#cod fandom | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

emeraldborealis · 2 days

Text

Comfort

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN!reader

TW//CW: Hurt/comfort, mention of nightmares, established relationship, soft Simon, no use of y/n.

Words: 1,593

You woke with a start, a clawing tingling sensation building under your skin, a spike in your breathing. Your heart racing like a derby horse, let loose with a jolt of adrenaline. Refusing to slow until falling or passing an imaginary finish line. There would never be an end to this.

It was dark in the room, fear and panic growing even after the nightmare had ended, the memory of what it was about was quickly fading, the fear was not.

It had all felt so real, so vivid, the touches and pain still felt like they were there, you could almost feel them searing under your skin. Wanting to burst out, become something real, something that could hurt you more than just in your mind.

"You alright, love?" The soft voice of Simon beside you helped calm your racing heart, taking a deep breath you sighed, realizing you'd woken him up with your nightmare, turning to face him you found him already looking at you, his face hard to make out in the dark, but his eyes were on you.

"I'm alright." Your voice was a little weak when you spoke. Reaching out to him in your nearly blacked out room, his familiar shape was visible to you only by the soft moonglow from a crack in the curtains. He was here, you were alright. You'd be alright. Simon was here. He wasn't going to let anything happen to you.

When your hand connected with the worn fabric of his sleep shirt he pulled you closer, holding you comfortably to him. "Another nightmare?" Gently he cradled your head in his hand, bringing it to rest under his chin, you felt his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath.

You'll be okay. You'll be alright.

"Yeah." Closing your eyes you pressed further into him, breathing him in, drinking down his natural scent, it was soothing. Simon was a man you could trust, one who would never hurt you. He was a man who would part oceans of people for you, a man who would scare away the fear constantly bubbling inside of you without complaint. "How'd you know?"

"The shift in your breathin' woke me up." Gently his fingers started massaging into the nape of your neck, keeping you close and comfortable. He was an enigma to you, someone so hurt yet still so gentle. Not with everyone, but with you he was.

"You sleep that light?" You knew he was a light sleeper, but you didn't know it was to that extreme. A pebble of guilt began to build inside of you. He must never sleep when he sleeps with you.

"Unfortunately." His hand traveled down your neck, trailing up and down your spine, his fingers pressing firm enough to feel the notches of each vertebra as he went. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not really. I don't remember most of it, just the general feeling it gave me. It was a bad one." You moved more into him, you wanted to cry, wanted to scream. You were so sick and tired of these nightmares, never ending, never relenting. There was something fundamentally wrong with you, there must be, for rest to be more tiring than not sleeping at all.

You hadn't been through what Simon's been through, haven't seen the same brand of hell he has. You didn't have the right to complain to him, not when he's objectively been through worse. You weren't loved right, you saw things, went through things, but those weren't comparable to him.

"That's alright." He brought you ever closer, letting you move on top of him. If you could fall and sink into him you would in a heartbeat. Settle inside his bones, let them be a protective cage, keep everything else away from you. "So long as you don't want to talk about it because you think my nightmares are worse or some shite like that."

He's chastised you more times than you can count about not wanting to talk to him about your problems, told you just because things could be worse doesn't mean they're not hard.

"No, well, yes yours are probably worse. But I really don't remember this one, still wouldn't want to talk about it if I did. I just like to try and forget them." Laying your head over his heart you let his steady heartbeat stabilize you, gravity taking the few tears from your eyes and making them fall onto the fabric of his shirt.

Your hand laid on the other side of his chest, fingers rubbing small circles, your pointer and thumb pinching his shirt. You hated this, hated when you'd wake him up with your nightmares, hated having them at all. Simon needed someone better than you, someone who wasn't damaged, someone who wasn't just as scared as he was to go to sleep at night.

"I understand." Simon laid his hand over yours on his chest, holding it gently. "Just because the water could be deeper doesn't mean you can't be drownin' where you are. Trauma isn't a competition, I know you've been made to feel it is your whole life because people want to silence you. But talk to me, I'm 'ere for you, darlin'."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just hard, I'm trying." Turning your head you rested your chin on him, looking up at his face, his beautiful face. The first time you saw it you couldn't even speak, it was the face of the man you love. There was nothing else you needed to say about it. There was nothing else anyone needed to say about it. If people didn't see it for the beauty you did, then that was their loss. "They just- never stop."

"I know. I know. I understand." The pad of his thumb gently swiped under your eye, a frown coming to his face when he felt it was wet with tears.

Scooting up his body you wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your forehead against his. "Don't frown, they're just dreams. Hurts for a while, but I'll be alright, you're here. I'm okay. I'm okay." You repeated it just as much for yourself as him.

"I wish you could sleep peacefully through the night, I wish you didn't have bags under your eyes from exhaustion. I wish I could keep the nightmares at bay. I wish you wouldn't have to understand this pain like I do." His hands moved to rest on your back, rubbing up and down.

"Life is pain, isn't it? Everyday we can go through hell, and we just keep living, just keep going. Isn't that persistence what life is? What makes us human?" Gently you moved your fingers over his face, trailing the bridge of his nose and shape of his eyebrows. "My dreams are not something that are allowed to define me, that hell is not going to be who I am. But I'd be alright if when all was said and done I was known for loving you."

"Known for lovin' me? It is a 'eavy task." Simon chuckled, kissing your nose.

"That's not what I was saying and you know it." Pushing on his chest you sat up, half straddling him. "And it's not a 'task', loving you comes as naturally as breathing, so don't give me that crock of shit."

"Alright, I stand corrected." His hand moved to rest comfortably on your hip, softly squeezing it. "I'd like to be known for lovin' you, above all else. I'd like for my time spent with you to be the thing my life is associated with."

"It's a 'heavy task'." You mocked his words, mimicking his voice in an obnoxious manner.

"Alright enough of that." Sitting up Simon wrapped his arms around you, falling backwards he pulled you back down to lay with him, ignoring your noise of surprise he kept a tight hold on you, preventing you from being able to move. "You're perfect." The playfulness was gone, replaced with a soft tenderness.

"But I wish I was flawless, I wish I knew what it was like to live a life without this burden. I wish I could just be like everyone else. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, I don't know what's causing these dreams. I just want them to go away." Your voice wavered as a lump formed in your throat, a burning coal. Sniffing you tried to hold back your emotions.

"We'll get you to the point you can sleep through the night without bad dreams soon, I promise. I'll find a way to turn those restless dreams into somethin' peaceful. Soon you'll feel fine, no more eyebags, no more nightmares." It wasn't something he could guarantee, but the conviction in his voice silenced all of the doubts in your mind.

"You make things better, when I wake up to you I remember I'm alright. I don't know what I'd do without you." Taking a deep breath you relaxed yourself, settling yourself so you can start trying to go back to sleep.

"I'll always be 'ere, love. Get some rest. I'm 'ere." The feeling of him kissing your temple furthered you into calming down. Closing your eyes you nuzzled into him.

"Let's have something good for breakfast, but you make it, and you clean it up, and I just partake." You mumbled sleepily into him.

"Fuckin' 'ell you're a twerp. We'll see." His comfort was all surrounding, holding you safely, it kept you warm and calm. He was all you needed, all you wanted. Waking up to him would always be the reason for you to fall asleep again.

84 notes · View notes

namikaaah · 2 days

Text

#cod krueger #sebastian krueger #Krueger #Cod #call of duty #call of duty warzone #cod fanart #call of duty fanart #cod art #artwork #digital art #digital illustration #digital painting #drawing #cod fandom #Cod art

88 notes · View notes

simp-ly-writes · 2 days

Text

Suits, Ties, and Thus Spies (pt.7)

Pairing: Spy!Task Force 141 x Handler!Reader

Summary: Kidnapped, heartbroken, and thoroughly pissed off, you become a one man team- breaking through restraints, into houses and cars to find a way back home.

Warnings: 5000~ words, light swearing, blood, violence, torture.

A/N: these chapters keep getting longer and longer it seems. I will try and hold back my yapping... anyways! hope you all enjoy! :)

Masterlist | Taglist Request | un-edited.

Body bruised and scraped from being thrown around with the various landscaping tools around you, your head slammed against the door as the vehicle came to a halt. You took deep breaths in and out, picking up the dead-fish smell in the air. You were near the industry sector and by the sounds of the gravel crunching beneath everyone’s feet, you were upshore.

Three slams against a metal door and it creaked open and you pushed inside, stumbling with the bag over your head and losing balance as your feet were chained together as well. Shuffling back to a stand, the men above you laughed before a bucket of ice cold water was drenched over your body making you instantly shiver.

Breathing in through your nose sharply as the bag was then torn off your head, you found yourself lazily strapped to a wooden chair- it creaked everytime you shifted your weight. Eyes blurry to the newfound light, you blinked a few times before the once blob in front of your face turned into features and a broken-toothed smile was gracing just before your lips. Their cigarette breath causes bile to rise up in your throat yet you kept a natural expression, staring between their eyes to the crooked bridge of their nose.

