darkphoenix5037 @profoundtyrantharmony @snarling-through-our-smiles @crazyunsexycool @xceafh @bragisrunes@noway4u @batmandallyboy @complicatedbutrare @readsalot73 @meandmycherrytree @mymindfuckery

Masterpost

CHAPTER 15

Nine months of dating Ivar. Nine months of happiness. Nine months of amazing sex. Nine month of love.

The interest in your relationship publicly has definitely reduced, mostly because the pair of you don’t go anywhere the photographers would be. Ivar has adapted to your lifestyle easily and fits into your world perfectly. You still struggle sometimes fitting into his world, but you are getting better at the glitzy parties and rubbing shoulders with the extreme wealth in your city. You much prefer it when you guys do normal things together though.

You have become friends with his brothers, they were easily won over, especially Hvitserk. He and Iris have been on a few dates and he seems besotted with her. She likes him a lot but is being very ‘Iris’ about the whole thing and is playing it cool.

Ubbe is dating someone new and, aside from cracking a couple of jokes in the beginning, leading Ivar to threaten to murder him, in a seriously scary tone, your ‘thing’ is long forgotten.

Since the ball you haven’t seen too much of Aslaug, she has been away, staying in her house in Iceland for months.

She calls you the week she gets home and she comes to visit your shop.

You bond over your mutual love of fashion. She spends a long time looking through all the clothes you stock and buys some dresses and some jewellery.

“You have a really good eye, Y/N. A wonderfully eclectic mix of fashion in stock. Have you thought about expanding? Opening more boutiques across the city?” She asks curiously.

“I have, I am hoping to by the end of next summer, I just need to make sure the business plan is foolproof, find a space, blah blah! It will be a lot of work.”

“I can help, I am always looking to invest in small local businesses…” she trails off and raises her eyebrows.

“Aslaug, without wanting to sound ungrateful, because I really am grateful for the offer, I’ve got my heart set on doing it all by myself.” You give a determined look.

“Although, if you know anyone in real estate that can give me a heads up of any suitable spaces becoming available I will gladly take that help,” you give her a cheeky smile.

“It just so happens I do know some people who could help with that. I will get in touch with them,” she gives you a wink.

“Also, the jeweller who made the bracelet and necklace you bought could maybe use some help, she’s amazing but hasn’t managed to get herself a proper workshop. If you were interested? Her name is Sadie.” You hand Aslaug one of Sadies cards which she slips into her purse.

“You are a very determined young woman, Y/N. I can see why Ivar loves you so much. What time do you lock up the shop? We should go and get cocktails.”

“Yes! I bloody love a good cocktail, come back at 4pm?”

You think you might have finally cracked the cool exterior, Ivar will be so pleased and your heart swells.

—————

You wake up early on Christmas morning and throw on an oversized hoody, before Ivar is stirring and you grab the heavy present on the kitchen counter and head to the elevator.

It opens on the ground floor and you head in over to the reception desk.

“Preston, Happy Christmas!” You shout and laugh as he jumps out of his skin. You hand him over the present.

“What’s this?” He looks in disbelief.

“A pressie, open it!” You are so excited.

He opens the present to see a state of the art coffee machine and his face lights up.

“What? Why? You shouldn’t have done this, Y/N.” His face is tinged with annoyance.

“Oh shush, you always look knackered, we thought you could use it,” you retort.

“Wow, thanks so much, I don’t know what to say.“ He holds his hands up.

“Just a gesture for putting up with Ivar’s rude ass for all these years! Are you going home to your family soon?”

“He’s not so rude anymore.” He tells you with a wink “I finish in 30 minutes,” he says happily. “Happy Christmas, Y/N, thank you.”

“Happy Christmas, have a great day. Hope the twins are happy with their bikes.” You give him a quick hug then head towards the elevator.

When it dings and the door opens Ivar is standing, with his arm above his head looking at the floor and his eyes travel up you until reaching your face and creasing with laughter.

“Will that never get old?!” You ask him in fake annoyance, he knows you find it adorable.

“Happy Christmas, baby! Did Preston like his present?” He asks, pulling you in for a big kiss.

“Yep, he was very happy,” you bury your face in his neck.

“Do you want your present?” Ivar asks with a cheeky smile on his face.

“Is it an orgasm?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Later,” he laughs out, “come on, it’s in the bedroom.”

“This is getting more interesting..” he looks back with a withering look.

“Get your mind out of my pants, filthy girl,” he wags a finger at you.

“Can I give you my present first? I’m so excited!” He laughs at you and nods.

You run to your side of the bed and pull out an envelope, skipping to him to hand it over. He opens the envelope and reads the Christmas card inside, smiling. He opens the card and two pieces of paper fall out. He picks them up with a furrowed brow, reading the words on them.

“Wha..what is this? Japan? You bought us tickets to travel to Japan?!” Pure disbelief on his face. He keeps looking back at the tickets and to you, clearly having trouble processing the information in front of him.

“What the fuck? This is too much, Y/N! We said small gifts.” His face is shocked.

“Meh, you are worth it. Are you ok? Do you want to go? I thought we could go and try some authentic sushi? Remember when I first came here?” You are searching his face for any sign of happiness.

“Y/N, this is too much. You can’t afford this.” His face still shows nothing but shock.

“I can baby, I wouldn’t have bought them if I couldn’t afford it, you know that. The shop has been doing amazing. Do you not want to go?” Your voice is small and dejected.

“Are you kidding me? It’s my number one place I want to visit! Oh my god I’m so excited, I'm just in shock, baby. Thank you! Thank you so much. I’ve never had a gift like this before.” He pulls you in for a crushing hug, kissing you all over your face and neck until you are swatting him away.

“Do you want to open your gift?” He asks excitedly.

He walks to his drawers and pulls out a big black box with a giant gold ribbon tied in bow. He hands it to you and sits close to you, watching your face intently as you undo the bow. You lift the lid on the black box and pull out a red box that you recognise. It’s one of Sadies.

You look at him and his face is so earnest you give him a kiss.

“Open it,” he urges you.

You open the box and inside is the most beautiful necklace you’ve ever seen. It has three platinum chain mail chains twisted round each other all joined together with a diamond on each clasp. It has a round platinum pendant on it, around the edge there is an engraving and in the middle is a beautiful, green stone.

“Ivar……” you look up at him, your eyes misting up.

“I need to explain it!” He is like an excited puppy.

“I designed it, with a little help from Sadie. It’s platinum and diamonds on the clasps..” the look on his face is one of pure amusement, you can’t help but laugh at him despite wanting to act offended, a clear call back to the unwanted bracelet he gave you.

“The circle of the pendant represents my never ending love for you,” his face changes from amusement to seriousness.

“The engraving is the date I first laid eyes on you.” You bring it closer to your face to read it.

“The date of the merger party.” You tell him, with a big soppy smile on your face.

“And the green sapphire in the middle is the exact colour of the blazer you were wearing when we met. I knew from that very moment you were the one for me. Forever and always.”

You don't know what to say, your eyes well up with tears.

“Do you like it, Y/N?” He asks nervously.

“It’s the most beautiful, thoughtful present. I love it.” You wipe your tears of happiness and kiss him. “You can't tell me off for the gift I got you, this must have cost a fortune, Ivar,” he just shrugs and grins.

“I left a space on it for another engraving. I am going to get it engraved with the date I ask you to be my wife.” his voice is smaller than before and his face is red with a blush. You gasp at his words and pull him close for a cuddle.

“Just for future reference, I will say yes.

THE END - thanks for reading :)

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asukamood · 8 months

Text

First date (b-day special)

***

Happy birthday to my pookie!!

This year I have come bearing sweet Hue moment as a gift, I hope you enjoy!

***

Warnings: Implied eating disorder (anorexia), suggestive content (no smut or lime happening don’t worry but this is Blue and Hacker so really it’s to be expected), very brief mention of a psych ward and toxic relationships.

Synopsis: Hacker then glanced at the computer screen in front of him. “That would be $20.76, would you like to play by card or cash?”

“Cash.” Blue handed him $30 before leaning in and planting a small kiss on Hacker’s cheek. “You can keep the money.” He winked, already walking away.

***

This whole thing started off in such a stupid way.

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon and quite a lonely one inside of the local 7/11.

A man in his early 20s stood behind the counter covered by the staff uniform, phone in hand and scrolling. He pushed his blond hair out of his eyes with his hand and took the opportunity to check if someone had entered the store yet.

Once again, he was disappointed by how empty the store was, his only company being his phone and the light drumming of the rain against the window.

He sighed, glaring at the battery icon in the right-hand corner of the screen that informed him of his phone’s low battery. His phone was about to turn off, leaving him all alone and bored once again.

He tucked his phone in his pocket while cursing out his coworker Sophie. He liked her but God was it annoying when she skipped her shift because of the weather. If they were together, at least he would have had someone to talk to.

He leaned on the counter and looked at the ceiling.

He was so bored.

To the point where he felt like actually doing some work and seeing if all the spare items were stocked properly. The mental image frightened him so much that chills ran down his spine.

