#vladimir makarov masterlist | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ilium-ilia · 12 days ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Six: coming clean

tw: non-con, violence, blood

“Good evening, ladies.”

Disdain taints Aelin’s face in a dangerous way. Her brows narrow at Makarov, and she tilts her head to the side like a bird sizing up a prey she wishes to peck at. Her nose scrunches as if she’s smelt hot garbage—some noisome odor that makes her stomach curl in her abdomen. Mouth splitting open like delicate fruit, you want to tell her to stay quiet, but the fingers squeezing into your shoulders silences you.

“Excuse me?” Aelin questions. Her eyes dart to Marco’s hands and her fingers visibly twitch as they rest on the table. “Not sure who you blokes think you are, but I’d appreciate it if you got your fucking hands off of my friend.”

The way Marco speaks your name has the sparse contents in your stomach curdling. He leans forward, body pushing against the back of your head so that you can feel the way his chuckle rips through his body. “Oh, don’t worry, we’re good friends. Tell her, babe.”

Aelin’s eyes are on you now. Wide, and beautiful. The most recherché of sapphires. But they’re cracking, confusion spiraling throughout her irises, rooting into the flesh as you swallow down your shame.

“Aelin,” you say, voice quivering.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Price,” Makarov interjects. He leans forward, elbow on the table, head bobbing with a sincere nod. “We don’t intend to take up too much of your time.”

There it is—painful realization. It blossoms in Aelin’s eyes like the way mould consumes the tender flesh of bread. Burrowing deep, tunnelling far enough to feed. Her fingers curl as her gaze hardens into steel, piercing through everyone within sight.

“Vladimir Makarov,” she spits.

The man smiles, polite enough to be infuriating. “A pleasure.”

As the weight of the situation settles over the table like thick brume, you find your attention wandering to your phone. It still sits screen up on the table, waiting for another one of Simon’s check-in texts. You yearn to see it light up. There’s no way you can reach for it—to text and ask for help—but leaving his messages unanswered would stir worry in him. It would get him to come.

It would get him to save you; again.

Makarov speaks your name, and like an obedient animal, your attention turns to him. “You look surprised to see us. I thought you would have learned better than to run by now. It didn’t work last time, now did it?”

Your blood thickens into cruor. Veins and arteries blocked, leaving your eyes bulging in your skull and your ears ringing. He grins as the terrible realization of it all falls across your face—your phone.

Even after all these years, you remember the accident that stole Sean Gilroy’s life from him. The call—the way Andrei tore something from the motherboard before leaving the useless, cracked device behind. Have you fallen victim to the same trap?

Is your ignorance about to kill someone else all over again?

“Marco tells me you were doing well. No late payments, always prompt. Your debt had not been an issue and now you’ve missed four due dates. This is very unlike you. What changed?”

Makarov scolds you like a school teacher concerned about missing assignments and poor test results. Each word he speaks is gentle, but the facade is cellophane thin. The last time you saw him he did not leave without spilling blood, and you are not naive enough to believe that you’ve finally grown lucky enough to earn a different fate this time around.

“Debt?” Aelin repeats. She looks at you, hands flat on the table as she leans forward. “Chip, do you owe them money?” When you can’t bring yourself to answer, her gaze is back on Makarov—thick, and demanding. “How much.”

“Mrs. Price, there’s no need to-”

“I said how much,” she seethes between gritted teeth. “A couple grand? A million? Easy, done. I’ll pay it off. Now can you get the fuck out of here and let us enjoy our dinner?”

There’s bickering. Threats uttered in low tones and mandibles clenching so tight that you can nearly hear the creaking of molars—enamale waiting to crack and shatter. Aelin is fiery. Flames lick on the heel of every word she speaks, fingers tense as she points an accusatory finger at Makarov. You’re not sure how much John has told her about this man, but if she knows well enough to hate him, then she should know well enough to fear him.

But she doesn’t. All sharp teeth, she reaches for her purse, claiming she’s going to call her husband to get this all sorted, but you see the way muscles tense beside her. Andrei, standing tall next to Makarov—his nose is straight but there’s a long scar that crosses the bridge. Old stitches that have just fully healed over. He looks different, but he is the same; hands shoved in the pockets of his jumper, icy eyes watching Aelin move.

It’s the same thing all over again.

All your life ever does is repeat.

“Aelin, don’t. Just- please just- just listen to them,” you beg.

Your words get her to freeze just in time for Andrei to snap her purse—and therefore her phone—far out of reach. Makarov hums, seemingly content as he leans back in his seat.

