#cat ear balaclava

[rjalker]

Crochet cat ear balaclava December 13 2024 happy Friday the 13th

Mine is made with:

5.5mm crochet hook

Presumably worsted weight yarn

It is approximately 9 inches tall. I have a long face so yours will need to be different dimensions

Laid out flat with a ruler:

[ID: A photo from above of a green crochet cat-ear balaclava sitting on a white background, with a wooden ruler showing that the hat is close to 9 inches tall, around 21 centimeters. It is made with double crochet, with 16 total rows. The fourth row has a large section of skipped stitches, creating a narrow opening. End ID.]

And an overlay to show the rows + me wearing it with photoshopped eyes for fun. Ignore the fact that the overlay doesn't match properly in the one of me wearing it lol I forgot I had to separate it for the eye part.

[ID: Two edited photos. The first is the same as the original, but now with black digital handwriting at the top reading, "5.5mm hook, presumably worsted weight yarn". Along the side of the hate opposite the ruler has been added partially transparent stripes of color marking each row of stitches, in a gradient from red to purple, starting at the bottom with 1, and ending after row 16 with a thinner row marked "close". The second photo shows the crocheter wearing the balaclava, with the same rainbow markings for the rows, distorted slightly to try and match the shape of the balaclava now on the person's head. The opening in the center has now been stretched to form an opening for the person's eyes, which are photoshopped to have orange pupils looking off to the side. The person wears glasses, whose lenses distort the view of the balaclava. End ID.]

Made with foundation double crochet:

chain 2. Yarn over, go into 1st chain. Pull through one hoop. Pull through 2 loops. Pull through the last two loops. Repeat this through the base of each new section, until your foundation row is long enough to fit around your head with some slight stretching. (You don't want it to fit without any stretching at all, or it'll actually be a bit too big)

When you connect it to the start to create a big loop, your working yarn should be at the top, and the original tail should be at the bottom, connecting together on a little diagonal line.

Connect with a slip stitch, and then use a separate hook to pull the tail through to the other side and connect that with a slip stitch and then put through the whole thing up to the top so that you can crochet over it to hide it. Kind of hard to convey that through text so I'll put a diagram:

[ID: A simple digital diagram in two parts. The first shows the starting end of a foundation double crochet row, shown in dark green, with a lighter green tail. It is labeled, "U started here", Opposite this, with an orange crochet hook, is the end of the same row, labeled, "ending row here". Both have diagonal ends that will form a perfect match when pressed together. A black arrow points from this diagram to the bottom of the image, where the two ends have been joined, with the crochet hook now in a loop labeled, "Slip stitch", and the lighter green tail going over to connect to the ending point, then back to the front, and then being pulled upward to the top of the row, with numbered instructions of "pull thru here, then back, slip stitch, pull up here, and crochet over to hide". End ID.]

Make two more rows of regular double crochet.

On what would be your fourth total row if you include the foundation row, put it on, and measure with your hands how far apart the outer corners of your eyes are, and mark the corresponding stitches. Count how many stitches are between these marks, and then chain that many, continuing on the other side with regular double crochet.

On the row after this, make the same number of double crochets that you chained before around that chain, and then keep going like normal.

Depending on how tall your head is, make more rows of double crochet, until it fits comfortably on your head with your eyes lined up with the eye gap.

Clothes with a row of single crochet connecting the two at the top to form the cat ears.

shorter version with no descriptions:

Foundation double crochet until long enough to fit around your head (or the head of whoever you're making it for) with some slight stretching. All rows after this except the closing row are just normal double crochet.

One double crochet in each stitch

One double crochet in each stitch

Chain however many stitches is long enough to go from one corner of your eye to the other, and make one double crochet in each of the rest of the stitches.

One double crochet across the chain you made for every stitch you skipped, then keep making one double crochet in each stitch the rest of the way around.

For every row after this, make, you guessed it, one double crochet in each stitch, until the hat is tall enough to fit on your head with the eye space in the correct spot.

Press the top edges together, and single crochet the two together as you go across. Cut yarn, slip stitch to secure, and weave in tail.

[dandyshucks]

what i imagine an average person would think when they make their third ever animation sequence: I'll try to make a bouncing ball or maybe eyes blinking!

me on my third ever animation attempt:

(its a little wonky but pretty damn good for being done in an hour and only being my third attempt at animating something !!!)

[gxldensxldiers]

Between Arthur’s overall Willingness to Commit to the Bit and grown up theater kid tendencies and Clove’s chaotic gremlin energy and love for DND I stg they’re about to become quick contenders for ‘worst muse pair up’ for this blog.

[bi-writes]

Is it possible for Simon's MOB request him to dress up as Ghost for Halloween? and of course she will wear whatever Simon want her to

But if you don't want to bring Ghost into MOB's universe, just skip this. We completely understand 😉

it's about time, huh?

mail-order bride (18+)

when simon comes home after a long two weeks away, he's pleasantly surprised by what waits for him. there's carved pumpkins lined up on the porch ascending up the steps, and there's candles lit inside, making them flicker. along the porch railing, there's garlands with orange lights, and there's a black feathered wreath on the door. simon smiles under his mask, even wider once he sees the cats staring at him from the window. their tails are swishing, and he waves at them before putting the key into the door and coming inside.

it smells like pine. there's candles on everywhere, making the entire living room glow a soft orange.

all the throw pillows are different. they've been changed. they are made of velvet and linen, with some of them having fall prints on them like black cats and pumpkins and autumn-colored checkers. there's pumpkin motifs and leaves everywhere, like all the colors everywhere have been changed to browns, reds, and sage greens. you poke your head out from behind the fridge, smiling as you see simon by the door, taking off his boots and jacket. he showered before coming back from work; you can tell because he's not wearing the skull balaclava, and he has regular clothes on.

"hey," you greet him softly, waving. "you're in early."

"couldn't wait," simon murmurs. "had to come see my girls."

you snort, rolling your eyes, but you shut the fridge before coming into the living room. you wrap your arms around his neck easily, tugging him close as you snatch his mask off and kiss him softly.

"i missed you, simon," you whisper between kisses, and he wraps those big arms around you tight, cradling the back of your head as he kisses you back.

"i missed ya more."

you giggle when he picks you up a little, turning you in a little circle before setting you back down. it baffles you how easily he takes your weight; barely even grunts, just smooths his hands down your thighs and picks you up with that wicked, crooked smile.

"loved wot ya did wit' the house, luv," simon adds, chuckling low. your eyes light up, and you look around, beaming at the cozy couch you've made up with the new blankets and pillows you had bought. you giggle, looking back at him, cupping his cheeks to bring him closer to you.

"the kettle's on. why don't i make you some tea? we have so much to catch up on," you coo, and simon blushes, easily, and you giggle when he tries to look away. "simon!"

he slips a hand up your skirt to stop your laughing. you gasp, your breath caught in your throat, and simon hums as he kisses along your jaw, chapped lips sucking at the skin until you're liquid in his arms.

"mmm...a cuppa sounds nice, baby," simon chuckles in your ear, and you nod, pulling away slowly. he squeezes your ass gently before letting you go, kissing under your ear before he collapses onto the couch, sinking into it. he grabs one of the thick new blankets thrown over it, and you come into the room a few minutes later with his mug of tea and a big smile on your face. "oh, ya didn't have ta do tha'...i-i meant--"

"i know what you meant, simon," you say softly, setting it down next to him. "i wanted to, okay?"

he smiles a little, nodding, and then he reaches for your hand to pull you into his lap.

"okay, hafta catch up, luv," simon sighs. "tell me wot happened while i was gone. want ta know everythin'."

you shrug, leaning back against his chest.

