credince--writes

[credince--writes]

mor·tal·i·ty Chapter 2

Masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!OC x John "Soap" MacTavish

Description:

TF141 has been disbanded, and they have returned to civilian life, forming a PMC company focused on logistical consulting of the operations they once preformed. John MacTavish never truly recovered from the accident, and never let Simon back in to pick up the pieces that were left. Camile Ford had never been one to bend the whims of morals, never stepping to close to dance with the fire of her own mortality. But divinity calls her name, and she's never been one to ignore the higher powers calling her name.

She wouldn’t say that she was privileged.

No.

She wouldn't say that she had 'that' much of an ego, no.

A timidness that was deeply ingrained to her soul. The urge to fight back was replaced with a clenched throat and tears moments after she raised her voice. Two months ago Camile sat at her desk when one of her supervisors quietly walked into the room, file in hand. The tightness in her throat didn't alleviate as he made his way to her desk, and laid down a transfer form in front of her. The dread settled in her stomach like a rock, the inevitable on display as if she were being led to the gallows.

“You're going to want to fill this out.” He said bluntly. The stool kicked out from underneath her feet.

Her shaky hands reached towards the paperwork, lifting it up to stare at the blank sheet. “To where?” She asked. A burning sensation filled the back of her throat as the muscles constricted, the heaving feeling of dread settling in her gut as her eyes zipped around the page.

“Not here.” Her body drops, throat catching against the noose. 

And with that, he left.

Leaving her alone.

With her thoughts, and with her failures.

That was two months ago.

A very long.

Dreadful.

Two months.

The transfer brought it’s own bounty of issues. At first it was filling out the paperwork, then the exit interviews. The pinched faces and awkward, sullen goodbyes from maybe four of the people in the office she had a semblance of a relationship with. Echos of her ever present failings, she was an example to be made to them all of what would happen to those who didn’t heed the warnings of keeping their mouths shut. But of course, as all storm do- they passed. The paperwork was processed, her bags were packed, and soon enough she found herself jiggling a key into the door of her new apartment. . Her apartment wasn't anything super nice- but to many who had never touched the cusp of luxury in their lives, the clean, well-maintained apartment she currently lived in was not something obtainable for so many people in The City.

The City was a very dark, damp, and sad place. The sun rarely made its appearance in the town, but one of the consistent trends other than not being able to find parking- was the constant crime. It lurks everywhere, in every corner. It seeped into the soul of every creature that lived there. It had been made very clear to Camile that this was a world of eat or be eaten.

Camile had been kindly forced to relocate from her last position. She hadn't been explicitly told  why, and the real reason why- not like she didn’t know b why they would send her off- kick her to the curb like a puppy they didn’t want anymore even though she did the right thing. So they gave her just enough leash to hang herself with, let her choose a new location to try and ‘start fresh’ in. The hollow promise from a woman in HR to ‘make sure to list our number as a reference for your new applications!’.

But they knew better.

And she knew they knew it as well.

She was fucked.

--

It was a tense, cold meeting room. She was surrounded by faces, and all of them were staring at her expectantly- eyes narrowed and jaws tightened. “Camile. You have been in this position for what, eight months? What makes you think that these ‘findings’ have any backbone against a senior employee?” She stared up at the man. Lips curling down into a frown. “Sir, I didn’t mean any-” fear, the iron grip around her throat stopping the words leaving her mouth. Choking the defense from ever leaving her lungs.

“That's right, they don’t have any findings.” The man stood up, turning his back and beginning to walk out of the room. Even walking away, back turned in retreat, his presence dominated the room. Suffocating and stamping out any question of resistance. “I refuse to work with a firm that can’t even have management with an ounce of confidence.” His voice rose, and suddenly Camile leaned back into her seat, fleeing, eyes widening. She felt like a deer in the headlights, she felt like she left her own body. Floating above the spectacle before her, seeing herself shrink back at a meer raised voice.

She should be standing up.

This is wrong.

She can’t let this go.

She needs to speak up.

“...I-”

“You what, Camile? You try to derail a committee member’s good standing for what, personal gain? You have no business going through financial documents from this long ago!” His voice boomed. And her brain went silent- fear.

Her mouth zipped shut.

She did have a right.

She had every right in the fucking world.

The dread felt like a heavy stone resting in the back of her throat, unable to swallow, unable to let it go. She had every right in the world. A glimmer of retaliation, the fear of the venomous stares around her, the thick dreadful cold air of the room.

What else did she have to lose? She had already lost.

“What are you hiding?” Camile asked. Her voice came out light, not as affirmative as she would’ve originally hoped for.

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.” He replied, lips curling back in a snarl. Posturing forward and popping his knee out before pointing his finger to her center mass and laughing.

“We aren’t getting anywhere, I’m late for my next appointment, this meeting is adjourned.” The man at the front of the table said. Standing up and quickly made his way to the door. Pushing the two glass doors open and briskly walking away.

