#so Link gives him a *skull* mask and he loves it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Note

Hi!

I just wanted to say that I absolutely love all of your COD fics! Your Price fics made me fall in love with him (I saw a recommendation for See No Evil on TikTok and just went down the rabbit hole from there (it’s also my comfort fic)) and Laughing Poets made me buy Ghosts for Keegan. Your writing is so beautiful and poetic and has inspired me to start writing again after a really bad writing’s block!

I also did want to put in a request for Ghost (because I love him so much) but given his hype, I understand if you don’t want to write for him or if it may be hard. But I was hoping that this hasn’t been done before (much) and that I could read it in your words since you are so amazing!

I was thinking of the reader being a CIA agent that was working undercover to get classified information and 141 was sent in to extract her after she was compromised. And her and Ghost don’t really get along at first, like they don’t hate each other but they could just care less about one another. But then they get separated and one of them is injured and the other fights tooth and nail to get to them, realizing how much they care. I was thinking that her callsign could be ‘Reaper’ but it can be anything else if it fits better. It can be angsty (because that’s the absolute best genre), fluffy, nsfw, whatever you want to do with it.

I know this is asking a bit much and I’m sorry for that. Feel free to change it as you see fit and do whatever you want with it, if you want to do it. I really appreciate and love your work!! Thank you!!

'Til it Hurts

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: This duology will be 18+ and contain the following: intense gore, blood, violence, vulgar language, angst, fluff, suggestive content, (smut, p in v sex, virgin!reader (relevant to plot) all in part 2), abuse of power in the past, toxic working environment in the past, copious flashbacks, soft!simon because I love him like that (I guess considered ooc), banter, etc...

A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow after I edit it and the link will be added to this part as well for ease of access. But, anna, that's wild that people post about my work on tiktok, lmfao. I'm so glad I helped you out of that writer's block, though! Enjoy part 1, Love (I did change it around a bit)!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You often think of the friends you had when you were six. The neighborhood you grew up in was full of other kids your age, and there was practically a horde of young boys and girls outside at any given moment. Early mornings were ripe for adventures – ears perking up from your pillows at the sound of bird songs and lawnmowers like an instinctual call to cause mischief. Days would run long and nights would end late with games of tag.

It was inevitable, at this point in your life, to not think about where your friends would be now. Were they happy? Starting families and getting married on island resorts; white sand underfoot and a gentle lapping of ocean water? You’d lost contact a long, long, time ago – never bothered to get back in touch, though you know things might be better if you had.

God, you’d never have friends like that again.

Selfless. Genuine. Without competition or a need to stab each other in the back. Friendships built on a childlike innocence that was never meant to stay or grow with the brutal stretch of years. People mature. They harden, sharpen.

They break themselves to fit a mold of what they want to be without even realizing…Or maybe that was just how you grew up.

Your feet pound against the cobblestone streets of Bergamo, Italy, as you make your way through the packed road of the Upper Old District. Under your chin, your fingers go up to grasp the scarf around your neck and pull the thick navy fabric up farther. Fast eyes flicker over faces as a fake plastered smile splays over your lips, and your jaw holds a tension that seeps into your shoulders.

Keep the act up, you have to remind yourself, fingers heavy at your hips, don’t let the facade slip, or else it’s over before it begins.

At your sides, past the unending sea of loudly speaking humans and loyal animals alike, the broad expanse of ancient architecture calls to the history of this city; red-terracotta roofing, extravagant greenery, and pillars as tall as the buildings themselves. A picturesque land filled with mysteries lost to time, stories never told beyond the scratch of a pen and moth-eaten parchment.

A city now filled with killers.

“Sitrep,” you grunt into the open channel, the earpiece fizzling as it sits in the clutch of your canal. No one answers and, slipping past a family of tourists, you glare at the ground; heart going so fast you feel like it could jump-start a car. “Damnit!”

The seconds draw on and as you pick up the pace, now shoving your way through the crowd, you feel eyes on you. Slithering over your skin like oil.

Not good.

Shit. Karver, where did you go!?

Karver ‘Rigs’ Massarini was an informant – someone who’d been giving you everything that you needed to know about the cell in this area; along with a grouping of eyewitnesses to a stash of ICBMs. A stash that could do some serious damage if they stayed here with the wrong people. Intel suggests that those very missiles were going to be shipped off to Mexico in only a few days, smuggled across the border into United States territory with the intent of doing some pretty awful stuff and framing the US.

If you and Rigs weren’t quick with this, so many innocents would suffer.

You’d already gotten into contact with Mexican Special Forces yourself, warning Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra of a possible breach and to watch for any unregistered shipments on the docks or coming in from the air.

But now Rigs was missing, and you had a funny feeling you were being trailed.

Back alley. You take a quick right, boots slamming to the ground and heart hammering. Get away from the civvies in case someone decides to go trigger-happy.

This cell was known for being deadly, Mr. Massarini had sent the file over to CIA headquarters before you were shipped out; Laswell had set you on it right away without even taking the time to read it entirely.

“Extremely high Kinetic; I’m giving you full Execute Authority on this, Reaper. We’re running out of time. Find those missiles.”

Torture, kidnappings, mutilations, the list went on for this group and how far they would go to keep secrets. No one had gotten any clear insight as to what their motives were – just that they needed to be put down in exactly the ways they had been doing to others. Ruthlessly, before they grew bigger or spread their influence beyond borders, and created a group that could rival what Al-Qatala had been.

So that was where you came in.

God, you wished Farah and Alex were here with you – at the very least you could rely on them to help, even if you sectioned yourself off from others more than a dying cat. There was a reason you preferred being sent in alone with only your wits.

Mostly because of situations like this.

“Rigs, sitrep. Where are you,” you try again, the close walls shrouding in your shadows. Throwing looks over your shoulders, you take down deep breaths, a growl gradually digging itself a hole in your esophagus. Desperately, you say, “I’m heading back to the safe house ASAP. Wait for me there.”

Your right hand gravitates to your pocket, slipping through the fabric and pushing aside the ripped seam at the bottom. The sheath at your thigh pinches you with every step, but you’ve endured it for years, calluses breeding where the leather had chaffed the flesh to toughness. To an ingrained perfection. Flinching when your fingers bump against the handle, the metal adornments feel cool to the touch despite the sweat dripping down your spine; temperature and nerves leaving your palms sweaty.

None of this was going to plan.

You caress the small Dirk blade strapped to you, and when the first footsteps enter the alleyway behind you, your hand clenched into a loose fist around it. Your eyebrows pull tight with annoyance.

Taking a slow breath as the trailing stranger begins to move faster, you take a corner, halting the second you were out of sight. You nonchalantly turn on your heel and lean into the wall, feeling your body conform to the building and the stone dig into your back.

The material is cold, and as you raise your Dirk up, you flip the blade parallel to your forearm, wrist lax, and fingers still. A slow breath flows from your barely-parted lips.

3 seconds. You don’t blink, only gazing out across the space and noticing the dark shadow gaining ground. 2…1…

Your body jerks forward, free hand snapping out and grasping the fabric of a shirt. Twisting your hips, you plant your feet and wrench the stranger around the corner, breath coming out in a loud snarl. Without a shout, you have the person’s back shoved to the building in an instant, blade held above an Adam’s Apple.

A man, then.

“I’m going to give you one full minute.” Your Italian was only surface level – far better at understanding others than speaking full sentences. But you think whoever this man is comes to a conclusion well enough. “Before I cut you open and watch the life spill from your eyes.”

You don’t recognize this person, his sharp face or dark, sly, eyes, and with a quick assessment of his large stature you figure out he’s the basic definition of a man sent to complete a job. One that would have left you dead if you were anything less than a contracted CIA Agent on a job. You had been trained among the best from your time in the Marines – years on Special Ops forces; taking point. Even if they were the worst times of your life, you still learned a great deal from them, particularly, how to know when to cut your losses.

With one look into his smug face, you know that this stranger would tell you nothing.

Your lips formed a grimace, teeth flashing under flesh at the rod-straight form of the man under you. He was smirking with eyes seeming to be laughing at you. Arrogant. Self-assured.

“You’ll get nothing out of me, Reaper. We are already on your trail.” Your head tilts, a numb huff escaping your throat and pushing the individual's hair back as a breeze would. There was a small pause; tiny shiftings of your feet as your blade digs ever deeper.

A thin trail of blood falls from the placement, and your muscles writhe under the epidermis. There’s no thought behind the laugh that enters the air, that cold, dark, thing that’s more of a bark from a hellhound. It was just a realization that no matter where you went, there could never be anything unique anymore. Everyone was always the same.

“You’ll never get it out of me-”

“Break my bones; rip my flesh, you will never make me talk-”

“If you want to see me beg, you’ll be disappointed-”

There were countless memories you could bring to the precipice of your mind and re-live; moments ingrained into your psyche like a tattoo is to skin. So you can only smile and nod, scarf swishing around your neck. The man looks confused now, if not slightly nervous. That self-assured attitude leaking to the ground. Eyes as dark as obsidian beginning to snap back and forth – looking for a saving grace in the make-up of ancient stone that wasn’t going to come.

You wondered how many people had died in this city throughout history. The stories lost to time. Have these alleys seen war? Famine?

Have they seen murder?

But you are a woman of your word. A minute passes in tense silence, your eyes never leaving his own and ears carefully in tune, twitching like an antenna, to the joyous shouts and laughter just a street over. Here you wait like a rat in a trap, though you like to believe yourself more of the metal Hammer than the unknowing participant in a dance of death and wits.

You tighten your grip on your Dirk, shrugging up at the man. Your face is nonchalant as an understanding smile grows. As simple as a server at a restaurant.

“I believe you.” And you run the knife’s edge across his flesh like a match to a striker before he can scream.

Stepping back, you’re suddenly thankful for the scarf over your sweat-slick neck because as the spray of blood splatters over your nose bridge and forehead, you swipe it away with one of the ends of the thick fabric. You let the body drop, watching large hands snap to the gushing wound like that alone would stop the cold grip of death.

Your mark has been met.

The External Carotid Artery was easy enough to cut, though you had to dig deep for it, and it seemed the man had moved mid-slice. Frowning while the man gasps and gurgles; flails as a fish would, you study your work as you flick the blade clear of blood. Your brows furrow.

“Nicked the Thyroid Cartilage, hm.” Sighing and shaking your head, you sheathe the Dirk and twist on your feet, still intent on making your way back to the hotel safe house and trying to find a lead on Rigs. The slumping of a body reverberates a moment later, a grandiose death rattle, and still, only a street over you hear animated conversations – the bustle of traveling feet, and the sound of the breeze.

You often think about the friends you had when you were six. But, now, instead of being the one who fought off the monsters at the ends of the beds, you had become it. The monster. The boogeyman.

The Reaper.

Oh, what would they think of you now?

You swipe at the blood along your fingertips, seeing the red bleed under your nails with such a numb feeling that it scares you more than anything. Taking down a gathering of saliva that feels more like a slug in your throat, you wonder when you lost the ability to value human life. Of course, the answer was slated in those early years in Special Ops, but you don’t dwell on those times.

In fact, it was better if you never thought of them at all.

Taking a left, you hum a tune under your breath and listen to the birds sing as the blood dries.

—

The meeting room wasn’t even a room, just a vacant air-craft hangar that had been fitted out with two rows of metal fold-out chairs and a projector. Shadows danced over the floor, long streaks of darkness over concrete.

“...I’ll be giving you full Execute Authority – but this mission is completely Black. Host weapons only. No Evac team.” Laswell’s voice echoes off the ceiling, and Ghost’s eyes flow over the projected intel, memorizing the faces and locations with nothing more than a blink of his blue eyes. Fluttering eyelashes caress the hard material of his mask before settling.

Task Force 141 was being sent off on another deployment again, deep into Belarus and near the Russian border.

“Time frame?” The Captain asks, standing a small distance away and leaning against a crate of ammunition. His arms are crossed; jaw is loosely set.

Kate looks at him, above the heads of Gaz and Soap, and nods her head before she comments, “one week.”

Gaz huffs from ahead of the hulking form of Ghost, and the silent man shifts his attention back to the group.

“One week, Kate? No offense, but we don’t even know if the bastard’s in Belarus.”

“‘fraid to get dirty there, Garrick? Ah, we’re good enough for it.” Soap elbows the male at his side, and the masked man releases a puff of breath one row back. The Scot twists in his seat, mohawk tendrils falling over his forehead, and smirks. “C’mon Lt. back me up here. We’ve got this in the bag already.”

“Bit confident, Johnny?” Ghost grunts out, accented voice low and muffled from under the black fabric over his lips. His hips shift over the chair, legs splayed and arms crossed as he reclines back; letting the bulk of his gear weigh heavy. “Just wait until you’ve got us sitting on a pile of dry leads and rotting corpses.”

“Eh, nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before.”

“Focus, you three.” Kate interrupts as Gaz rolls his eyes to himself, fixing his ball cap over his head with a fast flick of his wrist at the antics of the other two. “You’re going to be shipped out at 2000–”

An easily recognizable ringtone starts to play.

Blinking in surprise, Laswell takes a glance at the table that had been long forgotten and spies her phone buzzing over the metal. Her light brown hair, kept securely tied back, swished at the nape of her neck. She wastes no time.

Briskly walking over, the rest of the men in the room watched intently, heads perked up. Ghost couldn’t stop the pique of interest at the strange behavior, though his form remains still, only making a noise under his breath in contemplation. In the hold of his crossed arms, his fingers tighten.

“Not the person I’d imagine keeps her phone on for just anyone…” Gaz makes a slow comment, and John slides up beside him, hands hooking onto the sides of his combat vest. Watching.

“Hm,” their command affirms.

Kate picks up her phone and immediately answers, brows furrowed. She shifts her weight as an inhalation reverberates. The conversation on the other side was too muffled, a small droaning the only signal that someone was on the opposite.

Unconsciously, Ghost straightens in his chair as the rolled-back sleeves of his undershirt leave his black ink tattoos on display. A deep intrigue spilled in his chest but otherwise, he was still focused on the previous instructions for the next Op. This was just another cog in the wheel, perhaps a location change for their safe house, or an accelerated timeline. No matter, they would get it done regardless–

“Reaper?” Laswell speaks, and blue eyes slide to stare at the Captain, whose legs had tensed. “What’s happened–”

The Lieutenant knows something was wrong just by the simple fact that he’d never seen their Station Chief talk on her personal phone with that look on her face before – he’d seen it mirrored on the Captain and he’d clocked it from her just as simply. The wrinkled skin at the side of her eyes, and stiff-set lips peeled back in a frown. She’d always been serious, but the air was different.

Reaper? He runs through the database of his mind and ignores Gaz’s and Johnny’s muttered words and glances.

“Now who do you think that is, then?” Soap grunts out. Ghost doesn’t answer.

Brows furrow.

Sounds familiar, the man can’t help but admit.

“Patch me through. Now.” Kate slips to the computer a few steps away and opens a fresh tab, sorting through files and months of intel as if it mattered just as much as a bug under her heel.

“Kate?” Price prompts. The woman only holds up a finger and keeps the phone in between her shoulder and cheek, hands fast across the keys.

Soon enough, a feed pops up on the projector, and the three previously sitting all rise to their feet in an instant.

An open wound is in the process of being stitched and displays itself over the entire available space, violent red internal flesh puckering over the edges of…Ghost narrows his eyes, unphased.

Was that a fabric needle and thread being used for sutures? Resourceful, he admits.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” The manchester man levels thought the blandness of the tone contradicts itself. “Where’s this feed from, Laswell?”

“What the fuck…?” Soap growls out, and the Scot blinks at the screen in shock as the Brit beside him lets off a sound of disgust akin to a sick cat.

“Reaper, sitrep.” Kate doesn’t flinch, rushing off into procedure as steady hands delve back into flesh, blood falling from their fingers like water to splatter to a rundown wooden table. The world-away computer was most likely getting a rain of crimson all over the keys at this rate.

Price grunts under his breath.

“Shit,” a distinctly feminine voice wafts out, a harsh sigh held back, though the annoyed tone was noticed immediately, “can’t a girl stitch herself up in peace? Besides, Watcher-1 answer me this, huh?” The computer is jerked, its screen going staticky as Ghost watches with roving eyes to take in the background when the visibility returns. A bed, nightstand, and sitting by the floor of the front door, copious amounts of weapons. The man takes stock – an M13 assault rifle, X12 handgun, and Arctic .50 sniper rifle. Ammunition lines the floor in a way that leaves Ghost’s lips thinning under the mask.

Someone’s in a hurry. But from what?

“…what goddamn hotel doesn’t have mirrors in it?” Kate’s sigh can be heard a mile away. “No, I’m being serious here, Watcher – how the hell does that happen?”

Watching you take a step back, Ghost as well as the other three all blink in surprise when you come into view. Your top was off, only a sports bra covering your flesh, as your focus stays on the digging needle you send into yourself over and over.

Yet again a feeling of intense familiarity strikes the Brit in the chest. Your soft face, your hair, your voice. It was infuriating.

Who are you? The inability to call forth a memory leaves the fists at his sides gradually clenching under his gloves.

“Reaper.” Seriousness grows in the Agent’s voice, and Price lets out a slow chuckle that leaves Gaz turning to him in confusion.

“Sir?” But the inquiry is ignored.

“Still as stubborn as ever, then, Reap?” Everyone sees your hurried stitches stop, head snapping up as they clock a veiled panic behind the iris’.

Your eyes tell all the story they need, and Ghost’s body freezes as the color evokes a physical twitching of his hand.

“Holy hell,” he utters under his breath so silently no one even realizes he spoke; eyelids pulling back before settling like nothing had even happened.

“You know, you're the first person who’s been nice to me out here.”

“...Then I’d tell you to get better friends, Sergeant. I’m not sticking around.”

“I never said they were my friends, Ghost, and I never expected you to stay, anyways. That’s not how this works.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“Bravo-06?” You ask, voice sometimes cutting out over the line. A laugh breaks out, and a small smirk twitches the corners of your lips, “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going over there? Been a while.”

“What have you got yourself into now?” Price asks, chuckling under his breath with a groaned continuation, “and how do you need me to get you out of it?”

The spectral man now watches with a newfound fervency, blue eyes boiling so violently that if anyone had seen, they would have thought he was about to attack. Like a split second of eye contact with a wolf before it rushes. The build of his shoulders was still loose, however, and the only indication of shock was his optics; the mask shrouded all.

But there was a subtle movement of his hips, feet transferring over the floor to stand shoulder-length apart.

“Oh, this,” you point to your injury with a free finger, tying off a knot on the last line of sutures. “Nah, it’s nothing. A couple of assholes tried to get the jump on me a block back, one had a knife on ‘em.” Your hand tosses the needle and thread to the table, a muttered, thunk, sounding off. Looking down at your work with a raised brow, everyone watches. “Took care of it – they gave me a name, too, but with the trail of bodies I left today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t pan out.”

A pause before you turn your head back up, face now completely serious as you focus on Laswell.

“But we have a bigger problem, Watcher. Rigs is gone; I think my position’s compromised. I’m going black.” Your form leans to the side, and a wrinkled t-shirt is thrown over your head. From your mouth, a stifled groan releases. Ghost blinks in surprise.

The Captain’s lips thin, and he looks at a tight-wound Kate.

“I have a contact in the lower levels, Reaper, meet up with her and she can have you out of the city by tonight. I’ll send over her info.”

“No can do, Watcher.” You sigh, and Ghost simply stares, following your figure as you back up, heading to the X12 and shimmying it into the back of your pants before looking over your shoulder. Kate hums under her breath. “If they’ve got Rigs,” Walking quickly back over to the computer, one of your hands grasps the top of the frame, thumb poking out from the corner. You tilt your head. “I ain't leaving without him right behind me. I’ll be in contact in a month – if I’m not, then I’m dead already.”

