#vladimir makarov masterlist | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bitterrfruit · 2 months ago

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houndtooth [7]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

The air of your cell is thick and savoury like soup. You choke on it, every breath, drowning in it – filling your lungs with its foul warmth and barely slaking your battered body’s need for oxygen.

The sore minutes following your husband’s execution had blurred into incomprehensible smoke. Fleeting. Suffocating. Obfuscating.

You are lost. Uncertain whether or not you are grieving. And if you’re not, whether you should be.

His words were each a bullet, each meticulously calculated to injure you where it would hurt you most. Almost perfectly crafted to ensure your captors lose any semblance of pity or reverence they held for you – so that they might lose whatever restraint they’ve been attempting to maintain. So that they may do to you whatever they have been itching to do. Their exploitation justified. Because you’re just a whore.

But in your desperation to comfort your own distraught mind, you argue with yourself. Your own devil’s advocate.

Perhaps it was a game. Could have been a bluff.

He must have loved you, right? After years of serving him, of acting your part, of loving him the way he wanted you to.

He had to have loved you. You had always dreamed someone would.

No matter the case, the outcome is the same. There’s no way back. Whatever nightmare you’re stuck in will only, only, get worse. Regardless of which pack of wolves you are left to, your fate remains inescapable. You’ll be used. Consumed. Digested. Shit back out.

The Captain had ferried you to a new cell – the one you now sat in, atop a makeshift bed with a squealing steel frame. He had carried you like a child, an arm under your knees and an arm under your neck, he let your head fall on his chest despite your fading effort to stay skittish and defensive. His charity disingenuous. White knight he is.

But you’re weak. Exhausted. Delirious.

You sit in dead silence, knees tucked up tightly to your chin, body only partially dry after your water torture.

The Captain stands in front of you. Hands magisterially on his hips, he pouts under his beard. Wrestling with how best to interact with you, like you’re an animal in an exhibit. Careful not to scare you off, but frightened you’d bite if he gets too close.

“There were no bullets in the gun, by the way,” he says gruffly, voice hoarse like he’s gargling gravel. “I wasn’t going to kill you. It was a… a bluff.”

You say nothing. Give him nothing. You glower at him from under your brow, hoping he leaves so you can finally lie down and cry like a hurt little girl.

“Can I get you something? Water?”

You say nothing.

“Look. We’re – we’re not going to hurt you. But I need you to answer some questions, alright?” He insists. “We need to know about who your husband worked with. I’m guessing he must have called them his colleagues, eh?”

Give him nothing.

“Do you know a Vladimir? Makarov?”

That name, you know. You know it well. You know it like an apple knows teeth. Like a deer knows an arrow. Like a carcass knows a knife.

Less so a colleague and more a rival. Two lions fighting for the same throne. Vladimir hated your husband so viciously it wouldn’t surprise you if he had orchestrated this entire series of events just to be rid of him.

But the enmity between he and your husband isn’t what strikes icy shards of terror through your chest. Isn’t what churns your stomach and pushes dark bile up your throat.

You swallow.

“Mh. Looks like you do know him,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his broad chest, rocking on his boots. “Can you tell me about him?”

He persists in his questioning, despite your sealed lips. You know that talking might help you. That spilling your vague knowledge like water from a faucet might ingratiate you. Might earn your freedom.

But what freedom awaits you?

If these soldiers cast you back to your blood-soaked estate, or your petit trianon – as a traitor of your husband, a scorned widow – you will simply be bait. Raw meat to lure bears. Honey to lure wasps. There is nowhere you could possibly hide to evade them, no scheme to outsmart them.

You’d be better off dead.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Did he come to your estate a lot? Did he travel with your husband?”

“Have you ever spoken to him?”

“Does he know you?”

“Could he help you?”

“Where is he?”

He leans forward, props himself up with his palms on his knees. His blue eyes are piercing, discerning. “Do you know where he is?” He insists, “Mia. I’m trying to help you.”

You say nothing.

He is quick to grow frustrated, grunting like a bear and standing upright, he rubs his temples in exasperation as if you’ve given him a headache.

“You don’t want to talk to me. Okay.”

Give him nothing.

“Who will you talk to? Anyone?” He presses, tapping his boot in impatience. “Do you want to talk to the Lieutenant?”

You say nothing – but some shift in your expression must have said something for you. You’re not sure if it was the widening of your eyes, the softening of your brows, the loosening of your shoulders – but he spotted it. And nodded slowly. Knowingly.

“Alright, love. I’ll go get him. Then you’ll talk to him, eh?”

“Simon,” came the gruff bark of Price’s familiar voice. Irate.

Ghost sat on a bench in the empty mess hall, under a flickering fluorescent bar. Bouncing his knee, leaning his elbows on the table in front of him, he pinches a cheap Russian cigarette and holds it between his teeth.

Tastes like shit. Does the job.

“What,” he grunts, swivelling on the bench so that he faces out towards the approaching Captain. “Did she kick y’in the head, too?”

Price only frowns, confused and plainly irritated, he comes to a stop before him and crosses his arms. “No,” he puzzles. “She kicked you, eh? That’ll learn you.”

Leaning back indolently, Ghost tugs the base of his balaclava back over his mouth, tucking it under his jaw. Squishes the butt into the plastic surface of the table behind him. “Not me.”

“Mh,” the Captain acquiesces. “She does seem to like you.”

Ghost only scoffs, not quite a laugh, but carries the same disbelieving amusement. “Right,” he chuffs, “for killing her husband?”

“Possibly,” Price shrugs derisively, “beats me.”

“Has she said anything?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Like talking to a brick wall,” the Captain complains. “A pretty little brick wall.”

Ghost rolls his eyes, turning his head to look at the open door to the hall. He rubs his brow vexedly with his thumb. And you chide me, you hypocritical prick.

“She’ll talk to you,” Price insists.

