Tbi!Johnny’s grown out that awkward strip of hair on top of his head. He’s no longer that person. Hates it when you touch his shaggy locks. Reminds him of your fingers gently massaging his scalp, a little too close to that star shaped scar he doesn’t want to see ever again.
How he couldn’t do the simplest of things other than lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. How the only temperamental thing in his life is him now and not an explosive device. You seem to press every button and wait for him to explode, any reactions better than nothing. He doesn’t mean to snap, but he can’t seem to swallow his own pride and give up everything he was before.
The doctors said Johnny was a lucky man. His Mam praying each day beside his bed in the hospital, he woke to find her rosary beads in his hand. A gift from god or a sentence? Johnny wasn’t so sure. He can’t bring himself to wear the cross around his neck anymore, settling on the St.Christopher pendant instead. A necklace you bought him, one of protection and good fortune.
It’s why you’ve called Simon over to have a chat.
“You nearly died, Johnny.”
Johnny’s still got that itch beneath his skin, misses the adrenaline rush of the unpredictables. Tired of routines, doctors and physio appointments. He just wants to be in the briefing room. Sparring in the gym or talking shit with mates in the locker room. It’s why he’s been pushing his own limits. Lifting more than recommended and overdoing his daily steps runs. Doesn’t matter how hard his head thumps, he’s willing to endure some pain in order to get back out there.
“You nearly died,” Simon repeats, his glassy eyes not wavering from Johnny’s. Something so strange and alien for Simon. Not many people realised he was looking just past them as he spoke to them, but Johnny noticed. His gaze flicking to his mates clenched hand on the table. It didn’t last long though.
One large exhale and Simon’s on his feet. He catches the back of his chair before it can tip over. Simon’s not so good with talks like these so Johnny appreciates him trying and listens. Allows him time to gather his thoughts, watch him readjust his mask like he does his reactions. You’ve not doubt warned the guy to be delicate about the whole situation and that’s never been Simon. He’s expecting the old don’t be a dick Johnny line.
“You know why I still do it?” Simon pauses, palms flat on the table as he leans over it. “Cos I got no one, nothing to go home for.” He raps his knuckles on the wooden surface as if sealing his fate. Sure he’s welcome at the guy’s homes, but never really stays.
“I’m a dead man, a ghost. Don’t be a dead man, Johnny.”
Wholesome!Gaz who identifies as dominant and is a natural at running things in the bedroom, but is fucking delighted when you take charge. It's not that he's a switch, not really - he just absolutely loves seeing you confident and taking your pleasure. You've turned the tables on dominant men before and the reaction has always been the same: a smug grin, amused detachment, a condescending air that seems to say go ahead love, I'll let you have your fun. Not Gaz. He becomes an enthusiastic servant to your whims, following your barked instructions with all the diligence of an overachieving solider. The first time his dominant side involuntarily took over, you snapped "Down, boy," and he almost fainted from how fast his blood rushed to his dick.
You both still prefer when he runs the show. But every now and then when you're channeling your inner goddess, he lies back and thinks about how he's the luckiest man in the world.
(Sorry I dont really do drabbles but some very sweet friends encouraged me to post this so I am giving it a shot.)
Tbi!Johnny’s grown out that awkward strip of hair on top of his head. He’s no longer that person. Hates it when you touch his shaggy locks. Reminds him of your fingers gently massaging his scalp, a little too close to that star shaped scar he doesn’t want to see ever again.
How he couldn’t do the simplest of things other than lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. How the only temperamental thing in his life is him now and not an explosive device. You seem to press every button and wait for him to explode, any reactions better than nothing. He doesn’t mean to snap, but he can’t seem to swallow his own pride and give up everything he was before.
The doctors said Johnny was a lucky man. His Mam praying each day beside his bed in the hospital, he woke to find her rosary beads in his hand. A gift from god or a sentence? Johnny wasn’t so sure. He can’t bring himself to wear the cross around his neck anymore, settling on the St.Christopher pendant instead. A necklace you bought him, one of protection and good fortune.
It’s why you’ve called Simon over to have a chat.
“You nearly died, Johnny.”
