tomurderornottomurder
killin'
toliveornottolive on wattpad & ao3.
call me murder, early twenties, they/he, multifandom.
207 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
tommo-patter
tommo_28
callmeyvann
İsimsiz
ghoulette-knell
Knell 🖤
esa-de-guanajuato
Me Vendiste Un Amor Que Jamas Existio
haleblog
"On rocks I dreamt of where we'd stepped..."
Note
I've saw that you had written something for Miguel o hara and I've been simping hard for him ever since the trailers came out. And I've been needing some male reader so if you dont think it's to much to write about Miguel being really desperate for reader and needing reader inside of him which leads to Miguel tearing his suit open for reader to use and finally use him. If this is alot then am sorry for taking up space it just that I've never seen someone write for male reader for 2099.
desperation
一 pairing; miguel o'hara x male reader
note: no worries, i'm currently hyperfixated on miguel. this was fun to write, hope you like it! [ slightly proofread ] .
cw: bottom!miguel, breeding, sexual tension, rough & outdoor sex.
word count: 1.4k
“fuck– it’s too hot in this suit,” you murmured as you grabbed hold of your mask, taking it off swiftly. you and miguel had been patrolling for the night on the outskirts of your city after being alerted by your officials.
the way you said “fuck” made miguel’s head spin, the tension only building up even further. this whole time miguel has been fighting his own urges to make a move but was far too embarrassed in an environment like this. even if the location was miles away from the headquarters, he did not want to risk being caught by anybody. everything about you from your touseled hair to your suit hugging tightly around your shape made him flustered and tried to stay out of your gaze.
you noticed him turn away and raised a brow, wondering if he had seen something in the distance or was simply feeling unwell. “you alright, mig?” you asked, slightly teasing him with the nickname you loved using. he let out a small huff through his mask and saw the misty cloud escape through it, as the temperature outside was a bit colder than usual but you didn’t mind.
“yeah, don’t worry. just a bit cold,” he replied and you shrugged your shoulders, taking a seat on a nearby rock. miguel glanced over at you as you rested your elbows on your thighs, causing your suit to stretch around your arms. from all of the training you’ve had over the years, it definitely paid off, and staring at you simply made miguel’s stomach feel warm.
“y’know, this is so useless..” you grunted and he raised a brow, humming a small “hm?” under his breath. “there’s no threat. is everyone just on edge? because personally, i’d rather be home under the covers.” annoyed, you kicked a tiny pebble off to the side and slightly leaned your head back out of frustration.
miguel’s breathing changed as he continued to watch you, not paying attention to any of the words you just said. he was focused on your breathing and how your neck flexed against your suit, your adam’s apple becoming prominent. he sat down across from you, causing you to look up at him and he seemed more tense than usual. you furrowed your eyebrows together, afraid that there was something on his mind, and refused to tell you about it.
“are you sure you’re alright?” you asked and there was a pause before he answered, “of course, what makes you think i’m not?” he spoke as if he was reading off of a script and you rolled your eyes.
“you aren’t talking much and you sound like you’re so miserable, is it that difficult to be around me?” you playfully joked and yes, it was difficult. miguel was sitting there fantasizing about you and he couldn’t do anything about his thoughts as he was trying to get ahold of himself. until it got too much and he felt a familiar tightness on the lower half of his suit, covering his lap in embarrassment.
“no, i’m not miserable and it is not difficult to be around you. i’m just thinking about the project we’ve been working on is all,” he mumbled as he began fidgeting with his hands, causing his knuckles to brush against his boner. miguel let out a hiss, trying to cover it with a lame cough but you never thought anything of it. you got up, pacing around in front of him, trying to think of what to do for the next hour. miguel continued to watch you, his eyes examining each move you made. he felt like a pervert but couldn’t help his thoughts as you were standing right in front of him, his desperation for you only growing stronger by the minute. when you turned around, miguel got up from his seat and stood right behind you, pressing his body against your back.
“hey, do you–” you felt something poke against you, knowing that familiar feeling. “i can’t do this anymore,” he grunted in your ear, wrapping his strong arms around your waist. you licked the top row of your teeth, watching his hand slowly trail down to your own bulge.
“miguel..” you warned as you leaned into his touch, bucking your hips up against his hand. you moved out of his grasp and turned around to face him.
you took off his mask for him, revealing his lustful eyes. his fangs poked through his lips and you found it adorable, grabbing a hold of his face to make him watch what you were going to do. he looked down, his eyes trailing to your hand as you rubbed your hand against his cock. miguel let out a gasp, causing him to bite down on his lip and poked himself with his own fangs. he winced but was too focused on the pleasure you were giving him.
“so this is what got you all hot ‘n bothered, hm?” you teased, and he whined as he tried to press himself against you even further. miguel got tired of the teasing and took matters into his own hands as he pressed his lips against yours, hungrily kissing you. it caught you by surprise and you placed your hands on his shoulders, gripping tightly onto his suit.
“please.” he whined into the kiss, his hands tampering with his own suit. you pressed on the emblem on your chest, causing your suit to disenthrall from your figure. without thinking about the consequences of his actions, miguel tore open his suit for easier access as his suit was more complicated to get out of. the sound of the fabric tearing made your eyes widen, knowing it took him so long to perfect every aspect of it.
“¿tan desesperado estás?” you whispered against his mouth as you signaled for him to jump, pinning him against a nearby wall.
“cállate.” he hissed, connecting your lips together once again. you took your cock in your hand, noticing the precum that was spilling out. miguel bit down on your shoulder, feeling his sharp teeth pierce through your skin, causing you to let out a loud moan.
“fuck me already. please, stop making me wait. i’m so des– fuck!” he whined in your ear, feeling his hot breath against it. you thrust into him without any warning, forcing your cock to go in. you felt him stretch around you, a string of curses slipping out of your mouth. “you’re so tight miguel…” you grunted through your gritted teeth, finally putting all of it inside of him.
you used one arm to stabilize yourself and the other to hold miguel, keeping him close to your body. miguel dug his claws into your back as you pounded into him, not giving him any time to adjust to you. he threw his head back against the wall and you looked at him, thinking it was such a pretty sight to see him so desperate for you.
you quickened your pace, each thrust began to be harder and rougher. miguel’s moans filled the air as he did not care to be loud, noticing him stare off into nothing as if he was so cock drunk. you took this as encouragement, slamming into him as you felt your orgasm reaching its peak.
miguel seemed to notice too, mumbling in your ear, “breed me… please” as that was all that he could let out. you smiled, pressing a kiss against his temple, “good boys get what they want”. you buried your face into his neck as you came, moaning his name out loud as you made sure to pin his ass against your cock. miguel followed shortly after, gasping for air as he moaned your name over and over again. you stood there, still inside him as you wanted to make sure you filled him up.
“you alright?” you asked with concern, looking up at him. he pressed his forehead against yours, a smirk plastered across his face.
“of course. getting fucked by you is always the best thing… and don’t you dare move.” he sternly ordered, wrapping his arms around your shoulders to keep himself steady.
“i wasn’t planning to just yet. but what about your suit?” you asked and he pointed at his wrist cuff, not noticing it before.
“i made a new prototype. thought i’d test it out tonight…” he mumbled, closing up the space between you two to kiss you once again. he began to move his hips, earning a groan from you.
“you fuckin’ whore… you do realize that there are cameras right?” you pointed up at one and he placed his hand behind your nape, pulling you closer to him.
“then let them watch.”
#murder recommends#OH MY FUCKING GOD#OP I'M-#i cannot STRESS how much i LOVE casual little acts just riling ppl up like miguel w reader#I'M ACTUALLY GNAWING AT MY FINGERS RN THAT'S MY FAVORITE THING#op is actually insane /pos#anyway miguel u slut#beloved slut <3#miguel o'hara rec
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Do you know the upside down kiss from Spider-Man? I'm thinking about that with Miguel.
He exhales as soon as he sees you hanging upside down, already knowing what you're going to ask. Your mask is pulled up (down?) to your nose, so he can see the wide grin you have on your face, and he sighs out, "Really?"
Your grin widens. "Aw, come on Miguel! Just once?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself about how this is a waste of time, but he still steps forward until your noses are brushing against one another. He never had much restraint when it came to you.
You always steal his breath away when you kiss him so gently - like he's made of glass and about to shatter, and this time is no different, his eyes fluttering shut at that first contact. You kiss him until you're both breathless, pulling away with a pleased sigh, and if you notice the lovestruck sheen over his eyes, you don't say anything.
Miguel tries to steel himself, clearing his throat. "Satisfied?" He questions.
You give a thoughtful hum, hands moving to cup his cheeks. "Not yet." He gives you an incredulous look, one you quickly wipe away as you start to press chaste kisses across his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his jaw, leaving no inch of skin untouched.
He can feel his face burning, how you still manage to do that to him he'll never know, and when you pull away he sees the eyes of your mask squint, as if you're appraising him. With a short nod you drop your hands, "Now I'm satisfied."
#murder recommends#i'm about to throw myself in a fire this is so cute#miguel you are so special and stinky i hate (love) you <3#headpats 4 op smooch#miguel o'hara rec
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
meet cute but it's you in the pharmacy drive thru for meds and ghost right behind you and he hits your car
#murder mumbles#my brain needs to shut up#i may or may not actually be writing this out because i can i am mentally ill and i think it's funny#but i wanted to share in case in anyone might like to take a crack at this. so feel free!#ghost x reader#ghost x gn reader#ghost x male reader
17 notes
·
View notes
Text
Locker-room jokes
CW:NSFW MDNI, FTM reader and Gaz, frotting, oral, first times, masc terms (cock, cocklet, bottom growth) this is based off a post I saw somewhere and a talk I had with @embry-garrick . Author isn't trans so tell me if this sucks lol
Guys comparing dick sizes in the locker room is a joke as old as time. You'd never considered entertaining it as it always came off stupid to you. . . yet here you are.
The locker room is thankfully empty except for you and Gaz, the silence buzzing beneath your skin and leaving you awkwardly shifting your weight from one leg to the other. It's not like you two haven't seen each other naked before, God knows some of the communal showers on different bases were little bigger than shoe boxes, but the expectation to do more than just catch a glimpse — that makes you feel naked.
Agreeing to this had been easy, but now that it came time to put your words were your mouth was you realize you were too arrogant; You can't quite make yourself meet Gaz's gaze, eyes flickering from his face to the darkened lines beneath his pecks, to the sparce trail of body hair that disappears down beneath the towel wrapped around his hips before returning to his face, your cheeks burning.
"Oh, is someone nervous?" Gaz shows you mercy by sauntering closer, gun calloused hands finding their place on your hips and thumbs slipping beneath the towel's hem. "Scared you're not going to be able to rise to the occasion?" His voice has a teasing lilt to it as he snickers at his own words.
You open your mouth to speak but you're forced to bite your tongue when Kyle presses against you, chest to chest and skin to skin. He tilts his head back, your noses brushing together. "You know," His lips brush against yours, just a ghost and a promise something more should you listen to him. "You could just quit while you're ahead and save yourself the embarrassment."
Even the miniscule sensation of his lips on yours leaves your body wanting more, your ribs aching to be wrenched open so he can hold your heart in his hands. Damn tempter.
You ignore your body's wants, the knowledge of him testing you making something burn in your chest. "In your dreams." You repeat the same words that got you into this mess, the words that awakened his competitive streak.
You mimic him by gripping his hips and clutching the towel barely hanging around him. But there's a small tremor in your hands, anxiety nibbling on your nerves — You're treading new ground, the furthest you two ever got was drunken make out sessions and heavy groping in bathrooms or broom closets or Price's office that one time.
Kyle doesn't mention the tremble, your actions earning yourself a pleased grin from him. "Ooh, aren't you arrogant." Which is good; it wouldn't be fun if you were a wet rag about it. Kyle's fingers shift to skirt across your sides before gripping your towel tighter. "Tell you what, we take them off together, yeah?"
"Aren't you thoughtful." Your words make him grin, but you nod your head. "Fine—" You grip his towel, the muscles in your arm tensing. "One, two, three-"
You barely manage to say the last number before Kyle yanks the towel off your hips and tosses it carelessly on the nearby bench. You scramble to do the same, your hands suddenly your mortal enemies as you stumble around a bit while you feel his eyes on you before you manage to take his towel off.
Gaz knows he looks good, he's proud of his body, but the way your eyes travel across his frame — from his face to his chest, following the happy trail of sparce hair down his abdomen to his groin where the neatly trimmed pubic hair accentuates the length of his bottom growth— has blood rushing to his cock, has him feeling high as a kite.
He looks you over up and down, both to see your embarrassment grown and because he's pleased by what he sees. His eyes settles to your groin where a bush of hair partly obscures your own bottom growth, glancing between you and himself. "I reckon I'm bigger."
Something about the way he says it, like he's a jaguar that just caught a cayman, sparks something inside you. "Only because you're smooth as a baby's ass." You growl and push a hand between your bodies, trapping your cock between two fingers and spreading them slightly so it's fully on display. "I'm bigger." You can't help but press a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose, some of your arrogance coming back.
Kyle tries not to, but a pleased noise escapes his throat — you're definitely bigger, at least half an inch if not more. He's not willing to admit defeat that quickly, but fuck, the change in your attitude is a major turn on.
"Cheater." The accusation would be far more hurtful if he didn't press himself closer, one hand holding your shoulder, the other sliding down to hold his cocklet. "Just gotta-" But he doesn't stop there, slowly stroking the length of it between his fingers, thumb swirling across the tip. "-I'll show you big."
"Now who's cheating?" You snark, using your free hand to hold Kyle tightly so he doesn't lose his balance. You don't stop him, mesmerized by the way each languid stroke has his cock chubbing up a bit more, slick easing the glide as it glistens across his flushed flesh.
"You started it-hah!—" You pick the moment to grind your groin into his, the tip of your cocklet roughly grinding against his and forcing a small punched out noise from his lungs.
"Whoops." You grunt, pleasure starting to simmer in your veins as you grind your cock against his again. "Sorry, just needed to get the right angle." Your tone makes the lie obvious but you can't be bothered to make it sound believable, the combination of shifting of your hips and the slow movement of your hand as you stroke yourself at the same tempo as him has lightning rushing up your spine. "I'm still bigger than you."
"Bastard!" The curse morphs into a short laugh and finally into a moan that bounces off the tiled walls, his head tilting forward to place a sloppy and disorganized kiss on your cheek. Kyle pants against your skin, leaving crescent shaped bruises on your shoulder from how tightly he grips you. "Hold on, I just have to-" He moans again, rocking his hips to meet yours that has the sensitive heads of your cocklets bumping together. "-fuck- fuck- just, give me a minute it gets bigger."
"What's wrong Kyle, failing to rise to the occasion?" You have no idea how wet that smug tone of yours makes him, but with how obscenely loudly his slick squelches against his fingers, Kyle's sure you'll figure it out soon. "Here, let me help you."
It's Kyles turn to be surprised when you push him into one of the stalls, his back meeting the cold tiles of the shower. "What are you planning?" He grunts, a yelp escaping him when you suddenly grab his thighs, picking up and bending him nearly in half until your head's cradled between his thighs and his cock's inches away from your mouth. The years of gymnastics makes the position possible, the numb pain of muscles deep in his back stretching making the pleasure so much sharper.
You blow cold air across his sensitive cocklet, watching it twitch with need. "Relax, just getting a better look." The way his thighs shake when you lick a slow stripe up his cock has your mind buzzing, the needy sound that breaks past his lips sweet as honey to your ears. "I'm gonna help you get as big as you can." It's hard to look away from his cock but you force yourself to look up at Gaz, resting his cocklet against your lips. "It's only fair."
"You-" Whatever he wanted to say next is cut off when you take his entire cock in your mouth, resting it on your tongue for a few moments before you suck. "-oh fuck!" His hands scramble to find purchase on your shoulders, gripping your hair as he hunches over, his mouth right next to your ear so you can head a moan leave him — deep and low and so desperate.
It makes you want to pull more of those sounds out of him. And you do — sloppily slurping on his cocklet for a few seconds only to pull off to lick it, alternating between slow strong swipes of your tongue across his entire shaft to small kitten licks on his tip. Occasionally you pull off entirely to blow cold air across it, keeping him teetering on that edge of pleasure, silencing the sounds of discontent with a few swipes near his hole before taking all of him into your mouth to repeat the cycle.
You don't know what's more intoxicating; You feel yourself grow drunk off the slightly sweet and musky taste of his slick that runs down your chin, the image of his abdominal muscles fluttering and thighs shaking from the building pleasure in his belly burned into your mind, Kyles babbles of "Yeah, like th- fuck, fuck, fuck- that- pleas-hah—" and calls of your name broken by moans and whimpers like the song of angels.
You feel him get closer to the edge, or at least you assume so by the way the grinding of his hips into your face grows erratic, your name being the only word that still clings to his brain as he chants it like a mantra, his fingers shaking from how tightly he grips your shoulders.
Kyle makes a sound like a wounded animal when you suddenly pull off, "-no-no-nono!" He cries, hips still bucking into the air with the need to tumble over the edge of pleasure, tears staining his cheeks as he manages to force out a weak glare. "Wh- why w-gh!- why?"
"We still have to compare." Your voice is rough like you'd been gurgling shards of glass, holding him steady as you lower him enough to wrap his legs around your waist, pressing your bodies together until you're smushing him into the wall.
He doesn't complain as the sudden move has your bottom growths rubbing against one another, and only now do you realize your body is as desperate as his. "Y- ah fuck- yeah right." There's still that fire in him, but now he uses it to grip the back of your skull and mush your lips together, ignoring the taste of himself on your lips. "Just-shit mh!- move."
Kyle's heels digging into your flank makes you rock forward, grinding your cocks together. Your slick mixes together, your pubic hair sticking to his skin and tickling the sensitive flesh of his cock with every thrust. He openly moans into your mouth, licking in and around your open mouth, trying to clean off the slick staining your skin but only making a bigger mess as spit now mixes with his juices.
Kyle feels like he's burning up, like he's just a puddle of please — the pace you set is rough and your kisses are sloppy and desperate and it feels like Heaven. Gaz wraps all four limbs around you tightly yet he still gyrates his pelvis to meet yours, every nerve in your bodies feeling like a live wire as pleasure builds and builds until it's ready to spill over.
"Fuck- Kyle-" You grunt, your fingers leaving bruises on his flesh, his back sliding up and down against the tiles as you increase your pace, every brush of his flesh against yours banging on your skull. "I'm -mhm- close."
"Mh- me too-" He slurs against your lips, kissing you until both of you are gasping for air. "please-please-please-love- make us cum, plea- ah fuck!—" Kyle shouts as his orgasm finally crashes into him, toes curling and head tilting to bite your shoulder in an attempt to silence himself as he cums, hole fluttering around nothing and cock throbbing as slick runs down his thighs.
The pain and pleasure comes for you a second later, you grip him so harshly you can feel his bones groan as you cum too, your hips grinding together to prolong the mind numbing pleasure, your teeth finding his shoulder as you bite down as well.
You don't know how the Hell you're still standing by the time you come down from your high, every muscle in your body straining like you'd just went through a suicide mission. Kyle's no better, shaking like a leaf and completely boneless in your arms, panting into your neck.
You kiss the bite mark you've left on his shoulder, gently bumping your head into his to gain his attention, "Kyle?" You ask, "Are you alright?"
"Fuuuuck lovie," Kyle groans, barely able to lift his head enough to give you a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "That was good." His fingers idly scratch your scalp, the low rasp of his fucked out voice makes your cock twitch half-heartedly but you're too worn out to get aroused again. "Remind me to blow you when I can feel my legs again."
Yeah, he's alright.
A small laugh breaks past your lips and you give him a similarly sloppy kiss. "I will." Somehow you manage to sit down on the floor, Kyle laying on top of you, as content as a spoiled cat.
"Just so you know." He whispers into your ear, his fingers slowly sliding across your sides, thumbs rubbing lazy absentminded circles into your skin. "I want a do-over of this contest." He grins, and fuck, you can't get past how handsome he looks like that. "Maybe in my room, yeah?"
You can't refuse. "Yeah."
