#polyamorous task force 141

Unknown Date/Time Omega-06348 Unknown Location

You stir with a soft, pained groan. Has it been hours… or days? There’s no way to tell, not while shackled in this iron prison that’s become your newest home and only sanctuary. A heavy, smooth, metal collar rests around your neck, forcing your head to the floor under its excruciating weight. Even without being able to see, you can sense the other omegas in the room. The stench is awful—rank with agony and terror emanating from your fellow victims.

It’s cramped—too cramped, your body jams against the unforgiving leaden bars whenever you so much as shift—and the chain keeping you connected to the wall makes it impossible to arrange your fragile limbs into any painless position. Frigid air washes over your body, barely kept warm enough to survive as you shiver, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The steel cage burns cold against every inch of exposed skin, ice-like in its sleekness.

The groaning of metal on metal, coupled with a growing sliver of light, is enough for you to lift your gaze in cautious curiosity. As the container door opens, your entire body is tenses. Completely on edge, metaphorical hackles raised as if you have any hope of freeing yourself from this place. Not even letting your omega take over will save you now, weak as she is. 

At least that might grant you a painless death. Forcing yourself to distress until your heart gives out under the strain. You’d be unconscious, far away from everywhere and tucked safe in the recesses of your mind to live out your final moments in… what, comfort? Certainly more comfortable than this.

A bright light washes over your naked body. The blinding glow leaves you paralyzed, unable to escape its scrutiny before moving on to the next cage in the line. The scent hits you next: sharp, bitter, like burnt hair and skin. A stark contrast to what you imagine you smell like now, between the sour smell of your fear and the sickly sweet tang of forced arousal. Reflexively, you shrink back as far as you can, the heavy collar leaving you to strain beneath its weight. Others shift around you, their own chains rattling against the bars and floors of the cages flanking you.

Angry alphas are never a good sign. Anger means pain, you’ve learned that the hard way. Disgust, boredom, annoyance… it seeps from the soldiers like the concoctions they drug you with. And you are the outlet. Always. Your ribs ache just thinking about it. The others—the ones in white coats, with their clipped voices and shiny shoes—don’t hit. But they’re somehow worse, because they come with machines and needles and false smiles. Drag you to cold, sterile rooms while you beg for mercy. They’re the ones who sell you, who decide when you’re ready.

After all, that’s what you’re all here for, right? Taken from whatever came before, thrust into this world of darkness and pain to be an alpha’s plaything? A warm, pliant body to use and abuse however your betters see fit?

Boots echo down the steel floor as the soldiers prowl down the row. Their black masks, black vests, shirts, and pants… everything about them melts into the shadows, unseen until it's too late. Speaking in rough tones in a language that you’ve given up trying to understand. Some of the others around you make tiny, fearful noises, throwing their terrified scents in a last-ditch attempt to attract mercy. You can smell it—the faintest sweetness weaving through the overwhelming sour terror. How sparks of longing flicker in a few even now, filled with the hope that maybe this won’t be so bad, maybe someone will come take pity on us or rescue us. Some reach through the bars with shaking hands that are quickly crushed under a heavy boot, or rattle their chains with desperate cries for comfort.

Others, the broken ones, merely cower away.

Dull.

Flat.

Lifeless.

Empty.

You’re not sure where you fit just yet. 

What is anyone, when all that’s left of a person is merely a husk? A pathetic facsimile of who they once were? Did you have a name, a job, a family?

There are warring, equal measures of desperation and acceptance constantly flooding your frail body. The desperate hope that someone, somewhere, knows you’re gone.

And the acceptance that no one is coming to save you.

In any case, you’ve learned the hard way to keep yourself silent in the presence of your superiors, the alphas. That’s all there is, anyway. Betas are dangerous, too harmonious for a place like this. Able to comfort a fearful omega and subdue an enraged alpha.

Or vice versa, you suppose. Not like you’ll ever see that in action.

Now, at least, you know to be obedient. It’s the last thread of control you have, what started as defiance quickly transitioned to malicious compliance—at least, until the malice was beaten away—that left you a weak echo of whoever you may have been… before this. Time blurs, distorts in your mind. Your life as you knew it is gone, and you’ll likely never know where the memories ended up. Tucked away somewhere where no one could take them? Or gone forever?

Would life have been easier, different if you had been born an alpha like you were supposed to be? That much you remember. You remember the anger in your sire’s eyes and the disappointment in your dam’s when you presented, thrust into your first heat cycle with nothing. No pack omegas or betas to comfort you. No promise of a hug or a warm meal or anything to ease the dreadful, burning pain. 

Maybe it would have been easier to have been born a beta. Disappointing, sure, but not enough for you to be thrown out into the snow during your first cycle, left alone and terrified in the cold.

A single gunshot echoes through the room, cutting off a weak cry. A body thumps to the floor, wet and heavy, but you refuse to look. It’s better if you don’t, anyway. You don’t know that you could survive seeing the viscera. 

In a fucked up way, you’re jealous. Death has long since become your only method of escape, but it remains just out of reach. Your earlier thought of forcing yourself to distress would never work anyway; they’d just drug your omega into suppression.

You’re so broken now that you can’t even attempt to defy their orders. It’s easier if you don’t. Safer. A fleeting strand of comfort, like gossamer ready to snap at the slightest tug. Maybe someday you’ll be lucky enough to be roughed up to the point of no return. 

Will death be kinder than life?

What happens on the other side?

The soldiers continue speaking, in English now to make sure you all understand. And you do, even despite the heavy accents. “When’s this batch shipping out? Could have some fun, blow off some steam, da?”

“Not sure. Boss said we could do whatever we want, though there is one he does not want roughed up. Some high-profile buyer.”

“Payday, ura!”

“Might as well get to the rest, they are going as comfort omegas. I am tired of used goods, loose and sloppy holes. No good for a knot.”

“No, no. Tight is better. We get a bad job, we deserve a reward.”

You whimper anxiously, unable to help the noise. One of the soldiers kicks a heavy boot against your cage, rattling it and sending the aftershocks through your exhausted form. Startled, you shrink back even further as a face looms in your vision. His feral smile grows when the tension on the chains stops you from moving too much, baring his fangs and snapping at you. Your limbs shake and cramp—whether from exhaustion or terror you can’t be sure—as his hand reaches in to grab your jaw and drag you forward.

This cage is the closest thing to safety you have, to a nest… and now violated. You’re not safe here, you’re not safe anywhere. What had started as the tiny hope that as long as you’re contained in these walls they can’t hurt you too badly… your little sanctuary has shattered and it freezes the blood in your veins.

“Pretty whore,” he coos. “Going to make your new alpha very, very happy.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Even weak and tired as she is, your omega is still frantically trying to protect you from this horror, but the alpha’s pheromones hit your nose, betraying his intent. There’s arousal, sure… but past that you can smell his utter delight at scaring you like this, like a drug he can’t get enough of. He relishes in this, relishes in your fear, relishes in how you tremble and keen, wordlessly begging him to not touch you.

He does anyway, a hand gripping the back of your neck in a tight scruff, forcing the collar up. At once, your chest drops to the floor, hips up in the air and helplessly presenting while the pressure of his fingers forces you into obedience—

The alpha’s radio crackles to life before he can do much more than stuff a couple digits inside you, gathering the miniscule amount of slick you’ve produced. Your eyes slowly open as he releases you, sagging back to the floor of the cage when he backs away with a frown. Whoever interrupted him, he’s very displeased—spitting words into the receiver with venom usually reserved for whichever ‘whore’ he’s picked to warm his cock. His barked words force the other soldiers around to attention, no longer poking and prodding at their victims. The loss of contact almost hurts, in a weird way. A violation, of course, but at least he’d been… somewhat gentle. Your thoughts are hazy and slow as you fight to reconcile this with yourself, craving and fearing more in equal measures.

Your idle thoughts briefly flicker to curiosity. What would it feel like to kneel and present for a real alpha? Will you somehow find your way to a gentle and kind mate, or are you being sold to an even crueler master? Will they feed you? Bathe you? Clothe you? Or will they prefer you naked, weak, helpless, to do whatever they want?

“New orders,” the alpha’s growl, deep and powerful, sends you far out of your thoughts as you straighten in response. Despite the words not being aimed at you, his alpha tone jerks you into compliance almost immediately. “Drug them and secure the container for shipping. The buyer has made his selections, and he wants these ones untouched.”

He kicks the side of your cage with a heavy boot once more, narrowly missing your fingers before he turns and stalks away. Your whimper, thankfully, is lost in the groans of the other soldiers—these ones more American sounding than the others.

“Aww… we never get to have any fun…”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Plenty of other whores for you to knot up once we’re done.”

“Ugh, I don’t wanna breed one of these stupid sluts.”

“Don’t worry, that’s what the scientists are for. I knotted and claimed one the other night, next morning it was good as new. No scar, no pregnancy, no nothing.”

Their griping continues as, aisle by aisle, they draw closer. Something buzzes faintly, the hum and crackle of electricity echoing throughout the room, coupled with agonized yelps that continue down the line with heavy thuds. Your eyes catch the glint of a thick needle, almost comically thick, with a sickly orange fluid tucked in its barrel, forcibly jabbed into each omega’s body wherever the soldiers can reach.

One by one, they fall like dominoes. Terrified, pained screams cut off abruptly as the soldiers continue down the line, omegas gurgling and contorting as the sedative runs its course. Rendered helpless and compliant even as they each try—and fail—to fight back. You’re nauseous even being in the same area as them, knowing there’s no escape. 

Watching the light dim from each person’s eyes as they sag helpless to the floor, unable to resist. Your thoughts race, knowing the worst is yet to come… how long will you be left waiting, shaking, terrified before it’s your turn to be brutalized? There’s nothing you can do to stop them, to stop your body from falling out of your control completely, transformed into nothing but a passive participant, a glorified plaything for the alphas above you…

Someone retches on your left, and you turn your head ever so slightly. The omega a few cages down is covered in his own vomit, trembling with fear as he tries to scramble back with terrified eyes and helpless keens. You wince in sympathy as the alpha with the cattle prod storms over, wishing you could save yourself from the sickening smell of burning flesh and the howls of pain. 

You can’t watch. There’s nothing you can do to save him, all you can do is grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut as the alpha holds the prod over the omega’s chest until the noises die down to pained gurgles and fall away completely.

Silence.

You’re not even sure he’s breathing. You’re too busy focusing on controlling your own heartbeat to dwell on it for long. Distressing won’t save you now, you know this. Knowing that you’re to be sold… not even death will be your escape.

“Gonna need another one,” someone remarks callously. 

“Just tell the buyer that we lost one in the shipment, that’s all.”

“Boss’ll be pissed. He won’t want to refund.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your head anyway. I’m not the one who electrocuted the poor sod.”

A hand roughly grabs your chin, pulling you forward by the head. You bite down on your cheek hard, stifling your frightened scream as a torrent of blood fills your mouth. Screaming makes it worse, you knew that already but the reminder… resisting means they’ll pull you from this cage and do more than just drug you. It’s likely better for them to crush their slave’s spirit than risk losing another one.

In any case, you don’t want to end up like the other omega. Hopefully he can find mercy in death.

A needle jabs straight through the meat of your shoulder, the burning liquid oozing into your veins, slow as molasses as a hand explores your body while it has the chance. Your vision swims and distorts, body falling to the bottom of the cage in a helpless heap as the pain sears over every inch of your bloodstream. It’s different this time, not the usual aphrodisiac they’ve used to force your cycle to start or when they desire more… active participants. It’s not the same paralytic as usual, either, the one they use when they’ve had enough of their slaves trying to squirm away from their cruel hands.

This one… your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. Your eyes feel like they’re bulging, head pounding like it’ll burst as everything goes gray and fuzzy around the edges. You drool, unable to lift your head from the puddle you’re laying in as your senses dull. The room spins, distorted and muddy, every thought in your mind clouded over. A weak attempt at moving your hand proves futile; your limbs are nothing but lead bars, unresponsive to whatever signal you just tried to give them. Did you even try to move? You can’t remember, can’t see, can’t think, your world has shrunk. Blissful yet terrifying, bile creeping up your throat as the sensations fade in and out. 

The last thing you manage to focus on is something whizzing by you, sending the room into blackness. Whatever it is, it shatters the lone bulb illuminating the room, eliminating the dim glow and leaving you in the dark. The soldiers shout around you, panicked and confused as strangers swarm inside and your world explodes into gunfire.

16 MAR 2022 21:32 Cpt. John Price Task Force 141 Credenhill, UK

Cigar smoke curls lazily in the dim light filtering through Price’s office. He leans back in his chair, boots tapping ever so softly against the floor, eyes half-lidded as he flicks through his endless stack of reports. It’s late, of course, and his mates are waiting for him. He can almost scent them, their quiet comfort in the night. With his door cracked open like this, he hears the sound of his boys’ laughter, the low hum of the television. He smiles to himself, there’s something to look forward to when he finally drags his weary arse out of this chair—

The sharp buzz of his phone cuts through the stillness, and he sighs. It’s late, too late for any kind of real action, but is he that lucky? He glances at the screen, brow furrowed. And with a heavy exhale, he takes the thing in his hand and swipes across. “Price.”

“Captain.” Laswell’s voice crackles over the line, crisp and efficient. “We’ve got new intel.”

His attention sharpens immediately, all traces of weariness gone. “Oh?”

“I’m sending the files through now. You’ll find everything you need. Call me when you’re ready to discuss details.” Her tone is as steady as ever, but there’s almost an edge to it now. Something unspoken, something that tickles the back of his mind. When she calls like this, it’s never casual, but something feels different.

“Understood,” he replies, response clipped as his mind shifts gears. “I’ll get the team ready.”

The line cuts out, and static meets his ears. He tucks the phone away, glancing almost forlornly at his reports while his fingers tap lightly against the desk. Laswell’s delivery leaves him unsettled, though. She doesn’t often operate like this—efficient, sure, but this terse? No pleasantries? And she said she’d be on standby? It’s rare.

Hopefully he’s not about to walk into the latest attempt at World War III. Rubbing a hand over his face, Price lets out a heavy sigh. The boys won’t be thrilled that he’ll be interrupting their movie, but they’ll forgive him. With any luck, it’ll be something simple while they wait around for the pencil pushers to do their jobs. His fingers brush the keyboard, the blue glare of the screen illuminating his features as he opens the documents Kate sent.

His knees crack ever so softly when he stands, the last couple hours of sitting doing nothing for his joints. He flicks the cigar into the ashtray, heading for the door, trying to ignore how his heart beats just a little faster as his mind tries to come up with the reasoning behind this all. His crystalline blue eyes scan the familiar hallway of the 141’s barracks, footsteps quiet against the floor as he makes his way towards the rec room.

The sight that greets him when he steps inside is a comfort. His pack—his boys—are all lumped together in their usual position, sprawled across the oversized sofa he’d bought in varying states of relaxation. Soap, as always, has his head in Simon’s lap, purring away softly as Simon lazily runs his fingers through the Scot’s mohawk. Kyle leans against Simon’s other side, casually snacking on some popcorn, eyes fixed to the movie they’d put on the telly. 

For a brief, fleeting moment, he imagines ignoring the op. Padding over like nothing happened, stealing kisses from all three of them before curling up and hiding away from the world.

He can’t. He knows this. He’s always known this.

Bloody military packs. We bond and yet barely get the chance to celebrate it.

Someday, though…

Price dismisses that thought with a quiet cough. And it’s like a switch flips. His presence, the unspoken authority of their alpha in the room, shifts the energy. The atmosphere tenses, just enough to be noticed. 

Simon glances up first, eyes narrowing slightly as he examines Price’s posture. No skull balaclava, Price notes, just the black gaiter tonight. The subtle shift in his scent hits the air before he can even speak, and soon enough, Soap and Kyle are looking up at him. The three move with practiced ease, approaching him with curious expressions.

“Get ready,” Price commands, voice low. “We’ve got a job to do.”

He doesn’t need to explain any further. His pack doesn’t question him. They’ve trained for this—years of experience and a bond forged in the heat of battle. The moment the words are spoken, they’re ready. 

Soap flashes him a cheeky grin as he heads for his room, brushing past Price with an easy swagger. He leans in for the briefest of moments, making sure their shoulders touch, letting Price know that he’s there, he’s listening, he’s ready. Even without that touch, though, his aura says it all. The sweetness of his excited curiosity coupled with a sharper, more serious edge. 

Simon’s movements are quieter, more deliberate. He moves with a similar intensity, only pausing to nod briefly at his fellow alpha before disappearing down the hall. Their bond ran deep—no words exchanged. The look in his eyes told Price everything: he needs time to gear up, to put on his mask and become their Ghost. Price understands, maybe more than Simon realizes.

Kyle, however, hangs back. Price can’t help the slight softening of his expression as the man stops only a few inches away, warm brown eyes searching azure blue depths. Price can’t help it, he reaches out to pull Kyle close, wrapping his strong arms around his beta. It’s grounding for both of them, a silent reassurance that no matter what—just like Soap and Ghost are two halves of the same whole—Kyle has his back. 

“Solid, sir?” Kyle’s voice is velvet in his ears, wrapping him in a soft caress. Price nods, leaning in to bump their foreheads together.

“Solid. Go get ready, love,” he rasps in return. Kyle hesitates for a moment longer before brushing by, knocking his fist against Price’s shoulder as he does. Price turns towards the door, too, towards his own room. The weight of Laswell’s cryptic message lingers in the back of his mind, and for a moment he almost feels guilty for lying to his beta. He’s solid, sure, but something about this op has left him unsettled. 

He can’t help but wonder if this marks the point where everything changes. Either way, they’ll all find out soon enough. His pack is waiting for him to lead them, their bond will hold them steady. And he will hold them together no matter what happens.

It’s a short walk to the briefing room. He doesn’t quite know if that’s a blessing or not every time he finds his evening interrupted to be here. Something about the perks of his task force having their own private building, never having to go too far. Their living space, at least, is completely separate from his office, his lieutenant’s office, and their briefing room… by way of a door only a select few have access to. It’s not enough, sometimes, but he knows better than to complain.

His boys are already seated. Ready and waiting, three sets of eyes turning to meet his the moment he enters the room. The lights are already dim, the soft hum of the projector filling the silence as Price fiddles with his laptop, working to connect Laswell to the rest of them. The air is thick with anticipation—his team sits at the table, eyes fixed on the screen. Ghost leans back, balaclava hiding his expression even as the tight knit of his shoulders gives him away. Soap bounces one leg—as always—fingers drumming a rapid staccato on his knee. Gaz looks relaxed, but he knows better than to take the sergeant’s neutral expression at face value. They’re all wound tight, he can smell it in the air as Laswell flickers to life before them.

“Here we go,” he mutters softly, eyes roving the blurry background of her office. As always, her hair is tied back in a neat-ish bun, framing her sharp face as she stares them down.

“Captain,” she greets him, offering a slight nod of acknowledgement to the rest of the team. “Hope you boys are ready for this one.”

“Always,” Price replies, a slight edge to his tone. This mission’s come in quickly—too fast for his liking. He’d barely had time to get his pack re-settled after the last op before these orders came in. Laswell shoots him a brief, sympathetic look before continuing on, diving straight into the details.

“We’ve picked up chatter about an arms smuggling operation in Verdansk. Our intel suggests this warehouse,” the screen shifts, her icon shrinking as the map of Kasovia fills the screen, “was once part of Barkov’s network. We believe it’s potentially been reactivated by one of his splinter groups. You’re to infiltrate, confirm the intel, and retrieve anything of value.”

The satellite image zooms in on the location: a sprawling warehouse, isolated on the outskirts of Verdansk. “No recent signs of activity,” she continues, “but we can’t risk this getting into the wrong hands. Your mission is to get in, get out, and leave no trace.”

He exchanges a glance with Ghost. The man’s amber eyes narrow behind his mask, mirroring Price’s own uncertainty. Gaz shifts uncomfortably, even Soap looks more serious than usual. Something feels off about this—Laswell’s usually more forthcoming if there’s any real risk. But the way she’s skimming over the details too fast… it’s almost like she’s trying to convince herself that it’s straightforward, too.

“Safehouse is twenty klicks from the drop zone,” Laswell explains, the map now highlighting the route in. “You’ll take the provided vehicle to this ridge here,” she zooms in on a rough road cutting through dense forest, a sheer cliff on one side. They’d need to be careful, one wrong turn and they’d be crushed to death by the metal cab. “It’s a three-kilometer hike from there. Once you’re in position, Soap and Ghost will provide overwatch, while Price and Gaz infiltrate the warehouse.”

Soap nods, but his eyes flick to Price, seeking confirmation. “What’re we expecting for resistance, Kate?” Price presses, urging her to clarify. Kate, you’ve never led us astray, but there’s something going on here. Tell us. Tell me. Please.

“None, ideally,” she replies, but he doesn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in her eyes before it’s quickly masked. “Satellite imagery shows no movement in or around the area for weeks. If there’s anyone there, they’re staying out of sight.”

Ghost lets out a low, skeptical growl, the kind that makes Price’s skin prickle. “And if we’re wrong?” His gravelly voice comes slow and deliberate, every ounce of the strong alpha Price loves.

“If it comes to that,” Laswell stresses, “weapons free. But keep it quiet if you can. They can’t know we were there.”

Price watches her closely. There’s something still lurking behind her carefully neutral expression. He files it away for later; they’ll deal with whatever surprises the op throws their way, just like always. But he will ask the moment he can. He’s known the beta woman for too many years to not see her worry in the tight set of her jaw.

“Right,” he says instead, standing and stepping in to refocus his pack. “Gaz, you’re with me on entry. Soap, Ghost, find high ground and give us eyes. If things go sideways, we regroup at the extraction point.” He pauses, letting his gaze sweep over his team. “Questions?”

Soap shifts forward, leaning his elbows on the table. He’s still, a surefire sign that he’s focused, that he’s ready… “Weather looks clear now, but what’s the forecast like over the ridge?” His voice is casual, but Price knows he’s mentally adjusting for the climb, cataloging potential blind spots and vantage points.

“Unpredictable at best,” Laswell admits. “That range can be hit with sudden storms, but you’ll have some cover from the cliffs.”

Gaz frowns, exchanging a glance with Soap. “If we’re hiking down with low visibility, might take longer than expected. Could delay our exfil if we need to bug out.”

“Then we keep it tight,” Price murmurs, mentally tallying the extra time they’ll need if it goes south. “We’re ghosts on this one. No one can know we’re there.”

Laswell’s voice breaks through the tense air again. “I’m pushing the rest of the files through. Once you’ve reviewed them, radio in if you need anything else. But remember, gentlemen—we’re operating in the dark here. There’s no room for mistakes.”

“Copy that,” Price replies, voice low and steady as their eyes meet. He holds her gaze, silently promising that there’ll be more after this. “We’ll get it done, Kate.” She nods, shuffling through papers as the room falls quiet once more. 

It’s Soap, as always, who breaks the tension. “Well, lads,” the beta grins, though there’s an almost feral edge to it, “guess we’re takin’ a bloody hike.”

Ghost rolls his eyes as he stands, shaking his head. One by one, the three men file out, and he knows they’re all heading to their usual haunts to mentally prepare. Price’s mind still churns though, there’s a gnawing feeling in his gut that he can’t ignore as he turns back to Laswell. They’ve been through worse with less intel, sure… whatever’s waiting for them, they’ll face it together.

“Something isn’t sitting right with me on this,” she admits before he can even open his mouth to question her. He nods instead, glad that their unease is mutual. Her brow furrows slightly as she shakes her head, pursing her lips. “I can’t place it.”

“Feels like we’re missing somethin’,” Price agrees, crossing his arms and rocking on his heels. She nods her agreement, meeting his steady blue gaze with her steel gray eyes. 

