#riley owns my heart

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Forming the Pack - Part 1

Autumn Embers Master List

Pheromones aren’t everything, of course, but you’ll get more cohesive group dynamics if everyone has scents that go together. Scent blockers and diffusers are everywhere in common spaces, so it’s not like people who’s scents don’t mesh can’t be around each other. Lots of people with subtler or hard to pin down scents only go au naturel on special occasions with family and their special someone.

Of course, the military is a whole other beast.

Almost every person serving active duty is an alpha, which lends itself to clashes. And alphas, who already tend to have stronger scents, put out even more aggressive pheromones in close proximity with one another. Industrial strength scent diffusers can only do so much. It results in proximity packs forming, alphas who are scent compatible spending more time with each other.

The 141 doesn’t form because of scent compatibility. When Price finds Simon and forms the task force, he doesn’t much care about what they each smell like. Their scents being on wildly different parts of the spectrum is better than if they were too close, Price reasons. His gear smells a bit spicy, Simon’s always has an earthy undertone. It’s easy to avoid squabbling, and only made easier by the way Simon readily assumes his position as John’s second. No muss, no fuss.

The first year passes. It’s hard work, but Simon makes it undeniably simpler. The Ghost has a presence that demands deference from the temporary members of the task force. And because Ghost follows his captain, that deference extends to Price. The two times someone had tried to upset the balance, Simon had reacted with such swift ferocity that Price hadn’t known there was a problem before it was resolved with a neck under a boot.

“Stand down, Ghost,” Price says around his cigar, the third time.

“'S soon as he acknowledges his superiors, Skipper,” Ghost rumbles, staring down at the sergeant who’s face is going an interesting shade of purple with shame and a lack of oxygen. “Yield, corporal.” The sergeant frantically taps Ghost’s boot. Ghost gives him just enough room to heave a breath, and snarls down, “Yield to the Captain.”

“Captain, I yield,” the young man gasps.

“You ever flout orders again, I’ll kill you myself,” Ghost growls.

After that, the mission had gone smoothly.

Days later, it’s just the two of them again, walking home from the pub. It’s a nice enough night for it, and they’re both too jumpy to call a car. Simon follows without comment, just lights a cigarette and falls into John’s wake, like always.

Four blocks from the base, Simon says, “Gotta piss.”

John snorts. “What, you didn’t go before we left? Hold it.”

“Alright,” Simon drawls. Without breaking stride, he lights another cigarette.

Of course, within another block, John becomes too aware of his own bladder. If Simon hadn’t said anything, he could probably have made it. Annoyed, he steps into an alley and behind a dumpster. His nose does not appreciate the assault on his senses, but he’s a soldier, he’s smelled worse. Simon stands guard at mouth of the alley as he does his business.

When he emerges, he tips his head. “Goin’?”

Simon quirks an eyebrow and exhales a cloud of smoke. “Am I?”

Price hums, takes in Simon’s relaxed posture. Without the skull covered balaclava, he’s softer. Not civilian soft - he’s still almost 2 meters of alpha, hardened by military training and torture. But where most military As balk at taking orders when they’re not in the field, Simon looks for ways to let Price lead.

Simon will do what ever John tells him. It’s a realization that probably shouldn’t thrill him the way it does.

John waves him into the alley. “Be quick about it.”

Without comment, Simon hands his half-finished cigarette over and steps into the alley. John contemplates it as Simon does his business. He prefers cigars, but he takes a drag and tells himself it’s just to keep it lit.

But when Simon re-emerges, John doesn’t hand it back. And Simon doesn’t ask.

[shortnotsweet]

In a Week by Hozier ft. Karen Cowley

“The raven is death, obviously. When I die, I want a good tombstone—something right spooky. LT’s got something against the underground, though you’d think that would be just his kind of place. That’s alright. He needs to, he can cremate me. It’s not exactly Catholic, and Mam would turn in her grave, but God is a unicorn and no one is pure anymore, so. What’s all that got to do with me?”

