just for fun.

#1 Gaz Stan anti-ai fka: lightningsg1rl

[morghula]

24 ★ she/her ★ wannabe writer ★ multifandom (mostly cod) MDNI

my AO3; pinterest; spotify; bluesky

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i don't take requests at the moment

please heed all tags & warnings in my works

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★ general:

headcanon tag

writing prompts/ideas

drabbles (shorts)

me chitchatting

my asks

my ocs

★ ongoing:

Two of Hearts \\ gaz x f!reader

TWO MOST WANTED \\ ghost x f!reader

just another monday \\ soap x f!reader (miniseries)

[morghula]

okay, so i've fixed the links, if i missed something please let me know.

[morghula]

Two of Hearts ❤︎ Masterlist

GAZ X F!READER || explicit content 18+ read on AO3

You’re a stripper turned informant tasked with getting information for a Sergeant about the man that comes to see you every Friday.

tags: size difference, alcohol use, mentions of assault, mentions of sobriety, canon divergent (mostly), military inaccuracies, angst, hurt/comfort, light stalking, kidnapping, power imbalance, he fell first, slow burn, reader has a stage name (tags will change)

CHAPTERS:

fish on a hook 2.3k

the question 4.5k

pick up 4.3k

too late 3.2k

wake up 3.7k

six

seven

eight

Extras:

Pintrest board

spotify playlist

based off this.

[morghula]

no update, just fixing the links on my blog.

[morghula]

nobody cares, but im thinking of changing my handle…

[morghula]

oh..what did i do …

[morghula]

nobody cares, but im thinking of changing my handle…

[anneofgreengabagool]

thinking about garrick and reader on a gruellingly long stakeout, stuck in a cramped bachelor apartment where a queen mattress is tucked into the only space a bed could go, with a thin cotton sheet as a separator when someone needs to catch a few zzz's while the other camps out.

there's an ac unit that blasts somewhat cool air over the dining room where all the gear and notes are stored. so many bottles of water. shitty, carb-heavy snacks, nothing fresh unless it crosses someone's mind (it doesn't). when ghost and soap come by on occasion, the toilet's never flushed properly. garrick's a decent roommate; not the best, but not the worst. usually remembers to close the lid and shut the fridge and offers you the best shifts unless you're bitchy.

and you are bitchy. it's the job, but fuck me, trailing these dead end leads in their shit apartments, watching through night vision goggles that hurt your scalp and make you sweat buckets is fucking brutal work. you scrap at each other like cats, claws never fully extended, but scrapping at the nearest thing. better than bringing it home to your boyfriend, who hates when you're on stakeouts. gets jealous easily. you tell him you sit in parked cars and try not to piss yourself for hours.

but, it turns out, he had reason.

garrick starts getting antsy. must be the heat, the tedium, the proximity — give it any sort of origin you want — but there hasn't been a better way to pass the time than getting railed at the dining room table while garrick forces your chin to table, eyes locked on the window to make sure you don't miss any movements from the target's apartment, your body bent over the shiny laquered wood, your pussy squeezing its tight fist around his thick cock. he's mean to your tits, scratches at them when he wants, knows it'll fade by the time you go back home. your pants are never yanked down further than your knees, just enough to find the hole he wants, and smear his dripping cock all over your ass, your crack, your lower back, until he slides down just so, into your pussy. likes to mark you up with it. pisses you off and makes you cranky as fuck when he does it; you gotta stand in the bathroom on the edge of the tub, twisting this way and that with a wet rag, wiping the evidence off your skin before it dries.

when the target suddenly moves, something out of the ordinary that a street unit's got coverage on, garrick bullies you onto the mattress and fucks you so hard that when dispatch trills through, he has to answer for you — she's in the toilets — as his thick, pearling cum leaks out of you onto the fucked up bedsheet. the look on his face when you stare at it, fucked-dumb and pissed off all in one, has him rolling you onto your side, legs still tangled in pants, so he can make you squirt with his two middle fingers curled up inside your cunt until you have to muffle your growling screams into the yellowed pillow.

"fuckin' sick of me, yet?" he grins as you use a spare t-shirt of his as a cum rag right before you chuck it at his head. "'m fuckin' proper sick of you."

[morghula]

thank you for 10k likes 🤯 !!!

[morghula]

Thinking about Ghost going to an Ulta after his Sergeants’ tease him about the tan lines around his eyes whenever he takes his balaclava off.

He approaches and asks a visibly nervous employee where they keep the sunscreen. She points to an aisle in the back. He nods to her and stalks over there.

