#cod mwii

[boowritess]

shitty friends and their shitty fucking boyfriends seemed to be a common denominator in your life.

your friend sits across from you with her boyfriend. her boyfriend she said would stay home. her boyfriend who changed the place they were going to a bar. an army bar. he wasn't a fucking soldier.

you can only watch with an eye twitch as the boyfriend crosses boundaries, your friend just blatantly letting him - excusing his behaviour as love and normal pda.

and then you were being ignored by your so called friend.

your mouth opened to say you were going to call it a night but then a voice, british, smooth like fucking silk spoke up. "what you having, miss?"

for a second you think they're not talking to you but when your eyes meet the rich, dark brown pair of a guy with a smile as sweet as fucking honey - good lord your heart stops.

"pardon?" you manage to squeak out. voice dry from - you know - not talking.

"let us buy you a drink. you don't look to fond of that beer." he says with a cheeky grin - wait us?

sure enough he sits with an intimidating lot of men. who watches you like you're a work of art. you glance down at the beer you'd been given. "uh... i'm not-"

you're cut off by your friends boyfriend who glares at the group. "she's fine." and your friend looks almost offended that you'd been the one offered a drink.

offered a fucking lifeline.

"she can speak for herself, mate." the one with a beard and beanie says. voice rough, low, older and experienced. his eyes met yours, there's a glint in them. an edge of darkness bordering the softness of his eyes. but his gaze drops before you can fully register what the fuck is happening.

"i don't think they have what i like here-" you say, trying to be friendly with a smile.

"great, we'll go elsewhere then." a scottish accent, with a chipper drawl isn't quite what you expected from the man who'd been deadpanning your friends partner, now looking at you with a friendly smile.

they're already moving, looking at you and half-expecting you to get up.

and shit, one glance at your friend and her shitty boyfriend. you do.

before your friend or her dumb boyfriend could say anything.

a tall, big fucking man, with a nasty scar on his face steps behind you to follow you. one glance over his shoulder at the couple and they shut right the fuck up.

simon follows behind you as gaz and soap draw conversation out of you. cute. simon thinks, catching the way the others look at you. and ours.

[thisnoah]

Hot guys

+full ver

[skulldetergent]

141 updated height headcanons/analysis

for gaz, price, and ghost there's not really much to headcanon because their (actors) heights are known. and personally, i just assume that the characters are the same height as their actors.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

183cm (6'0)

= just elliot's height

John Price

188cm (6'2)

= also just barry's real height

Simon "Ghost" Riley

191cm (6'3)

= samuel's height IRL

John "Soap" MacTavish

now this is where it gets complicated

we don't actually know how tall neil ellice is

most websites list his height as being unknown, and others claim heights ranging from 5'8 to 5'11... yeah

we only know that he called himself "tiny" in comparison to samuel. that's all lmao (video below the cut if you're interested)

so let's do some (shitty) analysing

obviously this should be taken with a grain of salt since ghost & soap are moving around in these images which could mess with the accuracy. but it gives us an idea of how tall soap COULD be... give or take 177cm (something in between 5'9 and 5'10)

i'm not claiming that soap definitely has to be that height. it's just a wild guess based on these imagines i slapped together

love how everyone can just confirm that samuel is a freaking giant

[ethe-realfantasy]

Your house is quiet when Simon steps through the front door, boots heavy with the weight of distance and exhaustion. It’s late, well past ten, but he’s finally home. The scent of lavender and something sweet lingers faintly in the air, weaving through the dim hallway like a welcome embrace.

He drops his bag by the stairs, his muscles aching, body thrumming with fatigue. Every part of him longs for sleep, but some part of him knows that you're still awake.

Upstairs, the softest glow spills from the cracked bathroom door. He hears the faint ripple of water and something shifts in his chest, it's tender and needy and almost unbearable.

He steps closer, pushing the door open and... there you are.

You're sitting submerged in a sea of bubbles, your head resting back against the tub’s edge, your hair twisted into a messy bun, though some rebellious strands cling to your damp neck and flushed cheeks. Your skin glows in the golden light, the steam rising like a halo around you, making you look like something ethereal.

When you see him, your face softens and you smile in that way that always cuts right through him, slow and warm and full of things he doesn’t know how to say. Your lips part, but no sound comes out. You just mouth a wordless “hi.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight, his heart aching behind his ribs. A rare smile tugs at his lips, small and crooked, but rich with all the emotion he’s too tired to hide.

“Hey,” he breathes.

You tilt your head up toward him, inviting.

He leans in and bends low until your foreheads almost touch, and brushes his lips over yours, soft and reverent. Your sigh melts into the kiss. Then, without a warning, Simon steps into the tub, boots and clothes and all. Water sloshes violently, bubbles fleeing for their lives as you let out a startled shriek that turns into pure laughter.