Johnny “Soap” McTavish has a journal. Had. It is his no longer.

Simon “Ghost” Riley had dreams—awful ones, the kind that sank claws into his lungs, dragged him into sleep, and then sent him careening out of it. He still has dreams, but they’re different, now. Better. Johnny’s pages have folded themselves under his eyes and gotten into his head, brighter and more infectious than anything else has ever been. It’s more than the past, that rotting carcass behind him, and more than now. Now is nothing. Now is ash. It’s like, it’s like—blinding, is what it is. He’s a blind man.

It is biblical now. Ghost has read it backward and forward and sideways and inside out. When he runs out of things to read, he reads them again, and when that is not enough, he reads between the lines.

[casiia]

https://www.tumblr.com/casiia/738443163175419904?source=share

ok i’ve been looking for this for weeks cus i had an idea like u said she thinks the green ones taste different so she gives them to him, i could just imagine him stocking up on candy during christmas when it comes with only red and green m&m’s so he can have more since she doesn’t like sharing

link

ANON. i just want you to know i’ve been thinking about this ever since you sent it :3

dad simon definitely does do this, since his lil’ girl is so picky he’ll sit back on the sofa and watch as she sorts the mini green and red m&m’s on the coffee table. listen to her count aloud how many red chocolates she will get, and if she has less than the green she will definitely pout for the rest of the day.

simon puts lil’ peanut butter cups in her stocking stuffer, knowing she’ll give them to you because they’re your favorite.

he’s not much of a candy guy but he goes all out for christmas and halloween because he can’t resist the happy look on his daughter’s face. the way she stuffs her face with the sweets (much to your displeasure) only to have a sugar crash moments later. it gets her tired with a sappy grin on her face, definitely simon’s favorite way to put her down for a nap.

the night before christmas big papa simon sits at the dinner table, late at night and tediously sorts the multicolored candies. he divides it into 3 bags, red and blue for his girl, yellow and orange for you, and he’ll get what you guys don’t like. he knows you’d never turn down a sweet treat, and he doesn’t mind. not when he gets to see the both of you bicker over which ‘flavor’ is superior.

[lefttoesucker]

𝙻𝙴𝚃 𝙼𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙳 𝙳𝙾𝚆𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙴

Yeah anyway I finally finished this fuckin sketch so here you go

[live-love-be-unique]

I Am No Bird; And No Net Ensnares Me

Summary: Ghost finds himself starting an informal book club with the newest addition to the taskforce.

#22. Ghost and Reader are in a book club for @glitterypirateduck Ghost Challenge.

Parings: Ghost x f reader

Warnings: angst, death and an unconfessed love

You’d been reading your book, when you looked up noticing him staring “you can borrow it if you want? Price says we’ll be sitting tight for a while”

You weren’t kidding, three days later and the exfil still hadn’t shown up. Ghost devoured your book in the meantime, it was actually pretty good, a story about two sisters that had been separated during German-occupied, war-torn France. A little too heartbreaking for his liking but still a good read. One quote amongst the many you had underlined in gray lead pencil had stuck with him: “if I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are."

Days later you’d been sitting on the break room sofa, talking with another female soldier and as he passed he dropped a novel onto your lap. Not a fiction story like you preferred, this one was a memoir of a retired Navy SEAL who was also a Guinness world record holder and an ultramarathon runner. He’d met the man once, respected the hell out of him, for an American. “Thought you’d enjoy this” he offered to your questioning glance as he passed.

It quickly become a habit between the two of you, packing a novel in amongst your supplies for missions to swap during to periods of waiting. Almost like a little unofficial book club. Sometimes, you’d find yourselves together in the break room decompressing after a long mission discussing the books you’d read over cups of tea. He’d learnt you preferred fantasy, dark romance and mystery while he enjoyed thriller, true crime and the odd biography.

