What's up! Umm, I got a request another actually ideas be popping in my head. For ghost x reader, where the reader is a world-class boxer and is like undefeated like the reader is pretty much female Mike tyson (BTW if you don't know who Mike tyson is he was pretty much a scary boxer who knocked people ass out , people were scared of him and he bit someone ear off ) and reader is like so deadly in the ring she almost kills someone or gets called this pretty sick nickname and everyone on the task force is afraid of her but ghost being ghost doubts the readers skills and challenges the reader in the ring and gets his ass beaten badly like a REALLY bad broken nose, jaw or like gets his ass knocked out. Just a thought: I hope this is acceptable 🙏. I love your writing.
Sunday Punch | Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female Reader
Chapter summary: You’re a lethal fighter in the ring, and a seasoned soldier in the field. The 141 get front tickets to your underground double life.
Warnings: Fights, bodily injury, blood, language
Tags: @glitteryeggalmondherring @fiveshelmet @madamemelancholysstuff @myguiltypleasure @pukbadger
A/N: Ty for sending in another amazing request! you keep my brain happy lolll I hope you enjoy! (It’s a long one i’m sorry LMAO i got carried away)
P.S: Sunday Punch is just another way of saying KnockOut.
It’s no secret that you’re a talented soldier. With every move you make in the field, you showcases an unrivaled combination of skill, agility, and raw power. You holdheld quite the reputation around base, especially for your skills in combat.
Most of the younger cadets at the academy were also hesitant to be paired up with you, mostly afraid to get knocked out.
Whether it's engaging in close-quarters combat or taking down enemies from a distance, your every move is calculated and executed to your advantage. Your training has molded you into a formidable force, capable of adapting to any situation with ease.
But you haven’t always been like that. Going through the ranks before and during your recruitment to the 141, you were pushed beyond your boundaries and worked through.
Now you’re lethal, and one of the military’s strongest assets. But like anyone else, you have hobbies. Dangerous hobbies.
You step into the dimly lit underground arena, the air thick with anticipation. It's early, and the entire space lies empty, granting you a moment of solitude before the chaos ensues. The only sound is the distant hum of the overhead lights, casting an ethereal glow over the barren ring.
With a focused gaze, you tighten your fists and step forward. Your first strike connects with the bag, and the impact reverberates through the arena like a gunshot. The sound echoes off the empty seats, filling the air with the thunderous force of your blows.
The scent of sweat and anticipation lingers in the air, fueling your senses. Your muscles ripple beneath your skin, coiled and ready for action.
Your teammates on the 141 know you lead a mysterious life when you’re not at work, but have never seen you in action. You decided that it was time to let your most trusted friends in on your endeavors. Mostly because Soap was dying to see you in the ring.
The Captain isn’t very fond of you putting yourself into dangerous situations outside of your already severely dangerous occupation. He’s like a father to you, but he also understands and respects your talent.
Now as you sit in your dimly lit dressing room, the anticipation of the upcoming underground boxing match courses through your veins. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and determination, mingling with the faint echo of distant cheers from the eager crowd.
The mirror before you reflects the flickering glow of a single bare lightbulb dangling from above, casting shadows across your face.
You take a deep breath, the adrenaline surging within you as you run your fingers through your hair. The rhythmic motion of braiding your hair has always been a ritual before each fight or mission, a way to focus your mind and steel your resolve.
“Quite a crowd tonight, Bullet.” A voice breaks the silence. You look up to see Anchor, the man who arranges the fights. You’ve been fighting in his arena for 3 years.
He’s wearing his signature navy blue suit, his hair gelled and a championship ring on each finger. He throws you an envelope and you catch it on your bare lap. “Three thousand. Five when you win.” He winks, leaning against the doorframe. “You’ve got Tank Gomez tonight.”
You open the envelope and glance at its contents, the crisp bills tucked neatly within. Anchors the only other person you’ve ever trusted besides your team. He trained your mind to always be lethal and ready, coming from a fighting background himself. “Copy that.” You say, a smile at your lips.
“When do you deploy?” He asks, crossing his arms. “People don’t seem to care about me when ‘Bullet’ isn’t in the ring.” You shake your head at the nickname you’ve acquired.
“3 days. So don’t scuff me up too bad.” You tease, getting up to put on your robe.
The crowd awaits, hungry for the spectacle that is about to unfold. But it's more than just a performance; it's a test of your mettle, an opportunity to showcase your mastery of the craft.
With Anchor's support, you step forward, ready to embrace the chaos and reclaim your rightful place in the ring. The anticipation builds, the sound of the crowd growing louder as you make your way through the corridors.
As you step into the ring, the air crackles with anticipation. The crowd roars, their excitement reverberating through the arena. Across from you stands your opponent, a formidable figure, a big man whose sheer size alone could intimidate the faint of heart.
As you take your stance, a flicker of movement catches your attention from the corner seats. Soap, Price, Gaz, and Ghost, are there, watching you intently. Soap sends an energetic thumbs up, cheering you on.
Yet, as you meet Ghost's gaze, you notice his eyes. The usual seriousness is replaced by a coldness, an intensity that makes it unreadable. He looks away. Ghost has never been one to support your hobbies, but watches along anyway.
The referee's voice cuts through the tension, signaling the start of the fight. The world around you narrows, and everything else becomes a blur. It's just you, your opponent, and the dance of combat.
You move with purpose, your training guiding your every step. Dodging, weaving, and countering, you navigate the ring with grace and precision. Each blow is calculated, your fists finding their mark with practiced accuracy.
The big man lunges forward, his power evident in every punch he throws. But you refuse to be overwhelmed. Your speed and agility become your greatest assets, allowing you to evade his strikes while retaliating with your own punishing combinations.
“Argh!” One of his punches land, striking you right under the eye. You curse knowing the bruise it’s gonna leave later. You feel a little blood drop down your cheek. Recovering quickly you bounce back.
With each passing second, the intensity of the fight grows, both you and your opponent refusing to back down. Sweat beads on your brow, mingling with the taste of blood and adrenaline on your lips. The rounds blur together, time becoming inconsequential as you immerse yourself in the battle, fully present, fully alive.
As the final bell sounds, the crowd erupts in applause. The fight is over, your opponent is out cold, and you've given it your all. You stand tall in the center of the ring, catching your breath, as the referee holds your victory arm up high.
After a grueling workout, you find yourself in the open gym on the military base, sweat glistening on your brow and a towel draped around your neck. Your bruised knuckles draw your attention, serving as a reminder of the battle you fought in the ring just a week ago.
As you examine them, lost in your thoughts, the door swings open, and Ghost walks in, his presence commanding attention. “Hey.” You say to him, with a nod.
“You’re here.” He replies, monotonously. His normal gear is now replaced with gym shorts and T-shirt. He trades out the full skull mask with a black balaclava.
“Why wouldn’t I be.” You chuckle, watching as he sets down a weight. You would normally work out with Ghost as you’ve got sort of a friendship that’s built over the years.
Today he seems awfully distant. You feel the tension growing between the two of you. You knew he was never a fan of you fighting for show, he was the first person you told about your endeavors, and he wasn’t too thrilled.
Ghost's eyes briefly meet yours before shifting away. You lean against the hanging punching bag, and cross your arms. It's evident that he's harboring a deep anger, his normally calm demeanor shattered by the concern that has festered within him.
“It was nice of you to come out the other night.” You say, testing the waters. His head turns in your direction as he takes you in. His gaze stops at your knuckles.
“You’re gonna get yourself killed.” He says, looking right through you. You scoff a dry laugh.
“You think this is funny?”
Ghost's voice cuts through the air, his anger palpable. You straighten up, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to back down. The tension between you escalates, the air crackling with unresolved emotions.
"No, Simon, I don't think it's funny," you reply, your voice tinged with a mix of frustration and defiance. "But I also don't think it's fair for you to dictate what I can or cannot do. This is my choice, my path."
