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[blackssuunn]

Colonel Alejandro Vargas x f!reader

Alejandro Vargas chainsmokes when he's angry.

He also does it when he’s upset, or sad, or happy, or tired, or... well, he kind of does it whenever something feels strong enough to turn his head into a pressure cooker. It's silly, he knows, but he guesses his mind must take the smoke as a way of relieving said pressure.

He's gone through entire packs after missions, one after the other while someone stitches him up and Rudy glares at him from the other side of the room. The same fucking glare since they were kids.

His leg is the one bleeding this time, his ear still ringing from the explotion on a cartel safe house. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he thinks he reeks of bad quality coke. It smells just like when people burn tires on the outskirts of town.

"Sigue haciendo pendejadas Alejandro, y nos vamos a morir los dos." (Keep pulling stupid shit and we'll both end up dead.)

Alejandro laughs, but it's forced and resembles a badly oiled engine. It unnerves him sometimes, how well Rudy knows him, how loyal he is. Every now and then he wishes he wasn't, just so he could get killed without carrying the thought of pulling his friend with him.

"Nadie en este pinche país me puede matar cabrón, ya deberías saberlo." (No one in this fucking country can kill me, fucker, you should already know that)

Rudy shakes his head and stands up, favoring his left side while he whistles at the med team.

Alejandro rolls his eyes when he sees you coming.

"No estoy de humor, preciosa." (I'm not in the mood, gorgeous)

"No me interesa, Coronel. Siéntese y déjeme trabajar." (I don't care, Colonel. Sit down and let me do my job.)

He searches through his pockets to find the half empty packet of Delicados. Shit, like he's in a fucking mood to smoke Delicados. You always give him shit when he smokes near you, it just gets worse with this brand.

"Coronel, por favor guarde sus cigarros." (Colonel, please put your cigarettes away)

His eyes roll back inside his skull, but he obeys. You're wearing the uniform this time around, and he knows you hate the smell sticking to it.

"Hoy no te tocaba rotar aquí, niña. Te trajo Rudy?" (You weren’t supposed to rotate here today, girl. Did Rudy bring you?)

You shake your head. He bites back innapropiate jokes when you kneel in front of him, cutting his leg pant open to reveal the torn up skin. You don’t even flinch.

"No me vas a preguntar qué me lo causó?" (You're not gonna ask what caused it?)

You shrug. He doesn’t like it one bit.

"Qué sentido tiene, Coronel? Ustedes nunca escuchan." (What’s the point, Colonel? You lot never listen.)

He grits his teeth, holding his fists tight when you pour alcohol on it and rub it harshly with a torn piece of bandage, tracing a circle from the inside and out. Fuck, he doesn’t think even getting it hurt so bad.

Alejandro knows your entire family, back in Las Almas. He saw you fall from your bike when you were a kid, saw you cry your eyes out when your cousin was killed during a shootout, saw you leave town when you enlisted and got in the Heroic back in México City. Or close enough, he guesses. Only a few years behind him, but he'd put money on him carrying half the weight you do. Your hands don't shake.

Ever since you went back to Las Almas, you were different. Your eyes were dull, your smile wasn't as bright. He's never seen you cry again, and he has the last time burned into his eyes.

"Hábleme bonito y puede que la escuche, teniente." (Talk nicer to me and maybe I'll listen to you, lieutenant.) He tries his best to sound cheery, or at the very least conceal his discomfort. He doesn’t like this. He really doesn’t.

You shake your head again, holding his skin together so you can sew it properly. He's numb from the pain, doesn’t really feel a thing beyond the pressure of your fingers and the needle pushing before piercing through. A knot ties itself around his throat when you don’t even look up.

He's not much older than you, but he remembers your cousin was. Alejandro grew up watching him play soccer on the streets, and he's sure he thought he was one of the coolest people on Earth the first time he went back to town in uniform. Ale couldn't have been more than twelve.

He still remembers the pool of blood he had around his body the last time he saw him. He didn’t go to the funeral.

"Procure no abrir las puntadas, Coronel. Es todo lo que pido." (Try not to open the stiches, Colonel. That's all I ask.)

He nods. When you stand back up, his hand shoots out to grab yours. He freezes for a second, not sure what to say.

He'll never admit it, but he gets it. The far away stare, the cold shoulder, the indifference. He doesn’t like it because he's been there one too many times.

He swallows, takes a deep breath, and tries for his winning smile.

"No te dan ganas de volverte Vaquera, chula? Dios sabe que ocupamos alguien con tus habilidades." (Don’t you feel like turning into a Vaquera, pretty? God knows we need someone with your habilities.)

You're too young to be a Lieutenant, just as he's too young to be Colonel. Too many kills or too many saves, he's way past seeing the difference.

You laugh. His heart drops to his feet, a burning sensation crawling up the back of his neck.

"Debería hablar con su segundo al mando más seguido, coronel."

You turn around and walk away, leaving him confused and in flames.

He lights up a cig with his hands shaking.

