note: all of my works are x f!reader & mdni. i don't just write for only cod, so if there are any other characters you guys want me to write, requests are open!
on my period and thinking and how husband!john price would be the type of man to indulge his gorgeous woman in retail therapy during this time of the month. (also thank you all for 800 followers, i'm so grateful for every single one of you and it makes my heart swell to know that you guys enjoy my blog & my writing ♡)
husband!john who takes you to victoria's secret on your period because he knows it's your favorite store. he sees the way you go to the mail and save the coupons they send you for later.
husband!john who furrows his eyebrows in frustration when you look up at him and ask, "how much can i spend?" with your pretty doe eyes. he scoffs at the question and dismisses it with a, "spend as much as you want, pretty girl" and a kiss on your cheek.
husband!john who surprisingly doesn't feel out of place at vs like most guys with their women. he thinks to himself that men like that are not men but little boys, immature and pathetic. he's by your side the whole time throughout the store, a hand on the small of your back as you look around. he thinks you'd look good in everything and voices his opinion about what would look good on you, but he lets you take the lead.
husband!john who licks his lips when you finally pick up the first thing you want: a blush pink babydoll nightgown. lace adorns the neckline, and all john can think about is seeing you in it and then right after stripping it off your body. when you ask him, "how is this?" all he can manage is an approving nod, a palm sliding down from his nose to his beard, scratching it to control his urge to take you right then and there.
husband!john who lets you scour the store without the need to carry any of the things you're about to buy, that's what he is here for anyway. you're already on your period and he needs you to be as comfortable as possible. when you offer a hand to carry the bag, he shakes his head, "i got it, baby. just keep shopping, okay?"
husband!john who sees the worry in your eyes at the register when you look at the total. you know that john lets you spend as much as your heart desires, but you always feel a little guilty. you're even more guilty because of your hormones so you tug the end of his shirt's sleeve and offer to put some things back to cut the total down a little but he shakes his head reassures you, "if my money isn't being spent on you, then consider it a waste." he holds your hand and squeezes it three times for "i love you" as he slides his card into the reader.
husband!john who drives to a food place after the shopping trip because he knows how dizzy shopping makes you sometimes and now your endless cravings add on to it. he feeds you with one hand while rubbing your stomach with the other, making sure that like always, you're as comfortable as possible.
(i literally love vs and i CANNOT WAIT to drain my man's bank account with weekly shopping trips because of it MWAHAHA)
reader x ghost except reader is middle eastern and kinda self conscious of how her arms are lowkey as hairy as his and thinks shes “less feminine” for it (im projecting)
simon riley x sergeant/woc!reader
summary: you hate your arm hair amongst other things, but simon couldn't care less. & a little banter about colonizing w/ simon bc he's a british babe LMAO
a/n: OMG YES PLEASE I'M PAKISTANI AND I HAVE ARM HAIR SO THIS SPOKE TO ME OMGGGG YESSSSSSSS PLEASEEEE i love your mind. i had so much fun writing this btw.
If Simon Riley was given the chance to describe you, "unfeminine" wouldn't be on the list. You thought otherwise, however.
"I mean look at this, LT. I have as much arm hair as you at this point." You huffed in frustration. You were in the fitness center on the treadmill, trousers and short-sleeved shirt showcasing your arms. You knew you had hair. You didn't have to use eyebrow pencil because your eyebrows were already thick enough. You didn't have to use mascara all the time because your eyelashes were long enough. You barely even used any hair products because thank goodness the hair on your head was healthy enough.
You loved your hair until it came down to your arms. You extend your arms out in front of you, showing your lieutenant the hair growth on them. He was on the treadmill beside you running. While you huffed in frustration at your physical appearance, he was huffing because of physical exertion.
He slows down the speed to a brisk walk before talking to you. "It's just hair, you know." He shrugs his shoulders, "Normal."
You squint at the tall man in annoyance. Why is he so nonchalant about this? "Easy for you to say." You bite back. "As a woman I shouldn't have this much hair on my arms. It's weird and not even feminine."
"Said who?" He tilts his head. If he had the courage. (which he still has yet to build up even after working with you for several years) he would take you by the arms, pin them over your head, and make out with every inch of your body until he gets in between your legs. Hopefully then, you would feel like a woman. tell you how beautiful you were. That you were, to him, the epitome of being a woman. You were strong-willed yet kind, fierce yet ethical, and had a job that most men would rather scurry away from than ever think of pursuing.
"Said the models on social media." You let out a breathless exhale. "Said the girls on Youtube who give you 'tips and tricks' on how to get a guy."
"The only thing that isn't feminine are the women telling you that you aren't feminine because of some hair, Sarge. Hair is hair. Never hurt anyone." You give him a glance. Most men wouldn't say that. They'd tell you to shave or wax it off. But not Ghost, you can see the truth in his eyes. He truly doesn't mind.
He continues on, "Also, it's normal because of your genetics. People in the Middle East, Asia, and generally warmer areas are genetically designed to have more body hair because it provides thermal protection. Your ancestors had it so it was just something that has passed on." Ghost continued on his reassurance that your hair was perfectly normal.