“It seems you’ve finally managed to learn something,” he muses.

A buzz echoes through the table, temporarily silencing the conversation. All eyes snap to your phone, where the screen illuminates with yet another text from Simon.

Is everything still going okay, baby?

Marco’s chuckle is like sour milk. Long bad. Clotted like blood. He leans over you, fingers digging into your skin as he snatches your phone off of the table. Your heart leaps into your throat as he wraps himself around you, holding the screen up for your attention.

“Unlock this for me, will you, babe?” he purs. Hot mint fans against your cheek, burning your eyes as you open the device with your thumb print.

You are still in that kitchen. In that warehouse. Sitting on that chair. Back against the wall. Hand up your skirt. Wretched flesh against yours.

Yeah. All good.

Marco allows you to get one good look at his fabricated response before he kills the screen and places the phone back on the table face down. “Baby,” he mocks.

“You don’t want to make the same mistake this time as you did with Chief Inspector Gilroy, is that it?” Makarov continues.

At the mention of her father, Aelin’s head perks up. As ice builds in your body, she glances back and forth between you and Makarov, pale brows narrowing as she tries to put the pieces of this puzzle together. But she can’t. She’s fumbling. The edges are too sharp, something you know all too well—you’re surprised she hasn’t noticed the blood on your hands yet.

“Chip?” Her voice is almost enough to lull you out of your panic, but your body still prepares for the asperity. “Chip, what is he talking about?”

Before you have the chance to spill your sins for everyone to see, the waiter returns with his hands occupied with two large plates. He’s all courteous smiles and polite conversation as he sets your meals down on the table, but even you’re sharp enough to catch the uncomfortable looks he throws at the men who have interrupted your girl’s night. When he asks if you need anything else for your meals, Makarov quickly dismisses him.

“You’ve been cooperative so far, it’s a shame to see that you’ve fallen from that after all these years,” Makarov continues once the five of you are left alone again. “If you needed a grace period, all you had to do was ask and-”

“No,” Aelin interrupts sternly. She’s nearly leaping across the table now, torso leaning so far forward that Andrei finds it necessary to put his hand on her shoulder and pull her back. Glaring up at him, she shrugs him off. “What the fuck do you mean? What mistake was made with my dad?”

“His death, of course.” His answer is blunt. A wooden club straight to the skull, occipital fracturing, vision going fuzzy.

Her face goes stiff. All her beauty hardens to stone as a shaky breath expels from her chest. “He died in an accident. A car accident that happened years ago,” she claims firmly.

Their bickering continues to the music of clenching fists and suave smiles followed by poetic interjections that leaves Aelin floundering. And then, there’s you. Sitting in a chair, Marco’s hands wandering over you, tracing down your arms as if he’s comforting you—savoring the feeling of his skin against yours. He’s washing away everything good, and you’re not sure you can get it back.

Not after this.

“I got him killed.” Your claim silences the conversation at the table, and for the first time in your life, you feel your stomach churn at Aelin’s gaze. Bitter confusion settles on her face, and even though it’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen, you force yourself to look her in the eyes. “It’s my fault your dad’s dead.”

“What?” she breathes. You’ve never heard her voice tremble like this before—a rabbit caught in a cage, skin quivering as the slaughter approaches. “N-No, Chip, I’ve told you a million times before, the accident wasn’t your fault, there was-”

“They told me not to go to the police, and I did, and he’s dead because of it,” you cut in. Glazed eyes stare at the center of the table as the steam from your forgotten meal begins to dwindle. Your muscles tense in every place that Marco touches you, and you’re certain you’ll be nothing but a statue of grief after this. “Your dad knew something was wrong. Demanded answers. I knew better, b-but I still told him anyway. He was going to take me down to the station, but his phone… they knew. They knew, and they caused the accident, but he was still alive.

“He was stabbed to finish him off. They took the chip out of his phone a-and they… None of it would’ve happened if I just stayed quiet. He would still be alive a-and it’s all my fault and- fuck, Aelin, I-I’m so sorry.”

You’re snivelling now. Uncontrollable tears and snot as the culmination of your sins rears its ugly head in your chest. Your nails are biting into the flesh of your palms, and Marco’s attempt at comforting you with a pat only makes you jump. Eyes squeezing shut, you try to pretend you’re anywhere else, but you’re painfully kept in the present.

When you gather the courage to open your eyes again, you’re met with Aelin’s tear-stained face. A hand presses against her stomach, and you note the way her shoulders heave as if she can’t catch her breath. Her skin blanches. Eggshell white. No warmth like the radiant sun—no sparkle like the stars in the sky.

