#call of duty angst

[stargirlstabber]

imagine the task force 141 falsely accusing you of being a traitor to the team. knowing your biggest fear, they use it against you. water. water, where your feet can't touch the ground. water you can't see through. at first it started with waterboarding. then slowly but surely they threatened to drop you into the pool. into the dark, deep pool. even john, who was like a father to you before, didn't help you. no. not at all. actually, he was the one who stepped into the water fully clothed, dragging your crying and squirming form with him into the bloodcurling liquid. your tears blended in with it while you we're screaming, practically begging that you were the wrong one. that you'd never do something like that. but they just stood at the edge of the pool, watching their captain almost drowning your terrified self. how would they react, when they get the information that you really weren't the one...?

[criminalamnesia]

the 141 x reader fic that you did was so yummy!!! pls make them suffer the wrath of reader and make 141 realise how much they need them when they leave,

your work is so amazing btw and your way with words is simply ✨chef’s kiss✨ (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

thank you!! here’s part 3 :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

angry didn’t even begin to describe how you felt as you slammed the door to price’s office behind you.

you were tense, muscles taut and poised to fight. your fists clenched at your sides, blunt nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. your jaw was clenched, teeth grinding together as you resisted the urge to march back in there and unleash your fury.

no. not like this. not when you weren’t a hundred percent. not when they would still look at you like you were a wounded doe, stumbling around on broken legs.

in the back of your mind, you can hear that psychologist saying ‘this anger will eat you alive if you let it. you need to let it out somehow.’

you inhaled, unclenched your fists, and made up your mind. you pulled the iv from your arm, wincing at the pinch of the needle.

you left the iv pole standing there as you made your way to the gym.

the gym was empty when you arrived, which made sense for this time of day. many would be occupied by drills or in the mess hall. others would be sleeping off long nights. you had the place to yourself, and you were grateful for the absence of watchful eyes and sweetened tongues.

you were tired of those who knew nothing acting like they knew something. of those who apologized or asked if you were okay. word spread like wildfire around base, and the subject of your ‘betrayal’ had been front-page news since the start of the witch hunt.

the gym door clicked shut behind you, and you surveyed the room. you knew your doctor would have a fit once you returned to the infirmary, and that she probably wouldn’t let you out alone again, but you didn’t really care.

you needed to let off some steam, and the best way you knew how was with your fists. either you start swinging at a bag or at a certain someone’s face. the bag won’t be condescending, and that makes your choice easy.

you approach one of the bright red punching bags in the corner. it’s scratched and taped from where someone had busted it open. scars that didn’t go away, that wouldn’t— just like yours.

you huffed. it didn’t do any good to start feeling sorry for yourself. you hadn’t done anything wrong. your team had.

you stretch your arms out in front of you, fingers interlocking to pop your knuckles. you catch sight of your severed finger, still healing. they’d recovered what had been chopped off, but hadn’t been able to save it.

just another permanent reminder, something to make sure you didn’t dare forget. you didn’t think you ever would regardless.

you shook out your hands and rolled your shoulders back. fists raised, you angled yourself towards the bag. feet spread, shoulders squared, thumb tucked under your fingers instead of inside. a stance that was second nature after years of sparring and hand-to-hand drills.

the bag was firm when your fist connected with it. you would have been lying if you said it didn’t hurt. you punched with the other hand— same results. the time you’d spent confined to an infirmary bed had done a number on you. muscles had atrophied, bones had weakened. the leg you’d suffered a bone-deep cut to shook under your weight.

you didn’t care. you kept punching, your breathing picking up as your emotions guided you. sweat dripped into your eyes and rolled down your back. you felt weak, physically and mentally. you hated feeling this way, and so you punched harder.

“slow down,” a voice grumbled from behind you.

you ignored him, continuing to punch the bag. you hadn’t heard the door open, nor heard the sound of him approaching, but you would have been surprised if you did.

simon always had a penchant for sneaking up on people, intentionally or not.

“gonna pass out if y’don’t stop,” he said after a minute. you could feel his eyes on you. you ignored him again.

you didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing there with his arms crossed, eyes full of something unreadable.

“stop,” he says firmly, and you sense his movement as he surges forward. his hand lands heavily on your shoulder, pulling you back from the punching bag. you heave in a breath before spinning around and punching him in the nose.

simon stumbles back a step, eyes widened slightly. for someone who prided himself on being so observant, he clearly didn’t see that coming. it made you feel the tiniest bit smug that you’d caught him off guard for once.

you dropped your hands to your knees then, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of nausea washed over you. damn the bastard, he had been right. you shouldn’t have even been in here in the first place, let alone exerted yourself as much as you had.

your hands were shaking as you tried to pull yourself together. you opened your eyes to see drops of blood on the gym floor, by your feet. you had split your knuckles open.

there were also drops of blood at simon’s feet. you looked up then, slowly straightening your posture. he’d removed his mask, his face bare as he stared at you. blood dripped from his nose.

“gonna have to hit harder than that if y’want to break it,” he says, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“did you follow me in here?”

“no.” he says, and you’re giving a mirthless laugh.

“oh, please. im sure price sent you, yeah? you’ve always been his little lap dog. he says ‘jump’ and you say ‘how high,’ isn’t that right, lieutenant?”

your tone is tense, angry. you throw his title in his face, seeing as he’d been so quick to remind you of yours back in price’s office.

simon watches you, and you want to tackle him. he had always been quiet, always stoic. you’d been with him for years, but you still didn’t think you’d broken down all of his walls.

he was so good at masking his thoughts, his feelings. you weren’t. soap had always called you an open book. whenever you were mad or upset, everyone knew it.

no one knew anything about simon unless he wanted them to. it drove you mad then, and it was sure as hell driving you mad now.

“you need to get back to the infirmary,” he tells you. he wipes the back of his hand under his nose, smearing red across his skin. for a moment, you want to chastise him, reach up and wipe the remnants from his face.

you quickly shake that thought from your head. what is it they say— old habits die hard?

these habits would die if you had to strangle each one with your bare hands. anything you harbored for the four men on your team, for the one you’d called yours, was dead and gone.

“fuck off,” you tell him.

“why are you so damn stubborn?” he says then, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him start to crack since everything had happened. emotions are beginning to leak through his stony exterior, whether he means them to or not.

“you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. none of you do,” you say, and you take a step forward then, eyes blazing as you stare up at him. “not after what you did.”

he doesn’t speak for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. his eyes never leave yours.

“it shouldn’t have happened like that.” he tells you. you scoff.

“like that? you mean the four of you torturing me? tying me up and mutilating me like I was just another fucking target?” your voice was rising as you took another step forward, shoving a finger into his chest.

“if I’d treated you like another target,” he said, tone even. “you would’ve been dead.”

“so you showed me mercy, is that it?” you bared your teeth, a hollow laugh escaping your throat. “oh, thank you simon. I really felt that fucking mercy when you cut off my finger, and when you cut through layers of skin to get to bone.”

you inhaled before continuing. “I should be grateful then, right? is that what you want from me? for me to recognize your fucking ‘mercy’ and take you back? take you all back?”

he just stands there. you can see his jaw clench, but he makes no move to speak. you find it funny that he hasn’t even tried to apologize. john, your ever prideful captain, had swallowed his failure and pleaded for your forgiveness.

johnny and kyle would surely have done the same if they’d had the chance to speak to you, even if they only had a minute.

but simon? simon doesn’t. he doesn’t outwardly admit his wrongs. he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t seem sorry, even. you don’t know what’s going on inside his head, but you find yourself not really caring to know.

the fact that he can’t bring himself to admit, in blunt words, that he had astronomically fucked up and that he felt even the slightest bit of remorse, told you everything you needed to know.

cold, stoic ghost. you hadn’t been afraid of him when you’d first joined the squad, and you weren’t afraid of him now.

but back then, you’d wanted to break down those stone walls of his. you’d wanted to be someone he felt safe around, someone who knew him inside and out.

now, you’re packing your time with him into a box in your mind and dumping it into the trash. simon riley means nothing to you now.

“take your mercy and shove it up your ass,” you tell him. you step back and drop your hand, your eyes still locked on his.

“and by the way,” you say as you start towards the door. he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move an inch. it’s as if he’s rooted to the spot.

“you should’ve just killed me.”

author’s note:

not really sure how I feel about this one tbh. I have plans for a part four, but I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be making this series.

and as for simon— I want to write an extra part about his thoughts/feelings about everything. let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in!

anyways, let me know your thoughts please :) (I honestly may end up deleting this and rewriting it when I’m not tired lol)

taglist: @preeyansha @igotmajordaddyissues @nanatheoaktree @aesthetic0cherryblossom @oceanicexolorer @soph121212 @liv2post @cupid-eclipse @angels-despair18 @k4marina

[romanticintheory]

Hello!!!! I was wondering if you could write an angst with Ghost/Simon where the reader was too clingy after having a bad day and he lashed out on her but he didn't think anything of it because the next day the reader was acting normal. He only noticed after a few weeks when reader became more distant and quiet. Feel free to ignore if it's too weird or you don't like it!!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

this one is dedicated to all the ones who were hurt and never got that apology. hope this alleviates the pain.

simon "ghost" riley x gn!reader || masterlist || request rules

-there was no one specific reason as to why today turned out to be a bad day. it just was.

-from accidentally burning yourself trying to make breakfast after waking up late to having to deal with the most insufferable customers, it just wasn't your day today.

-but it was okay, because you had simon to return to when everything was said and done.

-the frown on your face immediately softens the moment you see him walk through the door to your shared home. as soon as he pulls his mask and boots off, you make your way toward him and engulf him in a tight hug.

-you are painfully (but understandably) unaware of the thin veil of his patience and the frustration that had been brewing within him in the past few hours. he half-heartedly returns the embrace.

-"how was your day, si?" you ask him gently.

-"fine," he responds shortly, hoping there isn't more to the conversation.

-even after you pull away from him, you trail behind him as he moves around the house. this wasn't irregular behavior from either of you. simon wasn't usually the most talkative person in the room, anyway, but he loved to hear your voice. that was one of the things he loved about the two of you together; you filled the space he couldn't.

-today, though, was different. he was pissed off at all different kinds of people. for some reason, couldn't bring himself to tell you that he was having a bad day and needed some space, especially because it was evident you were having a bad one yourself.

-so when he turned on his heel after listening to your rambles for as much as he could take and lashed out at you, he tried not to think about the unbearable amount of guilt seeping into his veins.

-"would you just stop clinging to me for five minutes? god, 's like i can't get away from you or your constant fucking talking!"

-you had heard stories, mostly from simon, about the kind of man he could be when pushed to his limit. mostly, it was of violent, physical acts when it came to work or protecting the ones he loved. other times, he would tell you about when he'd lash out at others just like he did to you, now, and he always told it to you with a quiet fear. there was an unspoken meaning to him telling you about the times he's acted out: i don't want to do the same to you. i don't want to hurt you.

-but here he was, towering over you with a coldness in his eyes and a dryness in his throat from the sheer volume of his words.

-averting your gaze from his, you let out a meek, "'m sorry," and watch as he slams the door in front of your face.

-when he slinks into bed next to your sleeping form later that night, ridden with shame and guilt, he misses the tear-stained face hidden from him. after his outburst, you felt like all of the energy in your body had been taken away from you and retreated to bed early. you cried on and off for hours.

-you always thought you had a clinging problem. it was an insecurity you carried with you starting from childhood. friends would become acquaintances and family would keep you at arms-length. after years of believing the issue was you, simon walked into your life and told you different.

-if you stopped talking because you thought he stopped listening and was uninterested, he'd always turn back to you and genuinely ask why you stopped talking. whenever you apologized for hugging him for too long or asking to spend time with him for the third time that week, he'd always tilt his head at you and say in that low, sincere voice, "but i love you?"

-for all those reasons, you tried to give him the benefit of the doubt despite how much he hurt you. so, when he tries to bring it up the next morning, you do your best to brush it off. he was having a bad day. that was all. no need to make a fuss.

-"listen, love," he calls to you as you pop your piece of toast out of the toaster. "about last night-"

-completely disregarding his words, you look at the clock and stuff your phone into your pocket. "it's fine. honestly, simon," you tell him with the best smile you could muster. "i'm gonna be late. i'll see you tonight."

-you were so adamant on getting out as quick as possible that simon had no time to respond. he thought to himself that maybe he was making a bigger deal out of it than you. maybe there were no hard feelings and you were completely fine. after all, he was always overly worried for you, anyway.

-so, when you came home, he didn't mention it. it was as if last night didn't happen, and the two of you were perfectly fine. there were times where simon thought you were being a bit more restrained in your movements or words, but he tried to chalk it up to just him being overly paranoid. you said it was fine, so it was better not to push you on it, right?

-at first, you were doing really good at keeping yourself from overthinking the situation. however, as time went on and you paid more attention to how you acted around your boyfriend, you began to wonder if you were really that clingy.

-as the week progressed, your state of mind would deteriorate. what if it wasn't just a bad day? what if that was what he thought the entire time and was just waiting for the right moment to tell you? had he just been trying to cheer you up about your insecurities the entire time? and if he was, how much of this relationship was even real, then?

-the more you thought about it, the more distant you became. the last thing you wanted to do was make simon feel like he was being suffocated by you. you slowly stopped initiating physical affection with him, restricted talking about your day to a few sentences, and tried to answer simon's questions in one word when possible.

-he notices. of course he notices, it was like a stranger was living where you were supposed to be, and he missed it. he missed you.

-he asks you about your change when you're getting ready for bed, pulling the rest of your nightshirt over your head. despite being exhausted from work and looking like you were sitting out in the wind, he thought you never looked more ethereal than you did now.

-"(y/n)," he said.

-"hm?" you hummed to him, not turning toward his direction. you sat down on the edge of your side of the bed, turning off the lamp at the same time.

-your lack of emotional presence was starting to eat at him. he sat down next to you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight and forcing you to lean toward him.

-"you alright?"

-"yes. why?"

-"i dunno, you just seem..." his eyes tried to find yours, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. "quiet."

-it was then that you looked at him, and it was scary to simon because he couldn't make out the emotion in your expression. there was nothing he could read.

-"isn't that-" you had to pause to try and stabilize your wavering voice. "isn't that what you wanted?"

-there was a tension-filled silence that settled in the room, and for a second you were worried that what you said was somehow incredibly offensive.

-finally, he chokes out, "i'm sorry."

-again, you try to muster up a smile. "it's fine, i already told you. i should've known you wanted space."

-"no."

-"no?"

-"it was my fault," he explains. "how could you 'ave known? i didn't tell you i wasn't in the mood that day, and that's not even considering the way i talked to you. i shouldn't have- nothing excuses what i said to you."

