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stridersdiner · 8 months

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I am in love with you, Crow.

UNDER THE SURFACE (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist — ghost icon by @yumethefrostypanda concept post here!

authors note; this is not my best work tbh, i wish i could improve it somehow, but i’m hoping you guys will like it anyway. Pretty sure this is my longest singular post, too! 4.7k words :-)

[WARNINGS: angst, spiraling thoughts, near panic attack, hurt/comfort, inaccurate medical stuff, vague descriptions of physical violence, very brief mention of possible self harm.]

YOU WERE USED to Simon being gone for long periods of time; you have been his roommate for two years now, nearly three. You know he’s military, it’s part of the reason why you were able to score being his roommate in the first place. At first, it was a very awkward arrangement. Simon himself wasn’t a very awkward person, no—he’s actually quite charismatic in his own way, a way that you could get along with. One of the reasons why the arrangement was strange at first was because you weren’t exactly able to get a one on one tour of the flat before agreeing, but you were a bit more trusting of this mysterious man because a mutual friend—Kate—sent you his contact information, considering you were looking for a new place to live since your lease was up.

Simon’s flat was void of any personality, really. Yes, you could tell by the way he organized everything that he had been in the military, probably for quite a while—but there weren’t any photos. No gaming systems; you discovered he did have a bookcase of quite a few books, but it was covered in a layer of dust. Despite this, when examining the books he owned, you could tell they were worn down—definitely loved. It made you smile a bit, seeing the different variety of books. A bit of personality, you think. Besides his room, it was like a completely furnished, no personality flat. You weren’t allowed in his room, not unless he gave you explicit permission, which you honored his boundaries. Simon was kind enough to offer you a space in his home—but you know he was quite weary of you, which was understandable. He helped you move in and you could tell he was watching you and your body language. Searching you for danger—but he slowly warmed up to you.

Another thing that you discovered that Simon was quite emotionally.. constipated. Over the first few months, you could tell he didn’t sleep as much as he probably should. He was always awake before you, and you would always find him in the kitchen, sipping on a hot cup of tea. After a few weeks of this routine—Simon rising much earlier than you, you figured maybe he couldn’t break the military’s strict routines.. Until one night you woke up from the sound of his heavy footsteps walking down the hall. You tensed in your bed and you sat up because Simon was silent as a ghost all the time. You didn’t even know if it was him at first, so in your half-asleep panicked state, you felt for your phone and you texted Simon’s contact, asking a messily texted “is that you walking around?” You blink your sleepiness away and wipe your eye as your phone vibrates with a “yeah. sorry.”

That was the first time you got some notion that Simon was thrown off guard from something, after another week of awakening from his noises, you began to realize that he was experiencing night terrors every couple of nights. His nightmares were never a thing you two discussed, exactly.. It was more of an unspoken rule to not talk about it. You would occasionally find yourself in the kitchen around the time you calculated when Simon would wake up—and you were right nearly every time—and you just.. coincidentally made him a cup of tea. To Simon’s pleasant surprise, you managed to get his tea right every single time. You’ve had your fair share of night terrors, so you knew how it could be sometimes. You wanted to do something nice for him, and he seemed flustered every time.

It took you a while to get used to him being gone for long periods of time. Simon appreciated that you never questioned too deeply into his career, even the times he would come home sporting a new injury, you were always willing to play doctor for him. Simon saw the concern in your eyes and sometimes he would share small stories of what happened, or maybe to get you to stop thinking about his injuries, a small story about his teammates. You slowly learned their names over the course of a year and a half, and you learned Simon’s rank as well. He is a lieutenant, and there’s a man called Captain Price, another man named Sergeant Kyle Garrick, and one more man named Sergeant John MacTavish, who Simon referred to as “Johnny” fondly.

It wasn’t common that Simon talked about work, which is the reason why it took about a year and a half to even get the information you did out of him. Over the time you’ve lived with him, you had decorated the flat to feel more comfortable and home-y. Simon only had a few requests, which you honored, and one of them was no pictures of him with his face showing. You shot him a curious and questioning look, but as always—you didn’t question him, and he was very thankful. You had gotten a few indoor plants as well that didn’t need much caring for and you wanted to liven up the place, y’know? You were okay with Simon not sharing much about his past or his work, because he was willing to listen to your little rambles about your interests and work. You were a bit hesitant, but Simon was very emotive and he never seemed annoyed or brushed you off.

Despite Simon’s reluctance to share anything of his own, he always heard you out if you needed to vent about something. He made sure you knew you could talk to him, even on days where you felt like you had no one to go to. You spent an entire night with him, just talking about anything and everything. It was the first real conversation you felt like you have had with anyone in such a long time. It was also the first night Simon really saw you. He watched as your eyebrows furrowed from uncomfortableness, the vulnerability being nearly too much to handle; something he could relate to on a personal level. So when you started showing these signs, he knew exactly when to change the subject. Simon quickly realized how to read you, and he somehow knew what you needed at different moments.

Simon flies into the airport late at night with a small duffel bag, tagged as a military bag. He sends you a quick “be home soon.” text. Simon doesn’t expect you to answer due to it being around 3 in the morning, and you indeed don’t answer him. He catches a taxi to your shared flat. Simon collects his things from the taxi before paying the driver and sending them off, and Simon lets out a slow breath as he takes in the achingly familiar sight of the place he lives in. He tugs the hood that remains sitting over his head closer to his face, which is covered by a black surgical mask. His hand tightens on the straps of the duffel bag before he approaches the flat building, taking out his keys as he approaches the elevator. Once Simon reaches the third floor, he wastes no time getting to the front door, and he isn’t sure why, but his heart is pounding inside of his chest.

Simon unlocks both the top lock and the doorknob to enter the flat—something he had taught you to do every single time. He pockets his keys as he enters and Simon pauses for a moment because he can’t put his finger on it, but something feels off the second he glanced inside. His eyes trail the living room which is clean, not one thing out of place. Simon takes a deep breath and he doesn’t brush off the weird feeling, because even when there’s no evidence something happened—he’s usually right. The blanket on the couch is perfectly folded and laid over the back cushions, the mini bookcase by the TV is dusted as always, your shoes.. Are not by the front door, but a different pair are..? These either are not your shoes, or they are new. You always warned Simon about bringing people over, and you definitely would’ve told him this time. The lamp is on in the living room, but it seems the lights are out everywhere else. Simon silently goes through his routine when he gets back late at night—taking his jacket off and hanging it up, he leaves his boots by the door, and he drops his keys into the dish.

Next step to his routine is to step into the kitchen and get a cup of actually good quality tea, unlike the shit the military provides him. He fills up the electric kettle and sets a timer on it, grabbing his favorite mug and the box of his favorite tea from the cabinets. Simon glances down the dark hall—he’s seeking for a sign of life from you because you’re usually getting up around this time to greet him. No matter what, you always seem to know when he returns—yet you aren’t leaving your room. There’s no light emitting from the hall nor underneath the doors, and fuck, it’s eating at him. Something is wrong—and what the fuck is it? Simon stands there for a moment, turning his head to watch the blue light blinking on the electric kettle. He watches it blink slowly as he tries to rack his brain for what could be wrong—maybe those shoes are someone else’s, but he could just have a stern conversation with you about it later. Maybe you came back from drinking with friends—no, if that was the case, he knows for a fact your belongings would be everywhere, maybe even a spilled glass of water in the kitchen. He’s had to clean that up a couple of times.

