kyle “gaz” garrick x reader, he is trying to convince you to clear him for duty, @thedrabblecollective’s may challenge, day 5: doctor
“Sorry, Gaz,” you finish your examination of his healing wound. “Not fully healed yet. You’ll be benched for a bit longer.”
“Oh, come on, doc.” Gaz pulls you closer with an unbelievably charming smile. “Surely you could… clear me sooner.”
“I could,” you admit, leaning in. His smile sharpens into a smirk. “… If you want to reinjure yourself and want me to lose my license.”
Your lips brush his as you pull away, leaving him stumped, blinking after you, like a puppy whose treat was taken out of its mouth. You grin and wink at him. Revenge, and all that.
john price x reader, domestic fluff, you find him having his morning smoke and once again try to convince him to quit, @domaystic day 2: quitting a bad habit
The sun had barely even risen over the horizon when you opened the door to the balcony to join John, having his morning smoke. The air was crisp and the wooden floor cold as you stepped out. John glanced up and smiled in the middle of taking a drag. “Morning,” he murmured. “Up so early?”
“Hard to sleep without my living heater in bed,” you teased, leaning against the wall next to him. “You know,” you said lightly after a moment, “you should really quit.”
John huffed, smoke slipping past his lips as he glanced at you sideways. “That so?”
“Yeah.” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “It’s bad for you. You know it is. It’s been taking a toll on your body since you started.”
He took another drag anyway, slower this time, as if considering your words but not taking them seriously. “Been hearing that for years,” he replied. “Hasn’t killed me yet.”
“That’s some low standards you got there.”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Plenty worse things out there I could be doing.”
For a moment, you watched him in silence. The way his posture never fully relaxed, the way his gaze kept drifting to scan his surroundings, not relaxing even as he inhaled more smoke. “Still,” you pointed out and put your hand on his arm, leaning against his bicep, “you can’t keep doing it forever.”
His eyes flickered to you and his free arm wrapped around you as he flicked ash to the ground. “Watch me.”
“You’ve tried before, haven’t you?” you pressed. “Cutting back. I remember several times you said you’d stop.”
John exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, well. Didn’t stick.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged one shoulder, cigarette held loosely between his fingers. “Habit.” A beat. “Something to keep busy.”
Your lips pressed together, but you nodded as if you understood. “Right. Habit.” He took another drag and blew out the air. You knew that he knew you too well to think you were going to drop the matter. As such, you continued soon after, “You ever think that maybe it’s not just habit?”
He turned his head slightly, brow furrowing beneath the brim of his hat as his thumb pushed under the hem of your shirt, caressing your side. “Meaning?”
“I mean… Sure, by now it’s habit and something you have to do. Something you’ve done for so long you don’t question it anymore. Even if you know it’s not good for you.”
“You’ve been reading self-help books now?”
“Let me make my point!” With a light slap to his arm you silenced him, and he makes a gesture to go ahead, hiding a smile behind his hand. “Over and over, you’ve told me ‘just one more’ or that you’ll quit once things quiet down. And I think you’ve been telling yourself that too. But things don’t ever really calm down, do they?”
John starede back at the cigarette between his fingers, turning it slightly, watching the low gloom. “Nature of the job, s’posse.”
“Exactly.” Your voice softened. “Nature of the job.”
With a sigh, John shook his head and lowered his hand. His eyes fixed on the far end of the property. It was a quiet morning, cool enough that chills were covering your arms and he pulled you in a tad more. “That why you want me to quit?”
“It’s part of it,” you admit. “Mainly, I don’t want to lose you.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I know it isn’t.”
John glanced at you and with a sigh, pressed a kiss to your cheek. He rested his head against yours, enjoying the silence for a moment before whispering, “We’re not just talking about smoking anymore, are we?”
“No, we are not.”
“Mhm. Thought so.” He sighed. “Want to know the truth? I know it’s time. Just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe I hoped the decision would be made for me. An injury, getting forcefully retired.” He glanced at you and smiled sadly. “Didn’t want to end my career by giving up.”
“You’re not,” you insisted. “If you retire now, you’ll have won. You’ll have walked away with the reputation of one of their best rather than being the sad leader who hangs onto any slip of control in their career because they have nothing going on at home.”
His hand on your waist tightened, squeezing you warningly. “Oi. Not to much now, luv. I may be an old man now, but I can still handle you.”
You grinned and dropped a soft peck on his lips. “And once you retire, you get to handle me all day long.”
His smile widened into a grin. “I’m liking this idea more and more.”
Twisting out of his grip, you stopped by the door to the cabin. “I’m getting cold. Gonna finish this one and join me for breakfast.”
His eyes lingered. He glanced out onto the property again, then back to you. His shoulders eased, his smile softened. He took his hat off, placing it on the side table. “Course. Not gonna make you wait on me for long anymore.”
With that you disappeared inside and he finished his cigarette in the peaceful quiet of the morning.
a civilian’s view of “ghost,” @thedrabblecollective’s may challenge, day 2: demon
He moves through the streets in total silence, people holding their breath as he passes.
He is on the hunt for something, or someone. For all you know, he might be looking for you and you will never see the sun again, because his mission objective might be to kill you. Or maybe you will be collateral, a mere footnote later on.
It’s not a civilian’s place to question the one who holds their life in his palm. The demon with the skull mask is making his way through the streets, and the entire city holds its breath in fear.
simon “ghost” riley x reader; he missed you, you missed him, and he is in a hurry; @thedrabblecollective’s may challenge, day 1: ruin
“Fuck, baby,” Ghost growls between frantic kisses. “Been waiting for me, have you?”
Giving you no time to agree, he pushes you onto your cot, pinning you and hovering over you. His eyes follow the line of your throat, your panting face.