-still, you were convinced you were to blame. "well, i have a history of being clingy, so," you were trying to come up with more excuses for him. for most of your life, you had decided that you were the issue. it couldn't be any other way, right?

-"i know. it's one of the things i love you for," he says quietly. "not to sound cheesy but it's what makes you you, and i don't want you to lose that jus' 'cause i'm still shitty at communication."

-you knew in some capacity he was right. there was no excuse for how he talked to you, but the next words you wanted to say evaded you.

-simon thought about talking some more. instead, he grasped your back with one hand and slid his other underneath your legs, repositioning you on his lap. it was like a silent plea from him, a way of proving that he wanted to be close to you just as much as you wanted to be close to him.

-"you're sure i'm not too clingy?" you ask tentatively.

-"positive," he reassures you, rubbing small circles on your back with his thumb. "you wanna know something?"

-"what?"

-"if i wasn't so fucked up-"

-"you're not fucked up."

-"right." you never let him talk badly about himself. that was something he was still getting used to after all this time. being loved and learning to love himself. "well, if i didn't grow up the way i did and became the person i am, i'd probably be way clingier than you."

-"that's impossible," you deny, unconsciously letting yourself lean into his touch.

-"you don't know how much i want you. if my mind and body would let me, i'd be close to you all the time, showing you the attention you deserve."

-"you give me plenty."

-"agree to disagree," he stops with the circles and pulls you impossibly closer to his body. "but 'm trying. 'm trying to learn to let you love me and to not be afraid to love you. 'm sorry, love. i stopped trying that night, and i think it'll be the death of me."

-you let his words sink in, a thoughtful look on your face.

-"next time you'll tell me, right? what you're thinking?"

-"pinkie promise," he agrees, letting the hand under your legs slide out and raise his pinkie finger toward you.

-in return, you link your pinkie with his to seal the promise, and it feels as though the heavy tension in the air has cleared away.

-"i love you," he says, feeling bold from his previous admission.

-"i love you, too." there's that smile on your face. he never realized until now how he probably couldn't live without it.

-he kisses you on the lips, and for a moment the two of you just stay there in each other's arms, forgiving the past, healing the present, and dreaming of the future together.

[dawnwriterimagines]

Clear Skies

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x PLATONIC!FEM!READER PART 5 of Traitors Among Us

Traitors Among Us Masterlist

Summary: With your resignation approved, Price discovers you've resigned. You head back to begin to pack your life away from Task Force 141.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Silence rung in the Chief Officer's main office, the woman's lips set in a line as she glares down at the mortified brit facing her.

"You did what?" Price couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Having arrived at the administrative building, delivering his mission reports and making his way into Laswell's office. Captain John Price wasn't expecting to receive the surprising news so casually that the woman in front of him had signed off on your resignation, without consoling with him, your Captain.

"I gave her what she wanted, John," Laswell rolled her eyes, sitting in her seat. "I let her go. She was never about to meet with you, and I won't let a soldier like that leave, under my supervision, without some type of severance," she speaks, casually, tapping her spoon of tea along the rim of a porcelain mug. "I do apologize, I was actually preparing a better way to tell you this. Time got away from me, I suppose." Although, Laswell says so unapologetically as she takes her first sip with a hum.

Your now former captain blinks, confused. Then, angered. "Severance?" Price gritted. "She didn't lose her place on the force, Laswell. She's on temporary leave for recovery not discharged--I would've never--"

"Oh, stop it, John," Sweeping away a few locks of hair, Laswell sits back in her chair. "Even if, would it matter? The girl's petrified of you, if she saw you she might actually kill you," she can't help but release a humored hum. "Willing to turn down her pension, her insurance, just to resign in peace. She would've never come to you, and you were foolish to think she'd stay," she laughs this time at the absurdity of it. "She wanted an out," she takes another sip, shrugging. "I gave it to her." She then slides a few papers her way, preparing to continue her paperwork, interrupted for the second time today.

Slamming a hand over the stack of papers, Price can't contain the expression twisting his face, his anger, his grief. "Let her what?! You stripped her of her title, does she know that? There is no lawful resignation without my signature, what've you done?"

"Well, you are in need of a Demolition Operative now, I will say," she speaks, unbothered. "A position, it didn't look like she'd miss, Captain."

"Operative Gray is an integral part of this Task Force, it's not up to you how I handle my team anywhere outside of our missions, Laswell," Price hardly held his tone.

"I seem to remember, under my orders, you handled a particular matter that you gave no pause to," she leans back, a sly smirk barely hidden by the edge of her mug. "Just fine."

Jaw clenching, Price grits his teeth. "The worst mistake I've made on the force."

"No," Laswell interjected. "Your mistake is believing you have any type of authority on this force, that I don't already have."

With a single finger, as Price's hand loosens around her packet, Laswell slides her folders back to her. Standing from her chair, she crosses around the table to her desk, passing John Price with a brush of the shoulder. "Oh John," she spoke, humming a humored sound. "The military is engrained in each member of the force, it's in your blood. It's in hers. She'll be back," she slides the folder into her assortment of documents. "They always are, in one way or another."

"Back to you," Price seethes, silently.

"Well..." Laswell shrugs, calmly. "Just never to Task Force 141," she turns back to Captain Price, leaning against her desk, slipping a file from her desk. "Not like that wasn't the original plan before our informant came clean, was it?"

Wary eyes drift away from the Station Chief, "Well what about Gray?" he swallows. "I can't allow her to leave without everything she deserves from her service."

Laswell crosses her legs, humming. "We'll hold off on that for now," before Price can interject, she holds up a new folder, stamped classified. "You and your team have some things to discuss."

Brows furrowed, Price reluctantly takes the folder, opening it. Eyes widening at the new information, quickly running over the entire document before they close with a heavy sigh.

---

Entering the residential building again, it's nearly midnight, the mess halls still quite lively, soldiers prepping for their next mission or staying guard in the halls. You rush through the open hallways quickly, the squeak of your boots from the rain was enough of an announcement to your arrival.

The hall seems much too long suddenly, the wet squeak along marble floor, the damp cling of your clothes, the uncomfortable twist of your brace around your legs. You were ready to just lock yourself away in your room, pack and never see the silhouette of this place again.

Rushing to the elevator, ignoring the whispers, the burning eyes on the back of your head, you rub your clothes arms to warm yourself up, soaked to the bone. Stealing a jacket from one of the racks before leaving the building, it wasn't as insulated as you'd hoped but it was better than nothing.

A few heads turn while you press the buttons on the elevator one too many times, taking a breath as you continue to tap on the buttons along the panel. You didn't care as long as it'd just open. Up. Down. Up. Up. Down. Fucking somewhere, just open!

"Just fuckin open..." you grit out, attempting to keep your nerves down. For all you knew, one of them could've seen you enter the building, they could be walking up to you right now. "Open. Open, open, open!" Your fist coming up in frustration to slam into the panel, the metal creaks and bends back but it doesn't make the elevator go any faster. It does hurt your hand though.

Taking your now sore fingers into your grip, pressing into your knuckles, your nostrils flare and you take a breath. You don't dare turn around as you hear the chuckle behind you, you can feel your teeth already grinding to nubs.

"So, you're the reason this thing breaks down every week, huh?" sliding up next to you, a soldier, lieutenant by the single silver bar on the shoulder of his uniform, his kevlar unhooked and new, prepping for departure. "Ya know, you can't make it go any faster that way?" nodding to the dented panel, before flashing a charmed smile your way.

Narrowed eyes link with his. "Excuse me?"

For a moment, all he can do is stare back, words lost on his tongue as he darts between your eyes, mesmerized. His smile doesn't drop even as he clear his throat, "I just mean, you'll hurt your...hand."

"Oh, will I? I didn't know that," you wonder, sarcastically. Before, hitting the panel again, a louder bang sounds in the hallway, causing attention. "Maybe I'm doing it wrong." A screw comes loose with a cling, your jaw twitching at the sound as he only huffs a humored sound. "Can I help you, lieutenant?"

"Just a stranger, looking out for another, that's all," the lieutenant says simply.

"Ok, Stranger," you speak, this time turning your back as the elevator finally beeps as it descends to the ground floor. You direct your chin back to where he came. "You can leave now."

He feigned disappointment. "Ouch," he sported a playful grin. "I thought we were getting along pretty well."

"Well I'm sure you've got a flight to catch, don't let a stranger make you late."

"The only stranger I've met worth being late for," he says, genuinely.

"Oh!" Surprised, you glance away from him. "Uhm, I-uh," you take a subtle step back, uncomfortable with the space between the both of you now. You lean against the edge of the elevator door, it dings again, your knee brace wasn't helping your leg pain at all.

His charming smile fades, brows lifting as he quickly backs off, reading the lines. "Oh, sorry, I-"

"No," you clear your throat, hearing the ding of the elevator behind you. "No, no it's fine. It's just, I-I'm uh..." your hand goes to your ring finger, you used to fidget with your engagement ring all the time, once cutting your thumb on the diamond. Your hand tensing up, balling into a fist, you'd nearly forgotten... "It's nothing."

He notices. "You're with someone."

"No," You swallow a knot in your throat. "Not anymore." Your hand falls to your side. The years you'd spent loving Simon, adoring him, fighting beside him, all that time...it was painful to know it would all just lead up to this. But, it was easier now to just feel nothing because it ended such a way.

The elevator opens and the both of you looks back towards it.

The lieutenant's eyes flicker back to you. "M' sorry," your brows lift in question. "About your...lover."

"Oh, he's not dead," you say. Before breathing out, "But, he is to me.."

His lips press together, thoughtfully, before nodding once. "Sounds like quite the guy."

"No idea," you scoff, softly.

After a moment of silence, the elevator door, with a squeak, beginning to close. The charming stranger puts his hand out before you have to, fully stopping the closing door before it can seal, taking a large step to catch it.

You froze as he unintentionally corners you, for the moment you can't help but take him in, analyzing every detail as you'd always done as a soldier. His hair and clothes damp from the rain, cheeks flushed for a reason you weren't sure of. He's tall, wide broad shoulders, a scar curved through his left brow to his temple, green eyes and he smelled...warm, was the only way you could describe it. You're sure his skin would feel as so.

You were quite cold from the rain, though you've been freezing ever since that day and you've never gotten past the phantom cold, eager to be warm again.

Your eyes flicker up, surprised to meet his staring back, seemingly taking you in the same way. His hand leaving the opening elevator door, to rest above the wall above your head. He was close enough for you to feel the leather of his kevlar against the back of your hand, for once your first thought wasn't to push someone away. His gaze lingers on the fresh scar beneath your eye, the tinted pink fading in the white of it.

And then you remember.

There's nothing good here left for you anymore.

You're no longer a soldier.

No longer apart of the Task Force, no longer apart of any of this.

And the things you'd be left with just for being here...

Bringing your hand up to your face, running over the raised, ruined skin, your jaw tightening and your lips pressing together. You shift to the side, your hand finding the handle grip along the sides of the elevator doors.

He notices, straightening, awkwardly. Swallowing thickly, "Sorry, I didn't mean to, uh..." he squeezes his fist, as if berating himself internally. "--that's quite the battle scar." Again his expression twists at his own question, fist squeezing, that was a dumb thing to ask.

"It's not."

Confused. "Not what?"

"From a battle," you admitted before pressing the button for the elevator again, it opens this time. "I appreciate the conversation, stranger. But, you should go."

He follows you to the divide of the open elevator, the both of you still facing the other.

Your stranger speaks soundly. "Wes."

His name you realized, you press your lips together, thoughtfully as he stares at you, not expecting anything in return, seeming peaceful with you just...knowing. The elevator doors slipping closed. You say nothing else, but you can't help but look at him differently, humming softly. You supposed he was no longer a stranger.

The metal doors close with a light thud.

---

Entering the room that had been your home for so many years, you pull your mattress onto the bed frame, fixing it to sit. You had broken your desk chair while trying to throw it at Johnny earlier.

Your IV pole had somehow made it here as well but you were sure putting a needle back in your arm wasn't the smartest idea.

You did notice someone had come to tidy the place up, the door having been replaced since and the lock restored. You don't hesitate to lock the door immediately, carefully looking around the room, turning on every light you could.

You wouldn't say you were afraid of the dark now, but you can't say you're fond of it either after everything.

Opening the blinds of the window, you shove them aside, letting the light of the street lamps in as well. Ok, maybe, you were afraid of the dark now. You used to hate sleeping with even the TV on, now you can hardly close your eyes without feeling like you're back in that cell.

Slipping your towel off of the side table, you walk over to your bed, sitting. It's quiet in here. Uncomfortably so. You used to have an old radio, playing soft music. Your TV blaring an old TV show as background noise. Neither of those things seemed to be present in the room, most probably taken during your time in the hole.

Running the towel over your still wet hair, you let it land in your lap, urging yourself to breathe evenly.

This time tomorrow you'd be off base, no longer a soldier but a citizen, with no one to turn to and disowned by your family...

You lean into your hands, breathing shakily, closing your eyes, it was all just so much.

Running your fingers through your hair, you lean back and look up, your upper shelf laid just above your bed. You turn, shifting over to the shelf, luckily it had remained mostly unbothered compared to everything else.

Lifting a music box from the desk, you set it beside you, opening the compartment, a soft hum of music beginning and building to a magical bell tone that continues to build until you remove a velvet box. Closing the lid, the music halting to a abrupt stop.

You stare at the velvet box in your grip, running your thumb along the material. You could never take your ring with you on missions, never wanting to risk losing it, so you always kept it where you could find it, where you'd never lose it.

Flipping the box open, you suck in a short breath as you stare at the engagement ring, sadly tracing the band. You'd be lying if you said a piece of you didn't still love Simon, of course it could never be the love it was. Now it was just a shameful attachment to the first man you'd ever loved.

It was during a mission that he proposed. Or at least the aftermath of one. Though it had been successful the team was forced to lay low for a few days in enemy territory.

The subtle light of the safe house cast shadows across the room, the usual tension of Task Force 141 momentarily replaced by an air of anticipation. Everyone knew but you. Ghost stood slightly apart from the group, his mask hiding the myriad of emotions that flickered beneath. He’d planned this moment carefully and yet being trapped in a safe house during the night of the dinner he'd planned for you both wasn't apart of it. It was still meant to be tonight.

Your lover stared at you in the reflection of the window, catching your beautiful eyes in the glass, they sparkle and his bones feel liquid and he nearly loses his grip on the velvet box. What better time could there be?

Ghost turned to you, pulling his mask away, revealing Simon Riley, garnering your attention with a surprised stare, "Si?"

