#stretch wrapping machine price

[brezzegiftsseo]

Pallet Wrapper Machine Manufacture - Innovative WrapTech Pvt. Ltd.

Leading Pallet Wrapper Machine Manufacturer providing safe, effective, and long-lasting pallet packaging solutions. Increase your output right now.

[octagonsolution]

Reel Stretch Wrapping is specially designed for packing paper, film, foil, and similar materials manufactured in reels through a Paper wrapping Machine, Paper Packaging Machine, or Paper Roll Packing Machine.

[wwwquickpakinccom]

Why Use High Performance Stretch Film

In the world of logistics and supply chain management, efficiency is the name of the game. But pallet wrap might not be the first thing that comes to mind when you are thinking about how to optimize your operation. Enter high performance stretch film…

The right stretch film can often be the key to unlocking improvements. However, the challenge lies in finding the delicate balance between reducing the thickness of your pallet wrap and maintaining adequate load containment.

High performance stretch film is an innovative category of pallet wrap that has a much lower thickness than traditional film but provides a high level of performance.  Traditionally, thicker stretch films were considered essential to provide sufficient strength and stability for wrapping pallets. However, advances in technology have paved the way for thinner performance films.

High performance pallet wrap enables businesses to wrap more pallets with less film without sacrificing effective load containment.

One of the primary advantages of reducing thickness in stretch wrap is the potential for significant cost savings.  Thinner films, when applied to pallets in the right way, can reduce the overall amount of material required to wrap a pallet. In turn, this helps cut the amount of money you spend on purchasing stretch films.

With the right application process, it can also reduce the number of wraps around the pallet. This speeds up the wrapping process and reduces the time taken to wrap each pallet.

Using a high-performance stretch film with a lower thickness can positively impact your sustainability goals. Compared to a conventional film, using a high-performance pallet wrap can remove tons of plastic from a supply chain.

Whilst cost savings and sustainability are compelling reasons to explore using a high-performance film, ensuring that load containment is not compromised is critical.  The primary purpose of stretch wrap is to secure and protect palletized loads during transportation and storage.

Striking the right balance between thickness reduction and load containment is imperative in reducing product damage, maintaining pallet integrity in the supply chain, and reducing incidents of health and safety breaches.

This is why pairing the right high-performance film with the right application method is important. The type of pallet wrapping machine used to apply material plays a pivotal role in achieving the delicate balance required for effective thickness reduction.

Call us at 813 242 6995 or sales@quickpakinc.com to discuss and test our range of high-performance stretch films. 

[circe69]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥! - 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

❤︎ simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader ❤︎ wc: 2.4k ❤︎tw: mentions of gore, suggestive ❤︎ tags - snowy valentines, heavy making out, pining, drunk confessions, aggressive!simon, but sweet as well :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

"You know today's Valentine's Day, right L.T?" Your words slurred together like pudding, and Ghost could smell the faint scent of whiskey, along with the remnants of some strawberry dessert, on your breath as he leaned down to hear you better.

He'd brought you up to the rooftop from the raging party downstairs, figuring it be easier to avoid any questions from Soap or Price about just why the two of you were standing so close. He looked up, stretching and rolling his neck from side to side, and was taken back by just how clear the sky was. It'd been months since he'd been able to make out any sort of constellation, and just about everyone had gotten used to the gunpowder-filled clouds and polluted air, but Ghost hadn't.

"What about it?" He said firmly, looking down at you and watching how you ever so slightly fisted the hem of his t-shirt in your hands, and every so often, your knuckles would graze the skin of his stomach, making his whole-body tense.

You smiled, your doe eyes and dilated pupils staring up at him with the most drunken affection that he'd seen in a while, "Do you have anyone?" You bit down on your chapstick-doused lips, enjoying the slight cherry flavor. Ghost watched you work; he could almost feel your tongue moving around on his just by watching your lick your lips.

He sighed, not annoyed, but a little anxious. He just didn't know how to act around you, he didn't know why you made him feel so different from everyone else. It'd been years since he had a friend, let alone a woman, an attractive one no doubt, clawing at him for more, practically begging for him to just pick her up and take her to a random closet to show her just how much he was willing to give. At this point, Ghost couldn't care less about the fact that you'd forget most of this in the morning. He loved the way you made him feel, even if there was a chance you didn't mean it.

"You're drunk, soldier." He gently pried your wandering hands off his body as you grimaced at the fact that he just called you soldier. You whined in response, hands instinctively shooting up to hug him around his neck, and Ghost allowed it, because he wanted it so badly. He wanted you so badly.

"Come on, just tell me already! You're no fun when you keep secrets." You were practically hanging off of him, your toes barely touching the ground, and even though he could've wrapped himself around you and lifted you up even higher, his hands stayed in fists planted at his sides. You leaned even closer to whisper,

"Do you have a valentine or not?"

A small smile stretched across Ghost's face, and for once, he was actually thankful for that thin piece of fabric covering it. Precious, he thought. You were the one thing that could unlock Simon's buried affection, and whether you knew it or not, you were the ticket to making his entire being feel better. He was bloodthirsty on the field, a man-killing machine known for his deceitful tactics and disgusting tricks for cracking a neck just right, but it disappeared in your presence. Not because he had to hide it, but because he would just much rather focus on you, the most perfect thing, right in front of him.

Ghost's hands hesitantly moved to the small of your back, but then slowly dropped them again before raising one to pinch the bridge of his nose as you let go of his neck, crossing your arms in annoyance at the fact that he just won't grab you.

"I know you're pouting because I'm not paying much attention to you, but I have to be gentle with you for now. You've had drinks, yeah? Maybe a few too many. Even if I wanted to, I can't touch you."

You looked up at him, the grimace resting on your face was a little more relaxed, "But" you started, "Do you want to?"

Ghost looked back at you, and his lungs felt like they'd burst into flames if you spoke one more sentence in that voice, the voice that's dripping with desire and demand, for him and only him. He whispered, "Of course I do. Of course, I want to touch you, I want to touch every part of you." His voice grew louder at the end of his words, making your eyes widen at the volume.

"Just because I'm being gentle right now, doesn't mean I always will. The things I want to have happen, the things I want to do to you, aren't sweet things. They aren't nice, they wouldn't be beautiful or sentimental. I wouldn't be careful. Do you understand?"

You craned your neck up at him, in a certain way that made your cheek bones shine perfectly from the dim light of the moon.

"I understand, Lieutenant," your voice was nothing more than a quiet sigh.

"Get some sleep. Tomorrow's role call is an hour earlier," Ghost said as he started to walk back to the door to the stairs, "Be there."

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

You groaned in pain as an alarm rang through your room, off the walls and into your ears. Every part of you hurt, from your toes to your shoulders. I couldn't have done that much, right? You thought, slowly slipping out of your covers and top quilt before walking to the bathroom.

6 AM, and for what? Breakfast and a flag? Couldn't they wait an hour? I sure could. Your hair wasn't as dirty as you'd thought it be, thankfully, and it was easy to manage into a tight bun before tugging on boots and a warm winter coat and heading to the main hall. As you walked, crunching on a small layer of snow with every step, you tried to think back to last night. What even happened? You were kicking yourself, because you knew this would be the case. It happens every time. You're just more of a lightweight than you'd like to admit, and you remember it every morning after you drink.

You could remember the rooftop, being escorted up there by none other than Ghost, which wasn't out of the ordinary, but there were some parts of your conversation that just didn't make sense. It was all a blur but, there was something about being gentle? And Ghost mentioning that, sure he's being gentle now, but if you let him, he'd be the farthest thing from gentle with you.

But there was no way that happened. Fever dreams, drunk dreams, they're all the same. They're all vivid, and scarily accurate, but fake, nonetheless.

Once you arrived at the hall, a wooden door creaked open upon your entrance, along with the sound of your boots hitting the floor in attempt to shake the ice off. The room was packed to the brim with people, rescue dogs that didn't behave, and squeaking chairs moving round for roll call. Hot coffee was being poured and whistling kettles being turned off for tea were some of your favorite smells in the world. The dim fluorescent lighting woke you up fully, and if it were any brighter, it may have set you over the edge. No matter how hungover you were, snowy mornings were like a restart.

You made your way down the precise middle aisle, eyeing an open chair by Ghost and speedwalking to grab it before anyone else.

Once you sat down, you started shedding your large coat and draped it behind you. Ghost finally noticed and took a double take once he saw just who was sitting next to him.

Somehow, by some crazy unearthly miracle, even after a terrible hangover, you were still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He was almost frustrated at this point; you looked like you'd never drank a day in your life. Your hair was perfectly pinned, clothes beautifully ironed, which allowed for every curve to be hugged like a glove and shown off to every man in the room.

Ghost was borderline salivating. You smelled like you always did, lavender; and your morning voice as you said hello to him was just raspy enough to make him crazy, almost like crackling firewood. Even in the snowy, freezing weather, just by you being there, he felt perfectly warm.

"Morning," he said back, adjusting his pants that had somehow shrunk a few inches since you took your place by him.

The cup of coffee in his hand looked minuscule compared to the one in yours, which let your mind wander to other places, thinking about things that you shouldn't be. Like how small your body would feel enclosed in arms, and how those very same hands that were inches away from yours could destroy you within seconds.