He also learnt that you weren’t above the odd prank either, during one particular downtime, he was reading the book you’d brought along and, as he was invested in a pretty graphic sex scene involving a gun, Soap had spotted the book’s title, it also didn’t help that he had been imagining it was you underneath him in that same position. Once Gaz had caught onto what was happening he knew he’d been hearing about it for weeks. He caught sight of you giggling away behind his copy of the historical non-fiction he’d lent you about America's first considered serial killer.

He retaliated by bringing what he imagined you’d think was the most boring book in his collection, all 411 pages of a nautical historical fiction about a young naval lieutenant newly promoted to master and commander. He was right, you’d read the entire thing, under sufferance of course.

He found himself watching you as you read, the way you chewed on your lip as you concentrated, the way you smiled when you read something you enjoyed and frowned when you didn’t. He even learned to love the little notes and quips you left in the margins of his books when at first it annoyed him. He’d watch you, hoping to catch you glancing over at him, above the pages of your book, sending a soft smile his way.

The last mission had been a mistake, anything that could have gone wrong did, and you had born the brunt of it. You’d been raced to the medbay unconscious and barely breathing, they’d had to intubate you immediately and had moved you to a hospital off base for treatment. He hadn’t left your side since.

He spent his time devouring any medical textbooks he could find on your condition, so much so that Gaz was convinced, if allowed, he could perform your surgery.

Price had visited a few days later, citing mission reports as the reason for his delay, bringing with him a box of your belongings, “some comforts from home” he’d muttered. At the bottom of the box, buried underneath a well-worn sweatshirt and a teddy bear that was signed by friends and family from back home, his hands brushed against a small paperback.

The cover was tattered and pages dogeared and a little note on the inside cover from someone he could only guess at being your grandmother telling you how this was her favorite story as a young girl and how she hopes you love it as much as she did. It was clear that you loved it as much as she had hoped as his eyes trailed over sections you had underlined and the little notations you’d made in the margins, it was like a window into your soul as he found the first page a started to read aloud to you in that quite hospital room.

“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.” His voice thick with exhaustion and emotion as he read. He read to you throughout the night and into the next day.

Your heart monitor flatlined just as the story ended and Jane and Mr Rochester were reunited. Even though the doctors and nurses said you probably hadn’t heard anything, he liked to think you’d held on long enough to hear him finally finish your favourite book.

Days later Ghost found himself standing at the front of the large crowd of mourners, surrounded by colleagues and friends alike as they lowered your coffin into the ground. He couldn’t move as the others dispersed, your younger brother clapping him on the shoulder as he passed by. Price had stayed with him, Gaz and Soap stood close behind, giving them a moment.

“Did you tell her?” Price had asked him.

“Tell her what?” He muttered, watching as they filled in your grave.

“That you loved her” Price murmured, chewing on the end of his cigar.

“No” he shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance”

“She knew, lad, she knew” Price sighed, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

She does now, he thought as he absentmindedly scratched at his chest. The sandiderm covering the fresh tattoo itched like crazy underneath his suit. The simple line-work done immediately after your passing, your favourite quote, directly over his heart: "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me”

List of books mentioned:

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

Can’t Hurt Me by David Goggins

Haunting Adeline by H. D Carlton

Devil In The White City by Erik Larson

Master and Commander by Patrick O’Brian

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

[yumethefrostypanda]

Updated. Old post: It won't let me scroll futher down Q_Q .. Once CoD updates/fixes the scroll-bar of these/his bio, i'll update & reblog this post. But for now.. here you go (since the other post was just a snippet of his bio and we need the full thing.. ofcourse)

[freesiavacadoo]

take on me

[forestshadow-wolf]

Simon "I love you" Riley

John "no you love what I can do for you, but that's okay, I'm fine with providing what you need" Mactavish

[dotcie]

BD excerpt under the cut bc I am going insane :')))))

''Don't—,'' he starts with the exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he is tired and bored of this tedious game. ''Don't look at me like that.''

''Like what?''

