Inspired by the electricity cut I had while taking my bath lol
TW: mean Task Force 141, it’s 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.
“Mark, you here?” 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. “Markus?” 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 didn’t have a flashlight.
“This isn’t funny, Markus.” 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.
“Markus Hansen? Where is he?” A man asked, with a moustache, serious, neutral.
“I-I don’t know.”
“Liar.” The skull masked one spoke and he didn’t 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 didn’t seem okay with that manhandling.
“Where is Markus Hansen?” The other older man repeated, his tone harder.
“I don’t know!” You hysterically cried out, clutching your towel. “Pl-please, don’t- I am pregnant. Please.” You begged, more tears flowing down your face.
“Search the flat. He might have been careless.” The older man instructed to the group. The announcement of your pregnancy didn’t seem to faze him or put him into a pitying mood. “Quick.”
“What about the woman?”
“We take her for interrogation.”
The room was empty, save for a table, a chair where you sat with your hands handcuffed to by heavy cuffs. You hadn’t 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 didn’t sit down. The other older man instead did.
He pulled some papers, showing first a picture of Markus.
“This is your husband?”
“Y-yes.” You managed to reply, your throat constricted.
“Your husband is accused of terrorism. He is accused of complicity with the terrorist Makarov and the Ultranationalist movement.” The man spoke then, while the other leant against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “There was an attack in the London subways a few months ago. Your husband was an active member in elaborating the plan.”
What the man was stating didn’t make sense. Your mouth opened and closed, trying to intercept, to interject, to argue back. But he didn’t leave you a time to speak.
“The proof was at your home. Burner phones. A laptop hidden beneath the planks of your bedroom.” He continued, calmly. “Frankly, Mrs Hansen, it’s looking very grim for you.”
“How- how so?”
“You’re the wife of a terrorist.” The masked man answered back, casually. He approached the table with the energy of a predator, which made you scramble from him. “You’re maybe his complice as well.”
“What a fun activity.” The older man smiled cruelly. He pulled more pictures from the files, showing destruction, showing death. It made you retch. “Helping your husband do all of this, while pregnant.”
“I-I- I didn’t-“
“Come on, lady. We know everything. You’ll be facing a very long sentence. Poor fella in your belly gonna be a terrorist’s child, orphaned, alone.”
You gasped for air, the room spinning. They were talking as if you had done this. As if you helped Markus. But Markus- it couldn’t 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.
“No- no you’re all wrong.”
“Are we now?” 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. “Look at your husband helped do to our friend. And now, he’s dead.”
“As we stated, you’ll be facing life sentence. Perhaps even in another country.” The older man hummed, like it was an everyday conversation.
“I am not a terrorist!” You yelled, desperate, not understanding why those men didn’t seem to trust you. You were simply a wife, a soon to be mother, working as a receptionist. “Please- please, I don’t know anything-“
“Oh 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?” The man continued without caring for your tears, showing a picture of a younger Markus and another darker haired man.
“No- no- I am not a terrorist-“ You repeated, shaking your head.
“We would like to trust your words. Really. But don’t you understand the severity of the situation?” The masked man asked, his voice smooth as he gripped harshly your shoulders, making you whimper in pain and fright.
“Perhaps, a show of good faith could help us see clear through that mess. Perhaps you’re just as wronged as we are.” The older man suggested, with a paternal tone, and a kind look in his eyes. “You don’t seem like a dangerous terrorist, Mrs Hansen. You’re expecting: you’re not a foolish woman. You like Britain, right?”
“Of course, sir.” You found yourself answering, even it didn’t make sense when you were dragged from your home in the middle of the evening almost naked.
“Did Markus ever mention a place? Somewhere he likes to go?”
“No- we spend our time together we are not working.” You replied, dazed and terrorised. Your mind worked hard to find something worth to talk, to reveal. “Wait- he- he goes to this bar, in the south of France, in Marseille.” You stammered.
“The bar’s name? You know it? Yes or no?” The masked man holding you asked roughly, shaking you a little.
“It’s the Verre Vert.” 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 wasn’t over. You didn’t 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 didn’t see his face but you knew he was smiling.
“A little something for your husband. See if that motivates him.” He explained when he saw the look she was giving him.
“From now on, Mrs Hansen, you’ll be escorted to a cell. It’s 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.” 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. “We’ll provide clothes, food, and necessities. As well as a regular check up for your child. You’ll be allowed to a superb walk three hours a day, use this time well.”
