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ghostaholics · 8 months

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𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn medic!Reader (same reader from here, but this is a stand-alone) ➸ SUMMARY: You kiss Simon's very minor injuries. And then some. (Or, alternatively: He's not actually wounded. He just wants to see you.) ➸ WARNING(S): some graphic descriptions of old injuries ➸ A/N: Need to preface that this isn't smut despite how the title and summary sound. Anyways, Jo knows I listened to Hozier's Other Voices 2020 version of "Work Song" for a week straight while writing this. ➸ WC: 2k

❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃, ❞ he admits, low-timbered. It feels intimate, especially coming from him. Simon's sitting on the cot; it sags under his weight. He curls his hands over the edge of it as he leans forward. No casualties post-mission means he's got free rein to pick wherever he wants in the medical tent.

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

"That I should probably do my best to avoid injuries so I don’t keep pestering you. Can always just tell me to fuck off, y’know.”

“You’re gonna break my heart if you stop coming around.

“Mm,” he says in agreement. “Can’t have that can we?”

You nod your head earnestly. “I like your company.”

“Tryin’ to say that you’ll miss me?”

“I would.” More than he knows.

It’s routine now. He gives you just enough room, adjusting his position. You step into the space made between Simon’s splayed knees, his massive legs nearly bracketing yours with how close they are. He’s bigger than you. Well, considerably more mammoth-like in his proportions compared to an overwhelming majority of the soldiers that you’ve encountered, to be quite honest.

Simon acts as though he’s acutely aware of his size. You suspect that he purposefully makes himself smaller in your presence. Like now, how his shoulders are rounded forward, the column of his spine not as straight-arrow in that standard, militaristic posture most servicemen have adopted. As if he doesn’t want to appear too intimidating. Not that Simon could, to you. Hours doing his stitches and idle chitchat on your part have taught you that he’s much less ruthless than people seem to paint him as. But you appreciate the thought anyway.

You conduct the assessment – a typical evaluation normal for combat casualty care, more in-depth than the one you’d done when he initially stopped by and you did a quick once-over for any obvious injuries. Though given the complete vacancy in the medical tent, you find it hard to believe that you’ll come across anything on him since the mission went that smoothly.

The first thing you notice this time: he doesn't smell like spilled blood. It's different. Not that sweet, rusted iron of wet tackiness – the one that reminds you of a generous stack of two pence coins held between a pair of hands cupped together. He comes in that way a lot. Reeks, because war means that he's no stranger to charging through a shower of copper and lead-forged bullets out on the field. Everything else is still there, though. Maybe a dying campfire – crackling logs and blackened earth. Soft dirt excavated from a foxhole for cover while under enemy fire. All gunpowder and Marlboro Lights and diesel-fuel smoke. Fresh rain and a blue-violet sky after a storm. Victory without consequence.

You'd breathe it in if you could, pull the collar of his jacket up to your face. At this proximity, it’d be easy.

He drops the act when he’s in front of you. Lieutenant. Ghost. Battle-hardened, gruff. A natural-born leader. The kind of person to rip this world apart brick by brick – scraped up palms clutching onto broken pieces – to make sure that the plan is executed accordingly, no matter the cost. It’s hard for him to shed that layer. A drop in the bucket of information that you’ve gathered about this man.

You’ve seen him at his best. But you know him at his worst.

The laundry list of injuries over the years: blows to his torso and his back and his limbs that were brighter than technicolor – purples and reds and sickly yellow-green shades – deep, blotchy medals of violence decorating his skin like some kind of fucked-up kaleidoscope that was nothing to be proud of; when some bastard drove a knife right into his upper thigh, that dirty blade wedged through tissue and muscle which was sure as hell going to induce the nastiest infection without serious TLC and a tetanus shot; rib fractures 7-9 because he aborted an exploding heli, seconds to spare before landing on his side wrong from a height that was equivalent to three stories tall; old GSWs dotting his body the same way you’d shove push pins into a paper-flimsy map to mark the places you’ve been to.

And then there’s no contest for the top contender. 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 #𝟏: when he was rushed in on a stretcher, barely clinging to life. Lower abdomen shredded by exploding shrapnel. He was outside of the window of opportunity. Too far beyond that golden hour, so his chances of surviving plummeted to a single-digit percent.

He’s more than just a patchwork of scars. There’s a complex person underneath the surface. A miracle in the flesh to have toughed it out through all of that. Resilient. Perpetual. His callsign makes sense. Ghosts really do live forever.

Several seconds pass before you speak again. It’s a silly comment, teasing – poking fun at him. You don’t have any reservations when it comes to picking on Simon; he’s good about taking these things in stride. Funny, actually. He’s got a dry sense of humor. “I think… you like the idea of someone taking care of you.”

His response isn’t immediate. It’s delayed, said with intention. He doesn’t ever waste words. “Not just anybody.”

You nearly reel back at that. Warmth floods your face. You aren’t quite sure what to say, didn’t expect it. So you let the comment hang in the air between the two of you, busying your hands with slipping off his tac vest, triple-checking for hidden wounds, doing anything to keep yourself occupied while you stand this close to him in the wake of that remark. You’re engrossed in your work, in search of a distraction.

(He’s a distraction, isn’t he?)

And then your eyes stop in their scan. Right there: a small nick on the exposed sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve – open to the direct path of some wayward debris that happened to graze him. So tiny. You’ve seen paper cuts more harrowing than this – wouldn’t have even registered on your radar, especially if it’s being dwarfed by other critical wounds that hold decisive sway over somebody’s fate when it comes to your average life-or-death scenario.

Of course, you take your job very seriously.

You feign a sharp inhale. “Ah,” you say solemnly, guiding his arm up to your face for a closer look. “Found your problem.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he echoes, voice laced with amusement.

“See, you came to the right place. Anybody else would’ve missed it.”

“The verdict, then?”

“So terrible. Earth-shattering, in fact—”

Simon starts pulling away. “Alright, that’s enough of you takin’ the piss outta me,” he gripes.

You chase his arm to recapture it into your grasp. “Wait!” you say, huffing out a laugh. Your mouth sprouts into a wide grin that makes him roll his eyes.

“You gonna treat me or what?”

Your humor bubbles away as you come back to your senses. Those once-loud peals of laughter start to die down when you take his question into consideration. Because there’s really nothing for you to do; he doesn’t need you.

The realization is slow-moving. It washes over you, rolls like waves as you finally begin to sober up.

Simon wants to be here, and he’s looking for any excuse to stay. He just can’t find the courage to own up to it.

“I dunno. Might be unconventional,” you throw out casually, playing along. “Risky, maybe – never been done before.”

But he’s undeterred. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

You pause for a beat, fingers still wrapped around his forearm because you haven’t managed to let go yet. His skin is warm under your palm. You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to do it – emboldened by his encouragement, given complete carte blanche; he’s leaving this to your discretion. So you press your lips to that area where the cut is, right over his pulse point. If you had lingered for longer, you probably would’ve been able to feel it thudding, that solid rhythm and easy strength reminding you he’s alive.

You expected him to withdraw his arm in bewilderment. He should’ve kicked up a fuss about you violating his boundaries, should’ve told you that you overstepped. Something, right?

But he doesn’t do any of that. Simon’s studying you. Dark pupils. So chasm-deep that the ground beneath your feet might slip away. Ocean trenches, midnight-black like the charcoal smudged around his eyes. When they land on you, his gaze goes molasses-soft. He’s fond; there’s little room for doubt. The way he looks at you says everything. None of that usual coldness he harbors during an op. Instead, relaxed and more human than you’re used to seeing – all of his attention focused solely on you.

“Where else, Simon?” you whisper.

He’s thinking – carefully weighing his options – the same expression that he gets when a crossroads lies ahead of him and he knows his make-it-or-break-it decision will invariably affect the outcome of a mission.

After several moments, his hand comes up. Simon’s fingers curl underneath the hem of his mask; he’s been wearing the fabric balaclava more often since you’ve fixed the stitching on it. Then he lifts – not the entire way. Just to reveal the bottom half of his face. There he is. Sandpaper-rough stubble. The sharp cut of his jaw. A mouth that you’re convinced wears a scowl 24/7 behind his mask but is now slightly twitched up.

Even though you’ve seen it before, the sight of him never fails to steal your breath away. Feels like meeting him for the first time again. With how rarely he does this, it might as well be – that slow, heart-melting sensation is steadily filling the cavern of your chest.

And you lean in. Your lips brush against his; it’s a chaste thing – the kiss – if it can be called that. Gentle. Like how you’d stitch up his wounds with a light touch and kind intent. He’s built of sterner stuff, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s capable of breaking just as easily as everyone else. You always handle Simon with care: unequivocal compassion and empathy when there’s so little of those left on this side of war – privileges that he’s never taken for granted.

“Better?” you ask quietly, tipping your head in question.

Simon hums his approval – this pleased, low sound in his throat. His hand slides across your lower back. He tugs you towards him. “Wouldn’t mind some more attention,” he murmurs, before slotting his mouth over yours. And then he kisses you like it might heal him from the outside in.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x you #simon riley fluff #simon riley fic #cod x reader #cod fic #call of duty fic #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw x reader #cod mw fanfiction #cod mw 2

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peachesofteal · 2 months

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Simple Math / Part Eleven

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 6k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Graphic depiction of domestic violence. This fic contains mature themes. Mention of pregnancy. Nurse!reader, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies. Bun is in pain, goes to a doctor. Dissociation. Lots of despair, fear, anxiety. The 141 reunites. Nightmares. Comfort. Tenderness. Angst. Welcome home.

“Knock knock.”

“Bunny.” Johnny murmurs, lifting an arm, urging you close, a moon to a tide.

“Hi.” You bend, moving into the hug, pressing your face to his neck for a quick second before straightening.

“I miss ye.” You survey him, glancing at the monitor, the brace on his leg and hip, the disconnected fluid line. He’s doing well. You’re so relieved to see it with your own eyes, ribs rattling with a long exhale. Satisfied, you smile, tension bleeding from your spine.

“Simon says you’re terrorizing your night nurse.”

“Am not. She’s jus’ not gentle, or quiet. Wakes me up.”

“That’s her job.” He scoffs, waving you off. You settle in the chair at his side, and he takes your hand in his, lifting it to his lips, dotting kisses across your knuckles. His affection is freeing, sweet and easy, a warm breeze on a spring day. It overflows your heart with warmth until you think it might spill over, and you go with it, following his lead, even though your better judgement, the girl in the mirror, wails.

“Ye look good. Better. Swellin’ gone down?” He cradles your chin, turning your face from left to right, inspecting with a crystal-clear sapphire gleam.

“Yeah, my shoulder is still sore but… yeah. I feel better.”

“’m glad. Simon keepin’ ye off yer feet all day then?”

“Oh my god.” You laugh. “He keeps telling me to lay down. Or asking if I want to take a nap.” Johnny chuckles.

“Sounds right. He’s a bit o’ a mother hen, that one. He cares though, we both do.”

“I know.” You squeeze his hand. “And I missed you too.”

“He said ye an’ him had a nice chat the other night?” Your cheeks burn. Oh god. Did he… “I’m a wee bit jealous.” He complains, turning his nose up and away in a mock pout, and you roll your eyes.

You laid in bed all night and thought about these moments. Thought about Simon’s mouth on yours, his hand on your ass, squeezing and stroking. You thought about how he tasted, how he smelled, the way he looked at you, like you were a part of their world, a piece of them.

And you thought about Johnny. Johnny alone here, Johnny trapped in the hospital, healing, unable to leave or even get out of bed. How anxious he must be, being separated from his family, how frustrating it is to spend so long trying to get better.

You wanted to give him something. Wanted to make him feel better, see him smile.

Here goes nothing.

Leaning, standing, you dip into his orbit, lightly bumping your noses together. It takes no time until his good hand is around the back of your neck, crashing your mouth into his, and he breathes you in, holding you steady, tongue and teeth and lips swirling together in a ubiquitous, overwhelming haze. He tastes like summer rain, the feeling in the air before a giant storm, electric and blazing, brilliant glow transferring between the two of you, lightning striking a mountaintop. He nips your bottom lip, heat flooding your stomach, and you pull away slowly, his eyes jeweled and shimmering, brilliantly blue.

“Bunny,” You try to swallow a quiet giggle and fail. “I’ll have to tell ye I’m jealous more often.”

“Don’t take advantage.” You playfully scold.

“Me? Take advantage?” He pretends to be outraged, voice piquing higher, and you laugh again. “How can I take advantage when ‘m the one stuck here in this bed while ye two are at home, playin’ house, takin’ couch naps and gettin’ butt rubs. No one cares about Johnny, no-“

“Shhh.” You press your lips to his, silencing him, remaining in the kiss that’s long and soft and saccharine. He sneaks his tongue back between your teeth, mischievous and wild, every bit the man you’re drawn to, an attraction you can’t fight.

“Well.” Simon clears his throat from the doorway, brows raised, mask snug. “Hope I’m not interrupting.” You don’t know why, but you fly backwards, nearly stumbling, cheeks on fire. You feel like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, and that feeling, the pit in the bottom of your stomach, is all too reminiscent.

It frightens you.

“Whoa, hey.” Johnny tries to snag a finger around your wrist, but you step out of the way.

“It’s alright.” Simon moves inside fully, clicking the door shut behind him. “You’re not in trouble. Nothing is wrong, I was just kidding. That’s my fault.” You shake your head.

He’s not mad. Johnny is fine. Everything is fine.

You’re overreacting. You’re making a mess of this.

You shouldn’t even be doing this in the first place. What’re you doing? Who are you kidding?

“I’m s-sorry.” You stammer, hands wringing together anxiously.

“Ye dinnae have anything to be sorry about.” Johnny protests, still trying to reach for you.

Get it together. You have to get it together.

You close your eyes.

Deep breath. In and out. You can do it. Just breathe.

It works. You’re steadier, and you meet their watchful gazes as your eyes open.

“You okay?” Simon murmurs, moving very slowly to the other side of the bed where you’re standing, like he’s approaching a spooked, scared, wild animal.

“Yeah. Sorry. Just… had a moment. I’m fine.” Not entirely true, but that’s alright. You feel a little unsteady, a little unnerved, and Johnny frowns.

“Ye should sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bunny, please. For me?” He bats his eyelashes, and you want to groan.

But you lower yourself in the chair all the same.

Quiet falls over the room. It’s awkward and stiff, and you curse yourself for ruining the moment.

“Hey.” Simon soothes, reading your mind. “Hey, you’re alright. Everything is fine.” You nod, unsettled. He squeezes your good shoulder and dips past you, leaning to press a gentle kiss to Johnny’s brow, before dotting his nose and pushing their lips together. Their kiss is long, languid touch melting away to expose their connection, trust and love on full display. Delicate and rare, their affection makes your heart flutter, pulchritudinous whispers given to one another as Simon holds Johnny’s hand, stroking a familiar pattern into his skin, something similar to the way he touches you. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Wish they’d let me out of this bloody bed.” Johnny grumbles. You clear your throat.

“They’re waiting on your wrist. Once your wrist can support your weight on crutches, then you’ll be able to start PT and be released.”

“Ach. I know.” He’s frustrated, it’s clear. You know it’s not easy, being here, being separated, stuck in a hospital.

“It won’t be too long.” You try to reassure him, and he nods, still a little forlorn. “Here,” you stand with a burst of confidence, knocking his arm with the back of your hand as a direction, “scooch over.”

His eyes light. Simon laughs.

You fold yourself onto the edge of the bed, turned on your side, curled along where he’s the least banged up, careful of the sensitive graft lurking beneath his hospital gown.

“There. That better?” His good arm wraps around you carefully, settling on your ribs, a thumb tracing the wrinkle of your shirt.

“Aye, much better.” Your knees are bent, and cool air ghosts over your lower back, where your shirt has ridden up and exposed your skin. You shiver.

“Cold?” Simon murmurs, and you nod. He’s close, hovering, pulling a blanket up from the end of the bed to cover both you and Johnny. He tucks it around the two of you carefully and leans forward, pulling his mask down again to brush his lips across Johnny’s brow.

You watch in a daze. They don’t speak, but there’s something happening between them, something being said in their eyes as Simon holds his face briefly, and Johnny nods.

They both look to you, your bottom lip caught between teeth.

“Want one too?” Simon hums, cupping the back of your head. “Here.” He kisses you, lingering in it, heat of his naked mouth still a shock to your system.

Johnny is beaming, and cuddles you as close as possible, cheek resting atop your forehead.

They make you dizzy. All of it feels like some kind of dream, a world impossible, a fantasy suddenly turned real life. You’re on the verge of spinning out of control inside it, losing yourself.

It doesn’t help that everything you’ve done over these last few years, this identity, this life, the work that went into hiding and planning and saving and scraping, trying to stay unseen and unnoticed-

Was all for nothing.

“Bunny?” Johnny whispers, bringing you back to them. Simon is settled in the recliner, the same one from the ICU room, but his arm is stretched past your head, fingers playing idly in Johnny’s very long mohawk.

“Sorry. I’m here.”

“Where did ye go?” He tightens his hold, and you snuggle in closer, hiding away from everything bearing down on you, the pain and the panic and the doubt. You hide your face from it, refuse to acknowledge it, desperately trying to stay in this moment, hoping to just be… be here with them. In the sun.

“Nowhere.”

A day passes. Then another, and another, and another. Your face nearly looks normal, puffiness and swelling practically gone, and your neck aches less and less with each passing day.

Your shoulder, on the other hand, is a problem.

It never stops hurting. You struggle to get your arm through your shirts, can barely lift it, can't pick anything up, and it’s so sore, tender, and stiff, like it’s been dislocated or worse, broken. You’re worried, worried about going back to work without a full range of motion, worried about being in pain.

Worried about being even more permanently damaged than you already are.

Just another tally mark. Just another thing you must live with now, a permanent remnant of him, a forever reminder of just how foolish you really are.

You’re weak. You’re stupid. You’re damaged.

The pain breaks you down. It prevents you from sleeping, keeps you twisting and turning through a roil of dark dreams. It depresses you, sinks its teeth into your flesh and gnaws on the pieces touched by the sun, the parts of your heart still beating, somehow.

It reminds you of everything you’re desperate to forget.

It all comes crashing down one morning. The despair. The helpless feeling brewing in your stomach. The loneliness. It keeps you there, in bed, in agony, past breakfast.

It keeps you there, until you hear the creak of the stairs, a firm knock.

“I’m coming in.” Simon advises, trying the door, cracking it enough to stick his head through.

You’re crumpled in the middle of the mattress, pillows strewn about from trying to find a comfortable position, tears already dried. Your shoulder hurts so bad, and you don’t know why, don’t know why it’s not getting better, not healing.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” He sits at your side, hand resting on your hip, inspecting the worry lines, the frown tugging at your lips. “What’s going on?” Guilt swamps you.

“It’s nothing, my shoulder just kept me up, so I’m a little tired. That’s all.” You paste on your work smile, forced and believable, but he only shakes his head.

“Don’t do that.” He thumbs your brow. “I think you should see a doctor.”

“N-no.” You can’t. He doesn’t understand. They’ll want to take x-rays. X-rays lead to questions.

He never takes you at face value. Always pushing. Always digging, looking you over. “Why not?”

“It’s… it’s not necessary. I’m fine, it’s probably just a deep bruise.”

“You’d be experiencing less pain if that was the case.” You raise an eyebrow. He shrugs. “I know a little bit. We all have basic medic training, and I’ve been reading up, for when Johnny gets home.” He pats your hip. “Let’s make you an appointment.” You shake your head.

“No!” It’s too sharp, too insistent, and he freezes. You wince. “I’m sorry. It’s just-“

“You can’t go to a doctor.” He finishes, like he knows. “Tell me why, sweetheart.” You take a shaky breath.

You can’t. You shouldn’t.

Sunlight taps against the iron that’s encrusted around your heart. It knocks, wanting to be let in. It searches for weakness, places of opportunity, slivers of space where it can find its way.

Your mouth starts moving before you give it permission, like it knows this is where you’re headed, no matter how hard you fight, no matter how deeply the survivor’s logic is ingrained in your brain.

“It… it’s not safe.”

“It creates a trail.” He surmises, and you nod. For a wild moment, you wonder if he’s a plant. If they’re a trap, designed to get you to lower your guard, fabricated to encourage you to trust, to love, just so the jaws of Philip’s cruelty can close around you at the most opportune moment.

They wouldn’t. They’re not. You’re being ridiculous. You’re paranoid.

“We’ll make it under my name. Our primary is service member focused, and very discreet. You’ll be safe.” He makes it hard to argue, even though you want to. You should.

