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marvelouslizzie · 1 year

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Like Someone I Know

summary: You decide to take a break from studying and go to a masked party but your casual hookup turns out to be your biggest rival, Bucky Barnes.

pairing: College!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

warnings: 18+, academic rivals, alcohol consumption, hidden identities, hookup, boob worship, semi-public sex, pet names, oral sex (female receiving), protected sex, dirty talk, praise kink, no mention of y/n.

word count: 2.4K

A/N: @notafunkiller gave me "I don't care if they're gonna see it. I'm not giving them back." and academic rivals as prompt and now here we are… I hope you enjoy this random story. Thanking Andreea also for the editing and for the name suggestion. She’s the best!

All work is mine, please do not repost or translate without my permission.

Keep reading tag starts after the second paragraph of the story.

This isn’t like you. You don’t find people attractive this easily, let alone hook up with them at a party, right after meeting them. It feels surreal… like you are having some kind of a fever dream. Maybe it’s because of the alcohol you consumed, but you don’t feel tipsy. So maybe not.

His hands roam on your body, hungrily discovering every inch. His lips are relentless, sucking and licking. It feels so damn good and it’s just so hard to resist. You deserve to let go sometimes. You work so hard, right? It’s okay to hook up with a handsome stranger. Well, you aren’t sure about the handsome part. Not when half of his face is covered by some kind of mask, but his piercing blue eyes tell you he might be the most handsome man you have ever seen. They also seem familiar somehow and you don’t know how that’s possible.

He stops kissing you, while his hands are still on your hips. He looks you in the eye, and it makes you shiver. You finally realize why he feels so familiar and it makes you uncomfortable. Those blue eyes… They remind you of Bucky Barnes. Why on earth would you find someone attractive because they look like him?

“Is everything alright?”

Even his voice… It sounds kinda like him. Not completely though. Bucky’s voice is usually harsher. He sounds like he’s trying to poison you with words. Especially when he makes fun of you after getting a better grade. God, you hate him so much.

“Yeah, yeah.” Your answer sounds so absent and not convincing at all.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I just realized you look like someone I know.”

“Oh, darling…” God, the way he smiles! There’s no way this man can be ugly. That smile punches you in your stomach. “There’s no way you know me.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I would remember a beauty like you.”

That makes you laugh. It sounds so cheesy. Plus he can’t even see half of your face. How could he even remember you?

“I mean it.”

“I’m sure you used that line on girls before.”

“I can’t say…” He stops for a second, trying to find the right words. “I do this often.”

“You mean hooking up with strangers at a party?”

“No.” His answer confuses you for a second. “Hooking up at all.”

Oh, that can’t be true. Those blue eyes can convince anyone to do anything. Maybe he’s just trying to make you feel special, and truth be told, it doesn’t matter. You don’t know him.

“Why is that?”

His hands caress your hips gently. “Usually… I don’t let myself get distracted.”

“Sorry for distracting you, then.”

Your playful answer makes him smile. He starts kissing your neck. His hands move on your ass, kneading while he keeps on kissing you. His lips move closer and closer to your cleavage. You know this is your last chance to say anything if you don’t wanna go further, but you can’t find the strength in yourself to stop him. His lips are soft and wet on your skin. Every kiss he lays on your skin makes you want more. You don’t know if you can stop him.

Suddenly he grabs your tits, pushing them together while he buries his head between them. It makes you gasp, and he inhales your scent like he can’t get enough of it.

“I want them in my mouth.”

He looks up, his eyes pleading for your consent.

“Can I?”

“Someone might come in any time.” You don’t wanna get caught like that. “They might see us.”

"I don't care if they're gonna see it. I'm not giving them back." His response makes you smile. He sounds so desperate while still holding your tits. And like it isn’t enough, he starts to beg. “Please… Can I?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You sound breathy, just because of the anticipation. You just want to enjoy this moment, not thinking about anything else.

He pushes down the straps. He doesn’t even bother unclasping your bra. He just frees your tits and starts sucking on your nipple. Your head is thrown back with sudden pleasure. His tongue dances around your nipple, making you squirm.

“God, you are so delicious.”