His deep voice steady yet laced with a rare vulnerability. “You know I’ve fought a lot of battles, but none quite like this one.” The team fell silent, the weight of the moment sinking in. Price raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk dancing on his lips, while Johnny tried to stifle a grin, Kyle cursed quietly shifting in anticipation. "You're the only reason I keep pushing forward, I want a life with you, I wanna share it all with you."

Simon takes the closing steps to you, watching you closely, the two of you sharing the same overwhelming emotion. This was really happening. "I can't imagine taking on this life of chaos with you."

With a small, almost hesitant movement, Simon revealed the velvet box. The flicker of metal caught the light as he produced a small box, his hands surprisingly unsteady. “We’ve been through hell and back, but there’s no one I’d rather have by my side.” He dropped to one knee, the rest of the team exchanging glances, a mix of excitement and surprise evident in their expressions. "No one but you."

As Simon kneels before you, your heart races, disbelief clear on your face, brows furrowing into each other, watering as you look to him, all your feelings flooding your senses. His words echo in your mind, and the world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you.

“Marry me...” His voice was firm, yet you could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the way he waited with baited breath, his shoulders halting all movement as he wouldn't take a single breath until your answer. The room held its breath, the only sound the quiet rustle of fabric as the team leaned in slightly, as if to witness a moment that transcended their usual world of warfare.

You felt your heart race, your vision blurred with tears. "Simon..." the world narrowing down to Simon and the hope in his gaze. The silence was palpable, a shared moment of vulnerability among seasoned soldiers. Finally, you nodded, emotions swirling as a smile broke across your face. “Yes,” you laughed with a sob, nodding as you wiped your face. "Of course, Simon. Yes!"

Simon rose, slipping the ring onto your finger as cheers erupted from the team. The laughter and joyful roars of Task Force 141, your family, fade into the background as you focus solely on Simon, the man you love. Johnny clapped Simon on the back, Price grinned widely, laughing heartily in glee, and Kyle let out a whoop of approval. In that moment, amidst the chaos of their lives, there was a rare glimpse of hope and happiness—a reminder of what they were truly fighting for.

You stare down at the scars enveloping your wrists, still raw and sensitive even now. Along your ring finger was the imprint of your engagement ring, it would fade with time, but nothing else would.

Who would've thought things would've ended this way.

Sniffling miserably, you grab at your hair violently, clawing into your skin, "Such a fucking idiot--" you grit out, breathing shakily. "Stupid. Stupid, dumb--" you hit yourself, your palm slapping into your forehead, your nails dig into your scalp. You inhale messily, unable to breathe, "It's your fault," hyperventilating, angrily. "You did this..."

You sob out, your face flushed with a horrible warmth that closes up your throat as you cry. You felt so blind, so dumb for thinking this family was ever real, that they were anymore than colleagues, soldiers of war. An idiot for believing in Ghost, believing that he was more than the soldier you'd fought beside for a decade.

Your fist wrapping around the velvet box, the side of your fist going back to his your head feverously, until it hurts. Until you're satisfied. When you stop, you scream and run your hands down your face, unable to contain your maddening grief, "FUCK!"

Hurling the box to the other side of the room it collides with the plastered wall, cracking the paint and denting the wall. It breaks, the ring spilling out somewhere along the floor, you don't look for it, instead you're shoving over your dresser, pushing everything off the side of your desk, kicking the wooden pieces of your favorite chair. You scream and cry and shout, tossing everything you could possible get your hands on in your room. "You're so fucking stupid!"

Slamming the music box down onto the floor, it crumbles, music spilling out before fading to a broken tone and then fading into silence.

You rip open memory photos you had taken of the team, their smiling faces, your content expression. With no strength to rip the book by hand, you step on the left pages, pulling the next side with a rageful sound. You continue to do so until every. last. picture is completely torn apart.

Shoving it all into the trash, crying all the while, as you shove it all inside the metal bin, your eyes squeeze shut. You drew in shaky breaths, but each inhale felt too shallow, too quick. The weight of everything—the heartbreak, the disappointments—were pressing down on your chest like a block of cement. Tears streamed down your face, blurring your vision as you fought to catch you breath.

You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, but the overwhelming feeling spiraled further, tightening your throat and making it harder to breathe.

A strangled sob escaped your lips, and you buried your face in your hands, collapsing back onto the floor.

Glass shattered all around you, wood splintered to pieces, the room is ruined once more and you're breaking all over again.

You sat there for hours, curled into yourself. It was moments later you'd remember you have to pack up your life here now.

Opening the door of your closet, holding your last pieces of sanity together as you pull your suitcases from the storage. Breathing heavily, you stare with blurred vision into the empty cases, this was it, you were done, so abruptly, so painfully...

Everything hurts now.

Your body, your heart, everything. And you weren't sure it would ever get better.

But despite it, you slide your suitcase over to your bolted shelves, beginning to pack. Wiping away the tears that stained your face, every piece of clothing made you feel just a bit lighter.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

I'm not over Price's Widow, so I'm subjecting you all to it as well. Continuation to this right here

"Was he alone?" She asked quietly.

"No, we were with him till the end, ma'am." Kyle says softly as he sits next to her. He's turned fully facing her. He wants to cry himself but knows that won't do her any good.

She closes her eyes, her hand clutching onto his hat. Her tears kept falling silently, and she stopped her gut-wrenching, pain filled screams and cries only twenty minutes ago. Kyle can still hear them echoing in his thoughts. Such a mournful sound, it's going to stay with him more than the echoes of gun fire and bombs. Her hand, the one trying to self soothe by rubbing her stomach, is trembling.

Simon is still as statue. He won't come further into the cozy living room. He blames himself for Captain not coming home, and he doesn't feel like he has a right to be here trying to comfort his friend's widow. It doesn't matter if he's told it's not his fault and it doesn't matter that Mrs. Price insisted he could sit down in the living room with them.

JoJo has taken a liking to Soap, and the kid is completely oblivious to the life changing news that was just dropped. Little baby keeps pulling on his mohawk and babbling nonsensical words. It then dawns on all of them, really, that Mrs. Price is going to be raising Jojo and the new baby by herself. She's going to be alone during her pregnancy and suffering through grief and post-partum, a time when she's most vulnerable by herself.

None of them can have that.

Her voice cracks, "I'm glad you were all with him. I know you three were his boys. He talked about you so much, he loved you all so much. If there's anything you need, please let me know."

And the lump in Kyle's throat feels like it's closing up because of course Mrs. Price is a good woman, a doting wife, and cares for the three men who couldn't get their Captain - her husband - help in time. She's offering to look after his team during their time of grief, too, despite being thrown head first into a reality that was talked about but never thought to be a true possibility. He briefly wonders if John told her he'd be back before she could miss him. He knows the cup cakes on the kitchen counter with the pink and blue sprinkles were supposed to be his welcome home present. Captain John Price was supposed to be surprised with news of another baby. The man was robbed of this reality, and his wife left with just his hat and dog tags and the date that his body would be at the morgue.

"Thank you for stopping by." She moves to get up, but her hand is gently grabbed by Kyle's. "Yes?"

"Would you like us to stay for a while?" He asks. He's hoping she lets them stay, even if she only wants them on the front porch the second she becomes angry that they couldn't bring her husband back safely. He doesn't want to leave her alone with Jojo, alone to grieve by herself. They promised they'd take care of her, that promise is the only thing keeping all three of them steady.

So when Mrs. Price nods her head she looks at all of them. "Stay for as long as you need."

[skauni]

They Had The Wrong Traitor….

!!WARNINGS!!: Torture, Explicit Descriptions, Gained Trauma, No Happy Ending.

They didn’t know.

How were they SUPPOSED to know..?

Two months ago, Task Force 1-4-1 realized they had a traitor amongst themselves. Someone giving information about them to Shadow Company. They didn’t know who, until all signs started to point to you. Since then has been hell.

They tied you to a cold metal chair with ropes so tight they rubbed your ankles and wrists raw. You still remembered the day it started. Waking up with a splitting headache in the cold, dim lighted, concrete room. A table in front of you. On it you saw a hammer, pliers, a metal bat, sets of knives—even a damn corkscrew.

That first day was hell. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that you were innocent as your main tormentor, Ghost, broke your fingers slowly. Knuckle. By. Knuckle. When you still didn't confess he took the pliers and slowly ripped your nails from your broken and mangled fingers. Making you scream louder in agony.

The rest of the days blurred. Hardly any food or water; just barely enough to keep you alive. Every time a wound scarred they re-opened it. Soap held your jaw open today as Ghost slowly ripped out your teeth. Your voice long gone from hours of shrieking before this. No fight left in you when their radio's crackled to life. "Soap, Ghost, hall. Now." Price spoke. His voice sounded uneasy.

When they left you tilted your head forward. Letting the blood from your removed teeth drip slowly from your lips. It was painful to breathe. Bruised, cracked, and maybe even broken ribs and a broken nose they kept targeting so it never healed. A broken hand and forearm from three harsh strikes of the hammer. Several deep gashes from some of the knives Ghost used on you. A dislocated kneecap from being bashed in by the metal bat.

You couldn’t hear what they talked about out in the hall. But you knew it was something shocking based on the dead silence that came after Price’s muffled voice. In all honesty, over these two months, you started thinking it was your fault this happened to you. Thinking it was your fault you were framed; you just made yourself too easy a target to frame as the traitor.

You heard rushing feet and the sound of vomiting in the trash can down the hall. You guessed Gaz since you heard Soap ask Price something, you heard Price’s gruff grunt and Ghost’s Manchester accent as he swore under his breath. Your eyes fluttered in exhaustion but snapped open on instinct as you heard the door open again. They’d caught the real traitor, a newer recruit who had everyone wrapped around her finger.

Price had entered the room.

“I didn’t do it…” You whispered hoarsely. Your captain nodded. “I know, Y/N… I know…” he whispered softly. You flinched as he unsheathed his knife from its holster, he moved slowly as he cut your hands and legs free. He tried to pick you up but you cried out. He carefully set you back down and radioed for a few medics. They arrived a short while later as Price kept you awake to be sure you couldn’t slip away before everyone could apologize at the very least.

The medics came soon enough and moved you carefully onto a gurney so as to avoid shattering any bones further. They moved you to the med bay as fast as possible to get your wounds tended to and disinfected. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price all sat outside of the med bay as they listened to your agonized shrieks and whales of pain from the medics setting your already healing knuckles back in place.

It took a few hours after your corrective knee surgery for the boys to be allowed to finally see you. The medics said you’d be out for a few days so your body could regain a small bit of strength. None of the team wanted to leave your side. They all had set themselves up so they could sleep by the cot the medics placed you on. In and out, they would individually go on missions or go in pairs so two of them could still keep their eyes on you incase you woke up.

A few days turned into a few weeks. And you finally woke up. But not as easily as the team would have wished. A cold sweat soaking your forehead as you groaned in agony in your sleep until you woke up shrieking and tried to curl into yourself for comfort, only causing yourself more pain. The boys had to pin you down so the medic could inject the pain killer.

Through the times you were awake, you refused to let any of them remotely try to touch you. They could see it. The distance you put between yourself and them. The distrust in your eyes. The anger and hurt in your furrowed brow. You had trusted them with your life. And now you were beginning to think you should have never let your guard down. Not for one damn second. But a small part of you thought it was somehow your own fault…

Gaz spent the most time with you. No touching, just trying to get you to talk. Even if in anger. He was slowly piecing your trust in him back together bit by bit. When physical therapy came around you asked him to help you because your knee hurt too much to do it alone and the medic seemed busy with another soldier. The rest of the team saw this, beginning to hope they had a chance at forgiveness as well. They weren’t aware that you never forgave Gaz. You just trusted him enough to count him as a person you will let help you. Not a friend. And not a teammate. Not anymore.

Soap was the second to earn the right to help you, then Price not too long after that. Ghost… was a different story. All he did was glare at you, as if he still thought you were the traitor. To which you returned the hostility. He hadn’t let it show, but he was devastated. He wished he’d have never believed that false evidence. He couldn’t even look at you because all he saw was his work etched into your body. That was why he glared. It wasn’t meant for you, it was directed at his work that scarred your body.

When you could walk on your own without crutches, you went to Price in the break room where everyone was. Expression cold and dead serious as you handed him resignation papers. He froze. “You can’t… we need you on this team Y/N—“ he started but you cut him off. “Need? Or want me here because you loathe yourselves so much you need me to reassure you that you’re forgiven with my presence?” He staggered back. “I never forgave any of you.” You added.

“There isn’t a day we’ve woken up without regretting—“ he tried again. “You don’t get to play that card! Do you know how many times I woke up crying in agony from wounds that are already healed because of you four!? Oh, or how about the fact I can’t stand to be touched by ANYONE anymore!” You snapped back. “Y/N…” Price started to beg. “No. I hate you. All of you. For what you did to me. Don’t even contact me. If you have something to tell me, keep it to yourselves.”

The team was silent. You walked to your barracks and packed. Booked a flight back to your hometown. And walked out the doors of the base. Giving none of them the time of day to apologize or try to fix things between you and them. You hadn’t even told them you neglected to sleep most nights out of fear someone would come out of the shadows and beat you half to death again…

[cumikering]

Gym bro Soap x reader 2

3.4k | angst You were perfect for each other, couldn’t you see? (part 1) (part 3)

Johnny didn’t want to admit he started wearing tighter shirts to the gym for you - the ones that underlined the width of his broad chest and stretched over the generous bulge of his biceps.

He, too, found excuses to respectfully lean into you from behind, be it to help you with the pulldown bar or with reracking your weights. He might have imagined you stealing a glance or two at his arms, but he prayed that he was the one making you chew on your lip.

Like then, when he stood a little closer as he held your gaze for more than a few moments. This was working, wasn’t it? Wait until he busted out his compression shirts.

“Are you free Saturday fer dinner? I want to take you to that Italian near the park.”

“Oh, but that’s so expensive!”

“We’ve been consistent with our workouts, and yer making wonderful progress.” He shot you a reassuring smile. “I think we deserve to celebrate.”

“You know we can go to other places, yeah? It doesn’t have to be fancy.”

“Aye, but I want to go there with you. Please, hen?”

You averted your pretty eyes before nodding. He’d never get tired of calling you hen. If he knew he had that effect on you, he’d have started far sooner with the nicknames.

As the butterflies stirred in his belly, he balled his fist as to not reach out to cup your face like he’d wanted to for too long.

Saturday couldn’t have come sooner, but that morning Johnny’s body weighed a ton as he dragged himself out of bed. However, when you smiled when he walked into the gym, he forgot the odd ache of his body for a moment. You both stretched and warmed up before proceeding with each other’s routine.

