#transfer pricing documentation

[steadfastconsultant]

How to Prepare a Transfer Pricing Report: Step-by-Step Guide & Best Practices

In today’s complex global business environment, preparing a thorough transfer pricing report is essential for multinational companies to comply with tax regulations and avoid penalties. For businesses operating in commercial hubs like Madhapur, Hyderabad, understanding how to create an accurate and well-structured transfer pricing report is crucial to maintaining transparency and regulatory compliance.

At Steadfast Business Consultants LLP (SBC), we specialize in assisting companies with seamless transfer pricing report preparation, ensuring adherence to Indian and international standards.

What Is a Transfer Pricing Report?

A transfer pricing report documents the pricing methodology and analysis of transactions between related entities, demonstrating that these transactions conform to the arm’s length principle. The report is vital for tax authorities to verify that companies are not manipulating prices to shift profits unfairly between jurisdictions.

Step-by-Step Guide to Preparing a Transfer Pricing Report

1. Understand the Business and Transactions

Start by gaining a clear understanding of the company’s business model, the nature of its related-party transactions, and its operational structure. This includes sales, service agreements, royalties, financing, and intangible asset transfers.

2. Conduct Functional Analysis

Analyze the functions performed, assets used, and risks assumed by each party involved in the transaction. Functional analysis helps identify the most economically significant entity in the transaction and guides the selection of the most appropriate pricing method.

3. Select the Transfer Pricing Method

Choose an arm’s length pricing method based on the transaction type and data availability. Common methods include Comparable Uncontrolled Price (CUP), Cost Plus, Resale Price, Transactional Net Margin Method (TNMM), and Profit Split.

4. Perform Benchmarking Analysis

Identify comparable uncontrolled transactions or companies to benchmark prices or profit margins. This involves collecting financial data, adjusting for differences, and ensuring the comparables are reliable and relevant.

5. Document the Pricing Policy

Clearly explain the chosen transfer pricing method, benchmarking results, and how the final price was determined. Include all relevant agreements, terms, and business strategies impacting pricing.

6. Compile the Report

Prepare the transfer pricing report in the prescribed format, including:

Executive summary

Company and transaction overview

Functional and industry analysis

Transfer pricing method selection and rationale

Benchmarking study and results

Conclusions and compliance statements

7. Review and Finalize

Ensure the report complies with Indian transfer pricing regulations and OECD guidelines. Conduct internal reviews and seek expert advice if needed to avoid discrepancies.

Best Practices for Transfer Pricing Reports

Maintain contemporaneous documentation to support timely submission.

Regularly update reports to reflect changes in business operations or regulations.

Collaborate with transfer pricing experts to ensure accuracy and compliance.

Keep all supporting data and agreements organized for easy audit access.

Why Choose Steadfast Business Consultants LLP (SBC)?

Based in Madhapur, Hyderabad, SBC has extensive experience preparing comprehensive transfer pricing reports for diverse industries. Our expert team ensures your documentation meets all regulatory requirements, minimizing audit risks and penalties.

For professional help with your transfer pricing report, contact SBC at 040–48555182

Conclusion

A well-prepared transfer pricing report is fundamental for multinational businesses to demonstrate compliance and manage tax risks effectively. Following the outlined steps and best practices will help your company maintain transparency and avoid costly penalties.

Trust Steadfast Business Consultants LLP (SBC) to guide you through the process with expert advice and customized solutions tailored to your business needs in Madhapur, Hyderabad.

[ifonlyyuweremine]

Captain’s Girl. [Part I]

John Price x Reader (Call of Duty)

Synopsis: After Laswell pitches you a favor to join 141, you're left with no choice but to accept. The only problem arises when you and the Captain start to butt heads, but if the two of you hate each other as much as you say, then why is the rest of the team calling you his girl?

Tags: Enemies to lovers, tension, military romance, forbidden love, smut, fighting, secret feelings, slow burn.

Word count? You know the drill, it’s long.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

‘Captain John Price.’ You skimmed the document again, his name catching your eye for the third or fourth time. The black ink seemed to bleed together against the crisp paper of your enrollment documents into Special Forces Task Force 141. It was a promotion, and an honor at that, special forces to begin with were selective.

But 141 was almost unheard of, a combination of British special forces and American special forces. They were one of the best, and you were about to become a part of it. You read the documents again.

‘All personnel will be working under John Price and answering to Kate Laswell, respectively-’ Your eyes trailed further along the mess of columned words, making sense of the legality aspects of transferring to a new team. You hadn't expected to be transferred over, not until Kate had contacted you with an offer. You could tell she was put under pressure by the way her voice strained against the receiver…

“Look, I need you here. Ever since Shepard went rogue, we've been a bit tight over here. John has stepped in as commanding officer; technically, we already have a sharpshooter on 141. But we could use a hand, just until we sort out our bearings. Then, if you'd like, I can transfer you back to your current team…”

You'd raised an eyebrow, “Laswell, you're acting like I'm the only one who can fill these shoes. Why don't you hire a private contractor from KorTac? I'm sure they have more experience anyway.” You heard her blow out air from her nose, amused. “[Name], I don't think I have to tell you how much these guys hate private contractors. We need someone who can work as a collective team, you know… integrate themselves for the time being.”

You pursed your lips together, weighing out the pros and cons. However, Laswell was one of the best people you had ever met, a long-time friend since the baby days of your recruitment. She was a woman of her word, and she had your back. And if she said this team needed someone, she was being serious. You sighed, leaning back, “Okay, send me the details, Laswell. I'll think about it.”

…You read the contract one last time; it was simple enough. You would be transferred to 141 at the end of the month; it was a year-long contract. Which, in a way, made you a private contractor, too. The rest of 141 was under the impression that you were there to stay, everyone except the Captain and, of course, Laswell, not that she was on 141. If they decided they didn't need you before the contract ended, you could pick to stay for the remainder of the year or transfer back to your original task force.

A sigh left your mouth; you picked up your pen and flipped to the last page. Etching your signature into the blank line. You had till the end of the month; as of that moment, you were officially a member of 141.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Well, you had to give Laswell credit where credit was due. It had been a few weeks since your arrival and you fit in quite smoothly into 141; you believe she called it “integrating.” To nobody's surprise, the team was almost entirely men, aside from Ferrah, who was stationed elsewhere. It hadn't been long since your arrival until you were bound to run into someone; Jhonny was the first…

It was later in the day and you were wandering about; transferring to a new location was something you never got used to, so you tried to get a head start on mapping out the place. Everything was similar to your last base, but you still felt a bit alien. A small room tucked off to the side caught your eye, and you followed in that direction. It was a small break room, a kitchen, and a fridge tucked away in the side; there were a few cupboards and a single run-down couch.

You mosied over to the kitchen, opening cupboards and looking inside drawers. You found the usual silverware, mugs, napkins, junk, and tea bags. You stopped; tea actually sounded pretty good. Sitting on the counter was one of those electric tea kettles; you reached for it.

Waiting until the water was boiling, you grabbed the first mug you saw in the cupboard. As you dipped one of the tea bags into the scalding liquid, the door handle jostled across the room. You heard him before you saw him; his voice was deep, a bit raspy, with a thick Scottish accent. Walking through the door came a man dressed in sweatpants and a military-issued shirt. His head was shaved aside from a cropped mohawk of brown hair. His face was pulled into a subtle frown with his eyebrows furrowed. A phone pressed against his head by his shoulder.

You locked eyes with him, the pale spheres of his eyes boring into yours. You could tell he was studying you, maybe trying to deduce if he had seen you before or if you were a stranger. Suddenly, you heard muffled talking coming from the receiver of his phone. You looked down at your tea, not wanting to be considered rude for staring.

The man's voice came again, but it was almost unreadable. It was like a different language, probably Scottish, and then it stopped. When you looked back up, he was standing a few feet away from you, reaching into one of the cupboards.

“Sisters.”

You blinked; it took you a moment to understand he was talking to you. “I-What?” You asked, caught off guard by his comment. He looked back at you, holding up his phone. “S’who I was talking to.” Your eyebrows furrowed, and you nodded slowly; it was an odd way of making conversation. “Oh, okay…You uh- don't look too happy about it, family troubles?” You asked, his lips cracked into a soft smile, and he shook his head. “Nah, she's just a bit dafty. She's auld, so she feels the need to boss me around from time to time.”

You nodded along, trying to use context clues to understand some of his choice words. You watched him fill his mug with some water you had just boiled. “Ah, I see. I'm not sure I can relate; I'm the oldest sibling, so maybe I do all the bossing around.” He nodded, one of his thick eyebrows rasing, “How many siblings?”

You smiled, “Just two, a brother and sister.” The man hummed, looking down at his tea. “Gotcha…” A silence enveloped the room, and after another agonizing moment, he spoke up again. “You a new hire around here? Can't say I would forget a face like yours, lass.” You nodded, glad that the silence had been put to rest, a smile growing on your face at his comment. “Yeah, new transfer to 141.” Suddenly, his eyes grew more comprehensive, “You're the newbie?” He said, astonished.

You chuckled softly, “I wouldn't say newbie; I'm just a transfer from another unit.” His face cracked into a grin, “No kidding, apologies, didn't mean to come off as rude.” He held his hand out to you, “Johnny McTavish, team calls me Soap.”

Your eyebrows raised, “You're a part of 141?” His smile didn't fade as he nodded, “Aye, sharpshooter and sniper.” You felt a grin creeping up on your face; this Soap guy was friendly. Way friendlier than you thought the people on 141 would be. “I’m [Name]. I'm also a sharpshooter, but I also work with mechanics and firearms. Soap is…uh pretty interesting call sign, any meaning behind it?” You saw something in his eye; maybe it was pride, or perhaps something more sinister, “Well, when you clean out a room as fast as I do, people notice. You ain't got a callsign, Bonnie?”

You shook your head, “No, I guess my name has always just done the job.” Soap pat you on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you one.” You and Soap just talked for the next few minutes; it was nice. The conversation ebbed and flowed without problem; he nodded to the door after your tea was nearly empty. “Aye, Bonnie, why don’t I take you to meet the rest of the team? Give you a head start on the meet and greet.”

You smiled, “Yeah, why not?”

…The more time you spent with the team, the easier it got; it helped that they made good conversation. Jhonny was…well, Johnny, good sense of humor but never knew when to quit. Ghost was quieter; he didn't trust you immediately, but you'd managed to pull a few chuckles from him and the occasional polite conversation.

Kyle Garrick, or ‘Gaz,’ was an all-around good guy, funny, polite, and incredibly talented. You could never get over the time that you had gotten drunk off your ass, and Ghost told you a story of when Gaz fell out from a helicopter and was shooting at people while he was swinging from the airborne vehicle.

And then there was Price. Captain John Price, you'd met Price a day after Soap introduced you to the rest of the boys. To say the atmosphere was tense between you would be an understatement. From the minute he laid his eyes on you, they went stiff. His whole demeanor around you reminded you of a rock; it was like he didn't even want you on the team. His voice went curt, and whenever you spoke, his eyes bore holes into your head like he wanted to shoot lasers into your brain by just staring.

You'd talk about it to the rest of the team, but they shrugged it off. “Maybe he ain't used to you yet; it takes a while for the lad to trust anyone. He usually puts on the tough guy act for new recruits.” Ghost had said; Jhonny snorted at that. “Tough guy act? Dinnae, nothing bout that; when I first joined, the man made me want to pull out my hair. Think that's more than a tough guy act L.T.”

Usually, this wouldn't have bothered you as much as it did. But for some odd reason, he got under your skin like nobody else could. And believe, you were no stranger to difficult co-workers and bosses. Even worse, your first interaction with him was incredibly awkward, and you couldn't have left a good impression even if you had tried. It was almost etched into your mind like a stone tablet…

It was your last day to set up, get used to the team and your surroundings before you started working. The three days you had to relax were mostly spent either in the base gym, or eating in the cafeteria. What could you say, you were a creature of habit.

Until this point, you had met almost the entire team besides the captain. Technically, you weren’t required to meet him until you started working, but you'd already met everyone else. So, you figured it wouldn't hurt to get acquainted. You pried the information about Price’s whereabouts from Gaz: “I haven't seen him up and about today; usually, he's around. It probably means he's hauled up in his piss-poor office. The guy hates it there but usually locks himself up there when he's in a bad mood or has paperwork.”

Despite his warning, you went ahead and searched for Price’s office. That was mistake number one. After a minute or two of searching, you came across a door with the engraving “Price” carved into the wood in neat lettering. You reached for the door and tried to turn the handle, but nothing. It was locked; you frowned and tried again. But to nobody's surprise, the door remained shut.

So, you resorted to the next best thing. You knocked a few times but were met with radio silence. Maybe he wasn't in there, you chewed on your lip, thinking. There was a small window in the door, but it was covered by blinds. You squinted, pressing your hands to the wood and moving your face inches from the glass; you tried to peer inside despite the closed blinds. That was mistake number two.

“Can I help you?”

You jumped. The voice came from behind you. It was deep with a smooth British accent; you whirled around to face the person. Your eyes met what was possibly, in your opinion, sex on two legs. The man was tall and built like a tank, judging from how his biceps and chest filled out his cotton shirt. His face was stern, with short-cropped brown hair and a muttonchop beard. His eyes a deep shade of blue, you swallowed.

Damn.

You didn't believe you had a type, but this guy probably would've checked off all the boxes if you did. You stood there like a gaping fish for a moment; when he raised his eyebrow, you snapped out of your trance-like state. “I’m-uh looking for Captain Price. I thought I'd check his office, but I don't think he's there.” You cringed; your voice was rushed, a pitch higher, too.

The man crossed his arms; god, he could probably pop your head like a balloon with those things alone. “Well, you found him.” He said plainly. You stared at him briefly; of course, he was the captain. Why else would he be here? You wanted to punch yourself in the gut. “Oh,” you breathed, “great then. I wanted to introduce myself; I'm the new transfer.” You tried to muster up a confident smile, which most likely had the opposite effect, given he was looking at you like you'd grown a second head.

“[Name], I know. I read your file.” He deadpanned. His voice caught you a little off guard; he wasn't irritated per se, but he didn't seem happy about this introduction. You cleared your throat, “Great then, I'm sure Laswell told you I was coming?” You were grasping at strings here, trying to prolong the conversation.

“Yes. I'm well aware you are here. Laswell has a way of inserting help into my team.” You paused; well, that wasn't meant to be a compliment. Your smile faltered, and you looked around the room like this was some prank. “She said you guys needed someone…?”

Price nodded, his demeanor unsettlingly calm, “That’s her opinion. Now, I respect Laswell; she knows what she's doing. That doesn't mean I always agree with her; 141 was just fine, this is just a precaution on her part.”

You felt your eye twitch a little; you transferred from your other unit, the unit you were extremely close to, mind you… for this? You joined out of the kindness of your heart, only for this jackass to say you were ‘just a precaution.’ “Well, I hope you won't hold a grudge.” You said a bit curtly. Price pursed his lips together in a tight line.

“Wouldn't dream of it; a year is an awful long time to hold a grudge.” He said, the malice and ego coming off his tongue so strong you could almost taste it. What was this guy's problem with you? You did the nice thing and took time out of your day to introduce yourself to him. And he was treating you like you'd personally wronged him. “Good, then I won't either.” You breathed, frustrated. Price looked down at you, his eyes devoid of any emotion. “Well, that's good to hear; now, are you going to let me into my own office or keep standing there like a human blockade?”

This guy.

Your palms squeezed into fists, shooting him a nasty glare. You forgot you were standing right in front of the door, the embarrassment making the tips of your ears heat up. You pushed yourself to walk away, “It was nice meeting you, Captain.” You spit, venom in your tone, walking away like a wounded animal.

Suddenly, you somehow forgot about how hot he was; at that moment, you wanted to smash his gorgeous face into a wall. You liked your new Captain a lot more when he didn't speak. But the reality set in: John Price hated you for some unknown reason, and you were starting to hate him back.

…You had calmed down since that first encounter. Maybe it was a one-off thing; after all, you did go when Gaz warned you that he may already be in a bad mood. Maybe you had jumped the gun? and Price didn't hate you.

News flash: He hated you, and it was not a one-off encounter.

You were now a month into your new job, and if it weren't for Price, you would've actually been enjoying your time with 141. Everyone else was great; they were warming up to the idea of having you as a teammate. The training was hard on you, but you expected that, you were improving day to day. But no matter how well you did, you always had Price’s voice in your ear telling you that you could've done better. The man was running circles around you.

