I Wanna Hug You Guys I Need A Hug

the 141 x reader fic that you did was so yummy!!! pls make them suffer the wrath of reader and make 141 realise how much they need them when they leave,

your work is so amazing btw and your way with words is simply ✨chef’s kiss✨ (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

thank you!! here’s part 3 :)

part one here / part two here / part four here

angry didn’t even begin to describe how you felt as you slammed the door to price’s office behind you.

you were tense, muscles taut and poised to fight. your fists clenched at your sides, blunt nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. your jaw was clenched, teeth grinding together as you resisted the urge to march back in there and unleash your fury.

no. not like this. not when you weren’t a hundred percent. not when they would still look at you like you were a wounded doe, stumbling around on broken legs.

in the back of your mind, you can hear that psychologist saying ‘this anger will eat you alive if you let it. you need to let it out somehow.’

you inhaled, unclenched your fists, and made up your mind. you pulled the iv from your arm, wincing at the pinch of the needle.

you left the iv pole standing there as you made your way to the gym.

the gym was empty when you arrived, which made sense for this time of day. many would be occupied by drills or in the mess hall. others would be sleeping off long nights. you had the place to yourself, and you were grateful for the absence of watchful eyes and sweetened tongues.

you were tired of those who knew nothing acting like they knew something. of those who apologized or asked if you were okay. word spread like wildfire around base, and the subject of your ‘betrayal’ had been front-page news since the start of the witch hunt.

the gym door clicked shut behind you, and you surveyed the room. you knew your doctor would have a fit once you returned to the infirmary, and that she probably wouldn’t let you out alone again, but you didn’t really care.

you needed to let off some steam, and the best way you knew how was with your fists. either you start swinging at a bag or at a certain someone’s face. the bag won’t be condescending, and that makes your choice easy.

you approach one of the bright red punching bags in the corner. it’s scratched and taped from where someone had busted it open. scars that didn’t go away, that wouldn’t— just like yours.

you huffed. it didn’t do any good to start feeling sorry for yourself. you hadn’t done anything wrong. your team had.

you stretch your arms out in front of you, fingers interlocking to pop your knuckles. you catch sight of your severed finger, still healing. they’d recovered what had been chopped off, but hadn’t been able to save it.

just another permanent reminder, something to make sure you didn’t dare forget. you didn’t think you ever would regardless.

you shook out your hands and rolled your shoulders back. fists raised, you angled yourself towards the bag. feet spread, shoulders squared, thumb tucked under your fingers instead of inside. a stance that was second nature after years of sparring and hand-to-hand drills.

the bag was firm when your fist connected with it. you would have been lying if you said it didn’t hurt. you punched with the other hand— same results. the time you’d spent confined to an infirmary bed had done a number on you. muscles had atrophied, bones had weakened. the leg you’d suffered a bone-deep cut to shook under your weight.

you didn’t care. you kept punching, your breathing picking up as your emotions guided you. sweat dripped into your eyes and rolled down your back. you felt weak, physically and mentally. you hated feeling this way, and so you punched harder.

“slow down,” a voice grumbled from behind you.

you ignored him, continuing to punch the bag. you hadn’t heard the door open, nor heard the sound of him approaching, but you would have been surprised if you did.

simon always had a penchant for sneaking up on people, intentionally or not.

“gonna pass out if y’don’t stop,” he said after a minute. you could feel his eyes on you. you ignored him again.

you didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing there with his arms crossed, eyes full of something unreadable.

“stop,” he says firmly, and you sense his movement as he surges forward. his hand lands heavily on your shoulder, pulling you back from the punching bag. you heave in a breath before spinning around and punching him in the nose.

simon stumbles back a step, eyes widened slightly. for someone who prided himself on being so observant, he clearly didn’t see that coming. it made you feel the tiniest bit smug that you’d caught him off guard for once.

you dropped your hands to your knees then, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of nausea washed over you. damn the bastard, he had been right. you shouldn’t have even been in here in the first place, let alone exerted yourself as much as you had.

your hands were shaking as you tried to pull yourself together. you opened your eyes to see drops of blood on the gym floor, by your feet. you had split your knuckles open.

there were also drops of blood at simon’s feet. you looked up then, slowly straightening your posture. he’d removed his mask, his face bare as he stared at you. blood dripped from his nose.

“gonna have to hit harder than that if y’want to break it,” he says, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“did you follow me in here?”

“no.” he says, and you’re giving a mirthless laugh.