“Why the fuck would she talk to me?” Ghost retorts. “I waterboarded her.”

“I asked her.”

“What, and she requested me?”

Price tilts his head, a lazy shrug. “Not in so many words.”

“Right. So you’re full of shit.”

“Jesus, Simon. Don’t make me order you,” Price sneers, “No clue why she’s interested in you, but, you never know with women like that, eh?”

His stomach churns at Price’s insinuation. Must have taken your cunt husband’s ramblings at face value. Rookie error for a captain.

Ghost bounces his knee in annoyance. “Just let her sleep, for fuck’s sake. She’s probably delirious.”

“Exactly,” Price nods. “She’ll be nice and compliant, eh? Open to persuasion.”

He's right. Ghost is playing dumb. He’s very familiar with the game, so fluent in the art of exploitation that he could do it with his eyes closed. Beaten, defeated, worn down to a quivering mess is when you’ll be most susceptible to influence. The most pliable.

Letting you sleep, allowing you to recover your strength as you cocoon yourself in your shell is a surefire way to ensure you never utter another word. He can’t let your fear bubble into spite, into anger, into vengeance. He must kick you when you’re down.

But – he's tired. He’s already fucking sick of it. Sick of being confused by his own repulsion. Sick of his pathetic eyes raking over your body despite his efforts to restrain it. Sick of your eyes looking through him like you know him better than himself.

“Too delirious to give us anything useful,” Ghost clarifies, through teeth.

“I don’t give a shit about whatever vapid rumours she has about Zakhaev. It’s pretty clear she knows nothing about his enterprise.”

“Then why the fuck do you want me to keep interrogating her?”

“I don’t want you to interrogate her, Simon,” Price badgers, “I want you to convince her.”

Ghost frowns, crosses his arms testily.

“Convince her to what?”

Ghost hears the squeaking of your shoddy bed as he brutishly unlocks and opens the door to your cell.

You had been lying on your side, curled up like a foetus on the mattress – but the second you are disturbed, you sit yourself upright. Alert. Frightened. Skittish. Stare at him like a cornered cat.

Looks like you’ve been crying. Eyes red and swollen, cheeks glistening with the afterglow of your tears. Your lips part just slightly as your weary eyes land on him, as though a rush of air just escaped your lungs. He shuts the door behind him, stands in the middle of your small cell with crossed arms.

He mines his thoughts for words to say. Finds them turning to ash on his tongue.

“Sorry about your husband,” he says, eventually, tone more facetious than he had intended.

He sees the cinder flickering in those sparkling little eyes, your chest rises as you inhale in preparation for your retort. “How can you – how can you say sorry for killing–”

“Not for killing him,” he clarifies with a grunt. “Sorry that you married him.”

That leaves you quiet. You look sour, because he’s right.

“Was he always like that?” He persists, feels the snake of spite rising to his throat, needlessly adding an air of mocking derision to his words. “Did–”

“Why are you here,” you snap to cut him off. Your cadence needle sharp, so starkly at odds to the sweetness of your earlier pleading. Nothing left to beg for, he supposes.

Ghost draws in an impatient breath. He doesn’t want to be here either. “Boss said you’d talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you grumble, voice wavering. Pouting at him. Cute.

He sucks his teeth. “Right,” he scoffs. “Yet you’re talkin’ to me, aren’t you?”

You fall quiet again, pulling your knees up to your chest, you clutch your bare feet with agitated fingers. “He’s nicer than you,” you mutter scornfully.

“I bet,” he agrees dully. “But you won’t talk to him.”

“Don’t trust him.”

“Oh?” He queries cynically, “so you trust me?”

You seem to think for a pointed moment before you speak. Wet stare lands on him, scans from boots to head, evaluating.

“You do what you say you will,” you bitterly admit, and he can see it pains you to say so.

Christ.

You trust him? Or, rather, whatever tentative hopeful dependence that you are forced to rely on in a predicament as dire as yours. Still. He squirms at the thought that you’ve decided he’s the best you’ve got. You’ll be sorely disappointed.

Won’t you?

“Have you got more questions for me,” You ask flatly, breaking the off-putting silence.

The defeat in your voice is like nails on a chalkboard. He’d rather you be hysterical, tearful and delirious, overwhelmed with grief but a still riddled with a desperation to survive.

Instead you’re merely hushed and trembling. Perhaps you’re in shock. Perhaps you’ve got a plan. But, what he is most fearful of, is the likelihood you’ve given up. No desire to fight for whatever life might await you now that your husband is out of the picture.

Detrimental to their entire operation, yes. They have no leverage to use against you if you have no interest in staying alive. 

More than that, though, he needs you to keep fighting him. To berate and antagonise and kick and scream. All of his adversaries would viciously resist him and that would justify Ghost’s brutality. When his blistering hatred for you was at its peak, not ten hours ago, he could justify hurting you as badly as he wanted to.

Now what?

How can he bring himself brutalise you when you look at him like that? Teary-eyed, shaking in either cold or panic - but giving him no resistance? No talk-back, no threats, no ploys to escape?

How can he hurt you any further?

He can tell you just want to sleep. Your lids are heavy and swollen despite how hard you try to keep your eyes open and vigilant. Poor thing.

Ghost shakes his head, stepping towards a steel chair that sits propped against the wall. He lifts it with ease, twisting it in the air and putting it down in front of your bed – sits in it casually, leans back. Thighs spread and fingers interwoven in his lap, he bounces his knee as he chews on his response.

“If you’ve got information we can use, sure.”

You sigh deeply and slowly, picking at the cherry-red polish on your toenail with a ferocity that appears to him like self-flagellation. “I don’t know what information I have. Let alone whether it’s useful.”

“’Alright,” he huffs, takes a minute to think of the question. “Said you’re from Nottingham, yeah? How’d you meet him?”

A crease forms in your brow as your dubious eyes jump around his face, searching for an intention. You won’t find one. He doesn’t know what it was.