But when he could barely complete a set, he knew something was up. He reracked his weights with an irritated grunt.

“You alright, Johnny?” you asked, brows furrowed.

“Feelin’ a bit off today.” He reached back to massage his tense shoulder.

“You do look a bit pale actually. Are you going down with something? Are you burning up?”

“No, don’t think so.”

You placed a hand on his forehead, and he would be lying if his stomach didn’t flip from the contact. Could a blush induce a fever?

“You seem fine, but I think you better get back and rest. Don’t want to injure yourself.”

“But… we’re still on fer dinner, yeh?”

“Don’t worry about that! We can go when you feel better.”

He lit up. “Ye know what’s goin’ t’make me feel better? My maw’s stew.”

He could cook and impress you with his mum’s recipe. Your weekly shopping was in order anyway.

Johnny did light cardio as he waited for you to finish your workout. While you cleaned up before going to the supermarket, he made sure nothing embarrassing or incriminating was on the floor or surfaces of his flat.

When he knocked on your door 30 minutes later, you emerged in comfy clothes and damp hair. You looked like you’d give wonderful cuddles, just what he needed when he was under the weather.

“Johnny, I almost forgot. I got you this.” You handed him a papercraft kit. “It’s Edinburg castle. I thought of you when I saw it.”

He gasped, clutching the gift to his chest. You thought of him? “Thank you so much, hen. I love it.”

You gave him one of those smiles again in reply. Well, he definitely had a fever now.

As you strolled through the cereal aisle, Mrs. Mactavish called back.

“Ye alright, Johnny? Ah was just in the garden.”

“No bother, maw. Am feelin’ a bit ill. Wanted tae ask for yer stew recipe.” He picked up another box of cereal to read its nutrition label on the back.

“Ye mean… yer cookin’?”

“Aye.”

There was a pause. “How..?”

His brows furrowed, placing the box back on the shelf. “What d’ye mean how?”

“Johnny,” she said gently, concern in every word. “Don’t ye remember wha’ happened last time?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your giggle.

“Maw! I will not leave it this time. Promise! Now, can I get the recipe?”

“Alrite, alrite, I’ll send a photo,” she relented. “But don’t say I didn’t warn ye!”

He grumbled a thanks before his mum hung up.

He turned to you with a grimace. “I promise am no tha’ bad.”

“Well, you know I’m not that good at it either,” you said with a chuckle. “I need to step up my cooking game.”

“Only one partner needs t’be good at it anyway.” He shrugged. “Been told I’m a fast learner.”

You blinked.

“I mean,” he sputtered, cheeks heating up. “Find someone who can cook, if you can’t, ye know.”

Was his game off when he was ill? He grabbed two boxes of his usual cereal and rounded the corner into the next aisle.

You finished up and got the ingredients needed. Back at his flat, you helped him greatly with the recipe (you caught him almost burning the meat, and once more, the onions). Didn’t higher heat mean faster cooking?! No matter what you said, you were still better than him, even that it was a pathetically low bar to begin with.

The incidents didn’t help his morale. Despite the comforting smell of home that wafted in the kitchen, he kept peering nervously into the simmering pot as both of you cleaned up. After the stew had thickened, you both grabbed a spoon for a sample. While you hummed in delight, Johnny’s shoulders sagged. It tasted nothing like his mum’s.

“Please don’t tell ma maw I messed it up,” he pleaded, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. “I promise the recipe isn’t shite,”

“Why would you say that?”

“It’s mediocre at best.”

“No, I think it’s really good! I like it,” you reassured. “I’ll make some garlic bread to go with it.”

A relieved smile teased his lips. You always knew how to make him feel better. “You’ll have to taste the real thing.”

“I’d love to.”

You really should have been extra careful with the things you said, because how could he not imagine taking you back home to meet his parents now?

Unfortunately, Johnny felt worse by the evening.  On the couch with a runny nose, he grumbled to himself about not being able to go out for dinner with you.

“It’s alright, Johnny. We’ll go next weekend, in time for your deployment too.” You placed the steaming mug of tea on the coffee table and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. “Do you want me to get takeout instead? Or I can cook something if you want.”

He should get sick more often.

“Actually, I’d like it if you could cook something, please. But only if ye want tae.”

Johnny wanted to help with dinner, but you insisted he worked on the papercraft at the dining table instead. He chuckled, feeling like a little boy being kept busy with his toys. He didn’t hate the feeling. It was wonderful to be pampered, being fussed over by you, only to be rewarded with some godly carbonara.

“Why’d ye say yer a bad cook?” he asked after his first bite.

You shrugged. “My family don’t usually like my cooking.”

“Missin’ out. They’re all missin’ out. I’ll eat this every day.” He shoved another forkful into his mouth.

He thanked his lucky stars he didn’t have to learn how to cook after all, lest be burnt the kitchen down. He could always compensate by doing the cleaning.

You took care of Johnny over the weekend, bringing him hearty meals to share. You even kept him company as he continued working on the papercraft. Having you at his doing your own thing, lounging around on his couch existing together… It was hard to not imagine that you lived there with him. Like you were a permanence of his life, just taking care of the sick love of your life.

He was, wasn’t he? Oh God, the fever was making him extra delusional.

You sent him little texts at work over the week. While he giggled and kicked his feet as he clutched his phone, he didn’t miss the way Gaz nudged Ghost at the other end of the rec room.

“He’s trying real hard to crawl out of the friendzone,” the sergeant quipped with a laugh.

Johnny gave him the stink eye, but he couldn’t blame Kyle. He was just jealous he had no pretty little thing making sure he was eating and drinking enough, let alone one who would wait for him at home with a warm meal.

You were doing just that, weren’t you? You cooked extra for so he could eat healthier and didn’t have to fuss about dinner. Thanks to your care, he recovered fast; he only had to skip another workout before getting back to his routine.

The following Saturday night, the anticipated dinner finally came. Johnny dressed up in a crisp button down and had gone to the barber the day before and even got his boots polished.

Did you understand how important this was to him? He wasn’t living another night without you knowing his intentions, especially after how selfless you’d been when taking care of him. He was going to make you feel like the only woman in the world.

But when you opened the door of your flat, he froze. You looked gorgeous in your outfit, it made his knees weak. He almost forgot the mission he was on because he needed to bury his face in a pillow and let out a squeal.

He cleared his throat, blinking as he struggled to keep his eyes off yours. “Wow, y- you look lovely, hen.” He didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but how could he not stare?

You didn’t meet his gaze, instead biting down a smile as you locked up.

He swallowed. It took everything to not pull you in for a kiss. He could already imagine how perfectly his hands would fit on your waist.

When he opened the door of his SUV for you, you mumbled a thanks. He wished you acknowledged his attire too, but the way he caught you glancing from the corner of his eye as he drove was enough of a compliment. You were very welcome to ogle. Would it help if he unbuttoned a few buttons?

Sat in a quiet corner, you admired the interior of the restaurant and how polite everyone was. He would never get tired of seeing that enthusiasm in your bright eyes as the conversation flowed.

“You been here before, Johnny?” you started after the waiter had left.

He shook his head as he raised his wine glass. “Was saving it for something special.”

“Which is?” You followed suit.

“You finally hit another lat pulldown PR,” he teased, clinking his glass against yours.

You laughed before taking a sip.

He was used to flirting to be liked and noticed, but with you, he didn’t need to. It was a blessing to be in your presence that his instinct was to admire you and be in the moment. You made him feel like he was enough without having to be anyone else. Was this the reason it was so effortless to be around you?

Unfortunately, the pasta you ordered didn’t turn out to be the best. You didn’t have to tell him - he’d grown familiar with the small tells of your face.

“I think we should order something else. This doesn’t look like enough food.”

“No, no! It’s plenty.”

“Want to have more of mine?” he pushed his plate of risotto closer to you.

“That’s fine, Johnny. It’s your favourite.”

“But you like it more.” He swapped your plate with his. “And we can always come back.”

You gave him a apologetic smile, your shoulders sagging. You didn’t have to feel so bad. The night was all about you anyway, and he was more than happy to ensure you enjoyed your time.

The both of you lingered after dessert. You never seemed uncomfortable with him, but that night the air around you was different, like you were even more open and loose. He could see in the way you leaned in more and held his gaze longer. He scooted his seat closer to the table, his stomach fluttering each time you laughed at his jokes.

Please, please, never stop. It was his favourite sound ever.

With his belly and heart full, you headed home. He wordlessly offered you his arm, but you didn’t seem to notice with the way you averted your gaze when he called you hen or bon. He didn’t mean to! They rolled off his tongue, because he meant every word.

At your door, he grasped your keys from your soft hand and helped you with it.

“Thanks so much for dinner, Johnny. I had such a good time.”

He couldn’t help return the grin. “Pleasure’s all mine, hen. I’m just happy you said yes.”

He didn’t like getting ahead of himself, but this was going fantastically well, wasn’t it? They way you looked at him with those eyes… Did you know what you were doing to him, how fast his heart raced for you?

John Mactavish was just a man.

Maybe he’d get to kiss you soon. Maybe even next week, before his deployment.

However, the optimism didn’t last very long. Because when he stepped in for a hug, you jumped and hurried past your door, closing it behind you with a frantic goodnight.

Johnny blinked. What the fuck just happened? You just said you enjoyed the night. Had he read it all wrong?

He turned on his heels as he blinked fast, hoping it was enough to keep the brimming tears at bay as his chest seized.

Radio silence replaced his joyful days with you.

Johnny tried not to think too much about you, or the fact that you didn’t even text in the following days. He didn’t either – how could he recover from that night? Even the day before he was to ship out, he didn’t allow himself to wonder why you didn’t reach out to arrange something with him like you always did.

But as he lay in bed, with a heavy heart that wouldn’t allow his mind to stop reeling, his phone buzzed with your text.

Wishing you all the best for tomorrow. Take care

He squinted. Did this mean more than what it looked like? Were you brushing this under the rug? He stared and stared at his phone until his head hurt before sighing.

Thanks

It was impossible you didn’t notice the shift – you wouldn’t be this way otherwise, as if keeping him at an arm’s length. It was a hard pill to swallow, but it couldn’t be any more obvious now that you weren’t interested. He just wished it wouldn’t hurt this much, like getting shot in the stomach with a bullet that kept digging and digging.

He was gone for weeks at a time. Did his deployments get in the way of his progress with you, that you had to warm up to him all over again every time he came back? Did he miss his chance? Did the chemistry dwindle over the months? Did you, like most women, not want long-distance? Did you find someone else, someone who treated you better than him?

The longing gazes he could have sworn you shot him had all been in his head. It was clear now you weren’t taking things slow, let alone playing games.

You were simply uninterested.

When Johnny came back weeks later, out of courtesy, he picked up a new gym schedule as to not cross paths with you.

He didn’t text, and you didn’t either. His days with you were gone – the laughter, the quiet afternoons sketching, but the memories remained close to his heart. They pricked more often than not.

Distance was imperative to move on, but he still found it hard to breathe sometimes – his chest heavy with the ache to see your smile. The photos he had of you couldn’t hold a candle to how beautiful you were in real life.

He had no one but himself to blame. As soon as he knew he couldn’t have you, he should have backed away, protected himself, especially when his feelings wouldn’t fizzle after the months. Instead, he was too soft to walk away, settling for any shred of you.

You were perfect for each other, couldn’t you see? You motivated each other, pushing each other to be better. I think I’m in love you, he’d muse to himself as he looked at you. Sometimes the need to say it out loud made him want to cry, like he was choking on the words.

He could have said them outright - maybe he should have, he was a grown man, for fuck’s sake! But he never did, because deep down he knew you’d run. So he carried on, with his feelings buried deep, avoided like a tin of radioactive waste welded shut.

It was undeniable having you out of his life was torture, but it will pass. Eventually. Hopefully. Still, for all the joy you’d brought him, there was not a regretful bone in his body.

What he didn’t expect, though, was how soon this would end.

You, on the other hand, never imagined even a fraction of the depth of Johnny’s feelings towards you.

The radiant Scot didn’t seem like one to be sentimental. He was happy go lucky and… friendly. Attractive men always were, especially when they had such an easy, charming smile. You didn’t want to flatter yourself - and shouldn’t - by thinking this was anything more than platonic. You weren’t his type, and you were smart enough to not fall for someone you could never have.

He was a good man, but not good for your if you caught feelings, so you tried not to. Keyword tried.

It was impossible when he was right there. He was irresistible with that boyish smile you couldn’t help but return. He kept your spirits up with his boisterous laugh and funny stories, and those sky blue eyes… ever grounding on your worst days. Whenever you had an issue, he was the first to offer help. He made the effort to be there for you in any way he could, even when he was away.

It was a slippery slope, and you were losing the battle fast. Before you knew it, his text was the first thing you looked for when you woke, and he was the last thing on your mind before drifting to sleep.

It was the way he called you hen, wasn’t it? There was something in his powerful yet gentle voice, like he meant it just for you as he looked into your eyes.

You played with fire. You chose to be around him knowing you couldn’t have him, and it was your fault you got burnt at the end.

You couldn’t be happier when he invited you out to such a nice place. It meant the world to you that he’d dressed up and was so accommodating about you not liking the dish you ordered. You could almost pretend it was real – that you mattered - even when it didn’t mean a thing to him.

With a smile and a sunny personality like that, he could have anyone, and you were nothing more than his neighbour and gym buddy.

Still, you didn’t mean to dodge his embrace that night, because of course, you’d wanted it. You wanted his gorgeous eyes to bore into yours before kissing you, just like in your daydreams. But in the midst of telling yourself to be realistic and get over your own feelings, him stepping in caught you off guard.

Why did you have to make it weird, you screamed at yourself. It was a friendly embrace; it wouldn’t have worsened your feelings anyway. You wanted to crawl into a hole. You’d ruined your friendship, without so much as the relief of a confession.

But you’d be fine. You’d get over it eventually, like you always did. You just had to put your big girl pants on.

When the wound had healed, maybe you could be friends once more without having to worry about getting your heart broken.

