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soapybutt17 · 2 days

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Big Soldier, Little Soldier

Summary: Everything that John has worked for to catch Makarov led to Soap in critical condition in the hospital fighting for his life and his own wife in the brink of losing her sanity after a month long kidnaping at the hands of the enemy. He failed his team but nothing hurts more than to realize that he failed his family with you as the collateral damage of it all. Character: John Price x F!Reader (Lt. Rookie) Word Count: 3,334 Chapter Warnings: Mention of torture and gore. Mention of death and decay. Allusion to sexual assault. Mention of trauma. Major Angst with slight comfort. Mention of injuries both physically and mentally. Minor Character deaths. PTSD. Trauma induce. Ideas:

"Do you want me to hold you closer?"

"Is this okay?"

"Tell me to stop and we stop. I don't care what's happening. All I care about is you."

"Will you sit with me?"

requested by @azkza "anything but i love when it's become angst😙"

Song Inspo: Abbey & I Don't Smoke

Masterlist ||Series Masterlist || 500 Followers Celebration

The damp, cold air of the room presses against your shivering skin, seeping through your clothes and chilling you to the bones. The harsh fluorescent light above flickers intermittently, casting eerie shadows across the cracked concrete walls. Your wrist burn from the coarse rope binding them to the back of the chair, each knot a reminder of your powerlessness. Every breath you take was a struggle, each inhale bringing a fresh wave of pain to your bruised ribs. You try to ignore the coppery taste of blood in your mouth, the result of Makarov’s latest session to get you to admit the truth of your team’s plan.

“Tell me, Lieutenant.” His voice was low and taunting and continued to echo your mind. “What is your husband’s plan?” The sneer in his eyes were unforgettable, each word dripped with cruel intent.

You’ve managed to resist so far, clinging to the scraps of loyalty, training, and the love instilled in you. But as the day’s drags on, your resolve begins to waver. You were uncertain how much more you can truly endure.

The door slams shut behind Makarov as he leaves you alone in the suffocating silence. The dim light buzzes above, a constant, grating noise that grates on your frayed nerves. The solitude of the room is numbing, the silence more terrifying than the threats. It gives you too much time to think, to worry.

Your eyes closed and picture their faces. Your daughter, with her bright eyes and infection laughter, always running around the house with boundless energy and question you and your husband were more than happy to answer. Your son, quieter but no less adventurous even in his infancy, with his thoughtful gaze and the way he always held your hand when he was scared. You wonder if they are safe, if they know what happened to you—if your husband had made it known. You hoped they are far away from the nightmare you are trapped in, shielded from Makarov’s reach.

A tear slips down your cheeks as you think of them, your heart aching with longing and fear. You’ve always been strong for them, the one who faced danger without flinching but with a reassuring smile that kept everyone sane and calm. But now, tied to this chair in a foreign land, you feel the edges of your strength fraying. The darkness is closing in, and you’re not sure how much longer you can hold it at bay.

You wonder if your husband knows. If he was actually coming for you or if his duty refused to let him do so. The thought of him, with his determination and fierce protectiveness, gives you a hint of hope. But the hope is a double-edged sword. What if he’s walking into a trap? What if Makarov’s plan extended to him and your children?

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, the pain grounding you, pulling you back from the brink of despair. You can't afford to give in. Not yet. You have to believe that they’re safe, that they’re waiting for you. You have to believe that you’ll see them again.

“Maybe this would finally make you talk, шлюха.”

You heard the man’s voice again, and the voices of various other men that came along with him, the sound of zippers being pulled down had realized the fate was sealed and you had wished for death to come for you instead of this predicament.

A month, it took John a month to finally locate where you were being held hostage. He wasn’t even sure if you were still alive. After what had happened to Soap, he was uncertain if Makarov would even show you mercy. But he couldn’t lose hope, not when you had your children waiting back home, looking for their mother.

“John, we can do this. You don’t need to come.”

“The fuck I don’t.” John found himself barking at Laswell.

She had no right to dictate where he can and cannot go. He needed to see with his own two eyes where you were. If you were safe or if you were dead. He will not believe a word anyone says unless he would see it with his own two eyes.

“John, we’ve almost lost, MacTavish. We can’t lose you too.” Laswell repeated but it only burned his core.

It was regret, the numbing and brutally stabbing feeling of regret that it was his fault that it had come to this. Soap was fighting for his life trying to save John during the fight with Makarov. His wife, his beautiful and brave wife, was God knows where fighting to stay alive, probably enduring the brutality of the torture that only one Makarov could dish out.

It was his fault, no one else’s.

“I’ve failed Soap and I’ve failed my wife. I cannot fail my children too.” His voice that had been strong for the past few weeks now a shell of the man he once was. “I need to be there to either find her alive or take the body home with me. Either way I need to go see if the reports are true.”

There was no stopping him. Not even Ghost or Gaz could stop him as he settled himself on the helicopter that Nikolai was flying. No one could convince him in this very moment that he was more of a liability than anything else.

The hope was still lingering in his core. You were broken for everything that you possibly could have endure but he hoped you were still there fighting and keeping yourself alive for him and for everyone that was waiting for you back home.

But all the hope slowly drained as they arrived at an abandoned safe house in the heart of Russia. The scent of blood and rot was all too palpable in the area and both Gaz and Ghost had been both on high alert for possible attacks and for John’s own sanity at this point.

“Coast is clear.” Gaz spoke as he moved forward first.

John held onto his gun tighter as the abandoned safe house became more and more disheveled the deeper they walked inside.

His eyes lingered on the things scattered around, paper works, food, clothes, all were in a disarray and apparent of no sign of life for weeks. The putrid smell of blood was still nowhere to be seen in their general vicinity.

In the bleak and silent area, a lone mumble had all three men on alert. All their attention led to them finding where the source of the sound was.

“Got eyes on a door towards a basement.”

Ghost announced and without any rhyme or reason, John had walked first opening the door much to everyone’s protest. But as the creak of the door sounded, the putrid smell intensified. A vile odor of mixed excrements had overwhelmed John, it almost had him doubling over and vomiting but he proceeded further inside.

The voices of Ghost and Gaz were momentarily placed at the back of his head as the mumbling grew louder. He walked towards the bleak hallway in the basement. The fluorescent light flickering on and off as he walked closer and closer to the lone door where the sound grew louder and louder.

“Open the door.” John ordered, all the muscles in his body had stiffened. He had always anticipated this, to finally know if you were here or not, but in this moment. At this state of decay and abandonment, he feared the worse.

He feared your state, the state of his failure and the detriment that came to you and your whole being. It was because of him that you were placed in this situation and it was because of him that he almost lost Soap.

Ghost was strong enough between the three of them to finally open the door, a quick slam of his hammer towards the locks and what he saw had him visibly sobbing.

You.

Or what was left of the women he had once loved. In front of him laid a woman fighting for your life. Blood covered the floor as much as it did the walls. Various bodies of different stages of decay scattered around you. But you, you that had both your hands and legs rope tied and your mouth gagged was moving still, shaking and quietly sobbing.

“My Love.” John couldn’t take it anymore as he approached you. You were alive, but the cost was just something he could not even fathom.

With his blade, he cut both of the ties binding you and tore off the gag muffling your words. His eyes immediately inspected your body, his eyes widening at the evident tore on your pants and blood that also painted it.

“They…didn’t do anything to me, if that’s what you’re worried about.” You whispered, voice cracked and dry. Far from the melody of your voice that everyone was so used to.

“I’m worried about you and your whole being!” He finds himself snapping for having your think so lowly of him.

He pulled you towards his chest now, his eyes continued to inspect your shaking form, the various wounds that lingered your body only had bruises to go along with it.

“I fought them off,” You whispered against his chest, weaker hand holding onto his vest. “I did everything in my power or stop them.” You began to sob again and only now did John get a good sight of your face.

How blood was dried against your mouth, sporting two black eyes, and an evident broken nose.

“I failed you.” John whispered, kissing your matted hair. “I failed you and our children.”

“John…”

“I’m so sorry, My Darling.”

The rescue was a blur. One moment you were in the dark, suffocating cell filled with the men you killed, the ropes cutting into your wrists, and the next you were being carried out by the strong and protective arms, John’s voice a soothing murmur in your ear, promising you it was over. The light was blinding, the noise was overwhelming, but you clung to him, your lifeline in the chaos and you blacked out after the tears have finally escaped after weeks of captivity.

Days have passed since then. Your body was healing, but your mind was another story. You find yourself in the base’s infirmary, staring at the sterile white walls, the antiseptic smell a sharp contrast to the dank, musty scent of your cell. You constantly tell yourself you’re safe, but the shadows in your mind don’t listen.

Your husband was always nearby, his presence a constant comfort and a painful reminder. You watch him from the corner of your eye, how his brow furrowed with worry, his movements careful and deliberate. He tried to hide it, but you can see the guilt in his eyes. He thinks he failed you. You want to tell him he didn’t, but the words get stuck in your throat, replaced with the memories of Makarov’s sneer, his questions, the pain. It was your fault and you failed him—and your children.

You try to push those thoughts away, but they creep back in, insidious and relentless. Sleep is a battleground. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that chair, back in that cell. You wake up gasping, heart pounding, the sheets tangled around you like the ropes that bound you.

If it wasn’t your husband, it was Simon that constantly visits you, his silent presence a strange comfort to you. You were now wearing his shoes, being held captive and tortured, he knew above everyone else the pain and suffering you had endured at the hands of Makarov. You appreciated his quiet understanding, even as you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You’re afraid he’ll see through the cracks, the fear you can’t shake. You were so used to giving everyone comfort and reassurance, it was so hard to be the one given it the other way around.

Then there was Kyle, who was more direct with his approach. His concern was evident in every words, every gesture. He talks to you, encourages you to open up, but you shut him out. You can’t bear the thought of reliving it, of seeing the pity in his eyes. You’re a soldier, a mother to the team, you are supposed to be strong. But you felt anything but.

John is the hardest to face. He’s always there, his eyes searching yours, looking for a sign that you’re okay. But you’re not, and you don’t know how to tell him that. The pain in his eyes cuts deeper than any wound. You want to reach out, to reassure him, but you can’t. You’re too broken.

“Tell me to stop and we stop. I don’t care what’s happening. All I care about is you.”

It was mandated by Laswell that you had to undergo psychological evaluation and therapy for the next few weeks, but it was hard. Having to deal with your own emotions while knowing you were notified that you would be unable to see your children or see Soap in the hospital until they had deemed you mentally cleared to do so.

Your husband somehow knew that it wasn’t what you needed right now. He knew you needed him but he wasn’t ready to give himself just yet. But he was hear, present in all of your appointments—his office has become the faux therapy location so he could have a close eye on you.

“Please.” You spoke, the tears forming your eyes at the fact you couldn’t see the people you truly wanted to hold the most in your state of mind.

“Go.” With a single word from your husband, the therapist assigned to your case left the office leaving you at the mercy of your husband whose eyes you still have a hard time meeting.

In the silent of the office, you took attention to the sound outside. The booming voice of Simon as he continued on with training with the new recruits. The sound of footsteps walking outside. But amongst the silence of the office the rapid beating of your heart.

“Will you sit with me?”

You finally met his eyes as he stood in front of you, pointing at the sofa that he had installed since your arrival back.

You took a moment before nodding, following him onto the leather sofa. You allowed him to sit first, the creaking sound of the leather against your shared weathered bodies as you sat so close together but the distance was all the more evident still after what had happened to you.

“My children will be coming in a few hours.” He announced finally making your turned to look at him full for the first time in what felt like days.

“Will…will they be ready to see me like this?” You wonder, even as you had healed, you still has the bruises and wounds covering your body not a sight you would ever want your children to ever see you in.

“They know that you got hurt.” He explained. “I know it was not what the doctor or anyone higher up wanted but I want to make sure what you want is being taken into consideration first.”

You nodded knowing it would also mean you would be seeing your in-laws too—the parents you have come to have since meeting your husband. You feared what they would think in your state and knowing what goes on during kidnappings especially for someone in your field.

“Nothing matters to me in this moment but you, you need to understand that. You matter to me not just as your husband but as your Captain. Do you understand?”

You nodded wiping the tears on your eyes.

“No matter what you say, I had a hand in what happened to you. If I only made sure you had Gaz with you during the mission you wouldn’t be place in such a predicament right now, My Love.”

No matter what you say and no matter what you do, it was now a curse that fell upon the both of you. The weight of both of your decisions that day that led you to be where you are right now. A shell of your former self and a husband that knew nothing but be consumed by the guilt of what had happened to you.

“But we’ll go through this together alright? Once you’ve seen the kids and healed up your wounds, we’re going through whatever doctor or therapist we can both get ourselves signed up for and we’ll move past this…together.”

You nod.

“I don’t blame you, you know.” You finally speak. “I never blamed any of you besides Makarov and the sooner I get to see his bloody body on my feet, the sooner we can all move on from this.”

In the pain of the events that caused this much trauma, nothing would give you better joy than to finally have the man either behind bars or dead. You could care less if the man died by your hands or that hands of anyone in your team, but you knew if it came, you would be at peace once and for all.

You found yourself now on the lap of your husband, his arms gently wrapped around your waist. It was the first time in days since you’ve been in his arms, the warmth and protection that only he could give you in this time of chaos in your mind.

“Is this okay?” He asked, uncertain in his action.