“How is that useful information,” you seethe.

He shrugs indifferently. “Need details.”

You huff as though reluctant, looking at your feet. “I met him in Berlin.”

He stays silent, and when your stare quickly jumps to him for approval, he gestures with his brutish hand to elaborate. Unsatisfactory answer.

Your gaze returns to your toes. Focusing as you scrape the glossy red paint with your fingernails, leaving specks that look like dried blood on the dirty mattress.

“I was a dancer. Um – he came into the club I danced in, with some other men. All in expensive suits. Rich men like that are cheap. Usually never spend a thing. Still want a piece.”

A stripper. Not what Ghost would have guessed. But he can picture it, all the same. And he does. Pictures you spinning on a slippery pole, peeling off a lacy bra, slender little hands stroking over your buttery body as you present yourself to dogs like meat.

He grounds himself with a clearing of his throat. “S’that right.”

“Mhm,” you answer distastefully. “Was always the working boys that spoiled us. Wanted to spend what little money they had just to please. Just because they could. Men in suits, they want what they pay for. And they pay next to nothing because that’s what we’re worth to them.”

“And Zakhaev…?”

You draw in a slow breath. “Victor was different.”

That’s it? C’mon, love. His silence an insistence to continue. And you do.

“I dunno,” you sniff, he sees your eyes swell red. “I guess he saw something valuable in me.”

He chastises himself for his interest. Why the fuck does he care how a whore comes across a man like Zakhaev? Billionaire wants a trophy wife, so he buys one. It should be no surprise at all.

“So he bought you, eh?” Ghost asks harshly, and your wet and angry stare shoots daggers at him in response.

But you relent. Maybe he’s right. Your gaze returns to your toes and wipe your nose with the back of your hand.

“He gave me fifty-thousand euros for a private dance.”

Fucking hell.

Can’t even fathom spending that much money on anything. But when he looks at you… if he had that kind of money, maybe he’d do the same.

Nearly smacks himself at the thought.

“Generous,” he says instead, disdain on his tongue.

“He was sweet,” you continue, voice wavering as you visibly swallow the urge to cry. “He – he said he could save me. Would take me to his nice house and protect me. Said he’d treat me like a goddess.”

Ghost snorts spitefully. “Did he?”

You scowl at him. “Yes, he did.”

A knife of guilt plunges through his sternum, a truly unfamiliar sting.

Did you love him?

He cannot fathom that you could have. Not after that repulsive tirade, so unbearable to hear he felt compelled to execute him just to make it stop. He thought he had done you a favour. Still mostly believes he has.

“Didn’t sound like it,” Ghost remarks derisively.

You chew your lip. “It’s your fault he snapped,” you murmur, under breath. Doesn’t sound like you believe what you’re saying. “He was – he was good to me.”

He sniffs, licks his teeth. “You had bruises.”

“Fucking ‘course I have bruises, you tortured me.” You hiss.

Shakes his head. “Before,” he ripostes. “You had bruises on your collarbone. On your thighs. From him, eh?”

You bite down on your tongue, he sees your eyes well. Must have prodded a sore spot.

“What is this? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you he beat me so you feel better about murdering him?”

That sparks his anger.

“You think that would make me feel better?” He barks, “I feel fucking fantastic. Shooting that cunt is the best thing I’ve done all week.”

“You’re sick,” you breathe.

“I’m sick? Do you know what your fuckin’ husband did? Do you know what he was?”

“He was a businessman,” you utter, unconvincingly.

“He was a mass-fucking-murderer. He started a war. You wanna know what the body count for that is?”

You fall quiet. Shivering and tearful. But you listen.

“Your husband was busy building bombs. Chemical weapons. Busy selling explosives to fucking terrorist militias in the middle east. Paid for the bombings in London last year. I’m fuckin’ proud that I shot him, whether or not he beat you.”

You’re ghostly. Blood drained completely from your apple cheeks. Your mouth opens to sip a trembling breath, and your tears begin their cascade.

“I didn’t know,” you whimper.

“’Course you didn’t,” he chides doubtfully.

You heave in a whining sob, tears dripping off your chin as you plunge your face against your knees. Was that your last straw, little thing?

“I didn’t,” you stutter, snivelling. “I – I knew he… he was an arms dealer. Just an arms dealer.”

He’s nauseated at the sight of you sobbing so sorely. Finds himself wondering you look like when you smile.

“He was a warlord.”

You sob, dropping your knees open so you sit cross-legged, Ghost’s eyes shoot between your legs. Get a fucking grip. Watching you cry and still stealing his glances? Can’t help it. You cry too pretty.

You move the focus of your self-mutilation from your toes to your fingernails, picking off the lacquer. You sniffle quietly for a minute, and he lets you. What else can he say to you? He’s not much interested in comforting you.

But there’s an ache, sharp and yet nebulous. The acknowledgement that you didn’t know the extent of your husband’s evil. That he likely kept it hidden from you. Or you, hidden from it. That your torture was fruitless and extraneous. Cruelty for the sake of it.

“What happens now,” you ask, near-whisper.

Ghost leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, lets his hands hang nonchalantly. “Still got one use for you.”

Your stare lands on him carefully. You breathe as though preparing yourself, a tear lands in the corner of your parted lips. You uncross your legs, hanging them slowly off the edge of the bed, hands turn to fists on your knees.

“I thought you weren’t interested,” you squeak.

Ghost’s jaw clenches inadvertently, biting down on nothing. Knows what you’re implying. Do you think he’s here to rape you? Here to unwrap you, to tear off that tissue that barely conceals the prize?

His glower is probably serving as evidence. Boring into you with a hunger beyond his control. Jesus. Control yourself.

He could do it. Fulfil your suggestion, accept your offers. Play the role of the lecherous hound you believe him to be.

You’d let him.

