lolplatzhalter

[lolplatzhalter]

Johnny would absolutely wear a collar with your personal info engraved on a bone-shaped tag for you.

In fact, he'd be pouty as hell if you don't gift him one for your one month anniversary. What do you mean the relationship is still new? You bloody own him now! No take–backsies.

[lolplatzhalter]

MORE KUMA KÖNIG

:3

[lolplatzhalter]

Thinking about reader and Soap who were a couple. A match made in heaven and masters of PDA. Somehow you both brightened up everyone's day.

Until you lost him. Your friend, your partner in crime, your biggest fan and the love of your life.

Your life went dull. Empty. You just tried to survive the days. Survive the pitying looks everyone gave you. Everyone except his best friend - Simon.

He was a weird one. You knew him through night outs with Johnnys team, game nights and him being the third wheel on a few dates. Always in a balaclava, only speaking when he was directly spoken to or making a dry joke (in surprisingly fitting situations).

He was the one who had the task to deliver the news of Soaps passing to you. And since then he messaged you daily after Johnnys passing. Said it was his duty to look out for his best friends lover when he's unable to. You didn't care at first, ignored his messages. He continued.

Until one day you answered him.

"Have you eaten anything today?"

"No."

"What's your fav?"

"Sushi"

You got sushi that day.

Simon was glad he could help you somehow. If he couldn't save the man he loved, then at least he'll protect the woman that man loved.

[lolplatzhalter]

Every single member of TF–141 would love to be a pampered bottom/sub for you, in case you didn't know already.

Every. Single. One.

[lolplatzhalter]

I hate that I love him

He looks so beautiful in this 🥲❤️

Idol

[lolplatzhalter]

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

CHOICES ( 1 )

— pairing: simon riley × fem!reader

— cw/info: 18+ | military!reader; established relationship; smut; angst; infidelity; hurt; chose not to add certain tags to avoid spoilers

Choices have consequences.

The street isn’t lit up to the norm, and it annoys you that it’s the first bloody thing you think of when you stare out the kitchen window into the front yard. All of that only because Simon keeps mentioning it, that’s why. 

He’s got it drilled into your brain matter at this point. 

Wherever you look, wherever you go in this house, you’re reminded of rules. 

Rules and regulations, all made up by him. 

And they don’t stop at your relationship, no.  

No public displays of affection, no touching in general. No “I love You’s”, no flirting, no acknowledgement of your relationship outside of your circle. No dates, no anniversaries. 

Nothing. 

It’s been nearly two years of this. First, you’d been dancing around each other, or rather, you were doing the dancing, flirting, trying to gain his attention, while Simon barely acknowledged you with a grunt here and there outside of work. 

Until one night. The night Simon took you home when both of you had too much to drink after a successful mission—and then he simply never let you go again. 

However, the rose-coloured glasses finally broke just recently, thanks to another throwaway comment of him about how he won’t celebrate Christmas holidays with your family this year, and you realized that this relationship, though hardly deserving of the title, might not be what you want.  

It’s Saturday, barely 2000 PM, when you find Simon in the open living room of the house you share, the home he made you move into a few months ago, watching a rugby game on the telly, drinking a bottle of beer. 

The last week has been rough. Once again, the days dragged on feeling more like you’re living with a stranger than having an actual partner by your side. 

“Hey,” you greet him softly, already feeling uncomfortable for disturbing him. “Uhm, I’m... I just—” Whenever his dark tawny eyes flicker to meet yours, you can barely keep yourself from squirming under his gaze nowadays. 

“I’m gonna meet up with a friend at the pub, okay?” 

Simon barely shifts his gaze from the screen, the flickering light of the rugby match casting shadows across his skull balaclava. His fingers tap against the beer bottle absently as he gives a noncommittal hum—not quite acknowledgment, not quite dismissal.

“Which friend?” The question is flat, but there is something simmering beneath it—that ever-present vigilance that comes with years of combat, distrust, and experiences that haunt him to the present. 

He tilts his head just slightly, studies you with those dark eyes that always seem to see too much. “The one who texts you at midnight? Or the one who ‘accidentally’ calls you ‘love’?” His voice lowers on that last word, sharp with something unspoken—something between suspicion and irritation. 

And you know exactly who he is referring to. 

