leftriot

[leftriot]

texts from my cod ocs

this is purely just for my own enjoyment lol

[leftriot]

tf141 (or rather, just pricegaz) in a cowboy AU

i made a few posts previously about ghoap in a cowboy au, figured i’d branch out a bit and do the rest of tf141.

price, the sheriff (or ex-sheriff, who still runs the place without a badge) of a western frontier town surrounded by ranch land and outlaw territory.

he can roll a cigar one-handed while still aiming a rifle.

he always wears a weathered stetson that’s older than some of the saloon girls.

he enjoys whittling by the fire, claims it “settles the mind.”

his favorite weapon is a long barrel-colt revolver and a winchester rifle.

his idea of a “vacation” is fixing fences on a ranch three counties over.

gaz, price’s right hand deputy and the guy who makes sure everyone mostly follows the law.

keeps his hat low over his eyes, especially when he’s trying to avoid trouble. he hates being cornered by outlaws who want to “prove they can beat price’s boy.”

he’s great at navigating backcountry trails and charming locals into giving them information, rooms to stay, and food.

people underestimate him until they see him fan the hammer on a revolver with scary precision.

they bicker constantly while riding long stretches of desert. price nags gaz about keeping his canteen full; gaz mocks price for being “an old man stuck in his ways.”

in saloons, they naturally sit back-to-back: price watching the door, gaz watching the bar.

price refuses to gamble, says it’s “a fool’s way to lose money.” gaz always plays cards, always wins. price pretends not to be impressed.

once, gaz offered to buy price a new stetson in town, seeing his was battered and old. price just grumbled, “this hat’s seen more fights than you, son. not lettin’ it go now.”

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won’t be posting much, since im working on a longer fic. (estimated 6k-7k wc) when its finished, ill post it on ao3 and ill put a link here. i might post snippets from it here, though, before the full fic is available.

expect found family, slow burn, injury recovery, a lot of intimate talks, and… oh, did i mention it’s ghoap?

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deadass i wanna fuck w his dreads w his head between my thighs and i wanna praise him nd buy him gifts but ive gone and ruined it and whats even worse is i know if i try nd get him back i know he’ll come back god god i feel terrible cs i know hes still in love and im in love with the memory of him.

[leftriot]

demolitions ( cod oc drabble )

been working on a few cod ocs, might make a post introducing em all soon. this drabble features domino & grant, who you’ll probably see again on my page

332 words . . . !

Captain Andrew Grant rarely ever lost hope in the men he was in charge of. Of course, also, he was well aware everything came with odd exceptions. He thought he had seen everything there was to see, working with new soldiers: amateur training accidents, cocky newcomers with no previous knowledge regarding the military trying to run the place, defiant soldiers refusing to follow protocol. Apparently, he was quite wrong. There was plenty more to see and experience. 

“Right, so maybe that charge was a bit stronger than I calculated—“ Drew “Domino” Walker announced, his expression recognizably sheepish, standing amongst a mess of wood and bricks and other such materials that was previously an entrance to a building that was supposed to contain useful intel. He had gotten the door down; Grant gave him that. 

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply, as the young demolitions specialist rambled on in front of him, about how he was just a little off, how he’d get it exactly right the next time. He cut him off abruptly. “Walker, you’ve just turned that door breach into an open-plan renovation.” 

“…But everyone’s alive?” Domino pointed out, a small, hopeful grin on his face, hoping to highlight the positives of the situation. Unfortunately, Grant wasn’t quite amused nor impressed. 

“By some miracle. Remind me why we trust you with high explosives?” He lifted a dirt-stained brow, waiting for a response. 

Domino glanced around, pondered on the simple question for nearly twenty seconds, and finally came to an answer. “Because I’m brilliant when it counts.” He replied, clearly proud. He wasn’t wrong; in high-stakes situations, often where lives were on the line, he could almost always successfully complete his given task in record time, making him rather invaluable. This, sadly, just wasn’t true when it came to easier duties given to him. 

“And a bloody liability when it doesn’t.” Grant muttered under his breath, despite feeling a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

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lazy mornings ( price x gaz drabble )

i realize i haven’t written a ton of stuff asides from ghoap and konig, so im changing that lol. plus, i love gaz nd price <3

410 words . . . !