You never thought about it that way. You never saw it in that light, that it was simply for your protection. You then thought about the other things you thought were weird, like your nose. You knew that a nose job wouldn't hurt, but some of your ancestors had this same nose.
What would you gain if you altered a piece of their history that you literally, physically, had on you? You wouldn't be any better than the colonizers who stole from them.
You decided to banter, "That's rich coming from a Brit you know. The only reason so many countries have an independence day is because of Britain."
Ghost lets out a throaty chuckle, "I'll take care of the reparations then, Sarge." Ghost takes a look at your arms. Something human and feminine. "I meant what I said though, about the whole arm hair thing. Hair is normal. Don't be ashamed of something you have because someone told you otherwise." He paused, taking a look at your sweat-glistened body. "You're perfect the way you were made." The sentence came out in a mutter, fearing that it was too intimate for a man like him. He hoped you didn't hear it either, which was a success.
You gave Simon a warm smile, "I know you mean it, LT."
"Simon works too you know," he offers you his name.
"I know you mean it, Simon." His name escaped your lips in a pant because of your current cardio session on the treadmill and immediately Simon felt his shorts grow tighter in the middle. He tried to sneakily adjust himself by tugging at the ends of them, his body lowering and knees pointing outwards for a moment to adjust.
If Simon Riley was given the chance to describe you, "unfeminine" wouldn't be on the list. There would be feminine. Amongst dangerous, sweet, desirable, lovable, cherished, and so close to ruin yet so far to even have.
Sometimes as a white guy, specifically British guy, Simon would never think of pursuing a woman like you. Not in the sense that you were unworthy, but that you needed a man who was worthy of you. Your culture was rich and he was one of many witnesses of it. He saw the flag on the right shoulder of your uniform that wasn't the American or the Union Flag. He saw the way your lips would curl to speak your language that wasn't English. He saw you in the kitchen on base in the middle of the night cooking alongside little steel tins of various spices. He heard the way your accent coated your tongue when you spoke English. You were a woman to be respected. A woman of so much history. A woman whose ancestors fought his own people in resilience. Simon, because of this, saw himself to be a man with such little potential.
The professionalism between a sergeant and their lieutenant was a dynamic Simon never thought about sabotaging until you became that special sergeant.
(i need me a british man so he can pay his reparations by going down on me and licking my cl— OMG WHO SAID THAT)
being the oldest daughter in an ethnic household has been taking a little toll on me lately so let us indulge in roommate!gaz shall we
roommate!gaz who loves to spend his evenings with you in the living room watching whatever you put on the tv. you've currently had this obsession with shows about the military because of gaz, but he absolutely hates the inaccuracy in them. he'll make an occasional comment like "this guy has some magic gun, shooting all these rounds but hasn't reloaded once." on the bright side, he's watching these shows with you and he would never complain about that.
roommate!gaz who does that thing dads do when you say you like a certain food/snack and then buys them in bulk the next time he heads to the store. he said he was getting "nothing much. just some eggs and milk" when he was leaving. but when he walks into the apartment an hour later, you turned out it was a lie. he unloads the groceries and then several packs of your favorite snack. he offers you a warm smile, "you said you liked these a lot the other day, thought i'd buy some for ya."
roommate!gaz who comes back from deployment with trinkets for you always. his work is global and he is never in one country for too long, so there'd be no better way to spend his time around the world than taking the time to get you something. he loves seeing your reactions at the trinkets he brings, your hands holding the little object carefully and your eyes wide in fascination.
roommate!gaz who loves to brag to the 141 boys about how "phenomenal" his roommate is. he talks about how he thinks your job is so cool, how your hobbies are so interesting, and how your personality is enough to brighten his mood after a rough day. subconsciously, he's just listing the reasons he's in love with you. the boys know that he's smitten, but they wouldn't dare to bring it up until he realizes it for himself.
cw: fluff, cowgirl afab reader x ghost, grumpy x sunshine, clumsy reader
HEADCANON: the team meets Ghost’s little bird
PAIRING: Simon Riley x reader
It all started when Soap, half-joking -- not really -- asked over a pint of that terrible guinness that one of the recruits mentioned that he voiced out a lingering thought out loud,
"So, Ghost. Ye ever gonna introduce us to yer missus? Or is she just some hallucination ye made up tae wind us up aye?"
Ghost, who had never confirmed nor denied anything about his personal life, simply shrugged.
"Pub. Friday. Seven."
Soap thought he was joking.
At exactly Friday, seven-fucking-pm though. Soap. Soap realized he was wrong.
They met at a grimy pub near base. Price was wary. Gaz looked openly curious.
Soap just looked excited, because how normal could Ghost’s wife possibly be? Some goth lady with a death glare? A sniper with a scar over her eye? A shadow in human form?
None of the above.
What actually walked in was—
A tiny woman in a beat-up leather jacket, dusty denim jeans, a battered cowboy hat tilted low over her messy braid. Coupled with a pair of cracked leather boots that clomped across the floor like she owned the place.
Holy shit
She looked like she could ride a bull, shoot a rifle, and kiss you breathless — not necessarily in that order.
