sare

Sare (S-air)| She/Her | 21🎀 getting thoughts out of my head one by one

[murdersnerd]

Meet Me + My Masterlist

Hi! My name’s Sare (S-air), and if you’ve read this far, welcome! You’ll see a few things on my blog, mostly fanfiction, but occasionally i plan on posting drawings as well as some random stuff. All of my work will be appropriately tagged, so please pay attention before interacting. Obviously, I don’t own the characters but please don’t take my content off of tumblr to any other website! I have no intention of sharing it any place other than here, and would like it to stay that way :)

also: pay attention to my posts for taylor swift references. I like to sneak them in 😉

Pink= Sfw Red=NSFW

You Are In Love (John Price x fem!reader)

Hits Different (John Price x gn!reader

Untitled (Simon Riley x gn!reader)

Soaps Playlist (blurb w/gn!reader)

Bake Sale Headcanons (TF141, no Reader)

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley blurbs:

The Missus: 1 2 3

1 -> 2

ghost forgot his mask was on

plush got taken

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick blurbs:

1

Captain Price

Captain needs to get outside

[cruxhing]

You began to realize how weird your teammates were. First, John walked into the community room and suddenly became an awkward, rambling mess as he talked to your civilian friends. Then there was Johnny— who looked like he was in on a dare; walked in with the ugliest pink suit because he thought your birthday party meant everyone was dressing up. And there was Kyle. He walked into the window that looked into the community room, thinking it was the door.

You swore up and down to your civilian friends that your teammates were normal. Even though they were in their prime (old), they weren’t weird. Now you’re regretting saying a thing.

In hopes to salvage this awkward encounter, you prayed that Simon would act normal. Which… says a lot. Because that man would probably walk in and just glare at everyone.

In the midst of talking to your friends, you had received a text from Simon that he had arrived. You could’ve sworn you left the front lobby door ajar so your guests can pop in and out whenever. “I’ll be back…” you mumbled to your friend, staring at the message from Simon as you made your way to the front door.

There, Simon stood by the front door and who would’ve guess! The door was ajar; a small rock wedged in between the door and doorway. “The doors unlocked, Lieutenant. Why didn’t you just come in?” you asked with a small chuckle, opening the door wider for him.

Simon steps off to the side to prevent himself from getting smacked in the face and shrugged. “Wasn’t sure if I could,” he simply stated.

You glanced down at the poorly wrapped gift in his hand and the back up at him. There was a moment where the two of you just awkwardly stood there— you waiting for him to squeeze pass through you and him just staring down at you.

“Can I come in?” Simon finally asks, raising a brow under his balaclava.

Now… Some may say you’re crazy and to some degree, you agree. But you’ve just watched a movies about vampires with the hottest actor alive playing as two brothers and right now, Simon is giving off vampire energy.

He was always one to just barge in and ask questions later.

So what in the world has gotten into him?

“Why’re you asking?” you asked slowly, still propping the door open. He hasn’t moved.

Instead, Simon shifts his feet a bit and gives you another shrug. “Figured I asked. Bit impolite to walk in without an answer, innit?” he questions with the faintest of head tilt.

Your eyes narrow a bit. “Well— doors wide open, so,” you say with a hum after, still waiting for him to step inside.

Yet— Simon doesn’t. Fucking idiot is unaware that you believe he’s gone full blow vampire.

Now, as he’s standing in front of you, everything is starting to make sense. Why he’s always wearing a balaclava; to hide from the sun (definitely not because of his job, duh), and why he’s always glaring at your silver necklace (it’s definitely not because he’s a proper son of a bitch and wonders if it’s cubic zirconia or sterling silver). “You a vampire or some?” you blurted out, eyes narrow.

“Fuckin’ hell, what?” Simon gasps out, his eyes blown out in confusion. “Is that why you’re asking me these questions? You bloody psycho,” Simon grunts out, taking a step back as if he was disgusted you’d even think that. “You’re proper mad,” he adds.

That’s the most you’ve heard Simon talk in the few years you’ve worked with him.

“Outta my way, I’m not a bloody vampire.” Simon had to stop himself from rolling his eyes as he slides in between you and the door, letting out a quiet scoff and shaking his head.

You pursed your lips, turning to look at him, “hey, it’s not my fault! You usually just barge in!” you defended yourself, noticing how he was biting back a smile behind his mask.

Simon gently shoves the gift in your chest and continued shaking his head, “not when it comes to you,” he says under his breath.

You held onto the gift, unmoving as you continued to stare up at him. Would you say that there was some underlining romance between you two? Fuck no. Well— you’d like to not think so but everyone else around the two of you says otherwise. “That was really cringy,” you say with a snort, gently dropping the gift to your side.

Simon glances off to the side and shrugs a bit. He’s fully aware that everyone notices the “I’m flirting with you but it’s coming off as a joke so no one can ask me about my feelings” between you two. “Can’t I be honest?” he asks, rocking on his heels a bit. He nods to the gift, “open it.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want anyone else to see what I got you.”

You raised a brow, slowly looking down at the gift in your hand before your fingers flicked the loosen edges. “And why’s that?”

You could’ve sworn you seen a smile behind Simon’s balaclava. “Can’t let everyone know I tolerate you enough to gift something meaningful,” he says lowly.

Biting back a smile, you slowly opened the gift and stuffed the wrapper under your armpit. “I’m still suspicious of you being a vampire,” you say while opening up the box.

As soon as your eyes landed on the gift, you stopped breathing and blinking all together. A gift card— no, two gift cards. One for your favorite restaurant out of the base and another one for a shop online you’ve mentioned once about it “being your favorite.” The other gift? Simon’s dog tag.

“If I was a vampire, I’d turn y’into one,” Simon said, sticking his head under his balaclava and pulled his dog tag from under his hoodie. “Mean it when I say I tolerate you.” He lifts his dog tag with the back of his thumb and nods down at the other one in the gift box.

By tolerate, Simon meant: “I’m deeply in love and can’t express my feelings so here’s my dog tag with my entire information on it.”

You looked up at him, jaw ajar and eyes wide. Yeah, you’re sure he’s grinning behind the mask now, there was no way he wasn’t. “You psycho!” you whispered, hitting his chest. “What if I stole your information with this?!” you hissed, grinning as you watch him snort and roll his eyes.

“I’d let you,” Simon said, taking a step to the side. He paused for a second before turning around to head into the community room, “let’s go. Don’t need people thinking I have feelings for you.”

With that, Simon began walking away as you strutted behind. “Took you long enough,” you whispered, nudging his arm.

Simon gave you a side eye and huffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Should’ve taken the gift back after you falsely accused me of being a vampire.”

[murdersnerd]

Ghost was used to being stared at. He was a big man, tall and intimidating. But something about the way you were squinting at him made unsure about himself. You were staring hard, and every time you looked away, you’d look back.

He figures you must have gotten tired of squinting because slowly you moved closer. Under the guise of checking other items in the aisle, you crept forward a few feet every time he looked.

He was getting a bit anxious about it, even though nothing about what you were doing felt purposefully intimidating. So he continued to side-eye you every once in a while in an odd type of standoff.

And then you quickly looked at him as you passed which was when he heard you mumble.

“Oh its a skull.”

His mask. The one he had forgot he had on his face. The same one that never usually wore off base. But today had sucked and he got halfway to his dingy flat before realizing there wasn’t any real food in there.

And boy does his head whip back around when he hears you say to yourself, “That’s so stupid who wears a mask to the store.”

The second he’s alone in an aisle he takes it off and shoves it into his pocket, keeping his head on a swivel to see if he spots you again before he checks out. Can’t tell why he’s disappointed when he doesn’t. Only then does he step out to realize he parked in the spot next to yours, right where your car isn’t starting.

[artm-is87]

and when broken bodies are washed ashore (who am i to ask for more?)

captain john 'soap' mactavish x gn!reader.

word count: 7,912

tw: unhealthy coping mechanisms, so much pining, PTSD, mention of alcohol abuse, implied abuse; everybody lives, nobody dies (activision hand them over to me); minor ghost/roach, hurt/comfort, angst, fighting, making up.

hello, hi, this was supposed to be uhh short. for me. did not turn out that way, obviously. i hope its readable, ive been having the absolute shittiest time, but we keep rolling. this is a lot emotionally wise, so tread carefully, i think. anyway, i hope u like it, remember to take care of yourselves, and thank god january is over.

Captain Mactavish isn't as suave as people tend to believe.

The men pull his leg sometimes, attempting to make him go out to the local bar that hasn't banned them yet, and take home a pretty bird or two, more than convinced that their elusive leader is either hiding someone at home, or packing something so fierce, they're scared to get in the line. Which according to the troops, is bigger than the one to Tesco.

All wrong assumptions, of course. Soap can't remember the last time he got hugged, let alone shagged someone. No time, no energy, and most of all — barely any motivation. He walks around with a menacing aura around him these days; no time for distractions, all serious expressions and a game plan. Ever since he's had his first, rough taste of what the life he chose truly entails, he's stopped putting up a facade. He still wakes up at that bridge. Falling down from that chapel, if his brain is feeling merciful that night.

