#poly mlm

Ghost was loitering like a wraith in the open doorway to Price’s office, unwilling to make the first move and encroach on the alpha’s territory. Millen had long since been sent back to his room, Soap pressed to his side for comfort. The beta and xi had curled up in Millen’s bed for some much-needed quiet time.

Swallowing hard, the lieutenant slowly shuffled into the room. For once, both his mask and balaclava were off, exposing his scarred, bloodless face. He was trembling steadily, feeling like he was back in primary school, being called into the principal’s office for scrapping on the playground. Or worse, the situation stirred up memories that had been buried deep for decades, of when his father would arrive home, booze-blearied and foul-tempered, and find some feeble excuse to beat Simon until he couldn’t get up from the floor. Better him than Tommy, though.

Price was sitting in his chair, taking in a long drag from a cigar. He breathed out the smoke and looked up. He gestured towards the seat opposite to his side of the desk. “Sit.”

Ghost shut the door behind him, keeping his head bowed. He had no scent to declare submission with, so he was forced to use his body language as much as possible. He said nothing, just slowly sat down, shoulders hunched and breaths stuttering silently.

Price shifted, and Ghost flinched, his arm coming halfway up instantaneously to block a hit that was never coming. Price’s stern expression softened ever-so-slightly.

“Simon,” he said firmly. “Look at me.”

Ghost’s tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips before he tore his gaze from the hardwood to look at his captain. He stared like a man awaiting an execution sentence.

Price stood. Ghost tensed at the movement, the strictly military part of his brain registering it as a threat. Price, however, just walked around the desk, stopping beside Ghost’s chair. He rested one hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder, making him go even more rigid, hazel eyes rolling up in fear like a spooked horse. But Ghost still didn’t move an inch, his bloodshot stare locked on to one of the empty areas of the wall straight ahead.

“Simon,” Price said quietly. Ghost still didn’t move, just trembled.

Price cupped the hinge of the lieutenant’s jaw to turn his face upwards. “Look at me, Simon. I’m not him.”

Ghost — Simon — choked down a surge of tangled emotion. It settled like a lump at the end of his esophagus. Factually, he knew that Price was not like his father. Simon wasn’t here to be hurt. Reprimanded, yes. Punished, likely— deservedly. But Price surely would never…

Price’s thumb, the pad rough from a lifetime of hard service, grazed over Simon’s squared cheekbone. The motion was so tender that it had Simon struggling not to break down into tears.

“I’m not him,” Price repeated, for only Simon’s ears to hear in the stillness of the room. “I will never lay a hand on you unless you want me to. You can screw up, you can make me mad, but no matter what, I would never hurt you. Do you understand?”

“C-Captain—“ Simon’s voice broke, and he was desperately fighting down a sob of wretched, pathetic proportions. He gulped in a breath and pressed his face against Price’s palm. “John—“

“Shh,” Price murmured, leaning down to kiss the crown of Simon’s temple, where there was a thin line of scar tissue from an old knife graze. “It’s alright, son. You’re not in trouble. What happened today was a trauma response. I just need you to tell me what triggered it, and where your head was at when you lost it.”

Simon gave a broken whimper as Price straightened back up, losing the closeness between them. The noise would have been comical coming from just an absolute unit of a man, had his misery not been so clearly written across his features.

“I— it was Soap,” Simon finally managed to say through hiccuping breaths. “I knew they were only playing, but— but Soap hit the ground and ‘e sounded hurt, and it was exactly like at Las Almas when he was shot, John, and everythin’ happened so fast, he was on ‘is back and I ‘ad to protect him—“

Price pressed a finger to Simon’s lips, stopping the younger man’s spiral before it could reach a full nosedive. “Alright. Alright, that’s all I needed to know.”

Simon was white-knuckling the armrests of the chair, struggling to maintain his fragile composure. “I d-didn’t— mean to—“

Price soothed the lieutenant with another chaste kiss to the forehead, and then carefully tugged him to stand. Simon was taller than him like this, but that didn’t matter in the moment. Price stroked the san’s cropped hair, admiring the gentle curls that were the color of cornsilk. “You’re still a good boy,” Price reassured him, and Simon melted into his touch, chin resting against Price’s neck. In return, Price encircled his arms around Simon’s waist, holding him loosely so that the lieutenant had the option to escape if he wanted to.