You’d lie face down on that bed for him. You’d let him hitch up your hips, presenting your soft pussy for him to take. You’d let him rake down those pathetic pink knickers. You’d let him spit on his fingers and push them into you, to prepare you for the incursion of his spiteful cock. He’d curl and drive them deep, he’d make sure your pussy releases a spate of its sweet liquor just for him.  

You’d probably whine sweetly – in pain, at first, as he penetrates you, as your cunt stretches to fit him. But those muffled whimpers into the mattress would evolve into cries of shameful rapture, poignantly humiliated by how good it feels when he fucks you. He’d fuck you slowly. Deeply. He’d make sure the blunt head of his cock rams into that aching spot that makes you squeal.

He’d coat his thumb in your syrup, he’d press the pad of it against your puckered hole. He’d listen to your cloying noises as he pushes it, popping past your tight, clenching entrance, easing it in until he’s knuckle deep. He’d feel his cock rutting in and out of you, through the thin fleshy wall between your holes. He’d feel it cinch so tightly around his thumb, pulsing in rhythm with the abashing orgasm that he fucks out of you. He’d threaten to pump you full of his come, and when you only mewl wetly in response, no dispute, fucked drunk; he’d oblige you.

He’d let you think he’s finished. He’d give you a moment to breathe, as he pulls out of you, as his hot come drips from you, coating your thighs. Your pussy would look too pretty drenched in a concoction of your fluids and his, twitching still in the aftershock.

So he’d flip you, hoist up your soft body by the hips as he sucks your cunt into his mouth. He’d eat another orgasm out of you, voracious and messy, he’d swallow it, and continue; just to feel you writhe in dispute of the overstimulation, just to listen to the squeals of contest that squeak from your wet throat.

He’d leave you choking, panting for air, as he allows you to recover. He’d let you sleep, and he’d know that you’d dream of him.

You fucking animal.

Pulled back to reality by a shivering sigh from your chest - he’s repulsed by himself. Reels in self-loathing as his cock jolts behind his trousers, swelling in anticipation of a crime he won’t commit.

His peers have chastised him for being a beast. An uncaring monster. The kind of animal that would fuck you while you cry, that would take pride in making it hurt. 

They’re wrong.

You simply look at him, pupils stretched wide and dark, glassy with worry. Your cunt might be pulsing in between the thighs you hold together so tightly, readying itself for him, preparing for the worst.

No, little rabbit, he wouldn’t do that to you. Not unless you beg him for it.

So he leans back in his seat, feigning disinterest, hoping you don’t notice the turgid heat that radiates from him.

“Not that, sweetheart,” he sighs hoarsely. “We’ve got a more important use for you.”

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mackjlee9 · 1 year ago

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Task Force 141 x Male!Reader x Vladimir Makarov [Angst&Smut] |commission|

Warning; ghost x male reader, bad use of Russian sorry, violence, mentions of manipulation, short smut scene... Uh I might be forgetting something.

Masterlist. Commissions Rules.

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 (2022)

Every day was the same as it always was. He couldn't remember a day when waking up wasn't painful, surrounded by people screaming and groaning in pain while there was some cheering in the background.

He couldn't help but cringe at the sound of bones breaking, followed by the loudest cheering yet, letting everyone know there has been a "winner". (M/n) doesn't know how many days, weeks, months, or even years have passed since the first time he was taken to this place, but nothing had changed since his first day. He had been close to death more times than he could even remember.

Everything he knew about the place he was in is that its some kind of prison, and they were being kept in their cells or " rooms" until the next fight, the so-called; death arena. And well, yeah, it's exactly what you think it is.

Each passing day was a blur, mostly because he would be resting for days after being called to another fight, hating having to end someone's life just to entertain others. But one day, that fateful day, his life changed. For better or for worse, he couldn't tell, but it did.

A man named Makarov told a tale of how he had heard of this place, and he came by to maybe... buy one of their fighters, preferably, the strongest one.

That's how (M/n) found himself being woken up with freezing water was thrown on his face, making him jolt awake as he choked, having a hard time breathing.

"Get up, scum, you're leaving," he was roughly pushed out of his thin mattress, stumbling his way out of his cell and falling on his knees in front of an unknown male. He looked up and made eye contact with cold blue eyes, his (e/c) eyes observing every facial feature of the man, watching him smirking while breaking eye contact.

"I'll be going then," (M/n) watched the man reach his hand down to grab onto the chain attached to the collar he was wearing, "Let's go then, igrushka," blinking a few times, (M/n) got back up on his trembling legs and followed the men that kept tugging on his chain.

The moment the stepped outside he closed his eyes from the stinging pain caused by the natural light. He stood still, groaning as he covered his eyes, but soon, he was forced to keep walking.

"He looks like shit, Makarov," the mocking laugh of another man startled him, squinting and peeking through his fingers. Apparently, the man taking him was named Makarov... What a nice name...

And that was the beginning of it all.

At first, because of the lack of mental and emotional support (M/n) found himself clinging to Makarov as if his life depended on it, following after him like a lost puppy, developing some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. (M/n) felt in love with Makarov.

Or thought he did.

And Makarov took advantage of that, using him as if he was nothing but a toy for his pleasure, for his enjoyment, hearing (M/n) mumbling quietly 'I love you's at him, words Makarov could only chuckle at. Despite never hearing it back, the movement of Makarov's hips quickened, and (M/n) could only hold onto the male's hips as he thrusts his hips up, whining at the tight feeling around his cock, and that was all the reassurance he needed.

///////

(M/n) lived like that for years, following Makarov around, obediently listening to his orders, feeling like he lost bits and pieces of his soul whenever he was sent out to kill more people, constantly needing his love and reassurance to be able to continue on, but he was always met with being called a bother, or being told to move 'cause he was in the way, that he was a nuisance.

He was okay with that, telling himself that Makarov was just having a bad day, and he just had to unwind. (M/n) would let him, he will always let Makarov do anything he pleased.

