#makarov x f! reader

[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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[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!

[blingblong55]

His pretty girl -Vladimir Makarov

Based on a request:

I looved ur makarov fic n im here to request smth else w him, there's barely anything w him its sad How would makarov treat his dear wife when she's sick? I'm kinda sick rn so.. : 3 ---- F!Reader, wife!reader, husband!Makarov, nothing but fluff ----

A/N: short but good…I hope…

Vladimir was gone for some weeks. He couldn't come in contact with you so when you didn't show up to greet him he was worried. The drive home was usually calm but this time, he rushed it. Avoided all cars and soon, ran inside. The image he saw before his eyes, oh did it melt him. You were curled on the couch. The blanket slowly falls off your body. Used tissues all over the coffee table and floor. The tea was cold and your soft breathing gave him even more reason to clean the area as quietly as possible. Your shared bedroom was cleaned, all dishes washed and then he carried you to bed. The medication you took to sleep was so strong you didn't know he even carried you to bed. That entire night, he checked your temperature, kissed your forehead and held you against his chest.

When you got sick, the first time, he panicked, called a doctor and yelled at him when he said that all you needed to do was drink tea and take it easy. Now, knowing his pretty little wife too well, he knows all he needs to do. 8 am, have breakfast ready, with tea on the side and orange juice just in case you want that one more and it must be room temperature, not cold. He must put on some video as you eat because you like to catch up on some show as you eat. You like wearing his shirts more because you swear it makes you feel better, which is bullshit because he knows you like to just have a reason to wear his clothes.

He must wash all dishes, not complain about being tired because how dare he. Makarov knows this well mainly because it worked the first 4 times and this time it is the same. After breakfast, washing dishes, he has to take you on a walk, the air, the way you smile, oh he knows the fresh air helps that stuff nose and he also gets even more private time with you.

Lunch for a day or two is chicken soup, his grandmothers since he knows you loved it any time you were sick. Kisses on your forehead all day is a must, you know that. If you groan and push him away, he gives you a little frown and moves closer. "You know kisses are a part of the remedy, my pretty girl." He grins when you give him your lazy smile. Your face is hot from both the fever and from his lips. Once he and you eat lunch, he cleans the home and don't you dare walk to the bedroom, he has made it clear he needs to clean and sanitise the bed.

If he has a meeting, he doesn't go to it, it's over the phone as he is in bed and has you cuddled to him. You can't argue against it. Your husband must give cuddles while on the phone. It's a rule at this point.

At night, he makes dinner, makes sure it all tastes wonderful and then feeds it to you since wrapping you in a burrito can't let your hands move. It's a funny but cute image. You, sat on the couch, blanket wrapped around you which makes you look like a cute little bug as your husband feeds you dinner. Oh, the frowns and pouts you give to his giggle and laughter won't help, he just adores you this way.

After dinner, more cuddles and kisses come by. He calls it 'kiss the sick away.' When you lean on him he knows this is to sleep but he can't allow over 3 naps per day when you're sick. So, he carries you to the bathroom. Gives you your medicine, and takes the blankets, clothes and anything in between off you. The bath was set to a very comfortable temperature.

He undresses too and once he has both of you in the bath, he kisses your shoulders. Your warm back on his chest as he cleans your body with so much gentleness it has you leaning on him and smiling. "That's what you needed huh, pretty girl," he kisses your wet shoulder again and wraps his arms around you. You kiss his bicep and he chuckles. "Don't start, my love," he whispers. The lights dimmed, him and you…this is the perfect way to get better. He hums a song, the same one he married you to and the same one he hums when he is far from home.

"I love you, pretty girl," he whispers and kisses the nape of your neck. "I love you more," you whisper back. "We both know who wins this, so do you want to start this game?" He kisses your neck again and chuckles. In moments like this, in which the world is kind and calm, he appreciates life like any normal person would. "You always win, i want to win this time." You pout and know damn well he can't say no to his pretty wife. "Fine, you win this time but we both know I have a long winning streak in this game." He grabs your hand and kisses it. In his head, he already won. And in this life, he truly did.

A/N: Makarov and Ghost are the kind of man to give me a Hozier song kind of vibe and that is what feeds my fluff brain

Tags:

@makarovsbbg @sans-chara @selarus @liyanahelena @hilmiponken @personwhosucksassatmath @undercover-smutlover @ontopofyourceiling @kielsegur @johfamm0 @goldenmclaren @moonsua1 @rivivienner @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @alxexhearts @baldwinhearts @strangepuppynightmare

[littlemissclandestine]

Can you make soft Vladimir makarov? Please?

Hello my dear Anon!

Of course I can 😊 - thank you so much for the ask! Wasn't sure whether you wanted MWIII or OG MW Makarov so I just went with MWIII. I'm also only comfortable writing for a female reader so hope that's okay. I hope these are to your standards and make you happy, honey. Enjoy! <3

Soft!Vladimir Makarov x Reader

WARNINGS: Mentions of sex, suggestive, MDNI, 18+ only

🖤 Soft!Mak who, initially, seems like a cold, distant man who isn't capable of loving anyone, only interested in his work but who has a soft spot for women like you

🖤 Soft!Mak who gently tilts your head up to meet his eyes, his calloused thumb on your chin, stroking it as he whispers lowly how precious you are, his lips curving into a smile as his eyes dart from your left eye to your right and back

🖤 Soft!Mak who uses terms of endearment in Russian regularly such as любимый (beloved), Дорогая (dear), Любимая (darling), Котёнок (kitten), and ангел (angel) - especially loves calling you 'my beloved' or my angel'

[i most definitely have got these wrong as i don't know Russian so someone please correct me if need be!]

🖤 Soft!Mak who loves running his hands up and down your sides as you stand in front of him while he's sat down, looking up at you

🖤 Soft!Mak who gives you that knowing smirk when you wear skirts or tight dresses and just has to compliment your shape and how stunning you look, not being able to keep his hands off you

🖤 Soft!Mak who tends to get possessive when any of his bodyguards or anybody at all looks at you in a way only he's allowed to -> (He may also beat their faces to a pulp, the skin on his knuckles broken, his crisp white shirt now stained with their blood, his face too. As you try and pull him away, he'll spit on them and curse at them. Yes he definitely gets jealous...)

🖤 Soft!Mak who takes your hands in his, holding them together, cocooning them, giving you reassurance everything will work out and he'll be back soon

🖤 Soft!Mak who kisses your forehead tenderly, closing his eyes, his hands on either side of your head before he ruffles your hair when he leaves, cracking a joke to lighten the mood when he sees you crying or saying he'll treat you to something special when he gets back

🖤 Soft!Mak who shows you how much he appreciates you for sticking by him through thick and thin, knowing the questionable things he does daily and putting that aside because you love him

🖤 Soft!Mak who sometimes takes his stress and anger out on you but would never lay a hand on you like that because how could he?

🖤 Soft!Mak who instead, prefers some time apart but only a little. You walk into the main room in your hotel or the living room in your house in the morning, finding it filled with hundreds of bouquets of flowers and your favourite chocolates and a card addressed to you, a handwritten letter detailing how much you mean to him and that he'll be back to talk things through. -> (Timing is everything with this man)

🖤 Soft!Mak who constantly wants to provide for you, spoiling you with the money he brings in, not hesitating to buy bespoke, elegant, matching jewellery for you to wear in his presence

🖤 Soft!Mak who will use as many burner phones as he needs to to call you, telling you how much he missed your voice, holding the phone away for a moment when he starts choking on tears, looking up and blinking quickly to get rid of the tears, clearing his throat and resuming the call, his voice seemingly normal

🖤 Soft!Mak who would rather keep his business with the outside world hidden from you as best he can because really you're his world, the only world he wants to be in, the only one he really wants to focus on. 'The less you know the better' kind of thing because he has to protect his woman

🖤 Soft!Mak who will, however, give you basic firearms training in his private shooting range. Just the two of you. Him standing behind you, hips pressing into yours, his hot breath tickling the shell of your ear and neck, a hand squeezing your hips as the other arm adjusts your stance and giving you a kiss on your neck when you hit your targets

🖤 Soft!Mak who will bury his face into the junction between your neck and shoulder, inhaling your scent and leaving a hickey as he wraps his arms around your lower body, hugging you from behind as you both look at the view from the balcony

🖤 Soft!Mak who doesn't mind PDA, but nothing too extreme, reminding you and everyone watching who you belong to, not thinking it's a sign of weakness but instead strength

🖤 Soft!Mak who has no guilt when it comes to the bloodshed he causes, but feels incredibly guilty when he leaves you for just one moment

🖤 Soft!Mak who needs to feel you on him all the time and touching you whenever he gets a chance to, the expression in the eyes of this trained killer turning into one of pure love and admiration

🖤 Soft!Mak who will pull you down by your wrist, causing you to fall into his lap so he can kiss you softly, his fingers digging into your hips and back, tongue intertwining with yours as you both fight for dominance

🖤 Soft!Mak whose ability to compartmentalise and keep emotions out of things is at serious risk when you came into his life because you're all that's on his mind

🖤 Soft!Mak who treats you like the rarest, most valuable thing in the entire universe, doing everything with the utmost care when it comes to you

🖤 Soft!Mak who loves you for you, admiring your strength, and treats you how a man should, his actions exemplary (even though he is often away but he makes up for it)

🖤 Soft!Mak who loves your vulnerability too, reminding you that you're both a team and to work through things together

🖤 Soft!Mak who never makes you feel like a burden on his shoulders

🖤 Soft!Mak who notices how you tend not to bother him when he's preoccupied, his gloved hands on his hips as he's talking to someone, his head tilting to the side and noticing you hunched over, immediately walking up to you because he feels bad for not spending as much time as he wants to with. Him kneeling down in front of you, removing his gloves, his hands caressing your cheeks as he asks what's on your mind with a warm expression on his face

🖤 Soft!Mak who takes your soft hands to his lips in the middle of a conversation, kissing them while maintaining eye contact with you, listening to you fully

🖤 Soft!Mak who interlocks your fingers with his in the backseat of an SUV and has an arm around you or his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder when you're on the run and need to relocate, being driven by a chauffeur to the next place you call home

🖤 Soft!Mak who always wonders what he did to deserve you

🖤 Soft!Mak who is full of surprises, showing you his experience in every field ;)

🖤 Soft!Mak who is big on consent, only engaging in anything sexual if you're in the mood, taking his time, talking you through it, guiding you through it, getting rougher later if you're comfortable with it

🖤 Soft!Mak who chuckles when he hears you moan or scream his name, whispering things in Russian directly into your ear that turn you on even more...