He switches to your other nipple. He licks, bites, and sucks while you try to keep your voice down. It’s not easy. A couple of moans slip away. You are just glad this is a party and the music is loud enough to conceal any sound you make.

Suddenly he lets go of your nipple. The wet pop makes you bite your lip.

“I really need to taste you.” You give him a confused look. Isn’t he already doing that? “Down there.” He quickly adds.

You don’t know what to say. You expected a quick fuck at best, that’s what the girls told you. Don’t have high expectations for hookups. They end pretty quickly and you might end up unsatisfied. But he’s proving you wrong every step of the way.

He keeps looking at you with a glow. God, his eyes are so freaking beautiful! Even if you didn’t want that, it would be so hard to say no. You finally nod, giving him permission.

“Thank you.” He quickly gets on his knees and hikes up your dress.

He starts to kiss your thighs, then he brings his nose onto your clothed pussy and just inhales.

“You smell so freaking good, d-darling.”

The praise makes you shiver. Not just because you aren’t used to it, but he also sounds so much like Bucky when he says darling. He calls you doll in a way that makes you feel degraded. Like you’re nothing more than a beautiful doll. No brains. No talent. Just there to look pretty. But this time… It doesn’t make you feel small. It makes you feel like a goddess.

Your shivering doesn’t go unnoticed, though. He smiles like a devil, looking into your eyes. Then he grabs your underwear and just pushes it down. You feel unbelievably exposed. Your breasts are sticking out of your dress while your pussy is right in front of him. But the hunger on his face makes you feel better.

“Such a pretty pussy.” He licks his lips before diving in. He grabs one of your legs and hikes it up on his shoulder, creating more space for himself to work.

He starts you eat you eagerly. His tongue moves smoothly between your folds and he sets a pace that makes it harder to shut your mouth. His tongue discovers every inch of you. Then suddenly he switches on sucking your clit, making you moan loudly.

“Jesus fucking christ!”

You feel him smile as he stops sucking for a second. His hands reach for your hips, steadying you while he goes back to sucking your clit. Once again your head is thrown back. You try to steady your breathing, but it doesn’t work. Your orgasm comes crashing in.

“Fuckk! I’m coming!” You don’t realize how loud you say it. You don’t realize how harshly you grab his hair and make him moan against your clit. Yet he doesn’t stop. Not until your shaking calms down.

The moment he’s sure you rode out every last bit of your orgasm, he moves away from you. When he looks up, he realizes your mask moved a little bit. Just enough to make him recognize who you are. His eyes are wide open, but you don’t notice any of it. You are still breathing heavily, trying to collect yourself.

He suddenly stands up and places his hands on the wall, caging you in. He looks like he wants to say something, but he can’t find the words. You assume it’s because of his unmet needs. So instead of questioning him, you move your hands to his pants. He watches you unbuckling and unzipping him. Then you look back at his face, silently asking for permission, and he nods.

You get rid of his pants and boxers with his help before he grabs his cock like he’s getting ready. Your words, though, stop him.

“We are not doing this without a condom.”

You don’t know what you expected, but you didn’t expect him to smile.

“Smart girl.”

The way he says that turns you on even more. The only problem is that he starts to sound more and more like Bucky. While you are trying to push away the thought of your biggest rival, he takes his wallet out and finds a condom.

“You don’t do this often, but you have a condom in your wallet.” You can’t help but point out.

“Every guy has one in their wallet. Just in case…” He responds while putting on the condom. “Doesn’t mean we think we’ll get lucky.”

“Well, you are certainly getting lucky tonight.”

“Oh, don’t I know it?”

He suddenly lifts you up against the wall. It’s so unexpected, yet it makes your blood rush. His lips find yours once again, but this time, it feels different. You don’t know what changed. You can’t put your finger on it. It was already passionate, hungry, and curious before, but this time… It’s just on another level.

“Ready?” You know what he’s asking about.

“Yeah.” You find yourself nodding and he smiles.

“That eager, huh?” His voice is deep and full of impatience, but also some kind of belittlement. God, that Bucky really messed up with your head.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He gently pushes himself inside you, and you can’t help but moan out loud. A part of you feels embarrassed that you can’t seem to shut your mouth. You’re not used to this. It makes you feel exposed.