He doesn’t know where to begin.

There’s just too many options to choose from. Sunscreen sprays, sticks, gels, lotions, even powder. Does he want a mineral sunscreen or a chemical one? Neutrogena? Vichy? La Roche-Posay?

He knows he needs something strong. 100 SPF is what he’s aiming for. He spends about a good 15 minutes looking over the various sunscreen products available. He looks over the same row about twenty times before he’s interrupted by a bright voice to his left.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Ghost glances over, “What do you recommend?” He points to the sunscreen in front of him.

You turn your attention to the products in front of him.

“Well, this is the one I use,” you grab the one he’d been looking at. “This is a really good brand and it doesn’t leave a white cast.”

Ghost nods, he’s read about that. He doesn’t want to look pastier than he already does.

“I also recommend getting a balm.” You reach for another product. “So it’ll be easier to re-apply.”

You hold out the products to him, a smile on your face.

“Thanks,” he mumbles as he takes them from you. He looks down at them now cradled in his hands.

“Of course,” you tell him. “Anything else I can help you find?”

Ghost looks up at you. He should say no and be on his way. But, he’s already here so he might as well stock up.

“Where can I find the eyeliner?”

is this anything? idk. i think he keeps going to re-stock and you two develop a little friendship.

[morghula]

just another monday // seven.

soap x f!reader

One punch is all Soap manages to land before Daniels' stumbles back.

He falls flat on his back onto the pub's sticky floor, his own drink spilling onto him. He watches as Daniels' grimaces and holds onto his jaw. Their eyes meet and Daniels' looks confused, he says something to Soap, but it doesn't register. Soap can hear gasps and shouts—even cheers— from the people now surrounding him, but they all sound so far away. Muffled. As if he's underwater. He's not thinking about anyone else, not focused on anything else. Only the next punch he wants to throw.

He takes a step forward, but he's shoved off to the side by a trio of young women who flock to Daniels' side. They crouch down beside him, cooing at him and helping him up. Soap turns to his left and he squints at the bright light of several phone flashes now being shoved in his face. He turns to his right and he's met with your face.

You're looking at him with wide watery eyes, your mouth parted in disbelief. The anger, jealousy and adrenaline all flood out at him once he sees how scared you look. It makes him uncurl his fist, drop his shoulders and unclench his jaw. Trying to make himself smaller—approachable. He must look deranged to you. Sweaty and drunk with a bruised nose and red knuckles.

He takes a step forward in your direction, but you take a step back. You shake your head and turn around, squeezing through the crowd towards the exit. He follows after you, shouldering his way through the crowd, his eyes never straying from the back of your head. He can hear Gaz's voice calling out to him from behind, but he doesn't stop.

He's at your heels, not even giving you the chance to push open the door before he reaches for you and grabs your elbow. You spin around, your face now twisted in anger. You try yanking and twisting your arm free, but he only tighten his hold as he leads you down a hallway to the left—straight to the men's restroom. He doesn't know where he's going, he should've probably taken you to the women's restroom, but he's not thinking clearly right now.

All he wants to do is get you alone. To explain himself. To apologize for scaring you. To apologize again for manhandling you into this dingy pub bathroom.

"Let go!" You fight him every step of the way, your free hand now smacking at his bicep.

He doesn't loosen his grip as he pushes open the bathroom door and ushers you inside. It's a single stall bathroom, just big enough for the both of you. Once you're both inside he lets go of your elbow and you dart away from him and go to stand near the sink.

He call feel the heat of your gaze on the back of his head when he locks the door. He turns to look at you and all the long overdue explanations and apologizes he planned on saying to you—the ones he's been dying to tell you ever since he saw you working outside his Captain's office just evaporate. His mind goes blank.

Your arms are tightly crossed, he can see how hard you're pressing your fingertips into the crook of your elbows. You're scowling at him, your eyes still shimmering with un-shed angry tears. He can't think much of anything except for how beautiful you look right now.

You're dressed in a little frilly white top and black jeans. A stark contrast to what he usually sees you in now. But, it looks so familiar. It's how you used to dress when the both of you would go out. He remembers how you used to model your clothes for him, asking for his input. He would tell you how beautiful you looked and that would draw out the biggest smile from you every time.

He wants to see it again.

He knows he should say something; that he has to say something. He doesn't know what. Well, he does know what he wants to say—what he knows he's supposed to say and what you're owed, but he's not sure how to say it.