But one night, (M/n) couldn't sleep. He kept turning around on his bed, it was one of those nights where the memories flashed in his mind, and it only got worse with the stress and self-doubt he felt during the day.

He took a deep breath and got up from the bed, slowly opening the door to his room, and walked around the halls of the facility he had memorized like the back of his hand for a short while, trying to clear his mind, dragging his bare feet on the cold ground.

His mind wandered around, observing the small details on the walls, noticing new scratches here and there, another piece of it peeling off, counting every step he took when he overhead voices nearby. (M/n) slowed his breathing, taking careful steps and pressing himself against the wall, peeking through one of the hall windows. Makarov was there, alongside Viktor, Kiril, and Lev.

"That igrushka has been getting on my nerves recently..." (M/n) held his breath for a moment, feeling his chest hurting at Makarov's words, "I'm gonna get rid of him, for good. He's useless now, and he's easily disposable."

The sound of him cocking his pistol made him release a gasp, and he saw how everyone turned toward the window, but (M/n) had turned around and was running toward the only exit that was open at this time of night. He could hear footsteps behind him, Makarov's voice calling him. Igrushka. Igrushka!

A single ricocheted by his head, making him halt for a moment, but he had to keep going, or he was gonna be a dead man soon. He didn't have much to live for anyway but... He didn't wanna die like this.

//////

His breath was ragged, his lungs painfully pressing against his ribs with every breath he took, his body trembling from the cold touch of the snowflakes landing on his exposed skin.

He had wandered around for long enough to see the sun rising on the horizon, his feet and hands numb, hugging himself to try and feel somehow heated, of course, it was a futile attempt. (M/n) walked for a few more minutes, wandering as far away as he could, but eventually, his body gave out, and passed out.

Being honest with himself, that's the last thing he's able to remember of that day, he's not sure what happened to him afterward, he only knows that he had woken up at a military medical base a few days later.

A man wearing a bucket hat approached him when he realized he was awake.

"Hey, nice to see you awake," (M/n) looked at him for a moment before blinking a few times while looking back down at his hands, "So..." The men sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath, "You got a name?"

Releasing a shaky breath, he nodded slowly, "I'm... (M/n)..." He added shortly, his voice meek and quiet, feeling his body tense and stiff with every small moment.

"Well, I'm John, John Price."

Unfortunately for Price, he hadn't been able to get anything else out of (M/n), except for the small 'no, sir' when he asked him if he had a place to stay. Price didn't know what the poor guy had gone through, but he was able to tell it wasn't nice by all the scars and fresh wounds on his body.

"Tell you what," Price stands up and beckons (M/n) to come with him, "You can stay with me and my team, if you don't mind," for a moment, (M/n) was skeptical, thinking this was gonna be the same situation it was with Makarov, but there was something in Price's eyes that made him trust him, not sure why, but he nodded at him and took the man's hand, accepting his help to stand up.

//////

Reaching their base was a long, silent, and tense car ride, (M/n) stared out the window the whole time, too out of himself to be able to speak normally for the time being, but eventually, he was brought back from within his mind to get out of the military jeep and following Price silently, ignoring curious looks he got because of his appearance, or just 'cause he was a new face around, he didn't know and he didn't care. Even so, his eyes looked around for a short while, realizing this place was the same as where he was with Makarov, everything seemed so similar yet so different from that place.

It was odd, as if he was just realizing that Makarov was the bad guy in all of this.

"And this is the 141 team," Price's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and everyone in the room looked at him making him flinch and lower his head, "Guys, this is (M/n), and... He's gonna stay here for a while."

Getting to know everyone around him proved to be difficult, but Soap and Gaz did their best to make him feel welcome. He felt at home, he felt safe. And he couldn't be more than grateful to Price for the chance of living a better life. (M/n) never said anything about his past, about the fights in that dead arena, about his relationship with Makarov, he never uttered a word about it, just briefly mentioning that he had a rough life ever since he was a kid.

Everyone was nice to him and treated him like one of them, which is exactly why he asked Price, if there was any way he could join the Task Force 141 team, and be with them because they were all he had.

It almost seemed like it was meant to be, like he was meant to be there his whole life. He had been discovering new sides and aspects of his personality, there was this bitter taste in the back of his mouth whenever he remembered how submissive he used to be, but now?

Now he had Lieutenant Riley cumming undone under him, almost unable to keep his moans and cries of pleasure quiet.

(M/n) kept a tight grip on Simon's hips, his thrusts deep and rough, barely pulling out as he watched closely every reaction on his face, observing his body shivering and squirming, trying to keep his noises down, but it was so hard when he felt like his guts were being rearranged, his eyes rolling back with every hit on his prostate.

"You like that, hm?" (M/n) whispered, reaching a hand up to wrap it around Simon's neck, not applying pressure, just keeping it there. The blond looked at him through wet eyelashes, nodding as many times as he could, whining while lifting his hips off the bed.

(M/n) chuckled and leaned down, pressing their lips together, as he stopped his movements, enjoying the desperate whines and pleas coming out of Simon's mouth.

"Don't stop, please- don't stop~ I'm gonna cum," licking his lips, (M/n) leaned back, determined on making Simon cum so many times he begs him to stop because it's too much for his sensitive cock, "(M/n)..."

His voice cut off as his mouth opened wide in a silent moan, his hips lifted and his back arching off the bed, his hands gripping the bedsheets, mumbling curses over and over, muttering how close he was to cumming.

But (M/n) didn't stop once Simon's cum stained his abdomen, his thrust only got faster and rougher, "Cum again for me, baby, come on I know you got it in ya'."

Simon whimpered as he shook his head no, his hands gripping (M/n)'s wrists, "No no no, please... I-I can't-!" He mumbled, crying at how sensitive his body felt, "Can't... Cum an-anymore, please!"

