#and then they kill Makarov and get to rest for once.

[spectrecowboy]

Okay so I realized how inconsistent I was with drawing Johnny so I made this ref for myself for my AU where the boys are all alive, figured I'd include Ghost and Roach too. I tried to take into account the lore of ghost comics, orignal mw saga and the reboot and what I could find of the CoD mobile comics (which was super minimal unfortunately). I couldn't be bothered to draw helmets though sue me.

I'm writing a fic right now to explain all this how they end up together; angst ensues but not for long. It's really just a lead up to how things got to my cuddle art.

You guys are welcome to use this for reference too if you want, but please do not use my original images without permission!

[totalapathy]

141 x reader Fic REC | Follow the Authors!

I did not write any of these. This is a list of fanfics I really liked that include all members of the 141 x reader or poly!141 x reader. If you have a 141 fanfic you like msg me and ill add it to the list! If you are an author and do not want your fic listed msg me and ill take it down.

- Series -

Off to See the Wizard | @nerdygirlramblings

Poly!141 x Reader | Series | 9/? | 15.2k | Stuck on Reader being someone like Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds, stationed in the US under Laswell

Forever winter (If you go) | @loveindefinitely

Poly!141 x Reader | Series | 14/? | 50.1k | When your commander -- Phillip Graves -- turns against the Los Vaqueros and Task Force 141, you find yourself stuck between a rock and a hard place. Between your own morals, and your duty to serve the man you can no longer idolise, a choice must be made.Do you help the two operatives you know deserve to live? Or do you fight with your unit -- the men you swore to stand beside?The decision is made when you find yourself stumbling, quite literally, into one Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish; and, effectively, the 141's entire lives.

This is Going To Hurt | @moody-alcoholic

Poly!141 x Reader | Series | 5/10 | 14.8k | During a botched military convoy you're kidnapped by Al-Qatala. While the rest of 141 are on their way to find you, you're forced to endure torture and help the enemy to survive.

On a Wing and a Prayer | @moody-alcoholic

Poly!141 x Reader | Series | 11/11 | 19.2k | 141 mistaken you for the traitor. The person who leaked intel to Makarov and got Johnny shot. Now you're forced to move on without the people you love the most.

Rec Room | @void-my-warranty

Poly!141 x Reader | Series | 2/? | 3.6k | NSFW The 141 swear the clit is in the wrong spot and you show them proof. After you sneak off to the rec room to jerk off at night, but Ghost seems to have a similar idea.

Fire Watch | @auspicioustidings

Firefighter!141 x Reader | Series | 14/14 | 30k | NSFW You really should have been less stubborn and just called an electrician to do the wiring, because after your cottage had went up in a blaze the 141 had made the decision to spirit you away to their fire tower deep in the woods to take care of you.

Deity!AU | @meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender

Deity!141 x Reader | Series | 3/4 | 10k | NSFW Once upon a time, there were four gods. Together, they took turns helping the mortals. But what spirit connects them all, centering their efforts? Of what clear mission banner do they unite under? To whom is the focal point of life’s great mysteries? In other words, smut about diety! 141

Mafia AU | @peachil

Mafia!141 x Show girl/Law Student!Reader | Series | 9/? | 17.5k | You’re a law student who performs shows at night, and you catch the eyes of a group of dangerous man.

Dukedom AU | @beloveds-embrace

141 x Duchess!Reader | Series + Extras + Drabbles | Arranged marriage to duke john price except it means you married four instead of one 👁️👁️

Omegaverse Works | @beloveds-embrace

| Poly!141 x Designationless!Reader | Poly!141 x ES Omega!Reader Beloved's embrace's omegaverse works

Hoarfrost | @prettypinkguns

Wolf Shifter!141 x Human!Reader | Series | 1/? | 5.5k | You soon realize something wasn’t quite right about those men or the pack of wolves, with their strangely intelligent eyes, that frequented the woods surrounding your property. Curious, you're determined to get to the bottom of it. But as the saying famously went… curiosity kills the cat.

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood | @soaps-mohawk

Poly!141 x Omega!reader | Series | 46/? | 377.5k | NSFW Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it. It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks.  As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all. 

Call of Duty Omegaverse AU | sprout-fics

Poly!141 x Omega!Reader | Series | 14/? | 20.9k | NSFW You've concealed your presence as an omega for your entire military career, careening up the ranks, collecting accolades, and having the privilege to assist the notorious 141 Taskforce. Yet on a mission gone wrong, you find yourself in circumstances entirely out of your control, and the events that follow hurtle you into the path of a pack that finds out they will do anything to make you theirs.

Only Human | @diejager

Monster!141 + König & Horangi x Human!reader | Series + Extras + Drabbles | God - Laswell - blessed you with a team of strong, capable monsters.

- Shots -

Home is where you are | @1-ker0sene-1

Poly!141 x Wife!Reader | One Shot | 1.3k | It was another thirty minutes driving before they finally pulled into the secluded driveway. Their safehouse. Their home. Where you are.

Something Bad | @loves-alibi

Dark!141 x Reader | One Shot | 1.6k | There’s something wrong with the 141…

Digital Mischief , 02 | @goatgoesmbe

Poly!141 x Reader | Double Shot | 3.8k | "In which you joined a discord server to find people to play an FPS game with, only to be welcomed by four military men."

Body Electric | @yeyinde

141 + Los Vaqueros x reader | One Shot | 8.9k | NSFW Several drinks in, Gaz turns to you and says: never have I ever... had a gangbang before, and things quickly devolved from there. (Well. You can scratch that off your bucket list.)

Afterburn | sprout-fics

141 & Los Vaqueros x reader | One Shot | 8k | NSFW Sprout-fic's take on the aftermath of Body Electric by @yeyinde

Call in Sick | @yufloria

Soft!141 x Reader | One Shot | 3.2k | After a mission gone wrong in an undisclosed location Task Force 141 is forced to stay in a safe house, a cabin, in the middle of a dense forest and high between the mountains. It is no task for the team but unfortunately for you. You were injured.  

Gangbang | @konigsblog

141 x Reader | One Shot | 6.5k | NSFW the 141 finally have their way with their teasing, disobedient recruit.

Crappy Alpha Male Bf Gets Dunked On | @charliemwrites

Poly!141 X Teammate's Gf!Reader | One Shot | 2.7k | Mr. steal your girl 141 & crappy alpha male bf

Free use Medic | @all-purpose-dish-soap

Poly!141 X Medic!Reader | One Shot | 1.1k | NSFW "You can share,” Price tells them. Then he gives you a pointed look. “Saves time. You can rest on the bird, sweetheart."

Ravenous , 02 | @tojisun

| One Shot | 7k | NSFW cant come <fuck me please <> quite forward of you. well, since you asked so nicely, we’re on our way.You had sent the message to- you had sent it to the damn group chat

Need to Listen to Me | @loveindefinitely

Poly!141 X Teammate!Reader | One Shot | 4.4k | NSFW Yeah. You don't fear many things. But Johns disappointment is quite easily in your top three, and this situation only cements it.

Our Girlfriend | @vampire-matcha

141 X Kyle's Gf!Reader | One Shot | 2.2k | NSFW Everyone always talks about John “share my wife” Price but what about Kyle “our girlfriend” Garrick???

"Shared Wife" Trope | @beloveds-embrace

141 x Price's Wife!Reader | One Shot | 1.2k | It wasn’t just him anymore, though. They were always there, watching. Protecting- for you belonged to John, and so did they

Bf Simon Shares Your Nudes With the Boys | @duskier

141 x Simon's Gf!Reader | One shot | 1.2k | NSFW "Come awn, tell us about her Lt," Soap would try and goad him. They were leaned up against each other, shoulder to shoulder against the wall behind them.

Our Girlfriend , 02 , 03 | @3amfanfiction

141 x Johnny's Gf!Reader | Triple Shot | 9.5k | NSFW (unknowingly) being the team's girlfriend. Smut, fluff, & a snippet

With Them, Who Swallowed a Star | @vellichor-of-the-solivagant

Professor!141 X Student!Reader | One Shot | 5.3k | NSFW A musician is a storyteller in their own ways. You had told yours and captured the sights of men you never expected to pull when you stepped inside an academy.

The Prize of Prey | @quitefawnish

Knight!141 x Reader | One Shot | 3.6k | NSFW knights in the middle ages only had to court noble women, whereas any peasant woman was open to their desires, and they were in fact encouraged to do so.

Bodyguard!141 x Sick!Reader | @beloveds-embrace

| One Shot | 1.7k | while you had initially bristled at the idea of four men shadowing your every step, you’d quickly grown accustomed to their presence.It was hard not to. They made you feel protected.

Deductive Reasoning | @auspicioustidings

Merman!141 X Researcher!Reader | One Shot | 1.3k | Mermen au with mer TF141 and researcher reader trying to learn about their... biology

Saint's Story , 02 | @charliemwrites

Omega!141 x Alpha!reader | Double Shot | 3.8k | NSFW having a full-time Alpha in a squad isn’t a necessity except in special circumstances.Per usual, Task Force 141 is special circumstances.

Yandere Hybrid team 141 | @nina-renmen

Hybrid!141 x Polarbear Hybrid!Reader | One Shot | 1.2k | 141 stumbles upon y/n. Thinking that she’s small and fragile they attempt to ‘take advantage’ of her only to figure out she’s a polar bear hybrid.

- Drabbles -

141 x Reader | Drabble | @cod-indulgences 141 finds your dildos NSFW 141 X Younger!Reader | Drabble | @loveindefinitely Uni Student!reader meets the 141 at a military bar 141 x Medic!Reader | Drabble | @goatgoesmbe there are an odd four that somehow always made your day better. Poly!141 X Puppy Girl!Reader | Drabble | @loveindefinitely 141 with a girl who acts more like a puppy than a soldier NSFW Poly!141 x Reader | Drabble | @lunarkitten97 Poly!141 x reader with an oral fixation NSFW Poly!141 x Reader | Drabble | @duskier Price holding your pussy open with his thumbs while the rest of the team looks over his shoulder NSFW Poly!141 x Reader | Drabble | @xo-cod Sharing the barracksSharing the barracks NSFW 141 x Kyle's Gf!Reader | Drabble | @all-purpose-dish-soap Poker night. But the boys know how to keep things interesting Retired!141 x Neighbor!Reader | Drabble | @burner141 they meet you. The charming new neighbor with a pretty voice and an even prettier smile. 141 x Bartender!Reader | Drabble | @devil-in-hiding The boys find out your not married Monster!141 x Owl hybrid!Reader | Drabble | @gremlingottoosilly Monster!141 turn Barn Owl!reader into their pet NSFW Monster!141 x Cat hybrid!Reader | Drabble | @gremlingottoosilly Kitten!reader gets tied up in string just as Monster!141 come back NSFW Monster!141 x Bunny Hybrid!Reader | Drabble | @gremlingottoosilly Crybaby Bunny!Reader who stumbles upon Monster!141's base NSFW Vampire!141 x Human!Reader | @beloveds-embrace they don’t tell you they are vampires and you have no reason to suspect they are Demon!141 x Reader | Drabble | @red5tars demon!141 staking claim on the poor little thing that summoned them. Dark!141 x Angel!Reader | Drabble | @goatgoesmbe GuardianAngel!Reader who was sent to 141 at their darkest time. Hybrid!141 x Human!Reader | @ cs-fox they’d be so surprised when a normal human joins their task force. Hybrid!141 x Crow Hybrid!Reader | Drabble | @ teddy-bear-baby crow hybrid!y/n joining hybrid!TF141 and just stealing random things from them Poly!141 x Beta!Reader | Drabble | @ teletubbyinlipstick okay, hear me out a/b/o tf141 universe where female betas are RARE. Poly!141 x Omega!Reader | Drabble | @ kaadaaan Soap who is sick of being the only omega in his pack so he’s digging up some dirt on another Sergeant Poly!141 x Omega!Reader | Drabble | @ kaadaaan They wind up with another omega, and find themselves more attached than they thought they would be. NSFW Poly!141 x Omega!Reader | Drabble | @ thecherubangel “Simon…f-fuck stop-“ You close your legs and try to move his hand; the others watch as you struggle in Ghosts grasp. NSFW Viking!141 x Reader | Drabble | @ nerdygirlramblings viking!141 with some historical accuracy Knight!141 x Peasant!Reader | Drabble | @ drgnflyteabox four massive armour clad knights at the door... and whaddyaknow, they're looking to stay the night NSFW Cultist!141 x Reader | Drabble | @ pricegouge Outlast2!au “Give us a baby and we’ll keep you safe.”

Last updated 03/11/25

[ohbo-ohno]

bunny ears and devil horns

summary: Since being discharged, your life has been mundane. Safe. Boring. One night in a church with your best-friend-with-benefits Johnny changes that, dragging you into a horror story that leaves the both of you spiraling out of control. 

wc: 5.9k

cw: nothing too big yet - light violence, possession, ouija boards, overall ooky spooky vibes

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three

The world is going soft at the edges, the taste of smoke staining your mouth as you squint to read the tiny text on the back of the bottle of Oxiclean in your hands. You’re not eager to create some sort of mustard gas in this old, filth-caked toilet, but you’re also not sure you care much about digging around for other products.

Eventually you decide that you’d rather risk it than spend any more time in the cramped, damp room and pour a good amount of neon goo around the bowl of the toilet, telling yourself that you’ll check the time so you remember to go back in ten minutes and knowing it’s a lie. 

You’d never imagined yourself as a glorified janitor, of all things. When you’d been a child you’d wanted to join the military like your mothers both had, and never once through boot-camp or the decade of tours following did you ever think this is where life would take you. Scrubbing years old shit off toilets in an abandoned church and gritting your teeth against the seemingly never ending pain in your body, just counting down the hours until you could take another pill. 

It’s miserable. But it’s work, and if your time in a post-military life has taught you anything, it’s that you need work. You need a reason to get off your ass and do something, even if that something is hours of dusting and scrubbing. 

Johnny’s wired the same way. It’s what has made you such good partners – professionally and personally – your ability to know what the other was thinking instinctually. You’d never had to guess what Johnny was planning and he always had this seemingly innate way of knowing where you were, even if no one had given him any hints. 

It made you some of the best sergeants in the military. 

It got you both so fucked up that they kicked you out. 

Whatever suit was high enough in rank that even Price hardly tried to hold onto you two had seemingly dusted his hands off and turned his back. No one wants a demolitions expert with a fucked leg and shaky hands or a K-9 officer with a shiny new metal spine regrowing half her damn skin. 

You were kicked to the curb, just like that. Your entire adult life gone in a snap.

Even now if you think about it too long the anger starts to build. It rests in your chest, always ready to be called up when you need it, which unfortunately isn’t often these days. 

You’d give anything for the feeling of a rifle in your hands, a dog at your side, and miles of dusty nothingness around you. A target, an order, a team. 

Instead, you get cheap sponges and thin rubber gloves that rip when you pull them on. The unfairness of it all leaves you wanting to bare your teeth and snarl, but there’s no one to blame. 

