Dani🐻

He’d call? You’d come. Somewhere in the middle, you’d thought Mark would fall in love with you though. That you weren’t just a pretty face, or a good fuck— you could do the emotional, the romance of it all. Not run. All Mark did he’d laugh at you.

“You’re not being reasonable, baby,” he chuckled snidely as he went around the large hotel room, picking up the littered clothing he’d left on the floor.

Reasonable? What was reasonable? Asking for a relationship was unreasonable? That doesn’t even sound right. Your face scrunches up.

Mark feigns a pout, cupping your face after adjusting his tie, “Don’t give me that face baby. You’re too pretty for it.”

“Then I’m just nothing to you Mark?” Your voice didn’t even sound like your own, tight and sharp. But it felt so much smaller.

He scuffs then sighs, gently kissing your lips, “You know you’re not nothing to me baby. You’re- you’re pretty, sweetheart. So gorgeous. You’ve— helped me… so much doll. Been so good to me this entire time. Don’t ruin this for me, please?”

Ah.

Don’t ruin it [+].

Just keep smiling, keep looking pretty, keep wearing that pretty dress and that pretty necklace he got you. Laugh at his jokes, get your own rocks off. But the thought of it just being a pretty and sitting object kept festering in the back of your mind. You wanted more, more, more. You deserved more. You should be able to ask for the whole damned world if you wanted to and receive it on a silver platter with the finest wine and a vanilla ice cream drizzled with chocolate with the cherry on fucking top.

You wouldn’t get that from Mark— you hit a dead end.

It was when you went to go get your friend a gift, you’d entered the revolving door mindlessly, then you heard the family crowd in on the other side. Two kids giggling, a pretty blonde wife smiling and then, fresh and neatly styled brunette hair, hazel brown eyes, dressy attire and a grey trench coat— Mark. The same loving smile he gave you on his face as he planted a kiss at her temple.

He didn’t even notice you.

Your feet stumbled, entering the building, dizzy. Heart trailing out of you and along with the bastard and his fucking generic tv looking family. You followed, back through the revolving door to try to get a glimpse of him.

One more time, one more fucking time— a bad habit. A bad decision. You’d let the man walk away with whatever you gave him today.

It was your fault for letting it get this far to begin with, getting so attached to such a guy who gave you almost everything you’d wanted. Everything but love.

You let out a ragged breath, your lip trembling as you stare at his back. Him trailing away on such joyace footing right along with the setting sun along with his family. Taking the day with him. While you’re stuck to face the music.

Be a big girl, [+]. You’re a big girl. That’s what you’ve always been.

You turn on your heels, no gift in hand, in the opposite direction. The dark blue overtaking the sky, click, click, click of your heels hitting the pavement with every step. Vision getting blurry the further you walk. You don’t even know where you’re going, just letting the tears fall, the pit in your stomach turn into a labyrinth. You could handle it. Just a big, silly, knee scraping fuck up.

Shit, you needed a drink.

It started with a one night stand, doesn’t it always? He’d been away for so long, too long, and just needed to get his mind back into civilization. No other way to do than to get his dick a little wet? And you were available. He’d seen you once before, on some social media. Your posts would attract anyone who saw them. An alluring little thing in that grimy filter, so pretty, had all your curls tossed to one side, smiling with your pretty brown eyes, lifting your shirt just a bit so you could see the black thong you were wearing— a little teaser.

It was an absolute miracle he found you sitting across him in that empty bar, you lifted your head from the counter, long lashes clumped together, mascara slightly smugged, adding to temptation. Ghost bet you’d look even prettier crying on his dick and not over whatever had you in tears that was so minuscule :(.

You were in a tight, cropped, long sleeve turtle neck, dark low rise jeans that oh-so-perfectly hugged your curves and a 90s layered haircut that went down your back. You pulled out your compact mirror, the tears dried up by themselves, you lightly patted your face with fingers. Your eyes wandered around you, then finally to Ghost. You studied him in curiosity, eyes flicking from his brown eyes to his skull faced balaclava. What the fuck was he wearing? You looked around the empty bar only to gain a smirk from him that was unbeknownst to you. He beckoned you over with two fingers.

You were admittedly a little tipsy, talking to someone, even to a masked muscular man would be better than mumbling into the bar tender who very visibly didn’t want to be working their shift. So you dragged yourself over. Ghost watched your hips swish with every motion, even with a couple shots in you, and your eyes a glossy, you were walking as if you hadn’t been through the ringer. Poised.

Ghost listened to your dumb sob story like the many women your age. Some guy fucking you over, but you liked him still. Wanted to be with him and for him to choose you. But he wasn’t going to choose you. Same script different character. Ghost would be kind to you though, at least for the moment—

“Should I help ease your mind then?” His voice raucous, almost obnoxiously deep, sent your brain swooning.

You wave him off, sniffling, “I don’t think I’ll forget this one. I think it was more of a wake up call.”

“Didn’t say I could make your forget,” and his hand reaches yours, pulling you just enough so you’re facing him but still sat in the bar stool. He rubbed your hand gently, “Asked you should I help ease your mind.”

Your heart goes haywire, you lick your lips, eyes flicking from his all black attire to his brown eyes that swam in your own.

“Trynna kill me?”

“Don’t think murderers admit that to their victims, do they?”

The ends of your lips curved up, giggling smacking your forehead and leaning on the bar, insanely gorgeous, “right of course.”

He got you there.

You looked between the brute and the rest of the dingy bar, lights flickering above you— you’d play your hand with the devil tonight.

“Then please do.”

Was it strange for you to follow a man with a mask out of a bar and to his place? Of course. Not an ounce of urgency or concern, he teased you about it with his thick fingers were two knuckles deep inside you as soon as he got you in his house about a 30 minute drive from the bar. “Brainless little thing aren’t ya?”

He tsked, his fingers curling, grazing your g-spot and getting a yelp from you. “Thinkin with your cunt, we’ll have to fix tha’.”

It was when he felt you drenching around his aching red tip with precum, Simon almost lost his mind. Maybe you were the one trying to kill him. Had to get more in you. Arched your back further, slowly stretching your sloppy cunt inch by fucking inch.

“Oh- oh my go- Ghost!” your breath hitched, toes curling, you lift your head just enough to look back at him with those big doe eyes, Christ, you were going to kill him. “Y-you said just the tip.”

He’s just barely acknowledging you, too consumed (literally) by how tight you were choking him length, he grunted, “Heh, Not when she’s begging for me to be inside ‘er. You crazy? Fuckin greedy little cunny you’ve got, as if the tip would be enough.”

And you were whining so beautifully as you clenched around him, clinging at the sheets because the bastard was so thick, so biiiig (just like you moaned), and he pulled you right back down on his length because you could take it. Had to.

He couldn’t even fit all of him inside you.

That’s when he knew he had to keep you on a leash. Not a tight one, loose enough to let you wander, let you think you could continue on like you’ve always been. Hopping around from man to man, unknowingly letting yourself be some bitch. No, no, no that wouldn’t fucking work, not anymore. Not for Ghost. Perfect kitty, soon enough he’d tighten it, just when the time was right, enough that he wouldn’t loose track of you, keep you in check.

Make you his.

You’d assumed Ghost was in the bathroom when you scrambled out his bed and out of his house. The man was a monster, in the best way imaginable, but one night is one night. You’d keep your end of the deal. A taxi was on the way because he truly did live in the middle of no where, no uber or lyft— it was £70 taxi well spent.

“You’re gone?” Ghost asks, wiping his hands with the towel that was in his back pocket. You didn’t know what time it was but the man already had a little smudge on his and face, unshaven stubble, sweat already bleeding through his shirt— he looked too handsome to be true. You’d already felt butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.

“Uh- yeah. I- ehem- it’s been fun.” You nod, curtly.

He hummed, “Sure.”

There’s an awkward silence only filled with the rock music coming from inside the garage. You check your phone, 10:45 am, new message; taxi service: I’ve arrived.

You look up from your phone but there’s absolutely no taxi.

Ghost sees the look of confusion on your face, he’s already moving to one of the cars parked in front of the garage, “Does it look like that taxis coming out here? We’re in the middle of the woods.”

“Oh…” you scatch the back of your neck, and sigh, “well I’ll just walk to meet him then.”

Ghost looked at you, raising an eyebrow, a silly little thing, “So you can miss the taxi and be stranded there for the next forty minutes? Don’t be dumb, baby. Just get in the car!” He barks out his orders, getting in his black truck and slamming it shut.

It’s a simple three minutes, down the long path of his drive way, through the paved brush in the woods to his mailbox. Exactly where the yellow taxi cab sat parked. The truck stilled, Ghost unmoving while you gathered your purse, double checking to make sure everything was there. Your glance at him once more, scars crawling up his neck to the mask, blonde hair, pretty long lashes, brown eyes—

Ghosts voice filled the silent car, just as you opened the passenger door. “You come back when you want.”

It was a simple sentence. A direction.

He was taunting you, had to be. You’d thought about his words for the entire car ride back to your flat. Then day or so, and if you didn’t get a sign from god, you’d move on with your life as if that never happened.

But while rummaging through your purse, on the inside pocket while looking for your wallet, there was a crumbled up piece of paper. Ghosts address and number on the back.

You found yourself back there a week later, after contemplating up and down the small walls of your apartment. you drove yourself this time, cursing to yourself that this was stupid and he wouldn’t want to see you again. But you knocked anyway…

Silence.

You knocked again, rocking on your heels and taking a step back to take a look at the fairly large house. Probably a five or six bedroom, it was old, but fixed up properly. A garage connecting to it, two different trucks outside of it.

Simon opened the door, shirtless, stomach with a little pudge over his untoned abs, tattoos on full display and biceps flexing— he should’ve been on the cover of Mens Health Magazine. A damn model. The blonde nodded towards something in the front garden.

“The keys under the flowerpot over there.”

Without another word, he stepped to the side, letting you into the house. A German shepherd came walking down the hall, immediately coming to sniff you out like you were a bad guy. You immediately went to pet him, your hands finding his collar, a bin shaped tag in the middle of his neck that read, ‘Slugger.’

“I’ve got some things to take care of. You do what you want.”

And with that, Ghost was down the hall. Leaving you in the foyer with his dog. And you’re in disbelief because wasn’t this supposed to be— well— a hookup? A quick, ‘hey, I’m signaling you to bone me.’ You grumble, “that ass,” slipping off your shoes and stepping further into the house.

“As if I’d sit around ‘nd wait, ‘m not some pet.”

Let’s not calling waiting then, you wasted time. Ghost's house was a shell of what once was. The leather couch’s and the tv were new. The end tables, coffee table and mirror that hung on the walls were testaments of time though. Old antiques that had to be from the 70s or 60s, a record player placed in the hallway towards the kitchen, still used, rock records spanning the last five decades sat in crates on the floor. Under the tv was a plethora of movies, vhs to dvd, old classics to new action movies.

