Dbf!nikolai coming to pick you up from uni when price can't.....
Dbf!nik who comes rolling in on his loud ass motorcycle, that one you swear he's had since you were a kid 'helping' him work on it in the garage. Nikolai smiles at you when he pulls his helmet off, usually slicked back hair a mess. "Ah! How you've grown!"
Dbf!nik who tosses you his large leather jacket, when you try to hop onto the bike. He snarks about your dad killing him if you got a scrape, but you're too focused snuggling into the fabric that smells like him.
Dbf!nik who smiles to himself when your hands wander on the ride back. A bit too low on his torso, then moving to the inside of his thigh over a sharp turn. Curious fingers mere centimeters off from his cock.
Dbf!nik who doesn't fuck you on the side of the road, or in your bed when you get home. He prefers the look full of desire you give him. The special thread that hasn't quite been crossed yet. He likes the anticipation.
Dbf!nik who notices when you don't take his jacket off right away. He enjoys thinking about what you'll do with it once he's gone. He lets you keep it.
Simon is a patient man. He's a military sniper, he's lead strike teams and waited days for a target to move, he's built himself into a man out of the dust and blood of his lifetime-
-but if that nurse doesn't hurry up he's going to lose his goddamn mind.
"Finally," he huffs, arms open, and gets a narrow glare from the nurse holding up wires and tubes. The other one gently deposits the precious little baby onto his chest, moves his hands so he can cup her little diapered butt. She cuddles in tight, all squeezed up like she's still inside, which makes sense to him- it wasn't time yet, she's not supposed to be out in the real world.
"I've got you," he murmurs, as she makes a grumpy little noise. The cannula in her nose pushes her face in. "Shh, baby bean, I've got you."
The younger nurse smiles at him. "Babysitting for mom?" She says, and then withers as he snaps at her, glaring.
"I'm not babysitting, I'm her fuckin' dad," he growls, though he keeps his volume low. "The fuck you think I'm doing here?" He hates that bullshit. From day one he's been here, this is where he's supposed to be!
The nurse backs up, and he ignores her, turning his attention back to his baby. She's quiet and calm, just the warmth of her skin on his, one little hand curled over the deep slicing scar over his chest. She doesn't mind all his scars, so he can ignore the sideways looks every time he comes in, strips his shirt off for kangaroo cuddles. He thinks she likes it, actually.
Simon puts his big hand on her back, spans it, feeling the twisting ache in his chest at how easy it is- how large, and how small, and the way she's not meant to be that small. Babies aren't meant to be stuck like this, all full of tubes, tape and wires everywhere. The beeping is horrible, so he hums for her, a low wordless lullaby he half remembers from childhood, and later from Tommy, humming it with Joey on his chest, toddler flopped across his shoulder.
"You'll get there, just you see," he murmurs. He strokes up and down his baby's back, firm motions, willing her to grow. "Gonna be big enough to push me around someday. Just got to keep hanging on." She snuffles a little, wiggles, and her hand opens and closes- arm reaching out, a tiny grasp, and Simon slots his pinky into her palm. One little eye is open, peering up at him over the taped tubes.
He thinks he knows what she's thinking. "Yeah, alright, I'll go back to the song," he says, and she squeezes his finger. He hums again, low and slow, feeling the vibrations in his chest, up through his baby's body.
The nurses come back after a while, tell him she has to go back to the crib now- he won't call it an incubator, that's for eggs, and an isolette sounds horrible. Lonely. His baby sleeps in a crib like a proper big girl. But back she goes, and before he leaves, Simon tucks the ultrasound picture up against the head of it, where there's her name card and the medical tags.
"See how much you've grown already?" He says, tapping the photo of the little gray-white bean shape, the first ultrasound, confirmation that everything was changing. "Keep going, love. Already miles ahead of where you started."
There was absolutely no reason why someone should be pounding on your door at three in the morning; but that's exactly what woke you up. The second thing was checking the time on your phone and seeing his name pop up underneath.
You were going to kill Kyle Garrick.
"When I said if you needed my help whenever that didn't mean in the middle of the night!" Kyle reels back slightly when you throw the front door open. "You're pounding away like the fbi, I gave you a spare key to a cabin!! What more do you need!?"
You freeze when you notice the three men huddled behind him on your small front porch, trying to avoid the rain. "Oh my God, and you brought friends! That's why you're knocking!" You turn away from the door and stomp into the house, leaving the door open for the men to shuffle inside.
"What the hell are ye doing!?" Johnny hisses when Kyle steps into the house, toeing his boots off at the door.
"That's our cue to get in before they change their minds. Boots off." He explains as he takes off his coat and heads to the kitchen. You were furiously getting down mugs from the cabinet, a kettle already warming on the stove as you mutter angrily under your breath.
"I'm sorry -"
"Oh shut up! You shut up!" You huff, all but throwing a few boxes of tea onto the kitchen table. "Show them to their rooms and do not wake me up again!" You hiss, stomping off back towards your room while the team stands there dumbfounded.
"I thought you said this was a friend of yours." John breaks the silence, snatching the kettle off the heat when it starts to whistle.
"Yeah. They are." Kyle shrugs. "I didn't say they were nice."
No thoughts just ghost who struggles to sleep at night, right?
He tosses and turns even in your arms, even with you safe beside him. Tormented by the things he's done, the things that have been done to him. You love your boyfriend more than you should, and it hurts you to see the battlefield follow him home.
Some nights, ghost shifts out of bed when he thinks you're sleeping. Moving silently around the house, trying to stay sane.
Other nights, when the thunderstorm outside has cold creeping in and your own will to sleep dwindling, you shake his shoulder "si. Si, wake up, c'mon."
Everytime, ghost grumbles like he was actually asleep, rumbling while he grabs some pants "wha? What is it, love?"
"C'mon, lets go drive." You tug at him, grabbing the blanket from the closet.
That's exactly what you do, ghost in the passenger seat snuggled up in a blanket. You drive for hours around in the rain, stop to get greasy junk food and fill up on it until the food coma creeps up on simon and he's snoring like and engine beside you.
Scarred cheek mushed into the seat belt, shoes in the back seat and socked feet tucked under the blanket.
Once, he told you that his mom drove him around and bought him ice cream the day after his father...well. he told you it was the nicest thing she'd ever done. Now, tucked into the seat of your car with rain pelting in the rooftop in some empty parking lot, all the scars even out under the dim light. The injury and trauma melts away and he looks young again.
18+ only. fem!reader. grinding. angry, unprotected p in v. cream pie. dirty talk. mw4 price with a beard. daddy kink. ignoring pleas. drooling. holding down. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. implied somnophilia.
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Price who’s really beat after a long day at work. Just wants to relax in bed and let the stress of the day melt off him. Until you look up at him, your eyes wide with eagerness, legs rubbing against his under the comforter, hands caressing his arms. All frowns and pouts when he scratches at his beard and lets you down with a pet at your hair and kiss to your forehead.
You say it’s okay with a huff and roll over but when Price clicks the light off and turns to his side, after a few minutes you shift, scoot back a little. Again and again until you’re pressed to his front, head on his arm, and Price figures you just want to cuddle, pouting too much to admit it, so he wraps a heavy arm around your waist, nose nuzzling into your neck. Shiver with the scrape of his beard along your shoulder.