(Uusally, you blame John Price anyway. You blame him for not killing Makarov when he had the chance, for not letting you kill Makarov, for letting Johnny back into the field before he was ready just because he’d bitched a few too many times about the sick bay, for letting the two of you go like you meant nothing. Like you hadn’t followed his every order for fucking years. He didn’t even fight for you.

You haven’t seen your ex-captain since you left base in a medvac. Johnny always tries to goad you into going with him to his meet-ups with the man, but you shoot him down. You think you couldn’t resist throttling Price if he even hinted at his new team, the sergeants he’s surely replaced you with by now. 

Instead you stay home and drink yourself into a coma, usually ending up swearing at the walls and stumbling to the bathroom so you don’t make a further mess of the carpet. Johnny hasn’t stopped asking, no matter how much you bitch at him for going to see John in the first place.)

The Oxiclean is making your nose hairs burn, and you curl your lip as you look unsurely down at the toilet bowl. The filth is dripping with the cleaning product now, creating a somehow even more disgusting sight than before you’d done anything.

“Bonnie?” Johnny calls, voice bored and echoing through the building. “Ye done in there yet? I wanna get home before it starts pourin’.”

You go to rub a hand over your face before remembering that it’s caked in what’s probably considered a biohazard, and instead pull the gloves off and abandon them on the floor to deal with tomorrow, shoving out of the rusty bathroom stall. 

You go to run your hands under hopefully-clean water at the sink when you’re stopped at the sight of a box blocking the bowl, the faucet dripping onto its lid. Your brows furrow for a moment, sure it wasn’t there when you first came into the room. You must be higher than you realized if you didn’t even bother glancing around before getting to work.

You can’t help but laugh a bit when you realize what it is, grinning as you imagine the way Johnny’s face will scrunch up in disgust. You grab the box and tuck it under one arm, not bothering with washing your hands, and turning to head to the nave where Johnny waits for you. The box heavier than you expected, but you don’t bother to peek inside. 

Johnny’s smoking a blunt in the front pew of the small cathedral, toying with the heavy crucifix around his neck between puffs. He stares up at the matching rood hanging above the altar, the moon casting an eerie shadow through the stained glass high above it and leaving the main aisle dark. You can’t help but smile when he jumps at a loud boom of thunder outside, endeared.

“Check this out,” you say, scuffing your feet on the floor as you head towards him. That’s one thing you don’t miss from your missions in the service – the constant need to make yourself totally silent. These days you step heavily and drag your feet, luxuriating in the sound. “Found a game for us.”

You hold the box up proudly and give it a shake, endeared when Johnny squints to try and get a better look through the smoke.

“Oh no,” he says when he reads the cover, shaking his head firmly. “Ye ken I dinnae fuck around with tha’ shite.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, sliding into the pew beside him and holding your fingers out for the joint. “You’re all grown up now, your ma isn’t here to catch you.”

He narrows his eyes into a glare, but dutifully passes you the weed. “Ye get switched enough times as a lad and ye learn no’ to mess around with tha’ kind of stuff.”

“What kind?” You take a long drag from the blunt, leaning forward to blow the air into his face, smirking when he takes a deep breath despite his annoyance. “Demonic? You think we’ll see a devil, Johnny?”

“Aye, dinnae joke,” he chides, shooting a look at the hanging savior above the altar like he’s about to climb down and smite the two of you for your impudence. Johnny would probably throttle you outside the pearly gates before you could even meet Peter. That’s if the both of you weren’t thrown down to the pit before you could even get to the gates.

“Bud, come on,” you goad, passing back the joint and pressing it between his slightly trembling fingers. “We both know it’s just a game, what’s the harm?” There’s another rumble of thunder, and you quietly hope that the rain holds off until the morning, when you’re safe in your bed and not stuck in the downpour. 

He sniffs, glaring down at the box where it rests between you two. The word Ouija is faded and stained, dust coating it in a thick layer except for the small points where your fingers pressed. He eyes it like it reads How To Summon Satan In 3 Easy Steps and the look on his face is enough to make you glad you didn’t leave the box where you found it.

“Why do ye even want to mess around with it if it’s just a game?” He pitches his voice insultingly high to mock you with the last three words, pursing his lips and making a face. “Cannae find any other way to get your adrenaline goin’?”

You level him with an unimpressed look. “What’re you so afraid of, Johnny? You think the girl from The Ring is gonna crawl out of the box and eat your face? Worried you’ll catch a ghost and start singing Harry Belafonte?”

Johnny’s lip curls and he crushes the joint against the back of the pew instead of passing it to you when you hold your fingers out. “If ye dinnae think anythin’s gonnae happen, wha’s the point in even botherin’?”

“I like to watch you squirm,” you say, smirking. And it’s the honest truth, nothing more to it – Johnny’s always had a hair-trigger temper, but it’s hard to get him genuinely unnerved. Getting under his skin has always been one of your favorite past-times, even more so now that there’s no Captain looming over your shoulders to chide your unprofessionalism. 

“Fine,” he huffs after a moment, lip curling up at the corner when you don’t bother hiding your excitement. “But if somethin’ comes crawling out of the shadows, I’m lettin’ it take you and runnin’ to the car.”

“Deal,” you laugh, already reaching to shake the box open. You resent the fact that it keeps you from pressing against Johnny’s side, thigh-to-thigh like the two of you usually sit, but figure it’s worth it to see the way he shifts uncomfortably as you set the board up between yourselves. 

The Ouija board isn’t flimsy cardboard like you’d expected, but instead real wood, thin but solid. The letters of the alphabet are all indented across the board, stained dark like they were pressed in with a brand. 

The filigree twisted around the edges of the board must have been painstakingly carved by hand, though it’s gone neglected long enough that bits of the border are filled with dust. The numbers at the bottom of the board are all slightly uneven, the 3 flipped backwards. For some reason that detail strikes you as funny, and as you giggle you suspect maybe Johnny’s blunt was stronger than you’d realized. 

“Seems easy enough.” You hold the planchette up to your eye and peer at him through it. Unlike the board itself, this is made of plastic and warped from age. The place where you assume glass once rested is empty now, letting you see Johnny clearly. “Wonder who’ll pick up the phone.”

“No one.” He shifts to fold one leg on the pew and face towards you fully. “Don’ tell me ye actually believe in this shite.” He knocks on the board with the back of his hand, and you can tell he’s as surprised as you to find it's not cheaply made. 

“You were the one who was scared to play,” you say, setting the planchette at the top of the board and reaching for Johnny’s hands. “C’mon.”

“Wait.” He tugs his hands away from yours, pulling one of the necklaces from around his neck over his head, wrapping half the length of the rosary beads around his fingers. “Here.”

You somewhat reluctantly let him twist your fingers around his with the beads until you’re practically tied to each other, the wood already warmed from his skin. Your fingers, calloused and crooked as they are, look downright dainty next to Johnny’s. 

The beads are thick and unforgiving, uncomfortably pressed against the swollen joints in your fingers, but you let Johnny shift you as he wants until he’s satisfied. In the end, the crucifix rests pressed between your palms, and neither of you can fully extend your fingers.

“Good thinking,” you drawl. “I’m sure this’ll protect us from the demons hiding inside a hunk of wood.” 

He scowls, tongue pinched between his teeth as he glares. “Dinnae joke about that shite with me ma’s rosary in yer hands.”

You raise your eyebrows and tilt your chin down, acquiescing even though you want to roll your eyes. Johnny’s always gotten tetchy when someone brings up his mother or his half-dozen sisters. He’d gotten into more than a handful of fights in the service about it, especially after one of his sisters came to visit the base and the boys got a good look at her. 

“Ready?” You ask, pulling your intertwined hands towards the board. He follows easily enough, scooching closer to you on the bench, his jean-clad knee covering the hand-painted sun on the corner of the board. His fingers tremble the smallest bit, like they always do, but it’s not enough to knock the planchette aside. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen.”

“Then you shouldn’t be worried,” you chirp, rubbing the tip of your pointer finger against his palm. “Now: are there any spirits in the room with us?”

The church is dead, the only sound the wind brushing tree-branches against the stained glass lining the walls. The planchette rests still on the board between you. 

“If there are any spirits, feel free to come say hi,” you try, biting your lip to keep a straight face. You can tell Johnny is trying to look unamused and annoyed, but there’s just enough tension in his shoulders to tell you he’s not as unbothered as he’d have you think. “Johnny here would love to talk to you.”

He scowls, jerking his hands forward and forcing the planchette over the NO on your side of the board. “Yer no’ funny.”

You don’t bother stifling your giggle this time, moving your hands to hover over the YES instead. It moves smoothly across the board despite the indented letters and numbers, making it nice and easy to move the tool where you want it. 

“C’mon,” you call out, raising your voice. “Nobody wants to come talk to us? I promise we’ll be real nice.”

To be quite honest, the dead silence feels more awkward than anything. Of course you don’t believe in ghosts, and it’s not like Johnny thinks you really buy into this shit, but there’s no real way for you to talk to nothing without feeling like at least a bit of a fool. Still, you don’t suggest quitting.

“Maybe they’ll only answer questions,” you say, glancing over at Johnny only to be met with a raised eyebrow.

“Dinnae look at me,” he says, tugging his hands so the planchette rests in the center of the board again. “This is yer game, no’ mine.”

“Killjoy,” you tease. “Let’s see… if there is a spirit here with us, will you let us know?”

There’s a flash of lightning that lights the room suddenly, then a crack of thunder hardly five seconds later. You keep from flinching through force of will alone, sharing a quick smile with Johnny.

“Alright… how about something simple, give us your name.”

You feel a bit embarrassed as you stare at the board, Johnny huffing in impatience when nothing happens. There’s enough of a chill in the room that you shiver, having left your jacket in the van to keep it away from all the dust inside the church, a decision you’re only just starting to regret. 

A loud crash tears you from your thoughts, making you jump and your heart leap to your throat. You and Johnny both jerk apart at once, but the rosary doesn’t let you get more than a few centimeters of space.

“Fuck,” Johnny swears, both of you staring wide eyed at the altar. 

The sanctuary lamp, previously unlit and caked with the same dust covering every other surface on the altar, now lies in at least a dozen pieces scattered across the tile. The red glass shines in the moonlight, the larger pieces quivering in place on the ground. 

“Jesus,” you breathe, unable to look away from the glass. It’s still moving, the edges making a soft noise as they shiver in place. 

“Watch it,” Johnny scolds, but his heart isn’t in it. He follows your lead when you tug his hands a bit, turning to face you fully, but shoots another look over to the still tinkling glass. “No’ here, yeah?”

“What, you don’t like me saying Jesus?”

He scowls, twisting a finger around yours. “Don’ be a brat. ‘S no’ funny.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing. “Whatever, choir boy.”

“I’m no’-”

“Quiet,” you hush. “I wanna ask another question.”

“Yer not bored of this yet?” He’s trying to sound annoyed, but you know Johnny well enough to tell when something’s got him spooked. 

“Not when it’s getting you all scared.”

“I’m no’ fuckin’ scared!”

“Then you shouldn’t care if I want to keep going!” 

“Fine!” The planchette jerks towards you pointedly and Johnny glares. “Get it over with then.”

“There’s no need to get so pissy,” you mutter, shifting your fingers to press against the plastic more firmly. “Alright, ghostie – was that you who broke the glass? You got us pretty good.”

The planchette shifts over to rest firmly on YES and it’s your turn to glare at Johnny. “Don’t fuck with this just because you’re all riled up.” 

“I’m no’,” he growls. “Yer the one jerkin’ it around.”

You huff, using a nail to harshly scratch at one of his cuticles. “What’s the fun in moving it yourself? Leave it be.”

“I’m–”

“So, ghost, got any stories for us? Any omens to make us think the world is ending?”

The planchette shudders slightly between your fingers, and you figure Johnny’s got to be more upset than you realized if his trembling has gotten this bad. As fun as messing with him is, you resolve to give up the game in just a few more minutes. 

“Alright, then,” you mutter, running your tongue over your teeth. “Well, I guess it’s time for us to go if you’re not gonna do anything else interesting.”

You’re guiding the planchette to hover over the large GOODBYE at the bottom of the board, Johnny moving with you, when your fingers jerk to a sudden stop. 

You look up at Johnny, confused as the tool starts moving towards him. “What’re you doing? You’re the one who wanted to leave.”

He looks as confused as you do, blue eyes shining in the low light of the church. “I’m no’ doin’ anythin’.”

The planchette slides firmly over the NO, still shaking in place. You can feel the tremors in Johnny’s hands, skin rough against your own. There’s a soft pattering of rain beginning against the roof, echoing through the church. 

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, not sure why Johnny’s bothering to mess with you when he’d been the one rushing you out of the building earlier. “Let’s just get home, yeah?” 

“Tha’s what I’ve been sayin’,” he mutters, but the planchette stays in place.

You frown, trying to tug your fingers away from his. Johnny’s fingertips stay glued to the plastic instead, and the rosary is looped tight enough to keep you from pulling very far.

It feels like the temperature is dropping by the minute, the hair on your arms standing on end as you shiver. You’re sure it’s the rain, and curse yourself for having left your umbrella in your apartment. “Johnny, come on, bud. It’s cold, I wanna get home.”

Johnny doesn’t respond, his head lolling forward and his eyes trained on your hands. He doesn’t speak, and you feel his fingers go still next to yours. Slowly, he moves the planchette towards the center of the board again.

You lean closer to him, head ducked to try and get a look at his expression. The only time Johnny’s hands don’t tremor is when he’s asleep, and even then he’ll twitch or jerk depending on the dream. You have a brief thought that he somehow fell asleep right there across from you, unrealistic as it seems. “Johnny? You alright?”

It’s cold enough now to make you shiver, and you glance around nervously. Your old instincts from the military are flaring, something deep in your brain that you’d thought you’d lost saying run. It’s not easy to shake the instinct off, but you do. You know there’s nothing but thunder and rain to run from out here. 

“Keep going,” Johnny suddenly says, voice quiet but rough. 

“What?” You ask, jerking your fingers again and starting to try and untangle them. “What’s wrong with you? Let’s just go.”

“No,” he says, voice firmer now, something in his tone that you don’t recognize. “Ask another question.”

“Seriously?” You scoff, annoyed. “It’s just a stupid game, Johnny. I’m done.”

“I’m not,” he hisses, and there’s something off about his voice now, an almost doubled quality that makes you question your own hearing. When he glares up at you, shoulders hitching high around his ears, the shadows make him look nothing like your Johnny. 

“Bud…” You try, realizing that this might just be one of Johnny’s mood swings. They’re usually more noticeable – when he goes from laughing at a joke to launching himself towards someone else, fists cocked and teeth bared, or when he shifts from nearly catatonic to bouncing around like he’s done a line – but you can’t think of any other reason for the sudden clenching of his jaw. 

Johnny’s fingers feel icy against yours but you stop trying to pull away, letting your hands go limp and heavy against the board. “Fine,” you huff. “Ghost, do you think Johnny’s being an asshole and should just let us leave?”

The plastic tool jerks so quickly to the NO that your fingers pop, your arms following and leaving you nearly headbutting Johnny.

“What the hell?” You spit, frustrated. “What’s your problem?”

“‘S no’ me,” Johnny insists, accent thick, but he keeps his eyes glued to the board and refuses to look at you.

