COD:MW stories

COD: MW imagines and stories 29 | HUN | ENG | 🇭🇺 | she/her | married, momma of a little boy 💙

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Been thinking what "x Reader" to write next

OG Yuri Volkov

Reboot Price

Reboot Ghost

OG Cpt. Soap

König

Voting ended on7h

A Makarov x Reader x Yuri smut is already in the making 🙂‍↕️

Any of those can be anything tbh, I have a wild imagination. It might end up as angst, or smut, or a full blown story with 5 parts 😂

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Yuri Volkov x Reader x Vladimir Makarov smut - 18+ MDNI

Threesome with the OG Yuri and Makarov? Yes please 😩 Not proofread. Maybe one day. Typos might exist, sorry in advance.

The meeting ended about two hours ago. Everyone from the Inner Circle left the perimeter, only Yuri remained there, since he was responsible for your safety. Well, he and Makarov, who you've been arguing with for the last two hours. If anyone asked, neither of you would say it was an argument at all. Strategical discussion, maybe.

Neither of you raised your voices, as both of you took deliberate care to dissect the others reasoning, finding the smallest cracks in them. Yuri —bless his calmness— left the room about half an hour ago, while Zakhaev left more than one hour ago. He had enough of the two of you for today.

You were there as an advisor, mainly a political one, as Zakhaev tried to maintain a good image— he sucked at it by himself, he knew. But you were an excellent political advisor, and you accepted his offer. Money was good, and it was a real challenge for you to make this man and his ideas look good.

Makarov was his right hand man, and a great advisor of his own, but he succeeded more in warfare than politics. But more often than not the two walked hand by hand. If Zakhaev wanted his plans to work, he needed them to be good in both directions. If he attacked someone, it might've been a good move by warfare standards, but a terrible mistake for his political image, and vica versa.

So more often than not Makarov and you argued for literal hours until you found some common ground where Zakhaev can walk and look good while the business stayed good too. Poor Yuri was the one who always stood there by the door until you both finished, because Zakhaev always left early. He would absolutely not watch this thing you did, what was probably a very fucked up foreplay for you two.

Not that you ever touched Makarov. There was always a heavy, charged atmosphere around you two, especially during arguments that lasted longer than an hour. You two inched closer as both of you were explaining reasons, while the other listened. Yuri was there to make sure neither of you end up dead or heavily injured at the end of the argument discussion.

But this time something changed. When Yuri came back from the kitchenette not far away —he desprately needed coffee after listening to you two—, he heard a soft thump from the room you two was in, and god did he ran, because he was sure one of you had finally enough of the other— in a permanent way. But boy, was he wrong.

When he burst in through the door he was ready for blood, a drawn weapon from Makarov, hell, even for you to wield your high heels as a weapon. Those things looked painfully pointy. But what he saw made him stop in his tracks.

You were laying on the heavy oak table, legs sprawled open, your dress hiked up to your waist, your butt barely on the table. Your underwear was laying on the ground near, from the looks of it it was torn down from your body. And Makarov? He was between your legs, pants unbuckled and zipper down, cock buried to the hilt into your pussy. One of his hands were holding your hips —gods, it looked painful enough, his knuckles were almost white as they held your flesh—, his other hand on your throat. Not forcefully enough to completely close your airways, but enough to make you a little dizzy.

Both of you panted, seemingly started this more than a good few minutes ago, as small droplets of sweat was covering your brows, your eyes hazy, pupils blown wide as Makarov moved between your legs. Makarov looked less touched, no sweat yet, no sign of exhaustion, just a deep hunger in his eyes as he watched your face and the sheer pleasure on it. An almost invisible smile was playing on his lips. He was proud of himself, if Yuri needed to guess.

When you two heard the door swing open, you both looked towards it, but absolutely not falthered. Yuri seemed frozen in place for more than one reasons.

First, he liked you, like genuinely. In a "I would like to call you onto a date sometimes in the future" way. Not that he ever said that to you, but Makarov, the bastard he was, saw the signs, he knew Yuri better than his own hands. He also knew that Yuri was a coward and he was afraid of your rejection.

Second, he never saw you even remotely naked or flashing too much skin, as you were always dressed elegantly and modestly. Seeing your bare thighs dangling around Makarov's hips, hearing just how utterly wet you were as Makarov pounded into you made his head spin a little.

Third, not to mention the fucked out expression you looked at him with— cheeks rosy, eyes hazy, sinful moans leaving your mouth as you watched Yuri, and God help him, you extended your hand towards him, and his pants became insufferably tight from the sight alone.

Makarov gave a cold laugh towards Yuri, his movements not stopping or falthering the slightest. Yuri saw Makarov in many positions before, in many states of undressed and completely naked back in the day when both were in the military and showered. The sight of Makarov did not bothered him and it did not bother Makarov that Yuri watched. What probably annoyed him was the fact Yuri was still being a coward.

"Come on now, Yuri. Have a taste. She doesn't mind at all" he said, giving you an extremely hard trust that made you almost cry out, as you bounced upwards a little on the table. Yuri still stood completely still. What made him break that was you.

"Yuri, please" you breathed out, your eyes tearing a little from the pleasure Makarov was giving you as you pleaded for Yuri to come closer. Makarov let go of your hips and pulled out of you when Yuri finally stood beside you, his hands—slightly trembling— undid his buckle and pulled down the zipper. He was nervous.

Makarov sighed in annoyance and helped you sit up and then get off the table, before he picked you up from behind by your thights, and Yuri needed to almost catch you. You instinctively wrapped your legs around Yuri, arms clinging to him. He held you up easily— he had heavier gear on himself before than what you weighted. As Yuri lined himself up at your entrance, you carefully missed him, earning a low growl from him and instead of the gentleness he wanted to take you with, he pushed down your hips onto his cock with one motion. You moaned into the kiss from the feeling of being filled to the brim. Makarov wasn't small by any means, but Yuri seemed to be a little thicker, yet shorter, but the way he moved made up for it entirely.

Makarov waited a few seconds, before he stood behind you, helping angle your hips a little more upwards and helping Yuri to hold you by your waist. He spat onto his fingers before he found your butt and started to ease one finger in slowly. He prepared you normally, he wasn't that much of a brute to not do.

Once he deemed it good enough he lined himself up too, while Yuri was already losing himself in you. Once Makarov entered you too, you felt impossibly full, and you cried out from the feeling, your head resting against Makarov's shoulder, as they both moved in sync. Makarov was already vlose enough from earlier as he pounded into you, and Yuri was close enough already. You, on the other hand seemed like you'll die in heaven any second, and soon you cried iut their names as you came undone, your body spasming and your holes trying to milk both men as they kept up their eork through your orgasm.

It did not took them long to finish, as you convulsed sround them— Yuri was the first to come with your name on his lips, then a hard kiss to your lips as he fucked his cum deep into you— not even a drop to waste. Makarov followed seconds later, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder as he groaned into your skin, his hips stuttering as he stuffed you full with his come too.

"Really?" You three heard coming from the doorway, and as you turned your head towards it you saw Viktor Zakhaev standing there, an annoyed look on his face. "Freaks. I need to wash my eyes with bleach after this." He said, as he walked away. He was probably looking for his father to discuss some matters. Instead he got himself a boner instead and some nightmares, because he definitely didn't wanted to watch Yuri AND Makarov like that.

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Through your eyes - Soulmate AU

OG Vladimir Makarov x Reader

Not proofread. Wanted to post it before sleeping. TW: not heavily described assault, Makarov hanging like a pinata for a short pediod, 12 year age gap, and OG Makarov, he is his own trigger warning and a walking catastrophe, but I love him still <:

For twelve years, Makarov believed he doesn't have a soulmate, and that everyone who said they can occassionally feel theirs were simply liars. Because how would that be possible? He felt nothing. It must be something silly everyone believed were soulmates feelings, while it was surely something absolutely ordinary.

For twelve years, he felt no emotion that wasn't his. Nothing, nada. He did not see anything that wasn't there, or anything that felt like it came from someone else's vision. He did not hear any sounds that wasn't there. Maybe something was broken inside him from the start.

Then came the first vision, when he was sitting at home, writing homework at the table while his mother was making dinner. All of a sudden his vision was blurry, hike he was underwater, and all he saw was a white ceiling, the typical one in hospitals, then a blurry form of a woman in a surgical mask saying something in a language he didn't recognised. His ears picked up the tiny sound of a baby crying, before it all stopepd and his vision was filled with his homework again.

His mother explained it to him, that —as strange as it was— that was his soulmate's birth he witnessed, and the first things she saw and heard. Most soulmates are born a few years apart, so his one being born when he was already 12 was a little strange, but not totally unusual.