Sleep slowly building behind Prices eyes when your hips shift slightly, grind into his. Doesn’t think anything of it other than you’re getting comfortable. Until the movement of your hips becomes constant, knocking and rubbing against his cock. Can feel your back arch into him and he grunts into your ear, huffs a breath onto your neck that makes your need so much worse.
“Stop that.” He grumbles into your ear, knows that you’re trying to rile him up, so he tightens his arm around you in hopes it keeps you still. A little annoyed now because he’s all chubbed up in his boxers and knows it’ll take a minute before he’s calmed down enough to fall asleep.
You stop, thankfully. Until you don’t. Hips moving just subtly, slowly enough the need clogs your throat and it takes everything in you not to move faster. But Price can feel you moving even though you think you’re being sneaky, sucks in a deep breath before slapping at your thigh with the hand securing your waist.
“Cut it out. Don’t make me tell you again.” You shudder, eyes fluttering shut at the hoarseness in his throat. It only eggs you on, makes you throb at the threat behind his words.
You smash your hips back into his cock, grind without subtleness because he’s all worked up now even though he wouldn’t want to admit it. Angry and so hard against you that his arm under your head curls around your front, forearm under your jaw and hand clenching at your shoulder to keep you secure against his chest.
“Want it? Here it comes, baby.” He croaks in your ear. Annoyance and anger rolling off of him in waves as his other hand shoots down to lift your leg, yanks your soaked panties to the side. Makes you whine because he doesn’t bother touching your achy clit just huffs in your ear, rough with his grip that has tingles running over your body shuddering with anticipation.
Your breaths get heavier, body drumming when his hand darts back to wrestle his cock out. Feel it hot and heavy against your ass that you whine, need so heavy in your mind that just the feel of it against your pussy has you gushing.
Price grins when he lines himself up, soaks in the loud cry you let out when he thrusts in because you’re going to regret riling him up.
The airs punched from your lungs when he bottoms out. Pussy stinging at the quick stretch around him, whimper at the pleasure it shoots up your spine. Moan at the throb of him stretching you wide and filling you to the brim.
Bitterness in the way he handles you exactly what you were throbbing for when he pet your head and said maybe another night.
Price grunts and groans into your neck, hooks his arm under your knee and pins it to your chest so you can feel him deep inside you. Starts his thrust all of a sudden, pace so quick and harsh the air is knocked from your lungs. Have to gasp and huff to force air in from the grip he has around your front and pressure from his thrusts.
Makes sure he stuffs you to the hilt as he pounds away at your cervix, has you clawing at his arms, loud keens and moans drowning out the squelching of your pussy.
“What you wanted, huh? Desperate slut. Always needs Daddy’s cock fillin’ you up.” He spits into your ear, jerks when you flutter around him. Mind feasting at how pliable you are. How he can bully his cock into you and all you do is swallow him up and moan. How if he goes at it long enough you’ll blabber thank yous until Price has to fill your mouth so you shut up.
Price groans at the thought, cock slamming into you roughly as the imagine flashes in his mind. You mewl, words clogged in your throat, forced down by the pleasureful cries you can’t hold back. His beard scratches at your neck and shoulder, has tingles shooting down your back and making you push your ass into him.
The bed squeaks and rocks, Prices hips pounding forward and slapping into your ass. You bounce off his hips with each thrust, eyes fluttering closed because you can feel the head of his cock dragging against your walls and knocking at your cervix.
When you clench around him he shifts his hips, pummels his cock into your sweet spot so he can really feel you convulse around him. Has you squealing and toes curling, mind going fuzzy and soft with the pleasure coursing through you. Nails digging into the thick forearm around your throat, mouth falling open in silent cries when the feeling makes your body burn, heat blazing in your stomach.
Can feel drool dribble down your chin onto his forearm. Hand flying back when it feels like you might pass out, mind humming so violently you can’t think straight. “Slow, Daddy.” You whimper. “Too fast.”
Price tuts, grunting as he growls into your neck. “Take what I fuckin’ give you, baby. Wouldn’t let Daddy sleep because of your greedy cunt. Gonna pump ‘er full of cum so she sleeps real good tonight.” He purrs, drops his arm from your shoulder to hold your knee up so he can squeeze at your tits.
You squeal and grip at his arm when he pinches at your nipple through your shirt, rough material making lightening shoot through you.
“‘M sorry, Daddy.” You pant when his hand darts under your shirt. “I’ll be good. Just- slow down!”
Price palms at your chest, squeezing and tugging as his hips pummel into you, dips his mouth to nip at your neck when he sees you swallow thickly. Beard scraping your shoulder raw as he kisses and sucks harshly to leave purple marks for later.
“Too late for sorrys, baby. This is what you were begging me for. Can’t back out now.”
Tears spring to your eyes at the overwhelming amount of pleasure coursing through you. Think you’re getting a break when Price takes his plucking fingers away from your chest but lurch when you feel them at your clit.
Cry out when his rough fingers rub quickly at you, spasm and clench so hard you hear his low moans muffled against your neck, covered in sweat which he licks up, sends shivers down your spine and zips to your cunt.
His groans get lower, thrusts turning sloppy and short, feel every inch of him pull out and thrust back in more clearly. You can feel the veins of his cock grind against your walls, not a blur of feeling anymore, but they drag and tease you, have tingles shooting up your neck.
The pace of his fingers stay the same though, quick and sharp that an orgasm is quick to form. Have you squirming and whimpering, digging your nails into his arm as your ears ring.
Price curses, clench’s his jaw at the tight convulses around his cock, draws his balls tighter until the need to cum is clawing at his brain. Fingers still working against your clit for a second orgasm so he can have you cumming with him.
“Too much, Daddy.” You squeal with overstimulation, claw and tug at his hand until he coos, drops your leg and snatches your jaw in his paw to smash your lips together, beard nuzzling into your face so he can swallow your soft whimpers until you can’t breathe. Legs clenching and kicking around his hand, but never stopping his movements until another orgasm claws its way though your overstimulation.
Snatches his lips away, hand tight on your jaw to watch your face contort as you cum, picks up the pace of his hips when he gets closer. His groans and your soft mewls mixing together until you squeal and Price grunts lowly, your toes curling as you come together. Fingers and cock moving so quick your whole body tenses as your orgasm runs through you. Flutter so tightly around his cock you can feel the pulses that shoot his cum deep in your cunt. Ears ringing as you tremble until the waves of pleasure are soft throbs.
Price curses into your lips, groans when he gives a lazy thrust to make sure the last bits of his cum make it inside you. Pulls out slowly and watches you whimper at the noise and feel. Tugs your panties back over your spent pussy, before cupping your cunt with his palm.
Satisfaction coiling in his chest when you squeal, head slumped against his arm, jerk your hips away from the pressure at your clit, but you’re attempts are futile when there’s no where to run, and he follows you until his palm is nestled against you.
“Settle down, whiny girl.” He rasps, shakes his palm against you until you clutch at his wrist to stop the vibrations from moving your clit. “Ain’t nothing to cry over now you’re nice and full. Or does she want more?” He squeezes.
