hollowmem

[hollowmem]

November 23rd, 2016

After I wrote last time, they took my journal away again. They read what I wrote. I don’t know how, but they did. They said I was “undermining progress” and punished me severely.

They wouldn’t tell me what the punishment was supposed to do. Just that it was necessary. I couldn’t move properly for days. My muscles screamed, and my skin felt tight and raw.

I didn’t write because I was scared. Scared they’d take the journal forever. Scared they’d make things worse.

But I still feel like I’m breaking.

The training never stops. It’s worse now. They push me harder every day, like I’m some machine that needs fixing, not a person.

They make me run until my legs feel like they’ll crumble beneath me. Every morning before the sun even comes up, they’re yelling at me to move faster. Faster. Faster. They say I’m slow. They say I’m weak.

I’m not slow. I’m not weak. But when my muscles scream and my breath burns, I don’t know if I can keep pretending anymore.

The drills don’t end when I’m tired. They bring in new exercises—climbing walls I’m scared to fall from, crawling through dark tunnels where I can’t see my own hands, and fighting shadows in simulation rooms until my teeth grind raw.

They watch me the whole time. The doctors scribble notes, the soldiers stand silent and cold. I feel like I’m always being measured, weighed, tested.

They say I’m “progressing,” but I don’t feel like I’m getting stronger. I feel like I’m breaking.

My tail twitches when I’m scared or angry, but I have to keep it still. I have to keep my wolf quiet or they punish me with more drills, more pain.

Sometimes at night, I hear whispers outside my door—words I can’t quite catch but that make my skin crawl. I don’t know if they’re talking about me or some terrible thing coming next.

I miss feeling safe. I miss feeling like I’m just a girl. Not this experiment. Not this weapon.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold on to who I am underneath all this.

But I have to. I have to keep fighting, even if it’s just inside where no one can see.

Because if I stop… then I’m really lost.

Last week, I broke my leg during training. I fell hard while climbing one of those walls. It hurt so much I thought I’d scream, but I didn’t. They wanted me to keep going anyway—said I was slowing down the schedule.

But one of the doctors finally stood up to them. He said if I didn’t get a break, I’d be “unusable.” That scared me more than the fall.

They wanted to give me crutches so I could at least walk out of the room for different exercises, but I wasn’t able to walk with them. The doctor said it would be better for my body and my mind to rest a bit.

They listened to him, but I overheard them talking after. They sounded scared. Scared because I’m the first one to get this far. I’m supposed to be their success.

[hollowmem]

November 20th, 2015

I haven’t written since May.

They took the journal. I guess I wasn’t supposed to ask the things I did. Or maybe they didn’t like how I said them. They didn’t explain. They just took it.

Now it’s back. On my bed this morning. No warning. No one said anything about it. It’s probably a test.

Everything feels like a test now.

They’ve changed the training again. It’s harder. Longer. No breaks between sessions. Just orders. It’s more strict. More cold. They don’t call it practice anymore. Now it’s conditioning.

There are new people watching me. Not just doctors but military. I can tell. They don’t wear coats or carry clipboards. They wear black with gloves. They don’t talk to me. They just stand at the corners with their arms crossed like they’re waiting to see if I mess up.

Sometimes I catch them watching me longer than before. Not saying anything. Just watching. Like I’m some animal in a cage.

Dr. Park still does the evaluations, but now he’s always flanked by two others. Dr. Yao and someone with silver hair I don’t know the name of. They talk in a different code. Use words I don’t understand. One of them looked at my file last week and said I was “past Stage 3 trajectory.” Dr. Park looked nervous when he said that.

I think I heard someone say I’m the first to survive Stage 2. I don’t know what that means, but I think it’s supposed to be important.

More combat drills. More obstacle runs. Night sessions. Simulation rooms. I’m not training like a kid anymore. I’m training like a soldier. Except no one said I signed up for that.

They started putting weights on my ankles last week. My legs felt like they’d snap but I kept moving.

They always watch to see if I break.

During drills, they gave me a role. I’m Tracker. Makes sense, I guess. My ears pick up more than they think I notice.

I hear them talking sometimes when they think I’m too far down the hall. They say words like viability and asset conditioning and Phase Two clearance. I don’t know what Phase Two is. But it doesn’t sound good.

And I keep getting pulled for extra scans. Extra strength tests. They keep measuring my reflex time. My bite pressure. My rage indicators.

They act like I can’t hear them whisper when they think I’m out of range. But I can. My hearing’s too good now.

I haven’t told anyone what happens to me when I get too mad. When my heart pounds too fast and everything smells sharp and my hands feel wrong. My claws come out even when I don’t mean to. I know they’ve noticed the marks in the walls.

But I keep my face blank. I nod when they speak. I do what I’m told.

Because if I let them see what I’m really feeling, they’ll file another report. They’ll lock me away like the others.

And I’m not going to disappear.

I don’t care how many of them watch. I don’t care how many times they try to shape me into something I’m not.

I’m still me.

Even if I have to pretend to be someone I am not.

[hollowmem]

May 13th, 2015

It’s been a hard few weeks, everything changed.

The playroom is locked. My books are gone. No more paints, no more soft chairs, no more warm cocoa after lights out.

Now, they make me run down the same long hallway, again and again. My legs burn. My chest hurts. They keep yelling at me to go faster.

They don’t smile at me anymore.

I asked Dr. Park what I did wrong. I asked why they were treating me like this. He didn’t answer. He just wrote something on his clipboard and told the guards to "reset the timer."

That night, I couldn’t move my arms. Everything ached. I cried in the dark. No one came.

I miss Nurse Lea reading to me. I miss the horse book. I miss sitting on the floor drawing forests I’ve never seen.

I miss feeling safe.

I thought being special meant they cared about me. That they were keeping me here to protect me. That’s what they always said.

But now I think maybe that wasn’t true.

Or maybe I stopped being special when I turned ten. Maybe I broke some rule I didn’t know was there. Maybe this is my fault.

They made me do combat drills yesterday. They said I was too slow. That I needed to learn how to defend myself.

But I don’t want to fight. I just want to go back. I want the old schedule. The old voices. The way they used to speak to me like I mattered.

But now when they look at me, it’s like I’m a thing. Like I’m supposed to become something else, and the girl I was doesn’t matter anymore.

