#john mactavish x reader angst
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xtrafluffyteddy · 1 year ago
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Home for Christmas
Pairing: John “soap” mactavish x reader
Warnings: pregnancy, angst, major character death, bittersweet ending
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You were in the throws of decorating for soaps upcoming return and Christmas right around the corner, when you heard a soft knocking at you door, quickly climbing down the small step ladder you waddle your way to the door excitement bubbling in your chest wondering if somehow Johnny was able to get home earlier than expected mind running with thoughts of finishing decorating the nursery with him, putting up the tree, and doing all the sappy Christmas stuff you both have grown to love throughout the years.
Oh how wrong you were. Flinging open the door bright smile on your face only to be met by Price and Ghost standing before you with somber looks in their eyes. Not wanting to expect the worst you look past them hoping to catch a glimpse of Johnnys familiar mohawk and boisterous voice “Where’s Johnny” you ask looking at the two men before you “did he take a separate car? Got held up by paperwork?” The two men share a quick look before stepping inside leading you to the couch where they help you sit down.
“Sweetheart” Ghost begins as he looks away not ready to see your excitement turn to grief at what he’s about to say “I’ll take it from here Simon” Price assures the man patting the lieutenants shoulder before taking your hands in his scarred ones “Price, Simon, your scaring me where’s Johnny” you ask already feeling a pit of dread in your stomach. “Lass” Price begins “Soap- John, he isn’t coming home” he squeezes your hand gently “did he get held up or something did the mission extend?” You tried to come up with any reason as to why Johnny’s not coming home other than the one you dread the most. “Johnny was killed in action sweetheart, he would’ve tore the world apart with his bare hands if it meant coming home to you and him” he points to your stomach. You place a gentle hand on your stomach where you and johnnys son is safely nestled not knowing that he’ll never meet his dad.
“Lass” Proce inquired as he reached out to rub your arm “you still with us?” Everything sounded like it was underwater your mind running a mile a minute Johnnys not coming home, he was killed in action, you’ll raise the child you tried so hard for alone, you’ll never have another Christmas with him. “Sweetheart” Ghosts call of your name snapped you out of it “is there anything we can do to make this easier” you shook your head mouth dry, words caught in your throat.
After that day Price and Ghost had been there everyday to make sure you were eating well, drinking water, making it to your appointments just like Soap would’ve done. “It’s time lass” price murmured as he and ghost waited by the car door wearing full black, “coming” you whisper as you get out of the vehicle Johnnys ashes clutched in your arms black veil covering your face “we’ve got you sweetheart” Ghost murmured as he lead you towards the cliff side where Gaz was waiting “rest easy soap” ghost grunted eyes staring out at the crashing waves “goodbye my darling” you whisper voice cracking as you released his ashes watching as the waves swallowed them up. It was almost comforting knowing Johnny made it home where he belonged.
Not the best I made myself sad :(
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stargirlstabber · 1 month ago
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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...?
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criminalamnesia · 11 months ago
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Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!
And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.
ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.
ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE
when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.
you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.
your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.
you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.
one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.
you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.
one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.
the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.
he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.
“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.
the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.
well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.
you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.
apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.
simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.
“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.
“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.
the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.
you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.
the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?
“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”
“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”
“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.
“points to you.”
“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.
he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.
“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.
you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.
“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.
“or should we take off another?”
you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”
“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.
“ghost!”
it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.
“what, mactavish? im busy.”
“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.
the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).
“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.
“it’s fucking shepard.”
it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.
you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.
“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.
you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.
you pass out.
when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.
“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.
your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.
the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.
your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.
“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.
you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.
“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.
“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.
“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”
he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.
he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.
just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.
“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.
you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.
“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.
“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”
“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.
“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.
“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.
“and whose fault is that?”
the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.
“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.
you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.
simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.
your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.
“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.
“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.
the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.
“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.
spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.
john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.
when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.
the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.
there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.
it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.
your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.
when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.
“how’re you feeling?”
you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.
“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”
the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.
the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.
“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.
no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.
you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—
you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.
that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.
your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.
————————————————
authors note:
I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.
thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶
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gloomwitchwrites · 10 days ago
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For call of duty, can you write how 141 would react to you coming home after being announced KIA?
Love your work btw ❤️❤️
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Not gonna lie, anon, but I genuinely read this as us reacting to the 141 coming home after being announced KIA, not them reacting to us coming home. I literally dumped everything I had planned and redid it because I missed that ONE word. (oops). Still, it's an emotional one. Your tears fuel me. :)
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Task Force 141!f!Reader
Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): angst, reunions, fluff, kissing, secret relationship, established relationship, grief/loss, swearing, mild humor, suggestive themes, mild sexual content
Word Count: 2k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
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John Price
Reality isn’t fair. It’s not kind or forgiving.
A week gone and John is simply floating, going through the motions, simply existing. This is why you don’t date military while in the military. It’s shit like this. It’s being told the person you love is fucking dead and now you’re the one left to pick up the pieces.
There wasn’t even a body. Vaporized is what they told him. Instant and painless. You felt nothing. It’s a small comfort, but John would rather have you in his arms than knowing you’re nothing more than atoms.
He sighs, and then puffs on his cigar. Smoke curls around him. It’s all quiet on base. Everyone is gone other than the routine patrol. John sits alone in his office, looking for files for an upcoming mission.
There’s a soft knock on is office door.
“Come in,” he says, not knowing who it might be but it must be important for it to be this late.
The door clicks and then creaks as it opens. John glances up, the cigar halfway to his mouth before the world around him completely stutters to a halt.
A phantom—a vaporized phantom—stands just inside, one hand on the doorknob. You are unharmed—clean. No scratches or wounds that John can see and wearing civilian clothing.
John is already standing, already moving, unable to resist the urge to remain in his chair and write this all off as a delusion. The cigar is forgotten, probably burning a hole in the wood of his desk. You match the forward momentum, shutting the office door, reaching out to him. When his arms go around you, and pull you in, John realizes that this is not an illusion. You are real and alive and here.
“You’re dead,” he murmurs, disbelief in his tone.
“I know. And I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—”
John grasps the back of your neck in a harsh hold, pulling you in for a kiss. He silences your voice, only needing your warmth and taste. You melt for him perfectly, answering the kisses with your own. With a gruff groan, John presses you up against the closed door.
“John,” you mumble, pulling back slightly.
“How are you here?”
“I’m sorry. We had to. It was the only way to extract me safely.”
John presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in. “Never again. Promise me.”
“Promise, John.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
One. Two. Three.
The seconds tick by, and still, Kyle refuses to move. For the last two weeks, Kyle has been cold and distant, sitting in the recliner in the corner of the living room.
He doesn’t read, doesn’t return the numerous missed calls and text messages, and he doesn’t turn on the television. He just sits, staring off into space, unable to figure out where his life will go next.
Why you? Why are you gone and not him?
It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. You should be alive and whole and happy. You should be home, wrapped in Kyle’s arms.
Kyle sighs, running his hands over his face. An overwhelming wave of grief bubbles up, threatening to rip a sob from him. Leaning forward, Kyle rests his elbows on his knees, cradling his face in his hands. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The wave crashes against his resolve, eroding some of the numbness.
The coffin is empty. No body to bury. He still hasn’t contacted your family. He can’t do it. Can’t face them. That fact that he is here and you are not is a failure on his part. Kyle promised that he’d look after you, and now you’re gone.
Around him, the air stirs—shifts. Kyle rubs at his face, sudden awareness slipping in. There’s an anticipation in it—a tension.
“Kyle.”
That voice. He knows that voice.
Shaking his head, Kyle keeps his face covered, his breathing becoming ragged.
“You’re not real,” he gasps.
Phantom fingers lightly brush across the back of palm, traveling to his wrist. Another set join them, and two warm hands gently wrap around his wrists. They tug, and Kyle surrenders, glancing up at the delusion his consciousness is creating.
Your smile is a beacon in the dark. It is everything he’s dreamed up these aching days, only wanting to see you again. And this is no dream, this is the waking world—reality. Somehow, you are standing before him, grasping his wrists, smiling down at him with such happiness that Kyle doesn’t entirely understand how this could be possible.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Kyle.”
He’s standing, wrapping you up in his arms. There is no mistake. You are here. You are here.
Kyle murmurs your name over and over again like a mantra. He touches you everywhere, needing to know that every inch of you is real and not a figment of his imagination. You curl against him, tears forming, threatening to fall and stain your cheeks. Kyle kisses them away, grasping the sides of your face to steal your breath.