[blackssuunn]

his stupid puppy eyes and im shaking 🙄🙄

[blackssuunn]

AU where only Simon's mom and sister-in-law are killed, so Tommy resents him and only keeps talking to him because Joseph loves him too much. Joseph grows raised by his father and his uncle, and they share the weight of a kid equally (or as much as Simon can with his job). They tuck him in, help him with homework, go to the park, take turns picking him up from kindergarten. Simon is so absorbed by it that he doesn’t have time to think about anything else.

Then a gorgeous, giggly teacher catches his attention once.

[blackssuunn]

+18

Johnny who eats pussy like a starved man, groaning and whining against your skin while his spit runs down your legs and drips from his chin, pressing his nose against your clit and not stopping even when he's made you come already.

Johnny, who rubs himself against the bed while he's laid between your legs, so desperate and squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself not to come because then he won’t be able to fuck you like he’s been craving all day, and then you'll be mad.

Johnny, who almost folds you in half, pushing your legs back until the soles of your feet are aimed at the ceiling and you're pulling on the sheets, gasping and pleading with him, not sure what for.

Johnny realizing he's definitely not gonna be able to hold back, feeling the heat spread all the way from his legs, up his back and turning him dizzy. He squeezes your legs harder, making you yelp and pull his hair harder than before. You can barely talk, he hasn't pulled away for more than a second, just enough to gasp air back inside his lungs and then dive back in.

Johnny, squeezing his eyes shut and whimpering against your wet heat, feeling his dick shoot cum inside his boxers. Sobbing, so pathetic and needy and ashamed of coming before even getting inside you.

Johnny, teary eyed and blushing so hard you're a little concerned, looking up at you after you come again, pulling you closer by your hips and swallowing before he keeps going, not planning on stopping until he gets hard again.

[blackssuunn]

Been drowning in my contractor!Ghost thoughts for a week now

[blackssuunn]

Haven’t had the energy to write for a little over a month (not a WORD) and a horrible, angsty, horror-themed, traumatic storyline for a one shot with Simon just hit me right in the face Jesus Christ please help 😃

[blackssuunn]

you guys ever think about how simon growing up in poverty really affected his attitudes towards food and how his taste in food is probably the least developed of all TF141?

like he won’t complain about the state of MREs because he knows it’s better than going hungry.

he probably considers a takeaway of any kind a massive treat because takeaways are expensive! for the cost of one takeaway his mum used to be able to get just enough food for a week of meals for 3-4 people.

he probably doesn’t really know how to cook because most of his meals were either microwaveable, chucked in the oven at 180 degrees C for 20ish minutes, or straight out of a jar.

or alternatively, when money was really tight he’d eat peanut butter on plain white bread or 49p packets of instant noodles for dinner (no breakfast, no lunch unless he was in school and got subsidised school meals).

[blackssuunn]

Every day of my life my mind has this constant battle between Simon being the type of man that wants an entire fucking soccer team for children or just. seriously considering getting rid of his fucking balls just to completely eliminate the risk of a kid.

BOTH have a breeding kink, mind you.

[blackssuunn]

Who could ever leave me, darling?

SImon "Ghost" RIley x Johnny "Soap" McTavish x Reader Warnings: guilt, kinda cheating but not really, usual Simon fucked up thoughts, pining, a bit of religious imaginery. Summary: Men only feel good when they're drowning in guilt.

Simon has his alarm set at four hundred sharp; not a minute less, not a minute more. Before the birds and the people, before schools and training camps and the Sun itself. Suspended in time, even if he can hear his watch tick every second.

Activities at base start at five hundred, almost exactly. The big, old speakers blare that horrible music that you can still hear recruits groan at, while the rest just sigh and sit up. Simon hates it, always had. It somehow reminded him of Manchester and dear old daddy, of screams and the door slamming and things breaking again and again. A few weeks into his career, he bit his way through the panic attack he had for breakfast. 

But it isn’t why he gets up before that time. It isn’t because he’s nuts either-although, he won’t deny that one.

The kitchens start at four hundred, just like him. He remembers, back when he still had some baby fat and less baggage to carry, the fights that would break out with the other recruits, just to see who would get the chance to help inside there for the week. 

The kitchen is an absolute nightmare. Everyone is always yelling, fighting, clawing at each other’s throats. He had to dodge quite a few knives when he was the lucky bastard, but he wouldn’t so much as flinch when a glass broke or some plates ended up crashing against a wall. Violence is banned all over base, and especially inside there. But in the unspoken rule book, violence isn’t the same as aggressiveness, Simon-and all armed forces- know that. 

He has never actually asked, but he’s pretty sure some of the staff remember him from when he was younger and wasn’t Ghost yet, just Sgt. Riley, or even before that. Definitely before that. 

They must remember him standing in a corner without getting in anybody's way, washing the dishes peacefully in the middle of a warzone. Get there early, leave late. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he's sure they noticed how skittish he was at first, the sight of a man bordering on two meters acting like a mouse must have stuck. 

Otherwise, he doesn’t understand why they indulge him with the cups of coffee he always asks for, when they’re barely firing up the stoves.

It’s nice, getting the first fresh cups instead of the coffee that tastes like dirt everyone else drinks. Warm, black more often than not. The head chef-if Simon can call him that- always shoves a few of the little packs of sugar inside his pants, not even sparing him a glance before he's already insulting someone's mother for screwing up Jesus knows what. A little piece of Heaven at the price of waking up an hour before.