A cigarette was being lit to your left side, they flicked the ashes on your suit as the sparks burned against your skin. Taking a quick glance down, you tried not to frown seeing your once beige suit now a tattered mess of brown and grey with various cuts breaking the soft plaid pattern. The head man, the one to choke you in the first place, takes a step back and sits on a metal chair behind himself, taking a drag of the shared cigarette before mockingly dangling it in your face. “Want a drag, dearest?”

You make no comment, just staring off past his shoulder, silently observing your surroundings for more clues. You press your head against your shoulder, mocking a scratch behind your ear as your comms flood your eardrums once more. Samantha is crying and losing her actual shit as John raises his tone at one of the nearby officers- not allowing him to check the security footage. That makes sense as to why Samantha is currently losing it- more unnecessary work to hack into the system.

Thinking to yourself, this is more relaxing, getting to sit down and take a break, being on the receiving end of the saving than being the sole savior. You can’t help but produce a small smirk as you roll back your shoulders and lean back into the chair, spreading your legs for comfort. “You gettin’ comfortable there? Good, enjoy it while you can. God knows- I know- the work you’ll be doing after this with a body like yours.”

You chuckle, foot now dragging up his leg and positioned in his lap. “But why go through all the hassle, sir? When I could stay, just, right… here” you foot ghosts over his lower abdomen, you relish the sharp intake of breath that signals success. “Mmm, well as good as that would be for the both of us…” he takes a drag of his cigarette, finishing it off on your leg as it places a burn mark on your ankle. “...my brothers could use someone like you, a fighter, a killer of their own. Takes a special kind of fucked up to do the things you have done…” his hand now drags up your leg, fingers dancing over every cut to touch the skin of your leg as you stay still.

“...and if you remain that kind of person for em’, I can only promise rewards beyond your imagination,” he finishes with, stopping his chase of skin at your upper thighs before carrying your leg off his lap and standing. “Now before we get started, is there anything you wish to tell your newest contractor?”

“And what information would that include?” you press forward, blinking twice. “Anythin’ you are wishing to share before I force it outta ya, making both of our jobs easier.”

“Ask your men to leave and I’ll be an open book, can have a nice date about it,” you counter-offer, smile returning to match his one. With one motion of his hand, the room clears outside of the warehouse, the rusty door creaking closed to a slam. “Speak.”

“I was contracted to Greece in order to capture that royal you were after-”

“Who was your contractor then?” They lean forward, as if smelling your hair as you face forwards, tone even. “Undisclosed- manager wanted utmost privacy and I respected that, which made the job easier in the end.”

“And if the job was as easy as you said, why waste tears over a tool to be used for the bag?” They whisper into your ear, you swear to feel them smirk as a bead of sweat drips down your forehead, racing towards the muddied floors below. You wrap a leg around your chair, your hands almost free from the cheap rope they used from the gardiners truck as you access the best way to take this man to the ground and to make your escape.

“I am loyal,” you state, the one truth you have slipped today. “Well that is a blessing and a curse, we have a dilemma on our hands already with you…” His hand drifts up, resting on the back of your neck. You pray that Samantha shuts the fuck up in your ear, unknowling if he can hear her screaming or not. “...Very, very loyal it seems. I am disappointed. Seems as though you already need a lesson, a shame.”

And with that, his fist slams against the bag of your head as you fall towards the floor, finally freed. You snake your feet around his ankles, forcing him down with you and cover his mouth with one of your hands, racing to unhook your necktie as you force it around his throat, trying to buy yourself more time by muffleing his pain. He uses his body weight to roll out from under you, slamming a kick to your side as you curse out. The tie falls around his neck as he wobbles to a stand and you begin to run, hearing the doors slam open as your hand just graces the exit.

Bullets are flying around your head as you duck and weave over the various barrels in the room, looking for a window as another set of guards burst through the door you were just about to use. Quicking throwing yourself back around, you twist your arm with the motions, a series of knives falling from between your suit's fabric and directly between their eyes. Pressing your hand to your ear, “I need immediate evac, industry sector, meeting at south rally point when available.”

Glass cuts across your face as you fly out the window and roll into a run. Trees rip past and blur your surroundings as you follow the sun above you. The sounds of the sea call to you as you make a sharp turn in their direction, their shouts muffled by the ringing in your ears as you hear your shallow breathing, feel as if time is moving slowly for you once more as your body jerks forward. A dull aching feeling against your back, they managed a shot.

The sound of a boat horn slams through your consciousness as you slip down a hill, lengths over extending as you race onto a rammed road filled with cars against the coastline. Drivers honk as you race between cars in the road, policemen call after you, guns raised as well as you race to the front of the accident. A series of cars wait, driving slowly past the crash, the car nowhere to be seen but the rip in the divider separating road from sea as you shake your head before ripping over a divers door.

The woman shrieks at you scream out apology after apology, ripping the keys out from her hands before slamming on the gas and racing down the seaside. Sirens sound from behind you as you see the red and blue lights flashing in your rearview mirror as you curse out. Drifting around a corner as the radio decides to start itself in the junk of a car you managed for yourself.

You roll your eyes at the “white girl” music plays through the radio as you find yourself soaring through another seaside town, car picking up the various displays set on the small street as lights attach to your side mirrors, carrying them down the street with you like a “just-married” car.

You make a sour face at the thought, eyes saddening as look around your surroundings for directions to the nearest rallypoint, the cops in mad pursuit still behind you, some even sneaking up the road in front. A spike trap sounds, popping your wheels as sparks behind to fly, you punch open the window as the song finishes to your bumper crashing into the side of a building. You fall out the side of the car, running up the skin as your legs and lungs burn. Adrenaline causing your hands to feverishly shake as you climb up the lattice of a townhome and crash into their living space. A little boy screams at you as you hold your hands up, pleading that you do not mean to harm the small child before you race down the galley kitchen and slam into the wall, turning to find another glass door to a balcony where the next apartment appears empty.

Jumping across the balcony and onto the next, you break the glass door, and feel for the door handle on the other side. It is dark and sparsely decorated. You feel around the kitchen for a cup, taking a minute to take a sip of water from the tap before throwing the glass to the floor- trying to hide any biological evidence of yourself before looking wildly for the stairs downstairs.

You fail to hear your communications during this chase, your radio buffering in and out as you curse out to Simon's concerned voice asking for an update to your location. You finally find the stairs, emerging onto the town streets once more as you hide yourself in an alleyway. Watching as the blue uniformed men and women carry up the street. Looking over the various backdoors, you find a logo with a dress on it and softly open and close the door to what appears to be a storage room.

You shuffle through the various boxes, finding a range of formal garments and finally at the back, a box of clothes to be donated; shoes and casual wear alike, as you strip yourself of your tattered suit and force it into the bottom of the box. You press your hair down, taking out your earring- knowing that they would make you some serious cash from being pure gold as you strip off your watch with a sad wince. Note to self, no longer wear gifts on missions.

Walking back onto the street with a more casual stride, you find a pawn shop a few blocks down as your stomach gurgles and gain a few thousands dollars that you stuff into your pockets as the shopkeeper does not bat to fucks to. Clothes, Money, check and check.

You just needed food, a good drink and a car out of here. Thankfully you found a small street-side vendor as you ordered yourself an espresso shot and breakfast sandwich as your mouth salivated at the sight of it. Humming out contently at the taste of it as you walked back down to the seaside to examine your destruction- stealing a hat off a rack as you walked down the streets. The fedora covered your features as you pressed your head down, taking another sip of your drink while eyeing around for a phone.

A tourist couple was just about to pay for a bill- perfect. “Excuse me,” you smiled brightly at the two of them, “Is there anything we can help you with?” The woman asked kindly, her charming posh british accent relaxing your features. “Yes, would you mind if I made a quick call to my spouse on the phone- I can’t seem to find them down here.”

“Ah, no problem dear! Here you are, take as much time as you need, we are just finishing up here.”

“Thank you so much!” You flash another smile back, turning your back as it drops just as quickly, your fingers fly across the digits as two rings pass and Kyle's voice sounds in your ear. “Who is this?”

“Oh Kyle darling,” you fake a loving tone, breathing out an exaggerated sigh of relief as your eyes scan the streets. “I can’t seem to find you anywhere, see I am waiting at…” you look up to see the restaurant's name. “... Lola’s, where are you currently?”

You humm to every word he speaks, nodding your head lightly as you grip the phone, smiling at an officer that passes you by with a tip of their hat. “The team and I are about thirty minutes out from your location, are you able to keep this phone?”

“No, sorry dear, I do not see you, ummm, is there a place we could meet up between the both of us?”