There were no pictures though. No photo albums to show that a family once lived here in this old house, none on the walls either. Just old paintings of sceneries, a few wilting plants in the corners of the room. But you could tell, the old bannister that led upstairs, the way the house just barely creaked with you and Slugger’s movements, the pencil marks of growing heights on the wall. A family was here once, but it was long gone.

Being here was like intaking the last lifeless breaths of something, utterly still- stuck.

The couch sunk once you plopped down on it. You sighed, Slugger happily panting with his tongue out at you. Graciously waiting for head pats. You chuckled giving him a little ruffle at his cheeks, “Guess we’re both waitin for the same thing, huh?”

“Still busy?” Your voice was naturally sultry, alluring, popping your head into the room where you heard the keyboard being tapped. This room, Ghosts office, completely different from what surrounded it. New, fresh, sleek, renovated.

Ghost hadn’t intended to be stuck at his desk for the last hour, paper work irritated the blonde to no end. He’d rather hand it off to Price. But you’d shown up on your own accord. Didn’t fight when he told you he had something to do, sceptical but still wanting to see whatever he had out for you— patient, just like he wanted. Good kitty.

“No,” a little white lie, he patted his leg, “come on.”

You shift on your feet, footsteps on the smooth hardwood gliding you behind his desk and onto his leg. “I didn’t take you for a business man Ghost.”

“A nickname like mine and you thought business?” His eyebrow raises, amused.

“Related to it! It’s related, no?”

“The military. Lieutenant.” You giggle, shoving his shoulder, “Then I was half right! Not bad, if I do say so myself.” You go on talking, treading lightly on the tightrope, your heart rate picking up while his thumb brushing over your plump lips, lost at the sight of you, gorgeous.

You chuckle, eyes finding his, “You’re not even listenin to a word—“

“—You talk too much.” He murmurs, planting his lips on his. It’s quick. Too quick for your own liking, your grip his hair and put his lips back on yours. They part just enough for his tongue to slip through. It’s wet, it’s sloppy, it’s desperate. Ghost throws your shirt and bra on the cluttered desk, skirt hiked up above your hips, underwear hanging off your foot. It’s already feeling humid, his large hands groping the two large globes of your ass, gripping harshly as you slid his large pink tip between your folds.

“ ‘S not gonna fit-“ you babble, moaning at the simple feel of his dick on you. One of his hands move up your back, “It’ll fit, just like it did last time, don’t think about it so much.”

“B-but-“ Ghosts hand reaches the back of your neck, gripping, “-[+], I’m not askin you. I’m telling you. Put. It. In.” You snuck down on his cock, painfully slow. Eyes squeezing shut with a shaky breath as you tried to take Simon. You remembered the limit, dreamt about it in your sleep and woke up with soiled panties. But you wanted to try fitting more, more—

“Oi, don’t get fuckin greedy. You know what to take,” Simon grunted, giving your clit a nice flick.

“ mMmm’ I’m sorry, sorry.” You mewled. You felt your brain was already shot, eyes turning into your skull as you bounced up and down. Ghosts head coming down perfect to bite and suck on your hardened nipples. You were hiccuping and crying, feeling that vein while his dick scraped your soaking walls.

You hadn’t even realized how dumb you looked, head resting on his shoulder, your arms hooked up under his while Simon took hold of your hips, guiding you up and down, back and forth, on his cock, drool continuously forming that you had to suck back up and slurring out daddy, daddy, daddy.

There’s a snap in your face, a deep chuckle you feel that comes from the bottom of his stomach, “God, is that brain even on? Too fucked out to hear me?”

You keen, “feels- ooough! Feelsh so g-good daddy.”

“I knooow. Poor baby,” Simon fake coos, pulling you away so he could really get a look at that adorably stupid look on your face. Simon couldn’t wait to see more of it. “Can’t even think properly, huh? Don’t worry, Daddy’ll do the thinking for now on. You’d like that, hm? Need someone to guide your little head.”

You moan and bite your lip, looking at him with those pretty brown eyes while rutting your hips so desperately— “Need you, need you so- hicc— soooo-“ Your own gasp cuts you off, eyes widening and shutting and you fell into the crash of a orgasm.

So sweet, so good, a orgasm that got you so high, it would land you right back down into Ghost's arms.

The relationship was— well the situationship— it wasn’t a bad arrangement.

You found stability within Ghost. Shocker? To you, yes.

There were no set rules to him, you could come and go as you pleased— the key under the green flowerpot in the front yard were yours— and if Ghost was there, he’d fuck you just as you needed. Rough and deep, pulling at the blonde strands of his hair whilst he ate your swollen pussy after wearing you thin, crying and thrashing. And when you woke up Ghost was either gone, in the living room watching some 80s flick rerun or in the garage.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah, see you later.”

“Mm.”

He didn’t press, he didn’t pull. He was constant. Ghosts house become your little safe haven. Anytime you felt like running off, being alone yet not alone, you were back there, blast music whenever you wanted, dance around without your neighbors banging on the wall and you’d have a cute little dog to pet everytime you gad the chance, Even when he’d gone on a mission, he’d leave you a note, ‘replace what you eat’ or ‘take care of the house’ because he’d known you’d be there. That was the very least you could do, right?

Take Slugger on a walk or two, fill the fridge before ransacking it, leave a couple clothes in the bedroom because you always forgot something at your place. Buy the fashion magazines you’d been dying to read and set them right under the stack Ghost had left there.

It felt so nice to be in Ghosts big arms, you didn’t have to have that hard shell you worked so hard to create, let his calloused hands explore you. Gently from your stomach to your chin, caressing ever so softly, you couldn’t help but lean into it. Lashes fluttering, sitting idly in one of his shirts that went mid thigh or maybe in the little black and blue tank top and underwear set he bought you.The one with lace at the hem that showed off your plump ass and hard nipples— you waited patiently for whenever he came home. Be it 7 pm or 1 am.

Let him ruffle your hair before you could swat him away, let him get a long and good look at you after his long day. Bring your ankle to his lips on the other end of the couch you two were both slouched on, movie playing in the background, before playfully biting.

Simon would ask, “What’d you do all day, hm?”

“Work, bullshit, more work.” You’d scuff, playing your nails but you weren’t focused on them. Not at all, more focused on Ghosts reaction, none of course, “let’s hear the bullshit then.”

You couldn’t help but want to be there. Because Simon wanted to hear you, his sweet girl, go on and on till you got tired, all curled up in his lap. Dozed off and nuzzling into the man’s every touch. Simon adored that about you.

You hadn’t even realized how kept you were until he handed that card, telling you, “you should get your own dresser instead of hogging mine. And get Slugger that collar you wanted for him.” As if you’d forgotten.

Did you run because you could see a storm brewing a mile away? Felt yourself reverting to the girl you once were with Mark. Being left to your own devices then meant to be the stress reliever. Kept. That’s what Ghost had to see you as right? Nothing more than pretty object. Right?

No, this was your greed festering again. Something you should’ve shoved downs flight of stairs just when you got that little nibble of proper attention you wanted. Ever wanting, ever needing— More, more, more. Fuck the world, you wanted the galaxy— the universe. You’d dreamed of it one night, living peacefully in this house, warmth filling it, laid out in his truck, watching the stars pressed into the blondes side. But Ghost couldn’t give you the universe. You were stupidly sure of that— convinced every molecule to refute the idea of it. No man could. You’d accepted that.

You’d rather be alone than to be let down.

And maybe it’s on Simon for not tightening the leash when he had the chance. He shouldn’t have let you perch in his lap and rub into him without telling you that there was no backing out of— well— this. Another problem. He should’ve told you that you’d be his, no more of the back and forth. Settle you properly. You hadn't even known you’d slithered around a snake tamers neck.

You were so blatantly ignoring him. Ignoring his calls, his texts. And it’s not like he was harassing you, he’d call or text once a week. See if you’d bite, but he’d get nothing. But you were still going place to place (he had your location on), showing off all sexy and high tailed with your friends. Eating, clubbing, working, showing your pretty face to the camera. Like nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

It irritated Simon. To the point, the men working under him were even more terrified and exhausted of him after training. Soap had to remind him to ease up on them, “They’re wee babies aren’t they?”

No, they were annoying little brats, who should understand without being told. Just like you.

Simon realized his fault. He just needed to train you right. Strays are all the same. You could keep them around for so long, let them bite and scratch even as you pet them, they leave, maybe get roughed up a bit then— they’d be right back when they needed or wanted. Looking for comfort, to find out if anything had changed— safety. You’d known where you were supposed to be eventually.

He heard the front door open, gently shutting it closed and the zipper of your boots coming off.

“Where’ve you been?” Simon thundered. He was sat on the couches closer to the window, man spreading, brown eyes piercing you.

You glance off, voice just above a whisper, “Around.”

Around? Right. Just paying the person you gave your attention to, no mind. Not an answer that would fly, not in Simons book.

“I just came to get a jacket.”

But you don’t move, the tension is too thick. Almost suffocating. You didn’t know why you were back honestly. You wanted to see him, just for a bit. Even if it was to grab one of his old shirts. Say hi to Slugger. The jacket was an excuse.

“What’d’you want [+]?”

What do you want? You blinked. Once. Twice. To go home. A new thought because you so badly wanted to be here no matter what you did, your mind would trail back to being here, face pressed in Simons thigh, almost purring the way he rubbed the back of your nape, Slugger on his doggy bed sleeping, Simon telling you to hush because you were talking over the horror movie you were scared of— that’s what you wanted.

But is that what you deserved? Is that what Simon wanted? Simon was looking right through you, eyes deep and searching for any waver yet understanding. Oh, it wasn’t just a simple question. It was, ‘What do you want so I can make you stay?’ Fickle were the worries that crossed your mind to Simon. He saw the way you kept shifting foot to foot, eyes in a panic, playing with your nails and the rings on your finger—you were scared. He was driving you into a corner on purpose.

Run. Just like you always do. It’s better this way.

“I-I want my jacket.” You stammered out, swallowing the spit in your mouth, “I need to get it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Your reply was like a rejection, a smack in empty forrest. You move finally, up the stairs, and you hear it. It’s like a rare bell that chimes when you finally come to a realization— Simons chuckle. It’s short but deep, drenched in sarcasm.

Faster.

Ghost was on you before you could get down the hallway, throwing you over his shoulder— tightening.

It was wrangling a feral cat. This entire beginning to now, letting you come and go when you wanted, feeding you, cuddling you, gifting you— it was house training a stray. And now that you’d bit his hand, and I mean really bit it, he’d force you into a house cat—

Help your stupid little brain remember where you belonged.

Right up under Simons large build, your hands pinned together at your stomach in one of his hands, shoving your face down into the mattress of his bed with the other, dropping every fucking inch of his girth into your tight pussy. Squirming too much, mewling, “ ‘s too much- agh- daddy too much!”