"Hehe you like that my love?...Fuck you're killing me kitten nghh look at you, so beautiful, so...sexy."

🖤 Soft!Mak who, in a mad rush, fuelled by the adrenaline and cortisol running through his veins and the fact he might not make it back before a mission, where he has a standoff with TF141, asks that million dollar question in a hotel, not his ideal proposal location but anyways he slips that ring onto your finger, lips meeting yours harshly with desire, as tears stain his cheek, saying he loves you repeatedly, cupping your cheeks as your foreheads touch and he pulls you into a quick tight hug

🖤 Soft!Mak who, when the opposition are closing in on his location, will grab your hand tightly, running through corridors on high alert, a pistol in the other as he shouts commands to his soldiers, glass breaking, bullets flying as he shields you from it all

🖤 Soft!Mak who directs you out of the area first as your safety is priority, you bring him more joy than anything in the world, the only thing he truly needs and if he lost you knowing he had a part to play, he'd never be the same again -> (would probably make his reign of terror worse, wanting to brutally torture or kill the rest of our tf141 lads in cold blood as he looks for someone else to blame even though deep down he knows some of it lies with him - I LIVE FOR ANGST. Can you tell?)

🖤 Soft!Mak who remembers your talks together in bed and how you wouldn't want him to lash out in grief and be impulsive like that or seek so called 'revenge' in the first place even though you knew what you were getting into when you began dating him

🖤 Soft!Mak who starts to question whether his cause is worth it because of the danger he's putting you in, trying to push those thoughts aside because he's THE Vladimir Makarov, the ultranationalist, the terrorist, the man whose authority and work should not be questioned by any being or they'd face the consequences...-> (the internal conflict mwahaha! *rubs hands together*)

🖤 Soft!Mak who is 110% loyal to you and you only

🖤 Soft!Mak who thinks twice about everything now that he has you

dividers by @saradika-graphics <33

Next time, don't be shy anon - YOLO. Please know this is a safe space, my love. 🙃 (Also lowkey almost fell for him a second time writing these. First time was OG!Makarov, however. Yeesh...dear God, please not again. NEVER AGAIN bdjcdjsksk) -Star ☆

[chamomiletealeaf]

Sweet as Pie

Chapter 1

When Simon retires from the military, he buys a little cabin in Georgia to live the quiet life he's always wanted. It's rural, hidden, and exactly what he was looking for. However, it's not as rural as he thought it to be, when one day he finds out he has a cute lil next door neighbor who is sweet as pie.

pairing: fem!afab!southern! reader x mommykink! simon riley

a/n: Thank you to @thatonepupkai for inspiring me with this because I am now obsessed with mommy kink Simon and Southern reader.

warnings: mentions of trauma

Simon placed the last box of his belongings (which there weren't very many of) down in his new home.

He had just retired from the military, deciding to maybe try and experience some joy in his life.

Simon had never really experienced true joy. Not since his family. When he joined the Task Force he thought he could help save lives so that no one would have to live the way he did. He had nothing to live for, so why not try to save the lives of those who did have something?

But killing was hard. Something he didn't want to do. Was it really worth the risk? After Johnny nearly died by a shot to the head by Makarov, Simon felt an emotion that he hasn't felt since his family was alive.

For the first time in years, Simon Riley realized he had something to live for.

But he wasn't living, only surviving, which is why he decided to start a new chapter in his life and try and bring out that feeling he had gone so long without that he only got a taste of after Johnny was shot.

Which is where his rural cabin in Georgia comes in.

It was a beautiful wooden cabin; surrounded by nature and hidden by trees. It was alone, just the way he was. It was only one story and on a beautiful black lake that sparkled with the reflections of the sunny sky and warped images of the branches of the trees lingering over it. Maybe he would buy himself a kayak one day and go out on the lake. He was still learning how to take care of himself.

He didn't see any houses for a while. The closest house he saw being quite far down the lake, but close enough that he wasn't too secluded.

Simon wanted to start slow, inch his way back into civilization, and this cabin was the perfect start.

He placed the last box of his belongings down on the wooden floor in the living room. He sighed and placed his hands on his hips, then looked around as if he was trying to find something to do.

It felt awkward not having to watch his back 24/7.

He sat down on the little couch that came with the house, and opened up the box, deciding to occupy himself with putting away his things.

The first thing he took out the box was his only coffee mug that had the Task Force logo on it that Price had given to him so he wouldn't have to steal his mug to make his tea.

Tea, that sounded good.

Simon took the mug into the kitchen and put a kettle onto the stove.

As he waited for the water to heat up, he leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked outside his window in the kitchen, admiring the view of the lake.

Then something caught his eye.

From the window in the kitchen, Simon could see to the right of the cabin, which was most of the lake, and a lot of the wooded area beside it. He could see more from that window than the window in the living room, which showed the left part of his house, and that distant house that looked to be his only neighbor.

But in the distance, to the right, not too far from his cabin and definitely much closer than the other house, he saw a cute little pastel yellow house, also wooden, with a big white door.

"What the f-" Simon whispered under his breath, squinting his eyes to see if that was really another house he was seeing or maybe just a storage shed.

That's when he saw you.

Simon could see the door of your house that appeared to be the kitchen door. It was a single door with a little stoop to allow people to walk up and down it.

He watched as you opened the door, bringing a basket along with you, and walked over to the peach trees you had in your backyard.

You were beautiful. So much so that Simon unsquinted his eyes and his anger towards the realtor who sold him the house who failed to inform him of a closer-by neighbor faded.

He watched as you picked the peaches off the trees and pulled a white cardigan around your figure that slipped open every time you reached up to the branches of the tree.

Then, when the basket was full, he watched you disappear back into the coziness of your little yellow house, that was almost as cute as you were.

Simon stared at your kitchen door for a bit, awestruck by the woman he just saw.

Then the screeching whistle of the kettle is what snapped him out of his trance.

He rushed to turn the stove off and ran a hand through his messy blonde hair. Then with a sigh, he leaned against the counter on his palms, repressing a small grin creeping onto his face and thought:

Maybe having a neighbor wouldn't be so bad.

[yawnderu]

Daddy's girl - Vladimir Makarov x Reader

The daddy issues are hitting hard today. ^_^

CW: face slapping, death threats, degrading words, hurt/comfort... as comforting a terrorist can be. Reader isn't Makarov's daughter.

''You didn't come to my graduation.'' You stumble into his office without knocking, the liquid courage in your blood giving you the guts you never even knew you had.

''My little princess.'' His tone is full of sarcasm, brown eyes sizing you up as he looks up from the paperwork sprawled on his desk. He tilts his head slightly as you say nothing.

''How kind of you to grace me with your presence. Of course, I wasn't able to attend your graduation... I have important duties as a leader.'' He was making a show out of it, voice dripping pure disdain as he got up from his chair, walking over to you with his hands clasped behind his back. Your silence makes the corners of his mouth tilt up.

''Besides, I've never been much of a family man.'' Despite knowing better, the alcohol is poisoning your brain, taking full control of your tongue.

''Go fuck yourself.'' The words are spoken with pure hatred, years of suppressed words due to only being acknowledged with condescending words finally coming out.

''I'm shocked, my dear.'' There's a smirk on his face at your bold words, clearly amused by your courage. Oh, how his hands are aching to hurt.

''You know better than to speak to me like that. Maybe I should teach you a lesson in respect again.'' He leans down slightly, one hand firmly holding your jaw as he stares down at you with cold, piercing eyes. You hold your ground, arms crossed over your chest while you stare up at him stubbornly. In the past, you'd be begging and trying to run away, yet you stand tall and proud in pure defiance. Just this once.

''I've given you everything you could ever want, and this is the thanks I get for it?'' He's looming over you like a predator ready to pounce on its prey, eyes burning with resentment and anger you have seen many times before.

''You are nothing without me.'' With a swift, jerky motion, the hand grasping your jaw lets go just to reach out and slap you across the face, the sound of his hand connecting with your skin echoing throughout the room. Your eyes close out of reflex, trying your best not to fall down despite how dizzy the hard slap and the alcohol are making you. You take a few seconds to recover, looking up at him with nothing but disdain, mirroring his own expression.

''You've given me everything but your love.'' Makarov's expression hardens even further, disgust mixing in with the anger.

''Love? What do you know about love? You're a naive little girl who has never in her life faced the reality of this world. You think I'm so cruel, so heartless, but I've made more sacrifices than you could ever imagine.'' His Russian accent got more prominent the more annoyed he got, making his words sound even harsher. He grabbed you by the arm, spinning you around and forcing you to face the window that looked out into the city skyline.

''Your mother's love didn't stop her from dying when she gave birth to you. You're lucky I took you under my wing and gave you a life of luxury.'' You scoffed at his comment, staying quiet for now as you held back tears.

''I tolerated your insolence because I thought that with time, you'd respect me... I see now that I failed to raise you properly.'' He pulled out his revolver, pressing the muzzle against your temple. There was barely any emotion in his face, simply cold, calculated indifference.

''That can be fixed easily.'' He presses the gun harder against your head, and all you can do is hold back tears. You bite the inside of your cheek softly, waiting for a ''bang'' that doesn't come yet.

''Go ahead, pap.'' Your stubborn mouth lashes out before you can even think about it, trying your best to give him a smile despite the way your eyes are burning with tears.

''Free me from this life of death and war you gave me.'' Makarov frowns, finger tensing on the trigger as he looks down at you. He would never admit it, but the unexpected response caught him off-guard.

