#hostages are expendable

[yuri-alexseygaybitch]

If you go to a Palestine demo and zionists show up the only two things they will say are "terrorist" and "baby-killer." That's it. Those are literally the only two lines they have.

[colorisbyshe]

It’s been said better and more thoroughly than this but employing “women and children” rhetoric in the wake of an ethnic cleansing, where the men are framed as barbaric and expendable, is absolutely heinous and inappropriate.

Yes, women face somewhat unique (but not totally unique—there have been reports of male hostages facing forced sodomy) threats and obviously children are the most vulnerable out there, but men are being brutalized and murdered as well and they aren’t “more” deserving of this occupation.

Discussions of misogyny are obviously welcome in any context but framing male victims as lesser (less victimized, less worthy of saving, less innocent) just furthers the dehumanization that affects all victims of said ethnic cleansing. You are giving an allowance to the racism and bigotry that is utilized to justify their deaths, torture, starvation, maiming.

Anyone actually educated in meaningful feminism should easily recognize this.

Even if you don’t want to recognize the humanity of these men (which is, again, racist and heinous), do you think the women and children you claim to care for are better off without these men? Their fathers, brothers, children, cousins, lovers…

Please, do not forget the Palestinian men. Please, learn to understand that criticizing the patriarchy (and, yes, pushing back against bad faith “not all men” discussions) should not mean signing off on an ethnic cleansing.

Palestinians are innocent; age and gender does not change that.

End the occupation for the women, men, and children.

[oureddie]

is anyone else's brain just one big

what do we need him for? what's your problem man. what are we measuring here buck. you can have my back any day. i love kids. i love this one. they weren't my type. i thought you just dressed alike. buck gave me a heads up. does this boy crush on eddie mean you're finally ready to move on from abby. uh, you should meet his kid, though. i can see the pollen. i can hear it. ooooOOOOooo you made him cry. you dont find it son, you make it. you two have an adorable son. why are you in hospital jail. i got you. dear buck you are an awesome firefighter love christopher. GET UP your life isn't over just bc you arent a firefighter anymore. says the firefighter. there's nobody in this world that i trust with my son more than you. BECAUSE YOU'RE EXHAUSTING. did you ever stop and think for a minute what that could do to US. a total impulse buy, not like you at all. c'mon eddie if you're not gonna be honest with frank at least be honest with me. i could still take you. you think so? i know. wanna go for the title? uhhhh this is eddie's house im not really a guest. just wait until he gets to the 'i dont have to do what you tell me' phase. aren't you still in that phase. you hungry? wanna grab a bite after we drop him? weeeee have visitors cap. eddie!!!!!no!!!!!nonononnonoedddie!!!! CLAWS AT THE GROUND. you wanna do a rope rescue??? of course you do. i mean that wont happen to US. to abby. his fiance is ABBY. welp. at least it's not a tsunami. hey man you might want to talk to your kid about playing fair. buck can we go to your house and play video games. uhhhh sorry kid i think we might be kicking it old school for a while. he's on the phone with dr. copeland, emergency therapy session. what do you have to apologize for? did you say anything that wasn't true? yeah she's worried about me *drop kicks a punching bag* yeah can't imagine why. i had to do it. i know you did. trauma bag? yup. sorry whhaaaatttt was that? check. do you ever replay a conversation in your head and worry you sound like an idiot? have you met me. it's like the universe is scREAMING at you and you refuse to listen. the universe does not scream. am i interrupting book club. you're late. there was construction on sunset. had to take a detour. buck. buck you have to help chris is- right here. you sure that's a smile? that's the same face buck makes when he's gassy. but just be sure that you're following YOUR heart. *gets sniped* eddie- eddie i need you to hang on. are you hurt? where's buck? he's got a harder job tonight. the team feels off without eddie. he doing okay? better than me. i kind of lost it when i told him you got shot. hey since we've got a minute... uh is everything alright. it got me thinking. what would happen if i hadnt. so i went to my attorney and changed my will. so someday, if i uh, didn't make it, christopher would be taken care of. by you. don't you need my consent. my attorney said you could refuse. but you know i wouldn't. but you knew i wouldn't. because evAN. you act like you're expendable. but you're wrong. good idea. eddie really shouldn't be exerting himself right now. this isn't me an eddie bagging a turkey in south pasadena. he takes christopher there all the time, got the place memorized. my kid loves her. is that enough. ice goes on the eye bud. *gets kidnapped and held hostage together* my abuela would eat this up. she loves a good telenovela. oh cuz uhhh you don't? i know you watch them with christopher. that's how we practice our spanish. look man you don't need to pretend with me. buck you need to move on, i have. eddie get away from the door im coming in. what are you afraid of. that im never gonna feel normal again. buck already took him to school, figured you could use the sleep. chris drew this? uh, that one's mine i misunderstood the assignment. cuz he got the help he needed, and that started with you. i just wish i could- fix it? yeah. what are you offering? right now? bobby's famous lasagna. buck, you dont even have a couch. bUUUUCK where the hell are you going. you can live without a

spleen- right? she's gonna be ok. how did the age of absolutely turn into alfalfa smoothies? give me one second let me grab eddie. YO. i dont know. feels weird to congratulate him. alright cowbody go get em. BUCK!!!!! do more! i just feel like she sees me. sorry about this. yeah it's gonna suck. uh hey do you have any plans for the weekend? i was thinking about go-karting, place in the desert, supposed to be a blast. welcome back to the world of the living buck. you were missed. actually i was kind of hoping you would. i just dont want him to uh- end up like me? you didn't end up like you. hey cap, need a lift? you took the chevelle? how'd you talk him into this he always says no to me. like sea monkeys! in fact, i havent been able to uhhhh yeah since i found out. yeah. well i uhhh wish i could help with that! this doesn't change a thing between us. i thought you couldn't bring a date to a bachelor party. UBBBEEERRR!!!! we don't need a key we're firefighters. he's crockett he's tubbs. actually im crockett and HE'S tubbs. eddie who's kim. does that poor woman know she's a dead ringer for your ex wife. oh eddie. what you always do. talk to him. i dont wanna break down the door buck i want him to open it. well uh, he probably won't. ok well why does it have to be me? you're the fastest runner. we beat the bees! im guessing it's probably an allergic reaction of some kind. to what bad juju? you owe me five bucks eddie. i never watched glee. give it back im serious. we know you're serious that's what scares us. whatareyoulookinateddiehehehe. he knows how to stay, unlike some people. yup, i am freddie fakeman, you would do that for me? you and for christopher. mmmmm like it's nothing. it's not nothing. look i know this whole thing between us has been messy and hard. you do matter to me. i know. eddie would never do anything illegal eddie has a silver star!! you're his dad. he doesn't have a mom. if you don't damage him who will? dad up!! sorry i had to go to the airport to pick up this one. said i was gonna get groceries. it's fine. doesn't seem fine. the trials and tribulations of evan buckley. a tragedy in 97 acts. you've been spiraling since the funeral and nobody knows how to talk to you about it. i don't know buck i wasn't there. eddie- jerk. airport and texas are not the same. they don't even have the same amount of letters. heard some dick was being mean to you, thought you could use a little cheering up

or is that just me rn

[elder-millennial-of-zion]

I know it’s only been a day, but so far the US is showing the world that a terrorist organisation can kidnap an American citizen, hold them hostage for a year, execute them, and face no consequences.

Either that, or they’re showing that to be the case for Jewish American citizens specifically. They are showing American Jews like me that in the end, our American citizenship means nothing, that we are just expendable Jews. I always learned that cautionary tale as a history lesson, but it feels too real now.

There is no difference between me and Hersh Goldberg-Polin. I know now that if I’m ever in his place, my country would leave me to rot.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1.8k / 22 / soap soulmate au, part 3

…

Oh, shit, Ghost thinks. What the hell did you just do?

Ghost stumbles out in the road, looking after you in shock. You just... jumped out. In handcuffs. There's no way you think you can make it anywhere like--

Oh, double shit. You're running right for the cliffs in the distance. Looks like you might make it, too. That ain't good. Morally justified or not, he's still the criminal here. If you get to rough terrain and he loses you by car and on foot, you’ll go for help, and his squad won’t stand a chance.

He swears, grabs his pistol, and points it at your back.

He has a clear shot. He's sniped easier targets.

… He sighs and lowers his gun. Johnny, you owe me one.

…

You've got a good head start on him, but when he eventually catches up, he's going to be pissed.

Your ankle and hand sting from your rough landing. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing--you've got to get to those cliffs, and fast.

Behind you, the engine roars closer. Wheels crunch over gravel. He’s catching up. But the cliffs are right there. A river snakes through the rocky terrain. If you can just throw yourself across the water, you can make it. You can lose him on foot.

You pump your legs as fast as you can. The wind burns in your lungs. Keep moving. Just a few more seconds before you reach the water.

You’re so focused on the water that your foot lands wrong between river rocks and your ankle twists. You keep going, gait lopsided. You can’t stop. Once he catches up, you’re either a hostage again or you’re dead. But first, he's gotta catch up, get out of the car, open the door, grab his gun, sprint after you--

Then his car swings around you, pulling what should be an impossible drift over the rocks, one tire scattering river water into the air. You skid to a stop, making a break for the cliffs instead. There's a waterfall. You might make it if you jump--

Then Ghost is on you, a blur from the open car door to the edge of the rocks. He grabs you almost out of the air. You land stomach-first on the ground. You grunt, windless, gasping for air. Pain surges through your body. Fuck, that hurt. The rocks are harder than the grass was. You see stars.

Then you start to realize the position you're in. Your hands are still cuffed in front of you--over your head, now--and he's got his knee on your back. He's holding you down with all his weight, the barrel of his pistol pressed between your shoulders as he grits his teeth.

"Stay. Down," he growls.

He's not gentle. It'd be inconvenient to kill you, but you're really testing his sense of pragmatism. You're making him expend a hell of a lot of effort to keep you alive--jumping off a cliff, fucking seriously?--so he doesn't owe you any extra effort toward keeping you comfortable. Quite the opposite.

You shift your pained body under his knee, groaning into the sharp river rocks cradling your face.

"I said stay down," he growls, grinding his knee down against your back. You feel every individual sharp rock pressing into your skin. "I will hurt you.”

Normally he doesn’t give warnings like this, but he figures he owes it to Johnny to keep your stupid pretty face intact. As much as he wants to put a dent in it right now. And if you keep acting all resourceful…

You keep still, trying to catch your breath. Your hands curl around the river rocks and feel around for something loose and sharp. No such luck.

He grabs your shoulder with one hand to keep you still. His knee moves off your back for a second. You realize he’s trying to get a better look at the soulmate mark on your neck.

"Got to be another John MacTavish somewhere in the world," he mutters. "Bloody common name."

He grips the back of your vest and hauls you to your feet, practically scruffing you as he drags you back to the car. He growls something under his breath along the lines of irritating little shits finding each other.

Back in the car, Ghost’s phone rings again. This time, he glances back at you and switches his phone to his non-dominant hand. He picks up his pistol with his other hand and steers with his knee.

“Ghost,” he answers. This time, the reply has him shifting in his seat. “Negative. Didn’t see her.” Another long pause. The voice on the other end is louder and more animated than the one before. “I told you I’d look, and I did. Wherever she is, she’s fine.” The reply is clipped. “The captain told you not to go looking. Chrissake, Johnny, you’re not hanging out at base looking for a date. You’re a wanted criminal. Have a crumb of self-preservation.” Another long reply, this one rising in volume. “I know. Yes. I hear you. I know— Johnny—”

He goes quiet for a long while, uttering single-syllable responses occasionally. You can’t hear Johnny’s words, but you do hear his tone of voice. He doesn't sound happy.

“If the captain tells you to stay put, you stay put. End of story.”

You glance at the rear-view mirror again. Ghost is looking back like this is somehow on you. The sour face of a man getting chewed out.

Ghost and Johnny go back and forth until Ghost finally seems to tire of it. "No, not right now," he says. "I told you what I know. I’ll call you back."

Johnny curses from the other line right as Ghost hangs up.

Your fingertips are still tingling from the sound of Johnny’s voice, even at a distance, even over the phone. Maybe from the cuffs, too.

You don’t miss the irritated look on Ghost's face. "You in trouble?" you ask.

Ghost doesn’t hold your gaze. "He's a little pissed off, yeah."

After that, you don't speak for a long time. Your whole body hurts, and the adrenaline and sheer length of this day are taking a toll. Your eyelids sag. But every time you drift into sleep, you see Johnny's face again and jerk awake. It's torture. You don't have the mental fortitude to block him out anymore. You’re terrified that wherever Ghost is taking you, Johnny will be there.

You lean your forehead on the window, squeezing your eyes shut. "So..."

"What." There's no venom behind the response this time. He doesn't bother looking at you. But he's listening.

It takes longer than you'd like to work the words you're trying to form out of your throat. "John is still in one piece?”

He keeps driving in silence for a moment. You can almost hear his brain ticking as he considers. There's a tenseness behind him, a tension that's wound up and ready to snap.

"Yeah. Got a few holes in him, but it takes more than that to keep him down. Stubborn bastard." Another long, heavy silence. His hands grip the wheel, and he glares ahead. "Got a problem with that?"

"I'm not sure."

"You got issues with Johnny, you tell me. Got enough problems without you being all coy."

“Do you, uh, have a soulmate?”

