Mecha pilot au, Bebop (jazz's mecha) is beautiful to the cybertronians in the same way swords, guns, and explosives are beautiful to us.
Every panel reinforced and angled to take as many hits as possible before repair, to skirt blows and projectiles away from sensitive components.
Weapons designed to do as much damage as possible, not only to kill but to kill efficiently.
Its honestly one of the reasons that i use to explain why Prowl is always drawn to Jazz. The beauty in a creature so, so made for violence that every single nano metre has been optimized for it intrigues Prowl.
And then of course its Jazz so the second he isn't ripping and tearing quints apart he is making jokes and trying to learn the language and customs.
He is so deadly, but so kind. Like a sword in a scabbard, always there and ready to cut. But stowed away until it's time to blast some music.
Over the moon with whatever type of lingerie you wear, but above all, with the fact you did all that for him.
Assures you it's not necessary, but he certainly appreciates it
Will probably get a nosebleed
Will feel up every inch of you body trying to commit every little detail to memory forever
Is thoroughly convinced he's the luckiest man aliveÂ
(One shot: Electric Blue; WC: 8,200)
Ace:Â
Is curious about edible underwear
Loves to see you in lingerie from time to time - the skimpier, the betterÂ
Hint at wearing lingerie under your clothes and he'll follow you to the nearest bedroom or broom closet instantly
A nice set of lingerie will get his motor running in no time. After that, be prepared for him to rip it off you with his teeth. As nice as the lingerie may be, he finds that it often gets in the way and would much rather have you in your birthday suit - he's practical like that.
Law:Â
Claims he doesn't care about it, but it's clear it does things to him every time you wear it
Will grumble about you distracting him from work
Big fan of lace and spandex
Sees it as a distraction and a tease, and will tease the everloving fuck out of you in bed to punish you for it. Hope you know how to beg.
Zoro:Â
Zoro doesn't really care about lingerie, I'm sorry. He doesn't really see the need for all the frills.
Can be quite dense about it, so hinting might not be enough. Heâs more the "If you wanted to get fucked, you could have just said so" kinda guy (who said romance was dead?)
Heâll definitely let you wear it if you want to - itâs a âhe gets off on you getting offâ kinda thing.Â
Will still tease you about it though. Loves to see you get flustered.Â
the wave of cultural puritanism is a curse on fandom bc ten years ago the lionflame tag would have been full of some of the nastiest porn known to man
Anyway.
This isn't super nasty but ya know
There is a strange look when Heracles forces Foresight to his knees. To say force is to ignore the look of solemn relief on Prometheus's face. It is as if he had been waiting for what Heracles could give him for a long time, waiting for someone who could lay him out, force him down, drive out all thoughts of war and destiny from his head.
It opens up a yawning mouth inside Heracles's stomach. It is not enough to see him on his knees, not when he is so solemn, so composed, eyes so tired and still somehow distant, even as he waits for what Heracles can give him.
Heracles wants to break him. To see him shattered at his feet, the feet of a mortal man. To fill his future with nothing but Heracles's hands fisted in his hair and Heracles's tongue sucking golden bruises into his fair skin and Heracles's cock forcing its way down his throat, stopping his prophecies and replacing them with whines.
Prometheus's breath catches. His eyes are distant still but now wide.
"Please," he breathes.
Heracles cups the back of Prometheus's head in his hand, feeling the curve of his skull, the softness of his hair. He's such a hard man, his Flame Thief. Mortals can be soft, and yet - Prometheus could seem like Aetos had eaten away any softness from him long ago.
Heracles presses a thumb into Prometheus's lips, feeling the dry, chapped skin. He presses in and in, almost daring Prometheus to do anything. Prometheus does nothing but slowly open up, letting Heracles pet the soft wet heat of him. He's so hot inside. Heracles pushes in further, until Prometheus is choking, drool spilling down over his chin. When Heracles finally pulls his hand back, Prometheus only coughs before continuing to stare at him, eyes wide with the promises of the future.
"You belong not to Zeus," Heracles rumbles. "You belong only to me."