You’ve killed her. You’ve killed her with your words alone.

“Alright, enough of that, babe,” Marco coos. He’s reaching forward again, fingers pinching at one of the napkins on the table to wipe at your face. When you shy away from his touch, he only grips your chin with his free hand, keeping you still so he can polish you like a trophy.

“You sick son of a bitch!”

It happens faster than your brain can process it. Aelin’s shout. Skin on skin contact. Makarov’s head snaps to the side as Aelin’s chair topples over, and the violence is enough to stun you out of your pathetic pules. The man you’ve spent half of your life fearing clutches his cheek in shock as your best friend raises her hand for another blow.

More obscenities spill from her mouth, garnering the attention of other people in the restaurant, but she does not get the chance to hit him again. Andrei steps forward, hand curling into her shoulder, yanking her back and spinning her around just in time to land a crisp slap to her face. Pulse quickening, you’re standing before you even realize it, fingers reaching for her, an instinct you can’t fight.

You don’t make it a single step before Marco’s pulling you back, hand snaking around the front of your torso to your stomach to hold you in place. “Calm down, babe,” he warns.

“Please stop,” you beg. “She’s not a part of this!”

But Andrei refuses to hear your plea.

His fist sinks into her stomach. Butter splitting on a knife. She crumbles. Cloth falling free from a line—fluttering on the wind, staining on the ground.

Your body reacts, and you have no choice but to listen. Arms flailing, elbows flying—you feel the bony end of your humerus meet something soft, and then air escapes. It huffs, hot and moist. Then, there’s a hand on the back of your head, and pressure, then—

—impact.

Wood bites the tip of your nose, smushing it to your upper lip until your neck pops, snapping to the side. Ichor flows from your nostrils nearly instantaneously, causing you to cough as your eyes water from the sting. You feel him against you—Marco. Hips against your rump, body curling over yours as he continues to press on you, keeping your body bent over the table, fingers curling into your nape as exhales against the shell of your ear.

“You little cunt,” he growls. “Riley’s rubbing off on you in a piss poor way, isn’t he? What happened to my sweet little girl, huh? The one who behaved? What have I always told you? If you need help, you come to me. We make good on that fucking deal, that way shit like this doesn’t happen. Now look. Look at this fucking mess.”

People are shouting now—voices you don’t recognize. Patrons and employees alike, men getting defensive over you and Aelin, women shouting to leave the two of you alone. Makarov orders something in Russian that doesn’t quite fall on your ears, but you feel the way it echoes through Marco’s body as he leans further, nearly crushing you, lips pressing to your cheek, unraveling you with another wretched kiss.

“I’ll see you soon, babe.”

You collapse to the floor as soon as he relinquishes his grip on you, but more hands replace his. Concerned citizens. Good samariatans. Patting your back. Helping you to your feet. Shoving napkins into your hand to stop the blood gushing from your nose. You assure them that you’re fine as you shrug them off, shaky knees nearly knocking together as you stumble towards Aelin on the other side of the table.

She’s on her knees, one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other clutching her stomach. Her chest heaves. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t suck in enough air, and the mascara staining her cheeks smudges just enough to make her look like a corpse.

You reach for her, to hold her, to comfort her—but you hesitate.

Vacillate.

Your hands are bloody.

You’ll only ruin her further.

“Aelin…” You’re sobbing, and her name comes out as nothing but a squeak. She doesn’t look at you. Her eyes stay closed as her face contorts, pain rippling through her body as she tries to stand. “Aelin, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. We should- Are you okay? He didn’t- didn’t hurt you, did he? Oh my god, I-I’m so fucking sorry, I-”

“I’m fine.” She chokes the words out firm and harsh, but the pain seeps into her tone anyway. Aelin stands on wobbling legs, gait awkward and stiff as she wraps her arms around herself. You wait for the blood. For the familiar redolence of offals. There is nothing—just the unmarred swell of her stomach. “I… I need to go.”

Blood splatters on the front of your shirt, but you can’t bring yourself to care about the mess as you watch her turn away from you. “I-I’ll come with you.”

“No! Just… stay here, Chip,” she snaps. Her spine stays stiff and curled as she reaches for her purse and slings it over her shoulder, fingers quickly fumbling for a handful of cash from her wallet before she tosses it on the table. “Call Simon. Get to Terminus. I can’t stay here, I need to-”

A sob cuts her orders off, but she shrugs you away when you attempt to comfort her. There’s nothing you can do except watch her vanish from the establishment, legs tight and locked together as she waddles through the door. All you can bring yourself to do is stare at the gaping hole she’s left. Another gash. Another wound in your life.

