#gary roach

[cupidsworstcrime]

Mute!Roach x Reader

god i need him

soft filth

He's is on top of you, his breath ragged as his hands roam your body, each touch more desperate than the last. You can feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, his every movement intentional, though there's an urgency in it that you can't quite place. His face is flushed, his eyes locked on you, wanting to say something, but the words won’t come—his hands, instead, are his only voice.

His thrusts are steady, deep, and he’s trying to make his hands communicate, fingers moving rapidly in the air between you, forming signs with a practiced precision. His lips are parted, low whines escaping as he pauses, hand leaving your body momentarily to sign something—something obscene, something that makes your skin flush, even as your focus slips away under the pleasure of his movements.

You can barely follow what he’s saying, the signs too quick, too precise for your overstimulated mind to keep up with. Your head lolls back, a moan slipping from your lips instead of any coherent response. Roach’s eyes flicker with frustration when you can’t fully comprehend, his fingers tracing your skin, barely able to keep himself still long enough to sign again, only to return to you—touching, feeling, needing you closer.

His hands tremble when he reaches for you again, guiding your hips against his, his chest heaving as he mutters through low growls. The low whine returns as he presses into you again, desperate, and you feel him twitch, holding back, just barely keeping his composure. But as his fingers sign something filthy, a smirk flicks across his face, knowing you’re too far gone to understand.

When his thumb brushes over your lip, he signs again, fingers slow, as if pleading, but your mind is hazy, too lost in the moment to make sense of it. His hips grind against you, pulling you deeper into it, and he’s shaking now, both from desire and frustration. He presses his forehead against yours, another low whine escaping him, hands trembling as they search for yours, his way of saying I need you.

You’re a mess beneath him, barely managing to open your eyes as his fingers come back to your skin, unable to decipher his words but understanding the feeling—the desperate, frantic need he’s trying to convey.

"Please..." You whisper, your voice soft, filled with need and the remnants of confusion.

His eyes soften, and he stops briefly, letting the silence settle between you two before his hands find your body once again, more lovingly this time, pulling you closer. He gives a small smile, signing one last thing, this time slow and steady—mine—and it’s enough to make your heart race even faster.

[xxmaskedshadow]

[mrshesh]

hey girl do you write for roach? not like an actual roach but the roach from cod LMAO

hey anon! AHAHAH yes i write for this roach right here 🪳

LMAO no but seriously, i mean, yeah, i can! ive played the og modern warfare, so i don't see why not. go ahead and send in your requests for him! (when they open, that is.)

AND might i add, i'm gonna start writing for alex keller, so same goes for him! (i'm in my alex phase... can someone tell me that i'm being delusional and that he wouldn't actually like me?)

look how handsome

just wow

[sesiondemadrugada]

Prisoners (Denis Villeneuve, 2013).

[cinesludge]

Movie #11 of 2024: Arthur the King

So I got one of those AMC movie pass things as a gift, and AMC apparently does a thing where they show a movie that's not quite officially out yet but they don't tell you what it will be ahead of time. It's a mystery!

That's how I ended up watching a CGI dog out act Mark Wahlberg, which isn't surprising and this is definitely not a movie I would ever willingly watch.

In fact, looking at the poster, I'm pretty sure this is the exact same design for that Harrison Ford dog movie that came out in 2020. Did I ever tell you I was the finishing editor on promotional dog food spots for that movie? True exciting Hollywood story.

Uhh what were we talking about again? Oh right, Arthur the King I guess is fine and the dog isn't always CGI, but the facial expressions and noises it makes are definitely all super deep fake generative AI deageing-filter Irishman Al Pacino young face style.

It's only 90 minutes which is and I guess it is kinda cool that it's based on a true story which plays out during the end credits. What are the odds I pull the latest dog movie for mystery cinema? It's dumb and you'll think about your dead dog who died of a rare kidney cancer and almost cry the whole time, which is a very common thing that could happen to anyone watching this cheesy movie and not specifically me.