You didn’t 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.
“Welcome to your new life, Mrs Hansen.” 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 🗣️🗣️🗣️
Cool air was blowing in your face. That was unusual, you don’t remember owning a fan. It softly buzzed a few feet away from your bed. Only that wasn’t your fan and this certainly wasn’t 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 you’ve 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 must’ve made the bedroom unbearably hot by the time you were finished. The fan had been put on full blast.
“Morning gorgeous.” Kyle softly kissed your shoulder.
You were so wrapped up in analyzing the room you hadn’t noticed Kyle wake up. Part of you felt guilty for not being able to recall last night. because obviously he did.
“‘m gonna take a shower, you should join me..”
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 thoughts…biig thoughts……….
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 doesn’t 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.
Smoke curled around Price’s cigar in the cold hidden house in the middle of Russia. There had been a successful raid on one of Makarov’s homes and establishments. From that particular house, they had found something interesting, something that could change this game of worldwide cat and mouse.
But as Sergeant Garrick thought and believed, there should be more protection about that valuable chess piece. Makarov had killed one of the 141, and some men were already whispering about payback. Ghost was attempting to keep it at bay, even if the thought had crossed his mind. But his integrity was intact, and making an innocent soul suffer for the sins of the father was not in his mentality.
Which brought Kyle to speak about it openly to the Captain, who was overseeing some documents, where to strike next.
“Captain.”
“What, Garrick?”
“She’s eighteen.”
“And?”
“Don’t play daft with me, Captain. You know well what men can do. Especially about payback. Especially after what happened with-“ Kyle couldn’t even continue his sentence, his throat tightening with the pain of thinking about Johnny. “Especially when they know who she is, how she looks like.”
“Then do something about it.” Price’s eyes were cold as they glanced to his cigar to Kyle then to Ghost. “Both of ya. I don’t care how you do it. Laswell is working on giving her a new name, new life. You two take care of the appearance. Teach her English. Flawless.”
The objectives were very different from the ones they usually got in a war or before going to the confrontation.
That’s how they found themselves in the middle of Russia, cheap Russian issued dye and one very scared looking girl, in a tiny bathroom.
She wasn’t some Makarova anymore no. Her new name was (Y/N). She was the niece of some fallen comrades. English was beaten into her, accent flawless.
Can you imagine being Vladimir Makarov’s child, rescued from his clutches by John Price himself?
You grew up in a quiet cottage in Cardiff, raised by the very man who executed your father in cold blood, a bullet between the eyes. You grew up surrounded by tea, cigar’s smoke and even if Price didn’t want to admit it, by a deep fatherly love.
The photo albums are filled of pictures of you with everyone of your dad’s friends: Aunt Kate who always takes you shopping, Uncle Kyle who plays football with you, Uncle Simon who used to throw you in the air and catch you and Uncle Johnny who let you sit on his laps as he wheeled around in his wheelchair.
A happy little family indeed.
Until you accidentally went into his office, thinking you could find him there, where his laptop was opened. You didn’t mean to pry but you were a curious thing. So, you approached and began to read. A private conversation, on some dark message app, between your father and Kate, about how you were growing up. The words were cold and detached. And Kate’s message: “Have you told them about their father?”, and Price’s message: “No need to bring up a cold ghost. The world has forgotten Makarov.”
Who was Makarov?
Sitting at your dad’s office chair, you began to leave the strange app, before opening Google and typing the weird name Makarov.
What you found chilled you to the bones. You read through countless articles, went on the Wikipedia page as well, where it listed a number of crimes longer than your father’s shoe size. You read and read until you couldn’t at all.
You couldn’t breathe, your hands were shaking at your side.
You were the child of a monster. You were a monster.
A message popped up on the tab. You didn’t notice it as you stood up, trembling the realisation dawning on you.
Reader nickname being Kid because they are the youngest when they join the 141.
Young and wide eyed, best of their classes, certainly, the 141 feel very paternal/brotherly toward you. Also, they feel very protective.
That’s why when Makarov swings a crowbar right into your ribs, they are so close to disclose information that could ruin the nations they swear to protect.
Those are daily things I do and think about my body. The ending is this way because… I genuinely believe there is no answer.
“Uh.”
