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luveternals · 5 months

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paring: 2. jonh 'soap' mactavish x male reader rating: idk. but you better read the content warning below. please, thank you. MDNI cw: explicit language, implied sexual content, possessive reader, pillow princess soap and reader does mind at all, they're having a sexy afternoon guys, that's the plot. a/n: not my style, I know. but you know, experimenting is what me does. btw it's short asf also, to the anon who sent me my first ask (hooray!). I hope you don't mind if I tweak your request a little. I don't do reactions and that sort of thing, so Imma need some kind of plot for it. ~ ~ ~

“Aren’t you so sweet,” you say and lean down to press a reverent kiss against the corner of his lips.

His smile is soft, his cheeks dusted pink as he looks up at you through his lashes. You know you’re the one and only who’s ever seen this side of him and you could never be more honored. It’s a startling contrast to the ever-present mischievous grin plastered on his face outside the privacy of your little bubble.

He brushes his fingertips up along your spine and circles one arm around your neck to pull you closer, his other hand comes up to tickle two fingers under your chin. “And ain’t ya so cheesy, Bonnie,” he says with a playful purrs, tilting your head and slotting your lips together into a gentle kiss.

You’re laying down on the sofa of your flat with the white noise of a movie playing in the background. The light from the fireplace tints the room with a warm glow and you bask in the cozy atmosphere.

He'll stay for another few days only, and you do your best to enjoy every single moment you’ve got with him.

He promised he'll be home for Christmas and/or new year's eve, but you’re both more than familiar with your jobs swooping in to ruin your plans at the last minute.

He shifts so you can lay beside him, turns on his side and reaches behind himself to pull your arm over his waist. You pull him closer and chuckle when he snuggles back into your chest with a content sigh. “Should do this more,” he says then stretches out when your hand sneaks under his shirt.

“This, you mean?” you say and give one of his nipples a playful flick.

“Hmm, no," he says, stretching the word, “but I’m not minding this change of plan.” He reaches over, tangles his fingers into the soft strands of your hair and curves his back in a way he knows shoots pleasure through your veins with the sight alone. His ass pushing back against your crotch only adds to it.

You change direction and move your hand down, and he moans, exaggerated and ridiculous and— oh, fuck. he’s still wet for earlier. “Fuck, baby,” you groan and give an involuntary thrust of your hips forward, because that’s unfairly hot, and you can't believe he’s been strutting around the house all morning with that between his legs. “You are a menace.”

“Am I now?” One moment he’s snuggled in your arms, the next you’re laying flat on your back with him perched on your lap. “I’ll show you how much of one I really am.” He traps your arms under him, pins them against your sides and gives you an impish little smirk.

“You better not,” you warn him, already knowing he's not going to listen. “MacTavish, you better not.”

You’re not even that ticklish, but you still find yourself laughing when he attacks your sides. You can’t even be mad at him, his smile grows bigger and brighter as he laughs along like he’s the one being tickled to begin with.

It’s not hard to switch your positions; he doesn’t even put up a proper fight, really. He grins up at you and shivers when you pin his hands above his head. “You gonna make me regret it, big guy?”

“My little pillow princess needs a lesson, doesn’t she?”

“Pillow princess, really now?”

“You saying you're not one?” You shift and thrust your hips down, and he squirms, cheeks rosy and pupils blown wide.

HIs legs fall open wider and he arches his back. “Oh, fuck. Do that again,” he gasps.

“I’m gonna mark you up, sweetheart," you says with a whisper against his ear. “Then again tomorrow, and the day after that. I’ll make sure they know how much you enjoyed your leave.”

“Kinky bastard,” he laughs, but slips his hand out of your grip and curls it on the back of your head to pull you closer, throwing his head back when you nose under his chin and take a bite.

~ ~ ~ a/n: to be honest, this thing has been sitting as a draft for the past 3(?) days, because my comupter was on strike and fighting against my wift. sorry if it0s short, sorry if there's no actual plol, but this is what we're getting. tell me what you think about my writing. I need feedback!pretty please?

#john soap mactavish #x top male reader #call of duty #top male reader #dom male reader #male reader #reader insert #x reader #cod x reader #cod #cod mw2 #story day

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luveternals · 5 months

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paring: 4. simon 'ghost' riley x artist male reader. cw: introvert reader with low self-esteem, there's a waiter whose love language is food, ghost has selective mutism(tell me if I got anything wrong), swearing, the seafront location was originally inspired by Naples' Lungomare, Italy. <- posto da visitare assolutamente, guys. a/n: bam! they thought I was gone, but I ain't. Lol guess whose first language isn't English. anyway, new posts' schedule: still to be decided (check the my pinned post). ~ ~ ~

You've seen this trend around for a while and decide worse case scenario people get offended, call you a creep, and you won’t be able to show your face to the public ever again.

What could possibly go wrong?

Put on the brave face, man, you tell yourself taking in a fortifying breath. It’s not that they don’t know how much of a loser you already are.

Not wanting to be the stalking weirdo on the train or subway, you choose a nearby café. They know you here, at least. Though, you can’t decide if it’s for the better or worse.

The waiter is already setting up a tray on the counter when you open the door, and from the cheeky little wink he gives you, you know it’s for you. Noah knows your goto morning food and drink, though you never told him. He found out all on his own — honestly, you don’t even recall having a favorite to begin with.

“There he is,” he says and pushes the tray towards you when you stop at the counter, “precious little artist. Punctual as ever.”

You try to smile, but it pulls at your lips and you know it looks nothing but awkward. “How do you know I might change my order today?”

“Are you going to?”

You shrug.

“Thought so.” He pokes at the tray and points at your table, set way at the back of the café. “Now, this better not go cold, hmm,” he leans forward and squints at you, “I mean it.”

You huff at him and turn away with the tray in hand. “Whatever, mom.”

“Oh!” you hear him gasp offended, “kids these days.”

Idiot.

One thing is certain, being a loyal customer of theirs has its little perks. One being your usual table has an unspoken reservation on it. Every time you come here, it’s there for you. The fact that people don’t usually sit this far from the counter unless there’s no other option is an appreciated bonus. You place the tray on the table, set your bag on the empty chair next to yourself, and finally take a seat.

Unsure of how to start, you pick Noah as the first subject of your little experiment. He’s been nagging you about making a portrait of him for ages now, so you know for a fact he’s not going to mind.

You start your sketch with his beaming face. A circle for the shape of the head. A downward line at the center to keep everything spaced correctly. Find the position of eyes and nose. Shape of the face. Erase the lines you don’t need anymore.

You brush off the little eraser crumbs away and raise your head to check his face again. He’s turned away though, and your attention slides to the customer in front of him waiting for his turn.

He’s a hulking figure, dark wear and face mask covering mouth and nose. You’ve never seen him around before.

Noah's café is small and cozy, tucked away in a little corner. Tourists don’t really pick this as their first choice.

You move to draw on an empty part of the page.

“Oh ho! Looky here.”

You jerk and almost fall off the chair at the sudden presence peering over your shoulder. "Jesus, fu— what the hell is wrong with you?”

