#call for fic

[noelledeltarune]

EVERY SINGLE DAY there are MILLIONS of characters in their late 20s who get falsely accused of being father figures to teenagers when in reality the description of "weird older cousin" or "step-sibling that moved out before you were born" is 1000000x more apt

[seagiri]

very sleep deprived doodles of whatever’s going on inside my brain

[simply-ewok]

rolling over, half asleep, in the middle of the night and when you stretch your arm out you end up smacking ghost in the face, and you can’t help but fling yourself back with a loud gasp before realizing it’s just your man, who yet again, snuck inside and cozied up to you without stirring you (bc he hates waking up his baby) bc he was able to come home early and chose to surprise you. and after you relax and begin apologizing for hitting him you hear his low, growly chuckle as he sits up to pull you into his chest, kissing your forehead before mumbling into your sweet smelling hair “it’s all right lovie, di’n’t mean to scare you.”

[swordsandholly]

Thinking about a mechanic!AU where the 141 boys run a garage and need a new receptionist. They hire you because you’re just so cute (great tits) and have a decent resume but it becomes a slight problem when they realize you’re a bit… dense.

Total ditz to be precise.

But they can’t really get mad when you get the keys for clients mixed up and look at them with those big eyes all teary and a little pout pushing out your lower lip.

Price is the most patient, perfectly content to walk you through how to file paperwork and fill out forms. Instructing you in a low voice while his breath brushes the shell of your ear. It’s really their fault for having such a terrible system, you know? Don’t worry about it too much, dove. He’ll settle his big hands on your shoulders and gently trace up and down your arms. See? You’re getting it. Just needed some more practice, hm?

Johnny is more than happy to show you around the garage, rattling off everything he knows about all those nitty gritty details that go right over your pretty little head. He’ll pop open the hood of some sports car and point to the engine to show it off. No, bonnie, you’ve got tae get in close. Closer.

Until you’re bent entirely over in one of those too-short skirts you wear everyday. It takes all his willpower not to yank you into the supply closet.

Gaz is just so sweet to you. Always bringing you little treats and candies to suck on. To help you concentrate, of course. Always greeting you with a soft ‘baby girl’ at the beginning of your shift. Whenever you’re standing around be it at the printer or counter - wherever really - he’ll slip a hand on your waist. It always trails a little lower, his pinky just edging on the hem of your too tight jeans.

Ghost gets frustrated with you to the point of causing tears to well up in the corners of your eyes. He’s feels guilty, sure, but bloody hell just print the damn receipt. He avoids you for the most part. Until one evening when it’s pouring down. You forgot your rain coat of course, silly girl. He offers you a ride which you take happily.

After that he can’t get rid of you. You bring him coffees (how you remember his order word for word but not where you last left your own cup is beyond him) and giggle at his jokes. When a client gets too snappy or too loud he’s the first to step in - standing behind you glaring at them with his huge arms crossed over his chest until they back down.

[bitten-fruit]

Simon forgets how strong he is

18+ MDNI - cw: bruising - ~700 words

just some Simon Riley NSFW brainrot ♥︎ - part 2-ish, and part 3-ish here!!

Simon forgets how to be gentle.

When he's at war, fighting and shooting and killing day and night, all he knows is hardness. Brutality. Ruthlessness. His hands and heart grow calloused and rough in his months away from you. Using his unfathomable strength to survive is what he grows used to, it becomes second nature.

But it's your softness he remembers, to keep himself sane. It's all he thinks about. Dreams of.

The way the flesh of your hips, your ass, your breasts, your belly, pillows so deliciously between his fingers when he squeezes his handful - so warm, so supple. The way your vanilla-balmed lips graze his scarred skin so tenderly, however undeserved your sweetness is.

And when he finally returns home, after months of missing, craving you - when you stand in the door, honey thighs bare by virtue of the black panties you wore just to torture him, soft tummy peeking out from under your crop-top - he just can't restrain himself.

You greet him with your sugary smile, stretching up on your toes to curl your loving arms around his neck - your gentle voice, music; "Si, ah! I'm so glad you're okay…"

The moment your velvet skin touches his, his shackles crumble. Like a beast starved, he clutches you. Mammoth arms curl around you, constricting, gripping you eagerly like you might be a dream; liable to turn to a memory, to smoke.

His avaricious embrace lifts your feet from the ground, though he doesn't mean to - he burrows his nose and mouth into the crook of your neck, lets the curls of your hair smother him and fill his chest with the faint scent of your fruity shampoo. Fights every urge to take a bite, like you're a ripe nectarine.

Growls into your skin, through his jaw; "I fuckin' missed you, love. Christ, you have no idea how much I missed you."

"I missed you too, baby…" you coo into his ear, even your breathing is tender - he can't take it.

So he ferries you immediately to the sitting room, scoops you up like you weigh nothing, lets you coil your buttery thighs around his waist as he sits you on his lap on the sofa.

His wide hands take their greedy handfuls of your body - of your waist, of your hips, of your thighs, of your ass. Finally indulging the impulses he had dreamed about for so long - the very image he had fucked his fist to more times than he could count while parted from you.

With his teeth on your shoulder, tongue laving your warm skin; "So fuckin' soft," he grumbles deeply, and urges, "pretty thing. So soft. Fuck, I missed you."

His cock is hasty to grow boulder-solid under his trousers, and he chastises himself - but you answer with a cloying giggle, grinding your mound against its rigidity as if to torment him.

"Mm, you did miss me," you tease, little brat.

Then in an instant, all he can think about is the softness of your syrupy pussy, the gumminess of the inside of your cunt as its walls caress and milk his cock like it was built just to fit him.

You make him fucking ravenous, so voraciously eager to have you that he doesn't even notice his hands turn to vices around your flesh - fingers burrowing so deeply into the cheek of your ass that he might break through the skin.

"Ah!" You yelp, "Ow - Simon - you're hurting me-"

Your squeak of pain is enough to immediately shatter him - so he rapidly lifts you off of him, protecting you from his impulse. Stands you on your feet so that you're no longer victim to his inability to control himself.

"Shit, I'm sorry-" he grunts under his breath, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it's-" Your brows curl in worry, turning to look at where he had clawed you - and he sees the purple bruises where his hand had wrenched the flesh of your ass, the red lines where his fingernails had nearly punctured you. "Oh," you breathe at the sight, "…wow."