You were standing and backing on the weighing scale, several times, to hope to see the number being lowered. You sighed, annoyed when it wasn’t the case. You touched and pinched your stomach, hating the slight jingle in it.
Dark hair stood from your belly down to your navel. Johnny liked it, he had told you that many times, said it made you look “sexy”. But your skin wasn’t smooth like the other women outside or on Instagram. Then, you moved to brush your teeth, hating them as well. Slightly yellowed, a bit curved here and there, not like the ones on Margot Robbie.
After, you put on your bra. You noticed the black hairs sticking out of both, and groaning, you grabbed a tweezer to rip them out. How can someone like Johnny like your body? It was so… imperfect, with your hair under the armpits or your bush, or your eyebrows you only tweezed out…
Tears were stinging your eyes and you sat on the dirty laundry basket, trying to not cry again. The last few weeks had been real hard. Hard because girls would turn to stare at Johnny with a smirk, and those women were goddesses. You? A ugly toad. Very ugly toad. Why was Johnny with you? What did he see in you?
Prices daughter X Simons daughter, but nither of them knew that their dads worked togeather so when Prices daughter invites her dad to the wedding(Less of an invite and more of a force on prices end) he brings along his work buddies and Simon’s daughter has to confront her dad at a dinner party in-front of her soon to be spouse
-🦕
They both sounds like assholes because they are in this one.
“Thank you for coming with me, didn’t wanna spend time alone with the harpies.” John Price muttered as he drove to the wedding venue. When he parked behind another car, he reached for his tie and made sure he looked perfect. The perfect father. Which was a lie.
“No worries, brother.” Simon replied back. He was also wearing a suit but in a soft blue tone. He had removed the mask, removing his anonymity. “Wouldn’t want my captain to get lost in this sea of ruffles and skirts.”
Price stifles a laugh before taking a deep breath. How long had it been since he had seen his daughter? Like truly seen her, not a phone call or a video call. Too long, the voice in the back of his head whispered. But the voice was shut down.
“So your daughter is marrying. You know the name?”
“I just know it’s another woman.” Price shrugged as he opened the driver’s door. “And that my daughter is head over heels for her. Wouldn’t want to miss the new addition to our shitty family.” A pause. “At least, there will be alcohol.” He joked.
They had missed the ceremony, obviously. Truthfully, John had come to learn about the wedding through a slip of his brother, asking if he would be there. John, angry, decided to call his daughter, almost commanding her to invite him. And several hours later, here he was, with Simon at his side.
Everyone knew that John hadn’t been here for his daughter. It didn’t stop them from greeting him warmly, a pat on the back, a handshake, a glass of champagne. And he did feel something when he saw his daughter in a beautiful wedding dress. He found himself smiling, walking toward her.
“Hey pumpkin.” He remembered nicknaming her that when she was four or five, because she got her head stuck into a pumpkin when she was three. “You look-, oh you look radiant.” The hug was awkward between them but he sensed that his daughter was opened to him, opened to having him here. “This is my colleague, Simon Riley.”
“Charmed.” The gruff voice of the lieutenant spoke.
“Hi dad. It’s nice to have you here.” His daughter told him gently, a sparkle in her eyes. She looked genuinely happy, perhaps to not have her father there but to get married.
“So where is the lucky woman who ensnared my daughter’s heart? I would like to meet her.”
“Sure, she’s over there, talking to Meredith. You remember Meredith, dad?”
How could he not? His daughter’s friend, that he had never liked. The few times she had been at his house when a teenager, his daughter would go out with that girl that changed her hair colour every Wednesday. Still, Price gulped down his annoyance and followed his daughter.
He didn’t notice how Simon’s breath accelerated as they approached Meredith and the other bride clad in an equally beautiful wedding dress.
“Dad, this is-“
“What is he doing here?”
His Pumpkin barely had the time to talk that her spouse had cut her right off in the sentence. Price stood there, confused. Was she talking about him? Did she know about the way he had never been home and the divorce and the few contacts he had with his Pumpkin ? Probably. But he had never expected such a strong reaction from an unknown woman.
When he thought about it really hard, she wasn’t looking at him. No, she was looking past him. How strange- considering that behind him stood Simon. So, the captain turned, looking confused.
“Hey, do you know her, Simon?”
“That’s my daughter.”
Oh.
