Mw2 2022 - Tumblr Posts
Congrats on 4k! Saw the post I was wondering if you could do a platonic fanfic? So with Dad!John Price + teen!reader with the prompt “I just wanted to be like you” with reader tell price that they’re thinking about join the military and with price being like “absolutely NOT.”
Take your time if needed!
-🫠
DIFFERENT PATH (Dad!Price x Teen!GN!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION
[WARNINGS; Dark thoughts, angst, price is a good dad but he needs to control his tempter, you butt heads and you’re both stubborn asses.]
YOU HAVE BEEN uncharacteristically quiet at the dinner table, John notes in his head. You’re a bit closed in on yourself as you actually eat your food instead of talk your head off like usual. He notes the way you keep your eyes lowered, your shoulders hunched; alarm bells are going off in his head because he isn’t sure if something happened, because you aren’t telling him anything.
You have been like this since school—you’re usually eager to hang around John since he’s usually away off somewhere in a different country, leaving you with a family friend for a couple of weeks or months at a time. This time? You came home, gave John a quick hug, a quiet “hi”, and you were in your room until he called you for dinner. He did not bother you once you shut your door—if you need space, he wasn’t going to deprive you of that. John knows he needed his space after coming home from school when he was younger.
“So,” John hums, a green bean in his mouth. He quickly chews, swallows, and takes a sip of his ice water before continuing. “How was school?” There’s a moment where your eyes actually flicker to him for the first time all night before they flicker back down to your plate, moving your food around with a fork; you shrug. John let’s out a sigh and tilts his head. “Words, kiddo.”
“It was fine.” You respond, your tone neutral. John notices the way you aren’t eating much, every few minutes is a few bites. You’re either scarfing it down, or you don’t eat it at all because you can’t stop talking. “Fine?” He questions, wiping his mouth with his napkin. You nod in response, knowing he’s trying to pry more information out of you. “Can I go to my room?” You ask, your jaw tight.
John pauses for a moment, a knot in his stomach forming. “Yes, you can.” He responds after hesitating for a few seconds. A heavy sigh leaves him as he watches you spring into action, grabbing your plate and bringing it to the kitchen before jogging up the stairs to where your room is. John knew this would eventually happen, something running across in his path of parenting where you wouldn’t want to tell him about something.
It’s definitely not the first time you’ve taped your mouth shut about something, but as you’ve grown to be more independent—you’ve been very independent as he’s been away a lot—he fears the worst. John just hopes you would trust him enough to tell him about something bad happening; even if you were involved and there was drugs or something else, he wants you to trust him. John wants you to know that no matter what, he would love you. Nothing would change that.
“Goddammit.” John mutters, cleaning up the table, grabbing his now empty plate and dirty dishes. He brings them to the kitchen and washes off his plate before sticking it in the dish washer with the utensils, spotting your barely touched food. John puts his hands on the counter and leans against them, slipping back into thought once more. Maybe it was time to talk to you about how he would still love you, even if you were involved in some bad shit? Is that the correct move?
John hates it—being on his own as a father. Your mother has never really been in the picture and you’ve luckily never taken an interest in knowing her, so he’s ruled the possibility of your mother coming back into contact. John doesn’t want to think about the other possibilities; the other stuff that could suggest a reason for this clammy reaction.
No, he decides, if you need something, you will come to him unless he deems it necessary to properly intervene. John puts plastic wrap over your plate and puts it on a shelf in the fridge before he retreats to his office. He keeps his door cracked for you in case you decide to change your mind—he knows something is up—and he grabs a book, sitting down in his office chair. John blinks at the book in his hands before flipping open to where he left his bookmark.
You come downstairs an hour or two after dinner was served. John was only half processing his book, rereading the same sentence at least four different times when you knock on the cracked door. John blinks and looks up from his book, quickly putting the bookmark between the pages and shutting the cover. “Come in.”You open the door with a nervous look, your hands fidgeting. The cat quickly runs into the office with a soft “mrr” as you walk closer to his desk. John holds his breath for a moment as you approach. “What’s goin’ on, kiddo?” John asks softly.
You sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk with your hands in your lap. You glance at his face a couple of times before you groan and rub your face. You look back at him, your eyebrows furrowed. “Look, I know we talked about this before, but..” You trail off for a moment, looking to him for some sort of guidance. John gestures for you to continue with, “We’ve talked about a lot of things, love. Go on.”
You press your lips together before you utter something that makes John’s heart drop. “I was approached by a recruiter in P.E. class today.” John shakes his head quickly. “Absolutely not.” He says harshly, crossing his arms. “You already know my answer, I’m not signing anything.” You groan loudly and lean back in your chair. “Come on, Dad! This is truly what I want to do in life, I—“
“It’s a hard NO. Do you hear me?” John hisses, looking at you. It’s almost like he’s speaking to one of his men when they messed up. “You do not want to be in my line of work. You have no bloody idea what actually goes on.” You and your dad have had this kind of conversation before; back when you were fourteen. John had just assumed you were just getting more attached to him—since you were twelve, he’s been able to go on leave to be with you more often than he had been able to before. John just assumed it was sudden attachment due to the (family friendly) stories he had shared.