“oh, please. im sure price sent you, yeah? you’ve always been his little lap dog. he says ‘jump’ and you say ‘how high,’ isn’t that right, lieutenant?”

your tone is tense, angry. you throw his title in his face, seeing as he’d been so quick to remind you of yours back in price’s office.

simon watches you, and you want to tackle him. he had always been quiet, always stoic. you’d been with him for years, but you still didn’t think you’d broken down all of his walls.

he was so good at masking his thoughts, his feelings. you weren’t. soap had always called you an open book. whenever you were mad or upset, everyone knew it.

no one knew anything about simon unless he wanted them to. it drove you mad then, and it was sure as hell driving you mad now.

“you need to get back to the infirmary,” he tells you. he wipes the back of his hand under his nose, smearing red across his skin. for a moment, you want to chastise him, reach up and wipe the remnants from his face.

you quickly shake that thought from your head. what is it they say— old habits die hard?

these habits would die if you had to strangle each one with your bare hands. anything you harbored for the four men on your team, for the one you’d called yours, was dead and gone.

“fuck off,” you tell him.

“why are you so damn stubborn?” he says then, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him start to crack since everything had happened. emotions are beginning to leak through his stony exterior, whether he means them to or not.

“you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. none of you do,” you say, and you take a step forward then, eyes blazing as you stare up at him. “not after what you did.”

he doesn’t speak for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. his eyes never leave yours.

“it shouldn’t have happened like that.” he tells you. you scoff.

“like that? you mean the four of you torturing me? tying me up and mutilating me like I was just another fucking target?” your voice was rising as you took another step forward, shoving a finger into his chest.

“if I’d treated you like another target,” he said, tone even. “you would’ve been dead.”

“so you showed me mercy, is that it?” you bared your teeth, a hollow laugh escaping your throat. “oh, thank you simon. I really felt that fucking mercy when you cut off my finger, and when you cut through layers of skin to get to bone.”

you inhaled before continuing. “I should be grateful then, right? is that what you want from me? for me to recognize your fucking ‘mercy’ and take you back? take you all back?”

he just stands there. you can see his jaw clench, but he makes no move to speak. you find it funny that he hasn’t even tried to apologize. john, your ever prideful captain, had swallowed his failure and pleaded for your forgiveness.

johnny and kyle would surely have done the same if they’d had the chance to speak to you, even if they only had a minute.

but simon? simon doesn’t. he doesn’t outwardly admit his wrongs. he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t seem sorry, even. you don’t know what’s going on inside his head, but you find yourself not really caring to know.

the fact that he can’t bring himself to admit, in blunt words, that he had astronomically fucked up and that he felt even the slightest bit of remorse, told you everything you needed to know.

cold, stoic ghost. you hadn’t been afraid of him when you’d first joined the squad, and you weren’t afraid of him now.

but back then, you’d wanted to break down those stone walls of his. you’d wanted to be someone he felt safe around, someone who knew him inside and out.

now, you’re packing your time with him into a box in your mind and dumping it into the trash. simon riley means nothing to you now.

“take your mercy and shove it up your ass,” you tell him. you step back and drop your hand, your eyes still locked on his.

“and by the way,” you say as you start towards the door. he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move an inch. it’s as if he’s rooted to the spot.

“you should’ve just killed me.”

author’s note:

not really sure how I feel about this one tbh. I have plans for a part four, but I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be making this series.

and as for simon— I want to write an extra part about his thoughts/feelings about everything. let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in!

anyways, let me know your thoughts please :) (I honestly may end up deleting this and rewriting it when I’m not tired lol)

taglist: @preeyansha @igotmajordaddyissues @nanatheoaktree @aesthetic0cherryblossom @oceanicexolorer @soph121212 @liv2post @cupid-eclipse @angels-despair18 @k4marina

At my fire department, most of us have nick makes

We got Jost, which is a normal name, but the problem was that during the first few weeks nobody knew his real name, so they just called him Jost

Then we got tree, which is a 6'5 guy, pretty self explanatory

Then we got glow stick, because that dipshit once asked our chief if we could carry glow sticks to house fires so we could see in the smoke. No. We can't.

Next is dinosaur, cuz his first name is Joshua, like the dino Joshi from the video game

And we got onion, because no one could pronounce his Romanian name properly and he loves onions

My lovely nick name is tits, since I was the only girl in the squad

Royal guard

Note: I got the idea from a prompt on Pinterest

Ghoap but Soap is a energetic, bored prince and Ghost his stoic, quiet body guard

Soap huffed and rolled his eyes, looking at Ghost in his stupidly body shape enhancing armour. „Would it kill you to relax?“, he teased, knowing Ghost would either not say anything or give a short answer to make him shut up.