Then he rucks his mask up over his crooked nose again, takes a slow sip of his beer before adding dryly, “Or is it Soap? Because if he’s buyin’ shots for ‘the lads’ again like last time… Christ.” A muscle in his jaw ticks as if remembering how that night ended: him hauling your drunken arse over his shoulder while Soap cackled in the background about how “Ghost gets all territorial when—” 

He cuts the memory off abruptly with a low grunt. “Just don’t come back piss-drunk expectin’ me to drag yer arse to bed.” But despite the harshness of his words—is there a hint of concern buried underneath?  

You roll your shoulders, an attempt to shrug off the tension building up inside your body.  

Perhaps just annoyance. With Simon, it is always hard to tell. 

Then, his attention returns to the game almost pointedly—his version of permission granted (or at least not denied), though even as he pretends indifference now, you know that if anyone so much as looks at you wrong tonight, they’d find themselves faced by Lieutenant Riley later. 

If nothing else, he is quite protective of you. Both off and on duty. 

Shifting on the spot in your fuzzy socks, hands clasped behind your back like you’re some child getting scolded as he speaks, your stomach swoops at the mention of Johnny.  

You clear your throat softly, “Yeah, it’s... it’s Johnny. Just a drink, though. I think he just... needs someone to yap to.” 

The moment you confirm it is Soap, Simon’s grip on the beer bottle tightens a fraction. His jaw works silently beneath the mask before he exhales through his nose—long and slow, like a man praying for patience. “Needs someone to yap to,” he repeats dryly, words dripping with scepticism. 

He finally tears his eyes away from the match to pin you with that unnerving stare again, dark amusement flickering behind it. “Right. Because MacTavish isn’t exactly the type who runs out of ears willing to listen.” A pause as he tilts his head slightly. “Funny how yer number’s olways first dialled when tha’ bloke’s feelin’ chatty.”  

The unspoken accusation lingers heavy between you both—Johnny has been toeing lines lately, and Simon isn’t exactly blind even if pretending indifference most days. 

With another swig from the bottle now nearly empty, he waves dismissively toward the front door without breaking eye contact once more, though this time there is something sharper underneath all stoicism. 

“Go on then, princess. Just remember—“ The tone of his voice drops even lower, suddenly rough around the edges despite his casual posture still sprawled across the couch like a king brooding over kingdom. “I ain’t carrying either one o’ ya back this time.” 

As you wait and listen to him, you can pick up on the slightest accusatory tone at the mention of Johnny again, though you choose not to take the bait—favouring your mood over a potential argument. 

“Right.” You let out a soft breath. “Just one drink... I’ll be back before midnight, Si,” you assure him before turning on your socked feet to disappear upstairs. 

Simon remains planted on the couch, emptying his bottle of beer with another slow drink as he watches you walk away, knowing bloody well his Sergeant’s intentions with you are not exactly pure. The Scot is many things, but subtle isn’t exactly a talent of his. 

His gaze lingers until the sound of your footsteps fade away upstairs, the creaking of old oakwood getting softer as you ascend, and he lets out a huff of air through gritted teeth, his thoughts swirling like the foam of a freshly tapped beer.  

And with each passing moment, a familiar tension begins to coil within him. 

Upstairs, you’re swiftly wiggling yourself into a pair of thin nylon tights before putting on the black dress you’ve grabbed from your wardrobe and slipping into your trusty thigh-high boots. Grabbing your purse and leather jacket, you make your way downstairs after sending a quick text message to Johnny, announcing that you’re on your way. 

Simon is back in the same spot on the couch when you descend, though now he has switched to methodically cleaning his Glock on the coffee table while the TV keeps running with an old Western movie. It’s a habit of his whenever agitation simmers too greatly beneath the surface.  

Either that or sharpening his knives. 

And as always, his hands move with practiced precision, each disassembly and reassembly as smooth as breathing. 

Until you step back into his peripheral. 

His fingers freeze mid-motion, eyes flicking up from the weapon to rake over your figure in that dress—the one that clings to you like a second skin—then those boots that can do things to any man’s sanity. A muscle twitches along his jawline as he swallowed hard, grip tightening around the gun’s slide just for half a second before forcing himself back into motion. 