“Something important.” She lets the silence settle for a moment before speaking again. “Like we’re about to open a bigger can of worms than we expected.”

Price doesn’t need to say more; Kate has long since been one of the few people he could read like a book, who could read him in return. He supposes years of friendship does that to people, spanning since he was a mere lieutenant. It’s grounding, in a strange way, knowing that she’s struggling to reconcile this, too. “I’ll bring them home, Kate. You know that.” His voice is steady, calm. A promise that carries weight, and he watches as her shoulders relax ever so slightly.

Laswell’s eyes narrow slightly, a look that he’s seen her wear often. Cutting through the layers of bullshit to hear the truth in his tone, that no matter what he’ll do his damn best. It’s what he’s here for, after all. “Just be careful, John,” she finally replies. “We’re heading into uncharted territory.”

The call ends, and the screen goes black. For a moment, he’s alone in the world—his only company being the faint hum of the projector and the dim lights overhead. There’s no sense in lingering here, not when his pack is gearing up. They need him, and he needs them, so he lets his feet carry him back towards the armory. 

There’s a strange warmth in his chest as he lingers in the doorway, watching them. Soap’s broad back flexes as he pulls a new shirt on, and Price can’t help but admire the shift of strong muscle beneath the fabric. Ghost’s eyes are narrowed as he smudges kohl all around them, brow furrowed as he focuses. And Gaz stretches, the motion fluid, boots laced up with the kind of precision that stems from years of practice.

“You’re all a bloody sight,” Price murmurs under his breath. It sends a thrill through him even now, he’s allowed to watch. They’re his mates, his pack, and that all familiar tinge of possessiveness curls heavy in his stomach, stoking the fire in his veins. They will come home safe, even if he dies trying. Gaz catches his eye and winks, the bloody bastard. Now is not the time for his cock to stir to life, thank you very much. 

It’ll make homecoming all the more sweet, though.

“Oi, Ghostie, missed a spot,” Soap teases, leaning into the blond’s space with a grin. Ghost shoves him off before Price can get close, but a dark smudge of makeup smears across Soap’s face now. 

“Fuck’s sake, Johnny,” Ghost grumbles, elbowing the stocky beta. There’s no real heat behind his words, just fond exasperation, an alpha indulging his beta. Price can almost see his cheeks lift beneath the mask.

“Och, don’t be like that, m’eudail,” Soap puts, running a hand down the taller man’s back. “Thought I was special. You wound me.”

“Good.” Price stifles a chuckle as Ghost’s eyes roll in the mirror. No matter what, Soap’s teasing always gets to him, one of the few things to ever affect the unflappable alpha.

Their playful jabs continue, the tension of the looming mission receding as they burn off the last bit of steam before the real work begins. As soon as their boots hit the tarmac, it’ll be all business. But for now, here behind these doors, in the space they’ve carved out as home, they’re just a bunch of men bound by more than blood, sweat, and tears.

I’m so lucky. Three perfect mates. I would do anything for you boys.

“You’re all bampots! Every single one of you!” Soap cackles as Ghost wrestles him to the ground, knee pressing against his back and a hand gripping his mohawk.

Price shakes his head with a smile. They’re infuriatingly endearing, his muppets. He’d follow them anywhere. 

17 MAR 2022 03:40 Sgt. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick Task Force 141 Verdansk, Kastovia

The air hangs heavy, cold, and still as he crouches low behind Captain Price. His eyes dart across the open ground ahead—a wasteland of cracked pavement and weeds clawing through patches of gravel, seeking their chance for a glimpse of sunlight. The distant buzz of a generator hums like a heartbeat, but otherwise, the place feels… dead.

Too dead. 

“Sir?” He shifts his grip on his suppressed rifle, trying to ignore the prickling unease crawling up his spine. “You sure Laswell didn’t send us on a wild goose chase?”

Price glances at him for a moment, and he hates seeing his own unease mirrored in his mate’s eyes. Price doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse as they creep forward again. 

It’s a few more steps, barely a couple of feet, when Price’s fist shoots up and signals them to halt. Gaz freezes, heart thumping in his ears. The Captain’s hand moves to his comms. “Remember, suppressed weapons only. We can’t risk alerting the sentries.”

”Copy that,” Ghost’s voice crackles through his earpiece, as flat and calm as ever. He envies that sometimes, the ability to pull a mask down and shut the world away, even though he knows how much it had cost his alpha. “Soap, flank left with me. Keep low. Eyes on those oil drums.”

”Aye, sir,” Soap responds, voice laced with that ever-present hint of mischief even now. He envies that too, he thinks, the ability to find humor in every situation, regardless of the risks. “Alright, luvie,” Gaz stifles a faint grin, he knows Soap likely turned to Ghost just to say that. “Let’s go find ourselves some trouble. Try an’ keep up, will ya?”

There’s a low grunt from Ghost, and then silence as they melt into the shadows. Gaz watches them go with a silent plea. Come back to me, loves. He hates how unnerved this entire thing has him, hates that it’s mirrored between his fellow beta and their alphas. Even the ride in had been quiet—each of them lost in their thoughts, though their scents gave everything away. Dark, bitter, confused…

Still, it always amazes him how Ghost and Soap move. For two big blokes, they’re more shadow than man when they want to be. Especially Ghost. 

Price leans closer, brushing their shoulders. His voice is barely a whisper, more felt than heard as his breath caresses Gaz’s cheek. “Stay on me, Gaz. Eyes sharp.”

”Always, Sir,” Gaz’s own breath mists in the cool air as he falls in step behind Price. The few patches of scrubby grass underfoot are wet, enough to damper their steps as they push through the brush. 

He wonders if this place ever buzzed with activity. It certainly doesn’t look like anyone’s cared for it in the past years—trash scattered everywhere, rust coating the edges of boarded-up windows. Under the cover of night, it’s nothing but a desolate expanse as the stench of old fuel hangs heavy in the air. 

”East quadrant clear,” Soap reports softly. “No signs of life. Movin’ north.”

“Roger. We’re entering,” Price murmurs. “Ghost, Soap, meet us in the middle. You remember where the entrance is?”

”Yessir,” Soap replies, voice crackling. “I’ve got eyes on the Ghost, we’re a few hundred meters away.”

”Good lads. Go careful now,” God, the place reeks. More rust, more oil… and something else—something foul that claws at the back of his throat. The floor groans faintly under their weight, each step echoing through the cavernous, empty space. 

There’s no signs of life. Not even the buzz of overhead lights to accompany them, everything left to glow an eerie green behind his NVGs. Not even the rats seem to want this place. It’s too quiet.

Price steps forward, movements as fluid and deliberate as ever. His shoulders are hunched, tense and ready to spring at the slightest provocation. Gaz’s gaze flickers to the corners where darkness pools, expecting something to lurch out at them at any moment.

”How do you keep an enemy scared of the dark when they thrive in it?” He muses softly. Price huffs a soft laugh into his comms. 

“Not scared, are you?” There’s a low rumble of teasing in his tone, and if they were anywhere else, he’d likely shove his alpha. As it stands, though, all he can do is roll his eyes and move forward.

”We’ll get you a bloody nightlight when we get home, Garrick.” Ghost mutters. “Shelves are empty here. This store’s rubbish.”

”Aye, it’s… empty,” Soap echoes. Gaz frowns, sweeping his gaze to another row of empty shelves, peeking around an open doorway to reveal… more nothingness.

”South’s empty, too. It’s… too quiet.”

”Like the calm before a storm,” Price mutters.

Ghost’s voice cuts through again. “Whatever was here, it’s long gone.”

”Let’s keep moving. We RV at the loading dock,” Price orders, voice a steady anchor in the oppressive quiet. 

Gaz shifts his grip on his suppressed M4, the cool metal grounding him almost as well as his alpha’s quiet movements. They inch forward into the belly of the warehouse, the air growing heavier the closer they get to their goal. It’s laced with so much—sweat, blood, fear… almost makes him want to turn tail and run, to rush back into the light, and he can feel the ripples of his own unease from the rest of his pack.

Price glances over to him. The unspoken tension tightens like a noose.

”Hold,” Price’s whisper stops him in his tracks, and they crouch in sync. There’s the faintest gleam of light, sweeping under a set of heavy double doors just ahead. They creep closer, Gaz’s pulse thrumming louder with each silent step. “Ghost, Soap—position?” Price murmurs into his comms.

“We’re at the back entrance,” Soap replies. “Eyes on a container… door’s open. Three hostiles visible, probably more in the thing.”

Gaz’s stomach drops. That can’t be good. “They moving product?”

”Can’t tell. The door’s blocking most of our view.”

”Stand by. We’ll converge on your position,” Price commands.

They move in a blur, slipping through the shadows like phantoms. As they curl around the place, passing over and under looming platforms, the open container looms in the dim light. Its gaping maw glows amber, barely illuminating the surroundings. There’s a smell here, sharp and metallic that makes his toes curl. Blood, maybe. Sweat. The kind that clings to your skin and refuses to wash off no matter how hard you scrub.

”Gaz, with me,” Price’s voice tugs him back to the moment, gesturing for him to take point. He nods, eyes darting between the rows of crates and darkened corners. His finger hovers just off the trigger as they move in closer, listening for any signs of more hostiles.

”Haven’t found a single shred of… anythin’,” Soap mutters. “No papers, no hard drives, nothin’.”

A flicker of movement catches his eye—a silhouette shifting behind the container. “Got something,” he breathes into the mic. Price nods sharply.

”On my mark.” Price’s hand is steady as Gaz readies his rifle, counting down in silence.

Three. Two. One.

Price’s hand drops, and they swing around the container, guns raised. Gaz’s heart pounds as they rush forward, expecting an onslaught. But what they find is somehow worse—a scene straight out of a bloody nightmare.

He doesn’t get much of a chance to dwell on it. “Price, we’ve got movement!” Ghost’s voice cuts in sharply, and in that same moment, the container erupts into a chaotic firefight.

Bullets cut through the air as each of them takes aim at a hostile. Gaz lines up his shots, rounds hitting true and tearing through his targets. Muffled shouts and the wet, final gasps of dying men fill the space, blood splattering across the concrete and metal. It’s over almost as quickly as it began. The warehouse falls silent, only the distant ringing of spent shell casings skittering to a stop.

”Clear,” Ghost’s voice slices through the sudden quiet.

Gaz’s heart thunders in his chest as the adrenaline begins to ebb. He sweeps the room with his eyes, catching the faintest whiff of gunpowder and blood mingling in the air. For a brief moment, none of it is recognizable—none of his mates were hurt, and he feels wretched for thinking that at a time like this. 

It’s a fucking massacre.

The walls are riddled with holes, crimson streaks dripping down where bullets tore through flesh and bone. “Fuckers didn’t stand a chance,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. His grip on his rifle tightens as he steps over a body crumpled awkwardly against a crate.

”Check for survivors,” Price orders, voice a low rumble that leaves no room for hesitation.

Six cages line the wall of the shipping container. The scent of terror—omegan fear, sharp and rancid—clings to the space like an open wound. His throat tightens, bile threatening to rise as he takes in the scene. 

The sight is worse up close. Cages filled with limp forms, bodies crumpled unnaturally, stripped bare and left to die like animals. Some of them have eyes that stare lifelessly ahead, others slumped over and curled in on themselves as if they’d been discarded like dolls. Collars wrap around each of their throats, chaining them in place. 

They didn’t have a single chance to escape.

He’s almost grateful they don’t have an omega. Not for lack of wanting, but the thought of this fate befalling someone he cares for, someone who’s his, theirs? No one should be reduced to this—caged, tortured, executed like they were nothing.

The silence is eerie, broken only by the echo of their boots against the floor. It gnaws at him. Gaz has been doing this long enough not to be rattled, but there’s a chill in the air that he can’t shake. Something feels wrong—off.

Price’s voice drags him back to the present. “Bloody hell…” his laser sights sweep over the cages, illuminating each victim in turn. All beyond saving. Gaz’s stomach knots tighter. 

Who were they? Did they have families? Friends? Mates? Pups?

He wants to cry.

He just might, after this.

”Traffickers. This isn’t an arms smuggling ring,” Ghost growls. “It’s a bloody trafficking ring.”

”The hostiles must’ve taken ‘em out,” Soap murmurs, grim as he shakes his head. “Executed ‘em as soon as they knew we were comin’. If they couldn’t get away—“

”They made sure no one else would, either,” Gaz finishes bitterly.

”Doesn’t look to be any survivors,” Price adds, voice low and frustrated. “I can’t—“

A faint whimper cuts through the oppressive quiet. They all freeze, his flashlight beam swinging to the far end of the row. There—just beyond the shadows—a fragile figure is struggling to move. For a second, Gaz thinks he’s imagining it. But then he hears it again, softer this time.

”Sir—over here,” he calls, heart leaping to his throat. His flashlight landed on a small, trembling form, trying to push itself up on shaking arms. Pale, nude, tiny…

”Christ,” Price breathes, eyes narrowing as he gestures for Ghost to take point.

The omega’s scent—sharp, terrified, but alive—hits Gaz like a punch to the gut. It floods the room, cutting through the stench of blood and death. Ghost’s gun is still up, trained steadily on it as he approaches. The omega is weak, barely able to lift her head, but she’s alive.

Barely alive, but alive nonetheless.

“Oh, my god…”

Unknown Date/Time Omega-06348 Unknown Location

You squeeze your eyes shut as tightly as possible, curling in on yourself as the deafening pops of gunfire rattle the air. The sharp crack of bullets are nothing but bright flashes behind your eyelids, bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds. A stray shot grazes your shoulder, pain blooming hot along its path, but you can’t seem to move. 

All you can do is lie there. Your heavy lids crack open just enough to glimpse these strangers—relentlessly efficient, tearing through the space like a storm. Your mind struggles to string together a coherent thought, the world around you fading in and out of focus. Should you feel afraid? It’s hard to feel anything right now. You’re not sure which is worse—not yet.

The gunfire slows, then stops. You think you might whimper, but you can’t be certain until the sound of heavy footsteps approaches. With what little strength remains, you manage to lift your gaze, and within a moment you wish you hadn’t.

The figure before you looms like Death itself—towering, menacing, all you can make out are cold brown eyes behind the hollow darkness of a skull mask. Their gaze pins you in place, a gun leveling with your head.

Your eyes squeeze shut again, a single tear slipping free. Is this it? Should you be terrified of what’s to come? Maybe. But in a way, you’re almost relieved—it’ll all be over soon. You’ll finally be free, even if you don’t know what waits for you on the other side. The agony will finally silence. You wait, heart pounding, but the final shot never comes. Instead, you hear someone inhale sharply, and that’s when it hits you.

The overwhelming stench of strange alphas. 

And the pungent reek of your own terror.

There’s at least two alphas, you’re sure of it—the one looming over you, for one, his scent cold and filled with fury. And there are betas, too, their scents less intense but somehow just as confusing. Why do they all smell worried?

”Captain?” Another set of boots echoes closer. You shrink back instinctively, a soft whimper clawing its way up your parched throat. Their scents are suffocatingly strong, far more potent than those of the traffickers, and it makes your head spin. It’s all too much, everything blurring together—make it stop, make it stop, make it stop—

“Ghost, stand down. She’s not a threat.” A low, steady voice rumbles from above you, and you shudder under the weight of his scrutiny. Tremors wrack your exhausted body, broken sounds of fear slipping past your cracked lips. You bite your tongue—hard, enough to taste blood, copper washing over your mouth. 

“Could be a fuckin’ trap,” Death growls darkly.

”Didn’t you see the carnage?” One of the betas counters his words fearlessly, voice soft. “Doesn’t look like a trap to me.”

”Finish sweeping the room. Gather whatever intel you can find.” The first voice is closer now, practically on top of your cage as you shake. His breath ghosts over your grimy skin as he reaches through the bars; you can’t help the violent flinch that jerks your entire form. But you’re also too weak to pull away as deft hands work to unlock the latch, the bars squealing as they’re pulled aside.

No, no, no, no, please don’t touch me, please leave me alone please I’m scared— 

You want to beg but you can’t. Your voice doesn’t work, your lips move in a soundless plea but it doesn’t seem to matter. Even as you try to squirm away—each movement sending fresh waves of agony through your battered form—the hands don’t stop. You barely notice the beta flooding the air with soothing pheromones, a desperate attempt to… what, to calm you? Why?

”Easy,” he murmurs, a hand gently brushing your matted hair away from your eyes. “You’re okay. Not gonna hurt ya,” you try—oh god, you try—to pull away with a pitiful cry. But you’re trapped. Cornered. You know it, he knows it—another hand, impossibly gentle, rests on your trembling arm, fingertips trailing down to grasp your clenched fist. It’s so tender—might be the gentlest touch you’ve ever known—but it brings you no comfort, here.

Touch means pain. Touch means needles and poison and beatings and knots and—

A tiny, broken keen bubbles up from the depths of your body. The only sound you can muster in response to this baffling setting. 

“Shh, sweetheart.” 

Impossibly blue eyes meet your frantic gaze, kind and almost boyish despite the exhaustion etched into them. He’s got a beard flecked with gray, head covered by a black helmet and a face that softens with an almost smile as he crouches before you. His voice is low, gruff, but so… so warm. 

You've been loaned out.

Delta Force Trione has requested help from Task Force 141. You've been sent to aid them on their mission, alone. You were specifically requested for your infiltration skills. You wished you didn't have to go alone, but you understood why Price sent you off with no one else. You're still relatively new to the 141, only about half a year in, and he wanted to see how you perform under someone else's command without the 141 to oversee. Besides, you're an adult, a capable soldier. You can hold your own just fine. You don't need the 141 to play nanny for you. You will show them you can be trusted off the leash.

You're not a stranger to being loaned out to other teams. During your time with DF 217, you were often requested by other teams because of your skills. Sometimes it was a refreshing break away from the 217, and sometimes, it was a tough deployment that left you hurting. In both cases, you were usually unhappy to return to the team waiting for you. Now it's different. The team waiting for you is one you look forward to returning to.

This op was rather straight forward. You were to sneak inside and plant explosives while the rest of the team barged in to nab the target. Once everyone was clear, you'd blow the place. It went as smooth as these things go, though you did have a sweaty moment where you thought the explosives were faulty. Thankfully, they blew after only a few more tense seconds.

Now you're back on Delta Force Trione's home base, in the armory belonging to the team. The others are filtering out, having finished removing and putting away their gear. You're lingering, fiddling with the buckles on your vest, hesitant to take off your gear. You want to just hop right back on the plane and ride it home to the 141's base. But Trione's captain, Wilholt, hasn't said whether your plane is ready to leave yet.

You're antsy to leave. You don't want to run into him.

"You've been making doe eyes at me since the briefing, Jumper." You startle. He says your callsign like its a funny in-joke. "You were waiting for me, huh?"

You realize you're now alone in the room with him.

Sergeant Jack Smith.

When you'd arrived here for the briefing, you thought you'd pass out the way your vision tunneled at seeing him among the Trione soldiers. What was he doing here? Is he being loaned by DF 217? You can't work with him. You can't. Thankfully, your mission objective kept him away from you, so he hadn't even had a chance to speak with you directly until now.

"Haven't seen you since you fled the team," he says casually, strolling closer to you. You can hear your heart thrumming in your head. You want to go home. "Cap said you went above his head for a transfer, that true, Jumper?" Jack isn't much taller than you, but he might as well be ten feet tall the way he makes you feel so small standing before him. His hand rises to brush his fingertips along your jaw. "Were we not giving you enough attention to keep you satisfied you had to look elsewhere?"

"Don't touch me," you hiss, jerking your head back. He's a sergeant, and you're a corporal. It could be worse. If he was a captain, he could have you punished for "insubordination." You know this from experience.

"Come on, don't be like that, the 217 isn't the same without you; I miss your drunk little pussy," he adds lowly, pulling you close and sliding his hands under your tac vest. Fear surges up in you and you slam your forehead into his face.

He rears back, cursing, blood trickling from his nostrils as his hands cover his nose.

"You fucking bitch, you should be grateful I don't beat your ass for leaving us!" He grabs at you then, a different kind of light entering his eyes, his hands pushing you roughly back against the wall. "You're just a little slut, better seen not heard." His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart slightly. "So shut up like old times, or I'll have to get rough with you."

You slam the heel of your palm into his nose. If it wasn't broken before, it certainly is now. He falls backward onto the floor and you don't even realize you're screaming as you jump on him and pummel him with your fists. His arms are up, attempting to shield his face from further harm.

Then there's shouting, and rough hands pulling you up and away. You're tossed aside as someone helps Jack to his feet.

"She attacked me without provocation!" he's saying, hands clutching his face tenderly. "She's fuckin' insane! Must still be juiced up from the mission."

You're panting, energy is zinging through your veins, you need to fight, you need to run, you need to do something. You want to shout that he was the one who started it.

'You have no proof. Don't ruin someone's career over gossip.' The remembered words echo in your mind like an engine just out of sight, revving, preparing to run you down. You suddenly can't speak.

You grab your pack and sling it over your shoulder, storming out of the armory. There's a wind howling in your head. You can hear that distant past racing to catch up to you.

You hurriedly walk to the airplane hangar, just barely keeping control of the impulse to run. You blank your mind, smooth out your facial features, deciding to simply stand there and wait until your ride home is ready. But then two soldiers come, rifles in hands, and say they are here to escort you to Captain Wilholt's office.

Blood is rushing in your ears, you feel like you're floating as you walk with them. The captain is displeased with your conduct, "and after such a good performance in the field too. It's a real shame. Will you tell me why you punched Sergeant Smith?"

You don't say anything. You can't even hear what Wilholt has been saying. You've disgraced the 141. That's all you can think of. Your mind loops around and around and around these thoughts. You've let them down with your misconduct. What if they no longer want you on the team, as troublesome as you are? What if they send you back to the 217?

"Well, if you have no case to make for yourself, then I shall have to assume truth to the sergeant's side of the story. If you are still too wound up from the mission, then I think it's best you take some time to cool off by yourself before you are scheduled to leave. Put her in the ice box for the night."

They make you remove all your gear. You're just left in an undershirt and boxers and socks. You spend the night standing in the middle of the small room, ignoring the chair and the cot, staring blankly into nowhere. You stand until midnight, when the door rattles open.

In comes Sergeant Jack Smith with a cruel smile on his face. He's got a bandage over his nose, bruises already forming under his eyes. He's pulling the belt from his waist as the door closes behind him, someone on the other side whispering, "you've got ten minutes."

You bristle. This time, you'll kill him, you'll kill him for sure.

But the 141 enters your thoughts again. You'd only disgrace them further. And besides, you deserve this. You had it coming.

You don't move as the belt whips through the air.

. . . . . . .

You return a day later than expected.

Price was informed by the other team's captain that you had gotten into a scrap with one of his men, and he'd let you stay the night in solitary confinement to cool off before sending you on a morning plane. Concern eats at Price's insides at that. You don't lash out without reason. Dogs that bite have reasons for doing so.

Kyle notices that John is tense that morning, distracted, shuffling through papers on his desk with no real intention of getting any work done. Kyle walks behind him and rubs his shoulders, working out some of the knots there. John sighs, leaning into his touch.

"I know she's trained special ops, but I can't help worrying."

"Getting into a fight for no reason isn't like her," Kyle agrees. He leans down to press a kiss on Price's head. "But she's strong. She'll be okay." He briefly has the urge to cross his fingers like when he was a child.

When it's time for your plane to arrive, they all go out to the tarmac to greet you. As soon as they see you, they know something is horribly wrong.

You have heavy shadows under your eyes as if you haven't slept in days. And your gait is stiff like you're trying to avoid reopening a wound. Your eyes are on the ground as you walk, but they are wide, and look like you see nothing at all.

"Corporal," Price starts, but you flinch at his voice. His heart clenches in his chest. You've been wary and guarded, but you've never been outright afraid of him before.

