#the enemy of my enemy cod

[hannydaforcena]

Chapter 29: The Enemy of My Enemy

Anya faces Makarov in the Boneyard in Kandahar, accompanied by Price and Soap.

[nekrosmos]

I love playing Price in the Ghillie suit because even in the middle of a cement floor, enemies just don't see me. Why is there a bush in the middle of this house? Who cares, they just walk past me.

Look at him laying in the zucchinis

[tradaviahe]

Ghoap in old Vietnamese dynasty court officials costume ^^

[sentientcave]

Masquerade

You've come to this masquerade ball to finally dispatch the man you've wanted dead for nearly ten years, but he's always ruining your plans, one way or another.

Contains: 2nd POV OC (sorry about all the blushing), werewolf MMC (sadly he doesn't do any fun werewolfy things he's just a guy with sharp teeth here), vague fantasy setting, murder attempts/reminiscence of murder attempts, a long and storied history only alluded to, what do you do when your bitter enemy turns out to be a silly little guy who just wants you to love him?, oral sex (w receiving), P in V sex, this spawned a whole ass novel and it's so so different but this lowkey holds up.

See end for Notes

~10k words - NSFW - 18+ MDNI

“My, don’t you look exquisite,” a voice purrs in your ear.

You freeze in place, glad that the mask hides the colour that springs to your cheeks. You feel like a naughty child caught with your hand in the cookie jar, an unwelcome guest at his masquerade. You thought you could escape notice, slip through the crowd of finely dressed nobles and plunge your knife into his chest at last. But he had managed to find you first. You weren’t ready. You hadn’t been to the garden to pick up your hidden cache of weapons, you had nothing but your silver hair-stick to dispatch him with.

His heavy hands land on your shoulders. “Don’t muss up your pretty hairstyle just yet, darling,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rasping like sandpaper. It’s as if he can read your thoughts. Or perhaps, after all these years, you’re simply predictable. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

You flinch at the cold press of his mask against your bare shoulder. You shouldn’t have disguised yourself as a guest. You feel defenceless, wrapped in silk and sheer chiffon, a neat little morsel delivered straight into the wolf’s jaws. He could shift in a second and shred you into little pieces, like he had threatened to do so many times before. You try to still your frightened, thumping heart, and pull away, turning to face him at last. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean,” you say, because it’s worth a try at least, but he’s laughing before you can even finish, the smiling mouth of his gold wolf mask mocking you. His yellow eyes glitter from it’s depths, watching you.

“Oh darling, I would recognize you anywhere. I hoped you would be unable to resist my invitation.”

“Your invitation?”

“Yes, dearest. All of this was for you. I knew you could not resist the chance to get so close to me again.”

“To kill you,” you remind him hoarsely.

He chuckles and takes your hand. “Perhaps. For now, a dance, I should think. You haven’t danced all night.”

You dig in your heels, trying to resist his insistent pull, but he simply wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer. “I don’t dance,” you tell him sharply. “Let go of me.”

“You’re a liar,” he replies, spinning you into place, one hand on your lower back, pinning you against his chest, and the other still clasped around your wrist, sliding up to engulf your hand. He simply tugs you along with him as he moves, sweeping you along to the music, holding you so unbearably close. He could lift you off your feet with ease, if he chose to, and you don’t have enough power to resist. His scent clouds your mind, cedar soap and clean, animal musk, one of many hints of the wolf that dog him even in his human shape. “You forget, I knew you in your past life. Or have you forgotten that I once sat in your father’s halls? I have seen you dance.”

It was so long ago now, another life, before he was only the wolf to you, and before you were the thorn in his paw, that you almost had forgotten. You had hardly given him a second thought at first, he was just another visiting knight, here one day and gone the next, handsome, but beyond the concerns of the girl you once were. “You failed to make an impression,” you tell him sharply, although it’s not true. You do remember his yellow eyes watching you one night, though he never asked you to to dance. He never spoke to you at all.

Not until after. He saved you, of course, from the bloodbath, because he had claimed you. He hadn’t so much as said a word to you before he burst into your bedchamber, monstrous jaws dripping with your fathers blood, yellow eyes wild. You still remembered beating him back with the fire-place’s iron poker, and jamming the tip into his chest before you ran for your life.

“I knew you were mine from the first,” he continues. He seems frighteningly aware of your thoughts, as if his own version of the memory is playing out behind his own eyes. “My lioness, avenging her wicked father with a poker. I still bear your mark, just above my heart.” He presses your entwined hands to his chest for a moment. “I’m certain you remember that, at least.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The only unfortunate part,” he says patiently. “Is that I did not take you as my mate that night.”

His words lance through you like lightning, burning everything in their path. Your knees nearly buckle, and if he were not holding you so securely, you would sink to the floor in a useless puddle of silk. How dare he make you weak, after everything he’s done to you? But anger gives you strength, reinforces your spine with steel, and you wrench away, glaring at him, wishing you could set him ablaze with your eyes.

The music falters. You look up, at the musicians gallery, then around the room. Everyone watches, pretending not to, jewelled masks concealing furtive eyes and whispered words. Your own mask feels insufficient, lightweight and flimsy under the wolf’s eyes when your eyes return to him. He takes your arm, his grip tight, but not bruising, and guides you out of the ballroom, into the cold night air. The dark gardens are just a little too far for you to jump down from the wide stone balcony, and there are no stairs leading down. If you jump, you’d probably break your leg, and then you’d be helpless.

“What do you think of our home?” he asks. “Have you snooped around yet, my darling? Planned all your exits and hidden away your weapons and armour? I made sure you’d have plenty of opportunity. I know how you love to prepare.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t found them already.”

“I have been busy with other preparations,” he says mildly. “But I thought I smelled something of you in the corridor by the library.”

You flinch, only confirming that you had in fact been there, hiding your leather armour inside a large vase. “Preparations for what?”

“Your homecoming. The king has made it clear that it’s time to reign you in, or he will have someone else deal with you.” He pulls the mask off at last, setting the golden wolf on the balcony. Sweat glimmers at his temples, catching light from the ballroom behind them. He offers you a wry smile, his sharp white teeth flashing. “I’ve been too lenient with you.”

“Lenient?” you ask, incredulous. “I’ve been trying to kill you.”

“Those who attempt such things do not usually live long,” he reminds you. “I don’t often show mercy. I’ve allowed you to live free, in the hopes that you would come to me willingly, in time. Now it seems I can no longer afford to continue our little game. You will stay with me, or someone else will be sent to arrest or kill you.”

You press your palms into the smooth railing, wishing desperately that you could absorb the cool, dependable steadiness of stone through your skin. You look at him for a moment while he stares out over the dark gardens, his yellow eyes tracking movement you can’t see.

He’s always dressed in black, like a man in mourning, his black curls cropped short around his slightly pointed ears, beard neatly trimmed. He wears little jewellery for a man of his station, just the yellow-gold signet ring with it’s heavy, dark blue sapphire on his finger, and the gleam of jet buttons down the front of his tunic. You were more used to seeing him in his armour. The heavy black plate suits his brutality better than black-embroidered silk.

Silk offers no protection, no shield over his wicked black heart.

You pull the hairpin from your own neatly arranged curls and move fast, striking at his chest, but he catches your hand easily, his amber eyes meeting your fury with amusement. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asks. “Stubborn creature.”

He plucks the pin from your hand and spins you around, pushing you into the railing with the oppressive weight of his presence. Your protests are weak and hardly noticed, but you fall silent when you feel the rough pads of his fingertips on the back of your neck. He gathers your hair up and pins it back in place, not as neatly as you had done earlier, but sufficiently.

“What are you doing?” you ask numbly.

He turns you around, still standing far too close. You stare forward, at the point where his skin meets the collar of his tunic, your eyes glued to his pulse. You wish for teeth as sharp as his own, so you could tear out his throat. His fingers curl under your chin, nudging your face up, forcing you to look him in the eye again. “Just returning your pin,” he says, smirking. “Why do you seem so flustered, darling?”

“Why don’t you just kill me?” you ask. Your hand lifts up to knock his away, but you touch him instead, fingertips ghosting over his knuckles. You know he’s capable of crushing you with hardly a thought. You’ve spent the last ten years learning all you could about him, hunting him down again and again and again with a single-minded determination. He likely could have killed you a thousand times over, if you’d been just a little less careful, or he a little less eager to capture you instead. He should have killed you. You don’t know how to stop anymore, you don’t know how to let go of the terrible anger that burns you up every time you think of him. You want him to suffer, to lose everything, to hurt the way he hurt you. “I’ll never stop.”

There is a flicker of sadness in his eyes, and it pings against your heart uncomfortably. “I never could,” he says, all traces of his smirking, superior air gone. His thumb strokes along your jaw. “I begged the king for your life. Your father may have been a traitor, but you were an innocent girl, and I do not enjoy killing innocents.”

“I’m not innocent anymore.”

“No, I suppose not. But you’ve committed no crimes that I cannot forgive.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness.” Your voice is hardly more than a hoarse whisper. You want to shout, but his hand on your skin seems to leech all the power out of you.

“You have it regardless,” he whispers back, low and intimate as a lover. He touches his forehead to your mask, his eyes boring into yours, twin suns scorching everything in their path. “And someday I will earn yours.”

“Never,” you hiss. You return to your senses and push his hands away, shoving hard against his chest. “I hate you. I’ll always hate you.”

He tugs your mask off and tosses it to the side, tired of pretense. “If you hate me so much, why does your heart beat like that?”

“I’m afraid of you,” you snap.

He laughs harshly. “No you’re not. You’ve never been afraid of anything, my darling. It is one of the things I love best about you.” He leans in closer, the tip of his nose just brushing yours. You can feel his breath on your skin, the sharp smells of whiskey and mint setting your nerves on edge. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you, and you freeze, heart pounding, face turned towards him, waiting for the axe to fall.

But he withdraws instead, leaving you to face the consequence of unrealized want. His words prick at you like the point of a sword. Love. As if he would know the first thing about it. As if he knew you.

But he does know you, you realize with a start. He made you. His actions had set you on your path, and his choice not to kill you, each time that he should have, had created the determined, single-minded, furious woman that you had become. The carefree girl who you had been was long gone, dead the first time the wolf’s jaws closed around your throat. It burns you to think that he’d shown you mercy all along, that you had escaped capture or death by his leave, rather than by your own cunning and skill.

His eyes remain on your face, reading your thoughts like you’re a book laying open, waiting for him to happen by and discover all your secrets. “You have become worthy of me,” he continues ardently, pressing your hand to his chest again, anchoring it with both of his own. “I would have kept you like a bird in a cage if I’d taken you then. A pretty thing to amuse me and adorn my halls. But you are no trophy, my love. You will not survive in captivity. Even now, with the king’s sword hanging over your head, I will not force you to stay.”

“Is this some sort of trick?”