As patrons coddle you and convince you to take a seat, you can only wonder if Aelin hates you. She has to. You know she does. She’s never snapped like that before. Pushed you away. (There’s an icepack on your nose now, but you’re too numb to feel the cold, the bite, anything). You killed her father. She ought to push you away. It’s what you deserve. To be ostracized. To be othered. (There’s a woman patting your back, and for a moment she feels like your mother, but when she speaks it’s all wrong). You nearly got her killed. Everyone close to you always ends up hurt. (There’s so much blood). Dead. Killed. Slaughtered. Thrown in a box. (It won’t stop coming). Six feet underground. Gore on linoleum. Back against a wall. Stuck to a chair. Prisoner. Marco’s good girl. (Why won’t it stop?)

(Please stop).

“Baby?”

Then—warmth.

A faint apricitie diving beneath algid waves. There are hands cupping your face. Gentle. Loving. Your blood glues them to your face, attaching every cell until you’re one whole being. When your head is tilted up, and your eyes finally focus, you see it. Him. Your Simon Riley.

“Oh, baby, what happened?” he asks.

His question shatters you. Smashes you into a billion pieces until you’re nothing but fine sand and ichor, a sopping mess waiting for someone else to come around to pick you up, as always. You sob. Bloodied hands dropping your ice pack, you throw your arms around his neck and wail into his chest as you spill your sins. You tell him everything. Makarov. Andrei. Marco. Aelin. It all leaves you like rot from a festering wound.

“Where is she?” Simon asks. He pulls away from you and begins to wipe at your face, smearing tears and blood across your skin. He doesn’t seem afraid of the mess.

“I dunno,” you hiccup. “She just left. Said she had to go, told me to call you a-and get to Terminus and… How… how did you know to come?”

For a split moment, his face softens. Every hard line and puffy scar—even the steel in his eyes. It all turns pillowy the moment he leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. “You never use capital letters when you text.”

Despite the protest of the restaurant workers begging you to stay to talk to police when they arrive, Simon escorts you out of the building where his car waits, engine still running. Your nose bleeds all over the upholstery, leather darkening to a vibrant crimson, but he tells you not to worry about it as he speeds off into traffic.

Blood is overflowing where it shouldn’t. Down your sinuses, into the back of your throat, slimy clots slithering through you until you’re coughing them up into your sopping wet napkin. Iron coats your tongue, and it tastes an awful lot like your first kiss—just needs more menthol.

“My phone.” The memory returns to you like a slap to the face. Your stomach drops as more blood gushes into your mouth, but you swallow it back. “They found us because of my phone.”

Simon’s fingers are already white knuckling the steering wheel, but the color of his skin blanches further and travels to the tips of his ears until they’re bright pink. “They’re trackin’ you?”

“Maybe. I dunno. They might have tapped my call with Aelin too, o-or something else, I have n-no idea I just- I just know that it was my phone,” you explain.

“Give it here.”

Without another thought, you dig through your pockets until the item is in your grasp. Placing it in Simon’s hand, he gives it a close once over before he’s ripping the case off of it, elbows attempting to keep the wheel straight as the car continues to speed through the streets. Once the device is properly naked, he looks at his blind spot before rolling the window down and tossing your phone through the gap. Slackjawed, you watch in the rearview mirror as it shatters on the road, glass screen exploding into a trillion prismatic pieces. The car behind you swerves to avoid it.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises.

But your mind is very far away—too far to worry about something as trivial as your phone.

“I fucked up,” you choke. Each word you speak is stuffy, nostrils too clogged with blood to get your consonants out properly. “What am I gonna do, Si?”

“It’ll be okay,” he assures.

“She knows. She knows about her dad. What I did. I told her all of it, they made me.” You’re spiraling. An animal caught in a trap. Rubbish caught in a riptide, being pulled too far out to sea to be saved.

“Easy, baby,” he hums. He takes your hand into his. He does not flinch at the blood. “We’ll figure it out.”

Terminus comes into view with the same flashing neon signs that it always sports. Russet bricks, a decent line out the door—you find that you are not anxious about this place anymore. Not the crowd, nor the music that muddies your hearing and shakes every pane of glass in each window; there are worse things that lurk in the dark.

