(I have no excuse to publish this one month after lol enjoy)
Markus had bitten on the bait.
Obviously, the man was a terrorist but a loving husband.
Upon interrogation, he kept asking about his partner, about where they were held, if the baby was okay. To anyone, this was just a man concerned for his wife. To the rest of the Task Force 141 and anyone involved with them, it was not as emotional.
You saw Mark after two weeks of being in a cramped cell. You wore one of those formless grey sweatpants, all they could offer you and the heavy belly you had from the pregnancy. You had been checked many times by doctors that you didnât trust.
Seeing Mark gave you relief and a twinge of fear of what he has actually done. He clearly had been beaten up, his left eye swollen shut, his nose broken. Your mouth had opened, frightened by his appearance. As soon as you were reunited, the man with the skull mask only said:
âFive minutes.â
The door closed with a ominous sound. You two only stared at each other, breathing heavily before Markus lunged himself at you and hugged you, trying to be delicate about your pregnant belly. He kept whispering about how sorry he was that you had been dragged into this mess, that he was going to make himself forgiven, that he hadnât mean for you to be targeted like that.
Your breathing quickened. You had believed, foolishly perhaps, that your husband had nothing to do with this. But the way he kept saying how sorry he was, the way he kept talking about how he tried to keep you off this awful business⌠you werenât certain anymore.
Slowly, reluctantly, you stepped from him. Your eyes went over his swollen face, the way he had clearly been tortured. Perhaps⌠perhaps he had confessed to things he hadnât done? Police often did this, pressuring a witness into confessing a crime they havenât done.
âMarkus⌠Markus⌠have you- are you a terrorist?â You asked, urgently.
He lowered his eyes, almost ashamed, like in this almost puppy way Markus had. You slowly realised that the awful thing the men had spoken about when you were being interrogated were true.
âI didnât want you to be dragged into this filth. They call us terrorists⌠and for what? For advocating the right of every country to act freely?â Markus hissed, a twinge of pain crossing his face. He seemed to calm down upon seeing you panic. He grabbed your cheeks delicately, kissed your forehead. âEverything will be alright, darling. Everything will be taken care of. I may have to go to jail for⌠a long time. I had prepared myself for that eventually.â
He quietened down, checking if any of the men that had taken you were coming. Then, Markus went back to talking.
âI love you so much, my darling. So, so much. I have friends thatâll take care of you when I wonât be there. Do you trust me, darling?â He asked, serious, looking into your eyes.
And despite all the awful and evil things your husband had done, yes, you trusted him. You nodded, feeling a lump in your throat, tears stinging down your eyes. His hands left your cheeks to go down to your stomach, smoothing it over.
âI do.â You whispered.
âYouâll be okay. Our child will be okay. I have money in other accounts, they will be transferred to you once we get you out of here. I struck a deal with them, youâll be safe from those idiots.â Markus continued, trying to be as reassuring as possible. He kissed you again. âItâs not the life and the future I thought to have, with you. But I will find a way back to you, my darling.â
Heavy footsteps echoed into the tight and narrow hallway leading to your cell. Markus sighed, a little frustrated about the whole ordeal. He didnât say a word, but kept hugging and kissing you. Your hands fisted on his chest, hoping to anchor his memory to your body.
âThe five minutes are up, Hansen.â
âTrust me, my darling: thatâs all I ask from you.â Markus whispered one last time before giving you a kiss on the lips.
Then, he was wrenched away from you by the man who wore the skull mask. You watched as he was dragged away, once again in the darkness. You sat down on the cot, a hand rubbing on your belly.
Yes, despite everything, you had forgiven Markus. But at what price? He was probably going to spend his life to jail, or worse. Then, you thought about your situation, about your unborn babyâs situation. Those men who had taken you⌠Maybe they will not release anytime soon. Youâll spend your life into this miserable four walled prison.
Again, too many hours or days had passed without anyone coming to see you. Your meals were delivered, three times a day, something that was repulsive but you ate anyway, too afraid for your baby and its development. You had cried yourself to sleep three times, you had nightmares about Markus being tortured and killed and hurried some place you didnât know the name of.
Your due date was approaching. That much was true. You felt the baby in your stomach becoming restless. The fear of giving birth alone in this cell was becoming more and more intense. No doctor or nurse came to check on, unlike the man with the moustache had claimed.
Liars.
You were roused from your sleep by the sounds of the doorâs opening. Rubbing your eyes, you sat up slowly. You didnât know if it was the day or the night, but those soldiers looked extremely peachy. Fear dawned on you, and your hands flew to your stomach: maybe they were here to kill you.