There's nothing on his mind as pressing as getting the job done, bringing every single one of his men back home and alive, and then passing out to a bottle of scotch that's finally stopped being on a repetitive cycle of replacement. He knows he's in rough shape, but he's been worse. Having his old Captain back helped some things; surviving a war did too. Despite the whistling he sometimes gets at the gym, or just in the mess hall, there's no part of him he'd consider desirable. It's a body that serves a function, and it does that relatively well. It holds his gun aimed just right, enforces movement to avoid oncoming fire, and traps all the guilt and shame where it's supposed to stay — inside. He's long past caring if some call him stone-cold, brutal. This hellish nightmare he got thrusted into at birth is brutal. This? This is survival.

It's a mantra, repeating as he tears people's throats out, stabs them and slits their guts; holds a rifle to a pleading head and fires. There's no room for hesitance, reprieve.

Sometimes, though, he lets himself think. Wonders and asks God why on earth he became a captain, why they allowed such a failure and a shell of a man to assume a position with so much responsibility. He understood Price, then — the second he felt the brunt of having to make a call, knowing full well that he's enacting death through words. John thinks about all the times he wanted, so many things there was no telling what to get his grubby paws on first; when his mind wasn't trying to eat itself alive. He yearns, for so much yet so little, considering the true power he has over life itself. It's a slippery slope, that. Once he starts, it's difficult to stop. It's borderline pathetic, something his brain adores to remind him of. The only problem is, no matter how much he tries, there's no escaping his very nature — he cares, the main root of all of his issues; worries about the team constantly, checking over each member like they're his chicks, not fully grown men armed to the teeth. He knows he could, theoretically, settle down, just like they gossip about in spare time. Shouldn't be so hard, if only he was actually present, mentally and physically. Which, as it stands, is not going to be a possibility anytime soon.

It's a resolved matter, or so he thinks. Easier that way, anyway. He has enough things to concern himself with, and his head would most likely explode if it was occupied with yet another thing.

That's until they start hunting Makarov. Until the war, until they recover Price. Up to the moment, he has to put out the fire that almost takes Ghost and Roach, until they recover.

Until you.

It's no coincidence, he thinks, when Shepherd first drops you into his lap like an unruly pup he decided he no longer wanted. Some divine being forcing him into an intervention, or something. Things with Ghost went similarly, in a way — Riley was put onto the team, no questions asked, forcing Soap to step up and manage one more, very damaged person, besides himself; yet it's so different he feels like throwing up, sometimes.

You're good, is the first thing he notes. Capable, responsible, sharp. Exactly what the team needs, and yet he has the urge to throw himself off of a cliff when he gets the extended, and not completely blacked out, version of your file. The original facts remain confirmed — top of the top, unbeaten. It's the personal shit that makes him wish he wasn't like this. That he didn't care, didn't want to somehow shelter you, but seeing as his relationship with Roach progressed, that was never in the cards. He gets a glimpse of it in your eyes, sometimes. The things you've seen, experienced, lived through — somehow still kicking and fighting, worn out all the same. Shepherd didn't want you, not exactly; what turned into a few missions done for the General got cut short when you sniffed a bit too close, got clever and showed that what became of you isn't just a puppet, with ready to pull strings. Knowing what he knows now, it tracks; it's just a miracle the old fuck didn't off you right then and there.

The team warmed up fairly quickly, a bunch of misfits themselves. Not even being as quiet as you are could deter them — they're drawn to you like moths to a flame.

It takes half a bottle of his best scotch to admit to himself that he's not immune, too.

Even at the initial start-up, where he watched you with distrustful eyes and probably treated you way shittier than he does other men; granted, the standard here might actually be a major step up, compared to your past squadrons. Still, he revealed nothing, even after realizing that you're the furthest thing from a potential rat Shepherd planted on his team. Just changed his behavior a bit, that's all; adjusted, and got to working on actually trusting you, relying on your skills and expertise. Stopped questioning you, giving orders that would make Ghost bristle. Throughout it all, he heard no complaints, no breakdowns or laments — merely receiving a nod and well-meaning effort. He does feel bad about it, but it's not in his nature to just walk up and apologize. If it was, he wouldn't know how to even approach the subject. So, he stayed close instead, incidentally becoming closer to you than anyone else on the team.

With the exception of Roach, maybe. The bug likes your dimmed and toned down aura so much, it's like he glued himself to your side and refuses to budge ever since. It would piss Mactavish off — has, actually, but he gave it up once he realized how he has no logical right to, and any clue on what to do about it. Besides, you're more like a bizarre case of lost siblings, than anything. Not that he paid close attention to your interactions, but if he did, he'd chalk it up as being a responsible Captain, watching over his subordinates and making sure all rapport was in order. Sure, being delusional is usually more suitable for the people they're hunting, but a man has to cope somehow.

It's well-established, then. How he allows himself the smallest of repressed desires, and just looks; paying closer attention than necessary, noticing things and cataloguing them in his head, turning it into a collection of sorts. Nobody calls him out on it, although he's pretty sure Ghost knows — the man is as aware of everything around him as Soap is, so it's no wonder that Riley realized his Captain has a staring problem. They shared a silent, charged look, and it miraculously stayed between them. The team's designated phantom was even more paranoid when you first showed up, but far more aggressive with it, than he dared to be. He's seen clenched fists, bitten off tongues on your part, but it never escalated. Only once, when nobody was close enough to listen in to your words, you've whispered something to Ghost — and the man seemingly stopped bullying you on the spot. He's seen money passed around to bet on what it was, but ripping something out of the two most silent people on base would be worse than sawing off limbs. There was no friendship, there, not yet. Not until you jumped into the raging fire, literally, and put down the flames with your own body. You gained another leech, that day. Not that it seems you mind. Soap certainly doesn't — the squad is better, stronger with you in it, but he still remembers the fear paralyzing him that day. Can recall every detail to a millisecond, knows that he didn't care about anything other than seeing you all alive, and those worries coming up blank felt like a goddamn miracle. You felt like a miracle; sent from one bloodhound to another, you made yourself at home with only him. Soap never felt like a luckier bastard than when he saw your lips tick up into the tiniest of smiles, when the relief at not having to bury another friend crashed into him full-force.

The most surprising part was when Price came back, or rather — there was no surprise. Only a greeting, between you two, strangely familiar, and he still doesn't know the full story. Got some half-assed explanation from the man himself, but he could tell that there are a lot of things buried under that mountain. Didn't dare question it further, and he didn't have time, not with a war and constant fighting. It wasn't until they hang Makarov, until they all went home and collapsed under the weight of everything that transpired, that he got to thinking.

Dangerous thing, that.

It's quiet now, almost.

Dust has settled, and so have they — as much as they're able. Sometimes he wakes up and thinks that something went wrong; the fact that most of them have come out of the whole war alive. Like there's an itch he can't scratch, walking around waiting for the ticking to finally stop, and yet it never does. He thought he'd be exhausted, and he is, but not enough to actually rest. There's not a moment he doesn't fidget, scan every single room with the single-minded focus they praised him for when he first picked up a rifle, now feeling more and more like a curse. It's not just him, either.

Price is the only one who's back to business as usual, although with the man's history, it's no surprise. The Captain survived as long as he has because of the same qualities that make Soap go crazy now. It doesn't mean he's completely intact — there's a weariness clinging to him, his gait heavy and breath stinking of tobacco, far more than he remembers it to. There's less late hours slaved away at his desk, more time looking up into the nighttime sky and writing. MacTavish likes to think he inspired him to pick that particular habit up, and the reason for that might be the fact that he almost gave his last notepad to the older man as his dying wish. He remembers glancing at you watching the exchange, blood smeared all over your clothes and eyes clouded with fear. Wanted to leave something to you too, but that shitty, old thing was the only valuable thing he had, and he knew that Price would lose his shit if he died. It was only a consolation prize, meant to stave off an incoming state of madness. Instead, he vaguely recalls giving you his hand, watching you squeeze it like you could pour more life into him. It's still tingling, when the memories return.

The rest of the team aren't that lucky. Ghost and Roach are still recovering, but doctor's are optimistic; thanks to a timely rescue, the damage was kept minimal. It's the gunshot wounds that were more pressing, in opposed to any burns. Roach is trying, pushing himself to get back on what he deems a good enough level, and Soap almost had the nerve to intervene before the kid kicked himself into an early grave all alone, but he didn't have to. Ghost was the trickiest bastard, and as much as he wanted to gripe about the man, he can't. He gives him grief, for logical reasons, most of the time (like opening the wrong door), but he's seen Simon out there, and in the comfort of their base. Man's not as heartless as he appears to be. That doesn't take away from the fact that he becomes a raging cunt when he's injured, and it took some stern measures to ensure that he didn't mess up all the work medical did, or hide his pain away.

He'd like to claim credit for taking care of his unit, but the reality is much different, and far less favorable. The most MacTavish has done in the last few months is complete some paperwork and go on one, singular op that required little to no attention from him. He mostly wanders around the halls, checks up on people passively, and moves on. Writes, draws, pretends he's fine. He hasn't been sleeping well, and he's not stupid enough to jump into action in such a state. No, none of them have been actually getting shit done; except for you.