“Simon!” you gasp, half scolding, half in disbelief, your arms instinctively wrapping around his broad shoulders as he sinks against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a sigh that sounds like he’s finally home. Your giggles echo off the tiled walls, bubbling over him like champagne.

“You’re insane,” you say through your laughter, cupping his dripping face.

The water surges over the edge of the tub, waves lapping against porcelain. Bubbles scatter, clinging to his sleeves, his chest, your collarbone. His body presses against yours, damp clothes rough against your bare skin, but you don’t care. Not even a little.

The shift is immediate, his weight and raw need all pressing into you. His body is heavy from exhaustion, but it simply feels right when he melts into you. The scent of him, smoke, soap and something metallic, it rises up despite the steam.

His breath ghosts over your skin and you feel his smile forming. Subtle, but undeniably there, curling against the place just beneath your jaw. It's the smallest shift of his lips, the softest press of something warm and quietly happy.

You close your eyes and let your head fall back against the cool porcelain, your arms tightening around him, one hand threading into his damp hair at the base of his skull. He’s shaking a little, not from cold, but from something else. Maybe from finally being able to let his guard down.

“Need you closer,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin. Then his lips move. It's a soft kiss, barely there, just the faintest brush of his mouth against the delicate skin of your neck. Followed by another, and then one more, slower, warmer, pressed with quiet intention just beneath your ear. It's not lustful or teasing, but rather reverent.

Your eyes flutter shut, lips parting on a quiet inhale. The warmth of his breath, the scratch of his stubble, the rhythm of his mouth against your skin, it sends goosebumps racing over your arms even though the water is hot.

You cradle his head gently with soft eyes, fingers threading through his wet hair. “You’re soaking the entire bathroom," you whisper.

He lifts his head just enough to glance around at the water now cascading over the tub’s edge, and shrugs with the ghost of a grin. “'m imagining what else is soaked.”

You snort, cheeks pinker than the bathwater, and flick a bubble at him. He chuckles low and the sound rumbles through his chest, straight into your own.

[heymurada]

Stay tuned for a bonus page + the epilogue!

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 - 19 - 20 - 21 - 22 - 23 - 24 - 25 - 26 - 27 - 28 - 29 - 30 - 31 - 32 - 33 - 34 - 35 - 36 - 37 - 38 - 39 - 40 - 41 - 42 - 43 - 44 - 45 - 46 - 47 - 48 - 49 - 50 - 51 - 52 - 53 - 54 - 55 - 56

NOPA page masterpost

~~ No One Plays Alone updates Tuesdays/Thursdays

[demothers-empty-blog]

König surprising you with a ring pop and fakes a proposal after a successful mission

you immediately fall into the roll and jump like it’s an actual ring, clinging to his neck and peppering kisses all over his grinning face.

“We’re getting married!!” You proudly show off your pink and blue ring berry blast, i’m biased to the rest of the team, whose cheers quickly die down the moment they realize it’s just a fake.

“You guys… just a couple of good-for-nothing pranksters,” Horangi huffs out a laugh, pulls his long time friend into a bear hug and discreetly whispers something in his ear, “You better get that woman a real ring - real fuckin’ soon.”

To which, taking those words into consideration, he does - did, rather, a long time ago actually. The velvet box sits patiently on his right, inside the lowest drawer of his office desk, waiting to rest on your finger someday.

[capybarawithafishtail]

I think it would be sacrilegious if I made one for Rudy and didn’t make one for Alejandro.

So, to not preform acts of sacrilege against Alejandro; I made one for him.

[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, size difference, gn reader x konig, just soft fluff, domestic chaos

HEADCANON: Konig finally stays for the night, however, it doesn’t go as planned as usual and well… your wooden bed agrees

PAIRING: Konig x gn reader

It all started as one of the best nights of your life.

Your favorite music was playing. You'd made dinner. Your hulking boyfriend -- all thick scars and tender muscle -- even let you feed him dessert by hand on his lap, one rough hand tracing circles on your thigh and the other just gently palming your hip. Blushing every time your fingers brushed his lips with a cheeky grin. All expectant and amused at your wry and reverent nature.

His sweet sweet princess, all domestic and soft.

You wore your favorite pair of socks with kittens on them, and as usual, he'd called them "cute little beasts". He sat still when you insisted he try on the new moisturizer you bought for him. Only letting out a soft skeptic grunt as you gently dabbed the pebbled cream on his cheekbones, his nose, and that faint scar near his temple that you always traced absentmindedly.

He let you put in your favorite movie -- the one he usually groaned or muttered about being too loud, schatz, or viel zu unrealistisch, Liebling -- which you never quite understood, anyway. Making you always shuck away his complaints with a soft scoff, pressing skip and putting on whatever the hell he insisted you both watch.

