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fuckmyskywalker · 2 days

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𝐇𝐢𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧!𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈: 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬.

Summary: A week of chaos. From the end to the very beginning. You find yourself in the darkness, remembering how the light touched your skin first. When you fly too close to the sun...

CW: 18+. dead dove do not eat, non-con, gun play, knife play, knife riding, death threats, dirty talk, dark content. | word count: 3.3k

a/n: Hope you enjoy it! DNI if you don't like the topics listed and DNI if you are a minor. Happy riding!

Hitman!Anakin series.

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺."

Sunday. 16th.

Comically, he could argue with any soul that crossed the empty streets that life doesn’t have a price. He could laugh at the soft-spoken, naive answer of self-value, laced with the dumb kindness of human nature. Humans are kind by nature, or that’s what idealists say; what— a sane person, he thinks— would say is that humans are selfish by nature, the realistic approach.

Since the start of times, the number two has been sacred. There are two worlds to join in the afterlife: Heaven and hell. Two deities to recognize: God and the Devil. Two spectrums: Good and bad. Two cycles: Day and night… and two options: To kill, or get killed.

It could also be described as a constant phrase he learned while growing up: “The strong one will eat the weak one”, eight words haunting him like the plague, following him and patting his shoulder at every failure, and congratulating him at every success. Strength equals power, money equals power, intelligence equals power… but can a man have it all without losing his mind? Or perhaps he is just getting philosophical when he shouldn’t. Unlocking the windows with ease as his mind races with the never-ending turmoil of an unfair life, edging him to do unfair jobs, and win dirty money.

Although Anakin Skywalker has learned that some hot dish soap helps clean the blood stains over dollar signs.

Twisting the knife— an anxious habit— Anakin stands beside your bed, watching your immobile boy. There’s a soft smile plastered on your face, you must be having a nice dream… too bad it won’t last long. Leaning down, the tip of the knife dances over your neck, careful— careful. Not yet. Those aren’t his instructions. Although his boss never specified the in-betweens.

His lips ghost over the shell of your ear, raising goosebumps in your slumber. Your skin is aware of the intruder, the instincts kicking in. “Hey,” His voice is barely audible, but his warm breath sends a jolt of adrenaline like a lethal injection directly into your veins. “Wake up.”

Your eyes shoot open, body jolting forward only to be pushed back by the knife against your throat and his gloved hand over your face. There’s no need to use brutal force, it’s easy to fuel your fear; blue eyes staring into yours through the holes of the black ski mask. He can tell you are shaking— in fact, he can see it.

“Don’t move, don’t try to scream. If you do, I’ll slice your throat from ear to ear. Smiley face, that’s why I like to call that,” He chuckles when he sees you shivering. Oh, to be the strong one grants him with a power that makes him feel alive. Who cares about repercussions when simple acts and sighs like your tears make him feel immortal? “Do I make myself clear?”

You nod weakly. Every fiber of your being is yelling at you to run, to push him and throw him everything within your reach but you can’t move. Your body is paralyzed and for the first time in your privileged life, you realize something frightening. When he pulls back and lets go of you, the loud exhale that escapes your lungs pleasures him even further. Good. Everything is going according to plan.

It doesn’t matter how much money you have. You can die just like anyone else.

“See, I can imagine you already know why I am here,” Anakin continues, chuckling when you shake your head. “No? Uh, I thought you’d be smarter. Well, I guess money can’t buy intelligence.”

Your eyes flicker to his wrist, watching him twist the knife. At least he isn’t all over you. How can a human be so calm while toying with another’s future? As if it wasn’t a delicate situation, as if money was everything in the world— pathetic.

Stuttering, you run toward the only option your brain knows. “I’ll d–double the price. I’ll triple it,” Your legs move, hanging them on the edge of your tall bed. Anakin arches an eyebrow, he could’ve killed you for moving. Yet, he is somewhat interested in your offer. “I can pay much more than whoever hired you.”

“Oh, really?” Anakin laughs. It’s a cold, bitter laugh. There is no humor in it. Only cruelty. “And what makes you think money was the only thing I got paid with?”

“Who hired you?”

He laughs again. It has been seconds since you heard him laugh for the first time and you loathe the sound already. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out, darling. Or maybe I’m lying. Maybe it’s just like the movies and I get a mystery envelope with money and your name. Would that make you feel better?”

He is definitely mocking you, which normally would raise your anger and bring out the worst in you— right now it seems like a bad choice. Anakin can’t blame you for questioning, every victim does, sometimes he grants them their wish— when they aren’t that important— sometimes he just does the job, hoping they die with their doubts as their last thought. Your life's on the line, it must be the first time someone has pierced your little bubble… so yeah, he can’t blame you.

“Please don’t kill me, I’ll… I’ll do anything.”

There it is. Classic. His favorite words. Anything means anything. Everything is fair in love and war— everything is fair at gunpoint. “Anything?’ He repeats. “It’s not like I haven’t heard that one before.” His sarcastic tone flies over your head. You cannot pay attention to anything else besides the ringing in your eardrums and the palpitations of your heart.

Anakin finds great joy in fueling the terror in your soul. It is something he wasn’t exactly born with— or at least, during his loneliest nights, buried in alcohol and money, surrounded by his guns and his ghosts. He isn’t afraid of them, they can’t hurt him.

“Anything,” You confirm, lip wobbling and tears streaming down your cheeks. His task was awfully simple, yet, there is something he must do first now that he sees you more clearly. Anakin doesn't have the pleasure to witness such a pretty downfall often.

In a swift move, Anakin lifts the knife over his head, smirking wider when you raise your hands in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. Expectant, you sob one last time before the pain comes, before the burning sensation of piercing skin and crimson blood.

Which never arrives.

The sharp blade pierces through the sheets and the mattress. Ripping the stitches and creating the most awful sound you have ever heard in your life. That could’ve been your face. Did he miss his shot? Is his aim that bad? Your vision is blurry due to the thick coat of tears, crystal clear and salty that trickle down like tiny diamonds.

“Money is not enough this time, sweetheart,” He coos at you, cupping your cheek and brushing your tears in a fake act of kindness. His pursed lips make your stomach twist. You never thought there’d be fates worse than death… but here you are. “I won’t kill you—” His words make your shoulder fall for a second as a smile dances on your chapped lips like the weak swing of a butterfly’s wings. “Yet.”

“What do you want from me?” You sob, placing your hands on your lap, not sure what to do with them. You are in no position to fight. You are under the mercy of a clear psychopath. Someone without morals, without ethics and values— under the claws of a monster.

The worst part? You don’t even know who is pulling the strings tied over the monster’s claws.

“Don’t be sad, sweetheart. I’m sure you will find it amusing— and if you don’t I don’t care,” If you weren’t begging for your life, his voice could’ve been attractive. Even his eyes. His fucking eyes that seem to pierce your soul. “You see that handle?” He points at the knife with his chin. “I want you to lift your cute nightgown and ride it. You can close your eyes and imagine a cock, I’m sure you’ve done it before from what I’ve heard about you. If I like the show, I’ll let you ride my cock— and if I don’t like it. I’ll kill you.”

“You cannot possibly ask me to—”

A small squeal escapes your lips when the muzzle of a gun comes in contact with your temple. The steel is frigid against your burning skin. There are no words left in your throat, if you weren’t terrified you would’ve thrown up.

“You don’t like to think, you don’t like to listen— I’m starting to believe you are actually stupid, princess. You either fuck that knife or die.” Your whimper. Irritating. Infuriating. Fucking lovely.

