Birdie

I mostly reblog cod fics| She/Her | 18

[girl-lostconnection]

So..forgive me you're the first person I'm ever asking anything on Tumblr (Kinda new and I usually like to describe it like hiding in the corner and just watching everything quietly and leaving likes and I love your work) but I was thinking about your concept with 141 and reader dying and the notebook. Would there ever be a case where the others stumble upon it? Whether Price forgets (somehow) to put it away or someone's in the midst of searching for something and stumbles upon it?

Again, love your work, feel free to ignore this tho

Yeah, I think this type of readers people call “lurkers” which is cool🙂‍↕️you guys are usually the backbone of the audience, I enjoy you tremendously.

And that’s a really good question, anon!

You know what? Why not turn the heat up a little more for this pot with the frogs.

I can imagine Price not exactly forgetting it somewhere but harbouring it so close to himself that people start to notice. This specific notebook is always with him — under his armoured vest and in the front pocket of his shirts, on top of the stack of documents, edge of it peeking out of his pants pocket.

It’s always there when before he didn’t carry it with him. It’s small and simple, technically it shouldn’t rise any questions but Kyle is the first who notices it. Maybe because after your death he’s so sharply attuned to everyone else on the team, it’s practically unhealthy.

Kyle who watches John fumble with the leather bound corners of the little thing and wonders…what’s inside of it? They have been all grieving but your things have been taken by them all and shared fairly.

Simon doesn’t withhold your pictures or books with your annotations. Soap doesn’t say no when Gaz asks for one of the keychains. Kyle himself lets Simon and Johnny take one of your things each. Simon takes the big oversized T-shirt and Soap whisks away one of your hoodies, clutching it hard to himself, knuckles white with tension.

(Kyle will never admit but when he walked in on Johnny in hoodie with your name and rank on the back of it his knees buckled. For a moment a traitorous part of him thought you were there. For a moment he could breathe again)

So Price keeping something of you to himself almost felt unfair. It wasn’t, of course, no, Captain had every right to grieve and mourn in a way that made it easier for him.

But-

But Kyle missed you. Everyday and every morning he’d wake up, realisations hitting him again that you aren’t coming back. You are never coming back.

You disappeared so suddenly you were now everywhere.

The unwashed cup they couldn’t bring themselves to wash, the clothes and trinkets, the books and pictures. The notebooks.

Kyle remembers how you two played games in it, drawing X’s and O’s when debrief would get too long and your brains too sluggish to keep awake without external stimulation.

Kyle remembers you writing in them, so focused you oftentimes wouldn’t notice him getting closer until he’d plop himself down in front of you, pretending to pose. Your favourite model, wasn’t he?

Kyle remembers you smiling at him, eyes flickering to his face for a moment, your gaze so impossibly soft he feels like choking and burying himself next to you.

There is a whole life ahead. Kyle isn’t sure how to live it with a hole in this chest the size of your love.

It’s a selfish thought, maybe. Maybe he is selfish.

Maybe he should have been content with what he has been given. But he wasn’t.

So now he slips the notebook off Price’s desk when the man himself is so wrecked he can’t see straight. John’s drinking got worse after your death. Not yet enough to cause disciplinary action but enough to make them all worried.

Gaz has never seen him like that.

Why were they all lucky enough to meet you but not lucky enough to save you? Would the outcome be different if one of them went with you on that deployment? Could they save you if they knew how it ends?

Could they try?

Kyle’s fingers skim over the pages, your hoodie on him and if he pretends hard enough it almost feels like a hug. It almost feels like his body heat seeping through fabric is yours. Like you were just wearing it.

Like you didn’t leave at all.

Like you are coming back.

Kyle flips through the pages, gurgling wet laughter in his throat when he notices that you have been writing Simon’s jokes down and coming up with your own. (The “just got hospitalised due to peekaboo incident. They put me in ICU” joke almost makes Kyle choke).

Some part of him gets why Price has been guarding this specific journal so hard. Why he wasn’t letting anyone else close to it, because this right here is you.

Everything that’s left of your thoughts and feelings, of your humour and love, of your plans and scribbles.

It’s tangible proof that you were here. You lived, you loved, you thought. You were there and you were a person. Their favourite person. Their beloved one.

Maybe that’s why your small note hits him harder than he could have ever expected. A small resigned “I’m not sure I fit in. I’m not sure I’m not second…or fifth best in this case. Don’t even know if I wanna talk about it. Just plain stupid” splits Kyle’s scull open and leaves him bleeding and aching and shaking.

What…what did you mean “fifth best”? Why would you say that? What- no. Nonononono. No, it’s not fair. It’s not true, it has never been true.

Kyle feels like driving back to the cemetery and wrapping his car around the poll.

Kyle feels like clawing at the ground and sobbing-sobbing-sobbing.

Kyle feels like begging.

Please, no. Please, come back. Please, let him fix it, let him tell you the truth, let him tell you.

Kyle understands why Price was guarding the journal this fiercely. Kyle is so mad he feels like demolishing John’s office and yelling until his voice is raspy useless thing, vocal cords damaged, headache pounding inside his head and he’s burning from inside out.

Kyle looks at the page, his whole core so hollowed out you could feel an echo if you’d knocked.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do because you are gone.

Because he wants to say “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I’d be better if I knew”, he wants to say “come back and scream at me, come back demand attention, come back and hurt me in return just please please come back”.

He wants to say “I love you” in a hundred different ways, he wants to kiss it better, he wants to hold you again, he wants you back, why can’t you come back, why can’t he get you back? He will change, he will do better, he will pay attention, he’s sorry, love, he’s so sorry.

Soap finds him just blankly staring at the page and he doesn’t understand at first, concern sharpening his features like one of the razors he uses for his drawing pencils.

Johnny sinks down next to him, lips pressing to Kyle’s temple, breath panting when Gaz doesn’t respond because he can’t.

He doesn’t know what to say.

How do you live knowing you may never change what already happened? How do you keep going knowing your tenderness is decaying six feet underground, that your love is springing with flowers when they should have stayed above the ground and picked them? How do you get over it? How?

Johnny’s eyes skim over the page and Gaz can feel when the realisation sinks in, when the body next to him is getting poured full with raw ache and ice sharp panic.

Johnny asks “Gaz whose journal is that”, Johnny pleads “Mate, talk to me, where did you get it?”, Johnny whimpers “Kyle tell me it’s not theirs, Kyle please, Kyle say something”.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do other than wrap himself around Soap and hold him despite the thrashing, despite the disbelieving laughter that descends into gasping for air and clawing at his back and shoulders.

Kyle doesn’t let him get out and do something stupid, like drive to the cemetery and wrap a car around the poll and curl near your gravestone.

There is an awfully loud gulp and the journal is getting carefully taken off Kyle’s lap, Simon’s fingers long and scarred — things broken too many times to grown back straight and narrow, calloused pads of his fingers catching on the paper of the notebook.

Kyle has to drag him down to them, he has to practically kick the ground from under Ghost’s feet because the man looks like he will get the shovel and get you out of the coffin.

(Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon refused to let them bury you, how he sat with you for days, until the decomposition became evident. Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon placed a phone in your coffin despite knowing that you are not coming back. Kyle doesn’t want to think that Simon was terrified the 4 of them might bury you alive).

Ghost looks like the sky just fell on his head, crashing his spine and grinding down his nerves. Ghost looks like he wants to cry but doesn’t know how.

Ghost looks like how they all feel.

Kyle forces the man into their cuddle pile and forces his hand to wrap around Johnny, because Soap digs his fingers into them like he’s falling-falling-falling. System crashing, bomb ticking, Rome burning down.

Funny how Ghost never understood the phrase “going mad with grief”, always felt like it was a bit of dramatisation. People die every day after all, don’t they? It’s statistically impossible to never lose a single person.

Funny how Soap gets it now perfectly. The shift of tectonic plates in his brain, the rewiring of the whole system, pain so intense he might have ash for heart now.

Funny how it’s not funny at all but Gaz still laughs, face wet when Simon tightens his grip and pulls Kyle in, letting him hide his face.

Taglist: @synthe4u

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just john "tough love" price absolutely folding for younger!reader...

If soap or gaz even attempt to say they can't train due to being sick, price will have them running laps until they drop, then use their number of laps are proof they aren't that sick.

But if you come in five minutes late with a sore throat? Price is already grabbing you by the strap of your plate carrier with a gruff "not so fast, kid. How're you feeling?"

He'll hold the back of his hand against your forehead and make a displeased grumble before announcing "the kid's with me today! Poor things sick."

No, he doesn't care how many times people point it out, he definitely isn't playing favorites.

So what if price feels oddly paternal over the young soldier who looks up to him with starry eyes? That's normal. He's just protecting his assets, that's all.

Price repeats that reasoning over again in his head as he grabs a blanket from under his desk so you can nap on the shitty couch in his office. If, in your sick tossing and turning, you kick off the blanket? Price is more than happy to tuck you back in, not wanting to disturb you.