Slowly all of her colleagues stood and walked out of the conference room, leaving her to sit all alone, and think of the consequences she brought upon herself.

Later that day, she was reprimanded by every senior advisor within her division, and not long later, her supervisor had come in with the transfer papers.

A subtle way of saying:

“We don’t want you anymore”

But why?

Why no more?

What had they been hiding that was so important to end a meeting quickly?

The others had seen the statements.

They saw the numbers.

The fraud was in plain sight.

Malicious negligence?

Stupidity?

Was she just out of the loop?

Was she the scapegoat?

She didn’t know, but she felt a horrible bitter taste coat the back of her throat. Bile that dripped much further than into the pit of her stomach.

--

Camile quickly ushered herself out of the office that used to be her own, instead of going to the parking garage she found her way out onto the street, stomping down three blocks to the nearest corner store.

The homeless man sat in a corner of a locked doorway- possibly a door used to enter into a storage area for a shop. Rocking himself back and forth as he muttered the essence of sanity, the remnants of his consciousness conversing with itself as his body struggled to keep blood pumping through his veins, pushing and pulling oxygen into his lungs.

She noticed he’d moved on from his park bench. Maybe it was an upgrade in his eyes. She stepped into the shop, her hands felt clammy. She felt sick.

Maybe she was going to throw up?

Why did this happen?

Why couldn’t she defend herself?

What had led to this breakdown of her confidence?

She walked over to the display of 99-cent shot bottles. A sad little spectacle, almost like a three-tiered cake. A wide bottom, the whole display holding hundreds of little bottles of alcohol. Colorful labels with clear and colored liquid inside of them, yellow paper with a cartoon raspberry on the front, cotton candy displayed like a fresh treat given to a well-behaved child at the fair.

She glanced side to side as if surveying the other patrons of a liquor store could compare as a judge of moral character at three in the afternoon, cautiously grabbed one, and made her way over to the counter, pushing them under the hole for the cashier to scan them.

“Rough day?” The man asked.

Camile didn’t exactly know how to respond, her eyes focused on the man's aged hands picking the individual bottle and scanning it.

“You could say something like that.” She placed a five down on the counter, grabbed the shot bottle, and walked off without getting her change.

The City was notorious for being one of the worst places to be sent for work. And while it was one of the worst places to be sent for work, it was also one of the places that had the prettiest penny in the world of monetary compensation. That was of course if you didn't mind coming home for your yearly vacation in a body bag.

A decently sized financial firm, funding projects and working in the background to make anything from condo developments to the hostile takeover of a company due to a petty dispute. That was the nasty realm Camile fought in every day, the biggest issue was the “lack of confidence” as her last supervisor put it. Tina was her name.

Tina was one of the meanest women Camile had ever met, but maybe that is what made her so successful.

A lack of empathy.

A lack of respect.

A lack of morals.

“You have to grab the room by the balls, Camile.” Tina explained. “You think you can just sway your ass into a room and expect to gain their respect? These men are dogs. They have the mental capacity of dogs, that's why they are so easy to control. They keep an eye on a bone, but become so clouded in their own ego and thinking with their dick. That's why they put women in charge, Camile. Get your shit together and learn how to step up, or you will be stepped on.” Tina finished. “Now leave.”

Nevertheless,

Camile settled into her apartment fairly well, as well as you could in this city.

At least that's what she summed it up to. The constant noise from the streets, never calming and never stopping no matter the hour. She knew not to venture out in the dark, not to wear fancy jewelry, not even carry a purse if you don’t need to- hell, don't walk on the street for that matter.

She never knew the sheer size of the rats that would scamper across the sidewalks during the day- and more so during the night. It seemed like no matter how nice the area there was a constant plague of scum on the street and rats scampering to the nearest shadow.

She had a gentle nature- not timid. Maybe that’s what she’d argue. But she didn’t know who the reflection was looking back in the mirror. Who she was, and what the fucker her purpose was here. 

The concept of brash did not come easy to her. She was always taught to be kind to everyone, kindness is what got her to the position she was in now- in her defense. Her empathy was her strength, as one put it. Her ability to show she cared is what got her into her new position, ‘heartfelt’ deals.

But at the same time, it is what ended her up in this city. The difference was the heartfelt actions of one could be replicated and faked by another, not that the client would ever be able to tell. The eagerness to do what is right- to be good and do good for the people around you. Maybe the higher-ups had assumed that it would’ve been a good mix.

Maybe she was sent to smooth out the edges that her new boss- mister Malory would have. Maybe this, maybe that, or maybe Tina simply sent her here to shut her up. Be buried with paperwork and never speak up again.

Maybe it was an opportunity.

Maybe Tina was throwing her one last bone out of pity. Stupid, stupid girl thinking that doing the right thing would actually lead to some kind of benefit.

Malory was an interesting man. If there was one thing that could be said about him, it would be that he really, really didn’t like his wife.