You salute him stiffly then walk past to the 141 barracks to remove your gear.

"What the fock did they do tae her?" Soap demands, sounding as incensed as Price feels. Gaz's face echoes that anger, and Ghost has tension rolling off him. His angry eyes flash toward Price and say 'Find out or I will'.

Price nods once and they all follow in your wake to the barracks. Gaz and Soap want to try and do something to help you with whatever you're going through. But they aren't sure what to do, they aren't even sure what's wrong. They wait for you just outside the armory, and Soap impatiently peeks inside—and the expression shifting onto his face has Gaz looking in next. He almost gasps.

You're wearing a tank top and boxers, pulling on the sweatpants and sweater you'd left on the hook when you initially suited up for this deployment. They see the bloom of angry red and purple welts on your shoulders, your legs, and arms, even your back, so bright in color, they show noticeably through the white tank top.

Once you're dressed, you finish stowing your gear, but Kyle and Johnny are already making a beeline toward Price's office. Price is on the phone with someone when they get there, a stern look on his face.

"Yes, if you please, I'd love to speak with the sergeant in question once he returns from his mission. Yes. Right, thank you, Captain." He hangs up and before he can even say anything, Gaz speaks up first in a hissing, furious whisper-shout.

"They fucking beat her!"

Ghost was sitting on the couch, but now he stands.

"What?" His voice is deadly calm. "Repeat that Garrick."

"Beat. Her. Her back is completely covered in the marks—"

"—There's naw way she got those ugly welts from some solitary confinement," Soap spits, so angry his accent becomes almost too thick to parse. Ghost, stiff with fury, turns his head to look at their captain.

"What do we do, Price?" he asks roughly.

Price stands now as well, pressing his hands to his desk for a moment as he thinks. The offending Sergeant left for an op this morning, who knew when he'd be back and within their reach? And aside from Smith, who else is to blame, who let this happen, who turned a blind eye or lent a helping hand? Did Captain Wilholt sanction this and then lie to his face about "solitary confinement"? And Jumper… oh Jump, what happened, what happened?

They all wait tensely for his decision. He's opening his mouth to say something when they hear a knock on the door.

"Enter."

You come in. Face blank. You set some papers on Price's desk.

"My report, sir, I had some time on the long plane ride home, so I finished it early." You wait to be dismissed. You're so tired, and in so much pain. You hadn't been able to sleep on the way back to base.

Ghost saunters up beside the desk to rest a hip on it casually and Soap and Gaz close in behind you, just out of reach.

Instead of dismissal, Price says, "Is the altercation with Sergeant Jack Smith included in the report as well?" His voice is sharp, though not as sharp as his eyes which watch your every move for any sort of clues.

They all see you flinch and deflate a little, shoulders curling inward so slightly, eyes dropping to the floor. John and Simon catch the flash of anguish that is there and gone again from your face. But your voice is steady.

"Yes sir, I wrote that down as well." They watch you swallow, eyes flicking up to the report and back down to the floor again. "I apologize for my misconduct, I won't allow it to happen again." You hope that he will dismiss you without any further punishment. Could you be so lucky?

Price picks up the report, thumbs through it almost lazily. Your heart is beating fast. He sees the section with the "altercation." It is dry and doesn't give much information other than the obvious wounds sustained by the sergeant's face, and the mention of solitary confinement as punishment. He drops the papers on his desk with dissatisfaction. You try not to wince.

"Corporal, I thought I made it clear before that I would have your back and listen to your side of things." The disappointment in his tone knifes your heart, but your eyes are darting up to his face, searching, glancing at Ghost, then back to him.

"Sir?"

"Show me your back." He commands.

"…Sir…"

"Obey your captain," Ghost growls.

You shudder with anxiety, your heart feels like it will leap out your throat. You slowly turn around, avoiding looking at Soap and Gaz as shame burns through you and you lift your sweater and shirt. You hear an angry hiss of breath through teeth. You drop your shirt and spin back around.

"I'm sorry sir, I, I wasn't sure—I didn't mean to disappoint you." You jump as thick arms wrap around your neck and shoulders from behind, gingerly, in an attempt of a hug without touching your back.

"Och, wee hen, you're not the one who needs tae apologize." Soap presses his cheek to the side of your head.

Your fingers are trembling inside your sweater sleeves. Price's eyes are softer as they look at you now—the softness is almost too much. You wish everything would just stop for a bit. You wish you could leave your body behind and rest somewhere far away.

"Tell us how you got these wounds, Jump," Price says gently.

'You have no proof. Don't ruin someone's career over gossip.'

You grimace, trying to will yourself to not tear up, to not further embarrass yourself. Why do you always feel like such a weakling in front of the 141 boys?

'You have no proof.'

"Jack, the sergeant. He, tried to…" You look at Ghost, wishing you could hold his strong, warm hand, wishing you could lean against Gaz to feel his body heat, wishing you could disappear through the floor.

Soap lets you go, much to your disappointment, and he and Gaz walk around so all four can see your face.

"He tried to, to, to get me to have sex with him." You can't say rape out loud for some reason. All the men in the room are taut as a livewire, silent as predators. "And I attacked him without thinking through the consequences." You hang your head in renewed shame.

"And he beat you back in return?" Price prompts. You shake your head.

"They had to pull me off of him, Wilholt put me in solitary, and then, in the night…" You don't want to say anything else. You don't want to think about how much it hurt. Still hurts. Your body throbs with pain even when standing still.

Ghost folds his arms to hide his clenched fists. Price is pressing his knuckles hard into the desktop. Soap is jiggling his leg, fingers fidgeting, trying to hold back the furious energy boiling inside him. Gaz is so, so still, belying the storm raging in his chest.

As you do when overwhelmed or attempting to control yourself, you force yourself to relax, to let your mind and face go blank. You let the words flow from your lips without any thought. Your face smooths out as you speak flatly with no emotion. As you talk, you feel a peculiar distance descend over you, like you're starting to float away.

"The sergeant came in the night, and used his belt. I thought about killing him, but did not want to bring further shame to the reputation of the 141 by my actions. I let him beat me with his belt until he fled when a soldier told him his time was up. The floor was cold and felt nice against my skin. When my gear was returned to me, no one spoke of the wounds. I cannot say whether the captain knew of this incident. The weather was nice enough on the plane ride home that my return was quicker than expected. Though I still managed to write my full repor—" your clinical sounding rambling is cut off suddenly as Ghost, of all people, steps forward and lifts you up like a child, his arms under your butt, your head higher than his so he must tilt his head to look up into your eyes.

You're startled enough that, coupled with the heat of him pressed against you, you suddenly feel grounded, like you've crash landed back into your body. The surprise is clear in your face as you look down into his soft brown eyes. You can just barely see his blonde brows frowning, peeking out from under the mask into the eye holes.

"No need to worry about reputation, dove," his voice is further graveled with emotion, "You should know by now we've got plenty of shit on our boots, and I'll gladly kill the fucker myself."

You're speechless, you're really not sure what to say. He's serious. Jack is a horrible human being, but he's technically not an enemy, he's an "ally" on the same "side" as you. You even used to be a part of the same team in Delta Force 217. Ghost would risk killing someone like that? Put himself in danger of punishment, for you?

Your hands are resting at the collar of his black shirt, your finger tips just barely grazing his skin. He wants to press you closer to his body, fold you snug into his rib cage, cradle you between his lungs, and never let you wander anywhere again. He looks up at you from under his blonde lashes, wishing he knew how to delicately let you know without frightening you just how much he craves your touch—how much all of them want you. Care for you. Seeing you hurt like this…

Simon sighs and carefully sets you on the couch. Sitting is incredibly painful, but you don't complain. Kyle and Johnny sit on either side of you, pressing into you, their bodies warm. Soap holds one of your hands tightly and Gaz rubs his thumb in soothing circles on the back of the other.

Price comes around his desk and kneels in front of you.

"We have your back, darlin', no matter what, because you are one of us. You rightfully defending yourself isn't gonna bring any trouble we aren't willing to tango with."

Tears well in your eyes, and you quickly blink them away.

"Thank you, sir," you mumble.

He smiles so kindly at you, you feel your heart tremble for a moment. Surely you don't deserve this.

John slants a look at Kyle who nods.

"I have some ointment that would be good for those welts. Will you let me help you put it on?" Gaz asks, leaning forward to look in your eyes.

You bite your lip anxiously, but then nod. This is Kyle. You can trust Kyle with your body. He and Soap help you to your feet and lead you from the room. You wobble slightly, your sleepless night starting to catch up to you.

When you leave the office, Ghost turns to Price. They communicate for a moment without speaking. Then Price is sitting at his desk again, opening his email on his computer.

. . . . . . .

In your room, Kyle asks you to undress and lay face down on the bed.

You start to feel a twinge of panic, glancing around, "uh, um."

He grabs your face, hands cradling your cheeks, and looks into your eyes earnestly.

"I ask you this with no hidden agenda. My only intentions are to help ease your pain with this cream. I will be touching your body with my hands, and there will be no ulterior motives behind my touch. Do you understand?"

You nod, eyes wide. He smiles, his brows slightly furrowed still. After what you told them the one time you got drunk with them all at the pub, Kyle had hunted through the internet for advice and ideas on how to reassure someone frightened by physical —sexual— intimacy. Much of it couldn't be applied to the situation, or was straight garbage written by someone with zero first hand experience. But still, he'd learned a lot.

He was, and still is, determined to find a way to put you at ease. To let you know he and his boys care about you a lot, and that it isn't something to be afraid of. Some days, when you're goofing off with Soap, or laughing at Ghost's awful jokes, or showing off your skills for Price, Kyle thinks he's overthinking it. But times like these moments here and now have him glad he put in the effort of research.

"I won't touch you if you really don't want me to."

You shake your head. It's okay, you can trust Kyle. You can trust his word.

You undress down to your boxers and quickly lay flat on your bed after pushing the blankets aside. Kyle politely looked away while you undressed, and now he walks over and kneels next to you, trying to control the renewed anger at the full view of your wounded body. It's really bad.

Soap comes in then, and sets a mug of steaming tea on the bedside table. He hisses at the sight of your body and you bury your face into your pillow in a mixture of embarrassment and shame.

Your back is littered with purple bruises and the long red marks of the belt's path. A few more appear on the backs of your thighs and calves, and there's a couple on your shoulders and upper arms even. He assumes there's more on your butt as well, but your boxers cover those. One particularly nasty wound that cuts across diagonally from left shoulder blade to right ribs is raised and has a seam of dried blood where the skin split. More dried blood is smeared and scattered across your skin where your shirt must have chafed and spread it around.

Gaz orders Soap to get a damp, warm washcloth, and stealthily sneaks his phone out of his pocket to take a photo of your body. He quickly puts it away after sending the pic to Price.

"Right," he says gently once Johnny hands him the washcloth, "first, we'll wipe your skin, then put the cream on. Okay?" You nod, face still in your pillow.

Kyle tries to be gentle, but your muscles still twitch and jump under his touch, your hands fisting your pillow and teeth gritted to hold back your sounds of pain.

"Alright, I'm applying the ointment now. Okay?"

"Okay," you say a bit weakly.

Johnny is kneeling next to Kyle, close to your head. His large hand gently caresses your hair as he whispers praises about how good you're doing. Your cheeks heat at that. The pain of your wounds the only thing keeping you from feeling a little too good down south at his whispered words and soothing petting. You're almost grateful for the pain, because it would be mortifying to get horny just from the simple words and touches the two are applying to you.

You bite your pillow, telling your brain to shut up. Then you feel Kyle place a hand at the waistband of your boxers. You lift your head to look back at him, and he notices the fear on your face.

"No ulterior motives," he reminds you firmly, his eyes unwavering. You swallow your anxieties, and nod before burying your face again.

He only pulls the waistband down just far enough to uncover three welts on your butt cheeks. He quickly smears them with cream, trying to ignore the way the curve of your ass feels under his hand. He pulls your waistband back up and moves on to the wounds on your thighs.

Soap whispers into your ear teasingly, "yee've got a lovely ass, laddie." One of your fists darts out to slug his shoulder as he chuckles. You keep your pink face hidden in the pillow.

Kyle notices old scars on your body, old wounds, some clearly gained on the job, like the very old burn scars on the backs of your calves, and the bullet-made scars dotting your body. But just peeking out from the rucked up hem of your boxers is one that gives him a chill.

A hatching of lines on your inner thigh, so close to the apex of your crotch, and clean cut, obviously made with a knife. The bottom most line has its end dragged down, heading a few inches toward your feet, as if the knife had been suddenly dragged away.

Who made such cruel and intimate scars on you? He half hopes whoever did it is already dead, and half hopes they're still alive so he can kill them himself.

After covering the last of your welts and bruises with ointment, he gently pats a part of your leg where there's no fresh wounds.

"Okay, Jump, all done." He pulls the blanket over you and goes to quickly wash his hands in your small bathroom. Soap stands, handing you the almost completely cooled mug of tea. You try not to spill as you sit up slightly to take a few mouthfuls before handing it back to Soap. As he puts it back on the nightstand, you lie back down, head turned on the pillow to look up at your two teammates.

"Thank you," you mumble, eyes so, so heavy.

"No problem, hen," Soap grins.

"Get some rest, luv" Kyle says softly.

You're already slipping into sleep before they've even fully closed the door behind them.

. . . . . . .

When Price received the photo from Gaz, Ghost was looking over his shoulder at it.

It makes them sick with frustration that the man who did this is so far out of their reach. Price turns to the email he'd been writing to Laswell, and deletes it.

He texts her the photo along with a message; "Cashing in one of my special favors. Ghost would like to help Sergeant Jack Smith on his current op with Delta Force Trione as special back up. Asap."

Laswell sees the message almost immediately, and she's quick to catch on, the photo making her stomach prickle with unease.

"No deaths," she replies.

John looks into Simon's dark eyes. Simon nods, his jaw set.

"He's prepared to make sure everyone gets home alive," he messages back.

She next replies with a time slot for takeoff, and a promise to email relevant mission details.

. . . . . . .

Sergeant Jack Smith is in the field.

They're holding position on a tower, waiting for signs of activity, when they get a call from overwatch about a spec ops lad coming in to help move things along. He and his team look at each other. This is a simple surveillance and reconnaissance operation. Why are they sending in the big guns to help?

"He's one of the best snipers, and very skilled with recon, supposedly," someone gossips.

Jack doesn't think much of it until one of his team whispers, "I hear it's one of those 141 beasts, a real game changer of a playing piece."

Jack frowns, it can't be you still out on loan right? Weren't you shipped back already?

He pulls back to a safe zone where they've set up a camouflaged tent tarp, blinking as his eyes adjust to the contrast of bright sunlight into deep shade. He plans to ask Wilholt for details when he sees it. Despite the heat, a full body chill sweeps over him. He saw the white skull mask first, stark in the shadows cast by the blazing sun. An enormous man approaches through the brush, his tac gear all black.

Captain Wilholt walks over to clap hands with the man, greeting him, "Lieutenant, good to have you here."

The eye-black smeared around the masked soldier's eyes makes the white of his eyes stand out more as his gaze flicks around the camp, only briefly landing on Jack.

The Lieutenant nods and says in a deep, gruff voice, "glad to be of service, as always."

Jack is still standing there dumbly as his captain tells the lieutenant—Ghost is his callsign, fuckin' Ghost—where he needs to set up a sniper lookout. Then Wilholt heads over to a corporal asking something—Jack isn't paying attention to that because Lieutenant Ghost is approaching him now.

He saunters up slowly, looking down on him; he must be over a head taller than him, fuck. His eyes are cold, and so hate filled, Jack thinks he might have killed the guy's dog.

Ghost is feeling a seed of pride bloom under his breastbone at the sight of the bruising all across Smith's face. That's my Jump, gettin' her licks in even while leashing herself.

"You an' I have got a chat waitin' for us at exfil," he says, so low and graveled and dark that another chill rolls down Jack's spine, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. Before he can even think of a reply, Ghost is sauntering off, an almost cheerful bounce to his step.

The anticipation of the "chat" and wondering what the hell it could be about has Jack distracted for the rest of the mission. He almost misses his shot on a target, and then does miss the next one. But his target goes down a second later, and Ghost's voice rasps in his ear over the comms.

"Don't worry, mate, I've got your back, just try to hit your targets next time."

Embarrassment heats Jack's face, quickly turning to anger. What a prick. He shouldn't have to be afraid of some special grade bully. He never did anything to him. Then it hits him.

This Ghost guy is from Task Force 141. You couldn't have ratted on him, right? He should have beat you harder so you'd never speak again. He fumes. He's the one who should have been transferred to the 141, not you. He deserves prestige. He deserves to be treated with fear and respect.

Instead he is constantly being loaned out to different shitty teams on shitty assignments, almost never spending time on his home base with DF 217, while a whore like you gets to play barracks bunny for the macho 141 pricks.

Jack's anger holds out until the mission is over and they're at the exfil site. The helo will be landing in 10 minutes (a slight delay coordinated by Laswell, unknown to all other parties). That's when Ghost pulls the sergeant aside, asks to have a private chat behind the cover of some trees.

The moment they're out of earshot, Jack is tossed to the ground, a knife at his throat. One of Ghost's gloved hands roughly holds his chin in place as he straddles him, leaning until their faces are close together.

"The only reason I'm not killing you is because the powers that be have ordered me not to," Ghost snarls quietly. He drags the knife tip up Jack's cheek, close to his eye, not breaking the skin, yet. "But giving you the beating of your life has been sanctioned just fine."

Jack can hear in his voice the mean grin under his mask.

"What did I do to deserve this?" He spits out, fighting to hold back the fear spiraling up in him.

Ghost stares at him icily, then he leans even closer until his bone white mask almost brushes Jack's cheek, and whispers in his ear, voice so velvety dangerous, "no one fucks with the 141."

Ghost makes him strip.

"You can't be serious."

"You'll know when I'm joking."

Just in his undergarments, Sergeant Jack Smith stands awkwardly among the dense trees.

That's when Ghost unbuckles his belt, the heavy buckle sags, and he languidly pulls the belt free, rolling his head and shoulders to loosen up.

Fear flashes hot in Jack.

"Listen, you don't have to do this."

"Don't worry, poppet, I won't bruise your pretty face." Ghost almost laughs at that, the bruises already there filling him with mad glee.

Ghost stuffs the man's own tshirt into his mouth so his screams don't carry.

Not even five minutes later, and Jack is sobbing in the dirt, cowering, babbling about never misbehaving again.

Ghost pulls a small instant print camera from his cargo pants pocket and snaps a photo of the quailing man. The picture comes out with a soft whir. He holds it up, admiring it as it fades into view, then tucks it in a vest pocket and stows away the camera.

"Get dressed," he orders sharply. Jack scrabbles to obey. "And remember to thank the good graces of the big boys in charge for allowing you to return home on your own two feet instead of a body bag." A reminder. The subtext? Don't bother complaining to higher authorities, they already know.

They walk back side by side, Jack flinching as Ghost amicably wraps an arm over his shoulders.

"Say, Sergeant, why did the eyeglasses walk quietly back to base? Because they didn't want to make a spectacle." Ghost is laughing and whacking Jack's tender back as the heli descends.

When Ghost finally returns to his home base, he hands Price the printed photo.

17 MAR 2022 04:19 Cpt. John Price Task Force 141 Verdansk, Kastovia

God.

How long has this omega been left here, wallowing in filth?

Price lowers down until he's crouching before you, moving his gun off to the side. With one hand, he gestures the others back—it's clear you're not a threat, he can't see a single weapon on you, and with how badly you're shaking, you probably can't stand, either. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Look, the gun's down, alright?"

The reek of piss, blood, and rot fills the air—thick enough to taste. He stifles the urge to gag, jaw clenching as you fold in on yourself, lips curled back in what he assumes is supposed to be a snarl.

It’d be cute, if it weren’t so pitiful, if they were literally anywhere else in the world. More of a twitch than anything menacing.

“Christ,” he mutters, mostly to himself. You’re bloody covered in it—grime, dried blood, and whatever else had the misfortune of sticking to you. But the collar… the heavy iron band digging into your throat is the worst of it. Rusted, crude, and clearly too damn tight—cutting into the bruised, raw skin beneath.

You’re down for the count, sure, but he can see a little bit of fire left in you. The tiniest amount of fight lingering in your blood, because—while yes, you’re clearly terrified of them all—you haven’t quite given up.

He knows you’re close, though.

Poor thing.

"I'm coming closer, alright?" He keeps his voice down, making sure it's firm but reassuring. "It's just you and me. We're getting you out of here." So much mars the delicate curves of your sunken cheeks. Price lowers his hand cautiously, fingers brushing the matted hair plastered to your forehead. 

You jerk away with a pained, muted gasp. The motion’s weak, there’s nowhere for you to even go, but your ragged breathing quickens and shakes your tiny form. A low whimper escapes your cracked, bloodied lips, and it feels like a punch to the gut. You’re terrified of them, and for a moment it leaves him reeling. Are you terrified because he’s a man? A soldier? An alpha? Or is it because you’ve never known a kind touch?

"You're alright," he manages, fighting to keep his voice steady despite the emotions wanting to burst through his carefully constructed facade. "You're with me now. Name's John, alright? Let's get you out of here."

“Bloody ‘ell…” Soap’s voice is rough, barely above a whisper as he comes to crouch on the other side of the cage. His usual easy demeanor is gone, replaced with something sharper, darker. Even if betas lack the primal instincts of their alphan and omegan counterparts, he can feel the barely restrained rage simmering through his pack’s bond, even from Ghost.

Soap reaches for his vest pocket, pulling out a silver emergency blanket with barely steady hands. “Poor lass looks like she’s been through the bloody wringer. No one should be left like this.”

Price doesn’t reply. He can’t, not with the bile threatening to rise in his throat. He can almost see the mounds of paperwork he’ll have waiting for him, knowing he’s about to bring this poor scrap back to base.

Every second locked in this cage clearly isn’t helping. Price shifts, knees scraping against the dirty floor as he searches for whatever is fastening this collar to you. His fingertips graze the cool, rusted metal, and his jaw tightens. Who the fuck would do this? He’s seen evil in the world for decades now, been thrown into the worst situations one could imagine.

But this?

It’s a new low.

A new threat.

His alpha roars in his chest. Desperate to pull this omega girl to safety, to shield you, to raze the Earth until every last threat to your life and happiness is eliminated.

”Gaz,” he calls over his shoulder, jaw tight. His tone stays calm, even though his pulse hammers in his ears. “Grab my bolt cutters. Now.”

”On it, Captain,” Gaz’s response is immediate, his boots thudding softly against the floor as he approaches. The clever fingers of his beta work at the straps holding the thing to his back, and Price turns his attention back to you.

He keeps his touch gentle yet deliberate. One hand braces your shoulder as he tilts your chin up, hoping to relieve the pressure on your neck. Your skin burns with fever, a sickly sheen catching the faint light filtering from their flashlights. “You’re alright,” he murmurs, the words soft, coaxing despite the knot forming in his chest. “Just hold on. We’ll get you out of this.”

Your wide, glassy eyes flicker to his face. For a split second, he thinks you might relax—or pass out. But the moment flees as quickly as it comes, and you shrink back again. Your entire body curls inwards like you’re trying to disappear. A pitiful, broken sob tears through the silence.

He exhales sharply through his nose, frustration threatening to boil over. Not at you—no, never, he could never be angry at someone who’s so clearly a *victim—*but at the bastards who put you here. The ones who left you to rot.

Soap lets out a low sigh, shaking his head as he finishes spreading the blanket. “She’s scared outta ‘er bloody mind.”

”I know,” Price mutters, fingers curling into fists. He doesn’t want to think about that now—can’t afford to. His instincts continue to scream at him, begging him to fix it, to protect you, but there’s nothing he can do at the moment except pray that you’ll hold on long enough for the four of them to bring you to safety.