What? No. He treats all his soldiers equally.

[s-ghost-r]

Continuation of this.

Simon counts time to the rhythm of your breathing. You're so still it's the only thing he can focus on, the only thing that gives any sign that you're not just a corpse laying in front of him.

Just taking a while to wake from the anesthesia, they said, People respond differently to it sometimes.

That does little to calm the shake in his hands that started up the moment he heard your squad request medical once you arrived back at base.

There was never a doubt in his mind that it was for you. Who else would it be for? You were the only person he ever said those words to. The warden of his heart, the keeper of any goodness he has left. The moment those words left his lips he had marked you, the black mark of the curse that sits buried in his ribs like meat hooks locking onto you like he had placed you in the crosshair of his sniper.

Except this time it was someone else who had pulled the trigger.

An ambush, it would later be called. Simon is more apt to call it a major intelligence fuckup. What was supposed to be a weapons cold, milk and cookies mission turned into nothing short of an active war zone. Somewhere there was a leak of information, and you ended up paying for it with a bullet in your ribs.

A through and through. They stabilized you and kept you that way during exfil, but the surgeons still needed to cut you up to put you back together again. No lung shot, no shattered bones. Just a clean exit wound and a lot of blood loss. PT will be a bitch.

Lucky, they called you.

Damned, he thinks. All because of those two words.

He scoops up your hand and lays it in his like it's made of glass. For a moment he wishes his gloves were off, but the idea that if he does, if his skin touches yours, you'll fall through his fingers like smoke seizes him with a such a severity that his chest tightens.

Instead, he runs his gaze over your hand like it's the last time he'll ever be able to. The texture of your skin, the scars and marks, its bends and curves. The way it fits in his. The dried blood in the edges of your fingernails.

When he looks back up he sees a sliver of your eye peeking through heavy eyelids. His grip encases your hand.

"Mornin' sunshine." His voice is barely above a whisper. You blink blearily at him. Your drug-sleep heavy voice rumbles through your throat.

"Sim'n."

"Yeah, darlin'." He watches as you start to come back bit by bit from behind the propofol haze. You look at him with fuzzy eyes for a moment until you suck in a sharp breath. Simon's heart jolts in his chest and he's about to flag down a nurse until you raise your hand and slap it onto his chest, your coordination shot.

"Simon," you say again as if you just remembered something.

"Yeah, baby, what is it? What'd you need?"

"L've you t--"

He covers your mouth with his finger. And he holds it there as his eyes scrunch shut. His heart having never felt so light and heavy at the same time. He takes it from your lips only when he can open his eyes again and not immediately embarrass himself.

He slides his hand to cup the side of your face, more gentle than you would expect of a man like Ghost. The gentleness that's only there because of you.

"I know," is all he can say. You are his Polaris, the singular point of light in the ever expanding dark that will always guide him home. You are the red in his blood, the marrow in his bones. You live in the stillness between every beat of his heart.

How can he not know?

As you relax back down to the pillow, your precious face a soothing weight in his hand, he runs his thumb over the curve of your cheek. He says it back through the motion, what you realize he's been saying for far longer than when he first gave the words voice: I love you.

[s-ghost-r]

Simon Riley who loves you like a cat.

He always manages to track you down no matter where you're at just to be in the room with you. Most of the time he doesn't say much, nor does he expect much. You'll notice that sometimes he'll start doing the same thing you're doing. If you're doing work on your laptop, so is he. If you're doing chores like folding laundry, no you're not; both of you are doing chores. He just likes sharing space with you, regardless of what that looks like.

Ghost has a pretty well established personal space bubble, everyone knows it. Anything beyond the occasional slap on the back, fist bump, or anything outside of the realm of the usual military ra-ra is generally a no-go for Simon. Except when it comes to you, naturally. If you're within reach then he's on you or has you on him. An arm around your shoulder, your leg tossed over his knee, sitting against you hip to to knee, or a pinky wrapped around yours. More often than not his hand is mindlessly drawing self-soothing patterns over you, the feeling of your presence more grounding than anything any therapist could offer him.

One thing you've come to get used to is Simon always bringing you food. He always carries extra to hand to you at any point in the day. Rarely a day passes when he's not bringing some amount of groceries home. One time you made a passing comment on the time you tried elk jerky and loved it, but haven't been able to find it since and quickly forgot about the conversation. Simon, however, didn't. So you really shouldn't have been so surprised to see this man pull up with a whole ass elk he hunted tied to the hood of his truck to your place. So many questions. Some of those being how the hell does he expect you to eat all of that and should you expect him to drag home any more dead things?

You've quickly learned Simon's weakness. The one thing that can bring the myth, the legend, the Ghost to his knees: head scratches. The first time you slipped your fingers under his balaclava and ran your nails through the shortly cropped hair at the back of his neck he melted. All 6'4 300 pounds of man turned into putty under your hands. And when you dragged your nails around to the underside of his jaw you swear you saw his eyes roll to the back of his head.

Simon Riley loves like a cat, and it's painfully obvious who his favorite person is.

[rawme-price]

Okay imagine soap ends up surviving the bullet, but with a bit of short-term memory loss, right?

It takes him a few days to remember people when they visit him in the hospital, but once he does it's like nothings ever changed. The doctors say he should make a full-recovey memory wise.

You...you've been putting off visiting. Mostly because you're not sure you won't burst into tears the second you see johnny in a hospital bed. It doesn't matter that he's the same guy that rejected you multiple times, you still care about him. You never really stopped.

You last about two weeks before gaz decides to grag you kicking and screaming to the hospital. You genuinely expect it to end horribly, maybe in awkward silence or yelling when soap finally remembers you.

Only for soap to light up the second you enter, smiling wider than he has since the bullet. He tries to sit up from his recliner position, shining eyes pinned to you "christ, kyle, ye didn't mention bringing me a pretty thing!"

...pretty? Your face heats at the words, but soap is already reaching for you, despite gazs frantic please to lay back down, "did ah know ye too? Please tell me i married you. Past john would be a fool not to!"

Oh...oh gosh. You're not sure what to do, only focused on soap while nurses rush in as his heart monitor keeps rapidly. You try not to let your voice waver "uhm...no. you...rejected me."

"What? Fuck– no, give me another chance. Why the hell would I pass a gorgeous thing like you up?" Soap begs, ignoring the chaos of gaz talking the nurses down.

"You won't like me when you remember." You point out.

"Ach, let me decide that, aye? Right now, you look like the person of my dreams." He coos, grabbing your wrist "come sit with me, let me get to know ye?"

...you do. He's still the same johnny as ever, able to talk with you for hours and hours. God, you love him.

Selfishly, you hope he doesn't remember whatever it is that made him reject you.

[rawme-price]

Thinking about alpha!price who doesn't understand why you never ask for nesting materials...

He's not insecure about where you stand with him, you've made it very clear you want to be his mate. Price has to drag you off from him each morning while you thoroughly scent him.

But...you never take his jacket, Or ask for den materials, or even try to sneak anything. It makes something weird and anxious roll in prices stomach, the thought that something could be wrong with his omega.

So he confronts you one day, while your sat in his lap, barely fitting into his office chair. Price pulls back from you just an inch, voice low "love, is your nest okay?"

"...yeah?" You reply with a tilt of your head, leaning back further to really look at price "why wouldn't it be??"

"You never ask for nesting materials from me." Price cuts to the centre, too old to dance around the subject. Mostly, now he knows your den is okay, he's worried there's a worse reason you haven't asked.

"Oh. Uh– well..." you stammer, looking away. Price notes how you press your lips together in a thin line, jaw clenching. He tries not to let the fear overcome him. "I...I don't...like...the smell..."

Dissapointment, sadness, self-hate all pour over price at once. His whole body stiffening, voice tight "excuse me? I thought you were my mate?"

"What? Oh– no! No, john, not like that!" You rush to correct, pushing a soothing scent to balance price's sour one "it's just...uhm. the cigars."

"My cigars?" Price repeats, confused.

"Yeah. They make your scent smell...bad. I know it's you, I can smell it underneath, but it just...it feels like you're hiding."

Oh. Oh.

Price feels like an idiot, heaving a sigh and nuzzling your neck apologetically. "Fuckin– sorry. Sorry, love. I didn't realize– I'll fix it, okay?"

After that, price stopped smoking. Cold turkey. Every time the cravings got too harsh, he'd shove his nose into your neck and inhale, using you to soothe instead. A reminder and a promise of what he had to look forward to.

You walk around with his jacket for the first time ever that month.

[sheepispink]

getting caught in the 141s beds :))

(sfw, suggestive remarks)

——

Ghost

You were injured and he hated it. Out of the you were the one to be picked specifically for the op, and as any good soldier does, you followed. But, things had gone south, more than he planned for, and new plans had to be suddenly made.