Before you knew it, one of Ghost's arms raised and placed itself on the back of your chair, making you dizzy just at the contact. His skin wasn't even on yours, but you could feel the weight of his heavy forearm on the chair, and the way it gently ruffled the sleeves on your shirt. His breath was closer, practically pouring down the side of your neck, which made you automatically lean in closer to him. You could feel your heartbeat and was sure he could see it popping out of your chest every second.

"Hey," he whispered in your ear, making your eyes flutter at the deep tone speaking from a mouth inches away from you.

"If I left, would you follow me out?"

You looked at him, eyes wandering all over his face until resting in deep eye contact. You could tell all he needed was one word, one nod, and he'd stand up.

"Yes," you whispered. Breathed, more like.

Ghost stood, his height growing like a giant tree, from his seat and stomped out of the large dining room, and into a small hallway towards the back. You discreetly watched every move, every step he took, every nod he gave to the unsuspecting soldiers, and the exact turn he took to start his descent in the hallway.

You sat for a minute before moving. I could just stay, avoid any unnecessary confrontation, and tell him he misheard me, you thought. Your legs fidgeted for a few more seconds, trying to decide, but in reality, your answer from the start was genuine.

You shot up, faster than you intended, and started walking in the same path that Ghost did. Nodding to the soldiers, shooting smiles and quietly opening a door that led you into the same dark hallway that he entered.

There were a few small windows lining the hall, and the snow falling made it seem brighter than it was. You walked a few paces slowly down the walkway, looking in empty rooms and peeping your head in open doors, wondering where he could've gone.

All the sudden, when you were looking towards the opposite direction, a strong pair of gloved hands grabbed you by the hips and pulled your body into a room before slamming the door with his foot and pinning you to the back of it.

Ghost's face was inches away from yours, "Mm, finally," he groaned, his hands desperately running over and under pieces of your clothing. He tugged at hemlines, the belt loops of your pants, anything he could grab to signal he wanted more, and he hadn't even started yet.

"Finally?" You teased, trying not to whimper at the feeling of his hands squeezing the meat of your thigh, "You act like you've been waiting for this or something." Your words got breathier with every second, and so did his. All he did was hum in agreement, words weren't ever truly necessary for him, especially when he'd rather communicate in touch.

He quickly lifted up his mask just enough so his lips were available to you, and you took the opportunity to utilize them as fast as you could. Once you saw them, plump and slightly wet lips, your eyes drowned in the sight of them. Your arms shot up to his neck, and you pulled him down to your level so you could kiss him properly.

It wasn't sweet like a first kiss, or something that you'd want to take a picture of and frame it, it was like a secret. His mouth opening against yours, the air between you mixing like it was never meant to separate, the two of you were hungry, hungry for each other and only each other. The pads of his fingers rubbed your collarbone, making you shiver underneath his calloused touch, and he loved it. His tongue gently massaged yours, sliding his lips back and forth and your teeth gently bit down on his lip slowly before the two of you broke the kiss and slowly opened your eyes again.

Ghost moaned against his closed mouth, shutting his eyes before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His long arms wrapped around you as if you were a present from Christmas, something that he'd always wanted but never believed he'd get. He almost needed a breather from the aftermath of it all. He couldn't stop, and he knew he'd never stop for as long as you were in arms reach.

"Do you remember last night?" He said from his spot in your neck, to which you started to nod. "Too much to not be slightly embarrassed forever."

You could feel his chest vibrate against yours from the huff of air he let out, and after he lifted his head to meet yours again, straightening his posture to tower over you, "Ask it again." He demanded as his hand planted itself behind your head on the door.

The smile on your lips was enough to make his knees buckle, all it did was remind him that every part about you was made beautifully, was made to its most perfect potential.

You sighed before rolling your eyes slightly and dropping your head in your hands for a minute out of embarrassment, "Do you have a valentine, Lieutenant?"

Ghost allowed himself to just bask in the silence, to soak in what you just said like a warm bath. How wonderful, that he was able to hear you say that same question twice?

"Yes, I do," he started, before taking your hand in his and carefully kissing the center of your palms, "And I think I'm set for life."

[mistydeyes]

Mission gone wrong ?

Where reader and ghost are stuck in Oymyakon during winter,freezing in the snow waiting for backup?

ahhhh anon! thank you so much for this request!! i love the idea so much (like cmon who wouldn’t want to be stuck w simon in a cabin)

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summary: After the mission goes completely south, you and Ghost are left trudging through the wintery landscape of Oymyakon. When you finally arrive in the comfort of a secluded cabin, you two try to make light of the situation.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

warnings: swearing, violence

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"Just a little bit further," Ghost encouraged as you trudged through the meter-high snow. His voice echoed across the frozen landscape. As far as the eye could see, there were sparse trees coated in a heavy blanket of snow and ice. Getting away from the guns and snowmobiles was half the battle but now you were making the expedition to this fabled safe house. Out of all the missions you had with him, of course, this one had to go to absolute shit. "That's what you said 30 minutes ago," you mumbled, following in his large footprints. You had lost feeling in your lower extremities and you wondered how he could continue. With every step, you could feel pins and needles shoot through your sore body. Your breath felt harsh on your knitted balaclava and you secretly envied the many layers of fabric and silicone of Ghost's infamous mask. "If you quit complaining, it'll make the journey quicker," he said and you could tell the bastard had a smirk on his face. "God I hate Oymyakon."

Eventually, you could see a small cabin on the edge of your vision. "A mirage in the cold desert," you could hear Ghost joke and you picked up the pace. "Price did say this was isolated," you said through your chattering teeth, finally seeing the full picture of the home in arm's reach. You gripped the cold padlock in your gloved fingers and inputted the memorized set of coded numbers. Ghost shoved the iced-over door and gave way into the darkened, freezing cabin. "Home sweet home," you joked half-heartedly as you checked the bare-bones setup. Safe houses were all the same, only having the most simple of necessities and furnishings. As Ghost rummaged for a life-saving space heater, you looked through the cabinets to see if there were any food or hand warmers. The metal handle felt frigid on your fingertips and you saw two sizable mugs at home on the empty shelf.

"How romantic," Ghost said behind you and you jumped at the sudden baritone of his voice, "You gonna make us some tea?" You rolled your eyes at his typical British humor. "Maybe, if you got that space heater working," you replied and he gestured exaggeratedly to the small glowing machine that lit up the living room. "Speaks for itself," he smirked and you rolled your eyes before brushing past him to warm yourself. You took off your frozen boots and shook out your socks and jacket before you were left in your thermals under your gear. You could hear Ghost rummaging around in the adjacent bedroom before returning with two blankets. "No clothes but I do have these," he said and held up the flannel blankets. You nodded and he added his outerwear and gear next to yours.

As you sat wrapped in your blankets, you watched the snowfall and wind whip through the air. "If we weren't stuck here, this would actually be nice," you smiled as you stretched out your fingers in front of the space heater. "I got a cabin up in the Isle of Sky," he mentioned, "if we make it out of here, remind me to take you there." You beamed up at him and nodded eagerly at the offer. "That's in Scotland, right?" you asked and he let out a small grunt in confirmation. "This isn't some boy's cabin you and Soap share, right?" you questioned and he chuckled at the absurdity of the thought. "Fuckin' hell, I'd never," he swore, "just something I bought with a Lieutenant's salary." You thought for a moment before responding to his initial offer. "Well then, is that an offer for a romantic getaway, Lt?" you questioned and he quickly looked away from you. Despite the dim lighting of the room, you could see the subtle hint of pink on his ears. "Depends, hopefully evac gets here before we freeze to death." You shared a dry laugh as you continued to look out the window.

Before you knew it, the sun had set over the horizon and your body began to shut down from the day's events. You tried to suppress your yawn in your blanketed arm but Ghost noticed your small action. "You should sleep, there's one bed in the room over there," he gestured as you laughed softly. "Only one bed?" you smirked and you could almost hear his eye roll. "Not the time," he mumbled before he moved his hand in dismissal, "I'll keep the first watch." You got up slowly and dragged the blanket behind you. You reached the doorway and turned to him, wishing him a quiet goodnight. As you settled into the warm sheets, you turned to face the doorway and smiled as you saw Ghost perched over the small heater. If there was anything that was motivating you to survive, it was the potential to spend a weekend in a snowy cabin with Simon and no threat of danger.

[hyperfixiation-station]

Lighter Pt.2

Ask and ye shall receive :))

TW: Blood, death, angst

Part 1

Part 3

You feel a sense of disconnect, being able to see your own body. It had been that way since you slipped into a coma on the evac. Just you, your body, and the voices.

There are voices, almost uninterpretable, that call to you from beyond the veil. You do not hear the words they say, but you recognize them. They belong to your mother, to your best friend, to a fellow soldier, to all people who have died under your care. They want you to join them, but the voices are faint and do not sway you. Instead, you tether yourself to the man sitting by your bedside. For 12 short hours, he kept you tethered to the mortal plane. And then there was a tightness in your chest and the tether snapped. 

It had been an interesting experience. In surgery, you had flatlined 3 times, but each time it felt like there was a tether holding you to your body, keeping you from following the voices.  But later, in the ICU with Ghost by your side, you felt the tether disappear. There was a sudden tightness, the first sensation you’d felt since slipping into the coma, and then the tether just snapped. You felt yourself fading, the voices growing louder and louder and louder. Your body tingled and you stretched out a hand, reaching for the voices, wanting to end the discomfort and just go. 