Half of the time.

Within the first week and a half of knowing the man and the sheer amount of hatred and extravagant displays of affection made her head spin. Camile could compare it to a bipolar relationship.

That, and Malory went through a lot of interns.

“If you keep an intern around for a long time, they end up knowing a lot more about you than they need to know. That's when you know you have to cut them loose.” He said once.

He was also tired of this job.

Very.

Very tired of this job.

She would come into work, and be greeted with a big pile of paperwork on her desk. She would do the best she could getting through it, doing a lot of the paperwork and phone calls that Malory simply didn’t have time to do and was too sensitive to allow his secretary or his intern to do. Every once and a while it was going to sit in at a meeting for him and take notes.

When Camile moved to The City she swore to herself she was going to keep her head low, and not speak up. She didn’t want it to turn out like the last time she got brave and stupid.

She couldn’t get comfortable in this position, she simply wouldn’t allow herself to do it.

But with the workload came a new load of stress.

She became very familiar with a local liquor store, even though she was afraid at first of being looked down upon, the clerk at the shop ended up being one of the only people she regularly spoke to. Bottles here, bottles there, Camile quickly found herself falling into a habit.

Of course, her father warned her, many years ago about ‘the habit’ running in her blood.

Don’t touch a drop, it just opens the flood gates.

Whatever that meant.

She had everything under control, this was simply because her work was stressful.

The concept of hardening her exterior was something nearly anyone who had gotten close to her recommended. He was fragile, kind, frail.

It was a surprise she had even made it this far.

Her new position in The City had turned into a glorified assistant position working for the lead man of The City’s branch, a man only ever referred to as Mister Malory in Camile’s vocabulary. She would handle a lot of the administrative work that wouldn’t be left to an intern in good conscience.

She always found herself busy with paperwork, realizing the monotony of her life and what her position had turned into.

She supposed it was for the best.

She wasn’t cut out for the big leagues. Her doe eyed optimism proved that.

She sighed, sitting back in her chair and looking at the paperwork in front of her. Stacks of time-sensitive work she would be staying late to finish, a thankless job, she mused with herself. She couldn’t compare herself to a police officer, or a firefighter, but still, in its own sense, she was working her own little thankless job. And with the thanklessness, came the stress, and coping mechanisms.

She had deadlines to reach, and she couldn’t reach them if she was having a panic attack over making a phone call to a man who regularly yells at the secretary. But it was consistent. Stable. She’d been here months now, and she was dealing and coping just fine. Time moves as quickly as the pen against paper- her fingers typing rapidly against her keyboard.

So, after believing that her life was going to be sentenced to glorified secretary work, she was surprised when Malory called her into her office.

“We need to talk.” The man said, sitting at his desk and staring out the window.

“Yes, Sir?” Camile asked.

“Sit down, please.” He said. “Camile I’m getting old if you haven't noticed. There are already rumors about my replacement coming soon, taking over my position- whoever it is will be placed into an interim role while they train and learn all the…. insider information about what I do during the day.” He explains, using his hands every so often to accentuate his speaking.

“Oh… Alright. So you’ll finally be reaching retirement?” She mused. “I congratulate you, but I don’t understand why it’s necessary I know this.” Excitement began to bubble up inside of her. She knew why he’d open up this can of worms, start leading her into it softly. He knows about her hard work, the extra hours. The toiling to make sure that everything was just right- her hard work was paying off. She’d been his right hand- helping him with everything from complicated deals to making sure his wife didn’t stab him during fancy dinners.

She was being acknowledged.

He let out a soft chuckle. “I want you to learn more of the ropes before my replacement comes so that you can make the transition easier. You’ll essentially be whoever my replacement is- whomever they chose to be’s right hand- an assistant of sorts.”

“Oh.” Camile let out. Icarus flying to close to the sun- the wax melting and burning against his flesh as he fell too quickly towards the earth. The letdown of knowing the reality of the situation.

Malory smirked a bit. “I know it isn’t the best news possible. But I suppose I am ready to retire. I’m sure my wife would enjoy it. I’m going to be assigning you an intern to take over the majority load of the paperwork so you can begin to learn the ropes as fast as possible. From what I heard the replacement will be making an appearance at the end of the quarter.”

“Who is gonna be my intern?” Camile asked.

“I don’t really care, just go out there and choose one and if anyone complains tell them to talk to me about it.” Malory muses.

“Mister Malory?” Camile asks.

“Hm.”

“Why me?”

“Why you what?”

“Why have me in the assistant position?” Why waste my potential? You know how hard I have worked for you. You know just how much I wanted this- you know. You have too. 

Malory chuckled. “When I first started out in my career and really began to get traction, I learned a very important tidbit of information.”

“What was it?”

“Never train your downfall. No offense dear, but you don’t exactly scream the type to be gunning for someone’s position. It makes you perfect for this transition. Someone quiet and willing to do the work assigned without the gusto to steal the rug from under them- if that makes much sense. It’s a compliment under all of those layers.”

