Pirates of the Carribean in Disneyland, California.
When I was younger my family would visit the parks often, this was way back when the tickets weren’t so fucking expensive. 🙄
And the ride was a favorite of me and my brother… we used to be on it ALL DAY, if not then most of our day at the park was spent on that ride. We absolutely loved it.
Now as an adult, it brings back good memories and gives me good nostalgia whenever I visit the park and go on it again.
In regards to an actual rollercoaster, I’d probably say it’s a pretty dead-straight tie between Kingda Ka in Six Flags, New Jersey. And Goliath in Six Flags, California.
Kingda Ka bolts up 45 stories high and goes from 0-128 MPH in literally 4 seconds. It sits as one of the tallest roller coasters in the world and the fastest in North America which is what I love about it. Dips and drops in coasters are great thrills but honestly I’m definitely more of a speed demon and this ride definitely does it for me.
Goliath has a drop of about 255 feet in which you’ll go about 85 MPH, and then there’s another drop of about 185 feet. The series of drops and dips that follow fuck with your sense of gravity a ton. 😭
Anyway, I’m a humongous adrenaline junkie, and I love finding a good thrill anywhere. These two rides are the best I’ve been on so far, I haven’t yet been able to hit all the amusement parks that I want to that are all across the world. But as of right now these two are my top two.
Thanks for the question! Hope you have a lovely day and drink lots of water 🫶🏽
can you do a ghost version of the Memories of Youth fic you did for price please?
Harvest Storms
PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Daughter!Reader
SYNOPSIS: In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.
WORD COUNT: 4.8k
WARNINGS: Angst, emotionally distant father/Simon, injuries, arguments, mentions of Simon's past, hurt/comfort, fluff near the end, etc.
A/N: I know this might be controversial but I really don't see Simon wanting kids so I tried to keep this realistic but also cute, lmao. Enjoy!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
Simon admitted that having a kid was never on his to-do list, and it wasn’t only his job that caused that. In fact, at any point in his life, the thought alone terrified him.
His icy eyes spaced out as the man unstrapped his combat vest in the on-base armory, hucking it over his head with a tiny grunt. Muscles ached; wounds burned.
He’d known having that one-night stand wasn’t right—he should have just stuck to his perfected solitude of dark rooms and middle-of-the-night workouts. But there was only so much you could do before instinct overcame any sort of common sense; add a few drinks into the mix and the concoction had glazed over his mind like a honey-laced dream.
And then nine months later a single text. A photo attachment.
“She’s yours.” His child. His daughter. Simon had a daughter.
It had taken weeks of self-isolation to figure out what to do. There were moments of very real panic—bone-deep worry and hatred. He couldn’t be a father and still be the Ghost that he was now, but there wasn’t a way to reverse his already damaged psyche. Home in Manchester didn’t feel like a real place anymore; home was a gun in his hands and his mask over his face. Slumping bodies and adrenaline-blown pupils. The high he got out of killing could never be topped by the joys of having a family he didn’t want.
But then he remembered his own father and the guilt that had struck him at that moment left Simon physically sick. Head pounding and bile lacing his tongue as he retched over a toilet. It would have been easier to just promise money, and give over some of what he earned to give you a future. He could distance himself but still be a shadow on the wall if it all went south.
Yes, it could have been easy.
Until your mother up and disappeared; leaving you all alone. There was no way in hell he could leave you in foster care. The stories he’d heard…
Simon’s gloved hands flex, joints cracking, before he checks the watch on his wrist with slow-blinking eyes. He needed to be home in two hours.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” A groan escapes, rolling his shoulders twice before grasping at his thigh holster—slipping out the X12 to place it down with a small thump of black metal.
These movements were entirely routine and soon there was a neat line of multiple knives, the pistol, an automatic rifle, frag grenades, med pack, rope, and anything else that Ghost could have even the slightest possibility of needing in a tight spot. Through it all, the mask stayed; icy eyes behind the spread of black face paint numb.
It’s one hour later that he’s done cleaning and putting everything away with tired fingers. Feet shuffle before he’s exiting the armory all together, snatching the large duffle bag near the double doors; a small grunt plays out of his chest. The strap is dragged over his head when Soap passes him in the base’s hallway.
All Simon could do is hold back a groan as a headache already begins to form.
“Lt.” The Scot calls, smile pulling his lips up, “off to go hide in back-alleys, then?”
“Jesus, Johnny, shut the fuck up already.” Ghost grumbles out, hands slipping into his pockets as he continues off down the hallway. Behind him, the mohawked Sergeant belts out a laugh before disappearing into the armory Simon had just vacated.
“Copy and check, Sir!” Sarcasm bleeds out and makes icy eyes fall half-closed with subdued annoyance.
The large phantom continues on until he exits the base and digs his keys out of his pockets—finding his car in the underground parking garage exactly where he had left it two months prior. As if on autopilot, he shuffles open the door and tosses his bag in the back before sitting in the front seat and twisting the ignition.
Reaching into the glove compartment, Simon pulls out a clean balaclava and holds it loosely—his opposite hand slipping up to the skeletal mask of his head and feeling the fibers on his fingertips. Replacing it swiftly, the clean fabric slips over his face with a stiff movement of his arm. Seconds later, his foot presses into the gas.
There are no words spoken, no comments under breath, just a silence that seems to stem from some underlying anxiety completely foreign to Simon on the field. Going home always made him nervous. A soul-digging kind of hesitation.
It takes him the rest of that last hour to drive home—a tiny little country house far removed from Manchester though still leaving it well guarded by local law-enforcement patrols. A perfect mix of safety and distance that had been the driving force in Simon’s initial purchase of it. But it wasn’t his only properly, not by a long shot.
Like a rat, the holes of his paranoia ran deep into the earth.
He pulls the car into the dirt driveway and kills the vehicle. Outside in the darkening sky, his eyes slide to watch over the top of the garden wall; seeing tree branches sway in a subdued breeze. Sitting there for a few moments, the man just ends up shaking his head and shoving open the door with his shoulder.
Veins tighten under his flesh.
“Kid!” Simon raps on the front door with his knuckles when his boots take him over and up the steps, voice gravelly. A house key slips into the lock, turning over before the barrier opens. Ghost stomps in and immediately knows the entire home is completely empty.
He blinks in confusion, looking over the still air and dull noises. The AC unit whirls; the fridge shakes. No feet on the floor—no groan or sly comment.
You were a teenager now, but the absence of your aura was harsh to him. You were supposed to be here. The Manchester man’s lips thin.
“Christ, don’t go and tell me she’s fuckin’ gone again…” Simon kicks the door shut and lets his bag fall from his fingers, feeling his chest tighten slowly. He beelines to the kitchen where, sure enough, a note from the far-off neighbor who keeps an eye on you when he’s gone was sitting with its delicate font.
Fast fingers snatch it like a snake, jaw clenched and tight grip creasing the paper. He reads with a growing disappointment.
“She got into a fight out of school again—black eye and bruised knuckles. I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but I couldn’t get a hold of you to tell you about it. I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father. When you read this, I’ll have tried to make her come back inside but I was unsuccessful. I left supper at the base of the hill and a blanket. I’m sorry. I’ll be at my home if you need me.”
Simon places the note down and runs a hand up and down his face, a deep sigh exiting his lips as his fingers cover his jaw and chin. Like the definition of fatigue, his body lightly bows forward. Slouched shoulders.
This would make the fifth fight this year.
I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.
After a minute of mute irritation, the man drops his hands and goes to the freezer, taking out an ice pack with a small glint of further emotion stinted in his gaze. There are so many things that Simon feels for you—some of which he would never be able to properly express.
He’s not a good man. Not someone to look up to or place on a pedestal. He’s in the 141 because he can do a job; a job that not many others can do simply for the fact that something in him was broken. Shattered beyond repair.
Simon was never meant for this.
The blond placed the ice pack into a rag from the drawer and exited through the back door of the house. Grunt stuck in his throat at the thought of the delinquent activities you seemed to always get up to when he was gone which, admittingly, was more often than not.
I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.
But wasn’t he doing a good thing by staying away? He took you in—provided food, water, shelter, and anything else you could need. What was he doing wrong?
Simon’s brows tighten as the chilled air hits him as a winder wind would. By now the sun had fully set and the darkness was becoming more black than blue by the second; dim twinklings from stars dancing in the pupils of his eyes. His feet take him off the back porch and easily finds a small trail that leads through the barren garden all the way to a hill in the distance.