But then there was a spark, and you felt as though someone dumped a bucket of cold water over your skin. The voices faded, and you came back to yourself, tethered once more.

“Their heart gave out.” The doctors said, “The combined stress from blood loss and shock sent them into organ failure.”  You had watched in sick fascination as you were placed on life support, a machine keeping your heart beating and lungs breathing. For the past 3 days you had sat with Ghost, watching your chest rise and fall and rise and fall in a rhythmic motion.

“Listen, Y/N. I’m not- I’m not big on…on words.” He shifted slightly, “but the doctor said talking is supposed to help you. I don’t bloody know how, but I said I would give it a try. I-” He paused, fidgeting with his gloves, “-I don’t-” He paused again, thinking, “-I’m sorry.” He finally managed to get out. 

“About everything. You should never have been on the bloody mission, but when Price said we were working with another team, I jumped at the chance to work with you.” He paused, taking a steadying breath, “Which is stupid, considering I haven’t been able to say ‘I love you’ to your face.” 

“And I’m sorry for that too. I’m sorry that I never say ‘I love you’, that I’m never affectionate in public, that I don’t compliment you like I should. I'm sorry that I’m such a fucking bastard all the time.” Now that he’s started  talking, it's almost like he can’t stop. It feels like you are watching a train that you know is going to crash, and you can’t stop it, but you can’t look away either. 

“I’m sor-” His breath catches, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry that you got shot. I’m sorry, I…I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry. I swear, I swear, if you wake up, I will spend every waking moment making it up to you. I will do whatever you want just-” He pauses, hands trembling, “-just please wake up.” 

“Please don’t.” You whisper, “Please don’t do this to yourself.” You wrap your spectral arms around him, nestling your chin on his head, trying to provide comfort that neither of you can feel.

He hasn’t left your bedside in 5 days, despite urging from Soap, Price, and even Gaz.

“I’m not leaving them alone. What if their heart gives out for good and I’m not there?” Had been his response every time someone tried to get him to leave. The doctors had only made his stubbornness worse. 

“If they can’t breathe on their own, then there is no hope of recovery. We are going to take them off the ventilator tomorrow and put them on a cannula, but if their lungs can inflate on their own, we may have to pull the plug.” The doctor had told Ghost yesterday, face full of sympathy. So now you stood by your bedside, hand on Ghost's back, watching the nurses take you off the ventilator.

It is equal parts disgusting and fascinating, watching them pull the tube from your throat. Disgusting, because they were pulling a tube from your throat, and fascinating, because, well, there was a tube being pulled from your throat. 

Almost immediately the tightness is back, squeezing like a vice. It is different this time. The world around you fades, and the voices come back, soft and inviting.  

“Come home.” The whisper to you.

Breathe, c’mon you can do this

“We miss you.” 

Please Y/N

The air is warm and comfortable, the scent of your childhood home filing the room.

Breathe please, I’m begging you dove

“Come ooooon Y/N!” The voice of your best friend echoes in your ears, drowning out the rest of the world. You reach for him, wanting to join, but something stops you. 

BREATHE Y/N

“It's not your time.” Your teammate whispers to you, her hand pushing you back to safety, just like she did the night she died. There is one high-pitched, steady beep in the back of your mind. 

Please, Y/N Please!

“Go back.” She says. She shoves you harder and suddenly you are back in the hospital. Ghost is crying, actually crying, and the nurses and doctors are frantically trying to get you to breathe. Your heart monitor is one long, steady line. 

“Go back.” She says again to you. She shoves you one more time and everything goes dark. 

[2vain]

far passed midnight & officially day two of the new year, last calls are made & attendees from 12welve's kick-off spill onto the streets. a group this big makes the miami street seem impossibly small. for two crews with egos & tempers large enough to fill the city, it's a perfect recipe for disaster.

         you feel it before it even hits the finish line — the weight in your chest, like something’s pressing down on you, making it harder to breathe. it doesn’t hit all at once. it creeps up on you, slow & relentless, until it wraps around your ribs & squeezes. the first hard right feels like the beginning of the end, & you know it. every shift, every turn, every drop of sweat that’s gone into perfecting this machine — it's all coming apart now. you’ve lost before. but this... this feels different.

         there’s a flicker of a thought that’s almost too quick to catch. it’s not the race, not the mechanics, not the adrenaline or the speed. it’s the moment when your focus fractured. the words she said, the way she smiled. you’ve never been good at letting distractions in, but tonight, something about her stuck with you. it didn’t make sense, not here, not now. you should’ve pushed it away, buried it beneath the roar of the engine & the hum of the streetlights. but you didn’t. & now it’s ruined you.

         the race unfolds like a blur. you’re behind, & no matter how much you push, no matter how hard you slam the pedal to the floor, you can’t seem to catch up. vipers’ drift is perfect, smooth like she was born to do it. ghost’s nos bursts like a shot of pure fire, the car flying past, & there’s genesis, just ahead, her grip on the road unshakable. & then there’s you — fighting to hold on, but losing.

         your hands tighten on the wheel, your knuckles white, but the frustration doesn’t come. not yet. instead, it’s that hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, the slow realization that this is it. you’re falling behind, & there’s nothing you can do to change it. the tunnel looms ahead, a final stretch, a curve you’ve mastered before. you push too hard, take the turn too wide, & just like that, it’s over. & you’re slipping.

         third place. the finish line comes & goes, & all you can do is watch it fade. the others are ahead of you, their cars tearing through the air like they’ve won everything. vipers’ triumphant roar, ghost’s triumphant smirk. you cross the line, & it’s a quiet thud, like a weight dropping.

& it hurts more than you thought it would.

         your chest is tight, your throat dry, & your hands are still gripping the wheel like you can turn back time, but you can’t. you can’t fix it now. the ache of it settles into your bones, & it’s all you can do to sit there, still, as the engine hums its final note.

         but this is how it goes, isn’t it ? this is the price of losing. the sting that doesn’t just burn — it lingers. you think about the hours you spent with your crew, the way you’ve all worked together for this moment. & it feels like it didn’t matter. except it does. you can feel it now, the slow build of that fire under your skin, the heat that refuses to die. 

         you slam your door open, & for a moment, you just stand there, hands clenching & unclenching slowly at your sides, eyes narrowed as you stare out into the distance. focus. focus. just focus. but��it’s not working. it’s not that simple. it’s the fucking nariza bois. it’s them, & how they’re always there, always winning, always pulling shit like this. viper & ghost, acting like they own the goddamn streets. & you want to tear them apart.

         you pace, every step a reflection of how restless you feel, how your blood is pumping faster than it should be. the heat is still there, boiling up in your chest, making your fists ache to hit something. someone. the thought of their faces, the sound of their laughs, it’s all you need to fuel the fire that’s burning in you. you could feel the fury, the frustration, the anger rising until you can’t hold it in anymore.

         it’s not just the race. it’s not just about losing. it’s the way everything’s tangled up in your head, the way it all feels out of your control, the way you let it slip. & now, you need to hit something. you need to make them feel this. you can feel your pulse in your fingertips, like your body’s electric with all this anger, all this frustration, & you don’t know what to do with it. fuck it. you’re done standing still.

         you’re not thinking anymore, just moving, heading straight for the chaos of the night, the anger driving you forward, the promise of revenge already on your knuckles.

[bluehoodiewoozi]

DRABBLE MARATHON #9:

JOSHUA HONG + morning coffee

0.5k words /// genre: fluff /// warnings: food mentions.

You loved Thursdays. Not because you liked what you had planned for the day nor because of some general sentiment. There was one very specific reason for your liking of Thursdays: those were the days your boyfriend worked the morning shift at your favourite coffee shop.

“Hi,” you smiled brightly when it was finally your turn to order, “it’s me.”

Joshua couldn’t help but return the gesture, his eyes crinkling as his smile stretched wide. “Hi, baby. What can I get for you today?”

“Surprise me?” 

He rolled his eyes at that. “So that you can tell me how bad my taste in coffee is again?”

“Why else?” you teased, leaning forward against the counter to briefly press your lips to his. “I trust you completely.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I still can’t believe they even let you near the coffee machine.”

“And here I thought I could have one morning of not being bullied by my own lover,” he sighed dramatically before tapping away on the computer. “A cinnamon latte coming right up. That’ll be–”

“How much for a boyfriend discount?” you interrupted him, eyes glinting with mischief that he knew all too well. 

He chuckled. “Let me see. How big of a discount do you need today, my love?”

“Can I get it free?” you wondered, not really meaning it – it was just fun to get on his nerves every once in a while and test his saint-like patience. You were, of course, fully ready to pay the full price.

But Joshua was full of surprises and that only made you love him more. “Give me a hug and I’ll consider it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you’re serious? Like… serious?”

“Would I ever lie to you, baby?” he laughed, more than amused by your reaction. “So, do we have a deal?”

“You’re paying for my drink?” you asked to clarify.

He nodded. “If you give me a hug.” 

Without another word, he lifted his arms, gesturing for you to meet him at the edge of the counter. Still dumbfounded, you just did as told. Your arms wrapped around his waist just as his did around your shoulders, his face coming to rest against your head. 

He sighed happily. “This is nice. I should do this more often.”