You got split from the group, leaving you on your own but it worked in the favour of the team, as you became their eyes above and helped them find a route out. However, you paid the price for what you did, the enemy realising how they were getting the intel and attempting to take you out. Luckily, you managed to overpower them but not with pretty bad damage to your leg.

The comms finally come back online, Ghost watching your team slowly filter in, thankfully mild injuries and only one that would leave the soldier out of commission for two weeks. Yet still there was no sign of you.

“Sergeant? What is your status? Do you copy?”

The line had been quiet for a while, and he was starting to pace back and forth. He didn't want to rule you out so fast, but your tracker wasnt showing up and he didn't have any eyes on you.

“Lieutenant-“ You croak out on the comms finally, having sounded like you just ate dirt. “Turning the tracker on now, not t-too far..”

He rushes to your position, it’s not even that far, only to find the puddle of blood around your leg. “Easy, easy, i got you.” He huffs, more to convince himself as he grabs the gauze out your pack and immediately packs the wound. The sooner the better. In seconds he has you upright, hoisted over his shoulder as he helps you over to the safehouse, away from any potential enemies, and the bomb he had ordered to go off.

Now you were back at base, finally discharged after the medics cleared you. “We’ll call your emergency contacts, then you’ll go home for the holidays anyway. Make sure you listen to the medical advice.” You’re sat on the opposite end of his desk as he flicks through your file, in charge of notifying the right people to look after you in situations like these. Only, you were being awfully quiet right now, an almost guilty look on your face. He hadnt wanted to ask, knowing it could just be the mission and prying never really helped.

“Should be..” His finger stopped, realising that it was his number written down. Maybe it was just protocol, so the second one…? No, that was Price’s. The rest just redirected to the sergeants, and then your old captain. “This.. isnt a mistake isnt it.”

He notices the scribbled out names before his contact was written down, realising what had happened in his head before just slowly nodding.

“Does this mean i just.. stay in the infirmary..?” You mumble out, one hand fiddling with the edges of your bandages, leg throbbing uncomfortably. Its not like you even had a friends outside who could take you in.

“No.” He shakes his head, closes the file, and meets your surprised eyes.

Were you getting discharged for good..? Or worse “I’m not getting a shrink, am i?”

“Relax, wouldnt do that to ya.” He rolls his eyes and casually walks around the desk, helping you stand up and lean against him, one hand firm on your back. “I’m your emergency contact, aint i? That means i gotta look after ya.”

—

As thoughtful as Ghost was, no one else knew about this new situation. And so, the sergeants absent mindedly bid you goodbye expecting you to be discharged off of base. Only you just got moved into Ghost’s personal quarters.

He helped you into the bath, cleaned up your wound with the same care you’ve seen him attend to with his guns, and then at the end of it, he didn't even care less that you were too tired to go back to your small mattress in the corner. He’s had to shower beside 40 other guys before—he’s positive he’s seen absolutely everything at this point.

So when you fall asleep on the other side of his bed whilst he’s finishing some paperwork, he leaves you like that. And even when you dont wake before he sleeps himself, all he does adjust your position so you dont hurt yourself more.

“Ghost, ye in there? I’m gonna assume ye are ‘cause no ones seen you anywhere else. We need you for somethin’ know it’s early..”

Soap yawns, Price rolling his eyes behind him. In an effort to celebrate a successful mission, the two sergeants had tried to organise a day dedicated to it. With a hearty breakfast included, only that they had way too late of a night beforehand and forgot.

“There’s no way he’s gone home, has he?” Gaz asks, confused on why he hasnt opened the door yet. Sure they did sleep in on their days off, but this was a bit much.

“You got thirty seconds to cover up, son.” Price chuckles, pushing the key into the door, and unlocking it. He pushes the door open, only for Soap to immediately wake you up as he screams.

“What the fu—“

“Didn't they go home—?” Gaz exclaims, both looking to Price for an answer who is equally as baffled but more to why you’re in his bed overall. You’re both dressed at least.

“Well done, you idiots. I’ve been trying to get them a good sleep all bloody week.” Ghost just scowls at them, not even seeing the issue of the position. Your head is tucked into his neck, injured leg carefully laying across his, the laceration on the calf still pretty bad. Though, you were a bit of a light sleeper, and they watched as you slowly came to realise what was happening until you suddenly yelp, attempting to scramble off of him.

“I didn't mean to— i swear- i just—“

Ghost grabs your waist before you can hurt yourself, dragging you back as he huffs. “I’m their emergency contact, and they can't be left alone with their injury. So clean those filthy thoughts out of your head.” His stare is serious and they all stay silent for a few moments before Gaz and Soap meet gazes, promptly bursting into laughter.

“The medics recommended sleeping together?” Gaz wheezes as your cheeks grow warm in your tired stupor, not even realising you had been asleep against your lieutenant’s chest no less.

“Think it’s a little more than just sleeping together, sergeant.” Price adds, surprising the two as he shamelessly teases the lieutenant as well. He was the one supposed to be rolling his eyes at their antics, but he couldn't help but laugh at his stoic lieutenant cuddling up to a sergeant on his team.

For the ‘injury’ no less.

“Alright, enough chatter, we’re gonna waste the morning, up— both of you.”

He turns away first, hoping it’ll encourage the sergeants to do the same and leave you alone— after all you do have a rough injury.

“Yknow, lass, my bed is also free, yer more than welcome to—“ Soap begins before Ghost scoffs and dashes a pillow right towards his head, making both him and Gaz crouch instinctively to dodge it.

“You’ll both be sleepin’ in my bathtub if you dont watch it.”

———-

Price

You worked in a different branch, moreso to do with communications and he was actually introduced to you by Laswell. The team would joke about it sometimes, saying the two of you weren't that far off in age anyway and a fairly good fit either way. They didn't know about the coffees and the lunches, late night smokes or early morning runs. Hell they don't even know about the night you bumped into each other halfway across the world and never left the other’s side. So when you had a particularly rough day, practically bordering on a cold as well, he invited you to his room and you accepted. Driving all the way home would’ve been hell as it is, and he couldn't bear to watch you suffer any longer like this.

And maybe one kiss turned into two, until you fell asleep with your lips smudged and his face peppered in red marks.

He would’ve gotten out on time aswell, if not for information to come in the middle of the night, Laswell resorting to calling Ghost when Price didn't pick up aswell.

“Captain? We got eyes on the target— are you in there?” Ghost stood outside his room for the second time, having gotten no answer the first and went to round up the sergeants before returning. Luckily he had a spare key, so if something really had happened.. well..

They all braced themselves, half terrified to find their Captain dead on the floor.. only to see him dead asleep instead.

He’s snoring against you, your head tucked beneath his own, and his hand resting on the back of your head. His ring finger glints in the low light, making them all fall silent almost immediately. Looks like that wasn't the only intel they received tonight.

They all decide to step out without a word and call his phone until it buzzes loud enough for him to wake up, pretending like they hadnt witnessed anything at all.

——

Gaz

You were his hardworking friend in the infirmary, who only got to know him after he genuinely was convinced he dislodged something after falling out of that helicopter. Fortunately, there wasn’t anything more serious than a pulled muscle, but still you made him come back regularly to check the bruising on his ankle from the rope. From then on, you were the only one who he ever sought out for medical advice, patching up, anything. It transpired into small lunch dates in your little office, trips to see the city’s Christmas lights and then to today.

You had a long shift last night, far too long, almost thirteen hours because of non stop mission horrors that overtook the entire base. It was two in the morning when he found you, half awake whilst you tried to fill out forms and he finally pulled you away when you marked one wrong. “Cmon, you’re too tired for this..”

“But Kyle..” You mumble, looking back at the bodies on the beds, until finally a doctor for the next shift comes through, putting their scrubs on. “Okay, fine.”

He helped you through the silent corridors, letting you lean your weight against him but when he passed his room you stopped. “Can i just crash in yours?” You were already so content with his arm around your shoulders, and it’s not like it was any different than the time you cuddled under a blanket to watch a movie. So he agreed, dressing you in his old t-shirt and sweatpants before sliding in right beside you. You’ve never felt more warm than with how tight he hugged, fingers dancing over your sides gently to ease any tense spots in your body.

“You work too hard.” He mumbles, finally settling to just spooning you until you’ve melted like complete putty, content.

“I cant help it..”

“I know, love. C’mon, get some rest.”

What he didn't expect, was for sharp rapping at his door, on a Friday of all days. He nearly always woke up on time or maybe a few minutes past, but his alarm never failed him. Besides he always set it early enough in case he did oversleep it wouldnt make a difference.

“What- huh..” He taps his phone, realising the time flashing dangerously close to 7:30 , which is far too late for him to ever get up and then before he can sit up properly, he realises you’re still fast asleep against his chest, exhausted. Damnit, did he seriously miss his alarm?

“Sergeant, are you ill or something—”

Price freezes in his tracks when he opens the door to see Gaz’s hair peeking out from the covers, along with yours where your face is pressed into his shoulder.