“Of course it’s you,” you grit, thoroughly unamused. “Who the hell else would it be?”

You all but scream when there’s a sudden boom of sound, a horrible screech of glass shattering and crashing to the floor. It’s only luck that keeps you from knocking the Ouija board over as you jolt towards Johnny, nearly pressed chest to chest. 

“What the fuck,” you breathe, staring wide eyed at the now gaping hole in the wall of the church. The massive stained glass window, easily as tall as you, lays in what must be hundreds of pieces scattered across the floor. The night sky makes it look like there’s nothing outside the window, just a wall of black with rain now blowing in and splattering across the floor. The wind is violent enough that it makes a horrible howling sound, gusting in through the window and leaving you even colder. “What the fuck.” 

Johnny’s silent, but his trembling has picked back up – just not in his hands. Instead it’s his shoulders that quiver, his body curving in on itself and nearly pressing against yours as he shakes. 

“Johnny, please,” you lower yourself to begging, your own shoulders hunching. “I get it, alright? I won’t bring this stuff up again, fine, can we go now?”

He’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence. “No, we can’t leave.”

“Why not?” 

“Keep askin’ your questions.”

“What? Jesus, Johnny, what’s going on–”

“Don’t,” he spits, twisting to glare at you. It leaves him at an unnatural angle, hunched enough that he has to tilt his head to the side and up to make eye contact. It leaves the scarred side of his head washed in moonlight, the pale skin textured enough to cast slight shadows across the rest of his scalp. “Don’t say that.”

“Fucking hell, Johnny, get over it,” you snarl, pulling away. His fingers have started to shake again, and you hate that the familiarity of something he despises makes you feel more comfortable. “The damn windows are shattering and you’re worried about my language?”

“Maybe they’re breaking because of yer language.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, shocked. “Tell me you’re not being serious. Johnny.” 

He only cocks a brow, eyes darting over your shoulder again. “Ye think it’s a coincidence?”

“What else would it be?”

Johnny looks back to you, then seems to crumple a bit. “Yeah,” he nods, glancing down at your hands. “Yeah, I don’ know.”

The wind feels like it’s being funneled right towards you and you shudder in place, glancing over your shoulder nervously. You could swear the rain is splashing against your back, your tank-top leaving you with plenty of skin vulnerable to the cold. “Can you get the rosary untangled?”

Johnny bites his lip, one of the cuts dotting them splitting open easily, the blood welling quickly. You can’t tear your eyes away from the way the red drips down his chin, slow but rich. “Yeah, we’re tied up good, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” you agree, looking at him closely. The dark red streak down his chin looks nearly black in the light. You go to reach up and wipe the blood away, but your hands feel too heavy, like cement blocks attached to your wrists. 

The blood slips quickly from his chin, dropping to the board silently. He doesn’t even seem to notice. 

A great crack of thunder shakes the building, and you can’t help but jump. Johnny is still across from you, staring down at the board. 

The rain grows louder, and now you know you can feel water splashing against your back. You inch away from the wreckage behind you, nearly kneeling on the board now. 

“You gotta help me out here, bud,” you mutter, trying to slither your fingers away from his. Johnny is still, though, almost eerily so. “Johnny, come on. What’s going on with you?”

He lifts his face slowly, head rolling to the side and then back, like it’s too much effort to lift straight up. He looks down his nose at you, eyes-half lidded. The usually striking blue is dark in the dim church, but it’s his pupils that take your focus. They’ve shrunken down to nearly nothing, though it’s hard to notice at first. The dark of the pupil almost blends with the dark of his iris. 

Your only thought is that it must be the light, or maybe the shadows. You know Johnny has blue eyes – pretty blue eyes that used to help him get any girl off-base he wanted, you know because you’ve watched him use them to his advantage, nearly fallen victim to them yourself – but they’re a deep brown now, peering at you from behind thick lashes. 

It doesn’t make sense. 

There’s a tension in your shoulders that wasn’t there a minute ago, goosebumps covering what must be every inch of your body, a screaming sound at the back of your mind that’s getting harder and harder to ignore. 

But nothing has changed. It’s still just you and Johnny, alone in the church. You know that.

“Bud?” You ask, unable to fight the hesitance in your voice. 

He blinks and pulls his chin down so he’s looking at you straight on. He sits up more fully, easily pulling your hands away from the board and with his. Your fingers are limp, still feeling weighed down. 

He makes a grunting noise that’s just barely audible over the sound of the rain, now a downpour. He tugs his hands and makes another sound when he doesn’t get any distance, still tied to you. 

“Hold on–” You say, but before you can try to carefully work at undoing the loops, Johnny rips his hands to each side, tearing the rosary and sending beads flying everywhere.

“Johnny!” You exclaim, flinching away to avoid being pelted in the face. You gape as you watch the little wooden beads roll all different directions across the tile floor, Johnny shaking his hands out and cracking his knuckles. “What the hell did you do that for?”

He looks at you again, chin angled just high enough that he’s looking down his nose at you. “Thought you didn’t want to be all tied up.” 

Your face feels almost gummy from the expression you're making, brows pressed together and mouth pulled down and open, baffled by Johnny’s behavior.

He’s had those rosary beads since he was born. A gift from his mother to her first-born son – misogynistic, but traditional. He’d kept them on him since the day you met him. Through deserts and tundras, falling from helicopters and burying himself in swamps for days on end, you’ve never known Johnny to not keep those beads tucked around his neck. 

You tried to steal them once, for a prank. It’s the only time to date that he’s attacked you outside of sparring. 

To see him destroy them so callously, so easily… 

It’s analogous to everything you know about Johnny. One simple movement, and you feel like you hardly recognize the man in front of you at all. 

He plants both hands on his knees, heaving himself up like he’s about a hundred pounds heavier than he actually is. There’s a loud groan and you think it’s the beams high above you shifting, before realizing it’s just him. 

The Ouija board is left abandoned on the pew as Johnny takes a few steps forward and you twist towards him, watching his back. 

He looks around like he’s got no idea where he is, the moonlight streaming through the stained glass window casting him in a pale light. He looks like something plucked out of a black and white movie, all the color seeped from him. 

You stand and begin to move away from the pew, though you linger several feet away from him. You curve around his side, standing to his right and watching as he looks up into the light, face stark. 

“What are you doing, doll?” He asks, and his voice is gruff like he hasn’t spoken all day. You know that’s not true, though; he nearly talked your ear off on the hour-long drive out to the church. 

“Getting ready to go,” you say, watching him closely. You come to a stop at the small, waist-high fence surrounding the altar. You’re nowhere near your bag. “That okay with you?”

It’s said sarcastically, but he nods like he’s actually giving you permission. You’d step forward and smack his arm if you weren’t so spooked by your own instincts. 

Johnny turns back around, once again putting his back to you, and moves towards the pew. He reaches down towards the Ouija board, then snorts. Again moving slowly, he reaches up and knocks the board to the ground. 

“Figures,” you hear him mutter. “You still tiptoeing around back there?”

His voice has lost its Scottish brogue, syllables still rough but his tone completely different. He sounds closer to British now – he still sounds distinctly northern, granted, but not Scottish. You can pick that out even from the few words he’s spoken. 

“Not tiptoeing,” you say, sneaking backward slowly. You wrap your fingers around one of the heavy candlesticks sitting atop the altar, the candle long since lost. You hold it behind your back, parallel with your spine, and inch forward again. “Your hearing messing with you again, Johnny?”

He tilts his head to the side, keeping his back to you. You can see the way his shadow seems to stretch endlessly along the center aisle, a long, straight column of black. You inch forward slowly, making a liar of yourself and keeping careful to step with your toes first. 

“Might be,” he rumbles, tone unconvincing. He turns towards you when you’ve just inched within arms reach, expression unimpressed. “What’ve you got th–”

You don’t let him finish. 

The room is lit up by a vicious bolt of lightning as you swing the candlestick towards his head, his eyes widening for a split second before the silver slams into the scar covering his temple. You can all but feel the crack in his skull, blood pouring from the wound instantly. 

He stumbles toward you, hand reaching up for your throat, then collapses. His whole weight falls onto you, sending you stumbling backward. Unable to keep your balance, you both go crashing to the ground. You can’t help but yelp in pain, your shoulders bashing painfully into the tile step before the altar.

You hold your breath as you stare at the ceiling, dazed. Another horrible crash of thunder shakes you out of your reverie, chest heaving on a gasp. Your body seems to suddenly realize that it can hardly breathe beneath Johnny’s bulk, and you shove at him desperately until he slides off. 

You scramble to your feet, candlestick still grasped in your damp palm. You can hardly believe what you just did. 

You acted on instinct alone. The old, predator part of you whispered protect yourself and it’s like the rest of your sane, rational mind completely disappeared. Never mind that you’ve never once needed to protect yourself from Johnny, or that he would have absolutely no motive to hurt you.

The animal part of you felt threatened, and you acted. 

Still, it’s been a long while since you’ve had to do anything even resembling violent. Your months out of the military have left you skittish, apparently, because it’s your hands that tremble now instead of Johnny’s. 

He’s as still as a corpse on the ground before you, the only sign of life the soft rise and fall of his chest, and even that is almost imperceptible under all the layers he’s wearing. 

You’re struck, suddenly, with the memory of another time he looked exactly like this – the side of his face blown to shreds, bone visible if you could see past the endless blood, his eyes open but dazed and unseeing. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, telling yourself this is nothing like then. It’s hard to believe when you look again and see blood drenching the same side of his face.

Taking a few long, deep breaths, you try your best to center yourself. 

You stumble back a few steps, quickly falling to your knees and looking for the rosary beads. You’re frantic enough that you’re sure to miss a few, but you scoop up as many as you can and stuff them in your pockets. Once you find the hand-carved cross, you stand and rush to the door.

You leave the cleaning products behind. Those can be Johnny’s responsibility, whenever he wakes up. That, and finding a way home. The truck’s keys are in your pocket.

The rain soaks you to the bone the second you step out of the church, and it’s nearly impossible to see through it. You fumble your way to the car, feeling almost like there’s a force at your back shoving you away from the old building. 

It takes ten minutes for the rain to slow enough that you feel comfortable driving, the windshield wipers finally able to do their job. 

You look back at the church just once before pulling out of the parking lot. Lightning strikes in the long-forgotten graveyard to the side of the building, lighting the world up and making you flinch.

As you peel out of the parking lot, you’d swear the lightning lets you see a shadowy frame through a stained glass window.

[snootlestheangel]

Post-MW3 but Laswell had only faked Soap's death, all under the guise of it being the better thing to do.

Let Makarov believe he had actually killed one of the 141. He'd walk away from that thinking he had a small victory and wouldn't feel pressured to make his next move soon. Laswell wanted him to go into hiding, wanted the team to take the time to figure some things out.

She obviously hadn't anticipated the loose cannon of Captain Price, and him killing Shepherd threw a wrench in everything.

A few months have gone by, and Laswell gets a hit on some activity from Konni group. She tells the team they'll meet her informant there.

Obviously, there's a bit of a big blowout when they realize John 'Soap' MacTavish is the informant. Ghost takes it the worst of all of them, but he doesn't outwardly react. Not in front of Soap. But when they're alone with Laswell to ask her "what the fuck?" Ghost lets it all out.

He's cussing up a storm, saying it was all bullshit, that they should have been in on it.

"Who in this room knows what it's like to be dead better than anyone else? Bloody hell where the fuck do you think "Ghost" comes from?"

And Ghost doesn't ever talk directly to Soap or Laswell the rest of the time they're working on their latest Intel. It's upsetting to everyone, especially Gaz cause he isn't quite sure what the fuck has happened to his team. But Soap seems to be handling Ghost's cold shoulder pretty well, so Gaz keeps his distress to himself.

Finally, Ghost gets a moment alone with Soap. And Soap starts to leave, starts to give Ghost privacy because that's what Soap thinks he needs: some time and space to figure it all out in his head.

But Ghost stops him.

And the mask comes off, and Ghost slips away to reveal Simon. Simon who looks so small despite still standing over Soap.

And Soap is sorry, he's so sorry, Simon.

And he's begging for forgiveness and Simon has yet to say a word. So Soap falls quiet, lets the silence eat away at him as Simon stands there, jaw working as he thinks of something to say.

"I had lost you, Johnny."

It's such a quiet whisper, and it's so broken and it just stabs Soap through the heart. But he doesn't say anything back.

Instead he reaches for his Simon, reaches up to try and hold his head in his hands once again.

And Simon leans into the touch, allows himself a moment of softness during all this war. Allows this tender moment as he lets Soap hold him gently.

And it doesn't last long, doesn't need to. They're back with each other, in each other's hands, safe and breathing. That's all Ghost, all Simon, had ever begged for.

"The next time you die, I'm fucking going with you, you understand?"

"Of course, LT. You and me, aye?"

"Always."

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Nine: rooftops

For once, the basement is quiet. 

Kyle had shut off the music the moment he saw Simon wander into the makeshift gym—or, more accurately, he shut it off when he saw the look on his face. Severe. Lips pressed tight together and fingers curling with the insatiable thirst for popping cartilage. 

The two men sit across from one another with spines curled forward and gazes cast towards the floor. Simon’s boots are beginning to stick to the old cement. The whole place could use a good scrub. Yet as his fingers interlace and his elbows rest on his knees, the only thing he can get himself to care about is you and the conversation taking place several stories above his head. 

In his heart, he knows John would never do anything to harm you, but this mess is unprecedented. Mixed up with Makarov, secrets coming to life, a broken nose and a bruised stomach. Simon has always been John’s first choice when it comes to dealing with situations such as these, but now he’s thrown aside. A naughty dog, locked in his kennel. 

“Shit,” Kyle murmurs. He wipes at the sweat leftover on his brow as he adjusts himself on the seat to the lifting equipment. Simon’s just finished telling the story that took place at the restaurant—your broken nose, Aelin’s injury and pregnancy—and each word he speaks only seems to make the man across from him grow more rigid. “How’d Chip even get mixed up in that anyway?” 

There it is. The big question. 

“Her father. And a brutal set of circumstances,” Simon replies bitterly. “He used to work for Makarov.” 

Kyle’s brows rise. “No shit?”

“He got killed in some sort of drug deal gone wrong. Lost Makarov a lot of money. They killed her mum when she refused to pay off the debt, then passed it off onto Chip.” Acrimony sears the inside of Simon’s throat with each word he speaks. He’s always having to think about this story. The retelling of your past and all the brutal things that accompany it. “They’ve been houndin’ her ever since.” 

People always say that airing out dirty laundry lessens the stench, but for Simon it’s still noisome in the air around his nostrils. He thinks of all the things he’s holding back for your sake. How young you were when everything happened. The way Marco assaulted you in Tsar Trading. How those very pictures still taint his car. 

“This other guy. Marco. What’s his deal?” Kyle questions, attempting to keep the conversation rolling. 

It takes all the strength in the world for Simon to hold back his scoff. “He’s Makarov’s shark. Enforces debt payments. He was in charge of my brother’s debt ‘n the cunt nearly killed ‘im. Now he’s doin’ the same for Chip.” 

