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put-me-through-the-wall · 2 months ago

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𝜗𝜚 Down the Rabbit Hole 𝜗𝜚

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Captain John Price x Fem!Reader

Work Count: 4.9k (I don't know what happened...)

Summary: Reader wanders a little too far off the path. Good thing such a nice older man came to help.

A/N: It's halloween y'all!! I freaking love halloween and all things spooky and scary. So I thought maybe I should write something really scary to fit the occasion. Okay so technically yesterday was halloween but better late than never. Let me know what you guys think. I don't think I have any smut out yet?? So please let me know any feedback or thoughts you have. I love you all so much!! 𝜗𝜚

Warnings: This story contain dark themes. Not to spoil but this one does contain DUBCON/NONCON elements, intoxicated reader, drugging, light bondage, kidnapping, forced impregnation. If you are not in the headspace the read this please scroll on. I will write some nicer things in the future.

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With a sigh you pull out your phone, the blue light illuminating your face in the dark night. Just to find you have no cell signal this far out, of course. You try calling a few people but not a single call would go through. A simple dial tone rang out much to your dismay. Leaning back against the bumper of your car, you can feel the heat radiating off your exposed engine. You look towards the propped open hood of your tired vehicle.

The hissing machinery creates a pillar of steam when mixing with the chilled October air. Your leg bounces nervously while your eyes scan the surrounding forest. There are no street lights, no houses, not even the sound of cars whizzing by on a nearby roadway. Just dark woods and the crickets chirping. You mentally curse yourself and your friends for convincing you to drive so far out on your own.

You spend a long twenty minutes going back and forth between trying to find service along the road way and seeking warmth in the shelter of your car. Your costume doesn't provide much cover against the autumn cold. Clad only in a restricting corset top, tiny ruffled shorts, fishnet stocking, and shiny white heels. Topped off with a pair of fuzzy bunny ears fixed to a headband and a little white tail attached right above your butt. It looked better in your mirror at home when you were imagining sitting in a hot crowded house party surrounded by familiar faces.

Your focus breaks from the car's owner manual when you hear a distant rumbling. You hop out of the driver's side seat and look to see a blinding set of headlights coming your way. As the lights come closer at a rapid speed you wave and step closer to the asphalt to catch the driver's attention.

Thankfully it begins to slow and rumbles to a stop a few feet short of your car. The driver kills the engine along with the annoyingly bright LEDs. Thet turn their hazard lights on, bathing the area in a blinking orange glow. You are stunned for a moment while your sight adjusts back to the dim night. You make out the shape of a large pickup truck through spotted vision. Its boxy silhouette shows a vehicle past its prime and out of style. You take that as a good sign thinking the owner must know something about taking care of cars.

The driver's side door creaks open and out comes a pair of boots dropping onto the roadside. When they slam the door you see a large shadow saunter towards you. Heavy steps crunch on the earth below.

"Thanks for stopping" You cross your exposed arms over your chest hoping they don't see the way you're shaking. You pretend like this isn't a total horror movie scene right now. Telling yourself the shivers are from the frigid air, not fear.

"You alright?" A thickly accented english voice asks. The figure finally reaches you. You have to crane your neck up to look him in the face, his broadness could swallow your quivering frame.

"Yeah, I'm fine. My car not so much" you gesture back to the front of your lifeless automobile. He looks over you and hums in understanding.

"I can take a look for you," He steps past and takes in the sight under your hood. “What happened?” He takes a moment to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt and scrunch up the sleeves.

“I don't know. I was just driving and then I heard some weird sounds then it started driving funny.” you attempt to explain.

“What kind of sounds?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you shrug.

“Like a rattling, a pop, what?”

“If I am being completely honest I had the radio up kinda loud so I can’t really remember. I just know I heard something then it started to shake and slow down.”

You watch as he leans forward, large hands braced against the low bumper. "Do you have a flashlight?" his tone is flat, is he mad at you?

"Yeah," you pull your phone and click on the flashlight. You stand on the side of the car and try to hold it steady with both of your shaking hands.

"You can come a little closer," he looks up and smiles. "I don't bite"

You give a nervous chuckle and step around to the front of the car. Still careful to keep a good amount of distance from the stranger.

"Can you- here let me just," his large hand wraps around your wrist and gently draws your hand further out until you're almost bent over reaching across the space. "That's better."

He checks different areas, twisting and tapping on a few parts. Checking the levels of the various fluids. Occasionally repositioning the angle of your flashlight with a firm yet polite adjustment of your arm.

"Have you called anyone yet?" His gentle eyes look up from underneath his thick brow.

You hesitate for a moment considering the implication of your answer. He holds your stare as you try not to appear nervous. "Yes, I called roadside assistance but they won't be here for a while. They know I'm here though." You rush out a lie.

"Hm, yeah we're pretty out" he looks back at the machinery. He stands up straight, brushes his hands off on the thighs of his jeans. "Looks like you're not going anywhere."

Your stomach tightens and you pull back your flashlight leaving you both in the darkness.

"I can fix it but I'm going to need to go back to my place and grab some tools" He pulls the hood of your car down and slams it shut. "Or you can wait for the guy to get here. You'll be waiting for a while though"

You hold your phone tight in your palm feeling torn between trusting this stranger or going back to being stranded. "Um," it's hard to think with the constant waves of shivers going through you.

"Or you can stay here in the middle of the woods by yourself. Up to you," He pulls his keys from his pocket with a jingle and walks around you, back in the direction of his truck.

You look between your own car, the dark tree line, and the tall man getting further away.

"Okay!" You call to him. He turns and watches as you reach into your open car door to grab your purse and keys. You lock the door behind you and walk towards him.

You hear his door squeak open then his truck rev to life you. You quicken your pace to reach the passenger side, not wanting to be left alone here for another second. Before you can grab the handle he is reached over the long bench seat pushing to open from the inside.

"Glad you could make it," his cheeky smile causes his eyes to crinkle in the corners.

"Better than getting mauled by a bear" You haul yourself up and into the seat. The interior is still warm which allows you to relax a bit while your shiver subside. You take in the roomy cab of his truck. Nice leather seat, very clean, smells good. Surely he is just a kind older man wanting ti help out a stranded, clueless woman.

"You'd be alright. Bears normally hunt in the mornings. Bobcats on the other hand, that's what you've got to watch out for." He places his hand on the gear shifter, "Seatbelt," and nods down towards the unclipped buckle.

"Okay but first, can you promise you're not going to kidnap or kill me?" You stare him down as he holds a faint smile.

"I'm not going to kill you," he chuckles

"You see, that's exactly what a murderer would say," you are only half joking with that statement but buckle yourself in anyways.

"I guess you're going to have to trust me then" He focuses his eyes forward and pulls onto the road.

"I don't even know your name."

"I don't know yours either" he counters

"Fair enough," you consider it for a moment before telling him your name, and he tells you his.

"I don’t mean to be rude but, what's with the outfit?" he glanced your way for a moment. You don't miss the way his eyes trace down your figure.

"I'm a bunny, duh." You point to the fluffy ears fixed to your headband. His brows remains drawn in confusion. "It's halloween," you continue stating the obvious.

"Is it?" he finally puts it together. "My work has been hectic. It's easy to lose track of time. Heading to a party, then?" he asks.

"Was. I think I took a wrong turn a few miles back but I lost my cell signal so, I couldn’t get the map to load. Then my car died."

"That's some bad luck. Maybe you should look into getting a lucky rabbit's foot." He raises his eyebrows and chuckles.

"Ha ha," you respond humorlessly. "Look, the costume would've been a lot better with my friend. She's supposed to be a magician. Y'know like a magician pulls the white rabbit out of the hat."

"Right," he nods.