It seems like you barely took a goddamn nap after coming back. Sometimes, on one of his strolls, he'll see a blink of you — a mere flash, almost like a hallucination, before you're gone again. There was a lot of administrative work to be done, prerogatives to get the base back on working feet, managing soldiers and coordinating future plans, meetings with higher-ups. Soap has done diddly in those apartments. Wondered, for a moment, if perhaps Price got to it before he even realized, but the man only stared at him for a long moment, exhaling a puff from his cigar, and nodding in your direction. Analyzed Soap when the man was distracted looking at you, and when he returned his gaze, all that met him was a teasing glint and an understanding so deep it rendered him speechless.

"Does everything, that one. I don't even know when the work disappears."

He started looking, after that. How you helped Roach with his physiotherapy, talked to him when shit got rough; that Ghost randomly stopped behaving like a lunatic and actually listened, mostly to you, though. Everything was back to running as smooth as it could with the current state of the world, and miraculously showing no signs that a war passed through the door. If someone needed shit done, they came to you. The main core of the unit was slacking off, (even if they were technically put on hold), while who could still be considered a newbie started running the show. Thing is, he's not even mad, has no energy for it, but the guilt and shame is starting to eat him alive. He noticed the same pattern within others — that jittery feeling starting to show up again, motivating the soldiers to return to something that isn't this vegetative state. They're all appreciative, too. More than that, and it's clear he's not the only one who'd like to thank you and take some of your workload, allow you a well-deserved rest, if only anyone could catch you for more than two goddamn minutes.

Now months after everything went down, he should be commanding his unit. Sanderson and Riley have been cleared for light duty only, but it is a go-ahead; there's simply nothing to do once you've swept through the place. He understands the desire and the need to move, do something with yourself — he's been known to be brash, restless, bouncing off the walls most of the time, so this coping you're doing is more than relatable. It's also worrying, and nudges his thoughts into yet another dangerous territory — making him have urges, wants, to protect and provide, be the rock you became for him. Still, there's no sign you've taken a break in the time they were lounging around, and nobody can even order you to stop. Aside from an acting Captain, who's been running around the place like a maniac, trying to find what turned out to be the actual ghost haunting the base. The boys merely shrug when he asks, and they can tell it's not a cover-up; they look as unsettled as he feels.

He's been watching the rookies for hours now, putting them through drills and yawning. The sky is a murky blue, typical, English shitty weather, and all he wants to do is pass out. Him and Price concocted a plan to hide away some of the paperwork and finally sit down to it themselves — it worked, albeit was not as much of a success as they hoped, in the end. Soap almost forgot how boring it is to fill those forms out, and he dozed off about four times, before being saved by the bell (Price, with his infinite wisdom, ordering him to watch the muppets instead). It's upsetting, almost, how tired with this life he is. Wouldn't change it for the world. Nothing out there for him, nothing that would take away what he's already seen and replace it with something better. He wonders, for a brief, insane second, if you do. Tries not to entertain it further, but it's futile. Your past was spelled out for him in the file, but not even the most gruesome parts were the full picture. There's still a lot remaining a mystery to him, and because the first half of knowing you he spent doubting and suspecting you, the other — on war and survival, there was no time to ask. He realizes he doesn't even know you, not really. Trusts you with his life, but for that, he has no clue what kind of person you are; or he pretends to, because truth is far less bearable. He knows you like the back of his hand, now, with all the stalking he got around to in between running for your lives.

He knows you care about your teammates, collateral causalities. You have a sharp mind, even sharper tongue, and nothing ever escapes you — observant, then, and to a dangerous extent. That's another thing. You're fucking deadly, and he has to admit that he marveled at what you can actually do on more than one occasion. He knows he never has to check your gear (does it anyway), because it will all be perfectly in place, prepared to a staggering degree and just the way it's supposed to be. There's usually a loose cig in your mouth, and he knows the brand, has seen Ghost smuggle it into the base for you, once he got over himself. You appreciate the people willing to work with you, and show it — he can't recount the amount of times you helped him with the godforsaken red tape and brought him a coffee when he needed it. At first, it was awkward, but that state didn't last long. Soon, the work related topics were moved for things much softer, pliable and breakable; cherished. Mactavish enjoyed every second spent in your company, even amidst an active battle zone. That doesn't mean he let himself dwell on it, instead burying it in a treasure chest and dumping it into an ocean. Now, it's all he can think about. Has a desperate need to unveil you, to somehow reach you when nobody can. It makes him want, and there's nothing he needs less in this life. Of course, you get it. You're not a bird who's nest he just settled in. Flying high with him makes you someone he knows understands, on an innate level, that this job is about losing, rarely winning. Each time he allows himself this tiniest bit of hope, the doubts creep in, and he cowers like a child, hiding under the covers when someone turns the lights on.

The kids are getting tired, so he cuts them loose; does the same with his thoughts, while he's at it. He lets himself close his eyes for a brief moment, try to ground himself. Shame it gets interrupted by a menacing presence he'd recognize from a mile away.

Ghost takes a seat next to him without asking, not that he really needs to — common manners are a thing obsolete in this base, apparently. He doesn't speak, so Mactavish doesn't jump at the opportunity to open his mouth either. It's actually quite nice, when they're not at each other's throats. here's been a mounting tension between them, ever since the war ended; Riley woke up, and John in his usual fashion decided to blame himself for the two soldiers getting hurt. It took a while, but they moved past it, far more content to go back to their usual bullshit. Granted, he's pretty sure Ghost still kicks himself for opening his mouth to practically paint a target on his back, when the Navy fired on the Gulag. It made them look suspicious, which in turn made Shepherd paranoid enough to cut the strings; loose ends, and all that. Roach suffering didn't help the matters, but he's confident that Riley will not be getting over that one tidbit. The longer they sit there, the more he feels himself get slightly agitated — must be the effect Ghost just has on him. If he's being honest with himself, he doesn't mind the constant bickering and arguing, it keeps him on his toes. Besides, it was a nice change of pace from mindless, wide-eyed rookies agreeing with everything he said.

"Y'gonna find and talk to them this year, or shall we wait for the spring to come?" The man finally speaks, not even glancing at his captain, lighting a cig and shamelessly puffing the smoke in his face.

Mactavish glares, grunting slightly. The endless cigars he smoked while Price was gone was a poor habit he didn't even enjoy. It hurt, and as punishment goes, he could've picked up something worse. Like the drinking. Getting side-tracked, he shakes his head and mulls over Ghost's words, not rising to the bait immediately. Don't get him wrong, he wants to, but he's also aware of how stupid he'd sound, for a multitude of reasons. One, he's had ample opportunities to speak with you when the dust has settled, just didn't; two, not being able to find what is technically still his subordinate, on his base, is just laughable. Three, and the most important one — as much as he's worried, and wants to intervene, he's also afraid.

He hasn't been the best captain, to you, or at least that's how he sees it; would describe himself as a good friend even less, although he remembers a time you hesitantly referred to the squad as the only people in this world you still care about. He reciprocates fully (maybe even more than that), but he's not entirely sure it's been shown. The more he thinks about it, the more it starts to look like he's gone insane.

"Tryin'. Not makin' it easy, though, ay?" He replies, twitching slightly.

Riley hums, observing him with those piercing eyes, and he hates this feeling. Like he's being observed, picked apart and turned inside and out; like Ghost can see him, fully. Him knowing just makes things more unbearable, because catching Mactavish with his eyes glued on your form means there's a picture already formed in that skull head.

"They've been holed up in the old office, the one we remodeled for storage. Found 'em passed out, by accident." Soap's head snaps in his direction at the words, said almost in a bored manner.

"Why you tellin' me this?" Always wary, he has to ask.

Ghost wouldn't give this information out for nothing. Not the kind of man he is, if barely that. There must be an end goal, an objective he strives to achieve; always the goddamn planner. He knows this intel has worth, just doesn't know how much.

At first, the other man just shrugs, but it's cocky, raising his hackles and forcing him to stare Riley down like this is a prelude to a fight. It could be, if the man is going to continue acting like a self-absorbed cunt, which he is.

"They look miserable. So do you. And I want us to stop sittin' around, so take charge, sir."

John stares, eye twitching. He has the sudden urge to strangle Ghost.

"Oh, and the sooner you get over this pining thing you've got goin' on, the sooner we can get back to business as usual." Ghost's lips twitch around the cigarette, the bastard pressing buttons he has no right of knowing about.

"You… Are you just tryin' to stir shit up cause you're fuckin' bored, lieutenant?" He responds, a near growl aimed directly at the man.

Huffing, he picks himself up and starts walking off, not waiting to see if Riley has anything more to say. Not that it would matter; he has a feeling the Brit is feeling satisfied, anyway. The further into the base he gets, the more agitation creeps in, and he's soon stomping towards the foretold storage room. He's not angry at you, not even at Ghost — more at himself, for being such a careless Captain that not only his teammates got hurt, but they felt like they were forced to pick up his slack. Remembering suddenly that you didn't come out unscathed out of the war feels like a punch in the gut, one he uses to fuel the already spiraling out of control guilt complex. He feels like a damn fool, a right bastard for just sitting idly with a thumb up his ass, while someone he appreciates was doing his own duty. All while going through some shit, but prioritizing others. At this point, the brass should just give you the position.

