Demi, 34 (2/7/91), F, fan of many games, mainly playing CoD Modern Warfare (2019), Black Ops Cold War, Ark and Halo Infinite! Just wanted a place to talk about games.
You had been terrified your entire pregnancy. Not of being a mother. Not of König. No— you were terrified of the size of the baby.
Because your husband was a mountain of a man.
Nearly seven feet tall, broad enough to block the entire doorway, hands so huge they made coffee mugs look childish. König looked like the kind of man built to father massive babies with bowling-ball heads and shoulders wide enough to ruin your life on delivery day.
The closer you got to your due date, the more emotional you became about it.
“König..” you whispered one night, staring at his chest while he held you against him, “what if your baby comes out built like a full-grown toddler?”
He nearly choked trying not to laugh.
“Our baby is not coming out with a beard, Schatz.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
You’d smacked his chest weakly while he kissed your forehead, though the poor man did try comforting you afterward. He promised he’d stay beside you the whole time, promised your body was made for this, promised doctors existed for a reason.
Still, you expected pain.
Expected terror.
Expected to hear nurses gasp in horror at the giant infant you’d somehow created with this massive Austrian soldier.
Instead—
Your baby arrived…..tiny.
Absolutely, unbelievably tiny.
A little thing wrapped in hospital blankets, blinking up at the world with huge blue shiny eyes and the faintest dusting of strawberry-blonde hair across their soft head.
The nurse placed the baby into König’s arms and the sight almost made you cry harder than labor itself.
Because König looked gigantic.
His enormous scarred hands cradled the baby so carefully, so delicately, like he was terrified even breathing too hard would hurt it. His shoulders shook beneath quiet laughter, stunned and disbelieving.
“So small..” he whispered.
Your baby’s hand curled around one of his fingers— and couldn’t even hold all of it. König stared like his heart had been ripped straight from his chest. Meanwhile you were still emotional for an entirely different reason.
“That’s it?” you croaked from the hospital bed. “That’s what I was scared of?!”
König outright laughed then, deep and breathless behind his mask before he leaned down to kiss your forehead repeatedly.
“You were very brave for surviving our terrifyingly tiny child.”
Soap who always answers the 'boobs or butt' question with the cheesy answer of personality or heart... but you know the truth
content: SMUT MDNI, basically just Soap being obsessed with your tits, f!reader
Boobs. The answer is boobs. Soap loves them, your boobs especially. In fact, he loves them to the point of worship.
He practically drools when you wear lowcut tops and dresses, no matter how much cleavage is on show. Just a sliver is enough to get him hard. He loooooves leaving hickeys across your chest and seeing them peek out from beneath your clothes. And if you wear necklaces - or better yet, his dog tags - that nestle in the valley between your breasts? Yeah, he's dragging you to the nearest bathroom to take care of the problem in his pants.
When you're at home, your tits are never safe from him. If you're cooking or washing up, he'll come up behind you, pressing sloppy kisses to your neck while his hands slip under your shirt to grope at you. If you're lying on the couch, he's gonna bury his face in between your tits and use them as a pillow. He loves when you shower together or share a bath so he can lather you up, focusing on your chest for longer than necessary.
Cowgirl is his favourite position purely for the view. His pupils will be blown out wide as he watches you move above him like some sort of goddess. He'll either be reaching up to grab handfuls of your flesh, or leaning in to lavish them with his mouth. Likes to pinch and suck your nipples until you squirm. You gave him a boob job one time and he barely lasted a minute. Not that you minded.
So, whenever Soap answers that question with what you know is a lie, you silently roll your eyes. He's a boob man everyday of the week.
Brought to you by a tiktok where this guy was talking abt a girl he was seeing and how every time they had sex she’d give him a little treat afterwards (like a lil candy bar)
Like it starts when you jokingly toss Johnny one of the chocolates you had sitting on your nightstand after he ate you out like his life depended on it- he eats the candy immediately obviously as he laughs
Then you end up with a little candy dish on the nightstand, or in the drawer, any time you and Johnny have sex you give him a piece of candy, throw him a bone so to speak. Not on purpose but you think it’s cute- the way his face lights up when given the candy
You find yourself fucking somewhere in the house that isn’t the bedroom? Johnnys right behind you as you make your way to your shared room for his treat, not even realizing he’s doing it.
Whether you forget on purpose or on accident one day he just kinda stands in the kitchen like a kicked puppy and, “didn’t do somethin’ to upset ya did I hen?” His head tilted to the side slightly.