Simon opens the door for you once he’s parked, and you make sure to keep your body tilted forward as you bleed onto the pavement of the carpark. With a hand on the small of your back, he guides you towards the entrance, letting you keep your head down to avoid the stares. There’s quiet murmuring and sly comments from the people you pass by, but all it takes is a single glance from Simon to silence them.

You do not worry about them. All you can think about is Aelin. Her tears. Her anger.

How she hates you.

“Fucking hell.”

John’s voice snaps you to attention. Eyes finding him, you realize that you haven’t seen him in quite some time. Not since you had dinner at their place back in January. He looks different. His beard is disheveled, a far cry from his usual groomed whiskers, and his face is flushed a bright pink. He’s hardly got his gaze on you and you already find your tears beginning to spill again, remorse draining from your body before he even knows of your transgression.

“What happened?” he demands, eyes glancing back and forth between you and Simon.

“I’m fine,” you attempt to assure, but it’s clumsy—unconvincing.

“You and Aelin were supposed to go out for dinner, and I just got a call from her saying she’s at the hospital.” Face tensing, he glances at Simon. “The fuck is going on?”

“She’s at the hospital?” you repeat, voice cracking. Everything twists—a million needles burrow into your skin, and still it does not feel enough to cleanse you.

“Yeah. Christ, looks like you ought to be there, too,” he grunts. “What the fuck happened? Who did this to you? To her? Give me a name and I’ll take care of it.”

The world spins beneath your feet and the only thing that’s grounding you is Simon’s touch. Still, you spiral. Hospital. Aelin. She told you she was fine—but she’s not. There’s something missing. Something else that you can’t name, but it’s here waiting for you to split yourself open on it.

“Baby, go inside,” Simon urges. “I can tell ‘im everything.”

“Vladimir Makarov.” The final nail in the coffin. The first handful of dirt on the casket. The final breath.

John’s face contorts as anger and confusion mixes into a painful dance within him. He steps back, but his fists clench as if he’s ready to fight—he needs to put the anger down somewhere.

“How the hell do you know him?” he asks.

“I owe him money,” you stutter. “I’ve… I’ve owed him for a long time. But I haven’t been paying, a-and I thought that I was able to get away but I… God, John, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I got Aelin hurt and-”

He silences you with a simple raise of his hand and your mouth slams shut. Your fingers yearn for thread, but not for your silly game of string. You wish for a needle. For sutures to keep your lips sealed so you won’t ever have to choke on this shame again.

“How long have you known?” His question is directed at Simon now, sharp gaze puncturing through him, a finger pointing at him as if it’s a spear he wishes to plunge into his chest.

“Price, we shouldn’t talk ‘bout this in front of her,” Simon attempts to rationalize.

“I said how fucking long?”

Incensed fingers curl into the collar of Simon’s shirt as John yanks him forward. For the first time in your life, you watch Simon obey. He follows the ruthless pulling of John’s grasp as he nearly goes limp, and you squeak, arms up in defense as if the violence might soon be directed at you.

“This wasn’t his fault!” you wail.

“The fuck it is,” John spits. “She didn’t know any better, but you do. How long did you think you could keep this from me? What the fuck made you think this shit was alright? How many fucking people have you put at risk, Simon! My fucking wife! My fucking child!”

All air has been lost in the world. You stare, heart empty, blood filling your mouth, spilling out of you like all of the apologies you wish you could articulate but can’t. They fall flat at your feet. Drips and splatters among the grime.

“What?” you breathe.

John goes loose like a dead body. Hands slipping off of Simon’s collar, feet stumbling away from him, his palm slaps over his mouth where his fingers and thumb press and rub into his jaw. His inhale fills him only to deflate, and when he finishes his sigh, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more empty.

“Aelin’s pregnant.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

314 notes · View notes

abusivegymrat · 29 days ago

Text

call of duty masterlist for easy access!!

started writing on: april 3rd 2025

first work: pollyanna (drabble, poly)

latest: fuck me pumps

u can assume the work is completed unless stated otherwise<3 (ip → in progress)

drabbles/oneshots: 💗

series: 💕

simon “ghost” riley:

bloody knuckles [series masterlist] (boxer!f!reader x bodyguard!simon riley) 💕(ip)

captain johnathan price:

johhny “soap” mactavish:

temblor 💗

fuck me (pumps) p1 p2💕

kyle “gaz” garrick:

tears dry on their own💗

garry “roach” sanderson:

valeria garza:

alejandro vargas:

rodolfo rudy parra:

vladimir makarov:

poly:

pollyanna (tf141 x female!reader) 💗

secretary reader x 141 (mini💕) access full masterlist here (ip)

useless lot 💗 (👑top post👑)

ocs included:

Watch Your Six (master project) (upcoming!) (access masterlist here)

69 notes · View notes

bitterrfruit · 8 months ago

Text

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.”

here's your tag bestie: @rafaelacallinybbay

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bella-writes

254 notes · View notes

gazstations · 1 month ago

Text

Come Home, My Darling

CHAPTER FOUR

ᯓᡣ𐭩 CHAPTER SUMMARY

Kate Laswell tells 141 the full truth of what she knows behind the reason she pushed for John's family to go into protective custody.