“Yes!” He sounds like he accomplished the most important thing in the world. “Don’t hold back those pretty sounds.”

You don’t know what to say, all you can focus on is the way his words make you wetter and wetter. You feel like you are discovering a part of you that you didn’t know existed. Maybe all you need is to hear how good you are doing. Is it why you are working this hard to get the best grades possible?

He doesn’t let you question more about yourself when he finally starts to move. It feels so overwhelming that you forget about anything else.

“Oh god…” He moans right next to your ear as his fingers are gripping on your skin. “You are so wet, doll.” You freeze. What did he just say?

“Bucky?”

Your heart starts to race faster than before. You don’t know what you are feeling. Shock, fear, excitement… This might be your worst nightmare. Or your biggest dream.

“I swear to god,” he starts to talk with haste, trying to explain himself before you get the wrong idea. “I didn’t know it was you. You have to believe me.” The fear in his voice is so audible. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him fearing something like this before. “After your first orgasm,your mask slipped a little.”

You suddenly feel relief washing over you. You felt so dumb for a second, thinking he might have tricked you. Knowing he’s afraid just like you helps a lot. He didn’t plan this. Maybe it's just a twist of fate. You reach for his mask and take it off without saying anything. There’s no need for it anymore. He smiles in response. You can see he wants to do the same, but he’s still carrying you, so you take off your own mask, too

He looks into your eyes, trying to see if you are still okay with this.

“Come on, big guy, move!”

His devilish grin returns. He bounces you on his arms, securing your position, and then starts to move again. His lips find yours, and you moan into his mouth. You can’t believe you are actually having sex with Bucky Barnes. You have had a couple of wet dreams about him, but you never thought it would turn into reality. You never thought he would be into you. He starts to lose control and move faster than before.

“Oh shit!” You feel like you might come soon. “Faster. Please!”

“So needy.” He grips on your ass. You don’t know why but his words rub you the wrong way.

“Don’t belittle me.” You snap back, and it makes him stop. You frown, thinking he’s gonna get you off and leave you unsatisfied.

“I never belittle you.” He’s looking into your eyes. “I never meant to belittle you.”

“You are not?” You always thought he was. You thought he was trying to put you down, demotivate you. Even if he was saying something nice.

“Never, doll. You are the smartest person I have ever met.”

You never heard him say this before. Maybe he just didn’t want to admit it back then.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“And the prettiest girl.”

You crash your lips onto his, kissing him like you can’t survive without it. You had no idea how much you wanted to hear something like this coming from him. He moans into your mouth while he starts to move again.

“I don’t think-” He sounds so pained. “I can- hold back any longer.”

You’re not so far away from reaching your climax. All you need is him moving just a bit harder, then you might be able to come with him.

“Please, come with me!” You don’t care how desperate it sounds. “I just need it a little harder.”

That breaks his defense. He starts to move so fast that it takes your breath away. After a couple of thrusts, your body starts to shake uncontrollably.

“Bucky!” You can’t stay silent. “I’m- coming.”

“Come for me, doll. Make a mess.” His thrusts grow sloppier. You can see he’s losing control because of you. “So fucking pretty. Can’t believe I get to see you like this.” You are sure his grip on your ass will leave some bruises, but you don’t care. It feels so good. He makes you feel so good. “Oh fuck!”

He looks so pretty while he’s coming. The way he moans… The way his eyes flutter with each thrust… You watch every detail while coming yourself, wanting to memorize it.

Then he opens his eyes. His pretty blue eyes shine in a way that feels warm, cozy, and downright giddy.

“I can’t believe we really did that.” He’s still holding you. You wonder how that is even possible. You always thought he looked strong, but this is on another level.

“Now tell me,” You sound confident and satisfied. “For how long did you want to do that?”

He chuckles in a way that makes you feel needy all over again.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

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Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this.

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces.

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds.

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now.

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin.

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height.

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents.

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with.

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?”

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse.

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door.

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.”

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink.

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing.

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.”

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket.

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt.

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess.

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic.

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.”