“What? No- what do you mean?” You are genuinely confused until he mumbles a “didn’t get my treat- ya know-“
You have to stop yourself from laughing as you ruffle his slightly overgrown mohawk before you’re off to the bedroom to toss him his little candy.
Honorable mention: I’d like to think Johnnys somehow ended up explaining this to the others, maybe just Ghost at first. And Ghost immediately understands it and is thankful his smile is covered by his balaclava- leave it to Johnny to get himself trained like a good dog
Basically what im trying to say is doing this to Soap would have him so down bad I think
the 141 aren’t stupid -- they wouldn’t carry a photo of you in their vest or helmet. no name written anywhere, nothing on their body that could potentially trace to a woman back home.
but they all carry something.
simon has a hair tie on his wrist. black, cheap, the kind you buy in packs of fifty and lose all over the damn flat. it sits under the cuff of his glove, biting into his skin, reminding him exactly why he needs to make it home. it always smells like your shampoo for a bit before it starts to smell like his own sweat, he finds himself a new one on the bathroom floor before each deployment.
price wears a watch. it’s not the watch that’s about you, really. it’s that he started setting the second time zone to match yours. he checks it more than he should, especially at night when he can’t sleep and it’s three a.m where he is and eight a.m where you are. he’ll think: ‘she’ll be making coffee, i wonder what she wore to bed’ and that’s the closest he lets himself get to mixing you with work.
kyle wears a bracelet. it’s thin braided yarn, the kind of thing you learned to make as a kid at camp. you made it on a slow sunday afternoon while he was half-asleep on your thigh. he said ‘oh, that’s sick, darling. ta!’, put it on and hasn’t taken it off since. it’s absolutely filthy these days. and when it starts to fray, he simply keeps re-knotting it, sometimes johnny has to help get it tight.
johnny carries a folded square of paper that’s gone so soft it feels like fabric, he keeps it safe in a zipped pocket on his kit. it’s a grocery list in your looping handwriting that you’d left him on the kitchen counter one morning. eggs, soy milk, the good butter, berries, your stupid crisps, wine (red). it’s got a small heart in the corner -- that’s the most worn bit because he brushes his thumb over it every night.
reader who is, unfortunately, a “too honest for their own good” kind of drunk who gets dragged to the bar with tf141.
“kyyyle,” you slur, leaning over the table to which Gaz cracks a smile. “so pretty…anyone ever tell you you’re pretty? like ‘men should be buying you dinner’ pretty.”
soap snorts, an amused smile on his lips. “Ya don’ even get a handsome, just fuckin’ pretty.”
“oi, piss off, soap,” replies gaz with no real heat behind it. “and you,” he starts, bringing his attention backed to your slumped form, “are a shitty drinker.”
you giggle, barely lifting up your head from the table.
price shakes his head, taking a large swing from the pint. “kids these days.”
the laughter dies down, everyone enjoying the relaxing ambiance that’s been so hard to enjoy with missions on end these days. that is until-
“ugh- I’m so horny.”
the table stills, all eyes landing on your slumped form before soap bursts into uncontrollable laughter. his fist slams the table as gaz tries to still the man who’s slightly tipsy and leaning back in his chair.
“bloody hell,” ghost mumbles, crossing his arms. “you’re one them, huh? those honest-to-god-drunks.”
“you shouldn’t be saying those things out loud,” advises price, knowing full well that it’s going to go unheard seeing as you’re shit-faced drunk right now.
you groan, forehead connected with the table again. “you don’t get it. you’re old- probably have the sex drive of a tumble weed.”
gaz and soap have a poor attempt at stifling a laugh and even ghost cracks a small and an unseen smirk at your comment. price doesn’t bother with a retort, knowing you’ll have your regrets when they tell you about this conversation in the morning.
soap puts an encouraging pat on your back. “aye, cmon lass, if ya wanted to get laid, all ye gotta do is ask.” it’s clearly a joke but your head perks up anyways.
“don’t tempt me, cause I’ve thought about it.”
“you don’t say…” his eyes light up with interest.
ghost interrupts with a warning tone. “don’t encourage her, Johnny.”
“too late, LT.” soap stalks around your chair, sliding his arms ‘round back. he leans in close till you pick up the scent of beer on his lips. “tell me, what d’ya think of?”
you match his lean with one of your own, eyes blown wide and curious. “are you rough in bed? tell me you’re rough in bed.”
soap smirks, flashing a charming wink. “aye, lass. why? want my handprint on your ass?” ghost flashes him a stern look but soap merely shrugs unapologetically.
you groan at his answer, “god, I hope I remember that in the morning.”