Lifting your hips from the bed, you kneel with the little strength you have left. Anakin never removes the gun from your temple, in reality, he presses it further, watching your skin dent slightly. Lifting your sheer nightgown, you clumsily hook your finger at the waistband of your panties, tugging them down with embarrassment.

“Please don’t make me do this,” You beg, losing balance momentarily as your panties hang from your ankle.

There is a storm echoing in his laugh. Like pouring rain falling over your heart before it even reaches your ears. “If you don’t do it, I’ll force you. I will enjoy it more… and then you’ll die.”

The flat tip of the blade handle feels like steel against your folds. The touch is feathery light, perhaps unintentionally gentle. You are glad there is a thick leather wrapped around it— otherwise, it might hurt even more.

Rocking your hips slowly, you close your eyes focusing on anything else. You will not enjoy this. You refuse to give him pleasure. If this is the way you die— at least you want to imagine you put up some kind of fight. Despite your constant thoughts— foolishly thinking your mind is stronger than your body— when the handle comes in contact with your clit, your body instinctively jolts. You stop. You don’t talk.

You don’t want to die. You don’t want to die, and you don’t want to enjoy it.

“Spread your legs wider and don’t stop moving. Don’t make me go there and open them myself,” His voice is low. “Show me how much you don’t want this.” His voice mixed with the adrenaline brings you to a borderline dizzy state.

Resuming your movements, you bite the inner part of your cheek, flinching when his free hand cups your breast. “See? Is not that difficult to obey. I know you are so used to getting your way, little princess. But not this time. Not with me.”

His thumb traces your nipple poking through the silk. You hate yourself for this— even more when you find a steady rhythm. Your clit grinds against the flat top and throbs, quickly begging for more. Hooking the barrel underneath the thin straps of your nightgown, Anakin lets them fall, exposing your chest.

“Don’t come. If you do, your tiny brains will make a bloody mess over your lovely canopy and walls. Now fucking ride it.”

The leather glistens with your arousal. It’s pathetic, humiliating, miserable. When you position yourself above it, when you flex your knees to fit it— that’s when everything you are— breaks.

The handle stretches your walls in a way that couldn’t be more uncomfortable. Your arousal helps but only much. Unhurriedly, you begin to ride it just like he commanded you to, just like you have to. Your pussy clenches around it, you can’t even fool yourself and think it is a dick. Nothing could help you now. No one can save you now.

“Seems to be you can listen sometimes…” Anakin observes, removing the gun from your skull to press it against the valley of your breasts. “Don’t think I can’t see how wet you are. Are you that deranged you are enjoying this?”

Are you?

Is he?

You just have to do this. Right?

Too many questions, no answers.

“Faster.”

Increasing your pace, the tears make themselves known again. You are enjoying it. Your walls are dripping, your pussy is begging for more. The slick sticks to the leather like a second layer of shine, the sounds your body is making are against your will— but you can’t stop moving. Anakin breathes loudly, his own excitement evident. You cannot see the outline of his erection underneath his black cargo pants but he feels it, throbbing, leaking, eager to bury itself in you. Hear you sob and feel you clench after every cry.

“So fucking wet,” He mumbles, pressing his lips against your sweaty neck. The soft cotton of his ski mask brushes over your skin, bringing you a nasty comfort. “Remember, if you come… you die.”

The muzzle now dances over your nipple, distracting you from the burn in your lower stomach for a second— when his hand finds your clit. Circling it quickly, roughly, Anakin exhales again right in your ear.

“I can’t wait to fuck you. I hope you are ready to die while I bury my cock inside you.”

A loud moan, mixed with a throat-ripping wail falls down your lips, body writhing and hips trashing. The handle is as deep as it can go, and before your vision goes white you feel the gun poking underneath your chin. Your hands curl around the hem of the nightgown you are still lifting, almost piercing the expensive and delicate fabric. Your orgasm is strong, it clouds your senses and for a moment the euphoria makes you forget how you just marked your destiny. The handle is sticky just like your thighs. The world is spinning.

Your life is ruined.

Just as your vision goes white, it goes black.

Monday. 10th.

Politics are known to be comparable to walking on thin ice. One false step and you sink— all the way to the cold and lonely bottom. Made only for the ones who can twist and turn others under their will and for those who aren’t scared of the nerve-wracking possibility of being a hero or a villain.

When your father offers you the vacancy for Campaign Manager you don’t hesitate to take the opportunity. Daddy dearest always serves opportunities such as these on a silver platter. Why would you refuse? Sure, a week before the presidential elections might be signing a death sentence, but why would you care? Even if you fall, your safety net is insured, secured and endorsed.

“Are you sure you can do this alone?” Natasha Andrews, your father’s assistant lowers her clipboard, focusing her dirty blue eyes on you from beneath her thin-gramme glasses. “We have a week before the election, these last days are crucial.”

“I’ll be fine!” You answer confidently. To have such confidence and naivety that being young gives you. You just feel invincible. “I read some of John’s final projects. A few venues and bookings won’t scare me.”

“I don’t think you are seeing the big picture here,” Natasha calls your name patiently. Removing her glasses, folding them and placing them next to her clipboard, you can already imagine a boring lecture about responsibility. You’ll be fine! “Your father has an image to maintain, a reputation to hold and the statistics are growing in his favor. This last week is to secure the win. Your father chose you for a reason.” Another way to say ‘There are high expectations. You better fulfill them.’

Huffing, you take her words as a weak attempt at an insult. You understand the big picture. You’ve been surrounded by the big picture since you can remember. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Natasha runs a hand through her ginger locks, taking a deep breath. She’s too old to deal with all this. “Look. I know you are young and I’m sure you have wonderful ideas for the campaign, but our time is limited. We can only continue with the schedule and hope for the best. If your ideas can be incorporated into the events then you are more than welcome.”

Always used to getting your way, you find baffling how someone who doesn’t know can defy you— or in your eyes, Natasha is doubting your capacities. Standing up, you point at her. Your manicured nail, painted a crimson red holds an almost accusatory tone. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone— not even your father. There is no chance of failure, because when you are young… you are on top of the world.

“No, you look. I know you are worried but I can do this,” You reply, not bothering to hide the patronizing tone in your voice. “My father knows I’m more than capable. You may not know me but you will. If I want to change the date of a venue, or if I want to make a goddamned pool party we will. I know what’s best, I know what will work.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at your words, her expression hardening slightly. “I never doubted your… abilities, Miss. We have a schedule we must follow. Nothing personal. It is your first day in your position. Can you even name three key supporters of Jonathan's campaign? Have you planned a meeting with potential donors for when your father wins the elections?”

The assistant has a point, but you won’t give up. You will never lose a fight.

“Easy, everything you say is too easy,” You narrow your eyes, placing both palms on the desk to hide how they shake from frustration. “If I say the word, my father will fire you. It doesn’t matter how long you have been working with him. I’m his daughter.”

That’s your wild card.

And as usual, it works.

Sighing through gritted teeth, Natasha rubs her temple. How can an educated girl like yourself be such a despicable person? “Go on.”

The smile that brightens your face beams like flames. Threatening to consume everything on its way. Everything is easy when you have the influence. You were born with it, what’s wrong with using it? “Alright… key supporters….”

The redhead scribbles down as you talk, from all you know she is playing hangman with your face on the stick figure, not that you care, of course. Your mood heightens as she just listens and comments on trivial things such as locations and schemes. You knew it would be easy. You just need people that follow you.