„Probably“, Ghost replied, eyes still trained on the wall in front of him. „Likely it would kill you too, that’s rather the point“. Soap let out a groan. „Why do you always act like you got a stick up your arse?“ Silence. „It’s my job to protect you. Not entertain you“. „Why not both? You definitely look like you could be….fun“, Soap shamelessly flirted.

Ghost visibly tensed up at his comment. „Oh, stop clutching your pearls, Ghost.“ He grins. „I‘d know a way or two how I could get you to relax“

Ghost cleared his throat. "This is highly inappropiate" Soap strolled towards Ghost, who stood there as still as a statue. "Oh come on, relax a bit", he grinned. He held out his hand. "Dance with me"

Ghost looked at him with a uncertain expression, but didn't take his hand or made any movement in general.

Soap rolled his eyes and took Ghosts hand in his.

"Now, do you really want to disobey the princes orders, guard?"

Alive / Part VIII

Word count: 666

Ghost was used to not being able to sleep at night, nightmares and night terrors keeping him awake. But tonight was different. He and Soap settled down on the bed next to each other, laying in comfortable silence. He could feel the heat radiating off Soaps body. Every fiber in him wanted to scoot closer to him, curl up in his side, which he of course didn’t do. Soap was his sergeant, after all, and he didn’t want to give himself the embarrassment of making a move only for Soap not to feel the same. (Ghost is an oblivious idiot).

Ghost hated the feeling of fabric on his skin at night, at base he usually slept only in boxers, today opting for joggers, but no shirt. He wiggled on the bed, trying to get comfortable. „No disrespect, lt, but stop squirming around like a worm“, Soap grumbled, already half asleep. Ghost didn’t say anything, laying down on the side facing Soap, who was facing towards the window.

It took while for him to fall asleep, but for the first time in a long while he slept through the night, no nightmares violently ripping him out of sleep. He woke up to the sound of birds chirping, slowly opening his eyes to see Soaps side empty. He was still sleepy, taking a few sips of water form the nightstand before rolling onto his back with his arms under his head, staring at the ceiling.

The door opened, and Soap stepped back into the room, dressed in boxer shorts and an oversized shirt. He sat down on the bed next to Ghost. „Morning, lt“. Ghost closed his eyes. „Morning, Johnny“. A few moments of silence passed, before he felt a warm hand on his side. His breath hitched and he opened his eyes. Soaps gaze was focused on the skin beneath his fingers, fingertips slightly grazing over a big scar, caressing the raised, silver skin. It burned, but oh God, did it burn good.

„How’d you get this?“, Soap asked, genuine curiosity on his face. Memories flashed in front of Ghosts eyes and he gulped. „Uh, I got captured. Cartel. They hung me up on a hook“, he mumbled. „Must’ve hurt a bitch“ Soap gently rubbed his thumb over the scar. Ghost nodded, closing his eyes again, the memory painful. He didn’t want to admit it, but Soaps touch on his scars felt holy.

„Do they hurt?“, Soap asked. Ghost shrugged. „Sometimes. Not all of them. They feel weird when it‘s cold though. And they’re really sensitive“ Soap grinned, continuing to gently caress the scar.

It stopped for a second, before Soaps fingers grazed the skin right above his waistband. Shivers ran over his body as Soap caressed a faint but long scar that went from his side over his v lin down to his crotch.

„And here?“, he asked, his voice low. Ghost took a moment to answer, his thoughts in a haze. „Torture…. They wanted intel“, he smiled weakly. „They didn’t get it“. Soaps gaze was sad. „I‘m so sorry, Si“, he whispered. Before he could say anything, Soap bent down, pressing his lips on the scar. Ghosts mind went blank.

Soaps lips lingered on the scar, before he slowly, very slowly began to tug the waistband down, revealing a small happy trail. He kissed lower and lower, stopping every few seconds to check in with Ghost, who was looking at him with wide eyes, but the bulge in his pants said enough.

Soap grinned before pulling down his joggers completely, his plans obvious. Ghost stared at him, his mind racing. Was this really happening? He felt like he was on fire. Soap liked him too. This was wrong, so wrong. But fuck did it feel good. It had been ages since someone last touched him like this, at least with consent. He had to hold back a whimper when his fingers grazed over the bulge.