Ghost's eyes narrow, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "Your choice? This isn't just about you, Y/N," he snaps, his voice biting with a sense of betrayal. "Every time you step into that ring, you're not just risking your own life; you're risking everything."
His words hit you hard, the weight of his disappointment bearing down on you. You take a deep breath, struggling to find the right words to convey your own perspective.
“I've trained for this, I know what I'm doing."
Ghost scoffs, his disbelief evident in his tone. "Trained? You think a few months of underground fights make you invincible?”
“Fuck you. You never fucking supported anything I do!” You throw your towel down, needing to get away from him and get some fresh air into your system.
An hour later, Price calls you and the guys for the group training session. He divides the team into pairs for sparring, and to your surprise (or perhaps fate's twisted sense of humor), you find yourself standing face to face with Ghost.
The tension between you is palpable, the lingering anger and hurt casting a shadow over the training session.
Price's voice breaks through the silence, setting the rules and reminding everyone to "play nice." But deep down, you know that the emotions swirling inside you threaten to break through the facade of control.
The bell rings, signaling the start of the spar, and you and Ghost cautiously circle each other. As the seconds tick by, you feel the anger inside you bubbling to the surface, fueling your movements.
His movements are measured, his punches and kicks executed with surgical precision. He weaves in and out, his strikes landing with pinpoint accuracy, but you matche him blow for blow, refusing to back down.
The sound of fists meeting flesh echo through the training room as your strikes collided. The intensity of their spar escalates with each passing second, the energy between you crackling like electricity.
Without warning, you lash out, throwing a punch fueled by a mix of frustration and pent-up emotions. Your fist connects with Ghost's nose, the impact resounding through the air. Time seems to slow down for a moment as he staggers back, blood staining his balaclava from his broken nose.
The realization of what you've done hits you like a punch to the gut. The anger dissipates, replaced by a flood of guilt and regret. His eyes meet yours, raging and stone cold. “Fucking hell. You just don’t know when to stop do you?”.” He curses, his shoulder hitting yours as he leaves the mat.
“Si-wait!” You call after him, but before you can say anymore Price stops you.
Enough," Price's voice cuts through the air, firm and resolute. His gaze shifts between you and Ghost, assessing the situation. "Take a breather, both of you."
He gestures towards the side of the mat, signaling for you to step aside. You comply, your mind filled with a whirlwind of emotions.
A/N: That’s all I got for now or else imma be writing like 10,000 words just on this LMAO
Nah I’m starting a Graves hate club
R/n 100% chats shit about Graves to the rest of the 141 and whenever R/n goes feral and stabs tables or breaks walls, they blame it on Graves and the others, who literally watched them do it, absolutely back her up to Price because like- it’s fuckin Graves. Nobody likes Graves.
Bubble anon but for some reason my emojis are glitching out lmao
we need the ppl who do illustrations in the fandom to create a GHC (graves hate club) jacket and all of the other cod men are wearing it...please just tag them!
Reader literally makes makes a huge hole on the wall, the other men see this happen, Ghost hands them a spoon and watches. They all watch this as if it was their personal reality show. Reader walks out like nothing.
Price walks in, sees the hole, turns to the men.
Price: who. fucking. did. this?!?!?!!?!?!?
All of them: Graves
Graves then walks in, Price was close to murdering him.
Graves: hey guys!
Price: you have a nerve showing up here after you FUCKED THE WALLS UP!!!
Reader walks in
Graves: I understand your mad, but it wasn't me, I know for a fact it was r/n
König: don't blame them for this
Soap: yeah, they barely walked in! they are innocent
Price: r/n, did you do this
R/n, with dusty hands: I would never!
Price: Graves in my fucking office now!
Also, hi bubble anon, I hope you can resolve that problem, but glad to have ya around!<3
Why in some fics the title is "141 reacting to..." but it's only Price, Ghost and Soap ???
Like the 141 is Price, Ghost, Soap AND Gaz. 🤨🤨🤨
Do you have any specific headcanons for Nik?❤️
i'm so glad you asked anon, of COURSE I DO!!! >:) here is a random collection of headcanons for our beloved pilot, i hope you enjoy <3
let's start with the obvious; this man is a humongous flirt, and he is BOLD, if he likes you, you will know about it. he wants to see you a flustered mess because of him, he will take literally ANY opportunity to call you beautiful/handsome etc. just to revel in the way it effects you. and if you flirt right back? perfect, the two of you could go back and forth for HOURS (if yk what i mean ;))
leading on from this, i think he's a very open person, he will say what he's thinking and feeling with no reservations. he doesn't embarrass easily, so some of the things he'll say to you may have others groaning and telling the two of you to get a room, but he'll just wrap an arm around you and grin, "no complaints from you though, right милая?"
when the two of you are alone, he's the softest man on planet earth. i hope you like cuddling, because he LOVES it, when you're relaxing he'll rest your head on his shoulder or his chest, his arm securely around your shoulders. you cannot escape once he has you in his grasp.
on the topic of love languages, i picture him being an acts of service and physical touch kind of guy. he loves doing things for you, from getting you a glass of water when you ask to carrying around extra ammo for you, he will do it all. and as previously mentioned, he adores having any kind of physical contact with you, even if it's something as small as hooking your pinkies together. truly the perfect man.
he's very protective of the people he loves, the same way he loves his country and would do anything to protect it. he will put himself between you and any danger, make you walk on the inside of the sidewalk, walk you home or to your car when it gets dark out, the whole nine yards
this man can and will throw hands for you. look, it's no secret that his moral code is less than pristine, he kidnapped a mans wife and son for gods sake, he's more than willing to fight for you.
he's a captain - it's technically a hc since his wiki doesn't say his rank anywhere, but since he's around the same age as price (technically another hc), and he's the leader of chimera, i'm taking the liberty of assuming.
ass man. no i will not elaborate.
i know in my heart that this man does NOT take good care of his hair. he uses 73 in 1 shampoo and somehow still has the most luscious hair of all time. it doesn't make any sense and i am mad about it.
he has an absurdly good memory. you mentioned a food you really like once in an offhand comment 7 months ago? he buys it for you every time he passes a place that sells it. you mention a family birthday party you recently attended, he looks you in the eyes and goes "your mothers cousins sons kid? how old are they now, 9?"
in the same vein, literally human gps, like this mans has never and will never be lost in his entire life. you could drop him in the middle of the wilderness and he'd find his way back in time for dinner
at the risk of being slightly contradictory, i think that when he's off duty or on leave just living life as a civilian, he's actually a pretty introverted guy. something about being in his element, doing what he knows best in the heat of battle just brings out a different side of him; and of course he's a captain, so when he's at work he gives people orders and becomes the perfect leader. but when he's at home he's quieter and keeps more to himself - no matter where you are though, in the middle of an active warzone or just chilling in your home, he always showers you with as much love as he can.
want his balls stuffed so far down my throay
lovely work done by @loneghostwolf !!!
I js read a post from @starstruckmiraclekitty and it got me thinking
Ghost would have one of those ungodly loud, heart attack giving, dad sneezes.
Like you would think a bomb went off, that shit is so loud. No matter where he is in your house/apartment you can hear it like he’s in the same room. Sometimes it even wakes you up, wether at night or if you’re just taking a nap.
The first time you heard him sneeze you jumped outa your skin, hand on your heart with a small “oh my god” that’s quickly followed with “what the fuck Simon.”
He probably feels bad that it scares you so badly, but at the same time finds it funny and will laugh at you.