“One drink,” he repeats gruffly without looking at you again, except this time, there is an edge beneath it; something dangerously close to a warning. Not just for Soap, but himself too, given how thoroughly his gaze just scorched over every inch of you a moment prior. 

Snapping the magazine back into place with more force than necessary, he adds lowly: “And text me which pub ye’r at.” It’s not a request. 

“It’s the one just three streets away,” you tell him, stuffing your house keys into the small bag stuffed under your left armpit. “I forgot the name... but I’ll text it to you when I’m there, okay?” Now standing in the open living room, you wait for his answer. 

The silence that follows stretches taut like a livewire between you two, and when Simon finally breaks it, his voice is clipped and cool as a London storm, “Been there.”  

Of course, he knows which pub you’re referring to. Simon knows every bloody corner of this town—its alleys, rooftops, and even the names of its pubs. Hell, he could probably name all the patrons of that place too if asked. 

“They have good whiskey,” he added after a beat, as if to offer some sort of olive branch. 

It isn’t much—you both know it—and yet, coming from Simon Riley, it is damn near poetic. 

“Mhm,” you hum, watching him for a moment. He seems as calm and collected as ever while you contemplate kissing him goodbye or if he’d simply reject the attempt again if you so much as try. 

The thought of rejection makes your stomach clench uncomfortably. 

“Alright, uhm... bye, then.” You call over your shoulder eventually as you turn to leave, awkward as ever, while you keep telling yourself that this isn’t right; not how it’s supposed to be between loving partners. 

But Simon’s gaze follows you across the room—watching, waiting, assessing as you disappear around the corner of the hallway towards the front door, before he calls out your name. 

One word. Low, gravelly, and it’s enough to send a shiver up your spine without any right to, like he’s an owner simply calling for his pet who has done something wrong. 

His eyes are on you again, unwavering, as he slowly stands from the couch to go after you. The weapon now forgotten on the coffee table, still disassembled—a tool of death temporarily cast aside as he took measured steps towards his new target. 

And Simon stops directly in front of you; close enough to touch but still distant enough to make you ache for him. 

Blinking up at him, the surprise is evident in your doe-eyes as you meet his. 

“Yes?” It damn near comes out like a feeble squeak, like a mouse caught with the cheese. 

“Before you go—” He reaches up to brush aside a tendril of hair that has fallen into your face, his calloused fingers lightly tracing the curve of your cheek with calloused fingertips. The gesture so unlike him—tender, affectionate, and human, that it takes your breath away momentarily. 

His gaze drops to your lips, painted with some sparkly red tinted lip-gloss that faintly smells like cherries, before he forces himself to look away again, the struggle obvious in his expression now. A battle raging between his instinct to keep you close and the walls built deep within him after years of war and loss. 

“Be careful out there,” he mutters finally, as if you’re about to charge into a battlefield. “Don’t let MacTavish get too handsy.” 

“I—” You swallow hard, eyes flickering over his masked face. Finally, you nod, “Of course not.” 

His fingers lingered against your skin for a moment longer, as if he was memorizing the texture of it. “Good.” 

Then he lowers his hand again and takes a step back, putting a subtle but noticeable distance between you once again. 

“And don’t stay out too late.” 

Again, not a warning exactly, more like a plea masked by his usual flat and curt tone. 

Simon wants you here with him, where he can make sure you stay safe under his vigilant eyes and looming presence, but he’d be damned if he ever admits that aloud. 

[lolplatzhalter]

we are the daughters of the women you couldn’t sell to one direction

[lolplatzhalter]

Ok I LOVED everyones reaction BUT the graves one was peak ok I shivered

COD Men React to You Being Kidnapped

John Price- Captian

He’s silent.

Everyone else is panicking. Trying to find you. But Price?

He’s planning how to make them beg.

“This isn’t a rescue,” he mutters, sliding a bullet into the chamber. “This is retribution.”

He looks at the others, jaw clenched.

“Mount up. We bring her back. Or we don’t come back at all.”

Simon Riley- Ghost

“Where is she.”

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t scream. Just says it low. Cold. Deadly.

The last person who saw you alive is now terrified — because Ghost hasn’t blinked since hearing the words “they took her.”

He reloads his gear silently. Picks up his knife.

Soap: “You need a plan.”

Ghost: “I am the plan.”