[khioneee]

tap out. pt ii.

warnings. mentions of death, emotional distress, grief and loss, pregnancy.

a few years later, another tap-out ceremony arrives, but this time, the air feels different—heavier, somber. simon’s been gone for over a year, his deployment unexpectedly extended due to an incident overseas. you’d been told he couldn’t come home for a while, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.

today, you stand among families who aren’t just here to tap out their loved ones but to say goodbye to those who didn’t make it home. tears stream down faces as loved ones gather around caskets, grieving the soldiers they’d lost. the sight fills you with a mix of dread and relief, knowing simon is still out there, waiting.

simon stands in formation, rigid as always, but he has a sense for you. before you even appear in his line of sight, he knows you’re near. but imagine his surprise when he catches a glimpse of you in his peripheral vision, a small bundle wrapped securely in your arms.

his heart hammers in his chest, quickening as he realizes what this means. his breath catches, his eyes fixed on you as you approach. you look up at him, your eyes sparkling, a knowing smile on your face as you watch the subtle changes in his expression—the slight twitch of his eyebrows, the way his breathing picks up as it dawns on him.

both of you had been trying for a baby before he left, and now, standing before him, you hold that precious life in your arms. it had been a struggle going through pregnancy without him, feeling his absence during every kick and every sleepless night. but seeing him now, looking more than ready to meet your child, all the pain fades away, replaced by a joy so profound it fills every inch of you.

‘daddy’s home,’ you whisper softly, tilting the blanket so simon can see her tiny face, fast asleep, a perfect mirror of him in miniature. she’s got his nose, his quiet strength already etched into her tiny features.

with tears in your eyes, you reach up, your hand finding his cheek, tapping him out in the gentlest of touches.

the moment your hand connects, simon moves, breaking formation as he pulls both of you into his arms, holding you close as if he’ll never let go. his voice is thick with emotion, barely a whisper as he murmurs, ‘my loves.’

you knew your husband had a reputation in the military—a man as cold and unyielding as steel, a fortress no one could break. but as he held you and your newborn in his arms, that carefully built facade cracked, revealing a vulnerable side of him that only you ever saw. the tough soldier was gone, replaced by a man whose heart lay entirely with his family.

‘do you want to hold her?’ you ask softly, watching his eyes light up with a blend of surprise and joy.

‘her?’ he whispers, voice catching on the single word, as if it’s almost too much for him to believe.

you nod, smiling through a haze of happy tears. ‘her.’

with slow, reverent movements, you pass your daughter to him, watching as she looks impossibly tiny cradled in his strong arms. simon looks down at her with a mixture of wonder and fierce protectiveness, as though he’s already memorizing every detail of her face.

as if sensing her father’s gaze, the baby yawns, a soft little sound that makes simon’s eyes shine with awe. you catch the faintest smile pulling at his lips, a rare, tender expression that he reserves only for moments like this.

he leans down, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. ‘never gonna let anything happen to you,’ he murmurs, voice thick with love and quiet promise.

while simon was lost in his quiet moment with your daughter, a loud shout cut through the air, breaking the peaceful silence.

‘is that our baby i see?!’

simon’s head snapped up, his expression immediately shifting to something harder. he turned to see soap grinning widely, practically bouncing with excitement. with a sigh, simon reached over and smacked the back of soap’s head, though his movements were careful not to jostle the sleeping baby in his arms.

‘there’s people grieving, you idiot,’ simon muttered, but soap only snickered, completely unfazed.

‘and what do you mean, ‘our’? she’s y/n’s and mine. you’re not part of this relationship, mate,’ simon added, his tone dripping with mock irritation.

but soap, undeterred, just ignored him and held out his hands, wiggling his fingers in a display of exaggerated excitement. ‘oh, come on! let me hold our child!’

simon groaned, looking down at you with a glance that seemed to ask, ‘do i really have to put up with this?’ but he couldn’t hide the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as soap’s enthusiasm filled the air around you.

reluctantly, and with another sigh, simon finally leaned over, carefully passing your daughter to soap, though not without a low, ‘if you don’t keep her calm, you’re not holding her again.’

soap just grinned, taking her into his arms as if he’d won the lottery, cradling her gently and cooing softly.

soon after, the rest of task force 141 gathered around, drawn by the excitement, each member eager to catch a glimpse of the new addition to the family.

you and simon stood to the side, watching with cautious eyes as they took turns holding her, each one adopting a careful gentleness you wouldn’t have expected from hardened soldiers.

price held her with a proud grin, murmuring something about ‘training her to be the next captain,’ while gaz made her giggle softly with his gentle cooing. even the usually reserved roach softened as he held her, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

you glanced up at simon, watching his face as he stood beside you, arms crossed in a show of casual indifference.

but you knew him too well. beneath the mask of stoicism, there was something warmer, a subtle softness in his gaze as he watched his team, his family, sharing this moment with him. this gruff, unbreakable soldier, who had once thought he’d lost everything, had found a new family among them, one that shared in his joys and sorrows alike.

reaching over, you took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. he didn’t say anything, just gave your hand a quick squeeze in return, a quiet acknowledgment. but you could see it in his eyes, that gratitude for a family he never expected to find—a family that had now become part of yours.