”Bolt cutters, sir,” Gaz’s voice cuts through the tension as he returns, crouching down and handing them over.

“Good lad,” Price takes them, motioning for Soap to ready the blanket as he angles the cutters around the collar. “Hold still, sweetheart. Just for a second.”

The sharp snap of metal breaking is deafening, the collar falling to the floor with a heavy sound. His heart clenches—you flinch at the noise, a pitiful whimper slipping from your lips as it hits one of your hands. It’s becoming even more clear that you’ve been beaten into submission, into silence as Price drags it away before tracing a finger over the marks left behind.

”There we go,” he says softly, forcing the tension from his voice. “Better, yeah?”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him. The only sounds that escape are your tiny, breathless whimpers as he and Soap work to pull you from the cage. You’re so light it startles him—skin and bone, nothing more. The emergency blanket crinkles faintly as Soap tucks it around your body, the silver sheen stark against the bruises. The violent trembling wracking your body feels worse up close as he gathers you in his arms—each shiver vibrating through his arms like an earthquake.

”Shh,” Price murmurs, adjusting his hold to cradle you closer. His gloves graze your hair again, and it’s enough for your breath to stutter—shallow and weak and entirely too quick. Your entire form reeks with fear, bitter and sour. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

But… you aren’t safe. Not yet. Safer than you were minutes ago, sure. But the words feel hollow, almost cruel, and he hates that it’s the only thing he can offer you until they’re in the air, leaving this dreadful place behind.

”She’s tiny,” Gaz mutters from behind him, voice tight.

Price glances down at you, lips pressed into a thin line. He’s not wrong. Your head lolls against his shoulder, and he instinctively shifts you higher, tucking your face against his kit to shield you from the mess around them. The less of it you see, the better. You’ve clearly been traumatized enough for one lifetime, and he’s not keen on adding to it.

”Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost growls.

”Aye,” Soap agrees, blue eyes dark as he rises to his feet. “They probably didn’t give her more than scraps, bastards.” He gestures vaguely towards you, expression flickering between anger and something… softer. Tender, almost.

Price doesn’t answer. He can’t, not with his alpha still clawing at his ribcage. The urge to protect you, to shelter you and keep you safe, to make sure nothing ever hurts you again is overwhelming. It’s sharp, raw, something he only ever feels when his pack is in danger.

But… you’re not in his pack. He has to keep reminding himself of that one single fact, because you’re not even really his responsibility. Just an objective… One they didn’t expect, and once again the thought of the mountains of paperwork that’ll be waiting to greet him leaves his head throbbing.

”Watcher, this is Bravo 0-6,” Price says, voice tight as he presses a hand to his comms. The other still holds you tight, nodding to Gaz as the beta fiddles with your blanket.

”This is Watcher. Go ahead,” Laswell’s calm, clipped tone crackles through his earpiece.

”No sign of the target. Six armed hostiles down. Intel recovered,” Price reports, words measured. He hesitates for a moment before continuing, voice lowering. “But the objective… it’s not what we expected.”

”Price?” Laswell’s tone is sharp now.

Price exchanges a glance with the others. Gaz nods firmly, one hand still holding his rifle as he murmurs wordless reassurances at your miniscule form. Ghost and Soap are crouched near a stack of crates, sorting through hastily abandoned paperwork.

”We didn’t stumble onto an arms deal,” Price murmurs, jaw tightening. “It’s a bloody omega trafficking ring. Found one survivor. The others didn’t make it.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.

”Say again, Bravo 0-6?”

”I say again, trafficking ring,” Price repeats grimly. His gaze drops to you, still trembling in his arms, and oh how he wants to absorb you into himself, to tuck you safely behind his ribs and nestle you close to his heart where nothing could ever hurt you again. “Single female survivor. Adult omega, but young. Barely alive.”

Laswell exhales sharply, the faint sound of her typing in the background filtering through. “That wasn’t in my intel. No mention of hostages or… livestock, no indication that this was anything but a weapons deal.”

Price rocks on his heels. “Yeah, well, someone cocked it up,” he growls in reply. “Place was bloody empty save for the six we took out. No sign of weapons, just empty shelves, empty crates… and a single truck with a shipping container. Six cages. The others were put down in the firefight, the traffickers didn’t bloody try to fight us. They executed the victims instead.”

Laswell is silent for a moment, and Price can almost picture her reaching for a cigarette. “Any intel?”

”Ghost?” Price turns towards the masked alpha, one eyebrow raised. Ghost shakes his head.

”Not much. Manifests, mostly, but they’re vague. We’ll need analysis. One commonality, some kind of symbol.”

”Grab anything that looks useful and get out of there,” Laswell orders. “I’ll scramble a bird to the safehouse, but we’ve got a short window. Weather’s getting bad.”

”Of-bloody-course it is,” Soap groans. “Counae send us somewhere tropical?”

”Maybe next time, Sergeant,” Laswell remarks dryly. “Get the survivor out of there.”

”Roger that. Bravo out.”

Price’s hand lowers from his mic, and his eyes rove over his team. “Ghost, status?”

”Intel’s sorted,” the broad-shouldered alpha answers, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet. He nods towards a small stack of paperwork, piled neatly on one of the crates. “Like I said. Manifests, shipping logs. Some names. Nothing solid yet, but it’s a start.”

You shift weakly, and Price adjusts his grip on your frail form. “Good. Soap, Gaz, sweep the area one more time. Make sure we’re clear before we move.”

”On it,” Soap murmurs, already moving towards the door, rifle at the ready. Gaz glances over at him one last time, expression grim before he follows Soap away. Without the two of them, the room falls into silence, broken only by the faint shuffle of papers and the wet rasp of your weak breaths.

Price exhales slowly, letting his gaze drift down to your face properly, to take in your high cheekbones and slightly crooked nose—almost like it’d been broken and never healed right. Your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, your lips trembling with the faintest hint of a sound.

A whimper.

It’s so quiet he nearly misses it. You’ve noticed his gaze on you, and it’s scaring you—proven by the way your body tenses in his arms.

”Easy now,” he murmurs, leaning his head down slightly, voice low and gentle. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

You don’t relax much, the rigidity in your small frame still clinging on even as he strokes a thumb over your shoulder. It’s instinctive, his alpha desperate to soothe you, to shelter you and heal you. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, shoving the anger and frustration at this hell to the back of his mind. There’s no time for it now.

No time to dwell on the fact that his instincts are treating you like one of his own when you’re not.

Not yet…

No. He shoos that thought away as the scuff of boots on concrete fills his ears, looking up to see Soap and Gaz return.

“All clear,” Soap reports, clipped. “No sign of anyone else, but we should move quick. Weather’s gettin’ a wee bit baltic.”

”Great,” Ghost groans. Price glares at him as you stiffen more, looking towards the source of the noise with a fearful expression.

“Bravo Six, on me. Move out.”

Unknown Date/Time Omega-06348 Unknown Location

Your head lolls against the alpha’s vest, too weak to hold up any longer even as the coarse fabric scrapes against your cheek. Every jarring step sends new waves of pain coursing through your body, the raw bruises and wounds irritated by the movements. The smell of him—smoke and leather, deep and intense—fills your nose.

It’s too much.

You want to pull away. But there’s nowhere to go. His arms are a cage, strong and unyielding, yet his hands seem… careful…

…gentle, even.

Safe?

No. Not safe.

It’s wrong, all of it, alphas aren’t gentle. Yet his hands are steady and careful, they’re not crushing you. But… you know he could, and the thought turns your stomach wile panic wells in your chest.

”Easy, easy,” he murmurs, low and rough. You don’t even realize you’re hyperventilating until his words break through the haze. His eyes—kind and warm and so, so confusing—crinkle at the edges as he glances down at you.

It’s a nice look on him.

It terrifies you.

Why is your omega purring at this man? Why is the primal part of you curling up to him like a feral creature desperate for safety? You can’t trust him, you can’t trust any of them.

”I know you're scared,” he murmurs, voice even softer now. “Hell, I'd be scared, too. But we're gonna get you out of here, get you somewhere safe. Just close your eyes for me.”

Safe. He keeps saying that word, like it means something. But you know better. You shudder against him, unable to meet his steady gaze any more, but uncertain if it’s safe to close them like he wants. You can’t trust him, can’t trust any of them, alphas aren’t safe.

A pathetic sound escapes your lips—a quiet mewl you barely recognize as your own. Your fingers twitch weakly against the rough silver blanket as you try to pull it tighter, to bury yourself in it, but you can’t. Your hands barely manage to grip the thing, and the way it crinkles under your touch… it’s not soft. Not at all, and yet it’s somehow the most comforting thing you’ve ever seen.

You need to hide. You need to run, to get away, you just want to be somewhere away from this place you want to go home—

There is no home left for you. Would you even remember which way to go if there was, now that you’ve been dumped God only knows where? Have you traded one hell for another?

The thought sends a surge of panic through your veins, and you twist feebly in his grip. His hold tightens in response, broad hands steadying you against his chest even as you snarl weakly at him.

“Relax,” he mutters, shifting his stance to brace your weight more securely. “Keep your eyes closed. You don’t need to see this part.”

See what part?

Your lashes flutter open, and—

Oh.

This is the first time you’ve seen the space around you. For so long, your entire world revolved around the metal bars of your cage, the steel walls of the container, and the fearful cries of the omegas trapped with you. The soldiers’ flashlights cast shadows on the cold concrete floor. Blood smears the walls, dark and tacky, like the room itself is bleeding. The scattered debris around you glints in the dim light—bullet casings, shards of glass, something… some lump, human shaped and staring ahead at nothing, a hole torn straight through its head—

Bile burns its way up your throat, and you gag, weakly tugging away from his hold.

”Shit,” he crouches immediately, tipping you forward with a hand wrapped around your abdomen. “Go on, then, let it out.”

You don’t want to—but you do anyway. Your entire body convulses with the effort, the acidic sting tearing through your raw throat, but his grip doesn’t falter even as you collapse against him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, soft and steady. “You’re okay. Water soon, I promise.”

It hurts so much, burning through your throat, jostling your form and constricting your lungs to the point where you can’t even breathe. The gentle pressure of his hand against your spine comforts you, at least a little. He’s not hurting you, not forcing your face down into the mess, he’s… he’s helping you?

No, that can’t be right.

You try pressing deeper into the blanket, try shrinking away, try smothering the unwanted feelings bubbling in your chest because it’s not safe. It doesn’t matter that he seems to be trying to spare you the horrors surrounding you, you can’t trust him. You can’t trust any of them. Disobedience means punishment, though, and you didn’t listen when this alpha told you not to look.

These men—they’re tall, broad-shouldered, and armed—they could crush you without a second thought. Your breath comes faster again, sharp and shallow, as the terror claws its way back to the surface.

Oh god, they’re all bigger than you—

The thought is enough to make you panic again, body desperately fighting against his hold in an attempt to escape. You shove weakly against his chest, sobs spilling out in ragged gasps. You need to get away, you need to run as hard and fast as your legs will let you—

“Hey, easy, you’re alright,” he says again, a little firmer this time, but it doesn’t help. Your mind is too far gone, consumed by visions of what could—no, will—happen if you don’t find a way to escape this alpha’s hold.

His grip falters for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. You struggle to your feet, but before you can take more than a few steps, your legs buckle and send you sprawling.

Then the world bleeds into chaos.

”Oi, lass, steady!” One of them—the stocky beta with the mohawk—shouts, the sound sharp and urgent as three sets of footsteps close in.

Before you can scramble away, stronger hands clamp around your arms, hoisting you upright. The blanket flutters to the ground, useless, while a strangled scream rips free from your throat. Your vision whites out with terror as the person’s grip tightens, burning against your skin, crushing, pulling, they’re going to—

“Careful, Ghost, ye’re hurtin’ her!”

”Christ—“ The pressure lessens immediately, but your knees give out again, your exhausted body sagging into the soldier’s legs.

”P—please…” the word rasps from your throat, barely audible, but enough to shock all of you. Speaking out of turn—oh, you’re so dead. But that doesn’t stop the next words from breaking free: “Stop… stop…”

The hands holding you disappear, replaced by the same broad chest from earlier. His warmth surrounds you, and even though you so desperately want to run still, your body sags into his, betraying you. “Shh, it’s alright,” he murmurs, crouching as another set of hands works to secure the silver blanket back around your frigid skin. “Stay with me. Breathe. We’ll get through this. You’re safe, but I need you to trust us.”

Safe. There’s that word again.

You want to believe it—god, you want to—but you don’t dare.

”Please…” you whimper again, like finding your voice has unlocked something uncontrollable—a tidal wave that threatens to drown you. It’s barely audible against the sound of you scrambling to escape the alpha’s arms, clawing at the edges of the blanket. You twist and squirm until you drop to the floor, until your heel strikes something solid, sending shockwaves of pain up your limb.

A soldier’s leg.

Oh god.

The movement stills everyone at once, and you freeze. They’re going to kill you. You kicked one of them and now they’re going to make you pay, they’re going to hurt you, they’re going to force you to the floor and brutalize you and they’re closing in—cutting off every escape route and leaving you trapped.

The light shifts as one of them kneels—the alpha who’d been carrying you. Your breath catches as he meets your eyes, holding them with a sharp blue gaze.

But there’s no anger in them, no malice. Just a steady warmth hidden by a grizzled beard and faint age lines.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly, hands open and low. His gloved palms face you in some kind of… of peace offering? “You’re alright. Take my hand.”

You’re not alright.

Your omega screams at you, but even her thoughts are jumbled. Do you move and try to flee, risk their anger properly this time? Or do you crawl closer and beg for forgiveness? All you can manage is staring at him, frozen, terrified, until he inches forward. His hands reach for you, slow and deliberate, enough to make you flinch violently the second they make contact.

”Easy,” he murmurs, tone barely above a whisper as he gathers you close again. “That’s it, I’ve got you.”

Slowly, as he lifts you against his chest, your trembling legs wrap around his waist. He nods, a silent encouragement for you to slip your shaking fingers beneath the rough fabric of his tactical vest, body pressed against all the things stashed in the pockets. You don’t know why you do it—why your body reacts like this—but the warmth radiating from him feels like the only thing keeping the cold away.

”I’m gonna wrap the blanket around you,” he explains, tucking the thing in. “We’ll get you proper clothes soon.”

The rhythmic thud of his heart beneath your fingers anchors you, even as fear continues to claw at the edges of your entire being.

But then his hand brushes your neck as he adjusts his hold, and your breath stutters… except he doesn’t move to scruff you. Doesn’t force you down, doesn’t tighten his hold beyond what’s needed to keep you steady. Instead, he leans close, his breath warm against your temple. “Hold onto me, sweetheart. We’re gonna get you somewhere safe.”

Safe.

That must be his favorite word.

And… it’s working, somehow. Your exhausted body begins to give in, the tension in your muscles slowly releasing even despite your inner turmoil. Your eyes flutter shut—not from trust, but from a bone-deep tiredness that you can’t shake.

The alpha chuckles softly, low and warm and almost soothing. “Good girl.”

You’re so tired… and his scent is so nice… he smells like smoke and leather and the faintest hint of something sweet. It’s so different from the chemical smell that’s burned your nose for so long now, he doesn’t hurt you or force anything on you…

…that doesn’t mean he won’t, though.

Your panic surges once more—set off by the waves of confusion and fear coming from the men around you—as the warehouse floods with a stark, blinding light. Shouts echo in the distance, the sound cutting through the quiet night and forcing you back to reality. The alpha holding you tightens his grip as the sound of boots crunching through gravel fills the air.

”Shit!” Someone hisses, and the four men crouch as a unit.

“Stay low,” he growls, voice sharp and commanding now, and it’s then that you remember he called himself Captain, that he’s an alpha and will have no issue making you comply— “Low and slow. They’re coming from the north, our exfil is south. Hold your fire.”

The low murmurs that follow—a chorus of confirmation—make your stomach twist. The alpha holding you shifts again, one hand leaving your form to press against a button near your cheek. “Watcher, this is Bravo 0-6 actual. Something’s spooked them. Multiple guns on foot, unknown number of hostiles. We’re heading for our primary evac, we need exfil!”

The reply that comes is muffled—spoken directly to his ears and the ears of his team—but the way his jaw tightens makes your heart race. He nods sharply to one of the other soldiers, the one with the skull mask, before glancing down at you with an almost mournful expression.

Is he… is he going to leave you behind?

”Honey,” he whispers, tone softer but no less firm. It does nothing to soothe you, nothing to prevent the tears budding in your eyes—how is there even enough water left in your body for this?—and you grip him harder. Is your only safety about to be ripped away? He… he wouldn’t, right?”

”I know you’re scared, but I have to do this.”

For a moment, you want to ask what he means. Properly ask, voice and everything, but there’s not even time for you to process his words before the other alpha clamps a gloved hand over your mouth. At the same time, the captain scruffs you, his fingers pressing against the glands in your neck—

—and the world goes dark.

17 MAR 2022 04:41 Cpt. John Price Task Force 141 Verdansk, Kastovia

The way your eyes roll back sickens him, your entire body falling limp against his, but he can’t let go. He has to follow through, no matter how fucking much he hates taking advantage of someone so defenseless. “Stay quiet,” he growls, letting the full force of his alpha tone cut through the air, slice whatever remains of your free will like a blade. “Not a sound. Hold on tight to me.”

Price’s hand lingers at your neck for a few more heartbeats, massaging the pressure points to ensure your obedience. He lets go after a few moments, after he knows you won’t wake from this forced stupor for a while.

With any luck, you’ll be borderline comatose until they reach safety.

“Clear to the blue storage container,” Ghost growls, jerking the end of his rifle towards their waypoint as he releases your mouth. Price nods, tucking your limp head in against his chest before standing a little taller.

”Move,” he commands, voice cutting through the growing downpour as the team begins to push forward, clumped tight around your broken form.

The storm is relentless, soaking through their kits and turning the ground beneath their boots to sludge. At the very least, the sound is enough to dampen their footsteps, to buy him some time to cobble together a better plan then ‘get the fuck out of here.’ Price shifts your limp form in his arms, firm yet careful as he holds you tight. Even for an omega, you’re alarmingly light, barely more than a tiny bird.

“We’re not alone out here,” Ghost mutters from ahead, barely audible over the hammering rain. Price doesn’t need the reminder—his senses are already on edge, the scent of enemy operatives on the wind. At least that means they’re downwind—their own scents won’t carry any further.

“Low ground ahead,” Soap calls, nodding toward one of the smaller hills they’d passed during infiltration. “If they’re hidin’, we’ll see ‘em comin’.”

”Or they’ll see us first,” Gaz replies, clipped and short as he glances toward Price. “How’s the omega, Captain?”

Price doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flicker down to your form, thumb grazing your shoulder over the silver blanket. Your breaths are shallow, almost labored, and even with the blanket you’re soaked. They need to get you out of this storm—and preferably soon.

“She’s alive,” he mutters finally, still watching your pale, slack face. “That’s enough for now.”

They move as one—silent shadows cutting through the tense atmosphere as they head toward the waypoint. Every step feels heavier than the last, slogged down by the drenching they’re all receiving, cold seeping into their limbs. None of them slow—they can’t. Not when stopping means death.

The storage container comes into view—blue paint peeling and flaking to the puddles on the ground, rust streaking the edges. They push past, towards the ridge, towards safety. Every so often, you manage a weak whimper—soft, broken sounds that twist something deep in his chest.

How did you end up in this world? Did you have someone—anyone—out there, looking for you? A pack, a family, anything? At least his alpha’s settled enough to think. Isn’t pacing the perimeter of his thoughts anymore, ready to tear anyone who dares threaten his newest charge limb from bloody limb. It’s a foreign feeling, in a way. Price is protective over his mates, that much he knows.

But this?

Someone so… small? Defenseless?

Maybe it came with the territory. A military pack—all alphas and betas—wasn’t unusual, especially not in special forces. He knows of other SAS packs, a few in the SBS—hell, even Spetznaz and JSOC have them. But omegas, especially in their line of work? Not unheard of, but certainly uncommon.

Sure, his boys could be vulnerable. After the things they’d all seen—and *done—*Price would worry if they weren't sometimes. But even in all those moments, in the soft rooftop conversations, in holding each other after another string of endless nightmares, none of them ever seemed this fragile.

”Just a bit further,” he murmurs softly, hoping at least a little of the reassurance reaches your ears. You’re starting to stir, he thinks, scent still sharp with fear, laced with pain and exhaustion. That’s what’s still prickling at the edges of his control, his alpha resuming his demands to do something, anything to make it stop.

He can’t. Not yet. And certainly not for too long, because eventually he will have to let you go. Getting attached is not only foolish, it’s dangerous. You’re a civilian, tangled up in a world you don’t belong in. You deserve a pack, somewhere safe to lay your head at night, an alpha to hold you close and treat you the way you deserve.

You could be that alpha. You and Simon, and she could have two betas to round out her pack of men who would lay down their lives to protect her—

No. The mission comes first, and there is no place in those plans for any of this.

“How far to the vehicle?” Gaz asks, low and urgent as they stop on the ridge. Soap peers down the trail below, eyes sharp and narrowed as he searches for any stragglers. The lights in the distance have gone out—or at least dim, with how hard the storm continues its deluge—and there’s no sign of anyone following. If they’re lucky, they lost the rest of the traffickers—whoever they are—in the rain.

”Another kilometer,” Ghost grunts, already heading away. Price barely hears them, too busy sparing another glance down to your tiny form. Grime and rain streaks your face, head lolling slightly when he shifts his weight. Your body remains limp, still trembling with tiny, uncontrolled movements.

A soft noise keeps his attention from drawing away—your voice, weak and fragile. You’re trying to say something, but the words don’t come out. Price leans in a little closer, brows furrowing.

”Hey, shh,” he murmurs, holding you a little tighter. “Stay with me, you’re alright. We’re almost there.”

The words feel hollow in his throat. Everyone—you, him, his pack—knows they’re a lie. But it’s all he has.

They march forward. Left foot, right foot. Adjust, scan the area, and keep moving. Thankfully, it’s not long before he sees the vehicle in the distance, the four of them breaking into a jog as it comes into view properly. But his foot lands wrong, jostles your form, and you flinch hard. A strangled, gurgling noise rips from your throat as your head tips back, eyes rolling in fear as you make a feeble attempt to squirm out of his arms, away from the agony you must be in.

”Shit,” Price mutters, crouching to adjust you again. “Gaz, in back with me, get the medkit!”

”On it!” His beta is already moving, hand darting to the pack they stashed in the trunk as Soap and Ghost jump in front, gunning the engine and speeding away.

”Come on, sweetheart,” Price whispers, voice rough but coaxing as he tries to draw your attention. “Stay with me. Don’t go quiet on me now.”

You don’t respond—eyes still half-lidded and glazed, pupils dilated even now. You stare past him, somewhere in the middle distance, only reacting when they hit a particularly large bump.  A pitiful, pained yelp escapes your lips as his hand grazes one of the many wounds on your body, holding you on the seat. Your breath hitches with suppressed sobs, terrified and helpless as Gaz’s hands press against a rancid looking laceration.

”We need to clean this up,” he mutters, voice tight, “before it gets worse.” Price knows the undercurrent of his words, can hear the fear and frustration warring in the beta’s voice. Are we too late?

“Do it,” Price growls, tightening his grip on your torso. The vehicle lurches as it flies over the rocky terrain, cabin vibrating enough to jostle all of them. Gaz’s fingers—slick with blood—tear the cap off the miniscule bottle of antiseptic, and god he hopes it’ll be enough. The sharp smell of alcohol stuffs his nose, filling the cramped interior, seemingly enough to tear you from your stupor.