''I've been too soft on you.'' He pulls back the hammer, metal clicking loudly.

''Quite the opposite, but whatever.'' There was an icy calm in his gaze as he looked down at the younger girl.

''Do you know what your problem is? You're ungrateful. More stubborn than a mule and twice as bratty. All you've ever done is take, take, take.'' His finger tightens on the trigger, patience wearing thin by the second. He wanted to see the fear in her eyes, to see the tears finally roll down her cheeks, to hear her beg for her life, yet she wasn't giving him the satisfaction.

''That's my problem?'' You ask sarcastically, turning your head slightly to look up at him, gun now held against your forehead as you lean closer to him, challenging him even further. ''I've done nothing but dedicating my time and life to you and the Inner Circle.''

Makarov takes a step back, lowering his gun by his side before almost hesitantly putting it back in its holster. He looks you up and down with pure disdain, blood boiling inside his throbbing veins.

''It's your attitude that irks me, not whatever you think you've done for me and the Inner Circle. You're underserving of the respect that comes with your position, ungrateful for the life I've given you, you're living proof of all my failures. Do you understand, child?'' He lets go of your arm, hand twitching to get the gun back, but he ignores it for now. He sighs heavily, walking over to his desk and pulling a bottle of vodka out of a drawer, gloved hands opening the bottle and taking a long, long swig. He's way too sober to deal with you.

''Why are you even drunk at 9:00AM?'' He asks softly, trying his best not to grow gray hairs at the stress your mere presence causes him.

''I've been up all night. Graduation party with some friends and the after.'' You speak just as softly, looking out the window for a while before finally turning back to him, hands clasped behind your back politely, a fake, calm expression on your face despite the turmoil in your head. He simply nods his head, elbows leaning on the lavish desk while taking another swig of the vodka.

''No chaser?'' You try to bring some humor to the situation, all anger gone as you now simply try to please him, ignoring your own emotional needs like usual. To your surprise, he lets out a soft amused chuckle.

''No chaser.'' He confirms, taking a deep breath before pulling two glasses out, filling them up before holding one your way.

''You better not disappoint me.'' The words lack their usual venom, though he's still clearly not happy with you. He knocks back his glass, filling it again without waiting for you. You hesitantly reach for the glass, holding your breath as you knock it back as well, making a face once the alcohol burns your throat and warms up your stomach.

''Ugh.'' Is all you can say, sitting in a chair in front of his desk as he fills up your glass again.

''Come on, try not to embarrass yourself.'' He's not being hostile for once. He almost sounds teasing as he says that, keeping eye contact while he takes his shot without even grimacing or making a face, clearly handling alcohol much better than you.

''You're trying to get me drunk for fun.'' Yet you still grab the glass and knock it back, making another face of pure disgust at the burn of pure vodka he seems to be drinking so easily.

''It certainly looks like it's working.'' He says with a small teasing tone, gesturing towards your slightly unfocused gaze.

''It is.'' Your voice is slightly slurred, the mix of the alcohol you drank earlier, the hard liquor and the lack of sleep hitting you like a fucking train, making you more tired by the second. You rest your head on the desk, eyes closing as you hear Makarov let out an amused chuckle as he gets up from his chair.

''Come here.'' He speaks with surprising softness, and you can feel him lifting you up with care, bringing your barely conscious body to his much bigger chair as he sits down, holding you close on his lap. One of his hands is on your lower back, safely securing your body, while the other one is running up and down the length of your hair.

''Get some sleep.'' He whispers softly and he doesn't have to repeat himself twice. Before you're fully gone, you can feel his lips plant a small kiss on the top of your head. Just this once, he'll allow himself to be weak.

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Early Morning Start

Pairing: Captain John Price x f!reader

Warnings: tiny bit of angst, canon typical violence, fluff, implied smut mdni (18+), mentions of stuff from mw2022

Words: 3.9k

Synopsis: Your leave is interrupted...

A rhythmic buzzing woke you up.

You cracked your eyes open to darkness and glanced at the clock to see that it was the middle of the night. You didn’t move from your spot to check your phone to see if it was the one ringing. Instead you pulled the blankets around you tighter and rolled around, tucking yourself into Price’s chest in hopes you’d fall back asleep.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer to him. A soft sigh escaped his chest and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, having woken up to the noise as well. He held onto you and resituated you both more comfortably, nearly bringing you both back to the peaceful deep sleep you had been rudely woken from.

The buzzing stopped. Then it started again.

You huffed and somehow managed to escape Price’s arms as you grabbed your phone from the bedside table. Your heart dropped when you realized it was his phone that was ringing and a pit formed in your stomach.

For a split second you thought about just letting it ring but you couldn’t allow that. Not when there was a job to do, not when lives were at stake.

“John.” You shook him gently and sat up. “It’s yours.”

“Fuck.” He slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes before he grabbed his phone.

You watched him answer it with an annoyed look on his face while he forced himself to wake up. You also struggled to wake yourself up while you prepared yourself mentally for the field. 

All of the plans you had made just went down the drain. In the past you wouldn’t have been too upset, maybe just a little disappointed that your time to recover and take a break was interrupted, but this time you couldn’t help but feel…annoyed. The first time you and Price could fully act like you were together, to do the things that normal couples do without worrying about repercussions, only for it to be ruined. You weren’t ready to have to sneak around base again, to pretend like you were nothing more than just friends.

You pushed the annoyance away, ignoring it as you half listened to Price talk on the phone with Laswell. It didn’t matter. You could deal with it like the many times you had before, you couldn’t be selfish and it was out of Price’s control.

You just had to deal with it. You had to be positive.

With any luck you’d be back before next month…but luck only kept you alive, not comfortable or happy. 

“Call the others, I’ll tell Doc.”

Price tossed his phone on the bed and rubbed his face. His shoulders were tense as he let out a silent yawn before he looked at you. He slid his hand across the blanket and grabbed yours, threading his fingers with yours before he pressed a kiss to the palm of your hand.

He gave you a knowing look. His face had fallen and his eyes were a lot more serious than before. You knew that he was most likely disappointed as well but he hid it underneath everything else.

He pressed another kiss to your hand and you couldn’t help but smile as he rubbed his thumb across your knuckles.

At least you’d see him. At least you weren’t stuck alone in the apartment while he was off risking his life waiting to hear if he made it or not.

“What’re we dealing with?” You asked softly.

“Weapons deal.” He said and when he didn’t elaborate like you expected, your eyebrows knitted together.

“That’s it? Nothing connected to Makarov?”

“Have to check. If it’s not then we’ll be back in a day or so.”

You hummed, a little surprised. Ever since last year the objective had been Makarov. Everything connected to and about him was investigated and dealt with by the task force. It didn’t matter if it was a fluke or if it was something tiny like cash flow, he had become top priority.

The fact that he had managed to not get one but three American missiles while being incarcerated was a bad sign. His influence was everywhere, his ties were in everything. It was as if the 141 was dealing with a roach or a disease that couldn’t be killed.

No one had thought he would have this kind of power and you felt guilty for becoming blinded by having faith he would never wreck havoc again. 

You had to get rid of his connections on the outside to prevent any further incidents or innocent deaths. A sentiment you knew Price shared with you.

“Well, we better get ready then.” You went to leave the bed but Price wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you back into his chest. “What-”

“Five minutes.” He mumbled in your ear as he placed a soft kiss on your neck.

His hand splayed out across your stomach and he wrapped his other arm around you, trapping you against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He pressed another kiss to your skin, lightly breathing in your scent before he gave you a squeeze.

Your eyes fluttered shut from his warmth, feeling yourself grow heavy as your mind begged to go back to sleep. You placed your hands over top of his and leaned into him with a heavy sigh.

You wanted to be in his arms forever.

“Do we have time?” You whispered and he hummed.

“We can make time.” He whispered back. “Don’t know when I’ll get to hold you like this again.”

Depending on how long this took it could be a couple days before there was a chance for privacy or sleep. You had to make do with what you could to feel connected to him, little touches and stolen glances that didn’t raise any suspicions. You’ve done it for so many years it shouldn’t bother you…

You both went about your normal routine for going back to base soon after. You helped him trim his beard and he made a small snack for you both while you brushed your teeth. He packed for the both of you and you ran off a list of everything to make sure he didn’t forget.

“The laptop.” You handed it to him and he scoffed.

“Waste of time that was.” He shoved it in his bag and you hummed non-committedly.

When everything was ready and the two of you were about to walk out the door, you stopped Price from walking out of the threshold with a short tug to his sleeve. You gave him an expectant look when he turned around with slight confusion, your hands on your hips as you waited for him to realize what he had forgotten.

Remembrance flash in his eyes before he got a teasing glint in them and he noticed his hat that he also forgot.

“Wouldn’t want to forget that.” He slipped it out of your hand and secured it on his head. “Thanks, love.”

“What else are you forgetting?” You crossed your arms.

Price thought for a moment, clearly making a show out of it before he shook his head and fought against a smile that crept on his face.

“Nothing.”

“John Price!”

He chuckled and wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you close to him. You playfully fought against him, a fake scowl on your face while you attempted to push him away to no avail while trying hard not to laugh. 

“No, you lost your chance, we’re leaving.” You upturned your nose as you tried to step towards the door but he snorted and held onto you.

“You don’t mean that.” He teased and you gave him a challenging look that he didn’t buy. “You love me too much to mean that.”

You bit down a smile and wrapped your arms around his neck, looking deep into his blue eyes full of adoration before you glanced down at his lips. You dramatically rolled your eyes and interlocked your fingers behind his neck to keep him from moving away from you.

“C’mere.” He whispered before he pulled you into a kiss you happily returned.

It was a tradition, one that you both had unknowingly done over the years before you had moved in with him that you now did before each deployment. In the past it had been an excuse to stay longer in each other’s arms before the other had to leave for an unknowable amount of time, now it was more than that.

One kiss to share your love, one kiss to share a promise.