[jjian1002]

This is funnier in my head

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Roach: Hey, wanna see something funny? Y/N: Um, ok? Roach: Say ow Y/N: Ow? *2 seconds later* Ghost, Price, Gaz, Soap, busting the door down: Y/N? WHAT HAPPENED? ARE YOU HURT? WHO DO WE NEED TO STAB?

[yooo-lets-go]

what sort of music does simon listen to- and what are the others’ opinions on it when they inevitably discover it?

They probably wouldn’t share a playlist

Plus Roach:

[baremueran]

heheheh

[cupidsworstcrime]

mute!roach x m!reader

filth and angst

hate fucking is so hot , especially hate fucking with feelings

vaguely descriptive smut below the cut

The silence between you and Roach was never empty.

It crackled—like the static before a storm, like the way his fingers snapped into sharp signs just to tell you how fucking stupid you were during missions. Like the way your jaw clenched every time he narrowed his eyes at you and smiled—that smug, taunting grin that made you want to shove him against the nearest wall just to wipe it off his face.

Or maybe to kiss it.

You hated him. You told yourself that every time your eyes lingered on the flex of his hands or the way his chest rose and fell after a mission, mouth parted with something that might’ve been a gasp or a laugh. You hated him when he’d “accidentally” bump shoulders with you, then sign something filthy just beneath his breathless grin.

Tonight, it exploded. It had to.

Pressed up in a shitty safehouse, alone after a two-man recon, heat still buzzing under your skin from the fight—he grabbed you by the collar and shoved you back against the door.

His signs were fast. You think you're tough? You think you fucking scare me?

You snorted, even as your heart stuttered. “You love this. You’re always watching me.”

He shoved you harder. His pupils blown wide.

Only so I can imagine what it looks like when you break.

You grabbed his hand, shoved it down your waistband. “Then stop imagining.”

That night, your bodies spoke louder than either of you ever had.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft.

He slammed you against walls, dragged you to the bed by your belt, bit down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise. His hands didn’t stop talking—sloppy signs against your chest, against your throat, against your lips.

Filthy. So desperate for me. Always looking, never touching. You wanted this.

You cursed him aloud. Called him names that would’ve made a lesser man flinch.

But even when he was fucking you into the mattress, even when his hand was over your mouth and his fingers were still spelling filth onto your chest—his eyes said something else.

So did yours.

And when his hips stuttered, when he buried himself to the hilt and pressed his forehead to yours with a shuddering breath, his fingers moved without thinking.

Mine.

You barely caught it. He barely realized.

But it hung there in the air, louder than any moan, any insult, any sign before it.

The second time happens two days later.

Same safehouse. New tension.

You hadn’t even looked at Roach since that first night—deliberately ignoring him on comms, avoiding his touch when you passed each other, biting your tongue when he smirked like he knew. Like he could still feel your skin under his hands.

But he cornered you in the kitchen.

Didn’t say a word. Just leaned against the counter, stared at you while he chewed something—lazy, slow, smug. His fingers moved with casual venom.

You moaned my name. You do that for everyone, or just the men you hate?

You rolled your eyes. “That wasn’t your name. That was me begging God to take me out mid-thrust.”

He stepped forward, finger under your chin.

Try again.

You hated him.

You hated that he could push your buttons like this. Hated that your cock twitched at just the feel of his breath against your cheek.

But most of all—you hated how much you wanted him to do it again.

You grabbed his shirt and dragged him down the hallway, slamming him into your bunk’s door.

“I’m gonna fuck the smug out of you,” you growled.

He just grinned. Then signed, Prove it.

It’s rough. Messy.

Hands everywhere—gripping, yanking, clawing. Teeth on skin. Growls swallowed into open mouths. You pin him down and rail him with the fury of every insult he’s ever signed at you. He scratches your back raw and signs Harder against your ribs.

You slap his hand away.

But it comes back. Relentless.

So you shove his wrist into the mattress and fuck him until he’s gasping through his teeth, eyes half-lidded, throat tight with something that sounds suspiciously like your name.

You don’t kiss him. You don’t slow down.