“I- I don’t know.”

“I can’t stand to see you in pain like this.” He rebukes, and then smiles softly, eyes lighting up. “Besides, I’m going to need your help. Johnny’s coming home on Friday.”

“He is?” You push upward. “Really?”

“Really.” He’s beaming, radiant sunshine spilling from his lips, and it makes you emotional, seeing him so happy, so weightless. “He passed a strength test on his wrist this morning. He needs a few days of PT in hospital, and then he can do it outpatient. His care team has signed off, and he’s ready.”

“Oh my god, that’s great!”

“It is. But I want both of you on the mend, not just one. Please.” It doesn’t take much more for you to concede, unable to find an excuse or a good enough reason, one he’s not able to combat.

“Alright, I guess.”

“Simon. Good to see you.” The doctor extends his hand and Simon shakes it readily, keeping his body positioned between you and the physician, one hand still on your knee.

He’s had a hand on you for the last half hour. You’ve been rattling on the exam table, shifting and fretful, disquieted energy spilling forth since he coaxed you into the car this morning.

“Dr. Fitch.”

“This is my patient?” He motions to you, and Simon stands to the side, concentrating, eyes focused above the mask. You give your name, and the provider repeats it with a warm smile.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Fitch.” You raise your good arm to shake his hand, and he pulls the rolling stool underneath him, taking a seat opposite Simon at your knee.

A warm palm flexes at your lower back. It’s soothing, comforting.

I’m here, it says. You’re safe.

“Simon says you’ve been having some shoulder pain?”

“Yeah, I had… I had an injury. Thought there was some soft tissue damage, maybe some minor bruising, but the pain is too persistent.”

“Mind if I take a look?” He points to the side you’re clearly favoring.

“Sure.” It’s not comfortable, to have another man’s hands on you outside of your job. There’s no trust there, no familiarity like there is with Simon and Johnny, and your body knows it, practically vibrating as he walks his fingers up your scapula. Simon stays close, still with a hand at your back, watching intently.

Dr Fitch holds your elbow, and slowly lifts your arm until you’re telling him to stop, pins and needles radiating through your shoulder and up your neck.

“I think we need an x-ray so we can really see what’s going on.” Your fingers curl, nails digging into your palm.

Fuck.

“I… I think I just need a sling, or an immobilizer for a few weeks. Give it some time to heal.” You try to protest, but he shakes his head.

“I can’t be sure of any of that, without an x-ray.” Oh god. You think you might throw up.

He’s right, though. You know he’s right. You know no good provider in their right mind would sign off on a treatment plan without knowing the extent of an injury. He’s not going to let you dictate what you need.

“Bun.” Simon murmurs, and you blow out a rough breath.

“Okay, fine.”

Dr. Fitch is grim when he reappears almost an hour later, throwing the films up for both you and Simon to see.

You spot what’s soured him immediately, and there’s a sharp intake of breath behind you, the tell-tale sign of Simon noticing it too.

“This side of your body has seen a lot of trauma.” The doctor says gently. He’s not unkind, but still clinical. The kind of provider you’d like you work with, you think. “These old injuries, your clavicle, acromion, even this break in your ulna, make your scapula a very delicate part of your body. I think an MRI would show a fair amount of cartilage damage in these areas.” He motions around your joint, and you close your eyes.

You can’t do this.

If Dr. Fitch sees your unease or panic, he pushes past it. “You have a rotator cuff tear. The good news is, it’s not surgical. I recommend physical therapy for injuries like these, along with activity modification and lots of rest. I want to do a corticosteroid injection for your pain as well. Today, if you’d like. You’ll need to rest your arm for twenty-four hours afterwards, make sure you’re not lifting anything or moving it…” He continues, but you lose track, lose focus, staring at the vinyl tile, weird grey and pink and green patterns all worked together to make some of the ugliest floor you’ve ever seen.

You zone out. Lose yourself. The films mock you, their ugly, horrific images hanging you out to dry, showcasing the truth, the reminders you’ll never be able to escape.

The pieces of you, changed permanently.

It’s hard to look at. Hard to think of.

You’d rather be considering survival. Counting your cash and researching new places to live. New communities to disappear inside, a new life to assume.

It’s easier to run.

You can’t look at Simon. Can't bear the shame. Can't believe he's seeing this, your nightmares on display.

You keep your eyes fixed on the wall.

The girl in the mirror is falling apart. She despises being confronted with your failings, your weakness, the results of your stupidity.

It’s far less common now, these mistakes. These slip ups.

But before… before… they indulged Philip in a beautiful game of cat and mouse. You made it fun, made it exciting. A wolf with his prey. Playing with his food before he eats. Before he strings it up and breaks its collarbone because he likes to hear it scream.

Simon is talking to the provider, asking questions, receiving answers. You can barely hear him. You’re underwater.

The only thing that tethers you to the earth is the hand on your back, the warm, gentle, broad, grounding pressure.

There’s more conversation, and then Dr. Fitch is vacating the room.

Is it time to go?

You try to stand on autopilot, but Simon holds you steady.

“We’re going to do the steroid, for your pain.” He drifts into your line of sight, pulling the mask down. “Bunny, look at me.”

When you can’t, he follows your gaze.

The films come off the wall within the next second, ripped down by the long reach of his arm.

Gone.

“I have to go.” You whisper.

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to get this injection, and then I’m going to take you home and put you to bed.”

He doesn’t understand your meaning.

Or maybe he does.

Home. The word rings in your ears like a punch. It’s like you’ve been hit with it, burned with it.

Home.

He’s not forceful, but you still feel the pressure, the insistence. You expect to rail against him. To cower.

Instead, you slip inside it. Allow him to tell you what to do, to make the decision. You fall easily into him, and he holds your hand through it all, while the injection site is swabbed, when the needle goes in. He holds your hand out to the car, holds your hand as he buckles you in. He holds your hand as he tucks you into a bed larger and softer than the one you've been sleeping in. It smells like him and Johnny, soft sheets and pillows piled around you like a wall, false sense of security building every time you twitch, testing where is he is, if he’s left yet.

The last thing you feel before you drift off to sleep is your hand, still in his.

You don't know how long you sleep. You sail in the darkness, navigating turbulent seas, waking every now and then, sometimes alone... sometimes not.

The baby monitor blinks pale green, little circle fuzzy on the edge of your vision, appearing and disappearing throughout the day.

Sometimes the bed is warm. Sometimes it's not.

When it is, you seek him out on instinct, trying to crawl inside his ribs, frantic with your effort to hide, to run. He holds you through it, rocks you gently, tells you you're safe, says you don't have to be afraid anymore, he's here now. He'll take care of you.

There's a rope around your ankle, tied too tight, tethered to the ocean floor. It drags you down, rips you away from him, fills your lungs and silences you.

You didn't make it.

All you can see behind closed lids is those films. All you can feel is the phantom ache in your limbs, the remnants of a shadow, still living and breathing inside of you.

The girl in the mirror is silent. Nothing to say for once in her life, she weeps like her chest is being carved open, sobs and screams pouring out in a flood.

I know you'll be here when I get back, won't you?

The house is vibrant today.

Lou has been here, stocking the fridge, precooking some meals, and her husband is helping Simon rearrange the living room, moving pieces of the couch to be more accessible, laughing back and forth quietly. Occasionally, he stops into the kitchen where you’re seated next to Pen in her highchair, checking in, but never encroaching.

He doesn’t get too close, right now. You’re still underwater somewhere, lost in a current. You’re here, but not really, silently drifting like a ghost, watching and waiting for something or someone to shake you out of it.

Simon hasn’t yet, but he’s watching. Always.

He’s intentionally careful, loud. Announcing himself everywhere he goes in the house, telling you everything he’s doing.

You didn’t understand why at first. Didn’t realize you hadn’t spoken in eight hours, and then ten, then twelve.

Trapped in a tomb of yourself, locked away with the girl in the mirror.

Guilt burns like a wildfire.

This should be a happy time. A wonderful time.

But all you’re doing is making a mess of their life.

Lou, thankfully, doesn’t push you either. She’s content to let you sit there, next to Pen. She keeps an eye out, glancing over at you occasionally, but your placating smiles seem to satisfy her.

Simon steps in front of the counter, ducking his head down to catch your eyes. “I’m going to pick Johnny up.” Somewhere, in the pits of hell, excitement blooms. Happiness tries to sprout. “Do you want to come?” Definitely not. They’ll certainly clap him out, and there’s no way you can be there for that.

“No, I’m… okay.”

“Okay. Penny is coming with me, but John and Lou are staying here. Kyle is coming by. If Johnny’s feeling up to it, I’m hoping to do dinner all together.” Acid is tossed around, tempestuous in your stomach. Lou smiles around his side.

“Want to watch something while we wait?”

“Sure.” She disappears down the hall, saying something to John, and Simon slowly pulls Pen from her chair, kissing her cheek and nose before cradling her to his chest. She’s not a small baby, but in his hold, she’s tiny, soft and delicate, content in her dad’s arms, still a little sleepy from her afternoon nap.

“We’ll be back soon.” He whispers, turning to go.

Your hand whips forward instinctively, out of control.

It latches onto his.

“Simon. I’m… I’m sorry.” You’re sorry you’re ruining everything. You’re sorry you’re fucked up beyond belief, you’re sorry he had to see all that in the doctor’s office, you’re sorry, you’re sorry, you’re sorry.

He squeezes. “Shhh, hey. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” He shifts, still holding Penny, but stooping down to crouch at your knees, his own popping with effort. “It’s okay, if you have to go somewhere else for a little while up there, as long as you're not lost in it.” He motions to your head. “Nothing has changed. We’re still right here, everything is alright. Huh, Penny girl?” He bounces her, and she shrieks out a giggle, reaching for his face. He kisses her hands like he’s trying to eat them, rumble in his voice making her squeal, and he catches your faint smile. “There she is.” He kisses your forehead. “We’ll be back soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

You hear Johnny before you see him.

There’s a scrape of crutches, his voice animated, talking to his baby, Penny giggling wildly outside on the walk. Lou and John exchange a comfortable smile, and she manages to get the door open before Simon can get his key in the lock.

“Welcome home!” She exclaims, and Penny squeaks, clapping excitedly. She’s wriggly, wanting to get down immediately upon crossing the threshold, but Simon holds her firm, turned around so Lou can snap their picture.

“Ach, Price, can ye do somethin’-“ Johnny laments, but the captain only laughs and looks on.

“Hey! Come on, you’ll want this, later. I promise. Look over here.” They’re picture perfect, Penny cradled between them, Johnny’s hair moved out of his face, his posture a little slouched because of his hip and leg. His head rests on Simon’s shoulder, an arm stretched across his middle, right under Penny, who glows from her perch, the center of attention.

An ache unfurls in the middle of your chest, a sore spot, growing, spreading through your body.

They’re so lovely, it hurts. This moment is beautiful, a homecoming, a story of survival and perseverance. Johnny’s strength and determination. Doing something you know a lot of people initially doubted.

The dark spot of pain passes, fleeting.

Johnny’s eyes find yours. “Ye goin’ make me hobble all the way over there?” He teases, and you shake your head.

The two of you can only give half hugs, but you make it work, holding onto him, fingers fisted in the back of his shirt.

“Welcome home.” You whisper in his ear, and he pulls away, notching his forehead against yours. His eyes glitter, heavy, trembling breath filtering through his nose, and he kisses you slowly, so painfully slowly it’s like you’re the only one in the entire house, in the whole world.

“You too, bunny.”

Dinner is lively. Kyle arrives shortly before it’s time to sit down, greetings and warm wishes passed around as everyone gets settled, Penny positioned in highchair between the guys with mashed potatoes and peas already scooped onto her tray. Johnny’s on your left, with Lou on your right, and Simon sits at the head of the table, across from who you realize now, is his old, or kind of still, boss.

He looks perfect there, half turned towards Pen and Johnny, radiantly smiling at his partner and daughter, trying again and again to catch your eye. Johnny's knee stays steady against yours, fingertips occasionally brushing your thigh, and the two of them try to draw you in, pull you towards them, over and over.

Conversation flows easily. They’re all talking, laughing, swapping stories, poking at one another. Kyle tells you about a time he fell out of a helicopter, and they all tease Johnny about nearly dying this time, or a different time, you can’t be too sure.

“Ye jus’ wish ye had the natural ability I do.” He sniffs, and Kyle chortles, struggling to swallow his food.

“I’d probably be dead, mate.”

“’Cause ye cannae handle it!” He retorts, and Simon laughs, causing Penny to giggle too, and then the entire table erupts in it, attention redirected, cooing at the adorable girl with mashed potatoes smeared on her face. Johnny and Simon fuss over her, a perfect family in unison.

There’s a whining, buzzing noise in the back of your head. It’s an off-key tenor, annoying and coarse, like the snag of rough skin texture against a soft sweater.

What are you doing here?

The world, this room, these people, spin and spiral around you. Talking, laughing, loving. Making connections with each other, feeling the warmth of love and friendship, of happiness.

The buzzing gets louder.

You’re vaguely in it now, still seated but not here, not anywhere. You’re drifting, falling away, slipping behind walls and layers, hiding.

The girl in the mirror approves.

What makes you think you have any right to be here? What makes you think you could ever possibly belong here? With them? With their friends? Their family?

You’re an intruder.

You’re risking their safety. You’re making a mistake.

Lou boasts a sharp laugh, and you nearly flinch.

You don’t belong here. You’re supposed to be alone. It was supposed to be okay, to be alone.

You’re selfish.

Simon reaches for Johnny’s hand, stretching across Penny’s spot, eyes heavy with love. There’s so much in his expression alone, dedication, devotion, borderline obsession bleeding through, and he holds Johnny like he’s holding his lifeline.

You’ll never be loved like that, known like that, cherished and protected… like that.

And why should you be?

You’re standing before you announce it, trying to hold yourself together. Both guys look to you, Simon’s expression changing from amusement and love to worry and concern, while Johnny mirrors it, and tries to grab your hand.

“Ye alright?”

“Bun?”

“I’m fine, just… uh. My stomach.” You lie, motioning away from the table, like it makes any sense. You excuse yourself quickly, apologizing, and practically run up the stairs.

The guest bathroom door locks, and you slide down against the tub, slumping over to rest your cheek on cold tile. “Fuck.” You whisper, rubbing at your cheeks. What is wrong with you?

You lay there long enough that your shoulder starts to hurt. Everything aches, your heart too, and wipe your cheeks over and over, trying to regain control of a sinking ship.

God, you really, really hope they aren’t mad you bailed.

The bed is your only option, your only salvation, and you sink into without fuss, burying yourself beneath a pile of blankets, hiding yourself away from the world.

At least when you sleep, you can’t think.

At least when you sleep, you can’t feel.

“Philip, please.”

“You made a fucking fool of me tonight.” He grips your upper arm so tight it feels like he’s cutting into your flesh, branding you, burning you down to the bone.

“No, I- I wasn’t trying to, I swear.”

“I think you were, spitfire. I think you wanted to see me sweat, didn’t you? Wanted to play a little game, huh?”

“No!” you’re crying, chest heaving with giant sobs, and his fist tightens in your hair, dragging you down to the ground. “No, Philip, stop. Stop!”

“Shut up.” You’re crawling on your knees, trying to keep pace, trying to stay in stride with him as he tugs, practically pulling you down the hallway to the bedroom.

Once he gets there, he jerks you upwards.

The hardwood floor is the next thing you see as your face crashes into it.

“S-stop.” You’re barely audible, buried in sobs. He mocks you.

“Stoooop, babe. Stop please.” Your arms cover your head, trying to protect your delicate bones there, your skull, your nose, your cheeks.

His foot rears back.

The world goes cold.

“NO!” you jerk your knees up to your chest, rolling away. “No! I’m pregnant!”

You think he’ll be happy. You think he’ll be pleased.

Instead, it’s raw, concentrated fury you see lining his face, lightning and thunder gathering in his eyes.

“You’re what?”

You come to trembling, coated in a cold sweat.

It’s okay. He’s not here. He’s not. You’re safe.

You clasp a hand over your mouth to ward off the volume of the sob, nausea rising until you’re almost gagging.

It’s okay.

You can do this. Get it together.

Time ticks away, but the agony of your memory, your nightmare, doesn’t fade. It settles in your bones like a sickness, infecting your mind and heart, keeping you from closing your eyes.

You can’t go back there. Not in real life. Not in your dreams. Not ever.

You would die before that happened.

Johnny and Simon sleep down the hall. You wonder if they’re wrapped up together, if Johnny is comfortable, if their room is cozy and homey, bed heavenly and full of love.

You could…

No.

The clock on your phone reads three in the morning. You feel like you haven’t slept at all, but every time you try to close your eyes, dread spreads, tenebrous and sticky, clinging to every synapse in your logical brain.

You eye the door.

You could…

Should you? Would they be mad? Would they welcome you? Would they even answer?

You don’t know how you convince yourself to do it, to drag your weak will down the hall and knock on their door, but you do. You’re a child the whole way, padding up to a parent’s room in the middle of the night, looking for salvation and sanctuary, desperate for comfort.

It takes almost no time after your timid little rap for the door to swing wide, Simon standing behind it, little lamp flicked on where Johnny is half sitting up, mostly still asleep, rubbing his eyes.

“Hi.” You whisper, distracted by Simon’s naked chest. He’s wearing sweatpants, but they’re slung low on his hips, soft tummy with wispy light brown hair peeking out above the drawstring. You think you’re staring, and you force a blink, trying to appear normal.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing, I just… I had a nightmare and…I… I can’t…” the rest doesn’t come out, laying heavy on your tongue, trying to organize itself so it doesn’t seem so intrusive, or weak.

He doesn’t make you feel bad. Or guilty. He doesn’t even ask, he just steps aside, motioning to bed, clicking the door shut behind him.

“Take the middle.” He whispers, and you crawl across the expanse, timidly smiling at Johnny, who’s still yawning. He’s got his bad leg and hip set up on a bunch of pillows, and the spot next to him is still warm.

“Hey pretty girl.”

“Hi.” He pats the empty space, shoving the blankets down to the best of his ability to let you get underneath them.

“Bad dream?” He drawls, slow and sleepy.

“Yeah.”

“C’mere.” He tries to tug you closer, but Simon scolds him softly.

“Johnny, easy. Your graft.” He turns, sliding, encouraging you to settle on your side, with him at your back. “There we go. That’s better, hm?” It is better. So much better. Warm and safe. Blocked in on either side by them, your hand resting on Johnny’s sternum, grounding yourself with the rise and fall of his breathing, Simon nestling you into his chest, heavy arm slung across your ribs to hold Johnny’s hand.

It's so nice, tucked between them like you belong there, things start to spiral a little bit, doubt and worry fueling a cycle of second guessing. You shift restlessly, and Simon rubs your hip, soothing whatever he senses amiss back to neutral, lips humming just above your ear. “Close your eyes, little bunny. We’re here. You’re safe.”

#peaches writes #simple math #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #ghost x soap x reader #simon riley #john mactavish #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader

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all-purpose-dish-soap · 5 days

Text

550 words / 25 / more ghost + gaz with free use medic reader

...

"Come here, medic."

"I told you, I'm fine."

"Ain't a request." Ghost takes you firmly by the back of the neck before you can flee. He squeezes tight enough to make it clear he's not asking.

You feel his and Gaz’s eyes on you--on the bleeding laceration sliced through the outer cartilage of your ear and on the bruise forming on your cheekbone. You got tangled up briefly with an enemy tango and almost became a hostage. Or a statistic. But you're fine now.

"You're making a big deal over nothing,” you tell them.

Ghost pulls you forward and angles your face this way and that, trying to get a better look at you.

Gaz crosses his arms and stares you down. "Fine is when you burn yourself on a shell casing. You're not fine." He's barely holding back the edge in his voice. He can't pull rank on you--none of them can, technically--and he's supposed to be polite and respectful. But seeing that happen to you, and the adrenaline running through him, is making him thoughtless.

"He only grabbed me. Didn't hurt me."

Ghost hisses at you, his voice just as rough as the squeeze he has on the back of your neck. "What happened isn't important. What's important is that he thought he could touch you." His grip tightens. "You're in our squad. You're under our watch. No one messes with you."

Your gut twists. That's not fair--acting protective. It's part of their job to keep you safe, but they don't have to talk like this. You glance at Gaz for help, but the look on his face tells you he doesn’t disagree with Ghost. You swallow the protests on the tip of your tongue and close your eyes, silently letting them examine you.