“Yes please.” You whispered, nuzzling your face onto the crook of his neck. You took a deep breath of his scent, your arms slowly moved up wrapping around his broad shoulders, your head now resting on his shoulders as you looked up at him.

“Do you want me to hold you closer?” He asked, the shiver in his touch on you was felt.

“I just need you in whatever shape or form you’re willing to give me, John.” You whispered pulling yourself closer to him now as you allowed yourself to finally break down and mourn all of the things you had to endure at the hands of Makarov and his men.

All the things they had said about your team, about your husband, and about your children. All the treats that had placed the fear of God into you but you had no other choice but to stay quiet still. The last of the memories of when Makarov had no other choice but to use the lowest of the low and allowed his men to have their ways with you.

You bit anything you could bite, you’ve learned so much in that sheer moment. You learns that it doesn’t take much to bite off a man’s member off and it doesn’t take much before he dies from blood loss because of it. You’ve also learned that adrenaline was a very dangerous drug to be consumed in. How it had made you strong enough to fight most of the men off, killing without second guessing anything but weak enough to allow Makarov to slam a gun to the back of your head leaving you incapacitated enough to be once again bonded on the floor with the blood on your face and every single part of your body wounded and the corpse of all you’ve killed watching you.

You sobbed in the week that you were left in nothing but the pathetic excuse of your cell. The putrid scent of decay and blood lingering and leaving you to suffer a fate worse than death.

You were broken, but it would take more than the reassurance of your husband to finally heal from everything you’ve been through.

You wanted Makarov dead. For what he placed you through and for what he had let everyone you’ve ever cared for endured because of his own plans.

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chaosandmarigolds · 2 days

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“Right so by that logic-“ you lean forward on the counter top of the rec room after hearing the most bizarre sentence ever made by a human- un shockingly it came from the one and only Soap MacTavish. “By that logic you-…Johnny you can’t say things like that.”

Johnny looks up from his coffee and frowns, “Wh not?”

To that Ghost looks up from his phone, “Johnny mate ya can’t say everyone is a lil’ bit gay and not sound gay.”

“Oh, well cause I am.”

You gag on your water, not…shocked by the news but more of how easily it came out. With wide eyes you look between the two men, and they also continue to be completely unfazed by it.

“I…Tink, er know this.”

“I did?”

“Yes ya did.”

“…noted.”

(Ngl this is self indulgent bc I react like a very confused, but supportive, grandma whenever my friends come out to me. ‘Coco I have a girlfriend’ … ‘Neato mosquito, my dude. Does she like coookies? I’m baking-‘)

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley fanfic #simon ghost riley #johnny mctavish x reader #johnny cod #johnny mactavish #cod fanfic #coco's chaos <3 #cod x you #soap incorrect quotes #soap imagine #cod soap

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danibee33 · 3 days

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The Queen’s Guard - Chapter 9: Longing

knight!simon riley x queen!reader

cw: mentions of death/gore* & the smut we’ve all been waiting for 🖤

word count: 6.7k

The clouds dance and whirl overhead, bringing with them a wind so sharp you think it might cut right through the heavy cloak, all the way down to your skin- maybe even deeper than that.

“Storm’s moving fast..” You say, more to yourself than anything, but Simon hums out an agreement anyway, casting his eyes upward with a squint,

“C’mon, there’s a village not too much further-”

Tugging at your hood, you begrudgingly squeeze your chaffed and aching thighs in order to urge the mare forward. Never in your life had you ridden for so long at one time- over the span of a week, you’ve hardly gotten off the beast unless it’s to relieve yourself or when it’s time to set up camp; and your very spoiled and sheltered life is proving to be a great disadvantage at the moment.

“Sore?”

His question confuses you, your cheeks beginning to burn, though the heat has nothing to do with your wind-chapped skin,

“From the saddle, love..” You can’t help but to roll your eyes at the amusement in his tone, turning into your cowl even further, only to gasp when you feel his hands around your waist-

In quick succession he had gotten close enough to you on his own horse to reach across the short expanse and pull you over, settling you side saddle between his legs, “Simon!”

But, it seems he quite enjoys your disgruntled fussing, “Is this all right?”, he asks, “If not, I’ll put you back-”

“No.. no.” You give in quickly, too enamored by the heat of his body against yours, his delightful warmth leaching into you, and the way your legs and pelvis scream at you to stay. Stay here in this very unbecoming position, one of his arms wrapped snugly over your hips, fingers loosely holding the reins, as the other works to tether your horse to his,

“It takes some gettin’ used to.” Simon coos, holding you closer, “But, you’ve done so well..”

His praise makes your skin feel like it could be on fire, and the steady rocking motion of the horse’s gate does nothing to help- well, except for the tiny splashes of the first rain drops beginning to fall.

And by the time you reach the small square, you’re both thoroughly soaked. Your cloak and petticoat feel ten pounds heavier, sticking to Simon’s jacket as he helps lower you down to the muck and mud before dismounting himself.

The village is quaint, deserted due to the conditions, but it still manages to feel cozy somehow- with candles and lanterns flickering in almost every window, there’s a warmth to it that strikes you differently than you’re so used to. And the closer you get to the inn, the sounds of raucous laughter and amused banter bleed through the foggy windows and from under the solid door.

With Simon’s hand hovering against your lower back, he opens the door and you both shuffle inside. The air is thick with a lazy sort of heat, your nostrils immediately filled with the hearty scents of herbs and fatty meats slowly cooking. You’re grateful for all the noise then, grateful it hides the way your stomach rumbles and growls, excited for a meal that isn’t foraged berries, stale bread, and whatever small game Simon had hunted along the way-

“This way..” Simon guides you through the open area, firmly polite in the way he excuses some of the more rowdy patrons- and it strikes you then, oddly and out of place almost, that none of these people give you a second look. Sure, some of their gazes linger, half-lidded and plied with honeyed mead, at the strangers making their way to an empty table in the corner; but as soon as the next distraction comes, you’re easily forgotten.

An older woman sweeps by with two pint glasses frothing with amber liquid, “Travelers, eh? Been pishin’ a doon out there, I tell ya.”

“Aye, it has-”, you respond with a small chuckle, ordering two of whatever that delightful smell originates from when the matron asks.

“Do you have a room open for the night?”

“Tsch- o’course. Always a room open for a native lass, like y’rself.” She graces you with a warm smile, one that reminds you so much of your own mother it hurts, patting your shoulder before giving a.. less than welcoming glare to the man sitting across from you as she flits away with a hmpf.

You unpin your cloak, tugging it from around your shoulders- a bloom of heat coloring your cheeks when you lock eyes with Simon, a sly grin just barely tugging at the corner of his lips,

“What?”

His head tilts just enough to catch a bit of light from the hearth, casting his features in a deep, handsome glow as he studies you without saying a word. Those damned eyes finally thawing at the sight of your mess of hair still damp, and cheeks stained pink, the way you try to hold his gaze but always end up looking away- pretending to be interested in the wood grain of the table under your hands,

“It’s nice.. Seein’ you like this.”

Nice? You roll the word over your tongue a few times, unsure of what exactly nice entails- but your pondering is very quickly snuffed out by the sound of your name being spoken. They aren’t speaking to you, no, thank the gods, but the more you turn your ear towards the group, the tighter your chest feels-

“May the gods rest ‘er soul..” One man says, lifting his glass in the air, the others following suit in the impromptu eulogy.

“Aye.. Gods rest.”

“A right Scottish Queen on the throne- married off tae tha’ bastard. Now look at ‘er.. Butchered and they say they ne’er found ‘er heid.. A goddamn shame-”

“I heard the King’s heid was sat on the mantle- crown on and all.” Another one offers, staring vacantly into his cup before coming back to the present, “Bodies burnt to a crisp.”

You grit your teeth, images of their gossip wracking through your mind and body; the raw, visceral reaction unstoppable as a bone deep shiver quakes through you. Simon’s hand covers yours, squeezing just enough to draw your eyes back to him-

“‘Ere we are.” Two steaming plates are sat in front of you, roasted pheasant and a healthy portion of potatoes and boiled leafy greens, “‘S a shame, ain’t it?”

She glances back at the table of men, “I dinnae normally like to give in tae the rumors, but-”, her voice takes on a morose lilt, her hands buried deep in her apron, “it’s jus’ so heartbreakin’’. And to think it were her guard! Of all people..”

You really think you could be sick before you’ve even got a bite of your food down, the smell that had enticed you so, now feels too heavy in your nostrils, too rich and fatty, too thick-

“It is.” Simon interjects, tapping the heavy ring around his thumb against the table in that comforting pattern, “Gods rest-”

The woman sniffles, nodding her head before pulling a handkerchief that’s been tucked in her bosom, “Aye, gods rest. Ye two enjoy, lemme ken if ye need anythin’ at’all.”

With a nod and tight lipped smiles, she bustles away, the weather bringing more people into the small tavern than you think is usual. And within the hour, the room quickly shrinks to barely allow for standing space. The already warm air becoming near stifling the longer you sit, pushing bits of leftovers around the wooden plate,

“C’mon, love.” Simon stands, holding his hand out to you- “Let’s get some rest.”

You know he’s right, you know you have another full day of traveling tomorrow- which causes the ache in your bottom and thighs to rear its ugly head yet again. But you feel so utterly restless. The men’s words, long forgotten by them, have not left your mind. They bounce around relentlessly, conjuring awful images and memories- things you cannot forget.

But you let him take your hand, let his warmth anchor you, his steady hold guide you through the crowd and toward the small staircase that takes you both up and up. The air seems to cool step by step, a little easier to breathe the further you get from the noise.

Yet, the closer you get to the room, the more your thoughts seem dead set on casting you into the void entirely. You feel too warm and too cold at the same time, your body and mind unable to escape the vicious fight or flight cycle-

What have you done? What do you truly know of this man? What if he- could he be? Could your Simon be anything like the King? Maybe not right now, but what if- what if- what if-

“Your thoughts are loud tonight, little queen..”

It’s only at the sound of his voice that you notice you now stand in the middle of a spacious bedroom. One with a large bed that commands the space, a wardrobe stood in one corner and a gloriously deep bathtub sat opposite- and sure, you had shared a bed with Simon before, you had clung to him in the middle of forests, with only a thin sheet of canvas between you and the unforgiving wilderness.

But this.. Very suddenly, you’re confronted with the intimacy of the space you share now. Of the single bed, a bed untainted by the memory of another man, of him- you study the crackling fire, and the torrential rains still pelting against the fogged up window panes. Your eyes on anything other than the man that watches you so ardently.

“Was this..” – you suck in a shaking breath, meeting those beautiful amber eyes, the ones that seem to burn brighter than the flames in the hearth, “Did we-”

Oh, such a way with words you have- gods, just get it together.

He tilts his head, “Did we do the right thing?”, with a single step, he’s right in front of you, “Depends on who you ask. Though, I believe your people would say yes..”

“I hate that they think that you- that you would-“

“Kill you?”

Tears sting your eyes then, flooded by everything that happened that night- the poor woman’s body that had been stolen from the infirmary, the fire and blood, the way the King’s crown sparkled on his head as it sat on the mantle. All the horrendous acts that Johnny and Simon committed, for you.

Oh, perhaps Johnny was right all along, you are just a stupid, selfish girl-

“I should be dead, shouldn’t I?” You admit, turning away from him, “At least that way, you and Johnny, you could’ve had your lives- you would not be out here, in the middle of nowhere, helping me escape mine, at the cost of your own. I should be-”

“Don’t.” Simon’s grip on your arm isn’t forceful, it’s not painful or demanding, but you can feel the urgency, see the anguish in his eyes, hear the agony in his voice, “Please.. Don’t say those things.”

He takes up your field of view, holding your face between his hands before pulling away with a huff,

“Don’t you understand? I would do it all again, I would do it a hundred times. Because before you.. I-” – he stops mid-pace, raking a hand through his hair, “I had no life, none beyond a battlefield. My life has only ever been death. My hands..”

You watch him look at his own appendages as though he wishes to remove them completely, “My hands have rarely known or given a kind touch, they are tarnished and unworthy-”

“Simon, no-”

It’s you who reaches for him this time, taking his hands in yours- your lips pressed against the rough skin without a second thought. You kiss them slowly, softly, over and over, listening to each unsteady breath that rattles through his chest,

“I do not know the hands you speak of..” You whisper, looking up at him, “I only know the hands that have saved me, that have held me- hands that have only ever been kind and gentle.”

And to see him now, see every raw edge of him- you feel silly for ever thinking he could be anything like your late husband. That he would ever bring a hand to you that was meant to incite fear and pain, or turn his voice into a weapon to degrade and belittle you.

No, Simon had shown you his heart- openly, tenderly. He had allowed you to see him, pried open his chest and let you settle yourself there, in a space he has never allowed anyone before.

“But you’ve seen what they were made to do. Seen them bloody-” He shakes his head, letting it fall, eyes clenching shut, “I told you before that I am not a good man. The things I have done cannot be atoned for.”

Your hands move cautiously, blazing a slow path from his wrists over his forearms, the cords of muscle twitching and flexing under your palms until you reach high enough to cup his jaw. He doesn’t look at you right away, choosing to lean into the cool touch of your palm before speaking again,

“I’m afraid-” – he whispers, and you can see it in his eyes when he finally opens them, see the terror, the longing, these feelings so obviously and painfully foreign to him, “- that one day.. I will kill you. That I will bring Death right to our doorstep, and he will take you, just as he’s taken all others from me.”