âJust keep eating, sweetie. These herbs will heal you and restore your strength.â
âIt feels like I'm eating rabbit food.â
âOh, because you are.â She grins as a pair of long, fuzzy ears sprout from your head and your nose twitches. You feel strange. You feel... needy. You need to be bred, to make more bunnies.
âOh, my sweet, little bunny!â She pets your head. âWhat was your name again?â
âIt was... It was...â You trail off, searching your memories. It's on the tip of your tongue, you can feel it. Why can't you remember your own name?
âSweet, little bunny.â She pets your ears and you moan, leg thumping against the ground. âAh, I remember! Your name is Bunny!â
You nod, your head filled with bunny fluff. Any questions you mightâve had fly out your ears as she mounts you, moaning how tight and breedable you are.
You nod in agreement. It's easy to agree with Circe. You keep nodding, shaking out any final memories in your silly, bunny brain. You don't need to think about anything but being bred.
ahem- have we considered volt/homeowner/eddie sandwich w an easily overwhelmed homeowner. Someone who really truly does want to the in the middle but is so under prepared for all the sensations... Volt's long fingers prepping their ass while Eddie leaves bites along their thighs, by the time his tongue gets to where it's actually going they're already whining from it all. Eddie slowly pushes in a finger and goes to tease, but its caught in his throat when they cum suddenly.
It's not like they haven't seen it before but so soon and from so little- they're all a little dizzy, fingers quickly starting back up. Any protesting little noises are quickly shushed by Eddie's lips. Volt soothes any worries, the homeowner needs to be fully prepared after all! It'll be worth it in the end when Eddie and Volt can both slide in and feel the other through the shaking walls of their sweet spark <3
Other tags: Bearded Frank my beloved, but he starts out with the skin fade, Max the dog!!, frank being frank, he's living as Pete rn
Word count:2.7k
To say Frank Castle was traditional was an understatement. From the very beginning, you knew. He was the kind of guy to pick you up for dates, bring you home, and even wait until he saw you walk in the door to make sure you did get home safe. He would buy you flowers. He introduced you to his rescue pitbull, Max. He took you to places you had mentioned in passing. He had asked your dad for his blessing, like you were in a movie.
The day you were married, he refused to be in the same room as you until you were both at the chapel. He rolled his eyes and laughed when he found out you had secretly been training Max to walk with Matt down the aisle, a sight that your husband will never forget or let his friend live down. He actually honest-to-god carried you over the threshold of the small house you two had bought a few weeks ago, despite how you giggled and squirmed.
The house itself was still halfway done, needing spackle and paint in a few places. It was barely furnished, mainly just the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. But since you two were on your honeymoon, it's not like you'd really need any of the other rooms anyway.
Now, as cute as that is, you're still both only human. You have your faults, and things you do that bothers the other person. The current issue is that Frank, god bless him, is horrible at updating you on time estimates for when he'll be home. You knew about his life and his past, so you had asked him to let you know when he'd be home from work tonight. He told you no later than 5. It is now 6:30. You check your phone, but there's still no update. Only the messages you've sent him.
You almost home? 5:12
Is everything okay? 5:37
I'm getting worried, honey 5:55
Hello?? 6:07
Are you even alive???? 6:26
Dead silence from him. You knew he would often get too focused on his work and forget to check his phone, but he promised he would more often. So, you did the one thing you knew would get through to him. You got petty. Rather than wait up for him, you ate your dinner, leaving his plate uncovered on the table to get cold. You put up the leftovers, take a hot shower, not caring if there would be enough hot water left for him.
After your shower, you put on a proper set of pajamas rather than sleeping in just a bra and underwear the way you know Frank loves it. You crawl into bed, your back towards Frank's spot. You check your phone one last time, seeing that your husband, your fucking husband, has left you on read. On. Fucking. Read. Not even a simple apology, not even an 'im alive', nothing.
Oh, you were fucking fuming. You grabbed his bare essentials that he'll need for the night, dumped them on the couch, and called Max in to sleep in his place. You crawl right back into bed, silencing your phone and shutting your eyes.