"Yeah, but it looks like I won't be making it tonight. I'm not too upset though. I'm not much of a party person."

"No?"

"No way, I'm a homebody. I hardly ever leave my house if I'm being honest. I work from home too so that keeps me pretty busy. Wow, sorry I didn’t mean to tell you my whole life story," you chuckle nervously.

"’S alright, I don’t mind. Your boyfriend doesn't take you out?" he asks.

"Boyfriend? No, I don't have a boyfriend."

"Sorry, I just assumed. I mean, you're a pretty girl. Hard to believe you don't have someone to look after you."

"Oh, thanks" a bashful blush rises up your cheeks. "Like I said, I don't get out much. Not many opportunities to meet people. Which is part of the reason my friend gets so mad at me. I've canceled on her the past three times she has asked me to hang out. She had to beg me to come tonight. I kind of feel bad though. She's probably going to think I bailed again."

"When we get back to my place you can use my phone to give her a call if you'd like," he offered.

"Yeah, I probably should."

Looking out the windshield you can make out speckles of light ahead, breaking up the dense forest. John makes a final turn and you find yourself pulling up to a very nice cabin. Wood paneling lined the exterior framing several expansive windows which emit a warm yellow light behind the closed curtains. The glass panels stretch high to the sloped asymmetrical ceiling. The architecture looks straight out of the seventies.

"Wow, this is your place?" you ask in amazement. "What do you do for work?"

"I work for the government," he states simply before turning off the truck and exiting. He walks around to your side and opens your door. He offers his hand to you which you shyly take as you hop down from the elevated cab. "Your hands are cold," he gives your hand a small squeeze fully enveloping it in his palm. "Let's get you warmed up inside."

He ushers you up the driveway, his hand now transitioned to your lower back. You can't deny the way his touch makes your stomach flip. He opens the door and you step into the cozy home.

You are greeted by a vast living room. A long espresso colored leather sofa sits among matching chairs all facing towards a large stone fireplace. The space is washed in varying shades of warm browns and oranges. A beautiful thick rug lays across the glossy hardwood.

"Sit, let me get you a drink. Would you like some tea, coffee, a beer?"

"I'll have a coffee," with your confirmation he stepped through the living room to the connecting kitchen. Your eyes follow him as he disappears through the doorway. "Government job, huh? You must be very important." You step to one of the bookshelves that sit on either side of the fireplace. Scanning the many titles there.

"I guess you could say that." He laughs. "Do you take cream and sugar?"

"Yes, please." Your finger grazes the spines of the books. Many biographies and historical nonfiction among his collection sprinkled in with survival guides and warfare tactics.

"How about some Bailey's?"

"Sure,” you shrug. Maybe a little spiked coffee and make you relax a little.

He reappears with two steaming mugs in each hand. He offers one to you which you happily accept. Wrapping both hands around the cup, allowing the hot drink to unfreeze your fingers. He holds his gaze while he takes a sip and then releases a gravelly groan in satisfaction. You follow suit taking a sip, feeling the warmth descend in your throat and radiate in your chest.

"Not bad?"

"No, not at all, thank you,” you smile sweetly.

"How about a fire? Get you warmed up and then I'll go grab those tools, ay?" He doesn't allow you to answer before he sets his mug on the coffee table and kneels in front of the fireplace.

You sit on the couch and watch while he makes quick work of getting the fire started. It's not long until he nurses the little flame into a roaring fire. He grabs a few fresh logs to throw on top before getting up and taking a seat next to you.

"Feeling better?" He asks as grabs his drink once more and settles into the cushions, arm slung across the back of the couch behind you.

"Much" With your cup now half empty you begin to feel the alcohol go straight to your head. You aren't surprised though. You haven't eaten all day in order to fit into this strangling outfit.

"I like your costume, by the way. I don't think I said that earlier. Not sure if I would've stopped if you didn't look so cute" His hand reaches from behind you and flicks your artificial ears.

"Hey" You adjust the head piece back in place. "This was a lot of work to put together, I'll have you know." You attempt to convey your seriousness but can't help the giggle that escapes.

"Oh, I can tell." His hand slips down from the back cushion to brush across your bare shoulder. The light touch makes your skin erupt in a flurry of goosebumps. "You're still pretty cold, bunny. Let me get you something warmer to put on."

"I'm okay, really. I'll warm up." You take another long sip on your hot beverage. "I feel fine."

"I insist" He rises from the couch and politely holds a hand out for you.

You are hesitant for a moment but seeing the persistence settled on his face you accept. "Alright," you relent.

He leads you down a dim corridor to the last room on the right. He pushes open the cracked door to reveal his neat bedroom. Very much resembling the rest of the house. A giant perfectly made bed sits in the center of the clean area. Makes sense considering the large man that sleeps in it. A lone lamp illuminates the room giving it a hazy appearance. Or maybe that's just your clouded mind.

He steps past you towards his dresser and pulls open one of the drawers. He pulls out a large shirt then a pair of pajama pants and hands them to you. "Not sure how well these will fit but it'll be more comfortable, I'm sure"

"Too bad" You look down at the folded clothes in your hand. "Feels like a total waste of a costume."

His eyes scan down your body once more. "I don't think so" He walks past you towards the door. "I sure got a kick out of it" He smiles and turns to close the door on his way out.

"John," you rush out before he goes.

"Hm?"

"Can you, um-" You look over your shoulder at him. Still facing away from him. "Can you untie me?" gesturing to the lace up back to your corset.

"Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat. “I can do that" he takes measured steps towards you. As though a hunter may quietly stalk up to its prey.

You look forward again and stand up a little straighter when his warm hands rest on your shoulders. They slowly slide down your back and onto the dense fabric. Fingers trailing over the layer of ribbon and boning. Finally he reaches the large bow at the base of your back. You feel the ribbon unwind to hang limply. Edges skimming the back of your thighs.

His strong fingers wedge themselves in the gaps between the laces. Tugging each intersection with meticulous movements so as not to throw you off balance. Your hands rush to press the front of your corset to your chest when you feel it begin to slip. At last you can take a full breath.

Feeling his touch retreat after finishing the task you turn back towards him. Neck craning up to meet his eyes. The height difference was much more apparent from this close proximity.

"Thank you,” your voice coming out just over a whisper.

"It's no trouble" He matches your hushed tone.

Your heart is beating out of your chest. Maybe it was the drink, or the fact that you were touch starved, perhaps even the fact that it was halloween but you felt bold. Bold enough to release your hands and allow the undone corset to fall to the ground below.

Without a moment's hesitation John harshly grabs the back of your neck and smashes his mouth into yours as if thats the sign he’s been waiting for. Lips collide in a hot rush. His stong arms pull you flush against his broad frame. Deep groans rumble from his chest.

Your sluggish movements make you struggle to keep up with his hectic pace. Your hands sliding up his neck to tug at his cropped hair. One particular harsh tug draws a growl from him.

He walks you backwards across the room until the back of your tight clad legs meet the soft comforter. He releases his hold and you fall backwards onto the mattress.

He towers over you. His chest heaves with each breath as he stares you down. Your stomach flutters, unsure if it is due to excitement or fear. You begin scoot backwards up the bed but as you make your way towards the pillows his hand encircles one of your ankles.

"Not so fast little, bunny," he tugs your leg harshly and pulls you back towards him. He doesn't waste time as he dips his fingers into your tiny ruffled shorts yanking them down in one swift motion.

He climbs over you, wedging his thigh between your legs. His hand maneuvers around your lower back and behind your neck. He pulls you back into a heated kiss.

You feel the pressure from his muscular thigh press against you. You unconsciously grind your hips into his leg while he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip. He assists in your movements as he grips your hips, rocking you back and forth.

