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we're not kids anymore.
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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@mer-not-man
Introduction
Hello! I'm Mer-not-man
I'm a 23 year old and often repost more adult centred content who's creators are often MDNI or Minors Don't Interact so I do ask that anyone who's under 18 and navigated to my page from a post navigate away
Nothing important under the cut
i've been phasing the phrase 'google it' out of my vocabulary and going back to 'look it up'. fuck you youve lost your generic trademark privileges
i need to eat your art
shoving simon between two slices of bread to make your experience more enjoyable (thank you eek)
Simon doesn't speak, not unless he has to. Not unless there's someone there to drag it out of him.
On the job, sure. It's necessary, and even when it's not, Johnny yaps enough to coax some responses from him. But when he's on his own, back at home, he'll go days, weeks without hearing the sound of his own voice. And that's fine by him -- he's never thought he had all that much to say anyway.
You, though, seem to disagree.
His captain's pretty wife, you make a point to greet him on days you stop by the base. Then, when you insist John invite his men over to dinner, you hone in on him, gazing up at him with wide, curious eyes like he's something worthy of your attention.
He hates it, because it makes him want. And wanting has never got him anywhere.
It's worse the days that Simon comes around on his own. John's always taken a special interest in him, he knows that, so on some days -- Christmas, Easter and the like -- John will give him a not-so-thinly veiled order that he needs to drop by, the missus is expecting him. Johnny, Gaz, Kate, anyone else who might flit in and out are occupied with their own families, and Simon feels like the orphan boy with the pity invitation. But he comes anyway, because over the years, he's become wired that way.
Price says jump, he does. He says to come ... of course he always will.
"Simon!"
Your voice is so bright and happy when you answer the door, it almost burns. Still, he leans into it, breathes it in for a moment before he hears John's footsteps and his spine snaps straight.
The older man shoots him a small smile that he sees more in the crinkle of his eyes than the curve of his lips, and if he's upset at the way Simon was was just looking at his wife, he gives no indication.
If you are the sun to Simon, all warmth and light, then John is the root, solid and strong. And, tree of a man that he is, it seems more and more like he needs both to thrive.
Today is just a regular Saturday -- no holiday, no special occasion that he's aware of, but something about it feels important all the same. It could be the nicer plates that he sees John pull from the cabinet in the dining room, or the way it feels like you've taken extra care to make some of his favorite dishes, ones he knows he couldn't help but heap praise on during other dinners.
It could be the sweet dress you're wearing, or the way you keep smoothing it over your belly.
Whatever it is, there's something unspoken swirling around as the three of you sit around the table, and it's not until John calls him into the kitchen to help him clean up that he starts to get a clearer look at it.
"Ever thought about a baby, son?"
The question comes out as the two men stand in front of the sink, washing and drying dishes, and at first, Simon truly goesn't get it.
"The fuck I'd be thinking about a baby for?"
But John just chuckles, looking back at the sink as he runs the sponge over another plate.
"Having a baby. Being a father. Ever considered it?"
It's a laughable question to Simon, and John knows exactly why, but while there's a smile to his voice as he asks, he's not laughing.
He swallows, feeling a bit sick all of a sudden as it all clicks into place. The way you kept touching your stomach, all that kindness he saw in your eyes since he's been here, this line of questioning now ...
You're pregnant. You're pregnant, you're starting a family, John will have a real son to put his energy into instead of the lost cause that he is. You're having a baby, and Simon will be forgotten. Again. Always.
A moment goes by, he doesn't answer, but John's never been put off by his silence, so he continues.
"She wants a baby.”
His voice comes out quiet, like a confession, and Simon gets this is the part where he should speak, but the thing is that he has no idea what to say. Because if you’re not having a baby, if that’s not the unspoken fog that’s been hovering over the whole evening, then what is it?
John tells him in clipped, muttered statements that he can tell cost him something that you can’t get pregnant. That you’ve tried, you’ve been trying for so long, but it hasn’t happened. He hears about negative tests, doctor’s visits, how sad you’ve been that nothing’s worked, and Simon takes it all in quietly, drying the dishes and stacking them up and just listening, still unsure why he’s hearing any of this.
He hears the distant sounds of you flitting around the rest of the house, the clinking of the silverware in the sink, his jaw clenched as he tries to focus on that and not the hot, heavy feeling that bubbles in the pit of his stomach when John turns the conversation onto the topic of his semen.