He steals the sketchbook and flips through the pages. “Love struck, aren’t we?” he snickers, inspecting the lastest drawings you’ve added to your collection.

You snatch the book back and fight the urge to check if anyone heard. “I thought I told you not to touch without permission.”

“I’m sorry,” he says and raises his hands before him, “I just… it’s been a while since I saw you draw so passionately, and I got curious. thought you lost your muse.” He glances down at the sketchbook and gives you a playful grin, “I guess you found a new one?”

“It’s been an eternity, are you ever going to talk to him?” Mr I-don’t-know-how-to-mind-my-own-business sets a second pastry you never ordered beside your empty plate and lean over to look at your current drawing.

“Can you, like, leave me alone?”

“You’re an artist,” he says with the flattest tone, “without me, who would keep you fed and hydrated and alive, you?”

You purse your lips and raise your chin to stare up at him. How dare he? You don’t need no one’s help to take care of yourself, thank you very much. It’s not like you forget time passes when you're drawing and end up with only breakfast in your belly all day. it happened, sure. Still.

“You know what, you’re being a real pain right now,” you say and stand intending to leave the café and head to the park or something.

Of course, your action is too abrupt and you end up bumping into someone who was making their way to a table near yours. And catastrophe happens.

When you turn, you realize the person you knocked into is the man you’ve been drawing these last days. Even worse, his eyes are locked onto your open sketchbook right on the spread littered with portraits and drawings of him.

Fuck.

Here comes the part where he thinks you're a weirdo and leaves the café with the intention of never coming back.

“Oh, hello!” Noah says and wiggles his fingers at the man with an overly cheery expression. “My friend here was just about to come and talk to you about these,” he says, gathering your drawings and shoving them into your arms, “he’s a little shy, so he needed a little push,” he adds, then shoves you towards the other man.

You stumble but recover quickly, and when you turn to glare at your friend he simply sends you a wink and mouths ‘don’t be a loser and ask him out’.

“He’s not even being subtle at it.” You don’t expect the man to talk to you at all, or to stay after that to begin with. There’s amusement in his voice and when you meet his gaze, you find a soft look in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. From this close up, his eye color catches your attention and you have to refrain yourself from leaning closer and finding out how it is that it seems to change from hazel-brown to blue and back. “Yeah,” you say again and drop your attention back to your things to stop yourself from staring, “he’s an idiot. But he's a good friend despite it all. He pretty much keeps me alive by shoving food into my face.”

Talking to Simon is not as awkward as you'd told yourself it'd be. He doesn’t judge you for all the drawings you did of him and instead compliments you on your skill. He does tease you, though.

“If I knew I was being stared at for so long I would have posed.”

“Shut up.”

“Need a model? I could do naked as well if you want.”

“Ugh.”

His laugh is contagious and you're helpless, so the teasing doesn’t stop.

Friendship with him is not the same as with Noah.

The waiter is a beaming ball of life, open and bold and buzzing with energy. You love him but, sometimes, spending time with him is quite exhausting.

Simon on the other hand, he knows silence.

He sits at your table, book in one hand and tea in the other, enjoying the simple company that is your presence despite not having said a word since the simple greeting you shared this morning.

Noah gives you a thumbs up from over Simon's shoulder.

“Why don't you just use a normal pencil for sketching?”

You peer up at him, hunched over the page. He's not even looking st you, but you know he's waiting for answer, curious and with real interest.

The first time he asked you a question, you've fumbled with your words unsure if he cared at all and if you'd scared him of with your chatter. Words aren't for you, but the longer you talk about the same thing on and on, you figure he doesn't mind and didn't ask just to have some awkward small talk. And so you blabber on about how it makes it easier to distinguish the first quick sketch with a color and the details you've added later with another.

He's eyes are pinned on you now, and you find you don't really mind being stared at like you thought you would.

“Ask him out.”

You haven’t even reached the counter and Noah is already at it. “Can you not?”

“Precious, I can see the love struck dreamy smile you give him from a mile away,” he says, adding a second steaming cup to your tray. “Introvert doesn’t mean allergic to people. You’re not the complete failure at socializing you imagine yourself being.” He pushes the tray towards you and leans against the counter. “youst case scenario, if he says 'no' I’ll go with you.”

You grimace. And then wide the look off your face when you register your reaction. “I mean— it's not that I don’t like you, it’s just that—”

“Wow, man. Wow,” he scoffs, “this is worse than when you left the sketch of my face half done.”

Oh, fuck. You forgot about that one?

“Whatever, man,” he says with a roll of his eyes, his lips twitch at the corners. “If he does say 'no', I'll buy you that kit you’ve been swooning over for the past month. Best quality color and all that.” He waves at you to move along, only to pull your tray closer to himself again and popping a tiny little pastry right in the middle. Then sends you off to your doom.

“I've been thinking,” you blurt out in response to his ‘mornin’��.

Simon pauses right about to take a seat, raises an eyebrow and finally settles down. “Have you, now?”

“Yeah,” you say and tap the end of your pencil against the table. “Yeah. Do you like the park? No, wait. Do you like going to the park with me— would you…” You take in a breath and raise your gaze to the ceiling, “really, now?”

After a long moment, you shift your attention back to him ready to try again. His eyes are shining, little wrinkles decorating the corner of his eyes.

The mask covers it, but you know for a fact that he's smiling.

You feel your cheeks going warmer and you have to fight the urge to backtrack and hide behind your sketchbook. “Do you wanna,” you say, “go to the park with me?”

It's an oddity to find him already seated, no tea in sight either. From the look Noah gives you, after a month of simon coming in every day, this is a novelty for him as well.

You bring your tray to the table and sit beside him without a comment, only a simple greeting and a gentle smile. You set a cup of tea before him, alongside one of the sweets Noah refused to take back when you told him it was probably too much food. He actually looked offended by the comment.

“It’s double the stuff he usually gives me, Simon,” you say when he tries to have you keep it, “just eat it. Or better, help me finish it all, I beg you.”

He stares at the food for a long moment, then visibly gives up on convincing you. He doesn't touch it though.

The tea goes ignored as well.

You purse your lips. Well, that won’t do.

“Say,” you start and tilt your head to catch his gaze, “do you wanna go out for a walk? There’s a place I wanted to show you.”

He watches your face, then shifts his attention around the café, on Noah and finally on the food he left untouched.

“I'll have Noah put everything in a bag. I know he won't mind.”

He hesitates, but nods.

You smile at him and beam when the gesture seems to lessen the tension on his shoulders.

You bring him to a local bookstore. Like with the café, this is a little business famous mostly in the neighborhood. It’s never overly crowded but there’s always a kid or two binging their current read.

You leave him to scan the shelves and move to do the same not far.

Hah! They’ve finally restocked the stationary corner. Hooray! You definitely don’t need another journal, but no one can stop you from staring at them with gut wrenching despair.

Would Simon like it if I bought him one?

At the thought you turn to search for him and find him already making his way to you with a new book in hand.

You've got the membership card here so you manage to convince him to let you pay. Both for his book and the journal you're holding.