I’m scared all the time and even when I try my best, even when I don’t complain and I run until I fall down, there’s still pain.

If I ask questions, there’s pain.

If I hesitate, there’s pain.

If I cry, they say I’m weak.

I don’t want to be weak. I want them to like me again.

I want to be special the way I used to be.

I want things to go back.

But I don’t think they will.

[hollowmem]

April 13th, 2015

My birthday was last week.

I turned ten.

They made me a little cake — strawberry with the white frosting I like. There weren’t candles (open flames aren’t allowed, Nurse Lea said), but there were red paper flowers and a card that said “To Our Brightest Star.”

Dr. Collins hugged me. I don’t think she’s ever done that before. Her coat smelled like peppermint and something clean. I liked it, but it felt… different.

Everyone was extra nice that day. I got a new sketchbook, soft pajamas, and one of the guards even waved at me through the glass.

I’ve never had a real birthday before. At least not one I remember. They said ten is a big number. A turning point.

I don’t know what that means.

The day after my birthday, they changed my schedule. No more play hour after lunch. Instead, I go to something called "Observation Studies.” It’s not bad — I sit in a room and look at screens. Sometimes they show animals in the wild. Sometimes they show people. I’m supposed to write down what I notice.

I asked if I did something wrong. Dr. Park said no, that I’m just growing up.

But I still miss the finger paints.

Something else weird: I haven’t seen Mr. Halvorsen in a few days. He used to read me riddles every morning. When I asked where he was, Nurse Lea said he was “transferred to a different wing.”

I didn’t know we had wings. I thought this whole place was just… here.

Anyway, it’s probably nothing. Grown-ups are busy a lot.

I’ve been having trouble sleeping again. Not nightmares, just… this feeling. Like something’s waiting.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful. Everyone here takes care of me. They say I’m lucky. They say I’m one of a kind. That the world outside wouldn’t understand me.

I try to believe them.

But sometimes I dream about the forest again. Not the picture-book kind. A real one. Cold. Dark. Wild.

And I’m running through it — not because I’m scared. But because I can.

[hollowmem]

April 3rd, 2015

Dr. Collins gave me this notebook today. She said it’s called a diary, and I can write in it whenever I want. She told me it’s a place to keep my thoughts and feelings, like a little home for them. I asked if it’s homework. Dr. Collins laughed and said, “No, 1976, it’s just for you.”

Just for me. That feels weird.

I asked if everyone gets one when they turn ten. She said no — mine is special.

I like that word. Special. They say it about me a lot.

Today I had reading time after lunch. I’m on chapter four of the horse book. I like the horses. They run wherever they want, and their hair blows in the wind. I asked Mr. Halvorsen if horses ever live in places like this. He laughed and said no, horses need more space than we have.

I guess I do too, sometimes.

After reading, I painted a picture. It’s of a forest, even though I’ve never seen one. I just imagined what it would smell like — like dirt and green things. I think I want to smell dirt someday. Is that weird? I hope not.

I asked if I could go outside again soon. Nurse Lea said not yet. She says the world is still dangerous for someone like me. That I’m safest here, where people care about me.

I believe her. Everyone here is nice. They bring me my favorite fruit cups and read me stories when I can’t sleep.

Sometimes I wonder why I don’t have a name like the girls in my books. I asked once. Dr. Park said numbers help them keep everything organized. I’m Subject 1976. It’s not a bad number. I’ve had it my whole life. It fits.

But still… it might be nice to have a name someday. Even just a little one.

Anyway, this diary is mine. That feels strange to write. I’ve never had something that was just mine before.

Maybe I’ll write again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll write about the horses. Or the forest. Or how sometimes, late at night, I wonder what the sky really looks like without a ceiling.

[hollowmem]

Ashley "Wolfie" Diary

We decided to finally start writing our OC story in a sort of diary format. We thought it would be a more creative way to tell the story, more personal and from her perspective.

This post will also serve as a masterlist to keep all the diary entry links in one place. Her name is Subject 1976, but she now goes by Ashley. She’s also known as Ash, or by her callsign: Wolfie. A wolf hybrid operative, part human, part wolf.

You can read her backstory here - https://toyhou.se/30747215.ashley ART IS DONE BY US AND WE DO NOT WISH IT TO BE STOLEN OR USED WITHOUT OUR KNOWLEDGE

List of entries to read: » April 3rd, 2015 » April 13th, 2015 » May 13th, 2015 » November 20th, 2015 » November 23rd, 2016

[hollowmem]

Y/N: Hey, Ghost!

Ghost: Sweetheart. (nods)

Y/N: (brightest smile as you leave flustered with a wave)

Ghost:

Ghost:

Ghost:

[...]

Ghost:

Ghost:

Ghost:

Ghost:

Gaz: Why is Ghost frozen in place?

Soap: Y/N.

Gaz: Ah.

Gaz: For how long—

Soap: (shows him his phone, timer showing 43min 56sec count)

Gaz: Is... is he breathing?

Soap: He chuckled once.

Gaz: He fucking what?

Soap: Scared the recruits.

Gaz: (sits down with Soap just to observe)

Ghost:

Ghost:

Ghost:

Price: (passing by, stops in tracks noticing Ghost)

Price: Lemme guess... Y/N?

Soap: Aye.

Gaz: Yep.

Ghost: (Victorian maiden sigh of yearning)

[hollowmem]

While He Watch

AFAB!Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x John Price CW: Breath play, Cuckold, Consensual play THIS STORY IS STRICTLY 18+ SO MINORS GO AWAY FYI, Soap is Y/n boyfriend!

Y/n was lying across Soap’s chest, legs tangled, TV playing something neither of you were really watching. His fingers were running slowly through her hair, and he’d been quiet for a little too long.

"You ever think about… letting someone else join us?" he asked, voice low like he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to say it out loud.

She turned her head, raising an eyebrow. “You mean a threesome?”

He gave a small laugh. “Sorta. Not like, just anyone. I mean someone we know. Someone I trust"

That piqued her interest. “Okay, who?”

He hesitated, then looked at her with that half-grin, half-serious look he gets when he’s testing the waters. “Price.”

Her brain stumbled a bit. “Wait, your captain?”