His words feel like fire and frost in your veins. Never would you have thought Simon, your Simon, your steadfast protector- your lover - to harbor such a thing as fear. Much less, a fear of losing you, a fear so great it seems like it could bring the Titan of a man to his knees.

And yet, it’s that fear that fortifies you. If he can be so relentlessly strong for you in times when you thought you were shattering, then you can be that for him- because what is love, if not picking up each other’s pieces when they cannot?

Love was never meant to be only beauty and light, love is disturbing and messy; it is brutal in its hold and unfair in its unpredictability. You cannot choose who you love, not really. There are strings of fate that bind you- how else can something so dark and so wonderful dare make sense?

A sad smile pulls at your lips as you look up at him, thumb brushing back and forth through the stubble on his cheek, “Simon.. If Death should come for me, I will take his hand in mine- and with my other, I’ll hold yours, so that I might find you in every lifetime after.”

The breath that leaves him sounds like it might as well have been punched from his lungs, labored and groaning. But, in the next second you’re being pulled forward- leaning up onto your toes as he captures your lips in a desperate kiss, his arm snaking around your waist as you crash into him with all the grace of a newborn fawn.

But he doesn’t let you fall, he couldn’t dream of such a thing- no, he holds you closer, the span of his fingers covering your lower back, his immense warmth radiating even through the thick fabric of your dress-

“Wait, My Queen.. Wait-”

You feel how he braces himself, forcing his hands to gently push you just far enough away that you couldn’t reach his lips, “Simon-”

Tears well up at the very corners of your eyes, out of frustration or sheer petulance, you’re not sure. It’s just.. your body feels wound too tight, and your mind is so lost in its own haze of desire and longing that you can’t control the way your bottom lip quivers-

“Oh, sweet girl-” Simon presses a kiss to your pitiful pout first before holding your face up so that he could kiss your tears next, “Do you trust me?”

You nod against him, your hands still tightly tangled in the loose material of his tunic, “Yes, but-”

Another kiss causes your complaint to be forgotten at the back of your tongue, overtaken by the taste of his mouth on yours- and the subsequent throbbing deep in your core. Your body truly and utterly aches for him.

He sweeps you out of the room despite your small protests, leaving youstill unsure of what exactly his plan is, or why he insists on denying you and himself for even a moment longer. But you stay, standing by a large bay window, watching how the rain carves chaotic little paths down the glass, and catching glimpses of your reflection when the candlelight flickers just right.

You look properly disheveled. Tendrils of hair frame your dirt stained cheeks, your eyes slightly hollow from the nightmares that have plagued your sleep, lips chapped and raw from the wind, and Simon’s kisses-

Slowly, you untangle your braids, vainly attempting to rake your fingers through some of the mess when you hear boots ascending.

A man you don’t recognize appears first, followed by a much taller, much more familiar form just behind. They both carry a large basin in each hand, the water inside fragrant and steaming as they make their way inside, dumping the pails into the deep copper tub-

There's a small grin on Simon’s lips when he passes by, the men repeating the same act twice more before you watch them shake hands- the taller man slipping a few pieces of silver to the other in thanks,

“A bath?” You look up at him with wide eyes, unable to hide your excitement after weeks of bathing in frigid rivers and streams.

“Mh..” – he hums, moving to hold you again, those long fingers trailing up the laces of your bodice, “You deserve comfort, so, while I can give that to you, I will. And one day.. I’ll draw a bath for you whenever you’d like.”

As he speaks, his voice takes on a softer edge, dipping his head down to nuzzle against the skin of your neck. He lavishes the flesh with kiss after kiss all while his hands work to loosen every lace, methodically pulling until you can feel the ties give way enough to take a deep, shuddering breath-

“Is this ok, My Queen?” Simon asks, pulling back to search your face for any sign of discomfort.

It tugs at your heart in ways you didn’t think possible. Because the King had never asked, he never cared what was ok or not- and you didn’t know any better anyway.

But Simon waits, he waits to hear the soft ‘yes’, waits for even a second longer just to memorize the way your eyes sparkle for him- beautiful and bright. And with the same tender movements, he pulls the dress from your shoulders, easing the fabric down your arms, every prolonged graze of his fingertips leaving a wake of goosebumps.

You’ve never been completely bare to a man before- even your husband had never seen all of you at once, never taking the time to bother with undressing you when he could just hike your nightgown up.

What if he doesn’t find you appealing when he sees you so exposed? What if he thinks the stretch marks on your thighs are ugly? Or maybe the size of your hips and the fatty flesh that covers them- the King always made sure to remind you of how unsightly those parts of you were.

What if he doesn’t like how your stomach squishes and jiggles-

“Look at me.”

You hadn’t even noticed that your eyes were focused on the floor, cast down in shame when your gown pooled around your ankles. And you really should’ve known that one look at the man in front of you would take all your insecurities and wash them away, because to him, he’s never seen a woman so perfect.

Simon’s never seen skin as soft and unblemished as yours- and he finds himself wanting to kiss and mark every single inch of you, make you his and only his.

Instead, he tilts your chin up, relishing the sight of your swollen lips parting just so, like you, too, couldn’t get enough of him. No one’s ever looked at him that way, like he were something to be coveted and desired.

“You’re beautiful.”

That’s all he gives you before wrapping you in his arms, sealing his lips over yours- and this time when you pull at his belt, he lets you. He lets you loosen it around his hips, lets your hands wander, fingers skimming over the feverish skin of his torso. He helps you by tugging the tunic over his head, blessing you with the glorious sight of him; his muscles, and scars, and freckles, and moles- every stunning imperfection that has shaped him.

A flash of lightning illuminates the room just before the rattling boom of thunder, as if Mother Nature herself were as enthralled with this moment as you were-

“C’mere..” Simon takes your hand, offering a steadying hold for you to step into the bathtub, “‘S too hot?”

The water stings for only a moment on your legs, but you pay the slight discomfort no mind, lowering the rest of your body into the bath with a sigh,

“No, it’s perfect.” You say, looking up at him with a gracious smile, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anything more, opting to push his trousers over his hips and legs- and you know you’ve felt him, felt his length pressing into you through his pants, seen the outline of him straining against the fabric.

But this- you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, aware that your staring is entirely unladylike, but unable to find it in yourself to really care. How could you? When you’ve imagined his cock many a night as you touched yourself to merely the thought of him, to the idea of how good you just knew he could make you feel.

And now, here he is, naked as the day the he was born, towering over you, built like he was carved from the gods of war themselves-

The water sloshes when he steps one foot in, then the other, sitting opposite of you- one leg stretched out against yours and the other propped up so that his knee breaches the surface,

“I’ve never done this.” You admit, cheeks flushed a bright pink from the heat of the water, but mostly from the way he stretches his arms out over the rounded edges of the tub, the way his head tilts lazily to the side,

“Can’t say I have, either.”

You stay like that, watching him until he leans over, plucking a sponge from the small table, “May I?”

Well, how does he ever expect you to refuse when he looks at you like…that.

With a small nod, he inches himself forward, maneuvering your legs to rest atop his, your bodies precariously close again- and with not a thing but the water separating you from him. You avoid looking down, keeping your eyes focused instead on the myriad of scars that litter his broad chest- you watch the bulging muscles move under the skin as he washes you.

He starts with your hands, his eyes glued to you, reverently studying each part as he goes- cleansing you of dirt and grime, “What are you thinking, little queen?”

“That your self-control is admirable.” You respond without thought- the flesh he touches warming even more so when a he bellows a genuine laugh-

“It’s no easy feat. I assure you.”

When his fingers brush against your sensitive inner thigh, a traitorous moan escapes you, one that causes him to tense. And you think even with the hot, slippery water around you- the slick between your legs becomes more apparent, your thighs clenching on their own and your head rolling back,

“Simon..”

Hearing his name uttered as little more than a whimper makes him dizzy, large hand clamping over your thigh like it might steady him- his want for you reaching a peak he had never quite felt before,

“Careful, love..” He growls.

But it’s too late, because you cling to that tiny fault in his control, the wanton, lecherous parts of you gnashing and gnawing their way to the surface. A streak of confidence, or outright arrogance, guiding you to pull the sponge from between his fingers,

“May I?” You coo, repeating his own kind gesture, but you would be lying if you said you had nearly as pure intentions-

He nods, and you begin to mimic his movements- scrubbing his hands, and arms, letting yours linger and softly grope as you go. Every minute or so, you find yourself glancing at his face, seeing his brows knitted together, eyes steeled and unblinking as he watches you clean him- a queen, washing his skin, his queen, bathing him. His cock twitches and swells painfully at the thought-

“Has anyone ever called you beautiful?” You splay your small palm over his thigh, again forcing your eyes to stay away from the water, away from.. Well, away from gawking at his how his length only seems to grow bigger with your efforts.

A sharp laugh fills your ears, his dimples sinking in as he clamps his bottom lip between his teeth, “No.”

You do meet his eyes then, scooting forward so that your thighs are now settled over his, practically straddling his lap, “Well, you are. You look like those statues of the gods.. Like art.”

The sponge slips from your hand when you’re jerked forward, big hands spread out over the fleshy globes of your ass, his fingers kneading into the fat and muscle with a satisfied groan- followed in quick succession by your breathy little whine from the feel of his hardness pressed against your cunt.

Lips and teeth and tongues collide, your body rolling and writhing above his, hips eager to find that delicious friction again-

He moans when you tug your fingers through his hair, thrusting up hard enough to cause water to go splashing and spilling onto the floor below. But neither of you stop, neither of you wanting to fight that burning, deep-seated desire for a moment longer,

“I need you.. Simon- I need you.” You pant, swiping your tongue over his, “Please.”

Without pause, the giant man stands, your legs and arms flailing to stay firmly wrapped around him; even if you know that his hold on you is ironclad, the motion is so abrupt you can’t help the fleeting fear of being dropped. Or worse, either or both of you falling-

But he moves with that effortless confidence he’s so good at, stepping out of the tub, water dripping and puddling on the floor until you’re being nestled safely into the feather down mattress- skin prickling at the cold sheets beneath.

Thankfully, his hands and mouth make quick work in warming you.

“You can stop me-” Simon says, kissing over your jaw and down your neck, “All right? You say the word, and I’ll stop. We don’t- mh- don’t have to do this.”

You tilt your hips up, straining to wrap your legs around his waist, “I want to. I want you..”

He moves to hover over you, those damned eyes picking you apart layer by layer, almost begging for a reason to remove himself- not because he doesn’t want you just as badly, but because he still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that you want him.

Simon has been with women, out of need and lust, sure. And while you are not the first person he’s been with, when you look up at him like that, with those big eyes, and that sweet smirk, he vows to himself then, that you will be his last.

“You already have me, sweet girl..”

Too quickly, he pushes away, your lips chasing after him until you see exactly where he’s headed-

“Wha- oh..”

A warm chuckle fans out over your tummy, “Just need a taste, sweetheart.” – he says, like it were the most normal thing in the world.

The thing is, you’ve never actually had someone do that. You’ve only read about it, heard stories from your handmaids-

Dreamed of it..

The memory of your heat-induced fantasy flashes before your eyes- only then, you didn’t even have a face to fantasize of, but now..

Well now, the vision of Simon’s face settled between your thighs is enough to make your head swoon. Feeling the dark hair in your hands, his breath against your center- that alone is enough to make your back arch off the bed,

“Feelin’ needy, little queen?”

You scoff, the gripe on the tip of your tongue forgotten at the feeling of his thick tongue dragging through your folds- the sensation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, hot and wet, firm and soft. You cry out, gripping his head tighter, your legs attempting to squeeze shut until he pries you open again,

“Mm-mm..” Simon groans into you, “Don’t hide..”

With another sharp gasp, your head rolls back into the pillows as he latches onto your clit- the swollen bud already entirely too sensitive. And when he circles your entrance with a rough finger, it’s almost enough to take you over the edge right then, feeling the blissful stretch of his digit, and then two- it’s enough, more than enough, and yet, nowhere near enough.

“Mmh- Oh gods..” You moan, using both hands now to guide him, “Right there- right th-there.”

It’s as if you’ve thrown oil onto fire the way he ravishes you, lapping and suckling until you’re nothing more than a trembling, whiny mess beneath him- your body tensing and curling as the orgasm burns through you hard and fast, his name on your lips and yours on his-

“My good girl- fuckin’ hell.. That’s it.”

He praises you, pacing his ministrations to draw out your pleasure until every fiber of your being feels like you’re floating above the heavens.

You’ve reached your finish before, but never so.. intensely; and never at the hands, or mouth of another.

And to have it now, from a man you’ve wanted for so long.. You know you shouldn't uphold him as an idol, as a being deserving of prayer.

No, that is a blasphemous act.

But you do.

“I’ve dreamt of havin’ you on my tongue..”, he drawls, not bothering to wipe your slick from his lips before kissing you- shoving his tongue forward like he wants you to taste yourself, “Of tasting a queen, My Queen.”

A soft hum bubbles out of you, spreading your thighs for him again, and keening at the weight of his cock as it settles over your slit-

“I’m not your queen anymore, Simon..” Is all you can manage to say, reaching between your body and his, no longer slickened by water, but instead glimmering with a sheen of sweat. You wrap your hand around him, another soft whine parting your lips at the way his length jerks at your touch.

Simon nuzzles into your neck, “Aren’t you? Shall I give you my vows again, then?” – his words are muffled by your flesh, his lips warm and wet, “Vow to defend you..”