#murder recommends#nsfw tw#lol all you hear next is Johnny or Ghost clearing his throat going like “You two have fun?”#< that tag tho#anyway just a couple of bros doing bro things#t4t my beloved#gaz my beloved#gaz <3#kyle garrick rec
652 notes
·
View notes
Text
ON MY MIND (Roommate!Gaz x GN!Reader)
roommate!gaz masterlist
summary; you wear kyle’s hoodie and he’s forced to confront some suppressed emotions.
[WARNINGS; gaz is a smoker & is emotionally weary, fluff!]
“Kyle!”
His head tilts a bit from the call of his name, muffled and frustrated. His eyes focused on the glass plate in his hand, his other hand scrubbing the thing with an overly-used sponge. “Yeah?” He calls back, only turning his head by his left shoulder a tad bit so you can hear him better as he’s assuming you’re not near the kitchen.
Kyle hears you shuffling around, your shoes scuffing against the floorboards. You don’t respond for a second, but Kyle knows you’re focused on.. Whatever you were doing. He puts the soapy plate in the other side of the sink in the next tub, reaching for the next dish. However, his sleeve slips down his arm a bit, getting wet and soapy. “Ah..” He cringes out loud, his lips pulling uncomfortably as he uses two fingers to tug the now wet sleeve back into place.
Kyle hears your footsteps approach from the next room, causing him to tilt his body so he can keep his wet hands over the sink whilst also looking at you. You enter the room with a frustrated look upon your face, your eyebrows furrowed and your lip curled ever so slightly curled. Kyle chuckles, unable to help himself at how pathetic you look at the moment and he knows it’s not over anything important. “What’s wrong?” He murmurs, already amused.
You’re holding up one of Kyle’s hoodies, one the ones that has his last name sprawled across the back. He blinks for a moment before you begin to speak. “I gotta run to the corner store real quick and all of my hoodies are still damp in the dryer,” You exclaim, putting the hoodie down a bit so you can look at him. “Do you mind if I wear your hoodie to walk down there?”
Kyle’s lips purse for a moment, a weird sensation manifesting in his chest cavity as he thinks about wearing his hoodie. “Go ahead, don’t need you getting sick, yeah?” Kyle utters as he turns back to the sink, pinching the front of his shirt and pulling it from his chest as if it’ll ease the sensation. “Sick! Thanks, Kyle. You want anything?” You ask, quickly pulling the hoodie on, adjusting the sleeves.
Kyle’s back is to you as he grabs another dish, mindlessly cleaning it. “‘Course, sweetness. Grab me some crisps, won’t you?” He says, putting the.. clean(?) dish into the other side of the sink on top of the soapy plate. “Yep, I got it. Bye, Ky!”
The door shuts.
Kyle blinks, staring at the soapy water with the tightness in his chest remaining, even after your exit. He sighs slowly, pushing his thumbs into the corners of his eyes—then he shouts, because now soap is in his eyes. “Shitshit—” He hisses, quickly turning on the faucet to wash his eyes out.
Kyle never asked for his hoodie back—a part of him expected for it to appear folded on his bed, washed and taken care of and the other part wished he never saw it again except for you wearing it. You always seemed to lose your hoodies after that, or you went through your collection much faster than you previously had. Neither of you pointed it out, especially Kyle. He was quite alright with a couple of his hoodies disappearing conveniently right at the times you were planning on leaving for a store, or just an outing in general.
Something sickly sweet twists in Kyle’s gut when he sees you wearing his hoodie. It’s something clawing at his insides, gnawing at his bones—energy that makes him want to bash his head into the wall and he isn’t completely understanding why. The second he sees you wearing one of his hoodies, especially the ones with his name on it.. It’s like a little feral squirrel in his body goes wild.
Kyle turns in his bed, groaning softly as he rubs his hand over his face, trying to focus on the coolness of his sheets as he rolls over. He thinks about Soap and Price, thinking about the night where you embarrassed him in front of his mates. Kyle stares into the darkness of his room as he thinks about how proud you seemed to be after making them laugh—how you seemed to beam at him after sharing a reassuring look.
“Bloody hell.” Kyle mumbles, his words muffled as he turns his face against the warm of his pillow, his breathing harsh for a moment. A pleasant warmth trickles into his chest as he thinks about his missing hoodies. How he isn’t able to help the giddy smile on his face when he sees you walk through the door, coming home wearing something with his name on it. His. His. His.
Kyle lifts himself from his bed, grunting as his feet hit the cold floor. He patters across the floor, quietly exiting his bedroom. Kyle’s heart thumps harshly against his chest. He shakes his head and gently slaps his cheeks as he walks down the hall towards the living room and kitchen, trying to rid himself of these thoughts—of thinking of you like that. He pauses for a moment when he hears the television on, playing at a low volume. Kyle slows his footsteps as he makes his way past the hall, coming into the living room.
The television is gently illuminating the room and he hears you before he sees you. You’re sleeping on the couch, your favorite blanket sprawled across your lap, your back and head supported by the stupid throw pillows Kyle insisted that you two needed for the couch. Your head is tilted down in a position that looks slightly uncomfortable, your lips parted—wearing his hoodie.
Kyle stares for a minute, his eyes softening as he leans forward, his fingers gentle as he takes your head in his hands and slowly but surely, adjusts the positioning of your head. Kyle watches the way your eyebrows furrow for a moment, your lips pressing back together closed. His lips twitch into a soft smile as he watches you shift in your sleep, your face leaning more into his palm.
Kyle’s heart stops for just a second before he brushes the pad of his thumb against your cheekbone, your skin hot under his touch. So warm and full of life.
His chest tightens again and Kyle carefully pulls his hand away from you, his feet quick as he grabs his cigarettes and lighter from the counter near the backdoor, escaping out the back to forget about what his feelings truly mean.
🏷️; @kivino @mlmxreader @soapybutt17 @microwavedcheetos @frazie99 @narcolepticduck @ch3rrykoolaid @kimdiedlater @glossysoap @thisuserloveshalloween @ornateorchid @missborntodiex @indefenseofkara @lieutenantlashfaz @queen-leviathan @specter319 @theunplannedvariable @spacelia @1117sblog @snoowply @dumb-fawkin-bitch @abigatorchomp @s8nsbride @talooolalolla @sstormyskyess @spicyspicyliving @nyushkawritesstuff
this is from my overall taglist which you can find here. if you would like there to be a roommate!gaz taglist, comment below! mistakenly tagged/wrongly tagged? let me know, no hard feelings.
#murder recommends#going insane rn#whew! lemme take a lap#roommate gaz my beloved#gaz in general <3#sweet boy gaz#i will steal more than your hoodies kyle hehe#kyle garrick rec
698 notes
·
View notes
Text
“𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞.„
𝕲𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖝 𝕲𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗-𝖓𝖊𝖚𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗
𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 𝟏𝟒,𝟖𝟎𝟕
𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶
𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐙𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐀𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮, 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭, “𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭”, 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐬.
𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭. 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝?
...
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
*𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖! 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧!!! 🔥
*⚠️ 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭! 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭! 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓!!! ⚠️
*𝐂𝐖s: 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐔𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 (?). 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐌𝐚𝐣𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 “𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡„. 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲/𝐧.**
**Let me know if there's anything major that I've missed! ☺️
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
“𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭„ ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @rustic-guitar-notes ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @best-soup ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance ♡ @nightlyvoids ♡ @skeletalgoats ♡ @aethelwyneleigh27 ☆ @arrozyfrijoles23
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Simon "Ghost" Riley always had been a puzzle you couldn't solve. Always had been, and always was.
Stoic and stone-cold, it seemed, who did not respond with any warmth whatsoever, as a fire was put out in his adolescence, never to be rekindled again.
All that remained of his softness quickly became a hardened shell, ashes and dust from the extinguished flame left behind, not a spark to be reignited ever again.
The mask he wore became who he was, and he became the "Ghost" persona. Simon Riley was no more, and he hadn't been for years; he was Ghost, ghosts of his past forever haunting him, until he himself became a ghost of who he used to be.
So, Ghost was a distant man; which, was also always a contradiction — physically in close proximity to you on the few missions you had been paired with him, shoulder to shoulder with the both of you looking into the scopes of your sniper rifles, yet practically on another continent in terms of relations and closeness.
You were a rookie, and it seemed to you that Ghost viewed you in disdain for that.
With each attempt you made to become closer, he'd retreat back further into his shell. You'd think you'd be able to thaw his icy exterior, at least by mere degrees, yet his melting point grew higher with each interaction, the distance between you growing despite you trying to close it. Him recoiling at each attempt you made to come closer, as if your warmth burned him.
Every attempt at casual conversation was shot down. Stepping a couple of steps away from you, not looking at you at all, he would physically make the distance between you two further apart.
"Keep it tactical," he'd mutter. "If it's not about anything of importance, don't bother wasting my time. You got that?"
"Was only asking how your day was, you know," you grumbled, arms crossed defensively as you looked off to the side, hurt. "What's not tactical about that?"
"I hate small talk. Nothing tactical about it."
With that, he'd storm off unceremoniously, not sparing you even a single glance.
You'd jog after him, the treatment he was giving you making you feel like an unwanted dog. "Sir, hold on—!"
Ghost halted, and you would have crashed into the human wall had you not slipped in the combat boots a size too big for you.
"Not 'sir'." Dark brown eyes narrowed into yours.
"It's Lieutenant to you, rookie. Get that through your thick skull." Turning away from you with his arms crossed firmly across his chest.
"On second thoughts, you could be of use for somethin'."
Side-eyeing you, his words dripped with sarcasm. "That thick skull of yours could be a sniper's worst nightmare."
"Look, si— I-I mean, Lieutenant— I was just wondering—"
"Look, don't waste my time, yeah? Not here to bloody babysit a blooming toddler that can't keep itself busy."
Work with him was kept strictly professional before the outbreak — well, more so "stand-offish" as opposed to professional.
There was no point becoming acquainted. You two were vague associates, had occasionally been deployed together, and Ghost rarely associated with you when if wasn't on a mission, always acting aloof.
"Gotta stay focused, soldier. Especially in these circumstances."
"I'm not a soldier, you know," you remarked, daring to roll your eyes as he had his back turned. "I don't have the training that you have had, or the experience. I'm just a rookie."
"All the more reason for you to stay focused," he repeated matter-of-factly. "So, get a grip, soldier, because that's what you are now. If you don't have what it takes to survive, might as well lay down on the ground and wait to die."
And those working dynamics hadn't changed whatsoever after the outbreak.
The outbreak of a virus.
Almost the whole human population was wiped out by a world-wide epidemic, a plague that could not be cured.
The virus gave those infected the ravishing urge to purge anything living, a diseased mind wanting to spread its disease.
Like a parasite, it sucked out all of your life essence, your conscience fading as your body deteriorated, until had degenerated beyond repair.
Rabid like a stray dog, you would no longer be human. True, you were still you, yet you weren't you, only a monster in human form.
A corpse, violent and violently out of control, driven by animalistic instincts; instincts to kill, and to ravage fresh, human flesh like a savage, ripping apart meat off bone with sharpened canines.
Out of 8 billion people, 2 billion had been killed by the military's efforts to reduce the spread of the disease, while 5 billion roamed infected.
Out of the billion that survived, millions were driven to suicide, and those that remained fought and killed each other like primitives for basic necessities such as food, water, and territory. It was survival of the fittest, though few were fit mentally and many had gone mad. It would make one wonder whether there were any sane people left.
Of course, you and Ghost found out the hard way, when you two were deployed on a mission.
A mission quite unlike the few you had been deployed on before, as you two were retracing the steps of the police, trying to gather information on their whereabouts.
Shortly after police cars had arrived on scene of an emergency, communications with them were lost almost immediately.
And what's worse, was that Shepherd's forces had been supposedly involved in the incident.
You two had been dispatched by helicopter almost immediately, and upon landing, you realised that this would be the perfect opportunity to prove yourself to Ghost.
The place was strange.
Wide streets, dotted with brick buildings. Ominously flickering street lamps. The gentle drip-drip-drip of rain, collecting in shallow puddles.
Something about the streets being so deserted, no lights lit in apartment windows and nothing stirring in the alleyways, put you on edge.
Ghost, on the other hand, was completely calm, laser-focused.
A voice came through his earpiece. One of a female. "Ghost, what's your status?"
"Approximately 500m away from the target area," Ghost said robotically, scanning the surroundings like a machine. "No contact at all, and nothing out of place."
The voice hummed with satisfaction. "Good. Make sure you've got each other's backs. You never know what lurks in the unknown."
"Roger that."
"What lurks?" You asked, turning to Ghost in slight fright. "What does she mean by that?"
"Well," he shrugged. "An ambush, for one. Could be anyone hiding out in these streets. May not be as deserted as they seem."
A shrug. "But then again, you'd know that if y'had some common sense."
You two walked soundlessly ahead, footsteps in sync.
Rain dripped onto your gun, collecting into small droplets of water.
Once, you stepped into a puddle, and as your boot made ripples in the water, you swore you saw something. Something distorted in the water's reflection.
A wrinkled face, with glowing orange eyes, with sunken eye sockets and sullen cheeks, baring it's yellow teeth at you.
About to lunge at you from behind.
Whipping your head around in fright, you saw nothing there, and Ghost shot you a questioning look, a brow raised.
"What's gotten you jumping like that?"
"It's nothing. I just—" You shook your head, shaking off the fright. "—I just thought I saw someone. But there was no one there."
A dry, monosyllabic chuckle from Ghost. "Seeing ghosts, are we? Come on. Get your bloody head in the game, and focus."
You two walked ahead, yet you still couldn't shake off the sixth-sense telling you that something was wrong.
The figure you briefly caught a glimpse of made you paranoid, and you'd look over your shoulder every so often to see if something, that something, was behind you.
Nothing was, yet that didn't make the goosebumps go away, or your pulse to slow down.
Eyes closed, you breathed in and sighed. Almost immediately, you gagged in disgust.
"Eurgh! Lieutenant, do you smell that?"
Ghost quirked a brow again. "What?"
You sniffed again, and retched, tasting vomit in your mouth. "That."
The putrid odour of rotten flesh.
"You're right, I smell it," he wheezed, and fixed his balaclava. "Bloody disgusting. Smells like—"
"A dead body," you whispered.
"Dead bodies," Ghost corrected. "That isn't just one corpse. No corpse smells like that. There's gotta be a heap of these, all rotting away."
A chill went down your spine. "So you're telling me that all of the policemen just... died? On the spot? And they've just been rotting here, despite it bringless than a few hours?"
Ghost shrugged offhandedly. "Sure seems that way, don' it? Though, I admit, I'm jus' as lost as you are on this one."
Sighing deeply, and beckoned you with his head. "Come on. Let's keep going."
Looking back down, you immediately you noticed it.
A thick, magenta mist swirling from the ground and rising into the air, swiftly shifting into shapeless shapes.
It slithered like a snake up your leg, neither a fog nor a gas, but instead behaving like a liquid.
You were mesmerised, and couldn't help but take in in, if not but for a moment.
Out of nowhere, a snarling creature was sprinting straight at you, with those same glowing orange eyes.
Baring its sharp teeth at you, it had a crazed look in its eyes, pupils dilated and its sceleras blood red.
Sprinting straight at you, you realised.
Before it could register to you what was happening, what that thing was, and what to do, a single bullet went through the creature's head, straight through between its eyes.
"Godamnit, soldier!" Ghost yelled. "For Chris' sake, you should have been paying attention. You have a gun, so bloody use it, will you?"
Shook by what you saw, you had to protest: "Yes, but Lieutenant, did—"
"No 'but's," he snapped. "Eyes on the back of your head at all times, don't I tell you enough already?"
Still shaken, you tried again to physically shake off your nerves, in vain, and steadied the rifle in your hands.
"N-no. You're right, Lieutenant. You tell me enough already."
Looking down at the swishing mist, you still couldn't shake off the goosebumps on your arms.
Walking slightly behind Ghost, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, armed and ready.
He held a hand out to tell you to be quiet, and stepped aside.
Your eyes widenened.
Police cars toppled over, some completely destroyed by a rocket launcher, in a circle clumped on one side.
Shrapnel and sharp glass lay scattered on the ground, while guns were carelessly left behind.
Further along, army vans and trucks were parked, abandone. Doors left ajar and windows half-closed, as if the people there had struggled to escape, and left at the last second.
There were thick, black tyre marks from the wheels of one of these trucks leading north, that had skidded rapidly away. Away from something.
Sound of glass cracking under your foot brought your gaze to the ground. Lifting your boot, you saw what looks to be a vial. The contents were empty.
"Bloody hell..." Ghost shook his head, and, calm and composed, put two fingers to his ear piece. "There's been a shootout here, but no bodies. Any updates?"
No response.
Ghost's fingers moved to his earpiece again. "Ma'am, I repeat, there has been a shootout here, but there are no bodies. Do you copy?"
Nothing.
A cold chill tickled your spine, only this time, your body temperature dropped by degrees.
"Lieutenant, something's not right."
"More like everything is not right. Haven't you noticed?"
You gaped at him stupidly. "Wh-what?"
"That there's no bodies. Look around."
Ghost was right — not a single corpse was on ground.
It was as if everyone here had ceased fire and fled, dispersing into all directions, not caring at all whether they had been shooting at each other moments before.
There was sudden rumbling from the distance, and under your feet.
For a second, you thought it was an earthquake at the way the ground shook so forcefully.
You two looked into each other's eyes, Ghost's dark brown ones wide with alertness, while yours were wide in fear.
Soon, it dawned on you that it was not an earthquake. It was the stomping of feet, running in unison. A stampede.
"What the—?"
A cacophony of high-pitched screeching echoed from the othet side of the street.
Finally, you saw them on the horizon.
Dozens, at least fifty or more, were running right at you both.
Some, were limping, their broken leg trailing behind them like dead weight, yet still were driven by the fire in their eyes.
Most, however, were sprinting straight to you with inhuman speed, sprinting faster than any Olympic athlete could have done.
Horrified, you stared, having never seen such a sight in your whole life. If it had not been for Ghost shaking you violently, you'd have stood there, like a deer in headlights, yapping jaws of imminent death just a few yards away.
"Bloody hell, soldier! Snap out of it!"
Rescued from your trance, you had no idea what to do. You hadn't enough magazines to kill so many. There was nowhere to hide, you thought.
"Back to the chopper, now!"
Ghost pulled your arm, yanking you beside him, and you two bolted from where you came, you dropping your rifle in your haste to get away.
Adrenaline coursed through your veins, energising you in a way you had never been before.
Your sudden stamina shocked you, but you had nothing else on your mind, your mind screaming at you to run! Run! RUN!
Your feet were moving so fast that they were a blur. When you dared to look back, you nearly tripped over your own feet. The was horde less than fifty metres away.
Ghost had broken off into a full sprint at the sight of the helicopter, still on the ground, and you had been filled with hope.
Then you saw from the distance that the pilot that had piloted you here was slumped in the front seat. Two zombies had gotten to him and had ravaged him mercilessly, his jugular gushing blood, his collarbone protruding as they tore through skin and muscle.
Without thinking, Ghost pulled them off the corpse, and shot each in the head.
He spared a second's worth of mourning for the man, before pulling him out from the front seat and setting his body at the back compartment.
When you caught up to him, the horde was nearly nipping at your heels. "Fuck, Lieutenant! What are we gonna do?!"
Without warning, Ghost shoved you inside, manic. "For fuck's sake, get inside already!""
Your eyes widened in fear. "Do you even know how to pilot this thing?!"
Ghost slammed the helicopter doors, while you had a death grip on. "'Course I know how to pilot this bloody thing! I was part of the Special Air Service. I know what I'm doing."
Fiddling a little with the controls, and furiously mashing a few buttons, you miraculously got into the air.
The flight had heavy turblence. Ghost nearly crashed the thing into a tall building, yet managed to swerve in time.
And with that, you two were off. Panting, gasping for breath, gasping at the horrific scene that replayed like a movie reel.
Yet, it was awfully quiet, a contrast to the loud thoughts inside your head.
Just the whirring of the helicopter blades and the purring of the engine.
Finally, after what felt like ages, the tornado of thoughts and the narrow escape from storming, snarling creatures all headed for you as fast as whirlwind, metres away from throwing themselves and taking you to the ground, tearing you apart, you calmed. Calmed yourself enough to the point where you were no longer in a hysteria.