Kyle mulls the information over for a moment before nodding. “What’s his last name?” 

“Fuck if I know,” Simon says with a shrug. “Why?” 

“Intel’s half the battle.” 

From there, the conversation devolves into acrid stories and vented frustrations. Each moment Simon spends stuck down in that basement, he feels more of himself slip away into the unrelenting desire for revenge. It’s so close he can almost taste it. This zenith of vengeance. The blood that will soon be spilt, because he knows something like this won’t be swept beneath the rug—not now that John Price knows about it. 

Within two hours of being banished to the basement, Simon is stunned to see John walking down the steps to fetch him. His face is irritatingly plain and utterly devoid of any emotion. It makes his skin crawl. He’s a predator backed into a corner, unable to sniff out the intentions of the man before him as he crosses his arms in the doorway and nods. 

“Riley,” John beckons. 

Kyle wordlessly watches Simon push himself to his feet, attention now snatched away by his boss. Palpable tension arises in the space between his shoulder blades as he walks to John, jaw growing tight with the impending verbal lashing he knows is overdue. 

“I’ll do some research on that little shark of Makarov,” Kyle calls out in a promise, prompting Simon to look over his shoulder. “Mummy dearest owes me a couple of favors.” 

Chagrin seeps out of every pore in John’s body, and the stench of it washes over Simon in a suffocating veil as the two men trot up the stairs. He expects to be taken to John’s office, but is surprised when the man continues to climb until they’ve reached the access to the roof. Shaded sunlight peeks through a thin layer of wispy clouds, washing out the stone roof. Things look different up here during the daytime—Simon’s only ever come here after a long shift or when he needs to think. The pile of ash from his cigarettes still marrs the ledge. 

John walks out before him, toeing the edge of the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he stares at the city. Traffic has already clogged up the streets, thickening the already imperviable layer of grime that hangs in the air, yet he takes a deep breath all the same. 

“Brought me ‘ere to toss me off the ledge?” Simon asks in bleak humor. 

John’s chuckle is tight and sour in his throat. “Don’t give me any ideas, Simon.” 

“Yeah. Reckon I shouldn’t.” Simon lazily retrieves his pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his trousers before slapping the cartridge against the palm of his hand. He braves a few steps forward once he’s got the filter between his lips. “Smoke?” 

Looking over his shoulder, John catches sight of the pack, pupils dilating and fingers twitching in his pockets. He only huffs and shakes his head. “I quit when Aelin got pregnant.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response. Only grabs his lighter and begins to puff away before he stands next to John. The tension between the two of them grows so tight he might just jump down to the streets himself. 

“Chip’s at the hospital with Aelin,” John begins, voice maintaining an impressive amicability. “I’ll pick her up for you after we’re done here. They say Aelin should be good to come home tonight.” 

Simon gnaws at his cigarette filter. “Chip’s scared to death Aelin’s gonna hate ‘er for this.” 

“No, no, she could never hate her. Not for that.” Head falling, eyes trained on the desolate pavement below, John huffs. “She told me everything. As much as she could choke out, anyway.” 

“You shouldn’t ask her ‘bout the rest,” Simon warns. 

“I fucking know that, Simon,” John snaps. He pauses, chest expanding with a deep breath as he shakes his head. “I’m very well aware of what bad men do to girls who are too young to protect themselves.” Turning, he’s looking at Simon now with a tight jaw. “Three hundred thousand. Why the fuck didn’t you come to me?” 

That’s the question, isn’t it? How could someone like you ever convince a man like Simon Riley to go against his code? To keep his lips sealed for a simple promise over the obligations of his work? He thinks about the look in your eyes that day when you made him promise not to tell anyone—John and Aelin especially. He recalls how he would’ve torn the earth apart if you so much as asked him to. 

“I promised her I wouldn’t,” Simon responds; simple, and honest. 

“Piss poor fucking reason,” John snaps. “You think I couldn’t have kept that a secret myself? At least I would’ve fucking known. At least we could’ve worked together to solve this. Now what? Aelin’s in the hospital and Chip’s got a broken nose and that’s not even the half of it!” 

“She trusted me. Not you, not Aelin, but me. I promised her, and I was gonna keep that promise.” He’s heated. Blood screams through his veins as he tries to cool off, but it’s hard when you’re the focus of the conversation. “She had all the time in the world to tell you, but she didn’t. Even if I had told you ‘n she never found out, I never could have forgiven myself if I ever betrayed her trust like that. I love her too much for that.” 

The noise of the city swallows the conversation as the two men stare each other down—each angry in their own right, struggling in a seemingly fruitless endeavor to protect the women they adore. John crosses his arms, suddenly on guard, but he’s the first to break eye contact. Staring at his feet, he nods as he allows the ghost of a smile to flicker across his lips. 

“She was scared, John,” Simon continues, softer now. “You dunno how long it took to get her comfortable enough to share any of that with me. Your bludgeoning would’ve made it worse.” 

John’s head cocks to the side as he twists his torso so that it’s faced out toward the city again. Arms still crossed, he rocks back on his heels. “I guess love does make people stupid.” 

Well, it’s no praise, but it’s better than getting his head chewed off. Simon flicks a drizzle of ash onto the brick at his feet before he stares at the sputtering embers burning at the tip of his cigarette. 

“You know what this means, don’t you?” John asks. 

The question makes Simon’s knuckles ache. “Yeah.”

“Does she?” 

Simon shakes his head. “No.” 

Humming, John turns on his heels, fingers reaching out to snatch Simon’s cigarette out from between his fingers. He takes a long, slow drag before he flicks it to the side, drawing out his exhale for as long as he can. 

“I’m headed back to the hospital. I’ll pick Chip up and drop her off at your place. Don’t worry about the money. I’ll get it all sorted.”

“John-” Simon attempts to speak. 

“You’re gonna have to tell her. Tonight, Simon,” he says sternly. “If I had more time, I could’ve found someone else, but after everything that happened? Makarov’s only patient for as long as it serves him.” 

Simon shakes his head, arms awkwardly hanging by his side as his gaze follows John as he begins to walk back inside. “I wouldn’t let anyone else do this for her.” 

“Yeah, and she’s worse off for it,” John calls over his shoulder. “Go home. I’ll call you with details later.” 

The door squeals as it shuts behind John, leaving Simon alone atop the roof. His eyes wander to his smoldering cigarette before the breeze catches up to him. Spring looms in budding trees and dreary skies, but the slight chill cuts him straight to his bone. 

A beckoning song screams from the ledge. Simon bites back the urge to toss himself overboard. 

Once safely on solid ground, Simon shoves himself into his car and races back to the house. It’s a difficult battle keeping his eyes open and on the road as fatigue gnaws behind his eyelids. He spent the entire night watching over you, unable to sleep. He kept your head cradled in his lap, and would gently wipe at the small streams of blood that would come and go in the night from your fractured nose. Fussing over you. Making sure you wouldn’t fracture in your sleep. 

The weight of fatigue is nearly unbearable by the time he pulls into the garage. Engine killed, knuckles still wrapped around the steering wheel—he finds his eyes drifting to the glove compartment to his left. There is something lurking in there more foul than anything else he has ever laid his eyes on. It is the child of evil. A product of sadism and leaky maw, wet with a wanton desire for trembling flesh. 

Simon flips the compartment open where Marco’s sick love letter and odious gifts spill into the palm of his hand. Though he crumples them as he marches into the house, the images can’t escape his view—your wet face, Marco’s hand on your cheek, the way your mouth opens at his beckoning. They stare up at him as he tosses them onto the counter and digs through his pocket for his lighter. The flint crackles and sparks as he thumbs over the wheel, then sets fire to each photo one by one. 

He lets them burn until they singe the tips of his fingers, then tosses the charred remains into the bin once they’ve cooled enough. Then, he gathers the bag until it’s tossed outside; far away and long forgotten. A blight finally purged from your life, even if only for a little while. 

Your entrance back home sounds just as Simon begins to nod off on the couch. His body jerks, twitching back into consciousness just in time for the door to shut behind you and you to timidly wander into the living room. The swelling in your cheeks has only gotten worse, and your eyes seem to be stuck in a squinting position, but you smile when you see him nonetheless. 

Standing, Simon embraces you. For a long while, neither of you say anything. There is only the sound of his heart thudding through his chest and the sniffling of your too-swollen nostrils. It’s as if the stars have aligned again. You, here in his arms, in his home, right where you belong. All the wear and tear of the last day seems to dissipate now that he’s got you like this—his girl right at home. 

“I told Aelin everything,” you offer up once your feet begin to tingle. 

“Yeah?” This is good. You’re talking, not shutting down. “How’d that go?” 

“Better than I ever thought it would,” you admit. “I always thought she would be angry but… she wasn’t. Not at me, anyway. Her dad, Marco, Makarov, everything she just- she just understood. Honestly, it felt really nice to get it out, even when I thought she was going to yell at me. John knows now, too. I don’t know, it feels like now I might be able to… to fix this instead of continuing to run from it.” 

Simon nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy tracing your spine, feeling where your skin dips and curves, memorizing how your body morphs into his. You shift, and it yanks him out of his head and into the present. 

“Did… John wasn’t too mad at you, was he?” you ask. 

“He was upset, but s’all right, sweetheart,” he assures. He leans back, torso tearing away from yours, in order to look at you. His fingers prompt your chin to tilt up away from the floor and it takes everything within him not to fall into you. To not crash his lips into yours and pretend as if the future isn’t fast approaching. “Let’s sit down, baby.” 

Blindly, you follow him until you’ve both reached the couch, enervated bodies sinking into the cushions as if you’ll drown in them and never resurface. He can’t take his eyes off you. Not the curve of your lips or the way your eyes glisten in the adust lighting. Exhausted hands rest on your knees as you begin to worry, brows pinching together as you attempt to read the storm brewing behind his eyes. 

“Price is gonna gather the money to pay off the rest of your debt,” Simon finally shares once he straightens out the jittering neurons in his brain. 

Your eyes widen as you place your hands over his. “Really?”

He nods. “He’ll get everythin’ set up with Makarov. Sooner rather than later, probably.” 

Everything shifts beneath your body, causing you to temporarily become light headed. This notion of freedom has grown so close and yet you’ve only just now noticed how it lies at your feet waiting to be retrieved. Yet, just as you go to reach for it, you notice the line. Thin, pearlescent string. Fishing wire. A hidden hook ready to sink into flesh and drag you along with it. 

“But that’s not everything, is it?” you carefully push. “You said before that there would be more, right?” A gauche laugh escapes you. “Eating a cockroach…” 

“I’m gonna have to kill someone.” 

The bluntness in which Simon speaks with hits your gut, sending your diaphragm sputtering as your smile begins to wane. He sees how several sentences begin and end on the tip of your tongue, smothered behind your hesitation. 

“It’s how all of Makarov’s debts are paid. Money is never enough. He demands blood with it, too,” Simon continues. 

You wet your lips before shaking your head. “I don’t understand—who are you going to have to kill? Simon, I don’t-” 

Shushing you, he pulls your hands into his own where he begins to trace your knuckles with the pad of your thumb. “Makarov sets everythin’ up so that two people who are in debt fight against each other. Sometimes he’ll let people volunteer for someone else, which is what I did with Tommy. It’s what I’m doin’ for you. He doesn’t care either way, the cunt just wants a good show. Besides, it grants you immunity. Marco would never do anythin’ to you ever again at risk of death.” 

All moisture leaves your mouth, rendering your tongue sticky and dry. You nearly choke when you speak. “But Simon, I mean… killing someone? What if—like—maybe they’re like me. You’d still have to kill them?”

“Not necessarily," he says with a flippant shrug. “They could always kill me. Either way, your debt is paid, and then theirs would be, too.” 

“Don’t joke like that,” you sternly reprimand. 

“Sorry, baby.” 

“I just- I don’t understand. So many people have already died or gotten hurt because of me, and now you’re… you’re telling me that there’s going to be one more?” 

His lips go taut. Small, straight line. His mandible flexes, muscle dancing beneath his skin, widening his jaw for a short moment before he eventually nods. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

Your knees jerk. He notes the way your body curls forward, weight displacing, ready to stand, but he pulls you back towards him, refusing to let you run away. The expansion of your chest comes quick—fluttering rabbit feet thumping against the ground, attempting to flee. 

“No, I can’t let that happen. I’d- I’d rather be in debt for the rest of my life,” you stutter. 

“Chip-” 

“I can’t let you kill an innocent person, Simon!” 

Silence envelops the two of you like rotten flesh over a festering wound. It’s thick. Suffocating. Noisome and sickening. Simon scrambles for anything he can to keep himself afloat—to keep you from crumbling in his arms. Eventually, his head falls. 

“Maybe… Sometimes, we can pick our opponent,” Simon murmurs. “I could try to scope out someone who deserves it.” 

“Deserves it?” you choke. 

“I’d gladly put a nonce or child beater into the ground, sweetheart, and I wouldn’t feel bad ‘bout it either,” Simon says, sure of himself. Then, he pauses, onyx eyes finally wandering back up to you. “It’s gonna be hard no matter what, but I’ll try to make this as easy as I can for you.” 

“I don't- I don’t know. I don’t know what to think of this.” 

You’re spiraling. Twisting and falling through the floor as the pressure finally forces you to cave. Simon can see it in your eyes. That panic. Tenderly, he reaches for you, hand cupping the back of your head before gently pulling you into his chest, making sure to watch the sore bump on your nose. 

“I know baby, I’m sorry,” he coos. “We don’t have to talk ‘bout it now. You’ve had a rough day.” 

“I can’t let you do this,” you murmur, voice drowning against the side of his neck. 

“I know, baby.” 

Neither of you speak. You’re not even sure what you should say at the prospect of one more person dying in order for you to gain your freedom. It’s a kick in the teeth. It’s the knife that would unravel all the hard work you’ve put into ensuring no one else ever got hurt because of you again. 

Simon can’t imagine the emotional turmoil. The sickening truth of your reality finally splaying out before you. Still, he holds you tight and soothes you with gentle caresses because, deep down, he knows you don’t have a choice in the matter. 

His mind was made up a long time ago.

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[gravesdept]

♡　＃　𓂃 Imagine you being vladimir makarovs right hand man — who he tolerates just a bit more than his other lapdogs, maybe he even lets you speak down to him, informs you on plans you have no business being in on, and lets you push his buttons.

everyone wonders whats just so special about the man whose always by makarovs side, he wonders so just as well as you both take hefty puffs off an old cigar that use to be stashed away in the back of his desk, its awfully hot in the room he thinks looking from the window back towards you who, well, is leaning just a couple inches astray from his face.

from this angle he cant see anything but the light at the end of the cigar, the room of his office fairly dark being only illuminated by light from the skyscrapers windows.

it takes a minute before you pass him back the almost dull blunt, it ends up sitting between his fingers for a bit as he trudges through his thoughts, “this situation is risky, boy, you know that righ’?” although he speaks clearly enough you cannot wrap your head around what he is implying

“not sure I understand.”

at that he puts the cig out on the desk resorting to just crossing his arms “this I mean, us, your not so subtle soldier.” he looks you dead in the eyes now, a look that youve seen men be killed for even witnessing.

its silent and almost peaceful in this small pocket of time “mm wasnt tryin’ to be subtle sir,, y’know pinning after you is no easy task.” you’d say jokingly if the man infront of you hadn’t killed many men whose ranks had rivaled yours in status, instead you stay quiet choosing to move all the bit closer to him in thought, hands resulting to rest in your jacket pockets.