He nodded, eyes on her. “Yeah. Look, I’ve been thinking about it. I like the idea of seeing you being taken care of. Letting go a bit. While I... watch.”

She sat up a little, trying to read his face. He looked dead serious, not weird but just honest.

“…And he’s into this too?” She asked.

Soap gave a small smirk. “Let’s just say the topic came up over a few drinks. He’s game if you are”

She let that sit in the air for a moment. Her heart was beating faster a bit nervous, but also a little… curious.

“…You really want to see that?”

He looked at her, voice low. “Yeah. I do”

After that day its been few days. She kind of figured what was happening when Soap cleaned the apartment without being asked. Like, not just tidying. Cleaning. Fresh sheets, and preparing everything for the night.

He just gave her a look over his shoulder and said, “He’ll be here soon”

Y/n didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to.

Price showed up just after dark. Same calm energy, a bottle of something fancy in one hand, a small nod of hello in her direction. No weird tension. Just… a low hum under the surface.

They all ended up on the couch like always — takeout containers half-open, some old movie playing in the background that none of them were really watching. It felt easy. Almost normal, except for the way Soap kept brushing his fingers against your arm. And the way Price was looking at you. Like he was paying attention.

At some point, Soap leaned in and murmured “Still feel okay?”

She nodded.

Price took a sip of the alcohol he brought, his blue eyes never leaving Y/n's face as he felt the tension building in the room. He could sense the anticipation, the unspoken desires hanging heavy in the air. Setting the glass down, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

"I want you to know that I'm not here to pressure you into anything. We both... appreciate you. More than you know." Price's tone softened, his mustache twitching slightly as he offered a small, encouraging smile. "But we also respect your boundaries. So if this isn't something you're comfortable with, just say the word and we'll drop it. No hard feelings."

He sat back, giving Y/n space, his body language open and non-threatening. Despite the charged atmosphere, Price wanted to make sure she felt safe and respected in this situation. Her wellbeing and comfort were, as always, his top priority. The ball was in her court now.

She looked up towards Price after he said it "Well he proposed it because he knew i would like to try after all" She said quietly "Things like that are always exciting"

Price felt a flicker of interest at Y/n's words, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache. “Guess Soap knows what he’s doing, then. He’s usually got a pretty good read on people.” His eyes swept over her with quiet appreciation. “And he’s right—this could be fun. For all of us.”

He shot a glance at Soap, the kind of look that said they were on the same page without needing to say anything at all.

Soap stood up leading her to the bedroom with price right behind. He himself sat on the chair next to the bed in the lightly dim lit room, with candles as their only light source. Making it cozy and intimate moment.

Price walked closer, and started roaming his hands over her body before he started to take her clothes and get on her. While Soap watched them.

Price sensed Y/n's interest in exploring more intense sensations and his pulse quickened at the unspoken direction their encounter was taking. He glanced at Soap, catching his eye with a meaningful look, before turning his full attention back to her.

"Alright, love," Price murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "Let's try something a bit different, shall we? Something to heighten those amazing sensations we both know you can take."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a length of silky, black fabric - a soft blindfold. "I want you to trust me completely," he said, fingers brushing her cheek softly as he brought the blindfold towards her eyes. "If it gets too intense for you, just say the word and I'll stop. Understand?"

At the same time, Soap shifted in his seat, palming himself through his pants as he watched the intimate scene unfold. He could see the way Price handled Y/n, the tender yet dominant way he touched her, and it fueled his own arousal. As Price carefully placed the blindfold over Y/n's eyes and secured it, Soap began to slowly unzip his fly, freeing his hardening cock.

The candlelight flickered, as he wrapped a hand around his shaft. He watched, captivated, as Price positioned himself between Y/n's thighs, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance.

Price looked up at Y/n, checking in with her one last time before he began to push forward, his thick length slowly penetrating her, stretching her around him. "Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his hips rocking steadily as he sank deeper and deeper into her welcoming heat.

Soap bit his lip, fisting his cock a little tighter as he watched Price claim her, watched her body yield to the deep, powerful thrusts of his Captain's hips. The room was filled with the sounds of their coupling - the slap of skin on skin, their mingled breaths and low, pleasured groans.

As Price began to establish a steady, driving rhythm, Soap matched the pace with his own strokes, his breathing growing heavier as he watched every intimate detail. Price felt Y/n's body begin to tremble and tense beneath him as he continued his relentless, deep thrusts. Her hands gripped the sheets. Price could sense her building towards the edge, her walls starting to clench around him.

"Fuck, you're close," he rumbled, his voice strained with his own impending release. "That's it, love. Let go. I've got you"

He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep kiss as he reached up and wrapped one hand around her throat. His grip was firm but not painful, applying a steady pressure as he felt her body start to convulse beneath him.

"Breathe through it," Price commanded softly against her lips, his hips never faltering in their intense rhythm. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. Just like that."

Meanwhile, Soap stroked himself faster, his eyes glued to the erotic scene before him. He could see the way Y/n's body arched and jerked with each powerful thrust of Price's hips, and could hear the desperate, needy sounds spilling from her lips.

"Look at you, taking him so fucking well," Soap groaned, his hand pumping furiously over his aching cock. "You're fucking stunning, love. Completely breathtaking"

He could tell by the tension in Price's body, the strain in his voice, that he was close to his own release. But Soap knew Price would hold back, would make sure she found her pleasure first. That was the way they operated - prioritizing her needs above their own.

As Y/n was on the brink, Price tightened his grip on her throat, feeling her pulse jump and race beneath his fingers. "Now, Y/n" he commanded, his voice a low, authoritative growl. "Come for me"

Price felt Y/n's body go rigid, her back arching sharply off the bed as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave.

"That's it, sweetheart" Price grunted, his hips slamming forward one, two, three more times before he buried himself to the hilt inside her spasming heat. With a guttural, animalistic sound, he found his own release, his cock throbbing and twitching as he emptied himself deep within her.

On the chair, Soap stroked himself to the sight of their shared ecstasy. Price claiming her so thoroughly and completely, pushed him over the edge. Thick ropes of hot seed spurted from his cock, painting the sheets and floor as he found his own intense release, the force of it making him shudder and gasp.

For a long moment, the room was filled with the sounds of their ragged breathing and the lingering echoes of their shared bliss. Price carefully removed his hand from Y/n's throat, his touch gentle as he caressed her neck, helping her regain her breath.