And the moment the alcohol hits your skin, you jolt hard. Your thrashing is weak, almost pathetic as your body contorts in an attempt to find relief from the fire licking through your veins. Price’s jaw clenches as he holds you down harder, fingers digging into your already bruised skin as you whimper louder and louder. It’s clear you’re exhausted, that you’re losing your battle with consciousness, that the pain you’re in is terrifying you—

“Hold her still!” Gaz snaps, almost alphan in the way his voice sharpens. Suppose that’s what happens when you have two alphas and another beta for mates. His hands struggle to keep pressure on the wound, bloodied gauze spilling around his fingers. Your movements, even though they’re feeble, are frantic enough to risk tearing your ruined flesh open further.

“You’re alright,” Price manages through gritted teeth, forcing his voice to stay low and steady no matter how badly he wants to bark at you to just stay bloody still. “Just breathe. Just breathe.”

Is the panic gripping at his chest even a fraction of what you’re feeling? His alpha is screaming, destroying his thoughts faster than he can recover, because he needs to protect you. He won’t listen to reason, he doesn’t care that you are not his omega you are scared and you’re beginning to fall into distress and if someone doesn’t fucking do something—

The scent of fear is sharp and suffocating. He can feel it gnawing at the edges of everyone’s restraint, rattling through his pack’s bond like a live wire. Everyone’s thoughts are frantic, chaotic, a tangled mess of confusion and desperation and fury, just as hopelessly knotted as his own.

They all want the same thing: to make this poor omega’s pain stop. Even Ghost, and he knows what the alpha will say to him the moment they’re alone.

Don’t get attached. You know what happens if we do.

But your fear is laced with something bitter and overwhelming—pain and exhaustion so deep it’s dragging you under. You’re so far gone that he’s not sure he has any choice. So Price does the only thing he can do: he clenches his jaw, bile rising in his throat as he moves his hand to the back of your neck.

He fucking hates himself for this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw as he digs his fingers into the tender skin and nerves at your nape.

The reaction is instant. Your body stiffens, jackknifes out of its precarious perch between him and Gaz, before going limp with a shuddering gasp. It’s like he’s flipped a switch, the way your agonized sobs cut off, like he’s stolen the voice from your body. In a way, he has. The only things that remain are the faintest tremor of your limbs and the soft, ragged hitch of your breaths.

At least you’re still breathing. It’s a hollow reassurance, but it’s all he has left. He’s not sure what he would do if you don’t make it out of this.

Get it together, John.

“Good girl,” he mutters, softly, lamely as he strokes the back of your neck. “I’ve got you. Just stay with us, hold on.” It’s enough of a reprieve for Gaz to finish cleaning the wound, quick and efficient now that there’s no resistance left in your frail body. “Just hold on.”

“We’ll get her out of this,” Soap murmurs from the front seat. His eyes briefly flicker to Price as he speaks, hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline, knuckles white with tension. “We have to.”

Price doesn’t answer. He can’t, all he can do is cradle your slack, pale form to his chest once Gaz nods, never once tearing his eyes from your face.

Since he went to sleep early, he wakes up early, a few hours before the sun is set to rise. This makes it easier to avoid his teammates. He'll work up a sweat in the gym, so he'll shower after. He heads to the small, private gym in the 141 barracks, right next to the armory.

When he nears the gym, Ghost can hear an ongoing, fast thumping. Like someone is running nonstop at a brutal pace on the treadmill. Ghost frowns under his mask. His boys aren't usually the type to get up before the sun for a heavy jog in the gym.

As he passes the armory, he takes a second to glance inside, stepping softly. Nothing looks amiss in this room, so he closes the door—it squeaks.

The pounding footfalls in the next room abruptly stop.

Ghost's skin feels electrified with warning, like a cat with all its fur puffed up. He swiftly, quietly approaches the gym, seeing the door slightly ajar. He slowly pushes it open, eyes scanning through the dim lighting. Only the low-level overnight lights of the hallway and the light of a lamppost outside the single window illuminate the room, casting deep shadows. Who was running in here with the lights off?

He sees the treadmill in the light of the window, still spinning and making a whirring sound as it winds down from the top speed it had just been previously going. Ghost hadn't been hallucinating; someone had been using the treadmill in the dark, and are now hiding somewhere in the shadowed room. Who would do that, except an intruder? There have been a few cases where some numpty recruits dared each other to enter the 141's private barracks, or there was that time they had a suspected spy try to break in and plant listening devices. But to break in just to use the treadmill?

[As a Spartan, you have a lot of energy. When you're not on mission, it is important for you to get ample exercise, to both burn that energy and to make sure you stay in tip top shape. You aren't quite sure if you're allowed to use the 141's gym equipment, but you really don't think it would be a good idea to wake someone up to ask them. When you hear a door creaking, you hop off the treadmill, intending to apologize for being here without first asking permission, but no one is there.

You realize someone is stealthing around in the hall, and they're creeping toward the small gym. Unlike Spartans, you know other humans need certain amounts of sleep, and that they are quite vulnerable during this time, so someone creeping around in the dark while the 141 is sleeping sets off warning bells in your mind. You slink into the shadows, holding your breath and waiting to see if the 141 have an intruder in their barracks. If they do, you need to detain them— preferably without them seeing your face.

Oh.

It's Ghost. You should reveal yourself. You don't want to come off as rude for lurking without saying hello.]

Ghost takes one careful step inside the threshold, and he can feel the presence before he sees it. A looming body on his right, all his muscles tense, he hears a small intake of breath—Ghost lashes out, going for a gut punch.

[Your instincts kick in, years and years of harsh, rigorous training taking over your mind and body.]

Ghost is suddenly flat on his back on the floor, gasping for the breath that was knocked out of him.

Fucking hell, how long has it been since he's been laid out like this by an opponent?

He blinks a few times as he sucks in air, and thinks he must have also clunked his head, because what he's looking at makes no sense. There's a stranger. A woman. A large, muscular, beautiful, strange woman, leaning down over him. The low light from the window and doorway softly illuminates her scars, the shape of her face, the curve of her mouth, the bulge of her thick arm braced on the floor by his head. Even in the dim light he can see she is flustered, her skin warm, her lashes tilted as she looks down at him. Her other hand releases him but her weight is still heavy on him, essentially pinning him to the floor. Who is this giant beauty, and where has she been all this time? Yeah, Ghost is sure he must have hit his head.

[Oh fuck, oh shit, you've really done it now. You attacked one of the special operatives of Task Force 141. Sure, it was an accident, it was just instinct, no malicious intent, but oh fuck, what if he is really mad about it and won't agree to an autograph now?! You're peering down at him, thoughts in a flurry as you try to decide what to say, and try to make out what expression he's got under his balaclava. You lean down closer to him, wanting to convey your regret without further embarrassing him or yourself, whispering;]

"I apologize, Lieutenant Ghost, for my rude behavior." The woman's voice is deliciously low and molten. Is she… teasing him? [No.]

Ghost can't help it, the heavy weight on top of him, her flushed, hot skin pressing close to his body, her sultry voice, how helpless he feels under her strength; he starts to chub up a little. He clears his throat.

"I'll let it slide this time." Really, he must have hit his head so hard he's hallucinating this bird and acting like a flirtatious fool.

And then she smiles. And by god, maybe he's dead and this is Heaven. Maybe he died on that last op with the Spar—

Ghost blinks.

The Spartan.

…

…

"Spartan 9?"

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

Blood rushes to his head, flushing him from chest to neck to face to ears. He's grateful for his mask. Oh for fucks sake. This, this person is the Spartan?!

He's acutely aware of you sitting atop him, your immense body hot through the clothing where it touches him, your borrowed, standard-issue, green tshirt stretched tight and much too small. Of course you are muscular and large and scarred, of course you knocked him on his ass in less than a second; you are a Spartan. He's embarrassing himself in front of a goddamn Spartan. A really gorgeous, surprisingly emotive, Spartan.

"If you don't mind," he rasps, "I'd like to get to my feet."

"Oh, of course!"

Did you make these kinds of faces under your helmet all this time? And your husky voice, it was always this deep, even without the helmet?

With a smooth maneuver, you stand, pulling him up and lifting him to his feet with an ease that has a tingle in his gut reminding him that he's already slightly chubbed up. So, your immense strength wasn't just from the armor, and your physique really isn't just for show.

Fucking hell, even with you barefoot, and him in jogging shoes, Ghost still has to lift his chin a bit to look up into your face. You're wearing a curiously anxious, or perhaps excitable expression, biting at your lower lip before smiling nervously at him. What in the fuck kind of reason would a Spartan have to be nervous about? Then he remembers why exactly he crept in here before getting laid out on the floor.

"You running on the treadmill in the dark?" he grunts, feigning a composure he hasn't quite managed to actually feel internally yet. You lower your head.

"I apologize for not asking for permission first, before using your facilities." Your voice cushions his brain, wrapping around his thoughts. You're still standing distractingly close to him.

Ghost blinks slowly as he tries to understand why you are apologizing for this. Or why you thought you needed to ask permission.

"Apology accepted. You have permission to use all the 141's amenities during your stay." Whatever. He might as well just go along with it.

Your smile unfurls and there he sees again the reason he thought he might have been in Heaven. What a bird.

"Thank you, Lieutenant, I appreciate your hospitality."

He wonders if all Spartans are taught to speak so cordially. Surely not all of them would smile so joyously at him like this.

"If I could ask one more thing," you say excitedly, taking long, quick strides over to the windowsill where you retrieve something left there. You hold it out to him as you approach, looking like you want to bounce about. "If you don't mind, could I get your autograph?"

Ghost almost chokes on his own tongue. What? He reaches over to flick the light switch on, then takes the little book and pen, flipping through the pages, examining the signatures. Then he finds Price's mark, Gaz's right below it. He huffs a half laugh, half guffaw. A Spartan is asking for autographs. From the 141.

He notices that you don't yet have Roach or Soap's. Johnny is going to be so annoying when he finds out about all this, Ghost thinks with a grin under his balaclava. Normally, a stranger wanting his signature causes him to be suspicious of ulterior motives, but…

On the blank page directly across from Price, he writes his callsign,

and then, after glancing up at you and seeing your face, so filled with utter joy and obvious excitement barely contained— like a big puppy, he thinks—,

Gary: Got a video you might like to see.

Me: ?

Gary: I'll be in my room, if you're in the mood. *eggplant emoji*

Me: This better be a really good video.

Me: You should come to me, I don't have legs right now.

Gary: *Running man emoji*

You're smiling as you set aside your phone on the nightstand and start putting away the tools you'd been using. You're carefully placing your prosthetics on the floor beside the bed when there's a soft knock on your ajar door. You look up as Roach pushes his way inside, closing it behind him. He's in sweat pants and a tshirt, with a garter covering the lower half of his face, but he pulls it down as he approaches you, smiling adorably.

You're faintly surprised when he casually leans down to kiss you before pulling his mask back up over his nose. The casual intimacy gives a tiny flutter in your stomach. Even though you'd had sex with Johnny (and partially Simon) in front of your team, it had been a spur of the moment thing, and you hadn't actually kissed or even gotten too physically intimate outside of work situations. This could be a turning point, if you'd like it to be. Honestly, you think you'd like it to be.

He kicks off his slippers and crawls onto your bed, sitting up on the pillows at the head of it. You scoot closer to him at his side, but he has other ideas, pulling you onto his lap so you sit between his legs. You're bigger than him, broad and heavy (strong shoulders, wide hips, your thick thighs and ass muscular from maneuvering your heavy metal legs), but he doesn't seem to mind in the slightest [in fact, it only turns him on]. He wraps his arms around your middle, rubbing his face into your shoulder blade. You slide your palms from the back of his hands to his forearms where you lightly hold him.

"What's the occasion?"

Roach lifts his hands in front of you to sign.

"Soap will be back soon. Is the mark still there?"

It takes you a few seconds to figure out what he's referring to. Oh — you laugh lightly. That night in the rec room, Price had left a hickey on your inner thigh, promising to show you a good time before it faded.

"Almost all healed," you whisper playfully, turning your head slightly to just barely see him from the corner of your eye, lifting one hand to reach up and back and comb through his short locks. "You saying you're going to make sure your captain keeps to his word? Aren't you a good little soldier…"

Instead of answering, Roach hums into your neck, his hands back on your body, firmly dragging his palms across your belly, his short nails scratching nicely through the fabric of your tshirt. You tilt your head back to rest on his shoulder as his hands slide up to knead your breasts, plump and free because you'd already removed your bra for the night. His teeth bite into your shoulder, tight but not stinging at all because of the barrier of your shirt and his mask. You exhale softly as he tweaks your nipples. But then you're making a sound of protest when he lets go of you. You can hear him huff a quiet laugh as he leans partially to fish his phone out of his pocket. He holds the phone in front of you both, and you remember what he'd texted you.

"Ah, right, the mysterious video," you murmur, humorously bemused.

He opens his photo album, not shy in the slightest about the contents. You've already seen for yourself many of the photos he'd taken and sent in the group chat that night, pleasantly returning to and masturbating to them the past week. He scrolls past a few of those, but one catches your eye that you haven't seen.

"Ah, wait," you put up a hand, and he obliges, holding the phone while you tap to the photo in question. It's clearly a selfie he took, the camera angle low at his half erect cock, cum dripping from his slit. He isn't wearing anything, but he has the back of his free hand up to his mouth, covering the lower half of his face. He's got an adorable blush on his cheeks and chest, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his scarred skin. "Oh, Gary…" you say, reaching back to dig your fingers into his hair again. He's so cute, you wish desperately to crush him up against your body. You add in a whisper, "Send that to me."

He moans into your shirt at your words as you tug his hair, biting down again on your shoulder, harder. [He had taken that selfie the other night after cumming thinking of you. He'd wanted to send it to you—he sent selfies like that to the rest of his boys all the time, and they loved it—, but he hadn't been sure whether you'd appreciate that sort of thing. You hadn't had any intimate interactions with either him or Price the past week, so he wondered if Soap really was the only one you were interested in. Tonight is his attempt to re-break the ice, check if that night had been a one off situation just to burn off some steam. He almost didn't expect it to go so smoothly, for you to be so open and willing to be intimate with him. He was pleasantly surprised, and admittedly excited. You getting hot over his selfies is scratching the exact spot he'd been longing for since he snapped it.]

Roach swipes the photo aside to reveal an accompanying video that he'd taken right before the photo. It's him panting softly, eyes closing as he approaches his orgasm, the hand not holding the camera slowing its movement on his shaft as his breath catches. His cum spurts free in multiple ropes, his cock pulsing visibly. You squirm on Roach's lap feeling how he's already getting hard, taking one of his hands to move it between your legs. He [happily] squeezes his hand over your clothed pussy, teasing you by pressing at your lower lips through the layers but not giving you much more sensation than that.

He one-handed uses his thumb to swipe back out of the video and continue scrolling. You assume that hadn't been the video he'd first referred to. He quickly scrolls through the files to find the one he wants, his hand rhythmically squeezing against your pussy as if absentmindedly using a stress toy.

You only catch glimpses of other photos you haven't seen before, and you briefly consider pinning him to the bed and using his erection to grind yourself to an orgasm while taking your time looking through his other photos. You mentally shake your head. There will be other times for that. No need to be too domineering on his first attempt at tangoing with you. You smile; you can feel his heart thudding against your back as he selects a video, his hand moving to your waistband but hesitating to enter as if nervous or waiting for permission. Cute. Yes, no need to scare him off just yet. You grab his arm to guide his hand under your clothing.

His other hand holding the phone drops slightly as his attention narrows to his hand slipping into your shorts and underwear, fingers combing through your pubic hair, until his fingertips glide between your lower lips, just barely, the tease. [His heart is beating fast, he's almost worried you can feel it] — you can— [and a blush heats his face as he dips lower, brushing at your hole.] You're a little wet already, and he drags some of that wet up toward your clit, circling it. You gasp, pressing back into his chest, canting your hips up into his hand. But he just presses his warm palm to your pussy firmly, holding you still against him. He nibbles your shoulder more through the fabrics, and you squirm again in his lap, feeling his growing erection pressing between your ass cheeks. You're enjoying letting him do whatever he wants, but you're going to have to reprimand him if he keeps on teasing you like this.

He lifts his phone up again so you can both watch the video he now clicks play on. It's of Simon, after he mounted Johnny on you, spreading the Scot's cheeks to reveal a buttplug. You hear him tell Soap he's naughty, and you feel a thrill clench in your pussy at seeing what you'd only been able to hear from your perspective bent over the table, at seeing Simon remove the plug, at seeing Johnny folded over you, his feet hanging, and then at seeing Simon's cock—holy shit. It's huge. Now you get why Soap was whining so much. Simon's hefty cock pushes into Johnny's hole and you moan right along with the past versions of your teammates.

Your hands are clutching Roach's pants on either side of your hips as his hand still in your panties starts to slowly stroke your clit in time with Simon's gentle, beginning thrusts. You remember how it felt from your end, slow at first before he picked up the pace, Johnny being jolted into you.

The wet sounds on the video are louder than you remember. You'd been too lost in your pleasure at the time to take much notice of all the lewd slapping of skin to skin, especially when Ghost starts up his brutal pace. The video gives you a wonderful view of his ass, balls swinging, as he pounds into Johnny—and Johnny subsequently being pounded into you. The strange disconnect of seeing your past self from a different viewpoint experiencing something you remember is… hot. This is hot.

You're gasping, writhing on Roach's lap as his fingers work your clit with as much vigor as Simon fucking Johnny, the recorded moans and wet slaps ringing in your ears. The hot, overwhelming feeling of an orgasm is approaching faster than you expected. Roach is softly groaning into your neck, his breath hot, sending more chills rolling down through you while his fingers work you. [Gary is having a ball of it. He's so fucking pleased with himself about having you come undone on his lap like this, his videos and photos egging you on. Your ass grinding on him and the wet heat between your legs has his blood surging and cock pulsing with the hunger to be inside you. But no, he must temper that hunger, he needs to be patient. Price is the one who will enter you next. The thrill of following that demand drives him on—and drives his anticipation through the roof.]

"Don't stop, just like that," you gasp, head tilting back on his shoulder, eyes struggling to stay focused on the video as you near that peak. You almost don't notice yourself mumbling, "Good boy, such a good boy," over and over as you're swept away.

Roach bites down hard onto your shoulder at that, his fingers dutifully maintaining their pressure and speed on your throbbing clit. You watch your past self hit the first orgasm with Simon and Johnny fucking you together, Johnny hitting his right along with you, and seeing that is what tips you over the edge here and now. Your body shudders with your current orgasm, Gary's fingers slowing, but still pressing into your clit a few times as it rolls through you. Your moan turns high pitched as it hits you, your thick thighs clamping shut around his hand, your head tilting forward as you curl inward.

After a few tense seconds, you sag back against him and he withdraws his hand just enough to let it hug your pubic mound. Roach sets his phone on the bed, using that hand to pull his mask off over his head to [lovingly] kiss your neck as you catch your breath. Your thighs are still closed as your cunt clenches around nothing with aftershocks.

He moves his free hand to rub soothingly up and down your arm. When his hand goes low enough to your wrist, you move your own hand to interlock your fingers with his. [He briefly feels butterflies in his stomach when you do, watching you bring his hand up to your mouth to kiss his knuckles. But then, when you let go and twist your body around enough to loop your arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, he feels his face heating, the butterflies flipping with full force in his gut.]

"Good boy, Roach," you whisper against his lips, "A perfect lamb, treating his Lieutenant so nicely."

He shivers beneath you, and you notice the blush on his cheeks. Would he be offended if you called him —a special ops soldier— cute? You dig your fingers into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp as you kiss him heatedly again, feeling a rush of aggressiveness at just how cute he is and how good you feel post orgasm. He doesn't seem to mind, humming into your mouth as his hands move to knead your ass under your panties. You move your mouth down to kiss his scarred face, along his jaw and to his ear. As you lick the curve of his ear, you slide one hand down to palm his hard on pressed between your bodies.

"Shall I treat you in return now?" you whisper with a smile.

You're surprised when his hands go to your shoulders to gently push you away, shaking his head no. You sit back on his thigh, frowning, and he quickly signs, a bit frantic as if worried about offending you.

"I mean, yes, I want that, but, I want, if you don't mind…" his fingers slow, a blush spreading over his face again. He's so cute! But you're a little worried about pressuring him if he doesn't want some aspect of intimacy. You know you can be a bit pushy at times. You don't want him to feel uncomfortable.

"If you're not feeling it, that's fine, you know," you gently encourage, brows still drawn together. He suddenly looks more frantic.

"I do! I do! I just, Price!"

You squint at his rushed movements. Then you remember. Ah, you can't help a little laugh, leaning forward to kiss him lightly before grinning at him.

"I'm up for something more, what did you have in mind for our captain?"

Both of you have shucked off and tossed aside your pants and underwear. You're back on his lap at his request, though you'd like to be able to more easily grab him and squeeze him in your arms.

Your legs are spread over his thighs, his erection rising up between them, his flushed tip just visible past your mound. He's not as horrifyingly wide as Soap, and looks to be about a comfortable five inches. You're already looking forward to having it in you—as soon as he unsheathed it from his boxers, you'd had to restrain yourself from another intense urge to pin him down, suck him off, then ride him to completion.

He rests his phone on your thigh for a moment to free his hands.

"Is it alright if I take a photo to send to Price?" he asks.

"Only if you send it to me as well," you sign back, biting your lip at the smile trying to work its way onto your mouth.

He seems to be excited about your answer because he nuzzles into the nape of your neck before lowering his hands to your crotch. Using one hand, he parts your lower lips and with the other presses the length of his cock into that crevice of your body, asshole to clit, folding your lips closed around his shaft as much as he can. His tip pokes out from your folds above your clit, flushed pink.

You're amused at whatever he's doing, and you reach down to gently brush his slit with the pad of your middle finger. He gasps, tensing as his legs twitch before he relaxes and grabs your wrists. He pulls your hands away as you laugh, pinning them between your back and his abdomen. Then he grabs his phone and holds it low to take a photo of his cock cradled into your folds. He makes sure to angle it so that it also captures the faint bruise on your inner thigh, a mostly healed yellow rather than purple by now.

You watch him open a three-way chat with you and Price. He sends the photo—your phone buzzes on the nightstand—then types a message.

Gary: You better make good on your promise or you'll miss your window, Captain.

You both watch as the text status turns to read but no reply comes. You hum, pursing your lips.

"He's only in his office, right? Maybe we should head down there?" you murmur, mostly just thinking aloud rather than seriously suggesting something. If Price doesn't want to get in on this, then that's his loss. You're not going to miss out on more fun with Roach. You want him inside you, you want to be filled. Gary seems more patient than you though, setting down his phone to press his dick more firmly into your folds before sliding his hands along the bare skin of your thighs.

There's a quiet knock on your door before Price opens it, letting it swing wide as he examines you and Roach. He hums low in his throat at the sight before him, entering the room and kicking the door shut behind him. Roach has both his hands up under your shirt now, kneading your breasts as his chin rests on your shoulder while you both eye your Captain.

"Well done following orders, Roach," Price rumbles, already removing his shoes, pulling off his belt, unzipping his pants. "I knew you had self restraint, unlike that mutt."

When he pushes down his underwear, you lick your lips at his balls and heavy cock hanging half erect already. He must be more excited about this than you thought. Just in his shirt, he climbs onto the bed on his knees in front of you two, but you put your leg up to hold him at bay.

"Your shirt as well, Captain," you demand with a mischievous lilt in your tone. "You made me wait so long, you might as well look pretty and bare for me while you keep your promise."

Behind you, Roach makes a pleased sound in agreement, his hands squeezing your breasts. Price chuckles lowly.

"Alright, princess, whatever you say," he says, as if merely indulging you instead of bowing to your demands. You narrow your eyes with a small smile. You're going to like "fighting" him for dominance. He may be a captain, but you're not going to let him have his way so easily.

