#simon hc's <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[sweetpascal]

i am just so in love with husband!simon, i cannot stop these thoughts !!

.・゜゜'just because flowers'. there was a video i saw where this guy would take one flower from the bouquet he would give his partner so that he knows when the flowers start to die so he can get a new batch. simon is the husband to definitely do that. and even when they do dry up and become discolored, he makes sure to get a much larger vase so you can keep all of the dried flowers he would get you.

.・゜゜simon's attentiveness and his ability to react with quick thinking. he pays attention to everything. every singular detail, as little or as big. you mentioned you're running low of your favorite lotion. he'll go out the next day to buy you a jumbo sized bottle. you mention that you're starting to feel your cramps three days before your period starts. the next day, you see the pantry and fridge stocked with your favorite cravings. knowing that something as simple as mentioning something and him making the effort to do that without even being asked to is a GREEN FLAG.

.・゜゜he's a competence king. and when you want to learn, he teaches you without making you feel stupid. the car is making a funny squeaking noise? he figures it out in two minutes. the kitchen sink has a leaky faucet? he whips out his toolbox and goes to work under the cabinet. you want to learn how to shoot a gun for your protection? he teaches you of different types of guns, the bullets, the kickback, your stance, and more. this man was born to be a teacher ;)

.・゜゜simon takes date nights VERY SERIOUSLY. he understand that you are your own person, you have your own time to do your own things and have fun with friends. but he thinks it's extremely important as a married couple to set a specific time aside so you two can go out and have a date night. you obviously love how involved he is in your relationship and it's definitely a breath of fresh air.

.・゜゜husband!simon has for sure softened up after marrying you and has changed his views on children. you two don't have any of your own, but you would see how he is with your nieces and nephews. he treats them so gently and lets them climb all over him like a jungle gym. he'll do this thing where he'll have three kids on each arm and he'll spin around in the yard as the kids squeal and giggle. seeing him with his guard down when it came to the children made your heart grow in size.

[angelatsumu]

bedtime with olderboyfriend!simon <3

thinking of older!boyfriend!simon who says “lights off” before turning off your nightstand and leaving you to scroll endlessly on your phone in the dark. he thinks it’s an indicator that you should be going to bed, but once he’s rolled over he can still hear the incessant tapping of your fingernails scrolling through each video and image on your feed. he clears his throat, hoping you’d get the hint. when he hears the clatter of nails again, he grunts at you. “phones off too, pup. y’know damn well it’s jus’ gonna ruin your sleep,” he huffs matter-of-factly, and you whine a little protest before conceding. you place your phone down next to your lover’s and curl up under the covers beside him.

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

⚔️ MWII (2022) Character Ages (as of 2022) ⚔️

I was on a character age brainrot back in January and now It's back because of @angelsarewatching so I'm gonna go ahead and post this on Tumblr. Tell me what you think tho and discussions are open!

🐑 Gen. Shepherd - Around late 50s, Pushing 64. I searched it up and apparently, the mandatory retirement age for all general officers is 62, in some cases 64. But if he got into the recommendation list after Brigadier General (O-7), it's allowed to be more than 62. He's a Lt. Gen, so that's O-9. Also, Glenn Morshower (Shepherd's actor) is 64 so let's go with that.

🧠 Laswell - 47-ish. At MOST 55. (Rya Khilstedt is 52. AMAZING BEAUTIFUL SHOW -STOPPING)

🚁 Nikolai - 45 as well. I would go with 48 though.

🪦 Graves - 40. He gives Texan cowboy energy. I just know he's an old dude and is actually older than the rest of the gang.

🛖 Alejandro and 🦂 Valeria - 37. Maybe 38. I don't know at what age someone could make the rank Colonel 'cause that's quite high up the ladder. (They might as well be older than Price. Shit, they might be 40.)

🚬 Price - 37 (Canon) c. 1985.

🐎Rudy - 36. He's been close with Alejandro for 20 years now. Assuming they're bestest of friends and knew each other even before military, Rudy would be around 36/37 as well.

💀 Ghost - 35 or lower. As far as I know, lieutenants are usually young, unless he enlists first before a few years later he went to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst (RMAS). OR. His preference and efficiency of working alone are far better for use on the battlefield. The higher you are in the ranks, the more soldiers you are responsible for. So the higher-ups might purposefully don't promote him (and he prefers and agrees to it as well) so that he can continue working alone rather than leading a squad. He surely can lead a team, but he's better at doing shit alone. Crazy theory but hey, it's fiction.

🦿Alex - 35 (Alex was a Delta Force until 2013. Assuming he's around 26 when he finally goes to the CIA, that means he's around 32yo in 2019 and 35yo in 2022)'

🔭 Hadir - 33/34 (Canon) 1986/1987. I’m choosing 34 tho since in the ‘Hometown’ mission he was almost a teenager.

☀️ Farah - 30 (Canon) January 12th 1990.

🧢 Gaz - 26 (Canon). The bio says he enlisted in the British Army in 2014. Assuming Gaz finished high school first, he must’ve enlisted when he was 18yo. That means he was 23yo in MW19 and 26yo in MW22. 

🧼 Soap - 26 (Canon). He’s canonically the youngest one in Task Force 141. The bio mentioned that his cousin is in SAS and he often time visits the base. Setting aside the fact that the cousin brought a fucking kid to a top-secret base, lil’ Johnny must’ve been like “I DON’T WANNA GO TO SCHOOL I WANT TO BE AN SAS SOLDIER” and he canonically LIED about his age. Apparently, he went in when he was 16 but got caught several times, until finally when he was 18 he got in. 

--

That's it folks! Tell me what you think (｡･∀･)ﾉﾞ

[killerpancakeburger]

Imagine: Ghost giving you the shovel talk after Soap and you made your relationship official

It's the evening, you two are smoking outside in companionable silence, taking in the star-spangled sky. Suddenly his voice pulls you out of your daydreaming.

"So... you n' Johnny, eh?”

You feel an ominous shiver run down your spine - you do not like the turn this conversation is taking. His tone is steady, like it usually is, but it means nothing when that specter is involved. He could be slicing a throat and his voice wouldn't waver a iota.

If there was anything you learned about The infamous Ghost, in the absence of his identity and the face beneath the mask, it was that the names he used for the people he considered his family were anything but random. Soap was the most common way he refered to his Sergeant, but a Johnny could slip here and there. "Johnny" was personal; intimate; vulnerable; and possessive all at once. Not in the way an insecure lover would act - although...? Maybe...? -, but in the way a pack member would bare his fangs at a newcomer to protect his mates.

There was something animalistic buried within him that would resurface from time to time, when the risk was too great, when the survival of the 141 or of any of its members was jeopardized. Something you would not risk to vex. Simon was extremely protective behind closed doors, it wasn’t a scoop, but you thought yourself safe from his fangs... or at least you did until now.