Icy blue easily finds the tiny hunched being at the very top. His hand tightens over the ice pack.
Ghost was unable to understand, of course, he hadn’t had the kind of childhood people would want—was never around kids in general. No friends with little brats running around, obviously. Was this a normal kind of thing kids did? Start fights?
He’d heard some things about teenagers.
Closing his tired eyes for a moment, Simon silently walks past the plate of food at the foot of the hill but snatches the fluffy blanket that had been beside it. If you don’t want to eat he won't force you, but it was getting cold out quickly.
Simon wasn’t letting you catch a bug.
He huffs as he ascends the slope, all the aches and pains finally making themself more known in his thighs and abdomen.
You hear him coming when he’s three-fourths of the way there.
Your red eyes widen in shock, hands that had been trapping your legs to your chest rising to wipe the tears on your cheeks away aggressively; frantic. Three seconds later a heavy fabric hits your head and you tense, widely looking up into the dead eyes of your father.
The blanket thumps to the ground beside you in a heap.
“Put it on,” he grunts from behind his balaclava and your surprised expression slowly sours.
You turn away with a growl. “Don’t want to.”
“Bloody ‘ell, just put it on,” there’s no acidity behind the words, but the annoyance is clear. “Asking to get fuckin’ sick at this rate, are you? I’m not cleanin’ up your vomit from the floor when you're hunched over like a mutt on drugs.”
Not a stranger to his humor, but with a venom-laced look, you grab the blanket as Simon sits next to you and end up throwing it over your shoulders. Your face hurt too much to talk for long periods—right eye swollen and radiating heat; hands weren't that much better, the knuckles puffy and blood-flooded under the skin. It made you flinch when you had to clench your fingers.
You’re acutely aware of your father’s presence. How he sits with his spine bent with one hand behind him; legs laying out flat. You should be happy he’s back safe in one piece, but in reality, there would be little change if he never showed back up at all.
The house was always silent anyways. Dead. Simon was as much a stranger to you as he was to everyone else.
“What did I tell you when I went away, eh?” The man asks you lowly when you’ve settled, and you grit your teeth and look out over the landscape, long grass swaying in the wind. “Kid.”
“Don’t get into any more fights.” Words are stiff, reflective of both of your muscles and hearts.
“Affirmative. You want to explain to me what you did?”
“Got into another fight.” An icepack is tossed near you, bouncing in the grass. You scoff but take it, softly applying it to your face with a concealed flinch. Shame permeates in your ribs, a desperate need to prove yourself. “I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s not an excuse.” Simon glares at you from the side of his eye, utterly serious. “When I tell you something, you listen, yeah?”
“...Yeah,” you grit your teeth and clench your hands, a bitter huff leaving your lips. “Sure.”
A tense silence keeps you in its clutches, the kind of silence that stems from two people who really have no idea how to speak or understand one another.
“No more fighting,” Simon grits out, “now show me.”
“It’s not that bad—”
“Show me it.” Your face burns as you slip the ice pack away and turn your face his way, meeting your father’s gaze head-on and seeing his lids slightly pull back. You spy his hand clenching in the grass, ripping strands out like hair from a head.
“Happy?” You sarcastically ask, turning back forward and putting the ice pack back into your socket.
It’s a long while before he speaks to you again, and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face when he does. Your heart rampages at the deathly slow and tiny voice.
“Why?” The question makes your body flair with anger and you grip the pack tighter, feeling the ice shift in your grip as you clench it violently. You feel your fingers twitch when you answer, unconsciously closing into fists.
“Why?” You glare at him, “Why the hell do you care?”
Simon’s eyes go blank, brows going up his head. Gazes lock and you’re suddenly standing to your feet, chucking the ice pack right into his chest. It only makes you madder when he catches it easily, glancing down at the object before slowly shifting his numb eyes back to you.
“You’re never fucking here, what’s the point in telling you anything about me?” Your father’s face is covered, but the mask is more than just physical—it’s a part of him in every sense. You don’t know what he is, but you see his lungs going still in his ribs. You splay your hands around you as the blanket hits the ground at your feet. “It wouldn’t even make a difference if you never came back! Even when you’re here it barely even matters beyond who’s dishes are in the sink.”
Bitter tears spring to your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, a tight itch in your skin. Slight guilt hits you when you shove out such harsh words, but you don’t care enough right now to think about what you’re saying. Everything just hits a breaking point. Shaking your head you scoff again, weaker this time. “You don’t even know the first things about me and you want me to try and explain why I do the things I do?”
Simon watches and listens, stone still. It’s as if he doesn’t even breathe; his pulse doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. If you would have been able to see it, you’d have noticed the way the large man’s lips were slightly parted.
He wasn’t averse to arguments, he yelled on Ops and cursed aggressively on duty, but he had made a stark promise to himself to never yell at you. If there was one thing that reminded him of his father—it was that. Explosive fights that only ended one way.
What you were saying was everything he knew to be true. This came to him in a slow and silent realization of growing pain. Simon didn’t know your favorite color or what food you loved. Your interests or your goals.
He knew how much you spent on snacks at the store, but didn’t know what you bought.
Ghost clenches his jaw and watches your resolve deteriorate with a heavy heart. What was he supposed to do? He was your father, sure, but…he didn’t know the first things that went with anything beyond giving you items and objects.
I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.
How could he be a father to you?
Simon clears his throat, for once in his life completely unable to pull on any sort of skill to rectify this situation. You take his silence as blatant disregard.
With a burning face, you sniffle and twist on your heel, speed-walking down the hill back into the house. Your brain is pounding in your head, just as fast as your heart when you finally stomp through the garden and shove open the back door.
Simon doesn’t tell you to stop.
Left on that hill, he watches your back disappear into the house and gets a rabid pain in his stone heart. You were his daughter. You were hurt; neglected. He’d never felt like this before.
Simon had failed the only job that he knew was far more important than any other. Blue darkens into a color reminiscent of storm clouds.
“Fuckin’ Christ.” Standing, he snatches at the ice pack and the blanket, lightly jogging down the mound of earth. In no time he’s standing in the house again, having completely forgotten about the plate of food outside. It’s the tense set of his shoulders that really give away how unprepared he feels. How out of his expertise.
Give Simon a gun and he’d be able to take it apart and reassemble it in one minute; a knife and he’d have it sharp in seconds.
Simon Riley has no idea how to be a good father and he’s suddenly very aware of how fast the window is closing to try. You were his blood and his responsibility. He can’t end up like his own father.
The thought almost makes him sick again, stomach rolling with anxiety.
Inside the house, he tosses the items in his grip onto the couch and whispers past into the hallway to your room. Fingers twitching, he grabs at his balaclava before ripping it from his head; stuffing it into his pants pocket. Stopping in front of your room, Simon raises a hand.
Just as he’s about to shove open the door, he instantaneously stops himself with a sharp thought.
Daughter, not soldier. Home, not barracks.
Hand lowering, he takes a long and deep breath and waits a moment; gathering himself. He still didn’t know what to say…but…
God, your words hurt, but he needed to hear them because they were true.
Simon’s knuckles rasp on the wood, a series of three dull thumps that echo over the stale air. There’s a shuffling of sheets and a dull, “God, just go away!”
Cursing quietly under his breath, Simon runs his fingers through his hair tense-like; pushing back blond strands.
“Open up for me, yeah?” He tries, awkward as his hips shift weight. “Need ‘ta talk to you.”
A cruel laugh exits from under the bottom of the door. “You? Talk?”
Simon keeps his mouth shut and closes his eyes, pulling from the deep pit of patience he holds for on-duty missions and not mastered yet for disagreements and verbal talks. He calms down and rolls his shoulders slightly.
“Please.” A pin could drop.
It’s a long, hot-air moment before there's the padding of feet over the floor and the slight shift of the door handle. The metal jiggles before it’s twisted back with a firm hand.
Your face comes into view through the tiny crack of the door, injured eye on full display in all its swollen glory. A young face is laced with surprise at seeing your father’s bare visage—only the black face paint stuck to his skin—but even more so at his plea. There were only a few times you’d actually seen him and even fewer when you’d hear something like that. Simon stops himself from getting angry at the sight of your wound, staring down at you as his gaze softens just a fraction of a sliver.