"That's it, pretty," he leans down to mumble in your ear. "I can feel you soaking through those little panties," then giving your earlobe a nip.

Moans slip from you with each movement. Rutting pathetically, unable to stop yourself as you near closer to your edge. He dips down to your neck expertly finding your sensitive points. Biting your pulse then soothing it with his tongue. The friction from his jeans rubs against your little cotton underwear and fishnets.

"John, please," you whine, unsure of what you're asking.

"Go ahead sweet girl, cum for me." His powerful grip digging into your waist.

With his words of approval paired with his hot mouth moving along your throat, you begin to unwind. Tipping over the edge, your legs tightening around his own. The knot in your stomach finally snaps. Back arching into him and loud moans pouring from you. A rush of heat fills you and until you finally slump back into the bedding.

John loosened his hold around you. A hand coming up to move hair away from your face. "You're a dirty little girl, aren't you? Humping my leg to get off. Nasty thing, you are."

A blush of embarrassment rising across your already flushed face. The shame morphs back into lust as you feel a tightness reform in your stomach.

John sits back on his knees and begins to unbutton his shirt. Your eyes can't help but to land on the massive bulge formed in his pants. A thick outline straining against the restricting denim. He finishes stripping off his shirt revealing his burly chest. You sit up to run your hands down his bare skin. Leaving kisses along the line of hair leading from his chest into his happy trail.

Your hands skim lower to find the buckle of his belt. You make quick work unbuckling and unfastening of his jeans. Hurriedly yanking down the offending material just enough to give way to his tight boxers. Your mouth salivates at the sight of his hard cock straining through the thin material.

Before you can rip away the final layer he grabs your wrists. “Not so fast,” he chuckled. Gathering both your wrist into one of his hands easily he uses the other to swiftly pull his belt from it loops. He takes the belt and wraps it around your wrists, securing them tightly together.

“Needy girl,” he mumbles. His rough palms traced down your arms then along your waist. “Taking whatever you want,” his fingers skim along the pattern of your fishnets. “It’s my turn now, bunny,” once he reaches your still clothed center. Finger grip the threads of your tights and rip them open. Completely tearing the flimsy strands to fully expose your panties.

He slides his fingers across your sensitive clothed cunt making your hips thrust into him. “Oh, bunny. You’re soaked,” his eyes flick back up to meet yours. The black of his pupil now blown out almost completely consuming the previously blue iris.

He takes your bound wrists and pulls them over his head. Your arms now wrapped around his neck, your bare chest flush against his. He pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling his hips. Not bothered enough to fully undress he jerks down the waistband of his boxers. Allowing his thick cock to spring out. Fingers frantically pulling aside the drenched material of your panties, exposing your throbbing heat.

He grinds his hips up to meet yours. Sliding his cock easily through your wet folds.

“Oh god,�� you whimpered as his head rubs against your sensitive clit. “Please, fuck me”

Needing no more prompting he pulls your hips back and lines himself up with your needy hole but not yet entering. “You want this?” He dips just the tip of his head in, teasing your dripping entrance.

“Yes, please,” you beg, looking at him through your lashes. You desperately try to grind your hips down but he holds you in place.

“What good manners you have,” he continues to tease and thrusts the tiniest movements, never fully entering.

“John, I can’t wait anymore, please, just- please. I need it. I-” Your string of pitiful begging is interrupted when he finally yanks your hips down. His length fills you completely in one smooth thrust. Your eyes roll back at the sensation as he fills you to the hilt.

He lets out a guttural moan once he is fully inside of you. “You’re so fucking tight,” he groans. His head dropped in the crook of your neck, biting the soft skin there. Mustache and stubble scratching along your collarbone. You yelp at the pain of his bite but he doesn't relent. Your pussy tightens around him as his teeth sink into the tender flesh.

His arms move from their grip on your hips and fully wrap around your back. He begins to thrust up into you. Not easing into the movement as he immediately drives his hips up at a brutal pace. As if he were unable to wait another second.

Unable to grip into anything with your bound hands, you find purchase digging your nails into the leather of the belt. Your head tipping back limply as you can only take his cruel ministrations.

“Is this what you wanted?” He grits out through his teeth, each word punctuated by his hips driving up into you. His cock pounds into your cervix making a flurry or stars burst behind your eyelids at every hit. “Is this what you’ve been needing? A good fucking?”

You mumble out a pathetic, “Mhm,” unable to fully process his words. His fingers dig into your shoulder and back. You are fully engulfed by this giant brute of a man.

“I know you do. I knew from the moment I saw you. Looking so sweet on the side of the road.” He chuckles darkly. Continuing to hold you tight against him he leans forward until your back hits the comforter. Your legs lock around his back while he holds your hips in place. The new angle has him pounding into your sweet spot over and over. The friction of his hair rubbing onto your clit creates the building of renewed heat in your stomach.

“You gonna cum again, pretty? Let me see you do it,” his thrusts slow from the frantic pace to a slower harder stroke. His arms lay on either side of your head while he studies your features. Hard length easing out of you slow enough for you to feel each ridge and vein. Then jerking his hip harshly back in.

Your head was feeling fuzzy. A drop of salvia trailed out of your lips and down your cheek. Your high was getting closer with each thrust. Eyelids fluttering shut as you feel the knot tighten in your stomach. So close to release. Your walls contract around him causing your legs to tighten, toes curling.

“Hey,” John snaps harshly. When he receives no response he gives you a light smack on the cheek. Hard enough to make your eyes pop open in shock. “Look at me, pretty girl. I need to see those eyes,” his words sound warm but he grips your jaw in place with a stern hold.

Your eyes flutter while you struggle to keep them focused on him. Coming closer to the edge. “Come on, you can do it. Don’t make you give you another smack. I don’t want to hit you, pretty girl. Don’t make me” his tone dripping in condensation. “That’s it, give it to me. I wanna see you come undone, bunny.”

Then you snap. A series of shockwaves ravages your tired body. Shooting sparks of electricity race through your limbs. Your unfocused eyes stayed fixed on him throughout your climax. Your back arches high into his chest. Fingers ball up tight, desperate for something to grip. Your mouth drop open agape in a silent cry. Tear form in the corners of your eyes threatening to spill from the over stimulation. His harsh movements not granting you mercy in your fraile state.

“God, I can feel you squeezing me. Oh, pretty girl, I'm gonna fill your sweet cunt,” he moans. Hips increase in pace as your tense muscle loosen in exhaustion.

“Wait-” You murmur, hardly able to get your words out. Only a string of incoherent mumblings follow. Your brain is completely clouded. You know you can’t let him finish inside. “Please, no,” you whimper. “Can’t”

“It’s gonna be okay, sweet girl. I’ve got you. I’m gonna fill you up and maybe I’ll get you pregnant.” He says with a wicked smile. “You want to be my little house bunny? Fuck you until you get big and round. Walk around pregnant barefoot,”

Alarm bells ring in your ears but you aren’t able to fight against his strong hold. Your limbs remain weak. Useless to pull away from his embrace “Please” you whine, “I can’t”

“You can, bunny.” His thrusts grow erratic, losing their rhythm. “Gonna be such a pretty mommy,” His hand slipped underneath your head allowing thick fingers to tangle into your hair. His hands closing into a fist giving the strands a sharp tug. The other hand wanders down to your hips. Holding you firmly in place with a bruising grip.

With one final thrust he releases a loud, guttural groan. Teeth bared in exertion as he reaches his own climax. Cock pulsing inside of you, draining his seed into your weeping womb. All you can do is tighten your jaw as you attempt to push, kick, scream, anything but you just lie there. The faintest gasp leaves you when you feel his warm load pool inside of you.

“You made it so easy for me,” he laughs. “You just got in my truck. Walked into my house. Silly girl, you don’t even know me. Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to talk to strangers.”