"Yeah?"

How you hate the interrogation in your voice. As if you were seeking his permission. Like a child knowing they're asking for too much but doing it anyway.

You busy yourself with your cigarette, trying to look unfazed.

"He may sound like a fuckin' playboy most of the times, but he's actually a sensible kinda fella. Doesn't go around givin' his heart to just anyone, y'know?"

You gulp. Take a deep breath. The only way out is through. Might as well be done with it.

"So, is this the part where you swear that no one will ever find my body if I hurt him?"

You're proud of how casual you managed to sound.

He actually chuckles at that. A relaxed, raspy, unbothered kind of sound. Maybe you will walk away with your life tonight after all.

"Got it all figured out, don't ya? But that's good. Saves us some time."

He tosses his cigarette and, for the first time since you’ve been outside, he turns to you and look you in the eye. His stare is as intense as ever.

"We're in agreement, then? Ya'll treat mah boy well?"

"Wouldn't dream of anything else."

"Good lass."

A pause, then:

"This works both way, y'know that, right?"

"Hmm?"

Too busy celebrating your escape from the valley of the shadow of death, you haven't been completely paying attention.

"If he gives ya trouble, I'll knock some sense into that thick head of his."

You look at him again, your face beaming and your chest tingling with a newfound joy.

"Thank you."

You smile, unable to stop the motion of your lips. Your gratefulness is not for the threat he proclaimed, but for the friendship he extends to you.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.

Suddenly a burly arm wraps around your neck.

"What were ya guys talkin' about!? You’ve been there for ages." Pouts Soap.

Glancing over at Ghost, you can see that Johnny has tried to grab him by the neck too, with a lukewarm success, considering the height difference between the two of them.

"Nothin' ye need to concern yerself with", retorts Simon, lying as easily as he breathes.

As Johnny turns to you in hopes of finding an easier target that will confess everything, you nearly miss the conspiratorial wink Ghost sends your way. The action is so far removed from his usual character, you understand that the discrepancy is made to amuse you. So you giggle.

Tonight the sky is full of stars, and your heart full of bliss, the way you feel like your chest might burst with happiness at any moment, with those two men at your side.

A/N: Platonic!Reader x Ghost my beloved 😫 🖤 Tried to make Ghost the less OOC as possible, as usual >_< but man its not a walk in the fookin park.

Trouple potential tho? 👀 sorry not sorry, I can't help it, I love the ambiguity...

[python333]

your writing is literally the best in the cod fandom. we need more injured reader angst. it's too good

don't breathe — python333

— — — —

synopsis [reader] gets buried alive after refusing to give intel to enemy soldiers and *slips up and writes reader almost dying again* oops how did that happen haha

relationships platonic!price & gn!reader.

characters cap. john price.

word count 2.7k

warnings suffocation [reader], just generally really depressing thoughts, near death??, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note aww tysm :(( dont say its the best im gonna get a complex LMAO but i appreciate it!! and yes i agree injured reader angst ftw :3 i present to you: reader gets very injured and theres a lot of angst and its basically just you suffering for a good 3/4 of the fic while the last quarter has the actual comfort!

“Hello?” You try again, your voice cracking and your tone as desperate as it can get, “Please, God, say someone can hear me.” 

You’ve been trapped in a casket for about five minutes now—at least, you woke up five minutes ago. God knows how long you’ve been stuck in the stupid thing, but realistically, it’s probably been much longer than five minutes.

The last thing you remember from before you were buried is being in the interrogation room of some small terrorist group’s facility, one you and the others were led to believe was abandoned weeks ago. 

Unfortunately, whoever gave you the information must’ve either had incredibly outdated information or was setting you all up for failure, because the facility was very much not abandoned and was instead full of enemy soldiers.

You all had already gotten into the building before you knew that, because of course you all had to be in the same spot at the same time—practically sitting ducks for the enemy—and of course you all had to be clueless about the possibly hundreds of people in the facility until it was too late. 

As far as you know, everyone managed to escape. Everyone but you. They didn’t mean to leave you behind, of course they didn’t, they were more focused on just booking it out of the facility. However, because of that, you were now stuck—you assume—several feet underground in a casket that has a limited amount of oxygen that drops every time you take a breath. 

You let out the breath you’re currently holding and suck in another deep breath, holding it as you think. Your strategy of holding your breath until you no longer could mostly worked, but it wouldn’t for long, you knew that soon you’d suffocate in all of the carbon dioxide gathering in the enclosed casket.

You don’t know how long you’d been unconscious in the casket, breathing in oxygen carelessly in your slumber, which made the whole situation worse. You didn’t even know how much time you had left. 

You hate to waste your breath checking your comms, but the enemy soldiers had accidentally left your earpiece in your ear—the small device apparently going undetected under their radar—and you wanted to make the most of it. You move your arm from your side and press onto the PTT button on your earpiece, wincing a little at how cramped the casket was.

“Does anybody copy?” You ask again, staring up at the almost pitch black space above you, “I repeat, does anybody copy?” 

It’s a vain attempt at contacting your team, really. You don’t know if they’re thinking about you, if the signal is going through, if they even have their earpieces on—you know nothing, and that terrifies you because you really don’t want to die right now but there’s literally nothing else you can do besides helplessly talk into your earpiece, not knowing if anyone’s listening. 

Your lungs start to burn and you let out the breath you were holding, taking another deep breath and beginning to hold that one. The air feels… thick. It’s starting to get harder to breathe, and you know you shouldn’t panic but you can’t help the few worried thoughts that come to the forefront of your mind. 

What am I going to do when I run out of oxygen and the only thing left for me to breathe in are my own discarded breaths? What will I do when all there is to do is suffocate? Am I going to try, in one last desperate attempt, to break out of the casket, or am I going to just lay here and die? Will my team try to find me, or will they forget about me? Have they already forgotten about me? 

Before you can listen to any more of those depressing thoughts, a voice comes from your earpiece. 

“H—lo? [c/n]?” It’s hard to tell with the static and the cuts in between the words, but you think it’s Price talking. 

“Price?” You ask immediately, all thoughts of preserving your breath forgotten. “Holy shit, you can hear me?” 

“Je—s— whe—e—” He cuts out for a moment and your stomach drops when all you can hear is static for a moment. 

“You’re— You’re cutting out, Captain, what did you say?” 

“Wher— —re you?” It takes you a moment to realize what he’s saying, your mind working much slower than it usually does, but once you do you shake your head negatively despite him not being there to see you. 

“I don’t— I don’t know,” You respond, taking a deep breath before adding on, “I think I’m underground, I just know I’m in a casket and it’s getting harder to breathe and—” 

“Okay, o—y,” You hear Price’s voice crackle, his voice becoming more distant and sounding almost muffled to you, “Sa— —ur bre—th, I’ll try to g—t some—e to track your— —tion.” 