Price is now fully naked before you and Roach who are still half dressed in your shirts. You admire the view, Price's broad, hairy chest, his muscular arms, his thighs bulging as he kneels and rests back on his heels. And you practically purr at his heavy balls and his cock that jumps when you reach a hand down to toy with Gary's shaft between your lips. Roach's hands squeeze tighter again as he hums, nibbling your shoulder through your shirt.

Price, eyes dark with desire, slides a large hand under and down along your thigh, lifting your leg again. He kisses the end of your leg, where it ends just below the knee, and you're so emotional about him being so tender and not repulsed by your body, it's the sexiest thing he could do. You've definitely had a few sexual partners over the course of your life who did not treat you with respect because of your disability. It isn't something you normally get emotional about—you've had plenty of years to become sure in your love for your own body—but something about the dual gentleness of his touch and the heated desire in his eyes makes you feel things. You must make some sort of face because John sets down your leg and crawls forward far enough to kiss you.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asks gently, facial hairs tickling your skin as he goes back in for another soft kiss, then another. Your hands are at his neck, sliding up into his hair as you kiss him back.

"Nothing at all," you reply a little breathlessly. He sucks a hickey onto your neck before whispering,

"Just tell me to stop and we will." He gives you a second hickey before adding, "Understand, soldier? Speak."

"Yes, sir," you gasp, pussy clenching at his commanding tone. "Good to go."

You can feel the weight of his cock dangling as he leans over you and Roach, the ruddy end trailing along your skin as he shifts to kiss Roach over your shoulder. You turn your head enough to see, a quietly chuffed sound escaping you.

Then Price is lowering himself, nipping at your hard nipples through your shirt as he passes, moving backward on the bed to bring his mouth to your pussy and Roach's cock still half tucked into your lower lips. John licks a long stripe of wet from Gary's balls, up his length and your pussy lips, the tip of his tongue flicking at the younger man's slit before repeating the motion.

Roach is breathing a little quicker, his toes curling every time Price tongues his slit, licking up the drops of precum gathering there. Price uses one hand to fondle Roach's balls as he nibbles at your folds before using his tongue and lips to un-bury Gary's cock enough to sink the tip into his mouth. He sucks the slit like a straw—a cute little high pitched gasp escapes Gary, his hands tightening on your breasts—, then dips lower, filling his mouth far enough to have his nose rubbing your clit. Hearing Roach softly groan as John noses your clit is nice enough, though you're still hungry to have a cock inside you, feeling too empty as your cunt clenches with need. On the other hand, fuck is this hot, watching the captain service the sergeant right next to your pussy.

[Gary has been so hard this whole time, he's not sure he can last much longer, even though hardly anything has happened yet. He doesn't want to cum before he even gets a chance to be inside you. He doesn't want to, he doesn't want to, but oh, your wet heat pressed against his cock as John mouths him, and your warm, large body weighing on his lap and chest, your soft breasts in his hands, your little small pleased noises you almost seem to not notice you're making, ohh it's too much—it's something he's been hungry for all week and now, and now—!]

You're happily watching Price suck Roach off when you hear a sharp inhale behind you, Roach's hands tightening on your breasts again, his teeth scraping your shoulder as he clamps down on a mouthful of your shirt. Price lifts off just in time to see the little jet of cum from Roach, spurting vertical and making a mess over himself and your pussy. You're surprised he came so quickly. You watch as his cock throbs with another smaller spurt, his toes curled and face pressed into the hair at your nape as he whines, clearly unhappy about cumming so soon. Holy fuck he's adorable. You want to twist around again to laden him with kisses and crush him close in a tight embrace and tell him that he's such a good boy, but then you feel John's mouth, hot and wet, on your clit, sucking hard. You gasp, pressing back into Gary, reaching one hand up and over to grab his hair again while your other hand sinks into John's hair.

You do your best to keep your legs spread wide, but it gets harder and harder as Price eats you out like a man starved—and as Roach takes the opportunity to grab his phone off the sheets and snap a photo of Price tucked between your thick thighs. You're panting as Roach flips the camera view to selfie mode, and you get a view of both your flushed faces. Roach doesn't even look at the lens as he clicks, his half-lidded eyes on you in such an intimate expression while he kisses your neck that your stomach flips and heat surges behind your clit.

Roach then opens the 141 group chat and sends the two photos and you gasp, hot chills rolling across you, your pussy throbbing. Price hums and uses his hands to press your legs open wider, fingers digging into the plush, unmarred skin of your inner thighs, one of the few places you yet have no scars. His tongue dipping inside your hole has you keening with pleasure and driving your hips down and pulling his hair to try and crush his face deeper into you. You need to be filled. You need it now.

"John, I need you," you gasp, fingers tugging his hair more firmly as if to drag him up. "I need you inside me."

He chuckles again, taking another moment to suck your clit hard— you gasp again— before dragging his face up your abdomen, his beard wet with your slick. You can taste it when he kisses you.

"I haven't even made you cum yet, princess. How can I show you what it means to be treated nicely by a man if you rush me?" His words are almost swallowed by your mouth, his tone reprimanding.

While you're kissing, Roach leans forward to lick at Price's beard, suckling at your juices there and you moan into Price's mouth. As John ducks down to add another hickey or two to your neck, Gary reaches up high enough to sign above the other man's head.

"You taste good, Lieutenant."

In response, your next moan turns into a whine, tipping your hips up against your captain to try and find any sort of sensation and Price laughs lowly.

"Alright, sweetheart, I got you, I'll take care of you."

Then Price is finally entering you. You hum happily as his length slides home; it's not quite as wide as Soap's, but is a tad longer. Price moans more lewdly than you've yet heard him sound as he bottoms out in you, your thighs spread wide around him, his legs steady on either side of Roach's.

"Ohh fuck, the mutt was right; your cunt is perfect," he growls, fingers sinking into the relaxed muscle and fat of your hips as he pulls out halfway before languidly rolling his hips to push back in. He rolls like that, plowing into you slow and steady a few times, in, out, stretching you pleasantly. Then John shifts his position. He leans over you, bracing his arms near Gary's shoulders, sweetly kissing your lips before snapping his hips more firmly against you.

He fucks you face to face against Gary, looking intensely into your eyes. Fingers in his muttonchops, you hold his gaze as your body rocks from his movements, your breaths intermingling; for a few heated moments, it's almost like the two of you are locked in a trance, staring and fucking.

When he breaks the fixation to kiss Gary over your shoulder, you make such a pleased little sound. You like watching them kiss, and Price knows it the way you clench on him. He grins and nips at your neck before giving you another large, dark hickey, not pausing his measured thrusts into you. Then another hickey, and another. [He pulls his face back just enough to admire his handiwork. He's created a necklace of the bruises like a string of black pearls. Now even when Soap bullies his way back into your cunt after his return, the Scot will know that you have been collared and fucked by the captain.]

Roach works his magic fingers again on your clit as Price pumps into you faster, his mouth darkening the hickeys he's already given you. You hiss when one particularly tender spot is scraped by his teeth a bit too firmly, and he apologizes by lathing his tongue over it. Roach is getting hard again already [he hadn't quite fully softened after cumming earlier], and you can feel his firm length pressing into the crevice of your thigh by your labia, slapped between you and Price as your captain fucks you. Gary gasps and twitches every time John's hips smack him against you.

[Price is getting close, too close, to his peak, so he pulls out before he can cum, prompting Roach to pull his hand away as well—] —you'd been about to reach another orgasm and you protest wordlessly, feeling horribly empty and irritable. He shushes you with a quick kiss.

"I know, sweetheart, don't worry, we ain't done yet, I just need to flip you around, okay? Our sweet boy has been suffering, needing another release. We'll treat him right, won't we?"

Gary scooches down a little so he's almost flat on his back, and you're promptly flipped by two pairs of strong arms, your own muscular bulk like nothing to them. Chest to chest, you smile down at Gary, and he smiles back, a dimple in his non-burn scar cheek. Your legs are spread wide over Gary and Price gathers some of your copious amount of slick and spreads it on Roach's hard cock before helping to guide him into you. You're so soaking wet, and stretched enough by Price's slightly larger dick, that he glides in almost easily. You briefly clench your muscles around him, treating him to the pressure of you as you kiss him, pushing your tongue inside when he moans loudly at the sensation. [Soap and Price were right; your cunt is perfect.]

You feel more pressure at your entrance, and you aren't sure what John is doing, but you try your best to relax under his touch. You ruck up Gary's shirt, lowering your head to hungrily mouth at his nipples, fingertips grazing over the old burn scars that travel down half his body. His hands come up to tug at your shirt and you chuckle against his breast before pulling your tshirt over your head then helping him with the same. You grope his pecs, thumbs swiping at his hard nipples as you mouth at his neck now, idly wondering why Price is being so suspiciously quiet, merely fingering your hole where Roach connects with you.

Then, ah fuck! you curse and ball your fists against Roach's chest. He's grimacing a little too as you realize what Price is doing. He's stuffing himself into your pussy right alongside Roach's dick.

"There's no fucking way you'll fit," you snap over your shoulder, feeling feisty again.

What does Price think he's doing? He's gonna rip you in half at this point, why didn't he just go for your asshole?! Roach might not be as insanely wide as Soap, but he's still taking up plenty of room inside you all by himself. But Price just laughs lowly, one of his hands coming up to grip the back of your neck where he squeezes tightly—sending chills skittering across your bare skin—before sliding his hand down between your shoulder blades and forcing your upper body back down to rest on Roach. His fat cock head pops past that tight ring of muscle near your entrance and you moan, face falling into the pillow beside Gary's head, your mouths at each other's ears. You can hear him whimpering so softly at the tightness, his arms wrapped around you, fingers digging into your back, which makes your walls squeeze enough to make him whimper louder.

You lift your head to look back at Price, a snarl twisting your expression.

"Now who's the sex addled mutt—"

"That's no way to address your superior, Lieutenant." His hand comes down hard on your ass with a sharp smack, and you jerk, clenching—both Price and Roach flinch at the tightness.

You spit foul language at him before snarling, "I'll show you disobedience; slap me again and see!" Despite your words, your face is heated, a rush of something like adrenaline going straight to your clit.

[John is sorely tempted to spank you until your cheeks glow red—you haven't yet told him to stop after all—but he doesn't want to push his luck. Besides, he relents, he's supposed to be playing the gentleman right now. There will be plenty of other occasions to "discipline" you.]

[Gary almost drools at the thought of seeing his two, large superiors fight like tigers in heat. He'd pay to see—and record—your powerful bodies tussling and aggressively fucking.]

John hums as he leans over you to kiss your back.

"Alright, princess, I'll go easy on you this time, but do not test my patience again."

He has a hard edge in his voice at the last few words and you drop your face into the pillow again with a muffled, lustful sound. You feel a little thrill at him relenting, giving in to you even that tiny amount. What else can you do to push his buttons? You start to wonder but are quickly distracted when Price starts pushing further into you. Ah, you groan, digging your hands underneath Roach pressed to the bed to try and feel more anchored [your blunt nails biting into the flesh at the small of his back sends shivers straight down his spine to his prick]. It's too much, it has to be too much. But Gary's sweet moans are in your ear [your sweet whimpers are in his ear], as Price keeps pushing in, parting your walls further. You feel even more split open than when Soap pushed his girth into you.

John pauses when he's sunk as far into you as he can, his weighty balls resting on Gary's. He swirls his hips without pulling out, and you [and Gary] can feel his hard length pivoting inside you. You exhale shakily (so fucking turned on) and Roach's arms tighten around you [also incredibly turned on], which prompts you to squeeze him in your arms as well. Price's large hands grope your ass cheeks, spreading and kneading them so he can watch himself as he slowly pulls out, then slowly pushes back in, milimetre by milimetre, the agonizingly slow drag of him stretching you making you pay close attention to every inch of his length plunging in and out of you.

Soon, he starts fucking you in earnest, ordering Roach to just lie there and take it. His cock slips against Gary's, dragging on the edge of your hole, long strokes in and out, speeding up as you start to loosen, his balls swinging to slap against the base of Gary's cock and balls.

[Gary's breathing is unsteady as he feels his captain rubbing against his cock, encased in your wet heat, the sounds of skin slapping against skin so exquisitely lewd that he craves recording it. He blindly fumbles for his phone among the sheets. Oh how he wants to be able to record from Price's point of view. Your hot tongue swipes his neck between gasps and pleasant chills roll through him. He holds up his phone, eyes bleary, and takes a pic of what he can see over your shoulder; your ass jiggling with every hard slap of John's hips as he drives into you with fervor, his hands clenched at your waist for leverage.]

[John is panting as he pounds your velvety pussy, savoring the added sensation of his sergeant's cock. His hands are tight enough around your waist that he knows he'll leave bruises, but he knows you can take it, just like you can take both their cocks at once; you're a strong, sturdy woman. He sees Gary taking a pic, his face flushed as you mouth his neck and make needy, breathy noises. John reaches with one hand to snatch the phone, and Gary is too much of a mess to complain. John chuckles, switching the camera to video mode, leaning his torso back to angle himself enough for the view he knows Gary would drool over.

He hits record. The lens captures the swath of hair trailing down from his navel to the base of his cock that appears and disappears into you; and the beautiful curve of your plump ass; and the sweep of your back dotted here and there with various scars. He lowers the camera to the side to show Gary's cock also inside you, slicked and twitching as he nears his release.

John does his best to hold the phone steady, but the building fire in his gut claims his movements, compelling him to not slow his pace, to keep driving into your lush cunt like an animal in heat. He looks up at the other man's flushed face again, Gary's eyes tipping back into his head as your fingers tangle into and tug at his hair, while you nip at his ear and whisper something John can't hear. It's such a salacious sight, he soundly understands why Gary is so obsessed taking photographs, for he'd keep this image imprinted in his mind forever if he could. He lifts the camera to take in the sight before turning it back to the double cocks penetrating you.

John's feeling flushed all over his body—he knows he can't last much longer. Every flutter of your walls around him and Gary has his breath near hitching with gasps. It almost feels like your pussy is trying to squeeze their pricks for all the cum it can, milk them dry to satiate your needs. He knows as soon as your cunt seizes with your orgasm, he'll be lost to his own climax. He clenches his jaw, determined to last just a little longer in this heavenly moment.

He quits the recording and goes into the files, his hips stuttering only a moment as he navigates to the video he just took. He grabs Gary's hand and makes him hold the phone for himself before taking a handful of your hair and tugging—roughly enough to make you groan hoarsely, since he's noticed you like pulling hair—, turning your head so you're also forced to watch. Gary is game, clicking play as John leans forward, once again bracketing the two of you with his muscular arms, fists clenched into the sheets at Gary's shoulders. You and Gary watch the video with glazed eyes, as John bursts into quick, rabbiting thrusts, grunting, the slapping of skin as loud in person as it is on screen.]

You moan wantonly at the video Gary is showing you—John must have only just now taken it, and it's making you so fucking hot, your chest and face heating as you watch your own pussy get ravaged from behind even as John now picks up his pace into wild thrusting that has that moan bouncing out of you, "uh-uh-uh-uh-uh."

Gary seems just as turned on by the video, tilting his head to bite down on your shoulder, a low, husky groan in his throat, his teeth sending little pleasurable jolts of pain down your spine as his hips [unconsciously] jerk slightly underneath you. Your body is being jolted by John's demanding thrusts, fast and faster, droplets of sweat trailing down his thick arms, his breathing heavy near your neck.

Your nails scratch at Gary's scalp as you tug his hair harder, the heat in your core coiled so tight—and then it snaps.

A guttural sound leaves your throat, shifting into a higher pitch as your body shudders, legs twitching, pussy clenching and unclenching rapidly around the two cocks stuffing you full, encouraging their own orgasms. The two men climax almost simultaneously in response, their cum tangling together inside you, Gary's teeth latching tighter on your shoulder as a whimper escapes him, and John throwing his head back to groan so loud it's almost like a howl of victory.

As his balls throb a few more ropes of cum out of him, John unhurriedly thrusts into you once, twice, three more times, mixing his seed with Gary's, smearing it on their sensitive cocks and your walls that still pulse with aftershocks. Gary squirms, whines quietly, and John rumbles like a soft growl low in his throat as if to tell him to settle down.

All three of you are panting to catch your breath. John goes down on his elbows, lightly weighing you down, but not crushing Gary with his full weight. He tenderly kisses your back near your neck as Gary licks at the indentations left by his last bite, an apologetic look on his face. You tug—a little more gently than earlier—on Gary's locks, making him turn his head to kiss you deeply, his eyes closed and his mouth accidentally breaking into a drunken grin. You giggle [—oh she's cute when she giggles—] as John suddenly nuzzles into your neck, tickling your skin with his beard. His weight keeps your lower body deliciously pinned in place, but you can still pivot your arms and shoulders to twist enough to pull John's face to yours and kiss him as well. His warm tongue licks into your mouth and the kiss turns sloppy, both of you still breathing a bit heavily.

You're riding that postcoital bliss, the desire to crush them both in your arms and kiss them all over temporarily overwhelming. Their cocks still inside you with their spend makes you feel so pleasantly full, you wish it was feasible to sleep like this.

"Stay inside me?" you plead in a hushed voice, hopeful. There would have to be some shifting and maneuvering to manage it. They'd probably accidentally slip out of you during the move to a comfortable position.

John hums, one hand stroking your hair, sucking on your bottom lip before pulling back to speak.

"Next time, sweetheart. Let our boy stay in you while I get something to clean you up, alright?" He nibbles at your jaw as you sigh, only half disappointed.

"Alright," you say softly. You can't help sweetly kissing him once more before adding, "I've got some wet wipes in the cupboard under the sink."

John pulls out, groaning like he's an older man than he his because you purposely—brattily—clench your muscles as he does, the drag making all three of you feel a shiver of echoed pleasure. John carefully gets off the bed and goes into the small connected bathroom for the wipes.

Gary strokes his calloused hands soothingly up and down your back, letting himself soften inside you. You kiss his cheek, stroking his hair, then whisper into his ear,

"Well done, my little lamb, you made your Lieutenant feel so good."

His arms wrap around you again as he nuzzles into your neck. [Gary too is feeling blissed out. He wants to stay inside you all night and cuddle and nibble your scrummy body.]

John returns with the wipes, having already cleaned himself up. You enjoy watching the swing of his lax cock and balls when he walks. That and his muscular, hairy body are some yummy eye candy. You accidentally clench around Gary and he whimpers softly, his hands tightening on you.

You half giggle, half sigh, lifting your leg and turning onto your side—Gary makes a sad noise as he slips out of you—so John can more easily wipe the cum and slick. Once all three of you are sufficiently no longer dripping in semen and other fluids, John lies down behind you, spooning you as you spoon Gary, arms solidly squeezing around him after coaxing him to turn over.

[He'd resisted because he wanted to be able to keep looking at your face as you drifted into sleep, but you'd murmured, cheeks blushing in a surprisingly cute manner, that you wanted to hug him close in that position—and honestly, he couldn't say no to you like that. Well, he has to admit, he really likes how nice it feels to have you hugging him from behind. Then he remembers his phone, grabbing it where it had been dropped to the sheets during the heat of the moment. He's incredibly satisfied that John had been present of mind enough to record a video for him. He can always rely on his captain.]

You watch over Gary's shoulder as he opens the 141 group chat. There are messages from the others in response to the two photos Gary had sent earlier, of John eating you out. You'd been so deep into your pleasure you hadn't even noticed the vibration of your phone when they texted.

Johnny: Screamin Jesus *panting emoji*

Kyle: Looking good, Lieutenant. <3

Johnny: *eggplant emoji* *eggplant emoji* *eggplant emoji*

Simon: great, now johnny is worked up again

Johnny: Si is blushin under his mask, he loves yer photo too bonnie *blushing emoji* *eggplant emoji*

You huff a half laugh, feeling sleep already pulling at you. Gary sends the photo he'd taken over your shoulder of John fucking you then sleeps his phone and sets it aside just as someone starts typing. Your phone vibrates multiple times on the nightstand for a full minute.

John chuckles, one large hand coming up to hold your breast in his warm palm, the other snaked under your waist to wrap around and hold your lower abdomen—your uterus-pouch of fat—, making you feel pleasantly held.

You squeeze Gary close and sigh in contentment as your mind drifts like a feather, down under into dreams.

[Gary listens to your soft breathing even out as sleep carries you away, John quickly following, his snores quiet thanks to sleeping on his side. After a few more minutes, Gary carefully turns over, shifting until he faces you. You mumble something in your sleep, swollen lip pouting slightly, your arms tightening around him. You settle again as he watches you, face smoothing out with a quiet exhale.

He smiles softly, fondly, fingers gently moving a strand of hair from your forehead. He reaches for his phone once more, and takes a picture of your sleeping face. He saves it as his background before setting aside his phone again. He inches closer, until the tip of his nose almost touches yours, and closes his eyes as he breathes in your scent.

A warmth spreads in his chest, as bright as the postcoital glow he'd been feeling earlier. Maybe this is still part of that. Maybe it's something else.

And now the radio isn't working; he can't get a signal out to overwatch, to Laswell, to the pilot coming to pick them up, no one. Their short range comms still work, but he's pretty sure it isn't the radio that's broken, which means the enemy put a net up to stop their signals knowing that the 141 is still somewhere among the buildings. They're safe for now, hidden here, but it won't be that way forever. If the Spartan doesn't show up soon enough, Price is going to move his men and their charge out of here and to safer territory, Spartan be damned.

Said charge is sitting nervously on a shredded and dusty couch, glancing every few seconds at Price then back down to his hands folded in his lap. Task Force 141 had been sent in to retrieve some sensitive intel that had fallen into enemy hands, and when they arrived, they had found this man there, waiting to be rescued. Laswell wasn't happy to learn that the top dogs lied about what they were picking up from the enemy compound, but there was nothing to be done about it in the heat of the moment. Now they just have to get the man, Harvey, to exfil and get everyone home safe and sound. Easy, right?

A roar builds in the distance, coming in hot and gaining volume as a very fast aircraft does a flyby over the hot zone, its engines thunderous as it passes. It shunts out a drop pod before zooming off, and its package lands heavily in the city's historical downtown square, lodging itself deeply into the brick street. The door to the drop pod flies open, bodying a hostile who had been stupidly standing there staring at it. Not many people can recognize a Spartan's drop pod when they see it considering not many people are able to see one with their own eyes.

Out steps the Spartan, wearing the signature heavy, full-body armor. A group of the hostiles had been raising up and securing a confederate statue of someone long dead, and now glare uneasily at the newcomer. Before the onlookers can react, the Spartan quick-draws a pistol from a holster at his ribs and shoots one of the enemy combatants dead. The hostiles start shouting and attacking immediately in response, shouting "Freedom to America!" with wild fervor. The Spartan gets to work, using that pistol, a short range rifle attached to their back, and a thick, sturdy knife blade attached to the back of their armored, gloved hand and forearm.

"Holy shit," says Gaz, who has been keeping an eye on the square courtyard down the street through his scope.

"What is it?" asks Soap, going over to Gaz at the half boarded window, careful not to let himself show.

"It's the Spartan," Gaz says, sounding a bit stunned. "He's crashing through the hostiles like they're paper."

"Are you sure it's the Spartan?" Soap asks as he uses a pair of binoculars to look for himself.

"I've never seen one in person, but I'm pretty sure it can't be anyone else."

They're both watching as the Spartan grabs a grenade that was tossed at him, flings it back, and then almost casually, he kicks a car up on its side to shield himself from the blast. He stands strong and unfazed.

"Holy shit," the two men say softly in unison.

Ghost has taken note of their hushed conversation and with a grunt, stands from his crouch at the top of the stairs.

"I've seen one, let me see."