“Aye— is he drooling or what?” Soap walks up around the corner, and makes the exact same face Price does except he audibly gasps. “Gaz? Ye got laid?!”

“Shut up you idiot—“ He’s annoyed but he cant help himself from smiling at himself, just from the sheer absurdity of the situation. It didn't help that his shirt had disappeared somewhere during the night— he forgot about that habit.

“Thought you’d never sleep in that late.” Price remarks, shaking his head though fighting back a smirk. “Be at the briefing in 5, Garrick. And you’re telling us about this later.”

When he gets up, both of their eyes widen, as if expecting him not to have pajama shorts on, and he just raises a brow at them before tucking you back in. “Thought ye were gonna flash us.” Soap snickers, before promptly getting a pillow thrown at him.

Meanwhile, you’re snoring away against a pillow tucked beneath your head, blissfully unaware to the torture Gaz is being put through.

————-

Soap

He’d seen you around, the little secretary that was assigned to help Price focus on the more important things and handle the unnecessary admin that came with dodgy printing. You were terribly overworked though, not by Price, but how the rest of the soldiers treated you. Sometimes you’d go to deliver one stack of papers just to return to your desk with three more.

The Captain noticed, encouraged you to take breaks more often and not be afraid to turn them down, but unfortunately that just made you hide your people pleasing habits from him. Whenever he stopped by, you made sure at least two stacks were hidden beneath the little box desk. Soap noticed though, hell he had been conjuring all sorts of plans to try and get you to relax a bit. It started off subtly, asking if you’d come to team nights, needing some help looking for something just for it to turn into an aimless walk and grabbing lunch because “already here now, might as well lass”. Then finally, he plucked the pen out of your hands, leaning on your desk as he grinned at you. “Can I take ye out for lunch, Bon?”

Now you sat on the rec room couch with a long huff, knowing him well enough now that him sliding beside you wasn’t suspicious in the slightest. No, not even the fact that he was so warm, and his shoulder was right next to your head as you muttered about stupid privates and incident reports..until you just fall silent, head nodding off against him. Hell, he doesnt care. Sits there and grins like a cheshire cat. Although he failed to account for the mission he just came back from, and spending most of the night chatting away with the others to escape the blues that followed.

So naturally, he fell asleep too— really he couldnt even help it. No, he totally forgot how much he moves in his sleep, didn’t even know he could possibly be so cuddly either.

“Grab the ice, will ya?” Ghost grunts, ready to slump into the couch with Kyle, watch a movie, maybe even catch up on the game all while he explains it to him. Sure, he knew the rules, but Kyle just seemed to know every background context too. Slightly unnerving, slightly impressive.

“Johnny?” Ghost stares down in shock, practically still for once. It confuses Gaz who approaches with the ice tray. “Did he fall asleep again? He always does tha—“

His own speech falls short as he observes the position you two are in, namely Soap’s face buried into your neck as he lays flat on top of you like some damn koala bear.

“He’s gonna kill her!” Gaz exclaims, the both of them moving forward to shove Soap, forcing him awake.

“Johnny, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Huh—?” The realisation clicks in his head almost immediately and he rolls off of you, panicked. “Lass, are ye okay? I didnae meant to squash ye, i swear.”

They all watch in anticipation as you just sleepily blink at them, annoyed at the lack of warmth as you stretch and curl into the cushions. “Mmm.. too cold. You guys are mean, I do a lot of work ya know..”

“He was gonna crack your ribs.” Kyle deadpans, only for you to huff and let your lashes flutter shut.

“ s’ like a heavy blanket. Tha’s all.”

———————

this was done a white back but i was stumped on ghosts one, also super fun drabble to write :)

buy me a coffee :)

cod masterlist

[silverlullabies]

Alternative Part four of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap, Ghost, and Price, it was Gaz

When Gaz stumbled out of the holding cell, rubbing his temples like he'd just woken up from a nap in hell, everyone braced. He looked… normal. Cap on backwards, easy smile, that effortless charm that always soaked through him dialed up to eleven. Except his eyes were glazed, like he was about to narrate a rom com but with all the director's cuts included.

"Right," Price said, steering him into the debrief room with a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down, Sergeant."

Gaz dropped into the chair with the graceful flop of a supermodel, legs stretched out, arms draped over the back like he was lounging at a beach bar. He flashed you a grin that could melt steel.

Price took the chair opposite, elbows on his knees, wearing the look he saved for explosives and his own team. Ghost leaned against the wall, arms folded, and you could feel the amusement radiating off him even through the mask. Soap parked himself on the table, grinning like he'd bought front row tickets to a car crash.

"Feeling alright, Garrick?" Price started, voice carefully neutral.

Gaz blinked slowly, dopey smile blooming, eyes finding you and refusing to leave. "You're so pretty," he said, dreamy as a lullaby.

You startled. "I- what?"

He tilted his head, utterly earnest, like he was sharing the world's most important secret. "Proper knock-me-silly pretty. Like if you asked me to walk into a doorframe I'd do it, smiling, an' then say 'thank you.'" He squinted thoughtfully, smile never wavering. "Your mouth's my favorite shape on base."

Ghost's phone appeared in his hand so fast you almost missed it. The camera sound was not muted.

"Are you… are you recording this?" you hissed.

"Evidence," Ghost said, tone absolutely gleeful beneath the deadpan. "For… operational purposes."

"BLACKMAIL purposes," Soap corrected, grinning.

"That too."

"Truth compound," Price cut in flatly, ignoring them both. "Cognition intact, inhibitions nonexistent.”

Gaz nodded enthusiastically, like a puppy who'd just learned a new trick. "Cognition intact! Feelings… loud." His gaze did a slow, appreciative sweep down, then back up, taking his sweet time. "You're trouble, love."

You swallowed hard, feeling your face heat. "Kyle, maybe we should- "

"Define trouble, Sergeant," Ghost cut in, and you could hear the grin under the mask.

Gaz's dopey smile shifted, edges going sharp with heat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the room’s temperature jumped ten degrees. "The sort that makes me want to put you on my lap and see how long you can keep that clever mouth closed while I make the rest of you talk."

The room went silent.

Then he kept going, like he was warming to his subject. "And you've got this way of biting your lip when you're thinking- drives me mental. Makes me want to do the biting for you." His voice dropped, velvet soft.

Soap wheezed.

Gaz tipped his head. "I'd start slow. Trace my fingers down your spine, nice and easy, feel you arch into it." His hands moved in demonstration, graceful and deliberate, like he was already touching you. "Whispering how stunning you are while I kiss my way south. Take my time with it."

Your face was on fire. "Kyle- "

"Mm." He rolled your tone on his tongue, eyes going half-lidded with pleasure. "Yeah, say it like that again. Say my name all breathy and I'll be gentle about it."

His hand lifted, two knuckles extending to tip your chin up right there in front of everyone. You jerked back in your chair so fast your chair scraped across the floor. Your heart was hammering, face burning hot enough to set off the fire alarms, every nerve ending feeling exposed and raw. The way he was looking at you made your thighs press together involuntarily. 

He smiled wider, lazy and satisfied. "There," he murmured to himself. "That's it. Pretty thing getting all flustered."

Soap slid a look at Price. “Should we… stop this?”

Price didn’t blink. “Operationally fascinating. Proceed.”

Ghost's phone was definitely still recording. “Don’t stop on our account, Sergeant.”

Gaz's attention snapped to you again, all heat and zero shame. "I'll take care of you," he said, voice dropping into that velvet register that should be illegal. "I've got a twenty-seven-step Korean skincare routine, love. Want you to have the nicest seat in all of London when you're riding my face."

Ghost went still. Then his shoulders started shaking.

He was laughing. Silent, full body, barely restrained laughter.

"Double cleanse, serums, slug it overnight; trust me, you'll thank me when you can't sit down without thinking about me."

You stared at the floor. The floor stared back. “That’s very… thoughtful.” you squeaked.

"I'm texting this to Laswell," Ghost announced.

"Don't you DARE- "

"Already sent. She says, and I quote: 'Put him in a medically induced coma before he gets someone pregnant via voice alone.'"

Soap howled.

Gaz settled back in his chair, looking utterly content, like he'd just won something. "I'd take my time between your thighs, love. Tongue exploring every inch, making you melt like honey on a warm day." He said it like he was describing a sunset, all reverent and sincere. "Want to hear those soft sighs turn into moans. Feel you grip my hair- " he mimed it, fingers curling, "- as I lick you deep, circling your clit until you're dripping for me."

"Jesus Christ," you whispered. 

"Begging in that sweet voice of yours," he continued, completely undeterred. His smile went absolutely wicked. "'Kyle, please'- yeah, like that. You'd sound so good begging for me."

Soap fell off the table. Ghost's phone tilted. "Zoom function's incredible on this thing."

Price let out a breath, like he remembered that maybe he should be a Captain right now. "Garrick. How do you feel? Physically."