Masterlist Possessive best friend Soap

@tiredmetalenthusiast @astraluminaaa @noicedog @devcica @ray-rook

@loveergirll @marvelssssssss @wannabhere @vmaxis @asbestos-n-asbesties

@teranyaa @sinelity @solemnlyswearss @rip-cod-brainrot @dilf-luvr-4evr

@eve-lie @cloudynoxx @maskfan25 @winnieb00 @wyverns-and-songs

[eiraeths]

ghost who rejected soap years ago because there’s no way soap loved him. soap, years younger than him with so little experience, couldn’t’ve looked at him with anything more than puppy love. time continues on and things shift. they’re put on different teams and it’s ages before they reunite. they’re both older now, both different. ghost says to hell with it and they hook up. it’s messy, it’s almost everything ghost could’ve wanted. it’s too detached. ghost considers pressing a kiss to soap’s sweaty forehead, staring at the way the hair starts to curl at the root, devoid of gel. soap pulls away before he can. gone is the adoration in soap’s bright eyes, resignation haven taken root.

before soap leaves he stops and turns his head, looking at ghost who’s still on the bed. “I used to really love you, you know.”

and fuck doesn’t ghost know it.

[girlsoutlate]

thunking thoughts of nikto realising he can cope more effectively through your touch or being soothed by it idk i just need to post this bloody thing and stop obssessing over every detail

mention of mental issues of niktos, tension but not between nikto and reader, super duper brief light angst with resolution

it wasn't acceptable to let such a hostile creature in to your home and heart. niktos demeanour had changed over the last few days. you were both unaware of it until you flinched at his words one too many times. or how you shrank away at his bulking figure that stalked through the house. you did plan to ask him tomorrow, both of you were too exhuasted from demanding days at work to talk about it that evening. nikto had his.. odd ways of coping. yet he hadn't discovered the most effective thing: your touch.

nikto discovered this power over him completely by accident on one of his first nights staying with you.

at one point late in to the night you awoke to find his side of the bed empty, cold. abandoned long ago. the first time it happened you went back to sleep, thinking he went to the bathroom. however, when you woke again half an hour later and the bed was still empty you began to worry. as you stumbled in to your slippers you searched the chair next to the bed for one of niktos jumpers. it was embued with his scent: musk, tobacco and a faint smell of gunpowder that never left. with bleary eyes you treaded along the dark landing towards a dim light emanating downstairs. just as you were about to descend a loud thump splintered the still air of your house. you jumped out of your skin, heart thudding in your ears. was andrei okay?

creeping down the stairs your ears perked up at the sound of a voice. hoarse and and slightly breathy, like some wild animal being strangled. a wooden chair scraped across the tiled floor, echoing amongst the emptiness of the ground floor and up the stairs. avoiding the creaky step you finished descending the stairs. the light from kitchen cut out a sharp shape on the shadows of the hallway. as you stood shrouded in darkness your heard the gravelly growl of the voice you knew to be niktos. he was muttering to himself in russian, however he sounded so frustrated it was more like gibberish.

as you peeked in to the kitchen, slightly blinded by the light you saw a figure hunched over in a chair by the table. that strange strangled voice escaped again. another thump- it was his fist on the table. he shot up and started pacing around the kitchen, hands gesturing wildly. you could tell nikto was angry, voice getting more gruff each sentence. abruptly he stopped moving, muscles in his back showing through the thin tight material of his top. leaning on the kitchen counter with his back to you, he ran his calloused hands through his black hair. he kept his head down, the growl of a mutter growing harsher with each passing second. words flew out his mouth at an alarming pace getting louder and louder, knuckles turning white as he gripped the side. just before it seemed he was going to shout your cautious voice cut him off.

'nikto, are you okay?' you meekly asked. he span around, pale eyes wild. pinpoint irises locked on to your shivering form. he drank in the curve of your body, barely hidden by your sleep shorts and his jumper. the deep colour of your eyes emphasised by the weak light. his girl always looks so gorgeous. and then he noticed how your wrung your hands even though they were swallowed by the sleeves of his jumper. or the gentle furrow of your brow at his behaviour. some of your hair stuck up at odd angles from your tossing and turning at his absence during the night. he made you worry.

his heaving chest faltered and then deflated, eyes dropping to the floor in embarrassment. 'we are sorry we woke you dorogaya' he replied, voice hoarse from talking 'we were ah- talking'. a beat passed, you blinked at his response. to see a creature go from such a hostile to a guilty state was alarming to say the least. but you could still see he was on edge. his eyes flicked about the dim room while his thick fingers began to fidget with the hem of his threadbare shirt. just as his breathing quickened pace you steadied yourself and took a step forward. 'come' you commanded.

as nikto lumbered forwards his usual calm and calculated demeanour completely dissipated. the moment your lidded eyes landed upon him his mind was racing. were you angry with him for waking you up? did he scare you? how dare he wake you up make you worry. were you angry? nikto could deal with anger, it had always been a part of his life. but worry he couldn't. no one had worried over him, not like you did. to the forces he just needed to survive to the next mission, nothing but a valuable machine. to his friends, well, it can be questioned if they should have that title. but you were a glimmer of hope that he kept closely guarded to his rotten heart. your presence in his life transformed in to a steady glow, seeping under his mange-ridden skin. before he could realise, this light had ignited a blaze that consumed his heart and ravaged across his mangled skin. the heat was painful- to let someone so close to him. yet he writhed in ecstasy in your presence. the thought of that being dampened- potentially by him- made icy dread shoot up his spine.

he kept his gaze down, raking over your legs covered in goosebumps. his lips, raw from nibbling, parted in a shaky breath. just as another apology left his mouth, you threw your arms around him, burying your head in his solid chest. although your arms could barely reach around his burly form, he could feel the tightness of your embrace. niktos arms, corded equally with muscles and scars, hung by his sides. momentarily, he was taken aback. how could you still love this thing after witnessing its strange, violent ways? nikto didn't deserve a forgiving person like you. but he wasn't going to push away the one true good thing this godforsaken world had blessed him with.

niktos heart was pounding, blood rushing through his ears. one calloused hand rose up to the softness of your neck. his thumb brushed over your bobbing adams apple. gently, to not get carried away, he pressed harder just on the side of your neck. your steady pulse thrummed under his fingertips, warmth seeping from you to him. slowly but surely, nikto wrapped his arms around you. one brushed against your shoulder blades, while the other cradled your head closer to his chest. he buried his misshapen nose in to your hair deeply breathing in your scent. the warmth of your plush body washed over andrei. experimenting, his paw-like hand slid over the curve of your waist, stopping to squeeze the fat of your hip. you breathed out a short gasp. andrei's rough fingertips grazed against your stretchmarks, each raised ridge inching him closer to the realisation he was here with you. you were safe and he was with you, everything else could wait. the crackle of tension in the air had dissipated the second your melodic voice had cut through it. now, the cold kitchen lights didn't gleam unnaturally bright. he was enraptured in the faint glow of your skin.

the voices were still there, but far, far away. andrei was blanketed in your love, which grew stronger each time you ran your hand along the expanse of his back. "lets go back to bed, da?" he rasped. holding on to your hand, he followed you back to bed. stairs creaked under his bulky form as he padded after you in the dark. you climbed in to bed that had grown cold in both your absence, gesturing andrei to join. he wrapped his arms under your shirt, soft skin gliding against his scars. your legs tangled together, wanting to be as close as possible. burying his face in to the crook of your neck, he let the sounds of your heartbeat lull him to sleep. as your ran your nails through his overgrown buzzcut a grumble of content reverberated throughout the room. soon you both drifted off to sleep, never letting go throughout the night.

from that day andrei held on to you, for his own sake. how could you deny him that?

thankyou for reading, i hope you enjoyed it!! let me know if you want another installment of this and any ideas you might have. this has been lurking in my drafts since last week and i just need to get it out. my boyfriend has gone on a break with me so ive been pretty distracted this week, sorry its a little later and thanks for being patient :)))

[stargirlstabber]

missed wedding

featuring. simon riley

cw. angst, hallucinations, character death (already happened)

a/n. sorry, but angst isn't my... speciality. i suck at angst. but this happened to a character of a series i'm watching and i fucking cried. and that doesn't happen often.

you just sat there. you just sat there, letting the comfortable couch in your living room take up your body, hoping it would swallow you as round tears rolled down your cheeks.

you just couldn't stay at your friends wedding. not after what happened at your wedding. your heart ached, knowing you couldn't be there for her on her special day, you really wanted to, really, but it was too overwhelming.

especially when there was no sight of your friend, the bride. maybe she was just too late or lost in her thoughts when she took a little walk before she said 'yes'. but... but what if something was to happen to her? what if another marriage was to be ruined?

emotions crashed down on you, so the decision was made. so you let one of the shuttles they rented for the wedding drive you home safely.

now, at home, your eyes weren't able to hold back all those tears as you gulped down your glass of water, a medicine pill dissolved in it. you let them flow, until you saw him sit in front of you. you saw simon, your husband, sitting there, in his pretty dark suit. the one he was gonna marry you in.

but it never happened.

an accident made it never happen. he didn't even get to see you in your majestic dress. hell, simon didn't even arrive.

the day, which was supposed to be the happiest day of your life, quickly turned into the worst day of your life.

you and everyone else hoped he would make it, the doctors at the hospital were specialists, and after all, he survived worse, right? he was a soldier. he decided to lay his duty behind him, wanting to start a life with you. a life, that was put to an end too soon.

the two days where he was in the clinic were hard, especially for you, but when the machine flatlined and simon left your life, that was pure agony for your heart.

and don't even mention the day he was buried. or the emotions that flooded you once you found out a good friend of yours was gonna say yes to her man. you felt like a wash cloth that was being wrung.

so when he sat right there, only inches away from you with the smile only you got to see, happiness bloomed inside of you.

you got to see him again.

you got to hear him again.

"i'm here, lovie, don't cry..."

you fell into his embrace, wrapping your arms tightly around him as he circled his own arms around you, a hand stroking over your head in a soothing motion.

after the wedding, when your roommate came home, you seemed happy. a smile on your lips. your eyes were still red, but you smiled. and it wasn't a fake smile, it was real. as real as the fact that you were now a widow...

[criminalamnesia]

Traitor part 8

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

here it is everyone :)) took me forever but it’s finally here! now I can disappear in peace lol. I’ll proofread everything later, but I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations. thank you all for the love you’ve given this series. I hope this gives you some closure.

let me know if you want any drabbles from the series <3

thank you again!

after kyle finally leaves you alone, you slink back against the door, shutting your eyes so tightly stars dot your vision.

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

a new beginning indeed.

[romanticintheory]

thinking about fellow soldier!reader coming back to ghost after having been mistaken for kia

gn!reader x simon "ghost" riley

-maybe he's back in your shared apartment, holding the last photo he took with you.

-it was taken the day of your birthday, with your arms around simon's waist and a gleeful smile permanently etched on your face.

-you were looking directly at the camera with your eyes crinkled at the corners. simon, however, was looking at you and only you with an expression only a lovestruck fool could manage.

-he had long since stopped crying about what he believed was your death. when price came to him with a somber expression and the news that you were on the wrong end of an explosion, the only thing he could do was cry or be angry.

-now, he felt nothing.

-you could imagine his surprise when he hears the front door open. did he forget to lock it? was someone breaking in? he didn't care enough to prepare himself for a potential attack.

-but, no, you walked in with an ungodly amount of bandaged wounds and a tired look on your face.

-you expected him to stand from his place on the sofa to meet you, but he didn't. he thought he was imagining things, again, so he said nothing.

-"simon," you said softly, not bothering to take off your shoes and throwing you things onto the ground next to you.

-still, he said nothing.

-"i'm sorry. i'm so, so sorry. price said he tried to contact you but that you never answered," you continued. nobody knew where you and ghost lived, and simon's grief took the form of self-isolation.

-he still didn't answer you at this point, and it was becoming unsettling.

-"simon, can you hear me?"

-"you're not real," was all he could muster. he didn't have the heart to tell "fake" you to go away or beg himself to wake up from his supposed dream. "i can't do this again. you're not real."

-you realized just how hard your false death had hit him.

-"i'm real. i promise. i was able to take cover last second and-"

-"no. you're dead with not even a body to recover because i wasn't there to protect you. god, i..." the words got stuck in his throat as he leaned forward on the sofa, holding his head in his hands and near trembling.

-you dropped to your knees in front of him like a follower worshipping their god. taking his hands, you held them tight as you could in a silent attempt at convincing him you were alive.

-there was a moment of silence between the two of you before he drew his hands away from yours. it made your heart hurt.

-"simon..." you were grasping at straws, now, trying to figure out how to convince him of what was true. maybe there was something in your luggage that might help.

-as soon as you turned your body to your bags by the front door, you were pulled right back in by a pair of strong arms.

-he was hugging you like the moment he let go, you'd disappear into thin air (and, in a way, he believed it to be a possibility). after being pulled from your shock, you immediately brought your own arms to reciprocate the embrace.

-"(y/n)," he said, trying to keep his voice stable. there was still a part of him that couldn't believe he had you with him. if he weren't so thankful, he'd be lecturing you about acting wreckless on missions and convincing you to quit your job so nothing like this happened again.

-but, for now, he was content like this.

[dawnwriterimagines]

Rewriting Part 5 of Traitors Among Us

CLEAR SKIES (A Rewrite)

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x PLATONIC!FEM!READER Rewrite of PART 5 of Traitors Among Us

Traitors Among Us Masterlist

Summary: With your resignation approved, Price discovers you've resigned. You head back to begin to pack your life away from Task Force 141, running into those who've betrayed you.

Author Note: Soooo, I decided to rewrite Clear Skies: part 5 of Traitors Among Us because...I didn't like it as much lol, and it wasn't received as nicely as the other parts. It's pretty much completely different lol. So, here I am rewriting this part! Don't worry, the multiple endings of Traitors Among Us will be releasing very soon...

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Silence filled the air in the Chief Officer’s office, thick with tension. Captain John Price stood rigid, arms crossed, eyes locked on Laswell as she calmly sipped from her tea, her lips set in an almost casual line. He’d expected a straightforward debrief, not this.

“You did what?” Price’s voice was low, disbelieving. His brow furrowed, the anger creeping in like a slow burn.

Having arrived at the administrative building, delivering his mission reports and making his way into Laswell's office. Captain John Price wasn't expecting to receive the surprising news so casually that the woman in front of him had signed off on your resignation, without so much as consulting with him, your Captain.

"I gave her what she wanted, John," Laswell rolled her eyes, sitting in her seat. "I let her go. She was never about to meet with you, and I won't let a soldier like that leave, under my supervision, without some type of severance," she speaks, casually, tapping her spoon of tea along the rim of a porcelain mug. "I do apologize, I was actually preparing a better way to tell you this. Time got away from me, I suppose." Although, Laswell says so unapologetically as she takes her first sip with a hum.

Price blinked, caught off guard by the detached nature of her words. He shook his head slowly, still processing.

"Severance?" Price gritted. "She didn't lose her place on the force, Laswell. She's on temporary leave for recovery not discharged--I would've never--"

"Oh, stop it, John," Sweeping away a few locks of hair, Laswell sits back in her chair. "Even if, would it matter? The girl's petrified of you, if she saw you she might actually kill you," she can't help but release a humored hum. "Willing to turn down her pension, her insurance, just to resign in peace.