He recalls the moment he had first held your form when he had picked you up at hospital years ago. You were so small, squirming in his foreign grip. The nurse had to tell him how to hold you properly—what to do and what not to do.
It had been the first time that Simon could really say he’d been terrified down to his marrow; sweating and lips pulled tight. This being so small it couldn’t do anything by itself had rendered him frozen with unease like he had been stabbed in the heart. Your eyes had looked up at him with trust and love. You hadn’t cried or screamed at his hidden face, even if he thought you should have…you’d done something worse.
You had reached up to his face and placed your little fingers on his brow, slapping his flesh with no strength or hatred. Simon’s gaze never left you for hours after you’d done that, uncharacteristically warm and rendered mute to all else.
Tiny. Weak. Innocent.
How could anybody ever leave you? Hurt you? But the man had been petrified; utterly fearful to the point he would begin shaking when you’d begin crying for a bottle.
In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.
“What?” Your crestfallen voice brings him back and he blinks, expression going blank once more. But he tries.
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t know—are you going to give a lecture?” You ask, eyes red and other hand still holding the door handle. Simon breathes out a grunted sigh.
“Negative, Moppet, no lecture.” He relaxes his posture, eye bags plainly visible. He was so tired his fingers had gone numb. “Jus’ need ‘ta…” Words fail him. What did he need to do?
Simon clears his throat, looking off down the hallway before his eyes drift back to you.
“You land a hit, then?” You blink in silent shock at the graveled question, a hitch in your lungs giving way to confusion.
“I…” your feet shuffle, face burning, “what?”
One of your father’s large hands goes up to rub the back of his neck, fingers creating red lines across his flesh as his chest rises and falls. You could immediately tell he had no idea what he was doing.
But…he was trying.
“A hit,” he vaguely gestures to your eye, staring intensely. “Did you get ‘em back?”
It’s a vague few moments before you respond, oddly touched by the question. Your door opens the slightest bit wider.
“More than one person,” you admit hesitantly. Your father’s gaze darkens but you quickly continue. “T-they look worse than me right now.”
Simon nods stiffly, hands going to slide into his pockets. “That’ll do,” a pause, “...‘cause I can’t beat up teenagers without getting into a fuckin’ heap ‘o shit.”
Your heart lurches with amusement and a small smile grows on your face. You stare, still just a tiny bit confused at the sudden shift, but unable to stop the chuckle you let out. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling in his chest when his ears twitch at the sound of your humor, yet Simon pulls a smirk to his lips. It made him…content, you could say.
“Who said they were teenagers?” you smirk, tinting your head, and your father immediately frowns, unamused. Brows pull in.
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“No, it isn’t. Shut your bloody trap.” The air lightens to a degree you hadn’t experienced before. A silence settles before you break it, vision darting down to spy on the dog tags Simon wears.
“...How long are you staying?” The man hums, licking his lips.
I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.
“I’m off as long as it takes to get you to stop picking fights, yeah?” Your fingers flinch and you stare into eyes that are always like ice, except now try to melt themselves into a chilled puddle.
“Change of heart?” You ask, voice subdued. A bitter hope builds in your veins.
Simon motions with his chin for you to open the door to your room and you do, elbowing it to the side before backing up—letting your father’s large frame enter.
He looks around for a moment at the posters and the bits of personality, glaring internally at himself because he didn’t know what you liked at all. He seems disappointed with his own negligence.
He’d really fucked up.
“C’mere,” Simon goes and snatches your desk chair before he whirls it around, “lemme take a proper look at it.” His hand pats the top of the wood and you listen, going to it and sitting down softly.
Your father kneels in front of you, bones cracking, and he delicately grabs hold of your chin to tilt your head to the side with practiced ease. You avoid his eyes, hands in your lap held tight together in this silence that brews from shared thorns.
Simon has to take a deep breath to get his head out of his rage at the sight of your damaged skin; instinctual reaction to guard you rearing its head even more so now that he can see the injury in the dim light of your desk lamp. His thumb caresses the side of the swelling with intense care.
“Won’t die,” is all he can say, voice hard and strained. “Lucky you, eh?” You scoff and his hands leave—there wasn’t much he could do. “Moppet.”
Eyes slide up to his and his grip finds your bicep, squeezing once. You’re momentarily locked at the sight of real concern in his glinting orbs; a once in a blue moon occurrence.
“Give me your word.” Simon levels firmly, feet shifting. “No more of this. You’re gonna end up gettin’ hurt—badly—you got that?”
“They were calling soldiers cannon fodder.” You glare at your hands in your lap, mumbling out the truth with a burning face mixed with shame and honesty. Your father goes silent. “That they weren’t even good enough for bullets.”
Jaw clenching, you rotate your wrist and feel the flare of pain from the joints. A deep sigh exits from Simon and with a hesitant clench of his jaw, his hand travels to the back of your head. He presses firmly, and your face finds the junction of his neck and shoulder with little fight. Tense in the beginning, you slowly breathe in sweat and tarmac with a gradual loosening feeling in your muscles.
Eyes wide, you slowly begin to return the strange embrace. Your father flinches lightly when your fingers slip along his waist, hands grabbing into his shirt. But like you, time makes him calm—the side of his face connects with the side of your scalp, lashes fluttering closed tightly.
It was you. His daughter. Innocent.
The emotions are so foreign to you that it brings a burning behind your eyes as the minutes lengthen.
Simon can’t even begin to process it, it just felt natural to do such things for you. If there was one thing he did know—it was that he didn’t want to see you in pain or suffering; hurt or eyes filled with pain. His hands slip to bring you up into his arms like you were a baby again, carrying you easily as your nose sniffles with restrained tears. You’re placed in your bed with a delicate plop, icy eyes darting over you until it seems a decision is made with a quick nod.
You watch him leave and return seconds later with a pile of manilla folders in his hands. Your father grunts softly, “Go to sleep. It’s late out,” and drops the items to your desk, sitting down with a huff and a squeal from your chair. The air is warm and you sit in it a moment longer.
Eyes blink at the silhouette before a small smile builds on your lips—genuine and warm like a weighted blanket.
“How long are you gonna be there?” You ask your father, grasping the covers and slipping under as your head hits the pillow; making sure to stay on the uninjured side.
He doesn’t turn around.
“All night. Need ‘ta get this shite done for my boss.” You don’t know why, but you feel like he’s lying. Simon looks over his shoulder with a tone dipping to a whisper. “Sleep, Kid. We’ll get those knuckles sorted in the morning.”
Of course, he’d noticed that, too.
“Dad?” You ask and his spine straightens instantly at the title. It’s a long time before he answers and when he does his emotion is the softest you’ve ever heard him; gravel so deep you almost miss the words entirely.
“What is it?”
“Goodnight.” Simon’s hands shake as they open the first folder in the small stack, small tremors that are both horrible and endearing. He doesn’t say anything until you’re fast asleep behind him—when he stands up and walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pulling the covers farther up to your chin.
Into your skin, he whispers, “...Goodnight, my little Moppet.”
Simon wonders if his daughter likes eggs for breakfast as his pen slides over the first report, one eye forever staying on your slumbering body to watch the rise and fall of your lungs.
summary: Barracuda— a retired Sergeant just wanted to lead a normal and quiet life after leaving the military… the cat distribution system disagrees
content warnings: Fluff, vulgar language, mentions of PTSD behaviors and episodes, mentions of depression, in this alternate universe ‘Cuda is not part of the 141, 141 doesn’t even exist, but there is a Laswell cameo, canon divergence and ignorance, I made Alex an Oriental Shorthair for the sole reason that I desperately want one of those honking goblin cats so fucking bad y’all don’t understand
author’s note: Woah! Hello! So good to be back again! I realize I had sort of almost but not quite promised Barracuda’s past fic first but I also said ‘maybe’ and this idea just wouldn’t leave my head no matter how hard I tried so here ya go! Also— new format, who dis? And another thing, the cats are NOT cat shifters they are just cats and this is not a ship post, this is all still strictly platonic (had to clarify bc some ppl are weird)
—
[Unedited]
When you had been honorably discharged from the militia’s special forces you hadn’t intended to leave a chaotic life behind to jump right into another one—
“Ghost! Get off the fucking counter, I’m not going to tell you again you little asshole!”