♡ Chapter Warnings: None.

◇ Notes: Happy April Fools! This chapter is not a joke

○●○ SERIES MASTERLIST ♡ PREV ♡ NEXT

NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

IT WAS THE DAY YOU LEFT THAT JOHN PRICE FOUND OUT THE TRUTH.

The anger gnawed at the edges of his brain like maggots. Slithering around with tiny legs that prickled the ridged flesh just right. It was disappointment in oneself that melded into a chaotic mess. A demon that clawed up from the pits of hell and sunk fire into his stomach. Anger was an old comrade, patting his back and telling him he would never be able to carry on without.

John Price was angry far more than he was civil.

Anger got shit done. You can only take action when your blood is boiling over. Calm cannot take down malice. You have to play the players' game. See the deceit because you are also rigging the system.

Anger was muscle memory. The twitch was a familiar comfort. Told him that some of his humanity was still intact if he still got revolted by what he witnessed.

The captain was a pillar of leadership. He commanded. He was the man who made the tough calls. He had to live with his actions, even when sometimes people ended up caught in the crossfire. No one got through this life without hurting someone. Even good people left someone with scars.

The captain had made far more enemies than he ever had friends. The difference was less than ten to an upwards of fifty. He was the face people plastered on the wall and threw darts at. The one that made their voodoo dolls of him and bent the arms to see if his would break as well.

John Price was a name infamous for getting cursed, damned, and everything in between.

He put away the big dogs. Left them deteriorating behind bars or six feet underground. He was swift. Had a record to prove he was exceptional. That's why he was always on rotation. Hitting the ground running with his trusted men by his side.

But this one bastard was the top of the food chain as well. Put most other terrorists to shame. He made a fool out of John, broke that clean record of getting shit done, and shoved the ripped contents into his mouth. Humiliation was not an emotion John dealt with accordingly. He was so resistant to being wrong that the flames spread with might throughout his body.

Kate had just finished telling the team all that she had in her pocket. She had lied in your presence. John found himself grateful. Detail was still classified, and you were still a civilian. It's just the way things were.

The boys were silent. Gaz eyed John closely, watching the way the stoic captain went rigid. John could feel the weight of his stare, burning his flesh with cautious and questioning intent. He ignored it. Tried to. Even if a bit of him was unraveling inside.

“Vladimir Makarov is after my family?” he questioned with a low timbre, words teetering on collapse.

The name rattled in his head like a loose coin in a bottle, the syllables alone striking the utmost fury without ever physically touching his skin. John’s skin burned, and the hair rose along his arms in anticipation. Back to square one, straight into the lion’s den like a damn puppet.

“Thought we sent his arse tae the Gulag,” Soap remarked. the Sergeant's lips were pouted, disdain on his face.

John knew there was a mutual, burning hatred for the mentioned terrorist. He wanted to wring the bastard's neck. If he had it his way, he’d have Makarov hanging from a flag pole in a town square. Picked apart by vultures and a visual reminder to his supporters that evil had no shelter.

But General Shepard was monitoring them at the time. Got the brass up his ass about military etiquette. John pulled a lot of shit. Dragged his boys through the fire with him. He listened to orders only when he believed they were worthwhile.

Killing Makarov against regulation would've been a swift reason to get 141 disbanded. John was a lot of things, but he wasn’t willing to risk losing his team.

So, he followed rules for once and regretted it a second later.

He knew it was wrong to keep Makarov alive. He was a pure manipulator. His work never stopped when he got put behind bars. No, John knew the gears would keep turning. You had to shoot those bastards in the head twice. Just to ensure the finality of death. Otherwise, they always found a way back.

“You did. There was a full prison break. He was the main retrieval, but hundreds of prisoners also escaped in the process,” Kate informed.

She dropped a small file on the table, the contents inside relayed information about said prison break. A break out of the Gulag was impressive, John had to admit. But he didn't want to give the bastard too much credit.

