Hi there! Thanks for taking the time to read my work! I’ll update this list from time to time, however it might be a little outdated. Some of these stories are quite old, but I thought I would still link them here because I like to see how far I’ve come as a writer.
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The curtains in my living room window look different than I remember them last. Like someone moved them ever so slightly to see a better angle of my driveway. I sit here now, the car in park, but still humming with life because half of me believes if I turn it off now, I’ll foreshadow my own death.
The other half of me considers the advice from an online therapy forum I read a few weeks ago. Advice I doubt is from a real medical professional or has been proven to be true. Advice that should be prescribed in person and by a real therapist: The chances of a “once in a lifetime” event happening more than once in your life are so slim it isn’t worth worrying about it happening again.
Sometimes it’s enough to ease my mind, but not tonight.
However, with a deep breath and a certain heaviness settling on my shoulders, I twist the fob and observe the silence that falls over the car as the radio shuts off and the cool air vanishes.
By all means it’s a beautiful evening. The sun is setting and a sweet floral breeze brushes the hair off my shoulders. It’s an early start to the season with the crocuses done blooming and the lilacs having already started. The house I rent is in a small southern town occupied mostly by the elderly and a few young families who wanted to escape city life. Children are expected to be home right around now. It’s a safe community where most people are comfortable occasionally forgetting to lock their doors, or they simply don’t bother to begin with. I will never be one of those people. There’s a reason I had to change my name and move halfway across the country. Once you enter the protection program, there is no forgetting to lock your doors.
My hand clenches around the switchblade as I step through the side door. Inside, it’s quiet and the room takes on the golden hour’s warm glow. I walk through the house, sparing a quick glance inside each mostly empty room. Nothing stands out.
As I approach the kitchen, the tension in my back starts to ease. The bag drops off my shoulders and onto the table. I set the knife on the vinyl countertop and flick the kettle on. See? Nothing to worry about. It’s nice enough to take my drink out on the back porch and watch the rest of the sunset.
My attention switches once again to the vibrant sky out the window before I tear myself from the sight for a tea bag and a mug. The rumble of the water grows, yet when I hear the click indicating it should shut off, it doesn’t. It hasn’t even boiled yet. My breath catches in my chest as I freeze in my tracks, still facing the pantry. That wasn’t the kettle at all. It wasn’t the fan in the room over or some other appliance coming to life. That distinct sound, that click, belongs to one thing and one thing only. That was the safety taken off a handgun.
My knife is out of reach, still on the counter. I glance for anything I could use to defend myself in the pantry, but there’s nothing but boxes of cereal and cans of soup.
“I figured this would happen at some point,” I say to the figure in the corner of my eye, pointing the gun. “You people don’t tend to leave loose ends.”
“We don’t,” the dreadfully familiar voice confirms. I was hoping to never hear from him again. Especially not in these circumstances. His tone holds the same seriousness as the last time we spoke, after my father’s death. He told me then that I’d be lucky to never see him again.
I’m still not sure I understand what that means. Maybe I’m about to find out. For some reason, I don’t feel nervous. I’m ready to accept my fate.
Nothing’s felt real the last several months. My life has been stuck in limbo and despite my futile attempts, I’ve been unable to find any sort of meaning. Everything feels hopeless in the grander scheme of things. So if he’s come to take my life, I might even welcome it.
“Good thing you’re not a loose end,” Captain Price spares a small smile as he steps out further from the corner. Had I passed him on the street, I don’t know that I’d recognize him. From his worn jeans to his black windbreaker, the man completely blends in as a civilian.
“Put the gun away and I’ll try to believe you,” Price tilts his head to consider, then nods. The weapon slides easily back into its holster. It’s not like he’d need it anyway. I’m not exactly a formidable opponent.
“Fair enough,” his attention drifts to the box of Earl Grey in my hands. “Are you making tea?”
“Want a cup?” I offer, sliding the lid off the box.
“I would. It was a long trip to get here,” I know what he’s talking about. The few hundred people that live here, chose this place because its hours away from any of the neighbouring cities. People come here to get away from the city life. It has the bare necessities and that’s all they need.
“It’s a long trip to anywhere down here,” my voice feels empty. Void of the passion and desperation that once fueled every decision. Steaming water covers the teabags and fills the cups. “Milk or sugar?”
“Black is fine, thanks,” Price grunts as he settles into a chair at the kitchen table. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve used the table maybe twice. “Do you like it? The peace and quiet?” he muses.
“It’s different than New York,” I hesitantly offer as I set the cups down and take the seat across from him.
“Ah, but do you like it?” Our eyes meet and he knows the answer. “I didn’t think you would. You took well to the chaos of our world. Despite having no former training, you adapted in a way that most couldn’t,” I didn’t realize Price paid that much attention to me. I always assumed he was too preoccupied with the rats and the Russians.
The sweet tea dampens my dry mouth. I take a second sip to buy myself more time. What kind of answer is he looking for? Why is he here of all places? “I always like the business of New York. I guess that’s one thing I found similar between it and 141,” he ponders my response for a moment and a heavy silence blankets the room.
“Do you miss it?” his question feels redundant. Price has had the time and practice to become more patient than I will ever be.
“Yes – look as much fun as I’m having here, you know with you breaking into my house, pointing a gun at me, and drinking my tea. Why the hell are you here, Captain?”
“I’m here to offer you a job,” I blink. A job? There’s no way they want to hire me after what I did. How can they possibly look over the fact that I killed one of their highest-ranking prisoners before they could get any information from him?
“What kind of job?”
“Well I was thinking in our translations department,” Price says. “You’re fluent and have prior experience in this setting. And your history with the Ultranationalists gives you an edge. You also held your own incredibly well last time with no formal training. Give it a couple of months and you will become incredibly valuable to our team.”
Once the shock wears off, I’m almost flattered by his last comment. That’s high praise coming from Price. However, I’m also slightly amused. There’s no way he genuinely expects me to say yes. Does he really believe I’d just drop everything and work for 141? Surely not.
Yet, what is there to drop? My admin job at the town office and the zero friends I’ve made since moving to this place? The only people I talk to are those I work with and they aren’t allowed to know any real information about me or I risk exposing my true identity. Everyone I once knew back home is off-limits. If they knew I was alive, I would be in even more danger than I was before. Even my mother doesn’t know of my existence. I was dead to her as soon as I killed my father. She would never want to talk to me again. She might even give up my location to the Ultranationalists herself.
Then there’s how I left things with Ghost. The last time I saw him, I was in a pool of my father’s blood. I don’t want to think about how much trouble he got in from letting that happen.
“I don’t know that your head interrogator wants anything to do with me,” I say assuming he doesn’t know Ghost willingly gave me the knife I used to kill my father.
“Whys that?” he says with raised brows as though he’s clueless. Price plays the role well, however he’s anything but.
“I lied to him and used him to get to my father. I’m a thief and a murderer.”
“Those were extreme circumstances, y/n.”
“If I work for you there will always be extreme circumstances,” I respond. “What makes you think you can trust me anyway? I betrayed you all.”
Price shifts in his chair. He takes a moment and gets a real good look at me, like he’s making sure. The shadows around his face have changed slightly. The sun’s gone now, but a fading blue hue falls over the horizon.
The windows are closed, but even if they were cracked, you wouldn’t hear any outside noise. This town is uncomfortably quiet. The wood creaks as Price leans forward again. “Time after time, y/n, you had almost every opportunity to betray us. There were the interviews, the ambush, the rats, the exchange, and even the death of your father. His killing was not a betrayal. None of the information he had would have made a difference,” Price’s list stirs unsettling memories. He notices and adds, “The only betrayal was that of a father to a daughter. You deserved better: loyalty, trust, truth, to be wanted.”
That last word finally cracks something in me. My heart falters and I take a sip of tea in an attempt to hide the effect of his words.
“Yeah, well…” the words trail off. I’ve got nothing else to say.
Something scuffs along the floor in a room over. Had there been any other noise I wouldn’t have noticed it. The sound was unmistakably human. Like someone was leaning against the wall and could no longer wait. I thought I cleared the rooms, but I was already wrong once. Nothing else follows for almost a minute until the floorboards whisper at the edge of the room. My head turns just as the shadow emerges around the dim corner.
“We want you, y/n,” Simon Riley’s coarse voice fills the room. When our eyes meet, I forget how to breathe. My joints stiffen and my feet turn to lead. His demanding presence completely fills the room and even in civilian clothes, Ghost looks like he belongs on a battlefield.
For a moment it truly feels like I am looking at a ghost, at someone who was as good as dead to me. Someone who, an hour ago, I would have guaranteed I would never see or hear of again.
All the memories I’d been trying to forget over these past months begin to surface. I remember the heat of his rough hands on my skin and the pressure of his arms wrapped around me. The brush of his breath past my ears and down my neck. The stability he provided when my whole world was collapsing around me. The way he risked his life for mine countless times. The way he trusted me to make the ultimate decision when it came to my father and my future. He has always wanted me. He has always chosen me. Now, it's my turn to choose.
Nothing has been the same after learning about the Ultranationalists. It’s impossible to be happy when you know the truth. Part of me feels responsible for the horrible things my father has done. I also know I will never be content here. I can’t keep hiding, but I can help. I can work to remedy the evil that has corrupted my family.
“Do you want tea?”
The end, for now. Thank you for the kind words and support throughout this story. If you are a returning reader, thank you for your patience.
Warnings: 18+, minors dni, death, use of weapons, use of a knife, graphic depictions of violence, blood, military setting.
They keep him locked away in complete and utter darkness. Not a single sound penetrates the two-foot-thick cement walls. Anything he hears is a fabrication of his mind. An audio hallucination caused by the psychological effects of the deprivation of his senses. I’m sure that’s not the only thing he imagines as his chilled bones rattle against each other and his joints stiffen from the cold. So when Ghost cracks open the vault-like door and flicks on the lights, I don’t doubt my father thinks he’s seeing things. Maybe that I’m not real or that I’m visiting him from the dead or that I’ve come for revenge. All of these could be true.
The frigid air penetrates through my long sleeves. It’s just warm enough in here to avoid hypothermia. It’s like 141 is refrigerating him, preserving him until it’s time to transport him back to their main base. That’s where the real fun will begin. In theory, at least.
Ghost keeps his word and leaves the room only after sharing the smallest nod with me. He trusts me. It’s not his choice to make. It’s mine.
I think I subconsciously knew what had to happen long before I could admit such an idea to myself.
All I’ve ever wanted since this began was for the hurting to stop. Not just the pain inflicted on me, but on every soul involved. I hated the idea of people suffering because of me. Even if they hurt me and even if they hurt others; I didn’t see the point in furthering the cycle.
But that’s just it. It’s a cycle that won’t stop until someone interrupts it. 141 thinks that’s what they’re doing, but they’re just as much a part of it as the Ultranationalists. I’d never tell Ghost that, but I don’t see any other way you can put it.
They won’t accomplish anything by locking him away and torturing him for days on end until he gives them some outdated information on my uncle that’ll just send them on another goose chase. The only thing they’ll accomplish is causing more pain.
141’s solution isn’t permanent enough.
“Y/n? Darling?” My father’s voice is weak. “Is that really you?”
For a moment I think he might cry. He looks broken. Genuinely broken. He looks like I’ve felt ever since I found out about who he is. All this makes me wonder how much his reaction is genuine.
“Don’t call me that anymore,” I respond and it’s enough to tell him that, yes, it really is me. And no, I’m not here to help. I take a step away from the locked entrance into the claustrophobic room.
I wouldn’t doubt these rooms are designed to be small for psychological reasons. The base isn’t lacking space by any means. Some psychologists at some point determined that people are easier to break when they’re caged up like animals.
“Don’t act like that darling,” his tone remains on the verge of cracking. “Can we talk? I want to know you’re okay.”
He’s lying. Something about the squint around his eyes isn’t right. Or maybe I want him to be guilty. Maybe I just want to feel justified. What would Ghost think about his body language?
It looks like it takes a significant amount of effort for him to rise his head. The once gentle, yet strong man I knew has since withered. I want to pity him. Some part of me even wants to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness. To cut him loose and let him take me back in time.
The stronger part of me won’t let that happen.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” I tell him. My voice doesn’t let on how nervous I am. The stress of the situation doesn’t seem to sink in. That’ll happen later.
“Look,” he admits. “I need your help. They’re going to kill me. Then you. We have to do something.”
Suddenly it’s we. Not me. Not I. Not your mother and I. No, she’s in New York. All he cares about is himself. I imagine Ghost standing beside me and striking him for lying. We.
“How many deaths are you responsible for?” I don’t bother entertaining his nuances. I feel uncharacteristically calm right now as I slowly approach him. My hands don’t shake or sweat. My mouth isn’t dry. My heart beats steadily. I am in complete control.
The switch blade weighs like iron in my back pocket.
“What are you talking about?” his mask starts to slip away. I need him to tell me. I can’t do this if he doesn’t admit guilt.
“The shootings: refugee centers, churches, homeless shelters. I saw videos, you know.”
“If you saw videos, what does my answer matter?”
“I want to hear you say it,” my voice is even. I almost sound unbothered by what I’m asking him to admit like I don’t care all that much. “Take ownership of your actions.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he tries to change the subject. For a moment I think he’s trying to make me feel stupid. Then I register something else in his voice. Something fearful and hesitant. What is he scared of? “This isn’t a mistake you want to make.”
“You’re ignoring me. Admit it. Admit what you did to those people. Admit what you did to me. To Mom,” The tips of my boots are just inches away from his chained feet. The air between us is charged with resentment.
“Look at what they’ve done to you, y/n,” maybe it wasn’t fear I sensed earlier. Maybe the emotion sneaking out of his chest was something entirely different. Because if I’m not mistaken now, he almost sounds disgusted. “You’re almost unrecognizable,” The flare of his nostrils confirms it. “Your mother would be so disappointed if she could see you right now.”
I feel a dull twisting sensation in my chest. Like his cold hands have wrapped around my lungs and squeezed them. Breathing feels impossible as the thick muscle twists between his bloody fingers.
My heart pumps faster and molten blood races to my neck and cheeks. My calm composure is slipping and fast.
“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” the words snag through bared teeth. How dare he try to guilt me. I haven’t done anything wrong. The only reason I’m here is because of him. It’s all because of him.
“Nothing about me’s changed, darling. Your mother’s always supported me. You would too if you knew where the world was heading.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’re looking at it wrong, y/n. Not everything is about making the world better. But our job, our family, will make it more secure. Those people were a threat,” he says matter-of-factly. A threat to what, exactly? They were innocent. They were children.