"Y/n" he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "You were amazing. Absolutely incredible." He leaned in to capture her lips in a soft, tender kiss, pouring his awe and admiration into the embrace.

Soap, still catching his breath, looked on with a smug, sated grin. "That was fucking beautiful," he said, his voice hoarse. "I knew you'd be stunning like that, love. She took it like a champ"

[hollowmem]

⎯ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ.

wc: {494} tw: explicit sexual content, breeding kink, overstimulation, mating press, size kink, unprotected sex, multiple rounds, praise + light degradation.

you should’ve known the second he came home growling your name that it wasn’t going to be soft tonight.

your legs are pinned wide to the bed, pressed up so high your knees nearly touch your shoulders. his body’s over yours, heavy and solid, every thick thrust grinding the breath from your lungs.

“fuckin’ tight,” he mutters through grit teeth. “always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

he doesn’t pull out. not even a little. just drags in deep, deeper, til your body’s trembling from how full he’s got you. your hips twitch, trying to move, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you open, keeping you in place.

“not runnin’ from it,” simon growls. “you wanted this.”

you nod frantically, blinking through the tears that pool at your lashes. your body’s so overstimulated already—clit puffy and swollen from the last two orgasms he forced out of you with nothing but slow, deep strokes and soft praise in your ear.

now he’s chasing his own. his thrusts get faster. harder. more desperate.

“need it,” he huffs, sweat dripping off his brow as he pounds into you. “gonna fuck a baby into you, yeah?”

your whole body jerks. the sound you make isn’t even a moan—just a broken, breathless whimper.

“yeah,” he pants, eyes locked on the spot where he’s stretched you wide. “fill this little cunt up—keep you so fuckin’ full, no one’ll even think you’re single.”

you sob his name.

“mine,” he grits. “say it.”

“yours,” you gasp. “yours—yours—yours—”

he slams in to the hilt and stays there. buried deep. cock throbbing inside you as he spills, hot and heavy, til it leaks out around the base.

but he doesn’t stop.

your thighs twitch when he starts moving again, slower this time—grinding, not thrusting. like he’s making sure every drop stays inside you.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers. “you can give me one more.”

“can’t—simon—too much—”

“shhh.” he kisses your temple. “yes you can.”

his fingers drift to your clit. soft little circles, coaxing, teasing, pushing you back up that edge.

“gonna take it like a good girl. let me fuck another one into you.”

you cry out, body shaking, brain blank with pleasure.

he’s groaning again—thick voice in your ear, full of filth and worship and love and need.

“not stoppin’ til you’re bred. over and over. gonna keep goin’—you feel that? feel how easy you take me now?”

you can’t speak. you’re gone. mindless. just whimpering into the sheets as another orgasm crashes through you, stars popping behind your eyes.

simon kisses you through it. lips on your cheek, your throat, your lips.

“atta girl,” he murmurs. “that’s it.”

you’re not sure how long he stays inside you. not sure how many times he comes again. just know that by the time he pulls out, you’re full. dripping. aching in the best way.

and when he finally gathers you up in his arms, you’re already half-asleep—body spent, heart full.

[hollowmem]

Ooo thank you! What about if Johnny and Reader has to babysit, sprung on them out of nowhere. Maybe Captain’s toddler or baby? They’re frazzled but pull through just peachy. 😍 There are some hilarious mishaps though feat. precocious child thoughts that got them thinking of having a bairn of their own. Reader teases that Johnny needs to give her a ring first.

Week of leave

AFAB !Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

You and Johnny were all set to head off for a proper week of leave — no drills, no alarms, no MREs. Just the two of you, a rental car, and plans to do absolutely nothing productive.

You were finishing up paperwork in the common room when Captain Price walked in, his little girl balanced on one hip, holding a worn elephant plush by the ear. She was looking around with sleepy curiosity, thumb in her mouth.

“Hey, Cap,” you greeted, raising an eyebrow.

“Got a favor to ask,” Price said and came straight up to you. His voice dropped to the kind of tone he usually reserved for classified ops. “I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option — but my sitter bailed, and I’ve got to be on a flight in two hours.”

You glanced between him and the toddler, already half-suspecting where this was going.

“She’s comfortable with you,” he said. “And you’ve got good instincts. More mature than most on base.”

There was a pause. Then, like an afterthought, he added, “MacTavish’ll be with you, right?”

Johnny, who had just walked in with a bag of chips and a look of betrayal, sputtered. “You sayin’ I’m not mature?”

Price gave him a flat look. “You once duct-taped a GoPro to a pigeon, Johnny.”

“That was science, mate.”

You bit back a laugh and looked down at the little girl, who was now trying to poke her tiny fingers into Johnny’s tactical boot.

“She’s good,” Price said softly. “Sweet. Just needs someone to keep her safe for a couple days while I’m out.”

You exhaled. “Yeah. We can do it.”

The next few days were a delightful disaster.

You’d been tackled at 6 a.m. by a giggling blur in dinosaur pajamas. Johnny had discovered that she would cry every time he stopped reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar — so he’d read it seven times in one morning. The living room was a graveyard of half-chewed snacks, scattered crayons, and one suspiciously sticky throw pillow.

At night, after she finally passed out in her makeshift cot, you and Johnny would collapse on the couch, exhausted but kind of glowing.

One evening, Johnny watched her sleep, arms tucked under her chin, that elephant plush beside her.

“She’s a handful,” he said quietly. “But she’s… I dunno. Makes things feel real.”

You looked over, heart thudding.

“She called me ‘MacFish’ again today,” he added after a beat.

“She likes you,” you said, smiling. “She trusts you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I get why Price picked you, know. You’ve got this… steadiness about you. Like you already know what you’re doing.”

You tilted your head. “And what about you?”

He shrugged, then glanced at you. “I think I’d figure it out — if you were figuring it out with me.”

You smiled at that, but something in his voice made your stomach flip. It wasn’t a joke. Not this time.

You both fell quiet, watching the rise and fall of the toddler’s breathing, the peace of it — the weird, warm glow of the moment. For the first time, it wasn’t just funny or chaotic or sweet.

It felt... possible.

“You ever think about it?” he asked softly.

You blinked. “About what?”