“i could kill you, have you lit on fire for even thinkin such thoughts about me — yet you would just keep coming back, even offering to stand by my side like some kind of lacky in love.” he spits with just a hint of venomous tone “it repulses me even thinking about it; you fuckin’ in love with me solider?”

the scowl thats always reaching on his pretty face returns just once as he stands straight from leaning on the desk. hes still shorter than you and it only adds to his fuel.

“no m’not, hows that? was it satisfying enough for you?” a lie you half think about closing the distance between you two. but the metal that gets pressed up against your skull is enough assurance to halt the bare thought of movement.

his eyes search yours once more and before you know it your back is being pressed firmly against the desk.

maybe its the sensation from being high or just the adrenaline from this damn heat but you feel very obligated to wrap a hand around the hand thats holding up your ender, again its the post blunt high thats making you see things because his hand totally doesn’t falter when you touch it and it for sure doesn’t let you lower the gun either.

yeaaaa who laced the cigar because his facial expression isn’t in a scowl anymore its almost distraught watching you maneuver the gun to sit behind on the desk, his voice stoping you temporarily “not any further soldier. you’re messin w’ my fuckin head right now, and thats not what you want.”

the look you give him is deafening and its filled with something he cant source.

“what are you .. to decide what I want. are y’ afraid that i might break you?” you’re pushin it yet there it is again that same scowl just a bit deeper than before. its like your a fucking ticking bomb thats just wanting to explode “i'm jus’ waitin for your permission sir, to let me have you”

in another universe you might have been killed at the spot and brutally beaten until unrecognizable.

“do what you’ want, but you'd better make it damn good or i'll have to kill you.” he says backing up until his legs hit his office chair the sqeaking reminding the both of you where you just so happen to be at this hour.

but that is the last thing you’d have ever thought to hear from this oh so difficult man.

note ;; chat am I cooking even though this kind of out of character? ,, I keep blue balling cause I really cant write full fics but we getting there also requests will be opening soon, my messages are open right now if anyone wants to thirst tho.

[fortheb0ys]

A sudden dip in the bed startles you awake. Before you could reach for your gun, a small voice cuts through the darkness.

"Y/N, Y/N?"

Makarov, a feared man, whimpers your name. You reach and turn on the lamp. Blinking your eyes as to adjust to the light, you were greeted to a blood soaked Makarov. The sheets quickly turned red as blood dripped onto them. It wasn't the first time he came home in such a state and surely it wouldn't be the last.

Makarov is kneeling, ready and waiting for whatever you would give him. His pupils are blown, black consuming any colour in his eyes. He's trembling slightly, but patiently waited for you to make a move.

"Hello, pretty." You whisper as you bring your hand to rest on his cheek. Makarov leans into your soft touch.

Without a moments notice, Makarov grabs your shoulders and smashes your lips together. The kiss was violent, dirty and full of sinful lust. Quickly you both became breathless but were unwilling to separate. Your mind became dizzy and your eyes grew dim. You felt like you could pass out at any second but Makarov's tongue against yours felt like life itself.

When it all became too much you push Makarov off you and slam him into the mattress. A growl your throat as you rip off Makarov's bloody clothes.

You kiss at every inch on his exposed skin, licking the blood off clean. You bit him, just to bloody him once again. Teeth ripping off skin, tongue soothing the wounds.

Your cock painfully hard as you looked upon your artwork. The canvas, Makarov's beautiful body. Covered in blood, both old and new.

Makarov's lips twisted into a mad smile, feeling proud about how he's got you so feral. He pulls you into a heated kiss, tasting his own blood.

His cock is hard against your thigh as his tries to rut to get any friction. Giving into his desire you spit into your palm and grab your cocks together. Stroking at a tired sloppy pace. He hisses at the dryness, your saliva not quite enough for a smooth hand job.

He rambled on that someone was dead. A MacSomething. MacTavish you think he said. About how he killed him for you. How he'd kill all of them for you. Makarov wanted to destroy everything that stood in front of you. You were his muse for the destruction. Destroy the world for turning it's back to Makarov's beloved.

"They'll all die, beloved." Makarov whispers low.

The dead man didn't matter, all that matter was Makarov. The whole world could burn and it wouldn't matter.

All that matter was Makarov skin against. The world melt away at each biting kiss. At each stoke you both become undone. Pearls of white bead at your tips.

You once again bury your teeth into his neck, biting deep as you both cum. Red and milky white paints your bodies. A finished canvas in blood and cum.

[call-of-dookie]

Dear John,

BROKEN THINGS

PART 1 - John Price x Reader

Series Synopsis - Soap is killed in the mission to end Makarov, and in his death the men find out of a 'Secret Wife' Johnny had. While guilt of Soap's death was already eating at Price, the word of a widow strikes him even harder, and so he decided to seek out his wife and pay his dues for his fault in Soap's Death, and admit his guilt in aiding the broken woman before him.

"a break" is what John was told he needed. His job was complete with Makarov, and it left a stain on his heart. It was clear to everyone, laswell, what's left of task force 141, he wasn't handling his fuck up lightly, trudging the halls of base with a contemplating look and a dark aura surrounding him. It was his fault Johnny died. He chose not to kill Makarov when he had the chance, and now? One of his men was dead, one of the best of men at that, and in the sorrows of guilt for being responsible for Soaps death, John found himself slipping away.

He had spread Johnny's ashes in Scotland, the "home of his heart" Johnny claimed, and left his sadness on that bluff. Unfortunately, he has come to find out that sadness and guilt, are two completely different emotions. The silence of the mess hall, the silence of his men, and the Case Filing Meeting cracked his brain into a million shards, each a different emotion but with edges sharp as a blade, and covered in guilt.

"Alright boys, we've done this before, it's no different than any other time. You're each getting case files and filing the events of 'Makarov's Hunt', including Soaps death."

Laswell has been visiting the task force to complete there case filing and here it was. Every detail of the events leading up to, and soaps death itself were to be filed on paper, like taxes no one wants to pay. Details were to be discussed, evaluated, and jotted down for future reference, and to commence the death of 'John Soap MacTavish'.

In the case of a S.A.S. soldier dying, one who has been assigned to a Task Force, his information is purposely scarce. They are not to talk about personal relations, wives, husbands, family and children alike, in an attempt to protect their humanity.

Revealing such truths is forbidden for their family's safety, and their own, but once a soldier dies, it is his captains or subordinates responsibility to open their 'File of Humanity', as they call it, a manila folder containing all the soldier loves.

A tan-yellow folder slides across the table, reaching Price first. At the corner is written in Johnny's scribbly handwriting, "MacTavish Humanity" with a small doodle of a bar of soap sitting next to the ending. The sight of it let's a chuckle huff out of price, which quickly turns to dispair at the realization of what documents he's about to see. If there are any, marriage licenses, birth certificates, a list of living relatives and so much more.

The rest of the team gets a folder, each having an image of Johnny clipped to the left hand corner.

"Well...we all know what is about to happen, and how to handle it, yes? You will open the folder, read his service sheet first and fill out the information on your case filing. Once that commences, we will...discuss his death...personally", Laswell finishes.

So as on cue, the men open their folders to read the one pager of Johnny's enlistment, skills, and service before copying to their sheets.

The scene is painstakingly familiar for Price, deja vu of when Soaps file first came across his desk. He's a brilliant kid , 25 at the time and a specialist in demolitions and sniper, a unit for such a young man. He sports his usual mohawk as he did in that file years ago, and that shit eating grin on his face. Everything is as usual until they reach the bottom of the page. Service Sheets change slightly when added to 'Humanity Folders', now 3 small boxes are added to the bottom of the enlistment column.

Check 'YES' if you have children. [NO]

Check 'YES' if you are married. [YES]

No one has ever seen a man's face turn white that fast, expression dropping and eyes flooding black at the simple word 'yes'.

Check 'YES' if your spouse is living. [YES]

The air grew cold as of every body has read the exact same thing at once. 'Johnny, married?' they were all thinking. Not once had he mentioned this, not once had they seen a ring, but it unfortunately all adds up.

As much as Johnny loved his job, he was always the last to be on base, and the first to leave. Everytime they travelled somewhere outside of the UK he'd buy a small trinket, something without purpose but enough for the boys to notice. Even in Urzikstan the boys had seen him chatting with a small family, a mother and daughter whose father had been forced a slave by Russia during their battle for independence. Shortly after the men saw a small doll, the size of maybe 2 fingers tucked in his pocket, "A gift from the girl, traded her a drawing" he said with a smile. It came to a point that the men we're concerned he was just... touring the 141's battle grounds, but the fact that they had never seen any trinket since he got it starts to add up. Gifts. For a wife, at that.

Everyone's eyes met each other's as Price's theory seemed to be right, they had all read that at the same time. John "Soap" MacTavish died a married man, and instead of delivering their condolences to his wife, they spread his ashes in Scotland.

"Fucking hell" is what breaks the silence, a groan of dispair from Ghost. His eyes met Price picking up on the one dimension of darkness and guilt in his eyes.

"We spread his fucking ashes", Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick adds to the conversation. This one left Price with a hand on his head, tugging at his hair as he breathed shakily, sounding like a death rattle.

Laswell tapped the table lightly, getting John's attention from the other end of the table before their eyes meet.

"We know what we need to do."

[staytrueblue]

He was the best of us

Johnny Soap MacTavish, John Price, mentions of Kate Laswell, and an unnamed female character.

1.6k angst, main character death , grief, pregnancy, healing, angst with a happy ending in the sense that there is closure. Yes this is the depressing one shot I wrote while crying in a hammock in the rain. ao3 link

“John Price sat alone on the Scottish cliffside as the months of guilt and sorrow built up in his chest released in waves.”

No one else knew except for Kate, Johnny made sure of it. There was only one copy of his will, one photo, and one address in his file to be released only at the moment of his death. And they were to be released solely to Captain John Price.

Unfortunately his death came years, decades sooner than he had hoped, but one thing he felt satisfied about was that he had saved his friend moments before the bullet entered his skull.

A friend he knew he could trust with his most coveted secrets.

It was a year into SAS when he had met her and he had fallen almost immediately. They got married at 22 and 23 respectfully, settling down in a worn house in the countryside of Scotland.

Many nights he spent whispering apologies of how the choices he made in his life meant he had to leave her side for weeks at time. His lovely lass only responded with soft kisses and gentle understanding. His work is what he loved, but she knew he loved her too.

He made up for his absence by returning with wildflowers and kisses. As the years went by it grew harder and harder to leave her side. When eight years in she looked up at him, eyes wide and cheeks bright, to say that there were going to be three of them, he almost quit that very moment.

He held her that night, hands wrapped around her belly, praying that she wouldn’t be alone with this, that he would one day get to see the life he created.

Johnny never got his wish.

When he felt his ashes float over the cliffs of Scotland he sent a prayer out to his comrades watching and mourning the man they knew as Soap.

John hadn’t known yet what he was meant to do and Johnny felt the need to guide him into that journey. The aching want of what he never got to have weighed on his ghost.

Which is why he relied so closely on the loyalty of his Captain.

Johnny was there in spirit when Kate gave him the file. He saw the look in his eyes only a man weighed heavily in guilt carries.

He wanted to reach past the veil to his friend and embrace him to tell him, don’t blame yourself, you were the one meant to be saved, not I, not in this life.

But the veil wouldn’t allow him to push past, not quite yet, so he hovered close as John approached what was once his earthly home. And he waited.

————-

John blames himself for Johnnys death. He knows it's illogical but if only he allowed Johnny to kill him..if they had only killed Makarov sooner....

He wouldn't have to be in Scotland right now. He wouldn't have to be standing in the doorway of this young woman's house. He wouldn't have to force himself to look away from the roundness of her belly, bursting with new life.

He wouldn't have to watch her face as he completely destroys their future with the news of her husbands....and their father's...untimely death.

He likes to tell himself that it's not out of guilt that he sends a check every month. Or that he stops by when he can to fix anything broken around the small house.

Soon Jane starts to grow, waddling then running to greet him at the door. His heart aching as he looks into her bright blue eyes, staring into the face of his friend.

A friend who never got the chance to see his daughter grow up or to know how big of a hole his absence left in the home.

John made a decision that lost his friend. And he will spend the rest of his life making it up to the wife and daughter Johnny left too soon.

Sometimes he swears he can feel the presence of Johnny by his side. When Jane giggles, chasing butterflies in the field or when she trips and skins her knee, running to her Godfather with big tears rolling down her cheeks.

At first he felt guilty with the title and the time he was spending with the sweet wee girl, but Mrs. MacTavish had insisted, saying it is what he would’ve wanted. John and the men had known nothing of her or this life Johnny had hidden but oh how he had shared with her stories of them. Early, when Jane was still a babe she whispered bravely under a cloudless sky with tears in her eyes that there was no one else who her Johnny would’ve wanted to carry the title of Godfather.

When Kate first gave him Soaps file he expected the list of requests for services and where to send his body, but then came a photo of a young Johnny and a new bride, and an address to a countryside house in Scotland.

It wasn’t until a month later when Kate called him, saying that something else was being sent. A letter that had been overlooked just tucked in the wrong place.

John knew better to believe her, but still accepted the carefully sealed letter, labeled neatly with his rank and name.

It was rare that he has ever been scared of the unknown, but holding that envelope in his hands a month after his friends death and then having to tell his pregnant widow he was never coming home, he was terrified.

With the courage of whiskey and the comfort of his cigar he chose to open at the cliff where they wished their friend well as his ashes flew into the wind.

John gripped his cigar a bit tighter as the handwriting came into view. The curves and points so familiar to him.

“Captain.” It said,

“If you’re reading this it probably means that the operation didn’t go as planned. Or maybe it did and it just didn’t turn out the way we had hoped. I'm sure by now you’ve learned about my lass in the countryside. She’s a strong one for staying with me this long, and she means the absolute universe to me.

You’re right in realizing that I’ve never talked about her with you or any of the other guys. I know you understand why, especially if you’ve met her by now.

She’s meant for wildflowers, sea spray, and sunshine. I don’t want her to ever have to touch our world, but if you’re reading this I know one day she’ll have to. Our line of work doesn’t make it easy for us to stay alive, no matter how hard we try. And when the time comes that I’m not here anymore she’s going to need someone, Price.

You’re a good man. The most loyal and trustworthy one I’ve met in our line of work. I’m not asking you to love her, that comes easy enough but if you could take care of her? Make sure she’s happy and that she’s not alone?

I don’t know what happened that caused me to die but I pray that it was in a way that meant my death was not in vain. I know you though Captain, and no matter what happened I don’t want you to blame yourself. If I fell off a bloody helicopter or tripped on my shoelace just know it was my time. If I died saving this world or someone I loved, even better.