Frank gets home, knowing he fucked up. It was barely 8pm and you were already in bed, a single plate left on the table, Max nowhere to be found, and his stuff dumped on the couch. Fuck. He went to the guest bathroom, taking a lukewarm shower. Fuck. You two hadn't fought a lot, much less fights that were this big, so he knew that when you didn't even care to leave him some hot water, he was in the doghouse.
And he knew why, too. He had promised to tell you when he'd be home, and you made him pinky swear to give you an update if that changed. And he didn't. So he had two options now. Either he apologized to you and admitted he messed up, or he could wait to see if you would forgive him anyway.
You are now on day 12 of being angry with Frank, because you'll be damned before you let this one slide. You've let him sleep in bed again, but you make it clear that any affection is off the table until further notice. It kills the both of you to not be able to wrap your arms around eachother, feeling an uncomfortable amount of space every night. You wake up as you have for the past 12 days, cold and disappointed.
You get out of bed to brush your teeth, hearing Frank's buzzsaw snoring cease about halfway through. Eye contact is avoided as you leave the bathroom, grabbing a change of clothes out of your dresser. Today, you thought, you were going to push it to the limit. The thing you knew would finally break him.
"Sweetheart, can we-" he starts, but you cut him off.
"Good morning to you too, Pete."
Oh. Now that got to him. He shuts up immediately, and with how fast he disappears into the bathroom, you wonder if you took it too far.
As per usual, you two hardly speak throughout the rest of the day. Frank grabs his lunch, which you have started to pack for him again, not saying goodbye before leaving for work. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
You're on edge all day at work. You snap at your coworkers, you drop stuff, you make mistakes with simple math. It's just out of the ordinary for you. What makes it worse is when you get a text from Frank about halfway through the day
Need to talk at home tonight.
Shit. God damn it. Of course he send a text so fucking unreadable in tone.
Okay you reply, putting your phone back into your bag. It feels like a live bomb, so it's a good way to make sure you aren't checking it while working.
You go through the motions of the rest of your work day, though you can feel the anxiety and nervousness boiling inside you like a soup that was left on the stove too long. It makes you feel nauseous, and you don't even touch your own lunch that day.
When you get home, you see that Frank has sent a single message.
5:30
Okay. That's fine, right? He's just telling you what time he'll be home, right? Maybe you read it in the wrong tone. What if he's super pissed? What if he hates you? What if he regrets marrying you? What if-
You are pulled out of your thoughts when a cold, wet nose presses against your leg. Max.
"Hi, baby..." You coo, petting him and watching the big dumb pittie smile spread across his face.
"You wanna go potty?" You ask absentmindedly as you reach for his leash and harness that hang by the door.
By the time you get back from your potty trip with Max, it's already 5. Only half an hour left. You take Max's harness off, making a mental note to give him a bath at some point within the week. Not knowing what to do with your time, you settle on putting the dishes from yesterday away. By the time you're done, it's 5:15. Fuck. Nothing to do but wait.
After the most tense fifteen minutes of your life, The front door opens almost silently. You might not have noticed it if Max hadn't barked and if you weren't actively watching the door from the table. Frank enters silently, petting the dog for a second before hanging up his jacket and turning to you. His gaze is heavy and intense, but you hold it. You are going to show him how much this affects you.
"So, you actually followed through this time." You speak pointedly
"For Crissake-" he huffs, running a hand through his hair
"No, Frank. Don't even fucking start with that. Do you know what that was like? For three fucking hours I got complete silence from you! You never do that! And then you don't even have the decency to reply? You left me on read, Frank! I didn't even know if you were fucking alive! You could have been bleeding out on the sidewalk, and I'd have had no idea!"
"Why would I be bleedin' out?"
"Because I know you, Frank! I know you walk into fights with minimal protection, and I've stitched up enough bullet holes and slashes and I've put your goddamn bones back into place, and- and-" you start to trail off, tears welling in your eyes because of how angry you are.
