#call of duty reader insert

[simonrileyyyy]

Simon Riley who fucks your brains out when he sees a man come up to you at a club, constantly reminding you who your pussy belongs to.

Simon Riley who has eyes for you and you only. Every other woman, no matter how beautiful or ugly they are never make his heart beat out of his chest like you do.

Simon Riley who spoils you rotten, getting you anything you even 𝙗𝙖𝙩 an eye at.

Simon Riley who always loves keeping you on his lap whenever he’s drinking his morning cup of tea or doing his boring ass work on his computer.

Simon Riley who can’t even be away from your touch for a second. It’s become a habit, to the extent where he always unconsciously grabs your hand, caresses your thigh while driving, or playing with a strand of your hair.

[bxllydxnnabxtch]

A Little While

Simon (Ghost) Riley x Reader

❀​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​❀

Summary: After a mission gone terribly wrong, internalizing your mistakes is the only way you seem to cope. Ghost finally decides to intervene when it becomes too serious to ignore.

Read pt. 2 - HERE

Warnings: Swearing, arguing, crying, yelling, mentions of blood, traumatic situations, PTSD.

Ghost stared at you from across the table, watching you push the food around your plate like you’d rather throw yourself out of a Helo than actually put any of it in your mouth. You didn’t look up at him, knowing that the only thing you’d be met with was a disappointed stare and you didn’t think you could take any more guilt than you already had. You could hardly sleep, every time you closed your eyes you were sent back to that terrifying moment, visions of your teammates blood splattered across the ground and the never-ending reminder that you failed.

You were almost certain you were going to lose your job because of it, honorably discharged, sent back home to live out the rest of your days as another trauma-riddled veteran. But none of that ever happened, and you couldn’t tell if it was worse that it didn’t.

“It wasn-“ Ghost began.

“Simon- just don’t” The words came out in a sigh that was so exhaustion riddled that Simon didn’t know how to react, silently observing how your hand came up to hold your head, eyes slipping closed. A rage began to burn inside of him at how much you blamed yourself for the incident, eyes narrowing as you blew out another puff of air.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You lifted your head from your hand, burning daggers into him. Your jaw clenched; hands balled up by your sides. “I don’t want to talk about it.” You said, frustration straining your voice as you swallowed thickly.

Ghost tilted his head at your attitude, an eerily calm tone making its way into his gruff voice. “The longer you keep beating yourself up about it the more we’re going to talk about it. Soap doesn’t blame you, and neither do I.”

Simon would be lying if he said this conversation didn’t hurt him too. The first thing he saw when he walked in was blood and his heart stopped thinking it was yours. It soon shattered when he saw you leaning over Soap’s barely conscious and badly beaten body, desperately screaming at him to stay awake as you called for an evac in a frenzy. Seeing you deteriorate day after day due to the incident practically broke him, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that you could forgive yourself.

But yet you haven’t, and you were only getting worse.

You stood up abruptly, leaving your plate as you began walking away, but a grip on your shoulder stopped you.

“Don’t fucking touch me Simon.” You yelled, stumbling back as you shoved his hand off of you. He froze when your voice raised, you never yelled at him, and it shattered his soul that this stupid fucking thing you blamed yourself for was the thing to make you break.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself for this.” He said, his voice raising the slightest bit. You scoffed, pushing the hair out of your face. “But I am the one to blame. He should’ve never gotten hurt. I should have been at my stupid fucking post.” You screamed, spiraling, breathing becoming uneven as you felt your face heat up. Fuck don’t cry.

“You were fighting for your life!” He boomed, the empty mess hall going eerily quiet as you stood stunned at his outburst. He didn’t intend to yell at you, but the desire to get through to you, to get you to sleep, eat, fucking live burned more than his concern about you being startled. The tears finally slipped down your cheeks, but you furiously pawed at your face, wiping them away in a panic.

“It was MacTavish that chose to go into that bloody room without any backup. He knew the risks, and he went.” Ghost spoke, his heart shattering all over again at the sight of you crying. He walked up to you, gently pulling your hands away from your face as you stared at him with glassy, tear bordered eyes. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, holding your face with such adoration and care that you could’ve cried harder. He swiped his thumbs across your cheeks gently wiping away the tears that were cascading down your face as he let out a sigh of concern.

“He’s going to be okay.” He said, his tone soft and soothing. “I need you to be too.”

More tears ran down your cheeks at his words, but all he did was wipe them away, shushing you gently.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” You nodded up at him, grabbing onto his hand as he pulled them away, taking it into yours.

With him, maybe you would be okay. At least for a little while.

[hyperactively-me]

high

He whips his head around when he hears his name, eyes half-lidded. He stumbles over towards Johnny, then leans on him, placing most of his body weight onto Johnny. You stare straight at him, slightly confused.  “Oi, who’s this li’l bird then?” he slurs. Johnny stills, eyes flicking towards yours, his mouth agape. In a flash, he slams his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. 

simon is high off his ass from anesthesia and you have to deal with him. (does this count as a sick trope?? idk)

(asks are open)

happy reading

warnings: none

You didn’t know your boyfriend was coming back home tonight until you heard a hard knock on the door. The sun had already set long ago, you were settled on the couch with a good book and a cup of your favorite drink. You were forced out of your focus by a hard knock at the door. Immediately, you perk up, a little confused on who’s knocking this late in the evening. Setting your book down, you make your way to the front door. For a moment, you hesitate, and decide to peek out the window before opening the door just in case. Imagine the surprise on your face when you see Simon and Johnny standing outside the door. In a flash you’re at the door and throw it open in one swift movement. 

“Johnny?” you say, bewildered. Johnny has, what you presume to be, Simon’s bag of belongings slung over his shoulder. Your eyes dart back and forth from Johnny to Simon, who’s standing a few feet behind him looking at some nonexistent thing out in the distance. 

Before you can say anything, Johnny strides up to you, leaning down to whisper to you. 

“Lassie, listen here, he jus’ had a medical procedure done an’–”

Your face immediately morphs into concern. 

“What?”

“He was stabbed durin’ the mission. But there was a medical procedure done, stitches n’ all. 

The color drained from your face. “W- what–,” you take a deep breath trying to steady your racing thoughts. 

“No, no, don’t worry, he’s fine now, he’s just high off the anesthesia…”.

You nod your head at Johnny, mentally preparing to deal with this high behemoth of a man. You look over Johnny’s shoulder and simply say, “Simon.”

He whips his head around when he hears his name, eyes half-lidded. He stumbles over towards Johnny, then leans on him, placing most of his body weight onto Johnny. You stare straight at him, slightly confused. 

“Oi, who’s this li’l bird then?” he slurs.

Johnny stills, eyes flicking towards yours, his mouth agape. In a flash, he slams his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. 

Confusion washes over you, your eyebrows raised as Simon wriggles his eyebrows at you. 

“I–” 

Before you could say anything, Simon gives you the most goofy, silly, suave-looking grin, like he’s trying to flirt with you. You immediately regret looking back at Johnny, as his face is now contorted into something that looks like pain from trying not to laugh. That sight itself nearly makes you laugh, so much so that you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep quiet. You try to put on your most serious face while Johnny is trying to compose himself by taking a deep breath. 

“A’right, Simon, here ya are,” Johnny squeaks out. You eye Simon wearily, worried about how severe his condition is just from seeing how completely out of it he looks. 

Johnny steps to the side, moving his arm to gently push Simon inside your shared apartment. Simon stumbles forward into you, nearly knocking you over because of his physique. You gasp, trying to find your footing as he leans his body weight on you. 

“Oh, sorry lovie,” Simon rasps, grabbing your shoulders tightly as he stands himself up straight. Well, he looks kinda lopsided. He dusts your shoulders off as if he dirtied them, then squeezes your arms gently before pulling away. Johnny is trying not to laugh, your face flustered even more.

Johnny had followed you inside, motioning to the bag he still had slung over his shoulder, an amused expression present on his face.

“I’mma leave this here. It’s all of Simon’s belongins’.” You watch as he sets it down on the kitchen counter. 

“Thank you, Johnny. I appreciate you looking out for him,” you smile warmly, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. 

“Ay, it's nothin’. I’ll be in contact with ya,” Johnny nods to you, smirking playfully at you for a moment, eyes darting between you and Simon. “Alrigh’, I’m leavin’ lassie. Good luck.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you one more time before pulling the door shut.

You move to lock the door behind him, sighing as the lock clicks. You turn back to look at Simon, leaning on the front door. 

“How are you feeling?” 

He looks you up and down, unmoving from where he is standing. Save for the slight swaying of his body. 

“‘M fine,” he grunts out quickly. “You’re very pretty, aren’t ya love?” his cheeks are flushed.

You push yourself off the door and move towards him, stopping a few feet away. You look straight into his eyes, and giggle out, “Thank you, Simon.”

He looks confused for a moment, mouth opening and closing, but tries to act suave. You think it's just the cutest thing that he’s just flirting with you like you’ve never met. You smile to yourself, knowing you’re going to have so much fun teasing him about it when the anesthesia wears off. Taking Simon’s hand in yours, you tenderly usher him further inside towards the kitchen. Dropping his hand, you go to pull out a water bottle and some painkillers that he is definitely going to need when he wakes up in the morning. He shuffles behind you on his unsteady feet, following you like a shadow. You turn around with the items in your hand, using your free hand to grab Simon’s hand once more. He immediately tenses at your touch, but he doesn’t let go.

“C’mon, big guy,” you say, guiding him through the hallway slowly enough so he can walk in a straight line. He stumbles a few times, murmuring nonsense to himself, eyes trained on the floor in front of him as he shuffles his feet. 

He stumbles a few times, prompting you to resort to slinging his arm over your shoulder, carrying the brunt of his weight as you move down the hallway. He leans on you, breathy chuckling escaping, vibrating against your body. 

“Yer too short for your own good, bird,” he slurs, chuckling at the sight of you trying to maneuver him. 

“Ah, well, nothing I can do about it,” you giggle.

He doesn’t say anything, just lets out a small “Heh.” You assume he’s too gone to even respond properly. 

You kick open your shared bedroom door, much to his surprise. 

“Oi, take me out to dinner first lovie,” he looks down at you with a lopsided grin, hair tousled and wild.

“You’re a rascal, Si,” you huff, an amused smile creeping up on your face. “Let’s lay you on the bed, okay?” 

He nods quickly, pushing you off him in an attempt to walk by himself. You watch him take a few steps, eyeing him carefully as you set down the water bottle and medicine on the bedside table. You turn the bedside lamp on, casting a soft golden glow in the room. 

“Simon, hold on.” You turn to him, gently pushing him down to sit on the edge of your shared bed. He shifts his position until his back hits the headboard, eyes half-lidded and cloudy. 

“Eh, pushy aren’t ya? Y’know, really, a dinner would be nice, love.” 

You smile, shaking your head. Kneeling on the bed next to him, you take the water bottle and place it softly into his hands. “You should probably drink some of that. I’ll be right back.”

You push yourself off the bed, making your way into the bathroom to wet a warm towel to clean his face and body. 

You come back through the door frame only to see him trying to get off the bed, feet planted on the floor, unsteadily pushing himself to standing. He takes a few wobbly steps towards you, smirking with his eyebrows raised.

“No, no, lay back down,” you protest, gently trying to push him back towards the edge of the bed. 

“No, I just wanna say, bird, you and I, we should really go out sometime, y’know,” he looks at you with a serious expression on his face, placing his hands on his hips. 

You look up at him, mouth open, the corner of your lip perking up into a bewildered smile. 

“Oh my god, Si,” you laugh. “Okay, okay, but only if you sit down and drink some water,” you say firmly, crossing your arms over your chest, feigning frustration. 

His smile is huge. God, it makes your heart flutter seeing him smile like this, like there's nothing else in the world that matters. 

He sits back down on the bed, moving back to rest up against the headboard. He places his hands behind his head, an exaggeration of himself relaxing. 

“Simon, I need to take your shirt off…” you trail off, motioning to the wet towel in your hand, already having an inkling of what he’s going to say back to you.

“D’ you now,” settling back into the bed, the biggest smirk you’ve ever seen crosses his face. “Well, bird, you've certainly got a way with words. Can't say I've met someone as bold and direct as you before.”

You look at him, open mouthed. 

“If yer speechless now, wait ‘til you see what's under my shirt,” he says matter of factly, slurring the words.

You couldn't help but smile at his bold comment, finding his charm and mischievous confidence strangely attractive. His garbled statements just contributed to the situation's humor.

You try to compose yourself by raising an eyebrow and responding, “Oh, is that so? You've certainly sparked my interest now.”