—only that’s exactly what had unfortunately occurred. Like a beacon for chaos and destruction it had found you in the form of several stray cats that had trickled into your life over the course of the first year of your official leave. It was Ghost first, the large black cat with strange white patterns on his paws and face, like a skeleton almost and you had half the mind to call him Skeletor. But then the longer he spent in your company and you in his you had discovered a habit he had that involved him disappearing often— sometimes without a trace.
When it happened the first time you thought maybe you were going crazy, maybe there was some lingering concussive deterioration in your mind but then he came back. Over and over again, and then one time he came back and he had brought a friend with him. A brown cat —rare and unlikely— with longer fur a darker shade of brown on top of his head.. almost resembling a mohawk. He’d been affectionately named Soap, as the first time he had come into your house he was absolutely filthy. So you ran him a bath with pet safe shampoo that made the water bubbled and sudsy and he leapt right in. When he finally emerged from beneath the water his ears had been pinned to his head to prevent any water from getting in and his face was covered in bubbles.
Ghost had leisured into the bathroom and looked into the bath and in turn Soap with obvious distaste and airplane ears activated. He had loped in seconds after Soap jumped in and lifted his forepaws to rest on your thigh so he could see over the lip of the tub. And that was the first time you’ve ever heard a growl of disappointment from a cat. A fucking cat.
But the days continued to pass and Ghost had stuck around more often, growing to enjoy the warmth and comfort of a human’s gentle touch and loving embrace. The large black feline was a drastic difference to his brownish, rust-colored four legged friend. As Soap was an excitable and energetic little thing. He was perfectly content with you petting him (particularly with scratching behind his ears) and he preferred to sleep in your bed, right by your side curled up against you and purring to his heart’s content.
Ghost much preferred the cat tree in the living room— where he could bask in the setting sun as the day ended and then relish in the pale moonlight that shone through the balcony door of your condo.
Eventually though, Ghost had grown to also prefer your room and at first it was subtle changes. He’d fall asleep in the living room but then you’d awaken in the middle of the night to piss and there he was at the foot of your bed, only to be in the living room once more come morning.
Several days passed and Ghost and Soap had grown awfully comfortable in your care and presence, in lesser words they were fucking clingy. They wouldn’t let you go anywhere without them unless it was outside the house, whenever you went to the bathroom they were there howling at the door. Shower? they invited themselves into the bathroom and sat on the toilet together as they cried in near perfect sync. Cooking, reading, cleaning. They were there. There! There! There!
You’d grown accustomed to it you supposed, gradually grown acclimated to having —essentially— two shadows. Even grown to love and appreciate their presences in your otherwise quiet and secluded life. Maybe it was what you had wanted at first, seeing as the reason you were honorably discharged was because your entire team had been killed— and all you really wanted was isolation from the entire world. And the people within it.
But Ghost and Soap weren’t people, they were cats, animals that understood you so deeply and on such a personally emotional level that you thanked whatever higher power above was listening for them.
It was several days later when there were two more cats on your doorstep, seemingly appearing out of thin air you acknowledged their presence and looked them over. One was large, not quite as large as Ghost but only slightly smaller than him— still large in size but not quite the size of your beloved black cat.
You named him Bear for his size, he was scruffy around the snout and chin and you audibly laughed at how the longer fur resembled a beard and mustache. He had auburn colored fur that had lighter more rusted blonde colors that blended well with the brown counterparts.
There was a significantly smaller cat behind Bear, loping anxiously as they both looked up at you. He had sleek gray fur and shining hazel eyes, he was average weight and looked to be about Soap’s general size.
He had earned the name Gaz when he chirped at the television show you were watching that had a character of the same name. He would always meow at the man whenever he came inside screen, lifting on his hind legs to put his forepaws on the screen and yowl at the pixelated face of the man named Gaz.
Ghost and Soap were very hissy and put out by the new additions to your little family, they’d growl deeply and hiss whenever Bear or Gaz tried to get close enough to offer affection to you. They tended to hover, circling your legs and swiping at Bear or Gaz if they got too close for their comfort. This was not ideal, as you tripped over Ghost and face planted— down the stairs.
Ghost and Soap quickly rushed to you at the bottom, as did Bear and Gaz and they all meowed relentlessly as they pawed at your arms and head.
“Fucking— OW!”
That was when you drew the line, and you went about getting them to like each other or at the very least tolerate one another. And after more months of your hard work and dedicated effort the four cats grew to like each other. And your family of three turned into a family of five, which also unfortunately meant less space on your bed as they all had grown to love sleeping with you.
It was towards the end of Summer when Konig and Roach appeared, Konig was named Konig or ‘King’ because of how absolutely massive he was. Easily much larger than Ghost and weighed about the same as a small breed of dog maybe more. You figured he was probably a Norwegian Forest Cat. He had golden fur, long and fluffy along his body with two distinct tufts growing off his pointed ears. One clipped in the middle. His eyes were blue, all in all he was a gorgeous cat and you couldn’t believe how one so beautiful and unique was living on the streets. He had cute and sweet little quirks about him, one being that he liked to hide— timid and afraid of the new environment he was introduce to, that environment being a loving home with four felines already present and another alongside him.
Even after you had gotten everyone used to each other (which pretty much entailed the same process you used to get Ghost, Soap, Gaz and Bear to like each other) he still much preferred it when he couldn’t be seen. You gave him his space and you gave him the time he needed to eventually come out of his shell.
Now Roach— you’re beloved crackhead Tabby, was something else entirely. He was rambunctious and wild, literally not a single thought circulating in his head as he tore through your house day-in and day-out. You had named him Gary for no other particular reason than you thought the name was silly but then he leapt off your balcony.. and survived. Hence— Roach.
And just like that your family grew and the space you previously had in your bed dwindled. Konig eventually found the courage to come out of hiding and be more outgoing and comfortable in your home. He likes to stretch out on his back to his heart’s content on the bed, taking up slightly less than half of your bed. Roach tends to fall asleep at your feet but come morning he is all up in your face, you’ll surely suffocate one of these days.
Konig, Bear and Ghost were big boys, which meant a large meal twice a day. You had enough disposable retirement income to put all your beloved animals on a raw diet. You think Ghost appreciated that the most, if the way he tore his meat to shreds and devoured it every time was any indicator.
Towards the middle of September is when you found Rudy and Alejandro, you named the mischievous Tortie Alejandro because you had been in a Lady Gaga phase. You had no shame in admitting that, and Rudy was just a name that came to you, like the higher divinity cat gods whispering that name in your ear when you found the Tortie and Ragdoll in a rain soaked box on that cold Fall evening.
But the truth was, he was named that because alongside Ms. Gaga you also had been pretty deep in the soulful blues— Rudy Lewis just seemed right.
They fell in easy with your little clan, quick to love you and the rest of the cats (though, you had to once again go through the process of acclimating them with the cats you already had) and they fit well.
It was Christmas Eve when you found Farah and Alex, both cats having been owned by an evil human being. In a cruel manner of meeting, you had witnessed her carelessly throw her cats out of her car.
You were quick to rush down there, and upon arrival the Abyssinian with toasted brown fur raised her hackles and hissed and spat up a storm at you as she stood in front of the other cat defensively.
You didn’t want to invade her space at her obvious display of discomfort and fear at your presence but the cat behind her was hurt. Badly. If his pitiful cries were anything to go by, cries that absolutely shattered your heart. So you just sat down in front of them, the brown furred feline still growling and hissing at you as you just sat there speaking to her softly. It wasn’t like she could understand what you were saying but she could definitely sense the kind and calm aura you were exhibiting. It took several minutes of you just talking to her, you left once to get food and treats, but your dedication paid off when she relaxed finally before she was nearing you and sniffing at your outstretched hand.
You noticed a collar clipped around her neck, a collar that looked like it had been buckled on way too tight and when she finally let you pet her you checked the name tag before you took it off. Farah. Hm.
With a numb ass and your body absolutely frozen you scooted closer to the cat she was protecting. An Oriental Shorthair— with white fur and spots of orange and black. Your heart sank at the disfigurement of his back leg and you were quick to scoop them both up and rush back into your condo. With the other cats in mind you swiftly stowed Farah away in the bathroom, anxious about how scared she would be in there without her friend and new scents all around her on top of that. But the Shorthair was in pain and your heart couldn’t stand his hurt meowing a second longer.
Gently laying him in a carrier you bade your cats goodbye before you were out the door. The bill was a major blow to your retirement income but you would do it a thousand times over for any of your cats.