“Ask me for hugs in public spaces?” you joked and unwrapped yourself from his embrace, rushing back to your original spot. “Do I get my coffee now?”

He watched your actions with a pout. “One more hug and I’ll buy you a muffin too?”

You were unimpressed this time. “One hug is all you get, mister. I want my coffee.”

With a theatrical sigh, he turned to the coffee machine. Through the noise of grinding coffee beans, you heard him mumble, “I can’t believe I love you.”

[heartrender6]

My rendition of the 5 golden ticket kids from Willy Wonka

(nerdy explanation of details and process below the cut)

Augustus Gloop: my poor child gets ragged on so much by those stupid fucking oompa loompas when he really didn't do anything that bad. You'll notice that he's holding a caramel apple in one hand and a lollipop that looks kinda like a snake in the other. This is, of course, a biblical reference. Augustus committed the first "sin" by drinking out of the river, therefore he is Eve From The Bible. I didn't wanna incorporate being sucked into an industrial tube into a character design. Also I made him cute and silly because fat =/= evil.

Violet Beauregard: This was kind of tough because all the other kids have a very clear fundamental flaw whereas violet just... chews a lot of gum. Her hair is supposed to look like a blueberry, a clear reference to her turning into one after chewing the forbidden gum. The dress is a cute bubblegum pink (self explanatory). I'm convinced Violet had an iron deficiency because no other kind of person is just obsessed with chewing. Thus her outfit is a little overstimulating and has maybe too many patterns, like the void in her nutrition that she tries to fill with gum. (she's also dressed like that because she's, you know, a child.)

Veruca Salt: In the book, Veruca presumably gets mauled to death by squirrels (god forbid a woman be assertive in the workplace), so I gave her design a squirrel-y appearance. the swoop of hair is like a little squirrel tail and she has a bit of a chipmonk-y face. Is the velvet-cardigan-brown fur boot-lace combo kind of hideous? of course. It represents overindulgence. wearing velvet with a sweater on top, fur boots, and a gigantic velvet bow is a very heavy and sweaty outfit choice. this shows how Veruca' father enabling her consumerism piles on top of her and weighs her down.

Mike TV: a neglected child immerses himself in the hollywood dream as an escape from his broken home and pays the ultimate price: being shrunken, reduced to the size of a TV box, and then stretched impossibly thin. That's why he has the little tassels, to symbolize the taffy from the pulling machine that turns substance into bite-sized entertainment. I went back and forth between making him obsessed with space, cowboys, or the military, but in the end I landed on cowboys to fully complete that national anthem lana del rey american dream aesthetic. also there's little tvs and stars on his bandana.

Charlie Bucket: His sweater is too big and his pants and shoes are too small, a representation of his family's poverty. He's tiny and he's cold because he's malnourished. the sweater-scarf combo is meant to be the shape of a bottle, representing the fizzy lifting drinks Charlie steals. The scarf is wrapped around charlie's mouth, suffocating him a little, representing the virtuous charlie's struggle with temptation. he's also just a little chilly.

[gazlocked]

Chapter 1 - Glass Half Full

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈��𝐆: Nikolai x John Price

𝐱: alternate universe - different first meeting, construction worker john price, mail carrier nikolai, mentioned kate laswell + her wife, slow burn, light angst, drinking. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈 (5.1k words)

series masterlist || prev: prologue || next: chapter 2

During the week, John couldn’t help but dwell on the note. It lingered on his mind, intriguing and impossible to place.

He wasn’t home during the day, his work keeping him busy from dawn to dusk. By the time he returned home, the streets were quiet, the neighborhood wrapped in the kind of stillness that settled after dark.

His evenings were solitary, save for the occasional phone call or the company of his thoughts. And lately, his thoughts were too preoccupied by that note.

One night, as he stretched out across his bed, he found himself talking it over with Kate.

“It’s…endearing,” he murmured, staring at his ceiling. The thin traces of light from outside created nameless shapes the longer he stared.

“She just left a note? Didn’t bother to introduce herself?”

“M’sure she would’ve if I’d gone to the door then.” John combed his fingers through his freshly washed hair. “What makes you so sure a woman did this?”

“Forgive me for assuming,” her smirk audible. “John Price, the romantic.”

Kate’s teasing caused him to roll his eyes, even as a faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Hardly.”

“You don’t even know it,” Kate teased, her voice light with affection.

John let the comment slide, rubbing a hand down his jaw. He shifted to lie flat on his back, his phone resting on the pillow beside his head. His thumbs idly twiddled over his stomach as he half-listened to Kate updating him about her week.

He hummed in acknowledgment when he could, his responses a mix of murmured agreement, and the occasional amused chuckle.

“Isn’t it midnight there?” she asked eventually.

John stifled a yawn. He blinked at the phone screen, its soft glow aching his tired eyes as he checked the time. “Yeah? Not a problem.”

“It’s late for you.”

“I’m off tomorrow,” he insisted, readjusting his covers. “It’s fine.”

“You’re dozing off,” Kate accused with a laugh.

“M’not,” he grunted back, though his voice betrayed him with its gravelly fatigue. He dragged a hand down his face, trying to appear more awake, but his body felt heavier by the second.

Kate’s words began to melt together, a comforting yet indistinct rhythm as sleep tugged at him with insistent fingers.

“John?”

“Mhm?”

“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

“Somethin’ about…Char?”

Kate sighed, a fond sort of exasperation. “Go to sleep.”

“Fine,” he chuckled low and yawned. “Goodnight, Kate.”

“Night, John.”

The call ended with a quiet chime, leaving him with his thoughts once more. Yet, sleep didn’t come as easily in the presence of solitude, despite the weariness tracing through his muscles.

John tossed and turned, his pillow never quite comfortable, the sheets twisting around his legs. His mind wandered and escaped him, until finally, he slipped into a restless slumber.

—

John didn’t wake up until later in the day. The unexpected brightness of the midday sun forced him to shield his face as he stirred.

He stayed in his sleepwear—a faded touristy shirt from a trip to Maryland with Kate and Charlotte, and a pair of boxers—padding barefoot to the kitchen to start the coffee machine. The familiar hum and trickle filled the silence as he adjusted his bed hair, the aroma of a fresh brew filling the air.

Mug in hand, he measured a small spoonful of sugar into the drink. He had been stirring when a knock at the door caught him off guard, demanding his attention.

Frowning, John carried the steaming mug to the door. His curiosity outweighed his irritation as he unlocked the latch. As he opened the door, his hand tightened slightly on the mug handle as he took in the sight of his visitor.

A cloud of musk. Raven-black hair. The man from the thrift store stood on his porch, with a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Gone was the jacket from their last encounter; in its place, a crisp white button-down stretched over his broad frame. The short sleeves clung to the swell of his biceps, while the top buttons, left undone, hinted at the dark hairs on his chest.

“This is your third package this week,” the man said with a teasing lilt, patting the box he carried. John had hardly noticed the thing as brown eyes took him in. “Should I expect more of this from you?”

John’s brow twitched as he sipped from his mug, buying himself a moment. “So you’ve been doing your job. Congratulations.”

“Ah,” the man laughed, the sound warm and unhurried, “don’t be sour!” I’m not called the best mailman for nothing, my friend.”

John snorted, setting his mug on the entrance table before accepting the pen and clipboard offered to him. “Yeah? What else do they call you, then?”

He scrawled his signature without looking up, but he could feel the man’s gaze lingering—intent, as though he were committing John’s movements to memory. After dotting his ‘i’ with a punctual jab of the pen, he handed the clipboard back.

“Nikolai works,” the man replied easily, tucking the clipboard under his arm as he readjusted his grip on the package. “And you?”

“John,” he said, tone light and measured. “But you knew that already, surely.”

Their eyes met again, Nikolai’s mouth curving into a knowing smile. “Fair point.”

As John reached for the package, their hands brushed—just barely, the tips of their fingers meeting in the handoff. It was warm, fleeting, and over before either could barely register.

But it was enough to make John pause, stiffening for a second longer than he should have. He glanced up, meeting Nikolai’s gaze. His expression read as unbothered otherwise, but there was something—amusement? Curiosity?—in those dark eyes.

“Thanks,” John said quickly, cradling the package in his arm.

Then it clicked. His brows furrowed as he connected the dots. The note. N.

“Nikolai,” he said slowly, realizing. “You’re the one leaving love notes on my doorstep, eh?”

The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think better of them, and he cursed himself silently for it. But Nikolai didn’t flinch. Instead, his grin widened, dark eyes glinting again.

“Guilty,” he held his hands up, surrendering. “You didn’t come to the door then. I have been hoping to introduce myself properly.”

John hummed thoughtfully, unsure how to respond. He glanced down at the package as if the shipping label held answers.

Nikolai raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Wasn’t too strange, no?”

“No,” John muttered quickly. “Not at all.”

He hesitated, his mind racing to push past the unusual tightness in his chest. “It was…thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Thoughtful,” Nikolai repeated. The word rolled off his tongue with a faint laugh. “I’ll take it.”

That smile returned with gentle lines creasing the corners of Nikolai’s eyes, waving a finger. “You were in Andrei’s store a few days ago.”

John chuckled, relieved by the change in topic. “The thrift, yeah.”

“Ah, yes. You’re the Captain.”