“We can do the last meet-and-greet at Cafe Serenity. My father invested in the project and the owner owes him that. I’m sure if we present the petition he will accept,” You talk, tangling the wires inside your head. “I can schedule an interview with Channel 7, Global News Network, and Insider Globe, they do most of the coverage during the elections and my father knows the actionist in GNN…”

“The meet-and-greet sounds good. It’s the perfect strategy to calculate the supporters Jonathan has. Plus the media coverage will be wonderful,” Her jaw clenches as she talks, but you are too busy staring at your nails to see the daggers coming from her eyes. “You’ve got a good grasp on this.”

“I know,” You smile, ignoring the fake smile.

Suddenly, your phone rings. It’s an unknown number. A frown etches on your face as you pick it up. Excusing yourself from the table, Natasha nods, her blue orbs gluing to your back; if looks could kill…

Closing the door of the meeting room behind you, you bring the phone closer to your ear. “Hello? Who is this?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

A feminine voice breaks the silence. The unknown woman calls your name and your heart stops momentarily. It sounds vaguely familiar, and it carries a heavy accent that you can’t pinpoint from where.

“Lisseth? Is that you?” Your chirp echoes through the empty hallway. “I can’t believe you are back!”

Thank you for reading! ✩

#𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 anya writes!#ꨄ︎𓆪 anya's series!#hitman!anakin #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x reader smut #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x y/n #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin smut #anakin skywalker fan fiction #anakin skywalker au #anakin x reader #anakin x you #anakin x reader smut #anakin star wars

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lowgothree · 1 day

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𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ━━ ❛ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 ❜

chapter no. 000!

𝗈𝗈𝗈. ⠀CONTENT : angst-ish. reader is lowk insecure and paige is lowk not good at reassurance (its for the plot trussst)

𝗈𝗈𝗈. ⠀ WORD COUNT : 637

𝗈𝗈𝗈. ⠀AUTHORS NOTE : lmk if yall like this or not!

THERE WAS A TIME WHERE PAIGE KISSING YOU, having you underneath her warm lips, was the best thing that could happen to you. you loved how human it was. how natural it felt for her to be on top of you, her body heat engulfing you. whenever you were together; it was like you entered a little bubble…one where only you and her existed.

but everything is temporary, (including humanity, apparently) because one november night, she had you pinned against her bed and all you can think about is how much you hate the feeling. you’re alone together now, in the private comfort of her apartment. the blinds were drawn shut but it wouldn’t matter because by now midnight had already rolled in and everyone looking in was most likely sleeping. you had her to yourself, finally –– nothing about the setting was unusual, most of the alone time you and paige had was past 11pm. she only loved you in the dark.

but it wasn’t enough anymore.

perhaps you had gotten greedy, finding yourself wanting to hold her hand in less private spaces. you’d been with her for months, six to be exact, and yet it felt pointless. she wouldn’t tell anyone. she said she loved you but she couldn’t tell anyone. and it didn’t help that she was possibly the biggest flirt most likely ever. she pulled away, noticing your lack of usual enthusiasm.

“is something wrong?” three words that jump started the end of the relationship—if you could even call it that. it was inauspicious at best, nonexistent at worst. that was your greatest fear when it came to the two of you––that there was really nothing there. those three, almost dismissive words, completely shattered you.

you bite your tongue but it’s futile. when you open your mouth again the words escape before you even realize it, much less stop yourself from saying them. “why did you say that?”

“cause you’re being weird and i wanna know what’s up?” she says in an obvious tone, confused as to why you’d even question her motives for trying to know what’s wrong with her girlfriend.

“no, not that.” you sigh, realizing your vagueness. “earlier.”

paige’s confused expression doesn’t lift for even a moment, in fact, it seems to increase.

“to the girl at the shop. when she asked if you had a girlfriend.” you reply simply, annoyed that the situation clearly meant nothing to her when it meant everything to you. at the moment, at least. “you said you weren’t looking for a relationship.”

“well, that’s not exactly a lie.” she’s mostly joking but it’s clear that you didn’t take it that way. your hand, which was running up and down the length of her spine subconsciously, stops abruptly. her words are spoken lightheartedly but they suffocate you.

“i just mean…i’m kinda with you, y’know? so i’m not actively looking.” she doesn’t know why that’s what she chose to say in that moment and those words would prove to haunt her for long after.

“would it kill you to call me your girlfriend?”

she pauses, tensing like she always does whenever you talk labels. her silence is the worst answer. her silence is indifference. she doesn’t care, of course she doesn’t. why would you even expect her to? it was clear she only wanted a good time from you.

so you decided to make this easy for her. by saying what she never ever wanted you to say to her. you sit up, standing from the bed. “i think it’s best if we don’t keep seeing each other.”

she hates how formal you sound. she hates even more how she can’t say anything. she hates how she can’t speak even when you gather your things to leave her. she let you go, too frozen to stop you.

#anything but you ✹ꯣ #paige bueckers x reader

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cumikering · 2 days

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Neighbour Ghost x reader 7

2.3k | angst, drinking irresponsibly If Simon could do it all again (part 1)

“You don’t look good, sir.” The sergeant stood at attention, looking straight into his lieutenant’s eyes.

Simon had to commend the balls of Kevlar required to walk right up to him to point the fact out unprompted, but that was why he liked Sgt. Eric Jefferies the most. You had no time to waste when you raced with death on the regular - he would tell anyone they didn’t look good.

He knew he didn’t - it was the same bland face he had the pleasure to look at in the mirror each day. Annoyed, but not surprised by the darkening circles under his eyes, stark against his pale complexion. It didn’t help that he nicked himself in the jaw shaving that morning.

“Dining hall, sergeant,” he grunted.

“You’re barely eating, Riley,” Lt. Ramsay said, the same bloke who’d catch him sneaking back to his room. “You know you’re contributing to the food waste when you don’t ask for seconds, yeah?”

It was true, and the table chuckled, but Simon continued to shove whatever was on his plate into his mouth. It was enough to not starve.

“He never leaves his room anymore, not even on the weekends,” another lieutenant quipped, but was promptly elbowed by the officer next to him.

That, too, was true.

Simon had nowhere else to be, like how it always was before his mum came to Hereford. These days his flat was too empty and cold with the hole in his chest. He never came back after that night.

It wasn’t like he was thriving in his quarters either, but it was still a little better – at least it was untouched by you. Though his nights were dreamless at first, he kept waking, and waking until the dreams started.

It was a glitch in the universe, wasn’t it? That the memory that played in his mind to insanity was the last time he saw you, about crawling back to your door with limbs that didn’t feel like his, vision swaying with the lights, coming on and off, his heartbeat ringing in his head.

It’s not supposed to end this way… I want to try…

He sighed at another disturbed night. Tea would slow his mind. Instead, he found the box of Darjeeling you gifted him to take back to base. ‘So we can have the same tea over the phone,’ you’d said.

Was there a way to escape you, make you stop haunting? He needed an exorcism.

He put it back in his drawer. One day, it wouldn’t have to hurt anymore.

And the nightmares came back. It was once, then twice, and thrice a week of waking up in cold sweat in the dark.

Simon’s performance slipped. There was a reason sleep deprivation was a popular torture method. He requested sleeping medications - his career was the last thing he had and he wasn’t about to let it go. Any unrestful sleep interrupted by the vivid images his sickly mind conjured up was still better than no sleep at all.

Quitting you was impossible when the thoughts still followed. If pushing you away didn’t work, maybe basking in the memories would, even if it hurt more. Aching for your warmth, the scraps of it, he’d go anywhere you’d been to see your ghost. The pain was better than the void.