He did not want to become a model employee yet.

Just as he was about to fall for the impulse urges to be productive, the bell signaling the entrance of a new customer rang, barely noticeable due to the heavy rain all over the windows.

He straightened up, looking to the exit just in time to see a brown-haired man around his age walking in, closing his umbrella in the entrance. Said customer looked back to him once he noticed Hacker staring and the latter’s jaw almost dropped to the floor.

He had never seen such a pretty blue in someone’s eyes, it looked as clear as the ocean’s surface, bright and wrinkling in the sunlight which was a nice contrast to the current weather.

The pretty stranger's eyes contracted at the edges as his lips twitched upward in a smile before finally closing as he waved in Hacker’s direction as a hello. Hacker waved back mechanically, still wondering if he was hallucinating an attractive guy walking in because of the boredom.

Not to mention that the weather was absolutely terrible, who would ever want to go buy some groceries at this time?

He followed him with his eyes, seeing him pick up myriad items off the shelves and occasionally putting them back up with a grimace when faced with the price tag. He did not look like he was short on money but then again, even some the richest of men must raise an eyebrow when a product’s price is way higher than it used to be.

Eventually, the customer appeared right in front of him, invading his vision. Hacker almost yelped but managed to hold himself back, stretching his lips in a smile instead.

He hoped that he did not look stupid.

It would be a real shame to appear so unappealing in front of the prettiest person he has ever seen, not counting himself of course.

“Hello!” He welcomed him warmly, the other reciprocating the gesture. “Would that be all?” he gestured toward the items he just put down.

The other nodded. As he scanned everything, Hacker was trying to think about how he should approach this. He had never flirted with a customer before, but he was bored enough to at the moment and the fact that man was quite attractive was not quite helping.

Thankfully, it seemed like the other was as eager to talk as he was since he was the first one to try and strike up a conversation.

“I saw you staring at me while I was running my errands.” He started, making Hacker sweat drop, oops, he has been found. “May I ask why?”

He did not look too weirded out yet, Hacker might as well try. “Can you blame me? It is not every day that you get to meet such beauty.” The cashier was expecting the other to turn away, weirded out but instead, his smile only widened.

“You’re not too bad yourself, what’s your name?” This must be the luckiest day of Hacker’s life. He tried not to let his excitement show as he responded.

“I’m Hacker, and who might you be?”

“You can call me Blue.” He leaned onto the counter, his chin resting on top of his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hacker.”

“Oh please, the pleasure is mine.” He was internally freaking out, WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON?! “I have the tendency to take my friends out for dinner to get to know them better, I hope it doesn’t bother you if I were to continue that tradition with you?”

“Not at all.” As if he was aware of Hacker’s inner turmoil, the slightest glint of amusement shone in his eyes.

Now that he had a view up close, Hacker realized that he had been wrong to assume that his eyes were as clear as the ocean’s surface. It would be more accurate to describe them as the unexplored depths of the sea, dark and mysterious but so fascinating.

All his secrets were nicely concealed within those blue barriers, no one having yet to explore all the treasures that were hidden below the surface.

He would never be too arrogant as to claim he would be the first one to open the first chest but nevertheless, that sea was one beautiful sight he could not wait to see up close.

“I would love to know all the details about our meeting, you wouldn’t mind if I were to ask for your number, would you?”

“Not at all!” Then they exchanged their phones, the two of them saving their numbers in the other’s phone. Once they were done, all articles Blue had brought were scanned.

They gave each other their phones back. Hacker then glanced at the computer screen in front of him. “That would be $20.76, would you like to play by card or cash?”

“Cash.” Blue handed him $30 before leaning in and planting a small kiss on Hacker’s cheek. “You can keep the money.” He winked, already walking away.

The other brought his hand where Blue kissed him, his face flushing a bright red.

It had stopped raining, the sun shining on the Earth wrapped in a rainbow scarf.

Needless to say, Hacker screamed his lungs out in his pillow that day when he came back home.

***

As calm and collected as Blue looked when he agreed to go out with that cute cashier, no part of that façade showed his real emotions. He had done his research on the guy once he was back home, and so far, nothing has backed up any hint of him being aggressive.

Even if his records in a psych ward was something he was going to have to investigate later.

From all the evidence he had collected so far, it seems like hanging out with him for a while was of no danger to him.

Which pleased him more than he had expected it to.

He did pique his interest, but he did not think he would be so eager to spend some time with him.

Perhaps he would not be so lonely if he managed to befriend him.

Before he could spiral down into some unpleasant thoughts, his phone’s screen lit up, ringing to signal that someone was calling him. As usual, he jumped onto the device.

He could not help but hope that whoever it was, they would be willing to talk to him, even if it were just a few minutes. He was so lonely bored.

… He also hoped that it was not another scammer trying to sell him shady services.

As funny as it was to mess with them, it was different from talking to a friend.

He wondered how Error was doing now.

He looked down at the device and his eyes widened as he read “Hacker” on the screen. A pleasant surprise for once, he hoped it would continue down that path.

He picked up the phone.

“Hello?” The other one tentatively greeted him. “Can you hear me?”

“I can, yes.” He hoped he did not sound too eager to continue the call. “Do you need anything?”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Hacker laughed and Blue suddenly noticed that he had not heard another person sound so happy in his presence, albeit they were in a call, in a long time. “I almost thought that you gave me a fake number there, I would have felt so betrayed.”

Blue shook his head in amusement. “Is this really the type of person you think I am? I am quite hurt by that assumption.”

“Sorry sorry, it’s just that you never know what people could be plotting.” That sounds like a problem that I do not have, was what Blue wanted to say. He refrained though.

“I get it. You did not answer my question though, do you need anything?” A sound that Blue interpreted as Hacker facepalming at the other end of the line.

“Goodness me, I almost forgot why I called you in the first place. Yeah, are you free this Saturday? I’ve heard a new restaurant opened near my place; do you want to check it out with me?” Blue hummed to make it seem like he was not dying to say yes immediately.

As far as his knowledge went, he had no plan for that day.

“Yes, I’m free.”

“Perfect!” The other sounded pleased, the briefest silence overtaking the call as he got on the move. “Do you want me to come pick you up?”

Blue tapped his chin in thought before answering. “Sure, I’ll see you there at the plaza then?” An affirmative noise came from the other side.

“Sounds good to me! Before we go, do you follow a special diet like being vegetarian or so?” Blue’s eyes narrowed before he shook his head, his usual face fading back in.

“No, I’m fine with anything.”

“Oh good, I don’t want to offend but I’ve personally never understood people being picky with food. If it is edible, I would devour it without much thought.” Blue chuckled, he had found quite the glutton has he not?

***

Saturday, 6 P.M.

‘Hey!

I’m on the road now, are you still up for our date?

Last chance to withdraw!!!!”

Blue smiled at his phone, replacing a rebellious strand of hair that got out of control because of a certain wind current. It was not particularly cold today nor was it hot, just the perfect temperature Blue liked to walk around in. He vaguely wondered if Hacker would be willing to take a stroll with him once they were done.

Well, he always had the possibility to force him to if it came to it.

Though, it would be much more enjoyable for both of them if the other was willing to do it.

It was already nighttime by now and the sky was cleared of bothersome clouds, letting the soft light of the moon rain down the entire place.

A beautiful evening, to make it simple.

‘It is not every day you get the chance to go out with such a cutie, in what world would I withdraw? I will keep waiting for you 😉'

‘Aww 😍

I will be with you in a minute then!’

‘Looking forward to seeing your handsome face again😘’

Now that he was not answering anymore, Blue decided to kill the time by looking at his surroundings.

Some carved pumpkins had been placed here and there in some areas, usually accompanied by some bat stickers stuck to the walls behind them. Lights to Halloween’s colors have been hung between the buildings, switching colors every few seconds.

The famous spooky day was soon to begin. The thought put a small smile on his face as every Halloween the kids of the neighborhood would come out of their houses disguised as various monsters, holding adorable little pumpkin bags.

They often knock on his door to ask for sweets and it made for quite the cute sight to see them looking so excited by being given sweets.

A little girl disguised as a princess once asked him if he were the Prince Charming she had been looking for, it must have been his best Halloween yet.

“Uh, excuse me?” A voice suddenly snapped him out of his trance as he looked to the side, noticing a woman with flushed cheeks standing a few inches away from him. Oh no.

“Yes? Is there something that you need?”

God, please do not make that woman flirt with me I am begging--

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I saw you just standing there and uh...” She chuckled nervously and Blue was wondering just how long it would take for Hacker to arrive. “Can I... have your number?”

Hopeful eyes. Ouch.

Blue opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a single sound out, he felt a hand wrap itself around his wrist as he was yanked back. “Sorry girl!” Hacker’s familiar voice echoed behind him as he was suddenly spun around. “I called dibs first!”

A blink and Hacker was suddenly dragging him away by the wrist under the woman’s shocked gaze. That was one way to get rid of the problem.

A few seconds later, Blue found himself sitting in Hacker’s car, his security belt already sticking him in place. “Well, hello there.”