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt.

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.”

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you.

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.”

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.”

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after.

It was so quiet here.

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you.

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down.

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’.

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open.

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind.

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light.

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back.

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it.

You are made of memories.

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?”

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.”

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror.

Tall; formidable.

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him.

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise.

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.”

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises.

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping.

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation.

A hand is moved out to you, hovering.

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care.

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting.

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb.

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed.

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork.

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting.

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp.

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?”

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you.

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him.

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls.

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.”

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?”

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind.

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet.

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?”

“Get in your seat, Captain.”

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt.

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood.

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness.

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better.

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass.

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb.

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?”

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone.

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours.

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.”

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words.

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone.

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists.

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities.

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace.

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur.

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?”

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.”

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?”

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree.

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley.

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building.

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so.

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another.

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears.

The line is silent.

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!”

“He’s in the alley!”

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull.

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him.

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs.

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull.

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.”

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard.

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway.

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was.

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips.

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning.

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow.

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.”

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing.

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling.

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.”

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back.

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.”

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents.

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence.

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully.

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly.

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin.

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath.

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame.

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.”

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast.

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple.

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead.

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him.

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to.

You loved each other.

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms.

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be.

What should be.

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17.

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.”

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity.

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures.

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen.

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy.

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power.

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging.

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street.

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing.

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.”

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.”

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location.

“Ninety,” you breathe.

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop.

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you.

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on.

Not you.

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love.

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic.

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up.

Emmett was a snake.

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman.

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch.

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now.

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues.

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista.

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation.

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight.

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits.

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!”

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line.

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in.

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing.

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him.

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you?

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known.

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze.

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight.

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before.

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete.

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred.

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion.

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat.

It’s nothing.

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over.

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding.

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse.

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.”

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet.

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression.

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.”

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight.

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base.

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces.

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter.

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.”

Laswell frowns tightly at him.

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.”

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh.

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you.

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers.

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping.

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming.

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump.

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter.

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded.

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully.

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping.

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means.

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond.

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables.

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful.

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall.

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture.

But this might finally give him something to act on.

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door.

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her.

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost.

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer.

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture.

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses.

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say.

But this is something else.

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.”

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it.

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose.

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried.

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them.

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once.

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak.

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.”

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose.

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive.

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality.

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic.

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife.

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors.

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath.

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived.

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop.

But the brain is a funny thing.

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout.

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe.

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs.

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace.

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting.

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own.

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open.

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths.

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back.

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage.

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.”

Your chest is heavy.

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.”

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?”

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind.

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers.

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much.

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words.

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form.

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants.

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for.

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away.

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room.

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor.

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this.

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment.

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.”

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you.

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess.

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow.

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily.

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.”

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning.

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later.

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him.

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath.

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.”

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum.

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all.

“I love you.”

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial.

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed?

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked.

“I love you.”

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all.

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment.

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that.

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

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03jyh23 · 13 days

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🌊⌇such a lonely heart┆kim hongjoong

married, hongjoong x gn!reader

│synopsis: if you can't find another reason to stay, then i know i'm gonna always have a lonely heart

│genre: hurt no comfort, angst

│trigger warnings: emotional distress, heartbreak, relationship conflict

│words: 4.1 k

│reminder: what you’re about to read is purely fiction, so let’s keep it separate from reality.

!minors do not interact!

— hi there my lovely people! it feels like forever since i last posted, and oh god, i’m so happy to be back! my hiatus ended up lasting much longer than i intended, and coming back after such a long time is honestly nerve-wracking. this piece of writing took me a long time to complete, but i’m really proud of it. once again, it’s a hongjoong angst with a personal touch, and i think hongjoong will always have that cathartic role in my stories. i hope you guys can feel the emotions i’ve woven into it. thank you for sticking with me—i can’t wait to hear what you think.

love, mon ♡

It was late Thursday night. You were curled up on your bed, blanket wrapped tightly around you, staring blankly at the wall. It was unbearable. Was your mind numb, or was it so full of thoughts that they all clashed together, making you feel overwhelmed and empty simultaneously? You let yourself break again, letting the flood of thoughts and feelings consume you whole. You were drowning, unable to stop the spiral of despair that clawed at you.