But when he signs good boy against your chest, you see red.

You flip him over, shove his face into the pillow, and fuck him harder.

Afterward, he sprawls out across your bed like he owns it. Like he doesn’t care you’re both covered in sweat and bruises. He lifts his hand one last time.

Still hate me?

You light a cigarette, ignoring the warmth in your chest. Blow smoke toward the ceiling.

“You’re fucking insufferable.”

He just smirks and mouths, Liar.

Now the third time...

You didn’t mean to flirt. Not really.

The new sniper, Reed, had a smile like a loaded gun and a habit of leaning too close during mission briefings. You let it happen. Even smirked when he brushed his fingers across your wrist while pretending to explain something on the map.

You felt Roach watching.

Could see him from the corner of your eye—leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked. When you laughed at one of Reed’s jokes, Roach walked out of the room.

No sign. No word.

He didn’t show for dinner. Didn’t show for drills the next morning.

Did show up in your quarters that night, though—silent as death, eyes dark with something you hadn’t seen before.

You barely had time to say his name before he had you against the wall, hand on your throat, mouth pressed to your neck like a brand.

His other hand moved in harsh, biting signs.

Want him to touch you like I do? Want his hands on you?

You grabbed his wrist, pushed back against the wall with a snarl. “You jealous, Roach?”

He slammed his mouth to yours. Bit your lip hard enough to sting.

You both stumbled to the bed like it was a battlefield.

He fucked you like he hated you. Like you were the one who betrayed him. He had you face-down, one hand fisting in your hair, the other dragging down your back, spelling out filth with trembling fingers.

Slut. Mine. Say it.

You spat into the sheets, fingers curling into the mattress. “Fuck you.”

He thrust deeper.

Say it.

“Fuck you.”

Again. Deeper. Harder. His fingers bruised your hip.

Say. It.

You choked out a breath. “Yours.”

And just like that—his body stuttered, breath hitching in a soundless gasp.

He didn’t stop until you were both wrecked. Until your thighs were shaking and your throat was raw from gasping.

After, he stayed.

One arm slung over your waist. Not possessive this time.

Just… present.

His hand found yours under the sheets.

No signs.

No words.

But the way his fingers curled between yours felt like the most honest thing either of you had done in weeks.

The fourth time starts in an alley, post-op, blood still drying on your knuckles.

Roach is pissed. You went off script—ran into the fray instead of waiting for backup. Saved the target. Nearly got shot.

Now you’re cornered between him and a brick wall, adrenaline still buzzing in your spine as his hands fly in vicious signs.

Fucking idiot. You could’ve died. What were you thinking?

You shove his hands away.

“I got it done. You��re welcome.”

He grits his teeth. Steps closer. His chest brushes yours.

Don’t be a hero. You’re not fucking invincible.

You laugh—sharp, bitter. “What, you care now?”

He stares at you. No words. Just breathing hard, fists clenched like he's holding something back.

Your smirk is paper-thin.

“That why you’re mad? ‘Cause you care?”

And then he grabs you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s a kiss that tastes like rage and desperation, like blood and want. His mouth crushes against yours like he’s trying to drown out every insult you’ve ever thrown at him, every filthy moan you’ve made under his hands, every truth you both refuse to name.

You kiss him back like it’s the last time you’ll get to. Like it means nothing.

(Like it means everything.)

He pulls away first, breath ragged. Eyes wild.

You don’t speak.

He signs, slowly, Shut the fuck up.

You grab his shirt, pull him back in, and kiss him again—deeper this time.

When you finally part, both of you dazed and flushed, you just mutter, “Make me.”

The fifth time is back at base.

Showers. Late. Quiet.

You’d finished PT a few minutes before him, but he followed you in. You knew he would. The air’s been electric all day—since the kiss. Since that *second* kiss. Neither of you talked about it. You haven’t looked at him. But he’s been looking at you.

Now the steam’s thick in the tiled room. You don’t turn around when you hear the water behind you turn on.

But you feel him. His presence like a storm building behind you.

Then his hands are on your hips. His chest, bare and slick, presses to your back. His mouth finds your neck.

You jerk forward, heart thudding, but he’s already grabbing you again—hard, possessive.

Want me to stop? he signs against your ribs.

You don’t answer. Not with words. You grab his hand and shove it between your legs.

He growls. Bites your shoulder. You lean into it like a challenge.