“General Kenobi.” Blue blinked awkwardly.

“I beg your pardon?” It was Hacker’s turn to be confused.

“What? Wait, that was not a reference to Star Wars?” Blue hesitantly shook his head and he could swear that the way Hacker’s face dropped was so prominent it could be audible.

“Oh.” To avoid saying too much, he turned on the engine, the car starting to let out muffled noises that vaguely resembled laughter. “Let’s pretend that this never happened.”

Blue laughed. “Sounds good, thank you for rescuing me from that awkward position.”

“Don’t mention it, I couldn’t possibly let a random person steal my dear date, right?” He put emphasis on the word dear, making an exaggerated face of hopelessness. That brought a few snickers out of Blue, who wondered when the last time someone made him laugh was.

“Though, I can’t really blame that girl.” He looked Blue up and down, a smirk twitching on his lips. “You make it hard for people not to want to take you on a date.”

“Oh, you little flirt.” Blue leaned back on his seat and looked at Hacker too. “But I can’t say that the way you’re dressed isn’t making me feel some kind of thing.”

A pointed look from the other and they both started laughing again.

Blue missed having someone to talk to.

***

“Hmm...” Hacker hummed as he tapped his chin in thought, the menu kept open in front of him thanks to the support of his hand. “It’s been ages since I’ve last been to a restaurant, I forgot how many dishes there could be.”

“I can say the same.” Blue frowned as he looked at the menu, he could not see the list of ingredients and most importantly the calories anywhere, and just getting a salad might seem disrespectful. “What are you going to order?”

Hacker shrugged. “Most likely the same thing as you, or I could just wing it.”

“If you go with the first one, I’m afraid we might be staying here longer than any of us planned.” Hacker understood.

“Got it, give me a minute.” He closed his eyes and lifted his finger, as if doing something important for the entire world, before putting it down on the menu. Blue simply watched him, silently praying it would not be anything too disastrous for his weight.

“I guess we are getting...” Hacker squinted at the menu.

“... whatever this is supposed to be, I don’t think it’s possible for any normal human to pronounce that name.” Blue did not even notice it being on the menu, but he supposed there was not much harm in trying new things.

“Sounds good to me.” Coincidentally, a waiter happened to pass near them and took their order on the whim.

However, the waiter’s departure suddenly brought a new kind of silence to befall their table. The awkward kind this time, as both realized that they had never actually been on a date and had no idea what subjects could be brought up or not.

Not to mention, any relationship they have entertained before was nothing short of destructive, so nothing to mimic.

Blue was looking away, fiddling with his fingers nervously on his lap while Hacker was tapping on the table’s napkin, frowning as he tried to come up with something to say.

At that moment, he wished that he could just go back to how he was ten seconds ago. He was so talkative and had so many things to say, where did that go??

Blue was not quite any better in that area. He did remember what he wanted to say and if not that, he had Hacker’s interests all figured out so it would not have been an arduous task to come up with something to say.

The problem was he did not know if he should say them.

He had prepared himself for any kind of reaction the other would have due to his words, but he was clearly not prepared for his own brain to betray him.

And the longer the silence was prolonged, the harder it was to think.

“... I wonder how many times I would prick my finger while trying to sew something.” Hacker muttered at one point, only realizing he had thought aloud when Blue’s attention shot back to him, his eyes wide.

He panicked. “Ah sorry, I was just--”

“You want to learn how to sew?” Hacker blinked in surprise, he sounded excited when he asked that question.

“You can say that.” He confirmed, nodding. “I’m often short on money but at the same time I want to wear nice clothes you know, what better solution than to knit your clothes yourself?”

Blue nodded enthusiastically. “I have enough to live comfortably but handmade clothes just feel better than the normal ones and I do relate to the money problems, living off a teacher’s job can be quite the tough nut to crack at times.”

Hacker’s eyes widened. “Wait, you’re a teacher?”

Blue laughed at his bewildered expression. “A yoga teacher to be precise, why do you look so surprised?”

“I thought you were like, a model or something. There’s no way no one tried to hire you as one, especially with that face.”

“You flatter me.” He brought his hands back on top of the table, far more at ease now that they were talking. “If I didn’t meet you at your job, I probably would have made the same assumption.”

Pink started to dust Hacker’s cheeks, beaming. “You’re too kind. I’m actually kind of curious now, would you mind it if I were to crash once in a while in your class?”

“Oh no, I would be far from complaining to have such an eye-candy in my class.” He winked. “No, because seriously, most of my students are tasteless Karens and it is a real torture to my poor vision.” He sighed dramatically, taking a sip from the cup of water the waiter left in their wake.

“And don’t even get me started on the pain it is to my ears.” He waved his hand in the air as if he were chasing unpleasant visions away from his sight. “Though, if you were to show up, I guarantee that things would get way more interesting. I am quite certain my eyesight increased by 0.5 point just by looking at your face.”

Hacker snorted, leaning back onto his chair. “I might check it out then, what is the price of your services though?”

“Well, I can give you a discount, you should consider yourself lucky, I only give those to pretty people. Or...” He leaned onto the table a little more, smirking. “You could pay me another way, if you get what I’m on about.”

Hacker raised an amused eyebrow. “Well, if you take that kind of payment, I would be more than happy to oblige.”

They both laughed, the waiter soon returned with their order.

As they started to dig in, Hacker decided that from this day on, spouting out random bullshit was a very valid, and arguably the best, flirting tactic there was.

Later that night, they were together.

(In the dating kind of way, I know what you are thinking.)

#dreamswap #fluff #ship #ds blue #ds hacker #dreamswap hacker #dreamswap blue #bluetooth #hue #Dreamswap Hacker x Dreamswap blue #ds blue x ds hacker #ds hacker x DS blue

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kendallville · 1 year

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Wild and unfounded Succession finale predictions started by seeing those ⬆️ two images:

It's interesting for me that we see Stewy next to Ewan twice, including in the final vote. If they make an alliance, everything might depend on what their angle would be.

Ewan voted with Logan in the no confidence vote "because he was his brother", but he hates everything that Waystar represents and does. So now that his brother is gone, and as he said in the eulogy that he "fed this dark flame in men", he might want to extinguish it and vote for selling the company, especially since he said "he's trying" to be a good man. Selling is good for Stewy as well, the only thing that might stop him for voting "yes" being the price (however it's already high, and Waystar's stock price will probably drop when election-related emotions will subside).

So, it could be parallel to vote of no confidence from season 1, but maybe Roman withholds or is not present (it's mentioned in the synopsis of the last episode that they don't know where he is at some point), and Stewy votes "yes" to sell. The only difference is that I think Ken is disillusioned by now and he anticipates that he can't rely on them.

And I wouldn't be surprised if Matsson screws over Shiv, because at no point he explicitly said that she'll be CEO, he said it will be US CEO.

It would be totally insane if it would turn out that Ken made a deal with Matsson and he's the one taking CEO sit. But... he knows Shiv's plan, he sees that Rome is having a breakdown and it's obvious that Stewy will follow the money... And he was ready to take company out of family's hands in season 1, when he was promised position of the CEO. So...

Both possibilities seem fitting - Ken somehow wins, practically becomes Logan, taking kids from Rava and alienating the whole family, or they all "lose" and company is sold.

I don't see a way that Shiv "wins", because at the end of episode 9 it seems like she will, and we know Succession writing. I think it might be like with Roman's eulogy - once I saw him being so confident rehearsing in the promo, it was clear it will be a disaster.

It will probably be something totally different, though... I can't believe it's over.

#succession #succession spoilers #Finale predictions #kendall roy #stewy hosseini #ewan roy #roman roy #shiv roy

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taxevasiontactics · 1 year

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The Godmother's Godchild [2] - This Town Ain't Big Enough for Anyone, Really

Synopsis: The problem with a small town is that you don't really have a lot of options in places to go. You keep rubbing shoulders with Peppino, much to his continued frustration, and end up overextending just the tiniest bit. Damn kids. Damn helpful instinct.

Warning: Description of a Minor Wound

Your prediction ends up coming true the very next morning.

To avoid a repeat of the night before, you go grocery shopping. As you’re driving down the tight, one-lane-in-either-direction road, you note a few things. The town was built before cars were a staple of life. It’s smack in the middle of farmland; even if it’s no corn hell, the miles of emptiness and cow fields take up the majority of your trip’s vistas. There are no big warehouse superstores, no fast-food chains, and no corporate names in sight. The grocer in town (the only one) is a mom-and-pop gig, as is every other storefront in sight. It’s charming in its own way, but you feel like you’ve wandered onto a retro show when you stop inside. Linoleum floors, buzzing lights, an old cash register that goes “ding” as the middle-aged clerk pulls on its lever. Even the people shopping around you know each other. You can feel the looks as you pass. They’re probably gossiping about the newcomer, as nonthreatening as you try to make yourself with nods and smiles.