But no, even two years later, you’re still insistent on what you want to do. “Dad, please, just listen t’me—“
“My answer is and always will be no. You have no fuckin’ idea what happens out there, kid. It’s nothin’ like the games I’ve gotten you, you hear me? It’s nothin’ like the shows or the movies you begged me to buy you!” John snaps, his tone borderline vicious. You flinch at his tone, your heart dropping to your stomach. Your avert your eyes; John has never spoken to you like that before. You try to hold back the tears, but your gut is tight, throat burning as well as your eyes.
“I just..” You mumble. “I just wanted to be like you, Dad.”
John blinks, your shaky tone bringing him out of his protective rage. Guilt swirls in his chest, dripping down to his gut and settling uneasily. “Fuck, I—“ He stutters for a moment before taking in a breath in to gain his composure. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never meant to snap at you like that, that’s completely on me.” John says with a much gentler tone than before, guilt lacing every word. Your gaze sticks to his desk instead of his face as you shrug, your eyes burning.
“That’s not okay for me to do, kiddos I just..” John lets out a heavy sigh. “You know I’ve been in the military my entire life; it’s not pretty. It’s not like the films you see, alright? I’ve seen.. many, many men and women be torn apart by bullets, blown up by explosives—hell, you know the nasty scar on my left side? I walked into an explosive rigged room when you were three years old, darlin’.”
That causes you to pick up your head and look at him with wide eyes, the tears brimming your eyelids. You blink, a tear quickly falling down your cheek. John has a guilty yet solemn expression, his eyebrows furrowed together; likes yours do when you’re also upset or thinking too hard about something. “Nearly cost me my life, kid. Nearly cost you your dad.” John says the last part quieter. He watches the way your eyes dart around as you process this information, your lips parting after a moment.
“Look.. I..” You trail off for a moment, your fingers licking at the seams of your pants. “I still.. I still want to, I just..” You pause. “I don’t see myself doing anything else, dad.”John closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. “You still have a year or two, I just.. I can’t sign anything for you, kid. If you die, I just—“
“—whAt if you die, dad?? You just admitted to me a risk you took and you’re still in the military despite having a kid!” You suddenly burst, your voice breaking. John blinks at you in surprise before folding his hands together in his lap, leaning back in his office chair with a quiet squeak of the bolts. “Why is it so different if I went in??”
John looks at you, at your passion and your frustration. “Because you haven’t been tainted by this life, love. You’ll never look at anything the same.” You give him a hard stare, the sadness turning into anger. “And if I said I’m ready for that?” A beat passes. “I’m not signing anythin’. But once you’re a legal adult, I can’t stop you.” You press your lips together; that’s one of the many things you and your father have in common. You’re both incredibly stubborn and won’t back down, and maybe you both bend and break the rules a bit. “I can wait.”
super big congratulations on 4k!! you deserve it <3
i was wondering if you could write a gn! reader x price with the prompt "Hey, it's okay, I got you. You're alright, you're okay." it doesn't matter if it's platonic or romantic; whatever feels best for you!!
Thank you so much and congratulations!
YOU’RE ALIVE (Price x GN!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION
[WARNINGS; Car accident, implied situationship w/ Price, moderate injuries, flashbacks, near panic attack, open ending.]
YOU DON’T REMEMBER the events that lead up to you in a hospital bed, a cast fitted around your arm, a brace on your knee, a bandage around your skull, and only God knows how many stitches and bandages in random assortments. You can’t forget the numeral wires and tubes attached to you, too. Oh, and the ear-bleeding beeping. John sits next to you in a chair—he’s your… friend, of sorts. You aren’t really sure what to call what you two have going on.
You look at him, slumped in the visitors chair he’s pulled up beside your bed, his arms crossed and his legs spread; his neck is bent at an awkward angle and you know it’s going to ache whenever he awakens. John looks quite tired—he’s looked tired and stressed the entire time he’s been in the hospital room with you. Stressing over you, like a worried hu—…. you shouldn’t think about that. Suddenly the ceiling looks far more appealing to stare at, rather than the beautiful gentleman who is willingly staying at your bedside, despite your exhausted attempts to have him get some proper rest.
You glance over at him—envious of how he’s able to sleep right now. Hm. Honestly, you know John would be awake with you if he had the energy. The only reason why you’re awake is your stitches itch, and the only reason why he’s asleep is because you did not wake up for four days after you passed out at the scene of a car accident you were apparently in; an accident you don’t remember too well. You barely even remember what you had for breakfast that morning; cereal of some kind, maybe? Eggs? You don’t know.
