#Makarov x y/n

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter One)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 4.2k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, No Fluff, Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3)

“How do you think you’ll die?”

His fingers still as they trace your bare spine.

It’s silent in the solitude of his apartment, one of many he moves between to keep safe. This is one of the nicer ones. Furnished with silk sheets, the interior is immaculately clean. Wide windows overlook St. Petersburg below, a sight you never see with towering curtains blocking the view. Carefully curated art hangs from the walls, an abstract painting flecked with gold above his bed. You see shapes in it, think you see something akin to a lynx staring back at you. There’s never anything on the counters, no mess that would indicate someone lives here. It feels too pristine, almost artificial.

Hazy, bluish light drowns both of you as you both sprawl in bed. You like it when he makes love to you here. The large space makes you feel so alone, so much closer to him, like you have him all to yourself. Greedy, you drink in his scent, claw at his back, listen to his breath stutter as he rolls his hips into you.

Makarov is silent as you tuck into his side, shift and tangle your legs a little closer to his. You can’t see his face, but you know the look in his eyes. Precise, calculating, almost detached. His silence is indicative of his answer before he even speaks it.

“With glory.” He responds, fingers resuming their lazy path. “For Russia.”

You nod without any response. You’re not sure what you expected, but it should have been that. Makarov is a soldier, just like you are. A warrior, one who will kill, die for his ideals. As much as you long after him, as much as he loves you in return, you know his death will be exactly as he says. Not gently, not beside you in old age, sighing softly into your arms with his last breath, a lifetime of joy he left behind. His mere existence speaks of violence and retribution, a danger you yourself are caught in as an inescapable tide.

You don’t remember a time before Makarov.

There’s glimpses, yes, whispers of a time before he found you, but they’re distant echoes drowned by the sound of his voice. He says you were a soldier, and you know this much is true. He says he found you dying, on the brink of death. He scooped you from the ashes, rescued you from the embrace of the grim reaper and brought you here. Home. Your earliest memory of him is when he sat in the hospital chair, looked upon you with curious, sad eyes and asked you your name.

You didn’t know.

Marionette, your callsign. A name he bestowed upon you, the one who holds the strings. You’re his blade, his weapon, the arrow in his bow. You fly in the direction of his enemies, cut them down with lethal precision, feel their heartbeats stutter and still in your hands. You’re used to the scent of blood by now, arrive back to him awash in red and let him kiss it from your lips, the taste of your murder on his tongue.

You know what the others say about you. You see them as they watch you walk with him, two steps back, by his right shoulder. A designated position. If someday he were to be betrayed, shot through his spine, you know the bullet would enter you first.

You know too that you’ve accepted this.

Marionette. The puppet, the other soldiers say. Beautiful, poised, but empty. He holds you in his palms and you go willingly, holding onto every scrap of warmth he offers like it will fill the hollow inside you. The others, they’re scared of your devotion to him, the way you’d be ready to die if he asked. Yet there’s something else there too, glimpses of desire for a thing they’ll never touch. A longing to feel your skin, to see the glimmer behind your gaze. Those who look too long disappear, and you know without having to ask that it was through his hands.

You’re his, after all.

In private he calls you милая, дорогая, любимая. Honey, darling, beloved. He cups your face in his hands and presses gentle kisses to your forehead, presses you into the sheets with endless praises of your violence. He treats you like he loves you, even though he never says it. You think perhaps it’s taboo for people like you, speaking of blessings only to have them stolen as soon as you confess. He gathers you to him when he sleeps, presses your bare form to his. You stay awake just to hear the sound of his even, steady breaths, watch how his face doesn’t soften even in sleep.

In the morning he’s gone before you rise. You tiptoe to the living room, see him standing at a crack in the curtains, awash in the hazy dawn. When you wrap your arms around his bare torso, he kisses your knuckles but says nothing. Eyes distant.

Loving Makarov is hard.

He always seems not completely there with you, eyes gazing into a distant future you cannot see. You’re stuck in the present, helplessly watching him discern the spinning axis of the earth, blinking as you see constellations sparkle in his gaze. Copernicus, he watches the stars rotate with him at the axis, tracing across their glimmering brightness like he’s drawing prophecies from the heavens. All for once was a far-fetched dream of Russia, one that becomes closer with every death in your grasp.

You don’t do it for his vision. You do it for him, and there’s some days where you wonder if you could ever stop.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper against the flesh of his shoulder, and he holds your hand to his chest where you feel his pulsing heartbeat.

“There are things to be done.” He murmurs instead. He’s silent for a while, as if waiting for you to protest. You never do.

“Dress. Eat.” He tells you in Russian, as he turns to hold your face in his hands. “I have somewhere to send you.”

That’s how you end up in Prague.

Trailing an informant, one of his own. He’s a twitchy sort, constantly looking over his shoulder in a way that means he knows he’s being followed. Your mission is not to kill him, not yet. First you must see who he meets, which enemy he speaks to, and then bury them both.

December. Snow dusts the streets. You’ve long since become accustomed to the winters in this part of the world, the way the sun hides during this part of the year. You’re bundled in a stylish coat and matching scarf- his choosing. It brings him a certain pleasure, somehow, to choose how you dress. You find you don’t mind, leaning up to his words of endearment with every fine thread he drapes you in.

It’s a shame the coat will get stained. You find he doesn’t mind that either, as if he prefers the color red on you.

You sip on coffee in a chair of the cafe, wishing instead for hot chocolate. The bitterness is familiar, even as the temptation of sweetness lingers in your senses. You hide your face between sips, pulling up the mask that covers the lower half of your face. The informant sits in a corner booth alone, leg bouncing. Sloppy. Obvious. You watch him with cat-like eyes, blinking slowly, wondering if he’ll beg when you kill him. The man that meets him is calmer, dark haired, clearly English. His mere presence seems to soothe the other man, and you watch as they discuss things in hushed detail, the informant sliding a USB across the table where their drinks sit untouched.

The Englishman leaves first, gives a small farewell and shrugs on his coat, neatly slipping the traitorous item in his pocket. You wait a minute until after he leaves, watching your fidgety comrade count on his watch by instruction until he too is supposed to depart. You’ll be back for him later. You know where to find him.

You trail the Englishman into the overcast afternoon, following his dark coat until the street is empty. Yet as you close the distance between you and the spy, a figure rounds the corner just in front of him. Your awareness roars to life a moment too late, and even though you stab your knife forward the man before you counters it easily. His movements are experienced, practiced, and strong. They counter your quick, precise agility in a flurry of movement, before at last you’re forced into the shadow of a building, his broad form crowding you from behind.

“Where is he?” The man breathes in your nape. Cigar smoke, musk, the grip on your wrists speaking of a soldier’s strength. You don’t need to ask who. You already know. You know you’ll die before you tell him.

“Minsk.” You lie easily, and the grip on your hands tightens.

“Try again.” He growls.

“You’ll never find him.” You offer instead, voice easy, almost detached. It makes him pause for some reason, and you wonder if that alone has startled him.

You don’t expect him to flip you around, press his forearm to your throat and rip down your mask.

You see him for the first time then. He’s worn in the way warriors are, years of duty etched onto his face. Thick brows, a beard, eyes that you think in another lifetime could have been kind. He stares at you with open astonishment, a bewildered shock that fades to a strange grief you can’t understand.

“You’re alive.” He whispers.

You blink at him, and for the first time feel your expression change to that of confusion. He seems to recognize you. You’ve never seen him once in your entire life.

He whispers a name, one you don’t know. Yet the voice he speaks it in is that of despair, a realization that seems to eclipse the fabric of his soul.

“What has he done to you?”

Panic flares inside you, and suddenly your entire being is consumed in the instinct to run, run, run. The man holding you captive radiates a danger far beyond that of duty, a fear that roots inside you and cracks at the foundation of your composure. You throw a leg up between you, and in his attempt to dodge his grip loosens on you. You duck under him, seize the knife that had been wrestled from your grip. A slash on his leg brings him to a knee. You dart a distance away from him, shaking, looking back with wild eyes. Red drips from your blade.

You should kill him. You’re not sure you can if you try.

You run.

When you find the informant, let his blood pool over his fingers, you see your own fear mirrored in his eyes.

The Englishman gets away. It’s an unacceptable failure, and when you send an encrypted message to Makarov he is silent for some time before he responds.

Report back.

He’s displeased to say the least when you arrive, mouth pressed into a scowl, brow drawn tight. You try to stand tall, refusing to show just how shaken you are by the whole ordeal. You know better than to show him weakness. Yet the man’s words from before haunt you, repeating in a ceaseless echo that sends the world under you spinning violently.

Makarov paces away from you, but at the mention of the stranger he snaps to look at you, blinking in something akin to shock. It flashes over his features for only a moment before he stills back into his stony passiveness, and then it darkens into something that makes your stomach sit heavy, making you nearly take a step back at the glint that warns of danger.

He strides over to you, and this time you do falter. You’ve seen Makarov angry before, but it was always with his subordinates, the men who show fear, hesitation, those who don’t follow orders. You’ve seen him shoot a man dead for daring to question him, and as he stood over the man’s oozing corpse he had murmured that Russia’s future did not include traitors.

Yet this- as he crosses the room with surprising speed, as you reel backwards out of pure instinct, as he captures your jaw and presses you to the wall so the lynx painting rattles- is different.

“His name.” He growls, teeth bared, jaw clenched, and he doesn’t notice the way your hand encloses his wrist in a pleading grasp. “What was his name?”

“I-I don’t know.” You manage in hardly a whisper. “I swear.”

He holds you for moments longer, stares into your eyes and waits for your gaze to falter with dishonesty. Your heart beats at an aleatory rhythm in your chest, a tremble starting in your hands and spreading along the sinews of your body. Yet as Makarov waits for you to stumble, to confess something you don’t have, you stare into his eyes.

and you see fear.

The ground cracks under you like splintering ice. A flare of panic takes a frigid hold of your veins. Makarov is not afraid. He is not fearful. He isn’t scared of death, of defeat. He throws himself in the jaws of lions and peels their teeth to use as daggers. He does not waver, he remains steadfast, unmovable. So this...this....

He releases you, and it takes all your strength to not gasp in relief, practically sagging against the wall as he turns. There’s a coiled tension to his shoulders, his fists clenching and then releasing before he turns back to you, eyes almost gentle.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He murmurs, reaching forward to loop his arms around your waist. Despite the tremble in your limbs you learn eagerly into the safety of his embrace. “I shouldn’t have scared you. I just can’t imagine the thought of someone like that taking you away from me.”

He presses your cheek to his shoulder, and even though you stay there your eyes are unblinking, wide, as if seeing the first glimmer of the truth to come.

As you sleep in his arms that night, you lay awake with wide eyes still, the stranger’s words repeating endlessly in the cacophony of your mind.

“What did he do to you?”

He gives you a few days to rest but leaves you alone in the too-large apartment. You feel miniscule against the towering windows that overlook the city, and in the absence of his touch your thoughts spiral in uncertainty.

How did he know you?

You’re sent out once more, and this time you aren’t alone. It unnerves you. You’ve worked by yourself for so long that the men on either side of you on the plane feel like they crowd into your space. One of them, the younger one, is fairly talkative. You pass idle exchanges, but every time he asks something that even remotely pertains to you his older comrade hisses at him, as if they’re not allowed to know. As if the mere knowledge of you as anything other than a weapon is a sin.

The rifle in your hands is familiar, the weight grounding as you perch on a snowy rooftop, examining the ambassador’s aide just outside his home. You watch him kiss his wife, blink and feel something familiar and forbidden tug in your ribs.

The older soldier is beside you, his own sights trained on the driver. His younger comrade scans the surrounding rooftops for interference. He doesn’t flinch at the gunshot, the scream from the wife.

He does, however, collapse at the third gunshot. Not yours.

You bolt, rifle hoisted to your shoulder. The older comrade calls for his friend, and you tug him back even as he fights you. He acts as a shield when the next shot rings out, and his blood coats your arms. You duck, roll, plant yourself behind a vent cover and search for the other sniper. You find him on a taller rooftop, his sights glinting in the dawn. A shot dents the steel, and you focus your sights on its origin.

A skull mask. A reaper.

It tugs at something inside your thoughts, the same place where the stranger’s words echo. Distant, a whisper of familiarity locked behind a terrible dread. Brown eyes. The color of rust. They widen when they see you, and in his hesitation you fire a single round.

Your aim is off.

It catches him by the shoulder, and he rolls out of view. As police sirens howl, you take that moment to escape, cast a lingering glance to the neighboring rooftop and wonder why it feels as if you just saw a phantom.

You lose two men, and the deaths are acceptable. They died for the cause. Martyrs for the future that Makarov divines even as he licks the blood clean from your fingers.

It’s only then that the dreams begin.

