#American badass x reader

[take-taker-taken]

Can I get a ABA!Taker with small reader, (im 5'0 without shoes lol) (male pref) where he works with taker and accidentally injures him during a match and taker takes him in the locker room?

Kinks: daddy kink, dry humping,dumbification, spanking maybe?

Hey, hey, Anon! Here’s your fic! No title I’m afraid because I struggle with those. Also have to give props to Randy Orton for the inspiration of Taker getting hurt. Hope you enjoy!

Untitled

“Me? You’re sure?”

“That’s what he said. That he likes what he’s seen and thinks you deserve a push.” The exec stands up and so you get to your feet as well before reaching out to shake his hand.

“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate the opportunity.”

You leave the office in a bit of a daze at what’s just taken place. At first you’d been petrified that they were going to fire you and so to be told that none other than the Undertaker wants to work with you… Whoah. Immediately after leaving the room you set about trying to find him so that you can thank him personally - he’s an old school guy and so you know he would consider that the proper way to do things.

After psyching yourself up a bit, you knock on his dressing room door and hear a lazy, “Yeah?”

You open the door a little and peer around it, scanning the large room until you see the man himself sprawled on a couch watching some sports on a TV. He looks around and a slow smile creeps over his face. Not unkind, exactly, but… you can’t quite place it. You stand awkwardly at the door because truth is… well, he’s freakin’ hot.

“It’s the new kid!” He says and waves you over. “Come on in, boy.”

You step in and close the door behind you, trying to ignore the fact that he’s already unintentionally hit on one of your kinks - hearing him call you ‘boy’, and with that accent... You pause for a second as you suppress a shiver and then remind yourself that he’s probably not going to appreciate some timid little newbie hovering in the corner. You need to be polite and respectful, but confident and so you walk over until you’re only a few feet away. Damn, he’s a big guy.

“Sir, I wanted to stop by and say thank you. The office just told me that you asked about us doing a short program together because you thought I deserved a push. Coming from you, that’s a huge compliment sir, and a great opportunity. I really appreciate it, thank you.”

Taker sits up a little bit straighter, his black Harley Davidson t-shirt pulling tight across his chest and he nods. “Respect, that’s good - I like that.”

Like his smile earlier, there’s something in his tone that you can’t place but you do feel yourself blush slightly. Trying to cover it you clear your throat and shrug. “Well, yeah - you’re the locker room leader, so I figured -”

“You figure right.” He says, pointing at you with his first two fingers. “I’m the daddy.”

Oh god. You swallow and start willing your dick not to get hard as you gradually back away. “I’ll uh, I’ll leave you alone now. Thank you again. Sir.”

He gives you a nod. “You got it, kid. We’ll catch up and go over some spots next week some time.”

He turns his attention back to the TV and so that’s you dismissed. You turn and leave the room, unable to shift the image of his shirt stretched tight across his chest and biceps as he gave you that smile. What was that? You decide to head to the gym and get a workout in, but find that his voice calling himself ‘daddy’ echoes around your head all day.

————————

Match day rolls around and you pace nervously in gorilla and then you turn and nearly walk smack into him. You look up - all the way up, because he has nearly two feet of height on you and you know that fear is written all over your face.

“Calm down, kid. We’re gonna go out there and tear it down, OK?” He rests one huge hand briefly on your shoulder and you glance down at it and then back up.

“Yessir.”

He nods and gives you a nudge towards the curtain as the announcer starts the spiel for you and then your music kicks in and you head on through and down to the ramp. You have a small following and of course you’re going to lose but this is the biggest match of your career so far and so you do you best to get out of your head and play up to the crowd as you reach the ring. The cheers for you die down and then Taker’s music hits and the roof comes off. It’s been decided that the ramp is too short for his bike and so he saunters down to the ring while you wait on him, trying your best not to look as intimidated as you are.

“It’ll be fine,” you tell yourself. “He’s a safe worker. One of the best. He wanted this match.”

He steps in and pulls the audience into continuing their worship as he works his way around the squared circle. Then it’s time. You step up close - you’d be touching chests if it wasn’t for the height difference - and stare up into the deadliest pair of eyes you’ve ever seen. A sneer curls his lip as he stands with his hands on his hips, staring right back down at you. You know that to the watching public it probably looks ridiculous but then the bell goes and it’s game on.

You lock up, so much as that’s possible but he soon sends you sprawling to the floor, which you use as an opportunity to showcase some agility. The match gets into a nice pace and you’re starting to really enjoy yourself, giving Taker the runaround and even getting some low tackles in that slam him to the canvas, just as you’ve agreed. He has you hemmed in the corner as you take turns delivering blows to the head and he calls the big spot that you worked on.

“OK kid, you’re gonna slip under my arm, jump and bash my head on the post here, then get outta the ring and get the chair in here.”

He moves one leg back just a fraction which gives you the wriggle room to duck and with a big leap you deliver the blow to his head before nipping between the ropes. You grab the folding chair from the corner by the announcer’s table and shove it into the ring while Taker staggers about, selling the blow to his head. You pick up the chair and deliver a blow to his back and so he falls down to the canvas and you drop a couple more. As he drags himself up to all fours, you move around so that you’re standing over his head - it’s time for the big one and you raise the chair high and bring it down as he gets to his knees.

He raises his head and you realise with horror what’s about to happen - you’ve not properly factored in distance and BAM! Instead of catching him on top of his head, it glances down his forehead and opens him up. Blood appears in an instant, welling up in the cut before spilling over and trickling down in his face in a bright red curtain. You stare open mouthed at what you’ve done but he doesn’t really acknowledge it, just carries on with a couple more moves on you before grabbing and positioning you for the Last Ride. He lifts you high, high into the air and then you hear the blood rushing in your ears before you hit the canvas with a deafening thud. He covers you, the bell goes and the ref raises his arm as his theme blasts out.

Having celebrated his win he exits the ring and leaves you laying there, staring at a pool of his blood glistening bright red against the canvas. You give him a chance to make his way up the ramp before you slide out and follow dejectedly in his wake. As you walk back through the curtain gorilla is blessedly empty, so you escape the first ass-chewing that you were anticipating. You need to find him and apologise - your first really big match and you blew it. The image of him covered in blood comes to your mind and you wipe a hand over your face and moan. He’s going to kill you.

You ask a couple of crew if they’ve seen him and the second one says that they saw him heading to medical and your heart sinks. You are so finished. You consider going there to see him, but somehow don’t think your presence would be appreciated and so instead you head to the showers figuring to get changed and then catch up to him.

There’s half a dozen guys already in the locker room and they greet you enthusiastically and ask how things went. You recount the absolute disaster and they try to reassure you with all the usual ‘mistakes happen’ stuff. You nod and then grab your gel and head through to the shower while the rest of the guys continue to yell and chat with each other.

You’ve been stood under the water, lost in thought for a few minutes when it suddenly occurs to you that it’s gone quiet. Silent, in fact. Frowning, you shut off the water and grab your towel, rubbing it over your head and body before stepping into a pair of sweats before you walk round the corner to the lockers.

Taker is sat there, waiting for you. Your eyes do a quick sweep of the room and then dart back to him when he speaks.

“Ain’t nobody coming in here, boy. It’s just you and me.”

You take a couple of steps forward. “Taker, I’m sorry - I didn’t mean -”

He holds up a hand and you fall silent. “What’d you call me?”

You curse inwardly. “Sir, I -”

“Try again.”

You swallow as your mind races because there’s no way he wants you to use his given name. If it’s not Taker, and it’s not sir, the only other thing he’s mentioned… Fuck. You chew on your lip for a moment and then whisper, “I’m sorry… daddy?”

He nods slowly. “There ya go.” He beckons you closer and staring at the floor you make your way over. “Look at me, boy.”

You raise your eyes and wince when you see the now closed up cut on his forehead. “I didn’t mean to, daddy.”

“I know that,” he says and you feel relief wash over you until he adds, “but now I need to give you a receipt, don’t I?”

You almost feel like you’re on the outside looking in, because he must know that this is pushing your buttons. Your mind races as you try to think whether you’ve ever said or done anything to give the game away but you turn up a blank. You’ve always had a crush on him but figured you’d kept a lid on it, even to the point of avoiding him. You flash back to that smile he gave you that you had never quite figured out and realise that he must have seen it in you. You don’t know whether to be excited or terrified.

He stands up and you take an involuntary step back but he grabs your wrist before setting one foot up on the bench. You look at the huge boot and then back up to his face but only for a second because he jerks you forward and bends you over his thigh and then holds you in place with a hand on the back of your neck.

“Take those sweats down.” He accompanies his words with a squeeze of his hand.

You reach for your waistband and then sanity interferes. “Wh… what are you going to do?”

“Did I stutter, boy? Get ‘em down!”

With a whimper you comply, pushing the fabric down over your ass and thighs until they reach your knees and drop the rest of the way to pool around your feet.

“That’s better,” his voice is softer now. “I tell you to do something and you jump, boy.”

“Yes, daddy-ee!” Your response turns to a squeak as you feel that big hand stroke over your naked ass.

“OK, it’s receipt time.” His leg shifts slightly as he gets himself comfortable and then he gives you a gentle pat before adding, “Now, you can yell as loud as you want so long as you don’t mind anyone outside figuring out what’s happening to ya.”

With that he draws his hand back and it comes down firmly on your ass, making you gasp. Surprisingly, it’s not as painful as you thought it would be and even when the second and third smacks land it feels like maybe this is just some kind of token thing for him to do to a newbie - like mild hazing or something. By the time it gets to six you’re starting to change your mind and when a particularly hard strike lands you cry out and clutch his leg.

“OK, tha -that’s enough - I -” Suddenly you’re upright, his hand still around the back of your neck and he’s glaring at you. He bends down until his face is inches from your own and you stare at the strawberry blonde goatee as he speaks slowly in a low voice.

“Let’s get something crystal fuckin’ clear, boy. You don’t decide what’s enough - I do. Got it?” You nod and he gives you a shake. “Who does?”

“Y- you do,” you stutter and then when his looks becomes meaner still you hurriedly add, “I mean - you do, daddy.”

“Damn right.” He nods and message delivered, he bends you back over and really begins to wail on you, his palm coming down hard all over your ass and flinging your hands out of the way when you try to protect yourself. You’re shouting in pain and not caring who hears you but it’s clearly no deterrent to him and so you try a different tack.

“Please, daddy! Please stop! I’ll be good, I promise!”

Despite the pain, the embarrassment and the confusion you realise that your dick is getting hard and try desperately to will it from happening, but to no avail. Your feet drum on the floor as he continues to spank you and you’re squeezing his calf again. Eventually he stops and you blink furiously to clear the tears before he drags you upright again.

“That’s your receipt, boy. Next time you fuck up that bad it’ll be my belt, ya hear?”

You swipe a hand across your face and nod, unable to stop your other hand from creeping back to rub at your ass. “Yes, daddy. Can - can I go now?” Even as the words leave your mouth a thought flits through your brain that says, ‘Please don’t end this here…’

He still has a hold on your neck but it’s softened and is more comforting than anything else. You watch his eyes scanning down your body and then he stops and a slow smile crosses his face before he glances back up at you.

“Oh, I don’t think so boy - not yet. Now, what’s this?” His hand slips between your legs and the long, warm fingers wrap around your dick which responds rapidly and you let out a small moan. “Looks like that’s got you all hot and bothered, huh?”

You swallow and consider stuttering out a denial but what would be the point? While he’s holding your dick, his free hand wanders to his own crotch and you watch as he squeezes himself through the denim.

“You want to give it up for daddy? Got a few kinks you want me to work out, that it?”

Your head snaps up. Is he really saying what you think he’s saying? There’s that smirk again but he shocks you by abruptly letting go of your dick and pulling up your sweats. You stand there, a deep blush on your cheeks and heart pounding as it pokes out, tenting the material.

Taker picks up his gear bag, a typical black holdall, and tosses it on to the floor in front of you. You glance down at it and then back up at him but he’s already got his back turned as he walks to retrieve a chair from the far end of the room. He saunters back over and sets it down about four feet from the gear bag, which you’re standing just behind. He takes a seat as you stand there hot, bothered and horny, wondering what’s going on. He leans back, knees falling wide apart and looks up at you.

“Guess you’re hoping I’m gonna fuck you.” It’s a statement and you find yourself nodding before hurriedly stopping yourself as he chuckles. “Yeah, I thought so. But here’s the thing.” He brushes some imaginary dust from his thigh and says, “You gotta earn that.” He sits up a little straighter and folds his arms. “What d’you think about that?”

“I…” You swallow and try to focus enough to answer as you stand before your ultimate crush, aware that a damp patch is probably spreading on your pale grey sweats. “I can do that, daddy.”

He nods, strokes over his goatee and says, “Let’s find out, shall we? Get on all fours, boy.”

As though pulled by invisible strings, you drop to your hands and knees, which puts you about six inches from his gear bag. You look up, eager to pass whatever test he has in mind for you and then it’s as though your brain just short circuits. If he looked alpha male to you before, being down on all fours and looking up just wipes you out. He beckons to you, urging you forwards, but his bag is in the way… isn’t it?

“C’mon, boy… that’s it. Just get the bag underneath yourself… bit further… stop right there.”

You freeze in place when he tells you to stop and in that moment realise that your dick is just above one edge of the holdall. Your eyes are still fixed on him and that predatory smile is back on his face. Your hips drop slightly and your dick makes contact with the bag through your sweats and you gasp, lifting them up again.

“Go on, boy… rut on it.”

Somehow you’d known this was his plan when he made you crawl over the bag. You don’t think you could stop yourself even if you wanted to and so you begin to move, your swollen dick inside your pants repeatedly catching on the edge of his gear bag. The friction is delicious and you moan, head dropping down. You should be embarrassed - maybe you are - but you just don’t care and straight away begin to pick up speed.

Taker looks pleased and palms himself through his jeans again. “Feels good, don’t it? Look at you… you’re fuck drunk already, boy.” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs and the movement makes you lift your head again.

“Please… please, daddy!”

“Please what?” He shrugs and then shakes his head. “You don’t even know, do you? You’re too busy fucking yourself stupid.”

“Please daddy…” You want to say more but you just can’t form words and he laughs this time - a low, rumbling sound.

“Poor, dumb little fuckslut. Can’t even form a sentence, can you boy? You just keep going until you make a mess in your pants.”

You give up trying to speak and just nod, knowing that you’re really not far off from…

“Fuck - daddy - please!” You cry out as you start to come, the material of your light grey sweats darkening in patches with your release.

Seemingly unmoved Taker reaches forward and slides his bag out from under you, presumably to prevent it from being soiled and then to your eternal surprise he leans over and kisses you on the forehead.

“There ya go. Next time you can try it on my leg, how ‘bout that?”

You’re still on all fours and just nod dumbly. “Yes please, daddy.”

He stands up and picks up his bag, hefting it on to his shoulder. “You might wanna get up boy, before anyone comes in here and wants to know why you’re on the floor with cum stains on your pants. Just a thought.”

With that, he heads for the door and walks out, leaving you alone still staring dazedly at the chair and wondering how long it’ll be until he calls on you again.

END

#the undertaker #undertaker #this character lives in my head rent free #taker smut #wwf undertaker x reader #the undertaker x reader #TTT Tumblr Asks #the american badass #american badass x reader #american badass smut #dom!taker #sub!reader #daddy!taker

[thedeadmansgirl]

A Chance to Start Over | Chapter 04

Pairing: Mark Calaway (The Undertaker) x Female OC (Mary)

Chapter Warnings: Minors DNI 18+ Only. Divorce, labor, water (amniotic sack) breaking, douche Mark, cheating spouse, still born, pregnancy, death from childbirth (not OC)

Length: 1560k

Read on AO3 | Read on FFN | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Mark was sitting comfortably in his recliner in the den, a beer in hand, while he flipped through the channels. He had got back home from another work trip three days ago, and he barely even moved from his spot. Only getting up to go to the bathroom or get another bottle of Shiner. It would still be another few weeks before he had to go back on the road again, he figured since he basically ruined his second chance at happiness, he’d just drown himself in beer. 

He had time to let his thoughts and feelings sit and simmer. And he could never deny the fact that he loves Mary so much, and regrets saying the things he said. But at the same time, he didn’t want the heartbreak of losing another child, whether from life or its paternity.

Christ. He thought, if only Mary would see it from my eyes.  

Just then, his doorbell rang. Then it rang again, and again. He cursed as he got up, taking long strides to the front door. 

“HAVE YOU NEVER SEEN A DOORBELL IN YOUR GODDAMN LIFE?” He bellowed as he opened the door and was surprised to see Mary, sweating, huffing and red. Probably from the Texan summer heat. 

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

She pushed her way in, ignoring her ex husband’s question. She walked through where she knew he’d have the air conditioner turned on behind the couch. She stood there and for a few seconds felt relieved by the cool air blowing on her face directly. Mark watched her with amusement and surprise, he cannot deny the fact that she looked good in the yellow sundress that clings to her bump, and hugs her breasts that are so much fuller now. He felt his cock twitch in his jeans. 