That’s what makes Peppino stick out like a sore thumb when he appears around an aisle’s corner. You try to say hello, but the moment you turn he bolts out of sight as quickly as he came. He’s surprisingly fast too, going from near standstill to a sprint in the blink of an eye. The same thing happens as you’re perusing produce, then while checking canned fruits. Even the baking aisle is not free of a near encounter with the man. Your entire shopping trip is plagued by near-misses, disappearing the moment you even try to approach.

You finally get a chance to talk when you push your cart behind his at the only checkout lane. Looks like the man’s ditched the tank-top-t-shirt getup for now, swapping it out for zip hoodie and t-shirt instead. He pointedly does not look your way. He has a lot of food in his cart: flour, vegetables, cured meats, and a few herbs. And tomatoes. Lots, and lots, and lots of tomatoes.

“Stocking up for the day?” You ask the open air. Peppino tenses like he was hoping you would ignore him too.

“Yes. Every day, as fresh as it gets…”

You nod. “Where I used to live, every pizza place bragged about using only San Marzano tomatoes. Authentic Italian style, or something.”

He seems to take great amusement at that, scoffing and muttering a string of his own authentic Italian. This apparent blasphemy is enough to knock him out of whatever timorous behavior he’d subconsciously assigned to you.

“They wouldn’t know real Italian food if it came and smacked them in the face. Why would you need canned tomatoes when fresh ones you can make just as good, for less?” He picks up one of the red fruits for emphasis, waggling it in front of you. “You don’t need fancy things, no, you just need to know how to make it right.”

The clerk clears her throat, holding back a smile. “Mr. Spaghetti?”

“Oh, scuzi, sorry…”

He rummages around in his pockets, pulling out a coupon book. They exchange papers and knock down prices for nearly every item in his cart. You get the feeling that this is a practiced dance between them – either because the clerk is used to penny pinchers, or because Peppino makes a habit of being one everywhere he goes.

He waits while she gets through your cart, raising an eyebrow at its contents. You catch it, raising your own eyebrow. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, you think. Quick fridge fill-ups, low-effort meals, and snacks.

“What?” Genuinely, you don’t know what he could criticize here.

“Don’t you think you should…” He waves his hands in the air, searching for the words. “Get some things better for you? No one can survive on cereal and- and chips, and whatever other little filler foods those are, no?”

“Questioning my ability to run after a cat on a handful of cereal, are you?” You tease.

Peppino makes a sour face, and you snicker. You decide against playing Misery Olympics and telling him about how you usually eat at work. Based on your past two encounters, he might find something else to yell at with your diet of coffee and granola bars. This is cheating, for you. The clerk finishes, you pay, and you wheel out with your pantry goods. Peppino follows along, bags in hand.

“You seem to care an awful lot all of the sudden, considering I nearly made you crash and poked fun at your name,” you wryly reason.

“You are doing the exact same thing!” He runs ahead of you, somehow pointing at you in accusation despite the three heavy bags in his offending hand. “I’m just trying to be polite before you decide to turn me into a toad, or whatever it is you people do!”

You sigh, opening up your truck’s door and loading up your groceries. Exasperation runs through you in a moment, despite how outdatedly funny his worry is. A toad? So that’s what last night was about.

“Correction,” you start, “that would be the school of transmutation, an entirely different career path that I didn’t study. I’m from a school that primarily focuses on helping things reach a state they naturally can faster, and with less error.”

You close the door, leaning back against it with your arms folded. The more you’ve ranted, it seems, the more Peppino has shrunk in on himself. A little part of you is satisfied to see his accusations addressed and overturned.

“Even if I did know how to make polymorphic potions,” -He cringes. You continue- “you would have to absorb it somehow for it to have any effect. I promise, cross my heart, that I won’t try to turn you into a toad, an inanimate object, or anything else you might be afraid of.”

The frown on his face grows even more as he continues to grumble, “And why would I have any reason to trust you?”

“You don’t.”

You hop into your truck, catching Peppino’s frown get momentarily wiped off in bewilderment. Pleasant assumption? Unpleasant conclusion? You don’t know, and the ice cream in your groceries is going to melt if you stick around for much longer.

“You either trust me or you don’t. For the record, though?” You give him one big, cheesy grin as you start the engine. “The pizza was really good, and I can’t get any more if I turn you into something weird. Goodbye, Mr. Spaghetti!”

Peppino’s face turns bright red, one finger lifted to inevitably retort, deny, or chew you out. You peel out before you hear whatever else he has to say, riding the high of getting the last word in all the way back.

---

You’ve hit a wall in terms of preparing the property for sale.

Clue 1: the cottage was not cleaning itself.

There are many good things about magic cottages. They’re usually enchanted to take care of themselves, Aunt Marian’s was no different to your expert senses. You were still hit with a lungful of dusty air when you first walked in, yet thought nothing of the thin layer that covered many surfaces.

Clue 2: the cottage did not repair itself.

A few days after the grocer encounter, you tripped over a floorboard. It wasn’t like that before, you don’t remember breaking it in any way while organizing, but you knew for certain that the culprit behind your thrown plate of toast (which you were looking forward to, by the way) was the curiously crooked board. You blamed it on a shifting foundation and ignore it, trusting it to go back in place eventually.

This morning, a mere two days after the tripping incident, you went to get a glass of milk. Where you expected chilly cold fridge air, you found a slightly-cooler-than-room-temp puff of air from within the dark, metal cabinet. Luckily, nothing had spoiled yet, but you aborted your search for milk in favor of not tempting fate by quickly slamming the door shut again.

Clue 3: the cottage no longer provides power to anything inside.

You can only assume that Aunt Marian tied herself to the house. When she passed, the enchantments slowly faded away from lowest to highest priority until it ultimately failed you and your milk. You can’t make a change to the spellwork yourself, nor are you going to assume the future owners will have any idea how to fix it either. With this in mind, you go to the library with sleeves rolled up both metaphorically and physically. You’re stubborn enough to try keeping the cottage as it is, intent on not shelling out goo gobs of money on modern conveniences. You’re set on making your own solution to the problem.

You want to substitute natural magic with alchemy. A constructed power well, with properties you pick. Of course, this means you have to turn to the dreaded art of transmutation to make this work.

Arming yourself with a mind-numbingly dry book from the bottom of an overstuffed shelf and a bottomless bag rescued from the same pile, you walk through the nearby woods in hopes of finding the proper ingredients for your idea. Though the smell of greenery and life around you are refreshing, the mugginess and uneven ground are not. You thank Aunt Marian mentally for her foraging lessons during the hot, humid days of your youth. Then you yell at her for leaving the cottage a fixer upper.

Your mind wanders as you walk and search. Maybe this is some higher power’s way of punishing you for being a flippant idiot with Peppino. You don’t know transmutation, you said. You don’t know how to change the properties of anything, let alone turn a person into a toad! Fine, the higher powers huff to your inverse Arachne self, if you don’t know transmutation you’ll be made to learn it.

Still, you wonder and wander, what’s Peppino’s problem? Sure, you did laugh at his unfortunate name, you inconvenienced him majorly on the road, but you haven’t directly done anything that would be interpreted as hostility. He seems to immensely distrust you on principle. Aunt Marian, as far as you know, wasn’t much of a Beauty-and-the-Beast godmother, doling out curses on the deserving to teach them a lesson. Maybe he’s a staunch mundanist. Maybe he just doesn’t like new people in general. Ha ha, you think, if your godmother was the just-punishment type, he probably would have been a toad a lot sooner had they met.

Your train of thought is upended by a sudden wailing echoing through the trees. You hurriedly stuff your most recently plucked mushroom into the bag, making your way towards the sound.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god-“

“Okokok calm down it’s ok-“

“MY LEG HURTS MY LEG HU-U-U-RTS!”

“I told you not to let her go up there!”

“I told her not to go up there!”

“Then why did she?!”

“I don’t know!”

You find a pair of kids underneath a tall tree, arguing over a little girl. She’s clutching a bloodied leg, sobbing as the red drips through her fingers. You can’t see the damage clearly from between her dirtied hands as you walk up, shouting to get their attention. The children stop their bickering when they realize an adult has come out of the literal woodwork. Reactions flipflop from confused relief to bracing for trouble.

“I know I’m a stranger, but I can help.” You introduce yourself right away, adding on for good measure, “I’m a doctor. Can I take a look at her?”

Your credentials do the trick, and the kids immediately blab to you about what happened as you set to work. Marnie (the little girl, you presume) went into the tree to grab a new branch because they lost their old dousing rod in a river when Thomas tossed it right in (the older girl, Aggie, points at the boy of the pair) to try and see how far it would go to save them time on finding a new well.

“I didn’t mean to lose it!” He shouts back. “I thought it would work!”

You don’t have the heart to tell them that dousing rods don’t work anyways. As they continue to tell their tale of how and why Marnie was in the tree, your triage reveals that she’s scraped herself up pretty badly. Your extra bottle of water from within the bottomless bag washes away enough blood and debris to see that there is a large abrasion covering the majority of her left shin, irregular around the edges and still bleeding. You assume that this came from the actual impact on the ground. Her arms are bruised and present similar, if more minor, scrapes in small patches. You gently convince her to let you feel her limbs, finding nothing shifting where it should not.