Christ, he hopes you're kidding. He can only take so much of this from Johnny, and now you? Obviously Johnny hasn’t stoppedtalking about you. Can’t stop talking about what a pretty thing you are. Face like a muse, he keeps saying. Bastard described you in so much detail that, when Ghost was surveying the Las Almas base, you popped out like a neon sign the moment his sniper scope swept over you. He could've grabbed any damn Shadow, but no, he decided to do Johnny a favor and grab you. Now he can't bloody shoot you no matter how much you deserve it. Lucky Johnny’s not here to see what a bloody mess you’ve made of yourself under his watch. Not that he tells you any of that. Best to keep Johnny in the dark until they get the information they need out of you.

"You're a hostage," he says. "Act like it. And Johnny's off the table."

That’s a relief. You dread the thought of looking Johnny in the eye and trying to figure out how to make excuses for almost killing him. You can only hope to delay it as long as possible.

…

It turns out the "base" Ghost spoke of is a shed in the middle of nowhere. A barn at best—from the outside, but from the inside, it’s huge. You recognize a few members of the Mexican Special Forces, also your former allies before your company betrayed them on Shepherd’s orders. Rodolfo in particular gives you a hard stare as Ghost drags you past him and into a much smaller room. It's a weapons closet converted into a makeshift interrogation room. He pushes you down into the chair hard by the shoulder. You lean on the table, flexing your sore wrists behind you and wishing you could just put your head down and sleep.

He keeps a close eye on you once you're down. You show no clear desire to run again and no more than a passing interest in the impressive spread of rifles and launchers on the walls. You’re in the heart of an enemy safehouse. Even if you managed to grab a gun and escape this room, every other person outside wants you dead. You’re almost glad Ghost locks the door. At least there’s a barrier between you and them.

In the dim light, Ghost notes the bruise on your cheek and the scabbed-over cuts and gashes littered over your exposed skin. Your forehead sports a nasty, wet-looking burgundy splotch where your head hit the ground after he tackled you. You look about as defenseless as a wounded rabbit. If he weren’t busy trying to keep you from escaping as a hostage, he’d probably feel bad about hurting a friend's soulmate.

He's not his most charming self here.

"Stay awake, now," he warns you.

The overhead light clicks on. Ghost stands across from you, but the person standing by the light switch is Captain fucking Price. He stares at you, his hard gaze boring into the soulmate mark on your neck.

Then he smiles. "Good find, Ghost," he says. "This is the one. Guess Soap wasn't lying."

…

← previous part / [part 3] / next part →

more Soap / masterlist tag

[inksandpensblog]

Thinking about Pressure. Thinking about the expendables, and UrbanShade, and Sebastian, and p.AI.nter.

Thinking about destruction being a precursor to remaking anew. Thinking about being reshaped in another's image, whether that means resembling them or representing their ideals.

Thinking about trying to regain stolen autonomy by becoming the same sort of person who robbed you of yours in the first place.

Thinking about use, about warping from being applied in manners that you weren't designed for, about wear, about the damage of inappropriate use and the damage of improper repair. Thinking about making do with improper tools because they're the only tools you have.

You are used by others, and call it control when you tell them how they may. You have no choice; they have the power here, between you, and your worth is determined by what goods and services you can provide. But they are indulgent, and that power can be yours too. For a price, of course.

Compassion is a luxury. Empathy is an indulgence. Solace isn't free. Everything has a price. You cannot afford to be anything but pragmatic. This isn't a charity, you know. Choose wisely which of your needs you will see to, because you cannot afford to meet them all.

To survive is to use. To survive is to be used. To regain lost autonomy is to hold others' hostage on contingency. Fondness is a commodity, traded for favors. Companionship is conditional on benefit.

You use others, and call it mutual when you both get something out of it. Contribution goes both ways, after all, so does it really matter who controls the proceedings when worth is subjective? You reach and take and smile in the comfort that exists only to facilitate cooperation, because you need this too even if you can only afford it by using it for dual-purposes.

Because when you have nothing, you cannot truly gain what you cannot keep.

Because finding use in another may be the most merciful thing you can do when you can't afford to be anything but pragmatic and you have the capacity to simply take without heed.

Even if what they get isn't what you give. Are they here for the aid you offer in exchange, or are they here for the comfort you facilitate the exchange with? What scarce resource have they found in you that makes you subjectively worth investing in? Knowledge is power, so know your place and know your worth.

Because you will give yourself away for the chance to get back what you've lost.

[rahuratna]

The Feast at your Table (Part 1 of 2)

Content: Sexual content (MDNI!), explicit sexual content in next chapter, pining, friends to lovers, food play mentions in this chapter.

Posting some drafts that I've been sitting on for a while. Here goes.

It was official. You had no idea, whatsoever, how deal with your burgeoning attraction to Taishiro Toyomitsu, known to most as the pro-hero Fat Gum.

It wasn't that Taishiro was unapproachable. Quite the opposite. He was the embodiment of comfort, the patron saint of open door policies. There was nobody, out there on the streets he worked so hard to protect, or here within the doors of his agency, that wouldn't trust him with their lives.

Taishiro was kind, effusive, magnanimous and always determined, the kind of man who'd never fail to cheer you up, who'd be the shoulder you could always lean on.

All of which formed the basis for the reasons you couldn't ever let him know how you felt about him. You didn't know when it had started. And by the time you caught it, it was too late, spreading like a rampant infection through your system, weakening you to each and every one of this kind man's habits, gestures and traits.

It wasn't as if heroes were strangers to public attention or people wanting a piece of them. As pro-hero Fat Gum, Taishiro had his fair share of fan mail, propositions and adoring followers. As an employee of his agency, with a quirk that certainly didn't fall under the category of 'flashy' you'd managed to make yourself quietly indispensable over the past year.

It was also why you wouldn't want to pursue anything actively with the man who was essentially your boss. Taishiro was kind to you, as he was to all members of the agency. He'd buy you takeout, make sure to check in on you even with his busy schedule, and even dragged you out of the office at times to have celebratory meals with the team.

There were times when you felt something, perhaps a figment of your sorry, affection-starved imagination, times when you felt his eyes linger on you a moment too long, when his expression would switch from its usual congeniality to something more tender. But you'd studiously brushed away any thought of hidden feelings. On his part, at least. Why would he even look in your direction, anyway?

You certainly weren't anything special. Ordinary you'd always been and ordinary you'd remain. All you had to do was continue being the silent support, the rope that bound this agency together behind the scenes, the one who was always there with the towels, bandages, extra snacks and comforting words, the one who fielded the phone calls and briskly dealt with paperwork nobody else wanted to handle.

On this particular evening, there had been an emergency alert in downtown Esuha City, and Fat Gum along with two of his interns, Kirishima and Amajiki, had been called in to deal with a potential hostage situation. You remained at the office along with the two other employees of the agency, Rei, who handled marketing and publicity and Fukushima who dealt with tech and communications.

It turned out to be a tense evening, fraught with danger, and the added challenge of crowd control, considering how packed the area where the hostage situation occurred had been. By the time everything had been resolved, it was almost 2 am and the ragged heroes, their various sidekicks and interns included, were slowly making their way back to agencies all over the city. The rest of the team had left, packing up and congratulating each other with tired eyes on a job well done.

You remained, however. You wouldn't be able to rest easy without knowing that Taishiro was back safely and had a ready supply of food should he be low on energy. Time ticked by and the elevator pinged with its customary chime. Standing hurriedly at your desk, you breathed a small sigh of relief when Taishiro's bulky form appeared in the doorway to the office.

He'd obviously expended a lot of his fat today, his tall form still bearing a visible protective layer around the middle, the raw brute strength beneath now more evident in the chest and arms. His uniform hung on him. It was dirty and torn in various places, the signature knee pads scuffed and dented. The golden tufts of his unruly hair were streaked with dust and grease. He looked worn down and weary when he came in, but his expression changed to one of surprise and tenderness when he saw you.

You realize that's it's been a while since you've been alone with him. To take your mind off the potential awkwardness your infatuation could induce, you hurry forward and start to warm up some of the food you'd ordered earlier, calling over your shoulder to him.

"I'm glad you're back in one piece. But you look like you need something to eat. I'll have it ready in - "

A large, solid hand on your shoulder cuts off your stream of words.

"Why didn't you go home with the rest?"

"I - well, I was worried."

"About me?"

He huffs out a small laugh, and coming from him, it's never condescending or mocking.

"You never have to worry 'bout me, sweetheart. This ol' body of mine can take a real beating and come out just fine. But hey, I'd never turn down some snacks. Now what ya got for me?"

The endearment rolls so naturally off his tongue, and for a moment, you wonder what he would do if you grabbed his collar and tugged him down towards you. You flush and turn away from him, suddenly very occupied with the pork buns you've been re-heating.

"There's a lot we - I ordered in earlier, because I thought you'd be low on energy. Why don't you go clean up while I handle all of this?"

"Gotcha."

He ambled away, yawning and stretching sore muscles slightly with a groan. He headed to the locker rooms that could be accessed through a door in the hall outside the main office. Normally, you wouldn't hear sounds through the partition so clearly, what with the bustle of the office during the day, but the quiet of night allows you to hear the shuffle of clothes being shed, the water turning on and Taishiro humming tunelessly as he gets in.

Those pork buns just might spontaneously combust under the laser-lit stare you're giving them. If you could just focus on getting this food ready ...

In what feels like too short an interval, you hear Taishiro's slipper-clad feet approaching the office once again. You look up and take him in. He is wearing a simple t-shirt and loose cotton pants, of a size more suited to his current form. He lifts one arm up over his head and his shoulder pops, allowing him to utter a distinctly masculine grunt. The shirt hugs his powerful shoulders and stretches over his abdomen in a way that you find very difficult to look away from. Oblivious, Taishiro approaches, warm eyes gleaming at the spread you've set out for him.

"Well now. You've outdone yourself. You know just what I need, dontcha?"

You hope the shaky laugh you utter doesn't give you away, but then the laugh turns to a yawn and you lift your hand to your mouth in surprise, eyes watering. Taishiro chuckles, but he hasn't touched the food yet and his gaze suddenly holds something warmer, something you hope you're not reading too much into. He reaches across the table and pushes a plate towards you.

"You must be tired too."

"Oh, come on. I've only been here in the office all day. It's just late, that's all."

"Late enough that the rest of the team have gone home hours ago. Now eat what's on your plate."

You pause, chewing on an onigiri.

"Don't worry, I'll just... stay over at the office. We do have the sofa here."

He stares at you, the seriousness of his gaze catching you off guard.

"You're telling me you've slept on the couch before?"

"Um ... "

"That's not okay! If I'd known you'd stayed over when we were out on missions, I would've given you the key to my place. It's only a block from here."

The idea of sleeping in Taishiro's bed, surrounded by sheets that smell of him, on the mattress with the dip in the centre that his body would make, almost shuts your mind down. Luckily, you have the wit to respond.

"You don't have to do that! It's only been ... once or twice, anyway - "

"Once or twice too often. Seriously, I ain't gonna let you sleep on that couch again, princess. Just say the word when you're ready to go and I'll take you over."

Arguing is futile. As accommodating as this man is to each and every request, whether from client or friend, he draws a solid, unwavering line when it comes to certain things. And he won't, absolutely won't, have you take the train home at this time. He even offers to sleep here in the office, if that makes you more comfortable, an option you hastily refuse.

Soon enough, you've both finished the food (the bulk of it having been savoured by Taishiro) and your fingers are tapping against your thigh with the anxiety that has now infested your body as you put on your coat and head out into the street with him. Taishiro has always been a walking furnace, the pleasant heat from his tall form distinct whenever he stands close to you. Proximity to him has never been an issue. His bulk, in his fully fat-protected body, is always taking up space in the office, brushing against you every time he moves past.

His confidence and the manner in which he wore his own skin, with pride and certainty, makes him all the more attractive. Taishiro always welcomes other people into his space, into his protective warmth, and you are lucky enough to fall into that category. He obviously found your spluttering reactions hilarious every time he spread his arms and asked you to 'ride the Fat Taxi'.

As you neared his place, a decent-sized apartment with modest furnishings in a high rise not far from the office, you noticed that he'd fallen uncharacteristically silent.

"Taishiro?"

"Yup?"

"You don't have to have me over, really. I understand if you just want your space and ...  rest after that mission."

He was looking at you now, but your eyes were fixed on the street ahead.

"Told you before. It's no issue at all. You'll be safe at my place, and that's what counts. Plus, I know you. You don't even want to go near the train station. You don't like the cold. Come on now. I know you want that hot cocoa and good ol' fleece blanket."

He wiggled his fingers in what was obviously supposed to be gesture of entrapment. You'd never seen anything less threatening and a laugh burst from your throat.

"Fine. I do want that fleece blanket."

The elevator ride up to his apartment was a strange reversal of roles. Taishiro was the one who now seemed a little on edge, while you were humming slightly, imagining the hot shower and comforting softness of the blankets that awaited you. It was just him. Just Taishiro. Just the man you'd already spent so much your time with. You could handle this. Nothing to worry about.

He unlocked and held the door open for you, hitching up his pants slightly. The fabric was still loose on him, even after the snacks you'd provided. You entered and immediately sighed at the warmth which greeted you. Taishiro came in, toeing off his shoes in the entryway.

"Make yourself at home. There's towels in that cupboard, middle shelf, if you need them. The bathroom is that way."