You melt beneath him, and Kyle’s only desire is to keep you near him, to relearn your every moan and whisper. He can get answers later. Later. Right now, you are here, you have returned to him, and that is enough.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny made the choice, and now he has to live with the consequences.
It’s his own fault for caring about you, for deciding that you were the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He should have found a civilian. That way they’d be mourning him and not him mourning you.
Three months and the missive still burns a hole in his chest. It’s folded up nicely, faded and worn from him unfolding and refolding it, tucked into an inside pocket beneath his bulletproof vest. It’s right over his heart. Right where you should be. Right where you belong.
The missive doesn’t belong to Johnny. It’s addressed to Captain Price, but the man handed it over to him, because he knew—even though Johnny did his best to hide it. He didn’t want to share what he had with you with anyone. That was just for the two of you.
“You all right, Soap?”
Simon’s voice cuts through the static.
“I’m aces, Lt. Don’t worry about me.”
The words feel false on Johnny’s tongue. He hates lying—but he especially hates lying to Simon.
Even behind the balaclava, Johnny can sense Simon’s frown. But the big bloke says nothing, appearing content with his answer.
“Price wants you in Conference Room B.”
“Now?” asks Johnny. “We’re supposed to transfer out in a few.”
Simon shrugs. “He didn’t say much. Just said he needed to talk to you before we leave.”
Johnny sighs but he goes, patting Simon’s arm before jogging to one of the main buildings. It’s inconvenient—and Price could have just met him on the fucking tarmac.
“What do you need, Captain?” says Johnny, pushing open the door.
Captain Price stands just inside the doorway. And he’s not alone.
At first, Johnny doesn’t understand. It’s like all but one singular bulb has been extinguished, the remaining light illuminating the one ghost in the room. Because that’s what you are. A ghost. Unreal and ethereal. Not reality at all but a simple hope in the back of Johnny’s mind that has finally blossomed into delusion.
“Soap.” Price’s voice is gruff. He sighs and then takes a step away from you. “I’ll leave the two of you to it.”
He brushes past Johnny, lightly squeezing his shoulder as he makes his exit.
And Johnny does not move. He stands in the doorway like a bloody git, unable to understand how you’re standing before him.
You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead.
Your smile is hesitant at first, your movements even more so. It’s a tentative walk to him, and you don’t touch, you only gaze at him, eagerness and hope in your eyes.
“Johnny,” you breathe, and he knows that voice.
So crisp and clear and real.
Johnny reaches out, and pinches. He pinches your arms, your waist, your cheeks.
“Ow,” you laugh. “What the hell?”
You are not cold, but warm. Solid.
Johnny laughs in disbelief. “Had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.”
Your arms go around him and suddenly, like a firework bursting with color, Johnny is happy and whole.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Simon shuts the front door and frowns.
Whenever Simon comes home, Bravo always greets him. The all-black German Shepherd is a singular ball of energy, turning in quick circles and tap tap tapping his paws against the hardwood in anticipation of back scratches and belly rubs.
For the past week, Bravo’s presence has been the one bright thing, the only bit of happiness keeping Simon going. The rest of it was snatched from him, torn apart and shattered, scattered to the wind. The letter is tucked inside the drawer of the bedside table. He only read it once. And once was enough.
You are dead. That’s what the letter says anyway. And it infuriates him more than anything. Every mission you’ve ever been on has been with Simon. Except this last one. And on this last one, you did not come home.
“Bravo!” shouts Simon, dropping his keys in the designated spot next to the front door.
Removing his coat, he hangs it up, and then kicks off his sneakers. Sighing loudly, Simon heads down the hall but Bravo does not emerge. Simon pokes his head into the living room and finds no dog. Kitchen, and still nothing. He even checks the backyard. No Bravo.
As Simon turns into the bedroom, he comes to an abrupt halt.
There’s Bravo on the bed, and sitting on the edge—
“You—”
You hold the letter in your hands, attention turning to Simon as he enters. Standing quickly, you extend the arm holding the letter while you bring a singular finger to your lips, implying silence.
Simon’s stomach flips, and then twists quickly. He moves across the room a couple strides, grasping your waist and pulling you close. He says nothing, only searching your face as you keep that finger pressed to your lips.
You flip the letter over to the blank side.
Compromised.
Everything clicks into place. Either you faked your death or someone lied.
Simon cups the side of your face as you drop your finger away from your lips. His mouth replaces, tasting and seeking, wanting to remember. You open for him, accepting it all. His hands tighten on your waist and it takes every ounce of Simon’s control to not throw you onto the bed and rut like an untamed beast.
But he does refrain.
Simon has the car loaded and the alarm system armed in ten minutes. Even on the road, Simon doesn’t speak. He’s not sure if he can. All he does is keep his hand on your thigh, squeezing tightly, attempting to ground himself and keep his focus on the road.
At the safehouse, Bravo takes off, running through the tall grass as you and Simon enter the barn through a small side door. The moment the bags are dropped onto the floor, Simon is on you, fisting your clothes, tugging at them in a need to seem them gone.
“Simon,” you groan against his mouth.
He wants answers. He needs to know what happened. But reconnecting with you is far more urgent.
“After,” he begs. “Please.”
You nod, understanding.
The two of shed your clothes quickly, falling onto the sofa in a tangled heap. Simon’s hand delves between, fingers finding your arousal. You’re ready for him—just as eager as he his. He makes no gentle effort, just a quick thrusts until he’s in to the hilt. Your brief gasp is swallowed up by his mouth, tongue delving inside for a taste as he starts to thrust.
This is what he needs. More than anything.
Talking can come after.
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gofishygo · 4 months ago
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no but what if reader sacrifices themself for soap in the tunnel... (implied ghoap, ghoap x reader; mcd, reader has very low self esteem, reader probably has depression, mw3 spoilers)
you know how important he is to ghost. everybody does- it's hard to not notice that they are practically symbiotic- feeding off of each other's laughs, near inseparable. you never see one without the other.
and compared to him, you are nothing more than a burden to the team, you figure. you do not carry soap's explosive force, the intensity in his eyes, nor do you have half of ghost's expertise in sniping, do not carry any of his mystique. you dont- you dont deserve a second glance, much less any of their kindness. your fascination, you like to call it, towards johnny and ghost, it should be hidden under your tongue, clandestine and invisible.
nobody gets a say in how quickly you are to establish yourself as the wallflower of the 1-4-1. and by the time of mw3, nobody gets to intercept how you manage to run solo in a team, no matter how much they try to reach out. they have each other. why would they ever need you?
so in that clammy, chilling tunnel, your reactions to such an ambush are second nature- you shut down the moment johnny's shoulder is shot. tackling the enemy- the movement is so instantaneous and blurry that you do not realise that said enemy is makarov himself-onto the asphalt and plunging your knife in and out of him until the muzzle of a gun presses against your head and it's bullet lodges into the back of your brain. you die instantly, silently, not hearing how johnny screams your name instead of your callsign, how simon, for the first time, seems uncoordinated, desperate like a dog as he fumbles to revive you. you had never thought that they cared, never believed they would look at you with reprocipricated admiration. and moments before you die, you realise that you will never know how much of a presence you were in their lives, and you close your eyes knowing that they will be okay together. but you arent around long enough to see how they crumble, and you die with the belief that in this world, you are none other than a replacement. you never seem to stay around long enough to see how simon, johnny, love you.
and you never will.
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piggycyberwarrior · 5 months ago
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Summary: After Task Force 141 got a hint that you gave important information to their enemy- the boys do not hesitate to chain you up and give you a taste of hell. You on the other hand are innocent but they do not believe you
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Platonic Task Force 141! x Fem!Reader (Simon Ghost Riley x Reader) a/n: pretty proud of that ngl.. enjoy guys love you!
Warnings: uhm this whole fic is basically a warning. Torture; Blood; Mental Health; Angst angst angst not proof read
genre: ANGST
+ 1,6k words
part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6
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You thought you were going insane.
Maybe you already were, but it was no suprise- seeing the circumstances you were in. Arms stretched uncomfortably backwards and up- chains rubbing your wrists painfully raw. The stress position Soap put you in wasn't easy peasy lemonsqueezy.
Tears brimming in your eyes at the thought. You felt fucking betrayed. You were fucking betrayed, for gods sake! by your own team- the people you cried with- the people that you loved more than yourself- the people you called your family. That one man you took a bullet for.
Fuck all that bullshit.
Those were the same people that didn't believe you when things got rocky. When some pricks pointed their fingers at you- they immediately treated you as an enemy. The same people that chained you up. The same man that made you fucking blind on one eye
Everything was a lie, apparently.