“You lads are volunteering at the soup kitchen this Saturday,” he announced to Sgt. Jefferies after hours.

“Saturday, sir?”

“It’s good for you. Reminds you why you’re doing all this.”

“Can’t tell me what to do,” he teased. “You’re not my L.T. on the weekends.”

Simon’s stare didn’t waver and the other bloke’s smile dropped.

“Copy, sir. I’ll tell the others.”

When the four burly SAS soldiers entered the kitchen, chatter and clanks stalled as all eyes turned to them.

“May… May I help you young lads?” one of the middle-aged ladies said.

Simon recognised her from his last visit, but he quickly realised this was a silly idea. He was out of place, knowing no one there.

He flashed half a smile. “Just wanted to give a hand. Got any lifting to do?”

The lieutenant and his sergeants hauled the food items to the kitchen, including the bread which he taught his sergeants to half and butter. They were offered to peel potatoes, but Simon decided it was wise to leave it to the pros instead.

People still avoided his gaze while his boys exchanged pleasantries with the other volunteers; Eric even got called handsome by the group of older ladies he impressed with his strength as he hefted the sack of potatoes. While the night was as pleasant, it wasn’t the same if you weren’t there to hold his hand and laugh at his jokes.

When the boys invited Simon to the pub at the end of the night, he said no. He thought he was ready, but even after weeks, coming back to his flat was just as sickening.

The silence pierced. Despite all the lights flicked on, the place made his skin crawl, the space too vast and empty. But he didn’t become a lieutenant from succumbing to his emotions.

As he lay in bed, he recalled that you too slept there once. That the mattress once dipped with the gentle weight of you, but unlike the bed that bounced back, you’d left a lasting imprint that disfigured his soul.

Simon wondered what you were up to, if you knew he was there drowning, miserable in his cold room. He couldn’t decide if he preferred your door to be closer or further: closer so he could catch a glimpse of you without meaning to, or further so he wouldn’t be so tempted to go over and get on his knees.

You said begging only reduced you to nothing, but for you, he’d beg and beg. There wasn’t much to lose when he wasn’t much to begin with. He was a stray for a reason.

He tossed and turned, and was granted a wink of sleep before the same bloody dream flashed in his mind.

I don’t care how hard it gets…

He sat up, feet thudding on the floor as he rubbed his face with a heavy sigh. It was always that one moment, like a broken record. Why couldn’t it be you on a night out, or kissing you on the kitchen counter, or simply, you smiling? It was a curse. If only the heart could follow where one’s feet went.

With no plans on coming here, his sleeping pills lay on his desk at base. He looked through the cabinets to distract himself, finding various bottles of dusty, unopened spirits he was gifted. They weren’t his cup of tea.

So he packed, to get his mind off you, from spiralling and digging a deeper grave for itself.

It was time for a change. With the accommodation he was provided, he never needed to rent, but he did anyway in case his mum ever needed the place. It was a good call he did, but with the divorce on the way, keeping it was pointless. He’d rather spend the extra money on his mum and nephew.

Yes, he came to remember- not to forget, but you wouldn’t leave, would you? In the dead of night, when he pulled the hoodie he’d forgotten about out of his wardrobe, he decided he’d had enough of his bloody flat and drove back to base.

He still had another weekend to before his next deployment, a two-month mission. He’d finish packing then.

“You’re right, sir, it feels good volunteering.” Eric grinned at his lieutenant. “We’re going again tomorrow. Also one of the ladies is introducing her daughter to Sam. See you there then?”

Never again. “Dining hall, sergeant.”

Simon was a fool for not finishing his lunch sooner and bolting, instead lingering for the announcement. With how atrocious he did on his tests, he must have been beyond high to still hope for a miracle, that despite everything, he still had a chance at a promotion.

He didn’t make to the top 3.

Amidst the wishes from the table, Lt. Ramsay’s turned to him. His grateful smile faltered.

Simon’s fists clenched. It was supposed to be him, his. But who was he to be mad. It was the fruit of his incompetence. He knew this was coming. Things were going to shit. The unforgiving truth was staring right at him mercilessly: he had nothing else.

He left for his office.

“Sir, sir!” Sgt. Jefferies called. “We’re heading to the pub tonight. Come with us.”

He gritted his teeth. Word travelled too fast.

“Let’s get out of the base for a bit,” he continued when he caught up to his long strides. “It’s the last weekend before we ship out.”

Simon eyed the display of vibrant bottles behind the bar as he listened to his sergeants’ orders, the names foreign to him. Above, the telly showed a rugby match rerun no one paid attention to.

“Jefferies, how much you reckon it takes me to get pissed?”

He chuckled. “You, sir? At least 10,” he said before taking a swig of his beer.

“Nah, 15 sounds more like it.” Richie, the designated driver for the evening piped up.

Sam downed his first two shots, hissing as he slammed the glasses on the bar. “Agreed. Do you know how much he lifts?” He nodded at Simon’s biceps, bulging under his loose black shirt.

It was a genuine question. Simon didn’t want to get pissed, he only wanted to forget. He didn’t mean to go over his limit he had no idea was at seven.

Drunk Simon was a weeping, blabbering mess. It didn’t help that he was massive, because his sergeants had trouble getting him to the car before Richie drove him to the address of his flat he barely managed to gurgle out before passing out.

“Sir, you’re paying for the bloody cleaning if you get sick in my car!”

Why did he think this was a good idea? He was never a drinker, barely even touched alcohol socially. It was the poison that turned his dad into a demon, and it too became his downfall. The only thing he thought he would always have – his resolve, let him down too. He’d lost you, his mum whom he was supposed to protect, his future, and now his dignity.

Desperation was a lethal sentiment.

And that dream came again, that he stumbled to your door. Legs wobbly, his vision in and out as the world spun in slow motion.

“Luv… Luv, it’s not supposed to end like this,” he slurred, the same line he always opened with.

A marionette, a prisoner in his own head, it was a loop he couldn’t escape. The awful show had to commence to end the same way each time.

“I’m sick of losing and I wouldn’t know what to do when you leave, after how much you’ve given. Instead, I left when you needed me. I should have been there for you, gone through all this with you, no matter how hard it got.

“If you would give me a chance, I’ll quit the SAS. I’d start all over again. I’ll butcher the carrots and apples with the bloody peeler, I’ll let the steakhouse mess up our reservation and eat a dozen soapy tacos… If you ever show up at my door with your pie again, I swear I’d kiss you, not scare you. And I’ll never let go. If it has to hurt, I want it to be you.”

The door clicked open, and like how it always went, it meant the dream was coming to an end.

“You make it worth it,” he muttered as his vision faded.

…

Simon gasped for air, this time staring up at blinding lights. He shielded his wet eyes, chuckling to himself.

“Bloody hell, I think I’m sick on the inside.”

“Only your past, but you are not your past.” Your voice echoed in the distance.

His body was too heavy to move. “Could you forgive me, for all of this?”

“Could you? You need to forgive more than you need to be forgiven.”

He laughed as another tear slipped.

Simon woke on his couch, still in his clothes from the night before. Dreaming of you always drained him, leaving him hollow and out of touch with his body.

He sat up with a groan, rubbing his face as the dizziness settled. He didn’t remember much after getting dragged to Richie’s car. Judging by the gnarly bruise on his arm, he probably fell last night, but he was glad he found his way back to his flat in one piece.

Stumbling to the shower, he hissed when his toe stubbed one of the boxes on the floor. It was a horrendous decision to drink so much, still having to pack the rest of his stuff. He leaned over the sink, staring at his bloodshot eyes.