“I am dear now?” Kyle chuckles out, “What happened to darling?” you roll your eyes, coughing for him to cut the crap. “Walk 10 minutes east through the alleyways till you see Pearl Bar and Shop, silver car.”

“Alright! Heading over now, see you in a few sweetheart!” and you end the call, sending a thanks to the couple before making your way back into the town core. Various scooters race past you in bright colours, kids kick their soccer balls around the fountain as mothers sit on its ledge, snapping pictures happily. You smile sadly at the sight, your eyes drifting back to the sea, to Whitby, as a cold breeze snaps against your skin as you stumble from the pressure of its ghast and slide back into the alleyways- towards the meet point.

“You look like shit,” Soap comments ever-so-kindly with a chuckle before offering you a sip of beer as you sit at the back of the plane on your way back to headquarters. “Well you kill fifteen guys, one of them your potential spouse, get kidnapped, traumatize a child and then sit on a plane with four men for the next few hours.”

“Well when you put it like that…” you shove his shoulder, walking further up the plane and check up on Simon in the cockpit. “How much longer we got?” you groan out, pressing your head against the doorway as Ghost takes a quick glance back at you, setting the plane to autopilot. “You holding up alright, Handler?” Not answering your question as you send him a glare.

“What do you all fuckin’ think- you all seem to high and jolly with this shit-”

“And you appear like it's not affecting you all that much-”

“WELL WHEN ELSE HAVE YOU SEEN ME A DISHEVELLED MESS IN A FEDORA AND SANDALS?” you scream out, taking another deep sink of your drink, sliding against the wall and to the floor as Gaz unbuckles himself from his seat to kneel in front of you. “I am sorry you have had to go through these things, Dee…” you shake your head at his words.

“No you all don’t understand-”

“No, we do Daniels, and here's the thing. It only gets more fucked up from here on out, you lose the ones you love, you hate yourself for it, you want to fucking kill them yourself for making you feel guilty, kill everyone, kill yourself. We all wanna do it, we all have people we are fighting for- livin’ and dead but here's the thing. Its a job at the end of the day, no matter how fucked up it is, no matter how much we cry and bitch about it- we do our job so that other’s hands stay clean,” John states, turning around from the other piloting seat as he now leans against the doorframe, looking down at you.

You stay quiet absorbing his words as he continues to speak, “we will mourn the loss, he was a good man- a great man to all the good he did for others but he wouldn’t want you this way. Not even right after his death- he always cheered on your fight. Now the decision is up to you, are you staying to fight or are you gonna wallow and retire?”

You nod your head along before slamming your head back against the metal wall, needing the coldness to ease the tension in your muscles. “I’m gonna fight,” you speak in a soft tone- still trying to convince yourself of the idea. “... thank you, John. You’re the first person to not sugar coat my losses… needed to hear it.”

John hums out, leaving down to give your shoulder a squeeze in an awkward side hug before taking control of the plane once more as Simon moves to take a nap at the back of the plane. “Want another beer?” Johnny yells as Simon throws a pillow in his face. You press your hand into a thumbs up, leaning so the signal is visible from down the hall as the glass bottle rolls to your feet as you and Gaz take sips while in a staring contest with one another.

12:00 PM | Spring | Eglinton Funeral Home and Cemetery

You are severely drunk at Whitby's funeral, his parents stand to the side, unknowing to who you and your entourage was that stand at the back underneath a willow tree whose branches drift off towards the sun's rays. 141 and you are dressed to the tens in three-piece suits, pure black accents - you all are shadows of yourselves. Watching as the family and friends walk away you step forwards and stand in front of the open casket, the first thing you notice is his missing glasses. Fixing a hair on his rested head your fingers shake over his cheek before grasping his hand one last time. To your surprise when you unravel it, a diamond ring falls out into your palm as you chuckle back a sob and place it into his suit pocket- right above his heart.

You bow your head, whispering a prayer before taking one last look and finally turn your back on the past. You stumble in your shoes over the uneven pavement stones towards the event hall where ushed cries and somber music play with trays of fresh fruit displayed against the back wall. You blow your nose into your handkerchief before guzzling down a glass of water as Gaz pats your back reassuringly when a family member walks by, glaring at your group. They all didn’t know the shit you both got up to together, how close you were- close to so much more…

Shaking your head, John came back with a plate of fruit for you all to pick at as Whitby’s will is read aloud. You need to sit as you fumble with the buttons of your suit, suddenly feeling too hot as the rest of your crew stands around to shield you from the curious stares of the fellow funeral goers. “Friends, Family, and those connected to Sir Wyatt Whitby. We gather here today to remember a man of great strength, who served his country and had a great sense of humor.”

A series of posh chuckles sound around the room as you feel yourself mentally drifting further and further away from this moment. You would have never fit in with his family, if you ever were to tell them of the danger you put their son into… you probably wouldn’t be breathing any longer… and with that thought, there was a deep part of you that believed you deserved such treatment from your more recent history.

In the few months leading up to the funeral, Whitby’s body had been frozen and preserved so that the headquarters could stage a more believable death to the agent for his remaining family and outside friends. This violently disgusted you, having to see him every time you went to check biological evidence with the scientists in the west wing. Yet John’s words were concrete, pouding in your skull, “fight like he would want you to…” and so you did, and rather brutally at that.

You forced yourself back onto the field, demanding it from upper management- refusing promotion after promotion as Samantha became your new Handler in this turn of events. You often wore dark blue navy suits to hide the blood that drenched every part of the fabric as you shot and hacked away at various bodies on your missions. No witnesses to be left between you and the goal. You will never forget the fearful eyes of that one politician as you gripped their shoulder into the helicopter, your bloody hand staining their crisp white shirt and some of it began to drip into your eye from your hair yet you could not care.

Management was thoroughly satisfied with your independent work- you were the most requested contractor. Money was following in- so much so that you lost reasons to spend it, letting the stacks build under your floorboards and in your jacket pockets before you were floating between bodies, drugs, and the bottom of empty bottles with glasses smashed against dust on the bartop.

You were far gone, everyone at headquarters joked that you had taken form to a rockstar as you flipped them the bird. Sitting at your desk as you choked down a coffee and pain medication, your head still pounding in rhythm to last night's DJ as you swirled around your desk chair, looking up at the ceiling as if you were dancing.

Laswell had called you endlessly, begging for you to reply after every night so she knew you made it home alright, that not another one of her close friends was gone in this line of work. You Stopped replying, 141 never showed up for their last mission, and when you looked at yourself in the mirror- you were as good as dead. Severe bags under your eyes, sex hair was your new hairstyle as lipstick stained every shirt you wore- matching the deep reds of your suits. You were fighting to keep yourself alive, is this what Whitby would want? You chuckle darkly to yourself, calling out to the new secretary that you would be taking your break at the storefront as you lit a cigarette, tapping the embers to the street as your ankle burned in memory.

You leaned against the bright building, blowing the smoke to meet the clouds above as you savoured the bitter taste in your lungs. Your throat burned for more drink, your eyes dry but when a shadow overtook the sun, you opened your eyes- surprised to find them closed and saw a masked-face man tilting his head down at you. “Hello Simon, come to tell me off?” you press, throwing your cigarette to the ground and stopping it down with your boot.

“No. But I am here for our last mission.”

You humm out, trying to rack your tired mind as to when you have received a new debrief. “Fill me in them,” you state, feeling around your suit for another distraction before a gloved hand grips your wrist gently, pulling it out of your suit jacket and down to your side. They do not let go, just looking over your shoulder before leading you back inside the building where Laswell waits, leaning against the counter as she speaks to Samantha. Gaz views the various ties in the display cabinet as Johnny forces himself not to touch the various new products in the windowsill. John observes everyone from the front door and you can’t help the heartache that bellows in your stomach to the scene before you- so reminiscent of your first meeting together.

Laswell runs over, pulling you into a hug as her nose scrunches up at the bruises against your throat and the cigarette breath you breathe. You pat her back stiffly before she pulls away, wiping away a few tears as you lean against the stair railing that leads to the supplies room upstairs. Simon stands still behind you, giving Samantha a nod as she turns back around the counter and disappears into the back.

John walks slowly up to you, replacing Kate as he frowns at the sight of you. You wince at his features scrutinizing your every decision that leads to now before looking down at your boots, unable to meet him in the eyes any longer to the guilt that consumes your being. “I would say it's good to see you again, but I was worried you would be something like this when we got called back-”

“Thanks John, just what I wanted to hear…” you interrupt sarcastically, moving around the man to hug Gaz and Soap in greeting before sitting on top of the counter- right beside the till. Laswell leans against the wood beside you, looking through the various emails on her phone as you start to tap your nails against the treated wood.

“... I fought, long and hard I hope you all know. But now… now I think- I don't actually think,” you laugh to yourself as Gaz winces, looking towards his Captain who had yet to drop his attention from you. John walks up to you once more, holding up your chin so that your eyes meet. You cast him a cheesy fake smile as he hums out, “I’m sorry…”

“What for?” you raise a brow, not clicking in his somber tone as Laswell stares sadly into the side of your head- thinking that you are unknowing.