He raises his wrist and pulls up his sleeve a bit to look at his digital watch; it’s nearly 0400 now. Simon puts his hands on the counter, leaning his body weight against it. Did something happen at work, maybe that’s why it feels off? You’ve always had a commanding presence like he has, so maybe— “Fuck.” Simon hisses quietly, hooking a finger into the strap of his black face mask and he rips it off, tossing it without care onto the counter. He leans forward and checks the kettles timer for a second, and then he’s walking towards the hall. Simon passes by his room and he walks up to yours, and he tries to turn the doorknob to peak in to check on you, but—it’s locked? Simon lets out a harsh breath before trying the door again, and yeah, it’s locked. Simon swears under his breath and he knocks on the door, his stomach twisting and turning. Something is wrong, very very wrong, very fucking wrong—

You unlock the door and you open it just enough for you to peak out, and you use your phone flashlight to shine it in Simon’s face. He squints and puts his hand up, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Hey—you locked your door.” He points out quietly, and you’re just staring at him, your eyes wide and alert. Simon’s anxiety lessens, but your reaction doesn’t make it go away. “Y’alright?” Simon drawls out, his hand on the wood panel of the door. You let out a harsh breath and you let go of your phone, letting out a quiet, “Simon..” before you suddenly pull your door completely open, and you wrap your arms around his thick torso into a hug. Simon swears his heart jumps into his throat and then into his stomach, bouncing back into his chest because you hugged him. You two were never particularly touchy like that, maybe a fleeting touch here or two, usual drunken affection from you—but you barely ever hugged him like this, even when he returned from deployments. Your touch burns hot through his clothes, and he knows you wouldn’t touch him without asking, so when you do? He wraps an arm around you, his free arm resting on your shoulder. “Hey..” Simon breathes out, lost for words.

You don’t hold on long enough for the uncomfortable worry to creep up his spine just yet. You rip yourself away from him like he burned you, his hands falling to his sides. You offer a tight, weak smile—one that you could easily play off as a sign of fatigue. Simon’s breath stutters as he watches your hands linger near your chest in a subconscious defensive gesture, your fingers closing into a fist for a moment; as if you’re uncomfortable, almost overstimulated. Simon feels the way for the light switch and he flips it on, and your room looks normal—but you look.. off. You look a bit clammy, almost like you’re sick or bouncing off the walls with anxiety. His eyes flick to your fingers and the skin besides your thumbnail and your middle finger are picked to all hell, and you just.. don’t seem right. All of these.. signs, you’re showing are actually very subtle—he just notices everything about you. Simon knows what food you favor, what your favorite color is, what social situations what you tick, what makes you mad—he knows it all. “Three months went by slow,” You murmur, trying to start a conversation. Simon’s eyes narrow at you for a moment as he watches you back up to your bed; no, you don’t turn around, you back up. You don’t turn your back to Simon at all. Fuck. He watches you lift your mattress, causing him to lift an eyebrow. “They did,” Simon confirms. “What happened while I was gone?”

This wasn’t an unusual question for Simon to ask; but it had a completely different meaning to you this time. You feel your muscles tense as you grab something from under your mattress, and you put it back down. It glints from the overhead light in your bedroom—a.. pocket knife of some sort, a switchblade perhaps. Simon’s eyes narrow at how you pocket it oh so quickly into your pocket. “Nothing much,” You reply quickly, smoothing out your shirt. “Same old same old, work has been fine, uh..” You trail off for a moment, clearing your throat. “Look, let me take a shower—I’m sure you’re itching for something to eat, huh?” Simon watches you open your drawers and pick out some pants and a shirt. The knife comes to mind—why are you taking it with you? “I can make it myself.” Simon responds, his feet planted firmly where he had been standing the whole time. You shake your head and close the drawers once you collect your clothes.

“It’s tradition, Simon. I gotta.” You offer a stronger smile as you make your way towards the door, still avoiding showing your back towards him. Simon watches as you glance at your bedroom window before exiting your room, muttering a quiet “close the door when you leave”, which Simon obeys. He shuts the door with a click, and he watches you quickly scurry down the hall towards the bathroom. “Just let me shower first.” And with that, you step into the bathroom, close the door and you lock it before Simon can interject. He stands there for a moment, stunned. His chest tightens for a moment because you just felt so far away. You’ve created such unwanted distance—even as you’re not very touchy with him, you still bother him for every detail he’s willing to give up when he returns. You are constantly making jokes, inviting him into the kitchen when you’re about to make a welcome home meal—but this time? You were hiding in your room, locking your door, bringing a knife with you—in front of him. Did you think that could slip past him? Did something happen whilst he was gone, to cause you to bring it with you? Is it for self defense against something or someone?— Is it to use on yourself?

Simon feels his stomach turn at his thoughts. He shakes his head and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He walks past the bathroom, his footsteps stuttering for a moment in front of the door before he presses his lips into a thin line, returning to the kitchen to make himself some tea, the electric kettle had beeped long ago.

The next late morning, not much was different. Simon only slept a few hours, three or four—as per usual, he still woke up before you. He threw on a pair of sweatpants, and a black hoodie. He made his tea, made you a cup of what you prefer to drink in the morning, and he made a light breakfast for you both. Despite being in the military for a while and relying on cooks as well as MRE’s to get through his days, Simon is a decent cook. He made himself some sausage and fried eggs, and he made a plate or a bowl of what you prefer to eat in the morning. Simon sighs for a moment as he glances at the time—around 1100, and you still haven’t emerged from your room which is odd, especially now that Simon just came back home. He takes a moment to look at his food, and he decides then and there he will drag you out if he has to. Simon scoops up his plate as well as your food, and he heads down the hall towards your room. With his hands full, Simon balances for a second as he gently kicks the door as a way to knock, and then he stands on both of his feet again. “Oi, wake up!” Simon shouts, leaning close to the door to listen for your movement.

It takes a good minute and when Simon is about to knock again; he hears your doorknob unlock and you peak out the door, your eyes wide and alert again, although it’s obvious you had just woken up. You seem to relax when your tired mind’s gears turn and you realize it’s just Simon. You open your door wider and you rub your eye, and he spots the knife in your hand, partially obscured by the door. “Mm, sorry. I overslept.” You say, your voice heavy with sleep, vibrating in your chest. Simon makes a noncommittal noise before holding out your food, which you stare at for a moment you take it, your lips twitching into a weak smile. “Thanks, Simon.” He waits a few seconds, and you nearly shut your door on him.

Thanks, Simon. That’s all??

“Can I eat in your room wit’you?” Simon gruffs out, feeling sudden determination from this weird act you have going on. You blink for a moment and then you nod. “Just give me a sec.” You murmur. You shut the door in his face and he hears you shuffling about, moving something—sounds like your mattress. Are you putting your knife away??—and then you open your door, gesturing for Simon to walk into your room. Surely you don’t think you can hide this type of thing from him of all people, right? Why are you hiding it from him?

Simon enters your room, and you close the door behind him. You never used to do that—“What happened?” Simon stares at you for an answer, watching your face contort in a bit of confusion. You don’t say anything at first, and when you were about to open your mouth, Simon speaks. “I mean this in the nicest way possible—do ya take me f’a wanker?” Your jaw drops for a moment, your eyebrows furrowing. “What? No, of course not, Simon. Nothing happened, I’m not sure why—“

“Don’t,” Simon interrupts, putting his plate of food on your dresser. “Something has happened, and you’re lyin’ to me. You’re jumpy, you’re carryin’ a blood knife around, lovie—don’t think you can get that past me—and you won’t turn your back on me.” His lips press into a line as he watches your shoulder hunch up a bit, in an all too familiar defensive, tense position. The pit in Simon’s stomach begins to grow as you avert your eyes from, too. “You are barely talkin’ when you bloody damn near talk my ear off when I come home—you said, ‘Thanks, Simon.’ Not an over the top reaction about me doing something for th’both of’us, not a invite in, and last night—you’ve been locking your door.” You put your food down near yourself, and Simon catches the way your fingers are trembling. “I.. I’m allowed to lock my door, Simon. You don’t need to question me.” You say, attempting to hold a steady voice which barely works, your voice nearly cracking on the last word. Your heart is racing out of your chest and all you want to do is bolt at the door; which Simon catches on to. You watch him as he slowly begins to step in front of the door. “You tell me everything—even how your damn showers go. Why won’t you tell me this?” He demands, and his heart is pounding against his ribcage, too.

