the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
after price kills shepherd, he has a finite window of time to grab his things and say goodbye to his wife.
cw: angst
series masterlist
You hear the front door swing open and hit the wall behind it and your first thought is he’s early.
You’re at the stove, wooden spoon in your hand with the skillet throwing up steam, onions gone soft and golden at the edges, music murmuring from the speaker on the windowsill.
The word ‘early’ is halfway up out of your throat, light, a little teasing, but it dies there when the sound coming from down the hall isn’t the sound of a man home for the night. There’s no pause to toe his boots off, no keys dropping in the bowl. Just the stairs taken too fast, two at a time, the whole house shivering under the weight of him going up.
Your hand finds the gas dial and turns the flame down. You open up your ears, straining to listen. Then you’re moving, following the sound of him up into the dark of the second landing.
The bedroom door’s open, and inside, John’s just a blur of motion against the moonlight behind him. The wardrobe’s flung wide open, the duffle is out — the one that lives at the back of the closet behind the winter coats, the one you were trained long ago not to touch nor ask about — and now it’s unzipped, open on the bed. His hands are working through the canvas with a fervor that turns your blood cold before he’s said a single word.
He hasn’t looked up, he’s too focused. And there’s something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings — it tells you more than his face even would.
“John?” you try, his back is to you now.
“Hey,” he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. “Listen to me a minute.”
“What’s happening? Wh- what’re you doing?”
You take a tentative step toward the bed.
“I have to go,” he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. “Right now. Tonight.”
“Go where? You’ve only just got back. Is it a—,”
“It’s not work,” he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.
His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.
“It’s… it’s not a job, dove.”
You feel so behind him in this, like you’re still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinner’s almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.
You’ve never seen him like this.
He’s never like this — frantic.
“Then what is it, J—,”
“Shepherd’s dead,” he spills. He says it the way you’d pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. “It was me, I did it. There’ll be people comin’ here to look for me, and I can’t be here when they come, and I can’t—” His throat bobs. “I can’t be anywhere near you. D’you understand me?”
You don’t.
His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.
He’s gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. It’s the moving you can’t deal with right now because the moving means it’s already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. You’re hearing the end of a conversation he’s been having with himself for god knows how long.
Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.
“Stop.” Your hand closes firm around his forearm. “Stop, just— just look at me. Goddamnit, just— Stop moving!”
To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means he’s made time for it. John doesn’t make room for things that don’t matter. He’s making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.
His thumbs sweep the tears you didn’t even feel on your cheeks. “Look at me,” his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. “I need you to hear me.”
“No.” You’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. “No. No! You don’t get to do this, we’ll— we’ll fix it,” you try to sniffle but sob instead. “You’ll go to someone— Kate! There’ll be a way—,”
“There isn’t,” he murmurs, almost pleading.
“There’s always a way.”
“Not for this.” He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. “Not this one, dove. Not this time. I’m sorry.”
Part of you doesn’t quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like it’s curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly what’s happening here.
What he’s done.
You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.
“How long?” you ask, voice breaking.
He doesn’t answer.
You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You can’t even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, it’s just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, he’s got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. “How long, John?!”
You’re starting to learn how long.
He says nothing.
This isn’t a tour. It isn’t a season away with a date at the end of it. He’s running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you he’ll be standing in this room again.
The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. “You’re not coming back.”
His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you he’s trying to memorize.
“I love you.” It’s not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. “Whatever they say about me, whatever you hear — that’s the only truth, yeah?” His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. “When they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.”
Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.
“Say it back to me.”
“Y- you were here, you left in a hurry.”
“I was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,” he repeats.
“You were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.”
“Good.”
He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half that’s yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you can’t. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says.
And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and he’s past you before you’ve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.
“John! Please! John!”
But he’s already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and you’re only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.
The street is empty.
You look left, you look right. It’s as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.
Behind you, the speaker’s still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.
a/n: after writing this i decided to turn these two into a series of vignettes called ‘all we ever do is say goodbye’ 🧡
Jaw dropping on the floor in awe of how amazing this was to read. Oh my goodness, the frantic and anxious feeling of watching John pack and move about the room in a rush. The gut wrenching feeling of reader realizing that despite knowing John maybe had to do this for a reason, he’s ruined them to the point where she might never see him again. And the immediate reaction of hitting him in anger and in fear and in frustration while John just lets her do it, UGHHH. Because he knows In that moment, he deserves it. He knows that he brought this all to her so abruptly that the least he can do is let her feel this despair of losing him just for a moment before he leaves her.