“Mhmmm,” he draws out, hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt, trying his best to tug it off his frame. His smirk widens, and he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, teasing tone. “Darlin’', you have no idea what you're in for.”

“Simon, now is not the time,” you giggle. You reach forward, pulling him from resting on the headboard so you can help maneuver his shirt off his body. His skin is burning hot under your touch. When it finally slips off his form, with much struggle, you huff, placing it on the bedside table. 

You kneel on the edge of the bed next to him, grasping the warm towel tight as you begin to rub off any grime or dirt from his rough skin. As your touch caresses his skin, he shivers at the sensation, a subtle but noticeable reaction to your careful ministrations. 

A soft smile dances across your lips as you notice his reaction. You lean in closer, your voice filled with tenderness and affection, “Ticklish, are we?”

He chuckles, a deep rumble resonating across the air. “Just a bit, love.”

As you examine his hands, you notice their calloused texture, a testament to his tough being. You treat them delicately, soothing weary muscles and offering brief tranquility.

He sighs blissfully, his gaze locked on you, an unconscious expression of thanks and appreciation traveling between you. Taking care of his needs becomes a subtle gesture of love and dedication.

Finally, as you finish wiping away the last traces of dirt, you lean back slightly and examine his cleansed face. It now has a new luster to it, emphasizing the attractive elements that drew you in all that time ago.

“Thank you, bird,” he says as his fingertips brush over your cheek. You swear he’s almost cognizant, the way his fingers touch you.

You respond to his touch with a delicate kiss on his hand, your heart fluttering. “Always, Si.”

A devious light twinkles in his eyes as he looks into yours. “You know, love, I must confess that being pampered by such lovely hands has me feelin' a l'il spoiled,” he adds with a teasing grin. 

You rub your hand over his shoulder, massaging it slightly as your other hand moves to stow the towel away. You turn to the lamp, hand hovering over the button before you click it off.

“Ok, it’s time to sleep now, ‘kay?” you murmur, gingerly laying him down on his pillow. “Close your eyes.”

“You don’t have t’ tell me twice,” he chuckles, dragging you down with him. You’re careful to stay away from his injury, shifting slightly in his grasp. As the fatigue sets in, his eyelids begin to droop, weighted down by the day's exhaustion. His breathing grows slower and more steady, creating a beautiful lullaby that permeates the room. 

You watch, affectionately, as his features soften and his face relaxes into a serene expression. You move closer, snuggling into his good side, your hand comes to rest on his chest. He automatically draws closer to you, seeking refuge in your embrace.

His body relaxes fully as he succumbs to sleep's embrace, feeling safe and comfortable in your arms. You hug him softly yet firmly, savoring this private moment of vulnerability and trust.

You take sanctuary in the solace with each passing moment, savoring the weight of his body against yours, the rise and fall of his chest, and the softness of his breath against your skin. You gently trace your fingers through his hair, lulling him deeper into a deep slumber.

You continue to hold him until sleep takes him entirely, your love and dedication wrapping him like a warm, safe blanket. In this quiet time, you take comfort in the mere act of being together, knowing that you both greatly savor the time you spend together.

And as you begin to nod off, you take comfort in the knowledge that tomorrow will bring new moments that you'll cherish together. But for the time being, you appreciate the tranquility of the night, cradling him in your arms and savoring the calm of this shared sleep.

[b33zlebubz]

RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER ONE - school, life, and a punch to the face TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC) MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

If hell is real, you’re pretty sure you’re dead.  

Time drags on; seconds feeling more like hours and hours feeling like an eternity—punctuated only by the shriek of the occasional bell.  It’s a familiar limbo you’ve grown to tune out in favor of your daydreaming, interrupted only by the end of a period or the sound of your name being called from across the room.  Your pencil taps idly against the desk with the beat of your heel against the floor.  Untied shoelaces pull taught under your feet when you shift to lean forwards, squinting at the equations scribbled across the whiteboard by a wrinkled, dark hand.  Numbers and letters swirl together.

Mrs. Hall.  An elderly, frail, equally as tired woman—worn down by decades of bullshit brought on by stubborn, unmotivated students much like the kids behind you, whispering and snickering in a way that made your eye twitch with deep irritation.  Still, you’re not much better, your mind lost in thought staring at rain that pounds against the ground of upstate Texas until the sound of your name stirs you from the depths of your own brain.  When you look up, confused, Mrs. Hall stares back at you with an expecting stare—and a few students are turned around to stare at you.

You’re also pretty sure if hell is real—it's the American Public School System.

“Uh…”

“The three X’s in number five,”  Mrs. Hall taps the equation on the board with the marker.  “On the homework.”

“Right.  Sorry,”  your tired eyes flicker down to the chicken scratch on the paper in front of you, scanning the crumpled paper for the answer you hastily scribbled down earlier that day.  “Three, square root of two, and negative one?”

“Incorrect.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, scratching at your neck as you try and fail not to notice when one of the boys behind you stops whispering mid-sentence and stares daggers into the back of your neck.  Shit.  Fuck.

That’s the last time you do someone else’s algebra homework.  Math, in all its forms, was your academic Achilles heel.

The rest of fourth period escapes you.  After what feels like a lifetime and a half of talking and scribbling on your paper, the bell rings out across the classroom.  Like Pavlov’s dogs—the students instinctually rush to life—shoving chairs and throwing backpacks over their shoulders, eager to get on with the day.

You're quick to sweep your things into your backpack and high-tail it towards the door of the classroom before a certain boy behind you can notice you've left already.

Mrs. Hall says your first name again.  You stop in your tracks, not missing how your fellow student sends you an angry look as he strides past to leave—crumpling the homework you did for him the night before to add to the effect.  He must be telepathic, because you swear you can hear his voice without him even saying anything.

"You're dead."

Your feet shuffle towards the door, "can't talk, gonna be late—"

"I'll write you a pass."

"I have lunch next, though."

"No you don't."  Mrs. Hall scoffs, shooting you an unamused look from over her rectangular glasses.  "You think I don't know your schedule by now?"

You awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the next,  "worth a try."

"Sit,"  she gestures beside her.

You hesitate, almost arguing further, but you sigh instead.  Getting lectured actually sounded much better than whatever hell waited for you out in the hallway the second you walked outside.  You let your backpack fall from your shoulders as you drag it over with you to collapse into the chair beside your teacher's desk.  Your eyes flicker up to where her frail hands card through some papers.  

"You graduate in two months, dear."  She reminds you, as if you haven't been scratching the tallied days into a spare notebook like you're on death row.  "Your test scores are average but all the homework seems to be…lacking.  If you even do it at all."

Average.  A word that's been thrown around a lot regarding your name, which you intended to stick with.  Average meant nobody would stick their nose in your business—that you could blend in with the crowd and avoid any and all weird glances and low whispers.  You made the mistake of showing off once, to snap back at your dickhead classmate; only to end up doing his bidding for the rest of the semester.

You figure Mrs. Hall won't take very well to being told that the reason you aren't completing your homework is because you're too busy doing Ben Davis's under the threat that he won't smash your face against the lockers again.  Broken noses are a special level of hell, but it still isn't as low as the torture that is highschool.

"Maybe I joined some sports,"  you quip sarcastically.  "Don't have as much time as I used to."

She only deadpans at you.

You stare innocently back at her.  If you play dumb enough, maybe she'll finally give up.

"I'm not attacking you.  Just worried.  If you need some extra time because—"  she lowers her voice and the bracelets around her tiny wrist jingle as she waves it about,  "---because of your family life, or anything…I'm willing to give it to you."

Your brow lowers, annoyance beginning to nip at your nerves as you sit up a little straighter.

Pity.  You've long grown tired of it.  You weren't some fragile orphan—no.  You were an adult who, in two months, would finally be free from the clutches of your frustrated social worker and the slew of whatever excited, naive couples the system dumped you on.  People have been tip-toeing around you your whole life, and it never fails to make your fists clench.

"My grades are average, you said,"  you say, stern—poking the score on one of your tests with a pointer finger.  "I don't need help."

"I don't doubt you don't need help, sweetheart.  But you're a smart kid.  Really smart, if you put the effort in.  I'm just saying if you ever need any extra—"

"I'm fine.  If you really wanna help, you won't make me late to my next class."

Mrs. Hall seems to freeze, stunned at the bite her otherwise quiet student seems to bear.  The clock ticks above your head, the rain pitters against the window outside and, for a moment, shame floods your senses; but it fades as the seconds pass and that concerned look on her face deepens.

You're the first to look away, picking up your pack and turning for the door.  "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hall."

"Wait."

You stop, tossing your head back with a sigh.  "What?"

"Tie your shoes, sweetheart,"  she says, her voice kind as she turns away to tap your stack of tests on the desk.  "You'll trip walking around like that."

You only frown and duck out the door.

The rest of the school day passes in a familiar haze.  You space out throughout two of your classes, goof off for the rest, and get your shit handed to you the second school is out.  Ben takes the time to lecture you as well after he levels you in one punch—and you sit rubbing your jaw, bored, as he goes on and on about how you did that shit on purpose and next time, you're fucking dead.

He needed a perfect score to pass the class.  In a low moment of pain, you promised it to him despite the fact that your algebra skills had much to be desired.  Still, with a little bit of extra effort—you managed to make it through most of the second semester without a black eye.  

You're the one that always bleeds; but a part of you finds it funny how he always finds a way to talk himself into angry tears, storming off somewhere distant while kids scramble to get out of his way to avoid the same fate as you.

And, as always, you pick yourself up, wipe the blood from your face onto the sleeve of your jacket—and walk away.

Because that's all you can do.

The rain settles deep in your clothes as you make your way home, music loud in your earbuds.  It's silent and gray, as it has been all week, and your thoughts are mere static as you drag your feet back to your front doorstep.  Your bed is calling for you after such a shitty day and the bruise forming on your left eye is just making the blankets seem all the more welcoming.

You barely notice how your door is already unlocked when you enter.

Inside, the house is just as silent and empty as the rest of your street.  Rain drips to the floor in a steady rhythm as you pad across the living room of the house, dropping your backpack to the floor.  Muscle memory leads you to the bathroom—where things are, as usual, spotless.  

You've seen plenty of bad homes and residencies during your time in the system.  Most of them blurred together in a long string of things you wished to forget; either by the caretakers' fault or your own.  This house, though, was high on your list of favorites.  Your folks were never around, and if they were, they were asleep.  When you weren't working; you usually had the house to yourself.

"Fuck,"  You breathe, prodding at the swelling flesh around your eye. You run some water over it and the irritation dulls slightly as dried blood turns the water pink.  Excuses run rampant through your mind as you scramble for a way to explain the injury---because you're pretty sure they won't believe you if you said you tripped again. 

That's when you catch movement from your doorway.  Shuffling.

You whip around just as the movement disappears, and suddenly the quiet house turns eerily silent.  Your eyes lock on the doorway as the sink continues to run and water continues to drip from your clothes.  

Nothing.

You turn the sink off.

Your brow furrows, eyes locked on the cracked door of your bathroom as your hand grabs hold of the first weapon you can get your hands on—a shower curtain rod.  One foot after the other, you peak around the corner.

Again, nothing.

Out of some itch of paranoia—or just completely on coincidence—you happen to turn your head to the wall next to you.  Instead of an empty corridor like you expected, you're met with a face.

A face that immediately lunges at you the second your eyes widen.  

You stumble to the side with a yell just for the individual to grab your arm, and the curtain rod falls to the floor with a clatter.  You struggle as he yanks you to the side and around the corner and, before you have the chance to react, cold metal is pressed to your back.

"Don't fuckin' move,"  a voice hisses in your ear, and you stiffen.

You wheeze, struggling against his hold, "who–"

"Your gardian fucking angel,"  he sneers, shifting to clap a hand over your mouth.  You thrash again—but it's useless.  The gun presses painfully into your side.  "I said don't move."

A thump echoes through the room, and suddenly you see why.

You fight to keep your breathing under control as you stay firm against your captor's geared chest, still as a statue.  Your heart slams against your ribs and your ears as you listen to each heavy footstep against the floor, and your eyes widen whenever a second soldier creeps down your hallway.  Standard camo and green clothes shuffling as he walks.

You catch the long muzzle of a rifle over the soldier's shoulder, and suddenly you find yourself leaning into the gun pressed into your back.  The hand on your mouth tightens, silently shifting you away from the door.

The shifting of gear and the click of the rifle echo in the silent house as your nails dig into the skin of your captor's wrist.  You watch a muscle in his stubbled jaw twitch near your face as the sound of your first name echoes through the hall, sing-song and taunting.         

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Think.  Think.  Think.

“If y’know what’s best for ya’…”  A thick Scottish accent taunts from down the hall as he nudges the curtain rod with his foot, causing it to scrape against the wood floors.  “You’ll quit puttin’ up a fight and show yourself.”