The first kiss was tender. You fully let yourself fall into his warm embrace as he deepened the kiss to the point where you found yourself becoming just a little dizzy. He was slow but each time he moved his lips against yours he let it be known just how much he loved you before you broke apart to catch your breath.

Price stared at you in a slight daze, almost a little flustered but you couldn’t tease him for it because you knew you probably looked the same. 

Instead you placed your hand over his when he gently caressed your cheek before he pressed another kiss to your lips.

The second kiss was quick but no less tender. A promise to always come back after the fight is over, after every loose end has been tied and that this wouldn’t be the last time you’d ever feel his embrace or feel his lips against yours.

When you broke apart this time you gave him a heavy smile as the weight of the situation became realized. You may have worked in the military for nearly two decades but you still sometimes got nervous when you were deployed for another mission. 

You blamed the medic in you, the one that saw the horrors of the battlefield and tried to fix them in order to save lives. Any mission could be your last.

“Ready?” Price asked and you took a deep breath.

“Ready.”

~

Bullets dug into the brick on the building you were hiding behind and you held onto your rifle tightly. The sound of gunfire echoed across the buildings and more bullets ricocheted against the mental light posts.

Just as you were closing in on the dealers, they found out who you were and a full blown firefight had started. You had just barely managed to get behind cover as it started and now you had no choice but to open fire in a public area.

Luckily all of the civilians who had been around, due to the clubs and bars that adorned the streets, managed to clear the area before any of them got hurt. One had even bumped into you, nearly knocking you down as he barely spared you a passing glance before he sprinted to safety.

Whatever weapons they were dealing had to be incredibly important.

“I see an opening.” Ghost’s voice crackled over the comms and you instinctively looked up at the rooftops for him when you heard him take a shot. “Johnny-”

“Already on it, lt.” Soap positioned himself behind a damaged car that would give him the best opportunity to provide cover.

You could already see the plan formulating as Gaz hid behind the car next to Soap. You couldn’t see Price from where you were as you found yourself unable to lean out of the alleyway to see where the hostiles were without getting a bullet stuck in your brain. 

“Doc, can you flank them?” Price’s voice cut in and you looked down the other direction of the alleyway.

From what you could see it led out to the other side of the road just a little bit away from the dealers. If they hadn’t already moved down the street, then it would be a perfect opportunity to cut them off and either take them out or make them surrender.

Luckily you wouldn’t be undefended. Price would keep his eye out for you no matter where he was at the moment.

“I see a way around.” You slowly crept your way towards the other end of the alley but waited. “Don’t get me shot.”

“I got your back.” He assured you and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face.

When Price gave you the order you ran out of the alley with your gun ready. You came out onto the street and began firing on the dealers while Gaz moved up from the other side. You two closed in on the dealers while Soap and Ghost provided cover, and before too long the group had thinned significantly.

You got closer and hid behind a car before you noticed Price shooting at the dealers that had their sights on you.

The gunfire lasted for a few more seconds before you heard yelling, a plea for surrender. Just then you heard police sirens and you stood up from behind the car with your gun raised as you slowly made your way towards the dealers.

You waited for Price to give you the go ahead before you began to search for the vehicle that supposedly had the weapons. You called over Gaz, who began to make his way towards you while you studied the bullet filled cars around you before you found the one you were looking for.

You opened the door to a black SUV that had been parked out of the way. Inside was empty save for trash from fast food and your eyebrows knitted together as you made sure this was the right vehicle that had been ID'd as the one with the stolen weapons.

You moved around to the trunk and searched for any false panels in the floor.

“Find anything?” Gaz wondered as he came up beside you but you shook your head.

“John, you sure this is the right vehicle?” You asked into your radio.

“Keep looking.” He said and you frowned. 

Gaz hopped into the SUV and you checked every compartment you could find for any information. It seemed like the entire inside had been cleared out, a suspicious amount of cleanliness despite the trash that made a bad feeling settle in your stomach. 

“Found a phone, but it’s locked.” Gaz called out from the front and you took it from him when he handed it to you. 

“That’ll take a couple days to get through.” You sighed heavily and tapped on the screen.

It lit up and you saw there were texts from someone called Andrei Nolan. You stared at the texts as something struck you as familiar but you couldn’t quite remember where you had seen the name before. There were many Russian names you had seen over the past year since you were dealing with Konni group as well as any potential people who’d be connected to Makarov.

“Find anything?” Price came up to the two of you, followed by Soap and Ghost.

“It’s locked.” You told him as you handed the phone to him. “Does that name look familiar to you?”

“Andrei Nolan…not ringing any bells.”

Price raised an eyebrow at you, a silent question but you just shrugged and stepped out of the way for Gaz to hop out of the car. He hummed and called in the information into Laswell while you wracked your brain for anything familiar about the name but nothing came up.

You’d have to remember to call Nik about it later.

Price finished speaking to Laswell and slipped the phone in one of his vest pockets. He gave a short sigh, his breath puffing out in front of him before he glanced at the watch on his wrist.

“We’ll be back at base in a couple hours, catch up on sleep but be ready for anything.” He told everyone and it was like the tension left everyone’s shoulders.

“No rest for the wicked, aye?” Soap joked but it was easy to see he too was bummed about leave being cut short. “Might catch up on beauty sleep on the helo.”

“Good, you need it.” Ghost scoffed which only made Soap groan.

You shook your head with a smile and watched as they walked away from the scene to find somewhere more comfortable to hang out while waiting for the helo. You kept a watchful eye on them, as well as Gaz when he decided to join them, to see if any of them had any injuries you needed to attend to.

When you couldn’t see any, you glanced at police arresting the group of dealers. 

They had put up a fight for seemingly no reason. There was nothing that they were guarding except a phone that probably had no more information on it than anything they knew themselves. 

“At least we didn’t make a mess.” Price lit a cigar and took two long drags of it before he blew out the smoke.

“We’ve made it a bad habit recently haven’t we?” You scoffed and he hummed in agreement. 

Price stepped further away from the scene and you followed him but kept your distance. He glanced at you, down at your hands and at your lips as he barely took a step back to keep enough space between the both of you that no one would get suspicious of. He huffed and a slight frown pulled at his face as he took the cigar out of his mouth.

It was easy to tell he felt odd. Usually the two of you were eased back into pretending but this time you both were still used to each other’s space and touch that keeping a distance felt almost too isolating even if it was only a couple feet.

You felt it too and you tried to ignore it as you shifted on your feet. Instead of focusing on it you diverted your attention to the boys and a smile pulled at your lips.

Soap stood in front of Ghost and Gaz talking animatedly about something. While he was speaking to the both of them, it was easy to see he paid more attention to the way Ghost reacted to whatever he was saying than Gaz. His back was to you, but occasionally you could see the smile and the way his eyes brightened when he stared at Ghost.

He had always been a little more energetic than everyone else but it was easy for you to see that he had become completely smitten with his lieutenant since Las Almas.

Ghost was no better. 

He stared up at Soap with a similar bright look in his tired eyes. He watched him like a hawk and sat a little forward to get closer to him. He looked less tense than he normally was, which was something that you didn’t think could be achieved.

Ordinarily you wouldn’t have really thought anything of it. Since the formation of the task force, the five of you had become closer with each other, becoming more as friends than just coworkers which meant a lot of the conduct between all of you had blurred.

But you saw the signs only a month after the fiasco in Chicago. 

You saw the stolen glances, the longing looks and the touches that lasted just a little longer than they should. You saw the way that they teased each other, masking their flirting with their banter as they stood just a little too much into each other’s personal space. You saw the way Ghost looked to Soap first after the mission was done and you noticed the way Soap would subtly try to impress Ghost.

At first you thought maybe you were just projecting, maybe you were reading things wrong. You had spent the better part of the last nine years doing almost the same thing with Price so you thought that maybe you were looking for things that weren’t there.

Then on one mission, when you were walking through the dark of a destroyed building, you saw them kiss.

You didn’t see an issue with it, not when you were doing the same except thing with the Captain of the task force, so you didn’t say anything to them. You were more cautious now and you couldn’t help but notice every single thing they did.

You wondered if maybe you and Price had been like that at the start.

“John.” You tapped him on the shoulder and directed his attention towards the two.

Price looked over at them and a smile twitched at his lips. He had figured it out around the same time as you did, which was no surprise to you, and didn’t say anything either. He didn’t have an issue with it for the reason you didn’t, but also because they seemed to relatively stay on task when needed.

“Soap reminds me of you.” You teased and he raised an eyebrow. “All awkward and dorky, trying to be cool. It’s cute.”

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” He wondered and you giggled with a nod. 

Price grumbled and shook his head, a smile across his lips while he continued to smoke his cigar. 

“Never would’ve expected the two of them together.” He glanced at them and you heard Soap’s laughter.

“They’re good for each other, I think.” You didn’t have much to go on considering you didn’t speak to them about it or see them truly interact without limitations, but there was no animosity between them. “Young love.”

Price hummed and looked at you.

You gave him an expectant look, waiting for him to say something but he only stared at you with soft eyes. He took in every detail, his eyes bouncing around your face while you fought the urge to step closer and pull him into you. You gave him a small smile, watching the way he looked at you with a deeper kind of love you were used to.

He raised his hand as if to touch you before he caught himself. He instead switched the cigar into his hand and shifted on his feet.

 You gripped your gun tighter, a short sigh leaving your chest as you glanced back at the police.

They were in the process of cleaning up and you began to notice that the sky was slowly starting to lighten up.

“What do you think? Just a regular bust?” You changed the subject, avoiding looking at him for a moment to let the feelings pass.

“Don’t know. Could be anything nowadays.” He grunted and you frowned.

Everything was uncertain now.

The radio crackled and the pilot of the helo called in. You listened to Price tell him that he’d meet him at the exfil point before he signaled for the others to follow. He tossed the cigar on the ground and you followed closely behind him.

Though base wasn’t home, you were ready to crawl back in bed and get some more sleep before having to start back up with your responsibilities.

“Mine or yours?” Price mumbled to you and a smug smile spread across your face.