Werewolf 141 Boyfriends
the furry cod fan writes a werewolf au! everyone is not shocked! lmaooo
!!NSFW minors dni!!!
cw: werewolves au, monster f◇cker content lmaooo, nsfw and fluff HCs, human gn!reader, tail wagging, fur scratching, light bondage, "not" 🪢, transformations, blood, raw meat, consensual x, rough x, biting, etc, self indulgent ☆♡, breeding, no reader description
they transform on full moons, new moons and have 1 week of continuous werewolf-ability the week of Halloween! usually the 1 week is much more calm. a slow, rolling transformation over the course of 2 days and the rest are taken up by him nuzzling you and marking your body lovingly.
of course they have increased smell and hearing but also strength and drive to protect you.
you are their person and nothing will come between them and their person
most energetic of them all, especially the days before his transformations. thankfully he can funnel all that energy into a mission or preparing to sit out his transformation at home.
lots of whining and whimpering when he's transforming. full moons make him pant like he's in pain. new moons are much less aggressive. he asks you to sit with him. he gets overwhelmed if you hold him so just light hand touches until he's fully shifted.
werewolf mohawk. long fur down the center of his back and tail
he gets mouthy when he's shifted. he doesn't mean to bite you hard or even bite you at all. but he holds your fingers in his maw and licks at the back of your neck when he's hunched over you in the kitchen.
doesn't know his own strength like every other big dog. knocks you over, knocks things over, has bumped the entire sofa onto its back.
behind the ear scratches or mohawk scratches. it gets his leg going like thumper
drooler. in his human form he's already a wet kisser, let him shift and it's a done deal for you.
when he kisses down your torso, leaving wet licks and nips at your skin he's practically leaving pools of drool dripping down your sides. he apologizes but doesn't mean it. he loves seeing your skin slick and shiny
his tongue has a mind of its own when it's pressed against your skin and it doesn't take long for him to press his tongue into you.
groans and huffs when he's transforming. Kyle finds a comfy spot in the house and rides out his transformation best his can without bothering you much. sometimes you come home and find him in your closet, your tub, under your kitchen table.
he lifts his head and huffs when his eyes meet yours. his head immediately falls back in exhaustion, planning on just riding out the rest of his shift.
hungry boy when he's shifting. usually a couple days before he fully shifts he's eating everything in your fridge.
apologizes profusely when you catch him eating the steaks you were saving for dinner. raw. he's hunched over your kitchen sink, sharp claws covered in red from the steak when his canines tear another bite
you hate to admit it, but it's hot. the claws and the happy wags he gives when he's really enjoying something.
it's very common when you're in bed with him, especially the morning after he shifts to his werewolf form. he's curled around you in bed, claws desperately grabbing at your hips to wake you.
he huffs and nuzzles into you, rutting his cock between your thighs. his claws are sharp enough to draw blood if he pulls at you too hard, so he really tries not to.
your "mm.. morning to you too, " mumbles make his tail thump on the bed. no sleeping in for you, now that you're awake, you're all his!
pants like a mother fucker when he's shifting. he can't even enjoy a cigar when he's going through it because hes panting so much.
hes probably hot with all that fur. he's the closest to a bear as you can get when it comes to werewolves, big big teeth and claws. all the better to protect you with my dear
asks you very gently if you can supply him with a water and a bourbon every now and again, but its hard when he clings to you the way he does.
price is one of our only boys that wants you to be wrapped up in his arms when he's transforming. Soap and Gaz like for you to be around but holding them is a bit much on the senses. John however, needs you.
if you aren't around when he's shifting he gets grouchy, downright angry if it's bad enough. this is terrible news for anyone who crosses him too harshly
apologizes between licks when he's got you in a mating press, knot plugging his thick cum in you.
when you give him the ok he shifts positions so you're sitting on top. you're free to get up whenever you can relax enough to let his cock slop free, but good luck.
even coming down from his high, he's rutting into you, exposing his neck so you can scratch from his chin down to his muscular chest. wag wag wag
oh Simon ♡ oh our sweet werewolf bf Simon
hes a howler for sure. you've gotten a noise complaint or 2 from his howling getting louder as his shift progressed. you've started to learn to quiet him down slightly by doing very hushed howls with him. he tries to match your volume instead, but it only works so long
he only locks himself away from you on the nights of fullmoons, finding his hunger insatiable those nights. but he does ask you to bind him for every transformation. he asks you to only bring him food when necessary. why would you listen to that?
slowly but surely you can feed him on full moon nights w his hands bound and muzzle strapped to his face. you slip raw meat slivers through the holes of his muzzle, onces he graciously eats whole. he honestly prefers this than to be locked alone in a room all night.
he especially prefers when you feed him with your fingers. he licks at your fingers, savoring the taste of the meat and your skin against his tongue.
he doesn't trust himself fully to have sex with you in his werewolf form without any precautions. he asks you to keep him bound and muzzled, only allowing himself the pleasure of thrusting his hips into the apex of yours.
he secretly hopes you can tame him well enough to where he doesn't need at least the muzzle. he's desperate to lick away your sweat and tears when his knot fills you to the brim.
scratch at his happy trail when he cums. he can't stop his tail wagging even if he tried.
TW: Smut pure smut
Based on the poll this is a smut story on Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley
heres a link to follow me on other platforms
“Come on, I know you want it.” He growled into your ear, his hands snaking up your thighs. You shivered at his touch, leaning the back of your head against his shoulder as you pressed against his body as you pressed against his body as you sat between his legs, his hands keeping your thighs wide open.
“Simon” You whispered, reaching up to softly grab his hair. He lets out a small grunt as he pressed his face against your neck and cheek, showering you in kisses and licks.
“Be good and listen, why don’t you?” He suggested, licking over your ear. You slowly moved around and let Simon sit more on the edge of the bed before resting yourself on his thigh.
“Yea, good job.” He smirked, pressing kisses down your collarbone. He sat back and took you in with his eyes.
“Come on. Ride you slut.” He growled. You whimpered as you started rocking back and forth, stimulating your clit against the fabric. His hands came up and rested on your waist, his hazel eyes staring down at you with excitement. You through your arms around his neck, letting small moans escape your lips.
“Faster.” He smirked as he saw the large wet spot soaking into the fabric. You whimpered as you rocked faster into the fabric. You whimpered as you rocked faster, throwing your head back as you felt your abdomen tighten.
“Simon- I’m- “You whimpered out, making him smirk even more. You leaned against him as you felt yourself finish on his pants.
“Good job.” He purred, motioning you to kneel on the floor. You sunk down between his legs, staring submissively into his eyes.
“Now lick it up.” He smirked, running a hand through your hair.
may i request more wholesome task force 141 but like with a gen z reader that’s constantly cracking outta pocket jokes and super self deprecating humor ect. and if not then more grim au would really soothe the soul thank you!!
ps. i love your writing sm you’re doing an amazing job 🙏
Platonic 141 x Gender Neutral Gen Z Reader
ask and you shall receive :)
pairings: platonic 141 x gn!reader
warnings: self deprecating jokes, suicide jokes, reader being out of pocket
summary: just hc's :) this can also be applied to grim, as they are also gen z and self deprecating. so anything you see here, they have probably done
you know that meme of ghost staring at you through the rear view mirror? that's exactly how he would look at you when you say one of your suicide jokes.
one time you noticed that price cleaned up his beard and told him he looked slay before walking out of the room.
"gaz." "yes sir?" "what the fuck does 'slay' mean, and why am i slaying?"
whenever you think one of the guys says something cool, or you agree with them, you just say 'real' with a nod of your head.
they just go along with it
constantly calling soap 'bestie'.
"hey, bestie. come here, i have to show you this sick new knife i got." and he will come running over like a puppy being told there's treats.
one time, on a mission, you got punched pretty hard and said something about it hurting less than when your dad hit you.
"how you feelin', kid?" "ah, my dad hit me harder than that guy on the regular. i'll be fine." gaz did not find this funny.
one night, while sitting in the commons room, soap decided to ask you what the stupidest thing you believed as a child was.
"that i would grow up to be happy." "dude, what the fuck."
you had a uti once, and instead of taking care of yourself, you asked price to bring in the firing squad to put you down.