Frank goes soft for a moment, thinking you're crying because you're worried.
"No! Don't fucking do that! I'm just pissed off at you!" You clarify as you wipe your tears.
"You can't expect me to update you every second of the day, doll." He says in a neutral tone, putting a hand on his hip and the other dragging down his face
"Not every second, smartass. You know that all I ask is what time you'll be home. I don't give a shit about any reasons or other factors. Just tell me when you'll be home. I'd go fucking pick you up if you needed me to. But you and I both know very well why I worry. So don't act like the goddamn victim here."
Frank stays still for a second, processing that you're upset because you wanted to know that he was okay. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, which are chapped since you haven't been reminding him to put chapstick on.
You watch in silence as Frank makes his way over to you, his steps so quiet and yet so heavy all the same. You hiccup in a breath and wipe your tears again, opening your mouth to add another point. Before you can say anything, he had his arms around you and his face in the crook of your neck.
"M'sorry."
It's barely audible, and it doesn't even technically qualify as a word, but it speaks volumes. You want to make him say specifically what he's sorry for, but you also don't want to push it after 12 whole days of fighting.
"It's okay..." Your sniffled response is instinctual. that's just what you're supposed to say when someone apologizes.
"No, it's not." He doubles down
"I shoulda told you I was gonna be late. And m'sorry it took me this goddamn long to figure out why."
Wow. From anyone else, this would be the bare minimum. But coming from Frank? This was a big step.
"I just... I know what you've been through... And... I know who you've pissed off before... So I just wanna know when you'll be home, if at all. I feel like that's not too much to ask, right?" You sigh
"Never, doll. I shoulda been keepin' you updated from the start. That's my bad." He speaks softly, pulling back to cup your cheek gently.
You bring you own hand over his, pressing his hand further into your cheek as you press a soft kiss to the calloused skin of his palm. It's gotten worse since you haven't been reminding him to moisturize.
You two stand there for a moment, just holding eachother in your dining room. Then Frank presses the softest of kisses to your lips.
"M'sorry." He repeats as he rests his forehead against yours, your lips mere millimeters apart
"It's okay." You whisper back
"It's not."
"I forgive you anyway." You murmur before initiating another kiss, only breaking it to pinch his side
"- as long as you don't do that shit again."
Frank winces and lets out a gruff laugh, but he nods. He leans down to kiss you again, his hands trailing down to your waist. He paused for a moment, but when you gave him the go-ahead, he proceeded to spend the rest of the night making it up to you.
Frank made a promise to himself that night, that he'd never let a fight last that long again. Sometimes, he really didn't understand what he was apologizing for, but you would explain it and accept the apology anyway. Neither of you wanted to do that again.
(Three years later)
At your request (and because you hid the electric shaver), he had grown out his hair and beard. You absolutely loved it. When the two of you would watch a movie, he'd lay his head in your lap and you'd massage his scalp until he was sawing logs along with Max. His beard would tickle you when he'd press kisses to your neck, and when he'd bury his face between your thighs. His hair would also come in handy there, giving you something to tug and use for leverage as you ground your hips into his face. When you would tug it a certain way, he'd groan right into your sex, and it would rumble from his chest all the way to your core.
All was well in your guys' little world, living as Pete Castiglione and his wife. You had gotten Frank to adjust to a more domestic life, and he was more than happy to come home to a loving wife, man's best friend, and a home cooked meal almost every night (because some days you really do just need to order some takeout). Your guys' relationship was thriving, both in public and in the bedroom. He just had a way of making you a stupid mess that you couldn't get enough of.
If you asked Frank what his favorite part about you was, he'd say your smile. It was his home screen, his lock screen, the picture in the rearview mirror of his truck, everything. But inside the bedroom? It was the feeling of you wrapped around him, nothing in the way. Before you were married, he would always wear a condom just in case. But on your wedding night? He nearly came just from finally feeling you without the damn latex.
He loved to fill you up. He loved the way you'd beg for it, the way you shivered when he did, hell, he's even filled you up just to eat it right back out of you until you were crying. You were on birth control anyway, so there wasn't a risk. Right?