''Like you want something from me.''

''Maybe I do—''

''You don't,'' he interrupts sharply, tongue like a blade. ''All bark no bite, last time I fucked you.''

In some twisted ways, his fury excites her. The insistence on his dominance, too, and Jane laughs out loud at words that don't sting. She's practiced; chin tipped up, meeting his disapproving stare with a smirk.

''You ever let anyone kiss you?''

He looks away, hisses through his teeth. ''That what you want?''

''I think,'' Jane retorts in a tone both cruel and tender, ''you want it too.''

The hard look in his eyes lets something uncurl in her. Something satisfied, something real.

''You do,'' she says again, and then he's on her; hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close. His grip on her scalp is not gentle, nothing about him is, and she smiles—shows teeth—at the broad display of it.

Simon stares at her for a long moment, a frustrated hum forming at the back of his throat. She can feel his breath on her face. Almost hears the whir of the wheels turning in his head; calculating, calibrating.

''You don't know what you're getting yourself into,'' he finally says, loosening his grip.

''I've done worse,'' she spits out, pulling away.

It happens somewhere between her leaning back and him not wanting her to. It happens and it's familiar and new all at once; the way he stops her from turning away, pulls her closer by a fist of hair. He kisses her like he does everything else: a little cocky, a little mean. Their teeth clack together, and Simon kisses Jane long and searching—like he was waiting for it to happen.

Like he means it.

[jokest3r]

Soap: You have a heart?

Ghost: A cold one.

Me:

[forsaire]

Doubt (Ghost x Soap)

Chapter 28 excerpt from Don't Let Me Go on ao3.

After Ghost goes to the gym to let out some anger, Soap helps him relax when he returns. But doubt starts to enter Ghost's mind.

“What is that?” Ghost asked, the object partially obstructed by the covers from his angle. Soap picked it up and lowered it into Ghost’s field of view – it was a portable radio.

Its body was exclusively made of a reddish-brown wood, the multitude of scuffs and scrapes on it showing its old age. The grain of the wood extended long, natural streaks along the length of the radio. The speaker took up the majority of the bottom left corner with two knobs next to it: one for the volume and one to manually tune the frequencies displayed along the top with a red ticker. It was definitely vintage.

“Old radio I found hiding in storage,” Soap answered.

“It still works?”

“Well, it wasn’t until I started playing around with it. I’ve been scavenging around to find batteries and other small parts it needed for a couple days. I was actually just about to test it out before you came back.”

Soap took the radio back and Ghost heard it turn on with a distinct click. After a second of silence, dull static tumbled out from the speaker. As Soap turned the dial back and forth, the static flowed in and out like a rolling hill, becoming louder and softer at random. Distorted voices occasionally cut through the noise in clear but short snippets before being drowned out by static again.

Suddenly, a loud puff of static sounded then a clear melodic guitar began to play. It wasn’t amazing quality – it sounded like it was coming from down a tunnel – but it worked. (x)

Soap huffed out a laugh, clearly proud of his achievement.

“Impressive,” Ghost commented as Soap rested the radio back on the bed.

Ghost turned his head back around and shifted his legs so he sat with both feet planted on the ground. He rested his arms on top of his knees and clasped his hands together in front of him.

Soap opened his legs so Ghost was positioned in between them and reached down to press into the muscle, gently massaging Ghost’s shoulders. The firm pressure felt incredible and Ghost dropped his head between his arms in bliss. Soap continued to use his skillful hands to find the knots and roll them out.

In the calm silence between them, Ghost’s ears picked up the familiar guitar tune playing quietly from the radio. He recognized it as soon as the artist started singing. It was Old Man by Neil Young.

Old man, look at my life.

I’m a lot like you were.

“I know I’m probably not as good as you,” Soap admitted, no doubt referring to the massage. Ghost continued to melt into the way his hands felt rubbing into his shoulders.

“No,” Ghost asserted. “It’s nice.”

Old man, look at my life.