In the following years Makarov started to get regular visions, only for a second or two, a smell that wasn't there, felt a touch on his skin or heard voices. All from his soulmate. It was like someone was playing with a radio and from time to time it clicked to an actual channel before going back to the white noise again. He long ago accepted the fact that his soulmate was a child compared to him— and that they would likely never meet.

~~~

You had your own visions, sounds and touches from your soulmate, but your family thought they were just your imagination. You often said things that did not make sense— like you were speaking about an adult's things, or something you catched up from the TV.

They realised something was not usual with your soulmate when you were 8. You were already sleeping, when you started crying in your sleep so painfully both parents were there within seconds. They were unable to wake you for minutes as you wailed in pain and fear.

When you woke up you said you saw dirt and rain, men with guns roaming around. Somewhere near a bomb set off, blowing up someone's whole arm. You saw blood, so much of it, and you saw trembling hands that grabbed a gun while running forward. You heard voices of someone shouting things in a language you did not recognised. Your father said a few things in different languages, socmaybe you can identify what it sounded similar to. Your eyes widened when he said something in russian, the syllables awfully similar to the ones in your dream. Your parents sat you down and explained it wasn't a dream at all.

~~~

From that on, both of you got used to the soulmate bound and learned to mostly block it out, when you had something you needed to focus on, like an exam or reading. Makarov blocked it whenever he was on the battlefield or when he started to work for Zakhaev and needed to be present in mertings.

It worked fairly good, up until you were 14. On your birthday night, you were out with friends, and when it started to get dark, everyone said goodbye to go home. You walked alone, and when you were already near your school you felt eyes on yourself. You were naïve enough to not look around and run— then minutes later, when you were just beside the dark building, hands grabbed you, adult hands. A teached old enough to be your father, reeking of the smell of alcohol, eyes bleary, hands like steel. You were assaulted that night, and Makarov was unable to block your feelings, because the terror you felt was so strong it seeped through his mental gate.

He saw only minutes of what happened. A strees lamp near, a strees's name on a nearby house and half of the school's name on the building. He saw it through your tears, and he saw your attacker's face too. He heard your cries like you were lying beside him. In reality, you were thousands of kilometers away.

He promised himself early on to not get involved. He was a soldier in Russia, you were still a child in somewhere else. Your paths wouldn't cross in a natural way. But the terror, the dread he felt from you, the fear that ran deep into the bone, the pain he felt on his own skin as you tried to get free and you couldn't— it infuriated him enough. You were his soulmate, and someone was hurting you.

You were too afraid to say anything to anyone. The man who attacked you were a deeply respected teacher, every child and parent loved him. Who would believe you, the quiet kid? Who would not look az you differently after? You stayed quiet with your fearful thoughts, until one week later that teached was foind dead just behind the school— just where he hurt you, the exact same spot. And in that moment you knew who did it. And as bad as it sounded, you were thankful for your soulmate.

~~~

Through the years you two occassionally checked in on the other, concentratinv enough to see through the other's eyes and hear sounds for a few seconds.

Makarov often saw books in your lap. Some schoolbooks, later medical ones, and occassionally fantasy or romance. You often walked in your town, which was colorful and warm looking, calm. Nothing like the russian landscale you often saw through his eyes. Or the maps scattered around tables, or the weapon parts laying around as he was picking them apart and put them together later. Neither of you knew the other was checking in regularly to see if the other were alright.

~~~

Then Dubai happened, the Oasis Hotel. Price and Yuri attacking the hotel to finally get to Makarov. You already felt uneasy somehow when it started, but you tried to push it away. Your soulmate was restless in the past month, so you were used to the feeling. But something still felt wrong.

Then you felt the horror, the dread coming from his very soul. A feeling seeping into your bones, making your vision slightly blurry before you saw what was happening around him. You concentrated, because you never felt him fear for anything before.

Then you saw the dome, a blurry "Hotel Oasis of Dubai" sign in the distance, the face of a man, the cord, as the man wrapped it around your soulmate's neck while they were fighting. Then the glass dome shattered, and you cried out from the heavy, painful feeling you felt from him around his neck. He had been hanged. But seconds later the cord snapped and you saw the fall, hear bones crack. Heavy breathing, blurry vision, as he started to crawl away towards a door. You weren't able to stay connected much longer.

He was actively dying and he was afraid— not from death itselfy he wad afraid because he wanted to live. For minutes, you were breathing heavy. After a while you felt nothing from him, but knew he was still alive. There was a quiet buzz behind your eyes. He was still alive.

You long ago realised who your soulmate was. His face started to appear on news a fee years ago as an Ultranationalist terrorist from Russia, and you saw his reflection many times throughout the years. You knew Vladimir wasn't a good man, one worth the trouble. Yet when you were good enough, you ordered tickets for the next flight to Dubai. You did not explain why when your friend, the one you lived with in the shared apartment asked why. You just grapped a small suitcase, filled it with medical things you were able to get up onto the flight and ran towards the airport.

~~~

It took you two days to get to the Oasis Hotel and find him. He crawled into a supply room, and somehow he was still alive. Barely, but alive. There was absolute silence, as the hotel was a mess after the attack. It was left here to rot away like this. You two were lucky nobody came back and found him.

You assessed the wounds as much as you could— all the things you learned in med school coming handy now. Maybe this was why you chose medicine. Maybe some part of your soul had always known you'd need these hands one day.

You stopped the soft bleeding and cleaned his wounds the best you could in here, dressed them, tried to examine if he had any internal damage, any spine injury that could be fatal if you moved him in the wrong way. You were so deeply in work mode that you haven't realised he opened his eyes and with half lidded eyes watched you. He had a high fewer and his bision was blurry and shaky, ht he saw you working on him, and heard the quiet words that left your mouth like a chant: "Please don't die... Not after all these years. Please..." Darkness pulled him back once more after that.

~~~

He woke up next on a softer surface, having no idea how he had ended up there. When he opened his eyes, he saw a white ceiling, an ordinary room around him, and realized he was lying on a bed. His shirt was gone, his torso covered in clean bandages. A cold towel rested on his forehead. Every inch of his body ached, but not with the kind of pain that told him death was imminent.

When he looked to the side, he saw you. You were asleep on a chair beside the bed, and he realized he hadn't hallucinated back at the hotel. You had really come to save him despite everything he had done, everything you witnessed through his eyes over the decades. He wasn't sure whether he should kiss you for it or scold you for being so reckless. Probably both.

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Welcome to Moscow - 18+ MNDI

OG Vladimir Makarov x Reader

My first smut finally arrived. Enjoy. <:

Makarov wasn't the type to have relationships. Not in his early years, and definitely not later, when he became one of Zakhaev's soldier. When he quickly ascented the ladder, higher and higher up, until a few years later he stood beside him as his right hand man. He was only 25 at that time, just right before the assassination attempt on Zakhaev.

The assassination was horrible. He still remembered it vividly, even days, weeks later. He was sitting the car, the driver's seat. He was one of the very few Zakhaev trusted with his own safety— naturally, Makarov drove like he was drivint the Tzar himself.

When Zakhaev was shot, he instantly forgot to drive like that. When Yuri and others dragged Zakhaev into the car, Makarov drove away like a maniac. The old man was bleeding like hell, Yuri tried applying pressure to his arm— or what remained of it. From the look of it alone, it was caused by a heavy sniper rifle, but did not lingered on that thought much, as he sped towards the nearest place he kbew, where they could find a doctor who can try to safe that shredded arm, or at least the man's life.

~~~

Naturally, their enemies thought Zakhaev probably died. Their only luck was the wind that day, because if there wasn't any, the bullet would've probably pierced through Zakhaev's chest of head instead of his left arm, which the doctors couldn't save.

Zakhaev needed time to heal, and until then Makarov, and Zakhaev's son, Viktor took over the duties. It was tiresome - the work itself, lots of paperworks, calls and all, and the fact Makarov needed to deal with Viktor. He was a stubborn bastard.

~~~

Makarov wasn't the type to indulge in romance, and relationships held little appeal tovhim either. Not his style, he always said, and absolutely no time for it. Of course, he was a man, he had needs he needed to satisfy, but Moscow offered more than enough female company for that, ones that closed their mouth if paid enough. That was more his style. One night stands without any attachments.

Up until he met you.

He had no idea who you were, he just knew he never saw you before in that bar. Not that he was a regular there, but he popped in from time to time, when he wanted some company at night. The women there were always easy. A few drinks, maybe a few rubels if they were that type, and he was sated for days or maybe a week.

Not with you. When he sat down beside you, ordering a refill of your drink from the bartender, you only chuckled, as the bartender filled up your glass again. Before you wanted to say anything to him, maybe a thank you, maybe a what can I do for you, he was quicker, in slightly broken, heavily accepted english - of course he assumed you're a tourist. If he only knew.

"You don't look like you belong in Moscow." His voice was a little raspier, one that he knew women liked to hear, as he watched you from the side, trying to study you.