You notice it when you wake up one morning to the familiar notification on your phone.
A new cycle begins today!
You roll your eyes at the cheery message from your period tracker, making your way to the bathroom. But it's not there. Your app is never wrong, it adapts based on your past logged periods and adjusts accordingly. It's always right. But your period isn't here.
You decide not to panic, because for all you know, maybe it'll hit later today? Surely, that'll be the case. So you wait. But it didn't come that day. Or the next, or the day after that. On the fourth day, you're really starting to panic. You're officially late. And not the kind that can be excused by blaming traffic.
You don't tell Frank right away, not wanting to sound a false alarm. That night, you're sitting on the bathroom floor with a timer on your phone and a sleeping husband and dog in the living room. To say you were nervous was the understatement of the century. You weren't scared about being pregnant (yet), you were more nervous about Frank. You knew about Maria, Lisa, and Junior. You knew that was something he hadn't truly healed from yet.
What if he freaks out? What if he doesn't want it? What if he leaves you? What would you do? How would you pay the bills on your own? What if-
Your thoughts are interrupted by the timer on your phone going off. You quickly shut it up, lest it wake your sleeping husband. you're silent for a moment, glad to hear that he's still snoring like a chainsaw. Your hands are shaky as you reach for the small plastic device on the sink, and you almost don't want to see the results. You take a deep breath for your nerves before flipping it over. Two pink lines.
Pairing:Â Simon âGhostâ Riley x Medic!Reader
Synopsis: Five times Soap questions the relationship between Ghost and the 141's Medic, and the one time he gets an answer.
Word Count: 2.9k
Warnings: mentions of blood, mild swearing
Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters.
part two. part three. part four.
The first time is purely by accident.Â
Itâs not like heâs trying to eavesdrop; it isnât his fault the infirmary doors were left wide open, and it doesnât seem like you and Ghost are trying to be quiet. Price called everyone for a meeting in twenty and, since the infirmaryâs on the way, Soap figures heâd swing by and grab you. Heâs walking towards the doors, paying attention to nothing in particular, when your unmistakable laugh echoes into the hallway. Soap stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the sudden noise.Â
Someoneâs enjoying themselves, he thinks. Heâs almost six steps from the door when you laugh again, this time followed by the deep timbre of a familiar voice that makes Soap stop in his tracks.
Price was the one who had brought you onto the team, but it was supposedly Ghost who had recommended you. âOnly medic I ever met who actually knew what they were doing,â he had said. Apparently the two of you had previously worked on multiple missions together, and that was made obvious by the way you two worked flawlessly around each other with an efficiency that could only have been cultivated through a deep trust and years of teamwork.Â
Soap slowly approaches, all his stealth training coming to the forefront as he leans next to the door and focuses in on what youâre saying.
âItâll only take a day, two tops. I promise.â Soap can hear the smile in your voice. Glancing at the glass panes of the doors, he can just make out your reflection. Youâre standing beside an empty bed, behind an overbed table thatâs covered in papers, leaning on your elbows to smile widely up at Ghost as he stands against the wall on the opposite side of the bed looking wholly unimpressed.Â
âYou want me to spend an entire day sitting in the corner and watching you give everyone on base flu shots?âÂ
âNo, Iâm asking if youâll sit in the corner and look intimidating while I give everyone on base flu shots. The âlook intimidatingâ partâs important,â you speak matter-of-factly.Â
âIâve seen you amputate a manâs leg at the knee mid-combat. Youâre telling me you canât handle a few shots by yourself?â
Soap makes a note to ask about that story later.Â
âI can handle myself just fine, thank you. Itâs everyone else thatâs the problem here.â Ghost blinks at you, seemingly not believing you. âI get it, youâre all big, tough guys who face death every day-â Soap sinks his teeth into his cheek to fight back a laugh as you try to lower your voice in a very poor imitation of Ghost, â-but the way some of these guys act, youâd think I was coming at them with some kind of medieval torture device. I just think-â
âThatâd be a first.â
â-If I had someone that everyone respects, and is a little bit afraid of, sitting nearby then theyâd stop with the whining and I can get my job done faster.âÂ
Thereâs a long pause as you and Ghost stand locked into a staring contest. Soap swears that, for a moment, something like amusement crosses Ghostâs eyes.Â
âYou think people are only a little afraid of me?â Ghost asks, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. You let out a loud, exaggerated scoff, throwing your hands up.