Ghost finds another few nicks and fresh bruises. You’re a medic—you’re not as armored as they are because it’s a goddamn war crime to kill medical personnel. "Jesus,” he mutters. “Bastard snuck up on us.”

"Thank you," you say quietly.

"For what?" Ghost snaps back. As usual, he's not expecting gratitude from you. You're supposed to take the insults, the berating, the harshness. And the protection, because you belong to them. At least, that's how they see it.

Gaz speaks up. "No one treats you like that again, alright?"

"It's not like I asked him if he needed a hostage."

"Doesn't matter," Gaz retorts. "If someone puts a finger on you like that again--"

Soap ducks back into the room, his rifle’s muzzle on his shoulder.

"Take care of it?" Ghost asks.

"Aye," Soap says. "Bastard won't be layin' his hands on anyone anymore. Not enough fingers left, for starters." He turns to you with a look of sympathy, but you recognize the wild edge of adrenaline still present. "You alright, hen?"

"I'm fine." You use the opportunity to worm yourself out of Ghost's grasp. "We going?"

"Affirmative," Gaz says. “We should move.”

Ghost turns away, forcing his attention back on the mission even though he carries himself with cold anger. Soap looks you up and down once more, his eyes lingering on your cheekbone a little longer this time. He seems about to say something, but thinks better of it. His blue eyes soften just a bit before he turns to follow Gaz and Ghost.

...

more Gaz / more Ghost / more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

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rileyslibrary · 1 year

Text

Here’s a rose, now piss off.

Summary: Ghost threw out his back, and the medics forbade him from going on a mission. So he’s been assigned by HR to hand out flowers for Women’s Day.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,094

Notes:

I'll keep putting Mr Riley in the most awkward situations possible until I run out of ideas. When will that be? *fist punches the table* NEVAH!

Platonic fluff. 🌸

Want more?

———————————————————————

There’s a knock on the door. It’s the 10th time someone has asked to see you since this morning, and it’s not even lunchtime yet. Soldiers are coming in and out of the garage. All. The. Time. They want you to modify their equipment, repair their trucks, replace their firearms, and sync their walkie-talkies. And, as if you’re a genie in a bottle, they expect their wishes to be granted “stat.”

“Come in!” you say, turning towards the door to see your subordinate looking like he was asked to solve world hunger.

“Boss!” he exclaims, looking down at his clipboard. “Have you seen the Humvee that arrived today?”

“No, soldier,” you mutter. “What about it?”

“W-well,” he begins, pausing briefly to look at you. “It’s got holes all over it, boss.”

“Holes?” you ask with raised eyebrows.

"Y-yeah," he stammers. “Like from bullets and stuff.”

When you hear the words “and stuff,” a smile forms at the corners of your mouth. It’s not one of amusement. Instead, it’s a tired smile that signals the start of something far more sinister that is about to happen if people continue to bother you with such trivial “stuff.”

“What do we do in situations like these, soldier?” you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, “what did I teach you to do?”

“Patch’ er up, boss!” He responds with pride.

“And what happens if that doesn’t work?”

“Make a pasta strainer with it, boss.”

“But?”

“But welding always works for patching up holes, boss!”

“Very well done!” you utter. “Now go and weld the shit out of it,” you shoo him with your hand, “the operators will likely need the car right away for their next mission.”

He salutes and walks away six feet taller as if he’s figured out how to solve the Collatz conjecture. You must retrain them so they don’t come to you seeking advice for the tiniest “stuff”.

Another person enters as your subordinate walks out; an American holding an annihilated walkie-talkie.

“What is it this time, Philip?” you ask, noticeably bored.

“It got wet,” he says, handing you the equipment piece by piece. “And then it stopped working.”

“Graves!” you yell, swinging the poor thing by its cables. This one was already dead. Done. Caput. “Is this what you call ‘wet’ in the States?”

He chuckles but then stops when he sees your stunned expression. He gives a shrug.

You sigh and toss the walkie-talkie on top of a pile of wrecked equipment, wishing your patience was as large as that heap. You choose another that you fixed earlier, synchronise it, and hand it over to him.

“Please take better care of your belongings,” you beg. “All of you.”

He nods and leaves the room, waving the small equipment as if to thank you.

As much as you get angry at them, you can’t help but sympathise and understand their situation. They are soldiers. To successfully complete a mission, they must enter dangerous territories and battlefields. They should submerge themselves and everything they hold in water if necessary. They must use that equipment to the best of their capabilities to free prisoners, rescue civilians, and capture terrorists. Your responsibility is to repair and maintain that equipment, so it is always in good working order and ready to use whenever they need them. Your role might not be as critical as that of a medic, but you, too, are required to ensure their missions’ success.

A cough behind you causes you to throw your hands to your sides and lift your head as if praying to God to end this ordeal.

“What is it n-” you pause and turn to look at Ghost, holding a covered bucket in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Let me guess,” you say. “There’s a dead drone in there,” you say, pointing to the bucket, “and you managed to save some of its parts in that cup.”

But he gives you a threatening stare. He appears to be as fed up as you are.

He sets the bucket down and lifts up the cover. There is no drone in it. It’s filled with vibrant roses wrapped in pretty paper, standing upright.

“I’m a mechanic, not a botanist, Ghost.”

“It’s for Women’s Day,” he says, his face as expressionless as when he first entered the room. “I have to distribute these to all the women-”

You burst out laughing, and he immediately gets angry. He was anticipating that reaction.

“This isn’t funny, you little shit,” he spits. “I threw my back out, and now HR is making me hand out flowers like I’m fucking Zorro instead of going on the mission.”

You hold back your laughter and wipe the tears of joy from your cheeks. “At least you have the mask, Lt.,” you try to comfort him, and he turns away in embarrassment.

“Well, Lt., I’m afraid I’m not a flower person-”

“I don’t care; you have to choose one.” He says, motioning to the bucket. “And hurry up; I have to go to the ladies at the registrations as well.”

“No.” You refuse and smirk as you lean against the shelf. “You choose one for me.”

“Listen up, you motherf-”

“Hey now, it’s Women’s Day.” You remind him, looking at your nails.

He sighs as he kneels down with difficulty, shuffling through roses. His hand first grasps a red one, then a pink one, before finally deciding on a yellow rose with red wrapping paper.

He stands up, supporting his weight on his thigh, that cup still in his hands, and offers you the flower.

“Why yellow?” You ask as you accept the rose.

“I’m saving the pretty ones for those who actually like flowers,” he explains.

You widen your eyes and tilt your head to the side. “Is that so, Mr Riley?” You ask.

But he doesn’t give in to your trap. He reaches out his other arm and hands you the cup he held. “Here,” he says, “I know you like coffee.”

This is far too entertaining for you to give up on.

“You got me coffee?” You ask with a smile. “You’re such a sweetheart, Simon.”

He mutters something under his breath, picks up the bucket and begins his way to the ‘registration ladies’.

“Do you need help with that, Lt.?” You ask, and he extends his middle finger without turning around.

“Thanks for the coffee!” you shout, and you notice his middle finger tucking into his palm, giving way to his thumb as if to say, “you’re welcome.”

———————————————————————

#simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley x you #cod mwii #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x y/n #simon riley x y/n #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 fanfic #cod ghost #ghost cod #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley fic

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maniacwatchestheworld · 4 months

Text

Things to do with Jack and Maddie without them being abusive

As someone who actually likes Jack and Maddie as characters (I'm a fervent shipper of Maddie/Jack/Vlad), it's a real bummer to see so many people out there deciding that for their DPxDC AUs that Jack and Maddie are abusive, when that really doesn't represent how they are in canon. Now I fully acknowledge that doing this can be a very useful tool for telling certain types of stories, and if you want to make a story about recovering from abuse and finding a new found family, all the more power to you for that! But for any other type of story where them being abusive isn't necessary for the backstory of the story you want to tell... It's just a bummer to do that, y'know? If you don't want to tell a story with Jack and Maddie in it, that's entirely fine! I'm not asking you to. But there are ways to get rid of them without making them abusive or dying. Of the two, I personally would prefer them dying (I just like the story potential of that, especially as far as Vlad is concerned). But there are plenty of easy things to do with them to keep them out of the story that don't require them being abusive or dead! So I'm here to give a list of things that can happen to them (that have precedent within either Danny Phantom itself or the DC universe) that keep them out of the story that don't require much explanation as well as some other ideas for what you can do with them if you have no idea what to do with them otherwise.

Lots of ideas under the cut! (Feel free to take what you want. As always, credit is appreciated, but not necessary. But I would love to see what you do with it!)

If you need them permanently absent so that Danny can get adopted

Fell into the Ghost Zone and cannot be found.

They are gone for whatever reason and Jazz is currently Danny's legal guardian (she's 18 or older and is therefore a legal adult).

While in the Ghost Zone, they accidentally traveled through time/got transported somewhere where they can't get home easily.

They got severely Joker gassed and are in medical care. (This is actually what happened to Duke's parents!)

They got severely Scarecrow gassed and are in medical care.

Went insane for some supervillain-related reason and are now missing/in medical care.

They were kidnapped by a villain for some reason.

They were kidnapped by a villain and are currently in a lotus-eaters simulation and therefore don't even know that they've gone missing.

Abducted by aliens.

They got wrapped up in some supervillain bullshit and now have amnesia and are unable to recognize Danny and Jazz.

They got magicked into something that can't take care of Danny and Jazz.

They were experimented on and are now incapable of taking care of Danny and Jazz.

Some cosmic entity did a whoopsie that effected Jack and Maddie and now they're in a condition/situation where they cannot take care of Danny and Jazz.

Got arrested and are in jail for some reason.

Were arrested and sent to jail for a long time. Have since joined Task Force X/the Suicide Squad for lienency.

Got hit by a stray Zeta-Beam and are now on some alien planet.

They got teleported somehow. We aren't certain about the details.

They fell into a hole to another world.

They no-clipped out of their normal reality.

Stranded with no way home.

They somehow ended up on a different planet. They are just hanging out with Space Cabbie now, who is just having a ROUGH day and can't find Earth for whatever reason.

Inducted into a Lantern Corps and are VERY busy because of it!

Coma.

Effected by a debilitating illness/disease/condition that makes them incapable of taking care of others.

They were forced to go undercover for some reason and therefore vanished. (Letting their kids know is optional)

They were forced to go undercover for some reason and were forced to fake their deaths.

They died, but came back to life. Danny has not been informed of this.

They got possessed by a superhero or supervillain who just wandered off with their bodies.

They got separated following a disaster and haven't been able to find each other again.

They've been retconned to hell and back again to the point where no one is entirely certain where they are, what they're doing, or even if they're alive anymore. Don't worry about it! Only mention them when it's relevant and the rest of the time we aren't going to bother explaining what's going on with them. If they are mentioned, accounts of where they are and what's going on with them are contradictory.

They're around, but will go unseen throughout this story

Any of the situations in the previous section, but it only happened to one of the parents, and the other is just too busy working and taking care of the kids by themselves.

The same as previous, but they also moved to Gotham.

Retcon things so that the events of Danny Phantom actually happened in Gotham City all along. (Maybe Amity Park is like... A suburb in the greater Gotham area.)

They went on vacation/were hired for a job that would take them away from home. They left Danny and Jazz to be taken care of by Vlad. Vlad is an asshole, so they ran away from him.

They went on vacation/were hired for a job that would take them away from home, but now that Jazz is over 18, she's been left in charge.

Put into Witness Protection by the government/the Guys in White.

Danny and friends have graduated from high school and are now legal adults, perhaps in college.

Danny's whole family moved to Gotham City. They're just at home/working during the events of this story.

Jack and Maddie have been hired to do some work with the Justice League and need to be away from home for an extended period of time. They have left a member of the Justice League to take care of Danny and Jazz in the meantime.

Fieldtrip/school trip to Gotham City.

Danny is old and responsible enough that Jack and Maddie trust Danny (and/or Jazz) to travel on their own. His parents are just a call away if he needs help.

Jack and Maddie are separated for whatever reason (one went missing/one is working abroad/they are divorced/one died) and the other moved to Gotham and is taking care of the kids in the meantime, but is busy and so will not appear.

Something happened to Fenton Works and the family needs to temporarily stay somewhere else while the problem with Fenton Works is sorted.

The family was driven out of town and they ran off to Gotham to escape the angry mob. (Or at least to wait until things cool down again.)

Jack or Maddie are able to work remotely and so they've moved to Gotham to do so. The kids came along/are visiting.

Jack and/or Maddie were hired for temporary work in Gotham and decided to bring the kids along.

One family member was taken to Arkham Asylum. They moved to Gotham to be closer.

Jazz went to Gotham for college. Danny is visiting.

Danny is sent to Gotham/Arkham for specialized health reasons.

Jack and Maddie have gotten in contact with a specialist that lives in Gotham and are visiting for work-related reasons.

They are on vacation in Gotham and brought the kids along. Danny and Jazz have been let off the leash to go where they want while Jack and Maddie do touristy stuff.

Visiting family/family friends living in Gotham.

They were passing through but are now unable to leave. (Bonus points if it's a No Man's Land situation.)

They were passing through, but were robbed. Jack and Maddie are dealing with the robbery stuff where Danny is off somewhere else.

They were just passing through, but Maddie and Jack got SEVERELY distracted by something and have run off to who knows where!

They are traveling with Vlad and expected Vlad to take care of and watch the kids!

Danny was abducted to Gotham.

Danny accidently ended up in Gotham somehow.

Danny somehow got transported/teleported to Gotham.

Doing an educational trip/apprenticeship/internship over in Gotham.

Danny ran away impulsively.

Some villain threatened Danny's family and forced him to run away from home.

Danny has revealed his secret to his parents, and while they might worry about Danny being a vigilante, believe in and trust Danny to do the right thing and allow him to do what he feels that he must to protect people.

The same as above, but Vlad also came out and is supervising.

They died.

I cannot understate the sheer JUICY storytelling potential that you can have by killing Jack and Maddie off! We already know how it might effect people and events from what we see in The Ultimate Enemy, but there really is limitless potential in terms of ways to twist, turn, and play with things to have different outcomes! Additionally, Jack and Maddie being genuinely good parents that die protecting Danny and Jazz offers lots of ways for Bruce to relate to Danny and Jazz! (He decided to become Batman so that no one would have to face what he did ever again... And he failed...) And the way that they die can offer some lovely different flavors of angst, coping mechanisms, motovations, and learning to deal with their loss. So here are some ideas for how to kill them off!

The universe exploded again, and when it was put back together, Jack and Maddie ceased to exist in current canon continuity. (This happens more often than you'd think.)

Vlad Wins.

They were killed in an apocalypse-level event.

They were killed in the crossfire of some superhero/supervillain fight.

They were taken by some villain. They were killed before the heroes could arrive.

They were killed in a random act of violence/crime. (Much like Batman's backstory. Do this to gain extra points from Bruce.)

Died in prison/after joining the Suicide Squad.

Gang violence.

Any of the previous but Gotham is just THAT dangerous!

Same as any gassing or supervillain plan, but they died instead of being missing or in medical care.

Got transported to a place where they died very far away from home.

They just died suddenly or because of an accident. It happens sometimes.

Things to note

Believe it or not, but your parents can still be in your life AND you can join the Batfamily AT THE SAME TIME! :D

Examples:

Barbra Gordon is very much in the Batfamily and both of her parents are alive and well. She's a very important part of the family, and in the comics, it is not uncommon to see her calling up her dad and talking to him! They'll even call each other if they need help with something. This does not take away from the fatherly role Bruce often has in her life. (She can have 2 dads and good for her for that!)

When Tim initially became Robin, his parents were alive and well. They would later die because comic writers are just like that, but being an orphan without loving parents in your life is not a prerequisite to being Robin.

Duke's parents are also alive! They are under the effects of Joker toxin, but they are alive, and if they ever find a cure for it, I imagine that they would be more than happy to have Duke back in their lives!

Terry from Batman Beyond is not an orphan and was taken under Bruce's wing to be the next Batman! Terry is even going to inherit a fair amount of Bruce's wealth for deciding to take on the responsibility of being Batman. But while his dad did die, his mom is still alive and well over the course of the series! And he has a little brother too! Terry may still be a teenager, but he is a bit of a breadwinner for his household while also still being an important part of Bruce's family. (He is often someone who helps Bruce take care of himself.)

But if the story you truly want to explore requires being adopted specifically... Well... You don't have to be a kid to be adopted! Jack and Maddie can still raise Danny and Jazz into adults and Bruce is able to adopt them later if he wants, once they have been well and established in his family! Hell, you don't even have to wait! As long as Bruce asks permission from Jack and Maddie, they can be alive AND he can adopt Danny! There is more than one way to be in a family, you know! And sometimes it takes a village! And really, would Jack and Maddie really object to Danny being adopted by billionaire Bruce Wayne, especially if Danny really is enjoying his time being a part of his family and if Bruce has been an absolutely lovely person to them whenever he visits?

So I hope that you're able to take some inspiration from all of this for your own stories! If you need some elaboration on what I mean with some of these, or want to ask who could be responsible for some of these and how, feel free to drop on by and send me an ask! I would be more than happy to go into some more detail about these! Happy writing!

#dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #jack fenton #maddie fenton #dp x dc au

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obsessedduh · 1 month

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YANDERE!READER X CARELESS!WILLING!SIMON PT3

previous part —> here | next part —> here

tw: mentions of blood, gore, stalking, obsession, peverse and creepy reader, yander intendecies! implied fem reader but I tried to make it as gender neutral as possible.

mini taglist (by mini, i mean three people who've requested 😭): @warlike-morning @smoothruby @thisisthegypsy

MDNI – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Careless!Willing!Simon 'Ghost' Riley, who's noticed that ever since he caught you hurting ella that day a couple of weeks ago. ella has avoided him, not that he could care less though. she was irritating and was like a fly that buzzed around him in his free time.

he's also noticed how you've slightly stopped avoiding him. now when he's injured, you'll help him. totally, not because he because he begged the other medics to let only you take care of him. but the only problem is that you'll help him without saying a word. just pure silence. he does the same. he hates small talk, but with you, it's different. it's always been different with you.

he doesn't mind small talk with specific people like johnny, gaz, and price. literally the only people, anyone else who's bothered trying it, he'll either ignore them or give them half-assed replies, but with you? before he knew how depraved you really are, he could always somehow tolerate when you talked to him. 'hey, simon! what injury do you have today?' or 'yikes, must hurt pretty bad, huh?' maybe he's developed slight feelings for you, which is weird, considering how he knows twisted you are.

however, the fact you don't give him that bubbly small talk you used to pisses him off. he wants that back, no fucking needs it, craves it back. he's gonna change this staring now.

he walks into your medical room, saying he needs 'help with a cut' on his arm. you nod obviously willing to help him. you were about to grab the supplies you need, but he grabs him and pins you against the wall. your eyes widened, and you looked up at him with a fake confused expression.

"why have you been ignoring me, medic?"

you play dumb, just to rile him up. a confused expression still on your face.

"don't act daft with me medic."

the 'innocent confused look' shifts in your cocky one.

"you're no fun. couldn't even let me get away with it for a split second?"

he grins, even under that mask of his, you could tell from the way it shifts slightly.

"too bad. why have you been ignoring me, medic."

"why do you think?" you said a sly smirk forming your face. he stares at your lips for a second before slowly shifting his eyes back to yours.

"because of the text incident or ella one?"

"well, i guess that counts too, but mostly because i know how you'll end up this way?"

"and in what way could that possibly be, medic?"

"the one where i make you get attached to me."

he slips out breathy chuckle while shaking his head slightly, fuck why is he so hot!?

"fuckin' minx you are."

you giggle in response and his eyes again shift to your lips and back to yours. you get on you tippy toes and whisper.

"did it work?"

his smirk widens and he stops pinning you to a wall and bends down to you height.

"yeah...maybe a jus' a little."

he leans back up and leaves, leaving you to your thoughts, so he'd basically just admitted he likes you too or that he's just interested in you, maybe he was teasing. god, this man is confusing!

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

wanna know more about me —> here

masterlist —> here

#🎀 — 𝑶𝑩𝑺𝑬𝑺𝑺𝑬𝑫 #🎀 — asks #cod ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x gender neutral reader

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gauloiseblue · 12 days

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Medic!Reader × Poly!141

Part I | Part II | Part III

[Tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, a love confession if you squint]

Taglist: @rainlovesyou12 @nijiru

When you're back at the base, the first thing that you get from your team is collective stares

"What happened to your cheek?" Price asked, visibly concerned

"Got punched by an asshole." You replied, still holding the ice pack against your face

"How did it happen?" He then glares at Graves, "You let this happen on your watch?"