Of course, it made things better when you still had the chance to share a room with Price. Even if you weren’t technically meant to.

“Yours.” You said innocently. “Further away from everyone else.”

“Are you implying something, Doc?” Price glanced at you with a knowing look as he straightened his posture.

You shrugged, teasing him the best you could when the others were catching up to you. You gave him a heated look, one that made his jaw clench and he took in a sharp breath as he glanced behind the two of you.

You were willing to skip the sleep you wanted if it meant just a little more time with him. You just hoped that he wouldn’t go to his office before going to his room.

“Maybe. Don’t keep me waiting.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

a/n: idk where this story is going but enjoy a glimpse of ghostsoap

tags: @sofasoap @thriving-n-jiving @writingmysanity @teconkaals @xb14 @misshoneypaper @hers-area @shuttlelauncher81 @mamanmae @somewhereryan @thedevillovesflowers

[bejeweledblondie]

You Don’t Send A Man To Do A Woman’s Job

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F! Reader

Summary: Heavily Inspired by the Fast Furious scene with Gal Gadot. While trying to figure out how to get intel on Makarov Y/N’s quick thinking & feminine ways help gain that intel much to surprise to Soap

Warnings: Sexual themes, seduction, mentions of female body parts

Being in the military definitely had it pitfalls sometimes it could mean sitting in a remote shack for days or even not having running water. But it definitely did have its perks. This was one of them. Drinking frozen Margaritas in the Bahamas Y/N, Soap, & Gaz all stood around a high top table staring at a group of Russians. They were given a tip that some of Makarov’s men were on vacation here. Soap & Gaz were bickering over what was the best way to gain intel off of them. Ghost & Captain Price were planted on the roof of the resort god forbid things went south.

“And how do you propose we do that? We can’t exactly just plant a device wherever we wanted to.” Soap replied with attitude. Gaz rolled his eyes & before he could even respond Price came over the radio.

“Oi knock it off you two!” He shouted. “Figure a plan out and let us know.” He sounded beyond frustrated & rightfully so. Y/N kept staring at them brainstorming ways she herself could be of assistance. Then she saw a very attractive blonde woman flirt with the armed guards outside of the cabana. It clearly drew attention to her & the the Russians invited her in. She plopped herself down onto one of their laps & accepted one of their drinks. A light bulb went off in her head.

“Guys.” She said trying to gain their attention. They started to bicker again & completely ignored her. “Soap? Gaz?” She tried again to no avail. “Fuck it, I’m going in Captain. Just make sure you’re recording their conversations.” She said into her hidden ear piece & whipped off her leopard coverup to reveal a cheeky red bikini. As she started to walk away both Soap & Gaz stopped talking.

“Steamin’ Jesus.” Soap said. Ghost & Price both chucked at the expense of his reaction. Everyone knew Soap had a thing for you it was so incredibly painfully obvious to everyone except you. He couldn’t help but admire the way your bikini bottoms hugged your ass or the fact your toned legs stretched on for miles. He licked his lips at the sight.

As she walked towards the cabana she gained some unwanted attention from men scattered all over the pool, but it didn’t phase her. She was on a mission & was determined. Once she made it to the cabana she started to flirt with the armed guards. With her breasts pushed up in her bikini top & her famous smile she had gained the attention of one of the Russians.

“It’s fine Ivan, let the beautiful American woman in.” One of the men said. “Come sit.” He beckoned her to come in & sit down. She sat on the arm of his chair & he immediately grabbed a handful of her ass. Then he said made a remark to his friend in Russian about how good your ass felt. To his knowledge you had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. But after being part of the US Army’s psychological warfare division Russian was one of five language you knew.

Back at the high top, Soap was ready to fight the man who grabbed you. Gaz almost had to physically restrain him.

“Think of the mission, Soap.” He reminded him. Soap grumbled to himself & started to mope into his drink. Over the next hour she had gained some of the most important intel about weapons, imports, exports, hell the whole operation. Soon the Russians started to get up to excuse themselves for dinner.

The man she had been sitting with, whom she come to know as Andrei invited her to dinner. She accepted even though she wouldn’t be attending. A small piece of her felt bad for lying. But she quickly reminded herself these men were war criminals. They profited off of the murder of children, women, & families. Once all of them were gone she walked back over to the high top where Soap & Gaz were.

Soap took the time to take in the sight of her walking towards them. Her breasts bouncing with each step, & the way her hips swayed. He was undressing her with his eyes & imagined her without that damn red bikini. Once she reached the table she put the cover up back on covering her body.

“So how much intel did you gain?” Gaz asked.

“More then we needed.” She replied.

“I have to ask, how on the Earth did you accomplish that?” Soap asked. She turned to him & smirked.

“It’s easy MacTavish, you don’t send a man to do a woman’s job.” She replied.

[soapybutt17]

Do I Wanna Know?

Summary:John has blood on his hands, just as much as you did. But this was something different. He has his secret, just as much as you did in your line of work. But this was different, he has committed a war crime and the blood on his hands was something you held along your bloodied own.. Character: John Price x F!Wife!Reader. Word Count: 1,209 Chapter Warnings: Mention of Murder. Mention of Kidnapping and trauma associated with it. Mention of Survivor's guilt. Price is just a bb boi here that needs a lots of hugs and kisses. AU. Soap is alive here, but was hospitalized from the encounter.

Based on this ask:

Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Request are Open || Join My Taglist || 500 Followers Celebration

John Price was a lot of things. But to this day, he would have never thought he would murder a man without an order of anyone but for his own intentions. He had blood on his hands and there were only two individuals that knew.

Laswell that had orchestrated his ability to be in the man’s office. She who had ensured that he would do his deeds and leave without anyone knowing otherwise. Laswell knew what it meant to him, how John had to fight tooth and nail with the guilt of almost losing Soap because of the mission with Makarov. It was inevitable that he had to do this, he had to kill Shepard if he wanted to ensure the safety of everyone he cares for.

Then there was you, his wife, and his most trusted partner. He could do no wrong in your eyes. How even in your hesitation for the plan he and Laswell had devised had trusted him that it would not be placed back on him when the fire begins to spread. You trusted him even when you knew it was not the right thing to do.

“Hi,” He slipped back to your shared home.

You were in your pajamas tonight, with your daughter asleep on your lap and your son cradled in your arms fighting the last ounce of strength to keep awake. He could see the tiredness in your eyes but there was a darkness in your eyes that seemed to consume you as you looked at him.

“John.”

He gave a quick nod, kissing you at the top of your head but refused to touch you just yet. He feared the metaphorical blood still in his hands needed to be washed. He refused to hold onto you or his children when it painted him still. He refused to soil the very reason why he did what he had to do.

Walking upstairs to your shared bedroom, he shed himself of his clothes, refusing to place them in the hamper as the fire place would be a better end to them. He stood bare in his own bathroom, his eyes glued onto the mirror to the sight of him. Worn and torn by the war, never hesitant to pull the trigger if it means the mission is done and over with. How it had been so easy to pull the trigger and kill Shepard. It truly scared him, what he was able to do and even if he knew it was for the greater good.

He killed a man. It wasn’t accidental, it was not in the fields nor was it due to self-defense. He murdered a man in cold blood and as the night grows on, the guilt was coming at him with full force.

How the actions—or lack thereof had become a domino effect that he was trying his best to clean up, to pick the pieces back up and move on. He should have allowed Soap to kill Makarov all those years ago. He should have never trusted someone like Graves to be involved with his team. He should have never placed you in his taskforce.

All his actions led to where he stood now. A broken man that never knew what it felt like to be this broken until he looked at the mirror. How the tears came in floods, consuming him from the inside out. He was pathetic. A captain that could not even ensure the safety of his own team.

“John.”

He turned and he did not bother to wipe away the tears as he looked at you. He was wrapped in your arms as his sobs grew louder. He was weeping for the pain and torment his actions has caused you and every single one of his team.

Soap was barely alive. You had closely escaped death from being held captive. The world was almost about to begin world war three. Everything was going to shit and he genuinely did not know what he could do to stop it all.

“It’s okay. I’m here.” You reassured stripping yourself of your clothes and pulling him into the shower.

The cold spray brought a deep shiver down his spine as it finally hit his skin. Standing in the middle of the shower, you had allowed him to wrap his arms around you as he continued to sob. All the pain of everything in his life slowly faded away as he held you in his arms.

Slowly as the tears no longer feel and he was hiccupping, you pulled away with tears in your own eyes. Your hands gently wiped the water on his face and kissed him in the cheeks and nuzzling your face against the crook of his neck.

“You did the right thing.” You assured him. “It was for the better.” You continued as you began to wash him.

Your movement was gentle—loving. You washed him with so much gentleness that he knew all too well that he didn’t deserve. He never deserved your love anymore after what he had put your through.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked him, lathering your palms with the shower gel.

“Do you want to know?” He quipped right back.

“If you want to me to know, I am more than willing to carry the weight with you, John.”

“I don’t deserve you.” He whispered holding onto your hands.

How bloodied and battered his hand was so easily cleansed by your touch. He held onto your own, intertwining them together as he pulled you in for a kiss. All the memory of the last few months momentarily faded away in your arms.

~

“I finally did it.” John spoke as he laid in bed with you in his arms.

All you could do was nod realizing what that had meant, what it would finally mean after all was said and done.

“Who knows what you did?” You inquired for a moment fearing the aftermath when all was said and done.

“You and Laswell. No one more.”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around him. Hands rubbing against his naked skin. You felt the goose bumps litter his skin from the memory more than from your touch. You know what had caused this, knew what it was for the best.

“Johnny’s finally awake.” You whispered to him, with him finally pulling away from a moment to look at you and the tears of relief flooded him.

“That’s—that’s good to hear. How’s he holding up?”

“His head hurts and making sure Simon’s head is too while he’s looking after him.”

You hoped that even just a glimpse of good news would appease him and the guilt that weighed so heavily on his shoulders.