You didn't even care that he looked comically massive on your couch as always, curled like a shrimp to keep from knocking over your velvet lamp with his knee. Making himself small in your space, and this time without so much as a complaint or a "should get bigger place, ja? this not good for me, Schatz"

No half-joking comments about how your kitchen ceiling was giving him “claustrophobia.” No theatrical sighs when he knocked his knee into your coffee table again. No murmured suggestions of “maybe someday we find something bigger -- something with windows that open.”

Not tonight, though.

Tonight, he just folded himself into your world like he belonged there. Like he had no interest in taking up more space than you gave him. Like your tiny apartment and your kitten socks and your soft pink throw pillows were enough.

Didn't say anything more about how your apartment was clearly designed for someone a third his size. Didn't complain anymore about the way his head nearly grazed your doorframes, or how his shoulders had to angle sideways to fit in the kitchen. Just adapting. Quietly. Carefully.

Like he was finally learning how to compromise just for this moment and this moment alone.

No tense edges and apologetic quiet. Just loose. Warm.

Laughing softly every time you said something ridiculous about your comfort movie -- your “emotional support cinematic garbage,” as he once lovingly called it. And when you leaned into him, dragging the blanket up over both your legs, he didn’t freeze like he usually did.

No, he exhaled into your hair. Murmured, “My sweet hase,” and tucked you under his arm like a secret.

You gave him one of your oversized shirts to sleep in when he finally agreed to stay over for the first time. It barely fit him, of course.

The oversized shirt -- which normally hung to your thighs like a dress -- now stretched tight across his chest, clinging to the shape of him in a way that felt obscene for something that had little cartoon strawberries on it.

You tried not to stare. You really did. But he caught your eyes lingering, lips twitching with smug amusement. “Do I look ridiculous?”

You made a vague, strangled sound. “You look… domestic.”

He tilted his head at that, a ghost of a smirk on his mouth. “Domestic like… a husband?”

You choked.

He grinned, pleased with himself.

You spun on your heel. “Bed. Now. Before I combust.”

Behind you, you could hear him chuckling lowly -- one of those soft, almost soundless laughs he only let slip when he was really proud of himself. And he had every right to be. You were already practically vibrating, nerves singing from the slow, syrup-sweet affection that seemed to coat everything he did tonight.

He followed you to your bedroom, bare feet thudding gently behind you like quiet thunder. And when you turned to face him at the edge of the bed, you had to tilt your chin all the way up.

He looked too big in your space. Too tall for the slanted ceiling. Too broad for the doorframe. Too much for your cozy little room full of throw pillows and string lights.

But he didn’t make fun. Didn’t sneer or mock or shrink away from any of it.

He just looked down at you, gaze tender and quiet, mouth opening slightly to ask, “You’re sure you want me to stay?”

You could only blink, your lips quirking up in amusement. “Do you think I put lotion on your nose for fun?"

He laughed again, head ducking. “I mean-- I would not be surprised.”

You smiled, stepping close enough for your chest to brush his. “Stay, please.”

A beat. His breath caught.

And then: “Okay.”

Climbing into bed together was a process. You had to roll out of the way while he maneuvered his massive frame onto the mattress, grunting softly when his knee hit the headboard and his foot got tangled in the blanket.

You laughed into your pillow. “You’re like a cat trying to get comfy in a shoebox.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered, face half-buried in your shoulder, his leg stretching out of one of your pink-crocheted throw blankets. The hem of it not even reaching inches below his knee.

You smiled at that, watching him shift a little, trying to tuck himself closer to you without accidentally flattening the mattress --- and then --

-- came the first groan.

From the bed, not him.

You both froze.

“…Was that -- ?” you started.

“I did not move,” König said immediately, a little too quickly.

The bed let out another creak. Louder this time. Threatening.

You twisted to look at him, suspicion blooming in your eyes. “König.”

“I am still. Like statue.”

“You weigh two statues.”

A beat of silence.

Then: CRAACK.

The bed shrieked like a wounded animal.

You froze.

He froze.

Then the mattress sank sideways with a dramatic, final creak, and the headboard tipped ominously backward. Your bed all slanted and askew, resembling more a cemented slope rather than an IKEA diy.

“…Schatz?” he said slowly.

“Yes?”

“Did your bed just -- ”

“Yes. Yes, it did.”

You both stared at the ceiling in silence for a long moment.

Then König gently rolled off the bed with all the grace of a fallen log. Lay flat on the floor, arms crossed over his chest like a corpse in a funeral home.

“I will fix it. I am…very sorry.”

You scrambled to the side, head tilting down to stare at him, fighting laughter.

“König.”

“I don’t deserve a bed. I must sleep in exile now. On the ground. Like a peasant.”

“…You are so dramatic.”