With the constant cutting out of his words and the distortion of his tone, you can barely register or process what he’s saying, and that only panics you more but you refuse to let your emotions get the better of you even in the state of disorientation you’re in, so you keep holding your breath. 

A minute later, Price’s voice crackles through your earpiece again. 

“Okay, we’ve got your loc—tion,” Price’s voice sounds… oddly far away, “We can—” 

His voice slowly becomes muffled, and you release the breath you were holding without realizing it, slowly blinking up at the ceiling of the casket. A sort of haze falls over your mind and you can barely even hear Price anymore before you suddenly snap back to reality and hear his now much clearer voice loud in your ear. 

“[c/n]? [c/n], are you still there?” You recognize his tone now, and you’re just a little shocked at the sheer amount of worry in it. 

“Haven’t moved an inch,” You breathe out, before lying, “You cut out for a second for me, sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, it’s okay,” Price reassures you, “I said we got your loc—tion and we’re hea—g out th— —w. It’s not t— far away from where —e alre—dy are, we’re ba—ely three clicks away.” 

“… Clicks?” You ask, your eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Yes, clicks,” Price replies, sounding concerned, before hesitantly asking, “… You know what those are, right?” 

“I don’t—” You struggle to find words for a moment before you speak again, your own voice starting to sound distant, “I don’t think so?”

“What do y—u mean you don’t thi— —o?” Price asks, his voice sounding freakishly close, “Are you okay?” 

“No, yeah, I’m fine,” You lie through your teeth, not wanting to worry Price further, “I just… how far away are you?” 

“Just ab—t two cli—ks now,” Price says, before pausing and clarifying, “Two kilometers.” 

Two kilometers… how far is that? “And that’s… is that far, or?” 

“No, it’s not too far. It’s just a mi—te away, we didn’t ge— —o far before Laswell got your loc—tion,” Price tells you, “We’ll be there soon, ok—y? We’ll get y— —ut of there.” 

“A minute—” You cough and feel tears pricking at your eyes from how hard it is to take another breath, “A minute?” 

“Yes, a minute— [c/n], are you okay?” Price asks again, before laughing nervously, “You know what a minute is, do— —ou?” 

“...” You struggle to answer the question, thinking long and hard for a few seconds before hesitantly answering, “… Yeah, I do, sorry. It’s sixty seconds.” 

“Why’d it take you so long to answer?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sorry, I—” You take a few shallow breaths, and feel a headache start to build up, “How far away are you guys?” 

“We’re alm—t there,” Price promises you, “The heli’s ab—t to l—nd, and we’ll dig you up, and—” 

Why is it so cold? Price’s voice cuts off and when he stops talking you realize that you’re shivering. You ball your fists up and can’t even feel your nails digging into your palms, your hands having gone numb from the cold, and realizing that makes you discover that your lips feel numb too. 

Your ears start to ring and you feel that uncomfortable pins and needles feeling in your hands, the sensation slowly traveling up your arms, making you both wanting to peel off your own skin and also grateful that you can at least feel something besides the cold.

In the midst of your thinking, you hear muffled thumping coming from above you—whoever buried you couldn’t have buried you anything below six feet. 

“—llo? [c/n]? Are you still there?” 

You bring your hand up, the movement slow and sluggish, and you try to search around the side of your face for your earpiece. You eventually find it and when you do you press against it until you feel the PTT button being pushed. 

“Still here,” You confirm breathlessly, coughing again as you take a few more shallow breaths, “I think I’m running out of— of… what’s the fuckin’ air that you can breath in, it starts with an o…” 

“… Oxygen?”

“Oxygen, yeah,” You slowly blink up at the ceiling of the casket, “There’s— I think— I don’t… I think… I think I’m gonna pass out, Captain.” 

“[c/n], don’t you fucking dare,” Price growls, “You stay awake, I swear to fucking god.” 

“I can’t—” You take a few more shallow breaths, before coughing, the tears escaping your eyes reaching the corners of your mouth. 

You can hear Price briefly talk with someone else, his voice the most serious you’ve ever heard it, before he talks directly to you again, “How much longer do you think you have before you run out of oxygen?” 

It takes you a moment to register the question, but when you do, you answer, “Uh… I don’t— I think�� maybe a few more minutes? I can’t tell, it’s just hard to breathe, I can’t…” 

“Okay, okay,” Price softly says, gusts of wind blowing into his mic as he talks, “Give me a second, okay? We’re almost there, kid, we’ll— we’ll be there in just a minute, we just passed over you, I just need you to stay awake.” 

“In a minute,” You repeat to yourself, before taking a deep breath, hoping that you have enough oxygen to make it out of this casket because you really don’t want to die here, not when there’s help just a minute away. 

After what you assume is a minute or two, instead of thumping, you hear something cut into the dirt above you. The sound, however, is heavily muffled, so muffled to the point where you don’t know if you’re hallucinating or not.

Is that a symptom of CO2 poisoning? Hallucinations? You lay still in the casket and can’t help but release the breath you’d only just taken, the ringing in your ears starting up again and growing louder faster than they had before. 

Your entire body is numb, your chest is heavy, and you can feel a sort of fog fall over your mind. You can distantly hear Price yelling through your earpiece, but you can’t find it in yourself to respond, instead simply laying there, your blinking starting to slow down before it eventually stops, leaving your eyes closed. 

— 

For a moment, you think you died and went to heaven, which would be weird, considering all the things you’ve done in your life. Not saying you’d go to hell, just saying God would probably hesitate for a second before letting you in through the pearly gates. 

You blink awake, slowly but surely, and the first thing you realize is that you can feel things again. You tilt your head down to the bump under the white bed sheets laid on top of you, and squeeze your hand into a ball, watching the bump move and feeling your fingers dig into your oddly sore palms.

You let out a sigh of relief and pull your hand out from the sheets, bringing it up to your face and feeling the oxygen mask that’s been placed over your mouth and nose.

“Don’t mess with that,” You hear a voice say to your right. You turn your head and see a very tired Captain Price, dark eyebags hanging under his eyes and arms crossed, his hands having a white knuckle grip on either one of his elbows. 

“…” You don’t say anything, instead you simply stare at him until he sighs and gets up from his seat. You watch silently as he leans over your bed and bends down, before pausing, and then quickly snaking his hands under your back to pull you up just enough for him to properly hug you. 

You reach up with shaky hands and tentatively hug him back, not nearly as tightly—not that you don’t want to, but you physically can’t with how weak your arms are right now—but with just as much sincere affection. You can feel Price’s beard rubbing against your neck and hear his small sniffles as he embraces you tightly. 

Maybe it’s his sniffling, or the way you can finally feel warmth for the first time in what feels like forever, or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s holding you with so much care and affection that it almost makes you burst at the seams, whatever it is, it causes you to tear up as well. 