“we get it. we get it. you’re horny for soap. let’s stop before I hurl.” gaz puts his hand on your shoulders, urging you to drink more water.
“dont be jealous, gaz. you’re in there too.”
and suddenly, the angel on his shoulder disappears. “oh yeah?”
“god, you have no idea how hard it is to work with hot men all day long. takes everything in me to not just give up on the mats and let you just pin me down.”
by now, soap has his phone out, recording this for evidence when you’re inevitably going to try to walk back on your words in the morning.
“would love to be bent over a desk, don’t even care who’s behind me. or who’s the biggest? LT? probably not you then- at least not first.”
you ramble on and on… about how you could get off to the gruff sound of your captains voice alone, or how sometimes you’d be soaking wet through your panties if they praised you enough.
and it’s not until you go into an explicit and ultra-specific scenario that involves all four men, some rope, vibrators, and a blindfold, going to ultra-specific detail about soap in your pussy, price in your mouth, and how maybe you’d even let someone in your ass, does someone do the sensible thing of slapping a hand around your mouth.
“I’m gonna take my hand off’ya, and you’re gon’ be quiet, yeah?”
your eyes glance up to a stone cold stare behind a mask, meeting his gaze before you nod. “good girl.”
his hand slowly withdraws and you’re silent. it stays that was for a moment, everyone unsure how to break the tension left in the air after your revelation…that is until-
“aye, what’s that LT?”
and that, would be the stiffy that’s hardly concealed behind his jeans- perhaps he needs to buy baggier clothes from now on.
you stare at it. then you stare at him. “god, I knew you were big.”
neighbor!simon riley and the mundane tasks he does to make things easier for you
when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.
you thought that was that.
for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.
you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.
until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.
you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.
without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.
what the hell?
the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.
he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.
when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?
you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.
he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.
it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.
so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.
the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.
with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).
just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.
you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.
"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"
the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.
after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.
when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.
you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.
he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.
"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.
he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."
your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.
"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"
"simon."
"really? you look like a greg."
he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.
simon has been working up the courage to say anything to you every time he helps you, nervous as hell to talk to his pretty neighbor who he likes to help. hell go home and think about that interaction for days—or until you ask for his help again.
thinking of SIMONRILEY staging a break in, in the middle of the night to test his sweet country wife.
he waits until he knows you’re down for the night. you were under the guise that simon wouldn’t be home for another week or so and with that he makes his plan. simon trusts you wholeheartedly, he knows you’d take a bullet for him and vice versa, especially for your newborn child. his intentions are to see what you’d do in these very real situations, because simon does have enemies.
simon goes the whole nine yards, cuts the power, busts a window and climbs though and everything. he has installed cameras but he’d made sure to cut off any access to them.
simon wanted you terrified.
imagine his surprise when he bursts into your bedroom to “attack” you and you’re sitting on the bed on your knees, in an oversized shirt with a 12 gauge pointed in his direction — your new born hidden behind you and surrounded by pillows for safety.
but only simon has at least two seconds before your firing off a round in his direction—that just barely misses his right ear by a few inches. he has another five as he watches you cock the shotgun to fire another round at him but he’s able to stop you before.
“down bird—it’s jus’ me lovie.”
he snatches the black balaclava off, right hand raised in surrender as your baby screams bloody murder behind you from the thunderous clap of the shotgun.
the calmness in his voice isn’t what takes you by surprise, anger and pure disbelief flooding your veins as your baby’s cries get louder and louder. not only did you almost just kill your fucking husband but now there’s a big ass hole in the wall of your bedroom that’s you spent weeks choosing the wallpaper for.
the cherry on top being your newborn now wide awake because of simon’s stupid shenanigans.
“simon!?!? what the fuck!? i could’ve killed you. are you fucking insane!?”
the next couple of hours consist of you rocking your baby while calling simon every rendition of an idiot you could come up with.
as you bitch him out, the sadistic fucker can only look at the mother of his baby with hearts in his eyes.
even if he knew it would take a while for you to forgive him for this little stunt.
thinking of SIMONRILEY staging a break in, in the middle of the night to test his sweet country wife.
he waits until he knows you’re down for the night. you were under the guise that simon wouldn’t be home for another week or so and with that he makes his plan. simon trusts you wholeheartedly, he knows you’d take a bullet for him and vice versa, especially for your newborn child. his intentions are to see what you’d do in these very real situations, because simon does have enemies.
simon goes the whole nine yards, cuts the power, busts a window and climbs though and everything. he has installed cameras but he’d made sure to cut off any access to them.
simon wanted you terrified.
imagine his surprise when he bursts into your bedroom to “attack” you and you’re sitting on the bed on your knees, in an oversized shirt with a 12 gauge pointed in his direction — your new born hidden behind you and surrounded by pillows for safety.
but only simon has at least two seconds before your firing off a round in his direction—that just barely misses his right ear by a few inches. he has another five as he watches you cock the shotgun to fire another round at him but he’s able to stop you before.