"S... Sir?"
He grunted in acknowledgment, not bothering to correct you this time, eyes staring fixedly ahead of him and piloting the helicopter in silent concentration.
"S-so—" Stuttering, because you were shuddering at the premise of what had just happened, shivering from a continuous cold chill and persistent goosebumps.
"—So, uhm, wh-what— what do you think happened back there?"
For a few agonisingly long moments, Ghost was agonising quiet, clearly contemplating what was at hand. The quiet was deafening.
"Listen. If I'd had to hazard a guess—" Ghost began, still staring ahead of him solemnly. "—I'd say those were zombies."
When he turned around to spare you a glance, your dumbstruck expression seemed to frustrate him.
"Fuck, what's with that expression, soldier? If that mouth of yours is open for any longer you'll bloody catch flies."
"Z— zombies?"
Although recovering slightly, enough now to speak steadily, you were dumbfounded.
"Y-you can't be serious. You've gotta be taking the piss!"
His eyes narrowed, and he glared in warning. "Think I've lost my head? Christ, you haven't ever watched a zombie apocalypse movie, or summat? The resemblance was uncanny. Those were not humans."
Tilting your head in confusion and curiosity. "You watch... Zombie movies?"
"Oh for crying out loud—" He pinched his temple in frustration. "—I'm telling you that we're in some serious shit, that there might even be an ongoing apocalypse, and you're more moved by what I apparently watch in my free time? Bloody hell—"
After a thoughtful pause, you turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly serious.
"It doesn't make sense, though."
"Sure it does," he growled. "Life doesn't imitate art. Art imitates life. There had to have been inspiration somewhere."
"You're still going on about those zombie movies?" You groaned, tempted to face-palm yet to scared to be so blatantly disrespectful. "No. I mean, why? Why have people become zombies?"
He let out an unamused chuckle. "God, could you be more dense, you?"
"What was the reason we went on this so-called operation? Think. Think this one time, as I can you don't do it often enough."
Rolling your eyes, you immediately froze in the spot, eyes wide.
It hit you, that there could, could, be a connection. If Shepherd's men really were involved in the shootout, then...
"Look, I didn't tell you," you said, swallowing. "I stepped on what looked to be a test tube. Or a vial, I'm not sure. It had purple stains on it."
"A sample of the virus that went wrong?" Ghost proposed. "I suppose it wasn't meant to be airborne. They used it as a last ditch effort to get the cops off their tails."
"How can you be so sure that is what happened? What if it was just a mistake?"
Ghost turned around, arm slung around the back of the adjacent seat, and his eyes were dark. With a mocking tone: "Oh yes, because genetically engineering a virus that causes people to eat other people was obviously a mistake. And the shootout was just a slip of people's fingers."
You crossed your arms indignantly, annoyed, and Ghost took advantage of your offense by continuing:
"By now, they've definitely made adjustments. Engineered it so they have more control over it."
Despite being annoyed, you audibly gulped, your defiant demeanour dropping instantly. "Y-you sure, Lieutenant? I-I mean— how can you be sure of this?"
Wordlessly, dark brown eyes darkening, Ghost said: "Positive."
Turning around, his shoulders tensed up suddenly. "I'm just prayin' that I'm wrong."
For close to half an hour, you two were flying back where you came from.
From afar, the base, with its several camps and adjourning buildings, temporary tents that had become permanent ones due to the lack of time to put them down, military trucks parked in neat rows, vehicles just as they had stood when you departed, untouched, stood like an imposing monolith, despite being far wider than it was tall.
There was none of the usual commotion, however, the hustle and bustle of people rushing to and fro, the stamping of feet and the grunts of effort from the distance as soldiers took part in drills, of purring car engines and whirring helicopter blades transporting soldiers on a distant mission. It was quiet.
Upon landing, you looked back at the corpse in the back compartment, and swallowed air, throat bobbing strenuously.
"Lieutenant... what are we going to do about... him?"
Ghost, after a few moments of studying you closely, murmured: "Take the body back to his family, of course."
You furrowed your brows. "Didn't you say we may be in an ongoing apocalypse?"
Sighing deeply, Ghost's shoulders sank. "I did. But I've been prayin' that I'm wrong, and jumped to conclusions. Maybe this fella has a family to return to. Doesn't seem right to leave him to rot, does it?"
Right at the entrance, you two exchanged an uneasy look at each other. Neither of you were saying a word.
Tentatively stepping through the threshold, you held your breath.
It was a good thing you did. The stench — the odour of death and decay — made you gag.
You had not imagined anything, refused to imagine what it would be like inside. And, inside, it was worse than you could have possibly imagined:
Bodies were slumped against walls, crumpled up in heaps on the floor. Guts were splayed on the floor. Half-eaten intestines and pools of blood, right where the corpses were.
Many had fear stamped on their faces, with wide, frightened eyes and gaping mouths, and flies had been swarming to the soft tissue of the eyes and tongue until they fleed from your presence.
Some had already been infected, dead yet living, and were feeding off the rotting flesh of the victims with a crazed look in their glowing orange eyes, flashing like a cat's.
Their fingers were gnarled. Had skin peeling off their hands, revealing tendons and bone, nails morphed into claws.
Others had not fought without a struggle, it seemed; guns were held by the dead in a deathly grip, empty cartridges and bullet casings were littered on the floor, and some even had grenades in the palms of their hands, having had not reacted quickly enough to pull the pin and launch them at approaching hordes.
Some of the zombies were laying, lifeless, with a bullet between their eyes, others with wounds in their abdomen and chest. Black blood oozed out like sticky goo.
Ghost stood as still as a statue, taking everything in. Wordlessly, he unholstered his pistol and walked towards the nearest creature.
And shot it right in the head.
A mercy kill, to put whoever the monster had been before its infection out of it miserable suffering, its mortal torment.
He would do the same with the rest. A few of them even looked up at him, dazed, not knowing what was coming for them, and hissing malevolently, before a deafening bang rang out and echoed down the hall.
When Ghost was done, he was panting, out of breath as if he had run a marathon.
Although he did his utmost to keep his breathing steady, each exhale was shaky, feeling like at any moment the air in his lungs would vanish.
"The virus," He said through gritted teeth. "It is here. It's real."
Hands clenched into fists, he was actually trembling. "It is real."
For an agonisingly long time, Ghost had his back to you, yet with the way his shoulders were slumped and his back hunched forward, he was forlorn.
Feeling like it was wrong for you to speak up, yoy hesitated, your voice barely above a whisper:
"Lieutenant? What do we do now?"
Ghost didn't respond. His shoulders rose and fell with each shaky exhale, doing everything he could to stay composed.
"...Sir?"
Cautiously, you tip-toe'd towards him, hesistant to speak up again.
He sensed your presence, and slightly turned his head around so he could see you in his periphery.
Surprisingly, Ghost was incredibly calm in the way that he turned to you. His breathing was steady now, and he no longer let out laboured breaths. It was almost like he was back to his usual self. This trauma would become nothing more than a mere memory, another one to stack on top of the memories that were emotional baggage he carried on his shoulders.
Staring straight into your eyes, his voice was quiet, but he spoke directly. Assertively.
"'s you an' me, now, soldier. We're all we've got."
And that was that. That was all there was to it.
You and Ghost were lone survivors.
No one had survived the ambush, despite having double-checked every cupboard, every barricaded room.
Those inside had gotten bit without realising in their bid to stay alive, to survive, and instead of human survivors, you'd be faced with surviving zombies that you would have to put down. One at a time.
Something told you that maybe, just maybe, Ghost's intuition was right.
That Shepherd had unleashed this disease, right here, as a means of destroying their opposition quickly, to clear their names.
After all, with everyone dead or infected by a virus that made them lose the capacity for human thought, who would be there to oppose them?
The reality that likely, very like, this was true, made your stomach churn.
That a corrupt individual with a mega corporation would corrupt humanity rather than bringing salvation, sickened you.
Had he even known the chaos that would ensure?
Ghost, having hauled canisters of fuel into the closest military truck, slammed the door closed.
With you two inside, in a single motion, he started the engine, and pressed his foot on the pedal, pulling out slowly.
In hesitation, for a minute, his hands shook, knuckles on the steering wheel turning white from how tightly he gripped it.
You didn't say it out loud, but you thought it was ironic: hours earlier, Ghost had been hellbent on making his way back to base, had even saved a comrade's corpse with the promise of restoring his dead body to his family members, yet now, he was creating as much distance between it and the both of you as possible, not turning back even once. Could not turn back, as there was no family for that man to be restored to, and no one, no one, to turn back to.
Weeks passed — or were they months? The days merged into one blur, indistinguishable from each other.
Encountering zombies became day-to-day to you. The ones you encountered could be shot straight through the skull. The parasite fed off the brain, feasted off mortal thoughts, yet with just one pull of the trigger it would die on the spot.
Fighting off a third, fifth, seventh, eleventh, nth small horde, no longer struck the same fear in you. You had quickly adjusted to the circumstances. Your new life.
You two spoke little in the beginning. Quite frankly, there was little to say.
How could one approach this subject? Of imminent doom following this global doomsday? Of having lost colleagues, comrades, in a single instant, and not even having been able to help, to even witness it, because you two were assigned on a mission that had been pointless in the end?
Sure, you knew who was to blame. So what? What was there to do with this information? Vengeance was not the answer anymore, as surviving was the priority. Besides, you didn't even feel vengeful. All you felt was numbness, and the burden of this knowledge that should have been forbidden.
Walking through various locations, all abandoned and lifeless, a wave of déjà vu would crash into you, flooding you with memories of what cities used to be like.
Seeing cars all in one cluster, stuck forever in a traffic jam, metal heavily rusted and weak gusts of wind made it all the more eerie. Especially more eerie, given what the cars had been lined up to do. To escape.
The quiet unnerved you. Filled you with dread. You dreaded the silence, yet flinched at sudden sounds.
Echoes of screams were brought by the wind, whimpering voices begging to be freed, begging the callous soldier in front of them not to shoot them, their children, promising that they weren't infected, they swear! Alas, kneeling, facing a brick wall, they'd be shot. One at a time.
The best thing about walking through these locations was that the two of you never saw the chaos, the catastrophic damage, the devastation, all happening in real-time. That, in a sense, was also the worst thing about this apocalypse.
You two were not associated with the events, and, realising that you'd never experience what millions of other people had collectively experienced in those moments, their final moments, left you disassociating for hours at a time, your feet walking on their own.
Something about seeing the cities stood still, frozen in time, a relic of the past, that fateful day of panic and fear preserved in a time capsule, and unaltered. Untouched. So unlike what they had been not so long ago, made you shudder. To think that it used to be lively, full of life, and so lifeless now, was a surreal feeling.
It made you feel out of place. As if you shouldn't have been there.
You had to be there, though. Supplies would rarely last and food in your surroundings was scare.
Ghost seemed to know exactly what to do. He led you towards the dilapidated pharmacies and the rundown convenience stores, most of what was left of the medication and tinned goods thrown onto the floor, piled in heaps.
What remained of past haphazard searches from other wandering individuals, was scattered. It made you wonder whether those people that took the supplies from where you were were still alive, and if not, how shortly after they had died.
Over time, you two became comfortable in each others's company, as you had become so uncomfortable with the mutual silence, you sought comfort in each other's presence.
And, although Ghost wouldn't have ever admitted it, the truth was, he was in desperate need of comfort, too, regardless of who you two used to be to each other before all of this.
Ghost's icyness thawed, and he came out from his shell, slowly.
Soon, though, his sarcasm wasn't directed at you as much, and you two could actually exchange banter, meaningless puns with the most God-awful punchlines, as a past-time.
Warming your hands over a small fire, you'd quip: "Lieutenant, what do you call a dictionary that smokes weed?"
A huff, his attention fixated on handling his rifle, wiping down the remains of a carcass that had splattered onto it. "I'd rather not know."
You had a shit-eating grin on your face, like a Chesire cat's. "High definition."
Ghost's eyes locked on your face, deadpan. "Fuck, that was terrible. I wish we'd go back to the times when you'd say nothin'."
Back to silence you two returned.
A heavy burden was on your shoulders, weighing the two of you down.
Out nowhere, Ghost spoke up. "Y'know why an oven and an microwave broke up?"
You rose an inquisitive brow, tilting your head in interest. "Why?"
"They argued frequently, and jus' overall weren't on the same wavelength."
You were mildly disappointed. "That... was your idea of joke? Really?"
"Hold your horses, soldier. Y'didn't even hear the actual reason as to why they broke up."
A deep sigh, shoulders sinking in an exaggerated movement, and you rolled your bored eyes playfully. "Ugh, go on, then."
In a deadpan voice: "They broke up, because neither of them could be turned on anymore."
"Oh my God!" You groaned. "That was so gross! I can't believe you said that!"
"What can I say?" A shrug, still deadpan. "I'm just hilarious, and you're not. Clearly, you don't have what it takes to be a comedian like me."
"It was not remotely funny at all! Did not even laugh!"
Ghost leaned in, his voice low. "But you're smilin'."
"Okay, okay, fine. It was a little funny!"
"Damn straight, soldier. 'Course it was."
To you, you two were closer.
Although Ghost was still his brooding self, and put up his gruff front, you knew otherwise.
You were shocked by him when one day he told you to drop the formalities.
"Look, having you address me as Lieutenant now seems redudant. Call me Ghost."
"Lieutenant, I—"
"Come on, soldier. I want to hear you say it."
You swallowed. "Gh-Ghost?"
"Thas' it," he said with a drawl. "You're learning. 'S about time, isn't it?"
Yet the warmth that radiated off him now could not be mistaken for anything else.
You thought you two had formed a bond. You really thought you had.
Bonded over the shared fear, the shared experienced, your shared journey to nowhere.
Which is why you hadn't understood why would Ghost leave you for an hour every couple of days.
For exactly an hour, it seemed. You didn't know, because you didn't have a working watch, but Ghost was punctual, so you assumed that it was true.
Like clockwork, he'd leave at a specific time, and come back an hour later, refusing to explain what he had been doing on his excursion.
"Jus' 'ad somethin' to do," he'd reply briefly, and return to what he had been doing before he left.
"This 'something' — couldn't I have done it with you, Ghost?" You'd eye him, hands on hips, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. "And what is the need for that bag? You're gonna break your back carrying that thing with you all the time!"
Without fail, he would bring along his backpack, which was in all actuality a heavy dufflebag slung over his shoulders. A bag too big to be carrying for a small errand, you thought.
He'd glare at you, and act defensively, huffing. "I can handle it on my own, don't worry your little head, a'right? I can manage."
"You know," You'd say, tone softening. "I worry about you, okay? It worries me not knowing where you are, and what you're doing."
After a pause, his eyes would slowly crinkle in a smile, and his tone would soften, too. "Yeah, but I know where you are, don't I?" His voice dropped to a low murmur, a gentle hand on your shoulder reassuring you.
You were stunned. Here he was, touching you, when he had always recoiled at the faintest brush of a shoulder. You were blushing.
"Just stay put for me for the one hour of the day, yeah? You don't need to worry about me, soldier. I know what to do."
With him gone, you'd be worried sick. You felt not helpless — you trusted Ghost, and knew that he'd protect you — but useless, sitting there idly, practically twiddling your thumbs, not knowing what he was getting up to.
This went on for God knows how long. Each time, he was oddly secretive, and act as inconspicuous as possible so you wouldn't be suspicious of whatever he was doing.
Each time, he had made it back at exactly the same time, hurried footsteps hurrying back to your temporary hideout and going back to cooking a can of something over a crackling fire.
It was so strange, as it seemed to become routine to him, his movements mechanic, and his depature precise down to the last second. Robotic. Like clockwork he'd make it back.
Unable to take the mystery anymore, you followed him. Not close enough to blow your cover, yet far enough so that you'd always catch him taking a corner before he'd walk out of sight.
It wasn't long after walking through winding alleys that you came across a building — the tallest one in the surrounding area, in fact.
Climbing up the staircase, two flights behind him, you reached the rooftop, and watched from afar as Ghost unpacked his large bag.
It puzzled you seeing him take out technical equipment. Cables, a power pack, a rudimentary router. Alongside other hardware foreign to you, mouth agape at the sight of such prehistoric technology, there was radio.
Before you put two-and-two together, there he was, listening to the same radio with bulky headphones, a cracked red bulb blinking weakly.
Intrigued, you creeped a few steps.
When you were behind him, you leaned forward, arms behind your back. "Ghost, what are you listening to?"
He jumped up, startled, and immediately turned it off. For the first time ever, you saw him flustered.
"Was it music?" you teased. "A heavy metal fan whose blown their cover now? Maybe even a trash pop enjoyer? I mean, If you're into that sort of thing, you don't have to keep it secret, you know."
He coughed, clearly caught off-guard by the sight of you expectedly leaning down to him, but shook his head vehemently.
After pulling himself together, he looked you in the eye. "No."
"Aw, then what was it? Were you listening to radio static? It's my favourite song, you know."
"If you're gonna be such a smartass, then there's clearly no need for me to tell you."
You shook your head, smile vanishing. "Okay, wait! I was just messing. Please tell me?"
"I discovered Price's signal," he grunted as a matter-of-factly, quirking a brow at your gobsmacked face.
"Been communicating with him these past few weeks. Said Soap an' Garrick are with him, an' they're still with him."
"Oh my God!" You clasped a hand over your gaping mouth, gawking at him in shock. "That's amazing!"
"Mhm," he hummed. "They've told me their coordinates, and update every couple of days, when the sun is highest in the sky."
"When's that?" You said eagerly. "Maybe I could speak to them, too! Tell me when!"
Shrugging off-handedly. "Depends on the day." he said simply.
Barely able to contain your excitement, you didn't catch on to his innuendo, and couldn't help but exclaim: "So you could regroup! Right? You could reunite with the Task Force?"
A stone-sized lump got lodged in his throat, and his Adam's apple struggled to swallow it.
Yet, he managed to nod, though with his neck so stiff it looked as if he was shaking his head at the same time.
"Yeah, soldier. Yeah. I could."
You furrowed your brows. "Well, what's stopping you?"
"Well," he replicated, "they're thousands of miles away. That's the whole point of this journey, don't you think? What, you think we've been trekking aimlessly?"
Ghost said no more, and you were glad you didn't have to, either, a lopsided smile sheepishly tugging at the corners of your lips.
He busied himself with dismantling his set-up, putting his equipment away.
"Come on." He heaved himself up, and, with a stiff hand on your back, led you towards the way out. "About time we get out of here, hm? I'll see if I can contact the lot tomorrow."
"Okay," you said, grinning. "I daresay, though, your equipment is kinda out-dated, Ghost. Maybe we could pop in the hardware shop for some upgrades?"
He let out a monosyllabic chuckle, the usual for him. "Sure. We could even upgrade our TV to a 4K flatscreen one. Get with the times, and all that."
One day, though, he hadn't made it back at the same time.
Maybe he got caught up in conversation this time. That was it, surely! Surely that was it?
Leg bouncing in agitation, anticipating his return, you had a sinking feeling that this time, however, this time, something was not right.
You could say that you let your curiosity get the better of you. But you wouldn't have called it that, more like your trepidation clouded your rational judgement.
As, turning a corner, you hadn't even heard the feral snarling of a small horde of zombies over the voice incessantly telling you to find Ghost, and had no clue that you'd be pinned down by a zombie.
It lashed and thrashed at you wildly, bearing it's stained rotten teeth and sallow, black gums.
Harsh spit sprayed your face, and to your horror, the others had surrounded you, growling in hunger.
You had mere seconds to act, you knew that. If you didn't pull out your gun in time, you'd be torn to pieces in mere seconds.
Yet, paralysed with fear, all you could do is stare wide-eyed, you felt helpless. You locked eyes with the creature, its naturally orange eyes glowing brightly, possessed.
Just before the zombie's jaws could clasp around your face, it was shot in the head.
The body crumpled on top of you, knocking the wind momentarily out of you.
Peeking over the corpse, there was uproar among the horde, and they all hissed in unison, heads turning in the direction at the shot, before brain matter and bits of skin were blasted by a heavy calibre rifle.