Five men filled the small room. Four were quiet and their faces obstructed by black masks. The apparent leader stepped toward you and spoke in a flawless English.
âMrs Hansen? We are here to transport you to your new home.â
âNo one notified me-â You spoke weakly. Of course they wouldnât say a thing to you. You were the wife of a terrorist!
âPlease, come with us. Quietly.â The man handed you a large military jacket that you put on. You put on your shoes before standing up.
The base was silent and dark. You would have believed they would have turned on the lights. Only the red ones, blinking along the wall, were visible. The man led you, gently holding you by the elbow. It was not the crushing grip of the men before, this man held you with gentleness and respect. You found that odd.
Outside, the night had fallen. A vehicle waited for you, armored, dark, made for discretion. You sat on the backseat, flanked by two large men. The man who had spoken to you sat in the passenger seat.
No one spoke a word. The car drove, and drove, for how long? You had no idea. Time had become a concept you didnât fully grasp, especially after those intense weeks of captivity. And you were certain you had fallen asleep, until the leader woke you up.
âThe plane is here. Let me help you.â He spoke, grabbing your hand delicately like you were some ladies from the English nobility.
Indeed, a plane was waiting for her. Dark again, as if it could hid itself amongst the darkness of the night and the clouds of the sky. You had trouble climbing the stairs leading to the plane, which looked more like a private jet. But again, you were too exhausted to ask questions.
The inside was⌠strangely luxurious. With dark leather, a bar, flowers even, the space was well furnished. It looked like you had been picked by a famous person instead of a military officer. A air hostess smiled at you warmly, speaking to you in what you assumed was Russian, bowing her head a little. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
Sitting down on a leather chair, the hostess brought a thick blanket, vitamin supplements, and a water bottle. You felt the plane going off, your hands instinctively moving to grasp your stomach. Flying while pregnant was dangerous, and you were close to your terms.
âDo not worry, Mrs Hansen. I have a doctor on board.â
The voice was thick, serious, and had a thick accent to it, Russian, you guessed. Footsteps once again, and the same man that had escorted you appeared, standing besides the chair opposite of you. Another man sat in it, dressed in a suit, extending a hand toward you. Dazed, you shook it.
âVladimir Makarov. Me and your husband know each other. He made me promise to take care of you if harm had fallen upon him.â
The name rang a bell⌠of course! This man- this man was the infamous terrorist, from Russia. Your breath quickened, opening your mouth to say something.
âAs I was saying Mrs. Hansen, you have nothing to worry about. Your husband was a dear friend of mine. We had to take you from this awful jail to bring you to the place where youâll be staying at. Hansen had picked it himself, with you in mind. We will regret his arrest, and the end of our relationship.â
âYouâre speaking as if he was dead.â You murmured.
âWith those Englishmen who submit to their own twisted sense of justice, perhaps he is. I do not want to get your hopes up, Mrs. Hansen.â The man continued, as if speaking to you like you were old friends.
He smiled then, raising his glass.
âTo our new friends, Mrs. Hansen. Letâs honour your husband by being⌠friends.â
Trigger warning for driving test and anything related to driving school below ; I just need to vent
WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THE END OF SEPTEMBER TO PASS MY DRIVING TEST
WHY THE FUCK ARE ALL OF YOU MEN AND ALWAYS YELLING AT MY MISTAKES INSTEAD OF TEACHING ME CORRECRLY?? GOD OF COURSE I WILL MAKE MORE MISTAKES IF I DONT GET EXPLAINED CORRECTLY
AND WHY IS IT SO EXPENSIVE??? I MUST HAVE PAID 2000âŹ++ FUCKING HELLLLLL
The shit that Simonâs kid goes through lol, I hope they get to desacrate his grave (love ur writing!!)
Thanks!
Yeah maybe theyâll go no contact or just minimal⌠but I kinda am a sucker for happy endings sometimes so maybe theyâll talk it out healthily and be a good parent/child duo!!
Wrote this super quic- sorry for mistakes! This is he/him pov, but anyone can read it
Being Phillip Graves son, you have a penchant for electronics and floating around the net since you were eleven year old, with a brand new computer gifted on Christmas. Amongst the mountain of gifts (and guilt consumed by your father), this was the best gift you could have ask for.
Since this moment, you lived, breathed, ate, computers and internet. Slowly, as you grew up and understood the nature of your fatherâs job a little more and better, you decided it was time for you to help him with his work.
That landed you in a tough spot several years later, eighteen, with your father hunting down a Russian man named Vladimir Makarov. You havenât told your father about your skills, no. He would have freaked out completely and sent you to military camp for a year.
You just wanted to help him.