“Having one. A kid.” He cleared his throat. “A family. With me.”

Your heart stuttered. He wasn’t looking at you, but you could tell he meant it — not some flippant joke or playful nudge. He was serious. Nervous, even.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment. “I do.”

He turned to look at you then — really looked — and you saw it: the hope. The longing. The love.

You reached over and took his hand. “But if we’re doing the whole family thing,” you teased gently, “you better start thinking about rings.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

Outside, the world was quiet. Inside, between the two of you, something new had quietly taken root — a future that felt more real than ever.

[hollowmem]

Permission to Burn

Pairing: John Price x gn!afab!Reader x Johnny “Soap” MacTavish Tags: cuckolding, voyeurism, light angst, dirty talk, established relationship, consent, reader insecurity, alcohol mention, dom!Price, playful!Soap, inexperience kink, soft degradation, praise kink, aftercare

It starts with the whiskey. Or maybe it starts with the look Johnny throws across the table, lip curled in a grin, tongue tucked behind his teeth like he knows something you don’t.

You laugh too fast at a joke you didn’t hear.

Price watches. Always watching.

It’s not often 141 goes out, but after a successful mission and a string of good luck, Laswell insisted they deserve to celebrate. Someone booked out a low-key club just outside base, private enough to keep the uniforms quiet and the music loud.

You’re tucked beside Price on the plush couch in the VIP section, the scent of cigar smoke and leather thick around you. His arm is heavy over your shoulder. Protective. Comforting. But tonight, that possessiveness is tempered with something else, something older and hungrier that has you squirming in your seat before anyone’s even touched you.

Maybe it’s the heat of Soap’s gaze. Maybe it’s the way Price leans in and murmurs, “You alright, love?” in that low, gravel-thick voice when your thighs rub together for the fifth time in as many minutes.

You nod, biting your lip. But he sees you. You’ve never been able to hide from him.

He pulls you in, hand sliding low over your spine. You feel the weight of his lips near your ear.

“Been watchin’ you fidget. You wet, bird?”

Your breath stutters. “Johnny’s… flirty.”

Price hums. “He’s always flirty.”

“I know, it’s just—” You hesitate. “He’s… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You hate how small your voice sounds. You’re not a virgin, but compared to John Price, seasoned, confident, devastatingly in control, you feel like a match next to wildfire. Johnny makes you laugh, makes you blush, but you’ve never let yourself think beyond that. Not seriously.

Price’s fingers skim your hip. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him?”

Your heart kicks up.

“I… haven’t—”

He chuckles darkly. “You have. You just didn’t know you had permission.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“P-permission?”

He shifts, cupping your jaw to make you face him. His eyes are blue steel under the club lights. “You’re mine. But I know you want more. I want you to have it. Let me watch while he breaks you in a little. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The whimper that slips out of you isn’t intentional. Price grins like the devil himself and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Go on, then. Go ask him.”

Your stomach flips. You turn slowly, finding Johnny mid-laugh, beer bottle dangling from one tattooed hand. As if he feels you looking, he glances your way, then blinks when he sees you standing in front of him.

“Hey, bonnie,” he says, smiling. “You alright?”

You don’t answer with words. Just reach for his hand and lead him to the private lounge behind the VIP section.

Johnny’s brows raise. “Is this—”

“Price said I could.”

He stops. “Price… what?”

You glance over your shoulder. “He wants to watch.”

Johnny’s quiet for a beat. Then...“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

But he’s grinning. That manic glint in his eye lights up, and he follows you the rest of the way like a dog off-leash.

Inside, Price takes a seat on the long leather chaise. Spreads his legs. Lights a cigar like it’s just another briefing. Like this is normal.

You’re already trembling when Johnny pulls you in close.

“He always this generous?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Just don’t tease me.”

Johnny smirks. “No promises.”

Clothes are a blur. His mouth is fire. He kisses you like he’s wanted to for years, hands rough on your hips as he walks you back toward the wall. You moan into him, and somewhere behind the haze of your arousal, you hear Price’s low voice:

“Nice and slow, Johnny. Don’t wanna ruin ’em.”

Johnny groans. “Fuckin’ hell, this is surreal.”

He drops to his knees.

Your thighs shake as he licks into you, fast and wet and filthy. He moans into your cunt like he means it, eating you out with no patience. Fingers digging into your hips to hold you steady while your knees threaten to buckle.

Price watches with his jaw tight. You can feel the heat of his stare.

“There you go, bird,” he rumbles. “Ride his tongue. That’s it. Let him learn what you sound like.”

Johnny chuckles against you. “Didn’t know you were such a fuckin’ tease, Cap.”

Price blows a slow stream of smoke. “Didn’t know you were such a good dog.”

You gasp, clenching around nothing.

Johnny grins. “They like that.”

And he goes back in.

When he finally stands and shoves his jeans down, your eyes go wide. He’s thick, flushed dark, already slick with precome. You falter, unsure, nerves flaring. He must see it in your face, because his hand cups your cheek.

“Hey,” he says, soft for once. “We go slow. We stop if you say so. Alright?”

You nod.

Price leans forward. “Use ’em right, MacTavish.”

Johnny pushes in slow. You stretch around him inch by inch, biting your lip so hard you taste blood. You don’t look away from Price. His eyes burn into yours, his fist curled tight around his cock, slowly stroking as he watches you get filled.

“Goddamn,” Johnny groans. “So fuckin’ tight. You sure you’re not a virgin?”

You squeak a laugh. “Feels like it.”

“That’s alright,” Price says. “Johnny’ll help with that.”

Johnny fucks you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, but it’s Price’s voice that keeps you grounded. He praises you between growls, talking you through every thrust.

“Look at you. My sweet thing takin’ cock so well. Didn’t know you had this in you.”

You whimper. “I wanna be good—”

“You are, bird. You’re perfect. Look how desperate you are, fuckin’ yourself on his cock just for me.”

Johnny’s panting, hand gripping your waist tight.

“Fuck, Cap, if you keep talkin’ like that I’m gonna blow—”

Price hums. “Not inside.”

Johnny pulls out and finishes over your stomach, chest heaving, curses falling like rain.

You’re gasping, legs trembling. It’s messy and overwhelming and so, so much, but when Price pulls you into his lap and kisses your temple, you melt against him like you’ve come home.