Those tears quickly become sobs that bubble up in your throat and crawl their way out of it, forcing you to tuck your head into the crook of Price’s neck and muffle your sobs in it, muttering a small ��sorry’ after each one. 

After each ‘sorry’, Price responds with, “It’s okay, let it out, sweetheart, you’re okay,” and those reassuring words only make you cry more because God, you didn’t even think he’d find you, yet here he is, letting you cry into his neck and is reassuring you after every apology that it’s okay. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” You mumble a litany of apologies into Price’s neck, your breath stuttering and hitching as you try to hold back your sobs. Price only shushes you and rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture, bringing his head up to kiss the top of your head. 

He tucks your head under his chin, “Don’t apologize, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

And fuck, you know it’s just words, but it only makes you cry more. 

Your sobs eventually stop, leaving you hiccuping against Price’s neck, silently crying as he continues to rub your back. 

“I thought you died,” He whispers, his hand stuttering on your back, “I thought you died and I was going to dig up your dead body, when you didn’t answer me.”

You stay silent, letting him continue, “I thought you were dead when we dug you up and needed to feel your heartbeat for myself to confirm that you were still alive.” 

He pauses for a moment before continuing, “I’ve been here ever since they put you in here. I haven’t slept, I’ve just stayed here, waiting for you to wake up so I could tell you that I—”

He chokes up for a moment before taking a deep breath and continuing, “I’m sorry for not even thinking to drag you out of the facility with me when we all ran out. You were— you were right there, and I couldn’t just grab your arm and take you with me, I just had to leave you behind and I—” 

“You watched me while I was asleep?” You ask quietly, your eyebrows drawing together. 

Price pauses and pulls his chin off of your head, and pulls you away from his neck so he can properly give you the most incredulous look he can pull, before saying, “I’m pouring my heart out to you and apologizing for practically leaving you for dead, and that’s what you’re worried about?” 

“Well, I’m not worried, I’m just—” You shrug, not knowing how to explain it. Price sighs and chuckles quietly before tucking your head back under his chin. 

“You’re insufferable,” He mumbles, sniffling a bit. 

“… I forgive you, by the way,” You say after a moment of silence, “I didn’t really blame you in the first place.” 

“You had the right to.” 

“Sure I did.” 

“But you didn’t blame me.”

“Right.” “…” Price stays silent for a moment before pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head and saying quietly, “You should blame me.” 

“Maybe,” You mumble back, “But I won’t.” 

Later, maybe an hour later, if the others see you asleep in Price’s arms while he keeps your head tucked under his chin and rubs your back affectionately—no they don’t.

[guiltylovestar]

apollo and blackquill I know ur trying to defend a fellow trans person from being outed which is valid but this is going a little too hard on trying to hide it 💀

[cod-dump]

What would happen if Price got contacted to say his mother or father had died? Would he care? Would he go to the funeral? Would he simply pretend he never saw the letter?

Even worse if someone else found the letter first.

previous

more richborn Price? hell yea

___

Price getting mysterious letter in a PO box he had long forgotten about. It had a hand written name on it, it was familiar, an upon opening it he spotted a name t the bottom, signed off elegantly. One that made his heart almost stop.

Amelia Victoria.

She left out the surname, certainly knowing he would throw it the letter out upon sight of it alongside a name that wasn't his own. He would've crumpled it up by now, but he didn't. All previous attempts at contacting him was from his parents, his siblings had never reached out. Never.

His brother simply didn't care to, he had everything to gain from Price not being present. Of course it had to be Amelia, she was the only person Price would ever considering listening to. It had to be her.

Price stuffed the letter back into the envelope, not bothering to read anything beyond his sister's name. He didn't have the energy for those people, his sister included. It was his own fault, leaving himself open to their attempts at communication, cruel enough to never answer and cowardly enough to never have it in him to respond.

He could disappear, they never would be able to find him. But he never did it.

He threw the letter in the trash as he walked out of his office. If the janitor didn't have the trash dumped by morning then he'd consider reading it.

Of course it wasn't left in the trash.

Price was nursing a morning cup of tea, still waking up when Ghost walked into the lounge. He had a look in his eyes, guilty but also a bit miffed. He looked at Price before he walked over and sat across from him. No words were spoken as he took out the letter and dropped it on the table.

Price felt his eye twitch at the sight. This wouldn't be the first time Ghost had poked around in his trash, Price knew he should've shredded it upon discovering who sent it. It was his own fault for being weak, for being open to reading it.

"Your mum's dead."

Price felt his heart drop, almost dropping his mug. He shakingly put down his tea, breathing as he looked away. Ghost's eyes widened and he looked even more guilty.

"You didn't know."

Ghost spoke upon the assumption he had read it. Of course, he wouldn't have said anything otherwise.

"She's-"

"I'm sorry."

Price took the letter, trying to not rip and tear as he opened it. He skimmed over the words until he found the passage mentioning his mother's death. He was supposed to feel something more than a numbed dread. He was a child who learned his mother was gone, why wasn't he feeling more than this? The shake in his hands wasn't enough, there should be more emotion.

Price honestly didn’t feel much as he read his sister's letter, describing their mother's last moments and the funeral they would have. She wrote as if she already knew he would never attend, and there wasn't any blame. Just sorrow and understanding. Sorrow, it didn't feel enough.

His dear mother, might as well have not been there at all. He vividly remembered her faraway stare, like her spirit wasn't even present. She used to be much more alive when he was much younger, while she was pregnant with his brother. She argued with his father with determination, no fear. Then... it just went away. She never showed much emotion after she became pregnant with his sister. Their father had full reign of the household, of their children.

He wondered if she died that way, numb and absent minded, allowing their father to have his way until the bitter end.

"John?"

Ghost didn't like his silence, probably didn't like the lack of a more earnest reaction. Price never told him about his family or upbringing. Never told him he joined the military to get away from them. Any judgement he was receiving was deserved. Ghost clung to his family when he had them, he loved them fiercely.

"I probably should tell you a few things about me... and keep all of this between us, yea?"

Ghost nodded while watching him carefully. Price really didn't want the others to learn about this, learn everything about him he frankly didn't want them to know.

[l3t-me-perish]

[From like mid 2024 it's kinda just a mass of backlogged art all together]

FUCKIT!!!! LOVE DRAWING THESE 2

[valeffelees]

davy. ♡

[sweetpascal]

i forgot which accounts have written about olderbf!simon so i decided to jump on the band wagon and have some fun with these hc's 🫶🏼

now imagine olderbf!simon picking you up from work...

.・゜゜firstly, olderbf!simon is a walking GREEN FLAG !!

.・゜゜no matter what this man has planned for the day, he makes sure he's the one to drive you to and pick you up from work. every. single. shift. as early as 5am to as late as 9pm.

.・゜゜if he gets there early, he makes sure to get your favorite sweet drink, plus a sweet treat (and a little something for himself too cause he knows you're not going to want to enjoy your treats alone).