Drowning in visceral shame, he can barely bring himself to touch you again. But your soft hand caresses his hair, running through the sandy tresses - you, somehow, the one to comfort him.

"It's okay, baby, I know you didn't mean to," you purr fondly, and he leans forward to shamefully press as soft a kiss as he can into the bruise he gave you. Fucking monster.

"I'm sorry," he croaks into your skin, hoping his guilt will reverse his barbarity. "I just missed you."

"I know," you croon, turning to plant a loving kiss into his hair. "It's okay."

You guide him to lean back, mounting his lap again, letting your pelvis grind against the erection you were quick to reawaken.

His hands barely ghosting over your skin, he restrains himself, touches you carefully.

You whisper, into his stubbled cheek; "I'll show you how to be gentle again."

[rileyslibrary]

After suffering a gunshot wound, you wake up in a hospital bed with Ghost sitting by your side. Unfortunately, the effects of anaesthesia leave you unable to recognise him and, worse, confuse him with someone else.

A/N: Fluff. Based on a request I received a while ago. Hope you like it, anon!

———————————————————————

A machine on your left beeps rhythmically. The taste of something metallic lingers in your mouth, and the iodine smell stinks your nostrils. Your eyes open slowly, but the bright ceiling light forces them shut again. You lick your lips and attempt to swallow a couple of times. Dry. Your mouth is dry. You need water. Your hand moves towards your face, but a low, raspy voice advises you against it.

“Careful now,” it says, and a hand gently grabs your wrist. “Don’t pull the IV off.”

You turn your head towards the figure beside you and squint. It’s a man, but your blurry vision doesn’t help you identify him. Your eyes travel to your wrist and focus on the closest part of him: a skeleton’s hand.

You try to shake your hand off his grip, but it turns out futile. Frustrated, you give up and raise your middle finger at him.

“Not my time yet,” you declare. “Fuck off.”

“Pardon?” he asks.

“Not ready to go yet,” you reply, tucking your middle finger in your palm and lifting it back up again. “And also, fuck off.”

The man releases your wrist, placing your hand gently beside you. He clears his throat and leans forward. Though your vision remains blurry, you spot what looks like a human skull with a hood over it.

“How are you feeling, love?” he asks, his tone softer.

“How am I feeling, love?” you repeat. “Did Hell improve their customer service?”

“I’m not-” The man begins but pauses. He sighs, shakes his head and rests his elbows on his thighs. “Never mind.”

“Where am I?” You ask.

“Hospital.” He replies. “You took a bullet.”

Directing your attention to your body, you feel a dull throb in your chest. You wince as your fingers brush against the bandages.

“You are joking.” You reply and slap your hand on the bed. “Why? How?”

“Well,” He says and tilts his head to the side. “You exchanged a few shots with the enemy, your gun ran out of bullets, his didn’t, and here we are.”

“My gun?” You ask, shocked. “I have a gun?”

“Several.” He nods.

“SEVERAL?” You shout. “Why would I possibly need several guns?”

“It’s your job, love.” He replies.

“My job is to have several guns?” you ask. “And shooting at people?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he explains, “but it’s mainly for defence.”

“Well,” you shrug and wince at the pain. “Doesn’t look like I’m that good at defence—especially for having several guns.”

“I was really worr—”

“Water,” you interrupt and gesture at your mouth. “I need water.”

“Doctor said it’s not the time for water yet,” he replies.

“Why?” you ask, pretending to check a non-existent wristwatch. “What time is it?”

“No, love,” he replies and muffles a chuckle. “Doctor said you need to wait until you have some water.”

“You throw the ‘love’ thing a little too freely,” you mumble, licking your lips and lifting your index finger. “I’d be really careful if I were you.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning back into the chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Why?”

“I,” you say and point at yourself, “got a boyfriend, thank you very much.”

“Oh,” he exclaims and tilts his head. “Is that so.”

“Yup,” you nod. “And he can kill you.”

“Can he?”

“Can?” You say, and a smug smile forms on your dry lips. “He will absolutely, one hundred and a thousand per cent kill you.”

“Is he that good?” He asks.

“I mean,” you shrug, motioning at the bandages on your chest. “He’s much better than I am.”

“Oh wow,” he exclaims and leans forward. “Is he as good of a boyfriend as he is a shooter?”

“Far from it,” you reply, letting your hand fall to your side.

The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t seem that comfortable all of a sudden. He shuffles in his chair, trying to find a better position, and when he does, he clasps his hands together.

“Go on,” he finally says. “Spill it.”

“Ok, so,” you begin, “first things first, he doesn’t listen to me when I want to vent, and whenever he does, all he says is nonsense.”

“The lad gives you solutions,” he snaps, “and you call them nonsense?”

“I don’t want solutions, man,” you reply, shaking your head. “I want him to just listen to me.”

“Even if the solutions he provides are literally the answers to your suffering?”

“Even then.” You confirm.

“Gotcha,” he nods. “What else?”

“Oof,” you sigh, “how much time do you have?”

“I’m immortal,” he reminds you, “plus the next reaping is in five hours.”

“Oh boy,” you reply. “Business not going that well lately, huh?”

“Not many deaths to take care of,” he spits. “I guess some people could use some serious training when it comes to their aim.”

“Speaking of training,” you say, “he’s always at work and never spends much time with me.”

“The guy’s trying to spend as much time with you as he can, for fucks sake!” he shouts, throwing his hands up. “He even lied to get you on his team!”

“How do you know he put me on his team?” You ask.

“I keep a close eye on him.” He replies.

“What did he lie about?”

“Your precision in aiming,” he jokes and motions for you to continue. “Next one.”

“I can’t think of anything else,” you reply. “Other than he doesn’t say how much he loves me.”

“You’re having a laugh now, aren’t you?” He says, and his tone feels almost threatening. “He’s showing it to you daily; offering advice, keeping you close to him, even risking the possibility of being accused of nepotism for crying out loud! He doesn’t need to say it as well for you to know it!”

“It’s just nice to hear it sometimes,” you sigh and twist a thread from the bed sheet. You turn your head slightly toward him, and he lowers his head to the ground.

“How about you?” You ask. “You have a girlfriend?”

“I do,” he confirms.

“Shut up!” You shout, widening your eyes and immediately closing them back again. “Where did you guys meet?”

“Hell,” he replies. “Right in the pits of it.”

“How is she?” You ask.

“Perfect.” He states.

“Bullshit,” you murmur. “No one’s perfect.”