Johnny’s still got that itch beneath his skin, misses the adrenaline rush of the unpredictables. Tired of routines, doctors and physio appointments. He just wants to be in the briefing room. Sparring in the gym or talking shit with mates in the locker room. It’s why he’s been pushing his own limits. Lifting more than recommended and overdoing his daily steps runs. Doesn’t matter how hard his head thumps, he’s willing to endure some pain in order to get back out there.
“You nearly died,” Simon repeats, his glassy eyes not wavering from Johnny’s. Something so strange and alien for Simon. Not many people realised he was looking just past them as he spoke to them, but Johnny noticed. His gaze flicking to his mates clenched hand on the table. It didn’t last long though.
One large exhale and Simon’s on his feet. He catches the back of his chair before it can tip over. Simon’s not so good with talks like these so Johnny appreciates him trying and listens. Allows him time to gather his thoughts, watch him readjust his mask like he does his reactions. You’ve not doubt warned the guy to be delicate about the whole situation and that’s never been Simon. He’s expecting the old don’t be a dick Johnny line.
“You know why I still do it?” Simon pauses, palms flat on the table as he leans over it. “Cos I got no one, nothing to go home for.” He raps his knuckles on the wooden surface as if sealing his fate. Sure he’s welcome at the guy’s homes, but never really stays.
“I’m a dead man, a ghost. Don’t be a dead man, Johnny.”
Ghost’s a big action film lover, what else is he gonna do with his time off work? (which is forced by Price telling him needs a rest). The old ones are the best. He remembers watching them late at night, long after his dad’s knocked out asleep on the sofa. Watershed gone, curse words blarring through the speakers…not that he didn’t hear those during the day in his childhood home.
His favourite lines find their way into everything he does, especially over comms.
“Say hello to my little friend.” And it’s Ghost unleashing Johnny on some unsuspecting victim. Soap can be heard muttering gibberish down the line, “killing my flow L.T.”
“Yippee ki yay, motherfucker.” Ghost says it every time they have to clean out a high rise building. (He argues that die hard is a Christmas film).
Drones flying around the perimeter of [redacted] site. “Fucking skynet taking over.” And a lecture on how he’s not letting Ai do anything for him. “What next? It’s gonna wank for me?”
Kyle, Johnny and you are not all that clued up to what he’s quoting half the time. “One of those old films, eh lieutenant.” And. “Must be before my time.” Which just gets you all an ear full of educating on the classics. A rant about young-en’s stuck to phone screens and video games.
Price either finishes the movie quote or says where it’s from. “Predator, ‘87.” John shaking his head and glancing between you/Kyle/johnny (you, Kyle and Johnny watch it as soon as you’re back at base).
You try to convince Ghost to watch some newer films, but he complains about the lighting in recent ones and how he doesn’t like it. “Don’t make ‘em like they used to.” Do not mention remakes of the classics or a second part twenty years later. “I could piss out a better story.”
There’s a betting pool going on between you, Kyle, Johnny and Price to see what Ghost quotes each op. The captain’s obviously winning. “Tenner on, if it bleeds we can kill it.” Also a wildcard where some new line comes out. What the fuck is that one from? Some obscure film from the seventies that even Price doesn’t know.
Sergeant!Reader that just so happens to go the the gym at the same time as Kyle.
Kyle’s fast on his feet, graceful and keeps you on your toes. That and the fact he uses flirting tactics against you to catch you off guard. He’s smooth with it too, whispering in your ear as he’s got his arm wrapped around your neck. “Too tight?” His bicep flexing. Innuendo after innuendo. You don’t call him out on it, knowing he’ll turn it around on you and your dirty mind.
His stamina’s off the charts. Simon’s large form and weight goes against him, you try to fight him last after everyone else has, to give yourself a better chance. Johnny taunts you, but he doesn’t fully give you his all. Kyle though, he uses everything he’s got. You’re sure he enjoys teasing you. Manhandling you into various compromising positions, all in the name of “bet you can’t get out of that one.” And, “huh, who knew you were that flexible?”
And he’s fucking competitive too. Always trying to pin you to the mat more times than your previous practices. “Reckon I could get you under me.” He knows what he’s doing. Circling you as he lifts the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
You end up taking a cool shower and touching yourself all thanks to him working you up. Kyle’s doing the same, he said so on the training mat, but you think he’s joking…he’s not.