“You’ll be my fucking ruin,” he growls and leans down for another hungry kiss, opening your pants with one hand. “Gotta be quick. Got a meeting in 10. Think you can handle that?”
“Yes,” you gasp, the word twisting into a moan as his hand slides into your pants.
“Thought so,” he whispers. “Now, let me hear you.”
simon “ghost” riley / kyle “gaz” garrick, pre-romantic, mentions and discussions of suicidal ideation, moody march day 19: disconnected, numbness
Simon has been forsaken for a long time. It’s not a big deal, not to him anyway. He chose his path a long time ago. Or maybe it was chosen for him, by fate or some fucker with a gun who made him pull the trigger one too many times. Either way, Simon has known for a long time that life doesn’t have much more to offer for him anymore. And he is quite fine with that.
Maybe this life just suits him: getting up, training, barking instructions, occasionally being deployed, going back to sleep. He is sure he will die on the battlefield, it’s how his story was always going to end. He’d prefer it that way; he doesn’t have the patience to wait around for death so slowly creep in with old age.
He is not the only one. Too many soldiers feel just like him, and Simon never cared much. Who is he to try and run them off the highway he is speeding down as well?
But then he sees it, after a mission. Kyle is sitting in the training room near midnight, with his gun in his lap. It’s a posture that is all too familiar for Simon.
Kyle is… different. He is younger. Not young, he is bloody experienced and skilled. But when Simon first met him, he still had that sparkle in his eyes. He still questioned orders, cared about morality and code. Price has been doing his best to erode that. Sooner the better, you have to wear their naive morality down before it can shatter and cut them.
Now it’s up to Simon to figure out whether Kyle has been worn down or cut.
“Still training, Garrick?” Simon drawls and nudges the door open enough to step in.
Kyle glances up. “Sir.”
“Simon,” he corrects automatically and drops to sit next to him. “We’re off duty.”
“Didn’t know you ever go off duty.”
“We all do.”
With a pause, Kyle glances at him. “Except you, right? I’ve never seen you actually unwind.”
He shrugs. “I don’t do it where creeps can watch me.”
“Oh, I’m a creep?”
“You admitted to watching me.”
Kyle huffs and sighs. His shoulders loosen and he leans back. His guard is down.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Simon breaks the silence. “Not thinking about eating lead, are you?”
A surprised sound left the younger man’s throat. “Jesus. You don’t sugar coat it, huh?”
“I find you sitting here at midnight, staring at a gun like it’s the solution to all your problems.”
Kyle groans and leans back. His eyes close and he tips his head back, hips lips parting. He exhales, long and slow. “I wasn’t thinking about killing myself. I was just…” His eyes open and he looks at Simon. “Today is the first time I don’t remember how many people I killed. I always remember. I try to… to keep track of them. To remember what I’m doing this for and question if their death was necessary. But today…” His voice trails off. “I don’t remember. I wasn’t oaying attention, I wasn’t killing. I was just… pulling the trigger.”
Simon lets the silence hang. He was never like Kyle. He always thought it better not to think about the lives he took, make it easier on his soul. Maybe that is why Kyle is such a good man where Simon is barely a man.
“You’re scared you’re getting used to killing.”
He nods. “I always swore to myself… The day taking a life becomes easy for me is the day I resign.”
Simon tenses for just a moment. Call him sentimental or selfish or possessive, but the thought of Kyle walking away from the team… From him. It both unsettles him and makes him a little proud.
“Are you at that point?”
“I don’t know.”
Simon hums. “I do. You wouldn’t be here, beating yourself up if it was easy for you.” He looks over and doesn’t continue until Kyle’s eyes meet his. “You’re a good man, Kyle. One of the best I’ve served with. Don’t let a bad day be the end of this.”
Maybe he is selfish. Maybe he should have encouraged Kyle to walk away or sleep on it and decide then. But Simon doesn’t want that. He wants Kyle here. And he wasn’t lying about a word he said. Kyle truly is one of the best.
They sit in silence for a moment before Kyle clears his throat. “You’re right. Just a bad day.” He pushes up and grins up at Simon when he too stands. “Thanks for the pick-me-up.”
simon “ghost” riley x reader, established relationship, protective simon, @fluffuary 2026, day 28: adopting a pet
disclaimer: i know riley is from cod ghosts, but canon is a mere suggestion to me and i don't care
If it was up to him, Simon would live in a minimalist apartment, with a bed, a table, a kitchen, a bath. Nothing more than what he needs. But for a couple months now, it has not been up to him anymore. Not since you, his tiny dictator, moved in, with all your colours and whimsy decorations.
By now, he has resigned himself to his fate, but as he steps into the shelter with you, he is starting to think that maybe he should have fought harder.
Simon’s hand settles automatically at the small of your back, pulling you in a step. You lean into him without even thinking about it, already craning your neck to look past the front desk.
“Oh my God,” you whisper excitedly. “Simon. There are so many.”
He hums, but his eyes aren’t on the dogs yet. They’re on you. On the way your shoulders loosen the second you spot the first wagging tail. On the way your mouth softens, corners tipping up like you’ve just walked into a room full of old friends.
You slip out from under his hand immediately, and he clenched his hand, resisting the urge to pull you back in.
“Okay, look at that one,” you say, already rushing for the first row of kennels. “Si, look at his ears! He looks like a bat!”
The dog in question is maybe twenty pounds soaking wet, shaking with excitement and hopping against the bars like a wind-up toy.
“…No.”
You turn to him face scrunched with a scandalized expression. “No? Simon, he’s adorable.”
“He’s tiny.”
“So?”
“So I deploy,” he says flatly, eyes flicking back to the dog and then to you, “and someone breaks in. What’s he gonna do, lick ’em to death?”
You look back at the fluff ball. “… He could bark.”