“I used to wonder the same thing. A cruel trick of fate, that my mate would hate me so fiercely.”

“You killed my father,” you hiss at him. You yank your hand away, desperately stoking the anger that has kept him at bay all these years. Each time he calls you mate and darling and love your resolve quakes, and you have no sword in your hand to make him regret it, like you usually would.

“He was a traitor. I had orders.”

“And what comfort will that be when your orders are to kill me?” you ask, sneering up at him. “What will you do when your orders are explicit and undeniable, and you are to kill me on sight?”

“I’ll never see you again.”

You aren’t sure what you expected, exactly, but it always trips you up when he speaks plainly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

“What do you think it means?” He hurls the words back at you, his anger lighting from your own. “It means I would pluck my own eyes out before I’d kill you. If the king ordered me to hunt you down I’d stay one step behind you until we reached the very ends of the earth. If he came outside this very moment and told me to snap your neck—” He shudders, shaking his head like a dog shakes off the rain, and when he looks back at you the anger is gone, hidden away again behind his steely resolve. “Loyalty only goes so far. He knows not to make an order I cannot follow. If he truly wants you dead, he’ll ask another.” He glances over his shoulder, keen yellow eyes fixing on a point somewhere inside. “I hope it does not come to even that.”

“But why?”

He lets go of your shoulders and turns around, stalks a few feet away, and turns again, pushing both of his hands through his hair in frustration. Because I love you!” he snarls. “You had me the first day you tried to run me through. Oh I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, beautiful thing that you are, but it was the first moment that you tried to cut my heart out that I knew there could be no other. You have no idea what it’s like, to love such a stubborn, foolish, bitch of a woman? Do you understand what it will do to me, when you leave? But I have never been able to keep you by force.”

“But you let me go,” you say numbly. “You said—”

“Let you go?” He laughs, striding back towards you. “Oh my love, you misunderstand. Just because I couldn’t kill you does not mean I didn’t try to keep you. But you have slipped every chain I’ve placed upon you. I’ve never pulled my punches. I would not disrespect you so.”

“You called it a game—”

He inclines his head towards you. “I did. Perhaps I should not have. But it was easier to think of it as a game. A test of my own worthiness. I admit, I have always looked forward to your attempts on my life. It’s good, I think, for a man to be beaten once in a while, to keep him sharp. Otherwise he forgets to be vigilant.” He sighs, touching the edge of an old, silvery scar on your shoulder, brushing a loose strand of your hair out of the way. “Besides. We’ve both made our marks upon the other.”

“I’ve gotten you more times than you have me,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously. “Two or three times I really thought I’d finished you off.”

“Are you so certain of that?”

You think about it. “Yes.”

“Care to make a wager, dearest? If you’ve left more marks on me than I on you, you may ask anything of me.”

You draw in a steady breath. “And if I lose?”

He grins. “Not so confident now, are you? I only want what is freely given, so you needn’t worry. You can name your own penalty.”

“How magnanimous.”

“I can be,” he says. “Now, shall we inspect each other here, or would you prefer somewhere more private?”

The thought of being alone with the wolf makes you shiver, but it’s not revulsion that you feel, it’s something far worse. The dark, cold balcony seems a world away from the golden ballroom with all it’s legions of beautiful, elegant guests, but it’s only panes of glass that separates you from them, hazy from condensation, opaque enough that you doubt anyone can see through them. It makes no material difference, in the end, but it’s winter, and the cold seeps through your dress easily, your skin only warm where he touches you. “Ah, yes,” you say nervously. “Perhaps somewhere more private.”

“And warmer,” he adds. “As stunning as you look, I do not believe you are dressed for the weather.”

As if on cue, a snowflake descends from the dark sky. You reach out your hand, catching it against your palm. A moment later, the sky is thick with snow, fat, fluffy flakes catching the light and turning the world white. You look back at him. He looks softer, somehow, with that little dusting of snow catching in his thick curls, melting flakes glittering like diamonds on his shoulders. For the first time, you’re struck by how young he looks. He was a man grown at your first meeting, and you had always thought of him as much older, but you know now that he couldn’t be ten years your senior. You suspect it’s much less than that.

It changes something in your perception of him. Softens him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, stepping in close again. Although you’ve hardly moved an inch since you came out to the balcony, he’s full of restless energy, moving away and back again like he’s tethered to you by some invisible string. He tilts his head to the side, his keen predator eyes practically glowing in the soft light.

You were glad your face was already flushed from the cold. “I was just thinking. You look so…” You trail off, thinking of the best way to phrase it.

“Handsome?” he suggested. “Strong? Irresistible?” He wiggles his thick black eyebrows, grinning wickedly, making you laugh despite yourself.

“I was going to say young, actually,” you say. “I was wondering what sort of boy you were.”

He holds a hand out to you. “I’m sure there’s a portrait somewhere, if you’re curious. Now come along, pet, I don’t want you catching a cold out here. I do have a wager to win.”

You hesitate. All the ancient, bitter anger and sadness wars with something new in your chest. It’s been so long since you wanted anything more than vengeance. Ages since the last time you felt deep, aching want for someone’s hands on you, if you ever even had. The obsession between you, at least, was mutual, and you had traded the excitement of romance for the thrill of the hunt, the clash of your sword against the wolf’s. His taunting sounded better than flowery poetry to your ears, and you could not help but seek him out every time the loneliness of your new life became too much to bear. He had been your focus, your centre, your reason for existing for so long that you can no longer deny what this is.

Love is not always kind. Between the two of you, it’s become a desperate, wretched thing, living on scraps of attention and hungry looks traded in battle.

His fingers close around yours, and you realize that you’ve reached out and taken the offered hand. You look at him, and he’s smiling in a way you haven’t seen before, half-hitched up on one side, almost shy.

He twines his fingers through yours and leads you back through the ballroom, slipping around the edges of the crowd like the wolf he is. No one seems to pay either of you any mind, although you feel curiously bare without your mask, as visible as a hare in a field to the eyes of a hawk. But your hunter is holding your hand, his thumb stroking over yours soothingly, like he can sense your unease.

Despite that small reassurance, you’re grateful when you step into a nearly empty corridor. A few well-dressed servants carrying trays bustle between the ballroom and the kitchens at the far end, but your wolf leads you the other way, through a few hallways littered with decorative items and portraits of long-dead nobles with eyes that seemed to follow you. You had been there only a few days earlier, but it looks different now. Perhaps it’s that you aren’t on constant guard for the wolf. He’s already here, holding your hand, pretending that he’s not watching you, just as you pretend to look at the portraits and statues and expensive looking vases you pass by, stealing glances at him only when you think you can get away with it.

The silence between you is almost comfortable, both of you too caught up in your individual tumble of thoughts to put anything to words. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. You wonder if he feels like he’s won already, but there’s none of his usual taunting or his infuriatingly handsome smirk. He looks serious, black brows lowered in a sort of pensiveness that you’ve never seen from him. Of course, you had only once gone so long in his company without attacking him physically, and you had been tied to a chair, at the time.

“Do you remember, a few years ago, the hunting lodge just above Lake Pym?” he asks.

You laugh. “I was just thinking about it. Why?”

He stops in front of a door and leans against the frame. “Do you think you’ll be able to go as long without trying to stab me this time around?”

“That depends on whether or not you tie me up again,” you quip back.

“Don’t say such things,” he warns you, opening the door and holding it open, letting go of your hand for the first time in ages. Your fingers feel cold without his touch. “You’ll give me ideas.”

“You’ve made far too many confessions tonight for me to believe that you didn’t already have ideas,” you tease. Funny how easily that comes, like you’re old friends and not enemies. A tidy little fire burns in the stone fireplace, with a cozy arrangement of rugs and furs laid out before it. A low table sits ready, carrying wine and glasses and a few plates of the sort of interesting finger-foods that they had been serving in the ballroom. Raising your eyebrows, you look back over your shoulder at him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the way in, which meant that it had been all prearranged.

He closes the door behind himself and leans against it, grinning sheepishly. “I live in hope.”

The room - his room- is neat, a big bed with four posts carved like small trees, green-velvet curtains tied back neatly, is the first sign that he might actually like colour. You imagined him always in sombre black and white, dark hair, white teeth, dressed like the reaper and often so employed. But perhaps he isn’t as stark as you’d always thought. His furniture is solid and well-made of warm-toned wood, and the bookshelves that flank the fireplace are stuffed with books, the odd space cleared out for knick-knacks and trophies. You had never considered that he might like to read. It isn’t something that has ever come up before.

The wolf sits down on the furs and nudges a black lump by the fire. The shape uncurls into the biggest, fattest, blackest cat you’ve ever seen and pads over to you, sniffing your skirts suspiciously.

“You have a cat?” you ask, because it seems unlike the picture you’ve built up of him over the years. Another thing you missed. You had been so focused on him as an enemy that you had hardly stopped to consider him as a man. You sit, and the cat drapes itself across your lap, purring already in anticipation of a good scratch.

“I don’t have a cat,” he corrects you loftily. “Smudge is the matriarch of a proud line of excellent mousers, and she is a valued member of the household. One cannot own a cat, I have learned. One co-habituates with cats.” He leans over and gives the cat a little scratch under the chin, his knuckles just barely brushing your knee as he withdraws. “She isn’t usually very friendly, but she must recognize a fellow assassin when she sees one.”

“I’m not much of an assassin, I’m afraid she’d be terribly disappointed in me. I’ve failed to kill my only target, and I have been at it for quite some time.” You give the cat a scratch behind the ears. “I’m sure her record is much more impressive.”

He frowns and looked at you in a funny way. “Have you never taken a life?”

“I’ve tried very hard to avoid it. You’re the only person I ever wanted dead, and I— I wanted to be better than you. I wanted my hands to stay clean, so I could beat you and still keep my sense of…” You look down at the purring black puddle of fur in your lap rather than at the wolf. “Oh I don’t know. Righteousness, I suppose.”

“So sweet that you wanted me to be your first,” he teases.

You know he means first kill, but you turn pink anyway, and there is no cold wind to blame for your rosy cheeks this time. There were many firsts that you had missed out on, in your bid for vengeance. “Perhaps I still do,” you snap, not thinking about the double meaning until after the words have left your mouth. You scramble to clarify. “My first kill— Not— Ugh.” He begins to laugh, and you cover your face with both hands, wishing the floor would open up beneath you and swallow you whole. “Stop laughing!” Your voice is muffled by your hands, but there is no way that his keen wolf’s ears don’t hear you perfectly. “That’s not what I meant!”

He snorts. “I know, pet. It’s a bit late for that, I should think.”

You peek at him between your fingers, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Darling.” He leans over and gently takes hold of your wrists, prying your hands away. He is mercifully no longer laughing, but the look in his eyes only makes your face burn hotter. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve never taken a lover.”