His sergeant was right. He didn’t look good. He never did. What the fuck are you doing to yourself, Riley?

With his hair damp, he made his way to the kitchen. As he realised he’d packed all his tea stash in one of the bloody boxes, a series of knocks echoed in his flat.

He grumbled. It better be important for someone to disturb his peace, especially with the pounding of his head. He couldn’t be bothered putting a shirt on before he swung the door open.

It was you, a pie in hand like the first time he met you all those months ago.

“Hi, is Simon in?”

His heart lurched as he crushed you in a hug.

“Thought you said you were going to kiss me.”

@tiredmetalenthusiast @shadofireshinobi @keegansshark @two-gh0sts @eve-lie @lyenera @luvecarson @jaguarthecat @knight4xmas @unwrittenletter @mxtokko @reaperxxxxzz @footyandformula @opalesquegirl @audisive @sparrowgalaxy @fanficreblogs @strawberrystargal @damalseer @onlineoutcast @alright-i-guesss @maresoleil @mehjustalasshere @rrtxcmt

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coco-loco-nut · 2 days

Text

imgonnagetyouback

pairing: logan sargeant x reader

summary: you aren’t sure if you want to destroy his car or take him home with you

a/n: most of this was written late at night and not proofread. love y’all, thanks for answering the poll, that was fun. might do it again

requests open masterlist

————————

You enter your usual Miami haunt with your friends, one mission in mind. Your lilac skirt fits your like a glove, showing off your legs and curves. It was Logan’s favorite.

Logan was an asshole, he knows it, ever since he broke up with you last year. He’s been keeping tabs on your socials recently, knowing this is where you go when you are in Miami instead of Fort Lauderdale. He brought Oscar with him as moral support, they stand at the bar, laughing over some bubbly drink.

Your eyes scan the club as you walk in, slightly pausing when you recognize the blonde guy staring at you from the bar, you can tell when someone wants you. Instead, you train your eyes on some guy on the dance floor, sending him a flirty smile and joining him for a dance or two, giving Logan a chance to pull himself together before going in. He can’t help but tell Oscar how good you look. The trap has been sprung. You are going to get Logan back. Whether romantically or by revenge, you weren’t sure.

You walk over to the bar, pretending to have not noticed the pair, standing one seat over.

“Tequila shot,” you order and Logan takes his chance.

“Add two more and put it on my tab,” Logan tells the bartender, Oscar gags a little, but doesn’t protest. You give Logan a look he can’t decipher, but you slide into the seat beside them.

“Thanks,” you say, the awkward small talk between the three of you filling the time as you wait for the shots. Logan salts his wrist for his shot. You grab his wrist, lick it, and throw back the shot. Oscar barely suppresses his laugh as you turn to go back to the dance floor. Logan quickly throws back the shot and follows you. Your friends find Oscar and chat, the group curious to see how this pans out.

“Y/n,” Logan catches your wrist, you act like you don’t care about him, but you can see the whispers in his eyes searching if you still love him. It breaks your cold heart a little. “Don’t be mad, please. I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, trying to win you back.

“I’m like your fucking car. You steered me into the fucking ditch then ran off,” you say after a second, turning back towards the crowd, he just pulls you closer.

“I’m so sorry. I hate myself for that,” he admits, you ignore him, dancing to the beat, not pushing him away but not encouraging him to dance with you either. Just when things are feeling too comfortable, you walk away in the direction of the bathrooms. Logan follows.

“Will you give me a chance?” he asks, the music quiet in the background. ‘God, he’s so fucking fine’ you think to yourself. The lighting doing everything right, the shadows enhance his jawline but his eyes shine bright.

“I haven’t decided yet,” your eyes revealing more than you intended. He can see the hurt and love in them. You aren’t sure if you want to curse him out or bring him home.

“What can I do,” he grabs your hands.

“I don’t know. I’m between being your wife or smashing your car,” you say, steeling yourself. Logan is thinking twice, unsure if he was ever yours or was never not yours. Logan pulls your closer, kissing you. Your body automatically responds to him. letting him pull you close.

“You’re mine,” you whisper, the temptation to both flip him off or pull him into the bathroom strong. He follows you back to the dance floor, you can feel the tension and chemistry coming back, electricity humming in the way you dance together. It’s like pressing a reset button, becoming something new. Oscar and your friends left a while ago, knowing the two of you were determined to leave here together from the start.

You tell the cab the address of your Miami apartment. Every moment that passes sees the hurt and past fade to gray.

“Pick your poison, I’m poison either way,” you had told Logan earlier, he chose you anyway, the both of you wanting to play with the broken pieces of your former relationship.

He pushes you against the wall, kissing you passionately.

“Before we do this, where do you stand? If we go ahead, there is no turning back,” Logan stops, needing to know that you belong to him again, you already know he belongs to you.

“I hate you but I love you just the same. I’m gonna get you back,” you tug on his shirt, pulling him back to you, a feral need for him growing.

It wasn’t a surprise to Logan’s friends when you showed up to the Miami paddock later that week.

What was a surprise was the ring around your finger, one that matches the one around Logan’s.

“What the hell?” Oscar asks, a smile on his face.

“I’m not going to let her go again,” Logan looks down at you with a smile.

“I chose to love him till the end, luckily for Sauber,” you joke, referencing the team who decided to take a chance on Logan and help him develop.

“I’m happy for you two,” Oscar says, happy to see his best friend happy. Everyone but your parents were happy for you, the parents were just mad you got married without them there.

“I am too, but I will take it out on his car if he hurts me again,” you tell Oscar, joking but not joking. Logan just holds you closer. You both told each other about your plans to get each back, it caused a lot of laughter.

“That’s my wife,” he grins proudly. Oscar shakes his head at his friends.

“You did what!” Alex runs over to the two of you. “Where was my invite? Oh, glad to have you back Y/n, Lily missed you,” Alex says, as the two of you just laugh.

instagram

y/nsargeant what if i told you i’m a mastermind, and now your mine ❤️

logansargeant it was all by design ❤️

oscarpiastri not letting the two of you go back to a club, Y/n will end up pregnant or something

y/friend1 you both took getting each other back a little too seriously. this is why i love you

user1 hold up, since when were mom and dad back together??

user2 AND MARRIED??

y/friend2 you really went to the club heartbroken and left ready to get married😭 ilysm

alexalbon they are so unserious 😭

sauberf1 when did this happen? LOGAN??? we’re not mad. pick up your phone

charlesleclerc ^^^

carlossainz55 ^^^

landonorris ^^^

georgerussell iconic

y/nsargeant thanks pookie 🫶

#f1 imagines #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #logan sargeant #logan sargeant imagine #logan sargeant x reader

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aka-indulgence · 11 hours

Note

Please do tell us more about the dealer. Perhaps how the two met or more about his personality? Love your writing btw and how you pulled me in to hyperfixate on him aswell.

I’ve been thinking of how they met for a while. At one point I’d imagine you’d play buckshot roulette… but I like the idea of you knowing each other before that point.

In my scenario, you work in the club he haunts. Maybe he owns the place but makes someone else run for him. All you know is that you don’t meet him when you get hired, but he’s a constant presence.

And people are scared of him enough that it’s almost like he isn’t even an… earthly entity.

“No you uh… don’t want to meet the boss. It doesn’t have a pretty face.”

You hear gunshots on the top floor. The first time you hear them you freak out, but everyone else in the club don’t seem to bother.