“He could get punted.”
“Simon.”
“I’m serious.”
You sigh, dramatic, but you’re smiling. You always smile when he gets like this, and the worry bleeds through the gruffness. You reach for his arm, fingers curling around the sleeve of his hoodie.
“We’re not picking a dog based on hypothetical home invasion scenarios.”
“We absolutely are.” He glances at you. “You wanted a dog. This is a compromise. I’m compromising.”
The next kennel holds a long-haired mutt with soulful eyes and a tail that thumps cautiously against the floor.
“Ohhh,” you gush. “This one looks like he’d cuddle.”
Simon crouches, studying the dog through the bars. The animal scoots back half a step, unsure, but doesn’t bare its teeth. Doesn’t bark. Just watches him.
“Too gentle,” Simon decides.
You gape. “You haven’t even—”
“Too gentle,” he repeats, standing again. “I need to know you’re not alone when I’m gone.”
Your expression softens despite yourself. “Simon…”
“I mean it,” he says quietly. “I hate leaving you. Hate it. And I can’t always—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Dog’s gotta be solid.”
You squeeze his arm. “I’m solid.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “Doesn’t change anything.”
You keep moving.
Every kennel stops you. Every dog earns at least a minute of your attention, your voice pitching soft and coaxing as you crouch, fingers slipping through bars, eyes bright.
Simon trails behind you, patient but unimpressed.
Too small.
Too jumpy.
Too old.
Too friendly.
“You are impossible,” you accuse after the fifth rejection.
“I’m picky,” he corrects.
“You’re impossible.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Keeps me alive.”
You’re rounding the last corner when he stops walking, pulling you to a stop as well. Simon is staring. The kennel is quieter than the others, no barking or jumping. The dog inside sits squarely on the concrete, spine straight, head lifted. It’s a German Shepherd. Big, with dark coat, scarred muzzle and ripped ear. Looks like a mean fucker.
When Simon steps closer, the dog’s lips peel back. He bares his teeth in warning and stands, but doesn’t react any further. When Simon stops, he returns to looking at them rather neutrally.
“It’s alright,” Simon murmurs. He crouches slowly, keeping his movements deliberate and non-threatening. “Hey, mate.”
A shelter worker appears beside you, cautious. “That one’s… difficult.”
Simon doesn’t look away from the dog. “How so.”
“Ex-military,” she explains. “Handled by one person for most of his career and after retirement, until his handler passed. Family couldn’t handle him. Very obedient, alert, territorial... Doesn’t do well with most people.”
The dog’s gaze never leaves Simon.
“What’s his background?”
“Explosives detection. Two deployments, I think.” She glances at the dog cautiously. “Medical discharge after he broke both hind legs.”
Simon exhales through his nose. You look between them, heart starting to race. You’re seeing the same thing he is: a good match. “Simon…”
He reaches for the kennel card, and pauses. Staring at the dog’s name for a long moment, he huffs out an exasperated laugh. No way you’ll let the dog go once you see this. “Gotta be kidding me.”
You peer over his shoulder, read it, and blink. “…Oh my God,” you gasp. “Simon. His name is Riley.” Your hand flies to your mouth. “I’m obsessed.”
He snorts. “You would be.”
“I love him,” you declare immediately. “Simon, look at him. He’s perfect.”
“He snarled at me me,” he points out, even if he isn’t exactly bothered.
“That’s flirting. You do that too.”
He huffs a laugh despite himself. “He’s big. We’re in an apartment.”
“We were already thinking of getting a place with a garden.”
“He’s probably got issues.”
“So?”
“He bites.”
“So do you.”
He shoots you a deadpanned look. You grin, and send a little wink. Brat.
Simon stands slowly and sighs. He knows this is a done deal now. You’re just as in love with this pup as he is. “We're taking him home.”
The worker hesitates. “He doesn’t usually—”
“We're taking him,” he repeats pointedly and turns to the worker, who ducks her head and nods.
“I’ll get his leash and get started on the paperwork.”
Arms wrap around his chest as you press into Simon's side and look at the dog, still waiting patiently. “Welcome to the family, Riley.”
Simon exhales slowly and runs his hand through your hair. He has a good feeling about this one. “Welcome to the family.”
john price x reader, hurt/comfort, bossy spouse reader, @fluffuary day 25: sick
The migraine had been sitting behind John’s right eye for hours now, but he had work to do, and was still in his office even though he was supposed to be home an hour ago.
Home with you, having dinner, snuggling up on the couch, and winding down. That’s what he could have had. Instead, he sat at his desk, which was covered in papers he hadn’t touched in 20 minutes and a screen that had already gone into standby mode.
By now, you had to be well aware that he was late today, and you had never been the type to wait patiently.
And, as expected, a light knock on the door sounded, followed by light streaming in from the hallway as the door opened. John didn’t look up, but he heard that specific cadence of footsteps he knew better than his own.
“John?” your voice called, gentle, sing-song in that way you used when you were half-amused, half-exasperated. “You missed dinner. You alive in here, or have you finally fused with your chair?”
The sound hit him like a hammer. Not because you were loud. You weren’t, not really, but to his migraine you might as well have been screaming.
His jaw tightened. He inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to brace himself before answering. “I’m—” he started, then stopped, because the word caught wrong in his mouth and the effort made his head throb harder.
You stepped farther in. He heard the rustle of your jacket, the soft clink of keys as you set them down.
“It’s dark as hell in here,” you commented, already moving toward the wall. “You trying to brood dramatically or did you just forget the concept of electricity?”
The lights flicked on. White, overhead, unforgiving. Pain exploded behind his eyes. John hissed and slapped a hand down on the desk as his head ducked and eyes squeezed shut. “Christ, turn that off—!”