“There was never a good time,” you manage to squeak out. It was half true. There had been offers, and moments when you’d been sorely tempted to share someone’s bed for the night, but the few fumbling kisses you’d shared with young men had failed to thrill you the way that crossing swords with the wolf did.

He sits back with a groan. “You’re always throwing wrenches into my plans.”

“How on earth could that have anything to do with your plans?” you ask hotly.

“Darling, don’t be so naive. My plans were obviously to seduce you into my bed so I could out-perform every man who had ever touched you, forcing you to admit to yourself that we belong together. But I suppose that would have been too easy.”

“Too easy!”

“I would never imply that you would be easily seduced, my love, only that I am fairly confident that you would have a harder time denying what we are if I were to employ my considerable athletic ability with the task of making you come undone.” He smiles ruefully. “But seduction isn’t fair if you’re a virgin. I’ll have to win your heart the old fashioned way.”

“The old fashioned way?” You stare at him, incredulous. “What, you’re going to court me?”

“I’m certainly going to try,” he says, turning toward the table to pour you a glass of wine. “It’s the long road, but you’ll find I’m usually more than willing to take the scenic route.”

“You’re insane,” you say weakly, accepting the offered glass. “You must be.”

“Must I be? Like you said, I’ve made far too many confessions tonight, you must know that I do not mean this as some passing fancy. I think it would be a waste to continue this bloody crusade of yours. For both of us. I confess my bias in the matter, as I rather enjoy living.” He shrugs, looking at you over the rim of his own glass. “Do you? Has your life been all you wished for, these past ten years? You’ve forgone comfort, education, friends, romance, children— Do you want none of those things?”

“Of course I do—”

“Then take them. Everything you want is yours if you stay.” He takes a sip of wine and winces, face screwing up like a child tasting something bitter. “Ugh, I hate wine.”

“I know. I was wondering if you were going to drink from that glass you’ve been waving around.”

“I just wanted to indicate that it wasn’t poisoned.” He sets the glass to the side, still grimacing. “Just in case you were wondering if I was still trying to trick you.”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Perish the thought, my love.” He stretches out in front of the fire, propped up on one elbow. “I’ve laid down my arms. If you must end this once and for all to free yourself, so be it. But I do think my alternative is better.”

You set your wine to the side as well and reach back to pull the silver hair-stick from your curls. You consider it, for a moment, pressing the point into your fingertip, not quite hard enough to draw blood. He watches with an inscrutable expression, making no move to disarm you. The cat slips out of your lap and stretches, moving off into the shadows again, either unaware or uncaring of the danger to her house mate. Or perhaps she’s simply more aware than you that there is no longer any danger.

You reach out and place the make-shift weapon on the rug in front of him.

The crackle of the fire is the only sound for a long moment. The wolf was rarely rendered speechless— getting him to shut up was usually the more difficult task. But he simply looks at you, like you’ve performed a miracle in front of his very eyes.

You slide one of the plates of food off the table and set it on the floor between you, something to hopefully distract his attention a little. You pick up one of the little triangle pastries and take a bite, catching crumbs with your other hand. You eat two more, realizing that you haven’t eaten in hours, and wait for him to break the silence.

He sighs and rolls onto his back, tucking both hands under his head. Firelight dances over his skin, burnishing his features like well-polished bronze. Although you have known him a long time, you’ve never studied him like this, while his eyes are closed and his usual grin is smoothed out into a peaceful smile. He looks noble, like a hero from the epics you used to read as a girl, more like you remembered from the days before everything changed.

“You’re staring,” he says without cracking an eye.

“How would you know? You haven’t opened your eyes in ages.”

“And how would you know that, if you haven’t been staring?”

He has you there. “Alright, fine. I suppose I was. I was just thinking about… about before.”

He opens his eyes. “How long? We do have a rather storied history, don’t we, love? I myself have been thinking of Lake Pym.”

You smirk. “I bet you have. I had a feeling you were rather enjoying yourself.”

“I was. It would have been more fun if you were a more willing guest, or if I at least didn’t have to keep you tied to a chair the whole time.”

“You wouldn’t even let me feed myself,” you lament, though you can’t help the traitorous note of amusement in your voice. “It was terribly humiliating.”

“Revisionist drivel!” he snarls playfully. “I did untie you so you could feed yourself, and you tried to stab me. You forced my hand.”

You blink. “I suppose I did.”

He leans closer. “I suspected you just wanted me to take care of you. You were too proud to ask me for what you wanted, so you forced the situation. And snapped at my fingers the whole time like an absolute menace.” He holds up his right hand and displays a white mark around the first knuckle of his thumb. “That’s one, by the way.”

“I only bit you because you stuck your finger in my mouth,” you reminded him.

“Ah, I suppose I did get a bit carried away, didn’t I? There was just this moment when I touched your lip…” He reaches out as if he wants to repeat the remembered gesture, perhaps hoping for a better outcome, but he hesitates, dropping his hand. You almost wish he hadn’t. “Are you still too proud, my love?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He senses your weakness. The way the answer drips with doubt like blood from a wound. “Will you let me kiss you?” He moves closer, anticipating your answer before it leaves your lips.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Yes.”

At long last, he closes the distance between you, hands cradling each side of your face. He just barely brushes his lips against yours, and holds you back when you try to chase him, his familiar wolfish smile lighting up his face. “Not so fast, my darling. You’ll have to ask nicely, if you want a proper kiss.” He unbuttons the cuff of his black shirt only a moment later, his eyes dropping away from yours for a moment, and then rolls up his sleeves. “Two and three, respectively,” he says, pointing out two more scars along his forearms. They were both from similar situations. Two times that you had disarmed him and made him bleed for it. You reach out and touch the silvery marks, feeling the smooth gap in his arm hair and the fully repaired muscle underneath the flawed skin. “You’re a better swordsman than I,” he says, reaching up to unlace the top of his tunic. “I might have had the edge of experience, at the beginning, but you quickly caught up to me, didn’t you? It was a good thing you were so scrupled about killing people other than me, or I’d have lost far too many good men to your blade.”

“You’re just trying to flatter me.”

“Is it working?” He pulls the tunic and shirt off in one go, baring his chest. There are a few scars there that you could not claim, and two that you can, although your eyes are drawn to one in particular. The ugly, uneven star right next to his heart, where you had run him through with the iron poker on the night of the wolf. “This one is my favourite,” he tells you, pressing one of your hands to the scar. “The first time you tried to kill me. Jon had to half-heal me himself, or I wouldn’t have made it to a proper healer in time. It’s partially why there’s such a scar. He’s always been terrible at the more subtle magics, but if you want something blown up, Jon’s your man.”

You laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Make sure you also note, in that treacherous little mind of yours, that he will not employ his considerable magical gift with the task of making me explode. He is still rather fond of me, even after all these years.”

“It is good, I think, to have a king that is so well-versed in the art of restraint,” you say mildly.

“Oh yes, I imagine it is.”

“So is it really just the five scars?” you ask. “That’s all?” Despite the truce the two of you had settled into, you felt strangely disappointed that your obsession with killing him over the last decade had resulted in only a handful of scars. It all felt like a waste. You try to console yourself with the knowledge that he heals more rapidly than most men. The scars you have left are despite that.

“There’s one more, on my thigh, but I imagine you probably don’t want me to take my pants off.”

You do want him to take his pants off. “Yes, that’s very thoughtful of you,” you say instead. “I suppose you’ve won, anyway. I have a lot more than six scars from you.” You had expected that his life as a warrior would have marked him more significantly. You’re covered in scars, faded and fresh alike, and there is no getting around the fact that you feel like you’ve stitched yourself up so often that you look as worn down as your oldest, ugliest shirt.

The disappointment in his eyes is gone so quickly that you aren’t entirely sure you hadn’t imagined it. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it, won’t I?”

“You’re just trying to get me out of my dress,” you say hotly.

“Obviously. You look very lovely in it, of course, but I have been hoping for the chance to peel it off of you.”

You shake your head. “I think you’ll be a bit disappointed.”

“Never. What would possibly deter me at this point, darling? If stabbing me through the heart didn’t erode my affections, what could?”

“Oh I don’t know,” you say thoughtfully. “I could have scales, or a tail—”

“I have a tail,” he reminds you. “And I’m quite positive that you’re human, so I’m not worried about scales. Or strange birth-marks or stretch-marks or scars, either, by the way.”

You take a deep breath and stand up, turning your back to him. “It would help if you could undo all these buttons for me,” you say, sweeping your hair in front of your shoulder. “There are so many of them.”

He jumps to his feet and scrambles to help. A few buttons plink to the floor, torn free in his haste. “I’ll have it fixed,” he says hastily. “And I’ll buy you new gowns. As many as you can stand.”

You glance over your shoulder, nervous laughter stilling on your tongue when you see the look in his eyes. You turn forward again, sliding your arms through the sleeves and shimmying the gown to he floor. He gives you a hand to steady yourself as you step free. “I— I don’t want— I won’t stay.”

He hums in response, gathering up the gown and laying it over the back of a chair.

“I won’t,” you repeat yourself, as if the words will sound convincing the second time. They don’t.

“I already told you, darling, I won’t make you stay. It’s up to you.”

He draws you back to your seats in front of the fire, and you offer him your arms. You’re riddled with fine scars, most of them faint, little nicks from his blade. His hands slide up to your shoulder and gently tug the capped sleeve of your chemise to the side, baring the imprint of his jaws. His thumb runs across the marks, his other hand landing on your knee.

“I wondered if I’d bitten you that night.” He moves closer, his tongue moving over his sharp canines as he sighs. His fingers trail down your arm as his touch drops away. “You never turned, so I wasn’t sure.”

“It doesn’t always take,” you say, using his shoulder to help you back up to your feet. “I think it depends on the moon. New moon, that night. If you were any other wolf you never would have shifted.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” He settles back on his heels, looking up at you. “I can’t say I’ve thought about why some bites take and some don’t. I’m not as observant as you, my love.”

Laughable, when his senses are many times greater than your own. It’s not his observations that are the problem, it’s the connecting cause and effect, thinking about consequence for more than a moment. He’s faced so few consequences in his life that it doesn’t come naturally to him. You, on the other hand, are a mess of consequence, action and reaction measured and weighed, failures poured over until you can see every mistake you’ve made, follow the tracks to how things could have been, if you’d done it all just a little differently.

You pull your skirt up so you can untie the ribbon that holds up your stocking, and he slides it down to your ankle. “This one’s only indirectly your fault,” you say, angling your leg so he can see the trail of pocked scars that wrap around your knee and up your thigh. “When I jumped down that ravine. Scraped myself up on the rocks.”

He tuts, hands reaching for these scars too. It’s just an excuse to touch you, certainly, but you make no move to stop him. You just hold your skirt up, giving him unfettered access to your skin. His amber eyes flick up to your face, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to your knee.