Slowly, you started to lose patience with him; when he laid out the bait, you bit. It was getting easier to react instead of keeping calm and passive-aggressively telling him you were grateful for the friendly criticism.

Even the team started to watch every interaction you had with the Captain keenly. They would tease you ruthlessly, saying his name while your back was turned just to laugh at the way your whole body seemed to go as stiff as a board.

“I swear the two of ya seem to bicker like an auld married couple. It's like watching my parents fight.” Soap had said to you once after an agitated conversation you'd had with Price moments before.

Was it your fault for causing some of the arguments between you two? Possibly. But he instigated just as much as you did; it was like a competition of who could get under the other's skin the most. And you couldn't even avoid him; Gaz wasn't kidding when he said he was out and about when Price wasn't in his office. He was like your shadow.

You were in the cafeteria? Oh, so was Price. You were in the gym? That's funny; Price was just about to do his workout. Training? He was practically glued to you and nitpicking everything you did. You were trying to go for a fucking walk around base past lights out? Price couldn't sleep, and as your captain, it was his obligation to make sure you didn't do anything stupid.

Intrusively, you wondered if he had implanted a tracker into you while you were sleeping. That had to be it; there was no way you just happened to experience so many ‘coincidences’ back to back. 

Eleven more months, you had eleven more months stuck with him. Maybe in that time, you could come up with a detailed plan on how you would murder, hide, and successfully get away with killing your Captain.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

It was one of those off days where you didn’t have much to do. Like the calm before the storm, 141 had an incoming operation; plans were laid out, and everyone knew what to do. All that was left was playing the waiting game before you loaded into the helicopter and landed in a checkpoint base in Urzikstan.

With nothing to do, you figured it wouldn't hurt to hide away in the break room with some tea and scroll on your phone. You rarely had time to yourself, so you might as well make the best of it. You peeked into the break room and smiled when you found it was empty. You made a beeline to the small kitchen counter; you'd managed to snag some different types of tea for yourself over the few weeks you had been at base. It was the floral and sweet kind that nobody touched, despite Ghost's comment that: “It's not real tea.” You found it incredibly enjoyable.

As you turned on the electric kettle, the doorknob jostled. You looked up, and your eyes met Price. Well, shit. He made eye contact with you. Obviously, the feeling between you two was mutual based on how his lips dropped into a frown when he saw you. You stared at each other for a beat before you turned your head away.

You weren't doing this today; you were too tired to bicker with your captain over something useless. You stared at the counter, waiting for him to leave or speak. But he did neither. Instead, he walked over to the counter and grabbed a mug. The silence between you was so loud that the room might've been quieter if you were arguing.

He was close, not enough that you were touching, but enough that his presence almost tickled your skin.

You just continued to watch the counter and your mug. Glancing at the kettle, you almost grimaced; it was barely bubbling. When did boiling water take so long? The tension was so thick you could practically cut it with a knife. But, Price was the first to crack.

“Interesting mug,” he commented, his voice as it always was when he spoke to you. Dry. You debated not responding, but the silence was killing you just as much. “It's my favorite.” You said back, matching his tone. However, your eyes were soft as you looked at the mug before you. It was ceramic, with hand-painted fish drawn onto it. Cod, salmon, tuna, and swordfish, too, their colors vibrant compared to the barren beige of the rest of the cup.

He made a low hum sound, almost like he didn't believe you. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and you finally turned to look at him. You stopped briefly; his eyes had heavier bags than the last time you'd seen him. He didn't look as stern or unshakeable as usual; rather, he looked more weary, human. You forgot you were going to say something to him, “What?” You said, suspicious.

His eyes broke away from yours, looking down at his hands as they tore away the top of an instant coffee packet. Price emptied its contents into his plain white mug and cleared his throat. “Nothing, s’just that's my mug.” He said; his voice wasn't mad or accusatory. Instead, it was just like he was stating a fact.

You frowned, your eyebrows sinking further down your face. What was he talking about? You'd been using this mug for weeks; in fact, this was the first mug you'd used here, back when you first met Jhonny and the rest of the team. “That's not true; all the mugs in the cupboard are communal.” You pointed out, looking at him like you'd caught him in a bad lie.

He looked back at you, an almost smugness to his gaze. “Look at the bottom of the cup.” He said plainly. Your frown deepened, but you grabbed the mug and turned it over in your hands out of curiosity.

JP. It was painted in small lettering in the middle of the circular bottom. Your face dropped. Oh. JP, standing for John Price. It was his mug. Your face reddened as you realized you had been drinking out of his cup for the past month. Why hadn’t he said anything about it to you before now? He obviously knew, considering he'd seen you drink from it before.

You opened your mouth, trying to come up with a good defense. “But- Jhonny told me all the mugs in the break room were for everyone. Including this one.” You said, pointing at the mug in your hands.

Price raised one eyebrow, “And you believed him?” He said. The gears in your head started to turn; the guy had a point. Why had you trusted him of all people? You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, “fucking christ Soap.” You muttered, primarily to yourself.

The steaming whistle of the kettle broke your train of thought, and your head snapped in its direction. You looked from the boiling kettle to the mug in your hand, a sigh exiting your chest. You held out the mug to him, “Here. It's yours, I'll get another one.”

Price looked surprised for a beat before his face went neutral again. He shook his head, pushing the mug back towards you. “No need; I've already got this one.” He grunted, nodding to the plain white mug sitting on his side of the counter. Before you could protest, he grabbed the kettle, pouring the hot water into his mug. Your nose scrunched as the aroma of instant coffee hit you.

He raised an eyebrow at your visceral reaction, “Not a fan of coffee now, are we?”

You cleared your throat, looking away from the blackening devil concoction. “I like coffee-” You clarified, “-just not that instant crap; it tastes like sewer water.” The curve of his lip twitched into a half-amused smile. Bringing the mug to his lips and taking a hearty sip, “noted.” Price hummed. You reached out to grab the kettle, but he handed it over to you before you could.

You raised your eyebrow; this was the closest thing you'd ever had to a friendly conversation with your Captain. You skeptically took it, breathing a ‘thanks’ to him. A comfortable silence fell on the both of you; Price could drink his coffee while you waited for your tea to brew.

Your eyes seemed to pull towards his direction as you waited, observing the curve of his lips, his nose that was just a bit crooked, and the coarse hair of his beard that thinned into stubble the further down his neck it went. You watched his adams apple bob as he swallowed his drink and how his large hand seemed to make the mug seem small. He somehow pulled off looking like he hadn't slept in weeks, which ticked you off somewhat.

He shot you a sideways glance, “You're staring.” Price said flatly; you looked like a deer caught in headlights. “I was…zoning out. And for the record, I was looking at the-uh wall behind you.” You cringed at yourself; the long pauses and uhs weren't adding to your credibility.

Price gave you a funny look, turning to look at the refrigerator behind him, which was most definitely not a wall. He turned back to you, “The wall you said?”

Well, shit, thanks, captain obvious. You frowned, giving up, “It doesn't matter-” you huffed, “Point is, I was zoned out.”

That answer seemed to satisfy him or at least force him to drop the subject; Price shrugged and took another sip from his mug. “Let's hope you don't make a habit out of it. Wouldn't want to add that to the other list of…qualities you have.” Here we go again. You raised an eyebrow, the edge in his tone all too familiar. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, “Which are?”

Price cleared his throat, gesturing his mug to you and your tea. “Theavory, for one.” Well, he got you there. You blew out air from your nose, the closest thing to a laugh you'd let him pull from you.

“Funny.” You said sarcastically.

A small smile tugged at his lips, “Yeah, well, just trying to lighten the mood between us.”

There was a pause.

The way he said ‘between us’ didn't sit right with you; what he said had undertones of bitterness, almost similar to the layers of an onion. Now, was it possible that you were reading too much into this? Yes. Was it also a tone-deaf thing to say, considering he was the primary reason you two didn't like each other in the first place? Also yes.

Don't bite the bait; don't bite the bait, “The mood you created?” You bit the bait.

He glanced at you, one of his eyebrows arching. For a second, it was silent, like he was mulling over whether it was worth it to engage. Price sighed, setting his drink down. “Look… [Name], if this is about that time when we first met, I was in a bad mood. I wasn't trying to be harsh; I'd just had a shit day. Nothing personal on you.” He craned his neck to the side, sliding a hand over his nape.

You crossed your arms. “You could've apologized,” you pointed out. Price paused, staring at you quizzically, “Why would I need to apologize?”

You almost gaped at him; his ego seemed to know no bounds. If it wasn't so irritating, it might have been comical, “You called my job a ‘precaution,’ and me, a ‘human blockade-’” You deadpanned, “-I don't like when someone downplays my whole career.” Price just stared at you blankly, his face morphing into more confusion.

“But you are a precaution.” He said, “That's the whole reason why Laswell put you here.” It was like he was explaining something to a child.

You huffed, “Captain. With all due respect, I'm a part of this team whether we like it or not. I don't want to be treated like an outsider- everyone else here seems to treat me like I belong here so why don't you? What's not to trust?” You questioned, your eyebrows pinched together and your lips pressed into a not-so-subtle frown.

“You don't belong here, though,” Price said frostily. “You're here for a year [Name], no more, no less. You belong to a different task force, so excuse me if I treat you as such.”

You stood there, stunned for a moment. A familiar feeling of resentment bubbling up inside you like the electric tea kettle. Your hands squeezed the ceramic of your mug, “Just because I'm not here to stay doesn't mean I'm any less committed to my job. I work my ass off every day to show you that I belong here. I just don’t understand why you’re too stubborn to even see that.” You huffed.

Price pursed his lips into a tight line, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer. “I don't have time to micro-manage everything you do. That's not stubborn; it's having other responsibilities besides making you feel included.”

Well, if he hadn't made you feel like a toddler before, he definitely was now. “Well, that's funny because you seem to do a perfectly good job at micromanaging everything I do despite your ‘lack of free time.’ And- I’m not asking you to make me feel included; I’m not an infant. I’m asking you to treat me with the same respect you treat everyone else with.” You hissed.

It didn’t surprise you how quickly the polite interaction with him turned into another bitter argument. When it came to Price, emotions ran high. Higher than you would like to admit.

“Maybe if you stopped acting like a child, I would respect you more.” He bit back, and you groaned, throwing your hands up in the air.

“I’m not though- I’m clearly telling you the problem between us. But since you have this…this grudge against me you won’t even listen to me.” You huffed.

Price shot you a look that said, ' I'm winning this argument, and there is nothing you can say to stop that.’ 

Internally, you wondered if getting dishonorably discharged was worth throwing hot tea into your captain's stupid face. Instead, you decided to look away, setting your mug on the counter with a sharp ‘clank.’ “Fine then, don't listen to me. That works, too.” You breathed through your teeth.

Price downed the rest of his coffee, throwing his head back and then setting his mug upside down in the small sink. He turned his whole body to you, crossing his arms. His blue eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows pinched together in scrutiny. “You want me to listen? Go ahead. Say what you want; I'm all ears.”

Your voice died in your throat. As much as you wanted to give him a piece of your mind, you didn't put up much of a fight against him, especially not with his ‘I'm the Captain, and you are one word away from cleaning toilets’ voice.

You pressed your lips together in a tight line, and the silence between you hung dangerously quiet for another moment. “Nothing, Captain.” You said through your teeth.

Price nodded, his eyes drilling holes into you, “That's what I thought. Now, it better stay that way for the duration of the next week or so help me; I will take away every privilege you have.” With that, he promptly turned on his heel and stormed out. Leaving you, a seething statue.

You looked down at his mug, still held tightly in your hand. You glared at the painted fish, “Fuck you.” You whispered to the watercolor salmon. Your frown deepened, substantially disappointed that whispering ‘fuck you’ to your Captain's mug didn't carry the same satisfaction you'd feel if you said it straight to his face.

Arguing with him was like arguing with a brick wall. Scratch that. Arguing with Price was worse than arguing a brick wall, a brick wall wouldn't intimidate you and then storm off.

You didn't feel like finishing your tea anymore. You grit your teeth together, dumping the liquid into the sink and watching as it slides down the drain. You had a few days before the mission, and you were going to make sure that you didn't fuck anything up. Lest you suffer the wrath of Price and your own self-doubt.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“Shit!”

Your head snapped toward the voice, even with the night vision gear you had everything was difficult to identify. It was safe to say you weren't a fan.

It had been 72 hours since you landed in Urzikstan, and 4 hours since you left the checkpoint base. If you had to guess, it was most likely around 0300 standard military time. Which meant you and the rest of 141 only had another two hours before you had to evacuate and hop on the trucks back to the checkpoint.

Your orders were simple enough, break into the compound and locate the underground terror group that was allegedly creating a bio-warfare laboratory. While it wasn't concreated information British and American SAS couldn't risk not sending a team to see if the tip was accurate. Being the genuine pigs of the situation didn't sit right with you but you weren't employed for your opinion on what the government chose to do and not do.

Still, being sent on a wild goose chase or worse into a trap made you more on edge. Everyone had paired up in case this was a setup and because the universe could never let you win you were grouped with Price. Which brought you back to the present moment.

“Price whats going on? talk to me.” You said in response to his curse. Trying to keep your voice as low as you could while still being audible. You weren't an expert but typically someone hissing ‘shit!’ wasn't a good sign.

In the split second before he could respond you heard the click. Along with the sound of Price’s footsteps trying to get out of the way, then came the sharp boom of a gun being fired. Only after the sound had left the barrel of the gun did you see it. The building wasn't finished, half of the construction was halted, leaving rooms unfinished, walk-offs, and random piles of rubble. Hidden behind a cement pillar a floor above, looking down at you was a person. More importantly a person behind a giant ass gun.

Shit!

You immediately threw yourself out of the way, ducking yourself behind a large amount of rubble. Your eyes scanned for Price in the darkness, frantically making sense of the objects around you. Another fire. Followed by another one. You didn't have time to look for Price. You turned your body, shielded by the debris, and pointed your gun up. It didn't take long before you locked onto the figure, you drew your breath in and pulled the trigger. The firing stopped.

You peered up over the rubble just in time to see the limp body flop over the drop-off and slam into the concrete. You were met with a deafening silence, “Price you copy?”

After a moment you heard someone move, “Yeah-” Your shoulders dropped, a breath you didn't realize you were holding escaped. You never thought hearing that deep British voice would ever make you this relieved. “Yeah, I copy.” He breathed. You stood, carefully making your way over to the corpse of your attacker. Looking down at the body, their face hidden by a cloth and glazed-over eyes looking up at the ceiling.

You grimaced, it was like looking at a dead fish. You looked up, nobody else was above. The only thing remaining was the unaccompanied sniper.

“This guy was alone.” You said, eyebrows furrowing. “And his aim was shit.” You deadpanned. Your head turned, expecting to meet Price. But were only greeted by an empty space, “Price?” You asked looking around.

“Over here.” He gruffed, you turned around. Price was standing next to a wall, his palm flat against its surface. It was like he was leaning against it, your eyes narrowed. His left leg was slightly raised off the ground, something wasn't right.

You jogged over to him, “What's the matter?” you asked, because of the night vision goggles coupled with the amount of gear he was wearing you couldn't see his face well. However, you didn't miss the way his jaw flexed. Before he could respond you pinpointed the issue. The leg that was raised had a small bullet-sized hole in his boot.

“Shit.” You breathed.

This really wasn't what you needed. You and Price had to be out of the compound in the next hour and a half, being shot in the foot was a major problem. At least it wasn't an organ, you thought. “Can you still walk?” You asked.

Price put his foot on the ground, putting his weight on it. You cringed as he let out a quiet hiss, “Yeah just fuckin’ hurts like hell.” He took a step, he was limping but he could walk. Which was a small win for both of you. Just as you opened your mouth someone spoke in your ear piece.

“[Name], Price, you copy? We heard shots.” The voice was grave, deep, with a thick British accent. Ghost.

Price answered, “We’re fine. Bastard with a sniper nicked my foot. Did any of you find the lab yet?” He said through clenched teeth, despite your dislike of your captain you felt a little guilty. If you'd seen the shooter before Price would probably be fine.

“We just found it, nobody’s here. S’a fuckin’ ghost town… no pun intended.” Ghost’s staticky voice rang in your ear, if you were in a better situation you might have laughed. Your eyebrows furrowed and you frowned.