He deflates at the door, just slightly. Hesitance shows, and his raised hand pauses before it knocks. Second-thoughts are not something he's accustomed to, more than willing to just throw caution to the wind and trust his gut, but this is proving to be something his gut is not equipped to handle. Still, he's no coward, so he mentally slaps himself and just goes for it. Never say deep down, under that cool, mysterious Captain persona — he's still just a hot-headed idiot.

Hearing a slight grumble on the other side, his mouth twitches, and he enters. You're slumped over a hefty stack of documents, more around you, forming a fortress he intents to bring down. Makes it a mission, actually, to cope with the swirling anxiety, and vouches to get you far away from that desk and into an actual bed as soon as possible. The feeling intensifies when you raise your head, blinking blearily at him, eyes sunken in, with deep, dark circles under them. Mactavish grimaces, just slightly, and you squint. He hasn't been thrown out yet though, and to stop that from being a possibility, he closes the doors with a firmer hand than he intended, the sound echoing through the room and turning your expression from suspicious to worried.

Your lips get caught in between your teeth, the longer you scan him for any sign indicating the reason for his unexpected visit. The sight of you like this does something to render his brain useless, though, so he mostly just stands there and stares, slowly causing your face to tighten. You look pretty, is the first thing his mind comes up with, even with mussed hair and clear fatigue evident in every crevice of you. It hits him like a truck, almost, how attached he became. Nothing planned, obviously, seeing your history, but now would be the perfect time to try and fix it, which he wants to do — it's just that his mouth is mostly opening and closing, with no sound coming out of it. He spent so much time analyzing your interactions, daydreaming and haunting you down, that the moment he has you right where he knows there's nowhere to run or evade this, he suddenly blanks. Idiot, Mactavish. Get your head out of your ass.

It helps, somewhat, and he shakes his head minutely, making your brows rise. He probably looks like a maniac, feels like one too.

"You alright there, Cap?" You finally ask, slight concern woven into it.

Your voice isn't meek, despite the general air of silence following you. It's strong, slightly scratchy now, probably from a lack of use, but even out there it carries some level of characteristics that make his brain tingle. Never one to yap over comms, not like Ghost, anyway; it's sometimes easy to forget what it sounds like. Affirmatives in the field are usually shouted, screamed over the echoes of gunfire and explosions, so the normal tone you're using now is one he's associated with an almost privilege. Actions speak louder than words, though, as he always believed, and yours have shined brighter than most; it's still sweet, to him at least, and he soaks it up like a sponge. Deprived for almost two months, he never realized how accustomed he was to hearing you talk until everything went quiet. Soap also notes the use of his title, spoken carefully, almost like you're scared he came here to yell and demand his old job back. Which he was going to do, to an extent, but now it's sort mellowed out, turned his previous determination and resolve into something softer. He thinks he gets it, now — the days spent burrowing yourself in here, working overtime and taking on responsibilities not originally meant for you, wasn't a way to alleviate the burden left on his shoulders. Sure, that might've been another reason to push you towards it, but he can recognize a desire to escape something better than most.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Been lookin' for you." He responds, about time, watching you blink slowly before busying yourself with something to hide the nervous swallow he still clocked.

"Been busy, ever since we came back. Wanted to help." He hums at that, taking small steps before eventually sitting down on the opposite side of the desk.

It's clearly a chair somebody brought into the room, seeing as it wasn't here before. Most of the stuff cluttered here is a new addition, but unlike most people on base, he's actually been here before — mostly to dump old files, or some random shit nobody was using anymore. It was barren then, now it looks like a different space. If he had to guess, the seat was shoved in by either Roach or Ghost, and he bites his tongue not to comment on that fact with something that would sound suspiciously like jealousy. Refocusing, he notes the way you're avoiding his gaze, going through a mass of paper and writing down on your laptop. There's a new scar on your face, almost surprising him when he can't help but scan it again. No doubt making you uncomfortable, or just fearful, he pretends the guilt that stabs him is something to be dealt with later. He knows where it came from, is the thing.

Having cheated death many times in the past, this time didn't even surprise him. It's the fact that for once, it wasn't Soap jumping in front of someone to shield them — you did it to him, for a change.

"I heard. Time to get back to full swing, though, so you can rest now. Me and Price got it, from now on." Mactavish tries to sound comforting, even warm, but the way his gruff voice rings out, it just reads like an order, or a very vague threat.

You freeze at his words, slowly raising your head to look him directly into his eyes. He doesn't know what you see, but by the way you suddenly deflate, it can't be good. Clearing your throat, you mutter a quick I see, before gesturing to the last stack of files.

"I'll just finish these off then, sir. But uh… Just let me know if you need assistance, yeah? I'm good on the rest part. Fit for duty and all tha'." Chuckling humorlessly, your eyes are yet again trained everywhere but his face, and his expression contorts the longer you talk.

He wants to say more, but you're clearly over this conversation. Besides, what is he supposed to say? At least something that won't make him sound like a giant hypocrite. He's worked with bullet holes still bleeding, injuries that would force anyone else on bed-rest, and still felt compelled to keep going. Having an argument is the last thing he wants right now, and he has a feeling that's where this was headed. They all suffer through this job, that's the way it is; there's nothing he can say to make you suddenly do a one-eighty and give up. Biting back any more retort and feeling like he failed, he slowly gets up, muttering right, under his nose and leaving. Glances back, one last time, before the door closes, only to see you fully engrossed in you work, making him sigh and admit defeat. Nothing went according to plan, and despite his honest to God attempts, he has a sickening feeling that by trying to fix things, he only made them worse.

It's not another month later that he comes to regret ever leaving that room, even if you fought until you drew blood.

It's everywhere he looks, now. Cursing again, he takes a sharp turn, making hand signs for Ghost to go to his left. This was supposed to be an easy, smooth transition back to covert operations, and it ended up the same way it always does — a shitshow with them as starring attractions.

You've been acting strange since he barged into your little hiding place; seemingly normal, you stopped hogging all the work and things returned to what they used to be, but he knew better. The circles under your eyes haven't dissipated, they were more prominent as time went on. He asked the boys, hoping they'll have better luck, to no use — even Ghost seemed worried, and that's never a good sign. Still, they had actual work to do, so whatever's been happening had to wait. That was an idiotic thing to do, clearly, as now they're trying to catch up with you.

Simple in and out, get the files without incidents and then to the extraction point. The problem arrived when they did, meaning someone tipped these morons off; they got ambushed the second their helo landed. As they pushed forward, per instructions (he's going to have some words with the overlords when they get back), they found themselves at a standstill. Turned out the documents were much more important than he was originally led to believe, and he doesn't know where the hope of better things came from, but he genuinely thought after the war, some of the suits would change. Fat chance that, and they had to make-do with what they had, which is apparently you.

He hated the idea the moment he heard it, but they were also out of options. Either stay here and die, or send someone ahead, praying they'll get what they need amidst the chaos. You jumped at the opportunity, and he knew right then and there that calling it is going to bite him in the ass. At first, things seemed to be looking up — you fired a mortar at the enemies, giving them an advantage they pressed; it's when you stopped responding that he lost his shit. They're cleaning house, all serious faces and speed as a priority, but the site is barren. It's like this truly was supposed to be a clean op, with no resistance in sight. Clearly, that changed, and what was probably an entirely unused base was suddenly swarmed. The hardware scattered around is covered in dust, most equipment abandoned or destroyed, and the most walls look cracked down the middle. Now he's worried this place will fall apart before they can get your arse out of wherever you are.

Their steps are near silent, so it's not difficult to pick the remaining soldiers apart. Some are already dead, which is also helpful. You moved efficiently, that's for sure, but this area is definitely not clear. He's grinding his teeth so hard his entire jaw aches, and in between his barking orders, nobody dares to say anything. Ghost lives up to his name, and quietly dispatches anyone in his sight, being more brutal while he's at it. The man obviously cares, despite his denial; he's not the only one. Soap is sweating, and it's not from exertion.

Arriving at the room intel said contained the main hard drive, he sees the struggle. There's blood splattered all over the place, multiple furniture broken. No bodies, though, and it's then that he sees the shattered window. He gestures to Ghost and Roach, the couple following closely behind, and they peer down to see a door leading to a separate part of the compound. He curses again, having wasted time moving through the wrong building, and he's so engrossed in finding the fastest route down that doesn't involve just jumping, that he almost shouts when Roach carefully pats his back. Sharply turning around, he sees your gun dangling from the sergeant's finger, and he breathes deeply through his nose.

Jumping it is.

You're alive, is the first thing he notices, your slumped form on the ground struggling to get back up. Mactavish is damn near breathless with relief, which quickly turns to anger. The man lying dead next to you is quickly disregarded, as is the successfully obtained drive clutched in your hand — a sight that on a regular day would earn you a pat on the back. As it stands now, it makes him snap. He stomps over, hauling you to your feet and getting in your face. Before he can start yelling, Ghost interrupts.

"Extraction's 'ere." He hears the warning in Riley's voice and decides to postpone this.

Putting you down, he gets a glimpse at the exhaustion, wariness and something akin to fear, and starts moving. His fists are clenched around his rifle all the way to the plane, and it takes a lot of willpower not to punch something while he's at it.