After living together for nearly two months, Gaz could easily admit, sharing a flat with Price certainly came with its due ups and downs. While they bickered often over petty sweatshirt thefts, charred eggs setting off the smoke alarm and other such things, they also saved quite a bit of money renting out the small place. So all in all, it was worth it; still, Gaz even questioned this on some especially wearisome days. 

The early morning sun filtered into the cramped, yet familiar living room, orange and yellow slants lighting up the dim space. Gaz settled on their couch, his whole body relaxing. He had woken at the crack of dawn out of habit, and had a few hours to kill before Price got up. He had already made himself a bowl of lucky charms, wolfed it down, and spent a half hour or so afterwards working out, doing pushups and lunges on the carpeted floor. The sky outside was starting to grow brighter, casting a golden glow upon Gaz’s face; he immediately shut his eyes in response, basking in the warmth. 

As Gaz lay, his head thrown back against a soft throw pillow, comfortably enjoying the balmy morning, he heard Price’s footsteps moving around in the kitchen. 

“Did you use all the bloody milk?” Price yawned, appearing in the doorway separating the two rooms, rubbing his face tiredly. 

“I might’ve. Needed it for my cereal. And my protein shake. And… hot chocolate.” Gaz answered, somewhat truthfully, from the couch, opening one eye briefly to take a look at the other man. Price, somehow, simultaneously looked like he hadn’t slept for days and also like he had just woken from a twelve-hour nap; his face was unshaven and uneven, and his eyes were visibly exhausted. 

“Christ, you’re a milk thief.” He muttered, glancing back behind him into the kitchen, as if he was checking again to make sure there really wasn’t any left. 

“At least I don’t hoard tea bags like they’re classified intel.” Gaz retorted jokingly, stretching his arms as he sat up from his previous laying position, similar to a languid cat reluctantly leaving its warm napping spot. 

“You touch my Yorkshire Gold and we’ll have words.” Price replied, his voice half-teasing, half-dead serious. He turned back to the kitchen, and Gaz could hear the fridge opening moments after, and something hissing and crackling. He couldn’t help but smile to himself and join Price in the kitchen. 

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tf141 drunk headcanons

ghost ; at first, he’s exactly the same… until the others notice he’s suddenly way more talkative. his dry one-liners turn into entire sardonic rants.

he keeps his mask on, but johnny can tell he’s smiling quite a lot.

he gets nostalgic in the most random ways: “remember that dog in Aleppo? I miss that little bastard…”

his balance is impeccable for hours, then bam—one clumsy misstep, and he swears the floor moved before his eyes.

he tends to disappear quietly, and wake up the next day feeling perfectly fine.

soap ; he’s the loud, boisterous drunk who suddenly finds everything funny.

he starts wanting to dance to any music, even if it’s a refrigerator humming.

he gets a sudden wave of confidence to attempt “cool tricks”, such as doing a handstand or climbing on things he shouldn’t.

his affection for his teammates skyrockets. he’ll sling an arm around whoever’s next to him, even if it’s a stranger, and call them “mate.”

he always challenges ghost to an arm wrestle at some point during the night, loses, and laughs it off and tries again.

price ; he’s the “i’m not drunk” drunk. he swears he’s fine while leaning on the table for dear life.

he tries to keep everybody else in check, then gets distracted and joins in on the chaos.

he has a hearty, booming laugh that’s contagious after a few drinks.

he lights up a cigar, and lectures soap on “proper drinking pace” while slightly slurring his words.

he becomes very chatty, telling war stories in ridiculous detail, but somehow making them funnier than they have any right to be.

gaz ; he’s the sweet and giggly drunk. he automatically turns into the group hype man.

he loves taking selfies with everyone after a few drinks, even ghost. (“come on, mate, just this once.”)

he’s prone to calling random friends and family at 2 in the morning just to say he loves them.

if the music is good, he’s glued to the dance floor.

he develops the urge to eat everything in sight. he’ll convince everyone to order takeaway they don’t need.

[leftriot]

rookie ( cowboy!au ghost x soap drabble )

this is a silly drabble i wrote, expanding on my last post. basically just ghoap as cowboys. maybe i’ll write more cowboy au scenarios later

280 words . . . !

Johnny’s intense, unadulterated confidence and cockiness never failed to amuse Simon, though he hid it quite well. Simon had managed the ranch for years, and could always spot a rookie immediately; their inexperience was always evident in the way they handled situations, such as chasing down runaway cattle or doctoring injured animals. 