Soap hands him the binoculars. Ghost watches a car with a large gun attached on the back rushing the Spartan, the gunner sinking ammo into him to no apparent effect. As the car passes, the Spartan lunges for it, slashing a tire with one hand and snatching the gunner by a leg with the other. The man screams as he's swung through the air and smashed on the broken concrete floor.  Another man on a roof fires a rocket launcher and the Spartan swings the body, tossing it into the path of the rocket, only staggering two steps back by the resulting explosion and flying gore.

"Holy shit," Ghost rasps under his breath. After a moment, he uses the comms to radio Price who is downstairs with the rescued hostage. "Price, our knight in dull armor has landed."

Price responds with a low voice, "Copy, possible hostiles on back entrance. Soap and Ghost, downstairs. Gaz, keep watch for the Spartan's progress toward us."

"Copy."

Gaz notices the commotion in the square is much quieter now, he sees a few hostiles turning tail to the west. He hears the gunfire below as his team takes care of those hostiles trying to enter, and notices the Spartan react to the sound of their gunfire. He turns his helmeted head first in their direction, then shoots someone Gaz can't see from his position, and then the Spartan is walking down the side street toward their location. Gaz feels a chill at his approach, momentarily feeling silly. He wouldn't want to be considered the enemy of a Spartan.

"Price, Spartan incoming," Gaz radios.

"Copy, hostiles clear down here."

Before Gaz can move, he hears a faint whoosh in the distance, and then the street outside their building explodes. Debris flies and Gaz is on the floor, hunkered down as he shouts through the ringing in his ears into the ear piece.

"Mortar fire! Price, it landed on the Spartan!"

"Tell me when you have eyes on the Spartan again!"

The smoke only takes seconds more to clear, the wind is picking up, blowing strong. A thunderstorm rumbles on the horizon. There's a crater in the street now, and no sign of the Spartan. Gaz grits his teeth against the sinking feeling.

"No sign of the Spartan, sir."

"Copy. Gaz, come down, we're moving out."

Once everyone is gathered downstairs, Price says, "We're not gonna wait for another wave of hostiles to descend on us. Let's move east, closer to the extraction point, and hope our guest manages to catch up, if that mortar didn't blow them sky high." 

The 141 is moving through the brick streets, farther from the square, to the east where a hill rises up to the treeline. They almost make it to the edge of the city when two men wearing black and white versions of the American flag as shawls get the drop on them. They scream not to move, to hand over the hostage—Price gets worried when Harvey clutches his arm and starts hyperventilating. Please don't cause a scene or faint and make us carry you. The 141 team doesn't move except to slowly raise their hands above their heads, letting their rifles hang on their straps around their shoulders.

With a boom, the Spartan drops down from a building behind the hostiles, closed fists slamming the tops of their heads and knocking them straight to the ground in crumpled heaps. A third man the Price team hadn't seen comes racing from an alleyway, screaming wildly, actually frothing at the mouth and wielding an old fashioned looking rifle with a bayonet on the end. His feet are swept from the ground and are dangling nearly a meter high as the Spartan catches the full-grown man by the throat in one hand and lifts him. With a sharp squeeze, the man's neck is snapped and he quickly dies.

Holy shit, the four spec ops think as they stand there watching the formidable display. All of them are grateful the Spartan is an ally. It's not every day that the 141 sees someone deadlier than themselves. Not to mention how fuckin' huge this bastard is—he must be at least seven feet tall.

The Spartan doesn't say anything, just stands there menacingly after dropping the body, the helmet showing no hint of his expression. For all they know, he also is not happy about playing babysitter. A few more seconds pass by, and Johnny wonders, does the great lug not speak?

[You can't believe you're meeting the famous 141. Your heart is pounding with nerves, picking up suddenly as you stand before them. You hadn't even been winded earlier, but now you're suddenly flushed with nerves and excitement. Your drinking buddy used to tell you stories about the amazing exploits of the 141—well, she used to tell you as much as she could. That which wasn't classified. You've been a fan of their apparent talent to complete missions ever since. And here you are, standing right before them! You have to lock your joints and tense your muscles to keep from bouncing on the balls of your feet with excitement. You need to play it cool, play it cool, make a good first impression. ………Would asking for an autograph hurt or help that good first impression?]

"Spartan 9, I presume?" Price asks, stepping forward slightly to take point on addressing you.

You nod once, silent still [pressing your lips together to keep in the sudden burst of excitement that wants to escape as a squeal]. They're starting to get the feeling you don't talk much. If they weren't experienced soldiers who have gotten used to all kinds of personalities and people in their line of work, they'd start thinking you were being rude.

"Right, we should get a move on then. That evac isn't gonna wait forever," Price says.

[You snap back into focus, berating yourself mentally for nearly forgetting to heed the task at hand. You need to concentrate. You don't want the 141 thinking you're an air-headed idiot who can't even complete a mission.]

They watch you pull a tiny device from a small compartment in your chest carapace. You stride forward, handing it to Price. He reads the simple text that scrolls across the small screen and nods. You return the device to your storage and snap it closed. The text tells Price that Spartan 9 knows the new evac coordinates and instructs him to follow through to finish the mission despite the radiowave net blocking further communication.

Without further ado, you start walking down the street as if expecting them to follow. Well, they suppose that is exactly what they need to do now that the coordinates have been changed. Gaz frowns at your armored backside, wondering if this silent treatment is usual for all Spartans.

The group leaves the town, following the colossal man toward the treeline. South of the town, the land turns into sweeping plains, golden grasses bending under the weight of a strong wind. The storm has rolled in fast from the horizon, darkening the daylight to nearly night, but the rain hasn't started falling yet. Ghost walks at the back of the group, needing to every now and then prod at their rescued hostage, Harvey, whenever he slows, panting from the hike. They're only a click away from the town when Soap decides to try his hand at chatting up the Spartan.

"So," he says as he trots up to you who had been forging ahead in the lead, "What's a lad gotta do tae get an amazing set of armor like that? Even saved you from that mortar shell it did."

Spartan 9 turns his head, pausing his stride, but he is silent. The tinted, black sheen of his visor gives away none of his thoughts. After a moment, he continues walking, and Soap thinks he sees him shake his head slightly. The Scot is only momentarily discouraged of course. He's very relentless toward his goals when it relates to his mouth.

[ You stare at Johnny "Soap" MacTavish in awe—you almost can't believe he's talking to you directly! But when his words register, you bite your lip as you think hard of a response. You start walking again as you consider;  you are on good terms with the Armorer and, in fact, most of the workers at the Smithy. Would you be able to obtain a set of Spartan armor on the down low? You're not so sure about that. After all, each armor set is bound to specific wearers. You shake your head, regretful that you can't do this for him, but, if you're being realistic, he probably wouldn't be able to use Spartan armor without the Spartan training for it. You feel stricken, as if you've lost a good opportunity for a starting point of a friendship with him.]

Thirty minutes of hard hiking finally brings you to the exfil coordinates. (Ghost had ended up carrying Harvey when he became too exhausted to go on.) The rain has started falling, making everyone miserable and wet [except you, you lucky duck, in your waterproof armor—though it is slightly annoying how the droplets partially obscure your vision as they trail down your visor].

The group spreads out around the clearing, Price unfolding a small tarp from his pack to drape over Harvey where he huddles in the center of the formation. The Spartan is standing with his rifle in a relaxed but ready grip, on the border of the clearing, staring silently into the trees. [You take up position facing the way you came, in case any hostiles managed to follow your trail. Your visor is busy searching for anything out of the ordinary in the trees and foliage as you zone out a bit. You're worried about how you're going to broach the topic of autographs. Maybe they would be offended by that? A good Spartan leaves no trace of their identity in someone else's hands. Perhaps they would feel the same way as special operatives.] The 141 each take up position in different directions, making sure there are no blind spots. Soap is eyeing the Spartan from his squat next to Ghost who also holds his rifle at an easy ready. If the Spartan isn't going to let his guard down, then neither is he.

Soap is running his mouth about this and that as he sneaks more glances at Spartan 9, the babble washing over Ghost like water. Currently, Soap is telling a joke Ghost is certain he's the one who first told it to Johnny. Gaz, who is half listening from his position, already has a groan locked and loaded for the awful punchline.

"So there's two muffins in an oven, and one turns tae the other and says 'whew it's really hot in here ain't it?' And the other muffin screams, 'ah! A talking muffin!'"

They hear a short, choking snort.

Soap's head whips around to the Spartan. But he looks unmoved, as silent as ever. A grin slowly grows on Soap's face, and he stands. [You are flushed with restrained laughter and embarrassment under your helmet. You quickly clamped your mouth shut when a chuckle nearly fully escaped. You really don't want them to think you were eavesdropping, you don't want to come across as someone rude. (Even though it is completely normal to be able to hear someone speak when they're only a few feet away from you.) You're so caught up in your head, you almost don't notice Soap's approach until your visor warns you with a proximity alert. You try not to move, staring out into the trees. Is he coming over to demand why you were listening in on his private conversation? (Again, not private at all.)] 

Soap stands next to you, his arm resting lazily on his rifle slung across his chest. He leans forward a bit, looking over—and up, boy he's a tall lad—at your tinted visor.

"So…" he starts, sounding overly casual to his teammates who are half watching the exchange. "A big lad like you, they probably feed you boulders fer breakfast and pound cake fer dessert, aye?" He hums thoughtfully for a moment then adds, "I don't recommend the muffins though, I hear they're mouthy."

[It's so unexpected, you can't help the breath of a laugh that escapes.] To Soap, through the helmet, it sounds more like a scoff, but he doesn't take it personally. In fact, he sees it as quite good progress. He almost thought he was never going to get a reaction out of the hulking giant. He's opening his mouth for another whopper dad joke Simon told him when their comms beep and a voice comes through.

"This is Zed-3 for Spartan 9 and Captain Price, do you copy."

Before Price can respond, they are all surprised to hear the Spartan speak for the first time, his voice deep and rough and tinny through the helmet.

"This is Spartan 9, the landing zone is secure, you are clear to land and commence with evac."

"Copy that Spartan 9, landing in 5."

As soon as the aircraft lands, the soldiers load up, guiding Harvey to a seat with a belt to strap in. The Spartan does not strap himself in. He doesn't even sit, but instead remains standing, head bowed slightly to not bump against the roof.

There's another Spartan drop pod on board, situated near the back loading hatch, because you're going to be dropped again for a different mission on the way back to the 141's base. The pilot is purposely taking an arcing route back to their base that will pass over your drop site. You are to move on to your next mission, your current charges (the 141 and Harvey) safe in the aircraft.

"Wow, they aren't even gonna let you rest between missions?" asks Gaz, feeling annoyed on your behalf. Even the 141 gets a reprieve between missions (even if some breaks are only a few days or even hours long). The Spartan turns his head to look at him but doesn't say anything. [You're confused, not sure what to say in response. It would be strange for you to go back to base when there is still more for you to accomplish, and you aren't winded yet in the slightest and have plenty of ammo still, plus more in the drop pod. Many missions and many weeks can pass before you are called to return. You will not be returning to the Spartan home base until your handlers have no more immediate use for you. This is how it is for all Spartans. Resting for any lengthy time between missions would be a waste of you as a valuable resource. That's what the time spent in the aircrafts is for, to rest and prepare to deploy again. You'd be quite useless stuck at the Spartan home base to rest between every mission.]

But you're only in the air ten or fifteen minutes when you hear the pilot shouting about bracing for an incoming impact. The hostage 141 rescued is clutching himself tightly in fear. You grab him by the arm, startling a yelp out of him, causing the 141 boys to tense and converge on you. You're shoving Harvey into your drop pod when something hits the ship. The boys are almost knocked off their feet, Soap and Ghost holding on to the buckle straps of the wall seats, Price and Gaz leaning on the wall for support near you.

You glance at each of them, then make a quick decision, and grab the back of Price's tactical vest, thrusting him into the pod with Harvey with an ease that startles the burly man. He is not usually so easily manhandled. There's enough room left for one more person to squeeze in. You snatch Gaz, who had been shouting above the beeping of the emergency alarm, questioning your reasons for manhandling his captain. The airship is in a spin now, the force of the rotation causing Soap and Ghost to grit their teeth as they struggle to hold on, glaring questioningly in your direction. In a manner reminiscent of a bully shoving smaller kids into lockers, you pin Price in place as you add Gaz to the pod before sealing the door. You turn to Soap and Ghost then [as your visor calmly informs you of your rapidly dropping altitude—it thinks you're pod dropping with the speed at which the carrier is now falling].

You grab two parachute packs and help the boys put them on [your suit and training leaving you much more mobile than them]. You wrench open the aircraft's back door, the world and horizon spinning dangerously, the sky and earth trading places sickeningly fast. You haul on the drop pod, pulling the emergency parachute lever before kicking it out into the wooshing sky. [The pods are designed to cushion much of the impact, but without Spartan suits, the landing would still be rough for them without the parachute enabled.] Then you grab and toss Soap and Ghost, Soap shouting a half-baked joke about literally falling head over heels [you can't quite make out what he says as the wind rips his voice away]. Ghost curses as he spins through the air, trying to catch sight of the pod with his teammates in it. He has to assure himself that you did that with the express purpose of keeping them safe. There admittedly hadn't been a lot of time for yapping once the aircraft started going down, so he will just have to trust your decision for now. He and Soap pull their ripcords at the correct time, Soap trying to crane his head to catch sight of the spiraling aircraft and you.

17 MAR 2022 05:03 Cpt. John Price Task Force 141 Verdansk, Kastovia

Price clenches his teeth as the jeep jostles over uneven terrain, his grip tightening around your frail form. Your unconsciousness brings his alpha to an uneasy quiet—still wary, still watchful, but subdued for now. Each bump sends tension rippling through his body as he hunches over you, trying to shield you from further pain. He’s no medic, but he doesn’t need to be to see how deeply you’ve suffered.

That perks his alpha up, he wants blood and so does Price. For a brief moment, he allows himself to daydream what it would be like to let his alpha take over. To unleash him, allow the beast to raze the Earth and hunt down every last one of the sick fucks behind this.

It would be so satisfying. We get dirty, and the world stays clean.

But his eyes flicker back down to you, and he softens just a bit. His alpha does too, the soppy muppet—god, what is he, a bloody pup seeing a mature omega for the first time? You’re in no state for anything even remotely like that, and the thought of you being forced to endure that kind of treatment…

It’s bad.

Worse than bad.

Bruises dark as midnight; raw, festering wounds; needle marks mapping your arms like a grotesque mosaic. You barely weigh more than a child, feather-light in his grip, and your ragged breaths echo through the tight confines of the vehicle in a way that’s leaving all four of them on edge.

”Shepherd’s not gonna like this,” Ghost mutters, low and gravely, edged with frustration. Price knows what he means—this mission, for all intents and purposes, was a spectacular failure. Was this the bad feeling he had, before they deployed? Price didn’t think he could’ve ever guessed. He thought it’d maybe be an injury, or them missing something, but this caliber of fuckery?

Ghost hasn’t looked away from the horizon, rifle still in hand—as much an extension of him as the skull mask. “Taking her with us… feels like bringing a liability back to base. If she even lives that long.”

Price doesn’t respond immediately, though his alpha stirs again, rankling at the implication. He knows Ghost doesn’t mean it personally, but it still feels like one of his mate’s blades sunk into his chest. A liability. Perhaps. But leaving you behind was never an option—not for him.

Not for any of us, Simon. Don’t think I can’t feel your tension through the bond, love. You can’t hide it from me.

”She’s not a liability,” Gaz interjects smoothly, his calm betan demeanor a steady counter to Ghost’s cynicism. He shifts a bit, still perched awkwardly in the middle seat as he monitors your condition. A small penlight in his hand flickers as his fingers reach for your puffy eyelids, checking your pupils once more. There’s no awareness in your gaze, though. Glassy, glazed, unseeing.

He hates it. Especially when Gaz’s brow furrows as he settles back, one hand stroking down your arm and towards your wrist.

”Pupils are reactive. Don’t think she has a concussion, but she’s barely holding on. Looks like she’s been pumped full of sedatives of some kind—it’s a wonder her body didn’t shut down entirely.”

Price exhales sharply, the edges of his control fraying as his alpha claws them to ribbons. Urging him to do more, protect, fix—but there’s only so much he can do, and they all know it. The frustration rippling off him in waves is setting his boys on edge, and it’ll set you off too if he can’t get a goddamn grip.

”Any needles, vials, anything?” He rasps instead. Gaz nods.

”Grabbed a couple things, they’re in my kit. Most of it was smashed beyond repair, though.” the beta replies. Price grunts.

”Soap,” he says next, cutting through the tension. “ETA?”

”Twenty minutes, maybe less if we don’t hit any trouble,” Soap answers, his Scottish burr subdued for once. His usual humor is absent, replaced by the same taut concentration he employs on the field, but… it’s wrong. There’s no lightness to it, no quips or sidelong glances. “We’ll be there soon.”

”Good,” Price mutters, letting his fingers trail absently over your hairline. The strands are slick with sweat, heavy with grime—it’s clearly been a while since it was properly cared for. He earns a soft whimper in response, so faint it barely registers, but it stabs him all the same. His voice softens as he leans down. “You’re alright, love. We’ve got you. Just a little longer.”

”She’s compliant now, but that won’t last,” Ghost warns, meeting Price’s eyes through the rearview mirror. Behind the stark white mask and the midnight black fabric, all Price can make out are two dark orbs, narrowed ever so slightly. “Sooner or later, she’ll wake up properly. And when she does—“

”—she’ll be terrified,” Gaz interrupts, sharper than usual. There’s no rise in his tone, nothing to shock you into wakefulness, but the steel beneath his words is unmistakable. “And she’ll need reassurance, not more bloody threats.”

Ghost snorts, unimpressed. “Reassurance won’t mean a damn thing if she turns violent. You saw her earlier. She’s not stable.”

Price’s frown deepens as Ghost speaks, the words sinking heavy into his chest. The alpha is right—they all know it—and Price knows exactly what he means. Panic, fear, trauma… child’s play, really. Especially when something far worse lurks beneath that—distress. The real kind, the kind no amount of soft words or careful handling can fix.

An omega in full distress isn’t something Price has seen often, but those few occasions… the memories still burn in his mind. The way their hindbrain, their inner omega, takes over completely. Like some primal, feral being shoved the person aside and seized control. A last-ditch effort to find safety.

They could help you if you were distressing, but if it went too far? If you spiraled into full distress, if your omega took over? Strength beyond reason, violence without restraint. Survival at its barest form—but the price an omega is forced to pay in exchange…

He’ll never forget the first time he saw it. A young thing, barely an adult, if even. Shoved out into the fray to distract his team, but smart enough to know his only way out was death. How Price watched helplessly as the omega forced himself into distress, his body collapsing under the strain of it before his heart gave out—

Would your omega even be strong enough to fight? Or would you skip past the bloodlust and straight into what little light you still carry fading away?

Without a bonded alpha to ground you… if you fall that far, there’s no going back. You don’t trust him—or any of them—yet, not that you don’t have every right to. He can’t let that happen—

”Hells feckin’ bells, Ghost! Wouldn’t you be?” Soap snaps, his frustration and temper finally breaking through. It’s enough to drag Price from his thoughts, back to the iron grip he has on your body as his pack bickers. “After everything she’s suffered? Christ, mate, show a bit of fuckin’ humanity—“

”Enough,” Price barks, his alpha tone cutting through the argument like a bullet. It’s enough to silence them—thank christ—but the tension lingers as a tangible weight. “We don't leave anyone behind. We are getting her out, end of."

Even as he speaks, though… he can’t help but wonder. How close are you to slipping over that edge? And if you do, will they be able to save you? He pulls you a little closer, almost imperceptibly, as if holding on will keep you tethered. As if it will keep him grounded.

“Gaz,” his voice softens after a long pause. “Keep her stable. Soap, see if you can smooth our ride out any. Ghost, eyes on the perimeter. We’ll deal with the rest when we get to the safehouse.”

There’s no argument after that, only a tense, uncomfortable silence. For a brief moment, Price contemplates blaming you for it. It’s almost immediately after that he thinks better of that—you never asked for any of this. That much is obvious. How many times were you made into a convenient scapegoat? A punching bag? A warm body?

And he nearly had the audacity to blame you.

This is why his pack does not need an omega. The four of them—two alphas, two betas—evened each other out. No omega to upset the dynamic, and it worked. Nothing to distract them from the mission, from the goal of making the enemy scared of the dark. And yet his instincts are still screaming bloody murder, his alpha once again pacing the cage Price learned to shove him in years ago, ready to tear the world to shreds for even daring to look at you wrong.

It’s going to be a long day.

By the time the jeep finally halts, Price can feel the weight of it settling in his bones—god, what he wouldn’t give for a stiff drink. The storm’s still raging, rain pelting the roof as if the sky itself decided to drown the earth. Barely thirty minutes since they left the warehouse behind and tore over the open land—are they out far enough? Did the storm cover their tracks? Felt like a bloody lifetime.

The moment he can, Price is pushing the door open, keeping you tight to his chest. He can’t bring himself to let any of his mates carry you, or even touch you, not when the fragility of your body in his grasp makes something primal gnaw at his core. He clings to you like a child with their favorite toy, like his hands alone will shield you from the world’s cruelty, as if his touch alone could erase the horrors written across your skin.

Don’t get attached.

Soap and Ghost move to sweep the perimeter while Price focuses on your shallow breaths and Gaz’s murmured reassurances. The cabin is nothing more than a dilapidated shack, tucked into the wilderness, but it’s warm. Secure. For now, it’ll be enough.

“We’ve got her, sir,” he murmurs. Price nods, but it’s not enough for him to let you go. Not yet.

Inside, they fall into a familiar routine: Ghost and Soap finish their sweep, clearing the space while Gaz moves to set up some of their gear. Price gently lowers you onto the scarred wooden table in the center of the kitchen, before he quickly sheds his jacket and balls it up. It’s not dry, barely soft, but hopefully it’ll offer you some form of comfort as he slides it beneath your head.

For a moment, all he can do is stare. And when he finally lets himself take in the full extent of your injuries, now that the silver blanket has fluttered away to reveal your bare skin? He wishes he hadn’t.

Bruises. That’s the first thing he sees, the splotches litter your skin like a grotesque painting. Ugly purples and blacks and greens and yellows—like an abstract attempt at flowers. Scars and gashes, some fresh and weeping, others deep pink but no less haunting. They all trace a map of abuse across your body. Marks around your wrists, your ankles, reminders of restraints pulled too taut, hands too cruel… and a trail of wounds that lead down your belly, snake up your thighs and disappear between—

His alpha rises with a snarl so visceral that Price feels his lips twitch. His eyes flash—an electric blue that he catches for a brief moment through his reflection in the window. He takes a step back, gritting his teeth and balling his hands into fists. Don’t do anything reckless.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Soap faltering. None of his pack is left unaffected by the emotions flooding their bond—his beta lets out a pained whimper as he sags against Ghost. The alpha doesn’t push their mate away, eyes narrowing behind the mask while Soap curls his fingers into Ghost’s tactical vest. Ghost dips his head, nuzzling against Soap’s hair and murmuring something soft in reassurance. Even Gaz looks sick.

Gaz, who prides himself on his unshakable composure, looks like he might lose his dinner at the sight of you. And yet he still steps forward, his beta instincts bleeding through at the sight of an omega in such dire need, resting his hand on your shoulder and whispering something soft into your ear.

“Bloody fucking hell…” the words slip out before Price can stop them, low and hoarse, nothing more than a weak growl. Price forces himself to look away, gripping the edge of a chair to steady himself. His heart hammers against his ribs as his fingers curl against the old wood, stark white in comparison to the mahogany beneath his hands.

“Sir,” Ghost’s voice cuts through the haze, a firm hand landing on Price’s shoulder. “Take a step back. Get some air. Let Gaz and Soap handle her.”