He gives a few more gentle pumps before pulling out completely. Leaving your aching cunt feeling empty. He leans back and stares down, watching him cum drip out of your still quivering cunt.

“You know, I put something in your drink. Took a little while to take, though. Got to you just in time I think. I was going to wait but you wanted it, didn’t you? I like seeing that dumb look in your eyes.” He grabs your jaw and moves your head back and forth while you stare blankly back at him.

“Couldn’t let a little bunny like you get away, could I?

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#John price x reader #captain price x reader #price x reader #john price x you #john price cod #call of duty #cod #cod x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price #john price smut #cod smut

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peachdues · 1 year ago

Note

Obanai + "If you keep saying my name like that, I'm not going to be able to hold back."

HNNNNNNNNNN now you've got me horny for snek boi.

OBANAI IGURO

"IF YOU KEEP SAYING MY NAME LIKE THAT, I'M NOT GONNA BE ABLE TO HOLD MYSELF BACK."

Peach's 2.k Milestone Event

CW: 18+ • MDNI • oral (F!receiving) • Obanai likes to bite

Truthfully, you couldn't recall the series of events that had led you to this point: pushed up, against the rough bark of a tree, the wood scraping against your exposed breasts thanks to the way the Hashira now knelt behind you, licking and nipping at the back of your bare thighs, had torn your uniform shirt straight down the middle.

"I-Iguro-san, p-please," you whimpered as you felt his sinful tongue drag up the sensitive inside of your thigh. You squirmed beneath his stony grasp, eager to see his face, now that it was clear he'd removed his bandages in order to tease you between your legs, but a sharp press of his hand against the small of your back made you yelp.

"Stop squirming," The Serpent Pillar's voice was sharp, as were the prick of his teeth against the delicate skin of your inner thigh, so very close to where you desperately wanted his mouth. "Or I'll stop and leave you right here."

You bit down on your lip to suppress the high-pitched, keening mewl threatening to disturb the still, dark night as your lover's tongue flicked teasingly against your dampened slit. Below you, the Serpent Hashira groaned, the sound gravelly and deep as he pressed his mouth harder against your sensitive folds, that sinful tongue of his flicking out to teasingly circle your entrance.

You couldn't stop yourself from grinding down against his face, grateful at the way the tree bark scraped against your breasts, providing you with some stimulation you were desperate for, given how your lover's hands were busy either holding you hostage against the wood or kneading the flesh of your ass as his mouth worked you closer and closer to your climax.

Another breathy moan blew past your lips as Iguro dipped his tongue into your entrance, your hips unable to stop from rolling against him as you tried to fuck yourself on the slippery appendage.

"Shut up with the moaning, or we're gonna get caught," he hissed, sucking your clit between his teeth in warning.

The move had the opposite effect on you, however, and your knees began to shake as Iguro began to circle your sensitive bud with his fingers in time with the thrusts of his tongue.

"Obanai," you moaned, head falling back as you helplessly bucked against his mouth.

But the Serpent Pillar paused, mid-thrust into your cunt. Because of the way he'd pressed you up against the rough wood of the tree he now tongue-fucked you against, you couldn't see the way his eyes blew wide, or how his length stiffened in his uniform pants.

But you did feel the shaky inhale of his breath against your cunt, and it made you grin.

"Keep saying my name like that, and I'm not gonna be able to hold back," was Obanai's only warning before his fingers dug harshly back into the flesh of your ass, resolving to make you cum no fewer than three times on his tongue before he'd decide what to do with you next.

Perhaps, this night, he'd finally make you his; but only if you kept saying his name in that same, breathy moan.

#sorry this is ass lmao #🍑’s 2k milestone event #demon slayer #obanai iguro #iguro obanai #kimetsu no yaiba #kny smut #obanai iguro x reader #obanai smut #kny iguro #kny obanai #demon slayer smut

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mannequinreligi0n · 7 months ago

Text

Sins

priest!Vergil listens to your confession

pairing: priest!Vergil x nun!reader (mostly gn pronouns)

wc: 1380

warnings: mentions of religion

author’s note: priest vergil save me…..save me priest vergil…..might write a second part that’s actually spicy to this if there’s a demand for it. also i’m too lazy to proofread so you get what you get !

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The seven o’clock mass had ended well over an hour ago, yet stray sinners still lined up to have their confessions heard. As the line dwindled, you wandered methodically around the church to dim the various lights and lanterns perched on pillars, leaving only the votive candles left to illuminate the grand hall. Every Sunday evening, your branch held an evening mass that was near identical to the morning service for those who couldn’t attend earlier in the day. Your fellow brothers and sisters of the church often rotated duties and you were fortunate enough to be left with attending the evening service, with hopes you could catch Father Vergil once confession had concluded.

There were two other nuns pacing about, helping escort leaving patrons out and collecting prayer books from pews, but they paid little mind to you. It was another twenty minutes before the final church-goer exited the confessional, signing himself with the cross as a nun came over to take his hand in prayer as they walked to the front door. The other nun followed loosely behind, closing stray doors, leaving only you in the echo chamber of the lord. You continue your duties of straightening the prayer candles when a loud creak of wood perks your ears. A series of expensive footsteps followed, a decibel louder with each step.

“Sister, you’re still here? The sun will set within the hour.”

You turn to acknowledge the voice: it’s Father Vergil, but you already knew that. You had practically studied the rhythm in his walk, the cadence of his voice, the soft aroma of myrrh and lavender that clouded him.

“Apologies, Father. I wished to do my work to the best degree, no matter the position of the sun. It is what our lord in heaven would wish.”

You bowed your head in atonement, not wanting to disrespect him in the slightest. It is only when you heard a hum of amusement from the priest that your head raised, greeted with stormy eyes and a smile of grace.

“God would forgive you for turning in early, sister,” Father Vergil mused, chuckling lightly. “Come, let me walk you out.”

You look down to see Father Vergil’s arm extended to you, an offering from above. If god knew of your sins, why was he indulging you with such a delight? Perhaps this was a test of faith. With hesitation, you take his arm, immediately reveling in the warmth of it. Shaking your head, you try to rid yourself of sinful thoughts, only to garner more attention from the priest. He stops you both from walking any further, you two standing in between the pews. Father Vergil turns to directly face you, clasping his hands over yours with concern and sincerity.

“You seem troubled, my child. Is there something you wish to share?”

Your eyeballs almost bulge out of your head from the accusation and touch of his hands. God has spoken to him of your impurities! Our benevolent lord has enlightened your dear priest with the knowledge of your thoughts. You immediately collapse before him to your knees, still grasping at his hands for a semblance of rapture.

“Oh, Father! I am not worthy to stand in the home of God beside you! I have betrayed my teachings, my very essence by entertaining these plaguing voices from the devil, himself!” you blubbered out, tears of shame cascading down your face.

Your hands shake as you grip his hands, fearing that he’ll turn his merciful eyes from you. The shake of your body is so persistent that your veil falls from your head, exposing your hair to the dimming light shining through the stained windows. Father Vergil stares at you with utter confusion, unsure where this fit arose from. His eyes flicker between your white knuckles and desperate eyes, not sure what “thoughts” you could be alluding to.

“Dear child, what has troubled you so?” Father Vergil questions softly, slowly bending down to speak more directly. “You are safe, and with God as my witness, I will not pass judgment on your sins. Please, share your burden with me.”

With tear-soaked cheeks, you swallow hard and bring your attention back up to him. “I wish to confess, Father,” you say meekly, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. A terrible, crude sin.”

Father Vergil lowers himself to his knees to sit across from you, still holding your hands. He nods for you to continue.