Your chuckle strikes a cord through the room and Soap snorts in answer.

“Glass-half-empty kind of person, then?”

“I’d say,” Gaz mutters.

Continuing, you’re about to say something else – lips already partially parted and breath sucked in – before your eyes lock onto Ghost. The atmosphere of the room flips like the page of a book.

You stare at him with what seems to be a million emotions flying past the glossiness of your optics; lids already peeled back and whites showing in a display that showed more than told. The man could only begin to imagine what you were thinking – how long had it been since he’d seen you last? You’d obviously gotten out of your Marines Special Ops unit.

Not quite how I remember you. It wasn’t hard to recall that small branch of the MRR – Marine Raider Regiment – and how they treated you. But that wasn’t any of his business. He’d been there to do a job, and he’d accomplished it. Quite thoroughly, if anyone would have checked the file after it was all over.

Ghost’s life was counted in the sands of an hourglass, small, molecular, bits hitting the bottom one after the other; rarely was that time wasted on pointless squabbles and words but at that moment, he was conflicted.

The Brit had never expected to see you again, and the sand briefly halted when you spoke. Hm.

Yes, he remembered that voice… he’d just never heard you this confident before.

“Ghost.” He watches the emotions on your face settle, and he was thankful for the mask covering his visage because he knows he would have left at least a small twitch of his lips slip. “Long time no see.”

“Mutt.” The Lieutenant nods in a monotone greeting but notices a slight jerk of your shoulders at the name. His eyebrows furrow, but mentions nothing as his pulse slows.

Your neck moves as you swallow, looking to the side as a dark curiosity fills the space in Ghost’s lungs; head nanoscopically tilting to the side like a vulture.

“Nice seeing you, Bravo-06,” You tilt your head toward the Captain before clearing your throat and addressing Laswell. “I’ll be around.”

It wasn’t hard to tell that the title had made you freak, a kind of bad cloud suddenly springing to life above your head.

Seems to bother her more than being in a Hot Zone, Ghost tells himself, the deep well of dark water in his gut still. That didn’t make any sense. He watches your hand slaps over the computer and the feed goes dark in an instant.

The room is more silent than Ghost is.

“Kate, she’ll need our help.” Price shakes his head from side to side; body moving to the front of the room. “I’m not asking.”

The two talk it over as Ghost’s mind trails, head tilting down more towards his chest as his eyelids narrow.

“Hm,” He grunts, arms tensing as his grip shifts. Soap turns around as Gaz goes to join the conversation between the Captain and the agent.

“What? Know ‘er or something, Lt?” The Scot asks, slapping a hand on the taller man’s arm. Ghost eyes lock on the grip before he blinks, looking back up and leveling the Sergeant with a dead stare. Johnny laughs awkwardly and moves his limb back to his side. “Just…didn’t peg you for the type to start relationships.”

The Lieutenant turns down the aisle of chairs and lets out a bland, “negative. Leave it, Sergeant.”

Why did you react badly to the namesake you’d gone by for the entire time you’d been in Special Ops? Mutt was when everyone had called you when he had been around for that short time.

He felt no great concern for you – no hatred or care – you were just another Agent that would probably end up dead like everyone else. Another time, maybe, he’d have gone in a heartbeat, and if the team decided to go after you, he’d follow. A mission was a mission, it wasn’t like it largely mattered.

But there was something in the back of his mind. Intrigue? Yes, perhaps. The blue-eyed Lieutenant wasn’t one to dwell on these types of things, but a colleague was still a colleague.

Whatever the outcome, he’d do his job with all the ruthlessness and tact he always did.

Ghost’s hand goes up to fix the position of his mask and glances at the blank projector stream, eyes boring into it as they darken. A moment later, he was leaning against the ammunition crate that Price had previously been on, arms crossed and ears twitching at the ongoing battle of wills; isolated to himself as his intimidating form towers ever upwards. Spine straight. Bones stiff. Eyes grim.

You’d been nice to him – a person that, for the limited time he’d interacted with, had left an impression that was only just starting to come back full force. Smart and resourceful; not too bad on the eyes.

He takes down a sigh. Stubborn…but undoubtedly loyal.

His thumb brushes your cheek, and you look up at him as if he wasn’t the one in a mask – as if his entire being was laid bare before you. He swipes away the trail of blood with one firm press. The gentleness of your skin is known even through his glove.

“You’ll live, Sergeant.” He utters, teasing in his monotone voice, “now, where the hell are we goin’? Gun’s itchin’ to lay a few out.”

Ghost would have smirked at the way your eyes dilated if he had the ability, but in the end, he brushes past. Because if he hadn’t, you would have seen his own do the same.

‘Reaper,’ he frowns, feeling the ammunition crate dig further into his hip, they never called you that one.

Perhaps the real battle of wills was happening inside of him – not five feet away between his Captain and his Station Chief.

—

You remember every interaction like it was yesterday, and although he might not, you can’t help the memories from flooding as you gather your gear. Stuffing guns into duffel bags and intel into crossbody sacks that weigh you down like boulders.

Fuck, you open the back window and shimmy out into the back streets, knowing that your position is compromised and not waiting any longer to test your luck. Your side burns something awful; horrible stitches peeling back skin as you groan in pain. What the fuck was Ghost doing with Price? I didn’t know they knew each other. And the two other men in the room…eh. Not the problem right now!

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you pant, swinging your legs out of the window frame and sharply inhaling when a suture tears. “I’m never in the loop.”

In all honesty, you don’t want to be – too complicated. It’s better to just stick around and be told what to do.

Glaring down at the ground with glazed eyes, you only take a breath of hesitation and let off a curse before dropping.

Your knees take the brunt of the force, and the ricochets of landing on cobblestones travel up your ankles and leave your legs shaking. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you would have come up with a dirty joke to mutter to yourself.

The discomfort can only last so long, you tell yourself, and ignore the spreading liquid on your side, only thinking of Rigs and the mission.

And Ghost.

Gritting your teeth, eyes vulnerable, you turn down the backroad and stay away from others, drowning in memories more deadly than blood. It had been a while since you had thought of it – the lockbox in the back of your mind keeping all under tight watch; guard dogs with metal teeth and chained necks.

But that title; that namesake you’d scrubbed your skin raw over. Mutt and all the others said in cruel breaths. Oh…but Mutt.

Mutt was the worst of them.

Your hands were vibrating, the tremors traveling up your wrists and arms – past elbows and bruised flesh under skin; bloodied nose and quivering lips. Why did they always yell at you? But worse, why did they always make you do the dirty work?

The Captain, everyone just called him Alke, was standing in front of you, berating your accuracy on the last round of target practice. Fortunately, this deep into the Unit itself, you’d found a way to let it go in one ear and out the next, eyes as blank as a starless sky.

You could see the spittle flying from the man’s lips and some even splashes across your cheeks like acid, but there was something artful to the way you didn't react. A culmination of crafted numbness that bleeds like trauma. It was a constant, everlasting, void.

What they were making you into was not what you wanted, but what possible other option was there? Resign? No, this was nearly an unimaginable position to be in at such an age. You deserve to be here. Should you report the blatant unprofessionalism and favoritism in the ranks? And be blacklisted by these people's friends so that you never ascend the line?

Your ears twitch.

“...You’re not sleeping until your marks are perfect – else we’re overthinking your position in this Unit. Can’t have a Mutt in our ranks, can we?” The last sentence is punctuated with a ruffling of your hair almost like a brother would; teasing, but you know that isn’t what it symbolizes. Harsh laughs and mocking remarks from the bystanders. “Least of all one that’s gonna get us killed. Tch.” When you don’t answer, staring off in a daze at his nose in a perfect image of formation, the Captain raises an eyebrow. “Affirmative,” he smirks, “Mutt?”

“Sir!” Your mouth shouts, though the action is more instinctual as your back straightens. He frowns at that, perhaps wanting to torment you more, but huffs and files out, ordering the rest to follow with one last call.

“I expect you to be up for morning drills an hour early. I’ll be checking your shots myself.”

“Sir!”

After everyone’s gone, you blink back to reality. There’s a second of confusion, creases forming in your forehead at the sound of birds and blowing glass. Head turning side to side, your lips thin at the absence of others as if only realizing how spaced out you’d actually been.

Flashing teeth and heated eyes flash through your mind before you blink them away. Signing away the tense nature of your chest, you clear your throat and relax your legs. Your vision slides to the corners of the concrete dugout, snapping past sectioned-off areas for privacy to search if there was someone who might have stayed back.

Not finding anyone, your hands, clenched behind your back, loosen and fall limp to your sides like bags of rock. One weakly goes to swipe at the trail of blood from your nose, wrecking your already wrinkled sleeve with crimson; but soon an identical trail drips off your chin regardless. Licking your lips and tasting copper, you take a shaky breath and nod to yourself.

You knew what shooting all night would bring on – lesions under the firing pad covering your shoulder; deep-rooted pain leading to nerve damage later on. Blisters that leak puss and blood onto your bedsheets. Not to mention the mental strain, the bags under your eyes burn from lack of rest.

Gritting your teeth, you walk over the tossed rifle on the floor and pick it up with shaky fingers, the tips flinching back from the cool metal before encompassing it tightly.

Silently, you get on your stomach and set the weapon in the crook of your already pain-laced shoulder. Your blood splatters the stock.

—

It had been two weeks with no luck in finding Rigs, and you were starting to get paranoid.

Staring at the dead body tied to the wooden chair, you growl and tear your Dirk from the woman’s chest angrily.

There had been increased police patrols from all the corpses you were leaving, so you’d compromised and limited the chance of being caught at the same time.

Bergamo, Italy, was an ancient place, and the underground was what you were now both metaphorically, and physically, exploiting. Sewer systems. Catacombs. You’d lost track of the paths you’d taken a million times over, and had started to hate the constant darkness only kept back by the small hand lamp you’d stolen.

But there were ups to this constant downward slope.

It made interrogations increasingly easier to pull off with multiple feet of stone all around you. The screams don’t meet the surface.

“Catello Tullio,” you mutter, caressing your sensitive side with your free hand and placing your blade on a turned-over piece of rock. The area reeks of blood and gore, a stack of bodies chucked carelessly in the corner beginning to reek something awful; even as you have another to add to the count. It wouldn’t be long before the rats came in droves.

Another given name, another score. But this one was new. Apparently, the title of the one that took Rigs while he was out getting more rations in the market.

You point a finger at the slumped body, “you better hope I don’t find you in hell if you gave me the wrong damn name.”

Grabbing your light, you stalk off down one side of the tunnel back to your camp, dodging drag lines that strike your eyes with their crimson streaks.

The raggedy blanket and gun-sack you’d been using for a pillow take form in the dark, and somewhere in the corridor a rat squeals; feet pitter-pattering until it disappears altogether. You didn’t even want to think of the spiders living down here. Files and notes are strewn along the floor, perfect hiding places for eight-legged monsters.

You couldn’t do anything until nightfall. It was just too risky.

Massaging your side as you bend down, you grimace at the partially healed wound and scoop up your pistol before plopping to the ground with a grunt. With the deadly object held in your lap, you take a moment to breathe and try to push away a growing headache in the back of your skull.

“This has to be one of the worst Ops on record, huh?” your small voice speaks back to you in bouncing waves of echoes as you begin to fiddle over the gun's small grooves and dents. “How did you manage this, Reap?”

Smiling blandly, the overwhelming quiet and nothingness all around you is like a curse. And in those pockets of a void, your mind always trails to him – or at least it had been for your time on the run. Ghost. That dark and brooding mass of horribly bleak humor and…well…you couldn’t call him mean.

Your eyebrows furrow.

He was never mean to me.

There were soft instances where you would question yourself as to if the Brit had possibly had some affection for you. It wasn’t a long shared history of course, but you had sworn that there was something about the way he looked at you…something that you remember so vividly…

You shake your head and stand after a small while, stretching your feet. Placing your pistol in the back of your belt, the weight brings you dull comfort.

Shining your light on the hand-held radio on the ground in passing, you rove back to it after you scan the perimeter. Its black metal mocks you.

No one’s coming to help ‘cept you. One voice says, and another grunts out, get it together, Mutt.

You turn on your heel to go and take a breather to disperse your dark thoughts but only make it three steps before your eyes widen, lips parting in awe. Nearly falling flat over yourself, you whirl around in an instant.

A static enters the air as if the gods above were laughing at you - toying with your fate like it was a rock tossed to the sky. The familiar British drawl causes your chest to tighten, though the sentence is broken and barely understandable.

Someone’s here for me! A smile slashes your face – fierce hope lighting your eyes. You hadn’t wanted anyone to explicitly come for you, but this was a welcome discovery. Someone to talk to!

“--eper…Copy?” Darting like a cat, you move so fast that you stumble over rocks on the way there. “Lead…cafe…red cloth…Out.”

By the time you snatch the small black object, the garbled and firm tone has already shut itself up. Your mouth parts.

“Shit!” You yell, shaking the thing in your hand with an iron grip, hissing like a snake. You look above you at the cracked ceiling of stone and a growled accusation.“I’m too deep…Fuck. Gotta get up there if I want to be able to respond.”

But it hadn’t all been fruitless. Lead. Cafe. Red cloth. You clip the radio to your belt and make sure your shirt covers your weapon; pat your thigh and tell yourself to stop forgetting your Dirk everywhere before setting off in a jog. The light flashes over dead eyes and stiff bodies.

You snatch the blade off of the stone as you pass it, slipping it into your cut pocket and hearing the satisfying clink of it sheathing.

“Let’s just hope I don’t smell too bad…” You say aloud, chuckling, and listening as the sound echoes off the stone. If no other company, you still had the sound of your own voice.

You couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. But, you were getting side-tracked.

A Cafe with red cloth, then. Not exactly the place you’d go for an intel swap, but if someone had been trying to contact you for more than a week, you’d imagine they were getting desperate at this point.

If I had known…you frown.

Thinking over the multiple blueprints and pictures of the city in your files, you go through your internal cabinet of knowledge for color schemes - not what you’d have thought you’d be using it for, but, oh well. A lead was a lead.

“Golositá!” You laugh, sudden glee on your face as you dodge a pile of large stones; lips peeling back as you take a fast corner. “Gluttony! Of course, that’s the place.”

The bustling business on the upper side of Bergamo with red table cloths as well as red awnings extending into the street. Anyone would be a fool to miss it.

Like blood lining the street.

You force yourself to run faster.

—

You met him last, despite being a Sergeant. The Captain had you up late last night yet again – running the forest trail this time rather than shooting. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it surprised him when you were still up early with the others; from the looks that he was giving you, you just decided that, yes, he was. Or he was just pissed he didn’t have an excuse to get rid of you.

Blinking away fatigue, you keep your stance relaxed as a gargantuan shadow comes to loom ahead of you.

The man everyone had whispered about called himself ‘Ghost’ and, if nothing more, was certainly intimidating. Shoulders wider than a bench, arms as rounded and as strong as boulders; not to mention the tattoos that made him look like he took cross-country motorcycle rides in his spare time. Tan tactical gear and dark patches for the SAS, the red and white British flag. Gloves covered his large hands, straps carried knives on his biceps and thigh. Something akin to a tan cape that was loose around his hidden neck.

But the mask was what really caught your attention; your head tilting with an innocence that no longer lives in you.

Skeletal. Half a visage of a dead and gone intimidation of humanity. Sewn into a hood of black cloth from which only the eye sockets were open…But the eyes there were no different than if the holes had been empty in the first place; as if the person inside was as dead as sun-bleached bone. Was a corpse piloting this suit?

Ice blue. Freezing blue. Harsh. Colder than a grip of a phantom, you thought as you blinked up at him, colder than the nights you would stay awake working yourself to death. You watched this Ghost’s chest move in a steady inhalation and you stuck out a busted-knuckle hand. Foolish, maybe, but there were worse things to be afraid of than a mask. Then of those eyes that made your spine shiver.

But you didn’t look away.

“Pleasure, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence where your Captain, at Ghost’s side, was frowning at you silently. The man could say nothing as long as this SAS member was here to assist in your next Op overseas. At your sides, your colleagues on the tarmac shuffle on their feet like nervous penguins.

Ghost glances at your hand, and you try not to show how fast your pulse is running when his eyes leave a cold trail as they grace your split knuckles and torn nails. He ends with a slow look at your name patch.

“Sergeant.” He says and slips past without another word. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you inhale smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. Snickers bounce off air particles, striking your ears as an embarrassed heat rises to your cheeks, but that scent stays in your nostrils for days.

Your Captain scurries after.

“Erm, forgive, Mutt. She’s a helluva strange woman, that one.” You keep your sneer hidden, a hiss lodged in your throat and a twitching finger. But your anger isn’t directed at the masked beast that stalks away. That yapping bully of a Captain would hold all of it as long as you were here.

At that point, you were sure you’d seen the last of Ghost until the Op – not really getting the feeling he’s a people person so much as a ‘give orders and follow them’ type.

But that was fine by you, it didn’t change anything. You’d been told to go back to the firing range tonight for opening your mouth and ‘making an embarrassment of the Unit’....whatever that meant. All you did was welcome the guy with the barest hint of a good attitude.

You supposed manners were a foreign concept around here.

The world ahead of you was blurring, red circles in your eyes that gloss over with water every minute you force yourself to stay awake. The stars were out, sky dark, and the area was only lit by large lights situated around the base. In some sort of strange way, you enjoyed the sound of crickets and the cold breeze over your bare arms as if the only sense of peace you got was when you were half-passed out, nailing shots from a rifle.

The stock was where it always is, your cheek pressed to the side; staring down the scope at the multiple holes in the paper targets. Dots surrounded by multiple other dots like a slice of cheese. You suppose that made you the hungry mouse in that case.

‘A mouse with a fucking day before she drops.’ You frown, blink, and pull the trigger as the trees rustle. The force lands directly on your shoulder – the kickback is usually not one to bother you, but seeing as your appendage was one bad day away from being dislocated and forever damaged – you took it with a grit of your teeth.

And you took it because you knew you could. Just as you knew that you felt a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. Freezing, you remove your finger from the trigger and loosen your grip. Turning your head to the side, a free hand goes up and shifts the ear mufflers from your head to your neck in a single movement.

You swear your heart jumps to your throat when you see a skeleton’s icy blues numbly watching you; arms crossed while a nice-looking SA-B 50 Marksman Rifle sits against the wall at his side. How…long had he been there? Watching?

“What’re you doing, Sergeant?” Ghost asks sternly, that Manchester accent making him sound harsh. Grating like a rock being run against concrete. “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be thrilled at a scene like this, eh?”

Blinking, you remind yourself to breathe before answering – voice tough and hoarse.

“I have my orders, Sir. You’re free to join me.”

You turn back as a grunted huff falls from behind muted cloth. Ghost walks up to your laying form, standing on your left side and picking up the binoculars from the hanging hook in your station. As you look back through your scope you don’t know why, but you hold your breath; waiting for something.

“...Not a bad shot. You’re prone to firing more to the right, judging from the grouping. I’d fix that, less you miss a moving target runnin’ the opposite.” He lowers the object - staring from the side of his eye. From your position, your neck cranes to see his fingers twitch. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?” For someone you’d expected to be quite harsh – though you had no doubt he still was – Ghost was more sarcastic in his mannerisms.

Backhanded comments that wound sting if you got on the other end of them.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.” Shifting your grip, you move the stock farther up your shoulder, feeling an immediate release of tension, though the expansive trauma still leaves needles in your tissue.