“Caught that, didn’t you?” John rubbed the back of his neck, feeling oddly self-aware. “Andrei, was it? You two are close?”

“A bit of an overstatement,” Nikolai shrugged. “But, it helps him to know someone else from Rossiya. We made quick friends.”

“That must come naturally to you. Getting close to people.”

Nikolai’s smile softened. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, the movement drawing attention to the glint of gold around his neck. “I make it a habit to know everyone I deliver to. I hope to get to know you, too.”

John didn’t dare acknowledge the heat piercing his skin. “Likewise,” he managed, his voice steady despite the tightness in his throat.

He closed the door slowly as Nikolai walked back to his truck, the faint sound of boots on gravel fading into the distance. He was still, the package light in his hands, coffee long forgotten on the table.

Spurred by action, John set the package on the ground and returned to his room. He grabbed his phone, fingers moving quickly across the screen, typing out a message to Kate before he could overthink it.

(1:36 pm) Definitely not a woman.

—

Most days, John found his mind circling back to the mailman. Nikolai. The name fit too well—the image of him standing there, grinning like he owned the day, firmly etched into John’s memory.

He often scolded himself for letting a stranger take up so much real estate in his thoughts. There wasn’t enough punishment to keep it from happening, though.

It became a regular occurrence as John waited for the last of his things to be delivered from his old flat. When time allowed for him to be home for the deliveries, the faint hum of the transport’s engine became something John recognized too easily.

He wasn’t proud of the way his ears tuned into it, nor the quiet anticipation that crept into his chest when Nikolai’s truck rolled into his front yard.

And when the knock would come, John would curse himself with a slow breath.

Nikolai stood on the porch with a handful of envelopes the next time he saw him. The morning sun lit up the fine hairs on his arms, exposed under sleeves pushed beyond his elbows.

“You’re consistent, I’ll give you that,” John said, leaning against the doorway. His tone was rougher than he intended, but Nikolai’s grin was unwavering.

“Consistency is key,” was the smooth reply as he held out John’s mail. “Though I admit, I may enjoy this stop more than most.”

John rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That so?”

“Oh, absolutely! The company here is excellent.”

The playful cadence of Nikolai’s voice was impossible to miss. John gathered his mail, thumbing through the envelopes absentmindedly.

“You sure I’m not running you to the ground yet?” John asked, reading over bills, and ads, and junk. “I’m sure there’s still plenty more to come.”

Nikolai tilted his head, smirk fading into something more genuine. “Could never imagine it.”

“Right. Good to know,” he mumbled, setting the mail on the entrance table.

Nikolai didn’t move to leave, not immediately. Instead, he leaned against the porch beam, a gloved hand moving up to rub at the stubble along his jaw.

“The man that lived here before you was a tough one,” he began, weaving a conversation that John often found himself caught in the webs of.

He took the bait. “Oh? Tough how?”

“Hated conversation. He’d keep it short and…not so sweet.”

“Sounds like a charmer,” John chuffed.

Nikolai grinned, meeting his eyes. “You, on the other hand…”

John raised a brow, waiting for him to finish. He searched the mischievous twinkle in the man’s eye as a smile broke out across Nikolai’s face.

“Well?” John prompted.

“Let’s just say I have to atone for some late deliveries.”

“Oh, bugger off, then!”

Nikolai’s laugh came easy—honest and hearty—tugging at something in John that he wasn’t ready to name. He rubbed at his beard, biting back a chuckle of his own.

“You do most of the talking, anyway,” John muttered, glancing away.

“Yes,” Nikolai admitted, content. “Thankfully, you’re far more responsive.”

Like all of their conversations, there was an easy, brisk flow to it all. The lighthearted banter carried the same punch as John’s breakfast—staring into eyes as dark as his morning coffee.

—

During the gradual transition between the seasons, John’s home slowly came together. He had a comfortable routine going. It was like clockwork, how effortlessly he moved along in his new life in just two months of his move.

That also meant the deliveries were less frequent, with nothing left to be brought to the new address.

Something was still missing, however.

‘Missing’ was a strong term, which implied that John had to have that something to miss it in the first place. Whatever it was, it offered such a subtle discomfort that John couldn’t help but wonder in the first place.

He had a roof over his head, a secure job, food in the fridge, and clothes on his back. He was a sound man, by those standards alone.

That had proven to be enough.

During a longer phone call with Kate, he had been transparent about the lingering feeling. Of course, the woman he had known for decades chimed in on it more than he would have cared for, but Kate Laswell was short of the empathetic type.

“Maybe you need more friends,” she suggested, and they left it at that.

Still, John couldn’t help but mull it over later, in quieter moments.

He figured he got on just fine with his current team. Most of them had transferred to this work site alongside him, so there was enough familiarity. If he wanted to, he could probably get them together for a night at the pub as easily as rearranging the work schedule.

But deep down, he wasn’t sure if involving colleagues would address the nagging he felt. Instead, he firmly decided that he wouldn’t pick at it any further.

—

At fourteen, John snuck his first beer.

It had been at a mate’s house one school night. Noah Baker. They had been out earlier, tearing through an overgrown field until the cold got into their bones.

John was holding the bottle by its long neck as they sat in a tight huddle in the corner of Noah’s bedroom.

“Your mum will have a cow,” Noah had snickered, his eyelids growing heavier with each timid sip.

John had laughed too, even as something sharp and unfamiliar knotted in his stomach. He remembered vividly how unafraid Noah was. He wasn’t like the other boys their age. Always brash, always reckless.

He couldn’t name it then, but John envied that to some degree—the way he took charge. Noah got away with nearly everything.

John hadn’t thought about conquering the walk home before, the buzz dulling into a heavy-headed haze. He was thinking about supper and the pop he chugged in his attempt to hide the smell.

When John entered the house, he froze. The curtains were drawn shut, enclosing the home in a sleepy darkness, save for the weak glow spilling from the living room.

And there, in the middle of it, his father sat waiting in his leather armchair. Like a stern king on his throne.

Theodore Price was a hard man. Hard in his efforts, hard on his soldiers, and, most notably, hard on his wife and son. But he didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.

“You’re late,” was all he said at first.

John stumbled through an excuse, about losing track of his curfew, but his father intervened, sharp as a blade.

“What’s that smell?”

He didn’t know how to answer, knowing he had no chance to recover. John’s mind raced through a dozen lines. Some half-truths, but none flat-out lies.

“Noah found a beer,” he mumbled finally, feeling his voice thin out. “While I was there.”

“Yet you stayed,” his father shot back, “even though you knew it was wrong.”

Admitting defeat, John didn’t argue or explain. “Yes, sir.”

The lecture started small, as they always did. A quiet, simmering fury that grew with each passing second. By the end of it, John felt like he’d been dragged through broken glass.

Mental. Spineless. Incompetent.

The words clung to him long after they were spoken, like burrs digging into his skin. His father had a way of making insults sound like cold truths, and John learned long ago that the worst part wasn’t the shouting.

It was the quiet that followed, heavy with disappointment and resentment. He was secure in the knowledge that he would never amount to any soldier.

That night would be marked as the beginning of an end in young John’s brain. When he had gone to bed, he wondered if his mother overheard any of it.

He had convinced himself that he only imagined the shadow by the staircase, that she wouldn’t have the heart to stand there and not defend her son, otherwise. But another part of him, the louder part, knew better.

His friendship with Noah ended before secondary closed out, and by that time, he could barely remember what that beer tasted like. But he remembered the feeling. The thrill of rebellion, the weight of consequence, and the harrowing realization that there will always be a gulf between him and his father. No amount of sips shared across a bottle could ever fill that.

Theodore Price was great at many things. Leading his men. Upholding principle. Bonding with his son was not one of them.

—

Standing at the corner outside the pub, John lingered for a moment. The muffled sound of laughter and clinking glasses reached him even here, beckoning him to indulge.

John rubbed his nose and sniffed against the chill before pushing inside, welcoming the immediate, almost stifling warmth spilling down from the overhead vents.

He paused briefly at the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the hanging lights. The space was long and narrow, stretching like a corridor towards the back.

Booths with cracked vinyl seats crowded the right-hand wall. To his left, the bar took up half the length of the wall, presided over by a bartender whose weariness showed more in his posture than his polite nods.

Sliding onto a stool at the short end of the bar, John settled in with a quiet, unhurried air. He continued to observe, taking in the camaraderie of the small groups and occasional solitary drinker nursing a pint.

Around him, the hum of easy conversation and the occasional burst of laughter filled the space. From his perch, John could see a crowd hovering over a game of stripes and solids in the back.

As he tuned in to the friendly jeers being tossed, the bartender approached, blocking his view of the room.

“What’ll be for you tonight?”

“Whiskey. On the rocks, will you? I’ve got to get back somehow.”

The man gave him a look before grabbing an old-fashioned glass—not unkind, but with a faint flicker of pity that John pretended not to notice. He returned a tight-lipped smile as his drink was set in front of him, the amber liquid catching the low light.

John took a small sip, letting the burn settle on the back of his tongue, and sighed. This would be his first proper drink since arriving—a quiet attempt to mark the beginning of this so-called “new chapter.”

But sitting here alone, surrounded by strangers with their own lives and histories, it felt short of a celebration.

“Someone didn't get the memo. The locals drink what reflects on their soul.”

The voice came from over John’s shoulder, catching him mid-sip. He turned to find himself facing his mail carrier, of all people.