You sleep in an empty bed. Cold, the phantom chases you through sleep. The bone white mask fades at the edges like mist. It snakes into your lungs, chokes the air and freezes your ribs. In the hollow of your chest there’s whispers of a name you don’t recognize. Yelling, screaming, hands reaching for you amidst chaos and flames. You fall through the sky, descending too quickly. Their voices are lost to the wind, and as you pull at your shoulder, the thing that unfurls above you is shot through with debris. The ground races up, up, up-

You fall, wake up on the floor, trembling, chest heaving, trying to remember where you are. Who you are.

The voices chase you on your next assignment, pulse in tandem with the heartbeat that fades under your fingertips. You try to blot them out, try to replace them with the sound of his voice, and in the midnight darkness they return, howling like the gale. Faces you don’t recognize, hands, touches, laughter.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Makarov tells you when he rouses you in the darkness of a safehouse. Your bruised ribs from your last mission heal under bandages, and as he soothes a hand over them you wince but don’t protest. “Were you dreaming?”

Yes. You think, and open your mouth to tell him, confess the chaos of your nightmares. Yet something howls in the gale inside you, screams in a soundless cry that stifles the air in your chest, sends your voice into wordless silence.

“I don’t know.” You whisper, and it’s the first lie you’ve ever told him.

After that, you only dream when you’re alone.

Never alone on missions, not again. You’re constantly accompanied, flanked, and you have the itching, uncomfortable feeling that you’re being monitored.

You try to ask why you aren’t allowed to go alone and see the way the smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he holds you close.

“To keep you safe, дорогая.” He coos, stroking your cheek with his knuckles. “How could I ever lose you?”

You accept this, but the hollow of doubt inside you wonders that, if that were true, why he would risk you at all. Hardly a week goes by without another injury, another bruise from a target, a mission, an enemy he throws you at and you carve into fatal stillness. It feels in some ways like he’s punishing you, forcing you to bear the cost of his love. Yet he presses kisses to your cuts, the blossoming yellow and purple across your skin, sighs endearments and swallows your whimpers with the slant of his mouth against yours.

Yet you fall into him, your only source of comfort, your beacon. You’re lost without him, a marionette with no master. You don’t whisper the sin of your loved confession even as it tightens in your chest, knowing he can never say it back lest it summon destruction. Taboo, forbidden, just like the doubts you refuse to share with him. You cling to him instead, listen to his heartbeat and try to synchronize it with your own.

“You’re shaking.” He whispers as you shiver in his arms following something akin to lovemaking. “Are you scared?”

“No.” You tell him, another lie. It’s not of him, never him. Not yet.

Your dreams are the thing that terrify you, and you fear them because you don’t understand. They paint images you struggle to discern. Falling one moment, caught in an embrace the next. Gunfire replaced by the clink of glasses and a bark of laughter. Cigar smoke envelopes you, war paint smears charcoal across your fingertips. An arm slings across your shoulder in warm familiarity, hands wrap a wound, and blue eyes turn to you in an affectionate concern. They whisper a name that bores into your marrow, takes holds like rot, and the deeper you carve to dig it out the more you begin to fracture.

Doubt, and it terrifies you. You never have to doubt Makarov. You turn to his hands as they guide you, surrender to his touch as they hone the fatal edge of your killing strike. You’re his, and his alone.

It’s in Belgrade that you begin to understand.

The details of the mission are obscure. Moving a Belarusian oligarch, a team with you. Different from your usual assignments, your carefully curated wardrobe is exchanged for plate armor, gloves, bracers. You wear it like a second skin. The weight is familiar, almost relieving. There’s not much for you to do, sitting in the back of the Humvee beside the package, watching the nighttime city fade to countryside and listening to the loud thrum of the convoy. You’re still healing from your last mission, a sprain that aches in your shoulder. You didn’t protest when he pressed it, took note of your grimace and declared you fit for duty. You must have made a face, because he’d tipped his knuckles under your chin, and had forced you to meet his gaze.

“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Marionette?” He murmured with those dark, soft, velvet eyes, and you found yourself empty of protests.

The Belarusian oligarch grumbles the entire time, and you don’t entertain him. Yet eventually he seems to take notice of you in a different sense, eyes roaming over the dip of your waist that your gear obscures, then up to your eyes hidden by your helmet. You see it out of the corner of your eye, ignore his sly murmur and hungry gaze. He plants a hand on the thigh hidden by your canvas pants, and you resist the fatalistic urge to separate his fingers from his-

A whoosh of noise, a shout by the soldier in the front seat. Garbled, surprised Russian, and you make out the shout of GRENADE!! before the world groans and twists violently around you.

The truck lands upside down, and you kick out the window to escape, haul the unconscious oligarch out behind you, then the driver. The convoy screeches to a halt, darkness illuminated by growing flames and bright bursts of gunshots. A comrade runs to assist your stumbling stance even as you try to drag your package to another truck, and he gets three steps before he crumples to the ground. The bridge where the convoy is halted is precarious, prone to gunfire, and you can hear panicked shouts as those in the trucks behind you realize the mangled wreckage of your Humvee blocks the way.

Another grenade, and this one is close. It knocks you flat onto your back, scatters asphalt and dust over you. There’s a ringing in your ears that deafens gunshots to distant pops, and even your groan of pain sounds like it comes from under water. Your helmet has been knocked from your face, and when you tilt your head to the side you see hostiles growing closer, nearly atop you.

You stand, turn, fall again as a bullet grazes your shoulder. Yet there’s a shout then from behind you, one you stubbornly ignore as you rise once more, stagger towards the edge of the bridge.

That name again, the once that’s become familiar to you by now, the one that isn’t yours. You bend over the railing, stare at the current below, racing in the darkness. The voice calls again, and you turn, stare at the face partially obscured by his helmet. Brown eyed, a mustache, younger than your spirit feels. You’ve seen him before, and you don’t know where, like he’s appeared in a distant dream.

Hands off his weapon, he takes a step towards you, repeats the name in a cracked, desperate call. You look at him, feel fear of the unknown once more pulse between your ribs. The ringing in your ears grows louder, and you stumble backwards in uncertainty. He reaches for you.

“Wait-” He tries, gaze open with despair. “Please.”

“I know you.” You breathe, seeing the way the fire alights across his brown skin in amber hues. “I...”

A step back, a stumble. You pitch over the railing, into the water.

Darkness surrounds you.

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[liamthemailman]

Makarov and Y/N

[deunmiu-dessie]

warnings ⸻ dub-con

makarov's!daughter who finds her wrists bound behind her back, kneeling on the cold, rough concrete, the skin bruised and raw. makarov's!daughter who leans against the aluminum walls, eyes attempting to adjust to the darkness of her surroundings. makarov's!daughter who jolts when the doors are thrown open, overhead lights flooding the room and burning her eyes. makarov's!daughter who comes face to face with a skull mask when her eyes flutter open, lashes wet with tears. makarov's!daughter whose lips pucker when the man crouches to her height and grabs her cheeks roughly. makarov's!daughter whose eyebrows knit together, spitting on him as best as she can. "иди в жопу." ( go fuck yourself ) makarov's!daughter who swallows thickly when his gravelly, mocking voice responds. "there r'other ways t'get you ta speak, принцесса." ( princess )

"--mmph!"

your gag reflex surfaces as his girthy, pierced cock bullies its way down your throat, his gloved hands gripping your hair roughly. your face is a mess of spit and cum, lips wrapped loosely around the thickness of the masked man. his eyes are a murky blue, upper lids hooded to watch his cock disappear between your lips and then further. the fight you once had is no more and you willingly swallow his length, tongue laving at his tip when he pulls away.

you're drooling, spluttering, and whining in a panic when he reaches into his back pocket to pull out your phone to record you, the bright flash of the back camera hurting your eyes. "i think y'r little girl is enjoying my cock t'much, don't you? makarov?"

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ - 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒!

[konigsblog]

do you write for makarov? 🥺 i don’t have any specific prompt…. maybe makarov x secretary! reader?? (bonus: mean!makarov?)

yes, i do write for makarov!! 🩸

toxic!makarov and secretary!reader :(

cw: manipulation, dubcon, coercion(?)

makarov is an expert at manipulation, it's what he's best at — as well as coercion and threatening. whatever he says, goes, and you rarely have your own voice and opinions. he's able to sway your opinion to fit what he sees best. he adores how obedient you are; listening eagerly for the next order, like a good, well trained dog.

he tapped his thigh, and ordered you to sit down against him, and of course, you followed...

while he went over reports about the latest mission, his thick fingers began wandering places they shouldn't — i mean, there was a clear power dynamic between you two... slipping his large, hot hands up your blouse to tease your hardened nipples and grope your soft breasts, kneading them and chuckling as he listens to your gasps and mewls — the way your breath hitched.

“c’mon, don’t be so shy.” he grumbles hoarsely, tightly pinching your nipples before twisting them painfully. he coerces you, that this is a reward for doing whatever he says. don't you wanna follow his orders, like how you're supposed to?

why don't you lie back and spread your pretty thighs, allowing him to fuck and pump his slick fingers into your wet, tight hole?

you're nervous, not sure if this is what you want, but, god, you just can't bring yourself to deny him — after all, he's your superior and you're just a secretary for his use.

...but, especially with his thigh rubbing at your clothed pussy beneath your pencil skirt. makarov started to pull your skirt up greedily, ripping your tight with a sharp knife left on his desk, and pushing your panties to the side to allow himself to tease your wet, sticky cunt for hours. easing his fingers inside and toying with your sensitive, little clit while you moan out through bliss, while you wriggle through your orgasm and the stimulation, grinding against his boner ‘accidentally’ :3

[saturncodedstarlette]

Makarov, extends his hand to them : You want to watch the world burn?

Y/N, gingerly takes his hand : Let me guess, you’ll set it on fire?

Makarov, guides them to the balcony :

Y/N, follows him as if being hypnotised by him :

Makarov, gestures at the world below them : No, darling. I’ll hand you the match—

Makarov, slides behind them, hands gently but firmly clutching their shoulders : ——and stand at your back—

Makarov, softly into their ear : ——watching you become the monarch of the ashes.

[thatgirlmag1000]

Cold-hearted (CoD x Y/N)

Preview

A story in which Y/N is Makarov's daughter

First half of Chapter 1

14:37

December 16th, 2023

Moscow, Russia

No one expects their parents to pass away when they're still young. Especially not you. For over half of your life, your father was the only parent you had, and now here you are in front of his grave. You had always known he was a bad person. Horrible, actually. But you couldn't help but pity yourself for the fact that you had no one now. You felt like a nobody because you technically now were a nobody. Just an orphan with nowhere to go now.

Leaving the cemetery, you were immediately surrounded by reporters who had nothing better to do than to prey on you, an emotionally vulnerable teen, barely 17 years old, just for some stupid information. You hated it. All of it. You didn't want this attention. You just wanted to be left alone. But the questions just wouldn't stop coming.

"Ma'am, what was your relationship with the terrorist Vladimir Makarov?" "Are you a relative of his?""Were you part of his entourage?"

If you want to see how the story continues, check out "Cold-hearted" on wattpad by Official_QueenMagma (aka me, thatgirlmag1000)

[nina-renmen]

Bleed For Me pt.1

Makarov x black reader

warnings: Yandere themes, slapping, makarov looses his shit, killing, mentions of reader having braids, mentions of sex without aftercare

Russia was bound to be cold. That, y/n knew. But she didn’t expect it to rain so hard. The dark, cloudy skies provided her a way to maneuver in the dark. A sharp dagger she’d taken from Makarov was hidden in her pocket as she pressed her back up against the wall. A pair of footsteps came closer to her, prompting the darker skinned woman to pull out her weapon. Her trained fingers gripping onto the dagger tightly.

Bending her knees she watched the floor to see a shadows from the man. Once she did she waited a few more seconds before lunging out and driving the knife into the guards throat skillfully. Twisting the knife she pulled it out, letting the man that was twice her size fall to the floor. She crouched down, searching the guard. To her luck she found a gun on him, some money and a key card. Looking around, her hands gripped the guards legs, dragging him into the dark and hiding the body within the shadows.

Y/n would have to move quick. It’d only be a matter of time before Makarov realized that his ‘loving’ girlfriend was gone. Y/n’s cheek still stung from the harsh slap she’d received from Makarov during their argument earlier.

Y/n could remember the anger she’d harbored for some time. She was in their shared room- or now Makarov’s room. It was the third time Makarov slept with y/n without giving her any type of aftercare. The bruises on her body ached and tears welled up in her eyes but she held them back. She would not cry over something like this. For the last year it felt as if Makarov no longer cared for the poor girl. He was always at meetings, making deals and killing civilians. So y/n did what she did best. She packed up and got ready to leave.

“And where are you going?” Y/n’s movements didn’t stop as she calmly folded the pair of pants. “Somewhere.” Y/n said vaguely which only made the males eyebrows furrow in annoyance.