You were eager about homing an Oriental Shorthair, he looked like a fucking goblin with the longer snout, big ears and long, spindly legs, he was so fucking cute and you’ve always wanted one. You loved whenever he would meow for attention or anything other because it sounded more like a goose honk.
He didn’t really have any special name deciding ceremony like the others, you just looked into his eyes and thought of Alex. After he had been thrown out of his balcony and shattered his leg, you had taken him to an all hours emergency veterinary clinic where they amputated it and gave him a prosthetic instead.
You keyed the lock on your door and swung it open as you carried Alex’s carrier inside, once the door was closed again all of your cats came rushing out of your bedroom to greet you. Soap and Gaz leaping up onto your shoulder to affectionately rub their cheeks against yours. And the rest of your boys pawed at your arms until you scratched each and every one of them.
Farah had meowed and scratched at the bathroom door until you stood up and walked over to it to open it, all while the two cats stayed on your shoulders.
She rushed out and went straight to Alex’s carrier and meowed for you to open it, when you unzipped it she went straight in. Purring loud and content as she snuggled up to Alex as he still recovered from the anesthesia.
“He’s been through a lot so give them some space yeah?” You gently pushed a curious Rudy and Ale away from the carrier and slouched so Soap and Gaz could jump from your shoulders to the ground before you straightened and made your way to the kitchen. All of the cats, aside from Alex and Farah, falling in line behind you.
Alex was a very loving boy, right off the bat he was affectionate to you. Farah followed in his footsteps, and you believed it was them thanking you for rescuing them from a horrible situation. And for doing everything within your power for Alex without hesitation.
Sure you had to call in a favor from your old military C.O; Laswell and she had to pull a few strings in order for Alex and Farah’s previous owner be legally ordered to release them to you but they were worth it.
And now you had a full house, not of children (well, technically they were your fur babies and you would do anything for them) but of cats.
They often got in the way of your life, like the time you brought home a date and they were appalled by just how many cats you had. You shut that shit down real quick and escorted them out before slamming the door in their face. They weren’t worth the time anyway.
And they were mischievous and got into trouble often, you tearfully reminisced on a few good lamps lost to zoomies and your torn up furniture.
But they were your family. They helped heal your depression and they were a good distraction from particularly severe episodes of PTSD. What with their warmth and loving purrs as they leapt onto your lap whenever you felt the tell of a panic attack by the tremble in your body and the furious pound of your heart. They seemed to sense it too, and did anything and everything in their power to help your through it.
These cats were your life, they meant absolutely everything to you and you would provide for them, you would give them love and safety and comfort for as long as your bleeding heart beat. Little did you know—
—they were willing to do the same.
—
author’s note: I know this idea may seem weird but I’d been thinking about it non-stop ever since I saw a tiktok about Laswell taking care of cat!141 so I couldn’t just NOT indulge my writer’s urge! Regardless of oddity and how strange it may seem I hope you enjoyed! The angsty past reveal will be posted soon but I’m not promising when! Kiss kiss! <3
the trailer for the new modern warfare was dropped and is set to come out in november so… i’ve returned
wasn’t even my intention to take an unannounced hiatus but i’m sorry i’d just kinda dipped, had to just take a moment to breathe and step back for a bit but now i’m more inspired than ever to work on fics for my ‘barracuda’ series— which of course includes their past finally being unveiled maybe first…
so be on the lookout, so glad to be back and thanks for your patience 🫡
c/w: military inaccuracies, canon divergence, ‘09 soap, little snippet of ‘09 barracuda w more to come 🤭
a/n: because i’ve got insomnia and am still working on the barracuda past reveal but want to keep y’all entertained so— these are short as hell sorry :/
—
[unedited]
• so let’s say you joined up with price around the same time as soap did, of which he was against vehemently when he learned you were barely nineteen
• price gave you the same treatment he did soap only like hundreds of times worse because he also insulted your age and passively aggressively asked if you could even get the job done
• made fun of your callsign too, and you grinned arrogantly when he taunted you into explaining how you got your code name
“i’m opportunistic, grab the bull by the horns as they say. could also be on account o’ these,” you hooked your pointer finger in your lip and pulled it up, revealing to him and captain mactavish the abnormally sharp canines in your mouth. two sets— one on bottom and one on top.
price was less than amused by your response, he didn’t think a kid like you could cut it in the world of battle, gore and death. and he didn’t want to inconvenience his team in any way by accepting a recruit so young.
he supposed that maybe he wasn’t being very fair, you clearly had the right shit to be there— you wouldn’t have passed selection if otherwise. but, his reluctance to send a kid straight into their death weighed heavier than the guilt he felt in not believing you were good enough.
“cut the shit kid, how are you here? you lie on your exams? take supplements to cheat your way through the physicals? what did you do?”
“showed ‘em what i’m made of, guess they liked the shit enough to throw me in the pit.” was your reply, sniped and snickered on a huffing and mocking breath.
you were being sarcastic and disrespectful. price had to admit that he admired the balls of steel to do that right to his face but he couldn’t allow that kind of insubordination.
“watch it— you insolent brat.” he responded and you quirked one end of your lips up into a cheeky grin. a mischievous gleam in your eye as you met his hardened glare dead on with a playful one of your own.
this is gonna be fun.
• price demanded shepherd remove you from the team and send you home, but the general was firm in his stance that you were perfect as he sang your praises in admiration of your astounding statistics
• you weren’t going anywhere— and you were determined to prove price and soap wrong, you had the skills and the cut to be there, and you hated being disregarded and ignored
• so it was dicey at first, they wouldn’t give you the time of day and they wouldn’t let you run any dangerous assignments with them
• you retaliating by being disobedient and crude to your superiors officers which you really should’ve thought about twice because in disregarding their authority you only proved to them that you were far too young to be deployed
• eventually you learned that and just decided to bite back whatever rebellious bullshit you wanted to give them and just listened and obeyed instead
• as time passed eventually you got on their good side, and it was captain mactavish that took to bringing you under his wing
• like an older brother of sorts he’d gained some kind of fiercely overprotective nature, one that only deepened and strengthened the closer you got to him
• so he made sure you were always prepared for anything and everything, your vest pockets and holsters were stocked full, you had all the weaponry and ammunition you could fit on your person
• it was almost comical to the rest of the team, and you’d get an annoyed irk wound tight in your chest every time you saw ghost and roach out of the corner of your eye during soap’s routine check of your gear
• and your ire only increased when they laughed at the way soap would would tighten your buckles and clips before grabbing your vest at the shoulder straps and firmly shaking it to make sure it was on tight enough
“aren’t i supposed to be able to breathe cap?” you teased with a cheeky half grin tugging one side of your mouth up.
he flicked his eyes briefly to yours to glare heatedly into your soul with that blank and hardened look of his before he was fiddling with the buckles at your ribs again.
• you appreciated his attention more than you’d ever admit out loud— especially to his face
• though you had an inkling of a feeling that maybe he knew deep down that you were grateful for him and actually enjoyed how attentive he was to you
• ghost and roach would always laugh at the way soap mothered over you, the captain never found his attention to you bothersome, you on the other hand—
“here comes mini mactavish,” ghost goaded and you froze in your steps. previously intending to just pass by him but stopped when he made that remark.
you slowly turned to him instead, sitting on the bench just outside the mess hall. you couldn’t see much of his face due to his mask and sunglasses but you swore the bastard was grinning.
you felt an eruption of annoyance burn in your chest as you leered maliciously at him, smile full of all the aggression and hatred you could muster into a feral grin. he wouldn’t ever admit it out loud nor would he ever give any physical indication— but your smile scared him a bit.
it was when you started rolling up your sleeves that he decided it might be best to just take the coward’s way out and flee. which is exactly what he did. and it was on that day that the poor masked bastard learned to bite his tongue around you as long as he could help it.