You gasp and hold his wrist down as much as you could. “No more, Daddy. She’s too full.” You whine, squirm at the feel of him leaking onto your panties. Too impossibly tired to care about how dirty you are.
“You sure, baby? I could stop now or be greedy and keep going like you did.” He taunts.
You suck in a deep breath, eyes heavy with sleep. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again, I’ll be good.”
Prices pecks your temple with a soft chuckle. “I’ll let you sleep for now, baby. Fuck your little cunt through the night. Daddy’s gonna teach you a thing or two about messing with him while he’s trying to sleep.”
You shudder at the thought, promise lingering at the back of your mind as he tucks you both back into bed, until he wakes you up later, mind so drowsy you barely notice how you’re pinned underneath him, hips grinding another round of cum into your cunt.
No thoughts just wolf shifter!ghost who lost the ability to properly shifter due to injuries from roba...
Instead of shifting into a proper wolf, he becomes something...different, wrong. Limbs too long, torso bent at an odd angle. His fur is patchy and thin, tail wiry and ears too pointed. Ghost can't escape his disfigurement even in his other form, the one meant to bring comfort to him.
If ghost had it his way, he'd never shift again. Live his life as a human and pretend his wolf never clawed at his insides begging to be seen.
Unfortunately for ghost and his tendency to never address his emotions, shifters have to shift at least once a month to prevent hospitalization.
So, once a month, ghost drags himself deep into the forest outside of base.
Government property technically, least risk of being seen by civilians or gunned down by hunters. Under the moonless night, ghost becomes a twisted memory of a wolf. He stalks the ground, indulges in every instinct while stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his body.
Every stumble is just excitement, every wrong-sounding howl and bark just a weird echo. But when ghost finds his way to the river he loves, he also finds another shifter.
Another shifter like him.
A deer, at some point. But your fawn spots still paint your hide, your legs have too many bends in them, and antlers sprouts only from the right of your head. You, too, are a creature born of violence.
It is a silent agreement, what happens between you.
That night, two monsters follow eachother through the woods. For once, ghost finds himself play-bowing and chasing another creature again. He feels light, happy. Working his twisted muscles until you end up curled into his soft stomach, soft grass under you and polluted sky above.
Only in the morning will ghost learn that the terrible scarred thing in the woods is the shy archivist on base. The one who smiles at him when no one else will.
quiet, even-keeled john price: accidental microcelebrity among survivalists, hunters, hikers, and would-be outdoors enthusiasts. his videos, highlighting the species local to his home and hunting lodge, rack up thousands of views.
it isn't often that he actually sits in front of the camera. he seems almost shy about showing his face, fiercely private about his life and his lands. he prefers to narrate over footage or remain firmly behind the lens with a body cam, leaving only the growl of his voice to explain what he's seeing and doing. so whenever he uploads one of his 'fireside chats', the numbers spike. as the kids would say, the videos break containment.
people are drawn to the combination of his expertise and restraint. he's a no frills kind of man. you will not find exaggerated reactions or jump cuts. he’s never even raised his voice. he's the genuine article. he plants himself dead center in frame and uses whatever natural light's out that day. there's hardly any editing. no brands or logos in sight.
in the comments, he answers very few questions. when he does, his replies are concise. he'll point you in the right direction, but never lets anyone pretend there's some kind of shortcut or cheat in the great outdoors.
the fireside chats are almost always about some specimen he's taken on a hunt or pulled from a trap. he speaks over their still forms with great reverence, showing unique markings or how to age them. one of his most-watched videos is on a hefty buck: its antlers, the conditions of its silvery-brown coat, its scars and old injuries, its musculature, and how much meat he expects to get from it. he talks about how he watched it for months, waiting until the timing felt right to take it.
among his niche audience, the channel is considered a hidden gem. the subscriber count climbs steadily, but he never seems to truly blow up. there are persistent rumors that he simply ignores sponsorship offers and deals. apart from uploading every few weeks, it's as though he doesn't exist online at all.
but if you know where to look—
his fireside chats look very different on the invitation-only website that actually earns him a living.
they're always filmed at night, beneath a single month-swarmed floodlight bolted to a corrugated metal wall. another light sits off camera, spotlighting him in a harsh white. sometimes there's a deer hoist or gambrel posted behind him, or a tarp-covered slab table laid out with a field dressing kit.
the focus is always on the subject itself, pinned or posed or trussed up so that it's forced to stare directly into the camera, unable to turn its head when he steps into frame. his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, fastening a leather and waxed canvas apron around his waist and neck before he begins. demonstrative and exploratory. ever a guide and teacher. slow and careful for those who may be watching and learning.
and once in a blue moon, the prey is something special.
the lighting and camera angle do not change, but the tarp moves to the ground, nailed in all four corners with a rail spike driven through the top. fastened to it—both wrists above the head. these unlucky souls, he lets them squirm. it's all part of the show.
fifteen, twenty minutes of them waking up, whimpering in confusion, and writhing the best they can in their bindings. chests heaving with aborted and failed attempts to scream and cry for help.
the reactions surge as their eyes widen in horror when he finally joins them.
he kneels beside their naked bodies, petting slowly over their trembling stomachs and chests, their quivering, shivery flanks. if they got some spunk and kick, he settles his weight on their legs. he takes his time. stroking their tear-streaked cheeks and checking the o-ring secured in their mouths. he runs his fingers over their teeth and tongue. tests how far ‘til he gets a gag out of them.
the whole time, he talks to them. at them and about them.
where he found them. how long he plans to keep them, comparing them openly to their predecessors. he uses their drool to paint their nipples to a shine. licks up their tears before spitting on their cunts and holes. describes how tight they are and how wet and shaky they get with each added finger.
he'll spend hours spinning them up, shepherding them ruthlessly through the stages of grief over their situation. he even goads and cheers them on when they hopelessly pull at the paracord keeping them in place. all the better if they exhaust themselves.
but across both genres, when he announces it's time for the final act—everyone but his highest tier viewers get kicked. the ending is always paywalled.
I need a Reader who’s fighting on the opposite side of the 141, storms into a building ready to complete the mission, turns a corner, and finds all four of them standing there.
And just immediately “Actually, no. Nope. Fuck this. I’ve reviewed the situation and discovered I’m deeply committed to being alive. I’m out. Here’s my gun. Here’s my knife. Pleasure meeting you all. I sincerely hope I never cross paths with you again.”
Just like… a reader who tenures their resignation effective immediately.
I feel like this would lead to the team searching for them or at least Ghost or Price. Johnny and Kyle would just joke about it, probably.
They’d find them ofc.
Find out as much as they can about their former whoever they worked for, and they’d tell them too. Not giving a shit and wanting to live.
Maybe they become an intelligence contact or something.
I dont know.
And up in safe house and things get interesting…or even hurt/comfort where Reader or a 141 member gets injured and the other takes care of them in a safe house.
Simon blinked against the morning light that bled softly through the windows. Then filled his lungs with that first breath of morning. His eyes adjusted after a moment, settling on the face in front of him.
The Russian was smiling, just barely, more in his eyes than anything, but smiling none the less. He was propped up on his elbow on the pillow. Laying just close enough to hover over Simon.