He saw you first when he entered the bar, you stood out like a sore thumb. While the other women were dressed in colors, formfitting, showy dresses, heavier makeup on their faces and statement earrings or necklaces adorning them, you looked... simple, in a good way. Your black dress hugged your body like it was designed for you, not extravagant, simply elegant with red heels— probably a brand Makarov did not cared to remember. Your natural makeup accentuated your eyes and the small lopsided smile that you made when -after going there- he ordered you a refill. You were a sight for him and from the looks of other patrons, for them too. Many wanted a little excitement, and tourists who doesn't belonged often looked for this kind of company— just a night where they can be domeone else, where they can enjoy themselves in ways they wouldn't normally.

"You always order for women you want to have sex with, or am I a lucky one?" You asked bluntly, turning towards him with another lopsided smile.

He gave you an amused expression, one he rarely let himself do. You two wouldn't meet again, so there was no harm in it.

"Only for the lucky ones" and with that you two eased into light chatter over drinks. Nothing specific, a few words about the bar, a few about Moscow and it's sights you should see. A half hour later you two already left the bar, and were already at the hotel lobby where you spent the night. The ride in the elevator was calm, you two standing beside eachother quietly and calmly, walking towards your room, key in hand, no rushing. The night was long anyway.

But once inside and the door closed shut, Makarov didn't waisted any seconds. He grabbed you by your waist and turned you around, the keys dropped from your hand in the motion and landed on the carpeted floor. And it remained there for the rest of the night.

The first kiss was anything but gentle. It tasted like hunger and the vodka he drank at the bar. Intoxicating in itself enough to make you moan into his mouth, before his hands pulled you close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Your hands ran up on his chest, feeling how the hard muscles tensed under your touch— they were well hidden under his clothes, as he did 't appeared as the overly bulky built. How wrong you were.

His big, calloused hands found the zipper at the back of your dress and started to pull it down, while your hands started to unbutton his dark shirt, all while his kisses stealed your breath and made your pulse spike even just from his lips. When he pulled down the zipper, he tugged down the dress feom your shoulders, making it soon pool around your ankles, leaving you only in a black, lacy bra, underwear and that infuriatingly red heels on your foot.

You finally came up for air when the air of the room his your body, and a shiver ran down your spine as you looked into his eyes— one green and one blue, as you realised in the bar, but right now his pupils were so dilated they almost looked pitch black and filled with hunger. Your hands pushed him a little, not hard or enough to make him budge, but he surprisingly complied, taking a step backwards and leaning against the cabinet next to the door. You lowered into your knees in front of him, your hands unbickling his belt and his trousers with quick efficiency, letting them drop down at his boots. His dark boxer looked painfully tight as his erection strained against the fabric, demanding to be freed. You ran your hand over the fabric, earning a deep growl from him, before you freed his cock from its confines. You looked up into his eyes as you slowly licked up a long lone from the bottom to the top of it, never breaking eye contact with him.

That earned you something that not many were saw during their (short) lives— Makarov's cold, resilient composure breaking down. On the battlefield, that meant certain death to his enemies, but in this room, it meant you will certainly walk funny the next morning. He sneaked his hand into your hair, his fingers tangling into the soft curls as he guided your head closer to his erection— a silent command. And who were you to not comply?

His head fell back, exposing the taut line of his throat, his jaw clenched tightly as he tried to stay in control that he prided himself for— but it seemed to fry at the edges with every movement of your tongue. He rarely indulged in foreplay of any short, he usually got straight to business with his one night stands, but God, he might actually consider doing this more often with you with his next one night stand.

After what felt like forever, he pulled your head away by your hair, not to hurt, but firm enough to make you comply. Before you realized what was happening, he grabbed you and lifted you upwards, making you straddle his hips and cling to his shoulders in the sudden movement. His cock stained against your still clothed pussy, but he had the easiest solution to that: with one hand holding you up, the other ripped the material off of you easily. You gave him a nasty look for it, but said nothing, instead kissed him as he lined himself up at your entrance.

"Ya isporchu tebya dlya lyubovo drugovo muzhchiny." (I'm going to ruin you for any other man.) he said, his words slipping out in russian. You arched into him as he slowly entered you inch by inch, making sure you felt every ridge and vein as he did. He didn't even realised you cussed out a quiet "Bozhe moy!" (My God!) as he slid into you. He would've probably stopped if he realised, to question you if you actually knew russian, because tourists usually didn't. Luckily he seemed oblivious, which was a rare thing for him.

When he was fully seated, he gave you a few seconds to adjust before he started to move, setting a rythm that felt too much and not enough at the same time. His hips slapped hard against yours and you were sure you'll have bruises tomorrow, but you didn't seemed to care at all. The feeling of him filling you uo again and again as he moved was way too enjoyable than to worry about some bruises.

Soon he seemed to fall behind in tempo, and he decided to walk away with you still in his hands towards the bedroom where big, ceiling to floor lenght windows stood. He put you down before one, moving your front towards the window, pushing on your back a little, so your front leaned against the cold glass, while he grabbed your hips and entered you again, making both of you moan at the feeling. His name, what he gave you at the bar, only his surname, fallen from your lips like a prayer as you neared your end, and he started to be more vocal, guttual groans emerging from his chest as he was nearing his, and soon you came, followed by him closely behind, his cum filling your insides. You panted as you were holding yourself up against the window, while he seemed to cstch his breath, still holding your hips in a bruising grip.

~~~

To be honest, neither of you remembered how you two ended up on the bed after, or when did any of you fall asleep. You were already tired thanks to the jet leg, and he was from all the extra word he did in the last weeks. When you woke up, you still catched his form leaving through the front door. He was turning around just for a second to catch your eyes, before he offered his parting words: "Welcome to Moscow." and with that he left. You decided to lay back a little bit, before you stood up with a sigh and took a shower. You needed to get ready soon anyway.

~~~

Makarov was already on his way out of the hotel when he checked his phone, and there was a message from Yuri, stating Zakhaev wanted them to meet at the Radisson Collection Hotel at 8:00. The reason was not stated in the message that came about half an hour ago, and he was in the lucky position that it's exactly where he stood as he was reading the message. Just in time, because Yuri and Zakhaev arrived within minuted.

~~~

They were waiting for Zakhaev's daughter, as it turned out. He never heard about her before, but Zakhaev explained it shortly: she was sent away into Europe when she was young to learn and to stay hidden. Being a Zakhaev, being a daughter of Imran was a dangerous position. He only nodded in acknowledgement, saving the information for later.

A good 10 minutes later, when the clock ticked into 8:00 Zakhaev's face seemed to brighten up just by a fraction, a rare lift of the edges of his mouth was the only indication he seemed happy, as someone walked over to them, hugging Imran.

Vladimir was speaking with Yuri before he turned towards them to see who they were waiting for— and for a full second, his mind froze. Because in front of him, in Imran's hug was the woman he spent the night with. After the initial shock that got away as quickly as it arrived, he straightened himself, when Imran introduced her. Makarov only offered a neutral expression and a few words: "Welcome to Moscow."

[coddingaway]

⚠️ I will probably re-write the first few posts in the future— just a forewarning. Those were old ones anyway that were in my notepad before I dropped them in to be translated.

Also I've been thinking about who else I want to write for, and for who I have already ideas for, so look out, these might appear in the foreseeable future:

Original Modern Warfare (2007-2011)

☑️ Price | Soap | Ghost | Makarov | Yuri | Imran (family related only)

❓ Nikolai | Roach | Viktor | Gaz (poor dude did not had much screentime)

Reboot Modern Warfare (2019-)

☑️ Price | Soap | Ghost | Gaz | Alejandro | König

❓ Nikolai | Makarov | Rudy | Alex | Kate | Nicto | Krueger |

❌ Graves | Valeria | Farah (don't feel them rn, might change later)

[coddingaway]

there is no room for AI in fandom, especially writing.

There's english below. <:

Úgy gondolom a kreatív írásban nincs helye oly módon, hogy megírja neked a dolgokat, tehát te adsz a szájába három-négy alapgondolatot és kidolgoz neked egy egész szöveget. Így valóban nincs helye mert megöli a kreativitást.

Ha viszont te fordítani akarsz vele valamit, amit te megírtál a saját anyanyelveden, a saját szavaiddal ami nem angol, szerintem annak van/lehet helye. Mert nem mindenki profi angolos, nem mindenkinek adatott meg hogy tanulja. Nem mindenki képes magától megtanulni egy új nyelvet.

Ahhoz viszont szerintem, hogy valaki a gondolatait, ötleteit, írását lefordíttatja, ahhoz alkalmas és jó. Szerintem joga van bárkinek megosztani az ötleteit, írásait nagyobb közösséggel, a fandomok nagyobb részével, ami az esetek 90%-ában angolul van. Mert írhatok én egy baszottjó történetet magyarul, ha a kutya se érti ezt a nyelvet :D

Now try finding a translator that doesn't use some kind of AI, because most of them uses in 2026. So if you want to understand what I just ranted, you either use a normal dictionary (a hungarian-english one which I don't believe you have, because who tf wants to learn this cursed language xd just joking, I love my language, it's just hard af and there is a very small audience who can understand it) and try to translate it word-by-word, which isn't gonna work by the way, or use an AI powered translator online.

Which is my point. If I write in hungarian (or any other language that's not english) there is a much-much smaller fanbase I can reach, and maybe I want to share my ideas and writing to the bigger fandom. So naturally, I need to translate my words to english. Most translators use AI. And I believe using it to translate my own words into another language isn't a sin or a scarlet letter to put on someone's forehead.

I'm in a lucky position, as I understand english and I can write in it, I'm just very self-conscious about it for reasons I'm not gonna share with you, and they doesn't matter to you anyway. I can write in english, but I didn't felt confident enough for the few first posts to write them in english by myself, so I did in hungarian and translated them.

I'm pretty sure every non-english speaker who is reading fanfiction used Google Translate or other translators in their career to understand the language, before they learned it or became better in understanding it.

Ugh, this became a fucking long rant.

[coddingaway]

Sooo, I decided to actually start practicing english instead of writing in hungarian and translating it with gpt this time. I'm not confident in my english, but tried my best, sorry in advance if there's errors. When I'm not writing short stuffs like the previous ones, I actually like to write in bigger chunks and more flowy —I have a feeling this word doesn't make sense. Anyway. Enjoy some fluff?—

"You left something here"

Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

Your relationship with Simon was a unique one, to say the least. It was not really casual, but it wasn't a normal relationship either, because neither of you gave a name to it. Not in the controversional way.