He throws both of his hands in the air, while maintaining his smug face, "Easy there, soldiers." He said, "Sorry that I got your princess harmed, but it's necessary for the mission."

"Necessary?" Price growls, "Watch your mouth when you speak, Graves."

"Alright, alright. I'll leave." He then pats on Gaz's shoulder before turning around

The group immediately approaches you after he leaves, trying to look at your wound

"Whoa, he really gave you a nasty punch." Soap commented, "He wore rings?"

"All over his fingers."

"It'll take long before the bruise heals." Ghost interjected, "Since you're the medic here, I'm sure you know what's best for you."

Price nods before he looks at you, "You don't have to work today, you can rest after a mission."

"No, I'll come to work." You said, "Don't worry about me, captain."

He seems reluctant, but lets you do it anyway

Thankfully, your job requires you to use a mask, so most of your bruises are concealed.

At dinner, Graves brings quite a lot of alcohol to celebrate their mission. (The team had retrieved the important documents, as well as eliminating the target, so It's pretty much a success)

You usually skipped alcohol, but tonight you feel like you need it, so you join in

The table that you're in is pretty big, so three other soldiers are sitting with you and you team

Surprisingly, your team can handle their alcohol very well, but Soap is a lively drunkard, he talks a lot, and keeps the alcohol flows

Meanwhile, you're a chatty drunk. You can't keep a secret when you're drunk

"He touched me with his filthy hand, so of course I'd slap him." You confessed, "But then he dared to punch me in the face. The audacity."

"That's rough." Gaz winced

"But y'know, sometimes our job comes with those kinds of things." One of the men shrugged, "I didn't ask for it when I got shot or tortured, but then again, that's the consequences of my job."

"I didn't ask to be a surveillance." You hissed, "I'm just a medic, for God's sake."

"You could've ask him—"

"I did! I even tried to reason with him but nooo, he did care." You grit your teeth, "Even after roping me into this, he never once gave me any info for the mission and told me to be pretty and meek. At least I could've prepared if he told me things I could be dealing with during the mission."

"Cut it out, boy." Price stopped him before he could reply, "Y'know Graves was in the wrong here. We always brief our soldiers before missions."

"I'm not defending him."

The other man, who's silent for the whole interaction, finally speaks, "Maybe he did it because you've been using his name for unnecessary things."

You snort, "Somehow borrowing his name equals me almost getting raped?"

He shrugs, "Sometimes mentioning a certain name equals death."

"Yeah, okay, I get it." You immediately got up from your seat, "I'm just a spoiled bastard who can't handle the slightest discomfort aren't I?"

"Where are ye goin'?" Soap called when you're walking away

"My room. I'm tired of this shit."

Once you get into your room, you don’t bother to change your clothes as you go straight to bed

Of course, after getting angry and all, you can't immediately fall asleep. It takes about 15 minutes, before you're free from your anger

Then, you hear a knock on the door, before you hear a voice calls your name softly from outside

"Are you still awake?" You heard Price spoke

You contemplate whether you should answer or not, and decide to pick the first one

"Can I come in?" He asked, and you said yes

He steps inside, and pulls a chair by your bed. You turn around to see him, not hiding the tears streak on your face

"I'm sorry for what happened earlier, I hope you know he didn't mean that."

"I know." You frown while looking away, "I know all of those soldiers didn't mean to yell, or use hurtful words, I understand that, but I always try to comfort them, not telling them to grin and bear it."

He nods understandingly, "The constant threat in the field does make people numb to other's needs."

"Why are you here? Are you apologizing on their behalf?"

"No, I just got a feeling that you'd change division if I didn't clear it up."

You let out an amused snort, "I was just thinking about leaving. I hate Graves anyway."

"I won't force you to stay but I'll be very sad if you don't, you know how much I love your food." You roll your eyes at him, he chuckles, "Please hold on for one more month, then we'll go back home, to our base."

"Well, I can't disobey you if you say that, Captain."

"You better be."

You chuckle at him, and he gives you his usual (and sweet) smile. "Thank you, Price. I really do."

"No prob." He pats your arm, "You can talk to me whenever you want."

"I'll keep it in mind."

The next morning, when you're preparing your medical equipments, a patient comes into the room, and catches you by surprise as you recognize his face

"Johnny? Oh—" You hurriedly come to his side, "What happened to your face?"

"Got into a fight last nite." He grins, "Y'should've seen the other guy tho."

"My God, why did you do that? Who was it?" He looked away when you asked him, "... Don't tell me,"

"Ye don't 've ta worry 'bout it, bonnie."

"You can't make me not worry about you." You retorted, "They could've given a penalty!"

"Nah, they won't. 'M too valuable for that."

"Still," You let out a sigh, "You didn't have to do that."

"Yer angry at 'em."

"But it's only for a moment. I'm… used to that."

He looks at you for a moment, before pulling your hand into his. "Bonnie, ye kno' when you asked me to be a fake boyfie, ye told me that no one in the group'd be willin' ta help ya?" You furrow your brows at him as he continues, "Well, t'was a lie. They won't hesitate ta help ya, bonnie. But I didn't tell ya because I don't want 'em to."

You open your mouth to speak, but no word comes out of your mouth.

He chuckles at your silence, before giving your shoulder a pat." Make of that wha' yer will."

With that, he left the room. Leaving you there, dumbfounded, before you realize you haven't even treated him yet

You thought about him for half of a day, until lunch came and you sat down on the table without looking around. You didn't hear when the chair beside you was pulled, before someone took a seat

"Man, I miss your cooking." You snapped out of your thoughts, as you turned to see Gaz. "Everything tastes bland here, I can't even tell the difference between one dish and the other."

You chuckle when he pokes out his tongue in dismay, "I miss cooking too," You stare down at your plate, "... Helped me clear my mind."

"What's on your mind?" He asked, "Care to share?"

"Not sure if you'd wanna hear it though."

"What are you saying?" He retorted softly as he gave your shoulder a squeeze, "You know I'd listen to you."

"You're sweet, Gaz." You chuckled, "But really, I just wanna go back to our base. But at the same time, I feel like I'm just retreating back to my shell. I know that I can't be choosy for this job, but I wish I could be with you guys for a long time."

His gaze stays on you for a while, before he speaks in a hushed tone, "Don't tell anyone that I say this to you, but last night, me and Price were discussing about your contract, and," He leans closer, "It's possible to do a rescission for the contract. Since you've been put in harm's way."

"Really?"

He nods, "He might pull some strings to get you back, but the higher ups would dismiss it since you're not an operator. We're confident that this'll work, since Laswell herself has approved it."

You look at him for a moment, before pulling him into your arms. "Thank you." You said to him, "I don't know what I'd do without you guys."

You feel him smile before he pats your back, "People said that you're a spoiled princess," He grinned, "But we certainly don't mind spoiling you."

"You'll regret it someday."

"You're worth the regret."

His words stuck with you for the rest of the day, and somehow it lifted up your spirit as you took care of the wounded with ease. At night, when you're walking back to your room, you spot the masked man in the hallway. His head turns when you call his name, and you wave at him.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"Are you done for the day?"

"Mostly." He replied, "Just need to fill some paperwork."

"Alright then."

The two of you would bid goodbye, if you both didn't hear the angry stomp echoing in the corridor. You turn your head towards the sound, and your blood runs cold as you recognize the face

"I need to talk to you." Graves said with an unmistakable rage in his voice, "My office. Now."

You're about to open your mouth before you feel yourself pulled, until your body bumps against a hard muscle. It takes a second before you realize that Simon has his arm wrapped around you.

"Get outta the way, boy." He warned with a glare, "It's none of your business."

"No." He stated, as he kept you by his side

He snorts when he hears it. "No?" He sneered

"If it's about the revocation of the contract, she's not the one who filed it." He glared, "I did."

"Oh." He raised his brow in a mocking manner, "So you're the one who wrote those things?"

"Affirmative." He responded, "I was the one who saw her during the assault, so I'm eligible to give the account as a witness."

You see his muscles harden under his neck, as he hisses to the masked man, "I hope you're ready for Russia because that's where I'm sending you."

"Go ahead and try."

Just like that, the storm has passed by.

You don't know how long you stand there, before he reluctantly lets you go from his arm. You clear your throat as you step aside to face him.

"Um… Thank you." You told him while looking down

You feel his eyes on you, before his hand reaches up to pat your head. "It's nothing."

He bids you goodnight as he tells you to return to your room. You obey as you walk to your door, but when you look back to see him, you still find him standing on the same spot

The next morning, when you deliver your report to the Captain's office, you notice a familiar figure by his desk

The two men were talking, before they lifted their head when you walked in

"Hi." You greeted them, "Hope I'm not interrupting?"

"Not at all." Price reassured, "We were just discussing over something."

"Somethin' ta help fo' yer case, bonnie." His captain nudged him when he said it, "Wot? 'M sho she a'ready knew."

"Is it about Graves?"

"Well," He sighs, "It is. We were just talking about the things that he submitted as evidence."

You shot him a puzzled look, before you turn to Soap.

"The letters, bonnie." He grinned, "I gave him the letters tha' bastard wrote."

"You still had those with you?"

"'Course!" He chuckled, "Ah wanted to use it to rile him up, turns out they're useful for yer case."

"While they won't be included as real evidence, they're enough to convince Laswell to give her approval."

You look at him, while hugging the file close to your chest. "Price, I don't know if I could even repay you back—"

"Don't worry about it, (Name)." He dismissed it by a flick of his hand, "It's my job to ensure your safety."

"And out job ta keep the valuable member o' the team by our side." Soap added with a pat on your back, "Graves can bugger off with his shite."

"Oh…" You cover your mouth, trying to contain your emotions. "Thank you, I—"

"Stop it, bonnie." He said as he pulled you against his chest, "You owe us nothin'."

You didn't cry joyless tears, but they didn't know since you couldn't speak through your sob. You feel bad for causing them to panic, since you cry not out of distress, rather, you're touched by their kindness. When you feel Soap's embrace tightens, and your Captain's hand on your back, you can't help but indulge for a little while

#cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #price x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #ghost x reader #price cod #soap cod #gaz cod #ghost cod #whew. it's finally done. thank you for reading <3 #fixed the last part

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writeforfandoms · 10 months

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Howlin’ For You

Find my CoD masterlist

Wolf shifter!Soap gets himself lost on a run one night and runs into you. The problem? You think he's a dog and take him home to try and find his people. Naturally, Soap falls head over heels.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!reader

Warnings: Swearing, shifter lore, world building, I just kinda throw y’all in the deep end, Price is pack dad.

Word count: 8k

Alright. So maybe the nighttime run had been a bad idea. Maybe. And maybe Soap shouldn’t have shifted on his own. And maaaaaybe he should have paid more attention to where he was going.

But he wasn’t lost! He’d never been lost in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now.

He just… had to find the right road back to base. That was all.

He briefly debated shifting back, but he didn’t fancy having to explain why he was running around naked. Price would kill him for that. And then Ghost would probably kill him, too.

So he huffed and continued trotting along. Fortunately the wound in his shoulder had healed enough not to bother him at this easy pace, though he was careful to monitor it. Despite what medical said, he didn’t like being benched for injuries.

Which was why he’d gone on a night run in the first place. Couldn’t sleep, pack was gone on a mission, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

…Yeah this had definitely been a bad idea.

Soap huffed again, pausing to shake himself off. He’d slid down a hill earlier, which hadn’t hurt him, but it had half-covered him in mud. He did not approve. He would much rather be clean.

And he’d get to clean off just as soon as he got back to base.

Lifting his nose, he sniffed around for any hint he could pick up. But there was nothing special here - hints of deer and rabbits, old car smell, and tiny whiffs of human. But not a particular human, not like he was close to infringing on anyone’s property.

Which meant he was pretty well in the middle of nowhere.

Gaz was never going to let him live this down.

His ears pricked and he turned his head as he heard a car coming down the road, slowly getting louder. He trotted a couple steps off to the side, just in case, and watched as the car rounded the bend, headlights even brighter in the relative dark to his eyes. The car slowed and the hazard lights turned on, flashing orange in the dark, even as the car slowed to a stop on the shoulder.

The driver’s door opened and Soap tensed a little, watching carefully. But it was just a woman - she smelled good. Human, absolutely, but good. His nose twitched in interest.

“Hey pup,” she greeted, getting out of her car and crouching down. “You okay over there? Where are your people?”

Oh. She thought he was a dog. Well, he supposed she could be forgiven for that - it was dark, and he was muddy, and okay yeah he did kind of look like a dog. Gaz liked to tease him about it sometimes.

“I’ve got some goodies here,” she continued, moving slowly, pulling a bag out of her car. The crinkle caused his ears to perk, and he sniffed hopefully. Smelled like jerky. Mmm. “You want some? C’mere, I’ve got plenty.” She tossed a piece about half-way across the road, and he trotted forward to gobble it up.

Really, she was nowhere near a threat, even with him on four legs. He could get himself out of trouble easily enough.

“Good pup,” she crooned, keeping her voice gentle. “You want more?” She held out a piece to him.

Soap paused to consider this. On the one hand, free food. On the other, she was clearly trying to get him close enough to check for a collar, which she wouldn’t find.

Well. If nothing else, she’d get him back to civilization, and from there he could figure out how to get back to base. He’d be fine.

So he stepped forward to take the jerky from her, making sure to be very gentle. He didn’t even flinch as her free hand checked for a collar.

“Looks like you escaped from someone’s yard,” she mused softly, gaze sweeping over him. “Alright. Do you wanna come in the car? Go on a little car ride? I’ll give you more jerky.”

Soap just wagged his tail at her, waiting patiently as she opened the back door before he hopped in. At least she didn’t try to buckle him in, he hated that. She did give him another piece of jerky, as promised, before she slid back into the driver’s seat.

This was going to be interesting.

–

You couldn’t help glancing back at the dog in the backseat. Partially to make sure he was okay, partially because you were nervous, and partially because you were trying to figure out if you’d seen him before. He was a big dog, but very well behaved. Hopefully you’d be able to get the mud off of him to get a better look at him.

The vet was undoubtedly closed by now, so you wouldn’t be able to get him checked for a microchip until morning.

But you couldn’t regret bringing him home. You just didn’t have it in you to leave a dog on the side of the road, especially one so obviously a beloved pet.

You parked in front of your tiny house, getting out and gathering up your things before letting the dog out. You had another piece of jerky in hand, hoping that would entice him to cooperate.

“This way,” you murmured to the dog, watching him hop down out of your car. “C’mon, let’s go inside and get cleaned up. And maybe have some dinner, hmm?”

The dog wagged his tail again and trotted right up to the front door, like he expected to be let in. You laughed softly but let him in, giving him the piece of jerky and then giving him a minute to sniff around.

“Alright, if you’re a pet, you should know better than to potty in the house,” you said, setting your things down. “Shower first, I think. For you.” You eyed the muddy pawprints left on the floor and decided that was now a tomorrow problem. “Okay. C’mon pup.” You tapped the side of your thigh, and the dog followed you back to your bathroom.

He didn’t even protest getting in the shower, thankfully. Just stood under the spray calmly.

The problems started when you got out the shampoo. (Which, honestly, you were amazed you still had any under your sink, you’d bought it for a friend’s dog ages ago.)

Then he boofed softly, circling in the shower and refusing to hold still for more than a second at a time. He kept pulling his paws away from you.

“Stubborn,” you grumbled at the dog, though you couldn’t help but laugh when he kept walking under your hand, inadvertently spreading the shampoo. “Well, I guess this is one way to do it.”

Rinsing off was another exercise in patience - the dog didn’t want to hold still, and ended up shaking muddy soap suds all over the shower, and your clothes. You just sighed deeply.

“Don’t make me regret being nice to you,” you grumbled, finally washing off the last of the soap. “Alright, guess it’s time to dry off.”

The dog bounded out of the shower and bounced around the tiny bathroom. Seriously bounced. Water got everywhere, and you just stared for a moment in absolute dismay.

“Definitely regretting all my life choices.” But you grabbed a towel and started working on drying him off.

It took two towels before you released him into the rest of the house and changed out of your dirty clothes.

The dog, of course, acted like nothing was wrong and sat patiently in the kitchen, tail wagging.

“You’re a menace,” you told the dog, although you started gathering up ingredients anyway. “It’s probably super late for your dinner, but oh well. This is when I normally eat.” You paused. “Shit, you can’t eat some things, right? Hang on.” You whipped out your phone to do a bit of frantic googling.

The dog boofed again, walked two circles around you, and then laid down with the biggest sigh. You looked away from your phone and right into big gorgeous blue puppy dog eyes… and you caved, crouching down to scratch his ears.

“You’re just too cute,” you grumbled. “I can’t be mad at you.” You stroked your hand down the dog’s back. “You’re a handsome boy too, aren’t you?” He really was, mostly red with a white stripe down his nose, white socks, and a little white blotch at his shoulders. You’d lay even odds that he was part husky.

He stayed where he was as you cooked, humming a little to yourself, big eyes following your every move. But at least he wasn’t underfoot.

“Tomorrow I’ll take you to the vet, see if you’ve got a microchip,” you told him, leaning back against the counter to let everything cook a bit. “And if not, I’ll put up signs. You can’t have traveled too far.”

The dog just sat up when you plated food, leaving a bowl on the ground for him. You’d checked all the ingredients and just had to hope it wouldn’t upset his stomach.

After throwing the dishes in the sink and taking him out for a potty break, you were more than ready for bed.

Apparently, so was the dog, as he immediately hopped up on your bed.

“Hey!” You frowned. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The dog wagged his tail at you and then circled the end of the bed before laying down, curled into an almost perfect circle.

“Oh my god.” You threw your hands up and turned to get ready for bed. “Fine, but don’t complain if I kick you in the middle of the night.”

But if you were being honest with yourself, when you laid down to sleep, the soft breathing and the warmth of the dog was… soothing. He made you feel less alone, less isolated.

You reminded yourself firmly to not get attached, because he wasn’t staying.

So, of course, he wasn’t microchipped.

“Nope,” the vet tech confirmed the following morning. “No microchip. I don’t recognize him, either.”

“Well, it was worth a try,” you said on a sigh, patting the dog’s head. “Thanks for checking for me.”

“Sure thing!”

“Guess I need to make some posters,” you said, looking down at the dog. He boofed at you, tail wagging.

You had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

–

Soap actually hadn’t meant to stay this long. He really hadn’t. But, well, you were pretty and lonely. It wasn’t hard for him to smell it on you, although it was less pervasive when he stuck near you.

And the team wasn’t supposed to be back for a few more days, so it wasn’t a problem to stay for a little longer.

(He could also admit, if only to himself, that he also needed more time to orient himself. He had no idea where the fuck he had ended up.)

Maybe it was a bad idea, but he was making it work. And he wasn’t stupid, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay long. Tonight, probably, he’d have to leave. Now that he knew where he was and where he needed to go.

Hell, he knew that if Price found out, he’d have Soap’s head. Staying with an uninitiated human was risky, even though he had excellent control of his shifts. And it wasn’t just a risk to himself, but to his whole team.

Bad decisions seemed to be the theme of his forced downtime, though.

He’d just have to leave tonight and sneak back onto base. No big deal. Nobody would know, he wouldn’t get in trouble, everything would be fine.

He did feel a bit bad when he hopped down lightly from your bed. Hopefully you wouldn’t spend too much time looking for him.

Making sure to leave the back door cracked open a few inches to show how he’d gotten out, Soap trotted off back towards base. It would be tight, getting back in before sunrise, but he’d always enjoyed a good challenge.

He didn’t enjoy being wrong.

Which he very much was.

Price stood outside the barracks, arms crossed, staring down at him. Soap gulped, ears flattening to his head, tail tucked.

“Inside,” Price growled, opening the door for him. Soap slunk through the door, obediently following Price down the hall and to his room.

By now, the lot of them had no shame around each other. Hard to be body-shy when they’d all shifted together, many times, and shared sometimes tight sleeping quarters. So Soap just waited until the door was closed to shift back to human.

“Explain.” Price leaned back against the door, arms crossed over his chest again.

“Didn’t think ye’d be back so soon,” Soap muttered, grabbing a shirt first.

Price didn’t say anything, just stared Soap down, even and outwardly calm as only he could be.

“Just went for a run,” Soap said, shrugging, even as he grabbed more clean clothes to pull on. “No’ a big thing.”

“Must have been a long run.”

“Aye.” Soap swallowed. “Might’ve gone farther than I wanted.”