She would've never come to you, and you were foolish enough to think she'd stay," she laughs this time at the absurdity of it. "She wanted an out," she takes another sip, shrugging. "I gave it to her." She then slides a few papers her way, preparing to continue her paperwork, interrupted for the second time today.

Slamming a hand over the stack of papers, Price can't contain the expression twisting his face, his anger, his grief. "Let her what?! You stripped her of her title, does she know that? There is no lawful resignation without my signature, what've you done?"

"Well, you are in need of a Demolition Operative now, I will say," she hummed, tapping the spoon against the rim of her mug, her voice annoyingly casual. "I already have someone in mind, luckily for you."

"Operative Gray is an integral part of this Task Force, it's not up to you how I handle my team anywhere outside of our missions, Laswell," Price hardly held his tone.

“Funny, John,” Laswell mused, not looking up, her voice dripping with dry amusement. “I seem to remember you handling a certain... situation under my orders.” Her eyes met his now, sharp and calculating. "Just fine."

Price’s jaw tightened, and the old guilt gnawed at him. “The worst mistake I’ve made on the force.” His voice was quiet but raw.

Laswell’s smile didn’t fade a bit. “No, John,” she said softly, her tone almost teasing now. “Your mistake is thinking you have any authority here that I don’t already have.”

Price froze for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. He reached for the papers on the desk, his hand curling into a fist before he let them go. Laswell slid the stack back across the desk with a single, deliberate motion, then stood up.

As she passed him, her shoulder brushed against his, and he stiffened, barely holding himself together.

“Oh, John,” she said, almost too sweetly. “The military is engrained in all of us. In your blood. In hers. Don’t worry,” she hummed, tapping the edge of a file. “She’ll be back. They always come back. In one way or another.”

"Well..." Laswell shrugs, calmly. "Just never to Task Force 141," she turns back to Captain Price, dismissed him with a wave, leaning back in her chair., slipping a file from her desk. "Not like that wasn't the original plan before our informant came clean, hm?"

Wary, grieving eyes drift away from the Station Chief, chest tight. "Well what about Gray?" Price swallows. "I can't allow her to leave without everything she deserves from her service, I won't."

"Christ, John, you take the fun out of everything nowadays." Laswell’s smirk faded into something more calculating, more serious, before rolling her eyes. "We'll hold off on that for now," before Price can interject, she holds up a new folder, stamped a harsh red CLASSIFIED, it glares up at him. "You and your team have other matters to discuss."

Price hesitated, brows furrowed. He took the folder, the tension in his muscles still tight. He opened it quickly, scanning the document with a sharp eye. His face darkened as he read, the information weighing a heavy burden, but nothing he could say was undeserved.

Lips pressing tight together, John Price presses down into the folder hard, creasing the papers and clenching his jaw. Fuck.

---

The sliding doors open automatically, the lobby going quiet at the sight of your sopping wet figure stumbling through the entrance. Dropping your hands from over your head, you pause to stare down those who held eye contact too comfortably, quickly their stares dropped.

Entering the residential building, it's nearly midnight, the mess halls still quite lively, soldiers prepping for their next mission or staying guard in the halls. Your boots squeak with every step unwarrantedly, trailing a puddle as you shuffle your way down the hallway, face flushed cold from the rain.

The hall seems much too long suddenly, the wet squeak along the marble floor, the damp cling of your clothes to your skin, the uncomfortable twist of your brace around your legs, the pruning of your fingers. You were ready to just lock yourself away in your room, pack and never see even the silhouette of this place ever again.

Rushing to the elevator, ignoring the whispers, the burning eyes on the back of your head, you rub your clothed arms to warm yourself up, soaked to the bone. Stealing a jacket from one of the racks before leaving the building, it wasn't as insulated as you'd hoped but it was better than nothing, or Kyle's pity wear.

Pressing the upper arrow, you wait for it to light up.

It doesn't.

So you press it again. This time it does glow, finally.

...But, no opening.

You wait a few seconds, then check the electronic number above.

1.

First Floor.

You press the arrow again. Waiting for the doors to open.

Clearing your throat, you press down on the down arrow this time. Just open up.

Nothing again.

Motherfucker...

A few heads turn while you press the buttons on the elevator one too many times, taking a breath as you continue to tap on the buttons along the panel. You didn't care as long as it would just open. Up. Down. Up. Up. Up. Down. Fucking somewhere, just open the fuck UP!

"Just fuckin open..." you grit out, attempting to keep your nerves down. For all you knew, Simon or Price, or Kyle or Johnny, could've seen you enter the building, they could be walking up to you right now. The very thought had you anxiously holding down on the elevator buttons, contemplating the stairs but walking was already a hassle with your brace. "Open. Open, open, open!"

"Open!" Your fist coming up in frustration to slam into the panel, the metal creaks and bends back but it doesn't make the elevator go any faster. It does hurt your hand though.

Taking your now sore fingers into your grip, pressing into your knuckles, your nostrils flare and you take a breath. You don't dare turn around as you hear the chuckle behind you, you can feel your teeth already grinding to nubs.

"So, you're the reason this thing breaks down every week, huh?" sliding up next to you, a soldier, lieutenant by the single silver bar on the shoulder of his uniform, his kevlar unhooked and new, prepping for departure. "Ya know, you can't make it go any faster that way?" nodding to the dented panel, before flashing a charmed smile your way.

Narrowed eyes link with his. "Excuse me?"

For a moment, all he can do is stare back, words lost on his tongue as he darts between your eyes, mesmerized. His smile doesn't drop even as he clear his throat, "I just mean, you'll hurt your...hand."

"Oh, will I? I didn't know that," you wonder, sarcastically. Before, hitting the panel again, a louder bang sounds in the hallway, causing attention. "Maybe I'm doing it wrong." A screw comes loose with a cling, your jaw twitching at the sound as he only huffs a humored sound.

"Yeah," he chuckles briefly as the metal falls with a klunk. "You're quite the mechanic."

"Can I help you, lieutenant?"

"Just a stranger, looking out for another, that's all," the lieutenant says simply.

"Ok, Stranger," you speak, this time turning your back as the elevator finally beeps as it descends to the ground floor. You direct your chin back to where he came. "You can leave now."

He feigned disappointment. "Ouch," he sported a playful grin. "I thought we were getting along pretty well."

"Well I'm sure you've got a flight to catch, don't let a stranger make you late."

"The only stranger I've met worth being late for," he says, genuinely.

"Oh!" Surprised, you glance away from him. "Subtle," you take a step back, uncomfortable with the space between the both of you now. You lean against the edge of the elevator door, it dings again, your knee brace wasn't helping your leg pain at all.

His charming smile fades, brows lifting as he quickly backs off, reading the lines. "Oh, sorry, I-"

"No," you clear your throat, hearing the ding of the elevator behind you. "No, no I'm just..." your hand goes to your ring finger, you used to fidget with your engagement ring all the time, there used to be a tan line imprinting it along your skin, now that same finger was scarred up to the nail. "I'm just not the flirting type right now." Your hand tensing up, balling into a fist, you'd nearly forgotten...

"Ah," He notices, clearing his throat, embarrassed at himself. "You're with someone."

You wanted to scoff at that, not anymore.

"No," Your knuckles cracked. "Just uninterested." Your hand falls to your side. The years you'd spent loving Simon, adoring him, fighting beside him, all that time...it was painful to know it would all just lead up to this. But, it was easier now to just feel nothing because it ended such a way.

The elevator opens and the both of you looks back towards it.

The lieutenant's eyes flicker back to you. "M' sorry," your brows lift in question. "About your...lover."

"He's not dead," you say.

His lips press together, thoughtfully, before nodding once. "Sounds like quite the guy."

"No idea," you scoff, an understatement indeed.

After a moment of silence, the elevator door, with a squeak, beginning to close. The persistent stranger puts his hand out before you have to, fully stopping the closing door before it can seal, taking a large step to catch it.

You froze as he unintentionally corners you, for the moment take him in, analyzing every detail as you'd always done as a soldier. His hair and clothes damp from the rain, cheeks flushed for a reason you weren't sure of.

He reminded you terrifyingly of Simon. Though the two had to be quite different in all capacities besides ranking and muscle definition.

He's tall, wide broad shoulders, a scar curved through his left brow to his temple, green wide eyes and he smelled...warm, was the only way you could describe it. You're sure his skin would feel as so.

You were quite cold from the rain, though you've been freezing ever since that day and you've never gotten past the phantom cold, eager to be warm again.

Not once in this disturbing, cold and humiliating event had you ever felt a moment of comfort. Of warm, loving comfort. A single embrace would destroy your every resolve. Not a minute, not a second, not a breath of warmth.

Your eyes flicker up, surprised to meet his staring back, seemingly taking you in the same way. His hand leaving the opening elevator door, to rest above the wall above your head. He was close enough for you to feel the leather of his kevlar against the back of your hand, for once your first thought wasn't to push someone away. His gaze lingers on the fresh scar beneath your eye, the tinted pink fading in the white of it.

"You shouldn't do that," you breathe.

There's nothing good here left for you anymore.

You're no longer a soldier.

"Do what?" he asked.

No longer apart of the Task Force, no longer apart of any of this.

And the scars you'd be left with just for being here...

Bringing your hand up to your face, running over the raised, ruined skin, your jaw tightening and your lips pressing together. You shift to the side, your hand finding the handle grip along the sides of the elevator doors.

He notices, straightening, awkwardly. Swallowing thickly, "Sorry, I didn't mean to, uh..." he squeezes his fist, as if berating himself internally. "--that's quite the memorabilia." Again his expression twists at his own question, fist squeezing, that was a dumb thing to ask.

"It is," you grazed the tender flesh of your scars. "Isn't it."

"I'm sure you've got quite the story."

Lips pressing together hard, fingers curling into your palm as if your own scars had burned you.

"Um..." going into detail meant a lot of things you didn't want to confront right now, pressing the button for the elevator again, it opens this time. "I appreciate the conversation, stranger. But, you should go."

"I'm sorry-" he realized he'd touched unsavory ground, voice lowered with regret. "I didn't mean..."

"It's fine," you swallowed thickly, taking a breath. "It was nice to meet you truly."

He follows you to the divide of the open elevator as you step in and though the divide, turning to see his face, desperate for a glimpse of yours.

Your stranger speaks soundly. "Wes."

His name you realized, you press your lips together, thoughtfully as he stares at you, not expecting anything in return, seeming peaceful with you just...knowing. The elevator doors slipping closed. You say nothing else, but you can't help but look at him differently, humming softly. You supposed he was no longer a stranger.

"Ok..." you managed a meaningful smile that struggled to begin. "Wes, then."

You could see the relief in the drop of his shoulders.

As the metal doors ding in preparation to close, you catch a glimpse of someone beyond your persistent stranger, as he turns to leave.

An approaching figure that enters the building, exiting the rain with heavy steps, dragging his feet along the marble, a black mask painted white along the curves of his mouth and nose, a skull. Stalking the halls like the ghost he preferred to be, Simon.

And he haunts you as so.

You hardly notice as the doors begin to close, a sinking feeling in your stomach erupting as you made eye contact with Simon Riley.

His slow, deliberate steps become nonexistent, he's instantly rooted to the floor, you were sure he'd even stopped breathing.

Though you felt your blood run cold, your chest squeezing violently with ache, and a rage in your soul that begged you to claw his fucking eyes out and rip out his heart like he'd done to you weeks ago, you didn't freeze.

No, instead your hand comes out, taking the closing end of the elevator door. It pauses with an electronic strain of its gears beneath your resistance, while you stare unblinkingly at your Ghost. And it opens again with a light ding.

Simon's eyes widen a fraction, he straightens noticeably, hopefully. His hand coming up, pulling at his mask, the skulls creasing down to reveal himself to you, but he'd remain as so...your ghost.

"(Y/n)..." you can hear the whisper of your name from his lips, but you've turned from him now.

Stepping forward and off the divide of the elevator, you take Wes by the arm, pulling him back around to you, his eyes are wide in surprise, innocent enough to have never expected more from your encounter and unable to find the nerve to speak smoothly now that you're making a move.

"Sorry..." you breathe to him, before reaching up and pressing your mouth to his.

It's not a messy kiss.

It's hardly a kiss.

But, it gets the message across.

You had loved Simon, completely and utterly. There was no punch or kick you could ever throw at Simon that could convey the collapse of those feelings.

So this, was the next best thing.

As Wes melts into your lips for the brief moment of surprise intimacy of a stranger, you cup the back of his neck, as you've done many times for Simon. Eyes opening to gaze back to your ghost, and as you do, you're not surprised to see him practically looming over the two of you.

He's a mess of himself. A fraction of the man he was before. A ghost of himself.

But, he'd always been a ghost to be feared.

As Wes's hand climbs up to grip at your hair, you retreat back, tucking your hair back and taking a breath.

Your guiltless eyes blink up to Wes, "You should go."

Hardly given a moment to recuperate, still reorganizing the thoughts you'd taken and filled him with all in the seconds you'd spared him with. He, rightfully confused, breathes. "What?"

"She said, you should go."

As Simon speaks, voice heavy with emotion, anger and resentment but most of all hurt, PAIN. Only then do your lungs fill with air again, untainted by the weight of your fears of him, of broken dreams and memories your defiled love.

"My dead lover's risen again," you speak, sarcastically. Staring down the hollow-eyed man, "A ghost."

The metal doors close with a light thud.

And so, maybe you had no fear of him anymore. Maybe you were tired of being frightened. Whatever it was had more guts than you had the energy to have in the last few weeks.

Because the next thing you know, you're shoving past Wes, blood red in the tint of your vision, your fingers expertly popping the gun out of his holster and you take your aim at Simon.

He doesn't flinch.

Neither do you.

Your finger is steady on the trigger. And you pull.

---

The subtle light of the safe house cast shadows across the room, the usual tension of Task Force 141 momentarily replaced by an air of anticipation. Everyone knew but you. Ghost stood slightly apart from the group, his mask hiding the myriad of emotions that flickered beneath. He’d planned this moment carefully and yet being trapped in a safe house during the night of the dinner he'd planned for you both wasn't apart of it. It was still meant to be tonight.

Your lover stared at you in the reflection of the window, catching your beautiful eyes in the glass, they sparkle and his bones feel liquid and he nearly loses his grip on the velvet box. What better time could there be?

Ghost turned to you, pulling his mask away, revealing Simon Riley, garnering your attention with a surprised stare, "What's...goin' on?"