And there’s a large hand that comes down on your ass, fixing your lower back to arch so you weren’t in fetal position, “Shut up ‘nd take it, take it, fucking take it.”

You’d never in your life felt so full, so stretched, so out of your mind. Your lucky Simon was giving you the opportunity to take those shaky breaths, try to get used to the size, but it didn’t make a difference. Your snug cunt was gripping him like a vice, he wanted to memorize every single bit of it.

He breaths through his nose, shuddering before snapping his hips into yours, “Fuckin hell, baby, all this f’me. Always been for me.” His thrusts are slow and mean, dragging himself out so his tip is right at the entrance of your hole then plowing back into you.

“Fuuuu- so full- so much,” you gasp, tears forming in your eyes.

“Holdin out on me, mmph- you were holdin out on me alllll this time. Like I wouldn’t- fuck- be able to fit in your pretty pussy ‘nd then leavin me high and dry,” he grunts, delirious on your gummy walls, thrusts becoming more rapid, his heavy balls hitting your clit with every movement, He snickers, “You lost your brain princess, this is where you should be. Turnin that dumb little brain off and takin my cock.”

Simon presses your hands down on your stomach, exactly here his dick was pressing your cervix, you flinch, sobbing out his name as you cream all over his dick. “Therrrre she goes, gorgeous fuckin slut you are. You've been aching for it haven't you?”

The blonde flips you onto your back, sliding back into your sensitive heat without a second thought. You claw at Ghosts back, eyes rolling into your head like a flimsy doll. Cockdrunk baby, he jaw clenches, that quick wave of jealousy washing over him, but he lets it out out in the way he fucks you. Getting three of his fat fingers and rubbing loud and sopping mess you’ve left around your clit. Getting you through three orgasms just by playing with that bundle of nerves.

He nibbled everywhere, sure to leave hickies around your neck and chest, then bites. literally. “To think, you’d go off without a word to me, like you don’t care. Who told you to run off like that? Huh? Daddy didn’t, did I?” The blonde presses all your weight down on you, swiveling his hips.

“N-no” you hiccup, his hand goes to your throat, giving it a nice squeeze, “No what? Don’t you have any manners doll?”

“No sir,” you yelp, that strawberry pink cockhead hitting your g-spot. The plap, plap, plap, of Ghost bottoming at your then giving your g-spot a knuckle sandwich with his dick.

“Told you, you over think too fuckin much,” Ghosts voice strangled, “Get out of your head, enough of the running.”

“I don’t,” you shake your head but Simon squeezes your cheeks together, throwing your legs over his shoulders, “don’t fuckin lie, [+], don’t feed me bullshit.”

And you feel smaller than you ever had, whimpering, the most vulnerable you've ever been, forcing everything out and handing over the key to Pandora’s box- “You- you can’t let go, okay? You have to- hicc- you have to be with me!”

As if you had to ask.

He just needed to hear it from your plump lips, even if it took you being overstimulated, tears on his shoulder and your mixed cum spilling out of your swollen pussy. He’d tame you over and over and over, just for you to stay with him. Keep you close.

“Open,” Ghosts mezmorized, your mouth falls open and a wad of his spit falls in. He closes your mouth with his thumb, “Swallow” and you did, throat bobbing in his hands. He pressed your forehead together, molding your lips, biting your lips so much you can feel the blood.

You're purring, eyes glazed over and slurring, “Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Daddy?”

“Princess,” he leers but you moan louder at that, arms wrapping around his tattooed broad shoulders.

Call and fucking response, the ends of Ghosts lips curve up. Such a sweetheart, checking to see if he was there, and he would always be right there.

“Sweet baby, learning to be greedy?” He hummed and you’re slowly nodding that clueless little head of yours, your walls clenching a few times, “-hmph want you, want it.”

“Gooood girl, my good girl. Gonna fill your little cunt, yeah? Just how you want, just how you need, right Kitty? Gonna take all of it?”

It doesn’t take much for you to fall off the edge of Simons words, back arching off the bed and Simons holding you tight, still slamming into you while leaving a tender kiss to your forehead. Till you feel those big fat globs of milky cum hitting your cervix.

Simon looks at the state of you, glowing, breathtaking even in your exhausted state, he could’ve moaned at the sight of you, pushing your curls out of your face and licking up the tears that once fell.

Gorgeous kitty, Simon would take care of you now.

a/n: this took forever. I love blackcat!reader the most. Lmk what you think pls

most recent masterlist more meanie!simon

your sweet and soft nightslip looking even better in the subtle glow of his desk lamp. a gentle shrug as you walked over to him. bashful yet shameless all so effortlessly. his low eyes watched as you padded over to him, fragile hands grabbing at his chest. “can’t sleep, need you” was all you breathed out. his precious girl all tired but not tired enough to doze off on her own.

simon nodded, he always understood. “okay honey, you wanna stay with me while i finish this up?” he mumbled against your temple as you settled on his lap. your chest nuzzled into his.

it was soft and sweet for the first ten minutes. his left hand rubbing your side and back, sometimes playing with your hair as his other hand continued with the paperwork. it was a comfortable silence.

still quiet even when your hips started rutting against his lap. he let you do whatever you needed to do. you were his angel.

of course he would let you do anything you wanted.

his strong hand helping your little motions while his eyes stayed focused on the paperwork in front of him.

but you could barely stay like that for five minutes. needing more already. and you couldn’t interrupt him like that when he was so busy with work. so you asked a soft question you knew he would be happy to agree to . . . “can i use you for a little?”

of course he would let you. nodding his head, eyes still on the paperwork. gently taking his hand off of your side and pushing back in his chair so you could get his suit pants unzipped.

fragile and delicate hands taking out his thick cock and palming it until it was hard enough to stick in. the most you got from simon was a gruff sigh occasionally, but his eyes didn’t glance away from his work. signing his signature on a couple documents as you started to ease the first inch in.

he only acknowledged your actions by placing his hand on your waist. not a tight grip, but definitely not a soft one.

"easy, little baby" he mumbled.

you were never too good at listening when it came to something you wanted. even after years of being with him, the girth of his cock never got any easier to handle. so the tight soppy hole was almost burning in pain when you shifted down a little too quick.

"what did i just say?" simon breathed out softly when he heard your yelp. giving your hip a gentle swat to let you know that was a bad move. then moving to rub the bridge of his nose, his mind was pounding from all the paperwork he had done today, but there were at least two more documents that needed his attention at the moment.

the last thing he wanted to worry about was his precious girl getting hurt because she's too sensitive and dumb to know her own limits.

that entire time he was reading over the words and analyzing the numbers as best he could, your cunt was squeezing him in. fucking yourself on the first four inches of his cock while the wet and sticky slick leaked down the rest of his shaft - coloring his already dark suit pants an even darker cashmere stain.

fragile and delicate nails grabbing at his shirt, your face nuzzled up against him while letting out soft pants. simon sighs out, grabbing your hips and easing you down on the rest of him. heavy fingers digging into the little bit of fat there and helping you bounce up and down softly.

once you eased up to his thick eight and a half inches, his hands released their hold and let you do the rest of the work. his eyes going back to the mind numbing paperwork.

simon could never and would never get enough of your sweet little mewls and purrs as you let your fingers dig into his button up and rock back and forth in his lap. not moving up and down, but instead rutting on his cock. like you didnt even want to think of letting some of him slip out. it was cozy almost, knowing he was right there.

the sweet sounds just got too much for him. it wasn't his fault, not really. but he did feel a little bad when he picked you up off his cock and slammed your back down on his desk. crinkling some of his papers in the process.

but every man has a limit of what they can take and endure. you were his vice. simons warm hands holding you down forcefully on his desk while pistoning in and out. groaning at the way his ears started to ring from the over abundance of pure euphoria.

"pussy's always so warm"

shoving that thick cock into you so hard it made a cute little bump form at the bottom of your tummy. eyes that couldn’t leave the sight of his and his stuck exactly on the way you were leaking around him and onto his desk . simons eyebrows curved pathetically and desperately as he drank in that view.

your legs bouncing back with each one of his eager thrusts. “ah-!” leaving your lips like unheard prayers with glossed over eyes struggling to stay steady.

"you wanted this though, didn’t you baby? you wanted daddy to get you all tired out before bed?"

bodies are stupid and poorly designed. that's the conclusion you've come to as you lie motionless on your bed, trying your best to will the over the counter painkillers in your system to get to work and relieve the agony you're in. it's your back again, giving you the painful, throbbing reminder of your own mortality, incapacitating you with wave after wave of pain at even the slightest movement.

you'd go to the e.r. if you could a) afford it and b) get mobile enough to get yourself down there. so instead you do what every other pain-riddled poor person does: you suck it up and put yourself on bed rest. it's not too bad, you suppose, just so long as you lie still and don't move or sneeze or cough or fart.

the second worst thing about back pain is the boredom that comes with taking care of yourself. you can only listen to so many podcasts and audiobooks before you find yourself pulled into a haze, a space between wakefulness and sleep. in that foggy mental state you find yourself rocking in and out of consciousness, eyelids drooping closed and sliding open again as steadily as the tides go in and out, your coherent thoughts nothing more than flotsam and jetsam on the beaches of your mind.

it's why you don't hear the scratches of metal on metal as the lock on your front door is picked, or the sound of the door closing behind heavy footsteps that wander around your apartment. your eyes don't flutter open until a large shadow passes over your face, pulling you from the depths of dreamless sleep.

there's a large man in a black hoodie and balaclava standing by the side of the bed, looming above you. dark eyes behind a darker mask stare a hole through you, gazing intensely at you. he's absolutely massive- at least six foot three and just about as broad as he is tall, built like a fucking tank. the sight of him makes you flinch, sending shooting pains through your body as your spine protests the sudden movement.

"you're not supposed to be 'ome." the stranger says, low voice rumbling like an engine.

"wh- what?" you ask, brain still a little slow, not fully awake yet. "who are you?"

"you sick?" he asks, ignoring your question. slowly your groggy brain connects the dots- there's a man in a mask and gloves wandering through your apartment in the middle of the day who expected you to be gone. oh shit, you're being robbed right now.

normally you'd consider lying to him, but there's no hiding that you can't fucking move at the moment. the realization sends fear coursing through your veins- you're just in a t-shirt and your underwear. this man can do whatever he wants and there's fuckall you can do about it because of the intense pain locking up your body. you can't even reach over to throw a blanket over yourself to cover up. like it or not, you're at this complete stranger's mercy.

"well?" the robber asks, clearly impatient with how long you're taking to answer.

"i'm hurt." you admit. that seems to get his attention, judging by the way he tilts his head and rolls his shoulders like he's ready to fight.

"who 'urt you?" he asks with an unexpected intensity in his tone, like he's ready to knock the head off whoever's done this to you.