.・゜゜"do you need a ride home, y/n?" - "no thanks, my boyfriend is getting me!" - "BOYFRIEND???"

.・゜゜often labeled as the 'quiet one' at work with a sweet personality, everything was getting out of their eyes when you said you had a boyfriend. they were all asking questions, wanting to see pictures, wanting to hear stories about this mysterious boyfriend that your coworkers have not even SEEN before. (simon is very reserved like that)

.・゜゜during the closing shift, everybody heard the loud blaring of Korn on someone's car speakers. you immediately knew it was him. (simon is a nu metal king)

.・゜゜olderbf!simon hates the center of attention. he doesn't like it when people pester him with questions his life or his relationship with you, ESPECIALLY if he doesn't know them. and he really doesn't like when people try to pick apart his relationship with you. that's a big no-no.

.・゜゜simon always gets out if his car to greet you with a bear hug and a sweet kiss on your lips and a pat on your behind. and he NEVER lets you open your own door. he'd rather get hit by a car than for you to do your own princess treatment.

.・゜゜ALWAYS asks the same questions when you get in the car. "how was work, pet?" "did y'miss me?" "anyone give you a hard time?" and whenever you babble about your day, he has a big hand stroking the back of your head or neck gently or a hand on your thigh.

.・゜゜the next day at work, all your coworkers are gushing over him, especially your straight male manager. 98% of the comments are about how tall and beefy simon was.

[angelatsumu]

thinking of husband!simon who can't get enough of making you cum. nsfw under the cut. | husband!simon, overstimulation (kinda), fingering

“surely you can give me another, lovie” your husband taunts you, eyes peering at your reflection in the mirror. he’s got your legs spread for him, trapped under his own legs as his fingers—middle and ring—find themselves curled deep within your cunt. he’s smirking at you teasingly while your head’s rested against his shoulder. normally he hates when your eyes break contact with his, but today he allows your brief reprieve from his gaze because he’s feeling generous. truthfully speaking, he knows he’ll be asking for ‘just one more’ at least two more times before you’re boneless before him. your lover curls his fingers along the spongy cushion buried within your walls, prodding the soft material with a coy grin splayed across his features. his eyes are sharp as he watches your hips wriggle against the assault in a weak attempt to free yourself. he’s feeling generous, so he lets that silly little action go unpunished. he figures he’ll tax you for each offense; give him one more for his troubles, sweet girl. you whine at the intoxicating thrusts of his digits against you, body overheating as the coil within your abdomen winds tight. the sounds of your squelching cunt makes your cheeks heat with embarrassment, only worsened with the teasing lilt of your husband’s filthy words in your ear. “doin’ so good for me, sweet girl. ‘s almost too much isn’t it, baby?” he sounds like pure sin, panting as though the sheer feel of your cunt squeezing his fingers would do him in. you both know it would; your lover could cum with the sheer feel of your cunt spasming around his tongue, let alone his fingers. he’s hard against your ass, and each wiggle and writhe of your sweet hips making him grunt deeply against your skin. the tightening in your cunt alongside the soft moans of his name let your lover know you’re so close to the edge, so close that you can practically already taste it. he knows, and he makes sure you reach that peak quicker by circling your hard, throbbing clit with his thumb. “oh, sweet girl,” your husband coos at you as your orgasms crests, leaving you trembling in his grasp. Simon’s a bit cruel with the way he thrusts his fingers harder against that sweet spot while spewing filthily in your ear. it’s too much, always too much when he’s this sexy and all yours before him. as you ride out your orgasm, he coaxes you into rocking your hips against his thick fingers. “ride my hand baby, watch yourself ride my fuckin’ hand,” he moans in your ear, free hand gripping your jaw and forcing your gaze to your reflection in the mirror. the sight is enough to have your cunt squeezing his fingers so tight he could barely move, huffs and whines slipping from your pretty lips while he continues his assault on your overstimulated cunt. “please, Si” you whimper with warmed cheeks, eyes pleadingly looking into his own. he lets out a gruff groan, relishing in the tears that speckle your lash line. “just one more,”he lies to you, and you whimper softly knowing it’d be far more than one before you were done.

a/n: rbs + likes greatly appreciated. also, taking requests. also also, if you'd like the insanely long (and kinda fanon/self-indulgent) oneshot i wrote for halloween!simon, lmk

[leathfaic]

Simon Riley it turns out, doesn't have a taste in furniture.

It's not that he has objectively bad taste. He just has none at all.

Which he reckons in hindsight he should have anticipated. He never really furnished his own place after all. Always lived in cheap, outfitted places. Never homes, always just places to stay.

And now he's being confronted with a question he can't answer.

"What would ye like?"

Instinctively answered with "Whatever you'd want, don't really 'ave an opinion."

Only apparently that answer doesn't count.

Even as a kid it was second-hand furniture. The few times there was enough money to repaint something Simon as the big brother had to let Tommy pick first. He usually went with blue. No blues then, that's a start right? He doesn't need to give his brain ammunition to pull him back to his childhood. It has more than enough.

And Ghost has all the blue he'll ever need to see in his life in Soap's eyes.

Good thing he didn't say that sappy shit out loud.

Knowing what he doesn't want is a start but nothing prepared him for a vast store full of things. To make choices like "Which couch do you think will give you the least back pain when you can only test-sit them for a few minutes?"

The only thing he knows for sure is that these gigantic stores would make for a mean close-quarter training ground. He's half tempted to ask Price if they can find one that's about to close down and no one would mind getting shot to shit. It would be a fun challenge.

"Simon, ye with me love?"

Shaking his head to clear it and then giving Johnny a quick thumbs up he struggles up from the sofa he'd been sitting on and contemplating.

"Ye like tha' one? Went right to broodin' on there like ye felt all at home."

"Fuck off."

The defense comes instinctively but he has to admit Johnny is right. Giving the couch another cursory look, like it might jump up and bite him, he can't help but be a bit perplexed.

It's very large, definitely bigger than Soap's old couch. It's also very...red. Which isn't blue. But still it looks like someone spilled an intensiley dark wine all over the thing. Did he like red couches?

Apparently.

Simon Riley, it turns out, has a great taste in furniture. It just took him a moment to figure that out.

He picks sturdy things. Solid woods, iron fastenings, robust. Somewhere in the realm between industrial and old hand made styles.

Soap has been trailing him happily, barely saying a word because letting Ghost pick is easy, he almost always found himself agreeing. It wasn't always his first choice or even something that caught his eyes, but slowly and surely the flat was coming together.

It made him giddy, even knowing it would be a while until everything was delivered and assembled.

It would be lots of warm colours, light wood and dark iron in contrast. But most importantly it would be theirs. Something they'd make their home together. And wasn't that novel?