"i don't really think this warrants this reaction." "it absolutely does."
telling gaz you have a mask kink, as a joke.
it wasn't a joke. he didn't know that.
he told ghost.
when ghost faced revealed to the whole team, you let out the deepest sigh of relief
he asked what that was about and you told him you were glad he didn't look like buff colonel sanders because he scares you
letting everyone know that when soap drives you are NOT the passenger princess, but instead a survivor.
calling price "mommy"
he cried the first time you said it
a/n: i hope you enjoyed this! again, this goes hand in hand with grim :)
I genuinely like to think that Ghost has a massive sweet tooth. It’s always the people you don’t expect imo
Could you imagine reader casually bakes an apple pie one day to let ghost try and he goes MENTAL like I’m talking bro is hearing colors
I just envision him as a big hulking gorilla scarfing down his lovers pie and having crumbs all over his face. Aaaahhh my sweet big bad boy
Sweet Indulgence |Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female Reader|
Chapter Summary: The one where his woman and a sweet and simple pie is Simon Riley's ultimate weakness.
Warnings: Sweet tooth rotting fluff, Domestic!Simon
Word Count: 819
A/N: Thank you for the amazing request!!
You carefully mix the flour and butter, the sweet scent of cinnamon and caramelized apples filling the room as you work. The breeze flowing in from the open windows brings in the fresh aroma of blooming flowers and fills your senses with the promise of spring.
Simon has been off on leave for the first few weeks of spring. The weight of the world is on his shoulders when he's on missions with he team, but being at your shared home is nothing less than heavenly for the Lieutenant.
Simon is out in the yard, planting flowers in your shared garden. You smile to yourself, catching a glimpse of your husband bare faced and hunched over on his knees in the grass, carefully tending to the pink lilies, completely lost in the peacefulness of his own home.
As you finish preparing the apple pie, you slide it into the oven and set the timer. You take a moment to peek out the window and watch Simon in the yard, the gentle breeze ruffling his blond hair, which turns golden under the sun.
You grab a glass of cold lemonade and make your way to the yard to join him. The sky is painted with hues of pink and orange, the air now a few degrees cooler as the evening approaches.
"Hey there, soldier," you say as you approach him, placing a kiss on his cheek. Simon turns his head, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.
"Hi, beautiful." he replies with a smile. "Missed me?"
"Just wanted to come and see you up close," you say, taking a seat next to him in the grass. "And to bring you some lemonade."
Simon takes the glass from your hand and takes a sip, his eyes closing as he savors the cool drink. "Mmm, this is perfect," he says, setting the glass down. Simon wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer to him to leave a kiss in your hair.
"The gardens coming together nice." You notice, looking at his handiwork.
"Yeah, I think it's looking pretty good," he says, his gaze lingering on the flowers. "But it's nothing compared to the beauty that's sitting right next to me."
You feel your cheeks heat up at his words, leaning into his embrace. "You're such a smooth talker," you tease, looking up at him with a grin.
Simon chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Only for you, my love." You leave him to his work, with a sigh of contentment, you take the pie out of the oven to cool and head upstairs to take a quick shower. The warm water soothing your muscles as you let your mind wander.
After your shower, you towel off and change into a comfortable sundress, the fabric light and airy against your skin. As you make your way down the stairs, you can smell the sweet aroma of the pie filling the house, making your mouth water. "Si, the pies done-" you begin to call out but stop in your tracks when you make it to the kitchen.
As you enter the kitchen, you see Simon sitting at the counter with a slice of the apple pie in front of him. His broad shoulders are hunched forward, and he's digging into the pie with a fork, his movements almost primal as he savors the sweet treat. Crumbs and bits of apple are scattered all over his face, and you can't help but chuckle at the sight.
"Was gonna say that the pies ready, but seems like you figured that one out." You tease, making your way over to him.
Simon turns his head, smiling in surprise when he sees you. "Hey, I was just testing it out," he says, trying to wipe the crumbs off his face with the back of his hand. "You've outdone yourself, darling. This is the second best thing I've ever tasted." You chuckle and shake your head at his eyebrow raise, reaching for a napkin to help him clean up.
"I'm glad you like it," you say, taking a seat next to him. "But you have to save some for me, you know." Simon grins, his eyes lighting up mischievously. "I don't know, it's so good, I might just have to finish it all."
You playfully swat his arm, rolling your eyes. "Don't you dare, Simon Riley." He chuckles and leans in for a kiss, the taste of the apple pie still lingering on his lips. "I wouldn't dream of it, my love," he says, pulling you in for a warm embrace.
"I'll save you a slice, I promise." As you settle into his arms, the warmth of his embrace and the sweet aroma of the pie filling the air, you can't help but feel grateful for the simple moments of happiness and peace that you share with your husband, even in the midst of chaos and uncertainty.
A/N: Domestic Simon >>>>>
Night dilemmas- Ghost x Reader x Soap
A/N:lets pretend their a third person in this ^
Ghost x reader x Soap relationship where the boys have a nightmare and need comfort from the reader
This is based on a request:
Angst?, GN!Reader, poly relationship
It was a typical Tuesday night. Your two boys asleep in the living room after a few rounds of drinks. Soap on the floor because Ghost refused to share the couch. You had been up studying in your study room/ office. The words started to make no sense, thats when you hear a knock on the door. You turn around and Ghost stood there.
''Hey big guy, what's wrong?'' you asked in a calm soft tone.
Prior to him coming to you, he had one of his bad nightmares. You and Soap weren't there. He was back inside that coffin, he screamed for you. But no answer, he then heard voices. And immediately recognized your voice.
For hours he dug himself out, only to find you and soap on the floor, dead. He held you both, kissing your foreheads. ''please,,,please dont leave me. I don't know how to fix myself,,,please don't walk away, stay here with me.'' he said as tears streamed down his face, his voice cracking every now and then.
''it's just a dream'' you hugged him, rubbing his back as he let out silent cries.
''It felt so real though,'' he cups your face in his hands, delicately caressing your cheeks, ''I don't know who I am with out you both.''
You tried to talk, but whenever he has this kind of dreams, all you do is listen.
''I'm scared, for the first time in a long time...I'm scared r/n, I'm so scared and I don't know what to do.'' he continues on, his voice sounded so lost and weak. Tears flowing down his soft face.
''What if one day because of me you both-''
''no, don't think like that, we will be fine.'' You wiped his tears as you leaned in and kissed his nose. ''I'll always be here, we will always be here for you Simon.''
Later that night, you laid in bed with him until he was asleep. As you closed your eyes, you heard Soap's voice. You carefully left the bed and tucked Ghost in. You walked into the living room to find Soap holding himself, he looks up and a weak smile appears on him. He stands up and goes to hug you.
His strong big arms holding you close. ''where did you go? I was all alone.'' he cried into your arms. You hugged him even tighter, your hands brushing through his hair.
''I'm here okay? what happened.''
Soap's dream was like Ghost, but in his Ghost had died, and you were the only thing he had left. You two had gotten into an argument and you drove off. It was a snowy weather, you crashed the car and when he woke up, you or Ghost weren't near.
He swore it wasn't a dream, that now it was his reality. He looked for you in the study room/office, where you said you'd be all night. When he didn't see you, that's when he started to really cry.
''You..you were gone and'' his breathing was starting to become more abnormal, ''I was all alone and I-''
''It was a dream soap, we are here baby...we are home, safe and sound.''
You brought him to bed, Ghost and Soap rested their heads on your chest. You hummed a lullaby as you delicately brushed their hair, at times they would wake up and look at you or the other, they'd smiled once they knew you three were together.
This kind of nights were normal around the house. At times you'd have to prepare a bath for them, where you'd scrub them clean and just talk about anything. It was always you three in there, comforting the other.
That to them was the sunshine after the storm. It was home and it was love. It was you three.
A/N: Soooo...I hope this one was good enough for ya! honestly idk what other consider angst anymore thats why I always put the '?' after the word
REQUESTS ARE OPEN
Your opinion isn’t part of the recipe, Sergeant.