You glance over to meet your captor’s gaze.  A flicker of anger crosses his eyes, nose wrinkling into a scowl.  He has a scar across his cheek.  

Then, suddenly, he shifts, pulling you further away from the doorway.  His grip on your shoulder is deathly tight as it digs into your clothes.  He lifts his finger from the trigger of his gun only to bring it to his lips in a silent command to stay quiet, stay with me.

Panic burns bright and all-encompassing through your veins.  For whatever reason—all your body will let you do is shake and listen. 

He ducks around the corner, pulling you with him.  You have to force your feet to move.

The Scottish soldier stops just at the end of the hall, hulking frame and what must be at least thirty pounds of gear making him a jarring sight against the flowered wallpaper of your foster home.  He must have an earpiece of some kind; because you hear him whisper every so often as he sweeps the hallways.  

"They're here,"  he mutters.  "Little fuck's just good at hiding."

It's tiny and muffled, but in the deathly silence of the house you can make out two voices in his earpiece that reply to him.  One female, the other male.  You can't decipher what they say but their responses make him growl in frustration.

"C'mon, we don't got all day…"

Tense, your captor shoves you along to another room.  He signals something down the hall, where you spot more movement in the house.  More soldiers—these ones dressed in similar, dark garb to the man who still presses a gun to your side. They have bigger weapons, concealing helmets.

Startled, you trip over your shoelaces.

Your captor scrambles to grab you before you clatter to the floor.  He curses just as the Scottish soldier whips around, gun pointed and ready.

There's a solid two seconds of complete silence.  Your gaze meets with the Scott and his eyes widen.  Then, he spots the other man with a gun pointed at you.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

You scramble to your feet and bolt.  The Scott is the first to grab you, and he's met with teeth deep in his arm.  He yells out as you kick free, gagging on the metallic substance that floods your mouth.

There's shouting.  Movement.  Gunfire lights up your house with noise and lights as you wipe your mouth, stumble, and fly down the stairs in a blind dash for your front door.

Instead, you run directly into something solid—Landing you flat on your ass.  Again.

Panting, panicking, your eyes rake up dark figure; past two giant boots, a geared chest, and hands that clench a rifle in their grip to meet a masked face and bored eyes.  You scramble backwards against the wall with a yelp.  The sound of yelling, gunfire, and heavy footsteps flood the rest of the house as the masked man's eyes widen at you.  You stare at each other; you, sizing him up and him, confused.

"Graves?!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Commander!  We lost the kid!"

"Does anyone have a visual??"

"L.T.!"

The skull-faced man finally leaps into action at the sound of what must be his rank—because he's suddenly moving faster than you can realize more soldiers are flooding around the corner.  In a flurry of practiced movement, he grabs them.

You yell out as he knees one of the men and shoots the other.  Blood splatters across the walls and your clothes.  Then, he fires twice more at the soldier unconscious on the ground—and the house goes quiet other than your pounding heartbeat.

The towering man before you shifts, and the floorboards creak under his feet.  He rolls his shoulders and let's out a breath as he stands, slowly, up to his full height.  He turns, and the same blood that splatters across the walls runs in tiny rivulets across the skull of his mask.  His voice thick and low when he speaks.

"You broken?"

Your shaking hands lower from your ears as your eyes then rake across the corpses at his feet, but it's no use.  Through the ringing in your ears, your racing mind is unable to put together what he says for a few minutes.  It's even more impossible to tear your eyes away from the blood splattered against the patterned wallpaper.

You swallow and shake your head.

"Good."  Nonchalant, he lowers his gun and shouts down the hall.

"Johnny, you with me?"

"Over here, L.T.,"  grunts the Scottish voice from down the hall.  "That little shit Graves—"

"Let 'em go.  We'll deal with 'em later.  We got what we needed."

Johnny curses in response, but mutters a begrudging "copy" as he saunters over—nursing the clear bite mark in his arm. 

Then, the Lieutenant's eyes shift in your direction.  His hand twitches, almost reaching out to you, and you pull your legs closer to your chest against the wall.  Blood soaks your untied laces.  You clamp a hand over your mouth as you will your breathing to settle.  It doesn't.

He freezes.  Then, to your relief, he turns away and presses a finger to his ear.

"Bravo 0-7 to Actual; five shadows have been compromised on the property.  Looks like the Shadows got the word the same time we did.  Could be others, too.  Things got bloody, but…"  The lieutenant's eyes meet yours again as he speaks.  Through the bloodied skull mask, his gaze holds a calm resolve that's probably supposed to be comforting, but it only makes your skin prickle.  

"...we got the kid."

It's quiet, but you can hear static before someone speaks on the other end of the communication device.

"Copy that, Bravo.  We'll clean up the mess,"  A female voice replies.  "Bring 'em home safe, boys."

"Roger that."

[emperor-palpaminty]

Possessive HCs

Minors DNI, must have age in bio to interact or else ya get blocked. TW for possessive kink and all that jazz. i am unhinged and have no train of thought that makes sense. Also my inbox is open for requests hehe

(This post features Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Alejandro with anGN reader)

Price

LAWDY this man gives me possessive vibes. He's a captain after all, he's used to having his way and people respect his property.

And you are, after all, his... Right?

Price doesn't get the appeal of hickies at first. They seem immature, silly even, and he thinks they're more trouble than they're worth. And then he sees you with one that he gave you the day before.

Totally changes everything.

He'll cover you in hickies if he can, where where your flesh is soft enough. If your job is more "professional" and would frown upon it he would make sure to leave some just where the corners of a bruise is peeking out from under the collar of your shirt, just so people can still know you're his.

If someone comes up to flirt with you, he makes sure he winds an arm around you and maintains eye contact with the intrusive party until they get the hint and leave. He's the kind of guy who would stare the flirter in the face while kissing your neck, or up your arm, and he would carry the conversation on calmly.

Casually refers to you as "my girl/lad/love", "pretty thing", etc. Just as long as it's obvious you're his.

Ghost

In my brain, he's the most possessive but because he wants to stay as anon as possible, he doesn't get super grabby or touchy in public. The second you get behind closed doors however? Hooooo mama.

He marks you up good. Scratches, hickies, everything. Even if they aren't visible to others it is enough to remind you and that's enough for him. He is fine with getting some of his own too, but he prefers they stay somewhat hidden. Part of him wants to make sure you're as safe as possible, and that includes not letting the enemy know he's getting hickies from someone.

If someone comes up to flirt with you, I can see Simon standing nearby- but always staring down the person seeking your affections. You are polite to them but tell them you aren't interested, and if they press on that's when Simon comes over. He's probably thrown a guy through a window before TBH. After that he takes you home and treats you real good ;P

Soap

Yeah. yeah. yeaaaaahhhhhhh. This man is loud as hell and has a short ass temper when it comes to you. When others come up to you or are even looking your way, he grabs your waist or hand or pulls you close. He has one hundred percent given you a hickey in the middle of a crowded room (club? bar? who knows?) just because he saw a couple of folks looking your way with eyes that lingered too long. If someone tries to flirt, he is not shy at all about speaking up or pulling you behind him ("Sorry, this one's taken, lad. Go find someone else for the night.")

He will also mark you up too with all the hickies and scratches but he loves when you do the same to him. Honestly, the more hickies the better. If you give him any, he WILL walk around shirtless just to show them off. (Price scolds you for quote, "defacing government property")

Gaz

In my head Gaz isn't like. super kinky. He just seems so sweet in the games. I could be totally wrong though and he could be a kinky bastard (drop your Gaz HCs). But this is MY HEAD, welcome to the terror dome.

Yeah, Gaz isn't super possessive in a kinky way, but he does like when people know you're together. He'll slip an arm around you, or put his hand in yours. At one point as a joke you got a shirt printed with his face on it that said "Gaz's Guy/Gal" and he thought it was the funniest thing ever.

If someone comes up to flirt with you he's pretty quick to intervene. He will slip between you and the person and try to redirect them away- but if it comes down to it, he will knock a guy out for flirting with his partner despite a plethora of rejections and "no"s.

Alejandro

Alejandro is PASSIONATE deadass, and doesn't give a shit about who is watching. He'll pick up your hands and kiss them any time any where, or hold your face, or he will just stare into your eyes from across the room. The tension is palpable, you can palp it.

When it comes to showing you off or being possessive, he's more defensive. He will stand between you and the person coming to flirt with you and square up, just to remind them that this is not their place or purpose.

Afterward, he of course kisses you and makes love to you rather intensely ("Amor de mi vida, no one can do this to you, and even if they were lucky enough they wouldn't do this like I do"). And no matter what, you wouldn't let anyone else do that to you, because it's true- no one could do this (or you) like he can. Also he's vocal- he lets the both of you be heard if he's enjoying himself and he wants everyone to know that those sounds from your mouth were because of him.

[helpinghanikan]

Domestic December:COD

Day 5: Konig, Cooking

DD Masterlist

Konig does many things before leaving on a campaign. First, he lets you know. Second, he spends a few hours in the kitchen.

This wasn’t to say you couldn’t cook for yourself. Leaving you with plenty of meals was Konig’s way to take care of you. Since he couldn’t be there himself he might as well make sure that his lovely woman didn’t go hungry.

Konig is king of cooking in your relationship. Much of his youth was spent hanging off of his mother or aunt’s apron strings. Their big strong boy who can reach the top shelf no problem and was always eager to learn a new recipe.

“Open,” Konig orders, wooden spoon pointed at you.

It was a beef stew with spices and rabbit. The kind of dish the wives of lumber jacks would make during hard winters.

“Good? I know it’s good.” He says while you still savor the taste.

“Really good.” You agree, “There’s no way that’s going to last me a week.”

Konig chuckles at that. Turning down the stove and pulling out the Tupperware underneath the counter.

“Not to worry, I will make you enough to last the whole month.” He says, already focused on his next creation. He’s so focused on what to make next that he doesn’t notice the way your face drops.

Trying to find out how long he’ll be gone is a game of subtlety. You can’t just outright ask how long this campaign is going to be. Instead he’ll drop little hints that you can pick up and put together.

He’ll be gone for at least a month. Considering that he called his mom he’ll also be somewhere without service or access to a phone. Those were the only two hints you found so far. Not a lot to go on but enough to give you an idea. Maybe it would be enough to trick yourself that his next campaign could be a safe one.

“Next up…chicken,” Konig says with emphasis.

This was how you spent that day before his campaign. Sitting at the kitchen island, watching him work, and getting a taste when offered. ��

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Derek [Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader]

Fandom: Call of Duty (I haven't been into COD since I was 14 but we're back thanks to COD cosplayers on tiktok...) Collection/Series: N/A Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @little-autumn-serenade​ Rating: G Warnings: This is kinda silly and not my best work but the idea has been hanging around in my head so... Summary: A surprise finds you at work while Simon is away on deployment. Notes: Inspired by my dad, a veteran, who did something very similar for my mum. We still have Derek like 30 years later although he's in the loft being eaten alive by moths probably.

You're at work when you're called down to the front office, a confusing event in and of itself seeing as you weren't expecting anyone or anything to interrupt your working day. You're very rarely called away from your work in general. Your family and friends would never interrupt your working day, being too busy themselves and the only other person would be Simon, but he's away on deployment and isn't one for surprises. You liked the predictability of him and the fact he didn't scare you by randomly turning up places without a warning. You liked a lot about your boyfriend even if he couldn't always understand it. You missed him. A lot. He'd been gone for two months already and you'd only had three or four phone calls in that time, due to schedules not lining up.

Janice, the nice older receptionist, is waiting for you when you finally have five minutes to step away from your desk. She looks over the top of glasses at you from where they're perched on the tip of her nose.

"Did you order something, Lovely?"

"No, I...I never order anything to work, why?"

"You've got a parcel, a rather large parcel." She stands with a groan and a hand to the small of her back as she ushers you into the office and to follow her further back into the office.

You feel bad for her when you see the gigantic cardboard box that she clearly had dragged into the office. It's at least half-your height, reaching about your waist and as wide as you. You run a hand over the top, reading the various labels that suggest it has had quite a journey across the globe and the only thing you can think is that someone ordered some stationary or furniture for work and put it in your name on the requisition form by accident.

"What on earth?" You reach for a pair of scissors, cutting the packaging tape and opening the flaps.

You're greeted by a lot of packing peanuts and the mystery has you almost ferally tearing through the box the moment you have a bin to start dumping packing materials into. The one bin proves not to be enough to hold all of the packing peanuts and you end up having to reach for a second one.

It's not long before you see the top of a fuzzy brown head and struggle to heft the rather heavy stuffed toy out of the box. Poor Janice has to grab the box to slide it off at the other end until the thing is sat in front of you.