Too late. The damage was done. The migraine roared, full and blinding now, a hot spike driven straight through his skull. His vision swam. He blinked rapidly, squeezed his eyes shut, teeth bared as he sucked in a breath through clenched jaws.
“Bloody hell,” he snapped. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Silence.
John opened his eyes slowly, the motion alone making him wince, and looked up. You’d frozen mid-step, hand still hovering near the light switch, fingers curled like you’d been caught doing something criminal. Your face had gone very still, guarded as you tried to figure out his reaction.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Fuck.
Your gaze flicked over him with clinical precision now. The too-straight set of his spine, the way his shoulders were rigid with tension, the hand still gripping the edge of the desk like it was keeping him upright, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple.
“You have a migraine,” you realised.
John swallowed. The movement hurt and nausea was building now. “I’m fine,” he muttered automatically, already knowing how useless that sounded.
You didn’t argue. That somehow made it worse. Instead, you flicked the lights off again and plunged the room back into merciful dimness. The relief was immediate and almost nauseating in its intensity. John let out a long breath.
“You just hissed at me like a feral cat,” you said calmly. “And you snapped at me; swore at me.”
His mouth opened. Closed again. He did. “I—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, the pressure against his brow making him groan softly. “Didn’t mean—”
“I know,” you cut in, still gentle. “Which is why we’re about to have a conversation instead of a fight.”
You crossed your arms and John knew you meant business now.
He shifted in his chair, every movement carefully measured. “Love,” he started, voice lower now, gravelly with pain and something like guilt. “I didn’t—”
“You’re forgiven.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You’re forgiven,” you repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Once. This one time. Because you’re in pain and because you’re human.”
Relief fluttered briefly in his chest, then died the second you continued.
“But,” you continued, raising a finger and pointing it at him, “you are now officially grounded from your office for the evening.”
His brow furrowed. “Grounded.”
“Yes,” you nodded. “As in: you are done working. You are going home. You are lying down in a dark room, hydrating, sleeping. And you are not staring at screens, paperwork, or fluorescent lighting.”
John scoffed weakly. “That’s not how—”
“I’m not finished.”
Uh-oh.
“You have two options,” you went on. “Option one: you come home with me. Right now. I make you food, you take your meds, and you rest like a normal person who would like to keep his remaining brain cells.”
You stepped closer, close enough that he could smell you: soap and cold air and something warm that felt like safety even through the pounding in his head.
“Option two,” you said, voice sweetening in a way that was deeply, profoundly threatening, “you stay here, and I go home alone. I lock the door behind me. And you can either sleep in your truck, or enjoy the company of your office chair all night.”
John stared at you. “You’re joking,” he said hoarsely.
You reached past him and picked up your keys. The jingle was loud, and he winced.
“I don’t joke about health,” you said. “Or about you running yourself into the ground.”
He leaned back, exhaling slowly through his nose. The chair creaked beneath him. “I’ve got things to finish.”
“You have a brain to protect.”
“I’ve worked through worse.”
“And you’ve paid for it every time,” you shot back. “I can still remember the last one: three days in bed, vomiting if you even looked at light. You don’t get bonus points for suffering, John.”
His jaw worked. The migraine pulsed, as if chiming in just to be spiteful.
“I’m leaving,” you said calmly and put on your coat. “You can follow me now, or you can sleep in the truck like a stubborn idiot with a death wish. Your choice.”
Your hand closed around the doorknob. Bloody hell. “Wait.”
You paused but didn’t turn around.
John pushed his chair back with a quiet scrape and stood, the room tilting slightly as he did. He steadied himself on the desk, breathing carefully until the dizziness eased.
“…Fine,” he muttered. “Bloody hell.”
You turned then, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your mouth. “Excellent decision.”
He grabbed his jacket, movements stiff and begrudging. “You enjoy this,” he accused, shuffling toward you.
“I’m only taking care of my husband.”
You stepped aside to let him pass, then followed close behind. The walk to the car was quiet. The cool air helped a little, the darkness a blessing. John rubbed at his temple as you unlocked the doors.
Once inside, you didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, you reached into your bag and held something out. His migraine medication.
John glanced at it, then at you. “…You came prepared.”
“Always.”
He took it, swallowing the pills dry with a grimace. As you pulled out of the lot, he leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed. He let out a breath. You really were his blessing.
“…Sorry,” he murmured again, quieter this time. “Didn’t mean to snap.”
You reached over and squeezed his thigh. “I know.”
Silence settled between you, and John sighed, long and heavy, the fight finally draining out of him.
“…I hate being grounded,” he muttered, more to himself than you.
You smiled to yourself all the way, until you were home.
simon “ghost” riley x reader, before getting together, protective ghost, @whumpuary 2026 day 21: attacked from behind, red
Ghost lies prone on the rooftop, concrete biting cold through his elbows even with the padding, rifle settled into his shoulder like an extension of his spine. Four stories up, across a narrow street littered with debris and half-burned cars, he has a clean view of the target building and the team stacked below.
They move as efficiently and silent as they always do. Ghost tracks them through the glass, breath slow and even behind the mask.
“Eyes on, lads,” Ghost murmurs into comms, voice low. “No movement windows two through five. Street’s quiet.”
Your voice crackles back, light, a little teasing despite the op. “Copy that, overwatch. You getting bored up there yet?”
A corner of Ghost’s mouth twitches under the mask. “Never bored when I’ve got such a pretty sight,” he replies dryly, tracking you as you slip through the doorway. “Try not to miss me too much.”
A soft huff of laughter through the comm. “Dream on, Riley.”
The breach is clean. Bodies drop one by one as the team clears the building. He calls targets as he sees them, adjusts angles, marks exits. Minutes stretch.