“You’re not leaving.” Makarov said as he leaned on the doorway, preventing y/n from leaving.

“I am and I will.” Y/n retorted as she opened her bedside drawer and pulled out a dagger that Makarov had personalized just for her. He did it to teach her how to fight, not knowing that her parents used to make her fight within an underground arena as the young age of sixteen. It was illegal, and under the table. No one put it on any of her records, it was something to be buried in her ‘past life’.

“Why is that? You have everything you need here. I give you everything you could ever want. Jewelry, I take you to high class restaurants, galas…anywhere you wanted to go I’ve taken you to. So why leave?” Makarov was partially right. He spent copious amounts of money. But y/n don’t want the money.

“It….feels like you don’t care for me anymore.” Y/n whispered as she stood up from kneeling beside the dresser, stuffing the dagger in her pocket. She flinched when Makarov’s arms snaked around her waist. He pushed her braids away from the side of her neck. The hickeys on her neck from last night were still fresh. “And you think that because…?” Makarov trailed off, waiting for you to answer as he kissed your neck. It was the most affection he’d given you in weeks, that didn’t involve in sex.

“You’re no longer affectionate with me. Anything that dosn’t involve sleeping with me you don’t want to do. You’re aggressive and overprotective to the point I feel as if I’m suffocating.” Y/n said honestly. Makarov’s grip tightened.

“You know I’m busy-“

“But you’re free to fuck me every other day?” Y/n cut him off. Her tone surprised him. His manipulation tactics were no longer working.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Makarov asked as he kissed your cheek. “You know I’d drop everything for you.” He whispered tenderly, his hands going under your shirt. Y/n already knew where this was going. She immediately shook him off. “This is what I’m talking about! You’re insufferable!-“

She hadn’t even realized what had happened until this sharp noise had echoed throughout the air. Her cheek throbbing in pain. But she didn’t react, she was in shock. Makarov never put his hands on her before.

Immediately he took his chance. Pushing y/n up against the wall, he grabbed her face tightly. Putting pressure on the tender spot. Making y/n wince.

“You will listen and you will listen close.” Makarov growled, pushing his body up against her own. “Yell at me again and I will cut your tongue. If you even speak about leaving me again I will cut your tongue. Do I make myself clear?” When y/n didn’t answer Makarov snatched the dagger from within her pocket, putting the cold metal up against her throat. “Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?” He asked darkly to which y/n nodded slowly. Makarov pushed her head into the wall, making a loud thudding noise as the back of her skull came in contact with the wall. Y/n didn’t cry out in pain, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt her.

As Makarov turned to leave, y/n swift and nimble hands pulled out the spare dagger he had on his thigh holster, efficiently hiding it as he slammed the door shut.

And that’s why she was here now. Taking one more look around her surroundings, y/n stood up from her position next to the dead body and maneuvered within the shadows. The bloodied knife and pistol now in her grasp as she moved thought the base. She almost forgot what it was like to live like this. All the years of being pampered by Makarov almost made her forget what it’s like to be in the run, to fend for your life.

Just as y/n made it out the doors she heard Makarov’s voice. Yelling commands at his soldiers to search the base for you. Just then, y/n pulled her hood over her freshly done hair before hopping over a wall.

[fakescenariosbeforesleepblog]

I needed you to know...

Vladimir Makarov × Reader

Makarov disappeared for a long time, you didn't know where he was, but you sent him a letter to the last address he gave you before disappearing. You weren't expecting him years later, knocking at your door in the middle of the night with the letter on his hand.

You were watching cartoons since you can't sleep well, laying on the sofa, with a lot of blankets.

*Knock... Knock... knock*

You jumped on the sofa, who would be knocking on the door in the middle of the night? You turned off the tv and stood up. You looked through the hole of the door, you stepped back, there's no way, no, it can't be, he disappeared, are you seeing a ghost?.

*Knock, Knock*

A ghost can't knock, you open the door slowly and there he is, you're not imagining it, he's in front of you.

- Hello y/n.

- V... Vladimir? What... Where have you been?

- Long story. I found this at my house...

He showed you a Letter, you recognized it perfectly, the brown paper, the content of that letter. You shivered.

- Long story? That's all you will say?

He knows you're trying to avoid the conversation.

- I can't tell you where I was, tell me now, this letter... Is it true?

You stayed quiet, you don't know what you were thinking when you sent that letter, you never expected to see him at your door, that's a fact, Vladimir Makarov, in your opinion is not a man for this kind of life.

- ANSWER ME!

- I...

- Mommy? what's going on?

A small figure appeared behind you, with a blanket on his little hand, Makarov was speechless.

- It's all alright love, it's just a friend, ok? Go back to bed please.

You were praying for Makarov's mercy and also praying for your son to be obedient and do what you were asking.

- Hi, I'm (son's name) and you?

You were afraid, angry, all emotions were running through your mind. What will you do now?.

- honey, please do what I said, go back to..

- Hi, I'm Vladimir, nice to meet you. I would like to talk to your mommy in private, can you give us a few minutes alone?

You looked at Makarov, you're looking for any sign of anger but there's none. Your son nodded and went to his bedroom. You stayed alone with Makarov, both In silence, you know you have to explain everything but you don't know where to start.

- I... I found out I was with a child 3 weeks after you disappeared... I tried to call you, to text you, I went to look for you but you left without saying anything... I tried to take the second option but at the end i couldn't, I know you will say it's a stupid decision but not for me, I've been doing it fine without you, I'm a good mom...

You were on the edge of tears, he was still standing at the door without saying anything but after a moment he walked to you and gave you a hug, You were expecting everything but this, but it feels good, after all this time, the smell of his perfume, the warmth of his body brings memories to you.

- Y/N, it's okay, it's okay doll, shhh, it's all alright.

You were still in his arms, how is it possible he's reacting so well?

- is it okay? Are you not angry? I sent that letter because I wanted you to know about him, I'm not asking you to stay with us, I'm not asking you nothing, I just... I wanted you to know about his existence.

- I know you're not asking me for nothing, but now I can't let you or our son without any protection.

You looked up at him, you were concerned.

- What are you talking about? Vladimir what did you do?

- It's nothing, just... I need you to come with me, I have to protect both of you. Get ready, I'll be back in the morning to pick you up and take you to a new location, Okay?

You sighed, you knew he had a dangerous job but he actually never explained it to you, you can't complain, you have a child now and if Vladimir says you're probably in danger, you have to think about what is better for both.

[grvesgf]

VLADIMIR MAKAROV X HYBRIDCAT!READER FEM!READER.

ADVERTENCIAS: Vladimir ya es una advertencia, pistolas, sangre, ¿acoso?

RESUMEN: Conoces a Makarov en el club que trabajas.

PALABRAS: 762.

NO ESTA CORREGIDO, PERO NECESITABA ESCRIBIR SOBRE VLADIMIR.

✦ Siempre fuiste cuidadosa con quien hablabas, tus padres te enseñaron desde pequeña que la gente mala existe, especialmente para gente como tú, con tus orejas y cola de gato, llamando la atención.

✦ Trabajas en un club como mesera, atendiendo mesas a cierta hora, la hora conocida como "los contratos", donde los clientes firmaban y organizaban los contratos que cambiarían sus vidas.

✦ Tu cola se movía de lado a lado, tus orejas moviéndose por el ruido de la música, tu jefe te mando a atender una mesa.

"T/N ve a la mesa de arriba, sé lo más amable posible, pero no tanto, tenemos un invitado especial esta noche."

"¿Invitado especial? Pensé que todos nuestros clientes son importantes, pero entendido."

Tomas la bandeja y mientras subes las escaleras un escalofrío te recorre, te detienes un momento, piensas que has conocido gente mala desde que trabajas, pero esta sensación de peligro nunca las habías experimentado tan fuerte. Suspiras, solo queda una hora y puedes irte a tu casa, caminas hacia la mesa con tu mejor sonrisa.

"Bienvenidos, mi nombre es T/N y seré su mesera de esta noche." Miras a cada uno de las personas mientras sonríes, enrollas tu cola en una de tus piernas. "¿Qué es lo que desean?"

"¿Estás tú en el menú? Te comería entera."

Un hombre con un acento raro te mira, su mirada te pone incómoda.

"Lo siento, para su mala suerte no lo estoy, si quiere estar con alguna chica conozco a algunas."

"¿Y si te deseo a ti?"

El hombre se para, puedes sentir su aliento en tu cara, está claramente borracho, por instinto tus orejas se agachan cuando sientes que las toca.

"Nunca había conocido un híbrido en mi vida, no sabía que eran tan hermosos."

Algo te salpica en la cara, llevas tus manos a tu boca en shock, miras el cuerpo del hombre en el suelo, está muerto.

"Oh dios mío."

Levantas la mirada para darte cuenta de que un hombre tiene una pistola, abre y cierras tu boca intentando no entrar en pánico, pero recuerdas las reglas del club, respiras profundamente y llamas a tu jefe.

"Tenemos un cuerpo en la mesa vip, ¿Puedes venir a arreglar esto? Gracias."

En menos de dos minutos el piso está brillando de nuevo y no existe un cuerpo, te limpias las gotas de sangre de tu cara y vuelves a sonreír, ocultando tu miedo.

"Bueno ese fue un buen comienzo, ¿alguno quiere pedir algo o tendremos que vivir un momento así otra vez?"

Los hombres empiezan a pedir, tú anotas sus pedidos, pero notas qué falta uno, el hombre que disparo.

"¿Usted no desea nada?"

Inclinas tu cabeza en curiosidad.

"Nada en este momento, gracias."

Tus orejas se mueven, este hombre igual tiene un acento, pero no te molesta, ruso, reconoces fácilmente.

"Traeré sus pedidos inmediatamente."

Mientras te vas miras para atrás, tu mirada choca con el hombre ruso. Llevas todos sus pedidos con una sonrisa.

"Sí necesitan algo solo aprieten este botón, y yo vendré enseguida."

Los dejas solos, los minutos pasan y tu turno se termina, sales por la puerta trasera, cuando lo ve, fumando apoyado en una pared, dudas si hablarle o no, pero lo haces.

"Hey, perdón por molestar, pero quería agradecerte por haberme ayudado arriba, no estoy acostumbrada que los clientes de este club me hablen de esa manera."

El hombre tira su cigarro y se acerca.

"No fue nada, igualmente necesitábamos una excusa para sacarlo del camino."

Su acento y voz te causan un sonrojo, estiras tu mano.

"Soy T/N, sé que me presente, pero siempre es bueno recordarlo."

El desconocido aprieta tu mano, tu cola se mueve rápidamente, su toque te causa electricidad.

"Makarov, Vladimir Makarov."

Sonríes, sin saber que sellaste tu destino.

"Es un gusto conocerte Makarov, ¿O Vladimir?"

Preguntas en honesta confusión.

"Los dos están bien."

Un auto toca la bocina, llegaron por ti.

"Fue un gusto conocerte Makarov, pero han llegado por mí."

"¿Un novio?"

"¿Qué? No, no, solo mi hermano mayor, no tengo novio."

"Eso es bueno saberlo. Adiós T/N, espero volver a verte."

"Sí vienés unas dos horas antes me vas a encontrar, solo trabajo en la hora de los contratos."

Te despides de Makarov y caminas hacia el auto, te subes y suspiras, tu hermano te mira.

"¿Nuevo sugar daddy?"

Golpeas a tu hermano en el hombro.

"Cállate idiota. Solo le estaba dando las gracias, me salvo ahí arriba."

Sin que supieras, tu destino cambiaría, a Makarov le gustaste, y cuando algo le gusta, debe ser suyo. A cualquier costo.

[lucid-loves]

Taste Like Venom ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 1

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x assassin!reader (fem!reader, no use of y/n, callsign “Hex”)

Word Count: 3.4k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, enemies to friends to lovers trope, slow burn, plot, clear attraction and sexual tension, smut later on, reader POV and ghost POV, minors dni, Soap lives in this AU

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Synopsis: After Makarov gets away again, Laswell decides to force a favor from you, the world’s greatest assassin and best-kept secret. You are now expected to help the 141 with taking down Makarov in addition to playing nice with them. It’s hard to play nice when you have always worked alone. It doesn’t help that one of the team members, Ghost, gets curious about you with each interaction. 

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8 ~ Part 9 ~ Part 10

You’ve always been a light sleeper, if you could even be called that. The truth was that you hardly slept at all. Bedtime was always more like cat-nap time. Light, soundless, ready to pounce at the sound of dust falling to the floor. That’s how you trained yourself and the habit stuck, even if you don’t take missions anymore. It was hard to deprogram a killing machine. 