It’s still not the reason, though. 

“Aye, L.t., that for me? Or for th’gorgeous thing back at barracks?”

The fucker always asks the same shit, with the same smug grin and the sleepiness he hasn’t managed to shake off despite having been awake, too, since four hundred sharp. 

Simon shoves one of the cups at Johnny and rolls his eyes, urging the scalding liquid to subdue the smile he doesn’t want to show. 

He never touches a single pack of sugar. He doubts anyone but you knows it, but he prefers both coffee and tea so sweet it even smells different. He spares himself bitterness when he can. Mornings are not the case. 

“Should just get the one for her, if you’ll be so fuckin’ annoying.”

Johnny tears open three packs and pours them all in one go inside his cup, leaving another three untouched inside his other pocket. You like sweet things too.

Johnny laughs, doesn’t dare say anything else. Both soak in the peace of being awake before anyone else, afraid of tearing apart the little pocket in time that both have made for themselves.  

Simon stands up with your cup and doesn’t look back when he feels a pair of blue eyes following his every step. 

-

Johnny looks at Simon like he saw him make the galaxy itself. Like, with his own eyes, he witnessed satellites and stars and the entire universe come from Simon's hands. It feels overwhelming to look at, somewhat asphyxiating. His eyes shine, deep blue with waves crashing against his pupils. He doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t do it consciously. Otherwise, he’d stop- or try to, at least. 

But Johnny always acts as if he's paying back. 

He gives Simon his brightest smiles, his best jokes, the best version of himself. He follows him around wherever they are, treasures every bit that Simon allows him to have of his person. You don’t think you have ever seen Johnny shine as bright as when he’s next to Simon. Were Johnny a different man and not the wicked fucking genius he is, you'd swear he does it blindly. 

It's not the case though. He genuinely thinks that Simon is one of the best things on Earth despite-or even with-his defects. 

Again, if it were any other person, or even any other context, you’d probably think he’s borderline pathetic. But the truth is, you’re not much better than him, and neither is Simon.

While Johnny looks at him like the galaxy is his own work, Simon looks at Johnny like he made it all for him. Even though most of the time when they’re together you can’t see his full face, his eyes shine so much it blinds you. It’s like he can’t look away, like Johnny is burning right in front of him with the energy of the Sun and Simon is trying to take in as much of it as he can. He’s not as harsh, not as closed off. The little creases by his eyes deepened in a hurry ever since he's had him in his life. If Johnny were the Sun, Simon would be a sunflower.

Neither of them seem to realize it though. Simon doesn’t realize he looks at Johnny like he looks at you, and Johnny looks at him like you do. Neither catch it, or if they do, they seem content to let things be as they are.

It's hard to be mad at something so intense, so… pure and selfless. What you see in their eyes resembles adoration more than anything else, lust rarely turning things red when most of the time it shines gold. When Simon told you for the first time that he’d die for Johnny, after he had a close call right in front of his eyes, you realized that there was just no way those feelings would go away. 

It was easy to make peace with. Easy to look at Simon walk lighter, easy to laugh at Johnny's jokes when he tries to make him laugh, easy to see their bodies gravitate towards each other. It even came easy, when Simon's nightmares startled you awake with Johnny's name slipping from his lips almost as often as yours.

Simon though, he sometimes looks like he’s playing a choosing game that doesn’t need to exist. Loving Johnny certainly isn’t hard, you think.

-

Johnny hates training the new recruits, which surprised Simon at first. 

He’s so bubbly and social that one would think he’s amazing with new people, which he technically is as long as he’s not the one that has to give them orders and tolerate the disrespect that hasn’t been beaten out of them. He doesn’t want to be the person to do it, afraid of seeing himself in one of their eyes. He can barely look at himself in the mirror some days.

Simon is burning with shame when he asks you to help with the new recruits just to spare Johnny. He expects you to glare at him and tell him to go fuck himself, because he thinks he deserves it, but you just smile and nod. He doesn’t tell you that it’s for Johnny’s benefit, wouldn’t ever dare throw something like that in your face, but you still smile at him in a way that twists his guts up and down. He doesn’t think about what else you might know. 

“Are they brand new, or SAS new?”

Simon grins at you without meaning to. He’s always pleased when you ask things out of nowhere that most people wouldn’t bother to think about. “Who Dares Wins, love.”

You roll your eyes at him, but he can see the smile that threatens to split your face. You haven’t helped him with recruits since the marines visited the headquarters a few months ago, and it hadn’t been pretty. Marines always tend to think they’re better than anyone, but Simon doesn’t think he has the right to criticize.

Standing next to you feels like coming home from walking through snow. Simon used to think that there was no coming back from dying along with Roach, and then dying again with his family. He was no better than a corpse, no better than a man buried deep underground. 

You smile at him, and he’d believe you dug him out of his grave with your bare hands.

"You can handle it, love?"

You shrug. "I can handle you just fine."

He laughs as he watches you walk away, smug grin decorating your pretty face.

-

Johnny doesn’t feel guilty, exactly.