~~~

You first met him at a bar about a year earlier, at a place that wasn't famous for it's good patrons. It was close enough to the military base, so often the soldiers came there to rest a little, and to drink themselves to the ground after a gruesome mission that took more from them that they were willing to give on their own accord. It was at the edge of town, just the calm area of it, where not many regular patrons came.

There were girls who came, of course, who were looking for rough company— soldiers often weren't soft and cuddly, thanks to their job. Young women looking for big, strong men who can manhandle them, fresh adults looking for older company to satisfy their fantasies. You weren't either.

You were there, because your friends thought they need to try out this bar too, as they already tried almost all of them in town— this one was the last untouched one, so naturally it was the next target. You weren't a heavy drinker, not before, not now, not in the future, so you ordered something light and fruity, while your friends ordered their usuals— some vodka, some shots, whatever suited them that night.

As it usually was, they were drunk quickly and found the dancefloor to do something they called dancing, but it reminded you of wriggling worms. You only shook your head, when a pair of soldiers found your table and tried to woo you. Unsuccessfully, you weren't drunk enough for this. And they were drunk enough to not realise that, so they stood their ground, trying to make you say yes to whatever plans they had for the night. You weren't really listening much.

You were on the edge with them after a good 15 minutes of back and forth trying to shoo them away softly— rejection wasn't penetrating through their thick skulls and you started to get irritated and ready to give them a piece of your mind, when a big shadow loomed over them and a tattooed hand came to rest on one of their shoulders.

"The lady isn't interested, Williams. Leave her alone" the deep voice said in a tone that made them stop in their tracks. They looked ready to shit their pants, and started to apologise profusely to the man they called 'LT', before they scurried away.

"Thank you" you said, as he finally looked at you. He was wearing a black hoodie, pulled as much down as possible to hide his hair and forehead, and a black face mask hiding his mouth and nose. A strange fashion choice, you thought to yourself.

After that, Simon sat down at the seat next to you and offered you a 'sorry for my men's horrible behavior' drink that you accepted, and you two surprisingly chatted away until dawn. Not about anything specific at first, but you two found some common ground and interests through the night.

...and you realized , that your friends left you at the bar in their drunken haze, without a lift, without a word. To be honest, that annoyed you more than the soldiers did, because you lived at the other end of town and walking there was a nightmare-ish idea in these heels. Of course Simon offered you a ride, and you -surprising even yourself- accepted it. Maybe it was the drinks you drank that made you a little unguarded—completely sober you wouldn't sit into an almost strangers car—, maybe you thought he's not that kind of a guy. Whatever it was, you were right— Simon took you home without a problem and did not ask for anything in return, only slipped you a piece of paper with his number on it with a "call me if you want".

It sounded completely as a booty call, but as little as you learned about him tonight —how he acted, speaked and shooed away the other soldiers— you thought it wasn't that. Maybe he was just looking for some ordinary company.

~~~

You actually called him up later, and you two started a strange routine. The first few "dates" were at the bar, always in a tucked in corner, always heavily dressed, always speaking about little nothings. It eased his mind into a nice, comfortable state. Then it continued with meeting in the park near, walking there aimlessly after sunset. Chatter, walk, sometimes feeding the ducks. Oddly friendly, nothing extra.

~~~

After a good while, on a walk like this, the weather decided to turn on you. Within minutes the sunny afternoon became a windy, stormy darkness over your heads. You two tried to be quick to reach the park's exit, but were soaked to the bone when you actually did. That was when Simon offered to come up to his place to dry yourself, because he was living near. And you went.

That day it was only that, drying yourself, getting a fresh —too big— shirt and pants from Simon to change into, before he drove you to your home later. Not long after that you two started to meet at his place, and the chatters became more personal, more intimate over time, until —fucking finally— Simon kissed you one evening when you were standing in the doorway to go home, looking up at him with your usual hearts in your eyes that you would fiercely deny.