“Hm, pay attention and you just might learn something.” You feel yourself quirk a lip for the first time in months; your mouth doesn’t stop to think.

“You mentor a lot of people in the middle of the night, then?”

“Only the ones stupid enough to be awake.” He takes a step back, going to grab his own rifle as his footsteps don’t even make a sound.

‘Quiet for a guy with thighs that could choke me out.’

Your brows furrow at the heated thought, taking a slow breath and flexing your hands as the shadow disappears from over you. Why were your hands sweaty?

Were you…afraid? That…that wasn’t it.

“You’re up too, you know, Sir. Bit hypocritical.” This was the first time you’d had a full conversation with someone since you’d gotten in with this Unit. A mildly pleasant one, at least…you wouldn't really call this bonding.

“I can always leave ya’ to it, Sergeant.” Deadpanning the words, you clear your throat and fall silent at the threat.

‘No,’ you wanted to comment, ‘no, I want the company so badly it hurts.’

You swallow saliva and reposition your ear mufflers back over your head, heart bruising your ribs, as you bring down a calming breath of air to still your nerves.

The two of you don’t speak again, and you don’t ask why he takes the shooting cubby right next to yours, the nose of his rifle peeking out from the concrete wall. You certainly don’t ask why he’s up, either.

And in return, he doesn’t ask you the same.

—

When you find Golositá you’ve managed to sneak through the city unseen, taking every backroad and alley you could as the heat of the day increases to near sweltering. Panting, you stick to the thin shadows of the path across the street, eyes dancing over red cloth and flicking to faces; studying visages as one would a medical report.

Your chest hurts, and you run a hand over your side, feeling the raised skin under your shirt before digging into the aching ribs. All this running around and little food to help keep your normal strength was troublesome, and it would only get worse if this Op from hell continued.

I need new intel. Badly.

About to retreat, not finding anyone you recognize off the bat, a black-shrouded figure kisses the side of your vision as if a phantom.

On the outside table, the farthest removed, a man sits stiffly with an untouched teacup in front of him. Smirking, you can’t help but scoff at the thought of Ghost using the thing – you’d think his thumb and forefinger would break the delicate porcelain in an instant. Like a spine over his thigh.

Your cheeks heat.

He looked almost identical to what you remember – minus the gear, obviously – and your stomach twisted at the thought. Was a simple look enough to bring you to the breaking point? Why were your lungs tight?

As if feeling your stuck eyes, those icy blues shift from people-watching to lock onto yours immediately. As hollow as they always were, it seemed. He blinks and the blonde eyebrows on his sliver of visible forehead move.

Shit. Your hips trade weight. Look at you.

Loose shoulders under a rugged buttoned-down and painted balaclava make your breath go thin, not able to resist sneaking a glance at those tattoos you remember so vividly. Yes, that was still Ghost.

Jesus, is this how it felt to see someone you barely even remembered suddenly appear? Was it elation or caution that was making your heart race?

Ghost doesn’t look surprised. His eyes don’t widen; don’t soften or light up. They blankly watch you as you shake away the shock and raise a brow in return. A sarcastic finger goes to your head, and you mock salute.

What are you doing? You seem to ask, a mischievous expression growing as you start forward when he dismissively narrows his eyes. You look ridiculous. Are you asking to be spotted?

The man leans into the too-small chair he sits in, one hand going to hang off the back and the other resting on the tabletop. Gloved fingers tapping morse in slow measures.

Clear. Come here. He follows you with his gaze, head stationary, as you enter the flow of traffic, smiling at people at your sides and letting off polite greetings when you could. Steadily striding, you weave through groups and individuals like water, legs steady even as your ears pick up every little sound.

A comfortable middle point of visible excitement and strict business. Why were you so…happy?

When you approach Ghost’s table, you slip up beside him with a sly chuckle, pulling out the chair to his right. You, softy, lower yourself down into it, not turning to him but instead simply making sure no one had followed you with a quick scan. His heat only adds to the warmth of the day like a walk through damnation.

“Well, well, well,” you smile, addressing the SAS member with his shadow hanging over you once more; such a heavy thing, though you don’t mind. Your expression mellows to have it above you again. There was a safety to it, you had to admit. The cold comfort of death. “Trip to Italy, Sir? Take a little vacation?”

“Came to bail out a bird from my past,” You smell that scent again – smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. “And if I ever went on a vacation, I sure as hell wouldn’t pick this place. ‘Bout to burst into flames; traumatize a few kids and their mums.”

Hadn’t he changed even a little bit?

“Now that’s dark.”

“Never said it wasn’t.”

Of course he hasn’t, you answer your own question, feet shifting and skin pliable, why would he? He isn’t like me – didn’t have to reinvent himself based on atoms and in the wake of silent nights.

There was a piece of you that believed that Ghost had always been this way, though you knew it was false. Nobody in this profession was just born like this, they were led to it. Whoever it was under the mask or balaclava didn’t matter anymore.

They had died a long time ago.

“Not a fan of the history, Brit?” You tease, bringing up a hand to itch at your undereye, finally taking a peak at the form that nearly swallows you.

Your lids try not to peel back, but you didn’t realize how close you’d sat next to Ghost – any closer and you would be in the crook of his arm; the relaxed spread of his knee bumping into yours and arm over the back of your seat. Trying to act nonchalant, you ignore the strange swirling in your gut with a hum and a twitching of your leg.

Stop that.

“Don’t care a smidge, just not a fan of the damn heat.” The gruff man responds with his inked arm on the table flexing, as though he was tenser than he showed. Ghost clears his throat, “needs a good downpour, eh?”

“Try living underground for two weeks. Literally. Sun’ll feel like a blessing.”

“Fuckin’ hell…That’s why the radio wasn’t working, then.” While this was all cute – re-learning each other like a shaken puzzle – there were dangers to being this open. The Brit would be fine, but if you got spotted, well, there would be worse things to worry about than an achy side and a pile of bodies in a tunnel.

“You got something for me, or are we here just to stand out like bullet holes in a forehead?” Feeling his head tilt to you, snaking down your form, your body leans forward, palms sweaty as they lock on the table. “Price with you? The other two I saw on the feed?”

“Negative. Op in Belarus. Sent me in alone.” Your knees brush, delicately; like a touch of down feathers. You refrain from taking in a shallow breath, knowing he’s analyzing every movement with a hidden mouth and gentle huffs of air that rises his sculpted chest. Through a grunted sigh, Ghost tells, “The Old Man insisted. Laswell thought you’d be alright by yourself, regardless,” and falls silent.

What was he doing? Why was he talking with that rasp in his tone? Your heart swells at the comment about Kate, but a confusing feeling settles in your lower body. Why did the air feel thick?

The warmth of the sun was making your skin perspire, leaving a sheen of sweat over your arms. But the thought of heat stroke fled as you became hyper-aware of the man beside you, keeping careful not to touch you, though his gaze still bore into the side of your face like prodding fingers anyways.

He can’t quite figure you out, he admits to himself. So much of you was different – and he couldn’t tell how.

She’s lighter, he tightens his face, not the same as when I left.

But there had been an utter satisfaction when he’d seen you in that alleyway, even if you were different in a million ways, that would never change. Ghost’s body had loosened, his clenched jaw let go, and snappy answers to servers stopped entirely.

Because those were still the same colored eyes that he remembered. He takes a long breath.

Through the haze under your creased skin, a red alarm starts to sound off. Not because of the confusing way you felt the chilled form of Ghost on a near internal level, but because of the hooded individual across the street.

When your eyes lock, they back up three paces and bolt down the adjacent street, vanishing into the crowd. Your expression darkens, and Ghost shifts his attention from your face to the streets.

His eyes blankly follow where you were looking.

“Come on,” you get to your feet, hand snatching at the SAS member's sleeve, dragging him with you as a mother would a toddler. It was ironic – if he resisted, you wouldn’t be able to force him to move, not in a million years, but he slid off his chair with fluid muscles.

He doesn’t question you when he’s brought into an offshoot of the road, vacant of tourists or locals besides a stray cat and a few scavenger birds. Flies jump off garbage cans, buzzing through the air above your heads as you level Ghost with a serious stare.

You nearly stumble over your words when you get to look at those long blonde eyelashes that you remember heatedly, but push through as they move to half-lid his blank eyes. Your heart skips beats as you spare looks up and down the space.

What the fuck is going on with me? Focus. This is serious.

But, Jesus, he should really stop looking at you like that.

“You said you had a lead over the radio – anything on someone called Catello Tullio by chance?” You ask, voice like stone.

“Tullio?” Ghost hums in the back of his throat, all business, hips moving under him as he goes to glance at the street. His balaclava moves as he speaks. “Someone made a mention of it. ‘Fore I put a knife in ‘em, ‘o course.” Nodding, he huffs out, “On me.”

Turning on long legs, he starts to walk farther down the path, and you follow at his side, peering up and eager to gain more intel. “You’ve caused quite a panic around here, Sunshine. Cell’s terrified of the ‘Reaper.’ I’m nearly impressed.”

He briefly flashes an optic to you, heart betraying him as he remains locked on your lips. Rotating his jaw, he turns back forward.

“Oh, my,” smirking slowly, you roll your eyes, “whatever will I do without your approval, great Ghost.”

“Dunno – kick the bucket probably.” Shaking your head in false annoyance, the slow, mocking, stain in the man’s tone leaks into your very DNA; coating it with honey. Like a warm sunrise, you clock a small hitch in his chest and equate it to muted chuckles when you laugh.

“Don’t go placing bets, now. I’m not so easily broken.”

“Oh, wouldn’t think of it, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t be my handiwork if it happened,” his tone goes light, “don’t wanna take credit away from you.”

“Brit.” You spit with fake venom.

“American.” He grumbles back, but you clock the small spark in his iris, cold blue bouncing silver light like snow.

He sounded…entertained? Snide in a sarcastic way.

Your mouth rises in a stupid, dopey, grin as you stare from the side of your vision, chest jumping in easy comedy. What a strange pair you two were, but you find you liked his company even more, this time around.

Or maybe he had changed slightly. Or maybe it was just you.

At the end of the day, you were relieved that it was easy to talk to him. Conversations with corpses are a bit one sided, after all.

Ghost’s lips had to be at least quirked under that dark fabric to achieve mischief like what he was spitting out, you leveled with yourself. At the minimum, the man wasn’t annoyed he’d been forced out of his own primary mission because of you.

You remember he wasn’t averse to cracking jokes – particularly dark ones – but it had…it had never felt like his before.

Strange, you admit with a raised brow and a cocked head, cheeks burning for no apparent reason. You’d gotten him to chuckle? Holy hell, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for that. I’d think he would be pretty pissed about being sent here. He’s never been one to fuck around.

You both continue in easy silence until you decide to speak once more, intent on asking where you were being led.

Ghost’s head had perked up in what you assumed to be soldier-like attention, but then his head had whipped behind the two of you. Oblivious to his shift in mood, like a dark cloud, you open your mouth.

“Well, where are we–”

“--Get down!” Hands slap on the back of your arm and jerk you to the opposite wall as a loud echo rings out. Whizzing over your head so close that you feel the breeze of it.

Gasping, the air is expelled from your lungs in one fell swoop; your spine grating over the rough stone as your legs scramble to keep upright. Wiping away the shock quicker than an eraser over a whiteboard, your neck snaps to the problem; brain already hardwired to get over being shot at and the adrenaline that floods your veins immediately after.

Across the way, Ghost’s fast hand was reaching to the back of his outfit – without a doubt going to grab a concealed weapon. Eyes fiery and arms tight. And as though you were seeing it happen in slow motion, you lock onto the hostile in the middle of the alley back the way you both came. And then onto the hooded silhouette ahead of you.

Boxed in.

Hyperfocused, all of it happens in only three seconds, two trained professionals protecting each other without even realizing it.

One, you realize how this will have to play out if you don’t act immediately. You don’t know how you can trust Ghost to take the other hostile while you focus on the one ahead, but you don’t question it. Two, your gun lays heavy in your hand as your legs pivot. Three, you fire double shots with a loose finger and hear mirrored gunfire from the man beside you.

You don’t bother watching him drop.

Snapping your head backward with a rageful expression to see Ghost’s corpse hit the floor with a cracking of a skull, shouts start to ring over the city. When you lower your weapon, you turn to notice the Birt examining your own downed hostile with a satisfied stare. If you hadn’t had his back, he would have been shot in it.

But what you didn’t know was that he was thinking the same thing about you.

Turning to stare at each other, your widened eyes lock; fingers twitching along the cool X12’s metal as those stormy iris’ only seem to darken further when they dart to your lips. Like staring into a wild animal’s gaze and pretending you’re not in a trance because of it – stuck in that moment of infinity and nothingness with not a single muscle moving. Waiting for either a mouthful of fangs around your supple neck or for the beast to turn away with grace and practiced steps.

You swore Ghost’s mouth parted under that damned balaclava, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the world came back in a violent storm of screams. Panicking, you gape at the entrance – seeing multiple shadows shoving through the crowd to get to you.

“On me!” Keeping your pistol in one hand, you bolt, hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind you as your mind begins to run.

Ghost trails without a single doubt in his mind as to why he’s following you, and it makes him cautious.

Catacombs, you decide, get under the city and backtrack to the outskirts. Survey and have Ghost tell me his intel before making a move…yeah!

“Where are we headin'?!” Ghost shouts, keeping right your heels as you turn corners. Gunshots ring over your heads as you jump up small groupings of tile steps, blood pounding in your ears. You try to remember the maps you had stored in your files underground. Left…no, two rights. Shit! I need to be higher – see the streets like a bird would! “Reaper?!”

“Do you trust me?!” You call over your shoulder, and though it seems deranged, a smile forms over your lips. “I’ll need an answer in the next few minutes, yeah? I’m on a time crunch!”

“What are you on, Girl?” The adrenaline speaks to you, propelling your legs faster and faster. You vault over a fallen trash bin and take the shock to your ankles as it travels to your thighs. Snickering, you feel the brooding man’s presence like you always could – just beside you like a loyal hound. His focus excites you as you put your gun away in the small of your back. “Bloody hell! Not giving me a choice?”

“Not if you don’t want to get shot in the ass!” Taking one more right, you find yourself rapidly approaching a dead end, tall walls, a balcony, and a large dumpster – the flap already closed overtop. Not answering the man as he barks out a comment, you throw yourself atop it with a puff of breath and spasming lungs.

Laughing, your hands don’t falter. Reaching up with eager fingers, you grab at the black metal front of the balcony a small distance above and suck down a hot breath. Your arms strain, sickly sweet sweat on the top of your lip, and eyes wide with glee despite the gaining footfalls rising like a battlefield cry. Jerking your body up with only your upper-body strength, you slide your abdomen over the railing with barely a second passing. Once your feet are firmly on someone's property, you twist around and slap your hands to the metal with a twinkle in your vision; face wrinkled with all the animated amusement.

A wide grin is stuck on you.

Ghost stares up with slightly widened eyes from the ground, arms poised on the garbage bin.

Oh, hell, when she smiles like that…

“But I can’t judge, can I?” Teasing, you extend a helping grip with a smirk. “Everyone has their fetishes, hm, Ghost? Maybe yours is just having a gun pointed at you.”

He blinks at that, but knowing the urgency in the back of your throat, he pushes himself up with a grunt. You try not to watch his muscles strain, but spy the way the veins in his forearms grow larger as his alluring hips flex. They situate themselves under him as he crunches before straightening in an instant.

Fuck, don’t drool, you scold, lips lightly parted like seven devils were flying in the back of your mind. Jesus, imagine the weight those things can carry…shit. Wouldn’t mind losing my virginity to that.

A leather-coated hand slaps into your awaiting one. You snap back to a screaming reality and stare down into hypnotic sheens of ice and…wait…did Ghost have fucking green flecks near his pupils?

“You sure it isn’t yours, Sunshine?” He harshly comments, and his balaclava moves with a rising of his eyebrow.

Clearing your throat, you murmur a weak reply as your face begins to feel like a blazing fire, squeezing his limb before pulling. He chuffs. Grunting violently, you know he does most of the work in helping himself up, though the Brit still slaps your shoulder in comradery when he’s stable. Kneeling down, he forces himself into the wall behind the two of you, fingers weaving to create a cuff over his knee.

Tossing his head up, he motions with urgency.

“C’mon. Be quick ‘bout it.”

Catching one foot in the basin of his clutch, you force down your illicit thoughts about Ghost and jump, pushing off with your opposite leg on his shoulder and his added boost. Scaling the wall, you arch and scramble - with a growing bite in your side – to the terracotta-shingle roof.

Following after and checking your six, the beast of a man joins just in time.

Shadows dart around the corner far on the ground, and the both of you are speeding animals over the rooftops in the meantime. Against better judgment, boots pounding the tiles, you release loud bouts of genuine laughter.

How long had it been since you’d had such fun? Enjoyed someone else's company like this? Running across homes, you look at your side, only to find Ghost’s eyes already digging into you. Unrelenting. Unmovable. Panting, you smile brightly, giggles making your sides hurt something awful but your pace doesn't slow for an instant.

All it took was a glance at the streets – you know where you are now.

“Enjoying yourself, Reaper?” He asks, arms pumping and barely winded, and you wonder for a moment how he breathes under that covering of his – it had to smell horrible by the end of the day.

“For…the first time in ages, Ghost.” He chuckles at that, and it is a betrayal of his nature. How could someone so violent, so cloaked in oceans of blood, produce such a soft sound? A genuine sound that makes your stomach flip?

His bewitched eyes rove back in front of him, and he can’t deny the simplicity of speaking to you. It wasn’t a chore, just a conversation with a person who he wouldn’t mind having on 141 at his side.

There were few people worthy of that.

You swallow thickly and take point, leading the shadow of death to your home underground so you can re-evaluate.

You can only wonder why you don’t feel nervous as he watches over you, skin marked with horrors but his hand had fit so well in your own. And you also wonder how you can come to care for someone you haven’t seen in ages so quickly, as if you’d both been around each other for years.

Had you really ever forgotten him? Or just tried to push the affection, both emotional and physical, for him out? But that was the problem, you tell yourself with a clenched jaw, that physical attraction. All of that was just…tied into a million knots. Complicated.

You’d never had sex before.

And, Ghost questioned himself as he watched your legs move, did he forget you out of necessity? Because those eyes of yours won’t leave him alone, and he so very much enjoyed looming over you.

He sighs heavily and follows in silence.

—

When you first joined them, they all created rumors. This was long before you were permitted solo Ops, long before half of your file was filled and bleeding with black ink that would shame a warlord. When everyone just thought you were signed up because you were some unhinged kid, brimming with unchecked problems and willing to throw everything away just for the chance to prove yourself. Who got into it for kicks.

They would say you enjoyed it, killing. Reveled in it, really. That it got you off when you were covered in blood and crimson guts as they pooled at your feet.

You suppose that was what turned you away from sex in general – those heavy comments said with no remorse that stuck with you. It was fear almost, a genuine twisting of your mind to make it your fault. It wasn’t your fault, you knew that; you could sleep with anyone you wanted and the comments weren’t a brand on your skin.

You could forget about it. You should.

But the words were so mean. Just cruel for the sense of being cruel. And it stuck with you.

If that was all anyone would see, why try and force them to look away? You kept to yourself, never spoke unless spoken to, and shoved all of it down like a kill switch. No sex, no relationships. Nothing to make you think about the rumors.

Getting off on death? You were horrified at the concept, horrified that people would play around like that with you – with your life!

You just ended up telling yourself you wouldn’t feel it until it hurt too bad. In a way, you were right…but you can only force emotions down for a while until they break forward like a fist to the mouth.

Besides Mutt, they had many names for you – titles and backhanded monikers. Rabid. Demon. Devil. Monster. Sometimes, beast.