Price nodded once. “Any trouble?”

Soap shook his head. “Nah. I was careful.”

Finally, Price’s shoulders relaxed. “Good. And your shoulder?”

“Almost healed.” Soap relaxed too, grinning briefly. “I’m careful ‘bout it!”

Price snorted his disbelief of that. “Then you can go running with Ghost. 0600.”

Soap didn’t groan, because that wouldn’t help his case. He tried not to pout, because this was absolutely a punishment, and they both knew it. “Yes, sir.”

Price nodded once and let himself out, the door clicking shut softly after him. Soap flopped face-first onto his bed and groaned into his pillow.

–

You tried hard not to be heartbroken when you found the back door open a little, cold morning air wafting in. The dog was gone.

Hopefully he’d find his way back home on his own.

You spent the next three days keeping your eyes open any time you went anywhere, just in case. If he was still lost, well, at least he knew you. You could always make more dog-friendly food.

And when you didn’t see the dog for a week, you figured that was it. He’d found his way back home. That was okay. It was much better for him to be at home. You wouldn’t wish losing a dog on anyone. At least, not anyone who took such good care of their dog.

You parked in front of your house and slumped forward, forehead resting on the steering wheel. You were tired. Exhausted, really. The kind of exhausted that came from too little sleep and stress and probably a little bit of touch starvation.

You might have stayed right there for longer, trying to find the energy to move, except there was a woof, and then the car shook a little as a dog stood on its hind legs to look in the window. The dog.

“What the hell?” You blinked at the dog and then grabbed your things, opening the door. “What are you doing here?”

The dog wagged happily at you, boofing at you and running up to the front door. When you didn’t move fast enough, he ran back to you, tail still wagging.

“I thought you went home.” You blinked again but moved slowly to the door, opening the door. The dog pushed past you to head inside, trotting right along. He looked good - no mud this time, at least. His coat looked good, and he didn’t look like he’d lost any weight. So he was being taken care of.

Even if he had escaped yet again.

“You’re going to give your people a heart attack,” you scolded gently, locking the door behind you before putting your things down. “How did you even get back here?”

He whined a little, excited, tail still going a mile a minute as he tried to wait patiently for you in the kitchen. You dropped a hand to pat the top of his head, opening your fridge to look inside.

Not that there was much to see. You hadn’t been shopping, and it showed.

“Um.” You frowned, glancing down at the dog. “Hm. Well, I can probably whip up something.”

The dog watched you, sitting just at the edge of your space so he was barely not in the way, eyes bright and ears perked. He was pretty big for a husky, even though the coloring matched. He was probably a mutt of some kind, but you were a bit surprised at his size.

“Here you go, big boy.” You set a bowl down for him again and took your own plate to the tiny table.

Where you sat and stared at it, stomach turning. You needed to eat. You knew you needed to eat.

You just… didn’t want to.

The dog rested his head on your thigh, whining softly. But he was looking up at you, not at your plate.

“It’s okay, pup,” you immediately murmured, one hand dropping to scratch between his ears. “You still hungry? I’ll give you more in a little bit, have to make sure that settles okay first.” You gently rubbed your thumb over his furry forehead and between his eyes in slow, soothing strokes. His eyes closed with a big sigh.

You weren’t sure exactly how long you sat there, curiously blank, stroking this dog. Long enough that your food had gone cold. Finally, you gave up on it and put a bit more into the dog’s bowl before putting the rest away for another day.

Your bedtime routine was barely disturbed by the dog, and he once again hopped up onto your bed. This time, you didn’t protest, just let him get comfortable.

And when his head landed on your thigh, his warmth stretched out next to your legs, you just sighed softly and closed your eyes.

You weren’t sure if you were surprised or not when you woke to an empty bed and chilly morning air.

It took a while to drag yourself through your routine, getting ready for work by rote, brain definitely not engaged yet. Why bother?

But you still stopped, blinking owlishly at the sight of the dog sitting in the middle of the kitchen, tail wagging, jaws parted in a doggy grin.

“Oh. You’re still here.” You felt dumb saying it out loud, admitting to what you’d assumed. That he was gone again. And then you felt even more stupid because he couldn’t reply and didn’t even know what you’d said. “Well. I guess you’ll want breakfast, then.”

You reheated the leftovers from last night for him and set them down before getting your own things ready. You still had a few minutes before you had to leave for work, which you spent pondering what to do with the dog.

You couldn’t leave him locked inside. It wasn’t fair to him, and you didn’t want to come home to a ruined house.

He solved your dilemma by walking to the front door and sitting calmly, looking back at you. You huffed out something close to a laugh.

“Well, I guess you know your way home by now,” you agreed, gathering up your things and opening the front door for him. “Be careful, there are always idiots on the road.”

The dog boofed at you once before trotting off again, tail held high.

You got in your car and went to work.

–

Soap wasn’t an idiot. He knew this was a bad idea. He knew he should put you out of his mind and move on, because you didn’t know and couldn’t know about his nature.

But something about you just… pulled at him. Maybe it was how uncomplicated things were with you. Maybe it was the way you smiled for him. Maybe it was that he could help you feel better.

Maybe it was that his wolf loved the way you smelled and wanted to just bury himself in your blankets.

Whatever it was, Soap ended up sneaking away to you just about every chance he got. Any time the team had downtime, he was off. He couldn’t go during the full moon, because the pack always ran that night together, but he still managed to make time to go visit you.

“If you keep running off, Cap’s gonna follow you one day,” Gaz said as he dropped down next to Soap.

Soap huffed. “He hasn’t yet,” he pointed out, mostly just to be contrary.

“Ghost will, then.”

Soap had no retaliation for that because LT absolutely would. Actually, he was a little surprised that Ghost hadn’t already.

“Might be better to just come clean about wherever it is you run off to,” Gaz continued, slanting a look at the Scot even as he pushed food around his plate.

Soap huffed. Gaz was… not exactly wrong. But it still wasn’t a good idea. Not even close. He needed to figure out how to tell Price without the captain flipping.

“Don’t suppose you’re offering t’ help,” he grumbled, side-eyeing the other sergeant.

Gaz perked up a little, taking a moment to think as he chewed. “Might be,” he mumbled. “For an interesting enough reason.”

This was a bad idea. This was a very bad idea.

But Gaz was right - this was going to blow up in his face sooner or later. He could mitigate the damage with a bit of help and a fair bit of luck.

“Swear you won’t tell.” Soap held his gaze, drawing himself up a little straighter.

Gaz looked briefly taken aback before he nodded, slow and serious. “I swear.”

Soap nodded, took a deep breath, and started from the beginning. (Well. Not the beginning, because he still refused to admit that he’d been… temporarily discombobulated.)

After the expected razzing (and only a bit of shoving), Gaz stood to clear his place, Soap scrambling a little after him. A quick look around and the two went back to Gaz’s bunk to talk quietly.

“Right,” Gaz muttered, gaze darting around as he plotted. “I want to meet her.”

Soap puffed up, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“To see what she’s like for myself.” Gaz shoved him a bit with a little huff. “No offense, mate, but you’re a bit smitten.”

Soap opened his mouth to protest… and then shut it again. Because. Well. He couldn’t, in fact, protest that. He swallowed.

“This is not a good idea,” Gaz muttered. “Got a couple days off coming up, yeah?”

“Aye,” Soap agreed slowly.

“We’ll both go.”

Soap blinked at that. “Shifted?”

“Well, you said she takes you in, thinks you’re a dog.” Gaz shrugged. “Probably won’t think any different of me.”

This was truly a terrible idea. Part of Soap rebelled at the idea for no good reason, too - you were his, and he didn’t want to share you. But he’d have to. Especially if he ever wanted more with you than the stolen moments as a wolf.

“Right.” Soap breathed in deep. “We’ll try it.”

–

You almost didn’t even bother to get out of bed. But it was after noon, and you needed to drink something at least. Even if the very thought of food made you nauseous. So you shoved yourself out of bed, hands shaking only a little as you put the kettle on.

A soft woof at the back door nearly made you drop your mug, and you fumbled for a few moments before you saved it and put it on the counter instead.

There was a dog at your door. No, scratch that. The dog was at your door. With a friend.

“What the fuck.” You stared at the two dogs, blinking stupidly. The second dog was just as big, medium gray with the classic black saddle and tail tip. His snout was black too. Almost like a German shepherd, but in gray instead of tan.

Your dog, the red and white one, woofed again, tail wagging. Almost on autopilot, you opened the door for him.

“What the fuck,” you said again, watching as the second dog came in too, just as easy and confident as your dog. “Damn I wish you could talk. Is this your buddy? Do you live together? Have you both escaped the same yard? Or did you steal someone else’s dog?” You rubbed a hand over your eyes.

The kettle started whistling, and you trudged over to it to pour hot water for tea. Your dog kept pace with you, sniffing your legs and then your belly and whining softly at you.

“I dunno what you want,” you said, one hand drifting down to his head, rubbing a soft ear between your fingers. “It’s not dinner time. …I think.” You frowned, squinting at your phone. “No. Too early.”

The other dog kept a little more distance but did sniff your hand and accepted a couple gentle head pats. Tea helped you feel more steady, and your dog hopped up on the couch to curl up next to you.

“You can relax,” you told the other dog quietly, eyelids already drooping again. “You’re safe here. I’ll make dinner for you later.”

The other dog laid down on the floor a couple feet from the two of you, head resting on his paws, eyes open and trained on you. You didn’t take it personally, just huffing a soft laugh and closing your eyes the rest of the way.

“It’s too bad you have to go,” you muttered, hand resting on your dog’s head, which was pillowed on your thigh. “Nice to have some company.”

Your dog sighed, warm even through your clothes, and wiggled even closer to you. An afternoon nap was definitely in order today.

You woke to the sound of grumbling. Not quite a growl but not exactly a happy sound either. You blinked a few times, lifting your head (ow) to try to figure out what was going on.

Your dog was perched over you, head low, grumbling a little at the other dog. Who huffed right back at him, ears flicking forward and back.

“No fighting,” you mumbled, almost reflexively. “Or take it outside or something.”

Both dogs paused, looking at you, and your dog sniffed your face before licking your nose. You blew out a breath that was almost a laugh.

“C’mon, get off. I’ll cook.” You pushed the dog, more or less gently, until he hopped off the couch.

Cooking didn’t make you nauseous, at least. Even if you still had very little interest in eating anything.

The two dogs seemed to have given up on whatever spat woke you up, for which you were grateful. Your house was not at all dog proofed, and you were amazed nothing had been broken yet.

You forced yourself to shower, because you needed to and it was easier to motivate yourself to do something with the dog around. Then you sat up for a little while reading, your dog curled up on your bed with his head resting on your stomach, the other dog laying on the floor near the foot of the bed.

You were honestly surprised when you woke up and they were both still there, two heads popping up as soon as you sat up.

You finally felt better this morning. You’d slept better, too. You actually ate after you cooked and spent a bit of time outside, watching the two tear around the yard chasing each other.

But when your dog stopped next to you just as the sun began to sink, you knew.

“Time to go back home?” you asked him, smoothing down his fur from his playtime. He whined softly, wiggling closer to you and resting his head on your knee to look up at you with those big blue puppy eyes. “Well. You be careful.” You gently smoothed your fingers over the top of his head, smiling a little even though it hurt. “I don’t wanna hear about any dogs getting run over, okay?”

He huffed out through his nose, his eyes closing as he leaned his weight into your legs. You chuckled, patting his head before removing your hand entirely.

“Okay. Go on, before it gets dark.”

He looked up at you, almost pleading, before a soft bark from the other dog got his attention. His ears half-lowered, and he licked your hand once before he backed off and then darted off to join his friend.

The two of them were gone from your sight in moments.

You didn’t move until the cold forced you to go back inside.

–

“You,” Gaz started once they were both back in human skin, “are so fucked.”

Soap slumped. “Donnae remind me,” he groaned.

“So fucked,” Gaz continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Pretty sure your wolf has all but actually claimed her.”

Soap rubbed a hand over his face, because Gaz wasn’t wrong. But you had no idea he was a shifter, and he couldn’t tell you without Price’s permission. Which meant he also couldn’t pursue anything with you until you knew. It was… a situation. Definitely.

“Lucky for you, I have an idea.”

Soap perked up at that, hopeful. “Aye?”

Gaz had already grabbed his phone, typing quickly. “We can’t tell her,” he said, gaze focused on his phone. “But we can give her a nudge in the right direction.”

Soap leaned over, trying to see what Gaz was doing. “Gaz,” he said slowly, confused. “Why are ye texting yer mum?”

“Trust me.” Gaz flashed him a grin that was mostly teeth. “She had to woo Dad. She can help.”

This was probably a terrible idea. But. It was better than anything he’d come up with. So Soap shrugged, letting it happen.

“Now, for the other part of this plan.” Gaz grinned as he dug through Soap’s things, ignoring the Scot’s grumbling, until he found the collar. (Soap had drawn the short stick and had been stuck for an op. The collar had been to make him look less threatening. Fortunately for everyone involved, it had been a short op.)

“No.” Soap crossed his arms over his chest, glowering.

“Just wait,” Gaz soothed, grinning like the looney he clearly was. “I have a plan.”

Soap groaned. This was going to end terribly. For him.

–

There was a box on your front porch. You blinked at it, confused. You hadn’t ordered anything. And yet your name was written on top of the box, with no shipping address or return address.

You brought the box inside. Foolish, maybe, but it was too cold outside to stand out there and go through the box.

A handful of books filled the box most of the way, with a letter on top. Letting your curiosity get the better of you, you opened the letter first.

Keep an open mind while you read the books. There’s some very good information here. Things will make sense sooner or later.

It was unsigned, of course. You huffed. If this was a prank, it was pretty elaborate.

So you pulled out the books, examining them one at a time. The first one looked hand-written, with no information on the title page. The second book was labeled, simply, Etiquette. The other two books were no better, giving you very little information.

It took a good five pages for you to figure out the handwritten book was about werewolves. Or wolf-shifters? The terminology became confusing very quickly.

It felt like a prank. You were sure someone was going to pop up and prank you, maybe record your reaction. Who, you didn’t know, but still. The feeling persisted.

Because this? This was crazy. This was an entire secret society, a subset of the population that lived an entire secret life. It was impossible.

And yet you kept reading.

But you forced yourself to stop and walk away after you finished that book, having barely moved. You needed to eat. You needed to drink something. You needed a damn reality check.

Even so… Even so, you came back to the books after a meal and a walk. The little pile taunted you until you swore and swiped up the next book.

Which was all on shifter-people etiquette. Apparently. How they interacted with each other, how they interacted with humans.

Even if this did turn out to be a prank of some kind, it was an incredibly elaborate one.

One you couldn’t get out of your head.

It took a few days to read through all the books in between work, but you did. And then you went back and took a few notes, because some things were just… too interesting. Too unique.

You did keep the books in your bedroom. Not that you had a lot of company (or any), but it felt… wrong. To leave them out on display. So you hid them away.

You couldn’t explain why, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Now if only you could figure out why.

It was another three weeks until the dog came back, once again arriving at your house at almost the same time you did. He looked the same as always, tail wagging, jaws parted in a canine grin.

Except he was wearing a collar.

“Oh so your person does have a collar for you,” you grumbled, opening the front door for him. “Look at that, it’s practically a miracle.”

He boofed softly at you before running around to sniff everything, clearly trying to get caught up on whatever he’d missed. Which was… not much. A spill of take-out one night, a few naps on the couch, and late dinners after work.

Typical for you.

“Alright, c’mere pup.” You tapped your thigh, pulling your phone out. “Let me call your person to come get you.”

The dog drooped a little but obediently walked back to you, sitting patiently while you dialed the number you found on his tag. “Soap,” you mumbled, examining the tag. “Who the hell names their dog Soap?”

“Yes?” The man who answered the phone sounded brusque, borderline rude. You blinked, caught off guard.

“Um, hi. I have your dog? He’s been wandering over to my place recently and, um, I figured you might want to come get him?” Your eyes slammed shut. You hadn’t meant to make that a question. Really. Your people skills were seriously awful.

There was silence, then a sigh. “Soap?” he asked, dry with a hint of humor.

“Yeah.” You looked down at the dog, absently petting the top of his head.

“Right. I’ll be there soon. What’s the address?”

You hesitated for a moment before rattling it off. Well. He probably wasn’t secretly an axe murderer with such a sweet dog.

There was a soft grunt as he confirmed the address. “It’ll be about an hour,” he said. And hung up.

“Well,” you muttered, looking down at your phone, “rude.”

Soap whined at you softly, pawing at you gently until you resumed petting him.

“Guess we’ve got an hour, buddy.” You stretched and stepped around Soap into the kitchen. “I need food or I’m gonna be hangry when your person gets here, and nobody wants that.” You slanted a look at him. “I assume you want food?”

Soap’s tail started wagging, even though he sat patiently in his normal spot out of the way.

“Yeah, okay.” You huffed a little laugh and started pulling out ingredients. “You were gone for a while, buddy. I was worried about you.” You didn’t expect any kind of reaction from the dog.

Which is why you startled when he pressed his nose to your thigh with another soft whine. You looked down to find those big blue eyes focused on you, ears half-down, tail wagging slowly.

“Aw, I’m not mad at you,” you murmured, leaning over a bit to scratch under his chin. “You’re okay, cutie.”

His tail thumped faster against the ground, and you had to spend a minute petting him before you could wash your hands and continue with dinner prep.

Somehow, the knock on your door still caught you off-guard, enough that your fork clattered back to your dish. You looked at Soap, who looked back at you, ears up. Then you nodded once and stood, heading to the door.

You opened the door and blinked up at the man on the other side. Muttonchops, floppy hat, stern-set mouth. Big. Broad.

Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

“You called about Soap,” he said, voice brusque, though his tone gentled a little. He also didn’t make a move towards you, which helped a bit.

“I did.” You pulled the door open further, turning to call Soap. Only to find him already right behind you. “Here he is.”

“You’re in trouble,” he said, gaze focused on Soap. “Come on.”

But Soap took two steps forward until he could press against your legs, and stopped there. Leaning a good bit of his weight onto you.

The man blinked once, one eyebrow raising as he looked between you and the dog slowly, something almost calculating in his gaze.

“What are you doing?” you asked Soap, exasperated. “This is your person, you’re supposed to go home with him. Silly pup.”

“He’s stubborn when he gets an idea in his head.” The man planted his hands on his hips, looking down at Soap. “How long has he been runnin’ up here?”

“Oh, a few months.” Something about his tone made you nervous, made you shift your weight. But with Soap still leaning against you, the move ended up almost sending you falling over, and only a quick grab of the doorframe saved you any dignity at all.

The man sighed, shaking his head briefly. “Stubborn,” he muttered again. “Should get Simon out here.”

Curiosity burned at you, but you kept your mouth shut. Instead you nudged Soap, trying to get him to leave your side.

“Go on,” you encouraged him. “Don’t you wanna go home?”

The man’s eyes sharpened suddenly. “What did you say?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “Don’t you wanna go home?” You repeated, only a little squeaky.

Soap pressed harder into your legs, shoving his head under your free hand. And then the man sighed noisily.

“Right,” he grunted. “Can I come in?”

“Why?” You stiffened, hand gripping the doorframe tighter.

“We need to have a conversation and I’d rather not do it out the door.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious. This was weird. This was definitely weird. You looked down at Soap, who was still pressed up against you, and back to the man. A little lightbulb went off finally.

“Is this about those books?”

“Books?” He frowned and then shook his head. “We should discuss this inside.”

A little reluctantly, you let him inside. Soap stayed right next to you, going so far as to hop up onto the couch next to you.

“Right,” the man muttered, rubbing a hand briefly over his chin. “What books are you talking about?”

“I got these books, they were in a box on my porch. I thought it was a hoax at first, but…” You stood and jogged back to your room, grabbing the first book, the handwritten one. “I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

He took the book and flipped through the first few pages before he lifted his gaze to Soap. “Did you have something to do with this?”

Soap huffed and rested his head across your lap as soon as you sat down again.

That, more than anything, solidified things in your mind. Soap wasn’t just a dog. Soap was a shifter, of some kind. And undoubtedly this other person was as well.

“Huh.” You looked down at Soap, examining him more carefully. “Guess that’s why you kept finding your way back here, even when you shouldn’t have been able to.”

He just blinked up at you, wiggling a little closer and pushing his nose under your hand.

“What do you know?”

You pulled your gaze back to the man across from you, chewing on your lip for a moment. “Honestly? Just what’s in the books. And like I said, I thought they were a hoax at first. I’m still…” You trailed off, not sure exactly how to express what you were feeling.