He murmurs, “You did so well for me, bird,” and you finally let yourself cry.

Not from pain. Not even from pleasure.

But from love. And the way he lets you be everything, sweet and filthy, insecure and wanted. A little less inexperienced. A little more his.

And God help you, you want more.

[hollowmem]

You're not cursed... Just too good to die

GN!Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish and John Price TW: survivor's guilt, death/loss of teammates, emotional isolation, self-blame, and implied PTSD. This is last day of the writing challange. I cannot believe that from 2 weeks, i managed to make it into a whole month! Hope you liked it, because I don't stop writing at all! Day 30: Reader is too scared to get close to anyone, as they deem themselves “dangerous”.

The rain doesn’t stop.

It taps against the broken window like it’s counting down. One second. Two. Three. Tick, tick, tick. You sit in the corner with your back to the wall and your eyes on the floor, listening to nothing but the storm and the low, static cough of the radio.

Extraction’s late. Again. Probably won’t come. You’re used to that.

Soap is pacing. He doesn’t like stillness. Never has. It makes him fidget, makes him talk—usually to fill the silence. But not this time.

Even he can feel it hanging in the air, thick and cold like a coming funeral.

Price is at the table, flipping through maps that don’t matter anymore. He knows it too.

You shouldn’t be here.

“You always do this?” Soap asks suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet like a dull blade.

You don’t look up. “Do what?”

“Disappear like that. Still in the room but a hundred klicks away.”

You don’t respond. There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

Price doesn’t look up when he speaks. “They’ve lost more teams than you want to know.”

Soap slows his pacing. “How many?”

You shrug. “Four. This is five.”

Soap whistles, low. “Fuck.”

You nod. “Exactly.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. Neither does Price. The weight of it settles over all of you, thick as the damp in the air.

“Every time,” you murmur, so quiet it barely counts as speech. “Every time I think it might be different. Every time I let someone in—”

You cut yourself off. Swallow the rest like broken glass.

“They die. Doesn’t matter what I do. Doesn’t matter how hard I fight. I always survive, and they never do.”

Soap crouches nearby. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to listen.

“You think you’re cursed?” he asks, and it’s not mocking.

You shake your head. “I know I am.”

Price finally looks up. His gaze is tired, heavy. “You think we’re next.”

It’s not a question.

You nod again, throat tight. “You should’ve left me behind.”

Soap’s voice is raw now. “Not a fucking chance.”

You flinch, barely.

“You think you’re some kind of bad omen?” he continues, voice rising. “You think we haven’t seen death? You think we haven’t blamed ourselves for it, over and over?”

“You weren’t there,” you snap, the words sharp and bitter. “You didn’t hold their dog tags. You didn’t dig through rubble looking for bodies that were already gone. You didn’t scream into a comms channel for someone who never answered.”

Silence.

Then Price, quiet but firm: “We’ve all done that.”

You look at him, really look this time. And maybe for a second, you see it in him too—that familiar wreckage behind his eyes. All the names, all the ghosts.

“But we’re still here,” he says. “And you are too. You think surviving makes you dangerous? It doesn’t. It just means you haven’t given up.”

Soap’s voice drops. “And you’re not gonna lose us. Not tonight.”

You want to believe them. God, you want to. But the part of you that’s seen too many graves can’t.

So you say nothing.

But when Soap slides a ration bar toward you, and Price adjusts the comms again with a grunt like he’s not giving up, you don’t move away. You don’t run.

It’s not trust.

Not yet.

But maybe… maybe it’s the beginning of something.

[hollowmem]

Make You Full of Me

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x afab!Reader Tags: breeding kink, biting kink, soft/rough mix, dom!Simon, possessive!Simon, reader unaware of birth control switch, domestic setting, D/s dynamic, creampie, mild dubcon themes (due to deception), emotional subtext, smut, overstimulation, aftercare

Simon had never really thought about kids.

Not when he was younger and haunted by shadows that clung too close to his skin. Not when he was marrying you, either, even then, the idea of a child in his arms felt far too dangerous. Kids were small and bright, and he was too rough, too bloodstained. His scars didn’t fade; he didn’t want to pass them on. And kids were scared of him anyway, with the bulk of him and the permanent snarl he wore like armor.

But then Johnny came over.

His damn Scottish friend with his wife and her round belly, again. Fourth? Fifth? Simon had lost count. At this point, he swore Johnny was trying to resurrect a clan from the ground up. Their house had been full of noise and sticky hands and chubby cheeks, and for the first hour, Simon had gritted his teeth and bore it. Watched from the kitchen with a beer in hand and a scowl as you scooped up one child onto your hip and cradled the youngest against your chest with practiced ease.

It hit him like a fucking freight train.

You, standing there, soft and smiling, bathed in golden afternoon light, with a baby snuggled into your arms and another giggling on your hip. Simon’s throat had gone dry. His dick had gotten hard, and something deeper twisted in his gut. A craving he hadn’t recognized at first. Something primal. Possessive.

He’d wanted to drag you out of the room, bend you over the bed, and fill you until you were round with him.

He’d smiled through the rest of the visit. Laughed when appropriate. Then bidded the MacTavish's farewell once they were left.

He never mentioned it.

Didn’t bring up kids or dreams or families. He knew you were still taking your pills, the little white ones you kept in the bathroom cabinet. He’d watched your routine for years. Memorized it. Respected it.

Until he didn’t.

Simon switched your pills out for placebos three months ago.

He told himself it was harmless. That if it happened, it happened. If your body took it, if it stuck… well, that was fate. You wanted a family someday. He was just speeding things along.

He already tracked your cycle, out of fear, mostly. He respected blood. It never scared him on the field, but something about that blood made him cautious. He’d learned long ago when to tread lightly, when to bring chocolate, when to sleep on the edge of the bed.

But now he tracked your cycle for a different reason.

Ovulation hit. He’d counted the days. And today… today was the peak. The perfect time.

He found you in the kitchen.

You were wearing one of his shirts, old, washed soft, with faded letters on the front. No pants. Just the long hem brushing your thighs and your bare legs moving as you stirred something on the stove. Your hair was messy. You were humming.

He nearly groaned.

That sight? That domestic, utterly yours image? It lit him up like a fuse.