âFine! Go lurk in a dark corner and scare children, or whatever it is you do, instead of helping me. Just donât be surprised if Iâm suddenly out of painkillers the next time you get shot.â Youâre facing away from him, pouting like a child with your arms crossed over your chest. Both Soap and Ghost know you donât mean it, your flawless reputation is too important to you, but Ghost sighs and nods anyways.
âJust tell me what days-â Ghost is barely done talking when youâre spinning around, nearly knocking the table over.
âReally?â
âWhatever will get you to stop being a brat.â Like water off a duckâs back, the insult runs right off of you as you clap your hands together. âNow, come on. Donât want to be late to Priceâs meeting.â Ghost pushes himself off the wall as you shuffle your scattered papers into organized piles to look through later. Soap leans back, taking a few quiet steps back from the door as you and Ghost start to leave the infirmary.Â
âHold on, one sec.â Soap pauses as he hears your hurried footsteps, looking back to your reflection in the glass. Eyes widening, his jaw drops as he watches Ghost let you grab his arm and push yourself up onto your toes to place a quick kiss to the cheekbone of the larger manâs plated skull mask. âThank you,â you speak softly, taking a couple small steps back.Â
Soap doesnât have time to process as you and Ghost step out of the infirmary, immediately spotting him as he stands dumbly in the hallway.Â
âHey Soap! You heading to Priceâs office, too?â Soap blinks, shaking off the shock and giving you a quick nod.Â
âYeah, I was just about to come get the two of you.â
âLetâs go, then,â Ghost says, turning and walking away without waiting for you or Soap. You fall in step behind him almost instantly, waving Soap over. Soap glances between the two of you as he follows. He knew the two of you werenât strangers. Heâd even speculated you mightâve been friends, but heâd never imagined you mightâve been something more. He wants to know more, but also gets the sneaking suspicion that this isnât something he should be prying into. Ghost has always been a private man.Â
Either way, he has no time to think on it further as the three of you enter Priceâs office.Â
-
The second time, heâs in far too much pain and far too tired to really remember if it actually happened.Â
Despite everything, the mission had been a success, though the cost had almost been too much. Your team of seven has two unconscious, three severely injured, and the rest sporting a variety of bullet grazes and knife wounds. None dead, thanks to your quick thinking and efficient work. Itâs late and the teamâs holed up in an old safehouse overnight waiting for evac. Soap is sat up against the far wall, watching you with drooping eyes as you flit around the safehouse, tending to everyoneâs wounds. He had been fortunate enough to only have a few minor wounds, but the adrenaline of the fight is fading fast and the comedown is hitting hard.Â
Ghost is on watch and is the last person you check on, at his own insistence and much to your annoyance. He bats you away from any of the minor cuts and bruises, so you pull up a chair next to his and focus on the deep gash running across his right forearm. Through his sleep-hazed gaze, Soap watches you expertly stitch Ghostâs arm. He can hear the two of you mumbling to each other, but doesnât have the energy to try and decipher your words. Once youâve finished wrapping Ghostâs arm, you glance around at the others.Â
You must assume everyone is asleep by the way you deflate, running a tired hand down your face and stretching your neck with a grimace. You scoot your chair closer to Ghostâs, shutting your eyes and letting your head fall against his armored shoulder. To Soapâs surprise and not to yours, Ghost makes no move to push you away, instead shifting so your headâs not at such an awkward angle and settling into his own chair. Soap can feel his curiosity creeping up, but sleep wins out in the end and he passes out not long after.Â
When he wakes, Ghost is in the same spot, but youâre curled up in a beaten up arm chair across the room still asleep.Â
When evac finally arrives, everyone is awake, and you and Ghost hardly acknowledge each other as he briefs Price over comms and you help load wounded into the helicopter.