His deep voice steady yet laced with a rare vulnerability. “Wherever you are, I wanna be,” he took a step. "Wherever you go, whether you like it or not, I'm goin' too."

"Stalker," you quipped, though your voice could barely reach a whisper as you stared at the tiny box in his hand, watching as he came closer.

He cracked a smile, but he continued. "Everywhere you are, anywhere you want to be, if you'll let me, since you're right...I just can't stay away," he teased, watching as you short circuit as he approaches steadfast. "...and if you want me, as you'll have me...I wanna be everywhere you are."

The team fell silent, the weight of the moment sinking in. Price raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk dancing on his lips, while Johnny tried to stifle a grin, Kyle cursed quietly shifting in anticipation. "The best thing I've ever held onto in this life is you. It will always be you."

Simon takes the closing steps to you, watching you closely, the two of you sharing the same overwhelming expression, though yours freer in its willingness to express. He was being serious. This was really happening. "I can't imagine taking on this life of chaos without you."

With a small, almost hesitant movement, Simon revealed the velvet box. The flicker of metal caught the light as he produced a small box, his hands surprisingly unsteady. His eyes momentarily flickering downwards before gathering the nerve to look you in the eye again. “We’ve been through hell, we're in the aftermath of it now, another glimpse not far behind, but there’s no one I'll ever know, that I’d rather have by my side.” He dropped to one knee, the rest of the team exchanging glances, a mix of excitement and surprise evident in their expressions. "No one but you."

As Simon kneels before you, your heart races, disbelief clear on your face, brows furrowing into each other, watering as you look to him, all your feelings flooding your senses. His words echo in your mind, and the world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you.

“Marry me...” His voice was firm, yet you could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the way he waited with baited breath, his shoulders halting all movement as he wouldn't take a single breath until your answer. "I'll choose you. I'll choose you every time..." The room held its breath, the only sound the quiet rustle of fabric as the team leaned in slightly, as if to witness a moment that transcended their usual world of warfare. "Marry me..." his voice is a breath against your skin.

You feel your heart race with feelings that seared itself into your soul, a moment that would never leave you, your vision blurred with tears. "Simon..." the world narrowing down to Simon and the hope in his gaze. The silence was palpable, a shared moment of vulnerability among seasoned soldiers. Finally, you nodded, emotions swirling as a smile broke across your face. “Yes,” you laughed with a sob, nodding as you wiped your face. "Of course, Simon. Yes!"

Simon rose, slipping the ring onto your finger as cheers erupted from the team. The laughter and joyful roars of Task Force 141, your family, fade into the background as you focus solely on Simon, the man you love.

Johnny clapped Simon on the back, Price grinned widely, laughing heartily in glee, and Kyle let out a whoop of approval. In that moment, amidst the chaos of their lives, there was a rare glimpse of hope and happiness—a reminder of what they were truly fighting for.

---

The clouds, still held hostage by the night, moved almost imperceptibly through the midnight air, the rain having stopped by now and the stars taking action to be seen beyond.

You breathe evenly, stroking the broken skin of your knuckles, smearing the blood that still leaked through and picking at the dried specks of it along your nails.

Heavy hangs the air as you sit in your silence, nothing but the light scrapes of your nails along your own skin. Then, a heavy padding of footsteps outside the door, your eyes drawing to the movement as a shadow pulls along the flooring of the lighting beneath the doorway, the door clicks open.

A round-faced, army suited man, your attorney, enters the room, behind him two men standing at attention, stomping his dark boots down onto the old wood eager to be noticed, lifting a document to read. "Sergeant (L/N), due to potential endangerment of yourself and your fellow man, you are to be supervised continuously throughout the night until the remainder of your scheduled departure from central Orloz Military Base.

From there, as requested, all contact will be terminated, all personal and packaged requests, terminated. All inquiries, all personal and otherwise familial advises for continued contact, terminated. Due to the nature of your injuries and the unprecedented circumstances brought upon by the events of June 23rd 2023, you've been pardoned from additional..."

What use is there listening to more?

Leaning your head against the cool glass, you let yourself fall blissfully unaware of his voice, drowning in the sea of your own mind.

You stare down at the scars enveloping your hands, your wrists, still raw and sensitive even now. Along your ring finger was the imprint of your engagement ring, it would fade with time, but nothing else would.

You felt so blind, so dumb for thinking this family was ever real, that they were anymore than colleagues, soldiers of war. An idiot for believing in Ghost, believing that he was more than the soldier you'd fought beside for a decade.

Who would've thought things would've turned out this way.

The weight of everything—the heartbreak, the disappointments—were pressing down on your chest like a block of cement.

Letting the absent, warm tears fall down your cheeks, soaking into the dampness of your shirt.

You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, but the overwhelming feeling spiraled further, tightening your throat till it hurt.

---

Simon's face is burned red with scratches, blood smeared along his face. His hand holds tight to your wrist, the gun having long fallen from your grip, the entryway still smoking from a missed fire.

Your teeth pull at Simon's exposed skin, biting down on the skin of his wrist until you can feel it snap away from the bone, resistance failing the muscles.

With a pained groan, Simon pushes you back into the metal doors of the elevator, "Stop this, (Y/n)!" he hissed at you, as he locks you into his grip, cornering you as soldiers come forward at the commotion.

"You promised," came your voice, your mouth filled with blood, a chunk of his flesh from your mouth as he shoves your neck into the metal divider, keeping you as still as possible. "You promised you'd choose me..."

Simon's twisted expression unravels as he hears his own vowed words from your tortured lips, seeing glimpses of the woman he's always loved in the livid, scorned woman he'd left behind in that cell.

"(Y/n)..." he began, his grip loosening.

Clicks of rifles and heavy booted steps filled the dormitory, interrupting him. "HANDS UP!"

---

"...if you're in understanding of these terms, we can proceed as stated."

"...Yeah," you whispered. "Understood."

"Thank you for your service, Sergeant (L/N)," he saluted shortly, before picking his beret off the table and walking out of the room. "Your assistance to the dormitories will be available shortly."

So, when he leaves, claiming to be back to escort you back to your quarters, you sit there. You sat there for hours. Or maybe it just felt like it. Either way, it didn't matter.

This time tomorrow you'd be off base, no longer a soldier but a citizen of no one, with no one to turn to and disowned by your family...

What was there to look forward to now?

Your hand comes up, tracing the water lines running down the glass, the ray of light from the street lamps that burn into the room, stinging at your eyes and lighting up the evening.

A streak of red follows your stained fingers.

Dried blood melting off your skin and running down the glass, falling slow.

Nothing to look forward to at all...

Multiple Endings coming soon. The end of Traitors Among Us... STAY TUNED

[celenawrites]

You apologize to Simon.

AO3 Version

Three days. 

Three days of silence since you and Simon had a fight over something insignificant enough for you to even forget about it after a night’s sleep. Three days of silence and avoidance due to an argument that could’ve ended in less than an hour had you been more amenable. You can make excuses all you want (and you’d like to, it’s easier than acknowledging you’re the one at fault for a change - easier to ignore the lump in your throat and your shortened breath, or how warm your ears are from shame) - talk about how shitty this week had been, how much of a right cunt your boss was, or how things just don’t seem to go your way no matter what you do; despite your best efforts, life seemed to be holding a mean grudge against you and punishing all your efforts for it lately. 

Paired with all the shitty things in your life at the moment, and one of these days when Simon ends up saying something to you in a tone that you couldn’t seem to take kindly to (you try your best to understand people and what they say to you, you really do; yet your past has never been as kind to you, and sometimes your patience runs thin despite your best efforts) - which ultimately resulted in you screaming your head off at him. Simon has the patience of a saint on most days - years of war, trauma, and abuse had motivated him to be much kinder than his family ever was, urging him to do everything in his power to never end up as the man who sired him. 

But you forget sometimes that he’s a Lieutenant and he has the tenacity and the rage needed to put the rowdy recruits at the base into place just fine. So when his anger snaps and it does when you decide that he doesn’t get a chance to defend himself (you’re judge, jury, and executioner and you have condemned him for a transgression not his own), he matches your cruel word for cruel word - dark eyes sizing you up as he raises his voice at you in a way that makes your lip quiver and your eyes burn with tears of shame and burning anger as you throw him a mean glance before locking yourself up in the bedroom. 

Simon sleeps on the couch that night. 

You feel guilty the moment you wake up and notice the cold, empty space beside you - the lack of his warm body lying beside you is a sight that will possibly haunt you for the rest of your days. You note the time and you go out of the room, hoping to find your boyfriend sitting on the sofa after his morning run as he wipes his damp forehead with a micro-fiber towel, his brown pupils tracking the time just as you hear the kettle on the gas give out a loud whistle, evident of the fact that Simon had made both of your tea to share in the morning before you both part ways. Instead, you find the empty apartment greets you.  You expected as much. 

He’s angry - at you and at himself, and if he was here, you’d have told him you share the same sentiments. But he’s nowhere to be found in your shared apartment. So you whip up a quick English breakfast, put out all the things he’d need for him to brew his beloved Earl Grey when if he decides to come back and then you leave for work in a hurry. Your mind is preoccupied with worry - about work, about your mess of a life, about Simon and if he has eaten yet. The day passes you by in a blur, and you find yourself finally free from the dissociation you have been plagued with since morning, when you hear the sounds of your footsteps on the concrete sidewalk, taking the long route back home despite the setting sun painting the sky a blood orange, bleeding into the soft clouds and reflecting off of the shiny glass windows adorning the buildings around you. You prolong the commute for some reason - not in a rush to head back home just yet, afraid that this fight might have broken the camel’s back; that you’d return home and find him just gone. 

Like a ghost. 

Your fears are unfounded, luckily - you open the door to your house and find him sitting near the dining table with his arms neatly crossed up on the mahogany table, his face covered by a black surgical mask, and his eyes are unfocused as if he’s meditating deep in thought. You’re almost surprised that your entrance didn’t break him out of his thoughts, out of his own head. Your head feels heavy just by looking at him, and the way your throat constricts forces you to skip dinner altogether as you quickly grab a granola bar (or two) and decide to leave for the bedroom just as quickly, dumping your office attire in the wicker laundry basket near your bed. You leave the door to the bedroom unlocked. 

Just in case, you tell yourself. 

Your night mainly consists of tossing and turning haphazardly - you’re free to move due to the absence of those strong, scarred arms that hold you still and provide you the tether you need in order to actually fall asleep; but your restlessness eventually tires you out enough for you to catch at most a measly two-to-three hours of rest that leaves your eyes aching for more respite when the sunlight invades the softness of your room uninvited, blinding you for a solid minute as you try to gather your wits about you. 

When you turn around in your bed, you’re surprised to find it all messy (as if someone had slept in it while you were knocked out) and it smells of him. Him and his pine body wash and the little smoke that clings to him whenever he decides to go out and hang out with his military friends in a seedy pub and drink cheap beer and half-assed whiskey (he wouldn’t dare touch their Bourbon unless it was Kentucky). He slept here. 

It has been over a day since you last spoke to each other, but the idea of Simon still sleeping near you gives you a sense of comfort you weren’t aware you needed. 

You spend the day in and out of the house since it’s the weekend - bringing in fresh groceries from the farmer’s market and laying down all the vibrant fruits in a glass bowl at the center of the dinner table. You find Simon standing near the kitchen with a brush as he oils the hinges of the creaky door. You both acknowledge each other with a soft nod of your heads as you go about your day tackling chores that the busy week has allowed you to neglect till now. 

Then, you place the new succulents you couldn’t resist buying (couldn’t resist as they reminded you of Simon), and you adjust the window curtains so that they get ample sunlight. You turn around to see if Simon’s here; if he’d noticed the new plant pots and manure packets you had picked up - you wonder if he’d shake his head, almost amused as he joins you to tend to the little succulent pots. Instead, you hear the whirring of the lawn mower to indicate that your partner is outside, getting rid of the tall grass that invades the grounds surrounding your little home.

Then you notice that it is already noon, and decide to brew yourself some ginger tea and plate some oatmeal cookies on a saucer plate as you snuggle into the weary green couch with your current read (a book you had heard people rave about on social media, which made you buy it the moment the local bookstore had it in stock) and drape the cozy baby pink blanket over your shoulders. Simon is still outside, still working on the sparse vegetation of your lawn. You’d like him here right now, with you - drinking the tea from your cup and stealing one of your cookies as he pinches your cheek while you whine to him about it; his soft hands playing with the stray strands of your hair and pulling you into him till your head rests on his chest and his soft heartbeat lulls you to sleep with a lullaby of his worn heart. 

Instead, you sit alone on the sofa, and you almost call out to him and your lead tongue weighs heavy in your jaw (makes it tick an awful lot) and you reason with yourself that the whirring of the loud mower would make it near impossible for him to hear you anyway, so there’s really no merit in screaming your head off as you try to call out to him over the noise. 

You excuse your hesitation with technicalities - it has been a lifelong habit.

Reading with a warm cup of tea has made you drowsy (almost compliant) and you don’t remember when you had allowed yourself to close your eyes, your hands loosen their grip on the book as it fell onto the plush cushion beside you. You wake up an hour or so later, to the afternoon sun blinding your eyes momentarily, and you rub them lightly with your fingers as you try to rub the sleep away. You find the house awfully quiet, an anomaly from what it usually used to be  - the background noise of the television playing a repeat of an old season of the baking show you and Simon would watch while holding each other close, the rhythmic ‘thump thump thump!’ of the hammer as Simon works on whatever passion project you have on your mind (you remember when he made you a dresser from scratch, and when you showed him the Pinterest post that inspired you to request his services, he squinted at the small device screen as he probably wondered how he had ended up being your personal handyman), or the sound of scrawling of ball-point pens as he tries to solve the daily sudoku puzzle in the newspaper. You can hear none of it. 

And there is no whirring of the lawn mower in the backyard anymore. 

You look into the bedroom, and kitchen en route to find it empty - the bed is still well made and there is no 6 '4 behemoth of a man hunched over the gas stove as he brews himself another cup of Earl Grey for the day. You decide to climb the stairs, hoping to find your boyfriend holed up in the spare bedroom that you both had renovated into a study room - something Simon can use whenever he’s forced to bring work to home, and when you need to hole yourself up as you try to finish an impromptu project the night before a very important meeting (that never worked out for you) or work on your work reports that truly embodies ‘brevity is the wit of the soul’ with how empty the Word document looks despite you staring at your laptop screen for hours on end, urging yourself to just write something. 

You open the door lightly, cringing as the hinges squeak at the minute movement. Guess he only oiled the kitchen door today. You peer into the room, apprehensive of facing your partner head-on, stealing a glance into the usually empty room with your heels off the floor, ready to take flight at the slightest hint of confrontation. God knows your heart cannot take it. 