“Watch this, Simon. Bet I can lasso that fence post first try.” Johnny, the new ranch hand, boasted, pointing to a wooden post fifteen or so feet away, with a cocksure expression drawn upon his rugged features. Simon eyed him warily and sighed internally; it was clear to anyone but Johnny what was going to happen next.

“If you miss, you’re muckin’ out the stables for a week.” Simon answered, trying to deter him, as the other, still blissfully unaware of how hard it really was to properly lasso something, leaned back slightly on the balls of his feet and started forming a loop with the rope in his hand. 

Simon watched attentively as Johnny slid his hand away from the eye in the rope and grabbed the excess rope with his other hand. Raising the hand holding the loop, Johnny began to swing. Simon grumbled under his breath, damn idiot, as Johnny’s arm moved wildly as he prepared to throw.

“Easy. I was born for—“ Simon couldn’t suppress the small smirk that crossed his face (luckily, the black bandana he wore at all times hid his reaction) as Johnny, words still in his mouth, swung and missed the target by quite a few feet, the rope loudly striking the dusty ground.

“Guess the horses’ll be seein’ a lot of you.” Simon shrugged, delighting in Johnny’s clear dismay.

[leftriot]

ghoap… but in a cowboy AU

been thinking about this idea a bit lol, may write a drabble or two later. if i end up really liking this, i may do cowboy au hcs for the other members of tf141.

ghost, the quiet, intimidating ranch foreman who’s worked the land for years. folks in town say he’s ‘all shadow and sharp eyes,’ whatever that means, and nobody has seen him without his black bandana covering the lower half of his face.

soap, the new ranch hand; a drifter with a smile that’s a little too wide and an accent that stands out in the dusty little western town out in the middle of nowhere.

they meet when soap accidentally spooks one of ghost’s young horses, nearly getting kicked, and ghost yanks him out of the way by the back of his shirt.

everyone in town calls ghost ‘marshal’, half as a joke because he’s basically the law enforcement out on the ranch, and soap starts using it just to get a rise out of ghost. eventually, ghost starts calling soap ‘rook’ in response, short for rookie.

ghost is always up before the sun, while soap’s morning routine involves singing loudly while saddling up the horses. ghost complains extensively about this.

soap is terrible at poker but insists on playing at the saloon when they go into town. ghost ends up quietly covering soap’s debts… more than once.

they bicker often over riding styles. ghost swears by calm, slow control, while soap prefers speed and showmanship.

[leftriot]

hot rod ( ghost x soap drabble )

this is a teen!au drabble, where both live in manchester. the name of the fic is inspired by the song hot rod by dayglow.

414 words . . . !

The relentless midday August sun beat down on Manchester, England, as two teenage boys raced around the corner of Corporation street, to an ice cream truck parked at the side of the street, desperate for something sweet and cold to survive the sweltering heat. It was an unusually warm day in 1997, and the city was still recovering from the severe bombing that had taken place the previous year. Remains of recently demolished buildings loomed over the citizens walking by, an imposing reminder of the disastrous event. 

15-year-old Simon Riley paid no attention to the reconstruction efforts that happened everywhere around him, while Johnny MacTavish glanced curiously at every damaged building they happened across on their way to the truck. Simon was scorched, his pale skin an unpleasant lobster red under the sun. His loose black T-shirt stuck to his chest, heavy and sticky with sweat. Johnny was doing a bit better than his mate, though he was panting heavily due to running in such humid weather. 

They approached the ice cream truck, a white vehicle displaying blue stripes and an abundance of unorganized options beneath a large printed logo. When Simon opened his mouth to order, Johnny abruptly grabbed his shoulder. 

“You’ve had the same flavour every time we’ve been ‘ere. Live a little, mate.” Johnny insisted, gesturing to the colorful menu, clearly urging the other boy to look over it. 

“Vanilla’s reliable.” Simon grumbled in reply, without one glance at the menu. 

“So’s bread, Simon, but you don’t see me orderin’ a loaf on a cone.” 

“…What’ve they got?” Simon asked reluctantly, as he watched a wide grin spread across Johnny’s face. He knew he had convinced Simon; there was no doubt to it. 

“They got a daft lookin’ vampire ice lolly.” Johnny answered, gesturing to an item on the truck. Simon peered at the peeling sticker that showed a photo of a dracula ice lolly, blood red and black, and found Johnny’s description of it to be startlingly accurate. 