"did a lot of shopping," you tell him. "a lot. sorry about the bills, simon."

"don't worry about the bills," he says firmly, and you smile a little when he takes your hands and squeezes them gently. "tell me more."

"i bought mostly stuff for the house," you smile. "all the halloween stuff. i left a few pumpkins for us though. that we can do together."

"mmm. i'd like tha'."

"and i bought...some halloween costumes," you finish, looking over your shoulder at him. he raises a brow, grinning, and he tilts his head to the side.

"you wanna dress up, tha' it, luv?"

"well...i bought a lot of costumes for me," you continue. "i...i was hoping...that..."

simon nudges you a little. you swallow, squeezing his hands, and he kisses your shoulder gently.

"well...i was hoping you could put on your..." you clear your throat, "i mean...you could be...ghost...and i-i could be--"

"ya want me ta wear my mask?" simon asks, leaning in a little. he puts his face into the crook of your shoulder, and you shiver a little. "want me to be ghost...not simon...tha' it, baby?"

you can't meet his eyes. you shrink a little in his lap, and he buries his face further, sucking gently on the curve of your jaw.

"woteva ya want, swee'eart," simon mutters. "can have woteva ya want."

"simon--" you gasp, arching your back, and he wraps a strong arm around your middle and holds you against him.

"shhh--" simon quiets you. "'s olright. why don't ya wait 'ere for me, aye? sit right there, lookin' so pretty..." he wraps a big hand around your throat, holding you there, squeezing gently. "why don't ya sit there, and i'll go put somethin' on, and we can practice?"

"p-practice?"

"tha's right," simon licks his lips. "got to see if our costumes will look nice together, don't we? got to make sure we match."

"y-yeah..."

"will ya wait 'ere, swee'eart? wait right 'ere for me?"

"yes. yeah. yes, simon." you're breathless, shaking practically, and simon tucks you against the couch before grabbing his bag and heading into the bedroom. he gives you a wink before the door shuts, and you put a hand over your chest and breathe deeply as you settle there.

your husband never fails to make your head spin. he occupies your every thought; the way he loves, the manner in which he takes care of you, the insatiable look in his eyes whenever his eyes are on you. never in your life have you ever been more at the center of someone else's world. never in your life has every word that leaves your mouth been so akin to some kind of revered gospel.

everything you say matters. nothing that you do can be wrong. nothing that you feel is ever dismissed, nothing that you want is ever not given to you, everything in your life is sunshine and rainbows and fuck, he's so fucking hot--

your brain goes fuzzy when the bedroom door opens again. it's someone you don't recognize, not really.

even when you've visited him on base, he somehow still maintains himself as simon in your presence. when you look into those eyes, you always recognize them. they are soft, they are kind, they are the ones you have always known.

whoever stands in front of you isn't someone you've met yet. he's taller, somehow. maybe it's the way he stands. feet spread apart in those steel-toed boots, cargos snug around his massive legs. your eyes start low, taking in the holsters that are positively squeezing his big thighs to his waist. mmm, his solid middle. that place that never gives, that feels full and warm when you've fed him a nice meal, now he uses it as his own personal armor. he wears a windbreaker under his tact vest, but he's pushed the sleeves up to his elbow, his tattoos on display. they've never looked so right on him until now. you follow the line of his chest to his face.

his face. his second skin. you've seen this mask before, that dirty skull that he never washes properly that frames his eyes, making him sunken and dead. he's smeared eye-black on under it, and his eyes are voids. they sink, the whites barely peeking through, and as you look at him, really look at him, you don't recognize what you see.

he's so big. he's never looked bigger. he takes up the entirety of the doorway, and you shift on the couch as you take in all of him this way.

it's like seeing someone new. it's like being married to two different men. it's simon, surely, somewhere under there, but whoever you're in the presence of isn't simon.

"hmm..." you giggle nervously, standing up. he narrows his eyes a little, flexing his hands in and out of fists, and you point to the bedroom behind him. "i'm...i'm gonna go get the costumes i bought. and...and we can pick one for me."

he blinks, but he says nothing. he walks slow, past you, and you hold his eyes as he does, and he holds yours. you turn to keep eye contact as he takes a seat on the couch, spreading his legs wide, resting his hands on his thighs. you swallow, nervous under his intense stare, and you hurry towards the bedroom to fish the costumes out of the closet.

you look at yourself in the mirror. you look frazzled. your entire body feels hot, too hot, and your palms are clammy. you wipe your face gently before going back into the living room, where ghost is waiting exactly where you left him.

it looks like he hasn't moved an inch.

you hold up a few of the hangers, showing off the outfits on them.

"o-okay, i got a few. some of them are...kind of dumb," you laugh nervously. you hold up a stupid nurse outfit. it's a short little dress that would show off your thighs and way too much cleavage, and ghost considers it for a few long moments before he shakes his head. you clear your throat, nodding. "yeah, this one was dumb."

you toss it aside, holding up another one. it's a fitted bodysuit with a matching witch's hat, and ghost shakes his head at this one as well. you toss it aside to show him the next. he turns down every single one. little red riding hood. alice in wonderland. even the cute little corset angel dress that you really thought would work.

you play with your fingers nervously, looking at the costumes that you've tossed over a chair. you frown a little, curling your toes, the picture of quietly frustrated as you think about what to say next. ghost sits there, unbothered, staring at you as if he's waiting for something. he blinks slow.

"i-i don't understand what you want," you whisper. "i...i thought you'd like at least one of them, i mean..." you run a hand over your face, shrugging. "what do you want me to wear, nothing? i--"

ghost tilts his head to the side, making your breath catch in your throat.

what do you want me to wear, nothing?

your lips part, and you take a few deep breaths. nothing. he wants you to wear nothing. simon--well, simon would say differently. simon would tell you to wear whatever you wanted. he'd tell you that you would look beautiful in every single one, and you think maybe he'd ask you to wear the nurse outfit just to be cheeky.

not ghost. ghost doesn't like the theatrics. ghost doesn't care for the game. he doesn't chase, everything he wants comes to him, or he makes it come to him. everything he desires ends up between his teeth, and that includes the woman that's wearing his fucking ring standing in front of him.

you take a timid step forward. he narrows his eyes under the mask, watching curiously, and when you make your way between his legs, he stares up at you, right into your eyes. you smile.

"you might be a ghost, but you're still my husband," you say softly. "so will you do the honors for me?"

ghost hums lowly. he reaches for you, gripping the base of your shirt, and he lifts it over your head with ease. he tugs your shorts down along with your panties as you unclasp your bra, and finally you see the flicker of something in those eyes when your tits fall in his line of sight.

there's a man under it all, as much as he would like to pretend like there isn't.

you lean over, putting your hands on either side of him on the back of the couch before straddling him. he grunts as you sit down, his hands finding your waist, and you lean forward enough to press your forehead to his.

ghost, like your simon, is insatiable. as soon as he has you this close, his hands are wandering. gloved hands slide up your slides and cup your tits, thumbs smoothing over your nipples until they're puckered and hard. once he's satisfied that you're shuddering enough, his hands fall to your thighs, spreading them apart even more before he grips both sides of your ass and squeezes, spreading them apart. the tease of his thumb over your ass makes your brain restart, and if he wasn't wearing the mask, you have a feeling you'd seek a sickening grin come over his face.

your mouth falls open, short breaths leaving you, and your eyes flutter closed when his hand slips between your thighs and cups you, big palm swallowing your folds as he puts two fingers to your clit and makes a nasty squelch as he moves them in firm circles.

"olready so wet..."

you squeak with surprise when he flips you over. your back slams against his chest, and it arches away from him as he plants your heels on either side of his thighs and wraps an arm around your middle to hold you against him.