He tried to shake the thoughts away, reminding himself why they are in this situation in the first place. Then Mary turned back to look at Mark, and shoved an envelope to his chest. . 

“Please sign the fucking divorce papers.” She begged the towering man who just looked down at her in surprise. “This is the fifteenth time, Mark. Please just sign it. It’s the right one. I made sure they removed the child-support clause.” 

Mark was stunned and absentmindedly clung to the envelope. It still feels so weird to him seeing her pregnant, and she has gotten bigger since he last saw her, and he didn’t understand why he was feeling the way he does, blaming it on the summer heat. He gulped as he scanned her body and saw the quick shift in Mary’s expression, insecurity, he told himself. He knew that look so well, and it only strengthened his case when she pulled her dress further down her bump and straightened her back. 

Her breath suddenly hitched. She winced, gripping the back of the couch, but quickly schooled her expression to look as neutral as possible but Mark caught that. 

“I figured you wanted your lawyer to look at it so I waited but after not hearing from you nor any lawyer on your end—” She stopped mid-sentence to take a few short breaths through her nose as she bit her lower lip. 

“What’s the matter Mark? What do you need me to add or remove from it? I can have my lawyer create a new draft. Do you want the beach house in Florida?” She continued soon after.

Mark realized he hadn’t spoken and shook himself off his daze, “I-I don’t need the beach house.” He began and her brows just furrowed and she took a deep breath, her grip on the back of the couch was turning her knuckles white.

“Then…what…do…you want?” She asked through gritted teeth. 

“I want you back, that’s what I want! But–but this… honey, I–I can’t…” Mark stuttered, gesturing at her bump. 

“So what are you saying?” She glared at him, and Mark couldn’t understand why she was huffing. She must be really mad at me for not signing the divorce papers right away. He thought. 

“I’m saying that we can still make it work, y-you and I can still be happy together… you can–put your baby up for adoption or something then–”

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Mark stepped back and felt like he had shrunk a few feet down. He just realized what he told her and now she’s even madder. With a hand on her bump and a finger poking on his chest, she hissed, “Sign. the. goddamn. papers. NOW!” 

“Now hold on a minute, we never had the chance to talk this out. Technically, we’re still married–” 

“We don’t need to talk about anything about this. We were only married on paper and in the sack, you made it clear when I left. If you’re saying all this now just to get your dick wet, you’re asking the wrong person. Go fuck someone else.”

“Ya think I’d want you back just to fuck you–” 

“It doesn’t matter now, just sign it so it could all be over and I’ll disappear from your life just like she did.” She pushed the envelope further into Mark’s chest and returned to grip the back of the couch trying to even her breathing, one hand still on her bump. 

She knew what she said was too harsh and she saw the hurt etched in his face. 

“Fine!” He snapped and ripped the envelope open, pulling out the documents. He looked around searching for something and then he looked at Mary. “What?” Mary asked in a hiss. 

“Pen?” He asked, matter of factly. “Goddamn it Mark! Bottom drawer of that desk–” She was going to point at the desk by the den when she let out a loud groan of pain. 

"What's wrong? Tryin' fake pains to get me to sign the papers quicker?" He snorts. "Should have led with that--"

“Shut the fuuuuck uuuuuuuppppp.” Mary moaned in pain, forcing her knees to bend slightly to a squat as the pressure grew stronger towards her center. She tightly gripped the back of the couch for support while she gasped for breath. 

“I- fuck-“ The sound of water trickling down the hardwood floor “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Mark's eyes widen in surprise and, quite frankly, nervousness, as he looks down, swallowing harshly as he realizes Mary's water broke. 

"Well shit, I think your water broke.” Mark stood there wondering what the fuck to do. 

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” Mary glared at him, letting out a long breath as the contraction eased. 

“You need to go to the hospital.” 

“You think I don’t know that? Just sign the goddamn papers, Mark and mail it to my lawyer first thing in the morning.” Mary replied, heading for the door brushing past Mark on her way out. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Mark asked in confusion, surely she’s not going to drive herself to the hospital, is she?

Mary turned back to face him from the porch with a scowl, “What the fuck do you think?” 

“Good grief, woman. It’s not safe, you’re in pain. Let me at least drive you.” Mark responded a little irritatedly, grabbing his keys and wallet from the console table in the doorway. 

“No!” Mary held up her hand before Mark could cross the threshold. “I-it’s alright, Mark. Y-you get on with your day. I’m gonna be fine.”

“No, you’re not fine, I–”

“Really, please, I insist. I-I can do it. I know you don’t want—to be in this situation in the first place. I-I can do it.” Mark saw her trying her best to school her expression, but he knew she was in pain. Despite that, Mary still mustered up a smile that was meant to reassure him and his heart just dropped and shattered. 

He could only frown at the fact that she thought that she’s bothering him and he realized just how much he fucked things up with Mary. 

Mary is the type of person who always keeps to herself and does her best to do things on her own, regardless if it’s hard or painful, because she doesn’t want to bother anyone. A rough childhood with a narcissistic mother who tells her that she’s a mistake did that to her, and if Mark felt horrible after realizing just exactly how much he fucked things up with his wife, he can’t imagine her ever forgiving him now. 

But he will never forgive himself if anything were to happen to her and there was something he could do to help it. He watched Mary waddle towards her car, but almost doubled over in pain before she could open the door, holding on to the handle as she felt the baby shifted lower. Mark rushed to her side as she gasped in both panic and pain, pleading with her. “Come on Mary, please. Let me drive you to the hospital. You’re in no shape to do it by yourself. Just–Just think of the–your baby’s safety. Yeah?” Mary was panting slightly as she looked up at Mark’s emerald eyes, and nodded and muttered a pained “O-okay.” 

“Alright, alright. Let me help you in.” Mark guided her towards the passenger side of her car and helped her settle in before running to the driver’s side and wasting no time to drive her to the hospital. 

Next Chapter

#wwf undertaker #wwf undertaker x reader #the undertaker #the undertaker imagine #the undertaker smut #wwe undertaker #american badass #the undertaker x female oc #undertaker imagines #undertaker fan fiction #The Undertaker imagines #The Undertaker Fan Fiction #the undertaker decimates rising wwe star in shock comeback #the undertaker and his pals #world wrestling federation

[ava-valerie]

I was wondering if i can request a drunk drabble with the american bad ass taker where he picks me up at a bar and we go back to his place and can you aslo insert some fluff?

Thank you for the request 💖 Here we go, some biker fluffly fluff 💖 And sorry for the late answer! Hope you enjoy!

Please note everyone: I'm not accepting new requests.

Taker never had been a fan of cell phones, and the text he had received from you a minute ago didn't change his view on them. Either it was some technical malfunctioning, or you were really drunk. Anyways, the words mixed with numbers and punctuation marks made absolutely no sense.

Being the man he was, though, he didn't hesitate and drove to your favorite bar. A small sigh crept over his lips as he saw you there, sitting completely wasted in a corner. Your glasses were tangled in streaks of black hair, the sight made him chuckle.

"Ya know, girl, you look somewha' cute like this" Taker quietly mentioned as he scooped you up and held you bridal style in the strong arms. Your head plopped against his chest and you inhaled this comforting scent of leather and jeans.

A blurred drive later you were sitting on the couch in the living room. The tall biker next to you did his best to get your glasses out of the hair without hurting you. It was fascinating how gentle he could be, considering his tough demeanor.

"A small thing like ya shouldn't drink tha' much, mh?" He teased and you gave him a pout in return.

Taker pulled you back in his arms and handed you a bottle of water, enjoying how you melted in his touch. To have you like that, a little helpless and full of trust for him, evoked a warm feeling in his chest.

"It's okay, punk princess. I will always pick ya up, no matter how far you are away, or how deep ya fall"

#ava's drunk drabbles #the undertaker #wwe undertaker #undertaker wwe #undertaker #american badass #the undertaker x reader #the undertaker fluff

[stayevildarling]

Billie: „I don‘t want to die“

Y/N: *rolls eyes and smiles*

Y/N: „You are not going to die Billie. You are just grabbing snacks from the kitchen“

Billie: „IT‘S DARK OUT THERE! THERE COULD BE MONSTERS TRYING TO KILL ME“

Y/N: *smiles and sneaks up on Billie*

Billie: *screams*

Y/N: *leans in and hugs her from behind*

inspired by: @littlewhispersofsolitude

#i thought this was cute #billie is definitely badass and not scared easily #but shed totally be like this in a relationship #dedicated to a very special birthday bean #im sorry I couldn‘t write you a whole fic #I promise I will though #for billiebeanhoward #sarah paulson #billie dean howard #billie dean howard x reader #cordelia goode #wilhemina venable #ahs #american horror story #sarah paulson x reader #sarahpaulson #americanhorrorstory #ally mayfair richards #wattpad #cordelia goode x reader #audrey tindall #lana winters #ahs coven #bette and dot tattler #sally mckenna #sarah paulson imagine

[littlegalaxychild]

Yandere American Badass

Alright, this is a continuation of The Undertaker x Reader

So, when Undertaker became American Badass, your name changed too

You aren’t Persephone anymore, you are now Angel

A trophy Housewife to a biker gang leader

MATCHING BANDANAS!!!

When Taker rides out for his matches, you are sitting behind him holding on to his waist

You are his valet now, no more wrestling for you

Mainly because you are a mom now

Which means if Triple H and Stephanie Darling or Shawn Michaels darling can’t take care of your baby while you are valeting then you will take your baby with you which caused the infamous breastfeeding accident

But other than that one accident, you and the baby when Taker is not wrestling are always near him

When he is cutting promos you can bet that you will be standing (or sitting on his lap) near him so he can keep an eye on you

Taker loves it when you wear red or black lipstick since it matches his bandana also lipstick marks

During this time you will wear a biker jacket over a long white dress and occasionally a baby carrier

Also, you know that Sara tattoo Taker had, well instead of that imagine a halo with flowers wrapped around it in its place

When Taker was wearing a braid, you were the one who was braiding it.

When you were pregnant, the bump look huge on you

He is super possessive of you in this state because there is a lot of young talent coming in and flirting with you since your such a attractive milf

You get gifted a lot of chains like necklaces and earrings made of chains

Since Taker is judge, jury, and executioner of wrestlers court, you are the same for Darling court which is like wrestlers court except for the darlings

When you guys are home, you will be sitting at his feet with the dogs surrounding you and him holding a beer. Depending on if you take your punishment well, you get a small mat to sit on

Nsfw warning

This man is the ultimate dom

You have to call him daddy, sir, or master

YOU WILL GET SPANKED IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW HIS ORDERS

This man has the biggest breeding kink like once you are cleared to have another baby, he will be putting another baby in you

This man also has a size kink mainly because he is so tall and you are so short

If you try to escape with your baby, then expect the worst spanking and fucking of your life

HE WILL COLLAR YOU

Y’all will live in a constant dom/sub dynamics

ROUGH SEX EVERYTIME!

It will be hard to walk around after very VERY rough sex

This man has the biggest housewife kink!

#yandere wwe #the undertaker x reader #yandere the undertaker #american badass

[sawyerconfort]

Hi~

I really love that you are willing to write for Queenie. There isn't much Queenie x reader out there so can I request 33 and 6 for Queenie please?

Yeah, I'm back, sorry!

Busy day caught me by surprise!

There we go, anon!

Anyway, just came here to say Queenie is a queen (ha!) and deserved more appreciation, and better friends...

Keep sending asks! Keep sending prompts!

The list is pinned here!

Enjoy!

-------------------------------

33. "kiss me" 6. "was that your first kiss?"

Nights alone were a dreadful thing for you at Miss Robichaux's Academy, and even more so as one of the new witches, the fear was constant. You still didn't know how to deal with the intensity of your powers and, consequently, you couldn't deal with your own loneliness.

At least, on that particular night, you had Queenie. She was going through the same thing as you, feeling alone and unsupported by people who didn't appreciate her enough. There was still that awful doubt, that pressure that Fiona Goode put on you, about being the possible new Supreme.

While the other girls were preoccupied with competing, you tried to convince Queenie to forget about that idea and join in so she wouldn't feel so lonely anymore. So from that day forward, she always went to her room, or vice versa.

"What do you want to do today, (Y\N)?" she asked. "Want to play something? Summon spirits? Train for the Seven Wonders?"

You always shrugged and you always ended up having a nice conversation, eating snacks and sweets - pure greasy nonsense - while laughing about your unpleasant lives.

But that day, things seemed to change between you. You, in particular, were feeling weird about Queenie, and of course, there was the fact that she was completely changing her personality and abandoning her coven of witches.

Knowing this, you went after her, to resolve her and others' issues.

"What are you doing here, (Y\N)?" she asked, when you appeared out of nowhere after following her into Marie Laveau's salon. "If Marie sees you here, she'll kill you, you know?"

"We need to talk," you said, your voice more serious.

"About what?"

"About that" you pointed to Marie's house. "What are you doing here, in the enemy's house?"

"None of your business," Queenie replied.

"What's up, Queenie?" you snapped. "I've always treated you so well, why are you acting weird with me all of a sudden, too? Okay, girls sometimes ignore you, and Madison is a horrible person, but me? What have I done to you?"

She didn't answer, but you had suspicions about what it would be. Of course, you could take into account that you were also hoping it was that, and you needed a non-strange way to resolve it. Wanting to risk it, you just said, in a loud voice:

"Kiss me."

Queenie looked at you and frowned. "What?"

"I don't want to force anything, you can slap me in the face later, but I need you to kiss me, or I won't be able to solve my problems either."

She didn't wait for you to say anything, she just grabbed you by the shoulders and kissed you, intensely but in a tender way. It doesn't take long, though, for you to pull away. Queenie looked at you and smiled.

"Was that your first kiss?" she asked, frowning.

"No!" you replied, with your mouth open. "Uh…maybe?"

"You're funny, (Y\N)" she chuckled. "But what's up, solved it? Were you able to find a solution to your problems?"

You looked at her and, still half incredulous, said to her:

"I don't know, I guess we'll just have to try again, what do you say?"

#lgbt #romance #imagine #oneshot #fluff #ahs x reader #american horror story #queenie x reader #gabourey sidibe x reader #queenie #gabourey sidibe #queenie deserved better #queenie is my hero she's badass #please send new requests #my masterlist is a mess hahaha

[shaeuigi]

i’ll gladly be his manager . LITERALLY🫣.

#wwe #wwf #wrestling #imagines #x reader insert #the undertaker #big evil #american badass #wwe gifs

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

06 — PULL A TRIGGER, CLIMB A MOUNTAIN

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, “See you when you’re useful again, baby.”

*

Three hours earlier.

*

“Change.”

Looking up, you give the hulking man the most annoyed expression you can muster, cocking your hip and folding your arms over your chest. He, in response, only raises a brow and folds his own arms, a clear mocking of your own stance.

Everyone else is already in the other room, checking over weaponry and making plans. They’re loud enough to be heard here, jovial laughter and quickly-spoken Spanish filtering in. A song plays, too, a nice kind of melody that you find yourself enjoying.

“I usually need a shot or two first,” you snark, making no move to take the folded clothes from the balaclava-clad man. “You buying?”

As he shoves the uniform into your chest, you shoot Ghost a nasty glare.

“We have stuff we need to do without you,” he quips, pushing against your shoulder hard enough to have you taking a step back. “That uniform’s too recognisable.”

“What, the American flag’s too much for you?” You lean in once more, shoving your own hand against his chest. He doesn’t budge. “I deserve to be involved, when I’m giving you intel. This whole exclusion bullshit reminds me of kindergarten.”

“Then change, and stop acting like you belong in one,” Ghost snaps, and with one final look your way, storms out of the main room, slamming the wooden sliding doors shut behind him as he does.

You’re alone, now. 

The room is vast, and at the small table still sits the laptop.

You’d… just. Done that. Threatened the very man who had taught you everything you know, the very man who had practically adopted you after your mother’s death. The very man of whom you’d just sentenced to death by your own hand. Your own lit match.

“Fuck,” you hiss, burying your face in your free hand.

This was the first time you’d had true solitude since. Well. It might’ve only been a day, but everything that’s happened has made it feel like years. Your throat itches from the knife wound, and you can feel your ribs’ bruising when you inhale.

“Fuck,” you curse once more, looking to the sliding doors.

After the call with Shepherd, the four men had been… well, they’d all had a very individualised response.

Soap had brought you in with an arm around your neck, ranting about how ‘badass’ you had been. Gaz had joined in, ruffling up your hair, placing a hand on your shoulder and asking if you were okay.

You’d said yes.

It had been a lie.

Ghost, without a word, had left to check over his magazines. Price had given you a firm nod and a pat on your back before, he too, left to the other room to sort things out.

“Lucky yer on our side, hen,” Soap had joked goodnaturedly. Gaz had rolled his eyes, saying, “You’re just happy your little Sweetheart can take you in a fight.”

Soap had immediately tackled him to the ground, and that was that.

Now, you stood, lone in the vast space of the room. It was still very early morning, the quiet sound of birds outside mixing with the rambunctiousness of the Los Vaqueros on the other side of the doors. Soft light filters in through the boarded up windows, casting over you in an odd haze.