Simon is hunched over the mahogany desk, his head is cushioned by his crossed arms (you can admire his tattoo sleeve with the black t-shirt he had decided to wear, despite the sweltering heat) and he seems to be fast asleep. Christ, he’s gorgeous. 

The sunlight makes his hair light up, and his relaxed face along with scars and healing bruises remind you of the vibrancy and lightness that Monet’s paintings possess. You never thought a person could be like art. And then you met Simon Riley. 

He’s snoring out loud, his blonde hair is a mess - strands of hair pointing in all directions (you still need to cut his hair right; his last haircut had ended up with him having uneven layers all over his head - you’d have much preferred that he should’ve just taken a trimmer and given himself a buzz so at least he can regrow his blonde hair right)  and he’s sweating buckets while sleeping on the wooden table.  And while you still hold some anger in your heart for how your last argument went, and yet all you can think about is how much you love him. You don’t blame him entirely for how you both are now - skittish and walking on eggshells, the wounds of your previous fight still fresh and stinging and oozing with crimson. 

You know you're in the wrong as well, but it's hard to make amends with your dear boyfriend because whenever you try to speak to him you feel a lump in your throat that stops you from speaking your true feelings out loud to him. Shame creeps up on you like the weight of the world is on your shoulders alone (is this how Atlas felt?), and the humiliation chokes you off - your tongue heavy with unsaid things and your empty arms aching to forego all niceties and hold him where he truly belongs. 

So you decide to break the silence between the both of you in the best way you know how, because you love Simon. Because you love him more than you love your bruised ego. 

You make him his favorite tea (‘Was it his third or fourth cup of Earl Grey?’, you mused while pouring the hot beverage into a clean mug.) and cleanly cut open a clementine from the groceries you had brought in earlier (your hands are sticky with its juices as you try to separate each piece from its leathery peel), fanning out all the pieces over the flowered ceramic plate, something you had convinced Simon to buy for the house when you first decided to visit a flea market together to stock up on necessary things after your lover finally asked you to move in with him. That was over a year ago. 

Words may be failing you right now, but you hope your actions can convey your remorse and love for him.

You walk back into the room to see Simon awake, his hands rubbing all over his face as he tries to get rid of the fatigue. You freeze, unsure of how to handle your current predicament. You have been hoping that he’d be still sleeping so that you could quietly place the tray near the table and leave without disturbing him. But he’s awake, and as he glances back at you, you wonder if you look like a deer caught in the headlights - your little detour interrupted by his alert as he takes all sensibilities away from your being. 

“You brought me fruit”, he said dumbly.

“Yeah. And tea”, you reply back dumbly. 

You stare for a beat too long and then abruptly cross the room, quietly placing the plastic tray with the fruits and his tea mug on the study table. You notice the manila folders scattered around, some pages strewn around his working space but you avert your eyes to avoid reading anything written on them - you’d rather not read all that he has to deal with on almost a daily basis as a man of the military. In such moments, you truly do not envy Simon. 

“Uh, I’ll leave you to it then”, you whisper to him, all soft as you swallow the words you truly wish to say. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. I wish I could hold you. I cannot lose you. Please be angry, be mad at me, yell as much as you want. Hold me, I miss you. 

You wish you could at least choke on them to save face. 

You leave the room instead. 

You clean up the living room - you fold the blanket and fluff the pillows and you ignore how your back burned with his gaze on you as you left the study room. You put the flowery bookmark where you had last stopped reading and you go to the kitchen to prepare something light and easy for lunch (pasta in white sauce and toasted garlic bread) and you ignore the urge to drop everything and rush upstairs and spill all the apologies you have wished to communicate but have failed to since the day of the fight. 

Your ego has always reared its ugly head in moments like these. What was borne as a means to protect yourself with the wounds your loved ones had inflicted on you has now made it impossible for you to make amends with the only man that matters to you on God’s green Earth. But ego is nothing compared to the love you have for Simon. So when you’re done with the cooking, you take your sweet time cleaning up the island of the kitchen and you go upstairs to invite him for lunch - you hope the food will soften him up enough to accept the apology you will offer him as a white flag later on. 

You peek inside the room, standing behind the half-closed room and you see him sitting in the black ergonomic office chair (you had bought it after you couldn’t listen to his back crack every time he got up from bed, or from the plastic chair that he used to sit in while staying at his desk for hours on end, only agonizing his fucked-up back further). He’s leaning back on the chair and it creaks under his weight slightly, and he stays motionless, eyes closed and shoulders tense. It’s even better since you won’t have to be weighed down by his intense eyes. 

You walk on your toes, socked feet muted and nimble as they walk across the hardwood floor and you note that he had finished up all the clementine pieces you had laid out for him on the floral plate, and the orange mug is mostly empty - save for remains of sugar residue sticking at the very bottom of the utensil. (You had been surprised to know that the scary, big man you call your boyfriend had a sweet tooth. Luckily, it gave you the perfect excuse to visit the bakery two blocks down on your way back home from work with a paper box of dessert or two.)

You know how hard it really is for him to be at ease, and his tensed shoulders serve as the testimony to that harsh truth. You know sneaking up on him like this will only make him lash out - all in the name of pure self-preservation. And you won’t ever blame him for it.  He hasn’t told you all of it, but between shared silences and a post-coital cigarette on his behalf, he’d open up - the endorphins would make him talk sometimes, and he’d talk of his Ma. Of Tommy. Never his dad. He hasn’t laid down the entirety of his scarred soul bare for you, but you know enough to not hurt him like that ever again. So you gently allow yourself to take note of his uneven hair and say, “I keep forgetting to cut your hair”. 

Your hand creeps up on his neck, eager palm gently running through the golden tufts as they coil around the tips of your fingers. Your attention is on the way his shoulder tenses when you announce your presence in the room. (You’re certain he knew you had come here before, and he knew you were here before you even came this close. He’d never leave himself this vulnerable if he knew there was a threat abound.)

His shoulders stay the same, but you can hear the audible exhale he lets out, and you slowly use your other hand to gently massage the area where his neck meets his shoulder - aware of the stiffness that has been ailing him there for a while now. He groans in relief, and he blinks his eyes open to greet you with brown pupils and a solemn look you fail to decipher.

He looks at you with his head tilted back against the chair, and you focus on the lightning-like scars that cover half of his face, traveling from his temple all the way to the left corner of his chapped lips. “Thank you for the snacks”, he mutters, his eyes trailing all over your face. 

You hum a little, not providing him with a response.

“Would’ve been nicer if you were here to eat them with me…”, he trails off, hoping you’d catch the bait. 

���Yeah. Would’ve been even better if we talked too, no?” You smile down at him, and you gently scratch his scalp as you kiss his temple, murmuring your apology against his skin like a forgotten prayer to an old deity. I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. 

“I’m so sorry for being a cunt. You know that right, Simon?” you ask him, and you can already feel your chest cave in on itself and your eyes burn with tears of remorse. 

“Wasn’t like I was any better, lovie”, he mumbles, and you feel his shoulders sag in relief under your touch. You tell yourself that’s a good sign. 

“Still…”, your fingers gently mess with his hair, “Should’ve swallowed my damn ego, and apologized to you soon”. It’s a learning process. For both of you. 

“Would’ve been easier if you didn’t scamper about whenever you saw me”, there’s amusement in his eyes, and you chuckle at him fondly as you invite him to join you for lunch. He turns the chair around until he’s facing you, and then he pulls your wrist in his hand as he reverently lays down a gentle peck against your knuckles. (You know your skin carries the taste of dish soap on it, and you hope it doesn’t taste too bitter when Simon kisses your hands as if they were God.)

“Missed you”, he speaks against your skin, mimicking your prayer as he looks up at you, and your breath hitches - just a little as you stare down at Simon. Your dear Simon. 

The silence was maddening. 

“I missed you too, Simon”. 

Note -

I got my first apology from a now-close friend of mine when I was 18 years old, and God did it change how I looked at love and people completely. So I guess this piece is dedicated to that friend. Thank you, Voltie. <3

Also, I mainly show my love for people through gift-giving and acts of service and I think Simon is a big 'acts of service' guy…..so here it is - Simon dealing with a girlie who is just as emotionally constipated and can only show her love by doing things for him

totally not inspired by my Asian/Desi upbringing lol

Divider by @/firefly-graphics

[skauni]

Why Did It Have To Be Us…?

!!WARNINGS!!: Miscarriage, BPD, Mentions of Depression, Mentions of Alcoholism, Arguing, False Accusations, No Happy Ending.

It’s been 3 weeks since you lost the baby.

You don’t understand what you did wrong, you listened to the doctors every word. Why did you have to lose the baby?

You and your husband, John, had been trying for 6 months to have kids. And when you finally got pregnant, it only lasted a month and a half before you lost the baby. That was 3 weeks ago, and John was on a mission where he had no contact with you. Since you lost the baby, you fell into depression and simple things started making you angrier than they would.

You started drowning your sorrows over the loss of yours and John’s baby that neither of you got to meet in alcohol and staring at walls, zoning out as you imagined what could have been. What you would have named the baby. Maybe Jasper if it was a boy, like John wanted to name him. Or Maya if it was a girl, like you’d wanted to name her. You didn’t know the gender of the baby, neither of you wanted to. Wanting to keep it a surprise for the baby shower/gender reveal party.

John had come home during you zoning out on the couch, it’d been 4 weeks after the miscarriage by then. You were snapped out of it when you felt him lay between your legs to place his ear on your abdomen. Listening for the heartbeat that he was unaware would no longer be there. You started crying as soon as he had, startling him and making him sit up. “Love, what’s wrong? Is it the pregnancy hormones-?” He asked in alarm, you put your face in your hands as you cried.

“I lost it… I lost the baby John, I’m sorry…-” you finally managed to hiccup out. His expression visibly tinged with sadness before he gently pulled you into his arms. “Don’t touch me!” You yelled before pushing him off and crying more as you stormed to the bathroom to weep in the tub since your favorite candle you often lit to calm down was in there.

It was a few hours before you came back out. When you did, John was on his computer searching up ways to make you feel better about losing the baby.

After a mental battle, you shuffled over to him and planted your face in his back with a soft whine. Afraid you’d react like you had earlier, he didn’t return the touch. “How are y’feelin’ love…?” He asked quietly. “What can I get f’ya?” He added. You just shook your head silently and he understood. You didn’t want anything. Not right now. Not after losing what had been your everything for only a few months. “Why did it have to be us…?” You finally managed to mumble out after a struggle to make your voice more easily heard. You felt like something was stuck in your throat. Or something was constricting it. Making it impossible to speak, breathe, or swallow.

John sighed quietly. “These things just happen love, we can always try again when you’re ready…” he tried to comfort. You simply nodded. Eventually, getting tired of standing, you sat in his lap. Cuddling him for comfort. Sniffling out quiet apologies for losing the baby. He just held you and gently rocked you, rubbing your back in hopes you’d calm down eventually.

As weeks passed on, the arguments started. John watched as you brought home yet another cheap wine bottle to drown your sorrows in. He clenched his jaw. “You should stop drinking like that. It’ll ruin our chances at trying for a baby again. Y’know what alcohol does to you love.” He said. And it made you snap. “I don’t want to try again!” You yelled. His face broke into a scowl as he got up. “Don’t want to? Why? Because you think it’s one of your stupid signs from the universe?” He retorted. You put the wine down before slapping him. The argument broke out from there.

It was about one in the morning when John had enough of it. “WELL MAYBE IT WAS YOUR FAULT! FOR ALL I KNOW, YOU COULD HAVE KILLED OUR BABY!” He yelled. You froze. Your anger turning to dread. “Y-You don’t mean th—” he cut you off. “I DO! You have always had a self destructive mindset towards the idea of trying for a baby! And the second I leave after we successfully have one growing, you miscarriage! How am I supposed to believe you didn’t kill our baby!?” John snapped. You staggered back. You couldn’t believe his words.

After a long silence he realized what he’d said and tried to take it back. “Love I—” he tried but you pushed past him sobbing. Slamming the door to your shared room and locking him out. Stuffing some belongings into a small-ish travel trunk after calling your mother if you can go stay with her for a while. When you came out he was about to knock on the door. “I want a divorce, Johnathan.” You sniffle out. John freezes. You only use his legal name when you mean what you say when you’re sad or angry. His shoulders sagged and he staggered back. Watching you in stunned silence as you walk out the front door. John knows you’re never coming back. He knows he’s messed up. He messed up big time… and now he couldn’t take it back…

[eiraeths]

Penpals Ghost and Soap who met through an anonymous support group system for enlisted soldiers. Ghost didn’t want to join initially but some pushing from Price and he gave in. He didn’t expect much to come from it, a few letters here and there that’d eventually taper off and him and whoever his penpal was would forget about each other soon after.

Only that didn’t happen.

Ghost didn’t expect the person who wrote the letter to be in the same boat as him, sharing the same frustrations about support groups full of people trying to keep their head above the water, only to be organized and run by people trying to keep their head above the water. He didn’t expect himself to pick up a pen and start writing a response letter after reading the most horrid pun he’d ever rested his eyes on.

He didn’t expect to enjoy it, let alone want to know more about this Soap guy. More and more letters are sent and received and somehow, they integrate into his daily routine. He looks forward to the letters arriving twice a month. He never knew he could anticipate something.

Soap likes loud things, Ghost learns. Music, cars, explosions, any and everything loud. He has gym routines and lists upon lists of everything he does. He adores math and chemistry—for reasons Ghost can’t wrap his head around—and always goes on long-winded tangents about his day.

Ghost thinks he likes Soap.

One letter comes with a photo. A printed out polaroid with the center focus being on man with a mohawk. Soap says they’ve been talking long enough, and Ghost might as well know what he looks like.

Ghost didn’t expect for himself to track down a photo printing camera and send one back—no mask present—nor did he expect for Soap to call him cute. No one knew, but he kept the photo tucked into his plate carrier on every op. And he sure as hell didn’t expect to find himself flustered over some damn words.

A few years go by without a day missed. Ghost didn’t expect for Soap to miss sending a letter. Then two.

He didn’t expect to go to the mail room and his dread turn to excitement when he saw a letter addressed to him. Only to turn to dread when opening the letter to different handwriting, and knowing what happened, knowing Soap was dead the moment he didn’t see chicken scratch capital letters or random marks on the paper from where soap would tap his pencil while thinking.

He didn’t expect to feel this much grief over someone he never met in person. Didn’t expect to feel this much grief over what could’ve been, might’ve been if they had just met up.