“You were on the way to work, love.” You remember John telling you. You remember the tense expression, the firmness of his eyebrows. The frown of his lip, the way he amusingly resembled a quokka in the moment. You were also apparently on the phone with John at the same time, so whatever happened, he heard all of it. The details from your own memory are fuzzy—your doctors concluded your amnesia is temporary, so they gave you the choice of remembering it yourself or having them tell you. You opted in for the first option.
It was coming back to you in bits and pieces. Small moments where you feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up, you think you hear glass shattering in the distance; your heart begins to race at different moments. You aren’t sure what to make of it—until now.
“I’m not excited for this meeting.” You whined, your eyes were glued to the road. Your phone is bluetooth connected to your car’s system so you can talk with John and have both of your hands on the wheel. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, honey. Surely it’s just about budgets like last month.” John hums through the speakers of your car. You sigh, turning on your windshield wipers as it’s pouring out, obscuring your vision a bit.
“It’s raining pretty hard, how do the roads look?” He asks, a bit of rustling coming from John’s end. He’s probably reading a book or looking out from the curtains. “I’m driving slower than normal, visibility isn’t the greatest..” You admit, letting out a breath, slowing the car down once again. “..I was sliding a bit, thinking it’s time I get some new wheels.” John hums in agreement. “Definitely. Please be safe, love.” You chuckled glancing around the road, furrowing your eyebrows when the double yellow line seems to fade. “I’m trying my best, Jo—“
You’re suddenly being jostled around violently after a big impact from your front, your seatbelt digging into your skin as something launches your car off to the side. “SHIT—“ You scream, attempting to stop the car, but the rain causes you to slide across the road. Something hits you from the back and you feel you physically feel yourself lift in your seat—and then you’re fading in and out. You wake up with wetness against your face, pain in your ribs, your arm, your skull—
You let out a choked sob as there’s ringing in your ears and your eyes refuse to focus—but you can tell you’re upside down. You see a pair of legs sprinting towards you through your broken side window, and you aren’t really register what’s happening. You blink and the person is try to pry the door open frantically. You still don’t hear them; it’s almost like a silent movie.
The door gives, the flipped car jostling from the force used to pry it open. You blink and fuck—It’s John. His eyes are wide and his jaw is tense, shaky hands. He’s grabbing the sides of your head, forcing you to keep your head still—his lips are moving but you can’t hear him. You sob and you try to reach up to touch him, and he lets you. Your eyes look at your own hand as it’s caked in your own blood, causing you to inhale shakily. This isn’t happening. The pain starts sitting you harder, a pulsing in the side of your head.
“Hey—“ John’s voice suddenly cuts through and you blink, and you’re back in the hospital room. You’re breathing hard and fast, causing your chest to ache more than it already does. His hands are cupping your cheeks like he was in the flipped car, and you let out a panicked sob; your machines make loud beeping noises in retaliation. “Hey, it’s okay, I got you. You’re alright, you’re okay..” John quickly murmurs, his thumbs gently wiping your tears away. “Focus on my voice, okay? You’re alright. You’re in the hospital, love.”
You sniffle and nod, shakily inhaling once again as you try to calm your panicked lungs and struggling heart, your good hand coming up and gently grasping his wrist. “I-I was flipped over—“ You choke out, which John quickly meets with soft shushing and a kiss between your eyebrows. “I know, honey. I know. I got you, you’re safe now.” You nod, choking out another whimper as you lean into his touch—because John’s right. He has you; you’re safe, he’s the one who got to you first. You’re sure you’ll want to ask him how he found you so fast later, but all you want to do right now and feel him and hear him. Because you’re alive.
Talk About Sensitivity In The COD Fandom **Important.**
THIS IS NOT A DEBATE POST. DO NOT BOTHER.
Hey, everyone. After the reveal of Makarov in the trailer (as well as general concern), I think a chat about sensitivity is important. Since the trailer’s release, I have seen a major increase in simping for Makarov posts as well as genuine romanticization of Russia and/or Russian Soldiers. First, I want to talk about the romanticization of Russia and/or Russian soldiers because it’s seriously getting out of hand. I need you guys to realize that Russia is an ultranationalist country and yes, maybe not everyone who lives there believes what their government does, but it’s important to know a big portion of their population does. I have seen multiple posts and edits of this man right here (pictures below).
THIS GUY IS NOT SOMEONE YOU SHOULD LIKE, AND PEOPLE NEED TO UNDERSTAND THAT HE DOES NOT LIKE YOU. This is one of the most popular Russian Soldiers amongst the internet due to the way he wears a mask, gear, has an accent, and is buff. He makes videos teaching soldiers how to kill people—innocent people in Ukraine who are just trying to survive. I have seen people straight up ignore when someone tells them what this man has done, so let me put it this way—he does not like you. He wants you dead. He is racist, a homophobe, transphobe, antisemitic, etc. He absolutely hates The West, and he does not like you unless you are a cis, straight, white 100% Russian. Even if you’re a woman, he DOES NOT LIKE YOU. If you American, HE DOES NOT WANT YOU ALIVE.