Kiss.

“To obey you-”

Another kiss.

“To give my life for yours-”

Before he can punctuate the next vow with a kiss, he leans up to cradle your face in his hand, “But.. I suppose I am not fit to be your guard anymore..”

Your brows pull together, “And why is that, Ser Simon?”

His hand settles at your hip, gliding up your thigh to hitch it a bit higher on his waist- the other still cupping your jaw, “Because I cannot promise you to never wed..” – he says, molten amber eyes piercing into you, “I cannot promise to never take land- cannot vow to father no children..”

You don’t need the answer, you know it, but it doesn’t stop you from whispering, “Why?”

Simon’s dimpled smile gives you comfort, the calloused pad of his thumb softly grazing over your cheek, “Well.. if you asked me for those things, I wouldn’t think twice about giving them to you.”

Once more, you’re stunned by the simplicity in which he says it- like he weren’t proposing a life with you. Like he didn’t just admit to wanting more with you, wanting everything with you.

“The thought of you havin’ my name..” – he grinds down as if to prove his point, that the idea of you taking his name is more than enough to turn him on, “Of givin’ you land, buildin’ a home with you.. Children, if you want them.”

Your legs clench around him, not entirely of your own free will. It’s just the things he’s saying, and that fucking voice- it will surely be your downfall. But, if this is falling, you don’t mind how sinfully good it feels.

“Mm..” You hum, leaning up to claim his lips, “In that case, I permanently relieve you of your duty, good Ser.”

You feel his grin, but in the next breath, you also feel that burning sense of urgency return to his movements- hands scorching flesh, lips offering only a temporary reprieve, and it’s all so perfect.

Simon leans up one more time, another question in his eyes as he covers your hand on his cock. You don’t give him the chance to ask though, quieting his thoughts by reaching out to wrap your arms around his neck, voice hardly a whisper,

“I love you, Simon.”

His eyes widen, pupils already blown into thick, inky voids- and for only a second, you worry you’ve said too much, too soon. That he will pull away from you for good, but that notion is lost when he presses forward, his plump tip pushing into you, slowly, inch by mouth-watering inch, while he watches you like it’s the last thing he might ever do.

He watches your lips part into the prettiest shape around your gasp, watches your eyebrows scrunch together, your fingers tightening in his hair-

And fuck, you knew you were shamefully wet for him, but the lewd sound your cunt makes when he sinks into you makes your cheeks bloom a deep red, eyes fighting to stay open, to stay on him. But you feel so full. The stretch of taking his girth so new that it stings, but the pain only seems to make the pleasure multiply. It makes no sense, but you suppose nothing ever really has with him.

It’s when he’s fully seated inside you, arms now propped on either side of your head, sweat beading on his skin that he gives you, and himself, just a moment to adjust. He peppers your lips and cheeks and neck with kisses, swallowing your sweet moans before moving again- languidly drawing back, and pushing in just as slow.

There’s nothing quick about the way he ruins you, he takes his time, wanting you to feel every single moment- wanting to watch the pleasure etch itself into your features, the pleasure he gives you. Deliberately and thoroughly.

Time could have ceased to exist in this moment. You wouldn’t know, you wouldn’t care. Because you can only feel the way he consumes you, your mind and body, spirit and soul, he can have it. Just as he told you that he was yours on that balcony what feels like a lifetime ago now, you knew that you were just as much his.

So, yes, he could take whatever he wanted- it had belonged to him from the start.

Simon Riley is the man fate bound to you.

Just as the familiar pressure blooms once more low in your belly, you feel his fingers lace with yours, his free hand wandering between your bodies, “You feel like a dream, sweet girl.. Better than dreams-”

He groans when your walls flutter and tense around him, his fingers working gentle circles over your clit, the flesh of his hips smacking against yours with every bone-deep thrust. And you knew it would only be a matter of seconds if he keeps up like this, so before you’re lost to the bliss yet again, you pull his head down, licking and nipping at his bottom lip,

“Simon– mmh-”

Your body trembles right before its release, your orgasm somehow deeper, more spectacularly bright than the first. It rings in your ears, only made better by Simon’s own guttural moans growing higher, more desperate- his panting breaths mix with yours, your name spilling out over and over. His rhythm is indiscernible now as he chases his end, your slick and his prespend glistening over your thighs and the thick curls at the base of his cock.

And you really didn’t think it was possible that you could be more enamored or entranced by him than you already are, but seeing him above you- seeing every trace of that unshakable stoicism melt away, leaving just Simon behind.

Leaving just a man, not a knight or a queen’s guard, not a killer, nor a ghost. Just a man who has seen too much of the world, been hurt by it, lived too many lives isolated in his self-made fortress.

You see a boy who was forced to become a man far too soon. A boy who never got the luxury of feeling the sunlight on his face, or a warm breeze on his skin that wasn’t accompanied by guilt or pain. You see his story written in scars, from burns and blades, arrows and spears-

Yet, he is beautiful.

With a final string of grunts, he bullies his cock so deep inside your channel, you can’t help the shrill little squeak you give at the feeling. Pain and pleasure collide as you hug him as tight and close as you both can manage- chests slippery and heaving, the room falling into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of your breaths.

“Did I hurt you?” He whispers, either unable or unwilling to lift his face from where it lays on your chest, shaking fingers absently tracing over your palm.

“No, not in ways I didn’t enjoy.” You hide your face in his hair, pressing a long kiss to the sweat-dampened locks.

A chuckle floats over your skin, his lips chasing the chills before looking up at you-

“I- I don’t know.. love, My Queen. I’ve read of it, though I can’t say I’ve actually seen it. I wouldn’t know what to look for, or recognize what it feels like. But-” – you give a warm smile, silently praying that one day soon, he might tell you his story.

But, for now, you understand.

“I do not need to hear it.. And perhaps, I don’t know much about the feeling either. But, you feel like the fairytales I grew up reading.”

This time, the chuckle grows into rich laughter, his fingers gently tickling your sides to pull a sweet laugh from you, too,

“Fuck’s sake, little queen. Tellin’ a man he feels like a fairytale.”

You squirm under him with another bout of giggles, “You know what I meant!” – you swat at his arm, groaning suddenly when you feel his cock sink a bit further inside you, his seed dribbling onto the sheets,

“I know happy endings are for children’s stories, but.. the way they speak of love..” —you trail off, looking up at the ceiling for something more poetic, something you might find in one of your books. But you don’t think Simon is man of great proclamations or fancy words-

So, you settle on meeting his gaze, voice soft, “Well, I love you, Simon Riley.”

He leans up to kiss you, slow and deep, “Say it again.”

“I love you, Simon.”

taglist: @spxctorsslxt @ssc7514

#smut smut smut #knight!ghost #and his queen #fic: the queens guard #call of duty #cod fandom #simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #ao3 fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley #but make it medieval #medieval au

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boolger · 3 days

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Feet — John price x reader

✨Idk what to tell you, I just got this thought while working on another fic and it doesn’t fit, so here it is on its own instead.

✨So uh. Feet. Price x afab!reader. MDNI

✨tags: foot kink, under discussed kink, smut, rough sex, a bit of cnc, p in v, overstimulation, toe sucking (I’m sorry)

✨✨✨✨✨

You didn’t really know where the obsession came from - but at this point, you were afraid to ask. It wasn’t a bad thing, you just didn’t really… get it.

It had started slowly. Innocently.

He would help you off your high heels, fingers gentle as they touched your feet, as if they would break beneath his strong hands. Running along the balls of your feet, asking if you were sore from wearing the heels.

Or, when your feet rested in his while you were both on the couch, his hands would rest over them. Give a squeeze now and again, just holding them.

Then he would kiss you all over — feet included, even as you giggled from the tickle of his beard, his eyes dark as you pulled him up to kiss.

His insistence on getting regular manicures and pedicures, no worries, he will pay for everything. Once in a while he would choose the colors, inspecting them when you came home.

But you realized that maybe, just maybe, your boyfriend was into feet, when he was balls deep into your dripping cunt, leant to the side and kissed your foot, that was up in the air from the position you were in.

He had pressed his face half against it and just breathed, never taking his gaze from you, somehow managing to look powerful, when one eye was hidden behind your foot.

The short hairs of his beard pressing against the bottom of your feet, tickling it now and again, warm breaths panted against your skin - at the same time as his hard cock stretched your poor pussy, almost squelching sounds echoing in the bedroom.

Overstimulated and overwhelmed, you whined and tried moving your foot away from his face, from the sensation of hair and warm breaths - but one of his arms merely grabbed on tighter to your shin, keeping your foot stuck.

Somehow, the big bad Captain Price fucked you harder than before, making your tummy and chest move with each stroke and you swore you could feel yourself get wetter from the way he growled and then bit down on your foot.

You couldn’t help it, struggling in his grip but the older man showed no mercy, forcing your body to bend so he could grab onto your hip with the other hand - bed trashing against the wall with each of his harsh thrusts, making you scream with pleasure.

If you wanted it to stop, you knew you could - your safeword would be respected no matter what, you knew John, you trusted him.

But you didn’t, instead marveling at your choice being taken from you, forced from you by a beast with several of your toes in his mouth, tongue lapping at them.

It took you by surprise when you came, shaking and whining, crying as he held you fast, refusing to let you escape from the pain and pleasure, from the overstimulation. Growling sounds and pants left him and before you knew it, you were coming again, from his repeated attack on your toes, licking and biting, together with the unforgiving intense thrusts of his cock.

He came just a few moments later, groaning and moaning, hell, even whining a little.

You weren’t sure when your foot had left his mouth but as the two of you panted, enjoying the afterglow of your euphoria, your eyes met his. There was a pleased, but uncertain look in his eyes.

“You should have told me, you pervert,” you whispered teasingly, and the big bad military captain huffed and blushed.

“I know,” he said, gently pulling out, both of you letting out a little sound, “do you mind?”

“Nope. Not if it will make you fuck me like that again.”

#fanfiction #my writing #boolger #cod fanfic #call of duty #reader x john price #john price cod #john price call of duty #john price x reader #footkink

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bzurk · 8 hours

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DARK-FIC, MDNI:

Graves puts on a show for the 141, with your begrudging help.

CW: non-con, abduction, gags, restraints, threats, noncon filming.

Your consciousness flickers back to life like a candle flame in the dark, fragile and tenuous. The first sensation that creeps into your awareness is the cold—an unforgiving, biting chill that seeps into your bones, rendering your flesh numb and unyielding. It feels as though you have been submerged in a frozen lake, the icy tendrils of the water wrapping around your limbs and squeezing out every last drop of warmth.

As your senses slowly begin to sharpen, you realise that you are seated, your back against the unyielding hardness of a metal chair. The bindings around your wrists and ankles are rough and unyielding, cutting into your skin with every slight movement. They hold you in place with ruthless efficiency, like iron serpents coiled around your limbs, their grip inescapable. Your head throbs with a dull, insistent pain, a reminder of the brutal blow that brought you to this desolate place. It is as if a cruel giant has hammered a stake into your skull, each heartbeat echoing with agony.

The gag in your mouth is a vile intrusion, forcing your jaws apart and filling your mouth with the taste of sweat-soaked cloth. Your tongue presses against it reflexively, but there is no relief to be found. The fabric is soaked with your own sweat and saliva, a bitter reminder of your helplessness. It stifles your breath, making each inhale a laborious task, and you can feel the edges of panic nibbling at the corners of your mind, like rats gnawing on the last threads of your resolve.

The cell around you is a study in desolation. The walls are stark and bare, their surfaces pocked and scarred by years of neglect and violence. The dim light that flickers from a lone bulb casts long shadows across the floor, turning the room into a grim tableau of light and darkness. The air is thick with the stench of mildew and decay, mingling with the coppery tang of your blood. It fills your nostrils, making you want to retch, but the gag stifles even that. Your muscles scream in protest as you shift slightly in the chair, trying to alleviate the pressure on your bound limbs. Every movement sends ripples of pain through your body, like shockwaves from a distant explosion.

Your skin feels like a canvas of bruises and abrasions. You try to focus, to gather your scattered thoughts, but it is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. The memory of the struggle is a fragmented mosaic in your mind – Graves, Alejandro throwing the first punch, getting slammed against the SUVs, Soap dropped by a bullet, flashes of fists and boots, your neck held in the crook of an elbow, the sensation of being dragged, sinking your teeth into flesh, the world spinning in a nauseating blur after a blow to your head.

In the silence of the cell, you can hear the faintest echoes of distant footsteps, the murmur of voices, the sound of a lock turned and a door opened. The wall to your left creaks.

“See? Yer’ colonel’s fine,” Graves’ southern drawl leaked through the gap below your door.

“¡Te mataré, traidor! No eres más que un patético perro faldero. te mataré-” Alejandro’s voice carried, full of indignation and unadulterated rage, silenced by the slam of a steel door, an echoing boom that rumbled over your skin. You couldn’t help the way that it had you flinching against your restraints.

The sound of heavy boots approaches, each step resonating through the cold concrete like a drumbeat of impending doom. Your heart hammers in your chest, a wild, caged thing desperate for escape. The door creaks open, the rusted hinges protesting as light spills into your cell, harsh and unrelenting.

Graves steps into view, a sinister silhouette framed by the doorway. His icy eyes glitter with malevolent satisfaction as he holds up a phone, the camera lens gleaming like the eye of some predatory beast. He points it at you, capturing your dishevelled, battered state for all to see. The light from the screen casts an eerie glow on his face, accentuating the cruel twist of his lips.