“down bird—it’s jus’ me lovie.”
he snatches the black balaclava off, right hand raised in surrender as your baby screams bloody murder behind you from the thunderous clap of the shotgun.
the calmness in his voice isn’t what takes you by surprise, anger and pure disbelief flooding your veins as your baby’s cries get louder and louder. not only did you almost just kill your fucking husband but now there’s a big ass hole in the wall of your bedroom that’s you spent weeks choosing the wallpaper for.
the cherry on top being your newborn now wide awake because of simon’s stupid shenanigans.
“simon!?!? what the fuck!? i could’ve killed you. are you fucking insane!?”
the next couple of hours consist of you rocking your baby while calling simon every rendition of an idiot you could come up with.
as you bitch him out, the sadistic fucker can only look at the mother of his baby with hearts in his eyes.
even if he knew it would take a while for you to forgive him for this little stunt.
Somehow, your normal conversation with Johnny turned into “what kind of dog would you be if you were one?”
At first, it was just the two of you. You argued that he would be husky. Loud, obnoxious, always needs training or something to do or else they become destructive. Johnny argued and claimed that he saw himself as a rottweiler.
You stared flatly at him, eyebrows neutral and the corner of your lips slightly tilted downwards but your eyes held so much expression. “A rottie? Really, Johnny?” you ask dryly.
Johnny leans back on the sofa and shrugs, “I’m cool— collected— and I’d say I’m pretty tough,” he says as if all of those were indeed true. Before you could rebuttal (because let’s be honest, you were going to), he starts talking again, “I think L.T would be just like Riley.”
Oh, now we’re talking about Simon.
The same guy that everyone fears speaking his name because as soon as anyone starts to say the first syllable of it, he hears it. Probably has gigantic ears under his balaclava.
“Lieutenant’s a doberman, what are you talking about?” you raised an eyebrow, shifting in your seat a bit. You rested your arm on the back of the sofa and turned to Johnny, your legs curled up under you.
Johnny stares at nothing in particular for a second. In a way, it made sense. But he liked arguing, especially with you. “Nah, L.T’s not a dobie. You know what they say: your pets look like you,” he points out with a smug smile as if he won this argument.
“And you know how he looks, how?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. You rested your temple on the palm of your hand; the arm that was resting behind the sofa.
That shut Johnny up.
Because, yeah. No one knew what Simon looked like.
“…‘m jus’ sayin’— L.T really gives off the vibe of a german shepherd. Protective, independent but always there for his teammates and… loves structure. He’s no’ velcro-y like a doberman,” says Johnny.
You opened your mouth to reply but stopped yourself.
How do you explain to your fellow friend that Simon was a goddamn velcro? It’s questionable how you’re sitting in the rec room and he hasn’t barged in here looking for you already. He’s always glued to your side to the point that the captain questioned if he was on any new medications.
“If anything, I think he might be a belgian malinois,” Johnny adds, completely oblivious to your parted lips and mind. “An absolute wanker on the field, crazy lad if I say so myself. Can’ control the man even ‘f yer yelling ‘cross the building,” he points out.
That part was true.
Simon tends to do his own thing until the captain instructs otherwise. You tilt your head a bit, lifting up your other hand, tilting it side to side, “ehh… I see it. But I still think he gives off doberman,” you replied.
The door to the rec room opens suddenly, the quiet creek echoing between the four walls. Simon’s quiet steps thumped against the cold flooring as he walks in and stops right in front of the door.
Just staring.
He doesn’t speak and neither do the two of you.
Simon just… stares.
Not like a man who caught two people in an act they weren’t suppose to be doing. Not like a man who didn’t mean to walk in on accident.
Just a man who was staring at his two teammates like he was anticipating their next movement.
You slowly tear your gaze away from Simon and give Johnny a side eye before slowly pushing yourself off the couch. “I’m… gonna grab some coffee real quick,” you say slowly.
As much as you adore Johnny, you had a winning streak when it came to your guys’ “arguments” and you are not going to lose it.