“That makes no sense.” You chimed in, “If this guy was here there should be more people. It doesn't make sense for only one person to be set up here.” You looked at Price. His head was already turned to look at you. It was a beat before anyone spoke again.

“Price.” A raspy Scottish accent this time. Soap. “The labs empty, no inventory at all. Everything is sterile.” You felt your throat run dry, the silence on the radio spoke louder than anything you or anyone else could say. Either they evacuated before the team had gotten there or the whole building was a ruse.

You looked back at the corpse lying a few feet away from you and Price. “They knew we were coming.” You breathed. The weight of your words seemed to carry for miles, but the implications might have been worse. You looked at Price, the same thoughts you had probably already running through his head. “We need to fucking leave, right now.”

Price gave a small nod, “Everyone get out. Gaz, call for emergency evac now. Leave the same way we came do not under any circumstances go further into this building.” Price demanded. Which was followed by a series of ‘copies.’ You started for the way you entered, just as you reached the empty doorframe you heard a grunt behind you. You looked back, fuck. You forgot Price was hurt, fuck, fuck, fuck. He could walk but there was no way he could run with his foot.

You doubled back, and as you ran to him Price raised his hands. Almost in protest, “I can keep up, I'm not immobile.” He exhaled, and you shot him an unimpressed look. The situation was bad enough, you weren't going to deal with this. You couldn't waste time and walking on a bad foot would only worsen it for Price in the long run.

You grabbed his arm and slung it over your shoulder, one arm grabbed the back of his vest, holding his side up so his injured foot didn't hit the floor. It wasn't the most comfortable but it worked.

Price opened his mouth but you spoke before he could get a word in. “You can't keep up and you know it. Whatever problems we have don't matter right now, we've got to get out of here. God knows what the people who were here before us did to this place. But we don't have time to think about that-” Your eyes met his, the red hue of the night vision goggles making his navy eyes seem black. “-I’d much rather keep you alive but I would gladly die with you than have it be my fault that you die. So shut the fuck up and move.”

That seemed to do the trick because Price did in fact, shut the fuck up. You quickly exited with Price. It wasn't as fast as you would've liked to leave but it was the best you could do with a six-foot tank of a man leaning against you.

A few minutes later you and Price successfully made it out. The rest of the team was already waiting a ways away from the building, you let out a relieved sigh. Just being out of the compound seemed to lift a weight off your chest and calm your racing heart. Price seemed to feel the same way judging by his taunt muscles relaxing slightly.

You made your way over to the team, Ghost was the first to notice you. He did a slight double-take as he saw Price, “Thought you said the bloke nicked you?” He commented, you gently released Price letting him lean against the outside wall of an abandoned house.

Price grunted, “Yeah well he nicked me good.” He said back, Ghost nodded. Soap and Gaz peered at the bloody hole in his boot, “That’s gonna be a pain to heal I’ll tell you that.” Soap commented, and Gaz nodded along. “No kidding.”

Price’s frown deepened, and he let out a breath. “Gaz how long till evac trucks pick us up?” Gaz looked out at the open area then looked back, “I’d say twenty minutes give or take.” That answer seemed to give Price a little peace.

A few minutes had gone by, and Soap, Ghost, and Gaz were all talking with you while Price leaned against the wall silently. You glanced at your Captain, gingerly making your way over you leaned against the wall a few inches away from him. You didn't know what to say if you should say anything for that matter. Making conversation with Price wasn't your strong suit, but you felt bad.

“So…you okay?” You asked dumbly, Price gave you a look that made you want to go right back to the others. He was silent for a beat before speaking. “I got shot in the foot [Name], you tell me.” He deadpanned.

You swallowed, nodding. Asshole. No matter, you decided to take it in stride, “Right.” You breathed, “I just… wanted to check.” On second thought maybe you really should leave, it was like you were communicating with an alien. And after your last argument with Price, you walked on eggshells whenever you were around him.

The stretch of silence between the two of you lasted longer than you would've liked. But after a moment Price cleared his throat and nodded, “Thank you.” He said.

You did a bit of a double-take, thank you? Price never thanked you. It was like he was allergic to congratulating or acknowledging you in any form that wasn't to reprimand you. You must've looked as confused as you felt by the way he glanced at you and then went on. “For helping me out of there, you were prepared for the worst back there and you still had my back. I appreciate that-”

“-you uh, you did good.” He clarified.

Your mouth was probably hanging open at this point, ‘you did good.’ The words hung in the air around you, filling your ears with cotton. Price your captain, Price your mortal enemy had praised you. He gave you a sideways glance, “Don't look so shocked [Name], you're still on thin ice.”

Ah, there it was, your shoulders slumped. It was better than nothing though, “Right, uhm thank you.” You said a bit awkwardly, Price gave you a small nod in return. It wasn't much, but it was acknowledgment.

After some time passed by you and the rest of 141 loaded into the trucks, starting the long drive to the checkpoint base. You tried to lean your head back and get just a little bit of rest, but after thirty minutes of failing to do so, you gave up. There was just too much in your head, too many unanswered questions. You thought about the man you'd killed, why was he there? What was the use of evacuating a building if you just left a single sniper with terrible aim lying in wait for someone to come looking around?

Did that mean they didn't know 141 specifically was coming? The question that worried you the most was the fact that if they did plan for you to raid the lab, who on the inside was feeding these people your team's operations? You shuddered. It was bad enough that commanding officer Shepard went rogue a few months prior. The SAS really didn't need another mole. Especially considering the amount of enemies the American and British military had made.

Your shoulders slumped, it didn’t really matter, what mattered was that everyone made it out. You didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if the previous occupants had left explosives inside the building. It was better to just be thankful that nothing happened.

Your first operation with 141 had been a bust, but considering the circumstances you thought it went as well as it could’ve. Not counting Price’s foot.

Subconsciously your eyes drifted over to Price, his boot had been taken off and his foot was wrapped in white garb. Just until someone could look at it properly, everyone had taken their night visions and helmets off to get some shut-eye. Your gaze drifted up until they met his face, navy eyes met yours. You froze, you hadn't realized Price was awake. The two of you didn't break eye contact for a minute, almost like a challenge of who would be the first to look away.

“You make a habit of staring at people or is it just me?” He deadpanned. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, he could never let you catch a break, could he?

“I wasn't staring, and you were looking at me too.” You defended, it didn't matter if you were staring, he wouldn't get the satisfaction of hearing you confess that. One of his thick eyebrows raised, “I glanced at you. There's a difference, you just happened to look up at the same time.” He said back, calm as ever.

You half rolled your eyes, he could word it however he wanted to, but in the end, it was pretty much the same thing. “Okay, keep telling yourself that.” You hummed, matching his nonchalance. Your gaze dropped back down to his bandaged foot, “How’s the foot?” You asked, hoping he wouldn't catch you changing the subject.

Price grunted, his head lulling back onto the seat. You shot a glance at his adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down before averting your eyes. “Feels like I got shot in the foot, so…not great. It's better than an organ so I won't complain that much.” He breathed.

You nodded, “You ever been shot before?” you asked, what could you say? You were curious. He nodded, clearing his throat he cast his head down to look at his chest. One of his hands pulled up his bullet vest and shirt revealing the beginnings of his abdomen, right above his hip bone there was a small scar. “Two years ago, caught me while I was down. Took forever to heal, fuckin’ hurt like hell too.”

You zeroed in on the exposed skin, it was all muscle, no surprises there. The man was built like a 4x6 brick, his skin was shiny with sweat, and from what you could see his bullet scar wasn't the only one that littered his skin. Just below the dipped fabric of his shirt was the start of a happy trail. You swallowed.

What the fuck was wrong with you? A few days ago you were plotting how you could murder him and now you're ogling a sliver of his stomach like a horny teen girl.

You absolutely did not find a single part of your boss attractive. Forget your first interaction with him when you were practically gaping over him like a fish. That didn't count. This was Price you were talking about. Sure, he was conventionally attractive with just the right amount of ruggish charm to make him mysterious. And yeah, he was built like a tank, so what? And you couldn't forget about his stupid fucking British accent, who the hell was into British accents anyways? (You were. Embarrassingly so.)

Price looked up at you, the silence making you raise an eyebrow. “See something you like aye?” He said, amusement dripping from his voice. Your eyes immediately snapped back to his face, embarrassment churning away at your insides.

“You wish,” You said back. So maybe you found some parts of your Captain hot, that didn't matter. In the end, it was still Price. And the flames of hatred don't die out just because one's enemy is a little (a lot) attractive.

Price breathed out what sounded like a laugh, he dropped the shirt. “Keep telling yourself that [Name].” Your fists squeezed together as he threw your words back at you.

You glared at him, “You're so full of it you know that?” You breathed, which only seemed to pique his interest further. You were glad the rest of the team was either sleeping or so used to your fighting that at this point they tuned you out. Jumping off a cliff seemed nice in comparison to the ruthless teasing that Soap and Ghost would enact if they found out you'd been caught ogling Price.

“Didn't realize this would strike a nerve, any particular reason why?” He said, you grimaced. You could almost taste the smugness from his tongue like syrup, “It didn't.” You said through your teeth, “Then again, egotistical men are a pain to be around. Especially ones that think everyone around them wants them.” You grumbled.

Your words seemed to have the opposite effect, Price straightened. A small tug at his lip made you want to slap that smirk right off. “I never said you wanted me, but liars always do have a way of telling on themselves don't they?” He grinned.

Something flashed in his eyes, you didn't have time to see what it was. But right now, all your willpower was devoted to not picking up your gun and giving him a matching hole in his right foot. “I think I'd rather shoot myself than be anything but professional with you.” You said frostily.

Price hummed, the smirk never leaving his face and he leaned back. “Glad the feeling is mutual.” He spoke calmly.

Your eye twitched, he was pulling that card now. Reverse physiology or whatever it was, the ‘I don't have to want you but you have to want me.’ Well too bad you didn't care, you couldn't care less. If Price didn't want you that was great-better even.

“Yeah,” You huffed, “Super glad.” You turned your head away so you didn't have to look in his direction. Maybe you should've left him in that building, it was a tempting thought. The rest of the drive back to the checkpoint was spent in silence.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The base felt dreary, everyone was still in a funk from the previous night. Everything felt just a bit more surreal, nobody was talking about what happened either. Not that there really was anything to discuss.

The checkpoint base wasn't as nice as your previous base. It wasn't even a full building, there were a few small ones but those were mostly used to store weapons. Everything else was industrial-sized tents, making privacy a luxury. It didn't even have a proper barracks, just a large tent with several stretcher-like beds placed in rows. To be completely honest the entire thing was a pile of shit. But it was a roof over your head so there was that.

You sat at a bench in the ‘commons,’ a poor excuse for food sitting in front of you. Gaz sat next to you while Ghost and Jhonny sat across from you. They all had similar grimaces plastered on their faces as they ate their protein paste.

“If I have to eat this shite for another day I'm going to go into that food storage room and light the thing up. They got us eating like dogs.” Ghost said after draining the last of his rations. You half-heartedly agreed, humming a sound of approval that was accompanied by Gaz’s small chuckle.

Soap grinned, “Don't get yer panties in a twist just yet L.T, heard they're serving dessert paste too. Courtesy of Price’s injury.”

You shivered, it sounded just as bad if not worse. Then a thought popped up, you looked around the common space. “Hey, you guys seen Price? Isn't he eating?” You hadn't seen him for almost the entire day, which was a blessing for you but it did strike you as odd when normally you couldn't get rid of him.

Gaz shrugged, “He was in the medical tent last time I saw him. The guy was getting his foot looked at, he’ll probably show up soon.”

Ghost turned his head to face you, while it was a little hard to tell with his balaclava, one of his eyebrows raised. “Awful concerned about Price aren't you? Thought you hated the man.” Your lips curled into an exasperated frown.

“I'm not. And I do hate him. I was just curious.” You brushed him off, trying to avoid his stony gaze. Soap and Gaz exchanged looks that made your eyebrows furrow.

Gaz looked at you, “What about the other day when you helped him out of the building?” Soap was next to chime in, “Or that you use his mug all the time and he lets you?”

You shot Gaz a glare, “First, he's still my Captain I'm not going to leave him in a building where I think he's going to die.” Then you directed a similar glare at Soap, “Second, I didn't know it was his mug because you tricked me into thinking the mugs were communal.” You said through your teeth.

Ghost smirked, “Sounds like you care.”

Your hands gripped the table with unnecessary force. “I do not.” You defended, the looks exchanged between them made you want to crawl into a hole. Suddenly you weren't as inclined to finish your meal. You stood, grabbing your tray of half-eaten food and trash. “I'm not hungry anymore.” You said dryly.

Soap laughed, faking a disappointed frown. “Come on lass we were just getting started with ya. Where's the fun in leaving before the real jokes start?” You rolled your eyes, stepping out of the bench and walking towards the trash.

“Jokes are supposed to be funny,” you replied as you dumped the remanence of your ‘lunch’ in the trash. Just as you were exiting the tent Soap's voice called out to you.

“Oh, if you see the old fart, tell him his dessert paste is waiting for him!” That earned an amused tug at the corner of your lips, shaking your head in exasperation as you pushed past the floppy tent entrance.

You didn't even make it a foot outside before your momentum was halted by a larger mass. Your face met something hard, but also somehow soft at the same time. You stumbled back, gaining back your balance from the force of running into something. Or more specifically, someone. You looked up in dismay to see what kind of idiot ran into you.

It was Price, because of fucking course it was.

But it was Price with the addition of a single crutch and a newly wrapped foot. Your eyes slowly crept up to his face, the mortifying reality that you slammed right into his chest setting in. What’s worse was that the previous conversation with the guys was still very fresh in your mind.

‘Sounds like you do care,’ Ghost’s words echoed in your mind, haunting you like a…well a ghost. Ironic.

“Do you mind?” Price's words snapped you out of your trance. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. It was silent for a moment before your vocal cords decided to actually comply and let you speak.

“You ran into me.” You said lamely, the tips of your ears felt hot. Like lava was slowly being poured onto your head. Price’s eyebrows furrowed, his navy eyes studying you. Even on one crutch, he seemed to tower over you in a way that made you antsy.

“Why are you red?” He asked, the question caught you off guard. Making you falter for a second time, “I-What?”

Price’s eyes narrowed a bit, a finger pointed directly at you. “Your face. It's red,” It wasn't a jab, more like he was observing a simple fact. Suddenly you became hyper-aware of the heat spreading across your face. You touched your cheek, and the pads of your fingers burned at the touch.

Oh my god.

Your face was hot, it was flushed. You were blushing. Blushing. In front of Price.

You swallowed, feeling a bob in your throat. It was like you were in one of those dreams where you showed up to school naked. “I'm allergic-” You blurted out.

A beat of silence ensued, and Price raised a single brow. “Allergic?” He said, to which you responded with a hard nod. Think, think- what was a believable lie? “Yes… to the dessert paste.”

Price didn't look skeptical now, he just looked downright confused. “What the hell is dessert paste?” He questioned, while a good question, you didn't want to stand around to explain it to him while your face looked like the cover of a period ad. You shook your head, steering around him like a robot.

“Ask soap.” You said as you made your escape, “I'm going to the med tent so I don't go into anaphylactic shock.”

That was a lie, you were going to the bathroom to rethink your career and splash cold water on your face. Leaving Price a standing statue, a perplexed look on his face.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

A pack of 8 beers was slammed down onto the small table in front of where you were sitting. The bottles lightly clanked together, you looked up. “What’s this?” You asked, Soap stood in front of you with a confident grin.

“This is how we’re going to make it through our last 10 hours in this shit hole.” He proclaimed, his hands on his hips.

It was late, everyone but Price was in the sleeping tent. True to Soap’s words, in 10 hours you and the rest of 141 were finally going to load up into the heli and return to the original base. Thank goodness too, you didn't think you could stomach another meal here. Ghost looked over from his cott, “The hell did you get that from?”

Soap waved him off, smoothing over his poor example of a mohawk. “A magician never reveals his secrets.” He fished into his pant pocket and pulled out a pocket knife, grabbing one of the bottles he flicked the cap off with a soft pop’ “Since it is our last night, why not celebrate?” He went on.

You eyed the pack suspiciously, if it came from here it was probably shit beer. But it was still something, you shrugged. You reached for one, “I'll take what I can get.” You sighed.