“Good news,” you tell her, “I don’t feel that anything is broken.”

The big sister breathes a huge sigh of relief. She hits Thomas on the arm with an even fiercer scowl than before. “You are sooooo lucky! SO lucky my sister is ok!”

“Ow-! Ow! Hey! I’m sorry! I said I was sorry! Aggie stop!”

Digging in your bag, you once again thank Aunt Marian for lessons on being prepared. You treat Marnie with a field salve mushed together with items you’ve already collected after cleaning her hurts again, then bandage her up. Aggie looks guilty. Her cheeks puff outward like a frog’s and her hands grind into each other.

“Daddy said that no work goes unpaid, but we don’t have any money. Doctor, um…” (You get the feeling she’s already forgotten your name, you let that slide too.) “Is there anything we can do to pay you without money?”

Your heart hurts to see a kid try and take on responsibility. You quickly wave off the offer, “It’s fine, I was just helping out.”

“Daddy said we can’t!”

Honest to goodness, you hate trying to reason with kids. They’re not like adults, they can go on being just as stubborn as you. You’ll make no headway in convincing Aggie that, truly, you are ok with not being paid this time. Small town values are something else. The kids have had a rotten enough afternoon and you, the adult, feel like going out of your way. It also presents a unique opportunity to knock two birds with one stone.

“Alright, alright,” you mutter, pulling out your phone. “You can do one thing to help me out. I was going to have lunch all by myself, this afternoon, but…”

The kids pipe up quicker than you can finish. “We’ll help!”

“Oh, good! That’s a relief. You’re going to be doing me a big favor by coming along.”

You search up the address for Peppino’s Pizza.

---

A metal bell rings overhead when you walk through the façade’s door, alerting your favorite Italian to customers at the door. If you didn’t know the owner is as authentic as they come, you’d laugh at the incredibly stereotypical black and white tile in combination with red, white, and green décor. You watch him emerge from the kitchen with a great big cloud of flour as you usher the kids inside. You might even call him eager to greet his patrons from how fast he gathers up a notebook and pen.

“Salve! Welcome to Peppino’s Pizza, how can I help-“

It dissolves the moment he realizes it’s you standing in his empty restaurant. The click of his pen is a little too aggressive to be anything else but annoyance at your presence. Still, he can’t immediately start getting sour with the three kids here. Good, your secret weapon is working.

“Heyyy Peppino.” You come up to the counter, stretching your greeting with all the casualness you can muster. Your gaggle of kids follow suit, heads peeking over the counter. “How’re you doing?”

“Just fine.” He scans over the tiny crew, pausing on Marnie. “What happened to the little one?”

“Tree.” You shrug.

“It was a really big one,” she supplies.

His concern runs out and he taps his notepad impatiently. “So, are you going to order something, or are we going to stand here all day?”

You turn to the kids, gesturing to the faded plastic menu over Peppino’s head.

“Pepperoni!” Thomas shouts first.

“Peppers and sausage!” Aggie exclaims next. “I just want cheese…” Marnie mumbles.

The chef raises a brow after he finishes writing their orders down, leaning over the counter. “All on the same pie? Or are you going to make Peppino cook three separate pies? Eh?”

He has an exceptionally large amount of geniality for them when compared to his stiff behavior with you. You’re almost surprised – you didn’t expect it to work this much.

They look back at you. You shrug. “One small for each won’t hurt.”

“And what about you?” He turns away from the notebook to focus on you. You notice it’s less than a glower, so that’s a start. “Do you want something too?”

“Same as last time. Can’t beat a new favorite.”

He writes that down too, punches the total into a machine that you think is from the 90s, and charges you out. Four pizzas and drinks; not exactly chump change when ordering for everyone, but it’s a good deal cheaper than what you’d get back home. While Peppino heads in the back to get your orders together, you pull out the heavy book from your bag once again and settle with the trio of children in a faux leather booth. Their chatter becomes background noise as you read on, unentertaining paragraphs beginning to make more sense.

By the time you’ve finished getting a beginner’s grasp on the concepts and mechanics needed for your ideas, Peppino’s coming out with two pizzas on either arm. You’re a little impressed by how he can balance all of them at once without burning himself. So are the kids, apparently, because they’re shouting and clapping as he slides them towards each recipient over the table.

“Yours, pepperoni, pepper and sausage, and” -he takes a moment to flourish an extra spin for Marnie’s pan, who is the most impressed of you all- “cheese. Buon appetito.”

Thomas immediately digs in without a care for burning his tongue. Marnie’s hands are more careful thanks to Aggie’s help. The older sister only gets one bite for every two of Marnie’s, but she manages to take huge bites that even the difference anyways. All three of them parrot their thanks to the chef in charge between the feral bites that come with kids really enjoying their food. Peppino lingers for a second longer than he should. You follow his line of sight directly to the book in your lap.

“If you’re trying to understand what any of this is saying,” you wryly comment, “trust me, so am I.”

His gaze jerks upwards, concentration turning to yet another frown. “What is this?”

“What’s in the book?”

“Yes, the book.”

“Oh. Yes, the book, the book I am currently reading.” You hold it up and make a show of flipping the cover around for him with a smug half smile. “The book that contains information about transmutation. This book.”

You can see it. The conversation from a few days ago is turning over in his head. The kids stop eating for a moment to watch the adults talk. You feel yourself get a mirthful joker’s kick out of watching the mental journey turn wary curiosity into mounting paranoia.

“For… what?” He asks, composure holding back whatever horrors his mind is undoubtedly conjuring.

You can’t help yourself. You set the book back down in your lap matter-of-factly, opening it up to the page of polymorph potions. “To turn you into a toad, of course.”

Peppino gets out of reach in a surprisingly coordinated backstep shuffle, punctuated by a barely restrained noise that you really can’t categorize as anything but a “yelp”. The poor man’s hat slips from his head when his back cracks against his own counter in hasty retreat. The kids laugh at his expense – as do you, though less loudly and 100% less jeering.

“You said that you could not be trusted, but I did not think that you would do this right in my face!” “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You hurry up your burst of laughter, getting up and setting the book down. He doesn’t accept any of your help, even when he winces. “Sorry! I’m joking! I swear! I’m joking!”

“Merda!” Oh, now that was a curse word you recognized. So did the kids if the resulting chorus of gasps is anything to go by. “I don’t want any more of your jokes, they are the worst jokes!”

Peppino grunts and hunches over for longer than he should. You feel the fun drain out of your stomach. You got him hurt with your fun and games, overreaction to sarcasm or not. He sits with a heaviness that betrays the pain he’s in.

“That was my fault. I’m sorry.” You catch sight of your bag. You can apologize for it in action, here and now. “Look, cross my heart, no more jokes.”

“Ech, easy to say!”

Your mouth presses into a line before you continue, “I want to make it up to you, but you’ll have to trust that what I make is, indeed, something that will help you.”

His head snaps up to meet you eye to eye. You know that he really has no reason to trust you after three mean jokes in a row, nor any reason to stay nice. The slew of heated words gets chewed behind his drawn-thin mouth, mustache working side to side. It never comes – he waves his hand dismissively.

“Do whatever you want,” he grumbles, “it can’t be worse than what I already have.”

You take the chance before he changes his mind and go back to the booth for your bag, motioning for the kids to keep eating. Your pizza will probably get to a gooey lukewarm by the time you’re done, but that’s the price you pay. Ducking into the kitchen (you can see Peppino almost protest before you get in), you quickly get a small pot, fill it with water, and set to work. Plants, fungi, minerals. Ground, sieved, boiled. It’s easier than the mash you made for Marnie’s hurts from years of experience; still, it never turns out exactly the maroon Aunt Marian tried to push you towards. You pull the pot from the heat, strain it into a coffee mug, and bring it back to Peppino.

He eyes you skeptically. You motion to the white porcelain wordlessly. He sighs, takes its handle, and samples with a small, hesitant sip.

“This is tea,” he deadpans.

“That’s alchemy,” you retort. “If it’s bitter, honey always helps.”

“I don’t even feel better, what is this? You studied to make tea?”

Sarcasm, you realize, does not feel as good when you’re the one being sassed. You feel your own annoyance growing in turn. “I studied to learn what was safe to put into that ‘tea’, in what dosage, and in what combinations. Specifically, so that it will not kill anyone.”

“Oh, I see, yes that is something that is worth a whole school.” Peppino’s back straightens as he goes on rolling you over the coals, draining the mug halfway in a single pull. “Magic tea. I could have gone to school to learn how to cook when I already knew how from learning at home.”

You both realize a moment later what happened. Peppino scowls and slouches again. You regain the upper hand in smugness, leaning over the counter with an elbow for support.

“Magic tea?” You cheerily repeat. “Ok! You made your point.” He gets up, shooing you from out behind the counter. “No customers back here anymore!”

You laugh as you go back to your lukewarm pizza and giggling children.