“You’re to apologize to Millen,” Price decided, though his tone was not purposefully cruel, even if what he was saying would cut deep into Simon’s pride. It was necessary to smooth over incidents between packmates as soon as possible, lest negative feelings be given time to fester. The worst-case scenario in any pack — especially military ones — was a subordinate having to fear his superior as the result of one bad encounter.

“What if I scared ‘im off?” Simon asked despondently, still drooped against his captain’s warm, stolid body.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“But what if—“

Price shushed his lieutenant by running a hand up and down the ridged length of his spine, feeling the bumps of each vertebrae. Some were a bit out of place or slightly lumpy, a result of dozens of injuries over as many years, and it made the area sensitive. Knowing this, Price was taking full advantage of it. Simon gave a hoarse moan as Price’s skilled fingers dug into a hard mound of tissue just at the base of his back, forcing the muscle to spasm sharply and then relax.

“Y’tense,” Price muttered in a voice that was tinged with amusement. He repeated the action, and Simon instinctively tried to pull away. Price allowed him.

“Okay?” Pruce questioned, and Simon gave a small nod. He rubbed at the back of his neck hesitantly, then leaned forward to nuzzle against Price’s prickly muttonchops— marking the captain as his even though he had no pheromones with which to do so.

Price rumbled approvingly, and rubbed against Simon’s packmark— a clear pink indent on a circle of otherwise unblemished skin. It was the only mark there was room for, as to both the left and right sides of Simon’s neck were ragged swathes of scar tissue: deep, criss-crossing cuts, chunks cut from his flesh as if he were a Thanksgiving ham to be diced and served upon a platter. His scent glands had been gouged out with vigor. The entire grisly mess had been cauterized, leaving various different shades of greyish-red where the burns had not healed well.

The disfigurement was courtesy of Manuel Roba. The torture Simon had underwent at the hands of the cartel overlord had permanently crippled his former dynamic as an alpha.

Simon hated his scars. Hated how his body no longer functioned because of what had been taken from him. He didn’t understand how Price could gently knead the welted flesh and not feel disgust, and yet every chance he had, the captain continued to do so.

“Proud of you for tellin’ me what happened, pup,” said Price. He gripped Simon’s scruff, nudging the taller man down so he could peck a quick kiss to the cicitrixes that peeked out above Simon’s high shirt collar. “Won’t have you talk to the staff sergeant yet tonight. Give him a day to calm down, then I’ll oversee the both of you, keep things friendly.”

Simon nodded in agreement, trying to push his head against Price’s cheek again. He gave a whine that was more of a constriction of air high in his nasal passages than something actually audible, but Price got the message just fine.

“Come on, pup, let’s head to my quarters. You could use a little skin-on-skin, eh?” Price guided Simon to the door with a hand on the small of his back, and Simon whimpered happily in response.

“Want me to text Johnny, see if he wants to join?” Price offered, figuring that Roach or Gaz could take over for the beta on xi nest-sharing duties. Simon nodded fervidly, the thought of his bondmate making his previously dulled eyes light up.

Price plucked his phone from his pocket, tapping on it several times before the screen lit up. He really had preferred his old flip-phone, but Gaz had got him this fancy Android for Christmas last year, and how could Price say no to his boy? The captain had let his beta show him how to work the maddeningly complex electronic until he finally had a very, very basic grasp on how to work the blasted thing. It took the captain nearly a full two minutes, but he managed to send Soap a text.

P: My room. Simon.

He tried to send one of the little ghost emojis, and ended up misclicking and sending two crying cats and a trombone instead. After a moment, a bubble with three blinking dots appeared on Soap’s side of the chat app, and then his reply arrived.

S: On it. ETA three minutes, have to grab Roach to stay with Millen. He’s still a wee bit shaken up.