“It’s playing another round…”

You feel like someone who’s out of a secret, and when you ask, they only say two words.

“Buckshot roulette.”

From its name alone you get a good idea of what kind of game that is and feel a shudder. What kind of a man plays such a dangerous game every night…?

It isn’t a while until you meet the fabled…. person(?).

Sometimes a shadowy face looks down from the second floor. And you know it’s not the cigarette guy who always seems to hang up there.

Did you make eye contact? You can’t tell from all the way down here.

Then you meet him for the first time when he goes down for a drink. Turning around to see an awfully frightening face- you can’t help but scream. He doesn’t look human- you think!? With a grin full of knives, hollowed out sockets for eyes, and a shotgun strapped to his back, you’d think you were staring down the face of death (which, for certain people, it is).

And just to add to that, he has a hole staining blood down his messy shirt.

Your scream makes him pause- blink for a few seconds. Then he laughs- loudly, enough that it unnerves everyone else in the club. No one stares too long, no one wants to anger the guy(?) with a shotgun.

“You must be the new gal, aren’t you?”

That’s when you realize… this is The Boss.

“Be a lamb and grab me some beers.”

“Do you-? Are you… need… medical…”

You unknowingly endear yourself to the Dealer quickly, from how concerned you seemed, and rolling with the punches. Most people who’ve never seen him turn tail and leave, and here you were, doing your best to fulfill his request.

It makes him actually visit the club more often just to see you, sometimes encountering you on the way home and walking you to the nearest bus stop… and every time, he quickly disappears before anyone else sees him. He’s an enigma. You don’t know why he seems to linger around you, but if you’re making the boss happy, you see it as a win.

As for him, he’s quickly charmed by you, and enjoys your company. Actually gets disappointed when he finishes a game and finds you’d gotten home already. He wants you to stay around a long while. Hopefully, you’ll never have to play a round of buckshot roulette with him…

#the dealer is a man(?)#youre basically the only one that calls him ‘him’#everyone else is like ‘??? what is that thing???’#i planned to write something more. WhhOA this weekend #but i got bonked by social exhaustion jfhdkg #dealer buckshot roulette #buckshot roulette #i really like the idea of you going home #and suddenly feel a shadow looming over you #and dealer’s just. ‘hi :] are you trying to avoid me by going home early?’#and youre like #’w-WAAH NO PLS DONT BE MAD’#dkjfg #i love my readers meek #ask #dealer ask

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amusingmusie · 1 day

Note

Is Evie canon to the Yours Truly universe? I absolutely love her already, and I can only imagine the kind of hell she put poor Nel through growing up. Al would be so proud. Good on Nel for starting a law firm, too! That’s our queen!!!

But also the general heartbreak that Nel must have felt as every day Evie looked a little bit more like the man Nel thought she knew. Just looking at her daughter one day only to see someone completely different but so familiar staring back. :(

I’m also so curious how the realization that Nel was pregnant went down. Not well probably. Was it before or after Al died? How would Al have reacted if he was alive (He very clearly didn’t want kids). How on earth would he have behaved around a pregnant Nel?? Also not well probably.

And of course I can’t forget about the extended family. Where’s Grace, my beloved, in all of this??? The absolute agent of chaos that she is, she and Evie would cause so much havoc — I just know it. And I can’t tell if Marie would be ecstatic up in heaven or rolling around in her grave at the news lol. I’m assuming by this point in time she’d have passed away, but to know she just missed the big news — damn. Poor Grandma Marie. Nobody thought Al had it in him 😔

Sorry for the giant block of text lol. I adore Evie and she’s got my brain in overdrive rn. Your writing is amazing, and Yours Truly is genuinely such a wonderful read! Also don’t feel pressured to answer any of the questions if you don’t want to or if it’s spoiler territory — I just had to get all that off my chest :)

Stay safe out there and take care of yourself!!

No PLEASE send me asks about Evie I fucking love her and barely ever get to talk about her because I've kept her so private for so long!

Evie is "canon" to Yours Truly but not in the way you might think. She is never going to be born, she doesn't exist, but she will eventually have a small cameo in a later chapter. The rest is a mysteryyyyyyy for now. However, I love thinking about the au where she's alive since I LOVE family drama and angst.

The girl is a menace. She's a strange mix of Darla Dimple, Jessica Lovejoy, and Heather Chandler but also can be oddly endearing? There’s a strange innocence to her. Yes, she did stab that man but she hugs her momma extra tight when that haunted look comes over her face. There are a lot of layers to the silly gay girl that VERY few people will ever see let alone notice and process.

If Al was around for Nel actually being knocked up and aware of it, he'd be annoyingly overbearing. 100% he'd treat her like she's made of glass even though she's trying to bite his throat out for being so condescending. It would be a giant clusterfuck of Nel randomly crying cuz her hormones are raging and she’s too big to bend over and buckle her shoes, and then Alastor is staring at her like she’s insane because it’s Nel, crying. They’d make it work though. Well, in another universe at least, because in the drabble-I-posted-verse uuuhh….he wasn’t really around to know that he has a child kicking around on earth.

But heeeeey she and Grace are BFFS! They definitely gang up on Nel together while she smokes 28 packs of cigs with a thirst for blood in her eyes. Little shits of a feather flock together.

If Marie was around, she would SPOIL that child. Her only grandchild, and a little girl??? Whatever Evie desired Marie would deliver and you wouldn’t be able to tell that child no without her granny defending her. It’s probably for the best that they never met since Evie would be worse than she already is.

Thanks for asking more about her cuz I like to yap :D I can't really say too too much since I don't wanna accidentally spoil YT, but man do I adore this strange child of whimsy.

#my asks #shoutout to poor Gem for listening to me holler about this child for so long in DMS

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hmshermitcraft · 2 days

Note

There is something about death.

Even if you slip out of its grasp, swim away from the murky depths…the stench will haunt you. It will not wash off, no matter how long you stay in the shower. No matter how much hot water you waste.

It leaves you with a sunken in face. Thinner, malnourished, almost a blue tint to your skin. Eyelids heavy, eyebags dark. It leaves you tired. Aching. Weak.

Cleo will never tell you what she saw that day. She doesn’t think she could. No words in any language could properly describe it - it was not something a mortal mind could comprehend.

If she had to say? well…

—————

Joe opens his book, humming quietly.

He flips across withered pages. Old poems, quiet words.

Something catches his eye. Scratchy handwriting, completely different from his own. He remembers the moment fondly.

“Can I borrow your journal for a moment?” Cleo asks.

Joe raises a brow, a smile on his lips. “Sure. Why?”

Cleo clicks her tongue, unsure. “I just…wanted to write something down, is all.”

“Alright.” Joe hands off the leather cover.

He’s never written what she wrote. She told him he could, but it simply slipped his mind. Still, it’s an interesting thought - might as well take a peak.

Dark. Vast. Empty. What I saw, what I felt, was dark, vast, and empty. A hand, bigger than a building. Crushing me in its wake. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t feel. I wriggled and squirmed in its grip. I wasn’t … afraid, maybe. I just wasn’t ready. I pushed and shoved with all my might. I don’t know how I escaped. All I know is that my chest still feels tight.

Interesting.

Joe would describe his and Cleo's love similarly - something indescribable but ever present. It's revealing your deepest parts to someone, but never speaking of it after. It's carrying that weight with you, because though you can never take its burden, you can at least share it.

And it's choosing to laugh and smile with each other still, because to be alive (or close to it) at the same time in the same space is something indescribable too.