“Don’t do that. Don’t act like you’re doing this for the greater good. There is no world where mass killings make things better,” I snarl.
“We work for what we want. We take things into our own hands. This little crew over here, 141,” he says with a measurable amount of distaste. “Is using you. Even now, y/n,” He says this like he knows. Like it’s the complete truth and to even think otherwise is utterly mad. “If you think you’re here on your own free will. You’re wrong.”
I blink. His absolute certainty is maddening. Never could I have imagined him to be so disconnected from reality. He truly is a stranger.
“I know why you’re really here, Little Bird, doing their dirty work like a good little whore,” he seethes. There’s a controlled sense of chaos to him that taunts me. I could pull the switchblade on him. I should. Just get it over with for god’s sake.
I close the minimal space between us. Only inches away yet the distance feels like miles.
“I’m not here on their business,” I say between my teeth. As I lean over him, it’s the first time in forever I feel like I am in control. “This all started because of you and I’ll be damn-“
Suddenly the tables turn swiftly and dangerously. He leaps from the chair and his hands are wrapped around my throat in a vice like grip before I can even process what’s just happened. My arms flail and it feels like slow motion as we fall through the air with him on top of me. How the hell did he get out of his restraints?
My head hits the cement hard and the sound of bone hitting rock echoes off the walls. Not just one, but two men are now strangling me and I struggle to make out which one is real.
“This is all your fault,” spit covers my face as he speaks. Redness runs up his throat to his cheeks as his eyes bulge from exertion. My hands desperately grasp at his arms to no avail. My ears ring as they search the floor for something, anything. Then I feel the tiny piece of metal, still in my back pocket.
Ghost’s training kicks in fast.
My brain barely regiseters the object in my hands as I thrust it toward him as quickly as possible while he’s still destracted. My vision is spotting as his grip seems to tighten even stronger. I repeat the desperate action several times more until the blade is lodged in his lower stomach and I finally manage to drag it across diagonally, completely bathing us in blood.
Only then, does he falter. The man’s hands reach for the wound as he crumples to the side and I take the chance to crawl towards the corner of the room furthest from him. I can’t feel anything but the hot, tacky substance that has fully saturated my clothes. My chest quickly rises and falls as my lungs fight to breathe, but for the life of me it doesn’t feel like any air is making it to them. Panic clouds my vision and my sight turns to static. Everything sounds distorted, like I’m underwater. For a moment I think that is exactly what happened and must be why I feel like I’m drowning.
Red emergency lights flash and an alarm blares in the background. In thirty seconds an armed team of 141’s soldiers will barge through the doors to address the security breach. When they see my father’s slumped body and the growing pool of blood around the bottom of his chair, they’ll look to Ghost for answers first, then they’ll look at me. There’s no hiding what I’ve done.
“Y/n, you’re hyperventilating,” his clear, calm voice breaks through the surface. My eyes flicker up to meet his and my whole attention focuses in on him. Simon. I don’t know where he came from or if he’s real, but right now he’s the only person that can save me. “Deep breaths sweetheart, we don’t have long before they’re here,” his gloved hands cup my bloodied cheeks. I almost don’t notice his skull mask. It’s not the scariest thing in the room anymore. I am.
I nod and Simon continues, “breathe with me y/n. Ready?” he searches my face before deeply breathing in, “and out,” he says through a deep exhale. “Keep breathing. You’re doing good, but I need you to listen very carefully about what is going to happen next,” I nod again and push through another wave of anxiety.
“A team of men is going to detain you and you’ll be brought to the med center. Once you’re cleared Price will have you locked in your room. You won’t get to see me again, but I’ll be watching, okay? You’ll stay there for a few days while the higher-ups have meetings, then eventually discharge you and put you under protective services,” Ghost’s thumb gently rubs back and forth, spreading blood across my cheek. I finally come to terms with what he’s saying. I won’t be able to see him again. They’ll have assumed he had something to do with this. Otherwise, how’d I get the knife? How’d I get through security? They’ll know it was him and they’ll punish him for it.
“But you-” My voice cracks.
“I’ll be alright y/n,” Simon is so calm that I can’t help but belive him.
I want to lean into his embrace, to feel his arms fully encompass my shaking frame and fully disappear into him. Does he mean it when he says I won’t get to see him again? My already clenched heart twists. How am I supposed to just accept that? There has to be something we can do.
I catch the silhouette of my father’s body from the corner of my eye and feel my breathing start to lose control again. I did that. I killed him. Even if it was technically self-defence, my intentions were already set upon deciding to visit him. He almost did me a favour by attacking me.
I’d be stupid to think Ghost and I could have a future after I’ve committed such a heinous crime.
In the distance I hear quickly approaching footsteps as a crew of men, armed and ready, sprint down the hall towards our direction.
“Simon, I-” my voice drifts off. There’s so much I need to tell him, but I’m at a loss. Under the mask, his eyes are calm. He knows. He always has.
“I know y/n,” his voice is low with remorse. The air is still. The alarm blares in the background and our faces are illuminated by the flashing red. My last ounce of hope is suspended by a delicate thread in the space between us. “Me too,” Simon’s brows furrow as he looks me over one sorrowful last time. His shoulders heave as he prepares himself for what he has to do next.
Ghost shifts back as he rises to his full height. The automatic riffle that is often clipped to his hip is taken into both hands and aimed directly at my heart.
“Simon?” my voice trembles. He isn’t there.
“Toss the weapon to the side and put your hands behind your back,” Ghost commands. He doesn’t have to yell or threaten me. I defeatedly do exactly as he says.
The sounds of the soldiers grow louder. Their feet loudly echo through the cement halls. The rattle of their equipment can be heard over the alarm as the leader of the crew yells something indiscernible.
Six more weapons are aimed at my chest as they storm the room. Five of the faceless, towering figures line the wall, completely surrounding me. The last one approaches my father, drops his weapon, removes his gloves, presses two fingers to my father’s carotid artery, and checks for a pulse. Thirty silent seconds pass, and nothing.
He is finally gone.
All their attention returns to me. Ghost remains in the background as one of the new soldiers approaches with a pair of cuffs dangling from his hands. He doesn’t say anything as he closes the gap. The metal is cold around my wrists as the cuffs tighten and click into place.
I fight every urge to look at Ghost. All I want is the comfort of his eyes, to know everything will be all right. I can’t risk it, my every action is being monitored. Even the wrong kind of eye contact can be incriminating. How badly will they punish him? My stomach twists at the thought.
The masked man yanks me to my feet. My knees almost buckle with the unexpected pressure. A wave of dizziness washes over me and I nearly fall. I barely have time to adjust before the familiar black cloth bag is tugged over my head.
Darkness.
I’m reminded of how I was brought to 141 in nearly the same state. It feels like so much has changed and yet nothing is different. My whole life was burned to the ground, yet for them, this is just another day. I am merely a small blip on their radar, almost small enough to disregard completely, but not quite.
Warnings: minors dni, angst, military setting, explicit language, depictions of violence.
I’m not supposed to be here. Quiet beeping fills the room. Soft sunlight drifts in through the windows and skylight. The atmosphere of the infirmary is surprisingly uplifting, almost like an escape from the rest of the compound. If Ghost or Price found out, they’d probably send me back to my quarters, lock the door, and throw away the key. But there are a few people who’ve taken sympathy on me recently. Konig being one of them.
He was only supposed to fill in for Soap by taking me to breakfast. Yet, he was suspiciously early. The cafeteria had barely opened and almost no one was around. I was cautiously silent the whole time, but after we finished filling our trays and before we sat down to eat, the towering man leaned down and asked if I wanted to eat with Soap instead.
A spark of hope flickered behind my eyes. I knew he could see it. Konig didn’t say anything else, but gestured with his head toward the door.
Now we sit in the infirmary together beside Soap’s bed. It’s a long, large room and the beds are only separated by curtains to provide a miniscule amount of privacy. But it's still more welcoming than all the other spaces on the compound.
Soap is in rough shape, but at least he’s alive. Bandages wrap around his chest and his arm is back in the sling. One of Soap’s eyes is completely bloodshot from an impact to the head. The eerie red is a harsh contrast against the stormy blue of his irises. He had internal bleeding at some point, but during the surgery, they were able to stop it. His skin is painfully painted in large black and purple bruises from head to toe.
However, the explosion didn’t touch his smile, which tugs at the corner of his mouth as I tell him how Konig snuck me in here. The skin around his eyes crinkles, but he winces as he laughs. The pain he’s in is still fresh. Soap will be in here for days. He’ll be off the field for even longer.
“I’m glad you’re still here lass,” the smile is evident in his voice, yet his words allude to something more. How much did he know about the plan? What was supposed to happen to me? I can’t ask him that. Not with Konig here and not with only curtains for privacy.
I need to know what 141’s real plans were. Who shot first? Who’s to blame for the people who died that day? What the hell really happened?
All I can do now is revel in the small moments of our friendship. Because even if he did know, I can’t hold it against him. I don’t think I could ever be angry at Soap.
“You should’ve seen their faces when they realized we destroyed their main base,” pride laces Soap’s voice as he speaks to Konig. “They didn’t know what hit them.”
“You blew it up?” I ask.
Soap’s eyes light up as they connect with mine. I can almost see the flames in their reflection. “to smithereens,” I can picture it in my head, feel the explosion ripple through the air with such an immense power it flattens the trees. There’d be nothing left of their base after Soap’s team was done with it. They definitely sent a message.
Konig begins asking him another question when I see a shadow move behind the cream curtains. Ghost steps into the room and the atmosphere immediately shifts. I haven’t seen him since the exchange. Now I can’t take my eyes off him. Every feeling I have for him is so incredibly conflicting.
“Who authorized this?” Ghost demands, already knowing the answer.
“I – uh,” Konig stumbles over his words. Guilt twists inside my chest. I don’t want him to get in trouble for being nice to me. “No one, sir,”
Sometimes I forget the power he has within the task force. Nothing happens without Ghost knowing and approving of it. Especially when it comes to me. My fear for Konig grows.
“It’s my fault,” I lie. Ghost’s eyes flicker to me. “I said you’d let me see Soap,” the urgency in my voice mixes with a false sense of confidence well enough that the average person might just believe what I’m saying. Ghost, however, is far from the average person.
The air is tense. He turns his attention back to Konig. “That true?”
“Negative, sir,” my fists clench in my lap when he responds. Damn him for being honest.
“Head back to your station, we’ll discuss this later,” his voice is cold. I wish I could see more of his face to gauge how angry he is.
“Come on Ghost, it isn’t that serious,” Soap interjects as Konig gets up to leave. I feel ashamed, like we were caught with our hands in the cookie jar at our grandparent’s place. Unease also weaves its way into my mind. I’m not sure where I stand with Ghost. He could’ve changed his entire attitude towards me altogether.
“Don’t start, Soap,” says Ghost. His narrowed eyes are back on me. “You. Follow me. No questions.”
My mouth is dry as I force myself to swallow. Ghost has already left the room when Soap grabs my hand and gives it a quick, reassuring squeeze. He smiles half-heartedly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Thanks for visiting,” he whispers.
I smile in response, but can’t find the words to tell him how much his friendship means to me.
My heart thrums in my chest as I catch up to Ghost. He leads me down a dark hallway I haven’t taken before. Something tells me we aren’t going back to his or my quarters. Maybe he doesn’t trust them anymore. Someone could be recording us.
Ghost walks faster than normal, as though his irritation fuels him. His broad frame stands out against the mute background. I feel small trailing behind him. I wonder how long it’d take him to notice if I stopped walking.
The corridor is smaller than the main hallways that take you to the cafeteria and sleeping quarters. The ceiling is shorter too, and the overhead lights are spaced out to the extent that the hall almost fades to complete darkness between them. There aren’t any rooms or offices and it doesn’t seem to intersect with any other passages. It truly feels like we’re walking in a liminal space with no beginning or end. Anxiety builds at the bottom of my lungs, slowly but surely pushing out the available air.
The anticipation of what’s about to happen tears me apart inside. What will he say? What will he do? After finding out 141 had my mom all along and was waiting to use her as a backup strategy, I feel even more betrayed than before. Ghost said he couldn’t tell me things, but how can he justify keeping information about my life hidden from me? He wasn’t protecting me, he was making sure I wouldn’t turn on them.
Now what? Maybe Bennet was right, that 141 doesn’t need an excuse to keep me around now that they have my father. Will Ghost take me out back and put a bullet in my head? Will they do the same to my parents? There’s no way they can possibly return me to my old life. Such a thing doesn’t exist anymore.
A glowing red exit sign hangs in the air above a door that is almost impossible to spot. The light menacingly reflects off the skull mask as he waits for me to come closer. Ghost shoves the door open and waits for me to enter the staircase first.
Everything is metal and cement and only lit up by emergency lights that are once again spaced too far apart. I feel his demanding presence behind me as the door latches and locks behind us. The sound echos off the walls. Not another soul is here. Nor do they know of our presence. We are truly, completely, alone.
“Simon,” I hesitate. He said no questions, but after everything, how does he expect me to blindly follow him? “What are we doing here?”
“I lied to you,” just like that, his words trigger something in me. Like a fuse that was just waiting for someone to stumble across the wire. Ghost’s foot just snagged that very wire. My demeanour completely changes.
“That’s a fucking understatement,” I whip around to face him. Ghost stands on the cement landing space with his back to the dark grey door. Staircases with metal railings connect to each end of the platform leading to the upper and lower floors. Every sound lightly echoes off the brick, windowless walls that look like someone forgot to paint them. His arms fold across his chest at my harsh accusation. He stiffens. The Lieutenant isn’t used to being addressed in this way. My tone is blatantly disrespectful. But I don’t care. “You’ve done so much more than just lie to me.”
“Y/n-” I cut him off.
“No. I’m talking,” I interrupt. “I won’t even bring up how you fucking drugged and kidnapped me to get me here. You have done so much shit to me, Simon, so much. I don’t even know where the hell to start, but since you mentioned it, the lying. The fucking lying. Every single time I think we’re finally on the same page, you turn around and fucking lie and hide information about me from me. You don’t get to do that! Not when it’s my life being affected. You don’t get to pretend to be God, Simon,” I step towards him with an accusatory finger pointed at his chest. “And it’s not like you’re lying just about anything. It’s about my mom, Simon, my fucking mom! Do you have any idea what that’s done to me? How scared I am for her? You and Price and whoever else have no right to do that to her. None. And don’t you dare tell me that she was safe that entire time and you wouldn’t have hurt her. I don’t believe for a second that Price wouldn’t have killed her.”