There’s no halting the soft “Oh” that falls from your lips, but he would have heard even the softest catch of breath. There’s no hiding from him, and it terrifies you, leaves you so unsteady.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his exhale warm against your skin. “You shouldn’t show me any more,” he tells you. “I find myself wanting to kiss every inch of skin you show me, and I worry that you won’t stop me if I try.”

You sink back to his level and pull your stocking back up, tying the ribbon around your thigh again. “Would that be so bad?”

He groans and lays back on the furs, hands neatly folded on his stomach. “I am trying to be a good man for you, darling. You deserve more than I can give in one night. I need at least a few weeks to make you fall hopelessly in love with me before I can do anything that would tempt me to take you to bed.”

You run your palm over his stomach, feeling the soft pelt of hair over his warm skin, letting your curiosity guide your fingertips. You feel the expansion and contraction of muscle as he breathes in and out, tucking one hand under his head so he can watch you more easily, his eyes barely open.

You have to admit, he is handsome, especially relaxed like this. Only a few short hours ago you would have found the idea of him kissing any part of you abhorrent, but now you find yourself similarly compelled. You take his hand and kiss his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, the palm of his hand.

“Come here, you little minx,” he growls, trying to pull you down on top of him. You pull back, and he lets go, still worried about pushing you when you’ve made so many overtures in such a short time.

You had expected him to hold on tightly, however, and overbalance, tipping over the other way with an inelegant little squeak. He laughs as he sits up, and you do too as he helps you back upright. He lays back again, and there’s no resistance when he takes you with him this time. He tucks you into his side, and you look down at him, chin propped on your hand.

“I rescind my earlier statement,” he says.

“Which one?”

“You don’t have to ask nicely for a kiss, darling. I worry that you’re too prideful to admit that you might like one, but if you can steal one whenever the mood strikes you, I might be lucky enough to receive a few impulsive ones that your good sense isn’t fast enough to stop.”

You huff. “Is this your way of asking for another?”

“It’s my way of asking for as many as you might want to give me,” he says. “There is, of course, a standing offer of anything you might like that is within my power to supply. I think it prudent to remind you.”

He’s a ridiculous kind of man. You’d always thought his tendency toward verbosity was just him grandstanding, but now you see it for what it really is. He wants to be understood by you so desperately that each sentence becomes overwrought, less clear for his efforts to imbue each word with meaning. Your own tendency toward blunt, inelegant language is an almost laughable counter. You say little, and hide everything you can, and he reads you plainly. He speaks like a poet, puts everything out in the open, and you misunderstand him on purpose.

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t see this for what it is a long time ago. If you were not so determined to make an enemy of him, perhaps you would have noticed the softness in his eyes, the way he looks at you as though you’re the sunrise and set, like you’re the moon and all the stars in the sky.

You kiss him, before he can open his mouth to speak again. There’s nothing lacklustre about the way your lips slide over his, the way your breath mingles, the way he makes little noises of satisfaction, unable to be quiet even with his tongue flicking over your top lip, encouraging you to open up for him. Angling your head to keep your noses from smushing together, you oblige, letting him lick into your mouth, his arms circling you, holding you tight against his body.

You can't put a name to the feeling that sparks between you, but it's the thing that's been missing from every kiss you've had before.

The heat, the need of it all burns away all that remains of your carefully maintained resolve. He loves you, fool that he is, and you're not sure you could survive without him now. Is that what love is? To mourn even the thought of their absence from you, to cling tightly and never let go? To sink into each other until you're one, two halves of the same whole?

He kisses you until you're breathless, lips swollen from the tug of his sharp teeth, jaw curiously sore from moving in a new way. You pull back first, braced on one arm as you look down on him. He's beautiful, more than human, wild-eyed and fey, but solid and warm beneath you in a way only a man could be. His imperfections make him dearer to you, not just the marks you've drawn on his skin, but the gap between his two front teeth, the way one brow arches a little more than the other, giving him that permanently skeptical look that had always made you feel he was making fun of you. The crooked smile, the notch in one ear.

You know his face more intimately than your own, but you still want to look at him, especially through this new lens.

“I don’t think I want to wait,” you admit. You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?

“Are you certain?” he asks.

“I don’t see what difference it makes, really.”

“It makes a great deal of difference. I’ve taken enough from you, I don’t want you to regret it.” He gazes up at you, tracing along your jaw with careful touch.

Your heart races rabbit-quick in your chest, and although you're the one looking down at him, you feel pinned in place by the wolf's eyes alone. "Then make sure I don't," you say softly. "I can even promise not to make another attempt on your life until the morning."

"Darling…"

"Please. I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow, but tonight I think I want your hands on me."

"You think?" His fingers catch around the back of your neck, as though he's waiting for some cue before he pulls you back into his arms.

“I know.”

He pulls you down for another kiss, rolling the two of you so his big body stretches over yours, your underskirts bunching up as he slots his thick thigh between yours, pressing against your core. He holds most of his weight off of you, but you’re still trapped beneath him. For the first time in a long while, there is no panic, no desire to fight furiously for freedom. You feel quite content where you are, especially when his thigh flexes, rubbing against you firmly, sending a shower of sparks through your belly. You gasp against his mouth, your hands skimming down his sides gingerly. When he does it again, you dig your fingers into the muscle of his back reflexively, murmuring apologies as his lips leave yours and slide down your bared throat.

“Don’t,” he growls against your pulse, dragging his tongue roughly over your skin. “Don’t apologize. You won’t hurt me.”

His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder, finding the older scar from his lupine jaws. You let out a shuddering gasp when he bites down lightly, not even hard enough to leave a mark. There’s a part of you that wants him to leave a mark, a bruise if not something more permanent, but you’re not sure you’ll be able to convince him out of gentleness tonight.

He kisses down your chest, grinning up at you when he reaches the top edge of your corset. “You are still wearing far too much clothing, my love. Come here.” He stands in a smooth movement, and you’re untethered without the weight of his body against yours, but only for a moment. He helps you to your feet and leads you to the bed, taking a seat on the edge and pulling you between his knees, turning you so he can loosen the laces of your corset.

You shed the garment as soon as you’re able, as well as the extra petticoats. Your chemise is thin, loose material, obscuring little, but you leave it on while you sit beside the wolf, toeing your heeled slippers off and nudging them under the bed and out of the way. Hands folded, you wait, heart beating like a drum. You feel so strange, almost outside your own body, watching him unlace his boots and tug them off impatiently.

He stands to strip off his trousers, and you quickly avert your gaze, looking down at your hands rather than see him in his fully undressed state. You have a rough idea of what you’d find, you’ve been in the public baths more than a few times, and even doing your best to be respectful, it’s hard not to see something. But seeing something in a setting where everyone is minding their own business is a lot different than seeing something up close, especially when you might be expected to do more than just look.

“We don’t have to do this, love,” he says, kneeling in front of you, clasping his hands around yours. Your eyes fly back up, landing on his face. His chuckle makes your cheeks burn. “If you’re nervous—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I want to. I’m just— I hate not knowing what I’m supposed to do.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that darling. It’s your first time, I should think the responsibility rests on my shoulders. All you have to do is tell me when you like something and when you don’t.” He leans forward, forcing your thighs apart to accommodate the bulk of him, and kisses you, all sweetness. “And if you want to stop, we stop. Anything more than that can wait at least until the second or third time.”

It sounds so simple, put like that.

“Besides,” he adds, giving you a wicked grin as his hands move to your hips, the movement rucking your chemise up further on your thighs. “You’ve always been a quick study.”

Well, he’s right about that. His lips find your throat again, pressing languid kisses down your chest until he reaches the edge of your chemise. His eyes flick upwards, seeking permission before he goes further. You untie the simple knot with one hand, the other petting through his soft curls.

He noses aside the thin fabric to find your nipple, latching on with a contented hum. The act sends tremors down into your core, intensifying as his tongue flicks across. You pull in a shuddering breath, and your exhale becomes a whimper when his teeth nip at you, his other hand coming up to grope at your other breast, his touch warm and appreciative before his grip slides down to your hips and he tugs you to the edge of the mattress.

He pulls away from your breast and kisses you properly again. “Do you want more?” he asks. “Can I taste your pretty cunt, darling?”

The desire in his words sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, and he sits back on his heels and kisses all the way up your thigh, although he pauses and pulls back to your other knee, kissing his way up again, this time sinking his teeth into your inner thigh, not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to make you jolt, your pearl begging for any kind of friction. When he passes over your cunt to mouth at your other thigh, you whine, shifting even closer to the edge of the bed. You can feel your cunt dripping, the air strangely cool on your wet skin.

A pair of mischievous eyes glance up at you. He’s doing this on purpose. He started all of this, and now he has the gall to tease you. Glaring in response, you grip him by the hair and pull him in, determined to put his clever mouth to better use than smirking and biting you when you need him elsewhere.

To his credit, he makes no complaint and does what he’s directed, slipping his tongue between your folds, lapping up the slick arousal. His big hands push your thighs up so he can get a better angle, and he kisses your cunt with as much passion as he did your lips, if not more.

The feeling is electric. His mouth scorches, sets you alight in ways you’d never imagined, the occasional scrape of his too sharp teeth against you thrilling. It’s too good, has you fighting his grip even as your fingers are still tightly wound into his hair, holding him close. It’s too much, but if he stopped it would be so much worse.

If he minds your writhing, he doesn’t show it. You can’t help the sounds he pulls from you, but he’s louder, as though this is more for himself than for you. He groans when your hips buck against his mouth, pants when he lifts himself away enough to breathe, his amber eyes gleaming, fixed on your face, except the few times they flutter closed, just for a moment, savouring your taste.

His nose nudges your pearl as his tongue presses inside you. You grip him so tightly to your core, your hips shaking so hard that you’re surprised you don’t break his nose. The hot, molten cataclysm that’s been pooling somewhere behind your belly button overtakes you, sweeping you away, limbs seized, unable to out-swim the current. You can’t see past the stars in your eyes even after your legs relax and you force your hand to unclasp his hair, finger by finger, so you can lay back on the mattress, breathing hard.

He crawls up onto the bed and pulls you toward the centre, a self-satisfied grin on his face. His cock presses into your thigh, insistent for attention, the tip peeking out and leaking against your thigh. He ruts against you when he kisses you again, his close-cropped beard soaked with your arousal. You can taste yourself on his tongue, tangy and bitter-sweet.

You lay twined together, forehead pressed against his as you both catch your breath. One hand gently brushes up and down your spine, the other pulling your leg up over his hip. “How was that?” he asked.

There may not be words for what you feel. Maybe there are, but they’re beyond you right now, washed away with all the resistance in your body. You settle on nice, which makes him laugh.

“Only nice, hm? I suppose I’ll have to work harder.”

“Better than nice,” you assure him. “I— I liked it a lot.” It’s still insufficient, so you kiss him again, hoping he won’t ask any more questions.