Price managed to send a thumbs-up and then stuffed his phone back into his pocket. Simon was waiting anxiously by the door, sniffing the air to try and pick up any trace of his bondmate. Price slipped his own hand into Simon’s, rubbing over knuckles swollen and split from the san’s favorite pastime— the gym’s punching bag. “Come on, love. Johnny’ll be along shortly.”

They walked together to Price’s quarters, which were quite spacious due to his large pack size and rank as an officer. The bed was the width and length of two queen-sized put together, a size sold specifically for pack alphas to provide prime nesting space for their omegas and betas, and covered with thick quilts and pillows, all scented thoroughly by all of the 141. There was a small couch and a few beanbags clumped to one side, along with a closet and a dresser filled with memorabilia.

Because the 141 were only a pack of five, they didn’t qualify to have a shared housing unit outside of the barracks. If they had only one more official packmate, they would be upgraded to something more like a two-story flat, with a large bedroom and bathroom at the upper floor and a common room, kitchen, and spare room at the ground level, the space primed to strengthen the pack’s bonds by way of constant proximity.

As they were, spread out between hallways, it put stress on them all. Soap and Ghost didn’t even have a two-person room to share despite being bondmates. The brass was so far behind on the permit paperwork for proper pack lodgings that it was frustrating. They had all been waiting years now.

Price guided Simon down into bed and began to strip off the san’s boots and outer gear, until he was just in his plain black boxers. Knowing that Simon got cold easily, Price grabbed one of his long-sleeved shirts from one of the dresser drawers and managed to wrangle the already-purring younger man into it before shucking off his own clothes, down to just his shorts, as well, which were, of course, camouflage-printed. John Price truly was a military man, through and through.

After they were both a bit more comfortable, Price lowered himself down beside Simon with a soft groan, his stiff joints easing into the mattress. He pulled Simon to his chest, claiming him as the little spoon. It was their usual position, and one that made Simon feel safe and protected.

The door brushed open and then closed back, and the familiar outline of Soap entered the room. He barked softly to announce his presence to Simon, who raised his head instantly, keening excitedly in response.

Soap dipped his head momentarily to let Price chuff against his right scent gland, for once playing the part of a respectful subordinate. Then the Scottish beta crawled up to entangle himself with his bondmate, and Simon latched onto him like a large British octopus. Price dragged the blankets over the three of them and slung his leg over Simon’s to hook his foot under Soap’s knee, refusing to let either of his boys move even an inch away from him. Perhaps he should have let Ghost and Soap to have some private time, as mates, but he granted himself the right to be selfish, for once, and breathed in the musky salt heat of the two men cozied up at his side.

“Ye alrigh’, Si, lovey?” Soap murmured, nudging his nose into Ghost’s eye socket. Ghost huffed and curled his arm over Soap’s face in response, disgruntled.

“‘M not a child,” Ghost muttered. “Not a lovey.”

“But ye are,” said Soap, voice muffled, and he nibbled at Ghost’s arm through his shirt sleeve. “Yer my lovey. Mah wee little alpha.”

Ghost’s expression flashed with pain for a moment, and his brows drew together, suddenly looking far more downcast. Both Price and Soap noticed the change at once, and two sets of kisses were placed upon Ghost’s cheeks. The san squirmed and tried to hide himself under one of the pillows, but Price dragged him back up for more attentive care.

“‘M— not—“ Ghost pawed at Soap as the beta tried to work his way under Ghost’s shirt. “Not an alpha. Anymore.”

“Maybe not,” Price concurred, voice a throaty catch, like an old station wagon puttering to life. “But you’re still our Simon.”

“Aye,” agreed Soap. He huffed indignantly as Ghost tried again to escape. “Stop movin’, ye git, Ah’m tryna show ye tha’ Ah love ye!”

Price chuckled and bumped his knuckles against Soap’s scrunkly mohawk. “He won’t let you. Stubborn little pup.”

“Which one of us are ye talkin’ aboot?” Soap laughed, nipping at Price’s fingers. “Being stubborn, Ah mean.”

Price smirked, adjusting himself so he could keep Ghost linked onto his elbow and Soap clinging to his leg. “The both of you. Muppets.”

“Old man,” Soap shot back, earning him a half-hearted swat. “Ow!”