"Wot." Simon's voice was sleep-thick and gravelly.
"Good morning to you." Nik chuckled, pressing a kiss to Simon's forehead. Then his cheek.
Simon groaned softly, closing his eyes. "Time is it?" He brought his hand up to scrub at his eye then paw Nik off of him
"Do not worry about time." Nik said. Kissing Simon's hand that had found its way to his mouth. "I have made breakfast. After, we will go down to the lake."
Simon hummed. "Wot for?"
"For fresh air and sunlight. Both of which you need."
Simon turned his head, meeting Nik's eyes. "I'm not some sick Victorian man, Nik."
Nik nodded, taking Simon's hand, pressing it more firmly to his lips. "No, you do not have a physical illness."
Simon let the comment slide for now. Rising at Nik's prompting. It was easy to let Nik guide him. Just as easy as it was to let Price, but different somehow. Following Price was mechanical, a path laid out and steps to follow. Following Nik was fluid, a stream flowing the path of least resistance.
They navigated breakfast quietly. Nik had him sit while food was plated and served. Warm and filling. And Simon caught Nik staring more than once. But he didn't say anything, didn't let himself react more than the blush on his cheeks.
He didn't wear the mask when he was out here with Nik. It would have been a fruitless effort, as Nik could read his eyes alone at this point, but he always found he didn't need it anyway. There was only Nik. And Nik never gave him reason to fear the exposure, to hide himself away from what was. Nik kept him moving, firm but gentle, Nik kept him covered and held. In some strange, unnameable way, Nik was his mask. Something that gave him shelter and made him feel safe despite how easily the man saw every inch of him.
Eventually, and with no urgency, Nik cleared the table and scooped up his bag. Shoes were slid on and they stepped out into the sun. The trail to the pond was shaded by tree cover, the wind creating a gentle harmony with the leaves. The cicadas and crickets chittered the rhythm from the bushes. And the birds sang the melody above them.
Simon thought it was noisy, but not in the unpleasant way of men talking on a crowded cargo plane or the busy streets of a city. This kind of noise he could get lost in just following behind Nikolai without a misguided step. It was easy. He tilted his face up through a blank patch, letting the rays warm his cheeks.
Nikolai didn't look back to see it happen. He never looked back when they walked like this. Nik trusted him to come along on his own at whatever pace he needed.
The path opened up to the water, blue and shining under the late morning sun. A flock of ducks made their way in and out of the water, going about whatever it is ducks do at this hour.
The pair stepped down into their usual patch of green just above the rocky shore. Nik laid out the blanket and took a seat.
Simon stood a moment longer, letting the breeze kiss his face and the new current of lapping water and distant conversations of the ducks fill his ears.
He took his seat next to Nik, leaning in until his head rested against his shoulder.
"You will put sun cream on, I do not want to worry about you later tonight." Nik was already reaching into his bag for the bottle.
"I'm not a child, either, Nik." Simon said, not doing anything to avoid the inevitable.
Nikolai hummed in agreement, squirting some of the cream onto his hand. "You are not. But I do not want to be fucking a whiney lobster in bed tonight."
"Chirst, you've been around Price too much."
"There is no such thing," he wiped a bit of the cream on Simon's nose. "Sit up."
Simon went reluctantly, moving up just enough. Their faces stayed close, Nik's hand that'd come up to the back of Simon's neck made sure of that. The other hand spread the cream across his cheeks. He was completely focused on the task at hand and very careful as he went. Like Simon was worth every second, every ounce of it meant entirely for him. The pads of his fingers passed over each of his cheeks, up the scar that led to his temple. Thumbs spreading across his brow.
Nik's hands were always surprisingly soft when they touched Simon's skin. Calloused and large, sure, but well maintained, like if they were going to touch Simon, they should not feel like tools, but like medicine. That's what Simon might have called them, if he were more poetic. Nik's hands could find any point in his body and make it feel human. Hell, Nik didn't have to touch him at all, just guide him towards a bed, or a lake, and tell him to sit and be and Simon would sit. And Simon would be.
They left for only a moment, then returned to finish the nose, then to his jaw. Simon leaned into the touch, closing his eyes as Nik moved.
Then Nik's hand cupped his cheek. Holding him steady as Nik's lips met his. Firm and steady. No doubt in the action. There was never any doubt, not with Nik.
Simon let his lips fall open against Nikolai's, like putty in his hands, water down the path of least resistance.
Then Nik pulled away, not ripping or pulling off, just gently, letting Simon come up from it slowly.
Nik was smiling again, that same soft smile from the morning. "We should have put some on before we left. You are very red already."
Simon didn't try to hide his defeated laugh, "shut up, Nik."
Nik laughed, warm and whole and pulled Simon back in against his shoulder and let lake sing its song around them.
thinking about simon riley with a stoner!missus. he doesn't partake - random piss tests at work don't care if it's weed or coke or meth he's taking and he does actually like his job, even if it involves getting shot at on a weekly basis and after tommy? he's just not sure it's a good idea - but he loves hanging out with you when you're baked.
normally you're a bit like a cat, you only want affection on your terms. but when you're stoned? attached to him like velcro. curled up in his lap with your head on his chest, tracing his tattoos with one finger. led right on top of him in bed like a weighted blanket with limbs. following him around the house, even when he goes to piss, asking can i hold it? with wide, blinking, slightly red eyes that he can't say no to.
you also… snack like he's never seen you snack before. and he's a big bloke, works hard, needs a lot of calories, so he does quite enjoy it when you lay out your pre-bought, pre-approved snacks on the coffee table and he gets to dig in too.
oh.
and you're so fucking horny it's ridiculous.
he just has to look at you with slightly raised eyebrows and you're wet, launching yourself at him and attaching your lips to his neck, fingers sliding under his waistband. watching you ride him when you're high is one of his favourite activities - you look so gone, so blissed out, eyelashes fluttering, tits bouncing, mouth dropped open like there's nothing in you're mind other than how good you feel right now.
also it turns out you love just… having his cock in your mouth. not even necessarily blowing him. just curled up on the sofa next to him, telly on, head on his stomach, cock resting on your tongue whilst you occasionally lick or suck.
apparently it helps combat cotton mouth.
whatever the reason, he doesn't give a fuck.
he just has to focus on letting you cockwarm him and not fucking into the wet heat of your mouth.
Obsessed with simon being weird about intimacy in an ugly and unconventional way.
All of the horrible things, all the nights under his father's foot, all the days spent inhaling dirt in some faraway place hauling fifty pounds of gear on his back. They twist and turn around in his body until the nerves and synapses switch and buckle under the pressure.
Ghost can't accept normal intimacy. His skin crawls watching romcoms and sappy love stories. Trying to sleep with anyone leads to dissapointment when he can't seem to get it up.
He makes the horrible discovery while watching you practice with your new knife.
You wield it just like roba did. The thought flashed through his mind the same as any other, not a day goes by he isn't reminded of everything. What's different, though, is the thought being accompanied by a heat pooling in his stomach.
Ghost can't be normal, can't heal in the way he's supposed to. No amount of sweet, loving sex will get him where he needs to be.