Camile frowned and stood up. “Alright then…” She turned, pushing her chair back into the correct position. “Let me know the next time you’ll need me.” She calls out to him, back turned, walking towards the door as fast as she could.

As soon as she broke out of Malory’s office she gunned it straight for her own, closing the door harshly behind her (not slamming though, that was too loud and confrontational). Crumpling down into her chair, she placed her head in her hands.

Meek little mouse.

They found the best position possible for her, how great!

Being the resident doormat, everyone knows she won’t be able to do anything-

She has no gusto!

She lifted her head, picking up her pen.

The sooner she got this paperwork done, the sooner she could get home.

Scrambling through the papers, slapping miscellaneous bright colored note tabs on papers that needed to be reviewed before grabbing her bag and storming out of her office. Vision tunneling forward and a ringing in her ears so loud she didn’t hear the slam of her office door behind her by the time her fingers pressed against the lobby button in the elevator.

The Liquor store was in a very convenient location- even though the sun had begun to set behind the buildings and the darkness crept out of the shadows and onto the street Camile pressed forward. Adrenaline, some combination of sadness, anger, and a shortfall of greed leaving a burning in her lungs.

Her hand was grasping the metal bar laden handle to the liquor store before she realized where she’d gone.

The park was well lit enough. It has lights, and there were normally enough people for it to not be dangerous, she’d argue. This wasn’t truly a stupid action- she could scream- and someone- hopefully- would hear her. A handfull of little bottles shoved into a tiny black plastic bag with an awful bright yellow smiley face painted onto the front.

She hated that smile with a passion, looking back at her and mocking the weakness she allowed down her throat.

Her hands were still trembling- grasping around the small, thin neck of one of the little plastic bottles. Yellow- it either meant it’d be mango or pineapple. God forbid bananas, then she’d start puking in the park's bushes like an actual drunk.

“Care to share? Looks like there’s more than a’ single goodie in that bag.” A voice to her left, startling her near out of her skin.

The homeless man from the doorway- sitting on his park bench. A fixture of the park- a specter that wandered day and night and always ended back here. Her hand clenched around the bag without thinking- habitually guarding the resource her subconscious was scared to be taken away. No, not her purse. Not her keys, wallet, earrings. The little plastic bag clutched in her clammy hand.

She remembers, back in her old city befriending the local homeless. A twenty every few days ensured her car was never broken into- even if every car around hers lost a window. Never scathed.

Find allies in unexpected places. They were people too- as much as she averted her gaze walking past them on the street.

“Well? Ya gonna share?” His voice was gruff- snapping her out of her thoughts as she realized she’d been staring for too long. An accent she couldn’t place, a dirty, begrudged man curled up on the park bench in dirty clothes.

She nods, unsure of what to say or even do. Stepping forward and sitting as far away from the man on the park bench. Side pushed up against the cold metal arm and pushed the bag out into the center. Neutral ground, safe.

The man stares at the bag for a moment, quirking a brow at her and then down to the little plastic bag. “You’re normally a onsie twosie gal. Not a whole bag.”

The cap twisted off, sat in her lap and the bottle to her lips. Artificially sweet burn numbing the pounding beat of her heart. Coughing a little, she screws the cap back onto the bottle and stares at a leaf on the ground as if it were growing legs and walking away. The most interesting thing in the world. “Didn’t know you’d know my daily order.”

“Well, we see eachother every day.” he replied, inspecting the different colorful fruit on the labels of the plastic bottle. “You learn a thing or two about people you see every day.” He tsks to himself, before picking up a bottle with a purple cap- grape.

“You’re missing your blanket.” Camile idly comments.

“A bum stole it.” He replies casually, downing the bottle and throwing it backwards into the bush behind him. He glances at her, already downing a second bottle- green. Sour apple.

“No honor among bums.” She grimaces at the taste of the alcohol, screwing the cap back onto the bottle and setting it down in her lap.

The man laughs, the sound warm like syrup- rough around the edges in a way she almost leans in to hear more. “Ya’ think i’m a bum?”

“You sleep in a doorway.” She points out.

“By choice.” He replies. “I’m… On a shojurn.” He’s grabbing his fourth bottle.

“What the fuck is a shojurn?” She’s screwing the lid on her third.

“It’s a temporary state. I just need to lay low for a while.” he explains, waving his hands in the air as he speaks like it’s the most normal statement in the world.

“As a bum.” She points out.

“As a bum.” He agrees.

“Well, as much as this was fun.” Camile stands, depositing the empty bottles into a trash can right next to the homeless man’s side of the bench. “I must return to work before I, as well, become a bum.”

He laughs again- the warm sound gracing her ears and for a moment if she closed her eyes. She could forget- forget why she was sitting on a park bench with a bum and drinking awful flavored liquor. “Well, then- who do I owe this gift too? We see each other every day, yet I don’t know your name.”