“It has been weeks- no, months, that my mind has wandered a dark path. I pray to God every night to take these…these obscene a-and lewd thoughts from me, but I fear I have strayed too far from Him, as He remains silent to me,” you exclaim to him.

Intrigued, Vergil raises an eyebrow. “What thoughts exactly?” his voice careful.

“I….I am not sure if I have the heart to voice them, Father,” you say, a frown plastered on your face.

“I understand this is difficult, Sister, but to receive penance and be absolved, you must confess to God,” Father Vergil sighs, squeezing your hands, “Has no one condemned you?… Neither do I condemn you.”

“John 8:11,” you say promptly, recognizing the verse.

Father Vergil nods and smiles gently, nodding once more. “Confess, and you will be rid of such sin.”

You look down at your joined hands and breathe deep, saying a silent prayer to God before speaking.

“Father…..I have been riddled with…disgraceful thoughts of you. I hear you speak sweet nothings to me in the lonesome night; I feel your skin on mine in times of need. I fear that my devotion to God has transformed into the devotion of you.”

Vergil’s smile falls as you speak, a cold, unreadable expression glossing over. He untangles his hands from yours and grasps at the rosary draped over his chest.

“Sister,” he starts, eyeing you warily, “such thoughts have challenged even the strongest of God’s creatures. But to worship someone other than our lord…it is sacrilege.”

There’s a long pause as Father Vergil closes his eyes, deep in thought. You watch his nose scrunch in the dim candlelight, wrinkles forming on his marble-carved face.

“You must try to rid your pure mind of such fallacies, in order to receive penance. Let us pray,” Vergil orders, making the sign of the cross. You follow suit, ‘in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,’ and clasp your hands together to your chest, bowing your head to them. You listen intently as Father Vergil recites a prayer asking for your forgiveness, soaking in every word. Even now, you can’t help but feel a warmth in your body at the hushed, intimate tone of his voice. Pushing the desires down, you return your focus in time to end the prayer, echoing Vergil’s ‘amen’.

You open your eyes to see him standing, offering a hand to help you up. You take it and grab your fallen veil off the tile. Fixing it back in place, Vergil takes a few steps back from you and seems to be mumbling a small prayer to himself, twisting the cross on his rosary in his delicate fingers. You brush off the dust and wrinkles from your garb and clear your throat.

“Shall I continue my duties for the ni-“

“No,” Vergil promptly interrupts, “no, I think I can finish closing up myself. It would be best if you found your way home.”

There’s a pang in your chest, an arrow to your heart, at the stark dismissal. You wanted to say more to him, to apologize profusely, but you knew it would only make things worse. You bowed your head in obedience.

“Yes, Father.”

You crossed yourself one last time before turning on your heels to leave, the clicking of your shoes reverberating off the church walls. Father Vergil watched you as you scurried out, tail between your legs. Everything happened so quickly that he didn’t get a chance to voice that he, too, was struggling with his faith in your presence, and instead, projected his shame onto you. Vergil exhaled the breath he’d been holding and walked into the pew of the first row, kneeling down and clasping his sweating hands together.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

#vergil sparda #vergil devil may cry #vergil sparda x reader #vergil x reader #devil may cry #dmc #dmc vergil #writing #fanfic #priest kink

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kuiperblog · 2 years ago

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What makes movie action “good?”

There’s a John Wick movie in theaters. There seems to be pretty uniform agreement that John Wick movies have great action, and simultaneously, there seems to be a lot of general “Marvel fatigue,” some of which is specifically about the MCU, but also some of which is about “action blockbusters” that seem to put a lot of focus on action and spectacle that a lot of people seem to be growing increasingly disenchanted with. (See, for example: Tomorrow War (2021) starring Chris Pratt, Extraction (2020) starring Chris Hemsworth, and to round out the Chris roster we also have Wonder Woman 1984 (2020) with Chris Pine.)

Most of the discussion tends to focus on effects, and how making everything in a computer feels soulless while practical effects like the ones in John Wick and Everything Everywhere All At Once are superior, and there’s a certain degree to which blockbuster CG does look worse due to everything being computer generated. But I think a much bigger and more deep-seated problem is that blockbuster action is poorly structured.

There are a lot of great practical scenes in John Wick with choreography that is great not just in execution, but in concept: if you recreated them with computer animation, or hand-drawn animation, many of them would be just as fun. You could look at a storyboard with a director’s poorly-drawn pencil sketches and you’d still be able to follow the logic and understand what the scene’s impact is supposed to be. You can tell this, because people can describe these scenes, and regularly do exactly that, because they’re memorable. It’s what the legend of John Wick is all about. (And it’s not just the “top 10 most creative John Wick kills” listicles that remind us of that fact.)

The thing is, John Wick doesn’t rely on the unique outlandish props for memorable kills. Most of John Wick’s kills boil down to “point gun, pull trigger.” And yet despite that most of his kills are with bullets, so many of them feel unique. Each scene feels like it has a tempo to it, a sense of flow, a chain of cause and effect. “That guy is hiding behind a pillar, but his toe is sticking out. So I’ll shoot him in the toe, causing him to bend over in pain, exposing the rest of his body so I can shoot center of mass.” There’s always the moment when John Wick runs empty and has to reload before delivering the killshot.

There’s a storytelling principle that’s often applied to plot structure. This was famously described by Trey Parker to a bunch of NYU students on MTVU's "Stand In." Trey Parker describes the writers room as containing a massive white board, split into 3 acts, where they write down ideas scenes and rearrange them. Each scene has to be entertaining by itself, but they also need to be connected by a coherent narrative through-line.

"You don't want just one scene where, 'well, what was the point of that?' Take the beats of your outline, and if the words 'and then' belong between those beats, you've got something pretty boring. What should happen between every beat that you've written down is either the word 'therefore,' or 'but.'”

A happens, therefore B happens. Or, B doesn't happen, but C happens, therefore D happens. Repeat. You can use this to structure the plot for a 25-minute TV episode, or a 120-minute movie, or a 2-minute action scene. Follow it, beat by beat, and see if one leads to the next:

One of the evil henchmen comes swinging at our hero with a wooden chair raised over his head, but the hero dodges and the wooden chair smashes against the floor, shattering. Therefore, the ground is now covered with the broken remains of a wooden chair, so the mook picks up one of the long pieces of wood that served as a chair leg and begins swinging at the hero again. But the hero successfully dodges and the wooden club breaks and splinters in a way that causes it to become, therefore the mook starts trying to use the splintered end to stab the hero...

I’m not saying this is an amazing action scene, but it’s a competent one: each beat flows into the next. The chair becomes a chair leg, then the chair leg becomes a shiv. Each time the henchman comes rushing at the hero, he’s doing it with a different weapon. The scene has a logic to it: if you rearranged the shots, the scene wouldn’t make sense. You can’t start with a splintered piece of wood and then end on an intact chair.

So many mediocre action movies fail to deliver it. The bad guy punches the hero. And then he punches the hero again. And then he tries to kick the hero. And then he punches in a different, cooler way. There’s no real sense in which each beat is a consequence of what followed it: if you cut the scene up and rearranged the shots, a lot of people might not even notice. (And in fact that sort of thing happens all the time in the editing bay.)

Tony Zhou self-deprecatingly describes this problem when critiquing one of his own videos, saying “This is a list you could put in any order. That’s why it’s so boring.”