“Call me old again,” Price warned, though he was mostly teasing, “and I’ll show you young whelp just how much life I still have in me.”

“A reanimated corpse would ‘ave more stamina than you,” said Ghost, prodding directly at the bit of Price’s ego that he knew would bruise the easiest. “Y’ nearly ready for retirement, captain. Didn’t that nice waitress give y’ the senior discount at that diner in Worcestershire?”

Price growled low, Ghost’s words thudding directly into their mark like a heavy sniper’s slug. His scent flared with irritation that he swiftly tamped down, unwilling to allow himself to be angry with Simon, even to the smallest degree. Instead, what seeped in was a fondness that he had acknowledged years ago. It had originally sprung up without warning like some scam ad in an opened tab of a phishy website— just the presence of his boys infected the hardwired code of his instincts, converting what had once been a hardened, take-no-bullshit heart into something paternal. Imagine that: his own bloody biology had betrayed him, turned him into some sort of mother hen.

But he could never deny that he didn’t love every second spent with his pack. Price had never gotten to nurture that side of himself before he had taken Simon and the rest of the 141 under his wing, and it felt good to look over the sound bodies of the little family he had gathered together and know that he had done his job well for the day. So long as each member of the unit was alive and breathing, Price was content. Even if they all were cheeky mongrels and he wanted to smack some sense of respect into them.

Soap wriggled further beneath Price, until he was laying under both of the captain’s legs and smooshing his entire cranium into Ghost’s stomach. The spoiled little bastard wanted attention; he always did.

Price absentmindedly rubbed at the top of Soap’s head with his sock-clad foot, like one would do with a beloved pet that was too far out of arm’s reach. Soap didn’t appear to mind, and he settled back down with a purr. Ghost grumbled fussily, clearly nettled that Price hadn’t risen to the bait.

“Y’know, you’re gettin’ more complacent in your old age,” Ghost declared, and his shit-eating temptation was more akin to Soap than himself. Maybe the sergeant’s cocky attitude was finally rubbing off on him, dissolving subliminally into Ghost’s personality without either of them knowing or. Or maybe Simon just wanted to push the limits of what he knew Price would allow after the stress of the day.

“And you’re getting to be more of a brat,” snorted Price. “Don’t test me, pup. I can still bend you over my knee well enough.”

“Negative, sir, it would blow out the joint. You’d need surgery for it,” Simon replied, completely deadpan. It wasn’t a completely empty threat on Price’s part; the captain had taken the lieutenant across his lap more than once when Simon needed to let go of some of his hurting by replacing it with a pain he could control. It worked exemplarily for the times when Simon needed discipline, when he was probing at the thinnest threads that might snap at the right pressure.

Price grunted. “Behave.”

Simon licked his lips. There was that tone he’d been waiting to hear, the one he craved like a hit. It was hotter than the burn of any whiskey and more euphoric than the menthol smoke of his favorite cigarette brand. It was a slavery to a chemical high and it made him want to drop to his knees and beg to be sacrificed at the altar of Price’s authority.

Price caught Simon’s expression and raised one bushy eyebrow. “Randy, are we?”

“No, he’s Simon,” Soap giggled from beneath Price’s legs. He was kneading quite shamelessly at Ghost’s arse, and apparently thought that his own joke was worthy of Charlie Chaplin. They shared the same grin, anyway.

“S’funny, Johnny.” Ghost ground back against the beta’s hands until Price whapped the both of them with a pillow.

“Control yourselves,” the captain chastised them. “If you feel well enough to be flirting, Simon, then you’re feeling well enough to get out of my bed.”

Ghost immediately stilled and curled into Price’s side, playing dead. “Can’t move. ‘M asleep.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Price’s lips. That ploy always worked. He squeezed Ghost’s thick bicep.  “Good lad.”

Soap rested his head against Ghost’s latissimus dorsi, and the lieutenant’s hand inched down to pet at his bondmate. Soap’s eyes closed and he sighed in gratification.

“Johnny?”

Soap’s eyes opened again, and he swiveled his head to peer up at Ghost. “Aye?”

Ghost’s voice faltered briefly. “I… the staff sergeant. Is he—?”