John gritted his teeth as he glanced at the file. He wouldn't fully read it right now, not while his head was full of cotton.

Makarov was playing games. Going after his family was a sick joke. Helping you and the kids evade the Russian would be like treading through a minefield. While John wouldn't have wished for any of his adversaries to be pursuing you, the last one he wanted was Makarov.

if you were caught, the flesh would be pried off your bone slowly. You were never meant to be a part of that. You were always meant to be separate from the darkness of his job. He got dirty so he could clean his hands at the door and be a simple husband and father. The lines were muddled now. Danger was in your periphery, and John couldn’t be there to block it with his own hand.

No, he had to sit back and let some bodyguard take the reins. Fucking bullshit.

Kate eyed John, and he met her gaze with a steely edge. Her eyes were calculating, thoughtful and he hated when she started analyzing him. She read him almost as well as you did sometimes. He felt stripped down and vulnerable. He loved holding his emotions close to his chest, hiding from anyone else.

Eventually, Kate looked away.

“This is going to get personal,” she didn't outright say it, but John knew well she was mainly addressing him. His jaw clenched.

“Makarov is always going to be personal,” John responded. He crossed his arms against his chest and leaned back against the wall behind him.

Gaz spoke next, “We put Makarov in. We have to take him out.”

Kate sighed, “Maybe. But we all still have jobs. What's happening with John's family is horrible, but we can't let that distract us from everything Makarov can do. He's looking for weak points, and we all know messing with our team won't be the end.”

“My family is my priority, Kate,” John declared.

“And if you were anyone else, I would pull you off the mission,” Kate countered. “I know I can't stop you. But I urge you to at least consider other ways Makarov might try to shake the system.”

John was listening only halfway. Deep down, he knew Kate was right. But his tunnel vision was thick, the walls clearly bordering his family. They were all he saw. He would demolish that cottage he built if he could not return to your soft embrace at the end of the day. He was not losing you.

“We got it, Laswell,” Gaz spoke for John.

“Any pings on Makarov?” Ghost now took the chair.

“No. As of right now, he's in hiding,” Kate said. “We have to wait for a sign. In the meantime, we carry on as normal.”

“Nothin’ normal ‘bout our jobs,” Soap hummed.

That was an obvious fact. Even when John was curled up on the couch with you and the kids, he was still a killer. You and him had created life, and he snuffed other life out the very next day. Normality was a concept they did not know. He could play pretend, but nothing changed the scars he had.

“Is my family settled somewhere?” John asked finally.

“They're still on their flight,” Kate said.

Flight. John's blood ran cold at that. They really were going where he couldn't follow. He wanted to shut the whole thing down, but that would only endanger you. Maybe the universe was finally catching up for all the sins he's committed.

“They'll be okay, Cap,” Gaz said.

“Yeah,” John responded halfheartedly.

Then a thought struck him. How in the bloody hell did Kate know Makarov was the one heading your capture? If he was going dark after a prison break, he wouldn't lay out his cards so fast. That wasn't his style.

“How'd you find out it was Makarov?” John asked. He wasn't accusing. He trusted Kate wholeheartedly, but he was still curious.

Kate didn't waver as she answered. She was clear and poised. “An old friend. Owed me a favor.”

“Old friend,” John repeated with a scoff. “One that knows Makarov's activity?”

“There's a lot you don't know, John,” Kate said.

He nodded, “Sure.”

It was an odd situation. Kate, even as much as John knew about her, was still a mystery. She talked about her wife sometimes, but nothing else about her home or hobbies when she wasn't providing intel to 141. Even then, John considered her his closest ally.

However, he wasn't sure how well he favored this mystery man. He was well acquainted with wolves in sheep's clothing.

“We can trust this friend?” Gaz asked.

“Trust is a tricky word for this situation, Garrick,” Kate remarked.

John almost pulled the plug right then. Yet, even he knew the intricacies of military relationships. They were complicated and had a tendency to be messy.

Hell, John thought of his old friend, Nikolai. The Russian was a loose cannon, but he had been by John's side more than anyone. If there was chaos, there was Nikolai. John trusted him, they were close. But John even wondered if Nikolai was even the man's given name. Though, he still trusted the man enough to also be around his family once or twice. Whenever he came around.

He knew he had to give Kate grace, but it was tough when he never vetted her man himself. John liked control. Which is why he often turned his nose up at official military orders. Got himself in more than enough trouble that way.