It's a...a gorilla. A giant, stuffed gorilla toy with a scrappy bit of lined paper torn out of a notebook pinned to its chest. He's wearing a tactical helmet that's a little too small for the giant thing's head. He's clearly been swashed into it, and his face looks a little off as a result, the sides crushed inwards.

"I take it you didn't order a gorilla, sweetie?"

"I definitely did not order a gorilla..." You're baffled, so utterly baffled that you're almost scared to take the note unless it turns out you've got a stalker or something equally as terrifyingly absurd. Simon's many warnings about strange packages and parcels ringing in your ears in that familiar gruff and protective tone of his.

Still you take the piece of paper and unfold it. The note is short, brief and when you read the sign off you understand why. Because this bizarre package, this ridiculous gift, is from Simon. Simon, the gruff, intimidating, scary dog privileges Lieutenant who could probably kill someone in 100 different ways. That Simon had sent you a gigantic, stuffed gorilla in a tac helmet. Simon Riley. Simon Riley had sent you a stuffed gorilla toy of all things.

Hey, Love.

Meet Derek, found him in Barcelona when we had some free time. Figured he could keep you company since i'm going to be gone for a bit longer than expected.

Looks a bit like Soap to me, so sorry if he gives you nightmares.

Simon

The end of the note has a silly drawing in black biro; Johnny, Simon and Derek at the beach. Simon's drawn himself in full uniform, mask included and Derek has a umbrella cocktail in hand. John looks decidedly annoyed giving the gorilla side eye that is meme worthy.

You kind of hate it. The gorilla. that is...it's stitching is bulging at the seams and it's eyes are looking in two different directions and it really does have something about it that screams John Mactavish, might be the slight mohawk at the top of it's head...but you also love it. You love that Simon of all people, hater of surprises, the most unspontaneous and rigid person you know, decided to surprise you with it. That he took the time to package it and probably spent more money than necessary to get the heavy thing shipped to you. You love how absurd it is and mostly, you love that it's from him because you miss him so freaking much that you're starting to pretend he's holding you at night and you're getting sadder each day because his shirts aren't smelling like him anymore.

You don't realise you're crying over it until Janice, tutts and hushes you and rushes for the tissues.

God, you miss Simon. You miss him a lot, but maybe Derek will help you feel a little bit closer to him...or Derek will give you nightmares. Either way, he's staying because Simon got him for you and no way in hell are you throwing out any gift from him even if it's a really dodgy looking gorilla.

[saintship]

Also, i forgot to write this on my request, but if u could, i would love it if the reader is a female, since i'm a girl :).

Summary: f!reader has a journal listing ‘imperfections’ and ‘perfections’, but one category is severely lacking. König & the 141 find this journal by accident. I edited the phone to a journal for the sake of the plot

A/N: I really hope you can find people in your life to confide in, body image is a beast

Cw: discussion of body image and esteem

König & 141 x f!reader - Perfections

Your view of your body was never straightforward, every day a different perspective, a different shift of blame. Some days ran smoother than others.

For the days that left you wishing to crawl out of your skin, it felt like your options were scarce.

You started writing.

The morning after New Year's; murmured goodbyes and pounding heads. You knew you'd be finding glitter in your hair for a week, but considered the night a success anyway. It was a silent victory to have celebrated as a host in the first place; it took confidence to house your closest friends and colleagues, let alone with alcohol involved.

Simon left first; he had woken before you and sent a sweet text before slipping out the door. Gaz and Johnny left together nearly clinging to each other for stability with quiet grumbles of their mysterious bruises. Konig rose heavily, his accent thicker with sleep when he hugged you goodbye and thanked you for the lovely night.

But John hadn't slept there; he'd stayed up past everyone along with you, helping you with the trash and streamers before sitting with you and just talking for hours. He told you about his family; his nieces and nephews that he missed so much, he told you how people like you are what allow him to bend and not break. But just before he left, he remarked he'd left his leather-bound notepad in the other room. He hadn't gotten to his feet before you were on your way to retrieve it for him, afraid that if you let him do another kind thing for you, you might start crying.

Carefully walking through the sleeping forms of your friends, you saw a faded journal on the desk that John had sat near for some of the party, retrieved it, and pulled a blanket over a shivering Simon before returning to the living room and seeing your Captain out the door.

It wasn’t until the first day back from your leave that you realized your mistake. You’d packed nearly everything to return to your on-base living space, but were tearing apart the apartment trying to find your journal. Images of an inspector or your landlord finding the pages where you’d laid your heart out flitted anxiously behind your eyes. That page. A neat T-chart you’d created on a whim, both to try a more organized method of expression, and to hide it all away on a physical copy. For yours eyes only.

One side, a list of attributes that kept you awake,

Stomach, thighs,

and also kept you in bed.

Voice -> too deep, cheeks,

A tangible admission.

The other half was meant to house what you did enjoy about yourself; the small things, the things you took solace in, the acts you did just because you knew it was the right thing to do. What you’re proud of.

But it only bore the marks of the times the ball of the pen had tapped the paper as you fidgeted. It was as empty as you felt when you tried to answer that question. ‘What do you like about yourself?’

Finally, beside the stand mixer, you saw a journal. But as you inspected it, it proved to not be yours. It was smaller, more pristine. Looking on the inside cover, your heart dropped.

J.P.

It had been days. He saw it. There was hardly any chance he hadn’t.

You sped on your way to the base, the horror and embarrassment feeling like fireworks being set off in your ribcage. You abandoned your luggage, first racing inside and impatiently tapping your FOB key to gain access to the office building and sprinting to his office, his rightful notepad in your hand.

Your heart pounded as you collected yourself enough to knock inconspicuously.

“It’s open.”

He was sitting in his mess of paperwork, one hand flipping through a folder in front of him while the other cradled a pen between his middle and forefinger.

“Bright and early, huh? You even moved back in yet?”

His eyes wavered briefly from what laid in front of him.

“Uh—no. No, I wanted to.. you left this.” You set down his notepad, your heart in your throat.

“Right.. got a bit switched up that night, didn’t ya?”

He reached into a drawer, handing you what was yours.

“Thanks. Can’t keep my head screwed on without writin’ shit down.”

You nodded, but still felt a tightness in your abdomen as you spoke.

“Did you happen to.. open this?” You faintly held up the journal.

His eyes flickered to you, then to the wall, then to his desk, his hand fidgeting uncomfortably.

“You should get settled in.”

You knew to accept his tone; the conversation was over.

The walk back to your car felt heavy, like you’d just been scolded by the principal. He hadn’t even done anything to criticize you, and yet you couldn’t shake the tension that stiffened your hand as you grasped the journal at your side. You shoved the journal between the tightened straps of a duffel bag, shouldering that and carrying the rest of your things to your room. Normally you would have one headphone in as you unpacked, taking breaks to visit with the people you hadn’t seen in weeks before wandering back into your space and setting up for another year of your service. But you’d gotten there early; you didn’t feel like music, you didn’t feel like turning the light on, you didn’t feel like doing anything. You opened your journal.

Stomach, thighs,

He’d crossed it.

Voice -> too deep, cheeks,

Why?

What was next to it seemed to release every tensed muscle in your concerned expression, an airy feeling rising in your head.

Perfections

Eyes like stars, soft cheeks

-K

Cute smile, soothing voice

-J.M.

Gorgeous face, stunning top to bottom

-K.G.

Body of a protector, mind of a friend

-S.R.

Wits of steel, feats of a mad woman

-J.P.

There were more, scattered down the page and into the next, the first column forgotten in a crashing sea of praising anecdotes, messages, and love.

Even if you couldn’t see the parts of yourself that were beautiful and important, they were still there.

[cas-backwards-tie]

Trials & Triumphs Masterlist

COD men x Reader

Summary: You've been selected to lead a ragtag group of operatives through a covert long-op. Determined to take down NATO's latest focus: a prominent underground sex-trafficking ring, you're put to the test when things start to get a little too chummy to handle.

Warnings: Alcohol, Peer Pressure, Tension, Cursing, graphic descriptions of Death, Murder, Blood, Weapons, Gunfire, Hostages, graphic descriptions of Injuries, Suspense, Disappointment, Humiliation, Embarrassment, Resentment, Passive-Aggressiveness,

Mentions of: Crime, Government, Injury, Death, Politics, War Crimes

Chapters: An Unexpected Pair | A New Day Dawns | Reroute Necessary | Strength United |

A/N: This is something I've been slowly writing getting into this little pit of fandom, and while this is mostly a self-indulgence, it's the reason things are marked the way they are. I haven't decided who the reader will end up with indefinitely.

[soldier-g1rl]

I WISH YOU STAYED

(2019) MODERN WARFARE - JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH X READER

SUMMARY: Life always expressed its surprises through natural occurrences. So much so, souls intertwined in a terrain of madness are always on the brink of new beginnings. But also, new endings. From one mistake that evolved into longing glances, there was only this life to focus on. In the end, another life may have better outcomes.

PERSPECTIVE: 3RD TO 2ND

GENRE : PINING , SEMI-ANGST

WORD COUNT : 1900+

CONTENT WARNING ; MAY BE OOC, DEATH, RUSHED, MWIII SPOILERS

“Your mother worries for you, y’know.”

Maybe it was a way to keep the man at bay, keep him in her sights, to keep her conscious clean. The way her fingers kneaded at the loose strings of lead that were loosely knitted within her pockets, the wind sweeping over the north-western shores. Winter made its careful approach, one that would pass by excruciatingly slow without the familiar presence at her side.

“Aye, as do you.” He replied, the gurffness of his voice making [Name] turn her attention from the coastline and towards the scotsman. He was observant. [Name] didn’t know if that was either a curse or a blessing. Perhaps, it was something worse.

Something that could save his life, or end it.

Brunette hair tucked secure beneath his beanie, his scarf just grazing his stubbled chin. He looked almost too domestic for the likes of someone who was in a recruiting station hours prior. As if he wasn’t going to learn how to kill someone without hesitation, only for the betterment of his country. A part of [Name] so selfishly hoped for him to just stay like this.

Gone were the days of sitting in class and being in awe of wonderment for the future. Visiting the library yet only to go off topic from their final essay, having aimless conversations in the garage, walking along the boardwalks as the sun would set - they all drifted away with the hourglass.

“Naturally.” She’d retort towards his observation. She knew he was aware of her wariness. For the second he stepped on that airplane in the coming days would be the start of playing devil’s gambit. To sit still in life, although not needing to, was so difficult without the person you planned to move forward with.

He chuckled, and a part of her just wanted to slap him for it. To find even a shred of amusement in such regard was rare, and [Name] found herself envious of how good he was at just being. The simple word has a complex meaning; existence.

“So I’d hope.” John huffed, the cold air exposing his breath through a slight hint of fog. A sign of his breathing, one that left [Name] enamored at times. Life, his life specifically. One she was grateful to have in hers. She’d just hope she’d be able to see it next winter, and all the winters after.

He noticed her sharp gaze, one so pointedly focused on him. John was always so observant, so aware. Yet he kept his mouth quiet about most things that could bring disruption. Because he was selfless. He was always selfless - always noble.

[Name] often resented him for it.

His shoulders slumped, his gaze lingering on her. Lingering, lingering, lingering. Something that stayed for a brief moment only to move onto the next thing. Similar to a leaf in the breeze, a constant focus that kept redirecting towards wherever the wind carried it. Something that doesn’t last, something that doesn’t stay.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke. “Yer’ ought to write often. Dannae’ want my head ta’ be mince from hearin’ other bastards get lucky.”

How twisted it was to only get to hear from him through letters. Symbols so intricate that would come to express devotion towards a person. Being. Existence. Something that lingered, something that never lasts. So focused on the end that i’s difficult, almost troubling, to think of the present.

What’s to come. What’s to be.

“Let’s hope your luck shines through, Johnny.” [Name] said as to reassure his worries. In the end, she knew he would come across a soul or two to put up with him. He was a likeable man, one with the loyalty of a thousand soldiers. How much loyalty would it take to just get him to stay?

From the kid that asked her for a pencil in the middle of class, his eyes gleaming with childlike curiosity, all now grown into a man who was preparing for warfare and held knowledge in his eyes. He’s grown, and he’s leaving. He’s leaving, and [Name] could never go where he would go.

All she could think was stay.

All he could think was follow.

However, John could never bring himself to ask her that. To tread along the lines of foreign land, regardless of her capabilities. The threats that would be focused on her was something he couldn’t shake. A thought that he wouldn’t let stand. But to be without her…

No drill instructor could break him down as much as that did.