He nodded, looking pensively between you and Soap. “Normally, we don’t tell others.” He paused to let that sink in, and you grimaced. “But this one found a way around that.”

Soap’s tail thumped against the couch. Clearly, he was totally unrepentant.

“So.” The man leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

It took hours to cover it all. Price, as you finally learned his name, was more or less patient with you. Less so with Soap.

The two finally left, with promises to bring you to base tomorrow. (Because, that’s right, Soap was apparently military, something you never would have guessed. And apparently Soap deciding you were his person got you some benefits? Honestly you were very unsure about all of this but Soap had given you such big imploring eyes that you’d caved.)

You would have expected that you’d be up for hours longer, pacing, working through everything in your head. Honestly, though, you just had energy for a shower, and then collapsed into bed and slept hard. Clearly, you already had too much on your mind.

You were still scrambling when the knock came at your door in the morning. “Hang on!” you shouted, hopping on one foot to shove your other shoe on, grabbing your purse and making sure you had everything you needed.

Not that you really knew what you’d need, but. You had the basics, at least.

Finally, you yanked the door open to an amused Price standing on your doorstep. Thankfully, he didn’t comment, just raised an eyebrow at you.

The drive was silent. Price kept his gaze on the road, sparing you only the occasional glance. For your part, you were too nervous to try talking.

When Price turned down a long drive to a fenced area, you swallowed hard.

“Nervous?” He couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice.

“A bit,” you admitted, knee bouncing so at least you had some kind of outlet for your nerves.

“Relax.” He slanted a look at you as he slowed near the gate guard. “You’ll be fine.”

You swallowed again, knee bouncing as the guard lifted the gate and let the two of you through. Price continued down the road and pulled into a parking spot, cutting the engine.

You’d known, sort of, that this base was here. People talked about it - that base out of town. Sometimes military men came through to the store or the bar, although you weren’t the closest town to the base.

But being here was something else entirely. You had no idea it was so big - lots of land, all enclosed. Multiple buildings spread out around the area, and you could see a group of runners off in the distance.

“This way,” Price grunted, jerking you from your thoughts. You turned and hurried to follow him inside, fingers twisting around each other, nearly jogging to keep up with his longer strides. He stopped in front of a door, pushing it open and stepping inside. A little more slowly, you followed.

Another man was standing in the middle of the room, mohawk mussed like he’d been running his hands through it, shoulders tense. You almost asked… but you met his gaze, eyes wide.

“Oh.” You couldn’t help but smile, still holding his gaze, those beautiful blue eyes fixed on you. “Your eyes really don’t change at all, do they?”

“Nah.” He smiled slowly, taking a step closer to you.

“Still want me to call you Soap?” You smiled, tipping your chin.

“Or Johnny.” His teeth flashed in a grin. “Ye can call me anythin’ ye want, lovely.”

You warmed at the easy affection, but you didn’t drop his gaze. “Can I…?” You lifted one hand slowly, a little cautious.

Apparently that was all he needed, though, because he stepped straight into your space and wrapped himself around you. You blinked and then snorted, your hand settling at the back of his head to rub against the hairs there.

“Personal space optional?” you teased, though you made absolutely no move away from him.

“What’s yours is mine,” he quipped, squeezing you affectionately.

“Sergeant.” Price sounded exasperated, and you pulled back enough to peek at him, suddenly worried again.

“This is why he didn’t let me drive to get you,” Soap said, unrepentant, shifting his grip on you enough to smooth one hand up and down your back. “Didnae think ah’d come back.”

“No,” Price said, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d come back until tomorrow.”

You couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped you at that, and you relaxed again. “So, what now?”

Price huffed something akin to a laugh. “You get to meet the other two, then we do some paperwork.”

“Speakin’ of.” Soap nodded to the door, grinning. Price heaved a sigh but walked over and pulled the door open.

“Gaz.” He stepped aside to let the other young man in, and you blinked at him. He gave you a quick smile and a little wave, though he gave you a bit of space. Something about him seemed… familiar.

“Did you come with Johnny one day?” You blinked, putting the pieces together. He kept the same bit of distance the other dog had, the same kind of reserved politeness.

Gaz blinked twice, lips parting in surprise. “How’d you guess?”

“I mean, it’s not that big of a leap.” You shrugged, ignoring Soap chuckling.

“We’ll talk about that later,” Price grumbled, shooting Gaz a look. Whoops.

Another man slipped into the room, almost as big as Price, wearing a skull mask. You blinked, a little intimidated.

“LT is a big softie,” Soap whispered in your ear, swaying the two of you side to side just a little.

“Johnny.” The big one sounded vaguely amused but also disapproving.

“This is Ghost,” Price said, since clearly he was the only one in the room with manners.

You twisted in Soap’s arms to look at him, lifting your hand in a little wave. You almost felt awkward with Soap still hanging off of you, but you were also comfortable. Sure, he wasn’t a dog, but still. This felt normal.

“Couldn’t keep your mouth shut, eh, Johnny?” Ghost sounded more amused than anything, though.

“I only told Gaz,” Soap defended, squeezing you a little tighter.

“Yes, about that.” Price raised one eyebrow at Gaz. Who immediately buckled and spilled the whole plot - the two of them going to visit you, and then Gaz writing his mum.

“So those books were from your mum?” You’d all settled into chairs or the couch. (You’d had to swat Soap a few times when he tried to pull you down to sit in his lap.)

“Must be.” He shrugged. “You still have ‘em, yeah?”

“Of course, they’re at home. I’ll bring them next time.”

He shrugged. “No rush. We’ve got time.”

And you did, you realized with a blink. With Soap crowded up against your side, the other three ranged around the room, you realized you had plenty of time. Now that you weren’t just waiting on a surprise visit from a dog. You smiled to yourself and leaned into Soap.

Yeah. You could get used to this.

#shifter au #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x you #f!reader

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ghouljams · 2 months

Note

Hello lovely!! In the Cowboy!Ghost au (of which I've just re read everything, it's absolutely incredible) you mention that Price is basically the baby whisperer, able to calm any colicky baby around, and with how emotional he was finding out about Goose's pregnancy... I'm begging... Can we please get a snippet of when Price meets and/or first holds Mary?

My favorite headcanon is Price loves babies, loves kids and always wanted a big family but didn't get a chance for it in the Cowboy au. I love Price with babies.

Even though the waiting room is full of your people your parents are the first in the room after you have your baby. Your mother frets over you after checking your chart, but your father? Your father hovers by the baby's little medical cradle.

Price holds his hand out to the baby in the cradle watches her yawn, little nose crinkling and brow furrowing as she wiggles in the swaddle. She lets out a little crack of a cry, a hiccup of a sob, and he settles his hand on her swaddle. He can almost fit her in one hand, still so little even for as big as she is. He swipes his thumb against her chest, soothing whatever is itching at her. She settles immediately, falling back into peaceful slumber.

"Can pick 'er up," Ghost tells him from the chair in the corner, Price hums. He knows, he just- she's just so little. He forgot how small babies are. There's a rustling of fabric behind him, Ghost standing and crossing the small room. Price pulls his hand away from the infant as he father reaches into the bassinet and picks her up. "Here, take 'er," he's careful with her, Price notes, easing the baby into Price's arms with the tension of a sniper on watch.

Price shifts the baby in his arms, gets her comfortable against his chest, and watches her face scrunch at all the manhandling. He shushes her, bouncing her gently in his arms to get her settled again. Poor thing, she's got a long day ahead of her. Born in the wee hours of the morning and she still isn't a morning person. Price clears his throat.

"You think she knows she's gonna be spoiled rotten?" He asks Ghost, watches the man smile at his baby, softer than he knew Simon was capable of.

"Look at 'er, she's already got everyone wrapped around her finger."

Price nods and reaches for his pocket, tugging a floppy plush rabbit free. "May as well start in on it then," he wiggles the bunny for the sleeping infant and she stretches in her swaddle with a squished smile. Wrapped around her finger is right, this tiny thing doesn't even know the fire power she's got in her corner.

It's a good thing he's retired, Price doesn't want to miss a moment of his granddaughter's life.

#simon ghost riley #x oc #cod x oc #captain john price #oc: goose #oc: mary “frog” price #cowboy 141 #cowboy!price #cowboy!ghost #these men love babies and i stand by that

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porcelainseashore · 4 months

Text

Ghosts from the Past (1)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agent! Leon Kennedy x Dancer! Informant! Fem! Reader

Summary: 7 years after leaving behind everything you’ve known, you’re suddenly thrust into facing a ghost from your past, Leon. Navigating where you stand with him brings up old memories, painful truths and countless questions. At the same time, you have to deal with a bunch of strange occurrences at your dance company. Set after Resident Evil 4 Remake.

Warnings: 18+ Swearing, Recreational Drug Use, Alcohol, Eventual Smut, No (Y/N), Canon-Typical Horror and Violence, Blood, Injury, Torture, Infection, Medical Experiments, Psychological Trauma, Nightmares

Content: Post-Resident Evil 4, Exes to Lovers, Partners to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, Romance, Fluff

Author's Note: This fic takes place after Part 1 Teenage Headache Dreams so feel free to give that a read first. Note that I might get a little creative with RE lore and chapter updates could be longer than before, so please bear with me. Thank you to all those who gave feedback and followed me on this journey so far! 🫶

AO3 Link

Chapter 1: The Invitation

7 years.

7 years since you last saw him.

But he hasn’t stopped haunting you.

You were stumbling your way through the sweaty crowd in one of the nightclubs you usually patronized. The thumping electronic beats resounded in your ears, as throngs of people writhed and shook to the music, raising their open palmed hands towards the DJ, like they were praying to some demigod. The room was bathed in a swathe of dark red light, and you were parting it like a sea of blood.

Dark kohl liner accentuated your eyes and your lips were the color of bruised plum, smudged slightly due to the humidity of the place. Your body was slick with perspiration, glittering under the lights, and it was barely covered by pieces of lace and a leather harness. A random guy pulled up next to you, whispering lewd nothings in your ear as you shoved him aside nonchalantly.

You were drugged up, high out of your mind, but everyone else was anyway, so why did you even care? Something instinctual told you to get to the middle, no matter what. So here you were, pushing your way through unapologetically, like you were on some unspoken mission.

And there he was. In the center. Blonde hair, blue eyes, t-shirt and jeans, just like you remembered him, as if time had not passed at all. As if it was only yesterday.

He stared at you intensely, wearing a scowl on his face, unspeaking. You noticed how tired he looked, like he just wanted to end it right there and then. So tired.

Maybe it was like those indigenous myths you had read about in class when you were young. The saying was that if one faces death, death has no choice but to grant them a final dance. Were you now in the shoes of death, frozen to the spot, watching him so he could cross over to the other side? Except, he wasn’t dancing. He remained there, completely still, eyeing you emotionlessly.

“Leon…” you mouthed, as your voice was drowned out by the blaring sound system.

The next moment, he disappeared into thin air like a shadowed specter, a faded memory of what you once had.

Suddenly, everything around you erupted in flames, the bright light dazzling you and the scorching heat against your skin causing you to shrink away in fear. Your lungs felt like they were suffocating as you coughed vehemently due to the thick smoke that enveloped you. What the hell was all of this?

As you attempted to make a run for the exit, you noticed piles of bloodied-up bodies lying on the floor, surrounding you in a tight circle. Tripping over them, your eyes widened in shock as you began to recognize who they belonged to. There lay your parents, Leon’s parents, Kayla and the rest of the cheerleaders… the count went on as you frantically tried to shuffle yourself backwards, away from the source of terror, until you heard a deafening screech tearing through your eardrums.

BRRRNNGGG!!!

The sound of your alarm clock jolted you from your sleep. Hitting the ‘off’ button in response, you cursed out loud as your body shuddered uncontrollably. Your blanket and sheets were wet and clammy with puddles of your sweat. Trying to calm yourself, you took a quick gulp of water from the glass sitting on your bedside table and started to slow your breathing down.

Why were these dreams getting more and more frequent? You’d see Leon each time and then everything would turn to shit. There was just so much carnage and destruction back there, it nearly felt real.

You turned accusingly towards the framed photo of you and Leon back when you had posed together for your college graduation, still standing upright on your bedside table. Gripping it tightly till your knuckles were white, you opened one of the table drawers and chucked it inside, watching it clatter into the darkness as you shut the drawer back roughly.

Fuck, Leon! Why? You cried out internally, begging him to stop with the nightmares. Cradling your head in your hands, you broke out into sobs, whilst at the same time chiding yourself for not moving on from him all these years.

Bzzzt bzzzt. The burner phone on your desk interrupted your thoughts abruptly.

You sighed, picking yourself up from the bed and groggily trudging towards it. Flipping the phone open, you were greeted by yet another cryptic text from your handler.

The Chancery. Cocktail event. Tonight 7pm.

Right. Not like she would give you any more information on what this was about. As an informant, you were on a need-to-know basis and had to be happy with whatever scraps you got.

Your mind took a trip down memory lane of how you even landed in such a position in the first place. Ever since that fateful day where you decided to leave and never turn back, you used up whatever savings you had and ran all the way from the Midwest of America to the capital of Germany. There, you naturally fell into the arms of the renowned Silje Völker dance company, who had welcomed you so warmly you even forgot about her peculiar, icy demeanor back when she had scouted you from the dance showcase.

You thought moving to another country and making a new life there would help ease the pain of losing Leon, but you were wrong. Still, it couldn’t be worse than remaining in the place where the catastrophe happened and everything reminded you of him.

Then, about a year ago, some men in black suits handed you their card, reaching out with a proposition. Work for the US government as an informant. We need people like you, they said. There was something fishy going on with Silje, a wealthy, eccentric heiress, and artistic director of the dance company you were part of. She even owned the theater where your training and performances were conducted, and that venue was now under suspicion. As you had worked your way up to become one of her principal dancers, you were now in a prime position to gather the information they needed.

They were just so convincing. It reminded you of what Leon had said when he was younger. About wanting to protect the innocent and make a difference in the world. With that, you didn’t even think; you just said yes.

Yes. To honor the memory of the boy you loved. Yes. If only you could have just said that one word to him, and to whatever he wanted. Yes.

So now you sought to betray the woman whom you saw as your surrogate mother. Your mother who had helped you find your way in a foreign country, where you were all alone, afraid and distraught. The one who nurtured you into the woman you were standing here today - bold, cunning and adaptable. It felt like life was playing a cruel trick on you. One you could not win.

After rushing through your daily routine, you gathered your things, slipping off an elegant, black cocktail dress from your hanger and stuffing it into your day bag, before heading out to the theater where you normally spent your waking hours training.

You greeted Silje, or Frau Völker - as she preferred to be called by the other dancers, except you and a select few - on the way in. Silje was a tall and wiry lady, with an aristocratic air about her. She consistently wore her platinum white hair in a tight bun, which pulled tautly against the skin along her jawline. For as long as you’ve known her, she never once took off her pitch black sunglasses, whether outdoors or indoors. Her dull-colored clothes covered her arms and legs fully and expensive leather gloves lined her hands at all times. Despite her fragile figure, she commanded authority and projected an intimidating presence.

As you entered the dance studio, she stopped you, gesturing to the dress peeking out of your bag. “Going somewhere special tonight?”

Nothing could remain hidden from her astute gaze for long.

“Oh, just an international exchange at the embassy,” you lied through a perfect smile.

“How patriotic,” she crooned. You had gotten used to her dark humor and sarcasm by now, so you didn’t pay much attention to it as you shrugged in response.

“Well, enough chit-chat. We have a lot of work to do.” She clapped her hands twice to raise the awareness of the rest of the dance company. “Let’s go through the second part of the Rite, shall we?”

“You-” She pointed a bony finger in your direction. “Need to make those jumps lighter.”

You nodded, acknowledging her criticism that she dished out to you in front of everyone.

“Be in the air, not tied to the ground, my dear.”

As she flashed over a wide, toothy grin, for a split second you were sure that you saw razor sharp fangs emerging from them. However, they were gone the moment you looked back again.

━━━━━━━━━━━

That evening, you exited out of Friedrichstraße station, one of the main shopping districts in central Berlin. The bustling streets were brightly lit against the darkening sky, as you darted in and out of the swarm of human traffic to get to the embassy. Your heels clacked along the pavement as you made a right, hurrying towards a closed off street, which was heavily fortified with barriers and fencing.

From afar, you could make out the five-storey, gabled building with beige stone slabs, and the American flag hanging over its front entrance. One of the guards checked in with you, jotting down some notes against your name on his clipboard as he ushered you indoors.

Dropping off your winter coat and day bag at the makeshift cloakroom, you slipped a couple of spare coins into the tip jar and headed up to the function room. Lively chatter and background music spilled out from its open doors into the corridor you were in.

You checked yourself anxiously in a reflective surface nearby to make any last minute adjustments. Since your handler hadn’t revealed much of why you had been requested, you wanted to make sure you looked the part and fit in, in case you needed to do some sweet talking with, what you might guess, the elite members of society.

Your hands were trembling ever so slightly as you smoothened out imaginary creases in your shimmery, black satin dress which clung snugly to your body, emphasizing your curves. It had a low, backless design that teased just the right amount of bare skin without raising a scandal. Despite that, you were still debating whether it was too little or too much. In fact, the length of the dress reached so close to the floor, it was a wonder you hadn’t had an accident while walking around in it yet. Maybe you should alter the hem of it in the near future.

The sound of the hallway clock chiming at 7 sharp disrupted your inner monologue, as you realized you should adhere to your punctuality. Making the final touches to your loose, tousled bun and swabbing your lips with a light layer of rouge stain, you finally broke away and entered the function room.

Drinks and canapés lined the long, white banquet tables to the side, while men in snazzy suits and women in fine threads gathered around in their cliques, conversing with each other. It felt like you had gone back in time and were thrown into some 70s gala party, where you didn’t know a single soul.

A waiter stopped in front of you carrying a tray of bubbly champagne in tall flute glasses. “Madame?” He offered you one from his delicate hand.

You nodded gratefully, taking it before situating yourself at a corner of the room, sipping your drink slowly. Glancing at your watch, you observed that 15 minutes had passed since the supposed meeting time of 7pm. Scanning the room proved fruitless as you didn’t find anything of note.

Where was your handler, Bergmann? What was this party for? You wondered.

At some point, you felt a shadow loom over you from your left shoulder, but you didn’t have a chance to react until it spoke.

“Talk about seeing a ghost from the past.”

Your ears perked up at the voice that you would recognize anywhere, except it sounded deeper and gruffer this time.

No, it couldn’t be…

Alarm bells started to ring in your head, as you tried to convince yourself that this was one of your nightmares again. Maybe you had fallen asleep on the U-Bahn and now you were lucid dreaming.

You pinched your arm, not daring to look in the direction of the source of the voice. This was just a dream.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna help.”

Or not.

Your breath hitched as you turned sharply to your left, coming face-to-face with a pair of electric blue eyes set in a hollow stare, the dark circles under them giving away his fatigue. His chiseled face was marred by a cut he was nursing on his bottom lip, and his mop of blonde hair was almost like how you remembered it, but longer at the bangs and lighter in color as if it had been bleached in the sun. He was also suited up, black this time, but you could tell he had grown bulkier and more muscular underneath.

How was this possible? What was going on?

You couldn’t even begin to comprehend the scene in front of you, as everything around the room began to spin and your vision blurred. There was the sound of a glass breaking, and the last thing you were conscious of was a strong set of arms wrapping around you, followed by a yell, “Give her some air!”

Then darkness came to claim you.

━━━━━━━━━━━

There was something wet on your face and what felt like a cold breeze, causing a shiver to run through your spine. Then, you sensed a light tapping against your cheek.

“Hey, hey. Wake up.”

Your eyes fluttered open and you were met again with those vivid blue eyes. As you came to, you realized that you were out on one of the balconies, your head propped up by his suit jacket while you lay on the ground.

He held out a glass of water in his hand. “Here.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows until you came into a sitting position, before taking it from him gingerly. Your body was still shaking as you drank from the glass and at this, he took his jacket and placed it over your shoulders to cover you.

“Thanks,” you managed weakly.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, while carefully helping you to your feet.

There was a moment of silence as both of you eyed each other without a word. However, it seemed as if he wasn’t surprised to see you, which was weird.

“Leon,” you stuttered. “How-”

The balcony door slid open.

“Ah, there you are!” A young man with a communication earpiece, whom you assumed was one of the staff members, called out.

He glanced between the two of you knowingly. “I see you’ve gotten acquainted.”