---

You take Thomas, Aggie, and Marnie back to their homes in the truck after you all retrace your steps through the woods. Incidentally, they happen to live on neighboring farms. Aggie and Marnie’s parents thank you profusely when you drop the girls off. You’re thankful the salve has done its job by the time they go back, neither of them has to explain what never left a mark. Thomas’ mother, on the other hand, gives her boy hell for staying out so late and not telling her, then makes him apologize for making you take him home.

You feel fulfilled after today’s work. Tired from all the hiking but fulfilled. You helped some people, you got some headway in repairing your repute with Peppino, and you got a good meal out of it. There’s even half a pizza for you to heat up later. You're not sure why you keep trying with him, anyways. You don't think on it very long either - chalk it up to liking the food.

“Miao.”

You’ve heard the same pitiful, damnable noise before on your first day here. When you open the front door, lo and behold, the same tabby is sitting on the porch.

“Miao,” it squeaks again.

“I’m not falling for that.”

“Miao.”

“I already told you once, I’m not helping you again. You’ll just tear my trash bags open.”

“Miao.” It looks up at you with sad, wide eyes. You sigh.

“Ok, you make a convincing argument. But this is temporary, got it?”

“Miao.”

Somehow understanding the agreement, the cat weaves through your legs and into the cottage. You follow after it to sacrifice one of your tuna cans for its dinner. Ha ha, you think to yourself for the twelfth time today. Maybe you want to make friends with Peppino because you're a sucker for helping stray animals.

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is peppino more of a kicked puppy or a wet kitten? vote now, call 555-NOISETV. that's 555-664-7388, NOISETV (totally legitimate number). i'm not entirely happy with this one, but at least you're getting good pizza out of it. enjoy.

#peppino spaghetti x reader #peppino x reader #pizza tower x reader #the godmother's godchild #tax writeoff (fic)#watch i'm going to find a billion more mistakes reading this again later lmaoooooo #i'll add navigation links later i'm lazy

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soaps-hoe-141 · 1 year

Text

Back Together

Part 3

Pairing: Soap x Ghost

WC: 5.6k

Synopsis: The horse has arrived

Warnings: Death, blood, some gunfights, bit of murder to spice things up, hostages

Blue eyes opened wide as he stared into the darkness that surrounded him, he struck out at the arm that had jostled his shoulder. His mouth opened but before he could utter a sound a gloved hand covered his mouth and another held his shoulder down. It was just enough time for Soap to follow the arm up, staring into Ghost’s eyes for a tense moment before the hand that had been on his shoulder raised to the Lieutenant’s mouth indicating he needed to be quiet. A slow nod communicated his understanding as Ghost removed his hand and backed up. The Scotsman sat up from the couch he had been stretched out on and looked around giving Ghost a confused look. He gestured with a jerk of his chin towards the kitchen which was near the back of the house before he led Soap into the backyard where the Sargeant’s bag had already been laid up against the side of the house.

The Captain looked up as they exited the house and he whispered, “We’ll be together for about thirty minutes and then we’ll break off. Be quiet, there are hostiles all around the city and they cut the power some time this morning so we are in the blind, Laswell doesn’t have access to city’s cameras anymore. Come on.” No one said anything, just grabbed their things and headed for the fence. Soap was the first over as Ghost boosted him, Price doing the same for Gaz beside him. The two Sergeants landed on the other side, night vision goggles pulled down in front of their eyes, scanning the alley carefully before Soap knocked his knuckles against the fence. Gaz and Soap watched either side of the alley as the others climbed the fence. When they had all made it over they split into groups of four with Soap and Ghost both at the back, backpedaling until they left the alley and continued on to the pitch black streets. Not even the moon hung in the sky now, the sliver that had lit the sand up the night before having disappeared completely in its cycle.

The eight men continued into the city together until it was time for Ghost and Soap to split up. They paused between a stand of buildings as Price spoke quickly to them, “Get to your overwatch position. You will be our eyes and ears. Stay frosty team two.”

Ghost nodded once quietly before Soap answered for the both of them, “You too Captain, I think we’ve had enough wrenches in the plan already.”

Price turned back to the main road and glanced over his shoulder as he and Ghost backed up, “You keep us stocked on wrenches Sergeant.” He saw the smirk on Price’s mouth before he leaned forward, “Let’s go, Lanster.”

“Rog,” the simple word came over all of their headsets as the young man leaned forward into the street looking around before leading them all out. Before Price had disappeared around the corner Soap and Ghost were already turned and headed down the alley towards their own objective. The building had been confirmed as a local hub for business matters and with the evacuation of the outer homes it was supposed to be clear of just about all activity. Neither the Sergeant nor the Lieutenant took the intel at its face value though.

They moved quietly through the door as Ghost opened it. Soap swept the muzzle of the gun around, eyes hyper focused on any movement but there was none. He whispered quietly into the mic, “Clear Lt.'' The skull-faced balaclava entered the door behind him, shutting and locking it as he did. They headed for the stairs, every movement controlled and efficient.

When Ghost lined up on the stairwell door his eyes glanced up to the Sergeant, a confused look in his gaze at the face Soap was making before he asked, “What’s wrong, Sergeant?”

The blue hues moved to look at Ghost as he answered, “There’s going to be so many stairs Lt.”

An annoyed sigh came from behind the balaclava as Ghost muttered, “Fuckin’ hell Johnny.” The Sergeant sighed and then lifted his gun to his shoulder and nodded to the waiting man. Soap watched the door open and pushed into the stairwell, he froze in his tracks before he tripped and glanced down at his feet before his attention shifted to the stairs, his gun aimed at the levels above just in case.

Two dead bodies laid in front of him, bullet holes littering their chests, a man and a woman’s lifeless eyes looked up at him, the fear of their last moments still on their expressions. He shook his head whispering, “Bloody Jesus Ghost, they were killing their own people too, not just ours.” He stepped over the two and heard a shaky breath come from under the stairs. His gun immediately shifted to the sound, staring into the dark corner before he took another step forward, his finger just above the trigger and ready to fire. He swung around and his gaze shifted to the floor again, a child’s eyes stared up at him. They were round and full of tears, and it wasn’t just because it was likely his parents that were sprawled out on the ground. The boy’s face was pale and he had dark circles around his eyes, glancing down Soap saw his hand holding his chest. The front of his clothes were soaked in red, and his hand that was trying to hold him together was shaking over the wound as he tried to move but couldn’t. “Get in here Ghost, there’s a kid.”

The man clad in his dark hoodie and jeans slipped through the door and closed it behind him before he turned to see what the hell Soap had meant by there was a kid. Sure enough a child was laying in front of the Scotsman who was kneeling now in front of the child. Soap’s hand pulled the boy’s away and he heard a soft groan of pain from him. Ghost looked up the stairs, checking to make sure no one else had been present to hear that before he joined Soap, standing just above his shoulder. The tall man put his hand on Soap’s shoulder lightly as he looked down at the boy, there was no saving him, evac couldn’t get here in time and even if they could he wouldn’t survive being moved. He was already dead, his body just didn’t know it yet. Price’s voice came through the comms then, “Team two this Bravo 0-6 repeat your last.”

Ghost spoke for the Scotsman this time, “We found a kid, he’s alive for now but there’s nothing we can do for him. He’s been here for a couple days looks like.” Soap’s jaw tensed at the statement as he sighed, putting the boy’s hand back on the wound.

“Are you sure nothing can be done?” Price asked, tension evident in his voice.

“Affirmative sir, he wouldn’t survive being moved.” Soap was the one to answer then, as he tried to move the boy towards him before he stopped, the pain written on the kid’s face making it very obvious that he was in fact doomed to die here.

Ghost glanced back up the stairs and gestured with a look, “Come on Johnny, we have to go.”

The Sergeant bit the inside of his cheek before he sat down with the boy. Blood covered his hands now as it did his chest when he moved the boy up into his lap. “Give me a second Ghost, just a couple.” Soap smiled down at the kid, trying to sound as calm and soothing as he could, “It’s ok kid, I don’t know if you can understand English but it’s ok, I promise.” The kid looked up at him, the breaths that had been coming in shaky and shallow evened out. They deepened as he seemed to get that they weren’t here to shoot him again and that they weren’t with those who had killed his parents. Soap smiled as he pointed up to Ghost, “Look at that guy, doesn’t he look silly with that mask?” The boy certainly knew some kind of English because he smiled as well nodding at Soap’s words. The blue eyes looked up to Ghost’s before his hands that had been stroking the kid’s hair and soothing him jerked the boy’s head to the side and up. It was quick, as painless as he could make it. Better than lying on this floor for however many hours it took, or being carried through the streets and given false hope only to die on the way there, sobbing and in pain. A smile was still on his face and Soap looked away as he closed the kid’s eyelids and stood up. “Couldn’t leave knowing he was suffering down here Lt. I’m sorry.”

The big man stared at the Scotsman for a moment, eyes unreadable before he nodded, “If you hadn’t I would’ve. Better than his alternatives. Come on Johnny, let’s go.” Soap had already stood back up, bringing his gun up to his shoulder and nodding at Ghost as he started up the steps ahead of the Lieutenant. They made it to the roof without any other incident, both still imagining that boy lying under the stairs though neither would have admitted it. They both set up their positions, each pulling a spotter scope out of their packs before Ghost spoke, “Team two is in position Bravo 0-6. What’s your status?”