"Can’t say the same for your corporal, though," he drawls, the smirk never leaving his face. He turns the phone so you can hear the voices on the other end of the call, though it's muffled by Graves’ hand over the speakers. “Two hits to the head and she was still kicking. Real fighter, aren’t ya, doll?”

He approaches closer, still recording with his phone. You grind your teeth against the gag in protest as he invades your personal space, your body arching against the chair in a futile attempt to escape. But Graves remains unfazed, reaching out to ruffle your tangled hair with his free hand.

"Stitches! Stitches, can you hear me?" Soap's voice crackles through the speaker, laced with urgency and concern.

The sound of your callsign, spoken with such desperation, cuts through the haze of pain and fear. It’s a lifeline. Your team knows you’re alive.

"Get your hands off of her,” Captain Price's voice follows, steady and resolute, deep and gravelled enough to rumble the strongest of foundations.

Graves laughs, a chilling sound that sends shivers down your spine. "You gonna make me, Captain?" He leans closer, brushing the matted hair from your face as the camera captures every detail of your bruised and broken features. You glare at him fiercely, defiance burning in your eyes despite the gag and restraints.

"Graves, you son of a bitch!" Soap shouts, the fury in his voice palpable even through the phone. "If you hurt her—"

“Hurt her? Why would I do that?” Graves continued stroking down your hair, purposefully antagonizing your captain. “I’ve got her right where I want her. Ain’t she a pretty sight like this?”

His fingers stopped and gripped, twisting the length of your hair around his palm before tugging, forcing a whimper from your throat as your head was wrenched back. The pain shoots through your scalp, sharp and searing, pulling a reluctant tear from your eye. The camera hovers, unblinking, capturing every moment of your torment, every flicker of pain.

“You piece of shit!” Soap’s voice is raw with anger. “You touch one more hair on her head, and I swear—”

Graves’ smile widens, a predator’s grin. “Oh, I’m touching more than just her hair, Sergeant. But don’t worry, I won’t break her. Just bend her a little.”

The pressure on your scalp increases as Graves tugs harder, your neck straining painfully against the force. The room seems to close in around you, the walls pressing in with their cold, unfeeling silence. But through the pain, you latch onto the sound of your team’s voices, their fury and concern a lifeline in the storm.

“Graves, you coward,” Price’s voice is like a growl, low and threatening. “You won’t get away with this. We’re coming for her, and when we find you—”

Graves interrupts with another laugh, releasing your hair and stepping back. “I’m counting on it, Price. But until then, enjoy the show.” He lowers the phone slightly, giving you a moment to see the faces of your team on the screen. Their expressions are a mix of rage and helplessness, a mirror of your own emotions. Price and Gaz stand shoulder to shoulder on one half of the screen, while Ghost stands behind a fuming Johnny on the other half.

You lock eyes with Soap, seeing the anguish and determination there. His jaw is set, his fists clenched, a promise of retribution burning in his gaze. Price’s eyes are cold, calculating, already forming a plan.

Graves puts the phone in a pocket on his vest so that the camera can still see, and he grabs the back of your chair and drags it to a wall, the legs scraping against the floor with a grating screech. The chair rocks back on the two hind legs until you're forced to bend your neck, the chair tilted awkwardly against the wall. Graves steps between your knees, looming over you like a vulture ready to pick at a carcass.

The tilt of the chair strains your neck and shoulders, a burning ache spreading through your muscles. Graves' presence is a looming shadow, his eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure as he looks down at you. The phone camera captures every angle of your discomfort, every twitch of pain and defiance.

He leans in closer, his face inches from yours. The stench of his breath, a mix of stale tobacco and cheap coffee, assaults your senses. "You know, you’ve caused me a lot of trouble," he murmurs, his voice a low, menacing drawl.

The pressure of his presence is suffocating, his body a wall of menace between your knees. You struggle against your bindings, but they hold firm, digging into your flesh. The cold of the wall behind you seeps through the thin fabric of your clothes, adding to the pervasive chill that has settled into your bones.

Graves' hand moves to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His grip is firm, fingers digging into your jaw. "Look at you, all tied up and nowhere to go," he sneers, his eyes scanning your face with cruel amusement. "They’re gonna come get you, aren’t they?”

The sound of your team’s muffled voices reaches your ears, a background murmur of anger and frustration. They are watching, helpless and furious.

Graves’ other hand traces a path down your neck, his touch a vile mockery of gentleness. "Pretty as a peach," he says, his voice a twisted parody of admiration, your cheeks squished together under his fingers and digging into your teeth painfully. “Bet you’re as sweet as one, too. You gonna be sweet?”

He patted his hand over the thigh holster on his leg, holding a deadly, mean-looking bowie knife. A clear warning. You nodded so frantically that your head kept smacking against the wall, exacerbating your spinning head.

The sound of metal teeth unzipping fills the room with an eery, cold silence.

“Enjoy the show,” he had said. He wasn’t going to- to do what you thought, right? Surely, he can’t be that cruel.

Your thrashing resumed, now more frantic and feral, your wrists and ankles scraped raw and bloody by the zip-ties holding them in place and your muscles screaming in agony at every move. His hands held your head still.

-----

this ends in a weird spot bc i frankly didn't have the motivation to finish it, but felt bad scrapping it

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kiryoutann · 1 day

Text

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, the world was a small, uncomplicated place. Mom and Dad don't have much money to travel abroad and their jobs only allow for little leisure, so the furthest vacation spot is a beach four hours' drive from your home city. School fills your days with lessons, friends, and the promise of weekend sleepovers. Every day, you stroll down the same street and greet your neighbors by name. Happiness was as close as your mother's freshly baked blueberry pie.

But now? When your world becomes wider and the reach of your hand becomes longer, it seems that happiness finds further hiding places. It grieves you that childhood was too brief; that bubble of safety from the world's woes and tribulations burst before you could even appreciate it.

The five-year-old you looked in the mirror, twisting your tiny feet to see the new shoes from all angles. Despite your repeated protests that you preferred the blue one, your mother purchased the bright pink one—she said it matched her favorite dress, and mother knows best, so you don't have to bother thinking about what you wanted. You shrugged to yourself; at least it's better than your old one.

Walking down the hall, you found your father. He's not in his usual play clothes – he's dressed for work, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "My little princess, you look so pretty!"

You beamed at his praise, chubby cheeks glowing. Nothing makes your heart sing like Dad's smile. You spin around like a princess in a fairy tale, showing off your shoes by stomping gently on the wooden surface.

“Mom bought it for me. It's not blue, but I like it!”

Dad chuckled. “Well, at least she spent my money on my favorite girl.”

Your mother emerged from the kitchen, your lunch bag in hand. “I saw them on sale at the store and just knew they'd be perfect for school,” she says proudly. Your father turned to you, opening his mouth to say something but, Mother interrupted. “We'd better get going or she'll be late for class.”

Dad sighs, mumbling a “yes, I know,” and kneels to sweep you into a tight hug. Your secret handshake is special – finger guns with “pew pew” noises, then knuckles bumping before more hugs and kisses. Your mother rolled her fondly eyes. “You two are always conspiring, sharing your little secrets. Now say goodbye, Daddy has to get to work."

You dislike it when Dad has to leave for work—in fact, you prefer him to Mom. But, Mom said he had to go or else there would be no food on the table for dinner; Besides, Daddy will definitely come back home and you can play with him again. You waved, forcing a smile to look as happy as possible.

"Bye, Daddy!"

"See you soon, princess." With a wave of his hand, your father answered and vanished behind the wooden door.

As Daddy's car pulls away from the curb, you hear Mom walking over to where the car keys are kept. You take a deep breath before exhaling slowly, but that strange tightness in your chest persists—one that usually occurs when it's just Mom and you. She opened the door and told you to go to the car. You followed her in silence, eyes fixed on the pattern on your new pink shoes.

Sliding into the backseat, you peer out the window. The car engine started, and the radio played the same playlist. You watch the buildings and trees move backward. Mom glances at you in the rearview mirror and corrects you about your slumped posture, saying it's an ugly look for a young lady. You sat up straight in your chair and muttered an apology. Satisfied, your mother returned her attention to the road.

Secretly, you wish it could be your dad driving you to school instead. He's more fun, telling silly stories to make you laugh, and doesn't mind your messy crayons or clothes that don't match perfectly. Your mother always finds fault with anything that is unclean or out of place.

Looking up at the clear sky, you hope the sun will soon be above, indicating that lunchtime is approaching. Lunchtime means it's a few hours until sundown, and dinner will soon be served. You want to quickly see Dad and hear whatever stories he has during the day—that is, if he comes home. Lately, work has been keeping him from home more and more. However, if he's too busy, then tomorrow will do—Sunday sounds fun. He never missed a Sunday with you.

The weekend comes quickly, and you can barely contain your excitement when Dad takes you to the park Sunday morning. You walk hand in hand down the busy sidewalk, you chat a mile a minute about school. Laughter and barking greeted you both.

A fluffy golden retriever catches your eye, and you tug Daddy's hand, pointing excitedly. “Can we get a puppy, Daddy? Please? I'd take such good care of it, I promise!”

Your father chuckled, then shook his head. “You know how your mother feels about furry friends making a mess in the house.”

Disappointed, you scruff your shoes in the dirt. Dad never refuses what you want, no matter how ridiculous it is, unless it contradicts Mom. Unfortunately, the majority of what you desire is always something your mother despises. You continue walking.

Then he points – an ice cream cart! “Can I have one?” You ask, only to remember. "Mom said no sweets before dinner."

Dad crouches to meet your downcast eyes. “But Mom's not here. And you and me, we're partners in crime, right? I won't tell if you won't. What do you say we keep our sweet treat just between us?”

Gasping for joy, bubbles of laughter escaped your lips. "Okay!" Dad got you cones, of course, chocolate ones, and you swung your clasped hands and gawked at all the colorful, melted options. There's no better way to spend a Sunday than taking a stroll with Dad in the sunshine.

Monday night, however, was spent with you lying in bed with a fever ravaging your little body. Through the haze, you hear raised voices carrying down the hall—Mom scolding Dad for letting you have that ice cream.

“I can't believe you disobeyed me, Peter! One ice cream and now she's sick as a dog.” Her shrill voice pierces your pounding head.

“C'mon Anna, the girl's allowed a treat now and then.” Dad's calmer rumble does little to quell your mother's fury.

“If you'd listened to me from the start, this never would've happened. But you always think you know best.” Their arguing grows more heated, and you curl into a tight ball, wishing you could disappear.

Your mother's booming footsteps grew farther away as their conversations ceased. You open your eyes. When your door creaks and you turn around, the light from the corridor peeks through a tiny opening, and your father's form fills the frame. He sits next to you with a strained, contrite expression on his face.

“Hey, honey,” he started. “I'm sorry our secret got out. Mom's just worried about you being sick.”

You try to smile, though it comes out as more of a grimace. “S’okay, Daddy.” You said, and he stroked your damp hair tenderly; concern etched deep.

“Jesus, you're burning up. How about a story to take your mind off feeling bad?”

As if on cue, you remember – “The Nutcracker, please!”

With a kind grin, your father got up to get the cherished book. He takes a seat next to you, acts puzzled as he flips through a book and clears his throat.

"Now let's see, how did this story go again?" You chuckled at his attempt to divert your attention from your fever.

Soon later, he starts reading aloud with a low, comfortable voice. Sometimes, he stumbles over long words or loses his place, but each time he simply smiles sheepishly before continuing on. His favorite part is the dialogue, as he frequently adopts a different voice to portray different characters. You find yourself entranced, following each magical adventure.

For a little while, you can forget about the uncomfortable heat covering your body and Mom's angry shouts. In these quiet moments with your father, nothing else matters but his gentle company. In this once kinder world, he is still your father and you are still his favorite daughter—his one and only. Even if getting an ice cream is what makes you sick, you would do it all over again just to share this time with him.

By the story's end, your eyelids grow heavy enough, but not quite heavy. Dad chuckled, closing the book. “Still awake, little love? You must be feeling better.”

Your lips curve into a smile, glazed eyes glistening as flushed cheeks rise. “Mom signed me up for ballet classes,” you mumble sleepily.

A gasp escaped his lips, his forehead shot upwards emphasizing the already existing wrinkles. He looked at you with irises the same color as yours. You chuckle from his reaction, but your smile fades when his features swim and blur before you like figures in a dream. His gaze was always so kind, looks darker than you recall. Stubble shadows his jaw. When he smiles now, it doesn't reach as far.

He said your name—but it sounded foreign, it felt wrong. Why can't you see him clearly anymore?

“My little princess, you’re going to be the greatest ballet dancer the world has ever seen.” You wanted to answer, to hold this moment with him forever; but heavy eyelids won the battle and ultimately dragged you down. As the darkness enveloped you, Dad's hazy face was the last thing on your mind.

Thin curtains block the dreary morning light as you begin your daily ritual of waking up. The city has just woken up below; fog still hangs on the streets of London as you pad barefoot to the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your feet.

Filling the kettle, you set it to boil and retrieve your favorite chipped mug from the shelf. Your hand reaches for a packet of instant grounds—two scoops of it go inside, followed by a splash of cream. After lifting the whistling kettle, you poured in the boiling water slowly before taking a tea spoon to stir. The sound of the drizzle striking the glass was amplified by the apartment's quiet, and a small clink! sound is added each time your spoon meets your porcelain mug.