"oh--ha--"

you reach back and grip the back of his neck for support as he puts his hand back where it belongs. two gloved fingers move in achingly slow circles through your folds, but like a teasing shit, he only skims your clit every so often. he leans in, humming against your ear, and he smacks his lips under the mask as he watches from over your shoulder.

"is it time?" he rasps against your cheek. "mmm...y'r husband neglects ya, huh?"

"w-what? no..."

"'s olright," ghost huffs. "i know. even pretty girls need to get fucked, tha's the truth, innit?"

"nnghh--"

"even sweet, pretty girls deserve a firm hand. don't hafta be so gentle...ya don't want gentle, aye? not wot ya need."

"just need you," you whine, and he paws at your tits hard as he sinks two fingers into you, right down to the last knuckle. you cry with relief, bucking your hips up against his hand, and he shushes you, shaking his head. ghost is simon's nasty alter ego, and you just want more and more and more of it.

"relax," he chuckles. fuck, he's so smug, it's infuriating and appealing all the same. "just need ta get ya nice and soft...need ya to open up fer me. won't be easy, takin' me."

like always with your husband, the one thing that is easy is not thinking at all. you sink, relaxing into his grip until there is no resistance from you. you don't have to have any thoughts when it comes to him. you can just be in the moment. you can float on this plane of nonexistence, this place that is just for you where you can just be and enjoy and think of nothing but how good you feel at this exact moment. he's got such big fingers--they curl, petting your insides, coaxing you to make all sorts of soft, pretty noises that just make him more desperate. he's hard against your ass; he chubbed up as soon as you sat in his lap, but now it's an unmistakable feeling.

he is everything you have ever wanted. he is more than you deserve. for your entire life, nothing has ever felt more precious. nothing has ever been more special. no one in the entire world has ever been so pervasive and demanding and thoughtful and wonderful, and you love him so much, you think you might die if you don't have him--

"i know," his voice brings you back. you're crying, tears wetting your face. you're shivering, holding onto him, babbling nonsense that sounds a lot like i love you and please and more. "i know, baby--it's so good, innit? feels so good, look at ya...look at ya, 's oll mine, 's mine, everythin' tha' y'are is mine."

everything you are is mine. skin, bone, and all.

"i'm gonna--no!" you seize when his fingers leave you. you miss them, turning around in his lap, cupping his cheeks, shaking your head, desperate desperate desperate. "don't take it from me, don't--!"

he hums. deep within his chest, something you feel trickling up his throat as your hands slide down his neck. you paw at the tactical vest, pulling on the straps, but ghost is something you cannot move. he's rigid, solid. nothing about him gives. even hard, pressed up against your cunt, he loses no control.

"gonna be good?" he asks. "hmm? gonna be good, and let me take care o' this, aye? can't 'ave ya coming on my fingers, swee'eart. first time ya come tonight, 's gonna be on my cock, y'hear tha'? say you hear me."

"i hear you--"

"tha's good, good, i like tha', like when ya do wot i ask. 's easy, innit? easy ta do wot i tell ya."

you can see those eyes. you're in love with those eyes. it doesn't matter how much he paints around them or how many layers he covers his face with, you will never forget them. you will know them when you close your eyes for the last time, and you will know them when you are born again, and you will spend eternity looking for them until you find the ones you know belong to you.

simon will wear a million faces, and you will know each and every one of them, just like you know this one, even the one you can't see.

simon makes other men so inferior. ghost makes them infinitely obsolete.

"so pretty, i've got such a pretty wife," ghost mutters. "did good, didn't i? gettin' myself such a nice girl. a messy girl." you're drooling as he lifts his hips, undoing his jeans with one wet, gloved hand. the zipper comes down, and your eyes fall as you watch him shove the denim just below his balls. "fuck--so full, baby, huh? won't last if y'keep lookin' at me tha' way, close y'r mouth."

you giggle a little. it escapes you without you even thinking, and when ghost tilts his head to the side, you're caught in it. he's about to fuck you for the very first time. he's about to eat, like he's never eaten before. you're about to lose your fucking mind, that's for certain, and nothing about it scares you.

simon might not be here right now, but ghost still knows what you are to him. he's going to take care of you. he loves you.

you cradle his head when he turns you in his lap. you clutch onto the back of his mask, lowering yourself in his arms as you press your lips to his over the mask. your shuddering breaths make him groan, and he hisses when you use one hand to slip his cock between your thighs, rocking your hips to coat him in slick. the bulbous head catches between your ass, and you lick over his jaw as you draw your hips back, meeting his eyes again.

you never want to know another man. even if they take him from you, even if someone manages to put a bullet in him, you'll never be with anyone else. this is it, the end all be all.

"not supposed t'think," ghost tells you. "y'r too pretty t'think."

your lashes flutter, and he grins under the mask.

"just the tip?" he teases. you press your forehead to his, shaking a little, and you nod your head. you take it nice and slow. he hitches you high up on his lap, on your knees, and you're a whimpering mess when he pushes the fat tip inside of you. you rock your hips, feeding yourself more, and ghost leans his head back when he feels you squeezing and squeezing and squeezing as you take just a little more of him, little by little. "don't need ta work ya open when y'r cunt's beggin' for it, innit?"

you squeeze his broad shoulders, leaning all your weight on him as you sit down on his cock. both of you groan, finally one, and you push his mask up to seal a kiss as you feel him throbbing as he touches deep.

"i love you so much," you whisper between kisses, "but i've been waiting t-too long for this."

"don't worry," ghost mutters. "there'll be time f'nice 'n sweet later. i know wot y'need."

and fuck, he certainly does.

ghost has you propped up underneath him when he fucks you for the first time. he shoved a few pillows under your hips, and the angle has your eyes in the back of your head as he indulges himself. when he puts a gloved hand low on your tummy and presses, you see it--fuck, it's good.

he's hitting that spot again and again now. the groans that slip out, the ones he can't control, have you squeezing his cock every time he meets your hips, and he has to grab onto your thighs to keep you from shaking yourself too hard. his balls are heavy, fat, smacking against your ass with a wet sound that's making it hard to focus. you go in and out, and every time that skull mask comes into your vision again, you feel a new wave of shudders make it's way down your spine, curling your toes.

"tha's it, love--" ghost praises. "ughh, knew ya'd be so good f'me. knew ya'd take it like this. open up--yeah, yeah--fuck--" he spits into his glove, nasty, and when he thumbs at your clit, you mewl. your back nearly lifts off the couch and the pillows you rest on, but ghost just cackles, pressing you back down, his palm a nice weight on your tummy as he pushes down again just right and-- "oh--fuck--there it is..."

your orgasm is unlike any other you've ever had. for a split second, the world is nothing but stars. your vision hazes, white spots dancing, and when you blink back to consciousness, ghost has slowed his hips, his hands gripping your hips as he watches the mess between your legs quickly wet his cargos. he hums low, eyes wild, and he keeps fucking up into you suddenly, a bit quicker, renewed vigor.

"want anotha one," ghost hisses, and you babble as you try and tell him i-i can't, never been able to--but he's still going, still running his big thumb in nice circles, and when he draws your legs up and over his shoulders and leans his weight on you, you cry with relief when something softer but just as lovely hits you head-on. ghost gets down onto his elbows, faltering, and when you feel his cum spurt, you shake at how good it feels to be surrounded by your husband, inside and out, the start of him and end of you blurred between tangled limbs and shared breaths and the wedding band you can feel him wearing underneath his gloved hand as he intertwines your fingers and squeezes.

your body is liquid. it seeps back into the couch, melding to the cushions underneath you, and you smile up at your husband as he smooths his hands over your face and chuckles low and breathless.