“My luck comes fine,” John scoffed, eyes going towards the sky. Streaks of blue and ebony, intertwined, illuminated by the stars littering over the horizon. Glimpses of sunlight cascading along the ocean’s currents, dipping below the curve of the earth from miles out. So far, but in sight.

The same couldn’t be the same for the two wanderers strolling among the boardwalk. Close, in reach of each other. Soon that would change by the coming morning. A rift to be made by either choice, damnation, or just for the hell of it. Time reaped up all its victims in the end.

“And yet you’re bound to run out sooner or later.” [Name] commented.

“Keep me close to ya’ heart, lass, and I’m bound ta’ last longer than ya’ expect.” John replied.

Her lips betrayed her emotions with a small twitch curving upwards. She tilted her head away, finding the waves brushing the sand more interesting than John’s look of amusement. “You’re a sap.” She hummed in thought as they stopped in front of the railing that overlooked the port.

“Aye.” He agreed. Although her eyes were elsewhere, and the world around them was so full of life, his eyes never left her. The way her forearms rested against the wooden railing, her content expression although the inner turmoil he knew she was experiencing. Give him a journal, and John could write pages among pages of his observations.

Shops were closing down as the beautiful warm weather blossomed into cloudy skies and - as often bluntly put - utterly terrible weather. There were hardly any other individuals wandering about the boardwalk at dusk, having the sun progress into hiding so darkness could fully envelope their surroundings.

Neon streaks of lime, blue, and pink were illuminating their esteemed offer of entertainment, one that could only be open for so long until it met its course with winter. John carefully watched [Name], seeing her features slightly highlighted by the lights in the distance. An observant man he ever will be.

He stood next to her, watching the ships pass by miles out across the ocean in a goal unknown towards the general public. Just passing through, that’s all it was. He breathed out, feeling [Name]’s shoulder press against his as they watched life just passed by.

On the railing, John brought his hand to rest atop hers. She didn’t look at him, but acknowledged him with a slight brush of her thumb. Even by that, he had one final goal in mind.

Coming home to her.

-2ND PERSPECTIVE . . .

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus.” A phrase that came familiar with John’s vocabulary. In the sights victory, defeat, or the all in between. Shock came naturally in the line of work that held the definite chance of ending human life. Ended the very essence of being. Existence. Ending the line that lingered.

Close calls came more often than he would personally like them too. Bullets treaded faster than any soldier could among land. And in that, came the chance of death, lest it be a very tragic injury that one unlucky sonuvabitch would have to deal with. Years slipped by, yet the goal remained the same.

Coming home to you.

Lingering. Being. Staying.

Blood spilled out from his shoulder blade, the bullet dug deep within his skin. A miracle how his joints still continued to move. He didn’t know if that luck came by some sort of unnatural force or his own effort. John would much prefer the latter, in an attempt to see his efforts brought him closer towards whatever came next.

His back pressed against the wall of the alleyway, Shadow Company on the patrol – completely, and utterly, perhaps for the first time in a long time, alone. Hearing the cries of civillians in the distance, his eyes closed as deep breaths slipped past his lips. Control. Adapt. Survive.

Staying here would mean ultimate death. Staying would mean being left behind. Staying would mean giving in and letting up. That’s something Soap was never good at; staying. He knew it. And, he knew you knew it. All too well in the regards of you. If only he would’ve stayed, but that’s just something that’s not in his abilities.

Soap could do many things. Kill a man, be quick to act, keep his moralities right where they should be, missing you. But to stay? That was a scary thought.

But nothing was as scarier as never seeing you again.

Get up, MacTavish.

He stood up and adjusted himself upright, looking towards the streets slicked over in the aftermath of rainfall. Darkness crept within the corners of Las Almas territory, the towering buildings keeping him cautious of any shadows that could get the one-up on him.

In each staggering step, there was one goal. The same goal he held during his time in boot camp. You. You. You. Loyal like a dog, never straying from the thought of you. His mind, his soul, his body. Johnny never considered himself a romantic man, but by the Savior, to be by your side…

An everfall of afterthoughts were everything and everyone else in his life. Not you, oh, never you.

Whatever blood that spills from his veins, it will only be for the fact he’s coming home to you. Each step he takes on this wretched terrain of twisted ideals and political power. One step closer to you. That’s all it was.

This pain was only temporary.

-3RD PERSPECTIVE . . .

“But death is not the end,” Said the priest upon the altar, his golden embroidery hanging loose along his stole, his wrinkled hands extended to further stretch out his words. “It is merely the beginning of a new life!”

[Name] listened little to the priest's speech, his words blurring in the midst of things. No church bells rang, no holy choir singing their praises to God, no sobbing mother being consoled. It was nothing. Nothing.

Staring at the casket decorated in shades of burgundy, the portrait of the fallen soldier at its side. Flowers wilting way upon its casing. The wood would rot as well, eventually. And so would the body it concealed.

Not his smile. Please, God, don’t take away his smile. Don’t let it rot.

There were only a few people in the pews. A collection of those who stayed close to Johnny throughout his life, or just knew of him. The rare collection of those who knew Soap as Johnny. Not as the man with the gun. Just Johnny.

Soap lives on in memory, but Johnny is here, in a casket.

As the sermon drew to an end, [Name] stood up from the pews. She never ripped her gaze away from the casket, knowing the body beneath would be turned to ash. No more crooked grins or lingering touches.

A part of her wished he stayed.

But it’s all a part of the job, in the end.

[euphoriacafe]

First time ask and a bit of a potentially bodily gross one so please ignore if it is but I’d love to see how you’d write the different (whichever ones you feel like writing) Call of Duty men reacting to an afab reader who unfortunately has chest acne they can’t seem to get rid of.

I can just see them helping reader with her body washing routine but to varying degrees of strictness where Simon and Price get on her while Soap and Gaz are nicer about it,,,

Call Of Duty Members reacting to F-Reader having acne 1/2

Author Note: I absolutely got you! I personally always seen acne/scars as constellations but on the body- so it's a every body is beautiful and unique in its own way. I hope you enjoy it and hope I didn't disappoint.

Warning : Just talks of Acne, The reader is obliviously 18+

SOAP :

(Y/N) sighed heavily, her gaze fixed on the small mirror propped up against the wall of her bunker room. Her fingers traced the angry red bumps scattered across her chest, feeling self-conscious and frustrated. It seemed like no matter how much she tried to care for her skin, the acne persisted, a constant reminder of the stress and uncertainty of their situation. Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice the door creak open until Soap's familiar voice broke through the silence. "Hey there, soldier. Mind if I come in?" His tone was gentle, filled with concern.

(Y/N) quickly pulled her shirt collar up, attempting to hide the blemishes, but it was too late. Soap's sharp eyes caught sight of her discomfort immediately. "Hey, what's going on?" Soap asked softly, stepping further into the room. His presence felt comforting, like a steady anchor in the chaos of their world.

(Y/N) hesitated for a moment before sighing and dropping her hands to her sides, exposing the acne once more. "It's just… this," she gestured to her chest, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over her. Soap approached her with a reassuring smile, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. We're all going through a lot right now. Stress can do strange things to our bodies."

She nodded, appreciating his understanding. "I know, it's just… hard to deal with sometimes." Soap nodded sympathetically. "I get it. But remember, (Y/N), your worth isn't defined by your appearance. You're strong, capable, and brave. And those qualities shine brighter than any blemish ever could."

(Y/N) couldn't help but smile at his words, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. "Thanks, Soap. I needed to hear that." "Anytime, soldier," Soap replied, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We're in this together, through thick and thin."

Price :

(Y/N) grunted as she pushed through another set of reps in the dimly lit gym of the bunker, the weight of the world heavy on her shoulders. She was alone, seeking solace in the rhythmic clank of the weights and the burn in her muscles, the only sounds in the quiet of the night.

But as she paused to catch her breath, she felt a presence behind her, and before she could turn around, Captain Price's stern voice cut through the stillness. "Soldier, what are you doing here at this hour?"

Startled, (Y/N) straightened up, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash over her as she realized her captain had caught her in this vulnerable moment. She glanced down at her chest, the acne inflamed and visible even in the dim light, feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny.

"I… I couldn't sleep, sir," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Price's gaze softened as he stepped closer, his eyes flicking to the sweat glistening on her skin. "And what's this?" he asked, his tone gentle yet firm. "You know the importance of hygiene, soldier. You should have wiped yourself down after your workout."

(Y/N) bit her lip, feeling a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll remember next time."

Price nodded, his expression fatherly as he handed her a towel. "Here, clean yourself up. And I have something that might help with that," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tube of cream. "It's not a cure-all, but it should soothe the inflammation."

Grateful, (Y/N) accepted the cream with a nod, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."

Price gave her a small smile, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. "Take care of yourself, (Y/N). We need you in top shape."

Ghost :

(Y/N) let out a heavy sigh as she peeled off her shirt, the dim light of her bunker room casting shadows across her inflamed skin. She stood in front of the mirror in her sports bra, her chest and back dotted with angry red bumps, a painful reminder of the day's struggles. Dehydration and sweat from her intense workout had taken their toll, examining her acne and leaving her feeling defeated. Just as she was about to give in to the overwhelming wave of unhappiness, a sharp knock on the door jolted her from her thoughts. With a frown, she made her way to the door, wondering who could possibly be interrupting her solitude.

Opening the door, she was met with the sight of Ghost, her best friend, his expression stern and disapproving. Before she could even utter a greeting, he stepped into her room, a plastic bag clutched in his hand.

"What's going on, (Y/N)?" he asked, his voice laced with concern and a hint of frustration. "I thought we talked about taking care of yourself. You know neglecting your hydration and letting yourself overheat only makes your acne worse."

(Y/N) felt a pang of guilt at his words, knowing he was right but unable to shake the feeling of defeat that had settled over her. "I know, Ghost. It's just been a rough day," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ghost softened slightly, his expression shifting from annoyance to empathy as he set the plastic bag down on her bed. "I get that, but you can't let it consume you," he said, his tone gentle yet firm. "You're stronger than this, (Y/N). You know that."

With a sigh, (Y/N) nodded, feeling a sense of gratitude for his unwavering support, even when she didn't deserve it. "I'll try, Ghost. I promise."

He gave her a small smile, his eyes filled with a mixture of big brotherly concern and affection. "Good. Now, let's get you cleaned up and hydrated. We'll tackle this together."

As Ghost handed her a water bottle, new towels, and some cream, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth wash over her. With him by her side, she knew she could weather any storm, no matter how dark.

Gaz :

(Y/N) stared at her reflection in the mirror, frustration etched into every line of her face as she scrutinized the acne that marred her skin. With a deep sigh, she couldn't help but make an irritated facial expression, her disgust evident in the furrow of her brows and the tightness of her jaw. Lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear Gaz enter the room until his voice cut through the silence, pulling her back to reality. "Hey, (Y/N), what are you doing?" he asked, concern evident in his tone.

Startled, (Y/N) turned to face him, her irritation bubbling to the surface as she struggled to contain her emotions. "What does it look like I'm doing, Gaz?" she snapped, her frustration spilling over. "I'm staring at my stupid face, wondering why I have to deal with this disgusting acne." Gaz's expression softened as he approached her, his voice calm and reassuring. "Hey, (Y/N), you're not alone. Acne is natural, and it's nothing to be ashamed of."

(Y/N) scoffed, feeling a pang of guilt for snapping at him. "Easy for you to say," she muttered, her tone bitter. "You don't have to deal with this mess on your face and chest." Gaz reached out, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "Actually, I do," he admitted quietly, his gaze meeting hers with sincerity. "I struggle with back acne sometimes. It's a pain, but we're in this together."

Surprised by his revelation, (Y/N) felt a flicker of warmth in her chest, grateful for his honesty and understanding. "I… I didn't know," she murmured, her anger dissipating as she met his gaze.Gaz gave her a small smile, his eyes filled with empathy. "It's okay. We all have our battles," he said softly. "But you don't have to face yours alone. Let me help you find a good remedy for your acne. We'll tackle it together." Touched by his offer, (Y/N) felt a sense of relief wash over her. "Thank you, Gaz. I'm sorry for snapping at you," she apologized, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders.

Gaz shook his head, his smile widening. "No need to apologize. Friends stick together, through thick and thin."

With Gaz by her side, (Y/N) knew that no matter what challenges she faced, she wouldn't have to face them alone. And for that, she was grateful.

Alejandro :

(Y/N) sighed as she approached Alejandro's room, knocking on the door. When he answered, she asked, "Hey, Alejandro, do you happen to have any laundry detergent without perfumes or dyes? My acne is acting up, and I need something gentle for my clothes."

Curiosity crept into Alejandro's expression as he raised an eyebrow. "What's going on with your acne?"

