if-you-give-a-dilf-a-danish

[if-you-give-a-dilf-a-danish]

Kidnapped P3: Everglades

A/N: Happy (late) Day of the Dilfs hehe also let me know if y'all want tagged for new chaps. i'd love that. Contains: snakes, storms, another helping of angst. changes to the 141's POV halfway through. Still no spoken words (yet) Part 1 Part 2 W/C: ~1230 @rafaelacallinybbay ═════════════════════════ The Everglades are a region of flooded grasslands and swamps in the southern portion of Florida. With a total area of ~20,000 km^2, this blend of pineland, wetlands and coastal prairies as well as sawgrass marshes are home to a massive blend of wildlife including mangroves, manatees, and a plethora of fish, reptiles, and birds. The climate divides its year into a boiling hot, rainy summer season and a milder, drier winter season. Tropical systems including hurricanes alter the ecosystems, causing destruction with their winds, rain and storm surge. But there's benefit to Everglades as well, using the winds to disperse plant seeds and the storm surge to bring rich sediment deposits.

Thunderstorms have been battering the dingy shelter for some time now. Sandy mud clings to your soaked clothes, another sleeve torn off Johnny’s hoodie to keep it out of the wound. The bleeding stopped, but you get anxious at the increasing soreness as the day passes on. You shiver in the downpour, no roof means you are pummeled with fat droplets. The sunburns on your exposed skin both burn and freeze with hypersensitivity. Looking up at the sky, the dark gray scares you with random lightning and thunder, you swore you could've also seen a palm tree sway when the winds get heavier.

Your captors took their sweet time with you. At first, they demanded information about your team; information you didn’t have. Your boyfriends didn’t tell you any details about their jobs, only that they killed people for the military, and that you would always willingly clean the blood off their hands and bodies when they came home. You tried to give what little crumbs they had: Your boyfriends’ names, the base they worked at, their dates of birth and their history. None of it was useful to them. They demanded more, about this specific case or that particular mission, you knew less information than what they already have.

Then, they carried out one of their methods. In the middle of the shelter was a pit, like a small pool but what was once filled with water now had sand and soil at the bottom. You were pushed in without warning, and another masked person kicked in a bucket. What spilled out was a Burmese python, 6 ft. long and already agitated from the handling. You had screamed and begged to be let out, unable to reach the edge to climb back up after you scrambled into the furthest corner of the pit. The python gets angrier as someone throws a rock at it, curling up and releasing a foul odor that the others jeer at.

You struggle to remember what happens after that. The snake struck at you, latching on to a sunburnt arm and coiling itself hard around it. The captors seemed to protect you from it, someone pried it off of you, letting the wound bleed down your arm before another captor half-assedly tied it up with some dirty fabric from wherever. You gathered that they want you alive for some reason, probably to bargain with for more information, someone that has more to give. They feed you something suspicious and grainy once a day, and the water tasted worse than the rain falling out of the sky.

Your mind exits itself when someone tosses in something chunky and plastic near your feet. A thick satellite phone rests in the puddle that splashed more dirt on you, the light of the screen cutting through the foggy water. You scramble towards it, clutching it with shaky hands. It’s clearly a set-up, they want you to cry for help and probably catch whoever comes running. You hope that your loves are smarter than that — that they sense it's a trap and you’re just a piece of cheese on the spring-loaded plate. You hesitate a second, wondering who to call. You don't know the time of day over there, let alone here with the storms. You clutch the phone closely, your once-vacant mind now racing.

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A few days had passed, and they made a shrine of you. Photos snuck out of the still-prohibited house, placed in Price’s office alongside some of your clothes, your jewelry and your handwriting. It wasn’t meant to be a shrine, just a place on base to have you, to aid in their imagination that you’re really there.

John had set it up, fresh frames for the photos and the jewelry clean and glistening. He avoids looking at it for too long when it starts to look more like a memorial.

Johnny refused to give up the cologne for it, spraying his skin, clothing, and bedding daily that the scent overpowers when he’s near recruits. He only lightens up when the olfactory fatigue sets in and the alcohol irritates his skin.

Simon does the same with your soaps, wasting it in bubble baths that he soaks near-hours in. No one on base other than the other three approached him close enough to smell it. His skin dries and becomes itchy with overwashing.

Kyle wears your clothes, what started as socks and scarves turned into ill-fitting jackets and shirts; burning through each article they slowly gain his scent and lose yours in the process. When laundry duty comes knocking, he hides them in Simon’s room, who trades him your body wash for your favorite scarf.

What starts from there is a system between all four of them; your things bartered and divvied up amongst themselves, split and switched out like the treasure it is to them. 

John gives each of them back their jewelry plus copies of your photos. He also recreates your handwritten recipes for them in their small common room, with Simon scaring off the few recruits that the aroma attracts. In return, John showers with your soaps, loving how it mixes with his personal cologne.