Two trained SAS operatives picking the carpet they found most cosy? Not plotting for tactical advantages but for a home to come back to. A place to share comfort and to share nightmares and panic attacks.

Because no matter how right they got it they would still be themselves, drenched in blood and now on an appropriately coloured sofa.

Johnny knew he should snap out of the line of thought he was barrelling down before it took him to darker places, but he was ensnared already.

Would one of them sit in that flat, drowning in grief when luck finally ran out for them? Would the signs the other left behind before deployment be a comfort or would they feel haunting?

Or would it just be Price and Gaz, lost in a place that had been a home and was just empty? Soulless. Ready to be emptied of all traces that could tell of secrets that better stayed hidden.

Would it just be one of Laswells people, burning the place without a care, just a precaution after a taskforce lost?

"So it's no' tha' one for sure."

Torn from his thoughts Soap looks up at Simon in confusion.

"Starte' broodin immediately. Can't 'ave you in a shit mood every time you hit the sack. 'ave too many plans for tha' place."

Soap finds himself snorting as he gets up from the bed he was testing.

"Fuck off." he throws back softly. Sees a warm smile spread behind the medical mask on Ghost's face.

"Ye're right though and ye need to tell me of these plans."

Part 1 //Part 3

[python333]

since i just woke up from one and came here to seek comfort and get it out of my head,i had the idea of "why not ask them if they'd like to write such a thing?" So here i am.

The main thing is reader having a really grotesque, explicit and horrific nightmare (that's how most of mine are) could be getting tortured,put in a meat grinder,you get it,work your magic and write as you wish haha.And after they wake up with a heavy and tight chest, horrified naturally,it being out of their control,could you have the 141 members comfort us? Perhaps one way of getting most of their reactions would be setting up a scenario where they had to camp and sleep in the same place, something of the sorts,so yeah.

Honestly still not over the nightmare yet that shit was horrific haha,but yeah,hope this'll be a nice writing for you,if you wish to do so.Take great care of yourself dear,and take as many breaks as you need<3

how the sausage gets made — python333

— — — —

synopsis you have a very graphic nightmare, the 141 comforts you!!!

relationships platonic! 141 & gn! reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 3.2k

warnings nightmare about getting put through a meat grinder (not too graphic, but the imagery is still there), usage of [c/n] (code name/call sign), 2nd person pov (you/yours/youself)

note hi!! this is actually right up my alley, i really enjoyed writing this!! :D hopefully this somewhat comforts you/helps you get over the nightmare, and hopefully this was horrific enough for you!! ALSO i have a discord server now!! enjoy :3

You’re in some sort of freezer, it seems. 

Your vision is a bit blurred at the edges, and your head feels awfully heavy, making it hard to keep upright on your neck. Your shoulders feel tight and tense, as though the muscles in them were physically bundled and tied into tight knots. Though, they aren’t tense in the way they typically are. Somewhere in the back of your mind—as your gaze wanders around the blue-tinted room you lay in—you can recall times after sparring sessions with a few of your teammates when your shoulders felt tight, and it was nothing like this. Those times, you could feel the knots as though they grew roots from your shoulders to your wrists. Unlike now, your shoulders feel lighter than those times. 

Those times. You aren’t sure what “those times” refers to. All you can see and think about is the light blue tiling of the ceiling above you. It’s strange; you’ve only seen tiling like that on dingy bathroom floors in the public gym you used to go to. It’s never been on the ceiling like that. Huh. 

You can’t really feel your hands, which is even stranger. You know where they are—they’re right at your sides, laying on the stingingly cold concrete floor of whatever room you’re in—and can hear the echoing taps they give whenever you lift and hit them lightly against the floor, but yet they feel numb. You move one of them, not nearly as off-put by the numbness as you should be, and lift it up and over your face. It looks normal. No, yeah, that’s my hand alright. Don’t know what I expected. 

You put the hand back on the ground and using both hands you push yourself up from the floor, letting out a small grunt as you do. It takes an uncanny amount of force to push yourself upwards, but you manage to do so anyway, and you finally have a look at the room around you. You look ahead of you. Blue tarp. It’s shiny and almost looks woven, and if you squint your eyes enough, it looks grainy. You look to your left. More blue tarp. It’s of the same quality, the same quantity, and is in all aspects the exact same as the other blue tarp. You make a quick prediction before looking to your right, and, lo and behold, another blue tarp. How shocking. 

It looks the same as the other two. Frowning, you look behind you, and surprisingly you are not met with yet another blue tarp. This time, there’s a large, shiny, stainless steel machine behind you. It’s a good ten feet away, about the same distance away as the tarps, and for some reason it beckons to you. Like Princess Aurora to her spinning wheel, you find the strength to push yourself up to your feet completely, and immediately you begin walking towards the metal machine without much resistance. 

It doesn’t really hit you that you have no idea what this machine is or what it does. You don’t think you’ve seen anything like it. As you get closer, you can see a few items strung from the ceiling past the machine; weird plastic-clear looking tubes that are linked together in the same way clowns at parties twist balloons, and there’s iron-cast skillets hung on the ceiling from invisible hooks. Huh. Weird. Despite the oddities of the items strung from the ceiling, you keep walking towards the machine. 

When you get even closer, the machine becomes less blurred and comes more into focus. It looks completely untouched. There’s a large funnel at the top, one that requires a ladder to get to—conveniently, there’s a ladder set up on and welded to the machine itself—and beneath that is a horizontal tube that tapers off into a smaller, funnel-like shape at the end with a much smaller opening. You tilt your head curiously at the machine. It’s so shiny. Though, the longer you stare at it, the grainier it gets. 

Suddenly, cutting through your thoughts, you feel a harsh push at your back that almost has you knocking into the machine. Before you can even turn around to see who felt that they had the audacity to push you so harshly, that same entity that pushed you quickly lifted you into the air. Whatever they’re using to hold you up feels like absolutely nothing—as if they were just gathering enough air molecules to swoop you up. 

“H—” You try to protest, but your throat doesn’t work. Before you can say anything, it just gives out, and leaves you wheezing for a moment before trying again only to discover that, to your horror, you cannot talk. 

Your throat seems to close up every time you try to say anything. All that comes out are breathy wheezes and coughs that leave a strangely bad pain in your chest. As you try to stop your coughing, whatever is picking you up quickly dumps you into the large funnel on top of the machine. It’s cold and bites at your skin unforgivingly, making you hiss in discomfort. You don’t even clock how the cold is irritating your skin, despite you being fully clothed and none of your bare skin being exposed to the metal of the machine. 

You try to move your hands to the sides of the funnel to push yourself up, but you move at a painfully slow speed, and can’t do anything but stand still. Like a mannequin, you’re forced into a standing position and can’t do anything but stand in the funnel. You look down, and you’re standing on what seems to be some sort of cylinder. The bottom of the funnel ends around your mid-calf. 