He can't get off unless there's a knife at his throat and a body holding him down. It's filthy, wanting to ever go back to that place, to enjoy it. Ghost feels sick just thinking about it, then feels worse because feeling sick is nice in his brain too.
He gives you lines to repeat back to him, things that he peeled off this sticky surface of his memory. Afterwards, when that brain-melting buzz sloughs off into shame, you're right there to comfort him. To tell him how well he did.
You never tell him you love him, that you love him even on the bad days when all he can feel ate hands on him. You never tell him that you just want him to be happy. That would be too much, that would be losing him before you really had him.
Ghost isn't one to be had, to be held or owned. He comes to you when he wants and he leaves when the urge hits.
This is all you'll have of him and you still love him.
shut up my show is on (show is me thinking….) anyway ex army! reader who is also simon’s sweet wife …
thinking about how silent simon riley is on base, how he barely talks about his life back at home. he’s so menacing, cruel, he trains recruits like there’s no tomorrow. he’s changed since “roach” was decommissioned, since the 141 became more prolific.
the new recruits tentatively speak about him and roach, speak about how they were inseparable.
“you really think the ghost could like someone?” a recruit asks, in the mess hall, eating his rice pudding.
“think he could have loved them.” the other recruit says, “heard when roach died his heart was broken.”
and that’s that. he was a cruel man that’d lost too much. his own family, his partner. and now he was cruel and icy to everyone else.
that is until one day someone comes to the base’s reception, with a lunchbox in her hands. you’re standing there, your hair, that barely reaches your shoulders. you’ve got a large lunchbox in your hands, and you give a small smile to the receptionist as you give your ID card to be scanned.
you’re sweet, wearing a cutesy summer top and a pair of cargo trousers, a right fit for the summer.
you walk down the halls, with ease, mouthing 174 over and over again until you find simon’s office, and it’s fucking empty. he’s working again, through lunchtime, and obviously won’t eat until he comes back home to you for dinner.
he’s sparring with the newbies in the gym, and you knock on the door. you swear you hear the recruits thinking he’s shout at you, but he drops everything he’s doing to rush to you.
“love,” he says, “you alright?” his hands pat your head and back down, and you shake your head. but still he insists, “you sure?”
“i’m sure sweetheart.” you shake your head, and then hand him the lunchbox. “please eat your greens lieutenant.” you blush, before putting the box in his hands.
he waves the recruits off, “take lunch off, we’ll be back in the afternoon.” and you just shake your head.
“i swear she looks familiar.” a recruit says, “like i’ve seen photos of her around.”
simon isn’t so stupid to carry photos of you in his office. but there is a photo of his squadron in the early days. he’s near the back of the photo, tall and menacing, and two rows down you’re there too, grinning with your sparkling eyes.
roach didn’t die, they were just decommissioned, shrapnel to the leg and gut. barely any chance of survival. he’d married you in the hospital chapel.
CW: dark content, unreliable narrator (Price and Reader), Stockholm syndrome, grooming, kidnapping, neglectful parents, psychological manipulation, non consensual sedation, PriceDaughter!Reader
[Masterlist]
Price doesn’t remember the last time he held you.
He remembers you as a baby, small enough to fit along the length of his forearm, tucked against his ribs with your cheek flattened beneath his beard and your little fist caught in his dog tags, chains woven between tiny fingers. He remembers you as a toddler, waddling toward him with both hands lifted, big moon eyes blinking up at him, trusting without question that he would bend, lift, catch, carry. He remembers you as a child, legs circling his waist, head curving automatically into his shoulder, the weight of you warm and easy.
The memories grow muddled after that. Distant. Smeared like ink on a wet canvas.
(How long has it been since he held you in his arms, since you climbed onto his lap because you wanted to? How long since he set you down one ordinary afternoon and, without knowing enough to grieve it, never picked you up again?)
Too slow, Captain.
You’re heavier than you were in his memory and lighter than you should be for your age.
Sedative soft, head lolling against his shoulder, lashes trembling where they rest against your cheeks. You breath comes warm through parted lips, uneven at the edges from crying, from screaming, from fighting them with everything your body had left until chemistry dragged you under. One of your hands is trapped between his vest and your chest, fingers curled loosely in a way that looks too much like your childhood if he lets himself look at it for more than a second.
(And he doesn’t let himself look at it for more than a second. He counts instead, the rise of your chest- one and two and three and- because counting is the only sound quiet enough to drown out the one you made against Ghost’s palm, and if he stops counting he’ll hear it again, and again, and again- so he keeps counting, four, five, six, past the point where counting means anything.)
The transport shudders over something uneven in the road and your head tips further into him, unresisting, and he adjusts his arm without thinking. Old muscle memory, older than any of this- the same automatic correction he made when you were small enough that all of this was a given and not something he had to take back with a needle.
Gaz only put the needle in your thigh because Price told him to.
That fact sits in the back of his mind, hot and deep and impossible to remove, buried deep. He can still see your eyes in the room at the estate, wide and furious over Ghost’s hand. He can still hear the muffled sounds of your screaming. He can still feel the thin line you tore down the back of his hand with your nails when he reached too close.
I hate you.
He tightens his hold on you as the vehicle turns off the main road and into the woods.
The safehouse is buried deep enough that the road disappears twice before they reach it, swallowed first by pines and then by darkness, headlights cutting through branches heavy with late frost.
The place had once belonged to one of Laswell’s ghosts, someone dead or disappeared or quietly folded into a different name. Stone foundation. Timber walls. Black windows. No neighboring houses. No passing cars. No sound except tires over frozen dirt and the wind moving through the trees like something dragging its nails along the bark.
A good place to keep you alive.
That’s what Price tells himself when the house appears through the dark.
You’ll hate it.
The thought comes suddenly, definitive. He knows you’ll wake and look at him like he’s done something unforgivable.
Makarov has seen to that, had taken six months and fed you whatever version of the world made John Price look like the enemy, had taken every wound Price left open and put his hand inside it until you mistook the pressure for care.
This is home.
Price’s jaw locks.
It doesn’t matter how softly you said it. It doesn’t matter how frightened you looked when they came through the door. It doesn’t matter that you tried to tell them to leave before he came back, that your first instinct on waking to your father was not relief but panic. (- and Price knows that’s Makarov’s voice speaking through places in you Price doesn’t know how to reach yet.
But he will.
He has to.)
The vehicle stops and for a moment no one moves. The engine ticks in the dark, heat fading from the vents, and your breathing fills the silence between four men who have survived ambushes, interrogations, chemical attacks, collapsing buildings, and every ugly act war can invent, only to sit in a car with an unconscious girl and not know where to put their hands.
Soap is in the front passenger seat, turned halfway back, eyes fixed on you. There’s blood dried along his forearm where your nails caught him. (He hasn’t wiped it away. Maybe he hasn’t noticed. Maybe he has and thinks he deserves to keep it there. His face looks hollowed out in the dashboard glow regardless.)
Gaz sits beside the door with the med kit against his knee, hand resting on top of the bag, thumb worrying at the seam, over and over, the same motion repeated until Price wants to tell him to stop and can’t, because he knows exactly what the boy is feeling. (Gaz had objected. One word, low and tight- Cap- he had seen what it meant and had done it anyway.)