Except you didnât realise the breach you had opened, for far more advanced hackers than you were.
You were tracked down, unknowingly by Shadow Company and Task Force 141. When they busted your little hideout in the middle of nowhere, with rifles pointed at you, you raised your hands automatically.
Then, you felt it. Your fatherâs stare.
âWhat you doing here, boy?â
âYou know him?â A heavy Scottish accent voice echoed in the background.
The bewilderment left place of the anger. Your father angrily reached for you, dragging you of your little hideout, the masked men of the company not saying a word or daring to breath. The others, the Englishmen, didnât stay silent.
âGraves? Graves, whoâs this?â
âMy son.â
Your father gave you the terrorist treatment. After being thrown into the backseat of an armored vehicle and drove to a place you didnât know, he dragged you through corridors, the Englishmen following close behind.
âGraves, heâs just a kid.â The same man with the Mohawk almost begged for you, while you tried to fight your fatherâs hold.
âOh no. He wants to be a man, now. He wants to give terrorist infos? Heâs getting treated as one.â Your old man seethed, throwing a door open and then dumping you on a cold metal chair. âYou want to be tough? You want to be a man now?!â
âCalm down, Graves!â Another Englishman wearing a cap appeared, trying to pull him outside the tiny room. But your father shoved him off.
âGet Ghost here. Give him the treatment a terrorist deserves.â
You didnât realise how much you were crying until now. Fat tears rolled down your cheeks, as you had never seen your father behave like this before. He was terrifying. Different from his soft words and his encouraging nature.
âDad-â You started.
âI did not give you permission to speak, boy!â
âOkay, letâs take a moment. Letâs just talk.â The one with the cap said, trying to calm everyone down. He approached and sat on a chair opposite of you. âYouâre the one who had been leaking info about Makarov and his whereabouts, right? Is eaglescreams your username?â
You nodded once, your eyes on your father. The man snapped his fingers in front of your face, making you stare at him instead. His eyes were softer, more understanding.
âBy doing so, you opened a small breach that ultranationalists hackers were able to use. They were to locate a few of warehouses we own. Thatâs not that of a big deal.â
âIt is!â Graves screeched before being pulled away by the Scottish man.
âI am sorry, I just wanted to help.â You gasped out, wanting the man to understand.
âI know kid. I know. But⌠it was not your place to act. I understand you wanted to help, you wanted to save people. But we are the one who can take of this.â A pause. âThe small breach, it can easily be closed. We are taking care of it. Soap will calm your father down. You can⌠stay with us until then. You were just trying to help. Itâs going to be okay.â The man moved and hugged you tightly.
Simon Riley adopting Johnnyâs kid, but ending up neglecting his own childâŚ.
Like he is a perfect father for the other kid, and you have to watch on the side lines, hoping to see him smile like that at something you would do. You would do anything for a crumb of love and affection from your own father, and you do feel like Johnnyâs kid is stealing your father from you.
Obviously, when you voice your thoughts and doubts to your father, hoping to make him understand how you feel, you get shut down quickly.
âDonât you know how hard it is for them to have lost their father? God- you can be selfish sometimes!â
But when I saw the new trailer⌠maybe he didnât care. Maybe he just saw Soap as another fallen colleague, and thatâs why he is not as affected as Price, who might have seen Soapâs death as his fault only, and might have seen the boys on the 141, especially Soap and Gaz, as his kiddos.
I like that idea that Simon Riley is quite detached, that he wasnât as close as Johnny might have wanted him to be. Maybe some unrequited feelings⌠In the end, after the ashes has scattered and the 141 is likely disavowed, Simon drives back home to his English suburban city, where he kisses his wife and asks his kids about their days.
Meanwhile, Price is in a pit of despair and revenge, furious at himself, furious at the world, at the military, at Simon, for not believing in the cause and in avenging Johnny and all the other men that had fallen.
Of course, letâs not forget Kyle. He probably was sent off some place for his own good. Maybe he went back to his old job, maybe he was forced to drop the military, and lives as fitness coach. He knows itâs for his own good, but Kyle canât help but glance at the burner phone, in hope of getting a call from the CaptainâŚ
Did I just get kicked off and become a sub for two days because the teacher that was part time in kindergarten decided to go full time 3 weeks before the end of school?
Inspired by the electricity cut I had while taking my bath lol
TW: mean Task Force 141, itâs getting dark real soon, reader is pregnant
You were just taking a bath.
Your husband, Markus Hansen, was out, after a promise of buying groceries for a romantic dinner. So, you did what every partner would: take a very nice bath and scrub yourself clean.
Everything was going well: candles, little lights, the music from your cd player. You hummed to the song. Until the light went out, the music stopped and you found yourself plunged into darkness and silence.