"i did. i, uh, i picked up something heavy the wrong way." you admit sheepishly. the intruder rolls his eyes.

"your back's fucked, then?" he asks, and you nod.

"my aunt." you blurt out. "a-and my uncle. they'll be by to bring me dinner soon."

it isn't true, of course. your aunt and uncle are in portugal for the next two weeks on their second honeymoon, but he doesn't know that. it's a hail mary, a desperate effort to get him out of here and on his way as quickly as possible. the man cocks his head, staring at you in silence before a low, unsettling laugh slides out from under his mask.

heh heh heh.

"just- just take what you came for and go before they come! please!" fuck your worldly possessions, you just want this guy out of here. never in your life have you met someone who becomes more and more terrifying by the moment, and you're keen to end your interaction with him as swiftly as possible.

he exhales another laugh at your expense and shrugs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed before leaning forward and pulling at his bootlaces.

"i don't understand." you say honestly, voice shaking with nerves. this man is like no robber you've ever heard of- he doesn't seem to have taken anything, and he seems deeply uninterested in your purse or the laptop perched on your nightstand. this would be the perfect opportunity to clean out your apartment around you and leave you with nothing but the bed you're stuck laying on, but he's making no move to fill his pockets with your things, just staring you down with those fathomless dark eyes.

"oh no?" he mocks, slowly pulling one boot off and starting to unlace the other. his dark eyes casually flick between you and the knots in his laces as he deftly unties them. it's a horrible thing, to be trapped in a body that is in too much pain to move while every part of your being is telling you to run, go, get far away from this man.

"what are you doing?" you ask quietly, watching him cautiously from your spot on the mattress.

"takin' what i came for, aren't i?" he says with an audible smile in his voice, and the amusement in his tone makes your stomach drop.

"oh god." the air feels thinner, like you need to take in more of it or you're going to die. none of this makes sense. are you dreaming? maybe this is a dream, maybe there isn't a huge masked stranger in your room, telling you he's going to take you. maybe you'll wake up soon to an empty apartment where everything is fine and nothing hurts.

the moment his boots are both off, he's crawling up the mattress towards you, making it shift and dip under his considerable weight, sending pain shooting through your body with each small movement against your spine. there's nothing to do about it but hiss through clenched teeth about it until he finally settles with his knees bracketing your thighs, hovering above you.

"easy, love. breathe. in and out, nice an' steady. you're gonna pass out if you keep goin' like that." he says lowly into your ear, his words nearly making you shudder. "lookit you. just waitin' here oll pretty f'me to come and rescue you, eh?"

the mattress jostles again as he settles into his kneeling position above you, and the pain of it makes you loudly suck your teeth in pain. the way things stand, big as he is, if he fucks you, it'll be complete agony.

"don't- don't, please-" you beg tearfully, and the stranger shushes you, nuzzling his nose against the side of your throat.

"easy, i said. i ain't tryin' to break you. know your back's done in, that's the only reason i'm not fucking that big fat arse of yours right bloody now." he practically purrs. "don't you worry, love. i might be a bad man, but i take good care of my things. won't be easy, but i can wait a bit longer to get my cock wet. probably."

it's probably supposed to be some sort of joke, but a terrified sob bursts out of you anyways, the force of it making you wince in pain as your tears race down the sides of your face and bury themselves in your hair. the stranger presses a cloth-covered kiss to your cheek, gently shushing you. you stare a hole into a new looking smoke detector on the ceiling, trying your damndest to disassociate and get lost in the steady red light, to be anywhere other than here right now.

"shh, shh, it's olright, deep breaths. no need to panic, i got the perfect compromise in mind." the intruder yanks his glove off and sticks his bare palm in front of your face. "lick it. get it oll wet f'me. put on a real show for the camera."

you blink up at him through tear-clumped lashes, stunned and confused by his demand.

"what?" you ask again, bewildered, and he rolls his eyes.

"did i mumble? get to it."

there's nothing to do but comply, tentatively running your tongue over the slightly salty, scarred skin held in front of you. you can't help but be taken aback by the number of marks on his fingers and palm, as if he'd stuck his hand in a blender. you try not to think of where those hands have been, of what he's going to do when you're done. broad and flat, your tongue laves over the divots and keloid ridges cris-crossing his palm and fingers, wetting the skin as thoroughly as possible.

"thassit, yeah. knew i picked myself a good girl." the stranger says as he pulls his hand back, fishing out his fat, ruddy cock and stroking it with his spit-slick palm. the foreskin rolls to expose the leaking head, coming back shiny with your spit as he strokes himself over your stomach. for some reason you can't help but notice that even as big as his hands are, they still have some trouble wrapping all the way around his considerable girth.

the stranger's pleased groan morphs into a chuckle, low and amused, and a quick glance up to meet his intense eye contact makes you realize that you've been caught staring at his hard cock. embarrassment has you shrinking back against the mattress and closing your eyes tightly while you do your best to ignore the wet sounds of spit slick skin on skin. it's the only option you have to try and distance yourself from what's happening right now, to pretend you're alone and there isn't a giant stranger fucking his fist hovering right on top of you.

"don't be like that, sweetheart. s'olright t'like it. come on, look at me. look at how fuckin' 'ard you get me." you feel a light tap on your jaw- not even remotely hard enough to hurt, but it's a clear reminder that he very much can do whatever he likes and there's fuckall you can do about it. you hesitantly crack your eyes open again, the image of him jerking off above you blurred by the yet-unshed tears that have gathered in your eyes.

"thassit, fuck. the shit you fuckin' do t'me, love. i am a patient, deliberate, and tactical man- but one look at that fat arse or pretty face of yours, and it's got me actin' like a bloody git." he groans, bending further forward and planting a large, gloved fist next to your head on the pillow. he leans in close, the side of his nose pressed to yours as he looks deep into your eyes. "like this, for example. was gonna take my time with you, keep watchin' and waitin', slowly make my move, ease you into it- i had it oll planned out, step by step. but just seein' you up close like this- threw it oll right out the window, didn't it? one look at that pretty face and big soft body and you've got me actin' oll kinds of stupid."

the weight of his words leaves you damn near breathless with realization- this man isn't a robber who's gotten side tracked. he was never here for your things. he came here for you. what was that he said about cameras? oh, god, are there cameras in your apartment? how the fuck did he get in here, anyways? this is so much worse than a robbery gone wrong, the implications of his ramblings hit you like a freight train and send you into a spiral that you're not sure you'll ever recover from.

the rapid pace of your panicked breathing paired with your racing thoughts has you feeling light-headed and dizzy, and it's so distracting that you barely notice the large hand carefully sliding your oversized sleep shirt up your body until cool air pebbles your exposed nipples.

the second you're cognizant of what's happening, you jolt in an attempt to cover yourself, exacerbating your injury as the sudden movement shoots pain through the core of you, pure unfiltered agony climbing the rungs of your spine. hissed curses stream from between your grit teeth as you try your best to curl into a ball, but the pain combined with position of the intruder on top of you makes it impossible to fold yourself into the more protective posture.

"just wanted a better look, sweetheart. don't 'urt y'self now." he slurs, leaning down to rub his face against your bare tits. even through the thin cotton fabric of his mask you can feel the muted prickle of a short beard against your sensitive skin, and somewhere in the back of your fear-addled mind you wonder if it's as blonde as his eyelashes.

"so fuckin' soft, bloody fuckin' 'ell, 'm gonna- gonna-" he grunts mere seconds before he cums all over your belly with a loud groan, bodily flopping over onto the mattress next to you, scooting closer and cooing softly as you suck your teeth in pain at being jostled yet again.

"sorry, love." the stranger murmurs, his cheek resting on your shoulder as his fingers lazily draw spirals and hearts in the pool of cum that's rapidly cooling on your stomach before idly sliding further and further down your body, only stopping to pluck as your pantyline like a guitar string.

"you want a 'and?" you can practically hear the smirk that you somehow know is on his face.

"no, thank you." you reply quickly, more prim-sounding than you'd meant to be. the stranger doesn't seem to mind, or if he does, he makes no indication of it.

"mm. probably smart, i'm not the gentle type anyways." he says with a small grunt as he rolls off the bed. he leaves the room only to return a few moments later with a washcloth, too fast for you to even hope that he was leaving for good.

"what are you doing?" you ask, warily watching him as he gingerly sits down next to you in order to run a warm, wet washcloth over your skin.

"told you, didn't i? i take care of my things. soon as i get you cleaned up, i'll see about gettin' you fed." he says as he rubs the damp fabric over your tits. slowly, methodically, he cleans you off, pressing a mask-covered kiss to the valley between your breasts before tugging your shirt back down and pulling a blanket over you.

the light of the smoke detector glares down at you from the ceiling, the solid red glow looks like an ember that wish would fall and burn right through the core of you. there's an unease in your chest, something beyond just having acted as a human cum rag for the man who broke into your home, and that unease twists and churns even more as the stranger follows your gaze to the little white circle on your ceiling and once again laughs at you.

"my clever girl, noticed it olready, eh?" you can hear that awful smile in his voice, and it makes bile rise in your throat.

"that wasn't there before." you realize out loud, too stunned to flinch from the kiss the intruder presses to your forehead.

"just my way of keepin' an eye on things, love. won't go off if there's an actual fire, mind, but if anythin's wrong i can be here right quick." he murmurs, petting over your hair with his gloved hand.

"oh my god, it's a camera." you blurt out, horrified. the red light continues to glow, the image of it burning into your vision. he must've put it up while you were still lying here half asleep, and deep-seated dread settles into the marrow of your bones as you connect some truly wretched dots.

"thassright, and if you try to muck around with it, i'll take it as a sign that your back's 'ealed enough that i don't have to 'old back with you anymore." the stranger warns, nodding up towards the smoke detector. "the second you touch it, i'll be right 'ere to bend you over the nearest flat surface til you're creamin' on my cock and sobbin' my name."

the world narrows down to that damned red light above you, everything else washing away into nothing. you're trapped, not just by your injury and physical limitations, but by the cage that's slowly being constructed around you by this hulking stranger that won't stop petting at you.