For examples of action cinema where every beat feels like a consequence of what preceded it, watch any classic Jackie Chan movie (the ones that came out of Hong Kong, not Hollywood). Tony Zhou describes it like this:

“So how does Jackie create action that is also funny? First off, he gives himself a disadvantage. No matter what film, Jackie always starts beneath his opponents. He has no shoes. He’s handcuffed. He has a bomb in his mouth.“

“From this point, he has to fight his way back to the top. Each action creates a logical reaction. And by following the logic, we get a joke.” (Jackie is facing an assailant with a gun; Jackie has a gun, but it’s empty. Therefore, Jackie fakes surrender, handing his empty gun to the assailant. Therefore, the assailant is now holding an unloaded gun in his left hand. The assailant now thinks he has control of the situation, but reaching for the unloaded gun distracted him the fact that Jackie was entering a fighting stance and getting ready to kick: therefore, when Jackie kicks, he succeeds in knocking the loaded gun out of the assailant’s right hand. Therefore, the assailant tries to fire at Jackie using the gun in his left hand -- which is empty, and he realizes it in a moment of surprise which Jackie seizes on by punching the assailant in the face.)

This is the joy of watching Jackie Chan films: much like the example of a chair (which morphs into a chair leg, which morphs into a shiv), a prop in a Jackie Chan movie is rarely just one thing. A ladder isn’t just a ladder; it’s a prop. And it’s several different kinds of props. Fighting with a ladder like this:

...is subtly different than fighting with a ladder after this happens:

And if you flip it over a guy’s head, it suddenly becomes a cage:

...trapping a guy just long enough for him to look at you in surprise right before your fist intersects with his face.

It’s great for action comedy, but it’s also great for straight action: sometimes, the ��punchline” is someone getting defeated in a surprising way. John Wick is one of the few big franchises of recent years to reliably do this sort of thing well.

Often, John Wick accomplishes this by being clever. But I think a big part of it comes down to the fact that John Wick is just mortal enough for the number of bad guy’s he’s facing to matter. Each scene needs a sense of “progress,” where the stakes are constantly changing, and sometimes the change in stakes is as simple as, “There are five bad guys, oh no!” Bang bang, pivot, bang bang. “Okay, now there are only three bad guys.” (It’s harder to do this when you’ve been injected with super soldier serum and wear a suit made of high-tech blast resistant stretch fabric: Captain America subduing five bad guys doesn’t feel meaningfully different from him subduing three bad guys, even if the way he punches them is really cool.)

Stakes matter! If threat level scales linearly with the number of bad guys on screen, then each scene will have a natural eb and flow to it as bad guys get gradually picked off (or as more of them stream into the room, or pick themselves up off the floor and reach for the gun they just dropped).

One of the MCU scenes that actually did this better than most is the famous Captain America elevator scene: first, Crossbones and two guys get onto the elevator with cap. A bit surprising. Why is that guy resting his hand on his hip so close to his gun? Several floors later, the elevator opens, and four more guys get on. They’re wearing suits, like you’d expect from people who just showed up for a day at the office. This is headquarters, there’s nothing to be worried about. So why is that guy sweating? Then, the door opens again, and three more guys get on -- and these guys are wearing tac gear. But hey, it’s Jack -- I know Jack, he was in the first ensemble movie, he can’t be one of the bad guys...so why is he standing directly between me and the door?

It’s a great example of slowly amping up the tension by gradually adjusting the threat level up. The scene even amps up the tension by having the magnetic handcuff, which leaves Cap in various stages of incapacitation throughout the fight. And he has to fight his way up from the bottom. But we very quickly go from this iconic shot:

...then after literally three seconds of Cap delivering a rapid series of strikes to incapacitate most of the mooks, he’s back to fighting two or three of them at a time.

Despite there being ten bad guys in the elevator, it’s kind of hard to get a clear fix on how many of them attacking Cap at any given moment, all of the others existing in various states of injury and recovery after they get the wind knocked out of them. In fact, the only shot that allows us to get a full body count is after the fight is over:

But it’s still a fun scene, one of my favorites, succeeding at being fun and memorable.

The bigger issue is the need to be “epic”: threat level can’t scale linearly with the number of bad guys on screen when you want a scene where there are literally hundreds of enemies to fight off.

There’s a certain point at which the marginal effect of another bad guy on screen is effectively zero. Obviously, this is the case when you have hundreds or dozens of enemies on screen, but there’s a real sense in which “group of seven bad guys” doesn’t feel different from “group of six bad guys.” Our brains just categorize both as “a pretty big cluster.” Research tends to come to slightly different results on this, but it seems like humans count “one, two, three, four, many.” Once you have five bad guys on screen, adding a sixth bad guy doesn’t do anything to change the stakes. (That’s the problem with having a hero who’s so strong that you need to throw 10 bad guys at him to pose any threat.)

If you cap the total number of on-screen bad guys at five, then each enemy the hero defeats meaningfully changes the stakes, and John Wick does this a lot. In many cases, the flow just comes from watching the number of bad guys on screen decrease linearly as the hero picks them off, one by one. It gives the scene a natural scenes of progress, and it can sometimes be played for comedy, like Neal Stephenson does in Snow Crash in a scene described by a sniper’s dialog:

"It's, like, one of them drug dealer boats," Vic says, looking through his magic sight. "Five guys on it. Headed our way." He fires another round. "Correction. Four guys on it." Boom. "Correction, they're not headed our way anymore." Boom. A fireball erupts from the ocean two hundred feet away. "Correction. No boat."

That’s a (very short) scene with flow. You can’t rearrange the beats; every beat leads to the next. Follow the logic, and arrive at the punchline.

#writing #john wick #movies #snow crash #neal stephenson

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raisindave · 5 months ago

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[Chapter 69] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content warning: Descriptions of injuries that could make some readers uncomfortable.

Is it wrong to feel relief right now? On one hand, your job is complete, and there are no more expectations from the linguistics team. On the other hand, there are still hostages trapped in the theatre, and the riskiest part of this entire operation is yet to begin. You're still expected to be on call, and it's entirely a possibility that you'll be expected to quickly resolve some other unforeseen mystery. It seems your two peers don't know what to do with themselves either, as the three of you stand in uncomfortably still air in the dark void of the vacated restaurant. It felt like you no longer had the authority to draw a breath, like any stray atom might hinder the raid that's moments away from starting, just past those long curtains.

The commotion behind you nearly made you jump out of your skin, and you and your peers turned to gawk at the opening door like a pack of meerkats. An unknown man and woman entered, barely making eye contact as they surged into your space. Your fingers instinctively slid over a cloth-wrapped bundle of cutlery from one of the dining sets to defend yourself, but the lettering on their matching coats loosened your tension. Thick navy coats with orange shoulders marked with blocky text reading "sanitäter," they're just paramedics. A tall female medic with blocky glasses and a lanky man with faint yellow hair, making brisk eye-contact as she knelt to reveal a trunk of equipment.

The male paramedic said something in German directed toward you, but you were too stunned to churn the words into thoughts. Your eyes were out of focus, but the KKpt spoke an affirmation in return that satisfied his statement. You watched as he shoved what's essentially your life's work onto the wood floor, a cascade of papers and pens, clearing space on one of the larger tables. The female paramedic clicked a silvery metal staff into a pillar, hooking a sack onto the device. They worked fast, hijacking your now redundant workstation to fashion one of their own. Just as your mind started to consider that this might be a med bay for evacuated hostages, familiar voices broke through the glass barrier of the front door.

You'd be easily forgiven for not recognizing them at first. For a moment, your muscles considered raising the alarm that two civilians had just wandered into this top-secret facility until your brow softened at the sight of familiar faces. Blue latex gloves guided the two soldiers to recline on the cloth tables, immediately examining the wounds in a flurry of triage. They muttered to one another, functioning like a well-oiled machine to ferry tools and vials into upturned palms.