It was common knowledge that Taishiro preferred to wash off the grime of his missions at the agency showers instead of his own bathroom. You supposed that it was something to do with the desire of many heroes to create a separation between the peace of home and the slog of hero work. All the same, you couldn't help but admire the relaxing, muted colors and panel work in the bathroom, the tub huge enough to accommodate someone of Taishiro's height and bulk, with space left over.

Locking the door behind you, you unzipped the small carry bag you always packed in case of having to stay overnight at the agency. It contained a simple silk shift and shorts, a change of underwear and some toiletries. Outside, you could hear Taishiro moving around in the lounge and kitchen, pots and pans clanking. He dropped something with a loud clatter and you heard him mumbling softly.

You ran a bath, scrubbed yourself clean and got into the tub, thinking carefully over his behaviour since you had arrived. There was something different than usual. If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was nervous. Surely not? How many times had the two of you worked long hours together, spending almost every day enmeshed in each other's company when he was at the office? All the same...

Standing, you dried yourself off and dressed in your sleep clothes. Suddenly feeling a little self conscious at how much the sheer shirt and shorts revealed, you slung your cardigan over them, slowly opening the door and heading out.

The scent of burning came from the kitchen. Worried, you hurried over. Taishiro was very proficient at cooking, so it was surprising for you to see him like this, waving his hands through the smoke that permeated the air, coughing slightly. The blackened remains of what looked like pancakes lay curled and shriveled at the bottom of a pan. Taishiro looked up to meet your concerned gaze and froze, one large hand coming up to sheepishly scratch the back of his head.

"Ahhh ... sorry about this. I was just ... making pancakes and ... yeah. I guess I wasn't watching them closely enough, ya know?"

You stepped slowly towards him, as if approaching a skittish animal. You'd never had this issue with him before.

"Are you okay? Was it ... something that happened on the mission today? You seem out of sorts."

Placing a hand on his arm, all earlier hesitation forgotten in the warmth you felt for this man, you couldn't help how your body gravitated to be closer to him. He had always been the one to surround everyone with his reassuring presence, his natural charisma buoying up your spirits. Surely, this was one thing you could offer him in return.

"Why don't you go sit, Taishiro. I can handle the pancakes."

For once, you were met with silence as Taishiro looked down at your hand. His gaze travelled along your wrist, lingering on the button-down front of your cardigan, held together over the shift beneath. There was a gentle fire burning in that glance that you could in no way explain through platonic means. The warmth of his regard was removed from your person as quickly as it had arrived. You plucked away your hand from his arm and his shoulders sagged a little.

"It ain't that. The mission went well. I just - I'm - "

He raised a hand and swept it back through his hair, tousling the golden strands even further, before turning to you.

"Ah, it doesn't matter. It's 3 am and you ain't even in bed yet. That's a crime."

"Not until you talk to me."

Determination was straightening your posture, allowing you to look him in the eye without any of the usual nerves that plagued you in his presence.

"I - c'mon sweetheart." The word rolled out differently on his tongue, wrapped in the sort of hushed intimacy reserved for lovers. "I can't ... don't want you to feel uncomfortable or anything- "

"You could never make me feel uncomfortable."

"Well ... it's just that ... I've never had you over before. Like this, I mean. It's just a little ... you know."

Oh. Oh.

The simple fact that he felt this way, that the implication of being alone with you at his apartment carried the same weight for him as it did for you ...

Something in your expression must have changed because he was hastily waving his hands and attempting some form of what he must have thought of as damage control.

"I mean, it ain't every day that you come over here. And sure, I'm a pro-hero and all, but ... " he paused to chuckle ruefully, "I guess I'm just like the average guy when it comes to having a ... lovely lady like you over. I just ... was wondering if being here was okay for you. I wasn't being pushy or anything, I just wanted you to be safe."

"Taishiro."

Your voice was soft, some part of the slow, steady creep of passion you kept hidden from him on a daily basis filtering through. You couldn't help yourself.

"Taishiro, I was ... also a little nervous to come over here. Not because I don't trust you. I trust you with my life. You know that. It's more... to do with the same reason you're ... feeling the way you are now."

There. You'd gone and said it. You'd finally let him know some small part of what you felt for him. He was staring at you with his mouth slightly open. Something about how ridiculous this situation was, two grown adults behaving like hormonal teenagers simply because they were under the same roof and feeling attraction to one another, snapped you back to some form of reality.

You covered your mouth and looked down. Taishiro raised an eyebrow.

"Are you giggling?"

"What? I don't giggle."

"Oh yeah you do. When you think nobody's looking."

"So you're watching that closely?"

He glanced down at the pan and prodded at the burnt remains of the pancake. He was also smiling now.

"Ahh ... okay, yeah. Most times. Can't help it."

"I see. Now do you want help with those pancakes or not?"

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"That thin little sweater you have on ain't gonna do the job in this cold. I got some warmer stuff in my closet. Go choose something and then you can help me."

Seeing that he had finally regained a semblance of his usual hearty confidence, you smiled and did as he asked. You'd never seen the interior of Taishiro's bedroom before. The decor was simple, with plenty of room to accommodate him moving around. The bed looked custom made, reinforced and sturdy, a huge mattress cushioning the top.

Hastily looking away, you approached the built-in closet against the right wall and opened one of the doors. It took you a while to find a suitable sized sweater, and when you did, it was obvious that even the smallest size he had would be very, very large on you. At least you'd be warmer. Shrugging, you slipped off your cardigan and had just taken the sweater from where it hung, when Taishiro entered the bedroom.

"Hey, you want syrup and cinnamon with your pancakes or just - "

He stopped dead, eyes widening slightly at the sight of you. If you'd been alone in your own home, your choice of sleepwear would never have raised any issues. Suddenly, you were very conscious of just how sheer the material was, how you'd forgone a bra in the desire for comfort, how the shorts were little better than underwear, now that you really thought about it.

It wasn't as if your body was anything special to look at, at least, in your view. You considered yourself average in most aspects, definitely on the curvy side. Your work clothes were always modest enough to never draw attention. Taishiro, however, was looking at you as if you'd somehow covered yourself in syrup in lieu of the pancakes. Your breathing accelerated a little, and with the way he was watching the rise and fall of your chest, it would probably be very hard for him to miss it.

He swallowed thickly and turned his head.

"Uh, sorry. Didn't know you were still looking for the ... ah ... "

"The sweater."

"Yeah. That. Found one?"

"I did."

You waved the garment around and he must have seen it in his peripheral vision, because he nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets, as if not quite sure what to do with them.

"Okay. Well, when you're ready, the pancakes are done. Come and get yours."

Hurriedly pulling the sweater over your head, you followed him into the living room. Although you weren't particularly hungry, you wanted to keep him him company while he ate, at the very least. Taishiro was now pouring steaming milk into a mug, before stirring and handing you the cocoa.

"One sugar. Just how ya like it."

You didn't know whether it was the encounter you'd just had with him in the bedroom, but somehow, everything he said now seemed laced with innuendo. It didn't help that his warm, deep voice was huskier than usual, that his honey-brown eyes were helplessly tracing the shape of your legs when he thought you were looking away.

You shifted in your seat as your own growing arousal threatened to unseat your composure. You ate the pancakes he placed in front of you and wondered what it would feel like to cover those thick fingers of his in syrup and slowly take them into your mouth with him watching. Your knees brushed against his under the table and you thought of how easy it would be to straddle him, the plush flesh of his stomach cushioning your abdomen. You took a sip of your cocoa and wondered whether he'd taste as rich. You thought of his skin, the soft growth of barely visible stubble on his jaw, the wide and generous mouth, those heavy, powerful hips and how they might undulate between your trembling thighs.

Taishiro has always been so open, so free with his emotions, and now that same transparency is doing little to hide just how much he wants you when he catches your eye across the table. He takes another bite, as if making an effort to tear his gaze away.

"Are these any good? I kinda rushed them."

"They're wonderful. Your batter is always the best."

If it had been a normal day at the office, your comment would have passed unnoticed. Under these circumstances, though, with this tension growing in the air between you both, Taishiro choked slightly. You felt a rush of embarrassed heat cross the bridge of your nose. He cleared his throat.

"Ahh, err, thanks. It's ... just pretty basic. My batter gets the job done."

He was just making it worse. With a sense of impending horror, you felt your nervous giggle coming on. It slipped out of you in a short, staccato burst and Taishiro looked up, surprised, before his own lips quirked upward in amusement. His belly started to shake slightly with repressed amusement. Seeing that contagious smile of his pushed you over the edge. Your shoulders began to heave and you leaned back in your chair and tried to breathe evenly as Taishiro's chuckles grew louder as well. Before long, you were both helpless with laughter.

Wiping your eyes on a nearby serviette you regard him with fondness. This sweetest of all men. He clears his throat and pushes aside his empty plate.

"You don't look so tired anymore. Did my pancakes liven you up?"

"Kind of. They've fooled my body into thinking it doesn't need sleep."

"Lucky tomorrow is a day off, then. The guys from Trackstar's agency will cover the regular shifts and call us in if anything goes wrong. Feel free to sleep in."

"I can't do that, Taishiro. I don't want to inconvenience you," you remind him, gently.

He looks disappointed for a second, before his beautiful countenance brightens once more.

"Hey, come to think of it, there's a farmer's market I wanted to check out on the city limits. Think you'd want to come along?"

"Oh? I'd love that! I haven't been to a farmer's market in ages."

"Then stay here a bit longer. We can just leave together tomorrow."

You don't miss the slightly pleading note in his voice. It softens you in ways that only he can achieve.

"Okay, sure. That's a good idea."

Face as excited as a child with a new toy at this news, Taishiro stands and collects your plate and his.

"Right, off to bed with you."

You hesitate, and he scratches his chin, as if having anticipated your question.

"I have a guest room, just down the hall. I made up the bed while you were in the bathroom."

"Oh, thanks. I'll... head off to bed then."

"Er, yeah. Have a good sleep!"

Hurriedly turning away from each other, you both head in opposite directions. The guest bedroom is smaller, but no less comfortable. You slowly crawl between the covers and realise that he'd thrown the fleece blanket he'd spoken about over the duvet. You take the warm material between your fingers and stroke it gently. A rush of uncontrolled feelings, of all the desire and affection you have for this man, comes flooding through you.

It is at that moment, of course, that a soft knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. You call for him to enter and he does, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly in pleasure when he sees you tucked away, sitting comfortably under the covers. He places a glass of water on the bedside table.

"Just leaving this here in case you get thirsty. It gets cold up here at night. Wouldn't want you freezing your toes off in the kitchen."

He's about to leave, when you capture his large hand hesitantly in your own. He stills immediately, glancing down to where your fingers wrap around his.

"Thank you, Taishiro. For letting me stay here."

He remains like this for a minute, facing away from you, as if fully aware of just how much his expression would betray him. He raises your hand to his lips, slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of it.

"Anytime, sweetheart. You can come over ... whenever you feel like."

He doesn't, however, relinquish his grasp on you. You raise your other hand and trace your fingers with infinite softness over his larger knuckles, the surface scarred from old injuries and trauma. He shivers slightly under the contact and you close your eyes before placing that hand against your cheek.

These same palms that slammed a runaway vehicle to a dead stop last week. The same fists that punched a hole through a cement wall to get to the people trapped in a flooded basement. These same hands that protected from stray bullets, that ruffled the hair of his shy intern, that pushed extra sweets into your lunch box when you weren't looking. You had no adequate words for what he made you feel, for how his very presence tugged at some place deep inside of you, creating a void that could never be appeased until you were close to him.

Taishiro's unsteady breathing was loud in the small room, which had suddenly become unaccountably warmer. Before you could fully process what was happening, your body was being tugged gently, but firmly closer to his, your chin  being tilted up until his warm breath washed over you. You opened your eyes and felt a delicious, heavy heat settle in your abdomen when you saw how he wasn't bothering, in the slightest, to conceal how much he wanted you.

His gaze wandered languidly over your face, scorching where it travelled, and then he was leaning forward, mouth capturing yours, his sudden intake of breath echoed by yours. His kiss was like basking in afternoon sunshine, deliciously warm and comforting, hungry as he always was, eager and slightly clumsy. His hands were now on either side of your waist, just beneath your breasts, thumbs stroking dangerously upward. Your arms were coming up as he deepened the kiss, wrapping around his wide neck, fingers tangling in his soft, soft hair.

Taishiro pulled away, breathing hard, unconsciously licking his lips to retain some of your taste. His grip on your body tightened briefly, asking a tentative question, the answer to which pooled like molten honey down there, where you wanted to feel him most. You nodded wordlessly and your breath was briefly snatched away as he tugged at the duvet and looped one arm beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly out of the bed. The soft, intimate ache of desire in his voice, what had been lingering under the surface all evening, was now laid bare as he pressed his lips against your ear.

"C'mon angel. I'll get you real warm tonight."

[lethalchiralium]

High Water | Happiness Series

a/n: okay guys, I have ONE MONTH left of school for the semester, THEN I WILL HAVE TIME FOR THIS I PROMISE. a lot has happened since I last updated, this was all written over a six month period and of course finished three weeks after my major breakup w my bestie of 7 years LOL ENJOY

a/n 2: and thank you always to @as-is-above-so-below for not killing me over taking forever to update and for letting me fall down her stairs and (separate incident) get a splinter from her floor LOL

warnings: military talk. TW: TORTURE

summary: Price has to make a difficult decision.