He watches your face contort into several different emotions and feelings; panic, sadness, anger, relief—the whole nine yards. Simon walks towards you when you begin to sob, and you sit down on your bed to avoid collapsing. His chest tightens as he murmurs name, wondering if he went too far. You reach your hands for him and not for one second does Simon hesitate this time. He wraps his arms around you, sitting right next to you on your mattress, your thighs touching together. He reaches up and rubs the nape of your neck as you openly sob and shutter into the crook of his neck and in his arms. His skin burns from your heat seeping into his clothes, a lively warmth that burns so hot but he welcomes so much more than he remembers that he used to. Your tears are hot, burning his skin with every drop that slides onto his neck, but he welcomes the sensation. “It’s alright, lovie. Let it out.” Simon murmurs, one of his arms tugging your body closer to his. He holds you in almost protective stance, like someone is threatening to drag you away from his grasp. You grab at the back of his hoodie, your chest beginning to heave. “Mm, no, c’mere; look at me, yeah?” Simon beckons you, his voice smooth and soft—which is extremely rare. Simon cups your cheek and lifts your head from where it rests in the crook of his neck, his hand instantly getting covered in the wetness of your tears that are streaming down your cheeks. You inhale sharply as you try to look at Simon, your eyes unfocused and you try so hard to focus on his pretty brown eyes, but you can’t seem to get ahold of yourself. You let out a panicked sob as your hand now tug on the front of his hoodie, and his voice is so far away, but his hand is molding to the curve of your jaw, like it belongs there.

You shut your eyes for a moment and you let Simon move you around as he wants, which he ends up guiding your head to his chest, and his grip loosens some so you don’t feel trapped. It takes you a moment to catch your breath, to catch your bearings; you can hear a faint ringing sound that you didn’t notice before, but you do note it’s slowly fading away, and in fades is Simon’s voice. He’s murmuring praises—and oh, he’s laying against the headboard of your bed frame now, with you laying on his chest. You feel yourself trembling against him, and embarrassment hits you hard. You’re tense—you don’t want to talk about any of it at all, but you know Simon. He will push you until you snap, even if it’s in your best interest to tell him. You reach up and play with a hoodie string of his, listening to his soft breathing. You hesitate for a moment before your lips part. “It was a week after you left.” Simon’s heart skips a beat, which you hear—you vaguely find it amusing, but he’s silent to allow you to continue. One of his hands is on your back, his thumb moving back and forth. “I..” You swallow spit so you don’t croak, as you’re convinced you might sound pathetic. As if Simon would ever think of you that way. “I was walking home from the pub, y’know, the one only just a few blocks away? It was late at night, I think the police said it was around 2 am. I stayed until closing, I was with some of my friends, uh..” You trail off for a moment, trying to recall everything that happened. Your hand pauses, and Simon senses your state. He begins to rub your back full on, murmuring, “It’s alright. Go on, then.”

You let out a shaky breath before continuing. “I was absolutely wasted, and there was this guy—grabbed me and I tried to get out of his hold, but he ended up fucking stabbing me. Robbed me of my shit.” Your voice cracks and the silence is deafening. Simon feels his heart drop into his stomach. You got stabbed? “Fuckin’ hell.. Why didn’t you call me? Or at least let me know?” Simon’s voice treats carefully, knowing that you’re still freaking out by the way you’re incredibly tense against him. “I know how important your focus is when you’re gone,” You respond, your voice staying quiet as well. You don’t look at Simon’s face because you know that you’ll break once again. You pick at the fabric of his hoodie, seeking comfort in his warmth, despite how you usually aren’t like this with him. “I didn’t want to take your focus because I know you, Simon. You would’ve backed out of whatever you were trying to do to come and help me.” Simon presses his lips into a thin line, staying quiet because you both know that you’re correct. Simon would drop everything to come home to you, to help you. “The guy nicked my lung, was in the hospital for a while.” Simon’s hand stutters for a moment, the smooth pattern of his palm rubbing your back being interrupted from shock. “Jesus—“ Simon hisses, and he can’t help but tug you closer. “You should’ve told me anyway, lovie.”

You sniffle and you rub your face into his hoodie, a muffled noncommittal noise coming from the back of your throat. He doesn’t say anything further, nor do you. Simon lays there with you on top of him, one of his hands caressing your back, the other wrapped around your body, sometimes coming up to rub the back of your neck. You don’t mention the way he doesn’t seem to tell you to move, and he doesn’t mention how touchy you’re being. Simon doesn’t want this moment to end—one where you’re vulnerable and trusting with him, one where you’re alive and well. He can’t help but wonder if he ever made you feel like you couldn’t tell him something? Simon feels simmering, muffled anger in his stomach because you didn’t want to interrupt his work for being stabbed, nicking a vital organ no less—he makes a mental note to sit you down and make you promise to call him if an issue or an injury like that ever arises again. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to push away what would happen if you didn’t do that—if that guy were to come back to try to finish the job and Simon wasn’t here, would you call him? Would you pick up your phone and dial his number? Would you text him? What if you got hurt again—would you call him?—Or would the hospital? He always imagined you’d be getting the call of his death, and not the other way around. Simon swears under his breath for a moment and opens his eyes; he doesn’t want to think about that anymore. He wants to stay in this moment with you—both himself and you alive. He glances down, your tear stained cheeks slowly drying, your eyelids closed. His fingers slide from the nape of your neck to the side, and he presses his fingers against your pulse.

Being here with you—he wants you to trust him, too; like he trusts you. That’s all he wants.

tag: @zzzennin

#Not me.#Ghost x Reader #Ghost x gn!Reader #cod mwii #cod mw2 #Simon Riley #Simon Ghost Riley #Simon “Ghost” Riley

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stridersdiner · 8 months

Note

For you, Crow.

this is going to be projecting a bit since i have a cold and i am not feeling great, but roommate!gaz who takes care of you while you’re sick. he gets your favorite snacks, makes some warm soup for your sore throat, gives you medicine at correct times, tucks you in and sprints to you the moment you try to get up to get something yourself. he absolutely does this thing where you ask him not to do all that, because he’ll get sick too and he responds with either “i don’t care” or “i’ll be fine, i don’t catch colds easily”. fastforward a few days, you’re feeling better already while gaz starts to feel a scratch at the back of his throat and his nose becomes stuffy as hell.

i just need gaz to take care of me for a few days 😭😭😭

- 🐇

I’ve Got You (Roommate!Gaz x GN!Reader)

roommate!gaz masterlist

[WARNINGS: descriptions of vomiting, fluff.]

Kyle was never a particularly heavy sleeper, so when the first thing he processes is some quick footsteps and then the sound of muffled vomiting—accompanied by the faucet of the bathroom sink running in a seeming attempt to mask the sound of the contents of someone’s stomach exiting them. A harsh breath exhales from Kyle’s lungs as he looks over at the clock on his nightstand—0328. Right. It takes him a moment to process it’s you who is throwing up, but when he finally realizes—he sits up whilst throwing his blanket to the side, worry beginning to scratch at his own stomach. Kyle opens his bedroom door and he quickly makes his way down the hall to the shared bathroom, where he finds the door cracked and the light streams through, beaming onto the floor. Kyle calls for your name gently, tapping his knuckles against the cracked door with one hand, the other holding the handle to keep the door in place. He respects your privacy as much as he can. You moan in pain, a sickly wet cough leaving him before you croak out a quiet “come in”.