Simon quarters the remaining soaps, the bar sawed in fours with his knife and travel-size bottles given to the rest. He gets your favorite scarf from Kyle and spritzes daily from Johnny. He helps John clean the kitchenette after meals, wearing the scarf in private instead of the balaclava.

Speaking of, the sergeant controlling the scent opts for a stronger parfum, spritzing Simon and Kyle with every kiss he gives. When his sense of smell returns, Johnny enjoys the slight change in the scent their skins do, moreso than the soaps. In return, he eats almost exclusively your cooking done by Price’s hand, and your hoodie is worn by him at all times.

Kyle gives away most of your clothing to them, guilty at first that your smell is gone but comforted by the others when they have their own offerings. He sees Johnny once a day for his spray and wears the stud earrings with your birthstones, caring very little for regulation or the looks received by strangers. His role at meal times is to set the little table with trays and silverware snuck out of the cafeteria.

Marginally healthier than hoarding, it let them realize they still had each other. That cutting pain in their hearts throbs just a bit less when they are around each other, smothered in you. Their duties keep them from decaying further, a distraction from the darker thoughts but the mundanity makes them long to be a part of your rescue; their pleading and bargaining gone nowhere.

The fourth night in, they play a board game that was another favorite of yours, Price having a cigar and Kyle watching Johnny like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t cheat. Simon shuffles the cards for another round when someone’s phone rings on the counter.

[if-you-give-a-dilf-a-danish]

Kidnapped P2: Yellow Notice

A/N: part 2 coming… now? whoops....

Part 3 will take a while, this was just another brain worm munching on my neurons

Contains: Kidnapping, mild blood, ANGST BABY WOOOO, still no actual spoken lines, gn!reader, vague violence. Goes back to 1st pov at the end 

W/C: ~940

Part 1

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A Yellow Notice is a global police alert issued by INTERPOL for missing persons, such as victims of parental and criminal abductions, and unexplained disappearances. The alert can also be used to identify people who are unable to identify themselves. One of its larger strengths is its international range, as border officials are notified of missing persons and countries can request additional information in the likelihood that the person has exited the country. Unlike the USA’s Silver and AMBER alert systems, it is used for everyone. Sensitive cases and Notices are withheld from the public.

Emotions are unpredictable. In a dangerous environment like the task force’s, there’s too many variables to weigh when it comes to reaching a planned objective. It’s a chain reaction, emotions cause poorly-thought-out actions and behaviors; which means a death sentence for those in the field. You must do everything you can to lessen that unknowing.

The team wasn’t allowed to take this case, nor were they given any details about your possible rescue. Such a personal stake is dangerous for them and you. As much as John wants to raise hell and demand that they be a part of it, his experience and expertise here tell him that they’re right. When everything has to be as clean and careful as possible, emotions are like bleach on black clothing.

Entering their little common area, John finds Kyle on the couch, not quite asleep but drifting towards it. Johnny was out cold next to him, drooling on his shoulder. Simon’s head and shoulders rest across both their laps, Johnny’s hand sandwiched between his balaclava and cheek as well as Kyle’s hand smoothing across the visible bit of pale stomach his jacket rides up on.

When John sits on the floor in front of them, Simon wordlessly passes him a necklace. A little chain with a raw stone on it. Your birthstone. The raw carat-sized nugget glistens in his hand; a gift for Simon from you, something from home to wear. The stones you got the other three were in the form of rings and piercings, left at home as they were against regulation. Simon always hid his under clothing, keeping it warm right next to his dog tags. The green ring around his neck from the sterling silver proves he never takes it off.

At the moment, it was the only piece of you at the base. They thought they were protecting you by leaving you anonymous. No pictures sit on any of their desks, and no clothing of yours sits in any of their closets. All it did was starve them of you.

That night, they were allowed back to their house to get items. Under the supervision of the officers, they were allowed to retrieve clothing, medication, toiletries, and the few personal things they needed. Johnny started to argue with the officers when they weren’t allowed to take your belongings, saying they may contain forensic value and cannot be removed. As they argue, the other three latch on to the opportunity and quickly snag your soaps, cologne, and a bunch of clothes stuffed in with all of theirs.

When they leave, Kyle sees the blood in the kitchen, dried brown and the oven glass untouched. The ingredients abandoned on the countertop start to turn bad. As he turns to leave, he hears a couple officers talking about the “international inquiries” they filed. He knows what that means, doesn't really take a genius for that. The helpless part in him fears that only makes things worse. Looking at the mess left behind, he feels repulsed by the place. Kyle has slept in places far worse than this, as a soldier he knows and willingly partakes in that, but it all feels tainted to him now. 

If you were to come home at all, it shouldn’t be to this.

━━━━━━━━━━

It’s not cold and dark where you’re at. 