Making your way over to the counter, Simon immediately followed you over without a single word and grabbed a disposable cup from the cabinet, handing you one as well. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even spare Johnny a glance, and proceeds to pour himself a cup of black coffee.
Johnny watches the quiet interaction, taking note of how Simon hadn’t moved from his spot behind you. He should’ve gone over to a chair and sat down by now. Instead, he was standing behind you as you made your bittersweet coffee, filled with sugars and creamer.
“By the way, I still think you’d be a husky,” you spoke up, turning around to face Johnny. You mixed you coffee with a clean spoon, walking about to him.
Simon follows along, trailing behind like a lost puppy but never once made any effort to join in on the conversation. Instead, he sits down in one of the armchairs across from you and Johnny.
The younger male doesn’t respond to you. He’s had his eyes on Simon the entire time and that’s when the puzzles start connecting in his brain.
The amount of times that Johnny had witness Simon following you, the times where he’d would step in between you and some bad-mouthing recruit, and the amount of times that he’d always seem to nudge you— intentional or not.
A pt2 to sergeant!reader [drunkenly confessing] to ghost....
Ghost had hardly been able to focus all night, not with you so close. Your warm side pressed to his own, heat added by the whiskey burning in his stomach. He could almost pretend you liked him.
Not that you actually did like ghost, not like that anyways. You are a spitfire of a sergeant, deadly and capable on the field. You blend into war like it's a second skin, slough it off in social situations and bond with near anyone. Ghost...respects you. More than that, he really wants to hold your hand or even kiss you.
Ever since you paired with him to take out an entire base of combatants he's had this weird stutter in his chest that he assumes is affection.
Then you lean in real close, hand squeezing his knee to keep balance and mumble "Yknow, si, I like you. I really like you."
And ghost responds in kind. Or. He thinks he does. But you're suddenly stumbling out to the back alley and gaz is hissing at him "go fix it, you ass. Apologize and kiss the poor sod."
Ghost nods slow, drunken. He smiles to himself at the thought of kissing you while he lumbers to the back alley. Ghost has been thinking about your lips on his. Has wondered if you kiss as well as you fight.
The alley is dingy, dirty. It smells like piss and old beer, a sour note of vomit, made worse by the light drizzle. No difference to ghost, he looks around and....and...you're not there.
He steps into the rain, check behind the dumpsters, around the corners.
That warm buzz of alcohol is replaces by sudden, cold dread. Ghost paces the alley, methodical, checking for any clues and—
The glint of clean metal amongst the trash.
Your knife, the one you told ghost you keep in your boots at all times just in case. There's blood on it.
You're missing and all ghost has is a bloody knife.
Few times in your life have you felt this fucking foolish before.
Half-drunk on alcohol and giddiness at being invited to the teams little pub visit they do near every Friday. You didn't want to invite yourself, too new to the team and trying to earn their respect.
After some dangerous work, the kind that culls most other soldiers, you finally earned it.
Respect you toss in the trash when you lean into your lieutenants side to confess "Yknow, sir, I like you."
The table goes the slightest bit tense. Kyle and johnny paying closer attention through their own conversation. Price raises a brow at you, not that you notice when you add "like...I really like you."
Because you do, though sober you had kept a damn tight seal on that particular infatuation. No matter how much you'd like to crawl into ghosts lap and kiss him stupid, you need to remember your place.
Ghost shifts, mouth a straight line with his mask rolled up. He doesn't grimace...doesn't smile either when he grunts "got someone i like, too, sergeant."
....it takes your drunk mind a second to catch up.
Oh. Ghost is...letting you down soft. He's got someone He's interested in, but it's not you. The table has gone dead silent now. Of course ghost wouldn't like you, a fact your sober mind knows already.
"Uhm....I need to....go piss. Yeah. Uhm–" you shuffle out of the table with a pinched expression, nearly staving off tears. Instead of heading to the bathrooms, you turn left and step out to the back alley to cry without the judgment of your team.
Back inside, ghost is in his own head about why the hell you seemed so upset that he liked you back.
YouTube bug is eating up 7GB of ram and an ad blocker is the only way to solve it
(funny enough, a lot of people have been saying it's youtube forcing ads, but that's not the issue, nor is this intentional)
YouTube bug causes browser tabs to consume 7GB+ RAM through infinite button layout loops, freezing systems across Firefox, Chrome, and Edge
“your YouTube tab just consumed 7GB of RAM and froze your entire browser.
That’s not user error or aging hardware—it’s YouTube’s latest interface bug turning routine video watching into system roulette.