“For not showing you what to fight for. It's one thing to say something, another to not follow through,” John finishes speaking, dropping his touch as you hold your head up more clearly as you look around the room. “Not your fault, everyone!” you announce, clapping your hands together as you move to stand and walk around the counter, trying to move back to headquarters- brushing off the words. “Sorry for making you all come back here, I’m still here, no need for worry or anything…”

“But that's just the thing,” Soap comments as you snap your head back to face him. “We are staying here for our next mission.”

“Then what is this fucking mission?” you stress back out, pinching the bridge of your nose as the nicotine has started to wear off.

“You,” Gaz states simply, throwing a tie your way with a smile.

“Now it's time to get to work,” Laswell announces, shoving you through the door as you begin to protest and that's how you found yourself here, at this funeral with a bunch of strangers unknowing to his actual death and task force 141.

Your attention snaps back to the will presenter at the sound of your name, “And to my dearest-Dee, thank you for teaching me that the present is enough of a gift that you need not worry about the past or future. I love you darling, and maybe one day we will dance together again but for now- it's time you took some lessons and find a new partner, I will be waiting to see all your new moves and maybe then you will finally tell me your first name.”

You burst out laughing, it echoes throughout the hall, cutting through every tear, sob, and face filled with sorrows. Your shoulders bend up and down rapidly as you clench at your stomach, folding yourself in half as you almost fall off your chair. Soap was not there to place a hand to your shoulder to halt any further movements. You look up to the ceiling, watching as the sun casts through the skylights above as you blink away your tears, trying to even out your breathing while fanning your cheeks with your hands as the reading presumes once more and you make your way outside.

↳ Taglist: @thriving-n-jiving @cringeycookies @lilliumrorum @brokenpieces-72 @ashy-kit @notsaelty @hindi-si-ikay @sleepyycatt @no-lessthan3 @cod-z

59 notes · View notes

crow0artzz · 1 day

Text

Konig doodles :3

#call of duty #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #konig cod #konig #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #mw2 #mw3 #konig fanart #cod fanart #cod fandom #masked men #military men #doodle #video game fanart #video games

41 notes · View notes

pixeliest · 2 days

Text

Kyle Garrick would have a pet.

Imagine this,you and him in a stable relationship,have your own apartment,happs little couple but there's something missing...

Of course it's too early forca child but maybe a pet could fill up that empty spot in the house.

And I think Kyle would like a protective petylike a dog.

He is in the military so he probably got used to having a dog and trusting that loyal animal.So getting a dog wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Of course you guys won't get a big scary dog,when he comes back home he wants to feel safe and feel away from the battlefeild and doesn't want anything near him that reminds him of his job.

I cute little dog would be cute! ( I can see him and a dachshund)

He doesn't like baby-ing the dog too much,I mean the dog is cute yeah but he still needs it to be serious when it has to be.

Morning jogs with the dogs is his favorite,the dog runs a bit faster than him and he sees that as a challenge,the little dog being faster than him?No way.

Overall the little dog did fill up the empty space in the house,he loves seeing you happy with that little silly dog in the house.He saw you taking care of it like its a real baby,maybe he will wife you up one day so you have a real baby🤭

Hey so its my first time writing stuff like this so ik its corny😭😭(any tips for better writing is welcome!!!)

Hope you guys enjoyed🌸

#call of duty #cod fandom #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #reader x kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz x you #gaz x female reader #kyle garrick imagine #cod fanfic #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x female reader #cod x f!reader

33 notes · View notes

danibee33 · 1 day

Text

#he would #john soap mactavish #johnny baby #call of duty #he’s a biter #you can’t change my mind #respectfully #i need him #biblically #carnally #cod fandom #cod #mw3

25 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

Between Dreams and Sugar

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: Your screams will haunt his dreams until the day he dies.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Torture, gore, angst, violence & death, suggestive joke, fluff, happy ending, rescue fic but who rescues who...>:)

A/N: Guys, I have a confession - I don't think I can write Ghost properly lmfao. This is horrifically mid.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

There was so much blood coating your body that you had forgotten where the wounds were and weren’t. It flowed from you like viscus water—a homogeneous mixture of congealed shades of red like rubies except for the simple fact that this was not beautiful; it was not desired or sought after.

On the ground, soaking in indistinguishable pools of crimson, ripples are sent out when your limp foot twitches mutely in its clutch. That was all you could do now. Twitch. Writhe. They didn’t even bother tying you to the chair anymore—just let you slouch half out of it like a school kid who had gotten too drunk the night before.

Hell, you wished you were drunk.

“Sergeant.”

You wished you could feel your fingers. You wished you could move your neck up from its bend position as if it was a wilting flower; hair stuck to your skin. Blood dribbles out of your mouth. Drip…drop…drip…drop.

You’d bitten your tongue open in a vain attempt to stop yourself from screaming, hadn’t you? You…you can’t quite remember.

“Sergeant!” Groaning long and low, the violent chills that wrack your form only serve to make yourself bleed out faster, tension forcing precious life fluid out from burst veins and slashed ankles.

Cuts far span your legs and shoulders. Your back is nothing more than a painting of burns coated with sweat and infection; puss sticking you to the backrest of the chair like yellow-colored adhesive. Your clothes are the opposite idea of modesty. Tattered, torn by blades to create harm. Fuck, could you even breathe properly anymore?

Lungs only create a wheeze—you’re not getting enough oxygen to function.

A dark growl bounces off the walls.

Ghost struggles against his binds, uniform also in a state of disarray with very obviously broken ribs and bruised chest. Splotches of yellow-white mounds signal blunt trauma over the pale skin that’s already laced with old scars.

They’d all but anchored him to his chair—and even then the red marks that blister are a signal of the brutality of the large man as he peels back his skin to try and struggle himself out.

You whine, the loftiness stuck in your brain addictive; to pull back that curtain was as much of a struggle as staying awake. That harsh Manchester accent was something to draw closer to, though, professionalism a key to the lock on your failing consciousness. The reminder of companionship.

“G…” Your vocal cords fizzle, “Ghost…”

“Open your eyes.” Every word was enunciated, deep and guttural.

Parting your lips, more blood drowns your lap in thick globs, and soon your battered throat vibrates with coughs that make you see stars, mild panic the moment you realize that you can’t breathe.

Jerking forward, you gasp, eyes snapping open as your neck bends ahead in desperation. Mucus and other bodily fluids spray over your lap, tinged scarlet, but the blockage in your throat is dispelled as your broken ribs quiver in agony.

Whimpering like a kicked dog, you wonder how long it’ll take for Ghost to realize getting you to focus on him was pointless. If this all continued, you’d be dead within the day.

But you entertain him.

Head slowly balking back as your jaw hangs loose, you rest it on the wooden frame behind you as softly as you’re able with a most likely concussed brain and a fractured skull. Only one eye opens, and even then it’s half-glued to your cheek with dried blood.

Ghost’s balaclava had been ripped off. It felt wrong to see him in the open like this. Exposed. It was quite obvious he disliked it just as much as you did.

Blue eyes blazed at you; blonde hair going this way and that as crimson fell down the swell of his Adam’s Apple from a very broken nose. That gaze was unrelenting, and even with your blurry vision, you knew it would be unwise to look away.

His stubbled jaw sets as a heart can be seen skipping beats in his breast. You were totally out of it, enough so that you missed the way his lungs slightly released when you had pulled yourself back to the present.

The gulping sigh.

“That’s it, Sergeant.” You cough once more, wet and haggard, and your head falls back to your chest before you have to force it back up on shaking muscles. It was getting harder. “Easy does it, then…Thought I lost you.”

“C–can’t,” the useless feet flicker over the ground, sloshing through fluid in unstable jumps as you slur out, “Hurts, Ghost.”

A slow and dark inhalation meets your ears before a sudden grunt of a struggling body; jerking arms as the chair squeals with old nails being torn out.

“I know, Birdie, I know.” His tone is lesser now as he bites back a curse as the blisters on his arms pop, the rope burns turning a vile color as his muscles strain, “But you keep those pretty little eyes on me, yeah?”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Black Operations were dangerous, yeah, but never had the Lieutenant been so down in the gutter as he was right now. Mainly because of you, no, entirely because of you. He could withstand months of torture—mental and physical—with no problem. He’d done it countless times before.

But never had he been forced to watch someone hurt you instead of him.

They would come in every day, these pitiful excuses for German drug runners, and would make him watch as they ripped open your skin with blunt knives and other tools coated in rust. Questions would be asked—questions that Ghost knew he could not answer even if it was you who would get punished.

Every time you would flinch when the door to this concrete basement opened, it was harder to keep his tongue from wagging. He was watching you die; letting it happen.