“She is to me.” He says, shrugging.

“Do you love her?” You ask.

“Absolutely,” he replies, nodding slowly. “One hundred and a thousand per cent I do.”

———————————————————————

[empresskylo]

simon ‘ghost’ riley is a light sleeper. he’s so well trained to be on high alert that even when he’s not on duty he wakes at the smallest sound.

sometimes you’ll get up in the middle of the night and he immediately sits up. “you alright?” he slurs.

you make a small sound of discomfort or wiggle a little too much and his head is turning on the pillow, his eyes on you. and he always asks if you’re okay. you’ve told him he’s being silly and sometimes you just have to get up to go to the bathroom, but you gave up on telling him that—he’s adamant on checking on you.

and anytime he wakes up, no matter where the disturbance comes from, he’s looking over to your side of the bed to make sure you’re okay first.

and if you ever do need him in the middle of the night, all you have to do is whisper his name. he opens his eyes almost immediately and instinctively tightens his arm around you. “everythin’ alright?”

and one time you couldn’t sleep. your face was buried in his chest as he clung to you, the soft rumble of his snores letting you know he was knocked out. you didn’t want to wake him, but you were crying. you barely even moved as you teared up into his chest. suddenly, his hands squeezed you tighter. “whats’a matter?” he coos softly.

you tilt your head up to him teary eyed. “i didn’t mean to wake you.”

he clicks his tongue. “tell me what’s wrong, baby.” his hand gently caressing your face, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear.

and he’s so protective. if you roll over and out of his hands he’s quick to pull you back into his grip. he likes having his hands on you while he’s sleeping. it makes him feel more secure knowing you’re okay.

when you fall asleep together on the sofa, your body pressed to his, his arms are wrapped around your waist, clutching you closely against him. it doesn’t even matter if he’s too warm, he wants you touching him at all times whenever he’s asleep.

it’s gotten to the point where he can barely sleep when he’s not with you. without you safely in his arms, without being able to physically feel you under his fingertips, it continuously wakes him up. he’s lucky to get two hours in a row without waking.

post that inspired this | my cod masterlist

[criminalamnesia]

the 141 x reader fic that you did was so yummy!!! pls make them suffer the wrath of reader and make 141 realise how much they need them when they leave,

your work is so amazing btw and your way with words is simply ✨chef’s kiss✨ (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

thank you!! here’s part 3 :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

angry didn’t even begin to describe how you felt as you slammed the door to price’s office behind you.

you were tense, muscles taut and poised to fight. your fists clenched at your sides, blunt nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. your jaw was clenched, teeth grinding together as you resisted the urge to march back in there and unleash your fury.

no. not like this. not when you weren’t a hundred percent. not when they would still look at you like you were a wounded doe, stumbling around on broken legs.

in the back of your mind, you can hear that psychologist saying ‘this anger will eat you alive if you let it. you need to let it out somehow.’

you inhaled, unclenched your fists, and made up your mind. you pulled the iv from your arm, wincing at the pinch of the needle.

you left the iv pole standing there as you made your way to the gym.

the gym was empty when you arrived, which made sense for this time of day. many would be occupied by drills or in the mess hall. others would be sleeping off long nights. you had the place to yourself, and you were grateful for the absence of watchful eyes and sweetened tongues.

you were tired of those who knew nothing acting like they knew something. of those who apologized or asked if you were okay. word spread like wildfire around base, and the subject of your ‘betrayal’ had been front-page news since the start of the witch hunt.

the gym door clicked shut behind you, and you surveyed the room. you knew your doctor would have a fit once you returned to the infirmary, and that she probably wouldn’t let you out alone again, but you didn’t really care.

you needed to let off some steam, and the best way you knew how was with your fists. either you start swinging at a bag or at a certain someone’s face. the bag won’t be condescending, and that makes your choice easy.

you approach one of the bright red punching bags in the corner. it’s scratched and taped from where someone had busted it open. scars that didn’t go away, that wouldn’t— just like yours.

you huffed. it didn’t do any good to start feeling sorry for yourself. you hadn’t done anything wrong. your team had.

you stretch your arms out in front of you, fingers interlocking to pop your knuckles. you catch sight of your severed finger, still healing. they’d recovered what had been chopped off, but hadn’t been able to save it.

just another permanent reminder, something to make sure you didn’t dare forget. you didn’t think you ever would regardless.

you shook out your hands and rolled your shoulders back. fists raised, you angled yourself towards the bag. feet spread, shoulders squared, thumb tucked under your fingers instead of inside. a stance that was second nature after years of sparring and hand-to-hand drills.

the bag was firm when your fist connected with it. you would have been lying if you said it didn’t hurt. you punched with the other hand— same results. the time you’d spent confined to an infirmary bed had done a number on you. muscles had atrophied, bones had weakened. the leg you’d suffered a bone-deep cut to shook under your weight.

you didn’t care. you kept punching, your breathing picking up as your emotions guided you. sweat dripped into your eyes and rolled down your back. you felt weak, physically and mentally. you hated feeling this way, and so you punched harder.

“slow down,” a voice grumbled from behind you.

you ignored him, continuing to punch the bag. you hadn’t heard the door open, nor heard the sound of him approaching, but you would have been surprised if you did.

simon always had a penchant for sneaking up on people, intentionally or not.

“gonna pass out if y’don’t stop,” he said after a minute. you could feel his eyes on you. you ignored him again.

you didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing there with his arms crossed, eyes full of something unreadable.

“stop,” he says firmly, and you sense his movement as he surges forward. his hand lands heavily on your shoulder, pulling you back from the punching bag. you heave in a breath before spinning around and punching him in the nose.

simon stumbles back a step, eyes widened slightly. for someone who prided himself on being so observant, he clearly didn’t see that coming. it made you feel the tiniest bit smug that you’d caught him off guard for once.

you dropped your hands to your knees then, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of nausea washed over you. damn the bastard, he had been right. you shouldn’t have even been in here in the first place, let alone exerted yourself as much as you had.

your hands were shaking as you tried to pull yourself together. you opened your eyes to see drops of blood on the gym floor, by your feet. you had split your knuckles open.

there were also drops of blood at simon’s feet. you looked up then, slowly straightening your posture. he’d removed his mask, his face bare as he stared at you. blood dripped from his nose.

“gonna have to hit harder than that if y’want to break it,” he says, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“did you follow me in here?”

“no.” he says, and you’re giving a mirthless laugh.