Lifting the mug, you breathe deep its comforting aroma before taking a careful sip, sighing as warmth spreads through your body. Coffee in hand, you turn to the task of packing your bag, put the essentials: water bottle, warm up shorts, warm up sweater, leg warmers, two pointe shoes, skirts, and a pouch containing deodorant, hair spray, comb, pins , and band aids.

Feeling quite satisfied, you finish your coffee and rinse the mug before leaving it to dry. You go shower and do your skincare routine. Pulling out your clothes drawer, you retrieve the leotard and tights, sliding the familiar fabrics over still-damp limbs.

Before the full-length mirror, you start to stretch. First position – feet turned out, heels together, arms graceful at your sides. Middle split – breathe in, reach for your toes, feel the burn in your thighs. Forward fold, palms flat on the floor, spine lengthening. After feeling warmed up for the day, you slowly got up and grabbed your bag towards the door.

The city was already starting to get busy, with the hustle and bustle of commuters making their way to work. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and brewing coffee wafting through the air. You quickened your footsteps on the cobblestone streets.

When the train door opens, you rush out, clutching your bag tight. Racing up the stairs, you burst through the exit and meet the cold air from the rain. You rubbed your hands against your arms in a desperate attempt to warm yourself. Overhead, heavy clouds hung low. You set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

But, as your building comes into view, you slow down—memories from last night fill your head. It was just here—under the awnings of that little café—that you first took shelter from the rain with him.

Simon. His name whispers through your mind like fog swirling around lampposts. If only the place was still open, maybe you would come in for a sweet warm drink instead of that crowded pub. Must've been nice, you think—it must've been nice to chat between sweets, enveloped in comfort that stretches time to be longer. Maybe he won't be so guarded and you'll get more than a name and a job—a promise to meet tomorrow at breakfast, for example.

Realizing you had completely stopped walking, you shook your head as embarrassment settled on your cheeks. Why do you dwell on such fantasies? Despite his kindness, Simon is just a stranger with just a name, one of many faces in this city that you will never meet again.

With a sigh, you continued your walk and disappeared behind the large doors of the opera.

The heavy doors creaked open as you pushed inside, warmth enveloping your cold body. Long hallway echoed with the conversation of the dancers who had arrived, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor while exchanging a joke or two with each other. You turn into the dressing room. Hanging up your coat, you saw a familiar sight—girls chatting and gossiping as they got ready.

You sat down at one of the dressers, placing your duffel bag at your feet. The sound of a zipper being opened sounded in the air; you bent down and reached for your pouch. Then, you pull out your trusty lip balm before applying it to your lips and gently massaging in the colorless formula.

Just then, a girl came and stopped at the door frame, panting. “It's up! The casting announcement is on the board!”

Squeals of excitement and joy were heard as they rushed to see who got what role. You hurriedly closed your balm, returned it to the pouch before getting up from the chair following the others. They had gathered at the end of the hall, jostling to see a piece of paper stuck to the board.

Air fills your lungs slowly when you inhale. It felt like your hammering heart was going to drop to your stomach as your legs started to swing. The pessimistic side of you says to turn around—why bother? It said tauntingly, you know which role you ended up having. But the hopeful side—the little girl still full of dreams stored somewhere in your ribs—insisted on peering and feeling.

As you stepped into the crowd of dancers, they turned around and some started smiling at you. One of them, Jasmine, approached you after calling your name.

“You did it! You got the role!”

As she hugged you, you scanned down the long list. Your eyes freeze on the main role. The Swan Queen. Beside it is printed in big black letters, your name. The Swan Queen.

You detach yourself from Jasmine's embrace, muttering excuses as you flee down the hall to the toilet. Step by step opening each stall to make sure the space is totally empty, you then lock yourself in one of them and sink into the closed toilet lid. Your mind is racing with a plethora of feelings as your eyes are fixed on the sections of tile plaque.

Joy, pride, disbelief... But underneath it all lies a hollow ache you can't place. Why? Isn't this what you've always wanted, to to become more than just another dancer in the group, to stop at precisely the thirteenth, and somehow take on the role of the Swan Queen—the one who shines the most on stage? Perhaps it's the self-conscious part of you, believing that the director must have made a mistake and mistook you for someone else.

Or perhaps this emptiness was once occupied by the never-ending quest for approval. In truth, that person no longer exists; you have no one left to tell this good news to. The chairs in the crowd were empty.

The cost of keeping everyone at a distance, indeed.

You clutch on your leotard, the fabric wrinkling in your tight grip. Gazing up at the ceiling and inhaling again, you make the decision to push up on unsteady legs and get out of the stall.

The hallway seems louder than before. Every footstep and whisper amplified in your mind, eyes tracking you as you pass—all judging, wondering. A flush creeps up your neck. You speed up your steps, hoping to quickly get out from under their scrutinizing gaze. However, no matter how hard you try, your ears cannot be deafened by the snatches of hushed conversation that follow.

“Can't believe they chose her; she's so soulless on stage.” Your throat constricts, and your hands are clenched into pale fists.

Claudine's piercing stare cuts through the crowd as your eyes meet. She rakes her gaze over you slowly, as if trying to decipher what the director found so special. You lowered your eyes, hurriedly passing to the safety of the empty dressing room. Grabbing your bag with shaky hands, you flee once more to the practice studio, desperate to lose their judgment.

The studio door's knob turned, and as you pushed slightly to get a glimpse inside, the hinges creaked. With the coach and pianist, the director was engaged in a serious discussion. He gives you a quick glance and gestures for you to enter.

“(Y/N), it's so wonderful to have you here. I know this role is in excellent hands with you.” His kind words did little to calm your fraying nerves, but you took the crumbs of his appreciation.

More dancers arrive behind you, their excited chatter filling the hallway. Risking a glance over your shoulder, you catch sight of familiar faces: Jasmine, Sophia, Eloise, long-faced Marie—surely she's not used to not being the main star, and you feel like you've taken her place even though you're not good enough. You swallow hard and turn back, placing your duffel bag in the studio's corner.

The director clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. “Bravo to each of you for earning these coveted roles through your talent and dedication. Now, let us begin our work to bring Tchaikovsky's magic to life for our audiences. Places everyone, we'll start from the beginning!”

Your shoulders rise as you inhale a deep breath. Swan Lake. First time becoming the Swan Queen.

Does the director know that his gaze carries a heavy weight? The more sighs he lets out, the more you suffocate, as if the air has been tainted with butane and you've reached the vertigo stage. His eyes followed your every move, but it was his lips that showed dissatisfaction. Something isn't up to his expectations, and it's not the techniques and poses your ballet teacher has been drilling you in since childhood. You are deficient in something that you are unaware of.

The director calls to a halt, praising and giving notes to the other dancers before turning to you. You brace yourself with a deep breath.

“Your technique is truly flawless as always. But I wonder, could you try injecting just a bit more... feeling?” he began. “You portray her innocence and loneliness beautifully. But what is missing is the glimmer of hope she finds in Prince Siegfried's promise to free her.”

Hope? The girl had lived most of her life as a swan; what silly hope did she still have and seek in a man? As if their hearts have the ability to keep a promise. Swan Lake wouldn't be Swan Lake without the prince declaring his love for another woman and Odette jumping off the cliff from the realization that her dreams had ended in vain. Is it not more fitting that she feels only emptiness—the result of years of loneliness leeching any warmth or longing from her soul?

You tell yourself that, if not merely to cover up your poor performance. The director is many years older than you and has directed and seen many ballets throughout his life. If anyone knows how to bring a character to life, it's him.

It begs the question, though, of whether a cursed being like her seems capable of wishing for miracles or fairy tale things like love. Can a withered flower, beaten down by countless rains, still hold the memory of the sun in its crumpled petals?

“I'll do better.” You said.

The director gives a pitying smile; you felt small beneath him. “Good.” Then raising his voice, “Well done everyone today. Let's call it a day and start again tomorrow fresh!"

Snatching up your bag, you rush towards the exit before anyone can speak to you. With your head down, you push through the doors and into the night. Breathing in trembling, you let your legs carry you down the well-known pavement. The sights and sounds of bustling London blur around you.

You shouldn't have believed that girl. You shouldn't have given that dreamy girl the chance to lead a version of herself that has grown far beyond her—because you know her judgment means nothing, just a limited view of the world through rose-tinted glasses. She is that way because a liar once said that she would make a great ballet dancer, and she stuck to it like a devoted disciple to the words of her God.

It was stupid, perhaps a misplaced self-confidence. With your every step, the negative voices in your mind grow louder, jeering relentlessly at your foolishness. This was a mistake from the start. As if you could ever do Odette justice. Best tell him you're stepping down; let Claudine or Marie have the role they deserve. Your heart is heavy, weighing you down to the floor.

You almost pass by without noticing, but there, through the haze, glows the warm orange light of that pub. The one Simon and you ducked into that stormy night, where you shared pleasantries over pints of bitter. As you watch the door open and close for the newcomers, you halt.

You're not sure which Satan incited. But when you push open the pub door, warmth immediately envelopes you, scents of ale and smoke mingling with the bustle of chatter. A lively folk tune played on the sound system as patrons laughed together in the booths and around the bar. Steeling yourself, you approached awkwardly.

The bartender looked up, his eyes widening briefly before his lips curved into a flirtatious smile. "Well hello gorgeous, what can I get for ya?"

Warmth floods your cheeks and you shift from foot to foot. “Um, do you have anything non-alcoholic?” You said, awkward voice breaking easily. Why did you come in here again?

He raised an eyebrow but maintained a friendly smile. “Sure do, love. Give me a mo.” As he turns around to prepare your drink, you glance around helplessly.

Faces blurred in the dim light—all engaged in lively conversation. You sit alone at the bar like you're waiting for a friend while watching everyone else meet theirs. A feeling of loneliness overtakes you – what were you thinking coming here?

Bartender returns, sliding your drink across with a wink. “On the house. Let me know if you need anything else, yeah?”

Giving a mumbled thanks, you take a sip acting busy. As you sit alone nursing your drink, you believe you understand why. Deep down, beneath all the self-doubt and shame, is a glimmer of truth you loath to admit – you desperately seek companionship, if only for a moment.

And the only person close enough for you to consider a friend is a masked stranger you will never see again. That's pathetic; you're pathetic. Clinging to the irrational part to watch Simon walk through that door. He claims he's a regular here—his “I'm here often enough” seems to make you hold out for the chance of running into him again.

Twenty minutes pass in a haze, and Simon still hasn't appeared. Maybe he's not a regular after all. You finally glance at your phone—it's time for your usual subway.

Signaling the bartender, you place some cash on the bar as a tip. “Thanks again,” you murmur, then gather your coat and slip out into the chill night.

“Sorry,” you mumble when you bump into a figure about to enter.

“No worries, love,” a British-accented voice replies smoothly, and you glance up, thinking it's someone. A stranger—tall, broad shoulders, but not Simon. Perfectly coiffed hair and skin as smooth as porcelain. He shot a charming smile at you. “Off somewhere?”

Instantly on alert, your eyes start looking for a way to get away from him. “Just heading home, thanks.”

Making a sidestep, his arms extended to block your path. Your mind's alarm goes off. His gaze burned as it swept over you, lingering in places it had no right to be before he licked his lips. You felt a cold sweat run down your back.

“Don't be like that, darling. I just want to chat. Buy you a drink, maybe?” His smile grows, and the sick glint in his eyes shows how much it amuses him to see you trembling.

“Sorry, I—”

“I believe the lady said she’s not interested, mate.”

A gruff, familiar voice cuts through the haze. You whip your head around to see Simon standing there. His face is half obscured by his black mask, but you'll recognize that steel gaze everywhere. For some reason, your heart gradually calms down in your ribs.

“And who the fuck are you?” the other asked angrily, puffing up his chest. A daring move, you think. His too-tight t-shirt reveals his consistent gym muscles, but if Simon is his opponent, you can be sure he's no match.

“Just not a fan of creeps harassing women. Now do yourself a favor and fuck off before I make you.” Simon threatened.

The color drains from the guy's face when he sees Simon's seriousness. He walked away, swallowing his wounded pride with a huff. The pressure recedes from your rigid frame as you watch the figure leave before turning to Simon.

"You hurt at all?" he asked, doing a scan of you to check for himself.

You shake your head, then manage a shaky “No, I'm fine. Thank you.”

Simon looked at you, then looked behind you towards the pub. When he turns back to you, his eyebrows raise slightly questioningly.

“You were in there your own?”

The warmth from his question traveled across your cheeks, striking a contrast with the night breeze. You didn't dare to meet his eyes, choosing to settle on your shoes instead. Despite having come here just to meet him, feeling under his judgment is like getting a shot of adrenaline into your legs—so much so that you want to run to get away from him.

“I, um…” Words fail you beneath your embarrassment.

How pathetic you must look—a lone girl nursing a drink with no companions, seeking solace in other people's conversations. You can't, however, just reveal your total lack of friends. Your mind searched frantically for a convincing reason.

“Just… needed to clear my head after a long day of practice. Thought the atmosphere might help.”

Even to your own ears, the lie falls flat. You didn't know if Simon noticed. Though you're pitiful, he doesn't furrow his brow or look at you that way. He asks no questions at all, not even about poor attempts at lying, and he doesn't press people on matters they would rather leave unsaid. Simon doesn't pry; you think that's his good quality.