“I am six-foot-ten and cursed, schatz. The bed was not built for this.”

“You say that like we weren’t just cuddling!”

“I cuddled carefully!”

You dissolved into laughter, sliding halfway off the ruined mattress and flopping beside him, curling up against his chest.

He looked over at you, sheepish.

“You’re not mad?”

You kissed his jaw. “I’d rather sleep on the floor with you than in a king-sized bed without you.”

He smiled -- soft and crooked and a little embarrassed.

“…Still,” he murmured, pulling you closer, “I will build you a new one. Reinforced. Like fortress walls. Steel. No more of this ‘vintage frame’ nonsense.”

“Oh god.”

He nodded solemnly. “It will be indestructible. Like our love.”

“…König.”

“Titanium bolts, Liebling.”

drabbles masterlist

[mutant-okuri-inu]

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick 🧢

My face is red after sketching this- WE NEED MORE GAZ CONTENT RAAAAHHH HE'S SO-- 🫠

Reblogs are appreciated!

[8-rae-rae-8]

Simon being "the baby" of the regressors in the 141 is so important to me

He gets to be so, so small because now, this time, he doesn't have to protect anyone. His dad won't yell, he won't have to pick up the evidence of addiction in his house. He just gets to be small.

And its safe.

For the first time, it's safe to be so damn small. He gets to be loved how he wasn't loved before

[gazstations]

Hi, more embroiderer!reader thoughts. I hope you don't mind.

TW: mentions of babies, pregnancy mention, reader has a uterus

full masterlist || cod masterlist || nav masterlist

I think you and Kyle never had a concrete discussion about children. Like, you both expressed that you were fine either way. No children or children. As long as you had each other, that's what was important.

What you did do is express that you would never part on bad terms. You would settle things like adults, even if somewhere along the line that love wasn't as prevalent anymore. Though the way your relationship worked, you never feared Kyle waking up one day and choosing not to love you. He was not shy about his affection towards you.

You and Kyle both have baby fever. Badly. For the first time in your whole relationship, this is a definite desire both of you want. But you both struggle to bring it up. You worry because you're not sure if Kyle wants to enjoy your marriage and its honeymoon stage. Kyle worries because ever since he married you, he realizes just how permanently tied you are to him now. He could die any day. He's been gone from home a lot more than usual lately.

How could he leave you alone to take care of a baby?

It almost wrecked Price and his wife at first. After their first baby, Price was kicked out for a bit after one nasty fight. And the thing about John, at least back then, was that he was really good at getting defensive. Kyle got defensive, not immune to common human pride, but he vowed to himself that if he ever raised his voice at you or degraded you in anyway it was over for him.

So he takes a page out of Price's experience and decides maybe it's better not to approach the baby conversation. Because, realistically, he had to acknowledge that there would be a lot of times you would be forced to man the ship alone.

He couldn't do that to you. But the thought of you growing your little one in your belly appealed to him more and more. Any time he saw you padding around the house, he thought of it. Indulged himself just the tiniest bit to that possibility.

It was wrecking him.

You've been married for a year. A sweet, wonderful year. The reality that you're his spouse still boggles his mind. He's grateful every day.

It's all fine and dandy until he stumbles upon your stash of embroidered baby clothes one day in your sewing room. The box is labeled "For the future Garrick." He doesn't even remember what he was looking for or what he was doing for you. His mind goes blank. It became clear just how little the both of you communicated about certain subjects.

He picks up one of the onesies, breath hitching at the familiar, neat sewing work. It's sweet. The thought of you deciding to put the little dog pattern on this article of clothing melts his brain. What was your thought process while setting your station up?

Oh bloody hell, what if you were already pregnant, and he just stumbled upon and ruined your announcement?

Yeah, maybe he should reconsider everything he decided before and sit you down for a much needed talk.

[kk-iki]

deep enough to save you.

synopsis: you are a creature of the sea, content to live life without meddling in human affairs...until a (strangely enchanting) human ends up meddling in yours.

wc: 3.1k

tags: fem!simon x fem!mermaid!reader, sfw, implied attempted murder, age gap but it's not really discussed in detail (you're implied to be. . .centuries old, and simon's just thirty - something), mentions of drowning, mutiny, minor misunderstandings, an allegory for the immigrant experience if you really squint, slow burn, you're curious about her and she's just so utterly entranced by the fact that you exist that it's kind of eating her alive, nevertheless there's banter there for sure.

notes: this is an entirely self - indulgent work. i have nothing to say for myself. i also kind of hate this, but i wanted to put it out there regardless. i love a non - naive merfolk reader, but those are terribly hard to come by so i've taken matters into my own hands.

reblogs and comments are very much appreciated. let me know if you'd be interested in a pt ii. hope you enjoy <3

you haven’t seen the sun in years.