"y'r so beautiful," he murmurs, and you tell him the same, because it's true. you touch your nose to his, breathing him in, and when you laugh, he asks you what it is.

"i just..." you laugh again. "hmm...why did we wait so long?"

you laugh together, soft and quiet, and when you kiss him, he's gentle. he sits up enough to throw his gear off, the tact vest falling to the floor, and you toss his mask behind you so you can scratch at his short hair and kiss his cheeks.

"so..." you bite your lip, and he gives you all his attention.

"wot is it, baby?"

"you...wanna go again?"

[gaybirdnerd]

Sleep-Deprived Sarcasm

Ghost is an asshole.

Everyone knows this, everyone thinks this.

Ghost is an asshole in ways that many don't really stop to appreciate. Because he may be an asshole, but he's not mean in a way that actually hurts anyone.

He'll casually call someone a dumbass if they did something stupid. He'll find solace in smacking a particularly close teammate over the head after a dumb stunt (Soap) or berating them until their ears are ringing for saying something stupid in front of a superior officer or someone interrogating them (Gaz).

He's an asshole, but he's loving about it in ways those who aren't close to him don't see.

Can't see.

It's a privilege to be able to hear when Ghost is sarcastic. People will hear stories around the base of him being incredibly sarcastic to Soap or Captain Price.

Soap brags about being able to get him to ask the invisible audience what he's won when Soap himself says something particularly dumb in front of him.

Price once told a funny story that no one actually believes where Ghost, high on the exhaustion of a mission gone sour and 4 days of minimal sleep, asks where he should house the high horse a particularly nasty unnamed superior rode in on during a debrief.

Everyone knows Ghost is an asshole. No one except the 141 sees when that asshole tendency turns soft and pointed and trusting. No one but them knows how deeply gratifying it is to see him dropping his guard and actually saying something disrespectful in front of them, showing a little bit of his Simon Riley attitude and personality rather than the forced blankness that "Ghost" is supposed to personify.

The first time Gaz saw him drop his guard, he cried.

According to Soap anyway.

It had been a time when everyone was getting eyed for their actions, after a stressful but successful mission, by their superiors.

Ghost had obviously had enough of the people breathing down their necks and sending them on pointless missions to "see if [taskforce 141] are good enough to keep on." The entire taskforce was put into question and none of them had gotten a good night's sleep in about a week between all of the debriefs, training, missions, and pointless lectures about being "the face of the military" (bullshit if you ask any one of them, especially the one in the mask) and it was getting on their nerves.

Ghost wasn't one to show his anger much when he was meant to be Ghost unless he deemed that it benefitted them, made the enemies or even allies nervous, and made them listen.

So seeing him overly sarcastic and willing to be directly disrespectful? It's a rite of passage.

It happened in the kitchen at 0300.

Gaz and Soap are shooting the shit getting some coffee to wind down and talking about how horrible the breath of their "borrowed" commander is when Ghost walks in wearing civvies and his usual hard skull balaclava.

"You look tired, Ghost" Gaz decides to comment, seeing the slouch in the taller man's shoulders that he wouldn't normally be able to see.

In the heaviest "no shit" voice he seems to be able to muster, Ghost looks him dead in the eye, holds a pretend microphone to Soap and says "He got the right answer, give the man a prize! What did he win Johnny Boy?"

Between one blink and the next, Soap making a choking noise like a dying cat and proceeding to double over forwards to laugh into his knees, and Gaz staring at Ghost like he had lost his mind, Ghost grabs a mug and starts making tea with more sugar than necessary.

When he walks out, taking the tea with him and cursing the universe for "dumbass shithead commanders," Gaz has to sit down as Soap tries to catch his breath, finally able to control himself now that Ghost isn't there looking like a puppy just woken up from a particularly hard nap despite none of them having gotten sleep in the past 24 hours.

It started happening more frequently from there.

Gaz would say something obvious on particularly hard days, days where they were all exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep but couldn't because of various dealings with higher-ups or responsibilities, and Ghost would hand either Soap or Price a microphone and be sarcastic.

He tries saying the dumbest things he can to start longer speeches, something he was told to do by Soap after finding out that the more sarcastic he gets, the more he rants about the topic. They eventually start timing the rants when he gets into it.

The winner so far is a minute and a half to Soap for getting him to rant about fall and leaves. They don't remember how that started.

In one memorable instance, Price says something stupid. Ghost, being half asleep at the table while they all wait for some superiors to get there for a meeting, hands Gaz the microphone and sasses Price so hard Soap is choking on breath until the first superior enters 10 minutes later.

[itsvelyria]

"where they would like to kiss you"

Charles Leclerc

he was taken by the nape of your neck the first time you had swept your hair up into a bun. the expanse of skin was dotted with moles that felt like a black holes drawing him in. that was your first date. and he was man enough to admit he was completely besotted with it, fingertips dusting across the span of skin whenever he was near you. he recalls the one time you said that his touch sent shivers down your spine. so he had taken the bold leap of dropping a kiss there next, sending you reeling in surprise. he had made it his personal mission to ingrain that action in your mind after, and the look you send him afterwards was just an added bonus.

Carlos Sainz

it was the classic kiss, the one that transcended time and age - a peck on the cheek. it was the place he could kiss you on at any time, any location and it didn't help that such a simple gesture would send your cheeks flushing, shy at the display of affection from him. it cemented as his favourite spot before a particular race that he couldn't even remember, where he had casually strolled towards you, tugging the balaclava down over his lips and stealing a easy kiss from you. the blood had rushed to your face before you pushed him away and turned away from the camera in embarrassment. you never stood by the barriers again.

Danny Ricciardo

it wouldn't even be a spot he liked to kiss, it was more accurate to describe it as the place he liked to tease you. danny loved pulling the skin of your earlobes between his teeth, lightly tugging at it. and you were equally freaky, laughing whenever he did it. you had grown used to him playing at your ears now that you had grown especially sensitive to it, your grip on his bicep or shoulder tightening whenever you felt his breath dust across the thin layer of skin there.

George Russell

he was a tall man and there was always a height difference between him and his partners. you, however, were particularly short. he often joked about how his back would start aching from bending down to hear you speak before he even reached the age of 30. you would playfully smack his stomach and his mischievious nature would kid that that was the highest part of him you could reach - it was an ongoing joke. but one thing he loved about your height was that his lips was at the perfect height to land a peck on your forehead, and so he found every opportunity to do so. he loved how he could wrap his arms around your shoulder, tugging you that much closer to him.

Lando Norris

he did it as a joke once, landing a kiss on your fingertips in the middle of an argument getting out of hand. your finger was pointing to something he couldn't remember and he had snatched your arm. you were stunned for a second, till he did it again and you had promptly dissolved into laughter at the silliness of your boyfriend. since then, he had used it for all sorts of things, all ending in your strong emotions dissipating and your now-calm form melting in his arms.

Lewis Hamilton

your relationship was far from a fairytale, the media and public eye causing endless problems for you both. but despite this, lewis has always thought of you as someone to adore and respect, which is why his preferred way to show affection was through a kiss on your hand. when your hand was tangled in his, walking down the streets of somewhere, was when he was reminded of how lucky he was to have your path in life intertwine with his, that he could hold you with him wherever he went. the man would then lift your joined hands to his mouth where he pressed his lips to the back of your hand, whispering that he loved you so so much.

Max Verstappen

you often teased him for nuzzling your neck one too many times, likening him to a cat, to which he would chuckle and pull you close to do the very action you were using as material. what you didn't realise, was that he actually loved your jaw. it was midway between your lips and neck, making it an intimate location but at the same time, it was the most subtle conveying of your connection. it didn't seem to earn groans from the people around and after all, who else other than two people, head over heels for each other, would place a kiss on the jaw?