#hermitshipping #ask #cleo tag #joe tag #jleo #mod 🎀#weekly theme: back from the dead

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reds-skull · 2 days

Text

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

OOO I'm very excited to share this chapter! We're getting close to the finish line!

Its name is "The Song of Us"

Page 54 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 15:

The Blind man asks his companion, before dawn break, What do you believe, is a beast’s fate, Once death seizes its life, in his inevitable grasp? The beast, his heart knowing of the fallen knight’s pleas, Of men they lost, who were left to be but a worm’s dark feast, Answers, death reaches for monsters all the same as men, For the unjust, for the cruel, For the kind, for the forgiving, All bones become one, until they become none, As death is the only being, to see all as one and the same.

This city is quiet, in the way a drowning is. Something wicked is happening under the surface, hidden from plain sight. If only its victim had air to scream.

The Hunter has intel beyond the SAS’s scope, beyond Laswell’s. Informants, comms. A man pronounced to all as dead. How is it possible, they were written off as a non-threat before?

Soap grits his teeth, tapping the lit end of his cigarette on a wall. Simon started moving a few minutes ago, the poison once again retreating. By the haunted look in his brown eyes, John could tell they both know he’s running out of time.

Price has been arguing with Laswell while helping Simon. Something about the fact the Hunter seemingly didn’t exist a year prior, on paper. Appeared out of nowhere one day with an army behind them, ready to burrow into intelligence networks in a way even Makarov couldn’t.

Makarov’s name came up a lot in that conversation. Enough that Soap had to take a smoke.

Anger thrums through his veins. Begging for blood. The same incessant screaming that drove him to choke the life out of Makarov, the same fire that kept him going through this personal slice of hell.

Maybe he’s an idiot, for wanting to kill the Hunter, for believing it will change anything.

The cigarette’s flame licks his fingers.

Soap crushes it against the wall. He turns around, watching Simon and the Captain. Far enough to not hear them, but they seem to need a bit of privacy anyway. Soap can’t say he’s ever seen Price that emotional, in their short meetings.

He asks himself where Gaz is when the Lieutenant approaches him.

“Price is bloody livid, isn’t he?” Gaz huffs.

Soap hums. His eyes move from the Captain to Simon, his mask still on the ground besides him.

Kyle follows his stare, “did you know Ghost’s identity, when I found you two?”

“No”, the white skull almost glows in the moonlight, “I only found out when… the communicator tried to use it against him.”

He can feel Gaz scan his features, “and you still decided to work with him.”

Soap doesn’t answer. Simon and Price are hugging now, the movement uncoordinated to Ghost. He doesn’t know how he can tell.

He turns to face Gaz, “I swore we will finish this together. I don’t go back on my word.”

“We both know this goes beyond that, Soap.” Gaz gives him a half smile, “the way you look at him… Haven’t seen you like that with anyone else.”

Soap frowns, scoffing, “don’t know what yer-”

“You have feelings for him, don’t you?” Gaz asks, almost gently.

…Feelings?

…..Could he?

“I…”

“Don’t lie to yourself.” Gaz murmurs, “in all the years I’ve known you, you didn’t act like this. Going against everyone you know, jumping in front of him when Price starts threatening him, letting him rest his bloody head on your legs- c’mon Soap, you’re fucking smitten with the man-”

“Kyle.” Soap stops him, head hanging down to hide the embarrassment painting his cheeks red. He scrubs a weary hand over his features, looking up at his friend between his fingers.

Gaz’s eyes soften. Soap sighs, “I- this is not the time for that kind of shite. We need to fuckin’ dust the Hunter, and then-”

And then what?

Soap lowers his hand, stare unconsciously drifting towards Simon. Since when have his eyes started doing that?

It hasn’t been more than a month since he arrived to this godforsaken city. How is it that John can’t imagine being alone again?

Or… how can’t he imagine an ‘after’ without Simon?

“I won’t lie to you.” Kyle starts, his tone gentler, “I still don’t fully trust Ghost. Even if he is… Simon Riley.” the Lieutenant places a hand on his shoulder, “but I can tell what you truly want, even if you think it’s not feasible.”

“That’s because it isn’t-”

“Bullshit.” Gaz turns John around to face him, “look, we are not good men. We’ve been operating outside the law for… for as long as I can remember. What we do, the way we dirty our hands...”

Kyle lets out a shaky exhale, squeezing his shoulder, “what I’m saying is, we can make people disappear. And if you… if you want that, I can help. I’m sure Price will too-”

“Yer out of yer mind-”

“Are you going to go back to Scotland, mate?” Gaz’s voice sharpens on desperation, “are you gonna go back to feeling like you have nothing to live for? Can you really leave this life, leave Ghost, behind?” He almost whispers the end, “be honest.”

How could he go back? No apartment, endless job search, a buzz under his skin that cannot be scrubbed off, disappointment to his family, emptiness, emptiness, emptiness-

“What else can Ah do?!” Soap tenses under Gaz’s hand.

That hand keeps him steady all the same, “whatever you want, John.” Kyle smiles sadly, “me and Price don’t have that freedom, but you two? You don’t have stuffy generals breathing down your neck.”

“I don’t-” Soap cuts himself off, thoughts whirling faster in his mind. He gets reminded of what his therapist used to say about him, back when he was just discharged.

“You fixate on danger, John. To the point of obsession. You don’t know when to let go, if you believe you can make things right.”

“Even if the cost is more than you should be willing to pay.”

“Just… think about it. Besides…” Gaz looks away, expression darkening, “I have a feeling the 141 might need people like you in the future.”

Soap brows furrow, “dishonorably discharged adrenaline addicts?”

Kyle chuckles, “no”, his hands tighten on Soap’s shirt, “people we can trust. People who are willing to do what’s right, even if they know they shouldn’t. Even if they don’t act the way the higher ups would want them.”

His brown eyes turn to look at John, determination he first saw on bootcamp only growing stronger, “people like you.”

Soap goes through another cigarette with Gaz by the time Price and Simon return to them. Both of their eyes shine with tears.

“Laswell did some digging.” Price grunts, “wasn’t easy, finding intel on the Hunter. They know their way around our networks, clearly.” his stare flickers towards Simon, “this operation-”

“Mass murder” Soap corrects. Calling this an operation would spit on the dozens of innocent people left to rot here.

“Mass murder”, the Captain continues, “is very unusual for the Hunter’s soldiers. Almost… flashy.”

“The communicator admitted it was an attempt to frame me.” Simon rolls up the mask in his hands, slipping it on, “they needed to show the British Army I’m too dangerous to keep.”

“And they knew the SAS would send the 141 because of the informant.” Gaz huffs.

Price nods, “which they did succeed in, but it also exposed them to us.”

“The SAS wouldn’t have investigated it further if ye actually killed Ghost the first time around.” Soap grumbles, wincing a moment later when he remembered who he’s talking to.

The Captain takes it surprisingly seriously. “Correct. This is not the first time they hide behind a smaller, supposedly unconnected criminal.” he hangs his arms on his tacvest, commending voice booming in the empty streets, “the Hunter is now top priority for the 141, our orders are to eliminate them, along with any high ranking officers remaining within their army. This mission is classified to all but us and Laswell - anyone else will be treated as a potential collaborator of the Hunter.”

“What about Soap and Ghost, Captain?” Gaz asks.

Price sighs, “Ghost has escaped after releasing the civilian he captured as leverage. And John MacTavish?” a sly smile pushes his mustache up, ”he has never set foot in this city.”