She waved frantically the moment she spotted them though — knocking over a chair and nearly tripping over her own boots as she did.
"HEY, SI" she yelled across the entire bar.
Ghost — stoic, terrifying, 6'4" Ghost — immediately straightened in his seat like a teenager seeing his crush.
He actually moved. Stood up.
Went to meet her halfway like she was the only thing that existed.
Soap’s jaw was physically on the table.
This tiny woman. Small. Wiry. Sun-kissed and with the greatest pair of tits Soap has ever seen immediately launched herself into Ghost’s arms like a missile. He caught her easily -- of course -- one hand on her lower back, the other ruffling her tousled brown hair with ridiculous tenderness.
Leaning down to let her smack a kiss right onto the cloth of his mask like she couldn’t give a single shit about what people thought.
She yanked the brim of his hat down over his eyes — wait! when had he gotten a hat?? — and laughed that big, reckless, wild West laugh that turned every head in the pub.
The team stared in horror and awe.
"This can’t be real," Gaz muttered. "I’m dreaming. I died in Syria."
"She's so small," Soap whispered back, scandalized. "And she’s—she’s—hot??"
They made it back to the table, Ghost’s hand resting casually on her hip like a leash.
When they made it back to the table, she shoved Ghost into a chair, plopped herself onto his lap without ceremony, and grinned at the rest of them.
"Howdy, boys," she said, tipping her hat.
Soap almost cried.
She was absolute chaos.
Stole the darts right out of the wall and challenged Soap to a game ("loser buys shots, city boy" "'m from Scotland, lass" "Cattle country ain't like sheep country, sugar" "we have cows. They moo too").
Gaz: "You're so fucking stupid mate"
Soap: "Shut it aye?"
Flirted shamelessly with Ghost across the table — calling him "sugar," "cowboy," and "my big strong man" with zero shame in her Southern-twanged voice.
Told Price he looked like a "sheriff with a broken heart."
Somehow wrangled Ghost into a pool match where she used him as her pool cue guide — pressed up against him, his huge hands guiding hers, while she winked at the others over her shoulder.
Ghost never smiled. Never joked. Never talked much.
But with her?
He was... different.
Softer.
More human.
Maybe even a little helpless, the poor bastard.
Price, to his credit, kept a straight face. Barely.
Soap, meanwhile -- after losing to her on those stupid darts and took on the challenge of guzzling down the said shots -- was vibrating with suppressed laughter.
She was chaos. Pure, distilled chaos — loud, funny, mean, fun, but also wildly affectionate. She stole a chip off Gaz and a stranger's plate without asking. Shooed off two creeps with a death glare who wouldn’t stop pestering the girls at the counter. Challenged the bouncer -- a hulking and massive bloke -- to arm wrestle and actually fucking won! Spent half an hour helping to take pictures of an old couple on a vacation to send to their grandkids. And started a chant for Price to shotgun a beer (he declined, though grimly but... endeared).
And through all of it, Ghost just... watched her.
Silent. Steady.
The same way he’d scan a perimeter — except more devoted. Soap swearing that he could even see him smile behind the mask.
At one point, she tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear that made him let out a genuine, low chuckle.
An actual laugh.
Gaz's drink came out of his nose at that and Soap almost passed out from the shock.
By the end of the night, they were all completely obsessed with her.
(And slightly terrified. She challenged another guy twice her size to a pull-up contest and won.)
As they stumbled out of the pub, she looped an arm around Ghost’s waist and shouted, "THIS IS MY HUSBAND! HE’S BIGGER THAN YOUR HUSBAND!"
at absolutely no one.
Ghost didn’t even blink. Just tugged her closer and murmured, "Alright, birdie. Inside voice yeah?."
"YOU LOVE ME BABY," she hollered back.
"Yeah," he said simply, not caring who heard. "I do."
And if anyone at the pub dared to stare — well,
nobody wanted to make eye contact with a man wearing a skull mask who looked like he could bench-press a car and the woman who looked like she could drive said car through you and still smile while doing it.
Soap later: "Lass is unhinged aye?."
Gaz: "You’re just mad she drank you under the table, mate."
Price: "I like her. She’s good for him."
Soap: "Naw, like... she’s pure mental. He’s just as daft. It’s a match made in hell, I’m tellin' ye.
Ghost, hearing them gossip:
(Just shrugs.)
"I like her loud. Makes it easier to find her."
note: all of my works are x f!reader. i don't just write for only cod, so if there are any other characters you guys want me to write, requests are open!
in the UK the snooker is on rn and all i can think about is snooker player!simon losing a game and fucking reader silly.
is there any chance u could write this?
snookerplayer!simon riley x wag!reader
cw: MDNI. pinv, mentions of breeding, (sough rex?)
a/n: heyy yes 100%. i'm american so i had to do my research about this sport before writing because this is the first time i've ever heard of the sport. i guess over here our equivalent for snooker is pool. anyway here you goo ♡.
You watched his games on TV every time they were on, it was the least you could do for him.
Your eyes were glued to the screen in front of you, watching Simon's body walk around the table for the perfect angle. He's potted every single ball in their correct sequences so far, he can do it. You know he can win.