Groaning, (M/n) wrapped his hand around Simon's cock, hearing his cries getting louder as his body trembled under his grip, and with a few strokes of his hand, his flushed red cock was twitching as he came again, making a mess of himself.

Neither of them know how long they kept going, but they were certainly left out of breath and exhausted after that, cuddling and holding onto each other tightly.

To be honest, (M/n) never thought- well, he did, it was more like he never believed he would be able to live a happy life after all that had happened to him before now, but he wanted to enjoy, even when, a few hours later when the sun had begun rising, something was nagging him in the back of his mind, telling him that this happiness not only, wasn't gonna last forever, but it was gonna be shorter than be expected.

//////

This mission was important, extremely so.

Price briefed them, explaining the situation to them the best he could before showing them the picture of the men they had to stop and capture. (M/n) knew what he was getting into when his eyes hardened, looking at Makarov's features with hatred and disgust. He used to think that man had saved him... But he only took him from a shithole to another shithole, effectively leaving him more scarred than he already was.

He simply sighed and clenched his fists, Ghost noticed this and turned to look at (M/n), he seemed to be disturbed by something, taking note of how hard he was glaring at the picture on the table, placed atop the marked map where tactics had been carefully mapped. He wanted to ask, but he figured (M/n), like every other person in the room, had a personal vendetta against Makarov.

Immediately as the briefing was over, they were rushed to the army jeeps, spending the ride in silence or sleeping, but Ghost couldn't stop looking at (M/n), who had avoided any kind of physical contact for longer than need, the frown in his brow seemed to deepen with every passing minute, and he was worried, maybe... This was more personal than he had guessed.

Whilst the mission was rather "easy" capturing Makarov himself wasn't, the man was so used to escaping over and over again that he had many routes to go underground and just disappear. But (M/n) knows this place, it may not be Makarov's main hideout, but he has been here a couple of times, and he's well aware of all the places the Russian could go and knew exactly which one he was going to pick, it's his favourite go-to after all.

"Makarov!" (M/n)'s voice echoed off the tunnels as he followed the men, watching with rage eyes as he slowly came to a stop, chuckling as he turned around to face him.

Holding his pistol up and steady, (M/n) knew he had a clean shot to bring the man down, forever, but that wasn't their mission. He had to capture Makarov, alive. Maybe a few broken bones too.

"So you survived... All this time I thought my little plaything had died, but look at you..." Makarov took a step forward, his hand reaching behind him and (M/n) got ready to shoot him if he had to, but the Russian just tossed his pistol aside, getting rid of his assault rifle, gripping the handle of his knife, "Let's do this like real men, kid."

Taking a step to the right, (M/n) managed to dodge Makarov's attack, but he quickly realized that he needed both his hands to be able to fight him so, with gritted teeth, he threw his pistol and took his combat knife, taking a firm stance in front of Makarov, watching the cheeky smirk on his face... It made his blood boil.

This fight dragged on for longer than he expected, beginning to struggle against the punches, the kicks, and the knife swinging at him. (M/n) had been so sure that, even if he hadn't forgotten, he was over everything Makarov did to him, but he couldn't have been more wrong, the constants flashes of images appearing in his mind every time he blinked told him so, and Makarov had taken advantage of his state to pin him down to the ground.

"Only one of us is gonna get out alive of this one, igrushka." Makarov had ditched the knife and had wrapped his hands around (M/n)'s neck, sneering down at him, "Goodbye-"

Before he could finish his phrase, Ghost had sneaked up behind him after following all the grunts and groans, gripping his submachine gun and raising it, hitting the back of Makarov's head with the stock, successfully knocking him unconscious.

Ghost kicked Makarov off of (M/n)'s body, who was coughing as the oxygen returned to his lungs. His eyes saw Simon's boots, and he struggled to get back on his feet, dismissing the helping hand the blond wanted to give him.

"Let's... Just go... Fuck..." He muttered between coughs and groans as he stumbled his way out, knowing Simon was following him with Makarov on his shoulders.

He ignored the heavy stare in the back of his head as he reached for his pistol and holstered it, making the selective decision to leave his knife behind... He could always get a new one.

//////

Everyone was in the interrogation room, waiting for Makarov to wake up. (M/n) was tense and on edge, deciding on standing in the shadows, where he knew he couldn't be seen.

That's why he hated the shiver that ran down his spine when Makarov's eyes stared right into his, he knew he was there, he could hear his breathing over everyone else's. Fuck, even now, Makarov knew exactly how to get in (M/n)'s mind to destabilize him.

"It's been so long... Igrushka," the sound of his mocking voice and the words directed at him, made (M/n) blink a few times, looking away into the dark as he tried to ignore the flashing images in his mind, making him feel sick and disgusted.

"Go die, scum," Makarov laughed at his words, causing his body to shiver and tremble, (M/n)'s senses were heightened, able to feel everyone's stare on him, and he hated being in that place, in that specific situation, and Ghost had realized that, he was about to walk toward him, but Makarov spoke again.

"I guess you don't anything about him. Not at all."

Done with his games, Price pulled harder on the chain around Makarov's throat, making him choke but his expression of superiority never faltered.

"You know? I missed you, so much, we used to have so much fun together, and... We were so happy, but then you left, now I understand why," the sounds of his sweet and psychotic voice (M/n) snap. He was making it seem like they were actually a happy couple... How sickening. Everything Makarov had said made him feel sick.

With gritted teeth and clenched fists, (M/n) launched at him, fury burning in his (e/c) eyes.

"All you did was used me! You played with me! You ruined my life!" Before he could get close to hurting the men chained to the chair, Ghost and Soap held him back. Everyone watched how (M/n) struggled for a few seconds before falling to his knees, tears streaming down his face, eyes empty and void of all emotion, "I wanted to die every day I was with you, so don't you fucking dare say we were happy, Vladimir."

++++

@xdark-acadamiax thank you for your commission!