Dropping the uniform onto the table, your brows furrow when you notice not only the 141’s standard uniform, but also a balaclava not unlike Ghost’s own.

The fabric is oddly soft as you run your hand over it, the paint cracking slightly against the nylon. Putting it aside for now, you then look over the uniform. A black long-sleeve compression shirt, baggy beige cargo pants. They’re definitely a bit too big for you, but admittedly, Ghost was right. It’d be too easy to spot you on the field if you were in Graves’ uniform.

Looking around the room, as if to cement the fact that you were alone, you quickly change, swapping out your bloody uniform for the new one.

It’s when you’re about to pull on the shirt that you look down, seeing the bruises lining your stomach. From the fight with Soap, or from one of your confrontations with the Shadows, you aren’t sure. Pressing softly against one, you can’t help a small grunt at the burst of pain.

You pull the compression shirt over your head, the fabric tight against your skin. How he’d had your size for the shirt and not the pants, you weren’t sure, but you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Pulling over the new vest, you transfer all of your old items into it, finding this design much nicer. Not as constricting against your breasts, designed more unisex than Graves’ had been.

Grabbing the balaclava, your feet carry you to the sliding doors, and you open them with little struggle. 

You nearly stumble when you find all of the men within pulling on their own masks, stopping in your tracks at the sight. Ghost and Price’s backs are to you, and when you see Ghost pulling on one of the same masks, everything clicks.

He hadn’t wanted you to see his face – had used getting changed as a distraction.

And yet, here were the Los Vaqueros, some of which had never even spoken to Ghost, having the privilege. It shouldn’t make you angry, you shouldn’t care, but you can’t help the onslaught of rejection that floods your system.

When you step forward, into their line of sight, you straighten your spine and take out your gun from its holster, reloading it in precise movements, not looking down at it once. When the magazine clicks into place, you narrow your gaze on Ghost.

“Are we getting this done or having a fashion show?”

*

“That’s cold,” you murmur, eyes squeezed shut as war-torn fingers swipe grease paint around your eyes, careful in their placement. You sway when the vehicle drives over a pothole, but the fingers continue their ministrations without pause.

Price chuckles softly, wiping his thumb underneath your eye. “Used to do this for Ghost every other day,” he says under his breath, collecting more paint from the pot and continuing to spread it across the upper half of your face.

You’re in the back of a van with both Price and Gaz, Alejandro behind the wheel as you head back to his colonised base.

“You look like one of us now,” Gaz chimes, to your right. Watching you both carefully, his own paint already done, he leans back into his seat. “Uniform, mask… we’ve corrupted you, love.”

You roll your eyes beneath your eyelids. “Good luck with that.”

“Don’t test me,” he laughs, at the same time that Price pulls away once more, looking you over, before deciding that more paint will be needed.

“Feel like a kid at a fair,” you muse, earning a soft chuckle from Price. “Do I get glitter too?”

“Maybe if you’re a good girl,” Price jokes softly, and you let out a laugh of your own. Internally, you register your cheeks heating at the comment, a part of you yearning for such praise from the man. If it didn’t mess up your paint or cause the two to give you weird looks, you’d slap yourself.

“Can’t believe you’re Graves’ Colonel,” Gaz admonishes, and you barely restrain a huff of annoyance. He corrects himself. “Were. Man, he did not deserve you in his ranks. You probably would’ve done better as Commander than he ever could.”

You let your lips curve into a somewhat appreciative smile, eyes still shut as Price continues his studious work. “Believe it or not, we all loved him. Behind the scenes, he treated us pretty well. The guys, anyway.”

You can’t see it, but Gaz and Price share a knowing look, both of them raising their brows. Your eyes remain shut throughout their small, silent exchange.

“How so?” Price asks, gruff, and the tone encourages you to tell the truth.

“Well,” you swallow, unsure of how to approach the issue. You never have, never felt a reason to. “Just. Small things. Jokes, and stuff. I’m the only woman in the Company, actually–”

“What?” Gaz blurts out, not seeming able to stop himself. “You’re serious?”

You let out a somewhat self-deprecating chuckle. “...Yeah? That’s pretty normal in military jobs, y’know. Didn’t think it was that weird. At least I’m a Colonel.”

“You don’t think that’s… weird?” Price asks, and it’s only then that you realise he’s stopped painting your face. You blink open your eyes. “The only woman in his Company, and she’s his Colonel?”

Chewing on your inner cheek, you shake your head. “I was one of the very first to be hired by him. We… He was my partner. In nearly every sense of the word,” you admit, a small truth. “I mean. I don’t think that I loved him. Just. Never really had anyone else.”

“How old were you when you joined Shadow Co?” Gaz asks, slowly, carefully.

You mull it over, before supplying an easy answer. “Eighteen, or so. He was twenty-seven when he started, and –”

“That’s so fucked,” Gaz curses, burying his face in his hands. “Seriously. He’s a fucking asshole.”

You’re desperate for a change of topic, anything else but this. Not now, not when your wounds are too fresh, not when you’re about to come face to face with him again. With a deep breath, you divert the situation.

“Am I done?” You ask, looking to the window and trying to catch your reflection to no avail.

“...Yeah,” Price breathes, “You’re done.”

Easing back into your spot, you find your leg bouncing once more, the adrenaline of the upcoming mission keeping you antsy and energetic. You haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, but you somehow find yourself more awake now than you had been hours ago.

Resting his hand on your knee, Gaz gives you a reassuring smile. “You ready?”

Letting out a low, unsure exhale, you find yourself nodding. “Yeah. I think so. I know what I’m going to say to him. I’m. He’ll come around.”

Gripping your mask in your hand, you move to pull it over your head, the fabric snugly fitting around your skin. It’s an odd sort of comfort, a way of protecting yourself from the emotional wreck that this mission will create. For the first time, you think that you can understand the attachment Ghost has to it.

“If we kill ‘im,” Price starts, but when you instantly flick your gaze to him, starts to backtrack, “If. If it comes down to it. You can’t hold it against us.”

You just check over your ammo, your cartridges, before simply replying.

“I’ll kill him myself.”

“We won’t make you do that,” Gaz says, adamant and firm as he leans in closer to you. “You don’t have to kill ‘im. I know most of us are wanting to do the honours, anyway.”

“I know Soap and Alejandro are just about begging to,” you acquiesce, but you find yourself focusing on the gun in your hands to reset your mindscape anyways. “But. It’s different. If he’s really done all of this… I want closure.”

“You’ll get your closure. Bloodshed or not,” Price pats your back, and you give him a small tilt of your lips, before realising that your mask covers the movement.

“You still good to split with Price and meet with the other team from the helo, hermana?” Alejandro calls from the front, turning slightly to look to you. You give him a thumbs up, and even with his mask on, you can tell he’s wearing a toothy smile.

“Your gun all good?” Gaz asks, jerking his head to the weapon. “Ammo in your pockets, cartridge full?”

Pulling your free hand into a gun gesture, you smile. 

“Pew.”

*

It’s with the weight of the world on your shoulders that you watch Price’s helicopter get shot.

“We’re hit! We’re hit!” Price calls through your shared radio channel, his voice frantic enough to have you skidding to a stop. Distantly, you think you can hear Ghost say something, but it’s quickly shadowed by Price’s, “Going down. We’re going down!”

You’re about a hundred feet away from where Rodolfo and Soap stand, the two also seeming to pause behind a warehouse of some sort.

When you see Soap move to push Rodolfo up the wall, you run as fast as your legs will take you to their position, calling out to them, “I’m coming with!”

“Thought you weren’t making it, cariño!” Rodolfo calls out as you fall alongside them, your heartbeat raging in your ears. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easy,” you jest, then pause when you see Ghost to your side. Jerking your head to the wall, you ask, “Need a personal invitation?”

“Price and the pilot need help. You three finish this,” he shakes his head, before turning and leaving for the crash site. Shrugging, you spin back to where Rodolfo’s extending his hand to help you up, which you accept, reaching the top of the wall and swinging your right thigh over it, straddling the brick.

Extending your arm down, you pull Rodolfo up, Soap taking his other hand in a firm grip. When Rodolfo swings around to sit between you both, he curses under his breath. 

“Look!” Soap hisses, and when you do as he says, your own stomach falls down to the dirt floor beneath you.

“That’s not ours,” Rodolfo murmurs, and you can barely find your voice.

“A tank,” you say, mindlessly, watching on as a fucking tank pulls into the training area of the compound. “Graves… he has a fucking tank?”

Neither of the two respond, both instead jumping off of the wall, falling into a crouch as they land. They both extend hands to you, more of a supporting gesture than anything, but you don’t take them as you too land on the other side of the brick, entering the training area.

“Ye ready for this?” Soap asks the two of you, a hint of mania creeping onto his blood-flecked face.

“Hell yeah,” Rodolfo breathes, before looking to you with a friendly smile. Ruffling your hair, a familiar gesture, now, he squeezes the nape of your neck. “If you come out of this alive, hermana, we could use you in the Los Vaqueros.”

You bark a laugh, stunned, almost, before shaking your head. “You should talk to your boss about recruiting people, first.”

Rodolfo shrugs. “Ale likes to make me happy.”

“Interviews can happen later, aye?” Soap chuckles, and the three of you look to the tank once more. “Bigger fish to catch, and allat.”

You go to say something else, when –

“Didn’t realise you boys were into kidnapping women now. That’s a bit sketchy, ain’t it?”

Graves. He’s – he’s got a radio, he’s talking, he’s here, he’s. He’s fucking with you, trying to play mind games, trying to break you all over –

“Can’t wait to bake this bastard,” Soap grunts, and you find your footing once more. Sure, you were ready for battle, but your entire reason for being here was to talk to him. Get him to realise his mistakes, come forward, go back to the man you knew.

Rodolfo and Soap are running somewhere, doing their part, and you –

“Is what they said true?” It’s the most important question you have right now. The answer you yearn for.

A moment passes.

“Where did you go, gorgeous? When’d they get ya? Did they blackmail you in Las Almas?” He diverts, and you tighten your grip on your gun, swallowing your litany of curses.

“Answer my questions, Commander. Is. What they said. True.”

“It doesn’t matter, baby. Remember where your loyalties lie,” Graves takes on a sweeter tone, a more… condescending one, you think. 

“Please,” you find yourself whispering, begging for him to just. Break this nightmare, rebel against it, be Phillip. “Please tell me this isn’t really you.”

“Oveja pequeña,” he coos, and you swear your spine erupts in hives, “I’m still your Phillip. You’re the one who’s changed – look at you, running off with the 141. I’m disappointed.”

You erupt, then, like a dormant volcano, finally gathering the final push to let lava reign free.

“I’m going to fucking kill you! You just killed fathers, tore apart families! I fucking hate you!” You yell into the radios, no tears falling, merely anger and vengeance clouding your vision.

“Don’t forget that you are under my orders. Whether you’re in my bed or not, you’re my Colonel,” he seethes back, and like a shot while you’re already down, you realise that this is a hopeless cause. You weren’t going to save Shepherd. You weren’t going to save Graves.

All you had left to save was yourself.

They’d lied to you, an indefinite amount of times, for how long, you weren’t sure. Your whole relationship – was that a lie, too? Was your entire life?

“I’m your second in command,” you finally admit out loud, hiding behind a crumbling wall as the tank shoots just a few feet away from you. “So when you get taken down, guess who comes out on top?”

“Listen to yourself!” He shouts, his voice cracking in his sudden anger, “Listen–”

“No, you listen!” You find yourself crying out, taking a few shots at the tank, allowing Soap and Rudy to do their part. “Listen to me, Phillip. You’re going to regret this – all of this. When were you going to tell me you were under Shepherd’s orders, huh? How long have you been fucking me over!”

“Whenever you first came around my cock is my guess, baby,” he responds, icy and cold.

His words only seem to further encourage you to breaking point, adding more and more fury to rush down your veins like its very own hit of morphine.

“Guess what, Commander?”

“Don’t bull–”

“That first time, and every time since?”

He doesn’t bother to interrupt you.

“I faked it.”

With that, you switch Channels to one shared with all of you.

You had heard everything you needed to, and along with it, realised something of vital importance. A small inconsistency that changed everything.

“Ghost team,” you say, neutral and unforgiving, “Graves isn’t in the tank.”

“What’re ye talking about?!” Soap calls through, exuding exhaustion, the sound of explosions crackling through behind his vocals. “He has to be–”

“He’s not,” you say, firm, absolute in your decision. “I don’t know where he is – but he’s not in there. Not his style, anyway – prefers to be in the spotlight.”

“What do we do then, hermana?” Rodolfo asks, sounds strained just as Soap had.

Your answer is easy. “You guys focus on the tank – I’m taking Graves down.”

With that, you run for the wall once more, and with nothing but your intuition, you know exactly where you’ll find your ex-Commander.

*

As per usual when it comes to your gut-feelings, you’re correct. 

It’s within the hanger on the compound that you find him getting into a helicopter – a wound on his forehead and tactical glasses on. Somehow, he’s already found himself injured – a small, selfish part of you satisfied with that information.

“Commander!” You yell as you break through the small window of the hangar, using the butt of your gun to do it. It’s as the door to the heli shuts that he notices you – and you switch back on to his radio.

“This is your last chance,” he grits out, his voice thin and furious. “Before this becomes more than a… domestic fight.”

You wince as the blades start turning, taking shelter behind one of the cargo boxes, wary of any bullets being shot your way. “The only domestic thing about us was your inclination for treating me like your little wife.”

“Always did think you’d look pretty barefoot and pregnant,” he muses, and oh, have you never wanted to kill a man more in your life.

“Aww,” you mock, as the blades’ whirring gets louder and shots echo around you finally, “See, I think you’d look pretty bleeding out at my feet.”

“You did look rather good at mine,” he retorts, and your emotions get the better of you as you peek, shooting three Shadows behind the heli with easy headshots. You’re barely there for two seconds before a burning pain echoes through the side of your shoulder, and you duck down once more.

“Couldn’t even get off,” you pant, relentless to the very end even as your breaths turn into heavy falls of your shoulders, “Was like fucking a Ken doll.”

“You’ve always been a petty bitch,” he snaps, and you smirk.

“I am a bitch, you’re right. And you know what bitches do when someone taunts them? They bite.”

You raise your gun, and for a scary, short second, you realise that blood is flowing in a stream that’s causing the sleeve of your black shirt to grow sticky and damp. Now isn’t the time to care, however, as you take aim at one of the windows of the heli.

Pulling the trigger, the bullet bursts through the window, glass shattering and falling to the ground. It’s as soon as it does, however, that it takes flight, boosting in its acceleration immediately.

Fully peeking, this time, you watch as the helicopter quickly takes off, and even if you had the capacity to shoot at it, it wouldn’t hit the intended target, not with your trembling hands.

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, “See you when you’re useful again, baby.”

You get one final sentence in, before the radio cuts off. Even though you can’t see him from this distance, you’re sure you’re making eye contact as you deal your final blow.

“My callsign isn’t baby. It’s Sweetheart.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee

author's note. to everyone asking about the covid, its prettyyy bad haha. i can hardly leave my bed and need 3 blankets in the peak of summer!

at least that means i have downtime to write before my life gets VERY hectic. thank you all for your support again, the feedback and praise for the last chapter made me feel 10x better and i genuinely appreciate you all SO much. thank you thank you thank you!

#🤍 : forever winter #⌨️ : love's writing #cod mw2 #ghost cod #cod x reader #ghost mw2 #john soap mactavish #mw2 #simon ghost riley #soap cod #tf141 #tf141 x reader #john price #kyle gaz garrick #captain price #price x reader #gaz x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #gaz garrick #cod #kyle garrick #gaz mw2 #gaz cod #soap x ghost #soapghost #call of duty x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #cod smut

[mistydeyes]

annual halloween costume contest

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: Although Halloween is more of an American tradition, you are more than excited to dress up with your boyfriend for the spooky day!

pairing: Task Force 141 x reader

warnings: none

a/n: HAPPY HALLOWEEN! literally just recovering from a four day bender of wigs, costumes, and spooky themed drinks so enjoy this lil image + hc

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John Price

Historic couples, sentiments of romance, and classic badasses! John would chuckle a bit at the idea but after you showed a few ideas you had been collecting, he could be convinced. His participation in the little game of dress up would most definitely result in plenty of pictures of you two on his phone (and god help if any of the others find them).

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish

It is either the cheesiest couple's costume that makes others gag (think cupid or gods + goddesses) or a walking shit post. You two would laugh when making your costumes or while doing some online shopping. Every so often, you would smack him slightly over his loud comments and the ensuing hilarity. The team would be slightly curious at your schemes but you would promise them a surprise. When the day finally came, the room would simply roll their eyes when they see you appear with him as a moth and you as the light source.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Classic, pop culture costumes of great couples! Kyle would smile widely at the offer and immediately begin brainstorming with you. Don't be surprised if he's been thinking about this since he was young, this man grew up with superheroes ranging from Star Wars (the prequels) to Marvel. You take the absolute best photos together and even see some of your photos across Pinterest ;)

Simon "Ghost" Riley

No. Simon doesn't do costumes. You would show him a picture of some simple makeup you saw and he would just respond with a quiet yet honest, "no."