John helping you fix up some stuff around your flat, but he doesn’t ask if you need him to do it, he’s going do it anyway. That leaky tap in the bathroom’s been driving him mad, the repetitive drip bordering on torture as he lays awake each night beside you.
He finds your metal toolbox in the oddest of places, picks it up and swings it to the side, surprised at the light weight. He shakes it, the rattle of whatever’s inside doesn’t sound like bolts or nails. Your screwdrivers are still under the sink in the kitchen, so he knows they can’t be in here.
It’s the same toolbox you spotted at his and you inspected all the compartments, even measured the width and depth. John opened yours chuckling at the tailors chalk and fabric scissors in a leather pouch, three tiny scissors which you’d told him were thread snappers. Spools of thread neatly crammed and colour coded on one side, bobbins and measuring tape on the other. The pin cushion has him retracting his hand, small nick of his finger prodding a sharp edge. Of course you had other ideas for this box.
In your defence there is a tiny screwdriver in there for your sewing machine. “See a tool,” you say waving it front of his face.
He’ll buy you some of the basics. Reminds himself not to let you in his garage or show you his metal drawer. You’ll no doubt want him to lug one of those up the stairs to your flat. Fill it with the overspilling contents in the sewing box under your desk.
John ends up bargaining with you, let him fix that sodding leaky tap and he’ll let you get his measurements for a better fitting suit.
Football Player!Gaz would be posting his motivational and aesthetic posts while the media is in a frenzy over him trashing the locker room, everyone wants to know what happened, how much they fined Kyle, what the other players think of him now that he’s done something no other ‘fresh meat has done’ and he’ll give such a poised answer:
“Yeah, ‘s been swell bein with my new team mates, can’t wait f’ us t’ hang out more in the future.” With that model like smile on his face.
Lawyer!Reader trying to clear John Price’s name, a.k.a retired war criminal.
He picked you out specifically. Estranged from your family, hard over worker that all your friends don’t keep up with you anymore. The perfect person he could save when it all went wrong and you were targeted by some other war criminals.
John warned you it might get ugly. He’s counting on it.
The more time you spend with John you realise he’s exactly the person everyone thinks he is. A war criminal haunted by the loss of one of his own.
“Sometimes you gotta get dirty in order to be clean.” John says as he wipes the bloody blade on his denim clad thigh. Bodies scattered across your living room floor, but you should know by now that someone like him must do bad in order to do good. He calls people to sweep your flat and dispose of the casualties like it’s routine.
Many hours spent in your office are now in a safe house, his house. There’s two figures you see around the acres and acres of land he owns, you’re convinced they’re ghosts. Never seen them up close and when you tell John about them he holds you close. Your ear pressed to his chest so you can hear the steady beat of his heart.
“I’ll keep you safe, don’t you worry about a thing,” he whispers, palm running up and down your spine to chase the trembles away.
You end up burying your own name instead of clearing his. (Apparently you didn’t survive that car crash).
Retired!141/early leave141 and what they’d go viral for:
John’s got a YouTube channel of his vintage car projects. Mostly of his hands working under the bonnet and him talking through what he’s doing. He does lean on the car and talk about the changes he’s made to them when he’s finished them.
Comments are like (why he make putting gloves on so slutty?). (Omg are those hand prints on the bonnet??) - yeah your hands were there when he took a quick break to fuck you over the car.
The guys want to be him and the girls want to be with him. There’s also footage of him asking you to set up the camera as it keeps falling down and he’s just got this smile on his face as he watches you do it.
Simon took leave early, who would have thought? He’s now a cosy gamer (needs the lifestyle change after the shit he’s seen), streaming his builds of the sims 4 on twitch. A lot of viewers watch purely for the sound of his voice.
He ends up building something he shouldn’t, a blueprint of some [redacted] site that’s burnt into his memory and you two have to move house. “Honestly love, I could do the desert and they’d think it were a [redacted] [redacted].” And he complains about having to start another channel and get enough followers to monetise.
Has definitely made the guys as sims too.
Kyle’s famous for his outfit of the day posts across multiple social media platforms. He never shows his face, records below his chin if he’s taking a video for a fit check and poses with a cap on/no face reveal.
Gets a load of free stuff to promote and earn money from. He gets more engagement on his solo posts, but does enjoy matching outfits with you too.