Reports flooded Reddit and browser forums late last week as users watched their browsers transform into digital quicksand, with tabs becoming unresponsive and entire systems grinding to a halt.”
The main issue is the Like, Dislike, and Share buttons
“Developers tracking the issue through Mozilla’s Bugzilla pinpointed the problem to YouTube’s flexible menu container below each video.
The interface enters an endless identity crisis: it checks whether all buttons fit horizontally, hides the overflow, recalculates the available space, then shows them again—repeating this cycle thousands of times per second.
Think of it like someone obsessively rearranging furniture in a room that keeps changing size.”
All browsers are experiencing the same thing
Google has said nothing
Reports have said that a temporary fix is to use ublock origin and Add this filter: www(.)youtube(.)com###menu
This removes the buttons under the player but immediately stops the memory leak and freezing.
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
Hi love!! Can I please req some domestic Chris Redfield headcanons ? I just think this man deserves peace and a little love 🥺 maybe some silly moments too
── 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝘄/ 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗳𝗶𝗲𝗹𝗱 ✦
𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝗥𝗲𝗱𝗳𝗶𝗲𝗹𝗱 𝘅 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿
𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨: Established relationship and Chris being absouletly in love with reader!!
𝘼/𝙣: Thank you for the req!! I love this man, and this was the perf excuse to bring out my rusty headcannons ab him🗣️🗣️
He’s a walking contradiction.
Built like a tank, acts like a soldier, but loves you with this quiet, unwavering intensity. Doesn’t always know how to say what he feels, but you’ll feel it in everything he does.
Overprotective, but not controlling.
He trusts you, but the world? Not so much. If you're out late, he checks in with a "you good?" text. Subtle but not overbearing. But if you don’t respond within 20 minutes? He’s tracking your location and ready to throw hands.
The slowest burn.
Chris doesn’t fall fast. He falls hard. It took him a while to admit he liked you, and it took longer to act on it. But once you're his? That’s it. You’re his anchor. His home.
Acts of service is his love language.
Not great with words. But he'll fix your shit without you asking. Change your oil. Carry you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. Make sure you eat. He doesn’t say “I love you” as often as he should, but he’ll show it every damn day.
His Nightmares.
He won’t tell you when he has them. But you’ll wake up and find him sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his hands. All it takes is a hand on his back, and he’ll lean into your touch like he’s trying to breathe again.
Tension relief = you or working out.
If he’s stressed, he’s either at the gym or dragging you to bed. Sometimes both. Rough hands, soft mouth, and a desperate need to feel something real.
He needs someone who grounds him.
You’re the one who brings him back from the edge. The one who reminds him he’s more than what he’s lost. And even if he doesn’t say it… he’s terrified of losing you.
Pillow talk is rare, but golden.
He’s vulnerable when he's half-asleep, fingers tangled with yours, voice all gravelly. That’s when he tells you the stuff he’s too afraid to say in the daylight. That you make him feel safe. That you're the only thing in his life he doesn't regret.
Mornings with Chris?
He’s up before you. Always. Sometimes it’s work, sometimes just habit. But if he’s not on duty, he’ll make coffee and sit on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep with this dumb, lovesick look on his face. Occasionally whispers, “How the hell did I get this lucky?”
He does laundry like he’s defusing a bomb.
Follows every step exactly. Separates colors like it’s a classified mission. But once, he shrunk your favorite sweater and felt genuinely devastated about it. Bought you three new ones and wouldn't stop apologizing.
Cuddles like a furnace.
Chris sleeps hot and wraps himself around you like you’re a damn body pillow. Big arms, warm chest, hand always on your waist or under your shirt. If you try to get up, good luck, he’ll grumble, pull you closer, and mumble, “Five more minutes.”
He talks to plants like they’re soldiers.
You bought a succulent. Chris named it “Private Green.” He gives it pep talks and watering instructions like he’s briefing it for combat. You caught him saying, “You got this, soldier,” once. He denies it to this day.
He has a “house voice.”
You know the one. Deep, a little raspy, but softened when he’s home with you. Like he’s still figuring out how to talk without shouting commands. Sometimes you catch him whispering little nothings when he thinks you’re asleep,
“You’re the only good thing in my life.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Random forehead kisses.
You could be brushing your teeth or reaching for something on a high shelf, doesn’t matter. He’s always sneaking in a kiss somewhere: your temple, shoulder, the top of your head. It’s instinct for him now.
He 100% keeps a photo of you in his wallet.