You don’t know many places to visit, but those you are familiar with are the best for those who don’t care for ‘crowded’.

The seafront isn’t one of them but you hope the view will make up for it.

It’s a risky move, but you think you’ve grown close to him enough to know he's quite comfortable with being by himself, but sometimes silence isn't what he wants or needs.

Noah told you you’re a pretty good observant and that analyzing the world around you is what makes you an artist. So you hope he wasn’t making that up.

There's a little corner towards the end. Here the view is partially covered but when you check his face, you're glad to discover he doesn't seem to mind at all. He hasn't said a word at all since you met this morning, but his attention has been pinned on you all day even after the nonsense rant you've gone on about AI art.

You pull out a thermos from the café’s cute, little bag and hand it to him like an hesitant offering. His tea has been kept safe and warm inside all morning, but you don't know if he'll accept it after earlier.

His eyes soften and he takes the thermos with the same care you've handled it with, and holds it in both hands like he wants to keep it safe.

A spark of hope warms your insides, so you take out two pastries and hand one to him. "He's going to make me eat more tomorrow," you say and take a bite, as if to show him Noah does know how to bake — oh, yep, he really does. God. "And you haven't had breakfast yet. Please?"

It takes a moment, but eventually, he turns away from any unwanted gaze, moves his face mask out of the way, and brings the food to his mouth to take a bite.

It slow, delibeate and so very careful, but he's eating, and now you finally understand. How Noah cares so much about keeping you fed.

~ ~ ~ a/n: I'm not entirely sure if I got it right. Here's what I was thinking: noah is there to keep the reader from neglecting himself; ghost is a new face at the café and with a little push they become friends; reader starts taking care of ghost end consequently takes care of himself. comment, reblog and/or follow. yadda, yadda, yadda, this blog feeds off feedback or it'll go boom! don't just like please...

#simon ghost riley #x top male reader #call of duty #top male reader #dom male reader #male reader #reader insert #x reader #cod x reader #cod #cod mw2 #second person pov #original writing #story day

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luveternals · 5 months

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Little update, guys. The baby chick is gone. I was changing the water bottles because they were getting cold. It wasn't moving so I picked it up and yeah. I think I gave it too much of a sudden change of temperature.

I knew there was a high chance of it dying but I was finally happy it could sleep properly without me holding it in my hands. And I bought proper food for it just yesterday.

You probably don't really care, but I get attached quickly.

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luveternals · 5 months

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explaining why I haven't posted yesterday and why my stories might be meh recently: I'm not dead nor gone. just stupidly tired and a little distracted lol and here's why (if you're new here, I'm not the one who brought the little guy home, I just couldn't let it die),

I've been struggling to keep it warm and make it sleep properly with no heat lamp or proper home. this is the best I could do, at least I managed to get the proper food *sigh* btw I've never taken care of a pet before, so I literally have no idea wtf I'm doing. (those are two bottle of warm water btw)

#not for 'story day'#not for 'reblog day'#not spamming you shit. just want people to know I'm not gone lol #reader insert #top male reader #dom male reader #x top male reader #x reader #top reader

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luveternals · 5 months

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about part two! The idea of how the story may go was already there, but I had no actually time to think about how to write it. I wwent from 'idk' to 'maybe-yes'. Sorry if I couldn't give a more definitive answer. (look, they just dumped the responsibility of caring for a colored baby chick on me and I can't just let the poor thing die).

paring: steven grant x male reader. cw: mentioned failed attempted ambush on the reader, blood, over-protective steven. a/n: hmm, not entirely satisfied with this but can't figure out why. help. ~ ~ ~

“You’re bleeding— why are you bleeding?”

This is not how you’ve pictured this meeting to go; not the best first impression.

Except, does it still count as such if it’s one sided?

It’s a strange thought but, as you’ve come to learn, if you force it not everything will make sense when Steven Grant is involved.

His hands are trembling, but they’re so gentle as he makes you sit on his bed and focuses on cleaning the wound on your arm, “what happened? Are you okay— I can see he’s bleeding, I’m helping him clean it off right now, aren’t I?”

It used to catch you off guard at first, when he’d start talking with soneone who, for you, wasn’t there. It took a while to stop squinting at him in confusion, trying to figure out how his words connected with the rest of the discussion he was having with you not a moment before. But now, you just look at him with curiosity as he mutters and huffs at someone you can’t see but know is there.

You came to his flat for a reason, actually. You were going to cook dinner together, eat, watch a movie maybe, and finally he would introduce the others to you. Steven had told you quite a bit about them since you’ve figured there was more than one soul sharing rent in his body. You remember the hesitation painted over his features as you asked to meet them.

You watch the frown deepen as he falls silent and cleans away the table. He glances at you for the shortest moment, before he’s back at pouting,

Whatever the others are telling him, he doesn’t appear happy about it.

You know what they are and what they do for a living, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure what the problem is. You lean forward, grab him by the hips and make him sit on your lap. “First of all,” you say, “if they’re trying to guilt trip you into making me walk away so you can keep me safe, they don't know what they're talking about. Because I might not have superpowers, darling, but I'm not totally useless.”

"You're not," Steven says, and you know the now turned-offended frown is directed at you personally now.

You laugh and pull him in for a quick, sweet kiss to the lips. “So precious. I meant that I know how to defend myself and how to steer clear of the fights I know I can't win.”

Still not looking convinced but feeling way less tense, he lets his attention fall to your injury and rests his hand on your arm, making sure not to go anywhere too near the wound. “Can you tell me what happened to you?” he says with the softest voice.

You pull him impossibly closer and rest your chin on top of his head. “They... found me in an alley on my way here,” he tenses again, and you give a reassuring squeeze to your grip around him until he relaxes again. “It’s okay, sweet thing, I’m here.”

The 'dinner, movie, meeting the moon family' night goes as planned. Though, the last one turns out more awkward than any of you was prepared for.

Your wound healed, and the accident isn’t brought up again. You can feel they haven’t forgotten about it, but no word is spoken regarding the topic, so you leave them be.

Steven doesn't get over it though, not completely. He just turns clingy, really. He does his best to check on you and make sure you're okay. He even gets Marc to join his little mission.

You can only sigh at his behavior, then smile amused because he gets so cute when he's worried about you.

“Steven,” you let out a laugh, though more in exasperation than anything else, “I really don’t need you to be a mother hen. Really.”

He stares at you, shocked. “I’m not being one!” he says, then, “it— No, I really am not, Marc. I just—”

You cup his face with your hands on his cheeks, plant a sloppy kiss square on his lips and pull back with a grin. “How about going to work before we’re both late, hmm?”

He does as he's told and goes. And you don't see him for the rest of the day. Not until later. When he finds you lying on the floor of his flat and you grimace at him when you catch his eyes.

“I swear, it's not that bad.”

It takes Steven way longer to clean off all the blood this time.

You lay on his bed, bandages tied neatly around your waist. “Sorry about the stain,” you say to the ceiling.