“Bergmann will see you now.” He signaled towards the elevators past the crowd.

Leon gave him a quick nod. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered in your ear as you followed the man leading you towards the top floor of the building.

Passing by an unassuming door on the fifth level, he rapped it thrice and you heard the distinct tone of Bergmann informing you to come in. He pushed the door and held it open for both of you before he left.

A woman in her late 40s with curly, auburn ringlets and donning a light gray pantsuit greeted you and Leon.

“Kirsten Bergmann,” she introduced herself while shaking Leon’s hand.

“Leon Kennedy.”

“Of course,” she smirked. “USSTRATCOM’s golden boy.”

You were confused, but started to piece together bits of the conversation. Leon had been alive and working for the government this whole time?

“So you’ve met my informant.” Bergmann motioned at you. “She seems to have a flair for making a spectacle of herself recently.” She frowned disapprovingly, referring to the incident that happened earlier that evening.

You bowed your head in embarrassment, but Leon appeared completely indifferent.

“Anyway, Hunnigan will be joining us on comms shortly.”

With that, she turned to one of the screens in the room which had been switched on and was showing a connecting symbol. A few seconds later, a bespectacled lady with her hair neatly tied back appeared on it.

“Hunnigan here. Shall we get to it?”

Bergmann took the lead on the discussion.

“My informant will be an invaluable asset to Agent Kennedy’s mission. She has nestled herself deep within the target company and gained the trust of Ms Silje Völker, who has started to, on her own accord, disclose further information in confidentiality to my informant. All the intel has been fed back to HQ.”

Pressing a button, Bergmann brought up a blueprint map of the theater on another screen, except this had additional markings on it in your own handwriting.

“As you can see, exploration of the target site has shown multiple hidden passageways, false doors and even additional depths absent in the original plans. A copy of this has already been forwarded to all of you.”

This time, Bergmann turned to face you, folding her arms as she continued.

“In addition, my informant has secured various key connections that will prove the validity of our findings and help Agent Kennedy gain a foothold on getting access into the target site easily.”

“We are certain this is the base of operations,” she added, almost triumphantly.

“And I shouldn’t have to remind you how this case needs to be handled with the utmost discretion,” she warned, gazing strictly at Leon and Hunnigan.

“We have to ensure that US-German relations remain solid and the last thing we want is for this thing to blow up in the public. Much less in the capital.”

“Understood,” came Hunnigan’s unwavering reply. “I’m sure Leon will be able to manage that.”

“Perfect,” Bergmann replied, looking rather satisfied with herself. “My informant will work closely with you on this. There are sights to see, people to meet, and she will accompany you-”

“With all due respect, I don’t need a babysitter.” Leon suddenly piped up from the middle of the room.

You watched in astonishment, your jaw falling ajar, as he insulted you in front of your colleagues. His harsh words stung you inside. It seemed as if he hated you, and wanted nothing to do with you. But why?

“I am more than capable of finishing this myself,” he continued firmly.

Bergmann’s brows furrowed and her nostrils flared, as she looked at Leon like she was about to reprimand a child. “I assure you, she-”

“Take her off the case,” he demanded.

“Agent Kennedy!” Bergmann raised her voice. “That’s not your decision to make.”

From the intercoms, Hunnigan concurred, “I’m sorry, Leon. It’s been endorsed by the higher ups.”

“This is fucking bullshit.” He smacked his hand on a nearby table in defeat.

A tiny smile appeared on Bergmann’s face and you knew she had a trick up her sleeve. “Besides, Agent, how good is your German?”

He glared at her pointedly. “Good enough.”

She laughed mockingly and proceeded to speak with him in German, using a mixture of complex and colloquial sentences, which you noted that Leon was having a fair amount of difficulty processing. Then she turned to you, indicating that you should answer, and you complied with her order obediently.

“She’s fluent, even passable as a native.” Bergmann remarked smugly. “You, on the other hand, won’t last a day with that grasp of the language.”

Leon didn’t respond, but instead resorted to shooting daggers at her.

“Well, now that part’s over and done with, let’s move on to the logistics.” Bergmann stated simply, as if the previous altercation had never occurred.

She pushed forward, briefing you and Leon on the capacity in which you two should work together, how to approach comms, backstories and the like, including the next steps required in the task ahead.

At the end, she requested you to step outside and wait for Leon on the ground floor, as she relayed further details to him that you were not privy to. You had grown accustomed to this sort of treatment, even if you didn’t like secrets being withheld from you. So you waited patiently on one of those stiff, high-back wooden chairs in the lobby, for the man you thought had been a ghost all this while to find you.

How did he survive? Why didn’t he say anything? Was he still upset about the past? Is that why he had treated you with such venom at the meeting? You had a million questions running through your head. Nothing made sense. Maybe the only reason why you weren’t having a mental breakdown at the moment was because you knew you had a job to do.

“Something on your mind?”

You whipped around, startled by the unexpected intrusion. It was Leon, regarding you with curiosity despite the constant scowl on his face.

You sighed, catching your breath and lowering your hands that had been clutched at your chest. “Wanna start talking?”

“Not here,” he replied. “Somewhere less open.” He glanced around before adding, “More rowdy.”

You nodded, understanding that he wanted a place without prying ears. “There’s a grimy bar that’s always packed to the brim in Neukölln. No one will give a shit there.”

He scoffed. “Sounds like my type of bar.”

Pointing at his attire, you commented, “You gotta get out of that suit though. Not unless you want to attract some attention.”

He leaned against the wall, allowing his bangs to fall over his eyes as he folded his arms and smirked at you. “Suits me.”

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy fluff #re4 leon #re4 remake #resident evil 4 #resident evil #porcelainscribbles

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peachesofteal · 2 months

Text

The Pit

2/2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.7k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dubious consent. Smut - M/M/F. Forced breeding and kink (but we're soft). Medical inaccuracies. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Misery inspired. Horror-ish. Whump. Caretaking. Imprisonment/kidnapping. Forced comfort. Addiction. Feelings of fear, panic, anxiety, hopelessness. Simon calls the shots.

It’s snowing.

The forest floor is covered in thick, white cotton, heavier than cement. It sticks to your clothes, your knees, soaking you to the bone. You slog through the snow; the forest grows longer. Taller. Trunks of trees enclosing you in a cold grave, a cage.

You have to try. You have to.

The moon illuminates your path, a swath of silver light refracting through weeping frozen branches, their backs bowed with the heft of the snow, cracking and shivering under their burdens.

They’ll snap eventually. They’ll break.

Just like you.

Wolves howl in the distance. It makes no difference; how close they are. You can’t take much more, newly healed leg already spent, lungs heaving for what little air there is in this elevation.

They circle. Blood-soaked maws snap at you, herd you closer and closer to the start, to where it all began, to where it continues to begin, again and again.

The house.

Your knees find ground.

You’d rather die now. Freeze in the snow. Or…

A jaw snaps. You hold out your hands. For freedom. For peace.

The last thing you see is the flash of pearlescent canine, ripping into your flesh.

“Shhh, jus’ a nightmare.” Simon’s thumb works across your brow, concern shining on his face in the dim lighting. You shiver, even in a room like a sauna.

“Did- did I wake you?” He shakes his head. Of course, you didn’t. He’s always awake. He’s always watching.

“Close your eyes.” He tucks you close, blazing heat from his massive, pillowy chest bleeding into your back, your ribcage expanding slowly. It’s rhythm, sick, twisted rhythm, syncing you together, your breathing evening out, steadying in his hold. He reaches for Johnny, who’s curled on his side, and strokes through some long, loved pieces of mohawk. Lips muss your hair. “Sleep, little dove.”

The floorboards in the hallway creak.

They talk to you, whisper about comings and goings, each spot singing a specific frequency just so, hitting the right pitch at the right time, a chorus of shifting weight echoed by hackneyed groaning.

The creaking is didactic in nature. It exists to teach you something, to plainly expose the things you should have been paying attention to all along: footsteps in the morning, in the evening, shuffles versus steps. Schedules, routines, things you didn’t pay close enough attention to, things you didn’t care enough to notice, all laid out very carefully in front of you. The weeping wood of the floor practically begged you to notice, but you were too distracted by the never-ending reminders of your agony, and the cups of tea that made you woozy. You were too busy craning your neck to catch a glimpse of the outside world beyond the window, too preoccupied with trying to stand on your own without vomiting all over the floor (again) to catch what the hallway was trying to say.

If you had listened, you would have stood a chance.

“Alright, here we go.” Johnny murmurs, an arm under your knees, another around your back. When he rises, cradling you into his chest like a child, you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, desperate to tamp down the whimper that breaks free. “I know, I know. Almost there.” He soothes, lowering you to the couch where the pillows are all placed in very specific positions. One of the goes under your calf, another your knee, and they line the sides of your ribs for your arm to rest elevated, comfortably. He cups your cheek, warm thumb gently moving across your skin, sweet, molasses thick affection, like the cough syrup you used to swallow when you were young. “Do ye want some tea?” Yes. God yes, a thousand times yes. Yes, you want the tea. Yes, you want to fall into the bleak darkness of drugged sleep, the vat of unconscious swallowing you whole every time. You want the buzz of numbness, the shadow of an orphic, endless pit. You want to slink away from everything, from them, from whatever this is, from what’s happened to you.

“Yeah, I-“

“Johnny.” Simon says his name softly from the kitchen. “Let’s wait a bit on the tea.” His brow furrows, light venetian blue eyes tracking across your face. They catch the light just so, sparkling downward, sea foam, sea glass and ocean spray, all mixed together into kaleidoscopes spiraling outward from his pupils, and when he frowns, you swear they darken.

“She’s in pain.” He protests, straightening to full height. There’s something happening above your head, something he concedes to with a sigh, shoulders relaxing, a regretful glance cast your way. “I’ll get ye some naproxen, dove.” He promises with a kiss, and then you’re alone in the living room, unable to move, snuggled against the worn leather couch.

Your leg is in a cast. Paper and glue, you think, makeshift at best, and they both remind you of it all the time, how it’s not medical grade, how you can’t attempt to walk on it, how the bone is incredibly fragile, and will be, for a while. It’s in worse shape than your arm, which at least has a black brace on it, covered from elbow to wrist, immobilized with a dull ache, a pain consistently throbbing, but doesn’t make you cry. Not the way your leg does. Your leg screams with agony, still, pins and needles and buzz saws in your bones, a haunting torment keeping you awake at night, making you second guess your desire to live.

The tea helps though. The tea makes everything less, makes the pain round, instead of sharp, makes the fear feel farther away, instead of right on the tip of your tongue, like a monster on your doorstep.

Simon says your name, broad shoulders stationed in front of the fireplace, glass of water in one hand, two pills in another.

“Do you want to sit up?” You blink at him, and he kneels before you can answer, perching right next to your shoulders. “Open.” You give the pills a dubious glare, unsure, lips zipped tight. It could be the naproxen, but it could be something else.

After all, the tea is not just tea.

He sighs in the same exasperated sentiment, and then his thumb and forefinger are grasping your cheeks, cold shiver erupting down your spine at the contact, and he pushes your mouth ajar. “Don’t be like this, sweet girl. Thought you were going to be good today?” He’s referencing something you remember vaguely, a discussion from last night in the dark, a promise you made when the world was coated in sap and too far warm, sticky like the sweat clinging to your neck-

“Ye dinnae need to cry, little dove. Don’ we take such good care of ye?” Johnny cooed, eager. “Ye just need tae be good for us, and we’ll do everything else.” He was holding you tight, too tight against his skin, heat radiating from him like the sun.

“I don’t understand.” You moaned, unable to move or twist away, trapped in the cage of his arms, Simon sitting prim on the edge of the bed, one hand on your hip.

“You will, in time. By spring, we hope.” Simon told you, dark sympathy in his eyes, words stretching into a mixed-up sentence jumping around in your mind. By… spring? What does that mean? Johnny’s hands roamed over your skin beneath the blankets, stroking across your breast to delicately pinch at your nipple, before dipping further south, slipping into your folds without warning.

“Ah!” You gasped, tense, frozen beneath his touch.

“Shhh.” Simon pats your hip. “Let Johnny put you to sleep, dove. You’ll feel better after a rest.” Johnny’s fingers stuffed in your pussy, thumb dancing across your clit, would lull you into tea addled sleep, and warring emotions swirled in your head. Your desire for this, your acceptance of this, is sick.

You’re sick.

You think of the snow. The reflection on the floor in this room, crystallized shimmer on the ceiling. The sun has been out, and you’re dying, wilting, from not feeling it on your face.

“Tomorrow.” You croak, and Johnny pauses. “Tomorrow can I… can I go outside?”

“Will you be good?” Simon’s thumb rubs at a spot on the corner of your mouth, and you nod.

“Yes… I- fuck.” Johnny’s breath hitches, and your walls clench up tight, squeezing. Small explosions of light dance across your eyes, pain mixed with pleasure, peaks and valleys rolling through your muscles. “Fuck.” A big, scorching hand spreads across your lower belly, just beneath your navel, and pushes.

You come immediately. It’s overwhelming to keep yourself relaxed, to prevent the spike of pain from your injuries, but an orgasm dulls everything else, and you cry with its intensity.

You’re sick.

You don’t miss the way Simon’s hand lingers, how his eyes don’t leave that spot, how Johnny’s hand covers his, and they hold there, lost in their own world for a second.

“If you’re good, sweet girl. We’ll take you outside.” He whispers, arranging limbs and waists and feet to his liking.

You fall asleep dreaming of a blizzard.

The pills go down so easily.

And you suppose they help. For a while, anyway.

Enough time for Johnny to get you set up on the porch, zipped up in their clothes and propped up on a loveseat rocker.

You wonder if they sit out here in the spring. In the summer. Do they drink their tea and eat their biscuits and watch over their domain like kings? It’s so American, so southern, to envision, and you almost laugh at the idea of either of them swapping their black bitterness for something iced and sweet enough to rot the teeth right out of their head.

“Dove? Can ye look towards me?” Johnny sits half on his knee across from you, on another outdoor, plastic chair. He’s got his sketchbook and pencil in hand, excitement brimming from eyes to lips, like a child. Full of wistful bright light, the sun itself.

Simon’s sun, it would seem.

You’ve noticed it, how Simon is the earth, but Johnny is the sun. The whole world, revolving around one ball of light, one eager, wild Scot, a star, the only, in Simon’s sky.

He draws you with efficiency. Moving and directing you just so, not daring to jostle you or cause you discomfort, but still ensuring he gets the best light. The barely-there dew drops of dawn. The glisten of a million frozen crystals at your back.

He handles you like glass. He stares at you like you’re a doll, a fragile one, like you had when you were a girl.

In the quiet moments, which are many, you catch them staring at you. If they’ve brought you down to the living room, they lurk in the kitchen, murmuring to one another in voices too low for you to catch. If you’re in the bedroom, they curl around you like wolf pups, pawing and petting until you’re asleep.

You don’t understand.

They won’t even talk about it with you now. How you came to be here, how they’re insistent you’ll have to stay until spring, when the pass opens.

Their words are a sickness, infecting you, spreading through your system until they’ve touched every piece, inside and out.

It’s madness. The kind of madness that pushed you to the brink already, made you feel like you’re losing touch with reality, with yourself. The kind of insanity that nearly got you killed.

You test the weight. Just barely, just enough that it screams under the pressure.

If you could make it to the door.

If you could make it down the hall.

If you could get out.

You grit your teeth.

The house has been silent for hours. No creaking floorboards. No heavy footsteps. You close your eyes, hold your breath, listening one last time.

They must not be here.

They go out, every once and a while. Bring things back. You’re not sure where, or how.

You shuffle a step, dragging your foot. It’s more a hop, but you use the bed to offset the inevitable thump of your body weight, managing to make it to the end, fingers deathly tight on the wrought iron.

You can do it. You can.

It’s only three, four hops at most to the door. On one leg, in a weakened state, it’s harder than you thought, but when your fingers lay on the door handle, the release of relief in your chest is overwhelming.

Yes! Yes. You can do it. Just-

The knob does not turn. You pull, applying more force, trying to jiggle it, see if maybe it’s stubborn or just old. This cabin is certainly old. Even though it’s been hollowed out anew inside, the bones are ones of a hunting cabin. A long-forgotten place, now housing horrors anew.

You twist and tug again. Every time it doesn’t budge, you try a little harder, each metallic scrap and jangle louder than fireworks.

You tug and you fiddle. You close your eyes and push down the rising panic.

The truth comes rushing over you all at once.

It’s locked. It’s always locked. That’s why Simon ensures it’s shut completely, each time they come and go.

They never intended to take you home. They never are going to give you your phone, or theirs, they’re never going to get you back over the pass.

You’re locked in here. With them.

The tugging becomes something else, something wired and frenetic, until you’re jerking the door handle with all your might, shaking the frame, screaming. The motion destabilizes you, and your lack of strength does you no favors.

Before you can self-correct, you stumble. You fall, instinct forcing your bad leg down, and when you try to catch yourself, you howl so loud you think the mountain shakes.

Your head smacks the frame of the bed on your way down, and then… as always now, everything is dark.

The first time you open your eyes after, Simon is seated in the chair. The same one he was in when they brought you here, severe and terrifying. The room is spinning, and you’re just as nauseous as the first day you laid eyes on him.

“I- I’m sorry.” You croak, but he only shakes his head, rising from his seat without even giving you a second look.

For a fleeting moment, the indifference stings.

“You’ll wear that,” he motions to your foot from the end of the bed, the good one, and you peek down to see a metal shackle clamped around your ankle. “until you can be trusted again.”

Johnny crawls into bed with you at night. He cries, hot tears on his cheeks, and coos over the leg with the break in it, and then over the shackle.

“I told him, ye dinnae mean to be bad.” His fingers shake as he traces your cheek. “Ye just cannae help it. It’s not yer fault, I know dove. Ye dinnae know any better. We have to teach you.”

“Johnny-“ Please. Let me go. Help me.

They all die in your throat when he presses his wet face to your neck like a dog, rutting his hard cock into your hip.“Ye’ll be right as rain by spring, I told him. Gon’ be such a good mum for the bairn, I know ye will.”

The world fades away. The silence suffocates, and you pray to die.

You cry the rest of the night, even when he shucks your pants down and licks your pussy until you’re coming on his tongue. You cry until he falls asleep, and Simon returns, settling in his seat, watching you both.

“How do ye feel about chicken soup tonight?” Johnny draws you back to him, sweet boy smile on his face, and your stomach clenches involuntarily.

Stupid handsome Scot.

You’re sick.

“That’s fine.”

“But do ye like it?” He’s so eager, back straightening with interest, really trying to learn, trying to figure out what you like and dislike, what will earn him your good graces, and what won’t.

You shrug. “Sure, it’s… it’s good.” A thought occurs to you. “Where do you get the chicken?”

“We’ve got ‘em in the barn. Can’t roam in the winter but we keep ‘em warm in there. Along with some ducks. A goat.”

“Farm animals?” “Aye. How else we supposed to make sure you’re healthy?” He waggles his eyebrows. You try not to grimace. “Si slaughters ‘em fresh. Everything tastes better that way.” A soft light shines in his eyes, a wolf’s instinct, and the shudder trembling down your spine makes your hands shake. “Ye cold?” He clocks it immediately, as he he does with every other single thing.

When he gathers you into his arms to bring you inside, tucking you back into the couch, you don’t even argue. You just sit there. Like a doll. Theirs.

Night is the easiest. It’s simple, to give in to your body, let them take over, take control of the parts that have long betrayed you. You close your eyes as they touch you, kiss you, make you come.

You even enjoy it.

That’s the worst part. You like it, when there are hands and fingers and tongues all over your body, like you’re being worshipped, like you’re some sort of god.

You like it, when Johnny gets overexcited and Simon settles him, guides him with a hand on his cock to your entrance, whispering slow in his ear, encouraging him to take his time. You like it, when Johnny’s pulse flutters under his jaw, when Simon holds you steady, when they get lost in each other, in you- you can almost pretend it’s not real, it's some fantasy, from a book, something dark and delicious-

Not your reality.

Tonight, Simon holds you in his lap on the edge of the bed, broken leg lying flat, his elbow crooked under your good knee and wrenched upwards, nearly pressing against your chest. The angle is intense, and Johnny grunts, muscles flexing with every thrust,

“Ah- fuck.” You moan and twitch, locked inside a cage, a confinement, the arms of your captors… your saviors. Simon swirls the pad of a finger over your clit, mouth open on your cheek, teeth nipping over your skin. You clench, Johnny cursing, some bitten off dialect you’re not familiar with, Simon’s voice dripping with smirk.