The cell you were in was shady- you didn't expect something different- i mean you just served the military for many years and did everything for your country- of course you didn't deserve something more decent.
In the end you didn't care. Just waited.
When Gaz interrogated you- you kept your mouth shut. What should you do? Lie? Fuck no, you had so much self respect left, even in this dehumanizing situation.
of course your facade broke often times- you were only human after all. And it hurt- you were in this situation before- tortured by your enemies knowing that you would probably outlive them anyway as your team would rip them apart in a few days.
But now- being here- seeing how your 'friends'- your family- spat at you with nothing more than hate made you feel even more miserable- knowing, that no one will safe you this time.
You cried- having panick attacks deep into countless nights-being triggered by any small sound that wasn't coming from you or that rat in the corner of the room. Yelling at them- telling them that you didn't do shit. They didn't believe you.
Spiraling deep in your thoughts- shoulders sore and numb hands from the stress position- still tasting a faint trace of your own blood-
the sensory of the dried up blood on your cheek was uncomfortable at the beginning- cracking everytime you opened your mouth- but it quickly got kicked to the bottom of your worries as Price's wodden bat flew into your face yesterday- tooth flying onto the ground as you spat the crimson liquid at his feet- earning another strike from your Captain.
Your Saliva turning pink with the blood, sticking to your chin- slowly dripping down- having no free hand to wipe it off.
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You were here for about 1 and a half weeks now- how'd you know that? because you could hear the guards mutter something behind that steal door.
You shivered, suffering from hypothermia, a consequence of being almost naked in this shithole. Simon himself stripped you down- ignoring your pleas and protests.
Simon.
The man you did everything for, took a bullet for, cared for and slept with. He was the love of your life- or so you thought.
You were never scared of Simon. Since the first day you met him- you were kinda drawn to that giant of a man. Always spawning in his near with hearts in your eyes- Soap always made fun of you- but he found it cute neverthless, he could see that Simon didn't hate you.
You stitched him up- knew his fears (being a therapists daughter was quite a help for having deep convos), you knew of his past- even if it took you years to finally break his many iron walls down
You saw his face- kissed his scars and showered him with your time and love- giving him your all- even your body.
You weren't in a relationship- but everybody knew that Simon 'Ghost' Riley liked you. Even if you didn't tell anybody from the Force.
In the end it seemed not be enough, as the same man nearly strangled you to death down here. At first you were desperate, scared- but you stopped pleading a long time ago.
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heavy footsteps shook you out of your trance- spiraling thoughts stopping for a mere second as you looked into his stone cold eyes.
Balaklava on his scarred face- making you inhale sharply- heart throbbing at his sight. The black paint around his eyes made them pierce through the dark even more.
The same paint you applied more than once onto his unique face. he looked beautiful in your eyes. Even after everything that happened.
You're in here since a few nights.- Clothes starting to hang loosely around your body- having not eaten in days.
"Simon-" you croaked out- voice not cooperating as it should- making you tear up. When did everything turned out to be like that? This nightmare? You flinched a bit- chains clinking softly at your slight movement when he came towards you- still not speaking.
He stared. Stared at your weak frame. The dark hole you were chained into- being in a constant state of fear- Anxiety pulling and clawing at your nerves.
You gritted your teeth- looking to the side with a defeated huff. Tears prickling in your eyes once more- threatening to fall as he watched you like you were a kicked stray dog. Maybe you were in their eyes.
"I-" you croaked out once more "I didn't do it, Simon, i swear" you whispered into the dimmly lit room- Still not looking at him. "I swear to god Simon, I didn't.." you weeped in silence as he just looked "Fuck why should I betray you!!" you screamed in frustration at his figure- tears falling as he only left- leaving you in complete darkness- letting you cry to yourself till you eventually passed out.
.
Not even two day passed before he bursted through the iron door again- the loud sound ripping you out of your unconsciousness before he angrily grabbed you by your collar- hate flickering in those eyes that once held nothing but adoration for you.
"You fuckin' liar" he seethed through gritted teeth- behind that mask. Pushing you into the wall behind you- your head knocking against the brick wall with such a force that made you wince.
You could feel his anger. And you felt the danger that radiated from the man you gave your heart to.
His hands coming up to press against your jugular with a firm grip- picking you up a few inches into the air- chains clinking again. "Y'think you hav' it in you to lie into my fuckin' face" he growled while pressing down harder- you could feel yourself getting more lightheaded- gasping for air- choking for oxygen.
"Plea' Simon" you begged inbetween small gasps- scared what he will do to you. Hands tied together, wiggling in his painful hold like a suffocating fish- legs kicking to get him away from you- it worked- you gasped, trying to get in as much air as you could while your built up saliva ran down your chin-
he let you go for a second before his fist collided with your face. Hard- knocking the air out of your lungs once more "Jus' tell us the truth" he huffed, before hitting again- at first it hurt and then it burned. Your nose cracked under his fists-
Making you see stars and breath heavily before he took the knife out you gifted him for his birthday. Both your names engraved in it-
"'t will be easier for you" he said before popping the knife out of its sheath. "No, Simon" you cried out- whilst seeing the blade. "You don't have to do this" you gasped as he came dangerously close.
"No,no,no!!" you protested as he teared down your clothing, leaving you in a bra and your underwear. Feeling helpless as he teared down your clothes- ignoring your protest. The coldness of the room let goosebumps arise on your skin almost immediately.
He was quiet. That wasn't a good sign. You waited- staring at him, pulling at your chains as he looked at the blade. Fist tightening as he saw the little heart that was engraved into the hilt. Betrayal flushed his senses as he pushed the knife into your upper leg- making you scream in return.
Twisting the knife- hearing your agony but not stopping- he quickly hit you into your left eye socket with the hilt of the knife to shut you up. he didn't want to hear your screams.
Even if he didn't wanted to admit it- he was also teared apart- but his need to let his anger out was stronger - all the time he spent with a fucking liar- gave you his fucked up heart. All for you to be a fucking snake- a traitor.
He had to do his job- protect his family.
Another jab to the eye- hearing your muffled cries echo across the room- making you see red- the burning sensation was an ugly one. You couldn't see on that eye anymore.
"I fuckin' wish I could just kill you" he seethed before leaving you there in the dark- all beat up and bloody- head throbbing and surely a broken nose- making it hard to breath.
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You waited since then. Waiting for death to come. Waiting for Ghost to end it- but of course he never came back since then. Your wounds were starting to inflame- everything hurt and burned. Your eye swelling almost shut.
They all tortured you. Johnny, Kyle, John and Simon.
But they forgot something important. You were known for being patient. A fucking patient and stubborn woman. You waited. Yes you sometimes protested, and kicked and screamed and insulted them- but you neverthless waited for the day.
The day they finally see that they wronged an innocent. The day you would hurt them. Seek revenge.
Fucking. Revenge.
-
!please do reblog! :)
join the Taglist here (Taglist post)
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v1x3n · 4 months ago
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SHOWER TIME ── ripped apart.
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♯ PAIRINGS - john price x falsely accused reader x 141
♯ SYNOPSIS - tortured for information by your family and the person you loved, john price. you were harmed for something you hadn't even done, you were framed as the traitor and soon they would find out.
♯ TAGS - angst - nightmare mention, hospital setting, scars, depression, neglect.
─ previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter ─
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After being taken to the infirmary, your body had uncontrollably decided to take a long sleep, your dreams full of the terrors your best friends had caused you. Your dreams reminisce on the before, on the time where everything was okay, the time where you had a friend group and your job was going well. But that had to end, didn't it? 
Nothing good could ever happen to you. 
Waking up, you don't even know how long you slept for, you discover your bandages on your body changed. Still bloody but they were fresh material, you were in new clothes - well clothes. Head goes dizzy when you look around the room, taking in everything you could see. The high white walls with no decoration, the window that you could look out from on your so-called bed, the cream curtains that hung but were swept to the side - bringing in bright light from the outdoors. The outdoors, something you hadn't seen in what, a month? You couldn't remember anymore. You felt disoriented, angry yet also sad. You felt every fucking emotion you didnt have time to feel during the attacks, all at once. Eyebrows squeezing together, looking to the side of your sheets, a small wooden chair was placed there. After gulping you peek at the table next to your bed, there was also a sink in the corner. Usual hospital room, tv and two doors, one leading out into the hallways and one to a bathroom. And that was that. 
There was one thing that made your heart furious though, an arrangement of colourful flowers, wrapped in a light pink ribbon sat on the table beside you. Frowning as you peer at the beautiful petals you look away, they ruined you, ruined your body, your life and all they give you is fucking flowers? You knew it was one of them, you had not built that much of a relationship with anyone else and they were your favourite flowers. Only the 141 knew your favourites, cheap fucking way of saying sorry. You hadn't even heard the words come out from any of their mouths yet, fucking pathetic. enraged, angry, furious and irritated were only some of the words you were feeling. 