How does he tell you that he regrets sending that message? How does he tell you that he wished he could take it all back? How does he tell you that he hadn't stopped thinking of you—that he hadn't stopped dreaming of you? How does he tell you that it kills him to see you with Daniels? That it hurts—that it burns— when he thinks of you with another man.

How does he tell you that he wants you back? That he wants to try again.

"What the fuck is your problem?" The bite in your voice jolts him back.

He doesn't respond, he just blinks at you.

"How much have you had to drink?" You take a single step towards him, uncrossing your arms. "Eight? Nine? Ten beers?"

Soap shakes his head, "…'m not tha' pissed."

"Oh, right," you scoff, you take another step closer. "I'm sure you're stone-cold sober, yeah. You just go around assaulting people for fun, huh?"

Soap draws out a long exhale, bringing his hand up to swipe at his sweaty brow. He's not exactly drunk. but he isn't exactly sober either. It wasn't the alcohol that made him punch Daniels'. It was only a matter of time, really. He just didn't have a good enough reason to do it; until tonight that is. The way he was looking at you, how he was smiling at you, how he hung on your every word. How close he was to you. It made him see red.

"Thought he was…thought he was someone else," he mumbles, choosing to lie to you isn't the smartest choice (he knows you'll figure him out), but he's already in deep shit with you.

You frown, "Someone else?"

"Yeah. Isn't he s'pose to be…out training or somethin'?"

"It was cancelled."

He raises his brow, feigning interest. "Cancelled? Why's tha'?"

"Stop." You snap at him. "Stop changing the subject. We're not talking about Liam."

Soap holds back a scoff at your use of Daniels' first name. He knows that will only piss you off even more and he doesn't want to risk you giving him the cold-shoulder, not now.

"What the fuck is your problem?" You ask again, you take a final step closer to him. Angling your head up to lock eyes with him. The tips of your flats almost touching the tips of his sneakers. "Why would you do that? The fuck is wrong with you?"

You're so close. Too close. When was the last time you were this close to him? He can't remember. All he sees is you. All he can smell is you. The sweet familiar smell of you, how it swirls around him and intoxicates him. Having you this close makes it hard for him to speak. Hard for him to think.

So instead he acts.

He plants one large hand on your hip, the other curves to hold onto the back of your neck. He pulls you closer, closing the inches of space between the both of you.

And he presses his lips to yours.

part eight. // masterlist

[bunnypuppy60]

Knight and princess wip

[esvvel]

2 hour photo study

[morghula]

just another monday // masterlist

SOAP X F!READER || explicit content 18+ read on AO3

Soap is surprised to that learn his Captain's new secretary is his ex-girlfriend.

tags: past relationship, possessive behavior, jealousy, size difference, mild smut, light angst, fluff, alcohol use, smoking, eventual smut, ex sex, hate sex, military inaccuracies (tags will change)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

extras:

spotify playlist

pinterest board

[morghula]

part 7 up 🫣

[morghula]

just another monday // seven.

soap x f!reader

One punch is all Soap manages to land before Daniels' stumbles back.

He falls flat on his back onto the pub's sticky floor, his own drink spilling onto him. He watches as Daniels' grimaces and holds onto his jaw. Their eyes meet and Daniels' looks confused, he says something to Soap, but it doesn't register. Soap can hear gasps and shouts—even cheers— from the people now surrounding him, but they all sound so far away. Muffled. As if he's underwater. He's not thinking about anyone else, not focused on anything else. Only the next punch he wants to throw.

He takes a step forward, but he's shoved off to the side by a trio of young women who flock to Daniels' side. They crouch down beside him, cooing at him and helping him up. Soap turns to his left and he squints at the bright light of several phone flashes now being shoved in his face. He turns to his right and he's met with your face.

You're looking at him with wide watery eyes, your mouth parted in disbelief. The anger, jealousy and adrenaline all flood out at him once he sees how scared you look. It makes him uncurl his fist, drop his shoulders and unclench his jaw. Trying to make himself smaller—approachable. He must look deranged to you. Sweaty and drunk with a bruised nose and red knuckles.

He takes a step forward in your direction, but you take a step back. You shake your head and turn around, squeezing through the crowd towards the exit. He follows after you, shouldering his way through the crowd, his eyes never straying from the back of your head. He can hear Gaz's voice calling out to him from behind, but he doesn't stop.

He's at your heels, not even giving you the chance to push open the door before he reaches for you and grabs your elbow. You spin around, your face now twisted in anger. You try yanking and twisting your arm free, but he only tighten his hold as he leads you down a hallway to the left—straight to the men's restroom. He doesn't know where he's going, he should've probably taken you to the women's restroom, but he's not thinking clearly right now.