Then, finally: “Objective secure,” Soap says, only slightly out of breath. “Package confirmed.”
Relief loosens something tight in Ghost’s chest. He doesn’t move the rifle. He never does until extraction is underway, but the worst is over.
“Good work,” Ghost murmurs. His scope finds you again as you step back out onto the street, helmet tilted as you scan your sector. “Told you I had it covered.”
You snort softly. “Yeah, yeah. Buy you a pint when we’re back, sniper.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Ghost lets out a breath and loosens his shoulders as the tension leaves him. But then… Movement. His breath stops.
From the edge of the scope, a shape breaks from shadow. It’s too fast, too close. Not one of theirs, and not one you caught.
“Contact—!” Ghost barks, but it’s already happening.
The attacker slams into you from behind. You go down hard, rifle clattering, the man on top of you before you can roll. Ghost’s heart slams against his ribs as he tracks you, fingers tightening on the trigger.
“Sergeant, get up—!” he snaps, voice sharp with something dangerously close to panic.
The attacker’s hands go for your throat.
Ghost swears viciously.
He adjusts, micro-corrections automatic even as adrenaline floods his veins. Wind negligible. Distance fixed. But you’re moving, thrashing and fighting, and the attacker is on top of you.
“Ghost—!” Soap shouts in comms as he notices the commotion and starts running to try and get to the street in time.
“I see it,” Ghost growls. His voice is ice now. “Hold your positions.”
Your helmet is knocked aside and Ghost sees your face. Your eyes are eyes wide, jaw clenched, hands clawing at the man’s wrists as they squeeze around your neck.
Air leaves your lungs in a harsh, choking sound that Ghost hears through the comms, like it’s happening right next to him.
Red creeps into the edges of his vision.
He lines up. The attacker shifts, weight pressing down on you, face inches from yours.
Ghost exhales.
The crosshair settles at the base of the attacker’s skull, just behind the ear. A shot like this leaves no margin for error. Miss by an inch and—
He doesn’t finish the thought. He squeezes.
The rifle kicks once, controlled, suppressed crack swallowed by the city. Through the scope, the attacker’s head snaps to the side. The body goes slack instantly, dead weight collapsing onto you.
Ghost keeps the scope trained, finger ready, in case there’s another. In case he needs to fire again.
Seconds stretch.
Under the body, you gasp in ragged, desperate breaths, dragging air back into your lungs. Your hands shove weakly at first, then harder, panic giving way to muscle memory.
You roll the corpse off you with a grunt and sit up, coughing, one hand braced on the pavement.
Ghost’s chest feels like it’s going to split open.
“Sergeant,” he snaps into the mic. “Status report.”
For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing. Then you look up.
Not at him, you can’t see him, but Ghost knows the exact moment you register what happened. Your shoulders hitch once as you take another breath. Then you lift your hand and give a shaky thumbs up.
Ghost lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, tension bleeding from his body in a dizzying rush.
“Bloody hell,” Soap mutters over comms, only now arriving at the street and helping you stand. “That was close.”
Ghost doesn’t answer right away. He keeps the scope on you, watching as you get to your feet, swaying only slightly before squaring your shoulders like nothing just happened.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.
“Next time,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving you, “you’re buying two pints.”
Your laugh crackles through the comms rough and croaking, but alive. “Deal. You can tell me how heroic you were.”
Ghost huffs once, something fierce and protective settling deep in his chest. “Anytime.”
john price, johnny “soap” mactavish, reader, domestic fluff / humor, slice of life, @genuary-prompt-month day 21: hidden in plain sight
Price leaving the barracks on a brisk morning, holding a coffee in hand, coming to a stop neck to Soap. “Sergeant.”
“Morning, Sir.”
Price glances at Soap, then stares off into the same direction he is. “Looking for someone?”
“Y/N isn’t back from their morning run yet. I was coming out to check where they are.”
After taking a sip of his coffee, Price nods and hums. “Very well Let me know if you find them.” He turns and walks away a couple steps, before pausing and turning back. “Oh, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’m assigning you some refreshers on situational awareness.”
“What? Why!”
Price says nothing. Instead, you burst from the ground barely more than a step away from where Soap is standing, dressed in a ghillie suit, grab his legs, and scream.
Soap screeches while Gaz cackles in the distance. Price grins. “Good job, Sergeant.”
You grin, ignoring Soap’s incoherent cursing. “Thanks Cap.”
When you’re on a late night stakeout and your breath shows in a white cloud, he cups your hands in his own and blows on them before rubbing, while looking pointedly at you. “I told you you wear gloves,” he mutters.
When you need to camp out, he zips your and his sleeping bags together and envelops you. His hands pull you close and he tucks your face into his chest. Throughout the night he keeps waking you, just to make sure you’re not freezing, because hypothermia can be silent.
When you have had a long, cold day, he loves drawing you a hot bath (and he loves even more joining you for it).
When the heating goes out and he hears the door to his room open, he just silently lifts the blanket and lets you slip in beside him. “Frostbeule,” he murmurs into your skin as your icy feet press against him.
When he is cold for a change, he immediately goes to check on you. If he is cold, that means you’ve probably gone full snowman by now.
When you are all cold and grumpy, drowning in a thick jacket and scarf and glaring up at him, he gets serious cuteness aggression.
john “soap” mactavish x reader, not explicitly romantic, reader comes from a tropical climate, double drabble, @fluffuary day 19: first snow
Soap comes outside and finds you standing in the snow, in just a thin sweater, your head tilted back, and your eyes closed. “You alright?”
You startle just a little and look back. “It’s so… quiet. And cold.”
He huffs. “Yeah. That’s why I’m wearing a jacket. You lost yours?”
You wave him off. “I’m just out here for a second.”
Soap steps up next to you. “First time in the snow?” he asks with a mix of fondness and disbelief.