“I’m glad…” He trailed off, moving his body until his head nestled against the plush flesh of your chest. “I’m so glad…”

Slowly you had felt his breathing slowly calm as his grasp around you slowly loosen. You laid still from where you laid hoping that in this moment everything would finally go back for the better. For your husband’s sake and for the rest of the team that was now ghosted by everything that had anything to do with Makarov and Shepard.

[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.

[blingblong55]

Romancing in the dark -Vladimir Makarov

Based on a request:

https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cyvb7yJv__j/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA== this with makarov 🥹 ---- F!Reader, fluff, established!relationship, romance ---- A/N: this will be short…sorry

Vladimir has been away for months, hiding in different parts of the world all to keep you away from his dangerous life. And then, one evening he comes home. You were out running errands, so, he decided that he should shower and be ready for when you get home. The walls of the home, all filled with rich memories of you two, adorned with photos of moments that have all been well to remembered. His fingers touch the last painting in the hall.

It was the first of many pictures he prompted to take, you were a dream and it must be engraved in a photo. Vladimir smiles, faint laughs and nervous giggles all replay in his foggy mind. Your love was straight from a romance novel, the emotions, the way he felt like all love novels were written for you and because of you. If only you knew that you saved him from destruction, not of the tainted world but the destruction of himself. The way your hands wrapped around his, how his and your legs would be intertwined and mixed in the bedsheets, how your body fits his perfectly.

Damn the world for giving him someone to make him want to live to see the next day. Damn you for loving him and being so understanding and caring. Why must you appear in his life out of nowhere? Why must Shakespeare write you in poems and why must life bring you to him? Couldn't you be any less perfect? Couldn't you be more kind to his cold heart? Why must you make him feel anything other than hate, revenge and evil?

The door opens, keys thrown on the coffee table and as soon as he hears you, he rushes to the shared bedroom. Sitting by the edge is where you found him, smile at him as he finally saw you once more. "Ah, if it isn't my love." With excitement, you rush to his arms, wrapping your legs around him as he holds you close. Your lips meet his cheek, kissing it repeatedly and he closes his eyes, smile on him the whole time.

This moment, why can't he frame this?

His hold on you, fuck that hold was it heaven on earth. Rough hand holding the back of your neck as he nuzzles his face on your cheek. "My love, I missed you dearest," his voice soft. It had seemed long since he felt this way. "I love you," you whisper as you cup his face and continue to kiss it. All over, your kisses spread like fire and it warms him. "I love you best," he whispers back and kisses you tenderly.

Tags:

@strangepuppynightmare @liyanahelena @selarus @lonesome-doves @nate06633 @kielsegur @elvennn-fairy @johfaam0 @goldenmclaren @moonsua1 @rvivienner @frazie99 @viomast @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @alxexhearts @baldwinhearts

[lucid-loves]

Taste Like Venom ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 3

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

Word Count: 3.7k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, enemies to friends to lovers trope, slow burn, fluff, 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.

Story Synopsis: After Makarov gets away once 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 in each interaction. 

Chapter Synopsis: The great 141 road trip is fine in the beginning, but being on the road for eleven hours clearly gets to everyone, especially you. For once, Ghost tries to show you some genuine compassion without any ulterior motives. 

A/N: Thought that this would not only be a fun part to write, but also a breather to get to develop more character dynamics. Feel free to comment what you think each member of the 141 favorite music genre is! Including your own~

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

Such a long drive was new territory for the boys. They were so used to helicopter rides, armored cars, and jets to take them where they needed to go fast. For their size and stature, the minivan was cramped, slightly rough on the road, and just plain weird. It took a few seat adjustments before everyone was as comfortable as they could be. Save for Gaz. He just prayed that a pit stop was coming soon and someone would be willing to switch seats with him.

For the first hour, the ride was noisy with conversation. Conversation that tried to reel you in. Price, looking through the front windshield, asked you a question. “How do you know where you’re going, Hex?”

“I’ve spent time memorizing road maps around the area. We’re taking a back road. A scenic route. Any other cars on the road would further see this minivan as a family road trip through the country.” You elaborated, your eyes steady on the road ahead. There were a lot of twists and turns on this route, but you knew that it would pay out in the end.

“Hidden in plain sight.” Soap added, his tone showing that he was a bit impressed with the logic of it all. Perhaps you knew what you were doing after all. Without you meaning to or doing anything extraordinary, the group was slowly starting to trust you and your judgment as evidenced by your creative planning. You were becoming quite the leader as well. But, you weren’t completely out of the woods yet. They still kept some of their guards up, just in case.

“There’s a method to the madness. Don’t underestimate the power of assumptions.” You advised, a word of advice that would hopefully stick with them after all of this was over. If they listened, perhaps some problems the world was facing could actually be solved. 

Soap pulled out his phone with the intention of making this trip more enjoyable. Making sure that his VPN you required was turned on, he began to browse through songs using his music app. Once he added his favorite songs, he passed it to his captain. “Whatever you want, Cap. No genre limits.”

Price took the phone and rubbed his chin for a second in thought, his brick-brown beard moving with his fingers. Eventually, he added some songs to the playlist. Once he was satisfied, he passed the phone to Gaz who lit up at the idea. “Now it’s gonna feel like a real road trip!”

A few more songs were added before the phone was passed all the way up to Ghost. Hesitantly, Ghost added his own favorite songs. His teammates knew him decently well. They’re even seen his face before under the mask. However, there were still things they were learning about when it came to his personal life. One of which was his favorite kind of music. Thankfully, he was willing to share that information, trusting his team more and more with each passing day. 

He looked at you when he was done, wondering if he should even offer. Having watched the interactions from the mirror, you decided to stay out of it. When Ghost was done, you just shook your head for a silent “no.” Simon imagined that you were rejecting the idea in your mind based on the warning look you gave him. Don’t even try. That made him really wonder what kind of music you liked. The records back home were incredibly diverse. But what was your favorite? Jazz? Metal?

The phone was passed back to Soap. It was quite a diverse playlist. He didn’t realize that his team had such different tastes, but it just made him excited to give it a listen. He connected it to the car’s bluetooth and hit the shuffle button. Ghost went ahead and switched the car to bluetooth mode for him. Almost immediately, the car filled up with music, starting with one of Price’s songs. 

Instead of tuning out, you tuned in. Very much so. Small details, even favorite songs, could say a lot about a person. You were learning about the men now. Not for the sake of potential friendship, no. For the sake of information for potential future manipulation if things went sideways. You always prepared for the worst, even when times seemed like the best. 

The discussion carried forward, now with the ease of real music in the background. Gaz decided to take the plunge and ask you a question. “So. . . Hex. . . You lived a long time out in the woods. How did you survive on your own? There doesn’t seem to be a grocery store for miles around.”

You adjusted your sitting position, trying to get comfier in the driver’s seat. If you were going to deal with this for most of the trip, you might as well get as comfortable as you can. You answered, one hand on the wheel and one arm resting near the window. “I have an acquaintance who’s a farmer that gives me whatever I need. In return, I pleasure his wife, which helps save their marriage.”

His eyes got huge, not expecting the answer. He nearly tripped over his words. “Really?!”

“No, Kyle. You really think I would do such a thing?” You scowled. Internally, though, you were cracking up at his bewilderment. Soap and Price began chuckling in their seats. Even Simon was cracking a smile that no one could see. Kyle’s embarrassed blush that matched the falling red leaves outside made them even more amused. Who knew you had a sense of humor? A crude sense at that. 

He muttered an apology. At least he was a good sport about it. A part of him found it quite funny too. After the chuckles died down, you answered his question truthfully. “Kate does supply drops for me. Not all the time, just when I need more meat than the woods can provide. Everything else I grow.”

It was an answer that made sense and didn’t reveal much about yourself. Nothing too fascinating about it. At least, to everyone save for Ghost. He took note of your truth, pictured you growing fruits and vegetables, hands in the dirt and sweat dripping down your temple. He imagined you hunting too. A heavy rifle and camo. Patience, aim, fire. He thought that some of the foods he had from your kitchen tasted a little gamey. 

“Didn’t you ever get lonely being out there all by yourself?” Soap inquired, not afraid to ask the question that was on everyone’s mind. All eyes were on you as you took a deep breath.

“No, Johnny. Never.”

This was partially a lie as well as partially the truth. There were times where you did feel alone. Like the only human left on the planet. Kate’s calls every now and then help curb it a little, but it wasn’t the same as actually being in the same space with someone physically. Yet, when you were surrounded by people on a classified mission or watching disaster after disaster on TV, it made you glad that you weren’t a part of any of it. The flurry of different emotions coming from all different sides when with civilization was often too much for you. You needed control. More control than what you could usually get when you were on the outside again.

Simon was watching you carefully now, trying to pick up any indication of a cracked resolve. A twitch, a change in breathing, anything to read into further. There was no way you never felt lonely. Yet, you said it with such conviction that it startled everyone. Ghost just couldn’t believe you.

Having killed the conversation, the boy awkwardly tried to change topics. Now excluding you. Good. You preferred it this way.

~

A few hours in and the car was quiet. Light, easy music played now from the car speakers as everyone took a nap. Except for Ghost, of course. Fortunately, he did keep himself occupied by reading the book you lent him. The first couple of chapters were a miss in his opinion. After a couple more, it started to get good. It didn’t take him long to actually get invested in the story, reading between the lines as you had done when you read. You had good tastes.

Enjoying the quietness of the trip was something you didn’t think you would be able to do. Especially with Simon in the front. Surprisingly, he was being good which you hoped would like for the rest of the trip. Unfortunately, you jinxed it in your head. Out of the corner of your eye, he bookmarked his spot and took a break. Now, he wanted to talk to you.

“You didn’t play your own music.” 

“So?” You shrugged, wondering where he was going with this. Nothing good probably.

“Why not?” He simply asked, himself not knowing what the big deal was. It was just music. You could have even lied. Picked out music you hated. Instead, you just opted out, not even willing to risk three minutes of any particular melody.

You suppressed an annoyed groan. Not this shit again. “What part of ‘leave me alone’ do you not understand, Simon?”