• the comments didn’t really stop, if it truly bothered you you knew they would stop them but it didn’t so they didn’t, it was just relentless teasing and you knew that— so it didn’t really bother you enough to say something about it
• though you did just take to rolling your eyes at their comments instead of chasing them down and starting physical altercations lest you wish to be on the terrible end of a pretty gruesome punishment again
• soap however, loved hearing the nicknames and teasing remarks— especially if they were more so directed at you being his “adopted child”
• and you were none the wiser, completely oblivious to the fact the captain smirked fondly at the remarks about you being his kid
• it made him all the more protective over you, so much so that your ‘recklessness’ and self-sacrificial nature drove him absolutely insane
• he would reprimand and punish you for it every single time, and despite the way he handled it you didn’t change much about the way you controlled a situation while on an assignment
• it wasn’t even that you were reckless, it was more so that staying true to your callsign you capitalized on any and every opportunity opened up to you
• even if the path said opening created ended in you being hurt in some way— if it helped the mission pass easier with less casualties you jumped on it with zero hesitation and no questions asked
• it made you more aware though, aware of the people who were counting on you to come home to them, alive
• they all knew you had a tendency to be selfless, you’d jump in front of a bullet for any of them, run through fire to save people who couldn’t do so themselves
• and despite the trait driving him up the damn wall… it was one of the very many things that he actually admired about you
• it was a great quality in you, an even better quality in a soldier
• a righteous and courageous heart, coupled well with your soul— pure and good in it’s compassionate and loving nature
• he supposed that’s why he was so drawn to you, because the qualities you bore so stark and bright were qualities he’d seen in himself
• you were just like him
• and obviously nobody knows himself better than he does, which means he also knows you’d lay down your life for your brothers in arms, your fellow soldiers and the innocent people you were so determined to protect
• he’d spoken to you about it one night when it was just the two of you still awake and on overnight watch duty when the team was dispatched to russia for an extensive assignment
“what’s with yer constant need ta put yerself in danger aye?” he asked as he dealt the cards, to himself first and then to you before he was playing an ace of diamonds.
“i’m not sure cap,” you shrugged. you had watched his move keenly, matching the suit but deciding to build the number up and laying down a two on top of his card. “guess it’s some kind of an instinct or something, just can’t help but want to keep everyone safe. or maybe i’m just trying to be the person that i needed when i was young.”
“what do ye mean by that?” he didn’t look up, still focused on the game he started piling up between the two of you. adding to your two by laying a four but changing the suit to spades.
“just had a rough coming up is all, always waited for a hero that never came. don’t wish that upon anyone else.”
“yer something real special ain’t ya ‘cuda? and i love that about ya.”
• he tried again a few nights later, this time extending the conversation to tell you that you couldn’t save everyone— that was just a fact of life
• and you retaliated by saying that you’d still lay down your life to protect those who couldn’t do so themselves
• it gave soap the answer that you had acknowledged that if you couldn’t save everyone.. you would gladly die at least trying
• and he again questioned how you came to be, who you were and if you were even real
• all in all, soap is rather fond of you (the kind of loving fondness that he assumed parents felt about their children), and he would do anything to make sure you saw tomorrow always
—
a/n: i’ve finally found direction in my past reveal and have been working on it tirelessly to bring it to a point that i’m proud of it! i’m so sorry to keep y’all waiting longer but i’m hoping it’ll at least be worth it :)
god now i dont know if im more emotionally invested in barracuda or spitfire 😭😭 love the work youve done for both of them (even if spitfire’s got me feeling extra sad)
they both got a lot goin on 😭 and there’s so many different characters that i’ve written out that are just sitting in my drafts lmaoo
i dont know how you do it but every oc you write just clicks??like theyre written in a way that feels real and natural and i can picture them clearly. everytime you write something its just a pleasure to read :)
— spits or more formally known as spitfire was young when they were found and taken in by commander graves, and they trusted him more than anyone… could they ever truly believe in him though?
a/n: uh oh new character alert! 🤭 saw fluffy graves and shadows hc’s on tiktok and was inspired, the past reveal is in the works— so sorry it’s taking so long but hope you’ll enjoy this whilst you wait.. didn’t want to leave y’all with nothing so here ya go!
c/w: military inaccuracies
[unedited]
• life hadn’t been very fair to you.. not since you’d been born really..
• with an absent father and an addict mother you’d often question the world or whatever higher power was above why you’d been dealt the short end of the stick
• now, as you were growing up you’d on more than one occasion find yourself taking care of your mom then the other way around
• and more than once you could recall calling paramedics for her whenever she’d overdose on whatever pills she managed to get her hands on
• you loved her though, and she loved you.. it was because of the love you had for each other that you’d always manage to weasel your way out of the paramedics calling child protective services on her
• whatever lie or excuse you could come up with and ran with they believed
• every. single. time
• and so you both managed to stay together
• you didn’t really understand her way of thinking or the way she went about showing her love, because she was everything a good mom should be (regardless of the drug addiction)
• and she just wasn’t what you needed
• there were times you could recall she showed that she could be a good mom, forgoing eating if you two only had enough for one, always leaving you the single blanket and pillow you two had, these things she did for you only confused you more…
• because whilst she did love you and you were certain of that… you didn’t understand that she didn’t love you enough to give up her addiction
• she tried once.. and whilst in recovery she had a pretty bad episode and fell right back on to the thing she believed would make her feel better
• that was the first time you experienced a broken heart and such a deeply profound devastated feeling that you’d never felt before
• you overcame it and time passed, you grew as all things do.. it was around your seventh birthday that everything went dramatically downhill
• you didn’t understand it at the time, but your mother had been struggling much harder than what she allowed you to see (not that she allowed it but you’d saw it anyway)
• such a deeply sewn and aching pain inside her that drove her to believe that death was the only escape from the nightmares and demons that ravaged her daily
• she gave you a backpack, it had water, snacks and about 300 dollars in it… all the money she managed to save (something she did for you.. ignoring the savage animal inside that yearned to spend it on drugs and pills) and then she was gone
• you didn’t witness it but you did find her, and you’ve never been the same
• the small inkling of doubt you had in your chest erupted into a raging fire when you did, the doubt that she loved you enough to get better… loved you enough to stay
• you left… wandered the streets alone, it was about six months later when you were found
• pale, malnourished and dirty from surviving on the streets in a dirty alleyway cornered by three men
• men you didn’t know, men who in your eyes were a threat to your safety
• so you stood firm and strong in the back of the alleyway, butterfly knife in hand and held in front of you as you stood defensive and afraid
• graves wasn’t expecting to find an abandoned kid when he and his shadows had been dispatched to the city for a secret op to find and dispatch a political head with connections to underground drug rings
• yet here he and his lieutenant and sergeant stood, at the mouth of a dark alleyway with a youngster pressed up tight against the wall and a pocket knife glinting in the dark
• tight against the brick and defensive in their stance, like a cornered animal curled up on itself and baring it’s fangs as a means of intimidation
•he had to admit he liked your fire, clearly weak and frail in profile and barely standing on trembling legs yet still sensible enough to show you could and would defend yourself if you had to
• he was gentle in his approach, ordering his shadows to stay back as he walked closer to you which only got him you spitting angry words at him, he felt his heart clench at the way your words wavered
• you didn’t look like you could stay conscious enough to actually follow through with your threats and there was a part of him deep down that felt hurt at that
• it was in that moment that he decided he’d take you in, he of course would see if you’d like that, but he didn’t want you to be put in a system that wouldn’t ever recognize you as a person— acknowledge you as a human being
• he radioed shepherd and informed him of the situation, of course the general was adamant the commander deliver you to a service but graves was firm in his choice and he fought hard to keep you
• when the general finally relented graves was quick to go about the proper steps to have full legal custody
• there were bumps in the road what with him being a militia commander and constantly on the move if not at his stationed base in colorado but he pulled strings and he managed it
• it was hard at first, you didn’t trust him at all, and you didn’t trust his shadows either
• but time passed, you healed, got better and grew older, and in that time you also came to trust them… love them
• graves especially, but you weren’t against his shadows, like a great big platoon of big brothers (of course graves would always be your number one and you had a particular love for his sergeant and lieutenant but the rest of his shadows were family too)
now, after you had gotten comfortable in their presence you’d grown to believe you could get away with being a little brat
• quite a cheeky thing when you were young, teasing the shadows relentlessly until they were fed up and gave chase only to run to graves where he’d pick you up and scold whoever was chasing you, you’d stick your tongue out at them over graves’ shoulder as they simmered
• i’d imagine they give you tons of nicknames; squirt, half pint, kid, mini graves, little one
• graves’ nicknames were different from theirs, more endearing and meaningful; sweetness, sweetheart, love, darlin’, babycakes, babydoll (southern dad things)
• but one that stuck for all them was; spitfire— spits for short
• it was given to you on account of your fierce sense of independence and even fiercer temper
• and graves had thought of it the very second he first saw you in that alleyway about two years ago
• time continued to pass and they all did their best to bring you up as a strong and respectable young adult
• when you were ten you asked wolf (lieutenant) and viper (sergeant) to train you
• they reluctantly agreed so long as you kept it a secret from graves (whom despite raising you on a literal military base was adamant in his refusal you follow him on his chosen career path)
• when he did find out he was furious, so much so he actually considered discharging his lieutenant and sergeant on charges of insubordination
• but you were quick to jump to their defense, which resulted in a huge blow up, and one of the biggest fights the two of you ever had, in the heat of the moment he’d said some hurtful things and you both huffed as he ordered you away and you angrily stormed to your room