Simon looked up at the dark sky instead. “Getting late, this is. I'll walk you to the tube.” He nodded, gesturing down the empty sidewalk.

Thick clouds rolled low. The two of you make your way towards the subway station, passing one by one the buildings constructed from buff-colored brick. Simon is striding beside you, his long legs eating up the pavement with ease. Secretly, you steal glances at his broad figure against the lamplight. Your eyes follow the line of his shoulders under his leather jacket—the way it molds into muscular arms.

This is different from your first meeting. There's no need now for nervous small talk to fill the quiet; you're not much of a talker, and Simon also finds more peace in silence.

Simon's presence feels more companionable than awkward. Warmth bloomed in your ribs as your lips curled into a small smile before it disappeared again. You both walk in wordless sync before you become bored and break it.

“I didn't really expect to see you again.”

Simon glances down at you, his brows quirking questioningly. Did you sound ungrateful? You rush to explain. “I mean, it was all like a chance thing, running into each other like that. Figured it was just... a one-time thing, you know?”

He thought about your words for a moment. “Funny how things work out sometimes.”

Up ahead, the glow of the station sign begins to appear. You bit the inside of your cheek as you slowly slowed down your pace, but you made sure it was unnoticeable. Your journey's end draws near, but you hope this togetherness can last longer.

Summoning your courage, you try, “Were you meeting someone at the pub? Before…” Your words trail off, but he seems to understand.

“Nah, wasn't meeting anyone,” he said casually. “Just fancied a drink, is all.”

You nodded, acting satisfied, but actually feeling a little disappointed. It seemed that he was in fact a frequent visitor, coming and going on any given evening; it was just for a drink, like before he met you. Meanwhile, you cling to the prospect of another chance to meet like a lifeline. As the station came into full view, your eyes fell, brewing more embarrassment and desperation in your stomach. Maybe he has someone waiting for him. What were you thinking, letting yourself hope?

Yet, though small, the rebellious part of you refuses to let this end.

"What do you usually drink?" You ask again, grasping for any excuse to extend your time, no matter how little.

“Bourbon,” he replied gruffly. “Kentucky, usually. Good drop.”

Twenty-three years old, but this discussion is still foreign territory for you. Your fingers can count the few times you've tasted alcohol—each occasion marred by your mother's voice in your head, warning of its evil. It's rather comical, considering how it once became her loyal companion for several years—that damned thing became the only thing she looked for after coming home from work and gulping it down flat on the living room sofa to dull her broken heart. You cannot yet judge her as a hypocrite or someone who has learned from her mistakes. As if a single glass would transform you into some fallen woman. It was always all or nothing with her; there was no concept of moderation.

Such inhibitions are not for Simon, though. A man of the world who has seen and done things that you could scarcely fathom. For him, a pint after work is as regular as taking a breath.

All too soon, you reach the stairs leading down to the station entrance. Your feet stopped when he did. Turning your body to face him, you gathered your courage and looked up. His eyes meet yours, and you see him about to open his mouth behind his surgical mask. No, you can't bear to hear that final goodbye.

“Do you..” You started. “Like anything else to drink, besides bourbon? I probably have… something at my place.”

There was a change in his gaze before he returned to his usual guarded gaze. Your cheeks screamed on fire at the implication that you didn't quite mean to make. Such an invitation should be the last thing a girl like you offers to a stranger she's only met twice, particularly at this hour. To your defense, though, he's now an acquaintance, and desperation influences people to do the unthinkable. The nights are getting colder and your lonely apartment won't do.

It seems that your question surprised him too. Simon scanned your face carefully before releasing the tension.

“Tea.”

When Simon replies with a single gruff word, you can't help but smile, ducking your head to hide it behind loose tendrils of hair. Lifting your eyes once more, you find him staring at you. Two people engaging in a silent game of deciphering, each trying to unravel the secrets of the other piece by piece.

“Tea,” you repeat softly, as if savoring the taste of the word.

Fingers twisting together, you steel your nerves before turning toward the stairs to lead the way down. You hear his footsteps fall solidly behind you. Not daring to look back out of fear that this dream will shatter, you mentally urge your feet faster.

At the platform's edge, mist curls between the rails like grasping fingers. Simon was standing right next to you. Slowly, the lights of an approaching train emerge, growing brighter by the second. With a weary hiss, the sliding doors open in front of you in welcome. You turned to Simon, then stepped aboard, and he followed, as you already knew.

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ghostybaby000 · 7 hours

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Never Yours | Part 3

Part 1

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x reader

Summary: He had seen blood hundreds of times before, but never from you. He didn't know what to expect while listening to your cry's on the phone praying you wouldn't loose consciousness. Part one posted above to start this read!

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: 18+, violent theme, weaponry use, blood, symptoms of panic

Tag List: @yyiikes @talooolaaloolla

(not fully edited, apologies for any inconsistencies!)

As quietly as his large build would let him, he crossed the room just to the foot of your bed. He looked to all the machines around you and buttons that were beeping or flashing, it all made him feel more anxious. His eyes landed on your heart monitor where they rested for quite some time, he watched the small screen and lines and noticed his own heart begin to resume a normal rate. A smile came over your face as you saw him and tried to reach an arm out to him as he swiftly moved to the side of the bed. He gently grabbed your hand and placed it down on your stomach, he didn’t want you moving one bit.

You put your other hand over the top of his and stared into his eyes, without words trying to tell him that you were okay. Looking at him you adjust to sit up as you tried to clear your throat.

From behind him, he pulled a visitor’s chair as close as it could be to the bed and sat down intent on staying every second he was allowed. As soon as you had awoken you had asked to see Simon, not giving yourself any time to take in the injuries you had acquired or to think back to what had happened.

Tears began to flood your eyes as you remembered the events that had unfolded and left you starting to shaking. Immediately Simons eyes grew wide as he stood from the chair and cupped your face with his large hand.

‘Dove what is it? Are you in pain?’ The nervousness in his voice told you that he too was scared, confirmed by him calling for a nurse from the bedside- never letting go of your hand. Clearing your throat again you take in a shaky breath and touch Simons arm to get his focus back to you.

A nurse had made their way into the room with a haste but you and Simon both assured her as she made her way back out of the room that everything was okay. He looked back to you and leaned over so you wouldn’t strain your voice.

‘It’s not the pain Simon, I-I just haven’t processed it all yet.’ He let out a small breath and sat down again in the small chair. He brushed his thumb gently over your hand and looked at you with his brows furrowed.

‘So much happened so fast, I don’t think I’m remembering all of the details right.’ He pushed a tear off your cheek with a smile.

‘All that matters is that you’re alright. Whoever did this-‘ He took a pause to again to inhale and then continue.

‘Whoever did this will answer to me, the only thing you need to worry about is getting better.’ Your eyes began to feel heavy with the sedatives you had been given as your muscles relaxed, Simon continued to gently thumb over your hand.

Hours passed as you slept, Simon watching you and every person who entered the room ensuring that nobody was taking you again from him. He listened to the shoes shuffling by in the hallway and watched your chest fall and rise with each breath, grateful that you were able to rest.

His phone pocket began to buzz, he used his unoccupied hand to retrieve it.

‘Price’

He looked to you and slowly began to rise, being as quiet as possible, kissing your hand and gently resting it on your stomach he made his way into the hall to answer the call.

‘What do you have?’ His voice was stern as he spoke, silent to hear any information after he had asked.

‘Well we went back to the neighborhood and found that the neighbors have cameras installed on their doorbells. We were able to see when the attack happened, and we think we know who’s done it as well.’

‘The attack, was this more than one person?’

‘Not that we know of yet, just one made their way into the home. Faking as a inspector of some kind, we can’t see the trucks logo. Y/N opened the door to greet them, and then tried to close it but they…they made their way inside.’ A pause caught in Simons throat thinking again of how small you were, his anger rising.

‘Thank you. Tell me when you have anything else.’

‘Will do.’

As he hung up the phone and made his way back into the room, you stirred slightly. He quickened his pace to be back at your side again pushing your stray hair strands from your face. You drifted back to sleep as he resumed his position in the chair.

He began to think over what Price had said and the details that he could use to his advantage. He thought to you as well, how you must have been so afraid. SO afraid to of being alone and the pain that ensued would surely leave you scarred. He thought for another hour or so, taking a water when the nurse offered it still refusing to leave the room.

You spoke out then to him, the first time he didn’t really understand what you had said, and asked you to repeat.

‘I knew you...’

‘What...Dove do you need something?’ he whispered with his low voice, trying to not startle you if you were still sleeping.

Your eyes slowly opened as you reached this time to cover his hand. You cleared your dry throat as you spoke again, this time more clearly.

‘I knew to call you.’ A smile started over your face as Simon patted your hand assuming the pain medication was talking.

‘What do you mean lovie?’ He grinned back to you, his eyes never loosing track of yours.

You opened your eyes more fully this time, now staring at him. Again the prickle of tears began to sting.

‘I knew that you would be there faster than an ambulance… I knew you would get to me first.’

He stared to you for another moment before allowing his head to fall to the floor. He was feeling his own eyes begin to sting, for he didn’t agree. He should have been the one to take it, he should be the one recovering, he should have never left, or he should have taken you with him in the least.

He looked back up to you and instead pushed the thoughts out of his mind, standing to plant a kiss on your forehead. Your eyes slowly began to close again as he whispered to you,

‘Always.’

Hours passed as the night progressed, Simon now letting his own eyes close but never succumbing to sleep.

Nurses came in and out to check your vitals throughout the evening, eventually the doctor came in and asked to discuss the surgery and the aftercare. You sat a little higher in the bed, wincing as you did so. Simon pushed himself out of his chair to help sit you up properly, being soft with every movement. Once you both had gotten situated, the doctor went over the procedure.

You noticed that as the doctor went on, Simons knee only bounced harder, his hands becoming more sweaty as he wiped them on his pants. He would look over to you and smile, although you could tell it pained him to see you hurting. The doctor finished talking over the surgery and explained that a nurse would be by to check the dressings. Before leaving he pulled Simon into the hallway and gave him more specifications on taking care of you when you returned home, along with some paperwork. He listened very closely, intent on helping you recover as best he could. He shook the doctors hand as he began to leave, but the doctor didn’t let go entirely-looking to Simon.

‘She is very lucky to have you, there’s no telling if she would have made it had you not gotten her here.’

He felt a lump in his throat as he again thanked the doctor and made his way back into your room. A nurse came in not to long afterwards and asked if you’d like to be alone for the dressing change. You told her that you wanted Simon to stay so long as he wanted to, looking over to Simon who gave a small nod of approval.

You see his jaw clench as she slowly pulled down the cover to see your wrapping, he hated himself for not being the one to take the blow. He took your hand in his as she began to undo your dressing, and when she had gotten it entirely off Simon had gone ridged in his chair. The nurse asked if he was alright before moving on and showing Simon how to care for her wound. He watched her very closely, at one point staring her down when she made you groan out. She completed the changing process and Simon was confident he was capable of treating it from home, where he wished to be.

He thought of the scene again that he walked into, remembering that the house had been left like that- and he didn’t want you to go back to see the mess. He watched over your face as you fell again into a sleep, taking the time to notice how delicate your hand was in his.

You awoke again a few hours later to Simon watching something on the small TV, the sound muted. He heard you stir and turned his attention to you seeing that you were awake, and asked if you were alright. You confirmed that you were okay before Simon pondered over the events. He didn’t want to ask you to retell one of the worst moments of your life but felt it would be better him asking than an officer. Food is sent out to the rooms, as Simon sat by watching you slowly eat. Knowing you were safe allowed more room for anger to take hold in his mind, feeling a rage that burned like fire. He wanted so badly to get his hands on whoever had done this to you. He knew that asking you questions would feel horrible, asking you to recreate the moments that had caused you so much pain, but knew that you would have important information that he needed to find the monster.

You sat up fully now and looked at Simon, he was very focused on his thoughts. You run your hand over his arm that was resting on the chair, getting him to look at you with a smile. You take a sip of water to clear your throat as you speak to him.

‘I didn’t know what to do, Simon.’ His brows furrowed and his grip around your hand intensified.

‘I know. You shouldn’t ever have to prepare for something like this...’ His voice getting more broken as he continued to speak, looking to you tears begin to form in his eyes.

‘And I’m sorry that I wasn’t there.’ He looked to you like you had never seen him before. He was speaking words he didn’t want to be true and it pained him to see you in such a state. You took the time now to cut him off before his mind could get to him any further.

‘Simon you were. You got me out of there and are the reason I am able to sit here and talk with you now.’ His head fell to the floor, the thought of you not making it scared him even when you were here in front of him, quite alive. You pulled his head to look at you, tears forming in your own eyes as you went on.

‘Thank you, Simon. Thank you for getting to me.’ It took no more than a few seconds for Simon to be over you, hugging you as lightly as he could without hurting you. His warm lips kissed your forehead for longer than necessary as he pulled back just enough to see your face. The rage in him now was boiling over the edge, he would find whoever did this, and they would pay. He tried to be as patient as possible when speaking to you over the events, he didn’t want to make you feel any pressure or panic when talking to him.

‘I know it may be hard, but do you think you could try and tell me about…what happened?’ He felt the room get colder and your hand stiffen in his. He searched your face for any clue to what you were thinking.