"i don't even know your name." the words slip out of you, small, shaking, and frail- like a stray kitten in the pouring rain.

something something going to kyle garrick on the recommendation of a friend when you want to stop smoking. your pal says he's a real miracle worker, that he helped them quit and not only was it super easy, but it actually stuck!

so you go to your first meeting, and he explains how hypnotherapy works, each step he'll take to help break your dependence on cigarettes, and how long he thinks it'll take. it all seems shockingly upfront for something you'd always figured was some carnival bullshit, so you decide to give it a go.

the first appointment goes really well, much better than you'd ever expected. you leave the appointment feeling more relaxed than you've been in months, and only reach for your 'secret' pack of cigarettes a handful of times over the span of a week, which feels like real progress considering you used to be at half a pack a day.

the second appointment goes just as well, leaving you relaxed and happy, and between then and your next appointment, you only slip up three times.

on the third appointment you come out of hypnosis feeling better than ever, thought your clothes are in a sort of disarray. gaz explains you were doing a lot of squirming around, but indicated that it was normal due to the psychological work he was doing to deprogram your nicotine addiction. you were feeling uncomfortable, of course you unconsciously adjusted your clothes. nothing to be embarrassed about, it happens all the time with treatment like yours. that following week you don't reach for your cigarettes at all.

on the fourth visit you tell gaz that you think this will be your last session- after all, it's worked, so there's really no reason to come back and waste his time. his normally bright smile is uncharacteristically tight, but he agrees, congratulating you on your success before getting right to work.

this time when you wake up from your session, you're trapped in some sort of cage with big thick bars and a very low ceiling. you have to crawl on your hands and knees to move around and get a better look at the strange, unfamiliar room you find yourself in. the large, ornate mirror hanging on the wall gives you a better look at your surroundings.

there's a four poster bed built right on top of your cage, with silky looking black sheets and large pillows strewn everywhere. there's a leather-covered sawhorse in the corner, with handcuffs clipped to the bottom support bar. the wall has a line of hooks with various items hung on them- it's hard to tell what all of those leather straps are for, but the riding crop at the end has your eyes going wide.

a door opens suddenly, startling a gasp from you. the smell of a lit cigarette fills the room as big feet walk slowly in front of you, pausing before taking a knee. the face of gaz, your hypnotherapist comes into view, and he's got a lit cigarette between his lips.

"what the fuck?" you ask quietly, shocked and upset. this doesn't make sense. are you dreaming? is this a nightmare? gaz takes a drag from his cigarette, the cherry blazing, and blows the smoke into your face before snapping his fingers four times in an unfamiliar rhythm.

it's like a switch gets flipped in your brain, turning the smell of the smoke from an annoyance to the most enticing smell in the world. it feels like there's a stone on your chest, like your skin is itching, crawling, begging for some nicotine to make it stop. gaz watches you carefully as you whimper pitifully at the sight of him pulling out a pack of your preferred brand, silent, desperate, terrified tears sliding down your cheeks.

"hi. good nap?" he asks, flashing you that megawatt smile. you're too stunned to think, just staring at him through watering eyes as shaking, terrified breaths rattle out from between your lips. your eyes dart between his eyes and the cigarette perched between his soft, plush lips.

"oh, you want one?" gaz asks, taunting. he pulls out a pack of cigarettes that your hand instinctually shoots out to snatch, and he wiggles it just out of your reach. the craving burns inside of you, stronger and more overwhelming than it ever was before, like you might die if you don't get one. you press yourself against the bars, straining your fingertips in the air, hoping desperately that you can snatch the pack from him.

there's a tightness in your throat that won't let you speak, just whine and keen like a pathetic animal. you can't help but think of the way your grandmother's dog used to beg at the table, making all sorts of pitiful sounds until someone got fed up enough to give in. all you can do is nod as you clench your hands to keep them from shaking.

Smoke fell from the man’s marred lips.

“Run those tests again.”

But the woman right beside him didn’t move, shifting the clipboard that she cradled in her arms instead. Pages and pages of test results from various trials, medical and psych evaluations, were fastened to it. But she didn’t need to look them over again to double check and verify what they all indicated. She knew.

“Already done — they all came to the same conclusion.”

The man next to her was silent once more. His cigarette burned idly between his fingers as a thin smoky thread swirled away from the smoldering end. The woman handed him the clipboard, giving him a glance here and there as he flipped through the pages meticulously. Cigarette clamped between his lips as he read through the results. But the man found that it was as she claimed it to be. The test results were indicating the same thing; the subject’s designation status had indeed regressed. 

Wordlessly, the man handed back the clipboard. Pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew out the smoke with a long exhale, processing it with a newfound clarity. Still staring into the windowed wall from behind his dark aviators. Eyes still dead set on the coroner gurney in the far center of the room.

An alpha turned omega…

Well, that definitely threw a wrench into the works. 

Such a phenomenon wasn't empirically impossible – just extremely rare; intermittent and indeterminable. An idiopathic etiology of menticide in theory. Although not unprecedented. Alex Mason, another hapless guinea pig of MK-Ultra, had suffered the same thing. Over time, throughout the process, Mason’s designation status had wholly changed too. At the flip of a switch, his biology had altered entirely in order to adapt to his new status. As well as the entire rewiring of an already broken brain. But Mason's biological transmutation had not been as drastic as the subject’s. Not as non-sequential; Having only turned from being an alpha to a beta. 

Even the man’s own brief employment with the Advanced Technologies and Applications program in Eastern Kentucky couldn’t replicate or even culminate such results in their human trials and experimentations. Yet he was used to things not all going according to plan, adapting and thinking on your feet was a part of the job. But this… this was more of a major setback than he preferred. Omegas only made things more complex than necessary.

“Adler?” The woman next to him lifted her thin brow at him as he brewed in his thoughts. Concerned by his prolonged silence. But his eyes didn't move to meet her inquisitive look. 

“This doesn’t change our mission.” He informed her. 

“Clearly,” She said, turning back around to view the bright room in front of them. Just like the older man next to her. “But it does make things quite difficult, however.”

Adler exhaled a smoky breath. And, after a moment, asked. “How do you think we should approach this then, Park?”

The woman next to him audibly hummed. Lips pursed in thought as her manicured fingernails drummed on the back of the clipboard. “Well, I suppose we still stick to the plan. With minor adjustments of course.”

“Minor adjustments?” 

Agent Park nodded. “And more precautions, yes. The subject will need a lot more necessities than before. More support, more monitoring. Omegas can be quite… ”

“Needy.” He finished her sentence. 

Park, in turn, gave Adler a look, sharp eyes narrowing. Sensing his surly mood. “ Sensitive . Omegas can easily go into distress if their needs aren’t met, especially if they can’t adjust to new territory. Let alone a new pack. No matter how temporary it will be.”

Adler went quiet again. Half cigarette burned idly between his fingers. He felt the fatigue weigh down on him even more now. The caffeinated surge of energy from his dark roast coffee prior was starting to wear off. And another cigarette wouldn’t hurt as well. 

“Didn’t take you for such an advocate, Park.”

“Only when necessary. It's effective when I encounter stubborn men too set in their ways.”

The beta woman’s goading was lighthearted, he knew. An attempt to nullify the sullenness that was growing palpable in the air. But he brushed it off nonetheless, like a piece of lint on his shirt.

Park eyed Adler. Watched as he pulled his aviators off and rubbed a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. Massaging at the stress gathered there, where his eyebrows knitted together and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Adler blew out a harsh smoke-filled sigh, hanging his aviators on his woolen vest. The bright fluorescent lighting was starting to make his head throb. 

“Adler. There’s no other contingency plan to fall back onto. In order to get what we need and when we need it, accommodations are necessary whether we like it or not. This is the only way.”

But Adler knew Park was right. To try and construct another course of action would only be detrimental in the long run. Time was going without a hitch or a hurdle. And who was he to ask it to change its nature? Results needed to be made and progress needed to be set into motion. 

“Guess, you’re right. We have no choice but to stick with the plan.” 

“With adjustments, of course.” Park added on.

Adler shifted forward, leaning his weight on the narrow windowsill. His aviators on the collar of his wool sweater vest clunked against the high clearance badge on his lanyard. They both stood there stationary, both occupied with their own thoughts.

“Hudson might burst a blood vessel over this.” Adler then said, breaking the silence between them. 

With a sardonic curl of her oxblood lips, Park only snickered. “Let’s hope so. It beats having him breathing down our necks for once.”

Adler didn’t say much more after that. Only stared into the lab room towards you – the sedated subject strapped to the gurney in the far center. A shallow crease soon appeared between his brows, tongue running across gritted teeth, tracing along pointed canines. 

An alpha turned omega…

How pathetic. 

It was almost pitiful. To witness how far the mighty had fallen. Not just for a Russian loyalist so high on Perseus’ totem pole, but as an alpha. For one’s very nature, one’s entire being to up and change. To crack and crumble under deceit and pressure. From a great redwood that stood tall against the gales only to be felled; whittled down until you were nothing but splinters of firewood. 

Admittedly, he had been impressed at first; Alpha to Alpha, face to face. Understanding of your disposition. Your stubbornness, your aggression, your loyalty to your pack’s idealism. Your piety to your pack alpha: Perseus. Even for a person betrayed by one of your own. Resilient to any traditional methods in their arsenal. Unbroken, unbridled. Even throughout the long hours of interrogation and torture. How shameful you were now. Pliant and pacified. An inferiority before him now. Adler supposed that you were never a true alpha in the end. There was always a weakness inside you it seemed. And such weakness needed to be culled.

But those grievances were more idiosyncratic, a disgraceful thing to his inner alpha. Your subjugation from MK-Ultra made you more useful now. Even if your brain was nothing but pulp and rind in the end. Omega or not, you were a vital asset now more than ever. 

And Adler would make sure to get use out of you. 

He was growing restive. 

Stuck in the office, sitting around all day, and doing nothing but paperwork. For a man of action like Adler, it was a fate worse than death. Like an addict, he was feening; an adrenaline junkie without an arrant dosage of the rush that came naturally within his line of work. What was supposedly a short-term position, lasting no longer than a few days, turned into a week of doing nothing but paperwork. He was a workaholic. But a white-collar worker was an antithesis to his very being. Being idle for so long was eating away at his composure and his patience wore paper thin.

But orders were orders. And protocol preceded him.

Adler had just finished up his tedious workload, eyes stinging from staring at papers all day, when there came a knocking on his office door. He turned just as Park opened the door, giving her a nod as she entered inside his space. The sterile scent of antiseptic and bleach clung to her, overpowering the stench of stale smoke and coffee in the room. A concentrated contrast that made Adler crinkle his nose at it. Feeling an urge to sneeze in order to clear his sinuses.

He watched as Park settled herself across the room, leaning against the filing cabinets in front of the desk. But even from afar, Adler could see her exhaustion. The droop in her usual head-held-up-high posture. Dark bags under her eyes, the blanch of her skin. Noticeable no matter how much Park tried to hide it with concealer and blush.

Adler leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at her. “Any updates?” 

“Yes. The sedation was a success and the subject is recovering fairly well. Just a bit of sickness from being under sedation, largely for longer than was anticipated. But a full recovery is to be expected.”

He hummed. “It lasted longer than I thought.” 

The undercurrent of disgruntlement wasn’t lost on Park, especially as beta. So biologically intuited with the influx of emotions, even the slightest change. The beta woman adjusted the reading glasses on her face. 

“Unsurprisingly. First heats are unpredictable in how long they last. Some last a few days, even weeks. But even after, the heats that follow remain irregular. It takes months before they start to stabilize. Especially without an alpha to help.”