But they all had the same meaning. Inhuman. Wrong.

It shouldn’t have bothered you that much. It…It shouldn’t have made you stay up at night still thinking about the way they would laugh and pinch your arms as you were left shaking; drowning in gore not your own because they sent you into the heart of the Hot Zone for a few jokes. Teasing you about how you probably touched yourself because of it.

But it was just an excuse to make you too scared to leave. Your reputation…

“There’s that Devil for ya’, always ready to slit some more throats for us. You think you could do the next few, Mutt? You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll give you a good report if you do it without alerting the guards – see there… ‘Course you will. Fucking freak.”

Your eyes stare forward blankly, Dirk leaving a dotted fluid trail over the dusty ground.

Why did they do this to you?

TAGLIST SIGN-UP || Here

Tags:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @neelehksttr, @shoe1412, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @nanialis, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @serpahic, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9,

@anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @john-pricee, @michirulol, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora217, @bespectacledhuman, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @astronaunt2009, @shmaptin, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce, @ruby-saves, @vynz0ne, @blackstar9005, @faerienotfound, @legallymentallyillfuckers, @audrefleur, @urfavsunkissedleo

(sorry that some of these don't work! I have no idea why!)

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ink-n-shadow · 1 year ago

Text

PARTY LIKE A ROCKSTAR

𝜗𝜚 the one where you're a rockstar and ghost is your bodyguard

𝜗𝜚 pairing: bodyguard!Simon "Ghost" Riley x rockstar!reader (link to all works in this au) 𝜗𝜚 cw: alternative universe (majority non-canon), strong language, maybe suggestive content (but i think that's a stretch) 𝜗𝜚 note: the way this au!headcanon has been living rent free inside of my head for weeks (might have to make this into a series o_O)

⤷ you were one of the biggest up-and-coming names in the music industry. that being said－you needed the best protection that could be offered.

⤷ enter ghost－an ex-british army soldier that your manager hired right after your first big break to take you to and from a local concert. he kept his face covered by some stupid skull mask and wore a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to expose the countless tattoos that swirled around his forearms.

⤷ ghost would refuse to tell you his real name too. but he was quiet, protective, intimidating, and really good at his job－so your manager kept him around.

⤷ now you were much more well known, meaning ghost's job of keeping you alive and away from grabbing hands or flashing pap lights only got more difficult. but at least the pay also increased.

⤷ while the conversations were brief and often short-lived, you both had grown to somewhat enjoy the constant presence of one another. even if you pushed ghost's buttons and tried to stretch out away from his grasp.

"Aye－fuck did I say about tryin' to leave the venue without me? You're gonna get yourself bloody murdered out there."

⤷ would most definitely have a pet name to call you instead of your real name/stage name

"I said get behind me, dove. How am I gonna protect your pretty little face from behind ya?"

⤷ ghost would most definitely sit in the security area or stage wings at your concerts just to watch you tear up the stage. he liked watching you do the thing you loved the most－performing. but again, he'd never admit how much he enjoyed it.

"Yeah, dove. I watched you out there tonight. What－you want me to give you a gold fuckin' star for your performance? It was 'lright, not the best I've ever seen."

⤷ he has definitely taken you home inebriated more times than he could count. and you definitely get handsy and flirty when you're not sober. but he always made sure you got home safe and sound.

"Aye! Keep your bloody hands to yourself－no, m'not holding your hand right now, dove. You're plastered...don't even know your own fuckin' name."

⤷ you were definitely a soft spot for ghost, but he'd never admit it. he barely admitted it to himself.

��️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley au #alternative universe #ghost cod #cod mw2 #simon riley #ghost headcanons #simon riley headcanons #bodyguard!ghost ✰#ghost x reader #task force 141 #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost #call of duty #iNs Simon “Ghost” Riley 💀

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

Note

can you give me a quick bio on ghost…his personality, how you view him canon and what not

Ghost headcanons

Ghost doesn't wear a mask in public. It's easier to maintain his anonymity that way because a skull mask/balaclava would only draw more attention. The only instances he might wear it in a public place would be if he's with people he doesn't wish to get linked to/associated with (like in the famous scene where he's at a bar with Laswell & co)

He doesn't have a home, not even a rental flat. He stays at the base, stays at motels, hotels, b&bs when he's in England. Partly because having anything stable in his life is dangerous, partly because his attachment issues are so severe that even owning a place will make him feel uncomfortable. Returning to the same, dusty place with only a tv and a fridge to keep him company is depressing.

He never visits Manchester. Too many sour memories and too many people who might still recognize him when he's supposed to be dead. There's no one there left to visit either, save for a few old friends who he can't keep in contact with because he wants to protect them.

He hasn't dated since he was 20-something. He doesn't want to take the risk of losing his loved ones ever again. He's had a few one night stands but disappears before dawn, hating the man he has to be in order to protect those who might otherwise steal their way into his heart.

He's considered using escort services instead, but even the thought leaves a foul taste in his mouth because of his childhood memories and the things his father did to women. He goes to strip clubs sometimes when he has a weak moment, drinks one whiskey and then goes to his motel room and jerks himself off, feeling lousy and even more depressed afterward.

If we ignore this man's attachment issues and complex trauma and imagine he would settle into a situationship or even a relationship:

Ghost is not mean, brutal or abusive. In bed or in any non-work related circumstances (Ghost would say he's not brutal or mean at work either: he's just efficient.) He can be rough if you want and even enjoys manhandling you a little, but he would have a hard time degrading you. He's a soft dom and a service top through and through and quite the gentleman at heart.

He has a lot of money. He's not a spender and has no kids so the pile of wealth he's accumulated over the years is quite enormous. He will spend his money on you though, take you out to dinner, buy you anything you need. He does it so willingly and effortlessly that you soon get a feeling that he's your sugar daddy or at least would want to be. He pays your electricity bill if he finds it on your table and sees it's overdue, doesn't even bother to ask for your permission. And oh, do you need a gorgeous dress for some occasion? Let him buy it for you. You need a car? Sure, no problem at all.

He's paranoid to the point of not telling you when he's about to visit you. He just pops on your doorstep, looking dog-tired and ten years older than he really is. The only thing he leaves in your apartment is a toothbrush and perhaps one of his sweatshirts (if you ask nicely.)

He seems to have a sixth sense, and is very superstitious. He thinks telling you he loves you is a perfect way to attract malevolent attention and bad luck upon himself, so he refrains from being verbal about how he truly feels. You think he's indifferent, that you're just a shag for this man, but in truth he's dedicated and devoted to you and sees no one else but you, thinks about you at work so much so that he already calls you a distraction in his mind. It's dangerous, his feelings are already bringing him bad luck, and so the cycle of silence continues…

He's an incredible hacker but uses old, foolproof technology to avoid being traced. You can never call him, he always calls you. If he even calls.

He's not a drinker and doesn't like to see you drinking either. He absolutely, vehemently hates drugs.

He's embarrassed about it but he has read like 5 novels in his lifetime. All other books have been non-fiction, manuals and the like. He says he hasn't got the time to read.

He loves to see you in ultra feminine underwear. Lace, stay ups, suspenders: he loves to undress you like you're a delicately wrapped Christmas present just for him.

He loves to eat pussy. He would eat you all day, every day, for the rest of his life if he could. He especially loves it when you ride his face and he gets to feel how your thighs start to tremble next to his face.

He loves missionary. Loves loves loves to spread you open and spread his religion. You even joke about it: that his ass is so fit because he fucks you so much, and he only smiles to himself because it's true.

Ghost wants kids, but would he ever tell you that? No. He never tells you anything. You know nothing of this man, not even his favorite movie or his favorite color (which is not black, btw).

He has a terrible praise kink. He loves praising you, teasing you, making you flustered while he's inside you – but if you ever tell him he's big? He's good? That you like it when he smiles? His brain goes full error. He fucks up the rhythm of his thrusts and has to gather his breath. (Then he ups the stakes and praises you even more. Because he also has to win. Always.)

If you ever tell him you miss him, that you can't sleep without him… He disappears for weeks. Then he suddenly comes back, more touch starved and desperate than ever. Your words have gone under his skin whether he likes it or not. You can't even tell whether he's fucking you or making love to you, but you're left feeling like you just got hit by the most loving, gentle bus. There's no explanation, and it's futile to try and pry what's gone into him. But just before you fall asleep, he ghosts his fingers down your arm and whispers: "Pet… I missed you too."

#answered #simon ghost riley #ghost headcanons #simon riley headcanons #not a quick bio but #*shrugs*

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standfucker · 11 months ago

Text

Finding Out You’re Stronger Than Them - Logia Edition (Crocodile)

"Cold Blooded"

Characters: Crocodile

Reader: GN

Word Count: 3.2k

CW: smoking, mildly suggestive, reader has body mods

Summary: “Come on, Sir. If you’re so upset about the money, I could give it back. I don’t really need it,” you roll your eyes on the ‘really,’ “but I don’t intend on walking away empty-handed. You understand. Us cold-blooded types get what we want, right?”

-Thanks to @quinloki for beta'ing as my usual beta, @zoros-sheath, got sick. (Love you both, glad you're on the mend, Mama.)

Ao3 Link

Wealth was not Sir Crocodile’s ultimate goal, his burgeoning ambitions far grander than mere riches. But the vast quantity of treasure that had been stolen from him was not something he could ignore. Civil wars needed funding, and with over half of his hoard disappeared overnight–a feat that should be physically impossible–he couldn’t make the payment on the firearms he had shipped out.

He sends a pair of Officer Agents to take care of it, neither of whom report back. In the radio silence, he sends another, stronger duo this time. They also seem to vanish. Fed up, he finally sends his best, Mr. 1 and Miss Doublefinger.

Instead of hearing back from them, Crocodile finds the six bodies of his strongest Officer Agents dumped unceremoniously outside of his smoking room, beaten to shit and unconscious, but alive.

You're waiting for him inside, an unassuming masked figure picking through his humidors like you own the place.

"You picked a beautiful country to play with,” you say without looking up, inspecting an expensive cigar. “I just love the landscape of Alabasta...reminds me of home."

For a minute, he just stares, mentally running through the list of people he knows in the underworld who can both pull off a heist like that and beat his best assassins bloody. Your lavish jewelry suggests affluence, his eye especially drawn to the gold bracelet on your wrist. There’s a huge ruby mounted onto the band that’s jogging his memory in a bad way. You keep talking in the meantime.

"Sorry to invade on your private time. I understand the necessity of a good smoke break, but you wouldn’t grace me with your presence, so I had to take matters into my own hands."

You tuck the cigar behind your ear, take off your mask, and turn to face him. There are some differences from your bounty poster: You’ve changed your hair, and there’s now a gnarled scar stretching diagonally over your face, narrowly missing your eye. But the snakebite piercings are the same, as are the small, transdermal spikes implanted above your eyes, painted gold to represent your namesake.

“You’re the Thief King, Sidewinder,” Crocodile says slowly. Even with the facial scar, you’re beautiful, skin reflecting the moonlight coming through the window.

You smile at his recognition. “In the flesh.”

“It’s rare for you to leave the New World.”

“Seems you've heard a bit about me.” You look surprised at that.

“You’re a Devil Fruit user, but since you prefer to use Haki, little is known about your ability," Crocodile says, and your eyes widen. "Beyond stealing, your motives are a mystery, as you don’t engage in power struggles, nor do you rule any territory. The lack of land means no one knows where you keep your spoils.”

Of course he's heard of you. He knows the shock is an act, too. Sure enough, your expression relaxes into a casual smile. Crocodile bites down harder on his cigar. You’re notorious for targeting powerful people and getting away with it, but he'll be damned if you make a fool of him.

Crocodile takes off his jacket and tosses it onto a lounge chair. Cracking his neck, he starts to approach you. "Here are your options, thief," he says. "You can return what you've stolen willingly. Or, I can peel the nails from your fingers and rip the teeth from your skull, one by one, until you tell me where it is."

“How frightening.” You tilt your head, hands in your pockets as he gets closer. “Whatever will I do?”

He fires his hook at you, left arm becoming sand and extending. You calmly step around it, dodging by a fraction. He withdraws his hook and fires again; you step to the other side. Keeping his arm extended, he sweeps it out to the side to catch you. You duck, bending far back in an impressive show of flexibility, hands never leaving your pockets. He swings the column of sand at your feet, you hop over it. With every dodge, you move closer to him.

“I’m flattered you recognized me despite the differences from my bounty poster,” you say, pausing in your approach. “You, on the other hand, look almost exactly the same as yours. Except…” You look him up and down, seeming impressed. “I must say, Sir, the poster doesn’t do you justice.”

Rage simmers beneath Crocodile’s cool demeanor. He hates how genuine you sound–it feels more like mockery than true admiration to him. Moving faster, he forms a blade of sand with his right hand and hurls it at you.

“Desert Spada!”

You easily match his speed, side-stepping so the blade cuts through the bookshelf behind you instead. It collapses, sending a heap of wood and fine hardbacks to the floor.

“Careful now,” you chide, shining eyes focused on him.

Undeterred, he strikes again, and again, and again. Each time, you dodge effortlessly, moving with a light, fluid grace. It’s almost as if you’re dancing with him–he can see how you earned your nickname. Furniture crumbles behind you as it’s sliced and smashed to pieces. The more he attacks, the more you avoid, the angrier he gets.

Amidst the chaos, Crocodile suddenly realizes you’ve had yet to break eye contact with him, your own eyes slightly narrowed, assessing. There’s a faint smile on your face.

You're playing with him.

That only pisses him off further. He won’t become another one of your victims–Crocodile races through plans in his head as he unleashes another Desert Spada, keeping you moving as he thinks. He won’t let this end with anything but his own gain. He’ll trap you and torture you until he finds out both where his money is, and where the rest of your hoard is stashed.

You’ll regret having ever made a target out of him.

Crocodile fires off both arms at you, hook aiming for your lower half to force you to jump, while his right arm forms a blanket of sand at the ground. When you inevitably land on it, he’ll be able to grab your leg and hold you still.

As he predicts, you jump over his hook and land on the sand–but somehow, for some reason, your feet do not sink in. It’s as if there’s something solid under your feet, letting you stay at the surface. At first, he’s not certain of how you’re doing it. Crocodile withdraws the sand blanket back toward him, aiming to make you trip, but you don’t so much as lose balance, simply walking forward over the sand like there are hidden stepping stones within it.

Crocodile rapidly withdraws his hook, going to catch your neck. You duck again, even doing a little twirl as you do, as if to hammer home the fact that he can’t destabilize you.

Both Crocodile’s arms revert to their usual shapes, and he stares you down. You’re only a few feet from him now. Whatever you did to avoid slipping, it must be your Devil Fruit.

“You’re making an awful mess,” you say.

“Why did you really come to Alabasta?” Crocodile questions. “It’s a long voyage from the New World–there’s plenty of game for you there.”

“I came to see you.” Again, your words carry nothing but sincerity, and you won’t stop looking into his eyes. Your own are sparkling with mischief.

“You robbed me.”

“That was just to get your attention.”

“Careful what you wish for, thief–” Crocodile fires off a sudden attack now that you’re close. You bend back, not fully dodging it, your shirt getting sliced wide open, “–because you’ve got…it...” His words slow as he sees beneath your shirt: you’re wearing lace underneath your clothes, as well as a leather harness. He frowns, trying to figure out what it all means.

“I’m liking the energy, but will you settle down a sec? You’re destroying your lovely smoking room.”

“You attacked my officers.”

“Your lackeys are lacking.” You grin to yourself at your wordplay. “Aside from that blade guy. Mr. 1, I think it was? He was more fun than the others. Couldn’t go the distance, but entertained me for a few minutes. He wasn’t your strongest goon, was he?”

Crocodile’s face twists up in rage, giving away the answer.

“He was? Goodness… Don’t you wish you had someone stronger?” You grin. “Maybe we could help each other.”

“I don’t need your help,” he spits.

“Whatever you say,” you chirp. Then your eyes darken. “My turn now.”

You disappear. A split second later, you’ve grabbed his arm and hurled him straight through his door as if he weighed nothing. He bounces once, then catches himself, skidding backwards as he looks up, but you’re already behind him, grabbing and throwing him right back into the room.

Crocodile lets his form break up into sand, re-forming a distance away to give him a moment to spot you. His head whips left and right; you instead come from above, a brutal axe kick to his head that throws him onto his hands and knees. Pain thuds through his skull, and he clenches his teeth. Every time you make contact, there’s a moment he can’t transform. It’s that damned Haki of yours–he needs to become sand in the time you’re away from him. He dissipates once more, moving in a random direction away. You aren’t deterred at all–Observation Haki, too, it must be– as you’re right in front of him when he re-forms.

“Boo!” you hold your hands up like claws, making Crocodile flinch, and you smile, showing pointed canines. “Come on, Sir. I know you can do better than this.”

He can’t even bring his arms up to block before you punch him, black-fisted, directly in the solar plexus. He gasps, nearly dropping his cigar, body locking up for a moment before his knees buckle and hit the ground. There’s a faint smell of smoke that he realizes is coming from burned spots in the floor–from your feet?

Just what was your Devil Fruit power? If he didn’t figure it out, he might actually lose.

Suddenly you’re sitting on his shoulders, legs draped over his chest. Before he can move, you grab him by the root of the hair and yank his head back so you’ve forced him to look into your eyes. You have the cigar you stole in your mouth. Holding his head still, you lean forward and touch the tip of your cigar to his, lighting yours with an inhale. Then you exhale in his face.

Enraged, Crocodile grabs you by the neck and slams you into the floor. You grunt. He lifts and slams you again, then lifts you one more time, arm extending fast to harshly slam you into the wall. He follows swiftly, tightening his grip. He can’t kill you yet, not yet.

“I gotta say, Sir,” you say, a little strained, still smiling, “you seem to know exactly what I’m into.”

Crocodile brings his hook to your pretty face. Maybe he’ll give you another scar. Your eyes drop down to the sharp tip of his hook, then back up to his. You open your mouth, letting the cigar fall out. Then, slowly, keeping full eye contact, you lick along the hook.

Oh. You have a body mod there, too–a split tongue, each side curving around the hook and sliding up, their tips scraping the point of it. Caught off guard, Crocodile can only stare, feeling his blood surge and his pulse quicken. You smile knowingly.

“Everyone wants to know what it feels like.”

Another one of your tricks. He won’t fall for it, not when he literally has you in his clutches. Your Haki may be powerful, but you’ve made a mistake letting him make contact with you like this. He’ll simply dehydrate you, drawing out just enough moisture for you to cling to life, and will only grant you water when you tell him what he wants to know.

Crocodile focuses.

Nothing happens.

His brow furrows, gritting his teeth, and he focuses again. You stay utterly whole and perfect.

“Why isn’t it working?” you say. “Why won’t I shrivel up? Is that what you’re thinking? Maybe I just can’t stay dry when you play rough with me like this.”

“Once I have my funds back,” Crocodile hisses, “I’m going to kill you so slowly you’ll beg me for death.”

“Come on, Sir. If you’re so upset about the money, I could give it back. I don’t really need it,” you roll your eyes on the ‘really,’ “but I don’t intend on walking away empty-handed. You understand. Us cold-blooded types get what we want, right?”

“What is it you want, Thief?”

“I want you to think of more constructive ways to vent your frustrations.”

Crocodile’s about to stab your face when his hand starts burning where it’s made contact with your neck. Iron-hot, he can’t hold on and drops you. Thinking quickly, he follows it up by bringing a blade of sand down on you while you’re beneath him.

It all happens in a moment: You catch the sand blade. A searing, scorching heat runs through his arm. The sand instantly becomes glass.