#task force 141 x reader #task force 141 #cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #modern warfare 2 #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #soap x reader #price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john price x reader #Johnny mactavish x reader #mw2 imagine #madebyizzie #izzie is writing

[thewulf]

Breaking Point || Simon "Ghost" Riley

Summary: Request -I've got this itch for some hurt/comfort with Simon Ghost Riley and the reader from TF 141. Reader's this badass sniper, always on top of her game. But one day she wakes up feeling under the weather. She decides to push through training, but things take a turn when she starts feeling faint during drills after Price gives her shit for not training hard... Read Rest Here

A/N: Ahhh this was challenging but so much fun to right. Please let me know your thoughts below :) Got a little carried away with this one!

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader, TF 141 x Platonic Female Reader

Word Count: 7.7k +

TW: Heat Stroke, Flu, Illness, general COD warnings.

Four years ago, you were a part of a special training assignment with the American Navy, deployed in a remote and sweltering military base off the coast of Africa. It was here in the middle of the grueling drills and relentless heat that you caught the eye of Captain John Price. Your prowess with a rifle was unmistakable. Every target set before you fell without fail. But what truly set you apart was your demeanor: you kept your head down, focused intensely on the task at hand, never boasting about your undeniable skills.

Captain Price who was always on the lookout for exceptional talent to add to Task Force 141, saw in you a rare combination of humility and sharpshooting expertise. Recognizing your potential he pulled some strings, navigated through the complexities of the American Military bureaucracy, and somehow successfully recruited you into the prestigious ranks of TF 141. This marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. One that would challenge your resilience and skill more than any previous assignment.

Joining TF 141 wasn't just a promotion. It was being welcomed into a family of elite soldiers. While Soap and Gaz took an immediate liking to you, appreciating your wit and marksmanship, Ghost was initially more reserved. His trust was not easily won. It had to be earned on the battlefield not just through training exercises back at base.

Your defining moment came during a perilous mission in the frozen expanses of Russia within your first year with the 141. The mission had quickly gone sideways. Ghost found himself in the deadly crosshairs of an enemy sniper. With the situation deteriorating rapidly and no clear shot available to him your actions in those critical seconds would forever change the dynamics of your relationship with Ghost. From a concealed position you took out the opposing sniper with a single, precise shot, saving Ghost’s life.

This act erased any last reservations Ghost might have held. From then on he saw you not just as another sharpshooter but as an indispensable member of the team, his team. Your ability to make life-saving decisions under intense pressure proved your strength. Not just in terms of physical prowess but in intellectual and tactical acumen as well.

Since then you have become an integral part of TF 141's operations. Your journey from a promising recruit noticed by Captain Price to a pivotal player in some of the team’s most critical missions has been defined by relentless dedication and the deep trust you've earned from some of the military's toughest warriors.

The shrill beep of the alarm slices through the stillness of your room dragging you from the shallow waters of restless sleep into the harsh reality of dawn. For a moment as you blink against the dim light filtering through the barracks' curtains, the room spins slightly—a disorienting dance that forces you to close your eyes again.

You’ve always been the type who never gets sick. The one who breezes through the cold season unscathed while others succumb around you. Your robust health has been a point of pride, a badge of reliability in TF 141. But this morning something is different, and you know it immediately.

Your body aches profoundly, each muscle groaning with a weariness that feels bone-deep, and your head pounds with the relentless rhythm of a dull, throbbing drum. Swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper down your throat. An unfortunate wave of nausea rolls through you as you sit up. It has to be the flu, you think grimly, recognizing the unmistakable and unforgiving symptoms.

Despite the clear signs of illness, the thought of calling in sick doesn’t even cross your mind. It’s not just about pride. There’s also a deep-seated belief that you can handle anything, a belief that has carried you through countless challenges.

With a heavy, determined sigh, you push yourself off the bed. Standing unsteadily for a moment, you use the wall to keep yourself upright. Today is not the day to show weakness, not the day to break your perfect record of health. You decide to power through. To dress and join your team for the morning drills under the rising sun. The thought of letting them down by your absence is more daunting than the physical discomfort threatening to overwhelm you.As you gear up, each movement measured and more deliberate than usual, you steel yourself for the day ahead. Today, you'll prove—not just to your team, but to yourself—that not even the flu can keep you from standing alongside your comrades.

Stepping out into the cool, pre-dawn air, you allow yourself a moment to feel the chill against your fevered skin. It’s oddly refreshing, a natural contrast to the unnatural heat of your illness. It’s bound to be short lived though as the sun’s rays already feel warm on your skin. The training field is a short walk away and with each step you rehearse the day’s routine in your mind. A mantra against the physical discomfort.

As the briefing wraps up and the team begins to disperse to their respective training stations you feel the weight of Ghost’s gaze right on you. Despite the heaviness of your limbs and the fog in your brain, this unspoken solidarity from your teammates, especially Ghost, gives you a sliver of strength.

With each step towards the day’s first drill your resolve hardens. You're not just fighting the flu; you're fighting to maintain the trust and respect you’ve earned. Today, the battlefield is here, within yourself, and you're determined to prove your mettle. You are keenly aware of being one of the few women in the unit and the additional scrutiny that comes with it. It's crucial that you show no weakness even as your body wages its quiet rebellion. Your head pounds with a relentless ache. Your limbs are heavy. And every breath feels like an effort. Despite these symptoms screaming flu, you've chosen silence—no complaints, no excuses.

When you arrive at the training field the usual bustle of activity sharply contrasts with your internal struggle. Everyone is focused on what needs to be done, their attention solely on performance. As Captain Price begins the morning briefing his voice sounds like a distant echo in your ears drowned out by the pounding in your head. The day's challenges loom large, testing your limits before you've even started.

As you make your way to the lineup, the crisp morning air begins to turn warm, almost uncomfortable warm already. Soap falls into step beside you, his familiar grin lighting up his face as he launches into the light-hearted banter that typically marks your mornings together.

“Morning! Ready to outshoot us all again today?” Soap teases before giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow, expecting your usual lively retort.

You manage only a weak smile, one that doesn't quite reach your eyes, and nod faintly. The flu has buried your usual quick wit under a heavy weight of fatigue and discomfort. It takes all your effort just to keep standing without revealing how much you're struggling.

Soap’s smile quickly falters at your lack of reply, his eyes narrowing in concern. “You okay, lass?” he asks. His tone shifting to something more serious.

You nod again, swallowing hard against the surge of nausea. “Yeah, just tired,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. You're careful not to reveal the full extent of your ailment, not here, not in front of your team.

From a short distance away Ghost's intense gaze follows the exchange. Though his presence is more subdued, and his demeanor reserved, his attention to detail remains sharp. You can feel his concern even without words. His posture is alert, his body tensed as if ready to act at a moment's notice.

Ghost offers no overt gestures of worry; he doesn't need to. The slight tightening of his stance is a silent signal of his readiness to intervene. His eyes, just visible through the slits of his mask, never wander, tracking your every move with a vigilance that speaks volumes. You know he's always watching out for his team, and today, his protective focus is unmistakably fixed on you.

"Alright, let's warm up! Start with sprints!" Captain Price commands. His voice cuts through the morning air, decisive and clear. You line up with your teammates, the grass cool and slightly damp under your boots. The whistle pierces the calm, and you propel yourself forward. Each step is a battle, your muscles protesting every movement. Yet you push through the fatigue and dizziness.

After sprints the drills shift to push-ups. Down on the warm, wet grass you feel the earth against your palms, stabilizing yet unforgiving. You count each repetition, your muscles burning and a thin layer of sweat forming, which only seems to heighten the chills that intermittently rack your body.

Sit-ups come next and with each crunch a wave of nausea threatens your composure. The world tilts slightly with each lift, blurring at the edges. Captain Price’s footsteps approach. His presence looming. "Let’s see that strength, Y/N! Don’t slack now!" he urges. The encouragement is meant to inspire but it feels like a heavy mantle on your already burdened shoulders.

“Yes sir.” You manage to get out between crunches.

As you struggle through each exercise you can't ignore the hot flashes followed by chills, the hallmark of flu symptoms. Each movement is more taxing than the last and the temptation to give in and rest grows stronger. However, your determination doesn't waver. You are here to prove yourself, to demonstrate that neither flu nor fatigue can break your resolve. You need to showcase the unwavering strength of not just a skilled sniper, but a resilient soldier.

As the whistle blows, Captain Price directs everyone to break into their respective teams for more specialized, team-based drills. You find yourself grouped with Ghost, Gaz, and Soap. Your usual teammates and three of the unit's most competent operatives. Your heart sinks a bit. Their proficiency and teamwork are unmatched and under normal circumstances you would feel invigorated by the challenge. Today, however, it feels like an uphill battle.

"Alright, team," Gaz announces with a nod, "we’re up for the relay sprints and tactical positioning exercises. We need to be sharp and synchronized. Let's show these assholes how it's done."

You nod silently, attempting to muster a semblance of enthusiasm. Soap claps you on the shoulder giving you a reassuring smile, likely mistaking your subdued quietness for focused determination rather than the fatigue that’s slowly overtaking you.

The drills begin with relay sprints. You watch as Soap takes off with his usual speed. His figure swiftly cutting through the warming afternoon air. Gaz follows, moving with practiced ease. Then it’s your turn. As you push off your legs feel as though they are wading through molasses, your usually sharp agility significantly dulled by the flu’s tenacious grip. Each step feels heavier than the last as your breathing becomes ragged and unsteady.

Compounding your discomfort, the gear you're clad in feels unbearably hot against your skin. The layers that are usually a second nature in your fieldwork now seem like a furnace, trapping in every ounce of body heat. Your temperature rises not just from the fever, but also from the exhaustive exertion and the insulated heat from your tactical vest. Sweat beads on your forehead, not entirely from the physical activity but also from the early signs of heat exhaustion—your body’s desperate attempt to cool down under the layers.

Despite feeling increasingly overheated and nearly overwhelmed, you hide your discomfort well. Your face remains stoic, betraying none of the battle raging within your body against the heat and illness. To an outsider you might just appear intensely focused. But beneath the surface you're fighting a much tougher battle, trying to keep pace while your body screams for relief.

Ghost, from his vantage point, watches closely. His sharp eyes catch the subtle signs that others might miss—the slight falter in your step, the way you're breathing a little too hard after your sprint. His gaze intensifies with concern etched across his face as he monitors your every move, aware that something isn’t right but waiting for you to signal if you need assistance.

When you pass the baton to Ghost your hand trembles slightly. He catches it and for a brief moment your eyes meet. There's a flash of concern across his usually impassive face, a subtle shift that speaks volumes. He nods at you before taking off, his movements fluid and precise, yet his mind clearly not fully on the drill. His glance back at you is quick, discreet, checking to ensure you’re still on your feet.

As the exercises continue with the tactical positioning drills, the demands increase. This part of the training requires quick movements and even quicker thinking as each team member needs to cover different angles and work together seamlessly. You position yourself to cover Ghost’s flank, aiming to maintain your usual high standards. However, the world begins to tilt alarmingly. Your vision swims and the ground beneath you feels as if it’s shifting forcing you to steady yourself against a nearby tree.

Ghost, now at a slight distance, turns sharply in response to your stagger. His eyes narrow, not with disapproval, but with intensified concern. He makes a subtle move to close the distance between you, his instincts as a protector kicking in. Yet, he stops himself, respecting your pride and your ability to signal if you need help. He positions himself strategically, so he’s close enough to intervene quickly if needed. His body tensed and ready to act.

“Y/N, you alright?” Gaz’s voice suddenly cuts through your fog of discomfort, and you realize you’ve attracted more attention than you intended.

You straighten up quickly, nodding more sharply than necessary. “Just lost my footing for a second,” you lie. Managing a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Ghost, who has now subtly shifted his position to provide you with both physical and moral support, keeps his gaze fixed on you for a moment longer. He doesn’t call you out on your obvious discomfort. Instead, he gives you a nod, an unspoken communication between you two. It’s his way of saying he’s there, just in case, without putting you on the spot in front of the others.

His presence helps you gather your strength to continue. Despite the unease churning inside you knowing that Ghost is watching over you with such attentiveness gives you a small, but significant boost of confidence. You focus on the drills, pushing through the nausea and instability, bolstered by the knowledge that help is just a few steps away if you truly need it.

You begin to feel the oppressive heat bearing down on you more intensely than before. Each breath feels like you're inhaling fire. And the tactical gear, usually a familiar weight, now feels like an unbearable burden. Trapping too much heat against your body. More and more sweat beads on your forehead mixing with the slight dizziness that refuses to fade. The discomfort is escalating and despite your best efforts to mask it the heat is becoming unmanageable.

Ghost was still maintaining a discreet distance, watches you with sharp, observant eyes. He senses the subtle changes in your posture and the slight grimace that you can't quite hide each time you move. His concern deepens but he waits for a sign from you, respecting your pride and your position within the team.

As the drills continue you find it increasingly difficult to focus. The world seems to shimmer with heat around the edges and you feel a wave of nausea stronger than before. Recognizing that you might be in more trouble than you initially thought you catch Ghost's gaze across the field. It's a silent plea for understanding, a subtle acknowledgment that you do need his help after all.

Ghost responds immediately, his instincts as your LT kicking into high gear. He crosses the distance between you with a few quick strides. His approach discreet yet filled with purpose. “Everything okay?” he asks quietly. His voice low enough that only you can hear. It’s clear he’s prepared to step in, to offer whatever support you need without drawing unwanted attention to your struggle.

Your attempt to respond is less than reassuring. "Heat… too, it’s not the... can't—why can’t the air?" you mumble. Your words tangling into an unintelligible mess, a clear indicator that you are far from alright.

The expression behind Ghost's mask tightens, his protective instincts flaring as he assesses your condition with even greater alarm. Your face is flushed from more than just the heat. It's clear you're struggling significantly under the weight of your gear and the relentless sun.

At that moment Captain Price's voice cuts sharply through the air, his tone laced with the urgency of the drill. "Let's move it, Ghost, Y/N!" he commands from a distance, seemingly oblivious to the severity of your distress. His focus is on the continuity and discipline of the training. Unaware that one of his own is teetering on the edge of collapse.

Ghost’s response is swift and decisive. Without drawing attention to the situation, he steadies you with one arm, his other hand signaling subtly to Captain Price that something isn’t right. "Give us a moment, sir," he calls back firmly, his tone respectful yet insistent enough to convey the seriousness of the issue without alarming the entire unit.

He turns back to you, his gaze intense. "We need to get you out of the sun," he states quietly, directing you towards a shaded area nearby. His hand remains supportively on your back, guiding but not pushing. His presence a steady force as you stagger slightly under your own weight.

Once under the shade, Ghost helps you remove your tactical vest, easing the burden of the heat trapped against your body. The cooler air hits your skin, offering a momentary relief that you hadn't realized you needed so desperately. But as your body starts to cool an unexpected shiver runs through you, violent and uncontrollable. It feels as though the temperature has plummeted, though the day remains swelteringly hot.

"Ghost," you stutter out between shivers, "it's so cold." Your teeth chatter, a stark contrast to the sweat that still beads on your forehead. The sudden coldness is disorienting, confusing, and you clutch at your arms in an attempt to warm yourself.

"Simon," you manage to say between shivers. His actual name slipping out amidst the confusion—an unusual slip that does not escape his notice. Ghost, or Simon as you now call him, recognizes the gravity of the situation immediately. The usual protocols and formalities fade into the background as he prioritizes your wellbeing above all else.

You blink rapidly trying to focus as your surroundings become a blur. The ground seems to tilt beneath you for a second time and a wave of darkness edges your vision. Simon watches you closely with an arm around your waist in case. His trained eyes catching every sign of your deteriorating condition.

“Hang on,” he urges. His voice steady but the concern is palpable. Before he can offer more reassurance your knees buckle beneath you. Your body finally giving way to the overwhelming symptoms. And suddenly the world goes dark in your eyes.

Simon catches you before you hit the ground his arms securing you firmly yet gently. “Medic!” he shouts. The urgency in his voice cutting through the morning air without a hint of hesitation. Captain Price who had been overseeing the drills from a short distance, turns sharply at the sound. His quick assessment of the situation bringing him running.

Price approaches just as Simon adjusts his hold on you, bringing your body to the ground so you were laying.  “What happened?” Price asks. His voice a mix of command and concern.

“Heat stroke, I think—she’s out,” Simon responds curtly. His gaze fixed on you as he checks your pulse and looks for any sign of recovery. Your brief moments of unconsciousness are fleeting but each second is critical.

As you flutter your eyes open, confusion mingles with the need to communicate. “Simon... it’s all spinning,” you murmur with your voice overly weak. The use of his first name again in such a vulnerable state only cements his resolve to get you the help you need immediately.

As Simon kneels beside you he carefully supports your head, his eyes searching yours for any sign of recognition. “Can you tell me where you are?” he asks again. His voice a mix of firmness and concern trying to assess the level of your disorientation.