He stepped behind you without a word, sliding one broad palm across your lower stomach, pressing possessively. You jumped, startled for only a second, before melting into him with a warm giggle.

“Jesus, Si,” you breathed. “You’re quiet for a mountain.”

He buried his face in your neck. Kissed you there, soft at first. Just a few little presses of his lips, teasing along the curve of your shoulder.

“My shirt looks good on you,” he murmured, voice low, rough.

You smiled. “It’s comfy.”

“Mhm.” He nipped at your neck, just hard enough to make you gasp. “Looks better on the floor.”

You laughed breathlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t answer.

Simon turned you gently, taking the spoon from your hand and placing it aside. Lifted you effortlessly by the thighs and sat you on the counter like you weighed nothing. You squeaked, legs parting automatically for him.

That’s when he saw it, the glint of silver in the light.

His dog tags.

You were wearing them. Under the shirt, nestled between your breasts. The sight stole the breath from his lungs.

Something inside him snapped.

He didn’t remember getting his pants off. Didn’t remember pulling your shirt over your head. Just remembered the heat of your skin, the way your thighs clenched around his waist, and the way your mouth opened in a perfect O when he pushed inside you in one long, brutal thrust.

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“F–fuck, Simon—”

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned into your neck. “Take me. You’re so fucking warm, sweetheart.”

He set a punishing pace immediately, hips slamming into yours with thick, wet sounds as you rocked back against the wall behind you. His mouth moved over your throat, kissing, sucking, biting. Sharp teeth grazing your skin until you whined and trembled.

You clenched hard around him.

“You feel that?” he hissed, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s me splitting you open. Taking what’s mine.”

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, clinging. He watched your expression, eyes glazed, mouth slack, the dog tags bouncing between your tits every time he thrust in.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “God, Simon—don’t stop—”

He never would.

Not until he’d made you full of him. Not until his come was dripping down your thighs, and he was sure you’d take.

“Gonna breed you, love,” he rasped. “Fill you up so good, make you all swollen with me. Want you round. Glowing. Want everyone to know you’re mine.”

Your walls fluttered around him, helpless, overwhelmed.

The words always did that to you.

“You want that, don’t you?” he growled. “Want to carry my baby.”

Your nails raked down his back. “Yes—yes, Simon—fuck—”

He laughed, dark and low, before capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss. He grabbed the backs of your thighs and pulled your hips flush against him, hitting even deeper, until your moans turned into little cries.

You came with a scream, shaking, nails leaving red trails along his skin.

Simon didn’t stop.

He carried you to the bedroom after.

You were boneless in his arms, a dreamy little smile on your face, your pussy still slick and fluttering around nothing. He laid you out on the bed and knelt between your legs.

You looked up at him, dazed.

“Again?” you whispered.

Simon just smirked.

“Didn’t say I was done, pet.”

The second time was slower. Sweeter.

He licked into you, tongue dragging through your folds as you gasped and arched. Lapped up his own come leaking from your cunt, groaning like a man starved. His fingers curled inside you, pumping slow and deep until you came again, crying his name like a prayer.

When he mounted you again, it was with reverence. He pushed inside slow, grinding his hips against yours, hands bracketing your thighs wide open.

You whimpered, overstimulated and twitching.

He kissed your belly.

“Gonna take again,” he whispered against your skin. “Gonna make sure of it.”

You nodded helplessly.

“Good girl.”

He came inside you five more times that night.

The last time, you were barely awake, sprawled across his chest, legs open, his cock still buried deep inside you. His hand rested protectively over your belly, and he whispered things he’d never admit in the morning.

“You’d be such a good mum.”

“I’d keep you safe. Both of you.”

“I want this. Want you.”

He stayed inside you for as long as he could. Long after he’d come. Long after the heat had faded into afterglow.

You murmured his name sleepily, fingers toying with the chain around your neck.

And Simon Riley, big, broken, brutal, let himself believe for a moment that he could be whole.

A year later, the living room echoed with the sound of giggles as Simon knelt on the floor, play-wrestling with your twin girls, their laughter lighting him up from the inside out. From the kitchen, you watched the scene with a soft smile, one hand absently rubbing your belly, the newest addition growing steadily inside you. The scent of dinner filled the air, warm and comforting, wrapping around the quiet hum of domestic life.

Simon’s eyes flicked up, catching sight of you in the doorway. His gaze lingered, on your swollen belly, your bare feet, the way your shirt clung just right over your curves. Something primal and possessive stirred in him. He couldn’t get enough of the sight of you like this: full, radiant, carrying his child again. It was a picture that never left his mind, and he didn’t want it to.

[hollowmem]

Manhandled (18+)

GN!Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish Day 29: Manhandling with Soap

Soap’s eyes dragged down your body, his hands following, strong and sure. He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your thighs, pulled you to the edge of the bed like you weighed nothing, then spread your legs wide with a roughness that made it clear: this wasn’t a request.

“You know how long I’ve waited for this?” he said, hands gripping your hips tight, fingers digging into your skin. “How long I’ve thought about having you like this — laid out, mine?”

You could barely answer — your breath was stuck somewhere between a gasp and a moan. His body was pressed between your legs now, heavy and hot, and his hands were everywhere — sliding down your sides, gripping, dragging, claiming.

There was no hesitation in him. No second-guessing. Just heat, and you — completely at his mercy.

Soap’s hands gripped your hips so tight you knew you’d feel it tomorrow — and you wanted to.

“Say it,” he growled, voice low, breath heavy. He ground down against you slowly, deliberately, with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “Tell me you want this.”

Your fingers twisted in the sheets, head tilted back. “Yes,” you breathed, eyes locking with his. “Please.”

That was all he needed.

He let out a low curse under his breath, then hooked his arms under your thighs and pulled you flush against him. Your body jolted from the strength of it — no warning, no gentleness. Just pure, hungry force.

You barely had time to process before he was inside you, filling you completely with one deep, claiming thrust. Your mouth fell open, no sound coming out at first — just the sensation of being taken, fully and without hesitation.

“Fucking hell,” Soap muttered, voice strained, hands bracing on either side of your hips as he started moving. He didn’t ease into it. He took — fast, hard, and rough — the bed frame knocking rhythmically against the wall with every powerful thrust.