[This part is not targeted; just a general statement.] Second; there is a serious problem with how you guys address Makarov as a character. There is absolutely no problem enjoying him as a villain because I do too, but you guys have to realize that Makarov is an ultranationalist—which is exactly what Russia is right now, an ultranationalist terrorist state. “But he’s fictional, it doesn’t matter! it’s not that deep!” It actually is that deep. I keep seeing content for Makarov and I can’t force anyone to stop making “fluffy fics”, but I need y’all to have some fucking decency towards victims and people affected by the war. I know people who are affected by the war who feel ill seeing posts painting Makarov in a good light. If you are going to write Makarov, do NOT romanticize him as a character—do NOT paint him a decent or good light, because you can’t. Write him like the bastard he is. And no, this isn’t a “let people write what they wanna write” situation. You can do that, but please be expected to be judged and blocked by me and many others. Makarov is quite literally the characterization of everything that is wrong with Russia, and what HAS been wrong with Russia. Makarov is not a bad boy, a rebel, etc, he’s a fucking terrorist. Please be for real. “But the military in general is bad, so why does it matter specifically around Makarov?” Please see above my previous reasons. Thanks.
The overall message of this point is to be fucking respectful. There are actual people dying and slaughtered for no reason other than ruined pride and a lot of Ukrainian folk seek comfort and distractions in the internet and their fandoms. This ruins it for them and quite frankly, sometimes how Makarov is being written? It’s completely insensitive. Anyway, below are a few links where you can directly support the efforts and the people of Ukraine. Peace and love, and please write with critical thinking.
The only thing that fuels me at this rate are shitty cod shitposts
headcanons for simon being the mom/dad friend to reader and her just eating that shit up? like yeah, that giant intimidating guy wearing a skull mask is my best friend. he’s really cute right? (he is)
anon your brain is huge and i love it, thank you for such a gorgeous request! just want you to know that your second request will be up sometime soon, i just wanted to split them! thank you again for requesting, i hope you enjoy <3
pt. 2
fair warning to anyone reading, this is my first time writing headcanons (more like a short story with bullet points because my oh my i got carried away) so please don't shoot! anyway, i've got some ideas rolling around in my head so just jump into it:
let's get one thing straight
becoming friends with a man like simon is not an easy task
while you may be somewhat quick consider him a friend because you're both skilled enough to have made to the 141, it takes a lot longer for him to also consider you a friend
the process of getting him to this point is an arduous journey and some people (probably gaz and rudy bc i can see these two being equally terrified of this man) will not hesitate to tell you to cut your losses and leave him alone
i reckon simon is the type to verbally tell you this himself
and maybe for a bit you do leave him alone
but then one day you see him sitting alone in the commons area with what you deem to be the saddest plate of dinner ever and you just crack
cue you sliding into the seat in front of him with your tupperware full of homecooked food you'd stashed away the night before
naturally he gets frustrated and a maybe a lil annoyed so he goes to leave
but then you slide your tupperware of food over to him and his movements just kinda stop as he stares at you with his typical ghost stare
think 👁️👁️
he'll push the container back toward you causing you to push it back toward him
it becomes an almost vicious cycle before he finally snaps and spits out something like, "what's your fuckin' problem?"
to most he's a scary man with an even scarier voice so that would've been where most people drew the line (let's face it though, most people probably wouldn't have sat with him in the first place)
but all you can focus on is the piss poor excuse of a meal he'd retrieved from the mess hall so you just push it back toward him one final time with a simple, "eat."
he'll narrow his eyes and straighten his posture in an attempt to scare you off but when that doesn't work he'll tell you something along the lines of, "i'm spitting it out if it's shite"
he does not spit it out
from that day on, you'll seek him out with two tupperware containers filled with whatever you'd cooked up the night before and offer it to him
the first few times he's hesitant to accept simply because he doesn't wanna get used to the unusually kind gesture but it eventually gets to a point where he just stops getting a plate from the mess hall and instead waits around for you to feed him
these small dinners you share make it nearly impossible for simon to avoid your talking
he almost debates getting up and leaving a few times but then he remembers he'd be eating soggy meat and vegetables if it weren't for you so he decides to entertain it
and to the surprise of absolutely no one he eventually starts warming up to you, even throwing in a few comments and sarcastic quips of his own
and after a long while of having these dinners with you, he decides he likes it – he likes hearing you talk, whether it be about how you and gaz hid price's hat somewhere on base and blamed it on soap or what the latest celebrity gossip is
so what does he do?