Until he didn't. His opponent managed to win first and Simon was screwed.
And so were you when he walked inside the house. You glided your eyes to Simon and saw the way his biceps tensed up as soon as he walked in. He adjusted the tie on his neck at the door and muttered an annoyed, "Bloody stupid thing" before he yanked it off. You could feel the difference in the air the way your hands started to sweat and it became hard to swallow. He peeled off his waistcoat and all you could manage to do was peer from the couch at his mannerisms. His hair looked more disheveled compared to when he left the house hours ago and you could tell it was from running his hands repeatedly through it anxiously.
He finally takes a glance at you and strides on over. You could see the anger in his eyes from losing but also the hunger. He knows you watched his game, so there was no need to announce the verdict.
Before you could utter anything, he places his head under your armpit and his arms around your waist to shovel you up over his shoulder. He didn't waste the advantage of how you were picked up to slap a rough hand on your butt with a cheeky chuckle following the sound of the smack. "Missed you bad, lovie." He said breathlessly. "Lost that stupid game and now all I want is you."
It didn't take long for him to hike up the stairs and enter the bedroom. Simon continued his rough treatment, moving his hands to your waist to throw you on the bed. You gasped as your back and elbows bounced onto the mattress.
You spread your legs subconsciously, Simon noticed the gesture, "That eager for me?" He frowns mockingly, "Poor baby."
He uses the space between your legs to settle in between, kneeling on the bed. He yanked you closer by your ankles and started to strip your blouse off. The pink lace bra beneath it made Simon's breath hitch. "Beautiful girl." He takes the lace that settled over your bust between his pointer finger and thumb, knowing that he's teasing you.
"Simon, please." You whispered.
"Hm?" He climbs his eyes up from your breasts to your eyes. "Please what?"
You both knew he was teasing you on purpose. He was right in between your legs but not in the way you wanted. You whispered a response, "I want you."
"Want me where, pretty girl?" He knew the answer to his own question, but he wanted to hear it out of your mouth so bad.
"Inside of me. Please."
Your second plea makes Simon lose all control. In a moment, his shirt, trousers, and your leggings were off. Once he peeled off the last piece of your clothes, all you were clad in, Simon realized, was a pink lace matching set.
"You drive me crazy, love." He lowers his head to settle in between your already wet folds. "Did you do this on purpose?" He hooks a finger under the lacy material of your panties.
You shook your head in negation. "I like it when my bra and underwear match." You've been whispering for the time being, your vocal chords inept right now to talk in a regular tone. "It just makes me feel more put together."
He looked up at you, "You put yourself together today." He uses his forearm to spring up to you, whispering his next words inside of your ear, "Now that's why I'm here to break you tonight, sweetheart."
You thought you were already wet enough, but you thought wrong as soon as he said that.
He pulled your panties to the side and slid his boxers off, his cock springing up at the action. You could only manage to stare at his length, watching him position it right between your legs. He rammed himself inside, his hips slamming into yours. You gripped the sheets to find some comfort at the impact. "Oh, baby." He groaned in frustrated lust. One hand kept gripping your panties to the side, while the other crept up to cup one of your breasts, his thumbs crossing side to side over your nipple.
Simon continued thrusting rough and fast and your moans escaped every single time he would do so. You became a mumbling mess under him, so much to the point you could barely comprehend his words.
"Tease, you are. Bloody." Thrust.
"Beautiful." Thrust.
"Tease." Thrust.
Simon moaned at the pleasure. That snooker game doesn't matter anymore to him, not anymore because he's inside of you. You can hear his words through his gritted teeth. "Gripping me so well. I'll knock you up, sweet girl." You babbled something incoherently. "Do you want that?" His hand lets go of your breast, glides over the curve of your torso, and settles itself to rub your clit. "Do you want me to cum inside?"
You nodded and once again babbled. Your body kept moving up and down on the bed because of how hard he kept thrusting. Your breasts never stayed in place because this whole time, Simon has been rough. Not one moment did he spare to give it to you slow and soft. Your hand moved to grip the wrist of his hand that was circling around your clit. His other hand moved to smack yours off. Not hard, but authoritative enough to make you move your hand and accept the pleasure he's giving you.
Simon sighed at the view of you. Your hair was all over the bed, your eyes glistened with need, and your body glistened with your sweat. His gorgeous woman was crumbling right in front of him and it boosted his ego knowing it was all thanks to him.
You finally manage to let out a few words, "I'm gonna—," You swallow, "Si'." You shut your eyes at the thrusts and pleasure coursing inside of your core. You could hear the wet plaps and the tension building, all you needed to do was...
"Let go." Simon ordered. "Give it to me, sweetheart."
And so you did. You finally let go and gave into the pleasure that Simon was giving to you, reaching your high of pleasure. Your back arched at the final thrust. Simon came at the sight before him, keeping his cock stuffed inside of you and collapsing on top of you. The both of you laid there, panting and content at the end of it all. Simon plants a soft kiss on your neck, and glides a hand up and down the side of your torso to comfort you. "I love you, sweet girl."