“Can’t hurt to try something new, I guess.” Simon said dryly and sighed, concealing a slight flutter in his chest as he watched Johnny’s cheery expression. They paid for their ice creams with a few crumpled bills found in their pockets, and started making their way down the street again, this time strolling slowly. 

Despite the muggy temperature, despite the crumbling buildings all over the city, despite the continuous sweat dripping from their bodies—both lads felt this summer couldn’t be any better. 

[leftriot]

about me + my posts

⠀⠀ angel⠀⠀kieran⠀⠀﹒◍ bigender⠀⠀fanfic writer⠀⠀nick <3⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

i take writing requests ; under15 DNI

i will not write graphic smut but suggestive flirting is fine to request.

𝜗 ⠀fandoms marauders american psycho sherlock holmes call of duty the song of achilles six of crows percy jackson the secret history hannibal ⠀ ⠀ 🍂

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꒰ interests baking writing ghibli movies true crime indie horror games the beginner’s guide naissanceE when the darkness comes radiohead the national neon trees rammstein interpol bear’s den jeff buckley short films roblox reading scarface drive (2011) god’s own country⠀ ⠀ 🧶

∘ my ◠◠ links !

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ao3 link will be coming soon

[leftriot]

i genuinely cannot express how much i love this, holy shit.

something something ghoap staying at johnny’s family farm that’s less than two hours away from glasgow.

they barely reach the damn place because simon insists on driving and takes a wrong exit on the highway and johnny has to piss a hundred times during the drive.

the air is crisp and cold and frosts the tips of their noses and simon forces indifference when johnny’s fingers brush simon’s to hold the duffel bag so he can close the trunk of the car.

johnny knocks on the front door and his mother rips it open, hugging his son and without a second to think, hugs simon as well and ushers them inside.

johnny’s father is a simple man and gives simon a firm handshake and a pat on his back and shows him the dining room, a feast set on the table and every salad under the sun overflowing in hand painted bowls that johnny’s mother made when she did pottery ten years ago.

johnny’s sisters are there, his niece and nephews as well, all children and simon sweats thinking how in the hell he is supposed to talk to them. are the boys at the appropriate age to know about guns and knives? or do they look at encyclopedias of greek mythology and dinosaurs? does the niece like barbie and dress up? or is she one of those girls that like to collect bugs and draw hopscotch on the pavement with colorful chalk and wipe the excess from her fingers onto her pants?

they watch him with eager eyes and giggles smothered behind tiny hands, and watch in awe when he lifts his balaclava to expose his mouth so he can eat.

johnny does the talking at the table and simon can’t understand a fucking word he’s saying because he’s gone full scottish with his family, only hums and nods occasionally. he wolfs down every piece of food, the human trashcan that he is (and because he doesn’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal), and nearly combusts for a second time that day as johnny’s mam places a plate with a thick slice of apple pie in front of him, vanilla ice cream melting over it and puts a hand on his shoulder, “johnny told me ye have a sweet tooth, so i made it especially for ye.”

simon who does silent breathing exercises so he doesn’t cry because he misses this so fucking much. to sit down with a family and enjoy a meal together with loved ones and not fight, nor scream nor yell nor cry nor throw food nor break plates and it’s just laughter upon laughter upon claps on the shoulders and clutching at arms and pulling each other into side hugs and light jabs that mean nothing and don’t break into full blown fights and simon thinks he’s going to vomit.

simon who gets to see johnny’s childhood bedroom. it’s decorated in superhero posters and hanging medals and trophies from gymnastics and competitive shooting competitions. johnny turns sheepish when simon points them out, teases him and likes and fears the swirl of warmth in his chest when johnny’s ears and neck turn red. he’s told “still a better shot than you,” and if johnny were anyone else, he’s be given toilet cleaning duties for the next three months.

simon who wants to pull out and empty every drawer, check every nook and cranny and learn and suck in every single piece of information and story there is about johnny and what — there’s pictures of you as a kid? with a mohawk? fuck off, soap, lemme see.