he tries to block you out
it doesn't work because you're a stubborn little shit and refuse to let him fall back into his bubble of solitude and self pity
and he eventually realizes this so he just kinda accepts it after a while (more like a week)
and the two of you become quite chummy
well
as chummy as one can be with a person as closed off as ghost
instead you always being the one to seek him out come dinner time, he'll be the one to start finding you
it's a surprise
a delightful one
but still a surprise
his short, clipped responses will morph into longer, more thought out ones as your friendship continues to develop and you can't help but notice just how smart he really is
despite his everything that's happened to him in the past, he's actually quite in tune with the emotions of other people; his observational skills are off the charts
so you'll eventually start asking him for advice on anything and everything, even if it's not something that pertains directly to you because his wisdom outside the battle field is something to truly behold
it's amazing what can be solved without heavy loads of artillery and violence!
anyway
simon quickly becomes very used to this dynamic
you two having dinner, talking about everything and nothing all at once and while he may never verbalize it, he truly does appreciate it
he'd convinced himself long ago that his life was just cursed and that the people he loved and held closest to him were always destined for terrible things so he just closed himself off
he put on the mask and became ghost whereas simon was kept tucked away in a place no one even bothered to try and discover
but then you stumbled your way into his heart with your homemade food and endless chatter and he can't help but indulge himself
maybe having a friend isn't all that bad
and so the dinners/mini therapy sessions continue
until one day you don't show up
while he is a bit disappointed, simon decides to let it go because you've had dinner with him for god knows how long now
you probably just wanted a day to yourself and he understands that so he doesn't pry
even when he barely force himself to finish the sludge smacked onto his plate from the mess hall – how was he so comfortable eating that for so long?
but you don't show up the next day
or the next
and by the fourth day simon is just downright angry
and a little sad and worried
but mostly angry
who do you think you are to waltz in his life, make yourself cozy in his extremely tight knit circle, and then just leave him high and dry with no goodbye? (wow that rhymed)
if you're gonna ditch him like this then he's gonna make sure you sit through the awkward pain of saying it to his face
he spends an embarrassing amount of time looking for you before he even thinks to check your room
he walks up to your door, fully prepared to slam that door open and confront you
but then he hears you fall into a particularly nasty coughing fit paired with a muffled groan of agony and suddenly it just clicks
you got yourself sick
tempted as he is to simply walk away, he knows deep in his heart he can't do that to you
which is why you open up your door to see ghost awkwardly standing there with a tray of hot soup, water, and some medicine
you nearly cry in your haze of sickness
you'd spend the past four days miserably rotting away in your bed and to suddenly have simon by your side offering you soup and medicine? it was almost too much
ever since that day there had been a gradual shift in your friendship
it started with you two coordinating who would bring dinner on which days
but then it turned into simon being the one to bring dinner nearly everyday
which then evolved into him finding you throughout the day and offering small snacks and drinks
but he's a busy man and he can't do this every day so he'll settle for sending a simple message of, "you doing ok?"
and most times you say yes
but on the off chance you say no he'll take a few minutes to message you back and forth until you feel at least a little better (no this is not achieved by him sending you bad dad jokes, he would never do such a thing!)
but eventually the man just gets so tired of constantly going around base trying to find you that he'll simply just start to linger around you whenever he's free
gruff words of assurance and friendly pats on the shoulder become a staple for the masked man
when the team becomes privy to the newly formed friendship between the two of you, it's almost scary
like
imagine this 6'4 beefy mountain of a man hanging around someone half his size just chilling
i reached the character block limit how awkward anyway
it's odd and you know it is so you'll play into it
like that time you loudly asked ghost to grab the blanket from your room while you two were sitting on the couch in the common area while the rest of the team filed in
and him immediately going to grab it while the team are completely gobsmacked when he promptly returns with your blanket in hand
cue soap asking ghost the same thing a few days later and only receiving a glare in return along with a stern, "i'm not your maid, johnny."
then he just walks away leaving soap to feel like an idiot
it becomes apparent very quickly that simon has a favorite and that favorite is you
especially when he's the one to sweep you up into a quick hug with a quick pat on your head after the team completes yet another mission
you make it a point to squeeze onto simon just a tad tighter when you see soap looking over in complete bewilderment
seriously, how did you tame the legendary ghost?
and honestly?