If there’s a trail? He’ll find it. If there’s a man behind it? He’ll gut him slow.

You’re his. And he’s not coming home without you.

Johnny MacTavish- Soap

The second your signal cuts out, he knows.

He feels it.

“Where is she? Don’t you dare lie to me. WHERE?!”

He’s chaos. Explosive. Uncontrollable. Takes the comms room apart looking for surveillance. Punches walls. Yells until his voice breaks.

When he gets the location, he goes alone.

“I’m bringing her back. Or I’m not coming back at all.”

Kyle Garrick- Gaz

Everything in him shatters.

He stares at the screen, blinking. “…Wait—where’s her dot? Why is her tracker—no no no—”

His fingers shake as he grabs his gear. He’s not even thinking clearly.

“She wouldn’t just vanish. Someone took her. Someone’s gonna pay.”

He’s usually calm. Collected.

But when it’s you?

He’s fire and fury.

Alejandro Vargas

“...She was right behind me.” He whispers it like a confession.

“She was right behind me—and now she’s gone—”

He paces like a caged animal. Every inch of him screaming guilt. Regret. Rage.

Then Rudy touches his shoulder.

Alejandro’s voice turns to steel.

“Prep the gear. We’re bringing hell with us.”

König

He shuts down.

Stands still in the middle of the battlefield. Helmet low. Breathing harsh.

“…They took her?”

He turns. Slow. Controlled.

“Then I’ll tear the world apart until she’s safe.”

And he means it. Every building. Every man. Every inch of ground.

He’ll crush them until he finds you.

Phillip Graves

You were the only thing keeping him grounded. And now you’re gone.

“Gone?” he laughs, but it’s not happy. It’s unhinged.

“No. See, sweetheart doesn’t just disappear. Not unless someone took her. Which means someone’s stupid.”

He lights a cigar. Stares into the flames.

“You want war? Fine. You just made it personal.”

[lolplatzhalter]

Oh my god the last one...

Soap Being Soap

[lolplatzhalter]

Please God, give me a man like price

Price doesn't know what the fuck a coffee date is.

He is a dinner date type of man. He believes in dressing to impress, buying the most beautiful flower bouquet, and picking up the most beautiful lady in town on his car. Price scolds his rookies whenever he hears them complaining about not getting a second date. “Ya didn't cherish them, that's why she didn't kiss ya.”

Price doesn't date often—he is always working—, but when he truly likes a woman, he goes all the way to make sure she has the best night of her life. He personally picks the restaurant, makes a reservation to get a table in a private corner so you can talk or maybe make out a bit if things go really well.

Price compliments you how lovely you look against the candlelights. He is a whiskey man at heart, but he likes red wine for special occasions like this. Price listens to you and chimed in to talk from his years of experience, showing how mature and collected he is. He would insist in getting dessert, just because he thinks feeding each other would be very romantic.

Just how he picked you up, he would drive you home as well. You would sit in the car for a couple more of minutes to talk about how much fun you just had, not wanting to leave yet. Price walks you back to your house, telling you how much he wants a second date.

Price is truly a gentleman. He goes for the cheek kiss at first, then the lip corner kiss and, finally, a sweet peck on the lips. But a peck is not enough for you. You pull him by the collar of his white shirt to show him how he should kiss you from now on as you guide him inside.

Price always gets a second date.

Masterlist.

[lolplatzhalter]

🥰

I should make an appointment. 🥺

Simon Riley lends you a helping hand.

cw: tattooed!fem!Reader; fluff; implied teammates to lovers; slightly suggestive

Perhaps it was neither your best nor smartest idea to get new ink in the middle of simmer and while you’re not on leave—especially on the spot you’d chosen.  

It’s a black and white tattoo of a woman and a skull faced man sharing a tender kiss. There’s a clock, roses, lots of shading—it starts at the nape of your neck and spreads over your whole back down to your ass crack.  

The line work had been done months ago, but you wanted to finally get it done. 

It took a whole weekend for your most trusted tattoo artist to finish, and a good portion of your savings to pay for it, including a tip for bearing with you for hours on end—and getting it done in two sessions. 

However, whenever you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror after a shower now, you immediately turn and pose to glance over your shoulder—admiring your fresh ink with a giddy smile. 