You blink slowly but the effort to focus feeling monumental. Your gaze drifts over the familiar yet strangely distant figures of Soap and Gaz before returning to Simon. “We're... in Bosnia?” you murmur hesitantly, the name of a recent mission location slipping out, completely unrelated to your current setting on the training field.

Simon’s expression tightens, a flicker of worry crossing his features as he realizes the depth of your confusion. He exchanges a quick, grave look with Captain Price who has been monitoring the situation closely. The incorrect answer confirms the seriousness of your condition, prompting Price to look around, expecting the medics to be approaching swiftly.

However, as Simon scans the area his frustration mounts. The medics, possibly delayed or misinformed about the severity of the situation, are nowhere in sight. Realizing that waiting even a moment longer could jeopardize your well-being he makes a decisive call.

"Not fast enough," Simon mutters under his breath. His protective instincts overriding protocol. Without waiting for the medics to arrive he gently but firmly scoops you up in his arms. His movements are swift and determined as he begins to rush you towards the infirmary. His concern for your immediate safety taking precedence over everything else.

Captain Price, upon seeing Simon’s sudden movement, understands the gravity of the decision and immediately acts. "Clear the way!” he shouts, commanding the attention of everyone on the field.

As Simon carries you, the world around you becomes a blur of motion and sound, but his steady grip provides a reassuring constant. "Hang on love, we're almost there. Just stay with me," he urges. His voice a soothing presence amid the confusion.

With each step Simon takes your sense of time and space dims, the urgency of his stride and the rhythm of his heartbeat blending into the background noise of the base. As you approach the infirmary you see figures moving quickly to prepare for your arrival.

Simon’s pace doesn’t falter until he reaches the medical staff waiting at the infirmary doors. As he gently hands you over to their care his gaze lingers on yours filled with concern and an unspoken promise of unwavering support, no matter the circumstances.

In the cool, sterile environment of the infirmary, Ghost stands a vigilant watch beside your bed. His gaze locked onto your face as the medical team works rapidly to stabilize your condition. The typical stoic mask he wears has fallen away, replaced by an expression etched with deep concern. Each furrow of his brow and tight set of his jaw reveals more than usual concern. It speaks of a profound fear that he rarely allows others to see.

As the medical staff step back momentarily to fetch additional supplies, Ghost's role shifts subtly but significantly. He transforms from a mere observer into an active caretaker, a role those in TF 141 rarely witness. He picks up a damp cloth and gently wipes your forehead. His touch delicate and caring, betraying the roughness expected from his formidable field presence.

"Hey, love, can you hear me?" he murmurs. His voice soft and laden with a tenderness that surprises even him. The word 'love' slips out naturally. A term of endearment that he hasn't used lightly before. This slip, this small but significant deviation from his usual manner, is a clear sign of his deepening feelings. Feelings he might not have fully acknowledged until this very moment.

You blink slowly, responding to the sound of his voice. Ghost watches for any sign of recognition, any indication that you understand his presence. As you meet his gaze, there's a moment of relief that passes over his features. But it's quickly replaced by renewed worry as he continues to monitor your responses.

He is utterly overwhelmed. A feeling that's foreign to him. He's faced countless dangers without flinching but the sight of you so vulnerable stirs a fear in him that battlefield threats never have. He realizes perhaps more clearly than ever how deeply his feelings for you run. It's not just friendship or brotherly protection. It's something much deeper, more personal.

He stays close, his hand finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The contact is meant to comfort you but it also grounds him, reminding him that you're still here, still fighting. "Stay with me, okay?" he adds quietly, almost pleadingly. This is not just a command from a superior officer; it's a personal plea from someone who cares deeply.

Ghost's presence in the infirmary becomes a constant, a guardian ensuring that no detail is overlooked, no necessary treatment delayed. His commitment to your recovery is unwavering, his actions driven by a mix of professional duty and personal concern that has become inseparable. The realization that his feelings for you have evolved adds a new weight to every decision, every action he takes on your behalf.

A few hours later, the haze of confusion and illness that enveloped your mind begins to clear slightly. As your eyes flutter open, the stark white lights of the infirmary momentarily blind you, and the unfamiliar sounds of medical equipment beep rhythmically in the background. Disoriented, you try to recall the sequence of events that led to this moment.

Sitting beside your bed, Ghost notices the subtle signs of consciousness returning. He leans forward, his presence reassuring amidst the clinical surroundings. "Hey, you're awake," he says gently. His voice a soothing contrast to the beeping machines. "Take it easy. You gave us quite a scare out there."

As fragments of memory return—the unbearable heat of the training field, your faltering steps, the feeling of collapse—your face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and discomfort. The realization that you succumbed in front of your team, particularly because of a flu exacerbating the situation, is hard to accept.

Ghost reads the embarrassment in your expression and quickly addresses it. "Listen, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. You’re dealing with the flu on top of everything else. Heat stroke is serious and it’s a lot for anyone to handle. Especially when you’re already under the weather," he reassures you earnestly.

He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. His touch grounding. "Even the toughest soldiers need to take a step back sometimes. It’s okay to acknowledge that you’re human, that you have limits. It doesn't diminish your strength," he continues in your silence. His voice imbued with empathy and understanding.

Feeling the sincerity in his words helps ease some of your discomfort. "Thanks, Simon," you manage to whisper, your voice still weak but filled with gratitude. The informal use of his first name in such a vulnerable moment speaks volumes about the trust and comfort you’ve grown to have in him.

Simon offers a gentle smile. His eyes softening. "You’re always pushing yourself to be the best and that’s certainly admirable. But sometimes, taking care of yourself is part of being the best. Don’t blame yourself for this. I certainly don’t blame you for trying," he adds, affirming his support in you.

"Sleep now. Don’t worry about the rest for now. We’re all here for you," he suggests while still holding your hand, his steady presence a comforting constant as you drift back towards unconsciousness. His commitment to your well-being is clear not just as a teammate but as someone who cares deeply on a personal level.

As you close your eyes, comforted by his words and presence, you feel a profound sense of relief. Simon's quiet vigil lets you know that no matter what, you’re not alone. Periodically, he checks the IV line and adjusts the cold packs making sure to monitor your recovery closely.. Each time you stir or grimace in discomfort, he’s there, adjusting your position or simply offering a reassuring touch.

As the hours pass Ghost remains by your side, a silent sentinel. Even as you're asleep he doesn’t leave, instead pulling up a chair to sit beside your bed. Occasionally, other members of the team peek in offering quiet words of support. But it's clear Ghost has appointed himself your primary guardian during this vulnerable time.

This unexpected role of caretaker reveals a depth to Ghost that goes beyond his tactical prowess and battlefield grit. In the infirmary, with the soft hum of medical equipment in the background, his softer, caring nature comes to the forefront, showcasing a profound sense of loyalty and protectiveness towards his team. Especially towards you.

As the day's tension slowly ebbs away in the quiet of the infirmary, you sleep deeply, recovering from the ordeal. Ghost sits steadfast by your side. His focus is solely on you. His usually impassive gaze softened by concern. The door creaks open softly as Soap and Gaz walk in. Both their faces splitting into mischievous grins when they see Ghost in his uncharacteristic role as your caretaker.

“Never thought I’d see Ghost play the doting nurse,” Soap chuckles quietly. Trying to keep his voice low to avoid disturbing you. “What’s next? Will you be knitting her a sweater?”

Gaz joins in leaning against the door frame with a smirk playing on his lips, “Maybe a nice scarf to go with it, mate. Make sure it matches her eyes, yeah?” His comment draws a soft laugh from Soap. Their teasing lightening the atmosphere of the infirmary.

Their laughter, though subdued, is a needed release after the day’s stress. It’s filled with genuine affection and respect for both you and Ghost. They understand the stakes of such moments and the bonds they forge.

Ghost, not missing a beat, shoots them a pointed look. His response is tinged with his characteristic dry humor. "Keep it up, and you'll be on the next solo recon mission in the coldest part of Siberia," he replies. His tone firm but with a faint smirk betraying his amusement.

In the background Captain Price stands silently in the doorway. His observant eyes taking in the scene. He watches Ghost’s interactions with a discerning eye, noting the subtle softness in his usually stoic demeanor. Price is no stranger to the complexities of personal dynamics within his team. And he senses the potential implications of Ghost’s deepening concern for you. There’s a hint of understanding in his gaze, mixed with caution, as he ponders the path this could lead down.

As the laughter begins to die down Price steps forward, his presence commanding a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. He gives Soap and Gaz a brief nod, a clear signal that it’s time for them to leave. The moment for jokes has passed and it's time to restore some decorum. As they exit Soap can’t resist throwing one final teasing comment over his shoulder. “Take good care of her, Ghost!” he calls out as his tone is playful yet sincere.

Price remains a moment longer his gaze lingering on Ghost and then shifting to you, asleep and unaware of the exchange. There’s a quiet gravity to his demeanor, an unspoken reminder of his leadership role and his understanding of the deeper currents flowing beneath the surface of his team’s interactions.

Captain Price approaches Ghost, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. He pauses beside him, his voice low and measured to ensure privacy. "Simon," he begins. His tone serious but not without warmth, "you're handling this well and it's clear you care deeply. Just remember, maintaining balance is crucial." His eyes, steady and understanding, meet Ghost's, acknowledging the depth of his concern while gently reminding him of his broader responsibilities.

"Don't lose focus. We rely on you—not just for her, but for the whole team," Price continues, his voice softening slightly to underscore his supportive intent.

Ghost nods, the gravity of Price's words resonating with him. "Understood, sir," he responds, his tone reflecting both respect for Price's leadership and an acute awareness of the weight on his shoulders.

Price places a hand on Ghost's shoulder, a gesture that speaks of his care and mutual respect. "Keep me posted. If there's anything you need don't hesitate to ask," he adds. Emphasizing his role not just as a commander but as a supporter willing to provide resources rather than merely oversee.

"Will do, sir," Ghost says, his voice steady as he watches Price prepare to leave the infirmary. Price gives him one last affirming nod—an acknowledgment of Ghost's commitment and his understanding of the emotional complexities involved. As Price walks away his demeanor reflects as a leader who trusts his team to handle personal challenges with professionalism yet remains ready to step in if the balance shifts too far.

Once alone again Ghost turns back to you, his expression softening as he adjusts the blanket around you and checks the monitors to ensure everything is as it should be. In these quiet moments his demeanor reveals the profound loyalty and protectiveness he feels. Traits that define him just as much as his combat skills.

The room is quiet, the only sounds are the gentle beeping of the medical equipment and your steady breathing. In this sanctuary away from the battlefield's chaos, Ghost’s vigilance continues, a promise of unwavering support.

In the dimly lit infirmary, the soft beeps of the monitor blend with the quiet sounds of the night. Ghost sits closely by your side, his eyes tracing over your peaceful face, contrasting sharply with the day’s earlier tension. The room is calm now, the urgency has passed, but the weight of the day lingers in the air heavy with unspoken words.

Leaning closer Ghost watches you for a long moment. His expression a mix of concern and something softer, more vulnerable. He knows you can’t hear him, but the words slip out quietly anyway. A whisper meant only for you. "You’re killing me here, love," he murmurs. The hint of a smile touching his lips despite the worry in his eyes. It’s a rare admission. One that reveals just how deeply he’s been affected by your condition.

He sighs lightly, the sound almost lost in the quiet of the room. Adjusting the blanket around you one last time to ensure you’re as comfortable as possible, he finally leans back in his chair. His gaze remains fixed on you a moment longer as a guardian watching over you.

Realizing the lateness of the hour and the exhaustion settling into his bones Ghost decides he wasn’t willing to leave you yet. Not when you’d hardly regained consciousness and certainly not when you might need him upon waking. He shifts to make himself as comfortable as possible in the chair beside your bed, his body angled to keep you in sight.

As he settles in, his eyes slowly close but it’s clear he’s not completely given over to sleep. Even in rest, he’s alert, ready to wake at the slightest change in your condition. In this quiet vigil, his presence is both a promise and a protection. A steadfast commitment to be there for you when you finally do wake.

The night deepens around the two of you. The soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a constant in the otherwise still room. Ghost, in his chair, remains by your side. A figure in the dim light embodying both the warrior and the caretaker in this rare moment of peace.

As the first light of dawn begins to filter through the blinds of the infirmary your eyes flutter open greeting the new day with a mix of confusion and sluggish awareness. Initially, your vision is blurry, the shapes and colors of the room melding into indistinct forms. Gradually though your eyes adjust, and the figure slumped in the chair beside your bed comes into sharper focus. Ghost, asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the wall.

The sight of him so uncharacteristically vulnerable in sleep immediately warms your heart. Despite the residual fog clouding your mind a soft smile plays on your lips. "Ghost," you call out, your voice hoarse but audible enough to stir him from his light slumber.

At the sound of your voice Ghost snaps awake, instantly alert. He straightens up before rubbing the stiffness from his neck as he turns to face you. His eyes that displayed a flicker of reprieve meet yours. "Hey, you're awake," he says. His voice rough with sleep but tinged with unmistakable relief. "How are you feeling?"

"A lot better, thanks to you," you reply. Your voice was still weak but filled with gratitude. "You stayed all night?"

Ghost nods, a soft expression crossing his face as he hears your voice. This subtle return to normalcy reassures him. Warming his heart and letting him know you must be feeling a bit better to revert to familiar terms. "Yes, I stayed. Didn’t want you to wake up alone here," he replies. His tone gentle. Ghost’s eyes scan your face for signs of pain or lingering confusion, ever the vigilant guardian.

"Thanks, Ghost. Really," you manage to say feeling comforted not only by his presence but also by the return to a semblance of normalcy. His constant vigilance, even as you slept, speaks volumes of his dedication not just to his duty but to you personally.

Ghost offers a slight smile, one that reaches his eyes this time. "No need to thank me. Just glad to see you're doing better," he says. He pulls a chair closer to your bed, settling in. "Need anything? Water? More pain meds?" he asks. Ready to assist with whatever you might need.

The simple exchange is light yet filled with unspoken care helps to ease the remaining tension from the ordeal. As Ghost continues to make sure you’re comfortable, you feel a profound sense of safety and appreciation for the bond that has only deepened through this experience. The conversation drifts into a comfortable silence filled with unspoken understanding and mutual respect. In this quiet early morning hour, a new layer of your relationship has been gently unfolded. Revealing the depth of connection that hardship and vulnerability can foster.

As the morning sun continues to pour a warm glow into the infirmary the doctor finishes his examination and nods with satisfaction. "You’ve made a remarkable recovery. I think you're ready to be discharged today. Just remember to take it easy for the next few days," he advises as he begins to pack away his equipment.

Ghost's reaction is almost immediate, his brow furrowing with concern. "Are you sure she’s ready?" he questions the doctor. His voice carrying a protective edge that makes you smile inwardly. His overt protectiveness is both touching and reassuring. A stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor.

The doctor, accustomed to dealing with the cautious nature of soldiers about their comrades, reassures him with a confident nod. "Yes, she's stable. Just ensure she rests and avoids any strenuous activity. She should be fine," he explains patiently.

Despite the reassurance Ghost still looks unconvinced. His gaze flicking back to you, searching for any sign of discomfort or lingering weakness. "Maybe another day for observation?" he suggests. His tone half-questioning, half-requesting. It's evident he'd prefer you stay under medical supervision a bit longer.

Your heart warms at his concern and though you find his overprotectiveness endearing, you keep your thoughts to yourself. Instead, offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand instead. "Ghost, I think I’ll be okay," you assure him gently trying to alleviate his worries.

Ghost manages a small smile. His usual impassive facade softening. "Just making sure," he mutters. Though his eyes remain tender with concern. He finally nods accepting the doctor's verdict, but his posture stays alert, protective.

"Alright, I’ll hold you to that. But we’re taking it slow for the next few days. I’ll let Price know." he declares. His tone firm, directed more at himself than anyone else.

As the doctor leaves Ghost assists you in gathering your belongings. His movements careful and considerate. He checks in frequently asking if you're feeling alright to continue, his cautiousness evident but heartening. It’s clear that although you’ve been given the all-clear Ghost will be keeping a close eye on you, ensuring your recovery proceeds without issue.

His unwavering attention not only makes you feel deeply cared for but also subtly deepens the bond between you, underscoring a shift in your relationship where his role as protector has become as instinctive as it is essential.

As you swing your legs off the bed and attempt to stand a momentary wave of dizziness makes your legs waver slightly. Instantly, Ghost is there, his hand firm on your waist, steadying you. His touch is gentle yet secure, grounding you in the moment.

You laugh it off with a light flush coloring your cheeks. "Just wobbly legs," you joke trying to ease the tension you feel from his close presence. Despite your attempt to downplay the situation your movements are still a bit too brisk. A clear sign you might be overestimating your current strength.

Ghost doesn't smile but there's a tenderness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. "Take it slow, love," he advises, his tone almost demanding. His hand remains on your back as a discreet but constant presence. He guides you slowly out of the infirmary. You feel the steadiness of his support with each step you take. His careful pace ensures you don't overexert yourself, allowing you time to adjust as you walk. The corridor seems longer than you remember but Ghost’s reassuring presence makes the journey feel safer, more manageable.