Twenty-four and there's so much more.

Live alone in a paradise,

That makes me think of two.

“It’s the least I can do. Every now and then an old man gets sore,” Soap said cheekily, having caught onto the lyrics.

“Old man?” Ghost said in disbelief. “You don’t even know my age do you?”

Soap hummed. “Not exactly, but being an old man is more of a mentality than an age.”

“I could easily kick your arse.”

“Oh, you say such sweet things to me,” Soap joked. Ghost could hear he was smiling.

Ghost shook his head and chuckled under his breath. Soap’s hands moved from his shoulders, inward towards his neck. He gently scratched at the base of the mask causing Ghost to sigh contently. Noticing this, Soap slid a few fingers underneath Ghost’s mask and scratched at the nape of his neck.

Love lost, such a cost.

Give me things that don't get lost.

Like a coin that won't get tossed,

Rolling home to you.

After a few seconds, Soap slid one finger up the side of Ghost’s head near his ear. He paused, silently asking for permission. With a gentle nod, Ghost allowed him, the unspoken trust thick between them.

With Ghost’s head still dipped between his legs, Soap slowly slid off the mask. Once it was fully off, Soap let his fingers run through Ghost’s hair, gingerly shaking it out.

There was no one else in the world that Ghost would allow himself to be this vulnerable with. No one he would ever allow to get this close to him. With the mask removed, Ghost felt like he was missing a layer of protection – he was missing one of his walls. Anyone who had gotten lucky enough to remove Ghost’s mask had then been subsequently unlucky enough to no longer be breathing.

Doubt started to enter his mind.

“Why aren’t you scared?” Ghost asked, uncertainty biting at his words.

“Of what?” Soap said lightly.

“Me.”

Soap chuckled quietly, as if the question were utterly ridiculous. “I’ve never been afraid of you, Ghost.”

He said it with such conviction.

“Why?” Ghost persisted, although he wasn’t sure what answer he was hoping to hear.

“Are you trying to convince me that I should be?”

“Maybe.”

Soap was quiet for a moment, tangling his fingers deep in Ghost’s hair, grabbing the strands in his palm, and gently tugging upwards.

Old man, take a look at my life, I'm a lot like you.

I need someone to love me the whole day through.

Ah, one look in my eyes and you can tell that's true.

“Your hands may be lethal in a fight, that’s true,” Soap responded, clearly trying to be precise with his words, “but I’ve also experienced how gentle their touches truly are.”

“What about before?”

Soap was quiet for a few seconds again, thinking of how to answer. “Hmmm. I just… I don’t know. You cared even though you pretended not to. You cared a lot. You always put everything of yourself into everything you did. I thought that there was something more to you that you let on. It’s hard to exactly describe it really, but I felt drawn to you.”

“Drawn is right…” Ghost said with a lighter tone. “You wouldn’t ever leave me alone.”

Soap leaned forward to speak close to Ghost’s ear. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“No,” Ghost admitted. Soap pulled back.

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Nowhere,” Ghost lied. Soap didn’t respond, clearly not believing him. Rather than challenging it, Soap moved one of his hands to trace the edge of Ghost’s temple with a small sigh.

An abrupt knock at the door made them both quickly look up. Soap instantly held out Ghost’s mask for him to take as Ghost walked a few feet away, sliding it over his head in a smooth motion. As he positioned it properly on his face again, Soap opened the door.

Full chapter a03.

[seo-changbinnies]

this is so random but... why is it that you tag felix using fratello? i've followed you for a bit and i laugh every time i see it 😭

it’s italian for brother!

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Red. That was all Simon could see as he barreled through the barracks, ignoring the concerned onlookers as he slammed open door after door.

He was just washing up for the day, ready to head to his quarters when he’d heard whispers of you being admitted to medical. The words “banged up pretty good” were all he needed to hear before setting off in a panic to find you.