Guilt comes when you do something wrong, when your actions equal damage in one way or another. He knows guilt because he's a common visitor at night, when the screams of innocent people keep him awake for hours on end and nothing he does quiets them down. But how could he feel guilty for the way he feels when he looks at Simon, when it so often feels like the only thing keeping him alive?

But he does think that it’s unfair to you. It’s not like he plans acting on it, he never would and he’s made his peace with that. But he sees the way Simon worships the ground you walk on, and chokes up just thinking about taking it away from you. So he won’t, simply because you don’t deserve that kind of thing and he’s not that kind of man. 

(Or maybe, maybe he is. Maybe he lays awake at night thinking about pale skin and blond hair, about scarred hands and a deep voice saying stupid jokes to pass the time. Maybe he is, but he won’t be just this once. Just to spare you the pain.)

“What’s the plan for today, Johnny boy?”

He laughs. Coming from any other person, the nickname would earn at least an insult to them and their mother. Coming from you? It earns you a hug.

“Don’t know yet, bonnie. Weapons, maybe.”

(Do you know?)

“Sounds like fun.”

He’s not sure if you’re being sarcastic or not. You have that kind of bite, not quite like Simon but more like Price. Simon does it to hurt, to keep people away. You though, it’s more a reflex than anything else. He likes it.

“At least it’s not recruits.”

You give him a soft, understanding smile that he doesn’t fully process before you walk away.

-

Simon does feel guilty.

Despite everything, he thinks you’re the best thing that has ever happened to him. He’s not a man of faith, but it's easy to believe when he's looking at your eyes. Whenever you’re near, it’s like he got a pair of lungs brand new, and he’s breathing properly for the first time. You’re not a magic pill that fixes everything, but carrying a cross would be a daily simple task if you were the one giving him sips of water. 

Feeling something so close to love for someone that isn’t you resembles treason too much for him. 

It's wasted on him, he knows. Wasted when you beam at him, when you touch his face and kiss his nose, when you hug him and grin and he feels so full . You're wasted on him, and he's known that from the moment you caught his eye, standing next to the captain. It's just gotten worse since Johnny got in the picture. 

But he’s selfish. He’s never been shy about that, doesn’t deny it or try to get better. He’s selfish, his hands have scars that show just how hard he holds on. 

He can recognize it’s a matter of choosing, though.

He dated a girl, for a short while. He was seventeen, already torn up inside and bruised. She was sweet, kind. She'd giggle at his dark humour and grab a wet cloth to clean up his split lip, the bloody knuckles. Always shrug it off when she asked, always smiling when she kept quiet and accepted it.

‘You're so calm’ , she'd say, pressed against his side. ‘So peaceful .’

She was also naive. 

He was thankful about it, at first. He'd pray she didn’t realize how wrong she was, how he wasn't anything but chaos. 

Being loved gently was nice. He liked her smile and her touch, how soft spoken she got after a certain hour, how her eyes reflected things he wasn’t sure were real. 

They were both confused, he thinks. She believed him peaceful and he lied to himself about it being a good thing.

But he's never been something remotely close to peace, doesn’t know what it is. Born screaming, grown up fighting, earning a living by killing. 

She loved a part of him that didn’t exist, he would accept later. The rage brewing inside of him kept him quiet because otherwise he'd fear spitting venom. She didn’t see him, and he didn’t love her. 

He thinks often about the artificial lungs from before, the metal bins that didn’t let people have an actual life. He thinks about oxygen tanks and insulin and Ozampic and Epi Pens, and realizes that he won’t ever be able to live without you now that he has a diagnosis. He can’t .

But Johnny? Johnny might just be the thing that throws him into anaphylactic shock. 

–

“What’s your favorite color, Johnny boy?”

He hums, thinking about it for a second. It used to be green before the army, turned into purple when his sister dyed her hair that color when Johnny was fifteen and the youngest had five. She chopped it a few months later and Johnny isn’t a fan of it now. 

“Maybe yellow?”

You snort. “Maybe? So you don’t know your favorite color?” You take a deep breath. “Hey, pick up the pace! This isn’t fuckin’ summer camp!”

Johnny can’t really help it: he laughs. He clutches at his belly, squeezes his eyes shut and laughs his ass off at the horrified looks of the recruits before they start running for their lives. You don’t stop frowning until you turn your gaze back to him and his cackles turn into soft giggles.

“I like it in the sky. Fuckin’ hate mustard yellow, though.”

You nod like he’s spitting the truth about the universe. It may as well be, sitting in the middle of the back camp with a cup of coffee between your hands. The sunrise suits you, he notices. It makes him feel warm inside.

“What’s yours, bonnie?”

You tilt your head. “All of them.”

He doesn’t have it in him to make jokes. It chokes him up, the way your eyes look at him full of trust and something softer he doesn’t deserve. 

“Why should I choose, Johnny? What purpose does it serve? I can see them all, have them all.”

He shakes his head, pulling you close until you rest your head against his and the slight shake of your hands dissipates.

“Jus’ admit ya dinnae what t’ say, bonnie.”

He wishes everything was as simple as not choosing.  

-

“Do you know if Johnny has a girl?”

Simon sits straighter without meaning to.

“I-I don’t- I'm not sure, no?” 