“oh, please. im sure price sent you, yeah? you’ve always been his little lap dog. he says ‘jump’ and you say ‘how high,’ isn’t that right, lieutenant?”

your tone is tense, angry. you throw his title in his face, seeing as he’d been so quick to remind you of yours back in price’s office.

simon watches you, and you want to tackle him. he had always been quiet, always stoic. you’d been with him for years, but you still didn’t think you’d broken down all of his walls.

he was so good at masking his thoughts, his feelings. you weren’t. soap had always called you an open book. whenever you were mad or upset, everyone knew it.

no one knew anything about simon unless he wanted them to. it drove you mad then, and it was sure as hell driving you mad now.

“you need to get back to the infirmary,” he tells you. he wipes the back of his hand under his nose, smearing red across his skin. for a moment, you want to chastise him, reach up and wipe the remnants from his face.

you quickly shake that thought from your head. what is it they say— old habits die hard?

these habits would die if you had to strangle each one with your bare hands. anything you harbored for the four men on your team, for the one you’d called yours, was dead and gone.

“fuck off,” you tell him.

“why are you so damn stubborn?” he says then, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him start to crack since everything had happened. emotions are beginning to leak through his stony exterior, whether he means them to or not.

“you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. none of you do,” you say, and you take a step forward then, eyes blazing as you stare up at him. “not after what you did.”

he doesn’t speak for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. his eyes never leave yours.

“it shouldn’t have happened like that.” he tells you. you scoff.

“like that? you mean the four of you torturing me? tying me up and mutilating me like I was just another fucking target?” your voice was rising as you took another step forward, shoving a finger into his chest.

“if I’d treated you like another target,” he said, tone even. “you would’ve been dead.”

“so you showed me mercy, is that it?” you bared your teeth, a hollow laugh escaping your throat. “oh, thank you simon. I really felt that fucking mercy when you cut off my finger, and when you cut through layers of skin to get to bone.”

you inhaled before continuing. “I should be grateful then, right? is that what you want from me? for me to recognize your fucking ‘mercy’ and take you back? take you all back?”

he just stands there. you can see his jaw clench, but he makes no move to speak. you find it funny that he hasn’t even tried to apologize. john, your ever prideful captain, had swallowed his failure and pleaded for your forgiveness.

johnny and kyle would surely have done the same if they’d had the chance to speak to you, even if they only had a minute.

but simon? simon doesn’t. he doesn’t outwardly admit his wrongs. he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t seem sorry, even. you don’t know what’s going on inside his head, but you find yourself not really caring to know.

the fact that he can’t bring himself to admit, in blunt words, that he had astronomically fucked up and that he felt even the slightest bit of remorse, told you everything you needed to know.

cold, stoic ghost. you hadn’t been afraid of him when you’d first joined the squad, and you weren’t afraid of him now.

but back then, you’d wanted to break down those stone walls of his. you’d wanted to be someone he felt safe around, someone who knew him inside and out.

now, you’re packing your time with him into a box in your mind and dumping it into the trash. simon riley means nothing to you now.

“take your mercy and shove it up your ass,” you tell him. you step back and drop your hand, your eyes still locked on his.

“and by the way,” you say as you start towards the door. he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move an inch. it’s as if he’s rooted to the spot.

“you should’ve just killed me.”

author’s note:

not really sure how I feel about this one tbh. I have plans for a part four, but I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be making this series.

and as for simon— I want to write an extra part about his thoughts/feelings about everything. let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in!

anyways, let me know your thoughts please :) (I honestly may end up deleting this and rewriting it when I’m not tired lol)

taglist: @preeyansha @igotmajordaddyissues @nanatheoaktree @aesthetic0cherryblossom @oceanicexolorer @soph121212 @liv2post @cupid-eclipse @angels-despair18 @k4marina

[arunneronthird]

did u know 9 year old damian was canonly exactly like this

[motomamita]

viking!konig × female!villager!reader

warnings: smut, +18, possesive!konig, breeding kink, kidnapping, mentions of rape and virginity!!

Viking!Konig who, along with his warriors, disembark in a small village located by the sea. Dressed in animal skins, swords and armor, they enter the village to loot and destroy everything within their reach.

It is then that he manages to spot a small house at the top of a small mountain, not far from all the others. Upon reaching the field, he notices a female figure coming out of the small garden with a basket of tomatoes. It was you, dressed in a long white skirt, a beige shirt and a scarf around your head. You look like an angel fallen from heaven, so harmonious and calm, totally different from Konig's rude figure.

It doesn't take you long to notice that tall, burly man at the entrance to your home, who seems anything but pleasant. You recognize their clothing and the bad intentions that characterized the vikingos. An expression of terror was marked on your face and you immediately ran into your home, shouting your father's name and without letting go of the basket of tomatoes.

Konig's stomach twisted in a feeling of excitement at your reaction, feeling powerful at the fear of the rest of the people seeing him. With his long, muscular legs, he followed your steps to the interior of the home where a series of murmurs welcomed him.

In the humble living room there was an adult couple who looked somewhat sick and next to them was you, who covered 2 small children no more than 6 years old with your body. Konig was tall and in good shape compared to your family, who apparently barely had enough to eat.

"Please, don't hurt us.." sobbed your mother, who brought her skinny hands to her chest, begging.

"We don't have anything valuable, you can check for yourself." Your father spoke now, pointing around you. Konig began to walk around the room, observing everything around him and verifying that there was nothing there that would be useful to him. "The only thing we can offer him are vegetables and fruits from our garden. Daughter, give him the basket of tomatoes!" Your father ordered, hoping that Konig would agree and leave as soon as possible.

You stepped forward timidly and held out the basket with the tomatoes to him, taking a distance and with your hands trembling. Konig looked down at you, smiling slightly at your fear and how you couldn't maintain eye contact with his cold blue eyes. He reached his hand to the basket and took a tomato, it had a good size and color. Without thinking he brought it to his mouth and tasted a little of it, not caring how the juice fell from his lips to his bushy beard.

"And then? What do you think? If you want, you can take the whole basket, it's all yours!" Your father insisted.

To tell the truth, that tomato was delicious but you were even more so. "I'll take everything from the garden... And your daughter too." Konig spoke for the first time, generating a shiver throughout your body.

"No problem. Girl, put on some shoes and go!" Your father spoke coldly, capable of doing everything possible to defend his family, even if it meant giving you away to an unknown Viking.