A loud voice suddenly boomed through the house. „Boys! Breakfast!“

Pain

Word count: 422

He thought he knew what pain was.

God knows he had experienced enough of it. Whether it be physical or psychological pain, it was as if the universe decided that there must be one person who'd be destined to collect all the different types of pain and suffering like other people collect stamps.

But the pain he felt the second he saw the bullet hammer into Soaps head, life slipping out of his eyes in the fraction of a second was nothing he'd ever known before.

In the second it took for Soap, Johnny, to fall to the ground, a vivid image flashed through his mind. Not of the things that were, but of those that could've been. Their eyes locked onto each other, hands entertwined, lips pressed against the other's. A ring on his finger.

The amount of regret that filled his body was unbearable, it felt like flames burning through his skin and into his bones. He regretted so much. Things he never dared to say or do, out of fear of allowing himself to feel again, feel vulnerable for loving someone. It seemed so foolishly insignificant now. He'd do and give anything to hear that stupid scottish accent and see that stupid smug grin again. To get a chance of telling him what he meant to him. That he was the only good thing he had. That he had a reason to return from his missions.

That he loved him.

But now, it was too late. He wanted to rip the skin off his bones in despair.

His body was on autopilot as he made his way towards Soap, the black fabric of his mask wet with tears. "Johnny!", he yelled, voice straining, trying to contain the raging sea of emotions that flooded every fiber of his being.

He held him in his arms, and for the first time in a long while, he screamed out in his mind to God, pleading, begging for a pulse. For a shaky, unsteady breath. For his Johnny.

But nothing came.

The highlands were as beautiful as Johnny always said. The sunset bathed the landscape in a golden light. As they poured Johnnys ashes from the cliff, letting the wind carry it away, his mask was soaked with tears.

The one thing he wanted, craved, the only man he ever loved, was reduced to nothing more than ashes.

It cost him every ounce of self restraint not to throw himself after those ashes.

What was his life worth, if Johnny wasn't in it?

spring 🌼🌧️

Ghost lost a bet and soap and gaz are loving it🤭🤭🤭

Noch fünf Minuten

Notes: Noch fünf Minuten (Five more minutes). Word count: 173

It had been an... active night. You lay in bed next to König, who was slowly waking up. He looked at you with half lidded eyes. "Guten Morgen, Liebling", he mumbled. "Morning", you chuckled, kissing his forehead. You scooted over to the edge of the bed, wanting to get up and get dressed. "Noooo", König yelped playfully, grabbing you by the waist. "I have to get up, darling", you complained. He pulled you closer, wrapping his burly arms around you, successfully immobilizing you. How big he really was got even more obvious when you back was pressed against his broad chest. "Let me go, Königg", you tried to wiggle out of his grasp, which was no use. "Nu uh", König mumbled, wrapping his body around yours and caressing your skin. You stopped struggling, knowing it was no use. His hand snaked lower, it was obvious what he wanted. You swatted his hand away, still too spent from yesterday. "Noch fünf Minuten", he murmered, burying his face in your neck. Fine, noch fünf Minuten.

ghost has no idea what to make of you. you show up out of nowhere, barely a day after price announces that they have an extra addition on their team for the next mission, and then you show up.

you're nothing like them - you probably haven't seen a man get shot, never felt your bones break and have to set them yourself in a fight. he has this sick fantasy of breaking you, wiping that stupid smile off your face and watching you crumple as he breaks your spine with one hand.

soap loves having you on base, you're good with a gun and you'll joke with him about almost anything - sure, you never come out to the pub with them, but whenever they come back to base you've cooked something and that's better than any pint of beer johnny's ever had.

he's worried, he thinks you wont make it out there - beside them. you're small, and not in the sense that you're short, in the sense that there's barely anything to you, nothing to grab if you trip in the middle of active fire.

gaz is just finally glad to have someone else to talk to, to complain about soap and ghost to, rant about how price pissed him off. you're always willing to talk, which is probably a good thing.

he always turns down his radio whenever you're on a mission together, he doesn't want to hear you die, or hear your voice trail off as you get caught. he has to bite his knuckle whenever you speak out of fear.

price is sick of it, sick of watching the boys play with you like a doll and then sit you delicately back on the shelf, so he takes matters into his own hands and shoots you between the eyes.

you sit up four minutes later.

ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ

i just rlly like the idea of immortal!reader but the guys have no idea and suspect nothing until they get shot in the head and then just,,, get back up !