Kyle opens the door after letting go of the doorknob, and his chest tightens at the sight of you, hunched over the toilet, your legs curled against your body, with a wad of toilet paper in your hand. “Oh, sweetheart,” He murmurs, his eyes raking over your form. He notes the way your shirt is damp, likely from sweat and the way your forehead and cheeks shine with sweat supports his thought. “You’ve gotten sickly, it seems.” You huff, wiping the toilet seat down with the wad of toilet paper, dropping it into the bowl and you flush it with a lighthearted, “no shit”. Kyle grabs the cup that sits by the bathroom sink that’s usually used for gargling water, and he swiftly washes it out and fills it up with some water. “Here, wash the taste out of your mouth, yeah?” Kyle hums, his hand clasping yours and helping you to your feet. You make a noise of appreciation, your eyebrows furrowing into a tight grimace from the scratching pain deep in your throat.

You take the cup and you gargle the water, and you jolt a bit when you feel a soft material dabbing at the back of your neck. You spit out the water and you look over at him with a weak, questioning look. “Just wiping your sweat, love.” Kyle responds, in which you feel your cheeks burn embarrassment and you try to gently wack his hand away. “Nuh uh uh—Let me help you,” He laughs softly, his lips curling into a smile as he swats your hand away, continuing to soak up some of your sweat. “Look, let me grab you some clothes and you can take a shower, or a bath. Whatever you prefer. I’ll get you some soup, and I’ll pick up some medicine.”

You blink for a moment and you try to hide your forming smile, which works by accident because the pain behind your eyeballs suddenly wants you to know that it’s still there. “Kyle, y’can go back to bed, it’s late—“ Kyle puts a finger up and begins to interrupt you. “I don’t care that it’s late, [name]. You’re sick, and I want to help you out.” Kyle tilts his head for a moment before exiting the bathroom without allowing you to get another word in, taking the sweat soaked towel with him. You blink blankly at the door and you sigh, which turns into a harsh cough due to the tickle in your throat.

You shiver, feeling both uncomfortably warm and cold, so you decide on a lukewarm shower. After undressing, you sit on the bathtub floor, under the stream, the head of the shower angled so it hits the back of your head, streaming down your back and into the tub. You don’t know how much time has passed when you hear Kyle knock, but you disregard that thought when he begins to speak. “Hey, I got you some loose clothes right here. You don’t have much thin stuff, so the shirt’s one of mine; one of my workout shirts if that’s alright.” Kyle shouts over the water, and he sounds a bit far away, so he’s probably still by the door. “Yeah,” You croak. “Thanks, Kyle. You.. You can leave it on the counter.”

You see Kyle’s silhouette behind the shower curtain and you can vaguely make out that he has a jacket on. He makes a quiet noise as he collects your sickly soaked clothing before suddenly his hand comes from behind the front of the shower curtain, a mouth thermometer in his grasp. You can’t help the laugh and you take the thermometer from him. You take your temperature and you don’t bother to look, a feverish mistake on your part, and you hand it back to Kyle. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and he shuffles behind the curtain before he starts speaking again. “You got a fever, it’s not too bad. I’ll be back.”

You only respond with a groan and he trails out of the bathroom. It takes a lot of energy from you to get up from the bathtub floor, but you manage to get yourself up and turn the water off, as well as drying yourself off. You feel a bit better than before, but you can practically feel the sickness dripping down your throat.. Or, more likely so, that’s mucus. You blink at the clothes that Kyle grabbed for you—some pajama pants you own, a pair of your underwear, a pair of socks if you wish to wear them, and a thin, sleeveless shirt. You pick up the black shirt and you slip it on, mentally noting in the back of your mind that it smells like his room, and you slip the underwear and pants on, and you take the socks with you just in case you want them later. You groan quietly as you exit the bathroom, the pressure behind your nose and eyes announcing its presence once again. You find the living room light to be left on, so you trail yourself down the hall to the living room instead of back into your room.

You walk through the connected kitchen/dining room area before finding yourself at the couch, and there lies a pillow—which you later find out is Kyle’s—as well as your favorite blanket. You can’t help the smile that appears on your face as you grab the blanket and wrap it around your shoulders, and you spot the glass of ice water on the coffee table with a messily written sticky note attached to it. You sit on the couch next to the pillow before you grab the glass, taking the sticky note off and reading it.

“Went to the corner store 4 meds. We ran out, take care of urself more when i’m gone xx -kyle”

You let out a small breath in amusement, and you cover your mouth as you cough, and you take a long, slow sip of the ice water, which does feel very nice going down into your empty stomach. You grab the remote after putting the glass down as well as the note, and you lay down. You hum for a second as you turn the TV on and turn on YouTube, and you turn on a random video.

Kyle gets home after about an hour because the first store he walked to didn’t have the medicine that he needed, but he picked up a few snacks before he headed to the next. He unlocks the door with his keys, and he kicks off his shoes after putting the bags on the ground–and untying his shoes, of course. He sees that the TV is on, which brings a small smile to his face. “You still awake?” Kyle questions gently, just in case you were able to fall asleep. You let out a noise to let him know you’re still awake, and he nods to himself. Kyle takes his jacket off and hangs it up on the coat rack by the door, grabbing the plastic bags and he heads over to the couch. He doesn’t hold back his grin, and he lets out a quiet “awee” as he puts the bag on the coffee table. You try to sit up, but Kyle tsks and shakes his head. “No, just keep laying down, yeah? No reason to sit up.” He hums as he takes out some tylenol, a sinus and throat medicine, as well as some food and a couple bottles of ginger ale.

“You don’t have to,” You whisper, a small ball of shame burning in your gut. You don’t want Kyle to spend his leave time taking care of you, but he just looks at you with a pointed look before he responds. “I want to.” Kyle responds, swatting at your stretched out legs. You try to hide your smile, which you fail, and you curl your legs closer to yourself under the blanket to let him sit down, which he does. “Is this your pillow?” You ask as you watch him tear open the small packages surrounding the bottles of the medicines. Kyle nods and glances at you as he opens the Tylenol bottle. “I made sure to get medicine that isn’t infused with Tylenol, considering we ran out of it whilst I was away.” You feel Kyle’s side eye at you so hard and you can’t help but laugh, looking at him. You ignore how he changes the subject.

“You’re going to get sick if you don’t sanitize this pillow after.” You try to continue what you were talking about earlier and Kyle playfully mocks you under his breath, taking out two pills. “Mhm, you’ll never survive without me since you went so long without medicine!” Kyle jokes, putting the two tablets in his lap. You shake your head, which you quickly stop because it feels like your brain was bouncing around the inside of your skull painfully. Kyle grabs a gel pill and puts it into his palm, and he picks up the Tylenol again. He holds it out which you graciously take, quickly sitting up. You grab the glass of water and take the pills with the water, and you put the water down. “So,” Kyle begins, grabbing the plastic bags and putting them into his lap. “I grabbed you some soup, several flavors because I’m not sure about you, I want more than just one flavor. I also grabbed some crackers, ginger ale, some..”

The sound of Kyle’s voice burns out as you focus on all of the items he’s taking out of the bags—just for you because you’re sick. Your eyes lift to Kyle, who is apparently still speaking, but again, you don’t pay any mind. You try to blame it internally on your feverish brain as you think about how pretty he looks, and how kind he’s being, how much care he holds in his eyes when he looks at you. Which he is now looking at you, his eyebrows furrowed together in concern. “[Name],” He calls out, bringing you back to reality. You hum as a question, finally making complete eye contact. He lets out such a beautiful laugh—you think—and he shakes his head. “Shame on me for rambling while you’re sick, hm?” He jokes before putting the items of consumption on the coffee table. “Rest, sweetheart. I’ll be here to take care of ya.”