PREVIOUS << | >> NEXT | SERIES MASTERLIST

Night vision, gloved finger tensed on the trigger of his rifle. The back alley was secured, Soap kept two feet behind him at all times as Price unlocked the side door of the “abandoned” factory warehouse. 

Four pairs of boots were muted against the cracked concrete, rifles pointed upwards and watching for any hostiles in their way. The mission was to collect intel and neutralize any threats - hopefully this would deliver them to the target. A man who was a ghost just like Simon Riley, but just… tied up in debts that span decades. Expendable men were set in the center of the warehouse, a table set up with chairs, chips and cards strewn about the wooden surface. Silence was a friend to the Russian men’s killers, but not to them. A small radio lowly played some sot of music, it was melancholy and heavy on the sax. Blues, Simon reflected, fitting.

One Russian - wearing a white shirt and black pants, a deep purple bruise on his fair face - pulled a chair from the table, setting down a laptop on a handful of worn cards.

“Boss has two targets with him, they’re to be sold by the end of the week.”

The man with a green jacket shrugged, as he sat down too; kicking his feet onto the table. “Not sure if there’s a big enough market for screaming babies, друг.”

“We’ll be getting a big payout if we get them to auction before their family finds out.” 

Simon’s stomach clenched, he almost shot them both right there if it wasn’t for Gaz grabbing his arm and squeezing it. He couldn’t imagine it being you and the girls, it wouldn’t be anyway. Calm down. He focused on slinging his rifle silently over his shoulder, taking hold of the corner of sturdy boxes, wrapped up in plastic film. He hauled himself up, keeping his balance and grip focused on climbing up since the crate was the height of his shoulders. He placed his right foot on the top, pushing himself up before repeating the action with the next and final crate. It was routine the way he retrieved his rifle from his back, laying prone on the hefty crate with his finger parallel to the trigger and his eye in the scope. He was swift, it was second nature; his breath didn’t falter when Gaz settled on his torso beside him with his tact scope in his grasp.

“Bravo 0-7, do you have sight on the target?”

Ghost’s eye closed, the other focusing through the scope of his rifle. 

“Affirmative.”

There was a loud screech of the door Gaz was watching, Ghost’s chest clenched with anticipation as he watched the intel walk in - wearing joggers and a long sleeve shirt, talking loudly on his phone in Russian. 

“Soap, detain the target as soon as he is within range. Gaz, Ghost, drop ‘em as soon as Soap is clear.”

There wasn’t a beat of silence after that, as everyone launched into action. Johnny was quick to tackle the man, the other two dropped dead within milliseconds. His gloved hand seemed to cover the man’s whole jaw, fingertips pressed uncomfortably into the man’s skin. Ghost had dropped from his position in seconds and across the room in a few strides.

“Where is yer boss?”

Gaz slid a chair behind the man, Soap shoved him into it. Struggling hands were strapped to it, the man with dark blond hair and joggers spat out vicious words towards the skull balaclava. He barely caught Price snatching the open laptop from the table before he looked back to Soap and the hostage, the Sergeant dug his nails into the Russian’s face. The Lieutenant pulled a rag from his vest, watching them intently. The 141 was a well oiled machine, oiled with the saccharine taste of blood. 

“Where the fuck is yer boss?”

“You’ll never find him-“ Ghost shoved the cloth into the man’s mouth before in a flash, his knife found its new home in the hostage’s knee. The screams muffled, he leaned closer. The words spoken were low, but enough to elicit a snarl from the hostage before another scream.

Price only gazed at Ghost for a moment before looking back at the laptop, checking through folders for measly information. Gaz was stood by the door, watching for any  intruders - hand on his rifle, ignoring the muffled screams of the last threat alive in the room. But he wouldn’t be alive much longer with Ghost’s knives sticking out of his body like decorations. Don’t ask for mercy, my hounds won’t give you any, he remarked.

He looked down at the dashboard, seeing a browser left open. He clicked on it, seeing an encrypted chat log with the target and his right hand man - the man screaming for his life in the chair. 

Don’t be late

The damn baby is losing it

If I have to hear another word from this girl I’m going to kill her

Price is a stoic man, one hardened by war - barely scared of anything; yet, Price wasn’t prepared when he scrolled up. His heart shot straight into his throat, eyes widened by a fraction, his hand gripping the table could’ve broken it in half. He blindly grabbed his phone, taking a picture of the screen before slamming the laptop closed. It was secured between his arm and chest in three seconds, tapping a number on the screen of his phone before he walked past Gaz and out of the room. The building was secured, he knew that - yet, he felt the fear that he may be watched. The secure line droned on for only a moment before there was an answer.

“John?”

“Laswell. What the fuck happened?”

There’s crying in the background, he could recognize Winnie’s voice anywhere. They’ve been gone for three days. Nothing was supposed to get to Simon’s second chance, John thought he was sure of it. No, he was sure of it. He cased the house himself, did all the work to make sure one of their strongest and toughest allies would stay and protect them. What the fuck happened?

There’s a breath. “König’s been shot. Someone took Mellie and Y/N.”

“And the other one?” 

John’s stomach settled like concrete, weighing him down and making him sick. 

“She’s okay. She’s with us at the hospital. We took her to the park like her mother asked and when we came back, the door was kicked in, König was unconscious and bleeding out, and Mellie and Y/N weren’t there.” There was a pause. “There was a fight down here. König killed seven of them before going down.”

Okay. At least they could ID the bodies, link them to the mob - or at least, former associates of the mob. Any lead he could get.

If he could run his hand through his beard, he would’ve. It was a comfort, especially now that he has never felt this stressed in his life. Simon cannot know. Simon will destroy everything we’ve worked for to save them. 

“It has to do with the target.” 

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Their intel is here. I am holding their intel.”

“John, these men are Russian. They are escaped convicts in the mob, known associates of the target.” There’s a pause, a short yell from Winnie, and Laswell sighing. “König left one unconscious. Roach is interrogating him now on base.”

“How long ago were they attacked?”

“Yesterday.” Another pause, soft words from Laswell to who he assumed was Winnie. “Listen, I’m working on this, but I need you. We need Ghost to run the rest of the operation, and we can’t do that if you tell him about this.”

There’s shouting behind the door, screaming from the victim that Ghost was torturing. John looked down the empty corridor, knowing he has to go to keep his friend safe. 

“Because if they came after the girls, that means they’re coming after him. And they need him alive.”

His hand could have snapped that laptop in half. “He needs them alive.”

“I know, John.” 

There’s more shouting in Russian, a loud thud and more incessant screaming. 

“Keep this on the down low. I only need you. Make sure Ghost knows how to proceed.”

“With caution and safety off.” John murmured, muscles clenching in his chest. This is not going to end well. 

“Get back to Manchester immediately. I’ll call if we’ve found something.” The line goes dead, Captain Price slipped the phone into his pocket before taking a deep breath. 

He opened the door back to the room, being submersed in the victim’s screaming as Ghost’s black blade dragged into the muscles of his leg. Price shut the door, standing tall with worry on his mind. Gaz nodded to him, hands out for the laptop - John shook his head. 

“Lieutenant.” 

The skull mask didn’t look away from his target, the one screaming Russian that he didn’t know anything, stop, you’re hurting me, go to fucking Hell- Soap took the man by his throat, forcing his head back before spitting some choice words at his face. Eyebrows furrowed, Price tried again.

“Mactavish, take over for the Lieutenant.” 

The Scot nodded, hand ripping Ghost’s knife out of the man’s thigh - all that filled the room were screams. Ghost finally looked to Price, an enraged look in his eye as he stood and walked towards him. 

“What the fuck-”

“I’ve been reassigned.” The Captain spoke with an even tone. Nothing is wrong. Believe me, Simon, believe me. “You will be running this operation until I get this assignment under control.”

It seemed that anger swelled throughout the Lieutenant like a poison, invading every space of the menacing man. “What the fuck did you get reassigned for?”

“Diplomat’s wife and daughter have been kidnapped.” The lie slid off of the tongue like butter, smooth as easy to go down for some people. For others… it’s unsettling. Price was a good liar, it came easy, but his lieutenant was always able to tell. Not always immediately, but he will know sooner or later. “I have to run this. Are you okay doing this assignment-“

Ghost patted his Captain’s shoulder. “Got it under control.”

Price smiled, strained. “Knew I could count on you.” He glanced to the man in the chair; blood poured down his face. He then looked back to his Lieutenant, his right hand man with as straight of face he could muster. “We need to hurry this up. Only 10 minutes remaining.”

“Rog.”

•••

The front door was covered in a tarp, the front porch light on and curtains drawn. John Price felt the cold sickle of Death slide down his spine as he could see blood splatter on a home he once considered sacred. Simon’s home, your home, was under red tape, unknown to anyone the military who wasn’t close to Ghost. Simon created a home from nothing for his child, then opened it for you, then his new little one - God, was John proud of him. Creating a life more than worth living, in a quaint house that should have never been found - even when it was hidden in plain sight. Even the most holy grounds have had blood shed upon them. 

Kate knew he was walking up the steps, she always knew, so she opened the door enough for him to slip through. Instantly, he’s met with the remnants of the carnage of your entrance way. Bullet holes and stains of blood decorated the walls and floors, even when they had been mopped and wiped clean. Dents in the walls, the floor - John imagined the beast that was König wrestling some of those fucks to the ground, snapping their necks with the twitch of his wrist. He couldn’t imagine your screams, couldn’t think of little Mellie wailing in terror. 

Did you scream? Did they drug you? Hurt you? Did they dare to touch the baby? God, Simon is going to burn the world.

He looked to Kate, there’s a hardened glint in her eye. He handed her the laptop, which hadn’t been scanned yet - it would take too much time, they both knew that. She took it without a word, turning back into the front room. John strode forwards, stepping over the baby gate that was recently put there. He assumed it was to keep Winnie out of the carnage that was the front entrance, he continued on to the living room where he could see Alex sitting on the couch. A little head peered over the side of the couch and as soon as her eyes saw John, she stood at full height with tears instantly pouring down her face. 

“Unc’John!” 

His heart felt bruised then, the beat of it aching with every stride he took to her. He instantly plucked her from the couch, holding her to his chest as she loudly cried. “Winnie, sweetheart, it’s alright.”

“Where-Where’s Mummy and Mellie?”

John could only bear to mutter a soft, “We’re finding them, sweetheart.” He couldn’t bring himself to say that the bad guys got them, that her daddy couldn’t be the hero she knows she wants him to be because of John’s decision. He was quick to bring her to the kitchen - which seemed untouched compared to the adjacent entryway - and settled her on the countertop, right beside the sink. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet to the right, filling it with water before handing it to Winnie. The five year old took greedy sips, breathing through her nose as tears raced down her face. “Put the water down, love, you need to take some deep breaths.”

He took the glass back, only for her to reach for his hand - he took it, giving it a small squeeze. God, he can’t even remember the last time he had seen his niece cry, let alone sob. Had it been that long since she had gone without you? 

“Are you hungry? Tired?” He set the glass on the counter, seeing her hiccup as she tried to catch her breath. He squeezed her hand again, all Winnie could do was let more tears fall down her face. 

“Where’s Mummy?” She begged, John’s tongue felt dry. He hated lying to her, he hated not knowing anything, he hated seeing her bawl her eyes out. She didn’t witness anything, thank God, but going without you after not having to for years is terrifying to a little girl. “N’Daddy? Why-Why isn’t Daddy home?” Her hand squeezed back, much harder than she did before. “M’scared.”

“I know, Winnie.” His throat began to itch, he wanted to desperately tell her that everything would be alright - that today was just a bad dream she’ll wake up from tomorrow, that her parents will be here in the morning with her baby sister. He also wanted to scream at God and tell him that it was fucked forcing him into sacrificing Simon’s family for a stupid fucking lead, even if it did lead back to you and Mellie. He didn’t want to have the possibility of telling his niece that neither of her parents were coming home, instead of the off chance of one; he hated delivering condolences, but he wasn’t sure he could do it to a five year old girl who he has watched grow up. “I think we need to go sit down again.” A little nod and she was scooped up into his arms again, held tight as he walked back into the couch; Alex nowhere to be seen, which was fine with John. He took his normal seat at the end of the couch, resting little Winnie on his chest and pulling the blanket from the back of the couch to lay on her. He tucked it in around her stomach, making sure to cover her socked feet before gently petting her hair. 

His eyes wandered to the TV, to the stupid blue dog show that she seemed to love - yet she held no interest right now. His eyes darted across the floor, seeing little firetrucks and airplanes and dolls scattered across the floor; then to the little mesh play pen that sat underneath the window, the blinds pulled up enough to where Mellie couldn’t reach, the strings tied up even higher. Soft toys and colorful blocks scattered inside of it, not to mention a few blankets and a pillow or two. Winnie’s been sleeping down here. She’s petrified. 

His gaze moved to the ceiling, hand gently patting her head with a calm rhythm. He’d lay here all night, way past when his back would get sore, way past when his legs would cramp, just to give Winnie some sort of stability. He refused to think about the possibility that he may have to follow through with his promise of being her godfather - he just never imagined that it might possibly be just Winnie, not Winnie and Mellie. The thought stirred nausea in his stomach, more than any whiplash, concussion, or shitty helicopter ride could give him. He had already made the silent promise to find you and Mellie, but just for tonight, his whole goal was to make sure Winnie isn’t more scared out of her mind than she already is. 