you were born into darkness, as all creatures like you were. you had emerged from your cocoon like some writhing, slippery worm—your head had been laid in a bassinet of kelp and spongy masses, and your wails were so powerful they could have drowned ships from well across the ocean. the sea tells you that you were such a fussy little fry, that you gave so much of the human world to her depths in your tantrums—and you smile because you know that in her infinite wisdom, she means this as a compliment.

you are told that you are impossibly old by the standards of these humans. you’d asked about them one time to some of the older women who liked to haunt sunken ships long-decayed, and they had been all too happy to regale you with tales of what the world was like above. they had told you of skyscrapers as vast as mountains, of boats that swam among the clouds and stars, of columns of fire bursting to life in the sky.

and they had told you, of course, about humans.

fragile little creatures who teemed with the blessing of some great ball of light in the sky and danced on strong limbs where their tails would be, vibrant and bursting with vitality. you had begun to understand why it seemed common for some fish you knew to drag human bodies down to the sea’s floor and eat away at the sumptuous meat there; even as their bodies transformed, they were so youthful and full of life that you imagined their flesh might grant you a fraction of the joy they’d experienced.

and, the women had whispered to you with glee as they filed their claws, they lived such short, urgent lives. you had asked how long they lived on average and had been startled beyond yourself to hear that they usually lived barely a century. that was why they lived so fervently, desperate to wring every drop of meaning and memory they could out of their short lifespans before they were consumed by the earth. you remember how one of them had whispered conspiratorially to you that they were collected by the stars in their death, to some place far beyond what you or your kin could hope to reach.

all the while, you had had stars in your eyes and a delighted smile on your face as you listened to them recite these tales. to think there were creatures so advanced, who could live in a world so full of astounding marvels of life—and entire generations of them had come and gone before you’d even begun to see your twilight years.

what must it be like, you had wondered, to live like you were burning?

still, you had never truly satiated your curiosity. you’d meandered up to the more shallow areas of the sea here and there, and one time you had even broken the surface—but all you had seen was a sky as dark as sable, peppered by gleaming stars, and a vast expanse of ocean as far as the eye could see. you would never upset your mother by implying that she was not a sight to behold, but part of you had wished you would see those skyscrapers and air-boats and columns of fire as well.

but you want to see the sun, just once. if nothing else, you want to know what it is to be warm. you had told this to your mother once, and she had smiled serenely. you sound just like the humans. that time, you weren’t sure if it was meant to be a compliment.

so you do. you swim up, up, up, until the blood in your head feels like it’s being pressed into a flat sheet and your tired little tail aches for a break. you continue to swim until the world around you pales, and then vanishes entirely. you brace for the icy chill that you had felt when you’d first broken the surface, the sting of cool wind and the currents nipping playfully at your cheeks.

it never comes. instead, you are enveloped in a sensation you have not quite known before. it’s buttery-sweet, soaking the skin of your face until you forget what it was like to be beneath the surface. it holds you like it not only doesn’t want to let you go, but wants to hold more of you as well. this, you realize, must be warmth.

you look up to try and see where in the world it’s coming from and stumble back, tail flailing to correct yourself as you blink the spots from your eyes. the women had not lied to you when they’d said it was a great big ball of light; you’d very nearly been blinded by it. you wonder how humans can survive underneath something like this when it demands something as vital as sight for this beautiful sensation of…warmth.

around you, the sea shudders. there is an unwelcome presence, you realize, and you feel the warmth drain away from your face as you plunge beneath once again, startled by her urgency. she takes you in her everlasting palms, guiding you with utmost gentleness to turn and look at what’s disrupted her.

you see the thin line of a ship’s underbelly, but those are common in her waters. no, there is something else that demands your attention; a flash of ash-blonde hair, pale skin flushed an angry pink, thrashing wildly like some dying creature. you’re reminded of the light that had pierced through your eyelids not moments before, and your face falls in horror when you realize that this must be one of those creatures blessed by that great big ball in the sky. the resemblance is uncanny, after all.

but humans cannot survive down here. you remember how those older women had told you that these creatures were so incredibly fragile that being submerged in the water for too long could very well kill them. briefly, you panic; if this human dies here, how can the earth consume her body? if she dissolves into the sea, how can the stars collect her to go somewhere you cannot reach?

you aren’t thinking when you approach as quickly as you can manage. your tail still cries for relief, but you flick through the water as quickly as you can manage and come to collect the body in your arms.

she sees you. of course she does. she thrashes even harder, arms bound and eyes blown wide—bleached brown like little pebbles pressed into her skull, eroded to a shine. her pupils are blown wide, gaze unfocused even as she watches you with a focus that makes you wonder what she’s trying to do with you. you think she is trying to scream, but she is underwater and her mouth is stuffed with a strip of cloth. no matter which angle you approach her at, she attempts to kick and flail away from you, even as she sinks further in her panic. you let out a sound of frustration and seize her by the shoulders, ignoring the way she lands jabs into your hip and tail as you swim furiously to the surface.

you both break in unison; her sputtering and you startled out of your wits. attempting to hold her still, you take a claw and tear easily through the cloth in her mouth. she gasps and coughs, an entirely unattractive sound, and you spot a scar running over her lips and up to her cheekbone. it’s not old and white, instead sunken into her flesh like a nail’s edge pressed into a sponge, and you find yourself momentarily intrigued.

then she speaks, and your thoughts empty.