#Not me.#I fucking love Gaz.#I also fucking love Crow.#cod mw2 #cod mwii #Kyle Garrick x gn!Reader #Kyle Garrick x Reader #Gaz x Reader #Gaz x gn!Reader

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stridersdiner · 8 months

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Crow, I need to kiss you.

You’re Alive (Gaz x GN!Reader)

gaz masterlist - gazfest 2023 @glitterypirateduck

PROMPTS: “One-shot” + “Safe House” + “Let Me See You”

SUMMARY: After receiving a facial scar, you have been jumpy—Kyle is here to show you that’s it’s all okay.

A/N: Honestly, I’m not the happiest with this but I decided to stop being picky with it!! So I hope my contribution to gazfest is satisfactory <3

[WARNINGS: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, moderate descriptions of gore, allusion to PTSD.]

Your leg kept bouncing like whatever gnawing feeling in your gut wasn’t going to stop unless your leg was going a million miles per minute. The clock on the wall ticked every second oh so quietly, and it was overall silent aside from the ticking and your body squeaking. You felt like a live wire attached to a brick of dynamite, ready to explode at any given time—ready to kill whoever holds the brick. Despite it being an hour or two since you and Kyle arrived at the safehouse, you remain at the only window in the entire building. In your arms rests your rifle with your safety switched to “semi” for semi-automatic, like you’re expecting someone to come barreling in through the door, or come through the tree line.

Kyle doesn’t blame you for the way you have been acting, honestly. He knows you’ve been different since you got your facial scar a few months back—you were required to go through a psychological evaluation to be deemed fit for duty, and it’s moments like this where Kyle—guiltily—wonders how you passed “with flying colors”, so the doctor said. He doesn’t understand how the Captain hasn’t see your behavior either, or if he has, he hasn’t done anything about it. Kyle means well about all of this, too. He’s worried about you. He’s seen the way your eyes scan every room, the way you’re too ready to raise your weapon to kill, the way you snarl at anyone who is casually holding a knife outside of combat.. There’s so many signs pointing to something, a deeper problem, that he is wondering how the psychologist still has a job.

You’ve begun to wear a mask that obscures your face from your nose down.

You offered to take first watch—he notes that you’re like Ghost in that regard, you can’t calm down after a highly intense situation, so you gotta do what you gotta do, right? But the way you’re so.. jumpy, you keep jolting and looking at Kyle every time he shifts, making a slight noise?—that’s concerning. He’s used to Ghost’s incredible alertness, the way he doesn’t like his back faced to the door of the rooms he enters, Kyle is used to when Ghost sits in the far corner so he can see every inch of the room—but he was terrified when you began to do it, too. You’ve always been vigilant, sure, but you’re.. Something is very wrong.

Kyle watches from his spot on the ragged, torn couch that had to be taken from the curb in a nearby neighborhood. His own rifle is propped up against the couch, his pistol resting on the coffee table in front of himself. He watches the way your eyes flicker across the skyline, the puffy eyebags you have almost seem like they’re worsening by the moment. Kyle is also exhausted—you two have been traveling from safehouse to safehouse for about a week, trying to meet up with the rest of the task force.. With no support, of course.

He calls your name, and he makes a mental note of how your finger twitches closer to the trigger than before. “You need to rest.” He grunts out, pushing himself off of the couch. Kyle turns and grabs his rifle, holding the hefty weapon to his chest as he naturally copies your perfectly practiced pose. He looks up and looks at you—and you haven’t moved a muscle. “Hey, y’hear me?” Kyle voice is laced with concern as he takes his steps towards you, and he makes the mistake of tapping your shoulder—because suddenly he’s facing the silencer of your semi-automatic rifle. Cold panic shoots through his veins and his gut, his muscles going rigid as if he’s a deer in headlights. His eyes search for yours, locking eyes; and you’re out of it. He knew something was wrong.

“Oi,” Kyle speaks with the softest tone he can manage with a gun nearly pressing into the bridge of his nose. “Oi, it’s me. Gaz, mate. It’s Kyle.” Your eyes search his face desperately, and he’s silently begging for you to speak. The tension in his stomach is twisting and turning, threatening to snap—you show no signs of any recognization of him, someone who you have trusted for years by this point, someone who was the one to get your guts inside of your abdomen after an ambush, the one who held your face together after the attack—

Kyle does things before he thinks about it sometimes, and it seems to happen a lot more often with you than anyone else, so he’s silently cursing himself out when he slowly raises a hand to your cheek—his heart pounding against his rib cage, like it’s screeching to escape and run away. He has a rifle pressing against his nose, nearly right between his eyes, and what does he do? Kyle holds your covered cheek, his gloved hand cradling it just like how he did when he found you. Your eyebrow muscles punch inwards for a moment, your eyelids fluttering from the touch.

He watches the way your eyes scan his face, the way you’re trying to decipher whether he’s friend or foe—and he sees it when you know it’s him. Your eyes widen every so slightly and your rifle trembles in your grasp, lowering it and you flip the safety back on. “Gaz, I..” You croak for a moment, taking a small step back. Kyle let’s out a breath he didn’t he was holding, along with all of that tension holding up in body. He reaches for you again as you pinch the bridge of your nose, one of his hands swiftly taking the rifle from you, the other gently cradling your cheek again. “Shh, it’s alright,” He murmurs, his stomach tightening with anxiety. Your eyes fall closed for a moment as Kyle lets your rifle drop to the ground next to where both of you stand.

“It’s alright.” Kyle repeats, his other hand coming up to cradle your other cheek. You ever so slightly flinch in his touch, but you don’t pull away. Your hands come up to cover his own, a choked noise leaving your throat. “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.” His lips are next to your ear now, voice dripping like honey into your eardrums, trickling down your spine with a warmth only he’s been able to provide for you. You can borderline feel his heat from beneath his gloves, seeping into your skin from on top of your mask, too. It grounds you enough for you to take a wonderfully oxygen filled breath.

“There y’go, yeah..” Kyle praises you softly, the air from between his lips brushing against your ear and causing you get goosebumps. You inhale once again, slower and deeper—and you get the comforting scent of Kyle, mixed in with the sweat and dirt. Nonetheless, it’s something you find extreme comfort in. As Kyle brings you down from your panicked feelings, he’s swaying you ever so slightly. After you let out a soft shuddering breath, he pulls away from your ear. “Let me see you,” He whispers, causing your eyes to shoot open, scanning his face with panic. You begin to shake your head but his hands remain in place. Kyle’s hands don’t move to remove your mask, as he’s always been good with your boundaries—but his eyes are pleading you.

“Please.” You lock eye contact with him as you debate this; you haven’t showed your face willingly since you were in the hospital, right? You began to cover your face as soon as you could without medical repercussions. You keep scanning his eyes, his muscles in his face, and then it hits you—Kyle doesn’t beg you of anything—the last time he saw your face, was when it was split in two, when he was holding your face in place. You know the attack fucked with him, too. Your barracks were next to his, and after the attack, you were hyper-vigilant. You woke up from every noise, and every night—you heard him stumble out of his room, always at night. Panicked.

You take a slow, deep breath—and you nod. You close your eyes, trying to give yourself some comfort. You feel his fingers hook into the soft material of your mask, and he pulls it down to under your chin. You don’t open your eyes just yet, but you can’t help the small flinch when you feel his gloved thumb trace part of your pink scar that’s deep in your lip. Your heart is hammering in your throat as his finger continues to slowly follow the scar’s path, from your bottom lip trailing to your nose, rearing a gory right, a deeper part of the scar scaling through your right cheek, and taking a harsh upwards turn, just narrowly missing your eye, but cutting deep into your eyebrow.