You hum affirmatively. “I used to always watch american christmas movies and wonder what it must be like.”
“Well, british snow is a lot better than the shit they got over there, I promise.”
You snort and elbow him in the side.
He grins back and watches the snowflakes caught in your hair. “You like it?”
You hum and nod. A shiver wrecks your frame and Soap smiles to himself. “Alright. Time to go warm up, let’s go.” Before you can argue, he continues, “If you like snow, you’ll love the tradition of sitting by the window with a hot drink. Yeah?”
At that, your eyes light up, and you’re already turning.
kyle "gaz" garrick x reader, high school au, jock x nerd, @fluffuary day 17: high school
Kyle’s foot taps against the leg of your desk like it’s got a mind of its own.
Tap. Tap-tap.
You shift your knee away without looking up from your notebook, tightening your grip on your pen. The teacher put him next to you, hoping you’d be able to get him to behave. Instead, all his chaos is now focused soley on you.
It’s only the third period, history, and you’re already done, because Kyle will not leave you alone.
“Oi,” he murmurs, leaning over just enough that you can feel his breath near your ear. “You’re gonna miss the good bit if you keep starin’ at your notes like that.”
“I’m taking notes,” you mutter back, not sparing him a glance. “Which is what you should be doing.”
Tap. Tap.
This time it’s his pen, nudging the side of your notebook. You slide the notebook closer to yourself, shoulders hunching defensively. “Stop.”
He doesn’t.
Kyle grins, with a wide, lazy, and infuriatingly handsome grin, and props his chin on his hand. “You always this serious, or am I just special?”
You finally glance at him then, deadpan. “You’re being annoying. Focus.”
A couple kids nearby snort, but he just chuckles under his breath, entirely unbothered.
“That’s not a no,” he sing-songs softly.
Trying to compose yourself, you close your eyes as your jaw tightens. This is exactly how it always goes.
Guys like Kyle, a varsity athlete, popular, loud, effortlessly charming, decides to zero in on you. Quiet and nerdy-you. Always picked last in gym, always top of the class academically-you. You’ve learned the rules of people like him a long time ago. They tease. They flirt. And then they laugh with their friends when you take it seriously. You refuse to give him that.
“Can you please,” you say through clenched teeth, “just leave me alone?”
His eyebrows lift, something like surprise flickering across his face, but then the grin is back, softer this time. “Nah.”
Tap.
You inhale sharply. Enough. He is driving you mad, with his cocky attitude.
“Mr. Ellis,” you say without raising your hand. “Kyle keeps interrupting.”
Next to you, Kyle makes an exaggerated offended noise. “Snitch.”
Mr. Ellis pauses his lecture and gives an unimpressed look over his glasses. “Kyle. Do I need to move you again?”
“All good, sir.” He leans back in his chair, hands raised in surrender. “Won’t hear a peep from me.”
Mr. Ellis’ gaze lingers a moment longer before turning back to the board.
You exhale, shoulders dropping. Fially, silence. Blessed silence, and finally you can focus on the lecture and forget all about annoying, cocky, obnoxious—
“You’ve got ink on your hand.”
Your eyes close. 30 seconds. He couldn’t even give you a minute, could he? A glance at your hand shows that indeed, there is some smudged ink on your hand.
When you look back up, he’s watching you triumphantly.
“You’re such a tell,” he murmurs.
Your cheeks burn. “I said stop.”
He doesn’t tap your desk this time. He just watches you, and the intensity of it makes your skin prickle.
“I’ll stop,” he says finally, “if you talk to me at lunch.”
You scoff quietly. “Why would I do that?”
“So I don’t distract you for the rest of class.”
“You’re already doing that.”
“Yeah,” he admits easily. “Imagine how bad I could be if you gave me the motivation to do so.”
You glance at the teacher, then the clock. Twenty more minutes. You can’t stand this for that long.
“…Fine,” you give in. “Lunch. Five minutes. That’s it.”
Kyle’s grin is immediate, bright and victorious. “Under the bleachers?”
Your stomach drops. Of course he’d pick somewhere private. “Why?”
“Less noise,” he says. “And I like it there.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
True to his word, miraculously, Kyle leaves you alone for the rest of class. Which somehow makes you dread lunch even more.
The bleachers cast long shadows across the grass, the hum of voices and clatter of trays echoing faintly from the cafeteria. You sit cross-legged beneath them, backpack hugged to your chest like a shield, when Kyle drops down across from you, stretching his long legs out casually.
“See?” he says. “Peaceful.”
You don’t return the smile. Instead, you scan behind him. Are his friends nearby? Ready to laugh at you? “So. What do you want?”
He tilts his head. “Straight to business, yeah?”
“Yes,” you say flatly. “If this is about homework, I’m not doing it for you.”
He blinks. “…Homework?”
“That’s usually how this goes,” you say, bitterness slipping through despite yourself. “Or you and your friends dare each other to mess with me.”
Something in his expression changes then. The teasing light dims, replaced by something quieter. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume he was a tad hurt by your assumption. You shrug, staring at the grass as you pull it from the ground. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Kyle leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t joke like that.”
“You don’t joke?” You huff. “Sure.”
“I’m serious.” His eyebrows furrow. “I’m an idiot, not a dick.”
That makes you look up.
His face is open now. No grin, no smirk. Just… earnesty.
“I like you,” he says simply. “Have for a while.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself. It bursts out sharp and disbelieving. “Okay.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Of course I don’t.” You look at him like he’s the biggest idiot you know. Because he is. Probably. “Look at you. And then look at me.”
He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means this is a prank,” you snap. “Or you’re bored. Or you want something.”
Kyle exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Bloody hell.”