Ringing disorientated you. Only flashes of someone's legs could be seen in your blurred vision, before you realised that you were lying on the ground, an entire pack of wild zombies around you.
Frantic, you heaved the body off you, and struggled to your feet, full of adrenaline, and locked eyes with Ghost.
Ghost was holding off the horde one-manned, and he grunted with effort as he snapped a zombie's neck while using another as a shield, his rifle shooting at a third rushing from behind you.
"For fuck's sake, don't jus' stand there like a bloody git! Shoot, soldier!"
Snapped out of from your daze, you suddenly realised just where you were, you whipped out your pistol and shot as many zombies as you could from close-range in your haste to get to Ghost.
Slitting the throat of a zombie about to throw itself at Ghost, you used up the remaining bullets in the magazine on another, and gritted your teeth as you changed mags with shaking hands.
Back-to-back to each other, you two were overwhelmed by the horde, but the close proximity to each other meant you had teamwork. Worked as a team.
You fired two bullets at two zombies, bodies crumpling into lifeless heaps, and aimed at a third.
Pulling the trigger, no shot fired. No shot was fired.
Looking down, you fumbled with the pistol, you pulled the trigger frantically, yet the bullet was jammed. Panic-stricken, you were desperate for it to fire, in despair to be in this situation, now, of all times.
Just as you looked up and felt the zombie's cold fingers lock on your shoulders in a death-grip, head about to pounce at your neck, Ghost growled and pushed you to the side like a ragdoll.
You saw nothing as you fell to the ground again, but slashed at more zombies in a frenzy, not many left now.
Killing the final one in your periphery, your head whipped around just in time to see Ghost wrestle the zombie to the ground and stomp its head, snapping the final zombie's neck in two like a twig.
Panting. Chest rising and falling, rising and falling, in painful breaths.
Ghost exhaled deep, deliberate breaths, black blood splattered all on his gear, dark blood staining his skull balaclava, his cargo pant legs, his gloved hands.
For an agonisingly long time, you couldn't catch your breath.
Finally, Ghost turned to you, looking grizzly, nearly sinister, had it not been for the dark brown eyes brightening a little and looking at you intensely.
He trudged to you in three wide steps and took you by your shoulders, shaking you a little.
"Soldier! Are you okay?"
Breath hitching in your throat at the emotion in his usually emotionless eyes, you nodded wordlessly.
You took in your surroundings and the horde you two had massacred; bodies contorted in impossible positions, heads and backs snapped in half, limbs broken so that arms and legs looked double-jointed. Orange eyes had become dull, and were no longer glowing, dim.
Looking at the ground, the zombie, its head grey brain matter and black-red mush, lay lifeless, bleeding black blood.
Wordlessly, you two two nodded, and limped back to your temporary base, completely exhausted.
It was a calm night.
A skinned hare roasting over a crackling fire, cooking the out-of-date contents of your tinned food and eating it with a dull silver spoon, you two sat in an uncomfortable silence, which was deafening. A silence that you dreaded.
Yet, the silence was far more welcome than the high-pitched screams and guttural growls of zombies from before, and you sighed deeply.
A sky so black that it cast a shadow on the trees, your surroundings, plunging you into a darkness had it not been for the lifeline of the lashing flames, There were a few twinkling stars in the sky, blinking in morse code, trying to relate a secret message to you that you missed.
With Ghost basking in the orange glow from the fire, looking so thoughtful as his unfocused brown eyes stared a thousand yards, gloved hands holding a flask with a steaming hot stew, warming his cold fingers, your first thought was that he looked alluring.
The skull-print balaclava pulled up to his nose so he could drink, days' worth of salt and pepper stubble sprinkled on his jaw, the sleeves of his hoodie riding up to reveal scars that caked his skin, most deep, some shallow, some recent while most years' old.
To you, he looked handsome.
Then, mortified by this thought, you shook your head vehemently, the warmth on your cheeks coming not from the fire.
Looking down at the half-eaten tinned slop in your hands, you suddenly lost your appetite, and set it aside.
Ghost noticed, and turned to you, about to ask you, but you held up a hand before he could interrogate you.
"I'm alright, Ghost," you said, convincing yourself more than him. "Not feeling hungry."
"You gotta get somethin' down your system, soldier. We've a long journey to go yet."
"I know. I mean, not to be a picky eater, but eating canned slop is not appealing to my taste buds."
Ghost let out a huff. "What? This cuisine not suited to your sophisticated taste, soldier? My bad, let me bring out the caviar, your highness," he deadpanned.
You roll your eyes. "You're hilarious, you know that? If only there wasn't a booing crowd throwing tomatoes at you. You'd be a top-tier comedian."
The corner of Ghost's lip twitched upwards, before he shot you a one-sided smirk. "Knew you'd come around eventually."
You didn't know why, but the way his jaw moved in the smirk was attractive. Physically shaking this thought off, you shook your head with a smile, unable to contain the silent laughter of your shoulders.
Again, you two returned to a silence. Funnily enough, this one wasn't uncomfortable like the one before, even with the light banter moments ago. This silence was unbearable, like the high-pitched screeching of tinnitus in an empty hall.
You stared at Ghost, almost in anticipation, as if it was he who was the reason for the unspoken change in atmosphere, yet he seemed to ignore you, too taken with looking ahead of him thoughtfully.
Swallowing the dryness in your throat, too awkward to initiate conversation, you looked at the fidgeting hands, picking at the dirt under your nails.
When Ghost unexpectedly called your name from the dark, you nearly jumped out of your skin.
"What's wrong, Ghost?" You asked, worry etched into the lines in your face.
"I need you to do me a favour."
At that, your eyebrows rose to your hairline, then furrowed in surprise and suspicion. Ghost, was not, not, the one to ask for favours.
"...O-okay? What's the favour?""
"Look." He stated simply. "I want you to promise me something. You can do that, can't you, soldier?"
You were becoming even more suspicious. What was the need for him to be enigmatic? Your interest was piqued, however, and you nodded wordlessly, hanging on his every word.
"I want you to promise—" He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat roughly. "—that when I'm ever, ever to turn into one of these..."
"...things—" Shivering, which surprised you, given how much heat was radiated from the fire. "—then... Then I want you to shoot me dead, a'right?"
Your jaw dropped to the ground, so taken aback not even by his request, but his bluntness.
"What— what do you mean, shoot you dead? How could I do that to you? I can't—"
"No." He interrupted, definitive. "It will have to be done at some point."
"Of course, I wish I could... avoid, this situation, but, inevitably, it's inevitable," he grimaced, tugging at his collar in an awkward gesture that was unlike him.
"And you have to do it when the time comes. No hesitation. No second-thoughts. Just pull that trigger, and put one right between my eyes."
Ghost stared at you, eyes stern. "Now promise me."
You stammered. "B-but—"
"No. Promise me now. That you'll protect yourself from the monster I'll become."
"Ghost—"
"No, promise."
His eyes penetrated yours, his gaze inescapable and domineering. Clearly, he would not let you weasel your way out with any weak excuses, or your pathetic reasoning. It was evident that no matter what you were to say, Ghost would refuse to listen, only becoming more dismissive.
Reluctantly, you found yourself nodding, breathing out a breathless: "I promise."
Ghost hummed in satisfaction, pleased, and said no more.
"Good. See, wasn't so hard now, was that, hm?" He asked, yet you said nothing.
"Hey, cheer up..." Tone softening, as he reached a callous hand to place on your knee in an attempt to reassure you. "It's not like I'm asking you to do it now."
You sniffed fiercely, eyes glassy. "Then why would you ask me in the first place?"
"Why? Because at some point, I'll turn."
He shook his head. "It won't be you, though. Never. I would never, ever, let you get bit."
His breath hitched in his throat, and your eyes widened slightly in surprise.
Ghost took a sip from his steaming flask, seemingly unfazed by the sensation of burning on his tongue. In fact, he even relished in it.
His lips were tightly pressed together into a needle-thin line. "When you shoot me, you won't be shooting me, y'know."
"Therefore, you must not let your emotions get in the way. What's the point of me getting infected, in an attempt to save your life, only for me to kill you in death?"
You pondered this over for a moment. "What makes you think you'll get infected saving me? Maybe it could the the other way around. You can't be so sure."
Ghost's eyes had an ironic glint, and flickered like a light bulb about to blow a fuse.
"Oh, trust me. I'm sure."
You sat up, straightening your back. "Hey, what is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, it's not s'pposed to mean anything."
"Hey! Are you mocking me?"
For the first time in this conversation, Ghost chuckled. He couldn't help not to, with how childishly you were acting.
"Maybe a little bit. But you just make it so easy for me, that I can't resist."
You groaned, and rolled your eyes.
"Well then, maybe resist being an ass."
Ghost quirked a brow at how you spoke, yet decided not to scold you like he always did. Instead, he offered you his flask.
"Will put hairs on your chest."
You scrunched your nose at the contents. "Let me guess: carbonated piss, vodka, and liquid shit? My favourite."
"Made an order at a cafe, and I got served this slop," he shrugged. "They even spelt my name wrong. Would you believe that?"
You shook your head in mock disbelief. "Unbelievable. You better have gotten a refund for that."
"I didn't pay. Made a beeline for the exit. I wouldn't pay a cent for this shit."
Unable to keep up the act anymore, you snorted, and stifled your silly giggles by clasping a hand over your mouth.
"It's tea." Ghost said. "I'm not thirsty, anyways."
"You gotta get somethin' down your system," you said in an over the top gruff voice. "Promise to shoot me when I get a papercut. I won't be able to go on—"
Wordlessly, Ghost placed the flask in your hands. The fact that instead of a scowl on his half-masked face was an ironic smirk surprised you, and he said:
"Drink that, and go to sleep, yeah? I'll keep watch."
"What about you, though?" Your eyes frowned. "Won't you sleep?"
"I'm good. I'm a light-sleeper, anyways, and I won't exactly get a wink of shuteye with your snoring."
"Hey—!"
"C'mon. Rest up."
Taking a swig of the hot beverage, you felt a warmness wash over your body, cleansing your soul, and heating you right from your fingertips to your ears.
"Thanks, Ghost," you said with gratitude. "You sure you'll be okay tonight?"
Ghost nodded, staring deeply into your eyes.
You sighed, and moved off the wooden log to unzip your sleeping bag to nestle inside, like a worm comfortably in a cocoon.
It didn't take you long to fall asleep, as the crackling of the flames lulled you to sleep, whispering in harsh, yet warm voices a bedtime story in the language of fire.
When he heard your soft snores and saw the way your sleeping bag rose and fell with each muffled breath, he untied his boot laces.
With you asleep, he finally dared to peel the coarse fabric that had dried with blood, like cardboard on his skin.
Wincing in pain as he pulled up the material coagulated with blood, his calf had an evident bite mark.
The skin around it had not rotted, yet, but was raw, with the surrounding flesh pulsating as if it had a human heart beat.
Gritting his teeth with each maggot that he picked out from his calf, burrowed deep in his flesh, feasting upon it, he blinked indifferently at the wound, already accepting of his fate.
The bleeding had stopped. That much Ghost had going for him, at least.
Stomping on that zombie's head was cathartic. Watching its brain matter splatter on his boot, a lifeless body with a head of grey, slimy mush, brought instantaneous relief.
Yet, when reality sunk in, and he realised that killing that zombie in that heated moment would not take back the bite mark, that moment of relief transformed into the weight of an even heavier burden on his shoulders, an added weight to the emotional baggage he had been lugging for years now.
His gaze turning to your concealed body, burrowed in your nest, he hobbled over to lay his own sleeping bag over you, and took off his coat. Tucking in the sleeves under you so you were cozy, he sighed again, and slumped on the ground some metres away.
How was he going to break this news to you? You were a smart cookie, even with the shit he gave you all of the time, and were bound to figure it out on your own.
But he couldn't. Not yet, anyways. He still had a base to get you to.
He couldn't burden you with this information. He couldn't.
Only when the end was in sight, the base on the horizon, you headed straight towards civilisation, could he make his peace with shortcomings, the way you'd sob and shout at him, how you'd curse as your fists pounded at his chest, voice so hoarse and choked with tears all you'd be able to do is sob.
Or, maybe he wouldn't at all.
Maybe the gentle breeze in your hair, sun reflected in your rolling eyes that were unamused by another humourless joke, dry, unwashed skin positively glowing in the setting sun, the cracked lips twitching in a desperate desire to stretch into a smirk, and the way your body was hunched over under the weight of your heavy backpack, head bobbing in blind, naive determination to reunite him with his team, to have been there on the journey, was not a sight he had wanted to taint.
He'd tell you to walk straight, and you'd babble obliviously on about something, and slowly withdraw from your side. You'd get swept away by the crowd in the base, with familiar faces, arms hugging you from all sides and welcoming you with warmth, as a shot rang out in the cheerful commotion, his cold body laying on the even colder ground.
When the time came to it, he would have likely said nothing. A selfish need to preserve the memory of your not knowing, of your being blissfully unaware and never being burdened with the truth, was a mercy.
Just how it would have been a mercy kill for you to shoot him when push would come to shove, just was it merciful to spare your sanity and your innocence.
When you woke up, Ghost had slowly started developing symptoms of a common flu in the night.
Nothing too alarming, yet alarmingly out of character for him to be unwell, and you raised your alarm.
"Jus' pnuemonia, soldier," he'd say, voice hoarse, before coughing into his fist.
"What about these?" You insisted, taking out medication from your backpack. "And plenty of rest? Doctor's orders!"
"These drugs that the doctor prescribes don't ever work on me. Besides, we've got places to be. I'm not wasting my time in waiting room."
This time, Ghost's sarcasm didn't amuse you like you always pretended it didn't. Worry gnawed at you from the inside like a parasite, and your eyes were pleading. "Not even for me? Please? Jokes aside, you really should rest. It's fine if we cam out here for another few days or so.
At that, his eyes softened. "Gonna 'av to bear through it. Like I would have otherwise. 'S not the end of the world."
There was an undertone to his words that was so subtle you hadn't noticed. The ironic smile betrayed nothing.
Not the end of the world for you, it wouldn't. For him, it would. His life on this world would be over. Would end.
The next day, Ghost slurred his speech.
When Ghost was speaking as you two were hunched over some grub, you'd catch drool running down his chin and collecting in pools on the sides of his mouth.
As soon as he realised where your eyes were looking, Ghost immediately went to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
He ate isolated from you then onwards, and would have his back turned to conceal his eating.
Sinking his steel bat into a head of an approaching zombie, he'd grunt with effort now.
Ghost, trudged rather than walked, stomping his feet, as if each foot weighed a tonne and was a weight he had to lift each time.
Feet faced in opposite directions, perpendicular to each other, and legs wobbling as if sea-sick. It meant that he was limping, as if he had a walking impediment.
"Ghost, are you okay?"
"Twisted my ankle when we were fighting that horde," he hissed through gritted teeth, voice as monotone as always. "Don't worry about me, soldier. We're going to get you to that base."
You started. His ankled hadn't been twisted when you were running away just now. But, you reasoned, it was probably the adrenaline that kept him going, that had heightened his senses yet numbed the pain.
Then, you halted in your tracks. "Base?"
"Cap'ain's base," he clarified. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
He was limping. Walking like he was ineberiated, core off balance and like his legs too long for his body.
He was no longer as affectionate with you. Showing signs aggression, getting frustrated with small-talk. He'd rather grind his jaws in silence, nearly growling.
"Hey, I just— I wanted to thank you. For saving me. I mean, that day, when we were fighting that horse. You saved me."
He grunted. "Don't get used to me saving your ass all of the time."
"I won't! Really, Ghost, I'm grateful. I couldn't put it into words."
"But?" He snapped. "Spit it out."
"W-well— I mean, you should rest. For Christ's sake, you're barely able to walk! Your ankle isn't going to heal if you keep putting pressure on it! And on top of the that, you're fucking sick!"
"I've had worse. It's not like my foot will dislocate itself on its own." He snarled. "Besides; choices have consequences. I chose to save you. I could turned, and left you to the horde. But I didn't. And that had its consequences."
"Had? What are you on about? You mean has, because you damn near broke your fucking leg! You're close to a fucking cripple!"
"I can walk just fine, soldier. You're just overreacting."
"I'm overreacting?!" Your eyes bulged out of your head, and you almost erupted in fury. "Then how will your team react, seeing you like this, huh? You think they won't be overreacting, huh?!"
He gave you a death glare. "You're right, soldier. They won't be."
"Look..." you began hesitantly, wincing at his sharp voice that stabbed a dagger into your already breaking heart. "You won't die if we don't make it there by this week," you insisted, "so, won't you please rest?"
"Soldier, I won't rest until we make it there by this week." He'd smile his iconic ironic smile, one that you still couldn't interpret nor comprehend as to why. "We've not long to go. And then, I'll consider resting."
"You promise?"
He stiffened up, still as a statue.
"I don't make promises," he grunted, and stormed off.
Your heart sank.
"Hey!" You jogged up to catch up with him, taken aback by his sudden change in character. "Why not? It's not even life or death, like the promise I made to you! What's the big deal?!"
"I can't make promises," he stated as a matter of factly, almost as if it was common knowledge and he was putting it in simple terms for you to understand.
You were seething. "What do you mean you can't?!So I made you a promise, promised to shoot you, for what? For you to end up being a fucking hypocrite?!"
"I mean," he emphasised. "It's not in my moral code."
Almost grinding your teeth in frustration, you quipped back: "Just as it is immoral of you to withhold information! What is so immoral about you—"
Your heart sank so, so much deeper, so deep it was lost in an abyss.
In deep water, drowning.
It couldn't be true. Couldn't be.
"Oh my God."
You took two steps back. Not in fear of Simon , but in fear of the situation itself.
"...You're... y-you're bit, aren't you?"
Shoulders tensing up, Ghost moved his hand towards your shoulder in an attempt to placate you, but you flinched.
"Y-you're bit! Oh my fucking God, you're—"
You couldn't breathe. It was like you were suffocating, your head underwater.
For the first time ever, you understood the irony behind Ghost's smile.
Hyperventilating, you recoiled at each of his attempts to console you, refusing to allow him to.
"Won't you calm down, soldier? It's alright."
Ghost was beginning to lose his temper. "Calm down," he hissed. "We can talk about this."
"FINE! Let's fucking TALK!"
Ghost was walking ahead of you, walking so fast that you were out of breath jogging after him.
Doubled-over wheezing for oxygen, you looked up with a heaving chest. You two had reached a wide warehouse, making up for its lack in height it its width.
The metal around the door hinges had heavily rusted to the point that it took kicking a side-door down until it finally gave enough lee-way to slither inside through the small gap made.
Brown eyes darkened, and narrowed at you. "Inside."
You shot him a scowl, tempted to give him the middle finger, but backed out at the last second, realised it would be childish.
As you two were inside the warehouse, the bolt tightly shut behind you and all windows and doors locked, ensured that the place was completely abandoned, and barricaded the entrance as a safety precaution... you two got into a screaming match.
"SO?! Are you going to FUCKING tell me why you chose to say nothing?!"
"About me being bitten? Really? And what would me having told you sooner changed, huh?"
"Uh, HELLO! You're fucking infected! You were bitten by one of those zombies, and that was, what? A WEEK ago?"
"It was because this is the exact type of interaction that I was dreading. For fuck's sake, rookie, I knew you'd blow y'fucking lid like this! What sort of a soldier bloody are you if you can't fucking calm yourself?"
"Oh, me?! Blow MY fucking lid?! How fucking dare you! You're the one always calling me a fucking soldier when I'm not!"
"Fuck, don't you get it? It's your own damn fault for being so goddamn reckless!"
You seized up, eye twitching. Positively seething.
"What— what did you say?"
"For fuck's sake, I told you, didn't I? I fucking told you to stay put!" Ghost yelled. "There of course had to be an itch in your ass and of course you had to go bloody wandering, straight into danger!"
You couldn't believe what you were hearing. "What, so you're fucking blaming me for you being infected? Is— is that it?"
"Wait, no—" Ghost immediately backtracked. "—you're misinterpreting what I fucking told you!"
"No, I interpret it loud and clear," you said, tone dripping with venom. "It's my fault. I get it. It's my fault for wanting to get involved. My fault for fucking caring about you, because I was worried sick and worried whether this outing would be your last—!"