“It’s me, Simon,” he says, his voice so quiet now that he has to turn his head a little to hear. “Fucking blow to the ego like you couldn’t believe.”
This whole time that John has been spilling out the most intimate details of his marriage, his health, all these little secrets and dreams, Simon hasn’t said a word. But hearing the subtle tinge of shame in his voice is enough to push him to finally engage.
“Other ways to make a family, yeah?”
He’s not even sure what he means - there’s adoption, sure, or a sperm donor, more tests, there’s got to me some way to have a baby beyond what you’ve already tried.
It’s then that John turns to face him fully, turning off the sink, one of those little smiles gracing his face again.
Simon doesn’t know it, not yet, but John already has a plan B.
number one rule! never believe ur thoughts after 10 pm . unless its about The Character then believe all of your thoughts wholeheartedly
Head canon?
wait are we meant to believe price didn't have his initial 141 team pulled for stuff or at least meet and train together before the events of mw2
bc tbh if I think about it, the way ghost and soap greet each other feels less like brand new and more "i know who this fucker is and we've had sum of 3 trainings before getting shipped around and I could stand his stupid voice" and "workin with the spooky lt again >:) I live to make him roll his eyes."
I mean idk maybe the sleep deprived me (*checks clock* Christ it's three am?) is reading too far into it. But honestly it makes there more steady and quick connection in the game so much more believable to me.
Idk maybe I'll so some deep dives. Go see if there's anything in Soap's Journal about it. I wanna re-read that silly lovable thing again anyway so.
as much as i like when ghost and soap are almost codependent unhealthily attached to one another in a tragic fuck this was always meant to go wrong way, i really enjoy them as compliments to one another. not halves of a whole but men who know their place in the world, are mostly secure and resigned to the inevitable and fiercely fighting for the possible. i like when they spur and inspire one another, when they're motivating and want each other rather than a need. i think it's beautiful when they're maybe not jigsaw pieces but rather like a meal, useful and applicable in numerous cases but just that extra bit tasty with each other
had maybe a doberman!ghost thought but this is all it amounted to:
How all the other operators see Ghost:
How Price, Nik, Soap, Gaz, and Laswell see Ghost:
Those big eyes ough
cw: post mw3 canon, mcd, emotional angst
"Kyle.."
"Johnny."
"You ever think about gettin' out?"
... "Not much."
"Aye..."
"Johnny?"
"I miss home... miss the rain..."
...
"I miss my mum's cookin'. Miss havin' clean hands before dinner."
"Johnny..."
"Och, sorry. Must be gettin' tired."
... "You'll get back to it."
"The rain?"
"All of it."
...
"Aye. Maybe."
[several months later]
Ghost and Price have already gone inside. Kyle stays, stamping out the butt of his cigarette. The cool Scottish rain is soft and indifferent against his cheeks. He thinks about that smile on Johnny's face, soft and longing. His eyes finally sting the way he's been refusing to let them.
"You're home, mate."
I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creating😘
doing anything but showering
“there’s no picture.” “never.”
Some gaz doodles!!
a very huge hello to my gaz fans 🧢
Soap: Hey... would you marry?
Gaz: For the benefits? Sure
Soap: ... would you marry me if there weren't any benefits?
Gaz: Uh... no
Soap: What!? I'd marry you!
Gaz: Who wouldn't marry me? I'm a catch
Soap, sighing: True
Part 2 of zombie au
You’re face down in the dirt.
The smell of damp grass invades your senses. The rain had finally let up after almost 3 days of straight downpour.
It wasn’t something you should be focusing on right now. Not with a knee digging into your back and the barrel of a gun pointed at your head.
But you knew that if you refocused your gaze off the blades of grass and looked up you’d see—
Bang!
You jolt awake, trying to keep the scream inside.
It had been a while since you dreamt of that night. But it had also been a while since you had seen Graves. Of course it brought up memories.
You suck in a deep breath, hand coming up to cover your eyes briefly before pushing your stray hairs off your slick forehead. The last of the fire’s embers are dying, leaving only the coals glowing in the otherwise unpenetrated darkness.
The reflective flicker in his eyes is the only way you know he’s watching you. The mask obscures the rest of his face so heavily in the dark it’s like he isn’t there at all. You try to keep yourself from jumping. That guy is scary when he wants to be…which is basically always.