I love you Captain. Thank you for all you’ve done for me. Thank you for taking care of my girl. Thank you for letting me rest peacefully knowing she’ll be okay.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

The tears fell, rolling onto the paper below. He folded it up quickly, careful that the words weren’t going to smudge.

John took a shaky breath, closing his eyes against the breeze on the cliffs that was rolling in waves around him.

“You were the best of us.” A smile came to his face as he spoke the next words. “Your sweet girl is almost better than you though. I’m sure you already knew that.”

A warm press of a hand settled on his shoulder at the words.

“It’s a girl, Johnny. Yeh are going to be having a girl.” John choked at the words. “I should’ve let you kill him. I should’ve and then you would still be here. You would be here to see your girls”

Gasping he tilted his head down, pressing his palm to his face.

“Fuck Johnny. I’m sorry.”

The warmth on his shoulder never moved, it only seemed to grip tighter for a moment in reassurance.

Shuddering sobs left his body as he finally let himself feel. He put aside the shell of the fearless leader and protector and became the man who had laid helplessly as his friend was shot feet away from him. The friend who took the bullet meant for him.

John Price sat alone on the Scottish cliffside as the months of guilt and sorrow built up in his chest released in waves.

It wasn’t until the tears started slowing that he felt the familiar press against his shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault, Captain.”

The familiar lilt floated on the wind, like a whisper on the breeze.

“Thank you for taking care of my girls, John.”

The warmth tightened again and started to fade away.

As John hiked off the cliff the weight he had been carrying in his chest felt a little less.

He wasn’t a spiritual man but he knew Johnny had been with him that day, if only to make sure he knew that the ones he loved would be okay.

“I’ll take care of your girls Johnny.” He whispered back into the wind. “Thank you.”

[prices-beard]

I Can't Stay

Fiancé!Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x 141!reader

Reader witnesses Johnny's death and tries to shut herself back out.

Warnings: Main character death, swearing (?), blood

It was supposed to be a safe mission.

You were all supposed to go home, and you and Johnny would go back to planning your wedding. And then you didn't all make it home.

Previously, Johnny had a chance to take out Makarov once and for all, but Price stopped him. Now, you won't ever let that go.

You all stood in the warehouse as you were surrounded by Russian troops, everyone's hearts racing wildly. You glanced to Ghost, who you were partnered with, like every mission, and he nodded curtly. You backed up, leaving Johnny, Price, and Gaz out of your sights as you rounded the corner to another room to find the rest of the Russians.

Suddenly, an explosion sounded. You and Ghost both stopped in your tracks, a sinking feeling of dread weighing down your chest. You heard a body hit the floor and a desperate plea of Price's voice calling out to you over your comms. You and Ghost sprinted back to where you were previously, and you stopped dead in your tracks when Johnny's body was sprawled out on the floor, blood leaking from his temple.

You shook your head, immediately dropping to your knees next to him, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. You finally glanced down at his face, and his beautiful blue eyes, once mischievous and full of life, were now foggy and half-lidded. "Johnny, come on, baby, gotta- gotta open your eyes," You begged, frantically wiping the blood from his face. You glanced up with wide eyes as Gaz's voice rang out above you.

"C'mon, Reaper, we gotta go," He muttered, tugging on your arm.

"No." You sneered, ripping your arm from his grasp and gently brushing a hand over Johnny's blood soaked face.

You cried harshly as you held as much pressure to his head as you could, but it was no use. Ghost's gentle hand on your shoulder pulled you away from him, and you sobbed and thrashed violently as he grabbed you, dragging you away from him. "No!" You screamed. "Let go of me! Need to- need to help him," You cried.

"Shh... Reaper, enough. Gonna get us all killed," He whispered gently, placing you back on your own two feet once you were far enough away.

You turned to look at him, fear and anger coursing through your body like a current. "Where's Makarov." You demanded coolly.

"We don't know, Reaper," He shook his head, keeping a firm grip on your arm. "We've got to go but I swear to yoY we'll find him and bring Johnny justice once we get out of here, yeah?"

You shook your head, ripping your arm from his grasp and running off toward the sound of someone besides your group. It was stupid, and you could have died, hell, you should have died, but you didn't. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, you hadn't decided. You sprinted hard, your pistol raised as you tried to find whoever it was. You glanced around wildly at the empty room, when a sudden blast knocked you off your feet.

Ghost winced at the sound and sight of the explosion, immediately turning to find you. As he started to run toward the burning building, Price's hand gripped his arm firmly. "No." He ordered. "I'm not losing three of my men tonight,"

Ghost shook his head, bringing his fist down on to Price's wrist. Price grunted as he did, his hand instinctively loosening his grip. Ghost pulled it away, springing into a run toward the building that was engulfed in flames.

You laid still on the floor, ears ringing loudly as you closed your eyes, the flame licking your gear. Suddenly, someone grabbed you, lifting you from the floor and away from the fire. Your head was still buzzing from the explosion and the impact of it hitting the ground, your vision blurred significantly. You could feel the firm grip on your body, fingers digging uncomfortably in the fresh burns on your skin.

Ghost emerged from the building, Gaz flinching as part of the building collapsed behind them. He fell to his knees, placing you on the ground gently as his chest heaved, the smoke inhalation causing him to struggle. He coughed harshly, glancing down at you as Gaz and Price surrounded the two of you, Price doing everything he could to wake you up as your pulse slowed and your chest stopped rising.

He cursed and stripped off your burnt and partially destroyed vest, as well as your jacket, leaving you in a compression shirt as he started CPR. When it did nothing after thirty seconds, he cut off the compression shirt, hoping getting the tight material from your body would help. He continued his attempt, sighing in relief as you shot up, coughing wildly. He ran a soothing hand down the back of your head, helping you clear your chest.

You sat up, looking around wildly. You coughed hard, turning your head to spit up whatever phlegm and smoke was lingering in your throat. Your chest heaved as you sat there, staring at the burning building. "Where's Makraov."

Price shook his head, tucking a strand of burnt, mangled hair behind your ear. "Gone, Y/n. He's gone."

You stood next to Ghost and Gaz, Price next to Ghost. You all collectively stared out at the city below you, Price's hands gripping the urn that held what was left of Johnny tightly. You zoned out, the gentle fall breeze blowing your hair softly from your face. Your fingers itched to twist around and fiddle with his tags and your engagement ring that rested in your pocket as you stood there, motionless and silent. Gaz started to say something and his stuttering, slurred voice snapped you out of your trance. "I'm leaving." You muttered, backing up toward your car. Price glanced over, handing the urn to Ghost before walking toward you. You shook your head, backing away like a frightened animal. "Have to go, price," You whispered, watching as his weathered, calloused hands reached out toward you.

"Stay. Please," He pleaded, gentle hands reaching out to hold your biceps.

"Can't," You muttered, shaking your head. "This- this is why I don't stay." You choked. "Every time I stay I get hurt. I- I don't wanna get hurt anymore," You cried softly, letting him surround you. You laid your head on his shoulder, the tears flooding your eyes and wetting his sweater.

Your knees buckled out from under you and you were now solely held up by Price's strong arms. You sobbed harsh, ugly cries, desperately trying to get in a good breath. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning at the lack of oxygen. You could feel a headache setting in, but it couldn't compare to the headache Johnny must have felt when Makarov put a bullet through his skull. You started to babble nonsense, pleading with anyone who would listen to wake you from this nightmare. You could faintly hear Price's soothing, melodious voice trying to calm you down, but nothing was working.

Eventually, you sat down on the cold, firm ground, the grass tickling your fingers. You stared blankly at the horizon in front of you, watching as the sun set in silence. You knew you wouldn't be able to stay.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

okay okay, it's a lil silly but hear me out konig + phantom of the opera au

man's got it all; need to cover his face, obsessive tendencies, and the need to be a secretive lil (big) weirdo *chef's kiss*

NO NO NO HOLD ON YOU'RE COOKIN. NOT SILLY AT ALL.

Now look here, I dunno if you know this, but I am a sucker for classic literature. One of my top three favourite books of all time is Frankenstein by Mary Shelly. That woman ate when she wrote that book and I will listen to nothing else. I also really want to write an essay about how Frankenstein is Mary Shelly discussing the inherent horror of motherhood in those times and how the lack of a mother figure shapes an individual. I think it's an extremely layered book, but I like to see the parenthood lens of the book.

Now now now, this is about Phantom of the Opera. I do know a bit about the original phantom, and I don't like to think König or reader dies in the end (just personally, I can't write a tragic ending. I really need a happy ending, not for the reader, but because I need a happy ending). So, let me introduce the idea that this is a version where the phantom wins.

This is one where the phantom was fucking right and actually, freak of nature as he is, maybe he had a point!!! Maybe, reader shouldn't be dating someone twice their age. Maybe, though König is a bit older for sure, he's actually not that old and a more appropriate age. Albeit, though now recovered, König still suffered a case of leprosy after being exposed during a war. He considers himself hideous, but maybe reader would be able to look past his sickness?

Now, is König appropriate as a lover? Probably not. He's obsessive, jealous, and a borderline stalker. He's determined to kill off the man who's trying to seduce her ('How dare you try and take my little songbird away from me!!!') and will do anything to keep reader to himself. However, he's also saving reader from a far worse fate with someone worse than him.

Reader is enchanted by Makarov of course, but König knows better and is determined to show her the light. He desperately wants to just talk to her and explain everything to her, but at this point he's committed to what he's doing and social anxiety makes him unable to just knock on her door and talk to her like a regular person.

Once again, like every incredible story in the English language, if you guys just talked everything would be fine but nobody knows how to be an adult.

Anyways, König loves reader dearly. Watching her perform makes his heart ache. His one saving grace is a beautiful voice he uses to enchant her. If his face is nothing but sickness, let him sing to his little songbird and help her connection to music. He'll do what he can to cling to any connections he has to her. He's desperate to hold her, and he'll do whatever he needs to to get to her.

IMPORTANT EDIT:

König with the phantom mask but he has two long red ribbons coming out the bottom of the eyes and the rest of his face is hidden under a dark hood. Consider it.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Keegan's Girl Chapter 3

Summary:  Y/N was Keegan’s girl.  Until she wasn’t.  The team would never be the same, and Ghost respected that.  But after years of trauma, pain, grief and loneliness, he still never stopped loving her.  Is it too late?  Or wrong?  Or is it just right?

**Keegan x reader **Konig x reader **Ghost x reader

Warnings: major character death; mentions of death; grief; depression; smut; language

Previous chapter Next chapter

True to her word, Y/N left the next day without any big goodbyes.  She was more like a ghost than Simon, a shadow that came and went at her leisure. Simon and Konig’s working relationship was strained, but they never brought up the issue again.  The months passed by and the team had made some big strides in narrowing down where the enemy, Makarov and his insurgents were hiding, and were planning their operation to infiltrate and take down his group from the inside out.  Captain Price, the commander, had been careful in his planning, only communicating to them all through written messages and quiet word of mouth, no two messages being the same.  After they had been ambushed those years before and lost Keegan because of bad, or possibly compromised, intel he had taken no chances.

Price always kept Y/N in the loop of what was happening, since it was under a Makarov mission that Keegan had been killed, but she never came in during their missions.  Yet as they were preparing to make their final move, he called her in.  Simon was surprised to see her that day, sitting on the outskirts of the room as the team assembled and went over the last minute mission details.

“We have a medic on standby,” Price nodded to Y/N, who subtly nodded back, “but if we do this right I expect no injuries or casualties.  Get in, raise hell, get out.  Understood?”

“Yessir,” the entire room answered.  They all headed to the hanger to load onto the chopper.  Simon followed behind Y/N and before they walked up the ramp he pulled her aside.

“Are you sure you wanna come, love?” he asked her quietly.  

Y/N looked up at him, her face void of emotion.  She was on autopilot, her mind solely focused on the objective.  “I’m fine, Ghost.”  His head tilted at that.  She rarely called him his code name.  She then punched his vest lightly.  “It’s not a great day to die, got it?”

Simon nodded, a small smile lighting up his eyes.  “Got it.”  Y/N led the way back to the ramp and they climbed aboard, getting seated before it took off toward the target.

Once they hit the ground in the early morning hours they were in stealth mode, moving silently through the rebellion encampment in small teams.  Ghost was paired with Konig, like with most missions nowadays, and they made their way to the main building as the rest of the team picked off the insurgents in the smaller buildings.  They shot the ones on post and quickly made their way inside, being careful to stay in the shadows.  Ghost shot out the cameras with electric stuns as they made their way to the central rooms where Makarov and the intel were located.  When they reached the final door they both rigged it to blow, giving each other a head nod before turning away.  The explosion was loud, and they turned into the room with their guns held high, ready for a fight.

But there wasn’t one.  They found Makarov lying in bed, looking at them with wide eyes.  He tried to reach for his gun tucked under his pillow but Konig tsked at him, making him freeze.  Ghost made sure he had the camera attached to his vest focused on Makarov as he approached him.  “Makarov,” he greeted him.  “You fucking cunt.”  He ripped him out of the bed and led him to the intel room.  He forced him to use his thumbprint to open the room and give them the passwords to get the information then tied him to the chair in front of the computer.  Konig inserted a flash drive and downloaded all the information as Ghost watched Makarov.

Makarov slowly smiled.  “Is that camera on?” he asked, eyeing the blinking light on Ghost’s vest.  Ghost didn’t answer.  Makarov leaned forward, looking straight into the camera.  “Y/N,” he said.  Ghost tensed and Konig whipped his head around to look at him.  “I’m sorry about your sweet Keegan, but I’m not sorry about these two,” he smirked, then looked back up at Ghost.  “The fuck buddy and the jilted lover.  Fly away Ghostie.”

Konig ripped the flash drive out of the computer and spoke into his radio.  “Abort!  Abort!  Mission compromised!”

Ghost grabbed Makarov by the scruff and jerked him forward.  “How do you know that name?” he asked harshly.

A clock suddenly lit up the computer screen, counting down from 25 seconds.  An alarm blared and Konig ran out of the room.  “Come on, Ghost!”

Ghost shook Makarov again.  “HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT NAME?” he screamed.

Makarov merely cocked an eyebrow at him.  “Have you told her yet?  That you’re in love with her?”

Ghost’s eyes widened and he shoved Makarov away from him.  He glanced at the clock and then ran out of the room.  He caught up to Konig outside, counting down in his head.  “Bomb!  Bomb!  10 seconds and counting!” he yelled through the comms.  He and Konig ran as fast as they could.  “5 seconds!  4…3…2…1…”

The blast knocked them both forward, their bodies flying forward a good twenty feet.  When Ghost hit the ground he cried out as he landed on his back.  The blast had blown something into him and it dug deeper into his skin as he landed.  His hearing was gone from the explosion and he looked up blearily at Konig who was trying to get him to stand.  He heard muffled yelling and felt Konig’s arms hoist him up and pull him toward the direction they came from.

“We need medical!”

“Ghost is hit…”

There was a flurry of voices and noises as his hearing started to come back.  His vision was getting blurry as the pain in his back became overwhelming.  He was lifted onto a bed and laid on his front, his vest and shirt being ripped away.  Soft hands and fingertips started working on him, someone else putting an IV into his arm.  “Si,” Y/N’s voice broke through the chaos.  He was able to open his eyes just enough to see her face in front of him.  She looked scared, which was the first real emotion he’d seen on her face in years.  His brow furrowed.  Pretty girls shouldn’t be scared.