You sobbed and screamed that they wouldn't let you leave with him, with Konig, but your father did nothing but raise his voice even more and even try to hit you. Your mother and your brothers cried in silence, observing the situation with sadness but without intervening on your behalf. The decision was already made, you were now Konig's property.

It was widely said that the Vikings came to the villages not only to plunder but also to rape their women and then return to their more 'relaxed' ways. Luckily for you, or not, that had not been the case for you. No, Konig didn't just see you as a hole to fill with his powerful semen. But as his property, as something to take care of and defend from the other Vikings who had no intention of formalizing with any woman. He wanted to be the only one with something to fight for and stay alive. And, soon, with whom to form a small family of warriors.

During the short time you had to gather your few things, your father took it upon himself to inform Konig of all the good things you had to offer. You knew how to wash, cook, heal, and, best of all, you were a virgin. That last one excited Konig even more, who was excited by the idea of ​​being the first (and only) to be between your legs.

You boarded a large ship with your wrists handcuffed to prevent you from escaping and an old cloth bag with some items of clothing. According to Konig, none of that would help you in the cold climate of traveling over the sea, plus he wanted you not to wear underwear.

"Look guys! Konig brought us this sweetness to share!" one of the Vikings exclaimed, making all the men's hungry gazes turn towards you. You sobbed at the idea of ​​having to serve as a sexual slave for all those scary Vikings but that idea quickly disappeared when you noticed how Konig approached the man and growled: "don't go near her." Reporting that you were not a common asset to the crew, but his alone.

That same night you slept next to Konig in a more exclusive room than the rest of the men, who all slept in the same crowded place. You noticed that he had a higher rank than the rest, therefore you had certain advantages over the others. Luckily for you, Konig explored your body externally, caressing your breasts, ass and pussy but without trying anything else.

The weeks passed and with them you managed to get used to the lifestyle of those men. Konig had already warned everyone about your exclusivity only with him, so no one ever tried anything with you. Your routine was based on washing and cooking Konig's clothes, cleaning his war wounds and cooking for him and his men. During the nights, you only had to be in charge of helping him bathe and dress the times when he arrived very exhausted, then both of you would just lie down and sleep.

Inevitably you managed to appreciate him and desire the closeness of that massive man. Konig, for his part, also wanted you, demonstrating it in the way that during the night he would rest his big erection against your ass, or how he would sit you on his lap and take advantage of the movements of the boat to obtain a pleasurable friction.

That night, the sexual tension between the two was unsustainable and it didn't take long for both of them to achieve what they had longed for. Due to your tightness and the large size of Konig's member, his first thrusts were painful and uncomfortable. However, he took care of reducing your disagreement by sucking and biting your breasts.

"My little wife- ah I love your breasts and how tight you are.." Konig growled, bringing his hands to your hips, using you as his personal fleshlight.

Slowly, his long and thick cock entered completely inside of you, feeling a sensation of simultaneous pain and pleasure. His hot breath and masculine scent made your walls wrap even tighter around him, causing him to moan loudly.

"Mine, only mine. This pussy belongs to me, your breasts belong to me, you belong to me completely..." he murmured, bringing his mouth to your ear and lightly biting your lobe.

His thrusts increased along with his grunts, you sobbed with pleasure at the way his hair pubes touched your clit. "Konig- I want more.." you stammered, not quite able to formulate words.

"Huh? You want my cum? You want me to fill you up inside?" He asked as his pace became more clumsy, announcing that he was about to finish.

And so he did, filling your entire interior with his powerful semen that, after 9 months later, took shape into 2 chubby and healthy warriors.

[gloomwitchwrites]

You get drunk and don't remember giving them a hickey. So you get mad at them.

Oh, anon! I love love love this prompt. Even though the prompt itself is fairly straightforward, there is some wiggle room about how this could play out. I stuck to the prompt but did my best to keep them on the shorter side.

Some of these get spicy but don't fall into graphic detail.

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, arguing, sexual tension, kissing, alcohol

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“These reports are shit, Price. What am I supposed to do with them?”

You’re trying your best not to sound irritated, but your head is pounding. You agreed to go out for drinks but told yourself you wouldn’t have more than one or two. That went completely out the door when multiple people began paying for rounds. After the fourth, the night started to come blurry. Not all the pieces are there.

Of what you can recall from last night, you remember that you sat in a man’s lap. Well—sat isn’t the correct word. More like straddled. You remember strong arms, an accent, and an excitement in what you were doing. But the face is still foggy.

“What you always do,” replies Price. There’s a tease in his tone you don’t particularly like. It’s too friendly, and it stirs something fierce inside your belly.

Price shifts in his chair behind his desk, the collar of his jacket flops open slightly. You catch a hint of something dark on the side of Price’s neck. You frown, your rebuttal gone.

“What is that?” You nod toward his throat.

Price leans back. “What?” he asks. “This?” He reaches up, pulling back on the collar.

It’s a…oh fuck.

“You were happy to give it to me.” Price shrugs.

Fuck.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, tossing the manila file folder on Price’s desk.

The man you straddled last night was Price? The man who is always fucking up reports and ignoring all your suggestions for corrections? That one?

“You looked good doing it, too,” he continues, that teasing smile falling into a comfortability of a lover.

No. No no no.

You place your hands on your hips. “And you let me do that?”

Price shrugs. “We’re consenting adults.”

“I was drunk.”

Price crosses his arms over his chest. “We were both drunk. And you’re the one who pounced on me.”

Embarrassment rises hot and wild in your cheeks. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You did,” he confirms, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as he smirks. “Ambushed me actually.”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?” Your voice cracks, going a bit high.

“I tried.”

That’s almost worse. You jumped him and then sucked on his neck until it left a mark. What an absolute fucking mess.

You roll your eyes. “You tried? A big strong man like you couldn’t stop me?”

This time Price is the one rolling his eyes. He makes an irritated groan. Price pushes up from his chair, one hand waving out in front of him as he speaks. “You said you’d been thinking about me.”

It’s not entirely untrue. While you attend the clerical side of things, you do make excuses to come see Price. He’s older. Handsome. Assertive. His reports aren’t always shit but it’s the only reason you have to bother him.

“I didn’t mean it,” you reply but even you don’t believe it.

Price comes around the desk and steps into your space. “Really?”

You square your shoulders, staring into Price’s face. “Really.”

He shakes his head, clearly not believing you at all. “As I recall, you were in my lap. Practically begging.”