Even if he’s not on active duty anymore. It’s worn around the edges from how often he’s looked at it. Once you found it and teased him, and he said, “That picture’s gotten me through some of the worst days of my life.” You never joked about it again.
Sunday mornings are sacred.
No alarms. Just tangled sheets, soft kisses, and the quiet realization that Chris Redfield, the man who’s faced more horror than most, looks at you like you’re a miracle.
The man CANNOT cook.
He tries. God, he tries. But the moment there’s more than two steps in a recipe, his brain short-circuits. He’s used to structure, to orders, recipes that say “a pinch of salt” piss him off. How much is a pinch? What does “until golden” mean? Golden like a medal? Golden like a sunset? He burns toast because he forgets it's in the toaster, too focused on watching you move around the kitchen.
He’s a kitchen liability, but he won’t give up. He’s your slightly dangerous sous chef chopping veggies way too precisely.
He does push-ups in the kitchen while waiting for the microwave.
One time he bumped the counter and knocked over an entire bowl of cereal. He tried to blame it on the “uneven floor.” It wasn’t.
He thinks TikTok food hacks are genius.
“Babe look—they put mac and cheese in a waffle iron.” He says this while already plugging yours in, no warning. The house smells like regret in 5 minutes.
He makes the most atrocious smoothies.
Like spinach, protein powder, one sad banana, and… chicken broth??? You took one sip and nearly cried. He drinks it like it’s holy. “It’s good for recovery.” Sir. It tastes like betrayal.
He narrates chores like he’s in a survival game.
“Day 47. Supplies are low. The subject (u) grows restless. Morale… is questionable.” All while doing dishes and wearing your pink “Kiss the Cook” apron.
He has something against self-checkout machines.
Every time, without fail, “Unexpected item in the bagging area.” Chris glares at the screen like it just insulted his bloodline. “I scanned it, you piece of—”
Makeup shopping w/ him?
You’re swatching concealers, trying to find the right undertone, and this man just holds out his massive hand like it’s protocol. Doesn’t even flinch. You’re painting little lines of it across his knuckles, comparing shades, and he’s just standing there.
“Which one’s closest?” “That one looks kinda warm, do you want warm?”
a/n: Not proofread. It’s bad, alright. I wrote this in the middle of class with my brightness all the way down
Chris Redfield isn’t the type of guy to do hookups.
He tried it once a few years back and regretted it immediately after waking up to an empty bed and an empty wallet.
Just his luck…
But this was different, at least that’s what he kept on telling himself. Your naked body on your white sheets and those beautiful eyes gazing right back up at him.
He can’t help but trace a path down your body with his hands, taking in your flushed and glistening skin underneath him.
He didn’t plan on hooking up with you, he just wanted your number! But one thing let to another and now he feels like he can’t get enough of you.
It started out innocent. You and a few friends decided to go out for a drink or two. What you failed to notice was the brown-haired mans eyes following your every move the moment you stepped through the door.
He was sure he had never seen such a beautiful smile before, as corny as it sounds.
After finally finishing the much needed drink for courage and a little push from his teammates, he approached you when you were standing at the bar alone and ordering drinks.
It wasn’t smooth. His voice cracked when he greeted you, his hands were dripping with sweat as he wiped them every few seconds on his jeans.
He wasn’t sure what possessed you to accept the drink he had offered to buy or what he had said that made you climb into his car and let him drive you home.
Chris felt like the luckiest man alive, if he was being honest.
-
“F-fuck, Chris…”, you pant into his ear, one hand tugging his brown locks as he lets himself slowly sink into you, savouring each stroke.
He was sure that this is what being on cloud nine felt like. You two have been going at it for over an hour at this point. Chris didn’t even think he could go for multiple rounds anymore.
But you felt so good, so warm. The way you panted into his ear made his stomach flutter in pleasure and hair stand up on the back of his neck.
“C’mon, come for me.. One more time, alright?”, Chris murmurs against your ear, leaving open mouthed kisses down your jaw and down your neck.
Your sweet moans and the slaps of your skin meeting each other with each thrust fill your bedroom and echo through the walls.
Chris groans in pleasure when he feels you tighten around him, your spread legs starting to quiver as you grasp onto his shoulders, nails digging into his back.
He moans at the stinging feeling, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better look at you.
Fuck… He felt like he was having a wet dream and was going to wake up to some cum stained sheets at 5 in the morning.
You were so beautiful compared to him. Chris doesn’t know what the hell you saw in him but he’s sure that he doesn’t want to let you go after tonight.