“Are you bloody seriouos right now?" Steven stomps his way to you and bend forward to stare down at you, his arms on his hips and gaze burning, ”you will tell me what happened or I'll tie you up and make you say it myself.”

“Kinky,” you say with a grin that you wipe off your face when you see his expression. “Not the moment, got it.”

This was a topic you'd planned to talk about during your first meeting with the other moon knights. One you haven't had the courage to bring up after seeing Steven's reaction when he saw you dripping blood at his door that first night. You've come to really cherish him, and didn't want to ruin the beautiful bond that had formed between the two of you. Still, you knew this discussion would have come to the surface eventually.

"I'll tell you," you say and turn your head to meet his eyes again. "But you have to promise me that you'll let me explain first."

He raises his eyebrows in surprise and confusion, "why wouldn't I? I mean, sorry, yes. I promise. Of course I do, but that was an odd way to put it."

You know his home, not quite as the back of your hand, but enough to make your way around it with ease. You've tried to study the place better but you could feel eyes studying you in turn, behind the gentle, loving gaze Steven always directed your way.

"I told you I'm not completely defenceless," you groan when move to stand, gently wavy Steven off as he tries to reach forward and shove you back into bed. "What I haven't told you is that I'm more familiar with fighting than a normal person is."

"What? Like a wrestler? Or did you take karate lesson—"

"I'm a mercenary, Steven," you turn to look at him and jerk to the side, blood darkens your bandages as the abrupt movement pulls at your wound. A blade whistles past your head and stabs into the wood of the library behind you.

"Are you mad?" Steven stops the next attack by taking control of the other arm. "what are you doing?"

It's a little ridiculous to witness a body fight itself, and you make sure not to comment on it while you watch them settle the argument.

Honestly, this was more like the reaction you expected and prepared for. Though, you did imagine it with you not bleeding onto the floor, especially not before the truth came out to begin with.

You don't like to be at a disadvantage so early in a fight and are beginning to regret your snap decision to come here after the ambush. But your attackers did catch you by surprise this time despite your experience, and Steven was the only person who you trust to help in such a dire moment of need.

The other moon knights are a whole another story, but you know steven is strong enough to keep them from adding another scar to your collection.

"Everyone, calm the ef down and let him explain!" steven shouts in exasperation. "If he wanted to hurt us he wouldn't have come here to bleed on our floor, come on."

Yes, thank you, you dare think, and tense the moment you find them staring at you, with their arms crossed over their chest. It's one body only, and still you can feel the intensity of their posture and gaze multiplied by three.

"Should I have started with 'I came to you because they put a bounty on my head and now I'm being hunted down by creatures no one else can see'?"

~ ~ ~ reblog, comment and/or follow if you like what I write. please and thank you. without feedback I don't have a reason for keeping this blog alive, since I created it so I can practice my writing.

#reblog day #steven grant #x top male reader #moon knight #top male reader #dom male reader #reader insert #male reader #x reader #top reader

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luveternals · 5 months

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paring: 3. simon 'ghost' riley x male reader rating: M, MDNI cw: reader has a very strong photographic memory and doesn't know how to let go, lovers to strangers, ambiguous ending, ghost sucks at apologising. a/n: I proofread this <- haven't proofread this and things mind not make sense towards the end. might take a bit bc to right this, I'm taking care of a baby chick. ~ ~ ~

You remember how it is to love him. A feeling so strong it swells your heart with affection every single time you caught his gaze on you, felt his skin under your lips, heard his voice against your ear.

It's like a stab to the heart to find him standing before you after so long. Your chest aches at the sight, squeezing with longing and betrayal and so much love for him.

“You're alive,” you say, your voice cracking around the words, and swallow your feelings with vengeance, “ten years.”

Ten years. Saying it out loud cements the realization that he was ripped away from you and never did anything to come back.

“I—” you shove the door to his face the moment he opens his mouth but he throws his arm against it to keep it from slamming closed. “Just hear me out!”

It's then that you notice he isn't alone. It's then that you notice his attire is not suitable as civilian wear. It's then that you realize that he is not here for you.

Not exactly, no.

You leave him at the door, step deep into the room and head for the last door of your corridor.

You don't wait for anyone, but you know for a fact that he knows his way to the room with or without your aid.

The light flickers overhead, it's a surprise it works at all. There's no window to let the air in, so you'll have to put up with the dust and stuffiness. You haven't opened the door to this room in years and it shows.

There's a mess of documents and pictures in the middle of it all, and you're struck with the memory of you standing over it with a lighter in your hands.

He was gone, you couldn’t continue to—

With a sigh, you move to get rid of all the rubbish you left so long ago and ignore the footsteps moving to check the room for whatever.

Someone approaches, crouches opposite you and starts searching through the mess.

“You were gonna get rid of these too.” Simon holds the booklet of pictures as he flips through it, running gentle fingers over the cover. It isn't even a question, he simply knows it. There's a note of sadness in his voice mixed with resignation and it makes your blood boil.

It's true then, that he doesn't care one bit about what you had together. So ready to give it up at the first sign of hardship.

“Obviously,” you say with as much venom as you can muster, stealing the album from his hands and shoving it aside —away from his gaze. “You went MIA, then confirmed KIA soon after I started searching for you.”

I couldn't go through with it. The only thing you did manage to do that day was throw the lighter into the bin and miss.

Did he do it on purpose? Made them tell you he was gone so you would stop trying? Whatever his reasons, ten years with no word only to come back because he needs something...

“This all I am to you, ain't I?” you say —because despite your field of work you have never learnt to keep your mouth from running, — wave your hand at the room, and stare at him with your jaw set.

“Look,” he starts, but you're already standing and turning away. He jolts forward and grabs you by the arm, “bloody hell, we don't have time for this.”

“Of course,” you say and watch his eyes grow wide at his own words. “no time for this.” You were a fool to think there had been anything at all.

“That's not... That's not what I—”

“I'll help you with whatever you need,” you cut him off and tag your arm free. “You know my price already.”

There's a hidden door built at the very back of the room, and despite the ten years of negligence all is frozen in the same neat and perfect condition you've left it years back. It's a disorienting contrast with the previous room.

The change of temperature as you step through the door is refreshing, settling over your shoulders like a familiar embrace. There are cabinets lining all four walls, carrying an insane number of papers and folders and books. Despite the incredible jump technology has gone through its progress, a paper document is still chosen over a digital file.

If they're seeking your help then hackers are of no use for them, which in turn means whatever they need has long been lost in the past.

This room is the reason you're still alive really. You haven't touched it in years nor do you have any physical need for it, but the simple knowledge that you are in possession of it makes you invulnerable. Mind maps are crucial for organizing information, sure, but no one will find any use for this room if something happens to your brain.

“So? Who's and which skeleton in the closet do you want me to reveal to you, so you can go and ruin their life?” You open a drawer at random, pick up the first folder your fingers touch and flip it open. Truth is you have always been quite fond of puzzles and none of these documents mean anything at all. It's just a bunch of random words written using cross writing.

Simon had found it ridiculous to write whatever you had to say and then turn the page ninety degrees the moment you run out of space.