Gaz hummed, dreamy. "Like I could run a marathon. Or fuck for three hours. Probably both." He didn't even glance over when he answered, too focused on you. "Honestly? I've fantasized about you more times than I can count." He said it like a confession, earnest and unashamed, hand moving to his lap, gripping the crotch and adjusting a very obvious buldge that made your throat tight. You were not looking. You weren’t. "Pictured us in the back of a helo, miles above the ground."

His hands moved again, painting the scene in the air between you. "Your legs wrapped around me while I slide into you slow and deep, feeling every inch." His eyes fluttered briefly, like he was savoring the mental image. "I'd rock into you, hand over your mouth to muffle those gorgeous sounds you'd make."

He demonstrated, palm up, fingers slightly curved, so gentle it was obscene. "Whispering how perfect you feel, clenching around my cock. You'd come undone up there, all flushed and breathless." His voice dropped to almost a purr. "And I'd follow, filling you up just right."

"Kyle, please-!" you flustered, and he groaned, eyes fluttering like he was savoring the sound.

"That's it" Gaz's smile was radiant, delighted. "Even you just saying my name gets me going." He shifted in his chair, getting comfortable like he was settling in for a long chat. "Imagine you on top, riding me, hands on my chest- " he pressed his own hands to his chest, showing you, "- taking what you need, using me."

"I'm imagining being literally anywhere else," you squeaked into your hands.

Ghost's voice was warm with schadenfreude. "But you're not, though. You're right here. With us. Being serenaded by Garrick's horny poetry. And I'm capturing every second."

Gaz’s eyes went distant, dreamy. "I'd guide your hips, tell you how beautiful you look using me like that. How your body's made for this, wet, tight, perfect." The words rolled off his tongue like poetry. "Then I'd flip us over when you're close, pin you down and thrust deep until you shatter."

"Taking notes," Soap announced. "Wet, tight, perfect. That needs t' go on th’ highlight reel, Si.” 

Gaz made a soft, satisfied sound. "Whispering 'that's it, love, let go for me' right in your ear. You'd feel so good, clenching around me, saying my name like a prayer- "

"Beautiful," Ghost said, dead serious. "Poetic. Really paints a picture."

Soap was fully on the floor now, gasping. "He's- he's like if Mr. Darcy joined Pornhub- "

Ghost nodded. "Already got the title for the video file: 'Sergeant Garrick's Horny Soliloquy: A Tragedy in Several Parts.'"

Price moved abruptly, chair scraping. "Hydration. Now." He shoved a water bottle at Gaz.

Gaz took it obediently, drank, then set it down with a satisfied sigh. His eyes found yours again, twinkling with mischief and zero self-preservation. "Wanna hear more?"

"No," you said desperately.

"Yes," Ghost and Soap said immediately. "Please. Continue."

"Lovely," Gaz said, delighted. "Honestly, I've fantasized about pinning you against the lockers in the armory. Your back to the cold metal, my hands warm on your hips- " he squeezed the air, demonstrating the grip. "I'd grind against you slow, letting you feel how hard you make me."

He mimed it, hips rolling in the chair with indecent grace. "Then I'd drop to my knees right there." He gestured downward, reverent. "Fingers slipping inside you, curling just right while my mouth works magic on your clit."

His fingers crooked in demonstration, and you wanted to die. You slid lower in your chair. If you tried hard enough, maybe you could phase through the floor.

"I'd edge you 'til you're begging, love." He pitched his voice up slightly, imitating you: "'Kyle, please, more'- yeah, you'd sound just like that." Back to his normal voice, going darker: "And then I'd stand, slide my cock in deep, thrusting with that perfect rhythm until you're clenching around me, coming so hard the whole base hears it."

He pressed a finger to his lips, eyes dancing. "But shh, our little secret."

Soap was making sounds like a dying walrus.

Gaz turned to look at him, genuinely concerned. "You alright, mate?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he swiveled back to you.

"Kyle- "

"You'd look so good on your knees," he said, voice dropping to something intimate and filthy. "Looking up at me with those eyes, lips parted. I'd trace your mouth with my thumb- " he brushed his own thumb across his lower lip, slow and sensual, "- then guide you onto my cock. Let you take me deep, slow. Set your own pace."

Soap crawled back onto the table, hair disheveled, eyes manic. "Cap- Cap- can we keep 'im like this? Please? It's like Shakespeare joined OnlyFans!"

Ghost nodded sagely. "'To fuck or not to fuck, that is the erection.'" He paused. "I'm putting that on a mug."

You choked on your own spit.

Price looked at Ghost. Just looked at him.

Ghost shrugged, still recording. "What? I contain multitudes. Mostly spite and blackmail."

Gaz leaned back, utterly unbothered by the chaos. "Can't stop the truth train, sir. Next stop: nasty."

"We're already there," you hissed.

"Oh, sweetheart." His smile went molten. "We haven't even started."

Ghost's voice was downright cheerful. "I've got two hours of storage left. Don't let me stop you."

Soap wheezed. “This is… romantic and obscene.”

“Pick a lane,” Ghost murmured, adjusting the camera angle.

“I refuse,” Gaz said cheerfully. He gestured lazily, as if rearranging furniture. “Then I’ll put you belly down, hips up, and take my time. Praise you until you’re glassy eyed. Make you ask for every inch.” He tipped his head, sleepy, sly. “If you’re good, you get to climb into my lap and take it how you want while I tell you how gorgeous you look.”

Soap’s howling, rolling like he’s been shot. “Stop! I’m gonna piss meself!”

Price rubbed his face with both hands. "Garrick. I'm begging you. Think about… operational security. The mission. Literally anything else."

"Can't, sir. Currently thinking about her on her knees, looking up at me with those eyes, lips parted- "

Price stood, hauling Gaz up by the collar with the efficiency of a man who'd done this too many times. "Med bay. Now. Before you charm the pants off of her. You two, stop encouraging him.”

Soap put his hands up. “Ahm merely vibing, sir.”

Gaz let himself be hauled up, loose-limbed and boneless, still talking. He stumbled slightly, caught himself, grinned at you over his shoulder. "I’m gonna mark you up real nice to everyone knows it’s my cock you’re bouncing on-"

Price physically turned him toward the door.

Gaz kept talking, voice carrying down the hall. "- made for me, every inch of you, and I'd worship every bit. Start with your neck, work my way down, make you writhe- "

The door shut.

His voice, muffled: "-and I haven't even told you about the shower fantasy yet- "

Silence.

Ghost stopped recording. "That was beautiful. Backed up. Encrypted. Sent to my secure server. This is never going away."

Soap was still on the floor. "I need a minute. Maybe several."

You dropped your head into your hands.

From down the hall: "- waterfalls, love, I'm talking waterfalls- "

Price's bellow: "GARRICK, STOP NARRATING- "

You slump against the wall, laughing weakly, your face on fire. “Next time, we send in a robot.” 

Soap wheezes, “Aye, but where’s the fun in that?”

[Shout out to @bunnyreaper for betaing this!]

[ohclaire]

You’d never been scared of Simon before. Sure maybe uneasy, especially toward the beginning when he was just an intimidating figure in a mask, but once he started spewing his stupid jokes, you realized he wasn’t the ghost everyone made him out to be.

You can’t say the same right now, though, as he slams his fist into the ground beside your head, hard enough to rattle the floor, barely missing breaking your skull. Right now, you were scared for your life.

You knew whatever the terrorists were doing was bad. I mean…they got the label of terrorist from somewhere, but you’d never expected to find what you did.

The team was split between a couple different warehouses. You and Simon in one while the others checked somewhere else. You’d been given word of some nefarious on-going’s inside, but when you slid open a giant door to reveal people—hundreds of people strapped to beds with wires and tubes attached to them—you were shocked.

“Simon…” you whispered as you gently encroached into the room, looking around at the unconscious bodies. Were they even alive?

“I know.” Is all he can say. “John, we’ve got some fucked up shit in here,” he relays.

“When do we not?”

“No, John…there’s people, like a lot of them, strapped into medical beds with some weird fluid being pumped into them.” You explain further, walking deeper into the room and shooting a disturbed look back to Simon, “it’s human experimentation, John.”

“…fuuuuckin’ hell,” he breathes deeply down the line, “we’re on our way.”

You build up the courage to approach one of the…patients. She’s pretty but gaunt, her skin is pallid and her cheekbones are too accentuated. She’s breathing, though, you can tell now. You’re so focused on her that you jump when a commotion breaks out behind you.

You whip around, gun raising to meet the threat. It’s a crazed looking doctor grappling with Simon, you think he must’ve caught him off guard too because Simon’s gun is on the floor. They’re a mess of limbs and you don’t have a shot, you’re trying to find one when you notice the glint of a needle in the doctor’s hand.

Your gun drops, you have no idea what could possibly be in that needle, but if it causes Simon to end up like the people in these beds, there’s no way it’s getting in his system.