Synopsis: After a successful mission, you and the boys decide to spend a day at the park, celebrating with a picnic. Ghost is barbecuing with Price while Soap and Gaz are annoying the living hell out of them. You? You’re looking at the havoc taking place in front of you.
Relationships: 141 x GN!Reader / Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader (brief and near the end)
Word count: 1,176
I’ve had this image in my head for quite a while, and I wanted to put it in writing.
There’s a scene involving a sausage. If any of you filthy minds associate it with anything other than what it really is, I swear to Freud, I’ll grab you by the ear and drag you to the naughty corner.
Platonic and fluffy
It’s amazing how they haven’t ripped each other’s heads off yet.
You all get along so well on missions, that you wonder if it’s the military institution that makes you so well-behaved and orderly. Because what you’re witnessing right now is nothing more than a circus.
You’re sitting on the picnic bench, sipping an ice-cold beer and munching on some thinly sliced carrots you prepared at home. You sprained your ankle on the last mission, and it’s making it difficult for you to participate in anything happening around you. Thank God, you think to yourself.
Soap and Gaz are playing football about twenty metres away from you, which is dangerously close, given the velocity with which they kick the ball to each other. They’ve already hit the table once, launching empty beer cans into the air and shouting “STRIKE!” as if they invented foot bowling. Ghost gave them the death stare and Price politely asked them to keep “the fuck away from anything alive, especially when it’s already injured.”
Ghost is barbecuing. He’s wearing that stupid birthday present you all got him—a tactical vest shaped like an apron with the word “chef” written at the top. It had the same loops a conventional military vest had for attaching pouches for bullets, knives, and walkie-talkies. The loops on that apron, however, were used for organising one’s tools, sauces, and spices while barbecuing. It was a funny gift, and he smiled when he opened it, but you never expected him to wear it. Look at him now, rocking that bad boy as if he was the one who chose it.
Price is standing next to him with a beer and a cigar in his hands. He’s looking at the grill but not touching anything. Ghost clarified that if anyone else touches it, we will eat their fingers along with the sausages. And, even if he didn’t mean the threat, you wouldn’t dare to put his abilities to the test. Especially after seeing what he’s capable of doing at work.
You try to eavesdrop on their conversation, but Soap and Gaz’s shouts drown it out. An F-16 would pass over your head right now, and you’d still hear Soap screaming, “That didn’t count; it was out!”. But, despite the chaos, you can make out some words. They’re reminiscing about the good old days, talking about their first deployment together, their comrades, and only using salt and pepper on steaks.
Price is Ghost’s companion throughout... everything. Whether that’s on a mission or a day out. He can’t seem to bear the entropy that the other two are causing, and he’s not comfortable talking to you yet. Price is as calm and talkative as Ghost desires. Or, perhaps, Price knows what Ghost wants.
Soap and Gaz appear exhausted from football and return to the picnic area. Gaz sits across from you, apologising for being “too sweaty,” and you start laughing. You’ve wiped the blood off of that guy during an enemy attack, and yet, he worries about sweat.
Soap, on the other hand, isn’t much of an etiquette expert. He’s creeping up on the grill, and Ghost threatens to mark him with the spatula if he gets closer. “I’ve already salted the steaks; I don’t need your sweat,” he says.
Soap ignores his warnings and stands there, hands on the sides of his hips, looking at the grill. He gives unsolicited advice about the cooking time and when to flip the pork chops. Ghost tells him his opinion isn’t part of the recipe but turns the pork chops anyway.
Gaz murmurs that he’s hungry, and you offer him a carrot. He makes a disgusted face and asks Ghost—who is taking his sweet time with cooking—when the food will be ready. Ghost then turns to Price, warning him to get a grip of him before he does, and dares Gaz to come close to see for himself. You smirk and nudge him to go, but he shakes his head, telling you he hasn’t gone crazy just yet.
At some point, Ghost becomes distracted by something Price says and leaves the spatula next to the grill. Soap seizes the opportunity and uses the spatula to poke at the meat. Ghost notices him, but as Soap attempts to run away, he catches him by his maw-hawk and draws him closer. Instead of hazing him, he gently touches his shoulder. He explains why pressing on meat while cooking drains it of its juices. Soap crosses his arms in front of his chest and nods like a student.
Price takes up the football and challenges the two sergeants to a game so they’d leave Ghost alone. He says two against himself, and they make a snide remark about his age, saying he smoked an entire cigar and drank five cans of beer. In response, he throws the ball up and shoots it midair with his foot, demonstrating his abilities. Soap and Gaz run after it like dogs playing fetch, and Price joins them.
Ghost turns to face you. He asks if you’re okay, how’s your ankle, and if you’re enjoying the “rabbit food.” You tell him that everything is fine and smile at him. He drapes a towel over his shoulder and gets a fork and knife. He cuts a piece of sausage and hands it to you, whispering not to tell the others. You take the sausage off the fork, thank him, and pop it into your mouth. He looks at you with curiosity and concern as if trying to judge his creation based on your facial expressions.
“It’s delicious, Ghost.” You compliment him, and he puts his hand in his apron pocket, standing taller than before. When you ask him how he made it, he begins reciting every detail of the recipe as if it were a poem he wrote by heart.
He wipes his brow with a towel and whistles with his fingers for the three self-proclaimed MVPs to end their match because the food is ready. The sergeants bolt, and the captain pants in exhaustion. “It’s that fucking cigar,” Gaz says, and Price reminds him that he beat “the living shite” out of both of them in that match.
The four of you sit down and invite Ghost to join. But he refuses, claiming that the grime from the meat is still fresh and now’s the perfect time to clean it off the grill. He encourages you to begin without him.
You start eating, complimenting Ghost’s cooking as you go. He tries to be humble, but he looks so proud of himself. Proud of being able to provide in ways other than giving orders, shouting, pulling triggers, and hurling knives. He enjoys feeding others, even if it means cleaning up afterwards. He might not be full of food, but he’s full of joy, and that faint smile on his face is a dead giveaway, as he cleans the barbecue grill.
All I Wanted - Part 1
summary: when you are kidnapped discovered by TF141 they can't help but fall in love.
pairing: 141 x fem!teen!reader (platonic)
warnings: mentions of child abuse, drugs, canon typical violence
A/N: this is like my first fanfic in a while, and first on tumblr (yay!) any tips and tricks would be so helpful!
this also plans to be a series but posting might and will be inconsistent, thank you in advance!
You always had a difficult life. Being abused by your parents up until you ran away at 13. After you ran away, you got in with the wrong type of people, promises of hope and money, food and validation was all they needed to say to get you hooked in their business of organised crime. Some good came out of it however, they gave you a home and how to defend yourself. They taught you how to shoot a gun and the best place to make someone bleed. They taught you nothing else mattered except them, they became your new family.
You were 15 when you were tasked with transporting a couple crates of weaponry and drugs. The organisation you joined knew you well enough and practically raised you to be the strongest you were. So one cargo ship to Amsterdam later, you find yourself in a rotting, metal warehouse, wearing pink apparel, pink puffy skirt and a white hello-kitty shirt. A baby pink cardigan is draped over your shoulders and over-the-knee white knitted socks. A chrome covered knife strapped to your thigh.
“Zus, how much for it all?” he stood across from you, a cigarette lit between his lips taking a long drag as you assessed his question. His black, slicked back hair elongated his face and the three piece suit almost made this deal professional.
“How much are you offering?” was all you said as a small smile graced your lips, ‘the higher the offer, the better’ you remember being told before you left. They weren’t the best weapons but they were definitely worth at least a couple K.
a grimace, “80”
a growl, “40”
a hum, “55”
“65. Final offer,” his teeth were bared, almost like he was sweating already.
A sinister, sweet smile stretched across your face, “Wonderful, and how are you wanting to transfer that?” out of seemingly nowhere you pulled out a notepad and pen, writing down the bank details before you gave him a pointed look, “You have one week to transfer the money, or I will have your head.”