Price hesitates—and isn’t that something new, for a man who prides himself on his control he’s acting like a young pup getting his first piece of tail, almost—instincts warring against logic… until Gaz’s eyes meet his.

“We can handle it, John.” Gaz’s low, soothing voice wraps Price like velvet. His bergamot and eucalyptus is like a balm to the ragged edges of Price’s control, the scent filling his thoughts as Gaz leans in and brushes against him. It’s enough to steady him—just barely.

With a nod, Price steps back, slipping the mask back in place. It’s donned inward, invisible to everyone but him, and he can only hope it’ll be enough once again. He envies Ghost, sometimes. The other alpha can pull a balaclava from thin air and hide behind it, but Price has to bury his emotions. He’ll never regret being the pack alpha—knows Ghost would never accept the title unless something were to happen to him—but it leaves him carrying the weight of them all on his shoulders.

Even when it threatens to crush him.

Price can’t—won’t—let anyone see how close he is to breaking. How the sight before him shook his composure off its foundation. For now, he pulls himself together, because they have a job to do. He needs to screw his head on straight, call Laswell, and figure out the mess they’ve found themselves in.

Even if the sweet, broken scent of you is enough to drive him mad.

Unknown Date/Time Omega-06348 Unknown Location

Pain.

It’s the first thing that assaults your senses. White hot, searing pain. It flares bright and sharp, radiating out from every single inch of your body. You have no idea where it begins or where it ends; it simply exists and devours everything else.

Hands. There are hands on your body—your shoulder, your abdomen, brushing over your skin and poking and prodding despite your garbled grunt of pain. You try to flinch away, but your limbs are heavy like the leaden bars of your prison.

Your heart pounds wildly, a frantic rhythm that fills your ears, rattles your ribs, and drowns out everything else. The air’s too thick, too heavy, pressing down all around you and pinning you in place. Your limbs twitch weakly, instincts screaming for escape even as exhaustion chains you down.

A sound pierces the air—high-pitched and broken. It takes long, agonizing moments before you realize it’s your own wordless cries. Panic seizes your body, adrenaline briefly dulling the pain as you lash out, desperate to free yourself. Somehow, by some miracle, you manage to pull away, the sudden freedom almost as shocking as the agony when you hit the ground.

There’s no space left in you for higher thought, no room for reason. Your omega claws at the edges of your mind, and even though she’s just as exhausted as you are she’s still begging you to let her take over, to let this nightmare end once and for all. There are no drugs preventing you from distressing.

It would be so easy. But even she’s faltering under the weight of it all, shrinking back into the corners of your shattered psyche. It’s too much—it’s all too much, and all you can do is cower where you’ve fallen. This is beyond fear, beyond being broken…

Your shredded throat struggles to keep up with the heaving gasps and broken sobs tearing from you. Every single one feels like a knife carving through your chest, rending flesh from bone and leaving nothing but raw, bleeding muscle in its wake. All you can do is cower where you’ve fallen, trembling so violently your body might as well shake itself apart. Hot tears streak down your cheeks with the little liquid left in you.

Your thoughts are a shattered blur, slipping away into the chaos. Even survival feels distant, unattainable, because there’s nothing left. No strength to fight, no energy to run. You’re cornered, naked, freezing, shivering, scared because those hands belonged to two people so much bigger than you—

You hiss, cry, beg wordlessly for them to stay away. Please don’t hurt me don’t maim me don’t cut me drug me knot me use me I’m scared please go away please leave please please please I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared—

The hands don’t return.

Your cries falter into pitiful, hiccuping whimpers, the sound barely audible over the blood pounding in your ears. Something tugs at the edge of your awareness—stillness. They haven’t moved. And eventually, your voice is too weak to muster even the faintest sound. When you manage to crack your eyes open, it’s slow and cautious—the world remaining a hazy blur as the figures shift in and out.

Two of them.

They’ve both crouched several feet away, just far enough to be out of reach, but not so far that they couldn’t still lunge. Where does that leave you? There’s no way you have enough strength to dart away, not when their silhouettes betray their strength. The lean one looks fast, agile; his stockier companion’s muscles bulge beneath his shirt.

The realization grips you tight, choking what little breath you’ve managed to regain. Your eyes dart between them, narrowed but unfocused, waiting for the moment they strike. This fragile stalemate has to come to an end at some point, doesn’t it? Your nose twitches, instinctively pulling in their scent.

Betas?

Not alphas. Betas. That knowledge is enough to loosen the icy claws of fear spearing through your body, melting it ever so slightly. It doesn’t stop your weak trembling, the throbbing pain radiating through your form where you’ve made contact with the dusty floor.

Neither of them move.

Well, not until their hands rise slowly, empty and open, palms out in a gesture so careful it only makes you more wary. They’re too calm, too deliberate, it’s too much and your lips curl into a weak snarl.

“Easy, lass…” one of them murmurs, low and cautious, like he’s afraid that anything louder than a whisper will spook you into bolting. He’s not wrong—if you could, you would.

His voice is thick with an accent you can’t place. It should be grounding—despite how husky it is, it’s not harsh in the least—but it sets your nerves alight all over again. You squeeze further into yourself, desperate to protect your core and all too aware of your nudity. You bare your teeth again, though this time you don’t even manage an attempt at a snarl. It comes out a weak, raspy whimper instead.

The beta doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. Just stays where he is, crouched and staring at you with shockingly blue eyes. The intensity in his gaze makes your chest tighten all over again—what does he want?

You don’t know what to make of these betas. It’s been so long since you’ve been around any. Their neutrality should be a comfort, but it terrifies you instead.

“It’s alright,” he tries again, barely a breath now. “I promise, it’s alright. Not gonna hurt ye.”

They always say that. Lies. It’s lies, you can’t trust them, they’re going to hurt you, they stole you away for their own sick games and now you’re trapped trapped trapped—

A startled whimper escapes you when he inches forward, tears coming hot and fast, blurring your vision all over again. You flinch away, expecting hands to grab you again, to yank and pull and hurt and—

They… don’t come. The beta stops, freezing in place for a few heartbeats. “You’re okay, lass. Not gonna touch ye, promise.”

The words are strange, soft but careful, as if he actually means them. You squish back further, bare back pressing against the cold corner of the room. The shiny blanket is still draped haphazardly over the table you fell from, and god do you wish it were around you. Not very soft, the fabric too crinkly, but warm. The sharp edge of the wall bites into you, but it doesn’t matter, you’re trapped. A low keen spills from you before you can stop it—a scared, pain-filled noise as your eyes dart frantically around the room.

There’s gotta be some escape, right? Maybe if you could get past them both, you could make a run for the door…

Fooling yourself only works for so long, though. There’s no escape, and when you try to stand your knees buckle almost immediately, dumping you back to the floor.

“Soap, do you think you can get close to her?” the other beta whispers cautiously. His brown eyes flicker between you and his companion, calm yet concerned, steady in a way you don’t think you could ever be. “I don’t want her to bolt. She can barely stand.”

Soap—if that’s even his name, what kind of name is Soap?—nods slowly, expression softening as he settles onto his knees. “Is that alright?” He inches forward, hands still raised and empty. Bigger up close, thick and muscular, but without the vest and gun and helmet he almost looks… friendly. “I know it’s scary. But we don’t wanna hurt you. Just wanna help, aye?”

You watch him warily, chest heaving with sharp, shallow breaths. He stops a few feet away, within arms length but not so close he’s suffocating you. The other beta backs up slightly, moving a little further out of sight, but still close enough to intervene.

That’s… fine, you suppose.

It’s not like you could fight them off anyway. If this is it, if this is where your life ends… at least Death has a kind smile and gentle blue eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he breathes, low and even, laced with something you can’t quite place as he inches closer. “I’m not gonna hurt ye, I swear. On my mum, on my da—on my bloody team. I just wanna help? Can I touch your hand? Just your hand, lass. Seems like it’s been a long time since anyone’s been on yer side.”

Your breath hitches again, sharp and frantic. Your chest aches, your entire form is shaking, you don’t understand. He’s giving you a choice?

That’s not right. Is this some kind of fucked-up test? Some… some trick? If you let him close, he’ll what, beat you? And if you don’t, he’ll beat you anyway? It’s lose-lose. And it’s enough for your thoughts to spiral, fear building like a crescendo in your head until a soft moan slips from your throat. His eyes widen, sadness clear in the shimmering depths.

And then he crouches down. Lowering himself further, making himself impossibly small despite his solid build—

—and bares his neck.

You freeze.

He’s basically prostrating himself. For you? Confusion and panic twist together, knotting you up, tying around you like a noose with every passing second. The gesture is so alien, so deliberate, that you just… don’t understand. What is he doing?

“Promise, lass,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I won’t do anythin’ ye don’t want. Ye just… look like ye could use a bit of kindness, yeah? I’ll follow yer lead.”

Your breathing comes so hard, so sharp that your vision swims with black dots. Every single gasp tears through you, hollowing your chest and sending tears spilling down your cheeks. Before you know it, before you can stop yourself, your trembling hand reaches out, brushing against his outstretched fingers. A sob bursts from you, pitiful and desperate, and it’s all you can do to not collapse as the last of your energy drains with the movement.

“Aye, that’s it,” he says, soft and warm and pleased as he bridges the remaining distance. He scoops you up carefully, cradling you to his chest with a tenderness you don’t understand. It feels impossible. Impossibly kind, impossibly safe, and you sob harder as the comfort washes over you, completely unbidden. “I’ve got ye. You’re safe now, I promise.”

His scent envelops you, fresh and clean yet earthy. Soft, woody, soothing in a way that makes your head spin, so different from the rot and despair and chemicals that clung to you before. It’s been so long since you smelled anything different, anything that didn’t make your skin crawl… god. You don’t even remember your own scent. Do you have one anymore?

“John MacTavish,” he murmurs after a beat. “My chums call me Soap. What about you, lass? Got a name?”

You blink. The question barely registers, tangled in the haze of your thoughts. Talking… were there rules about speaking to betas? Your mind spins, clinging to fractured memories. All you remember is punishment—ruthless, cruel—for every word.

The doctors, the soldiers… all alphas. Even looking at them would earn you a beating. Talking to them? Almost a death sentence.

Before you realize it, your breath starts to come in sharp puffs again. Panic twists and coils in your chest, desperate to burst free at the thought of breaking some unwritten rule. It doesn’t matter that these men aren’t alphas—

Soap doesn’t press, though confusion flickers across his face for a brief moment. Your heart skips as he shifts slightly, but he doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t raise his voice or his hands, or even force a response. He holds his ground, gaze steady but soft, still almost reassuring in a way. “It’s alright,” he murmurs calmly, almost like he’s guessed what you’re thinking. “Ye don’t need to talk if you’re not ready. No rush.”

A pitiful sob wracks your body like an aftershock. The other beta—still unnamed—throws a sharp look at Soap, irritation flickering in his dark eyes. It softens when his eyes settle on you.

”It’s okay, luv,” he offers gently, his voice velvety smooth. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll get you home.”

Home.

The word twists the knot of emotions in your belly until it’s tangled the rest of you in with it. There is no home for you. That place never really existed, and either way it’s been torn from you just like everything else.

Something breaks inside of you at the thought. More sobs well up, feeble and scared, as you curl further into yourself. Your shaking frame begins to sag, aching and exhausted, you just… want it to end. The sharpest edges of your panic have dulled, giving way to a heavy fatigue. Like you’re moving through water, but every time you push the waves shove back.

Your muscles lock as Soap shifts, pulling you closer. A faint whimper catches in your throat, but you don’t fight. You can’t—not when your body trembles so violently it’s ready to crumble. Stay still, your omega pleads, curling in on herself, too weak to resist.

“There we go,” Soap murmurs, low and steady as he settles onto a worn sofa and cradles you in his lap. His arms tighten around you, just for a moment, enough to make your frayed instincts falter. Your hesitation gives him the chance to wrap a blanket around you, and though you shrink away from his hand brushing over your hair, he doesn’t pull back.

It’s a light touch, cautious, but foreign all the same, especially when he begins to hum low in his chest. The deep vibration rolls through you, and it takes a few moments for your hazy thoughts to recognize—

—he’s… he’s purring.

He’s purring at you.

You don’t relax completely—you can’t, it’s not *safe—*but the edges of your remaining fear start to blur. The pull of his scent—fresh, clean, with earthy, woody notes, mingles with the steady noise. It doesn’t feel dangerous, just… strange.

The other beta’s voice cuts through your mind. “My name’s Kyle Garrick, luv. Most everyone calls me Gaz, though.” He creeps forward, and from this angle you can see the Union Jack on his baseball cap. British. He crouches beside you, low to the ground, unthreatening as he bares his neck much the same way Soap had. “We’re SAS. They call us the 141. We’re the good guys.”

His gloved hand lingers near your knee for a moment before resting lightly atop it. Warmth seeps through the leather, faint but steady, like a thread holding you from toppling over the edge.

“Is it alright if I take a closer look at some of those wounds?” He asks, tone softening further. “You’re still bleeding, luv. Probably doesn’t feel too nice, huh?”

You hesitate, fear warring with exhaustion. What do you do? Can you trust him? Should you? Your body’s already given up, though, slumping against Soap’s chest as his purrs deepen. The vibrations travel through your back like a gentle rhythm, coaxing you into an almost automatic nod.

“Thank you,” Gaz murmurs, waiting until your breathing slows before reaching for a bag. “I’ll start with your feet and work my way up, alright? If anything hurts, let me know.”

With no choice but to trust him, you nod faintly, sinking back against Soap’s broad chest. Gaz cup your ankle, his careful touch so deliberate it pulls your attention. It’s… confusing. How can they both be so gentle?

“This might sting a little,” he warns as he cleans the grime from your foot. The cool air that follows isn’t unpleasant, but it makes you shudder just a little, especially when he gets to the raw, broken skin. The soothing touch after, though, the feeling of being clean… it’s enough for a soft sigh to escape your lips. “That’s it,” he murmurs encouragingly, his focus unwavering. “We’ll have you patched up in no time.”

A laugh rumbles under you, Soap’s thumbs drawing slow circles over your wrists. “Aye, think the lass likes that, Gaz.”

Your breath hitches, the sound freezing in your throat. How could you have forgotten yourself? Forgotten your place? Pleasure… it’s foreign, something you don’t deserve. Never deserve, you're nothing but a warm body for an alpha to take—

“Lass?” Soap’s whisper breaks the spell, voice gentle and soft as you’ve heard it so far. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to get comfortable. I didn’t mean to scare ye—I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Why is he apologizing, shouldn’t I be apologizing? A low whimper builds in your throat, escaping just as fresh tears spill over, streaking down your cheeks. It’s a miracle you even have tears to cry at this point, with how dry and cracked your lips feel. Each drop sears your skin, carving paths through the grime on your face—it all hurts and you just want it to stop…

But then there's Gaz' voice, smooth and kind, pulling you back to the moment. "Soap, I think we should get her cleaned up, first," his hands release your ankle as he speaks, setting it back down. "It'll be easier to see her wounds, and I think it'll calm her a bit, too. She's terrified—I don't want to make it worse."

"Aye, I've got her," Soap replies, shifting you a bit in his lap. His hold is firm, yet so impossibly gentle—you can feel the raw power in his form, but the way he speaks to you, how he touches you… it's so kind. "Right here, lass, safe as can be. You've been so brave, haven't you?"

The deep timbre of his voice rumbles through your chest, and the way it vibrates grounds you in a way you don't quite understand. It's so good, so warm. Without thinking, you twist further into him, pressing closer, desperate for the comfort he seems so willing to offer.

Soap doesn't stop you. If anything, he encourages you to, leaning into your movements and purring softly in response while Gaz resumes his work. Long, deliberate strokes over your feet blur the passage of time and scatter your thoughts. It's different from before—no harsh, unwanted touches. No bruising grips, nails digging into your skin…. just patience and care. You almost want to roll in him, soak up his scent and every bit of comfort offered, before it's gone forever.

"There ye go," Soap whispers quietly, his words a balm to your nerves. "Such a good lass. Must be so tired, aye?"

A weak whine escapes you as the blanket shifts, exposing more of your battered skin. After so long spent naked, you're startled by how much it bothers you now. The absence of drugs, of that burning need… all it does is sharpen your vulnerability, remind you of where you are and the strangers surrounding you—

"Shh, it's alright," Gaz soothes, pausing as his eyes skim over the marks littering your body. He pulls the blanket over your chest a little higher, a little tighter, preserving what little of your modesty remains. "I'll be as quick as I can, then we'll get you properly covered up, yeah?" To Soap, he adds, "She's bruised pretty badly, but I don't think she needs stitches. It's… clear someone got creative with a knife, though."

Soap's hands still from where he'd been rubbing slow circles into your hands, head tilting down to meet your gaze. His bright blue eyes are filled with questions—soft yet searching. "Lass?"

You don't have any tears left to cry, though that doesn't stop your quiet hiccups. Weakly, you press your bony thighs together, curling in on yourself as if it'll make these strange beta's worried gazes disappear. You're trembling again, teeth clicking together faintly—when did it get so cold—and your tongue catches painfully on the cracked edges of your lips.

"Shite, she needs water," Soap mutters, voice low with quiet urgency. Gaz nods, retreating with quick, quiet footsteps leading him away from your line of sight for a few brief moments. When he returns, a bottle appears in your vision, careful hands cracking it open before your eyes.

Gaz kneels beside you as Soap steadies your frame, their hands guiding the bottle to your lips. The mohawked beta murmurs encouragingly as the cool liquid trickles through the desert lining your throat.

It's heaven.

You swallow greedy gulps—desperate to take as much as you can before it's gone—though the other beta, the one with curly hair and mahogany skin, pulls it back after a moment. "Easy now," Gaz murmurs, ignoring your soft whimper of protest. "Take it slow. There's plenty more, but pace yourself. You'll get sick if you rush."

The warning makes you freeze. A shudder rolls through your body at the memories surfacing—sharp, vivid recollections of punishments when you'd had the gall to get sick before.

But… the captain… he hadn't hurt you when you were sick earlier. Why?

As if answering your unspoken confusion, the door in the corner of the room creaks open. Your heart leaps into your throat, eyes blowing wide as they dart to the towering figure stepping into the room—kind blue eyes and a slightly graying beard framed by the raging storm outside. It's the perfect dichotomy to everything he represents: danger, pain, malice—

—but then he smiles, and your confusion grows. It's soft, splitting his rugged features as he crosses the room and lowers to his knees before you.

Soap shifts a little beneath you, angling you toward the alpha in what could almost be some kind of reassurance. What was his name again? You don't remember, why can't you remember, he's gonna be so mad—

"Price," Soap murmurs, holding you a little tighter as your breathing hitches. "All clear?"

"All clear. Ghost's still watchin', so I figured I'd take the chance to get out of the rain." Price. His large, rough fingers trail lightly along your blanket-covered leg—from your ankle to your knee before stopping. The touch—gentle as it is—makes your entire body stiffen, ready to hare away.

"Hi, sweetheart," he murmurs, steady and warm. His gaze flickers over your form, assessing but not harsh, that same kind smile still on his lips as he tips his head slightly. "These muppets treating you alright?"

You stare at him, your wariness mounting. Sure, he looks kind… but keeping your mouth shut is the safest choice. You're not supposed to speak to your superiors, or make any kind of noise, really—

Or make eye contact.

The instant you realize you have, panic races through your veins. Price's hand shifts on your leg, slightly higher now, and your entire body reacts before you can stop it. Your arms fly up to cover your face as you shrink against Soap's chest, a feeble attempt to ward off the blow you've earned by disrespecting an alpha.

For the split second before you squeeze your eyes shut, you see the smile on his face fall, eyes lingering on you but crestfallen, like he's… like he's upset that you're afraid of him.

"Lass, you're okay," Soap murmurs firmly, his hands closing over your wrists to guide them away from your face. "He's not gonna hit ye. No one will, I promise. You're safe here."

You whimper almost inaudibly. Even when you manage to crack your eyes open—to stare at the alpha through your lashes—his gaze hasn't left your face. His thumb starts to trace over your knee, calloused yet inexplicably soft. "Garrick," he says without looking away, "how's she doing?"

"She's hanging on," Gaz explains steadily. "We were just trying to get her cleaned up, but I haven't gotten far yet. She's hungry, though—I can hear her stomach rumbling. Water's not enough."

The mere thought of food makes your stomach churn violently, nausea rising so quickly that a faint gag escapes your lips before you can stop it. Fear lances through you, sharp, cold—if you're sick now, there's no telling what they'll do. Their kindness can only go so far, right?

Price's eyes widen in alarm, his hand moving in what seems like pure instinct to press against your belly. The contact doesn't hurt—far from it, it's one of the most gentle touches you've felt in so long—but it's so foreign that you recoil, shaking and sobbing in earnest once more.

Mumbled apologies fall from your lips—barely even words, not audible through your fearful cries. Three voice respond at once, their tones overlapping in a rush of soothing noises and gentle coaxing. Soap's purring deepens, vibrating steadily against your chest as he holds you just a little tighter, while Gaz's hand hovers protectively near yours. It's Price's voice that breaks through the tense chaos, though—deliberate and calm.

"You're okay," he murmurs softly, thumb tracing slow circles over your knee. "Just breathe. We'll get you through this."

The alpha's tone is so calm, so measured that it cuts through your panic enough to slow your tears. Blinking blearily, you glance up at him for a moment through your lashes, meeting his gaze. His eyes hold a quiet sadness, deep and blue and pressing heavily in your chest. It's… not suffocating, though, the way he looks at you. If anything, it's more mournful.

"We need to get you clean," Price explains, pulling his hand from your knee and resting both on his thighs. "Some of these cuts could get infected if we leave them."

The words make your stomach twist. You sink further into Soap's chest, your trembling growing in time with the shame and fear knotting together. Price's gaze doesn't waver in the slightest, though his voice softens even further, barely above a whisper. "Can you wash by yourself?"

The question hangs in the air. Somehow… it's not judgmental, not patronizing, even though the answer is obvious. Your hands—shaking and weak—barely manage to hold the blanket around you, fingers curling uselessly into the fabric. Your head hangs, the weight of your helplessness crushing you down deeper. Pathetic, you think, shaking your head no.

"It's alright," Price replies kindly. "How about we get your arms taken care of? Just the easy parts for now. The rest can wait until we've gotten some of your strength back."

Your eyes slide to Soap, searching his face for any signs of displeasure or caution. He doesn't say anything as he meets your gaze, merely tightens his arms around you, offering a slight nod and smile. You nod back, curling into his chest a little deeper as Price shifts closer. Wordlessly, Gaz hands Price another rag while the alpha settles to his knees properly.

His movements are deliberate, slow enough that you can track each one even as you hide. Price reaches for your left arm, the one trembling against Soap's side, but the way he cradles it is almost like he's holding a bird's broken wing. Perhaps that's what you are now, just a bird tossed about in a violent storm.

"Alright," Price murmurs, almost to himself. The damp rag kisses your skin, cool and soothing as he methodically wipes away the sweat and grime. It's an unfamiliar yet welcome sensation, even as goosebumps pebble across you after each touch.

When he reaches a deeper cut near your elbow, the pain sparks sharp and immediate. Instinctively, you flinch, drawing your arm away with a sharp hiss before you can stop.

"Sorry," Price apologizes immediately, voice tight with regret. He makes no move to grab you again, waiting until you offer your hand back before continuing. "I'll go slower. Let me know if I hurt you again."

Soap hums quietly, hand rubbing soothing circles over your back. His purrs continue to vibrate through you, dulling the sting of the rag and the sharp edges of your lingering trepidation. Gaz moves a little closer, calming and steady. By the time Price finishes your arm, your breaths are slowing, still shaky, but less frantic. You're almost relaxed, and you have no idea what to do with that.