He'd like to think he'd know if he did. God, he fucking hopes so, otherwise his brain might end up splattered inside the-

“I figured. Can’t understand why, he's fucking gorgeous.”

Johnny's eyes are his favorite shade of blue. 

“He's fucking annoying, is what he is.”

He doubts his lack of denial flies over your head. Even objectively, no one could deny Johnny's a fucking dream come true. The big blue eyes and the charming smile make a killer blow, but Simon has watched him sleep and nothing else quite compares. 

“It just adds to his charm, Si.”

He doesn’t like the teasing edge to your words. He's not your friend , you're not supposed to be teasing him about someone else. It makes him squirm on his chair, avoiding your eyes from the other side of the table. 

“To each their own, love.”

It startles a laugh out of you, bordering on cynical. Simon doesn’t understand what the fuck is happening. 

-

“I could very well break your damn arm if I wanted to, McTavish.”

Threats stopped working a long, long time ago, just a few seconds after meeting each other. Johnny has been able to see through him from the get go. 

“And I couldn't?” Simon tilts his head, conceding the point. “But ya wouldn't hurt me.”

God, Simon sure fucking hopes so.

“You're a valuable asset to my team, of course I wouldn't.”

(I can’t live without you. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can't .)

Johnny's hand is pressed to his chest, and Simon forgets for a few seconds that there are other men standing inside the same room, thinking he doesn’t notice them staring as soon as he got inside.

“Ya love me, jackass.”

Simon gulps. “I'd love for you to shut up .”

Johnny pushes him up and to the side. Simon will sustain for the rest of his life that he let him, that he put his guard down on purpose. It's easier than admitting he got lost in complicated living, that things got too real there, that a few words threw him off his balance.

He grabs Johnny's forearm and pulls , sending him tumbling towards the mat with a sneer. He doesn’t waste a second, turning back around and kicking at Simon's feet. He barely dodges it when Johnny manages to grab his shirt to pull him down with him again, and he loses against gravity. 

His arms are big and hard, Simon knows. Sometimes he can see the creases of muscle on his back, when laundry has fallen behind and Johnny has to wear clothes from his rookie days. A few pounds lighter, in every way possible. 

“Y'gonna hurt me, L.t.?”

Simon is on top of him, hot and huge and shaking like a fucking leaf. He can feel the dampness seeping from Johnny's clothes to his, memorizing how he feels pressed against him. 

Simon can’t breathe. 

“I can't.”

And Simon sees it reflected in Johnny's eyes. Something shatters, peeling away the film that separated their skin. He feels the sweat and the pounding inside Johnny's chest, can hear his own drown any noise outside, the tension snapping in the middle of a spar, and Simon doesn’t understand where he went wrong. 

You're looking at them from the door. 

[blackssuunn]

Simon is so full he could burst.

He doesn’t remember a single holiday where he had a genuine nice time. Not when he was 3, not at 10 or 15 or 22. Always hidden under the bed to avoid name calling, or dodging drunk punches, or standing guard overnight with under 10 Celsius. The last one though, at least he had some peace.

But that was before, he has to keep reminding himself. That's a different him, a different life.

This time, he spent the whole day seeing you run from one corner of the house to the other, yelling at him and at Johnny once he arrived, then Price and then Gaz too. They were covered in flour and Hell knows what else by the end of it, slightly traumatised by how harsh you were inside the kitchen. Simon is so used to it he lets himself make fun of the rest of them, ignoring the glares.

Kate simply sat at the corner, holding his baby between her arms while playing with his little girl too. Johnny's little sister, Alba, helped you get the things inside the oven with a significantly gentler tone from you. She would get bashful whenever you smiled at her, hiding her face behind her long locks. Simon can’t really blame her. Staring at you is like staring at the Sun.

The people invading his house barely said their thanks before they stuffed their faces full. He grabbed the baby and sat him on his knee, while the little princess played with Gaz and Johnny, making silly faces and giggling. The baby, who he realizes now is more of a toddler (Jesus Christ) was not as nice.

He doubts he will get the smell of lasagna out of his clothes anytime soon.

"Price is six seconds away from falling asleep, Si."

What he really hears you say is Either make him go to the spare room now or risk having to carry him later, Si.

He groans quietly and pushes himself up from his place next to you, immediately missing your warmth. You curl up to where he was sat, sighing and closing your eyes. A little smile shows up to brighten your face. He has to take a deep breath.

"Captain," he calls, trying to keep his voice even and gentle. With the way John startles, he's not sure he managed.

"I'm up, I'm up. Wh-wha'...." he clears his throat. Simon has to bite back a smile. "What do you want?"

You, of course, don't have nearly enough spare bedrooms to house so many people, not by pairs at least. You and Simon just let them fight it out, which ended up with Kate and her wife getting the bed but with Alba and an air matress on the floor, so Gaz and Price kept the other bedroom and the bed, Johnny at the ground with some blankets.

You giggle from behind him. "Time for bed, John."

Price blushes slightly, nodding. He gets up and stumbles his way through the stairs, then a door opens. Not long after it closes back again, both of you can hear him snoring and Johnny swearing. Simon does laugh this time.

Well, that leaves the two of you.

"You think the kids will sleep the night through?"