Eighteen times.

Hongjoong ignored your calls eighteen times tonight.

And that was your breaking point.

You felt the weight of each ignored call like a stone in your chest, pressing down, making breathing hard. The silence from his end was deafening, drowning out even the sound of your own heartbeat. You wondered, with a bitter taste in your mouth, if this was what it felt like to be truly alone. It wasn't anything new, you spent your nights alone, most of them sleepless as the lack of warmth in your husband's body made it impossible to get some rest. After tossing and turning, you would eventually catch a few hours of sleep, only to wake up in an empty bed. The routine had become painfully familiar. The cold sheets on his side of the bed were a constant reminder of his absence. You'd reach out, hoping against hope, but your fingers would only meet the cool fabric, untouched and undisturbed.

Anyone would have thought you'd get used to it by now - Hongjoong leaving early for his office and coming back too late to spend time with you. But he would always text that he was doing extra hours or going out for a beer with friends. Tonight, however, was different. There was only radio silence. And nothing hurt more than the quiet. The absence of his usual messages left an ache in your chest that you couldn't ignore. You found yourself checking your phone obsessively, hoping for any sign of communication. But the screen remained stubbornly blank, a stark reminder of the growing distance between you.

As the hours ticked by, your mind raced with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last. Was he okay? Had something happened? Or was this simply the new normal - a silence that spoke volumes about the state of your relationship?

The sound of the door creaking open finally pulled you from your thoughts. Through the narrow gap between the door and its frame, you saw a thin line of light, and then your eyes drifted up to see your husband. Hongjoong stepped into your shared apartment, his ginger hair damp from the rain. He ran his hand through it, pushing the wet strands away from his face, before peeling off his soaked beige coat and slipping off his shoes. You swallowed the lump rising in your throat at the sight of him, tears prickling your eyes again. You blinked rapidly, trying to push them back, gripping the blanket tighter as if it could shield you from the wave of emotions crashing inside you. The fabric pulled up to your chin, a flimsy barrier between you and the ache that had settled deep in your chest.

The light went out as Hongjoong moved further into the apartment, past the door of your bedroom without a word. He didn’t even glance in your direction. What was wrong? Or was he simply trying to avoid waking you, assuming you should be asleep instead of quietly falling apart? One way or another, it was far too late for him to walk back in like nothing had happened. The silence that followed felt colder than before, sinking into your already worn-out body.

You could hear him in the living room, the soft rustle of the wardrobe doors opening. Was he planning to sleep on the couch again tonight? You untangled yourself from the blanket, standing quietly before slipping out of the bedroom. The weight of exhaustion and frustration clung to you as you made your way to the kitchenette. You didn’t want to fight. Not tonight. You poured yourself a glass of cold water, grabbed the bottle of painkillers from one of the drawers, and swallowed a couple of pills, hoping they’d dull the throbbing in your head. You glanced at Hongjoong as you set the glass down. He had stopped mid-motion, his hands frozen on the pillow he was arranging on the sofa. Your eyes met briefly, the silence between you thick with unspoken words. As you had guessed, he was indeed preparing to sleep on the couch tonight. The realization sent a fresh wave of pain through your chest. You averted your gaze, unable to bear the weight of his silent stare any longer. The distance between you felt insurmountable, even though you were just a few feet apart in the same room.

You stood in the dim light of the kitchen, hands gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady your breathing. Then, the words you’d been holding back for too long slipped out before you could stop them. "Where were you tonight?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of all the unanswered calls and unread messages.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before continuing. "I called you eighteen times, Hongjoong. Eighteen. And not once did you pick up or call back. What's going on?" Your eyes met his again, searching for any sign of explanation or remorse. "Are we... are we okay?" The last question came out softer, more vulnerable, betraying the fear that had been gnawing at you all night. The words felt like they had a life of their own, carrying the weight of nights spent alone, of unanswered calls, and of the slow unraveling of something you once thought was unbreakable. You didn’t dare turn around, didn’t want to see the look on his face. Whether it was guilt, anger, or indifference, you couldn’t handle any of it.