You giggled at the sudden softness of his voice and gestures compared to the roughness of what he just did to you before. "Only after you probably got me pregnant?"
He chortles at your reply and lets his other hand rake through your hair to fix up the messy bits of it, "If I did then I can't wait to see you in nine months."
(i'm sorry i'm not good at writing smut please let me know if this is bad so i don't write it again LOL thanks yall)
Saw a comment on your high testosterone!ghost ficlet (LOVE, by the way) about his weight being inaccurate and honestly? Being 250lbs at 6'4" is PEFECTLY FINE. I'm all about people doing whatever they want in fic and if an author wants to make Ghost 300+ lbs, you know what? Go for it. But people telling others that a 6'4" muscular guy can't weigh 250 lbs is just completely untrue.
Dare I make the argument that, because of all of the cardio involved in their work and the fact they have to remain agile enough to run/climb/jump etc. along with whatever other crazy stuff they have to do for a mission, it's actually more likely that these men would weigh LESS than 250lbs?
omg hii! i’m so glad you loved it. i also agree with you that writers can design their characters as they see fit, which is clearly what i do because that’s the beauty of writing. it’s a subjective thing and i adore seeing how other writers view simon and other characters they write about. i replied to that comment so hopefully you and others saw what i said. like you said, being 6’4 and 250 lbs is PERFECTLY FINE.
i honestly could see the 141 boys weighing less because of their workload, but i’m a 5’1 110 lb woman so i definitely cannot speak on the experience of a 6’4 250 lb man (although i would like to experience them in other ways iykyk 😉). also anon this isn’t directed to you, just a disclaimer to anyone who wants to delve into the technicalities of height and weight and whatever: THIS IS FICTION. treat it as such. i write because i enjoy it and see it as an outlet, not because i’m trying to reason with the next person that my character is physically accurate.
haii idk if you write for soap but if you do could you do john “id die for you” mactavish x f! “but would you live for me” reader? (could also work with simon if you’d prefer writing for him)
john "soap" mactavish x reader
angsty // wc: 1180
a/n: hii can i just say you have perfect timing because i was planning to write about the another 141 boy next!! i'm gonna make this one a little angsty i hope you don't mind 😃👍🏼 also a belated happy national decision day to my fellow americans!! i truly wish you all the best in these next four years ♥︎
He was supposed to come home today. You had faith in him.
You lay on the couch, void of his touch and sweet words to offer you comfort while you fidgeted with your wedding ring, spinning it around your ring finger deep in thought. You thought that for once your husband would actually come home the date he promised he would. You opened your phone to glance at the text he sent yesterday:
Johnny ♡: I'll be home tomorrow, sweetheart. I can't wait to see you.
Then you shift your eyes down to the text he sent a few minutes ago:
Johnny ♡: Sorry, darling. Price needs us a little longer. Please don't wait for me tonight. I love you.
What was once a strong aroma of the dinner you cooked now became a mockery of the devotion and care you held for Johnny. He loved food, especially your cooking. It's too bad he wasn't here to even eat it. Even the “Welcome Home” garland detached from the wall on one side, now hanging vertically. Everything at this point in the house became a mockery to you now. From the fireplace giving out warmth you'd rather have from Johnny, the couch not dipping on one side because he isn't here, and the feeling of your unswollen lips because he is not here to kiss you senseless.
It was late anyway and Johnny confirmed it himself that he wasn't going to be here, so you decided the only way to get rid of these thoughts was to sleep it off. You went upstairs to the bedroom, the room stinging with the scent of his cologne that you sprayed everyday to remember him by. You left the food you cooked on the kitchen island, careless that it would go bad if left outside unrefrigerated overnight. You slipped out of your clothes into something more comfortable to sleep in and pulled yourself under the covers.
Usually after a few minutes, you were knocked out. Tonight it was different. You couldn’t get comfortable enough. With the covers over you, it was too hot. With them off, it was too cold. When you slept on your side, it was almost as if the pillow was digging into your neck. When you slept on your back, the mattress sank too low. Your mind needed the rest but there was no use to even attempt again when the only thing on your mind is your husband at war. Sleeping without John knowing that he was out on deployment was already difficult in itself, but knowing he was on deployment and that he didn’t come when he promised makes it even harder.
You punched your pillow one last time in an attempt to soften it up. That’s when you thought your ears were deceiving yourself when you heard the door open. It could only be one man.
You froze at the sound with your fist still stuffed in the pillow. You wanted to get up and greet him yet for some odd reason your legs felt too heavy to move downstairs to do so. You heard the rustling of what you could only assume was his duffle bag and some extra gear that he shredded off until you heard John head up the stairs, the floorboards creaking subtly at his weight. You decided to fake being asleep, your head pointed towards the door to get a view when he finally walks in. With his heavy steps and your heavy heart, you heard the doorknob to the bedroom click open and his sounds grow closer.
He’s here. You should jump in his arms and smother his face with kisses and tangle your fingers in his hair. You should be feeding him the dinner it took you hours to make after you got off work. You should massage him like you do after every deployment. You’re stubborn though and he came too late even though he promised. There is no use for it now, you thought.