You were everything to him. Simon Riley was a man who swore he’d die alone and be happy doing so, until you came along. You, with your terrible jokes, your witty personality, your loyalty and determination and gods damn your fucking smile. He’d do anything to see you smile.

Love wasn’t something that came easy to Simon, but with you it did. Loving you was as easy as breathing, it was natural. He loved you from the moment he saw you, and would love you until the day he died.

The door to the infirmary flung open, and Simon strode in with purpose, his eyes scanning the entire room. When they landed on you, Simon felt his heart drop, his blood running cold.

“Who did this?” Was all he said, his cold gaze softening ever so slightly as he took in every cut and bruise that littered your beautiful skin. It took everything in him not to yell, to scream.

Your eyes dropped from his, your lips forming a thin line as the nurse beside you finished stitching the large cut that now adorned your shoulder.

“Y/N.” His voice was stern, causing you and the nurse to jump slightly.

With a small smile aimed at you, the nurse gave a polite nod to Simon as she ran past, leaving the two of you alone in the now eerily silent room.

“Tell me.” Simon demanded, sinking to his knees in front of you. When you still refused to meet his gaze, he gently rested his index finger on your chin and tilted your head to look at him. His eyes were soft, gentle as he gazed into your own. “Tell me.”

The tenderness in which Simon looked at you had your lower lip wobbling, a soft sob slowly escaping your mouth as you replayed what had happened in your head. “Simon, it’s okay.”

“It’s not. You need to tell me what happened.” His finger gently began to graze your cheek, a tenderness that you’d grown used to over the years with him. A tenderness reserved only for you.

“The mission went south. There was a mole. We got ambushed.” Was all you said, as you struggled to regain your composure.

“Who.”

“Simon, please it’s really okay, I-.”

“Who.”

Your brows furrowed slightly as Simon ripped off his mask, his face now fully visible to you. Concern etched its way across his features as he held your gaze. You knew this was a battle you wouldn’t win.

“Coles. It was Coles.”

“He dead?” Simon asked, his face not showing any of his internal turmoil. If he wasn’t, Simon would make damn well sure he’d suffer for what had happened to you.

You shook your head as your bottom lip trembled once more. “No, but Simon-.”

Simon cut you off with a gentle kiss to your temple, his lips lingering against your skin as he murmured, “Sleep in my quarters tonight, yeah? I’ll be back soon.”

Without waiting for your reply, he strode out of the infirmary, the red in his vision intensifying as he set out to find the mole. Nobody, nobody would harm a hair on his lovers head and get away with it.

Simon would do anything for you, die for you, kill for you. He’d do anything to make sure that beautiful smile of yours was permanently etched onto your lips.

For you, Simon Riley would watch the world burn.

[rileylefae]

I love to think about my blorbos and put them in situations

[bagofshinyrocks]

Government name vs Military callsign

Prompt: What scares them worse? Addressing them by their full government name, or addressing them by their military callsign?

Featuring: Task Force 141 (CoD: MW2) - John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (separately) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 0.9k

Warnings: none

John Price

Government name.

Calling him Captain or Skipper just ends with him sauntering to where ever you are and ask (in an obnoxiously self-satisfied voice) what you wanted. Like a cat pretending it can’t hear the urgency in your tone when you say to get off the counter.

“If you want me to ‘shake a leg’, call my name, luvie.”

Now if you holler “Jonathan Price”, he’ll drop something. Either the newspaper in his hands, or his heart into his stomach. He sure as hell moves his ass with a purpose, and he’s peering into the room with an apology on his lips.

“Yes, luv? What’s wrong, poppet?”

“Lift the other end of the couch, would you?”

He does, and you shimmy it further back in the room. “Anything else I can do, love o’ my life?” He’s hovering, and gently coaxing you into his arms. Gauging how mad you were at him. You curled into him and kissed his chin. Then stepped away with a pat to his chest.

“No, sweetheart, just wanted you to shake a leg is all.”

When he remembers your previous conversation, he groans and tells you to fuck off.