But that was the beauty of it. Never mind that you only use gibberish sentences as a guide line to refresh your memory, but the puzzle that cross letters were kept your mind busy.

You find him standing by the door when you force yourself back to the present. He hasn't said a word, nor has he dared to do anything other than close the door behind him and watch you without moving any deeper into the room. “You used to say that every time someone you hated asked for your help.”

And it's the little things he would notice and remember, that had your heart first beat a little faster back then. The way he would take it as a vantage to express himself when he struggled to process his own emotions. That he went all soft and delicate despite knowing for a fact that you weren't made of glass. All that and more, is what made you fall for him.

Every single memory is so vivid in your mind but the betrayal and pain and anger are just as fresh in the forefront of your mind that you can't help but sneer at him. “Yes, glad to know I haven't changed at all in the past ten years.”

You're not being petty, you really are not. Because despite it all, you still love him. Just as much as you had the first time you fell for him, the first kiss you shared, the first ‘I love you’ you pressed into his skin, the first date you took him to.

The first time they told you you'd lost him forever.

Your feelings have only grown, and the pain stabbing through your heart has only grown with them. You know that if you let yourself hope even for the shortest moment, you'll break and will never be able to piece yourself together.

Photographic memory might be a cool power, a service demanded by the leaders controlling the world, but for you it is nothing but a spiteful curse.

~ ~ ~ please reblog, comment and/or follow if you like what I write. without feedback, I have no reason to keep this blog alive.

#simon ghost riley #x top male reader #call of duty #top male reader #dom male reader #male reader #cod x reader #reader insert #x reader #cod #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #story day

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paring: Konig x rebel male reader. cw: dystopia AU, friends to enemies to implied lovers(? bruh the 1st draft —sneak peak link— is literally gone, I don't know what happened bewteen that and the 2nd one T^T), war, violence and all that stuff, angst (ya, that's the only thing that didn't change lmao). ~ ~ ~

Should you really? Follow the order? Go through with the mission? Make the Empire pay for all it did?

The longer you wait for someone to give you an answer, the greater your hesitation grows. Because your brothers are dying, your sisters are crying, your family is losing.

It started raining at some point, droplets growing heavier and angrier the further you move down the alley. You were drenched to the bone when you finally realize it, nose assaulted by the stench of wet, filth and death. It was a trap. And they knew.

They sent you all out anyway.

You're alone now, the last — the only one — of the team still standing. You don't know where anyone else is. Your feet drag against the slippery asphalt, body weighted down but the leaking wound stabbing pain down your leg. The end of your gun scratching against the floor as you stumble forward.

When you raise your head, you find a man looming at the end of the alley, rifle aimed in your direction. His face is hidden, the rain only adding to the mystery of the veil he's wearing.

You've lost sensation on one arm and the other shakes with effort as you raise your own rifle.

“Out of my way.”

He's silent as he watches you, grip steady around his weapon, body a large and unmovable obstacle you know you'll never surpass.

“Outta my way!” you shout and your voice cuts through the howl of the storm raging around you, “either kill me or leave!”

Instead, he relaxes his stance, lowers his gun and, without any hint of hesitation, removes his head gear.

Despite the lack of protection on his head, the image that presents itself before you is one of a machine built to fight until his heartbeat is forcefully put to a stop.

It's not that sight that makes you drop to your knees, but the way he drops his shoulders as if to curl into himself. The way he lets everything he's holding fall to the ground, hands raising to show their palms to you.

It's the perfect replica of that day. Different weather, alley, clothes on your back. But it's the same exact scene, the same exact veil covering his face, the same worried posture dragging his body down and making him seem smaller. The same indecipherable spark shining in his eyes.

“I can't stop now,” you say, voice nothing more than a whisper. You don't know if he heard but don't have the strength to do anything about it.

He kneels next to you — you don't know when he managed to come close to begin with — and carefully takes your hands in one of his, other hand already opening his medikit.

Your senses are blinded by pain and you hear him mumble something. It sounds like an apology and it sounds strangely familiar too, as if he actually cares that your hurting despite having met you only once before.

Your adrenaline runs out eventually and the last thing you wonder before blackness takes over is if you'll ever meet your Engel again.

The sun is hot against the back of your neck, scalding your skin as you scurry your way through the street. You’ve gathered all you could find on your way to the shelter, but when you look at what you're carrying, it feels too little.

It's never enough anyway.

Angel is the only good thing you’ve got left in this world, and this is your offering to him. An apology for the loss and pain the two of you had been put through.

You were blessed with him keeping his bubbly cuteness and innocent mind despite it all. This offering is a gesture of gratitude for him coming into your life. And finally, a desperate request for him to forever be by your side.

You find him sitting on a low wall near the entrance of the building, head bobbing side to side and little feet kicking under him as he hums to himself.

His eyes are bright when they fall on you and his grin is nothing but blinding. Whatever protest you had about him being alone and so in the open dies with a sputter when he throws himself at you, face smushed into your stomach.

“Can I come with next time, pretty please?” his voice is small pressed against your clothes, and when he looks up his eyes are so big and round, and you know it would physically hurt you to say ‘no’.

The soldier kneels beside the little girl, massive hands cupping hers so gently, the weapons he's carrying positioned away from her sight.

She sniffles and he shushes her, bringing her hands up to encourage her to wipe her tears away. He takes out his medical kit and uses it to clean the scrap on her knee. Once he's done with her little injury, he bring a smile to bloom on her face with a gentle pinch on her cheek and sends her on her way.

He must be feeling the intensity of your stare, because when he raises to his feet, he turns your way and meets your eyes. His attention doesn't drop to the knife spinning between your nimble fingers. He simply raises his arms and tilts his head, shoulders hunched forward and weapon forgotten in its holster.

You don't have to kill him — your objective is to send the nearby base into a bit of a panic — and despite his massive stature he doesn't seem like a threat (not after what he's done for the little girl). But he saw your face. Or rather, he seems fixated by it. There's a look in his gaze that you're not sure how to decipher, his eyes seem brighter than what they've been a second ago.

You decide to just get out of here and not look back.

This is a route you’ve become quite familiar with. You know how to keep out of the way, how to mind your own business and not get involved, which turns to take to avoid trouble, which alley to stir clear from to avoid danger.

What your years of going through this part of the city taught you was that bringing a child along requires quite a bit of adjusting to keep safe. And he’s a good boy, he knows when to follow directions without complaint. What you didn’t take into consideration was his curiosity peaking at the thought of this new adventure.

You’d looked away for a second. To make sure you were going the right way.

One single second.

There's a wet stain on the page, smearing ink and ruining the paper. You've crumpled and smoothed the letter over and over, read the words until you've imprinted them into the forefront of your mind. Still, today they hit differently. Stronger than the first time you've opened the envelope five years prior.

You've been assigned to your first official mission since you've joined the rebellion.

There's never been a chance to turn back on your decision. To undo them and remake them so they turn out right. And this won't be the first time you've gone out of your way to cause trouble to the Empire. The first time you'll hurt someone. Willingly or not.

It will be the first official action you'll take against power. Openly calling out your desire for disobedience. Destruction. Change.