He does, after a long moment. “Are you ready for more?”

“There’s more?” you ask. “Or— for you? Do you want me to—”

“No, there’s no need for you to do a thing, love. The next part is for both of us.” He rolls onto his back, taking you with him effortlessly. He reaches past you with one hand while he kisses you sweetly, tongue pushing into your mouth at the same moment you feel his cock slot against your entrance. He pushes in gently, halting when he meets resistance, fucking shallowly into you until you relax enough to let him bury himself deeper into your body.

You tuck your face down against his chest, focusing on the feeling of his cock stretching your cunt, so deep inside you that his presses against your womb. He tries to keep himself still, but his hips buck slightly, tearing a groan from your chest. There’s no stopping the way your cunt squeezes down on him in response, nor the way your hips grind against him. He makes a choked sound, breathing out shakily when you push yourself up to look at him.

The angle change nearly has you collapsing back down, but he takes pity on you and flips you both so he can take the lead. “Hello, pretty thing,” he says, giving you another kiss and a firm grind into you before he starts moving his hips, slowly working himself in and out of your cunt, lips settling against your ear so he could tell you how well you’re taking him, how good you feel around his cock.

Any ability to respond is quickly fucked out of you, your breath punched out with every deep thrust, your world shrinking down to a handful of sensations: his lips on your ear, the weight of his body and the delicious drag of his cock against your inner walls.

He works his hand between you to rub at your pearl, the heel of his hand pressing down on your lower belly. The thought that he can feel himself inside you with your hand is one of the last fully formed ones that cross your mind, because he growls and picks up the pace, unrelenting until you’re shaking and babbling and clinging so tightly to him that you’re certain you’ll leave permanent marks.

He drags you up another precipice and throws you over, his forehead pressed to yours, watching your face as you shake and cry out. He ruts into you, and you can feel him fill your cunt, his cock twitching, rooted firmly inside you. He doesn’t pull away, just throws himself onto his back, holding you tight to his chest.

His heart beats like a drum under your ear, slowing gradually as he catches his breath. His cock slips free, and you stiffen slightly as his spend leaks from your swollen cunt, spilling onto his belly. He pops his head up as soon as you tense, and huffs out a laugh, kissing the tip of your nose.

“Sex can be a bit messy. Come on, love. Let’s get cleaned up.”

Your legs wobble when you try to stand, but he happily slides a supportive arm around your waist, leading you into the adjoining tap room. Once you’re both cleaned up, he coaxes you out of your sweat-soaked chemise and wraps you in one of his shirts and you both sit back down in front of the fire.

You pick up your abandoned wine glass, holding it with both hands as you eye the wolf. He looks content, satiated, like he’s had his fill of you. There’s a little tremor of unease that settles in your belly. Now that the chase is over, will he still want you? Do you still want him to want you? At the beginning of the evening you had been determined to kill him, and now…

He looks back at you through half-closed eyes, and unfurls his arm. “You’re too far away,” he tells you, voice a warm purr. “And you’re thinking too much.”

It’s still unfair, how easily he reads you. An open book, pages left open for him to flip through at his leisure. Despite your trepidation, you walk forward on your knees and sit against him, knees tucked under his arm. His fingertips trail up your thigh, over your knee, down your calf, and back, over and over, as he waits for you to speak.

“What happens now?” you ask at last. “Do we go our separate ways?”

Hurt flashes across his face before he can hide it behind a neutral mask. “If that’s what you want.” His fingers continue retreading their path while silence builds between the two of you. At last, he pulls in a fortifying breath. “Is that what you want?”

There’s raw desire in his eyes, not tempered in the least by your coupling. He offers you everything so easily that it feels like it must be a trick, but he wouldn’t work so hard to hide his feelings if he didn’t care for you, if this were a trap. If you stay, it has to be your choice, not made because of his own want for you to remain by his side.

The anger that kept you warm in all your years out in the cold is gone. Killing him won’t bring your family back from the grave, it would just place another soul in one. The desire for revenge truly burned out a long while ago, and you couldn’t admit that only embers remained. It was why you were so desperate to end it tonight, to close the chapter and look forward to something new.

It’s so like your wolf to ruin your plans. This time, you’re not sure you mind.

“I’d like to stay,” you say at last.

He’s on you so fast that you drop your wine glass, spilling red over the furs. It’s hard to stop laughing enough to kiss him back, trying to point out the mess to him. He growls something about not giving a damn as he gives up trying to kiss you through your smile, and presses his lips to your pulse instead.

In the end, with all the history between the two of you, what’s one more mess?

It's been almost five years since I started writing this short story, and I had fully expected not to finish it. I was caught up in the story in the peripherals, the potential history between Cat and Valter. This scene no longer fits in the overall narrative, even if there are still threads of it that remain unchanged, so I feel like it's safe to share. I'm working on the third draft of The Night of the Wolf, sorting out the mess of my second draft (so many changes it might as well be a second first draft) and I think there's a very real possibility that I can actually finish it, and that's in no small way thanks to all of you. I have been writing for a long time, but it's only been in the past year that I've shared my work with anyone, and it's been a really lovely experience. Thank you for reading my silly fanfictions, thank you for reading this, and I hope to share more bits of original work going forward, if there's any interest. (But don't worry, I'm still gonna finish the fanfictions. I show no signs of stopping yet)

C. T. Cutter

(Also, special thanks to my best human person @dragonnarrative-writes for making me finish this and being so so kind to me about my work and encouraging me always. I am bad at accepting compliments but I appreciate them all the same)

Image Credits: 1 - 2 ~ Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[lostchildonaisle3]

cod ghosts if it was good (written by me)

[tassodelmiele]

~I swear I'll drown into the deepest dark to find you.

And I'll love you, in every scattered piece~

....................................

I swear to every god, when I started this mermay thing I had all the good intentions to draw a happy, shiny Ghostmaid.

CoDdammit

Dunno what get wrong, but I can assure you he's happy and good in this universe, even with spikes and scars.

Here's a modified version that i also like.

Good MerMay everyone~

[adelaidagreenflower]

🐙💢

[the-raindeer-king]

Hello!!! And could you please write Laswell or Nikolai with a s/o who used to be an assassin for the enemy? :)

Nikolai has his suspicions about your past, and while he wants to know, it's really not his business. You'll tell him in your own time, unless you kill him in his sleep. But you wouldn't do that... maybe.

You've left all that behind you, working at a little cafe. Unassuming, non-suspicious. But Nikolai can see it in the way you carry yourself. the way your eyes scan across every room. That one time he snuck up on you, and you had pinned him against the floor.

When the truth finally comes out, whether you tell him yourself or someone else reveals your past, Nik doesn't judge. He understands doing shady things to protect yourself. What matters now is how you move forward, and you still haven't kill him in his sleep yet. That looks like a win in his book.

Laswell has known from the get-go. This woman is intense. There was never a chance you were hiding this kind of secret from her. It's after your second date that she sits you down and demands the truth. She already knows, she just wants you to admit it out loud.

You may have left all that behind, escaped that messy world by the skin of your teeth. But sometimes Laswell asks you for your opinion on things, wanting your insight. Sure, things in the terrorist group might have changed, but she wants to pick your brain for info anyway. And you let her (mainly cause she'll reward you with affection, but that's besides the point.)

[gomzdrawfr]

Price bullying Raven, and then facing the consequences of his actions

[temeyes]

"and i don't blame you, dear for runnin' like you did all these years i would do the same, you best believe." - Stubborn Love, The Lumineers

[x3no9]

Thank you endlessly, @naconaco for this most stunning commissioned piece. Goes with my many MakaGraves fics. God, it is so beautiful.

The gorgeously handsome Phillip Graves x the malevolent and sexy Makarov ( OG). (Enemies to lovers baby)

Link to my ridiculous collection of CoD fanfics...

[multifandombitxh]

Bed Time Stories

Pairing: Ghost x Fem!Reader (Ghost's POV, no use of y/n)

Genre: Angst, fluff, enemies to lovers kinda

Warnings: Adult language, a really bad romance novel excerpt that I made up on the spot

A/N: I'm back for like five minutes don't get used to it 🤙 PS would love to write something for a male reader if that's something anyone wants, just sayin'

Ghost had no idea how long this had been going on without his knowledge. In a way, he was a little upset that no one told him about this, especially when Soap knows how he feels about the new recruit. He was completely drawn to her from day one, the moment she stepped foot on base looking like pure sunshine in dirty combat boots. He didn't even know her name before he knew he wanted her- her mind, her heart, her soul... Her body as well, but that was a different issue.

Ghost kept his sweet distance. He knew that the moment he let himself revel in her kindness, it would only make things worse. It was beyond frustrating; he hadn't felt like this toward anyone in- well, ever. He was used to finding people attractive every now and then, sure, but this? This was a whole new ball game for him- and he doesn't even know how to play the game.

He wanted to bring her flowers, watch sunsets with her, ask for her favorite color, her favorite food, favorite movies and books, to know everything she found beautiful or worthwhile in this world. His thoughts were worse at night when he was trying to sleep. What did she look like in the mornings? Does she drink coffee, or tea? How lovely would it be to wake every day with her head on his chest?

He wanted to hold her god damn hand for Christ's sake. What was she turning him into?

Regardless of his softness toward her, Ghost did everything in his power to stay the fuck away. He was mean to her. He was snippy when he didn't have to be, putting her in her place when he felt it necessary. The others would hound him about it; "Go easy on her, Lieutenant." "Why would you say that?" "Maybe you should ease up a bit." But no. Not a snowball's chance in hell would he "ease up" or "lay off".

If he did, he'd melt just at the sight of her smile.

As if he wasn't already doing just that.

Soap noticed it first, the way his Lieutenant's gaze softened as soon as it fell on her, how his shoulders relaxed and his fists unclenched. She was walking stress relief, her smile so perfect and crooked and full. Her warm, inviting eyes shimmered and lit up any time she looked Ghost's way. God forbid he make eye contact with her, it made him weak in the knees. As soon as Soap caught onto this, he tortured Ghost with it day in and day out.

Now, as he stands in the hallway outside of the barracks, his arms crossed and his jaw tight, he listens as she speaks in soft, pronounced sentences, reading from a sappy, cheesy romance novel. Soap was the first to ask her about it- of course he was, he's always looking for ammo to tease the rest of the team with- but she wasn't even slightly embarrassed to tell him she loved romantic literature. Soap asked her to read a few pages to him, thinking it would be hilarious, and so she obliged. Now, a week and some change later, Soap and Gaz sat around with her late into the evening, listening to her read the latest chapter in her silly little book to pass the time.

Ghost's heart ached in his chest as he listened to her, smiling as she occasionally stumbled over her words, lost her place, or changed her tone of voice when speaking for different characters. The sound of her soft laughter nearly brought him to tears when she got to the juicer parts of the story, describing the intimate lives of these fictional people in great detail. Soap and Gaz would laugh along with her, but never once teased her or made fun of her for enjoying herself. It made Ghost feel warm. It made him feel full in his chest.