His face paled, almost embarrassingly so. For how innocent you appeared to be, you knew how to handle yourself in these situations. You turned to walk away, the sound of baby pink mary janes clacking against the concrete as you bounced towards the rusted metal doors, sliding them open as you looked back at the man one final time, “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” and leaving.
You were good at your job. It was easy, for the most part. Gather intel, pass forward that intel. Transfer somewhat illegal items from one holder to another. So it comes to you as a bit of a surprise when you exit through the dusty doors when a bullet wizzes past your face, luckily just missing you. Swiftly pulling out the hand-gun out your waistband and shooting in their direction. You wish you had your sniper, but it was left in the hotel room you managed to stay at.
As you shot in the direction of the fire, you failed to notice someone sneaking out behind you, kicking your knees in. Dirt caked your socks as the grip on your gun became loose. Acting as quick as possible, you flipped onto your back, retching the knife from its holster. Before you could act, black invaded your vision as you felt pain shoot from your head. Shit.
White light invaded your vision, a grumbled swear leaving your dry lips at the pounding in your head. "Jesus Christ," your wrists hurt, rubbed raw by the shitty metal handcuffs they strapped you in, "Whose bedroom did you get these out of? Couldn't even afford good quality cuffs?" fell out of your mouth before you could think to stop it. No one reacted.
It was a van, you could tell that much. The interior white with small wooden benches lining it. Two men sat on either side of you whilst the other two sat across. From what you could make out, another pair sat at the front, driving to this unknown destination.
Maybe you should have been more scared. More begging for them not to hurt you. Four big, burly military men could definitely kill you much easier than you kill them.
They studied you like you studied them. The one on your left was most likely the oldest, a fisherman's hat upon his head and mutton chops-moustache combo was the dead give away. He had his eyes closed and arms crossed across his chest, legs spread wide.
You couldn't make out the one on your right quite as well. A black balaclava with painted white skeletal teeth paired well with the upper half of the skull mask he wore. He seemed to be in a similar position as grandpa, although he had an ankle resting on his knee instead, head tilted back against the cool metal of the van.
The two across from you seemed younger. One had a darker complexion, his eyebrows furrowed in a thoughtful expression. He was smaller than the rest but no doubtfully as strong.
Lastly was the man with a mohawk. His eyes bore into you the most, not so angry and more trying to figure out who you were. Breaking you apart and putting you back together with his eyes. Childishly, you stuck your tongue out at him. His face morphed into one of slight surprise before rolling his eyes and looking towards the front.
It was quiet. The hum from the light ticking like a clock in your ear. Trying to gauge where you were and how much time had passed, your foot started tapping on the floor.
"Stop," A gruff voice said suddenly making you jump before mumbling a sorry at the skull-faced man. It was quiet again. It numbed your senses, sending shivers down your spine. Gravel sounded under the tires before voices outside sounded, signalling your arrival.
The doors pulled open, sunlight shining in. As mohawk and shorty left, skully pulled your arm to tug you along out with him, a short yelp escaping past your lips at the action.
You tripped over your feet, pins and needles shooting up your legs from sitting for so long. "Can you be gentle?" you spoke as you found your footing, "Please?" it was tacked on at the end for at least the tiniest bit of sympathy.
Skully looked down at you as he continued to drag you towards what you hoped was a five-star hotel with bed and breakfast. At least your death would be a quick one.
The halls blurred together until you were sitting in a leather chair in someone's office, back to the door, although you felt the looming presence of the men behind you. Mutters were heard outside before the door clicked opened, footsteps and a click again.
Gramps stood in front of you, leaning over the dark stained oak table. He had a file in his hand, putting it on the desk before sliding it over to you. "What do you know of El Sin Nombre?" it wasn't as much of a question than you'd like but an order for information.
Your mouth was so dry it felt like you swallowed cotton. As much as you wished to answer him, you look at him with furrowed brows and a confused expression. It took you a couple minutes before words formed in your throat, "Who?".
He didn't enjoy that answer. One of his hands slapping on the desk as he seethed, repeating the question again as if that would change your answer.
"I don't know who that is! I can't help you," you felt that burning sensation under your eyes as you desperately tried to convey your emotions. Tears meant weakness, and that's the one thing you didn't want to show to your captors right now.
Pairs of eyes hammered into your head. You felt like a child again, staring down at your toes being told off for not doing the dishes or not being quick enough to grab a beer. You braced for the hits, the punches to your ribs as you made promises that fell on the deaf ears of your mother and father.
"Price," A voice sounded behind you, soft and comforting. An accent coated the words that flowed through the air you didn't pick up on. The more time passed the more your eyes stung, tears slipping past your defences. Shoulders shaking as you try to curl into yourself, strings of "I don't know" and "I'm sorry" being nothing more than mumbles.
The room grew cold and quiet as you sobbed. Footsteps couldn't be heard over your own cries, so when an arm wrapped around your shoulders, you jolted. Expecting this is where you get hit. Bracing for the impact and sting they usually brought with them.
Instead, the arm pulled you into their chest, hugging you close and stroking your hair, along with shushing you softly. It only made you sob harder. When was the last time someone hugged you like this? Sure, you got the occasional pat on the back for a job well done, but never an embrace like this.
Time passed through your fingers like sand, not knowing how long you sat there for before you calmed down. The arms didn't pull away until you did, cringing at the wet patch you left on the man's shirt. Speaking of, you looked up to see mohawk looking down at you, eyes soft and an equally soft smile. "Y're alright now lass?" his accent leaked into the words, a curt nod allowing him to pull away and stand up again.
A heavy sigh sounded above you as you dragged your eyes up to meet who you presumed was this 'Price' figure. "What’s your name?"
Gears turned over the question in your head, thinking of an answer. Technically, you lost your name when you left home, gaining a couple new names at the gang.
Your silence was taken for an answer. "What are you doing in Amsterdam?" this you could answer.
"A business exchange. I'm just the messenger, I don't know any of the customers - I promise! - I just get the money and dip. I promise I can't help you-" you were hyperventilating at this point.
"It's alright sweetheart, deep breaths, calm down for me, yeah?" Price's voice was gentle now, seemingly not wanting the same thing to happen.
"Can you tell us where you're from? Who you work for?" He asked once he saw you calm down.
"Uhm- I'm from England. And I don't really work for them but I'm a doberman. They're some organisation that took me in," you weren't really interested in going into full depths of your life with these complete strangers.
Although, you felt the gazes lift off you and onto Price, his own eyes looking back at his men, a million silent conversations happening right above your head. Price inhaled sharply before he asked his last question, "How old are?"
"15." The air knocked out of his lungs.
,,,maybe this request is weird but I’m a sucker for vague horror stuff,,, but what if The Rookie is just sorta off? Like they appear blurry in pictures, their voice in the comms sound super weird, or they look scary from the corner of your eye? No preference with suitors just whoever you think would be interesting. They/them pronouns please!
Again I’m really sorry if this is weird or if it’s too much to ask,,, and if you don’t feel comfortable doing this you can just delete the ask.
The Confessional Booth
or: There's something not quite right with the rookie. No one is willing to bring it up.
Wow, look at me, working my way through my inbox. I've honestly lost a lot of confidence in my writing but this was fun.
"WELCOME BACK, KYLE"
The laptop monitor winks to life, the blue light maps the planes of his face. He does not look at the HAVE YOU BEEN SAVED YET HAVE YOU BEEN SAVED YET HAVE YOU BEEN SAVED YET below.
Kyle doesn't remember what he's writing even as his fingers linger above the keys of the next word. His earphones have long stopped playing music, only white static drifts to his ears.
He bought them yesterday. He doesn't know when yesterday was. He thinks he's lived this day before.
"No casualties encountered.." the document stares at him, the clock in the corner has stopped its solid tick of time. In the corner of his eyes, he sees a single crow linger by the windowsill.