“There you are.” He whispers, his voice barely steady. Your eyes flutter open and you look at Kyle, and your eyebrows raise ever so slightly at the sight of tears brimming in his own eyes, pure relief all over his expression. “Thought I lost you forever, huh?” Kyle tries to laugh, but his voice cracks, causing a rare laugh to be pulled out of your chest. You reach up and your breath hitches as you wipe away a tear that had begun to slide down his cheek. “I’m.. I’m okay, Kyle.” You respond and he shakes his head, sniffling for a moment, his eyes tracing every part of your face, like you’ll disappear again. “You aren’t,” He confirms. “And that’s alright. You’re alive, and here with me, that’s enough for now.”

#Not me.#cod mw2 #cod mwii #Gaz x Reader #Gaz x gn!Reader #Kyle Garrick

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stridersdiner · 8 months

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Rancher AU Masterlist.

Phillip Graves

Main:

Rodeo rider.

Rodeo rider 2.

Quiet mornings.

Minis:

Childhood.

Motorcycles.

Honey, I'm Good.

Desire.

Loving.

Fragrances.

#Rancher AU #Graves.#Phillip Graves x gn!Reader #Phillip Graves x Reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii

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stridersdiner · 8 months

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Touching base with our affectionate little rancher and his habits again.

Rancher Graves and how he treats you.

Carnal desire sears itself into his flesh. Craving intimacy, tenderness.

Phil is meek at first when it comes to showing affection. He's scared that you won't reciprocate. He gets in his own head about misreading you. But when you throw this dog a bone, he's never letting go.

He offers you segments of his oranges. Gives you the first and last bite of his desserts without even a word. Fixes you up a mug of your favorite teas or coffee blends like his sixth sense is knowing when you're wanting it.

He hugs you whenever he sees the chance. Links your pinkies together when you're walking side by side. Stares at you admirably as you ramble on about how your day went, hanging onto every word you say like it was the last story he'd ever hear.

He can make any outing into a date. Brushing the horses, buying groceries, filing taxes. He sneaks glances. Taps his foot against yours under the table.

He's attentive. Knows your favorite colors, flowers, drinks, foods- everything. If you've made a passing comment about it, you can bet he'll remember every detail down to the shoes you were wearing when you said it.

He remembers how you feel in his arms. Soft, comforting. Notices when you switch shampoos or fragrances. Even remembers your lip balm flavors.

And, yes, he has a favorite.

Well...

If I had to guess, you are.

Babes that wanted to be tagged:

@mockerycrow @kivino

#Rancher AU #Graves.#Mini.#These have been on my mind for FOREVER.#Headcanons I guess?#Yeah.#Headcanons.#He makes me feel things.#Mostly divine yearning.#I cannot satiate my indispensable appetite.#Phillip Graves #cod mwii #cod mw2

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stridersdiner · 8 months

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I think it's fair to say that rancher Graves had never been so enthralled by greed before you appeared before him.

Phil's mind buckles at the thought of you. Smug melts into sentimental.

He's lived his life perfectly content with everything. Loving family, steady income, a place to call home, wild success.

He's never once blinked twice over envy. Jealousy is something he hardly felt- if not general incompetence or remorse for any shortcomings. His family has worked hard for generations for what they've got. What if he doesn't get it right like Pa did, or like Pop-pop? What if the ranch goes under because of him? He's sure his older brother would've done a much better job taking care of everything- Phil should've enlisted instead.

They say such feelings twist so easily into envy, but he held himself strict standards.

So maybe, when he finally gets to know you outside of the rodeos, he indulges a bit.

He's not sure when he noticed it. At first, he was just excited to have a new friend. Smiling down at his phone when he got a call or text from you, giddy when he ran into you in town or at a function someone was throwing, excited when your father called him over to help with the horses.

And, eventually, his innocent excitement turned into longing. Not simple longing.

Desire nips are his ankles like a stray dog, and it's unfamiliar. Friendly, almost. So he takes it in and nurtures it.

Taking you out for drinks at the saloon from time to time. Helping you with your shopping list when your father sends you off into town.

And Desire bites. Gnaws. Gnashes.

Nerves bubble up when you laugh at someone else's corny jokes. Hands ball into fists when he sees you hug someone he's not too familiar with.

Phil is not a possessive man. Never has been.

But there's something in his mind that's ticking down each time he thinks he should be there next to you.

Envy.

Greed.

Desire.

It is eating him alive and he has half the mind to realize it.

But, even when these strange feelings make his chest swell with uncertainty, it's not unwelcomed. His greed helps to feed his devotion. It always shows itself when he speaks to you, when he touches you, even when he looks at you.

Even as you two sit in the grass by the horse pen, under the big bald cypress that he had napped under countless times. Even as you cuddle up to him in the breeze, practically laying your whole body onto his, head resting on his chest. Even when his hands rest over your back, tracing little shapes over the fabric of your shirt.

Babes that wanted to be tagged:

@mockerycrow @kivino

#Rancher AU #Graves.#Mini.#I was drunk when I read that poem.#Had to bust out my typewriter to take that picture.#I'm still trying to get a feel on how to flesh out how I really see his character.#He's so scared of failure #especially because he's had such consistent success.#And maybe he sees courtship as another rodeo that he has yet to come out on top.#He's scared of fumbling you tbh.#Phillip Graves #cod mw2 #cod mwii

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stridersdiner · 8 months

Text

Gonna kiss you, Kivi.

Platonic!Task Force 141 x Eastern European!reader

Word Counter – ~1.9k

Summary – a compilation of headcanons about how reader’s Eastern European background would affect interactions with Task Force 141 during an undercover mission together.

Tags/Warnings – Gn!reader, Eastern European!reader (obviously), Platonic!TF141, fluff, mostly.

A/n – RUSSIANS DNI (this is a personal boundary, so I ask you to respect it, if you don’t like it just scroll past this post). Very self-indulgent. Just showing more love to my fellow Eastern European readers. Since it is mostly based on my own experience growing up as a Ukrainian, I’m sorry if certain things don’t resonate with you! This whole thing was made for fun and fun only.

So, let’s assume our beloved Task Force needs to go undercover to get some information on Makarov and his merry band of goons. Obviously, they can’t do it without at least one team member, who is familiar with the way of living in Eastern Europe. So, naturally, Laswell introduces you to them – born and raised there, ready to help them and stop your sworn enemy from escalating an already pretty shitty situation.

“So, allow me to introduce your new team member for the duration of this mission” Laswell nods to the door when you walk in, saying your name and callsign, already catching some looks full of curiosity from Task Force 141.

First thing they noticed about you? Resting bitch face for days. Who needs a mask when you have a death stare that will give the heebie-jeebies to most if not all of your teammates? However, they feel even more taken aback when you suddenly greet them with a warm, welcoming smile and a firm handshake, not a trace of that sour expression on your face.

One would think that you’d spend hours preparing four of them for the mission by teaching them language, helping to memorize names and faces of contacts, Makarov’s trusted allies, and potential targets. Naturally, you did your job, but those precious hours were also spent with you standing next to a whiteboard, ranting about the politics and societal issues of your country, explaining certain national jokes, and teaching them swear words or poetry you studied at school. But hey, they’re not complaining (maybe a little).

They were skeptical about this whole deal at first. However, there was a shared understanding between the four of them that they needed to do whatever it took to stop the spreading of Makarov’s influence and diminish his resources in other countries. With time, however, they’ve found things that made their life in a completely new environment a bit more enjoyable and interesting.

Soap would pick up on your native language the fastest out of the Task Force. Under all these jokes and goofiness Johnny’s a smart guy, inquisitive as hell too, which makes a pretty good mix. He’d try to write down how you pronounce things in his sketchbook, dedicating pages upon pages to making a small vocabulary of what you say, searching up the translations of words any chance he gets. Convinces himself that it just helps him to get more into his new way of life, and not at all because he likes seeing you all excited when he slips a word in your language somewhere in the conversation.