Soon, he began to focus a little more on the actual story rather than how beautiful the words sounded coming from her lips.

"Meredith watched as the love of her life crossed the small yard, plucking dandelions from the tall grasses and placing them in his woven wicker basket. Her heart was about to burst straight out of her chest and onto the cold, wooden floor, watching him so delicately picking the flowers and setting them aside. His amber hair almost glowed under the golden afternoon sun- he looked angelic in this light. She sighed through her freckled nose, knowing she had found the truest, purest form of love, and never wanted to let it slip from her grasp."

Ghost listened intently as you read that paragraph, snorting to himself. Looks like he and Meredith had something in common.

"How many chapters was that?" Soap asks as she closes the book, placing a bookmark between the pages.

"Only four left," She says with a smile, "Almost to the end."

Ghost feels rotten on the inside as she says that, knowing he'd missed so much of this special little gathering made him feel deep regret for pushing her away. As if driven by this deep sense of remorse, he steps out from the hall, moving into the open doorway and leaning against the frame, his arms remaining crossed. He tries to look angry, intimidating- his usual. Soap and Gaz look up at him, a bit surprised to see him.

"Lt, how long you been there?" Soap asks, standing from his seat and dusting himself off.

"Not long," Ghost lies, shrugging slightly. He looks between Soap and Gaz, not daring to look her way just yet. "You two mind giving us a moment?"

Soap smirks and nods, exchanging knowing looks with Gaz. The two of them thank her for another evening of book club, their soft and sweet voices making Ghost roll his eyes and nearly gag. He watches as they leave, taking their sweet time and discussing the latest chapters. Ghost finally turns to her, doing his damnedest to keep his gaze hard. She can't know, she can't.

"Did you need something, sir?" She asks, her voice much more meek than when she spoke with the others. He takes note of this, wondering to himself if he's made her uncomfortable. She stands from the bunk she was lounging on, placing the book on top of the covers as she straightens out. Ghost forces himself to keep his eyes trained on her face, lest they wander.

"I do, actually," He replies, taking a step toward her. It doesn't take much- his stride is quite large considering his size- for him to stand before her, nearly towering over her like a skyscraper. She looks up at him expectantly, her hands behind her back as she maintains a neutral expression. He misses her smile already.

"You-" He starts, shifting his weight as he tries to find his words. "I think- listen. This... You can't... Do this. Anymore. Whatever it is, it stops here."

Her face drops from neutral to hurt, her brows drawing together as her eyes fill with confusion. "What?" She asks, shaking her head. "I... Can't read? Are you serious?"

Dammit. He did it again. Without even meaning to, he put another invisible wedge between them, when all he really wanted to do was pull her closer. His chest begins to ache, anxiety setting in as he realizes what he's done. But he can't seem to stop himself.

"You can read, Sergeant, just... Not to the others. They have duties," Ghost explains, sounding unsure of himself. She seems to catch on, because soon her face changes from hurt to anger. "I can't have you distracting my men like this."

"You're joking," She scoffs, shaking her head and folding her own arms over her chest. Ghost physically fights the urge to look down. "You can't be serious, Ghost."

"That's Lieutenant to you," He all but snaps, taking another intimidating step forward. Why was he doing this? Why was he like this? His mind races as he tries to stop himself, to put an end to this charade and tell her the truth, to show her even an ounce of kindness. Why was that so hard for him? "Mind yourself if you want to keep your place on this team."

A few seconds pass as there's a pause in the discussion, and she lowers her gaze, nodding a few times. "It won't happen again, Lieutenant," She manages, keeping her eyes to the floor. The tone of her voice sounds like she was just slapped in the face.

Fuck. He's really done it now.

How can he fix this?

"Good," Ghost says quickly, giving her a single nod before he turns his back to her and begins walking away. Every fiber of his being is fighting himself, his heart begging him to turn around and apologize, take her in his arms and make her feel the love he feels for her. Before he reaches the threshold of the doorway, he hears her small voice again, her words striking his heart like a frozen spear.

"What did I do to make you hate me so much..?"

He can't do this. Not anymore.

Not to her.

"Dammit..." Ghost whispers, closing his eyes as he stops in his tracks. He turns on his heel, his heart hammering in his chest so hard it hurts. "I don't... Hate you, Sergeant."

He watches her for a moment, noticing her defeated stance and the way she refuses to look his way, not that he blames her. It kills him inside to know that he caused this- that she's hurting because of his actions. All because he's afraid of letting her in. At this rate, he'll have to physically build a brick wall to keep himself away from her. He was done for.

"I don't understand," She whispers. Her voice wavers, sounding as though she's holding back tears. That nearly rips his heart out of his chest. "I have tried so hard to do my best and do what's right for the team. Everyone seems to have faith in me, except for you. I don't understand what I did wrong, Lieutenant, I don't-"

Without a second thought, he crosses the room to her, taking swift strides as he comes to stand in front of her again. Before she can even blink he holds her face in both of his hands, his palms covering her cheeks and his fingers resting on her jaw. Her eyes go wide, and he's pretty sure he hears her breath catch in her throat.

"I... Am so stupidly in love with you," He confesses in a voice barely above a whisper, the feeling of her soft skin against his calloused hands sending a shiver up his spine. He locks eyes with her, making sure to silently convey with them that he's telling the truth. "I want you... In every sense of the phrase. I want you in the worst way, and I can't... I can't have you."

As she stares up at him with a puzzled expression, his heart rate increases ten fold, the closeness of their bodies suddenly overwhelming his senses. He can smell her, her lovely scent on her clothes and skin. It's intoxicating. He wishes he could bottle it and keep it for himself on lonely nights.

"Ghost-"

"You are the embodiment of everything good in this world, and I... I- I would dirty you if I put my hands on you," He carries on, his thumb stroking her cheekbone so delicately it's almost ghosting over the flesh. His voice breaks as he speaks, as if he's about to lose his composure any moment. "I am trying to keep myself away from you, don't you understand? Everything about you is like a drug I'm hopelessly addicted to and haven't even tried. And I'll never be sorry enough for hurting you, but I'd be hurting you more if I let myself feel this way about you."

As he lays it all out for her, pouring his heart out in phrases that even he didn't think he could formulate, her eyes soften and begin to fill with tears. They glisten beautifully under the dim lights, glossy and lovely and inviting. His breathing becomes uneven at the sight of her, feeling himself fall harder and harder the longer he looks into them. When she leans into his touch and closes her eyes, he almost gasps, completely taken aback by the gesture.

"Maybe I'm not as clean as you think I am," She whispers, each word hitting him hard in the gut. As he tries to process what she means, her hands slip beneath the bottom of his balaclava, slowly but surely sliding it up until his mouth comes into view.

He doesn't even think about trying to stop her when she leans in and presses her perfect lips to his.

The kiss lasts for what feels like milliseconds, leaving him wanting more. So much more. As soon as her lips depart from his, he's wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and pulling her back in, his mouth crashing down on hers once again. The softest sighs escapes into the kiss, though neither of them are sure who started it. Heat builds almost immediately and suddenly Ghost has her in his arms, lifting her into the air with his hands on the backs of her thighs. He pushes her hard against the closest wall, drawing a shocked breath out of her.

Ghost's mind is gone, lost somewhere deep in the corners of his skull while his heart takes control, relishing in the soft sensation of her mouth against his. All bets are off now, and he doesn't care anymore. He wants her. He needs her. Like air, like water, like shelter. She is keeping him alive.

But she's killing him at the same time.

When they finally pull apart from one another, they breathe hard, the air between them hot and heavy. One of her hands holds up his balaclava while the other wraps around his broad shoulders, using them for some leverage as he holds her in the air against the cold wall.

"I'm sorry," She mumbles against his lips, closing her eyes. "I probably shouldn't have done that."

"Probably not," Ghost agrees with a grin, biting down on his lower lip briefly as he takes in the sight of her like this. Breathless, vulnerable. Beautiful. "But I'd expect nothing less from someone who reads those stupid novels."

[stanfordswifey]

Hi you are my favorite angst writer I really love your work 🥹 I have an idea for a fic and I think you are the perfect person to write it! (it's okay if you don't want to). Basically, a new recruit at the base, and the fem!reader was suspicious of her from the beginning, she had something strange but, the recruit managed to deceive the boys, even König (reader's boyfriend) with your charm and kind smile. When the reader tries to accuse the recruit everyone is against her and so she decides she needs to take some time off, and now with the reader who was a database expert out the spy mouse can copy and transfer sensitive data, putting the entire base in danger. I know it's a very specific request but I like angst like, I SAID IT... haha, I'd be really happy if you did :3 Kisses :*

🌱-anon

"Not everyone is what they seem."

I love this req so much mwamwamwa

Au- konig in 141 <3 enemy kortac oh btw reader's codename here is bookworm bcs reader and- yeah yall get it.

Blue- background character

White- reader

Orange- könig

Pink- faux

It was a great night after a successful mission, you had just won the mission and successfully interrogated an enemy, you and your boyfriend were just hanging out in the bar when a new recruit comes in, smiling.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, i'm the new recruit.. for 141?"

She raised her eyebrow, finding it 'amusing' I didn't know. König smiles at her awkwardly, his social anxiety kicking in.

"What are your codenames? I'm faux"

She held out her hand to könig, wanting a handshake. He shakes her hand, slightly hesitating.

"König."

You also shake her hand, smiling softly to not seem rude.

"Bookworm"

She chuckles slightly at tour codename, finding it funny and amusing.

"Bookworm? That's rich"

She teases, still laughing. König snickers a little, also finding it funny. You cross your arms, slightly irritated at her. You chuckle.

"Faux? Look at me yeah?"

She looks at you in confusion, wiping away her happy tears from laughing so much.

"Yes?"

You push her down, looking at her with a strict and serious face.

"Learn your place."

You spit out, rolling your eyes. You mumble 'fucking rookies' under your breath when suddenly könig holds you by your shoulder, looking into your eyes with concern.

"Shatz, calm down"

You sigh, hugging him. When suddenly faux grins, you notice her and start to get suspicious when she stands up, a scratch on her knee and now limping towards your boyfriend.

"Ow.."

She mutters, könig then helping her get on his back.

"I'll bring her to the medic"

"It's not even that major!-"

"She's hurt."

You roll your eyes in annoyance, noticing könig take faux's side instead of yours. You glare at her as könig carries her outside. You notice her smirking and pointing her tounge out at you before leaving the room. You sigh in annoyance, your hands on your face as you calm yourself down.

--

as könig puts her down on the bed, a nurse comes around and tends to her scratch

"Don't you think you're *slightly* overreacting sir?"

The nurse asks, looking up and still bandaging faux. König shakes his head.