He scoots closer, careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. “I poke you in class because I like when you glare at me,” he confesses. “I talk to you because you’re funny, even when you don’t mean to be. And I sit next to you because I like hearing you mutter under your breath when someone says something stupid. Even if that someone is me.”
Your throat goes tight. He can’t be serious, can he?
“That doesn’t sound like a joke if you ask me,” he continues quietly. “That sounds like a crush.”
You swallow. “You don’t… people like you don’t go for people like me.”
Kyle’s gaze softens. “Says who? I’d like to have a word with them, because last I checked, I like you.”
“Says who?” You echo and shrug. “Experience.”
He reaches out, hesitates, then instead gently nudges your shoe with his. “Maybe your experience needs updating.”
You don’t pull away. All this time you thought you knew how this went, but Kyle seems intent on proving you wrong.
“…You’re flirting,” you say weakly.
“Yeah,” he admits, smiling again, but this time it’s nervous. “Been tryin’ all day.”
You stare at him, heart hammering, realization crashing down slow and terrifying. “Oh.”
Kyle chuckles. “There it is.” Silence stretches between you. His eyes flicker over your face as your process, and his nervous grin softens, just a tad. “So,” he says lightly, “you wanna maybe—”
You cut him off, flustered. “I thought you wanted homework.”
He laughs, loud and genuine. “I’m rubbish at history, but I’m not that desperate.” He grins. “Well, I am. But not for homework.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “So, what do you want?”
“A date?”
“Hm.” Alright. Time to be brave. “Jeff’s diner?”
His eyes light up. “I’ll drive.”
You let out a breathy. Brave. Channel your inner bravery. “Fine.”
simon “ghost” riley & john price, kidfic, @fluffuary day 8: platonic love
Ever since John took a step back from field work when he became a father, Simon has made it a point to stop by for dinner every once in a while. To John’s kid he has since gained the title “Uncle Simon”, one he wears with pride and faint, bittersweet sorrow.
The Price household smells like roast chicken and fresh bread, the way it always does when he visits. He makes sure to stop by the kitchen and say hello to John’s wife, who greets him with a warm hug that heals something cold and withered in his chest.
As soon as he steps into the living room, a figure appears in the door. “Uncle Simon!”
Simon looks up to see John’s eldest… and pauses.
The kid has a skull mask pulled down over his face. It’s made from cheap plastic, with cartoonishly big eye sockets, a goody grin, and nothing like the one he wears. Still.
Still.
The kid plants his feet in front of Simon, hands on his hips, chest puffed out in a way that’s painfully familiar. A little mini John.
“I’m you,” the kid announces proudly, voice muffled behind plastic. “You’re my role model.”
Oh.
For a second, he can’t move as his mind scrambles, images flashing too fast. Blood on concrete, screams over comms, hands shaking after missions he can never fully scrub from his skin. This is not what a role model looks like. This is not what a child should admire.
Across the room, John leans in the doorway. His expression is fond and gentle, but also careful. He knows better than anyone what a sensitive topic this is for him.
Simon swallows hard and crouches slowly, bringing himself down to the kid’s level. The skull mask stares back at him, equal partshollow and excited.
“That’s… a bloody fierce look,” Simon says after a beat, voice rougher than he wants it to be.
The kid beams—Simon can tell by the way the mask tilts up. “I know! Mum said I shouldn’t wear it for dinner but I wanted to show you!”
Simon swallows and glances away. All the kid sees is the myth. The scary mask from squad pictures. The stories his Dad must tell, of washed down and still exaggerated adventures. A big, scary soldier who scares bad guys away. But not the cost. Never the cost.
“That’s kind of you,” Simon says quietly. He forces his mouth into a small, controlled smile. “Means a lot, mate.”
The kid shifts, clearly waiting for more.
Simon gently taps the skull mask with two fingers. “But being like me isn’t about the mask. It’s about following the mission.”
The kid nods solemnly, like this is the most important lesson of his life.
“So,” Simon continues, glancing toward the kitchen, “new mission for you.”
“What is it?” the kid asks eagerly, vibrating with energy.
“Help your mum set the table. No distractions. You have to complete the mission objective.”
The kid snaps a sloppy salute that makes John choke on a snort. “Yes, sir!”
He tears off down the hallway, skull mask bouncing, already shouting about forks and plates.
The moment he’s gone, Simon lets out a long and shaky exhale, like he’s been holding his breath since the kid entered.
John steps closer, voice low. “Handled that well.”
Simon doesn’t look at him. “Did I?”
A heavy, grounding hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes once. “You didn’t glorify it. Didn’t scare him. You redirected.”
Simon’s jaw tightens. “I don’t want him thinking this—” he gestures vaguely at himself, the mask folded into his gear bag, “—is something to aspire to.”
John’s grip tightens reassuringly before dropping. “Kids see heroes everywhere. Athletes. Firefighters. Soldiers.” He pauses. “What matters is what they take from it.”
Simon finally looks at him. “And what if he takes the wrong thing?”
John meets his gaze steadily. “Then we guide him. Same as you just did.”
Simon nods once, swallowing the knot in his throat.
Inside, he prays that the kid’s world stays small and safe. That the skull mask remains plastic and playful. That the only missions he ever follows are setting tables and listening to his mum.
John pats his back and nods towards the dining table. “Come on. Dinner’s almost ready. The missus has been in the kitchen all day, and I’ll get in trouble if we let it get cold.”
Simon follows him, carrying the weight of his mask quietly, hoping it never becomes someone else’s inheritance.
kyle “gaz” garrick x sergeant reader, undercover, banter, before getting together, @fluffuary 2026, day 6: fake dating
“Come on now, honey,” Gaz’s voice drawls in your ear as he circles around. “Smile a little. We’re at a Gala, we both look gorgeous… the night is ours.”