“And his intel is viable?” John asked. Enough overthinking, get back on the track.

“Usually is,” Kate offered. “Helped us with the Zakhaev Airport situation.”

John bit his tongue then. He had to accept the situation for right now. Kate wouldn't deliberately lead them astray, but he hoped she wasn't being fooled. They couldn't afford mistakes. Not when his own family was being closed in on. Hopefully, protective custody did its job.

“One wrong move, and I'll put a bullet through your guy's head,” Price said with venom on his tongue.

“I'll give you the gun, sir,” Ghost responded, his eyes said a lot despite the rest of his face being obscured. His second-in-command did not enjoy this either. They both hated following information that they themselves did not partake in collecting.

Ghost and Soap exchanged a glance then while Gaz nodded along in agreement. His men always had his back, and that's why he chose them. They knew they had to get dirty as well. In fact, he was pretty sure they craved the blood. Violence became addicting in a lot of ways, even if it wasn't enjoyable all the time.

They got the job done because one way or another they were fucked up in the head.

“I'm not wrong about this,” Kate stated confidently. “Makarov has been planning this behind bars. Now he's able to act.”

Kate grabbed the file discarded on the table, signaling her part in the conversation was done. She obviously had said everything she wanted to. John just had more questions. He mainly wanted to know where you and the kids were flying. Yet, even if Kate knew, he had to accept she wouldn't tell him. For their safety.

“Get some rest,” Kate suggested. “Shepard has a new mission for you. I'll send you the meeting time.”

With that, she marched out of the room with her shoulders straight and even strides. She was a determined woman on a mission. Admirable, really. Kate Laswell was a force to be reckoned with. She did not take people's shit and always proved why she was at the top with the rest of them.

It was silent for a moment before John sighed and leaned over the table. It was a miracle he wasn't gray yet. The wear and tear just showed more with the lines on his face than anything else.

“I need a bloody drink,” he muttered.

Soap just patted his back, a small hum of agreement.

°•○●○•°

TAGLIST

@callsignpxnguin @crystal-freak24 @haneybunny @tenshis-cake @aneternallyexhaustedpigeon @thriving-n-jiving @leon-thot-kennedy

If you would like to be added for future chapters, let me know!

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #john price #kyle gaz garrick #john price x reader #captain price #captain price x reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #soap cod #soap mactavish #john mactavish #simon riley #gaz garrick #kyle garrick #kate laswell

58 notes · View notes

cas-backwards-tie · 20 days ago

Text

⟡ vladimir makarov masterlist ⟡

--oneshots--

under the moonlight

--series--

the long road | After your fiancé’s murder, you’ve come up with a plan to avenge him. Now in Russia, you’re thrust into a country, a language, and a fake identity you know next to nothing about. Forcing yourself into his life was easier than you’d anticipated, now the only problem is you’re worried someone’s catching onto your lies.

#vladimir makarov x reader #mw3 reader insert #cod reader insert #makarov x reader #my masterlists

7 notes · View notes

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

152 notes · View notes

mina-org · 2 months ago

Text

the playlist: call of duty modern warfare

Taskforce 141

୨୧ John Price

-> Love letter 💌

-> how to disappear

-> burning desire

-> Guys my age

୨୧ Simon Riley

-> poppies

୨୧Johnny Mactavish

୨୧ Kyle Garrick

-> burning desire

-> the last time

୨୧ Taskforce 141

-> art deco mini masterlist

-> I hate it here part one - part two - part two - part three part four

Los vaqueros

♡ Alejandro Vargas

♡ Rodolfo Parra

♡ Valeria Garza

-> cowboy like me

Urzikstan Liberation Force

✩͏Farah Karim

✩͏Hadir Karim

✩͏Alex Keller

Shadow company

♡ Philip graves

Miscellaneous

୨୧ Kate laswell

୨୧ General Shepard

୨୧ Vladimir Makarov

Concepts

Mafia concept

୨୧ Part one: captain price x reader x ghost

Monster concept

୨୧ part one: 141 as monsters

messy

୨୧ part one: 141, los vaqueros + graves

friends with benefits concept

୨୧ part one: ghost

୨୧ Also see this & this & this

#cod x reader #call of duty #call of duty x reader #yandere john price x reader #yandere simon riley #yandere valeria garza #yandere cod #yandere soap #yandere gaz #yandere Farah karim #yandere Alex keller #yandere Philip graves #yandere Alejandro varags #yandere rudy

40 notes · View notes

mackjlee9 · 2 years ago

Text

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

727 notes · View notes