-
The third time, heâs sneaking through the rain and blood-soaked streets of Las Almas, Ghost guiding him through his ear as he makes his way to the church.Â
He knows he shouldâve seen it coming, but Gravesâs betrayal stings nonetheless. Soap pushes the anger down, instead focusing on reaching the rendezvous point so they can escape and rescue Alejandro. The banter helps, but thereâs an edge to Ghostâs voice that Soap understands as worry.Â
They havenât heard from you since you all were separated.Â
They both know you can handle yourself, and worrying about it wonât help, so they talk and sort through their situation: what supplies Soap can pick up, how bad tequila tastes, the tactical uses for dog piss. Everything is as fine as it can be while on the run from deadly mercenaries. Until-
âThe mask. Take it off.â
âShow my face?â
âYes, sir.â
âNegative.â
âAre you ugly?â
âQuite the opposite.â
âCan confirm.â Soap nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden sound of your voice.Â
âHoly hell, where have you been?â
âAw, you worried about me, Soap?â The teasing tells him youâre not in too much danger, or are at least somewhere you feel safe, but something in your voice feelsâŠoff.
âWhatâs your status?â Ghost cuts in.
âManaged to get out of the village,â you groan through a deep exhale, and give a haggard laugh, âcanât say the same for the Shadows.â
Ghost gives a quiet hum of praise, but all Soap can hear is the strain in your winded voice. âYou alright, Doc? You sound-â
âDings and scrapes, Soap. Iâll be fine. Meet up with you later.â
âWh-â
âDonât worry about it, Johnny,â Ghost sighs, âjust focus on getting to the church.âÂ
âRight,â Soap mutters. He returns his focus back to the mission at hand, rummaging through the drawers in front of him for rope he can wrap around his extra fan blade.Â
It hits him just as he spots the reflective shine of a shard of glass on the floor. Can confirm, is what youâd said. Did that mean-
âThe Docâs seen you without the mask.â It comes out as more of a statement than a question.Â
âLetâs worry about you, Sergeant.â
-
The fourth time, he lands hard on his feet in the pitch black of Alejandroâs safehouse. Soap has his back turned as Ghost climbs in the window behind him. Luckily for him, as Ghost sees the laser sight aiming right for Soapâs back.Â
âDonât move!â Ghost calls out, before launching a knife into the support beam across the room. Soap whirls around to shine his light at the beam just as someone calls out from behind it.
Before either he or Ghost can answer, someone else stands and walks around to the front, âAbout time you two showed up!â Your voice is an instant relief as they both relax while you turn back to let Rodolfo know itâs safe to come out.Â
âEither of you injured?â you ask, eyes scanning over Soap as Ghost hops down from the open window and Rudy returns his knife.Â
âNothing major,â Soap assures you, though your eyes linger on the bullet hole in his arm.Â
âFound this one trying to climb in through the same window,â Rudy explains, nodding towards you.Â
âI almost had it,â you laugh, leaning to the side to put your weight on the beam. They donât miss the way you wince, and it doesnât take long to notice your right leg is a deep red from the knee up.
âYour leg-â
âLooks worse than it is.âÂ
Soap doesnât believe you, but the subject changes to Graves and he lets it go. The four of you settle around the table as the guys formulate their plan for Alejandroâs prison break. You set your palms atop the table, leaning forward to take as much weight off of your leg as you can so you can focus on the conversation. It doesnât help much, but it helps enough and soon the plan is concrete enough to take action. While Rudy leads Soap to the weapons locker, you take a seat on a nearby box to check the haphazard bandages youâve wrapped around your thigh.
âYouâre staying here.â Soap glances over as Ghost speaks. You laugh quietly, leaning back on your hands to stare up at the man towering over you.
âLeaving me all by my lonesome?â You sound like youâre complaining, but even from a distance Soap can see the relief in your face. Your teasing does little to soothe the stress radiating from Ghost.