However, it becomes a problem a few days after getting it, when your skin starts healing and applying the tattoo ointment on your own turns out to be a proper pain in the arse. 

That’s how you end up in your office on base, sitting rigid in your chair as you avoid leaning against the backrest like you’d catch the plague if you did, cursing yourself for having tits and wearing a bra, while the skin of your itchy and throbbing back sticks to your military-issued shirt. 

It feels like a bad case of sunburn, the kind that stretches your skin taut and hurts whenever you move or anything so much as brushes over the affected area. 

Grinding your teeth, you try to ignore both itchiness and soreness as you go through your paperwork, until a few firm knocks on your door make you perk up.  

“Come in,” you call out, sorting the stack of papers into a neat pile as the door creaks open. 

There’s but one man on this whole base who manages to fill out the whole width and height of the doorframe, and as always, your heart jolts a little as soon as you catch sight of his trademark skull balaclava.  

“Sergeant,” Simon greets you with your rank like calling you a name, dry as ever. “Missed ya during P.T. this mornin’. Had to do my own bloody research to figure out why.” 

You blink at him as your brain reboots before you stand up from your chair, rolling your shoulders with a wince. His dark eyes flicker briefly, catching your slight grimace.  

Well, shit. 

“I went to see the doc this morning. I can’t participate in P.T. or drills for the next two weeks, sir. I thought–” 

“Why?” he asks sharply, even though he knows he’s not entitled to ask for such confidential information.  

An official sick note is like a bloody golden ticket in the Army and, yes, it even holds the kind of power to disarm even the Lieutenant’s sharpest death glare. 

You bite your bottom lip; torn between confessing and making a fool of yourself or being bold as Johnny and telling him it’s none of his bloody business.  

Your brain short-circuits when he takes a few slow, heavy steps towards your desk, towering even more at the sudden proximity. 

“I got a new tattoo!” you blurt out eventually, folding like a tattered lawn chair under his dark gaze, fingers curling into the fabric of your cargos for leverage. “It–It’s really, really... big.” You huff a flustered chuckle. 

He halts and blinks slowly, like a cat confessing its love. “Whot?” His tawny eyes scan your already tattooed arms where your jacket is rolled up to your elbows, searching for something he hasn’t seen before.  

He tilts his head to the side curiously. “Where?” 

You exhale a slow breath through your nose and point your thumb at your back. 

“Back. It’s big... and hurts like bloody hell.” 

There’s a tense pause and you brace yourself to get chewed out for getting a sick note for something so mundane like this—you are part of the bloody Special Forces after all—but what follows next, shocks you even more. 

“Can I see?” 

Your heart soars, your mouth dries up like a droplet of water on a hot stone. His voice is almost soft, tentative.  

“You–You want to see it?” 

He nods curtly, rounding your desk, already glancing at your back with an uncharacteristic glint in his eyes—a child waiting for fireworks lighting up the night sky. A dog waiting for a treat. 

And even if you might not be the most confident person when it comes to your body, you never hesitate to show it when someone asks to see your tattoos. 

After unbuckling your belt with skilled fingers, and popping the first button, you unzip your cargos just enough to pull your shirt out and ruck it up to your nape before turning around, suddenly eager to show off. 

“It’s ah... it’s healing. I hope it doesn’t look too gross.” 

He snorts behind you, as if he hasn’t seen the absolute worst before in his career, while your pulse races at the sound, fearing for his judgment, secretly pining for his approval.  

But behind you, Simon’s eyes widen in awe at the design and the meaning behind it that he swiftly comes up with for himself, before he notices the light inflammation at the edges of those black lines where they peek out under your sports bra, and the wound fluid oozing out of your inked skin in some spots. 

He clicks his tongue in disdain. “You’re not takin’ proper care of it, Sarge.” He huffs through his nose and starts taking his gloves off. “Thought I’d taught ya better than tha’. You got Vaseline?” 

You suck in a sharp breath before clearing your throat. “I got tattoo cream in my left drawer.” 

He clicks his tongue, bending down some to open it, and when he sees the small pot of Hustle Butter tattoo balm, he tuts. 

“That’s fancy shite. Vaseline works much better. ‘S cheaper, too.” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips at his blunt honesty.  