Tears of fury were streaming down your faces in rivers, a waterfall of emotions all crashing into you at once.
You sniffed angrily, and avoided his eyes, feeling vulnerable. "I-I— I care about you, Ghost! Don't you get it? I have always cared!"
"I just guess—" Your wobbly, cracked voice, blotchy cheeks, quivering lip, and puffy pink eyes made you look pathetic, you knew.
You didn't care. Feelings pent up for far too long now came hurtling out along the floodgates, and you were in utter despair.
"—I-I just guess I never should have cared, should I?"
Ghost stared at you with a steely gaze, stoic and remorseless.
"Well. I told you to keep work strictly professional, didn't I, rookie? What can I say, aside from, it's your own fault?"
He stormed off before you could call after him, slamming the nearest door in this workhouse and locking it from the inside.
You sobbed, feeling more pathetic than ever, and crumpled on the floor in a disgarded heap, like a pile of trash.
Ghost slammed his fist against the door.
"Goddamnit—"
Keeping work strictly professional his ass.
He fell in love with you. How could he not have?
Always trying to hard to break down the walls that he'd stubbornly keep building, brick by brick, you tore down those walls.
Like a human bulldozer, you demolished his reinforcements, and his bare scaffolding, his vulnerability, were exposed to you.
The moment him and you returned to base, he was hit with a gut feeling.
That, at that moment in time, it was truly you and him left. There was no one to save, no one to save you. No one to save you, aside from him. Realising that it was he, he the only one who could get you to safety, and no one else.
And he hated you.
It wasn't a hatred, or a loathing. You gave him no reason to, and were none the wiser.
He never hated you, never. It was you that he hated, the one that broke down his reinforcements and rekindled the fire inside that had been ashes.
With every time he pushed you away, kept you at arm's length, he found himself pining for you more.
And he hated you. Hated you because he loved you.
He hated your voice because it soothed him like a mother's voice would her own child.
It didn't matter when you cursed, when you hissed harshly at him in a mock anger, when you sniffed and your nose twitched. All these things about you made you human, and he realised that even if humanity was lessened, humanity was less, there was still humanity in you.
And it made Ghost feel not like a ghost, a haunting phantom, of the Simon Riley he was, but the Simon Riley he ought to be. Your Simon Riley.
He hated you because you made things all the more difficult for him. If he just was to push you away, to distance himself, he thought, surely your inevitable parting of ways would be less painful.
But it didn't get any easier. Not at all.
If anything, seeing the dejected expression you would fail to hide in time, the way the sparkle in your eyes dimmed just a little after getting rejected once more, meant that gnawing guilt ate Ghost from the inside out.
He reasoned that he was doing all of this for your own good. For his own good, too. No strings attached, with no attachment to you, your parting of ways would have been easier.
But it was this act he insisted was selfless, that was selfish. The fact of the matter was, he needed you as much as you needed him.
He hated that you made him feel this way because these feelings were dangerous.
At any moment, at any point in time, you could be ripped away from his callous hands, leaving a void that was already empty as it was.
Emptiness inside of him that only you could fill, feelings which would never again be fulfilled with you gone, and he could not bring himself to admit that regardless of how much you needed him, it was him that needed you.
Most of all, he hated you because you were the only good thing that he had left.
If you were to die, there would be no reason for him to keep living.
Yes, he had told you that he was on his own mission to track down the Task Force, but, he had known long ago that it was just a delusion he was playing into, an insane idea that managed to keep him sane as it gave him some purpose.
It was a lie he spoon-fed you, forcing you to believe in a lie that he himself was beginning to believe in, realising that at the end of the road, was would be nothing left for him.
Ghost lived for you and did everything in his power so that you too would keep living. You were just a rookie, had your whole like ahead of you, and deserved to live past his own years. Deserved to live, and outlive a person like him, as he knew that he didn't deserve to.
With that logic, he just never knew that he was willing to die for you, too.
He had cheated death once. Faced the Grim Reaper and spat in his face.
But not this time.
He swore he was hallucinating the cloaked figure in the corner of this room right now, sneering, domineering, with glowing orange eyes.
This time, he wouldn't claw his way out from his grave, the taste of blood and dirt repulsing him in his mouth and his limbs weary, yet tasting the sweet, fresh air of freedom; this time, all that he would ever taste is the dirt. Buried for good six feet under a nameless tombstone marking his grave.
As he saw his bruised leg pulsating, he couldn't control the unnatural tics, his calf twitching as maggots swarmed to feed on his decomposing flesh.
Whole body spasming painfully, his arms and legs jittered as if his limbs as if they had a severe form of arthritis, yet each involuntary contortion of his limbs brought agony, agony, agony.
The bags under his eyes had gotten bigger, hollow eye sockets with milky white eyes that had a thousand yard stare now.
Deep grey veins bulged out of his hands to his forearms, all the way past his biceps, shoulders, and neck. Throbbing in rhythm to his synthetic pulse.
Pupils were sensitive to light, and had adapted to the darkness.
Skin was far paler, sallow and sickly-looking, sagging in places and skin cells starting to peel off.
And, despite the layers of clothing he had on — a tank top under his shirt, a jacket, a hoodie, and a tactical vest, all underneath a thick winter coat — he was freezing, and constantly shivering from the cold.
Constantly cold, cold, cold.
The realisation that he was watching himself decomposing into a corpse in real-time was a horrific one.
Few times could Ghost admit he was horrified, as he had become desensitised to horror after his exposure to it from a young age, witnessing horror beyong imaginable that he was wholly unfazed by.
This, however? It was not horrifying. It was torture.
His brain, however, had self-awareness in tact and sufficient enough for rational thought.
His limbs did not do what he told them to do, though — would seize up, as if having an epileptic seizure, the feeling of writhing on the ground in agony as he was also electrocuted, imparting his movements.
It took every fibre of his being to hold off the urge to take your body in his claws and to rip it apart with his teeth.
He was a prisoner of his own body, unable to break free of the virus consuming him from the inside out, the way his cells were mutating alternating his strings of DNA, his code, coding for an intense desire for flesh. For your flesh, because you were the closest living being in his proximity.
Not to mention, that his teeth were decaying, too. Black gums bleeding, yet tongue salivating excessively even though he'd have thought his body physically incapable of producing saliva.
He yearned to bite into a chunk of your flesh, to lick his dry, coarse lips, his mouth stained with the sweet taste of your blood.
To chew on the meat of your neck, and watch in fascination as a fountain of blood sprayed from your neck like a hose, blood splattering on the walls as you screamed in agony, struggling in vain to push off the crazed monster—
Ghost let out a shaky sigh, and after a moment, regained his composure.
Looking back now, Ghost could have amputated his leg. He felt the jaws close around his ankle and sink his teeth to his bone at that exact moment, felt his skin, muscle, flesh, be torn apart by sharp canines.
As soon as you two were safe, he could have hacked off his lower leg with a saw at the abandoned warehouse you two were camping outside that night that he would have surely been able to find, no matter how rusty and the bluntness of the sharp blades.
But why? Why butcher himself? What was the point of doing all that in a frantic effort to cease the disease infecting his entire body when he'd be crippled?
He wouldn't be able to protect you. Instead, he'd be dead weight and drag you down. A burden that you'd be burdened with.
You were skilled, intelligent, and lucky, too. Yet you were only human. Your luck, as plentiful as it was bound to run out.
And, through no fault of your own, a gang of deranged lunatics would ambush you and kill you if it meant they could divide your possessions amongst each other, a horde of zombies would come storming in like a mass hurricane and devour you when you were at a dead end, succumb to starvation or, you would succumb to an injury like he was succumbing to.
He couldn't let that happen. He had to keep going, would only rest in peace when he knew you were at a secure hideout, a safe location, free of danger. At that, he'd gladly pass away, his mission completed.
And his mission would never have been completed if he had been hobbling with makeshift crutches, holding on to your shoulders for support, weighing you down with his weight and having been powerless had a zombie, zombies, found you.
Then again, he couldn't have blamed them. Just one sinking of teeth... just a small chunk of the juicy meat of your thighs or arms... j-just to quench his thirst for human flesh—
Ghost punched his arm, hard.
No. He couldn't.
The temptation was becoming too great to resist.
He could overpower you, could, but he could not do that.
To you, of all people. His love.
He had shut the door in your face. It was like driving his own dagger through his own heart at your forlorn face, but it had to be done. His love for you was dangerous.
Having these thoughts was dangerous. Not just thoughts to kill, but thoughts to kiss you, just once. Just once, before he died.
How he would have had liked to feel your lips on his, to bite down on your lower lip.
Harder, and harder, until he pried your mouth open with inhuman grip and snapped your jaw, ripping your gums with his own teeth, oh so delectable—
Ghost hurled the lone chair in the cellar.
"Godamnit!"
He was self-aware, but not self-aware for rational thought. Not anymore.
Only minutes ago had he been thinking straight. Now, he couldn't differentiate his desire for you, between his desire for your flesh.
Calmly, he limped towards the turned-over chair in the corner and set it straight, and slumped on top of it, feeling like a sack of potatoes.
It pained him knowing that the last time he would see your face would be frowning, your lower lip quivering, chin and cheeks blotchy from the salty, bitter tears of your argument.
You would blame yourself, would go on thinking that this was your fault.
It was never your fault. Never.
It was never your fault that he got bitten.
It was never your fault that he loved—
"Ghost?"
Your voice was shaky, hoarse with tears. At any moment, it seemed, anything to trigger you would cause your emotions to tip over in an explosion of anguish, and you could maintain your composure.
"Ghost. P-please come out. I'm sorry."
A muffled voice on the radio spoke to Ghost, yet he said nothing in reply.
Putting your ear to the door, the loud noise obscured much of what you could hear from the other side of the door, meaning you had no idea what was going on in there.
Yet, if you really, really concentrated, then you'd hear vague shuffling in the room, heavy footsteps moving things.
"Ghost? Please. Please come out."
You still waited.
Waited for Ghost to say something, anything, anything at all, to hear him respond, reply, acknowledge your presence at the door, to at least acknowledge the voice on the radio.
By the sounds of it, the voice was beginning to get emotional with Ghost's unresponsive state, his lack of reply, and it began emphatically ranting about something, all unintelligible from your side.
Slumping on the floor, your back to the door, your chest rose unevenly with each inhale, fell as unevenly with each mournful exhale.
You hadn't thought you'd really be mourning.
As, a sickening crack behind the door suddenly brought you to your senses.
Panic-stricken, you banged on the door with your knuckles. "Ghost, Ghost! You okay? Ghost!"
Knocking turned to hammering with your fists, afraid and desperate at the same time. Yelling repeatedly: "Ghost! What happened?" "Are you okay?" "Can I help?" "Ghost, please. Please!" "Say something!" "Please!"
The door would not budge, and no noise came out. Ghost would not respond. Or maybe he couldn't.
You resorted to kicking the door, using your entire body weight to tet it to open. To no avail.
"F-fuck—" Too desperate at that moment to care about the ringing from shooting from close-range, your hands scrambled for your pistol and shot the door handle multiple times, grimacing when high-pitched ringing in your ears was splitting your skull open louder than you could have anticipated.
Miraculously, the handle fell off. But something was in front of the door, and even with your entire body pressed against the door, the door stayed put.
Full of adrenaline at having made some progress, in your blind haste, you hurled your entire side to the door.
And, the door slid an inch, a vertical line revealing little in the room aside from the light from the awning window. It was progress.
Energised by this sudden success, you became a makeshift battering ram, not caring for the grey and green bruises already that had surely formed already all on your side.
Inch by stubborn inch, the door moved outwards.
The door flung open, and what had obstructed the door — a tall metal filing cabinet — crashed onto the ground, with yellowed paper spilling on the ground, fluttering like butterflies.
At the sight before you, you froze.
There Ghost was, sitting cross-legged on a chair.
That same skeleton mask, the same gear, the same body, true, but it wasn't him. Not anymore.
The sickening crack you heard moments before made sense now.
His jaw, dangling inanimately, was off-center. It was completely broken.
Dislocated, it seemed, through brute force. Broken with his own hands, his hands shining with wet, black blood.
His neck was strapped to an unfolded metal chair by his own belt. His chest and waist also were binded to the chair, but with with thick rope, tied intricately initially, then had devolved into a sloppy loop when the task got too fiddly.
His arms, likewise, were strapped to the arm rests, wrists handcuffed for good measure, yet Ghost's left forearm had broken out from his restraint, and his nails had scratched metal, deep claw marks in the armrest.
The radio had been loud. Loud, so it obscured the sound of his struggle.
You suddenly doubled over, hands on your knees, thinking that you were about to vomit.
It hit you, that he had been doing this while you had stood there, idle, none the wiser.
Immediately imagining Ghost thrashing around in this chair, fighting the spread of the disease, all the while you sat there idly and ignorantly, you regurgitated what you had eaten, tasting vomit in your mouth.
You gagged, groaning in disgust, but swallowed it all in one go and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.
Torn between looking at Ghost and not looking at him at all anymore, you found your gaze gradually going down.
His ankles were also bound to the chair legs. One of his calves, however, was completely decomposed, to the point that you could see his tibula and the tendons in his foot.
An airy gasp escaped you, silent. No sound came out.
The skin around it had deep black veins, and had frayed, decayed, oozing a slimy pus, with maggots feeding off the rotted flesh. Already, flies had swarmed around his corpse through the open window.
It was clear. Using his last remains of sentience, what remained of his consciousness, his humanity, Ghost tied himself to this chair.
Yet, something must have told him that this wouldn't last. His belt, the ropes, and even his handcuffs wouldn't have been enough to hold him back.
As a last resort, be broke his jaw. You knew immediately why: as a final precaution, in order to prevent himself from infecting anyone. From infecting you. From biting you.
You were unbelievably calm processing all of this. Too devastated to move, you now understood the voice that was speaking to Ghost on the radio.
It was as if the sound was on mute, your world at a stand-still, and some higher power had unpaused this moment. Like some cinematic choice made by a director.
And the plot twist, was that it was neither the voice of Soap, Price, or Garrick. This was a stranger, a female, speaking:
"—a safe zone. Here, there is safety, and we can guarantee your protection."
You recognised that voice. It was the female commander talking through Ghost's earpiece.
"Humans have not yet gone extinct, and humanity in our safe zone exists.
"To anyone that is out there, you are welcomed. We will welcome you with open arms and tend to any and all of your wounds.
"You will be fed, will be given shelter, and will be a member of our community of survivors.
"If you are hearing this, our coordinates are ***°**′**″ N, ***°**′**″ E. Keep this channel on. We can track you, as long as you play this message.
"Every day, we broadcast this message at 1200 for an hour, just as we have done yesterday, the days before, and will continue to do so tomorrow.
"There is a safe zone. Here, there is safety, and we can guarantee your protection.
"Humans have not yet gone extinct, and humanity in our safe zone exists. There is food, water, warmth, and shelter. Close to seventeen thousand of us have regrouped — civillians, farmers, teachers, doctors, scientists, soldiers — and are rebuilding civilisation a day at a time.
"Your background does not matter. We take in anyone able-bodied and fit to contribute in any way possible.
"We have a pharmacy, with medication, with antibiotics, with inhalers and with insulin.
"To anyone that is out there, we will take you in, and you will be protected. You are not alone.
"I repeat, If you are hearing this, our coordinates are ***°**′**″ N, ***°**′**″ E.
"Every day, we broadcast this message at 1200 for an hour, just as we have done yesterday, the days before, and will continue to do so tomorrow—"
You shut off the radio.
Ghost had been lying to you.
Lied to you about the Task Force. Lied to you about the journey you two had been making.
Had lied about having been bitten, and it was only through chance that you had found this out.Ghost had been lying to you all this time.
You broke down in hysterics, your calmness taking a 180 all in the duration of seconds.
Why, why? Why didn't he tell you? Why couldn't he just tell you?
This whole motive, the reason to keep going, was all a lie. A pretense.
It was a selfless act, yet to you it, couldnt have been more selfish. How dared he keep this from you? How dared he? Why didn't he tell you the truth?
Curse you, Ghost! you thought, wailing in pain as hot tears cut your cheeks.
Vision blurred, you looked up, stricken with grief, and glanced into those milky white eyes of his.
For a moment, a wave of serene had crashed into you, and your crying calmed. Mind was tranquil.
Ghost wasn't thrashing around like a zombie would in his restaints.
Wasn't bearing his teeth, lunging forward to sink his canines into your flesh.
Wasn't letting out a guttural roar.
It was clear that he had before you entered, the restraints that did little to restrain him evidence of that.
Yet, he observed you in a docile manner, and his broken jaw made him look pathetic.
His eyes weren't glowing, neither, nor were they orange. Just white.
You had thought he was blind, as his pupils were pinpricks unresponsive to light, but his eyes followed your every movement, watched you intensely.
Completely still, he stared at you with unblinking eyes, unable to swat the flies landing on his eyeballs with his wrists cuffed. Maybe not even feeling them at all.
Perhaps you were imagining things, thinking irrationally when hysterical, but you swore there was more to those eyes. Recognition.
A hesitant hand moved towards his face, wavering yet unwavering in its purpose.
When you cupped his masked cheek, his eyes conveyed a certain sadness, and were apologetic, almost as if his eyes were apologising. Conveying an apology through his eyes that he couldn't ever had through words.
Silently pleading for forgiveness. For you to forgive him. To understand.
It was unbearable. You couldn't bear to look him in the eyes anymore. You couldn't bear this.
His eyes narrowed, gaze as penetrating in death as it had been while he was alive. Even more penetrative, almost as if seeing right through your very soul.
The promise. You had of course remembered. The promise you had made that night had weighed heavy on your mind ever since.
It was unbearable. The thought of what you had to do was unbearable.
You promised. You had promised. Even if Ghost wasn't one to make promises, you were.
Your pistol on the floor where you had dropped it while collapsing, shimmered in the slither of sunlight that broke through the crack in the window.
With effort, you stretched your arms and reached for it with all your might.
You couldn't bear to hold your gun in your hands. Hands were clammy, so your grip was weak, and fingers too weak to hold it properly.
Even with both hands, you couldn't steady the shaking, the swallowed sobs causing your throat to go dry, and to choke on oxygen.
Head turned away, waterfalls of tears streaming down your face in gushing rivers, you pulled the trigger.
And a deafening shot rung out, echoing in the cellar.
You knew what you had to do. You did.
You had promised him. Promised Ghost.
But you didn't have the strength to do it.
The bullet pierced through the handcuff restraining his other wrist.
The metal fell to the floor with a dull clang.
Ghost, mesmerised, raised his hand to stare at it, not fully registering to him that this was his own hand.
You broke his promise.
Guilt overwhelmed you, as you denied a dead man's wish.
Without looking up at Ghost, you crouched down, and with your pocket knife, began working at the thick ropes binding his body.
When you stood up, Ghost had not budged. Had not even moved a muscle. His eyes were on you, unblinking.
"Come on, Ghost," you whispered, in the same tone of voice that Ghost himself would use when he used to address you.
Eyes widening, he allowed you to pull him up to his feet, no longer towering over you like he always did with his back hunched over now.
Your eyes softened at the sight of him, fresh tears brimming at the corners of your eyes, but you wiped at them before they could fall, and smiled reassuringly at Ghost, the ways that his eyes would smile reassuring you.
"Our journey isn't over, s-s—soldier," you whispered, voice cracking.
"My journey has always been you, Ghost."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
A/N: Happy New Year guys !! 🎉🎉🎊🙌🎆🎇🎇 Startijg the year off strong with a fanfiction TWO MONTHS in the making!! 💥🥳🔫 Sure do hope all tjis work was worth it 😍, bc i SWEAR im not postijg anytjing for ANOTHER two months bc I am EXHAUSTED 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔
#murder recommends#ghost my beloved#zombie ghost my beloved#this shit hurt my heart#fucking tearing up and sniffling over here#good god op#i love that ghost from every measure possible to keep himself from hurting/infecting reader. not just blocking the door but the restraints-#and not just those but also breaking his own fucking jaw. now if that isn't love i don't know what is.#also of course the distancing himself to save himself but referring it so much in the end because it was fruitless anyway.#he'd always be in love. even after death.#his eyes not glowing like the others but just a sad milky white AND those eyes recognizing reader despite#AHH#also just your descriptions are insane in a good a way op like damn#and the lies. keeping up all those lies to keep reader motivated to survive and alive. when will a man ever-#AND I'M THE END NEITHER OF US COULD MAKE A PROMISE#FUCK.#simon riley rec#also slow burn my beloved <3
732 notes
·
View notes
Text
Thinking about Zombie!Ghost's body changing so his cock swells and knots when breeding to ensure impregnation to carry on the infected species.