You open your arms, and he doesn’t rush to curl up next to you again. He doesn’t, okay? He doesn’t.

"I sure fucking hope so. Kate didn’t chase them around all day for nothin', love."

He doesn’t dare mention how you all noticed her wife looking at her misty eyed and smiling. That's theirs to talk about.

"You know, I wish I could tell you we can have some fun now, but Si..."

He laughs softly against your neck, "I'm beat too, sweetheart."

You pull him closer, rubbing his back while playing with his hair. Jesus, if one of the men come down and see him purring against you, he's done.

"Maybe tomorrow, Si. Fuck, I hope so."

His laughter echoes against your skin, infecting you with it too. You hide your face against his hair to keep from waking the batallion upstairs.

"Happy New Year, Si."

He murmurs it back, kissing your neck and relishing in your squirms.

Simon feels so full he could burst.

[blackssuunn]

2024 just arrived here in my little corner of the world, so Happy New Year to you all, hope it's filled with peace and happiness and everything you wish and need <3

[blackssuunn]

"Jus' this once, bonnie. Promise."

Johnny has these big, gorgeous blue eyes that pull you in if he stares at you for more than two seconds. Dark, long eyelashes frame them, thick eyebrows too. And still, you could almost swear he has no idea of the effect they have.

But, to be fair, Johnny has an effect just by smiling, even with his eyes closed. That he knows.

His smile is gorgeous too, easy going and wide. Pretty pink lips framing pretty teeth too, the fucker has it all.

"You're so fucking annoying sometimes, McTavish."

He laughs like you just told him the best joke ever, maybe because he knows he's won. You have no idea why he likes sleeping in the infirmary when the 141 has perfectly nice quarters, way better than the rest of you.

"I'll see ya la'er then, aye? Thank you, you gorgeous thing."

Your entire face heats up. It's so unfair, with the looks and that mouth you never had a chance.

-

"Why do you like sleeping here anyway, Johnny? You could be getting cozy with Simon up in the 141's."

Johnny chuckles, but it's strained and it tenses you up.

He lays in the cot a few meters away from yours, wrapped in military blankets covered by a knitted one. You're grateful he doesn’t sleep naked, or that at least December is too cold for him to do so if that’s the case.

"My mam's a nurse, bonnie."

You press your lips together, wincing. He could have said that before, Jesus.

"This feels familiar to you, then."

You try not to, but it still comes out like a question.

"When you don’t have a poor bastard at the brink of death here, it smells like her uniform. Her hair, too."

You don’t mention how those poor bastards tend to be his team or even him, there's no point.

It's easy to imagine Johnny's mother, you're sure she's as fierce as they come. He's the youngest of five, the only boy. No wonder why he's... well, himself.

"Like rubbing alcohol and medicine?"

He laughs again, lighter now. "Yes. You don’ get to make fun of it, by the way."

"I would never," you whisper, staring at his side profile. You wonder if his mom is a ginger.

"I know you wouldn't," he replies, "I just... I miss her, miss ma' father, too. My sisters, my nephews, my home."

His voice gets thicker the longer he speaks until he goes silent, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. You don’t say anything.

When he opens them, he turns to look at you, smiling softly when he catches you already looking back.

It doesn’t take you by surprise when he stands up, pulling his blankets with him and pushing you over. It’s a tight fit, and you'd rather die than not make it work.

His face is so close to yours you can feel him breathe.

His lips are right there, right there.

"Are those pretty eyes courtesy of your mom, Johnny?"

His entire face turns pink, laughing nervously when you grin and arch an eyebrow. Who would have guessed.

"I-I'm not sure? Maybe? Never put any thought to it."

You figured.

He's still blushing when you press your lips against his.

[blackssuunn]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

There's a strange man sitting in the middle of the room.

He hasn't ordered anything to eat. He keeps asking for ice cold Coke, which isn’t something you quite expected either. It's snowing outside, the cold is seeping through the corners of the windows. There is no one but you and him.

Well, actually, he had a glass of whiskey right when he arrived. He had sat down, shot it back as soon as he got it close, then nodded. After that, nothing more than Coke. His teeth must feel raw by now.

You're not scared. Despite the man being, at least, 6'2, ripped and completely silent, he doesn’t exude murderous rage. In fact, he seems... sad.

You are fidgeting a little, though. Your feet keeps scraping against the floor, you're pushing down the skin of your nails, if you sit down your leg doesn’t stop jumping. It's annoying, even if it’s yourself.

The news keep saying the storm will only get worse.

"You can come back to the kitchen with me if you want, sir."

You try your best not to sound shaky or hesitant. Fear may not be present at the moment, but it doesn’t mean it won’t be later.

He grunts. He hasn't looked up at you once, not in the 6 hours he's been sitting there. He hasn't pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down either. Still, he hasn't missed a single please or thank you every time you gave him his drink. His hands are full of scars.

"If you don't mind," he concedes, low and timid. His voice is gruff too, deep and rumbly. He fully speaks with his chest.

"Not at all, sir."

He stands up, and you take a step back instinctively. He's a few meters away, and still intimidating. You swallow before talking again.

"You think if I turn on the stove we'll blow up?"

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy. Something rough and heavy seems to get stuck inside his throat.