You stare at each other in the dark as you catch your breath. You think you can make out through the dark that his knees are up, forearms resting casually against them, gun close by as he watches for danger.
“Bad dreams?” He breaks the silence first.
You want to pretend he sounds patronizing but there’s really no inflection at all.
“Yes.” You elect to look at the stars instead of him, but you can still feel his stare on your cheek.
You think he’ll drop it there but he doesn’t. “Graves?”
You do flinch at that. Something about hearing his name spoken in the vulnerability of the night, wounds reopened from the nightmare—the memory. You don’t respond.
“What did he do?” He grunts out.
He must be bored because he never talks to you this much during the day. A sudden flare of irritation hits you.
“It’s none of your business.” You snap. You’ve been trying to get him to talk for days, but when it’s your suffering he’s suddenly Chatty Cathy? No thank you.
The silence is heavier than his prodding. You regret the outburst immediately. Your lungs empty all at once, a bone-deep tiredness replacing your indignation. This could be the olive branch you’ve been searching for.
“Lots of…” your eyes flicker back to what little of him you can see. You still can’t decide how much you want to say. “Lots of…bad shit.” It’s not a good answer but you don’t want to say what he did out loud, don’t want to have to talk about her.
You gulp, “I was praying I’d be thrown back to the undead rather than have to be with him for another second.” You’ll leave it at that and hope his imagination is sufficient for his curiosity.
He doesn’t speak for a while, you don’t think he will again, so you just take the time to calm down and try to make shapes in the stars. You were never very good with constellations.
He surprises you, as he seems to keep doing, by speaking again. “You’re with us now. Doesn’t matter how I feel about it, once Johnny’s attached there’s not much the rest of us can do.”
He’s comforting you. Or trying to, playing it off as a joke. You feel a little warmer at the acknowledgement of your growing friendship with the sergeants. It’s good to know you aren’t imagining it.
“If we ever run into him again, he’ll have to get through us.” He finishes.
Yeah…that’s exactly what you’re worried about.
Still, knowing that even if he barely tolerates you, he’d still try to protect you makes you feel better. You wouldn’t want to be on the other side of Ghost’s wrath. You can only hope if that day ever comes, he’s a match for Graves.
“Thank you.” It’s a whisper, one that’s too real.
“Anyway, it’s my shift,” you push yourself to sit, wanting to forget this train of thought. You reach for the gun he’s using for watch, “get some rest.”
“No.” He drags the gun back toward him, “you’ve still got a hour. I’ll wake you up.”
He stares, daring you to argue. Even though you’re fairly certain it’s your turn, you don’t have it in you to fight tonight.
“Okay.” You acquiesce, retracting your hold on the gun. You lay back down with his stare still burning your back.
You don’t wake up again until the sunlight streams into your eyes. Ghost doesn’t mention it.
Stray dog 💀🧼
As always, early access, WIPs and other goodies are on my Patreon!
Fuck… he’s so fucking done with this shit.
Happy pride month 🌈✨️
Simon Riley whump sorry
Sure, it would've been easier to just shoot him, finish the job, but no. No, they were cruel. Force-feeding him mystery pills to induce an overdose (a tribute to his junkie brother) was a better idea. Wouldn't waste ammo.
One thing about the human body, is that it will do whatever it takes to survive, even against your will. He can feel the burn of vomit in his throat before he spills it out onto the filthy concrete. He's dying, and the only thing he can thing of is how disgusting his body will look when they find him. Scarred, pale, and surrounded by his insides.
When they do find him, his Captain doesn't even think about what Ghost looks like. His heart is beating, and that's the only thing that matters.
"C'mon, stay with me, lad...fuck, fuck!"
He can hear the buzzing of the heli, and the yelling of other soldiers. Simon felt a hand gently caressing his arm and head.
It was nice, being held.
"Shit...okay, hold on, mate." A strong force moves him easily onto someone's back.
He holds on as best as he can. A good sign, Price thinks. He hasn't totally given up. The Captain feels drops of liquid on his shoulder, panicking a little before realizing it wasn't blood. It was tears. His shoulders shook on every ragged inhale, until a quiet, sob left the large man.
His captain gently placed his hat on Simon's head, replacing the mask that was ripped off earlier, knowing he would appreciate the privacy
ghost with the "there's something wrong with me" internalised homophobia but it's the LEAST of his worries when there are much worse things wrong with him than him liking to kiss boys
I forgot it was pride month ... for him it's shame month