She contemplates, for a moment. If he was going to mug her, he’d have done it already. He seemed safe. “Camile.”

He grins, “Call me Johnny, Ms. Camile.”

She laughs, turning and walking away. Inevitably back to the office, the buzz of alcohol in her veins.

Her hand no longer trembles.

#Mortality #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon riley x john mactavish x reader #Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader x John “Soap” Mactavish #call of duty

[credince--writes]

[credince--writes]

People used to comment on web comics.

People used to comment on fanfiction.

People used to comment on fanart.

People used to comment on OCs.

I hate "content" culture.

I hate "consuming content" and scrolling immediately to the next thing.

People used to be excited about the art that other people created.

People used to want to share that excitement with creators.

I hate this future.

[credince--writes]

mor·tal·i·ty Chapter 1

Masterlist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!OC x John "Soap" MacTavish

Description:

TF141 has been disbanded, and they have returned to civilian life, forming a PMC company focused on logistical consulting of the operations they once preformed. John MacTavish never truly recovered from the accident, and never let Simon back in to pick up the pieces that were left. Camile Ford had never been one to bend the whims of morals, never stepping to close to dance with the fire of her own mortality. But divinity calls her name, and she's never been one to ignore the higher powers calling her name.

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Johnny never really recovered from that last mission. Enough was evident by the time they’d been dispersed back to their homes, respectively. Two weeks of no contact had been enough to warrant Simon breaking into his flat with a credit card and the meat of his shoulder- opening the door to a studio flat that smelled like old beer and piss.

He dosen’t remember what happened, exactly. But he does know it was enough for Simon to force him into the back of his car, stuff a duffel bag full of his dirty laundry scattered around the floor. One framed photo that’d long since been knocked off the wall in a fit of rage, shattered on the floor. He can only imagine the infuriating look of pity and disgust displayed on Simon’s face as he entered the room, finding him rotting on a mattress Johnny hadn’t dared to even put a fitted sheet on. He was a bad dog. He didn’t deserve the comfort of civilian life. He needed to be muzzled, and locked in a kennel.

He needed to be left to rot, to pick the flesh off of his bones and weep.

Beg for forgiveness.

They had all left the service, after that last mission. It hadn’t been all at the same time- but it had been staggered closely enough that he wasn’t able to hide from the faces of his previous teammates nearly long enough. Truly hadn’t even scratched the surface of his grief before he was being wrestled out of bed, kicking, screaming, biting and snarling trying to solicit any reaction from his lieutenant. He wanted to be met with retaliation, anger, spite. He wanted to be punished. He wanted to have the pain he craved inflicted upon him.

He was met with love.

He despised it.

Every time he fought back, every time he bared his teeth trying to lash out with any kind of hurt he could think  to warrant a reaction- he was met with nothing but softened brown eyes and a tone of forgiveness. I know how hard this is for you Johnny, and I won’t let you go through this alone. I love you.

Seven months into their broken, codependent and avoidant, hate and love, thing. Simon’s phone rang while Johnny sat at the island of their shared apartment, staring intently at the cup of steaming liquid in front of him. The side glance Simon had given him as he stepped out of the room panged someone deep at his pride- the adults were talking, obviously Simon couldn’t risk him being within earshot. Laswell calling in a favor, exchanging into something more of an opportunity to fill a needed void- one they had probably contributed too.

He’d found out, not much later that Laswell had set Price up in a fancy little office. Fit the big ol’ mustache into a suit, shined shoes and combed hair to create some type of consulting security company out of the states. What that really meant was- a front for a deep rooted PMC system that trained, or consulted to whatever Laswells file dictated. Much more separated from the boots in the sand, blood dripping down skin approach Simon had been used to in the past- however he’d found solace in the pen against paper. Fingers tapping against keys, assistants, meetings, some type of purpose in life that hadn’t directly come from the value of him, personally, at least, dragging a knife through the cartilage and arteries of his victims throat.

It was at this point Johnny had simply swayed between not caring about anything- and violent bouts for independence from the smothering weight of it’s ok, and i’ll love you regardless of the words you don’t mean.

He very much means them, and he puts every ounce of willpower into throwing as much bile against the man. Somewhere between realizing that he truly had let himself go- and Simon’s surprising ability to overpower him just by grabbing him by the back of the neck and pinning him to any surface to get him to stop from his own self destructive tendencies, did he realize how he could hurt the man- and make it stick.

And he left.

A note, scratched out onto paper.

You can’t love what never loved you back.

#Mortality #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon riley x john mactavish x reader #Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader x John “Soap” Mactavish #call of duty

[credince--writes]

mor·tal·i·ty Masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!OC x John "Soap" Mactavish

Totally meant to be read as an x reader.