‘I…’ The thoughts played over in your mind going far to quickly to understand them individually. You knew that Simon would do anything and everything to avenge your pains, looking down to your bandaged abdomen, he wouldn’t stop until they had been found.

‘I can try.’ You smiled up to him slowly as he took in a breath and nodded.

Where were you going to begin?

#ghost x reader #books #call of duty fanart #cod fanfic #cod ghost #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost x y/n #simon ghost riley #ghost x you #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley cod #ghost call of duty #ghost simon riley

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haunted-wire420 · 16 hours

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Love giggling and kicking my feet at the most unhinged cod fanfics.. like "mmm he's about to get shot, that's so girly pop ☺️"

#cod #john soap mactavish #foap #simon ghost riley #ao3 fanfic #cod fanfic #ghoap

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cntloup · 10 hours

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tired of sweet innocent angel reader😔 what if you're a mere human, just as broken as he is

for years, he has lived alone, carried the weight of the world on his shoulders all by himself, beared the pain that only he knows in his heart.

then you came along, offering a kind smile, saying 'let me carry the weight for a while'.

but you're far from a sweet, innocent angel, battling your own demons and bearing your own pain.

until he came along, shielding you from the beasts that tear your soul apart, saying 'let me take the sword for a while'.

you're both human, broken pieces scattered around. but you both pick up the pieces together, holding each other all throughout the suffering and turmoil.

might write more for broken reader🥲

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dragonbe-writing · 2 days

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guys i know im a bit of a smaller acount but if i did a COD writing/art event for july would y'all participate??

#call of duty #cod mw22 #fanfic #writing #cod #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #call of duty fanart #cod art #call of duty mw2 #cod modern warfare #writing event

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guy-writes · 5 hours

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"Wake up"

For @the-californicationist nameless 500(ish) words challenge!

Warnings: Mention of loss, angst, no pronouns used for reader

“Wake up…” He could hear you whisper sweetly.

He didn't bother opening his eyes, they felt too heavy to open. He could feel your hand coming up to caress his cheek before a sweet kiss was placed on his forehead. It made him feel comforted, loved, and complete. He could picture you smiling at him, brighter than any star he's ever seen. When he wrapped his arm around your torso… you were cold. Which wasn't unusual, he had a tendency to keep the window open. You never seemed to complain though.

“Did I leave the window open again?” He sleepily asked, hugging you tighter in order to warm you up. You smelt different, though not totally different, you still had your comforting scent… but there was something bitter mixed in. It was subtle, but there.

“You could say that…” you replied.

“You know you could always come closer, you're practically freezing, love” he paused before adding.

“and I hate to feel you freeze,” he chuckled tiredly, before pulling you closer. Though he noticed you weren't getting any warmer. How strange, he was getting a bit concerned now. He could feel you shuffle a little before you chuckled.

“Why don't you open your eyes? It's quite nice out from what I can see,”

“I'm tired, love, can’t we just go back to sleep?” He huffed playfully. He could picture you rolling your eyes, but having that fond look on your face nonetheless.

“Fine- sleep a little longer you baby…” He heard you tease before he drifted back to sleep. It must have been close to the time where his alarm would sound.

“... Wake up.”

He grumbled, blinking his eyes before shoving his face in his pillow and closing his eyes again. From what little he saw, it was still dark out. He could feel your weight on the left of him…

He normally slept on the left side, it was closer to the door.

“Did… we swap places?” He yawned.

“You could say that…” you responded.

“Huh… Weird…” he mumbled out, about to fall back asleep- but you had other plans it seemed. You reached over and started stroking his hair, he sighed peacefully and leaned in towards your touch.

It was deathly cold at this point.

“I love you, you know that, right?” You expressed softly.

“I think I would definitely know that,” He felt himself smile.

“...Then why can’t you let me go?” You spoke.

He froze, why did you phrase it like that? Everything felt off now, everything felt like it was spinning. Your scent got even bitter when you sighed sadly, caressing his hair for the final time before letting go.

“You need to let me go, open your eyes…” You stated firmly.

“I…I can’t…” he croaked out, lips trembling. It felt like he was struggling to breathe, he didn’t like it. He reached out towards you, trying to feel your warmth even though you didn’t have any. His hand landed limply on the mattress, the spot beside him was cold. He finally opened his eyes only to be greeted by a chilly, empty bedroom. He stared vacantly at the open window, trying to come to terms that you really were never coming back.

Words: 537

#cali's nameless challenge #guy.writes #cod fanfic #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #john price x reader #Simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #angst #bittersweet

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writingfromasgard · 15 hours

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𝕂𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕘

𝕋𝕖𝕩𝕥

Fae!Konig

𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒

Cosplayer: Konig MudRun - photoshoot pictures

𝔽𝕦𝕝𝕝 𝔽𝕚𝕔𝕤

Manspreading - Small couch, Big man

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lilithdeparis · 1 day

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both of it.

Warning: very heavy smut.

I'm thinking about your new gynaecologist, Simon Riley, you who didn't even know about it, as usual once a month visited the gynecologist Mia to find out she was not working there anymore, so Simon Riley took care of you.

What a way for a man to have his fingers inside your wet cunt, when you were lying in front of him with your legs open and looking at him with red cheeks, at one moment you even moaned because of his three big fingers moving in and out lot more faster now, which the man told you was completely normal.

But what wasn't quite normal was your sudden cum and then a squirting, causing a big grin to break out on the man's face.

"I don't think my fingers are enough, I'll try to check with something else."

You didn't even realize how his hands suddenly was replaced by his really big, thick and veiny dick, which was now hitting your small and beautiful cunt with all its might in and out in all the necessary places.

Towards the end, man thrust right into you, his cum completely filling your belly and even coming out of your little cunt, you lay there, barely breathing, when suddenly the man bent down and kissed your dripping cunt.

"I think l found problem, this little thing needs more stretch to fit Johnny's and mine together sweetheart."

The man said while smiling and your eyes immediately moved to the second gynecologist with a mohawk harcut, in the corner of the room, who was already smirking and removing his belt.

#cod ghost #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x you #ghost smut #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #johnny mactavish #soap smut #cod soap #Spotify

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aoioozora · 1 day

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Merrick feels like the type of guy who is big and scary but is actually quite a softie. If he had to comfort someone, he'd definitely do so mostly through acts of service and giving little tidbits of advice and wisdom to keep things in perspective

Let me explain,

He knows you're a hardy woman, he's never seen you cry and it seemed like nothing could ever make you cry given how naturally volatile women's mood swings could get sometimes. But you seemed just fine, handled every loss, failure, and tragedy with alarming-- almost abnormal-- stoicism. You'd not even wince at your period cramps either. You'd bottle up and keep a level head on your shoulders because that's what a good soldier would do: not get run with their feelings.

But that didn't mean your pot of brewing emotions never overflowed.

Merrick stumbles upon you hidden in an obscure corner on the base nearby some dumpsters, sobbing to yourself silently, leaned against the wall and all curled up in a ball.

"Wh-What are you doing here?" he blurts, nearly dropping the cigarette that is between his fingers. He couldn't imagine such a respectable young woman sitting on the ground in this dingy place.

You flinch; his surprise only increases because he's never seen you flinch, not even at the threat of being struck by an enemy. When you raise your head and you're all glossy-eyed, snot-nosed, and sobbing, his surprise continues to increase. He hasn't seen you look so vulnerable either.

"You're crying," he states, eyes wide. This was like seeing a cow jump over the moon to him.

"I'm not crying," you insist, swiping away the tears and your snot with a handkerchief, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

Merrick ain't stupid or blind, but he doesn't argue with you. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, taking in the rare sight and shifting on his feet as he exhales out the smoke, thinking of what to do. He takes a tentative step towards you.

"This place is too smelly to cry, don't you think?" he begins, flicking his chin towards the dumpsters not too far from both of you, filling the air with the stench of rotting food.

You sniff, not answering him.

"Get up," he commands, offering a hand, "I know a better place."

You look up at him, and when he sees how the tears have stained your flushed cheeks, he almost feels a twinge of pity for you. He feels a surge of protectiveness for his fellow teammate, near ready to beat up and confront anyone or anything that made you sink to this pitiable state. You take his hand and he pulls you up to your feet. Seeing that your eyes are averted and your head bowed-- an obvious sign of not wanting to be seen looking so disheveled in public-- he takes off his baseball hat and puts it on your head.

"C'mon, follow me."

You dust yourself and adjust the hat on your head, pulling it low over your face as you jog to catch up with his stride. He eventually leads you to his car and motions you to get in.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"You'll see," he says as he gets in the seat with a grunt. "Seatbelt," he orders as soon as he straps his on and starts the car.

You obey. He drives for a while in utter silence, blowing his cigarette smoke out of the open window. Your sniffles accentuate the hum of the engine, but he's focused on the road. He soon stops at a drive-thru and orders two burgers, a 10 piece chicken nuggets, two drinks, and two cheesecake slices.

"Here, hold these for me," he pushes the takeout to you after paying for it and resumes driving.

What on earth is he even planning anyway? You can't stop yourself from wondering as you watch the evening sunlight filtering through the trees. When you look properly, you see that he is taking you up a hill.

"Are we going for a picnic?" you ask.

He doesn't answer.

You sit back, sighing. If he's going to be vague, then so be it.

After a few minutes of silence, he says, "Close your eyes."

Having built enough trust in him from working by his side, you immediately do so. The next few seconds pass and the car slows down to a halt. Even through your closed eyelids, faint light filtered through, and you could tell that you were in a bright spot.

"Open your eyes and look out the window."

You obey. Right before you was the stunning landscape of the sunset-bathed valley with its beams of golden light filtering through the puffy white clouds. The valley and distant hills is lush with verdure, the birds flit about and chirp as they play, and the sky is painted a soft gradient of orange, pink, and purple. The sight looks like a painting and it takes your breath away as you stare at every last detail.

The corner of Merrick's lip quirks upwards slightly, pleased by your reaction. He turns the car around so that the trunk is facing the gorgeous scenery.

"Come, get the takeout," he instructs, getting out of the car and extinguishing the cigarette on the soil. Shaking it off once, he pockets it to throw away later. You follow him out and watch him sit on the trunk, which you also do.

"So we are having a picnic," you say, smiling a bit as you kept the takeout in between you and him.

"Yeah, so eat up." he digs his large hand into the paper bag and fishes out the burger and already starts to eat it.

Both of you eat in silence for a few moments until Merrick asks, "So, tell me why you were crying. I've never seen you cry about anything."

You shrug. "Just... stuff," you say, voice trailing off at the end as you nibble the burger.

"Bad enough to make you want to hide in a dumpster?" He takes a long sip of his drink.

"Yeah."

"You don't wanna talk about it?"

Your lips twist slightly. Being caught crying was embarrassing enough, and being asked to open up was even worse. "Honestly, no." you admit, despite feeling a tug in your heart telling you to vent to him.

He gives you one long look and then turns back to the scenery. "It won't do you any good to keep it to yourself, you know."

You are silent, feeling the tug grow stronger. Of course you know it, but it is just second nature to you to bottle it up. He knows it too. He's just like you.

"We're all a team," he continues, "Remember that nobody fights alone, and neither do you."

You nod silently, taking another nibble of your burger.

He looks at you again, a flicker of worry in his eyes. "Today was the first time I saw you cry and... I don't think I like it," he admits, suddenly feeling a little awkward for opening himself up, but he stifles that awkwardness just for your sake, "I don't like seeing you cry."

Those words were enough to break you down again. A sob escapes your lips, and Merrick feels an even stronger twinge. He pulls away your half-eaten burger, wraps it up in the paper, and keeps it aside, also pushing away the takeout bag behind him.

He sits closer to you. "Talk to me," he says gently, as a father would to his child.

At those words, you pour out your heart to him and he listens to you as you sob and weep. He rubs your back gently to encourage and support you. You talked of a problem that seemed so large, overwhelming, and insurmountable, and he shared his thoughts with you. At a pause in the discussion, he directs you to look at the landscape.

"You see those mountains over there?" he asks, motioning to the shadowed peaks against the gentle saffron tinted sky.

"Yeah," you croak.

"When you're right in front of them, they're massive. But when you're sitting here miles away, they seem so small," he paused, "Any problem that you have now that seems so big will eventually appear small and tiny as you go farther away, as more time passes.

"What hurts like a bitch now will just be like a mosquito bite in future," he continues, rubbing your back. "And even if it does hurt like a bitch later on," he pauses, shaking his head slightly, "just go to fuckin' therapy."

It gets a snort out of you, and he blinks in surprise at your reaction. He meant it to be serious and didn't expect you'd laugh, but that didn't mean he didn't like to see it. He moves his arm to wrap around your shoulder, which he gives a soft, gentle shake.

"That's more like it," he smiles, and it involuntarily makes you smile too. "You'll be alright. You're not alone, okay? You got me, and I'll always be there if you need me," he assures you.

You nod, wiping the last of your tears on your sleeve as you sniffled. He continues to hold you by his side until you calm down. Both of you watch the colours of the sky turn from saffron to pink to purple and finally to deep blue, and see the stars start to twinkle softly over the glittering cities of the valley. You never felt more comforted and at peace.

"Thank you," you tell Merrick, leaning your head against his shoulder.

"Anytime," he answers softly, ruffling your hair, making you smile contentedly. "Oh, also," he leans in to whisper, "Don't tell anyone I've given you special treatment."

You giggle, "Only if you don't tell anyone you saw me cry."

"Deal," he chuckles, shaking his head.

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