“i knew it.”

you frown. what on earth is she talking about? thankfully, you don’t have to go to the trouble of voicing your question, because she explains herself in short gasps of air without much prompting.

“i fuckin’ knew it. i told ‘em– i told ‘em i saw you that night,” she says, eyes still wide and impossibly open, as if you’re supposed to drink from them to understand her. her voice is low and throaty, and you feel a shiver of…something. “weeks ago. i knew what i saw, ‘n none o’ them believed me, but you– i know it was you. i know what i saw. ‘nd you– you’re here. you’re–“

“why are you here?” you ask. you’re not quite demanding, but the apex of her brows pinch like she’s offended by the way you say it.

“what?”

“in the sea,” you reply. “you aren’t supposed to be out this far in the water. you’re not…you can’t survive out here without a boat to go back to.”

she levels a stare at you that borders on a glower, her demeanor shuttering surprisingly quickly for someone who had just realized that you—a creature of human myth, so you’d been told—actually existed.

“course ‘m not supposed t’ be out this far,” she mutters dryly. “y’ think i wanted t’ see for myself if you were real, up close ‘n personal like this? wouldn’t ‘ave been in this mess if th’ bloody general wasn’t so scared that some of them would actually believe me.”

you frankly have no idea what in the world she’s talking about, and you don’t quite care to know. now that you’re seeing a human up close, a real one, the only thing you’re interested in is finding out if everything you’ve heard about them is real.

“you can’t survive out here,” you repeat. “i am going to take you to land, and then i have questions that i want you to answer.”

her nose wrinkles. “y’re awfully bossy.”

something flares in you, hot and indignant. “should i leave you here to swim to shore yourself, then?”

she grumbles but says nothing more, and you haul her fully in your arms and allow the currents to redirect you. you’re nudged one way over all the others, and so you swim that way for all you’ve got. to her credit, she does thrash her legs around in what you assume is supposed to be an imitation of your own movements.

minutes tick by, encased in silence that doesn’t quite feel companionable. she pipes up once to ask about your scales, claiming that she’s never seen that color before. you frown at this; surely, she’s seen all manner of color and light and hue from up here. you’re only just starting to get used to how irreplicably blue the sky is.

“i’m sure you have at some point,” you tell her, not unkindly. she seems fit to shut up after that, but not before one last question.

“you got a name?”

“sure,” you reply, laser-focused on the horizon. “it’s–”

judging by her blank stare at your response of clicks and trills, your given name doesn’t quite roll off her tongue quite as easily. you sigh and offer her an alternative, one in her blockier language that she can actually pronounce. it feels like severing off a bit of yourself.

she repeats it once, twice, then doesn’t say anything else. it doesn’t make you feel any better.

it feels like several eternities before you finally manage to drag yourself onto an empty shoreline. the sea hadn’t seemed quite as keen to help you when you had a land-dweller in tow, and so you’d dragged yourself halfway across her waters alone. you’re clearly not in any mood to strike up conversation when you deposit her onto solid land, and judging by the look on her face as she slumps onto her back and rubs her hands tiredly over her face…she’s not keen to say much either.

still, you have questions. you want answers. and she owes you.

“what’s your name?” you press, hauling yourself up as far as the shallow end will allow you to go. she spares you a glance from where she’s still slumped over, her stare dry despite the fact she’s drenched from head to toe.

“ghost.”

you blink. that sounds more like a name one of those older women in the shipwrecks would have called their pet herring. nevertheless, you take it in stride and prop yourself up on your elbows.

“okay…ghost,” you say slowly, “what were you doing jumping in the water like that? i thought the whole point of ships was to keep your folk out of the water.”

“didn’t jump,” ghost grumbles as she manages to haul herself into a sitting position, slumped over with her arms resting on her knees. “got thrown in.”

you blink. “whatever for?”