The two years have been peaceful even if you were always on edge. Semi-retirement has been kind in only giving you the sounds of the forest trees in the wind, the gentle rush of the creek, birds singing every morning, and most importantly, no visitors. The world didn’t know that you existed and you preferred to keep it that way for as long as you could. While you did feel the phantom blood dripping down your hands every now and then to an unsettling reminiscent degree, you did like this little slice of heaven that was your off-grid cabin. It was a good place to be before you undoubtedly go to hell in the end.

You were in your bed when you heard the rustling of the forest floor just outside your window. Steps. But not the steps belonging to a fox or bear you have learned to recognize over time. These were the steps of a man. No, multiple men. The way the foot falls of a man walking is an undeniable melody you have heard thousands of times. In the dead of night, you bolted up out of bed and reached for your throwing knife and a pistol, always kept at your bedside. Like a thief in your own home, you silently followed the sounds outside along the walls until you reached the living room. They were going to come in through the front door. 

Under the cover of darkness, you readied your aim at the door. To your surprise, they were messing with the keypad that locked your house down, inputting codes with a subtle click and then beep of a correct code. No one should know the code except for two people. Laswell and yourself. 

As soon as the door revealed moonlight and a silhouette, you fired your gun. A warning shot. Grazing right past neck. The men stopped and immediately aimed their own rifles, but the one in front held his hand up in surrender. Following orders, the rifles were lowered. You were the first to speak, your voice dripping with venom. “State your purpose and maybe I won’t kill you all where you stand.”

A gentle yet deep Liverpudlian accent voiced back. “Easy now. We don’t mean harm. Laswell sent us here. Code Swan.”

“Song?” You replied, your muscles still tense, unwilling to lower your defenses until the full code was complete. It is what ensured both yours and Laswell’s safety.

“Black Death.” He replied back. You stayed in position for a few moments before finally sighing and lowering your weapon. You turned on a table lamp next to you to get a better look at the intruders. Four men stood in your doorway. One with a fishing hat, one with a mohawk, one with a baseball cap, and one with a skull mask. They were all tall, big with muscle, and seemingly not American from their patches. An interesting bunch to say the least. 

“Fucking Laswell.” You cursed Kate’s name. She should have contacted you about this. You were just about to paint the porch with her mens’ brains. You hated surprises. You often killed them before finding out the intentions. 

With a wave of your hand, you invited the men to come into your cabin. They cautiously came in, surveying the layout and now understanding what Kate meant when she said that you were “belligerent.”

You turned on the main lights and tried to get a fire going to relieve some of the autumn chill that had crept through the house. Their leader began to unload his things on the kitchen table, sighing from the weight relief. His men joined in, save for one. You could feel his eyes on you as you encouraged the fire. You didn’t even have to look back to know that he was watching your every move. 

“It’s rude to stare.” You warned curtly as you stood and turned. The man in the skull mask and balaclava didn’t avert his gaze.

His voice was rich and gruff like gaboon ebony. His Manchester accent came clear as day. “You’re half naked.”

He was referring to the large band shirt and boyshort panties that you were wearing. What did he expect from someone that thought that enemies were breaking in? You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “I’m in my pajamas. Besides, a good soldier shouldn’t get distracted by any amount of nudity.”

His blue eyes narrowed at your dig. He was a good soldier. An excellent soldier actually. One of the best. But excellent, good, or bad, no one would be able to resist staring at your figure. The exposed thighs, the large neckline of the shirt hanging off your shoulder, various scars scattered across skin like an abstract painting. He’s never seen anyone like you before. 

Too bad you had a combative mouth. 

Before he could get a word in, you had walked off into the kitchen, not bothering to go get pants on. It was your home for fuck’s sake. Besides, there were more pressing matters than your clothes or lack thereof. 

You began to pull out all the food you had out of your fridge. Everything from deli meat to leftover lasagna was being laid out on the large quartz island. You weren’t going to heat anything up or make something new, but the laid out spread would be enough. You weren’t a completely heartless host. Just a bare minimum one.

Once the food was out for pickings, you headed back near the dining room, leaning against the doorframe. The boys had maps, blueprints, and laptops covering every surface of your table. Your beautiful, hand-made pine table. This was to be their new safehouse for now. Hopefully not for too long.

“Captain, it’s connecting now.” The one with the mohawk called out. The captain came right over to greet the screen.

“Laswell, can you hear us?”

“Loud and clear, John. Did everything go well?” Kate chipperly asked. You haven’t heard her voice in a long while. You almost forgot how nice her voice actually was.

“She nearly shot my fuckin’ neck off.” Mohawk-guy grumbled. 

Kate gave a light, short laugh. “Sounds like it went smoothly then. The best that it could be. She there?”

All four men looked up to you, expecting you to come over and face Laswell through the screen. However, you stayed where you were. Instead, you spoke loud enough for your friend to hear. “Kate Laswell.”

“Hex, I’m sorry that I couldn’t warn you about this beforehand. You know I wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t an emergency situation.” She began to apologize and justify. It was always an apology followed by a justification. You wondered if she even ever means her apologies, but in the end, you never really cared enough. However, now it is different.

“I don’t exist, Kate. And now four new people know that I do. . .” You retorted back.

It was silent for a moment, the tension in the air thick. She was on the other side of the screen, but it felt like you were going to get into a physical fight with her anyways. “They’re trustworthy. I trust them with my life and the lives of millions upon millions. Just like I trust you. And as the only people that I trust, I need you to help them.”

“They have already taken over my home. What more do you want from me?” You clenched your jaw, trying to prepare yourself for an answer you probably wouldn’t like. Like hell were you going to play dorm mother to them and like hell you were going to just move out. The last thing you wanted was to take care of these men longer than necessary. This was already pushing that line for you.

“Athame.” She bluntly said. That was the worst answer she could have said. The confused looks the men gave each other made you grateful for a fleeting second. They didn’t understand your secret codes and languages. But they will soon.

Your jaw was clenched so hard that your teeth ached. You damn near cracked them. While your voice before was dripping with venom, it was now drowning in it. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“Hex, I-”

You finally came over, nearly pushing the captain out of the way in your warpath. Through the screen, Kate could see how angry you were. Not just angry, furious. She steeled herself, ready for your onslaught of curses, stopping herself midway through her explanation. “I don’t do this shit, Kate! I work solo for a very particular fucking reason. And now you want me to work with four strange men?! Now you want me to play nice?! I’m not a fucking soldier that can just be ordered around!”

“I know! I know. . . But. . . we’re desperate. I’m desperate, Hex. Please, this is the last favor I will ever ask from you. This is an awful target we’re talking about. Someone that is better off in this world dead.”

“You mean Makarov, right? Why should I clean up your government’s fuck-up? Again, might I add.” You spat. You lived off the grid and weren’t a citizen of anywhere, but you still watched the news. You always knew what was going on in the world among other secrets. Makarov was a threat to the world, but as far as you were concerned, it wasn’t your problem. If anything, the government needed this lesson as a direct consequence of their negligence and incompetence. 

“Because Chalice.” She simply stated, knowing that her final word was a last ditch effort. Chalice was an agreement that you two had made long ago. It could only be used once in your lives, a truly desperate resort for help. If one of you uttered it, then the other would have no choice but to help, no matter the request. That was the law between your friendship, among other things. The other code words were favors, but this was the ultimate one. Life or death.

You considered punching the laptop in anger. Right at Kate’s face. You didn’t like her call for Athame or Chalice, but now you didn’t have a choice but to comply. It didn’t mean that you weren’t still furious though. “Fuck you, Kate.”

“Thank you, Hex.” She breathed a sigh of relief. She wanted to tell you more about what she needed from you, but she knew that you had to cool off first otherwise you would burst into flames. That would've made things harder for all of you. So, she nodded as a signal for dismissal which you gladly took. You retreated to your room, locking the door shut and basking in the darkness. 

You could feel the blood boil within you. It burned your insides and choked you. Grabbing your pillow, you pressed it against your face and screamed out your frustration. When that didn’t help, you punched the exposed logs of your cabin wall until your knuckles were splintered and bleeding.

~

Ghost sat on the couch, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty. The rest of the meeting with Laswell was brief, wanting them to try to decompress for the next several hours. Sleep, eat, process. All in the comfort of an assassin’s home. 

Compared to your personality, the cabin was decorated warmly. Everything was cozy, earthy, and fresh. The fire crackled comfortably, the plush couch was broken in, and every wooden piece of furniture looked hand-made. Bookshelves were filled with classic books and another shelf collected various music records. The only thing that seemed out of place was the lack of real personal mementos. No pictures, no art, not even knick-knacks. The others didn’t seem to notice or care as they picked through the food left in the kitchen. But for Simon, it left him uneasy.

He recalled the briefing before they were sent to the middle of nowhere to you. Kate said that you were an old friend of hers from high school. You have been friends ever since, but you were different than most people. You were a deadly assassin unknown by the world. No records, no pictures, not even a birth certificate. You handled delicate problems with grace and grave justice. You always worked alone, you didn’t trust others, and you were deadly. Everything about you was a secret until Kate made the crucial choice to ask for your help. Hell, they didn’t even know your call sign until Kate said it over the video call. 

“You should eat, Lt. There’s a lot of options, but they’re dwindling fast.” Soap patted him on the shoulder, awakening him from deep thought. Ghost looked up at the sergeant, watching him stuff a sandwich into his mouth. It looked like all the deli meat from one packet was in between the bread. No lettuce or tomato. 

“In a bit. I’m gonna talk to Hex real quick and ask some questions.” He replied and got up from the couch. 

Soap swallowed nervously. “Kate said that she’s gonna need time to cool off. . .”

“Our new member is part of the team now. She’s gonna have to get used to us even if she wants time for herself.” He justified it with a shrug of his shoulders. Soap shook his head and walked back into the kitchen, knowing that what Simon was about to do was most likely going to be a bad idea.

Ghost walked down the hall, observing each door as he passed them. Most of them were slightly open revealing extra bedrooms, an office, and a bathroom. Only two of them remained closed, both locked with keypads. For a second, he wondered which bedroom was yours before he could hear the sound of light music behind one of them along with swearing. It made him wonder what was behind the other door that was locked down.

Deciding to let it go for now, he approached your door and knocked. “Hex, open up.”

He heard you let out a frustrated groan before the door opened up. It was only just enough to see you, the pure darkness behind you, and the blood dripping down your fists. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and quirked a brow that you couldn’t see behind the mask. It didn’t take a genius to realize what you had done. “Are you done throwing a temper tantrum?”

You scowled at him, a fire in your eyes that made Simon’s heart skip a beat which confused him. He wasn’t afraid of you, so why would his heart alter its beat for you?

“If I knew that you were just going to insult me, I would’ve shot you dead on my porch.” You bitterly snapped, moving to close the door in his face. However, Ghost stopped it from slamming and took your hand in his, observing the damage you’ve done to yourself.

Your breath caught in your throat. Electricity ran through you at his touch. When was the last time someone has touched you? You attempted to pull back, but his hand firmly gripped yours. “Hey! What the fuck? Let go of me!”

“Calm down and let me see. It hurts, doesn’t it? Stings?” 

You narrowed your eyes, but eventually nodded. It did sting and the dripping blood already stained your carpet. However, you could take care of it yourself. You didn’t need some man coming in to try to fix you. “I’ll be fine. I can tend to it myself.”

“First aid in the bathroom?” He asked, seeming to ignore your clear hint that you wanted to be alone. 

Understanding that he probably wouldn’t drop this until he saw gauze around your knuckles, you headed to the hall bathroom with a huff, opened up the cabinet, and took out the first aid kit. You then took a seat at the edge of the tub and began patching yourself up. Every now and then you looked up towards the doorway, making sure that the skull man was watching you take care of yourself. Without his help. Without anyone’s help.

Finally, your hands were wrapped and the bleeding had stopped. You held up your hands towards him. “Happy now? Will you leave me alone now?”

“Hex.” Ghost simply said as a warning. God, you were infuriating. An attitude problem was something he would normally be able to snuff out immediately. He did it all the time when training new soldiers. Not you though. New soldiers were like little candles, easily blown out of their fire with just a breath. You? You were like a raging forest fire. One that clearly had its own traumas over years of service that the world may never know. 

You didn’t like how he studied you. How his eyes trained on you were a mix between hatred, curiosity, and something else that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. A magnetic pull that begged for you to look at him too. You also didn’t like how he was trying to treat you like one of his rookie soldiers. The only thing you wanted to do to make it all stop was to push him away. “Don’t talk to me like some new recruit straight out of school. I’ve already earned my place in the world with the amount of scars I have. So, don’t treat me like I’m under you. I won’t even let your captain talk to me like that.”

After putting the first aid back where it belonged, you attempted to leave the bathroom and retreat back to your bedroom. Yet, Ghost wasn’t giving up just yet. His hold body blocked the bathroom exit. He was tall, strong, and sturdy. It wasn’t hard for him to completely fill up the space. However, that didn’t intimidate you. You got up close, and looked straight into those icy blues. Even with the black warpaint, you could tell that his lashes were meant to be blonde. Some of the paint had flecked off revealing some true color. You wondered what the rest of his face looked like for a second. Just a second.