“He’s fine, L.t.” Soap gave a small grin. “He’s tougher than ‘e looks. To be fair, though, being set upon wi’ yer fangs would scare anybody.”

Ghost knew that Soap was trying to make light of the situation— the lieutenant had already told his sergeant why he had attacked Millen during the time Ghost was in his room, being brought back to reality enough to face Price. Las Almas had been a traumatic experience for Ghost and Soap both, neither knowing if they would ever see each other again or if they would make it out alive. It was that mission that had brought them together to court for the first time afterwards. Even with the lingering echo of gunshots in their skulls, they wouldn’t trade what had happened for anything.

“Gettin’ in y’ heid,” Soap chided. Ghost blinked back to himself once more. How did both the captain and sergeant always know when he was becoming lost to the past? It was almost uncanny how in-tune they were with his mannerisms, recognizing entire confessionals in the way his nose scrunched up at an unwelcome memory or when his fingers twitched for a gun that wasn’t there.

Ghost made himself fill his lungs and then slowly exhale. He counted to ten and then felt the urge to check the perimeter of the room fade. They were safe here. Price always made sure of that.

“That’s better,” Soap said, satisfied. He chewed insistently at Ghost’s hand until the petting resumed, and Price tangled his fingers into Ghost’s hair in a mirror of the action.

It was pack, plain and simple. Love, trust, and years of codependency wound into a protective shield for the three of them. They all smelled of each other. They knew each other and knew that their presence was one that meant security.

Later on, Ghost would have make up for what he’d done to Millen, and hope that the xi wouldn’t be affixed in his terror of him. Price would be there to smooth over the transition as best he could. Soap would excel in his role of moral support once the confrontation was over.

MK hopped in front of you, pulling off his spinning staff trick with better luck this time to pose it in front of them. "Careful, Red Boy! This guy's got nothin' with you. This is between you and me" he said. Despite the hero's words, Red Son kept his eyes on you. You looked much too smart to be hanging around someone like MK. In fact, she was almost sure she'd seen you around town before. You never seemed completely bothered when they began their reigns of terror across the town, though seeing as you were with the Noodle Boy, that made more sense now. That moron had a habit of bringing trouble wherever they went— and apparently dragging you in, too. Red Son wondered faintly if you ever had considered working on the other side of things. Someone as detached from the fights as you could probably see both sides. Maybe if he could just-

"Uhh, Red? Redsy? Demon Bull Prince?" MK began, now much closer and waving his hand in front of Red Son's face. Red Son growled, swatting MK's hand away, which made you chuckle. Surprisingly, unlike with the meddling delivery boy, Red Son didn't find that noise quite as grating as he usually did. "Oh, there we go!" The Monkey Kid said with that annoyingly bright smile "Thought you got lost for a second". Red Son kept her deep glare, looking to you over MK's shoulder. You looked back, confusion filling the back of your mind, as well as a little trepidation now that this firey villain was looking right at you. Red Son turned away with a florish of their cloak

"Seems your little friend has helped you today, nyoodle boy! I'll spare him the embarrassment of seeing you defeated by my hands" they said loudly as they hopped back into their car. "Until then, remember the name of the great Red Son!" He added dramatically before quickly spinning his car around, driving down the street. MK scratched the back of his head in confusion before looking to you. "You wanna head back to Pigsy's?" they asked as they shrank down the staff small enough to stash away. You gave a smile, bounding up to walk next to him "Always". MK gave a warm grin, happily chatting to you about his hero work for the day with an arm around your shoulders as you began your walk

Red Son wasn't having as nice of a time on her drive home. They were thinking the whole time about the two of you. The irritating hero that always thwarted their plans, and the hero's friend that managed to capture her attention. There was something to you that wouldn't leave his mind. That stare of awe and bewilderment when you saw her... she was used to being glared or scowled at, even earning an eyeroll or three. But you seemed different. Maybe there was more to you. Or maybe you were just another hurdle in his plans to bring his family back to full power. What they knew for sure was you were as stuck in their mind as that delivery boy. Another bothersome distraction from progress. Another problem to mull over. He groaned internally at the thought