Nikolai leaned on the bar with his elbows. A gold Cuban link swung from his neck, dipping just above the low-cut neckline of his black tee. There was a buzzed sort of ease around him, amplified by the smug grin fitting his lips.

John wiped the corner of his mouth, thrown not just by Nikolai’s sudden appearance but by the man’s ability to seem perfectly at home anywhere.

He glanced around the room, seeing the majority of patrons laughing over bottles of ales with bright, colorful labels, then back at his drink.

“Clearly you’re not a local either,” John shot back, gesturing to Nikolai’s glass; a near twin of his own, with just a thin pool of amber at the bottom.

“Very observant,” Nikolai smirked, sinking into the stool beside him without waiting for an invitation.

John allowed it with a small nod, masking what he might have otherwise called relief. The presence of someone familiar, however unexpected, soothed the threat of discomfort.

“Besides. I hate beer,” he added, glancing over skeptically. “Are you following me?”

“You’re on my side of town, druzhi-shche,” Nikolai swirled his glass idly, his lips softening into something more thoughtful. “Do you usually drink alone?”

“Only when I can’t help it,” John replied dryly, yet smiling despite himself.

“Good! Tonight, you won’t have to.”

The words were simple, settling something unspoken in John. Nikolai wasn’t asking, wasn’t making a show of pity.

He was just…there.

And for reasons John couldn’t quite put into words, he found himself grateful for it.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, their glasses reflecting the low light between them as the rest of the pub hummed along.

John watched behind the bar, where the bartender was busy wiping glasses with the diligence that suggested he was more interested in eavesdropping than cleanliness.

“What brought you here, anyway?”

He turned to his company, finding the open curiosity written blatantly across the man’s face.

“I wanted a drink.”

“Not here, at this pub. Why did you move? Your work? A breakup?” Nikolai pressed, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He earned a proper scowl for that. “Don’t tell me there are skeletons you’re running from.”

“No skeletons,” John shook his head. He looked into his glass, the liquid inside rippling softly as he tapped a finger against its rim. “I just…needed space. Still figuring out what that really means, though.”

John shifted slightly on the stool, his shoulders tensing with the weight of the admission.

Back in Cardiff, there wasn’t much to figure out aside from all the noise. He’d been another face in the crowd, free to order whatever he liked without attracting more than a cursory glance. Here, though—here, people looked at him like they wanted to know him.

It was disarming in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

At least it was better than the suffocating stillness of Herefordshire, the small-town life that once felt so inescapable. Growing up, all John wanted was an out. To see more, be more.

Back then, leaving for university in London had seemed like the answer, and for a time, it was. But the city’s constant, impersonal hum and endless sprawl eventually left him feeling more untethered than he cared to admit.

Now, he was somewhere in between. This place, with its mix of bustling life and quieter corners, seemed to strike a balance he hadn’t known he needed. And yet, even now, he found himself wondering if it would be enough.

It wasn’t dissatisfaction, exactly. It was new. Unexplored. A restlessness that lingered like a faint ache. One he couldn’t quite name.

John exhaled, lifting his gaze to meet Nikolai’s. The other man was watching him with a quiet sort of patience, waiting for him to fill the gaps.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” John added with a smile, before quickly hiding it behind a sip from his glass.

“Space is an odd reason to uproot your whole life,” Nikolai said, his tone almost teasing.

“I suppose,” John admitted, gaze now fixed on the billiards table. “I wanted peace. Quiet. It’s not the kind of thing you put into a neat little box for someone to understand, is it?”

“Maybe not. But it doesn’t have to be neat to be true.”

When the last of his whiskey slipped behind the veil of his lips, Nikolai was quick to flag the bartender for another.

It didn’t take long for John’s curiosity to get the best of him—the man’s presence commanded his attention and Nikolai’s cologne was subtle, warm, and distracting in all the wrong ways.

“What about you? What’s your excuse for being here?”

“Excuse? I didn’t know I needed one.” Nikolai’s grin returned, though this time it was less performative, softer. “If you must know, I came here for work. The kind of work that doesn’t ask too many questions.”

“Vague. Very intriguing,” John chuckled, relaxing on the stool. “You could very much be a spy hiding behind all that mail you lug around.”

“Spy work pays better,” he deadpanned, before stifling a laugh. “No, it’s not that exciting. I wanted a change, and delivery is honest work. Even here.”

John nodded, bringing his fresh glass to his lips. “And do they leave you alone here?”

“Not always,” Nikolai glanced pointedly at John. His grin widened, and John found himself laughing again, a warm flush creeping up his neck.

Nikolai leaned back then, tapping against his glass with a ringed finger. “But sometimes, the right kind of company finds you. That makes the move worthwhile, no?”

John’s stomach twisted as he sat his drink down, offering that kind of fluttery sensation that accompanied being noticed. Really noticed.

He wasn’t sure if Nikolai meant it as a compliment, but it landed like one. He masked his thoughts with another long pull from his glass.

“Suppose it does,” he said after swallowing, his voice a little rougher now. “At least, if you’re not put off by remarks from strange men.”

“You think you’re strange?” Nikolai feigned surprise.

John smirked. “I’ve been told.”

He gave too much credit to the alcohol for the warmth snaking around his neck. John watched Nikolai drink his whiskey like water, the prominent bulb in his throat bobbing with practiced ease.

Spurring something within him, however oddly intimate it felt. Too much credit to the alcohol.

Before John could follow up with anything clever enough, Nikolai stood abruptly, placing his now empty glass with a decisive thud. “Come. Let’s see if you’re any good at shooting pool.”

John blinked. “What, now?”

“No better time,” Nikolai extended a hand, his eyes dark and glinting with a challenge. “Unless you’d prefer to sit here, wondering what space means to you.”

Half amused, half incredulous, John finished his drink and accepted the challenge.

—

There was an empty table in the corner of the pub, neglected as another competitive game captivated an audience.

“Tell me,” Nikolai smirked, plucking cue sticks off the wall. He tossed the other toward John. “Will this be a lesson in humility?”

“I know enough,” John retorted, gripping his cue with more confidence. He straightened his posture and gave a small shrug. “Might be a little rusty.”

“Rusty is fine. Clumsy is better.” Nikolai leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Gives me a chance to win.”

“A bit overconfident, aren’t we?”

“Always.”

Nikolai began setting up the table, giving John the honors to start the game off. There was a casual air about the way he moved as he racked the balls, right at home with it all.

He rounded the table to where John stood and stretched over the edge, placing the white cue ball at the ready in front of his opponent.

“You first. Show me how the Captain handles pressure.”

John snorted softly. “Right, no pressure,” he muttered, lining up his shot.

He tried to focus past the oncoming brain fog, aiming at the triangle formation in front of him. Nikolai’s presence, hovering just on the edge of his peripheral, made it difficult.

He could feel the other man watching him with silent, steady confidence, making John painfully aware of himself.

He took the shot, sending the cue ball barreling down the table. It crashed into the cluster with a satisfying ‘smack’, sending the solids and stripes scattering as one striped ball sank neatly into a corner pocket. John straightened, pleased with himself.

“Not bad,” Nikolai feigned amusement, stepping forward. “Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

He leaned over the table, his movements fluid and deliberate. The chain around his neck fell forward, catching the light and John’s attention with it.

Nikolai’s shot was swift, but not any less precise, sending a solid ball into a side pocket with ease.

“Alright, show-off,” John muttered, shaking his head. He took his time lining up his next shot, more determined this time. He watched as the ball veered slightly, bumping into another without sinking. “Bloody hell.”

“Ah, the pressure wins.” Nikolai was smirking as he chalked his cue. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”

“Don’t do me any favors.” John gestured for Nikolai to take his turn instead of addressing the twist of his gut, threatening to dip beyond his belt.

Nikolai's steps were measured, his focus sharp. It was the kind of presence that seemed effortless, but as John watched him more intently, he could tell it wasn’t. Nikolai knew exactly what he was doing—and who was watching.

Another ball disappeared into a pocket, and Nikolai straightened, casually pointing his cue at John. “So, what else do you do for fun? Or is moving to new towns and haunting pubs your thing?”

John chuckled, despite himself. “I’m a fan of wood-carving. Got into the craft a few years ago. Haven’t had much time for hobbies lately.”

“You’ve had time for whiskey.”

“Touché.”

Nikolai’s laughter was warm, drawing attention from the other patrons nearby. John realized he didn’t mind the stares; if anything, they made him feel oddly grounded in the moment.

“My turn, then.” John leaned over the table again, this time sinking a ball with a triumphant grin. “There we are. Not completely hopeless, am I?”

“Not at all,” Nikolai replied, his tone softer now. He stepped closer, inspecting the table with an appraising eye as he circled it.

John wondered if this is what he looked like at work, seeing lines and solutions invisible to the untrained eye, and watched with interest. Then, Nikolai stopped by his side and leaned over, his shoulder just barely brushing past.

John felt it, undeniably, but didn’t move away. Instead, he adjusted his grip on his cue and nodded down to the table. “If you’ve got such an edge, what’s your strategy here?”

“Strategy?” Nikolai’s grin widened, glancing up at John. The proximity made his voice drop to something of a pur, his eyes unwavering as John glanced down at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Probably something underhanded,” John continued, his voice lighter. He nudged Nikolai with his elbow—a small, deliberate touch that dared itself to linger.