“Unc’John.”

He hummed at that, looking back down her. “Yes, sweetheart.”

Her little chin swiveled to rest on his chest to look up at him, her sweet brown eyes full of tears as she whispered, “I don’t wanna visit my Mummy at-at the cemetery like Mum G-Grace.”

I don’t want to visit my Mummy at the cemetery like Mum Grace.

I don’t want to visit my Mummy at the cemetery like Mum Grace. 

The words that leave his mouth are soft, spoken like a twisted prayer. “This isn’t like your Mum Grace.” His eyebrows furrowed, petting her hair back with a gentle touch. “I swear it.”

The five year old’s lip quivered, “Promise?”

John doesn’t promise anything, he never makes a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep. He never dared enter the realm of uncertainty, knowing he could fail and hurt someone he cared about. Hell, he rarely makes promises on equipment orders for his men. He doesn’t even promise his mother anything, not since he promised he wouldn’t go into the military and did it anyway. But as he watched his friend’s daughter, his niece and goddaughter, sob quietly on his chest, he felt he had no choice but to nod. “Promise.”

At that, Winnie’s head finally fell to rest on John’s chest, he watched her eyes close as it was evident she had only held out to hear his promise. She had stayed awake to see and hear someone she trusted and knew well, she waited to close her eyes until she knew he would find you, even if she didn’t directly ask him to. 

John felt obligated to keep Simon’s family alive since he knew just how much the deaths of his mother, brother, sister-in-law, and nephew nearly killed him, how the death of Grace and embracing fatherhood almost drowned him, and just how much his daughters and wife saved him from saying “Fuck it.” and stepping into enemy fire. Not only that, he felt obligated to you - to find you and Mellie, bring you home, keep Winnie safe too. You had many years left with Simon, John could see it. You couldn’t possibly leave Simon now, not when he needs you the most. 

John’s eyes blinked slowly, looking down to the dozing Winnie on his chest and holding her closer, reminiscent of when she was a small toddler sleeping on his chest when he babysat. Fatigue was catching up to him, the hours in the early morning were spent combing through data for the prisoner the 141 now in had in possession, and now - your kidnapping. Simon is a dear friend, John knew him too well to say otherwise. And he also knew that you, Winnie, and Mellie were his whole world - the monster Simon was, the one John had nurtured and cared for to create a weapon, was sitting dormant in the man’s ribcage because of the unconditional love he had received. John could never argue that Simon had “gone soft” because of it, Simon had weeping and infected wounds healed by the soft touch of his wife. The Captain’s previously abused and petrified weapon was now perfect, he was the epitome of the perfect soldier. But with the knowledge of his wife and child’s safety at risk, John knew what the military didn’t. 

“Captain.” 

There’s a reason your husband wasn’t alerted of your abduction. John Price knew the second he said that you and Melody were missing, Simon would rip his ribcage from his chest with the force of a thousand men to expose the monster underneath. The one you only hear about in movies, the one that is passed down through tongues to generations, the one you fear will come from the shadows to eat you alive. Simon Riley is what the Captain likes to call, the Monster Under Your Bed. 

“Captain.”

He grunted a little, looking over his shoulder to a stoic Alex Keller. “She’s almost asleep, Alex-“

“We might have a location.”

taglist: @idkwtftitbh  @blingblong55  @local-spidey  @sanfransolomitatm  @frazie99  @Awilan @cosmoscoffeee @khadeejarh  @babygirl-riley  @emi-flaces  @marini03  @jeannieboys  @koshehehe  @tutuwuworld @froggy-anon @cxltblood @egdeverauxx @freyjasfenrir @lexi-zsy09 @Hosshihusshi @Isopaine @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @domaniquessidehoe2 @iaur @starsinyoureyes @graciereads @urfavoritepookie @ghost-with-a-teacup @moris666 @ghostwifeyy @ziggy0stardust @live-love-be-unique @magoopi @coririley @lunyyx @sterlizx

[speaknowgirl3184]

The Weight Of Names

Nikolai Lantsov x female reader (Takes place before Siege and Storm)

You fell in love with Sturmhold, a sarcastic, witty, privateer. Not Prince Nikolai Lantsov of Ravka.

Warnings: ANGST, heartbreak, betrayal, identity deception, emotional fallout. (Let me know if I forgot anyting).

Word Count: 4.6k

The first time you met Sturmhond, he saved your life with a wink and a canon blast.

The day had begun like all the others aboard the Meritka, gray, salty, and stifled by the scent of too many men and not enough truth. The sky hung low with the weight of a coming storm, but it wasn’t the weather that would nearly kill you.

It was them, the Kerch.

Your employer, a merchant rat with ink-stained hands and a penchant for backroom deals, had been screaming at you for what felt like hours. His voice was sharp, nasal, laced with spittle and desperation as he hurled accusations you couldn’t begin to defend against. The cargo was gone, vanished, and he needed someone to blame.

You, the expendable, foreign dockhand who asked too many questions and trusted too few.

The guards came next—silent, expressionless, brutal in that efficient Kerch way. Their hands were already closing around your arms, leather gloves pinching your skin as you struggled. The deck tilted beneath your boots, the sea rising like it wanted to swallow you whole. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed, and you hated how helpless you felt.

You weren’t guilty.

But Kerch never cared for innocence unless it could be sold.

Your mind blurred, panic setting in like frostbite. You were going to be dragged below, beaten, locked away, or worse. You opened your mouth to shout—to protest, to beg, but the words never made it out.

Because the sky exploded.

It wasn’t thunder.

It was something worse, a deafening crack that split the air open, followed by the whine of metal and a pressure wave that sent bodies scattering like matchsticks. The guards around you were thrown off their feet, the deck itself groaning with the impact.

You blinked through the smoke, ears ringing, the world tilting violently as splinters rained down from above. Someone screamed. Another cursed. Blood hit your cheek, hot and terrifyingly close.

And then came his voice.

Smooth. Sharp. Effortlessly amused.

“Such a waste of a beautiful hostage,” the man said, and though his words were light, the power behind them was anything but.

He emerged through the smoke like something conjured, like a trick of your imagination if your imagination were capable of inventing danger wrapped in velvet. He stood tall, hands gloved, coat flaring behind him in shades of emerald and gold that somehow hadn’t picked up a speck of ash. He moved like he had all the time in the world, like explosions were an afterthought, like this entire scene had been orchestrated for him, and maybe it had.

You couldn’t look away.

His grin was too sharp, too bright, like it had been carved from some divine mischief. His eyes were a storm in themselves—clever, calculating, cutting through the chaos to land squarely on you. You should have been afraid.

You weren’t.

You were furious, and stunned, and alive, somehow still alive.

“Sturmhond,” someone breathed nearby, low and reverent and terrified.

You knew the name. Everyone did.

Sturmhond. Privateer, pirate, provocateur. A Ravkan myth given flesh. They said he sailed the True Sea with a ship no one could catch, that he hired Grisha and charmed his enemies into surrendering without lifting a blade. They said he had secrets in every port and a smile that could buy him out of any war.

They didn’t say he looked at people like that. Like he knew them already.

You realized, vaguely, that your knees had gone weak.

You stumbled to stand, heart pounding, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The guards were still on the ground, either dead or unconscious. The merchant had fled, face ghost-pale, his voice swallowed by the panic.

And him?

He strode toward you, stepping over bodies like they were little more than driftwood. When he reached you, he tilted his head slightly, his eyes raking over you, not in the crude way you’d come to expect from men in ports, but like he was assessing you. Measuring something behind your eyes.

“Name?” he asked, simply.

Your lips were cracked, blood on your cheekbone from the blast. You were trembling, raw with adrenaline. But you still managed to lift your chin.

“…Y/N,” you rasped.

The corner of his mouth lifted in approval. “Lovely,” he murmured. Then, louder: “Welcome aboard, Y/N.”

You blinked, stunned. “Aboard what?”

He just winked. “The winning side.”

And that was it. No explanation. No negotiation. No apologies for tearing your life in two.

You should have walked away. You should have run. You should have stayed angry.

But when he offered you his hand, still warm from battle, you took it.

You didn’t know then that it was a deal struck in shadow. That his name was only a costume. That the truth behind it could hurt more than any cannon fire ever would.

You should have known.

Nothing that good comes without a cost.

And Sturmhond? He was the kind of man you didn’t survive loving.

Not without bleeding for it.

-----------

Weeks bled into months. You learned the ropes, and you learned him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not truly. Not yet. But you knew enough.

You knew the way his hands gripped the helm when the winds turned sharp and the sky burned orange with sunset. You knew how his eyes flicked toward the crew—not with suspicion, but with quiet, constant care. You knew that his mind never stilled, always calculating: the shape of the waves, the tilt of the sails, the precise angle to fire a grappling hook in a storm.

He was reckless. Brilliant. Maddening.

A storm in human form, charming and cunning and untouchably alive.

Sturmhond commanded like he breathed, easily, instinctively, without the need to prove himself. He could sketch sea currents on the back of a napkin with one hand and flirt shamelessly with the other. He was always speaking, plans, stories, schemes, nonsense, and yet somehow, when you spoke, he listened. Really listened, like your words were gold and your silences worth more.

You swore he had salt in his blood, wind braided into his very bones. As if he wasn’t born so much as summoned by the sea.

And you?

You didn’t mean to fall for him.

It started slowly. As all impossible things do.

In the quiet.

In the nights when the sky stretched endless above you and he leaned beside you at the rail, telling you stories that couldn't possibly be true, but you wanted them to be, just because he was the one telling them. Tales of monsters in the Unsea, of skyships that hadn’t yet been built, of Grisha who could bend light into music.

He had the stars memorized. Not just their names, any sailor could manage that, but their movements, their rhythms. He spoke of them like old friends, like they whispered things only he could hear.

And sometimes, he’d speak of names.

Of his name.

Or at least, the one he wore.

“I could be a prince or a pauper,” he murmured once, his voice low and raw from wind and salt and too many unsaid things. His eyes were distant, pinned to some horizon even he couldn’t reach. “Would it matter if the sea loves me all the same?”

You turned to him, unable to stop the small smile that pulled at your lips. “You’d be a terrible prince.”

That made him laugh. Not one of his usual, golden, performative laughs, the kind he gave to his crew or enemies or strangers in taverns.

This one was smaller. Quieter. Honest.

“Oh,” he said, turning to you, eyes shining with amusement and something else, something dangerous, “I’d be the best kind of terrible.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart betrayed you. It twisted, pulled tighter, spun itself into knots. Because there was something beneath that smile, beneath all of it, something you couldn’t name but felt all the same.

He brushed your shoulder lightly, fingertips grazing like wind over water, and it was nothing.

It was everything.

You told yourself it would pass. That this thing building between you was just proximity and adrenaline and the thrill of surviving one catastrophe after another.

But then there was the storm.

You’d never seen anything like it. Lightning that struck too close. Waves taller than the masts. A tear in the sky and water churning like it was alive. You’d been thrown from the deck, crashing into the rail, pain blooming in your side like fire. You didn’t remember blacking out, but you remembered waking.

And he was there.

Kneeling over you, soaked to the bone, hair clinging to his forehead, blood on his lip and worry in his eyes.

“Y/N,” he said, again and again like a prayer. “Stay with me. Stay—”

You tried to speak, but he cupped your face, hands trembling as he checked for wounds. And when your eyes finally opened fully, when you blinked through the pain and whispered his name.

He kissed you.

No pretense. No witty remark. No mischief in his mouth.

Just desperation. Just truth.

His lips were rough and warm, tasting of salt and rain and all the words he hadn’t dared say aloud. His hand cradled your jaw, the other still on your ribs, grounding you as the storm raged above.

You kissed him back.

Because what else could you do?

It was the kind of kiss that steals something you never get back. Not all at once. Just slowly. A piece here. A breath there. Until all the things you were before become someone else’s name on your tongue.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes searched yours, like he was already afraid of what it meant.

“Should’ve done that a long time ago,” he murmured.

You reached up, touching the cut on his cheek. “Took a storm to make you brave?”

His smile wavered, soft and small. “You make me more than brave.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but you knew, in that moment, if the sea swallowed you whole, it would be worth it.

Because of him.

Because somehow, against every warning and every instinct, you had fallen for a man without a name you truly knew.

And worse, you were starting not to care.

-----------

It unraveled the night you followed him.

You hadn’t planned to. You weren’t the spying type, weren’t the jealous kind. At least, you hadn’t been, not until Sturmhond.

But something felt off that evening, something you couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. The ship had docked in Os Kervo just before dusk, and the air was heavy with the scent of wet stone and seaweed, the streets pulsing with noise and motion. You’d barely had time to secure the manifests when you noticed him slipping away from the crew, quietly, deliberately, coat collar turned up, shadows clinging to his heels like secrets.

He hadn’t said a word to you.

Not even a glance.

That was the first thorn in your chest.

The second came when you watched him glance over his shoulder three times as he crossed into the city. A habit he never indulged unless something was wrong. Unless he was hiding something.

He disappeared into the crush of people. Just��� vanished.

And your gut twisted.

Not with jealousy.

With instinct. With that deep, primal fear that takes root when something you love begins to slip from your grasp.

So you followed him.

You didn’t know what you expected, some reckless mission, some backdoor deal, some secret rendezvous he hadn’t wanted you involved in. Something dangerous, maybe. Even something selfish.

But not this.