You stood your ground, engaging in a heated staring contest. It was like lightning crackling between the two of you. After a while though, Simon finally gave in and held his hand up like a handshake. “Lieutenant. They call me Ghost.” 

Hesitantly, you took his hand and firmly shook it, refusing to back down from a battle of wills. “Hex. That’s all you will know me by.”

Suddenly, he pulled you in closer, your chest almost touching his. On instinct, you pulled a knife from the waistband of your underwear. It was the one you took with you earlier for the showdown at the door. You held it to his neck, blade dipping in until you could feel the push back of skin. Ghost didn’t flinch or jump back at your defense. Instead, he whispered into your ear that he wanted to get close to in the first place. “As hard as you may try to fight it, you’re going to know me. And I’m going to know you.”

You bit back the shiver that went down your spine from the whisper, aching to slice his throat in retaliation. Chalice had you pinned, though. You had to avoid killing the people you are going to be working with at the very least. 

Ghost slowly backed up and headed back towards the kitchen for some food, leaving you to process what just happened. You silently walked back to your room without looking back at him, ears turning red and heart racing unnaturally. You didn’t want to give him any satisfaction by giving him any more attention. However, Simon was already somewhat satisfied. 

Yet, there was a part of him that wanted more.

Soap was eating a piece of lasagna when he walked in. Gaz and Price were quietly conversing at the other end of the island. It took a lot of food to fill up men like them. It wouldn’t take long for them to eat you out of your house and home unfortunately. 

“So, how did it go?” Soap nosely inquired. As Simon surveyed the food before picking out a tupperware full of stew, he shrugged casually.

“She almost sliced my head off.”

Soap suppressed a chuckle and did his best impersonation of Laswell. “Sounds like it went smoothly then.”

[yanderestarangel]

HEADCANONS MW3 - "HE TOLD ME TO TAKE CARE OF YOU" | GHOST X READER

TW: spoilers about the canon story of mw3, death, mourning, angst, smut, praise, comfort, care, gn reader, use of medicines, breakdown, ghost soft spot, reader moves on after Mactavish's death, nsfw, reader's mixed emotions and ghost, post death of "soap mactavish" , dark themes.

A/N: People who are fighting in the comments: this is a work of fiction, if you take it seriously just DON'T READ IT.

Your world collapsed after the news that your fiancé "John Mactavish" aka "soap" had died, and what's worse, for Makarov. You felt your feet tremble and your breathing hitch - Price himself gave you this news, making you sob on the phone while Price, Gaz and especially, Ghost, listened to your pain and anger.

Ghost already knew you, he was soap's closest friend, he had been to your house several times and was even going to be best man at your wedding, along with Farah, however, Mactavish's young death took that away from you - and the man felt guilty, maybe if Ghost had been quicker, maybe if he had been close to Price he would have stopped Soap from trying to play the "hero" and getting shot in the head, maybe - Simon's mind was filled with "maybe " mute and would never have an answer.

You couldn't go with Ghost, Gaz and Price to throw Soap's ashes into the sea, you really wanted to - but part of you was paralyzed, as you clung to old photos and videos of Soap, or rather, your boy, your Johnny. Ghost went to your house, carrying the jar - now empty - of your fiance's ashes, he saw how weakened you were, and how quickly you tried to close the door in his face, however, he obviously didn't let you, using one of the hands to stop the blow. "-We need to talk (Y/N)." He just said that, muffled by the skull mask, his hard and cold eyes now carried a dead glow of sadness, anger and concern, Simon entered your house, without even hearing a vocal response from him.

"-I know things can be difficult for you, I know you loved Mactavish... But he asked me to take care of you (Y/N)" he paused significantly, a silence of understanding crossed the small and empty space between the two of you, while Simon squeezed the handle of the suitcase with all his strength, while holding back the single tear that tried to slip from his eye. "-He told me to take care of you if something happened to him and I will keep my word, whether you want my help or not." he added, as the cold gaze returned to you, searching for some kind of understanding on your face, he knew what it was like to lose someone you loved - however - he was focusing on you now, he could handle the pain, but you couldn't.

Then he did something he never did, he let the head of the impetuous and soulless man collapse slightly and letting the suitcase fall to the ground in a light tumble, the sound called you back to reality making you look at the tall and muscular form of Ghost with his arms open to you, while he was teary-eyed but refused to shed any tears, mixed emotions between the two of you, but the same feeling - the pain of sudden loss - you ran into the soldier's warm grip, feeling the smell of clothes wet from the rain and the thick, uncomfortable fabric of his sweatshirt, however, there was a warmth there, a warmth that you needed. You allowed yourself to cry, cry until your throat hurt, Simon's big hands made a pattern on your back and went to the top of your head, he didn't need to say anything at that moment, he just needed to give you the comfort you needed, you felt It allowed you to be taken care of, even if it was by a person you never thought would take care of you.

Simon watched you sleep after crying so much in his arms, lifting you in his arms to the upper staircase and placing you on the double bed, empty, due to the lack of John. He sighed heavily beneath his balaclava as he sat on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. "-I will truly keep my promise, I swear to you my brother..." Ghost whispered as if he was talking to Soap, or, the ghosts that haunted him.

The next few weeks were calm and uneventful, with Simon offering to help you with the household expenses. "-You just took care of the house right? Totally dependent on Soap?" He asked calmly, no judgment reverberated in his voice, just doubts and an attempt to get closer. You nodded silently, as you watched him hand you a notepad and a pen. "-Write down all the groceries you need for the house, I'll buy them, I may not be Johnny, but I'll take care of you just like he did." he said seriously, his penetrating gaze looked at the floor as he rested both hands on his knees, waiting for you to finish the list. You didn't question it, his look was serious, a statement you couldn't deny.

So, slow steps were worked into these daily narratives, with Ghost always checking in on you, whether you were taking your medicines right, whether you were eating right and even whether you were well enough - with rare occasions of you not being able to eat and Simon preparing some soup. for you, ordering you to sit at the table while he himself fed you with a spoon, some small compliments were whispered under the typical skull mask. "-You're doing well (Y/N)." "-I'm glad you're accepting the food I made." "-Just this spoon and you can go rest, ok?" - he wasn't used to being soft with someone, but, besides the promise he made, something about you made him want to see you well, but he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind like many others.

Soon the two of you began to live together more and more, not just polite everyday conversations or routine silent care, but rather, verbalizing some abstract feelings from both your hearts. Some nights Ghost would stay with you in the dimly lit kitchen, a hot coffee in front of you both, the steam dancing between you as you smiled sideways - a sad smile, full of hurt and nostalgia, but still a smile - showing some photos of Soap, some photos of you together traveling the world on the few vacations he had while he was alive. Making him smile beneath the fabric that covered his face. "-Oh, I see... He was really quite an adventurous man." he spoke calmly, seeing your sad look as he ran his finger over the cold screen of his cell phone, so Ghost had the idea of ​​telling some stories he shared as a protagonist with Soap - like the time Captain Price made him and Mactavish clean the entire barracks because caught you both listening behind the meeting door - you smiled, now, genuinely happy, making Simon's heart warm a little, as if he was on a mission and it was finally bearing fruit, your happiness.

He accompanied you to doctor appointments and shopping, he insisted that you should take better care of yourself - Ghost dragged you to an expensive clothing store and gave you permission to spend his money however and on whatever you wanted, you couldn't deny it just nodding and swearing he could see a chaste smile appear slightly on the black fabric he wore. You changed for him, trying out some clothes while he approved them all, making you smile beautifully, questioning him if he was being sincere. Simon just crossed his arms and let out a breath through his nose "-I'm just being honest, you're a beautiful person, any clothes you wear look great on you." he spoke sincerely, not noticing the words slipping off his tongue. You thanked him for the compliment, while selecting the clothes, the two of you heard the attendants talk about what a beautiful couple you made. You didn't say anything and neither did Simon correct them, just holding your shoulders in a gesture of shy affection.

Your feelings were confused, you practically lived with Simon now, even giving yourself the freedom to walk around the house in just a towel, you felt good, good about yourself and the man who took care of you - even if your mind wondered if it was right to accept such intimate contact with your late fiancé's friend -

Questions were also present in Ghost's mind, but he liked to take care of you, it wasn't just an obligation for a promise but for pleasure and self-satisfaction, the two of you now practically lived together - something that happened naturally, over time , just proof of a greater connection that was growing in both of you - soon you found yourself arranging Ghost's clothes, like you did with Soap, taking care of his lunch, even though nothing more intimate had ever happened, nothing more than pleasant conversations and warm touches, but covered by the fabrics of your body and Simon's gloves. The spark that was igniting there transcended any bond he had formed and any morals built during his time with Mactavish. He wondered if it was worth going over everything he believed in and trying something with you, touching your skin, feeling you on his fingertips, seeing your happy face and contorting with pleasure because of him - thoughts he didn't think about. he managed to free himself, after all, no man is hypocritical in his pleasures and desires - and Ghost was one of them.

It didn't take long for it to happen, a few glasses of wine, a few laughs between you like any ordinary weekend you were both having in that routine of caregiver x person who was dying from care. But something shone in both your eyes and his, a look that didn't need words but just actions - when you saw it, you were leaning over the kitchen counter, the taller man's thick cock hitting your holes, the swollen balls of cum hit your skin, leaving your skin red. It had been so long since you felt a cock filling you and Ghost was there, fucking you without much thought, just sweet compliments as he ravished your needy hole against his hard, cold marble on the counter. "-Yes fuck... You look so beautiful like this, take it all baby..." "-Don't be ashamed, just let go, I'm here, you've endured so much, haven't you? Yes, you're so strong... So beautiful... Let me take care of you sweetheart." "-Mmm... Fuck (Y/N)... You're squeezing me so good, keep it up okay? I'm going to make you cum, I'm here for you." He spoke between moans in the air, holding your thighs, you forgot everything, the mourning, the past, who you were, just focusing on the blur with each thick thrust and hoarse praise, full of Simon Riley's accent to you. You two didn't know how you were going to act after that, but it didn't matter about the momentary carnal pleasure.

After the post-orgasmic bliss, you and Simon exchanged more glances. "-Sorry, I just... We can't do that." Ghost spoke first, while he was still physically connected with you, leaving slowly, seeing your satisfied form but full of doubts and guilt, even so he helped you take a shower, the two of you sitting in the same bathtub, just an oral silence and the sound calm of the water filled the air particles. You didn't know how to feel, nor what to say. Ghost agreed with the idea of ​​pretending that nothing had happened between you... And that didn't do anything.

It happened again, it always did, another cold, rainy night, with Ghost above you, Simon's thick hands caressing your thighs, his warm breath on your neck. "-I promised to take care of you, I think... Soap would be happy if I made you happy in other ways too." he whispered against your wet, sweaty skin, pushing the shaft already covered in his semen even deeper, from other times he had cum, and maybe, he was right, Mactavish wanted you happy, and you were happy. He reached out his hand, grabbing yours, as he looked you in the eyes, pushing you to your limit. "-Tell me dear... You want another chance to be happy, right?" he spoke from behind the skull balaclava softly and with expectant eyes, all that was needed was your answer to your future, a future with Simon or, a future trapped in memories of the past.

©YANDERESTARANGEL 2023

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter Three) (Finale)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 6.5k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, Some Fluff, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Physical Abuse, Domestic Violence, Attempted Homicide, Physical descriptions of gore, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3) A/N: The final chapter of Marionette's escape

How do you kill the person you love?

You’ve bathed in the blood of dozens, possibly hundreds. The violence Makarov has wound into your veins is inherent to your soul. Poisoned, your heart is dyed in ink, pulsing in glinting obsidian. If there was anything pure in you before he turned you into what you are now, it’s been swallowed by the years spent under his control, in his arms, drinking in his breath as if it were your own. The lives you’ve taken for him are a mere chill compared to his searing warmth. It burns against your skin in the light of the truth, but the pain is a bittersweet addiction you can’t release.

You know a hundred ways to kill an enemy, but you know none to kill Makarov.

It’s getting hard to maintain this farce of yours, your tender, relieved smiles at his presence, your soft sighs into his shoulder. Every time he echoes the name he’s bestowed upon you “Marionette.” a vile, sour thing twists inside you with a scream of something wrong.

He knows.

He knows, he sees through your farce, but he pretends like nothing is wrong. He presses gentle kisses to your forehead and you don’t let him see the pinch of your expression with how it hurts- the way something inside you longs for him even now. There’s a distant temptation to sink to your knees before him, confess and plead for mercy. You’re his, you’ve always been his. He loves you. He’ll forgive you, even if it means you’ll never see your friends again. If he forgives you, at least you’ll still have him, and there’s a part of you that still thinks he’s all you ever needed.