Oddly, this reminds you of those nightmares you used to have when you were younger, where you were running from something or someone but moved too slow to get away. 

Suddenly, the cylinder begins to move. 

It spirals in place, making you quickly lose your balance and soon you’ve fallen in a lying position on the cylinder as it turns. It starts at a slow pace but starts to speed up, in time with your panic. You try to scramble to your feet but your limbs don’t allow it, keeping you stuck in place, the cylinder starting to turn even faster. 

You’re uncomfortably folded and pushed through the small ending of the funnel as the cylinder keeps moving, and once you’re through, you start to hear a strange whirring. 

It’s loud and sounds like some sort of shitty metal fan. It clangs against the sides of whatever tube you’re in and occasionally makes a horrible screeching noise that, if you could, you would cover your ears to escape. You turn your head to the side ever-so-slightly and see the “metal fan” itself—four sharp blades that spin clockwise, with a weird hole-filled circle behind them. You furrow—or, well, try to at least—your eyebrows at the sight. 

The fuck is that? You don’t realize you’re getting closer to it. 

The cylinder is now turning at an exceptionally fast pace, and only when you’re a few feet from the blades do you realize just how close you are to them. 

“Wait—” You finally find your voice, though it sounds far away and is muddy in your ears, “Stop, stop—” 

You’re not sure what else to say. You can’t tell if you’re begging, commanding, demanding, or anything of the sort. All you know is that the cylinder is going faster and faster, at an almost punishing pace that leaves you wondering what you could’ve done to deserve whatever the hell is happening to you. The blades emit an ungodly screech each time they get caught on a bump on the insides of the tube, and as you get even closer you can spot bright orange rust on the blades. 

The texture is enough to make you gag. You’re getting closer, and closer, and soon you’re barely a foot away from it. The screeching and the whirring is so loud. You can’t hear anything else—or, wouldn’t be able to hear anything else, if there was anything else to be heard. 

You can barely continue your train of thought before you feel a sharp, cold rush through your ankle. 

You hadn’t been paying enough attention. You didn’t realize how close your feet had gotten to the blades. 

The sound it had made when it was cut off was sickening. A loud pop, the same kind of pop that sounds when you break open the tab of a can. You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out, and suddenly the rest of your leg is getting shredded by those same blades, and dear God, it’s so cold. It feels like dry ice cutting right through your calves, making its way up to your knees, soon to your thighs, much faster than you can process. 

Your thoughts come in small fleets that go as soon as they come and you’re never able to continue or dwell on a single one, always getting interrupted by the white-cold pain that literally cuts through your upper thighs. You can’t feel anything from the waist down. You can’t feel your legs, your feet, and you’re losing feeling in your hips—

Your hands desperately grasp at the cylinder, and you’re not sure what you’re doing but you’re trying to do something, anything, as long as it delays the inevitable shredding of your torso and head. But it doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. Whatever you had intended to do doesn’t work, and soon there’s a sharp cold pain that cuts into your ribcage, and suddenly you can’t even feel your stomach. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can recognize the small sobs that escape you. 

Your chest is the next to go, and soon it’s your shoulders, and even though they’re not gone yet your hands have already gone numb, and you’re bracing yourself for the sharp-cold pain to reach your neck when suddenly—

You wake up, body immediately getting into an upright sitting position and your chest heaving as sweat drips down your forehead. The sweat is cold and your breathing is loud in your ears, your ears which are filled with ringing, the sound of just anything enough to make your breath hitch and a sob crawl into your throat. With open-mouthed pants, you blink rapidly at the space in front of you, before quickly raising your hands to your face and letting out a loud, shaky sigh when you can actually feel the air moving through your fingers. 

They aren’t numb. You plant them on the ground and just feel around, the rough fabric of your tent gliding under your hands. You shake your head vigorously, letting out another relieved sigh when you find that it’s still attached to your neck and hasn’t been sliced through. You move your legs and they’re still attached to your body. Everything is still on you. You’re in the same clothes you went to sleep in. You have all of your body parts. You are in one piece. Nothing is missing. You’re fine. 

Despite repeating to yourself that everything’s okay—you’re physically together, you’re in a tent in the middle of the fucking woods and the worst thing that could happen to you is getting jumped by a bear in your sleep—nothing feels okay. There’s still the phantom feeling of getting put through a meat grinder that keeps a perpetual tremble in your bones, that keeps you unknowing of how to act like you’re in one piece. Not act. You are in one piece. But you aren’t. You swear, even though it was just some stupid dream, that it felt real enough to have actually happened. 

“[c/n]?” Soap’s tired voice snaps you out of your thoughts. Right. We’re sharing a tent. You quickly whip your head to look at him, chest still rising up and down rapidly as your unstable breathing continues. You don’t say anything, simply staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Are ye alright?” He frowns, quickly growing more awake the more concerned he gets, “Whit’s wrong?” 

Maybe you’re in some form of shock, but you find yourself staying silent out of the fear of something happening. You’re not sure what that ‘something’ is, but it’s there, and it’s holding you back from even attempting to speak. Your breath hitches and your throat stings. 

“Hey, uh,” Soap pushes himself up with a grunt and walks over a short few steps to you, kneeling down once he’s beside you, “Jist breathe, everything’s gonnae be alright.”

You know he’s not exactly the best at comforting people. He’s always been better with more technical things, and would much rather help you with math homework or something over trying to comfort you after something traumatic. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—of course he does, and he wishes he was much better than he is now at it—but he can never manage to find the right words. 

He puts a tentative hand on your shoulder and you stare at it as it reaches you, flinching back immediately when you can actually feel his hand over your shirt. He pulls his hand back instantly, expression growing even more concerned. 

“Do ye wannae tell me whit happened?” Soap whisper-asks. When you quickly shake your head ‘no’, Soap thinks for a moment before offering, “Do ye want me tae get onyone else?” 

You think about his words for a moment before nodding. He sighs. 

“Who?” 

Your gaze flickers from the exit of the tent before going back to Soap.

“… Cap’n Price,” You quietly decide. Soap nods and reluctantly gets up, making his way out of the tent. 

A few minutes later, you hear Soap walk back into the tent as well as another set of feet that trail right behind him. You look up and over at the entrance of the tent and see your Captain. His eyes are immediately on you, and as soon as he sees the mystified look in your eyes, he’s quick to make his way to you and kneel down beside you. 

He doesn’t know what to say for a moment, you can tell. He instinctively brings a hand up to put on your shoulder like he typically would in situations like these, but something causes him to bring his hand back down and away from you. Maybe Soap told him how you reacted earlier? You brush off the thought for now, more focused on whatever Price is trying to do. 

The reason you wanted him here instead of the others was mainly because you felt the least embarrassed around him. Which was weird, considering that he’s of the highest rank compared to you and the others, but still—you can’t imagine him judging you, not even for the most outrageous things. Maybe he’d have a small fit over you saying “soccer” instead of “football”, but otherwise, you can’t think of a world where he judges you for something like having a nightmare. 