Nikolai chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “Underhanded, no. But distracting you? That I might consider.”

He shifted and took the shot without another word. The ball glided smoothly into a pocket, and he straightened with a taunting chuckle.

John exhaled slowly, shaking off the tension as he took a step back. “Guess you’re good for something after all.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Nikolai retreated to the other side of the table, giving John the space to make his next play.

He took his time, feeling his bicep burn where the man’s body heat radiated through him. John pressed his knuckles into the top of the table as he looked at Nikolai with something between a glare and a smirk.

“You’re trouble, Nik.”

The game kept on with light banter and stolen glances—the latter mainly on John’s part.

The space between them was shrinking bit by bit as the whiskey worked its magic. By the time Nikolai sank the last ball, John didn’t mind losing.

read 'the walls we call home' on ao3

series masterlist || prev: prologue || next: chapter 2

𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬. 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 / 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 / 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞.

[inkformyblood]

needed: a better hiding spot (CWFKB #18)

Butterfly kiss, Canon Era, pining~ @codywanfirstkissbingo

“Here.”

Cody barely has a moment to register the pressure of Obi-Wan’s hand around his wrist before he’s pulled sideways. The door slides shut behind them with a click that echoes in the recesses of Cody’s brain, the final notch in a tally he’s been keeping since he first walked onto the bridge and saw Obi-Wan. He is completely and utterly fucked.

The cupboard — because calling it anything else would be an insult — is lined on both walls with shelving. Cody blinks in the sudden and complete darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His helmet lies discarded somewhere on a higher level, a lucky shot cracking the visor and rendering it unusable, but the small beacon wired into it would still be active and they would be found. Eventually. Cody may be dead by then, his heart which carries by itself a price tag of seven hundred credits giving out due to the strain of how close Obi-Wan is to him. He can make out the flutter of Obi-Wan’s lashes, the faint floral scent that clings to his breath as he sighs, his mouth pursing into a faint whistle. 

It is how they trained them in Kamino, whistles and hand gestures, twisting them one way and then the other like a pack of hunting shrills, and Cody looks where Obi-Wan indicates. He can just make out the impression of his hand, one still wrapped around Cody’s wrist, the blunt reflective sheen of a callus that swallows up the side of his thumb, before Obi-Wan releases him. His hand falls to his side and Cody misses the moment of contact. It would be for the best. He is used to surviving on rations stretched as far as they could go and Obi-Wan’s touch could be divided up similarly. 

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan murmurs. His face is tipped towards Cody’s ear, his hair falling free from the rough bun he had hurriedly tidied himself into before they stepped onto the ship and the strands fall across Cody’s shoulder like a tidal wave. There’s an absence of scent to it, the neutral nothingness that comes with the products supplied to the clones, and Cody’s thoughts slowly tip into Obi-Wan in the showers before he tears himself back into rote procedure. 

He’s dead. He is never going to leave this cupboard.

Cody swallows and the sound echoes in the cavern of his skull, too loud to be anything other than a point blank blaster cocked against his temple. “Sorry for what, sir?”

Obi-Wan catches himself on the edge of a laugh, biting it back as his shoulders shake. He lowers his head, pressing his forehead to Cody’s shoulder before he breathes in and straightens up once more. Grief breaks into fragments across his brow blending with the lingering joy, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He clears his throat softly and Cody’s attention snapping back to him. “I should have tried to pick a better hiding spot,” Obi-Wan says, an apology layered beneath his words. He presses his regrets into Cody’s hip, the motion hidden from the door by the bulk of their bodies and the fall of Obi-Wan’s robes, close but still apart. 

“Next time, I’d like one that has a caf machine installed.” Cody leans into Obi-Wan’s touch still. It is like he is starving, trying to tear himself away from a banquet. He can carve half-moons into his flesh from the jagged edges of his nails and sear the brush of Obi-Wan’s fingertips into his bones and it will never be enough. He wants to kiss him, but he can’t. Cody is a good soldier, he follows his orders, and Obi-Wan is his General. There isn’t a space for them yet, not here, not like this. 

“I will try my best in the future.” 

They are silent for a long moment. Distantly, the wail of an alarm begins to sound and the light bleeding through the narrow gap of the doors flickers a deep red. In the fresh hue, Cody looks up at Obi-Wan, meeting his gaze. “What are you thinking, sir?”

“Lots of things,” Obi-Wan answers automatically. His mouth curves into a small smile that doesn’t go anywhere near his eyes, the same expression he wears when a politician breaks into his orbit, manufactured politeness brandished like a saber to get them away from him. Cody doesn’t know what the Force feels like, how an entire universe's worth of input could cram itself into a single person’s mind, but he squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand. A tremor runs through the other man, a realigning of planets because of Cody’s touch and he wonders if the Force feels better than this, if shifting the flow of the universe could compare to holding Obi-Wan’s hand. 

Obi-Wan continues, his voice perfectly level in stark opposition to the shiver rattling his teeth. “I am thinking that I really would like to kiss you.”

Cody starts, his breath tearing through his chest before he rights himself in the same moment, perfected Kaminoan engineering at work. “I’d like you to kiss me.”

“Not like this, but—” Obi-Wan cups Cody’s jaw in his free hand, smoothing his thumb over Cody’s cheek, “—hold still, love.”

Cody obeys. The ship could fall out of the sky and every single one of his brothers could tear open the door to this cupboard and Cody wouldn’t move. Obi-Wan leans closer, pressing his cheek to Cody’s before he turns his face closer. He blinks deliberately, his lashes dragging against Cody’s skin, his breath warm as he exhales, and Cody closes his eyes. He wants to remember this. It is an unconventional kiss, but they have never done things in the typical way. 

Obi-Wan straightens slowly. “I will be able to kiss you properly after the war.”

“I liked that kiss,” Cody murmurs, his voice cracking, his cheeks suddenly burning. Obi-Wan chuckles, squeezing Cody’s hand once more. 

“I’m glad.”

[how-serene]

Dating Headcanons - Eric Binford

Warnings - fluff, tiny bit of angst, nsfw, gn!reader

A/N - rewatched the film recently, had to get this off my chest. First time writing headcanons.

How You Meet (setting the scene) -

You worked behind the snack counter, stuck in a reputative motion of serving popcorn, and cold soft drinks to the never-ending line of patrons. All while wearing the too wide, stretched grin that every staff member adorned throughout the day.

You first meet Eric on a particular slow afternoon, when the floor was mostly deserted of customers. It was Monsters week, in the middle of July. You tried to pass the time, flipping through a magazine while smacking on a cheap piece of pink bubble gum.

Eric was probably already a familiar face to you, and everyone else who worked at the theater. He would come in all hours of the day, usually late afternoons and nights. Although you never had the chance to talk to him.

So when he strolled up to the counter, shifting his gaze to the glass case of over-priced candy, you thought "fuck it." With the agonizingly slow clock counting down your shift, a little conversation wouldn't hurt to help pass the time.

"What can I get you?" you asked, leaning against the glass counter top.

"Just popcorn, please." He replied, fumbling for his wallet.

While you were busy readying the popcorn, you peered over at him.

"So, you here to watch Dracula again?"

He blinked, slowly as if trying to process your question. Then, suddenly you noticed his eyes come to life, like you had slot a coin in a game machine.

"Oh, ah no. I'm actually here to see a showing for Frankenstein."

"With Boris Karloff, right?"

"Yeah, did you know he-

Before you knew it he had talked your ear off for over 30 minutes, missing a majority of the film. In the end, he had timidly asked you out.

You looked over his lanky frame, and poor posture. His brown eyes were dark and bruised, as if he hardly slept.

He was cute, and you couldn't remember the last time you went out on a date with someone.

So, against your better judgment, you slipped him your number.

And the rest was history.

Relationship Headcanons -

okay let's get into it.

♥︎ Eric, undoubtedly, loves movie dates. Whether at home, the cinema or at those dingy drive-in's with shitty speakers. He loves having your warm body curled up into his side, while watching whatever is on screen.

♥︎ This also gives him a chance to ramble, from obscure facts about the film to the passing faces of background actors he happens to know the name of.

♥︎ He was worried at first, that you would find it annoying. People tend to think he talks too much, and often tell him to "shut the fuck up." Over time though, as the relationship progresses, that initial worry subsides.

♥︎ Will take you to new screenings every chance he gets. He has a pre-made list of every movie coming out during a certain month, and dammit he's not missing a single one-

♥︎ Will drive you around town, on the company vespa that he's definitely not borrowing on company time eric please, you're going to get fired-

♥︎ Loves it when you run your fingers through his dirty blonde hair. If you two are in his room, he'll gently place his head in your lap, quietly signaling to you. It helps soothe him to sleep, especially on nights when his insomnia is getting the best of him.

♥︎ Will stay over at your place most nights, to get away from his aunt Stella. Sometimes, after a particularly bad argument with her, he'll show up at your doorstep. Eyes red, and irritated from crying.

♥︎ He confessed to you one night, that he blamed himself for his mother's death (since she died during childbirth.) He was practically curled up in your lap, shoulders shaking from crying so hard.

♥︎ I can see Eric being a cuddly person. Loves it when your arms are wrapped around him, while he rests his head in the crook of your neck. Something about being held, reassures that nagging part of his brain that thinks he's not good enough.