Gives the guys some of the stuff he doesn’t like as gifts. The guys also tease him in the group chat daily asking him for a photo of his outfit.
Johnny’s let go from the military due to his injury and goes viral for his art videos. He’s that guy in a cut up baggy muscle tee, crouched over a canvas painting. Shaggy hair as he’s growing it out to cover the scar on the side of his head. Does the odd video topless, paint stroke stained jeans. Ruffles his hair a lot whenever he stands back from the canvas and views his work. His eyebrow pierced and few more tattoos dotted around to cover some scars.
Your hand can be seen in the frame of some clips placing a cup of tea or coffee beside him. He promises not to drink his paint water. Talks to camera about you too.
Sergeant!Reader that doesn’t remember a good deal of their life thanks to a nasty concussion and continuous hits to head…
The muscle memory’s still there, you know how to clean out a room and assemble your weapons. It’s second nature, your body’s moving before you even need to think about it. It’s just everything else doesn’t come naturally.
Sure you’ve read your files, memorised the names of your parents, (the most common names that have a million of possible matches, they might as well be John and Jane Doe). You can’t remember anything before that one mission. Price convinces you to try some new treatment, sessions to help you scratch the surface of your fragmented memories. They’re not much to go on, blood on your hands which could be any mission. Muffled voices and a dark room, thuds shaking through your form as you’re torn from your sleep.
You’ve read your own mission reports, but can’t seem to find that journal Kyle said you used to lug about. The previous back to work assessments never touched on your personal life, a scribbled note of your reluctance to speak on the matter. Was it that bad that you kept it to yourself?
Each session has you tracing a different scar. Simon’s the most vocal about giving up that new sodding treatment, it’s just gonna send ya mad. He recons one of the scars on your back is old enough to have gotten as a preteen. Something about the colour of skin tissue and depth. You asked him what it could be from, but he refused to share his suspicions, “nah, not ripping that old wound apart. Best not to know kid.” A pat on your back and him telling you not to bother searching for family, you’ve got the 141 anyways.
Simon wonders how hard he’d have to hit his head to forget his past. How it must be some divine intervention for you. What kind of person would he be if those memories were gone?
He knows those marks, the ones that cut the deepest and stick around the longest. And he’s bitter, jealous that you’ve got a second chance. A fresh start away from the haunted house he calls a body. His ghost’s still latch on to him, whisper to him in his sleep. No safe place he’d call home.
So when you ask him about that scar, he tells you not to ask him again. He even locks that leather journal away, buries it deep so even he can’t read it.
It’s just something small that reminds them of you whilst they’re away
Price has your lighter. Metal, casing a little scratched from your partying days and the letter of your first name barely visible, but he sees it. Sees you. It clips shut with a satisfying click. Whenever he takes it out of his pocket he’s reminded of the first time he met you. Lost his lighter, asked you. Later found out you’ve never smoked but always carried a lighter so you can break the ice with whoever you meet.
“Won’t need this,” John says, shoving the lighter in his pocket as he bids you goodbye. “Got me.”
Simon only has one picture of you. None that reveal your identity, just you wearing his mask. It’s slightly baggy on your face, fabric bunching around your jaw. Your eyes barely visible, but he sees them. Damn he dreams of them each night, your soft gaze following him as he settles down in his bunk.
And the first time he puts on that mask, all he can smell is you. It grounds him, keeps this one particular mask to wear in his free time in hopes your scent will stay with him.
Kyle’s known for his array of caps when he’s not in his military gear. No one knows that they’re actually yours. He’ll send you pictures of him wearing the latest cap he’s taken from your collection. Likes that your work colleagues are looking over your shoulder and complimenting your hot boyfriend.
Cue cheeky gym snaps with him wearing your hat and the bastard’s cropped his sweaty chest out of the picture. Such a tease, but he promises to show you more later. Hat covering his dick picture late at night.
Johnny has a tattoo of your kiss on the inside of his thigh, just for him to see. Your letters to him are all covered with your lips, he had to get it permanently on him. That one favourite colour lipstick he likes you wearing, jokes that you don’t have a hairy upper lip like the one his thigh. Sleeps in his boxers so he can catch of glimpse of you between the sheets.