“You’re right,” Ghost states. I feel myself resisting his attempt. His arms fall from his chest and he dares to take a small step closer.
“I can’t trust you, Simon. Every time I think I can, there’s always more to the story you’re hiding from me. You’re always hiding. Always. Every time we talk. Every time we see each other. It’s always one-sided. I don’t even get to see you, Simon. You’ve touched every inch of me and yet I don’t even know what you look like. How can I ever genuinely trust you?” my feelings are constantly exacerbated after every interaction we have. Especially recently.
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Just close them,” his voice is low and stern, yet unmistakably tender. I listen to Ghost’s orders and reluctantly close my eyes.
The stair well is utterly silent except for our light breaths. Then, my ears pick up on something else. It’s the quiet rustle of fabric against skin. Then, the sound of uncertain footsteps coming closer. Ghost’s breath is shakey as he slowly exhales.
His large hands encase mine as he brings them up past his chest and gently places them on the sides of his defined jaw. The warmth of Simon’s skin immediately sinks into my hands. My heart skips a beat. He isn’t wearing his mask.
A fearful moment of hesitancy passes between us. Neither quite sure how to proceed. This is uncharted territory. He is taking a giant leap of faith right now. Even after everything, after I said I can’t trust him, he does this. I’m not sure I completely understand his train of thought, but I know this gesture is far from the faint of heart.
“I’ll tell you everything, no hiding, just promise me you’ll keep your eyes closed,” his voice is low and cautious. I trace my thumbs back and forth along his jaw. His skin is smooth under the pads of my fingers and I get a brief hint of his woodsy aftershave.
“You don’t have to do this,” the whisper brushes across my lips, yet I can’t hide the hope behind my words. I need to know. The harrowing lies have eaten away at me for weeks. My stomach twists and growls like a starved, feral animal. I struggle to stifle the growing hunger pains.
“I want to,” yet, I’m not sure he’s fully convinced himself. This is his last chance to catch me as I’m falling through his calloused fingers. Simon knows this.
My hands leave his jaw and lightly trace upwards, just barely brushing over Simon’s face. His skin is surprisingly soft. Heat pools in his cheeks and as I move upward, I notice a rough patch of skin along his one cheekbone. Something akin to a long, jagged scar. Simon’s breathing hitches as I pause. A painful memory passes.
“What was the original plan? What was going to happen to me?” I ask, hands still on his face. Simon shifts closer. I feel the heat radiating from his body. We can’t be more than a few inches apart.
“Do you know about the second attack?” he asks.
“Bits and pieces.”
“While the exchange was happening, the demolitions unit was rigging the Ultranationalist’s nearby base. The explosion was set to go off ten minutes after they had you. It didn’t, something went wrong and the base went down early. That’s how Soap was injured. That’s what tipped the Ultranationalists off and why they started fighting in the bushes,” my hands still as he speaks. “Ideally your father would’ve taken you and left, then their base would detonate on the way back. They’d have nowhere to go and we would take control of their vehicles and capture the targets,” he finishes.
“What about everyone else?” I ask.
“Anyone caught on sight would be killed,” he replies bluntly. The gravity of his words weighs heavily on me. There were a lot of men there. Imagining their bodies lying in the snow sends a shiver down my spine. I feel his eyes on me, reading every microexpression, understanding every judgement. “That’s how it is.”
“It’s cruel.”
“Not in comparison to what they do,” I remember his visible hatred for the Ultranationalists from our night at the cabin. Clips of the videos flash in my mind. The innocent people they killed, all in the name of political power. Everything Ghost feels for them is completely justified. Killing them means saving so many more. It’s for the greater good.
My hands skim across his face. They pass over Simon’s forehead then down past his thick brows. Long eyelashes flutter under my hands. Like his other features, his nose is strong. There’s a bump along the bridge that indicates it’s been broken at least once. No doubt from his service.
“Is my mother an Ultranationalist?” The seed was planted when I learned what my father is. She had to at least know. Although making assumptions like that is dangerous, I had no idea. And look at me now.
“She’s affiliated.”
“Is that your way of being polite?”
“No,” he says. “She knew who your father was when they immigrated to America, but she was never personally involved,” Simon’s cool breath fans against my face as he speaks.
“Until now,” because of them. Because of 141.
“Until now,” he confirms.
I resent how they’ve dragged us into this. I had a life before all of this. I was happy. Now I’ll never be able to go back. I’ll never be with my family again. I’ll never be loved by them again.
“Would Price have killed her?” the words are barely above a whisper. I feel my pulse pick up and realize I’m scared to hear his answer.
“Affirmative,” he confirms and I feel my heart clench under his fist. “But not on American soil. The guns that day were loaded with blanks.”
My hands still on top of his face and I fight the urge to open my eyes. My throat tightens and I know if I speak, my voice will crack. I can almost hear his next words: she knew what she signed up for. That doesn’t change how much his answer hurts.
I inch back and start to pull away when two large hands gently wrap around my wrists.
“Stay,” Simon murmurs. That one word has more influence on me than I care to admit. It’s not a request or an order. It’s almost a plea.
I wordlessly nod and feel as Simon places my hands back on top of his face. He steps forward, closing the remaining space between us with a silent promise. I move my right hand over his full lips and trace the outline of them. My mind flickers to all the places they’ve touched, the marks they’ve decorated my skin with. The smooth feeling of them as they glided between my own. The welcoming taste of them. The feeling of his flesh between my teeth. The lies they’ve told. The promises they hold.
“One more,” I hesitate. My mouth runs dry. This could be the defining moment of my life. Everything – every damn thing - relies on his answer. “Does Price consider me to be affiliated with the Ultranationalists?”
My eyes squint tight with anticipation. Beneath my fingers, Simon wets his lips. I feel his words form against my skin before they reach my ears. “Negative,” the word is a sigh of relief between us.
I visibly relax against his strong body. Simon takes this opportunity to grab a strand of my hair and twist it between his fingers. “I was going to kill your father when he held that gun to your head,” there’s nothing bitter about his confession. The low words are a matter of fact in his mind. I’m less surprised by his confession than I thought. My hands travel back down to his jaw and trace along the length of it. I wish he did. I would have.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
“It’s not my choice to make,” I think about his words for a moment. Is it that simple in his mind? Their orders are capture or kill. It was his choice to make.
Unless…
Unless that isn’t what he’s referring to. My breathing falters and my mind draws a blank. I don’t know what to say. Surely he isn’t alluding to what I think he is?
I want to open my eyes. To search his face. To try and read his facial expressions.
“Simon I-” I draw a blank. How do you respond to that?
“I don’t expect you to trust me,” but I do. I already do. Even if I shouldn’t. Even if it’ll only get me hurt in the end. “But I will always tell you the truth,” his hand wraps around the outside of my own. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the pads of my fingers.
He releases me only to cup the sides of my face. Simon gently pulls me in. My concentration on keeping my eyes closed, slips, as his lips lightly skim across mine.
I don’t hesitate when I press my full body weight against his. He’s warm and sturdy and safe. Nothing else matters as his strong hands wrap around my body and wind through my hair, pulling me even closer. I don’t want to lose him. Yet I know this can’t last. There’s nothing sustainable about Ghost and I.
“Will you do something for me?” I whisper against his lips. He pauses, just for a moment, just long enough to consider all of the different things I might ask.
“What?”
“I want to see him,” I say, resting my head against the nape of his neck. “Alone.”
“There’s nothing he’ll say that will make you feel any better, y/n,” Simon brushes a gentle hand along the top of my hair. “Trust me,” There’s an unsaid “believe me, I know” after his last words. My mind flickers back to the brief mentions of his father. Of how horribly he treated his family. I can’t help but reject that comparison. Our fathers are two completely different monsters.
“I need to try,” I say. I feel him stiffen. He can’t protect me the way he wants to if I’m there alone, but I need this. I won’t have another chance. Soon they’ll ship him off to a remote location that doesn’t officially exist, never to be seen again. My window is closing.
“Okay,” he sighs. It’s barely a confirmation. Yet, his words are enough. I wonder if Ghost will run this by Price? Or will I truly be alone with my father tomorrow?
That night, after Ghost drops me off, I think of all the things I’ve wanted to say to my father in the last few weeks. Of all the things I’ve wanted to do.
I visualize a list of everything on my mind as I lie in bed. I shift and slip my hand under my pillow. My fingertips brush against the sharp tip of the cold, compact switchblade Ghost gave me that night in the cabin. It fits against my palm like it was forged specifically for my hand.
Ghost gave it to me for protection against him. Trained me how to use it with the Ultranationalist rat in mind. Never would I have ever dreamed of doing what my mind conjures up now.
I fall asleep with my hand securely wrapped around the knife.
Warnings: minors dni, angst, military setting, explicit language, use of weapons, mentions of injuries and death.
My feelings towards Price are continuously conflicted. On one hand, he’s been very generous throughout my stay with 141. He seems to trust my word at face value and has offered me protection with Soap and Ghost. He also seemed genuinely impressed with my work as a translator, and then again with my performance on the phone with my father.
On the other hand, he is the entire reason I’m here. Sure, Ghost arranged everything, but Price is the man behind every step 141 takes. Nothing is done without his permission. My existence is simply a form of currency to him. My value relies on how much my father is willing to sacrifice for me. Markets are rarely stable in times of war. One wrong move, and the stock will tank faster than in 1929. I feel the dip approaching like a rollercoaster at the top of a hill. Imminent.
As he stands in front of me, Price has a welcoming presence, despite all of the atrocities he’s committed. Despite everything he has put me through to gain the upper hand on my father. Despite everything he is going to put me through.
His voice is soft as he speaks. We’re alone in my quarters. He leans against the dresser as I sit in bed with my legs pulled to my chest.
“We identified another rat,” a double agent. Another one of their supposedly well-vetted men who turned out to be a terrorist in disguise. His shoulders remain rigid and his arms cross over his chest. “He was in our transportation unit,” Price continues.
I search my mind for some of the faces I’ve come to recognize. There are too many to remember. I don’t know if I’ve even talked to any of the task force members in that unit. Everyone I know is an extension of Soap’s circle.
“What happened to him?” I ask.
“Nothing yet,” he answers. “We can’t risk tipping off the ultranationalists or the exchange being called off,” his thick English accent reminds me of a misty, fall day spent at a café. It’s cold, but there’s also something comforting about it - about him.
It makes sense how the ultranationalists always knew where we were. The mole could’ve tapped the vehicle GPS or tipped them off about which bases we were at. All of those attacks couldn’t have succeeded without him.
“Are there more of them?”
“Rats don’t lie alone,” there’s an underlying tone of disgust in his otherwise reserved voice. His message is loud and clear and more unnerving than ever. The men in 141 are even less trustworthy than I originally thought. “But I didn’t stop to visit about pest control.”
The air feels colder as the words leave his lips. My breathing pauses and the false ease of our conversation drops away like a theatre curtain.
“It’s happening, isn’t it?”
“Affirmative,” he confirms.
“When?” my soft voice is urgent.
“In fifteen minutes someone will drop off your gear. In forty-five you’ll get on the van. And in one hour we depart,” My chest clenches and I feel a nervous ball form in my stomach. I can’t believe how fast this is all happening. I’m not ready. I don’t have a plan to save myself if this all goes south. He doesn’t care if I live. Neither does my father. He might say he does, but he doesn’t, not really. I’m just an excuse for them to meet head to head. Just an excuse for them to pick a fight with one another. They don’t care what happens to me. Only I do. Price watches my reaction closely. I can tell he half-heartedly expects a breakdown.
“Will Soap come get me?”
“Soap’s team left an hour ago,” they’re gone already? Why’d they leave so early? Why aren’t they all leaving together? I know the answer I’ll get if I ask these questions. I turn my attention back to the exchange.
“What’ll happen when we get there?” Price shifts his weight. He’s a busy man. He doesn’t have additional time to stand here and let me quiz him.
“We’re meeting at an old landing strip in the forest just past the Russian boarder. The exchange will happen in the clearing. Only a few of us will be there for the handoff: Ghost, myself, and a couple other sergeants. The rest will be waiting in the surrounding woods on our side. But they won’t be alone. The ultranationalists will have men waiting on their side of the woods. In the event that this all goes South, you’re going to retreat to the defilade,” he takes a decisive step away from the dresser with his feet pointed towards the door. I don’t have much time to get any other information from him.
“Wait what’s a defilade?” the word stumbles across my lips.
“The men in the trees,” Price pauses. Like always he has the army green hat on his head and is dressed in partial camoflauge. “y/n, I’m not saying it’ll turn into a dogfight, but your father doesn’t exactly have the best track record. Be prepared for that possibility.”
I heed his warning closer than anything else he’s said all morning. Why is Price going through with this if he thinks its going to go to shit?
“I’ll see you soon enough,” There’s a knowing look to his face. Maybe it’s the way his eyes slightly squint or the ghost of a smile that tugs at his lips. It ambiguous. Comforting yet concerning.
Sure enough, within fifteen minutes, a member of the task force drops off a bullet proof vest and new clothes to change into. She is tall and wears a uniform almost identical to the one passed onto me.
“Once you’re dressed, I’ll escort you to transportation,” her voice is low and confident. There’s something reassuring about her presense and I’m just glad it isn’t Bennet or one of his friends taking me there.
After hastily throwing on the tactical gear and bulletproof vest, there’s still a piece of fabric sitting on my bed. When I pick it up I recognize the familiar black, fabric bag from several weeks ago. They’re blindfolding me again. Its eerily soft between my clenched fingers. I can’t fucking believe they’re doing this to me again. After everything, why now?
If Ghost was here, would he make me wear it too? Or is this all Price’s doing?
Her firm hand rests on my upper arm as she leads me throughout the compound. Soon the smell of gas filters through the mask and I hear the rumble of multiple engines. People are talking. Orders are barked from one person to the next. Gear is being loaded onto vehicles. Metal clinks and clashes against each other. Everything is in motion.
And then I hear his voice.
Ghost’s distinct tone cuts clearly through the air. It’s powerful and travels with a force that is impossible to ignore. I can pinpoint the exact moment he notices me. The orders he’s giving briefly falter. Then he’s approaching the sergeant and informing her he’s got it from here.
His strong hand replaces her’s. I imagine the warmth of Ghost’s hand through his glove and my sleeve. Ghost’s chest brushes against my shoulder as he leans down to speak. I blindly await his words, only imagining what we look like to the rest of the soldiers. Will they even notice or are they too preoccupied right now?