Y/N’s face shifted into shock, then a small smile broke on her face.  Did he say that out loud?  Simon smiled back at her.  “There she is,” he murmured.  Y/N shook her head in disbelief and then stood straight to work on his back some more.  Whatever it was they put in his IV was kicking in, the pain starting to ebb away and his consciousness slipping.  He sighed heavily as people around him moved quickly, the thrumming of the chopper loudly whirring around him and lulling him to sleep.

[siilvan]

bloodsport – II

prologue | part one | next

characters: vladimir makarov

summary: you never realized how boring captivity could be. you hate to admit it, but makarov is the only interesting thing around, and perhaps the closest thing you have to an ally in this place.

genre: angst, slowburn, enemies to ?, fem!reader (callsign: petra, no desc.)

warnings: semi-proofread, cursing, canon-typical violence, descriptions of blood/injuries, inaccurate medical procedures, reader gets harassed :/, reader kills a dude, russian written by a non-russian speaker (please correct me if it's wrong!!)

word count: 3.7k

note: the temptation to write the filthiest makarov/reader/yuri fic is slowly taking over my brain. i'm begging activision to reveal my ex-war-criminal husband already bc i have two hands for a reason

true to his word, you don't see makarov for the rest of the day. after you're brought back to your cell and locked away, you take the time to rest and gather your thoughts. the lumpy bed provides little comfort as you try to sleep, but it's better than the cold floor. you manage to drift off eventually, even with every voice and sound in the corridor stirring you awake.

when you finally drag yourself out of bed the next morning, blinking away any lingering exhaustion and gently stretching your sore muscles, the sky is still dark. the storm that was raging all night had subsided for now, and through the single barred window on the back wall, you can see groups of soldiers outside. running drills, training in marksmanship, transporting supplies, patrolling the grounds - it reminds you of the bases you've visited with the team.

the team. you trudge over to the only other furniture in the room, the metal chair that you moved to sit near the window, and plop down onto the seat unceremoniously. with how muddled your mind has been since the conversation with makarov, you've hardly had time to think about them.

they're alive. you just need to keep telling yourself that. they'll come for you as soon as they can. all you can do until then is keep faith and survive.

as a pair of boots stomps down the hall towards your cell, you begin to ponder if taking matters into your own hands is the only way you'll escape. you're just as capable as the rest of your team, surely you can find a way out of this crumbling prison.

you turn your head at the sound of keys jingling. a guard is standing at your door, unlocking it, before looking at you. "let's go," he says, thick accent lacing every word. "you're on a schedule."

with a small wince, you rise from the chair and cross the room. the guard starts down the corridor, heading in the opposite direction that you went yesterday. you follow close behind, clammy palms wringing together. it almost feels like you're restrained again, with metal cuffs digging into your wrists and binding you, keeping you from struggling or defending yourself.

after descending a staircase and passing a few corners, you reach wherever the guard was taking you. he pushes a door open and ushers you inside, revealing a sizeable shower facility. you send him a cursory glance, confused as he motions for you to step further into the space.

"shower." he mutters, standing by the door. you wordlessly turn to the showers, then back to him.

"do you mind?" you ask, nodding towards the door. "i'd like a little privacy. it's not like i can tunnel my way out."

he shakes his head at first, refusing your request, until you decide to do the same, silently staring at him. a beat passes between you until he spins around, grumbling something along the lines of "hurry up," and exits the room. once the door slams shut behind him, you let out a relieved breath and walk over to one of the many stalls.

you scan the area before carefully undressing, paying close attention so as to not mess up your bandages or strain any of your healing injuries. you quickly dive past the thin curtain and toss your clothes over the curtain rod.

a string of curses fall from your lips when you twist the knob and cold water pours out of the shower head, prickling like ice against your skin. cleaning yourself up whilst protecting your bandages is a difficult task, but you manage to keep them relatively dry. you were in need of a fresh set, anyway. grains of sand and dust leftover from al-mazrah is washed down the drain, and as you start to adjust to the freezing temperature, some of your muscle aches follow suit.

a few minutes of relief pass by as you try to relax, though the bliss is short-lived when you remember your conversation from yesterday. you hate the thought of listening to makarov of all people, but did he have a point? are you truly just as bad as him, even with good intentions being your motivation?

you're well aware of what your job entails. as captain price so bluntly puts it: we get dirty, and the world stays clean. you know that some missions leave a sour taste in your mouth and a doubt in your mind. are you truly doing the right thing? can you do better? is there a way to save everyone?

as you shut off the water and attempt to dry off with a clean towel left on a small bench nearby, you realize that you're giving makarov exactly what he wants. he brought up the topic with the intent of messing with your head. he's trying to break you - for whatever reason, you're not sure. all you know is that you can't give up. you have to stay strong for the team.

you pull your clothes back on, nose scrunching at the uncomfortable feeling of damp gauze sticking to your skin. the guards seemed to bounce between civility and cruelty depending on the moment; perhaps you can catch someone in a good mood and request a replacement.

the door swings open and you jolt, spinning around to face the intruder. the man from earlier is standing in the doorway, a look of disinterest evident even through his balaclava. "you are done, yes?"

clearly he isn't the person to ask, you think, following him into the corridor. he leads you back down the same path as earlier, through winding halls and up a set of stairs, stopping once you arrive at the cell you call home. you keep an eye out for anyone along the way who looks to be doing well, searching for a person to seek help from.

no one catches your attention, leaving you only one option: the guard currently locking the door behind you.

"uh– can i ask you a question?" you turn around to look at him, wrapping your hands around the iron bars. he sends a small glare in your direction, but pauses nonetheless.

"what?" he murmurs, standing up straight.

you lift your arms, showing off the damp and gradually loosening bandages. "any chance i can get these changed?"

his eyes flit down to your arms, then back to your face. he sighs, heavy and deep, and grumbles out a reply. "i will get the doctor."

with that, he leaves your sight, lifting a hand to his radio and saying something that you can't understand. "should've agreed to those fucking russian lessons from price," you mumble, staggering across the room and sitting on the bed while picking at your loose gauze.

it feels like an hour passes by before you hear someone coming down the hall again. by this point, you were assuming that the guard had forgotten about you.

you sit up from your slumped position against the metal frame and are immediately greeted by a new person on the other side of the door. an older man, nicely dressed and carrying a heavy bag that you fear will topple him over, regarding you with a grin that feels out of place in this shithole.

"you must be petra," he starts, pushing the door open and letting himself inside. he keeps his distance, both hands visible and wrapped around the handle of the bag in front of his body. "doctor tarkovsky." he continues, introducing himself. you nod, watching closely as he approaches you and places his bag on the bed next to you. the chair is dragged over, much like the other day, and he sits.

"the work you did... you saved my life, doctor." you mutter, allowing him to take one of your arms into his gentle hold. he hums in reply, taking great care in undoing the dressings.

"спасибо, but it was not me that saved you." he chuckles softly, eyes briefly lifting from your arm to meet your gaze. "the commander was responsible for that. by the time you arrived here and into my care, he had managed to stabilize you."

he mumbles something to himself about "his military days" while dropping his gaze back down to your newly exposed skin. your eyes follow his, and you wince at the sight of burn marks and stitched lacerations. a cold breeze enters into the room through the window and stings as it sweeps over you, making you clench your hand into a tight fist.

"the commander? you mean makarov?" you ask, forcing yourself to look away and stare at the wall behind the doctor. the same man that put you here is the one that kept you alive. go figure. you glare holes into a random brick, trying to make sense of it. based on the few interactions that you've had with him, as well as the many things that price had to say, that kindness seems out of character.

the fact that he hasn't tortured you to the brink of insanity is odd enough.

"yes, he demanded that i give you the best treatment. said he wanted you alive and in good condition." the doctor rummages through the bag next to you and begins to clean your wounds and apply new dressings, deft hands making quick work of the process. you remain silent as he wraps your arm in a new set of bandages, waiting for him to finish.

you finally speak once he's halfway through rewrapping your other arm. "is he always so... touchy?" you murmur, almost a whisper.

"touchy?" he repeats the word.

"i think i pissed him off yesterday," you say, tongue darting out to wet your chapped lips. "ended up slammed against a wall. is he always so quick to anger?"

after securing the bandages on your arm, the doctor leans back and shakes his head. "commander makarov is usually the calmest person in a conversation," he replies with a surprised huff. "whatever you said or did must have struck a nerve, made him lose his temper. even the soldiers working under him struggle to do such a thing."

you furrow your brow at him. he waves off your befuddlement and gets started on treating your other injuries - namely, the large gash on your side and the burns on your back. as he's loosely wrapping your back in gauze, he makes another comment.

"it could be that you angered him, rather than what you did."

"i angered him?" you parrot back to him, craning your neck to look at him over your shoulder. the doctor nudges you forward again and hums affirmatively.

yet another thing that doesn't make any sense, you think. besides your affiliation with the one-four-one, there's nothing about you that should stand out to a man like makarov. you don't possess any top secret intel or really hold any importance to anyone outside of your team; so, why is he treating you so strangely? is it a game he's playing, trying to mess with his real enemy, the captain?

are you merely a pawn, a bargaining chip between two forces much bigger than yourself? makarov is dangling your life like bait, hoping to catch a better prize. you squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath, considering your options.

makarov would only hold onto you for one reason. drawing out captain price. that means price is alive, at least to makarov. if you stay here, you might be able to confirm this plan for yourself. however, if you can escape and deliver all the intel you've collected so far, you could prevent the plan from advancing any further. no matter which option you choose, rotting away in this prison cell won't help.

as kind as the doctor is, he's still one of makarov's men. you can't trust him. you're on your own.

"so, is it going to scar?" you inquire with a smile, fixing your shirt after he pulls away. he moves to gather his things, reaching into his bag and handing you a dose of painkillers.

he sighs and sends you another smile of his own. "the burns aren't deep enough, thankfully, and the lacerations shouldn't scar so long as they're properly cared for. you are very lucky."

"guess i am. thank you, again."

you swallow down the pills - dry, much to your chagrin - and give him a small wave as he exits the room, the iron door closing behind him with a soft clunk. the guard from earlier reappears to lock it moments later, leaving you trapped in the cell once more.

⋆⋆⋆

another five days pass by, and you mentally curse whatever higher power put you here. your routine remains largely unchanged: at roughly seven o' clock, one of the guards stops by to take you to the showers. by seven-thirty, the doctor arrives to change your bandages. you're given your only meal around noon and left to your own devices until eight in the evening, when the doctor arrives to change your bandages again.

you are slowly beginning to heal, at least. the lack of nutrition was stunting the process, but according to the doctor, you were still on the mend. it won't be long until you can get the stitches taken out.

you've spent several of these past one-hundred-and-twenty hours wondering if that's what makarov is waiting for. he wants you alive to torture, to indulge in breaking something fixed by his own hand. maybe the doctor is in on the plan. you wouldn't be surprised to discover that he's reporting your healing process to makarov, giving him a countdown of sorts.

as you rest on the cold, hard stone floor, with your back propped up against the side of the bed, tossing a rubber ball that you pocketed at the wall, you question if your paranoia is getting the better of you.

the rubber ball rolls across the ground after you throw it at the wall. it starts to come back to you, before bouncing off the edge of your boot and heading towards the door. you lazily follow it with your eyes, until you notice a person standing at the other side of the bars, their gaze transfixed on you.

it's a man wearing an outfit similar to the doctor's, though you can easily tell that he's substantially younger. in his late thirties to early forties, you estimate. he carefully kicks the ball out of his way after entering the room. you watch him like a hawk, an uneasy feeling washing over you.

"i'll be handling your care today." he announces, plopping his similarly-designed supply bag on the mattress. you pull yourself up to stand and dust yourself off, taking a healthy step back from him.

"something happen with doctor tarkovsky?" you ask as the younger man rummages through his bag and slips on a pair of latex gloves. he shakes his head, not even bothering to look at you, and continues searching through his supplies.

"tarkovsky is busy," he responds, motioning for you to sit. you hesitate for a second, but ultimately decide to shake off the nerves and follow his orders. "i'm going to start with your back today." he adds. you nod, moving to face away from him and lift your shirt up.

he's silent while replacing the gauze, and you're not sure whether you prefer that or talking. his touch is slightly less gentle, which you chalk it up to less experience. eventually, he moves on to the gash on your side, settling in the normal chair with an expression that you find hard to decipher.

your unease is suddenly validated as he cleans the stitches. his unoccupied hand comes to rest on your thigh, just above your knee, catching your attention. your eyes fall from the wall to his hand, then to the open bag at your side. laying near the top of it is a scalpel - small, but lethal in the right hands. you clear your throat and shift, bouncing your knee under his hold, testing the waters.

instead of removing his hand, he slips it just barely higher. you squint, gnawing at the inside of your cheek, debating on acting now or waiting a little longer. maybe he doesn't realize it.

as his hand slides higher, though, gloved fingertips digging into the plush of your thigh, that notion goes out the window. you slowly lower your hand closest to the bag and place it on the mattress next to it. the younger doctor pulls back, examining his work, his thumb rubbing languid circles into your skin. you act while he's distracted.

with trained proficiency, you grab the scalpel from the top of the pile and shove the man forward, slicing across his neck in one swift motion. he stumbles backwards, reaching up to desperately grasp at his throat as he chokes on the blood pouring from the open wound.

"don't fucking touch me again," you seethe, fixing your shirt and holding the scalpel in a white-knuckled grip. the sounds of him tripping over the chair and falling to the ground alerts the guards stationed in the corridor, who immediately rush through the door with their guns drawn and pointed at you.

they're shouting at you, but you can't make out what they're saying over the blood pounding in your ears. you turn away from the dying man and stare them down, unmoving from your spot in the middle of the room.

after a brief standoff, the guards suddenly look over their shoulders and shuffle away from each other, revealing a familiar face. one you haven't seen in almost a week, and assumed you wouldn't see for a while longer.

makarov steps to the front of the small group as the ringing in your ears begins to subside. his eyes dart from you to the man lying on the ground, having choked to death shortly before he arrived at the scene. he chuckles, low and controlled, and turns to the guards.

"убрать этот беспорядок," he mutters, waving towards the corpse. the men holster their guns and move past him, lifting the body up and carrying it out. as the group disappears down the hall, you find yourself alone with makarov. the scalpel slips from your fingers and clatters against the floor, pulling his focus back to you.

"well? are you going to punish me for that?" you ask plainly, the pool of red still visible in your peripheral vision.

"should i?" he counters, casually sauntering across the room. his gaze flits from yours to your cheek, which you soon realize is wet with the man's blood.

you shrug, shoulders drooping. "i killed one of your men. most people would punish a prisoner for less."

he wipes the blood off your cheek with his forefinger and huffs softly, seemingly pleased with the situation. it's only now that you notice his slightly disheveled appearance; his white dress shirt is untucked and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms that are covered in a light layer of dirt. minor cuts and bruises bloom on his skin, resembling self-defense wounds.