Your fingers dig into the glass and shatter it one-handed, your predatory gaze reflected in the thousand falling pieces all around him.

He’s stunned. At that moment, you grab him by the shirt collar and pull him down to your level, close to your face.

“You know, baby crocodiles, before they grow into apex predators, are prey for pretty much everything,” you smile. “Birds, fish, wild pigs… Snakes…”

You throw him onto the ground, the rubble digging into his back, and straddle his chest.

“You may be a threat in Paradise,” you continue, “but you’d get eaten alive in the New World. That’s why you left, isn’t it? Couldn’t hold your own among monsters like Whitebeard.”

Whitebeard. Crocodile grimaces at the mention, still feeling the sting of that loss. You shake your head.

“Now now, don’t feel bad,” you say. “He got me too.” You point to your scar. “Crusty geezer almost took my damn eye out, but not before I robbed him. He’s gotten slow.”

Suddenly, he remembers where he’s seen your bracelet, recognizing it as one of Whitebeard’s rings, one he had gotten decked by in the past. You stole the ring right off Whitebeard’s finger. He stares at you, starting to become aware of the difference between the two of you.

“You can’t beat me in strength,” you say simply, “what will you do?”

You’re right–he can’t beat you in strength. But he didn’t become the Desert King by being the strongest one. No, it’s never been about brute force. Crocodile takes in your shining eyes, your harness and lace, the sultry words you’ve been dropping, connecting the dots.

Grabbing you by the harness, Crocodile pulls you down to him for a kiss, crashing his lips into yours. As he suspected, you immediately reciprocate, parting your lips and licking into his mouth. Your split tongue is a potent distraction, as is your little moan, riling him up more than he expects. Behind you, his unsheathed, poison hook is poised to sink into your neck. You smile against his lips.

A second later, you’ve snapped the hook off its base and stabbed it into his shoulder.

“Heh… Did you think I’d fall for that?” you purr, licking your lips.

“What do you really want?” Crocodile growls.

“You’re far too smart not to have picked up on that by now. Or do you need me to spell it out for you?” You pull the hook out of his shoulder and toss it over yours, licking the blood from your finger. “You want motives? I pick strong targets because I'm bored. Everything I do, I do to entertain myself. But stealing doesn’t meet every need... I’m certain a man of your status is not wanting for company. But I’ve found that monsters like us tend to only feel sated when we’re with other monsters. Catch my drift?”

“So you’re thrill-seeking,” Crocodile says slowly.

“Please. ‘Thrill’ implies my life is in danger. It is what I’m offering you, though,” you smile. “Not that you need to worry, Sir. I won’t hurt you…unless you ask me nicely.”

“You rob me, beat up my men, and you expect me to sleep with you?” he says, incredulous.

“Not for free. I have an offer to make.”

He’s insulted you’d consider him no better than a whore, and spits out his next words.

“I don’t negotiate with thieves.”

“Let’s cut the illusion of rank. Becoming king of this land won’t erase your pirate background. You’re every bit the conniving cheat that I am.” You laugh. “I’ll return your treasure regardless. Chump change like that is meaningless to me. After passing a certain point of wealth, you start dealing in favors instead. So here’s my offer to you: Entertain me for the night. Do a good job, and I’ll join your little syndicate for a while. My power at your whim to use. I’ll let you order me around…” you trail a finger down his chest, “and I’ll behave until the end of our contract, at which point, you’re free to try and kill me again.”

A demonstration, Crocodile realizes as you get off of him. That’s what this all was: a demonstration of power, all so you could get what you wanted.

“If you only wanted to sleep with me,” he says, getting to his feet, “you could have just asked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you chuckle. “Really, though. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have fought me. This wasn’t going to go anywhere until you understood the gulf that spans between us. Now, you know that when you shove me against a wall, it’s because I let you.”

You dust yourself off and stick your hands back in your pockets like nothing had happened, idly kicking a piece of rubble. Meanwhile, the gears are turning in Crocodile’s head. You defeated Mr. 1 in mere minutes, allegedly. You tossed his own self around like it was nothing, and made him look like a second-rate pirate, much less a king. You have both types of Haki and an unknown Devil Fruit… All in all, an invaluable asset to be under his control. He regards you coolly. You’re waiting patiently for his response.

“So what’ll it be?” you say, sensing he’s made a decision. “I get to have a little fun, you get your most powerful minion yet. We both win.”

“How long would you intend to work for me?” Crocodile asks.

“Depends on your performance,” you shrug. “Let’s start with a few months, and after that, well. If you make it worth sticking around…” your eyes half-lid, letting the implication hang. “Sound like a good deal to you?” You hold out your hand in offering. When Crocodile takes it, you give that predatory smile. “I look forward to working for you, Sir.”

“From now on, you’ll call me Mr. Zero,” he replies, then pauses. “...You can call me Sir in private.”

You grin. “Sorry about your smoking room. Really.”

“Nevermind that. I’ll have someone clean it up. More importantly,” Crocodile says, “what's your Devil Fruit? I’m ordering you to tell me.”

“I can amplify the force of friction,” you respond obediently. “I'm an abrasion human.”

“...You certainly are,” Crocodile says. “It suits you.”

“I think you’ll find, tonight, that it suits you too.” You smile, tugging on your harness lightly. “So, when do we start?”

Crocodile pins you to the wall.

You let him.

#one piece imagines #crocodile x reader #x reader #one piece x reader #zen writes

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quitealotofsodapop · 5 months ago

Note

Hello!! I would like to do some fanart for the ship children for each of the kids of the wukongverse except I can't really find some descriptions for some of them, like keto and rahu who I think were only mentioned once(??) Do you by chance have a link for them or a tag?

Of course! I always welcome fanart of my aus or ideas! ^♡^

I'll try to do decent descriptions for all ze babies/fan children.

Lego Monkie Kid - Shadowpeach (multiple aus);

Zàoyīn & Bàoliè/"Rumble & Savage" - tiny black-furred baby monkeys with red face masks + Macaque's dark skin. Get into a lot of havoc despite being the size of marmosets. Develop little red "tiger stripes" on their limbs and tails as they get older. Rumble has natural six-ears.

Yuebei Xing - the baby girl herself and star of the SlowBoiled au. Tiniest black furball ever. Big blue eyes (often caused by eating LBD's soul). And a white skull-shaped face marking. Grows to be much taller than either parent. Here's some super cute fanart done by @teatime-at-4 + teenage Yuebei by @soniclozdplove + an older version of her done in the LMK OC Picrew.

Jidu & Luohuo - born shortly after Yuebei, and named for the lunar nodes/phenomena making them the "Nodelets". Furs are a mix of orange and black like tortoiseshell cats. Both have four purple and orange ears. Very mischievous.

Luzhen - technically Wukong's little brother, depending on the au. Looks like a little clone of him, but with deep blue eyes. Loves music.

Ziqi - newest baby idea. Named for the last Lunar phenomena (Perigee/a supposed "shadow planet") not given a character in Journey to the South. Surprise baby. Pure black (like a shadow) with hazy purple eyes, and face marking.

+some lovely human glamour designs made by @soniclozdplovesonic for the Post Jttw Stone Egged au. I praise their work openly, they are amazing.

Monkey King Hero is Back - ReboundedHeroes;

Xiaoyun/"Little Cloud" - born from a mysterious cloud-patterned Stone Egg. Egg was damaged before hatching; causing the right eye, right ear(s), and right arm not to develop correctly. Pure white fluffy fur, like a cloud. Very small and skinny due to being born premature. Very adventurous, gives his parents frequent heart attacks.

Yǔ Sōng & Xuě Bào - Twin girls born sometime into the family's Journey across the kingdoms. Look like little toasted macaroons with six ears each, and violet eyes. Develop their baba's red-auburn when they grow up.

+Shui Lian - Adopted. AU form of the White-Faced Vixen. Due to timeline changes, the "vixen" is rather only a pre-teen kit. Has albinism and is unable to hide her fox ears and tail despite mostly-human form.

Monkey King Reborn - Fruitiedads;

Xiao Qi - Fruitie/Qi Energy reborn as a Stone Monkey egg by sheer willpower. Fur so white it look transparent. Pink skin + pink heart-shaped face marking. Big smiley baby. Looks like a fairytale prince.

Xiao Lü - reincarnation of Yuandi/Primordium created when Nüwa tricked Smokey/SWK into creating a clay figure to house the primordial soul - which became a new stone egg. Pure black fur, light skin, and no noticeable face marking as if yet. Has little grey "shoes" on the fur around her feet - hence the name.

5 False Ginseng Fruit Babies - complete and utter accident on the monkeys part. Smokey tried growing the pit from the Ginseng fruit he ate in hopes that the resulting tree could help reinvigorate the damaged FFM. Liang/LEM watered/tended to the tree while he was gone. It did not in fact bare Ginseng Fruit - but five whole newborn monkey cubs - all named after stone fruits. Current draft of the au places their "fruiting" after the Journey once everyone's come home. More detailed post here.

Lìzhī & Hǎizǎo - Twins. Born at the crux of the Journey. Accidentally delivered inside the Thunderclap Monastery. Look like miniature versions of Smokey, tiny brown furred grumpy things.

+Zhu Yu & Ku Ai / Wood Wolf Siblings - Adopted. The children of Kui Mulang/Revati/Yellow Robed Demon and the Princess Baihuaxiu. After the stray star wolf entity was captured, the Princess wanted nothing to do with her half-wolf children (given that they were conceived in less than ideal circumstances) and the human king wanted them destroyed. The pilgrims take the little werewolves into their group. Older girl and younger boy, both below the age of seven. Mix of brown and grey fur/hair like regular wolf pups. Think the kids from Wolf Children Ami & Yuki.

Monkey King 2023/Netflix - CherryandOliveStones;

Xiaoshi - created when Cherry/SWK wanted to see if he could make "another him" from clay and a pebble after he had learned the story of Nüwa. Clay Egg became a real Stone Egg. Xiaoshi has bright orange fur and light briwn face markings. Rarely doesn't have paint or ink in his fur. Link to some amazing art done by @tsa-smth.

Hǔpò & Zhēnzhū aka "The Pebbles" - natural babies. Look like little clones of their LEM (black fur with white accents) with their dear baba's green eyes.

Luzhen (yes another one) - miniature version of Cherry/SWK. Possible little brother.

New Gods series - Jackpotshipping;

Xiaozhēn - dumpster baby. Possible half-monkey demon. Fluffy brown fur, built like a dad - cus he is one. Is in his 30s demon-wise. Has kids of his own.

Unnamed newborn twins nicknamed "Two Pair" (x) - dark fur and brown eyes. One baby is an attempted changeling - but they aren't sure which one.

Meihouwang 2009 - Peachbuds;

Ketu & Rahu - a pair of twins, one a loose Stone Egg that arrived in a comet, the other an egg formed naturally between the parents (they're all grown up by now ofc). Both have a mix of silver and gold fur, like their parents when they were younger. Rahu has six ears. Here's the post you mentioned!

Smash Legends - FabledConnections;

No definite kids, but I'd imagine they'd be a mix of black and white fur. Like tuxedo cats.

No kids planned for the 1999/2000 Legends cartoon pair (yet)

Thank you so much for your interest in all of this - I try to keep all these ideas under the tag #jttw inspo fan children when I can. If you decide to make fanart for any of these babies (or the parents), make sure to @ me so I can see!

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multi-fxndom446 · 1 year ago

Text

Say don’t go

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley X Reader

Summary: simon hates how far you dug yourself into his life. He really doesn’t.

Warning: kinda angsty with fluff ending, kinda toxic Simon but it’s really just him being bad at emotions, probably ooc I’m sorry, sleeping problems.

Word count: 3.9K

I know I’m late on this I apologize 😗 I had work and then I fell asleep I’m not even gonna lie.

I genuinely can’t tell if I love or hate this piece so I really hope you guys like it either way.

This is his part two to his ‘you came? You called.’ scenario that I will link {{here}}