Footsteps sound in the hall outside. The door opens, a hint of malaise and rot fills the room. This is routine.
"Hey, Gaz," they say. Kyle fights the instinct that tells him not to turn around. The Rookie doesn't go inside, face obscured by the harsh fluorescent light overhead the corridor.
"Need somethin', Rookie?" He thinks he sees them grin at him, teeth jagged and laugh wrong in all the way humans aren't. "Got any idea where the Captain is?"
"Think he's out for a smoke," he says, not meeting their eyes. He is the only person in the base with them. The beads of his rosary dig against his palm. Kyle doesn't know to whom he prays to. All he knows is that no one is listening.
(Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee;)
"Alright. Want to go to a pub? Wouldn't do us any good to be rotting down here," they ask him. Kyle ignores the unmarked grave that flashes over his vision. He looks over his shoulder and meets the too-dark gaze of the crow. "Sorry, mate. Need to finish this report."
"Come on, Captain wouldn't mind-"
"Sorry," they pause. "I really have to finish this or Price will have my head," he insists. They stare at him from the doorway, shifting from one leg to the other as if weighing what this lie will cost him.
They can't read minds, he has to echo, he has nothing to fear.
They inch forward and the iron cross of his rosary bleeds a bead of crimson from his palm. Their unseen eyes flicker to his trembling knuckles, then to the window. Their lips pull up into a smile. "Maybe next weekend?"
"Definitely. Sorry for turning you down, mate. Just.. busy." No casualties encountered screeches at him from the screen. They're not-quite-face suck him in. It is a sinkhole of dark decay. Everyday he treads closer to the brink of falling.
"Don't worry, I'll catch you next time." They grin, smile a little too large on their face, voice without any discernible accent. They mean it.
"See you then." He doesn't.
(blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus—)
The door closes and their footsteps echo away. There is still a figure standing behind him, their reflection on the screen of his laptop. Kyle doesn't turn around. He knows better. His mama taught him to never look.
When they are gone, for what feels like hours later, he stands and locks the door. He knows it won't help them from breaking in.
He has followed all the rules. He has nothing to fear. Kyle looks to the clock. It's 3:14.
The crow is no longer by the windowsill. The window latch is closed. He draws the curtains and blinds.
The light in John's office flickers, the sky outside is dark. The cicadas are shrilling and singing and he is glad for it. When they stop, a different being roams the corridor.
The Rookie's file reads a long string of [redacted]. The paper holds a reddish stain on the right corner. He tells himself it's spilled ink.
Every week he checks what their name is, every week he forgets. The note in his pocket reminds him to never check more than once every seven days.
There is a roll in-between his fingers. The air is hazy and humid. The smell of tobacco in his nostrils, the taste of smoke on his tongue. John leans against the chair and follows a crow's path above the cornfield.
It lands on the shoulder of a scarecrow. There are footsteps outside the door. The cicadas stop singing.
There is a knock on his door. He pans the CCTV as far right as it goes.
He knows who it is. It is routine.
The crow. The cicadas. The knock.
The Rookie stands there, shadows pooled at their feet. They stare at the camera, unblinking and empty-eyed. John is being watched even if he is the one watching. His breath stops short in his chest.
(Holy Mary, Mother of God,)
There is another knock on the door. It is already dark. He does not answer.
"Captain, can I come in?" they whisper, voice crawling through the cracks of the walls. They almost sound human, but there are no other soldiers who leave their rooms at night. He does not answer.
"Captain, I'm coming in." The door is no longer locked. They step inside, crossing the boundary of the doorway.
This is new. They were never able to enter rooms without permission before.
"Rookie," he speaks through clenched teeth. Their eyes gleam in the dark.
For a second, he thinks they're looking at him.
They are not.
They track a silhouette in the cornfield outside, face bleak and cold. The scarecrow is a little closer than how he remembers.
Shadows spy them as their not-body passes through the room, sticking by the walls. John blinks once and now they are right behind him.
He does not turn around. Their breath is hot against the back of his neck, their hand right over his shoulder.
"Captain, did you see anything tonight?" they ask, feigning a tone that vaguely sounds apologetic. They sound too human.
"No." He hasn't seen anything. Sometimes he forgets that anything outside his office exists.
"Why are you lying?" He does not respond. John's teeth are clattering, his palms clammy. He swallows around a dry mouth.
"Are you afraid?" He doesn't turn around. It doesn't matter that he is. He doesn't flinch, doesn't check if anyone else is awake.
At night, you are alone if they come to your door. He hears a flap of wings.
"You didn't see anything tonight."
(pray for us sinners,)
"Nothing," he whispers. His blood is cold.
When they're about to leave, they linger by the doorway. They stare at him, gaze straight, eyes milky white and soulless. They do not blink. Razor sharp teeth grin at him. John makes sure not to meet their gaze.
The door closes. The lock turns from outside.
He looks to the window. It is afternoon. There is no cornfield. The ground outside is barren. Its harvest is hollow.
The skin of his neck crawls. There is something in the room with him.
A life-sapped carcass of a crow lies on the floor right below the clock.
It reads 3:15. It has always been 3:15. John hasn't seen anything.
The fog speeding through the streets is thick. The flickering lamp lights do not cut through the haze. Nothing cuts through the haze. The fog has been here since forever. The white-haired old man down the road says it's ne'er receded even when he was still playing by the creek.
There is no eventual dissipation. There never will be.
The fog is alive.
"Rookie, give me a sit-rep," Johnny grumbles, eyeing the mossy oak tree that is always 4 feet away. "Rookie?"
Their voice crackles, static broken. "..cHurCH.."
"Anything else?" He does not remember how they got here. A whisper from the woods behind him tell that it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter. He is never leaving. It doesn't matter.
"I- it MaTtErs.."
""D you jus'say?"
"..hUrRY." Johnny spares the woods a last glance. It waves him goodbye.
A crow caws.
He arrives at the church some time later. Its floorboards creak with every step he takes. Mold and decay has taken the building. The Earth is taking back God.
The pews are dusted. The Bibles he sees are blank. The holy water, maggot-infested, is dark.
There are footsteps that lead to the confessional. "Good evening," The Rookie whispers inside.
He enters the booth. His skin crawls. He cannot see their face. He does not want to.
(Now, and at the hour of our death,)
"Confess your sins, Sergeant," their voice is dry. Johnny does not listen to the hymns that have started to play outside the booth.
"Confess your sins or you won't be able to leave." It is not a threat.
The bell rings overhead. The tower had been empty. The organ begins playing. "Hurry," they urge him.
Murmured prayers begin rising from the church. He sees shadows roaming the aisle.
The voices are rising— give sentence with me, o god, and defend my cause against the ungodly people: o deliver me from the deceitful and wicked man.
He spills open.
When the confession is finished, the shadows outside turn to face him. They are smiling. He grips the rosary in his pockets. It does not help.
The Earth has long taken God.
"Ego te absolvo," The Rookie whispers.
When he leaves the confessional, there are corpses of crows on the pews. They are smiling.
".. what's the time?" They tilt their head, unseen eyes turning away from the cross.
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
Warning - alcohol, alcoholic ish Simon
I’m wasted y’all and wanted to write
There’s a strange comfort that Simon finds at the bottom of each bottle during leave. Most times he’s not even sober enough to remember the way he gazes at the empty thing, other nights he is to aware.
Now Simon wouldn’t consider himself an alcoholic. He doesn’t drink when he’s on base, much to his distaste, but the minute he’s back in his bare apartment, he’s drowning himself in liquor.
It helps. More then anything he’s ever tried. Even sleeping pills don’t always insure the sound sleep he gets after a large bottle of booze. Wards off the horrid nightmares to.
Simons very aware of how bad of a habit this is, although he’s not particularly concerned about it until he meets you. In his rush to not ruin things he forgets about the liquor bottles that litter his living room in bedroom.