Fuck, it made him sick.

Ghost violently reems a shoulder up and down, not caring about the long stripes of now oozing blood on his forearms or the pain that the action brings bone-deep. There was so much scarlet flowing from you. Too much.

What he knows for certain is that he can’t let you die here. He’d never forgive himself for that.

How is she still conscious? The question was utterly genuine as Ghost’s dead eyes narrowed dangerously, sparking with urgency at the uneven risings and fallings from your chest.

“Fucking hell,” the Lieutenant growls, each word punctuated by a desperate attempt to free himself. He had to get you out of this. You were his responsibility; his team.

His…Ghost pants, sweat dripping down his arms.

You didn’t abandon him, how could he do the same to you? When questioned you hadn't given up his true name, hadn’t blabbered to save your own skin so you could avoid a horrible amount of pain. Pain that Ghost knew well.

Pain that was never supposed to be known to you.

Your screams would haunt his nightmares until the day he died.

“Ghost,” blue eyes freeze, snapping away from the sight of the bone around his wrists becoming visible through a thin coverage of remaining flesh. He pauses like a guard dog. Your optic was glinting, flicking with failing consciousness. The movement of your chest sputtered as the man clenched his teeth together. “You’re hurtin’ yourself.”

“‘Bout to do even more damage, yeah?” he gets back to it, working enough blood into the rope to make it slick; dripping. “If it’ll get me out of these bastard things.”

The weak smirk on your face gives his brows a deep furrow, sweat glistening on his forehead.

A part of him hated you. Hated you for the way you had this effect on him. He shouldn’t care if you lived or died—that wasn’t his cross to carry.

But you’d made him soft these last few months. Soft, and weak, and disgustingly concerned for your safety. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t Ghost.

“Gonna b…bleed out, y’know.” Your tongue slips, mind so loose that anything that comes to the front slips out like water from a slip-and-slide. Fingers twitching, your limp body grows so cold that you shiver.

“Negative.” Ghost barks, slipping one hand partially under the restraint and his flesh, acting as a zipper, starts to go with it. He hisses under his breath, body hot and spilling. Mutilating himself. “Shut your damn gob.” Blood splatters to the floor, “I’m gettin’ us out of ‘ere.”

“Tell me a joke.” Blue eyes flicker, blonde lashes slipping over pale cheeks.

You feel another wave of pain shutter through you—one that makes you whimper as quietly as a soft breeze on a summer day.

“Joke?” Ghost hisses, glaring over at you without heat. “The fuck are you on about?” A wobbling eyebrow raise is all he gets.

He grunts feral-like, evocative of a bear that hadn’t gotten his supper. Your lid droops and panic spikes.

“How long can a fish breakdance for?” Ghost slips a hand free, snarling in the back of his mouth as the entirety of his left hand is left ripped open, the fissures itchy and welling. Wasting no time, the limb goes to assist the other, pulling with ripped-off fingernails at the tight knot. A side-eye is sent your way.

Only you weren't moving. Lips snap in a moment of obvious concern, not only by the tone but by the way the man jerks forward in the chair—no matter if one arm and both of his legs were still restrained.

“Love!” The door handle rattles with screeching chains, but Ghost is occupied with raging at you. Ordering you to stay awake with terrifying eyes. It was as though for the first time in a long time there was true fear in his throat. True hatred.

Chucking voices heat veins that he had long since thought were cold, and the Lieutenant composes himself with a sharp pause. He leans back slowly into the chair; jaw so tight his molars almost crack in the back of his mouth like candy. Your face is tilted downward, and Ghost memorizes the make of it, trails his gaze slowly over every slash and cut that mars you. Feet slap off the concrete as multiple people enter the room, but it was like a switch had flipped internally, walls going up.

The mask was still there, even if all that physically remained of it was the black paint in his sockets.

He’d return every mark, from a bruise to an open wound, tenfold. But you needed to wake up first. You…you needed to.

You had to be okay.

Three men encircle the two of you, faces hidden and obviously enjoying a bit of their own product.

“Look at this, Lutz, the man got a hand out of the binding.” Blue eyes travel to stare dead-on into a pair of blown pupils; mind gone.

The second man goes to grip your hair, forcing your head up in inspection. Ghost’s vision immediately travels over, biceps going tense like a dog with its hackles raised and vision going red.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s one hand, what can the Bastard do?”

“Oh,” another laughs, though his body is wound tight, “careful with the woman, Alric—the beast looks like he’s about to snap at you.”

The three share sly looks. Alric, the one with your hair in his grip, shakes your head back and forth, blood flying around in the air as your limp body jerks. Ghost lunges, but he only makes it as far as the chair allows him before he’s shoved back by a hand on his chest.

Moving quicker than an animal, bone snaps, and an agony-laced scream echoes off the walls not a millisecond later.

Ghost had gripped that hand and twisted, making the wrist joint completely flip on itself. Blank blue eyes watch with glints of sadistic glee as the man wails, grabbing onto himself and falling back onto his ass.

The one holding you instantly releases your hair and rushes to his friend.

“Holy fuck!” Everyone divulges into frantic German curses, Ghost making out a command to leave and go see a doctor.

“Cheers. Good luck with that, ya’ Bastard.” Grumbling under his breath, the Lieutenant realized he was probably enjoying this more than he should, but always his attention shifts back to you. How you hang limb, battered face covered by your hair, and loss of blood steadily leaving your hands curling into the palms—

Ghost’s eyes widen slightly as the two still try and calm down their companion. Your hand. It wasn’t curled because of onset rigor mortis. You were holding a blade.

The Brit’s large chest swells with pride; jaw going somewhat slackened as he stares at you. So you were faking it….Fucking hell, Sweetheart.

Slowly, his vision peels to the empty sheath on Lutz’s belt. It wasn’t a big knife—nothing more than a three-inch blade on the end. But you were still conscious enough to hear these goons show up before he had; had used sleight of hand that anyone else in your situation would have just given up on.

It was hard to hold back a low chuckle, but he managed. Fuck, you were something else.

The two unmaimed men shove the third out the door, shouting down the hallway as his sobs and sniffling nose reverberate even as he’s out of sight.

Grunting, the Brit shifts his hips, lips pulling in a snarl at the bouncing electrical wire that goes up his ribs. Many were broken; along with his nose and a dislocated shoulder, but he knows he can deal with it. Getting you out and to the Evac point was his top priority—his wounds weren’t over-the-top life-threatening unless they went too long without treatment.

You on the other hand.

Lids narrow on the way the knife-holding hand shakes with exertion when simply applying pressure. If this was going to happen, it had to happen now.

“That was a nice little show,” Alric growls, standing in the middle of the two in the chairs and keeping a considerable distance farther from Ghost than you. Blue eyes blink blankly, emotions swiftly wiped away. “One-handed? I’m impressed.”

Ghost raises a single blonde eyebrow, “More where that came from.”

Alric smiles.

“Emil—get the gun.” Legs slowly tense, but other than that there’s no outward display of nervousness.

Seconds later a barrel is level with Ghost’s forehead, the chilled metal pressing deep into his blood-coated skin. He doesn’t balk back, he doesn’t even flinch, just watches with a dim flicker in his optics that remains even after he blinks. Like a cat’s slitted pupils.

It would be no use shoving the gun out of this man’s hands—he would fire before the Lieutenant was able to steal the weapon for himself.

“I’m getting sick of this game, Soldier. We’ve been through this day after day.” Alric swipes at his nose, white powder stuck under his nostrils. Ghost can’t stop the small tick of his mouth. “Tell me who you are,” the gun swivels, and the Brit’s heart seizes up. It points at your abdomen. “Or the girl gets a nice new stomach.”

Lips thin into a small line as hidden fury swells.

“Alric…” Emil seems nervous, his feet shifting and hands twitching. The aura Ghost was emitting was like a dark cloud around the room; sheer size and indistinguishable emotions rose to drown out all else when a threat to the beast’s bird was brought into the picture. There had been multiple times throughout the days when the men had been scared to touch you at all for fear of the look that had been leveled their way. Those eyes…fuck it was like a demon was stuck in flesh. In blue so close to gray the color was more like the concrete of a prison cell. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Tell me.” Alric growls as Emil gets closer to you. Ghost stays silent, unblinking as his fingers curl into fists. His knuckles crack from the force. “Tell me!”

Emil bushes your shoulder and you lunge. Bringing the blade into his chest, your form brings the both of you to the floor in a splash of scarlet and twin screams of pain.

The Blonde’s heart seizes at the sound in an aggressive bounce.

Alric whips around, eyes widened and gun loose in his grip. Ghost wastes no time, trusting your judgment, and shoves himself forward. A shot goes off as the Lieutenant rams his shoulder into the man, but the bullet bites into the far wall instead of your back as you dig your knife into Emil’s throat; wrestling for life.