(Y/N) hesitated for a moment before admitting, "It's super inflamed, and I'm trying to minimize any irritation. So, fragrance-free detergent would help."

Alejandro nodded, understanding, "Got it. Let me check." After a brief search, he shook his head, "Sorry, I don't have any."

Disappointed but not surprised, (Y/N) forced a smile and said, "No worries, thanks anyway."

An hour later, there was a soft knock on (Y/N)'s door, and when she opened it, she found Alejandro holding a bag. "I couldn't find the detergent, but I got you these," he said, handing her the bag. Inside were shirts specifically designed to be gentle on the skin and allow the body to breathe, along with the fragrance-free detergent she had been searching for.

Her eyes widened with surprise and gratitude. "Alejandro, you didn't have to do this."

He grinned, offering a reassuring pat on her shoulder. "Consider it a little care package. We all need a bit of extra comfort sometimes, especially when dealing with things like this. You're not alone in it, okay?"

Touched by his thoughtful gesture, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth. "Thank you, Alejandro. I really appreciate it."

He gave her a brotherly hug, "Anytime, (Y/N). We look out for each other, right?"

With a genuine smile, she nodded, "Right." With Alejandro's support, she felt a renewed sense of confidence, knowing that even in the face of skincare challenges, she had someone in her corner.

[simonrileyyyy]

ꨄCherry Chapstickꨄ

Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Warnings: none, just some fluff 💕

You rummaged through the different products in your makeup bag, searching for your favorite cherry chapstick.

All of a sudden, you hear Simon enter the house after going out to run errands. So you called out to him, hoping he’d know where it is.

“𝐒𝐢! 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭?”

Footsteps echoed through the hallway, and soon you heard Simon enter, him taking off his jacket and placing it back into the closet.

He then walked up behind you, grabbing your chin and turning it to face him.

To your confusion, Simon didn’t answer your question but instead pressed his lips to yours gently put firmly. Then you knew why.

As he kissed you, you could taste your cherry chapstick on his lips.

He pulled away, a smirk on his face at your bewildered expression.

“𝐘' 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞?”

You raised an eyebrow, placing your hands on your hips.

“𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤?”

He pulled you close, picking you up, your legs now straddling his waist.

“'𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮.”

You huffed, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥! 𝐈𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚-“

Simon cut you off by kissing you again, the taste of the cherry chapstick on his lips.

~

Note: AHHH YALL I NEED A CHERRY CHAPSTICK SIMON IN MY LIFE ☹️

[bunny-jpeg]

packing my husband's lunch

simon "ghost" riley - inspired by this

tags: smut & fluff, domestic, established relationship (marriage), housewife!reader, butcher!simon, food, body worship & praise, missionary,

a/n: changed a little bit of it for the fic, i hope that's okay! i hope everyone loves it!!

it wasn't supposed to be a big deal, these were little videos that you made when simon was at work. people did a lot worse on the internet! you were mostly in sweet aprons with your username embroidered onto them and occasionally one of the dresses that your loving husband bought you!

you wanted to keep yourself busy now that you were a stay-at-home wife and the income from being part of the creator's program was a nice bonus.

"thank you for the banana bread recipe, mrs. riley!"

"where did you get that dress?"

"i wonder what mister riley looks like! i bet she totally lucked out!!"

you built up a sweet little community that was mostly sharing recipes that you've aquired over the years. viewers were impressed of how well you could handle spice despite your gentle demeanour, but you once said in a video that you had been eating spicy food your whole life!

"plus, my husband loves it too!" that was the big mystery of the account, who was mrs. riley's husband? viewers knew he existed and that videos occasionally were about making his lunches. but he had never showed his face in any video.

you thought the comments were cute, you'd often show them to simon while you were in his lap on the couch.

"they think that you're like christian grey."

"who the hell is that?" simon chuckled as he rested his head on top of your head so he could look down at your phone, "sounds like a real prick with a name like that."

another day, another video. you worked within the kitchen explaining the recipe. "you have to remmeber to add the spices before it all comes together or else it won't have time to mingle with the potatoes or the carrots. the taste will be all off!" you tone was like a bird's chirp as you had one hand on yourhip and the other stirring the pot with a spoon.

"my husband loves this! and i think who ever you make this for, wife, husband, boyfriend, partner, family member, friend, they'll love it too! but i suggest if you're making it for your nana that you tone down the spices a little!" you talked away as you continued to cook.

it filled the near silence in the kitchen and allowed you to keep viewers engaged!

but this video ended a little different. while you showed off finished stew in a pastel pink bowl, viewers caught the sight of him. hulking mass of man in a white t-shirt with a suspicious amount of red stained across it.

"girl, are you okay?"

"who is that?!"

"pack him a sandwich in the next video if you need help!"

"hey girlie, close your fist with your thumb inside if you're not safe!"

you were confused by the comments, simon wasn't a bad guy? he had never hurt a hair on your head. you've been trying to get him into more experimental kinky play in the bedroom!

you heard the door unlock and peeked out of the kitchen to see your husband coming home. you were use to grime he brought home, you met at the butcher shop his long time friend price owned. so a t-shirt stained with blood was nothing new. but then it clicked in your head.

oh they thought that simon was some kind of serial killer.

before you could say anything to your husband, he pulled you in for tight kiss and held you by the back of the head with his strong hand. you smiled against his lips and giggled when he picked you up. you wrapped your legs around his waist and held onto his shoulders.

you weren't the lightest thing in the world, but simon had spent most of his life hauling things (meat) heavier than you could ever be. he eyed you from top to bottom and smiled. his smiles were rare to others but frequent with you.

"how's my love bug today? makin' more videos for the fans." he asked as he carried you to the couch and put you down gently. he then leaned in to kiss you on the lips.

"yeah, they think you're a serial killer though."

his blond brows raised, "serial killer?"

you looked at him in return, "you were in the back of one of my latest videos, i didn't notice anything until i realized that you were in a work shirt and it looked like you were a serial killer."

"i see, i see." he said as he sat next to you and laced your fingers with his, "tell them i'm not, i don't need rumours to start." simon didn't like being the center of attention.

he once told you that he married the brightest woman he could find so she could be the center of attention and he could be supportive from the sidelines. it was why people gravitated towards you while being a little afraid of you towering husband.

you pulled him closer to you and kissed at his scarred face. he was an active service member before he became a butcher, so much history on his body and you loved every molecule of him. when you kissed him, he deepened the kiss and held both your hands.

"simon."

"let me take you to bed." he replied softly before he pulled you to your feet and then pulled you up into his arms bridal style. it took you a while to get used to him carrying you. not that you were worried about him not having a good hold on you, but rather you not having a good hold on him!

he brought you to your shared bedroom and placed you on the bed delicately. he then got his shirt up and over his head, exposing his strong body to you. he wasn't model trimmed, he was built with proper strength.

i ain't no pretty boy, dove.

but you thought your husband was the prettiest of them all. slowly you started to take off your dress, you could feel your husband's hungry eyes on you as you undressed for him. your viewers saw a sweet little wife, bu simon saw that sweet little wife totally nude.

when the mis-matched pair of bra and panties ended up on the floor with the dress, simon felt like a new man. he worked hard to provide for your family of two and would continue to work hard every day. you were his wife, his everything. and he loved you more than he could ever articulate.

so he expressed his love by getting undressed and into bed with you. laid out on top of the covers, your head in the pillows with simon between your legs.

"look at mrs. riley." he cooed as he rubbed his rough hands up and down your bare thighs, "prettier than those little cookies you make.' he chuckled a little, "boy at work watch your videos all the time, you've been a big help to them, finally able to cook for themselves." he went in to kiss you on the lips.

"glad i could help." you replied as you held onto one of the pillows under your head. you arched your back a little when he lined his cock up with slick entrance and pressed himself in.

he leaned forward and braced a hand up against the headboard as he got his cock inside of you. the issue with a size difference like yours, it made it a little hard to have sex in certain positions. usually you were on top, but since you got married you've been able to figure out missionary.

"honey."

"i got ya, dove. you feel so good as always." he said lowly, "everything i have ya, it's a complete treat. you take good care of me, you know that. you are a good wife. happy you're making your little videos, and i'm happier i get to come home to you."

you blushed a little bit and wanted to hide your face but he stopped you by pinning your hand to the bed.

"don't hide from me, dove. i want to see my wife's face." he said with his voice tinged with affection. he loved the sight of you, you were beautiful under him, he couldn't help but lick his lips at the sight of you.

"you make me blush too much." you said as he moved against you. your loving, caring husband moved his hips in a steady pace as he held onto your hand and the headboard. his thrusts were easy on you, not too rough but just enough to make you excited all over. you loved the feeling of him, there was just something about it that made you feel a twinge of excitement in your core.

he was a perfect lover and you loved him so much.

"all mine." he purred as he continued his movements. he watched your videos daily during his lunch break, happily eating the food you made for a video that morning or the day prior. the stews, baked goods and pasta dishes that you were known for.

your emphasis on couponing and how to store foods to make them last longer. it was an honour for simon to be with such a lovely woman. you encouraged food as a form of love. and you showed that love ten times over with simon.

he captured your lips and continued to move against you. he devoured the feeling of his lover up against him. you felt amazing, you felt like heaven. he couldn't help himself. he moved against you and continued to kiss you.

"work so hard every day, you work your ass off beautiful. and i love it, all of you. you know that. i can't get enough of you, how you feel against me. how i feel like our souls are connected."

you giggled, "no need to butter me up, handsome." you smiled when he placed another kiss on your lips. you moaned into the kiss, you eventually held onto his strong shoulders. you two moved against each other, husband and wife. quite the pair you were, and simon wouldn't want it any other way.

"baby." he cooed.

"shh, shh." you said, you opened your eyes and stared into his brown ones, he was so handsome. even when he tried to deny it, you knew the truth. he was quite the handsome man. the kind of man that made your toes curl with each hardy thrust of his hips.

the pleasure ran through both of you, the intensity of it made you kiss one another once more. he continued to work himself inside of you. live in each of this thrusts, affection in every movement. simon loved you and you loved him, hence why you held onto him so closely.

"oh, dove. look at ya. perfect for your husband." he cooed as he felt closer to his climax, it was an intense feeling. the kind of feeling that excited him greatly. he loved you and when he watched your pleasure reach its peak, he felt a swell of pride when you clutched onto him tighter.

"fuck, honey." you moaned as pleasure crushed down on you. you tensed up then relax, enjoying the feeling as it moved through you. you shared another kiss.

simon continued to work his body up against yours, and soon he finished inside of you. he rocked against you through his climax and then only broke the kiss when he stopped. he looked you in the eyes, those beautiful brown eyes.

you giggled lightly and pulled him in once more before he laid out on the bed beside you and held you in his arms.

"not too bad for a serial killer."

"yeah, i bet they'd never know that you're such a teddy bear." you dragged a finger across his strong chest and let out a small giggle. he felt so good against you. you soon sat up and said, "i have something i want you to try, i am working on a new recipe."

before you could get too far, he pulled you back into bed with him and wrapped his arms around you. he held you close and said, "whatever it is, dove. i bet it's amazing, but right now i just wanna hold ya."

-

the following day, on one of simon's days off. you set up the camera and stood beside your much taller husband. you were all smiles as you were ready to bake a nice spring treat.

"hello, love bugs! it's mrs. riley again, and today i have a guest!" you gestured to your husband. you whispered, "you'll need to crouch down a little." and simon bent his knees, "this is my husband, mister riley!"

you hoped that this would quell any concerns your fans might have. and while the comments were positive one made you blush.

"i used to think i had a crush on mrs. riley, but now i have a crush on mr. riley too!"

i hope you love this fic! if you have any suggestions, my open! till next time <3

[hyperactively-me]

break in, break down

"You're stayin' with me tonight," he declares, voice firm and unwavering. You open your mouth, nearly telling him no, I'll find a hotel, but the look he shoots you suggests that you go with him. With a nod of agreement, Simon leads you away from the scene, his hand on your back firm and reassuring.

this has been sitting in my drafts for like, ever. it's not the best cause its super old, like months old and i lowkey forgot i even had it, but it'll do for now while i'm in this writing rut.

happy reading <3

warnings: home invasion, panic attack reaction (i think that's it? lmk if i missed anything please!)

A loud bang reverberates through your apartment, your peaceful sleep interrupted.

You open your eyes with a start, the volume of the sound causing your heart race and your breath catch in your throat.

You're silent for another moment until the sound of glass shattering causes you to jump. You sit up now, dumbfounded for a brief moment before unshakable anxiety takes over.

There's no way this could be happening to you right now.