You can't undo your decisions now whether you want it or not.

But it doesn't matter because Angel might have betrayed you by leaving for them but you're still doing this for him, aren't you?

You blink and when you find the letter in your hands, you wipe your face dry with a hand as you pocket it and take your pistol instead, so you can load it.

He's lost his spark.

He tries to hide it, chubby little face forced into a straining smile. He winces as the expression pulls at his split lip.

You hold him close to your chest, whitening grip so tight your muscles ache. You don't let go, instead whisper apologies against the crown of his head.

“Shouldn't have let you come,” you say again and again. “if the guards had cared at all—”

“If the guards had cared at all—”

“Again with this?” Angel went through a growth spurt last summer, sending him to stand taller than you now, despite being younger. Still, he sits on your bed with his shoulders hunched over, hands wringing as he stares at you in exasperation as you stomp around the room. “It's not the guards’ fault. They weren't the only people there that day.” he says, “you can't blame everything on the Empire.”

You flinch at the words and spin to glare at him, “what?”

“I—,” he drops his gaze and does his best to avoid meeting your eyes. You see a frown settle on between his eyebrows and your cursing yourself.

You sit beside him and gently pull him closer so he can hide his face against your shoulder. “I'm not… I could never be mad at you, mein engel. I'm sorry for snapping. It's just— we were just children when they took everything from us.”

He doesn't answer and just turns his head to press it against your neck. You shift and hide your own face against the crown of his head. The angle is awkward and quite uncomfortable and it forces you to realize how he's not a little boy anymore.

He mumbles something. It sounds like an apology so you shush him.

The next morning he's gone, a letter with your name on it the only evidence of him left behind.

~ ~ ~ a/n: this took an exaggerated over-complicated turn lmao I know it's a little twisty so tell me if it's a hit of miss x3 I'll keep the sneak peek as a reminder draft 1 was kinda good too lol disclaimer: as per usual I don't know bananas about cod or the military. sorry... *sweats*

#reblog day #konig #x top male reader #call of duty #top male reader #dom male reader #cod x reader #konig cod #konig x reader #konig call of duty #male reader #reader insert

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paring: 2. simon 'ghost' riley x top male reader warning: 16+, MDNI cw: swearing, mentioned insomnia, mention of night terrors, drinking (you share a bottle with him), really it's all just implied but the story itself has nothing heavy in it, spoilers you get your head shoved into a bucket full of water by your team mates bc they love you lol a/n: way shorter than what I usually write, EDIT: guess who wrote angst double the length of this after just posting this story? yeah, def not me. you're right. ~ ~ ~ You don’t want to make it a bigger problem than you it is, but your team has been fussing all over you for the past three days.

You suppose drastic measures are to be brought into action then.

Night terrors are normal in this field of work, and you know they are simply trying to take care of one of theirs. It’s been a week since you’ve had a good night’s sleep, and it shows on the large dark circles betraying your exhaustion for all the world to see.

The base is dark and still, the quiet only broken by occasional soldiers losing their fight against insomnia. You creep through the shadows, bagpack slung over your shoulder, and watch the corridos for any unwanted witness.

The door is locked. It only slows you for a few seconds. Inside the darkness is softened by the moon rays casting into the room from the window and illuminating the shape hidden under the sheets. The figure is still, too tense for someone asleep. You reach forward anyway and brush your fingers against it, not surprised to find the moonlight reflecting on the sharp blade now inches away from your face.

You stare at the skull mask glaring at you with a raised eyebrow and your head tilted. “Come on, then,” you say after a moment when he doesn’t move, then swat the hand holding the weapon to the side and leave the room before he can so much as frown.

The sky is clear and twinkling with stars, and you don’t question your luck when you find the rooftop free of any of your exhausted peers. You woulnd’t be surprised to find them raiding the fridge though. Or the secret cabinet behind it.

You’re laying on your back, bagpack as a pillow and stolen sheets from your room as improvisted picnic towel, when he finds you. You smirk at him when he moves to loom over you, hiding the moon from your sight. “You were taking too long,” you say, shaking the open bottle in your hand his way before taking a swig.

They find you snuggled together the next morning, with him curled onto his side and you drapped over him with your head shoved into the back of his neck.

You wake with a jolt when someone smacks you on the head and feel Simon roll away with a groan at the sound of laughter.

“That is not,” someone says out of breath and slaps the giggle person next to them, “’get better sleep’ is not the same as ‘go shag the lieutenant’.”

You scramble to your feet when you sleep muddled brain register two of your mates dragging along a a sloshing bucket of water. “Oh, piss off!” you say with a hiss when you find yourself cornered and notice no one had dared to look at the untouchable Ghost the wrong way. “You’re such a traitor,” you tell him when he doen’t do anything other than stretch his neck at your situation, “I will not share my next bottle with you.”

“I can live with that,” he says, and you know he’s smirking under that sodding mask, “cravin' tea right now anyway.” And the bastard, actually, leaves before your own team jumps you and shove your head into the bucket.

#story day #simon ghost riley #x top male reader #call of duty #reader insert #top male reader #dom male reader #cod mwii #cod #x reader

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luveternals · 5 months

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using this to tell you I hit a wall lmao I just realized I can't write anything if it isn't sad or deranged. which is a complete disaster. anyway, see you tomorrow with a new story!

paring: Konig x rebel reader. rating: mature, MDNI cw: dystopia AU, enemies to lovers, angst, (not a story, just a sneak peak of the 1st version, sorry. link to thd completed story!) a/n: I haven't forgotten to post nor did I just decided to drop writing or whatever. This story just turned out to be more complicated than originally planned. Lie, I haven't planned bananas. I literally had no idea what to write until 3h ago and I was already 5h past the time I wanted to post the third story lol hate to do this but I'll have to push it back to my next scheduled day. ~ sneak peek of the 1st version ~ full story in 2 days ~

It’s difficult to stay true when the goal you’re trying to reach is not your own. Well, you do support the idea, somewhat, you wouldn’t be here otherwise. Wouldn't be taking cover behind a broken wall, breath forcefully kept slow and stead, and hoping the shadows would be enough to cover your tracks. Wouldn’t be risking your life for a mission that is destined to fail.

It’s an trap and, somehow, you feel your leaders knew it and still sent you out.

One of your brothers lays dead at your feet, his blood stains your feet and will lead the enemy to you the moment they find the footprints.

There’s a soft sniffle and you spin around to slap your hand against one of your sisters’ mouth. She stares at you and you stare back, your hand leaves a red imprint on her face and you see her twitch with the desperate need to wipe it off.

It was a set up. You’re all going to die. But your mission isn’t over yet.

She’s crying.

Go. You tell he with a motion of your free hand. She shakes her head eyes wide with panic, but you're already pushing her back. Go and live.

You don’t check if she does, body turning and slipping around the corner before you could even register any further protests.

The sound of fighting seems to be coming from all directions. Your family is fighting with all it has while you give your last attempt to make this total failure some kind of meaning.

You’re almost at the end of the alley when you stumble to a stop. A man stands there, body covered in gear and rifle steady in his hands as he points it in your direction.