“Good girl, squeeze our boy, jus’ like that.” He does it on purpose, the talking. Knows how it makes you gush, long ago figured out the way to make your pussy clamp down around whatever he’s got worked inside you, his cock, Johnny’s, fingers, tongues.

Together, you’re an orchestra. Johnny is the strings, the violin, the viola, a cello. He plucks so perfectly, a harmonious blend of beauty spills from his bow, rising in the air until the audience is on their feet. His music trembles. It quivers and cries, like the wail of grief.

Your grief.

You’re the piano. An entire world, nestled in one instrument, but you play off tune, broken and sharp, pitch all a mess- you don’t even belong here.

Simon is the maestro. He directs each note, each melodious ring exactly as he wants it, working the music up to a brilliant crescendo, and it comes crashing like the force of a wave breaking onto sand. He conducts you, Johnny, the day, and night. He orchestrates the flow, lyrical give and take evolving in the house, your captor status slipping farther and farther away each night you take them into your body.

He knows you like it. Knows he’s in the lead, knows they’re winning-

And he doesn’t let up.

“Harder.” He coaches, and Johnny obliges, mouth open in bliss, eyes nearly rolled backwards. His fingers clamp down on your hip, too close, and you hiss in fear, the preparation of pain.

Simon snarls, yanking it away, holding to him tight before discarding it in exchange for the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” Johnny pants. “Sorry, dove.” You want to tell him to fuck off, to tell him you hate them, you hate them both, but you're only able to give them a high pitched moan of pleasure. “I’m gon’ come.” He grunts, and Simon yanks him forward, lips smashing together, tongue snaking messily between teeth.

For too long, the three of you hold fast. Johnny’s reckless, furious thrusts shove you backwards, over and over again. “Pull out.” Simon commands, flat palm on his chest. “Do not, Johnny.” He pushes him away from you like a dog, shoving him backwards with a firm forearm, a piece of rebar turned flesh.

He comes all over your belly, splashing thick white splatter across the mound of your cunt, up past your navel, choking on gasps of breath as Simon heaps praise onto the two of you.

Later, after they’ve bathed you, given you another orgasm, and all are almost tucked in, you whisper in the flickering fire light.

“Can I… can I have some tea?” Simon starts. It’s small, barely visible, but you feel it, in your bones. The echo of him in the room.

He holds your head between two palms, and you wonder if he’ll crush your skull. Decide it was all too much trouble. You’re too sick, feeble in your mind, too weak to survive.

“To sleep?” He asks softly, eyes darting over your shoulder for a split second, heavy with worry.

“Please?” There’s something in his eyes you don’t understand, a whirling mist of hell and desperation, and then it clears, and he motions a go ahead to Johnny.

“Alright, dove.”

The tea settles you into silence. With it, you can exist. You can survive.

It numbs you from the inside out, and as time passes, you feel no pain. You’re tangled in a dark web, a viscous manner of thing weighing you down from all angles. You feel nothing, and days turn to weeks, weeks to a month. Soon, the world is thawing. Snow melt turns to river and mud, greenery fighting for its chance to sprout and survive. Your leg is healing.

Spring comes.

The day you roast a chicken is the day your life ends, for good.

It’s domestic, the act. An olive branch to Simon, who’s angry with you, again. Who’s frustrated, took himself outside to chop wood.

Johnny mopes inside the house.

“I hate it when the two of ye fight.”

“Well, if he wasn’t such a stubborn asshole.” You hold the wooden spoon like a wand before returning it to the cast iron, swirling it around in the mess of butter and onion. “Then there wouldn’t be an issue.” You swallow the sting of his earlier refusal. The quick rejection of your request.

All you wanted was to go on a walk. It’s a beautiful day.

Why must the leash be so tight?

“He’ll be happy ye’re cookin’ again.” Johnny grins wide, pretty face beaming over the counter, and you sigh.

Maybe.

You’re watching out the window when Johnny approaches him in the yard. You can’t make out anything their saying, but the body language paints enough of a picture.

Johnny is rigid, angry.

Simon is calm, placating.

Words are exchanged, brows shifting with sympathy, sweetness.

Johnny erupts with glee. He shines like the sun, and Simon smiles, a real, true smile.

They’re beautiful.

And you’re sick.

The three of you tangle together in the dark. It’s a sailor’s knot, thrice over, difficult to understand which piece is which, where one begins and the other ends.

Simon’s anger is long melted. A glacier, gone leaving only a gash in the rock behind.

It’s this gash, this quiet undercurrent, keeping you focused on the wrong thing, pliable in bed until you realize Johnny is murmuring something in your ear, two arms banded around your waist from where you lay on your back, atop his chest.

“We cannae wait,” His hand strokes over your belly with reverence. The words cut through the thick, heady haze, and you try to twist to look at him. “watch ye get big with our bairn, goin’ be such a good mum.”

“Wh-what?” you choke, tensing. They try to settle you, sweet words and mouths everywhere, but you cannot get away from the fear.

From them.

“You- ahh.” You’re on fire, a finger rubbing your clit, Simon’s width between your thighs. He spears you open on his cock, unrelenting, making you keen and cry, face wet with tears.

“Waited long enough,” He grunts. “Been wastin’ it for months.” He steals your whimpers, swallows them, takes them inside like you take him, like you’ll take him-

“- until you swell. Until you’re heavy, dove, round with us.”

Until you’re forever theirs.

It’s a snarled promise. A prayer. Your eyes find the ceiling, fire flickering in shadow across old texture, and you breathe.

He shoves your knees towards your chest, Johnny still lock tight around your ribs, tongue in the shell of your ear.

“Need to be still, cannae lose a single drop." His palm is searing beneath your navel, and he's practically singing, vibrating. “We love ye so much.”

They’re conducting Beethoven. Ode to Joy.

You’re playing Bach. Come, Sweet Death.

Simon comes in you for the first time, and you come too, clenching down around his cock as he praises you, holding onto him like you can’t let go. Like your body knows. Like you’re craving it.

“Good girl.” He croons, spooning whatever slips free back inside, shoving it deep, wet lips on your own. “Gotta keep me in, dove… jus’ like that, there you go.” You throb, squeezing again, pulsing for him. For the words.

You’re sick.

When they switch positions, and Johnny smiles at you over your knees, his canines shine nearly red in the fire light. Two predators, one prey.

Your heart cannot help but flutter.

Sick.

Eight months prior:

The bar is packed. Summer music festival, the banners say. The park is thriving, alive with melody, musical acts rotating on and off the stage, children running amuck with candies and balloons, families relaxing in lawn chairs.

An Americana tradition.

They sat there themselves, for a while. Watching. Burning desire growing hot under his collar every time he saw a mum and her bairn, a small, precious thing cradled close to a chest, an overexcited five-year-old having a catch with his Da.

Eventually, they retreated to the darkness, hiding away in the one bar in town, it’s small windows and dim light practically a calling card.

And what they found inside, well...

“Hey, what can I get you?” You’re perfect. Sweet and soft, like a dove. Kind faced; kind spoken. You make Johnny’s cock twitch just looking at you, and he pictures you on your back, legs spread wide, exposed for them to feast on. To fill. He can’t wait to taste you, hold you, kiss you, have all his firsts with you.

Will you fight them? Will you squirm? No, you'll be good. You'll be so good for them, their perfect, sweet girl. He knows it.

How did they get so lucky?

Simon tucks his ballcap lower.

“Sorry, there are a million people in here!” You half shout over the raucous noise. “You’ll have to speak up!”

“Just two beers.” His yank accent needs work, but it does fine when there’s one hundred other faces next to his. A sea of forgettable memories.

Just as intended.

Your fingers brush his when you deposit two drafts on the bar top, shooting off a total, and for a lingering second, he stares at you.

Simon caresses the back of his neck, thumb circling a loving touch into his skin.

A warning. A reminder.

Can’t make ourselves stand out. Cannot be remembered.

Johnny peeks at the name tag pinned above your breast, and files it away. Files everything away as they finish their pints, how you scrutinize the crowd, how you’re constantly working, looking for things to do, cleaning. Taking care of everything. The people at the bar, your coworkers.

His heart overflows with love. With warmth, and when they take their leave, he can’t help but look back one more, catching a glimpse of your profile, singing a silent goodbye.

See you soon, dove.

#peaches writes #the pit #ghoap x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish

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kit-kat-katie · 5 months

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The time between dusk and dawn

A/N: sorry for being gone a little longer than a month, I've been trying to finish the semester as well as I can. this is meant to be a small in-between chapter, something to get me back into the flow of the story before I rewatch Mockingjay Part 1. I hope you all enjoy this!

TW: reader sustains an knee injury, mentions of kidnapping, implied medical trauma

Pairing: Finnick x GN! Reader (romantic)

Summary: After arriving at District 13, you're in for a rough transition as you get used to a new environment and a new injury. Luckily, you've got someone special by your side to help you through everything.

(<- Previous Part | Next Part -> | Series Masterlist)

Not another word was exchanged between the two of you as you tried to fight off sleep. You were mentally weary from the Hunger Games - were your friends okay? - and physically tired from the fighting and running.

What about your friends, your family, back in District 4?

You try to speak, but your words are far from your tongue as you finally let sleep overtake you. Finnick squeezes your arms and places a small kiss on your forehead as everything fades to black.

The steady pattern of beeping medical equipment rustles you from your slumber. You can’t move your knee as a blinding light comes across your vision. Out of natural habit, you thrash around before a pair of strong arms bound you to the table.

“Watch out for them… they bite.” A gruff voice says as a needle slides into your arm.

You try to continue to fight them off, but an unusual bout of sleepiness takes over you. In a few seconds, you’re back into the darkness once again.

Once the sedative wears off, you’re back awake, but the medical equipment is much softer in the background. With no bright light in front of you, you can focus more on your surroundings. You’re not in with the stronger man and surgical weapons - a surgery room, you reason. Out of all of the unfamiliarity, there is something familiar.

“Finnick.” You breathlessly say as his head turns to you.

“You’re awake.” His hand meets yours on the bed as he leans forward and brushes some hair out of your face.

“My knee…” You take your other hand and try to feel down your leg, but Finnick catches your hand and tosses it to the side.

“The doctors took care of it. How are you, honey?”

“Scared about everything… any news about-“

“It’s not good,” His head hangs low for a minute, “they’re in the Capitol.”

“All of them?”

“The ones who are still alive.”

“Finnick.” You squeeze his hand as his eyes snap up to meet yours. “I knew this would happen, but…”

“But?” His voice got soft, as if he knows what you’re going to say next.

“I thought it was going to be me. I volunteered for Annie and Mags. It’s supposed to be me suffering, not them.”

“Don’t say that. I’m glad you’re here with me.” His hand ghosts your knee before returning to his side. “I’d have been torn apart if you had been taken.”

His eyes grow distant, but you’re quick to pull him back with a tug on his arm.

“I’m here, I promise. I’m gonna need you, darling. Who else am I gonna lean on when I need you to support me?”

“Finnick, stop laughing!”

Despite your scolding, your smile matches his as you attempt to take a step forward with your bandaged knee. You lean against the support rail as you stop to take a breath.

Finnick raises an eyebrow as he stands a few feet away.

“Are you sure you don’t need help, sweetheart?” His words are teasing, but you can see the genuineness in his eyes.

“I have to get used to this new knee one way or another.” You try to take another step forward, but your leg is unwilling to move.

You look back to the beginning of the hallway, which is six feet away from you.

It’s a foot farther from yesterday, and that’s enough progress for me.

“I changed my mind. I do need help.” You reach out to Finnick with one hand as you use the railing as a crutch.

He immediately comes to your rescue by throwing your free arm around his shoulder.

“You don’t have to go this alone. I’m always here to help you.” Finnick softly says as you both slowly make your way back to the hospital room. He pauses for a moment to press a soft kiss to your forehead, which makes you smile to yourself.

“I know.” You mumble to yourself.

But I can’t help but feel useless. What good is sunshine if every day is a cloudy day?

“The cane’s a nice touch.” Haymitch jokes as you sit in-between Finnick and him.

“I’m not in fighting shape, so this will have to do.” You shrug before Finnick grabs your hand under the table. “How’s Katniss?”

“Not good.” Haymitch says before taking a large drink of water. “You’d probably do better if you talked to her. She’s not exactly… pleased with my decision to take her instead of Peeta.”

“If you’re indirectly asking me to speak with Katniss, I’ll do it.” You set your cane aside as you look at Finnick. “Are you alright?”

You had seen his smile slip for a moment, but it reappears once you show some concern.

“I’m alright, Sunny.”

Your voice drops to a whisper as you say, “You don’t have to stay strong for me. I know you miss Annie and Mags too.”

You squeeze his hand, not expecting a response, but after a moment, he squeezes your hand back as if to say I know.

And, for a moment, you believe that everything’s going to be okay. Even if it’s a lie you tell yourself to sleep better at night.

tagging -> @yokolesbianism , @avoxrising, @honethatty12, @sweetybuzz25, @catvader101, @sollum, @emerald-valkyrie (send an ask or reply to be added for any future updates!)

#thg #thg finnick #thg x reader #the hunger games #the hunger games fluff #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games fanfic #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick imagine #fanfic #x reader

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hyperfixiation-station · 6 months

Text

I Didn't Mean That

TW: Blood, death, angst

Ghost hated you. It was just one of those things. Sky is blue, Earth is round, Ghost hates you. You weren't quite sure why, but you tried not to let it bother you.

Unfortunately, you were sent on a week-long op with him. You had been stuck with him for 3 whole days. 3 days full of insults and barely stifled anger. Day four brought a change of pace, but not a welcome one. You were stuck with him, holed up in a cave, using rocks for cover, firing on an enemy team who's camp you had stumbled into.

Ghost wasn’t sure why he was attracted to you. In truth, you were everything he should have despised, but for some odd reason, he found it alluring. Maybe it was your care-free attitude, the non-stop talking, the way you always had a joke up your sleeve and a smile for everyone. Maybe the saying ‘opposites attract’ really was true. Either way, he was not going to fall for you. Okay so maybe he couldn’t stop staring at you, and maybe his day was better whenever he heard your voice, and maybe your smile lit up the room and he wanted to keep it for himself, but it didn’t matter. All getting close to people had done in the past was cause pain, and he was not going to hurt you, or get hurt in return.

He had volunteered for this mission because he wouldn’t be going home on leave, as he had no one to go home to. However, if he had known that you had also volunteered he would not have come. As it was, he was now stuck with you, in a cave, with two M4’s and one box of ammo standing between the two of you and hundreds of enemy soldiers.

“Soap, how far out are you?” You cry into the radio, even though he had told you two minutes ago that he was 8 minutes out.

“Six minutes sweetheart, just hold on.” His voice crackles over the radio.

“You asking him every ten seconds isn’t going to get him here any faster.” Ghosts snaps at you. You roll your eyes and don’t dignify him with a response, training your gun on the incoming combatants and firing.

“Another one bites the dust.” You sing under your breath as another enemy drops.

“What the hell was that?” Ghost hisses at you.

“Another one bites the dust.” You say, grinning as you keep your eyes trained on the enemies. As best you can tell from his glare, he doesn’t find you funny. Like that's anything new.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being gunfire and us reloading. Suddenly the ground shakes and you look up to see a helo tearing the enemies to shreds. You smile as the radio crackles to life.

“Y/N, Ghost, how copy?”

“You came just in time Soap!” You cry into the radio.

“Glad to hear it! We can’t pick you up here, the terrain is too rocky, we’ll meet you about 12 klicks north-east of here.”

“Copy.” Ghost says. He stands up, holding his gun in front of him as you do the same.

“We go in like there are still hostiles left.” He says, you nod but decide against saying ‘not my first rodeo.’ He takes point, and you follow behind, sweeping the land in front of you for anything that moves. You walk in silence for almost a mile, picking your way over dead bodies and ducking under branches. Something flashes in the corner of your eye and you see a laser heading directly for your partner.

"Ghost!” You yell, stepping into the line of fire and swinging around to face the enemy. You pull your trigger, but not in time. Your back slams into Ghost as something rips through your shoulder, and your body erupts in pain. It takes everything you have to keep from screaming as you hit the ground.

Your whole body goes numb as Ghost drags you behind a rock to avoid the enemy fire.

“Soap!” Ghost yells into his radio, his voice hoarse. “Medic!”

He sounds so far away. Distantly, you realize that being able to see him and your body is not a good thing, but all you are really focused on is the fact that Ghost sounds worried.

His hand grips your shoulder and you are slammed back into your body. Pain laces through you and you grit your teeth to keep from screaming. Your vision is hazy and every breath sends pain through your shoulder. You try to curl up around the pain, let out a small whine as that movement hurts as well.

Ghost’s eyes go wide and he tightens his grip to keep you still. He removes his jacket and wraps it tightly around the wound on your shoulder. Blood soaks through the material almost immediately, and uses his weight to keep the pressure. You sob as his attempts to stop the bleeding feel like fire in your bones. You feel him shudder as he watches the blood soak into the jacket. Pain laces through your body with every touch, but it is quickly becoming numb again. Not good you think to yourself.

Ghost yells into his radio again, and this time the medic replies. The sounds of helicopters approaching are louder now. You cry out in pain as hands slip under you, one under your neck and one under your legs, vision going black as he picks you up.

You blink, and now you're lying on the floor again, staring up at the roof of a helo. Ghost leans over you, brows furrowed in concern. Distantly, you can hear him repeating your name. Is he mad at me? I’m so tired.

“No. Goddammit y/n, stay awake.” Ghost yells. He watches your eyes flutter in response before going limp again. He looks to the medic, who is busy pressing bandages onto your shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Stay with me, goddammit.” He mutters. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The whole point of hating them was so they didn't get hurt, he thinks angrily, and now they may die thinking I hate them. Why am I so fucking bad with this stuff.

~Happy ending~

“We’re almost there!” Soap’s frantic voice sounds from over the radio. The helo touches down and Ghost is shoved aside as a million different doctors swarm over you, rushing you into the infirmary and away from his view. He tries to shove the worry he feels down, but all that happens is it is replaced by guilt.

~time skip~

“I can’t believe you were that close to dying.” Ghost says coldly. Your eyes flutter open again, and you blink at him. Your throat feels raw and dry, your vision hazy.

“N’ce ta see you c’re.” You slur out, wincing as the movement hurts.

“Don’t be a dick.” He says to you, but there's no fire behind it. He helps you sit up, and you think you seem him wince when you grit your teeth in pain. He helps drink water before laying you back down.

“I’m injured, i get to be a dick.” I murmur, tired suddenly.

Your eyes flutter closed, your face flushing from the pain. Ghost's face is full of remorse, and he puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Sorry," he mumbles, sitting down beside you.

“Wh’t’r you s’rry f’r? You d’dn’t shhhoot me.” You slur out, too tired to function.

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. For… I don’t know. The way I’ve treated you, I guess. I didn’t mean it.” Is the last thing you hear before being dragged back into oblivion.

Later, weeks of transfusions and physical therapy and surgeries and bandages later, you are set free from the confines of that horrible prison they call a ‘hospital.’ Ghost is there to greet you and you think that maybe, just maybe, getting shot was a good thing. Your mind flutters back to the second conversation you had with him, one where you were lucid enough to actually communicate.

“I didn’t mean it either.” You had said, “So let's start over. My name is y/n l/n. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Pleasure. My name is Simon Riley, but most people call me Ghost.”

Yeah, maybe getting shot wasn’t the worst thing ever.

~And now, because I’m a slut for angst~

“Nononono.” The medics frantic voice echoes over the sounds of the chopper, “I can’t get a pulse.” He thrusts the bandages he’d been holding into Ghost's hands and instructs him to hold them down on the wound as he begins CPR.

The guilt and despair Ghost feels is sickening as he looks at your pale, bloodstained face and unmoving chest. Your blood gushes over his hands, is soaked into his clothes, stains his skin.

“Come on, dammit.” His voice cracks as he presses harder on your shoulder, “I’ll say sorry. I’ll say it a thousand times if you come back.” His hands shake as he presses down. His eyes flick up to meet the medic's bloodstained face, and his heart drops as the medic slowly shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, I'm so, so sorry.” Ghost whispers, tears pricking his eyes as he stands in front of your mother, forever the bearer of bad news.

“I’m sorry.” he whispers as he presents your father your flag and dog tags.

‘I’m sorry.” He whispers to you as he drops dirt onto your coffin, guilt and regret eating him alive.

“I’m sorry.”

#cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #angst #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #ghost fanfiction #enjoy

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