"You don’t have to rush this," he continues. Sensing your eagerness to prove your recovery. "We’ll get there when we get there." His words are simple but effective reminding you that your health is the priority not the speed of your recovery.

As you proceed you lean slightly into his support realizing how crucial his support has been, not just physically but also emotionally. Ghost’s unwavering steadiness helps bolster your confidence, making you feel that no matter how shaky your steps might be you won't fall as long as he’s by your side.

The walk back to your room is quiet but comfortable. It’s filled with an unspoken understanding that something significant has shifted between you. When you reach your door, Ghost finally pulls his hand away, but the warmth of his touch lingers.

"Thanks again, Ghost. For everything," you say while meeting his gaze. It's an open acknowledgment of all he's done and all he might continue to do.

"Anytime, love. Just... please take care of yourself," he responds. There’s a promise in his words, an implication that he'll always be nearby, watching over you.

As you reach the door to your quarters, Simon pauses, his hand resting lightly against the frame. "Can I help you get settled back in?" he asks. His tone as soft as it has been before, something new that has overcome him in your incident. His concern clearly evident.

You nod, touched by his attentiveness and as you enter your room he follows close behind. Simon watches carefully as you slowly make your way to your bed and sit down, still feeling a bit shaky. The room is familiar and comforting but his presence makes it feel even safer, more serene.

Once you're seated on the bed, he scans the room quickly, always alert for what you might need. "You sure you don't need anything else? Some more water? A snack?” Ghost asks, already moving towards your small kitchenette. He assumed a role that went beyond duty into something more personal.

You smile at his back, warmed by his concern. "I’m fine, Ghost. Really," you reassure him. But he shakes his head, not entirely convinced.

"It's no trouble at all. You should eat something," he insists gently while fetching a glass of water and a small snack from your stash. Simple things that you hadn't thought you’d needed until he presented them. As he hands you the glass his fingers brush yours lightly, sending a small, unexpected shiver up your arm. You thank him with a soft smile, touched by his thoughtfulness.

Noticing a few strands of hair falling over your face, Simon reaches out and gently brushes them back, his touch delicate and caring. His hand lingers for a moment, a silent expression of his deeper feelings.

You’re momentarily stunned but thrilled, nonetheless. You find it hard to find words as his hand lingers on your face. "I know I keep thanking you but thanks again Simon. For... well, for everything," you say after a moment. Your voice low and sincere. Using his first name feels natural, reflecting the shift in your relationship.

He pauses, looking into your eyes with an intensity that makes your heart flutter. "I’m here because I want to be, not because I have to be," he replies. His voice so soft it’s nearly a whisper, revealing the depth of his feelings.

"If you need anything else, just let me know. I'll be just a call away, love," He adds imbued with a warmth that reassures and comforts. His use of ‘love’ is tender, an endearment that resonates deeply, marking a significant moment in your ever evolving relationship.

He gives you a lingering look that was filled with care and a promise of protection before he reluctantly steps towards the door. There's a hint of hesitation in his movement, a subtle pause that conveys his desire to stay longer.

As he exits, gently closing the door behind him, you lie back against your pillows, the glass of water in your hand. His presence has left a comforting warmth in the room. A sense of safety that lulls you towards rest. The thought of Simon being just a call away brings a smile to your face. And as you close your eyes it’s not just the fatigue that makes you feel at ease. It’s knowing Simon is there, caring for you with a tenderness that goes beyond the call of duty.

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[ofsappho]

Heartless

🔞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, smut in the next chapter (and the chapters after).

Reader is disabled/chronically ill (and so is the author)

You need health insurance. Ghost is sick of sharing living quarters with the rest of the 141. Soap, your childhood friend, thinks the two of you can fix each other’s problems.

Or, Ghost and you have to convince his command that you didn’t just meet each other and your marriage is totally, completely, 100% legit. Not for any, more practical reasons. And, of course, your married-couple accommodations only have one bed.

Chapter 1:

This will either be the stupidest decision you’ve ever made or the greatest stroke of brilliance you’ve ever had. And there is no in-between.

When Soap ducks his head into the coffee shop, you’re more than a little relieved to see him in one piece, plus or minus a few silvery scars scattered across his face and peeking out of his sleeves, the collar of his jacket.

And the dumbass aviators you bought him as a high school graduation present hang from the dip of his shirt. You know Soap thinks he looks badass, but the placement reminds you more of ‘Patagonia dad who likes hiking’ than it does ‘mysterious hardened special forces dude.’

He’s so built that he has to carefully pick his way between crowded tables, just so he doesn’t knock over someone’s drink or trip into a random stranger’s elbow.

You more or less tackle him into the biggest hug you can. “Soap! You’re not dead!” Ever since he joined his super-duper-top-secret whatever the fuck, you’ve gotten used to the communication dead zones in your years-long friendship. The silence never stops worrying you, though.

Johnny chuckles and practically lifts you off your feet. “Neither are you! Congratulations!” You know he’s relieved to see you as well by the way he ruffles your hair.

You fucking hate it when he does that, which is, of course, why it’s become a tradition every time you see him.

He pisses you off, you piss him off. “Twinning!”

The glare he tosses your way has all the menace of a kitten attacking a curtain. “Fuck does that mean? You know I can’t keep up with your American slang.” You’re a good friend who pre-ordered his ridiculous caramel latte with extra caramel, and Soap sits happily in front of it.

He learned that he enjoyed heart-stoppingly sweet drinks on accident - a case of mistaken identity where you unintentionally grabbed Soap’s macho Americano, and he drank half of your caramel latte in revenge. And here you are, years later, watching him slurp down a milk foam heart.

“Awww, too much for the brain cells you have left?” Teasing him as easy as breathing and a welcome distraction for the anxiety attack-inducing question you must ask.

The general coffee shop ambient noise swells in your ears. An espresso machine malfunctions, almost loud enough to make you jump, and you try to disguise it by sipping your iced tea. No caffeine; you’re nervous enough without it.

“I could have you arrested for that,” Soap quips. Please. As if you’d let him try. One call to his commanding officer about his pre-service shenanigans, and you’d have his ass court-martialed.

“Abuse of the power of the Armed Forces? Very ethical.” You raise an eyebrow and lace your voice with haughtiness, even flicking some hair over your shoulder.

Then you need to pass Johnny a few napkins to mop up the latte dripping from his nose out of laughter. “I’m glad to see you,” He tells you, and the sober, knowing look in his eyes makes your stomach drop out. He doesn’t miss a thing. He’d probably be dead or fired from his job if he did. “Though I know this isn’t a social call.”

Well. You’re in for it now. “Yeah, unfortunately, it isn’t.” The words taste like dust in your mouth, and the lemony-black tea barely washes it out. Just to give yourself something to do, you pop the plastic lid off and tip a couple of ice cubes into your mouth before chomping down.

“What’s going on?”

How do you summarize the horrifically, brutally stressful whirlwind of the last few weeks without inspiring the annoying, patronizing pity you’ve gotten from literally everyone else you’ve vented to? You’re not a victim to be coddled or a child to be given advice you’ve already thought of, tried, and failed at.

“I’m losing my health insurance at the end of the month” is what you decide on in the end.

He knows exactly what that means for you. For your future. Soap shakes his head ruefully. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You’ve been sick for a while, diagnosed the year after the two of you graduated high school. The kind of sick that is simply a freak accident of nature, causing your body to attack itself over and over until the day you’ll drop dead from complications. It wouldn’t take much; maybe a regular infection burning you alive with a fever your crippled immune system can’t stop, or a benign cut from a kitchen knife that will bleed and bleed until you’re halfway to the coroner’s office.

And then there’s your shitty, damaged, degenerated spine that keeps you in bed for weeks at a time with crippling, numbing pain.

Without health insurance, things won’t look good for your quality of life. And you like your quality of life to be decent. You’d settle for passable.

Really, it sounds worse than it is, and you try to console him. “It’s okay. It was eventually going to happen. I had hoped to have a little more time, though.” You remember the call from the insurance company like it just happened yesterday. You were loading dishes into the dishwasher and listening to Fleetwood Mac on the radio. And some poor customer service representative told you they were increasing your monthly payments beyond what they knew you could afford, so they’d have to drop you.

You watch him open his mouth as if to tell you that you should’ve said something sooner. But he’s been deployed for the past four months. He pauses and resets to something a little more helpful. “How can I help?” That’s something you have liked about Johnny a lot since you were kids. He cares more about what he can do.

Your anxiety permits your lungs to take one big, fortifying inhale. “Well…” Dragging it out will only make this worse, you know, but you really, really, really hate that it’s come to this. “This is fucking embarrassing.” You tried to find a way to pay the premiums; you really did. But you work forty hours a week already and trying to get more shifts, maybe find a new job, do this, do that, appeal, all of that has been futile and draining. “Will you marry me?”

He drops his half-empty cup on the table, forceful enough that some of the coffee spills out. “What?”

Soap’s partially-scandalized shock is not what you hoped for as a reaction. But you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything better.

The worst part of this conversation is over. It can’t get more nerve-wracking. “Marry me. Like. Get legally married. I could get on military benefits, and my meds would be covered.” He doesn’t swing your way, but surely signing some paper and standing before a judge is, like, not the most terrifying thing Soap has ever done. “And- and I know there’s stuff in it for you, too, like a better apartment or whatever. I can cook. Better than you, that’s for sure.” One of your friends had to teach him how not to burn water.

He just sits there in silence. “Please,” You add on softly. Desperately. This is your last-ditch attempt, your Hail Mary.

At last, Soap’s shoulders slump, and you know, from that alone, that he’s gonna say no. Miracles are rarely performed for ordinary people. “I would if I could, but… I’m sort of already married,” He sighs, then winces, waiting for your inevitable unhappy outburst.

…

You blink a few times, brain furiously recalibrating everything you know. John got married, and he didn’t even invite you? Or tell you? You’re supposed to be his friend. That’s so rude, ouch. You would have even gotten him some expensive shit off his gift registry.

A fucking Keurig, for God’s sake. “What? Who?” You demand, more outraged that he would leave you out of his life than you are over him declining your proposal

Underneath that deep, sunburnt tan, you see Soap blush. “Jeremy from final year.”

You’d throw your empty cup at him, but he’d just duck. “I knew you were fucking him! I knew it! You tried to gaslight me and say you weren’t, but I saw the hickies on his neck!” There were only so many times Johnny ducked out of a math classroom covered in sweat, followed shortly by your classmate, before you put the pieces together.

Oh, but the rest of your friends called you a conspiracy theorist and told you to mind your business. Now, who’s laughing?

Soap holds his hands up in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ sign. “He needed health insurance. We’re married on paper. Haven’t seen him in a few years, but I know he’s doing alright.” Naturally, he’s already selflessly committed marriage fraud. You honestly should’ve seen that coming; that’s why you wanted to propose in the first place and figured you’d have a slim chance of success.

“Shit.” Now you’re back to square one. And it’s a shitty square, with walls that close in around you with every passing second.

The regret in his eyes overflows when he sees your slumped shoulders, how you’re picking at your cuticles hard enough to bleed. “‘M sorry. If I wasn’t locked down, you know that I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.” The worst part is that you know he’s being sincere, not just parroting empty platitudes.

Right. Well. That’s it, then.

You rub at your closed eyes, then at the stress wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Fuck. It’s fine, I know. I will… I’ll figure it out,” You sigh. Less than convincing, but it doesn’t need to be.

There are probably options you just haven’t thought of yet. Or maybe you can work something out with your doctor, where you only get your meds every other month. “I got it covered. Don’t worry about me.” You instantly see Soap rush to shake his head, to tell you that he’s always worried about you. You want to chastise him, tell him that he has plenty of things to be worried about in his own life. “Shush. It’s fine.” But you don’t have the heart to rake him over the coals for it now, so you settle for that.

You should go. You have things to do, things that include crying in your bed with the curtains drawn and urgently refreshing your email to see if anyone's gotten back to you. New jobs, aid organizations for low-income people, any further bad news.

Soap catches your wrist before you can say the appropriate goodbyes and rush out of the cafe. “Look- hold on- let me… let me ask my… friends.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it with an odd, stilted tone. Like ‘friends’ is a replacement for something he can’t say out loud in a civilian setting.

You can put the pieces together. “Is that what you’re calling your coworkers?”

“That’s classified, shut up.” His Scottish accent pops out there stronger than good malt whiskey. Hope is an easily-caught flame and far more difficult to extinguish. When you smile at him, you find it’s not entirely false. “Let me ask around, okay? They’re good guys. You might need to do the heavy lifting with your sparkling personality, but I can try.”

‘Sparkling personality’ is sort of ominous. ‘Don’t give them shit,’ is what he means to say. That’s fine, you’ve worked in customer service before. You can be on your best behavior.

You’re not exactly sure what kind of dude would be willing to marry a stranger, even if that is the kind of dude you want to marry.

But desperate times, desperate measures. “Thank you. Really. It would mean the world and…  would probably save my life.” You didn’t mean to get as choked up at the end as you do. No one else has been willing to help you, though, and Soap’s answering hug feels like desperately needed hope reviving itself in your chest.

“I’ve got you. And I hope I can help in the end, even if it’s not what you originally had in mind.”

-

Soap runs through his team members in his mind as he waits for the gate guard to scan his ID, trying to recall who’s tied down and who isn’t.

Captain’s got a wife, he thinks, and he’s a wee bit too old for you anyway.

It takes a second for the starry-eyed guard to hand him back the card and lift the gate.

You picked a good time to call him up; not only is he in town, menacing the local army base, but so is the rest of the 141—a rarity.

Vargas would certainly charm you, but Soap trusts Alejandro with you about as far as he could throw him.

Out of all the idiots he went to school with, you’re the only idiot who stuck around through the early years of his service, and you pursued your friendship like a hound after a fox even when he couldn’t properly reciprocate.

So John feels some responsibility for looking out for you, as you’ve always looked out for him.

Garrick wouldn’t be a half-bad choice. Dependable, responsible. Friendly, so your sham marriage would at least be enjoyable.

His mind drifts to his own errant mostly-platonic husband as he parks the borrowed car in his numbered space. Jeremy. The last time they spoke was over three years ago? Maybe four. Jeremy had found himself a new boyfriend and called to let him know, asking if Soap wanted a legal divorce. He was moving to some godforsaken corner of America. Florida? Maybe. That place has got too many fuckin’ states for him to remember them all.

They worked it out - they’d stay married, and Jeremy would keep out of his way. No love lost.

Roach could do it for you in a pinch as well. A little quiet, but maybe you’d work out something like him and Jeremy. Staying out of each other’s way.

Soap dismisses Lieutenant Riley without a second thought. On his best day, Ghost is about as inviting and amenable as a particularly hungry great white shark. And even if God himself came down from Heaven and changed Ghost’s heart to be interested, Soap would worry about you.

A lot. Even more than he already does, since the day you sobbed in his arms after school when you were first diagnosed. Since that day he had to help you out of bed because you could neither walk nor miss any more class.

Does he trust Ghost enough to fight alongside him? To have his back when there’s a gun against his head? Absolutely. Does he think Ghost would treat one of his oldest friends properly, befitting of the funny, kind, vibrant person you are? Abso-fuckin’-lutely not.

So that puts Gaz and Roach in his top choices for you and Vargas as a last-tier resort.

Armed forces worldwide, in Scotland and America, are all about efficiency. Eliminating redundancy.

And if that’s the excuse Johnny uses to justify blindsiding his whole team at once, so he doesn’t need to have this conversation three damn times and hear three separate rejections? That’s between him and God.

He herds them like sheep, plucking the Captain from his office, Garrick and Alejandro from conditioning in the gym, disturbing Roach’s book. Ghost appears out of nowhere as if summoned by the disturbance and falls in behind Soap. Not a single damn sound, of course. While that’s useful on deployment, he still has to tamp down on the instinct to jump every time he sees a skull mask hovering out of the corner of his eye in everyday life.

No matter. The lieutenant will likely wander out when the subject matter is revealed. It would raise more red flags if he told Ghost off.

He barely gets Lt. Riley through the pool room door before Captain jumps him. “Sergeant. What’s the trouble?”

That’s fuckin’ rude. “Why’d you assume I’m in trouble?” He indignantly replies. Except… yeah, there was that time he borrowed a humvee he had no permission to touch, and Captain covered for him to Laswell. Shit. “Well, I’m not.” At least, not this time.

Soap opens his mouth to argue this because it’s hardly fair for Cpt. Price to point fingers only to be cut off. “What is it?” At least Price has the decency to file the sharp edges off of his voice this time.

Right. He almost feels guilty getting sidetracked over something so stupid when he’s gathered everyone here for an infinitely more important reason.

Where does he start? How the fuck does he proposition them without sounding absolutely mental? “I… Hear me out.” Instantly, Garrick shakes his head ‘no,’ and Cpt.’s face remains as unmoved as a brick wall. Definitely not how he should have opened. “Wouldn’t be asking if the situation wasn’t desperate.” Soap opens his hands in the vain hope that the gesture will make them listen, at minimum.

You loathed hospitals and doctor’s offices when you first got sick. Now, you see the inside of them so often that it hardly fazes you. Still, Johnny always went along when you asked. So you wouldn’t have to be alone.