And sure, the others have them too and probably wouldn’t judge you either, but still. Price will probably always be your first option for situations like these. 

“Soap hadn’t told me what happened, yet,” Price says softly, “D’you mind filling me in?” 

If this were anyone else, you’d be fighting the urge to jump off a cliff, but because it’s not, you simply answer, “Nightmare.” 

Your voice is a little clearer now, much to your relief, but it still carries that rasp from earlier. It doesn’t pain you to talk, but it does shock you that you even can, considering that you could barely form a whisper in your nightmare. And yes, that’s a silly thought, knowing that all of that was a nightmare, but you couldn’t care less about that right now.

“A nightmare, alright,” Price hums, before suggesting, “My tent’s bigger than yours, y’know. You wanna bring your sleeping bag over there, so we’re all together? Power in numbers, yeah?”

 You nod mindlessly, agreeing with anything Price says. He smiles at you and hesitantly puts a hand on your shoulder, doing it slowly enough that you have plenty of time to let him know if it’s not okay, but you allow it. Price shoots a look at Soap and the latter nods, confirming whatever Price’s silent look asked him. 

“Alright,” Price gives your shoulder one last squeeze before standing up, waiting for you to stand up as well. Once you do, he starts to walk out of the tent, expecting you to walk after him. Surprisingly, Soap gets up as well, sleeping bag and pillow in hand. Huh. Maybe that’s what he was confirming. You quickly pick up your sleeping bag and pillow, movements a little more stilted than usual as you didn’t expect to actually be able to move as quickly as you can now, and follow Price out of your tent. 

You shiver as you walk out into the cold outside of the woods, and are quick to walk to the much bigger tent across from yours. 

When you enter the tent, Gaz remains asleep while Ghost almost immediately wakes up. It’s uncanny, the speed at which his eyes open and dart to your figure—as if he was never asleep in the first place. You push those thoughts aside and wait for Price to walk in. 

“Wh’t’s goin’ on?” Ghost asks sleepily, his British accent making his slurred words nearly impossible to decipher. 

“They’re stayin’ in here for the rest of the night,” Price answers for you, nodding over to you as he refers to you. 

Ghost looks over at you and you can sense his raised eyebrow despite not being able to see it. You look to Price to explain your situation for you again, and once he sees you look at him, he explains, “Nightmare.” 

Ghost blinks before nodding understandably. Almost immediately, he conks out and goes right back to sleeping like the dead, making Price snort. Price turns to you, and gestures towards the empty spot next to Gaz, the spot conveniently empty and just perfectly sized for your sleeping bag. You walk over there as quietly as you can, shuffling around Ghost’s and Price’s sleeping bags, and gently lay your sleeping bag down next to Gaz’s. 

You set down your pillow inside of the sleeping bag and kneel down as quietly as you can, a soft rustling sounding from your sleeping bag as you settle in. You turn on your side and let out a quiet sigh, eyelids already drooping with exhaustion. You’ve turned towards Gaz, and he’s turned towards you, and you look over his sleeping face for a moment before deciding to catch up on your own rest. 

Just as you’re about to close your eyes, you watch his open. 

“...” He stares at you for a moment, before he sleepily whispers, “Hey.” 

“Hi.” 

“… Y’good?” He asks, looking at your still-glassy eyes and very-clearly-worn-out expression. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” You answer, trying to offer a tiny bit of reassurance. 

“Alright,” Gaz hums, accepting your answer easily, and closing his eyes once again. 

A small smile graces your lips. You’re all used to going to sleep easily, of course, on missions like these—you kind of need to be, given that you’re all military. It took you a bit, but you eventually got used to it, and gained that skill just a few months after joining the task force. 

Speaking of which, you find yourself drifting off to sleep not long after Gaz closes his eyes again, and soon enough, you’ve already fallen asleep—this time, without nightmares or dreams.

[wolvmir]

Mystery twins curse twins!

a fave au of mine

[ftmsimonriley]

i think soap's family is the type that maintains the image of a big, happy family. but under it is tension, the kind that lingers at family gatherings and in photos if you look for it. his parents really should've split, but remained together. it was why soap was so eager to get out. even as an adult, he stays far away, often opting to stay deployed during holidays just so he can avoid the uncomfortable family gatherings. he's only met his nieces and nephews a few times, and he rarely calls his parents or sisters.

because of his infrequent leaves, more often than not, ghost is always there.

it becomes a habit. neither really celebrate the holidays. there's something about christmas that makes the lieutenant jumpy. soap often spends new years shit-faced drunk while ghost hovers like some foreboding guardian angel, rarely ever partaking. the one time he gets him to take a sip of the bottle of scotch he was killing off, he considers it his new years' kiss.

and ghost can recognize a pattern when he sees it. but most importantly, he sees himself in the avoidance. desperate to get away and stay away. he never asks what is waiting for soap at home. a bad family, a rocky relationship. it's not his business, even if soap has more than enough of his own questions about him. and he's not going to tell him how to live his life, scold him for wasting precious years or whatever someone more well adjusted would say. he just knows that that kind of life is devastatingly lonely. so he offers the one thing he swore he had given up; companionship.

[bookishjules]

Any sizzy Halloween headcanons you have

idk why but i just had an image of simon running around dressed as a vampire as a kid laughing and trading candy and then when he goes to bite into the chocolate bar the scene flickers and he's sixteen and biting into maureen.. so i guess i'll start off with the hc that he dressed up a vamp as a kid? bc that image is never leaving me o7

as for sizzy as a Unit..

izzy def would have had a pretty limited understanding of the holiday before hanging out with him and clary (halloween in its most basic form is pretty much every day for someone who can see the shadow world after all)

i do think simon was invited to a party with the band in 07 and i was gonna say shit was too crazy after cofa for him to have bothered going but i can see him mentioning the party in passing to izzy and her being like pls i am in desperate need of a party rn

but then they show up and it's so far from the last party they'd been to together (magnus's). like 20-30 kids packed into an apt in brooklyn and the music is loud and the costumes are so ridiculous

i think the guys probably wanted simon to use his sexy vampire mojo and show everyone up but come on this is a mundane halloween and simon's gonna take the opportunity to not be the daylighter for a bit

in the future him and izzy will definitely do coordinating couple costumes but not in 07 nosiree. simon throws something together from his closet. maybe he'll be a red shirt from star trek that would be funny since he actually can't die despite how many people want him to. izzy on the other hand gets some pointers from clary and decides to go as idk church or smth (clary: you could be a cat? / izzy: omg can i be church) something classic but also clever or personal

they go to the party, drink illicit booze, eat a bunch of candy, forget about sebastian and lilith and camille and everything else, and lose themselves in the teenageness of it all. and izzy decides she loves halloween