It’s filthy, what happens next. Bodies colliding under the spray, grunting against each other, teeth scraping, hands mapping every inch like they’re trying to ruin each other.

He turns you around. Kisses you hard.

You kiss back harder.

He signs, Still hate me? while fucking into you like he’s trying to erase anyone else you’ve ever touched.

You spit water from your lips and hiss, “Always.”

But you don’t push him away. You kiss him again instead.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

The silence stretches during the day. No jokes. No lingering glances. Just heat beneath the skin, humming low and brutal.

But at night?

You're in each other’s beds. In showers. In utility closets.

They’re fights, every time. Moans muffled by hands. Scratches down backs. One of you always walking away first like it didn’t mean anything.

And still…

Still, sometimes, he pulls you close when he thinks you’re asleep. His fingers brush along your spine. You don’t stop him.

Still, sometimes, you run your thumb along the line of his jaw after you’ve made him come undone. You tell yourself it’s just to feel the shape of the bruise you left there.

Still, sometimes, the words stay on your tongue.

Not yet.

But close.

So fucking close.

The last time isn’t in a bed. Not even close.

It’s after a mission gone wrong.

You’re bleeding from your side, teeth gritted as you stumble into the med tent you thought was empty. Roach is already there, shirt soaked with grime and someone else’s blood. He sees you, and something in his expression snaps.

He signs with sharp, fast fingers.

What the fuck happened to you?

You roll your eyes. “Took a knife for your sorry ass. You’re welcome.”

He storms toward you. Doesn’t touch. Just towers. Seething.

You could’ve died. For what? To be a fucking martyr?

You lean in, inches from his face. “Didn’t know you cared.”

He grabs you.

This time, it's different.

It’s desperate. Dirty. Too hot, too fast. Your back hits the storage shelf behind the supply crates, hard enough to knock a tray of gauze to the floor.

He’s already undoing your belt, mouth on your throat, biting, bruising. You hiss through your teeth, dragging your nails down his chest as if daring him to stop. He doesn’t.

Your fingers speak against his skin as he drives into you.

Use me.

His answer is just a harsh thrust, a growl caught deep in his throat.

You bite down on his shoulder. Leave a mark. He doesn’t flinch.

The crates rattle. Something clatters to the floor, unheard over the gasps and the wet sound of your bodies colliding.

You pant against his ear. “Still pretending you hate me?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just presses his mouth to yours and keeps fucking you like it’ll kill him to stop.

When it’s over, you collapse together on the cold ground. Breathing hard. Not looking at each other.

He signs, slow and careful, one hand brushing against your chest.

If someone else touches you again, I’ll kill them.

You blink.

Then smirk.

“Sure you don't care, Roach?”

He doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t let go either.

When it finally happened, you were on a mission.

The op was supposed to be clean.

A snatch and grab. In and out.

But intel was off. They were waiting.

Gunfire. Smoke. Chaos.

And then Roach—he went down.

You saw it in slow motion. The flash of movement. The shot. The way he staggered back, hand pressed to his gut, blood soaking fast through his gear.

You screamed his name. Loud enough to tear something in your throat. Loud enough that no one could pretend you didn’t care anymore.

By the time you got to him, he was slumped against a wall, lips pale, fingers trembling.

“No, no, no—fuck—stay with me, Roach—Gary, please—”

He looked at you. Smiled. Bloody.

Lifted one hand. Signed slowly.

You’re yelling. You care?

You choked out a laugh. Ugly. Broken.

“Shut the fuck up,” you whispered, pressing your hands to his wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “You don’t get to make jokes. Not now. Not when—fuck, I can’t—”

He reached up. His hand brushed your face, weak but warm.

I’m sorry.

Your vision blurred. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

I didn’t mean to make you hate me.

That shattered something in your chest.

“I never fucking hated you,” you breathed. “You idiot. I wanted to. God, I tried. But I couldn’t.”

Your hands were slick with blood. You were shaking. He was fading.

“I love you.”

You said it like a confession and a curse.

“I love you, Roach, and if you fucking die on me now, I swear to God—”

He reached for your hand. Gripped it weakly. Tapped three fingers to your palm.

I love you too.

Then his eyes rolled back.

You screamed for a medic.

[xxmaskedshadow]

My silly little bugboy,,, he’s as good as done,,

I’m too scared to draw his face,,

[cocoyannoblody]

[paintedimagery]

It's my birthday! I gifted myself some holiday Ghoap!

[ickyyrus]

Hanging out☕️