Roach and Ghost help you up, sitting you down and letting the field medic work on you. His eyes stay trained on the window the entire ride back home. He hears the guys chatting quietly, sometimes referring to you, but not getting anything more than a noncommittal hum. Thing is, as he simmers down, he doesn't know who he's more mad at — you, for taking on more than you can handle and not notifying them beforehand, pulling yourself out; or himself, that it happened on his watch, under his command. Not for the first time he attempts to squash down his feelings. This is what happens whenever he allows himself to care, to want. His responsibility comes first, and it should have this time as well, but whatever's been clouding his judgment for the past few months has overridden that fact. Now you're hurt, the team is barely standing on their two feet, and the fault lies with him.

He's almost completely internalized all that rage, which comes back full force when he sees the way you almost jump to get out of the heli when it lands. Wobbling and clearly in no condition to move so rapidly, you trudge past Riley and Sanderson, who's sleeping soundly on the others arm. Soap immediately runs after you, letting the two have their rest and figuring he'll deal with the headache of a briefing tomorrow. Nothing good would come out of it anyway; he needs answers from up-top, not from the soldiers who did everything in their power to complete an impossible mission.

You're almost at your room, sharpy turning around and trying to slam a door in his face. He wedges his shoe in between and forces his way inside, pointing a finger at you when you have the nerve to look affronted.

"Are you out of your fuckin' mind, lieutenant?!" He doesn't care that most of the base is sleeping soundly at the moment, this screaming match was long overdue.

"What's your problem, Captain? I do my job, you tell me to stop; I get us a win, you throw me around like I'm a fucking dog. But sure, I'm out of my mind." You finally snap, and your voice rises in octave to match his.

He's stunned for a moment, but quickly regains his footing.

"You're missing the point, so let me spell it out for you: you go in, after months of overworking yourself, see that you're most likely fucked, don't call for backup or to just let your Captain know that this mission's off. You get yourself injured, almost killed, and then act surprised when it doesn't make me fuckin' happy." He takes a deep breath, noting the way your expression turns more and more shocked as he speaks.

"I did my job! I was trying to help, you overgrown prick! You signed off on the plan, yourself, sir. My radio was smashed, and to quote you, time is of the essence 'ere." You're confused now, anger bleeding out in favor for frustration that's been bottled up, no outlet in sight.

"Then let me ask. At what point did you know there's a lot more of 'em inside, and that your chances are slim, hm?" He takes a step forward, and your eyes narrow in warning.

You don't step back, just stare him down with the same resolve he's seen directed at his enemies. Suppose it's deserved, with the way he initially reacted, but your lack of answer and the slight impasse is making him too cocky, so you decide to crush it under your foot.

"The moment you gave me the order, Mactavish. Our chances were shit from the start. Whose fault was that, again?" You're using what you must know is a weak point and press on it as hard as you can, and he flinches minutely.

You smile, mean and filled with malice, but the motion pulls at the cut on your brow, highlighting the bruising and the scar he fixated on since you got it. All of a sudden, he's tired. He can see the pinch on your face, knows you don't actually want this; that despite choosing words that would hurt him, you wouldn't. You're exhausted as well, and this thing has been in the air so long he did everything he could to shut it down. So far, he's been brave enough to admit to himself that he had a problem, that his world started narrowing down to only you, but the matter was much more complicated since you've gotten closer. He saw the way you gravitated towards him, the same motion that controls him pulling you away at the last second. It's killing him, and you're trying to do the same thing to yourself. As punishment or not, the war is over, and it's time to come home and face the music. He's done running.

"You could've died." He repeats, softer now, quiet and defeated.

You blink, grin vanishing. He sighs, running a hand through his hair and looking around your room. His eyes follow the immaculate space, just until they get to your desk. It's filled with files, laptop open and notoriously used. You follow his line of sight, pulling your lip between your teeth.

"I needed to… Do something."

"Aye. I know. But I need you to live." It comes out unexpectedly, something not planned but nonetheless true.

Your eyes widen, staring at him in bewilderment. It's too late to take it back, so watches the range of emotions ripping your apart. Deciding that maybe giving you space would be preferable right now, in case you start feeling particularly violent, he walks over to your bed and sinks down on it, his own weight pulling him down. Head bent down, he rubs at his tired eyes and stares aimlessly at the floor. He hears your soft steps, feels the way you hesitantly sit down next to him, the mattress dipping. It's quiet for a few, long moments. The bubble has burst, and there's nothing left in the air now — just something shifting, changing; violent like a hurricane, leaving nothing but destruction behind. The sun has to come out eventually, though.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd…" You trail off, grunting in frustration.

Your knee is bouncing, and he places his hand there on reflex. You freeze, but he doesn't. Running from this is clearly not working, and he's been fighting so long he doesn't think he can anymore. You stare, almost like his palm is something alien, in the wrong place; before slowly and gently laying your hand over his. Your fingers intertwine, and he glances up. Lips slightly parted, you look like something out of a dream he conjured up, no matter how much shit you go through. He's a moron, and his head is swimming with a thousand I should haves, but it all disappears when you squeeze your fingers around his, something like disbelief lighting your features up. He takes a gamble, weak, in his ultimate form, and reaches up with the other hand to grasp your cheek and turn your head towards his. It's tense now, but only because he's hesitating. His eyes rove over your face, trying and failing to find a sign that this is something he should not be doing, but apparently he's taking too long, because soon enough you roll your eyes, whisper fuck it under your nose, and lock your lips with his.

It's slow, nothing like the fight you just had. Soft, tired pecks that turn deep, but don't delve deeper. He's gentle, trying so desperately not to hurt you more, and you're too sluggish to coordinate properly. It's a bit messy, in the end, your breaths mingling, bodies pressed together in a way that warms, rather than burns.

It's the best damn kiss he ever had.

In the morning, when dust settles and he sets you on mandatory rest, one that you argue with just slightly, and he takes the rest of his anger on the people who supplied him with the intel. They grovel, in the end. Roach fears approaching him, but when the Captain suddenly turns around and announces with a smile that he'll expect the debrief at noon, they think he's gone mad. It isn't until you come out later, sleep mussed and groggy, and see the soft smile directed at their Captain — one he reciprocates, that they realize they're right. It's a common insanity, though; one expected as well. Ghost can't help shutting his mouth, of course, and soon enough, he's running for his life.

"Finally got it together, aye, sir? Good on ya, you both need some stress relief."

Your injuries don't stop you from nearly strangling him. Mactavish watches, sighs, and gets comfortable. At last, back to business as usual.

[sergeant-trash-panda]

banished

captain john price x f!reader

price forgot a promise he made and now he's paying for it with leather cushions and a bad back.

length: 1.2k words

ao3 // masterlist

“You alright, sir?” Gaz tilted his head as Price entered the briefing room, folder in hand, a slight hunch to his shoulders.  “You look a bit ruffled?”

Ghost glanced over, hitting the nail on the head with a single look.  “Missus is pissed.”

Price dumped the file on the table.  It never bothered him before how the Lieutenant just seemed to know and yet now it breached into his home life—you—he ground his teeth together.

Soap whistled, “What ye do, Cap?”

“Did you look over the surveillance Laswell provided?” He grunted instead, tapping the file, lifting the screen of his secure laptop to engage the larger monitor.

He’d spent all evening arguing over this with you, would probably spend all night tonight navigating your stubborn edge, he wasn’t about to discuss it with some of the most dysfunctional men on base.

However, they weren’t going to make it that easy for him.  “Forget yer anniversary?” Soap guessed, leaning back on the far table.

“Finish the last of the good coffee?” Gaz tried and by the frown pinching his brow he spoke from experience on that one.

Ghost’s was by far the stupidest, “Chuck 'er favourite pen?”

None of them wanted to be here.  They’d just got back from their most recent deployment, and they were tired, bone fucking tired, Price could feel it in his boots, and yet the mission wasn’t over.  A complication keeping them from eliminating a target and now the perp disappeared like morning fog.

Soap leaned forward, elbows on his knees, feet planted on a chair.  “Have ye tried going sweet on her to get back into bed?”

“Maybe flowers?” Gaz crossed his arms over his chest. 

Ghost huffed, “A decent shag?”

“Alright, lads.” Price pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Can we focus up?”

A beat passed. The three of them exchanging looks and Price knew he had no chance in hell.  “Her cousins getting married this weekend.” Price grunted out, rubbing a hand down his face, watching Simon blink behind the mask and Johnny’s brow rise.  “Scheduled deployment for day of the wedding.”

Johnny sucked a breath in between his teeth.  Simon blinked, bored.  Gaz smothered a snort.  “Ya done gossiping?” Price quipped, gesturing to the surveillance loading on the monitor.  “Can we brief?”

Another exchanged look, Gaz shrugged, and Price thought they might gather up, focus themselves, but then Johnny slid off the table.  “I’m on the flowers.” He volunteered, tugging his phone from his pocket. “She a roses kinda gal, or…?”

“I’ve got the dinner plans.” Gaz stood, chair scraping back, and pointed his empty mug at Ghost.  “You handle the Cap’s paperwork, yeah?”