Adler made an interested noise. Mindlessly taking a sip of coffee that had long grown cold. “Seems intricate.”

“Quite so.” The beta woman let out a soft sigh, “But for the subject’s first heat to come so suddenly after MK-Ultra well …” Park paused then shook her head as if to stop her overthinking, “Well, no need to dwell on it further. It’s one less thing to worry about in Berlin. I suppose we were lucky in that regard.” 

“Hm, some are luckier than others.”

Park crossed her arms, eyeing Adler. 

“I suppose so.” She said, “But you know the procedures. You can’t be anywhere near the lab. You’re lucky you were even allowed to work, let alone be at the facility.”

“I can control myself.” He fished out a cigarette carton from the pocket of his leather jacket hanging off the coat rack next to him. “But filling out paperwork and filing it away all day’s not what I signed up for. S’not my job.”

Park smiled. “I think it quite suits you actually.”

Adler’s lips pressed tight, tapping the carton against his hand until a cigarette slid out onto his palm. “Do I have clearance, Park?”

She regarded him for a moment. “You do.”

“Good.” Adler settled the cigarette between his lips. “About time.” 

“You know patience is a virtue. Has anyone told you that, Adler?” Park exhaled out.

“All the time.” He mumbled behind his teeth, thumbing at his lighter. The cigarette in his mouth smoldered, catching the flame. And Adler inhaled. Then blew smoke out in a slow and steady exhale of breath. “But in my experience, patience is nothing but passivity and a goddamn waste of time.”

“As I said: stubborn men too set in their ways.”

Adler only huffed on his cigarette, lip curled at the edge. 

“We leave in a couple days. The subject will be ready before then.”

Park turned to leave but stopped herself, turning on her heel as she looked at the man quietly. “And Adler?”

He canted his head to the side towards Park standing in the doorway. Cigarette resting between his blunt fingertips, simmering low. Lips pressed into a fine line. 

“Happy Birthday.”

She then left with the shut of the door and the click of heels fading down the hallway. Leaving the pristine smell of the lab lingering in the office. Despite its strong scent, Adler found some relief with it. Back on the job and back on the hunt for an entity that had eluded him for decades. He lifted a hand up his face and over his scarred cheek. Delicately, calloused fingers ghosted over the plunging trenches of the Lichtenberg-like scar; a lightning strike incised into flesh. Jagged and complex. Starting from his chin, the rough terrain of his scars branched through his lips and across his left buccal plane like a tree canopy. 

A reminder carved deep into the skin; a failure that Adler would not repeat twice.

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

A/N:

"Focus." Ghost snaps, and you both fall silent, clamping down on any doubts in favor of the imminent task at hand. "All stations, report."

There's a pause, a low crackle of static before a different voice floats over the airways.

"I'm inna security suite." Soap reports with a hushed murmur. "Got eyes on you, Ghost.”

"Good man." Ghost responds immediately, and you huff at the pleased little intonation of his voice at Soap's work. "Did you clean your route?"

"Squeaky clean. If anyone saw me come in, they won live to tell the tale." Soap reports pridefully, no doubt preening about his handiwork.

You breathe a sigh of relief at that, shoulders drooping with the exhale that is perhaps a touch too loud for your current circumstances, hidden as you are.

"I'm standing by with Nikolai." Gaz chimes in, voice hushed to match your tones. "We've secured a chopper in the southeast quadrant."

There's a pause then, and Gaz adds "Why am I on chopper duty? I bloody hate these things."

You hear Soap snort.

"Stay focused gents." Ghost snips at all of you, hushing any idle chatter. "Let's make this clean and quick. Won't be long before we're discovered."

There's a chorus of copies all around before you chime in once more. “Soap, did you check the basement cameras? Price might be down there.”

There’s silence on the other end for a few moments before Soap supplies. “Aye, he is. Cell three. Good copy, Foxtrot-01.”

"I'm making my way to building three." Ghost tells you all, low and quiet as he navigates the dangerous exterior of the structure you're in under the cover of darkness.

"Aye, I've got you covered, Ghost." Soap declares from his sniper nest atop the building across the way. Then he pauses for a moment before adding "Watch your six."

Ghost huffs, amused by the sergeant's concern. "Watch your own six, Johnny." He replies, but there's no venom there, just a quiet reminder to you all. Stay safe, stay silent, stay hidden. Here, in the den of the enemy, there's no way you all will make it out alive if the alarm is raised.

"Rookie, what's your position?" Ghost prompts as you continue to crawl forward, trying to slither along your belly as quiet as you can to avoid any detection. Yet even as you move there's a distant noise that pricks your ears, and you freeze.

Footsteps.

You pause where you lay, flat on your stomach, the cold metal of the vents pressing through your gear. The slats of a vent under you allow light to seep through. It illuminates your face as you stifle a breath, hearing boots echo down the hallway below you. It takes a moment for you to click off your radio, making sure the team's voices won't betray your position.

In the silence, you can hear your heartbeat thrum loudly in your ears, and you wonder if perhaps the person below can hear the drum of it against the metal sheet. Somehow, they'll look up, see your wide eyes gazing down, reach for their side arm in a jerking motion too fast for you to follow, and you'll enter into the great beyond, blood dripping from the vents.

You slowly raise a hand to your face, trying to stifle even the barest hint of your breaths just as a figure comes into view below you. Red hair, under a cap, a coarse mustache above a mouth downturned into permanent scowl.

O'Conor, you realize with a swooping flutter of your heartbeat, blood freezing tightly in your veins as you recognize the commander of KorTac, the man who remains bent on the destruction of your team, the man who wanted Price alive.

You try not to shake as you watch him pace into view, hands trembling over your face and eyes impossibly wide at the sight of the commander.

"Declan."

It takes every ounce of strength inside you to not flinch at the sound of a familiar voice, heavily accented and rough as a tall, ominous figure catches the attention of the Irishman. There's another pair of footsteps, and you watch as König enters into view below you, his superior height leaning over O'Conor.

"We need to talk." König declares gravely, voice low in warning. Yet O'Conor, rather than being intimidated, merely squints his eyes up at the Austrian. You try not to tremble as he looks up, praying to any God that will listen that somehow he won't see you in the shadows

"Aye." O'Conor offers in response, his voice betraying his own threat. "That we do."

Yet then, to your surprise, he glances around as if to look and see if there is anyone nearby.

"Not here." He declares, a little lower, and promptly turns on his heel, leaving König to follow.

You think for a moment König will somehow lift his face to you, stare his eyes into yours in the dimness, lift a single gloved finger to his lips in warning. Yet instead he shifts where he merely shifts where he stands before following the commander.

You wait a long, heavy minute for the footsteps to fade before exhaling a heavy, trembling breath. Your hand shakes noticeably as you raise it to click your radio back on, greeted by the murmur of your comrades growing frantic in the absence of your voice.

"I'm clear." You tell them, voice wavering. "Ghost, be advised, two VIPs exiting to the south of the building."

You pause a moment, letting your heartbeat try to settle in your chest before adding: "It's O'Conor and König."

You hear Gaz curse.

"Solid copy." Ghost responds darkly, voice dipping to a low, sinister growl. "Soap, give me a sit-rep. Can I intercept?"

The radio crackles for a moment before Soap grunts in frustration. "Negative." He grits. "They're on the opposite side of the building, you'll be spotted. Cannae risk it."

"Sir." Gaz interrupts as you begin to move forward again, almost to the drop. "Do we have permission to shoot on sight?"

You do pause at that, realizing belatedly the thing you've done, revealing the position of your strange enemy turned ally to your comrades, to the same men who wait silently for the destined moment where a bullet pierces his skull.

The breath in your chest stutters to silence, and in its place is the cold, icy realization of the death sentence you've handed to the man who dances in the shadows of your dreams.

Then, Ghost's voice.

"Permission granted."

A shiver works its way through your limbs, raising up your throat in a protest you barely swallow before it can echo to your teammates.

No.

Yet it's too late. You hear Soap murmur an affirmative, once again reporting his findings to Ghost. It's a small bit of solace when he conveys the two men have exited the building, headed outside and into the midnight darkness. Yet the lurking shadow of fear doesn't abate, not even as you reach the vertical drop down towards the basement, maneuvering yourself at an angle so you can descend feet first.

The mission, you remind yourself. Price. He's your objective first and foremost, as you seek to undo the wreckage you've created, bring him home safe where he belongs.

"Got em on cams." Soap reports again, but his voice betrays something a little puzzled at the sight that must be playing before him. "Looks like they're havven themselves an argument."

You hear Gaz huff a mirthless sound as you slowly shimmy your way down the shaft and into the story below. "All not well in KorTac?" He asks smugly, only to be hushed by Ghost.

"Rookie, how copy?"

"Nearly there." You echo back a little breathlessly. "Just getting to the basement."

"Roger." Ghost responds quickly, pausing so you hear the sound of a silenced bullet meeting its target. "Hold when you get there, making my way to you now."

You mutter an affirmative just as you reach the bottom, kneeling before you begin to shimmy forward once more. There's silence over the comms, interrupted only once or twice by Soap relaying positions of some of the mercenaries to Ghost, sealing their fates as the phantom draws their final breaths on their behalf.

It's in the few minutes that follow that you manage to scoot forward, peering into each room you pass to see if the prisoner there is the man you've come to save.

At last, as you peer down into the dimness, you blink and try to squint before noticing a familiar set of gear, the British emblem etched into the shoulder of his uniform. Still. Silent.

"Ghost, I have a view of Price." You breathe, trying to quell the stammer of your heart the way Price's head lolls onto his chest, the ragged, cracked rise of his chest that speaks of something broken. A familiar pang of guilt roils low in your stomach, despondent, outraged at the fate you've led your captain to- locked in a damp, dark prison cell with nothing but brutality as his companion.

"How's he look?" Gaz presses before Ghost has a chance to respond, and you release a shuddering exhale, trying to stay composed despite the tremble of panic threatening inside you. Years of training force you to exhale long slow through your nose, eyes closing as you force yourself through the hammering despair inside you.

"Bad." You reply, quieter now, and the silence that echoes over the comms speaks of nothing less than dread.

You gather yourself despite it, prepare to try and find the will within you to press ever onwards, echoing Ghost's callsign over the comms in a bid for orders.

Yet the lieutenant doesn't offer another word, and even as you echo his name in concern there's only silence that greets you, cold and absent.

It doesn't take long for you to make up your mind then, because after only a second's hesitation, you begin to work the vent shaft open with your multi-tool, gently prying loose the screws. You hear Soap once more try to raise Ghost, and by the time the lieutenant responds you have the vent entrance swinging open on a hinge, opening far enough for you to begin to try and slip through legs first.

"Two KorTac operatives down." He reports, voice deadly quiet, hushed. "Rookie, stand by."