He doesn’t say a thing but doesn’t move either. Don’t move or i’ll shoot, his posture says.

Your own gun is raised, solid and loaded and aimed at his head. “Get out of my way,” you says, throat dry and voice a breathless demand.

But he’s a solid obstacle. One taller than most and built to fight until his heart is forced to stop beating. He simply blinks and your grip tightens around the weapon.

“I will shoot you,” you say, but there is no real threat behind the words.

And he knows.

He lowers his gun at the words and, with movements smooth and so damn steady, pulls his head gear off.

His face is still hidden away whatever cloth he’s using doesn’t give much away about what one would find underneath it.

But the design has come so familiar to you during this fucked up war that your grip falters.

“I’m not letting you do it,” he says, and his voice and accent at the last hit your heart can take.

You arms go slack, and your head drops forward. Rain had started trickling at some point, the grim and filt of your boots and clothes polling at your feet. “Do you know how much i’ve lost for this?”

He doesn’t say anything but the silent words he must be thinking make your fists bench into fists.

“Your killing my brothers!”

“And you're killing mine,” his words take you by surprised, you didn’t expect him to say anything at all. Not about this.

What you did expect was him to hide away behind his social anxiety. Behind the excuse he doesn’t know how to act around others, that he doesn't know how to express his feelings properly.

Instead, he braves on — the only time finally does — and associates to the enemy.

~ ~ ~ a/n: I'm a bit of a perfectionist and this is actually killing me. But it's the middle of the night and I'm kinda sick. Whatever mistake I made is my own and will be gone soon. have a good night. enjoy your day. please forgive the delay ;^; it's only the third day damn

#reblog day #luv s reblog #konig #x top male reader #dom male reader #top male reader #call of duty #konig cod #konig x reader #reader insert

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paring: TF141 x male reader. rating: mature, MDNI. cw: (heavy stuff guys, I think) violence, death, implied suicide, failed suicide attempt, implied temporary death, morally grey reader, insanity, immortality, not a poly (lol too possessive irl for it, sorry). this story is... mostly just angst and mainly not finished (meaning possible serie? Idk). a/n: took me an eternity bc I didn't know who to write for... nice. Anyway, status update for steven grant x reader is scheduled for next week(Nov 30th). y'all went mad for it while I said I wasn't sure about it! lmao (psst, I approve) ~ ~ ~

When all sensations and feelings get ripped away from you, you realize that the wait is worse than pain.

And it grows more and more unbearable the longer years go by.

Wander the city without destination. Expect that cursed urge that comes yanking at your insides and guiding your body like a puppet. Never be sure when it'll come, but know that it will. At the start, it was nothing but a growing emptiness carving itself deep inside you, but now it’s become an insatiable hunger that never seems to leave you alone.

And when that urge eventually comes, it's worse than the wait.

The knowledge that you are finally about to fill the emptiness as you follow whatever it is that it’s tagging you along. The realization that you are nothing but a selfish bastard who is letting his greed guide his very being.

All at the simple price of a stole life.

You stand on the edge of the roof and peer into the streets below.

The longer you wait the more you feel like you’re fading away, and the deeper the hunger grows. And so here you are, jumping over the edge and glading down through the air like a leaf falling off a tree. Your feet brush against the pavement without a sound as you land at the mouth of the alley, the breeze blowing louder than your presence.

Deep into the alley, a man presses his back against the farthest wall, terror blurring his gaze as he grits his teeth. One of his arms hangs limply against his side while the other presses against his stomach over the nasty slash sipping blood into the fabric of his tunic. His eyes jump from the approaching thugs blocking every escape to the sword he’s lost somewhere near the entrance of the alley. It lays at your feet, useless.

The stench of death grows stronger the larger the stain of dripping blood grows under him. You creep closer, waiting.

“Sorry, pal,” one of the attackers says, a nasty grin tagging at his lips, “it’s you or us, y’know. Gunna be luckier next time, ay?” he raises both his arms over his head and brings his sword down onto his victim wih a final ‘whoosh’.

Blood splatters into the wall and the thieves are onto the body before it can even fall onto the ground, ripping at its belongings like vultures. It takes them less than a minute and soon they dart out of the alley cackling and whooping.

You stand over the body, staring at the despair frozen into its expression for what seems an eternity. Then you crouch down and lower yourself over it. A shriek cuts through the air but you are too far gone to care for it. Your body feels heavier as your soul sinks lower, bones and flesh latch into your very being. You let yourself go, ignoring all sounds that break the still silence surrounding you and all voices that echoe inside your head.

What if this is another failure? What if this is actually not possible?

You try to open your —his— eyes, but the lids are heavy and when you finally do open them, your vision is blurred. There is someone staring down at you, their hand slapping at your face to keep you awake. “—hear me? Help is on the way, but you need to stay awake.” Their voice is muffled, as if trying to talk to you through water, but their concern is palpable even for your half-conscious brain.

You grin at them.

You did it.

You’re alive!

They've gotten good at it, you'll give them that. It hasn't been a month yet and they've already found you.

Granted, it's gotten challenging to stay hidden for longer than a few weeks before your needs start to mess with your head.

You're running, slipping through the crowd with delirious laughter. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, and you watch the helicopter follow your every move.

You won't be able to hide. You're trapped, and they know.

You shove a man out of your way, jump over the railing and land on the sidewalk below with a roll.

They've blocked the traffic and redirected it to keep any car or vehicle from running your way.

“They're learning,” you grin and glance over your shoulder, making sure they can see your expression. “Let's see how much, though.”

You push forward and rush your way to the other side of the road to the railing of the bridge. It's a fall of over fifty meters. This body will not survive the impact with the water below.

You're at the railing when something stabs into your side and an electric current sends your senses to overdrive.

You wake up hurting. And it's one of the most intense pain you've experienced so far. But before you can scream at it, numbness spreads through your body, and all your senses grow muddled.

You can't move. You can't feel. Only see and hear, though even those are muffled.

It reminds you how it is to not have a body and not be able to do anything about it.

It's worse than the pain.

The second time you wake, you're sitting in a chair, head hanging and limbs restrained with more chain than it's probably strictly necessary.

The numbness is gone and you let yourself let out the softest sigh of relief.

There's a camera blinking at you from a corner of the ceiling and you let a smirk cut through your expression. It's sharper, meaner than you usually would give your hunters. But the memory of numbness they put you through sends phantom tingles to the end of your fingertips, and you can't find it in yourself to be anything but nasty right now.

There's an ugly, useless table made of metal before you, and you don't even stop yourself from rolling your eyes at it.

Right. At least they're not some mad scientist cutting you open to study how you work. Not that they'd find anything useful really.

The door past the table opens and your captures finally make their entrance.

“Is this how you make friends?” you says, leaning back into a lazy slump, despite the restraints, to stare at them as they move deeper into the room. “You electrocute them and tie them up with a nice, little steel ribbon?”

They're all wearing full masks (skulls, how fitting) and gear, covering most of their features besides the more obvious. Their height and the like.