You resort to charging into the fray, knocking the doctor away from Simon, slamming both of you ungracefully into a cart. It goes flying, metal crashing onto the floor and medical supplies skidding. Somehow, the syringe stays locked in his grasp. He moves to jam it into your arm, so you pull your knees to your chest and push against him to gain some distance.

Simon swoops in, pulling you off the ground and away from the man, but it’s like he’s rabid. He just picks himself up and lunges once more, poised to stab you with the needle.

He brings his arm down, finding purchase, but not in you. Simon wrapped his arm around your chest, taking the needle into his own arm to prevent it from going into you.

“No!” Your strangled cry floods the room.

Simon’s grip releases as he falls to the floor. You don’t look back, instead ripping your knife from your thigh holster and stabbing it into the doctor’s chest.

His rampage finally stops. He’s gone, but the damage is done. You flip around, scared of what you’ll find. Simon is on the floor, not moving. Your heart drops harder and faster than it ever has.

Please. Please don’t be dead.

You fall to your knees next to him, one hand going to his chest and the other to his neck for a pulse. You take a breath. Another. And you feel it, faint but there. You almost cry out in relief, still, you bring your head down to his chest, needing to hear the beating to be okay. You hear one beat before you’re flipped over and slammed into the ground.

Your head hits the unforgiving concrete hard, only adding to your disorientation. Was the doctor not dead? But when you look up, instead of the enemy you only see Simon.

His knee is on your stomach and his hands are locked around your neck, squeezing. He’s choking you.

You don’t know what’s happening, this picture doesn’t make sense. Your hands come up to grasp his wrists, trying to pry them away. Already you’re losing your breath. Maybe he’s confused because he passed out? Adrenaline response?

“Si—“ you try to choke out but his grip is too strong. Your eyes are filling with tears. His are emotionless. These eyes do not belong to your Simon.

You throw your hand to the side, fumbling, trying to find a grip on something, anything. Finally you hit the cool metal of a tray that flew from the cart earlier. You don’t hesitate to bring it up to slam against his head.

Sorry, Simon.

The response is immediate, he lets go, hand flying to his head to cradle where you just hit him. You take the opportunity to twist him off of you, finally gasping in a full breath. You stand, or try to, and end up stumbling away from him. On instinct you go for your discarded gun.

…if it came down to it…could you shoot him?

No. No you don’t think you could.

Still, you don’t know what else to do. You stagger over, “cap—captain—“ your gruff voice starts down the comms. But Simon has always recovered fast.

He shoves against your back, sending you flying again. You’re ready this time, though. Whatever is happening to him to make him like this, you just need to knock him out so you can take him back home and get him back to normal. You beat him regularly, your wins pretty much split 50/50…you just hope today luck was on your side.

You flip around, immediatley having to block a nasty right hook with your forearm. The brunt force is harsh, but at least it wasn’t your face.

You go for a hit on his spleen, a spot he would normally cover, but he’s in such a blind rage he isn’t holding his form properly.

“Simon, please—“ you try to start. It’s not like he’s gone…right? He should be able to hear you?

He’s unrelenting, attacking you with a force you’ve rarely seen out of him. You can’t even spare two thoughts about the jumble of chatter coming down the radio. You calling for your captain and then going silent is bound to give him a few greys.

You’re being pushed back with every hit, hes swinging wildly and you’re just doing what you can to keep up. He gets in some good hits, one splits your lip. Finally, you’re able to slam a kick into his shin, slowing him marginally. You gain what distance you can and try again.

“Simon, listen to me. It’s me okay…your teammate, your friend. You can trust me…” you settle on friend because you don’t know what else to call whatever you are. Your hands come up in a placating gesture, but he barely bats an eye, just lunging for you again.

Your leg catches on a gurney, sending you to the floor. Simon follows you down, straddling you again. Then he pulls out his pistol, aiming it at your head.

His hands are shaking.

It’s the first hint of hesitance you’ve seen through this whole ordeal. And He…he’s crying. The cold metal touches your forehead.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. Whatever fucked up drug they put into his body is to blame for this, and right now you don’t know if he’ll come back or if he’ll wake up with the memory of killing you.

If he does, he’d never forgive himself.

Your eyes start to water too, you tell yourself it’s from the fight. “It’s okay, Simon. It’s not your fault.”

Your hand comes up hesitantly to his face, grabbing his mask gently and pulling it off his head. He lets you. You toss it aside, finally able to see him again. You put your hand on his cheek, wiping the stray tear.

His finger finds the trigger. I love you. You mouth, still too much a coward to say it out loud.

His hands shake harder, like he’s fighting himself. The gun flys out of his grip, skidding across the floor. His head falls into your chest as he collapses into you, a sob leaves him.

It makes your heart clench as you finally inhale shakily.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to I swear, I’m so sorry—“ he’s crying into you.

You try to keep it together, hand coming to the back of his head, “shh, Simon it’s okay, I know. I know you didn’t.”

That’s where the rest of the team finds you both. The room a mess, a doctor dead on the floor, and both of you covered in cuts and bruises, holding each other tightly. If they see the tear streaks, they don’t say anything.

You tell them you need to raid the facility for information on what Simon got shot-up with, and to help the poor people that have been here for who-knows-how-long. They move into action, calling backup and starting to look for formation. But you and Simon stay right where you are, just letting yourselves be with each other. Sitting in the fear of the near-miss and the peace of knowing you’ll be okay.

After a while, he moves to press his face into your hair, whispering three words back to you.

[ohclaire]

Before you joined the military, you could count on 3 fingers how many times you’d been in a plane. Now, though, with it being your main method of getting to ops, you lost count long ago.

Getting onto the plan and strapping in (literally and figuratively) for a long flight was second nature at this point. Maybe you’d talk with your teammates or grab a quick nap, or maybe even invade the cockpit to say hello to Nikolai.

It was such a day, one where you were craving the company of someone you didn’t practically live with, so you found yourself at the door of the pilots cabin. It was locked, which wasn’t unusual. Something about safety protocol.

You knock once. No response, which is a little odd but sometimes if he was on the radio he couldn’t hear over the chatter, so you knock again. No answer.

“Nikolai! Open up! I brought your favorite jerky,” you try to persuade.

“Maybe he’s sick of ya!” Calls Soap helpfully from his seat. You just flip him the bird without turning around.

You hear some shuffling in the cabin, which you assume to be Nik standing to let you in. But…he still doesn’t. Which is undeniably weird. And you’re starting to get concerned.

You turn back to the team, and they’re all watching curiously too. You shoot a confused look to your captain when finally the door swings open.

“Finally! Jeez, Nik were you wanking off or—“

There’s a gun in your face.

You hear various curses from behind you as you hit the deck, the shot flying past your head and toward the boys. Your instinct go on autopilot, you have no idea what’s happening but you do know that whoever is flying this plane isn’t Nik.

You swing your legs out to kick the shin of the usurper, making solid contact and causing him to trip into the doorway, gun falling to the floor.

By now the boys are in full work-mode, swarming your area to defend you and find out how these people got in the cockpit.

Before they can, whoever is still flying the plane jerks it into a steep upward angle, causing everyone not seated to lose their footing and fly toward the back of the plane.

You’re on the ground, so you start to slide. The boys aren’t so lucky, getting shunted backward unforgivingly, you hear the crack of a skull against the ground. The gun from the copilot slides past you before you can think to grab it, you’re flailing for contact with something to stop your slide. The copilot himself goes flying past as all the unrestrained cargo starts to slip. Things are getting messy fast and you still don’t know who you’re up against, or where Nikolai is.

Blessedly you find purchase on the strap of some cargo that is restrained. When you look back up to the cockpit, you can see the pilot looking back at you, before he gets up cautiously and reaches out to slam the door shot once more.

Behind you, the boys fell further than you did but seem to all have grabbed something…except Soap. He’s still sliding toward the end of the plane without moving at all. Panic floods your veins, that must’ve been the head you heard crack. Shit.

The pilot will have the level the plane out eventually, so you let go of your position hoping to slide down to where Soap is. You need to make sure he’s okay.

“What’re you doin’?” Price scolds as you slide past his position.

“Getting Johnny!”

He managed to get hooked on one of the large cases of supplies, but he’s starting to slip. Which wouldn’t be a problem necessarily, but then the cargo door starts to open.

Suddenly, leaving your cozy spot near the front of the plane for a harmless slide down here is seeming like a really stupid idea.

“Sergeant!” Price calls for you, far more panicked now.

Which is unfortunately very warranted because if you miss grabbing this last cargo box and Johnny…you’re all flying out the back of this plane with no chute. Then again, high stakes have always been where you felt most at home.

Johnny finally slips as you get to his position, grabbing his vest and the strap of the cargo at the same time. The tug on your shoulders is brutal but you hold on.

“Fuck! We need to get this door closed, now! Simon!”

The copilot loses his grip, flying past you and out the open door with a strangled, “help!—“

Simon is on the move now, releasing himself into cargo to bunny-hop his way to the control panel for the door.