You immediately leap out of bed, grabbing a stray hoodie off the floor, slipping it over your thin pajamas. Next, you grab your phone with shaky hands, trembling from the adrenaline and anxiety coursing through your veins. The sounds from outside your bedroom are starting to get louder. You swipe your car keys from your drawer, shoving them into the pocket of your hoodie.

In a frenzy, you grope under your bed for a baseball bat, struggling to steady your shaking hands as you grip it tightly. The rattling of your doorknob nearly makes you pass out in fear. Simon had told you multiple times to keep your door locked when you sleep, stressing to you that it wasn't safe to leave it unlocked, especially at night.

There was no way you could escape through the hallway. Lucky for you, your apartment is on the first floor of the building, meaning that you would be able to safely jump out of your bedroom window without injuring yourself.

You place all your things down quickly, unlatching your window from its locks. You heave it open with all your might, grunting as you hold it up to lock it into an open position. Grabbing your baseball bat first, you throw it out the window and onto the grass below you. Could never be too safe.

Suddenly, the person or people on the other side of your door start kicking at it, the flimsy wood shaking from the impacts. You bite back a scream, prompting you to jump out of your window, dropping onto the grass below you clumsily.

You don't bother looking back as you sprint to your car in the adjacent parking lot, throwing yourself into the drivers seat unceremoniously.

Without another thought, you dial 911. Running on pure adrenaline, you tell the operator your address and the urgency of the situation. The kind voice on the other end tells you that the police are on their way before you hang up.

You bite back a sob as your shaking hands type in Simon's phone number. You hold your phone up to your, chewing your finger as it rings once, twice, and the line picks up.

"Hullo?" a scratchy, sleep-ridden voice on the other end of the line rings out. His accent sounds particularly thick.

"Simon," your voice breaks, the adrenaline now worn off, leaving you a wreck.

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately, now sounding more awake. You hear shuffling on the other end.

"I- I think my apartment got broken into," you sob, fat tears now freely falling down your cheeks. "I'm so scared," you cry, bawling like a baby.

Simon's voice takes on a sharp urgency. "'M coming over right now. Where are you? Are you hurt?"

"I'm in my car, in the parking lot," you say tearfully, trying to wipe the tears from your face unsuccessfully.

"I've already called 911; they're on the way—" you add, clutching onto your phone.

The sound of a door opening and slamming shut crackles through the phone. "Be there in ten. Stay on the line, love."

"I'm scared," you cry again, your free hand trembling as you reach to make sure your car door is locked.

"I know, love, I know. Just hang in there. 'M on my way," Simon reassures you, his voice gentle. The ten-minute wait feels like an eternity as you sit in your car, sniffling every so often as you look out your car windows to make sure no one is coming towards you.

Sirens wail in the distance, the police clearly arriving on scene. Despite the growing fear gnawing at you, Simon's voice provides a source of comfort.

"The police are almost here," you breath into the phone, pulling your knees up to your chest.

"Good, I'm here," he grunts. You look up and see his truck hurtling through the parking lot, stopping abruptly right behind your car. He slides out of his car, rushing to the drivers side of your car.

The moment he reaches your car, you throw open the door and practically fall into his arms. Simon holds you tight as you fall into him, sobs wracking your body.

"Don't cry," he soothes, pulling you tighter against him. "'S alright, 's handled."

He cradles you in his grasp, running his hand over your hair as you sob into his t-shirt, fists bunching up the fabric. You cling to him as if he's your lifeline, the scent of his t-shirt grounding you ever so slightly.

"I've got you," he murmurs, rubbing your back.

Your sobs gradually subside into quiet sniffles, and you take a deep breath.

The distant wailing of sirens grows closer, indicating the police are here. Simon releases you just enough to glance over his shoulder at the approaching vehicles. "The police are here," you whisper, your voice shaky but relieved.

The flashing lights of police cars illuminate the surroundings as officers approach. Simon steps back, maintaining a protective stance beside you.

Two police officers approach you and Simon, asking for details about the break-in. You pull at the hem of your hoodie, trying to cover up your practically bare thighs from your tiny pajamas. Simon settles his hand on your lower back, encouraging you to speak to the officers. You recount the events timidly, telling them as much as you know. After providing your statement, the police assure you they'll investigate your apartment, but advise you that it's not the best to stay there tonight. For obvious reasons.

Upon their insistence of you spending the night somewhere else, before you could even open your mouth, Simon is insisting, no, demanding that you stay with him for the night.

"You're stayin' with me tonight," he declares, voice firm and unwavering.

You open your mouth, nearly telling him no, I'll find a hotel, but the look he shoots you suggests that you go with him.

With a nod of agreement, Simon leads you away from the scene, his hand on your back firm and reassuring.

As you approach his truck, Simon opens the door for you. He helps you up into the passenger seat, making sure you're settled before closing the door with a determined thud. Simon then strides around to the driver's side, the scent of him lingering in the air as he gets in. The engine roars to life, and you find comfort in the steady hum of the engine.

The drive to Simon's place is mostly quiet. He occasionally glances at you, concern etched into his features. You stare out of the window, the events of the night replaying in your mind. You shiver in your seat, thinking about what could have happened if you hadn't escaped through your window. Simon's hand finds yours, a silent gesture that makes your heart ache with gratitude.

As you pull into Simon's driveway, you're met with the warm glow of his porch light. The familiar sight brings a new sense of relief. It's not the first time you've been to his quaint home. Simon turns off the engine, and without a word, he's at your side, opening the door for you again.

He leads you inside, the click of the door shutting behind you echoing in the quiet house. Simon heads to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets. Moments later, he appears with a mug of tea, a small but comforting gesture. He hands it to you, the warmth seeping into your cold hands.

"Drink this. It'll help calm your nerves," he says, his voice gentle.

You take a sip, the familiar taste of chamomile offering a small respite. Simon sits across from you, watching as you try to steady your trembling hands. The silence between you isn't uncomfortable; it's a shared understanding that words might not be enough to mend the damage that's been dealt.

After a while, Simon breaks the silence. "I'll make up the spare room for you. Take your time. We'll deal with everythin' in the morning."

He disappears down the hall, leaving you alone in the living room. You look around his living room, eyeing his front door for a brief moment. You finish the tea and set the mug on the coffee table, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over you.

When you enter the spare room, you find it tidy and pretty bare. The scent of clean sheets and the comforting atmosphere of his home a stark difference from your own. You watch as he double checks the windows to make sure they're locked tight. He also shows you the lock on your own bedroom door.

"Everythin' is secure, 've triple checked it all," Simon states, turning from the window to look at you. His concern is evident in his eyes, and you nod in response.

"Thank you, Simon. I appreciate all of this," you say, your voice quiet.

He moves over to the wall, crouching down to plug a night light into the wall. He taps it a few times to make sure it works. When it flickers on, he grunts, satisfied. Pushing himself up to standing, he walks over to you.

He gives you a reassuring smile. "No need to thank me. 'S the least I can do. You get some rest. 'M right across the hall if you need anything."

With that, he leaves the room, gently closing the door behind him. You make sure to lock the door behind him as he leaves. You crawl into bed, pulling the covers over your weary body, exhaustion settling in.

You close your eyes, hoping that sleep will offer some reprieve. As you lay there, the events of the night replay in your mind. The fear, the vulnerability, and the violation of your home weigh heavily on you. Slight sounds make you jump in fear, and all of a sudden you start to breath heavily. You can't be in here, not alone.

You stumble out of the room, practically falling into the hallway. The dim glow of the nightlight casts long shadows, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Determined, you make your way to Simon's door and knock softly.

The door opens, and Simon appears, concern etched on his face. "Everythin' alright, love?"

You can barely form the words, your voice barely a whisper. "Can't stay in there alone."

Without hesitation, Simon opens the door wider, gesturing for you to enter. His room is dark, all lights off. You step inside his room, tugging your hoodie tighter around your body. You settle onto the edge of his bed, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to ward off the residual fear.

Simon shuts and locks the door behind him, plunging you both into darkness, save for the slight shine of the moon pouring through between a crack in his curtains.

Simon stands in front of you, looking down with a mix of empathy and concern in his eyes. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need. I don't mind."

"Thank you," you manage to say, the vulnerability in your voice more pronounced in the darkness of the room.

Simon hesitates for a moment before flicking on a small bedside lamp. The soft light casts a warm glow across the room, revealing a space that's both lived-in and comforting. You feel a bit more at ease.

He pulls a chair from his desk and sits across from you, leaving a respectful distance. The silence between you is filled with unspoken words, the weight of the night's events hanging in the air. Simon's gaze is unwavering, and you find solace in the fact that he understands what you need without the need for words.

As the minutes tick by, the atmosphere in the room becomes less tense. Simon breaks the silence, his voice a gentle murmur. "I don't want you to go through this alone. You deserve to feel safe, love."

You manage a weak smile, touched by his sincerity. "Thank you, Simon. You really don't have to be doing all of this for me--"

"Don't say that, I want to," he cuts you off gruffly, offended as if you would even suggest that you weren't worthy enough of his care.

His response hangs in the air, and you notice a flicker of something in Simon's eyes—a hint of frustration or something deeper. The unspoken tension lingers, causing you to shift slightly.

"I just... I don't want you to feel unsafe," Simon adds, his voice softer this time. He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, his gaze fixed on yours. "Or alone. Fuckin' hell, if you hadn't been able to get out of there..."

He stops, jaw ticking as he thinks. He can't even say it.

The room feels charged with unspoken emotions, and you sense a vulnerability in Simon that mirrors your own.

"Simon," you say softly, your voice a gentle reassurance, "I feel safe with you."

"I've... 've cared about you for a long time, maybe more than I should," Simon admits, his words hanging in the air like a fragile confession.

The vulnerability in his admission tugs at your heart, and you find yourself pushing yourself up off the edge of the bed, cupping his face in your hands.

"I've cared about you too," you confess, the weight of the unspoken finally lifted.

He looks up, meeting your eyes with a mixture of relief and adoration. Simon's hand reaches up to grasp your wrist lightly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of your hand, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

"I never want you to feel unsafe or alone again. I can't stand the thought of somethin' happenin' t' you."

Your heart swells at the sincerity of his words, and you lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

The conversation lulls, and for a moment, it's just the two of you in the sanctuary of Simon's bedroom. The emotional exhaustion begins to take its toll, and your eyes grow heavy.

He stands from his chair, grasping your upper arms gently, leading you towards his bed once again. Before he sits you down, he looks at you expectantly.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes," you nod, "I've never wanted anything more."

With your permission, he lays you down on his bed, following you into the bed with a contained eagerness. He drags you up until you're settled on a pillow. Simon slides into the mattress right next to you, pulling the covers up and over the both of you. You turn on your side to face him, eyes searching his face just before he turns off the lamp, plunging you both into darkness.

Simon's hand brushes against your forearm, seeking permission yet again. You scoot over until you're flush against him, cheeks heating up at the proximity. You feel Simon's warm presence beside you, his hand finding its place on your waist before he pulls you up against him, cuddling you. Simon's fingers trace patterns on your back, a soothing motion that pulls you deeper into relaxation.

"Get some rest. I'll be right here if you need anything, love," Simon whispers, playing with the ends of your hair.

"Thank you," you whisper into the darkness, your voice barely audible but carrying a depth of gratitude.

He tightens his grip on your waist, a silent affirmation that he's here for you, that you're not alone. The warmth of his touch and the gentle rise and fall of his breath provide a sense of security that eases the lingering tension in your body.

. . . 

The morning light begins to seep through the curtains, casting a soft glow in Simon's room. As you slowly awaken, the events of the previous night come back to you in fragments. You turn slightly to find Simon still asleep beside you, his features softened by the morning light. His arm is draped protectively over you, and a sense of peace settles in the room. For a moment, you simply revel in the quiet stillness, savoring the moment.

As Simon begins to stir, his eyes meet yours, and a sleepy smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Mornin’," he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep.

"Morning," you reply, a small smile playing on your lips. The air in the room feels different, more relaxed.

Simon props himself up on one elbow, his gaze searching yours. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I thought I would," you admit, a genuine warmth in your voice. "Still kinda freaked out that people broke in to my apartment, but better."

He nods thoughtfully. "We should probably get up, check in with the police," Simon suggests, but there's a reluctance in his eyes to let go of the warmth of the bed.

You cuddle against him once more, hugging him tightly. His arm comes to wrap around your back, hand splayed across your skin.

"Yeah, we should," you say, pulling away gently as you push yourself out of bed.

"We're goin' together," he tells you. "And I will be installing a new security system in your apartment."

You manage a small smile. "I don't think you understand how much I appreciate you for this."

He sighs as he leads you to his small kitchen. "You never have to thank me for anything, love."