#.~commissions for lee~.#ghost x male reader #simon riley x male reader #task force 141 x reader #tf141 x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x male reader #cod x reader #cod x male reader #angst #smut #male reader #x reader #reader insert #top male reader #.mackjlee9 writes

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miguel-owhora · 1 year ago

Text

MASTERLIST GALORE

to be regularly updated :)

ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE

MIGUEL O'HARA - PETER B. PARKER

CALL OF DUTY

JOHN PRICE - KYLE GARRICK - SIMON RILEY - JOHN MACTAVISH - PHILLIP GRAVES - KONIG - VLADIMIR MAKAROV

MOON KNIGHT

STEVEN GRANT - MARC SPECTOR - JAKE LOCKLEY

RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2

ARTHUR MORGAN - DUTCH VAN DER LINDE - HOSEA MATTHEWS - MICAH BELL - BILL WILLIAMSON - KIERAN DUFFY - SEAN MACGUIRE

MISC

OTHER SHIT - MINOR CHARACTERS - TASK FORCE 141 - AUS - MODERN COLLEGE!MORBELL/REACTION YOUTUBER!MICAH AU

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the-fruitpunch-clown · 2 months ago

Text

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

my 2024 kinktober masterlist! just a heads up, not every day will be a full fic, some may be blurbs, hcs, etc and i will update this list accordingly every day!! please enjoy<3

(i have yet to decide if these will be cross posted on ao3, but as of right now they will all be tumblr! will send something out if they are on both)

DAY I: cockwarming - Logan Howlett (X-Men)

DAY II: car sex - Mike Schmidt (FNAF movie)

DAY III: oral fixation - John Price (COD: MWII)

DAY IV: bruise marking - Zenkichi Hasegawa (PERSONA 5: Strikers)

DAY V: size difference - Frank Castle (The Punisher)

DAY VI: daddy kink - old man! Logan Howlett (Logan)

DAY VII: virginity loss - Phillip Graves (COD: MWII)

DAY VIII: breeding kink - Vladimir Makarov (COD: MWII)

DAY IX: overstimulation - Crosshair (SW: The Bad Batch)

DAY X: exhibitionism - Johnny “Soap” Mactavish (COD: MWII)

DAY XI: sex pollen - Tech (SW: The Bad Batch)

DAY XII: mirror sex - Matt Murdock (Daredevil)

DAY XIII: temperature play - Hunter (SW: The Bad Batch)

DAY XIV: innocence/corruption kink - Simon Riley (COD: MWII)

DAY XV: thigh riding - Viktor (Arcane)

DAY XVI: hand kink - Tech (SW: The Bad Batch)

DAY XVII: cowboy - Phillip Graves (COD: MWII)

DAY XVIII: praise kink - Remy Lebeau (X-Men)

DAY XIX: threesome - worst! Logan + Wade Wilson (DP+W)

DAY XX: degradation kink - Simon Riley (COD: MWII)

DAY XXI: hunter/prey primal - Logan Howlett (X-Men)

DAY XXII: edging/orgasm denial - Dr. Stephen Strange (Marvel)

DAY XXIII: pain kink/masochism - Logan Howlett (X-Men)

DAY XXIV: piercing - Hunter (SW: The Bad Batch)

DAY XXV: bathroom sex - Matt Murdock (Daredevil)

DAY XXVI: marking - Hunter (SW: The Bad Batch)

DAY XXVII: face sitting - Mike Schmidt (FNAF movie)

DAY XXVIII: jealous/possessive sex - Logan Howlett (X-Men)

DAY XXIX: soft sex - Stanford Pines (Gravity Falls)

DAY XXX: gun play - Frank Castle (The Punisher)

DAY XXXI: pegging - Matt Murdock (Daredevil)

and that is the completed list for kinktober 2024!! i kinda wish i had more variety and less repetitive characters, but since i lack motivation to write in general, i feel like the continuity of certain characters will help :) i’m very excited to start writing!!

all headers, dividers, and graphics are from @/saradika-graphics !!

#kinktober 2024 #xmen #fnaf #cod mw2 #persona 5 strikers #the punisher #logan howlett #the bad batch #daredevil #arcane #deadpool and wolverine #marvel #dr strange #gravity falls #fanfic #smut #x reader

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itsohh · 3 months ago

Text

QWERTY Part 5

A/N: Female reader.

Summary: At Makarov's side, Price sees you for the first time since that night when you first kissed.

Word count: 1573

Warnings: None

AO3 Masterlist Part 4 Part 6

KASTOVIA 2023

Injuries healed. People learned how to live with grief. Buildings could be rebuilt.

The evidence was right in front of you. Despite it all, you couldn't help but feel slightly hopeful when you looked around the airport. The damage you had done since the last time you were there was completely gone, save the plaque at the entrance in dedication to those who lost their lives.

Unlike the rest of your group, you stayed rather close to Vladimir. Side by side the pair of you walked without a word- no words needed to be spoken.

The only time you parted was when you both reached the security. You placed your phone, jewellery and watch on their tray before you walked through the metal detector without complaint. Vladimir was far quicker than you but you had plenty of time.

You weren't obvious to the looks that were exchanged around you, there was simply no need for you to take part in them.

After being cleared you started to put your jewellery back on alongside your watch. Your phone slipped into your pocket. Small clicks of your boots echoed ever so slightly as you walked, they were high by any means. Only a small added heel to the back that still allows you to be practical but fit your appearance.

When you found him Vladimir stood in front of the flight plan and you could see the little camera trained on him. He wanted people to know he was there, a little fuck you to those who tried to stop him. His clenched fist drew your attention and you could feel the tension in his shoulders when you placed a hand on one. It wasn't nerves though, rather pure anger. A seething hatred that could never be fulfilled.