You held on for dear life, hands fisting in the sheets, legs shaking where he held them up. He was relentless, his body slamming into yours over and over, hips snapping with precision. Each thrust knocked the air out of you, leaving you breathless and gasping his name.

“Look at you,” he growled, leaning down, chest pressing into yours. One hand slid up your side, pinning your wrists above your head hard. “Taking me so damn well.” Your breath hitched, a moan catching in your throat. “Don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

He shifted, changed his angle — deeper, harder — and your whole body reacted. Your back arched, eyes fluttering shut, the pleasure flooding through you too fast, too much. You felt wrecked and used, and you couldn’t get enough of it.

Soap’s pace stayed brutal, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to remind you who was in control. You could feel how close he was — every muscle in his body tight, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temples.

“You’re mine,” he muttered, his voice low and desperate now. “You fucking know that, don’t you?”

You nodded, the only sound coming out a broken, blissed-out “Yes—God, yes.”

And he pushed you straight over the edge.

[hollowmem]

You were build to be a weapon

Fem Weapon!Reader x Kyle " Gaz" Garrick

Day 28: “I shouldn’t care for your life, but I’m starting to and it’s becoming an inconvenience.” Says Weapon!Reader to Gaz, because she’s trying to protect him from who she is, what she is

You moved fast down the ruined hallway, your boots hitting the broken floor with heavy, angry steps. You knew he was following you — you could hear the stubborn rhythm of his own footsteps behind you, refusing to let you leave.

"Oi, stop!" Gaz called after you, frustration rough in his voice.

You ignored him and kept walking. You had to get away. It was safer that way. Safer for him.

"I'm not letting you just walk away like this!" he shouted again. "Talk to me!"

You stopped so suddenly that Gaz almost ran into you. You turned around, fists tight at your sides, chest heaving with too many emotions you didn’t want to name.

"I shouldn’t care for your life," you said, your voice low and sharp, "but I’m starting to — and it’s becoming an inconvenience."

You saw the way the words hit him. Like a punch he wasn’t ready for. His jaw tensed, but he didn’t back away.

"You don’t get it, Gaz," you said, taking a step back, needing distance between you. "You were never supposed to matter to me. None of you were."

He shook his head stubbornly, taking a step closer. "You think that scares me?"

"It should," you snapped.

You forced yourself to look at him, to make him understand. "I was trained to kill. Conditioned to feel nothing. Mercy, regret — all of that was beaten out of me a long time ago. They didn’t just teach me to fight — they turned me into a weapon."

Your voice broke for half a second before you caught it. You couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now.

"You think just because you’re kind to me, because you trust me, that I can just erase everything they did to me?" You shook your head. "It doesn’t work like that."

Gaz didn’t flinch. His voice stayed steady, stubborn as hell. "You’re not what they made you."

You almost laughed, but it came out broken. "I’m exactly what they made me," you said.

Before he could argue, before he could reach for you, you turned and disappeared into the storm outside, leaving him standing there — with nothing but the truth.

[hollowmem]

Good for You

GN!Reader x Simon "Ghost" Riley FYI i imagined that because ghost and reader are best friends he showed his face to them without worry

Day 27: Reader having to watch Ghost be happy in a relationship after they were too scared to make a move

You smiled when Ghost told you. You even meant it, in a way — a bruised kind of love that made you want him happy, even if it meant carving a hollow in yourself to watch it happen.

"Good for you, mate," you said, clapping him on the shoulder like it was easy, like it didn't crack something small and important inside you. Like the best friend you were supposed to be. Like the best friend you had only ever been, too scared to ask for anything more.

He smiled back — real and rare — the kind of smile he never handed out freely. And he told you about her, voice low, almost shy. How she made him feel steady. Like maybe he wasn’t as broken as he thought. Like maybe he could still build something out of what was left.

You nodded, laughed at the right moments, said all the right things. And when he left — still talking, still a little lighter than usual — you stayed behind, letting the silence close in around you.

It wasn’t jealousy that sat heavy in your chest. Not anger, not bitterness. Just a slow, aching grief. A quiet sort of heartbreak for something that had never even been yours.

You told yourself it was better this way. That this was how it was always going to end. That your silence had been a kindness, even if it cost you more than you could admit.

So you started to pull away, bit by bit — carefully, so carefully. Answering slower. Laughing softer. Finding reasons to be somewhere else when he reached out. Nothing he would notice, not really. Just enough space to stop hoping. Just enough distance to let the wound scar over.

And when he smiled at you now, all full of something good and warm and bright — you smiled back. And you prayed he never saw the way it broke you.

[hollowmem]

How Do You Love Without Getting Hurt?

TW: Character death (reader), graphic violence, gore, war setting, emotional trauma

GN! Reader x John Price

Day 26: “How do you love someone without getting hurt, how do you love someone without crawling in the dirt.” you decide where this one goes, but at the end I want reader to be prone on the ground, crawling, reaching out for (whichever cod man you choose) they’re reaching back but can’t, they’re being pulled away from reader because… reader is dying

How do you love someone without getting hurt? How do you love someone without crawling in the dirt?

The world had gone wrong.

The op was supposed to be clean — in and out, no bodies left behind. That’s what Price had promised. That’s what you believed when you followed him into hell.

But plans mean nothing when bullets are flying and blood covers the ground.

You don't know when you got separated. You don't know how many times you tried to contact them through the comms. You only know your body is now broken, your hands slick with blood, as you drag yourself across the dirt, toward the faint shape of your team — toward him.

Price is there, crouched behind a crumbling wall, rifle shaking in his hands. You see the rage twist his face when he spots you — the panic in his eyes, the way his mouth forms words you can’t hear.

You reach for him.

You reach like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

Your fingers claw through dirt. But hands grab your legs from behind. Enemy soldiers, rough and merciless. Boots grind into your ribs, stopping you in place, like you’re nothing.

You still reach.

You still love.

And Price — brave, furious Price — fights. He tries to tear free, tries to get to you, even as teammates hold him back and orders scream in his ear.

It isn’t enough.

Your hand stretches out, trembling, a silent "I love you" written in blood and broken fingers.

And then — A shot.

Sharp and brutal.

The back of your head explodes. Your head fall, limp, the life ripped from you before you ever reach him.

Price screams — a sound torn straight from his soul — and the world shatters around him.

He doesn’t reach you in time.

He never does.