"i could never expect a member of the one-four-one to accept capture quietly," makarov remarks, picking the chair up off the floor. "i'm surprised it took you this long, if anything. i was expecting to receive reports by the second day."

he raps his knuckles against the seat twice, urging you to sit. you end up mirroring your first interaction after he sits on the bed across from you, elbows resting on top of his knees.

you grab a set of cleaning wipes from the bag forgotten at the foot of the bed and offer them to him. "so, i'm assuming you're not here to share the fun story behind those obvious self-defense wounds?" you tilt your head to the side, regarding him with a sarcastic smile.

"like i said in our prior conversation," he takes the pack from your outstretched hand and haphazardly wipes his arms clean, the lack of care enough to make you inwardly flinch at the potential pain. "once traitors are found, they are dealt with."

"seems like they got to you first," you snort.

besides a pointed glare, he doesn't dignify your comment with a response. instead, he takes your arm into his hold, removing the old bandages with almost the same level of indifference that he treated his own injuries with.

"ow." you grunt, a bit overdramatic. in truth, his touch isn’t any less gentle than the doctor you just killed.

"stop complaining." he responds bluntly.

"maybe be more careful, then." you snap, tugging your arm back. you're being intentionally difficult, pushing his buttons, but you deserve to be a little shitty to the man holding you hostage.

makarov grabs your elbow, one of the few relatively uninjured parts of your arm, and yanks you forward, until your free hand slams down onto the space next to him to catch yourself from falling. he leans in, your noses nearly touching, and sneers.

"this is the extent of my kindness, petra." he tightens his hold when you try to create some distance, locking you in place. "do not tempt me to withdraw it." he whispers, dark eyes boring into yours.

you swallow back a whimper as his grip tightens again, blunt nails digging into healing skin, nodding in reply. he releases you a moment later and resumes his previous actions, quickly yet effectively rewrapping your arm. you grudgingly decide to cooperate for the other set, making it go by much faster than the last.

"tarkovsky said you're usually pretty calm," you mumble as he secures the bandages in place. "is it the one-four-one that frustrates you so easily? or, am i just a special case, hm?"

makarov, clearly interested in continuing the running theme since your first meeting, does not respond. you really should get used to it. you say nothing more as he stands up and grabs the discarded supply bag, walking towards the door. he pauses, holding the door open, and you nearly miss the words said to you over his shoulder.

"anyone else would be dead already."

translations:

спасибо (spasibo) - thank you

убрать этот беспорядок (ubrat' etot besporyadok) - clean up this mess

taglist: @sofasoap, @roosterr, @rohansregret, @lonesome-doves, @thorrsexual, @miss-nob0dy, @woodeelf, @fbs-fc-ur-mommy, @soap-mactavish, @itsyellow

⋆ feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the taglist! (18+ only please <;3)

[anonmousegosqueak]

Okay so first I saw this guy and he kinda looked like Makarov, right? Not a super strong connection but whatever. And he had these tattoos, specifically *wings* on his back. And obviously we've seen Makarov's back, he's got a big ass tattoo and everything, but we know it's not wings.

So I was thinking about a whole poetic "oh magic tattoo or smth, his wings whither away the more evil he does, killing Soap was the last feather, yada yada". But here's the issue-

Makarov is really evil? Like those wings would be corrupted waaay before he gave Soap a new head piercing.

So that's when I thought of a... Better candidate >:)

Hadir.

Hadir who felt the first feather turn as he and his sister killed that Russian who took his family away.

Hadir who's once beautiful wings slowly withered every time he took a life after that.

But it was worth it, wasn't it? He was fighting to protect his sister- he was doing what he had to. It may have been a sin, but it was a sin for good. He got dirty so his country could one day become clean.

Hadir who was never meant to be pure.

He could never have that life, not after what happened.

He needed to do this- it was his only choice after all.

Hadir who felt his last pure feather turn when he released the gas.

Even with his attention on Farah and Alex, making sure they didn't die, a small part of his brain knew. He knew he could never go back.

He could only leave his sister, hoping she would understand.

Farah who stood over her brother's corpse, watched the life drain from his eyes. His once beautiful wings were now wilted and burnt, shriveled like heated plastic. The boy she knew, the man she saw grow, was dead.

Farah would have to spend the rest of her life wondering if maybe- just maybe, if she had seen her brother, would she have been able to stop him? To fix his wings and help him fly? Maybe then things would have been different.

She could only ever question, never getting answers.

Wow- this isn't very good! :) too bad I don't care, I love Hadir and I need more content about him. He's such a sad character, and he doesn't get enough love and character study.

Anyways, Gaz smut next post lmao (I do not care about tone, I'm a silly billy who writes what I write)

[elovin]

I figure the team would begin to suspect that ember isnt human after some time (price has highly suspected/known since the roba incident) .

But they wouldn’t find out until the fated mission where soap was supposed to die. Not that they knew that.

Instead of shooting soap with a gun he had taken some kind of vial. It transformed him into a monster. Not a hybrid. A full blown monster. He was able to shoot sharp and deadly spikes at the pair. Some kind of poison on them left soap weakened and unable to transform.

A spike was headed straight for his head. But ember took it instead. The poison should have kicked in already. She had already been grazed once.

But wait…. The wound was gone.

In that moment she proceeded to transform into her manticore body and take on makarov. She had fully intended to kill him. She had him where she wanted and was playing with her food basically.

Until the rational part of her brain remembered that she needed an antidote for soap.

So she made a deal to let him go in exchange for the antidote.

Which she managed to get soap to drink before he passed out.

But her nerves were on fire, the adrenaline still peaking. She couldnt transform back to do first aid. The best she could do was sit with him while they waited for the rest of the team to come.

Which was how they found the pair. Ember in her manticore form curled around soap. When she saw them she got up and started pacing back and forth as they worked. It wasnt until price came over and began soothing her did she managed to turn back into her mostly human form.

With her adrenaline spiking so much and her mind stressed out she couldnt hide all of her features that made her obviously not human. Such as the tail, the wings, and her claws.

Price kept petting her for a moment after she turned back even briefly earning a purr before they had to move out.

Back at base there was a team meeting (minus soap who was in recovery) shortly after arriving. Where ember had to explain why she hid what she was. She would explain it to soap as well once she woke up.

But it was after this that they noticed a change in her behavior. She finally let soap scent her without complaint (He swore he could feel her purring but she denied it), she accepted one of price’s trinkets, she let gaz build her a nest, and last but not least ghost.

She was reading a book when one of his shadowy tendrils appeared. Instead of shooing it away she sighed and just began reading her book out loud for him to hear.

[annaphoenix1994]

Sound the Bugle

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

»»-------¤-------««

Desperation. 

Pure desperation coursed through Ghost's veins with anxiety and eagerness - eagerness to kill Makarov's men that were hijacking the plane. He wanted to call Kiera's cell phone so bad - to hear her voice for what a final time could be. Time and time again, he was hesitant on if he should or not and focus on getting to her and how to handle the situation, but he knew he'd regret it if he didn't make the call to her to at least hear her voice, even if it was for the last time. 

Pulling his phone from his pocket, his hands trembled as he tapped on Kiera's name, his heart breaking at the sight of the photo he chose of her as the contact photo, a brief image of it being a memorial photo if things didn't go to plan. 

The phone rang four times before he heard white noise from the other side. 

"Hello?" She whispered, her voice calm. 

"Kiera, what's going on? Are you okay?" 

"Simon, I-I can't talk long," She sighed. He knew she was refraining from a panic, but also knew that she and Laswell were compiling a plan. 

And she wasn't going to go down without a fight. 

"There's two armed men on this plane. Laswell is able to decipher what they're saying. Definitely Russian. She did quick work and found out that they have a hideout in Al Mazrah-"

"Al Mazrah?" 

"Yes. We think that's where it's going. One pilot is out and the other is at gunpoint. They turned this plane around. I don't know what's going to happen. I suggested taking them out before they got to the cockpit, but that didn't go over well. They're not letting us get up or anything." She explained, a whimper threatening to leave her lips. She tried to stay calm for Simon's sake, but they both were in a panic. 

For the first time, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. See what happens when you're selfish? The ones you love get taken from you. 

He immediately blamed himself, knowing that none of this would've happened if he would've just pushed her away, but she made it so hard for him to stay away, easily letting himself get consumed within the embrace of love. Although he blamed himself, he never once regretted falling in love with her. 

Simon didn't know what to say, nor could he find the words as he knew if he comforted her, he was afraid it was a lie to tell her everything would be okay when it couldn't be - he couldn't do that to her. 

"Do you remember that AirTag I got you for your keys?" She asked, her voice in a low tone. 

"Yeah?" 

"Do you remember how to track it?" 

"Yes."

"Just in case they take our phones, I'm going to get the tag from your bag and put it in my pocket so that you know where I end up...whether I be alive or...you know." 

"Don't talk like that, love," He sighed, a harsh thud of his heart dropping at the gripping reality that plane hijacks never go well. "We're going to come and get you. Please don't try anything. Just," He huffed. "Just do as they say. If they turned the plane around and kept a pilot for their advantage, surely they'll make him land wherever they want." 

"Laswell thinks they're going to Al Mazrah. She did her typical C.I.A research and was able to match the route." 

"Then that's where we're going to go," He replied gruffly, Kiera hearing Simon call for Price to tell the pilot to get on a route towards Al Mazrah. "Where's Teeter?" 

"In the row behind me. Everyone is quiet - one is standing at the tail and one is guarding the cockpit while the leader is in the cockpit with the pilot." She continued to explain. 

"Love, listen to me: don't try to take this situation on your own. Just do as they say and we'll do the rest."

"I will-"

"Promise me." 

"I promise, Simon." 

"Все телефоны! Сейчас! (All phones! Now!)"

Simon's heart raced with rage when he heard the twisted Russian words from the other side of the line, wishing he and his team were there to handle the situation instead of the isolation he felt when he couldn't do anything about the it - feeling as if it were borderline torture to know that his connection with Kiera was about to be cut short, leaving him in a state of constant worry until they compiled their next plan. 

"Keep tracking me, Simon. I have it on me. Your keys were in my purse." She began to babble, making the conversation quick. 

"Don't worry, love," He assured her, his nervous tone matching hers. "I love you." 

He heard her whimper, "I love you too."

Simon stared down at the screen as the lines were still connected, neither he nor Kiera wanting to be the one to hang up first as if it could be the last time they had a connection with each other. 

»»-------¤-------««

Simon kept close tabs on Kiera's location, his leg shaking impatiently as well as thankful that the plane was still in the sky instead of scattered across the land. Soap kept close to Simon as worry consumed him as well, concerned for the wellbeing of Kiera, Laswell, and Teeter especially. 

"What's the status?" Price asked, his tone too of worry. 

"Still moving. Laswell is still solid as a rock. Looks like they're heading towards Syria."

"They're heading towards Al Mazrah. Gaz, see what airports you can find that're closeby." 

"On it, Cap." 

Price took notice of Simon's anxious shake of his leg and desperate breaths, knowing he wasn't in the mindset he needed to be in for a battle that was sure to happen now that Kiera was involved. He sighed, taking a seat next to Simon and pressing his palm against his shoulder, the muscle under Simon's uniform feeling like a rock. "May I?" He asked, opening his palm in reference to the cell phone held within Simon's tight grasp. 

He was hesitant to give the phone to Price, not wanting to release the only grasp he had on Kiera's live location, afraid that it was the only thing he would have left of her. "I don't mean this in a crude way, but you need to get your head right, Simon. We have a big job to do coming up and I don't want you to get yourself in a bind-"

"I'm not," He grumbled, releasing his grip on his phone for Price to look at the screen. "I'm ready to get on the ground." 

"We all are, but I know the thoughts going through your head. You're going to go in with rage. We have to think this through, Simon." 

"Oh, I am," He hissed. "This is all on a new level now. I won't be able to live with myself if something happens to them." 

"That it is, but if I may, let me keep track of this to give you time to compose yourself before we land," Price assured him, his advice seeming to go through one ear and out the other as Simon only had one thing in mind - getting to her. "How are you able to track her?" 

"Because she thought of something I never would've thought of," He scoffed. "I bought one of those AirTags for my keys because I always misplace them. She took it and put it in her pocket just in case they seized their phones. They did just that, but they won't know about it."

Price chuckled, "Smart lass." 

"Too smart for me." Simon shook his head. 

"C.I.A shit," Gaz chuckled. "Pence said that the closest airstrip is two-hundred klicks out at the Syrian Air Base. They know we're coming and have men on standby with vehicles." 

"Great," Price nodded, looking down at the phone screen to refresh Kiera's location. "They've stopped." 

"Stopped?" 

Price nodded, pinching at the screen to zoom in on the location, "Looks like an airport or base for commuter planes, not commercial." 

"So they're on the ground?" 

"Seems like it. Location is moving it seems." 

Fuck, I need to get on the ground now, he thought impatiently, desperately trying to get focused for the task at hand. 

»»-------¤-------««

A wave of silence fell throughout the armored vehicle, Ghost sitting in silence as he was now in full combat mode. Soap sat across from him, slowly loading ammunition into a magazine before wiping the excess residue of lead through his hair, beads of sweat lining his brow as the heat of the desert wasn't welcoming. Price, out of boredom, flicked his lighter, looking into the open flame as if he saw something, his gaze primal. Gaz sat in the same mood as Ghost, ready to fight as soon as his boots hit the ground. 

"They know we're coming." Gaz finally said, breaking the silence. 

"Is her location still showing the same?" Price asked Ghost. 

He huffed, looking down at his phone to refresh the signal, grimacing as his reception was weak, a few moments passing by before it showed the same location as before. "Yes." 

Price nodded, "This is a hostage situation. We'll mark a perimeter and go from there. We get eyes-on and regroup." 

"Aye." Soap sighed, worried about the status of Teeter. 

»»-------¤-------««

Ghost clutched his rifle as the morning sun seared over the desert, walking between a rock wall that led to a cliff side, seeing a makeshift base of two shipping containers, a helicopter, many trucks, a tank, and nearly two dozen men. 

"We have the missile on standby." One of the Marines spoke up that was sent with Ghost to assist in creating a perimeter. 

"We're not using a missile until I know there's no civilians." Ghost scoffed. 

"A few civilian casualties doesn't equal the amount of destruction these guys are going to cause, man-"

"Would you be saying that if one of those civilians was your pregnant fiancé?" Ghost scoffed, turning to glare at him from over his shoulder, seeing him look to the ground out of defeat as he couldn't utter a response. "Didn't think so."

He returned to look through the binoculars, watching the helicopter land before a group of men exited the aircraft. 

"Finding out new shit every bloody time." Ghost grumbled in response, wishing Kiera told him everything about every mission she had ever been on, but he didn't blame her - even though he had told her about his past, he purposely didn't give her every explicit detail in order to save himself from thinking about it, thinking that it would be better for her if she just didn't know everything for her sake. 

Urzikstan, Ghost thought, the troubling thoughts from Kiera's experience there pinging his chest, suddenly afraid that it was going to happen again, wishing he could take off himself and lead the mission on his own. I trust Price. He won't let it happen and neither will I.