The silence stretched longer, and every second that ticked by only made your heart sink deeper.

Finally, you heard him shift behind you, his footsteps hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how to approach the fragile moment. The tension in the room felt suffocating, but you stood your ground, gripping the counter tighter, waiting for him to say something—anything—to break the silence.

But nothing came.

Tired. You were both tired—of the silence, of the distance, of pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t. You weren’t sure how much longer you could keep this up, but at that moment, you didn’t have the strength to do anything more than stand there, waiting for an answer that might never come.

You didn’t turn around as you felt his presence behind you, the warmth of his body radiating in the small space between you. You held your breath, waiting for him to say something, to explain, to apologize—anything to break the suffocating silence that had enveloped you both. One of your hands traveled to your temple, trying to massage away the pounding headache that wouldn’t relent, as if easing the physical pain might somehow dull the ache in your heart too.

The silence dragged on, and you could feel him standing there, just out of reach, but still not saying a word. It was suffocating, the space between you filled with unspoken thoughts, unresolved arguments, and the growing distance that neither of you seemed able to close.

"I kept waiting. Waiting for you to call back, to walk through the door, to say something—anything." you continued, voice trembling as you let your hand fall from your temple, now gripping the edge of the counter again.

Hongjoong let out a breath behind you, but it was small, almost inaudible. You could sense his guilt, but guilt alone wasn’t enough to bridge the gap. "I didn’t know what to say," he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper, and you could hear the weight of his own struggle in it.

"You didn’t know what to say?" You turned around slowly, finally meeting his eyes. Your own were burning, a mixture of exhaustion, anger, and desperation swirling together. "Do you think that makes it any better? That just... ignoring me was the right thing to do?"

He looked down, running a hand through his damp hair again. His hesitation was killing you. You needed him to fight for this, to fight for you.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. Hongjoong's eyes finally met yours, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

"Are you giving up on us?" The words tumbled out of your mouth, raw and vulnerable. Your eyes searched his face, desperate for any sign that he still cared, that there was still something worth fighting for.

Hongjoong's eyes snapped up to meet yours, a flicker of pain crossing his features. For a moment, he looked as lost and scared as you felt. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken fears and fading hopes. "I..." he started; his voice barely audible. He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. "I want a divorce, Y/N," Hongjoong finally said, his voice cracking slightly as he forced the words out.

The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment. You felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving you gasping. Your eyes widened in disbelief, searching his face for any sign that this was some cruel joke. But all you saw was a mixture of pain, guilt, and resignation in his eyes.

"What?" you whispered, barely able to form the word. Your hands gripped the counter behind you, needing something solid to hold onto as your world crumbled around you.

Hongjoong took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of his words was physically pulling him down.

You felt tears welling up in your eyes, a lump forming in your throat. All those ignored calls, the nights spent alone, the growing distance - it all suddenly made sense in the worst possible way. The realization hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you struggling to stay afloat in the sea of emotions threatening to drown you.

"A divorce?" The word felt foreign on your tongue, heavy and bitter. You shook your head, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. "How... how long have you been thinking about this?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of your shattered world.

Hongjoong's eyes flickered with a mix of guilt and sadness as he answered, his voice low and strained. "For a while now... I've been trying to find the right moment, but there never seemed to be one." He paused, running a hand through his hair, a gesture that once seemed endearing but now felt like a painful reminder of what you were losing.

The words hit you like a physical blow, and suddenly, all the pain and frustration you'd been holding back came rushing to the surface. Your eyes flashed with anger as you stepped towards him.

"Empty promises," you spat, your voice quivering with emotion. "Is that what our vows meant to you? Because I meant every single word, I said on our wedding day!" Hongjoong flinched at the intensity of your words, but you couldn't stop. The floodgates had opened. "I said I wanted to spend forever with you, Hongjoong. Forever! And I meant it with every fiber of my being. But for you? Were they just pretty words to say in front of our families and friends?" Your voice cracked, tears streaming down your face. "I promised you my life, my love, my everything. And you're throwing it all away like it meant nothing. Was any of it real for you?"