There you go again, saying his name with such disrespectful ease. It still made his heart beat faster hearing it from you. It still made his muscles tense in vexation as well. You noticed this from how the grip on his arms got tighter, his arms crossing his chest. “How much could music taste actually reveal about you as an individual?”

“A lot! God damn it, when are you going to drop this stupid shit? Quit playing your stupid fucking game?!” You spat, trying to keep your cursing at a low volume lest you wake up the rest of the team. Your knuckles were turning white with how hard you were gripping the steering wheel, desperately trying to keep your cool.

However, he didn’t drop it. He didn’t want to, so he wouldn’t. Simon could be just as stubborn as you which made you want to punch him. Have his teeth fall out of his mouth and get caught in his skull mask. “You mean to tell me that you’ve learned a lot about us based on our favorite songs alone? That’s just ridiculous, Hex.”

He could use your name as a curse too. Anything to get you to keep talking to him. Anything to keep your attention. To figure you out. As much as you didn’t want to give him what you wanted, you did anyway out of sheer aggravation. “It’s called Music Psychology, you fucking ass! Do they do anything besides tell you what to shoot in that god forsaken military?! Do they really keep you all fucking braindead?!”

“Watch your mouth, Hex! You don’t want to say anything you don’t mean.” Simon warned, his voice low like a bass about to snap its strings. He had to remind himself that you weren’t like them when it came to combat approach to cool down. The 141 employed leadership, strength, swift execution. An assassin like you employed other values, one being the art of psychology apparently. 

He wasn’t going to let you badmouth his team and those back home that don’t deserve your slander, though. Many people back home were plenty capable with their own skill sets. It wasn’t fair to put them all in one box just because they followed the orders of the government.

“Watch my mouth?! Have you even heard the shit that’s coming out of yours?! Or is your head so far stuck up your own ass that you can’t hear what you say?” You antagonized further, making the situation worse with each passing insult.

“Why are you so fucking defensive?! You cracked a joke earlier, but now asking about your music tastes is too much? You don’t make any fucking sense, Hex. What the hell are you so afraid of?” His own voice was rising with volume as he spiraled out of control as well.

You were practically yelling at this point like the rest of the world didn’t exist except for you and Simon. A personal bubble where you could really try to rip him a new one. You didn’t hold back. “I’m not afraid of anything, Ghost! I just want you to leave me the fuck alone! Why are you so desperate to know me?!

“You’re part of this team, whether you like it or not!  Whether you want to be an enemy or not! Part of that is trusting us with your life. All of it!” He argued, trapping himself in this conflict bubble with you.

Your temper was boiling over to the point you could cry. Why was he doing this to you? Why couldn’t he just let this go? “Why can’t you understand that I am never going to be part of your team?! I never can and I never will!”

At that he paused. There was something about your last retort. Never can? It was oddly specific. What did that mean?

Just then, the light for gas lit up on the dashboard. You clenched your jaw, cursing more profanities that would have anyone blush. A couple miles down was a gas station. A wave of relief washed over you. Now you had an excuse to exit the car to get away from Simon.

You didn’t realize it before with how provoked you were, but the 141 in the back was awake and clearly heard the two of you bickering. The tension thick enough to choke on made it hard for them to interfere. This pit stop would hopefully let things settle down again.

As soon as the car was parked near an empty pump, the doors slid open to let the men out. It felt good to stretch their legs and breathe in some fresh air. It was about time Gaz was relieved of the back seat too. Price, Soap, and Gaz headed into the convenience store for a moment to pick up drinks and snacks, something that was essential for their road trip experience. You leaned against the car, waiting for the gas pump to finish. The entire time, Ghost sat silently in the front doing his own breathing exercises to get his temper under control. God, you were venomous. Troublesome, irritating, infernal, a million other words. Yet, you were beautiful when you were pissed. He couldn’t understand it.

Finally, the car was loaded up once again, now complete with drinks, snacks, and a full tank of gas. The seating arrangements changed, Price now in the back to allow Gaz a chance to let his legs stretch out more. Besides that, he didn’t really want to be up front with all of the conflict. He would normally break it up, but he still didn’t know enough about you to feel comfortable doing so. It was better for this to just play out. It wasn’t like Ghost couldn’t hold his own.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Soap ripped open a bag of chips followed by a joke. “Looks like mom and dad are fighting again.”

The smirk on his face was quickly wiped away as a pair of keys jingled right near his ear, embedded in his head rest. You had turned from your seat as soon as you registered his distasteful joke, thrown the car keys like a knife, and narrowly missed pinning his ear against the fabric. The car was dead silent as you stared daggers into him. Despite being a strong man with plenty of experiences with danger along with close calls, this experience had Johnny near pissing himself. If looks could kill, he would have been six feet under already.

What was worse was the fact that you missed on purpose. 

“Shut the fuck up! You are not to insinuate that again. Ever! Now, I don’t want anyone trying to talk to me or talk about me for the rest of this fucking trip. Talk to each other, I don’t give a shit. But no more dragging me into any conversation. Are we fucking clear?!”

You were met with quick, obedient nods followed by Soap gingerly handing you back your keys. Before you all knew it, you were back on the road like you didn’t just nearly kill Soap.

Simon was speechless, not expecting you to be so. . . dangerous. His feelings about what just happened were conflicting. On one hand, he wanted to fight you to defend his trusted sergeant that meant no harm, even if he didn’t really like the joke either. On the other hand, he’s never been more attracted to a woman in his life.

The car ride was silent for the next several hours.

~

Your muscles ached from your stiff position. You’ve been driving this whole time, only allowing gas breaks to be your time to stretch out. The boys have rotated seats every stop, now including Ghost who was finally giving you some space by being in the back. Last stop, though, he moved right up to the front with you once again. 

You were getting the dreaded road trip tunnel vision. After so many hours of driving, you couldn’t see anything except for the road ahead. You weren’t so much as driving anymore. You more like just looking out the front windshield, barely keeping up with the surrounding area that passed by. What you normally would recognize as trees, road signs, and roadkill were now just a big blur.

“You’re tired.” Simon commented, treading very carefully. He didn’t want to start another fight. Far from it. He just couldn’t bear to see you so exhausted from driving. 

“I’m fine.” Your voice strained, having lost some of it from the screaming match earlier in the trip. You weren’t used to talking so much as you have been for the past week, let alone fighting with words. A warm cup of tea with honey sounded so good right now.

Ghost took a deep breath in before he gently settled his hand on your shoulder. The fact that you didn’t shrug his touch away was very telling that you were really out of it. “Come on, Hex. Just for a bit. Pull over and I’ll take over the drive. We can switch back after you recuperate.”

It took you a minute to agree. Pulling off to the side of the road, you switched places. The room to stretch out in the passenger side was very much needed. Your bones cracked as you really gave yourself time to take it easy for a moment. “Just an hour. Then, we’ll switch.”

He nodded, finally agreeing with you on something out loud. “Just an hour.”

~

You ended up dozing off for longer than intended. Despite the agreement, Simon let you rest. The trip was already almost complete anyway. What was two more hours to add to your much needed rest?

When the car slowed to a stop, the gang woke up out of their naps, eager to exit the minivan and head into the average-looking hotel you had designated as the new checkpoint. It was nearing dinner-time, the city bustling with people heading to enjoy their meals. Price was ready for something other than chips. Soap and Gaz were already discussing potential food spots as if they were tourists. 

As they unloaded the car to carry their things into the hotel, you stayed asleep. Dead asleep. The deepest sleep you have had in what felt like a lifetime. The men were careful to not wake you up as they unloaded luggage after luggage out of the trunk. When everything was squared away with checking in as well as bringing luggage up to the rooms, you were still snoozing away, much to their surprise.

Price opened up your door, ready to wake you up to get a move on. However, Ghost stopped his hand from touching you. “I’ll take her up. Just go ahead and grab some grub.”

Well, John wasn’t going to say no to that offer. He would rather not be bit by such a feral woman. Though, he did feel like he had to warn Ghost of what he was really doing, having observed just about everything he was trying to do in regards to you. “You’re playing with fire, you know.”

Ghost unlocked your seatbelt and picked you up out of the minivan in a princess carry. Miraculously, you still didn’t wake up. “I know. . .”

The hotel staff were concerned with him carrying you into the hotel. A large man with a skull mask carrying an unconscious lady certainly didn’t look good. In order to avoid interference, Simon had a lie ready for when a bodyguard approached. “I know the mask is scary, but it hides some burn scars. I’m just taking the missus up to the room. She fell asleep in the car.”

Not being paid enough to question the lie, he allowed the both of you to pass by. 

You were heavy in his arms, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He could feel the softness of your skin, the firmness of your muscles. He could make out each individual eyelash that just barely kissed under your eyes. As much as you drove him crazy, you truly were beautiful.

The ding of the elevator reaching their floor knocked him out of his trance. Using a room key, he headed into your space for the next couple of days. The room was pretty basic. A bed, a dresser, tv, bathroom, nightstands, a desk. The only thing that really made it stand out was the original art of the wall made by local, Italian artists. 

He settled your sleeping body down onto the queen-sized bed, brushing your hair out of your face as you settled into the mattress. Looking at you like this was a breath of fresh air for him. He didn’t think he would be able to see you like this so soon. 

Sleeping around others was a sign of trust. Were you just really that exhausted? Probably. Ghost would still take this as a sign of victory anyway.

For a few moments longer, he studied your features. The sound of his stomach grumbling for a meal encouraged him to leave you be for now to which his brain protested. Then again, you probably wouldn’t like it if you found out that he watched you sleep.

Before he left, he took one last look at you, burning the image into his mind. “You said you didn’t sleep, kitten.”

[1wh4re1]

Okay but Ghoap x F!Reader where after Soap's death, Ghost starts to distance himself. He throws himself into solo missions and obsesses over finding Makarov. He becomes quite self-destructive.

Reader who grieves in a different way. Who begs Ghost to take some time off with them. Who doesn't understand why he is pulling away. Reader who wants nothing more than to ease both their pain.