It’s blistering hot, the sun and humidity beats down on you in the concrete structure you were put in. Like a prison rec yard, the place has walls around you but no roof, meaning you're cooking in the heat with whatever breeze is blocked off. Mosquitos dine on you, a fucking holiday ham glazed in sweat to them. You don’t remember when the people left; there's no sound other than whatever wildlife surrounds the outside. The slash in your leg seemed to stop bleeding, it didn't feel deep. You had sadly torn the sleeve off the hoodie you had on (Johnny’s favorite, but he preferred how you and the others filled it) to wrap the wound like they taught you. What hurt worse than the leg was the seemingly dozens of cuts on your feet and face. The swarm of unfamiliar soldiers in your kitchen were aggressive, the knife you pulled from the block to defend yourself was immediately met with their own serrated one. Your mind conveniently doesn’t remember the feeling of your head being rammed into the oven door and the cuts your face received. You were out for most of the time, you don’t remember if you were drugged or knocked-out, or if your mind just retreats. Small mercy that the abductors haven’t come back for you yet. But as the dangerous sun creeps higher in the sky, the shadow you hide in to stave off the sunburn and heat exhaustion shrinks closer to the wall you lay against. You trusted that your loves would find you in time, they got this far in life without dying, so they obviously are damn good at what they do, that it's only a matter of waiting.

But later as the door of your ‘cell’ opens and several plain-masked soldiers walk in, that trust frays the tiniest amount. Part 3

[if-you-give-a-dilf-a-danish]

Kidnapped P1: Snatched

A/N: first dip into both tumblr and call of duty, yippee 

Contains: Kidnapping, little bit of blood, angst, no actual spoken lines, gn!reader ═════════════════════════

Resistance to Interrogation training is a 36-hour period within the selection where soldiers are prepared to resist various practices of humiliation and torture if captured by the enemy. Methods they are trained for include hooding, time disorientation, and deprivation of sleep, food, and water, among other things. The team was trained for this. You weren’t.

They realized that when they returned home, to blue and white police tape outlining their property. At first, they weren’t let in before the law enforcement realized the four were its residents. They wanted them for questioning, but what could they answer? You were alone. Often. Entering their house, the warmth they had filled it with has evaporated out the door; most of the struggle is contained in the kitchen. You were cooking dinner for their return, the pot on the stove both burnt and cold. The oven door is shattered; tempered glass crunches under their feet. Blood trails splattered in the direction towards the front door, and there's just so much of it. They don't know if it’s yours, sidestepping like it was, like you yourself were lying down before their eyes caught on the knife block on the counter, now knocked over with the larger ones missing. Someone tried to fight; they only wished it was you that won.

The police get antsy, irritated that their crime scene is tampered with. They still want questions. 

A description of you? Simon could nail down nearly every detail about your face and body, from your size in meters and kilograms to your eye color down to a hex code. But the last time he saw you was the night before; the couple million phone pixels couldn’t hold a candle to having you in the flesh.

As for the clothes they might be wearing? Kyle doesn't know. His inference is that it may be something of theirs. The video chat they planned had been delayed after a meeting went too long; not one of them had even seen your face today. When they tried to call, it was left unanswered. John’s explanation of ‘maybe they’re napping’ hits him like a lorry, and the fear never leaves him: Were you already taken by then?

Did they have access to a vehicle? Johnny scoffs. He says he wishes you didn’t, that your greatest weakness would always be traffic circles. The person interviewing him doesn’t laugh, only writes down in his notes. In the dead silence, Johnny starts to buckle under the pressure, only finishing that you rarely drive at all. Their other car in the driveway sits; motor cold with disuse.

What about their finances? John couldn’t answer that. The money you spent on them was always your own, from a part-time job you had gotten despite their original protests; they only accepted it when it meant you could have something of your own. There wasn’t much for you to spend or withdraw in the first place, which meant every gift you shelled out for was cherished by everyone, but at the same time quietly wondered about their costs.

Whatever additional questions they had were already answered. Your phone and wallet were left behind in the kitchen. The throw blanket on their couch is piled onto one cushion; the pillows that match it are stacked to one side. You were napping at first. Perhaps waiting for whatever was on the stove to finish cooking before… whoever came to get you. They counted themselves lucky the house wasn’t on fire; the idea that they could’ve also come home to smoke, ash and debris is enough to make Kyle the first one to cry. Crouching down onto the pavement with his breath hiccupping. Then it was Simon, who thought you might be dead by now. As a civilian, you wouldn’t last long, only at the ‘mercy’ of your captors. Tears leak from his eyes as he bites his tongue to hold the convulsive gasping.

Johnny cried when he was refused re-entry inside the house. Begging the officers to grab some of your things for them to have, his voice cracking when they only tell him to step back from the tape barrier. Simon guided him away when he broke down completely. John didn’t cry that night. Not until the morning after, back at the base when he woke up with no good morning text or call from you. He sobs into the pillows, harder than his boyfriends.

Without you, their home was just another shelter to sleep in. 

part 2 right here folks get it while it's hot :)