Ghost’s bulky shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh, a noncommittal kind of growl leaving his throat, but he leaned forward and slid the file in front of him whilst Price hung his head.

“S’just mission prep.” The Lieutenant reasoned and Price’s head shot up, eyes narrowed.

“You’ve gotta be fucking joking.”

Ghost eyed him carefully, “You really want ‘er pissed off on overwatch?”

Price’s gaze smoothed, considering it, and stepped around the table.  “Soap!” He called out, charging after the Sergeant.  “She likes lily’s!”

It didn’t help.  The bouquet lay untouched on the kitchen counter, card unread, when Price stepped across the threshold, finding you dressed in nothing but one of his shirts as you plated up your dinner.  Reservation cancelled. Rubbing it in further.  The first time he’d seen you in over a month and you were giving him the coldest shoulder—because no amount of sweet talk changes the fact I have to go to this wedding alone, Jonathan.

He winced at the use of his full name, only ever heard it when you were truly upset.  Not angry, not frustrated or any other damned thing you put up with because of him. But upset.

“You told me you’d be there.” You muttered, your voice drowning with disappointment, fork stabbing into your bowl from the couch.  “Not halfway across the bloody globe.”

“I know.” He sighed, watching you from the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. “I promised, I’m sorry, love.”

“I don’t want an apology, I don’t want flowers, I want you.” You dropped your fork on the last word, glancing up at him, tears flashing in your eyes at the millions of words left unsaid between you.

Tiptoeing around a larger conversation you’d been avoiding like the plague.

You have me.  That’s what John wanted to say, what his eyes screamed at you from across the room, but they caught on his lips a second too long.  You stood, thrust the empty bowl into his hands and disappeared into the bedroom with a slam of the door.

John accepted his punishment because he knew he deserved it.  You’d thrown a blanket—along with his sweats—out the door after a gentle knock and left him to it.  Didn’t matter he’d just come back from three weeks of sleeping on the floor, on creaky cots and transport benches, John tucked the blanket around his shoulders and got as comfortable as he could on the worn couch cushions.

Finally feeling himself drift off when the gentle click of the bedroom door opening roused him back to consciousness with a sniff, adjusting slightly on the cushions.  Peeling open heavy eyes to peer through the darkness.

“Love?” he blinked blearily up at you, the chill in the air wafting over him as you throw the blanket back, cushions dipping as you slide onto the couch.

“Shut up.” You mumble irritably, more to yourself than him. “M’ still mad.”

He gladly inched back against the back of the couch as you knelt into the cushions, lying beside him and tugging at the blanket until it covered both of you.  John’s arm hesitating, half lifted, half lying, waiting for you to decide if he could drape it over you.  You grabbed his wrist, tugging his arm around your waist and he pulled you closer, tucking your back against his chest so he could nestle in the crook of your neck.  Drinking you in after far too long away.

“You know…” His eyes fluttered shut as the lingering scent of your perfume and the citrus shampoo you use filled his nose. “Bed would be comfier.”

“We don’t deserve the bed.” You grumbled back, perfectly slotting against him on the couch as you entwined your fingers with his.

His lip crooked as you settled into his warmth.  You’d missed him almost as much as he’d missed you but you’d never let it get the better of your carefully curated stubbornness.  It seemed this was your compromise.  The two of you snuggled perfectly on the couch despite the way it screwed with John’s back.

Not that Price was complaining. Sure, the bed might be comfier, it wouldn’t leave him with an awful crick in his spine come morning, but how could he complain when you were back in his arms? He’d gladly suffer the sour looks, the creaking leather and the grumbles if it meant he got to hold you again.

That was better than any good night’s sleep.

dividers by @cafekitsune - consider checking them out they're so good!

[greenmanalishi]

*watches John Wick franchise once*

[dante-mightdie]

So, I got baked…

Reader who runs a bar. Doesn’t own it, but it’s her’s. Has run it like a navy ship since doors opened, but never met the owner. No rules from the owner, except one: No Men.

Every week, there’s one pain in the ass bloke that presses her buttons. Never insults, never touches. Always tries to get in but never has. He’s tall, tree trunk arms (one decorated with a full sleeve, battlefield metaphors), deep manny timbre and even deeper steely eyes.

Reader tells him no bloke steps foot in this bar, especially not one rocking a bally.

And one night a real incident kicks off. And it’s time for you to use the number left for you in case of emergency’s. Real emergencies. Code Black. The one you’ve never had to use

And the phone rings. Not for long, and then you hear that family manny voice come through the other end…

“Gonna let me in tonight, pet?”

[murdersnerd]

to anyone who cares: I got my snoopy plushie!!

he’s a little train conductor 🥹

he was the inspiration to this short cod blurb

[murdersnerd]

“I’m going to light this place on fire.” You grumble, angrily looking at the receipt like that would help.

“Arson isn’t going to help you, love.”

“No, it definitely would in this moment.” You reply before sighing, “I just… Why would they have it out if no one can buy it?!”

“I know, love.” Simon replied, hand moving to gently rest in the middle of your back as you exit the store.

“It was my favorite character, too.” You pout, looking back wistfully at the store. Like you could magically make the small plushie come to you.

“We can check another day for it.” He suggested.

“But I already had plans on where he was going to go.” You continue to pout.

“And you can move everything around so he has a spot when you bring him home.” He says softly, leaning against the passenger side of his car with you. “C’mon, I’ll let you make me one of those drinks you’ve been wanting me to try.”

You look at him, your expression a little less sad as you nod. Once you both are in the car, groceries stowed, he reaches over and gently tilts your head toward him.

“C’mere.” He says before leaning over the console to press a kiss to your lips. He leans back and puts the car in reverse, “Want to stop to get ice cream on the way home?”

“Yeah.” You answer, the sadness from being denied your stuffed animal dampened momentarily, “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He replies. He lets you play with one of his hands as he thinks about how annoyed the store will be when he calls every day until it’s available to be purchased.

~ inspired by me getting a snoopy plushie taken away at the register because it wasn’t on file yet. I could have cried.

[murdersnerd]

Kyle had been bugging the captain to go on a jog with him for a while. Asked him every time they were going on leave, sometimes even trying to convince him during their missions. It had become a running gag, that Captain Price only spent as much time with Kyle as he needed to.

“C’mon, it’ll be max an hour.” Gaz tried in good humor, “The park I go to looks lovely this time. Leaves changing and all.”

Price looked up at him, “You’re not going to stop asking me, are you?”

“Not until you agree to go at least once.” Kyle admits, staring down the captain.

“Fine.” John sighs, “When?”

Kyle grins, “Does Friday work?”

So John found himself at a park with one of his sergeants. John had to admit, the trees were stunning. Greens crescendoing into oranges and reds on every tree. He stood there, looking around the park as he stood next to his truck. For how eager Kyle was to get John here, he seemed to be running late.

It was on his second glance around that he noticed you. Lying flat on a blanket, book in hand. You had a couple bags and a lunchbox with you, clearly planning being there for a while. He looked at you for a couple more seconds before he noticed Kyle’s car pulling up out of the corner of his eye.

It was natural for John’s gaze to track everyone that they saw during their run. It was a habit molded into his blood stream and into his being. He had to stop himself from turning to continue watching them after he passed them. Which is why Kyle noticed that no matter how many other people were around as they ran by where you were, John only watched one person during that specific stretch.

“They’re here a lot.” Kyle comments, the words a little breathy as he tried to talk while moving.

“What?” John glances over at him.

“They’re here a lot.” Kyle repeats, slowing down as they return back to the parking lot, “Hard to miss them, they’re almost always in that spot. See them every Wednesday and Friday I’ve come here. Well, before I told Soap I’d go to the gym with him on Wednesday’s since Ghost won’t go.”

John nods as he listens, unlocking his truck to grab his water. He doesn’t quite know how he’s feeling about the information Kyle’s telling him.

“You should go talk to them.” Kyle says.

“So I can get maced?” John says without skipping a beat.

Kyle shrugs, “S’worth a shot, don’t you think?”

John doesn’t answer, shaking his head.

“Suit yourself.” Gaz shrugs, “I’ll see you Monday?”

John nods, and with that Kyle leaves John at his truck.

Despite his nonchalance, John sits in his truck for exactly ten more minutes, debating with himself on whether he should listen to Kyle.

With a tired huff he gets back out and locks his truck, shoving his keys into his pocket. He feels stupid, just a bit too old to be trying to talk to someone like this. He’s 38, not 24.

He doesn’t watch his steps as he approaches you. He purposefully steps on a couple branches in his path so you’re not completely startled. It works, and he can tell when you notice him getting closer because you sit up. You take an earbud out as you watch him, bookmark hastily put in place and your keys pulled a little closer.

He stops with about five feet between you, not wanting to make you any more uncomfortable than he already could be, “Sorry, I was just out for a run with my friend and saw you over here. I just wanted to ask what book you were reading?”

“Oh,” You say before holding your book up for him to see with a polite smile.

“Never read it.” John comments, “Must be good if you’ve been here for this long.”

“It’s definitely a good read.” You agree, “Takes you less time to get through than you’d think.”

John nods before politely excusing himself, “Well, that’s all I was going to ask you about.”