From that day onward, you two became a thing. Not officially, no labels, just... Closeness. Kisses behind closed doors, tangled sheets at some nights and warm breakfast the next morning. Sometimes movie nights, sometimes you just make dinner—something hearthy that made his mouth water just from the smell alone—, sometimes just reading beside eachother, shoulders touching.

~~~

You often forgot things at Simon's place. A hair tie, a bobby pin, your favorite book, or even the mug you brought over. Simon always gave them bwck the next time you came over with a simple "You left something here". It became a routine of sort. You always left something there —by accident or not— and Simon gave it back. Until he didn't.

Because one night you left your sweater there at his couch after a night of reading together before you two went to sleep. The sweater stayed there for days. Simon eyed it every time when you came over, but said absolutely nothing. One evening you saw it, and picked it up to bring home, but Simon placed his big, warm hand onto yours.

"Can stay. You'll need it next time" he said, looking into your eyes. Without saying it out loud, you understood the message. You can stay too.

[90sgenzkid]

Enemy / Politician

[coddingaway]

Dangerous and extremely dangerous versions of Mak 💀🖤 I love this with alk my heart

[neopentane5]

I drive

[coddingaway]

Exactly how I imagine Mak driving 😂 poor Yuri fighting for his life 💀

[coddingaway]

[Reboot Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader]

Rewritten.

How does he react, when his SO's pediod comes earlier?

I'm pretty sure Simon handles hatters like that way better than what people often think. He doesn't have a deep knowledge about periods or women's healthcare, but if he's anything, he's practical.

When someone he cares for has a problem, his brain usually switches into a problemsolving mode. He needs to solve things quickly on the battlefield too, why would he struggle outside of it, with something this normal? He can easily solve the problem and support you through it.

The Initial Discovery

You've benn at his place many times, but usually becore of after your period, never during. It wasn't intentional, just how it usually turned out with all his work and all.

His time was the same, you thought you still have a few days before your period starts by calendar. You two were watching a movie, and it was paused while you made some tea, because you felt that something isn't right. Not the way like you'll going to be sick, but just... off. When the tea was halfway done, you started to feel the cramps, and you realised it's your period knocking on the door early. "Ugh." That's what involuntarily left your mouth with a grimace.

Simon, who was still resting on the couch, turned towards the kitchen, because you rarely made sounds like that. Only when you burned yourself with food, cut your finger or hit your toes somewhere. "Wha' happened?" He asked casually, as you walked over, placing the tea down onto the little table, and awkwardly explained your situation.

Simon only nodded as he understood, no disgust, no discomfort like you were used from previous relationships. Most boys you dated thought periods are disgusting and simply "eww, don't speak about that shit". Simon's reaction, or more like the absense of it surprised you. He inly gave you a court "Right." as he stood up from the couch.

The Emergency Supply Run

Simon said he'll get you whatever you need from the corner store, so you gave him a little list. Nothing extra, you just asked for sanitary pads and a heating pad.

When Simon was at the store, he called you, because he was lost. Not in the aisles, he found the right one, but there was twenty brand and different sizes. Ultra. Ultra Plus. Super. Super Plus. Night. Ultra Night. What does "with wings" even mean??

He's usually planning operations, standing in front of the aisle and comparing products, reading them up to you, so you can choose whichever you want. He's not embarrassed, when some young boys laugh, like it was funny. If anything, he gives them a look that makes them go away somewhere else.

Next time Simon is at yours, he takes a picture of your cabinet to know what you usually use (not just which pads, but the other products), so he can get them and have them at his place. You're there a lot lately, so why shouldn't he have them there to make it easier for you?

If You're Having Cramps

Simon isn't overly emotional or does big things. He simply isn't the type of big confessions and big actions like flowers every sunday and all. If you're having cramps, he simply makes sure you're sitting or laying down and that you rest. He'll get you some painkillers too, if they can help. Makes you tea, and gives you some snacks that he got not long ago (if they aren't expired yet, because he forget them in his cabinet mosz times).

If you're in the mood to watch the movie you started, he'll sot by your side and sometimes gives your hand a little squeeze, or runs a comforting hand over your leg. He simply shows he's there for you and that he cares.

The Softest Version

The softest version of Simon isn't loud or dramatic. It's the quiet care, how he makes sure you're comfortable, that's you've eaten and drank enough water, that you're not in pain.

Once you're fallen asleep on the couch during the movie— probably from the painkillers, hesting pad on your lower stomach, Simon simply pulls the blanket over you, letting you rest against him. When you squirm in your sleep because of the cramps, he puts a hand onto your shoulder, gently oulling you closer, just socyou know he's there.

That's how Simon is in a relationship, not grand gestures, not speeches, not romance movie moments. Just dependable presence, the kind that makes bad days a little easier simply because he's there.

[coddingaway]

[Makarov] [OG!Modern Warfare x The Peripheral AU]

I have some f*cked up crossover and AU ideas, and this is one of them. Rewritten.

TW: Modern Warfare (2007-2011), Espionage, Psychological Tension, Slow Burn, Found Family, Fem!Reader, Vladimir Makarov because he is a walking red flag ❤️

The Network

She wasn't frightened in th slightest— that's what Makarov first noticed after he observed her more closely. She's been there, her arms and legs restrained, her wrist and ankles slightly bruised where the ropes bit inti her skin. There was dried blood on her clothes, some from cuts, some from a nosebleed. She's been there for nearly twelwe hours, questioned by the best ultranationalist soldiers, and she said nothing so far. Not cried for help, doesn't uttered a single word ourside a few groans from the pain. She was sitting there, looking almost bored when nobody hurt her.

Imran Zakhaev noticed her almost bored expression too, and it annoyed him to no end. He was been sitting across from her, legs spread open, the ine arm he had resting on the steel table between them.

Imran was patient enough most days, observing his opponents with calmness. He simply ordered mass shootings or genocide without a problem, even after spending eight hours discussing geopolitics before dinner, before changing his tone. The fact even he was mildly irritated by her was not good.

"Do you even understand your situation?" Imran asked, earning a few seconds of silence from her. She leaned back against the chair, as much as her restraints let her, a smile spreading on her cheeks.

"I understand it perfectly, thank you." Her voice was calm and collected, not like someone who was been there for twelwe hours, not like someone who'se had many cuts and bruises and a missing fingernail.

"You've been annoyingly uncooperative." Imran said, his voice laced with the slightest frustration, which earned him a bigger smile from her.

"You've been annoyingly repetitive." She countered back, making the room shift a little. The guards shifted uncomfortably, because no one speaked to their leader like that, not even his own son was brave enough to speak back like that.

Makarov was leaning against the wall for a few hours now, silent from the beginning. He was there to listen and evaluate. Not that there was anything to be evaluated, since she said absolutely nothing useful or compromitting yet.

The file they managed to get of her was interesting to say the least. She was a former intelligence adsdet, field operative, communicaion specialist— whatever that meant. It hasn't stated any combat experience or official military service. She was never in any commanding positions either. Yet, she had a squad around her, and every intelligence agency used the same words describing them: impossible.

They used the word The Network for how they operated. It was the official name, appearing everywhere when speaking about their group. No description of what any of this meant officially. Seven individuals, six with noted military experience (not much, merely a few months) and there was she— nothing to her name. Just the eord impossible. Just The Network. Just the impossible works her team managed to do over the years.

One agency gave away something they said was the secret behind them, but let's just say it sounded alarmingly fake— it said those seven were never separated, never compromised and bever captured during missions. They operated on a level that bordered supernatural. Ans how? The intelligence said these seven were linked through experimental haptic technilogy, that was completely banned after the testing phase ended. Six testing group got the haptics. Only two lived through the surgety to put the haptics into their bodies. Only one group was able to use it.

Makarov dismissed these reports. It must be exaggeration at most, propaganda or misinformation. There was no way something like this existed in this world. He believed itbeas oure nonsense, up until one of his most trusted man saw it with his eyes that seven insividuals cleared a heavily firtified position in under ten minutes. No words exchanged, no radio used. Neither of them was harmed. It was impossible.

Makarov still hardly believed any of it, yet Imran Zakhaev forced the matters. If there was something like this out there, they needed this power for themselves. This group was not under any country, they operated for the ones who paid more. And he had money, more than enough. They just needed to confirm if any of the intel were true.

Their leader, this young woman was now sitting before them, and her calm expression was unsetting more and more.

"Your team won't find you." One of the guards spoke, one nobody asked for. He was no expert in intimidation, yet he tried very hard to sound confident enough. The woman looked at him and gave a little laugh. "You think so?"

The room became awfully quiet. Her confidencey the certainly in her voice somehow felt wrong— like she already knew something, like nothing would change the outcome anyway, and she just waited for everyone else to catch up.

For the first time since she was there, she now looked up towards the ceiling, listening, or something like that. She wasn't really looking, her eyes seemed distant in a way. A genuine smile alleared on her lips, it was almost warm, reaching her eyes. "Ah, they're here."

The fiest gunshot echoed im the distance, before anyone could're said anything else to her. It came from far away, maybe from the very edge of the base. Then came the second one almost immediately, but from a completely different direction. Then a third and a fourth, all from different directions. When the guards at the door realized what was happening, the radios already went silent, despite they tried to ask through them what was happening. Just static.