Grabbing a bottle you snatched Soap’s knife to knock off the cap. Throwing your head back as you took a generous swig, it burned down your throat. The pungent flavor making your nose scrunch and your mouth curl. Soap did the same, smacking his lips as he swallowed. “Well…It could be worse.” He muttered.

Ghost and Gaz followed suit, walking over to your space and grabbing two bottles. After some time had passed the four of you had settled into a sort of circle, you were two beers in and things were already getting fuzzy. You didn't normally drink, mostly because you were a lightweight. But when you did drink, you got drunk. You were tipping your head back with laughter at every story, the warmth in your stomach making the tent somehow feel cozy.

Soap reached for his third bottle but Gaz swatted his hand away, “Leave some for Price Jhonny.” He scolded, Soap simply rolled his eyes and groaned. “The old man won't care, he only drinks at those shitty pubs. He's a stickler bout not drinkin’ on base, something about ‘not mixing business with pleasure’” He mocked, doing in your opinion, a decent Price impression. You chucked.

“I don't think Price takes ‘pleasure’ in anything, he's such a stick up the ass he wouldn't know fun if it hit him in the face.” You breathed, and while not the most articulate thing to say, your tongue and thoughts were loose enough that you didn't care.

Ghost’s mouth curled into a knowing smirk, “For someone who hates Price, you sure do love to talk about him any chance someone brings him up.” He said smugly, earning snickers from both Soap and Gaz.

“Oh fuck off will you?” You grumbled to Ghost, this whole teasing you about Price thing was getting old fast. “I say one thing and you guys act like I have some schoolgirl crush on him.”

Soap grinned, “You said it lass, not us.” He coughed abruptly when you smacked him in the stomach, making him lean forward to catch his breath. You glanced at Ghost who’s hands were now raised in surrender.

“Come off it [Name], we’re just teasing, you're not doing yourself any favors by acting with him the way you do.” He commented, which only confused you. All you did was argue with him, where was there room for speculation? The look on your face must've told them everything they needed to know.

“What do I do that gives off that impression even remotely?” You said defensively, they all exchanged looks.

Soap spoke up, “It's not just you bonnie, Price acts differently around you too. It just gives off a certain impression. Some people just take it the wrong way.” There was an underlying uncomfortableness to his words that you didn't miss. And who were ‘some people??’

Ghost smacked him upside the head, earning a startled grunt. “Fuckin’ twat, Soap doesn't know what he's saying.” Ghost said facing you. “He's already tipsy, don't take what he's saying to heart.” Soap was holding his head, shooting a glare at the lieutenant.

You shook your head, not ready to let it go. “No, who's some people? And what did you mean when you said ‘taking it the wrong way?’” Your eyes narrowed in on all three of them, waiting for someone to speak first. Gaz looked away, immediately giving him away as the weakest link. “Gaz what's he talking about?” You asked firmly.

He tensed up, glancing at Ghost and then back to you. “It's really nothing, it's just a silly rumor.” Ghost shot him a firm look, “Kyle-” He warned.

A rumor? What the hell was there to talk about? The last time you'd heard of a rumor going around about yourself was in high school, it wasn't a pleasant experience, to say the least. Your lips pursed into a tight line, something about how secretive they were being set you off. “What rumor?” You said, after a minute of silence, you slowly got more frustrated. “If it's about me I deserve to know.”

Ghost didn't speak, neither did Gaz, but Soap did. He blew out a sigh, glancing back at Ghost who was maintaining strict eye contact with you. “There is a bit of a widespread rumor back at base that you've been shaggin’ the boss. People started calling you Captain’s Girl.”

The pit of your stomach dropped.

You felt dizzy, looking between the three of them. Waiting for one of them to break, to smile and say ‘got you!’ but it never came. “You're joking right?” You said, laughing nervously, the longer the silence the more nauseous you became.

Ghost shook his head, his eyes hard but his demeanor a bit solemn. “We didn't want you to know for obvious reasons. Thought it would make things worse between the two of ya’ and it was just too far.” You swallowed, this was a joke. This was a joke and they were just teasing. When nobody spoke after the reality set in.

Of course, this would happen to you, you worked your ass off just to be respected in a field dominated by men. You were asked to be a part of 141. But all people saw was a slut who worked her way up the ladder by playing Miss ‘Hard to Get.’

“We tried to stop it as best we could trust us, it's just a little hard to keep quiet when word spreads fast,” Gaz interjected, his eyebrows scrunched in…guilt? Second-hand embarrassment? Sadness? You couldn't tell.

You sat there in silence, processing everything. “But- but I'm not. I'm not sleeping with him.” You sputtered.

Soap placed a hand on your shoulder, “We know you ain't. You don't need to listen to those people anyways, it's just barrack talk, people needing a story to make their lives more interesting.” A well of emotions started to flood your senses, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the gravity of the situation hitting you.

Captain’s girl.

What. The. Fuck.

This was Price’s fault. It had to have been, Soap said he was acting weird. Maybe this was all his elaborate plan to destroy your career and kick you off 141 for fraternization. It had to have been him, right? You weren't thinking as clearly as you would have liked considering you were borderline drunk, but that didn't matter. You shot up from where you were sitting, making Soap jump.

Stumbling you started to make a beeline for the entrance, Gaz also got up and followed you, much to your chagrin. “[Name]? Where are you going??” He called after you.

“To find Price!” (And kill him.) You shouted back angrily, storming outside before Gaz had the chance to stop you. Obviously, you didn't think this through enough because it was pitch dark outside. And Price was nowhere in sight, fuck.

Whatever, you could search this place for hours if you had to. He was bound to pop up somewhere, like how the tide is drawn to the moon you and Price always had a way of being pulled into each other. You stormed through the dark, almost tripping on your own feet once or twice in the process.

You'd been there long enough that you could tell what area was what. Even in the pitch-black cloak of the dark, you could feel your heartbeat in your head. It was like your body was pulsing with the rhythm of your anger. Just as you were about to start shouting his name a light caught your eye. You swiveled your neck so fast it burned the muscles in your nape. Low and behold it was Price walking out of the medical tent with his single crutch.

He stopped when he noticed you, his face a mix of confusion. “What are you doing? I thought I told you guys not to go outside after lights out?”

You felt every emotion rush back to you at the sound of his voice, the sight of his face, the fucking absurdity of the whole situation. Your hands clenched into fists, “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I thought you sucked before but I underestimated how much of a jackass you could be!”

Price stood there like a deer caught in headlights, so baffled he couldn't even speak. “Excuse me?”

You marched straight up to him, “You heard me. Apparently making my life a living hell wasn't enough for you was it? You sadistic fuck. Do you get off on torturing me? Is that it?” You spat. The heat in your face rising with each word.

He didn't say anything, his navy eyes looking at you like you belonged in an insane asylum. After a minute of silence, he breathed, “[Name]. Realistically I should be laying into you right now and giving you every single punishment there is for the rest of your stay here for cursing me out after lights out with no provocation on my end. But, I'm going to give you one chance to explain why you're acting like a screaming banshee before I send your ass straight to the bins.”

His words only ticked you off further, well two could play dumb. “You know exactly why I'm angry! No provocation is such bullshit. You- You just think I'm so stupid don't you?!” You were stumbling, your mouth felt heavy. It was like your mind was moving faster than your body could keep up with.

“Are you drunk?” He asked incredulously. You shook your head, “No! I mean yes I had a few drinks but I'm not drunk. Stop deflecting-” You rambled on.

His eyes turned to narrow slits, “I don't even know what I'm deflecting- you can't just start making a scene and expect me to know why you're angry. I'm not a mind reader.” He groaned.

“The name! The rumor- whatever you call it. You spread a rumor about me to the entire base that I'm sleeping with you! People are calling me your girl! The guys told me, everyone thinks I'm some slut because of you!” Everything in your body was burning, it felt good to finally yell at him but the words hit you hard.

You were labeled as the slut. No matter what you did there was always going to be a man overshadowing you just because of a preemptive notion that you were weaker. Something you'd spent your life fighting was now your reality.

Price’s eyes went wide, he almost resembled a wooden board. For a moment his eyes softened, like he was taking pity on you. “That's what this is about.” He breathed, “Look, I’m just as upset about that rumor and the name as you are. I don't know who started it but I can give you my word it wasn't me. You can ask any one of the guys and they will tell you the same thing.”

You started to speak but he raised a hand to stop you, “-I know it's not fair. But the damage has already been done, the thing about rumors is that they pass. And nobody thinks you're a slut. You're just as capable as anyone else on this team.” He said calmly.

It was silent for a moment. You didn't really know what to do or what to believe. All you had to go on was his word, which wouldn't normally hold much weight but something about him seemed so genuine. “I- how do I know you're not lying to my face? You hate me. And I’m just supposed to believe a random person made this rumor up when you've been trying to kick me off the team from the start.”

Price halted for a moment, his face reflecting a series of conflicting emotions. “I don't hate you, and I am not trying to kick you off.”

“Well, it sure as hell doesn't seem that way, even Soap said you act differently around me. I don't understand why you fucking hate me so much when almost all I ever do is try and suck up to you!” You shouted, your voice slightly slurring with how fast the words escaped your lips.

A vein bulged in Price’s temple, his jaw working with his growing temperament. “I don't know how often we have to go through this same conversation before you get it through your thick head. I don't hate you, I'm hard on you. There's a difference.”

“Well, that's not what it looks like to me. Especially not to the mystery person who just conjured a rumor that we’re sleeping together out of thin air.” You seethed, until now you'd been standing a few feet away from him. But somehow, amid the argument, you found yourself now uncomfortably close.

Price scowled down at you, “What do you want me to say to you?! That I'm sorry I also got caught up in some dumb rumor. That I'm sorry you got your feelings hurt because I was a little harsh.”

Your mind was telling you to communicate your feelings like a normal person. The alcohol and your heart told you your fist connecting with his face was the better option. And right now, your heart (plus the alcohol) was winning.

“I want you to fucking show me you don't hate me! You can say all you want that I'm just being dramatic but there's obviously a reason why I think you hate me.” You fired back.

The two of you stood there for a moment, his eyes drilling into yours. A scowl on Price’s lips and his eyebrows pinched together, there was something about the heat of the moment that made you more on edge. You were hyperaware of everything around you, most importantly you were hyperaware of your proximity to him. The night air was cold but you were on fire.

“You want me to show you? Fine.” He grit out, and before you had time to react he was on you.

His hand was on your neck, thick and warm. Pulling you close so that his lips captured yours in what you could only describe as ‘a hungry kiss.’ The coarse hair of his beard tickled your skin and before you even knew what you were doing, you started kissing him back.

Fuck. He tasted like smoke and whiskey, a woody smell clung to him like sap. Greedily your hands pulled at him, your fingers bunching the cotton of his shirt like he'd disappear. You'd kissed men before but never in your life had anyone kissed you like this. The kiss was hot, desperate, almost angry. His tongue slid along yours, you felt the drag of his teeth nip at your bottom lip and his throaty groan when you only pulled him closer.

You couldn't remember why he was kissing you, or why you started kissing him back. You didn't know why you were so angry, nor did you pay mind to the chance that anyone could walk outside and see the two of you.

You heard his crutch absentmindedly fall to the ground, clattering against the hard dirt. Price's other hand snaked to the back of your head, curling his thick digits into the locks of your hair. His nose brushed against yours, he felt so warm. Asshole or not this man knew how to kiss.

“[Name]!”

Gaz’s voice broke you out of the trance you seemed to have been under. Immediately you and Price tore apart, your heart jackhammered in your ribcage. You looked at Price, he looked at you.

His blue eyes were blown wide, his lips parted and shiny with the reminisce of your spit. A reddish tinge colored his ears and cheeks. He looked horrified.

You didn't fair much better. You probably looked like a gaping fish. You'd just kissed Price. Price had kissed you. You two had been kissing. Holy shit.

Footsteps snapped your attention away from him, Gaz ran to meet you. His breath heavy like he’d been running around for a good amount of time. “[Name] Price didn’t start the rumor- you left before I could tell you. I-” He stopped, his eyes darting between both you and Price. You probably looked as guilty as you felt. “I…uhm I guess you two worked it out?”

There was an awkward silence before anyone spoke, Price cleared his throat, quickly wiping his lips. “She’s aware… You two go back to the tent, it’s late. We leave early tomorrow so get a good sleep.”

You were still in shock, could you even move your limbs? Another silence hovered over the three of you like a looming dust cloud. Gaz awkwardly shuffled to you, patting your shoulder as if to say ‘party's over, let’s go.’ He nodded at Price, “Right, see you in the morning Cap.”

Before you knew it, your legs were moving as Gaz led you back to the tent. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, “You alright?” He said hesitantly. You didn't know what to say to him, you didn't even know what you were feeling. And you doubted saying, ‘Honestly I don't know because two seconds ago Price's tongue was down my throat and I can't tell if I'm turned on or horrified,’ was appropriate.

So, you settled for a simple: “I’m fine.” Gaz gave you a skeptical look, but he chose not to comment on it. Once you got back to the tent Soap and Ghost had already started to get into their respective cots. Soap gave you a funny look over his shoulder, “What happened to you? You look shell-shocked.” He laughed.

You didn't even have the energy to respond, giving him a disgruntled grimace in return. You fell into your cot, burying your face into the thick sleeping bag. Your cheeks burned, and the taste of Price still lingered on your lips.

Apart of you wished that you were blackout drunk, then maybe it would be easier knowing whatever happened would disappear by the morning. But his groans, his hands in your hair, his lips, they were carved into your brain. And they weren't leaving.

You had to grapple with the reality that Price had kissed you. And you had kissed him back.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Hey, wait! Don't go!

Well… hello there. It's me again! To those of you who aren't familiar, you can call me Baebae. And to those who are welcome back! I've written fanfiction a bit before (check out my other stuff on my home page) but nothing like this. So that makes this special, and I'm happy you can join me while I embark on this new journey.

There is no spice in this chapter but it is coming in the next part. There are only two parts to this so you won’t have to wait that long. Trust me I am trying my best to crank out the next one so I’ll try my best to be quick!!

I would be so, so, so, soooo grateful if you would like, follow, or repost. Don't feel any pressure but I love hearing any feedback you can provide as I am relatively new to this and it spurs me on to know people enjoy what I put out. If you so choose you can message me or comment if you'd like me to @ you in the next part so you're notified. <3

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this and I'll see you in the next part. Toodles! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Part II of Captains Girl!

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

[taxkavach]

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[lay-z]

barbed-wire kisses | 1

Synopsis: Soap, the SAS and 141's most prized explosives detection hybrid and demolitions expert, gets a new handler.

Pairing: hybrid!John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x fem!handler!Reader Warnings/Info: 18+ | Soap is a purebred German Shepherd hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adopted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | enemies strangers to lovers; forbidden love; angst; hurt/comfort; heavy smut; eventual romance; canon-typical violence; military inaccuracies; dom/sub elements; forced submission; cussing; humour (Please mind the warnings for each chapter!)

Based on this idea 🩶

Big thanks to my bestie @bloodytalefeathers for helping me handling our boy Soap 🐶

It’s always a rather impersonal affair as a hybrid serving in the military–getting a new handler assigned and vice versa.

John sniffs you out, of course, before Captain Price even has the chance to properly introduce you. When the Sergeant is given your file along with the handlership documents on a random Wednesday in February–the ones you’ve already signed a few weeks prior–he gets one deep whiff of your musk still lingering on the paper and starts prowling the base on the lookout for his new target.

Despite the many familiar, surrounding scents among the different smells announcing the beginning of spring, it doesn’t take too long for a specimen like him to pick up on and find you on the large military base, letting the winds do most of the work for him.

He's just way too good at his job, and his little self-imposed challenge leaves his chest puffing with pride and the blood in his veins buzzing with an odd eagerness to meet you once he finally spots you among the large crowd of soldiers on the training grounds.

John decides to skip his lunchbreak and watch you instead. He takes a seat on a well-positioned bench with a good view of the field where you’re currently going through drills with a platoon that you’re serving as their temporary CO. His tail swishes lazily against the wooden planks of the bench, pushing off some dry leaves that gathered there.

He’s read about you, knows that you’ve just come back from a five-month overseas deployment in Al Mazrah–supporting their local forces with the training of the serving hybrids, among other duties.