Eventually, while Ghost is away on another solo mission with no return date in sight, Reader goes to Price and requests some leave.

Lo and behold Reader ends up getting sick while on leave and discovers they are pregnant. They end up cutting their leave short and head back to base.

When Ghost eventually arrives back Reader tries to tell him, to get him to just slow down and take care of himself. Instead, they get into a huge argument that ends in tears on both sides (not that Ghost would ever admit to it).

The next day Reader resigns from the task force letting Price know why and begging him not to tell Ghost

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Scars

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

Warnings: mentions of torture, mentions of survivors guilt, heavy angst

Quiet Series

Took some inspo from thoughts shared between me and @thedevillovesflowers hope you like

Ghost wasn't unfamiliar with scars. He had a lot of his own. Some of them were from the field, a lot of them were from his time stuck in Mexico. A permanent brand on his skin to remind him what happened, as if he could forget, but they never really bothered him.

He made peace with them and though sometimes when he catches them in the mirror and remembers how he got it, he for the most part was indifferent about them.

You weren’t like that with your scars.

There were a few across your face and neck but he knew there had to be more you were hiding underneath your clothes. You shied away when someone pointed them out or when someone asked about them before you got that distant look in your eyes.

Whenever it happened around Ghost he’d get a little defensive for you, since you never told them to go away. He’d always give them a look, tell them to mind their business before they scurried off.

He knew what they could possibly be from and he understood why you didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t help the pit forming in his stomach when he looked at them from afar or when you weren’t paying attention to him, and the pit only grew when he noticed that they weren’t faded.

He never asked about them. It wasn’t his business and he didn’t tell you about his so there was no point.

Ghost just couldn’t imagine that ever happening to you and he couldn’t understand how you weren’t just like him.

You were guarded like him but you seemed to have so much more life about you than he did. You were a lot more kind than he was and yet you suffered the same way he had.

He couldn’t help but wonder what he’d do if he ever found out who did it. He wasn’t sure if they were still alive but if they were he knew that some part of him would have a hard time controlling his anger.

You didn’t deserve what happened to you.

You wished you could believe that.

Every time you noticed your scars or someone pointed them out it always ended in the same all consuming guilt eating you alive until you found yourself laying underneath your bed for comfort.

Your scars were a harsh reminder of what happened, of how you failed, of how you betrayed your own.

They reminded you of your last team. The family you had once that you had again and how you being alive now betrayed them.

The scars reminded you of all the pain you went through, that being your punishment for being alive.

They reminded you of him.

He was the reason you ended up there.

He was the reason you were still here.

In the moments that you laid underneath your bed, the hard floors reminding you of your cell and giving you some sort of sick comfort as you closed yourself inside your mind, you blocked out the pain and tried to remember the good times before this.

The good times with your old team. The love you had felt for him before everything had been forcefully broken inside you.

He was still alive and he had the answers the 141 needed. He knew where Makarov was and would be, he knew at least the few things that would make the hunt easier, yet you couldn’t say anything about him.

The fear gripped you tightly. You would be punished for not saying anything, you’d be seen as complicit, the 141 would turn against you, but you couldn’t say anything.

He’d come for you. He knew it would be you because you were the only one left. He’d throw you back to the wolves…

“You won’t say anything, will you little mysh?” You can still hear his voice clear as day. You can still feel the heat from your blood running down your face, the copper and salt from your tears staining your mouth.

All you could do was nod.

You hoped that Price could find out where Makarov was before he showed himself again. If he found out you’d have to be on the run, you’d have to find some way to disappear if they didn’t kill you before you could escape.

Price would be furious.

Ghost would be too. Even more so maybe. You couldn’t imagine the pain he’d feel-

“Quiet?”

You didn’t even hear Ghost knock or enter your room, but his voice pulled you out from the riptide inside your mind.

He was a lot like him. Big, strong, scary and exceptionally good at his job. Sometimes when you got just a glance of him you saw him, and got scared.

But Ghost was warmer. He was protective, he didn’t possess you, he was kind in his own way and he trusted you. He made you feel safe.

He was not him.

You held your arms closer to you, pressing your face against the dusty wall. You ran in here after someone said something about your scars and then you spiraled.

You’re not sure how long you were under your bed, stewing in anxiety and dissociation before Ghost came to find you.

“I know you’re in here.” He grunted out and you heard him walk around for a moment. “Knock on something.”

Would he ask what was going on? Would he know, somehow read your mind?

Somehow you got the courage to raise a shaky hand and knock on the springs underneath your bed.

You didn’t turn around to look at him as you heard him kneel on the floor. You could feel his eyes on you and you felt shame wash over you.

You felt pathetic.

You were an elite special forces member and you were hiding underneath your bed like a child. You were having a mental breakdown when you needed to be healthy. They could kick you out for this.

But Ghost didn’t judge you, he was far from the person to judge for something like this.

“Have you had water?” He wondered and it took you a moment to shake your head. “Be back.”

You listened to him walk away before he came back with a glass of water. You glanced back to see him set it down just outside your bed, and you expected to see his eyes but all you saw were Ghost’s dark warm ones.

You couldn’t let that disappear.

“Dinner’s soon. I’ll bring you a plate.” He offered and you turned to him fully.

“Stay.” You signed. “For a little bit.”

“Don’t think I can fit under there.”

You couldn’t help but scoff and that seemed to make his shoulders loosen. You watched as he settled against your bed.

“If my back starts hurting, you’re doing laps.” He threatened jokingly and you giggled.

His warmth, his care made you forget about your scars even for just a moment.

A/n: who is him? why is him? Perhaps we’ll find out

[lethalchiralium]

Hii! I've a request. Could you make a one-shot about Ghost having a foreign gf and hearing her talk in het native language on the phone or something and he is kind of impressed or something like that:) (srry for my bad English)

Thank you in advance and have a great day!!:D

Complete | Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

a/n: i wrote this with a shot of malibu and i am now three hours into my shift, let’s fuck around and find out. (thanks for the request, it’s so cute.)

warnings: OOC!Ghost (obvi, i’m writing him so he’s always OOC), Fem!Reader (was requested), cussing, mentions of sex

It was cold in England, rain hit his windshield so hard that Ghost could hear it over the radio. He contemplated pulling over until it got better, but the temptation of sleeping in his own bed with his girlfriend curled into his chest was the only thing on his mind. That and the fact that he wanted to empty a clip into Makarov’s head.

He pulled his beat up truck into his driveway, his fingers tingled with the small thought of her - a smile and a quip that would put him on his knees. He put it into park, opening the door and jumping out. Rain immediately drenched him and he knew that she would scold him like a dog, but he wouldn’t care; just as long as he can hear her voice, he would do anything.

He pulled his dufflebag from the backseat, slamming the door before jogging towards his house. There were lights on inside, he could see it through the window even with the curtains closed. He fumbled in his jacket for his keys, pulling them out and quickly shoving the silver key into the lock. He pushed the door open as soon as it was unlocked, ripping his key out and stepping into his home, out of the rain. He stomped his boots against the mat, kicking off the mud and rain but also trying to alert you to his presence.

He put his dufflebag on the floor next to the mat, he bent down and began to unlace them.

He heard your voice before he saw you. He looked up from unlacing his right boot to see you, in a black robe with your phone pressed to your ear. Your smile was perfect, eyes wide with surprise as you moved the phone from your ear. You dashed forwards and held out your hand, to which he promptly took it in his own. He pressed a masked kiss to the back of your hand, you mouthed, “Missed you.”

“Missed you too, Little Bird.”

You fluttered like a bird just like he had said, bouncing on the balls of your feet and wiggling your shoulders a little as you responded to the person on the phone with a quick quip in your native tongue.

If Ghost could ever listen to one thing for the rest of his life, it would be you speaking in a language he’s not familiar with - any of them that you knew, being a translator in a historical society and college. He sat there, both boots unlaced and kneeled on the front door mat, holding your hand and watching her as you had a lively and quick conversation in a tongue he almost never hears anymore. It saddened a small part of him, it was truly a sight to behold when you were able to speak with anyone who knew the language. You would light up like a star and babble on and on, he couldn’t make sense of any of the syllables but that never mattered to him.

He watched you with awe in his eyes, all of the stress from the last handful of weeks he’d been without you had disappeared completely. And it was only a few more moments of you saying goodbyes and it was gone, his heart sort of dropped. He hated that you never spoke it with him when he was home.

You threw your phone in your robe pocket as soon as you ended the call, your now free hand reached for the bottom of his rain soaked mask. He nodded in approval, you were quick to pull it off and crash your lips to his. You tossed it somewhere behind you, hand squeezing his. His own free hand went up to your cheek, splaying fingers across your skin as he began to stand straight up. He pulled apart from you, toeing off his boots and gazing at you. “Why don’t you ever speak your language to me?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, questioning. “What do you mean?”

He cleared his throat. “You never speak your native language with me. You talk at me in other languages, but never the one you always talk in.”

“Simon,” You drew out his name, moving to place your hands on his sort of damp cheeks, thumbs threading across white scars. “Well, you can’t talk back to me in my language. I love to talk with you in English, I love hearing your voice.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “My voice? Nothin’ special ‘bout it. But yours- Yours,” His hands settled on top of yours, prying them from his face as he spoke, “You could speak to me in your language every second of the day, and I’ll love it. Justa hear you talk to me like that.”

Your eyes widened, you bit your bottom lip while a smile made itself known upon your face. “What if I just want to talk to you with English?” His face sort of dropped, disappointment flashed in his eyes but you hurriedly laughed, moving to hold his hands in your own. “I’m just kidding, my love.”

“I think I know how to make you talk.” His hands pried from yours, immediately coming to settle on the back of your knees. He stood, lifting you as you squeaked in surprise. Your legs immediately wrapped around his waist, hands hit right on his collarbone as his teeth nipped at your lips. His eyes kept your gaze as he whispered, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t even be able to speak English, you’ll be beggin’ in your language.”

———

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