“You’re riding with me. Don’t say anything. The blindfold will come off once we arrive,”
“Where is th-“
“Don’t. Speak.” Ghost lowly cuts me off.
The van reminds me of the one before. Similarily, I think we’re strapped in against the walls of the vehicle. But I can’t tell for sure.
Ghost quickly buckles me in. His fingers are fast, yet cautious. He takes care not to pinch my skin between the clasps. For a second it almost feels like he’s lingering just to touch me longer. My remaining anger towards him melts for a moment. In a strange environment where I’m stripped of my senses, he’s the only thing that’s familiar. He’s the only one I might just be able to trust.
There are low murmurs amongst the other task members, but not the cheerful kind like before. These are the types of conversations reserved for before high-risk missions. Conversations that hum just above a whisper. They know not everyone will return. You can hear it in their voices.
The van rocks back and forth as we drive. Ghost’s thigh presses against my own. I melt into his side. The firmness of his strength is a reassuring senestion. My hand rests between our legs as my thumb gently traces back and forth along his pantleg. I wonder if he can feel it? I wonder if he knows how this is going to end?
The terrain progressively deteriorates from pavement to gravel to dirt to something far more unpredictable. When the van suddenly stops there’s a split second of absolute stillness. It only lasts for a single breath. Then, it’s go time.
The clicking sounds of seatbelts fill the air. Orders are reaffirmed down the line. Shuffling bodies exit the van. Cold air wafts through the doors.
The blindfold is harshly yanked off my head. Ghost’s calm eyes latch onto mine. In the sea of chaos flowing around us, he remains anchored.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Ghost only nods once, his eyes telling me all I need to know.
Thick forest surrounds us as teams of armed men meticulously clear the surrounding area. It’s daylight, but the shadows of the trees make it feel like dusk. The snow crunches under my feet and bitter air bites at my skin as visible clouds form when I exhale. We’re back in Russia. Ultranationalist territory.
Price appears from another van followed by a formation of armed men who surround Ghost and myself.
“We’re clear. Their men have claimed their half and the rest are waiting on the flat.”
“How many?” Ghost asks, his hand is glued to the automatic riffle clipped to his vest. His eyes continuously scan the area for threats. Everyone is on high alert. Something is happening behind the scnenes that I don’t know about. I can just tell.
“Half a dozen,” Price responds.
“Beyond the zone of action?”
“TAC estimates about fifty,” Price’s attention is entirely on Ghost. He trusts his opinion more than anyone else on the task force.
“We’re outnumbered,” Ghost’s jaw clenches under the skull mask. His response is short and matter-of-fact. He doesn’t like this. “Update on demolitions?”
“They’re ready,” Price smirks knowingly. What the hell have they got planned? Where is Soap?
Ghost processes what Price has just said. Despite his hesitancy he seems to find some reassurance in Price’s words.
“Right. Y/n,” my eyes are already on Price. “When we go out there, you stay in the detail circle until instructed otherwise. Keep your act up. Sell it to your father. If something happens, retreat to the West side of the flat,” his instructions echo between my ears. This is real. This is happening.
“Affirmative,” I force my chin up.
Then like no time has passed at all, we march as a unit through the trees into a long opening. It’s an old landing strip once used for planes with an abandoned hangar at the far side of the field. The sun gleams through the opening in the trees and reflects off the snow. The brightness hurts my eyes at firt, but then as they adjust, I see several men gathered at a table in the center of the air strip. Its them. It’s him.
Fear pummels through my veins. It’s violent and demands my attention. Every sense feels heightened. Dread fills my body and weighs me down like iron restraints.
It takes everything I have to push myself forward. Every action feels forced. Snow sinks up to my shins as we walk, adding extra resistance. The space is large, spanning multiple football fields. I feel their eyes on us from a hundred meters away. I don’t think I can stomach seeing my father after everything.
The tension is killing me.
Four men surround me as Price and Ghost lead them towards the group. The Ultranationalists have more men at their station, but some of them must be the prisoners theyre supposed to exchange.
At least that’s what I think until Price clears his throat. “You’re missing three sergeants,” His voice sounds different than I’m used to: louder, demanding, dangerous.
“No one’s missing, Captain Price.” My father’s all too familiar voice reaches my ears. “I assume it’s Captain Price, you didn’t exactly leave room for introductions.” it’s warm and relaxed. “They’re resting just beyond the treeline. We only wanted to garuntee your honest intentions before bringing them out,” he sounds completely in control, with his attention completely on Price. It gives me a moment to really look at him.
I haven’t seen my father in weeks and while he looks exactly the same, I can barely recognize the man in front of us. His beard is longer, but still well groomed. He’s dressed in dark greens and greys, the same as the other Ultranationalists. A toque covers his head and a warm winter jacket is hugged by a bullet proof vest. A chest holster hides a gun while his hands remain open and falsely inviting. His eyes look darker than normal. He must be tired. Or maybe it’s hidden rage that gives them that look. I can’t tell anymore. He isn’t the person I once thought I knew, that much is certain.
Our eyes meet and my blood runs cold.
“Dad?” my voice croaks. Price’s reminder to play into the traumatized daughter act weighs on my shoulders. Suspicious eyes square me up from every angle. There isn’t a single person here who fully trusts me. One wrong word and we could all end up dead.
“Y/n?” his brows furrow as his head cranes in my direction. “Y/n, are you okay? Just be patient darling, you’ll be safe soon,” I note how he chooses his words to influence my emotions. How many times has he done this before without me noticing?
“Right, lets cut to the chase then, bring the rest of my men out and she’s all yours,” Price says. I watch as my father eyes him up for a second and then nods in agreement. He barks an order in Russian to one of the men behind him who repeats it into a transmitter.
Then Price steps to the side, opening up a hole in the baracade of men surrounding me. Ghost does the same as he turns and our eyes lock. Under the skull mask I see his lower lids tense with suspicion. He doesn’t trust the Ultranationalists. Every person here has conflicting goals and values. No one is safe.
I can’t look at him for long. Beyond them, someone else expects me.
I take off running into his arms and hot, genuine tears fall from my eyes and freeze to my cheeks. As his arms wrap around me, I can’t hide the shudder of terror that ripples down my spine. It’s becoming harder and harder to separate my father from his actions. When I close my eyes, I see the footage of him ordering the execution of hundreds of vulnerable people. “I’m scared, Dad,” the hushed truth leaves my lips and brushes against the fabric of his coat. He doesn’t react to my words.
“Those aren’t my men,” A type of hollow furry reverberates through Price’s chest. A realization. A confirmation. They let me go too soon. Now I’m in my father’s arms, while the men marching towards them are more Ultranationalists. Not the taken 141 soldiers.
“Oh, don’t worry about them,” he says with his arms still wrapped around me,” as I look over his soulder and past his soldiers, I see more men dressed in grey and green emerge past the treeline and stalk in our direction, guns in hand.
I hear Ghost whisper something into his com. I wonder how many guns are trained on us right now? How many snipers are hidden in the trees waiting for clearance?
“You don’t get to change the conditions of the exchange last minute.”
“I suppose you’re right. That’s not normally how we do things,” my father finally releases me from the hug. His leather glove wipes the tears from my face. The empty, almost irritated look in his eyes tells me he isn’t satisfied. “We don’t typically go through the effort of an exchange. However, Captain Price, these are unique circumstances. Yet, I can’t help the feeling that you are getting a better deal than we are. Look at all these men you’re getting. They’re incredibly valuable to us. They know a lot of information. Information that could hurt a lot of people. Not to mention your men who will be returned to you, once we adjust our terms, of course.”
“Is her life not valuable enough to you?” Ghost’s voice booms across the snow. It’s the first time he’s spoken since arriving. His official introduction to my father. In another life, I wonder if they’d like each other?
“Of course it is,” he brings a hand to his heart and holds onto my arm with the other. It isn’t. I feel his grip tighten. “But that doesn’t mean this is a fair trade,” My stomach drops. He just confirmed everything I’ve feared without directly saying it. My life doesn’t matter as much as having an advantage on 141. He wants more. That greedy fucking bastard.
“What is then?” Price demands.
“You,” he answers. “And several lieutenants. Then we’re getting somewhere.”
“Negative. Never going to fucking happen. Get that through your thick, Russian skull,” large clouds form in plumes as Price’s burning words meet the arctic air. I sense the tension rising as more Ultranationalists approach the group. We were already outnumbered. Now it’s at least two to one. Why haven’t they called backup yet?
“It will. Wilingly or not,” there it is. The underlying threat of violence that has simmered just under the surface of this entire meeting has finally emerged. The Ultranationalists are more than willing to fight. Maybe they’re even counting on it.
“I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into,” Price sneers. I spare a glance in Ghost’s direction to find his eyes already on me. They’re unreadable. He’s never felt so far away.
“Yeah? What’s that?” my father’s cocky voice bites back. This entire time I feel his hands tighten around my arm as though my winter jacket isn’t there. The heavy vest weighs me down. The cold air hurts my skin. Everything feels off. And just when my attention is focused on every uncomfortable detail, Price’s words cut through the air with such clarity they almost don’t sound real.
“If you don’t follow through with our original deal, your wife will die.”
I feel my father freeze. His molten iron grip solidifies. At the same time my heart drops and it feels like I’m falling. My mom? 141 has my mom? My eyes flicker to Ghost, but he won’t look at me. He lied to me. Again. He fucking lied. Ghost had every opportunity to tell me and he didn’t. My cheeks flush with betrayal. After all this time… How could I be so stupid to trust him?
“That’s impossible,” for the first time, my father looks genuinely rattled. The Ultranationalists were supposed to have a team in New York to protect her. She would be almost untouchable. Yet, Price reaches into a large pouch on his vest and pulls out a tablet. On the screen is a livestreamed video of my mom tied to a chair in our family livingroom. The surge of panick that courses through my veins is indescribable.
Somehow, they did it.
“Go get my men,” Price lowly orders and I don’t doubt for a second he’d kill me or my mom to get what he wants. It’s a terrifying realization. He is willing to do anything to protect his task force. All notions of morals and ethics fly out the door when it comes to his men. Bennet was right. I’m not safe with them.
More orders fly out of my father’s mouth in Russian which are then repeated through the transmitter. All eyes are on the treeline waiting for the captured task force members to emerge.
I can’t bring myself to look at Ghost again. Not after this. Not after such a devastating betrayal.
Just as they emerge from the trees, a popping noise behind us in the distance snags my attention. I turn my head just before the men do, seeing nothing. But that noise, that unmistakable noise can only be one damning thing.
Just like that, all bets are off the table.
I’m yanked behind the line of Untranationalists as each side raises their weapons at each other. The line hudles together and pushes back towards the trees as men from each side scream orders and threats at each other.
Over the shoulders of the Ultranationalists, I briefly see the six task members shift into formation, covering all angles. Price yells out something about their men and I realize they didn’t get ahold of the promised Ultranationalists or their captured soldiers. They are leaving completely empty handed, with the exception of my mom. If this doesn’t turn around, they’ll kill her. Nausea floods my stomach. I feel the blood leave my face. If I wasn’t being pushed back by my father, I would be sick right now.
The distinct sounds take me back to the night the Ultranationalists ambushed 141’s base. I’d never heard gunfire so close before, but that’s nothing compared to now. What once originated on the other side of the field, now sounds to be only meters away.
Price said if I get the chance, to escape to the West side, but right now, that’s impossible. And if I’m being honest, I don’t know that it’s any safer than being with my father. Nowhere is safe. The forest is crawling with armed men and even if I did escape, everyone would be looking for me and I don’t have anything to defend myself with.
“They’re moving forward!” I hear someone yell in Russian. We’re just entering the treeline as more men flood around us and then break into smaller groups. Everything is so completely chaotic and yet seemingly rehersed.
My lungs burn and for a moment I forget how cold it is outside. Adrenaline and panic fight with eachother as I try to distinguish what to focus on. So much is happening. I completely forget about my father’s grip on my arm.
“Y/n,” he braces my shoulders, encouraging me to look at him. His eyes are wide with excitement. I feel like I’m going to be sick looking at him. “Everything is going to be alright dear, we’ll escape to the trucks. Alright? Just follow me, okay?” I manage a small nod.
I’m yanked forward as we run through the trees. The group of men with us switched from those on the field and now there are only four additional Ultranationalists escorting us. I don’t know how long my father pulls me along for. It feels like miles and hours, but can’t be more than a few minutes.
A loud eruption shakes the ground as snow and dirt fly through the air and a tree crashes beside us. Holy fuck, that was close.
Smoke clouds the air as people shout and bullets fly. The scene can only be described as a deadly, gorilla clusterfuck with the goal of taking out as many people from the other side as possible. We are in an incredibly dangerous position.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, one of the escorts is shot in the leg and drops to the ground. Red stains the snow around him. My father yells in Russian to keep going.
We weave through the thick pines and any sense of direction I once had is gone. My heart thunders in my chest.
A loud shot rings through the air and another Ultranationalist drops to the ground. A second shot sends a bullet through his skull.
Someone is following us. Stalking us. Toying with us. My gut turns.
For a second, I wonder if it’s a sniper.
Then, a knife comes flying through the air, lodging itself into the back of the third of my father’s men.
It’s in this moment, I know exactly who is after us. After me.
The last soldier turns around and fires blindly into the trees behind us. As soon as his clip is empty and he pauses to reload, a single bullet pummels through the trees and it too, pierces his skull and stains the snow a brilliant red. His body slumps to the ground with a muffled thump.
My father pushes us behind the trunk of a large tree and grips his handgun in both hands. He doesn’t need to tell me to be quiet. I don’t think I could make a sound if I tried.
The sounds of gunfire and explosions echo in the distance, but there’s nothing close to us like there was before. The majority of the fighting is taking place closer to the air strip.
The only place Ghost ever struggled with stealth, is in the snow. There’s no technology in the world that’ll muffle the sound of his footsteps strategically approaching the tree we’re hiding behind. You can hear the frigidness in the air as the crunching snow gets louder. He’s close.
“Throw your weapons to the side of the tree and then slowly step out with your hands in the air,” Ghost’s demanding voice fills the air. A dissatisfied grumble ripples through my father’s chest. I shift to move from behind the tree and a large hand snags the back of my vest, pulling me back.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.
I bite my tongue. He doesn’t know Ghost like I do. There’s no escaping him. The best I can hope for is that he doesn’t want to kill either of us.