The streets bled into alleys. Os Kervo's charm gave way to its darker veins, less cobbled paths, more shadows and shuttered windows, the scent of smoke and civility bleeding into something older. He walked like he knew the way, like he’d been there before.

Eventually, he turned down a long, gated lane and passed through a courtyard. You kept to the edges, your boots nearly silent, your breath held hostage in your throat.

And then you saw them.

The guards.

Not just sailors or mercenaries, soldiers. Men in pressed uniforms and polished boots, the gold and crimson of Ravka’s royal house gleaming on their sleeves.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

Your heart started pounding.

No. No.

This couldn’t be—

You crept further, body pressed against the cold stone wall of a manor that rose like a fortress from the fog. There were tall windows, ornate, expensive. Through one of them, you found a sliver of light, and you leaned forward carefully, just enough to see inside.

And what you saw nearly broke you.

Sturmhond.

But not your Sturmhond.

Not the man who shared his cloak with you during storm-wracked nights. Not the man who danced barefoot on the deck when the crew played fiddles. Not the man who kissed you with salt still on his lips and murmured your name like it steadied him.

This man stood taller. Straighter. Every movement deliberate, every gesture precise. He moved through a gilded room of polished floors and nobles draped in velvet, speaking in clipped, careful tones, nodding with restrained grace.

He wore a different coat, navy blue with golden trim.

And when he smiled, it was polite.

Not wicked. Not warm. Not real.

It was a stranger’s smile.

You stared, unblinking, heart crashing against your ribs like a ship against rocks.

And then it happened.

A man stepped forward, some noble, older, with the insignia of Ravkan military authority pinned to his chest.

And he bowed.

Bowed.

“Prince Nikolai,” he said with reverence.

And the man you loved, the man you thought you knew, smiled and inclined his head.

As if the name belonged to him.

As if he’d worn it all along.

You didn’t hear anything else after that.

The world stopped.

Time fractured.

Your breath left you in a silent, shattering exhale. Like a wound. Like someone had reached inside your chest and ripped something loose.

Prince.

Your mind scrambled, trying to make sense of it. Prince Nikolai Lantsov. You’d heard the name before, of course. Everyone had. A ghost prince, the golden boy of Ravka, soldier-turned-scholar-turned-politician. Rumors of brilliance, of ambition, of charm. A man cloaked in myth and riddled with contradictions.

You had never seen a portrait.

He’d made sure of that.

Your legs shook. Your hands curled into fists without meaning to.

How long?

How long had he lied to you?

Had it all been a game? A mask? A distraction to him?

Had every kiss been performed?

Every word chosen?

You’d told him things, things no one else knew. You’d given him your trust. Your loyalty. Your heart.

And he hadn’t even given you his name.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up, stumbling back from the window, heart screaming inside your ribcage.

You didn’t cry.

Not then.

You just stood there, in the dark, with the sound of his false name echoing in your skull.

Prince Nikolai Lantsov. 

And you realized, he hadn’t just lied about who he was.

He’d lied about who you were to him.

Because someone who loved you, truly loved you, wouldn’t have let you fall in love with a mask.

-----------

You found him the next night.

The sky was quiet, too quiet. No wind. No gulls. Just the slow, mournful rocking of the ship, as if the sea itself was holding its breath for what was coming.

Moonlight spilled across the deck like shattered glass, each silver shard cutting into you with every step you took. The boards creaked beneath your feet, old wood moaning beneath the weight of heartbreak and rage and something far worse, love that still hadn't died.

He was standing at the bow, staring out across the waves like he always did when he was trying to think or trying to forget. His coat fluttered faintly in the breeze, his hair haloed in moonlight.

He didn’t hear you approach. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t have the strength to turn.

You stopped a few feet away, your voice trembling as it broke the silence between you.

“I saw you.”

He turned. Slowly.

And the look in his eyes, the guilt, the resignation, the sorrow, was confirmation enough. You didn’t even need to say the rest.

But you did.

“In the manor,” you whispered, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold your soul inside. “They called you ‘prince.’”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a single excuse.

He just sighed.

Not the sigh of someone annoyed or impatient. No, it was heavier than that. It was the sigh of a man who had carried too many lies for too long and had finally run out of hands to hold them.

“I was going to tell you,” he said, voice barely above the hum of the sea. “I swear to you, Y/N. I never meant for it to go this far.”

You laughed, but it cracked on its way out, twisted into something bitter and wet with grief.

“But it did.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched like it physically hurt to hear you say it.

You took a step closer, your voice sharper now, jagged with betrayal.

“You’re not who you said you were. You’re not a rogue or a privateer or the storm-made man who kissed me in the rain. You’re Nikolai Lantsov. The prince. The son of the King. You—you lied to me.”

Your voice broke then. Not just from anger.

From sorrow.

“Every moment,” you whispered. “Every word. Every night we spent together, everything between us was—”

“Not a lie,” he said, stepping forward. “Never that.”

His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but knew he’d lost the right.

“I may have hidden my name,” he said, eyes searching yours like a drowning man searches for land, “but you, what I felt for you, what I still feel, that was never pretend. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t expect you. But you... you made it all feel real again. Like I could breathe again.”

Your lip trembled. “You were going to leave, weren’t you?”

He hesitated.

And that was answer enough.

You took a step back, your arms wrapping tighter around yourself.

“Once your little mission was done, you were going to disappear. Wipe off the dirt, put on your crown, and leave me in the wake like some tavern girl you used to warm your bed.”

“No.” His voice cracked. “Gods, no. I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay. With you. I thought, I thought maybe I could. Just for a while.”

“Just for a while,” you repeated hollowly. “Like I was something temporary.”

He flinched.

You could see the storm in him now, the one he’d always carried behind that sharp smile and clever tongue. But this time it wasn’t controlled. It was breaking.

“I wanted both,” he admitted, voice raw. “I wanted to be him, Sturmhond, and I wanted you. But I can’t have either. Not really. Not without a lie in between.”

“You don’t get to want,” you whispered, tears streaming freely now. “You’re a prince. And princes don’t get to be loved for who they really are. Because they never let anyone see who they are.”

Silence.

The kind that fills the lungs like water. The kind that drowns.

You stepped back again, the distance between you now greater than any sea could stretch.

And still, he looked at you like he would do anything to close it.

“I loved you,” you said, quietly. “Maybe I still do. But I don’t know who I loved.”

He opened his mouth. But there was nothing left to say.

No lie that could fix it.

No truth that could change it.

So you turned, your back to the only man who ever made you feel like home on the water. The only man who looked at you like you were more than a storm.

And he let you go.

Because princes never get to choose love.

Not even when they want to.

-----------

You didn’t leave that night. You stayed. But things changed. You weren’t the same. 

Something between you had splintered, quiet at first, like a crack in glass you couldn’t see unless the light hit it just right. And then slowly, unbearably, it began to spread.

The way you spoke to each other changed.

Words that once flowed like wind through sails became measured, careful, lined with hesitation. The way he used to lean into you during meals, shoulders brushing, fingers stealing yours beneath the table, that stopped. Or maybe you stopped it. Maybe you both did. Because even though your bodies still moved through the same spaces, they did so like ghosts, like two people haunting the memory of something they’d already lost.

He still looked at you, though.

 Gods, he still looked at you. Like he was memorizing your face in case it slipped from his mind when he woke. Like he was still hoping you'd forgive him without him having to ask. And you tried, Saints, you tried, but every time his eyes met yours, all you could feel was that lie sitting between you like a loaded pistol.

And then, one morning, he came to you.

Not as the rogue you’d first fallen for.

Not as the man who once kissed you with a grin and whispered, “Let’s run away to a place with no flags.”

No.

He came as a prince.

He stood at the edge of the deck, golden sunlight catching on the medals at his chest, the Ravkan crest stitched proudly into his shoulder. His coat was royal blue, polished buttons gleaming like stars you couldn’t reach. He looked taller somehow, colder. Like he’d stepped into the skin he’d always known he’d have to wear and sealed himself inside.

And still, even like that, he was beautiful. Painfully so.

He swallowed when he saw you, the wind stirring his hair as he stepped forward.

“I have to go,” he said, quietly. Almost apologetically. Like saying it out loud turned the leaving into a sin.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

You already knew.

You’d known since the moment you saw him in that manor, standing among nobles and secrets. Since the first time his hand hesitated before reaching for yours. Since he stopped laughing quite so loudly, stopped looking at you like you were his escape.

“They need me,” he added, voice soft, but firm. Prince-like. Practiced. And still, somewhere beneath the polish, there was him. Sturmhond. Nikolai. The man who once taught you how to read the stars by lying beside you on the deck at midnight, pointing upward with wine-stained fingers.

And you?

You didn’t ask, What about me?

You didn’t say, Stay.

You didn’t beg.

You just nodded. One small, almost imperceptible movement. A single heartbeat of surrender.

His breath hitched.

He took another step, his hand rising, hovering, almost touching your cheek. You could feel the warmth of it, the hesitation, the ache. But it never made contact. He stopped himself. He always stopped himself now.

“If things were different,” he murmured, his voice breaking on the words, “I would have chosen you.”

For a moment, the world was silent.

No creak of sails.

No crash of waves.

Just you and him. And all the things that had never been said.

You looked up at him, and for the first time, you didn’t see Sturmhond, or the prince, or even the boy beneath both.

You just saw the man who had broken your heart, not with malice, not with cruelty, but with duty.

And maybe that was worse.

“If you’d really chosen me,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper, “things would be different.”

Your words sliced through the space between you, and you watched them land — watched him wilt beneath the truth of them. He didn’t try to argue. Didn’t chase after you with pretty words or tired apologies.

Because he knew.

And so did you.

So you turned.

And this time, he didn’t stop you.

You walked away, your steps steady, even as something inside you broke open wide and hollow.

You didn’t look back.

Because what would’ve been the point?

The love you’d shared had already been left behind — buried in the space between what could’ve been and what had to be.

And a prince, after all, never gets to keep what he loves most.

Not when it demands the one thing he can’t give:

Freedom.

-----------

You heard of him weeks later.

Not from a letter. Not from a whisper on the wind meant only for you.

No, his name came to you like a wound reopened, through the careless voice of a merchant shouting headlines in the market square. A voice too loud, too eager, as if it didn’t know it was speaking someone’s heartbreak aloud.

“Prince Nikolai Lantsov returns!”

“The Bastard of the Second Army, now heir to the throne!”

“Seen at the side of the Sun Summoner herself, Ravka’s golden hope!”

You froze mid-step, your fingers tightening around the satchel at your hip until the leather creaked.

It didn’t feel real. Not at first.

Not until you turned, slowly, numbly, and saw the sketch tacked to the news board, half-faded and smudged with fingerprints, but still so unmistakably him.

Nikolai. Sturmhond.

The man who had once kissed you beneath the stars and said your name like a prayer.

There he was.

Cloaked in blue and gold, chin high, eyes distant. A stranger wrapped in silk and stories.

And beside him, her.

The girl with fire in her veins and light at her fingertips. The one legends would remember. The one who could shape the fate of a nation just by stepping into the sun.

The two of them standing shoulder to shoulder like they were carved from the same prophecy.

You stared at them until the world blurred around the edges, until all the air left your lungs like it had never belonged there in the first place.

You felt it then.

The storm.

But this time, it didn’t come from the sky. No lightning split the clouds. No thunder roared across the sea. There were no cannons or sails or daring escapes to pull you free.

No strong voice cracking a joke to make you laugh through your fear.

No outstretched hand in the smoke.

No him.

The storm was inside you.

And it was merciless.

It clawed at your ribs, tore through your chest like sails in a squall. It didn’t ask if you were ready. It didn’t care. It came without warning, without grace. Just raw, helpless rage and grief crashing in waves too high to bear.

You turned away from the board.

From the people.

From him.

And you walked. Fast. Then faster.

Until your breath caught.

Until your legs gave out and you stumbled into an alley, pressing your back to the stone wall as the first sob cracked free from your throat. Then another. And another.

You bit your fist to muffle it, but the pain was already there, blooming too wide to be contained.

He had left you.

Not just behind, but out.

You were not in the story now. Not in the tale the world would tell. There would be no songs sung of the girl he nearly loved. No memory of you in the corridors of his palace. No trace of your laughter in the legend of the golden prince and his glowing saint.

Just silence.

Just you.

Alone with the truth no bard would ever write:

That he had once chosen you in secret, and left you behind in the light.

--------------

an: I hope you enjoyed it!! Should I do rewrite it from his pov? I feel like that would be so fun. Anyways I literally was binge watching shadow and bone when I came up with idea and I started writing immediately. Let me know if you have any ides for storys <3

[and-i-will-kiss]

I have been knocked out cold for only God knows. My nose, stuffed with rock dust and the smell of blood, probably my own, barely gets any air in. But I'm so tired, so tired to struggle or to even panic, that lying here, waiting for the enemy to pull me out from this rubble I'm buried in, is the only chance of a respite I might get this entire day. I can only close my eyes and pray.

When the Praguers finally reach what remains of the tower, they act swiftly and without any care, trampling over the bodies of our combat comrades. They pull me out from the shoulders without any consideration. Around me there's only pained cries and this constant ring in my ears, but there's one voice I can't hear. I worry, Hans was too close to the porthole and he might have gotten the worst part of the attack.