“Copy, hold.” Price went silent for a few seconds before he spoke again, “East side of the building, still in cover. About to make our move to the east entrance. Holding for your all clear.”

Ghost and Soap both looked through the thermal sights on the guns, scanning the building Team One would be entering as well as the open square they had to cross to get there. Soap was the first to call out, “Three hostiles in front of the building, males and armed 0-6. Four more two blocks east of you position and heading north on the street, looks like they have a dog with them so you need to move fast.”

Price spoke to the others in Team One before answering, “Good copy 7-1. Anything on your end Ghost?”

Ghost had been scanning the inside of the building as best he could before he reported in, “Negative sir but be advised the lower levels have fewer and smaller windows. You’ll be clearing blind until you reach the fifth floor.”

“Good copy 0-7, keep us posted if you see anything.” Price went silent as Ghost and Soap both acknowledged Price’s orders and then it started. “Take out the three in front on my mark, 3, 2, 1, execute,” a shot from Ghost and a shot from Soap and one from Team One and the three men outside dropped. That’s when they spotted the six men moving across the street and headed into the building. They entered and everything was essentially out of the snipers hands until they made it to the fifth floor where they exited the stairwell with both Ghost and Soap tracking them. “Anything on your end Team Two?”

“Affirmative sir, five hostiles end of the hall looks like they have three hostages with them,” Ghost answered. He got an acknowledgement from the Captain before he said, “My mark on 3, 2, 1, execute.” The men dropped as Lanster and Powell untied the hostages, pointing for them to leave and to leave fast before they hurried up the stairs behind the rest of Team One. “Multiple hostiles on the eighteenth floor, looks like they’re holding on to something real tight there sir. Probably our target.”

“Good copy, headed there now,” the six men cleared each floor with the help of the two snipers on overwatch, moving at a steady pace upward through the building. When they made it to the eighteenth floor Team One stopped and Price spoke again, “Let us know when we are clear for entry Bravo 0-7.”

“Affirmative, hold your position,” Soap and Ghost put their attention on either side of the floor glancing to one another as Soap nodded he was ready before Ghost finally said, “You are clear for entry Bravo 0-6. Time to get loud.” The charge on the door blew as soon as Ghost cleared them, it took out the two guards stationed on either side of the door as well as the door itself. Gaz entered first, dropping three men down the hall that Ghost and Soap couldn’t see. Price was the next through the door, shots firing from his gun at men the snipers still couldn’t see. Lanster, Powell, Baris, and Holland were next laying cover fire down as all six men made entry, Holland firing shots at men who were coming from the floors above after hearing the explosion. The dark haired Sergeant held the door with Ghost’s help, firing shots through the opening and dropping a few men running down the stairs before they decided a different approach was probably best. They would come from another direction though, they weren’t giving up.

Ghost was covering the door on the east stairwell as Soap sighted in on the hallway. He watched as several men ran into the same door and shut it as fast as they could. He saw several other heat signatures inside as well before the door closed. “Bravo 0-6 be advised there are several hostiles currently in the room three doors down from your current position. At least ten, I recommend a C4 charge and a flashbang for entry. Target is likely in the room as well.”

“Copy that 7-1, moving forward to the door now. Watch the end of the hall as we make entry.” Price moved forward with Gaz right behind him as well as Lanster, Powell, and Baris.

Soap moved his sights to the end of the hall and answered, “Copy that Captain, you’re cleared for entry.” He dropped two men with back to back shots as they entered the hallway opposite of Holland. He saw the flare of the C4 charge even looking at the end of the hallway as Team One made entry. Soap kept his side locked down, knowing Ghost was doing the same on his end with Holland’s help.

“We have the target, I repeat we have the target. Exiting the room now with him, we are on our way to exfil now Team Two.” Price and the others exited the room quickly, a man was slung over Lanster’s shoulders as he exited and they headed for the stairwell. “Clearing down now, we’re in the home stretch boys.”

“Rog, get outta there old man,” Ghost turned to Soap then, “I’m setting up in sight of the exfil, keep overwatch on them until I have them in sight.” Soap nodded and Ghost moved quickly to set up his second position.

The Sergeant kept his eyes on the team watching their backs and killing hostiles that were headed for them. He glanced at the plaza outside and said quickly, “Be advised Bravo 0-6 you have ten hostiles outside the building, possibly more.” He started popping heads then, watching as each of the men he could see fell with each of his shots. Soap then said, “All that I can see are dead, but stay frosty Price.”

“Copy that Soap, we’re exiting the building now,” he watched the six men exit and turn back the way they had come. Ghost would be able to see them soon as they headed back down the same roads they had entered on.

A voice sounded over all of their comms then, “Exfil is ten minutes out Bravo 0-6, let’s make this a clean cut operation yeah?”

“Affirmative,” Price said immediately as the six men wound their way through the streets. As they left Soap’s sight he moved to where Ghost had already set up and was helping to cover their escape. The two snipers saw the incoming trucks as Team One made it back to the neighborhood they were exfilling from and watched as the target was loaded and the team climbed in. Then they were heading out, their extraction had been successful, another job well done. “We are extracting now Team Two, you are free to make your way to your primary extraction point.”

Ghost and Soap pulled their rifles down off the ledge and sat back, packing the rifles up and securing them on their packs. “Copy that Price, see you in a couple days,” Ghost glanced at Soap then with a deep breath before switching his comms off and waiting for the Scotsman to do the same. “Good job, Johnny. We should move though, come on.”

Blue eyes narrowed at Ghost before he said accusingly, “You turned your comm off so no one would hear you say I did a good job didn’t you? I can’t believe you.” Again he saw the movement of Ghost’s mouth that looked like he was smiling under his balaclava though he refused to confirm or deny the accusation. The Scotsman stood up following Ghost to the roof entrance and followed him down the thirty flights of stairs and out a side entrance of the building. Neither man looked at the bodies that littered the floor and the stairwell nor did they comment on it. There was no reason to pay attention and nothing they could do to help now, paying attention to it would only serve to worsen their already fragile mental states. Everything was packed behind the wall of their mind, sealed off with every atrocity they experienced. It was a thin line to walk though sealing those thoughts behind those many layers. A delicate balance in their minds that kept them sane even dealing with everything they had to experience.

Soap and Ghost turned their comms on as they left the building, they were outside the range of the team comms now, the only people who would hear them were each other now. “Hey Johnny,” he was surprised it was Ghost that broke the silence between them but he gave a grunt of acknowledgement quickly to let him know he was listening. “When does a joke become a dad joke?”

The Sergeant glanced at Ghost before asking, “I don’t know, when Lt.?”

“When it leaves you and never comes back,” eyes glanced at him as they walked quietly through the darkened streets to find Soap’s face barely holding back a laugh and struggling to suppress his smile as well. Ghost nodded slowly and he knew the Lieutenant was proud of himself at catching Soap off his guard with a pun. A terrible time for it really, but it just made it all the more funny. They made it fifteen blocks before Ghost checked his watch and led them inside a dark building. They went up to the second floor, clearing the building with quiet efficiency before they locked themselves into a room on the second floor and shed their gear. Their voices were quiet whispers in the silent city knowing that in about thirty minutes it would be coming to life around them, “I’ll take first watch Johnny, get some sleep.”

“Sounds good, Ghost. You want an MRE?” Soap dug in his pack for one of the good ones before pulling out another and handing Ghost the better of the two. The big man stared at it for a second before finally taking it and casting a weird look Soap’s way, he honestly had no idea what it meant.

“Thanks Johnny,” the Lieutenant turned his back to Soap before he lifted his mask. Soap watched for a second before he too turned his back and leaned back against the other man’s back as they held one another up. He listened in silence as Ghost ate, finding he enjoyed the quiet inhales and exhales of the man leaning into him now.

Soap finished his MRE before he spoke with a smirk on his face, “Hey Lt. Where did Joe go after getting lost on a minefield?”

The silence lasted a few seconds before Ghost asked, “Where?”

“Everywhere.” Ghost gave a soft chuckle and he felt the man nod his approval before he too finished his MRE and pulled his mask back down. “Good one.”

“I try my best Lt.” They sat quietly for a few minutes as the sun rose outside the shaded window. Without saying so they moved apart at the same time, Ghost finding a place to sit near the door that separated them from a city full of armed men and dead bodies. Soap settled on his pack using it as a pillow as he laid down. He had learned early to sleep whenever and wherever so the Sergeant was out within a few minutes.

It felt like no time at all when Ghost woke him with a light hand on his shoulder. Soap looked up at the skull-faced balaclava for the third time in as many days and gave him a tired smile, “My turn already?” The Lieutenant nodded and Soap sat up stretching his still tired muscles that were aching from his thirty kilometer marathon however many hours ago that was. The sun was high in the sky now and when Soap looked at Ghost he could see the redness of the man’s eyes, “Alright Lt. get some sleep, you deserve it.” A tired grunt was the only response he got as Ghost laid on the ground just below the window. He held his pack against his chest like it was a stuffed animal or something. Soap watched as he slid into sleep easily, mouth turning up at the corners.