“I won’t repeat myself,” his voice sounds closer already. I can imagine him on the other side of the tree with his assault riffle pointed in our direction. Part of me wants to believe he wouldn’t fire on us. But I honestly don’t know anymore.
“Forgive me darling,” the hushed words come as my father wraps his arms around me from behind. He pulls me against his chest and presses the barrel of his gun to my temple before stepping out from behind the tree.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the panicked words bubble up my throat as I try and escape his deathly grasp. I twist and throw my weight around, but it’s no use. Even with one hand occupied, he’s simply too strong. “Let go!” The barrel of the gun bumps against my head as hysteria begins to cloud my better judgement.
Just feet away, Ghost stands with his weapon aimed directly at me. At some point he clipped the riffle to his vest and switched to his handgun. Behind the daunting skull mask, his narrowed eyes calculate our every move with extreme precision.
I’ve heard the rumors about Ghost. Caught wind of whispers detailing the horrors he’s capable of. I’ve even witnessed some of the brutality myself working as his translator. Yet none of that cruelty was ever directed toward me. Now, I find myself looking directly down the barrel of his gun. There is no escaping Ghost’s wrath. There’s no escaping my father’s wrath.
“Put the gun down,” he calmly instructs my father. There’s something different about his voice. Something tense. I notice a stiffness about his posture that isn’t usually there. I’m not the only one who picks up on his behaviour either.
“So that bastard was right,” spite laces my father’s voice. His hot words travel down the back of my neck as his arm wraps tighter around my chest. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
I blink. My mouth dries up and I’m left speechless. How the hell does he know? How did Bennet know? Who else knows?
“No, dad-” the words start to tumble out of my mouth.
“Don’t lie to me, little bird,” his tone is venomous. I’m a traitor to him. Sleeping with his enemy. “You fucking whore.”
Tears prick my eyes. His words stun me and I can’t help the self loathing that weighs down my shoulders.
“Let her go or I’ll shoot,” fearful tremors shake my body. My vision starts to blur with emotion. I’ve never felt so scared in my life. I truly may not survive this.
“Then what?” he sneers “You’ll kill me anyways.”
“If you don’t, your wife will die,” the ultimatum is clear. “Is she really worth it?” Ghost’s words sting like never before. I wish one of them would make a decision, put me out of my misery.
Then, as if without thinking at all, my father releases me from his grip and takes a large step back. My weak knees barely hold my shaking body and when I turn around to face him, I truly don’t recognize the man in front of me anymore. Hundreds of burning questions ache for air, but the only one that escapes my lips begs for the devastating truth.
“Do you- do you even love me?” I force myself to make eye contact with him. From the very start of this horrifying journey, something has been missing. Like I was trying to read a misprinted book.
My father purses his lips and furrows his brows. I know the answer when our eyes meet. Not now. Certainly not after betraying him like he thinks I did. He inhales like he’s about to answer when three deafening gunshots pierce the air. I feel the bullets whiz through the air beside my head and watch as one tears through my father’s arm and two hit him in the shoulder. His gun falls to the ground and his eyes buldge as he realizes what just happened.
Ghost rushes past me and tackles my father to the ground. He forces his arms behind his back, despite the bleeding wounds, and zipties his hands together. He groans empty threats, but they’re so muffled I can’t make them out. None of this feels real. Every part of my body feels numb and full of static. Breathing becomes increasingly difficult.
Ghost stuffs my father’s mouth with a gag and then covers his head with a black bag. I try to tune out the harrowing sounds of his muffled moans and the distant gunfire and explosions. I feel a panick attack building under the surface of my skin. This is all too much. My knees finally give in.
“Y/n? Y/n,” Ghost’s voice softens as he abandons my father for me. His gloved hands are gentle as they embrace both sides of my head. I flinch away from his touch, causing him to falter. “You’re safe y/n, I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe,” he crouches to the ground beside me and pulls me against his bulky chest. I missed feeling his warmth so damn bad. I want to trust him. God do I want to, but all he does is lie to me. “We just have to get closer to the runway. Then the extraction team will get us out of here,” he strokes my hair as he speaks.
I’m not ready when he pulls us up from our position on the ground, but there’s no time to be ready. Every second we waste in the forest - in Ultranationalist territory - is another second we risk running into more of their soldiers.
Someone is going to notice my father’s absence, if they haven’t already. And they will come looking, if they haven’t already. In which case we are in even more danger.
Ghost lifts my father to his feet and forces him to walk, at times roughly pushing him ahead. Watching them makes my stomach twist into a knot. I can’t believe I haven’t thrown up yet.
He switches the handgun for his automatic riffle again and uses the sight to scope out the surrounding woods.
I have no idea where we are, yet Ghost seems to know the exact path to our destination.
Twice, he takes out multiple men in the distance before they can spot us, but our treck back is otherwise eerily silent.
I don’t remember waiting for the chopter or boarding or the ride back to Latvia. But I do remember the pained sounds escaping my father’s chest as he sits across from me, still blindfolded.
I completely forgot about Soap’s absence admidst clusterfuck of everything else going on. That’s until I hear another member of the task force briefing Ghost on a separate attack they planned to take place while the exchange was happening. The whirling of the helicopter makes it almost impossible make out their words, but Ghost’s eyes give away everything.
“He was injured sir. Badly. He lost a lot of blood on the way back to base and they didn’t have the equipment to operate in the air,” I feel my heart rate pick up and watch as Ghost completely freezes.
I don’t hear what Ghost asks him next. I do however, see the soldier shake his head with remorse.
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Word count: 2410
As the shadow’s grip tightens around my wrist, it feels like a match is struck within me and lit alight with fear. It burns hot within my chest, searing the flesh attached to my bones, causing my entire body to tense. Yet the fear and the pain don’t cause me to shut down. Something has fundamentally changed in me throughout these last strange and inconceivable weeks.
When he leans over me, it’s like the match has lit up his mask, allowing me to see every movement and intention in complete darkness. My fear no longer shuts me down. I feel more awake than ever. More infuriated than ever.
But I’ll be damned if he finds out.
“Miss me?” his voice is just as vile as it was last time.
I bite my tongue. Speaking now would only give him more reason to do harm.
“Probably not as much as you miss Suds though,” His strong grip yanks me upward into a sitting position. The tightness of his fingers twisting around my wrist painfully pinches my skin. I don’t dare utter a single sound. “Hey? Cause you haven’t been with him all week. Which begs the question: What the hell have you gotten up to, Birdie?”
“Nothing,” I mutter through bared teeth. “When I’m not in Captain Price’s office, the Lieutenant locks me in here.
“So Ghost babysits when Suds is gone. Eh? What’s he like?”
Bennet’s question throws me off guard. What’s he like? Of all the things to talk about, this is what he wants to focus on? Not the trade-off or Price’s supposed secret plans or the Ultranationalists or their impending betrayal. Just Ghost.
There has to be more to his words.
“Quiet,” you can smell the uneasiness on my breath. It carries my words and hangs pungent in the damp air.
“Wanna know something about Ghost?” he asks. My stomach turns. Of course, I do. But he’s counting on that. He wants to know just how interested I am in the Lieutenant. I also know that whatever he’s about to tell me probably isn’t true. He wants to drive a bigger wedge between myself and 141 so my loyalty remains with my father. Except I’ll never be loyal to my father.
I shrug my shoulders in response. I don’t know if he sees or if he cares, but I do know he wants to scare me.
“He tried to kidnap your mother before settling for you,” Bennet’s words taste like the bile rising up the back of my throat. Sour and acidic. Like expired milk. “Do you really think they would stop with you? They’ll never stop. Not until your family – our family is torn to shreds.”
I should have known. I want to feel shocked, but there’s a mental block in my brain stopping me. I. Should. Have. Known.
“Our family?” my voice wavers.
“Yes,” he hisses. “Our family. What? Do you think Ultranationalism is just a movement? It is so much more than that. We are so much more.”
“How come they didn’t get her?” I dare to ask him the question buzzing around in my mind. The hidden bug slips my mind. Our ears are far from the only ones present. Ghost at the very least will be listening. Maybe Soap. Maybe Price. Maybe some higher-up that I’ve never heard of. Nothing in this room is a secret.
Who’s to say it’s true anyway?
Yet, who’s to say it’s not? Sure, the Ultranationalists are liars. So is 141. So is Ghost. Of all the people here, he has kept the most from me.
Truth out here has a different meaning. Every single one of their moral compasses has been skewed by war’s magnetism. Even the men who are objectively fighting for peace and democracy are not on the moral high ground they believe themselves to be. None of their hands are clean. Especially Ghost.
“Our team intercepted last minute. Captured their crew. By the time we discovered their plan to take you too, we were already too late. Little Bird, this was never about you. Your father wants you to know that,” his grip on my wrist releases as he leans back, off the bed.
“Does he forgive me?” my throat tightens as the question barely escapes as a whisper.
“He’s working on it, the shadow’s words are swallowed by the darkness. “But he needs your help. We need to know what angle Price will take,”
“I’m not allowed in the room when they discuss that stuff. They don’t trust me.”
“You must’ve picked up on something,” he urges.
I pause for a moment and think. Of all the different conversations I’ve witnessed, surely something must stand out. Something that is safe to share and won’t hurt 141.
“I mean I don’t think they actually intend on going through with the exchange,” I start. However, this isn’t new to him. Neither side plans on cooperating with the other. It’s a recipe for disaster. “They don’t want my father dead. They need him alive for intel on my uncles. But I also think they might be moving on. Price and Ghost discussed intercepting other families. I think the same way they did with me,” it’s better if he thinks I’m clueless. So much has changed since that conversation. They aren’t moving on any time soon. Not when they’re so close.
“Do you believe them?” his question isn’t inherently strange. It’s the fact that he’s asking my opinion that catches me off guard. Does he genuinely want my input? Does this mean I’ve gained his trust? Not likely.
“I don’t know,” my chest is tight. “Well,” I change my answer. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You shouldn’t,” he starts to slowly pace the room. His mind is racing. There’s so much that needs to be done in so little time. If only I had just an inch of the rope, they’re tying my noose with. Then at least I’d know what tree they planning on hanging me from. “You’re expendable to them,” Bennet turns toward the bed again.
“And not to you?”
“To me?” his tone quickly turns to something akin to amusement. “No, you’re quite expendable to me. But your father? He sees you as part of our cause.”
“He never brought it up before,” the curious part of me always wins. I have to know. Something. Anything. Even if it's completely fabricated.
“After everything, do you think he’d still lie to you?” the shadow stills and his eyes turn to slits.
“I- no,” we both know it’s a trick question.
“He said your wings will take you far and high, little bird,” for a moment, I almost hear the words in his voice. They sound like something he’d say when I was young. Like stories from lost times.
“But if it was up to you, I’d be dead already,” I shift back to our previous topic.
“Of course,” he says like it is obvious. “But if you stick with 141, they’ll do it for me. You’re useless to them after the exchange. Nothing more than collateral. Even you, are smart enough to know that,” am I though? Hasn’t some hopeful part of me genuinely believed I might actually survive this mess?
“It’s crossed my mind,” my sullen voice lags with a false sense of exhaustion. Yet, I feel more alert than ever.
“Well let it cross again. Into our territory. With your family,” a deep, raspy sigh escapes his chest as he takes a step back from the bed. In the silence of the night, I can hear his scarred lungs rattle like an old pickup on its last leg. But he’s got ‘miles to go and promises to keep’. This shadow isn’t the kind of man to go back on his word. There’s a reason he’s made it to where he is today. “Think about it,” he says as his hand silently wraps around the metal handle.
The door opens and shuts without a sound. When he slips into the darkness, I know this will be the last of our witching-hour meetings. His words haunt me like the last wishes of a lost soul. There’s more truth to them than I’m brave enough to admit.
I almost mistake the soft raps against the door as one of those spirits. Haunted? Maybe. Spirits? Only of the men who’ve died at his hands. Only in the sense that his name brushes across soldiers’ lips like a curse: If you see him, you’re dead.
The knock was just a courtesy. A warning. Ghost enters the room with a large hunting knife in hand. The matt carbon blade is almost impossible to spot in the night. It’s the way his sleeved arm is held at his chest – ready to strike – that gives him away.
Just as one shadow leaves, another appears. Dressed in all black and moving as silent as an unspoken thought. The intensity of his eyes burns as they bore into holes through the darkness.
He knows Bennet is gone. That doesn’t stop him from clearing the room anyway. He reaches under the desk, pulls out the bug, and twists it apart, rendering it dysfunctional. The tiny pieces are slipped into his pocket.
No one can know he’s here.
The words he’s about to speak should never meet the air.
I haven’t had any time to process what just happened and now he’s appeared within moments to remedy an undiagnosed illness.
It feels pre-emptive. Like he knew this was going to come up. Like he’s planned for it.
“Are you okay?” His thick English accent slowly fills the space.
I’m not interested in small talk. I need to know the legitimacy behind the shadow’s words.
“How much did you hear?” I ask. The adrenaline is running low in my veins. I feel the shakes approaching behind me like an unwanted guest at a house party. Creeping and on the verge of cutting into our conversation.
“All of it,” Ghost crosses the room to my bed. He hovers at the edge with his fists clenched at his sides. His trigger finger twitches, expecting confrontation. I stand from my seated position, but he still towers over me.
“Is it true? Did you try to take my mom?” this conversation feels borderline repetitive of everything that went down in the cabin. Every time I think all the details are out in the open and he’s finally being honest with me, I’m proven wrong.
And every time, the Ultranationalists pick at my healing scabs, causing streaks of blood to smear across my fragile skin. It’s an ugly look. One that lacks patience and self-control.
“Affirmative,” the resignation in his voice is concrete. Ghost doesn’t even try to hide it. What else is he leaving out?
“You’re a fucking asshole,” the bitter words fire in his direction. I feel stupid. I feel played. As though they’re all still treating me like a child.
“Y/N,” he quietly warns. His voice refuses to move above a whisper. Who knows what ears are listening outside that door.
“No. Fuck you,” I point at him with a quivering hand. “You’ve had days – no – weeks to tell me this. Why didn’t you say anything, Simon?”
“It was classified,” he automatically responds.
“You’re so full of it,” I cross my arms and fist my hands. I’d be smart to shut my mouth for the rest of my time here. I’d be smart to do a lot of things differently than I have. Yet that’s not an option. “What else are you keeping from me?”
A deep sigh pushes through the black ski mask. One that’s no longer worried, but hinting at frustration. The pause before he speaks is long and filled with words that’ll never see the light of day. “You know I can’t answer that.”