Soon it had been a week, lay in that stupid fucking room. At Least you had met a few people, you met a few nurses who came by to feed you, check up on you and help your wounds. And you had met a patient in the room next to yours, he was sweet towards you, you never spoke to him though. He did most of the talking, his name was Logan and honestly in the week you had known him for - he was growing on you. He came by everyday, he was very nosy though, very extroverted. Luckily he never demanded answers from you, he always spoke, sometimes you would reply with a shrug or a small nod. You couldn't tell if he had heard about what happened to you though, he never touched you and he was always so gentle, dunno. Maybe he was just nice.
Scars were left all over your form, a healing cut on your cheek that wouldn't take that long to fix - just a very quick and painful stitch up!, your legs just starting to become responsive, rope marks dug in your skin from how tightly they displayed you on that cold pole. 
Drugged up on antibiotics wasn't the best feeling, you had a few infected wounds down your body, the one on your lower womb was ugly. It looked diabolical, but luckily you were on many pills so life is okay! Looking down at your hands, the missing fingers was just another example of the pain the four caused you. 
Just when you were about to spew tears from your tear ducts, a light shadow covered you. When did he come in? 
Your captain sat on the wooden chair beside you, he didn't speak, just looked down at his raggy boots. You were glad he didn't speak, but deep down you kind of wanted him too because this was far too awkward. Glaring down at your lap, you refused to speak to him, just as you tried to turn around the door swings open. The nurse you were closest to walks in and sees the two of you. The obvious tension floods the air, flowing out the open door when Jane starts talking, “morning, honey” she smiles and takes slow steps up to you. 
You dont reply. 
“We need t’ get you into the shower” she mumbles to you, peeling off the sheets that covered your battered body. You were ashamed that the nurse had to physically get you up and take you to the shower but your legs just wouldn't cooperate with you. A twisted and healing ankle paired with weak legs and then on top of that the depression that comes along with all of this summed up too being unable to help yourself up. You couldn't do anything for yourself, they tore you limp by limp and now you weren't the strong soldier you were before. All thanks to them. “Okay” a light voice sounds from you through a sigh, almost whispering, not wanting that fucking man next to you get the pleasure of hearing your voice. Letting the nurse help you get out of the bed, Jane looks down at your form, your skin and your trauma.
“Healing well, hm? Did nurse poppy give you your pills this morning?” Jane asks, tilting your head up gently to take a look at the slight slit on your throat. When the man right next to you was about to end your life.
What is the saying? Each scar tells a story but every story leaves a car. Something like that.
Nodding at the nurse's question makes the corners of her lips twerk up into a small yet genuine smile, “good, now let's get you up, hm?” you could almost feel john's eyes burning into you while the nurse helps you get up, your weak limbs drop as you stand on your feet, jane instantly gripping you and jolting you back up, an arm wrapped around you to help you walk. 
You were thankful for the nurses, obviously they knew what had happened and they were nothing but gentle and sweet with you, they never tried to do anything that would trigger you and knew to check up on you, make sure you were eating, drinking, sleeping and things like brushing your teeth and showering. You felt kind of useless. Not  being able to do anything for yourself but it wasn't exactly your fault though was it? 
Jane took you towards the bathroom and Price still just kind of sat there, in your hospital room - staring at your bed.
“You can do it yourself, yeah?” Jane helps you sit on the lip of the toilet seat, the bathroom was sterile and white. The smell of bleach attacked your nose, you looked at the shower. The shower head pours down water at a fast pace when the woman in front of you turns the knob around, you almost flinch at the sound of the water hitting the shower floor. “C'mon” she mumbles, taking your arm to help you limp into the shower, as soon as the water hits you - you flinch. Taking in an old memory, instantly you back up to the wall, “i-i can't” you shake, gulping down, staring at the dropping water splattering over the floor. Breath picking up as you breathe in harshly, “i cant - i cant” you repeat as if the nurse hadn't heard you, she quickly leans over to grab the sponge that was placed under the shower head, she places it in your hand, “its okay, honey, don't worry.” jane coos while you shake, “you don't gotta, just scrub yourself down outside the shower, you don't have t’ go in if you can't” 
Thank god for this sweet woman. After nodding she leaves you to your own devices.
Taking a glance at the shower and then down at your sponge, you sigh. How could you let yourself become this pathetic. A panic scares you when you hear sounds coming from outside the bathroom door, a deep voice which was so obviously johns then a softer voice which you would only match it to janes.
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“Is she okay?” Jane's ears picked up John's voice, still sitting on the wooden chair but he was facing the bathroom door. “You know they dont want you here” she states, walking past him to clean up your sheets. 
“I needed to see them.” All Jane does is sigh, “they can't see you right now, i understand it's hard but it's harder for her” john looks down at his boots, in  defeat. Closing his eyes and biting his tongue, this was hard for him - it was hard for everyone. 
All of the 141 missed you, missed talking to you, seeing you and missed their relationship with you. No one knew how to go about the situation, nobody knew what to do. How to make it right, how to make it the same as before. They all just thought; they didn't know what else to do, they all thought it was you and the signs pointed to you. 
The job is ugly, it's disgusting, that's what it is.but there's nothing they can do about it, it's all a part of the job.
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rainyrambles-overcod · 2 months ago
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this one was a fairly popular one on my other old blog, so I shall bring it here:
Imagine getting into an argument/fight with one partner!John Mactavish, but nothing can seem to bridge the two of you just yet. No horizon yet in sight for forgiveness, each party stubborn set in their perspective no matter which side was in the right.
Imagine putting space between the two of you come bedtime, settling on the couch, unable to kick him from the bed, or lie beside him.
Imagine waking up sometime late into the night, hours after falling asleep but hours still to sunrise. Tangled into your blanket on the couch, but unable to move your legs due to the weight of your partner draped over them, kneeling despite his bad knee, unable to stay separate from you for even one night. Curled over your feet like a kicked and saddened puppy, sleeping despite the obvious discomfort in his limbs.
A puppy. He’s literally a puppy.
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starsofang · 7 months ago
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fwb!johnny who fell for you on accident. it was just sex, and that was a rule you enforced from the beginning. you weren’t ready for a relationship and you wanted careless fun, which you found in johnny.
at first, he was fine with the arrangement. no strings, no attachments, it sounded perfect for a busy man like him. he couldn’t give you the world like most people wanted in a partner. so he settled. and he was fine with it.
until he began to notice you. the beauty marks that scattered your skin. the faint scars you gained from childhood adventures. the way your smile formed crinkles in your eyes.
it started off small before it consumed him whole. he was enraptured with you. it was no longer just sex for him, he wanted to be with you.
when the bottled feelings eventually cracked one night while he laid in bed with you, naked bodies entwined with one another, you became distant. cold. you reminded him of your arrangement, telling him he needed to cut off the feelings for the better, for both of you.
johnny feared losing you, so he agreed. he didn’t have it in him to cut off the sex, knowing that if he did, he’d lose the one person who made him feel alive rather than simply surviving. existing. so he sucked it up and drowned in his own sorrowful, unrequited adoration.
he loved you like a dog, and when you called, he came. where you went, he followed. if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. a dog was loyal to the owner of its heart, and johnny was no better than a mutt.
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hahaifolded · 3 months ago
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141 x POC!GN Intelligence Operative - Joint Mission Author's Notes: This was supposed to be short but I had an epiphany after I finished Warnings: MDNI, Angst
This was a standard joint mission. Two teams, one task, in and out, and it's done. So why did John Price feel so nervous?
The mission seemed pretty straightforward and the new guys seemed formidable. Not at the same caliber as the 141, but they're getting there.
Really, everything looks fine, so why is he nervous?
But it didn't matter as he pushes his concern to the side as he greets the team of three on the tarmac. After some quick introductions, he guides the trio to the conference room where the rest of his team waits.
As they got closer, John felt his heart beating faster and faster. What was going on with him?
And he wasn't the only one as Johnny also had a bad feeling about this mission. However, unlike his captain, he actually voiced his concerns out loud.
"And why were we paired up with these guys again?" the Scotsman asks for the 5th time today. Ghost glares at him while Kyle groans. Gaz shoots you a quick glance to see if that had caught your attention. It didn't.
"I mean, why couldn't we get Farah and Alex to help us on this or even Los Vaqueros?" Soap adds.
"Laswell's orders," Kyle grunts out.