“insubordination,” she spits, like a curse. “tried t’ tell the others on the ship about what i saw. about you. they thought i was goin’ mental. decided i was fit to be thrown off if i wouldn’t shut my pile ‘bout you.”

you can’t help it then—you laugh, quiet and hidden behind your hand. the dirty look she gives you is enough to have you quickly saying, “i’m not laughing at you, i promise. but what kind of man would just toss you into the sea because you were talking about me?”

ghost scoffs. “any of them. s’ long as it’s a man.”

you decide not to answer that. you haven’t encountered man much, but from what you’ve heard from your more experienced kin, that’s probably for the better.

instead, you probe on. “so…you saw me? why didn’t i see you?”

ghost gives you a look that you decide you’re not quite fond of. it feels like she’s regarding you as a child—and isn’t that just the most bizarre thing, because you’re certain that you’re well over hundreds of years older than she is.

“‘s in the name,” she says, like that’s supposed to explain it all. “ghost.”

you decide not to honor that with a response, instead sitting up and glancing around. before you can carry on, however, she’s suddenly leaning forward and up in your space—so quickly that you stumble back with a garbled hiss caught in your throat.

“what are you doing–?”

ghost doesn’t seem to regard your question, instead squinting down at your hand from where it’s splayed beneath the clear surface of the seafoam.

“y’ got scales,” she mutters. “actual scales, like a proper sea creature.”

you regard her with a blank stare. “why, yes. that may be largely due in part to the fact that i am a sea creature.”

a snort leaves ghost as she continues to study your hand, gaze burning up your arm and along your shoulder. for some reason, you have to fight the urge not to shiver under the weight of that clear brown stare.

“cheeky, aren’t you?”

you shrug idly. “you’re the one that stated the obvious.”

ghost shakes her head, something like amusement indenting the corners of her eyes, before she turns back to face you properly. you blink, startled as the full force of her attention is leveled on you once again. part of you feels like you’re being peeled, stripped of your outer layers and cracked open until she finds a glint of pearl somewhere between.

“you’re real,” she mumbles, as if it hadn’t registered in however much time you’d spent hauling her up onto shore and chatting with her like it was an everyday occurrence. “you’re actually real. and you saved me.”

“that i did,” you nod, trying to fight the way your skin tingles with something like pride.

“why?”

you go still. why had you saved her? it certainly wouldn’t have been any sweat off your back to let her sink. you would have been perfectly fine staying where you were and watching her body go limp in the currents like so many others before her. in fact, you might have even been able to pass her as a catch to your peers.

but something about the way you’d seen the look in her eyes as she thrashed and flailed, as if someone as powerful as her had suddenly learned what it meant to be afraid to die…

“what else was i supposed to do?” you retort with a question of your own. “you humans are so fragile. so…fleeting. you live for a scrap of time and then you’re gone. you haven’t even made it halfway through what you’ve been given yet. to watch idly as the rest of those years were just ripped away from you…”

you shake your head. “it’s just cruel. you have but moments ahead of you. the least i could do is make sure you’re around to see them through.”

she’s quiet as she contemplates your answer, her eyes just slightly wider. they really do look like blemished pearls, you think, tawny and metallic, framed by wheat-blond lashes and watching you like you’re a great big ball of light of your own that decided to come closer than the first one ever dared.

looking closer, you can see the reflection of your scales in her eyes—iridescent, shimmering like jewels embedded in the crust of the earth. like you’re the beauty behind it.

all too quickly, you glance away before the warmth of the sun turns into burning with how intent her gaze is. clearing your throat, you quickly pivot the subject before she can linger.

“so, where will you go from here? this was the closest patch of land i could find, but it doesn’t look like there’s any more of you around.”

ghost startles slightly, the magic of the moment shattered with your question. she straightens up, her posture shifting and melding until she looks more like the stubborn woman you’d dragged up to the surface and not…whatever that had been. 

“i’ll make do,” she replies gruffly. “what about you? where’ll you go?”

you turn to the sea, to the vast expanse of great blue stretching out languidly beyond you. she is beckoning you to come home, calling for you with arms outstretched, and you know you cannot stay.

something tugs at you to, regardless. you know you will not listen to it.

(you don’t know why you want to.)

“where else?”

copr. 2025, kk-iki.

[mctvsh]

ᯤ

tw: cnc, afab reader x mean!john price, use of "cunt", no protection (wrap it b4 u tap it), established relationship

you waking up john because you wanted a little snack

nothing wrong with it!!! (you thought)

until he bends you over and sinks into your warm inviting cunt. you're practically grabbing onto anything that can give you stability while he rams into you, and he's clearly not stopping soon.

making you apologize over and over again for interrupting his sleep when you know he's been tired. you're gasping his name and twitching under him as your ass fits warmly against his pelvis. back arched uncomfortably deep as you whine and cry out his name, legs shaking.

once he cums with a loud groan of your name, he gives one final thrust before pulling out. softening dick against your weeping enterance, he brings two fingers to spread your pretty pussy and shoves the oozing cum back in. you thrash in response, pillow disgustingly wet with how many tears were spilling out of your eyes.

he licks his fingers before turning you around wiping your tears away, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead and getting you whatever the hell you wanted from the pantry.

turns out he wasn't mad, just horny..