Before you can retort, he turns to you. "Let's get some breakfast in ya. How do you like your eggs?"

[b33zlebubz]

RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER THREE - some faces are friendlier than others.

TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC)

PREV CHAPTER || MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace you still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

Fluorescent lights, you've come to realize, might be the lowest layer of hell.  Lower than high school and broken noses and every other unpleasant thing you've experienced thus far in your short life.

The low buzz and flicker of the sterile fixtures above your head seemed to follow you everywhere; almost mocking you.  They were there years ago in the hospital as you held bloodied newspapers up to your disfigured nose, watching the nurses talk to your social worker about what to do with you—then again at your first time working a full nightshift at the gas station down the street.  They were there at every adoption party growing up as you stood in the corner, awkwardly shuffling your feet as you—begrudgingly—introduced yourself to every adult that approached you.  Every school you attended, every clinic, hospital, and residency had them; lights sent from hell to assault your eyes specifically.

Even now, as you shoot upright in the spare dorm-like room Price supplied you with, the fixtures are above your head.  The only difference is that this time, they’re off.  Your brain swims, your breathing tight and fleeting as you grasp the fabric of your sweater in attempts to calm your raging heart.  When that doesn’t work, you throw the covers off and stumble for the door.   Cold, bare feet hitting the linoleum as shaky hands fumble through the dark for the bathroom doorknob.  When you finally get inside, you retch into the sink.

Everything between arriving at your house two days ago and ending up here is a blur.

You don’t leave your room much after the talk with Price—fully content to just sleep the days and nights away until the nightmares took hold.  You only wake up whenever Price knocks on your door and coasts you out to show you around.

You don't know what to think about him---not yet---but you're pretty sure he's safe.  He's painfully British; with thick facial hair framing his face and the faint smell of cigar smoke lingering on his fatigues when you open the door.  Unlike the others you've seen hanging around, always looking very official in pristine business-casual wear or covered head to toe in gear, he has a worn hat that never leaves his head.

He shows you the basics, introducing you to his colleagues around the building and making conversation as you walk.

The bathroom is down the hall, dining facility is downstairs, medical wing on the first floor, the common areas, Laswell’s office, and Price’s office…you can’t say you were able to pay much attention.

Not when that huge, skull-masked Lieutenant is in the same room as you for some of it.

It's then that you learn his name.

"Ghost?"  You question, raising an eyebrow.  You watch the man in question—looking utterly out of place as he slides over to sit with a few others at a table nearby.  He's dressed casually in a black jacket and dark tactical pants; but the balaclava and mask still remain. 

Price places a hand on your shoulder.

"Ghost, Soap…"  he nods towards the Scot you recognize from the day before.  He looks a bit more approachable than his masked counterpart, at least—poking fun at the Lieutenant next to him.  There's a thick bandage around his forearm where you bit him yesterday.

Then, Price gestures to the only one you haven't met yet.  "...And Gaz.”

The man is already looking at you when you meet his gaze, but he quickly glances away again, distracted by Soap who claps a hand to his shoulder.  Whatever he says must be funny, because Gaz laughs and shakes his head, distracted.

"Weird names," you remark, and that earns a chuckle from the captain.

"Callsigns," he replies.  "Nicknames, basically.  Stick around long enough you might earn one yourself…but let's hope not."

You nod.  Your hand comes up to once again brush at the cold dog tags around your neck. "Right.  Yeah, let's hope not."

"You'll be spending a lotta time with 'em for now, probably," Price says, tugging at the brim of his hat as he continues walking, briefly catching your gaze.  "So, I suggest you get used to 'em."

A knot of dread forms in your stomach at his statement.  You glance behind you as you walk—eyes locked on the skull mask.  Again, your head reels with the memory of yesterday.  Gunshots.  Yelling.  Blood on your sneakers.

Blood, blood, blood.

You swallow heavily, "Even Ghost?"

You're sure your unease isn't lost on Price from the way he looks at you.  He places a sympathetic hand on your shoulder, giving it a couple pats as he guides you along with an affirmative nod.  

“Yes,” he says.  "Even Ghost."

The thought makes your mind uneasy.  You swear your heart hasn’t stopped jackrabbiting in your chest since you left your house.  It feels like you should be running, fighting, escaping—something—but instead you find yourself barely leaving your bed.  Your hands itch for your phone to distract yourself but, alas, the only thing Price left you with is your blood-splattered sneakers which sit in the corner.  For good reason, you suppose.

You spend hours staring at the light fixtures above your head in the spare bunk, thinking about everything in your life that's led you up to this point; your father's lies, endless adoption papers, letters, and bright fluorescent lights.  Everything and nothing all at once.  When you finally get to sleep, that's when you find yourself jolting awake at night and stumbling to the bathroom.

When the gagging finally calms, you stand there.  Clammy hands grip the edges of the sink as you breathe—in and out—and swallow back the bitter bile that sticks to your throat.  In your panic, you never even bothered to turn on the lights, and your eyes shine as you make eye contact with your reflection in the dark, dingy mirror.  Light spills in from the hallway behind you, casting a halo of light on your frazzled hair.

Ugh.  You look awful; your bruised eye swollen and irritated again from tossing and turning. The skin on your arms and face is still rubbed raw from viciously scrubbing the blood off in the shower days ago, and you still didn't feel clean. Dried tears streak your face from crying in your sleep.  The thought alone of someone seeing you like this is enough for you to steal yourself.  You take a shaky breath in before letting it out, and you switch on the sink to wash your vomit down the drain.  While you’re at it, numb hands cup the freezing running water before splashing some onto your face, and you stare at yourself for a little while—acquainting yourself with the reality that yes.  This is happening.  Your father faked his death before dying again and now there’s people after you; the man with the scar on his face, you assume, and maybe others.  No, you don’t know the code that Price mentioned and no—you don’t know what’s going on.

You swallow again.

It is what it is.

The dog tags glint against the low light as you turn the faucet off.

Your breathing settled and your heart rate calmed, you're left with a shakiness that comes with the lack of adrenaline.  You lean against the sink for a moment, basking in the silence as the last of your nightmare fades.  You're so lost in thought that the sound of shuffling and low voices in the hallway are almost, almost lost on you.

"It was supposed to be a quiet mission for a reason."

Price's voice can be heard, muffled, down the hall—and you freeze slightly.

"Yeah, well…you can thank the Shadows for that one."  Another, deeper, British accent replies.  One that makes the hairs on your neck prickle.  "'Mission was to extract the kid.  That's it.  If Johnny didn't shoot first, Graves would've.  And we both know how that would've ended."

Price sighs tiredly in response, their voices growing closer as they turn the corner.  You can almost picture him running a hand down his face as he does, the other on his hip.  Then, their footsteps stop a little ways down the hall.

"'Suppose you're right," he says.  "Just…try not to scare 'em too bad.  You know Sparky would want—"

"Yeah…I know," Ghost grunts back, interrupting.  "No promises."

A moment passes. 

There's an unspoken goodbye before you hear footsteps fading off again, signaling one of them has left.  You take a breath and wipe your face before stepping out into the hallway.  You feel his gaze flicker to you as you cross the threshold and pretend not to notice him.  Shaky hands fumble with the doorknob.

It feels eerily similar to the first time you both met.  When he effortlessly killed two men, splattered the blood on you, and then turned around so nonchalantly and asked—

"You good?"  

You freeze up.  Finally, you turn to look at him.

He's not wearing the mask.  Not the skull one, at least, and it works to ease your nerves a little.  The fact that you can see an eyebrow rise at you through a balaclava helps you remember that he is—somehow—human.  A human with a plastic water bottle, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter in his hand with no gun in sight.

You wipe your face again.  Your throat is tight as you speak, as if you've forgotten how to do it altogether, "peachy."

He huffs a breath at your sarcasm, but he doesn't press further.  

"Good," he says.  "'Cause it looks like you've seen a ghost."

You scoff, "you're not funny."

He shifts and tosses you the water bottle in his hand.  You flinch and just barely manage to catch it by the cap.  Then, confused by the gesture, you look back up at him.

"Keep your head up, kid," he says, the subtle softness of his tone not lost on you—although it seems completely foreign.  "'Cause, with the way things are lookin', it'll get worse before it gets better."

It's strange and cryptic.  Your heart lodges in your throat from the strange advice as you lower your brow at him.  "What does?"

"The blood."

You let out a shaky breath, looking away.   "That's hardly comforting."

A moment passes where he just looks at you.  You're unsure what he sees; other than a pathetic, disheveled teenager who just finished dry heaving into a public bathroom sink over a stupid nightmare.  You feel uncomfortable—like he's reading your thoughts, or maybe he's just amused that you're scared of him.  You’re unsure.

"Maybe not," he shrugs and finally looks away, unlocking his door.  "But it's the truth."

You swallow down your unease as you look down at the water bottle. ��

A part of you knows he’s right.  Whatever your father got himself tangled up in—it involved you now.  You were being chased and if there was anything you knew about how these stories went; someone was going to end up dead.  Sulking wasn’t going to get you answers, and it certainly wasn’t going to help you going forwards.  You had no idea how the people in the movies, comics, video games, and TV shows always seemed so put-together.  How they—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and your father—managed to sleep at night with what they did.  What they saw.

"Does it get easier?"  You ask, for some reason.   Your voice is quiet.  Strained.  

Ghost seems caught off guard by the question, because he hesitates in his doorway—a gloved hand resting on the doorknob.  He doesn’t look at you, not really, and you don’t look at him.  You can hear the rain tapping against the window at the end of the hall and the sound of thunder rumbling across the sky above.  You figure he can read minds, because he seems to completely understand what you’re asking without needing to explain much.

“If you’ve seen enough,” he finally speaks.  “Yes ... you do get used to it.”

A moment passes before he shifts and looks at you again. 

“But try not to," he adds. "Your old man didn’t die just for you to get screwed up like the rest of us.”

And, with that, he steps into his quarters and shuts the door behind him, leaving you alone in the sterile hallway.  Fluorescent lights flicker above your head.

@brokenpieces-72 @warenai @karurururu @pertinentpostmortem @kaoyamamegami @hayleybarnesx @nostalgialeech

[emperor-palpaminty]

In which Keegan is a badass and rescues us, the girlies

F!Reader (Vanguard/Van)x Keegan

Because we deserve more of this man. Also SUPER indulgent ok. i need this because fuck this week, i need a big strong scary masked man to hold me and cuddle me for warmth

The snow fell and in the sea of white, Van had never felt so alone. She wheezed and curled up tight, trying her very best to keep her breaths steady, lest any scouts see the puffs of air desperately clawing their way out of her throat and into the air.

She huddled into herself. Fuck, it was cold.

The battery on her radio had long gone out. Van cursed herself for not bringing extras or charging it, but there wasn't signal all the way out here anyway. Van was told it was an easy mission, an in and out. Of course, the quickly changing and unpredictable weather of the mountains came in the way.

She closed her eyes and sunk into sleep. Perhaps this was her last mission, but Van knew it was a job well done.

---

Jolts stirred her in and out of sleep. Someone wrapping arms around her. The cold biting her cheeks. A deep voice.

Finally, warmth. Or whatever warmth was in negative temperatures.

---

Her head lulled to the side, and she leaned back into the source of warmth, eyes blinking. "Ugh."

"Shh." The voice came from the heat enveloping her. "Don't speak, sweetheart."

Vanguard blinked. "Russ?"

A pause. A chuckle. "Yeah, Van. Had us worried sick."

She hummed, but said nothing. She didn't want to move, to stir. Oddly enough, she was rather comfortable. "Sorry."

"Yeah, you should be." The fabric of his mask brushed on her head, and he tugged her closer. "Body heat-"

"I know." She shivered, and it resulted in him pulling her closer. It had been involuntary, but she liked the outcome. "Warmer." She paused briefly. "Am I dying?"

He sighed, and she could practically see him rolling his eyes behind her back. "No. Now shut up. Talking takes energy. And you don't have a lot of it."

She exhaled shakily, eyes adjusting to the orange of the lamp. It didn't give off heat, but the image made her feel warmer. "Okay," She said, because that was all she really had the energy to say. She had questions- the fear in his voice between carrying her, what she could recollect.

Don't fucking do it, Van. Don't die on me. Damnit. You still owe me a drink.

"I owe you a drink." She verbalized, and his chin brushed her head.

"Nah. You don't," He whispered. "If you live you'll never owe me again. Promise." His fingers tightened around her, keeping her close to him. "I'll get the next round."

She mumbled something, her brain still fuzzy. The fondness in his voice and the softness in his words were for questions tomorrow. He said something about pickup coming soon, that they would be picked up soon.

But until then, she decided, she would lay with him, enjoy it, and not question the feelings unfreezing her heart.