Its nearly two in the morning and I’m half asleep and this probably doesn’t make any sense but Holy shit this was so good.
an incomplete list of reasons why sex scenes are good, necessary, and a character study, & rarely gratuitous (from a seasoned smut writer and published author)
body image and dysphoria. does this character voluntarily throw their clothes off, do they have to be coaxed, do they enjoy looking in the mirror, are there any areas they refuse to acknowledge? scars? tattoos? what does this say about their past?
what role do they take in the bedroom, and what relationship does it have to the role they take in day to day life?
social/communication skills. how good are they at eye contact, asking their bedmate what they want, are they about verbal communication or body language? what is their body language, is it open or closed off? are they nervously chatty, are their words short and clipped, are they nervously quiet?
touch starvation. how do they react to touch? when's the last time they were touched intimately? how does this touch remind them of their previous encounters with touch, or is this their first time?
glimpses of their education, sexual and otherwise, and the ways this influences their view of the world. what is their understanding of consent? where did they get it from? what do they think of kink vs vanilla? what is their relationship to both?
self esteem. do they take on a role of service in the bedroom because they want to, or because they feel like they have to in order to be worthy, no matter what they really want? how good are they at expressing these thoughts? do they freeze up when their bedmate asks them what they want? do they even know what they want?
how much attention do they want on themselves vs how much are they comfortable with? would they rather the attention was just on their bedmate?
how much guilt, shame, or repression do they have about sex in general? does it feel like a performance, is it true for them? how do they do with being vulnerable with another person, clothes on or off?
how do they feel about submission/domination, about penetration? do they want marks to be left, or do they insist on no trace left behind?
how do they treat their bedmate? loving, rough, tender, gentle, harsh, sadistic, deferring, no matter the scene/dynamic?
what about aftercare? for themself, for their bedmate? do they do it, do they know what it is, how do they do it? do they value it or do they do it just because you're supposed to?
an incomplete list. might add more. sex scenes add SO much value, insight, and development to a character. they are an incredibly intimate and vulnerable setting, which is how the right writer can show readers so much about who this character is in a bedroom setting. it is not gratutious.
hello, long time no see. I broke up with my ex of seven years and spiraled. Then proceeded to fall off the face of the earth, but I’m back hopefully.
With the cod mw4 trailer drop, it motivated me to drop this unfinished fic I’ve had collected dust in my docs for years.
It may not make any sense or sound stupid or not be as close to canon but I think it has potential and I enjoy reading it every now and then.
Just thought I’d share it<3
Paper cuts, stab wounds, a shot to the shoulder. Nicking your finger when chopping celery. Burning your hand when getting the kettle on. Cigarette burns. Biting your tongue when eating crisps. Stepping on a needle. Falling off a motorbike. Getting swung upside down by your feet like a stuck pig. Car accidents. Beer bottle to the face. Getting electrocuted. All of those things are painful. Pains that stick with you for days, weeks or months on end, that last a time and it lingers.
But Ghost could handle them. Always had. He’d wear them on his fucking back and keep moving because that what was needed to be done. Shove them away in the deepest pits of hell his mind created and let them stay there. But those pains, those dark lingering pains have nothing compared to what he felt when he watched you and Johnny die.
How quickly Makarov pulled the trigger on Soap and how fast he went down. He remembers Price’s screams, felt his own mouth moving with anger as he shot at the enemy forces. You were gone from his side in an instant. A millisecond, he heard you scream and in three seconds you were on top of Makarov, stabbing anything and everything you could . You caught enemy fire. Ghost watched as bullets went through you, but that didn’t stop you from slitting Makarov’s throat in the end.
You and Johnny’s sacrifice weren’t for nothing. The bomb detonated and the powerful leader that was the reason for this entire mission—six feet under. That’s what Price tells him and Gaz when they sit in the waiting room. Ghost can hear John’s voice but he knows that those are Kate’s words. Words that were forced down his throat to keep him straight in front of his men. To let the last remaining 141 members know that the Captain is fine. That the Captain has not been beaten down.
And Price could serve that shit to Gaz, and despite his reluctance toward it, Kyle would swallow it all down and try to believe it for the sake of his own sanity. But Simon knew better.
Ghost knew better.
He saw John during it all, heard him calling both of your names as you both went down. Rushing over to you both once the coast was clear. Watched as his hand coated in a deep shade of red that Ghost hoped to never have addressed to be yours again. He’s seen you shot, he’s seen you bruised and full of scars he thought were beautiful, but he never saw you you like this. He watched as John pressed against every single bullet wound he could find, but was no use.
He heard that pain of agony leave Price’s mouth. Saw it. Felt it.
Gaz, the ever doting son, tried his best to nod his head and listen to his Captain. Saying the needed ‘yes sir’ and ‘understood sir’ with a tremble in his voice and watery filled eyes. Kyle wasn’t doing well and he showed it, cried at the scene when he watched emergency services and coroner's come and pick up your bodies. John hugged him for five minutes straight as he cried.
Now here the three of them are. Sitting in a small waiting room, waiting to hear the bad news that seems to follow them like a rotten curse.
Coma. That's what the doctors say when they come in to relay the news on your wellbeing. You were shot 12 times and lost a lot of blood. A miracle that you’re even breathing, though currently it is assisted.
Simon doesn’t know if that's better or worse and he know’s that what the rest of 141 feels. John doesn’t move, nods his head at the news and asks questions on if he needs to give more blood. He’s already given blood but John can’t sit still.