you're not quite sure yourself
you just soak it in because you'd be a fool not to
maybe one day you'll ask him yourself
maybe you won't
doesn't matter either way because at the end of the day you're the only one who can proudly call ghost your best friend
even if he doesn't refer to you as the same
he totally does he just never says it out loud because he's secretly terrified you don't feel the same
regardless
you two are very much attached at the hip
what with you constantly getting yourself into trouble all around base and ghost not wanting you piss off the wrong person
he is very much your guard dog and you make it everyone's problem
soap went too hard on you during your sparring session? ghost is already glaring at him
gaz won't stop bugging you when you're actually trying to get your work done? ghost is pushing him out the door
price is about to lecture you for something gaz and soap framed you for? ghost is quick to rat them out
it's sweet really, the friendship you have
it warms your heart thinking about it
and it warms his too
even if he won't admit it
he's just grateful you didn't give up on him even when he wanted you to
because he's found that, sometimes, it's nice to have a friend
and he's glad it's you
:)
THIS IS SO SWEET 😭😭😭😭
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
☕ Masterlist ☕
🔞 MINORS DNI! 🔞
Key:
☁️: Fluff
😏: Suggestive, not NSFW
🔞: NSFW
😭: Angst
😂: Funny
COD: MW2 2022
Camgirls and Cows: Simon Riley/Ghost 🔞
Daughters: All ☁️
Flirting with Death: Simon Riley/Ghost ☁️
Avengers
Ghost Hunting and Praise: All ☁️
Bacon and Bloodhounds: Natasha Romanoff 😏☁️
Vegan Vampires: Natasha Romanoff ☁️
Boyfriend/Husband
Anything for you: 😏☁️
Texting on the Boardwalk: Doberman Boyfriend 😏
Mate: Werewolf
The Witcher
Waterhaven Chalet: Geralt ☁️
Moment of Peace: Geralt ☁️
Welcome Home, White Wolf: Geralt ☁️
Life, Death, and Destiny: Geralt ☁️
Of Hearts and Swords: Geralt 😏☁️
My Witcher: Geralt 😏☁️
Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss
Alastor has a what?!: in progress
Dimension 20
Outta Pocket: All ☁️
Haikyu!!
Bullies Were Never My Kinda Thing: All ☁️
Shitposts:
TGIF: All 😂
Twilight:
The Teacher at Forks High School
daddy please stare at me like this.
"Have you seen that bigboy with a skullface??"
I have read that he wears the mask bc he has been t0rtured, call of duty makes the masked men suffer the most :((
Hey babe, wake up
A new masked guy with a mental illness just dropped...
Ghost [watching Y/N get drunk in their corner after a long mission] : Fuck you, Y/N
Y/N [definitely intoxicated] : Do it yourself, you coward
Ghost [knowing he'll remind this to you kindly tomorrow] : 💀
[COD MW2 HCS] 141 + Los Vaqueros + König with a Neutral Gender! Writer! Reader
A/N : How come we never see a Reader as a writer in whatever fandom - or am I blind - in headcanons ? I mean... So many people writing amazing fanfictions or headcanons on this platform or everywhere else and... No ? Really ? We’re talking about a military Reader here, by the way.
TW : none (for once) except the ugly typos you may encounter. Only one very little mention of smutty litterature
John “Soap” MacTavish
So... Let’s start with our lovely Scottish sergeant
It is apparently canon that he likes to draw on a small notebook he keeps with him dearly.
So he knows. He is acquainted with the ‘writer’s zone’ we flee into when inspiration holds us within its graceful arms. When the images of action flood through out brain when a stroke of genius light up our features and how we appear lost in some kind of parallel universe only us are able to interact with (well... it’s how it looks like for me, feel free to comment - writer or not - how your imagination works)
However, Soap is mostly aware about the tropes and what we can consider as the technical side of writing such as relashionship dynamics for your characters - if it implies the said relashionships -
I think he is the kind to prefer roomates universes because of the domesticity he is able to find there and friendship warms his heart. Although, that’s just an impression.
He is actually the biggest help out of the 141 because when he draws he also uses the codes of his type of creation for his cute doodles you suspect him to scribble on the yellowed paper of his little diary.
He knows what it is to lack of insipiration, even though he tends to throw his thoughts on the paper and reproduces his surroundings.
He appreciates the smallest details that compose his world. He notices them all.
But I digress.
You two share a world not so accessible for the rest of the team. When you talk about [Insert fiction character of trope here] in a very specific context, the others gaze at you confused.
More than writing, it is a little sweet thing you two share and you would never lose that for anything in the world.
Simon “Ghost” Riley
He... Understands... Not like Soap. He doesn’t have that much imagination.
He gets it is your hobby. It is as valuable as any other activity.
Simon thinks it’s cute in some way. You, lost in thought, next to him, about and into something he can’t quite grasp. And a sheet of paper or the blank screen of an app on your tablet or whatever device you judged comfortable.
At first, you asked for his help about some details, or his opinion, or his advice. Then, you understood he was too down-to-earth and wounded by his abusive past to allow himself to relax this way next to you.
Yet, you used your hobby as a way to stay with him as a support. He had just to tug a bit at your sleeve and all your attention would be on him.
It was the first step.
You understood quickly that your writing might be able to help him unwind and finally get comfortable.
You write him silly stories, made for him to laugh, or to smile at least. It wasn’t a big deal, just fables. You have no idea what he does with it. You just hope it enables him to dream even if just during the day like a fleeting thought clinging to him. A distant echo of something nice his heart and his memory agreed on keeping dearly underneath his leaden shell.
You also may be the one reading your own stories to him. But the mistakes, the inconsistencies or the lack of meaning and every little flaws in your writing may appear much more visible once clearly uttered.