"Three guards down at east" There was a pause in her speech, like she was a tively watching something. "Four at west." Another burst of gunfire was heard, way closer than the previous ones. The guard tried the radio again, but only the static remained. The facility's alarm system activated for merely a second, before it went silent again.

The smile on the woman's face widened a little. "East corridor." Everyone in the room looked at her with the question of "What?" On their lips. She tilted her head slightly, listening to something nobody else could hear, catching something nobody else could see.

"Chase was slow, a guard activated the alarm before he died. Chase deactivated it." She commented, like watching a movie. They weren't entirely sure if she was commentj g for them, or —if the reports were really true,— for the others.

She was still restrained, surrounded by enemy, yet she was completely calm, and Makarov felt something akin of fascination. She wasn't guessing what was happening, she knew every movement, every casualty, every position.

"Impossible." One of the guards whispered, and she looked towards him. "No. It's actually quite simple, if you learn how it works."

The gunfire was painfully close now. Entire sections of the facility's defense simply ceased to exist. Guards were neutralized, every response intercepted, every reinforcement cut off before arrival. There was no wasted movements, k hesitation and no confusion. As if a single mind were controlling multiple bodies.

Makarov's attention never left her, as he finally understood. Not the technology itself, not fully, but enough. The haptics weren't the weapon, it was a tool. The weapon was the way this seven worked together. They breathed together, like one minds in seven bodies. They saw through eachothers eyes, heard through eachothers ears, felt through eachothers skin. And she was the nexus.

None of them spoke, yet the room's remaining guards looked terrified of them. Makarov understood why: the operators moved like extensions of each other, like limbs connected to the same nervous system. It was probably close to the truth.

Soon complete silence was heard through the door, as the whe woman looked toward it smiling. She looked proud as footsteps echoed behind the door, before it exploded inward. Three operators entered immediately with raised weapons, while the fourth walked in directly towards her. Two of them remained outside of the door.

One glanced toward the woman, before she nodded once. The man stepped to her and freed her from her restraints without uttering a single word. There was not a single verbal command given between them throughout the whole ordeal.

The woman stood slowly, while rolling her sore wrists, before she looked at Imran. "Was this what you wanted to know?" She asked calmly, as she gestured towards the door, behind it the ruined facility. "How effective the system is? How quickly we can remove half a military base without speaking a single word?" There was no cruelty or arrogance in her voice, just confidence. There was at least twenty-eight dead soldier outside and one compromised base in less than fourteen minutes. And on top of that, not a single member of her team was injured or even broke a sweat.

Imran was ready to answer, when a sound he thought he'll never heard before came from thhlwards the wall. Vladimir Makarov was laughing. A quiet, brief laugh, and surprisingly genuine. For thr first time in a very long time he witnessed something that genuinely surprised him and took him off guard. And he was sure it won't be the last time, if the group accepts Imran's job offer.

[coddingaway]

[Simon "Ghost" Riley][Headcanons]

Rewritten.

Simon would fall in love with a special feeling, not with some type of a person. I don't think he has a specific preference like big boobs or blonde hair with blue eyes. I think he falls fornthe feeling of emotional safety.

What Simon Actually Needs

Imo the biggest misconception about Simon is thaz he wants someone exciting, dangerous, who can match his intensity. Someone who works the same molitary lofe he does. I honestly think the opposite.

Simon spends his working hours surrounded by danger, voilence, stress, loss, and the last thing he wants at home is those things. He doesn't want to be completely grey or bald by 40.

At home, he wants peace and someone who makes him lower his walls, not forcing it up higher like work does.

The Kind of Person He Falls For

I think Simon would fall for someone who can be absolutely patient with him. He isn't necessarily difficult, but he needs a longer time tovteust someone new. He needs someone who doesn't demand every piece of him, because he can't give that quickly, and definitely not all of himself. He has things he doesn't want to share, wounds that he will never speak of. He needs someone who can accept this.

It's important to him to know the other one doesn't feel occassional silence as a burden or depressing.

Someone who understands thaz sometimes he needs space, and that "I need time." doesn't mean "I don't care."

Someone warm. Not someone who is overly bubbly and outgoing, because that might overwhelm him on a certain level. Someone emotionally warm, who makes a room feel safer and brighter by being in it.

Someone who remembers simple things, like how he drinks his coffee and nktices when he's tired and quietly gives him a blanket instead of forcing him to speak or to go to sleep; he isn't a child, he knows ehen he needs to close his eyes. Sometimes he just needs a little space in those times.

Someone independent but not distant, and that's a big one. Simon doesn't want someone who entirely depends on him. He's rarely homey, sho that doesn't work out by any means. And he lokes competence and competent people. He likes reliability, nlt emotional distance. He wants a partner, not a dependent, not a roommate with benefits.

What About Another Soldier?

I think Simon can be easily attracted to another soldier by physique and personality. Maybe even would date one is that wouldn't be fraternizing. Buthe would definitely not choose a lther soldier for forever.

Simon already lost many people and I'm sure he's suffering from survivors guilt in an extend. He doesn't need to face the risk of losing someone he loves every day and every night. It would keep him away at night, and he already doesn't sleep enough.

Every deployment would be a torture and full of questions. What if either one of them doesn't make it? He doesn',t need that mental load during missions where he needs to be precise and collected, not thinking about worst case scenarios.

I think he'd constantly find himself wondering: "What if this is the last time I see them?" And eventually that fear would become exhausting for him on a bone-deep level.

Who He Definitely Wouldn't Work With

Someone reckless. Simon doesn't need that in his life. Adventurous is okay but reckless isn't.

Someone who creates problems, ignores danger and makes stupid, irresponsible decisions. Just nl, his blood pressure is high enough. Simon spends enough time keeping people alove and safe at work, don't make.him do that at home too.

Someone who plays games is a hard no. No manipulation, mind games, jealousy games., hot-and-cold behavior or testing him. He doesn't need any of that at home where he should feel safe. His trust is difficult to earn and once broken it rarely recovers completely.

My Personal Ghost Headcanon

The person Simon ends up loving is probably a surprisingly ordinary one. Not boring, just real. A teacher, nurse, librarian, mechanic, veterinarian or a baker.

Someone with an entirely different life from his and reminds him every day that the world contains things other than war. I think normal is what Simon secretly craves. The privilege of a normal life.

The Ultimate Green Flag For Ghost

The moment Simon realizes: "I can come home exhausted, angry, hurt, or quiet... and this person never makes me feel like I have to earn their love." That's the point of no return. Simon spentlst of his life surviving. The person he builds a future with is the one who finally makes him feel like he can stop surviving for a little while and simply live.

[coddingaway]

[Headcanons][Simon "Ghost" Riley]

❤️ When Does Simon Realize He Wants More?

Not when he falls in love, that happens long before. Painfully, stubbornly, and entirely against his will.

The realization comes later, when he catches himself planning a future that automatically includes you.

Price asks him one day: "What are you doing after deployment?"

And Simon answers without thinking: "We're thinking about going to Scotland for a week."

We. Not I. We. The word leaves his mouth before he can stop it, and suddenly he's staring into his coffee like it personally betrayed him.

Because at some point, without realizing it, he stopped thinking of his future as something he faced alone.

Or maybe it's when he's offered a long-term assignment overseas. The younger version of Simon would've accepted immediately, no hesitation, no second thoughts.

Now his first instinct is: "I'd be away from them for six months."

Not the mission, not the money, not the promotion. You. And that realization terrifies him more than the deployment itself.

🏡 The Domestic Realization

The truly dangerous moments aren't romantic. They aren't kisses, they aren't dates, they aren't anniversaries. They're ordinary.

The kind of moments nobody writes songs about. You leave a mug in the sink. Your favourite blanket lives permanently on the couch. Your shampoo is in the shower. Your shoes are by the door.

One day Simon walks through the house and notices all of it. And suddenly realizes: This isn't my place anymore. It's ours.

For a man who spent years feeling like he belonged nowhere... that's huge.

❤️ How He Makes Things More Serious

The funny thing is that Simon doesn't announce it. He doesn't sit you down and give a speech. Instead, he quietly starts making room for you. Literally.

A drawer gets emptied. A shelf appears in the bathroom. A spare key finds its way into your hand. The alarm code becomes yours too. His emergency contact information changes.

And none of these things are accompanied by some grand declaration. To anyone else they seem insignificant. To Simon, they're enormous.

Because every one of those gestures says: Stay. Even if he never actually speaks the word aloud.

💍 Proposal Headcanon

Simon would hate public proposals. Absolutely hate them. No restaurants, no crowds, no giant displays, no strangers watching. The thought alone makes him want to disappear into the woods.

If Simon proposes, it happens somewhere safe, private, comfortable. Most likely at home. Probably in the kitchen.

Because for some reason every important moment happens in a kitchen 💀

There won't be a rehearsed speech, there won't be poetry. There won't be some elaborate setup. Instead, it'll start with l: "Been thinking." Which immediately puts everyone on edge. Because Simon Riley thinking usually means trouble. Then: "Can't really picture my future without you in it anymore."

That's it. In Simon's mind, this is a perfectly normal thing to say. A reasonable statement, nothing dramatic. Meanwhile you're fighting for your life emotionally.

👶 Thoughts on Family

This is where Simon becomes vulnerable. Because it isn't that he doesn't want a family. It's that he's terrified of failing one.

He knows exactly what a broken family looks like. He grew up with it. He knows what violence does. What fear does. What absence does.