This would honestly make more sense if you read that first.

~~~

When you first came into his life you were really nothing more than an acquaintance. He knew of you because he knew almost everyone on base but you..you just came into his life like you knew you were the missing piece to his puzzle.

The first day he finally met you, you sat yourself down at the table he was sharing with Gaz and Soap in the back of the cafeteria. Both men instantly shutting up as they watched Simon turn to stare at you after glancing around the room to see if this was the only empty seat. It wasn’t.

“Morning!” You smiled and went about eating your food not saying another word. So he didn’t either.

Then suddenly you were just there.

In meetings, at meals, at training you were always there right beside him. It was like you sought him out because one minute he’d enter a room unnoticed and be standing in the corner alone when suddenly you were right next to him when only a minute ago you were clear across the room talking to some soldiers on your squad.

You never really spoke to him unless he spoke to you but you made sure he felt your presence. Especially when you’d offer nightly to help him with paperwork, he thinks it’s because you caught onto the fact he opens up a little more when you’re alone.

Suddenly, he couldn’t see his life without you now. Without your quiet support. But sometimes it was to much, he felt like he was being crowded and he remembered the first night he finally snapped at you for it. The first of many more times he’d push you away.

And it worked. You gave him space. You stuck with your own friends and only offered him a smile in passing. He hated it.

He hated that he started to like you and your presence. He hated that you made him like you so easily when Soap worked hard to finally get close to him.

He hated that he couldn’t even blame you for how he felt. You didn’t know the effect you were having on him. You didn’t know that he started searching for you in every room or that he hated seeing how the other soldiers looked and spoke to you.

He didn’t know why it boiled his blood to see so many of them stare at you like you were a piece of meat or why when he heard the way they flirted with you it made him want to strangle them.

After the first week of you giving him space, he gave in after he couldn’t take seeing the soldiers all over you again.

He couldn’t help but feel a little smug when he noticed that those men didn’t talk to you as much when they saw you were always next to the scary lieutenant with a skull mask.

Simon learned about you this time around. He found himself drawn to the kind of person you were and he wanted to know more. So on those late nights where you helped him in his office, he’d ask you questions which you were more than happy to answer. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to have an actual conversation with the man.

You told him about your life, family, friends, past missions you’ve been on and in turn he told you some of his experiences even if he didn’t divulge all the details.

As the night dragged on with shared stories and secrets he had learned that you never slept very well and that’s why you never minded staying up late to help him.

It was this reason alone that he wasn’t entirely shocked when one night you showed up at his door at some god awful hour of the night almost on the verge of tears after not having slept for 3 days.

He let you in immediately and let you get comfortable, handing you the hoodie that would end up becoming your favorite when he noticed you were cold.

He tried to give you the bed that night but you all but yanked him into the bed with you and curled yourself into his side while he laid there stiff as a board. He counted the seconds ticking by almost waiting for you to admit this wasn’t going to help you sleep either until he heard your soft even breathes and he dared to glance at you.

You were sound asleep and Simon was terrified to move. But after laying there for almost two hours the sound of your breathing eventually lulled him to sleep and he’d never admit it was some of the best sleep he’d gotten.

By the time the sunlight started to seep into his room, you were gone and he almost wondered if he dreamt the whole thing before he noticed the hoodie he lent you was long gone as well. He would find it when he finally went to the cafeteria that morning and saw you wearing it as you spoke with the other soldiers.

And so began the long months of his back and forth. Of his hot and cold, tiptoeing the line between wanting to make you only his and not wanting to burden you with him and his life.

He tried often to keep you at a distance, to push you away but you never seemed to let him get very far because any time he yelled about wanting space he would find you at his door, in his hoodie ready to sleep in his arms and he suddenly couldn’t remember why he wanted space.

It wasn’t like he really did want you to leave anyways. He wanted you with him always but when he could see the way others made you laugh in a way he couldn’t or the way some of those soldiers still had the balls to flirt with you while he loomed behind you. He wished he could just do that but it wasn’t like him to do any of that. So he kept things between you private and outside the hoodie there was no other sign you and he were involved in any sort of way.

You always respected his wishes and kept whatever you had going on private but on some nights where you genuinely thought he wanted you gone you would stay gone and end up finding him at your door when you didn’t come to him at the usual time.

It wasn’t healthy. You knew that and so did he but neither of you could seem to care when it got to the end of the day. None of it mattered when you were behind closed doors and there would be sweet nothings whispered and lips ghosting each other when he felt like lifting his mask just enough.

You knew what you wanted, you never tiptoed the line. You just waited for him to realize that he wanted you no matter what too.

But When Simon broke things off for the final time you wanted to say you were shocked but in truth you weren’t.

The nights leading up to it there were more arguments and more avoided glances in the mornings. He’d keep his distance in every situation and on some nights he even locked his door to prevent you from coming in.

It was heartbreaking. And you didn’t even know why he was doing this.

You didn’t even know that he was hurting just as much as you were. It killed him in every way to see that the way he was treating you was tearing you down slowly.

The boiling point finally came when you were assigned to work with Soap on a mission. It came as a little bit of a surprise for everybody until price explained that you were moving up in the team and he wanted you trained to start going on missions with the 141.

He was truly happy for you for moving up in your career but at the same time he hated how this allowed you and Soap to get closer. He hated the way his Scottish friend could speak to you so freely, how he could hug you out of no where and not have a care in the world.

Simon wasn’t an insecure man.

He knew that.

In fact he knew he may even be a little to full of himself. He knew he was an attractive man, mask or not. He knew women who would love a chance with him but he never cared to entertain them. So he definitely didn’t care that Soap would flirt with you jokingly all the time.

What he did hate was how happy you seemed to be when you talked to him. How open and yourself you seemed when you would be passing jokes back and forth.

He couldn’t help but watch it unfold over time. The way you lit up whenever Johnny would say something, the way your smile widened at some stupid joke he attempted.

Simon couldn’t help but think about how Johnny was the one you should be with. He knew for a fact Johnny wouldn’t tiptoe this stupid line he drew he knew he wouldn’t hide the fact he cares for you or try to push you away when he felt like you deserved better.

He started to wonder if you were falling for his Scottish friend but every night he would be reminded how much more you loved him. He felt unworthy of it. Unworthy of the way you would look at him with all the adoration in the world, unworthy of the way your soft lips would always come so close to his as you whispered to him late in the night. He felt unworthy of the way he could tell when you smiled at him it was completely different from the way you smiled at anyone else.

It was a smile that was reserved for him and him alone.

He knew that.

But as he was forced to watch you and Johnny interact on a daily as you got ready for your mission, his own judgment was getting clouded by the way he thought you would be happier with Johnny.

You both were such a forced to be reckoned with. Both of you shared a warmth that drew people in, like a moth to a flame. He wondered how he’d never seen how perfect you were for each other before..a little to perfect.

You and Johnny were a little to similar and it’s what made you such good friends but both of you knew nothing more would ever happen. He knew your heart belonged to someone else and he wasn’t looking for anything to begin with. But Simon was blinded.

He broke it off with you only a few days after your mission with Soap. Every night for a least a week he would hear you come to his door and knock gently but it went ignored.

“Simon can we please talk about this?” He heard you whisper on the final night. His heart breaking from how emotionally exhausted you sounded. “I don’t know what I did. Did I do something wrong?”

He got up quietly and walked to the door and stood just right there. If he reached out even just a little he could reach the handle and swing open the door. But he refrained.

He heard you sigh before there was rustling on your side. When it got quiet again he could practically feel the way your head leaned against the door. “I’m sorry. I only ever wanted to be with you.” Then you were gone and his head fell against the door with a soft thud.

He waited until he knew you were long gone before he opened the door. There on the floor, folded neatly was his hoodie that you took from him all those months ago.

Picking it up, he held it close to him. It smelled like you now. When he closed his door and was left in cold silence once again he hung the hoodie up and didn’t touch it again until you called for him almost a month later.

The days passed by as they always did before you were in his life. Uneventful. He trained, ate, did paperwork then slept but he quickly learned how much he hated sleeping alone.

The bed felt colder without you curled up next to him. It felt lonelier without your hand tracing over his arm softly or playing with his fingers as you spoke quietly in the night.

He missed you and he hated how much he was letting this affect him.

“I don think she’s sleepin’” Johnny mentioned one night and Simon followed his line of sight to see you making your way into the cafeteria. “She looks like shite.”

He wasn’t wrong. The flame that you had, seemed like it dwindled extensively. The circles under your eyes seemed darker and the weak smile you gave your friends didn’t convince anyone but you looked like you were beyond caring.

One of your friends rubbed your shoulder soothingly while your eyes scanned the room as if you could feel him watching you. The millisecond it took for your eyes to connect he was already looking away and turning back to Johnny.

It was the first time since it ended that you sought him out again. For the most part you kept to yourself, never looked for him anymore and went about your day but it seemed the lack of sleep was catching up to you.

“What the hell happened between you two L.T.?” Johnny muttered as he leaned closer. “Don’t tell me some fuckin shite about not knowing. She talked about you all the time so I know something happened.”

Simon didn’t let show how much that comment took him off guard. He didn’t realize you talked about him so much and to soap of all people.

“Eat your food Johnny.” He grumbled instead unable to look him in the eye.

“Well I’m just worried bout ‘er.” He muttered while he did what he was told and started eating again. “I don’t know how well she can handle the mission tomorrow with the way she looks.”

Simon looked up at that. “What mission?”

“You don’t know? Price is sending her out on her own. Supposed to be a short mission but she looks like a walking skeleton already.” Johnny glanced in your direction before going quiet.

Johnny didn’t even get a chance to say anything else before Simon was already on his feet and half way out of the room on his way to see Price.

The captain was standing at his desk when Simon all but slammed open his door, eyes narrowed. “Simon, I was expecting you.” Price said nonchalantly as he went back to looking at his papers. “Tea?”

“No I don’t want your bloody tea.” He spat out, closing the door behind him but the captain didn’t look up even when Simon was standing right in front of his desk.

“Then what can I help you with?” He asked it like he already knew and Simon supposed out of anyone besides Johnny, he probably did. “Does it have anything to do with a mission taking place tomorrow?” Price finally looked up to meet his gaze head on.

“Send me with her.”

“Simon-“

“Send. Me. With. Her.”

A tense silence filled the air while the two men stared each other down before price shook his head softly. “No.”

“No? Price this could be a dangerous mission.” But the captain no longer seemed to be listening. “Sir she’s in no condition to go on a mission.”

“Is that the real reason you came here? To talk about her wellbeing?” Simon went silent at the look Price leveled him with. “Do you not trust her?”

“Of course I do-“

“Do you not trust that she is a good soldier that can get the job done?”

“Yes but-“

“Then this conversation is finished. She leaves early tomorrow morning so I suggest you get yourself together Simon.” Price was glaring at him like a father scolding his son. Like he knew Simon was the reason you weren’t doing amazingly.

“What is it for?” He finally asked, fists clenched at his sides while he resisted the urge to sit there and demand he go on this mission.

Price shook his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Just tell me if this is a suicide mission.” His jaw clenched painfully as he tried to keep his eyes clear of emotion. “Please.”

“Simon.” Price sighed in slight frustration. “She’s only going in for some intel. She’ll be fine.”

Simon nodded stiffly after a moment and as he was turning to leave Price called out to him. “I’d at least talk with her before she leaves Simon.”

He didn’t acknowledge that he heard him, just continued out the door and mindlessly walked the rest of the way to his room where he would be for the next coming hours.

Hours later He could hear the moment everyone was starting to head to bed. It was well into the night by now and he knew that but he couldn’t sleep. His mind was racing with thoughts of you. He hated himself for how much pain he’s put you through.

He reached for his phone and immediately went to your contact. His thumb hovered over the call button but he never pressed it. He never got the chance to because in the next second his phone started vibrating and your name appeared.

The shock lasted for the first rings before he answered it but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He didn’t want to hurt you more but he could hear it, the desperation, the love you still held for him even after everything.

He knew then just exactly what he wanted.

So The moment you confessed to him that you couldn’t sleep without him, he was already sitting up in bed getting his shoes on.

The moment you realized he wasn’t going to verbally answer you and you hung up he was already halfway to your room. Wearing your favorite hoodie of his.

The moment you opened the door and your eyes met and your voice called his name softly, his entire body just wanted to kneel to the floor in front of you and beg for forgiveness.

The moment he had you cradled in his arms and had you whispering that you missed him he felt whatever resolve he had, built up in the time apart, crumble.

He couldn’t believe just how far you dug yourself into his heart until he finally felt you against him after not speaking for so long. It was his fault, he knew that. He knew he was the one who broke whatever was going on off.

He knew he was the reason there never was an official relationship to break off in the first place. Just a line drawn that you both kept tiptoeing the day you met, never crossing the boundary of being friends or more.

And as he laid there, carding his fingers softly through your hair the way he knew you liked, he couldn’t help but think about the moment that got him into this mess. Sometimes he wished he turned you away more. Or at least kept his distance better.

But it didn’t matter now.

Simon didn’t want to go to sleep, not when he was enjoying watching you breathe softly as you curled yourself further against him.

He considered the fact that he should leave, let you sleep and not wake up to the reality that he was in bed with you again, a reality he was sure you would regret when you were more alert again.

But as he moved to try and slowly get off the bed you were suddenly wide awake and grabbing onto his arm. “Why are you leaving?” Your voice was groggy but he could hear the hint of fear and hurt in it at his actions. “Do you hate me that much?”

“What? Hate you?” Immediately he relaxed back into his spot and looked you straight in the eyes. How could you ever think he hated you? “I don’t hate you.”

“Then please,” your eyes were pleading with him. “Please don’t go.” The weight of your words settled on his heart and it felt like you were asking him for more than just to simply help you sleep.

A tense silence settled over the two of you as you practically stared into his soul. He opened his mouth to relent when you spoke again. “I love you Simon.”

He felt his breathing go completely still. Your words sounded like you couldn’t hold them to yourself any longer. “I’ve loved you since the first week we met. Even when you pushed me away, even when I wanted to kill you. I’ve loved you.” The more you talked the more he was sure his heart wouldn’t start again.

He could feel the moment when you started pulling away from him after he took too long to respond. He could feel you slipping through his fingers again and he couldn’t let it happen again not this time.

In an instant one of his arms wrapped around you and pulled you tightly against him while the other went to his mask and pulled it off.

He didn’t give you the chance to even take him in before he was pulling you to him, his lips landing on yours in a desperate first kiss.

A kiss that flooded you with every emotion he was withholding from you this whole time. A kiss that he had been wanting to feel ever since the first time he felt your lips ghost his.

The hand that was on your back moved to grip your hip as he sat up just slightly to kiss you harder. The hand holding his mask went to rest beside your head so he could hold himself better while he felt your hands everywhere like you were exploring something for the first time. Which you were.

Your hands were in his hair, dragging down his cheeks and jaw before gripping his neck to pull him impossibly closer. Only breaking when you ran out of breathe but he didn’t move far.

You stared at him, gasping in breathes while he looked at you like it was the first time all over again. “I love you too. I’m sorry for ever making you feel like I didn’t. I always have.” He said it softly like he was making sure only you would ever hear those words leave his mouth.

You smiled gently and brought him in for a softer kiss before he muttered against them, “come back to me tomorrow yeah?” You could only nod as he gave you one more kiss before falling back onto his side and pulling you into him.

His mask long gone on the floor and his heart content when you buried your face in his neck, sighing happily.

And true to your promise, you came straight back to him after your mission a few days later.

Really hope yall liked this🙏🏻😭

Also! Johnnys part two next and I’ve made the executive decision that Rudy is coming after that 😋

#call of duty x reader #call of duty imagine #cod x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod x reader #ghost x reader

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cod-imagines-fanfiction · 1 year ago

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Jealous Alejandro kidnaps Valeria's girlfriend part 6 (2k words)

Summary: What happened to Y/N since Valeria infiltrated the Mexican Army's headquarters. Note at the end Warnings: violence Link to A03 Links to part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

[set right after the alarm went off, before Valeria arrived at the container, Y/N POV]

A chaotic cacophony raged beyond the walls of your container. It was a lot to process. The yells of men, their footsteps and commands, the gunshots, an explosion. It felt like demons had emerged from the pits of Hell and were wreaking havoc on Earth. It was all getting a bit muffled now, as though they had left the place your container was in. You supposed that the rest of the headquarters were more important to guard in a situation like this. You were a low priority in the grand scheme of things, after all. You were no drug lord, like Valeria. Or a Colonel, or a Captain, or a Commander. There was nothing really at stake resting within your container, you thought.

Other people may have felt small and despaired at the thought, but it made you happy. There were special people in this world. But they were not you. Yes, you felt important in the way that all living things are important. And yet some people were made to rule, like your wife did. You couldn’t picture Valeria ever having a quiet life. She was simply not built for it. No, she was built for this world, the world of terror and drugs. She was cunning and smart, cutthroat, and strong. She was unbreakable. And so were the others, people like Alejandro, people who forged themselves from fire and blood. The hunters of the world. Looking around the container, you felt like you belonged with the hunted. The lamb hiding with the wolves. The next best thing for someone like you was to live in the shadow of someone like Valeria. You knew that people thought that about you. That you chose the easy way out of work, that you became a drug lord’s housewife, so you didn’t have to make your living out there just like everyone else did. But that was not true. There was strength in your quietness, in your order and in your love. Somewhere beneath your tense fragility was an unyielding strength and, like the viper hiding behind a flower, it was dangerous because it was unexpected. Here you were, intimidated and frightened, and yet never giving in to the demands of tyrants. You were one of those people who, quick to laugh, are slow to anger. And yet when that anger came, it emerged unexpectedly and threatened to envelop everything in its path.

The sweetness of the breakfast bar still lingered in your mouth when you heard deliberate footsteps outside your container. You perked up at the sound and dared to hope that Valeria, or someone else from the cartel, had finally found their way back to you. The chain outside your door rattled and dropped to the floor; the door opened. You nearly jumped off your seat when the image of a human skull emerged from behind the door and looked within. It was the man with the skull mask, the one you'd met earlier. El fantasmo. His skull mask was terrifying to behold. It was a replica of a human skull that ended the lower jaw, and the rest of the image was completed by a drawn balaclava mask. Behind the mask, the skin was drawn black with paint and his dark, focused eyes looked right at you.

"She's still here, Johnny." He said and entered the room. He walked towards you, his hands reaching behind him and pulling out a set of handcuffs. "Covering you, LT," a voice said from the outside. You realised it was the man with the mohawk, the Scottish one. El fantasmo, you realised, was Lieutenant Ghost. "Get up." He said and grabbed your forearm, not gently, and lifted you out of your seat. He was massive, tall enough to tower over you and wide with muscle. His hands felt strong as he moved yours behind your back and promptly handcuffed you, tightening them enough to make them hurt. "What's happening? Where are you taking me-" "What the fuck is this?" His voice was deep, and it drowned out yours when he spoke. He reached into your breast pocket and pulled out the wrapping of the breakfast bar. He held it in his hand and the other man entered the room. "Somebody's been feeding her?" The other man, John, asked. "Looks like it. Call it in." Ghost let the paper fall on the floor. "Come here," he said and dragged you with him as he began walking out of the container. The other man spoke to his earpiece. "Soap here. Found some food wrapping on her. Look's like somebody from the inside reached her."

You felt embarrassed like you were caught doing something wrong. But they didn't blame you for it. In fact, they hardly acknowledged you at all. "Copy that, moving out now." The man said again and looked at Ghost. The masked man held your arm tighter as he dragged you after them. The sounds of gunfire hit you as you stepped out of the container and you stopped in your tracks. The absurdity of it all hit you; the violence and bloodlust, all the fighting. All for you.

“You as much as try anything,” Ghost whispered in your ear, “and I’ll break you.”

You didn’t have time to respond before he began dragging you after him with the other man trailing after you two, protecting you with his gun.

Despaired coiled around your heart like a python, tightening its grasp on you. You struggled to breathe as you were dragged into the line of fire. The rapid fire of gunshots echoed amongst the headquarters, which you had never seen. Men ran up and down the place, you stepped over fallen bullet shells which littered the floor, making it glisten like gold. You were not one of those people who found these sorts of things beautiful, someone who could polish guns and admire their beauty, the handiwork that went into them, the ways they could be customised and designed. Valeria would often tease you about it, calling you soft. Now, as you saw these guns be put to use, you could see them as nothing more than the murder machines that they were. And they were aimed right at you.

"Shit," Ghost said whilst he made both of you duck behind a wall of concrete. The other man was quick to follow behind you, firing a couple of shots in retaliation. "Why the fuck are they shooting at us?" Asked the Scottish one. "'Cause they haven't seen her yet," said Ghost. By 'they,' you guessed he meant the cartel staff. More shots were fired at you. The Scottish man forced your head down with his hand, the bullets having barely missed your head. "We're moving. Be careful, Soap, they'll try to separate us." The other man chuckled. "Let them try."

Soap fired another shot and whoever was firing at you stopped. With a pang, you realised that the other man was killed. The world blurred after that, you only moved because you were being dragged forward. Your mind could not stop wondering if you knew that man. Was it one of those that you saw come in every day to talk with Valeria? Was he one of those who, though you never met in person, had met a part of you when he ate your cooking? On special occasions, Valeria would ask you to cook a lot and invite some of her men over, a treat for those who excelled either in loyalty or performance. You were never present, but Valeria still managed to show you off when she presented all the delicacies you had prepared. Was that man there? All this death, all this blood, all this loss - for you.