Kyle excused himself once the four letter word left the doctor’s mouth. Politely walking out of the waiting area to cry his hardest away from everyone.
Ghost, he simply sat back down and started to try and shovel all of this into the hell he has. Just like he always does with his pain.
But both Simon and Ghost know that it will never work.
Not for you or Johnny.
You both will haunt him for the rest of his life. The memories of you will never leave his mind.
And Simon wouldn’t want it any other way.
Even if it kills him.
— — —
Simon hates the sound of your breathing, how heavy and forceful it is. Hates all these tubes and needles that connect into your skin. You wouldn’t like it either–-he knows. You hate hospitals and would say it out loud any chance you got. The thought of the signature annoyed look on your face brings a small slant to his lips but it quickly goes away when his gaze flickers over to the empty seat next to him.
Johnny would’ve been the one to bring that joke up. To mimic the tone in your voice and the body language. You would shove him off at the mockery, annoyed even more but not hiding the smile that grows on your lips. Now he can hardly even see your face, it's covered in god knows what to keep you breathing.
A soft click of the door opening brings him from the sorrow feeling. His eyes flicker to John’s who freezes for a second before fully coming into the room, closing the door softly behind him.
“I thought visiting hours were over?” He mumbles, walking over to the other side of your hospital bed. Simon watches as he pokes and prods at the paperwork Simon had snagged on his way in. The nurse at the front desk gone for a quick bathroom break and your name written in red ink on a pink manila folder was begging to be saved. There was nothing new written in it, nothing that the remainder 141 and Kate don’t already know—still, John tries. Tries to see if there is anything that they missed. Anything that can keep you from not waking up.
Simon says nothing at his question, simply watching his captain watch your chest move up and down so forcefully. His thumb softly brushes your cheek, his other hand squeezing your own, closing his eyes tight.
He let’s John have his moment, tucking his head down and looking at his boots. He does a quick pinch in the top of his hand to see if he’s dreaming. If this is just one of his nightmares that happen more than he would ever admit—he’s not.
John sits next to him with a huge sigh, his arms resting on the top of thighs, hands enclasped. His gold ring shining from the moonlight peaking through the window. Kate had sent them all to change. It was hard to get the three of them out the hospital but that woman managed. It took alot of screaming and yelling and demanding orders left and right, until eventually they all took turns to leave. To change into something that wasn’t their armor that always felt like second skin—to change into something that didn’t have your blood on it.
Simon didn’t shower though. Left the stains of blood from when he finally got to touch you and Johnny stain his skin and crust over. He hides it beneath his zip up and baklava. His lips still taste of metal, and his eyes still burn of salt.
“She hates hospitals,” Simon mutters. He doesn’t realize it leaves his lips before John turns his head toward him. “Always made a face whenever we got sent to medical. Couldn’t stand it.”
John leans back into the chair, “I remember.” He can’t see it but he knows his captain is smiling. It’s small but you he can hear it in the sound of his voice. A small gleam is in his eye at the memory of your stubbornness with getting checked out. Your eyes rolling at the thermometer, your mutterings of doing it better back on base or in the field. He huffs a laugh at the thought.
Silence engulfs them both with nothing but the sound of your forced breathing and the beep beep beep of the monitor. He hates that fucking sound.
Please wake up. Simon begs in his head as he watches you. To whoever is listening. To whoever you believed in, to whoever that will fucking hear him and still thinks he’s worthy for miracles and goodness. Please.
“There’s something l’ve got’a do.” Simon turns his head to John, his eyes still on your body in a bed thats too sterile and in a room that’s too cold.
“To do what?” Simon questions.
“It’s best you don’t know.” The words come out of him quick like the bullets that hit you. Simon can feel the weight of it in his gut, the deeper meaning that itches to reach the surface but stays beneath the waves. John’s eyes finally meet his and their darker than before.
A look that means more than any lie he could try to spew out to him. Simon made him promise to never lie or keep things from him again, and he knows John won’t unless it life or death. And since you are on the cusp of both, he know’s there’s a reason for it.
So, instead of prying for answers, instead of letting John make a lie or brush off his questions, he simply nods his head. “How long will you be gone?”
“A while. Keep an eye on Kyle and don’t come looking for me. That’s an order, Lieutenant.”
His eyes glaze over and he feels his back softly straighten up in his chair. The act of an order reminding him of something safe and solid.
i’m forever haunted by shawn hatosy saying jack doesn’t like being alone…
the guy who was widowed doesn’t like being alone…the guy who’s best friend was gonna leave him for three months (and maybe forever) doesn’t like being alone…the guy who listens to a police scanner while falling asleep doesn’t like being alone…
simon riley fucking you for the first time knowing he shouldn’t. it’s forbidden. it’s wrong. you’re the captain’s daughter.
he has you sat on the table, your shirt hiked up, his pants shoved down. his cock is still bottoming out, groaning in your ear, when you both hear price’s heavy footfalls echoing down the hall as he calls out for his daughter… for you.
dededos
blakekathryn
areudirty
janainaart
snowghoul