That’s when you heard it, a wince of pain out his mouth. You couldn’t stand it anymore. You sat up gently and widened your eyes to finally take a look at your husband. He left scratchless when you last saw him. Now, he’s battered and bruised. A bruise on the curve of his jaw, his eyes squinted in what you knew was exhaustion, and his shoulders were slumped. Your gaze moved from his shoulders to his neck, where wound dressing was applied, which was hidden by the rest of his t-shirt. Your gaze moves down. Down. You saw his arms in the t-shirt and the cut that slashed across his forearm tattoo. Your heart broke. Broke. You felt the tears prick at your eyes and decided to let them fall. Johnny hasn’t said a word and neither have you, but he broke the silence.
“Sweetheart,” his voice sounded just as wounded as his body looked. You didn’t say anything and could only manage to anticipate what he was going to do next. The view of Johnny became more blurry the more tears welled up in your eyes. It wasn’t until you felt Johnny’s body wrap around yours in a tight hug that you let them fall with your eyes shut closed. You felt his head snuggle into your neck and the stubble prick across your neck and collarbones.
You laced your arms through Johnny’s to hug him back, one hand rubbing the nape of his neck and the other moving up and down his back. “Johnny,” your voice broke. He said he wouldn;t be home tonight and he’s here now. You didn’t know whether to feel frustrated or thankful.
You felt his stubble move away and be replaced by a light kiss on his neck. “I’d die for you, dear.”
Those words made your heart twist. You kept rubbing his neck and back for your own comfort and you could finally taste your tears. He said that all the time and you knew he meant it. He’d say it sometimes in the morning when you thought you were at your most unflattering. He’d say it sometimes out of nowhere when he would find you on the couch lounging. This time it was different. He was back home from deployment, physically and mentally battered.
Your lips could only whisper one thing because of the saying now that he's home and not in his best condition, “But would you live for me, Johnny?”
That’s when you felt Johnny’s grip around you loosen in the slightest. That’s when Johnny felt his lips quiver. Now you weren’t the only one crying. “That’s why I came home.” He stammered before he continued, “I couldn’t bear it. I had to come home to you.” His voice felt his arms tighten around you again and another kiss was planted onto your neck.
You couldn’t be mad at him anymore. You were just happy that you had another chance to feel your husband in your arms and his lips on your body. Who knew when it would be the last time?
i don't miss the college application process one bit
thinking about simon riley and how he gets worried when he gets his labs back from medic!reader:
"Bloody hell, Doc. You could include this in my dossier if you wanted."
You let out a chuckle at his words when you saw him skim through his blood work, a whole packet worth of vital information, from the number of red and white blood cells he has, a basic metabolic panel, and so much more. He skims through the information, every row a new test and labeled with a green "normal" on each one.
Until he reached one of the rows: testosterone.
A red "above average" was next to his testosterone count and you could see the panic in the man's eyes but you didn't know what caused it. You decided to let him speak up about it.
"Hey, doc?" You could see the stress manifest into a physical form the way you saw his thumbs clutch the packet of paper tighter, causing the paper to crease upwards in submission at his grip.
"Yeah, Ghost?" You turn around, your body language evident that you are all ears for what he has to say next.
Ghost had to collect himself before bringing this up. He knows this hormone is a normal thing in males, but why is his so abnormally high? He clears his throat before speaking up, "My testosterone," he pans the packet to face you now, "the lab says it's quite high. That's not normal."
"For you, it is."
The man's eyes squinted behind the mask.
"What? It says 'above normal' right..." he points to the row with a gloved finger, "there. What do you mean for me it's normal?"
You walk closer to him, gently taking the packet out of his tight grip. You turn around and sit next to him, and because of the height difference, Ghost noticed the way your shoulder grazed his bicep.
"It's normal for you because of your muscle mass, sir." You point to his muscle mass percentage. "More muscle means more testosterone in the body. Testosterone helps to support your body in maintaining the amount of muscle you have. If you had a man's average amount of testosterone, you wouldn't be built like a tank."
Ghost snickers at the last remark. "I'm a tank now, Doc?"
"Have you seen yourself, sir?" You scoff. You point to his weight on the paper, "Your muscle mass is also why you're technically obese. You're 6'4 and 250 pounds. But nothing to be worried about. You have more muscle than fat, and muscle weighs more. So I can assure you, you're perfectly healthy."
Ghost at the moment thought the way you nerded out on all of these medical technicalities was quite hot. You were smart, he always knew that. But it was something about the way you were talking in person about all this health and medical stuff that got to him. It didn't help either that you looked even more professional with a white lab coat and scrubs on. You adjusted the glasses on your nose while you looked down at his labs and Ghost swore he felt six inches of some of his muscle and fat twitch.
"Perfectly healthy, Doc?" He repeats your words.
"Perfectly." You skim over the paper once more. "If anything, you have the highest muscle mass and testosterone in the task force."
Ghost felt his pride swell at that statement. Not only did you say he was perfectly healthy, but you basically just called him the most ripped out of all the guys?