The countless memories of holding your hand as some faceless nurse sticks an IV in your elbow is the motivation that steps on the gas. “I have this friend,’ He tells them.

“You have friends?” If Vargas weren’t separated from him by the pool table, he’d reach over and stick an elbow in his side. What is it, official ‘piss off Sgt. MacTavish’ day?

They get in a laugh at his expense. “Shut up, you reprobate.” He puts enough bite in his tone to cut through the ruckus with the keenness of a knife. “I have this friend. Since I was a lad. She’s a good girl, good person. She needs our help.”

Everyone knows what he means by ‘good person,’ and the mere mention of a civilian girl in distress softens Gaz’s scowl and Alejandro’s scorn.

Their Captain nods, now significantly more amenable to this conversation than he was at the beginning. “Help?” Progress is progress, and for the first time, Soap allows himself to think he might be able to persuade someone.

“Yeah, well… you know these fuckin’ Americans. They don’t give a damn if people die like dogs in the streets. She lost her health insurance, and she’s… She’s ill. She’ll be ill for the rest of her life.” That’s something Johnny will never understand about this side of the pond. The NHS was never good, but at least it exists. All that freedom and shit, for what?

“Sorry to hear that. Fucking shame,” Price murmurs. 

“I was wondering if any of you might be interested in marrying her. For the fuckin’... benefits. I dunno know what exactly they are, but she mentioned new living quarters for her soldier.” He really ought to have looked this up beforehand and found some other things to sweeten the pot. “I’m already married. Had to turn the poor lass down, and I told her I’d at least ask you lot.”

Their captain gets up and off his ass like the stool’s on fire. “Alright. MacTavish, I’m leaving the room now. I’m going back to my office, and do not disturb me until you’re done,” He orders, mustache practically fuckin’ bristling with urgency. “I didn’t hear or see a thing.” With his parting words finished, Johnny watches the man book it out of the pool room in double time.

While he understands and appreciates the discretion, was that truly necessary? They’ve all done exponentially worse things than this.

His first choice makes a break for it, too. “Sorry, Soap,” Garrick declines. “I’m out. I’m sure she’s a delightful person, though being friends with you doesn’t speak highly of her life choices. But that’s a big ask, and I just don’t know her.” The sergeant taps him on the shoulder as he walks out in a silent show of support.

“‘Course.” With each man who leaves, his worry increases.

What voicemails will await him after he returns from the next mission? That things went horribly wrong, and you’ll be hospitalized for the rest of your life, or maybe even dead?

Whatever it is, there won’t be anything he can do by then. That’s the worst part.

“Yeah, can’t do it either, Sarge. I got a girl already.” Right. There goes Sanderson.

At least Alejandro has the decency to look genuinely sympathetic. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

Soap watches him leave and wonders if you’re still awake. It’s not late for him, but who knows? Maybe you keep normal hours now. “Yeah, I will.” You’d prefer to hear the bad news as soon as possible, but he would hate to wake you for it.

But he can’t ignore the ghoul haunting the corner any longer. “What are you still doing here, Lt.? I’ve gotta tell her I can’t help, and I don’t think you’d care to overhear that conversation.” His voice is a little sharper than is nice and proper, overflowing with prickly irritation like too much tea in a cracked cup. Of all the times for Ghost to not mind his fucking business…

“…what she look like?”

“What?”

And Riley’s got the audacity to repeat himself, slower, as if he’s stupid. “What does she look like? Got a picture?”

“Is this a joke?” Simon should stick to shitty quips about goldfish. At least those are tasteful.

The man doesn’t laugh, shake his head, or leave now that he’s successfully rattled Soap. He just stands there, as grave as always. Motherfucker. He means it. “Fuckin’… yeah, hold on,” Soap sighs as he fumbles for his phone.

He’s desperate because you’re desperate. He tells himself that, over and over, as he looks for a half-decent selfie. You’re a big girl, you knew what you were risking when you asked him for help.

Ghost takes his phone in his gloved hand. “Not bad,” He murmurs after a while. “I’ll do it. Marry her.”

A beat passes. Soap lets another one go.

Alright. The grace period is over and done with. “This is a really shitty, serious thing to mess around about. Genuinely. Don’t do that to her or me. This is about her health. Her life.” Johnny likes Lt. Riley. Really, he does. Even under all the freaky mask shit.

But this is mean-spirited. It would almost be out of character. It’s one thing to be careless if his sparring partner walks away with permanent nerve damage. This is fucking cruel if he doesn’t mean it.

Ghost can read minds now. “I mean it.” His chuckle makes Johnny fix his surprised expression into something more stern and imperceptible. “She’s desperate, isn’t she? I’ll do it.” When he walks closer, the changing light makes that skull on his face flash in and out of existence.

“Why?” If he can’t come up with a somewhat satisfactory answer… Soap’s fist can probably reach him fine from here.

And in a rather remarkable show of humanity, he watches Ghost pinch the bridge of his nose through his mask. “Think I like listening to you snore? Or fuckin’ Roach chattering on Discord at four in the morning?” Johnny never knew Ghost was such a little princess about that. Who would’ve thought?

The other man huffs a laugh. “Need my beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, you do, the mask’s not doin’ you any favors,” Soap retorts as if on autopilot. That’s only their longest-running tiff. You’ve got your work cut out for you to deal with that ugly mug, he thinks.

“You want me to help her or what?”

Right. Right. “Sorry.” He examines Ghost’s body language, searching for any hint of dishonesty. “If you so badly want out of the shared bunks, how come you haven’t found someone else yet? Or some other way?”

“You think girls are lining up outside my door proposing marriage? You can’t even find me off duty. Now I ain’t gotta find… some other way,” He says before leaning back against the wall, at ease now that his argument’s been made.

“Fair point.” Fair, but fucking dumb. “I’ll tell her. She’ll say yes, I know she will.” Jesus, does he wish he’d been able to persuade Garrick.

Soap considers exactly how much you should know about your intended before this shit goes down. On the one hand, it might be better for you not to know much, other than that he’s found someone relatively trustworthy and willing. On the other hand… interacting with Lt. Riley is something that should only be done after signing a covenant not to sue.

“Whatever you do, don’t hurt her. She’s been through enough already. And I meant it when I said she’s a good person. Too good for either of us.”

Nobody gets through secondary school untouched. Especially not at that prissy international school you met him at, filled with over-privileged rich kids and army brats scraping the bottom of the barrel. Like the two of you.

When you were fourteen, you picked him up by the scruff of his Scottish neck with a smile on your face, then hit the bastard who hit him first. Thick as thieves ever since.

“And if you can’t find it in you to be nice, just… promise you’ll leave her alone.” At least you’re more than capable of making Ghost’s life a living Hell if he fucks with you. He takes comfort in that and a healthy amount of glee at the possibility of watching that play out. He’s got a front-row seat, after all.

Riley shakes his head. “As long as she ain’t a burden, MacTavish, no need to fuss and cluck.”

For a moment, Soap almost pities him.

“Don’t hurt her. Promise me that, right now,” He stresses. Just in case. At least eliciting this agreement might remind Ghost in the future to stay his hand.

The other man sighs. “I won’t,” He says at last. And Soap can tell he means it.

“Get out. I’ll let her know.”

#cod #call of duty #cod mw #modern warfare #mw #mw2 #modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #heartless

[take-taker-taken]

can you do ABA!taker x plus size!reader it’s her birthday and she was looking forward to spending it with him. But when she woke up he was at work so she was upset and crying the whole morning. Taker makes it up to her tho please.

Thank you for the Ask! I tried, but just couldn’t have a birthday girl in tears the whole morning 🥺 - I hope you like!

Birthday Girl

A shaft of sunlight slants through the drapes and tickles your face, pulling you out of sleep and you roll over to look at the clock, which reads 8am. You smile and stretch, for once not minding a relatively early wake up on a weekend because today is different. You’ve been looking forward to your birthday for weeks because you know he’s going to make it special. He’s not laying beside you but there’s nothing unusual there - he normally gets up early and heads straight down into his gym. You sit up and cast your eye around the room, seeing nothing out of place so you shrug the duvet off and climb out of bed.

After a quick shower there’s still no sign of him and so you pull on some jersey shorts and one of his big Harley Davidson t-shirts, shimmying it down over your generous curves. You call his name as you head down the stairs but there’s no response - it really does seem awfully quiet. There’s no sign of life in the kitchen - not so much as the coffee machine cooling and so you flick that on and wander around, thinking he’ll maybe have left a card propped up somewhere, or a little gift.

But there’s nothing.

All the blinds are open in the kitchen and the living room and you spot an empty glass in the sink so with a small smile you head downstairs to the gym, thinking at least you’ll get to see him all sweaty and working out. You open the door to complete darkness and another silent room. You flick the light on just in case he’s sat there in the dark but of course he’s not so you pull the door closed again and head back to the kitchen, feeling dejected.

The coffee machine is gurgling as you pull down a mug and grab the cream from the fridge and then you have a thought and wander to the hallway. Sure enough, his keys are gone from the bowl on the side stand. You do a little jump and head back to the kitchen where you serve yourself the coffee and grab your phone from the table, knowing now that he must have headed out to pick up breakfast as a treat. And… yup! There’s a voicemail from him right there. You dial into it and wait impatiently while the robot-voice tells you that you have one new message and then…

“Hey, baby. I just *crackle crackle* and *crackle clunk crackle crackle* by *crackle clunk* that work *clunk crackle crackle clunk* important so *crackle clunk* oon *crackle* an. Bye.”

The message cuts off and you stand there as your stomach drops. One word that had come through from the static-riddled mess loud and clear… work.

He’s gone to work?

Without saying anything or even waking you.

On your birthday.

You sink into a chair and stare down into your mug, the image before you blurring as tears form in your eyes. He went to work on your birthday. You gulp half the liquid down around the ache in your throat as you hold back a crying fit. You grit your teeth and call him, intending to give him a piece of your mind but the call goes straight to answerphone. You hang up before the beep because if you try to leave him an angry message you know you’ll just cry instead.

You shift in your seat to avoid the sunlight streaming through the window - it’s an irritant now rather than a pleasure. What if he went to work because he forgot about your birthday altogether? No, no he can’t have because you were talking about it only the other day. You shake your head to reinforce your thought. He hasn’t forgotten.

“He didn’t forget.” You say out loud to the empty room. “He just went to work instead.”

You sigh, get up and go to the cupboard to pull out of a box of cereal, all thoughts of a special breakfast forgotten. You work your way through a bowl in mechanical fashion and then feeling flat decide to go back to bed and sleep the day away. Better than sitting around moping. You get to the bedroom, pull the drapes closed against the cheerful brightness outside and hide away under the duvet.

————————

A door slams and jolts you awake and then you hear him.

“Babe? Baby where are you?”

The memories of this morning descend and you don’t know whether to feel happy he’s home, or angry and upset still that he went. You don’t really trust yourself to respond and so you just wait for a few minutes while he’s looking around downstairs for you. Shortly, you hear his footfall on the stairs and then in seconds he’s in the room just as you’re sitting up. He’s in blue jeans, bandana protruding from a back pocket, and one of his Deadman Inc. shirts - he’s been to work, alright.

“There’s my birthday girl. Baby, I’m so sorry I’m late - I know I was supposed to be back a couple hours ago.” You glance at the clock and it’s just coming up to noon - seems you didn’t sleep the day away after all. He leans down and drops a soft kiss on to your lips, his expression clouding with concern when you don’t respond. “Sweetheart, are you OK?”

“You went to work.” You say quietly. “You just left without saying anything.”

His head drops a little and he takes a seat on the bed. “I know baby, and I shouldn’t have. It was just so early when the call woke me and you were so peaceful that I didn’t want to disturb you. I was only supposed to be gone a couple hours, like my message said. I was sure I’d be back before you’d even opened your eyes.” He holds up your phone that he’s brought up from the kitchen counter and you can see a dozen missed calls from him on the screen. “You did pick up my message, didn’t you?”

“It didn’t come through properly. Just mostly static so I barely heard anything.”

He shifts on to the bed properly and puts his arm around you. “I should have just woken you,” he says. “I called you from the parking lot - my message said that work had called me because we had to redo some promos after some tape got damaged. I told them that we had to be quick because your birthday was important and that I’d be home as soon as I could.” He looks around the room and then kisses the top of your head. “I should at least have left your card out for you to find. I’m such an ass.”

“Yeah, you are.” You reply, leaning your head against his arm. “I really thought you ran out on me.”

“I’m sorry, I really am. Can we start the day again?” He says with a small smile and you nod. “Thank you. Now, happy birthday, angel.” He kisses your lips, drawing it out into a tease before pulling back and standing up off the bed. He goes to the wardrobe and opens it and you gasp with a smile lighting your face as half a dozen heart-shaped balloons emblazoned with birthday messages float out and up to the ceiling. You stretch your hand out and so he drags them over to you and you slip the small plastic tag over your finger so that you can bounce them up and down in the air.

He returns to the cupboard and emerges with a large teddy bear that’s holding (oh, OK it’s taped to its paws) a large white envelope that he hands over. You carefully remove the card and then the tape, which you stick to the leg of his jeans for him to pick off and put into the trash can. You run your fingers over the blissfully soft material of the bear’s head and tuck it under one arm as you open the envelope. On the front of the card is a photo of two kittens, one tabby and one black, both gazing adorably into the camera and a big ‘Happy Birthday’ message. You giggle as you imagine him taking this to a counter and paying - especially with his image - and then open it.

Happy Birthday, my angel

I love you to the stars and back

(further than the moon, y’know)

Me xxx

Tears threaten to cloud your eyes for all the right reasons this time and you look up at him. “Thank you,” you say with a smile. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiles back and holds a hand out. “There’s more, but you gotta come downstairs.”

Eagerly you throw the duvet off and take his hand, the balloons bobbing around above both your heads and then clutching your card and the teddy bear you head from the room. This time when you reach the kitchen there’s a beautifully decorated cake on the table, bearing (unlit) candles and your name.

“Where’d that come from? It wasn’t in the fridge this morning.”

He takes the bear from you and sits it on one of the dining chairs and then stands the card up on the table. “I ordered it from the bakery in town - picked it up on my way back. Go sit down.”

You take a seat at the table and lean over to see the cake better while he leaves the room for a moment and when he returns he’s carrying a large bouquet of roses in all different colours and a small pile of wrapped parcels.

“Happy birthday,” He says again, bending down to give you another kiss before handing you the flowers and setting the packages on the table in front of you.

You blush, feeling thoroughly spoiled and cradle the bouquet as you seek out the card and the hand-written message in his own writing:

Beautiful flowers for the most beautiful woman!

“They’re amazing, thank you - do you have anything I can put them into?” You’re surprised when he nods.

“Flower store sold me a vase - it’s in one of the cupboards.” He takes a seat across from you. “Go ahead and open your gifts, sweetheart.”

You reach for the biggest parcel which is squishy and tear into the paper to reveal a black Harley Davidson hoodie and you hug it to yourself gleefully. You take the opportunity to check the label, because receiving clothes always makes you a little bit nervous but of course he’s picked out a size that you’ll be happy with.

“I know it’s headed into summer and so probably not the right weather for a hoodie, but I just couldn’t pass it up when I saw it.” He says with a shrug and you stand up and lean over for a kiss.

“It’s perfect, thank you! Means I won’t have to steal yours anymore. Though I probably will.”

He laughs and pushes the smallest gift towards you. “Now this one.”

You open the small box to reveal a gorgeous pair of hoop earrings, each with a clear gem embedded that sparkles in the light. You look up at him. “Are those…”

“Diamonds?” He finishes for you. “Yup, they are. I figured when you wear your hair up they’d look real nice sparklin’ around.”

You touch them carefully, stroking the tips of your fingers over the precious stones. “I… I don’t know what to say! I mean, thank you - obviously!”

“You’re welcome, baby. I can’t wait to see you in ‘em.” He pushes a medium-sized square box towards you. “Next one.”

You dig a nail into the paper and tear off a corner to reveal a flash of bright yellow. Curiosity piqued, you rip the rest off to find a box of Jacque Torres chocolates and you giggle. “You remembered my favourites!”

There’s one parcel left and you have no idea what it could be. Your first guess is maybe a watch, but the box isn’t quite wide enough for that. You take the paper off carefully this time and a plain back box sits beneath.

“I wasn’t completely sure about this, so it’s a bit of a wild card,” He says, making your brow furrow with interest. You open the long-ish, thin box and then gasp, snapping it closed again and stare at him. “Do you like it?”

You don’t say anything, just open the box again and peer at the contents. “Are they…?”

He nods. “They are.”

You set the box on the table and gently lift the leather-covered clips before taking out the diamond tennis bracelet and staring at it in wonder. “Will you put it on me?”

“Sure. Gimme your wrist, there.” You obediently hold out your arm and watch as the tip of his tongue pokes between his lips in concentration as his large fingers work the catch. Once done, he lifts your hand and kisses the back of it and then you turn it this way and that, watching the diamonds sparkling against your skin.

“I don’t know what to say… this is too much.”

“Hey, it’s your birthday - I’m allowed to spoil you if I want.”