John can see it in the tension you carry in your neck and shoulders, in the way you keep checking your surroundings while you give orders to your soldiers, and with the dark circles under your eyes–all of it speaks volumes of how well you’ve adjusted to living on base again so far, and, boy, does it look bad.

On top of that, you’ve just been transferred to Hereford from your previous base and task force–after getting your new orders while you were still deployed–so you must be twice as stressed and thrice as vexed about this whole new arrangement you’re finding yourself in right now, thanks to the brass. He also knows that you’ve already moved and settled into your new place close to the barracks. Close to where he lives, too.

Fucking brilliant, John thinks, and his large furry ears twitch as he grins wickedly. It’ll be more than easy to get rid of you if you’re already feeling this worn out; perhaps even easier than it went with the previous handlers he’s had since boot camp.

None of them ever made it past the six-month mark before they were transferred again due to their incompetence, though none of the higher-ups has ever admitted fault and called it what it is.

No, it’s always just been ‘Soap being a bloody handful’, slippery and clever as he simply happens to be, and yet the brass still keeps refusing him that exceptional permission which would finally grand him freedom–the freedom to operate without a handler on, and to a certain degree, off duty.

He is a canine hybrid, yes, and his nature might make him extraordinary, aye, but he’s not a fucking toddler in need of assistance and guidance 24/7. It’s bad enough that his rank as Sergeant can easily be outranked by a human subordinate simply because he happens to be a hybrid.

His thought process is disturbed by the crunching of boots on the gravelly road leading up to his makeshift recon spot, when a group of soldiers walks up the rolling hill to have a smoke break.

Scrunching up his sensitive nose at the stench of cigarettes despite being used to the smell, John gives up his seat for the group, straightening his shoulders with a curt nod at them before he makes his way back to HQ.

There’s a meeting he needs to prepare for after all.

A few hours later, the briefing room clears again when everyone claims to not have any questions left to simply get it over with.

“Right,” Price utters roughly. “I’ll leave you two to it then. Lieutenant,” he gives you a curt nod and John has to suppress a smirk when the Captain shoots him a glare as soon as his back is turned towards you. “Soap.” And John can hear the stern warning underlying Price’s voice before the latter leaves the briefing room and shuts the door behind him with finality and a raging ball of concern lodged in his guts.

And even though Price has left, and took his commanding aura right with him, the room feels even smaller and stuffy now with only you and John, standing across from each other like it’s a Mexican Standoff.

While John lets his eyes roam freely, assessing you thoroughly and searching for weaknesses, you simply keep your sharp eyes trained on his with a kind of effortlessness that is slowly making the fur on his tail bristle–up, up, up his spine until it tickles his neck and makes his ears twitch involuntarily.

Your hands are firmly clasped behind your back, your stance relaxed as your hip leans against the table behind you; keeping your whole front exposed and vulnerable while you’re oozing nonchalance and confidence with no trace left of all that tension and fatigue he’d noticed earlier when he was watching you train with your platoon.

You almost look… bored now that you’re finally alone with him, and John doesn’t quite know what to make of this reaction.

His thick brows furrow and he caves, despising the tense silence already. “Ye not gonna say nothin’, lass?”

Suddenly, your lips twitch into a humourless half-smile. “That’s still ‘Lieutenant’ to you, Sergeant,” you reply coolly. “We’re no friends yet.”

“Right,” he half-snorts, half-huffs in response. “Well, ‘am lookin’ forward ta workin’ with ye, ma’am.” If you’re just a wee bit clever, you could easily pick up on the sarcasm in his words, and judging by the way your eyebrow twitches, you can. His tail swishes proudly in response, and then John mirrors your stance; clasping his hands behind his back before rolling his broad shoulders and straightening up to his full height.

“Oh, are you now?” It’s a rhetorical question, and John finds the way you tilt your head to the side like a wee pup utterly adorable, along with the fact that he’s taller than you, forcing you to crane your neck if you want to maintain eye-contact with him despite the thick-soled combat boots you’re wearing.

“Well, in that case–” You bring your arms forward suddenly, clutching a black collar in your hand; brand new and personalized, the scent of its full-grain leather still fresh and thick in the air. His eyes zero in on your name and rank stitched into it, along with your emergency contact and military ID number. “May I?”

John’s tail stills, bright eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at the collar and processes the implication behind your words. He doesn’t get collared like this, no; usually grabs the damn mandatory thing and puts it on himself to get it over with.

“Ye insistin’ to put it on me, la–Lieutenant?”

You simply stare up at him with those unimpressed, gorgeous eyes – eyes that have seen as much, perhaps even more, horrific crap he has in combat–and his heart starts jumping in his chest in return. “You tell me, Sergeant. You wanna be a difficult pup?”

He swallows hard, clenching his teeth and wrinkling his nose at the raw condescension in your voice. Aye, he wants to make this difficult, wants to get rid of you already and let everyone know that he doesn’t need a handler–doesn’t need you–and yet he can only shake his head slowly while you stand before him so confidently, triggering his natural urge to please, to submit to a leader.

None of your predecessors ever made him feel quite like–this–so effortlessly. They always tried to force it yet never succeeded.

Almost subconsciously, John steps forward, towering over you though you still don’t move a muscle before he leans down, bracing his palms on the table you’re leaning against, now practically bracketing you in. “Go ahead, then,” he hums roughly, lowering his gaze to hide the way his pupils are dilating while his skin begins to prickle at the sudden close proximity to you.

As you unclasp the collar to bring it up to his neck, he gets a real whiff of your scent and nearly groans; an all-natural concoction of female pheromones, sweat and skin hidden underneath a layer of artificial peach-scented body wash and deodorant. His mouth starts salivating and he gulps it down harshly, fingers twitching against the table as you fasten the collar around his neck.

“Atta boy,” you mutter and your warm breath puffs against his rapidly flushing skin, making his pulse jump in his neck. His dog ears twitch as he leans in closer until his nose nearly brushes against your shoulder and he exhales a shuddering breath as the collar finally wraps around his throat.

“Need it a wee bit tighter, ma’am,” he rumbles and his breath hitches as you oblige; he swallows thickly, barely able to, while the leather creaks and tightens, pressing against his Adam’s apple snugly. You fasten it with nimble fingers, leaving goosebumps in their wake and his pulse sky-rockets at once. “Aye… perfect,” he breathes, almost panting now, his voice strained while another tingle runs down his spine that has warmth pooling between his thighs, and his cock chuffing in his boxers with interest.

An unexpected chuckle makes his eyes flicker up to meet yours again. “I see how it is, Sergeant,” you muse, a hint of a smile playing on your lips that makes him smirk boyishly in return.

Then, your index finger hooks through the metal loop for his leash, and another gentle tug makes his heart flutter and his chest rumble with a playful growl.

“Well then, let’s get to fucking work, MacTavish.”

And it’s the firmness in your words or the pure determination twinkling in your eyes that leaves John’s tail wagging.

Perhaps both.

[nerdygirlramblings]

continuing adventures of omega!soldier

previous

Given the conversation you'd had with them that morning, none of your squad is surprised by your decision when you join them for lunch. You see a few looking relieved, and while it stings, you don't fault them. You know it's only a taste of the battle you'll have to prove you're worthy of being part of the 141. Still, you feel uneasy leaving them, not knowing what kind of CO will take your place, decide you'll work with Captain Price to find a good replacement. Someone who won't end up running poor Geoffrey out of the service. Someone whose secondary gender might be a leg up for your most promising recruits.

You've been carrying the signed transfer papers since talking to your parents, but they feel like they're burning a hole in your trousers. You'd stared at your signature on them all afternoon. You don't, couldn't, regret your decision, but you have an irrational fear that something will happen to them if you don't deliver them to Captain Price before the ink dries, so to speak.

The walk from the mess to Captain Price's office feels simultaneously like the longest walk you've ever taken and one that's over before it starts.

Once in the right building, you find his office without issue and raise your hand to knock. You hear your raps echo hollowly on the other side of the door, but there's no other sound, no other movement. You never considered he might not be in his office. You can feel your hands get clammy, and you work to control your scent. There's no need to flood the hallway with your distress. You refuse to give into panic, remembering the good-looking assistant whose desk you passed on your way in.

You walk back down the hall to the handsome beta, his calming sent of fresh lemons and cinnamon, a homey, spicy blend, permeating the space, and wait a few moments until he notices you. When he glances up from the document he's poring through and over towards his computer screen, he finally sees you hovering. Smiles brightly, he asks, "How can I help you?"

You shuffle a moment and glance down at your feet, surreptitiously wiping your hands against your thighs and reply, "Well, er, I was lookin' for Captain Price?" You only hope this man knows where he is.

Curiosity races its way across the beta's face before he locks down his expression. "Captain Price doesn't come into the office unless he has to, ma'am. Can I help you with something?" He's polite, but his scent has shifted ever so slightly. In addition to the comforting scents of lemon and cinnamon, there's now a subtly bitter scent of coffee or burnt brown sugar. Your presence is clearly unexpected.

You hurry to say, "Oh, I have some paperwork for 'im."

Recognition flashes in his eyes. "You're the omega, aren't you?" he whispers in an excited rush. He leans forward as if to share a secret. "He did say if you came by to make sure I bring you to the task force's barracks." His eyes sparkle playfully, and the lemon and cinnamon are now accompanied by the thick scent of buttercream. He taps his keyboard a few times, slides the papers he had on the desk into the drawer, and quickly stands. He's taller than you, but not by much, not like the other members of the 141. As he comes around the edge of the desk, he loops his arm with yours.

He begins steering you out of the office building and around to the barracks on the other side of base. "Name's Adam, and I do most of the boring stuff for the 141 and some of the other specialized groups on base. I'm the one you give your leave paperwork to or incident reports, requisition requests, things like that." He gently squeezes his arm against yours. "I have to say, I haven't seen Price or the others this excited in a good long while. But don't tell them I said that!" He looks a little scandalized about having shared so much with you so quickly.

You smile at Adam. "I won't," you chuckle. "Are...are ya part 'a the pack too?" You remember Captain Price telling you the task force was a pack but that one didn't require the other. If Adam works closely with them, it stands to reason he might be.

"Oh no! No," he says quickly, catching your stricken look out of the corner of his eye. "Oh! No, I mean, not that I wouldn't have been interested, once upon a time. But I have my own pack. My alpha and another beta are military here on base, and our omega works in town."

You're a little placated, but Adam's comments do make you more wary of being part of their pack, something your omega whines about. He must notice your hesitation because he rushes on. "They're a good pack. Captain Price is a great leader. He keeps them in line both on and off the field, and with such big personalities, even from their betas, it's a job of its own. You wouldn't think two big alphas like him and Ghost could be in a pack without trying to kill each other, but it works. Then you throw in the bundle of energy of Sergeant MacTavish, and it's a whole other story."

You're so taken with how bright and open he is you don't realize you've stopped walking until you're standing at a nondescript door on a smaller building simply labeled 'TF 141.' Adam knocks three times in quick succession, waits, knocks three more times, and throws open the door. His voice echoes in the part of the building you can see as he calls out, "Captain Price, got a lovely, lethal Sergeant here who says she's got some papers for you!" Then he gives you a conspiratorial wink and turns on his heel, walking quickly back in the direction of the base offices.

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

[duck-a-doodle]

The Rumoured Casper’s Honeybee (1/2) [EDITED]

A/N: Hello there! This is a little unedited drabble that has been stuck in my head, so I hope you enjoy it!

P.S.: I have edited and changed some grammar and the plot point to fit the second half better.

WARNING: Potentially OOC Simon 'Ghost' Riley. The reader is 'married to work' and is slower on tphe uptake. Let there be ANGST then fluff.

SUMMARY: Simon "Ghost" Riley, who has shockingly grown accustomed to you, seeks your medical attention. Masterlist

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

The role of a medical professional under military services is nothing to choke at. Sounds of barked orders and the bright glint of hospital lights have become a familiar environment, and your eyes have grown accustomed to the olive drab greens and the standard heavy gears that came and went in a clinical setting, and that scene held true, even after your transfer to the 141.

Of the men in this base, the most outstanding ones you knew were Captain John Price, Sergeant Garrick, Sergeant McTavish and — Ghost. Tales of their stunts would float down the hallways thus naturally, you knew of them before you were properly acquainted. Loosely acquainted. Before you found your place in the 141, you were reserved, fastidious and competent, earning yourself the call sign 'Honeybee'. That had been your impression to many others of your field before you joined, and that was not to change now at your newly designated location.

It would not be uncommon for the clients to remember their practitioners and vice versa, but your case just seemed a little more special than the rest.

Ghost, who you prefered to refer to as ‘lieutenant’, seemed to have made himself familiar in your routine for the last two months. Prior to your arrival as the new medic of this organisation, you were told that he avoided the clinic like it was the plague, only showing up for the bare minimum of checkups. The turning point, some of your colleagues pointed out, appeared to be around the time you showed up, right as the team had returned from the Las Almas fiasco. No one person dared to deal with the lieutenant after witnessing his demeanour, and where he stepped, a repelling effect took place; anyone and everyone who had ever vaguely heard of him parted around him like the red sea, all except for you who refused to waver at any of the ‘Ghost rumours’.

The commanding officer was yours to manage ever since. For any wounds, illnesses, obligatory checkups or medical documents that he bore, it would be you who handled them. Not that you had any choice in that regard, given that whenever he set foot into the office, a clear path that led to you would reveal itself before him.

Never did you consider it a hassle when you understood it as part of your duty during government time, and soon a routine was formed after every operation he takes on.

He would come back more battered than a steak, and you would be at the ready with your gear, aid kit and all. On the rare, exacting moments of your career, you were even assigned to go out in the field where he had to be, for in the words of Captain Price, “our lieutenant recommended you for the role.”

Even with that, you thought nothing of it. Until you slipped.

The medical room was empty save for yourself and the medical equipment that needed sorting after an intensive few hours of patients filing in and out for appointments and health check-ups. After the last of the bunch left you wired and riddled with a terrible tension headache, you turned around to retrieve some aspirin, only to stop short at the sight of a tall, mass of black standing by the examination stable, waiting.

“Oh for god’s- hello, lieutenant,” You let out a breath after closing your eyes to gain your ground.

“Doc.”

“One moment, lieutenant.” Striding towards the cabinet which held your relief, you quickly popped yourself a pill before returning to address your surprise patient of the day.

Ghost simply lifted his mask slightly, to your surprise, and you looked away instinctively. Moments pass before you realised that the problem laid under the mask; a lip lasceration, there on the corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, you sprung into action despite your exhaustion and the throbbing sensation that weighed on the back of your mind. Carefully, you applied the L.E.T. Gel before going in with absorbable sutures, making sure to puncture the skin surfaces appropriately. Your eyes trained on the gash on his lips, away from the faint scars that litter his lower face, away from the details of his sharp nose and light five o’clock shadow that formed around his jaw.

Through, over, then through again went the needle, pulling the thread together in a quiet, steady rhythm. He never moved an inch; the only signs of life you felt from his were the warmth of his skin and the slow deep breaths that flowed through his chest. And when you were done, you cannot help but find that he is, of all the patients you have had, one of the most disciplined.

Perhaps it was the headache, perhaps it was your sleep-addled mind at play, or perhaps it was your lack of water that made you do it — but in a brief motion, you behaved contrary to your character. Before Ghost could fix his mask properly, you hand reached up to pull it down, lining it smoothly to his jaw before giving his head a soft, gentle pat.

A fleeting eye contact was all it took for your actions to dawn upon you. His eyes froze your hand in place and rendered you near speechless.

“I- My apologies, Capta- I mean, lieutenant. I forgot myself,” embarrassed, you removed your hand from his head immediately. He did not move. He did not blink. You watch cautiously, waiting with bated breath for him to reveal his displeasure. Instead, he chose to drop his head ever so slightly, closing his eyes.

Unsure of what to make of the situation, you followed his implications. Slowly, you rest your full palm against his skull, feeling the top of his head through the coarse fabric of his mask. You move your fingers lightly over his balaclava and feel something soft underneath — it was a bouncy, curling texture under the cloth. He has hair. A huff left your nose before you could stop it and his eyes snapped open to look at you.

Awkwardly, you offered him a small, tight-lipped smile, patting his head twice more before letting your hand drop to your side.

“For being a good patient,” you jested in an attempt to compose yourself.