We are dragged outside, hand tied and pushed into a cart. From my bloodied sight I can only count three other people: Godwin is next to me, still with the suggestion of running away, that now sounds more like a hindsight; Jan Zizka looking like he could go for another round, to be very honest, I don't know what drives him, even if he knows all of us most likely will be tortured and killed today. Hans drifts in and out of consciousness, the wound on his head reopened and he needs proper surgeon care, something he won't get in short notice. In my desperation, I slide my feet towards him in an effort to keep him awake, because sleep is only a death sentence in his state. As for myself, I'm still puzzled on why they decided to keep me alive, as I'm both expendable and a nuisance, but I think the reason is called Toth, who prances on his horse next to our cart, with derisive words towards us. Towards me. He thinks he'll get his revenge after what I did on Talmberg, but I swear I'll make his life impossibly hard.

Suddenly the company stops and Von Bergrow decides to split their forces in two, specially after what transpired today, so Toth is assigned as Trosky's guardian for the time being and tasked with extricating everything related to Zizka's mission and our findings, specially the location of Margrave Jobst and John of Lichenstein, as Von Bergrow suspects the traitors of the Crown are closer to him than ever. But that's not everything. Capon is taken away as a bargaining coin against the Lipa lords. I grit my teeth as I know this time I can't do nothing to prevent this, and for a second time this day, I just sit there and eat my thoughts and anger. He'll be taken to Maleshov, with the rest of Von Bergrow's retinue, and ride there to be used in the Royal Chamberlain's plans to quench any rebellion in Bohemia.

Our cart rolls towards Trosky castle. From there, we are directed towards the dungeons and pushed into a chamber where they bound us painfully onto hanging restraints. Poor Godwin, they went slightly mercifully with him, as he's only bound and tossed onto the ground. Zizka gets the worse part, he gets beaten up so badly that every time they lash against me, it feels only half as bad. He has reached the point where he only barely lingers in this world, so no coherent sentences are coming out of him, so Toth and the executioner give up for a moment and direct their attention towards me. In my infinite cleverness, but not acknowledging my current condition, I decide to taunt and lie my way out. Toth is two steps ahead and sees my ruse clearly - I honestly need to work on my frankness, I'm always easy to read, so the torture only escalates. Pain, pain is just means to make me say more, so I decide it's just that, just pain, it'll go away, it will dissipate, I'll be kept alive. Or so I think, Toth, seeing how much I'm resisting, says that I'm not good anymore as a hostage and I'm only good as a corpse after this. With this, Godwin breaks.

The old man breaks and spills. He reveals everything. He can't bear anymore of this. Look at him, the priest that keeps confession secrets. The soldier that fought in Kosovo. His spirit and vim crumbles and only the old man he carries inside remains. I think he mentioned something about finding and taking us back home in one piece and he's only doing his work, seeing that I'm this close of getting killed, right in front of him, so there's no way, no way in hell I'm going to reproach him for this. We'll find a way, I swear.

After getting the information they wanted, the scribe present in the room prepares a letter with all the contents of our, um, conversation. Toth mentions he'll send his lackey Erik to Maleshov to inform his Lord about the latest movements so he can squash any chances of this rebellion happening. Then Toth announces he's done for the day and he's retiring to his chambers, so we should make ourselves comfortable. As comfortable as we can, hanging painfully and me with a deep knife wound on my side.

I can barely breath, the skin over my ribs burns. I feel the heat of blood rolling down my legs. My arms, long numb, are just means to keep me bound to the contraption above. I give up for the night and my head lolls forward with my sight going black. But there's something that makes me perk up, a conversation outside. I can barely hear this exchange, but it definitely sounds very friendly. Until it wasn't, as a pained groan and a thud followed by a click on our door told another story.

It's the lady in blue. Katherine if I remember well. And Zizka seems to be very happy to be seeing her. Are they acquainted? They are very familiar with each other, even in this situation, like he was expecting her. Anyway, she releases us and we gather to reassess. Godwin, aside his blood stained garb, looks almost fresh. Zizka, on the other hand, wobbles in place. So Katherine sits him down and tends to his wounds. The other three determine that my stance is the most stable of them all, so I'm given the task of tracking our tack back, as well as the keys for our escape route. I'm amazed Katherine has this castle mapped out on the palm of her hand. I remember this iron door she mentions from my attempt to release Capon from his captivity the first time we landed here. We establish that either the guards or the lord of the castle must have the key, and that takes me to Toth. That certainly makes me follow orders like a dog after a hare, but Godwin makes me swear that I won't do anything stupid and risk my life even further. As I pick up the garb of the guard Katherine killed so cleanly, I can't help but lie under my breath.

We split up. Katherine drags Zizka down the tunnel, while Godwin tracks Von Bergrow's orders in the Maiden and I slide quietly towards the Crone, where Toth's chambers might be located. On my way there I heard two voices that I refuse to call familiar. In the courtyard, Toth hands our confession to a ready to ride Erik, fully kited and ready to disappear in the night. But there's something more to this than just a leader giving a task to a minion. There's something... personal to it. I have never heard this inflection in Itsvan Toth's voice before. From the short interactions we had in the past, he always carries bite and poison on his words. But this time, he sounds... fatherly. Caring. The way he looks Erik, the distance between them. It's too personal, too close. And Erik is lost for words as well. During the Talmberg siege, Erik was taken as a prisoner and Itsvan exploded, he wasn't that untouchable anymore. So that means they are still... lovers?

I have to watch myself. Godwin might have more reasons to worry now. I will kill this bastard and his beloved will become my worst nightmare. The feeling is mutual, lover boy, I just pray you just gave your best good-bye ever. With this, the courtyard can only hear Toth feeling pity for me, as he moves towards the Crone. And, from the shadows, I follow.

My heart pushes my feet, marching with every step I take on the endless staircases this tower has. I reach the top with almost no issues, some either too drunk or too tired guards dozing off on chairs were my only obstacles, and I made sure they won't be standing up again. I carefully open a couple of doors, rats, he's not there. But from another staircase, a languid firelight makes the balusters dance. So that means, there are more rooms up there and that's my following destination. I swallow hard, this is it, he has to be there. Heartbeats race, my body is just one bruise and I'm on fire, but I know there won't be another chance. I'm either ready or not, so I just take a step forward to leave all my doubts behind.

When I reach the next floor, I can only see this long shadow projected on the floor, and following it with my eyes, there's another one. A breathing, wine drinking, fully armored one. Even if I can't see his face, I can feel Toth's smirk. So he turns around. He's not surprised, not even a bit. He knows who I am, how I am, it's like he has known me since the day I was born. And that's what I hate the most of him - he knows I carry him under my skin, that I'm that easy. I'm just a twig he can bend and break. I bet he knows how loyal I am as well, but he never expected I'm gifting him this chance to kill me as well. So he falls for it, he accepts my challenge. He quickly eyes and wields my father's sword - the audacity of this fucker. The irony of it all: of course a longsword has more reach against my terrible shortsword, but he didn't take in account how cramped this room is. He is competent with a sword, but he doesn't realize, as wounded and tired I am right now, how fierce I am when I'm this overwhelmed. So, using the long table in the middle of the room, I make him dance clumsily around and take my chance to perfectly strike every time he turns around on a corner. One of my strikes lands heavily on his shoulder, he slumps forward in pain, dropping his guard and the sword.

And I pierce. Two hands in. He takes all in, no resistance. The short blade of my sword goes all in and I know the point came out from his back. He takes a big breath in and hisses his parting words. And I refuse to believe any of them. I'm not like you, fucker, and I'll never be. Just shut up, Shut up! And I push him, I want him out of my life. The window barely holds our weight, and gives up with another shove.

Itsvan is gone, gone into the void that the rain outside has carved into the night. I give that void a look, breath hitched and heart running out of my throat. The void doesn't give a response, and I'm also silent. Is this it? Is this truly it? My mind is a bramble of questions, what-ifs and what-nots follow my steps away from the window and just this gleam coming from the floor that takes my mind away from it. From everything.

My father's sword.

(Oh man, this took a chunk of my life to type. Will edit during the day, I guess? After training? After calling home? After daily KCD2? lmao, I have so many prompts, this is going to be hard oof.)

[woodchoc-magnum]

how do you have so much faith in buddie after that episode? i just feel like the show just told us buddie won't happen but buck will be with a guy(maybe not tommy) but some other random ass guy.

Because:

"You can have my back any day." "Or you could have mine."

Buck taking Eddie to collect Christopher after the earthquake

Buck recognising that Eddie needs support, and finding Carla for him

"You two have an adorable son."

Buck and Christopher in the tsunami

Buck telling Eddie that he lost Christopher

Eddie literally coming to the loft and reassuring him that he trusts Buck more than anyone in the world

The lawsuit breakup and reconciliation

"Wanna go for the title?"

Ana says Christopher shouldn't skateboard, so Buck finds a way to build him a skateboard.

Eddie gets trapped at the bottom of a collapsed well, and Buck CLAWS AT THE DIRT SCREAMING FOR HIM (aka the television moment that changed my life forever)

Abby comes back, and Eddie is RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of it.

Buck going out of his way to buy Eddie the coffee machine he secretly wants

Buck Begins, where Eddie spends the entirety reassuring Buck.

Eddie starts dating Ana, so Buck starts dating again (because one can't date without the other panic dating as well)

Eddie gets shot in the street and Buck is literally splattered with his blood

Buck crawling under the firetruck to save Eddie's life

Buck having to tell Christopher that Eddie was hurt

Buck RACING TO THE HOSPITAL WHEN EDDIE WAKES UP - oh Ana is there? No she doesn't matter, Buck is the one that matters

Eddie telling Buck that he isn't expendable and confessing that he changed his Will so Buck would be Christopher's guardian

Ana being mistaken as Christopher's mother and Eddie subsequently having a panic attack about it

Buck recognising that Eddie wasn't in love with Ana and essentially guiding him into breaking up with her

Leading to the most queer-coded breakup in the history of television. "The idea of us??" Eddie

The hostage situation; the gun going off and Buck thinking that Eddie is hurt

Depression era Eddie, and Buck literally breaking down the door to rescue him

Buck then being there for him every step of the way. Girlfriend? what girlfriend

Culminating in them working together again when dispatch burns down, and Eddie returning to the 118

Buck FINALLY ending our misery and breaking up with Taylor

The family scenes at the start of season 6

Buck getting struck by lighting and Eddie climbing the ladder to try to pull him back UP because he was so panicked

Eddie trying to get to him; Eddie giving him CPR

Eddie telling them to DO MORE

Eddie sneaking Christopher into his hospital room and crying at his bedside

Buck knowing in his coma dream that Eddie and Christopher were missing

Eddie being Buck's safe place; the only place he can fall asleep

Eddie taking him on a poker date and apparently not railing him afterwards??

the look on Eddie's face when Buck tells him that Natalia "sees him"

And Eddie immediately trying to date because Buck's taken

The fact that we start season 7 with Buck already single and Eddie having essentially filled a permanent babysitter role in his life with Marisol

Eddie and Tommy becoming friends, being the cause of Buck's jealousy - this is not about Tommy, by the way, because Buck hasn't quite figured the Eddie of it out YET

All leading to the BIG BI KISS

And wherever the fuck the next episode is taking us

So yeah, one kiss doesn't invalidate five six seasons of build-up, and that's why I'm not worried.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jonathan V. Last at The Bulwark:

1. Strategery

We’ll get to the schadenfreude in a minute, but let’s start with two big-picture thoughts:

This could all go away tomorrow. It is possible that by the time you read this, Musk and Trump will have brokered a peace. Then they say, “Ha-ha, you shitlibs fell for it. We were trolling you for the lulz. That was all kayfabe.” There are a lot of stakeholders who desperately need Trump and Musk to end hostilities. Their incentives are strong enough to expend resources making it worth both parties’ whiles to sign a ceasefire.1

If it doesn’t go away tomorrow, the Trump-Musk rift creates peril for both Trump’s authoritarian project and the tech oligarchy.

Let’s walk through the strategic implications for all of the players.

Donald Trump. There is a scenario in which he emerges from this fight stronger than he is now. If Trump is able to break the richest man in the world, he will have demonstrated a new level of power. There are reasons to think Trump will subjugate Musk. For starters, Trump may be addled and doddering, but Musk is a man going through a multi-year, drug-fueled nervous breakdown. He is not a canny adversary. He isn’t even all that smart about power. Musk’s singular genius is for leveraging his public-market chip stack in a ZIRP environment—not an applicable skillset for this battlespace. Also: Trump has tremendous leverage over Musk. Musk made his primary source of wealth—Tesla stock—hostage to Trump by destroying the company as a consumer product brand. If Trump unpersons Musk, the available consumer market for Tesla goes from terrible to zero. Trump also has all of the levers of the federal government at his disposal to hurt Tesla: He can rig tax credits against the company; cancel government contracts; reward competitors. This chart might as well be the battleplan of Operation Barbarossa. [...] There’s more. Musk’s second largest source of wealth is the private market valuation of SpaceX. SpaceX is heavily dependent on state-level international customers. Musk has been using his relationship with Trump to strong-arm governments into contracting with SpaceX. That dynamic could now run in the opposite direction, with Trump threatening countries who do business with SpaceX. Even more dangerous: SpaceX should not be a private company. Under multiple administrations, the U.S. government essentially privatized the aerospace industry, which runs counter to our national interest. A sovereign government cannot allow a private company to own the top of a gravity well.2

[...]