Soap having his bicep exposed, thanks to his tacky sleeveless shirt, made it easy for the male paramedic to point and pinch at a jagged slash just below his shoulder. Unfortunately for Soap's unsightly wardrobe, a second gash along his chin dripped fresh blood across his chest as he was forced to lie on one of your tables. All while carrying on with Ghost about a similar encounter in Thailand. The paramedics pointed wooden sticks at every seeping slash across his body, even probed at pink dots along Soap's wrist, battle scars from a kerfuffle with a pigeon. Ghost on the other hand looked worse for wear, on paper that is, just in time for Gaz to push through the doors. He took no time to make his presence known, catching a nod from his abed comrades with a bold grin pulling at his cheeks.

"Nice jumper, LT. Does it come in men's?" Gaz boldly snarked at Ghost's eccentric red and blue sweatshirt as he approached.

"Can't say, Garrick, but I think you come in men enough to be the expert," Ghost cut back cruelly, making Soap holler in laughter and immediately crushing Gaz's onslaught.

The female paramedic lifted the fated jumper over his shoulders, revealing a tight beige vest underneath, now blooming with red on his right side. Meanwhile, her partner prepared a small tray of equipment, one of which was a long hooked needle that made your skin grow numb.

"Cheeky cunt," Gaz rocked on his heels after striding to stand at the table Ghost was being treated at, rolling his jaw in agitation as he grinned.

Soap's expression, however, told the story of a sweatshirt he wished he hadn't leant to Ghost for this mission. Now for more reasons than one, the poor piece was shovelled into a biohazard bag, spattered with your lieutenant's blood and likely that of a few of his attackers as well. Just then did you notice Soap's tattoo along the top of his forearm as he punches Ghost in the shoulder, a circular shape resembling some emblem. It's hard to say for sure.

"Where is Cricket, anyway?" Soap chimed as one of the paramedics temporarily pinched his shoulder injury shut with a wound closure strip.

The mention of your name made you snap out of your blank, eavesdropping stare at the floor. By the time they had spotted you, an awkward silence had taken hold. Your jaw opened to speak while your tongue fell heavy.

"Hello," you spoke, immediately questioning the eeriness of just standing in the corner silently watching them.

Luckily, that train of thought was brought to an end as Price entered, and the spotlight was redirected. An odd sense of relief washed over you as he struck up a conversation.

"You did a good job stopping a trowel from embedding itself into a wall, Simon," Price noted sarcastically as latex gloves pried the piece free from Ghost's chest, not even winging as what looked like alcohol was swiped over the slash.

"Another brag rag," Soap sneered.

"I'm starting to run out of room on my uniform," he sighed as the medic applied fibrous tape to temporarily seal the gash.

"Maybe they'll start sticking them to the back like pin the tail on the donkey," Price huffed, eliciting a snort from Gaz.

They banter like they both don't have hooked needles prying closed weeping gashes on their skin, reclining in their positions like it's a day at the beach. Skilled gloves hooking under pale, flayed skin, heaving to pull dark threads through the other end along Ghost's abdomen. Your eyes darted across every movement of her hands, her firm grip and tedious stitching, imagery that would otherwise make you winge. It's a 50/50; either the paramedics don't speak English, or they're simply used to hearing whatever unhinged banter tends to go on in a military hospital. You can't help but be weirdly hopeful it's the former as your eyes absently wander over more of the scene. This is more of Ghost's body than you've ever seen before. While you got to see some exposed shoulders and the whole of his tattoo sleeve back in that Polish hospital, your exploration was cut short by sprawling bandages just under his pectorals thanks to broken ribs. Now, he lay significantly more exposed, forced to expose his soft underbelly by an insistent medical team. But his underbelly was anything but soft. It took every fibre of your being to stop yourself from sweeping over every curve and divot of his lower abdomen, angular lines along the sides of his pelvis and a soft trail of hair leading down to the buckle of his jeans.

"I heard you had to put a guy to sleep out there," Soap nodded to Gaz, resting his free hand behind his head.

"A little sloppy, not my best work. Captain's guy didn't wake up though," he retorted, tilting his gaze.

"It was either me or him," Price sniffed. "Like takin' out the trash," a cheeky and arguably cringeworthy reference to his manner of disposal of the assailant.

"Sick bastard," Soap chuckled, having his jaw wrangled by the male paramedic's grip on his wound.

"Glad to see we're all in good spirits then," the captain ordered.

At the angle Price was standing, you couldn't help but see some of the printed images on the pages under his crossed arms. Printout stills of the photos Soap took in the oracle's apartment. As he rocked on his hips, occupied by a lively discussion with Soap and Ghost, you managed to spy images you hadn't been sent. Different angles from around the apartment, some blurs of colour and what looks like a cork pinboard, a flash of blue and black, and a grey backpack. Your attention must've been so laser-focused on the cipher that you missed something notable right under your nose, and the building tension in your forehead dissipated when he made his way over to your position.

"Good work out there, all of you," Price stood before the three of you.

"These two were a treat to work with," you smiled, nodding at the professor and Korvettenkapitän.

KKpt tapped her forearm on your bicep, looking like she was considering the formality of pulling you into a relieving hug, opting instead to frown and nod sternly. The professor, however, seemed entirely distracted by the view across the room, not even registering Price's presence. What an odd pair.

"-Now, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got' to talk to Miss Laswell," Price swaggered toward Laswell as she held the door open for him to follow.

He left after bumping his fist on Ghost's shoulder, though Ghost looked like he was considering snapping and biting the man like a poorly trained dog. As hilarious as that may have been, your lieutenant's self-discipline prevailed. Ghost's eyes flashed to meet your vacant stare, and you blinked away the blankness. There was an agitation in his eyes that startled you, and for whatever reason, you couldn't find it in yourself to match his challenge. You were just so tired. Days of minimal sleep and exhausted mental faculties were catching up to you, not to mention the early phases of starvation blighting your system. As much as you might want to, you can't return to your dingy motel boxspring until at least a few hours have passed, or as long as it's socially acceptable. The boys are packing up anyway, and Laswell or whoever will be expecting a debrief.

Your next task was remarkably unremarkable compared to the past few days, noting every strategy and conclusion and wrapping it up in a tidy package that will align with official reports. KKpt was the champion of the idea, though; you initially had every intention to sit and rest your head on your forearms for a few hours, spying through the heavy curtain whenever you heard the commotion. She pushed you to write, and it was a blessing in disguise. Your pen worked to expand on crude bullet points you'd laid out, forcing you to make sense of the chaotic few days. Shouting and uproar outside caught your attention. From your angle across the street, an entry team of what looked like ten German SEK officers stood crouched under the front door of the Kino Der Toten theatre, ducking in synchronicity for a soldier swing a battering ram to crash through the wooden barricade. A flash of silver caught the corner of your eye, and your heart softened as rows of frail schoolkids were ushered in aluminum blankets into ambulances, safe at last. The peace of mind made the remaining hours pass easier, like the elephant in the room had vanished.

It didn't even cross your mind that that may have been the last time you'd see those two, but you were already halfway up the stairs to your motel room with your cake across your forearms before you realized. You'll probably catch up with them in the morning before you head out to whatever shitshow mission they have you on next. That wasn't a concern right now. You fought with gravity to find the key in your back pocket and shuffled into the motel room without a second thought. There's that same mustard yellow floral pattern you'd come to recognize, haphazardly applied to nearly every surface. The boxy TV in the corner will have to serve as a temporary counter, as it just now occurred to you that you have no form of refrigeration for this cake. This birthday cake. Happy fucking birthday. Alone in a run-down motel in Germany, the only friendly faces are people who are paid to be there, allies in a technical sense. Not a word from the friends you'd last seen on your previous birthday; they've not even bothered to take note of the date since your absence.