“And you allowed that? In front of everyone?” Even Price couldn’t be that careless.

This time, Price smiles like he knows something you don’t. “You don’t remember.”

“What?” you ask, flustered.

Price starts laughing, but it’s not mocking, more like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“John,” you snap.

Price sinks down into his chair, legs spread wide. “I think I liked it better when you said my name while seated in my lap.”

Your fingers dig into the top of Price’s desk. Pieces begin to return. Fragments of you squirming in his lap. Lips pressed against his.

“How did you say it?” he ponders, almost aloud rather than to you. Then, he smiles, not even answering his own question.

Price rests his palm on his thigh and your gaze drops to its subtle movement before returning to his face.

“Think I’d like a matching one,” he says. He runs his hand down his thigh and then back up. “Or I could give you one just like it.”

“John,” you murmur, not knowing what it is you want to say.

“Doesn’t have to be on your neck,” and his voice is nearly a growl. Price lightly squeezes his thigh and you know exactly where he’s referring to. “Be easier if you sit on the desk.”

You snatch up the folder on Price’s desk, clutching it like a shield against your chest. Price doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t appear fazed at all. Stomping over you shove it against his chest, intending to walk right out the door.

But Price is quick.

With one hand he’s clutching the file and with the other he grabs your wrist before you manage to move away.

“Remove your hand,” you say but there is no venom in it.

Price’s gaze lingers on your lips before shifting up to meet your eyes. “Come back when you know what you want.”

Price releases you, and you nearly stumble forward into his lap. Catching yourself on the edge of his desk, you spin on your heel, exiting Price’s office as the final fragments of memory fall into place.

You don’t want to admit it.

Not out loud. Not yet.

But you will be back.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s unbelievable. Unfathomable.

You’re not angry with Kyle. You’re upset with yourself. You’re upset that you were so careless about how many drinks you had, and how you couldn’t control yourself in the moment. Kyle is not a liar, and he doesn’t take advantage, so whatever you did, is on you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, swallowing down some of the rising irritation. “It’s my fault.”

Kyle shrugs, a sheepish smile on his face. “Not like I pushed you away.”

“That doesn’t matter,” you insist, flinging your arms out in exasperation, nearly knocking over bottles of cleaner.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, catching one of them before it hits the floor.

This little storage room isn’t big enough for this. You need space. You need to run far away from here and pretend like last night didn’t happen. Not that you can remember all of it. You don’t recall giving Kyle that mark on his neck.

“It does matter. We both had too much but I still had more of my head than you did.” Kyle places the bottle of cleaner back on the shelf. “I should’ve done better.”

“We’re coworkers, Kyle. And I had no right. We aren’t together.”

Kyle smirks and you want to smack it right off his face. “We could be,” he murmurs, taking a step forward.

“Absolutely not,” you retort but you don’t retreat.

Kyle’s smirk faulters a bit but he doesn’t shrink away. If anything, he looks more determined, like the rejection is a farce.

“You remember anything you said to me last night?”

You lick your lips and cross your arms defensively over your chest. “Even if I did, does it change anything?”

Kyle sighs and runs his hand over the top of his head. “It does for me.”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you consider your options. Kyle is a sweet man, at least to you. Everyone always comments on it to you when he isn’t around, and you’ve always dismissed their observations.

Maybe he does care, and you doing this tipped him over the edge into a place neither of you might be able to come back from.

“I need some fucking air,” you mutter, wanting to escape this situation, even for a bit.

Kyle shoves forward, blocking the door. Your lips move, forming the shapes of words, but Kyle shakes his head, all seriousness.

“We need to talk about this.”

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” you snap.

Kyle’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline and his head tips slightly to the side, revealing more of the mark. “Everyone knows what happened.”

“What?” you breathe.

“We weren’t alone when you straddled me.” You’re too stunned to speak. All the words you want to say are gone. Lost to the void that is your mind.

Kyle sighs and leans against the door. “Soap got a great view.”

“Stop talking. Just—stop.” Your throw up your hands and Kyle does as you ask. “You are going to move out of my way. I am going to leave. And we won’t talk about this again.”

Kyle only stares, the silence stretching.

When you think he won’t give in, Kyle shifts to his left, leaving the door completely clear. Without taking a second to reconsider, you push open the the door, nearly running over Soap in the process.

He stumbles backward, cheeks bright red. Ghost is next to him, arms crossed, staring at the wall like he isn’t there at all.

Soap’s brief fluster turns into a wide, knowing grin. “Gaz give you a matching one?” he teases.

Ghost makes a noise that sounds like a snort.

“Both of you can fuck off.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Ghost.”

“What?” he grunts, side-eyeing you before returning his attention back to the tablet in his hand. He absently rubs at his neck for the third time in the last few minutes.

You frown. “Are you injured?”

“Why would you think that?” he asks, tapping at something on the screen.

“You keep rubbing your neck.”

Ghost pauses, his finger hovering just above the screen as he turns slightly in your direction.

You’re not trying to be pushy or nosy. Ghosts hates that. But there’s something wrong, and you care enough to ask him about it.

“You know what’s on my neck,” he replies cooly.

“No. I don’t.” A swirling fracture of unease blooms in your belly. It curls outward to claw up your throat. “What are you talking about?”

Ghost’s hand holding the tablet drops to his side. With one gloved hand, he reaches up, tugging the neckline of his jacket down enough to reveal a portion of his throat. The mask he always wears is in the way, but you reach out with a tentative hand, brushing the fabric upward to reveal a mouth-shaped bruise.

You drop your hand and take a step back. “Why would I know anything about that?”

“You gave it to me,” he says, matter of fact.

Sure, you had a few drinks last night, but did you really have that many? Enough that you can’t recall giving Ghost a goddamn hickey.

“You’re mistaken.”

“Never wrong, love.” Ghost locks the tablet and places it on the table next to him. “Especially about a woman sitting in my lap.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, hips adjusting slightly as he pivots to glare down at you. “Try again.”

A deep rush of embarrassment floods your system, curling up your neck to heat your cheeks. “I wouldn’t.”

“You did,” insists Ghost. You glance down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. Perhaps you had one too many. Sometimes you can hold your alcohol but clearly not. At least not last night.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry.” An apology is best. You have no idea how Ghost feels about you, but you are irritated that he didn’t try to stop the whole thing in the first place.