"Bookworm's anger issues.. we really need to start working on that- especially since shes a higher rank, i just dont trust that she'll play nice with the rookies"

The nurse sighs, standing up and walking away after he tended to faux's scratch. Faux then looking at könig with false innocence in her eyes, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

"i just don't know why she would do that.."

"I'm apologizing for bookworm's behalf.. i'm so sorry"

"No, it's alright. I shouldn't have made fun of her codename huh?"

König chuckles, smiling under his mask.

"Yeah, you really shouldn't have"

---

König stands up, smiling at her and fixing his mask before turning around.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna go comfort bookworm"

"but.. stay with me? Please?"

Konig shakes his head, clearly hesitant. You're his #1, he'll aways think of you first over anyone. Faux pouts and flutters her eyelashes at him, hopefully making könig fold. König chuckles at this and shakes his head.

"I'll see you tomorrow faux"

He spoke, now turning away and walking towards you.

--

You sat there, sobbing quietly into your hands, feeling guilty from doing what you did earlier, letting your anger issues get the better of you once again. Your thoughts screaming at you.

König sat next to you, pulling you in for a hug and kissing your forehead to comfort you, calm you down in some way- and it did, it did work. You melted in his touch, hugging him back and sniffling.

"I'm sorry"

"It wasn't your fault shatz, i'll help you through this"

He smiles at you and you smile back, wiping away your tears and kissing him, pulling his mask a little.

--

Faux stood outside the bar, watching this all unravelling, she was pissed. She pulls the bandage away in annoyance.

"I'll get my revenge."

She mumbles, hiding a knife under her sock.

"Whether you like it or not."

--

Part 1/??

[numberonecodwomenfan]

oc x canon this oc x canon that. what about oc vs canon. insert someone into a universe specifically so they can have beef with your least favorite character.

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter Two: Expectations Erased

Vladimir Makarov x Reader

The Long Road | Previous Chapter

Summary: Settling into a new place is hard. Moreso when it's the man who murdered your fiancé. Attempting to familiarize yourself with Konni's compound, you find yourself in a bit of a pickle.

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: Murderous Thoughts, Guilt, Grief, Angst, Yelling, Degradation, Humiliation

Mentions of: PTSD, Dissociation,

A/N: There might be certain things I won't warn of, only for the plot's purpose. However, I definitely would warn for big things. Let me know if it's bothersome. Line divider credit: @saradika Also thank you again, to the lovely @penelopepine for helping to beta <3

This was never a part of the plan. In fact, this screams nothing but 'Danger! Danger!' in your mind on repeat, yet you know there's no better opportunity. There's no better way to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer if not but live with them... right? At least, that's what you keep telling yourself.

You have to convince yourself that if you want to be successful... and you have to be, that this is necessary. Otherwise... you know you'll never be able to forgive yourself. He deserves it: vengeance, justice, relief... and hell, maybe you do, too.

While the car ride had been incredibly tense, filled with classical music streaming in through the radio, you were lucky there weren't any guards accompanying him to the residence. Finally lying in the bed you'd been assigned on Makarov's Compound, you stare up at the red ceiling and wonder if you'll ever get so lucky again.

"This is a bit much, eh?" The Scottish brogue elicits a smile from you. Shifting your gaze over to the other side of the bed, you peer up at Johnny's amused smile, canines poking out from behind his lips.

An affirmative hum of acknowledgment leaves your lips as you admire the childlike wonder and curiosity in his eyes as he scans the room. Following his hand as it runs over his mohawk and shaved head, you find yourself yearning to feel his biceps and strong arms under your palms once again. Perhaps you'd roll over on the bed onto your stomach and crawl up onto his lap, making yourself at home, comfortable and safe in his arms.

Home.

"You're a long way from there now, Lass, aren't ya?" He reminds you. Except you know it's not really him. It's not actually your Johnny... just a figment of your imagination; a coping mechanism, they'd called it- a fairly normal occurrence for people who've suddenly and oftentimes, tragically, lost a loved one they were extremely close with. The guilt starts to seep in and reactivate that ever-gnawing ache in your chest. As your eyes begin to well up with tears, you unconsciously clench your jaw in an attempt to prevent yourself from crying.

Shutting your eyes, you place one hand on your chest to feel your heartbeat. 'Ground yourself', they'd told you. With a series of deep breaths, you attempt to calm yourself down, mentally counting your heartbeats to distract yourself. As much as you'd want to cherish and take in these sparse moments whenever Johnny shows up in some way, perhaps as some way to help you mentally get through your day... it won't help you here.

When you finally open your eyes he's gone. With a slight frown on your lips, you dust off your dress before sliding off the bed and immediately heading for the door. Upon swinging it open there's a man there; both surprised by the other's sudden appearance, he steps back while you're more than determined to flee the area. You need no reminders of Johnny, and while the room may not be one, the excuse of exploring and furthering your mission only seethes under your skin.

"ждать!" While you march off toward the front of the house, the way you'd come in last night, you don't see the man fumble with your luggage. "говно," the man curses, shaking his head. "Wait! You speak English, right?"

It takes you aback. Not many people you'd encountered here have spoken English to you outright, though you know it's not uncommon for people to learn the language. Turning on your heel slowly, you meet the man properly this time. "Yes... how did you know that?" You ask with a slight tilt of your head.

The shaggy haired man's adam-apple bobs as he swallows, no doubt anxious as he straightens his posture and uniform. He's young, couldn't be older than his early twenties--if that--and you mentally curse the man in charge. "Erm, I may have overheard them speaking of it at breakfast," he informs you. Mirroring your tilted head, the curiosity in his eyes doesn't go unnoticed by you. "I was sent by the Commander to retrieve you."

While you process the words coming out of his mouth, the thick accent he has somehow warms your heart. His English isn't perfect, but it's understandable, and that's something to appreciate. "Should I be worried?" You ask. Searching his eyes gives you a hint toward his answer; a taken aback look appears across his face before there's a speck of fear written across his irises. A sigh pushes its way past your lips as you hang your head. "If I'm bound to get in trouble, would you mind giving me a tour first at least?" You ask, meeting his eyes as you raise your head again with a saddened smile.

"The Commander does not like to be kept waiting, Miss," the messenger responds, straightening his posture once more. While his eyes run over your body taking in the details of your civilian outfit, he remains still. Giving him your name, you extend a hand. He hesitates for a moment before returning your offering, his soft but larger hand providing a loose but firm shake. He tells you his name is Mikhail, but that everyone calls him Mischa.

It only takes the questioning of where everyone is to convince him of a tour. With the Commander busy in a meeting, it makes no logical sense to interrupt it, you jecture. With the unintentional information of lunch being in only a half hour, you're able to persuade him. It's that simple. After all, doesn't the Commander have more pressing matters to attend to than you?

Perhaps it's the fact that you're still not over the reminiscent vision of Johnny that'd encroached on your free time. Maybe it's the fact that you dread facing your fiancé's murderer more than anything. It's not necessary, not yet. You know you'll kill him eventually- that's the whole reason you'd come here... yet the superfluous time spent in his presence will do nothing but aggravate you and send you into another spiral. This, you're sure of.

Having followed Mischa throughout Makarov's little makeshift Konni Compound, the heels of your flats quietly clicking against the tile in the ground floor's foyer, you'd only been going through the motions. Unaware of your surroundings and lost in thought of what this closeness to your enemy will unfortunately bring upon your plans, it's the rusty creak of the glass paned wooden door being opened into the next room that draws you from the stupor you'd found yourself in.

"This is the-"

"You have a greenhouse?" The joyous curiosity evident in your tone elicits Mischa's gaze. While you may have interrupted him, he doesn't say anything as you gently push past him and lean against the old doorframe.

The space is obviously long deserted as weeds litter the garden beds and vines grow within the cracks of the cobblestone, up the sides of the glass. There's broken glass and concrete scattered around the house, the remnants of what once was a statue toppled over, cracked, and broken in pieces. It smells like a mixture of Earth, mildew, and rot. Of course, you suppose it's not uncommon for fungus to grow in the abundance of dead organic material. In this case you can only hope it's what once was plant life. Overall, the scene before you in unwelcoming.

"No one comes here, but it is the last of the house." Mischa shifts uncomfortably before turning and heading off back toward the stairs.

"They don't grow anything?" You ask, unable to fathom having a greenhouse you wouldn't use. Turning to look after him, he simply shakes his head and motions for you to follow him, a look of thought on his face.

"Perhaps once, but not in the time I have been here." As his heavy boots thud against the worn wooden steps, he looks straight ahead as you begin down a hallway you'd hadn't fully ventured yet. Taking in the ornate green wallpaper, you admire the brocade style dark green pattern. The bottom half of the wall is paneled, offering a sleek look. All together, you're surprised that Makarov lives in such a wealthy looking and finely furnished home. Eventually the feeling of someone's eyes garners your attention and causes you to look back toward the soldier beside you. Already watching you, Mischa speaks. "Do you know if she... what is the word in English," he whispers the latter half to himself. "Grow plants? Here?"

"Gardener?" You offer, the words tumbling off your lips as you think on it. Sure, there'd been a plant here or there within the small cabin the two of you had been residing in the past month or so... but that didn't mean she was really a gardener. Unfortunately you hadn't gotten the chance to really explore outside the cabin, really, as Vera had often scheduled the groceries for delivery anyhow. "I don't think so? But I could always ask, I guess." When you look up at him you find a small smile on his lips.

"Gardener," he whispers to himself in an attempt to remember the odd word. "It would be nice to know." Though it sounds more like a suggestion, you can't deny it would interesting to know.

As you wander down the long hallway you find it's filled with still life paintings hung across the walls, the mahogany paneling completing the embodiment of a dark manor's hallway. In any other circumstance you'd be intrigued by the mysteries the large Compound might hold in your favor, the oddities and secrets hidden in the crevices of these rooms, but the fate that belies you inside one of them has you unconsciously holding your breath. After all, Makarov's been one to hold a reputation of being nothing if not cruel and unusual to his soldiers. Whether your strange link to his Mother serves in your benefit or not is up to time, and him.

The sound of chatter drifts from the door at the end of the hall. Approaching the double doors, Mischa comes to a stop. "We are here." Swallowing whatever fear lingers in your spine, you spare one last look at Mischa. He looks unfazed and put together, but you know that as a solider there's no chance he'd hold any sympathy for what you're possibly walking into. With a few sturdy rapts of his fist, the chatter comes to a silence. A moment passes before someone shouts something in Russian. You assume it was their approval of your entry. Mischa pushes open the door and steps in, revealing you.

Your eyes immediately lock on Makarov's. Sitting at his desk on the other side of the room, his hands are clasped upon the sleek black writing mat. "Enter," he orders. You hadn't moved, something you only noticed upon his words. Mischa gestures for you to come in, you obey. Door closed behind you with a loud click, you suddenly worry you're locked in here. To the Commander's right stands his second-hand in command. You don't know his name, but you've seen his face often in the photos you'd recovered with Nikolai's help.