By dint of effort, you manage to soften him a bit. He doesn’t want to ask you if he could read either what you are writing or if you have something for him. However, he eventually hopes within the depth of his heart that he can flee from reality for a few minutes.
He is so grateful to you even though he is bitter on the fact he can’t bring you much constructive criticism.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
Another one who understands one might have such a hobby but he may not relate.
I don’t see Gaz as someone who reads a lot. It’s just not his thing. He’ll read for sport news or something related to one of his own hobbies.
I guess he doesn’t have the patience to sit somewhere comfortable and allow his mind to wander this way thanks to your words.
Except maybe when he desperately needs to unwind and his thoughts are too noisy so he needs to occupy his plagued mind with something totally different.
However, he is curious about the creation process.
He’ll ask about your ‘tools’ after you explain to him that your scenario and elements of the story doesn’t entirely pop out of thin air and you may have to rethink and to shape your ideas to make up a story both understandable and enjoyable.
He laughs when he notices about your nonsensical Internet history. How can it be so weird ? And then, he remembers what kinds of research he does when the night isn’t kind to him and he doesn’t laugh anymore.
Sometimes, your brain amazes him. You sound so cool when you take the time to explain some of your ideas.
Kyle is awesome at helping you for worldbuilding. He has a lot of imagination when he manages to leave his military universe on the side and peeks at yours.
He is an excellent beta reader since he is actually very neutral about writing in general and he’ll try to give you the most help possible when you ask him. Too short ? Too long ? Not enough or too much emphasis on a detail ? He just aims at your betterment !
John Price
You are a writer ? Well... As long as you do your duty you can be whatever you want.
He is neutral with the idea of you being a writer. He is a soldier before anything. And a leader at that. He’ll support you because Captain Dad... I mean... Captain Price always supports his team but sometimes the said team gives a hard time to his comprehension and patience.
You’re mostly quiet, with music for your ears, typing or penning something on a sheet of paper. Moreover, it seems like you have some sort of natural distance with Soap’s or Gaz’s - or both - usual chaos.
Price has to say that it amazes him how you are distant of everything when you are in what Soap would call a writer’s fever.
By the way, he happens to watch over you both when Soap draws and you write on the couch of the common room. If you both eventually show him what you created - if you don’t he will not force you - he’ll gaze at you like a proud momma duck despite his best behavior.
He is mostly the one staring in disbelief as you use vocabulary, tropes, imaginary events for your own type of art since he can’t understand it even though you all speak the same language.
Price notices very early you are a skilled writer, or at least you have some experience. The reports he gets from you are probably the best from the soldiers he got under his orders. He might have something to say about the spelling and the shape of your letters if you give him handwritten reports. Depends on you I guess.
He will not ask to read what you write. You can call that the appropriate distance induced by hierarchy. You remain soldiers. You may as well act like it.
Sometimes, you’d like his opinion. An outside point of view about your work is always good, no ? Well... John Price has a Ghost syndrome. He is annoyingly ass deep in his military life. Hence, he faces a very limited imagination except when it comes to interrogate an enemy.
The worst about him is that he could be an amazing beta reader. Constructive criticism and probably giving you ways to improve yourself in what you already are so good at.
Just give him time. He’ll get interested one way or another. First, you may try to be closer emotionally to him. Might be a good start to go past this military hierarchy and to know what his tastes are to get his heart beat only at the tone of your phrasing with your unique talent
Rodolfo Parra
He thinks it’s so cool to have a hobby as enjoyable as he thinks you have just by the way you act when you are writing.
Rudy doesn’t have the time to delve that deeply into a hobby. Los Vaqueros constantly demand his attention. However, when he gets the time he - like Gaz - tries to ask about the process of writing. He even tries to write by himself.
You explained about the tropes and dynamics and he seemed to get it immediately. Childhood friends to lovers is his favorite one by the way.
It was just a little story he came up with. It was the first thing that stuck to his imagination, appearing out of an obscure place of his brain. It was uncertain, somewhat shaky but simple and, in a way, adorable.
He almost took it personally when you said this small piece of text was just like him.
However, before you sink even deeper in awkwardness, you dismissed this last interaction and tried to correct him the best you could.
After that, he was looking forward the little time when you could write with him and he could learn. Another thing, it’s quiet around you, focused, relaxed. Alejandro knows where to find him when he is looking for his right hand.
He could be an amazing beta reader if he wasn’t so kind. He forgives you everything. “Have you noticed inconsistencies or flaws ?” you’d ask. “Maybe a little something here but I’m sure it’s me” he’d reply. Unnerving, right ? The gentlest reader but you don’t need him to be so nice. You need him to be observant.
He also comes up with very simple ideas when it comes to writing but his way of apprehending things has something one can’t quite describe. My closest synonym would be a vibe, something like raw talent that only needs to be explored thoroughly. It resembles to cutting a diamond, sharpen the edges to make it glistening and precious.