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Description:

TF141 has been disbanded, and they have returned to civilian life, forming a PMC company focused on logistical consulting of the operations they once preformed. John MacTavish never truly recovered from the accident, and never let Simon back in to pick up the pieces that were left. Camile Ford had never been one to bend the whims of morals, never stepping to close to dance with the fire of her own mortality. But divinity calls her name, and she's never been one to ignore the higher powers calling her name.

Chapters:

~1

#Mortality #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon riley x john mactavish x reader #Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader x John “Soap” Mactavish #call of duty

[credince--writes]

hyperfixation go brrrrr

#simon riley x reader x john mactavish

[credince--writes]

Deep In Those Woods- Chapter 7

Keegan P. Russ x Fem!Reader

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6- Chapter 7

AO3

You find a strange man in the woods, no doubt running from the federation. He seems, well, in simple terms beat to shit. May your act of kindness not go unpunished.

A/N: Womp Womp Taglist:

@dindjarinsmeshla @tessxq @ladyvlolypop @tiny-kasper

@biggiecheeselover @konigsleftkidney @mykneeshurt @katsufairies @noname0756 @brain-has-left @vinithechocolatevampire

The sun was hot on his face, glaring down and heating the sand crusted onto the exposed skin of his face. The sky was clear- no moisture- not a cloud in sight.

Keegan was in the desert.

He was in his own personal hell.

Sandviper.

His eyes glanced down to his hands, filthy in dark red tones and crusted over too many times to count with layers of filth and flesh, blood, and dirt. Driven so deep into the crevices of his flesh that he wasn’t sure where the filth ended and his skin started.

There’s a dull blade grasped in his hand.

A man leaps from over a pile of sand- knife drawn throwing his body forward ready to fight to the death. Keegan bares his teeth like a rabid dog. Because that is all he is. A wild animal, ready to bite and tear flesh, feels the splatter of blood against his skin. The dust crusted onto his disgusting form and built upon it like a trophy.

The warmth of the blood soothed his chilled skin in the cold desert nights, and cooled his skin in the hot daylight sun. The blood tacking up, soiling the dusty sand under him. Ponds of blood against the dirty yellow sand.

He’s grinning, knife dug into the neck of the man below him. Twisting his knife until the viscera of blood pops in a horrible, twisting, snapping, and schlepping of tendons veins and gore. Flicking the dulled blade as he’d done what? At least seven times that night, he looks up to see the sky has turned dark. The full moon illuminating the hellscape he’d metamorphosed from.

Your corpse, torn open with brute force and dull metal, staring up at him with tears running down dirty cheeks. 

Eyes unfocused up at him, cloudly, dead.

And God, do they look beautiful shimmering in the moonlight. The warmth pooling from your neck warming this tips of his fingers- reaching in to cup the wound. Hold it in-

Please-

He’s sitting on the couch next to the window, dozing as the afternoon sun radiates against his face.Jolting forward and wheezing, lungs screaming and heart rate pounding in his ears. He glances down, to assess his hands and frowns at the dark smudges of dirt against his knuckles. Mentally chastising himself as he closed his fist and squeezed, nails pushing in against his palm in a near-satisfying twinge of pain. Keegan was angry at himself in a way he had trouble defending. Here he lay, on a couch in some woman’s home after getting injured. Stranded without contacting his team- he was sure that Logan would be worried sick over the lack of his check-ins.

And here he was sunning himself, content and full, like some kind of civilian. He’s not. As much as he could play- he is just a rabid dog, looking for its next hunk of flesh to tear into. Your eyes, dull, unfocused.

He needed to leave.

He needed to get his radio working- or at least get back into contact with base to let the other Ghosts know he was alive. Lurching forward, forearms against his thighs he leans as far as he can until the creak in his ribs almost forces a whine from his lips. As subtle as he can, leaning back and resting his head against the cushion.

He needed to get out.

The more he thought of hiking his ass out and away, he found his eyes trailing over to the window.

Then trailing over to you.

He frowned, forcing himself to stand before rubbing his fingers against his temples.

He needed to leave.

He was a soldier.

He had a mission.

This was no time for weakness.

And that's how you found him. Standing in the center of the room fully kitted back up- vest pulled back over his bruised chest, his pants with freshly mended holes from the wear and tear they took out in the woods. The same clothes you’d found him in and peeled off of his cold body- mended together, washed, and hung out on the line.

It almost felt like an insult, staring back at him dressed in his gear. You’d mended him back together, and he would just…

Leave?

“Where is my mask?”  

His voice was cold.

Detached.

So far from the soft and meek mumbles in his sleep, the breathy moans of pain as you lifted his back off of the floor and sat him up as you fed him.

“I’m leaving.” Your brother spoke, detached and cold as he turned on his heel and left.

“You can’t!” You yelled, hand gripped onto the doorframe as he picked up his bag and a jerrycan of fuel. The tips of your fingers screaming against the pressure on the wood, joints creaking. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I can’t just sit here and hide anymore!” Your brother lashed out, screaming- the rasp in his throat as the words cracked like thunder against the quiet of the field.