Honestly, the fellow Sergeant wasn't sure what the concern was. He could tell Price was also feeling something, but what? Laswell has never led them astray so this should turn out fine, right? The last time Laswell sent someone, things started out perfectly. As long as the 141 can act right, then things should go swimmingly.
Well, after first introductions, Kyle realizes that they're not the ones that need to act right. It's the new guys. Gaz caught the extra attention you got from the three.
"Sergeant Keegan P. Russ, at your service."
"Sergeant Kim Hong-jin, but you can call me Horangi."
"Lieutenant Nikto."
That last one would not have been so bad if you weren't the only one who got a handshake from the Russian.
Kyle knew he wasn't the only one to notice as he caught Ghost clenching his fist.
And Ghost was not going to let you go without a fight.
"Isn't there supposed to be four of you? Where's your captain?" he asks. Ghost stands tall and stares them down.
The three don't react as they take a seat at the table. It isn't until the three have settled in their seats that one of them speaks up.
"Our Captain already talked to yours so don't worry about it," Keegan replies. He stares back at Ghost, clearly not intimidated by the British Lieutenant.
"Great, so we're stuck with a Yankee, a gambling addict, and a commie," Ghost groans out.
"That's enough," you bark out. You shoot an incredulous look at the Lieutenant who immediately buckles down. You order everyone to take a seat so you can start your presentation. "The faster we get this done, the faster I can get back to work and you guys can continue whatever this is," you chastise.
The new team immediately voices their agreement which made Ghost's blood boil.
As you go over the details of the mission, Price looks around the room and catches the way the three new soldiers stared at you. Something in their eyes didn't sit right with him. It looked way too familiar, it almost reminded him of his bo... oh hell no.
He calls out your name and says, "you know what, I can take it from here." He pushes his chair out and places his hands on his knees, getting ready to stand up. However, before he can even get up, you immediately speak up.
"What do you think you're doing?" You ask. You're clearly not impressed.
Price feels the energy in the room shift. He looks at you sheepishly and repeats himself. "I can finish it from here."
You scoff. "Captain Price," you slowly say, "what's my position here?"
"The 141's Intelligence Operative."
"Close, the 141's temporary Intelligence Operative," you correct him. John feels his heart clench. You fail to notice his heartbreak and continue, "and what's my role as the Intelligence Operative?"
"Deal with anything and everything that has to do with intelligence. I think I got it, I'm--"
"No, no, no. I'm not done," you bite back. You're obviously annoyed. It seemed like you were annoyed most days here. "And this presentation, what is it about?"
"Intelligence surrounding our newest mission," John grumbles out.
"Okay, okay. So, if this presentation has to do with intelligence, who should do it?" You stare at him, eyes wide, waiting for an answer.
Horangi raises his hand which catches you off guard. "Yes, Sergeant Kim." Now you're sheepish, embarrassed that the new guys had to see you like this.
"Please, call me Horangi," he assures you. Much to John's dismay, that seemed to ease your concerns. "If I may, I think the answer that you're looking for and your captain forgot is that you should be doing this presentation, and I completely agree." Despite your straight face, your eyes glowed with content. You thanked Sergeant Kim and turned your attention back to Price.
"Is that okay with you Captain? May I continue?"
John just nods, feeling absolutely embarrassed and ashamed with himself. What the fuck was he thinking?
As you continue with your presentation, the 141 oscillate their attention from you to the new guys. Ghost catches the gentle look in Nikto's eyes. Johnny recognizes the look of admiration on the Keegan's face and Kyle notices the excitement in Horangi's eyes. And Price finally understands the root of his worries as he realizes that this new task force is looking at you the exact same way that you used to look at them.
It seemed like the one thing that the boys were avoiding could very much happen now and it would all be their fault.
Word Count: 980
More Thoughts - Next Thought
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oceantornadoo · 11 days ago
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ch6 the wrong john | masterlist | next
tw: idiots in love acting like idiots, reader is insecure i fear
john price x f!reader, reader is johnny’s twin
--
Your cat likes John better than you and you can’t seem to care.
He coaxes her into the carrier with ease and you watch it like you’re not there, instead floating above your body. John’s hands rummage through your dressers, packing underwear and shirts and pants into the same suitcase you used when you visited base. There’s a joke in there somewhere but you can’t seem to find it, words turning to ash in your mouth. Johnny is missing, so there’s no reason to laugh. All you can do is stand in the corner, holding your cat’s carrier, watching a captain commandeer your apartment like it’s a mission. In five minutes, John has fit your necessities into two bags and has you out the door with a hand on your back. 
“You didn’t tell me her name yet.” You blink and there’s a black car in front of you, John’s hand pushing you into the passenger seat while he puts your stuff in the back and gets into the driver's side. The cat is on your lap, somehow not throwing a fit at her new home.
“Bubbles.” He hums, gunning the engine and turning the car into the familiar path to the airport. “Bubbles?” You glance out of the window, noting the day is as dreary as you feel. “She has a mohawk. Like Jo- my brother. He’s Soap, so I thought Bubbles…” Your throat tightens. Johnny’s missing and you’re sitting here with your cat, making stupid puns he would love.
John squeezes your thigh and returns his hand to the wheel. The loss of it is a shot to the heart. Now, you’re a victim to him. Sadness is not sexy. It’s painful but you try not to think of it too much. Everything is falling apart anyway.
“We’ll find him, sweetheart. Can tell ya more on the plane.” Everything is in slow motion. Bubbles licks your fingers through the mesh of her carrier and you focus on it like your life depends on it. 
“I’m supposed to work tomorrow.” 
“Already called ‘em. Y’r on sabbatical.”
“My plants…”
“Left a note f’ y’r neighbors.”
“How can I pay rent if I’m not working?”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. ‘ve got ya.” 
You nod and close your eyes, wishing everything away like a bad dream. When you wake, you’re on a small military plane. Bubbles is next to you, buckled in. You reach for your phone to take a picture for Johnny, to show him your military cat, but your hand drops when you remember. The heat of John’s stare burns the side of your face, and it takes a few seconds, but you finally gather enough courage to face him. The look in his eyes is haunting. You can’t tell, but John’s been replaying the moment he lost two of his men over and over since it happened. When he closes his eyes, it’s all he sees. Opening his eyes is worse, seeing you in pain and knowing he can’t do anything to immediately fix it.
“Was s’pposed t’ be an easy mission. They got the drop on us. Would’ve been so easy to take all four but they only took Soap an’ Ghost. Ghost’s only family is Soap so we think they’re goin’ to target you next. They’ve got a vendetta against y’r brother. Old wounds an’ all that. You’ll be on base where y’r protected.” He pauses for a second. It’s now dawning on him that you’ll be a few meters away, the fantasy he’s been wanting, but under the worst circumstances. “Questions, sweetheart?” Only one.
“Will you find him?”
“I will. Don’t care what I’ve got to do to do it.”
When you get to base, Kyle is there. He’s looking worse for the wear, a new scar decorating his eyebrow. “You look very chic, Kyle.” He shakes his head, pulling you into a hug. “‘m sorry, angel. We’re gonna find him.” It’s the first time it’s really hit you. Maybe it’s the fact that this is only the second time you’ve met Kyle and he’s already treating you like family on account of your brother. Tears form in your eyes and he tugs you closer, rubbing your back as you cry. You remember you’re still out in the open, standing in front of countless guards, and start taking deep breaths to calm the tears. “It’s ok, let it out.” You nod against him, then pull back to wipe the tears away. Bubbles meows, desparate for attention, and Kyle’s ears perk up at the sound. “‘m goin’ to walk you to your quarters an’ you’re goin’ to tell me when you got a cat.” John’s already ahead of him, your bags in his hands, so you turn to Kyle and hand him the cat carrier. “So it all started with a dumpster…”
There aren’t spare quarters in the task force’s section of base, so you’re staying in Johnny’s. As if that wasn’t already terrible, you’re across the hall from John’s quarters. John’s disappeared, the bags he packed for you neatly set near Johnny’s bed. Kyle brings you to the room, already having bonded with Bubbles, and promises that someone will be by with dinner. Every second is precious to find your brother, so you can’t blame them both for having to leave.
Your idiot twin didn’t even make his bed before he left. You tidy his room, ignoring your shaking hands, then venture out with a bag of his laundry just to give you something to do. A kind lieutenant in the hallway directs you, and you can feel pitying eyes follow you to the laundry room. A civilian staying multiple nights on base is unheard of, but the rest of the soldiers there are used to the task force operating by their own rules. It seems some groups have left, the building feeling emptier and less lively since you last visited. Or maybe they’re just giving you space in this time of half-mourning, this purgatory of doubt. While you wait for Johnny’s clothes, you try to remember the path to John’s office. It takes you a few backtracks, but you finally make it back to where this all started. You raise your hand to knock, but a bit of eavesdropping reveals there’s at least five people in the room. Not wanting intrude, you go back to Johnny’s room and wait. Waiting seems to be the only thing you can do.