[hidingwhere]

Hybrid Task Force 141 x Human Reader AU

Hybrid AU where 99% of the world are hybrids and the only remaining humans are either hiding away or being taken by those of power for experimental use. After all, humans are such strange, complex creatures to hybrids.

The Task Force 141 are on a mission in an unknown country, cold and frost lingering against their bones and leaving them with a constant chill. All four of the men were wolf hybrids, hence why they were a task force. They stuck together through thick and thin and battlefields of violence.

However, one day, when stalking through the woods with guns strapped over their backs and heavy clothing to keep them warm, they stumbled upon a little creature. Kyle, who spotted you first, thought you were a little cat, maybe a snow fox suited for the weather… until he saw your pale face and human ears. Human ears. That fact itself almost stopped him in his tracks.

What was a human doing in an awful snow storm like this? He approached slowly, crouching down before pulling you forward and taking a long sniff of the air. A human, confirmed. He called the others over urgently, grabbing at the thin material of your jumper and jeans and watching your scared little expression become even more petrified when seeing three men appear from behind the first.

“Bloody hell,” Johnny mutters. “What the hell is a human doing ‘ere?”

“They’ll die out here if we don’t get them somewhere warm,” Price adds on gruffly, his wolf-like ears pushed back unhappily at the weather.

“They’re scared,” Simon points out. “Gotta hope they ain’t a fighter otherwise they’ll be giving themselves a death wish staying out here.”

Kyle turned to look back at you again, your body reeking of anxiety and nerves as he didn’t let go of your jumper. “Darling, you’ve gotta come with us, alright? We’ll keep you safe.”

No reply. Not a single word. He purses his lips before quickly making a decision and hauling the child up into his arms. “Come on, we need to get back to the cabin.”

You’re surprisingly compliant as they walk back to their temporary place, not struggling or trying to run away. They wonder if the cold has affected you so badly that you have no energy to try and fight back, or you don’t realise what’s actually happening. Kyle sits you down by the log burner in the living room upon the old carpet. The fire sparks and produces masses of heat that slowly wafts over to you as John wraps a blanket around you.

Your head falls back in exhaustion but John stops it and pushes it forward again, watching your slow blinks and disorientated movement.

“Can’t believe there was a child out there,” Johnny voices suddenly makes an appearance as he walks from the kitchen. He hands John a freshly made hot water bottle who then proceeds to place it on your small feet.

“When’s the last time you saw a human, eh?” He asks John, crouching down beside you.

“Years back.”

They soon set up a little make-shift bed on the floor besides the warm fire and let you rest. When you wake up, the fire is slowly settling down and emitting less heat. That is however until Johnny chucks another wooden log on the burner. It crackles wildly as you sit up, blinking and looking around. You feel a thick blanket beneath you that still doesn’t cover the feeling of the hard wooden floor.

“You alright, kid?”

You stare, perplexed, at the man in front of you. He’s human except for the… wolf ears. They flicker every few seconds, twitching.

“You feeling warm?”

No reply.

“Still in a little bit of shock?”

No reply.

Suddenly, Simon walked into the room, the bottom part of his balaclava pulled up as he sipped on his tea.

“‘M fucking freezing,” he says as he passes Kyle. You watch the little interaction, the massive masked man so casually drinking tea with a mug in his hand. You slowly look to Johnny.

“That’s Simon, he’s not as scary as he looks, I swear. The one that just walked past is Kyle, the one with the beard is John and I’m Johnny.” He smiled at you.

“Where am I?” You ask quietly. “I was in the woods… woke up here.”

“Ah, well, we were on a little mission and saw you wondering about. Didn’t wanna let you freeze out there so… brought you to our temporary cabin.”

“But you’re… a wolf.” There’s a few seconds of silence as you stare up at the man. “Don’t you live in caves?”

He barks out a laugh at your statement, finding it amusing. You seemed like someone to have little to no knowledge about hybrids. “Nah, we live in normal homes.”

“And you’re all wolves?”

“Mhm.”

[stepintothelimelight]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ VEGAS VEGAS VEGAS

TRAILER: You know what they say about Vegas…

(Max Verstappen x driver!Reader)(SMAU+written)

WARNINGS: fluff? not really anything

fc: random pinterest couples

Aaaaannnnd ACTION!

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

It’s a close race. 

A nail biter. 

This race, the news outlets have been saying. This is the race that will determine the WDC. 

And it is.

If you finish in even one more place over Max, you will have tied his season points and be in the battle for the WDC.

Mercedes and Toto call for you in your ear as you sail across the finish line with a fine margin between you and Max - your biggest rival.

You climb out, and the first thing you see is your team. There’s this giant, painful smile that’s splitting your face open as they hit on your helmet and you hug and cheer and scream. 

“W-D-C! W-D-C!” they chant. You join them. Toto somehow finds his way to you and you hug him and then Susie, too.

And then the crowd parts and you take you’re helmet off and your balaclava, leaving you with a messy, sweaty head of frizzy hair. That damn smile and the flush in your cheeks refuses to leave, even as you meet the freezing eyes of the one and only Max Verstappen.

He could have been done with the Championship by now if it weren’t for you and your streak of wins in the late season. 

He lumbers towards you and you meet him halfway, hands coming up and - 

His lips meet yours in the most passionate kiss that you’ve ever experienced. Your hands pull at his neck and his at your waist and hips. It’s like it’s just the two of you. 

Of course, there are cameras around. Everywhere. They’re lapping up this opportunity like cats to warm milk. The two of you rarely show PDA in the paddock, preferring to keep professional and personal passions separate. 

He gently pulls away and cups your face, brushing back your damp baby hairs. His full lips curve into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Hi!” You yell at him over the din.

“Hello!” He yells back. “Next stop, World Champion!”

Because Max isn’t how the media portrays him.

 He’s sweet and soft and he loves hard and fast. He wants a competitor. He wants someone who can beat him at his own game over and over again. 

You pull him in for one last kiss, but both of you are smiling too much for it to be real. 

“Let’s get married!” You exclaim. 

He does a double take, then kisses you again. 

“Let’s get married.”

“You’re doing what?” Lewis demands in the car back to the hotel. You sit in between him and a grinning Max, clutching  your soon-to-be husband’s hand. 

“We’re getting married tonight,” Max affirms. You nod emphatically. 

It wasn’t exactly a spur-the-moment type of idea. You’ve talked about getting married, having kids, growing old together. And now you’re in vegas. Neither you nor Max need an extravagant ceremony. All you need is a room, an officiant and some rings. You would prefer it if all your best friends were there, too, which is why you’re looking at Lewis. 

“We’re need you to get the rings,” You explain to Lewis, who’s in a blatant state of shock. 

“Rings…” he mutters. 

“Yes, rings,” Max tells him. “You’re famous. Extraordinarily, so it should be very easy to acquire two or three rings.”

Lewis sighs and rubs his forehead.

“Alright, then. Text me the time and place.”

The others have a very similar reaction to You and Max’s proclamation. Shock, then excitement.

You’ve set a time and a place for the wedding: 4 am, 24 hour church of Elvis, and sent it to both the drivers and the WAGs group chats. 

whoever can make it should make it, you said.

Individually, you’ve chosen your bridesmaids, Lily, Kika and Alex, and Max his groomsmen - Lando, Checo and Charles. 

“When did he propose?” Lily demands as soon as the boys have left. 

“He didn’t. I did, right after the win.”

“Ah, yes, during the kiss that’s broken the internet,” Alex giggles. 