Ghost is silent a long moment. “I’m not.” Your head snaps up, but Ghost isn’t done. “I liked it. And you enjoyed giving it to me.”

You need the pieces to fall back into place. You need to remember. Because right now, you’re just confused, and Ghost’s behavior is entirely different from his usual demeanor.

“You don’t know that.”

Ghost shrugs. “I do.”

His certainty is confusing. Ghost is not a liar. He is always truthful, always to the point, even if his bluntness comes across as rude. And that’s what so frustrating about it all because you know that Ghost is right. You probably did like it, probably begged and writhed in his lap. Ghost wouldn’t lie about something like that, but he would tease you. Might even hold it over your head.

“This conversation is over.” You step around him to grab the tablet, but Ghost is quick like a viper, his large hand encasing your wrist.

“Do you remember?”

No. I don’t.

“It doesn’t matter.” You try to tug your wrist out of his grasp, but Ghost holds firm.

“When you’re ready. Find me.” He leans forward, masked face nearly touching the side of your cheek. “We’ll recreate it.”

Then his hand is gone, and Ghost is pulling away, presenting the tablet to you like he didn’t say anything at all.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“What the fuck is that?”

Soap’s brilliant smile turns in your direction. He sits on the seat of a bench press, elbows resting on knees, sweat dripping from his brow. Soap is shirtless and a white towel is draped over the back of his neck.

Reaching up with the edge of the towel, Soap wipes away some of the sweat on his face. “What are you on about?” He adjusts his stance, his large palm pressing into his knee as he leans on an elbow.

The small gym isn’t crowded but there are people here. Some of them turn and glance in your direction but otherwise keep to their business. Ghost and Gaz are over by the boxing ring observing a few new recruits who slug it out for bragging rights.

Is Soap so aloof? Does he not see the massive mark on the side of his neck? And who gave it to him? A group of you went out for drinks but you don’t recall who might have given it to him or when.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “Your neck, Johnny.”

That gorgeous smile of his widens and he chuckles. “Did you forget?”

Did you forget? Forget what? Are you part of this?

You swallow, the salvia nearly sticking in your throat as you try to calm your thudding heart. “What do you mean?”

Soap leans back a bit, observing you. “You gave this to me.” His voice is too loud, and you glance over your shoulder to make sure no one’s heard. Everyone appears to be preoccupied with the recruits in the ring.

“I didn’t,” you insist, turning back to him. “I’d remember.”

Soap guffaws and removes the towel from around his neck. “Took a seat right here.” He indicates the spot by tapping his left thigh.

“Did we…” you begin, and then trail off.

“Did we what?” he prompts, clearly enjoying this.

You bend forward, lowering your voice until it’s a hiss. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Soap smirks, and then rises to his full height. “Promise I was a perfect gentleman.” He matches your movement, leaning in so that your faces are close. “But you? You were no lady.”

You inhale sharply, and Soap pushes right past you, heading for the showers.

taglist:

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@childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666

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@enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project

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@tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior @dakotakazansky

@hantheconqueror

[simply-ewok]

ghost wearing his slutty little grey sweats around your shared flat, as he enjoys his off-duty down time with you while he still can. so you wake up to the sun kissing your face through the curtains in your bedroom and notice simon’s not there with you, then you sit up to hear him brewing his coffee in the kitchen. you rub your eyes sleepily as you pad over to him and you have to stop mid-yawn at the sight of him; big burly chest and arms exposed, his tattoos and scars painting the rest of his beautiful, sculpted form. your eyes can’t help but trail down his torso as he sips from his mug, and you lap in the sight of his low riding sweats hugging his v-line, his bulge very much apparent.

“like what’ye see, beau’iful?” he lowers the mug from his lips, his other hand tugging at the elastic band of his trousers, causing you to bite your lip with a shy smile before asking “gonna show me more, si?”

of course he takes you back to bed in the next second, more than eager to feel your naked body against his <333

[violent138]

Stephanie: "Did you get it?"

Tim, scoffing: "Of course I did. *unwraps the vase from bubble wrap* It's the exact same, one of the three original vases made."

Stephanie: "Wait. The old one had a nick, right there on the shoulder. *uses a Batarang to recreate it* There."

Tim, setting it down carefully and smiling: "Perfect. I think we just got away with it."

Jason, reading on the couch: "He'll know."

Stephanie: "How? You'd have to--"

Alfred: "Is there anything you guys want for dinner?"

Tim and Stephanie, immediately: "No."

Alfred, frowning slightly: "Very well." He walked over, both Tim and Stephanie trying to play it cool as the butler adjusted the vase on the table.

Jason looked up from his book.

Alfred: "I'll remind you again, Master Timothy that skateboards are not permitted inside the house."

Jason cackled at the expression that Tim and Stephanie made.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce: "How did you know? Technically speaking, it's the same vase."

Alfred: "I have a contact at the auction house where you bought the second one years ago."

Bruce, clearing his throat: "Yeah, Jason accidentally kicked a ball into it."

Alfred, raising an eyebrow: "He threw a Batarang at it because you wanted to make him more comfortable."

Bruce:

Alfred: "I do wish you'd all stop adding that nick back."

[ghouljams]

The Ghost distribution system... He really is like a stray cat, or a bear that learns minivans have food in them, he just keeps coming back no matter how many times you try to send him on his way. It doesn't matter how it happens but any scrap of kindness and he just determines he's going to attach himself to you.

Maybe he offers you a hand moving your couch when he passes your place and hears you swearing. You offer him dinner and Ghost has never been the sort to turn down a free meal, so he sticks around. It's weird that he doesn't even pretend to refuse, just takes you up on it immediately and even offers to help cook. You send him home and he's... there again the next day, waiting on your doorstep with a box of pasta asking if you could do anything with it. He's going to come back, he's going to keep coming back.

Maybe it's from meeting you at a bar. He's the biggest guy you can grab when your ex walks in, and somehow he seems approachable despite... well, everything about him. Fake boyfriend for a few hours at the bar is one thing, having him show up the next day to fix your sink because you mentioned offhandedly that it was leaking the night before is another. Having him sit in your kitchen and peal an orange for you because you said you were hungry is really driving home that this guy isn't leaving.

Hell maybe it's just a one night stand that never seems to end. You wake up and Ghost has already made breakfast. The two of you sit at your little table and eat quietly, Ghost scrolling his phone while you eye him warily, trying to figure out his game. He asks what you want to do today and somehow you can't find the right way to ask when he's planning on going home. He just sort of moves in, you realize he's printed a key for himself while you're grabbing groceries. It's nice he offers to pay, but you don't know when having him around became your normal.