[rubyfirenight]

Price: You know what! Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelled like elderberries! Graves: I- What?! Price: What? Graves: I feel like this is a quote from something, but I have no idea what. Price: You don't know that?! Oh my God- Graves: What?! Babe C'mon Price: You don't know Monty Python?! We are getting a divorce! Graves: We are not even married?! Price: WE ARE GETTING A DIVORCE!!!

[sirgiggles]

More Graves x dog hybrid!reader thoughts

This definitely activated some new part of my brain

Cw: Gender Neutral reader, hybrid unspecified aside from dog, inequal/ toxic relationships

Graves who at first doesn't even consider a hybrid. His men work just fine and are loyal, why spend so much time recruiting one more soldier?

He only gets you because a favor is due, and some investor has shady contacts. The man swears up and down that you are more than just a regular soldier when he hands you over; the perfect, obedient death machine.

At first, Graves isn't convinced at all, just thinks it's bit silly when the courier gets you from a large crate in the trunk, instead of the backseat. The muzzle and leash seem over the top and as soon as he's handed your papers, Graves takes them off.

He eyes you with amusement, clearly lost and not sure where to put your hands. He takes notes of your shaggy hair and worn clothes and guides you through base to pick up new fatigues. Only when you try to put them on, but fail miserably, because without a small hole for your tail, they sit way too low, does he Strat to realize maybe he underestimated the difference between human and hybrid needs.

So, Graves makes sure you have some shirts at least. A waterproof jacket, a fleece and something comfortable for off the field. You barely manage not to hit him with your steadily wagging tail, accidentally nuzzling his shoulder in excitement, apologizing profusely just after thanking him.

After that, he lets you get settled. You share a room with two other young Privates, two humans. They approach Graves quickly, because no matter how nice they try to be, you seem afraid, sleep curled in a corner and tear out your own hair from nervousness.

You get your own room after that and, after tenderly talking to you for an hour at least, you allow an older, quieter Shadow from medical to fix your shaggy hair cut. You never even realized how bothersome your hair was before that.

But still, the issues don't fix themselves. During training it's all well. You follow orders to a T, never talk back, always treat other's respectfully. But on the field, when no one personally guides you, you get lost, mess up, stop functioning. The longer it goes on, the worse your stress gets. After a few months and the third chewed up pair of expensive combat boots and utility belts, Graves pulls you aside.

He reads up on hybrids almost daily, asks dog handlers for advice, after those of hybrid handlers didn't work out at all for you. His presence is steady, but not possessive. Stern, but not unkind.

Quickly you feel yourself lean into his guidance, until you ask him if he wants your collar back. You feel obliged to obey him, he's your master now, you hesitantly explain to him one night. And surprisingly, from how much he disliked your animalistic treatment when he got you, he agrees.

It's not one of those scratchy ones from the pet store, but all soft padding and strong fabric. A little like your vest and utility belt. Made for the field, yet still super comfortable. You love it, trying to never take it off. It smells like his hands, because whenever you do well he rubs your neck, tracing the edge of the collar lovingly. There's a small space for velcro patches and you proudly carry the company insignia and the callsign he chose for you. Graves has to wrestle you every now and then so he you take it off for washing.

The two of you only get closer after that. It's almost impossible for you to function on your own, having never learned etiquette and how to handle your own thoughts, how to relive stress or any other strong feelings. So he handles it for you, lets you work it out of yourself or lovingly pets you until you finally let your tense muscles relax.

You can't sleep without his warmth and scent, migrating to the floor next to his bed, or cot, most nights. It gets to a point where he just calls you in when he gets settled or thinks you need a rest, so you won't bother him later on and stick to a healthier schedule. It's only natural you take place by his legs, tangled in a fleece blanket and stolen towels to smell like your handler and team. They even get you a stuffed animal that you love dearly, so you won't feel alone.

Quickly, no one is bothered by you bouncing after Graves with attentive ears and a wagging tail, or you sitting by his feet during briefings and meals. Most of the Shadows have won your trust by now, majorly because if Graves trusts them, so why shouldn't you? Nobody dares to voice that your entire behavior isn't normal or healthy, instead opting to appreciate your boundless loyalty and dedicated nature.

Even the border collie hybrid of 141, Soap, can't make up your mind, instead raising your defenses and separating the Shadows and 141, as well as Vaqueros, further. It's clear that you only listen to them, and they rely on your instincts to make decisions.

You've never been happier and they have never been more efficient. Graves sees it as a total win. He feels more relaxed and happy, so do his soldiers and on top of that, he gained a powerful asset. With the work he put in before, there truly is no downside to having you.