That was how he spent his entire day, staring at the Lieutenant as he turned over a few times, the pack pulled to his chest. A thought crossed his mind as he considered what it might be like to take that pack’s place. He struck it from his mind as soon as it came though, it was no secret Ghost didn’t exactly like him. The big man merely tolerated his presence because on occasion he had proven to be useful. Most of the time it didn’t bother him, he was comedic relief for his team and he knew that, but when he was sitting quietly without anything for his hands and mind to focus on he started overthinking. It was a curse. Maybe he should bring something to do next time. A rubik’s cube maybe? That might be nice. Thankfully the sun started going down and Soap woke the Lieutenant. The wild look in his eyes set him on edge at first until Ghost looked around the room and the tension in his shoulders relaxed and he pushed himself up to sit.

As the sun sank below the horizon the two ate quietly, preparing themselves for a run in the desert. They had a day and a half to make it to their extraction point and neither wanted to face the repercussions for missing that deadline. Soap stood, lifting the curtain of cloth that hung over the window looking around. As the sun set, the lights of the city suddenly flashed on. The Sergeant pulled back some from the window then, “Fuckin hell, the lights are back on Ghost. They either know we’re here still or they have no clue and think they’re safe. I don’t like it either way.”

Ghost moved to kneel beside Soap as both looked out, people still milled about the streets heading to wherever they were supposed to go before the curfew set in. “Damn…” Ghost eyed the streets and he could see the thoughts working behind his eyes before he shook his head, “We’re not changing our timeline. Come on, we gotta go.”

Soap grabbed his stuff and the two left the building as fast as they could. They set off onto the street, avoiding patrols with perfect timing and luck. They were three blocks from being home free in the open desert. As they neared the corner of the alley they had been moving through, Ghost peeked out while Soap was on a knee behind him watching where they had come from. “Fuck…”

Soap didn’t turn around but asked quickly, “What’s wrong now?”

The silence that followed his question had Soap’s nerves on end, his mind wondering if they were about to be in a fight or flight situation. Finally Ghost answered, “I know him, he’s ex-KSK.”

“German special forces? What the fuck are they doing here?” Soap glanced over his shoulder at Ghost who was still watching around the corner.

“I said ex-KSK Soap. He hasn’t been on their payroll for a few years now.” Ghost waved him forward and the Scotsman moved up to look around the corner. Two men lay dead on the pavement, another kneeled with a sack over his head and his hands tied behind his back. The last was currently taking punches to the face and stomach, before they threw him to the ground. One of the men pointed a gun at the back of the hooded one’s head, looking back to the one Ghost had been talking about.

The man’s voice was loud, malice dripping from every word, “You have one more chance to answer me, don’t get the question wrong this time. Where are the men who took Suheil?”

The man who had been getting the shit beat out of him not five seconds ago stayed quiet for a few seconds before he shook his head. “I told you! I don’t know! I don’t know what men you’re talking about, I don’t know who the fuck Suheil is, and I don’t know where those men are! We've been here for months, listen to me! I-DON’T-KNOW! You want me to tell it to you in German? Ich weiß nicht!” The man with the gun stared hard at the other for a few seconds, head tilting slightly before he pulled the trigger. He never even turned to look at the man, just pulled the trigger and let his body slump to the ground lifeless. “Schweinehund! Fick dich! I don’t know anything!”

Before Soap or Ghost even knew what was happening the man turned his pistol on the large man knelt in front of him now and pulled the trigger. “Die in the dirt like the dog you are. Know that we will get Suheil back with or without you.” The men with the gun left the large man as he slid slowly to the dirt.

Soap looked up at Ghost from where he was knelt, meeting his eyes for a moment before Ghost shook his head, “We have to go. He’s dead already.” A few more seconds of Soap staring and Ghost tried again, “You’ll get us killed Johnny, we have to go.”

“Not gonna happen Lt. We couldn’t save that kid, we can save him though.” Soap looked back out at the street, the man had pulled himself to the wall of a building and before Ghost could physically stop him Soap took off across the street.

“Damnit Johnny!” He heard Ghost as the man trailed behind him. As they neared the ex-KSK looked up with wide eyes at the both of them shuffling backwards as best he could with a gunshot wound and his hands tied. “Konig,” Ghost said quietly as he looked around, “Long time no see.” The large man on the ground tilted his head a bit before his eyes blinked a couple times and his body lurched forward slowly. Soap was there though, keeping him from hitting the ground and laying him down. “Hurry the fuck up Johnny,” the tension was palpable now as they were much too far out in the open.

“I’m working on it, Ghost,” Soap muttered under his breath as he lifted the man’s tattered shirt to find the entry wound. It was a rather terrible shot, Konig would have died without them sure, but it was unlikely to happen now with first aid so readily available. It was exactly like the shot on the kid from the stairwell, meant to let you suffer for as long as possible. Soap didn’t have much time to think about that though, not here, so he bandaged the wound quickly and slung the man over his shoulders. His eyes bugged at the weight for a moment before he nodded to Ghost, “Let’s go.” Neither wasted any more time on words as they took off down the street back to their original course.

They were in the open desert well before daybreak and as the sun began to rise they decided not to stop. They continued through the early morning, eventually Soap handing his bag over to Ghost as they jogged. The Lieutenant flat out refused to take any part in the saving of the German. Ghost had said he knew him, never had he said he liked him. They finally stopped as the sun was nearing midday, it was much too hot to keep going now, so they took shelter in a rocky outcrop. Konig had woken up a few times on the trek there, but had quickly lost consciousness again each time. He was still losing blood but at least it was slow, but Ghost had refused to stop so close to the city and Soap couldn’t exactly make him. He had already stretched his luck thin with the man and Ghost didn’t look like he was in a very forgiving mood, especially not in this heat.

He laid the large man down, pulling his medkit out of his pack as he did. He felt Ghost’s eyes drilling into his back as he lifted Konig’s shirt and pulled the bandage from earlier off. Blood leaked down the sweaty muscle but at least it was slow. Everything was quiet as Soap grabbed an injector from the kit, he slotted in a shot of morphine and shot the big man up with it watching as his face relaxed from the twisted sort of pain. He grabbed another injector then and muttered quietly, “Here’s hoping you aren’t allergic to anything big guy.” Soap watched as the antibiotic slid into the man’s body. The Scotsman didn’t dare move, as if doing so would set off the reaction he so desperately feared, but after a minute went by without any problems he took in a deep breath and nodded, “Hell yeah.” He heard a low grunt from Ghost but when he turned the masked man had his back to them, ignoring Soap completely for the first time since he had saved him a seat on that plane before all that shit went down with Graves. He shook his head, he didn’t have the time nor the energy to figure out what his problem was right now, he had just carried a man on his back through the desert he didn’t feel like handling all of the bullshit.

Soap instead put his mind to carefully bandaging and wrapping the wound, careful not to run the wrapping over the bruises on his abdomen from the men who had beaten him. He had given him morphine yeah, but eventually it would wear off and they didn’t have enough to give him a steady supply. Konig remained steadily asleep through the whole process, eyes closed and face wincing every now and then but Soap didn’t really think that was a physical pain, probably more of a mental one. He taped the wrapping off and glanced across the well formed physique as he pulled Konig’s shirt down. Ghost growled again, and again Soap looked over to see the Lieutenant’s back staring at him, “You ok Lt.?” Ghost glanced over his shoulder at Soap and rather than speak he merely nodded. Soap watched for a second as Ghost’s shoulders rose and fell with his breathing. “Are you sure, Ghost? You look…angry?” It came out as a question but it wasn’t, he was just not sure how he knew it was anger. Ghost growling was nothing new but it was the way he sat and ignored, refused to turn around, it just gave off angry vibes.

“I’m fine, MacTavish.” A dark eyebrow raised at the use of his last name. It was Ghost’s turn to feel a hard stare on his back and feel it he did because it was the only reason he turned around to look at him. “You could have gotten yourself killed helping him Soap, you don’t even know him.”

The Sergeant glanced down at Konig then shrugged, “You do though.”

“I never said I liked him enough for you to risk your life for him,” the tall man shot back immediately.

Another shrug from Soap drew an angry glare from the eyeholes of the balaclava. “He needed help. We went into that mission to take a man who had already slaughtered half of the citizens in that city. I wanted to actually help someone, and we couldn’t help that kid Ghost. I killed a child, a little boy whose only crime was being born in the wrong country, and this guy, Konig, was about to take the fall for something we did. I wanted to help Ghost, so I did.” They stared hard at one another, neither one accepting defeat in their stance on the matter.

They looked away at the same moment, Soap turning back to Konig as he set himself up with a place to sleep and Ghost looking out from their spot in the rocks. The Sergeant laid down then, his mind beginning to slip until he heard Ghost’s voice, “You did good Johnny.” Soap didn’t move and neither did Ghost but the Scotsman smiled a bit at the praise before closing his eyes and letting himself drift off.

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