Ghost gets out first.
Of course he does.
The cold comes in around him, wet pine and frozen earth, and then the door shuts with a dull sound. He’s a shadow moving through shadows, rifle raised, body already turned back into a weapon because that is easier than being a man right now. He clears the porch. The front room. The hall. His voice comes through comms a moment later, flat and controlled.
“Clear.”
Only then does Price open his door.
The cold hits you both. You stir against him, brow pinching, and Price freezes so abruptly Soap’s hand goes to his weapon before he catches himself. Your fingers twitch once against Price’s vest. A small, pained sound escapes you, thin as thread, and every man there goes still.
“Easy,” Price murmurs, bending his head closer. “Easy, love. I’ve got you.”
You settle again, slipping back under.
Soap exhales like it hurts and Gaz looks down. Neither of them speaks.
Price carries you inside.
The safehouse smells of dust but there’s fresh supplies- Laswell’s doing no doubt. The front door is reinforced and he can see the windows are secured. Back exit narrow but usable. Basement access shut. Good. Necessary. Contained.
(You’ll hate that too.)
He pushes the thought aside.
You don’t know what’s necessary right now. That’s the part he keeps coming back to, the part he grips with both hands because letting go of it means falling into something he cannot afford to feel. You don’t know what’s safe. You don’t know who to trust. Makarov twisted something in you until you looked at your family and saw monsters, then looked back at him and called it home.
(Price tells himself he has to hold the line until you can see clearly again. He can fix this. He’s fixed harder things with less. Six months of dead ends and he still found you, still got you breathing in his arms, and if he could do that then he can do this too- the alternative isn’t something he can afford to think about yet, not while your pulse is still warm under his hand-
Even if you hate him for it.
Especially then.)
“Bedroom,” Ghost says from the hallway. “Ground floor. One window. I’ve got eyes on the treeline from there.”
Price nods and carries you down the hall.
The room is small, plain, and cold despite the radiator ticking beneath the window. An iron bedframe. A faded quilt. A wooden chair. A dresser scarred by old water rings. Nothing like the estate. Nothing like that room with the lake outside and everything arranged neatly on the table and your book facedown by the bed as if you had settled into captivity with a bedtime routine.
(He hates that he knows that detail.
He hates that he saw the glass of water beside you, the folded cloth, the lamp left on low. He hates that Makarov had made a prison look softer than rescue. He hates that when Price found you, you looked rested. Fed. Brushed. Cared for. He hates that his first feeling after relief had been horror because there were no chains to point at, no obvious brutality to hold up in front of you and say, look, this is what he is. Makarov had been cleverer than that. Patient. Gentle where it would do the most damage. He had wrapped control in tenderness until you couldn’t tell them apart.)
Price lowers you onto the bed.
Your head turns on the pillow, mouth moving around a soundless protest. The blanket slips from your shoulder and reveals the fading mark at your throat, yellowed at the edges, ugly in the lamplight. Price’s hand stops above it, not touching- not because he’s earned restraint, not because he fully understands it, but because if he touches that mark, he thinks something in him will split open and whatever comes out won’t be useful to anyone.
Soap makes a low noise behind him.
Price turns his head. “What?”
Soap’s eyes are fixed on the bruise, jaw working once before he looks away, anger and grief fighting for space in his face. “Nothing.”
“Say it.”
Soap looks back at him then, and for one second Price sees the man who held your ankles while you cried. Not Johnny. Not the lad who used to let you clutch at his bicep while he raised his arm and you swung from it giggling and kicking your feet as a kid. A soldier in a bedroom, doing what had to be done because Price gave the order.
Soap’s voice comes rough. “She’s gonna wake up scared.”
Price looks back at you. “I know.”
“No, Cap.” Soap swallows. “Scared of us.”
The truth in his words land badly and there’s no cushioning it, no softer angle to turn it at- flat and total, and Price feels them go in somewhere just beneath the first wound, widening it rather than making a new one. He doesn’t have an answer. There isn’t one that survives contact with what Soap just said.
So Price resorts to pulling the blanket up over your shoulder with too much care and says. “For now.”
Soap says nothing in response.
“For now,” Price repeats, harder this time, because he needs that to be true. “She’s been with him six months. Whatever he’s done, whatever he’s told her- ” His voice catches on the edge of something and he forces it flat. “It won’t undo itself in one night.”
Gaz appears in the doorway. “No. It won’t.”
There is no accusation in it, but Price hears one anyway.
Gaz steps inside with the med kit. “I need to check her vitals.”
Price’s first instinct is to refuse. It rises fast and irrational, possessive. She’s asleep. Leave her. Don’t touch her. Hasn’t enough been done? Then training catches up. Necessity. Sedative. Shock. Unknown injuries. Unknown substances. Six months of unknown everything.
He moves aside.
Gaz approaches carefully, slower than he would with anyone else. “I’m going to touch your wrist,” he tells you, voice quiet.
“She can’t hear you,” Soap mutters, not unkindly.
Gaz doesn’t look at him. “Maybe.”
Price watches Gaz take your pulse with two fingers, watches his face smooth into concentration. Watches him check your pupils, your breathing, the bruise blooming where the needle went in. The boy’s hands are steady now, but there is something wrong in the set of his mouth. Something Price recognizes because he has seen men carry the memory of necessary violence before. (Funny how it never weighs less just because it was necessary.)
“Pulse is fast but settling,” Gaz says. “Respiration’s good. She’ll be out a while longer. Maybe confused when she comes round.”
“She was confused already,” Price says.
Ghost, from the doorway: “She wasn’t confused.”
Price looks at him.
Ghost stands with his arms loose at his sides, mask turning his face into something unreadable except for the eyes. His left glove is torn near the thumb where you bit him. A dark stain seeps through the fabric. “She knew what she wanted.”
“What she wanted was to stay with Makarov.”
“Aye,” Soap says quietly, like the word hurts him.
Price’s temper flares so quickly it almost feels clean. Better than guilt. Better than fear. Better than the image of you looking at him like he was the thing you needed saving from. “Because he got into her head.”
No one argues and that should satisfy him but it doesn’t. (Silence isn’t agreement, not really- it’s four men who’ve spent six months learning exactly how much weight grief can carry before it tips into something none of them know how to talk the other down from, and none of them are willing to be the one who adds to the load, like six months of finding nothing has left then fluent in every version of quiet that isn’t peace.
Price wants suddenly- badly- for the anger to be the whole truth. It would be easier that way. Easier to hate Makarov clean and simple, a wound with a cause behind it, than to sit here recalculating every year he spent overseas, every mission he took because it felt like purpose, every time distance felt like the safer kind of love.)
Ghost’s eyes remain steady and he’s never been one to dress a thing up before he hands it to someone- never softened a call, never let a man walk out of a briefing believing something kinder than what was true, because in his experience kindness that isn’t earned is just another way people get killed. “Still knew.”
Price steps toward him before he realizes he’s moved. “You think I should’ve left her there?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Ghost is silent for a beat. When he answers, his voice is as flat as winter ground. “Then don’t pretend she’ll thank us when she wakes.”