He traces his lips wishing he could press his own against yours. He definitely makes you kiss his thigh when he gets home to make sure it matches.
Masked!Reader lost their scent years ago. Ghost pulls you aside and mentions the lack of company beside you. No Soap or Gaz bumping shoulders with you. “Might wanna wash that mask sergeant.” He doesn’t make a big deal about it, lets you have the extra minutes to go back to your bunk and put a clean one on.
You run back, sweat burning your eyes as you try not waste your lieutenant’s time. You should be sparring now, not relying on him to point out the obvious because you can’t figure it out. Balaclava, mask or whatever is always soaked and cleaned after strenuous activities, worn three days at most if you’re stuck researching (you’ve counted the days between Ghost telling you to switch them out). There’s a designated one for your off days, a matching coloured cap to pair with it.
Sometimes you’ll realise when the lieutenant does a sniff test. He’s subtle, to most glancing at the interaction it looks like he’s whispering in your ear.
Soap and Gaz never comment on the lingering smell, not even the Captain. Maybe it’s common courtesy of a fellow mask.
Ghost has warned them to shut up about it when he overhead the other two sergeants talking about it. (He may have made them wear one of his dirty masks and do laps around base). Simon remembers the days his lieutenants or captains used to ridicule him about his mask, how it made him wear it more even in his own time. He doesn’t want that happening to you.
Doesn’t want you to hate the reflection staring back you, that’s what he tells himself when he blurts out a compliment when you show him your face. He’s seen it before.
“Not too bad yourself lieutenant.”
And maybe your quick response has him studying his own face later on in the mirror. Makes him take his mask off as soon as he’s in the privacy of his own room, easy breathes filling his lungs as he lays in bed. He’s not sleeping with it on tonight.
Sub!Nikolai leaves his gold necklace clasped on the very last link. Just enough room for your fingers to curl under the chain and tug it back.
He shivers as your touch glides up his nape, chain pulling the dark tufts of hair on his chest. One last quick breath in before gold digs into his throat and tears build in his eyes, but he can’t look away from your face staring down at him. You lower your lips to his neck, the medallion pendant slipping into your mouth as you loosen your hold on his chain. Teeth snapping solid gold.
Nikolai gladly lets you guide him around the hangar with his gold chain. You play with it, teasing him. Plucking the heavy pendant lost beneath his T-shirt, he might as well get your fingerprints engraved on the back. They’re always there after your touch is gone and he’s longing for more.
Delta!Ghost following Human!Reader around everywhere. His shadow looming over you as soon as you exit your room. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you turned round and bumped into his chest.
You’ve asked your Captain about the delta’s behaviour, but all Alpha!Price said was he’s hardwired to act like that. Delta’s have a strong sense of protecting the weak, humans break so easily to their kind. You’re not even on the same level of an omega. Still need to learn about wolf rankings without heightened scent. You can’t sniff out a position, the military patch on their lapels only offers you a role. How were you to know that lieutenant was a beta? They pretty much all wore the same scowl as they glared down at you.
Delta’s are kinda not a rank in the sense they can challenge any wolf in the name of fairness. They’re the ones questioning their alpha’s decisions and giving justice to those who abuse their power. A bridge between humans and shifters, a vital part of ensuring they work well together.
And well Ghost, he’s making sure you’re remembering their ways too. He whispering in your ear about how you should have addressed that beta!Lieutenant and maybe next time you won’t be stuck in the armoury cleaning weapons for a week. How you shouldn’t have borrowed Soap’s hoody, why don’t you go scrub his scent of your flesh, yeah? You’ve got a synthetic scent of their pack stitched beneath your skin, a patch covering a would be scenting gland (the spot where even as a human is the strongest).
You’re only allowed to spar with Kyle as he’s an omega and won’t do as much damage. You’ve took a punch from him and that’s enough for you to dodge whatever he throws at you next. Don’t underestimate an omega.
There’s only so much you can learn from a textbook, Ghost is that little voice in your ear steering you through the whole thing. Slight hand signals when he’s across the room, a made up language for you to figure out a wolf. The two horn fingers be raises meaning Alpha. He taps the inside of his wrist when you’re approaching a beta. Omega a clenched fist. You just have to look for his cues. Delta, well they don’t need introduction, they make themselves known before you can question it.
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