Zombie!Ghost who ends up with his cock buried deep inside you for what feels like forever, semen filling your guts.
Zombie!Ghost attempting to get away from you for a minute but when realizing he's locked in is intent on snuggling you and loving on you.
Zombie!Ghost who is now committed to breeding nothing else and constantly wants to try and breed infected with you. Always sad when it doesn't work.
Zombie!Ghost who wants to kiss you while snuggling you, acting as his warm cock sleeve.
Zombie!Ghost whose instincts tell him to breed when he's anxious so he'll always be trying to hump you or get close. Making sad noises from his broken maw while trying to get any kind of friction with you.
Zombie!Ghost who does act a bit pathetic in his need to breed and having you so close, so ready for him. Especially through certain cycles on your journey with him he cannot keep his hands off you for anything.
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
another thing i had in mind for ex husband simon was that this time you're more resistant. no touching, no nicknames that make you weak-kneed, nothing. divorce means divorce, and the wedge that split the two of you up would probably still be there.
fine by simon, he follows the rules to a T. hands to himself, polite greetings and only talks about the children. maybe for a birthday for the boys, he takes the family shopping for gifts since it's a tuesday and there won't be any party or whatever and when y'all come back home, the lights are on.
they'd been off when y'all left. simon quickly opens the middle console and pulls out his weapon and tells you to get in the drivers seat. should anything come running out, pedal to the metal.
a little bit of time passes, you're about to be driven crazy with anxiety but simon finally comes out, except he's empty handed.
comes to the side and opens the driver door. "whoever was in there is gone. probably hopped the back fence. i've already called the guys."
you're a sobbing mess because how dare someone come into your home? your sanctuary? what if-
and you come to a startling realization. what if you and the boys had been here? alone?
simon's looking down at his phone, and furrows his brows. "i gotta go get-" but you don't let him finish, trembling fingers grabbing the front of his shirt. "you cant leave us here. don't leave me alone. don't- just please. stay."
you're too upset to resist his embrace or correct him when he calls you sweetheart. the guys get there eventually, price and gaz waste no time in sweeping the area and you, accompanied by simon, tuck the kids to bed.
price calls it later, that the place seems to be clear. nothing really taken nor left behind. they all leave, johnny and kyle deciding to stay overnight across the street their car and simon also turns to bid you goodnight, except you don't let him.
you practically beg him to stay, that you won't feel safe without him here. the couch won't do because he's too far away, what if whoever that was comes in through the bedroom windows.
you seek comfort in him and in the dead of night, he whispers promises into your ear as he slides home. promises to keep you safe, to keep the kids safe. that he'd let nothing ever happened to you, not while he still lived and breathed.
when you're finally dozing, with his spend drying in between your legs, he grabs his phone and texts johnny that it's done, they can go home now.
johnny responds in seconds, telling him that he tore his very nice jeans jumping that rough hewn fence of theirs and that simon owes him a new pair.
#murder recommends#am i gullible because i didn't even pick up on the ending until the end#LMFAO#i would be so easy#anyway#ex husband simon brain rot feeling so good#yes big burly man protect me#simon riley rec
7K notes
·
View notes
Note
Alright since 28 is taken Ill do the next best thing 29! Graves and his shadows with M reader, who is a colonel.
I need the wholesome and maybe a bit of the spice ya know. Thank you for soing Shadow company content, i am so starved.
Once again good soup!
Here you go dude, I'm not the best when it comes to writing for a group of people so idk how this turned out :/. Play the game HERE
Prompt: Hug from behind
CW: NSFW, subbot Graves, domtop Mreader, Shadow company fluff, hug from behind, fluff, groping, handjob, cumming in pants.
Being a colonel in the Shadow company and Grave's right hand man, you had a lot of responsibilities. From running drills to stitching up wounds to writing reports and drafting contracts when your magpie of a commander sees a new person he wants to recruit; you expected to deal with a lot of shit, but never in your wildest dreams did you expect to become the Shadow Company's emotional support Colonel.
Colonel Care Bear — it was their nickname for you. You'd made the mistake of being annoyed at the name which, of course, made the little fuckers double down on it. Nothing you did made them stop, even Graves joining in their fun and calling you that instead of your name with a smug grin.
You're not even sure when or why it had started.
It wasn't like you were overly paternal, you just took care of your soldiers. In whatever ways they needed you; The first time you'd needed to give emotional support had been after Jenkins had lost his battle buddy. Jenkins was still relatively young compared to the other Shadows, a rising star that Graves had snatched up, but on the flight back to base he'd been no better than a scared kitten, desperately trying to hold in his sobs. You hadn't said a word when you had pulled him close to you, letting him cry his heart out into your shoulder.
None of the others said a word either, and you didn't bring it up after your plane had landed. You'd expected it to be a one off experience but oh — you were so wrong.
Like feral cats learning to trust a human, the Shadows started approaching you, carefully at first, standing just at the edge of your personal space nervous fingers toying with the hem of their shirts and eyes flickering between you and anything else, until you grew annoyed and pulled them close to you, letting them cry or talk or just sit with their head on your shoulder for as long as they needed; a lighthouse in a dark sea.
Then Williams, who'd had one too many bad missions, had come into your office without a word and plopped himself into your lap while you were busy doing paperwork.
You were surprised, but not too much, with how often you'd found yourself with a Shadow near you you figured something like this was bound to happen. Though you hadn't expected it to be this forward. "Bad day?" You asked.
Williams just grunted into your neck, slightly nodding his head.
You shifted to still be able to write with him in your lap. "Want me to talk?"
You felt his hair scratch your neck when he shook his head, a negative grunt leaving his throat.
"Got it." You said and went back to your work, a hand on William's hip to keep him stable.
Safe to say you weren't amused when Graves had walked in and cracked the biggest bloody smirk when he saw you like that. You were even less amused when he'd whipped out his phone and took a photo of it. And you were ready to piss in Grave's beer after that photo had circulated through the entire Shadow Company, leading to many more similar incidents of a Shadow crawling into your lap when you weren't busy.
It really wasn't their fault your embrace just felt so good and comfortable, your arms perfectly sized and muscled to put weight in your hugs, shoulders just broad enough to make them feel small and safe.
Graves knew this because when he'd needed to confiscate Smith's phone after he'd caught him taking pictures of your ass (not that he blamed him, you had a nice ass but they needed to have some professionalism) Graves had found their simp chat.
It took him days to finish reading all the messages. I mean there were hundreds of texts gushing just over you, calendrer times for when which Shadow could go bother you for attention, not to mention the countless pictures they'd taken of you, from mundane to more suggestive when you were in the communal showers (Graves would die before he admitted he'd needed to rub one out at some of the pictures).
Safe to say that when he gave Smith his phone back Graves was. . .curious. He'd never approached you for comfort like the Shadows did, mostly because he knew he couldn't keep his thoughts pure after just a few minutes in your presence, his throat going dry whenever he feels you pat his shoulder when you pass in the hall.
"Care Bear!" Graves calls when he finds you on your way to your room, using that name just so he can see the irritated twitch of your brow.
"Yes commander?" You ask in that same tone of voice you use when you know he's up to something.
"Oh come on, no need for that." Graves grins, "Ah just need you to do something for me," He says, because he wouldn't be your commander if he was straightforward. "Follow along." He motions with his hand like a dog as he passes you.
Like a dog you follow, so close you cast a partial shadow over him. He leads you to a more secluded hallway, stopping abruptly and hearing you stop too. But you're not close enough, so with an annoyed sigh he says "Come closer."
You raise an eyebrow but do as he says, taking a few short steps closer until your chest is almost touching his back. Without a word Graves suddenly grabs your arms and wraps them around his waist, leaning back on his heels until his back is flush with your chest and you're supporting his weight.
You stall for a few moments just trying to convince your head that yes, your commander is doing that. "Really?" You ask.
He tilts his head to meet your eyes, casually resting his head on your shoulder. "Something the matter Colonel Care bear?" He smirks, reminding you of a very content cat.
You give him a blank look before rolling your eyes, "Could have just said you wanted a hug." You huff and move your arms to really hug him, your hands resting comfortably on his hips, your arms caging him in, the heat of your body seeping into his, your chest rumbling as you mutter your annoyance at the damn nickname.
"What fun would that be?" He says, eyes closing.
And, Hell, Graves gets it now.
He could get addicted this. Your scent and cologne clogs his nose, the heat of your body chasing away the lingering chill of the base. You support his weight so easily it's like he's floating on a firm cloud, forgetting about ranks and war and everything for a few blissful seconds. His mind wanders; wonders what it would feel to have your strong arms pin him every day, what it'd be like to be pinned down, the current gentle pressure turned bruising and demanding, bending him in half and shit— he's hard.
And of course you notice, wouldn't be his right hand if you couldn't read him like a book. "I'm getting the impression," You note, your grip increasing just a bit to keep him still, your other hand skirting down. "That you wanted something more than just a hug." You growl and squeeze your hand, groping the bulge in his jeans.
"Shit—" Graves sucks in a breath, legs scrambling for purchase but you hold him still, his weight still on you. "—I wasn't thinking of nothing." He says quickly, the pressure of your hand on his clothed cock too good.
"Uh huh," You hum, keeping a careful eye on his facial expressions as you experimentally move your hand; Short slow brushes of your thumb against his cockhead earn you little whimpers, unable to hide them with his head still resting on your shoulder. Firm squeezes of his entire bulge has his skin turning a nice shade of pink, his ear hot beneath your tongue as you nibble on it. His thighs part as you bully your hand lower, the strong pressure of your fingers against his balls as your palm grinds into his cockhead making him moan, the stuttered attempts at explaining himself dying out as a visible damp spot grows in his jeans.
"Faster-" Graves growls, his hands grabbing purchase in your hair, yanking your head down into a rough kiss, "-mhh, faster, fuck, man-"
You smirk against his lips. "Ask me nicely." You say, purposely pulling your hand away from where he needs it the most, ignoring his disgruntled sounds.
"You son of a bitch-" Graves snarls, breathing rapidly in an attempt to get his frazzled brain to work before swallowing his pride. "Please," He says it like the word hurts him.
"Please what commander?" You wonder, undoing his belt and slipping your hand into his jeans, "Please touch my cock? Please get me off? Please fuck me till I can't walk?" You throw suggestions, applying just enough pressure on his twitching cock to leave him dumbly nodding his head.
"Yes, yes, yes- oh fuck- shit yes-" Phill pants, eyes closing and weakly thrusting his hips into your hand with what leverage he has, seeking out the pleasure that comes with your calloused hand stroking his sensitive flesh. "Fuck- just, ahh-" He breathes in through clenched teeth, "-just please."
"Alright, alright," You hum, increasing your pace, the glide of skin on skin eased by the precum he's leaking, swallowing his little moans and rough grunts as you kiss him. You can tell he's nearing his end with how he begins twitching even more in your hold, hips pushing into your hand sporadically, fat tears prickling his eyes. "Come on then Commander, cum already."
He does almost as soon as you tell him to, his moan swallowed down by your lips as he cums in his pants, your thumb rubbing insistently on his tip to milk him of all he's got, strong arm keeping him close to you.
"You did good commander." You coo gently as you pull your hand out of his pants, and without waiting for a response you push your cum covered fingers into his open mouth. "Real good," You smirk when Phill immediately sucks on your fingers, his brain melted into mush and incapable of rousing his pride to feel ashamed of how he moans at the taste of his own spend. "Such a good boy," Your praise does something to him, has his cock making a valiant attempt to get hard all over again.
The air leaves his lungs when you suddenly push your hips against his ass, making him feel your own hard cock trapped in your pants. "I took care of you," You begin, pulling your fingers from his mouth. "Are you prepared to take care of me?"
#murder recommends#i LOVE this#cannot even#the shadows flocking to reader. 👌 magnifique 👌#the stupid nickname and graves using it#the little shit that he is#the pictures and graves having to take a moment lmao#and then THE LAST LINE#GOD OP#whew#nsfw tw#phillip graves rec
607 notes
·
View notes
Text
Whumptober Day Two: Thermometer, Delirium, "They Don't Care About You."
(Rodolfo Parra x GN! Reader)
(Whumptober Masterlist TBA)
Rating: Gen
Wordcount: 1k
Tags: Blood/Injury, Whump, Capture & Rescue, Fever dreams, Established Relationship, Los Vaqueros Reader, Infection, Near Death Experiences, Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Vomit mention, Torture/Captivity, Explicit Mention of Injury
You’ve stopped counting the days since you’d been captured.
There’s a darkness unlike little else you’ve experienced here, bracketed in the shade of the jungle. The abandoned, remote village you find yourself in is but a negligible spec on the map, hardly worth mentioning. It’s the perfect to hide you in following your failed self-extraction from your undercover mission into a local cartel. Your cover blown, you had tried to escape, barely managing to activate your emergency distress beacon before you’d earned a bullet to the thigh. Stumbling, the wound had been the only thing keeping you from freedom.
Now, here, trapped in the dusty, windowless cellar of the local cartel, you find yourself unable to keep track of time. The food your captors give you seems to come at irregular intervals, further obscuring any attempt to know just how long you’ve been here.
Why they haven’t killed you is beyond you. By all accounts, you should be dead. You’re a threat being kept alive, with the slim possibility that your fellow Vaqueros will find you. The motives of your captors remain a mystery, and it’s the absence of knowledge that is worse than the wait as to when they’ll drag you from this prison towards your imminent fate.
Here in the grimy, damp darkness, without medical treatment, it had taken little time for your wound to fester. What had been a sharp, piercing pain had spread to a rotting, horrific ache that seizes along your entire leg. It dwells in your tired muscles, weak with the absence of food and water, makes your head pound with viscous infection.
Fever set in quickly, and whatever strength you had been storing for a possible escape had been quickly sapped by the raging heat in your veins. You had no choice but to lay prone in the darkness, whimpering in pain and trying to stem the fever dreams that spoke of the cellar cracking with light, of a familiar voice wrapping around your senses in comfort.
You see him in your dreams, your Rudy. Dressed in full tactical gear, backlit by the searing Mexican sun, his shadow falls across your laying form, his hands reaching for your weakened body. Yet every time he nears, the phantom touch of him vanishes before you can speak his name.
As time passes, you wonder if you’ll ever see him again, or if you’ll close your eyes to the dream of him, never to wake.
“They don’t care about you.” One of your captors sneers down at your glassy eyes when you echo Rudy’s name in your delirium. “If they did, they would have come for you by now.”
You can barely pull yourself to the plate of meager food he’s given you, trying to force down stale beans and rice and finding yourself emptying your stomach instead. The bile burns in the back of your throat, and without water you find yourself too dehydrated to even weep. You almost wish they’d come to kill you rather than let you rot like this, a slow and gruesome end.
There’s commotion at the top of the stairs, and you wait for one of your captors to come down and mock you, to kick your plate of food into the dirt, to provide a bullet to your brains.
Yet what comes instead is a voice shouting in distant Spanish, a frantic call to others nearby, the pop of gunfire in the distance. To your ears it sounds like fireworks, the same as the ones on El Grito de La Independencia you watched with Rudy from the rooftop of the Los Vaqueros barracks. They blossom across your senses like carnations, hammering a horrible thrum with every explosion. Your eyes flutter, trying to blot out the sensation, but your peace is disturbed by the even louder thump of boots as they rapidly descend the stairs.
“Sergeant Parra!” A voice calls, and you whimper at the thunderous sound against your wrecked, feverish senses. Hands descend to your clammy skin, and you can’t contain a flinch to the firm grasp as they push you onto your back.
“Corporal.” Someone mutters to you, and when they try to prop you upright you cry out with pain. “Can you hear me?”
You try and nod, but your head lolls instead, limp onto your shoulders. You don’t hear what they say next, and it only dawns on you then that you’re being rescued, perhaps too late.
A second set of footsteps down the stairs, quick and hard as they race into the cellar. There’s words exchanged in rapid Spanish that you try to follow, before at last a hand tips your chin upwards towards a familiar, brown-eyed gaze.
“Corazón.” He murmurs, eyes soft with worry, a hand cradled against your nape to keep you looking up. “What have they done to you?”
“Rudy?” You try weakly, and you want so desperately for it to be him this time, for this not to be a dream.
He raises a gloved hand to his teeth to yank it free, raises his bare palm to your forehead.
“You’re burning up.” He murmurs, and you think his voice trembles as he speaks. “You’re sick.”
“Sir.” The Vaquero on your other side chirps, and he gingerly pulls at the makeshift bandage you used to cover the bullet wound in your thigh.
“Meirda.” Rudy curses, and there’s fear there, a desperation you can feel in the tremble of his hands before he turns to you again. “Hang on, corporal. We’re going to get you medical attention. Stay with me, sí?”
“S-sí.” You manage despite your lead tongue. You let your cheek lay limp against his shoulder, and drink in the warm, familiar scent of him, eyes shuttering. “Rudy…”
“Tell the colonel we’ve found our missing corporal.” Rudy murmurs to his squad mate, and the soldier chirps an affirmative before he quickly ascends the stairs with a triumphant cry towards his comrades. In his absence, Rudy cradles you to him, arms holding you fast. A kiss bestowed upon your forehead feels as if it eases the fever.
“You’re safe, mi vida.” He whispers, lifting you into his arms with a little grunt. “You’re going to be okay.”
You sigh against him, going fully limp as he carries you from the darkness and into the sunlight, into safety. A dream, you think. One that came true, here in his embrace.
#murder recommends#you had me at whump#rudy i fucking love you#actual perfect man#rudy my beloved#rodolfo parra rec
344 notes
·
View notes
Note
Just read you're other story, it was awesome. Can you write one with male reader being married to graves and ale and rudy flirting with m/n, but every time m/n is like I'm married but never tells hes married to graves. And one day they are making out on the couch and ale and rudy walk in and are like " NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WHY HIM OF ALL PEOPLE. " and " THAT SHOULD BE ME. "
Do you have a man? I don’t see a ring on your finger
Word count: 2.3k
Requested: Yes
Warnings: Graves (jk) None really. A lot of fluff, Los Vaqueros and Graves have beef, Alejandro complains about white people (as he should),
Notes: Wrote the vast majority of this in class while listening to IT GIRL. You know this is gonna be good. And yes, if you've submitted a request the last three days after I posted my last fic, I’ve started to work on it. Gotten a lot more than I’ve expected so I’m trying my best lol. And Anon, if you want me to rewrite this or make something different, please just ask me to, I really don't mind. I'm not too proud of this one, but I hope I've satisfied you.
(Takes place before the Graves betrayal. Reader is not part of the 141, Shadows or Los Vaqueros, but a secret fourth thing.)
“Come on, Guapo. You’re bluffing.” Alejandro smirked, crossing his arms as he spoke. You chuckled, leaning back against the truck that Rudy was loading up. This wasn’t the first time he had accused you of lying about your relationship status. If you had a dollar for each time, you’d have enough to have another wedding.
“I’m telling you, Alejandro. I’m a married man. How many more times do I have to tell you?” You confirmed for the millionth time, a stupid grin on your face. Truth be told, you didn’t half mind their flirting, it made you feel better about yourself knowing that you still got it. The fact that they refused to believe that you were married, it was sort of funny.
“I don’t see a ring.” Rudy added in after he loaded the final bag onto the truck, a know-it-all look on his face as he walked up to you too. You rolled your eyes, refusing to move from your position because you thought you looked too cool not to.
“No one wears rings during active duty, Rodolfo. You see Soap and Ghost wearing theirs?” You spoke back, pushing yourself off your spot on the car for two reasons. Them being, you thought it would be cooler and Rudy was moving to open the door your foot was suffocating.
“No, Ghost wears his ring around his neck. Also I’m pretty sure Soap lost his.” Alejandro commented, making eye contact with you. It wasn’t for long because you immediately closed your eyes as you scoffed.