“So how do you say it?” he points to the sentence, messily scribbled on the page with the ballpoint pen he slipped from Gaz. There is a slight frown between your brows – the word looks unfamiliar, more like gibberish than something in your language. You can practically feel the gears in your head screech and come to a halt as you drill Soap’s handwriting with your eyes.

“Oh, wait. You made a mistake here. No wonder I have no idea what this is.” You quickly take the pen and scratch the right version of the word on the paper, while Johnny chuckles at your brutal honesty. He doesn’t say anything though. Some time passes and you’re already correcting other words he wrote down, explaining the right way to say them. And you can feel a pleasant warmth spread in your chest when you can see Soap’s utmost attention directed at you.

Johnny can’t help but feel that moments like these were somewhat of a way to bond for you two. He’d jokingly offer to give you some Scottish classes each time you playfully flick him on the forehead for a word he pronounced wrong. He never expected you to take him up on the offer until the five of you got stuck in a countryside safehouse and essentially had nothing to do while waiting.

On the topic of Eastern European countryside, Price is not an old man by any measure, man’s not even forty yet, but it would grow so massively on him that it’s concerning. When you finally got a good, reliable contact that gave you some useful information you had to lay low for some time in a safe house not far from one of many Makarov’s places where the next weapon deal would be held. And while you waited several days for his people to show up there, obviously almost all of you were bored out of your minds. Not Price though. The man went exploring. Of course, taking you with him (he only wanted company on his small journey through the cozy countryside, don’t blame him).

Soon enough, during your walk you two come across the abundance of berry bushes and fruit trees everywhere, and while you pick something to munch on from them constantly, Price only scolds you. You smirk in response, giving him a handful of ripe mulberries, your lips and fingers now a dark red color from the juice.

“It’s going to rot if nobody eats it. People who plant these trees would rather someone enjoy them instead of fruits just falling on the ground, getting squished, and going to waste.” And Price takes note of that with a small smile. Soon enough the two of you find a spring the whole village uses, a willow standing tall beside it, providing shade for you two to rest, chat a bit, and cool yourself off with fresh water. The fact that there are not many people around also doesn’t miss him. It’s quiet and peaceful, Price finally feels like he has room to breathe with his chest.

“You know, I could get used to a life like this.” Price finally mutters, enjoying your simple, comforting presence, walking along the river shore, and hearing the distant sounds of a train passing through the village. You look at him with understanding in your eyes, as you see the tension in his shoulders finally slipping away. Your captain finally relaxes, which is a pleasant change of pace from the frown on his face that you got used to.

All five of you had to live in the same apartment in an old panel building closer to the edge of town. Not the best place to live, but a good opportunity to blend in with the locals and find leads on Makarov’s criminal “friends”. More than once you’ve found yourself sitting together with Ghost on the balcony that creaked with each blow of the wind, in complete silence while he was smoking some cheap cigarettes that smelled more like burnt paper instead of tobacco.

“Can I join you?” Your voice is a quiet rasp, as you lean against the doorway, pushing the mosquito netting to the side. You couldn’t sleep. Not when the whole world will go down the drain if you fail your mission. Not when it’s been a month already and it felt like you were still right where you started.

“Knock yourself out” the man shrugs, patting the stool near him. You shuffle your bare feet on the newspapers that were laid out on the balcony floor, plopping down on the seat, your eyes immediately getting glued to the view, enjoying the breeze that seeped through the open window. You two sit in silence for so long, but it doesn’t feel awkward, quite on the contrary – weirdly calming and serene.

After that night these nightly smoke breaks became a sort of tradition for you two, a way to wind down after a long day. Ghost would nod towards the balcony, a silent invitation reserved only for you. Regardless of whether you’re a smoker or not, occasionally he would offer you a cigarette from his pack or a hit from the lit one. A gesture of camaraderie.

“Thought you’d be more talkative.” Ghost’s voice sounds gruff after the whole day working your asses off just to discover the lead that you had was absolute bullshit.

“And I thought you weren’t a type for small talk.” You grumble in return, just as annoyed about coming back to this dingy apartment with nothing.

“That I am” He lets out a low chuckle, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray in his hand, avoiding eye contact with you.

Kyle found himself liking your cooking above everything else. The way he would eat anything thrown together in a hurry by you was quite flattering. So soon enough you offered to teach him how to make some of your favorite national dishes, and he couldn’t say no to your offer. So, you decided to start easy – picking out the fresh ingredients. And where do you go to do that? Not a grocery store, no way in hell. The market filled with tons of people is the place you need. A lot cheaper than your usual supermarket too.

The number of times you got discounts on fruits and vegetables on the market from older women just for Gaz’s pretty eyes was insane. He would just blink at you with confusion written all over his face anytime you glanced at him with that smile and refused to explain why you spent a lot less money than expected on the fresh vegetables. At some point, Gaz even questioned his ability to count before you told him just not to worry about it since you got a “very special bargain”. And, obviously, Kyle was the one carrying the plastic bags filled to the brim with fresh produce.

“You know, your version of the dish is not half-bad,” You say, licking the spoon and giving Gaz a wide smile, which he immediately returns to you tenfold. Spending time like this with him was a pleasure. Each minute spent together made you loathe even thinking about the time when you’d have to part ways and you won’t be able to teach him your cultural cuisine like this anymore.

“Well, I have a great teacher to thank for that.” Gaz gives you a charming smile, so glad to finally have a distraction from the constant looming presence of Makarov in his thoughts. Right this moment he caught himself thinking that he was happy they had you here with them. It would be a lot harder if not for you supporting and guiding them through everything. He felt…thankful.

You’d bring the whole Task Force to different cafes that serve your country's most famous dishes, but Kyle would be the one to enjoy these outings the most, barely raising his eyes from his plate to participate in the conversation.

“Wow, are you in a hurry or something? The food won’t run away from you.” You chuckle, while Kyle ignores the odd saying coming from you and continues to eat with the huge appetite he had ever since this undercover mission started.

However, nothing lasts forever, so after finishing their business with you, getting all the information they needed, and “cleaning up the mess” Task Force 141 bids you farewell, returning to their usual duties. Saying goodbye is never easy, even if you knew each other just for several months you still got attached to them, just like they grew very fond of you (as much as some of them hated to admit that). But hey, they promised to visit you after they finish up with Makarov. They promised. And the four of them keep the promises they make.

Taglist - @mockerycrow @stridersdiner

#Not me.#cod mw2 #cod mwii #tf 141 x reader

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stridersdiner · 8 months

Text

Please Stop Requesting Unique Plot Fics Other Writers Have Done To Other Writers.

Hey everyone, I was just made aware that someone had requested another writer nearly to the T, the exact same plot of my own fic “emergency contact”. And I understand I don’t own the concept, but it included the unique details I PERSONALLY ADDED, like this person specifically requested “meeting outside of a therapists office”, the house burning down, AND the car crash, and Ghost being your emergency contact. If this was a general prompt/idea I would understand, but I literally put time and effort into that story. I put time and effort into those details that made that story, THAT STORY. I have already dm’ed the writer and requested for them to take it down and I have provided proof that I posted that concept way before, and I’m not posting any usernames because I don’t want anyone to hunt anyone else because sometimes the internet can be brutal. But, this entire thing makes me very discouraged to write if my unique plots will just get stolen, on the SAME WEBSITE that I wrote mine, no less! I don’t blame the writer, but the requester? There is no way they did not see my fic. Please, just don’t take the plot of another writer’s fic and request a different writer to do it. That’s weird and really… really discouraging. Thanks.

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stridersdiner · 8 months

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What's that one country pop song.

Honey, I'm Good.

Corny, corny ass song.