So if the conversation about children ever happens, Simon is quiet for a long time. Long enough that you start wondering if he wants them at all. Then eventually he says: "I'd be terrified of getting it wrong."

Not: "I don't want them." Not: "I'd be a bad father." Just fear. Because if Simon ever becomes a father, he'd care so much it would scare him.

🖤 The Moment He Truly Knows

Not the proposal. Not moving in together. Not saying "I love you."

It's something smaller. Something almost invisible. Maybe it's raining outside. Maybe you're both exhausted. Maybe you're asleep against his shoulder while a movie plays in the background. Nothing extraordinary.

And Simon finds himself looking down at you. Listening to your breathing. Feeling your weight against him. And a thought appears so naturally that it catches him off guard.

If someone asked him right now what mattered most in his life... The answer wouldn't be the military. It wouldn't be the Task Force. It wouldn't be his career. It would be you.

And for the first time, Simon understands something he never thought he'd have. Not just love. Not just a relationship. A home.

☁️ Bonus Headcanon: How Everyone Else Knows First

The funniest part? Everyone figures it out before Simon does. Price knows. Gaz knows. The dog knows. The neighbour knows. The cashier at the grocery store probably knows 💀

Simon is the last person to realize he's practically planning a life with you. Price eventually gets tired of waiting and asks: "You planning on marrying them or what?" And Simon nearly chokes on his tea, because apparently everyone else has been aware of it for months.

[coddingaway]

[Headcanons][Simon "Ghost" Riley]

❤️ Simon Riley as a Partner

The biggest misconception about Simon is that he'd be cold in a relationship. He's not. He's guarded. There's a difference.

Once you're past the walls, Simon is probably one of the most loyal, dependable partners imaginable.

The hard part is getting there.

❤️ How He Falls in Love

Painfully slowly. The kind of slow where everyone around him notices before he does.

Including you. Including Price. Including the cashier at the local grocery store.

Everyone except Simon Riley.

He'll convince himself for months that he simply enjoys your company.

That he worries because you're important. That he likes seeing you smile because you're friends.

Until one day someone flirts with you and he nearly breaks a coffee mug. Then things start making sense.

🏡 Living Together

Simon is surprisingly domestic. Not in an obvious way. Not in a Pinterest-perfect way, but in a practical way.

The kind of man who quietly takes care of things before they become problems. The leaking tap gets fixed. The lightbulb gets replaced. The car gets serviced. The smoke detector batteries mysteriously change themselves.

You never actually see him doing any of it. It just gets done.

☕ Morning Simon

Morning Simon is not a talker. At all.

The first hour of the day consists primarily of: Coffee, grunting, existing.

Any attempt at a meaningful conversation before caffeine is considered an act of war.

❤️ Love Language

Acts of Service. This is his strongest one without question.

Simon shows love by making your life easier. Not because he thinks you can't do things yourself. Because he wants to carry some of the weight.

If you've had a difficult week, you'll find your favourite snacks in the cupboard. If you're stressed, the laundry will somehow already be done. If you're sick, he'll quietly take over everything without making a big deal about it.

Physical Touch. Only with people he trusts. But once he trusts you? He's far more affectionate than people would expect.

Not dramatic affection. Comforting affection. A hand on your lower back. A hand resting on your knee during a long drive. Pulling you closer in bed while still half asleep. The sort of affection that feels safe rather than flashy.

💀 The Mask

The first time he removes the mask in front of someone he loves is a huge moment. Not because he's insecure. Not because he's hiding something.

Because the mask became part of his armour. Part of his identity. Taking it off means lowering a defense he spent years building.

It's one of the biggest displays of trust he can offer.

💤 Sleeping Habits

Simon sleeps lightly. Years of military service made sure of that.

He wakes at unusual sounds. Checks locks before bed. Knows exactly where every exit is. Even at home. Especially at home.

Because if something happens to the people he loves, he wants to be ready.

🩹 When He's Hurt

Terrible patient. Absolutely terrible.

Doctor says rest. Simon hears "continue working."

Doctor says avoid lifting heavy objects. Simon is moving furniture the next day. Someone eventually has to physically stop him.

👶 Simon and Children

Children adore him, and it drives him insane. Because they're completely immune to intimidation.

Adults see a giant masked soldier. Children see big guy with a cool skull mask. And immediately decide they're friends.

Simon never understands how this happens. It happens every time.

❤️ Jealous Simon

Rare. Dangerous. Mostly because he pretends he isn't jealous.

He'll stand in the corner silently glaring at some poor bloke who's talking to you. Then insist he's perfectly fine. He's not.

Everyone knows he's not. Especially Price.

☁️ Comforting Someone

Simon isn't great with words. He knows it. You know it. So when you're hurting, he doesn't try to give speeches.

He sits beside you. Makes tea. Lets you talk. Lets you cry. Lets you be angry. And stays. That's his version of comfort: presence.

🖤 Simon isn't afraid of loving someone. He's afraid of surviving them. He's lost too many people.

Too many friends. Too many pieces of himself. So every time he starts caring about someone, a small part of him immediately wonders: "How much is this going to hurt when they're gone?"

And that's why commitment takes so long. Not because he doesn't want it.

Because once Simon Riley loves someone... he loves them completely. And the thought of losing them never really stops scaring him.

[coddingaway]

[Simon "Ghost" Riley] 👶 Family AU | 🖤 Angst | 🕯️ Grief | 🎗️ Survivor's Guilt | 💔 Emotional Devastation | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort

What remains

The funeral is cold. Of course it is. The kind of cold that settles deep into your bones and stays there.

The sky is grey. The rain falls in a steady drizzle. The sort of weather that makes the entire world feel muted. Appropriate.

No one in the Task Force has spoken much since the tunnel. Since Makarov. Since the gunshot. Since Soap's blood slipped through their fingers.

John stands rigid. Hands clasped behind his back. Expression carved from stone. Kyle stares at the ground. Simon stares at the empty coffin. There was an urn somewhere with Soap's ashes, but Johnny's mother wanted a formal burial.

Simon kept staring at the coffin, because looking anywhere else would mean accepting that Johnny MacTavish is actually dead. And Simon isn't ready for that. Maybe he never will be.

The ceremony drags on. Words. Prayers. Condolences. All of it meaningless. Johnny should be standing beside them right now. Making some inappropriate joke. Annoying Price. Trying to get Gaz to laugh. Instead there's only silence.

Then Simon notices you. A woman dressed in black near Soap's parents. Standing closer to the coffin than anyone else. He assumes you're close family too. A cousin. Maybe a sister. Maybe a childhood friend.

Johnny had mentioned someone once. "Got someone back home." That was all he'd said. Every time they asked for details, he'd laughed it off. Changed the subject. Moved on. And nobody pushed.

Everyone in the Task Force had things they kept private. Especially Simon. So he never questioned it. Now he wishes he had.

The service ends. People begin to move. Umbrellas open. Voices lower. And that's when Simon notices the child.

At first, nothing about it seems unusual. A little boy. Maybe three years old. Curled sleepily against your shoulder. Tiny hands clutching the fabric of your coat. Rain taps softly against the umbrella above him.

Simon only glances once. Then again. Then a third time, and suddenly he can't breathe. Because the boy lifts his head. And Simon sees Johnny.

Not exactly. Not completely. But enough. God. Enough. The same hair. Messy despite every attempt to tame it. The same eyes. Bright. Curious. Warm. The same stubborn little crease between his brows. The same smile. The same bloody smile.

Like someone had taken Johnny MacTavish and shrunk him into a child-sized version.

Ghost freezes. The world around him disappears. Rain. Voices. Footsteps. All gone.

Just that child. Just the impossible realization forming in his chest. No. No, that can't— Then he hears Price beside him. Very quietly. Almost a whisper.

"Jesus..." Simon turns. Price looks just as shocked. Which means— Price didn't know either. None of them knew.

Johnny MacTavish. Their brother. Their teammate. Their family. Had a wife. Had a son. And never told them.

Not because he didn't trust them. Simon understands that immediately.

Because of Graves. Because of Las Almas. Because of betrayal. Because of Makarov. Because of everything they'd seen. Johnny knew exactly what happened to the people connected to men like them.

He knew names could become targets. Families could become leverage. Children could become vulnerabilities. So he protected them the only way he knew how. By keeping them hidden. By keeping them safe. And now he'll never tell them himself.

The little boy squirms in your arms. Looking around at the uniforms. The flags. The soldiers. Confused. Too young to understand. Then he asks:

"When's Daddy coming home?"

Everything stops. Everything. A sharp, broken sound escapes someone nearby. Gaz turns away immediately. Price lowers his head. The priest suddenly looks unable to continue speaking. And Simon—

Simon feels something inside him crack. Because Johnny never got to explain. Never got to tell his son goodbye. Never got one last hug. Never got one last bedtime story. Never got one more chance.

And none of them even knew the boy existed.

They missed everything. His first birthday. His first words. His first steps. Every story. Every milestone. All because Johnny had been trying to protect him. And now the first time Ghost ever meets Soap's son... Is at Soap's funeral.

Later that night, Simon sits alone. A hotel room. Maybe. Barracks. Doesn't matter. The room is dark. Silent. In his hand is an old photograph.

Johnny. Grinning like an idiot. Arm slung around Gaz's shoulders. Alive. For the first time since the tunnel Simon is angry.

Not at Makarov. Not at the world. Not even at himself. At Johnny. His grip tightens around the photo.

"You stupid bastard." His voice breaks, just slightly. "You should've told us." Because now Simon understands something horrible. Johnny didn't just leave behind a name on a memorial wall. He didn't just leave behind a fallen soldier. He left behind a widow. A son. An entire life none of them knew existed. And Simon Riley has no idea how to mourn a future he only discovered after it was already gone.

The worst part? A week later, he finds himself staring at a photograph Price managed to get from the funeral.

You and the boy. Johnny's family. And for the first time since the tunnel, since the gunshot, since Soap died in Price's arms...bSimon whispers:

"I'll keep an eye on them."

Not because anyone asked him to. Not because Johnny made him promise. But because that little boy has Johnny's smile. And Simon realizes he would rather tear himself apart piece by piece than let the last part of Soap left in this world face it alone.

[coddingaway]