Has he engraved that into you too?

You dance around each other in this vain, feckless game of yours. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, and his velvet eyes soften in return. Accepting your docility, as if he doesn’t see your feral nature lurking just below the surface. He embraces you, holds you tight to his chest, and you feign willingness, knowing the fatalistic gaze of him as he gazes past you. He’s playing you just as you play him, both of you waiting for the other to crack and end this macabre waltz you revolve in just like the ever-changing axis of stars above.

You’re running out of time.

You try to imbue yourself in the memories of your allies that have surfaced inside you despite his control over your mind. You think of the curling smoke of Price’s cigar, the sly sparkle of Gaz’s eyes, the bark of Soap’s laughter, the curve of Simon’s smile in the rare moments without his mask. You think about the clink of glasses in a dimly lit pub, the boxes of takeout that litter the coffee table in the rec room. You think about the despair in their eyes when they saw the thing you are now, and the scrawl of Johnny’s handwriting in the letter you wish you still had to give you strength.

We’re coming. We’ll bring you home. We won’t stop until you’re away from him.

Be patient, stay alive.

Come back to us.

Please, hen.

You think you may be dead by the time they rescue you. You think they might die trying to free you.

and you think about how cold Makarov’s blood will feel on your hands.

Maybe you can catch him while you lay in his arms in the blue light of his bedroom. Maybe you can pilfer a weapon and conceal it. Maybe you can breathe in his final, shuddering gasp when you drive the blade between his ribs, whisper a useless apology for the sin of loving him.

Maybe he’ll kill you with a kiss before you can try.

“They’ll never take you from me.” He’d told you. You know he’ll never let you leave alive.

You need to go home, and once more something secret inside you whispers that you are home.

He wakes you on a cold March morning a week after your breakdown, and as you blink slowly up at him he smiles, that gentle, heart tugging gesture that used to be the light of your entire life. Now, it makes you want to burst into tears.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He coos ever so gently, and you manage to not shy away from his touch as he smooths a hand across your bare shoulder. “Get dressed, I have somewhere to send you.”

No.

You’re not ready. You don’t know what it is, but something inside you twists in sickening apprehension at his words. Even so, you offer him a complacent smile, murmur something about coming back to bed for just a few more minutes.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Within the hour you are dressed in a dusk-colored coat and bundled into the back of a black van with two other men, both of them armed. Anxiety takes a foothold in your chest, and it takes effort to appear calm and composed even as the car pulls away and Makarov fades behind you.

They take you to a warehouse in a town just outside the city. It looks abandoned, but you know it’s merely a concealed location for something nefarious. Smuggling, storage, planning of logistics, a black site that doesn’t even exist on the map. You wonder if these are your executioners, if they’re taking you to a quiet, hidden spot to dispose of you. They won’t even dig you a grave, not with the ground frosted over by winter. The men at your back escort you inside, through empty corridors, down a set of stairs into a dark cellar. Every muscle inside you coils tight, ready to fight, claw your way to freedom through a path of blood.

Yet when the door to the cellar opens, all you see is a friend.

Alex.

He’s tied to a chair. Bruised, bloodied. There’s a welt above his left eye that you want to smooth over with a delicate touch, fall to your knees at his feet to undo the ropes that bind him. His head hangs on his chest, but when he looks up at you he startles, eyes wide before his expression falls into abrupt sadness. He calls your name and it takes all your strength to stand tall, to stay composed. Blank eyed, obedient. The puppet he wants you to be.

“What did he do to you?” He rasps, brow pinched in distress. He flexes his arms at the ropes, and they don’t budge. He calls your name again and it���s desperate. A sound of despair.

Movement beside you. A knife pressed into your palm.

“Do it.” Your handler murmurs in Russian. “Kill him.”

You tremble now, trying to keep your expression passive despite the looming panic rising up your chest and threatening to choke your air.

It’s a test. One you’re designed to fail.

You can kill him, watch the light from Alex’s eyes fade and his blood drain down your wrist. You could buy yourself just a little bit more time before Makarov decides to test you again, and again, until one day your usefulness to him expires and he tosses you aside.

You step closer, feel the phantom whisper of him in your ear, hands pressing your back into his front in a sinister embrace. His palms cover your eyes, blinding you.

“You don’t even have to look, darling.”

The knife shakes in your grip.

Alex turns his face to you, and the grief there makes something inside you splinter, crack and unspool in tormenting agony.

He’s your friend.

“It’s me.” He whispers sadly at your thousand-yard stare. “You know me. It’s Alex.”

“Do it.” The other handler snaps impatiently. “Prove yourself to our cause.”

“They’ll never take you from me.”

You won’t do this. Not anymore.

“No.” You whisper as something inside you finally changes along with the light of hope unfurling in Alex’s eyes. “I won’t.”

The two men behind you are silent for a moment, looking at each other, before one of them sighs.

You know the movement is coming before he lunges towards you, and easily you sidestep him, seize his arm and twist in a brutal grip. Something snaps. He screams.

The blade in your hand turns red with his blood.

As he gurgles a death moan on the ground, the other tries to raise his weapon at you. You force his hands up to the ceiling as he fires, and the bullet lodges itself in the damp wood. Two quick movements. A slash to the chest, under his bulletproof vest, and as he chokes a gasp you stab forward into the side of his neck, rip from one end to the other. Warm wetness coats your hands, and as the man slumps it drips from your fingers onto his stricken, frozen face.

You turn to Alex, and see in his eyes that he looks afraid. Afraid of your brutality, of your violence. Afraid of the weapon you’ve become. Afraid of the thing Makarov has made you.

The knife cuts away his bindings, and you drop it in favor of trying to touch him, reach and help him. You jolt when you realize how your skin has turned scarlet in the act of taking more lives. Yet Alex’s hands close over them, holding with a tight grip as if to anchor you from yourself.

“They, Price and the others, they sent me to find you.” He tells you hoarsely, rushing through his words. “They needed to know you were alive. That-”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“Where are they?” You ask, gaze still bent to your hands. Soft, almost demure. Numb to the act of taking lives.

“A two-hour drive. We can make it before reinforcements come.” He declares, and suddenly you’re being pulled up the cellar stairs, past the empty corridors and into the overcast morning.

You gently pull your hand away from him. Alex looks at you, eyes stricken.

“No.” You whisper quietly, eyes full of hurt for what you are about to do. “I can’t.”

Alex blinks, and then he turns to grab at your shoulders, gripping you. “What are you talking about? This is your chance. You can escape!” He pauses, fingers clenching into your wool coat before he softly adds: “You can come home to us.” Your face pinches, you shake your head in a quick gesture that silences a growing sob.

“They’ll find us before we make it out of the city.” You tell him softly. “Makarov won’t let me go that easily.”

You feel that new, fragile thing inside you clench with the hurt of your words, how desperately you want to follow him. “I can’t get you killed for this. You- you go. I’ll distract them, make sure you get to safety.”

Alex’s grip softens, but his voice remains hard. “I’m not leaving you.” He declares with unwavering conviction. “We’ll find a way. I can’t just-”

“Go.” You gasp, cutting him off. “I need- I need to go back. I need to end this.”

You look at him then, eyes brimming with tears. The truth of what you need to do aches in your bones, a sorrow that grows tenfold at the devastation in your friend’s eyes.

“I need to kill him.”

Alex blinks, swallows.

“He’ll try to kill you.” He whispers.

You nod, and at last resignation settles into your soul with a sigh. “I know.”

Yet then you manage to smile past your tears, head tilting and eyes fond.

“I’ll follow you soon.” You tell him softly. “Don’t wait up.”

Alex holds you to his chest, red hands pressing your face to his shoulder. You can feel his rigid frame as he tries to contain his protests.

“Be safe, sister.” He tells you in Arabic. “Come back to us.”

“I will.” You promise, eyes closing and swallowing down a sob. “I will.”

---

As Alex makes his escape, you find yourself once more throwing yourself into the jaws of the lynx.

The drive back to Makarov’s safehouse is quiet, almost peaceful. The scant brightness of the winter sun glints off your dull-eyed gaze. The blood on your hands and clothes dries by the time you pull into the garage, hit the button to the beautiful, pristine apartment that overlooks St. Petersburg. You close your eyes, swallow down the howling voice inside you that screams in anguish at the sin you are about to commit against the man you once loved, and somehow have been taught to love still.

There’s no guards at Makarov’s door, and it makes you falter unexpectedly. Even so, you cautiously tread inside, the knife in your grip concealed in the sleeve of your blood splattered coat. The smell of food wafts from the kitchen, and as you step inside you see him at the stove, tending to something mouthwatering. It’s only then that you catch sight of the set table, the flowers in a vase, the fine silverware and white napkins set just so.

“Welcome back.” He tells you without looking at you, and you notice how nicely dressed he is, pressed shirt sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. “Go change. There is a dress for you in the bedroom.”

You don’t move, caught entirely off guard by this...this display of romanticism he never once has offered in the time you’ve known him. It’s sinisterly amorous, deceptively charming in a way designed to unsettle you. It finds its mark, because something inside you squirms with abject, growing discomfort, knowing something is wrong.

It’s then that you see the pistol laying beside him on the counter.

Soviet era, semi-automatic. Nine-millimeter.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” He tells you blankly, still not looking at you, as if he doesn’t even consider you a threat.

The water runs pink in the bathroom. You try to find a way to conceal your knife on your person, but the dress he’s set for you offers little excuse to hide your weapon. Red, the color he adores you in, and your hands fumble as they try to drag the zipper up your spine. When the bedroom door opens you can’t contain a flinch. Yet Makarov is silent as he crosses the room, bare hands sliding the zipper up your spine in a slow, suggestive gesture. When he’s finished, his arms snake around to hold your hips, nose descending to the exposed flesh of your shoulder and tracing along the skin. He breathes in your scent, and you can’t help but ease somewhat at the sinister seduction he offers to you.

“Come eat.” He whispers breathily. “You’ve had a long day.”

His grip on your shoulder is unrelenting as he escorts you to the immaculately set table, popping his chin on his hands as he sits across from you with slow blinking eyes.

You look down at the steak on the fine china. Your stomach clenches in disgust. Poisoned, your mind whispers.

“I’m not hungry.” You whisper, your voice sounding more fearful than you’d hoped.

Makarov huffs a little sound that sounds almost amused.

“Do you think I’d stoop so low as to poison you, Marionette?”

You freeze.

As you look up from the steak to Makarov, as horror dawns across your expression, you realize he knows.

Makarov tilts his head and observes you with a slow, cruel smile.

“My greatest prize.” He purrs. “Come to kill me? How ironic.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. The apartment around you seems to spin dangerously. Heartbeat hammering, you look quickly to the steak knife beside the plate. Yet Makarov follows your gaze, and before you can grab for it he reaches forward with a disappointed little sigh and takes it from your grasp.

“Please, Marionette.” He tells you with false sincerity. “We’re trying to have dinner.”

“Is that what this is?” You ask hoarsely, throat dry. “I could have sworn this is you taking your time to gloat before you kill me.”

“Kill you?” He laughs, eyes sparkling with cruel glee. “Why Marionette, you haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, shoulders rigid, and Makarov’s eyes glimmer like the stars above.

“I’ve known about this farce of yours for a while, beloved.” He tells you, and the low timbre of his voice makes your chest tighten with an aleatory mix of emotion. “I was willing to overlook it as long as you did your job correctly, performed as you were meant to. After all, I’m so very fond of you.”

You spit a curse at him in Russian, and Makarov doesn’t even flinch.

“Of course, now that your friends are getting close to finding us, it is time to look at different options.”

You stiffen impossibly further in your chair, sitting elegantly in your lovely red dress, blood still under your fingernails, staring at the man holding you prisoner with noxious dread.

The smile Makarov gives you is ominously affectionate.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Marionette.” He offers silkily. “I’ll let you live. I can promise no harm will come to you. I won’t make use of your skills, and I won’t force you to kill your allies. You can stay, and you will be safe.”

“Under what conditions?” You ask quietly.

Makarov observes you, unblinking like the lynx painting that hangs above your dreams.

“You will never leave my side again.”

Your heart cracks against your ribs.

Stay with him. Protected, not forced to murder anyone, beside him always.

It’s what you’ve always wanted.

To be at his side, to walk beside him, not two steps back like the weapon he’s made you as. To fall under the wing of his protection and be his, only ever his. To be not his puppet or his tool but as his. Perhaps...even to be loved by him in the way you’ve wanted since the moment he found you.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why spare you? Why keep you beside him when he knows you want to take his life? Why take the risk?

You blink, and suddenly his words make sense. Why else? To keep you only as a shield, as insurance against your allies hunting him down, trying to kill him. Not as his weapon, no, but as leverage. The second Price and the others step too close he’ll hoist a gun to your head, force them to lay down their arms for the cost of sparing you.