“Well the internet better buckle down, cause we’re about to break it again.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

y/nverstappenl/n

y/nverstappenl/n: 11.24.24❣️

tagged: maxverstappenl/n1 

liked by maxverstappenl/n1, charles_leclerc, francisca.cgomes and 63819 others 

view 1673 comments 

maxverstappenl/n1: Mine 🧡🧡

↳ y/nverstappenl/n: all yours for ever and ever 

charles_leclerc: Beautiful couple, fun night! 

↳ y/nverstappenl/n: still nursing that hangover? 💀

↳ charles_leclerc: I thought being a wife would make you more sensitive 😔

↳ maxverstappenl/n1: No, it means we can bully you as the Verstappen-L/n family instead of Y/n by herself 

♥️ by creator 

user1: SO DID NOT EXPECT THIS IN MY F1 2024 BINGO CARD 

↳ user2: YEAH LIKE WHEN DID THAG HAPPEN??? 

landonorris: here’s to a lifetime of 3rd wheeling 🥂

↳ lewishamilton: 🥂

↳ y/nverstappenl/n: cry about it 

francisca.cgomes: beautiful bride 

♥️ by creator 

user3: max hyphenating his last name is such a power move

danielricciardo: Cheers to the happy couple! So glad I could Facetime in🥂🥂

↳ y/nverstappenl/n: aww we love u danny 

↳ maxverstappenl/n1: what she said 👆

user4: Does this mean the battle for the WDC will be Verstappen-L/n vs Verstappen-L/n?

maxverstappenl/n

maxverstappenl/n: Eternity with you my love

tagged: y/nverstappenl/n

liked by y/nverstappenl/n, lewishamilton, redbullracing and 36722 others 

comments on this post have been limited

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Aaaannnnnnd scene!

DIRECTOR’S CUT: Just a little fluffy thing to get me back in the mood for writing!

ps about the spitfire saga: i wrote it all on my notes app and then i updated to ios 18 and now i’m locked out 😤😤 so ummm i just have to muster up the willpower to re plan it all but i swear i haven’t abandoned it!!

part2?????

want to join my taglist? dm me or drop a comment!!

[baremueran]

Ghost how can anyone relax when you're pinching their butt like that 😭😭 also it kinda looks like Simon has cat ears haha

Happy birthday !! Hope you eat something nice and get to rest today!!!

yeeeaah but ghost can do anything he wants haha and so can the cat ........I think its funny because he has to cut two ear holes for his Balaclava, you know...... aaaand thank u!!! sry for the late reply (;

[laughroditee]

You're Coming With Me | A COD fanfic

Simon had been on his way to meet up with the rest of the task force when he heard a tiny mewling off to the left near the woods.  Scanning the tall grass, he paused mid-stroll, his dark eyes falling upon a tiny orange kitten emerging from the underbrush.

“Meow!”

“Where’s your mum?” Simon asked, keeping his eyes and ears open for any signs of other kittens or a mother cat. Unfortunately, there were none.  This cat was probably around three to four weeks old; it was not going to survive on its own.  Bloody hell, he thought, squatting down to seem less threatening, holding out a hand, palm down. 

The kitten slowly approached him, noisily chirping and mewling. With its hackles raised, the kitten’s back slowly arched in a ferocious display, snaking sideways toward him in an effort to scare him away. 

Simon barked out a laugh. “Spitfire, huh?  Come on then, do your worst.”

An airy hiss and a swat were the kitten’s best efforts.

Beneath his balaclava, Simon smiled.  A few raindrops falling from the sky decided for him.  “Can’t stay out here, love.  You’re coming with me.” He looked down at himself.  Where the fuck was he going to put a kitten?  The kangaroo pocket on his hoodie might scare the poor thing, and it’s not like it would fit into his pants pocket.  Pulling his arms in through the sleeves, he turned his sweatshirt around to put the hood in front.  As gently as he could, he picked the orange tabby up, his large hand swallowing it whole, its tiny legs poking out from between his fingers.

He was met with Hell’s fury and a stern letter to the manager as he nestled the tiny thing into the soft basket of his hood.

“Easy, love.  You’re alright.  Let’s get you home.”

Simon cradled the kitten in his hood the rest of the way, his feet striding faster as the rain got heavier.

The pub wasn’t too busy this time of day, so it was easy to spot his teammates.

Price was the first to greet him.  A simple head nod and glass lift always did the job while a chorus of “Ghost!” and “L.T.!” rang out simultaneously from Gaz and Soap.

“Yer late, L.T.”

“Sorry, Johnny, I was bringin’ a friend.”  He carefully moved his hand away from the hood, and the kitten’s head popped out of it to much “oooing” and “aaahing.”

“And who is this?” Price, ever the gentleman, asked for introductions right away.

“I’m callin’ her ‘Honey*,’” Simon said as the kitten in question climbed onto his shoulder, meowing insistently at him.

“Aww, Ghost, that’s a sweet name–” said Gaz.

"Named her after my gun."

There was a pause and the sound of resigned acceptance.  "Of course you did."

“How do you know it's a girl?" Soap asked, examining Honey and trying to pet her.

"She ain't got balls."  Simon picked Honey up and turned her butt to Soap’s face.

Gaz sniggered into his drink while Price just smiled in his amused fatherly way. "Good work, Simon.  Good work."

Author's note: *Honey, as in the Honey Badger gun, or the Chimera as it’s renamed in the Modern Warfare II and III games.

[clairdelunelove]

dry the rain

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

genre: fluff! (rainy day drabble)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, awkward!ghost

synopsis: getting caught up in the rain during a mission is pretty miserable. but ghost makes it his goal to keep you dry and warm– even if it includes shedding off a layer!

a.n. I've been pushing myself to write more and I had a small idea come to mind since it's been raining a lot recently! personally, I imagine him in his 'jawbone' outfit in this one! stay safe, cuties! and if you wish to show more support here's my kofi! <3

-

-

-

thinking about ghost's inner dilemma when the weather gets colder and he realizes that he'd offer anything to you– including his clothes.

-

missions in the rain were, in many cases, the absolute worst. unbearably muddy terrain caused the task force to reroute several times, delaying the overall pick-up time, and he was essentially losing his patience over the whole ordeal. he still had inventory to check, weapons to reload, and strategies to draft. too much on the agenda; too little time. a huff leaves his lips as he hankers down in a rather secluded spot. there aren’t too many recruits flocking around him in this area since they’re preoccupied with shielding away from the incessant rainstorm. many of them crowd around large trees to find cover under the broad leaves. some were huddling to retain warmth because the onslaught of rain meant that a frigid breeze accompanied it. but he settles in the outskirts and it's tolerable. he’s adapted to shouldering the storm and chilliness. though, he does admit that the downpour was intense and his drenched balaclava was a consequence of that. it was so damp and sodden that it clung uncomfortably to the contours of his face. his hand claws at the front of his mask to ease the irritating feeling.

ghost who overhears your quiet sniffling despite your efforts of muffling the noise. it’s so hushed that he barely recognizes it over the harsh thundering of rain but his ears perk at the typical sound. and sure, he distinctly recalls that this is probably your first experience with such severe weather since you were belatedly tossed into this group but it’s a run-of-the-mill incident. technically, it’s not his problem. the icy wind is numbing enough to discern that a person is bound to experience some of the symptoms that coexist with this type of extreme weather. it’s only natural– nothing to fret over. yet, his head turns in your direction before logic can kick in. 

ghost who stiffly asks, “you cold?” like his eyes don’t frantically scan your face for any signs of discomfort. he’d already deduced your current state; spotting the blueish tint creeping up on the edge of your lips and how your eyes appear hazy. he shoves himself into your proximity and at this angle his physique engulfs you. his gloved hand reaches to push the hood of his khaki poncho down so he can properly assess your condition and at this moment he’s unbothered by how sopping wet his mask is. or how intense the rain is. doesn’t care about it anyway– just intends on helping you.  with rain droplets pouring down your face, you look like a hollow version of yourself. vaguely perceives the nauseating tug in his chest when you manage a bleak smile and joke, “was unprepared for this since I didn’t know it’d be raining cats and dogs.” 