Price stares at him.
Something ugly tightens beneath his ribs, not because Ghost is wrong, but because the words feel like betrayal. As if there is any room in this house for nuance. As if they can afford to stand around splitting hairs over consent while Makarov breathes somewhere out there in the world. As if Price had not spent six months imagining every possible way he might find you, only to discover that the version he got back had been taught to call a monster home.
“She doesn’t have to thank me,” Price says. “She just has to be alive.”
The room goes quiet again.
That, at least, nobody can dispute.
Gaz closes the med kit while Soap shifts his weight, restless and miserable. Ghost holds Price’s gaze one moment longer before looking away first, not in submission but because there is nothing more to say without making things worse.
Price turns back to you.
You look smaller in the bed than you had in his arms. Younger too, though he knows that’s a trick of sleep and lamplight and his own desperate memory. The girl who woke at the estate had not been small. You had been terrified and furious and absolutely certain of him as an enemy. You’d told him he didn’t get to say Dad now and defended Makarov with tears on your face and your mother’s stubborn chin lifted.
He took care of me.
Price feels something bitter climb the back of his throat.
He had wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake you screaming until you believed him: Makarov learned your soft places and pressed his thumbs into them until you accommodated the pressure. That wasnt care. That was strategy. That was ownership.
Price sits in the chair beside the bed instead.
Outside the bedroom, Soap says something low to Gaz. Gaz answers even lower. Footsteps move away. A door opens and shuts. Ghost remains near the hall, not quite guarding the room, not quite leaving it either.
Price keeps his eyes on your face.
He thinks of the kitchen, if you standing there too thin, too tired, telling him his best wasn’t good enough. He thinks of himself reaching for the kettle after you left because making tea was easier than following you. He thinks of the photos loading on his phone one by one, each of them showing a version of you he had not seen in years. He thinks of Makarov’s hand at your waist and the message waiting in the penthouse.
Too slow, Captain.
You’re here now.
You’re alive.
You’re not with Makarov.
The rest, Price tells himself, can be fixed with time.
Outside, the woods close around the safehouse. Inside, his men secure the doors, check the windows, set the watches, do all the things good soldiers do when they have brought something precious out of enemy territory and need to keep it from being taken again.
Price sits beside your bed and counts your breaths until dawn.
***
Price wakes to cold water hitting him full in the face and your voice already tearing through the room, incandescent with rage. “You can’t do this to me!”
For one violent second, he is nowhere, body coming awake before his mind does, hand jerking toward a weapon, lungs dragging in a sharp, startled breath as water runs down his beard and under the collar of his shirt.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d meant to sit there until you woke, meant to count every breath, every twitch of your fingers, every small shift under the blanket until the drugs finally loosened their hold on you. But six months of terror had been laid down all at once, and the radiator had ticked, and the morning sun had slipped warm across his skin, and somewhere between one breath and the next, exhaustion had put its hands over his eyes.
Too slow, Captain.
Price blinks hard against the water clinging to his lashes and finds you standing several feet away with an empty cup trembling in your hand, barefoot, hair wild around your face, blanket dragged half off the bed and twisted near your feet.
The sedative hasn’t left you completely; he can see it in the unfocused brightness of your eyes, in the way your knees keep trying to give beneath you, in the fact that one shoulder is pressed hard to the wall because pride alone is not enough to hold you upright.
“You drugged me,” you say, voice raw. “You drugged me. You let them- ” Your mouth snaps shut around the rest, and the cup knocks softly against your thigh, hand shaking too hard to keep it still. “I told you no.”
Price pushes himself straighter in the chair, keeping his movements slow. “You were going to scream the house down. We had to get you out before he came back.”
“You took me.” The words come fast, tripping over each other. “You took me while I was sleeping. You took me from him. You had no right.”
“He took you first.”
Your face twists like he has struck something tender and infected and he instantly knows he said the wrong thing.
“Love- ”
“Don’t call me that.” Your voice cracks, then climbs. “Don’t. Don’t say it like that. Don’t look at me like that. You don’t get to look at me like you’re sad. You did this. You did this to me.”
Price stands, and the instant he does, your whole body jerks tighter. He stops, hands half lifted, water dripping from his beard onto his shirt. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You already did.” Your eyes are wet now, bright with fury and panic. You sway once and catch yourself against the wall, teeth gritting hard enough that Price sees the muscle jump in your jaw. “You let them hold me down. You watched. You just watched.”
His throat tightens. “I got you out.”
“I didn’t ask you to!”
The words tear out of you and leave the room ringing. Price has answers, too many of them, all practical and necessary and useless. You were drugged because you were fighting. You were restrained because you were screaming. You were taken because leaving you there would have meant handing you back to Makarov. You’re alive. You’re here. You’re not with him. But he knows none of that will reach the places you’re speaking from.
Price takes one step without meaning to instead and you snatch the pillow from the bed and throw it at his face as a result.
He catches it on instinct, one hand coming up fast, cotton crumpling against his palm. It blocks his vision for less than a heartbeat. When he lowers it, you’re already moving, stumbling past the foot of the bed and through the doorway with one hand slapping hard against the frame for balance.
“Stop!” Price barks, too much command in it, and the sound only makes you move faster.
You hit the hallway unsteady, shoulder grazing against the wall as you shove yourself toward the living room and the front door beyond it. Price follows, heart climbing into his throat, already seeing the woods, the road, the open world where Makarov still breathes. “Wait, love, please- “
You’re halfway across the living room when Soap comes out of the kitchen, Gaz turns from the table, and Ghost steps in from the side hall like a shadow drawn into your path.
All three of them stop between you and the door, not touching, not reaching, but blocking all the same and you skid to a halt so abruptly your balance nearly goes. Your hand flies to the back of the sofa, fingers digging into the fabric, breath coming too fast as your eyes jump from Soap to Gaz to Ghost and then back toward Price.
Front door blocked. Windows curtained. Men on every side. No clean way out. (Another room. Another door. Another set of men-)
“Move,” you say.
Soap sets his mug down slowly on the table beside him, his voice low and careful. “Easy, hen. You’re still half out of it. Just sit down before ye fall, aye?”
“Move.”
Gaz keeps his hands open at his sides. “We can’t let you go outside.”
“I said move!” The scream rips out of you too loud, too sharp, and your own body flinches from it. Tears spill down your cheeks, and you wipe them away with the heel of your hand like they disgust you. “I want to go home. I want to go home. Let me go home.”
Price steps into the room behind you. “You are home.”
You turn on him so fast your knees nearly buckle. “No, I’m not.”
“Sweetheart- ”
“No.” You shake your head, once, twice, too hard, as if the word is the only thing keeping you standing. “No. No. No. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to decide that. You weren’t there. You’re never there.”
“That place wasn’t home.”
“At least he was there!”
The words crack open in the room and everything goes silent around them.
You look horrified by what you’ve said, then furious that anyone heard it. Your face crumples for half a second before rage slams back over it, clumsy and bright.
“He was there,” you say again, smaller now but no less vicious. “He stayed. He listened. He noticed when I was tired. He noticed when I didn’t eat. He- he noticed me. He was more of a home than you’ve ever been!”