"I'm trying to be modest abou' this whole thing you know. You're not helping." He replies sarcastically and you giggled, throwing your head back a little. "I'm serious."
"Well you can thank your hard work on missions and the extra hours at the gym." You nudged his arm with your shoulder, causing Ghost to tense at the sudden contact but he surely didn't mind. The cute little medic that works for the task force just touched him, how could he possibly complain about that?
After that encounter, Simon took no time in bragging about his "abnormally high" testosterone and "obese" weight to the group chat that consisted of him, Price, Gaz, and Johnny.
He sent a picture of his labs with the message: "Not only did Ms. Medic tell me I'm built like a tank but told me I'm more of a man than you all can ever be ;)."
Johnny replied with, "You mean "the missus"?"
Gaz replied with, "You better snag her before I do, Simon. I didn't see a ring on her finger last visit."
Price replied with, "It's only because of my age, you know. If I were in my prime I would have more testosterone and muscle mass than all of you combined."
woah it's the same anon from the knight!reader and prince!simon hc!!!
ive had this idea for a while now, but i never really got around to writing it.
what if reader and simon were deployed to a mission to kill the son of a terrorist or something
so they assume that the son is an adult at least, right?
wrong! it turns out, while they were waiting to snipe him at the plane he was getting off of, it was actually a child they had to kill.
i didnt really think up an ending for this, so you can go crazy w it!
love your writing by the way.
much love,
-🌊
simon riley x soldier!reader
cw: mentions of blood & violence (military inaccuracies too) // wc: 1680
a/n: omg hi i love this idea so much, and thank you for the last bit, it means a lot to know that people like you love my writing 🥲♥︎!! can i apologize for how long this took for me to write too, i truly am so sorry. i want to thank you all for 600 followers (you guys are insane i adore you every one of you) so i decided that i should spoil yall on this gorgeous fridayyy
“So you’re telling me the job isn’t done yet?” Ghost turns his head to the TV hung on the wall, glaring daggers at the projected image of Makarov’s face.
You’re alone with Lieutenant Riley himself in a debriefing room, going over the next mission. “No, LT.” You sigh as you slide your lieutenant a manilla folder across the desk. You pace back and forth in front of the large screen, hands tucked behind you. “During the last mission, Gaz and Price have found out that not only was Milena Romanova his financier, but long-time lover. They happen to have had a lovechild: Mikhail Makarov.” You press the button to the next slide, showing a blank profile picture. “We currently have limited information on Mikhail, so we don’t have a picture of him. Age is inconclusive but it is likely that he is in his late teens and that he works as a Konni Group affiliate.
“Of course he does, Sergeant. His father was their bloody leader.” You press the button to the next slide, showing an island from a bird’s eye view. “We currently believe that Mikhail is currently residing with Milena on Plutus Island, the same private island that you and Soa—” your throat tightens up as you were about to mention his name.
It stings. You feel like a replacement to a priceless man.
“You and Johnny,” you continue, “had to go back in 2023 to gather Makarov’s banking information. If I can contact Laswell, I can set up something so you can go there again.”
Ghost finally grabs the file, scrolling through each page. Once finished, he tosses the file onto the conference table and settles back, crossing his arms in front of his chest and then his legs in a figure-four. “Only me?” You could see his eyes squint behind the mask in confusion.
“You’re capable enough to go in alone, sir. It’s a simple ‘neutralize the targets’ type of mission.”
“But it wouldn’t hurt to have you come with me.” He shrugs his shoulders.
You try to read the skull-faced man’s mask and eyes for any emotion, but it’s always hard with him. That mask conceals his exterior as much as it does the inside of him. You know Ghost has a personality, from his dad jokes while on missions and his clinical precision, but you always wondered when he would peel the mask off and just one day, for one moment, be Simon.
After weeks of preparation, Laswell gave you and Ghost the green light. Neutralize both Romanova and her son. It was a simple mission that both you and Ghost were both prepared for. Ghost convinced himself the only reason he asked you to come with him was so it would be easier sniping them at the same time. Or it may be because you’re a good sergeant. He hates to admit it. He wouldn’t mind Johnny back. But he thinks to himself a lot that you’re not so bad either. You never were.
“No Konni Group in sight, huh?” Ghost lays himself down on the concrete. The island for once was empty.
“Clearly not, Bravo 0-7.” Laswell says through the comms. “As soon as you see Romanova or Mikhail, take the shots.”
A car entered the lavish driveway of the island’s residence. Luckily, Ghost and you had a clear view of the car where the driver was. It took a couple of moments before both you and Simon noticed a woman walk out of the driver’s seat of a blacked out Mercedes Maybach SUV.
“Milena Romanova is here.” Ghost says to you and Laswell. You could see through the sniper that she was dressed down in a long-sleeved black a-line dress with matching sunglasses and pumps. Her hair was enough to know that the woman you were seeing was Milena herself, as she still kept the same hairstyle that the task force saw her in the last time they visited this island.
“As soon as you see Mikhael, drop them both. Sergeant, take Milena. Ghost, you take Mikhail.” Laswell directed.
A young man dressed head to toe in Konni Group attire exited out of the passenger side door, and it could only be one person: Mikhail Makarov.