johnny opens the left door of his wardrobe and it’s covered in baby pictures of him and his family and simon’s chest tightens but he doesn’t break his gaze. Lo and behold, Johnny points out a picture on top and holy shit, it’s him holding a fat, orange cat the size of half his body and he’s sporting a long mohawk. His cheeks are stained with tears but there’s a forced grin on his face and blood on his chin. johnny explains it was his 7th birthday, he fell off a swing, hit his chin and his mam still wanted a photo. the cat’s named ‘fergus’ and he’s still alive and has lost most of the weight. he explains more photos but simon’s eyes keep coming back to the first one and he just wants to lean down and leave a gentle kiss on the scar covering johnny’s chin.

the kids don’t leave simon alone, as much as uncle johnny protests and tells them to get tae and let ‘em rest, he’s been drivin’ all mornin’ but watches them from the kitchen with a soft smile as simon walks around with the kids hanging and clutching at his strong arms like they’re monkeys and simon can’t get enough of their giggles and ooh’s and ahh’s when he tells them heroic and child-friendly war stories about their uncle. he also tells them that he sucks ass at taking orders and sharing his MREs and that they should listen to their parents and respect their elders and share with each other. johnny smothers a grin behind his hand as simon uses his lieutenant’s voice when speaking to the kids about these things.

johnny steals simon away then, “gotta show ‘em the horses”, and simon keeps his distance and doesn’t dare get up on one of them. the cockiest, “scared, Lt.?” with a shit-eating grin from johnny makes him grab the reigns and climb on. johnny leads the horse down the field and they fall into a comfortable silence. simon can’t get enough of the peace and quiet and chirping of birds and gentle yet chilly breeze on his hands and johnny is suddenly coming to a halt.

simon looks down at his sergeant, and his cheeks are flushed red and there’s determination and well-masked hesitation in his blue eyes and before simon knows it, he’s being pulled down by the sleeve of his jacket and johnny is cupping the sides of his face and pressing a gentle kiss over the material of simon’s mask. it’s innocent, quick, almost like it doesn’t even happen and isn’t registered. but their gazes meet when they part and it’s over for both of them because simon is fervently pushing his mask up and cupping johnny’s cheeks and they’re both leaning forward again and pressing kiss upon kiss upon kiss on each other’s lips and simon finally thinks,

i’ve found it. i’ve found home.

[leftriot]

slow show ( ghost x soap drabble )

honestly, i think i wrote this one entirely to comfort myself and excercise my rights to write whatever i want as a writer lol. it’s inspired by a few songs by radiohead and the national, especially slow show by the national. 672 words . . . !

The front door creaked open, startling Simon from his spot on the small, leather couch in the living room of his and Johnny’s tiny shared flat. It was nearly one in the morning, the sky outside the windows dark and empty. He had been trying to shake the imposing, relentless thought that something had gone wrong, maybe even fatally wrong, by clicking through channel after channel on their TV. When that didn’t work, he had tried to reason with himself; after all, nothing could’ve happened to Johnny. Still, he knew the unpredictability of their line of work stabbed a gaping hole through his logic he desperately wished was foolproof. He was immensely relieved as he heard the lock click as his lover quietly shut the door. 

“Mission went sideways. Got pinned down.” Johnny’s exhausted voice came from behind Simon. He already knew, without turning around, that Johnny was taking off his gear, putting away his items in the closet by the doorway; he had memorized the routine, knew exactly where Johnny was by listening to his thudding footsteps. 

“And you thought, what, I’ll just give Simon a heart attack for free?” He answered, his tone dry and sarcastic. He didn’t mean for his words to be accusatory or aggressive; this was just his unique way of saying God, I missed you, I was worried. He closed his eyes, his head falling back on the couch; he was never able to fully relax unless he knew Johnny was completely safe, and oftentimes that meant him being right there, at home. Now that Simon was assured he was out of harm’s way, he was at ease. 

“Didn’t exactly have a choice, mate.” The voice behind him answered, with a low sigh. He heard the shuffling of Johnny’s feet moving on the wooden floorboards, and suddenly felt a rough hand running through his short hair, mussing it up. He had started to grow it out slightly, letting it lengthen to his ears before visiting a barber’s shop; Before, he had always kept it quite short, for efficiency and a lesser need for maintenance. 

“Always a choice. Next time, choose to come back faster.” He muttered, his tensed body easing under Johnny’s touch. Johnny’s fingers, tangled in his hair, brought a strange kind of ecstasy upon Simon. After a few moments, the hand pulled away, and Simon opened an eye, wondering if something had happened. 

Johnny had made his way to the kitchen, which was located a short distance, a mere ten or twenty feet, from the living room, and was pouring himself a glass of water. Then, he grabbed another glass from the cupboard, and Simon heard the tap running again, water flowing and stopping abruptly. 