In your dream, Price and the others look upon you with despair beyond the sights of the pistol in your grip.

“Stay with me, Marionette.” He purrs, head tilted at you with fixated intent. “Give in, and I’ll keep you safe.”

You swallow, feeling sandpaper scrape at your throat. “As your hostage?” You ask, voice trembling.

Makarov smiles. It looks almost kind.

“As my beloved doll.” He returns sweetly. “Perfect and beautiful just the way you are meant to be.”

You can imagine it. Just as he says, you’d be nothing more than a prize sitting amongst his trophies of war. Clad in beautiful clothes, pristine, at his side as a display of his power over you. Nothing more than a puppet, a captive, his marionette. You’d sit like a lachrymose dove in his golden gilded cage, staring up at the stars and wanting desperately to fly. Wings clipped, you’ll slowly rot until you once more become an empty shell whose only purpose is to love him.

An empty, soulless existence. Worse than the one you’re living in.

Makarov is silent as he waits for your answer, and you look upon him, this man you had once existed for. You remember his passionate embraces, his claiming kisses and soft strokes along your bare body. You remember a time when all you had ever wanted was for him to confess his adoration for you, tell you how beloved you are to him.

You look upon him now, and you see the man who offers a beautiful cage.

“I’m leaving.” You tell him, voice trembling with the strength it takes to speak. “I’m going to leave you, Makarov, and when I do, I’m going to learn to live without you.”

The light of false kindness in his eyes slowly fades to a blank, detached apathy.

“Darling.” He whispers, words low with threat. “You’ll never leave me.”

He reaches for the pistol.

You react entirely on instinct, shove the entire table towards him so it hits him in the stomach. Makarov catches it, but not in time, and he grunts as his features morph into a scowl. You stand so the chair topples behind you, lunge for him just as his hand closes around the gun. You manage to hoist it high and away from you, eyes wild as every instinct inside you roars to life. The skills he’s carved into you, the lessons of the weapon he’s made you, now turn against him in a desperate bid for survival.

Makarov curses at you, and as you follow his motion he drags you across the table, knocks a leg so it falls. You find your footing anyways, use his imbalance to shove him against the too-large windows that overlook St. Petersburg. Makarov rams his head against yours, and it sends you reeling for a moment, grip loosening on his wrist. He shakes it loose, but before he can fire you yell, plant a strike to his arm to buckle it. A shot rings out, and it goes wild, shattering the vase of roses on the kitchen counter.

Makarov grapples for you, his hand closing around the lower half of your face as you pin his arm to the curtains. You bite down so blood fills your mouth, raise a leg between you so you can kick out one of his legs. Makarov falters, and as he does you twist, reaching for the gun once more. Yet Makarov anticipates your movement, and as he rapidly adjusts you manage to only knock the weapon from his hands. It slides across the tiled floor, well out of reach.

In your surprise he catches you off guard, and the world spins around you as he snarls, hoists you and throws you through the glass table.

The impact makes something crunch inside you, broken glass slicing your skin as you fall on your side, pain blossoming brightly in your ribs. It stuns you, the hurt fracturing outwards and robbing the breath from your lungs. The impact rattles you from head to toe, and even as you are winded you try to roll and push yourself up, to face him once more.

Makarov’s hands find you before you get the chance.

He forces you violently onto your back, chest heaving as he leans over you, hands snaking up to grip your neck in a strangulating hold. It takes a moment for your head to clear, but when it does you struggle, choking in pain at the suck of air that doesn’t reach your lungs. Makarov’s thumbs press into your airway as he straddles you, ignoring your flailing hands as they try to scratch at his face. He grabs at them with one hand, struggling for a moment before he hauls both far above your head. It gives you only a moment to breathe before the choking hold returns, starving you of air.

You trash, flail, but with every movement Makarov’s hands seem to press down harder. His eyes stare down above you, mouth a grim set line as he watches the horror and desperation transform your expression.

Black dots threaten your vision, and you feel your strength beginning to fade. The only thing left is the constellations in his eyes, glimmering darkness that you once had looked upon with adoration.

“Vlad...imir-” You wheeze, tears falling.

He blinks, expression faltering.

At your fingertips, a piece of glass.

You stab it into the meat of his palm, loosen his hold as he cries out in pain. He relaxes his grip on you, and without thinking you surge upwards so the killing edge finds its place in his throat.

Blood coats your hands.

Makarov reels backwards, grips at the wound where blood rushes forth. He falls off you, and as he does you suck in a desperate gasp of air, filling your lungs with oxygen and coughing at the crack of your ribs as they seize. Glass digs rips at your dress, embeds itself into your flesh, and even as you rise you cut yourself further still, whimpering until at last you brace beside Makarov’s form.

There’s a wet gush of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the shard of glass dyed red as it does nothing to stem the flow of blood that stains his collar, puddles on the floor. His hands weakly try to stop it, but he too seems to realize it’s too late. It’s over.

His eyes find yours. Confused, for a moment, but then blinking in a distant realization you don’t understand. He’s weak as he reaches for you, and you expect him to try and grab at you in a last-ditch effort, to take your life so you both tumble down to the fires of hell together.

Instead, his hand strokes a gentle, scarlet path onto your cheek.

You blink down at him, horrified, and Makarov’s eyes blink at you once, twice...

A slow exhale. His hand drops to the floor.

and slowly, the constellations fade.

The divine stars turn dark.

-----

It’s dark when the truck pulls up to the cabin.

Gentle hands shake you awake, coaxing you out of dreams. Your head lolls in your fatigue, but it lifts at the careful encouragement spoken in soft Russian. You yield to it, allow yourself to gently be helped from the passenger seat and onto your feet. There’s a thick blanket tucked around your form, and as you steady yourself you hug it tighter to keep the frigid cold at bay. Your too-large clothes hang loose from your form, and as you take a step forward you sway unsteadily.

Nikolai’s hands land on your shoulders, and you sag into his safety with relief, eyes fluttering with exhaustion.

He keeps you pressed into his side as you’re escorted forward, murmuring in Russian.

“Careful, Солнышко. Easy, I’ve got you.”

You don’t say much, glassy eyes focused more on your socked feet than where you’re being led. You can feel the way Nikolai’s fingers grip you, know from his touch alone how much it pains him to see you as a mere shell of your former self. It hurts somewhere deep inside you, a distant pain hidden by the numbness of the thing you’ve done.

A few more steps, and a door bursts open. You lift your gaze to take in the brightness that spills from the cabin, but it’s overshadowed by the rapid motion of figures quickly moving towards you. There’s a shout, a cry of your name, and the next thing you know you’re being passed from one set of arms to another, pressed into a smothering embrace.

“Soap.” You hoarse.

“Thank God.” He rasps, voice muffled by the blanket surrounding you. “Steamin’ Jesus, hen. We thought, we thought-”

He tenses in alarm as you abruptly sag into him, the strength in your legs giving out. Yet then there’s a second set of arms, and you lift your face towards the scent of cloves and gunpowder.

“Gaz.”

Gaz bends so he can look at your half-lidded eyes. You think you see tears.

“That’s right doll, it’s me.” He tells you, and a hand strokes your face. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Snow crunches under footsteps. A smoke-laden voice. “Get her inside.” Your captain murmurs softly, voice muted. Resigned.

“Price.” You try, twisting to look for him. You see him just off to your side, and his eyes are caught between bitterness and heartbreak, an anger and sadness that you wish you could comfort. You reach for him, but all you manage to do is put yourself off balance, the pain in your hip flaring as you stumble. Gaz yelps as you sink downwards.

A larger set of arms, skeletal gloves. Ghost’s hands scoop under your legs and haul you upwards. You whimper at the pain from the movement, and you feel him gentle at the sound.

“You’re alright, pet.” He offers softly, and you somehow find it in yourself to nod, relax into his hold.

There’s murmurs as you’re carried into the warmth of the cabin, and you hear Price ask something to Nikolai in a low, grave voice, to which Nik merely shakes his head in disbelief.

You’re set near the fire, and the flickering glow warms you though. Someone tucks another blanket around your shoulders, pushes a steaming mug of tea into your hands. You look down at it hazy-eyed, shell shocked and numb, trying once more to tell yourself you’re safe. You’re home.

At last, you look up at them.

“He’s dead.” You announce hoarsely. “I killed him.”

The group is silent. There’s no cheering or cries of triumph. It’s a victory, but it has come at a great cost. Instead, their eyes are sad, bitter, staring at you like looking at an empty, lost soul.

Soap crosses the room first, sits beside you and hauls you gently against his side. It’s a wordless gesture, and you know it’s because there’s nothing he can say. Instead, you lean into him, feel your throat clog with the emotion of finally being held by someone you trust.

“Is Alex safe?” You ask in a wavering voice.

Price nods. You swallow down a sob.

“He came back.” Gaz tells you softly, reaches forward to take the mug from your bandaged, shaking hands and sets it atop the woodstove. “He told us what you did, that you went back by yourself. We...we thought...” He trails off, and you see the pain in his eyes, the way they’re glassy with tears.

“I’m sorry.” Soap offers then, voice cracking, his hand on your shoulder bunching the blanket in his grip. “We should have tried harder, we should have never stopped looking for you, we-”

“It’s not your fault, Johnny.” You tell him gently, with a weariness that sits heavy on your soul. Johnny grows silent, but after a moment he sucks in a breath, rubs at his face vigorously to erase the tears there.

“Johnny’s right.” Ghost offers sorrowfully, and when you look up you see the full extent of his emotions play out across his bare face. “I should have grabbed you in Minsk. I shouldn’t have let them take you.”

The conviction in his voice makes you pause, and you want to tell him it’s not his fault either, that he was just trying to figure out a way where you both made it out unscathed.

“It doesn’t matter.” Price murmurs grimly, bent forward in his chair, staring down at his clasped hands. He looks defeated, head drooping towards the floor. There’s no declaration of triumph in his voice at killing the man they’ve been hunting for years. Not when you’ve come back to them like you are now. He stands, gently pads over to kneel at your feet. You feel something dull stifle your chest as he turns his heartbroken gaze to you. “What matters now is that you survived. You made it out, and you came home to us.”

Home.

Your real home.

It breaks the dam inside you, and you feel your face scrunch before you suck in a gasp, begin to cry with fat, hot tears rolling down your face. Price hushes you, drags you into his arms, and you fold into him with a gasping wail of relief, of grief, of emotions you’ve yet to name. Johnny tucks into you from behind, followed by Kyle, and soon you feel the added weight of Simon wrap around you as well. They hold you, your brothers, listen to you shudder and weep in their arms. You feel them cry with you, grateful and grieving for all that was lost, and the price it cost to return you to them.

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels as if you cry for every single day you were caged, weeping for the time you lost with them, and the things you were forced to do in the time you forgot them. You weep for the lives you took, for the bruises you earned, for the words you believed, and you weep for the thing inside you that will forever remain changed because of it all.

Exhaustion takes hold as you empty yourself of cries, and you’re gently carried to a bed further inside the cabin, where a body, then another, lay down beside you and let you curl into their warmth. You drift to sleep, safe in the arms of those who love you.

As you rest, Nik relays to the others the story you told him- of how you escaped.

You’d taken the pistol Makarov gave you, shot the guards that had come to his rescue, and had driven far out to the other end of the city. Injured, bloodied, in nothing but the dress Makarov had given you, you had run for the better part of a day before finding a way to contact Nikolai. He was the one who had found you collapsed in the dark bushes of a park, hidden amongst the branches like a nestling fawn. There, you’d collapsed into the snow, gripped the spent pistol Makarov had tried to use on you, allowed frostbite to take its hold, and prepared to die.

Instead Nik collected you into his arms and brought you to a safehouse. It was there that he tended to your wounds, to your broken ribs and injured hip from being thrown through the glass table. Bruises litter your right side, a circling of dark coloring around your neck, a welt across your forehead, all things you earned in your bid for freedom. He’d removed the shards still sticking from your skin, had cleaned and dressed your cuts and taken your dress to burn it in his stove. You’d stayed awake throughout, told Nik of the thing you had done. You cried into his arms as you confessed your sins, begged for a forgiveness he could not offer.

He’d held you, kept you safe, and he brought you home to them.

You don’t dream as you sleep in the arms of your brothers.

The rest of the story comes slowly over the next few days as you rest and recover. You’re never left alone, scarcely without someone to lean into, to be held by, and for this you are grateful. Grateful you are too, of the gentleness your friends give you as they care for you. Warm food, hot tea, a place by the fire, clean clothes, and tender hands that redress your wounds. They listen to you as you tell them the story from the beginning, from the day you woke up without a name to the day you earned it back. You tell them of the one named Marionette, the beautiful puppet held by his strings. You tell them of a life that was not yours to control, and of how you escaped.