[JOHN PRICE] 🖤 Angst | 💔 Lost Love | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort

The Voicemail

Two years. Two bloody years.

Price never counted time in days. His life moved between deployments, mission reports, coordinates, and extraction windows. And yet he knew.

He knew exactly how long it had been since he'd last seen you. Since he'd last heard your voice. Since you'd sat across from him in that little café and asked the one question he'd never properly answered.

"I know your work matters, John. I'm not asking you to quit. I'm asking if there's room for me in your life, too."

You hadn't sounded angry. That was the problem. You'd sounded tired. And Price, convinced there would always be more time, had let the conversation drift away. Like he always did. Because there was another mission. Another briefing. Another crisis waiting somewhere on the other side of the world.

You'd understand. You always did. At first, nothing changed. A few missed calls. A delayed reply. A cancelled dinner. Then another. And another. Until eventually the silence settled between you like dust. Slowly. Permanently.

Two years later, John Price sat alone in a temporary military safehouse. Rain tapped softly against the window. A half-finished cup of tea had long since gone cold beside him.

His phone rested heavily in his hand. On the screen was a voice message. Version twenty-three. The previous twenty-two had been deleted.

Too formal. Too awkward. Too emotional. Not emotional enough. Too late.

He stared at the recording button for nearly five minutes before pressing it. Silence. Then a sigh. A tired one. The kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Hi, sweetheart." The nickname felt strange. Not because it wasn't true. Because he hadn't earned the right to use it in a very long time.

"I don't really know how to do this." A dry laugh. "Turns out negotiating with terrorists is easier." Nothing but the sound of rain.

"I've been trying to record this bloody thing for weeks. Kept telling myself I'd call when I had more time. After the mission. After the next one. After the next."

His jaw tightened. "Truth is..." A pause. Long enough to hurt. "I think I spent two years assuming you'd still be there when I finally got around to it." The words hung in the air. Ugly. Embarrassing. Honest.

Price closed his eyes. For the first time, hearing it spoken aloud, he realized how arrogant it sounded. How selfish. As if your life had been placed on hold, patiently waiting for him to decide you were finally a priority.

"I miss you."

The admission escaped before he could stop it. Quiet. Immediate. Real.

"Should've said that sooner. Should've said a lot of things sooner." His voice lowered. "If there's still a chance..." Another pause.

"If you haven't completely given up on me..." He swallowed. "I'd like to see you. Properly this time."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Painful. Bittersweet. "No promises about becoming less stubborn. But I'd like to try."

The recording ended. Price listened to it twice. Then a third time. Finger hovering over the send button. Every instinct told him not to. Every instinct told him he'd waited too long. He pressed send anyway.

Delivered.

Ten minutes later, his phone vibrated. Price grabbed it immediately. Far too quickly for a man who liked to pretend he wasn't hoping.

A message. No text. Just a photograph. At first, he frowned. Then his stomach dropped.

It was you. You were asleep on a couch. Curled up beneath a blanket. Peaceful. Completely unaware that a photo was being taken. Your head rested comfortably in someone's lap.

Not awkwardly. Not accidentally. The kind of closeness built over hundreds of quiet evenings. The kind that came from belonging somewhere. To someone.

Price stared. Motionless. A man's hand was visible near the bottom of the frame. Whoever had taken the photo hadn't bothered hiding himself. Why would he?

And there, wrapped around your finger— A ring. Not decorative. Not casual. Not a promise. A wedding band.

For several long seconds, Price simply looked at the image. As though his mind refused to process what his eyes already understood. Then another message appeared. One line.

"A little late for that, mate."

No insults. No threats. No cruelty. There didn't need to be. The photograph had already done the damage.

Price opened the image again. Zoomed in. Not on the man's hand. Not on the ring. On you. Searching for something. Anything. A sign you weren't happy. A sign you'd settled. A sign you'd made a mistake.

But there wasn't one. You looked comfortable. Safe. Loved. And that was the worst part. Not because someone else had what he'd wanted. But because they had given you what he'd failed to.

Time. Presence. Commitment. Everything you'd asked him for. Everything he'd assumed could wait. Price had buried friends. Brothers-in-arms. Good soldiers. Good people.

He knew grief. He knew loss. But this felt different. Because nobody had taken you from him. You hadn't died. You hadn't disappeared. You hadn't betrayed him.

You had simply stopped waiting. And God... How could he blame you?

The phone screen eventually dimmed in his hand. The room fell silent again. Only rain against glass. For a long time, John Price sat there alone, staring at his own reflection in the darkened screen.

The cruelest part wasn't losing you. The cruelest part was realizing exactly when it had happened. Not today. Not when he saw the ring. Not when he received the photograph. It had happened a hundred different times. Every call he never made. Every message he never answered. Every promise postponed. Every time he chose "later." Until one day, later belonged to someone else.

[coddingaway]

[Zakhaev Family] 🖤 Angst | 👨‍👩‍👧 Family | 💔 Lost Love | 👻 Ghosts of the Past | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort

The Grave - Part 3 of The Birthday

The conversation starts over breakfast. A quiet morning. No arguments. No politics. No operations. Just coffee and the rare illusion that the Zakhaev household is capable of behaving like a normal family.

You set your cup down. "I'd like to visit my mother tomorrow." The words are simple. Like you wanted permissiom to go. Harmless. To you, the words meant exactly what they've meant for the last six months. To everyone else, they mean something very different.

Imran is the first to look up. Then Viktor. Across the room, Makarov doesn't react at all. Which usually means he's listening most closely.

"I'll come with you." You blink. The answer arrives so quickly you almost laugh. Of course he would. Twenty-nine years. Twenty-nine years since he'd last seen the woman who left. The woman he'd spent decades searching for. The woman he never found.

Before you can answer, Viktor cuts in. "I'm coming too." You raise an eyebrow.

"Why?"

Viktor stares at you as if you've asked the stupidest question imaginable.

"Because she's my mother too."

Fair enough. The matter is settled. Makarov gets volunteered as the driver. Much to his visible disappointment.

---

The drive is awful. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just painfully awkward. Imran spends most of it staring out the window. Viktor spends most of it pretending not to care. You spend most of it wondering if either of them realizes how strange this entire situation is. Makarov spends most of it wishing he were somewhere else.

Anyone watching would assume they were heading toward a reunion. An old wound finally being healed. Nobody notices that you never actually said your mother was alive.

---

The house surprises them. A small family home at the end of a quiet street. Well maintained. Fresh paint. Trimmed hedges. Flowers blooming beneath the windows. The curtains are drawn. The shutters closed. But otherwise it looks loved. Safe.

Imran stares at it for several moments.

"So this is where she lived."

You nod.

"For a while."

Nothing about your answer seems unusual. Not yet. Everyone climbs out of the vehicle. Imran starts toward the front door. You don't.

Instead, you walk past the house entirely. Toward the backyard. Viktor frowns.

"Wrong way."

"No."

You keep walking. The others follow. Confused. Curious. And then they step through the garden gate.

---

The world stops. At least for a moment. The garden is beautiful. Flowers. Stone paths. A wooden bench beneath an old tree. Everything carefully maintained. Everything loved. At the center stands a small stone statue of a woman holding flowers.

And beneath it an urn.

You walk straight toward it. Without hesitation. Without explanation. As naturally as someone returning home.

Then you kneel beside it. Resting a hand against the cool stone. Smiling softly. The smile of a daughter visiting her mother.

Silence crashes over the garden. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Nobody understands.nNot immediately. Then understanding arrives all at once. Brutal. Merciless. Final.

"...What is this?" Viktor's voice sounds distant. Almost unrecognizable. You glance back. Confused. Because the answer seems obvious.

"My mother."

The words hit harder than any bullet ever could. Viktor goes pale. Imran simply stares. His gaze locked on the urn. Unable to look away. As though if he keeps staring long enough, reality might change. It doesn't.

The next question comes from him. Barely above a whisper. "When?"

You know exactly what he means. "Six months ago."

Nothing. No anger. No shouting. No dramatic reaction. Just silence. Because six months isn't a long time. Six months ago she was alive. Six months ago she could still speak. Still laugh. Still breathe. Six months ago there was still time. Maybe not much. Maybe not enough. But time.

Imran lowers himself onto the bench as though his legs have suddenly stopped working.

For the first time since you've known him —merely four months, maybe five— he looks old. Not powerful. Not dangerous. Not feared. Just old. His eyes never leave the urn.

"Six months..." The words barely exist. As if he's doing the math. Trying to place her into memories. Into dates. Into missed opportunities.

You look away. Giving him that much privacy, at least. After several minutes he speaks again.

"Why didn't she tell me?" The question hangs heavily in the air. Not angry. Not accusatory. Broken.

You stare at the flowers surrounding the statue. At the garden the two of you spent years caring for together. At the house she loved. Then answer honestly.

"Because she didn't want you to come out of obligation." The silence afterward feels endless. Imran closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Because somehow that hurts even more. Not wanting pity. Not wanting guilt. Not wanting an apology.

Wanting him to come because he wanted to. And never knowing if he would have.

Eventually his voice returns. Smaller than before.

"Was she afraid?" You glance toward the urn. Toward the woman who raised you. Protected you. Loved you. The woman who spent years refusing to speak his name. And yet never truly stopped thinking about him.

You shake your head. "No." Another long silence. The wind stirs the flowers. Leaves rustle overhead. The garden remains peaceful. Then you quietly add: "She was waiting."

Nobody speaks after that. Not Viktor. Not Imran.nNot even Makarov.

Because suddenly everyone understands the terrible weight hidden inside those words. Waiting. Not hoping. Not searching. Not running. Waiting.

And somewhere inside himself, Imran Zakhaev realizes that for the rest of his life, one question will haunt him more than any enemy ever could.

How long did she wait... before she finally gave up?