The chickens startled.

“Then let me come with you-” You begged.

You pleaded.

You wept. “I won’t risk it.” He bit back. “You’ll be a liability.” Was he right?

Were you a liability?

Could you face the consequences of your existence? Of your choices?

“I-..” You paused, hand releasing from the doorframe and dropping to your side.

“I’ll be back soon. I just- I have to see. The fires, they mean something.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

And he left.

Without looking back.

He needed to compartmentalize. Put this fucking cabin in a little box, and lock it up and stick it somewhere it’ll never be opened up again. There was an ache in his ribs that wasn’t from the injury- a tightness in his throat as he pulled on the armor, his second skin.

His armor.

His hand reached up, not yet donning his gloves, and rubbed the side of his face. Feeling the stubble long since grown out, feeling wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be there- that long. At least it shouldn’t be- he shouldn’t be in this situation.

He took a deep breath.

It would be fine. He needed to get out of this damned cabin- he needed to get his gloves on, mask on, toss his gear over his shoulder even if he body screamed against it. He needed to get out and get a radio and get out of here-

His mask-

His mask?

Where is his mask?

He rummaged- looking as quietly and efficiently as possible for the damned thing while you weren’t paying attention. Stalking room to room with silent footsteps and sharp eyes. Hand hovering over the knob to your bedroom, staring.

Debating.

He’d- 

Well.

Maybe?

No.

He’d rather rip his arm off than be caught dead rummaging through your bedroom- Rather poke out his eyes than cross a boundary like that, even if there was the possibility of you stowing it away in there. 

He’d just have to ask-

“Where’s my mask?” He’d slipped into this before- the body of a soldier. Maybe he never really left it- he was what he was after all. 

A Ghost.

Ghosts can’t change, they are what they are. The remnant of what someone once was,

Is,

Could’ve been.

But deep down, the tone of his voice surprised him- the change- it ripped away any warmth that he’d clung too. Anything he’d foolishly accepted thinking that it could become the norm.

He didn’t deserve it anyways.

“You’re leaving.” Your voice was quiet. Small.

Small like you.

Fragile.

Frail.

Small.

He simply nodded, silent.

You shrunk back, stepping to the side and striding across the building. Tearing open the door to your room- the sound of something clattering against the floor. And in a flurry- you rushing out and throwing the piece of fabric at him. The threads spreads across his fingertips, tilting the mask to the side- where the paint was starting to fade, where a rock had torn through the fabric and stabbed into his skin.

Fresh stitches mending the fabric together. 

"I just..." You trailed off.

"Want to make sure he's ok?" Keegan finished.

"Yea." You nodded. "Or at least have some closure. Sometimes just knowing- as much as it'd hurt. To know he is dead, would be better than to wait- to expect."

"I'll help you." His voice was soft- quiet. As if his words came out just above a whisper.

"Why?" You questioned.

Keegan stared, mouth opening and trying to speak but nothing coming out- his mind rushing a million miles a minute.

"Because you owe me?" You teased.

He releases a breath. "Yea, Princess. Because I owe you."

“Yes.” He breathes out- shattering the semblance of control he had on his firm, cold tone.

Your eyes are like fury- hatred, malice. Pain. “You promised.” You say it with such a conviction he nearly flinches back. Blinking once, twice- anger and bile rising back up in his throat.

Could you not see he was saving you? Blessing you? Fulfilling your stupid little promise? “I never said you’d come with me.” He replied.

He was saving you from him.

He can see the glassy haze on your eyes, putrid, vile, hatred.

The glint of your cloudy eyes against the moonlight. Gritty sand trapped in your eyelashes.

He pulls the mask over his face, and leaves without looking back.

#call of duty #deep in those woods #Keegan russ #Keegan p. Russ #keegan p. russ x reader #keegan russ x reader

[credince--writes]

owo

[credince--writes]

writing the next deep in those woods chapter rn, and the only way it's going to come out is if it is so ungodly inaccurate for military practice. So sorry pookies, this bitch is riding purely on vibes. it's basically sims castaways radio logic LMAO

[credince--writes]

Floss

Sometimes I brush my teeth to hard, and I dig it into my gums. Scrub until I feel like I am clean.

Because I am obligated to say that I love you, and it makes me feel like I am dirty.

My dentist tells me that I need to floss.

And I do.

I save it for when I want to taste blood,

and I take cathartic pleasure from the pain of blood on my gums not caused by you, but in spite of it.

So I wait until the house is asleep, and I relish in a time that the walls were not quiet. As if I crave the violence I once thrived in.

Because now the only piece of home I have to remember you by is to force myself to bleed.