• days passed of awkward tension on base as you and graves refused to speak to one another
• well you were determined to hold this grudge as long as you could but graves wanted to mend your relationship
• he knew when he was wrong and could admit when he was, he’d come to terms that he made a mistake just hours after you left his office several days ago
• he knew he owed you an apology but he also knew that you were a headstrong and ambitious individual, not only that but you were as stubborn as he was, he did raise you after all
• so he knew earning your forgiveness would not be easy, he recalled the things he said to you, and he winced every time because the words that slipped past his lips in his overprotective rage were words he wouldn’t ever say to you otherwise
• as the days passed he’d attempted many times to talk to you but you never gave him the chance to get you alone long enough to say anything
• he knew deep down it was because you were afraid he’d say other things he didn’t mean, but on the surface he couldn’t help but fear that in reality it was because you had grown afraid of him
• afraid of another adult giving up on you, and he knew he had to fix it quick otherwise you’d clam up on him, you’d shut him out and he feared he wouldn’t ever be able to get you back
• he knew you didn’t melt for big gestures or bells and whistles, you didn’t want a big over-exaggerated apology that was only so big to gain forgiveness
• you wanted real feelings and you wanted a talk that was real and came from his heart and soul, forgiveness shouldn’t be forced but earned
• and that was one of the very many things that he admired about you
• so he cornered you after dinner one night, you were quiet at first, refusing to even look at him as you both sat on a table in the quiet dark of the desolate mess hall
• long since abandoned by the shadows whom retreated to their quarters for the night
• the air was tense and awkward, suffocating in it’s stifling quiet atmosphere— but you wouldn’t break first, staring down at your interlocked fingers in between your bent legs
• it wasn’t until he apologized from the bottom of his heart that you finally looked to him, and he felt his heart break at the tears lining your eyes, the dark bags beneath them telling him you hadn’t slept for the days you two were distancing yourselves from each other
• he couldn’t help it when he reached forward and cupped your face with both hands and brought you closer to him until he could press his forehead to yours, he looked into your eyes and you held that contact as he put all of his heart and soul into those two simple words
“i’m sorry.”
• you broke down after they left his lips, collapsing into his chest as he held you, and you both sat together in each other’s company, talking about your feelings —just putting everything out there
• you explained why you were so eager to go through training, enlist and eventually end up at his side, and as you explained he felt his heart sink deeper and deeper into regret
“i’d follow you anywhere, can’t very well do that with you out there being a hero without me.”
• after that night he decided he’d let wolf and viper continue to train you but he’d supervise, do it himself sometimes or give you training alongside wolf and viper’s teachings
• as you reached your teen years your skills had tremendously increased, your strength was something graves and his shadows hadn’t ever seen before, ‘like some kind of superhuman in hiding’ they liked to joke
• and when you were sixteen you spoke with a recruiter whom encouraged you to enlist in early recruitment to get a leg up on the training for a year before you could be official and sent to basic
• you went, the shadows all hugged you tight before you left and graves gave you the tightest of them all before he was sending you off with a kiss to your forehead
• two years passed rather quickly, when you came back to the base in colorado you had improved tremendously, grown taller and had more defined muscles
• you smiled at the sight of the shadows and graves waiting in the bay to welcome you home
• and you were swarmed the second you stepped off the bus— with warm hugs, cheek and forehead kisses and a big party
• eventually you had to be deployed, you’d originally thought it was to maybe do a tour or two with the marine corps but graves affirmed he’d rather have you under his watch immediately
• he felt a sense of peace this way, if you’d gone off with a platoon of marines he wouldn’t be able to watch over you
• this way you could be recruited to his team right away and he’d be able to keep an eye on you
• and at a mere nineteen years old you were finally able to stand beside graves as one of his shadows, and you couldn’t be more proud of yourself
• graves believed whole heartedly that he himself couldn’t be any more proud of you than he was
• and you fought together, like a well oiled machine you worked well with him and the rest of shadow company, like a perfect piece in their work
• you were twenty when general shepherd ordered graves and his shadow company aid task force 141 in locating and killing hassan and stopping the missiles he harbored
• what you didn’t know was that graves was working alongside shepherd to dispose of any evidence that he and the general were the ones responsible for those missiles, even his shadows knew.. and he alongside them knew that it would absolutely destroy you if you ever found out
• they knew that it would damage you beyond repair if you discovered they all had this giant secret they’ve been keeping from you, and it would demolish the deeply rooted trust you had with them
• and graves hated thinking about that, he knew he shouldn’t have agreed with shepherd to that stupid fucking mission, the mission he accepted back when you were at basic and not a shadow quite yet
• he knew you’d be devastated, because he knew that you loved with everything you had, you offered your heart in the palm of your hand to those you grew to care about and trust
• so he knew that if you ever did find out you wouldn’t try to kill him, you wouldn’t fight against him either but he also knew you wouldn’t ever be the same
• if he were to be honest you’d probably run, run from him, the shadows you’ve come to love as family and your responsibilities as a shadow yourself
• you’d disappear.. that was the last thing he wanted and he wasn’t going to let it happen
• what he wasn’t expecting and what he knew would only make this hundreds of times harder is that you got close with the 141
• he could admit when he’s jealous, he’d just keep it to himself and so you never knew how the fact that the task force had grown fond of you bothered him
• you didn’t know that he was fighting against his venomous tongue and less than friendly thoughts about the men you’d grown to like being around
• they were good people and you gravitated towards them easily, their captain especially (the fact it was because of the absence of a father figure in your early years you’ll never willingly outwardly admit)
• what surprised everyone though was how much ghost had come to like you and being around you, it could’ve been because you weren’t afraid of him like so many other younger recruits he’d come across were
• it could be because several nights since your first meeting and as this hunt for hassan continued you sat with him whenever you’d find him outside
• not talking, not really looking to get conversation out of him either.. just being there
• he was annoyed at you in the beginning for interrupting the only free time he had to himself, but eventually he got used to it and had even grown to enjoy your company
• your bright presence and warm aura on those cold and lonely nights kept his demons from overwhelming him and swallowing him whole
• he’d read somewhere or heard about it from jabbering recruits (he couldn’t really recall) that there were people out there that can brighten a room with their mere presence, people that can offer comfort by literally just being there they don’t even have to say anything
• it’s about their aura, the energy they put out that draws people in like moth to flame, comforting energy that transcends to those close to them
• and he found that in you
• after that first night when he’d pulled back his defenses and just let your warmth and comfort envelop him he vowed to protect you, protect that very particular trait that made you unique and special
• and so ghost took to becoming your best friend in every manner but the word, ‘bad for my reputation’ he’d jokingly confessed one night when you asked him why he was so against the title (prickly emo asshole)
• you had also grown close with soap and gaz, gaz because he was the closest to your age and soap because he matched your energy often and you two found the company of each other much more entertaining than being in the company of a certain mask wearing dick (you loved him though)
• that may have irritated graves slightly but something that really made him thoroughly upset was how close you had gotten with rudy and alejandro
• they liked you and you liked them in turn, it was a mutual immediate fondness that made your friendship with the two vaqueros so quick to develop
• there was just something about them, they were very kind to you, they were experienced and gave you tips and tricks and whatnot, and they were very welcoming to you.. despite only just meeting you several days ago they’d come to accept you within their inner circle
• and you in turn, just as had done with the 141, fell in step with them easily, the things they did for you and how they treated you like an equal rather than an inexperienced rookie made you all the more inclined to want to be around them
• as the hunt continued the days continued to pass, captain price and colonel vargas both offered you a spot on their teams after they saw just how skilled and well rounded you really were, even went as far as to get you a patch of your own
• neither would ever say it out loud but they had hoped you’d say yes, price just as the guys already part of his team had grown rather fond of you and he wanted you to be more than a shadow, more than just another face in such a large militia group
• he’d also wanted you on the team because he liked your company and had already adopted you as another one of his kids (not that he’d ever tell you that)
• and you grinned wide and eager at them when they presented the patches to you, both at different times but still within the confines of the same day and formally asked if you’d like to be a part of 141 and the los vaqueros
• it was then they knew they had made the right choice, and they were both very proud when you immediately attached the patches onto the velcro spaces just below the shadow company patch on your bicep
• price and ale felt a little warmer inside at the gesture, you of course told them straight out that you planned to be with the shadows for just a little while longer
• but the fact you put their insignias on your uniform meant that you weren’t rejecting their offers outright, just postponing your decision, the fact you put them on meant that the idea of transferring would always be at the back of your mind.. just not a priority.. at least not right now
• and they both respected you enough to adhere to your wish that you wanted to stay with graves for at least a little bit, they understood.. the man did raise you so they respected that boundary and didn’t push and you appreciated them for that
• everything was going great, you got closer to the 141 and the vaqueros as well as rudy and alejandro as the hunt continued and you spent more and more time on the field with graves and the shadows
• then everything was not so great at all… no that one fateful, rainy night everything went to shit
you were in the same car as alejandro, ghost and soap when it came to an abrupt halt at the gates of ale’s base, with ‘wolf’ driving you were utterly confused when he parked the jeep and glanced at you in the rear view mirror. there was an unreadable look in his eye, the hitches of emotions you could read only made your stomach tight with anxiety and a thousand more questions erupt in your head.