All he wants to do is get you alone. To explain himself. To apologize for scaring you. To apologize again for manhandling you into this dingy pub bathroom.

"Let go!" You fight him every step of the way, your free hand now smacking at his bicep.

He doesn't loosen his grip as he pushes open the bathroom door and ushers you inside. It's a single stall bathroom, just big enough for the both of you. Once you're both inside he lets go of your elbow and you dart away from him and go to stand near the sink.

He call feel the heat of your gaze on the back of his head when he locks the door. He turns to look at you and all the long overdue explanations and apologizes he planned on saying to you—the ones he's been dying to tell you ever since he saw you working outside his Captain's office just evaporate. His mind goes blank.

Your arms are tightly crossed, he can see how hard you're pressing your fingertips into the crook of your elbows. You're scowling at him, your eyes still shimmering with un-shed angry tears. He can't think much of anything except for how beautiful you look right now.

You're dressed in a little frilly white top and black jeans. A stark contrast to what he usually sees you in now. But, it looks so familiar. It's how you used to dress when the both of you would go out. He remembers how you used to model your clothes for him, asking for his input. He would tell you how beautiful you looked and that would draw out the biggest smile from you every time.

He wants to see it again.

He knows he should say something; that he has to say something. He doesn't know what. Well, he does know what he wants to say—what he knows he's supposed to say and what you're owed, but he's not sure how to say it.

How does he tell you that he regrets sending that message? How does he tell you that he wished he could take it all back? How does he tell you that he hadn't stopped thinking of you—that he hadn't stopped dreaming of you? How does he tell you that it kills him to see you with Daniels? That it hurts—that it burns— when he thinks of you with another man.

How does he tell you that he wants you back? That he wants to try again.

"What the fuck is your problem?" The bite in your voice jolts him back.

He doesn't respond, he just blinks at you.

"How much have you had to drink?" You take a single step towards him, uncrossing your arms. "Eight? Nine? Ten beers?"

Soap shakes his head, "…'m not tha' pissed."

"Oh, right," you scoff, you take another step closer. "I'm sure you're stone-cold sober, yeah. You just go around assaulting people for fun, huh?"

Soap draws out a long exhale, bringing his hand up to swipe at his sweaty brow. He's not exactly drunk. but he isn't exactly sober either. It wasn't the alcohol that made him punch Daniels'. It was only a matter of time, really. He just didn't have a good enough reason to do it; until tonight that is. The way he was looking at you, how he was smiling at you, how he hung on your every word. How close he was to you. It made him see red.

"Thought he was…thought he was someone else," he mumbles, choosing to lie to you isn't the smartest choice (he knows you'll figure him out), but he's already in deep shit with you.

You frown, "Someone else?"

"Yeah. Isn't he s'pose to be…out training or somethin'?"

"It was cancelled."

He raises his brow, feigning interest. "Cancelled? Why's tha'?"

"Stop." You snap at him. "Stop changing the subject. We're not talking about Liam."

Soap holds back a scoff at your use of Daniels' first name. He knows that will only piss you off even more and he doesn't want to risk you giving him the cold-shoulder, not now.

"What the fuck is your problem?" You ask again, you take a final step closer to him. Angling your head up to lock eyes with him. The tips of your flats almost touching the tips of his sneakers. "Why would you do that? The fuck is wrong with you?"

You're so close. Too close. When was the last time you were this close to him? He can't remember. All he sees is you. All he can smell is you. The sweet familiar smell of you, how it swirls around him and intoxicates him. Having you this close makes it hard for him to speak. Hard for him to think.

So instead he acts.

He plants one large hand on your hip, the other curves to hold onto the back of your neck. He pulls you closer, closing the inches of space between the both of you.

And he presses his lips to yours.

part eight. // masterlist

[cod-dump]

Gaz trying to explain what the backrooms is to Price, and all Price can think about is the time he got lost in a underground bunker that was endless hallways and empty rooms. Gaz just retraumatized the man over the worst ten hours of his life.

[yellow-cat]

i have wild sentences roaming through me at all times

[unseaworthy]

The best feeling in the world as a fanfic writer is when you see someone like the last chapter of your current work, and then immediately like the first chapter of another one. Bro is working through my corpus 🥹🥹🥹

[morghula]

103 kudos on just another monday!!! omggg thank u so much 😭💜💜