Your face probably shows the same level of enthusiasm as the face of someone who just missed their bus. Gaz grins wider.
You and him are here as part of a sting. As soon as the signal is given you two are responsible for detaining a weapon’s dealer. Many of them are here, so many operatives are undercover in pairs, each with a specific target in mind. So, now you and Gaz have to pretend to be a couple on a wonderful date.
With a deep breath, you force your face into a smooth smile. “Apologies, darling,” you force out. “I was just thinking.”
He leans in and lowers his voice, like a man speaking to his lover in an intimate tone. “You do realize we're supposed to look like a couple, not like you're plotting my murder?”
“You saying this doesn't look romantic?” You gesture at the both of you, in color matched outfits and hands tangled together.
“Well, most couples don't glare like they're about to draw weapons,” he points out.
“Speak for yourself. I am very passionate, romance always includes weapons.” To make a point, you kick his ankle under the table. Hard enough to sting, not hard enough to draw attention.
“Ow,” he winces and gives you a look.
“See?” you grin smugly. “Physical affection. Nailed it.”
Gaz blows out a breath and leans back, taking a sip of his (nonalcoholic) drink while casually checking the room. He leans back in then, lowering his voice agaim, eyes flicking briefly to the target. “He just checked his watch.”
You don’t turn, it would be too obvious. You’ll judt have to take his word for it. “Means he's nervous. Maybe waiting for someone?”
“Or bored.” Gaz glances over again. “If he leaves befire we get the signal, we’ll have to stall or follow him.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” you sigh. “Not in the mood to flirt with some old guy.”
“Yeah, you’d rather flirt with me, wouldn’t you?”
“Heh. You wish, Garrick.”
“Really?” He arches an eyebrow. “Earlier you touched my chest while laughing and leaning in. That’s not flirting?”
“That’s acting,” you insist. “Besides, I flirt with everyone. I’m just charming.”
“That’s funny,” he comments and means forward. His fingers glide from your hand, up to the inside of your wrist. It’s a light, intimate touch, as his fingers brush your soft skin. He leans in an inch further. “Because you’re blushing.”
Your eyes linger on his hand before jerking back and covering your expression by taking a long drink. Man, if only you were allowed to drink. “I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m sunburned.”
“We’ve been locked in debriefs for a week straight.”
“Fuck you,” you shoot back instead of continuing to argue. Your face is burning.
Gaz barks out a laugh before he can stop himself, then catches himself quickly again. Both of you instinctively look up, to subtly check if the target noticed. Only he is no longer where he was. It seems in your banter, both missed that he switched locations. He is now behind Gaz, and has glanced up at the sound.
Quickly, you lean in. “Showtime,” you murmur. “Don’t let anything give us away.”
Gaz nods and looks back at you. “He’s watching?”
“Mhm.”
He hums back and scoots around the table, as though wanting to simoly sit next to you, but in reality putting the target back into his line of sight. His arm slides around your chair, thumb brushing the small of your back. “There,” he says quietly. “How’s that?”
Your breath stutters, barely. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe,” he admits with unusual seriousness. “You?”
You meet his eyes, close enough now that you could count the lashes on his unfairly pretty eyes. “…Undecided.”
His eyes flicker to your lips. “Want to find out?” he breathes.
You swallow hard. You do. That’s the truth. You’re not the type of person to live ein denial, and the truth is: you want to find out.
“Move in!”
Both of you snap into action before thinking, pushing out of the chairs as the room erupts into chaos. You arrive first and tackle the arms dealer into the ground as Gaz points his weapon at him.
“Handcuffs,” you snap, and Gaz tosses them to you, allowing you to restrain the target. You stay sitting on his back as you look around, where at least 8 other men are being arrested hy undercover operatives. No one needs backup; the mission went off flawlessly.
Your eyes flicker up to Gaz then. He holsters his weapon again and meets your eyes. He swallows hard.
You absentmindedly mention needing something, and the next day it’s on your table. He notices something of yours is broken or used up and he gets you a new one. (He doesnt make the mistake of tossing out the old one again, after he got a stern lecture last time.)
He never acknowledges the gifts unless you do it first, and he can actually get quite bashful about it. How dare you catch him caring??
“Here. It reminded me of you,” he mutters, and whatever it is he hands you next might be a gold necklace or a pretty rock. You’ll be equally stoked about it anyway.
Ever since you started seeing him, your snack cabinet has never been empty. He takes notice of what you like and what you don’t and shops accordingly. If he isn’t sure, he never buys it for you, even if he thinks you might like it. He really doesn’t want to be the inattentive boyfriend type, who gets his partner stuff they don’t like.
If you’re having a bad day, you find a little care package, packed with literal military precision. And if the bad day is because you are sick, he definitely geys you military grade drugs that you should not have.
In a store your eyes linger on something. Do you really need it? Isn’t that a little expensive? When you turn to ask his opinion, he is already at the register. He might give you the courtesy of first asking, “You want it?” but if you say no, he might still get it.
If you even get your wallet out while you’re with him he gets genuinely upset because… why would… you pay?? That’s his job!
He keeps all your gifts and treasures them a lot. A cologne you got him? He only wears when he comes to see you and it is his favorite scent. A silly little magnet you got him on a trip? It is the only magnet on his fridge (and when you notice, you make it a point to get him increasingly silly magnets, all of which now also decorate his fridge in his otherwise pretty barren apartment).
Contrary to what you would think, he is actually really bad at giving gifts on special occasions, he puts too much pressure on himself. He is better at giving gifts casually, throughout the day, with no pressure. On soecial occasions, this usually leads to crazy lavish and expensive gifts. You had to have a talk to him about it after he got you a watch you would be scared to even own because of the price tag.
He just loves you so much, and he likes giving gifts to you <3