"Too late." You offer him in return, with a shake of your head as if he can see it. Whatever Ghost snaps next at you, a reminder to stay put is muffled by the low thud of you dropping to the floor.

Price doesn't even lift his head at the sound, and you try to erase the frantic murmur of your fluttering heartbeat as you quickly but quietly dart forward, kneel before him.

"Price." You whisper, urgent and afraid, hands grasping at his arms to try and shake him. You swallow the horror that draws across your face as you examine him. His clothes are the same as the ones he'd been captured in days prior. Yet they're disheveled, torn in places where scarlet stains the fabric. His face is a mangled mess of blood and swelling, his shoulder lodged at an angle that looks wrong. When the captain breathes there's a hitch in his chest that has you choke on a trembling noise of pain at his condition. It wavers your voice as once again you try to rouse him, words betraying your fear. "Price. Wake up. Please wake up."

Price doesn't respond, and in the silence you feel your world begin to fracture at the seams.

You stand abruptly, letting your hands gingerly tilt your captain's face so the red smear of his blood flakes against your gloves.

"John." You whisper then upon seeing the full violence etched across the flesh of his face. Your hands shake as you look over the crimson drowning one of his eyes, nose broken, bloodied. The air in your chest feels too heavy, too pressing as you try once more to echo his name. "John."

It's only then that Price's eyes flutter open. You see him blink against the haze for a moment, eyes clearing quickly. The years allowing him to narrow in on you just as you breathe a desperate, smiling shudder of relief, eyes warming with tears.

"Rookie." He mutters, and you wince despairingly at the drag of his voice in his chest. Wet. Fractured but not yet broken.

"Yeah. Yeah cap, it's me." You tell him breathlessly, the smile on your face soured by concern. Your heart feels a too rapid flutter in your chest, searing brightness of adrenaline fueling the pulsing thrum of blood in your veins.

"You made it out." He breathes with realization, and once more your mind flashes to the sight of him tossed into the yawning maw of a dark van, taken far away from you even as you scream in the confines of Soap's unbreakable hold.

Yet then he shakes his head, grunting with pain at the motion. "Rookie. You need to leave. They're looking for you. O'Conor said-"

"Damn O'Conor." You hiss instead, moving quickly now, behind him and pulling out your blade to begin sawing at his restraints. "We're getting you out of here, cap. Not leaving without you."

"We?" Price echoes, still a little dazed. "Don't tell me-"

"Yes. We." You interrupt, freeing his hands and now working on the wire that secures his torso to the back of the chair. "Never leave a man behind, Price."

As if reminded, you raise your hand to your radio and press down so your voice echoes out. "This is Foxtrot-01, package secured. Standby."

You hear a whooshed sigh of relief, a breath that has been held for far too long before it's Gaz's voice that answers back. Yet before he can speak it's Ghost's voice that interjects. "Good copy, Foxtrot-01. Stand by for RV."

"Copy, standing by." You clip back, knife working its way through the remainder of Price's bindings. Yet as you move around to his front to slice the zip ties securing his ankles to the chair, Soap's voice echoes forth with a crackle and a low, grave warning.

"I've got eyes on ye, Rookie. Those guards outside are getting mighty suspicious-"

A noise outside, just as you tear loose the last few restraints. It makes the both of you look up sharply, dread awash in your limbs as you realize too late you've been made.

The door clicks open just as you dart in front of Price, who wobbles to a stand behind you. Hands reaching for your automatic you watch the door to swing wide, hard enough to crack on the wall beside it.

"WEAPONS DOWN." A voice bellows from a dark figure in full gear, a helmet obscuring your enemy's face as he lifts his weapon towards you both, flanked by two more men behind him, a fourth and a fifth down the hallway. "NOW."

You feel your hands tremble despite your grip, glaring into the darkened visor of the soldier before you, eyes tracing the emblem of a wolf on his shoulder. It's the insignia of KorTac, an oath sworn to the company of men and women designed to kill you all, to reduce the 141 into a smoldering pile of ashes so smoke curls into the sky.

The same insignia he wears.

"WE WILL SHOOT." The guard barks, adjusting the grip on his rifle. "SURRENDER. NOW."

You could. You could lay down your weapon, fail both yourself and Price once more at the meek reward of your life- even if means submitting to O'Conor's hands, to the torture within as they try to break you, to hand the mangled pieces of you to Price in hopes it would rot and fester his soul. All while eyes watch from behind a bleach teared hood, unable to help lest he too be destroyed.

König. Your mind tries once more, summoning the hooded figure into your thoughts in a desperate plea that you shake away despite the dangerous temptation there. Yet even in the face of capture, his words beckon to you, prying open your thoughts with his voice.

"Some things are more beautiful when they are free, Maus."

"FINAL WARNING. WE WILL OPEN FIRE."

You don't comply, feeling the terror in your veins muted by the cold, trained instinct of survival and the reminder of the things he seeks in you. The pure beauty of something dangerous but wild, enchanting and deadly but untouchable. The moment he catches you in his grip is the moment he loses the magic inside of you, the spell that binds him to you.

You focus not on the tumult inside of you, of the dreams and the nightmares, the prophecies of future or damnation of the past. Instead, the world narrows down to the level of your scope before you, the feeling of your captain at your back, knowing that even in the darkest moments here in the face of certain defeat that he'll never give in. Price will fight until his dying breath, his grave one of glory from battles fought and victories gained. You feel his unwavering determination bleed into you as he places a hand on your shoulder, strengthening you with his touch alone.

You'll never surrender.

A clatter behind them. You blink just as they turn, and with a hiss milky white smoke begins to fill the hallway. There's a moment where the guards yelp, try and turn in the direction of the smoke, and too late you hear one of them reach for his radio, yelling a "Contact-!" before his voice is swallowed by a scream.

A massive shape moves in the mist, and you watch as his hands secure the man to his chest, reaching a blade around to the front of his throat. The wet gurgle his victim gives is the only thing he can manage before he slumps to the floor.

Ghost.

Before the remaining guards can raise their weapons, choking on the smoke, you launch forward into the fray. Blood boiling at a feral, raging simmer, you jump at the man who barked orders at you and Price, onto his back and wrapping your legs around his front to keep his arms restrained. It takes little effort for you to draw your own knife against his neck and pull. The sound he makes as he screams is muffled by the palm of your glove.

You tumble off him as his knees buckle, moving before you can fully catch your breath. No stopping. No hesitation. A single heartbeat means the difference between life and death, and you watch as the next guard tries to reach his comrade held up to the wall by Ghost's hand around his throat. He turns to you a moment too late, using the wall to brace and jump a few inches higher. You catch the whites of his eyes as you descend on him, unable to scream before you plant the blade in his shoulder. Your weight crashes down on him, sending you both falling to the ground.

He tries to grapple with you despite the blood oozing across the silver of your knife, hands fumbling as he tries to regain himself enough to dislodge you. Before he can, however, an arm reaches down, wraps across your throat as you're hauled back and up, against the uneven and rigid surface of a tactical vest. You kick out just enough for your feet to brace against the wall beside you, sending your opponent hurtling back until he hits the opposite side of the hallway. Yet he doesn't let go, his hold on your neck tightening and choking your air supply, a hand on your head at just the right angle to twist.

Before he can, there's movement beside him, and you feel your balance thrown off center as someone else manages to dislodge you from your captor's hold, sending you sinking to the ground. You raise your head to see Price grappling with the man, trying to use every ounce of his remaining strength to fend him off. That same, untamed glint in his eyes glimmers past the red rim of his gaze, teeth gritted as he tries to reach for the man's weapon.

It takes a moment for you to yank your knife out of the other man's shoulder, and he weakly tries to reach for it in your hands before you plant a boot on his visor so hard that the plastic cracks. Turning, you hurl it at Price's attacker, landing it between his shoulder blades. The man grunts, goes down to one knee, and you watch as Price secures a hand on his jaw, on his helmet and yanks his head abruptly. The resounding crack as a result has you tense, face grimacing as the guard's arms fall limp at his sides and he slumps. Dead.

You slump against the wall, chest heaving, blood splattered, hands roaming over your vest to make sure you still have your weapons and ammunition, searching for an injury you missed. Yet your gaze snaps to Ghost as he walks over to the soldier with the cracked visor. The man gives your lieutenant a wheezing, whimpered plea, only for Ghost to raise his weapon and fire once into his skull, putting the man out of his misery. Silence settles over the hallway, the last of the smoke dissipating in the carnage the three of you have left.

"Sloppy." Ghost tells you flatly as he helps you to a stand, your legs finding their strength once more. "We need to work on your close combat skills."

You resist the urge to snap at him, feeling adrenaline pump with poison through your blood. "Let's survive first, LT." You tell him instead, and Ghost nods before turning to Price. You look between them as the men meet eyes, a wordless recognition and meaning passed through their stare.

"Broken?" Ghost asks, and despite the flatness of his words he still manages to convey his relief and concern at the sight of his captain

"Ask me when I'm in Hell." Price huffs in return, and despite the bruising on his face you swear you can see him pull a smile.

"I'll see you there then." Ghost quips, raising his hand and offering Price his pistol. The captain takes it, holds it gently to check the number of shots left before he nods, turns to you.

"You escaped." He states, rather than questions. "How?"

"Answers later." You tell him, once again lifting your weapon to your hands, widening your stance in preparation of Ghost's orders. The lieutenant catches your eyes, gives you a terse nod before shifting to address you both.

"We need to move. Rookie, watch our six." With that he raises his own automatic, takes a stance ahead of you and Price, allowing you to flank the rear and watch for any signs of reinforcements coming up behind you.

"Soap will meet us up top." Ghost murmurs darkly as the three of you approach the stairwell up from the basement, hovering around the corner. "Nikolai and Gaz will provide ex-fil in the heli."

"You put Gaz in a chopper?" Price asks, the humor in his voice veiled by the gravity of your circumstances.

"Is now really the time?" You hiss, once more checking your gear to ensure all your ammo and weapons are in place. "Shit, left my knife."

"Leave it." Ghost orders, using a hand to brace Price on the wall as the captain grunts in pain.

"It's my favorite." You grumble with annoyance but make no effort to go back and retrieve it.

"Ghost, be advised." Soap relays over the comms, voice low and grave. "Enemies moving in on your position. Think they know we're here."

"Are the stairs clear?" Ghost asks in return, but before Soap can speak next there's a shout from the top of the stairs and something clatters down the steps.

"DOWN." Ghost bellows, reaching for the grenade and lobbing it back towards its sender before hunching down beside you and Price. The resulting explosion has the world shake and hum around you, the smoke filling your nostrils and your ears ringing in the aftershocks.

When you come to next, you can hear shots echoing down the stairs as the soldiers up top open fire on you all. Shielded by the wall, you watch the bullets pierce the plaster at the bottom of the stairs, creating holes where your flesh would be had you not been paying attention.