Not long after he left, you shut your eyes and berated yourself for behaving like an utter fool, for losing your own decorum like a green-faced soldier despite your years of experience. You could not stop thinking about the glint in his eyes before he left that day. It felt almost playful, akin to that of a mischief about to stir awake, and by the devil did that memory return far too often for your liking.

*

Something certainly has shifted.

Soon, he began to visit you more often. You had suspicions that he may have memorised your timetable, and you had even deeper suspicions that it was one of your colleagues who has let him privy to said information. During unforseeable times of the week, a certain lieutenant of the 141 would show up to the clinic, requiring salves for a bruise, requesting ibuprofen for pain relief or even seeking combat gauze for his raw knuckles, of which you were certain that he must already have a few, considering his occupation. Once, he stood waiting behind you silently as you worked on your computer, waiting to ask for a bandaid. Needless to say, you were beyond startled to find that a skull face was poised quietly behind you for goodness knows how long.

You fail to remember exactly when he began to refer to you by your call sign ‘Honeybee’ instead of just ‘Doc’, and all you could think of was the way it rolled off his tongue. Funny, you thought, that the very name should sound just like honey coming from his own scarred lips.

A most prominent change, however, came not in the form of his unprompted visits, but in how they would end. Upon attending to his laughably miniscule thumb injury and amusedly pressing the medical ointment to his palm, he sat stock still on that same medical bed when you thought he would up and go. Mild bewilderment rested upon your knit brows, and you decided to voice your bemusment.

“Is there anything else, lieutenant?”

“Was I not a good patient?” He asked with a solemn expression.

Clearly, he has you dumbfounded. “Well — you are quite well-behaved during treatments, if that’s what you’re asking. So, yes, you are a good patient.”

Watching him closely, your eyes followed his line of sight and it lands, unexpectedly, on your hand. You looked between your raised hand and his unwavering, sharp pupils.

Oh.

Oh.

Once again, you dared to cross the boundary of his space, (or was it a boundary anymore?) and rest your hand on the side of his head this time, rubbing delicately, hesitantly. Fondness flutters warmly in your heart when his eyes shut serenely, enjoying your caring ministrations.

“Did it not bother you, lieutenant?” You whisper through the quietude.

“No,” came his gravelly reply.

He would clarify a little later, another detail that would occupy you for days on end.

“It’s comfortable. Like medicine to the head.”

All the air had tightened in your lungs at his admittance. There was something picturesque about a towering, muscle-bound killing-machine, bending to chase the sympathy of another’s warm fingers. It was almost endearing, the way this light gesture soothed him.

He had felt so — human.

*

Each time he came and went, it seemed to go further, like wading into the deep end of the pool in search of something, with only the vague impression of what you were about to find. Ghost would lean further in with every visit, and with every visit you would hold his head softer still, basking in the warmth of his face in one palm, then in two. He would breathe slower, as if savouring the air, the space, and eventually, his head would come to lean on your shoulder without any questions asked, and you would give him the medical attention he needed.

Cute.

It was, as he said, medicine to the head.

The method was unorthodox, yes, but if it can ease his temperament, then no doubt that a working solution should keep on. Through the two months which this had ensued, he was noticably less irritable and his team, who figured you were the source of his better nature, made sure you knew of the change whenever they came by the clinic. Only a few visits in, and sergeant McTavish, (who insisted that you call him ‘Soap’,) already has the nickname ‘Ghostbuster’ made for you, all in your honour. Even the staff now looked forward to Ghost’s visits too, despite still keeping a clear distance from him. They would observe the man covered in black from head to toe make a beeline for your office like clockwork, and the chatter between colleagues would be unending.

The amount of time with you spent treating on his physical wounds have been abbreviated as much as your call sign whenever he uses it, and it always warmed your ears considerably.

“G’d evenin’, Honey.” His guttural voice would greet.

“Lieutenant Riley,” you replied good-naturedly.

In exchange for shortening your name to something more familiar, he offered you his.

Simon Riley.

Something too intimate lay behind the use of his name, and so you both of you had come to a compromise; the lieutenant may go by Ghost to many, LT to some and Simon to rare few, but to you, he was lieutenant Riley.

He must be.

You were his doctor, and he was your patient, receiving an unusual prescription of several pats on the head every other day. It was a routine, just like any other meeting or appointment.

Speculations of a medic by the callsign ‘Honeybee’ began to spread around base alongside Ghost’s exaggerated talk, and when it reached your own ears through a closer colleague, you all but responded with a cocked brow, and went on with your day. People do little else, you had always known so. With the rising frequency of contact between the both of you, you felt that such hearsay was natural. And as long as nothing brewed inbetween, it was of non-consequence. On the occassion that you do hear the whispers firsthand down the hall, an amusing saying stuck with you; "the Honeybee’s caught a ‘emselves Ghost". Nicknames have been floating about, calling you a "Ghostbuster" or a "Ghost Hunter", and the most ridiculous one being "Lazarus", which was based on an old movie you have heard of but have never seen in your life.

You then caught wind of the lieutenant’s new nickname.

Casper. Such a silly name.

And then yet another nickname, "Kat" has surfaced for you, only this one had made zero sense to you at all.

Regardless of the silly teasings and harmless jibes from your colleagues about Ghost’s very frequent doctor appointments, you went on, working around the clock and going by the books.

Nothing has to change, especially if it meant nothing.

And yet, that silly little "nothing" began to occupy you through the quiet hours, and through the night.

An odd weight began to settle in your throat and chest whenever you saw your special patient, and the nicknames had begun to bother you more and more. You were too busy to think, too overwhelmed by people for an appetite, and too tired to make head nor tail of the week.

"... Doc?"

Your spine snaps straight at the sound of your name. How long have you been floating down your reverie?

"Ah, I'm sorry — yes?"

You colleague, who stood poised in blue scrubs whilst holding a clipboard, grins at you. "Casper was just looking for you. He left though, think his captain called for him or something."

"Ah, I see."

He shook his head lightly and turns to leave, but you stopped him with a question that you could not bear to have unanswered any longer.

"Why do you call him Casper?"

The man hummed, leaving you to sit with a disconcerting moment of silence as the answer sat on the precipice of his tongue.

"You know the plot of Casper, don't you?"

*

You swiveled on your office chair across the tables to your computer, a new task set to mind. Frantic fingers tapped away to solve that nagging mystery, and you felt the fine ends of a thread beginning to pull at the seams of your logic.

From the 1995 movie, he said.

The tab screen loaded your search, and your eyes scan the brief descriptions under each link. A small drop-down bar caught your attention, and in your gut you felt a twist of discomfort at the words that displayed before you.

Casper (1995) Plot What is the relationship between Kat and Casper?

Your breathing stopped at the insinuation, and a weight pulls on your lips as you read on.

… Casper, the ghost protagonist of the movie, falls madly in love with James' loner teenage daughter, Kathleen “Kat” Harvey, who is also looking for a friend. 

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

FOOTNOTES:

"Lazarus" is the machine that was meant to bring Casper back to life, so the rumours are suggesting that the reader gives Ghost life.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Today, we know from the research of Jason Hickel and his colleagues that in 2021 the Global North was able to extract from the Global South 826 billion hours in net appropriated labor. This represents $18.4 trillion measured in Northern wages. Behind this lies the fact that workers in the Global South receive 87–95 percent lower wages for equivalent work at the same skill levels. The same study concluded that the wage gap between the Global North and the Global South was increasing, with wages in the North rising eleven times more than wages in the South between 1995 and 2021. This research into the contemporary global labor arbitrage is coupled with recent historical work by Utsa Patnaik and Prabhat Patnaik that has now documented the astronomical drain of wealth during the period of British colonialism in India. The estimated value of this drain over the period of 1765–1900, cumulated up to 1947 (in 1947 prices) at 5 percent interest, was $1.925 trillion; cumulated up to 2020, it amounts to $64.82 trillion. It should be emphasized that the Global North’s contemporary drain of economic surplus from the Global South, via the unequal exchange of labor embodied in exports from the latter, is in addition to the normal net flow of capital from developing to developed countries recorded in national accounts. This includes the balance on merchandise trade (import and exports), net payments to foreign investors and banks, payments for freight and insurance, and a wide array of other payments made to foreign capital such as for royalties and patents. According to the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), the net financial resource transfers from developing countries to developed countries in 2017 alone amounted to $496 billion. In neoclassical economics, this is known as the paradox of the reverse flow of capital, or of capital flowing uphill, which it ineffectively tries to explain away by various contingent factors, rather than acknowledging the reality of economic imperialism. With respect to the geopolitical dimension of imperialism, the focus this century has been on the continuing decline of U.S. hegemony. Analysis has concentrated on the attempts of Washington, since 1991, backed by London, Berlin, Paris, and Tokyo, to reverse this. The goal is to establish the triad of the United States, Europe, and Japan—with Washington preeminent—as the unipolar global power through a more “naked imperialism.” This counterrevolutionary dynamic eventually led to the present New Cold War. Yet, despite all of the developments in imperialism theory over the last century, it is not the theory of imperialism so much as the actual intensification of the Global North’s exploitation of the Global South, coupled with the resistance of the latter, that has stood out. As Sweezy argued in Modern Capitalism and Other Essays in 1972, the sharp point of proletarian resistance decisively shifted in the twentieth century from the Global North to the Global South. Nearly all revolutions since 1917 have taken place in the periphery of the world capitalist system and have been revolutions against imperialism. The vast majority of these revolutions have occurred under the auspices of Marxism. All have been subjected to counterrevolutionary actions by the great imperial powers. The United States alone has intervened militarily abroad hundreds of times since the Second World War, primarily in the Global South, resulting in the deaths of millions. In the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, the primary contradictions of capitalism have been those of imperialism and class.

3 November 2024

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Fintech bullies stole your kid’s lunch money

I'm coming to DEFCON! On Aug 9, I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On Aug 10, I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Three companies control the market for school lunch payments. They take as much as 60 cents out of every dollar poor kids' parents put into the system to the tune of $100m/year. They're literally stealing poor kids' lunch money.

In its latest report, the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau describes this scam in eye-watering, blood-boiling detail:

https://files.consumerfinance.gov/f/documents/cfpb_costs-of-electronic-payment-in-k-12-schools-issue-spotlight_2024-07.pdf

The report samples 16.7m K-12 students in 25k schools. It finds that schools are racing to go cashless, with 87% contracting with payment processors to handle cafeteria transactions. Three processors dominate the sector: Myschoolbucks, Schoolcafé, and Linq Connect.

These aren't credit card processors (most students don't have credit cards). Instead, they let kids set up an account, like a prison commissary account, that their families load up with cash. And, as with prison commissary accounts, every time a loved one adds cash to the account, the processor takes a giant whack out of them with junk fees:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

If you're the parent of a kid who is eligible for a reduced-price lunch (that is, if you are poor), then about 60% of the money you put into your kid's account is gobbled up by these payment processors in service charges.

It's expensive to be poor, and this is no exception. If your kid doesn't qualify for the lunch subsidy, you're only paying about 8% in service charges (which is still triple the rate charged by credit card companies for payment processing).

The disparity is down to how these charges are calculated. The payment processors charge a flat fee for every top-up, and poor families can't afford to minimize these fees by making a single payment at the start of the year or semester. Instead, they pay small sums every payday, meaning they pay the fee twice per month (or even more frequently).

Not only is the sector concentrated into three companies, neither school districts nor parents have any meaningful way to shop around. For school districts, payment processing is usually bundled in with other school services, like student data management and HR data handling. For parents, there's no way to choose a different payment processor – you have to go with the one the school district has chosen.

This is all illegal. The USDA – which provides and regulates – the reduced cost lunch program, bans schools from charging fees to receive its meals. Under USDA regs, schools must allow kids to pay cash, or to top up their accounts with cash at the school, without any fees. The USDA has repeatedly (2014, 2017) published these rules.

Despite this, many schools refuse to handle cash, citing safety and security, and even when schools do accept cash or checks, they often fail to advertise this fact.

The USDA also requires schools to publish the fees charged by processors, but most of the districts in the study violate this requirement. Where schools do publish fees, we see a per-transaction charge of up to $3.25 for an ACH transfer that costs $0.26-0.50, or 4.58% for a debit/credit-card transaction that costs 1.5%. On top of this, many payment processors charge a one-time fee to enroll a student in the program and "convenience fees" to transfer funds between siblings' accounts. They also set maximum fees that make it hard to avoid paying multiple charges through the year.

These are classic junk fees. As Matt Stoller puts it: "'Convenience fees' that aren't convenient and 'service fees' without any service." Another way in which these fit the definition of junk fees: they are calculated at the end of the transaction, and not advertised up front.

Like all junk fee companies, school payment processors make it extremely hard to cancel an automatic recurring payment, and have innumerable hurdles to getting a refund, which takes an age to arrive.

Now, there are many agencies that could have compiled this report (the USDA, for one), and it could just as easily have come from an academic or a journalist. But it didn't – it came from the CFPB, and that matters, because the CFPB has the means, motive and opportunity to do something about this.

The CFPB has emerged as a powerhouse of a regulator, doing things that materially and profoundly benefit average Americans. During the lockdowns, they were the ones who took on scumbag landlords who violated the ban on evictions:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cfpb

They went after "Earned Wage Access" programs where your boss colludes with payday lenders to trap you in debt at 300% APR:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/01/usury/#tech-exceptionalism

They are forcing the banks to let you move your account (along with all your payment history, stored payees, automatic payments, etc) with one click – and they're standing up a site that will analyze your account data and tell you which bank will give you the best deal:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/let-my-dollars-go/#personal-financial-data-rights

They're going after "buy now, pay later" companies that flout borrower protection rules, making a rogues' gallery of repeat corporate criminals, banning fine-print gotcha clauses, and they're doing it all in the wake of a 7-2 Supreme Court decision that affirmed their power to do so:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/10/getting-things-done/#deliverism

The CFPB can – and will – do something to protect America's poorest parents from having $100m of their kids' lunch money stolen by three giant fintech companies. But whether they'll continue to do so under a Kamala Harris administration is an open question. While Harris has repeatedly talked up the ways that Biden's CFPB, the DOJ Antitrust Division, and FTC have gone after corporate abuses, some of her largest donors are demanding that her administration fire the heads of these agencies and crush their agenda:

https://prospect.org/power/2024-07-26-corporate-wishcasting-attack-lina-khan/

Tens of millions of dollars have been donated to Harris' campaign and PACs that support her by billionaires like Reid Hoffman, who says that FTC Chair Lina Khan is "waging war on American business":

https://prospect.org/power/2024-07-26-corporate-wishcasting-attack-lina-khan/

Some of the richest Democrat donors told the Financial Times that their donations were contingent on Harris firing Khan and that they'd been assured this would happen:

https://archive.is/k7tUY

This would be a disaster – for America, and for Harris's election prospects – and one hopes that Harris and her advisors know it. Writing in his "How Things Work" newsletter today, Hamilton Nolan makes the case that labor unions should publicly declare that they support the FTC, the CFPB and the DOJ's antitrust efforts:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/unions-and-antitrust-are-peanut-butter

Don’t want huge companies and their idiot billionaire bosses to run the world? Break them up, and unionize them. It’s the best program we have.

Perhaps you've heard that antitrust is anti-worker. It's true that antitrust law has been used to attack labor organizing, but that has always been in spite of the letter of the law. Indeed, the legislative history of US antitrust law is Congress repeatedly passing law after law explaining that antitrust "aims at dollars, not men":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

The Democrats need to be more than The Party of Not Trump. To succeed – as a party and as a force for a future for Americans – they have to be the party that defends us – workers, parents, kids and retirees alike – from corporate predation.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/26/taanstafl/#stay-hungry

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[gugapuppy]

Abortion - Part 8 (A!Ghost x O!Soap)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8

═══════════════════════════

This chapter was made to hurt a lot and give facts, the main ones at least.

Tell me your opinions, if it lacked angst or if it was too much. For me, I think it lacked a little, but I can't explain why.

CW: Hurt no confort, Break up

═══════════════════════════

Finally, after a few more days, Ghost returned to base.

He was anxious but somewhat hopeful about the conversation he would have with Johnny, he even wrote a long letter of apology in case he couldn't get the words out of his mouth.

It was night when he arrived, so he would have to wait for Johnny to wake up tomorrow so as not to disturb his sleep. Unfortunately he couldn't rest yet, having to give Price a report.

As he approached Price's office, Ghost began to hear some muffled voices shouting. Laswell and Price.