Kate Laswell isn’t someone Soap knew well, back in his service. Has heard her name being dropped in a couple of debriefs, a few calls here and there regarding missions.

He becomes increasingly grateful she’s on their side, as she brings up more and more intel on the Hunter. Their main source of information is the informant Ghost killed - the man recognized several undercover soldiers moving supplies in and out of the city in the past few weeks. He knew something big was going to happen, but the SAS waved it off as a local gang.

On the day of his death, he managed to send in one last report. The informant knew his time was limited, that his cover was blown, so the message was painfully short.

‘Skull in warehouse, Konservy, game over’

It was not clear if who he referred to when he transmitted the name “Skull”, and at the time the comms officer asked the informant to repeat, thinking it was a mistyped “Ghost”. With what they know now, it’s highly likely he was actually talking about the Hunter, and their red skull insignia. Konservy is a name of a warehouse, two clicks out of the city, as Laswell quickly found out.

‘Game over’ is the agreed upon sign for caught spies.

Price and Gaz have brought out their maps, attempting to lock down the warehouse’s location. Soap and Ghost were gently shooed away after it became obvious they don’t have any more useful intel to provide.

“How’s your neck?” Ghost asks him, the two of them leaning against a crumbling wall.

Soap opens his mouth to answer, when gloved fingers brush over the bruised skin on his throat. “I uh…” he swallows, the hand following the movement, “I feel fine.”

Ghost hums, caressing the wound for a moment longer before pulling away. Soap wants to chase the touch.

He really is in over his head, isn’t he?

“Simon.” Soap looks up at the bright skull mask, “have you thought about… what are ye gonna do after?”

“...no.”

“...Would ye go back? To what you did before?”

Simon stares at him deeply, eyes closing, “I don’t think I can.” he looks back at Soap, “you? What did you do before?”

Soap chuckles bitterly, “ah, I was spendin’ my newly civvi life indulging in only the greatest of pleasures. Like sittin’ in an office for nine hours a day, or knittin’ a scarf on my therapist’s orders.”

Simon’s shoulders shake with a badly hidden laugh, “I’d like to see you knit.”

Soap grins, “oh I was a natural. It definitely didn’t have several holes by the time I was done.”

“How did you get here, then?” Simon asks, mirth still creasing his eyes.

His smile drops, words dying on his tongue, “I uh…” that weeks-old shame starts creeping back in, “was about to be evicted. Got fired, bastards never liked me anyway. I jus’ took all of my money and… ran as far as I could.”

Simon hums, shoulder leaning in to nudge his. Soap thinks the conversation is over after a few moments of silence, the both of them mauling over the words, when Simon surprises him.

“Think I’d like that… running away.” he murmurs.

“Aye? Where would ye go?”

“Don’t know. Don’t think it matters.” Simon leans in closer, their foreheads almost touching, “as long as the company is good.”

Soap feels a shiver go down his spine, eyes wide as he tries to find the joke that must be in Simon’s.

But he looks so painfully sincere, even when he finally leans away, “too bad there’s none ‘ere. Might ask Laswell if she got any tips on finding partners in crime.”

Soap lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “think they make dating apps for fuckers like ye?”

“Doubt I’ll find anyone as mental as you on Tinder, Johnny.” Simon deadpans.

“That’s because yer looking in the wrong place - Christian Mingle is where the real crazy bastards are.”

Simon can’t hold in his laugh this time, and for the first time Soap hears the way he snorts a little when his giggles become uncontrollable. It’s a horribly endearing sound, one that he wants to hear for every day for the rest of his life.

It makes his heart hurt, heavy, sinking in his chest like a death sentence.

Gaz was right.

He’s in love with Simon Riley.

Gaz went back to get the vehicle he and Price infiled with. It had a laptop, a few maps, and the most wonderful MREs Soap ever had. He never thought he’d miss that shite, but after running on a handful of oranges and a possibly moldy sandwich, they tasted like heaven on earth.

As he and Ghost had their meal (Simon’s eyes sparkled in a way that told Soap he was clearly as delighted with the food as he was), the 141 finalized their plan with Laswell. Soap could see them arguing about something, but he was far too preoccupied with eating to care at the moment.

Ghost, however, did care, “need anything, Price?”

The Captain snaps his head up, taking off his hat and scratching at his hair, “we have an angle to breach, but…”

Gaz joins in, “We don’t have intel on how many guards are posted, their location… mission will be doomed from the start if we just go in guns blazing.”

“Why not do some recon, then?” Soap wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “we’re all trained for that.”

“Too risky, the warehouse is exposed, and the Hunter won’t leave any obvious gaps in security if they’re worth their salt.” Price grunts.

Ghost gets up, walking over to the maps spread on the truck’s hood, “then we break in.”

Soap smirks at the assurance in his voice, “and that’s why I love the Ghost.”

He instantly catches the knowing expression on Gaz’s face, as well as Simon stiffening beside him. Soap curses himself mentally, feeling his face heat up in shame. He prays for any god that might listen, that Ghost didn’t take it as seriously as the truth is.

Thankfully, Price saves him from blurting out some more recently-discovered-emotions, “no other way but through, eh Simon? What do you have in mind?”

Ghost scans the maps of the warehouse Laswell has sent over, “The Hunter doesn’t know we’re working together, if they’re expecting an attack they would only expect two people - me and Johnny.” his eyes flicker to Soap’s for a brief moment, “if we split up, the 141 could take them by surprise.”

“You said they’re after you and John, Simon. If they catch you, we might not be able to help.” Price says grimly.

Ghost sighs, looking away frustrated. His head turns to face Soap, eyes calculating, “...what if they don’t know it’s us?”

“What?” Price asks.

Ghost continues, eyes still staring deeply into his, “Johnny can easily disguise himself, he’s done so before. All he needs is to cover up his face and hair.”

The Captain nods to Ghost, “and what about you, son? Everyone knows your mask.”

“But no one knows his face.” Soap answers, understanding washing over him, “but Simon-”

“I can’t be Ghost if we want to finish this.” Simon brushes fingers over the bone-white teeth of the skull mask, hand tightening into a fist.

Gaz nods slowly, “and we can’t be the 141.” he sends a meaningful look to the Captain, “this operation has to be kept secret. If the SAS learns we collaborated with the Ghost…”

“Then we won’t be.” Price walks to the back of the truck, pulling out 3 black balaclavas and throwing them to Soap and Gaz.

Price begins explaining their plan, “Laswell has gathered up a few blueprints of the Konservy warehouse. There are several key points that appear to be far too open for us to breach, all except one - the offloading garage. We’ll split into two teams, me and Gaz will take the offices and CCTV rooms, clearing the way for Soap and Ghost to infiltrate the main machinery room.”

“Our plan depends on each team watching the other’s six, we’ll have to keep comms up.” Gaz adds.

“Once the first team takes over the CCTV room, we will be able to locate the Hunter. The faster we do this, the less likely reinforcements will arrive.” Price hands Soap and Ghost a radio.

“Do we know where they keep their vehicles?” Soap asks while fitting the comms over his clothes.

“Yeah, should be around where we first enter. Why?” Gaz raises a brow towards him.

A wicked smile spreads on Soap’s lips, “might be able to set up a little surprise for any newcomers.”

Ghost chuckles darkly, “always ready to craft a trap, aren’t you, Johnny?”

“Never failed me before, Simon.”

“You can take a look at our supplies, take whatever you need.” Price looks over each of them, “any questions?”

Soap flexes his hands, adrenaline thrumming a familiar song through his veins, anger painting his vision red, “what are we waiting for?”

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