âJust-â Ghost lets out a long sigh before dropping his voice so low, Soap can barely hear his words. âBe careful. Please.â You sit up straight, face suddenly serious as you set a gentle hand on Ghostâs wrist.
âFor you? Always.â
âSoap, can you grab the rest of the guns?â Soap snaps back to attention, nodding at Rudy and collecting what guns he can. It takes all of two minutes, and when he turns back, Ghost is sorting through papers and youâve set to properly bandaging your leg.Â
-
By the fifth time something happens, Soap is absolutely sure thereâs something between you and the Lieutenant. He notices it everytime the two of you are together: the quiet banter, the dark jokes only the two of you enjoy, the way Ghost always seems to hover near where youâre standing. It isnât until the 141âs every-so-often night out that his suspicions are confirmed. Gaz and Price stepped away for a round of darts ten minutes ago, and now Soap finds himself sitting alone watching you and Ghost talk at the opposite end of the bar.
âYou keep staring like that, and theyâre going to notice.â Soap chokes on his drink as Price takes a seat next to him, Gaz snickering as he flops down on Soapâs other side and claps him on the back.Â
âIâŠI donât know what youâre talking about, sir,â Soap coughs out, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but the other end of the bar. Price sees straight through his lie, of course.
âGaz, why donât you see if the Doc wants to try a hand at darts?âÂ
âSure thing, boss.â Another clap on the back and Gaz is making his way over to you and Ghost. Soap startles as Price leans close and nudges him in the side with his elbow.Â
âKeep your eyes on him,â Price whispers, and leans away to sip at his own glass. Soap takes another drink, sneakily glancing up just as Gaz reaches you and Ghost. You smile widely at him, nodding when he gestures towards the darts board. You turn and say something to Ghost before standing from the bar and following after Gaz to the other side of the room. Ghostâs eyes follow you the entire way, never once leaving your form.
âWatches like a hawk, that one,â Price hums, âand I thought heâd be better at subtlety.â Soap turns to his Captain, brows furrowed in confusion.Â
âYou-â Price shushes him, and nods back towards Ghost. Soap looks back, and they watch as Ghost sets down his empty glass, stands, then makes his way over to you and Gaz. He posts up, leaning against the wall closest to you where you can easily smile at him every time one of your throws lands.Â
âLike a lost puppy,â Price laughs.
âWhatâs the situation there?â Soap asks, glancing back at Price, but all Price can offer is a lazy shrug.Â
âDonât know, but whatever it is, itâs been happening for a long time.â
-
âAlright, just got a couple papers for you to sign and you should be good to go,â you smile, gently turning Soapâs head to examine the area youâve just pulled his stitches from.Â
âThanks, Doc. âPreciate it.â You give a playfully dismissive wave, disappearing behind the dividing curtain.Â
âIâll be right back!â you call and Soap nods, more to himself than you. He glances around at his sterile surroundings, eyes bouncing from the white walls to the white floor to the white bedsheets. The overbed table sits just next to him, though this time thereâs no mess of papers scattered atop it. Instead, there sits a single file and after twenty seconds of solid boredom, Soap canât help himself.Â
Lifting from the bottom corner of the file, Soap nearly drops it as he sees your picture clipped to a pile of papers. He looks behind him, pulling the curtain just enough to peer through. He spots you on the far side of the infirmary, waiting patiently at the printer. Letting the curtain fall, he quickly turns back to your file. He flips it open, picking up the paper with your photo attached. Itâs an older picture, maybe from three or four years ago, but your smile is still as wide as ever.Â
Flipping the picture up reveals almost two entire pages of solid black lines. Thereâs more redacted information here than Soap has ever seen. Soap skims through what few sentences are available, every so often catching things like SIS and specialty interrogation tactics and a slew of words he never wouldâve associated with your cheerful demeanor. He gets to the final page that appears to be a printed copy of the photo and his heart nearly stops as he reads the name written at the bottom and everything clicks together in his head.