The plump strawberries on the chocolate cake were what got you. Recognition softened the muscles in your face, and it took less than a second for tears to sting in your eyes. Those were your sister's favourite fruit. She'd fight you for them with tooth and nail at the breakfast table as little girls, the treats you'd left for her months ago on that mountaintop in your hometown. What would Carolyn think of what you've done with your life? The thoughts were all too much to try to withhold. Tears prickled along your waterline. Your vision had already blurred the yellow florals into a haze that your fingertips couldn't even swipe away. They just kept coming. Heaving breaths crashed into your chest in hiccuping spasms, and aching muscles made instinctive pacing a painful labour.

Before you could consider burying yourself in those musty sheets, you were already shedding the shell jacket Laswell gave you, shucking layers free as you made your way to the shower. In one way, showering has always brought you comfort, in another, a thorough shower is a luxury you've been deprived of in your days of brutal studies. It also comes with the benefit of washing away streams of hot tears that sting in your throat and crinkle your brow. Water gradually grew in temperature as your impatience forced you to immediately step under the faucet, streaming cold water down your face and hair. You hadn't even fully undressed, haphazardly slinging soggy socks onto the floor of the yellow fibreglass shower unit. Panic and dread wracked your system, and you didn't even bother stifling weeping sobs. Lukewarm water spilled over your senses, forcing you to squeeze your raw eyes shut and fight harder for breath. Electric muscles compelled you to wash yourself and rid yourself of whatever metaphorical and literal filth you've accumulated, not that this hard water stained shower would leave you much cleaner.

When you glanced over your shoulder to swipe a handful of bar soap over the limb, your heart stopped entirely. You weren't alone in the tiny bathroom, as a dark figure was in the corner of your vision. He stood cross-armed across from you, leaned against a wall-mounted sink, visible in the crack you'd left in the shower curtain when you haphazardly drew it. He didn't look pleased, but it's hard to say when he's wearing that dumb skull plate stitched over his mask every day.

"What do you want?" you spat, easily translating your despair into aggression. "Did you come to chew me out?"

"I'm thinking about it," he stood, cold and level.

"Well fucking get on with it," you jabbed calmly, splashing water over your face to drown lingering tears. "Make yourself comfortable."

Ghost took the time to pause, considering his words carefully while you hotly wanted him to spit out whatever you'd transgressed. While one side of your brain was entirely prepared to fight him with bared teeth, the other urged you to relent and surrender to your despair, curling into a helpless fetal position.

"You can't back-talk to me in meetings, you know this," he sounded irritated. You caught a glimpse of pale gauze under his black tee when he lifted his arms to cross them. "I thought I was pretty clear that you won't be getting any special treatment because of our transactions."

He brought forward memories of you snapping at him for stating the obvious when you were in that restaurant with KKpt and Kraus. Your fuse was short, but you spoke with an attitude to your comrade, superior, in front of your captain and Laswell. That's the kind of shit that'll get you a written reprimand or, God forbid, an Article 15. Far from acceptable in the military, especially in your tenure. It'd long since slipped your mind in the shitstorm that's been the last few hours, though he still made sure to spare you a few scathing glares to make it clear that he hadn't forgotten.

"I had a lot on my mind. I fucked up, okay? I'm sorry," your voice venomous and hateful. "Just show me where to sign already."

"'You wouldn't act like that to Soap or Gaz,'" he used your same words from back in the bunker against you, challenging you with your own logic. "If this situation is to continue, you have to learn to separate it from work and be professional."

"Fine," you sighed, still hot with agitation but stripped of munitions by his reasoning. "I can't help but remember you being pretty unprofessional with Gaz and Soap earlier when you were getting stitched up."

"That was banter with my comrade," he tilted his head back. "It's not the same as disrespecting someone's authority in a strategy meeting."

"So it's only okay when you do it?"

"It's only okay when it's after the task is completed."

"And what, so you just let yourself into my room? That's also pretty unprofessional," your lip curled into a frown, loosely resembling a snarl.

"I got you a birthday gift," he shrugged, tilting his head to a small yellow box he'd balanced on the porcelain sink he was leaning against.

You turned to face away from him as an odd sense of shame made your face run cold. Warm water rained in hard streams against your skin. You couldn't bear the sight of another person right now. What's gotten into you? Why are you turning every situation into a self-flagellating pity party? You used to have so much more respect for yourself, be able to bark back and hold your ground if someone pressed you. You'd failed to uphold your end of the bargain, and he'd come to scold you for it. His work will always be a bigger priority to him than you, and you'll be discarded and forgotten the second you're no longer of immediate use to this travelling circus.

A bootstep in your direction made you flinch and cringe, but it slid back to its original position over the tile. Tears made the sight of him blurry when you turned to see him again, a mass of black and white standing at the porcelain sink.

"What if-" a knot in your constricted throat made you tremble. "What if I asked you to leave right now?"

Milliseconds felt like hours, and the steady thrum from a shambling shower head pelted you with water that progressively lost its temperature. It felt like the life was being sapped from you by this shitty water heating. Rejecting another man made your skin prickle with anxiety; the thought of him, too, slamming his fist across your cheek if you rejected his advances flashed into your mind. A flickering lightbulb overhead made your mind imagine the act too, just as said bruise had begun to fade into your cheekbone.

"Then I'd ask you to lock the fucking door behind me," his voice was just above a whisper, tinted with humour but still bassy and clear.

He didn't hesitate or even look your way, smoothly lifting himself from his leaning angle against the sink and ducking through the door with a click. It startled you how quickly he accepted your answer, like you were almost expecting some resistance. He's the one who deserves the pity card, he's the one who suffered a serious injury today, though you'd never guess by his disposition. A strange sense of panic swept over you, like you were scared of being alone, scared of pushing another person out. What else do you have now, if not a few government-mandated co-workers and a strictly physical relationship with the man you'd just kicked out. The closest thing you have to any sort of physical intimacy is a person you're strictly disallowed from holding. Despair in isolation never suited you, and your voice shot out as a lifeline in the sudden silence.

"Si-" your foggy mind almost slipped to break another rule, another transgression for him to chastise you for. "Ghost."

But he'd already gone. The door had clicked behind him, and the sound of heavy water streaming from a squealing facet had drowned out your squeaking voice. He has every reason to leave. You've worked yourself into a hysteric mess. A burden to this elite task force that lacks the emotional control to be worth hanging onto, he's probably regretting laying a finger on you to begin with.

Why did there have to be strawberries on that cake? A bitter reminder of the passage of time with the symbol of your sister's mortality represented in a nostalgic fruit. That bundle you'd left on the mountain as an offering is coming back to haunt you, scorn you for your inaction. At first, you thought it was a lack of agency, but that fell through. Maybe feeling like you have no control was the root of your dissatisfaction, but that only caused you to make out with your lieutenant and a handful of other ignorant choices. Then maybe it was your lack of mental stimulation, that reading and filling your mind with case studies would soothe your agitation, but that too fell through. Now, your hunch led you to think that a lack of recognition for your work is the downfall of your self-worth. While it was a factor, and one that Ghost has helped you remedy, ultimately, you shouldn't have joined a career like the military if you wanted to have your boots kissed every time you do what's expected of you.

Here you are, another year of borrowed time lost, time you should've spent in the soil beside your father and sister. And what do you have to say for it? You've filled a role that would easily be substituted by the next bright-eyed linguist and obeyed your wise masters like the good dog you've become. Comfortable with your collar and willfully heeling as it constricts tighter around your windpipe. You're not cut out for this, you're just not. Your fingernails raked over slippery shoulders, trying to spark feeling back into skin that's slowly being sapped of warmth. Splashing water didn't help, trying to drown your melancholy and not spend your birthday as a weeping mess. Again. But there was a presence in the bathroom. You were too numb to flinch, but he was there, back at his post, leaning on the sink. Knees crumpled from under you, and your face twisted into an ugly frown. Your arms shot out for him, and his forearms caught you before the moisture accelerated your fall into his shoulder.

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