The chair still attached to Ghost was a problem, but his body weight was used to his advantage. Sinew bunched as a growl exits his lips, Alric and him slamming to the floor in a flurry of rabid intentions and the likeness of wolves caught in a trap. Ghost’s eyesight goes red, remembering every cut and beating you went through for him in the reflection of Alric’s eyes. That pathetic drug runner had made you bleed.

His bird doesn’t bleed.

Teeth and nails are tools kept for animals, and now that the gun was too far from grip and you were limp beside the gargling body of Emil, Ghost decided that being a bit insane might do him well at the moment.

He had to get you out of here. And in no world was this man going to get away to live one day more.

“Please, don’t,” Alric begs, clawing at his behemoth build, “I’m not—I wasn’t—!”

Blood-stained teeth snap into the thin flesh of a visible neck as dead blue eyes keep you in sight like a dog does the moon.

—

You don’t recall anything after slashing one man’s neck and even that is a blur of flashing colors; instances of one waxing expression waning into another. Trapped between bouts of failing consciousness and pain that could rival someone getting their bones snapped one by one.

But you know the feeling of moss on your cheek. The shadow that sits above you and the fingers that prod at your back, pressing cooling salves of Silverweed into the burns and cuts. Your eyes weakly flicker, a low moan stuck in your throat.

Every limb is a cinder block.

“Stop your moving.” The command was stiff but quiet, and the pressure on your spine increased. Flinching, the sensation of tight bindings all along your body became apparent to you, slowly but surely.

“That…hell?” You cough, throat bare and dry. Sweat drips down your temple.

Blinking rapidly, you try to focus on the cold wind whipping past your bare skin, the trees in the distance of what appeared to be a glade. The sound of a running stream makes your ears perk.

A canteen was suddenly shoved to your lips and you grunt in surprise, water slicking your closed lips.

“Drink.” You don’t argue, peeling back your lips and letting the liquid drip into your mouth, most falling to the moss under you and getting re-adsorbed into the earth. “...There’s a girl.”

The metal container disappears just as quickly as it showed up, and you lick at the corner of your lips, cheeks burning at the comment.

Ghost kneels above you, bar a shirt, and you narrow your lids to focus on the black and blue splotches completely covering him. He still doesn’t have a mask, and you glance over the blonde stubble; the scars, and the aggressive set of his eyebrows. The blood had been washed away, and you wondered if the stream in the background of this place was still stained with crimson and the telltale black of eye paint.

“Simon,” whispering seemed appropriate, though you don’t know why. Your voice was better now but still, your body refused to listen to your instructions. Every plea to move your arms or legs was denied, sharp needles poking into your flesh that made you shake. “What…?”

Blue eyes blink down at you, something hidden in the depths. A finger curls to flick a stray hair from your face slowly. Skin brushes skin.

“Snagged what I could before I ran off. Wasn’t much.” That harsh voice, the gravel in it. You frown weakly, your lids heavy. “Bandages. Extra shirt. Blanket I used to stop the bleeding.”

He won’t tell you he was begging you to wake up when he’d been stuffing old fabric into your open wounds.

Coughs wrack your frame, whole body jerks that overtake what little peace there was to be found. A hand tilts your head back to the ground, patient as the other grabs your hair, peeling the strands away as a flood of vomit escapes your mouth.

Eyes burning and face hot, you sputter as a thumb runs deep circles over your scalp.

“Easy…” Ghost whispers, tattoos like obsidian in the darkness of the world around the two. Late afternoon and this was the first time you’d woken up since he’d been carrying you. A nail was taken out of his heart.

Seeing your eyes flicker, even filled with the tears as they were, was a blessing he’d thank whatever God that was out there for. “Easy, Sweetheart. Breathe for me.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, shaking more than a leaf. “Fuck it hurts, Simon.”

He shifts you slightly away from the bile, the familiar words burning his lungs.

“Evac point is four miles.” It felt like a death sentence to you, your eyes going buggy at the thought. “I’m carrying you there.”

“Bullshit,” you pant, wheezing. “Your arms are destroyed.”

Ghost blinks before scowling, sending a glance to his limbs. They’re both raw and skinned, just like his fingers; red with burst blisters the size of rocks. One hurts far more than the other.

“They’re nothing.”

“Nothing pretty to look at,” blue eyes narrow on you in annoyance, but the dry-humored Brit doesn't miss a beat.

“Seems you’re in good spirits, Sergeant. Fancy walking on your own?” Your lips flick, delirious and high off of whatever pain meds that Ghost had found when he had been carrying you out of the basement of that house.

Try as he might, the feeling of your dead weight was worse than he ever could have imagined. So, outwardly, he stayed numb but knew that every little look from you was as beautiful as a sunrise.

“Want me to try?” Palms begin to shift, a hand pressing deep into the moss that bends and yields to your form.

Ghost snaps forward.

“Fucking Bastard!” He puts weight on the back of your shoulder as you hiccup dull chuckles, “Quit it! Else I’ll leave you here to annoy the damn plants.”

The threat was empty, and your eyes softened as they spread their fatigued gaze over the span of the Brit’s visible skin, glee leaking out. Ghost sighs, shaking his head sharply at you, agitation stuck in his skull as it always was.

So beastly, this man, but his hold on you was about as gentle as you could imagine.

Your attraction to him was anything but one-sided. You knew his emotions as well as your own; it was quite obvious to everyone but him. The long looks, the concerned glances. His touch freely given.

He had given you his name and, to you, that was about as close to a proposal as a ring was. You’d kissed; you’d shared beds and shared skin. You knew when he was being horrible to himself deep in the confines of his head.

“Simon,” you whisper, and a blue gaze stays stubbornly away, glaring at your burns with venom. A tired smile peels your lips. “Simon.”

A huff is all you get, a bush of skin as breath wafts over your bare back. Your hand goes to touch his knee, brushing softly over the torn fabric. The flinch would not be noticeable to anyone but you. Brows pull slightly tighter.

“I had a dream about you, y’know.” Speaking hurt, but the attention that is finally brought your way was worth it. Birds chirp in the distance.

“What’s that?”

“Hm,” you lightly nod, cheek ruffling moss as you take down slow inhalations. Staring into each other’s eyes you for a moment forget the agony under your skin. “You were trapped by a giant fish underwater.”

A Blonde eyebrow raises, slow smirk unable to be hidden. It was impossible not to be entirely taken by you. How you speak, how you breathe. Even like this, you had placed a spell of black magic over him, binding the darkness that made up Simon Riley—Ghost—to your every action and whim.

“That right, Sweetheart? What happened, then?”

Chuckling, Ghost’s hold goes to your neck, massaging the skin so delicately that you lose your train of thought for a moment as shivers erupt, “I had to save you.”

Lips press to your scalp, a bent nose digging despite the shifting cartilage as lion limbs shake with a want to drag you to him. Such a rabid beast that devotes himself to your life.

“You tend to do a lot of the savin’, Love.” It’s muttered into your hair, softly, lowly. Compliments are rare—Ghost prefers actions above all else—but they’re treasured.

You know what he means.

“Yeah, I love you, too, you brute.” Deep chuckles dance in your ear, and you both stay there for a while, simply breathing in each other as the sky bleeds into the earth. So content, your heart had slowed, the salve in your wounds and the bandages compressing the areas with the most problems and forcing them to be numb.

When you had nearly fallen asleep, Ghost had peeled back to look down at you; eyes malleable as they slipped over your battered body.

“Hm,” he hums, reaching to his side and grabbing for the shirt he had stolen. After a few minutes of quiet curses and apologetic kisses, the large piece of fabric was over your top. The Lieutenant had begrudgingly admitted that the scraps of pants you had on now would have to do until you got proper attention.

“Giving the squirrels a show, then, Simon?” The man rolls his eyes deeply at the sarcastic comment, rubbing up and down your legs to keep circulation going as he readies to move you.

“They better keep quiet ‘bout it,” Ghost grumbles, running a hand through his hair, “Else I’ll have to rip a few tails.”

“So violent,” You wince when your shoulder is gripped, neck limp as your upper half was rotated. Gnashing your teeth, the Lieutenant shushes you comfortably, raising your body to rest in the crook of his large arm. Muscles tense and loosen, your cheek now resting on your Lover’s pec. You hear him hiss silently at the pressure on his broken ribs as guilt hits you. “Not the squirrels’ fault.”

“It is if they keep looking at ya. Only I get to see you like that.” Your pain-laced laugh is cut off when you’re lifted, large hands under your knees helping equalize your body.

A strained whine exits your lips, straining to get air as you pant and clench your eyes shut. Ghost wasn’t doing much better—gritting his teeth and tilting his head back.

Feet stumble before righting themselves, lids opening as lashes flutter over bloodless cheeks to stare down at you.

The word seems to stop.