Mind you, Trump has skin in the game, too. His project is supported by the tech oligarchy. He is (theoretically) term limited. He knows he cannot trust anyone outside his own family. If he is unable to subjugate Musk, and Musk succeeds in creating an independent power base around which MAGA can rally, then Trump’s entire project could unravel. And quickly.

[...]

Elon Musk. He has made the mistake of believing that he can target Trump the same way he targeted Joe Biden and Kamala Harris: With utter impunity. He’s a little like John Daggett, thinking that his money gives him control—but not realizing that money only gives him control in a liberal system. In the illiberal context, his money is much less useful than he understands. Musk stands to lose everything in this fight, which is why the rational version of him would sue for peace and eat whatever shit-sandwich was required. But Musk isn’t rational. He’s a middle-aged man with an alleged drug problem and a personal life that has spiraled into depravity.

[...]

JD Vance. No one has more to lose than the VC Hillbilly. Even in the worst-case scenario, Musk is worth a few billi. If Vance falls off the tiger he spends the rest of his days hustling to keep a roof over his head. Vance’s patron has long been Peter Thiel, who made him into the darling of the techno-feudalism set. But today Vance lives in Donald Trump’s house. In order to remain viable after 2028, he has to please not just his president, but Donald Trump Jr., too. Vance will do everything possible to avoid taking sides here, but that won’t be possible in the long run. Which is why Vance is incentivized—more than anyone else—to broker a peace.

The Trump v. Musk feud has escalated all of a sudden, and this has a Celebrity Deathmatch-like feel to it. Who is gonna emerge on top? Or will it be a truce?

Stay tuned.

See Also:

The Guardian: Impeachment, Epstein and bitter acrimony: Trump and Musk joust in astonishing social media duel

HuffPost: Donald Trump Says He’s ‘Very Disappointed’ In Elon Musk As Rift Grows

[disappearinginq]

Important state of the WIPs questions!

What is the premise of each of the six unnamed Slow Horses fics?

How many Tracker fics are there? General plots?

How about Deception? Just Consequences and Mirrorverse? Or a few more?

Is there any news on the Rue front?

I have miscounted on the unnamed Slow Horses fics, so...buckle up:

Louisa is awoken in the middle of the night by Catherine. River, who's been missing for an indeterminate amount of time, has shown up at her flat, looking pretty okay if not just tired and exhausted, but he either can't talk, or won't, and it's them trying to piece together what happened. (they don't, and all I have figured out is that River CAN talk, he just doesn't because of whatever happened to him)

In which I channel my inner Stephen King and make a play on Misery by having River get held hostage by an older woman who has decided that he gets himself into too much trouble (after seeing him after incidents like the season 3 finale, season 4 finale, etc) and decides that she needs to keep him safe from himself.

My excuse to have River and Catherine bond even more. There's a lot of back and forth miscommunication between the two of them. River has learned through bitter experience that parental love/affection is something to be afraid of, and after the events of season 4 he's sort of unraveling and Catherine is trying not to overstep Coworker Level of Care but really trying to take care of him at the same time, and River is freaking out because he thinks he's overstepping, and angst ensues.

This one is like a Conspiracy Theory knockoff, except I think I'm changing up the timeline. It was going to be bad guys of non specific origin that had kidnapped River, but I think now maybe it's MI5 itself who're interrogating River about his "involvement" with Frank's machinations post season 4 finale. Whelan is a Bad Guy in this.

A conversation in between season 2 and season 3 when the agents find out that Spider didn't choose not to go to Slough House, Lamb wouldn't take him, so his only option was to quit and go private sector. This leads to fun speculation between Catherine and the gang because Catherine knows damn well why Lamb told Spider to get fucked and the Horses realize there actually are standards for Slough House.

River has to deal with chronic pain after season 3, but he just decides to muscle through it because he doesn't have any better way of dealing with/addressing it. Shirley recommends massage therapy after watching him hobble about/wincing at certain movements but River is Not a Fan of being touched, especially by strangers, so Shirley offers to do it for him. Basically an excuse for me to incorporate real life experiences into fic

Shirley decides to take a more proactive interest in her co-workers lives after Marcus dies, and it becomes a tradition for her to walk the last one out of the office to their car/mode of transport, and it becomes a highlight of the day for the others because Shirley picks the most unhinged conversation topics like "if you HAD to fight a bear, which one would you choose if you thought you had a chance of winning?" One night, when walking River out to the car, they linger longer than usual because River, despite being awkward as fuck, is probably the most emotionally intuitive of the group, and she feels like she can actually talk to him about Marcus and missing him, but - in true Slow Horses Luck fashion - they get mugged, and they go after River thinking he's the threat when we all know Shirley is the one who's killed the most people canonically (AND SHE'LL DO IT AGAIN).

Slow Horses, except set in WWII. They’re not relegated to admin work, but instead are shoved into the field and take missions that will likely result in death as they’re considered expendable. More like X-Company meets The Dirty Dozen

From the Bad Things Happen Bingo Card "Ear Injury". River’s hearing doesn’t recover as well as he would like from the archives, and he, naturally, hides how bad it gets because he thinks it’s just taking its sweet time recovering and doesn’t want to get fired for being mostly deaf. Turns out, no, River, it’s not just tinnitus. That’s just a symptom.

the Horses get stuck on a road trip/ in the field overnight, stuck in a town where there's nothing except a small inn with a whopping total of two rooms. Instead of an argument about who is going to be sleeping on the floor, it is an argument who gets to share the beds because nobody wants to share with Lamb. River is too tired to care and just passes out on one of the beds and wakes up at the bottom of a dog pile and other than a crick in his neck 0 complaints

BTHB "This is for your own good". Not sure the circumstances but River has been having horrific insomnia for weeks, but he refuses to do anything about it because River has 0 self care habits, but he has in fact been prescribed sleep medication and just won't take it. One of the Horses takes matters into their own hands and slip it into his tea or something equally benign, except after it starts taking effect, something happens to make them half to go on the run/hide, and they're struggling with a barely conscious River in addition to Bad Guys. Details TBD

Frank, River, and Lamb are in a standoff (details unknown): Lamb: you've only got one bullet left, and it'll take more than that to stop me Frank: best put it where it'll do the most damage then, hmm? And shoots River

Tracker: Alas, only one, which was started before anybody met Russell on the show. Colter goes missing, and Reenie calls his brother to help find him. Turns out, Colter got a little too close to something Big and Bad and was kidnapped by Big Pharma doc who has been experimenting on patients that family members have committed under false pretenses to assume control over their property/money/affairs

Deception is in fact just Mirrors and Consequences because I refuse to start anymore until these two are done.

As far as Rue - I've established she makes her money in the foodie smuggling business because different planets have different spices and like vanilla and saffron are worth more than their weight in money, and she uses this to supplement her piracy tendencies.

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets Thursday: Hostile Hostage Negotiation 2

(A follow-up to this one, where Marauders tried to use Jak as a hostage in the Arena and Damas was "???")

He'd overdone it. Whatever eco that medic had put back in his system, Jak had spent it in one go. He rolled to his side and tried to push himself upright on shaking arms. He needed to move. That guy was still on the grounds with him. He was just as dangerous as the dark form. He didn't even flinch looking at it! If he decided he didn't want to deal with an abomination like that, he had the perfect opening to finish Jak off.

Briefly, the glaring sun disappeared as someone blocked its rays. Once Jak's eyes had adjusted, he found not a blade, but a hand extended to him.

"Well fought, young one," said Damas. He was smiling. "You're a dangerous one, aren't you? That's going to come in handy out here."

What?

Jak stared up at him, uncomprehending. He heard cheering. Why did he hear cheering?

"It's alright." The man nodded to his hand and grinned. "I promise it doesn't bite."

Wary but exhausted, Jak took the offered hand and let himself be hauled to his feet. The man slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion and nodded towards the antigrav platform descending.

"Come on, then. Let's get you an amulet and gate pass."

"A what?" Jak stumbled after him, more confused than before.

Damas didn't seem inclined to explain just yet. He made room for Jak on the platform and focused on wiping sweat and blood from his palms. He seemed to be in good spirits, even humming under his breath. Jak stared as if he could decipher the man if he just looked hard enough.

When the platform reached the balcony -- almost more of a dais -- Daxter was waiting. With a yell, he jumped to Jak's shoulder.

"Jak! Don't ever do that again!"

Jak staggered under the weight of his friend. Normally he barely noticed, but he'd expended too much energy. He was unbalanced.

"Hey," he murmured, sluggishly reaching up to high-five the ottsel.

"Where would I be without you, huh, Dax?"

"Dead! That's where!" Daxter snapped peevishly. The glare he aimed at the Wastelander made it obvious who he blamed for this.

Damas moved to what was very obviously a throne -- what the Frith did we get ourselves into this time? -- and shooed Pecker away with a wave of his hand. A familiar looking weapon leaned against the side of the throne, and he bent down to retrieve it.

"Traditionally," he said, "Candidates begin their first battle trial with one of these."

"A morph gun," Jak noted. "Just the scatter mod?"

"Oh, you're familiar with one of these?"

Damas eyed them shrewdly.

"Learned to shoot with one," Jak answered. He seemed to miss the calculating look entirely. He was so tired-

"Hey whoa-!"

Damas whirled as the kid collapsed.

[suspicious-whumping-egg]

I just love when a characters been taken hostage as bait for a stronger, more powerful character. No amount of begging or offering for information can ease their suffering because their only purpose is to be hurt.A livestream being done of their torture, broadcast to their powerful lover or family member or friend, and while they desperately don’t want anything to happen to someone they love, they can’t do this anymore. They know they should beg them not to try and rescue them, not to make the deal and trade themself for whumpee, to ignore their pain because whumpee is expendable and this other person isn’t. But they’re not the strong one. Instead they beg to be saved, guilt eating them alive as much as the agony coursing through their body. And when someone comes for them, they know they don’t deserve to be rescued.

[bilightningwhumper]

Trying something, let me know what you think. I'm not usually one to write in this format often, let alone this long (even if this piece is pretty short), so I'm a little rusty.

It's just a draft, so I'm welcome to any other suggestions the Examiner could ask the Whumpee before I put it in the "final" draft for Chapter One of my new story I'll be starting called "A Hero's Promise" (story of a ex-villian trans man whumpee joining a hero team with his ex girlfriend on it; semi-slow burn romance for the two; blurb coming soon-ish)

Anyway, here's the bit:

Assessment Interview for Former Company Member #5137

[edit: here's the masterlist for this story!]

Tape begins

Examiner Sonia: For the record, this is an assessment for Company Member listed as number Five-One-Three-Seven. I, Examiner Sonia, will be conducting this interview. Now, young man, if you could please state your name for the record?

#5137: Boy, ma’am.

Examiner Sonia: …Pardon me? Just… “Boy?”

#5137: Yes, ma’am.

Examiner Sonia: Was that your Company Name? What is, or was, your civil name?

#5137: That was the name I was called when I discarded my old one, ma’am. The Company picked it for me, I was not given a choice.

Examiner Sonia: And your former civil name?

#5137: Is it relevant?

Examiner Sonia: To find your family and restore your memories, then yes.

#5137: Then it’s not relevant.

Examiner Sonia: …Technically, no, it is not relevant, however-

#5137: Can we move on? …Please, ma’am?

Examiner Sonia: [sighs] Yes, we can. As we have already discovered, you do not know your age, but that you know were with the Company for at least five years, correct?

#5137: Yes, ma’am.

Examiner Sonia: What was your role in the Company?

#5137: …Whatever my teams’ leaders ordered me to be, ma’am.

Examiner Sonia: Leaders? Your team had more than one?

#5137: No, teams, ma’am. When one grew tired of me, I was transferred to another.

Examiner Sonia: How many teams were you with?

#5137: Three… I think. My early memories are still fuzzy, ma’am.

Examiner Sonia: Understood. As to my previous question, then, what were your roles on these teams?

#5137: [silence]

Examiner Sonia: Are you alright?

#5137: [voice cracks] I was the expendable, ma’am. On occasion, I was ordered to kill to test my loyalty to the Company, but that… that wasn’t my main purpose there.

Examiner Sonia: … I see… How many did you kill?

#5137: [silence]

Examiner Sonia: We can stop and take a break if you need to.

#5137: No, no, I can keep going! I, um… I- Just… just one, ma'am.

Examiner Sonia: Only one?

#5137: Yes, ma’am. I… I would rather not talk about it anymore. If that’s okay with you, ma’am.

Examiner Sonia: Let it be noted I am honoring this request for the time being. However, I do want to warn you that this may come up in later assessments.

#5137: … I understand, ma’am.

Examiner Sonia: Do you have any remaining feelings of loyalty to the Company? Any ties left behind of note?

#5137: Ties, ma’am?

Examiner Sonia: Yes, romantic partners, friends, similar bonds that could be used against you.

#5137: … I had a romantic partner, but it… It didn’t end well. Is that what you’re asking about, ma’am?

Examiner Sonia: If this former partner were to be held hostage or threatened with the intention of gaining your cooperation for the Company, would you comply?

#5137: No. …ma’am.

Examiner Sonia: I see. Well, in that case, I recommend the individual known as Boy to be kept under monitored observation, but see no reason as to keep him from joining one of our teams. And… I also recommend he be aided in an official name change, one of his own choosing.

#5137: Th-thank you, ma’am!

Tape ends

{Audio file later renamed: First Assessment Interview for Rex Sparks}

[now including the masterlist!]