♥︎ He definitely quotes romantic lines from some of his favorite films to you. Some examples -

"Never be jealous again. Never doubt that I love you more than the world. More than myself." Camille, 1936.

"I haven't been afraid since I've known you." Gaslight, 1944.

"You're wonderful. There's a magnificence in you, Tracy." The Philadelphia Story, 1940.

♥︎ Is not typically jealous, but due to being told he's worthless most of the time (from his aunt) I assume he battles with a lot of insecurity. He's not the most striking looking guy, and happens to be a lot smaller and thinner.

♥︎ So there are times when he'll need reassurance that you're there and want to be with him.

NSFW Headcanons -

♥︎ Listen, Eric doesn't have much dating experience meaning there's a good chance he's a virgin when you two get together.

♥︎ He's definitely more of a sub, whining and whimpering constantly when he's beneath you.

♥︎ I imagine him being quiet handsy, grasping at your hips, thighs, waist just trying to feel more of you. His hands tend to shake, more from excitement than overall nerves.

♥︎ He's a little shy to admit it at first, but he would be into roleplaying. Due to his extensive knowledge on films, he has an entire list of scenes from favorite movies of his he wants to 'act out' with you (with his own spin).

♥︎ I can see him taking it seriously, wanting to dress the part and set the mood. Acts as if it's a proper stage production. Will only break character when you're rocking your hips against him, causing him to mewl and buck against you.

♥︎ He can be needy in the bedroom, pleading just to be inside of you or taste you. From his tear stricken face and parted swollen lips, you have a hard time denying him.

♥︎ You dressed up once, as his favorite actor/actress (as a birthday present).

♥︎ Practically fell to your feet, words of praise and adoration falling from his lips.

♥︎ He's a bit of a sloppy kisser at first, as he gets caught in frenzy at the warm feeling of your tongue against his.

♥︎ Is a bit of pervert/creep, if I'm being honest.

♥︎ Has stolen your underwear before when he thought you weren't looking (you were aware, and may or may not have left them out for him to find.)

♥︎ When you're not around, and he's home alone he'll jerk off with your underwear in his hand. The scratchy fabric causing him to shudder and recall past nights with you.

♥︎ Despite this, nothing will ever beat physically having you around (for him to squeeze and hold.)

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[heirbane]

the praetorium took more from than his soldiers and his pride - and he continues to pay the price.

his wounds were many and more, but few are as obvious as the burns to his face and the state of his left arm. the defeat against the Warrior of Light had dented and scarred the legati's armor, but he had yet to be truly wounded. it was atop Ultima and the fall that followed that nearly killed him.

his armor buckled under the force of each Primal's removal from the weapon. the command center at the head of the machina began to fail even before the first Primal was ripped from it's existence, the electricity sparking and magitek starting to stutter under the stress. a means of escape had been built into the unit: the place where he stood could, in theory, be released, the platform designed to take the brunt of the fall's force.

but it required a manual override, and gaius was not a man to give up simply because. it never was going to be used by the legatus. he would die in the machine before turned tail and ran.

or so he believed. the Ultima had other intentions, the broken corpse of the XIV legion shattering and dumping the man out from where he hid some forty fulms from the ground. the fall bent and distended his armor, and his bones followed, forced out of place by the metal plating. his ribs cracked and shattered on impact; he suffered a compound fracture in his lower leg, contained by his armor, that insisted he would not escape the place on his own two feet.

and so he laid, flames licking at the legati's broken body, heating the metal he wore to the point of burns. the mask seared flesh from his face, resulting in dark stretches of scarring that remain even years afterward.

but it was his arm that he laid upon that suffered the worse. his shoulder forced out of socket, pressing against the armor in a way he couldn't hope to adjust, and as the ground neath his broken body began to warm from the sheer extent of the blaze, his arm was the first part of him to begin to cook. the leather that Garleans so oft wore was, in fact, not genuine leather: most are synthetic, composed of ceruleum and other man-made materials, intended to reduce the likelihood of electric or magitek shock and allow for the use of touch-screens.

real leather does not melt. real leather does not melt into the skin and settle, creating rivers of molten ceruleum through the layers of skin. but ceruleum-aided leather does, and the oil-based polymer cloth melted flesh from bone. his fingers suffered the worst, but his left arm is still scarred and uneven.

in the aftermath immediately after, Valdeaulin is the one to set and wrap his broken pieces. while not a conjurer by any means, basic healing capabilities and potion making is strongly encouraged among native Gridanians - especially among Duskwights, who are so often spurned by Gridanian culture and society at large. he healed over time, but not without suffering, nor issues. his ribs are crooked; the compound fracture takes the longest route to healing, and ensures he is thoroughly and entirely in the debt of Valdeaulin and Severa.

Gaius continues to wear his own attempt at a homemade compression garment around his hand and arm: the bandages he so oft wears. they aid in the scarring process and give him a range of motion that, had he not wrapped his limb, would have been wholly lost by tight scar tissue. his shoulder aches no matter the weather, and he has lost all sensation under the scar tissue. his fingers lack prints; his arm lacks hair. he only scarcely is able to feel the limb to move it, like one may struggle to feel an arm they fell asleep on.

(He would probably benefit from the use of a cane, and takes one up once he stays long-term at Tercliff. the compound fracture causes him to limp, as his legs are no longer as close in length as they naturally tend to be. he was extremely, extremely lucky that infection didn't settle in: his armor hid the exposed bone from most elements until Valdeaulin sets it, and they took pains to keep the wound clean and sanitized. however, the both of them could only do so much without expert medical attention, which was what lead to the man's limp.)

[bemystargirl]

𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎 — PROLOGUE

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 an FBI Agent, Isabella Kingsley, is enlisted into task force 141 to bring down a powerful drug cartel involved in a large terrorism scandal

𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗘 , 𝗪𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗢𝗡 𝗗𝗖 | 𝟮𝟰 𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦 𝗔𝗙𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗘𝗫𝗣𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡

"Forget the boy, he's useless." Price's gruff voice spoke to Laswell, she nodded listening to his speaking. "Who's the girl?" He asked, Laswell flipped through the two files she had, Greyson and Kingsley.

"FBI Special Agent, Isabella Kingsley." Kate slid the file over, he examined the file quickly, glazing over the young picture of her and a little of in information before sliding it back. "Bring her in."

Isabella continuously looked back at the room they were in, where as Jude try to figure out the coffee machine, a hand on his covered abdomen.

"Right.. So then where's the fuckin' milk?" He lifted his hands up, checking the coffee. "I've payed extra for fuckin' milk and they didn't give it to me the machines broken, innit?" He looked over his shoulder to the girl, mentally freaking out, he handed her the milk-less coffee. "Here."

Isabella looked down at the coffee and up. "I drink my coffee with milk." She bit at the skin around her nails, looking back at the room, ignoring Jude's scoff, eyeroll and huff before sitting down in the seat next to her.

"Give it a rest, yeah? Stop stressing." He patted her hand, making her turn back to him.

"Harder then it looks." She shrugged, hesitating to look back at the room before she took the coffee he got her. "I just don't understand..."

"Yeahhh... Well we aren't supposed to, we just do what were are told, like little dogs." Jude slouched in the old blue chair, stretching his legs out, lifting his shirt to check the bandage wrapped around his waist

"Dickhead." Isabella mumbled against the rim of the cup a smile hidden behind it, taking a sip of the black coffee, making him smirk before a snarky comment could leave his mouth, the door opened, Kate's leaned against the door.

"Kingsley." She nodded inside, keeping the door open for both of them, Isabella's eyes met Jude's as he straightened himself up, taking the coffee back from Isabella.

Laswell took the seat she was sat in before, Isabella stood still, her eyes flickering between, Captain Price, General Shepherd and Laswell.

Before she could do anything, Kate started talking again forcing Isabella's eyes to switch back to her.

"Captain Price wants advisers that specialize in, or focus on cartels involving in pursuing Mr Marquez, He will be leading the team."

At the mention of his name, he waves slightly, a grin pulling at his lips.

Isabella's brows furrow, it takes her a moment before speaking, her throat dry with nerves.

"Isn't this with SAS , CIA now?" Isabella finally spoke up, her thumb swiping off the sweat on her palms.

"Yeah, It is we're just.. expanding the scope of the situation at hand."

Isabella looks briefly at the floor and Laswell before speaking

"What does that mean?" She asked, this time General Shepard spoke.

"They need an agent with.. tactical experience, like you." Isabella frowned, her sight going to her boots for a second. "His task force is pulling an agent from the field that specializes in escalated Cartel activity... You'd be part of the team"

Isabella nodded, thinking.

"You'd meet up with them at base, tomorrow." Laswell begun for Price to continue.

"Daft, early."

Isabella looked over to Price.

"Then what?" Isabella's brows furrowed as he thought for a second.

"We pay him a visit." He shrugged in his seat, Isabella looked at the glass she could almost see Jude in her peripheral view.

"Find, Mr Marquez." Isabella asked, finishing his statement, he nodded, Laswell spoke up once more.

"You must volunteer to do this, think hard before you respond, do you want to do this?"

Isabella looked down at the floor and briefly over at Jude who was obviously staring at her, brows furrowed and a frown on his face. She turned back around.

"I volunteer."

[atplblog]

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