“Okay, doc. I’ll keep that in mind,” you retort sarcastically, keeping your shirt rucked up. The drawer closes and there is a pause before he speaks again: “It’d work better if ya stripped.” 

You know he’s right and there is nothing behind his suggestion but efficiency, and yet your pulse spikes, heartrate increasing as your face begins to warm.  

“I won’t look.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft like he’s talking to some small animal he doesn’t want to spook. “But if you don’t take proper care of it now, it will get infected, and that’d be a bloody shame, sweet’art.” 

There’s just the briefest moment of hesitation before you pull your shirt off over your head with a grimace, back tingling and burning at the movement. It shouldn’t be a problem to do it in your office—you’re not expecting anyone else anyway. 

Your tight sports bra proofs trickier to take off, lacking clasps to undo, and as you struggle and curse under your breath, a pair of warm, large hands come to your aid. 

“Arms up.” 

Simon doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel him right behind you, simply looming as he hooks his fingers under the hem of the fabric as soon as you obey his uttered command, lifting your arms. 

He peels the bra off your torso with a kind of slow gentleness that nearly leaves you breathless, always mindful of your sore back. 

When your upper body is left exposed, you swiftly cup your naked breasts right as your nipples start tightening and peaking naturally—involuntarily.  

Clearing your throat awkwardly, you quip: “Hope your hands are clean enough, Lt.” 

Which only earns you a scoff and a dry reply as Simon opens the tub of balm. 

“Clean ‘nough for ya, anyway.” 

As soon as he starts spreading and smearing the cool cream all over your back generously, your eyes shut with a soft exhale of relief. Goosebumps spread over your skin, your nipples poke even harder against your palms as your body almost leans into his mellow ministrations.  

And in a moment of inattention, something shifts, and then it’s not only about tending to your new tattoo anymore when his slick thumbs linger at the curve of your shoulder before digging into tight muscle. 

Your brows furrow, but your eyes are still closed, and then you’re biting your lip in a meek attempt to keep yourself from moaning in pure bliss. 

Meanwhile, Simon is completely enamoured in the simple task of rubbing and massaging the creme into your inflamed skin like it’s his personal mission to make sure it heals nicely.  

And so what if he allows himself to trace the intricate lines of the artwork adorning your skin? His touch is featherlight, his jaw not clenched for once as he loses himself in the moment, eyes flickering over your back and noticing how your skin pebbles with gooseflesh beneath his fingertips, how your back muscles twitch and relax. 

He knows he shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but he can’t deny the sudden tightness and warmth in his chest at the strange intimacy in this act.  

How much he savours taking care of you. 

When his mind eventually screams at him that he needs to step back and get some bloody distance, another, much calmer voice assures him that he’s simply watching your six. Quite literally. 

Once he’s satisfied with his work and your back is glistening with a thick layer of tattoo balm, he grabs some tissues from the box on your desk and wipes his hands while your eyes flutter open and you must swallow the whine of protest bubbling up in your throat. 

“Thank you. That–That helped a lot.” 

Simon hums gruffly, turns his back on you and puts his tac gloves on once more as you reach for your discarded bra before he can slip up and offer his help to dress again.  

When he saunters over to your office door, he stops, gloved hand lingering on the door handle, heart thudding against his ribcage as he calls out your name, breaking the strange tension that has settled in the room. 

“Same time tomorrow,” he announces as if making a casual appointment, “and y’better buy some damn Vaseline.” 

And even if you’re still reeling internally, you can’t help but snort. 

“Aye, aye, sir.” 

[lolplatzhalter]

Look how a good girl does it fellas

Not y'all suddenly flooding my inbox, trying to piss on my leg, mansplaining fandom etiquette to ME because of one little post 😭😂

Mausi, I'm cackling over here.

The last two posts have cw tags. Block the tags or move on if you don't like something.

The amount of times I have been slapped in the face with pure, nonsensical, out of character, plotless smut or angst or some other fucked up shit, because most people in the CoD fandom don't know and don't care about your fucking fandom etiquette—and yet people kiss their asses and they get thousands of notes.

You know what I always do then? I scroll past and move on WITHOUT SENDING ANON HATE 🧍🏼‍♀️

Before you come into my fucking inbox, try teaching those people (especially the minors, yes I see and block y'all!) of fandom etiquette and the tagging system.