Your grip is slipping. Johnny starts to groan.

“Johnny! Wake up!”

Simon is at the control panel, swinging it open and starting to fiddle with the wires. Finally, Johnny wakes up. It doesn’t take him long to feel the wind and take account of his situation.

“Steeeaamminn’ jesus! What the hell is happenin’?” He starts to wiggle in your grip, trying to get his arms under himself and push away from the open sky.

“I got you, Johnny, grab on!”

He looks up, noticing that you’re anchoring him in place. His hand wraps around your forearm to pull himself up to the cargo, but you’re still slipping. Kyle and Price are making their way toward you now, but it’ll be too late. You lose your grip as a mechanical whir sounds. Johnny tries to grab you as you slide away from the box, but you slip past, a brief second of terror fills you before you slam into the closing cargo door.

A large breath releases from your lungs, you look up to Simon and flop onto your back in relief. He just gives you a thumbs up, the bastard. Kyle and Price finally make it to the bottom. Kyle comes to you to make sure you’re okay, hand cupping your cheek and fixing your hair out of your eyes.

“Y’alright, love?” You just nod.

John checks out Johnny’s head injury, forcing him into some brief concussion checks despite his protests.

You let the silence and relief linger for a second, but not too long. You still have a hijacker in the cockpit.

“We’re gonna have to figure a way back to the cockpit to take this plane back—“

The pilot apparently agrees because he sends the plane into a nose-dive, causing all of you to once again become victim to gravity and start to slide toward the front of the plane now.

“Bloody—“ Kyle grabs you so you start to slide together. Blessedly the roller coaster is cut short as the plane levels out. It’s starting to feel like these inane movements are not the hijacker’s decision.

You hear muffled Russian from the cockpit.

“Nik.” You look toward where everyone ended up, “I bet he’s in there fighting with the pilot.”

“Well let’s move before he decides to send us into a roll.” The captain is back to giving orders, standing and grabbing a gun that didn’t fly out of the plane.

“Don’t jinx us, sir.” You grumble and help Kyle stand.

You approach the cockpit, hearing the sounds of a fight inside. Simon stands in front of the door, poised to kick it in, while the rest of you cover the angles. He looks at you each briefly before slamming his foot into it to send it flying open.

The scene revealed is Nikolai, still with a gag in his mouth and his hands tied in front of him, duking it out with the hijacker. They’re taking turns slamming each other into surfaces and kneeing each other’s stomachs. It’s not sophisticated.

“Let ‘im go!” Price commands while training his gun on the enemy.

He stops, slowly pulling his hands off of Nik and straightening, raising them above his head and turning around. John steps forward to take his hands and tie him up, but before he can, he lunges for John.

A shot rings out. The hijacker falls to the floor, your bullet finding a home in his chest.

John turns, giving you a nod that you barely give back before you’re dropping your gun and going to Nik.

You pull his gag out and use your knife to cut his bindings.

“Y’know…I didn’t picture you seeing me tied up for the first time quite like this.”

You groan and turn around, all concern for him leaving you, “he’s fine.” You report to the others.

“What the hell happened, Nikolai?” Questions John.

Nik flys back to the pilots seat, pulling the controls and flicking switches so fast you can’t keep track. “Was doing my pre-flight when they found their way onto the plane. Knocked me out before I even knew what was going on. I woke up when you started knocking.”

“Who the hell were they?” You ask.

“I do not know, milaya.” Is his only explanation.

“I’ll call Laswell.” John says before leaving the cockpit.

“So…is it safe to say this mission is cancelled?” Johnny says sheepishly.

The rest of you turn to look at him, “c’mon, Johnny, let’s sit down.” Simon’s pats his shoulder as he passes.

Before Johnny leaves the cockpit, he gives your temple a peck, barely noticeable. “Thank you for savin’ me, hen.”

“Always,” you smile up at him.

Eventually you make it back to solid ground, where the fun doesn’t stop because investigating how hijackers got aboard your plane without anyone noticing is a major pain in the ass. Luckily, though, despite the major adrenaline rush and a little headache for Johnny, everyone got out okay.

[ohclaire]

Reader who has an incredibly cozy room. Like. So so cozy, but hides it.

Frankly, you’re a little ashamed. Here you are in an elite task force after years of training and being in the military…and you have upward of 5 stuffed animals on your bed.

There’s beanbags and tapestries and string lights (because down with the big light) and rugs and pillows and blankets and stuffed animals and night lights.

And the rest of your team cannot know this. Could you imagine? The big bad Ghost or your captain being surrounded by all this fluff? No doubt they would take the piss out of you for it, so yeah they aren’t allowed in your room.

…until Johnny (because of course it was Johnny) becomes incredibly nosy. He doesn’t know how to mind his own business on a good day, so you always skirting around what your room looks like, and refusing to let them in, and making sure you shut the door fast, gets suspicious quick.

Finally, he’s fed up enough that at the end of the day, when you’re all dispersing to your rooms after hanging out in the rec room, he lets you sneak into your room. Lulling you into a false sense of security, before barging into the room before you can shut and lock the door.

You yelp a, “Soap!” but it’s too late…he’s inside and the rest of the team are peering in through the door.

Your hands come up to cover your face in embarrassment as they all take in the spectacle that is your room.

The fluffy rugs overlap on the floor, entirely covering the hard concrete that comes with the room. The cinder-block, jail-esque walls are similarly covered by various pretty tapestries. Johnny isn’t entirely sure how, but you’ve strung up a canopy above your bed, encasing the millions of pillows and blankets and stuffed animals into its own world. The lighting is extremely pleasant too, warm and orange from various spots in the room instead of the aggravating, cold, fluorescent, big light.

Soap was ready to make fun of you for whatever you were hiding in here, and honestly he still could, but…it was nice. You had an oil diffuser in the corner giving off a nice, calm, relaxing scent too and suddenly all he wanted to do was stay here and cuddle up to the beanbag in the corner.

“Well isn’t this…cozy…” he settles on saying.

You groan and finally remove your hands, “don’t start, Johnny! I know it’s embarrassing.”

“No…no, hen it’s…” he’s twirling in a circle trying to take in every angle, “nice.” He means it.

The others are encroaching in now too. Kyle being the most bold and coming to join Johnny in the middle. Ghost and the captain linger by the door, but you can tell they’re intrigued. Ghost is paying a lot of attention to the stuffed animals on the bed. John seems enraptured by the oil diffuser and rugs.

When no one says anything and you notice their faces are more intrigued than anything else, you settle a bit. Could it be they craved a little softness too?

“Do…do you wanna come in?” It was a long shot, you half expected them to laugh and run out.

Instead Simon and John take a step in and close the door.

“You can sit down,” you inform them as you take a seat on your bed, grabbing a pillow to hug.

Johnny makes a bee-line for the beanbag he’d been eyeing, but Kyle tries to beat him there which sends them into a stupid scuffle. Johnny wins, so Kyle shuffles back dejectedly to take a seat on your bed next to you.

To your surprise, Simon plops down on the ground right where he is, trying to be subtle about how he runs his hands through the fluffy rug. John is canvassing the room, taking it upon himself to touch every single nick-knack you have displayed.

You sit in silence for a moment, watching them all settle in and relax into the environment. You still notice Simon paying particular attention to the fluffy things, so you grab a raggedy old cat stuffie and throw it at him, giving him the plausible deniability that you were just being stupid and trying to annoy him. You ignore how he keeps it clutched in his lap.

They end up asking you questions about where you got everything and how long it took you to set up, even asking if they could poach some ideas for their own rooms. Kyle reluctantly admits he wouldn’t mind a night light. Johnny starts snoring on the beanbag.

Theres something about it becoming a safe place for them too that settles your soul. It’s nice seeing them like this; soft, relaxed. There’s too much hardness in your job, they deserve something that doesn’t hurt.

[s0urk1tt1es]

You know when one family member comes into your room then another follows and soon it becomes a whole house meeting. Yeah but with your polycule.

One nap. You decided to take one nap and suddenly you can hear a chip bag? You shuffle around and feel that the bed is significantly warmer than it was before. Sitting up and rubbing your eyes you look at the surroundings.

Beside you, Kyle is laying down on his phone and raises an eyebrow at you. His lays a hand at your lower back, sliding under your shirt to make skin to skin contact, gently rubbing in a circular motion. “Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

On your left near your TV you can see Johnny hooked his PS to the thing. He had his headset on joking around with some friends over voice chat. He glanced back once he heard Kyle’s voice raising both his eyebrows to blow you a kiss before returning his attention to game.

In your bathroom is a rare sight. It’s beautiful though. Price teaching Simon the right way of shaving without hurting himself in the process. Been a while since you saw Simon’s face. Just as beautiful as the last time you saw it. The cleft lip, crooked nose, missing tooth, hole in the side of his mouth. Imperfectly perfect in your eyes.

You were home. You laid back down under the covers with content.