Price feels it go through him like a blade under the ribs. Behind you, Soap’s face twists, Gaz looks down, and Ghost’s eyes sharpen, fixed on you like he’s watching someone bleed out from somewhere no bandage can reach.
“Makarov hurt you,” Price says.
“You left me.”
“He used you.”
“You left me.”
“He got inside your head.”
“You left me!” This time the words come out raw enough to tear. You press one hand to your own chest like something there has started to split open. “You left me first. You left me and Mum over and over and over and my whole life and what? Now you’re here? Now you care? Now I’m supposed to trust you?”
Price has no answer that doesn’t sound like an excuse.
You turn away from him, back toward the door, and Ghost shifts a fraction to stay in front of it.
“Please,” you say, and the word is so sudden, so soft, that Soap’s face goes white. “Please. I won’t tell him. I won’t say you were here. I’ll tell him I ran. I’ll tell him it was my fault. Just let me go.”
Price’s blood goes cold.
There it is. Not logic. Not argument. Fear trained into loyalty. Makarov’s hand still around the back of your neck from miles away.
“He’s not coming for you,” Price says, though he has no right to promise it.
Your eyes flash. “You don’t know him.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t!” You look at Ghost then, and your voice starts shaking again, harder, words losing their edges as panic chews through them. “Move. Please move. You don’t understand. He’ll be angry. He’ll think I- he’ll think I let you take me, and I didn’t. I didn’t. I fought you. I fought you, didn’t I? You saw. I have to tell him I fought you.”
No one speaks.
That silence breaks something.
“You saw,” you say again, desperate now, looking from Soap to Gaz to Ghost as if one of them might become witness, judge, savior. “You saw me fight. I didn’t. I didn’t want to go.”
Soap’s voice is barely there. “Bonnie…”
“Don’t.” Your face twists again, anger returning. “Don’t pity me.”
You take another step toward the door, and then the room tips beneath you. Price sees it drain from your face, sees your hand shoot blindly toward the sofa again and miss the first time. Gaz moves on instinct, one step forward, hand lifting.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap.
Gaz freezes. “I’m not. I’m just- ”
“Don’t touch me.”
“I won’t,” he says, and he doesn’t, but your body is still failing you. Your eyes unfocus for a second, lashes fluttering as you try to blink the dizziness away, and your knees soften hard enough that Soap reaches before thought can stop him.
“Hen, careful- ”
Your panic detonates.
You slap his hand away so hard the sound cracks through the living room, and the force of it sends you stumbling backward into the sofa.
“Don’t touch me!”
The scream tears out of you ragged and full throated, too big for the room, too big for your body, and then suddenly there is nothing left behind it but shaking.
Soap holds his hand where it stopped in the air, eyes wide and wounded and Price feels something inside him lock down hard because this is not anger anymore, not only anger.
You stand there trapped between the men who will not let you leave and the door you cannot reach, crying openly now, furious and humiliated by every tear. “I hate you,” you say, but it comes out small and childish, full of exhaustion. “I hate all of you.”
Price nods once because if he tries to speak as your father right now, something ugly will come out so he settles in Captain and hates himself even as he says. “You’re not leaving.”
Your face empties.
For a second, no one breathes.
Then you laugh under your breath, broken and bitter. “Of course I’m not.” Your eyes move over him then, slow and terrible, like you are finally seeing the shape of him clearly. “You know, you’re such a hypocrite. You talk about him like he’s some monster for keeping me where he thought I belonged, but look at you. Doors locked. Men watching. Telling me I’m confused. Telling me I’ll understand later.” Your mouth trembles, but the hatred holds. “You’re not saving me from him, you’re just angry he got there first. You’re projecting yourself onto him. You’re exactly the kind of person you’re accusing him of being.”
Price goes still.
No one speaks and h feels the words move through the room looking for somewhere to land before they come home to him.
You turn away from the door with as much dignity as your trembling body can manage. No one stops you as you walk back down the hall with one hand against the wall, spine rigid, head high, every step a visible act of hatred.
Price follows two paces behind because he cannot make himself do otherwise, because the idea of not being able to see you had already caused his pulse to climb with panic- but when you reach the bedroom door, you turn on him so sharply he stops.
“Fuck off.”
You step inside and slam the door in his face and a second later, something scrapes hard across the floor on the other side, heavy and uneven, dragged into place with clumsy determination. The chair, probably. Maybe the dresser. Maybe anything you can put between yourself and them.
Price stands in the hall, water drying cold in his beard, one hand half lifted toward the door. For a few minutes there’s nothing, no noise from your room.
Then he hears you crying.
Muffled and badlg hidden, bitten down on, but still unmistakable.
The house holds around the sound of it, four men standing uselessly in rooms they have secured too well, listening to the girl they watched grow up, the girl who spent the last six months missing and in Makarov’s custody, the girl they rescued from a man more evil than human, sob behind a barricaded door.
None of them knows what to do with that.
(And if the sound of you crying is bad, then the sound of him waking hours later to your scream coming from outside the house is something the human body has no proper place to put.
It comes at him through sleep like a hook through meat, dragging him out of a dreamless dark with his heart already trying to break itself against his ribs. For one impossible second, Price doesn’t move. He only sits upright in the narrow hall with the taste of old fear flooding his mouth, staring at the bedroom door still shut in front of him, the chair still braced beneath the handle from the inside, the untouched tray he tried to bring to you earlier gone cold on the floorboards.
The door is closed.
The room is barricaded.
Somehow, you’re not inside it.
His mind refuses that at first, rejects it with the same desperation that makes men reach for missing limbs, that makes fathers look at empty beds and think no, because no is simpler than what comes after. No, because he brought you here. No, because he watched the door. No, because he counted your breaths until dawn and then counted the hours after, because this house was locked and watched and buried in the woods, because surely the world cannot take you from him twice in the same lifetime and still expect him to remain a man.
Then you scream again and it definitely came from outside.
Beyond the walls. Beyond the locked door. Beyond the careful perimeter and the sleeping house and every useless measure men like Price build around the things they cannot bear to lose. Your voice tears up through the black trees raw and terrified, no anger left in it now, no words, nothing sharp enough to protect itself with. Only fear, naked and bright and alive somewhere in the woods where Price cannot see you.
For one heartbeat, the whole safehouse holds still around the sound.
Ghost who's infatuated with you meanwhile you genuinely think he's trying to kill you.
Ghost who corners you against a wall, the width of him caging you in, arm above your head. He looks a bit crazed, a bit too animal and a bit too blood hungry when he grunts "i saw a deer on the side of the road, once."
"Legs twisted up in a bloody mess, gravel red underneath. It kept on twitchin', starin' at me." He leans in close, breath hot on your ear. You can feel the body heat radiating off of him when ghosts hand hovers over your bicep, "i killed it. Didn't have a gun, had to use my knife. Quick. Merciful."
Ghost leans back far enough to stare you in the eyes.
"You remind me of that deer," ghosts hand retreats, but he stays caging you in. "Staring at me all the time. Beggin' for that knife."
Now, whenever ghost talks about you, he calls you "sweet doe" and people snicker about his sweet little crush. It makes your stomach churn.