“...Tell me you’re alright.” You heard that for what it was—Tell me to keep going, because if you don’t then I won’t be able to.

Blinking up at him, your nose slots under his chin as you feel him shake with exertion, lips pressing deep into his raging pulse. You swallow down saliva as his grip on you tightens, pressing you closer; giving you his body heat.

“I’m okay, Simon. Not…not lost yet.”

“Good.” He lets his eyes close for a moment, taking you in as he lets his nose be coated in your scent, the flesh under his fingertips. Ghost knows some of your wounds reopen, and, thus, his bare feet start off into the woods. His men would still be at the Evac point waiting for them. Price would have given the order. “...I’ll be needing you ‘round. Might lose my head otherwise, eh?”

“You do seem to have a few loose screws when I’m not near.”

“That was an exaggeration,” Simon grumbles.

You scoff, trying not to puke at his limping steps. The word swirls, but the man carrying you stays ever clear. “No,” you whisper, “No, it wasn’t.”

Scared lips pull up, but the birds respond for him.

Less than ten percent out from the Evac point is when you drop a tidbit of a thought to the man.

“Y’know what I want, Ghost?” The large Brit side-steps a downed tree, sweat dripping down his chin to splatter to your skin.

“What is it?” He pants, sparing you a glance as his eyebrows are constantly furrowed in concentration. Your talking made it easier to push on.

“A fucking cake. A big one.” Blue eyes blink and his feet nearly stumble to a stop before he forces on. A gasp of a chuckle makes your heart skip a beat as voices start up from the next tree line.

“Keep talking to me, Love, and I’ll buy you the whole bloody bakery.” Soldiers burst from the bushes, and Ghost calls out identification as everyone gapes. Guns immediately lower.

Medics rush forward, but still on high alert, the Lieutenant snaps at them, bringing you closer into his hold as he pushes onward.

“Where’s the fucking heli?!” Everyone stops and points. Huffing, Ghost shoves forward.

“The whole bakery?” You slur, giggling and feeling the kiss on your head.

“Every bastard pastry’ll be yours. Count on it.”

—

“Simon, you promised.” Your wheel-chair bound form pouts as the man in question deadpans from behind you, leaning on the handles. His balaclava can only hide so much.

The air is sweet with the scent of desserts and bread.

“Birdie, you can’t eat all ‘O that, you’ll explode like you took a .308 round to the head.” The woman behind the counter pales, pulling at the collar of her shirt with her smile becoming strained.

“Is that a challenge?” You glance over your shoulder, smirking wide.

“No,” Simon blanky states, the skin over his nose bridge and under-eye completely black and blue.

“I think that was a challenge.”

“It wasn’t.”

The customers grind their palms into their eye sockets, some tuning around in line and leaving entirely.

“Simon,” you intertwine your hands and lean to show him, eyes wide and pleading. “Please.” Drawing out the word, you smile with everything you can.

The both of you connect in a battle of wills—you with that infectious innocent and sly nature, and Simon with a tight glare and tired eyes. A blatant will to please you in every aspect and a need to see you happy at all times. This goes on for a full minute before a loud sigh echoes off the walls, shoulders deflating. A hidden kiss is pressed firmly to your head.

You giggle loudly at the authoritative order.

“One of everything.”

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @neelehksttr, @shoe1412,@jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @nanialis, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @emerald-valkyrie, @michirulol, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @bespectacledhuman, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @astronaunt2009, @shmaptin, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce,

6K notes · View notes

ledgersmountain · 9 months

Text

more of our pretty princess samuel roukin 🧺🌿

(he looks so proud of his drawing btw)

credits to lily_redfeels on twitter 🧺🌿

#samuel roukin #call of duty #cod fandom #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #ghost cod #call of duty x reader #ghost x reader

2K notes · View notes

anonymousqualities · 1 month

Text

Ghoap Au: Where Soap lives but retires and helps his family on their cattle farm.

He sends pics of their cows to the groupchat and ghost is invested in the well-being of a particular highland calf

Soap answering a facetime call from Ghost: Hey Si-

Ghost: Where is she?

Soap:

Ghost: Where's the baby.

Soap:

Soap: I'm doing well love. Thanks for asking-

Ghost: where's Rosie?? bring her here!

Soap grumbling as he flips the camera to show said calf trotting over at the sound of Ghost's voice:

Soap fondly listening as Ghost coos and talks with Rosie: ......You know I got shot in the head once-

Ghost: shut up

#ghoap #ghost retires and helps soap run the farm #ghost/soap #ghost x soap #cod fandom #cod soap #cod ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley #john soap mactavish #john mactavish

650 notes · View notes

arthurlovesarthurmorgan · 2 months

Text

My little (he’s everything BUT little) princess <333

#barry sloane #captain john price #john price #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod fandom #cod captain john price #cod captain price #cod john price #cod mw3 #john price/reader #john price x reader #captain johnathan price #captain price/reader #captain price #i need him so bad #please please please #ONE CHANCE PLEASEEEEEE

770 notes · View notes

lolguestwho · 1 month

Text

Here's your nikto. Finally finished drawing him. My sis said he look like he's mewing. I didn't even realize before she point it out.

#cod nikto #nikto cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod #cod fanart #cod fandom #finally after days💀#cod modern warfare #poll results

441 notes · View notes

konigsblog · 2 months

Text

crazy, how the majority of my haters are either hypocrites, or are just straight up LYING. lmfao, i've written rape before and i apply appropriate warnings, but i've never ever written PEDOPHILIA. 😬

their username on tumblr is @asgardswinter, they have continuously mentioned me on their blog. it's literally creepy and clearly obsessive, lmfao, and lying about me writing pedophilia is real fucking weird considering they don't apply any further context or include any evidence to back up this claim...

i'd appreciate it if you reported their twitter account or blog for like harassment 😮‍💨

#their username is asgardswinter. i think #cod #lmfao i've been sent death threats. being threatened with doxxing. and insulted countless times...#begging for them to comprehend what “don't like don't read” mean #these are the same people saying the care about SA victims whilst insulting them for having a different coping mechanism #they probably have the idea of a “perfect survivor” when there's no such thing as a perfect survivor...#🤷‍♀️🤦‍♀️#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader #cod x reader #discourse #cod fandom

621 notes · View notes

namikaaah · 2 months

Text

NIKTO

I was so tired while I was painting this. I hope it was worth it...😪

#Nikto #Nikto cod #nikto call of duty #digital art #digital illustration #digital painting #artwork #drawing #call of duty #cod art #cod fanart #cod fandom #Nikto fanart #Nikto art #Nikto cod art #call of duty warzone #call of duty fanart

1K notes · View notes

ykscarlett · 3 months

Text

#call of duty #cod fandom #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost cod #headcanon #scarlett’s hc

880 notes · View notes

sinkovia · 1 month

Text

-`♡´- ANON ASK -`♡´-

Anon requested that the ask be posted after the fic.

Pairings: SImon Riley x GN!Reader

Warnings: Angst.

As the days passed by, your once perfect relationship with Simon began to fracture. It seemed as though the idyllic days you once shared were slipping away, replaced by a constant tension that hung heavy in the air.

The source of the arguments seems to stem from your "nagging," as Simon puts it. But to you, it's an expression of love and fear - a desperate attempt to hold onto something precious in a world where loss and danger lurk around every corner.

From the beginning, you both understood the risks in your line of work, but it's only recently that the reality of those risks has begun to weigh heavily on your heart.

You've voiced your fears to Simon, your desire to retire together and find solace in a life far removed from the dangers of combat. But each time you broach the subject, Simon's reaction is the same - cold, defensive, and laced with hurtful words that cut deep. It's a cycle that plays out time and time again: he pushes you away with his sharp words, only to come crawling back the next day, remorseful and apologetic.

In those moments of reconciliation, he speaks to you with tenderness and warmth, promising that he's always careful on missions and that this is the life he wants. He reassures you that perhaps, in a few years' time, he could think about settling down. And each time, you find yourself giving in, desperate to believe that his words hold truth.

But as the fear and dread of losing him creep back in, the same arguments resurface, and the cycle repeats itself endlessly, leaving you trapped in a loop of hope and despair.

The tension in your life reaches a boiling point when you're summoned to the briefing room, where Captain Price lays out the details of a harrowing mission. Your heart sinks as you realize the gravity of the task at hand - infiltrating the heart of Makarov's forces, your fluency in Russian making you the only person who could do it. It's a suicide mission, with slim chances of success and even slimmer chances of survival.

As Captain Price outlines the high-risk, high-reward nature of the operation, your mind races with conflicting emotions. On one hand, success could mean a significant blow to Makarov's forces, potentially saving countless lives and shifting the tide of the war. On the other hand, the thought of risking your life - and potentially throwing away any chance of a future with Simon - fills you with fear.