It doesn't bother you. You're not here to familiarize with them, but it would have been nice to see the faces of those who've finally managed to catch you and lock you up.

“Have you no shame?” one of them says, but his tone doesn't betray his true emotions. He sits on the chair opposite yours and folds his hands in front of him, resting his arms onto the table.

There's four of them, the ramain three spread around the tiny room. Standing by the door or looming over your shoulder like a creep.

“You steal the faces of others and make whatever you want of their lives.”

“So? They are dead. Like it or not, they won't miss their lives since they'd already found a new one on the other side.”

There's nothing to hide here. They're simply trying to guilt trip you. Everyone knows what you are, and the world has been alerted about your existance. It's just that they've never managed to catch you.

What you do might be cruel to some. But to you, it's the only option you have to live.

Your 'victims' — as everyone so loves to call them — are already dead by the time your soul replaces theirs. You have never killed anyone but yourself and consequentially their empty body. But you have never taken the live of another to make it yourself with your own hands.

All you are doing is trying to keep your head above a water that is a life with no ability to feel. Sensations and emotions both. All you are doing is keeping from losing yourself to madness.

Is it too much to ask?

“They might be dead. But you're hurting those you love and care for them.” the man says, “dying isn't the problem. You are not the one hurting. Those who you leave behind, they are the ones to really suffer.”

The words are like a sword through the heart, sharp and incessantly slow as it sinks in. You hang your head and grit your teeth. “Shut up.”

Laughter echoes into your ears.

“Shut up!” the chains rattle and strain when you throw yourself forward. They leave angry bruises on your skin.

“This is not the end,” he smiles and cups your face, his frail, trembling hands passing through your cheeks as he forgets himself. “this— you'll find a way when you're ready. And I'll see you on the other side.”

#story day #tf 141 #x top male reader #cod mw2 #top male reader #dom male reader #cod x reader #male reader #reader insert #x reader #cod mwii #cod #tf 141 x reader

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luveternals · 5 months

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paring: simon 'ghost' riley x mercenary male reader rating: mature, MDNI cw: implied killing, mention of killing, tell me if I missed anything (a little rushed bc I'm trying to build a schedule here ;^; sorry! I'll fix it later, promise.) ~ ~ ~

It’s the perfect night for a kill.

The moon shines bright up above, but it’s a pale wonder in comparison to the lights hanging over the city square. You’re sitting at one of the tables set near the center for the event.

Your target is a nobody, a goon bold enough to try his fortune, lucky enough to succeed. Feeling generous, you let him have his moment, let him bask in the attention. Before you'll rip it away, hands stained with his blood.

The guy doesn’t seem a threat to anyone but himself, and you have to wonder what he could have possibly done to have you, of all people, be sent after him. Sometimes not asking questions does make your job harder.

But the money is convenient, and you're not giving that up.

You stand, empty glass abandoned on the table, let your lips spread into a lazy grin, and move to blend in with the crowd.

The man sits at the bar, the conversation with his admirers forgotten in favor of the fresh refill of his sparkling drink the bartender sets in front of him. “This one’s for you,” you imagine the bartender say, “offered by the anonymous stranger over there with the charming smile.”

It’s not hard to step to the counter and steal a seat right next to his while he stares at the glass. His eyes are glazed over when he meets your gaze, alcohol burning a pleasurable chill through his vein.

Face flushed, pupils dictated, and lips pulls into an awkward grin, he leans against the counter. “My luck really isn't over yet, eh,” he slurps and raises his drink to tip it your way, “Don’t need anyone to pay for me, but why pass the chance to meet the handsome man that comes with the free drink?”

“i wonder, is a simple close up of my face all you’d expected to get alongside it?” you say, amused.

He perks up and sits up. “Well,” he says stretching the word, “are you offering anything else? Would love t’know,” he leams forward and runs his gaze down your body.

You press your lips into a thin line and have to fight for it not to turn into a grimace. At least he wasn’t dumb enough to just reach over and touch.

“I think we should move somewhere else so you can find out, hmm?”

You don’t know how people do it, to use your body to get what you want out of your victim. But in such a crowded space and so in the open, there is little else you could do to get him to move somewhere more secluded.

Besides meeting your target here does have its own little perks. Especially for someone with his own little bounty on the back of his head.

There are too many people to keep track of unless your following your target close up or from a high vantage point.

“After you,” you say and when he turns away to leave, you turn your head and shift your attention upwards. There’s a hotel facing right towards the square, windows sparkling as they reflect the event's lights.

You don’t have to scan the building to find your own hunter.

The light of his own room have been left off, strategically placed between other empty rooms to avoid suspicion. But years of this life have taught you where to look and when you send a wink his way through the lens of his scope, you know he had him.

You turn back around to follow your own target, exposing your back to a possible bullet to the neck.

He won't shoot anyway.

Not now, not here. Not when it would send the people into a panic. Not when you are more valuable alive than dead — if they ever get their hands on you in the first place, of course.

It’s a perfect night for a kill, yes. And perhaps, for a close up to a different face as well. One that is hidden behind a mask, which despite, his believes, doesn’t add to his anonymity. You think it only adds to his fame, really.

Killing is inconvenient.

Despite the money it can land you if you have the right contacts and skill set, killing is inconvenient.

The body you are left with. The blood that clings to every surface like a witness. And all other clues and tracks you might leave behind if you're not careful.

Setting things right as if you’re innocent is what takes up most of the work and time. The planning, the actually doing the act, the aftermath.

It’s late into the night when you finish the deed. It’s late into the night when a white skull appears from the shadows, the moonlight spilling into the room from the balcony accentuates every detail.

He leans against the wall and watches you in silence. You'd be impressed that he found you, if you hadn't lead him here yourself.

“Is this how you make friends?” you ask, leaning back against the kitchen island of your new, little safe place for the night. “Creep on them from the darkest shadows?”

“You knew I was there,” he says, voice flat and gaze burning from inside the eye holes.

“Did I?” you say and let out a chuckle, “and you let me go through with my job after all. I’m surprised.”

You push yourself off the island and step forward, closer. Slow and calculate.

He watches you, but doesn’t twitch a muscle when you stop at stabbing distance. “I wonder. Is my employer joining forces with you to pay his debt to me?” you say. “Or do you need my service and my target tonight was a simple nuisance to you?”

“We don’t work with criminals.”

“Of course not,” you say with a dangerous grin, “so, who's my new target? Mind you, I have a different price for you.”

He crosses his arms and squints at you in suspicion. “Which is?”

“I think you can figure it out yourself. I like money, but I don’t have any real need for it.”

Infamous Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley. He would be quite the price instead, you think.

Whoever the new bounty is, their days are over.

~ ~ ~ a/n: just telling ya, reader isn't the same as the last story, not crazy! Just in for the fun XD disclaimer: I don't know bananas about military nor cod. just here for the fun too :)

#reblog day #simon ghost riley #x top male reader #call of duty #top male reader #dom male reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 #male reader #cod mwii #ghost mw2 #modern warfare #cod #top reader #x reader #reader insert #ghost x reader

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