He hurried his steps and knocked on the door quickly, the voices inside stopped and then he heard Price telling him to come in.

As soon as he enters, Ghost notices the pile of paperwork on the desk, Laswell standing in front of the desk looking seriously at Ghost, and Price sitting holding a folder with other documents, but he freezes when he notices Johnny's name on the cover of the folder.

"What's going on?" He asked, a bad feeling in his stomach.

Instead of receiving a verbal answer, Ghost receives a strong punch on the cheek, not a slap, a punch, making him feel his tooth scratch inside. A sour smell scents the room, an angry alpha. Laswell.

His eyes widen as he looks at Laswell, who growls at him. Ghost resisted from letting out a whimper.

"Sit down, now Lieutenant." Laswell commands, and without wasting time Ghost sits down, looking down to avoid eye contact.

Laswell stops next to Price who is still sitting, he hears a breath before listening to the captain.

"Mactavish was transferred to another unit, Lieutenant, while you were away." Ghost quickly looks at Price, his body becoming tense. "It wasn't my decision, it was the sergeant's."

Again, before he can ask, Laswell interrupts. "Soap asked me a few days ago for him to be transferred, claiming to have been fraternising with you for several months."

Ghost let the words sink in before replying in frustration. "You knew that a long time ago! Price doesn't even care about this within our unit! What are you trying to do, Laswell?!" Gasping, he takes a deep breath before demanding. "I want to see Johnny in person, I need to talk to him-"

"Unfortunately that won't be possible, Lieutenant." Laswell replied firmly, indifferent to the anger of the other Alpha, Ghost tense as he stood in front of her. "The sergeant has already been transferred, and you're out of the field until you complete a psych eval of at least six months."

Ghost had already done this assessment years ago, why would he need it again? He didn't need Laswell meddling where she didn't belong.

"I'm fine! I just need to talk to Soap, and that's going to happen whether you like it or not, he's carrying my fucking child!"

As Ghost says this, a strange feeling passes over Price and Laswell's faces.

"Ghost," Laswell says, pulling something out of her pocket, a small envelope. "He doesn't want to see you, he gave me this to give to you." She hands the envelope to Ghost who shakily takes it.

"Simon, dismissed for now." Price says easily.

Ghost stands up slowly, anxious about what the letter says, Soap asked for a transfer, he didn't want to see him anymore? He was carrying their baby, why would he want to ignore him like that? It didn't make sense.

In the back of the lieutenant's mind, his father's voice came through, cursing him and saying how alike the two of them were as a country, Simon couldn't believe it, he still was, he could be a good father.

The lieutenant quickly went to his own room, opening and closing the door with a bang.

The clothes from the mission were quickly discarded on the floor, leaving Ghost with only his shirt, trousers and mask. Sitting on the bed, he stared at the letter for a while, not knowing how to react yet.

It seemed like hours before he finally managed to gently open the letter, grabbing two pieces of paper. The smell of the papers reminded him of Johnny, and Simon sniffed the paper to calm himself.

Little did he know that the words, phrases and emotions would make him spiral.

——🧼——

Hi, Simon.

I hope you're okay, because I haven't been lately.

Before I write what I need to, I need you to understand that this is what's best for both of us, and that my choices came from a place of dignity with myself.

Ever since you left on that mission, my life has been a hurricane of anxiety, panic and melancholy. Nights have been spent awake, imagining that you were there with me.

Only for me to wake up and discover that it was a lie from my own naive mind.

You were the sun that lit up my mornings, the reason that pulled me back to reality when I was in doubt, you were more to me than just a person in bed for pleasure.

I thought there was something between us that was true, that was sacred.

But the day you slammed that door in my face, swearing at me and accusing me of things you knew I would never do, I realised that maybe there was no going back.

I was raised only by my mum, since my sperm donor walked out as soon as he found out she was pregnant. And, well... ironically history repeated itself with me.

When I asked her for help, she counselled me on the pros and cons, and I realised that I had a lot to lose. Yes, I would have liked to have a family if you had been with me, but that's not what happened.

I couldn't waste my life looking after a child who would be born into a totally bewildered home, wondering why he had only one father instead of two, or even if the two of us were together, what would one of us say if we died on the war field?

When you sent Price to confront me, informing me that you weren't infertile and saying that you couldn't “wait to be a happy family”, how do you think I felt? Anger was the only emotion, I felt deceived by the person I trusted the most.

Did you think I'd jump for joy? That I'd call you? That I'd be waiting like a good partner?

I can't wait for you Simon Riley, I can't.

And if a similar problem arose in the future with a child in the middle, would you run away again? Run away until you got your head round it? I can't trust you, Simon.

I'm not saying you're a bad person, but I can't stay with someone who still has problems that need to be dealt with. And the same goes for me.

Now, I need you to understand that I can't give up my future for a child who would be born into a dysfunctional family, or put the child up for adoption, that would leave a moral weight on my mind that I can't bear.

So I'll just tell you straight out, Simon. I'm no longer pregnant.

The paper next to this letter will tell you what happened, but by now you should recognise that I had an abortion. Believe me, it was one of the hardest decisions of my life.

Every day I kept telling myself that I had to put myself first.

I'm sorry, Si, I can't forgive myself, but I'll be looking for that in the future, for myself.

Please don't contact me. We'd better go our separate ways from now on.

Goodbye, my dear Simon.

——💀——

He was sobbing, snot dripping from his nose, and tears began to fall onto the letter, staining the ink of the pen, as soon as the last words were read.

‘Please don't... no, no.’ He murmured slowly as he looked at the other piece of paper, the one that was Johnny's abortion results from the clinic.

With trembling hands, the papers shook and a small photo fell out of the envelope. As he picked it up and analysed it, Simon began to cry loudly, looking at an ultrasound scan.

Simon's child, the child he would never have because he'd fucked up with his own omega, the very person he loved.

He cries, not knowing how much time has passed, at some point Price came to him and held him while he cried, begging Price to bring Johnny back, saying that he would change for the better.

He just wanted to be loved and have a family that wasn't like his, but in the end, he became the same as his father.

However, even Simon's father managed to stand by his mum for years, while Simon managed to ruin even that.

═══════════════════════════

This was practically the penultimate chapter of this story, the next two chapters will be the bad ending and then the hopeful ending.

(Yes Laswell was trying to fuck Ghost postion/work in a certain way)

Again, for those of you who are going through a very heavy and difficult situation, seek help from a professional or someone close to you that you trust.

Take care, I love you all! ✨💖

[steadfastconsultant]

Transfer Pricing Services in Hyderabad: Top Firms & Regulatory Landscape

As international business operations continue to expand, compliance with transfer pricing regulations has become a top priority for multinational enterprises. In a global economy where related-party transactions are increasingly common, proper documentation and advisory services are essential to avoid legal penalties and tax scrutiny. When it comes to transfer pricing in Hyderabad, businesses must navigate complex regulations while partnering with knowledgeable experts.

For companies located in Hyderabad’s vibrant tech corridor, especially in Madhapur, understanding the local transfer pricing environment and choosing the right advisory firm is more important than ever.

What Is Transfer Pricing?

Transfer pricing refers to the pricing of transactions between related entities within a multinational group, such as intercompany sales of goods, services, or intellectual property. The Indian Income Tax Act mandates that these transactions be conducted at arm’s length — meaning the prices should be consistent with what would be charged between unrelated parties.

The consequences of non-compliance can be severe: hefty penalties, tax adjustments, prolonged audits, and damage to a company’s reputation.

Regulatory Landscape for Transfer Pricing in Hyderabad

India’s transfer pricing regime is governed primarily by Sections 92 to 92F of the Income Tax Act, 1961, and is aligned with the OECD’s guidelines on Base Erosion and Profit Shifting (BEPS). Companies in Hyderabad, particularly those operating in IT, pharma, and global service delivery, are under regular scrutiny by tax authorities due to high volumes of cross-border transactions.

Key requirements include:

Arm’s length pricing for all international and specified domestic transactions

Maintenance of contemporaneous documentation (Master File, Local File, CbCR)

Mandatory audit reporting through Form 3CEB

Timely submission of reports and disclosures

Failure to meet these obligations can result in penalties ranging from INR 100,000 to INR 500,000 or more, depending on the violation.

Top Firms Offering Transfer Pricing in Hyderabad

Several firms in Hyderabad provide high-quality transfer pricing services. Some of the prominent names include:

Big Four Firms — Deloitte, PwC, EY, and KPMG offer robust global capabilities but may be costly for mid-sized businesses.

Mid-Tier Firms — Grant Thornton, BDO India, and RSM offer strong regional support.

Local Experts — Steadfast Business Consultants LLP (SBC) is one of the most trusted firms for transfer pricing in Hyderabad, offering end-to-end services tailored to the local business environment.

Why Choose SBC for Transfer Pricing Services?

Located in Madhapur, Hyderabad, Steadfast Business Consultants LLP (SBC) delivers expert advisory and compliance services for businesses of all sizes. SBC’s deep knowledge of Indian regulations, combined with a personalized approach, makes it a preferred partner for companies navigating the complexities of transfer pricing.

SBC’s Services Include:

Transfer pricing planning and risk analysis

Documentation (Local File, Master File, CbCR)

Benchmarking and economic analysis

Representation during assessments and audits

Transfer pricing policy development

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Final Thoughts

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[rubyblue2005]

Au where when Saiki was younger, he sometimes ran into Aren's mom injured and helped her out, and he became something like an unofficial medic to her and her little group. Sometimes when Saiki was patching her up, she would vaguely talk about her kid around his age and stuff. Well, she wouldn't mention Aren by name or talk about him out loud but Saiki just reads her thoughts and so he vaguely knows about her little Hoodlum but then she and her gang moved and Saiki being a little too good at Rock Paper Scissors happened and so they got separated and drifted apart.

Only for some odd years later (Like, four or five) and Aren transfers into Saiki's class with his whole trying to be a normie spiel and how he is totally not gonna be a punk anymore. Aren doesn't really look like his parents (In the same way of how Kusuo and Kusuke don't really look like Kurumi) so Saiki doesn't really suspect anything- and neither does Aren, and they carry on. Imagine a similar situation as the street magician Chouno Uryoku and how his ex-wife did not look anything like how the dude thought of her.

Saiki never really got out of his Street Medic habits and Aren sometimes coming to school with some scrapes from gangsters either trying to pick a fight or drag him back into his past only exacerbates Saiki's medic habits. Like, he always used to carry bandages and alcohol wipes and antibiotic ointment, but had talked to just carrying bandages because a whole medkit had been annoying to carry and needless for an esper like him. Though, he had started carrying a bit more for Kaidou and Hairo when they become closer. (Saiki adds the antibiotic ointment back into his repertoire for Aren)

When they gets close enough and Aren invites them to his house is when the fun really starts. Kaidou and Nendo find Aren's baby album and look through it and everything. But Saiki spots a smaller album on the book shelf and is thinking "Better not show too many of these family albums to those two, who knows what we might see" trying not to think about the album collections documenting his parent's dates and stuff.

And when Aren comes back into the room the four are just vibing and hanging out, Aren even bought out some Coffee jelly as an offering thank you for coming ya introverted bean. So, even Saiki is in a pretty good mood. And then they hear the front door open and close with shuffling and stuff with a 'We're home, Hoodlum!' and Aren going to greet his parents like the totally good kid he is, and Saiki is like "??? That voice sounds kinda familar."

And whadduya know!

When Aren's mom turns around from putting stuff in the fridge, Saiki instanting recognizes her and its the same lady he helped all those years ago! I imagine its not a big dramatic moment but there is a "What a surprise" moment. And she's just like "Haha! Little Medic, you're friends with my brat, what a small world! I hope he's treating you and his other friends right."

And Aren is standing there after trying to introduce his friends like "What." Kaidou says "You know Saiki???? But he never leaves his house!" But Nendou is the one to be like "Wow, Aren's Mom, how do you know my buddy?"'

To which Aren's Mom says briefly that Saiki used to get discounts from the stores near her hangouts (Rough part of town, but great prices for stingy child espers) and how he used to help her and some of her girls. Aren is over here dumbfounded, and Kaidou is just like, "wouldn't he have been like, six, a decade ago??" That Saiki pointedly does not confirm.

But Saiki and Aren's mom are over here just casually talking while all the other teenagers are standing there, bewildered. Like, Aren is over here being like "Hold on, I thought Saiki was a goody-goody, He knows my mom?!?" Meanwhile:

Aren's Mom: How's that brother of yours?

Saiki: Moved to Britain and is still a sore loser.

Aren's Mom: Haha, good to know he's not bothering ya! So, how's my little hoodlum doing in class? Not being a brat is he?

Saiki in a true show of open candidness: If he was a bother, he wouldn't still be in my class.

And Kaidou and Aren are nearly shitting their pants from this being like "SAIKI?????" with it just completely flying over Nendo's head.

Then, the rest of the hang out is Aren's Mom sharing stories of tiny Aren while Saiki is eating more Coffee Jelly

[faith369]

Hi I hope you take request sooo I was thinking about Captain Price and his female secretary. She's young and innocent and captain really really like it.A lot of tension between them (we know what kind 😉) . A little smut at the end and maybe a confession. I hope you'll like it, if not then it's okay. Btw I love your work

Thank you 🖤

I do not like this request I love it.

Your cheeks felt like they were on fire, a heat spreading through your body, just from the Captain calling you a good girl while he passed by a few seconds ago. You shouldn't feel like this, he's older and, most importantly, your boss. Luckily the stack of documents and files reminded you that work wasn't going to get done by itself, you had just started this jobs a few months ago, and slacking wasn't on your mind, although the tall, dark bearded man of a boss definitely posed as a distraction.

John slumped himself onto his office chair. The exhaustion of the last mission settling into his body only made him more glad that he had you now, the paper work left for him to do was minimal. He wasn't sure when his mind started to wander from the mission report over to you, or more specifically the moment when Laswell told him you'd be transferred to his team after another captain retired, the fact that he was on mission while you got started working for him didn't exactly sit right with him. But when he came back, all of his paper work done, and a young and innocent thing introduced herself to him sweetly, he realized he had no reason to worry. By now, the way you sweetly smiled at him, not noticing the hungry look in his eyes, always fueled something inside him. He wasn't sure when exactly his dick began twitching at the way you became all shy the second he praised you, not that he minded.

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

You dreaded going into John's office, but you had to ask him about something regarding a few files. The fact that you were stressed and had to call a bunch of people didn't help. It wasn't even like he did something wrong, but more the fear of stumbling across your words in front of him was what kept you from getting up. You eventually left the comfort of your office paperwork in your hands, as you knocked on his door, the grumble he let out signaling you to come in. Regret washed over you almost immediately. The whole room smelled like him; pine, Bourbon, and cigars, it distracted you from forming coherrent thoughts. It took you a second to register that the Captain got up, he now stood near enough for your view to be blocked by his broad chest.

"R'you stressed?" The slight nod you gave him, not even looking him in the eyes, didn't satisfy him, he really wanted to be gentle, coax you out of your shyness, but his patience was gone, wasted in meetings, phone calls and training recruits.

"Want me to help you wind down, hm?"

The yes you gave him was enough of an answer. His hand dug itself into your neck while his tongue parted your lips, inviting himself into your mouth. Work was long forgotten, you the paperwork dropped somewhere on the ground the second his lips touched yours. Price chuckled at your hitching breath after his hand moved under your skirt, to move your panties aside before starting to push his fingers into your drenching hole.

"You have no idea for how long I wanted to do this, y're always so sweet to me. Gotta make sure you're getting rewarded for being such a good girl no?"

You didn't answer,you couldn't. Not when Price had his fingers buried inside you. The whines that left your mouth only spurred him on, his fingers pumping in and out of you harder, abusing your poor cunt. John had to restrain himself from fucking you, his dick pushing against his pants uncomfortably—not now when you were so pretty for him, gushing all over his fingers. He didn't stop, not even when you whined about wanting him to fill you properly, instead he used his thumb to stroke your swollen clit to send you over the edge. He kept moving his fingers through your orgasm, gently caressing your waist while you came undone.

The captain stopped you from unbuckling his belt.

"Honey, as much as I'd like to turn you around and fuck you, making the whole base hear you, I wanna take you out properly."

A/N: Guys im sorry it took so long to write anything this happened and lessons started again, anyway I am back.