#I'm being edgy and I've never written poetry so here's a shitty attempt at bringing back some creativity to my life #just flossed #I have beef with my dentist #poetry #poetry? but like cringe #self expression something something healing #this is so cringe #but it kinda felt good to write #I'm searching for the high of words that make my chest tight again

[credince--writes]

Do i have any jason todd stans still on my tl? i wanna boot morality back up and write some fucked up kinky shit but idk if i should change it's fandom LMAO

#cod mwii #The brainworms are demanding it #That means i wanna write about simon riley #Jason Todd X reader #Jason Todd #batman fanfic #simon riley x reader

[credince--writes]

Johnny and reader with a voice kink?

Welcome to a total ramble about phone sex.

obviously, smut below the cut.

I think that Johnny would call you desperate and needy, rubbing his cock over his pants in hopes of some of that delicious friction.

He loves your voice as much as you love his.

But you always know when he calls you, it's that huskiness in his voice, almost raspy, sometimes maybe even a little whiney.

It reminds you of how deep and rumbly his voice gets in the morning, when the sleep still settles on his vocal cords and the deep purr of his voice as he pulls you closer for five more minutes in bed leads to a morning of debauchery.

"Talk to me", breathy, needy, maybe even a little bitchy sometimes if he's flustered or in a rush.

And you'd indulge, holding the phone up to your ear as you went about your day as if there was nothing really important happening on the phone.

The tone of disinterest just makes his cock jump in excitement.

It makes him want to work that much harder on his cock

you only pay attention, give him praise after he's cum.

and that's like an orgasm all over again listening to you, applauding him on being a good boy and doing what he's supposed to

a good little soldier.

Oh, he liked that one.

His voice quakes, maybe even, if you could see him, his lip would quiver right before you hear the gasp of air leaving his body as it tightens with the force of his orgasm

of course, you can't deny that by the time you sit back in your chair, setting the phone down to return to your task when you shift from side to side there is an undeniable wetness in your pants.

#john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #cod wwii

[credince--writes]

THIS!!!! THIS A MILLION TIMES!!!!

Bashing creators who pose Simon 'Ghost' Riley as toxic & abusive because your little pookie bear has gone thru so much trauma he'd never be mean like that ):( need to take a step back.

We all interpret characters in our own way, and trauma doesn't just make someone go 'yea I never want to be bad like my daddy was!' And then just like, be perfect.

Trauma festers. It is a rot that is seeded and lays dormant for years that you may not know you have. The beautiful thing about these 'horribly written' fics of Ghost being cruel, is that they are realistic. At least in my opinion.

The abused becomes the abuser, and I love to explore that concept. As much as you run away from what you've known and experienced, the trauma rooted in you can sprout up and taint your current perceptions.

The sheer tragedy of this character's backstory gives SO much room to play with. To even lay out your own traumas which is the beautiful part of being a creator and expressing yourself through writing.

To say that someone experiences such catastrophic events and would be able to have a perfectly healthy relationship afterwards is slim to none- and that's realistic. To say that in the ultimate universe of possibilities and outcomes that this theoretical, horrible, disgusting scenario wouldn't happen puts this wide open character into a little box. And you can interpret that as you like-

But that's what's so great about writing.

You get to make the story your own.

[credince--writes]

Hi! Could you tag your recent post about ghost and abuse with the appropriate trigger warnings? Just so anyone filtering those doesn't have to see.

Honest to God I do not know if this is satire or not

[credince--writes]

Also while I'm on a roll,

C.AI 'fics' are not fan fictions.

& you can't change my mindddddd ✨

#ai generated fanfics are weird #why are you talking to a robot about getting dicked down by this dude

[credince--writes]

Bashing creators who pose Simon 'Ghost' Riley as toxic & abusive because your little pookie bear has gone thru so much trauma he'd never be mean like that ):( need to take a step back.

We all interpret characters in our own way, and trauma doesn't just make someone go 'yea I never want to be bad like my daddy was!' And then just like, be perfect.

Trauma festers. It is a rot that is seeded and lays dormant for years that you may not know you have. The beautiful thing about these 'horribly written' fics of Ghost being cruel, is that they are realistic. At least in my opinion.

The abused becomes the abuser, and I love to explore that concept. As much as you run away from what you've known and experienced, the trauma rooted in you can sprout up and taint your current perceptions.

The sheer tragedy of this character's backstory gives SO much room to play with. To even lay out your own traumas which is the beautiful part of being a creator and expressing yourself through writing.

To say that someone experiences such catastrophic events and would be able to have a perfectly healthy relationship afterwards is slim to none- and that's realistic. To say that in the ultimate universe of possibilities and outcomes that this theoretical, horrible, disgusting scenario wouldn't happen puts this wide open character into a little box. And you can interpret that as you like-

But that's what's so great about writing.

You get to make the story your own.

#cod mwii #Simon Riley #simon riley x oc #simon riley x john mactavish #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x gary roach sanderson #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #is that enough tags?

[credince--writes]

"You're glorifying a fictional murderer!" NO I'M NOT!!!!!!I'm sexualizing him.