He smiles, “Have a good rest of your day.”

You return the sentiment, watching him curiously as he walks back the way he came. You don’t look away until he gets in his truck.

His hears pounding the whole way back, and ultimately he feels a bit stupid for how nervous he was. He starts his truck with a sigh, leaning his head back against his headrest.

He feels even stupider when he returns to the park the following Wednesday with his neighbor’s dog. His older neighbor had agreed to look over his house and collect his mail whenever he was deployed in return for helping walk his dog whenever John was home. He figured if you weren’t there, there was no harm done. If you were, maybe he only planned this a little.

What he didn’t plan for was the dog catching a whiff of the food you brought with you and bolting. John had never once lost a hold of the leash, and of course the one time he did it happened near the one person he was trying not to act like a fool around.

Luckily you weren’t afraid of dogs, and that you were eating something that wasn’t harmful to dogs because within two seconds it was gone.

“I’m so sorry!” John called out, finally catching up, “She never does this.”

“It’s okay!” You reply, fingers already running through the dog’s fur as it eagerly looks around for more food. John grabs the lead just so she’s not loose anymore. “What’s its name?”

“Her name’s Lady.” He answers, watching as the golden retriever tries to stand on your lap.

You laugh before he can even try to pull her away, cooing at the name as you pet her using both hands. “How long have you had her?”

“She’s not mine.” He replies, “I’m just walking her for my neighbor.”

“That’s nice of you.” You smile, looking up at him. Lady licks way too close to your mouth, causing you to laugh and for John to gently detangle her.

“I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.” John says with a polite smile, gently pulling Lady away.

“You never told me your name.” You say, making John look up.

“John Price.” He replies, and when you tell him your name his brain can only repeat it over and over.

“Well, John,” You start, “if you bring Lady here again, feel free to stop by if you see me.”

“Only if I bring Lady?” He asks, a small smirk forming on his lips.

“Maybe I could settle for just you.” You say, returning his smirk.

“I’ll keep that in mind, then.” He says before turning to actually leave.

Maybe the park isn’t so bad. He thinks, already planning when he’d be able to come by again.

[haddonfieldwhore]

~1k words

warnings: gunshot, ptsd, i’m not a doctor

johnny was a living miracle - the odds of him surviving based on the entry of the bullet being one in a number that had way too many zeros. he always was a tough bastard. the doctors were at a loss for words, much like you had been when you got the call. you didn’t remember driving to the hospital. you remembered sitting in the waiting room for hours, your leg bouncing uncontrollably as you sat in silence between simon, gaz, and price. no one said a word.

johnny was in a coma for months, and you were by his side for as much of it as you could be; despite how much it hurt. hurt to see him like that, hurt to not know when he would wake up, if he would wake up. and what state he would be in when he did. you talked to him everyday, it didn’t matter if he could hear you or not. you needed to believe he could. some of it he could, could hear you telling him you loved him and you were waiting for him when he was ready to wake up. could hear you crying as you begged him not to leave you.

johnny was different after he woke up, not quite moving the same, not quite as fast. his sense of humour hadn’t changed, he was still smart as hell; and had a smart mouth to match. but he forgot things. not full amnesia, but he’d forget what he was saying, or what things were called, trailing off part way through sentences, only to remember a few minutes later or the next day. he didn’t forget you though, or the guys. or the feeling of the bullet piecing into his skull. that he couldn’t forget.

johnny got cold more easily, and he got headaches whenever there was a chill in the air, a painful reminder that he should be dead. a cadaver walking around pretending to be alive. he has medication for them, but it doesn’t always help. you keep your house a few degrees warmer than you used to, and he sleeps with more blankets now. his hands aren’t as warm as they used to be, it’s subtle but you notice. where you used to nearly suffocate at night from his body heat, he’s now latching onto you, his head in the crook of your neck. you stroke his hair gently, and he shivers sometimes when your fingertips get too close to his scar, gripping your shirt as he pulls you closer for warmth. he doesn’t ask you to stop though, the feeling of your soft touches make the pain dull, and replaces the ache with a feeling of comfort.

johnny had nightmares, not every night, but when he did they were bad. wake up in a cold sweat that lingers for hours bad. dread going to sleep the next night bad. you wake up to his side of the bed empty and find him in the living room sitting on the couch, eyes wide and staring straight ahead, like he’s not fully there. maybe part of him isn’t. his name falls off your lips softly but he jumps a little anyways. he didn’t hear you walk up, even though you made sure to be on his right - his hearing isn’t so good on the left side anymore. “couldn’t sleep,” he says, but you know it’s a lie. he knows you know, but you just nod, sitting down on the couch next to him, wrapping your blanket around the two of you to keep the rest of the world out.

johnny shakes sometimes; his hands twitch, his leg bounces when he sits if his foot isn’t flat on the floor; sometimes even if it is. he gets dizzy, grabbing onto your hand tightly to ground himself, a sign that he needs to go sit down or find a wall to lean against for extra support. you’re his rock, his anchor in a storm. he wonders why you stay sometimes, he knows it’s hard for you to see him like this, not quite the same man he was before. that man is still laying on the ground somewhere in london, bleeding out as the world goes dark around him.

johnny asks you to help him cut his hair on days when his hands are too shaky to get his mohawk as clean as he wants it. he can barely feel the clippers with how gentle you are, specifically on the left side. but it always turns out perfect, as you sit on the edge of the sink in front of him, holding his jaw in your hands to keep his head straight while you make sure both sides look even. you thought he might change his hairstyle after what happened - not that you want him to, you love his hair - but you thought he might not want to have to see the scar. he brags about it when people ask, because of course they can’t help themselves. but you notice the way he looks at it in the mirror, his gaze lingering for a second. the reminder he gets when he sees it keeps him going on days where things weigh down heavy in him. he almost lost everything, and he made it out alive. surely he can get through another tuesday.

johnny does still have good days, where his hand doesn’t shake when he lifts a glass to his mouth to drink, where the sound of metal doesn’t leave the taste of copper in his mouth. some days it almost seems like it never happened, like you didn’t almost lose him. bad day or not, he still smiles, still makes you laugh harder than anyone you’ve ever met. the man you love is still there, still loves you hard, with everything he has. he just carries a little more baggage with him, requires a little extra care.

but he’s still your johnny, the scar on his head doesn’t change that. nothing could ever change that. and you’re the light at the end of the tunnel, guiding him back to you when things get tough. things might not be easy, but everytime you place a gentle kiss on his temple, for at least a moment, he knows he’s safe.

[sageinshadows]

thinking about how the rest of 141 would notice the way loverboy!soap changes after he meets you

of course in the beginning they're tight lipped and a just a little over it when he gushes about the new love of his life, having heard this a million times about a million partners. in a month's time he'd have a new infatuation. out of politeness none of them roll their eyes when he can see them.

but the object of his desire is the same the next month, and the month after that. he might not have changed the intensity with which he speaks about his partner, but they all notice how much lighter he seems to be.

the pep in his step isn't like the one he gets from getting laid, its different. more genuine.

Price sees it in his work, obviously. Johnny's always been disarmingly smart, but now he's so much more sure of himself. in the field he's cleaner, more efficient than he previously was. it makes Johnny even more deadly, and even more valuable. the kid's head seems to be clearer than ever, even if Price knows he's daydreaming about you when he's rigging explosives.

Ghost sees it in the gym, the way that Johnny has a special alert for your messages and calls and will stop his reps immediately when the ping comes through his headphones. the meals you cook for his lunches are doing wonders, Johnny's got more energy and is bulking at rates Ghost wasn't sure were possible. and the guy's taking more progress pictures than ever before, and when questioned about it shrugs and says "lass asks fer bicep pictures when she's sad."

But Gaz notices everything in between. he sees the little notes you slip in Johnny's lunch (and that Johnny keeps every. single. one.) Johnny's jokes aren't any funnier, but they make you laugh so he's going to continue to tell them. he doesn't have wandering eyes at the bar anymore, only moaning and groaning about how long it's going to take for you to come and pick him up. Kyle can feel how much lighter you've made Johnny, now that he doesn't have to keep all the dark stuff bottled up.

Sure, they all keep that stuff buried. But Johnny always doubled down on that, not even allowing himself to feel grumpy or upset because he needed to be the one to lighten the mood. he needed to tell the jokes and make everyone feel comfortable, even at his own expense. so now that he has someone to talk through all that with, the team can feel him relax into himself like a sigh of relief.

more loverboy!soap // Masterlist

[simonrileysfavteacup]

When you and Simon first started dating, you’d spend nights at his or your apartments, and he’d wake up at the butt crack of dawn to go for a run. You’d stir a bit in bed when he’d get up, but never wake up. He’d try to convince you sometimes to come with, but who’s he foolin’? 

He’d do the same when he was deployed, running laps around base or just back and forth in the hallways. 

After you’d gotten married and found out you were pregnant with your first baby, Simon would wake up even earlier, run 10,000 steps faster, and come home to make you breakfast in bed. You’d tell him he didn’t have to, but does he listen? 

Once Tommy was born? The runs stopped. Not completely, but they occurred maybe once a week. Instead, Simon opted for double home workouts, so he could be home with you and Tommy. 