But I can feel Rancher!Graves' shit-eating grin in my bones.

Graves and his partner- a pretty little thing when two of you were side by side. He wasn't much older than you, yet he had always seemed so given how old fashioned he was- something about the etiquette he followed; how he would open the door of his truck for you to help you in and out, or how he pulled your chair out for you at the dinner table.

The visits to the saloon are less and less frequent now that he's got someone to come home to at the end of the day, but a quick drink to catch up with the other folk every now and then never hurt anyone. News usually traveled fast through town, but for some odd reason, you being Phil's partner didn't.

Or, maybe it did, and everyone expected worse from him. Hushed tone and whispers about how poor little you had been ensnared by Phil's charm. He was reliable for jobs, sure, but the way he was able to smooth talk his way through anything and everything had some people reeling at the idea of him actually being tied down to someone; he was assigned to be the forever-bachelor.

And as much as you hated to admit it, your mind lingered in doubt sometimes. Laying in bed with him, watching in the moonlight as he fell asleep and wondering if he really meant it earier when he said he thought of you and handed you that pretty bouquet of flowers that definitely had to be imported from another state.

Did he really mean to stare at you that lovingly when you brought out a glass of sweet tea for him when he was out hauling around the hay bales?

What about when he held you on the couch when you two were watching that shitty horror movie after dinner, and he jerked you closer and squeezed you after one of the most predictable jumpscares flashed over the screen?

Phil was a great guy. Secure, friendly, plenty capable and ready to help. Cheeky. Unassuming too, if you tried really hard to forget about his rodeo career. He knew better than to brag. And to you, and only you, he was clingy. He tried to make sure you knew that he was dedicated. Lingering touches, long looks, greedy kisses and tight hugs.

If anyone asked you, he was the sweetest thing. Never afraid to love you and show that he really meant it. If you asked anyone else, Phil was like a dog; one that would come when called for a job, willing to play fetch with anyone if they asked nice enough.

So when some other pretty little thing came up and seated herself on the stool next to his to introduce herself to him with that look on her face, no one batted an eye. Well, no one did until he finally finished the glass of whiskey he had been nursing through their mostly one-sided conversation.

"Nah, I'm good."

And heads whipped to look at him. Rejection? Rejection from Phil?

Of course. Phil was serious about you.

"Already got my honey waitin' f' me at home."

Babes that wanted to be tagged:

@mockerycrow @kivino

#Rancher AU #Graves.#Mini.#Honestly I don't really like this song but it's an earworm.#Phil is someone that everyone is surprised to find out he has a partner.#Not because he's slimy or anything #but probably because he's an idiot and doesnt reciprocate flirting seriously.#Somehow caught on with you though!#God bless this stupid little cowboy.#Phillip Graves x gn!Reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii

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stridersdiner · 8 months

Text

Kivi, I am going to kiss you.

Fantasy AU with Valeria!

Word Counter - ~900 words.

Summary – self-indulgent thoughts with Rogue!Valeria in a fantasy setting!

Tags/Warnings – very much Dragon Age coded, reader is a mage/healer, mentions of blood and injury, this is very corny™, gn!reader.

A/n – wrote it in almost one go, very sorry if someone already wrote something like this! I originally planned for my first writing post to be Graves fanfiction that I’m working on right now, but I just couldn’t contain myself, lololol

Rogue!Valeria who stumbles into your clinic one moonlit night while running away from the city guard, hands clawing at her side, blood seeping through the delicate fabric of her shirt and vest, slipping in and out of consciousness, as she tried to hold onto the cold walls that smelled of medicine and fresh bedsheets.

Rogue!Valeria who made so much noise and racket downstairs that it woke you up better than any of your assistants could You fly out of your bed, covers and colorful duvets trailing behind you in a stream of fabric, long forgotten on the floor of your bedroom as you run down the stairs, in fear that somebody broke into your clinic, no patients of yours were staying overnight today. Any words that could’ve been said evaporate as you see a woman, bleeding out on the floor, back propped up against the counter, and…are those daggers she is carrying?

Rogue!Valeria who wakes up the next morning in someone else’s bed, her wound freshly bandaged, hot breakfast already prepared for her. And at that moment she thinks she must’ve died and gone to the Fade. Where else would she see a spirit as beautiful as you?

Rogue!Valeria who tried her best to leave this quiet haven, full of smells, colors, and so many things unknown to her (she’s no mage after all), but she just can’t, throbbing pain in her abdomen stopping her the moment she even tries to stand up among the quiet murmurs of your patients and their relatives. You throw her a stern look, and she is immediately pinned to the soft sheets like her body is not her own.

Rogue!Valeria who finally has a chance to talk to you once it’s time to change the bandages on her wound. You sit near her, your voice quiet, asking “May I?”, as you delicately remove the covers. Valeria asks if you can speed up the recovery, seeing what a miracle worker you were, treating the patients all day with the help of not only healing salves, herbs, and potions but also magic. And you decide to grant her request, hands gliding along the surface of her skin, Valeria’s stab wound slowly closing and a delicate, light scar forming. She doesn’t know how much that takes out of you until your assistant helps you walk back to your room to get much-needed rest. Her eyes lingered on your fatigued figure as her fingers keep poking and prodding at the thin skin of her new scar, feeling something warm spark inside her.

Rogue!Valeria whose gang starts protecting you. Thieves know better than to try picking any of the locks on your doors, signs carved on the worn wood by her informing them that this place is off-limits.

Rogue!Valeria who sneaks through your backdoor, knowing you always forget to lock it, seeing you sleeping on another book, laid out under your arms. She wraps you in a soft blanket, pressing her finger against her lips when she sees awake patients or assistants eyeing you two.

Rogue!Valeria who leaves the flowers she picked from the gardens of her rich targets on your windowsill, petals ruffled and worn, former beauty still recognizable. Instead of putting those flowers in the water you dry and preserve every single one of them, with time gathering small bouquets that greet you each morning around your clinic. When she visits “officially”, she asks about them and you just say that you have no idea who leaves the flowers, mischief tugging at the corners of your eyes. Valeria only grins in response. “Is that so? You must have a lot of suitors then.”

Rogue!Valeria who always leaves some of her things behind just to have an excuse to visit you again, to see you at work, to hear your laughter, and to feel your hand shake her own in a warm greeting. Each time she gets bolder, and instead of a small satchel or a dagger, you start finding her jewelry and accessories. When did she have the chance to take them off anyway?

Rogue!Valeria who drags you to the market during fairs, insisting that you need to have some fun once in a while, as she leads you between a variety of stalls, her heart squeezing harshly against her ribs each time your fingers tightened around her hand.

Rogue!Valeria who ends up hiding with you in a narrow alleyway, hiding from the city guard that patrolled the festival grounds. She looks you in the eyes, trying to make sure you’re okay, and shoots you a sly wink, caging you between her body and the wall. She feels her breathing get quicker with each second spent like this, but you two are soon taken out of it when small sparks of fire shoot out of your fingers. Too agitated to control your magic, you get flustered, not sure why you were getting nervous in the first place. But when you hear Valeria let out a hearty laugh from your sudden supernatural outburst, everything starts to make sense.

Rogue!Valeria who never mutters a single word about her quickly developing feelings. It would complicate things. It would spoil your friendship. It would tie her down, it would cause her to become slow and eventually sink, taking you with her. Yet she couldn’t let you go. Not when her heart ached with such sweet foretaste each time she saw you running to her with your arms open. Not when her thoughts inevitably drifted to you each time she was preparing to raid another lazy lord’s manor. Not when her days already started to center around visits to your small clinic, during which you constantly looked at her with that contagious light in your eyes.

Taglist - @mockerycrow @stridersdiner

#Not me.#Valeria Garza x gn!Reader #Valeria Garza x Reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii

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