The silence that followed was deafening, heavy with the weight of broken promises and shattered dreams.

Hongjoong's shoulders slumped, his eyes cast downward as if he couldn't bear to meet your gaze. The weight of your words hung in the air between you, a tangible reminder of the promises made and now broken. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, filled with a mixture of regret and resignation. "It was real," he said, his voice barely audible. "But sometimes... sometimes love isn't enough." He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "We've grown apart, Y/N. We're not the same people we were when we made those vows."

"Don't bullshit me now, Hongjoong! It was two years ago! Two years!" Your voice rose, trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "Why did you even bother to fucking marry me if you were going to give up so easily?" Your words echoed in the small space between you, raw with emotion. Your hands were clenched at your sides, your whole body shaking with the force of your outburst. The tears that had been threatening to fall now streamed freely down your face. You searched Hongjoong's face, desperate for any sign that this was all a mistake, that he didn't really mean what he was saying. But all you saw was a mixture of guilt and resignation in his eyes, and it only fueled your anger and hurt more.

Hongjoong took a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of sadness and determination. "I'm sorry, Y/N. I truly am. I didn't marry you with the intention of giving up. I thought... I thought we could make it work. But we've changed, grown apart. The passion, the connection we once had... it's not there anymore." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "I've tried, we've both tried, but it feels like we're just going through the motions. Don't you feel it too? The distance between us, even when we're in the same room?" His voice softened, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. "I didn't want to hurt you, but I realized that staying in a marriage that's lost its spark would hurt us both more in the long run. You deserve someone who can love you fully, completely. And I... I'm not that person anymore." Hongjoong's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he continued, "I know it's not fair. Two years isn't a long time, but it's been long enough for me to realize that we're not making each other happy anymore. And isn't that what marriage should be about? Happiness, growth, mutual support?" He took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry I couldn't be the person you needed me to be. I'm sorry I couldn't keep the promises I made. But I think... I think we both deserve a chance at real happiness, even if it means not being together."

You were at a loss for words, the reality of the situation sinking in. Finally, you managed to speak, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with emotion. "No, I don't feel it too. What I feel is the desperate longing for you when you're not here. I love you, it never changed." You realized, with a crushing finality, that you would never hear him say he loves you again.

Swallowing hard, fighting back a fresh wave of tears, you spoke again, your voice hollow. "I'm going to pack my bags."

As you turned to leave, you felt a hand grasp your arm gently. Hongjoong's touch, once so familiar and comforting, now sent a jolt of pain through your heart. "Y/N, please..." His voice was barely above a whisper, filled with a mixture of desperation and regret. You froze, your back still to him. For a moment, you allowed yourself to feel the warmth of his hand, to remember all the times that touch had brought you comfort. But the pain of his words, the finality of his decision, was too fresh.

With a sharp intake of breath, you pulled your arm away, stepping out of his reach. You couldn't bear to look at him, afraid that if you did, you might crumble completely. "Don't," you managed to say, your voice trembling. "Just... don't." Without turning back, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper but filled with cold finality, "You can tell your lawyer to bring the papers to my parents."

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of your shattered dreams and the future that would never be. You didn't wait for a response, couldn't bear to hear whatever Hongjoong might say. Instead, you walked away, each step feeling like it was taking you further from the life you had once imagined, towards an uncertain and lonely future.

You packed your bags in a hurry, the silence broken only by the rustling of clothes and the soft thud of items being hastily tossed into your suitcase. Your hands trembled as you gathered the necessities, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.

As you made your way to the door, you paused, your hand resting on the cool metal of the doorknob. Despite the pain coursing through you, you couldn't help but turn for one last look at the man you loved—still love. Hongjoong sat on the sofa, his head buried in his hands, eyes fixed on the floor. The sight of him, so defeated and lost, sent a fresh wave of anguish through your heart. For a moment, you stood there, memorizing every detail of this final scene, knowing it would be etched in your memory forever.