“You can,” I urge.
“I can’t. That’s the nature of my job – of my life, y/n,” I can feel the heat of his chest as he steps closer. “There will always be secrets. The things I know are worth killing over.”
“But if it’s about me, I deserve to know,” I push harder. Surely, he has to understand where I’m coming from.
“Just drop it,” the coldness to his voice is usually reserved for lower-ranking soldiers. I feel it nip at my skin and travel through my bones in an unnerving kind of way. Yet I can’t drop it. Not when it’s my life at stake.
“You can’t come here and expect me to ‘just drop it’ Simon. You came here. I didn’t ask for help,” the annoyance is audible in my voice. “I deserve to know. What is it? Do they really plan on killing me?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs. Ok. So that much is the truth. At least to him.
“What, then?” my brows furrow as my chest impatiently heaves. Why did he bother showing up if all he’s going to do is shut me out?
Simon reaches for a strand of hair, but I duck away from his grasp. The gloved hand falters, before falling back at his side. I know I’ve struck a nerve when his shoulders stiffen and the heel of his boot shifts half an inch back.
“I wanted to make sure you were safe,” the rejection turns his voice stoic. “Goodnight y/n.”
As Ghost turns and heads for the door, he tightly grasps the knife at his side. I consider biting my tongue, but that’s never something I’ve excelled at. “Leaving me in the dark is far from keeping me safe.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Simon looks back as he grasps the handle. There’s a glint so faint it’s almost hard to spot behind his eyes. For a moment he almost doesn’t look real. “You’re safer hidden in the shadows. There’s no going back once you’re exposed to the light.”
He doesn’t wait for my response. I don’t have one to give.
As Ghost leaves the room, I’m left with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
It fades for a while as the hours drag and I drift into a strange type of sleep. Yet, the feeling returns when my door opens in the morning. When I see his face I know today is the day. They can’t afford to wait any longer. The Ultranationalists are ready. 141 is ready.
It isn’t Soap or Ghost or some other foot soldier who’s come to retrieve me: it’s Captain Price.
hiii :), I hope you're doing great, I just wanted to ask about "He Knows", I see you haven't posted anything for a while, and I was wondering if you plan on continuing the story (which is one of my favorites by the way), I LOVE that one story and I can't wait for you to continue. I hope you see this. 💖
Take your time anyway ❣, I hope I don't bother 😅
Hi there thank you so much for the support!! I have started part 20 and will have the story wrapped up with about 24-26 chapters. I recently started a new job and am wrapping up my degree so my life has gotten very chaotic recently and I’ve neglected my hobbies. I may not be able to post for another month or so, but will have the entire story finished for the end of July!
I’ve had so much fun with this project and it means a lot to me that people continue to read and enjoy it! Your support and patience means more to me than I can properly express!!
I just wanted to let you know I ate He Knows up in the span of a couple hours! You’re doing so well with it and I’m in love with how you portray Ghost!!!
Keep up the great work, I look forward to seeing what you put out next!!! And take all the time in the world you need to make part 19, don’t over work yourself!! -👻
GOTTA SAY, I'M GOING BONKERS OVER "He Knows". BEST GODDAMN FANFIC I'VE READ IN A WHILE AND I'M FERAL OVER HOW YOU WRITE, ESPECIALLY THE EMOTIONS, BODY LANGUAGES, AND TENSE SITUATIONS. YOU'RE A DAMN GOOD WRITER AND I HOPE YOU KEEP DOING THIS.
ALSO IT IS PAST 2:30 AM I SHOULD SLEEP
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An: Thanks for your patience, I am so excited about this part!! SMUT WARNING, it gets spicy!
Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.
Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.
Word count: 6100 (way too long!)
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader
Warnings: SMUT, 18+, minors dni, angst, military setting, explicit language, graphic depictions of violence, use of knives, mentions of death.
Photo credit to @ave661
Ghost towers over me, his dark shadow cast upon my cowering frame. Fearful eyes drag over the predator in front of me. How he analyzes my every move. How his black shirt clings to the thick muscle around his shoulders and arms as his chest eagerly heaves with excitement. How his gloved hands clench and release, ready to wrap themselves around me and tear me apart. This is what he was made for. This is the chase that sets him on fire, makes him feel alive.
“Now what’re you going to do?” his voice sounds like it could cut. After his initial attempt, I quickly cornered myself between the wall and the dresser. Now Ghost fills the entire walkway between the dresser and bed, leaving me with nowhere to go. Everything about his posture tells me he’s only seconds away from trying again. I spare a glance at the weapon in my hands and my grip tightens around it. “Your trapped, y/n, what’s your next move?” What the hell kind of training is this?
But I don’t get much time to think. The ambiguous soldier in front of me slowly stalks forward. There’s a vertical slit in his eyes like those of a wild cat who has just identified its next prey.
“If I wanted to kill you right now, how would you stop me?” he inches closer. My mind falters: the knife. The knife. But I can’t use it. I don’t know how. What if I end up hurting him? I feel my head start to shake, the word “no” at the tip of my tongue. He sees the fear finally catch up. “Use it, y/n,” Ghost urges me.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” the words are quiet on my lips. Tension fills my body.
“You won’t hurt me,” his words are immediate and almost cocky. The corners of his eyes crinkle from a cruel smile. Have I forgotten who he is? Don’t I know his reputation? He didn’t take his vest – his main source of protection off for no reason - I’m the furthest thing from a threat to him.
Ghost is done taking his time with me. He lunges forward with his arms outstretched. I make a last-ditch attempt at escaping by leaping toward the bed, but just as my foot touches the mattress a thick arm wraps around my waist and roughly pulls me flush against his chest. His other hand wrestles the knife from my grasp and as soon as the metal is gone from my hand, I feel the strangely familiar pressure of it against my throat.
“You’re not holding the knife properly,” he reprimands. Ghost’s chest pushes into me from behind and I can feel his arms flex as they constrict even tighter.
“Is this your idea of training me?” I bite back. Fear turns to frustration. How is it so easy for him to manhandle me like this?
“Come on, I know you can take it rough,” Ghost’s coarse voice brushes against my ear. “If you let the enemy touch you like this, you’re dead.”
“Then I guess I’m lucky it’s you,” thick sarcasm coats my tongue. I feel the hem of my shirt start to rise above my stomach as the electric heat from his body transfers through my skin. Then, just as fast as it happened, he lets go.
“Here,” he wraps my fingers around the handle in the proper position. “You’re not about to win a knife fight against a member of the task force. Your only goal is to create an opportunity to escape,” there’s a newfound seriousness to his voice. I turn around to meet his eyes. For a moment, I almost know what he’s thinking. If the Ultranationalist tries anything the next time he visits, Ghost won’t be there to protect me. I’ll be all on my own. This, and the wiretaps, are the best he can do.
“Okay,” I resign. “How?”
“You have to draw blood. Lots of it,” his lower lids squint as he gauges my reaction. How capable am I of violence? He hasn’t had the opportunity to witness that yet. If I’m being honest, neither have I. I’ve never been put in a position where I’ve had to hurt someone before. I don’t really know what I’m capable of. It’s a daunting possibility.
“Show me,” I force a nervous swallow as he closes the space between us. I feel my heart rate start to pick up.
“There are only two vulnerable spots that’ll slow him down when he’s wearing a vest,” Ghost starts to circle me. I don’t hear when he stops behind me. But I feel his large hand slowly snake around my hips, stopping on my stomach. His bicep flexes as he pulls me against his chest again. The back of my head is just level with his shoulders and I feel him bow down as the soft balaclava brushes against my hair. “His neck or his gut. Arms and legs won’t work, they’re not painful enough,” a shiver runs down my spine from his chilling words.
“They sound pretty painful,”
“Not enough. You need to do real damage,” the low vibrations of his voice against my skin makes the hair stand on the back of my neck. Ghost presses his fingers into the soft flesh between my hips and moves his hand back and forth in a straight line, tracing the vulnerable area. I can’t help the involuntary gasp that escapes my lips. “This is where you’ll aim. Drive the knife deep into his stomach and drag it across as far as you can. If he tries anything, I want you to spill his fucking intestines,” Ghost’s breathing deepens as he imagines the scene. His fingers press harder into my skin and some twisted part of me wants him to leave bruises, but not with his hands.
“Is that what you’d do?” the words are light on my tongue. Every part of my body he touches feels as though it’s about to combust.
“I will do so much fucking worse, y/n. When this is over and I get my hands on him, his own mother won’t recognize him. They’ll have to use his fucking teeth to identify him,” he growls. The pictures that flash through my mind are horrific. But some part of me likes it – knowing the extent that he is willing to go to for me.
There’s a palatable tension in the air. I can taste it: metallic and salty like iron. Like the desire for violence. Like the static before lightning strikes. I feel it radiating off him in waves that wash down between my shoulder blades. I believe every word from his mouth.
“Let’s try again,” I suggest, changing the topic.
Sweat rolls down my skin as we practise again and again for hours. Ghost lays out several different scenarios, from trapping me against the dresser to pinning me against the bed. He is relentless. But with every touch, every grab and push and shove and pull of hair, every time he presses himself against my hot skin, the desire to feel him in me grows even stronger. Sometimes I think he’s doing it on purpose. Because I know how much he likes to see his hands wrapped around my throat. And I know how he was filled with a jealous type of rage after that man had a knife pressed against the same spot. Every time Ghost’s hands pull me closer, it feels like I’m being reclaimed.
My heart pounds in my ears after so long without a break. When he pulls away after another round I finally collapse onto the floor, just for a moment, just to catch my breath. Ghost looks even taller from this spot as he watches me with his arms crossed.
“Get up,” he huffs, not nearly as out of breath as I am.
“In a moment,” even my voice sounds exhausted. My face is hot and I’m sure it’s flushed.
“I don’t want you lying on the floor,” Ghost grumbles. I feel the corner of my lips twitch at the thought that pops into my head.
“No?” I feign innocence. “How do you want me?”
“Watch your mouth y/n,” he snaps. Ghost steps around me to pace the room, but I don’t miss how he takes the opportunity to adjust his pants when he thinks I can’t see. A warm sense of pride blooms in my chest. He feels the same tension. The same desire as the night in the cabin. Maybe even stronger this time.
“I need to rest for a moment,” I lie my head on the floor while keeping eye contact with him. I can just see the edge of the black paint around his eyes, peeking out from under his mask.
“Sweetheart, you’ve got more in you than that,” there it is again. Sweetheart. I can’t even hide the effect it has on me. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from outright smiling. And it works. He has me up on my feet embarrassingly fast.
“Fine. Let’s go, I’ll win this time,” there’s fresh determination behind my words, but even I know they’re not true. I can tell he’s smirking by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. Ghost is enjoying this way too much. But I can’t lie, so do I. He knows.
Ghost comes at me fast. I know he’s holding back and yet his power is terrifying. He grabs me by the shoulders and whips me around toward the dresser. One of his hands tries to snatch away the knife, but I hold it just out of his grasp. Then he goes for my neck again as my back presses into the hard edge of the wooden dresser. Ghost is careful about the force he uses. He knows how easy it would be to seriously hurt me right now. His hands lightly hold my throat, just enough to immobilize me, but I know if this were any other man, I’d be in serious trouble right now.
With both hands occupied I take my chance and swing the knife toward his stomach. His eyes flicker down to watch the move. He still has time to stop me, yet his hands remain where they are. I let the tip of the knife gently drag across his shirt.
“You let me win,”
“It’s not ‘letting you win,’ it’s training you to take an opportunity when you have it,” Ghost’s eyes are back on mine, his hands still wrapped around my throat. He could’ve let go almost a minute ago and yet I feel his thumb gently rubbing up and down the tender skin just below my ear. “Besides, I was thinking about something else…” he trails off, a smug smile evident in his voice.
“And what’s that?”
“Places better than the floor,” Ghost keeps eye contact with me as he says this. I feel my stomach drop and that familiar ball of desire starts to form again.
“Better than the floor for what?” I furrow my brows in feigned confusion, but when he glances down my bottom lip is already drawn between my teeth. He knows he has me. There’s electricity in the air between us. Something magnetic simultaneously pulling us together, yet preventing us from connecting. I feel his hands twitch against my throat.
A low hum stems from his chest. “We could do this all night, sweetheart,” Ghost’s eyes darken. We’re close enough that I can see his pupils dilating and my reflection staring back at me in his eyes. I wonder what he sees as he looks at me.
“Yeah?” I murmur. “But we don’t have all night, do we? So, tell me what you want Simon,” my voice is low and seductive. Two can play this game. He pulls me closer. Our foreheads are almost touching as my hands find their place on the sides of his ribcage. The knife is still wrapped between my fingers.
“You already know what I want,” his voice deepens as his volume drops to a whisper. His scent wraps around me and reels me in. The metallic musk is warm and inviting. The scent of gunpowder no longer so alarming, but simply rather a part of him. But there’s something new about him too, something sweet and spicy that I can almost taste, that makes me want to wrap my lips around him and savour every part.
“I want you to show me,”
“I want to,” he barely whispers. “I don’t want to hurt you,” his grip tightens enough that I can start to feel the effects of his hands. My cheeks are flushed and my head feels lighter than before.
“I trust you. Then and now,” I run my hands up his strong arms before tracing the tip of the knife against the mask and along the outline of his lips. Ghost takes the blade from my hand and places it on the dresser behind me. A warm sensation spreads throughout my body as his hands travel down the side of my abdomen, past my hips and thighs, before wrapping around the back of them and heaving me up onto the sturdy surface.
“Are you sure about that?” Ghost asks as he rolls the bottom of his mask up and tucks it out of the way at his nose. My lower stomach turns to static as my eyes latch onto his lips. His tongue darts out across his bottom lip. I think about how soft they’d be as they glide across my own.
Ghost rubs the outside of my thighs as he presses himself between my legs. There’s that unmistakable twinge of desire from the soft pressure. It’s like every time I look at him, the sensation grows and clouds my better judgment. This is dangerous. Everything about him is dangerous. And yet he’s so alluring. When I stare into those dark eyes it feels like someone is draping a velvet curtain around me, completely blacking out the rest of the world. The only thing left, is him.
“Yes, sir,” I don’t hide the teasing smile that crosses my lips. I know how crazy it drives him to hear those words drip from my tongue. My hands travel across his broad chest as Ghost loops his arms around my back. His lips brush against mine tantalizingly slowly. I dwell on the sensation of his warm, damp skin moulding against my own. A fuzzy feeling encases me everywhere until I feel the familiar sharpness of his teeth skirting my bottom lip, revealing what he really wants.