You weigh the options carefully, torn between duty and personal desire. The stakes couldn't be higher, and the choice before you feels like a cruel test of loyalty and sacrifice. As you leave the briefing room, the weight of the decision hangs heavy on your shoulders, uncertainty clouding your thoughts as you grapple with the choice before you.

You step into your shared apartment, the weight of the impending conversation heavy on your shoulders. Simon is seated on the couch, absorbed in the television. With a heavy sigh, you make your way over and take a seat next to him, steeling yourself for what's to come.

"We need to talk, Si,"

Simon sighs and reaches to turn off the TV, a resigned expression crossing his features. "Here we go again," he mutters under his breath.

Your heart sinks at his dismissive tone, but you push forward nonetheless. “Price gave me a solo mission,” you watch his reaction closely.

Simon quirks a brow but remains silent, prompting you to continue. “He wants me to infiltrate Makarov's forces,”

“Sounds risky,” Simon comments, his tone neutral as he leans back on the couch, crossing his arms. You take a deep breath, "It's a suicide mission," you confess, locking eyes with him, searching for any sign of understanding or concern.

Silence hangs in the air as you wait for his response, “When do you leave?” he asks, his response devoid of the emotion you had hoped for.

Does he even hear you? Does he even care?

“Did you hear what I said? It’s a suicide mission. Do you even care Simon?” you press, desperation creeping into your voice.

Simon releases a frustrated breath, irritation evident in his demeanor. “Of course, I fucking care, y/n. But like I've said a million times before, we chose this profession. We know the risks that come with our job. Any of our missions could easily turn into a suicide mission.”

Your heart sinks at his callous response, the weight of his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “And if I died on a mission, would you be okay with that? With living without me? With going on with life without me?!” you challenge, tears welling in your eyes.

“Seeing how you're always fucking nagging me, yeah, maybe I’d be okay with that!” Simon's harsh words cut through you like a knife, leaving you reeling in disbelief.

Your lip quivers, and you shake your head, unable to comprehend the cruelty of his words. “You're being mean. You don’t mean that Si, I know you don’t,” you protest, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I do. I mean every fucking word,” Simon retorts, his voice rising in anger. “Do you know how easy it would be to find someone else who will give me what I want? I can never get peace when you're around. We are done, y/n. Don't bother coming home after your mission.”

The finality of his words crushes you, leaving you speechless and broken. With tears streaming down your face, you cover your mouth with your hand, muffling the sobs that threaten to escape. Simon turns on his heel and storms out of the apartment, leaving you alone in the wake of his harsh words.

With a heavy heart, you rise from the couch and make your way to your room, your mind consumed by the weight of the decision ahead. As you gather the necessities for the mission, a wave of despair washes over you.

If Simon wasn't in your life, what else did you have to live for? There had been multiple missions you had turned down in the past, knowing they were nothing but one-way trips. But now, without Simon by your side, there was nothing holding you back.

Stepping into Price’s office, you steel yourself for the conversation ahead. You inform him of your decision to go through with the mission, his surprise is evident, but he and Laswell offer words of encouragement, instilling in you a sense of hope. With your skills as an infiltrator and your Russian background, they assure you that you stand a fighting chance. After all, who would suspect one of their own?

Despite the uncertainty and the weight of the task ahead, a glimmer of hope begins to flicker within you. Within a matter of hours, you find yourself on a plane headed to Russia, the gravity of your decision weighing heavily on your mind. Simon however remains oblivious to your departure, unaware of the path you've chosen.

Back at home, he returns that night with your favorite takeout and a bouquet of flowers, his heart heavy with remorse and determination. With each step, he replays his apology in his head, rehearsing the words he's been meaning to say. He knows he's messed up, and he's desperate to make things right. He wants to change, to be a better man for you.

Simon's mind swirls with thoughts of seeking therapy, of learning to control his temper and his sharp tongue. He knows he's hurt you deeply with his words, words he never truly meant. He loves you more than anything, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to prove it. But as he steps into the house, the atmosphere is heavy with silence. The air feels cold and unwelcoming.

“Y/n?” He calls out for you, his voice tinged with concern, but there's no response.

Worry gnaws at him as he wanders through the darkened rooms, searching for any sign of you. Finally, he enters the bedroom, and his heart sinks as he sees a note lying on the bed, illuminated by the faint light filtering in through the window. With trembling hands, he picks up the note, his heart pounding in his chest as he reads your words.

Simon,

By the time you read this, I'll be on a plane to Russia. I've made the decision to go through with it, despite the risks, and I wanted you to know why.

I've heard your words echoing in my mind, the ones about finding someone else who will give you what you want, about never getting peace when I'm around. And so, I've decided to honor your wishes. Once I finish this mission, I'll find my own place, and you won't have to deal with my constant nagging anymore. Your life will finally be at peace, just as you've always wanted.

I want you to know that I've always turned down these types of missions in the past. This isn't the first time Price has offered them to me. But if I had known sooner that you didn't care whether I went on them or not, I would have gone sooner. I'm sorry for making your life so miserable, for not realizing sooner that I was the problem.

I hope that you find peace now, Simon. I hope that you find someone who can give you what you want, someone who can make you happy. You deserve that much, at least.

Take care of yourself.

Yours always, Y/n

With each word, his heart sinks deeper, the weight of your words bearing down on him with crushing force. Tears blur his vision as he reads your farewell, your words cutting through him like a knife. The realization of the pain he's caused you hits him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air as guilt gnaws at his conscience.

When he reaches the part where you promise to honor his wish and stay out of his life after your mission, Simon's heart shatters into a million pieces. The thought of you willingly walking away from him, all because of his own hurtful words and actions, is almost too much to bear.

He crumples the letter in his trembling hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he struggles to come to terms with the magnitude of his mistakes. The weight of regret hangs heavy in the air as he realizes the depth of the love he's lost, the love he may never have the chance to regain if you don’t come back from the mission.

The suicide mission.

In that moment, he breaks down completely, the full weight of his actions crashing over him like a tidal wave. Seeing how much he's hurt you, how much he's pushed you away to point that you accepted the mission, shatters him to his core.

With each tear that falls, Simon's resolve crumbles, replaced by a deep and profound sense of regret. He wishes he could turn back time, take back the hurtful words he's spoken, and hold you close, promising to never let you go. But it's too late now, and all he can do is sit in silence, praying to a higher form to keep you safe, to let you come back to him alive.

The next day, Simon walked into Price’s office, his heart heavy with worry and anticipation. He needed to know more about your mission, to find any shred of information that could ease his growing anxiety.

Price informed Simon that you had landed in Russia in the early morning hours. However, he delivered the news that communication would be sparse for at least a month. They had scheduled calls planned for updates on the mission status, but they would have to wait until the designated time for you to radio in.

Simon listened intently, understanding the protocol, but inside, fear and dread gnawed at him. The thought of you out there, alone and potentially in danger, filled him with a sense of helplessness.

As the first month passed, Simon waited patiently in the room with Price, every passing minute feeling like an eternity. But as the hours stretched on, there was no sign of communication from you. No Morse code, no call, no comm. Just silence.

Panic began to set in as Simon grappled with the uncertainty of your situation. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the nagging worry that something had gone terribly wrong. But Price remained steadfast in his confidence, assuring Simon that these things happened often, that perhaps you hadn't found the right opportunity to relay a message.

Despite Price's reassurances, Simon couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that gripped him. With each passing day, his fear for your safety only grew stronger, overshadowing any hope he tried to hold onto. But he knew he had to stay strong, to keep faith that you would return safely from your mission.

Month after month passed, and still, there was no word from you. Simon waited patiently by the phone in the comms room center, his heart heavy with worry and uncertainty. He refused to give up on you, clinging to the hope that you would come back to him, despite Price declaring you M.I.A.

Even as Price tried to reason with him, pointing out that none of your mission objectives had been completed in the time you had been gone, Simon remained steadfast in his belief that you were still out there, somewhere, fighting to return to him.

Even as the years passed Simon couldn't bring himself to accept the possibility that you might truly be gone, vanished from his life and the world forever. The thought of living in a world without you was unbearable, and Simon couldn't bear to entertain it.

The last words he had spoken to you echoed in his mind, haunting him with their cruelty. How could he have been so callous, so blind to the pain he was causing you?

Was this fate's cruel work, forcing him to confront the consequences of his actions? Was this punishment for his harsh words, for pushing you away when he should have pulled you close? Was this what he truly wanted, to be left alone in a world without you?

But even in the depths of his despair, Simon clung to a sliver of hope, refusing to let go of the belief that you would come back to him. He would wait for you, for as long as it took, holding onto the hope that one day, you would return to him and his world would be whole again.

Anon Ask- simon x reader but they are both in the military and reader gets assigned on a suicide mission but has a choice to go or not. reader and simon fight and then they decide to go. feel free not to do this no pressure!!! but if you will dont post the ask until after to make it a little angsty surprise!

409 notes · View notes