ghost who knowingly shakes his head at your banter but still indulges you by murmuring, “is that how the sayin’ goes?” because he fancies the way your lips curl into a lopsided grin. thunder rumbles in the distance and the cozy moment is partially interrupted. ghost notices that your shoulders tense at the occasional roar and you absentmindedly hum in response to his question. you have the best intentions but it’s too late because he’s uttering a curse as your teeth chatter from the blitz of a strong gust of wind that seeps through your layers of clothing. 

ghost who silently begins to shed off his poncho; his only layer of rain-resistant clothing. doesn’t mull over the consequences of catching a cold or worse– never even considers it. he’s prepared to sacrifice for you. “oh,” he hears your surprised gasp and sees how quickly your hands outstretch to ward off his offering, “you need it more than I do, lieutenant. thank you though.” and there’s that sheepish smile on your face again. the flicker of your eyes informs him that you’re embarrassed for needing extra support. for being human. and he’ll never quite understand how genuinely selfless you are. the trait is synonymous to you and a source of strength that is entirely yours to keep. to thrive off of. “s’just take it, pup,” his voice rumbles as profound as a pass of thunder, “you’re cold.” 

ghost who jabs, “don’t fancy carryin’ ya when you get fuckin’ hypothermia,” and then adds under his breath, “don’t want to risk it. ‘specially not with you.” the first half is a total lie and it’s obvious by how he shifts when he says it. he’d carry you to the ends of the earth. however, the second half of his comment is drowned out by the ample rainfall. and you never do hear those words that would’ve kept you warm for eternity but you’re given the next best circumstance when he crouches closer to you. the pouches of his tactical vest, housing grenades or ammunition, dig into your chest and it’s supposed to be uncomfortable if it wasn’t for the gentle way ghost drapes the large garment over your shoulders. 

ghost who takes it upon himself to secure the poncho’s hood over your head so it rests snugly under your chin. you’re still shivering, hot puffs of air escape your lips, but the function of the extra layer slowly warms you up. his gaze on you is burning, “you don’t ever have to pretend,” and then murmurs, “not with me. not ever.” the fabric does its job immediately and shields you from the onslaught of rain. that isn’t the issue he’s concerned about, however.

ghost who, when he pulls away, sucks in a shaky breath because the view that greets him will frequent his dreams. he’s certain of it. his touch accidentally dips down to the slope of your collarbones and he’s directly reminded that you’re wearing his poncho. his clothes. and it drapes over your body so alluringly. dips and presses into every curve of your body. possessiveness creeps up on him like a threatened animal, baring sharp canines and all. your prying eyes don’t aid in the situation either. raking up his exposed forearms, sifting and inquisitive about the tattoos that swirl in a manic pattern. a rare strip of his skin that graces your vision. 

ghost who awkwardly indicates how the fabric loosely hangs off your upper torso since it’s made for his broader physique, “looks ridiculous,” but he’s tugging the hood of the poncho over your eyes. can’t physically operate when he watches how your dewy lashes flutter when he allows his fingers to graze over your shoulders and pat down the cloth for wrinkles. his actions are meant to be mindless, calculative, and intended to take his mind off of you. yet, he can’t– and doesn’t wish to. desires to douse himself in the ethereal glow you embody. the wide, grateful glint in your gaze that brands him vulnerable and when you smile up at him he feels the clouds break. lets the sun warm his skin.

[lialacleaf]

To Care For A Woman

Chapter 8

Summary: You join the army as a last-ditch effort to avoid destitution, but when you sustain an injury protecting Lieutenant Ghost and earn yourself a medical discharge, you're stuck all over again. Or maybe not...

Warnings: Tension, Simon wants to care for you, small reader, a little bit spicy but not NSFW, man worrying about a woman's safety, typical cannon violence, deception I'm sorry it's unedited...

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

You were quiet while you watched him pack. It was always the moments right before he left that you felt the coldest. He hadn't even left yet, but something about watching him move Moonbeam off of his duffle bag for the hundredth time, patting the cat patiently on the head, made your chest ache.

It would be weeks before you saw him again. When he finally noticed you staring from the kitchen, he zipped his bag shut and padded across the living room to pull you into his arms.

"Won't be gone too long, love. Just some loose ends to tie up," he said, placing a kiss on your cheek.

It wasn't as if you wouldn't be busy while he was gone. You had physical therapy, gardening, and plenty of reading to keep yourself occupied until he was back.

You'd still miss him though. The lack of his gruff voice in your ear in the mornings, his arms around your waist, and the feeling of his chest pressed against your back. There was nothing quite like him.

"Tell Johnny I said hello," you murmured, tilting your head upwards to press a kiss against his lips. You knew for the next few months they would become chapped under the rough material of his balaclava.

"Will do."

"Keep each other safe."

Of course.

"Remember to eat something-"

"y/n,"

"I love you, Simon," you murmured.

He hummed softly in your ear as he squeezed you against his chest. "Love you more."

~

It was supposed to have been no longer than three weeks. You'd started calling base after the first month, asking if there had been any sign of his team.

Two months went by with no news, and your poor garden was the victim of your frustration as you aggressively dug up your potatoes and planted carrots. You were going to have a full pantry by the time Simon came home.

Moonbeam had been equally distressed by the lack of Simon's presence, and you found yourself snuggling the cat in bed most days, hoping you'd receive a call to come pick up your husband any day now.

You had just about succumbed to the idea of the third month coming to an end before Simon returned when you received a call from Captain Price, asking that you come to base as quickly as you could.

You had felt unease tighten in your stomach at his tone. The last time you'd received such a call, Simon had been in a horrible state, and you couldn't help but worry about your poor husband as you packed a thermos of tea for him and loaded into the truck.

The drive felt longer than usual, and you wished you could simply teleport directly to him. You pulled haphazardly into a parking spot and jumped out of the truck.

"Lass," Soap greeted you as he led you to Price's door. His face was somber, and he didn't attempt to make conversation.

You knocked softly on Price's door, and waited for a reply. The door opened to reveal the Captain, looking far more tired than you'd ever seen him.

"Sir? Is everything all right?" you asked.

"y/n, come in. Have a seat," he instructed, pressing his lips together firmly.

"Is Simon alright? Can I see him?" you asked desperately.

Price hung his head as he sat before his desk, running his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I...I'm so sorry, y/n,"he started, and your eyes narrowed. He pushed a folder towards you, sighing deeply. "These are all his assets. He left you everything."

He left you everything.

He left you.

"Simon wouldn't leave," you said, your lip wobbling.

"I truly appreciate what you did for him. I'm sure it wasn't easy loving someone like him. Someone like Ghost."

you shook your head, a sob breaking past your lips. "Where is he?" you begged.

Price swallowed thickly. "We couldn't bring you a body, I'm sorry. We were ambushed. The building went up in flames," he explained. "They knew we were coming."

"Where is he!" you sobbed, unwilling to believe he was gone.

Price simply shook his head, moving from his desk to pull you against his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

~

You poured the tea from the thermos into the sink, feeling the tears run down your cheeks as you did so. You couldn't believe it. You had lost him. After everything you'd done to hold onto him, you'd lost him.

The cabin suddenly felt so much colder with the knowledge that he was never coming back. It stung in your chest, and suffocated your throat.

You had money, food, and everything you'd need to live, but you'd give all of it up in a heartbeat if it meant you could have him back.