He’s like a dog with a taste for blood. Once Ghost took my flesh between his teeth for the first time, he knew there was no going back. I feel that same hunger now as his sharp canines move from my lips to my neck. The serrated sensation is startling as he attaches his lips to the tender patch of skin just under my ear.
“Simon,” his name escapes as a breathy gasp. My mind starts to slip, but I can’t let him mark up my neck. “Not there.”
He hums against my throat, sending pleasurable sensations through every nerve. I want him to keep going so damn bad. But he can’t.
“He’ll see,” I can barely make out the words.
“Good,” Ghost mumbles against my skin.
“That can’t happen,”
“I know sweetheart,” he croons, slipping his hands under my shirt. “But you’ve no idea how much I want him to,”
“What?” I lift my arms as he slides the shirt over my head and drops it to the floor.
“When I think of those dirty fucker’s hands on you all I see is red. I want to bash his fucking head in until his skull is dust,” Ghost presses a delicate kiss to my collarbone with those vile lips. His hands gently caress my shoulder blades and run down my back, stopping at my bra strap. “If they knew you were mine, no man would dare touch you,” my lungs freeze from his words.
“Yours?” I ask and his head rises. Ghost’s hand leaves my back to cup my face. His charcoal eyes meet my own with an indescribable intensity. They’re incredibly dark and thrilling and full of desire. And there’s nothing like them - nothing like Ghost. The feeling he stirs within me is so unique, so completely irreplicable, that no other person will ever compare.
“My asset,” he rasps. “Mine,” his thumb brushes against my lips.
“Just your asset?” I already know his answer, but I want to hear the hushed words fall from his mouth.
“So much fucking more than an asset,” Ghost presses his lips against mine. I’ve witnessed the violence he’s capable of, so to feel him handle me with such a level of tenderness is all the more significant.
“Show me,” I whisper against his mouth. I feel the sharp breath he draws in and the accompanying hunger.
Ghost’s hands return to the back of my bra and skillfully release the clasp. I let the fabric slide off my shoulders, before dropping it to the ground. It’s almost as if I can physically feel his eyes rake down my body and take in the sight before him.
Ghost hands press against my back, arching me towards him as he bends over to attach his lips to my sensitive skin. I slide a hand up the back of his neck and under his balaclava and wind my fingers through his thick hair. The heat of his wet tongue glides around my nipple and goosebumps rise across my chest. Then I feel that familiar sharpness that causes my breath to hitch and I know he’s about to leave bruises. If anyone ever sees below the hem of my shirt, they will immediately know I’ve been marked - no, branded as his.
He revisits the faded hickeys from the night at the cabin while also adding to the growing collection. The large bruises from all those weeks ago have faded from my torso and legs. So, he paints over them with his own.
As Ghost works his way lower and lower, I reach for the neckline of his long-sleeve shirt and tug it upward.
“Use your words,” his cool breath fans against my hips.
“Please?” without answering me, Ghost pulls his shirt off in one swift motion, baring himself all to me. Last time the only light I had to see was from the glow of the fire. Now, every inch of ink, every freckle, and scratch and scar littering his upper body are exposed. Not a single mark diminishes his magnificence. And while his beauty is altered from war, he is more stunning than any man I’ve crossed paths with before. The power he holds is almost beyond comprehension. Time and time again he leaves me in utter awe.
My eyes drag across the artwork painfully etched into his skin as his lips tease even lower on my hips. The throbbing between my legs intensifies with anticipation. The pictures tattooed on him are a brutal reflection of the horrors he’s witnessed and committed - of the people he’s lost. Like some part of him was afraid of forgetting and this was the only he could ensure he’d remember. My hand is cold against his warm skin as I run it up his arm.
At the same time, he reaches for the button of my pants, unhooking it with just one finger. Careful eyes glance up for permission before sliding them down my legs. Then, he quickly loops a thumb around my underwear and pulls them down immediately after. Ghost rests on his knees as his arms wrap around my thighs and pull me to the edge of the dresser.
The warmth of his lips lightly brushes over the faded bruises on my inner thighs and just when I think he’s about to add more, I feel the heat move up between my legs and press hard against my clit. The mask and black paint frame his eyes as he peers up through my legs with a half-drunken gaze.
“So fucking wet already,” his deep voice vibrates against the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Is that all for me, Sweetheart?”
“Yes sir,” the words escape as a whimper. He has me wrapped entirely around his finger. In this moment I would do anything for him. Anything just to feel him touch me, to feel him pulse inside me with as much need as I have for him.
“Atta girl,” Ghost hums and then presses his tongue against my clit in wavelike motions. The pleasure from his movements consumes me as my head is thrown back and I gasp for air. “Look at me, sweetheart. I’ll stop if you don’t look,” and when I do, every feeling intensifies even more.
Ghost traces a wet finger around my entrance before slipping it in as his tongue continues to work in circles. He gently teases another finger before adding it as well, slowly stretching me even more. Simon worries about all the ways he could hurt me; thinks of all the reasons he shouldn’t be trusted and yet I’ve never had someone take the care he does to make me feel so damn good.
The waves of pleasure coursing through my body intensify as he picks up pace.
“Simon,” I plead. “I-I’m close,” the words feel like prayers on my tongue and only one god can answer them.
My knuckles whiten as my hands desperately grip the edges of the dresser. He curls his fingers and hits that perfect spot. Tremors travel through my legs and I feel myself climbing closer and closer.
Simon presses his other hand onto my stomach and adds to the thrilling sensation even more. His starving eyes never leave mine. The vibrations of his soft groans against my very core are almost enough to send me over the edge.
The waves of pleasure grow stronger and the only things I can focus on are those reflective pools of desire. The rest of the world blurs and all that matters is him.
Simon’s fingers curl against me again and every muscle in my body tightens all at once before simultaneously releasing. Yet he doesn’t stop. Even when my legs latch around him and cage him in as I ride my high, he doesn’t stop.
My heart races and with every breath I take, the air feels cleaner, purer. My head feels lighter and a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. And as my body relaxes, Simon stands from his knees. His forearm brushes against my bare chest as his hand wraps around the back of my head and his lips press into mine. I can taste myself dripping from his mouth.
“You’re mine,” Simon murmurs against my skin. The addictive spice of his cologne fills the air. It lingers closer to the nape of his neck and mixes with the heat of his skin.
“Yours,” I confirm. As he pulls away, there’s something different about his eyes, something undeniably possessive.
Simon wraps his arms under my thighs and lifts me up with ease as my legs wrap around his back. My hands rest between his neck and shoulders. I let my gaze drop to the section of his tattoo that covers his shoulder and half his chest. There’s a collage of objects and events, a line of barbed wire seemingly wrapped around a man in a field. The sudden feeling of falling overtakes my senses and my entire body tenses as my back lands against the mattress.
His hands are still wrapped around my legs as he towers over the bed.
“Fucking hell,” Simon muses to himself. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
I feel that familiar pit in my stomach as he reaches for his belt. The quiet, clinking sound of metal fills the room and my heart rate starts to pick up. The tension in my lower stomach grows again as he moves to undo his pants and smoothly steps out of them.
I never thought I would enjoy allowing someone to have so much control over me. But as he stands over me and climbs onto the bed with a definitive goal in mind, I am willing to submit to whatever he wants.
The heat of his legs spreads to my sides as he straddles my waist. Simon has all the power in the world over me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Soft hands rest against his thick thighs as he considers the expression on my face. Wild hair frames my flushed cheeks. My lips are chapped as I draw them between my teeth at the sight of him. As his eyes continue down my frame, they proudly skirt across the marks garnishing my chest, past my hips, until he finally lingers on my hands gently rubbing circles into his meaty flesh.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Simon’s head tilts as he asks this. He grabs the tops of my hands and leads them up his thighs.
“I’ve a few ideas,” my voice cracks as I speak. I almost feel nervous again. As we reach the hem of his underwear, he slows but doesn’t stop.
“Every day,” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “After every meeting with you, every time you grab my arm or whisper my name or look at me with those fucking eyes, this is what you do to me y/n,” he places my hands over the large bulge in his underwear.
I feel him throb under my hands as he strains against the fabric, aching to be freed.
“Every day I wrap my hand around my cock and imagine it’s yours,” Simon holds my hands in place as his hips subconsciously grind against the friction. “I think about what you felt like wrapped around me that night,” his voice is thick with desire. I feel myself gripping tighter as I long for his touch against my feverish skin. “No one’s ever done that to me before, y/n.”
“Simon,” my voice is unsteady. His eyes flicker up from our hands. “I need you.”
He leans down and cages me in with both arms, yet my hand never leaves his pulsing length. Simon’s breathing deepens as I stroke him above his boxers. He pauses, searching my eyes for something I’ll never understand. When our swollen lips meet and his tongue brushes against mine, I slip my fingers just past the band of his underwear. A low growl vibrates through his chest as my hand inches closer and finally grasps him.
“Fuck, y/n,” he groans as I pump his cock in my hand. The needy sounds escaping from his chest make me want him even more. As I trace my thumb around the head of his cock he starts to grind against my hand. “y/n.”
Simon grabs himself and slides his length along my entrance. I revel in the feeling of being trapped under him.
“Please Simon,” I whine as he teases me back and forth. The need to feel him is overwhelming. Fuck, he’s all I can think about.
“Look at me sweetheart,” Simon mumbles and as our eyes meet, I feel him push his throbbing tip in. “Does that feel good?” he whispers.
There’s a distinct tightness as he stretches me out perfectly around himself. Already I feel my walls clenching around him and he hasn’t even started thrusting. Simon slowly adds more length. He bites his bottom lip as he watches my expressions. He revels in knowing how feral he makes me.
“Oh, fuck,” the breathless words graze my lips. So damn good. Every small movement sends jolts of pleasure through my core.
Simon grabs my waist with his hands and starts to pick up speed. Each thrust feels like he’s reaching deeper within. And every time he hits that tiny bundle of nerves and I clench even tighter around him I feel like we grow even closer.
The muscles in his back flex as I wrap my legs around the vast space and pull him closer. My hands grasp his forearms cemented into the bed beside my head. My fingers and knuckles turn white from holding onto him so tight as his thrusts grow harder and harder. Fuck is he thrusting hard. Each stroke is so damn powerful that I can’t help the whines and whimpers that echo throughout the room.
As his intensity grows, so does the volume of my cries. Until a large hand wraps itself around my mouth and stifles the sounds. “Shh, can’t have anyone hear how good I make you feel,” Simon’s hot breath brushes against my ear.
His quiet grunts fill my ears as he picks up his pace even faster and he bows his head to the crook of my neck.
Every nerve in my body is overwhelmed with pleasure. His compelling scent fills my lungs. His desperate sounds reverberate through my ears. The pressure and friction of his body against mine are all too much.
I already feel another high coming.
Simon’s fiery lips latch onto my collarbones. As his head is bowed, I slip my hand behind the mask and feel his thick hair between my fingers. It's every small detail about him that drives me over the edge. His heavy breathing. How his hand presses hard against my mouth to stifle my moans. How hot his skin is against my own. Beneath my fingers, he feels so real.
Every thrust strokes that perfect spot so deep within me. I slip a hand between my legs and circle my clit. Behind my eyelids, stars explode with pleasure. I try and tell him how close I am, but the words don’t make it past his hand.
“Such a good fucking girl,” he moans into my ear. “I know you’re close,” Simon’s lips press against my ear. His sharp teeth gently tug at my lobe. Despite his hand, my moans grow even louder. He maintains a steady, powerful pace that rocks the bedframe and stirs my soul.
My hand circles around myself even faster to keep up with him. Every muscle in my body grows tenser and tenser. Inching closer and closer to a complete release.
I so badly want to close my eyes, but I know if I look away from him now, he’ll stop. I feel them well wet with tears from how fucking intense he makes me feel. The rest of his room, the base, and the world all disappear. All that matters is him. All I need is him. Simon. Fucking hell, Simon. My vision blurs and my walls tense harder than ever before.
Stars explode behind my vision as I stare into his eyes and I feel like I can reach out and touch his soul. White light blinds my vision and I feel my entire body freeze like I’ve been possessed by something otherworldly. Everything releases all at once and I ride the waves of pleasure that course through my bones. Simon replaces his hand with his swollen lips.
“You did so good sweetheart,” he rasps. But I know his mind is elsewhere right now. I sense how rock-hard he is in me. How his cock throbs with every thrust. I know he needs this as much as I did. How desperate he’s feeling right now.
“Don’t hold back, Simon,” I whisper into his ear. He pulls his head back to look me in the eyes. Being intimate with him has taught me just how much he values eye contact. This is how he connects. It’s not about sex, it’s about vulnerability. And this is a state he doesn’t let others see him in. Whether he’ll admit it or not, he trusts me.
I stroke his jaw and lock my legs around his waist as he quickens his pace. His breathing deepens and his hands tighten around my waist as he uses me as leverage to thrust even faster.
His lips part as quiet grunts and moans work their way through his chest. The soft sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. My walls clench around him. After my second, high every part of my body is even more sensitive. Feeling him inside me is borderline painful, but watching the look in his eyes is all that matters.
Simon’s thrusts begin to falter. His chest brushes against my breasts as he leans down and brings himself closer. His hands move to cup my face as his eyes bore into my heart. One last desperate moan escapes his lips as he presses his forehead into mine. He pulls out and finishes on the duvet before collapsing directly on top of me.
“Fucking hell, y/n” he mumbles into my neck. My hands wrap around his broad back and rest there as we both catch our breath. “You’re something else.”
A comfortable silence settles over us in the moments afterward. Simon gives me a Henley to wear and slips on his pants before settling back on the bed. His hands gently wind themselves through my hair as I lean against his chest.
I expect him to pull the balaclava back down almost immediately like he did last time. But he doesn’t. Simon leaves the fabric rolled up and his jaw exposed. As he rests his head against the wall, looking up at the ceiling, I gently trace my fingers along the sharp feature and down his neck.
My mind drifts to all the possible reasons why he wears it all the time. Why none of his soldiers know what he looks like. Why even after being so vulnerable with me, he choses to keep it on. But I won’t ask. I know if I’m ever going to find out it’ll be because he feels the time is right. But I don’t think I’ll ever find out. Because I don’t think I’ll know him long enough.
The time on his watch reads 17:04. There’s just under an hour before I have to be back in my room.
The soothing motion of his hand brushing along my hair is almost enough for me to dose off. His breathing is slow and even. His heart thunders strong and healthy behind his ribcage. There’s something so sure about him. Something safe.