And then- sound.
âMark, you here?â You called up, your hands flailing in front of you as you exited the bathtub clumsily. You reached for a towel that you wrapped around your body. âMarkus?â You called again, your voice becoming concerned with time and with the feeling of being watched.
You wandered into the hallway, decorated of pictures of both your families and vacations. Your phone was in the bedroom, which you tried to access because of course, you didnât have a flashlight.
âThis isnât funny, Markus.â Your voice grew impatient and stronger as you spoke into the darkness of a flat.
Then- a hand reached your waist, and another was clamped on your mouth. Naturally, you began to scream and fight against this assailant that was clearly more trained than you were.
Light was shoved into your face, as you were dumped into the corner of your bedroom. Multiple men, armed, face hidden mostly, holding guns and riffles, weapons of destruction, all pointed at your body, as you curled into your face and had tears running down your face.
âMarkus Hansen? Where is he?â A man asked, with a moustache, serious, neutral.
âI-I donât know.â
âLiar.â The skull masked one spoke and he didnât hesitate to backhand you, bringing more tears and panic to your mind and body. Another man wearing a cap with the Union Jack made a sound, a grunt that signified he didnât seem okay with that manhandling.
âWhere is Markus Hansen?â The other older man repeated, his tone harder.
âI donât know!â You hysterically cried out, clutching your towel. âPl-please, donât- I am pregnant. Please.â You begged, more tears flowing down your face.
âSearch the flat. He might have been careless.â The older man instructed to the group. The announcement of your pregnancy didnât seem to faze him or put him into a pitying mood. âQuick.â
âWhat about the woman?â
âWe take her for interrogation.â
The room was empty, save for a table, a chair where you sat with your hands handcuffed to by heavy cuffs. You hadnât stop crying since you came here, since those men dragged you from your flat bound, half naked, with your towel askew. A single bulb was hanging from the ceiling, the light aggressive but small.
You were being treated like the lowest criminal, and you had no idea why.
Finally, the door opened. The same man with the moustache came in, followed by the same masked man. The view of him made you shiver and flinch instantly. He didnât sit down. The other older man instead did.
He pulled some papers, showing first a picture of Markus.
âThis is your husband?â
âY-yes.â You managed to reply, your throat constricted.
âYour husband is accused of terrorism. He is accused of complicity with the terrorist Makarov and the Ultranationalist movement.â The man spoke then, while the other leant against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. âThere was an attack in the London subways a few months ago. Your husband was an active member in elaborating the plan.â
What the man was stating didnât make sense. Your mouth opened and closed, trying to intercept, to interject, to argue back. But he didnât leave you a time to speak.
âThe proof was at your home. Burner phones. A laptop hidden beneath the planks of your bedroom.â He continued, calmly. âFrankly, Mrs Hansen, itâs looking very grim for you.â
âHow- how so?â
âYouâre the wife of a terrorist.â The masked man answered back, casually. He approached the table with the energy of a predator, which made you scramble from him. âYouâre maybe his complice as well.â
âWhat a fun activity.â The older man smiled cruelly. He pulled more pictures from the files, showing destruction, showing death. It made you retch. âHelping your husband do all of this, while pregnant.â
âI-I- I didnât-â
âCome on, lady. We know everything. Youâll be facing a very long sentence. Poor fella in your belly gonna be a terroristâs child, orphaned, alone.â
You gasped for air, the room spinning. They were talking as if you had done this. As if you helped Markus. But Markus- it couldnât be him! He was charming, and smart, the perfect man! Working in an international company, travelling across the world, and desperately, you began to shake your head.
âNo- no youâre all wrong.â
âAre we now?â The masked man growled, aggressive, stepping behind her and gripping her shoulders. He forced you to look at one picture of a man with a strange haircut, eyes blue and opened in horror, a hole in the side of the head. âLook at your husband helped do to our friend. And now, heâs dead.â
âAs we stated, youâll be facing life sentence. Perhaps even in another country.â The older man hummed, like it was an everyday conversation.
âI am not a terrorist!â You yelled, desperate, not understanding why those men didnât seem to trust you. You were simply a wife, a soon to be mother, working as a receptionist. âPlease- please, I donât know anything-â
âOh and look- a picture of your husband and Vladimir Makarov, taken several years ago. Before your wedding, right? But you were together at that time. Have you met him, Mrs Hansen?â The man continued without caring for your tears, showing a picture of a younger Markus and another darker haired man.
âNo- no- I am not a terrorist-â You repeated, shaking your head.