A heavy and awkward silence followed by this simple answer. Simon didn’t look sad or happy. He just looked like he was existing, which was usual for him. But the wife of Pumpkin ? She looked on the verge of crying and of hysteria. She gestured very angrily at Simon, and his Pumpkin had to hold her off, to avoid any scandal or any wrongful reaction.
“What are you doing here?! Didn’t you ruin me enough already?!” The bride furiously asked, tripping over her words, mascara running a little down her cheeks because of the tears. “You came to whoop my ass?!”
“Hey-“ Price started, trying to defend Simon from whatever this girl was implying. He wouldn’t stand there to let her accuse Simon like that. “Calm down, okay. He’s my friend.” Whatever Simon had done, it would never be as serious as committing a war crime willingly.
“A friend?! Well, your friend spent my first eighteen years on this earth to abuse me, to slap me around when I was twelve because I broke a glass or there was no beer left!” Okay, that sounded like a Simon’s thing. “How- I don’t want him here.” The bride whimpered pathetically, curling around Pumpkin.
“Okay.” Simon said simply, the word rolling off his tongue, unbothered, uncaring.
And Price stood there, torn between joining his daughter or joining his friend. He looked once again at Pumpkin who was trying to calm down her wife.
“Listen- Simon had a tough life. I am sure he regrets what happened now.” He stated in a light tone, because in his mind, the past was the past. “I am sure he would have said sorry and apologised to you if you had given him the chance.” The man chastised softly, like he was correcting a recruit.
“He nearly-“ The poor woman was escorted by Meredith to another corner, perhaps to reapply makeup. The two only remaining in front of the buffet was him and his daughter.
“Dad, are you serious?” Pumpkin asked, her tone incredulous. “Okay, you weren’t the best dad but surely- surely, you can understand what your friend had done is bad, right?”
“Pumpkin, Simon was under pressure all the time. I am sure he didn’t mean it. He just didn’t know how to handle the frustration and the traumas. Being violent is common.” He stated like it was an article he had read in a newspaper. “Come on Pumpkin, I want him there.”
“It’s our wedding. And it’s no, if you’re not happy… then you can go with him.”
Another silence fell. John breathed in and out slowly. This wasn’t the reunion he had hoped for. What he had wanted was for this moment to go well. But no. Of course his daughter was settling boundaries or whatever they called it nowadays.
“Don’t be like that, Pumpkin.”
“Dad. Please.”
“Don’t make me choose between my best friend and my daughter.”
“Sounds like you have made the choice.” She paused. “And it’s not me. It never has been me.” She added in a tearful whisper before walking to go sit at the table for the two wives.
I imagine that Simon’s kid and Prices daughter could have also had the possibility of meeting as younger ppl(maybe like teenagers?) cause their dads worked togeather. Maybe prices daughter is the one to help Simon’s kid escape
-🦕
That could work so well!
Like you both getting dumped on Price daughter’s mother doorstep, and you both have a great time! Like Price’s daughter mother is very nice, best mother award. And Simon’s kid actually get to eat organic food! And get a haircut! How nice is that?
And playing video games until late, and getting to school together, and growing up, going through all the awkward teenage phases and experiences, and finally, Price daughter knowing when the next operation takes place, contacting Simon’s kid, helping them pack, sharing a flat as roommates…
Like- both connecting over the fact their fathers weren’t there for them. Perhaps they met over a therapy group, and they discover how much alike they are.
Like being Price’s daughter and having to deal with the fact he always cared more about his job than you, his literal family, leaves deep scars. You can’t trust anyone, believing they will leave you too, and not care. Growing up without a father would meant dealing with a lot of issues, especially in the dating area, especially when you’re a girl. And yet you try to not blame your father, no. You try and find excuses.
Simon’s kid? Angry all the time. They hate their reflection so much they shattered mirrors after mirrors. They have nightmares about Simon, about the bruises; the berating; the insults. They went through an alcoholic phase as well, resulting in a very dark moment of their lives. Their doctor said it was a miracle they were still standing and alive. You are alive and well, and try to take the broken pieces of yourself to sew you back together.
The connection doesn’t come at first glance, no. It takes those two at least fifth session to begin acknowledging each other. Then, a few words here and there, mundane words and talk. After, some coffee rendezvous, to rent about their useless fathers and the trauma.
Imagine their surprise when they realise their fathers were colleagues once upon a time. And the rage against the military world became deadlier.
turnnoffyourmind
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