"Rookie!" Ghost barks, and you follow his hand gesture, scooting past Price long enough to unload your weapon at the men up top, relishing the cry of hurt at finding your target. Ghost takes the opportunity of the resulting gap, darting across the base of the stairs so both of you flank either side. You watch your shots, darting out long enough to shoot, find your target, and then make your mark. It takes little time, but even in the moments that follow you find yourself yelling into the radio towards the Scot on the other end.

"Now would be a really good time for that diversion, Soap!" You shout, and whatever Soap says next is swallowed by the resulting gunfire that rains down on you all.

Eventually there's the sound of a thud as the last of the guards slumps to the ground, and you force your way up the stairs behind Ghost and Price, weapon raised and breathing leveled. The deadly focus of a soldier engulfs you now, dreams and nightmares forgotten, not even pausing to look at the bodies you step over, their dying breaths coloring the bottom of your boots red.

"Gaz, get that helo ready." Ghost growls at the sergeant, to which Gaz clips an affirmative just as Ghost turns his attention to Soap. "Soap, how copy?"

Silence. Then, in the near distance, an explosion. It shudders the floor under your feet, makes dust fall down from the ceiling and coat a thin coating of gray over your gear. You can hear the distant crackle of something burning as smoke coils up into the midnight sky.

"That should keep them occupied." Soap chirps, perhaps a little too gleeful.

"The hell did you do?!" You shoot back, following quickly behind the two officers in front of you, sweeping behind to check your six.

"Set fire to their supply depot." Soap responds smugly before his voice turns serious once again. "I'm moving in on your position. RV in five."

"Check your shots." Price reminds you both, to which you and Ghost nod, continue to press forward. It isn't long before you encounter another squadron of soldiers in one of the hallways, this one more heavily armed than the ones before. When you lean out to shoot, you can see the hard exterior of a riot shield keep your shots at bay.

"Shit." You curse, leaning back to reload. The stairs to the roof aren't far beyond, but the hallway before you is choked with soldiers that manage to press closer towards you all, closing the distance. You pull a grenade from your vest, yanking the pin with your teeth and lobbing it down the hall, covering Price from the implosion that makes your teeth chatter with the impact. Yet it only slows the remainder of the force ahead of you all, doing nothing to eliminate the obstacle ahead of you.

"We're going to get flanked." You yell to Ghost above the gunfire, but the lieutenant doesn't respond, focused on his own task at hand, rapidly reloading and trying to shoot anyone who gets too close.

True to your warning, you hear a shout from the hallway behind you, spinning on your heel to shoot at the head that pops around the corner.

"We're being boxed in!" You bellow to Ghost and Price, only for the captain to flatten you to the wall, moving you behind him so he can empty a few rounds at the next figure to come around the corner.

"Keep your head, Rookie!" He yells over the chaos, voice garbled with the injury to his chest. You do, you try, but with enemies on both sides you feel the temptation of panic threaten to rise inside you, obscure your focus into a deadly distraction. You force it down, remind yourself the three of you have been in far worse scenarios than this.

"Soap!" You bark over comms instead, bending your head to your radio for just a moment before you lean out to shoot once more, draw back as a bullet flies inches from your head. "Soap, what's your status?"

The other end of the hallways explodes.

Ah. That would be him then.

"MOVE UP!" Ghost thunders, and you wait until Price is past you before firing several parting shots to the soldiers behind you, rounding the corner and crouching to avoid the lingering shots fired overhead. You can hear panicked shouts from the KorTac operatives now, as they realize they've been flanked, spinning in both directions to try and fend you all off. Yet it's useless, because as soon as they try to turn from Soap's line of fire they only manage to expose themselves to yours, their screams cut off as you find your mark.

Once the hallway is empty the three of you quickly make your way forward, finding a breathless Soap on the other side, offering you a grin smeared with grenade dust.

"Good to see you alive and well, Cap." He offers to Price. Price doesn't have time to respond, instead jerking his head to the soldiers coming up behind you. The Scot takes the order wordlessly, falling in beside you as Ghost and Price take point, pushing towards the stairs that lead up to the next floor.

The resulting minutes that follow are fueled only by the ring of gunshots, the ringing aftershocks of grenades, barked orders and clicking sounds of reloading weapons. You forget the past and future, allowing the battle worn focus of your training and experience to fall over you, eyes wide and focused, taking in the smallest miniscule movements and allowing your aim to ring true.

It isn't long before the four of you reach the ladder to the roof. Ghost signals for you to go first and clear the way, and as you ascend through the shaft you can hear the gunfire below mute into a distant ringing. It takes a moment to reach for your bolt cutters, balancing precariously on the rungs of the ladder as you snap the lock to the hatch in two. The entrance swings open with a groan, revealing the dark, roiling clouds hanging high above in the heavens.

Almost there. You remind yourself with a breath of cold air. Just a little longer.

You make sure to help Price up onto the flat surface of the roof, where you can hear the distant thump thump thump of a helicopter's blades beating distantly at the air. You allow yourself a single moment of relief before your ears attune to shouting below the building. Price catches your eye, and without even being asked you fall in, planting yourself to the edge of the building and adjusting your rifle so you gaze down onto the pathways connecting the buildings. You can see soldiers scurrying, hurrying to the building you're atop of, barking orders and racing to the burning supply depot that licks orange and bright against the black sky.

Flat on your stomach, you adjust your rifle and find your targets, watching as KorTac soldiers jerk, drop to the ground in a violent splash of crimson. You can hear chatter over the radio, but it dims to a mere hum as you fully immerse yourself into your specialized skill set, plucking enemies off the map one by one with unerring, precise calculation.

Yet then you see the glint of a scope, one that catches the light of the burning building nearby, a single warning before the other sniper finds you in their sights.

You roll out of the way just in time, narrowly avoiding the bullet that chips the brick of the building next to you. It takes a moment to adjust, and as you roll back to focus, you can see the figure aiming up at you from another rooftop. Dark hair, lean build, kohl darkened eyes gazing at you from her own sniper nest.

Roze.

You feel a snarl tugging at your lips, aim once more at her, but your aim is off as you once more duck to avoid her own shot at you. Even so, there's a distant thrill of excitement that pulses through you, wild and shuddering with a bright, biting taste of adrenaline.

"Been a while since I had a sniper shootout." You mutter to nobody in particular, allowing yourself an untamed smile, eyes bright with fixation. You narrow yourself to the scope focused on the woman opposite of you, finger hovering over the trigger as the crosshairs fall onto her own mirrored expression.

You don't get the chance, because suddenly the distant whir of the chopper gets loud, and the roof Roze is on explodes into a trail of dust as the turret of the helo turns on the enemy there. You think you see Roze vanish into a puff of soot, but don't stay long enough to find you, shouldering your weapon and raising yourself up to get ready for exfil.

There's a shout from the ladder, and you watch as Soap tumbles back from the hatch with a cry mixed with pain and outrage, his back hitting the gravel with a crunch. He curses, quickly tries to right himself, and as he stands he curses again, balancing awkwardly on one leg. You watch as blood oozes from the hole in his pants and he snarls at the enemies who left it there.

"Bloody fuckin' bastards." He seethes, but somehow manages to shut the hatch once Ghost follows, preventing any pursuers from following. You can barely hear him as the chopper angles down, lowering onto the rooftop and beating the air around you into a gale.

"Everyone on the chopper. NOW." Price bellows despite the choke in his chest, and despite his injuries he tries to be the last one on, covering your retreat as you tumble onto the helicopter floor. Ghost none too gently forces him to follow, knocking Price into your arms as you scramble to catch him, holding him fast just as the chopper raises itself off the roof.

"Get us out of here, Nik!" Gaz shouts over the noise, his hands still secured to the turret that leans out the side of the chopper. You flinch, duck, doing your best to cover Price as a few stray bullets ping the side of the chopper as you all lift off. The noise of the turret beside you only continues to deafen your senses, Ghost kneeling beside it and offering his own parting regards to the soldiers far below that try to bring you down.

"RPG!!" Gaz hollers, and the chopper angles severely to avoid the rocket that narrowly misses one of the blades. You feel yourself begin to slide backwards with Price in your arms, and manage to catch hold of one of the ropes, gripping tight with a yell, trying to prevent yourself from falling backwards further. You can hear Nikolai curse vividly in Russian, securing the controls before the bird goes into a tailspin. Even so, you can't help but glance over your shoulder, staring with a horrified gaze at the tilting earth that spins dizzily on the other exit of the heli.

When the chopper finally does even out, you hear the final, dull remaining bullet pings graze off the exterior of the heli, until they too fade to silence, and the only thing left is the urgent beat of the blades above you all.

It's only then that you manage to catch the gazes of the men around you, chests heaving, wild eyed, disbelieving as the adrenaline continues to thrum high in their veins.

"Steamin' Jesus." Soap offers in the silence that follows, grazes a hand over his face and stares first at you, then at Ghost, Gaz, until his eyes finally land on Price. Yet his smile cracks at the wild shock there, eyes dancing and bright, almost bewildered in the chaos of his thoughts before he asks you all: "Tha bloody hell was that?!"

As if those are the words needed, you watch as Gaz slumps into the seat beside him, head tilting down to his chest as he loudly declares "I am never, ever, ever getting on a fucking chopper again."

It startles an almost manic laugh from you, your hands still tucked under Price's arms, blinking and trying to quell the like-minded disbelief from your own mind.

"Who's hurt?" Ghost asks, and you all list an observed catalog of injuries. Bruises, scrapes, bullet holes, but all of you alive, whole, narrowly escaping the jaws of certain defeat intact. There's a pulsing, almost deranged relief between you all, one that sings loudly between gasping pants and heaved breaths.

"We did it." You breathe at last to Price, who has yet to straighten from your lap. His eyes are scrunched, forcing himself to breathe through the hurt radiating from his chest. You can see his chest rising with stuttering inhales, but even so your captain manages to raise his hand, patting it against the back of your palm in a wordless acknowledgement.

Well done.

It takes more than a few minutes for you to collect yourselves, thrumming with leftover, frenetic energy and bloodlust that bites down on the pain of your injuries. You hear Nikolai rumble something in Russian to Price, to which Price huffs, offers a groaning. "Da." in reply.

Finally, when he feels fit to move, you help Price stand, gently getting him strapped into a chair with Gaz's help. You seat yourself across from him, and when you finally let your shoulders fully uncoil with relief, Price catches your gaze. He taps on his headset, and you switch on your own just in time to hear him ask: "How did you know where I was?"

You blink, memories rewinding to the broad, dark figure of a hooded soldier illuminated in the dim darkness, eyes staring down at you past trails of bleached tears. His words once again echo endlessly into your thoughts, pulling at something dark and twisted and all too familiar. Yet there's warmth there, and it colors your smile as you offer:

"A little lark told me."

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