A feeling of self-disgust arose and, for the first time since Alejandro puts his hands on you at the estate, you resisted. You couldn't do much with your hands cuffed behind your back, but you tugged away from Ghost, not enough to make him stop walking, but enough to make him lose balance. It wasn't because you were strong, but because, he realised, he did not expect you to do anything. You didn't stop there, you kept tugging back and forth, trying to break free of his grasp. It was not much, but this small commotion made the three of you slow down long enough for you to be recognised.

"Senora!" Someone yelled, someone from the cartel. Ghost growled angrily and slammed you against the nearest wall. "Didn't I say I'd break you if you tried anything?" His breath was hot on your skin. One of his hands was on your neck, but you felt hot too; you blazed in anger. "I'll have you killed!" You yelled at him. Surprise flickered behind the lieutenant's eyes. It made you even angrier, how dare he be surprised that you hated all this? That you could be threatened again and again, that you would be bruised and exhausted and just sit there and take all of it. How complacent did they think you were? "You hear me? I'll have all of us killed!" He didn't take his eyes off you as he spoke. "Soap, clear the way forward." But there was no reply.

Both of you broke from your locked gaze and looked to the side in surprise - the other man was not there. You realised how quiet it suddenly was, an oppressive silence that made you even more painfully aware of how trapped you were beneath Ghost's body. Rapid footsteps sounded close to you and suddenly, Ghost was slammed to the ground by someone. "¡Por aquí!" Someone said and grabbed your hand. "Senora, you okay?" You didn't know who he was, but you knew he was one of your people. "Yes," was all you could say as you ran away with him. You only caught a glimpse of Ghost being tackled by multiple people, struggling beneath the weight of all these men.

"This way, Senora. You know the way." He said and eventually stopped running. You looked around and saw, on the floor, a hole. "El Sin Nombre said you know how to use this. I'll be right behind you, Senora. Our people are on the other side." Hearing those words made you so happy, you almost cried. "What about Valeria? Is she here?" You asked. The man saw the tender look in your eyes, the desperation behind it. It was too much, he looked away. "She'll be right there, Senora." And with that, you plunged yourself into the cold darkness of the tunnel. You moved far enough for the man to come in after you. You had no torch on you, after all. But the man never followed through. "Senor?" You asked, but there was no reply.

All of a sudden, you became aware of how bad it smelled in there. But it was not the smell of dirt or of animals. It was the stench of cigars, a smoke that threatened to choke you but yet held a sweetness that was unlike the sharp smell of regular cigarettes. A light flickered in the darkness and you realised there was someone smoking in there, waiting. "Yeah," said a deep, British voice. He took a long puff from his cigar, the orange light burning brightly in the darkness that enveloped both of you. From that little flicker of light, you could see two piercing blue eyes staring at you, and a face covered by a well-groomed beard. The world above was muffled, gone.

"I'll take it from here, sweetheart." He said and lunged for you. Only darkness followed.

When you finally came to, the day was already over. Groggily, you awoke to find yourself in a transportation van, your hands and feet shackled by chains. Opposite you sat the man you saw before, the one with the cigar. "Sorry for the trouble, miss. But you know how these things are." Captain Price saw the frantic, lost look on your face and felt something he hadn't felt in quite some time; pity. "You're being transferred to prison. You'll be settled soon enough, new clothes and everything." You didn't even look at him, though he knew you could understand him. Instead, you gazed outside the window. The Captain only ever heard you say one word:

"Valeria."

"If it makes you feel any better, she's in the van behind us."

Note: I'm struggling with Y/N, I feel like I made her too passive, even though that's kind of what I was going for with her. In the next part, she gets reunited with Valeria (finally!) We're reaching the end of this fic, thank you for reading so far x I'm struggling with writing at the moment because I started my master's and I'm having some health issues, but I'll try my best! I'm also thinking of doing a spin-off with Valeria and Y/N on how they met and ran away.

tag list: @justmare @silas-222 @m0rganit3 @blarba-girl @sleepiemain @caffeineliker @ashy-kit @00ops1e @lesvii @therapyneeds @lez-zuha @starre-eyes @7smexy7diva @hello-kitty-festival @konigmeu @cassiecasluciluce @gay-ass-country-boy @starwars-theclonewhore @bi-witch-bxtch @somnoslvt @ashthepillow @b3ns0ne @idiotwrites @danart501 @deakyspuff @mistresssiri @angethehimbosimp @@sae1kie @00ops1e

#cod mw2 #call of duty #call of duty valeria #cod imagine #valeria garza #cod valeria #valeria garza x reader #valeria x female reader #valeria x reader

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fireya-x · 1 month ago

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luna sanguinis // CHAPTER IV: cruciatum

[PREVIOUS] || CHAPTER MASTERLIST || [NEXT]

AO3 Link

John wants to return to his team, but you are hesitant and afraid, forcing him to prove his control.

[8.9k words]

cw: past abuse/trauma, light bondage, cunnilingus, orgasm denial, edging, come shot, come marking

“Bloody hell, Captain! Where were you last night?” Gaz’s voice boomed across the grand, high-ceilinged living room of the mansion. John stood in the doorway, taking in the unexpected scene. Golden afternoon sunlight beamed through the tall windows, illuminating a lavish supper spread on the table - a feast fit for a king, ironically. His men were already seated, casually enjoying the food. Ghost was leaning against a pillar between two of the windows, his balaclava lifted just enough to reveal his mouth as he chewed on a piece of fruit.

Had they been here all day? How long had it been? John had lost all sense of time ever since he’d laid eyes on you during the party. Everything after that seemed like a lifetime – a lifetime compressed into a single night – yet at the same time, it had all passed in a dizzying blur.

“We thought you got lost in this maze of a place or something,” Soap added, frowning. His attempt at a joke didn’t hide the concern in his eyes.

John took a few steps forward and then stopped, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I wasn’t lost. I was… occupied.” His gaze flickered back to the doorway, sensing your presence nearby. Even from a distance, he could feel you waiting, listening, giving him space to deal with his team, a courtesy that surprised him. He was so attuned to you now, the bond thrumming between you, a constant current of shared sensation. He could feel the exact speed of your heartbeat echoing in his own blood, the power that you’d awakened within him simmering just beneath his skin.

“Occupied?” Soap repeated, his eyebrows shooting up. “Oh yeah? Doing what, exactly?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Something that changed everything.” John hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully. He knew how insane it would sound.

“Don't be so cryptic, Cap,” Gaz said, slowly refilling his plate, seemingly unfazed by John's odd behaviour. “Spit it out.”

John took a deep breath. “I met someone.”

Gaz flashed a knowing smile. “The hostess right? I knew it!” He shot a glance back towards Soap and Ghost, as if they’d had been betting on it.

But John didn’t smile back. “It’s not what you think. I –” He paused, the words catching in his throat. He wasn’t sure how to begin to explain something that defied explanation.

“What?” Soap asked, gesturing for John to continue.

“I… I love her.” John swallowed hard, the words feeling heavy, unreal, yet utterly, undeniably true.

The silence that followed was deafening. The three men looked at each other with the reaction that John anticipated, painting him as the insane man who had lost his mind.

Then, Gaz burst out laughing. “Love? You met her last night, mate.”

“It's not a joke, Gaz,” John said, his voice sharper now, a hint of the new power he possessed edging into his tone. “It’s… she’s –” He struggled to find the right words. Especially with the disbelief in their eyes. It was frustrating, this inability to make them understand. “She’s different,” he finally said. “She’s – she’s not human.”

The world was standing still as those words left his lips.

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” Ghost mumbled, his gaze fixed on John. Even behind the skull mask, John could sense his teammate's concern. Ghost could tell something was… off about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Gaz scoffed. “Like what? A werewolf? Or a vampire? Right, and I'm king of England!” He laughed, a mocking laugh that grated on John’s nerves, and Gaz stood from the table abruptly, shoving his plate away.

“Yeah, Price, I think you need some rest, some fresh air.” Soap agreed, the concern in his eyes growing.

“Is she blackmailing you, Cap?” Gaz pressed, stepping closer. “Threatening you, forcing you to… I don’t know… spit out some intel or something?” John shook his head. He’d known this news would be hard to swallow, but he hadn’t expected this level of mockery.

“She is not. And this ain’t a joke. I’m telling you the truth.” He gestured to himself, to the power brewing underneath his skin, the heightened senses and emotions that threatened to drive him crazy.

“I'm out of here,” Gaz muttered, frustration and anger twisting his features. “Call me when he’s back to normal.” He shot John one last disapproving look, then turned on his heels to walk out, giving up on trying to reason with his clearly delusional Captain.

But as he reached the double doors, a figure stepped into the room, blocking his path.

You stood there, your dress a swirl of black silk, your eyes fixed on Gaz with an intensity that made him take a step back. Your presence alone seemed to change the atmosphere in the room – the air thickening, the temperature dropping, the shadows deepening. Even as the sunlight streamed in through the windows, a chill touched the air.

“Please, stay.” You said, your voice smooth as velvet, carrying an undertone that Gaz recognized as a command, though he couldn't explain how.

He hesitated, then, against his better judgment, he stayed. But within a split second, his hand flashed under his shirt, and he pulled out a sidearm, the barrel aimed directly at your chest.

“Don’t fucking take another step,” he warned, his voice low.

John’s head snapped up, every muscle in his body going rigid. A growl rumbled in his chest, his fangs extending instinctively as he saw the weapon pointed at you. Protective rage bubbled inside him, the urge to protect his mate as she was being threatened, so strong that it took every ounce of his control to not tear his teammate apart limb from limb.

“Gaz, what the fuck!” He snarled as he moved towards him, his eyes wild. But you held up a hand, stopping him with a simple gesture.

You hadn’t even flinched.

Confusion was written all over Gaz’s face, and his grip on the gun tightened. He’d seen John react to you, he had witnessed a flash of admiration in your eyes as you realized his team was trying to protect their Captain.

Vampire.

But you were alive. You were clearly human.

Weren’t you?

“Gaz…” Soap’a voice was a warning whisper, his own gaze fixated on you with a certain amount of caution. There was something off about this whole situation. The air in the room felt heavy, cold, and yet so full of energy that he couldn’t explain.

And the way you were just standing there, as if Gaz’s gun was nothing more than a child’s toy, it was unnerving.

“This… thing… has you under some kind of spell, Captain,” Gaz said, his eyes not leaving you. “This isn’t you talking. She’s done something and I not going to let her get away with it.” He corrected his stance lightly, the barrel of the gun aimed steadily at your heart.

John took another step forward. “She’s not controlling me,” he growled. “I’m warning you – put the bloody gun down.”

“John,” you said softly, smiling at him. You could feel the anger, the urge to protect you running through his bloodstream, but this wasn’t the time for violence. “It’s quite alright.”

You faced Gaz, your expression calm. You didn't move. “Mr. Garrick,” you said, your voice soft yet carrying an undeniable authority. “I understand your concern, your protectiveness of John. But you misunderstand.”

“Put the gun down, Gaz.” Ghost agreed, pushing himself off the wall. “Price wouldn’t lie to us. Why would he?” He looked at Gaz, and a rare note of pleading reflected in his usually calm and impassive stare.

Gaz hesitated, his gaze darting between you, John and Ghost. Something in your calm demeanour, your complete lack of reaction and fear, was starting to unsettle him.

“John is not being manipulated,” you reassured him. "I promise you that. He’s bound to me. As I am bound to him." You paused, letting your words sink in. “It's a connection far deeper, far more powerful, than anything you can comprehend.”

“What does that mean?” Gaz whispered, his hand trembling.

You didn’t answer. You simply walked towards John, your movements smooth and graceful. You stopped before him, your eyes locking onto his – a silent command passing between you. You held your hand up, palm upward.

He understood. If they wouldn’t believe your words, they had to see.

He took your hand into his, so carefully as if it was the most fragile thing in the room next to the porcelain that decorated the dinner table, and everyone watched frozen in place as John revealed his fangs - longer and sharper than any human canines could ever be, glinting in the sunlight that streamed through the windows.

The air in the room crackled with a power none of them could describe. Gaz stared, his breath catching in his throat, as John sank his fangs into your palm. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink, as he starting drinking blood from you.

Gaz finally lowered the gun, watching the scene unfold in front of him with a mix of horror and fascination. Soap and Ghost watched equally stunned. They’d just seen something that challenged everything they thought they knew about the world, about the reality they lived in. And now, their friend, their Captain, was in the middle of that newfound reality.

"You see?" Your voice was steady, calm, even as John continued to drink from you, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “There is power at work here that is beyond your understanding.”

John withdrew from your palm. Before releasing your hand, he brought it to his lips, gently kissing the wound he’d made. His eyes glinted with power.

“You’re still alive today, because of me. Had I not intervened when I realized who John was to me,” you looked at each of them, letting the unspoken threat sink in, “you would have been part of a ritual.”

Soap swallowed hard, his face ashen. Gaz just stared at you, the blood draining from his face. Ghost, his mask hiding his expression, remained eerily still. But you could sense his heightened awareness – the way he was absorbing everything.

“What – what do you mean? " Soap whispered, his voice barely audible.

“You were brought here under false pretences,” you explained gently. “An invitation to a celebration that was meant to end in your deaths. A ritual I, as queen, perform every year – a necessity to keep me alive. A sacrifice to maintain the balance of this world. It's… a curse.”

“You’re saying everyone at the party last night is dead?” Soap exclaimed, his eyes wide with horror, glancing towards Ghost.

“The humans, yes.” You confirmed. “And the guards that John managed to dispose of. It was necessary to awaken his power.”

You faced Soap, taking a step towards him. “Very few are granted knowledge about this ritual, Mr. MacTavish. It is a secret I carry with me – a burden I bear alone… until now.”

Your gaze shifted to John, your expression softening. “John has changed things. He is my king. My mate.” You paused, looking back at the others. “And because of him, and the trust he places in you, I am sharing this truth with you.”

“Why Price?” Ghost asked, low, intense.

“I don’t know. Call it fate. I looked at him, and I knew. And he’s stronger than anyone I have ever met.”

“I told you I love her. I know it sounds crazy, but –” John sighed, running a hand through his beard. “When it happened last night, it was like… like our souls recognized each other. Like I’ve known her for centuries.” He looked at them, his eyes pleading. “I still don’t understand it all. But I… I had to let you know.”

“And what now?” Gaz asked, his gun holstered and hidden away.

“Now," you said, stepping closer to John, your hand resting on his arm. “I trust you to keep this secret. To fight alongside us to protect this world from the darkness that threatens to consume it.”

“How could we fight this?”

“You've already done it, Mr. Riley.” Your gaze locked onto Ghost. “You are soldiers. You fight the battles, hunt the monsters. You keep the world safe.” You smiled. “Only now, you will do it knowing that you are also protecting us. Protecting the balance.”

You turned towards your mate, deciding to let the words so sink in. You smiled, and he returned the gesture, thankful that you'd calmed the situation and explained as best as you could. Of course, this would take time. But his men were still in the room, nobody left, so John was sure they’d at least believe a fraction of it.

“I will give you some space, with your men.” You said, your fingers tightening on his arm, sending a shiver through him. The gesture wasn't lost on his team. They watched, stunned into silence, as John leaned in and kissed your cheek.

They need time, my love. Your words were unsaid, but understood nonetheless.

He nodded, a silent thank-you passing between you, and then he watched as you gracefully walked out of the room. Leaving him alone with his team, their world irrevocably shattered.

John turned back to face his them, his gaze intense. Gaz had sat back down at the table, his appetite gone, pushing his food around his plate with a fork. Soap was on his phone, frantically scrolling through something, trying to find answers he wouldn't find. And Ghost was staring right back at him, his expression unreadable behind the mask.

John knew they needed time. He needed time.

He cleared his throat. “Lads, I know this is a lot to take in. But believe me – this is… this is real.” He looked at them, his eyes pleading. “And I still need you. Now more than ever.”

The silence stretched for another moment, tense with unspoken questions, unspoken fears. And then, finally, Soap spoke. “We’re with you, Captain,” he said, his voice gruff. “Always.”

Gaz sighed, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. Vampires.” But there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, a familiarity returning to his voice. “This is gonna take some getting used to.”

Ghost simply nodded, his gaze never leaving John. “We’re with you.”

John felt a wave of relief wash over him, the tension easing in his chest. He might not be the same man he’d been yesterday, but he still had his team, his family. And that, more than anything, gave him the strength he needed to face anything that lay ahead.

He had Victoria. He had his brothers. He would protect them all. Whatever the cost.

The next few days, John hadn’t really ever left your side. He was on the phone a lot, talking to his team like the Captain he still was as he sent them back to work, talking to his landlord to cancel the flat he was renting. It felt strange, talking about his old life - the life that now seemed so distant, so… ordinary.

But the bond kept pulling him back to you. You explored the mansion together - its hidden passages and secret rooms, making love in the depth of the wine cellar, the moonlit conservatory, in the beds of the many guest rooms. Anywhere when you just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other.

He accompanied you on the hunt, his new instincts surfacing – the thrill of the chase, the taste of blood, a powerful seduction he had to learn to control. You watched, both proud and concerned, as he mastered his new abilities, and as he controlled himself perfectly, balancing above the edge of the descent into maddening bloodlust.

But as the initial rush of transformation began to fade, things settled down a little. And a new restlessness grew within John. You could feel it, he missed the adrenaline of the mission, the comradery of his team, the weight of a tactical vest and the familiar feeling of a gun in his hands. He was a soldier, a Captain, and even though he was a vampire now, that part that craved duty and purpose could not be sated by blood.

One morning, he found you in your study, pondering over a mountain of papers, your brow furrowed in concentration. Financial statements – even an immortal queen couldn’t escape the mundane realities of running an estate. The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the morning sun. The air was thick with the scent of candles, old paper, and the faintest hint of your perfume. Ravens cawed outside your window, painting an eerie, yet breathtaking picture as John walked into the room.

“Victoria.” He said your name softly, but the sound, amplified by the heightened senses, made you startle slightly. You looked up, a warm smile lighting up your face. For a moment, John forgot what he'd come to say.

“You should be resting, my love,” you said softly, setting down the papers in your hand, the material brittle between your fingers. “You've been hunting all night.”

“I can’t rest,” he answered and stepped closer, his gaze finding yours. “Not when I should be back out there.”

You stood, your movements smooth, graceful. “John…” You could feel the shift in him, the disquiet that rippled through the bond. You didn't want to have this conversation. You knew where it was headed. A part of you dreaded it.

“I’m going back to work.” He didn’t even ask; he stated it, his voice firm, decisive, his jaw set in that familiar stubborn line that you’d come to both love and hate. “My team… they need me.” He looked at you, his gaze holding yours, pleading for understanding. “And I need them, too.”

You could feel the blood draining from your face, leaving you colder than usual. "No. It's – it’s too soon. You’re not –” You hesitated, not sure what to argue with, because you knew he was in control. At least for now. You'd seen it. You'd felt it. But the fear was there, lurking in the shadows of your mind, the fear that threatened to drown you – a tide of ancient memories rising, threatening to pull you under.

He took a step closer. “Not what?” His voice was suddenly low, like a challenge.

“Not ready,” you finally forced the words out.

“Ready for what? A little danger? Blood?” He scoffed, anger flaring in his eyes. “I’ve been facing danger, spilling blood, for years. It's what I do.”

“This is different, John.” You reached for him, your fingertips brushing his skin, seeking the reassurance of his touch. But he moved away from you, as if your coldness burned.

“Then what should I do?” He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration growing, his voice rising in pitch. “Stay hidden away in this mansion forever like you do? Hiding from the world like a… like a monster?”

The word hung in the air – a cruel echo of your own deepest fears. He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening as he realized what he’d said. “Victoria, I’m – I’m sorry. I didn't –”

But it wasn’t his words that had wounded you.

It was the truth in them.

You were hiding.

You were hiding from the world.

And you were terrified that he was right. That the monster he saw in you wasn’t just a reflection of your nature, but a glimpse of what he might become.

A monster.

Like him.

Cold, icy dread washed over you. You could almost smell him again – Lucian. The scent of blood, always lingering on his breath, on his skin. The way his gentle, adoring touch had turned rough, demanding, bruising. The way his gaze, once filled with warmth and affection, had become cold, predatory.

He’d been strong. So strong - a power unlike anything you'd ever encountered. But the power – it had consumed him. Twisted his senses, poisoned his flesh, corrupted his very soul.

You remembered how gentle he'd seemed at first, how he'd kissed your hand as if it were a fragile flower, murmuring sweet nothings that made your undead heart flutter.

But that facade, like a delicate bloom, withered quickly, revealing the thorns beneath. The night he’d first lost control, that facade shattered completely.

You still saw the city streets in your nightmares, cobblestones slick with blood, bodies drained and discarded like broken dolls, threatening to expose you.

When you’d confronted him, your voice shaking with disappointment and fear, he’d backhanded you without a word. His hand, the same hand that had so tenderly caressed you, struck you across the face, leaving a stinging welt that quickly bloomed into a sickening purple.

Another night, you remembered seeking solace in the gardens, desperate for peace amidst the turmoil he’d created. It wasn't during the Blood Moon ritual. It was just a normal night, a full moon hanging heavy in the sky, casting an eerie glow upon the manicured lawns. You’d found him in the courtyard, surrounded by a dozen bodies – your guards, your friends – scattered around him like fallen petals. Their lifeless eyes stared into the vast emptiness of the night, accusing you of your choice, of your failure of a king you’d brought into your life, into your bed.

Their blood stained the ground of your home, a grotesque tapestry of crimson and black.

The scent was thick in the air, a metallic miasma that made your stomach churn.

He’s turned to you then, a feral grin on his face, his fangs dripping with crimson.

“Look what I did, my queen,” he whispered, his tone a slurred mockery of the voice that once used to seduce you. “They were weak. Useless. Unworthy of your love.”

You’d tried to reason with him, to find a flicker of the man inside – the man you'd chosen, the man you'd hoped would be your salvation – but it was too late. The bloodlust, the power, had consumed him, twisted him, until he was nothing but a shell of his former self. A monster wearing a lover's face.

You’d never forget the look in his eyes when he’d turned on you . A gaze burning with a possessiveness that was cold and cruel and utterly devoid of love.

He’d grabbed you, his grip tight and bruising, eyes blazing with madness that chilled you to the core. “You’re mine, Victoria. You belong to me ,” he’d snarled, spitting blood. “And you will learn to obey your king.”

The memories of what followed, the way he’d used you, abused you, the way his touch turned into a weapon to make you obey, his love a cage that kept you prisoner.

And now, looking at John, at the frustration and anger burning in his eyes, at the power thrumming beneath his skin… you saw a ghost of Lucian.

A ghost that threatened to haunt you.

To destroy everything.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, your eyes filled with a fear you hadn’t felt in centuries. “Just… wait a little longer.”

John felt the shift. The sudden spike of fear like a flash of ice that ran through the bond. A name flashed through his mind. Lucian. And he knew, he’d never be like that man. He’d prove it to you.

“I’m not him,” John said, his voice low, his gaze never leaving yours. “Victoria, trust me. I can control it.”

“But what if…” You swallowed hard, the words sticking in your throat.

"I’m not like him,” he repeated, his voice rising. “I know my limits.”