“Yea… Yea, that’s it, baby. Come for me.”, Chris grunts as he moves to grab your hips, observing the way your mouth falls open and eyes roll to the back of your skull as you shudder around him.
With only looking at you he manages to spill his seed into the condom, almost collapsing on top of you.
A long minute passes where neither of you move. He can feel your hands loosening their grip on his shoulders and slowly relax.
Chris face burns slightly as he slowly comes back to reality after getting lost in his thoughts once again.
Pulling out his slowly softening length out of you, he ties the condom and throws it onto the bedside table to join the rest.
He catches a glimpse of your flushed face and smiles, hair sticking onto your sweaty forehead and eyelids fluttering open to glance right back at him.
-
“You okay?”, Chris murmurs as he reaches out to brush your hair back, slowly scooting closer.
You nod, “Best sex I have ever had, if I’m being honest.”, you chuckle, smile widening just a tad.
He matches your smile and trails his finger down your face and chest. “You sure you’re not just saying that?”, a hint of sarcasm shining through his words.
You laugh and shake your head, “I don’t think anybody has ever made me come this many times.”, you say as you turn onto your side to face him.
You wonder what a man like Chris saw in you when he approached. He could’ve had anyone. Hell, he could’ve had one of your friends.
Maybe you’ll understand one day what he saw that day when he looked at you.
You can’t help but hope that maybe he would like to see you again someday.
You wet your lips and slowly sit up, pulling the blanket up enough to cover your legs.
“I want to see you again, Chris… Get to know you.”, your voice turns a bit softer as you reach for his hand and intertwine it with yours.
-
His eyes stay on your interlocked hands. He takes in the softness of your hands in his. Hands that have probably never held a gun before or have killed somebody or.. Something, that is.
“You mean like… a Date?”, his brown eyes turn to look at you again, a glimmer of hope in them.
You smile shyly, “I mean- I completely get it if you were in it just for the sex, but we had such a good conversation going before and I just-“
“Sure. Only if you let me stay the night.”
Chris Redfield definitely isn’t the type of guy to do hookups.
✿ protective :- Chris would be fiercely protective where he'd go to any lengths to ensure his kid is safe. he'd be the kind of dad who'd teach his kid how to defend themselves both verbally and physically. he'd teach them self-defense from an early age, showing them how to react, protect themselves, and stay one step ahead in case any dangerous situations arise and he is not there to protect them.
✿ tough love :- Chris would have a tough love approach to parenting. he wouldn't shy away from pushing his child to be strong and independent. if his kid falls he would wipe their tears and tell them to try again until they could ride the bike by themselves. after he would pull them into a bear hug and explain to them that in life you don't give up even if you get knocked down. you stand up and complete the mission. if they mess up, he's not going to sugarcoat things or make excuses. instead, he'll hold them accountable, but he will always make sure they know it's okay to fail as long as they learn from it.
✿ teaching life skills :- beyond just survival skills, Chris would be the kind of father who'd teach his kid practical life skills like how to change a tire, how to use tools or fix a blown bulb. as a hands on man, he would involve his kid from the start, guiding their hands on a wrench, giving them small tasks to build confidence, and walking them through every step.
✿ supportive of school events :- Chris would always do his best to attend his child's school events, like plays, sports games, and parent-teacher conferences when he not on the other side of the world. no matter how exhausted he is or what he's just come back from, he'd still show up, even if it means slipping in late just to be there. his presence would mean the world to his child, who would know without a doubt their dad is there to support them. those moments when Chris is there, cheering them on would become core memories for his child, a lasting reminder that they can count on him.
✿ open for conversation :- Chris would foster an environment where his child knows they can come to him with anything no matter how big or small. he'd reinforce the idea that there is nothing that daddy can't fix. his kid would grow up knowing that Chris has the knowledge, skills, and emotional strength to help them tackle any challenge. whether it's a bully at school, a broken toy, or a bigger problem he would always remind them that they never have to go through it alone.
✿ the secret handshake :- Chris would have a special handshake with his child, one that's just for the two of them. he’d teach his kid from a young age, turning it into a daily routine that becomes their own little tradition. it's a physical connection, a silent understanding that no matter how tough the world gets, they've got each other's backs.
✿ showing love through act of service :- Chris's love language is deeply rooted in acts of service. whether it's taking care of everyday tasks, picking and dropping them off to school, buying their favourite snacks or providing quiet support during tough times, his child would know that they are loved through the countless little things Chris does.
notes:- I could write a million parts of Chris as a father he be the best dad fr