“Simon?”
“Hmm?”
“Will you read to me?” I think of his copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn that I skimmed across the other day. About the story of a boy who escapes an abusive childhood. Who finds freedom. And I wonder if he sees himself in the story. If he feels like he escaped.
“Would you like me to?” his low voice almost sounds tired.
“I would.”
He sighs as he reaches for the old beat-up book. Simon flips the worn pages open to a dogeared spot just over halfway through. He clears his voice and then pulls me further up his chest so his arms can wrap around my waist and hold the novel at the same time.
Simon’s voice is quiet and thick and comforting as he starts at the top of the page. I don’t know what events led here, but the characters sound troubled. My entire body relaxes and wishes we could stay like this forever. The looming threat of returning to my own room hangs over my shoulders, yet I try my best to push it away. Instead, I focus on the feeling of his warm skin against my cheek. Of the strength of his heart. I allow it to lull me almost, but not quite asleep.
“I couldn’t bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn’t think about nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist,” Simon slowly reads the pages, leaving himself time to picture the scene.
My head moves with his chest as he breathes deeply. He’s like an anchor, holding me here, keeping me safe as the storm wages on around us.
His words fade and the room gets darker and darker.
When I wake up, I recognize my quarters.
And I recognize the looming shadow. His husky hand wraps around my wrist and demands my attention.
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An: Thanks for your patience, March is a really busy month for me! The tension is building and I can't wait for the next part (19 is looking steamy).
Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.
Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.
Word count: 2800
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader
Warnings: angst, military setting, explicit language, graphic depictions of violence, use of knives, mentions of death.
I think of all the phone calls I’ve made throughout my life. The hundreds of hours I’ve spent talking to friends and family. Sharing the exciting news of getting into college with my childhood best friend who moved away in elementary school. Gossiping with my favourite coworker about an awful shift when she didn’t open with me in the morning. Listening closer to hear the whispers of shared secrets between the few people I really care about. Talking late into the night about that one person I couldn’t scrub from my mind. The conversation slowly dying down but neither of us ready to hang up. Neither of us ready for the silence after the line goes dead. The relief of hearing their voice after days or weeks of nothing. All those conversations flicker through my mind as I stare at the landline sitting on Captain Price’s desk. It’s a clunky, faded, black thing with a rubber coil attaching the receiver to the phone and the numbers on the keys have long since rubbed off.
I’m not prepared to hear his voice. After learning all I know about him, I don’t think it’ll sound the same. There’s no way the man I’m about to speak to is the one I’ve known my whole life.
Soap was supposed to be here. Then five minutes ago, he was called out to demolitions by another sergeant who said it was “urgent”. I wasn’t sure what his specialty was until recently and after getting to know him better, it makes perfect sense. He spends almost every waking moment out there, yet won’t tell me what they’re doing. Whenever I ask, he sits up straighter and has to suppress his smile, but I don’t miss the excitement in his eyes when he says it’s classified.
Right now I’d rather be there with Soap than sat in front of Price and Ghost and some scrawny man with equipment hooked to that damn phone. I’d rather be almost anywhere than here.
The script crinkles in my hand. The Captain already gave the go-ahead. Now it’s all on me. I feel Ghost’s eyes on me. I want to find some comfort in them, but just can’t. After he left, he told Price about the mole. He had to, I get it, but I also can’t help the feeling that nothing I say will stay between us.
I wish I was back in his room, lying on top of the covers and reading his copy of Huckleberry Finn knowing that no one could get to me. Only Simon.
And then the phone is in my hand, pressed against my ear: ringing once, twice. And then it stops. Shuffling sounds fill the other line. Then, I hear his voice. That voice that softens when it speaks to me. That has always been so understanding. That ordered those men to mercilessly take the lives of innocent civilians praying for salvation.
“Y/n?” he asks, almost unsure – like the possibility of talking to me might just be too good to be true.
“Hi,” the word dad almost slips from my lips, but I know if it does, I won’t be able to keep it together. My hands don’t feel attached to my body. Like somewhere in the numb space of my forearms, they were simply disconnected. My mouth is dry and I eye the script, but can’t get the words to come into focus.
“Are you okay? Have they hurt you? Are you eating?” there’s just something to his voice, that I can’t quite pin down. Something disingenuous. Like he’s only playing the role of a concerned parent. When I meet Ghost’s eyes, I know he hears it too. He nods, urging me to speak.
“I’m fine,” my voice is strangely even. “They said I could see you again. That they’d make a trade,” the rest of my body disconnects from my mind and suddenly I’m standing beside Ghost watching myself talk on the phone. The hope in my voice is real. The girl on the phone is going to go home safely to her dad. And it sounds like she genuinely believes every word she’s saying.
“Oh my sweet girl,” he croons. “I want nothing more. Your mother and I have been worried sick.”
“Mom?” I latch onto the hopeful word. “Is she there with you?”
“No, but she’s somewhere safe, being guarded by some of our best. You’ll get to see her soon,” he purposely leaves out her location, unknowing of 141’s extensive intel.
“Dad, I-I,” just like in the script, Price audibly warns me we’re short on time. An intentional move to add more pressure to our conversation. My father will have heard him in the background. “They said I can’t talk much longer,” my tone is rushed and worried. I see a small smile tug on the corner of Price’s mouth. I’m convincing.
“Hey,” he says. “Soon enough we’ll have all the time in the world,” the ultranationalist who snuck into my room said he was displeased that I leaked the ambush info, but you’d never pick up on that while listening to him on the phone. He hides his cruelty so well. Even knowing what he’s capable of now, the man I’m speaking to just doesn’t sound like the type. “But y/n, I’m going to need to know what they want from us first. Okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble like a scared child. I smooth out the script across my thighs and read off their demands. I recite the names of five men. Two of their leaders and three of 141’s soldiers who were taken prisoner at one point or another. Neither my father nor my uncles are on the list. There’s no way they’d trade one of themselves for me. Even I know that.
“Those are the men they want?” I hear a newfound tension in his voice as he shifts in his seat.
“That’s what they told me to say,” my eyes are glued to the paper. If I look at Ghost or Price now, I’ll lose my concentration.
He sighs deeply, “I’ll need a few days little bird, those are some top dogs. But I’m going to get you out, don’t you worry.”
I sniffle as though this is too much. Like hearing his voice made me realize how much I miss him and now I might cry. “Love you,” my voice cracks.
“Love you too darling,” the line goes silent for just a moment. “I’ll be in touch,” with these words, his voice significantly deepens. He’ll be in touch. He has his ways of contacting me despite 141’s precautions. I should expect a shadowy visitor very soon.
Then he hangs up. I place the phone back on the mount. Horror creeps its way up my shoulders and I know I’m back in my own body.
“Well done,” Price congratulates me. He’s surprised I did so well. I don’t come off as the type of person to perform well under pressure – I normally don’t – yet the phone call was almost flawless.
“Thank you,” I attempt a small smile, but inside, I feel awful. Dirty. Blindsided. I can’t believe that is the same man I’ve known my entire life. Sinking betrayal anchors my bones to the depths of the Mariana Trench. The immense pressure makes my head feel as though it’s about to implode upon itself. But along with the shame I now carry because of our kinship, there’s also molten anger stirring within my core, threatening to erupt.
“Thank you, Sergeant, you’re dismissed,” Price turns to the man who recorded the call and waits for him to leave. Ghost hasn’t said a word almost this entire time. Yet he closely watches the man leave with his equipment as suspicious as ever. He doesn’t trust a soul. Especially now. “Within the next few days, your little friend will pay another visit. We’ve installed another camera outside your door and tapped the room. Tell him the truth, just like he asked, we don’t need to aggravate them further, but it is essential he doesn’t think you snitched again,” Price’s tone has turned serious. He understands the gravity of the situation.
The ultranationalist could decide to kill me if he thinks I snitched again. He would certainly order the execution of my friends back home. While Price doesn’t care about them, he needs me alive. They won’t have the opportunity to ambush the Ultranationalists without me alive for a supposed exchange.
“Any questions?” he asks. For once, I have none.
“No sir.”
“Right. Ghost, your request is approved. Take the afternoon to complete it. Return her to her quarters before 1800,” he nods once toward the lieutenant. And then we’re off.
I don’t know why, but I expected him to say something as we navigate the halls. However, like usual, Ghost is completely stoic.
When we first met, I was always silently instructed to walk in front of him. Ghost was suspicious of me. Despite being cleared by intel, part of him still considered the possibility that I could be an Ultranationalist. By walking behind me he eliminated any chance of a surprise attack. His analytical eyes would trail up and down my frame trying to decipher any hidden motives. He’d take note of the length of my stride. How I hold my head, my shoulders. How my hands fidgeted and I picked at my nails and then my cuticles once they were too short.
Something has changed since then. A lot has changed.
Now I walk beside him. Close, but not close enough that our arms brush. Not close enough to attract suspicion. He no longer glares at me like I could turn on him at any moment. There’s so much more depth to his eyes when they steal small glances my way. Sometimes – like now as we walk along the sparsely populated halls - I feel him step closer so we’re almost touching, the heat of each other’s body is just noticeable, before he reminds himself that someone could come across us at any moment. Then, after a brief moment of indulgence, he once again shifts away to a more professional distance. I sense the same kind of longing pulses through his veins as mine.
My thoughts are interrupted as we continue to walk past my room.
“Aren’t you dropping me off?” the confusion is evident in my voice as my pace slows. Ghost turns to look at me while keeping his pace.
“No. We’re training,” he says. Training? Is this the request Price mentioned earlier? What kind of training is he referring to? What is Ghost planning?
“We are?”
“Affirmative,” he confirms. His long legs are hard to keep up to as they stride with purpose.
“What kind of training?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” Ghost says. And if I’m not mistaken, I almost detect a hint of teasing in his voice.
Yet, Ghost doesn’t take me to a gym or shooting range, instead, he leads me right back to his quarters.
“Is this a joke?” suspicion is evident in my voice. I hesitate as he waits for me to enter first.
“Negative,” the curt response is typical. He isn’t about to volunteer any additional information.
“What could we possibly train for in your room?” my mind involuntarily wanders to a variety of things, but none that will help with the exchange. As I make eye contact with him, my cheeks flush almost immediately. Ghost’s gaze is strong and unwavering. He knows exactly where my thoughts have drifted.
“I’ll show you,” he motions to the door. A small ball of nervous energy forms in my lower stomach. The type that has no place being here right now. The type that’ll get me into trouble. “First, I want to know your thoughts on the phone call?”
“I don’t want to think about the phone call,” I say as I leave him behind in the hall. Once inside, he takes his vest off and hangs it on the back of the door. Facing away from me, he slips off the skull mask and quickly replaces it with a plain black balaclava. My whole body freezes at the sight. I can’t believe he just took it off in front of me. His hair is darker than I thought it’d be. The strands are a stark contrast against his fair eyelashes. He wears it clean cut like most men in the military, short on the sides and more forgiving on top. But it’s overall longer than I imagined. My mind drifts to what it would feel like to run my fingers through the delicate strands. To gently trace my nails along his scalp. To roughly grasp him by the hair as he–
“It’s not often Price congratulates someone on their performance,” Ghost’s head tilts as he gauges my response. I don’t speak, my mind still stuck on the fact he took his mask off in front of me, even if I couldn’t see his face. “You were almost as good there as you were during the interrogations,” he continues. Heat creeps up my neck. I don’t know if it’s a feeling of flattery or embarrassment.
“I’m not good at it. It feels like I’m not even there,” like the actions aren’t even my own. It’s a dangerous feeling. How far can a person go when they don’t feel responsible for their actions? How far could I go?
“But you know you are?” his tone becomes mildly concerned. Does he think I’m slipping from reality?
“I know I am. It’s just easier to separate myself from what I’m doing,” I think out loud, my voice slowly fading toward the end of my sentence. Maybe it’s my brain’s way of protecting myself?
“Y/n, if it’s too much let me know,” Ghost says seriously as a gloved hand reaches out and touches my chin. It has been too much since the moment they kidnapped me. But now all I can do now is figure out how to survive until the exchange is over. “For this too.”
The second half of his sentence catches my attention.
“And what is ‘this?’” what does he keep alluding to?
Ghost’s delicate hand on my chin leaves as he reaches for something strapped to his belt. The gloved hand unsheathes a steel knife. He flips it around and offers the handle to me. I hesitantly take it from him, all the while closely watching his eyes. There’s a glint to them. Something troublesome. At this point, his intentions could be anything.
“What’s your safe word?” his husky voice is suddenly a lot lower as he takes a step backward and squares his shoulders. There’s an ambiguous spark in his eyes. One that’s about to catch fire. I can almost smell the damp, smouldering smoke in the air.
“Safe word?” my breath catches in my throat and I try to force a swallow. I choke back a nervous laugh. He’s joking, right? The knife feels unnatural in my hand.
“Think of one, sweetheart,” he rasps. There’s that damn name again. The one that makes it so fucking hard to think. My mind snags on it like a loose thread to a nail, pulling every thought out of order. Only he can mend me.
“Um, I don’t – Soap, I guess?” his call sign comes to mind first.
“Not Soap. Something different,” his head juts to the side with disapproval.
“Okay. Fine. Pizza then,” I’m still confused as to why he wants me to have a safe word.
“Pizza,” Ghost repeats to himself, burning it to memory. He takes another step back and I almost feel myself relaxing. My shoulders don’t feel so tense. The knife is no longer so heavy. I glance down at the mean little thing in my hand. I wonder how many people have died by this blade?
Ghost doesn’t wait for my eyes to return to his. From the edge of my peripheral, something large lunges at me. He’s incredibly fast. Just a flash of movement in the dim light. Fear hasn’t had the chance to take over yet. Instinct kicks in and I jump back out of the way, just narrowly escaping his first attempt at grabbing me. But there’s nowhere to go. The room is small and he’s closer to the door than I am. He wants me to fight. He’s forcing me to.
“The fuck are you doing?” I angrily spit at him as I corner myself between the dresser and wall, knife still in hand.
Ghost looks as terrifying as ever as he shifts to face me once more. His intimidating frame takes up the entire walkway between the bed and dresser. Those thick shoulders heave along with his chest as his breathing deepens. His gloved hands stay open at his sides, eager to grab at me again. Ghost’s sharp eyes look darker than before. He is completely locked in on me.
There is no escaping what comes next.
Pt 19:
An: Thanks for your patience, I am so excited about this part!! SMUT WARNING, it gets spicy!
Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley f