Hours later, after a tasteless dinner of mess hall food, you still can’t fall asleep. It’s past midnight and base is quiet. In your state of delirium, you drag yourself out of bed and outside your room, feet tracing an easy path to John’s room. It feels selfish, seeking him out when your twin is probably in some sort of hell, but you can’t prevent your hand from reaching his door. You knock twice, then curse yourself as the logical half of your brain wakes up and asks what the hell you’re doing. It’s too late to turn back. “Come in.”
John’s sitting at a small desk shuffling through papers. He’s got on blue light glasses you’ve never seen before, and the utter attractiveness of them stops your mouth from opening. He still hasn’t looked up yet, making small notes on the papers in front of him. “What is it?” Finally, John’s head tilts up, then straightens when he realizes it’s you. “I’m sorry, I’ll go-” “Don’t. ‘M sorry sweetheart, didn’t realize it was you.” You twist your hands together, feeling awkwardly uninvited. His space is hardly lived in, no personal effects to be found except a blue blanket on his bed.
“Somethin’ botherin’ you?” You nod, taking a step closer to his desk. “Couldn’t sleep.” He nods back, eyes shining with understanding. Rolling out his chair from under his desk, he spreads his legs in invitation. You answer it silently, shuffling towards him until you’re standing in between them. His actions are so at odds with how avoidant he was in the morning, but you’re too tired to care. Rough hands caress the outside of your upper thighs, then move up to your hips and waist. He rubs small circles, similar to how he did during your bathroom confrontation months earlier, and the motion already starts to calm you. John scoots closer to the edge of his chair until his face is flush to your clothed stomach. Instantly, you reach out to pull him in, hands sinking into the strands of his hair until you feel his glasses poke your stomach. His hands settle above your ass, never stopping their circular caresses. The angle is slightly awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, namely being this close to the man that haunts your dreams. The two of you stand in almost-silence, breaths syncing until you can’t tell where his start and yours end.
“Sleepwithme.” You pull back until your hands cradle his face, smoothing over the creases your shirt left on his skin. “What?” He releases his hold on you to take off his glasses, setting them down on his desk. “Sleep with me.” Your heart drops, hands leaving his face. The implication that you two only seek each other out for sex is clear, and you can’t even blame him since that’s how it started. He frowns at you. “I’m not really in the mood for sex, I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow or…” John shakes his head, standing from his desk chair. “I meant jus’ sleep, sweetheart. Can’t blame you f’ jumpin’ to conclusions, I know I’m irresistible.” You roll your eyes, shoving him away. John catches your arm and pulls you into him, tucking your head under his chin like you were made to fit together. You let him hold you, nuzzling into him like you did the first night you meant. “I take this as a yes?” You nod against him. John turns off the light and ushers you into his bed. It’s a bit small for two until he tugs you on top of him, chest to chest. Your legs tangle, your arms flaying about for a better position until he tucks them around his broad shoulders. You can feel his muscles contract with every breath, how his heart beats strong as you shuffle your head up and into the crook of his shoulder. 
“Goodnight, John.”
“Goodnight, baby.”
When you wake in the morning, your core is throbbing, and not in a good way. Your period’s early, a symptom of how deranged your mental state has become, and it would be fine until you remember the man under you. The man who’s seen you naked but not like this, not vulnerable in a way you can’t control. Early morning sun peaks through his curtains, reminding you that you’ve only slept for a couple of hours. The light reveals a small stain of blood on your pajama shorts and John’s boxers, a bit on his chest since he slept shirtless. It’s your worst nightmare.
“Shit, shit, shit.” You whisper-yell. John’s up and moving before you have the chance to take stock of the situation. Always a man with a plan, he peels you off of him, pushing you towards his ensuite bathroom. He murmurs sweet nothings you’re sure are empty platitudes, just him being nice. 
“‘S okay, jus’ some blood, pet.”
“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.”
“Take a shower, be there in a second.”
In the shower, you want to bang your head against the tiled wall. The shock of your period almost erases the memory of Johnny being missing until it comes back in full force, along with worser cramps. Tears stream down your face, washed away quickly by the shower. Everything is unfair, and your hormones join the party to make it worse. That’s where John finds you, wiping away the puffiness under your eyes as the water turns cold.
“None of that, pet.” There’s still blood on his chest and he notices the same time as you do, shucking off his boxers and joining you under the shower spray. It’s not sexy, the first time you shower with John. You feel stripped raw, maneuvering yourself into the corner so he can have the water. John’s having none of it, tugging you into his arms. 
“John…” You murmur. Satisfied that you’re clean, he reaches around you to turn off the water. He’s so nonchalant that you’re both bare, that your body is bloated and sore in all the wrong ways. 
“What?” He finally replies. Getting out first, he hands you a towel, then grabs another to wrap around his waist. There’s a pair of your underwear on the counter, clean, and you question how he got it without leaving his bedroom. It’s a mystery not worth your time. He hands you a container of pads and tampons. 
“Where’d you get this?”
“My cabinet.”
“...Why do you have these?”
“Jus’ like to be considerate is all.”
His thoughtfulness collides with the fact that he has period products for any menstruating woman in his bedroom. Does this happen often? Do women’s bodies sense how safe and nuturing he is and just let loose?
“Jesus, why aren’t you someone’s boyfriend yet?” You mutter it, mainly to yourself, as you’re sticking a pad on your underwear. John’s head snaps up at you, eyes questioning. “What’re ya talkin’ about?” You ignore him in favor of putting on your underwear, stumbling with wet legs until John catches your shoulder. “That. This. All of this. The fucking period products. You’re like a walking template for husbands. How are you single?” Finally, you’re eye to eye with him, gripping your respective towels. His brow is furrowed, stubble slightly outgrown in a way you’re itching to feel. His eyes, normally blue like the ocean, are stormy. “Didn’t think I was single.” Um.
He walks out of the bathroom and you follow him to his closet where he’s digging for new boxers. “You have a girlfriend? How could you not…oh my god. I’m such an idiot. What, is she waiting for you at home somewhere?” Clothed in new boxers, he finally hits you with the force of his full glare. You almost step back under the cloud of his anger. “There is no girlfriend waiting at home. I thought you were waiting for me. Guess I miscalculated.” The weight of his words drags down your shoulders. You sit in his desk chair, mute as he gathers a clean set of fatigues. It’s only when he’s putting on his belt you finally find your voice.
“You thought we were dating?” He scoffs at your question. “Clearly, we’re not. Guess that one’s on me.” You fumble for something to say. “John, I told you, we can’t.” He shakes his head, and you note how he has to try twice to get his belt through his pant loops. “We can call and fuck and sleep, but we can’t date. Thanks for clearin’ that up, sweetheart.” He’s already lacing his boots and you’re still in his fucking towel, dripping water onto the floor. John approaches you and for a heartstopping second you think he’ll kiss you, but he just reaches around you to grab the paperwork on his desk. “Well, hope you feel better. I’ll be out workin’.” You nod silently, tracking his footsteps to the door. “John.” He stops with a hand on the doorknob. It’s the most vulnerable thing he’s ever done. Your tongue fumbles to find the right words, the right order to say them in, but all you can settle on is a “Thank you.” He shakes his head, not turning back when he replies. “I’ll see you later.” You busy yourself with gathering your bloody clothes, finding a T-shirt of his to wear so you don’t step into the hall naked. Tears threaten to fall but you choke them back, refusing to cry over him.
When that nice lieutenant finds you again, she tells you John’s been deployed, and he won’t come back until he finds your brother.
-
is anyone noticing how he uses different petnames based on the circumstances? no, just me? also i swear this has a happy ending we just have some idiots in love.
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tradgedyinwaves · 3 months ago
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tw: cheating, car accident
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Being John's assistant and girlfriend was hard sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. Holidays were missed. Special occasions put on back burners. But when he was home, John made every effort to make it up to you. At least, he usually did.
You took care of their paperwork for the most part, submitting their reports once they were turned in with details of their mission. You made a point never to read them. You'd made that mistake once and gotten a first-hand account of how Johnny had shoved a grenade down someone's throat and then stood back to watch.
They were your boys, but that didn't mean they were stable. Simon liked killing people with his bare hands. Johnny liked to watch them explode. Gaz liked to wittle them down to nothing during interrogation(torture).