You looked towards the camera and to your surprise he took your hand on his shoulder and brought it up to his lips. The demonstration had your heart race but all for the wrong reasons. Was this a show of care? Or was he deliberately placing a target on your back? Was it an action of control? To make sure you were stuck by his side. You didn't know.

Either way, you allowed the man and gave him a small smile before he let go of it and turned his back from the security camera.

—

UNKNOWN LOCATION 2023

They paused the video after it zoomed in on both you and Makarov.

“Who's the girl?” Gaz asked and looked towards Laswell. There was a look in her eyes and she let out a breath.

“From what we know someone in Inner Circle. Possible second in command. Ex SASR.”

“Australian?” Nik asked and she nodded.

“From what we can tell. There was a case against her for dishonourable discharge but ultimately it was changed to honourable.”

“What happened?” Gaz asked.

“She shot dead three of her squad members in deployment. The case was changed when evidence was found that they had been serial raping local civilians.”

“Fuck.” Soap swore out and Price’s eyes flashed from the picture to Laswell for a moment then back at the picture.

“It was closed relatively quickly and brushed under the rug.”

“How’d she end up working for Makarov?” Nik asked.

“We don't know. Aside from her military career, almost all information about her has been wiped.”

“Makarovs doing no doubt.” Ghost said.

As they continued to talk Prices’s mind wandered through his mind, trying to figure out how exactly he recognised you.

—

ENGLAND 2017

A laugh was shared between the two of you that was soon interrupted by the bartender.

“Sorry guys we've gotta close up shop.”

You nodded to the bartender and started to collect yourself, mainly your bag that was on the counter next to you. When you glanced over to John he skulled the rest of his drink and left the glass on the bar.

He followed you off the stools and out the door. John couldn't help but be surprised at your level of stability, you didn't stumble once. “Surprised you're still standing.” He finally spoke up and you turned around to look at him as you walked backwards.

“You drank a lot more than I did.” He elaborated.

“Were you hoping I'd get drunk?” You raised a brow and he fished for a cigar from his pocket. You clicked your tongue. “Or are you just judging me?”

“Negative. I'm not here to pick and choose how much you drink. You're your own woman. Drink as much as you want. Just want to make sure you're safe.”

The pair of you stared at each other for a moment before your teasing lips curled upwards.

“What do you think I was drinking?”

“Jack and coke?”

“Just coke.” Your eyes watched as he slipped the cigar between his lips and lit it. “No need to worry about me. You on the other hand… I did buy you a decent amount. If anyone is making sure someone is safe I think I should be looking after you.” Your voice was at first humorous but grew gentle.

“I didn't drink much a couple of glasses won't do much to me.”

You looked away and nodded.

“Well in that case I shall let you go home. It was nice meeting you.” When you turned back you had a kind smile on your face and continued to walk.

“You're not walking home are you?” He called out when you turned to start on your journey.

“Home? No, but I am walking to the motel I'm staying at.”

“Alone at night in this area?”

“Don't worry I can look after myself.” You smiled.

“Let me drive you there, it will be a piece of mind that you get there safe.”

“Oh, so walking isn't okay but getting into a car with a man I've never met is?” You took a step towards him.

“I'll walk with you then?” His eyes followed as you came closer.

“I don't even know your name.”

“It's John.”

“Bit obvious for a fake name huh?” You cast your doubts at the man and he sucked on the end of the cigar.

“Could show you ID if you like.”

You took another couple of steps towards the man until you almost touched him.

“ID’s can be faked.” Your voice was matter-of-fact.

“If you don't want to, that's fine by me sweetheart.”

You moved in closer after he took the cigar from his lips. The smoke escaped his parted lips and you replaced them with your own. One arm wrapped around your waist and he pulled you into him. His lips moved as if they were made for you. You both danced in unspoken sync until you suddenly pulled away.

Guilt crossed your face and you looked away. Right away he could tell you regretted it. “Sorry I…”

“No need to apologise. Don't do anything you don't want to.”

Your eyes snapped back to him and you placed your palm on his chest.

“Oh, I want to. I desperately want to but if I don't stop then I'm very much going to let you escort me to my room. And then I'll invite you up and then…” Your voice trailed off. “I don't think I've met a man that has understood me as much as you do. Which is the problem. If we had met any other time…” You closed your eyes and took a step back.

“I have work tomorrow.” Finally you settled.

“Let me take you out for dinner then.”

“No, I'm… I'm moving to another country. It's a big commitment to my new job. Just another reason it sucks I suppose.” Finally you looked up into his eyes. “You’re a good man John. I wish the best life for you.” You turned away and started to walk.

“Let me make sure you’re safe!” He called after you got a few metres away but you waved a hand in the air and brushed him off with a laugh on your lips.

—

UNKNOWN LOCATION 2023

“So Makarovs new girlfriend, is she much of a threat?” Soap asked and Price was finally brought from his memories.

“That's the thing, we don't think she is new. I did some more digging.” Kate brought up a picture into view and Price folded his arms. “This is some of the recovered security footage from Kastovia airport.” The picture zoomed into a blurry still of your face, blood painted your EMT uniform and a handgun was secured in your hand. “In 2017.”

“Is that?” Soap swore under his breath. “Is that what I bloody think it is?”

“It is.” Price confirmed. “While we were out getting Makarov she was leading the attack on the airport wasn't she?”

His mind raved from the soft kind expression in his memory to the hard stoic look in the images. Despite your appearance being almost exactly the same, it was like you were two different people.

“If she's orchestrating as much as he is then we need to take her out of the picture at the same time.” Ghost said.

“There's no way in hell he would have been able to plan all of this in such a short time or in prison. She's been doing his dirty work on the surface.” Soap realised.

“We get to Makarov, we get to her.” Gaz pointed to the original picture.

Nik smiled and spoke. “Let's get to Makarov then shall we?”

#cod x reader #price x reader #john price x reader #vladimir makarov x reader #makarov x reader #mw3 x reader #mw2 x reader #mw2 #cod mw2

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