Johnny sleeps by your side, soothes your restless slumber. Gaz pushes food into your hands and reminds you to eat, to earn your strength back. Ghost gently re-wraps your ribs, murmurs soft praises as you bite down on complaints. Price tucks you into him as you sit on the couch, listening to him read novels you don’t care to know the names of, until you fall asleep once more. You’re cared for, tended to, and the beloved touch of them slowly eases the wounds on your soul.

They cry for you, your friends. Soap weeps into your lap and sobs apologies for being unable to rescue you. Gaz holds you in his arms and cries for the things Makarov did to you, of the ways you were changed by his machinations. Simon looks upon you with tears when you forgive him, forgive all of them for not coming sooner.

When you cry into Price’s arms, finally confess to him that you once loved the man you killed, you feel his silent tears stain your shoulder. He’s quiet, angry, and you know it hurts because it wasn’t him that killed the man who took you from them.

In the days that follow you slowly regain your strength, and you know it will take many months to come before time gently washes away the things you can allow yourself to forget. Your family will stand beside you, protect you and shelter you as you find yourself again. They’ll hold you when the nightmares try to drown you, when you hear his voice in your thoughts and grasp desperately for them. They’ll stay with you as the pain slowly fades, as you learn how to smile again. They listen to the sound of your laughter and scarcely conceal their tears of joy.

It takes days to secure a safe path out of Russia with Nik’s help. In that time you hear how Makarov’s death has changed the world. Without their Copernicus, Russia’s ultra-nationalists flounder. Nik holds you with a soft smile when the others aren’t looking, and thanks you for doing the thing nobody else did. You think maybe you’ve earned an ounce of forgiveness with Makarov’s death.

You dream of him.

In the blue light of his bedroom, with the lynx painting, of soft words in Russian, of how his smile never reached his eyes. You dream of his final act- gently stroking your face, and of the hesitation in his gaze when you called his name in a breathless cry.

It’s a gentle dawn the day you leave Russia. You stand outside swaddled in the borrowed clothes of your friends, looking at the soft blue dawn that draws over the horizon. You think of that morning in St. Petersburg when you asked him how he would die.

“With glory. For Russia.”

You wonder if he loved you, at the very end.

There’s something inside you that remains a fragile, brittle thing. It’s changed by the time you spent with him, by the way he hollowed you out inside. Someday it will heal, will be filled once more by the beloved laughter of those you love, and the tender embraces of those who care for you.

You know that some things will forever remain the same, with the memories that you keep of him.

To the stars, you pray for the day to come soon when his engravings will finally fade.

Taglist:

@writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror @soapskneebrace @badame0224 @mayhem-baby @emrzennn @papaver-decervicatus @warenai @ggeveryone99 @justmare @merkitty49 @darkstars-14 @lostagoodcigar @gazs-blue-hat @siilvan @bucca2 @franticallyfanning @danjo-ao3 @scatter-mind001 @lonesome-doves @thriving-n-jiving @bucketbunny @secretliteradite @anatweyen @imagineswritersblog @bucca2 @sae1kie @preciouslittlecreature @allbark-littlebite @theallpowerfulrosami

---

Thank you for reading Engravings.

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Innate Desire to Protect

Simon Ghost Riley X Reader

Synopsis: Reader puts themselves in harms way to protect Simon.

Warnings: violence, swearing, blood, mentions of death, angst

Note: As promised here's the ghost version of reader sacrificing themselves to protect him.

If anyone has any requests please let me know, I'd be happy to write them!!

Still new to writing, so apologies if these aren't super good!!

--------------------------------------------------

It was a few hours before 141 had to ship out for a mission, and you found yourself still locked in Simon's embrace in your bed. It was peaceful, and you knew to take advantage of moments like these, before going out into the field. 

“Ready for today?” Simon asked, rubbing small circles on your back.

“Ready as I can be. Always makes me nervous, missions like these. We are grasping at straws, trying to find intel we don’t even know for sure exists.” You huffed in frustration.

The mission was to infiltrate a small gang’s hideout near the Russian border. Laswell had told the team that she received a tip, that the gang had possible intel leading to the whereabouts of Makarov, the current notorious criminal your unit was investigating. Needless to say, it was hard not to question the validity of this “tip” Laswell was going off of, as she wouldn’t disclose her source to the team. 

“I get it. But I trust Laswell, I know she would never put us in harm’s way, if she didn’t think it was vital.” Simon said, trying to soothe your increasing worries.

You hummed in response, burying your face into his neck, breathing in his scent of old musky cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and sweat. This always brought you calmness, and allowed you to step away from your anxieties.

You both stayed there for a while longer, the silence that engulfed you was comforting. Like all good things, you knew this small piece of sanctuary had to come to an end. You looked over to the clock on your stand and saw that it was time to prepare for the mission.

You looked over at Simon solemnly, “ Alright, suppose it’s time to get up and face the music, yeah?” 

“From the way you’re talking, one would think you hate this job , love.” Simon chuckled, making his way out of your small bed.

“Oh hush, I wouldn't be here if I didn’t enjoy it. Just some missions have me more on edge than others.” 

“I know love, just messing with you.” Simon replied, kissing your temple. “I’ll see you out there, okay?”

“Of course.” You said, standing on your toes to give Simon a kiss, which he gladly returned.

“I love you, Simon.” you said softly, pulling away from the kiss.

“I love you too Y/N.” 

Later on, Price was giving a debrief as to what was to be expected on the mission. It was simple enough, two teams, Alpha and Bravo would be infiltrating the two buildings held by this small gang. Alpha would be infiltrating building A, Bravo team would be infiltrating building B. You, Soap, and Ghost would be on A: Price, Gaz and a stand-in from Kortac would be on team B. 

Price dismissed you all, and sent everyone to the chopper. Ghost fell in step alongside you, and you struggled to not grab his hand for comfort. You looked over to him and gave a small smile, which was returned with a hard glare from underneath the mask. You realized this was no longer Simon you were interacting with, this was Ghost. You would find little to no comfort in this man until hours after the mission was completed, when Simon would finally show his face again.

----------------------------------------------------

On the ground, you and Soap were trailing behind Ghost, who was taking the lead on infiltrating the building.

“Reaper, Soap, clear those two rooms ahead, rendezvous with me once they are clear. I’ll push ahead upstairs.” Ghost said, walking away from you two. The authority in his voice made it clear there was no questioning his orders. 

“Copy L.T.” Soap replied.

“Reaper, I’ll clear the left, you clear the right, copy?” Soap turned to you.

“Copy.” You said turning to your right. You peered around the room checking every possible hiding spot for anyone to be. “Soap, Ghost, it’s eerily quiet here. Has me a bit concerned that we haven’t seen anyone yet.” You said into your mouthpiece. 

“It’s fine Reaper, keep your head up, and weapons -.” Ghost got cut off before he could finish his sentence.

“Ghost?” You asked. 

Soap came into the room you were in, and met your concerned eyes. Then you both heard a loud bang and shouts from above.

“Shit, he's probably being ambushed. We have to go assist him!” You cried out, going to make a move.

“Hold on, we need to be smart about this. If we go rushing in there, it may not end well for any of us.” Soap said grabbing your shoulder, preventing you from running to Ghost.

“Okay cover my 6, we will go up the stairs and assess before charging in.” You said, making your way to the stairs.

“Careful Reaper, we don’t know what’s ahead of us.” Soap whispered from behind you.

You made your way up the stairs, and peered around the corner. Ghost was engaged in a fight with three armed gang members. His gun had been knocked from his hands, and from the looks of it, he was taking a pretty good beating. 

At that moment, everything started to go in slow motion for you. Seeing the love of your life being brutally beaten triggered an innate burning desire to protect him, no matter the cost. You rushed into the fight, taking out two of the men each with a shot to the head. Ghost used this to his advantage, and tried to stand up to take the final man out. In doing this, he left an opening for the final man to lift his pistol to Ghost’s head from a few feet away. Without thinking, you threw yourself in front of Ghost, the minute the gang member pulled the trigger.

From there, everything went hazy for you. Next thing you knew, the gang member was on the floor, a shot to the chest taking him out. Soap came in right after, and inspected the bodies of the gang members, making sure they were out of commission. 

“Y/N!” Ghost called, running over to your collapsing form. “This is Ghost, we need an evac NOW! Reaper’s been hit.” He said into his comms.

“Shit, what did you do?” Soap exclaimed, assessing your injury. 

You looked down, and saw the bullet had hit your side, just where your vest didn’t cover you.

“S-Sorry, I wa-asn’t thinking.” you stuttered, struggling to get the words out.

“No shit you weren’t thinking! Why would you have gone in like that? There were so many better ways that could have been carried out!” Ghost yelled, his voice booming.

“Ghost, maybe this isn’t the place?” Soap said, trying to calm his Lieutenant down. 

“Mind your place, Sergeant.” Ghost snapped back.

Soap put his hands up and slowly walked to the window, checking for the evac, every so often looking over to check on you.

“Simon, please look at me.” You said, trying to get the man holding you to show you some sort of comfort.

“It’s Ghost.” He replied, his voice eerily cold.

“P-please. I’m sorry. I couldn’t take it… seeing you on the ground like that. I couldn’t think at that moment, my body moved on its own.” You cried softly, tears starting to fall down your cheeks. 

You could see the internal struggle in his eyes, he wanted to stay mad at you, you were careless and needlessly got hurt just to save him, but you were hurt nonetheless which was a sight that broke his heart into a million pieces. 

Just as Simon was starting to appear underneath the mask that was Ghost, Price called out on the comms. “Evac is approaching, get Reaper outside now, Bravo team will meet you there.” At this, Ghost immediately went back into soldier mode, any trace of your Simon vanished once again. 

“Soap, help me move Y/N, have to bring them down to the evac point.”

“Copy L.T.”

-------------------------------------------------------

“How is she?” Price asked as the three of you approached the Evac point, Soap and Ghost holding either end of you as gently as they could. 

“Bullet got her in the side, where the vest didn’t cover. She has lost a lot of blood.” Soap replied.

“Get her on the gurney, we will leave at once. Hang in there kid, no dying on our watch.” Price said, patting your head gently, his eyes showing the worry he was trying to hide.

As they placed you on the gurney, you felt yourself growing unbearably weak. You reached for your lover’s hand, which he just started at. 

“Simon, please.” You begged. You were scared beyond belief at this point, and wanted nothing but the comfort only Simon could provide.

He softened at this, and grabbed your hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

“I’m s-sorry. If I make it through this, give me whatever lecture I know you have brewing in your head.” You said, trying to ease some of the tension.

“Believe me, love, it will be more than just a lecture you’ll get. You’ll make it out of this, just keep your eyes on me, yeah?” He replied, giving your hand another squeeze.

“O-oh yeah? What is this other thing you, you…” You slowly were losing consciousness. The darkness pulling you under, no matter how hard you tried fighting it.

“Y/N? Y/N! Love no, please don’t leave me.” He called to you, his cold facade disappearing completely now. He was desperately shaking you to keep you conscious. But it was too late. You had already slipped under.

 —---------------------------------------------------

Note: I left this ending open as well! If anyone wants a part two, let me know! I'm not sure if I'd make the part two super angsty or fluff!

Thanks for reading!!😊🖤

[konigsblog]

Makarov x innocent reader

makarov gives me strong corruption and power kink vibes :( he adores the way he can make his sweet girlfriend feel weak in the knees, despite her innocence.

you don't expect the worst in people, always giving people the benefit of the doubt and not immediately picking up on sexual advances from men when you're at a bar. always brushing it off as they're being ‘kind’ rather than creepy because you truly think the best of everyone...

makarov always has to punish you for being naughty, for ‘flirting back’ in which he means to breaking their nose. you don't realise the way makarov does, how his eyes linger unlike yours, he doesn't understand it. “Зайка...” he whispers in your ear, laying beside you in bed and holding your thigh open, giving him the opportunity to buck into your wet, sloppy pussy!

he sighs out exasperatedly, you're just far too innocent and forgiving, he hated the way you wouldn't fend for yourself against a man if he'd grope you, it pissed him off to no end. slamming into you repetitive whilst forcing you to moan his name out. his two fingers rubbing your clit while thrusts his lengthy dick into your cunt :(

[saturncodedstarlette]

Y/N, after being betrayed by Captain Price :

Y/N, joins Makarov’s group :

Y/N : I can’t believe I agreed to this……

Makarov : Me neither honestly, I was certain I was going to have to bribe you.

[thatgirlmag1000]

Making a fic about Call of Duty lmao

Cold-hearted (female!reader x Call of Duty)

Let's keep this simple. You (Y/N) are Makarov's daughter and after he died things kinda got a little messier in your life.

How will you deal with it? What's gonna become of your life?

Read to find out

Enjoy~