But your John? Well, he made sure his shots provided the most suffering. Shooting out the knees first, then the elbows, shoulders, spine and then finally the head. He had no issues getting the headshot, but liked to take his time.
With you, though? Oh with you they are protective and gentle. Harm almost never befell you with them around. The worst that had happened since the beginning of your relationship with John (and your indoctrination into their group) was that you'd stubbed your own toe on a chair you hadn't pushed in. It was your own fault really, love.
The team had returned the day before your birthday. What a birthday present, right? Wrong. As you greeted them on the tarmac with warm meals waiting in the car, each one gave you one armed hugs. John was last, pulling you to his side but not saying anything.
You could tell they were exhausted and that something hadn't gone quite right on their mission. They were always extra quiet and morose on those days, usually breaking out of it with a good meal and a decent night of rest.
That wouldn't be the case when you woke up the next morning next to...an empty bed? Usually, the day after he returned, John would sleep in, catching up on the hours of sleep he hadn't been able to get.
And went you puttered out into the rest of the apartment, you would find it empty. Boots, keys, and wallet were gone. Boonie hat missing from it's spot on the hook by the door. Maybe he was just out getting things.
He'd never missed a birthday if he was home and always made it up to you if he wasn't. So you waited. Took a shower, pampered yourself with the new body scrub you'd purchased just for this day.
When John wasn't back even a couple hours later, you headed up to the base as you felt the first prickles of anger rising on the back of your neck. You brought a lunch with you, an excuse for being there on your day off.
"Oh, just bringing Captain Price is lunch. Silly man forgot it again."
And so they let you in. No one questioned you, giving you warm smiles and well wishes. Some even wishing you a happy birthday for which you thanked them.
Stepping into John's office always made you cringe. It was an organized person's nightmare. Papers strewn everywhere, dirty coffee mugs left around sporadically, cigar ash filling the tray but also filtered around it like he was in a hurry. He wasn't like this at home, so you let him have his space at work the way he wanted it.
Except he wasn't in there. Keys and wallet, sure. So you knew he was on base. Leaving the warm meal on his desk, you meandered out to find the gym where you thought maybe they were sparring, getting rid of excess adrenaline from their mission.
No one there. At least, no one who knew where Captain Price was.
You spent the entire work day looking for him and when you never found him, you left the base. You end up stopping to grab a little cake for yourself and a bottle of wine, setting up at the coffee table.
And when you wake the next morning, you're still on the couch and the living room is a mess. And there's still no boots by the door.
So you go to work on your own (when John would normally drive you). You eat lunch on your own (when the entire team would usually join you in the mess hall). You drop off papers outside John's door (when you would normally go inside and leave them on his desk).
And you went home alone.
That was when you noticed some of his clothes were missing as was his duffel. You slept alone that night. And the night after. And the night after that.
By the time the next week rolled around and you'd slept alone for four nights, you were on edge and furiously upset. Not a word from your boyfriend of three years or his team.
And then the calls stopped going through. And the texts. So you called Laswell who was actually one of your best friends at this point, as was her wife.
"They're on another mission, hun. John didn't tell you?" "John hasn't spoken to me since they got back from the last one." "That bastard. I'm sorry. Unfortunately, they're already gone and I can't get you in contact with them until they're back." "I know. Just...tell him I love him?" "Absolutely." You went to work and did your job. When the taskforce was on mission, you were used for general paperwork needs in other departments since there wasn't much for you to do with them gone.
You went home alone and it felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.
It took another two months for them to return. But you weren't waiting for them on the tarmac. You were up to your eyeballs in new recruit uniform requests and even though you knew what time it was, you couldn't find it in yourself to care much.
Kate had been able to contact John and give him your message, but he never gave her one to return to you. And that had rubbed you the wrong way.
Forgetting your birthday was one thing. Disappearing and not telling you that they were going on another mission was another. But his silence was what hurt the most. Everything had been perfect when he'd left for the first mission.
It was hours later when you laid in bed that you heard the keys jingle against the lock. They wouldn't work, not the ones he had anyways. Knocking followed and you rolled over, throwing your pillow over your head to block out the banging and the sound of his voice filtering through the wood.
It stopped surprisingly quickly and you sighed, knowing you'd have to face him the next day at work.
You did. Sort of. You saw him when you came in, immediately turning to your office when he looked up. You stayed there all day, eating your lunch there and only leaving for bathroom breaks.
Unfortunately, you had some forms that needed to be turned in before you left but they required his signature. You didn't bother knocking as you went into his office, teeth grinding and prepared to be as short as possible. You weren't expecting the sight before you.
Your boyfriend leaned back in his office chair, eyes squeezed shut and grunting quietly with one of his own men between his thick, burly thighs. You could see the mohawk just above the desk, the sounds coming from a man you considered a brother ripping more holes into your psyche.
With a gasp, you dropped the papers and fled from the room, immediately grabbing your purse and fleeing from the building.
You could hear them calling your name, but you kept going. You'd have to find a new job or transfer, but that was a small price if it meant getting away from the only family you had.
But they weren't your family, were they? They were a family on their own. They obviously didn't need you. They leaned on each other in the field and at home. You took care of them, sure, but it wasn't enough apparently.
You got home and packed your bags, leaving behind anything that reminded you of the team or John. You left the keys in the lock with a post it stuck to the door.
"Go to hell, John."
You got back in the car and called Laswell, voice surprisingly even for what was going on.
"I need a transfer, Kate. Immediately." "Whoa, what happened? What's going on?" "He's cheating on me." Calm. Collected. Numb. "Excuse me?" "You heard me. With Soap. Probably the lot of them."
You didn't get to hear what she replied with as a semi plowed into the driver's side of your car.
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I just want you all to know; this was supposed to be happy. It was going to end with a cute surprise party and apologies from everyone and nobody died. Oops, sorry.
Alternate Ending
Part Two
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criminalamnesia · 11 months ago
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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
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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.
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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.”
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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)
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screamingforests · 3 months ago
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Cat shifter reader au
The sick chapter, uhhh reader is referred to as "it" but its not meant to be dehumanizing, im just tryna keep it gender neutral
~
You had caught the flu. And it sucked. Being sick as a cat was 100% harder, especially because the experiments ran on you left your immune system weaker than usual. Usually, you would hide beneath a dumpster and ride out the worst of it or hide in your tiny apartment that you barely lived in.
But now you couldn't do either. You were trapped within the house of the four men who had all but abducted you.
You'd been hiding beneath Soap's - or Johnny as "Ghost" called him - bed. He was, surprisingly, the least touchy with you. It was something you appreciated after living so long alone.
Johnny, Soap, whatever, had heard you sniffling late into the night and heard you heaving the next morning. When he couldn't coax you from beneath the bed for even water, he got concerned.
So he left the room to round up the others.
"I think the cat's sick."
"Can't we just take it to the vet?" John asked. "They can give meds for it, can't they?"
Ghost chimes in, "that wouldn't be an awful idea except-"
"It bites us every time we get too close," Gaz finishes, nodding. "What about using a towel to grab it?"
Soap sputters at that and it delves.
Meanwhile, you were almost crying beneath the bed. You were shifting rapidly from human to cat form because neither form could take the sickness. The rapid shifting sapped what little energy you had left.
You could hardly stop the soft, pained meow that left your throat. Every movement made your body ached and for once, you wanted to ride it out in your human form but you couldn't.
Not with the military men outside the door, still arguing about taking you to the vet or not. Who knew if they'd turn you into the government to be returned?
The thought made you shudder.
Finally, the arguing dies down, and the door opens. There's a shuffle of feet, but you're fading in and out of consciousness.
You hiss softly as you see several items get pushed underneath the bed. A cat bed, when did they get that?, and a bowl of water. Some soft cat-food soon followed.
Then Ghost gets on the floor and peers under the bed to look at you.
"You better get well, cat, you're worrying Johnny."
You growl but move to curl up on the softer cat bed. It was better than the cold floor.
~
The next morning, you awake to being shuffled around. Someone was pulling on the cat bed, but you were far too fever addled to care. You should've.
Before you know it, Gaz is lifting you up and setting you on the bed.
You sneeze and look around blearily, something feels off.
You shifted back into your human form while asleep.
The shock of it makes you shift back and scramble towards the open window. Gaz isn't quite fast enough to stop you. Fear pushes you further.
But you're too sick to really go far, but you find a decent hiding place. You practically collapse into it as your consciousness is stolen from you.
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gloomwitchwrites · 6 days ago
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141 with a fem!reader who instead of not wanting kids can’t have kids?