But today was different. 

The sun was just beginning to creep through the curtains, shining a bit of light into the room. The house was quiet, peaceful. Simon had you curled up in his arms, resting against his chest. Nothing could change it. 

Except the baby monitor blaring the cries of your 4-month-old throughout your room. Both of you jolt immediately, but Simon pushes you down into the sheets, “I’ve got ‘im.”

He gets up, pulling a pair of shorts over his boxers. He kisses your forehead before heading to check on the baby. He walks to the nursery, picking up Tommy and cradling him to his chest. He hums at the little boy, who calms down almost immediately in his father’s arms. 

“Didn’t wanna sleep in, huh? The sun’s barely up,” Simon coos at Tommy. “Yeah?”

Tommy gurgles in his arms. Simon gets an idea. 

“Should we go for a run? Huh?” He sets the baby down on his changing table,  getting him ready. He changes him into a warmer onesie, along with a little matching hat. Simon slips on a hoodie himself and taps you out of your slumber to let you know where he’s going. You nod, shooing him away. 

He heads outside with Tommy in a bassinet-style stroller, softly jogging down the street to the park. His eyes are constantly drifting between the surroundings and his adorable little boy who’s sucking on his own fingers while staring at the sky. 

Simon whispers little nothings to him, telling him stories about every one of the trees that they pass. 

They finish their jog/walk in about half an hour, walking back into the house to find you making breakfast, a smile on your face. “Did my athletic boys enjoy their run?”

“More so a walk,” Simon kisses your cheek, letting you kiss and cuddle Tommy. 

His perfect little family. If only he knew he’d be pushing four strollers soon.

(lil blurb b4 the weekend)

[murdersnerd]

John Price. (please don’t share off tumblr🫡)

Work’s been kicking my ass and i’m trying to write a longer fic so here’s this in the meantime. more info if you want below the cut.

i’ve been making myself rediscover hobbies that I used to be super into. This is my first time using colored pencils for a portrait in like 2ish years (at least, could be 3+ i can’t remember). It’s not my favorite thing i’ve drawn, but i’m definitely happy with how it turned out. I definitely have some things i need to relearn, and medias i need to get used to again. I used faber-castell watercolor markers as a base and used prismacolor colored pencils on top. Overall it took me around 4-5hrs because a) i had no interest drawing his clothes lol and b) i didn’t have all the colors i needed with me so i decided to call it before i got unhappy with it lol. Also my pencils kept breaking because they’ve been tossed around in a tin for like 6 years so the cores are just broken 😔.

I refuse to have been my best at art when I was 16 so expect to see some more occasionally.

[arcadia-smith]

Simon Riley x Wife!Reader

The knife in your hand isn’t for Simon, but the thought is tempting.

You stand at the kitchen counter, grip tightening around the handle as you glare at the absolute disaster he’s made. Flour coats the counter like a fresh dusting of snow, and a broken egg dribbles off the edge onto the floor. The sink is full of bowls, one of which contains what you can only assume was an attempt at pancake batter—though it looks more like concrete mix.

Simon, standing in the middle of the chaos, holds a spatula like it’s a foreign object. He stares at you, unbothered, as if he hasn’t just committed a war crime in your kitchen.

“I’m running out of reasons to not stab you,” you say.

He blinks slowly, like a cat. “Use me ribs, love. Less mess.”

You slam the knife down on the counter and point a finger at him instead. “What the hell is this?”

He shrugs. “Breakfast.”

“This is arson with extra steps.”

Simon tilts his head, gaze flicking to the stove, where a pan sits abandoned with something charred beyond recognition. He considers it for a long moment before turning back to you. “S’not that bad.”

You stare at him, then at the kitchen, then back at him. Your blood pressure rises. “What part of this is not that bad?”

Simon, the six-foot-something god of a man who has probably stared death in the face more times than you can count, has the audacity to smirk. “The effort.”

You exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Simon, I love you, but if you ever—”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

He says it so easily, with that gravelly voice and the hint of amusement curling the words, and you hate that it works. That it softens the sharp edges of your irritation, even as you glare at him.

He takes a step closer, crowding your space just enough that you feel the warmth of him. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Was tryin’ to do somethin’ nice.”

You cross your arms. “This was not nice. This was a health hazard.”

He leans down, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, then mutters against your skin, “Go sit down. I’ll clean it up.”

You hesitate, watching him with narrowed eyes, then sigh. “Fine. But if I find one speck of flour on the ceiling, I’m stabbing you.”

His chuckle follows you as you leave the kitchen, and you don’t have to turn around to know that whatever punishment you think you’ll deliver, he’d let you do it with a smile.

[draftedpage]

Domestic Gaz Headcanons

look at this absolute cutie patootie.

Honestly, out of all of SAS I think Gaz would be the best partner.  

Gaz doesn’t do grand gestures, not the kind that make headlines or Instagram posts. But when it comes to you, he’s consistent. He’ll disappear for missions, briefings, or SAS obligations, but the moment he has a window—even a short one—he’s back.  

He’ll drop everything if it means spending even a few hours with you. Drinks with the lads? He’ll skip them. Late-night mission debriefs? He’ll cut them short. You’re always the priority. 

He’s not obsessive in a stalkerish way—more observant than anything. Gaz notices your mood sometimes before you do, and he handles damage control well before you even realize something’s wrong. 

Bad day? The house is already clean, dinner’s prepped, and a bubble bath is waiting for you. Overstimulated? The lights are dimmed, all noise is off, and you’re bundled up in your comfiest clothes. 

Long before he’d ever speak of rings or proposals, he’s already decided you’re the person he wants beside him for life.  

Let’s be honest, this man has no intention of leaving you, and you couldn’t imagine leaving him either. If he’s not actively on a mission, he’s on the phone with you. 

When he’s home, there’s constant contact—no breaks, no pauses. Out in public, his hand is either in yours or resting gently at the base of your spine, guiding you with quiet certainty. At home, his face buries into your neck, hands wrapped firmly around your waist or resting against your plush thighs, grounding himself in your presence. 

He’d murmur sweet nothings while he coddles you— 

“So good t’me, love, don’t deserve yeh.” 

Overall this man is a fucking cinnamon roll. Both on duty and not.  

[murdersnerd]

You had a COD post a while back where Simon teaches you how to handle a gun right? But like what if you make one where the reader was raised in a super ex military or police or paramedic home where this was just common knowledge? What would he do? How would he react? Yk? Idk you don’t gotta write this but it was an idea ✨🪐✨

-AUTHOR

I spent the whole day thinking about this while I was at work lol. I don’t have knowledge to pull from to write a full thing about this, (this will probably be something I revisit later because I really like this idea), but here are my general thoughts about what would change and his thoughts:

• I think he’d still want to take you to the range. It’s not that he doubts your ability, it’s just that he wants you to be safe and has to see it with his own eyes to get it in his head you know how to handle guns. Instead of focusing on the basics, he’ll share a few stories about using whatever gun you’re firing. Things he’s learned during his service. You’d share bits you learned from your family. He’s a safe person to ask questions you might have held back from asking your family so you didn’t look stupid. Gently corrects incorrect information or practices (if there is any). Overall he has the same goal of just making sure you can shoot, but it’s more leisurely and unguided.

• He’s still handsy. He still has his hands on your arms, hands on your hips, keeping you close to him while you aim. I feel like Simon has three solid places that he feels really comfortable with you: your home, your/his car, and alone on base (i.e. His office, or an empty shooting range). Overall just places he feels like he’s allowed to take up space and just exist. Him deciding to be handsy, flirty, or relaxed has more to do with you being in that type of space than what you are doing.

• I think similarly, his expectations with how aware of his guns don’t change a whole lot either. Like maybe you know where he keeps one in his nightstand and one in the kitchen pantry. After you’ve lived together awhile and he’s less worried about something happening, maybe he’ll give you the code to his gun safe (store guns responsibly). Shows you them, answers questions. If he has specific reasons for having them he’ll tell you. I do think that guns are a serious matter to him. Like they’re not for fun. I can’t see him going hunting to really need a rifle or anything in his home. I can see him having handguns and knives in his home and that’s about it. I will say, I don’t see all his guns having serial numbers or any identifiable traces on them because he’ll occasionally take them on deployments with him if he thinks it’s useful. He tells you not to use those ones if you’re using any at all.

• I strongly believe that Simon’s love language is quality time. He gets deployed regularly, so the time you get to spend together is more important to him than he lets on. I don’t think he’d take you to the shooting range, or really anywhere to fire guns together, for anything not learning or safety related. I feel like to him guns are intertwined with his work. And unless you ask him or it’s something small he’s supposed to do for work (Like cleaning or fixing any issues in them), he’s keeping your relationship fairly separate from his job.

• If you were raised more on the paramedic side: he has a lot of respect for how serious you take gun safety. Like I can only imagine how many medical emergencies happen because of stupidity around guns, and if you’ve taken the stories your family has told you to heart he admires it a lot. Lets you give your general input on how any injuries he has are healing. If you think he might need to go to medical or something, he’ll genuinely consider it. He thinks it’s funny, and mildly embarrassing, if you call a family member that works in a medical field to get their thoughts on it.

Idk he just wants you safe, man.