"Worth the risk, aye?"

He has a point. You can’t see past the glass now, not an inch. The weather broadcast was right.

Dying frozen on Christmas Eve isn’t your idea of fun.

"Yeah, I think so."

He follows you from a few steps back. He's a smart man too. Stands straight, shoulders squared. Big, wide shoulders.

"I'm sorry you're stuck here with me. I'm sure you have better places to be."

You don’t give an answer to that. It feels kind of pointless.

"Could be worse."

Once you get inside the room, you hurry to light the flame and set it in low. Your boss might be an asshole, but you're sure he doesn’t want to deal with a dead employee and costumer inside his precious diner. He'll deal with the gas price at its own time.

"You can pull a chair and sit close to it, if you want."

It's what you do anyway. You changed out of your work clothes ages ago, but the thick jacket hasn't been doing thr job as well as usual.

The man listens. He does so silently, you think if you weren’t looking at him you wouldn't even notice he’s moving, or that he’s even there.

He looks up at you for the first time, and takes your breath away.

He has beautiful eyes, one blue and one brown. His eyelashes border on white, and the hair you can see is light blonde, maybe dirty when wet. A scar runs through his left eye- the blue one, and another one splits his upper lip. Little scars dot his face all over, mixing with freckles you have no idea how he got if he lives in this weather. Maybe he has a bit of sunlight saved inside his cheeks.

"A-aren't you cold, sir? I can look through the others' clothes if you'd like, I'm sure they will understand."

He shakes his head. "I'm fine, love. But thank you."

A shot of electricity goes down your spine. You pry your eyes away from his face, afraid of your own betraying you.

"And you can call me Simon. I don't bite."

It pulls a nervous laugh out of you. Simon. The handsome stranger trapped inside a diner with you is called Simon.

You offer your name in exchange, and he mutters it, like seeing how it tastes.

You don’t say anything for a few moments, feeling the bubbles of a giggle starting to form inside your chest.

"I-I hope this doesn’t get too boring, Simon, but I think we'll be here for a while. Sorry in advance."

You can’t help it. The tiny laughs burst out of you when he smiles, amused. It makes you look down to try and avoid his stare.

"Why are you even here anyway?"

He sounds genuinely curious, not judging. You shrug, tilting your head and cupping your hands together over the flame.

"A little extra pay is nice."

He nods, understanding. Something tense covers his features, and you stop yourself from asking the same.

"You want more Coke?"

That pulls a startled chuckle out of him. A little mischiveous glint shines inside his eyes.

"Not really. Coffee, maybe?"

You nod. "Suit yourself."

He laughs again, standing up and grabbing two cups from the shelves. Then, a kettle is filled with water and later next to your hands.

"You really think this will last long?"

Sighing, you press your lips together and hum. "You don’t?"

"Fair enough."

A few beats pass in silence, then long enough that the kettle whistles and Simon makes the coffee for him and you. It's comfortable.

You take the cup between your hands, smiling when they help your skin heat up. He smiles against the edge of his own.

"Doesn’t working at a kitchen get boring? I've always wondered that."

"I don't really work at the kitchen," you remind him, "I work the tables, Simon."

He nods. "You're right. Then, working the tables isn’t boring?"

You look up to the ceiling. "I wish. It's chaos, and rude people, and spilled food and drinks, and lifting and carrying and hoping you won’t crash and- boring sounds amazing sometimes."

His eyes cloud. "It does."

He smiles at you, tender and shy now. You don’t understand how he does it so quickly.

"I don't bite, Simon. We have nothing to do but talk here, don’t make it harder."

He laughs again.

You talk for hours and hours. At one point, the electricity goes out, and you're swallowed by darkness. The only thing illuminating the room is the stove.

You and him don't pay it any mind, until your knees are pressed together and you tell yourself it's to keep each other warm.

"You think we'll have to stay here all of the 25th too?"

You frown. "Maybe."

But honestly, neither of you sound particularly bothered.

(When you stumble out of the place sometime later, Simon's cheeks are red.)

[blackssuunn]

Heyooo,

I wanted to tell you how much and absolutely I love and adore your writings, especially your characterisation of the purest and softest Simon, I always melt when I read some work of yours and you have no Idea how often I already reread some fics of yours 💕

Please keep going, I always look forward for new fics or snippets but still, take all the time you need. No Stress! 💕

I wish you happy holidays (if you celebrate them) or at least free days? (I hope you got free days!)

Lots of love 🥰

Hello lovely! Thank you so much, you have no idea how much this means to me. It makes me so happy to know you like what I write, I am glad you find them melting-worthy. Sending you love from my corner of the world, happy holidays if you celebrate <3

[blackssuunn]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

There's a strange man sitting in the middle of the room.

He hasn't ordered anything to eat. He keeps asking for ice cold Coke, which isn’t something you quite expected either. It's snowing outside, the cold is seeping through the corners of the windows. There is no one but you and him.

Well, actually, he had a glass of whiskey right when he arrived. He had sat down, shot it back as soon as he got it close, then nodded. After that, nothing more than Coke. His teeth must feel raw by now.

You're not scared. Despite the man being, at least, 6'2, ripped and completely silent, he doesn’t exude murderous rage. In fact, he seems... sad.