“How can you be so sure?” You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. "It's only been days, John. Days!”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“The bloodlust,” you whispered. “I can feel it coursing through you, what if you can’t stop if I'm not there?”

“I can feel it. The bond,” he said, his gaze intense. “It… it holds me in check. I can feel when it’s too much. I can stop."

“And you think that makes you immune?” You shook your head. “You think you’re the first one who thought they could control it?”

He took a step closer, his presence filling your senses. “I’m not them .” His voice was a low growl.

“This power doesn’t make you invincible, John.”

He leaned closer, his hot breath on your skin, his eyes blazing with a hunger that made you tremble.

“You want to see how in control I can be?”

You wanted to answer, to say something, anything, to break this strange tension that was building between you, but the words just didn’t come.

He could see the fear, the doubt in your eyes, and it fuelled the fire within him. He didn't wait for an answer. He didn’t need one.

Before you could protest, he’d lifted you effortlessly – your body suddenly weightless – and set you down on the ancient oak desk that dominated the study.

You reached for him, your fingers brushing his chest, but he caught your wrist with a grip like iron. Any word you were about to speak was silenced with a look he gave you. There was a fire in his eyes, it was unnerving, almost as if - no.

This wasn’t Lucian.

John’s touch was different. It was rough, yes, his fingers were digging into your flesh, his grip tight, but it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t meant to hurt.

You gasped as he pushed against you to lay you down on the desk, your legs dangling over the edge, your back pressed against the cool, smooth wood.

His hands were all over you, possessively yet careful, and you felt a fraction of panic as he ripped open your blouse, the buttons scattering across the floor. Your breasts spilled free, and the cool air against your nipples made you gasp.

You wanted to cover yourself, to shield your body, but you couldn’t move.

He reached up and with a slow, deliberate movement, he untied the satin ribbon that held your hair in a ponytail. You watched him, your eyes following his every movement – the concern warring with the anticipation that thrummed in your blood.

“This will do nicely,” he murmured, almost in a growl, and he pulled your hair gently, just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the delicate curve of your throat.

You felt his breath on your skin, and you braced yourself for the pain, that bruising bite that haunted your past – but John didn’t hurt you.

Instead, his lips brushed against your skin – a tender kiss between your collarbones that sent a shiver of pleasure through you. He was so close now, you could feel the heat of his body, the musky scent of his arousal, the faint taste of blood lingering on his lips. You wanted to lose yourself in him, to forget the fear that chilled you, but a part of you held back, afraid to surrender completely.

He used the ribbon to bind your wrists together, pulling your arms above your head, and you gasped as you felt the silk tighten – the sensation both restraining and arousing.

He stepped back, admiring his work, his gaze sweeping over your exposed body. Lingering on your breasts, the way they strained against the torn fabric of your blouse, the hard points of your nipples, the smooth curve of your hips.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, his voice thick with lust. But there was something else in his eyes, too – a look of possession, but also a tenderness that made your heart ache. “So fucking helpless.”

You’d heard these words before so many times, from different lips, but they had never been spoken so genuine, so affectionate, the way John spoke them.

He moved then, shedding his own clothes. You watched, your gaze locked on his, as he revealed his body to you. He was a masterpiece of masculine beauty – all sharp angles and powerful lines, muscles rigid beneath his skin, hair dusted all across his body in just the right places.

His cock, thick and long, stood out proudly like a weapon made to conquer. But it wasn’t a weapon he intended to use against you. It was an offering to you, his sacrificial offering to a goddess that laid out before him.

“Like what you see?” He growled, his eyes not leaving yours.

You nodded slowly, worlds failing you, and he chuckled in response. “That’s right, love. No talking for now, hm?” He purred, and he knelt before you, his hands ghosting up your thighs.

His touch was like a wildfire that burned every nerve ending in its wake. You writhed against the bounds, instinctively spreading your legs for him, your own offering in return.

He traced the line of your thigh, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you gasped, your body arching instinctively towards his touch. With a swift motion, your skirt and panties were gone, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, the musk of his arousal mingling with the scent of your own desire.

“Such a perfect little cunt,” he murmured, a rough caress against your skin. His breath hot and wet against your flesh. “Already so wet… so ready for me.”

“John…” you whimpered, your body aching for something you couldn’t even name.

“Didn’t I say no talking?” You caught a grin on his face, a predatory smile that, on anyone else, would have felt repulsive. But on John, it was something else.

The grotesque mask that other men had carried was absent in John’s features. He was beautiful, and the gaze that met you, it made you feel so hot, like your blood started boiling under his touch.

There was warmth, there was care, there was trust. But most of all, you realized, there was control.

He lowered his head, his tongue darting out to taste you. You arched upwards as he made contact with your burning skin, a plea escaping you as he traced the swollen flesh of your lips.

He dove deeper then, his tongue parting your folds, drawing your clit deep into his mouth, sucking gently.

“Fuck!” You cried out, arching your back, and the silk that bound your wrists dug into your delicate skin, a reminder of your helplessness… and yet it was something so exquisite.

John managed to melt away the layers of ice that you had built around your heart. He worshipped your body, your soul, you – it wasn’t that blind possessiveness that others had abused to command you.

“John, please…” you pleaded, your body trembling and causing your voice to break.

He sucked on your clit harder, drawing it deep into his mouth, and you cried out again. He could feel your need, the way you throbbed and pulsed around him, the heat of your arousal a brand against his tongue.

“So fucking delicious,” he groaned. His fingers traced the swollen flesh of your lips, teasing you, tormenting you. He knew exactly what he was doing, how to drive you to the edge of madness, how to make you forget centuries of control, of command. And he was going to savour every second of it.

He watched as your body writhed beneath him, your hips bucking against his face, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

He lowered his head again, his tongue returning to its delicious work. He licked and suckled, his fingers teasing your entrance, his touch sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

"You're so close already,” he purred against your skin. "I can feel it. How badly you need to come. But you're not going to. Not yet."

He stood up, his cock, thick and throbbing, a silent promise of the pleasure he was withholding. He moved between your legs, his knees forcing them wider apart, your hips canting upwards, offering yourself to him.

“John…” You sobbed, your body trembling, your voice breaking. “Please… I…”

He smirked, enjoying your helplessness, your surrender. “Please what, my queen?” He pressed himself against your entrance, the tip of him teasing, tormenting. “Tell me what you want. Use your words."

“I want…” You bit your lip, the need was a burning ache that consumed you, making it hard to think, to speak. “I want... you... inside me... please -”

“Good girl.”

He thrust into you then, one swift, powerful stroke that made you cry out – a mix of pain and pleasure so intense that it shattered the world around you.

"Fuck…” He groaned, falling forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot on your skin. “You’re so wet... so fucking tight...”

You could feel him filling you, stretching you, owning you, and a wave of desire, hot and liquid, washed over you, drowning you in a sea of sensation.

“John…” You gasped, your body trembling, moving against him. You couldn’t speak, couldn't form a coherent thought. Every nerve ending was on fire. The world was a blur of sensations – his scent, his taste, the hardness of him filling you, possessing you.

He started to move, his rhythm slow and deliberate at first, savoring the feel of you tightening around him, your body responding to him with an abandon that made him growl with possessive pleasure. He was a master craftsman, sculpting your pleasure, your pain, with exquisite care.

He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “You're mine, Victoria," he growled.

For a fleeting moment, the ghost of a memory flickered before you - that mocking voice, cold and cruel, those same words a declaration of ownership, a threat.

But John was the opposite. The way his fingers dug into your hips was a grounding pressure, not a bruise. The heat of his gaze, the hunger in his eyes, it was about needing you. His words, the same words that had once filled you with terror, now wrapped around you like a promise. He wasn’t claiming you as a possession, but acknowledging the bond between you, a bond freely given, a choice made in the face of eternity.

John understood you. He understood the darkness that you carried within you, the fears that haunted your dreams, the centuries of loneliness that had chilled your soul. And he was offering you salvation.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Or, I swear to God, I'll make you scream it.”

“Yours,” you whispered, your body arching up towards him, a silent plea. “I'm yours… ”

“Louder,” he growled, his voice thick with lust and power. “I didn't hear you.”

"I'm yours!” You screamed the words, your voice raw and unleashed, but he was already pulling back, denying you the release. Just as you were about to shatter, as that familiar wave of ecstasy threatened to crash over you, he stopped.

You cried out in frustration as he pulled back, a slow, agonizing withdrawal that left you aching, empty. “No…” You whimpered, your hips bucked upwards, seeking the friction, the completion that he was withholding.

He chuckled – a low, dark sound that sent a shiver through you – and he held you there, suspended on the very edge, drawing out the agony, enjoying your helplessness.

“Not yet, love.”

He shifted his grip on the ribbon, pulling it tighter still, holding your wrists taut above your head, exposing you completely. You were completely at his mercy.

He lifted your hips, adjusting your angle, and then he started to move inside you again, slow, shallow thrusts that barely grazed that sensitive spot within you.

“Beg me.”

“Please… Please, John… I need…”

“Tell me,” he growled, his hips grinding against yours, a deliberate torment that sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through you. “Tell me what you need.”

“I… I need to… come…” You could barely force the words past your lips, your body writhing beneath him. Shame burned in your throat. You were the Blood Queen – you commanded, you controlled, you were obeyed.

But now… you were begging. And with every desperate plea, every tremble of your body, you felt the last vestiges of your control, the icy armour you’d built around yourself for centuries, melting away.

It was unbearable.

It was exquisite.

You were a queen, damn it.

You'd never begged anyone for anything.

Never.

You'd experienced pleasure before, in the long centuries of your existence, but nothing like this. Nothing that touched you, consumed you, on this level. And the denial – his cruel, delicious denial – was pushing you to the brink of madness.

"Please..." you begged, fully broken, the word being torn from your throat. Tears on frustration streamed down your face. “Please, I’m… I'm…”

"I know, love,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. He moved his length inside you once, giving you a taste of what he was capable of, but then stopped.

He watched you, his gaze intent, a dark hunger burning in his eyes. A queen brought to her knees, a goddess begging for his touch. And it fuelled him, this power he held over you, the way your body trembled beneath him, the desperate pleas that spilled from your lips.

His hand left your hips, and you felt a pang of loss at the absence of his touch. You whimpered, your mind fogged with need, as his fingers trailed a path down your cheek, brushing away your tears. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his thumb caressing the delicate skin beneath your eye.

You watched, your eyes wide, as he suddenly fully moved away from your body. Your gaze followed his hand as he reached down, his fingers wrapping around his length, the movement slow and deliberate. You could see the way his muscles flexed in his forearm, the way the veins stood out beneath his skin.

He was hard, his cock slick with your arousal, and he began to stroke himself – long, slow strokes that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Tell me you're mine again, Victoria,” he whispered, his voice a dark, seductive purr, his gaze locked on yours, holding you captive even as his touch was absent. “Tell me you’re mine, and I might, just might, give you what you need.”

You wanted to beg him, to plead for him to come back to you, to fill you, to end this delicious torture. But the words wouldn't come. He had silenced you, and his control was absolute. You could only watch as he touched himself, his fingers working rhythmically, his breath coming faster.

And the sight of it – of him touching himself, pleasuring himself, while you lay there, bound and helpless – sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through you, so intense, so powerful, that it made you cry out again, the sound a broken sob of frustration.

He smiled, a cruel, triumphant grin. “Say. It.”

"Yours,” you whispered, your bound hands clawing at the wooden desk, your body trembling. Then, thrashing your legs, you screamed in frustration. "Yours! I'm yours, for fuck’s sake!"

You heard a chuckle. You felt his gaze on you, burning into your skin, and then he moved – not back to the desk, but lower, towards the floor.

He knelt between your legs, his head level with your exposed cunt.

“You're so wet, Victoria.” His voice was a rough murmur, and you felt his breath against your skin – hot, teasing, as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “And so fucking beautiful…”

His tongue darted out, tracing a slow, wet path along your slit.

You moaned, a raw, uncontrolled sound that escaped your lips before you could stop it. It was a sound so lewd, you were almost feeling ashamed of it leaving your lips.

He ignored the pleas that spilled from your mouth then, his tongue continuing its delicious torture. You could feel him tasting you, exploring you, the heat of his mouth a brand against your most sensitive flesh.

“You said you wanted me in control,” he murmured against your skin. He lifted his head, his gaze meeting yours. And then, finally, mercifully , he stood between your legs again, his cock teasing your entrance yet again, the heat of him branding you.

You thought you were going to die.

The frustration – the unbearable, aching need – was building inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring about to snap. You’d begged him, pleaded with him, surrendered your pride, your power – and still, he held you captive on the very edge of release.

You watched, through tear-blurred vision, as a muscle twitched in his jaw, a sign of the effort it was taking to hold himself back, to deny himself the pleasure that burned between you. And then, as if he could bear it no longer, he shifted, his gaze meeting yours.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough with unspent passion. “Watch me when you come. ”

And then, with a guttural growl that ripped from the depths of his chest, he slammed his hips against yours. He didn’t tease or torment; he simply took you, driving deep, burying himself completely, his cock throbbing within you. The sensation was so intense, so utterly consuming, that the world around you dissolved into a blinding white light.

Every muscle in your body tensed, your back arching off the desk, your bound wrists straining against the silk, your breath catching in a gasp, the pleasure building, spiralling, threatening to consume you whole.

You didn't just feel your release… you felt him.

As you teetered on the edge of release, the bond between you crackled with a new intensity. It was like a door opening in your mind, a sudden rush of images and emotions that weren't yours – yet felt intimately familiar.

You saw through his eyes.

You felt the grit of sand beneath his feet, the scorching desert sun on his skin. The rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins as he moved – as you moved – through a hailstorm of bullets, a deadly dance where life and death were partners, where survival hinged on a fraction of a second.

You tasted blood – coppery and metallic, bitter on his tongue – and the taste sent a wave of protective fury surging through you. You felt his need to shield his brothers, to stand between them and the storm – a need you’d never felt before, not with this fierce intensity.

You heard the crackle of radio static, the urgent whispers of his team – Ghost, Soap, Gaz. You saw them not as shadowy figures, but as he saw them, their faces etched with concern, their voices laced with the unshakeable bond of shared experience, of mutual trust.

He needed them, you realized with a startling clarity. It wasn’t just duty or obligation that bound him to his team; it was a deep, primal need for connection, for belonging. They were his anchor, his lifeline in a world that had seen too much death, too much loss.

And then, amidst the chaos and the comradery, you felt it… his loneliness.

He had friends, brothers-in-arms, yes. But no one to share his heart with, no one to offer him the kind of love that could soothe his soul.

You saw him seeking solace in fleeting encounters, in the arms of women who were drawn to his strength, his charisma – but none who could truly touch him, none who could see the depths of the man beneath the soldier’s mask.

You watched as he entered the ballroom. His gaze swept over the crowd, a hunter’s gaze, sharp and assessing – until it landed on you.

And at that moment, everything shifted.

You felt a spark of recognition, not your own, but his – a pull, an undeniable connection that transcended time and space. You felt the air crackle around you, the world fading to gray as his focus narrowed, zeroing in on you, as if you were the only thing that mattered.

You saw yourself through his eyes – not as a queen, not as a powerful creature of the night, but as something more .

A spark in the darkness. A beacon in a storm.

He mocked the idea of “love at first sight” to his team, but you felt the truth surging through him – the undeniable pull, the spark of recognition that had ignited within him the moment his eyes met yours.

It was like two halves of a whole, finally finding each other after lifetimes of searching.

He needed them. His brothers, his team.

And he needed you.

The world shattered around you as you came undone. You screamed – a raw, primal sound that ripped from your throat – as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you, so intense, so powerful, it was almost painful. You saw stars, felt the universe contracting, imploding, until there was nothing left but that blinding, all-consuming white-hot pleasure.

Your body convulsed, shaking violently against the desk, your bound wrists straining against the silk, the pain a distant echo against the unbearable pleasure that ripped through you. Your legs trembled uncontrollably, your toes curling, your inner muscles clenching around him with a force that made you cry out again. You were barely aware of anything but the sheer, mind-blowing intensity of it, wave after wave crashing over you, each one threatening to pull you under.

And through it all, you felt him. Solid, unyielding, his cock still buried deep inside you, sharing that cataclysmic wave of pleasure, his own control barely holding as he rode out your high.

And then, just as you thought you might pass out, as the darkness threatened to swallow you whole, you felt him shift. His hips angled, and a slow, agonizing emptiness opened up within you as he pulled back, his cock dragging against your senstitive walls.

You cried out as that emptiness became an unbearable ache. Your legs trembled violently, your pussy contracted around nothing, desperate to reclaim that lost fullness, but he was already gone.

Your eyes flew open, your vision blurred with the intensity of your climax. You watched, breathless, as he withdrew from you, his cock slick, pulsating. His gaze was burning into yours, a dark hunger in his eyes, and he stroked himself, once, twice, then faster – his breath coming in ragged gasps, his muscles tense with the effort of holding back.

And you watched, mesmerized, as he surrendered to his own release. It started with a shudder, a low growl tearing from his throat - a sound that echoed the primal need that still throbbed between you. And then, he came.

It turned into a tremor, a tightening of his muscles, and then the first, thick rope of his cum erupted from him, arcing through the air, landing hot and heavy on your belly, just below your navel.

He came again and again. You watched, mesmerized, as each jet pulsed from him – a viscous, pearlescent stream that splattered across your skin, each spasm a silent declaration of his possession, a branding that went far deeper than any bite. His essence, thick and warm, pooled in the hollow of your belly, a tangible, intoxicating reminder of the power he held over you.

You lay there, breathless, your body still trembling, watching as the last drops of his come slipped down your skin, a trail of fire that made you ache with a mix of satisfaction and a longing that went beyond the physical.

He’d claimed you in every way imaginable. A kiss. A bite. Your blood. And now… this. A mark of possession on your very skin.

He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, his breath hot. His eyes softened as he met your gaze. A vulnerability in their depths you hadn't seen before.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice rough with passion and triumph, laced with a new tenderness that made your heart ache. He loosened the fabric around your wrists, finally granting you reprieve.

“You're mine, Victoria,” he whispered, his breaths still fast and shallow. “All mine.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. “I know, John,” you whispered, a knowing smile curving your lips. “I know.”

With ease, he pulled you up and held you to his chest as he sat on the desk, cradling you in his arms. You rested your head against him, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, a sound that filled you with a sense of peace you hadn't known was possible.

And as he held you close, the bond between you thrumming with a shared peace and understanding, a wave of empathy washed over you. You saw the echoes of his past – the fierce loyalty to his team, the unshakeable bond of brotherhood, the aching loneliness that had shadowed him even amidst the comradery of war.

You’d seen how much he loved those men – not in the way he loved you, not with that fierce, consuming passion – but he needed them. They were his family, his brothers.

And you were not someone to hold him back, to dictate his life.

“What happened to him?” John asked, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. He didn’t need to say the name. You both knew who he meant. The ghost of Lucian still lingered in the shadows of your past, a reminder of how love could twist and turn into something monstrous.

“I killed him,” you said simply, your voice devoid of emotion. It had been a necessity. But the memory still left a bitter taste in your mouth.

“I’m sorry.” John leaned down and pressed a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering on the soft strands, the scent of you filling his senses. “It won’t ever happen again, Victoria,” he whispered, his voice a vow. “Not while I'm here. Not as long as I live.”

With a tenderness that surprised you, he reached for the discarded fabric of your skirt, gathering it up gently. He wiped away the traces of his release from your skin. His touch was careful, almost reverent, his eyes never leaving you. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. He wasn't just a creature of darkness and instinct. He was a man who cared. A man who wanted to treasure you, to protect you. To love you.

You snuggled closer, content to simply be held.

You were safe.

You were loved.

“Go back to them,” you whispered into his chest.

He stiffened slightly, his hand pausing in its gentle stroking of your hair. “What?”

“Your brothers,” you said, your voice gaining strength. “They need you, John. I saw it. Felt it.”

“But… what about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” You smiled, a genuine smile, the first he’d seen since the transformation. “The bond is strong, John. It can withstand a little distance.”

He looked at you, searching your eyes for any sign of hesitation, any trace of fear. But there was none. Only love. And trust. And a surprising understanding.

You were giving him his freedom. You were letting him go.

“Go,” you whispered, your fingertips brushing his cheek. “Go back to them. I trust you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours, a complex mix of emotions flickering across his features – relief, longing, gratitude, and a touch of that old, familiar stubbornness.

“Are you sure?” He asked, his voice a low rumble, his gaze intense.

You smiled, cupping his face in your hands. “I’ve endured centuries without you, John,” you whispered. “A few days… weeks… even months… it’s nothing.” Your smile widened, a hint of playfulness entering your eyes. “Besides…” You trailed your fingers down his chest. "We have all of eternity to make up for the time apart.”

He groaned, his hands sliding down to your hips, pulling you closer. “Don't tempt me.”

You chuckled, a soft, husky sound. “Go, John,” you repeated, your voice firm, your gaze unwavering. “You need them, too.”

He hesitated, then, with a sigh, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Alright.” His eyes searched yours, a promise in their depths. “I’ll be back.”

He glanced at the torn remnants of your blouse, still clinging to your body. He reached out, his fingers brushing the silk, a touch that was both gentle and possessive, and with a swift movement, he pulled the fabric away.

Then, he reached for his own shirt – the black T-shirt he’d been wearing - and pulled it over your head, settling it around your shoulders. His scent enveloped you, a tangible reminder of his presence.

You watched him, a soft smile curving your lips, as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Just, promise me you’ll be careful.”

"I promise." He kissed you then – deep, lingering, possessive – the promise sealed with his lips against yours, a tangible reassurance that he would do everything in his power to keep his word.

And then, with a final glance, a silent vow in his eyes, he was gone.

You stood there for a long moment, your body still tingling from his touch, the scent of him lingering in the air – a comfort and a torment.

He would return.

You had no doubt.

But the world outside these walls, it was a dangerous place.

For both of you.