On either side of the room in the middle stand two guards in a similar uniform to Mischa. They don't even look your way upon entry, in fact, they stand stock still, almost as if they were statues. Apparently Makarov's gang is trained a little better than you'd thought. "Where were you?" The cold and emotionless voice garners your attention once more, your eyes snapping back to the man in front of you.

"Just now?" You question, mindlessly gesturing as you turn to look at Mischa. "I was with your soldier... that you so kindly sent for me." Your explanation apparently isn't satisfactory as you watch the corners of the Commander's lips slip from even and straight across, downward into a frown.

"I will give you the benefit of assuming you're not playing daft," he insults. "This morning. Where were you at breakfast?" As your lips part to speak, Makarov tilts his head, shifting in his seat. "You were not there, you were not anywhere to be found. I can assume that if you weren't at breakfast you would also not be found with my Mother earlier either." He lets out an unpleased exhale through his nose. "Which might I remind you is the only reason you are here."

You go to open your mouth again, assuming this time he'll actually let you speak. "Um... I don't know what time breakfast was or where, but... we've had our own way of doing things for awhile now."

Makarov seems to take this in as he listens, meanwhile you're simply grateful you get the chance to explain yourself. Eyes rolling, he lets out a sigh. "Mm," he hums, leaning back in his chair as he eyes you up and down. "I understand you have been sleeping till all hours of the afternoon, and that you are going through a lot right now, but it does not entitle you to forgo your duties. I expect nothing but the best from everyone I employ; and that includes you."

"And what duties have I forgone exactly?" You ask, head tilting slightly as your brows furrow. The manner you'd been attending to his Mother, Vera's needs, had been agreed upon weeks ago between the two of you. Now that Makarov's in the picture, apparently, it has to be to his content too?!

A sigh rumbles from deep within his chest as he places his hands on the table once more, sitting up. "You are to be at her side from the moment she wakes until she sleeps! Unless otherwise dictated, she needs your assistance. She needs someone with her, and I hired you! Why would I bother to hire you if all you're going to do is be nothing but a waste of our time and money?" He hisses, slowly standing from his chair. "I need you with her, consistently, making sure she is tended to! The only exception to this is if she does not want your presence and allows you leave. Do you understand? I do not care what you did under her roof. This is mine, and what you have been doing so far is unacceptable!"

Swallowing your anger and spite, you grit your teeth, jaw clenched shut. With a deep breath, you go to respond. A bell rings out, startling you as you try to pinpoint the source. "What's that?" Your voice comes out louder than you intend, a look of worry etched across your face.

"It is the lunch bell," Mischa explains quietly from beside you.

"Your saving grace," the Commander remarks. With a wave of his hand nonchalantly you watch as the guards stationed around the room shoulder their guns and begin to move toward the exit.

As Mischa passes you, there's a look of pity in his eyes. Yet, the penetrating and unwavering glare of Makarov's gaze keeps you in place. "Make no mistake, Girl, this is your only warning." With a swiftness that leaves you taken aback, he rounds the desk and strides past you, stopping by you only for a moment as he whispers. "You're dismissed."

As you hear his leather dress shoes click against the wooden floor, you know he's exited the office, still, his personal guard lingers. Whatever had just happened, you feel as though you'd underestimated the grasp Makarov holds on his soldiers. He rendered you speechless in a matter of minutes, leaving you with the feeling of being nothing more than a puppet meant to do his work.

It only takes a minute or so to gather yourself. Upon exiting the office, you're met with the sound of receding footfall. You follow the sound down the ornate hallway until the sound of chatter increases, indicating, you think, the direction you're supposed to go.

When you turn the corner, you walk into the room only to stop at the sight before you. All around the long table in the center of the room are people sitting, talking, enrapt in their own conversation as they laugh, pass the food, and eat. The lightheartedness in the room is a sheer contrast to the fiery intensity you'd just experienced in the office.

"приехать, сидеть," Mischa beckons you with a wave of his free hand. The other holds a bowl of something that looks akin to potatoe salad. Slowly entering the room, you don't miss the one or two looks in your direction, however most mind their own business. Taking the empty seat next to the soldier, he hands you the bowl he'd been holding.

"What is this?" You question, looking in his direction after eyeing the other assortment of food at the table.

"салат оливье," he answers, gesturing for you to pick up the spoon and serve yourself. A smile unconsciously displays itself on your lips at the look of enthusiasm on his face. You can't say you've ever had this, but it looks good! With a few small scoops onto your plate, you place the bowl in the middle of the table.

A look around the table tells you there are a few other small dishes to be had. Some sort of dumplings are sitting on the other end, along with a platter of bread and jams. You spot Makarov sitting next to his guard with a smile on his lips as he listens to some sort of story you're not privy to. If only you knew more Russian. The scene is a little eerie considering he'd reemed you just minutes ago, and now he's happy?! Argument aside, the fact that you're witnessing the man who'd murdered the love of your life smile, seemingly happy as he converses with his friend? It makes you feel ill in a way you haven't felt before.

The clink of a glass set before you draws your attention back to Mischa. He'd poured you a glass of juice? Placing another filled glass by his plate, he sets the pitcher down in the middle of the table, nodding as the man next to him asks him something in Russian. It's only when he notices your gaze that he offers you a smile and lifts his glass in your direction.

As he returns to his conversation, you begin eating in silence, eager to take in the utter... what is it? The feeling--aside from pinpointing Makarov--is... reminiscent of something you've felt lacking in the past few months. Jovial? Friendly? It's more than that, it's... almost like... a family.

The thought wrings your heart and causes a deep pain to spread throughout your chest at the implication, the realization, and your memories.

Memories of Captain John Price sitting around the table lifting a glass in cheers of your boy's successful mission. The comradery as they'd tell stories and jokes around the table, nursing another pint. Gaz teasing Johnny about the fact that he couldn't even manage one boy's night out without bringing you along, not that he minds. Simon sitting across the table silently listening to his Captain tell a story while he watches Gaz entertain you with a funny, tragic tale from their latest mission, much to Johnny's chagrin. The way Johnny would have his arm tucked around your waist holding you close, every so often whispering the things you'd only dream of hearing into them as the night went on.

The last part might not be present, exactly, but the realization that all the times you'd felt right at home with Johnny's squad, with his found family, safe in the light atmosphere of the pub having a Sunday Roast with them... there's something here akin to that.

They may be the enemy; they may be foreign to you, their language going far above your head as you only pick up a word every once in a while here or there... but the kindness they show one another? The care? While you'd like to think it dawned on you beforehand, outside of the landscape of war, that regardless of the 'side' they're on, or the region they originate and stand behind... it's only hit you in the face now. They are a family.

As you chew, continuing to eat and more than content to simply observe and listen in, considering your lack of ability to contribute, someone notices. "What you think?" Mischa asks, nudging your shoulder gently with his own as he looks down at your plate.

"It's good," you respond immediately, still slightly foggy as you'd been lost somewhere between between memory and thought. With a quick swallow and clearing of your throat, you correct yourself, attempting to broaden your horizons. "это хорошо."

"хороший," Mischa answers with a chuckle. "You like?" He urges you to continue right before he takes a big bite of the potatoe fritter.

"да," you affirm. Tempted to venture further in search of not only practice, but an attempt to get to know someone, you try your hand. "что... ты любишь?"

"какой мой любимый?" He corrects, and you know what he's saying, luckily. 'What's my favorite?' Repeating the question back to you in an attempt to help you learn. "наверное Котлеты," he answers. While you don't know either of the words, you're determined to try and look them up later if you can guess how they're spelled. All of the sudden he's laughing wholeheartedly, and you can't help but feel yourself fluster under the loud and boisterous sound. "I am saying probably Котлеты. It is like... курица? You know?"

A shake of your head and he's nodding in response, his laughter having finally calmed down. "And you?" He turns your question back on you. It's not something you've thought of often, so you think for a moment.

"Maybe... chicken alfredo?" You respond in English, seeing as he'd started to speak it first.

"I do not know this," he speaks slowly, giving you his undivided attention in case you try and explain it or make some gesture with your hand. The man sips on his juice as a few others at the table begin to clear their plates and take the leftover food away.

Lunch went by rather quickly, and truthfully, it was good. You couldn't find any complaint as you rejoined Vera after, finding the rest of the afternoon much more calm than the morning had been. With the rest of the afternoon and evening passing in a haze, you can't help but find yourself acting on curiosity and impulse as soon as you bid Vera goodnight.

It's quiet now, and you're sure most of the soldiers have been dismissed from their stations tonight in favor of bed. With this in mind, you retrace the steps you'd taken earlier that day in search of Makarov's office. Surely, there must be something in there that'd prove your case to the United Nations, to the English Government? Whether it's proof he'd killed Johnny by his own hand, or plans that show he was there and committed the crimes you're all well aware was his doing, there has to be something valuable in his confines!

It's easy enough to find his office again. To your luck, there doesn't seem to be anyone around at this time of night, and you're thankful that the door is unlocked. While your cynical mind begins to question whether or not the Commander--as they'd referred to him this afternnon--would have traps set in case of an intruder, you decide to try and risk it with a step into the office. Closing your eyes, you take a generous step into the polished area, arms close to your body just in case a trap decides to spring on you. Fortunately, nothing happens. You open one eye, and then the next, slowly, before you continue your venture into the room.

Soon enough you find yourself rifling through his desk drawers in search of anything. Rummaging through the files and rooting through the papers, you can only make out a handful of writing. God damn language barrier! You hadn't even considered that. Nevertheless, you're reading a file that's cryptically titled, yet has a load of information you do recognize. Across the pages are things scattered; 'Task Force 141', 'Simon Riley, the Ghost', 'Kyle Garrick', 'Captain Johnathan Price', and finally, the one you were dreadfully looking for: 'John MacTavish'.

There's the mechanic churning and click of the doorknob that alerts you to someone's presence. Heart accelerating its thump in your chest, you quickly shut the drawer as the door begins to open.

"What do you think you're doing?" Makarov's angry voice leaves you stuck still with baited breath as you slowly turn to meet his laser-focused gaze.

~~~~~~~~

translations:

ждать = wait

говно = shit

приехать = come

сидеть = sit

салат оливье = olivier salad (which i made the other day and it was... 😘👌scrumptious)

это хорошо = it's good

хороший = good

да = yes

что = what

ты = you

любишь = love (though reader is more trying to ask 'what's your favorite? it would be different words, but she's trying lmao)

наверное Котлеты = probably cutlets

курица = chicken

________

Forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

TLR taglist: @penelopepine

[nekrosmos]

I dreamed that I had found a rare screenshot of a shirtless Nikolai all sweaty in this fit and I swear I had to check if it wasn't real for a sec. Adding it to the list I guess.