You are fidgeting a little, though. Your feet keeps scraping against the floor, you're pushing down the skin of your nails, if you sit down your leg doesn’t stop jumping. It's annoying, even if it’s yourself.

The news keep saying the storm will only get worse.

"You can come back to the kitchen with me if you want, sir."

You try your best not to sound shaky or hesitant. Fear may not be present at the moment, but it doesn’t mean it won’t be later.

He grunts. He hasn't looked up at you once, not in the 6 hours he's been sitting there. He hasn't pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down either. Still, he hasn't missed a single please or thank you every time you gave him his drink. His hands are full of scars.

"If you don't mind," he concedes, low and timid. His voice is gruff too, deep and rumbly. He fully speaks with his chest.

"Not at all, sir."

He stands up, and you take a step back instinctively. He's a few meters away, and still intimidating. You swallow before talking again.

"You think if I turn on the stove we'll blow up?"

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy. Something rough and heavy seems to get stuck inside his throat.

"Worth the risk, aye?"

He has a point. You can’t see past the glass now, not an inch. The weather broadcast was right.

Dying frozen on Christmas Eve isn’t your idea of fun.

"Yeah, I think so."

He follows you from a few steps back. He's a smart man too. Stands straight, shoulders squared. Big, wide shoulders.

"I'm sorry you're stuck here with me. I'm sure you have better places to be."

You don’t give an answer to that. It feels kind of pointless.

"Could be worse."

Once you get inside the room, you hurry to light the flame and set it in low. Your boss might be an asshole, but you're sure he doesn’t want to deal with a dead employee and costumer inside his precious diner. He'll deal with the gas price at its own time.

"You can pull a chair and sit close to it, if you want."

It's what you do anyway. You changed out of your work clothes ages ago, but the thick jacket hasn't been doing thr job as well as usual.

The man listens. He does so silently, you think if you weren’t looking at him you wouldn't even notice he’s moving, or that he’s even there.

He looks up at you for the first time, and takes your breath away.

He has beautiful eyes, one blue and one brown. His eyelashes border on white, and the hair you can see is light blonde, maybe dirty when wet. A scar runs through his left eye- the blue one, and another one splits his upper lip. Little scars dot his face all over, mixing with freckles you have no idea how he got if he lives in this weather. Maybe he has a bit of sunlight saved inside his cheeks.

"A-aren't you cold, sir? I can look through the others' clothes if you'd like, I'm sure they will understand."

He shakes his head. "I'm fine, love. But thank you."

A shot of electricity goes down your spine. You pry your eyes away from his face, afraid of your own betraying you.

"And you can call me Simon. I don't bite."

It pulls a nervous laugh out of you. Simon. The handsome stranger trapped inside a diner with you is called Simon.

You offer your name in exchange, and he mutters it, like seeing how it tastes.

You don’t say anything for a few moments, feeling the bubbles of a giggle starting to form inside your chest.

"I-I hope this doesn’t get too boring, Simon, but I think we'll be here for a while. Sorry in advance."

You can’t help it. The tiny laughs burst out of you when he smiles, amused. It makes you look down to try and avoid his stare.

"Why are you even here anyway?"

He sounds genuinely curious, not judging. You shrug, tilting your head and cupping your hands together over the flame.

"A little extra pay is nice."

He nods, understanding. Something tense covers his features, and you stop yourself from asking the same.

"You want more Coke?"

That pulls a startled chuckle out of him. A little mischiveous glint shines inside his eyes.

"Not really. Coffee, maybe?"

You nod. "Suit yourself."

He laughs again, standing up and grabbing two cups from the shelves. Then, a kettle is filled with water and later next to your hands.

"You really think this will last long?"

Sighing, you press your lips together and hum. "You don’t?"

"Fair enough."

A few beats pass in silence, then long enough that the kettle whistles and Simon makes the coffee for him and you. It's comfortable.

You take the cup between your hands, smiling when they help your skin heat up. He smiles against the edge of his own.

"Doesn’t working at a kitchen get boring? I've always wondered that."

"I don't really work at the kitchen," you remind him, "I work the tables, Simon."

He nods. "You're right. Then, working the tables isn’t boring?"

You look up to the ceiling. "I wish. It's chaos, and rude people, and spilled food and drinks, and lifting and carrying and hoping you won’t crash and- boring sounds amazing sometimes."

His eyes cloud. "It does."

He smiles at you, tender and shy now. You don’t understand how he does it so quickly.

"I don't bite, Simon. We have nothing to do but talk here, don’t make it harder."

He laughs again.

You talk for hours and hours. At one point, the electricity goes out, and you're swallowed by darkness. The only thing illuminating the room is the stove.

You and him don't pay it any mind, until your knees are pressed together and you tell yourself it's to keep each other warm.

"You think we'll have to stay here all of the 25th too?"

You frown. "Maybe."

But honestly, neither of you sound particularly bothered.

(When you stumble out of the place sometime later, Simon's cheeks are red.)

[blackssuunn]

I'm floating up in the sky seeing chunky/chubby COD men drabbles you have no idea

[blackssuunn]

I made a meme. And yes, based off my experience while writing CoD smut