You and Ghost didn’t waste a moment to do what Laswell asked. With one quick pull of the trigger you took the shot for Milena, and Ghost for Mikhail. You saw Milena’s body abruptly fall lifeless to the floor after you heard the crack of your weapon. The hair that was once styled perfectly now splayed across the road and had blood soaking through it which seeped out of her locks and crept into the crevices of the cobblestone. Mikhail dropped down to the ground a split second later, his body falling on to his mother.
Ghost thought his ears were deceiving himself until he heard a screeching cry. He thought it was the birds in the area, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. He used his scope to get a closer look. Right behind the driver’s door, the passenger door, was a baby in a car seat. The same brown hair as Milena and the same hooded eyes as his dead dad. The man’s eyes widened in horror. The baby’s carseat was splattered in blood and his once white onesie was the same. You turned to look at Simon, and for the first time you saw his eyes widen in pure guilt. The man that Ghost shot wasn’t Mikhail, but the baby splattered with blood around him was. Ghost felt his hand twitch, making him drop the sniper in his hands as he left you on the building.
Your eyes were fixed on the Lieutenant’s retreating form, but your ears were fixed on the baby’s ringing cries. It was a vulnerable and helpless little human, who now has no parents. You feel the shame pool in your stomach and come out by making your hand sweat and your heart quicken. Milena was a woman who did many wrong things, but that baby was innocent, and you murdered his mother as if she was worth nothing to him. Your misstep caused this.
You took your sniper along with the one Ghost left behind and rushed towards him, your boots hard on the concrete roof.
Ghost muttered to himself, his voice low in self-deprecation and not enough for you to hear. “Almost murdered a child.”
You stalk behind the soldier, analyzing his hands by his side, and his feet dragging against the dirt. His head was dipped on, so all you could see was the lower end of his mask. You were conflicted whether or not to jog a little closer so you could approach him or give the space he needed. You dismissed the latter option, instead stalking closer to him.
“Sir.” You tried jogging closer, but one step of this man’s leg was the same as you taking several steps. “Ghost.” You try calling out again and this time he stops walking, but doesn’t turn around. You finally reach his side and tilt your head up to look at the man. “About back there—”
“Not a word.” He turns to face your body and looks down. You both look eye to eye. Ghost could see the hesitancy in your eyes and you could see the guilt seethe in his. “Call in Price. Take the baby to a nearby village or city and put him up for adoption. That’s the end of it. We killed Milena. We killed a Konni contractor.”
“But we didn’t kill Mikhail. That baby was Mikhail.”
“That baby is innocent.” He stomped closer to you, which caused a strain in the back of your neck. You lowered your neck to find some sort of ease, and all you could see with this line of vision was his chest heaving up and down. “Call in Price.” He sighed. “Please.”
His plea came out into a small whimper and you couldn't help but to oblige with a nod of your head and a “Yes sir.”
The both of you were transported back to base and this time, you couldn’t relish in the usual silence. Everyone was typically tired after missions, only sparing a couple of words during the exfil which none of you in the 141 would ever mind. But this time, the silence is suffocating with the shared guilt between you two instead of a silence that should be graced with solace after a rough mission.
You sat across Ghost, his hands resting in his lap and his head down. The window from the helicopter radiated at the perfect angle so you could see the brown of his eyes. You always thought of Ghost as a fixed individual. You could tell that his efforts as a soldier paid off. Ghost took off his gloves, setting them to the side. You stared at his hands, and saw a fine strip of his tattoo sleeve peeking out of his left sleeve. Ghost grumbled, keeping his head down only moving his eyes upwards to look past his eyelashes.
“I couldn’t do it,” Ghost speaks up, his voice hushed in shame. Ghost moves to fiddle with his fingers, an explicit sign of his nervousness. He didn’t understand why he’s starting to open up at this moment, but he’s glad he’s doing it with a woman like you.
“It was a baby. That’s okay.” You shake your head gently in a dismissal of his shame. “You have a heart, Simon. That proved it.”
Simon felt his hands twitch at the use of his real name, the first time you ever used it, “A cold one.” He retorts and chuckles lightly, a selfish attempt to lighten up the situation he was in.
“I’m proud of you, you know.” Your voice was filled with genuine honesty and your eyes showed the pride you held for your superior.
“That means a lot coming from you, Sarge.” Ghost may be a clinical soldier with ruthless technique, but today you understood that under the army gear, the weaponry, and the skull-face mask, there’s Simon.
^ mind u this is when i started writing this bro like LMAO WHY DID I STALL SO LONG
btw the "spread the message" anon ask you got is spam; they're funneling money and shit; everyone gets the copy and paste shit don't feel obligated to give them attention
omg what i thought they were genuinely in need and in palestine :( i’ve deleted the reblog for now but can someone else tell me if that these accounts being spam is true? thanks a lot 🥲👍🏼
i saw a really hot cop today who had a tattoo sleeve and i couldn't help but to think about ex-military commander graves who becomes a cop after retirement and gets one of his arms fully tatted
tangentwithtanner
dededos
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