His imagination is not too chaotic but his thinking and reasoning develops and fill in the gaps of his originality.
Anyways, Rudy is amazing. As always.
Alejandro Vargas
There has to be one who does not take you very seriously. Well... It is Alejandro. The Mexican colonel is... something else, to say the least. He considered himself a man of action and not a man of words. So, to him, whatever you were doing with those scraps of paper during your free time was none of his business.
He’ll try some kind of joke with you writing nasty things in the secret of that little head of yours. Two answers now. “No, colonel, I’m not into writing that kind of litterature” would be the first reponse with a hint of scorn hidden behind your deadpan aspect.
The second answer though... “Yeah ! I write smut ! Now that we’re talking about that, do you mind if I use your features for my next...” and then you proceed to make a very descriptive, thoroughly explained speech about your imaginary Alejandro and what you planned him to do in this small story of yours. The point was to make the colonel embarassed. Although, it worked better on Rudy who went blushing like a tomato.
If you choose the second option, it will end up in nasty jokes each time you meet each other. This silly game is absolutely unsufferable for everyone making the mistake to listen to you.
If anything, your relashionship suffers from this disregard. You didn’t ask Alejandro’s appreciation, hardly tolerance even but it left a sort of bitter taste. Rudy is... Kinder. More understanding.
However, what happens is that you tend to be consequently more distant from Alejandro. It may have been a silly joke about a pastime of yours but writing is so personal that it was as if he made a joke about your own self and this was intolerable. He had no business disrespecting you this way.
Beyond that, you banished him from your writing process. His opinion, his hypothetical help, what he might like to see within a story - doesn’t matter how silly it may be - he was no part of it.
If he changes his mind, you’d tend to retort him something alike “Let’s stay in our own field of expertise colonel. Let me dream about my stories. And you, dream about chasing El Sin Nombre. Good fences make good neighbors as one says”.
Something that also might happen is that Rudy’s new habit of unwinding with you quietly in the common room and having long conversations with you about that hobby you were now both sharing made him feel weird. Alejandro was surely passionate and admitting he’s wrong - at least for this - was no part of his character but this was the proof he should’ve acted differently. The realisation took its time but he eventually accepts the fact he made an asshole of himself.
He’ll apologise when he catches you alone, writing. Now the question may be about how much time do you want to play with him for having been such an arse.
Eventually, Alejandro learns his lesson and he even asks you to read what you write. When he’s done, he is so silent, gawking. You laugh at him.
König
Our gigantic, adorable Austrian operator is a book worm. It’s horrendous. The heavy bullying he has been a victim got him to be safe between the shelves of library. The scent of old paper and the calm of the library got him out of his skin, journeying between worlds out of his appalling daily life. He was typically the dreamy, lonely kid who had characters inside his head as sole company.
So yeah. Books mean relief, respite, getaway for him as well as a way to heal himself from the pain he received from his classmates or whoever hurt him in his younger days.
He doesn’t have much time for reading anymore and these books are a little too bulky for the small package he was allowed to have. So having you near him is like a blessing. He can talk out his thoughts.
Beyond writing, it is the vibe around you that convinces him to sit next to you in the common room. He tried to make himself small, to not take too much of the couch but you couldn’t deny his thigh touching yours. You raised your head and smiled at him. König did not utter a single word, already flustered to fail at conversing. But, as time goes on - and after numerous times he just sat next to you enabling himself to move a muscle - you made most of the conversation. He felt almost immediately at ease.
You two daydream together now, talking about little things always related to writing or reading. It is also a way to relax after close calls and the danger of being killed.
He is the KING at worldbuilding. König has always several ideas coursing through his brain. His mind is sometimes chaotic, full of details. He gave you the impression once that telling the history of one of this world would create a great saga on it own. Moreover, König is so passionate about these little bouts of thoughts put together.
He is also very aware about tropes and dynamics. His favorite of the latter is the small protector x the big shy character because he can relate. And he also has a soft post for a good ol’ mutual pining or a hypothetical love at first sight - as unlikely as it seems in real life -
He doesn’t try to write with you though. He knows he is not too good at this, which is weird considering the tremendous amount of time he can spend while reading. Although, König knows he may have a chance if he writes in German. It depends on you being able to understand him or not.
König is also a dissatisfactory beta reader, different from Rudy though. He doesn’t dare utter what he judges as flaws because he thinks he’d lose you. He is so happy to be the first reading whatever you are working on because it makes him feel so special.
He always supports you and tries to relax you when pangs of frustration creeps inside your mind because your writing doesn’t go the way you plan it to be.
Just like with Soap, what you two have is not understandable by the people around you. What’s more is that König’s anxious nature tends to keep you both distant from the people outside of your little bubble.
Even mercenaries have a past.
I really like how it turned out. I have more plans with these drawings but I already love how it looks together.