You get to your feet and walk around the table, so he pushes his chair out to meet you and catches you around your soft waist. It’s a rare moment that you have to bend down to kiss him and so that’s what you do, taking the opportunity to run your fingers over his hair.

“Thank you,” you say again, wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him fiercely.

“You’re welcome, baby. Now, I know it’s your birthday but will you do one thing for me?”

You lean back and give him a curious smile. “Sure… I think.”

One of his hands slips down on to your butt and he quirks an eyebrow at you. “I want you to go upstairs and put those earrings on… and take everything else off… and wait for me in the bedroom. I’m gonna cut a big piece of that cake and bring it on up - and then we’re gonna have a little birthday fun, OK?”

You blush and kiss him again. “Definitely OK,” you reply and wriggle out of his hold. “I’ll be waiting - don’t take too long or I might start without you.”

You back away towards the door and he stands up. “Race ya.”

Giggling, you flee from the room and up the stairs, knowing that the birthday fun is just beginning.

END.

#the undertaker #undertaker #this character lives in my head rent free #wwe #wwf #american badass #fanfic #anon asks #thumbs up for the anons #American badass x reader #fluff fic #fluff #the undertaker x reader #wwe fic #wwf fic #TTT Tumblr Asks

[thedeadmansgirl]

A Chance to Start Over | Chapter 01

Pairing: Mark Calaway (The Undertaker) x Female OC (Mary)

Chapter Warnings: Minors DNI 18+ Only Smut.

Length: 859

Read on AO3 | Read on FFN | Next Chapter

Success comes in various ways and different levels, depending on where you are in life.

And if you ask Mark Calaway, the man known publicly as the Undertaker, what success is at this point in his life, it is watching his beautiful wife of nearly a year, Mary, coming into the kitchen from their backyard carrying in a basket full of fresh eggs on one hand and another full of vegetables on the other from their garden out back. 

Had it been ten or fifteen years earlier, he would easily say it’s his career achievements, probably his wealth, and the love of any woman (and sometimes, several women at the same time) who’d give him their generous time to pleasure him. Now all that mattered was this gorgeous woman in front of him. 

Mary smiled at her husband who’s sitting on a stool by the kitchen island, enjoying his morning coffee. She smirked at the look on his face and the growing tent in his dark gray sweatpants, the only clothing he has on him. ‘God, he’s beautiful.’ she thought to herself. 

“Good morning.” She greeted him saccharinely instead as she placed the baskets by the sink. The towering man stood up and walked over his wife to kiss her passionately.

“Have I told you I love you today?” He whispered, his hand already under her shirt, traveling slowly up to her breasts, squeezing one as he nipped lightly on her earlobe, causing her to squirm a bit under him and let out a soft moan. 

“As a matter of fact you did, twice before we left our bed this morning.” She replied, almost breathless as he began rolling her nipple between his thumb and index finger. 

“Well, you might have forgotten darlin’. Let me remind you again.” He whispered and guided his wife to face the island counter, caressing her hips as she leant forward to rest her upper body on the marble top. He let out a gruff moan that made Mary bit her lip to suppress a smile, she knew what’s about to transpire and she’s almost antsy. He wrapped his arms around her waist and bent down to kiss the back of her neck, trailing down her spine. 

Her breath hitched when Mark hooked a finger on the waistband of her sleep shorts and swiftly pulled it down, his other hand frantically pulling down his sweatpants just enough to free his hard and throbbing cock, leaking with pre-cum. He reached around her waist to run a finger through her slit and felt her already wet center. He groaned again as he collected her wetness to drag it back up her nub, circling it with a gentle pressure that had her gasping and moaning in pleasure. 

“Mark.” She whimpered, “I need you inside me, please.” She begged and Mark let out a soft chuckle, kissing her temple as he did. 

“So impatient.” He whispered but pulled back anyway to pump his cock a few times before aligning it to her warm entrance dripping with arousal and slowly pushed his way in, whimpering as he did. Mary closed her eyes; her brows knitted as her husband stretched her deliciously, her mouth falling into a small ‘o’ and whimpered as she felt him bottom out to the hilt, hitting that sweet spot inside of her. 

Mark gripped her hips, sinking his fingers on her tanned skin a little too hard but Mary didn’t mind. Especially when he began to move in slow but hard thrusts, slowly picking up pace, and continued hitting that special place inside her that had her a whining mess in no time.

“Right there, right there!” She almost screamed. “Don’t stop, baby please.” 

“I love it when ya beg.” Mark responded with less spunk as he wanted to as he, too, was almost lost in the sensation of her cunt swallowing his thick and long cock as if it were made to fit and live in there. 

Mark gritted his teeth as he felt himself growing closer, letting out a slightly higher pitched moan than his usual baritone grunts. “I need ya to come for me, baby.” He told her, reaching back around her front to press gentle circles in her nub, helping her tip over to the edge. 

“Fuck…” Mary whined as her back arched and her cunt clamped down on Mark’s cock, causing the huge man to let out a loud grunt, almost a growl, “Jesus…” He whimpered, “Come on, baby.” He urged her as he continued his ministrations to her nub and not long after she was clamping down even harder as she came really hard screaming his name. 

It didn’t take Mark longer than a few more thrusts before he was burying himself deeper inside her, flooding her walls with thick spurts of his cum with a jolt. "Jesus Christ." He hisses, closing his eyes and resting his head on Mary's shoulder. “That’s a good way to start the week,” He grinned, cupping her face to turn her towards his, kissing her passionately. 

“I love you, woman.” He panted against her lips and she smiled, “I love you, too, cowboy.” 

Next Chapter

#wwf undertaker #wwf undertaker x reader #the undertaker #the undertaker imagine #the undertaker smut #wwe undertaker #american badass #the undertaker x female oc #undertaker imagines #undertaker fan fiction #The Undertaker imagines #The Undertaker Fan Fiction #the undertaker decimates rising wwe star in shock comeback #the undertaker and his pals #world wrestling federation

[lovelybrooke]

Could I get some platonic yandere hobie brown with a baby punk (teenager, new in the scene) reader? Whether or not they're a spiderperson is up to you!

Makeover (Yandere Spiderverse x reader).

Supper short, but I hope you enjoy. I'm very American and don't know British Slang, so sorry if it's bad. Also, I 100% believe Hobie knows how to do makeup, sorry if you disagree.

"You gotta keep your eyes closed."

"It feels weird." Hobie chuckled at your discomfort. You feel the makeup brush move across your eyelids, resisting the urge to twitch at the feeling.

Hobie tilts your head to continue applying the eyeshadow, his grip not too tight. Finally, you feel Hobie let go of your chin, prompting you to open your eye slowly, assuming he was done.

"Ah! Close your eyes. Not done yet." You groan as you shut your eyes once again. You hear Hobie shuffle around your room, cursing as he looks for something near your desk.

Suddenly, something is being placed in front of you, Hobie taking a seat next to you on the floor. "You can open 'em." Pealing your eyes open, you see your face covered in punked styled makeup. You tilt you head all around, inspecting the final product as Hobie smirks besides you, slapping your hand away as you attempt to touch your face.

"Hey, don't touch, you'll mess it up." You push his hand back, rolling your eyes with a small smile.

"I look silly." You say, feeling awkward under Hobie's gaze.

"You look badass." He speaks. "Trust me. Now let me do your hair."

"No, you've done enough, I'm fine." It already took a lot to allow Hobie to do your makeup, you couldn't handle anything else. You turn to swat him away, his height allowing him to dodge you easily.

"(Y/N)-" Turning to see Pavitr enter your room, you hear him gasp in excitement. "Oh wow! You look so cool! Did Hobie do your makeup? Why don't you let me do your makeup-" Pavitr was rambling, rushing up towards you to see your face more clearly.

"Wanna help with their hair?" Hobie asks, completely ignoring as you try to get out of his grasps. Pavitr nods, moving besides Hobie as he pushes you back into the ground. Hobie pats your head as you cross your arms, frustration visible all over your face.

Fair to say you were going to be here for a while.

---

A/n: Hope you enjoy, sorry if you didn't want Pavitr in this, just thought it be a nice addition.

#yandere x reader #soft yandere #platonic yandere #spider man across the spider verse #platonic yandere spiderverse #platonic spiderverse #yandere spiderverse #yandere spiderman #hobie brown #pavitr prabhakar #fanfic #fanfiction

[jinnie-ret]

Could you write a - stray kids x fem! ninth member, who is gyaru and other idols, look at her weird for it?

For context, Gyaru is a Japanese fashion subculture. The term gyaru is a Japanese transliteration of the English slang word gal. The term for gyaru was introduced in Japan by the American jeans company Lee, who introduced a new line of jeans to their brand Wrangler

gyaru, jjang yeppeuda

stray kids x ninth member!reader (platonic)

genre: fluff, angst (little)

content warnings: none

word count: 0.9k

summary: despite her normal confidence in owning her aesthetic, y/n begins to feel uncomfortable when she feels the judging stares of other idols

I just love love love how you gave me some background info, that was so sweet of you! I hope you enjoy!

Requested by: @moe-kyun-kyun

MAIN MASTERLIST

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Y/N was the only Japanese member in the group and loved to show off her culture, whether this was through the language, the food, or her style. The latter was something she had received hate about in the past, due to her non conforming style, Gyaru. Y/N specifically indulged into the Rokku subculture, loving the edgy rock aesthetic which the stylists at JYP were quite happy with as well, considering Stray Kids often pulled off fierce looks on stage. Stays soon got to learn more about the Gyaru style, and when they learnt the history behind it and that it was breaking down the typical beauty standards of dark hair and fair skin, they could only applaud the example that Y/N was setting. To not care.

With her bleached hair, false eyelashes that stood out more with the white eyeshadow around her eyes, Y/N felt badass. Not to mention the leather elements incorporated into her outfit that created semblance with what her other members were wearing too.

"Wahh, Y/N you look so cool," Jeongin gasped as he looked at her outfit. Being someone who was into fashion himself, albeit a casual neutral style, he was always interested to see what she'd be wearing.

"Thanks Jeonginnie!" Y/N smiled, taking a seat next to him as they all found where they'd be sat amongst other idols at the awards show.

That sentiment of not caring though, was slipping away. Being one of the first groups seated wouldn't normally be a bad thing, but all Y/N could focus on was the eyes that stuck to her as they walked past, the only comfort being when Twice or ITZY waved a hello to them all.

"You good, Y/Nnie?" Hyunjin patted her shoulder to gain her attention. He had easily observed her antsy behaviour, her leg bouncing up and down, and her hand fiddling with the multiple bracelets that occupied her opposite arm.

"They're all giving me weird looks," Y/N muttered, feeling disheartened. She couldn't help but look around feeling paranoid, and the other members noticed, catching her expression from the other end of the table.

"Here, swap seats with me, Rocky," Chan suggested, about to stand. Rocky was a nickname only he seemed to use for her, connecting her fighting attitude with the one Sylvester Stallone played in an old movie, as well as her obvious Rokku aesthetic.

"No, no, I don't want to cause a scene," Y/N shook her head subtley.

"You won't, just pretend we're talking about something," Changbin added on, and so Y/N nodded and swapped seats with Chan, moving more to the back end of their table rather than being near the other groups.

"Okay, I do feel better now," Y/N nodded with a sigh of relief.

"Good," Minho simply said and patted her knee before paying attention to the stage again.

"And the winner of Most Popular Group, 2022 is... Stray Kids!" the hosts of the awards began clapping as fans cheered wildly for the group as they headed on stage.

Y/N caught eyes with Felix from across the table as they look at each other with the biggest grins on their faces. Dread returned however when they went on stage. She had just moved out of the way so that she didn't have to face the judgemental stares of other idols, but now she was dead center in front of them, as well as the rest of the audience too.

"It's ok, Y/N, don't let it bother you, you never normally do," Seungmin whispered into her ear as Chan began his speech. She nodded thankfully.

"...and I also want to give a big thanks to our staff! Our stylists have given us amazing outfits, especially tonight," Chan winked at Y/N a hint of smugness in his voice as he indirectly told the other kpop stars to mind their own business.

The group went backstage for a moment with their award and Y/N thankfully hugged Chan.

"Thank you, I saw what you did there."

"I think everyone did, our leader has a habit of dissing our haters," Jisung patted Chan on the shoulders, feeling hyped up from winning.

"Woah, Stays clearly noticed too haha, they're already spamming Twitter," Hyunjin held up his phone as everyone gathered around to see.

"'Best leader Chan', and oh, they've put the video too!" Felix tapped on the video and they watched themselves win the award.

"I still can't believe we won, wow!" Changbin shook his head, clearly in shock.

"We deserve it, we worked hard this year," Y/N commented, initiating a group hug between them all.

Later on that evening, as they headed home, Y/N was sat next to Minho and Seungmin at the back of the car.

"You were in your head today," Minho commented as he stared out of the window.

"Me?" Y/N double checked he was talking about her, as he hummed in response and continued talking.

"I could tell, Y/Nnie, but you can't let them see it bothers you. Then they win," he turned to her this time.

"I know, it's just, this is how I express myself and when other people think I'm weird it gets to me sometimes," Y/N sighed, leaning her head back against the car seat.

"We're all weird, but if everyone thinks you're weird they've got another thing coming when they get to know the rest of us, especially Minho hyung," Seungmin joked from the other side of you.

"You're so lucky our precious Y/N is sat between us right now, Seungmin-ah," Minho smiled through gritted teeth, but the interaction made Y/N giggled and they were glad to cheer her up a bit.

tagged: @skz-streamer @kiraisastay @hannahhbahng @backintomykpopphaseagain @sakufilms @hanjiquokkaaa @arloo00 @dunno-wut-to-do @splat00z @cheesemonky

#skz #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids #skz fluff #skz angst #straykids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids imagines #skz fic #skz ninth #skz ninth imagines #skz ninth member imagines #skz ninth member #skz 9th member reader #skz 9th member #stray kids ninth #stray kids ninth member #stray kids 9th member

[scarthefangirl]

Don't make me call your sister

Hobie Brown x younger!sister!reader

Request: Hello! Could I possibly request a hobie x younger sister!reader? (Maybe the same age as miles) meeting his friends for the first time

Warnings: Use of the A word lol?

Story type: headcannons

A/N: im slowly making my way through the requests, but please request more lol

Masterlist | REQUESTS OPEN

When the group of spider people first met you they all loved you

You were similar to Hobie but still your own person

“I’m sorry you all have to work with him,” You had teased 

“Y/N, I’m sorry you had to grow up with him,” Pav apologized

Gwen and you bonded over Hobie’s disorganization and messiness

“I didn’t know bringing you around them meant getting attacked,” Hobie rolled his eyes

You guys all bonded over your favorite Hobie stories

Hobie tried to get back at you by telling embarrassing childhood stories of you, but it wasn’t the same

“He really cut your hair just because you didn’t remind him to take his dog out?” Miles laughed

“Yes, and he was literally 16.” You informed and Hobie groaned

He wasn’t embarrassed, he doesn’t ever get embarrassed, just annoyed 

“Don’t cross me,” he shrugged

You told them that even though your brother is Spiderman doesn’t mean you can’t be a crime fighting badass

You took a bunch of martial art and acrobatics to be able to fight like him

If you dared flirt or crush on any spider people? Pavitr would NEVER let you live it down 

Hobie’s, and now your, friends are constantly shipping you with people

Whenever they are done with missions they invite you to hangout with them or they come to you

You train yourself to stitch up wounds so you can help patch them up

Everyone likes you, you just have this energy that’s so likable

If you ever go to the headquarters? You and Hobie steal so much junk

You could probably make like 10 suits with all the stuff you’ve stolen

You would climb onto Hobie’s shoulders to get things high up

Then you’d fall and yell at Hobie

“You could’ve held on tighter!! And also, you could’ve crawled and got it!” You would shout

Change of subject but you would show Pavitr, Gwen, Miles, and anyone else who wanted to see pictures of Hobie as a kid and baby

There is a picture of him holding you as a toddler (him not even a teen yet), holding you by your ankles and you’re face is red, screaming and his with a grin

“What cute picture” he smiled

“I almost died!” 

“What a cool way to die!” 

People use you as blackmail fsss 

“Stop or I’ll call Y/N.” “If you do it I’ll tell Y/N.” “Don’t make me call your sister.”

Everyone tries to convince you and Hobie to have a fight because you’re always arguing about who is a better fighter

“I’d whoop your ass” you told him

“You’d never even lay a finger on me.” He’d said 

Overall, everyone likes you and wants you around and treats you like part of the team

~

Tags: // @liliummz // @themarvelprince // @misselsbells06 // @american-sataness // @cr0ssoverf4n4tic // @depressednoob // @cerene-ciderr // @leighanne03 // @inluvwithfictionalwomen // @singhfae // @mythixmagic // @itsyourboymicheal // @Ravensinthedaylight //

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#I had little inspiration for this im sorry #marvel #it's #atsv #spiderman atsv #hobie brown #spiderverse #spider punk #across the spiderverse spoilers #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x you #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x y/n #hobie brown imagine #hobie brown fanart #hobie brown fic #pavitr prabhakar #miles morales #gwen stacy