“Well, that’s Soap for you. I guess I just prefer to not wear mine.” You reasoned, looking over to Rudy, to Alejandro and then over to a whistle that just sounded American. That always made you smile, seeing Graves whistle his Shadows like they were dogs.
“Oh great, it’s the gringo.” Alejandro hissed, causing you to turn your head and shake it a bit.
“Hey.” You scolded him like he was a child and had just said he hated something, which was kind of true. Los Vaqueros had a sort of special hatred for Graves, perhaps it was because he was the most American man you’d ever meet, perhaps it was because he was just kind of an asshole. You’ve been trying to get them to get along, but so far it would only work on Rudy. He was the kinder of the two, it was clear.
“Alejandro. We talked about this.” Rudy chimed in, causing Alejandro to hold out his arms in disbelief. He dropped them to his sides and pointed over to Graves.
“Is it my fault he’s so white? I’m literally being blinded every time I look over at him!” He protested, causing you to chuckle a little. Rudy didn’t let himself smile, although he was internally.
“I know. It is very painful to look at him.” Rudy nodded, placing a hand on Alejandro’s shoulder and shaking his head like he was sympathising with Alejandro after he had been shot or something, not like he was complaining about white people. A valid complaint in most people’s eyes.
“I don’t even say it to any of the 141.” The taller man whisper-shouted, searching for sympathy from you. You smiled, shaking your head as you walked over to him and placed a hand on his other shoulder so you were now one big line.
“Oh yes, you’re very strong, Ale.” You patronised him, talking down to him like he was a toddler. Before he had time to punch you, Graves walked over. Sorry, not walking, strided like the sassy man he is.
“Alright gentlemen. Let’s get this show on the road. You coming with me, Y/N?” Graves smiled, looking over to you. Both Alejandro and Rudy looked over to you, knowing that you always travelled with Graves when you went to go do something. Not belonging to any of their groups, you preferred to travel with your husband.
“Ye-”
“Actually, Y/N will be travelling with us for this mission, Graves. He’s been with you every other time.” Alejandro butted in, placing his arm in front of you like you were going to run off to the man at any minute if he didn’t step in.
“You can’t just decide where he does and doesn’t go, compadre.” Graves tried to argue, but you gave him a look to say it was fine. He nodded, making a little symbol with his hands to tell you that you were to make it up to him later. You had created a lot of those symbols, knowing that it would be hard to communicate all your incredibly affectionate thoughts for one another.
Graves walked away and the three of you turned to the car. Rudy tossed the keys around in his hands, indicating you were to sit in the back because of course Alejandro always had to take shotgun if Rudy was driving.
“Who used this truck last?” Alejandro asked as he opened the passenger’s seat door, sitting down while you buckled in and Rudy turned the keys.
“Uh, It was you last, right Y/N?” Rudy asked, turning back to you. You gave them a thumbs up, your mind replaying why exactly you had used the truck last time. Makeout sessions were not easy to go on base, and the trucks had tinted windows.
“Wait what the…who the fuck did you have in here? W-Why is the seat back like that?” Rudy asked as leant back in the seat only to realise just how far back it was positioned. The taller man held the lever that would pull the seat back up for Rudy and before you could deny anything, Alejandro had something to ask..
“AND WHY DOES THIS CAR SMELL LIKE JAPANESE CHERRY BLOSSOM? WHO THE FUCK DID YOU HAVE IN HERE?” He yelled, causing Rudy to laugh to himself at seeing your guilty face.
“THAT'S JUST HOW I LIKE TO DRIVE!” You lied, trying to come up with an excuse for why the truck was like this. You were sure they didn’t believe you, but they didn’t say anything about it for a moment.
“Sureee, we believe you, love.” Rudy smiled, starting up the car and beginning to lead the rest of the group to the relocation point. You looked over at your hand in the backseat, wondering why you had chosen not to wear your wedding ring. Sure, it was impractical as hell to have on the field, but you could easily attach it to something else, like a necklace.
“What’re you thinking about, carino? Tryna make up a personality for your fake husband?” Alejandro asked, looking back at you from his chair. You frowned, like a full on cartoon downturned face.
“He isn’t fake, forehead. And what I’m thinking of is none of your business.”
“Oh I get it. It was sexual. You were totally thinking about Rudy and I.”
“Don’t drag me into this Ale.”
“You helped me dig this hole, Rudy. You’re coming in with me.”
“Why do you make everything about sex?”
“Why do you not?”
“I’m a human that respects everyone around me, Alejandro. You don't…” You decided to tune them out, it was just the same bickering every time that somehow got you roped up in it. You’d heard it all before. They’d argue about something or other and eventually they’d make up when you forced them to, which made them want to flirt with you even more. You didn’t mind the flirting…it just got a bit tiring sometimes.
________
“Hey baby.” Graves smiled as you entered the small section of the base that was dedicated to the shadows while they stayed for the time being. You smiled, walking up to him and embracing the American man in your tired arms, just wanting to hold him.
“Hey Graves.” You mumbled into his shoulder, your voice being muffled by the fabric of his shirt. It was one of your favourites, a dark blue that suited him well. Graves reached a hand up, holding the back of your head and slowly swaying from side to side.
“How were your little cowboy friends? Better drivers than me?” Graves asked, making you groan, remembering how they were flirting with you all trip. The American chuckled at your response, continuing to hold you close.
“They just can’t seem to understand that I’m married. They think it’s impossible…I don’t know whether or not it’s a compliment and at this point, I don’t care.” You groaned, lifting your head up to meet his eyes. His smile, no matter how much of an asshole he was being, was always kind to you.
“Aww, baby.” Graves frowned, holding your face in his hands. You smiled and placed both your hands on his waist, both of you leaning forward to kiss. The two of you had missed the touch that you never seemed to get, this was a rare time.
You both went down to the couch, Graves on top of you as you made out. He moved one of his hands to hold you from the back and you put another in his hair, holding the platinum blonde locks as your passion rose to the surface.
“What the fuck?!” The accented yell caused you and Graves to pull apart and look where it came from. A very very shocked Alejandro and Rudy stood in the doorway, both caught off guard by the situation.
“W-What are you two doing here?” You asked as Graves pushed himself off of you so you could speak to the two men. They never visited this part of the base on purpose, avoiding Graves and his shadows like the plague.
“What are you doing here?” Alejandro retorted, pointing to the two of you with a confused look on his face.
“I’d say its pretty obvious what my husband is doing here.” Graves butted in, pointing to you with his thumb, causing both Alejandro and Rudy’s jaws to drop. You almost let out a laugh, instead choosing to hide your reaction and just look at them blankly.
“W-What did you say?” Rudy questioned Graves, looking over at him and then back to you. It was like he couldn’t believe that someone as sweet and kind as you…was married to Phillip Graves.
“Y/N is my husband. He wasn’t lying about being married, y’know?” Graves smiled a stupid shit eating grin at the two men’s reactions. They both looked over at him, then back to you seemingly in unison. You could only lift up your hands a bit and give a ‘sorry smile’ to them.
“B-But if not us…why him?”
“COME ON, Y/N. YOU CAN DO SO MUCH BETTER!” Alejandro added in, more fond of shouting than Rudy would ever be. You made eye contact with Graves while they yelled, trying to figure out why he was the one you were romantically interested in,
“D-Do you just have a thing for Americans?”
“Is he lying to you about how good of a person he is?”
“What type of car does he drive?”
'HE'S THE WORST, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"
“Fuckin white people, taking everything anyone else wants.”
"WHY HIM OF ALL PEOPLE?"
While the two Mexican men started rambling and guessing why you would be with Graves and not them, you and Graves decided to share another kiss while they argued, effectively shutting them both up.
“You two,” You started as now you finally had their attention. “We’re with each other because we love each other…simple.” You smiled, watching them take in the fact that you actually might just love Graves.
There was a silence while they processed that, a deafening silence and if anyone came past the room, they’d assume there was no life in there. It stayed for a minute before Alejandro spoke up.
“This isn’t over, white boy.” He vaguely threatened, making ‘watching you’ hand gestures and walking out of the room backwards, maintaining eye contact with Graves the whole time.
“What he said.” Rudy added on, quickly walking after him, just keeping his head forward. When Alejandro bumped into the wall while trying to exit, Rudy grabbed his shoulder and they both muttered something to one another, Alejandro rubbing his head as he left.
“Were they high? What was that?” Graves asked, completely confused on what just went down. You didn’t know whether to defend them or not, because to be honest, you thought they were as well.
“I have no clue…” You whispered, turning back to Graves and laying back down on the couch in the position you were in before. The blonde saw this and smiled, laying down back on top of you, not kissing you, just laying there.
“We can deal with them later.” He whispered, closing his eyes and just laying there with you. You smiled, placing your hand in his hair and mentally preparing yourself for whatever the dynamic duo were going to try next. You had no idea what it was going to be, but you just hoped they wouldn’t resort to trying to kill Graves. But, there was no saying what those men would stoop to to win your affection.
#murder recommends#too funny to not rb#this dynamic works so well what the fuck#graves' long suffering husband and his two platonic boyfriends#reader is just long suffering in general#also alejandro just yelling while rudy tries (not so hard) to keep the peace#AND HIM RUNNING INTO THE FUCKING WALL I CAN JUST IMAGINE HOW FUMING HE WAS#also just rudy <3 xo#and stinky man graves my beloved#op if you ever make a part two...#foaming at the mouth#alejandro vargas rec#rodolfo parra rec#phillip graves rec
443 notes
·
View notes
Text
I know I literally never write for König since he’s not a fav of mine, but he is really fucking hot and I can’t stop thinking about his slutty little belt loop that he missed when he put his belt on.
You notice it while talking to him about your upcoming mission. You casually look him up and down as he’s speaking to you not thinking much about your innocently wandering eyes until they stop on his hips.
“Exfil should be-“
“You missed one.” You say with a smile.
“…what?” He asks.
You giggle and take a step closer.
“Your belt loop Colonel. You missed one.”
You take a few more steps towards him until you’re standing directly under his chin and you reach both hands out to undo his belt.
König’s breath hitches and looks down at you as he puts both hands up in almost a surrender when he feels your knuckles brush right above his hips over his happy trail.
You truly didn’t mean it in a sexual way at all. Just helping your Colonel out.. lending him a hand.. well, technically two.
You undo his belt, pull it through the loop he missed, and tighten it around his hips again, causing the force of you tugging on his belt to jut his hips forward a bit. You never take your eyes off your hands working the belt and are completely oblivious to the way König is blushing furiously under his hood and how he’s repressing doglike pants.
“There. Fixed.” You say triumphantly, putting your hands on your hips and finally looking back up at him.
“What were you saying about the Exfil?”
König still stands dumb and speechless. A fucking quiet mess who doesn’t even remember what you were talking about. All he can think about is how thankful he was you finally looked away from his crotch area because holy fuck he’s rock hard now.
#murder recommends#short and sweet#könig you large man i love you#can't even do your own belt loop smh 😔#könig rec
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
“ 𝐊 𝐈 𝐋 𝐋 𝐒 𝐇 𝐎 𝐓 ”
pairing keegan p. russ x you genre smut reader is a male. dom!reader x sub!keegan cw uppercase typing. enemy reader. gun kink. facefucking. humiliation. handjob.
you’ve never expected that keegan, out of all people, would be into that.
Keegan P. Russ, a well-respected Sergeant and Scout Sniper of the Ghosts. He lived up to his title, his experience on the battlefield providing him positive support throughout his years in the military. A man of many things. Strong and intelligent. Never one to step out of line.
Keegan P. Russ, a man who was proficient in his work field. He was intimidating. Never one to cower in face of missions. He was suited for a respectable leader. His strength and accomplishments gaining praise from higher and lower ranks alike. The air around his presence of an authority’s.
Keegan P. Russ, an embarrassed man who was currently on his knees. The expression of shame on his face hidden by his signature mask. The same one that was once drenched in multiple enemy combatants’ blood now concealing the creeping warmth on his cheeks.
“Don’t tell me you’re backing out.”
He huffed in annoyance at your teasing words. “I’m not.” He wanted to. He really did. This was humiliating, both to his pride and to his reputation. He’d rather fucking die than to be caught in this predicament because of you. “Are you sure?” You leaned back, resting against the couch.
“I mean, I’m not saying that you can’t handle this. But don’t you feel a little conscious?” You shrugged, not waiting for a response, “Not even for your reputation?” A hint of a smirk playing on your lips as you watched his growing anger in the form of his balled fists. It was amusing to see the Keegan P. Russ crumble in need. Even worse, for his enemy.
“Shut the fuck up.” He gritted his teeth.
“Or what?” His hand flew to grab the gun in your hand, but you quickly slapped it away. “Nice try.” It wasn’t a compliment. A sarcastic response to get under his skin further. He knows you enough to realize that you weren’t going to allow him to forget this unfolding situation. There was a high chance he was going to regret this, but he wanted to indulge his fantasies of with you, at least for a little while.
He shouldn’t be down on his knees, on a dirty old carpet, in an abandoned safe house. Especially not with you, a man who’s attempted to kill him and his team several times. Not to mention that you’re the same man who has been wanted by him the police for months.
Wanted in which way, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted — no, that’s not quite right — needed you right now.
“Get it over with.”
You sighed, “You’re so impatient.” Taking out the magazine, you inspected the amount of bullets inside before returning it to the chamber. Switching off the safety, you pointed it at him. His breath hitched, the muzzle centered to his forehead. You were right; he was impatient. It didn’t help that you were mere seconds away from giving him what he wants.
“Your mask,” You reminded, softly, “Can you take it off for me?” He let out a huff, like he was going to decline but his hand rose. Unsure gloved fingers dipped underneath his shirt, the digits meeting fabric as he pulled it off of his head. There he was. Identity bare for someone who shouldn’t see the real him. As soon as the balaclava was on the floor, you trailed the muzzle down his face. He tensed, eyes wide. “What are you—?”
Quickly, his lips bumped against the front sight and you pushed it inside. He instinctively swallowed around the barrel, the taste and wide intrusion leading him to gag slightly.
“Mffh- mmhf? Mhg...” He attempted, even though the gun prevented him to properly speak.
You didn’t take it out, sliding it in further. Focus intent on the way he struggled to sit still and adjust. He shifted his position in discomfort, thighs rubbing against each other to try to soothe the ache in between his legs. His body was betraying him, cock growing hard inside the confines of his pants. He could easily stop you, but he didn’t want to. He was willingly submitting.
The sound of your tongue clicking snapped him out of his short daze, “Poor baby,” you shook your head in mock disappointment. “You’re not even afraid to have your head blown off?” It was a rhetorical question, not that he was going to answer. The letters he learned were turning into complete mush. “I would’ve done this with you sooner if I knew that you were so willing to just... take it.”
Saliva built in his mouth, trickling out of the corner. He was fucking drooling. “You’re better like this.”
He shook his head the best he could. “No?” You chuckled, drawing the gun back. “C’mon. Use your words.” His gaze hardened, but his body was a traitor to his emotions. A glare set in his eyes yet he had a tent in his pants and a blush on his cheeks. Hips rutting into nothing.
“I’m not—”
You shove it back in.
“Not what?”
Deity forgive him, he didn’t know if he hated that fact about you. Unbearable — that’s what he uses to describe you. Unbearable and cruel. A know-it-all. He could never tell you that. Not with the gun harshly pushing back and forth in his mouth, at least.
It was downright sinful.
Sinful, with the sounds that his throat was making. The muzzle poking at the back. He shouldn’t have a loaded firearm on his tongue. Not with you, a criminal that should be locked behind bars, treating it like it was your cock. Your treatment was rough, giving him little to no time to breathe. It felt uncomfortable, but so disgustingly good at the same time. This was your gun. The aftermath will have him lingering on your mind.
He shouldn’t want to be on your mind.
But he just can’t help it. He does have self-control, but you seem to simply take it away. He nearly smiles at the thought of you trying to come up with an excuse to why your gun was wet at the edges, maybe you’d forget to clean it, maybe you don’t even want to. Unknowingly, his hand wandered up to your belt. Shaky fingers took it off, achingly slow.
He finally pulled down your pants. A moan slipping into the muzzle as he wished that it was you in his mouth instead. But he had to wait. He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking it in a lazy manner. His eyes were hazy, throat for sure sore, and sweat on his skin. You bucked your hips into his palm, watching as he gags on your gun. Suddenly, a loud moan erupted from him, muffled. A wet patch forming on the crotch of his pants.
Fucking hell. You pant, currently in disbelief —
“Did you just cum?”
𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
masc!reader x roach
Fuck's sake, you're thinking, laying in bed, wide awake and somehow still feeling like you have done all day - ready to fall asleep at the first opportunity. And now it's here, the room in darkness aside from the moonlight through the open blinds just the way you like it, and yet your exhausted body refuses to shut off. Typical.
If it weren't for how damn quickly your lips got cracked and dry, you'd be breathing through your mouth. Thankfully, you're not forced to do so quite yet - although the way your stuffy nose is sounding at every inhale, you might be soon, and that would be the equivalent of admitting defeat. So far, you'd been ignoring your earache, headache, every ache you had; you'd put aside how your eyes hurt and your legs and arms were tired from more than just training exercises with the rookies.
Now, though, you couldn't quite dismiss it, and it was catching up to you. Damn fast. Tossing and turning in the too-warm blankets (despite it being 2°C in the barracks, due to the inconveniently-timed broken heating), you let out a frustrated sigh, pulling on your comfy military socks and a hoodie and padding out from your tiny room, shoulders hunched against the chill.
Trodding through the corridors, wishing you'd bothered to put on shoes, you soon found yourself in the mess hall, quiet and dark and empty. You hated how eerie it was at night, but did appreciate the little coffee and tea machines at the sides, however cheap they tasted. Grabbing a chipped mug and pressing the breakfast tea option, you let your tired head fall to your chest, closing your eyes and swaying a little where you stand.
As the tea finishes making itself, you pick up the mug, grateful for its warmth, and sit yourself down at a nearby table, blowing your nose with a scratchy napkin but glad it was there anyway. More mulling over the tea than drinking it, you lay your head down, foggy mind drifting from thought to thought and not noticing the other man enter the mess hall.
A gentle tap on the shoulder jolts you upright, and you realise how you're sitting in almost complete darkness as your eyes adjust to make out the figure of Roach standing in front of you. He's wearing a set of matching pyjamas - one of those soft, chequered ones with a button-up shirt and drawstring trousers tied in a floppy bow - and fluffy socks, and is missing his usual helmet, goggles and gloves. Which you suppose is expected seeing as it's probably early hours of the morning. That being said, he's got on a smaller version of his normal mask, covering only the bottom half of his face.
"Are you okay?" he asks, tapping his fingers to his chest then doing a double thumbs-up to sign it. You smile tiredly, trying to be polite and say you're fine but your voice is raspy and painful when you speak. Roach tilts his head slightly at you, then points at the tea and signs for you to drink it. Too ill to argue, you do as he says and watch as he picks up your now-empty mug, putting it to the side apparently for someone else to clean up, then holding his hand out expectantly.
"What're'y' doing?" you mumble, taking his hand and entwining your fingers as you stand up, leaning into his body almost instinctively. He tries to sign something, but with only one hand free and your groggy brain, the message doesn't really get across. You follow him blindly anyway, not really caring so long as you can nab his warmth for as long as possible.
He leads you along the corridors of the barracks to a room that definitely isn't your own, going by the completely different layout and the fact that there's a knocked out Lieutenant in one of the bunks. You don't bother to question it when you're bundled into the bed opposite and followed by Roach, who wraps the seemingly infinite blankets around the both of you and presses a firm kiss to your forehead through his mask, despite the fact you're not at all dating or even close to this being normal.
He doesn't give you time to argue (not that you have the brain power to anyway), instead pushing you to lie down and quickly cuddling into your side, resting his head on your shoulder and tracing absent-minded patterns into your chest. You curl your arms around him, letting your mind catch up.
"Did you just kidnap me to snuggle with?" you process after a moment, glancing down to see him nod. "You share a room with Ghost." Another nod. "And you couldn't've gone the three metres over to his bed?" Roach hesitates; thinks. Then shakes his head stubbornly, legs tangling with yours.