Johnny brought the filled glasses to the couch, and handed one to Simon, as he took a large gulp of his own drink, seemingly parched. Simon accepted it gratefully and took a sip, the cold liquid instantly soothing his throat. He realized he hadn’t drank anything since he had started fretting over Johnny’s whereabouts; It had never crossed his mind how thirsty he was.

After he had downed the water in a few swigs, he set the glass down on the oak table at the end of the couch, and turned to Johnny, who was already drowsy and heavy-eyed beside him. He adjusted his own position slightly, letting the Scot comfortably lay his head on Simon’s chest. Johnny lifted a brow, but Simon gave no reply or explanation for his actions. Instead, he grabbed the TV remote, and after fiddling with it for a few moments, put on an old movie about a sketchy detective and his wife solving crimes together, on low volume. 

Simon had no interest in the movie itself; he simply wanted an excuse for not moving from where he sat, Johnny’s sleepy face on his upper body, for the rest of the night. He glanced down at his lover, resting contently; god, he would give anything to live the rest of his life like this. 

[leftriot]

citronella ( ghost x soap drabble )

working on more ghoap stuff, mostly just trying to stuff in a few summer drabbles before i get to work on halloween stuff

603 words . . . !

Simon and Johnny had bought the small, countryside cottage they shared now nearly two years ago for various reasons, aside from the building being beautiful and the cost being somewhat reasonable. 

First, it was on the outskirts of a small UK village, which meant it was far enough for privacy and close enough that they could walk to a nearby corner shop. Second, their nearest neighbors were an elderly couple who never asked questions whenever they saw the two men doing anything odd and a young woman whose dog, a cheery labrador retriever, often played with Simon and Johnny’s big German Shepherd, Riley. 

The third reason was one only Simon knew: he loved the old, wooden, porch of their house. He loved it from the moment he saw it, in the provided photos on the house listing. Large enough to hold a small table and an outdoor chair or two, made from once brand-new but now weathered oak planks, the porch held a strange sort of charm to Simon. He had never mentioned this to his partner, out of a small, nagging, rather irrational fear Johnny would find it weird or laugh at him. He wasn’t sure why he thought this, as Johnny had teased him time and time again for the stupidest things, yet would never poke fun at something if he noticed he had pushed it too far and caused any discomfort for Simon. 

A light breeze brushed Simon’s face as the sun, painted on a canvas of oranges and blues, slowly dipped beyond a faraway hill. They had decided that night, the weather was pleasant enough for them to sit out on the porch and enjoy the sunset. He glanced to his right, his eyes landing on his lover, who was busy smacking a newspaper around, in a futile attempt at revenge for a bug bite he had received from a mosquito moments prior. 

Johnny’s rough features, illuminated by the fading light, had never failed to captivate Simon. Cursing rapidly under his breath, he continued his battle against the night insects as Simon watched, both amused and undoubtedly, rather enamored, though he would never admit it aloud. 

He remembered something then, and reached for the lighter he kept in his pocket at nearly all times. His fingers brushed a few random items, a keyring and his leather wallet, before he retrieved the lighter. He didn’t smoke often anymore, but still kept it “just because.” 

On the tiny, plastic table between him and Johnny sat a small, vibrant yellow citronella candle. Johnny had bought it at a farmer’s market a month or two ago. He had insisted “it’ll be useful, mate, ye just wait…” and Simon, though skeptical, said nothing. 

The woman who owned the small business they had bought the candle from was a short, exotically-dressed blonde chick, who told them the candle would keep bugs away, like a sort of ”natural” insect repellant spray. Simon watched as a flame flickered to life after a few tries, orange and yellow bursts clinging to the wood wick. It emitted a low, crackling noise, which Simon immediately took a liking to. 

At this, Johnny turned curiously to Simon, who was tucking the lighter back into his pocket. He noticed the lit candle, and a grin spread across his face. 

“Aye, told you it’d be useful.” He gestured to the candle, his expression and tone blatantly smug. Simon, failing to point out the fact he had lit the candle just to rescue the Scot from the flying bugs that beset him, just grumbled something along the lines of “fucking hell, Johnny” in response.

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healthy eating ( remus lupin x sirius black drabble )

most of my recent drabbles have featured COD characters, so i figured id show moony and sirius some love for a change <3

261 words . . . !