“Simon…?” You voice his hushed, lowered with worry for the man as you stare at the coffee table in the middle of the pristine clean room. The only litter in his home the seemingly endless bottles of booze.
He turns, brows furrowing at your town. His eyes tracing your gaze back to the full table. He lets out a heavy breath, eyes widening.
“I must’ve forgotten to clean up…” he mumbles, almost to himself. His town hides it well but there’s a swelling sense of horror mixed with fear brewing in his stomach. Please don’t leave, he silently pleads
“You’re an-“ you start, turning to him with worried eyes. He doesn’t like that expresión on you.
“No.” He cuts you off quickly, “it just helps.” You nod.
“Let me help instead…alright?” Now it’s his turn to nod, letting himself share a rare moment of vulnerability as you envelop him in your arms. Simon breaths in your scent, wrapping his arms around you and tucking his face into the crook of his neck.
As you drag him to bed that night, tucking yourself into him under the shared blanket of his bed, pressed against eachother in a more intimate manner then either of you would like to admit, Simon finds that you were better then the booze.
141 x reader headcanons :)
NSFW MDNI 🔞
cw:gnreader, no descriptions, group s◇x, reader gets embarrassed but not in a mean way, lewd sorry, mutual m☆st♤rbation, pup used as a pet name, dp, toys, word salad, long sorry LOL
bro im sorry but this isn't going to be a spur of the moment thing. there's 5 of you and at least 3 of you are bad at reading social cues. this is after a well thought out planning, setting aside an entire weekend, one day for prep alone. especially for you dear reader.
naturally, Soap is most eager to the idea, but surprisingly, Gaz is most reserved. who can blame him? having sex with your captain and lieutenant in the same room is intimidating enough, let alone the both of them participating.
the day before is full of physical and emotional prep
everyone is feeling out vibes, talking boundaries, and getting comfortable.
the boys are waiting on you, hand and foot, but especially Simon. you ask for something, and he's on it without a word. its like he's preemptively apologizing for how sore you're going to be by being at your beck and call.
Gaz is very tentative with his "day before" foreplay. he touches your hips in passing and kisses the spots below your ears and whispers to you. thankfully his shy whispers do wonders to get you going
"can't wait to get a taste of you, love."
"sure you can handle all of us?"
Soap and Price are very unashamed and downright eager to touch you even in front of the others
John pulls you into his lap when you're walking by. he's taken your recliner as his throne, naturally. very open with his touching and kissing on you. hes even making eye contact with Soap or Simon as a "you wish this was you huh?" type of challenge. doesn't do it to Gaz because he can tell he's nervous enough.
the only person to give Price a run for his money when it comes to touching you is Soap. if Price isn't pulling and pawing at you, Johnny is. you already have hickies all over your neck and shoulders from him
by the end of the night the touching is getting heavier. even Simon has gotten in on it now that things are settling down. much more subdued than the others tho. he kisses your hands behind corners out of sight from the others. nibbles at your neck when he puts you on the kitchen counter when he's making tea. treats you like you're the only other one in the room ♡♡
your lips are swollen from being kissed and nipped at for the better part of 5 hours. but the fun doesn't start fully until the next day.
Gaz insists everyone has a shower and a light breakfast. you are given the task of making breakfast with him with a cute plug in your ass. you know, for prep. and for show. go on, bend over and show them
oops Soap spilled maple syrup on his fingers. they're almost down your throat now.
Soap has a terrible oral fixation that he is relinquishing onto you. he wants you to open wide, lick his fingers clean in front of all the others at the table. hes not done until you're almost drooling down your chest.
licks his own fingers clean after taking them out of your mouth. there's still a light flavor of maple
"christ Johnny did you have to make a mess of em already?"
breakfast teas and coffees are taken to the living room. finally things are picking up now that all the vibes have been checked and everyone had fallen into a comfortable hierarchy of sorts
mutual masturbation anyone?
nerves are high, especially yours. all the attention is on you. the want to see how you like to be touched, how you want them to touch you.
pushing and stroking at your own body, fingers pinching and dipping into places that make your moan shyly into the tense air.
Gaz loves to encourage you. he's right in your ear on the sofa. at this point he's gently grabbing and propping your legs open to give a better show. still very quiet when he talks to you which is somehow more overwhelming
"great job, love. you can be a little louder, you know."
"that's it~ let em hear you."
flustered flustered flustered. pawing at something or someone when you do cum from your own hand.
here's where it begins. they cheer. it's not clapping or yelling but all four of them praise you.
Gaz is practically purring in your ear, you can feel him pressed against you. "first one of the night~"
Soap has been stroking his cock since you started moaning. his praises were laced with moans.
Simon could feel his body heat up under his mask and t shirt. a swift exhale through his nose, "fuck.."
John's deep chuckle. you watch the smoke roll of his lips with your bleary eyes. "good pup, keep goin now"
not up to you really. Soap is already between your legs. if anyone was getting this show on the road it's him. his lapping at you with his hot tongue. Johnny is a messy eater.
puts your legs on his shoulders or holds them with your knees by your ears.
"look at me. come on. cum f' me"
eye contact. everyone wants you looking at them when you cum but if you're eyes are rolling back that's fine too.
muffled cheering from between your legs
Johnny hands you off to his captain, sitting you on his lap. Soap refuses to let you go tho so you're pressed into John's chest with Soap biting and nipping at you.
the recliner is getting very crowded when Gaz and Simon come to stand on either side.
Lube. lots of lube. Soap is easy when he pulls out your plug. more lube when he slides himself in.
"bloody christ. grippin me like a vice."
Price makes it easy for you. you don't have to do any work with him around. he's handed his cigar off to Gaz before he slips his fingers into your dripping hole. his long fingers press into your walls, making you squeal.
Soap is moaning right along with you, the various pressing and scissors of Price's fingers only adding to the pleasure.
your cheek is pressed against John's chest, every time Soap thrusted into you from behind you sank further into Price's arms.
he smells so nice even when hes sweating, he probably conditions his chest hair just for you. so when you're pressed into his chest you have something soft to nuzzle into
when soap won't stop mumbling about how good you feel, Price shoves his slick fingers into his mouth.
"taste of your own medicine, Sargeant."
heart eyes. Johnny gets drunk off pleasure and the more attention he's shown the better he feels. happily licks his captains fingers clean of the taste of you.
John lowers you so gently onto his cock. thick, throbbing, and heavy inside you. you can feel him twitch. So can Soap
you're already red, flustered, sweating but now pressed between 2 massive bodies that are rutting and biting st yiur skin it only gets hotter.
john moves your hips for you, pulling you onto his lap and pushing you back against Johnny's hips.
you manage to make eye contact with Gaz who looks just as flustered as you somehow. the peaks of his cheeks are dusted red and you can see the way hes taking in the scene in front of him.
take the initiative for him. pull his cock out because he's not gonna do it himself.
Ghost isn't a complainer, but if he feels like he's being neglected, when he finally does get his hands on you he's damn near snapping at the hands of anyone trying to touch you.
he does end up remembering that sharing is caring and allows the others to continue touching you, but eyes on him and him only when he's buried in your guts
gaz believes in toy superiority. he's using everything he's got on you. probably stopped at a shop just for some extra goodies like cock rings and those mints that make your mouth water like crazy.
brings vibrators upon vibrators just to use on you to see what works best.
by the end of the night, the Hitachi wand is getting passed around like a joint.. passed around like you.
every. single. time you cum, they're cheering and praising you. sometimes they are downright demanding another immediately after just because they like seeing your embarrassed face.
the touching doesn't even stop in the shower. "we're savin water" John says when he has you pressed against the shower wall
"yeah. savin water.." simon echos from between your legs.
soap is a dastardly man, wanting to use your body long after everyone else is spent. your dripping will cum, lube, drool and everything in between and that's how he likes you most. "you can do one more, hm?"
and who are you to deny? you nod and hum softly. he doesn't make you lift a finger, you probably can't anyway but he wouldn't make you even if you could.