âWe would like to trust your words. Really. But donât you understand the severity of the situation?â The masked man asked, his voice smooth as he gripped harshly your shoulders, making you whimper in pain and fright.
âPerhaps, a show of good faith could help us see clear through that mess. Perhaps youâre just as wronged as we are.â The older man suggested, with a paternal tone, and a kind look in his eyes. âYou donât seem like a dangerous terrorist, Mrs Hansen. Youâre expecting: youâre not a foolish woman. You like Britain, right?â
âOf course, sir.â You found yourself answering, even it didnât make sense when you were dragged from your home in the middle of the evening almost naked.
âDid Markus ever mention a place? Somewhere he likes to go?â
âNo- we spend our time together we are not working.â You replied, dazed and terrorised. Your mind worked hard to find something worth to talk, to reveal. âWait- he- he goes to this bar, in the south of France, in Marseille.â You stammered.
âThe barâs name? You know it? Yes or no?â The masked man holding you asked roughly, shaking you a little.
âItâs the Verre Vert.â You mumbled, the name of the bar had once made you laugh or giggle but now, it sounded hollow. It was a matter of survival.
The older man hummed and nodded, gathering the documents and putting them back neatly in the folders. The masked man finally released your shoulders, his combat boots echoing in the small room.
You had a feeling this wasnât over. You didnât know if you had done the right choice. But- if they said your husband was a terrorist, then it was your duty to help him, right? On the other hand, you were a faithful and loyal wife, you had made the promise on the altar to protect each other, even in the worst moments.
The snap of a phone taking a picture broke your mind from your thoughts. You looked up, surprised, that the masked man had snapped a picture of you. You didnât see his face but you knew he was smiling.
âA little something for your husband. See if that motivates him.â He explained when he saw the look she was giving him.
âFrom now on, Mrs Hansen, youâll be escorted to a cell. Itâs not a hotel, that much you have realised. We do this because you are still accused of complicity in several cases of terrorism. And also, for your own safety, of course.â The older man told her as he stood up from his chair. He looked professional, polished, like he had sealed a well made deal. His eyes seemed to soften for a second when he looked at her. âWeâll provide clothes, food, and necessities. As well as a regular check up for your child. Youâll be allowed to a superb walk three hours a day, use this time well.â
You didnât nod, you kept staring at the wall, at some point in the air, completely shell shocked from this situation. You were just a normal woman, with a normal job, a normal life. A husband. A baby. A project that involved a bigger home, a house with a garden, a pet⌠And that lovely dream just evaporated the evening you took a bath while waiting for your husband to come back from his third business travel this year.
âWelcome to your new life, Mrs Hansen.â The masked man told you with a cocky and sarcastic tone, as he closed the door and locked it behind, leaving you alone and handcuffed in a tiny room.
The aftermath of you and Gaz spending a night drunken together đŁď¸đŁď¸đŁď¸
Cool air was blowing in your face. That was unusual, you donât remember owning a fan. It softly buzzed a few feet away from your bed. Only that wasnât your fan and this certainly wasnât your bed. A deep murmur came from behind you.
What happened last night.
Kyle was snug pressed against your back. Your memory of the past night was a blur. Somehow youâve ended up in Kyle Garrick, your coworkers bed. Both of you fully nude with only a thin flat sheet covering your lower halves.
Swinging your legs to the edge of his bed, you rub your eyes hard. An attempt to wake up from whatever weird ass dream you were in right now. When you moved your hands he was still there. Kyle. God he looked so good right now.
By the looks of the room you two had a great time.
Clothes were strewn carelessly. There were multiple used condoms in the trashcan on your side of the bed. The duvet was..somewhere? You guys mustâve made the bedroom unbearably hot by the time you were finished. The fan had been put on full blast.
âMorning gorgeous.â Kyle softly kissed your shoulder.
You were so wrapped up in analyzing the room you hadnât noticed Kyle wake up. Part of you felt guilty for not being able to recall last night. because obviously he did.
ââm gonna take a shower, you should join me..â
His raspy morning voice was certainly doing something for you. You nodded to him as he got up and left the room. Saliva pooled in your mouth when you saw his half hard length.
How did you manage to fit him in you when he was fully hard? So many rounds too???
Hopefully a shower with Kyle would answer all of your questions and concerns.
Chick note: This image brought me big thoughtsâŚbiig thoughtsâŚâŚâŚ.
No but I love the idea of the cod guys, who are like the epitome of legend amongst the SAS, holding a dying soldier, cradling them close to their chest as if their own heartbeat could save you⌠But magic doesnât exist, and they have to hold you while blood is slipping and rolling down your wounds, and you stare up at the sky, trying to grasp some words, some comfort before entering the great nothing.