With a deep breath, you reached into your pocket and pulled out your keys. The metal felt cold against your skin, a stark reminder of the life you were leaving behind. You walked over to the drawer near the entrance, your steps echoing in the heavy silence. As you placed the keys on the drawer, they made a sharp, metallic cling that seemed to reverberate through the apartment. The sound was jarring in the stillness, causing Hongjoong to snap his head up, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, intense moment.

That single sound seemed to encapsulate everything - the end of your shared life, the finality of his decision, the irreversible nature of what was happening. It was as if that small noise had shattered the last remnants of the world, you once shared.

Hongjoong's voice broke through the silence, barely above a whisper, but filled with a mixture of regret and desperation. "Y/N, wait..."He stood up, his eyes pleading. "I... I never meant for it to end like this. Please, don't leave this way—you don't have to go." His words were mumbled out quickly, a desperate need in them that you couldn't quite understand. The sudden shift in his tone caught you off guard, making you pause at the door. You turned slightly, not fully facing him, but enough to show you were listening.

You felt a mix of emotions wash over you - anger, hurt, confusion. Part of you wanted to turn and run, to escape this painful situation. But another part of you needed answers, needed to understand how things had fallen apart so quickly. With a deep breath, you steadied yourself and turned to face Hongjoong fully. "What do you mean, don't leave this way?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "You just told me you want a divorce. What other way is there to leave?"

Hongjoong got up from the sofa and took a few quick steps in your direction. His expression faltered, a mix of guilt and uncertainty crossing his features. He took a hesitant step towards you, his hand reaching out but stopping short of touching you. "I... I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I just... I can't bear the thought of you walking out that door, even though I know I'm the one who caused this." His words hung in the air, heavy with contradiction. You felt a surge of anger mixed with confusion, your emotions threatening to spill over. Taking a deep breath, you steadied yourself, your grip tightening on your suitcase handle.

"Hongjoong," you began, your voice low and controlled, "you can't have it both ways. You can't ask for a divorce and then expect me to stay." You felt your resolve waver slightly at the vulnerability in his voice, but you steeled yourself, knowing you had to stay strong.

"It's just hard to see you walk away in silence like we're strangers," Hongjoong said, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with a mixture of regret and longing.

His words hit you like a physical blow, and you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You took a deep, shaky breath before responding. "And it's hard for me to stay and pretend everything's okay when you've just shattered my world," you replied, your voice quivering. "We're not strangers, Hongjoong. We're two people who once vowed forever to each other, and now we're crumbling that promise." The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken words and painful realizations. You both stood there, caught in a moment that felt both eternal and fleeting, the weight of your shared history and uncertain future hanging between you.

Hongjoong's eyes met yours, a mixture of pain and regret swirling in their depths. You could see the conflict within him, the struggle between what he thought he wanted and the reality of losing you.

Suddenly, without warning, Hongjoong closed the distance between you. His hands cupped your face, and before you could react, his lips crashed against yours. The kiss was desperate, filled with a mixture of passion, regret, and longing. It caught you off guard, your body tensing at first before instinctively melting into the familiar warmth of his embrace. For a moment, the world around you faded away. There was only Hongjoong, the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands on your skin. It was as if all the love, all the memories, all the pain of your relationship was poured into this one, final kiss.

But as quickly as it began, reality came crashing back. You pulled away, breathless and confused, your mind reeling from the sudden turn of events. Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at Hongjoong, seeing the same turmoil reflected in his gaze.

"Why?" you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling with emotion. "Why now, when you've already decided to let me go?"

Hongjoong's expression crumbled, he took a shaky breath, his hands falling to his sides as he struggled to find the words. "I... I don't know," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything."

You choked on a sob, the finality of it all settled, and you found yourself struggling to breathe. With trembling hands, you reached for the door handle, your vision blurring with unshed tears. "Goodbye, Hongjoong," you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible and thick with emotion. The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of everything you had shared and everything you were now losing.

Without looking back, you stepped through the doorway, the soft click of the door closing behind you echoing in your ears like a death knell. As you made your way down the hallway, each step felt like it was taking you further from the life you had known, from the love you had cherished, and into an uncertain, lonely future.

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