Requests are open <333 love faith

[2346khith]

Hello, I am Iman from Gaza City. I now live in a tent with me, my mother and my brothers. After our house was destroyed, my father lost his job. We live in very difficult circumstances, and because my parents are elderly, I decided to try to help them collect the price for coordination to leave Gaza. I hope you can help me even a little. You are our only hope.For 25 days, I have not received support, and I am in dire need of support My campaign is documented by go-ghost, el-shab-hussien, and gaza-evecuation, it's number  311 Eman's family

https://www.gofundme.com/f/urgent-appealhelp-my-family-escape-death-in-gaza 🙏🙏🙏🇵🇸🍉💔

For those who see this please, visit their blog and reblog their blog’s posts so they  get more attention and if you have the money to spare please donate.

Also I apologize, but I do not have the ability to donate to you. Trust me if I had the ability I would but I don't and I can't. I have no bank account or credit card to transfer money to and no job to gain any money. Every time I ask my parents to help they shut me down so this is the only way to help you. Please forgive me.

[shroomerr]

OPENING 1 COMMISSION SLOT !!!

SLOTS ARE NOW CLOSED !!!

THANK YOU FOR ALL OF YOUR SUPPORT !!! <3333333

Hihi y’all !! I’ve been meaning to do this for a while now, but I had a school assignment that gave me the opportunity to finally kickstart my commissions! For now, I’m only opening 1 slot because of my busy schedule. Once that slot is filled, I’ll have to close my commissions (I will likely reopen them sometime this summer if possible).

If you’re interesting in commissioning me, please contact me through DM’s or via email at shroomer.illustration@gmail.com ! Please also make sure to carefully read my ToS below before you contact me.

I hope you’re as excited as I am, and thank you as always for your support!! Reblogs are also super appreciated 🫶🫶🫶 LOVE YOU ALL !

Terms and Conditions:

General

By paying for my services, it means that you have read and accepted my Terms and Conditions. 

Terms of Service and Prices are subject to change at anytime. You are only subject to the ToS and prices agreed upon at the time of the transaction.

I reserve the right to reject a commission for any reason.

All artwork is transferred digitally.

Payment

Payments will only be accepted through PayPal, in USD. I require 50% upfront or full payment before starting a commission. Once I accept your commission, I will send an invoice via PayPal. Only once the invoice is paid will I start working on your commission. If the invoice is not paid, I will have to cancel the commission.

Price can vary based on the amount of detail. 

Refunds will only be allowed if nothing has started. I do not allow refunds after the sketch approval.

Deadlines

Depending on my workload, the turnaround time should take no longer than 4 weeks. I will provide an estimate time for completion, and/or indicate if there is a delay in completing your commission. 

You may request a WIP at any time. I will try my best to respond as soon as possible.

Usage Policy

My artwork is for personal use only. No commercial use of my artwork is allowed. 

I reserve the right to my artwork and the right to post it. If you would like your commission to be private and not published on social media, please let me know!

If you would like to post your commission on social media, please be sure to include my signature or to tag me in the post. 

You may not use my artwork for any kind of Generative AI Training or for NFTs. 

Other

Please provide at least one clear visual reference for original character illustrations. It could be your own artwork, other commissioned work, or even a PIcrew. If not, descriptions and a moodboard/inspiration board can be accepted, though extra will be charged. 

I will only allow 2 major changes (ex: poses, characters) and 3 minor changes (ex: colors, accessories) during the sketch and colouring process. Any more beyond this will include additional charges.

For all lineart commissions, I do not allow having other commissioned artists to color it in. If the client would like, they can color it in themselves to be used as a visual guide or for personal use. However, I do not allow that modified version to be posted anywhere. 

I would also like to be transparent and say that because this is for a school assignment, I have to document the process of this commission, but I will not include your identity nor the contents of your commission! Everything will remain 100% anonymous. 

[mariacallous]

CAIRO—Although Egypt has refused to accept refugees from the Gaza Strip, more than 100,000 Palestinians have crossed the border into Egypt since the start of Israel’s offensive in Gaza following Hamas’s attack on Oct. 7, 2023.

Khaled Shabir, a 29-year-old man, is one of the Palestinians who managed to flee. He entered Egypt in March, four months after the Israeli army bombed his house in the southern Gazan city of Khan Yunis. The attack killed his parents, but he survived with crushed bones in his foot, thigh, and hand, which landed him in a hospital and then a field medical facility.

Some Palestinians are able to get a free medical transfer to Egypt for life-threatening conditions. But Shabir had to go the route of most who have fled: paying Hala Consulting and Tourism, the only company that secures passage from Gaza into Egypt. Hala, whose owner reportedly has close ties with the Egyptian authorities, charges $2,500 to $5,000 per person crossing over—much more than most Palestinians can afford.

Shabir did not have the money. But with a crowdfunding campaign, he was able to raise $5,000 to cross into Egypt. “Doctors at the hospital were sympathetic to my condition and waived their financial fees for my surgeries,” he wrote in a text message from his hospital bed in Cairo on June 4.

Like most Palestinians who have recently arrived in Egypt, Shabir has found himself in a strange position: Because he is not technically a refugee, he isn’t eligible for most international aid for refugees, unlike his counterparts back in Gaza. Eight Palestinians in Egypt interviewed for this story said they hadn’t received any humanitarian relief from international organizations. This has left them dependent on the goodwill of others—and increasingly at risk of being unable to get by.

Palestinians who have fled are reaching Egypt at a time when the country is experiencing its worst economic crisis in decades. In recent years, Egypt’s inflation rates have reached all-time highs, rent and food prices have soared, and millions of people have fallen into poverty.

It is especially difficult for Palestinians to navigate Egypt’s crisis. The majority of recent arrivals do not have official residency documents, so they cannot enroll their children in public school, apply for jobs, or receive health care and other benefits, according to an official from the Palestinian Embassy in Cairo who spoke with Foreign Policy on the condition of anonymity.

The official said on June 30 that just three international organizations have provided assistance to Palestinians who have fled to Egypt, and it has only reached a small portion of them. This aid includes $200 from the Islamic World Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization for 500 students, as well as medical and psychological care from Save the Children and UNICEF for a few injured infants.

Even for those with more resources, life has grown tough as their savings have run low. Nagham, a 23-year-old college student majoring in commerce, left Gaza at the end of January to stay with relatives in Cairo after the Israeli military destroyed her home and her husband’s barber shop. Because she had residency papers and was already enrolled at Cairo University, Nagham—who preferred to use only her first name—did not have to pay for entry. (Before the war, she studied online and only went to Cairo for exams.) But after arriving in Cairo, Nagham had to sell her wedding ring and other jewelry to raise the funds needed to pay transit fees to bring her husband to safety.

Now, she said, “we’re in a really bad financial situation.” As of April, she was being treated for a cervical infection she contracted from contaminated water in the first few months of the war. In May, Nagham sought financial aid from the Palestinian Embassy in Cairo, but it did not provide any help. The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA), meanwhile, included her name in a registry tallying the number of Palestinians in Egypt, but she is not sure whether this implies any forthcoming aid.

“We’re starting over from scratch,” Nagham said. “I feel like we are in a nightmare.”

Kamel Mohamed, a 23-year-old who left Gaza in April, said that the majority of university students he knows from Gaza are running out of money, especially after paying the transit fees. He is currently applying for scholarships to study at a university in Egypt or other Arab countries. But in the meantime, international organizations have not provided any support, leaving him dependent on monthly aid from two local charities in Egypt.

“We are from a region devastated by war, and the people there have lost everything,” Mohamed said. “International organizations need to play a part and provide assistance.”

Jeff Crisp, a visiting research fellow at the University of Oxford’s Refugee Studies Centre, echoed this sentiment. “It should be the responsibility of the UN as a whole (UNHCR, WFP, UNICEF, IOM, etc.) to step in and support the Palestinians,” he wrote via email.

One major problem is that those who have fled Gaza are not considered refugees. This means that the two U.N. refugee agencies—the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), which protects non-Palestinian refugees, and UNRWA, which is solely responsible for Palestinian refugees—can’t support them.

UNRWA spokesperson Tamara Alrifai wrote in an email to Foreign Policy, “UNRWA does not have programs in Egypt, in the way it runs schools, health centers and social support in the areas where it has a mandate to operate.” She added that UNRWA, unlike UNHCR, “does not have a mandate to resettle refugees into new countries.”

The Egyptian government has refused to recognize Palestinians as refugees since 1978, instead referring to them as “our guests” or “our siblings.” It has long opposed both the establishment of a UNRWA operational office in Cairo and the displacement of Gaza’s population into its territory, citing potential threats to regional security and fears that Israel would not allow displaced Palestinians to return to the coastal enclave.

But many experts, including the U.N.’s special rapporteur on torture, argue that Egypt has legal obligations to accept refugees. Crisp stated in his email, “Egypt is a signatory to the UN Refugee Convention and should do what it can to support any that arrive from Gaza.” He added that Palestinians who fled war should be treated as displaced people.

For now, without residency papers, most of the Palestinians who recently arrived from Gaza are at risk of deportation. The Palestinian Embassy in Cairo is urging Egyptian authorities to provide papers as soon as possible so that children who have left Gaza can attend school in the fall, according to the embassy official.

The Egyptian government has, however, supported some Palestinians who have been injured in the war. Health Minister Khaled Abdel Ghaffar said in May that around 5,500 injured people had been evacuated from Gaza for medical care in 160 hospitals across Egypt since the start of the conflict. These individuals are treated at the Egyptian government’s expense.

The process, however, is not easy. “It was a torture journey,” said Um Qusai, who was able to leave Gaza so that her six-year-old daughter, Noor, could get eye surgery. One of Noor’s eyes had fallen out after debris from an Israeli bomb fell onto her bedroom in October.

After six months in the European Hospital in Gaza, Um Qusai finally secured a medical transfer for Noor, making their entry to Egypt free. But because they did not have passports, she had to wait with Noor and her two other children for 12 hours at the Rafah border crossing, while Noor was in agonizing pain, before border authorities let them in.

Once they arrive in Egypt, many Palestinians who received free medical transfers are not allowed to leave the hospital. A number of those patients, along with family members accompanying them, told Foreign Policy that they felt trapped inside hospitals and would only be permitted to leave if they returned to Gaza.

Egyptian volunteers have arranged trips to bring Palestinian patients food, medication, and clothing. However, some volunteers, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said they had to undergo lengthy bureaucratic procedures to obtain authorization from Egyptian officials to visit the patients due to strict hospital security measures.

For now, many Palestinians in Egypt must rely on the support of local charities and grassroots initiatives to get by.

In November, Sherif Mohyeldeen, an Egyptian researcher and nonresident fellow at the Carnegie Middle East Center, launched For the People, a grassroots group with about 60 members, to support injured Palestinians and their families in Cairo and Alexandria, Egypt. So far, he said, the initiative has collected donations to support more than 1,200 Palestinians with food and cash assistance for rent.

“People have come here with only their clothes,” Mohyeldeen said. “There is a huge amount of psychological and physical suffering.” The Palestinian Centre for Policy and Survey Research has reported that more than 60 percent of people in Gaza have lost family members since Israel’s war—which has killed more than 40,000 people in the territory, according to the Gaza Health Ministry—began in October.

Sherif added that his group has yet to find solutions for families who need prosthetic limbs or chemotherapy, both of which are extremely expensive, as well as Palestinian students whose annual university tuition in Egypt exceeds $4,000.

Abdullah Abu al-Aoun, a 26-year-old man from a wealthy family in Gaza, is also trying to help others who have fled. His family owned many buildings and two restaurants in Gaza’s Remal district, all of which were bombed by the Israeli army. After fleeing Gaza with 22 members of his family in February, he opened a Shawarma restaurant in Cairo. His mother’s Egyptian passport and the family’s savings of more than $100,000 helped him establish the business.

Aoun has hired three young men from Gaza in his new restaurant and has been helping other Palestinian families in Cairo with cash assistance. “Although there is still war in Gaza, some aid is getting in,” he said on May 25 while sitting in the restaurant, where four men from Gaza were dining. “Here, the families who left for Egypt are not getting any support.”

But individuals and small charities can only make so much of a difference compared with international organizations—and many Palestinians, including Aoun’s family, know that they may have to stay in Egypt for years to come due to the scale of destruction in Gaza. According to the Palestinian Embassy official, many more Palestinians are expected to arrive in the coming months. With no humanitarian relief on the horizon and Cairo so far refusing to provide residency permits, they sink deeper into uncertainty with each passing day.

“What really scares me is the unknown future,” Naghan said. “When will the crossing open again? If we return, will we live in a tent or on the rubble of our house?”

[hallowpen]

The Legalities of GMMtv's Yfind

Some of us have probably moved on already... but I finally heard back from my mother's coworker [X] regarding the legalities of GMM's Yfind process as laid out in their terms and conditions, which I have translated here. For privacy reasons, I'm not going to name my source, but just know they are a qualified contract lawyer currently working for CUIPI. My mother and I have both profusely apologized for bothering them with this matter, for which they've been incredibly gracious.

As I've stated, the 'contract' is creatively worded to skirt around company liability, though I didn't exactly have the legal know-how to explain why. Now that I am armed with that information, let's dive in...

First things first: the Terms and Conditions are, in fact, considered a binding contract as you are required to have read them before you can submit your work. This initial contract is considered to be legally sound in its use of specific terminology as to not violate Thailand's "Unfair Contract Terms Act". What really matters, however, is the final negotiated contract between the winning applicants and the company... which is unavailable for inspection.

The Prize Money. So... this is where things get a little exploitative. Because it's hard to put a price on someone's work when there aren't any 'clockable' hours. Some might be thinking, "Three pages doesn't seem like a lot of work," but you can do a lot with three pages. It was pointed out that spacing, font size, and margins were not specified beyond the standard default document settings. Meaning, if an applicant were to submit a document using the default normal spacing, 11 point font, and 1 inch margins, they can average anywhere between 1500-2000 words. Not to mention... there's pre-planning, brainstorming, and drafts that must happen before the writing of a final 'submittable' synopsis. AND they are allowing a total of two works per submission. Story developers within a production company typically do not work alone. Your normal story developer, as part of a low-end production company (so not GMMtv), averages about ฿300/hr. For an average nine-hour work day, the prize money works out to be equal to twelve and a half days of work. Work that would typically get done as part of a development team... who would be earning much higher than the average salary given GMMtv's stature. The 'reward' money is the only compensation applicants will be receiving should they agree to transfer ownership of their property to the company, there are no royalties (this is standard for novel to television adaptation rights, as well). You can decide for yourself if that seems fair.

Liability. (Without seeing the final contract negotiations and transfer documents, a lot of the information provided to me is purely speculative) The company has, essentially, ensured that they will not be held liable for any copyright or intellectual property lawsuits... should they arise. They have avoided explicitly stating their sole legal responsibility of the property once ownership has been transferred. Meaning, that even though winning applicants will no longer own their work, they can still be held liable (by those claiming infringement AND by the company themselves) for these types of lawsuits. And where the company has access to a lot more financial and legal resources, the burden placed on applicants is a lot heavier. This is where the next point comes into play.

Legal Advocation. It is highly recommended that, should the company not already provide one, winning applicants should seek legal representation to negotiate on their behalf. They are within their rights to request an advocate be provided for them on the company's dime. The company is also within their rights to refuse... but at that point, it's a clear sign to back out from negotiations and not sign any legal documentation. If they really are this desperate for ideas, then there shouldn't be a problem... unless GMM are purposefully looking to take advantage of someone who doesn't know any better. If applicants are under the age of consent (in Thailand, that's anyone under 20), an advocate must be provided for them regardless, otherwise all binding contracts are considered null and void.

IP Retention Rights. It was also pointed out to me that it was interesting to see GMMtv [barely] address intellectual property retention rights in their FAQ rather than in their terms and conditions. What does that mean? If GMMtv do not legally obtain the rights to an applicant's work, it should remain the sole property of the applicant. BUT intellectual property ownership is a lot harder to prove in a court of law than, say, filed patents and copyrights. So even though GMMtv will not own the property per se, they do retain access to it after it's already been submitted. (Again, speculative ->) They have teams who can develop and change enough of a property to avoid infringement liability. And even still, should a case be made for infringement, it's the applicants (who are at a disadvantage) vs. GMMtv's wealth of financial and legal resources.

Bottom Line... Yfind is bullshit (my words) and unfortunately, there will be people who are going to fall for it.