Ghost sees you, he wants you, you're his. He's not leaving, he'll come back. He knows that this house has food and warmth, he knows that families forget to tie their trash up off the ground. He's a man of instinct, and you are going to be his perfect match.

[rileyslibrary]

You burst into the office and slam the door behind you. Ghost jumps from his seat and looks up from the paperwork he’s been filling out. His eyes widen as you sprint towards him.

“What the f-”

“Just play along,” you interject, dragging a chair and plopping down. You grab two sheets of paper from the pile next to him and snatch the first pen within reach.

He keeps staring at you dumbfounded before managing to utter something.

“Can you at least-”

“Nope,” you cut him off while focusing on the papers and nibbling on the pen. “No, can’t do. You need to trust me on this one.”

“Define what ‘this one’ is.” He demands.

“Shhhh,” you hush him, waving your hand dismissively and glancing over your shoulder at the door. “He’s coming.”

“Who’s com-”

The door swings open, and footsteps approach. They settle beside you, and a hand slams on the desk. Ghost looks at the hand, then upward.

“Captain,” he says. “What brings you in-”

“For the love of everything you hold dear, Simon, you better not be involved in any of this,” Price warns. He slams his hand on the desk again and looks at you. “Why were you running away from me?” He asks.

You stare at him with furrowed eyebrows before removing the pen from your mouth.

“I wasn’t running away from you, sir,” you reply, pointing the pen at Ghost. “I was late for my meeting with the lieutenant.”

Price turns towards Ghost, seeking for an appropriate answer. The lieutenant sits up straight on his chair, clasps his hands together and motions with his head towards you.

“Very punctual, this one.” He says.

“Cut the crap, Simon,” Price orders and turns to you. “What were you doing inside Bravo Unit’s barracks last night?”

“Bravo Unit has barracks?” You ask Ghost. He shoots you a side-eye and raises one eyebrow.

“Stop playing dump and answer the question,” Price warns and points at Ghost. “And don’t look at him—he’s not covering for you this time.”

“How about you start from the beginning, boss,” Ghost interjects. “What happened?”

“Someone broke into Bravo Unit’s barracks last night and stole every inch of toilet paper they had,” Price says, looking at you, then turning to Ghost. “And not just toilet paper, mind you! Kitchen rolls and tissues are gone as well.”

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Ghost murmurs, shaking his head. “Such an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience, Simon?” Price whispers, leaning on the desk. “The entirety of Bravo Unit had to wipe their ass with parchment paper this morning.”

Ghost brings his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He lowers his head and takes deep, laboured breaths. Price is already fuming, so you decide to intervene.

“I was never inside Bravo Unit’s barracks, sir,” You state. “I just happened to walk through it once.”

“Oh, I see, I see—you walked through it once,” Price repeats, nodding. He removes something from his pocket and slams it on the desk.

“The instigator left this behind,” he states, looking back and forth between the two of you.

You and Ghost look at the garment on the desk—it’s a skull balaclava that once belonged to the lieutenant. He gave it to you last Winter since your ears and nose tend to get cold during patrol.

“Now,” Price states, “would you care to brief me on who this belongs to?”

“Hm,” you murmur, setting the pen and papers on the desk. You pick up the mask and start examining it. You look at Ghost, who stares at the mask with his eyeballs threatening to pop out of his face. He shoots you a deathly stare, and you redirect your attention to Price.

“That looks like it must be the lieutenant’s,” you reply, lifting the balaclava next to Ghost’s masked face. “With the skull and all—it’s a perfect match, actually.”

You both turn to Ghost, whose expression has transformed from utter disbelief to an inexplicable calmness.

“Indeed, that looks exactly like the one I lost,” Ghost confirms, taking the mask from you.

“Is it now?” Price asks in a high-pitched voice, tilting his head to the side. “Do me a favour and smell it for me, Riley.”

Ghost does exactly as he’s told. He brings the mask close to his nose, sniffs it, and nods. “Yup,” he confirms. “Smells exactly like me, too.”

Price sighs, takes a bottle from the pocket of his cargo pants and slams it on the desk. “So you want me to believe you use ‘Magnolia Blossom with Moroccan oil’ as a shampoo?” he asks.

“I’ve got dry hair.” Ghost shrugs.

“You should try coconut oil instead,” you suggest to Ghost, “it’s cheaper.”

Price kicks the chair next to you, and you both turn to look at him. He presses his lips together, and a red flush creeps on his neck, threatening to reach his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

“Why did you go through peoples’ stuff without their permission, sir?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going through anyone’s stuff,” Price explains. “You just were dumb enough to ditch the balaclava right behind the barracks. The detection dog picked up on the smell and led us to your stuff—it was a perfect match, just like you said.”

“You had sniffer dogs involved in this?” Ghost asks.

“I had to.” Price replies. “Pair the parchment paper with a day full of training, and Bravo Unit developed the worst rash they had since wearing diapers.”

A chuckle escapes Ghost, and he tries to silence it with his hand. He takes quick gasps of air, and you try to retain your laughter, too.

“Please tell me you’re not laughing!” Price shouts.

“No, boss,” Ghost says and wipes his tears, “It’s just so-”

“-sad,” you say and wipe your eyes as well. “It’s so sad.”

Price looks at you, then at the lieutenant. Now defeated, he sighs and throws his head back, shutting his eyes.

“I’m done with both of you.” He says, lifting his arms and dropping them to his sides. “I expect all toilet papers to be returned today. And as for you, you are responsible for cleaning Bravo’s toilets for the entire month.”

“For the whole month?!” You shout and wince at the idea.

“Be glad I didn’t make you wipe their asses as well.” He shouts as he walks to the door and slams it behind him.

Ghost recovers from the laugh and directs his attention to you. He tries to be serious but his teary eyes betray him.

“That was a hazardous operation you did back there,” he says.

“I didn’t do anything.” You reply, still vouching for your innocence. “But whoever did it taught Bravo Unit not to mess with our thermostats again.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I just happened to walk through the barracks once,” he says, repeating your earlier statement. “What were you thinking? Who walks through barracks?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, shrugging. “Ghosts would be my guess.”

[lazylittledragon]

'i'll just do a couple of doodles of mombin™/platonic stobin parents' nevermind, borderline graphic novel