but then ale was getting out, followed by ‘wolf’ then ghost and then soap and finally you, stood at soap’s side though slightly in front of him, and on the same side of the road as graves ahead of you. graves who looked only at you.
you could see ‘viper’ and ‘hawk’ standing behind him, their reflective orange goggles didn’t tell much of who they were looking at but they were definitely looking in your direction.
it only confused you even more, then when alejandro asked what was going on graves answered him but he was still only looking at you.
it was only a few tense minutes after he’d answered alejandro that you decided to jump into the conversation.
“graves? what’re you doing?”
“spits… [y/name], i’ll explain everything to you i promise i will, but you need to come beside me. right now.”
“what?” you went to move forward but alejandro put his arm out in front of you and you froze. briefly sparing the colonel a glance despite the fact he wasn’t even looking at you, then looked back to graves.
the commander tightened up his jaw, his teeth grinding against each other as he watched the colonel prevent you from getting any closer to him.
“that’s a bad idea brother,” he warned with a twitch in his body, his hands itching to lift the rifle at his side to the colonel but he knew that would result in a bloodbath. and that is what he was trying his hardest to prevent, especially with you standing in front of him. “let go of them… now.”
“no, no, no. i don’t take orders from you.” alejandro responded before he was pushing you back more, soap took the gesture as a sign to move forward and put you behind him instead. the scotsman doing so, still fully aware of the shadow that stood behind him, and now in turn, you.
“give. me. my. kid. mactavish.” graves spat, ignoring the spark of fire he ignited in alejandro and focusing solely on the fact that sergeant mactavish was blocking you from coming to him.
“no i don’t think so.”
“let go of them!”
• everything following graves’ roar was a bit of a blur, you remember him lifting his automatic rifle to soap and then everything was tipped into chaos after that
• the shadows rushed soap in attempt to get you away from him, but he was well trained and he took them down easily, something you watched from the side with a heavy heart at the loss of your brothers
• your heart ached as you watched graves and the shadows bind alejandro and knock him unconscious
• but then their focus was on you and you breathed heavily as anxiety and fear erupted in your chest like hellfire
• you couldn’t bear to stand around and watch as the two teams you’ve grown to care so much about killed each other
• so you ran, and you ignored the calls of your names from what you could tell to be three different people
“[l/name], come back!” ghost.
“spitfire stop!” wolf.
“[n/name]!” graves.
• but you didn’t stop, you kept going, there was a brief few seconds after you had first taken off when you heard the dull and heavy footfalls of someone giving chase but you managed to outrun them
• you followed the bright orange lights of the city through the forest, and eventually came upon a back alley that led to the rather desolate streets —empty save for the shadows that had been posted in the city
• you moved swift and silent to the mouth of the alley and looked up and down the street, when you saw it was more or less rather desolate you exhaled as you leaned back against the wall and slid to the ground
• you reached up the radio still strapped to your chest and flicked through the channels, briefly stopping on the one ghost and soap were on, only granted authority and access to the channel when the two men heard about you being offered a spot on their team
• you must’ve tuned in just as they were ending their conversation because you only caught the last bit
“soap, keep an eye out for spits.. if you see them—”
“copy l.t, technically they’re still a member of the 141, they looked about as confused as us.”
“they looked more heartbroken than anything.”
“they must not have known that graves would do that, do they even know why?”
“we’ll figure it out together when you find them.”
“if i find them.”
“no sergeant. when.”
“copy.”
• you exhaled as you clicked off their channel and onto graves’ and the shadows’ instead
“find. them.”
“we will sir, but.. what is the others get to them first?”
“don’t let that happen.”
“sir—”
“just find them, we’ll explain.. they have to let me explain… just don’t let ghost or soap find them first.”
“copy sir.”
• and then you were flicking back to soap and ghost’s, you didn’t listen to their conversation not bothering to tune in to what they were saying, only listening when soap gave updates on his location so you could avoid him
• he was heading to the church at the center of the city, ghost was waiting there for him and the center is where most of the shadows have gravitated towards —the shadows with heavy duty armor and guns at least
• you didn’t know what to do, you didn’t know why graves betrayed the 141 and you’re not sure if you wanted to, lest you be more hurt
• you knew in some small part of yourself that the ache from so many years ago was bound to happen again… you were certain that somewhere inside you knew and you should’ve listened to the doubt that had festered when you were young
• and it hurt more than anything that it was graves, because he was actually someone you had grown so incredibly close to, he practically raised you… so when he did the same as your mother it hurt
• loving you but not enough to take you into consideration… a repeat of the trauma you experienced when you were young
• the trauma that had always hung in the back of your mind, heavy and weighted but otherwise overshadowed by the warmth and love you felt from graves
• and now it sat pronounced and forefront as it tripled in ache and hurt, because now you were old enough to understand what it meant when someone loved you but … just… not enough
• in your head it just translated to you not being good enough, not for your mother and not for graves….
• the realization was heavy on you— like a dull ache in your chest heavy and weighted against your tightened ribs, and your stomach twisted with knots that only made you more upset and tired
• exhausted and beyond frustrated at the prospect of being hurt once more by someone you thought you could trust and love with everything you had to give
• so you just sat… let the rain pelt upon your uniform and skin and soaking you to the bone as you wallowed in a deep pit of self doubt.. lack of self confidence in your worth
• it was making your heart thunderous in your ears and your stomach painfully anxious
• you knew you needed to move however, you couldn’t stay in las almas— not a second longer
• so you pushed it down and put a wall up to ensure you were keenly focusing on one thing and one thing only —getting out of las almas
• you just couldn’t go back to any of them, not price and his task force, not alejandro and his cowboys and definitely not graves and the shadows
• you just had to get out… alone
• the only reasonable way you could get out of las almas was if you took one of alejandro’s aircrafts and you couldn’t do that for obvious reasons
• maybe if you found the right person in town you could pay them to fly you out discreetly— maybe you could even go by boat
• but upon moving further into the city getting closer and closer to the center you found that graves and the shadows had been murdering citizens left and right
• innocent people— men, women…. children
• it only made your ache worse
• so as you continued through the streets you let the rain running down your face hide the fact that you were crying
• vision blurring as the tears pooled in your eyes before gliding down your cheeks, blending with the rain rivulets that slid down your cheeks in tandem
• you’d get out of here.. alone and you’d run, that was something you were good at and it was something that you could always fall back on— it was something that you were used to, abandoning your heartache to run away from it, isolating yourself to keep your tired heart from aching any further, so you’d get out of las almas and you’d do just that
• you’d run, and hide—
hide from price and the task force, from alejandro and rudy… from graves and the shadows.
you’d run from home, from family…
—it’s what you were good at.
—
a/n: had mixed feelings about this but hope you enjoyed!
pixelskylines
ellievsbear
kianamaiart
areudirty
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
stormborns