[heisshiro]

[heisshiro]

[the-auguer]

john “I’ll handle it, baby” price dating his kind of mean, eldest daughter girl that refuses to baby a fully grown man.

john plans things like dates, grocery trips, and budgets— consistently and constantly. he likes routine and is very cleanly. can’t cook super amazing, but will always make something easy when his girl is tired. can fix almost anything from creaky cabinets to electric problems. asks his girl to keep a list of things for him to do when he gets back. washes his and her laundry to neatly fold up in their drawers every Saturday he’s home. watches footy on the telly every week, but will get up if she needs something. tells her to “take a break, I’ll do it” when he thinks she’s working too hard. versus his girl who’s always been a go-getter. she’s the friend in the group who makes the plan, she’s the one her family calls for a favor, she’s the leader because anything else is inefficient. she is no one’s mother, so there’s no way she’s going to work all day just to be asked “what’s for dinner” when she gets home. she’s not picking up any man’s messes either. but john never makes her. john always has a plan that works out perfectly. john always has a solution. so maybe her friends and family look at her weird when she turns her head to john when plans are being discussed. it’s not her fault, the brain literally won’t function when there’s an easier path to success, and that path is john. he is the only man she’ll follow.

[silverlullabies]

headcanon that farah karim is the only person on earth who actually, genuinely scares the shit out of john price.

like farah looked at her own brother, the last piece of her family, and had her finger on the trigger the second he became the mission.

so price knows. he knows in his bones that if he ever tried to pull some classic price “mansplain, manipulate,muzzle, or manwhore” bullshit with her, she’d just make direct eye contact and chamber a round. the man has seen her morality. it’s a straight line, and “loyalty” is a dot somewhere off the page.

[kill3ill]

tf 141 with newbie! reader who's got the hots for them. (suggestive) an. this is going to be a multi part series! next one will be smut.

kyle garrick

kyle, arguably, is the worst behaved around you because he doesn't mean to indulge you in the way he does. he's just so charming in a way that's practically unfair; his easy smile, that smooth voice that drops an octave when he speaks to you. kyle leans in when he talks and stands way too close than he needs to be, watching the way you stumble over your words and get all flustered when he gives you his full, undivided attention.

he figures out your crush real fast. watches the way your lips part and your breathing gets shallow when he's giving instructions or orders to you and respond with a breathy; "yes sir..." that comes out so lewd that it almost sounded as if he was fucking you. he'd been somewhat ashamed at the way his cock gave a dull throb at the sound of your voice.

he also notices how you nearly stumble over a root and fall on your face because you were too caught up in staring at him during the mandated morning jog around the base that he's leading.

how you freeze up when he leans over his shoulder during prep, murmuring praise into your ear when you spot a mistake. "so sharp, aren't you? knew you'd catch that, rookie." and he'll smile like some sort of angel when you stumble over your words like an idiot. sometimes he'll tilt his head and say things like; "you stare at everyone like that, or am i special?"

it'll come out so gently, too. said tongue in cheek, in a way that leaves room for plausible deniability while absolutely frying your brain.

he subtly indulges you too. he doesn't touch you where it would be obvious, just bumps you with his shoulder in passing and gives you a wink, brushes his knuckles against yours, fixes a strap that doesn't need readjustment.

and when you get overwhelmed and too hot and bothered his attention, he backs off just enough to seem considerate, then slips back into that mentor role that he'd long abandoned since he started this thing with you. he'll say, "easy, now. just breathe f'me."

as if it does anything but make you more dizzy. one might start to wonder if he's been winding you up on purpose.

ᥫ᭡.

johnny mactavish

johnny is a lot less subtle than kyle, to say the least. the minute he sees you trot onto base with your kit to move into what's meant to be your new home for the months you'll be training with the 141, he decides you're his. how could you not be? you'd caught his eye immediately, with the way you walk around with your head held high, that combined look of determination and nervousness in your big, shiny eyes, he couldn't help but want to stake claim on you before any of the guys did.

the nicknames start day one. bonnie, pretty eyes, lassie. he flits through them constantly, testing to see which ones make you short circuit the hardest. he practically croons them at you, too.

the first time he uses a name on you is when you're fussing with your combat uniform, trying to untangle the strap of your rifle from one of the buttons, when johnny swoops in to slide his hands over your body nice and slow before untangling you. "careful there. wouldn't want ya t'accidentally shoot yourself in the foot, hm?" you blink up at him dumbly while he grins roguishly, leaning down to ruffle your helmet over your hair. "there we go. much better, isn' that right, bon?"

you nearly passed out then, and he sees that. so he decides, since he likes to have fun and because everyone on base has been so boring lately and you've been so fucking cute and so eager to give him all the attention a man could want, that he'll entertain your cute little infatuation with him.

he keeps this up constantly. adds in handsiness, too. every time he passes you in the hall, if you make the tiniest mistake, if you just exist, he's there, touching a shoulder, nudging an elbow, murmuring one of his endless nicknames in that low, sing-song voice that has your face burning brighter than a sweltering sun. it gets worse, too. he amps the touching and does it in front of others to make his claim on you known, all the way up until one day, when you're on the field and did so well for your first real mission, he rushes up to you and gives you a big, mushy kiss in a very specific spot.

too far from your mouth to be the real thing, but too off from your cheek to make it an innocent gesture. if you turned your head slightly, or quirked your lips up just a tad, your mouths would be brushing. and he knows that. maybe when he tries it again you'll take the bait and kiss him on the mouth yourself so he can't get the blame for initiating things when he finally takes you off to his barracks to fuck you silly.

ᥫ᭡.

john price

price is not a flirter. not towards you, at least. he's seen your kind before. scrappy but willing to learn, a good kind of soil for him to plant his seed in, however that may be...

he's as encouraging to you as possible. he notices how good you respond to him when he does, how you stop in your tracks, face flushed and seemingly too nervous to breathe normally when he tells you; "thats my girl." or "good work there, kid." or "atta girl." he'll say these things to you while resting a huge hand on your shoulder or lower back, hand nice and firm on your body. sometimes, he'll even give you a good old pat on the ass to send you off on your way, despite being quite aware of all the depraved thoughts you have of him.

price has been trying to slip into a guiding, paternal role towards you to establish an entirely platonic bond between the two of you, but its not working at all. you start craving his approval, touch, and constant recognition more than air.

limits are pushed, but not intentionally. he's been teaching you dependency without ever acknowledging it verbally, but he knows. he knows everything. he sees other things about you, too. when you skip meals, when you're too tired to move at the same pace as everyone else, when you've been pushing yourself too hard to prove how good you are for him. and so he intervenes.

there's extra food slid your way, lighter assignments given to you, and regular, private check-ins while he tries to hold himself back from doing despicable things to you in his office when you cry into his chest about your bad day.

you don't make it easy, though. giving him eyes and pouting up at him as he holds your face and swipes your tears away and some drool from the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing a little too rough on your lower lip. he knows you'd feel so much better if he just let you suck on it. or something else.

ᥫ᭡.

simon riley

simon is a hoverer. he's constantly following behind you from a distance, watching you like a sniper would a target. from when one of the lads had mentioned how you've always been staring at him from across rooms and mentioning to your rookie friends how hot he was, he'd been curious to know why you hadn't the balls to say it to his face. he's not a fan of being spoken about in rooms he's not in, even if it's praise. and he doesn't want to be the object of some schoolyard crush anyway.

he'd been following you at first to try and silently goad you to confront him or tell him about your feelings so he could shut them down, but, uncharacteristically for him, he gets very side tracked. you're such a gentle creature, smart, capable, but distractable and too caught up with making friends and having a good time on base. and so he must correct you.

for some reason, correcting you, to him means his huge, marred hands adjusting your posture when you're doing a task, adjusting straps, hoisting the weight of your kit onto your shoulders, and not your back. you'd had it on all wrong.

he's heavy handed, using a firm grip on your forearm to move you out of the way of something, a palm flat against the small of your back to guide you forward. he's turned into a presence that blocks others without comment, and you are eating it up, to say the least. what made him want to pay so much attention to you all of a sudden? had you caught his eye like he'd caught yours? the thought makes you dizzy.

he also brings you gifts without explaining himself. a better knife. gloves. a little badge to put on your combat uniform because he knows you like them. trinkets from somewhere he won't name. he'll always push them into your hand and says; "for you."

then walks off.

simon is also weirdly protective of you. shuts down any of the rookie's who fancy you by glaring at them menacingly when they try to approach you. during missions, he'll position himself so you're always covered. it feels like foreplay to you, honestly.

but if anyone asks why, he'll just shrug. "asset."

he notices how much you enjoy his unwavering attention. sees the flicker in your eyes when he leans down to speak right into your ear, the quick intake of breath when his hands stay on you a little to long, and how you can't seem to speak coherently around him. all of it makes him forget more and more about why he'd wanted to shut you down in the first place.

see more in my cod masterlist!

see more in my main masterlist!