Simon Riley

Military callsign.

When you two are alone, and he’s already given you permission to call him Simon, don’t call him Ghost. When you say that word, he assumes one of his mates are at the door or on the phone, and goes from Simon to Ghost. Stalks into the room with narrowed eyes, only to find you in the kitchen. By yourself.

“Ghost, you want a sandwich too? Turkey and cheese.”

“Fuck you callin’ me that for?” 

Once he sees you’re alone, he swoops in and wraps around you like a hoodie. A firm kiss to your ear, then your cheek, then spun you around. Back pressed to the counter top. Settles his face right close to yours.

“We playin’ games now?” You didn’t want to upset him, so you pressed a kiss to his nose. His grumpy look faded a bit.

“Sorry, baby.” Arms wrapped carefully around his shoulders. And your fingers scratch his scalp. Another kiss to his nose. “I’m sorry for playing games with you. Simon Riley.”

Hearing his name on your lips finally cracked, and he gave you a smile. A little scar on the upper lip. You gave it a kiss, and then pressed a kiss to his lips. 

A quick surge forward, and you only just had time to shove aside the things behind you before you found yourself on the countertop.

Kyle Garrick

Government name.

He doesn’t mind being called Gaz, and you’ll use Kyle and Gaz interchangeably. Doesn’t even mind if you use “Kyle” or “honey” in front of his squadmates. Though “Kylie” he does have some displeasure with.

“I’ll have you know, Soap is still calling me Kylie, you asshole.”

Call him ‘Garrick’, and he knows that you are pretending to be mad at him. He slinks over and rubs his face against your cheek. He’s too cute for you to stay mad.

If you shout “Kyle Garrick”, he comes running. He could have sworn that he put his clothes in the hamper. And did the dishes. And taken out the recycling. Damn, what was it that he forgot?

“Kyle Ga-”

“Yes, dear!” Shit, he didn’t mean to ‘yes, dear’ you. “Yes, my dear, I’m right here.”

You pause your laundry folding and summon him with a crook of your finger. Once he’s close enough, you tap your lip with the same finger. “I need a kiss.”

He blinked once. Then twice. “God damn you.” He squishes your face in his hands and gave you a quick, firm kiss. “Don’t stress me out like that. Thought you were mad.”

“Give me another kiss, or I will be.”

He rapid fire kissed your mouth, chin, and cheeks, then gave you a smack on the ass before returning to the living room. 

“In my own fucking home,” he muttered.

John MacTavish

Military callsign.

He’s got some thick skin. And he’s had his name shouted angrily many a time. He would all but skip into the room with a big smile on his face. The only people who shouted that name (and wore out the scare-factor on it) were his family members. Shouting “John MacTavish” meant you loved him. You were also mad at him, but you loved him. That was more important. Even with your scowl and the gross pile of garbage he kept forgetting to take out. You loved him.

Now shouting his callsign reminded him of his superior officers.

“SOAP!”

Shit shit shit. He put down his beer and ran from the garage to the backyard. Leg brace over his sweats, low cut muscle shirt that you also wolf-whistle at when he wears. You were only weeding the garden boxes.

“JOHNNY!”

“I’m here, bonnie,” he hollered, rounding the corner. You were sitting in the dirt, a tidy pile of weeds and dead plant bits next to you.

“C’mere, c’mere.”

He leaned down next to you, hand on your shoulder and good knee on the ground. “Wassit?”

You pointed to the leaf in your hand. “A caterpillar, Johnny. An itsy-bitsy caterpillar.”

He sighed heavily and kissed your shoulder. “Bonnie, I thought something was wrong.”

“Hm?” You spared him a glance. “What are you talking about, bubba?”

“You called me Soap.”

“Did I? Didn’t mean to spook you, loverboy.” You gave him an apologetic kiss on the lips. “Just wanted you to see the caterpillar before he wiggled off.”

Posted: 2023 Dec 10

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Tag Dump, 7/??