Maybe that scratchy napkin was just brilliant, but you're certainly not feeling as ill and uncomfortable as before when you finally drift off to sleep, the Sergeant in your arms as your own little personal weighted warming blanket.
#murder recommends#ROACH#perfectly timed bc i'm sick :)#i say once again ROACH#gary sanderson rec#roach rec
241 notes
·
View notes
Text
“ GMFU ”
pairing keegan p. russ x reader genre smut gn reader. dom!reader x sub!keegan cw lowercase typing. violence. injured keegan. bondage. handjob. pain kink. hint of overstimulation. ( credits to this edit & to the creator. )
who could’ve thought keegan would enjoy being helpless?
a previous mission went haywire, enemy combatants ambushing your team. the fight was a clash of blood, sweat, and lost of lives. one of the members of the opposing team captured keegan undetected, muffled yells falling on unhearing eardrums. his absence only noticed once you and your team reached the evacuation point. the seconds ticked by, and they eventually led to a week.
it took a toll on you the most, the lack of sleep making you clumsy with even the slightest of movements. however, no longer having to worry, his location was found. the man kept in an abandoned building in a seemingly ghost town. you insisted on going alone, for you were one of the strongest and most agile in the team. your skill caused you to easily enter the building, the guards’ necks weeping of red as they laid on the floor. you were mad and concerned, barely sleeping in a wink. it was a blur – difficult to determine the events that occurred as it was a rush of blood and hurried feet.
and there he was, keegan in all of his glory, bound to a chair. surprisingly, he still had his mask planted to his head. the only difference being that it was lifted above his lips, mouth occupied by a cloth. he struggled against the ropes, yet to no avail. freezing in your tracks, unguarded hungry eyes raked over his form. keegan was stripped of his shirt, muscular body adorned with scars bled with fresh ones. his sweat created a thick sheen, the liquid illuminated by the dim light. he was angry, for sure, but he looked so good like this. he tugged at the ropes again, and that movement snapped you out of your trance.
“sorry.” you mumble, approaching the bound man. he said something that you were unable to decipher, syllables muffled by the fabric. he was against the wall, causing you to loom over him just to reach the ropes. his furrowed eyebrows peeked underneath his balaclava as he looked up at you. the ropes didn’t budge, and it only rubbed on his sensitive skin more. another batch of words left him, and from what you could tell, they were of curses. the metal chair was heavy and with his weight, you could barely move it.
“ghffg— gghh!” he spoke through the fabric, shoulders tense. “fggnng!” he keened, as your arm accidentally rubbed against a healing wound. the sound that left him seemed more pleasurable than painful. you inspected his form in concern, “you okay?” his eyes connected with yours and was that— desperation?
grabbing your knife from your pocket, you tried cutting the ropes with it but they were too thick. “fuckin’ hell...” you grumbled, frustrated with the current situation. he grunted as the twisted strands served him even more harm. and yet, it definitely wasn’t in pain this time. something stood out from your peripheral vision and you glanced at—
oh.
oh.
an imprint strained against his pants and his head lowered, following your gaze. he was turned on. “keegan,” you called, uncertain. your thoughts were stupid. of course they were. fucking your superior in the enemy’s territory? were you insane? despite your self-awareness, he nodded. the movement of his head quick enough to make you believe he’d suffer of whiplash. “are you sure? i mean, we are, you know, and you’re hurt, and—” your ramble was cut off as he spat into the fabric, similar to a frustrated command.
his face was flushed in embarrassment, eyes almost dazed. he wanted – bluntly needed – you. trembling hands grabbed his belt, taking it off and toying with the zipper. he made a noise, and you could faintly make it out as a ‘please’. you slid off his pants, leaving him in his boxers. a small, wet spot stained the fabric. finally, you pulled it off to reveal his aching cock. a steady bead of pre-cum dotting its slit as he bucked his hips upwards into the air. wrapping your gloved fingers around his shaft, he groaned.
this was insane. neither of you nor him should do this, yet it felt right despite the paranoia of getting caught. years of tension between the two of you dissipating as you tantalizingly stroke his cock, working him up to his climax so, so fucking slowly. he wanted to beg, but both his ego and the cloth in his mouth prevented him to do so. “ungfh, gghg, mmng,” he moaned, even the makeshift gag couldn’t prevent his needy sounds from escaping. “plea– nnnghhh.” his cock twitched as you traced the veins, spreading the pre. heavy pants left his nose, head tilting back. “eyes on me.” you commanded, unable to keep yourself from displaying your own authority while he was vulnerable.
reluctantly, he looked into your eyes. he already looked so fucked out and you’ve barely started. he let out a pained grunt that caused you to slow down even more, much to his disappointment. his muscles flexed whilst one of his wounds stretched. he shook his head repeatedly as you tried taking your hand away, pushing himself forward as invitation. he whined so prettily, skin red with gashes.
he liked the pain.
“no fuckin’ way,” your concerns were melting away as you discovered something that should be unnerving, “you’re into this?” you asked, running your finger along one of the smaller cuts. his breath hitched and his cock throbbed, confirming your suspicion. gently, you pressed your finger into it. just enough to inflict a spark of hurt. he whimpered, high-pitched and uncharacteristic of him. you dug your thumb into his slit, his body quivering and his teeth biting down on his tongue. your glove was slick with his own fluid, and it makes you think he came already. abruptly, you sped up your pace. the sound of leather rubbing against sensitive skin interrupting the silence of the room. “hmmnggh!” he squealed, tension surrounding his body. his eyes were unfocused, nearly crossing, even.
his head light from the intoxicating combination of pain and pleasure. unexpectedly, you roughly grazed a recent wound and he came, from that. pearly, thick ropes of cum coated your hand. you leaned in, dragging your tongue up to his tip. the muffled sounds of his throaty groans and the taste of his already spent cock interrupted your senses. an addiction that you couldn’t cure.
a breathless whine left him, your warm tongue leading him to tremble against the ropes. he was so sensitive, and you worsened his state by giving an experimental lick at the underside of his tip. your hand continued its quick ascend and descend, fingers curled tightly around his length. enough to give him stimulation, but not enough for him to reach another high. “sweetheart, please,” he muttered through the cloth, his legs threatening to close around your own like he couldn’t decide between pushing you away or making you help find his release, “want to, mmph, cum.”
you were ready to give into his request until your radio crackled with life,
“have you found keegan?”
he groaned in annoyance while you huffed. your hand leaving his throbbing cock to answer the question of your teammate, “yes. fourth floor, third room to the left. the ropes are too thick, my knife can’t cut it,” you replied, static reaching both of your ears and keegan’s, “copy that. any injuries sustained?” you glanced at keegan’s form and he returned the gaze with pleading eyes, “he’s got a few. need to take him to the infirmary.” your free hand worked him up, in a hurry. he bit into the cloth to suppress his moans and whines as he felt another climax approaching. your teammate replied,
“on our way.”
you can’t possibly leave him all denied of his sweet release. that would be too cruel of you. then again, the seconds are ticking away, yet the tent in his pants would be too obvious. so help him like the good teammate you are, yeah?
masterlist
#murder recommends#nsfw tw#i uh hopped on the keegan train recently#sshh#god i love pathetic men#teammates to 'lovers' also? chef's kiss. superior keegan? chef's kiss. bound n helpless keegan? CHEF'S KISS!!#keegan russ rec
1K notes
·
View notes
Note
Can i have a prompt #17 with Graves and a tm reader with a lik spice on the side?
Prompt #17 - “Don’t doubt yourself.”
My fics have been a little LAZY recently so this is my attempt at regaining my former glory, I haven’t written for Graves in a hot minute so I had to resurface some feelings lol
Also, I’ve never written mlm before, so if there’s anything that’s particularly off-putting, irritating, inconsiderate, etc, please drop a comment, also I didn’t really mention the fact they’re trans except for one part if you squint, I didn’t know if it was necessary to outright mention it, ALSO the spice is very mild I hope that’s okay :,)
Thank you!
Phillip Graves x tm!Reader - Snowed in
Warnings: description of injury, Gaz possibly being Graves’ gay awakening, internalized homophobia, suggestions of Graves’ racist actions, mild spice, some angst
To be a part of Price’s task force—to be an operator—was to be a team player. No matter what, no matter how genius your idea may be, no matter how good you are at whatever risky bullshit you’re into, you are never on your own until someone says so. This was articulated to Phillip Graves. But there was a reason he ran his own company instead working for one. There was something bold inside him; something demanding and mean. He used it to build Shadow Company, but that didn’t change the fact that his nature was what stranded him by himself in the first place.
You knew from the day you met him that he had walls up that may never come down for the rest of his life. Those traces of insecurity and fear that shot from him in the form of sharp words and trickling bigotry. He was good at ordering. Good at explosives.
Bad at people.
It was warm in the safehouse that the 141, Alejandro, Rudy, Graves, and one of his Shadows were laying low after your ammunition ran thin, and Gaz was grazed badly through the gaps of his vest. You sat at his side while the others gathered themselves, inspecting the wound. Gaz stripped to his bare torso, revealing a sizable chunk missing from just above his hip. The flesh was torn irregularly, and you struggled to find a solution that would avoid infection.
You heard Graves murmur to one of the Shadows,
“Go on.”
He spoke to his men like they were still in training, his tone a smooth blend of authoritative and encouraging. Sometimes you wondered if it was a bad thing that they’d follow his word without a second thought.
The Shadow gently replaced your spot beside him and began working on the wound, his medic badge partially torn from the rock face they had scaled to reach the cabin.
“You look surprised.” Graves’ low voice caught your attention. Your eyes met before he returned his gaze to the Shadow medic, his arms crossed.
“Maybe a little.” You muttered.
“I’m not that cruel, Sergeant.” The smile that he flashed was a dangerous one. His teeth a crystal white, his incisors pointed like a malinois’.
“So you are cruel—a little.” You reply.
“This is war, Sergeant.” He answered evenly, but he could never hide that underlying bite of defensiveness. ‘I’m right, you’re wrong.’
You tilted your head in resignation.
“This is war.”
Graves’ ego was effortless to satiate. He walked away without another smart comment.
“Getting friendly, hermano?”
Alejandro fidgeted with a combat knife where he sat on the tattered couch, his free arm laying on the backrest.
“Not everyone will hate the men that you do.” Rudy chided from beside him.
Your quiet laugh made Alejandro bristle.
“Oye, cuándo dije eso?”
“You’re practically fantasizing with that thing.” Rudy pointed out Alejandro’s knife.
“I..don’t trust him.”
“We know.” You commented. “But he helped Farah, why not Las Almas?”
“Urzikstan does not have a history with America the way Mexico does..” Rudy pointed out. “Graves was born in Texas, he was probably taught all kinds of shit that made him like that.”
It was true; Graves’ file revealed he had never left his hometown until he joined the military. He grew up in the kind of place where the horses and cows outnumbered the people.
“Maybe he’s just the kind of guy that can’t come home from work.”
Your words surprised you.
“What do you get defending him?” Alejandro retorted. “He’s not a good guy.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I think I do.”
As Alejandro stood from his previous position, you heard your name, turning to see Graves leaning in the doorway with one arm on the wooden frame and the other hand having a thumb hooked in his vest. He always stood like that; his hands just had to be grasping something. It made your mouth feel dry.
“One of you, come help me get our truck out of the ditch.” He called.
You heard Alejandro’s scoff and muttering as you crossed the room.
“Thanks.” Graves muttered as he turned to lead you through the snow to the ditch.
“How’d it get in the ditch, exactly?” You spoke, your breath a mist of air in front of your lips.
“Whatever dipshit that was in the driver’s seat left it in neutral.”
“That—might have been me.”
Graves glanced at you, his steps faltering.
“I’m fucking with you.” You murmur.
He just shook his head, that glowing smile flashing again.
You both came upon the trucks, the back two tires settled in the ditch while the front two stayed on the flat ground.
“Who’s pushing?”
“Where I’m from, it’s whoever asks that.” You didn’t miss his grin as he opened the driver’s side door.
“I’m sure you’re not making that up.”
“I’m not..” He laughed a bit through his words, and it made you dizzy. “It’s true..”
“You got a lot of experience doing dumb shit with trucks?”
“You could say that..” Graves’ smile hadn’t dropped. You wanted to keep going, to savor his expression, but your boots carried you behind the truck, and you waited for the wheels to turn before pushing up.
“Don’t let up!”
You heard his shout over the roar of the engine, and tried to steady yourself. But the ice was slick with mud, the soles of your boots providing little traction as you clung to the back bumper.
“Is it moving?” You call to him.
“It’s-"
His words were cut short by a sickening sputter of the engine.
“Get out! Get out of there, the battery’s dead!” His shout was more desperate than you’d ever heard him.
“I can’t-" You muttered helplessly before the weight of the heavy truck pressed you to the frozen mud, the angle of the underside up against the ditch pinning you to the cold earth. The parts that stuck out had raked down your back, cutting into the vulnerable flesh.
You heard him yell your name, your first name. You heard him curse as he dropped down beside where you were trapped.
“Please tell me you’re alive.. come on, talk to me..”
“My legs.. I can’t move my..” You rasped. From the knee down, the crushing metal pinned your legs enough to render you immobile.
“Breathe. You’re gonna be fine, come here.. come on..”
His gloved hand fit into your own securely, and you had to shake off the rush in your head.
When he tried to ease you out, you couldn’t stop the groan of pain that escaped you, devolving into quick, panicked breaths. “I can’t..”
“Easy.. easy.” He had enough room to hold your upper arm steady. “It’s gonna hurt, alright? But you gotta get out from under there..”
You nod, your breath short. “Yeah.. okay..”
“I’ve got you. You hear me?”
“I hear..”
“Alright.”
This time, one his arms worked around your middle, and the warmth blooming in your ribs nearly offset the white-hot tendrils shooting up your legs and back.
Graves pulled slowly, your legs slowly inching free as you gasped and groaned in pain.
“Breathe..” Graves murmured like he was speaking to a small animal, his breath warm on your temple. “Come on.. come on, now..”
Finally, he yanked you free, the both of you partially collapsing in the filthy ditch. You try to stand, but were quickly guided to sit down.
“Hey, don’t be a hero, sit still..” Graves knelt, inspecting your back with a low whistle.
“You didn’t break anything..” You murmured. You couldn’t help but be impressed.
“Told you.. I got you..”
You sit side by side, exhausted from the day, the adrenaline, the pain.
“Thank you.” You murmur.
Graves brought up a knee to rest his elbow on, his other hand waving you off.
“Not an issue, baby.”
When the words left his mouth, any softness in his face hardened into something else. Like he’d made himself angry.
“I-" He looked away.
“What’d you call me?” Your voice was a soft murmur.
“Nothing. I didn’t call you anything, come on..” He straightened to stand.
His expression matched yours now; flushed and confused.
“Graves.”
“I said come on!” He barked, but couldn’t get to his feet before you pulled him to sit back down.
“Sergeant..” His tone was warning. His hand covered yours where you held onto his vest. “That didn’t happen.”
“It did.”
“No.” His words were firm, but his eyes were desperate.
You slid a hand up to his shoulder. “It’s okay..”
“No! I cant-"
“But you want to.” Your eyes bore into his with an unwavering steadiness while your voice quieted to a whisper. “You want to..”
His face conveyed so many emotions, conflicting and fighting one another. He looked at your lips, and exhaled shakily.
“God dammit..”
“I know it’s hard to let go of what other people see you as. It’s okay.”
“You mean cause’ you..”
You nod.
“I—don’t know how.” He managed.
“Don’t doubt yourself like that.”
You were closer now. Close enough for the puffs of your breath to mingle with his.
“No one knows. No one..” He shakes his head, still partially in the headspace that wouldn’t let him feel anything other than bitterness.
“It’s up to you who does.” You murmur.
“Graves?”
Soap’s voice called from a few meters away, sending Graves scrambling to his feet.
“The truck pinned them, they’re hurt. Help me out.” In his fashion, he wasted no time showing his embarrassment, reverting to his wavering authority.
Soap only shook his head, but dropped down beside you. “You alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, he got me out..” You muttered as Soap hauled you to your feet, not missing the way Graves looked away at the mention of his rescuing you.
The rest of the night was tense—your back was ripped up, your legs were sore and tender, but it was ensured that nothing was broken. For the three days left before an exfil helicopter arrived, you spent most of your time with your legs propped on the couch. It felt wrong to take up one of the only spaces to rest, to not be able to follow Graves when he walked outside to scan the surrounding hills. You felt chained in place, your only glimpses of him being his fleeting glances in your direction before he walked away again.
You almost forgot he wasn’t coming back to the base with you. He’d be going back to his own site, onto the next mission, onto the next project. It was supposed to be a short interaction between the 141 and him, but you just had to volunteer to help him move that truck. You just had to press him about it.
The sound of helicopter blades woke you up on the fourth morning, and most everyone else was moving equipment outside. You heard muffled voices.
“Graves, go help him into the heli.” Price’s gruff order sounded from outside.
“You don’t need help movin’ all that?” Graves’ tone was wavering; grasping at any excuse to keep avoiding you. You were starting to get irritated.
“You got a problem with my Sergeant?” Price retorted.
A sigh. “No, sir.”
“Right, then.”
His snow-covered boots tracked in the mud from outside, and you glanced at them before you looked at his face.
“Hey.” He didn’t meet your eyes, offering a hand to help you upright. You didn’t move.
“You’re avoiding me.” You mutter. The frustration crept up your throat.
He sighed, his hand dropping back to his side.
“We don’t have time for this.. we might never see each other again, can you focus on that?” His eyes caught your frustration and reflected it right back in your face.
“You can’t brush this off, Graves.”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do.” He snapped, walking to the door. “You act like you know me because I fucked up back there, but you don’t. This conversation-"
You hauled yourself to your feet, the pain making you wince. You straightened anyway, walking over until you were in his face again.
“What if you didn’t fuck up? You ever think about that?” You muttered.
His chest rose and fell with angry breath.
“Why’re you doin’ this to me?”
His soft tone caught you off guard, and your shoulders that had been tensed relaxed downward again.
“Because you don’t deserve to live like this. No one does.”
Your hand had found its way to his upper arm unintentionally, but he hadn’t pulled away. You weren’t wearing your gloves, the warmth of your palm radiating through his sleeve and thawing the sparse snowflakes that had caught on the fabric.
“How can you be so sure?” His brow was still furrowed with stress, his body somehow lax and tensed all at once.
“I can’t.” you admit. “But I won’t let you walk away without hearing that there is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Who you love is not up to the rest of the world, and that’s one of the few things you still have to yourself. So keep it close.”
His eyes searched your face, your eyes, and finally your lips. His breath quickened.
Your hand drew upward to hold his jaw in your palm. He smelled like warm linen and smoke. One of his hands crept up your back while the other settled on your cheek, all in an impossibly fast motion before he pressed a kiss to your parted lips.
You felt the anxiety and shame melt from him for a moment, your lips working in tandem. Once he had a taste for you, he couldn’t stop. He deepened the kiss with a groan, your own hands hooking into his vest and pressing your bodies together. His hand was just working under your shirt and up your stomach before the door handle turned. With his hand still under your clothes, he shut the door firmly, keeping whoever it was outside. You heard a vague, confused voice, but most of your brain was clouded by his hand moving over your front, up your waist and ribs that were still wrapped in gauze.
You reluctantly pulled your lips from his, breathing heavily.
“Graves..”
“Oi! What the fuck is goin’ on, I’m breaking the door down in three!”
Ghost’s voice caused you to gently move Graves’ hand from under your shirt, pressing one last kiss to his lips before pulling the door open and putting on your best limp. Ghost’s eyes told you he didn’t buy it for a second, but he stayed quiet as Graves trailed after you with flushed cheeks.
You were the last to board the helicopter, turned around by your shoulder before stepping up to see Graves. He seemed almost shaken; but placed his hands around one of yours before setting off back to the safe house. Looking in your hand, you saw the scrawled digits of a phone number on a scrap of a report sheet. You held it the entire flight back.
#murder recommends#OPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!#oh my god lemme kiss you on the forehead#angst my beloved#phillip!!!!#the pacing. the banter. the gaz gay awakening. the proximity. the coaxing. the yearning!!!!#excellent.#phillip graves rec
143 notes
·
View notes