I tagged it. I just choose not to spoil anything at the start this time 😇

Have a good one.

[lolplatzhalter]

HOW CUTE AHHH

Just walked out of the shower with a funny idea. The 141 men wanting to join in the shower, but maybe jumping out or smth cause the water is TOO hot, feeling like it could easily burn their skin down.

Soap is diving into that shower without a second thought because he takes any chance to see you naked/touch you he can. He yelps, swears in Scots, and nearly slips and falls (taking the shower curtain with him if there is one) as he attempts to escape the hot water.

Gaz, knowing that you take showers that are hotter than hell, politely watches from inside the bathroom, acting like he’s brushing his teeth or styling his hair. Will risk his hand to touch your butt.

Ghost braves the hot water and the reddened skin afterward because nothing is stopping him from having some quality shower (naked) time with you. It’s straight-faced, thousand-yard stare, and a silent scream on the inside, but Ghost is right there with you.

Price wants to join and knows better. He’s reaching in, yanking the temperature knob to “cold” to startle you, giving him an opening to hop in before turning the water temp back to an appropriate temperature. He’ll give promises of “I’ll keep you warm” instead of suffering under a scorching deluge.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[lolplatzhalter]

I loved the gasp more than I thought 😂❤️

Soap: Honesty, lassie, all ye need ta do is grab a man and say he's yours and that's how you get a husband.

Y/N: What? Just like that?

Soap: Ye. Go around, try it.

Y/N: (turns to Price)

Y/N: You're spoken for, dear?

Price: No, ma'am.

Y/N: (grabs him by the shirt) Now you are.

Price: (amused, immediately on board) Yes, ma'am.

Y/N: (gasp)

Soap: Told ye.

Y/N: I'll take good care of you.

Y/N: I'm a struggling artist on the verge of homelessness, though, but I can find us a nice bridge with a good view.

Price: That so?

Y/N: Oh, yeah. Imagine. A big cardboard box for us to share.

Price: The dream indeed.

Y/N: You'd have a corner to put your stuff. And a piss corner, obviously.

Price: My spouse, everyone.

[lolplatzhalter]

men love to say "women ruin cod characters" like i'm sorry but most men been sexualizing women and kid, real or fictional, for years and been using racial slurs 1 second into the game so i think you can handle a war criminal being turn into a babygirl or a slut for 15 seconds of a tiktok edit

[lolplatzhalter]

I love these assholes and this

cheap piece.♟️

[lolplatzhalter]

😔😔👌🏻👌🏻

Simon does not want to be in love with you.

He would give anything to make it all go away. That awful little lurch in his stomach whenever he hears your voice, the way you smile and the corners of his own mouth turn up. How he can't help but lean down towards you when you're close to him, like a flower growing towards the sun.

It's agonizing. Hell on earth, your sweetness seeping into him and rotting him from the inside out.

And it's not just that he thinks he doesn't deserve you, although that's true. It's not him being selfless or doubting his own worth.

It's that golden ring on your finger -- and the fact that his captain is the one who put it there.

Price adores you. He doesn't talk about you on the job, not really, but Simon will sometimes catch him studying a photo of you he keeps tucked safely in his vest, or he'll see him fidgeting with his ring finger, empty but for a tan line. Price doesn't necessarily like anyone at work knowing about you, that he’s married at all, but he trusts Simon.

Which is why, when both men are on leave, he invites him over sometimes. That’s how this whole mess began.

It started, then it built, and now it’s consuming him.

Simon tries. He tries so hard to block it out, to forget or to find someone else who makes him feel the same way. But it’s impossible. Fantasizing about a life with you feels wrong, but the thought of finding someone else to distract him feels worse. He’s used to burying his feelings, but no matter how deep he digs, you rise to the surface, bursting through his hurt and shame and sadness like a stubborn weed.

You demand to be seen. To be felt.

At his core, he understands this. That nature will do what it does and there’s little that can be done to stop it. There’s something in him that’s drawn to something in you, and it’s too strong to be ignored.

In his mind, in his heart, his soul … you persist.

Price hasn’t noticed, at least Simon doesn’t think so, and you’ve never acted differently towards him.

But he doesn’t know how much longer this thing can grow before it takes him over completely.