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This is a popular request, anon. I've had several submissions from various users. Since the theme/idea is similar, I thought I would combine them into one.
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Heavy angst ahead, folks. I decided not to sugarcoat with this one. It's heartbreaking. It's sad. And yes, there is comfort and love mixed in.
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, angst, infertility, pregnancy, miscarriage, mention of surgical procedure, emotional hurt/comfort, implied abortion/d&c, minor blood
Word Count: 900
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
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John Price
This time, it sticks.
Somehow.
Miraculously.
After years of struggling, of being told it would never happen, of false results and shattered hopes—it’s happening.
You’d be in denial if it wasn’t for the test results in your hand. It is solid, a print out of what your doctor told you over the phone.
John stands next to you, reading the piece of paper over your shoulder. His shoulders are riddled with tension, lips a thin line. It’s clear that he wants to join in on your joy, but something holds him back.
“Are you happy?” you ask, suddenly nervous.
“I am—I.” John clears his throat. “But last time?”
Last time looked just like this. Last time everything was fine—until it wasn’t. Until the blood and the pain and the hospital visit.
“It might not be like last time.”
John gently grasps the sides of your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “You don’t have to. Not for me. Not for anyone.”
“It’s okay, John.”
“Are you sure?”
You nod, and John places his lips to your forehead. “I worry.”
“I know,” you murmur, turning your face into his touch. “But you’re here. And that’s all that matters.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
It all has to go. All of it. There is too much damage.
No uterus. No fallopian tubes. No ovaries.
Gone. All of it. Gone.
Johnny sits next to you on the sofa, his head in his hands. His sigh is heavy as he rubs at his face. When he comes up for air, you know his world is shattered, just likes yours.
“The surgeon said they might be able to save some eggs.” Even you don’t believe the words leaving your mouth. It’s a farce.
“Might?” asks Johnny.
“They won’t know until they’re actually inside.”
Johnny is oddly silent. It’s not like him to be quiet.
“Are you upset?” you ask, tentatively.
“No,” he says sharply. “Not with you. Never with you.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, because an apology feels right but you’re not sure why you’re doing it at all.
Johnny places his hand on your knee, squeezing gently. “For what?”
Tears pool, threatening to spill over. “For not being enough.”
He leans in, face serious. “The fact that you think that at all means I’ve failed you. That I haven’t loved you enough.”
“Johnny.”
He draws you in. “This doesn’t make you less worthy of my love.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
A heartrate monitor beeps nearby. They’ll release you soon now that you’re awake and aware.
It’s all coming back in pieces.
You remember the cramping, the spotting, and then the bleeding that wouldn’t stop. You remember the cold linoleum floor against your cheek, of losing consciousness, of gaining it again only for the room to spin. You remember how cold you were, and Simon’s hands—of how his voice cracked when he said your name.
You don’t recall the trip to the hospital. You only remember how Simon demanded help while the staff told him he needed to calm down.
But he’s here now—and no one is yelling. He sits in a chair next to your hospital bed, face grim and skin pale like he hasn’t slept in days.
There have almost always been complications—always been issues while trying to conceive, but of those that have ended, it’s never been like this.
You turn your head, and as if sensing you, Simon glances up from his silent musings. You offer your hand. Simon takes it, and though he doesn’t squeeze hard, you feel the desperation in the way he clings to you.
“I’m not risking you. Never again.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Your friend opens the gift, presenting it to the gathered crowd. Everyone fawns over the set of baby blankets. There are several in total, all pale pastels.
You smile and agree that it’s a wonderful gift. Outwardly, everything is fine. Internally, your mind is still at home, lingering on the four pregnancy tests hidden in the bathroom bin beneath a pile of toilet paper.
Each one negative. Each one a glaring stain on the long list of failures.
Kyle emerges from the kitchen with the father-to-be, a massive grin on his face. This baby shower is a reminder to you of all your shortcomings. For Kyle, this is hope—a vision of the future.
And you haven’t told him. Haven’t said a word about those four negative tests.
How many years of trying now?
But you’re still young.
Don’t stress about it.
It’s so easy for others to stick their nose in, which is why you don’t share anymore.
Kyle plops down next to you. The happiness there is palpable, so thick it’s almost like butter on the tongue. You’re going to shatter it—hurt him yet again.
He presents his hand, palm upward.
You snatch it like a lifeline, and squeeze—hard. Kyle frowns at your entwined fingers. His gaze sweeps upward.
In your friend’s hands is a onesie for a newborn. Everyone coos, and something in you breaks. You’re smiling, but you sense the threatening tears.
Kyle’s frown shifts to a sad smile.
He knows. You don’t have to say anything.
Lifting your joined hands, Kyle brings the back of your palm to his lips. Placing a quick kiss there, he then kisses your forehead. He adds another kiss to spot just behind your ear.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”
No one is watching.
“I love you.”
taglist:
@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath
@ferns-fics @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus
@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41
@saoirse06 @unhinged-reader-36 @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat
@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim
@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307
@itsberrydreemurstuff @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic
@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld
@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff
@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen
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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 10 months ago
Text
It's a Match! || poly!141 x Reader
[Chapter 22] || [Chapter 23]
Rating: E Pairing: Ghost x Price || Price x Reader || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 500~ cw: angst, selfish john price, thinking of someone else while fucking (mental cheating? idk) Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: this is angsty. this is NOT gonna please some of you. john is a selfish man.
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Chapter 22.5: Cardiff, London, Cairo, Cabo, Tel Aviv.
John doesn’t know how it happened.
One moment he’s leaving, the next he’s on top of you on the bed.
You’re whining needily as he slowly rolls his hips against yours like it’s the first time.
You’re lying on your back, your legs are spread on either side of him, your ass propped up on his thighs as he kneels on the mattress.
“You’re so beautiful on your back like this, fuckin’ ‘ell…” John murmurs as he pulls you up to him, one hand snug around the small of your back, the other around your shoulders.
Your chest presses tight against him while your feet struggle to find a perch on the slippery edge of the mattress, your arms wrapped tight around his shoulder, hoping your weight doesn’t make him lose balance.
His lower arm rocks you back and forth on his cock, drawing more mewls of pleasure from your lips before he captures your mouth in his, your tongues blurring together.
For a moment he’s not in Hereford, in your flat.
For a moment, there’s a piercing poking his tongue, and another set of them rubbing against his lower belly, threatening to catch on his happy trail of hair.
For a moment he’s in Simon’s apartment in Cardiff.
For a moment he’s on a rainy rooftop in London, doing a stakeout on an armed militia leader.
For a moment he’s in Cairo, in a sandy warehouse, dead bodies around them, after stopping an arms deal.
For a moment he’s in Cabo, South Africa, sneaking back into a sex trafficking cell safehouse after it had been emptied, under the guise of ‘checking it over one last time’.
For a moment he’s in Tel Aviv, having prevented a missile launch that almost cost both their lives.
Cardiff, London, Cairo, Cabo, or Tel Aviv…
He’s always fucked Simon like this. His pants just barely undone, Simon perched up on his lap, rocking back and forth on his cock, his moans being quieted by a tongue down his throat.
The only difference is that they’re usually huddled together in a corner of a room, so that no one spots it…
And not in the middle of a bed, in a comfortable, cosy, homey flat, where the only thing keeping you from serving as a counterbalance and landing you both on the mattress again is John’s sheer strength.
Tossing you down onto the mattress again, he breaks the kiss and rubs his open mouth across your cheek, down your jawline, and onto your neck. “So good f’r me.” He whispers in your ear.
You’re not Simon…
But you definitely make Simon happy.
He saw it in his eyes.
You make Simon happy in a way John never quite could.
And he makes you happy too…
John knows he’s not exactly a selfless man. He’s quite selfish, in fact.
But you’ve just extended him an opportunity to join you in making Simon happy.
And he’s bloody taking it.
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taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!):
@daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes , @irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @infpt-zylith , @xxshadowbabexx , @frescoisnotinthemilitary , @leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark
@severenswife , @enarien, @agoodmoviekiss , @l0lziez , @whos-fran , @greatstormcat , @openup-yourmind , @neoarchipelago , @sodavrr , @cutiecusp , @lilliumrorum , @c-nstantine , @kneelforloki , @comeonatmebruh , @codsunshine , @waiting-so-long , @captainquake42 , @gazspookiebear , @mynameismisty , @reap3erslov3 , @reaper-chan666 , @poohkie90 , @kitwithnokat , @stick-the-dumbass , @mothsdrabbles , @justanerd1 , @thesinsoflust , @thriving-n-jiving , @blckbrrybasket
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