Remus always found grocery shopping with Sirius to be quite a pain in the arse. They were never able to agree on a budget, what items to buy, or how much of one item to buy. Oftentimes, they would head to the nearby grocery market with a simple list of things such as bread, milk, and apples, and come home with a box of cinnamon cereal, a chocolate candy bar, a jug of milk, and a bag of random vegetables. 

“You put celery on the list.” Sirius eyed Remus suspiciously, which elicited a frustrated sigh from the tall, brunette male. They were sitting at the kitchen table, coming up with the grocery list for their next trip to the store. It was Saturday, and they always went on Sunday. It was an irritating little tradition they had. 

“Yes, and?” 

“I’m filing for separation." Sirius announced, unseriously. Remus had learned Sirius loved to say this phrase. 

Remus rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. “You can’t file for separation,” he pointed out, “we’re not married.” 

“Not with that attitude.” Sirius shot back, and grabbed the list from its spot on the table in front of Remus. He took one look at it, and made a comically overexaggerated disgusted face. 

“You’re exhausting.” Remus grumbled, but slid the list back and took out his ballpoint pen. He crossed out celery with a large, black line, and held up the slip of paper. “There. Happy?”

Sirius grinned at Remus’ reluctant attitude, and nodded approvingly. “Very.”

[leftriot]

wildflowers ( ghost x soap drabble )

a short, unedited ghoap drabble that may be expanded on later.

313 words . . . !

Simon had never had a favourite flower, had never even thought about it. He liked daisies, he supposed; if anyone were to ask, that would be his answer. The white petals were pretty enough, by his standards. Sunflowers were alright too, though there weren’t many around where he was located. In all honesty, he couldn’t care less about a bunch of damn greenery. 

Simon had never had a favourite flower until Johnny made an offhand comment one evening, comparing him to a commonplace garden weed. 

“You’re like a dandelion, Lt.“ Johnny held a small yellow flower in his palm. He turned it over, examined it, picked at the tiny petals. His hands were surprisingly gentle with the small plant. 

“What?” Simon questioned, looking up from the book on his lap. He raised a confused brow when he saw the ring of yellow between Johnny’s fingers. “The hell does that mean?”

“You do whatever ya can to survive another day. Like these little fuckers. Keep showin’ up in our yard.” Johnny muttered the last few words underneath his breath, as he set the dandelion down on the wooden coffee table beside him. It left a trace of yellow powder on his fingertips, lightly staining them. 

Simon stared for a few moments, his eyes caight on Johnny’s fingers, then quickly picked up his book again. He could hear the other man humming lowly from the armchair beside his own, some 80s song he barely knew by the tune. His mind was slowly drifting back to Johnny’s words, mulling over them slowly. He paused when he realized something a little… jarring. If anyone were to ask him for his favourite flower now, his answer had changed.

Christ. Simon Riley, Ghost, had a definite favourite flower now. He scoffed softly, and cast a small glance at Johnny. All his fault, Simon muttered to himself. All his fault. 

[leftriot]

staring contests ( könig x gn!reader drabble )

this is also a c.ai bot made by me, that is currently available for use (@leftriot on c.ai) 257 words . . . !

You always thought your big, Austrian boyfriend had a bit of a staring problem. Often he would lapse into periods of complete silence, and his eyes would remain trained on some fixed point—a wall, a houseplant, you. Then, after several minutes typically, he would return to normal as if nothing had happened. These ‘staring contests’, as you liked to call them, with random objects and people were typically not an issue. Konig hardly ever did this in public, and you didn’t really mind it. 

But, still, you had never brought this topic up with him before. You weren’t sure how to go about asking him, but you were getting curious about his reasons for this odd habit.

One night, a hard rain was pounding the windows of your tiny, shared apartment. You were snuggled on the couch with Konig, your head resting comfortably on his chest. His slow breathing, the weather, and the random movie playing quietly on the TV all made you feel very cozy and relaxed. When you took a look at Konig, you realized he was doing the thing again. His eyes were on you, only you, and seemed to be glued there. You decided this would be a good time to carefully broach the topic. 

“You stare a lot.” You kept your voice calm; you wanted him to know you were only observing. He went quiet for a moment, then shrugged. His low, tired, surprisingly honest reply caught you a bit off-guard. 

“I like to look at things I don’t want to lose.”