You placed a hand on the kitchen counter as you fought back a sob.

"I want him back," you whispered. " I want him back!"

Your hand connected with the plain white mug on the counter and sent it flying into the wall, causing it to shatter.

"I want him back! I want him back!" you cried, falling to your knees as your fist pounded into the floor.

He was supposed to be untouchable. Supposed to come back to you. Now he really was his namesake.

You were supposed to be there to protect him, but you hadn't had his back when he needed it most. You'd never felt such a desire to throw your useless body down the stairs.

A soft meowing pulled you out of those dark thoughts, and you pulled Moonbeam into your lap with a sob. "He's not coming back," you whispered to the cat as if wishing the creature would somehow prove you wrong.

you received no answer as you lay amongst the debris of your tantrum on the kitchen floor.

~

The apparitions started shortly after that night you spent sobbing your heart out, begging your husband to come home, as if his Ghost would hear you and miraculously pull his body from the grave once more.

But maybe you had been all too successful in calling his Ghost to you. You felt as if you were being watched when you went into town for more meat. It was an itch in the back of your head that wouldn't disappear.

You could have sworn you saw his figure in the glass window of the shop, but when you turned around he wasn't there.

The shopkeeper raised a brow at you, and you quickly paid before hauling your groceries into the truck.

You couldn’t help but look behind you in the rear view mirror on the drive home, watching to see if you were being followed.

You felt a shift in the wind as you quickly made your way into the cabin, locking the door behind you.

You pulled Moonbeam into your lap as you sat on the couch, rubbing her soft fur as your hands shook.

You saw movement, something shadowy outside your window, and you could have sworn the moonlight reflected a white surface.

You had never seen yourself as the dependent type, but you wished Simon was there to hold you, to reassure you that nothing could harm you.

A loud banging sounded against the door, had you jumping out of your skin, and you ran to the bedroom for your pistol.

You wanted to see your husband again, but not if it meant being six feet under with him.

The banging continued, like an erratic drumbeat of death as the person pounded frantically at the door.

You gripped the hun in your hand, pointing it towards the entry as you threw the door open, prepared to defend yourself against…

The hun fell from your boneless fingers as a choked noise left your lips. Your eyes settling on the panting form before you, blood smeared on the skull mask, ash stuck to his jacket. Ghost.

Your Ghost.

“Simon?” You whispered, noting the wild, frantic look in his eyes. He wheezed a little, coughing as he took a shaky step towards you, his legs nearly buckling beneath him. He shut the door behind him, leaning against it as he slid to the floor.

Another cough racked his body, and a shaking, gloved hand reached for you. You grasped his hand, feeling your heart race inside your chest as you gently pulled his glove away from his hand, inspecting the burnt patches of fabric, before your eyes landed on one of the burns littering his skin.

He simply stared at you through the eyes of his mask, deep brown eyes burning into your form.

He was alive. He was alive. The words rang in your ears over and over again.

You stood quickly, racing to the bathroom for a first aid kit. Ghost didn’t try to stop you, watching closely as you began to strip his other glove, then his jacket, and next his shirt until he was left in the mask and a black tank top.

“This is going to sting,” you warned, dabbing some rubbing alcohol onto his burned skin, watching as he tried not to jerk away from you. There were burns along his shoulders too, and you tended to them carefully, wrapping the once you’d applied a salve to his injuries.

Your eyes settled on his once you were finished, and with a shaky hand he moved to lift the mask above his nose. “C’mere,” He mumbled, tiredly, and you leaned closer, balancing yourself with a hand on the door behind him.

His lips crashed onto yours, and you delicately cupped his chin, leaning into the affection.

“We’ve gotta go,” he said, pulling away. “Gotta help me pack the truck,” he said, stiffly attempting to sit up.

“Go? Go where? Price thought you were dead-“

“Good. We’re safer that way.”

Your eyes narrowed in confusion. “Safer?”

“They were waiting for us. Waiting for me. That was the point. Draw us out, get rid of the Ghost. They got what they wanted, now we have to run before someone decides to make sure they did the job right.”

“We should tell your team-“

“We can’t tell anyone,” he interrupted, his eyes meeting yours before looking away. “You don’t have to come with me,” he began, and your eyes widened. “If you don’t wanna run, you don’t have to, but you can’t stay here. I’ll take you to your family-“

“No.” He tilted his head at you. “I’m not abandoning you, Simon. If you go, I’m coming with you. I’m not losing you again,” you decided resolutely, tears welling up in your eyes.

His eyes seemed to soften, and he reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “If that’s what you want,” he whispered.

Your answer was to press your lips on his. “I did say I wanted to see Cambridge.”

Simon nuzzled your cheek in response. “Whatever you want, love.” He murmured. He’d give you anything and everything.

“You,” you choked. “I want you.” 

Tag List:

@originaldeerhottub @crowbird

@warenai @livynicole @ghostlythots @hilowhiho @mrmountainman @miamia89 @shiraya92 @crocodilefeet2707

@zzariyahchan @gaida-511 @misshoneypaper @soldierlass @dazaiscum @mockerycrow @kaysav608 @classygardencroissantcolor @innerskylover @kristalhi @hotaruteba @tzutology @sushiumex @l3xiluve @immajustlikeok

@iplayghoul @linoskitten11 @zollaris @whore-for-anime @migeuloharaslxt @blog-luvdance @embermdk @buttercupmuffins

@corpsebridenightamare @15382663884 @discowizard88 @strawberryjambrrread @lieblinqs

[cactusisconfused]

I need ghost to have cute socks.

Imagine with me.

Ghost, as he is, is always clad in black. Black balaclava, black hoodie, pants, shoes, weapons- hell, he even has the eyeblack around his eyes. Maybe if he’s feeling real adventurous he’ll throw on some navy blue.

But if you were to somehow see ghost without shoes, you’d find that the ghoul of a person has the cutest and boldest socks you’ve ever seen.

I’m talking blue socks with stylized ducks.

Or maybe bright purple socks with flowers all over.

Or a yellow pair with cats playing with a ball of yarn.

Or maybe his favorite pair which is black with the face of a cat. Therefore the sock forming a black cat. (It even has little ears on the part that meets his shins.)

Soap is downright ecstatic when he learns about this.

[gaybirdnerd]

Cuddles for the bois

The first time it happens is right after they get back from the shitstorm that is Las Almas. Ghost ruffles Soap's hair and tells him to get his ass to his bunk to rest, putting a pushing yet supporting hand on Gaz's back between his shoulders to tell him the same not seconds later.

The touches don't slow from there, in fact, they occur more and more often between Ghost and the other three members of the 141.

They catch him dragging supportive fingertips up Price's side after a heavy debrief, a light touch that speaks volumes of his support and loyalty to Price and his decisions, a reminder to breath and take time.

They feel him graze his hand across shoulder blades and upper arms and their necks after a tough day or a job well done or simply if they're standing too close and too still for too long.

Ghost, their own personal spectre and boogeyman is being tactile, something they could not think in his direction before the mission went tits up at Las Almas.

Price treats it as an expectation, holding his hand out for a light nudge to Simon's side as he passes by, shoulders untensing as Simon leans in close and knocks their knees or shoulders together even when they're standing.

During a particularly tough day for Soap, a headache raging at his skull, recruits being stupid as fuck, and the news of another mission to go on even though they only just got back from this past one, he feels a foot hook around his ankle as he nurses a lukewarm water bottle during dinner and avoids the stale mashed potatoes and minimal amount of gravy on his food tray.

A pudding is placed in front of his face on the table as that damned foot brings his own closer to the perpetrator's space to lock between his two ankles, a grunt of "eat that" thrown his way as the man in question lifts his balaclava up above his nose and starts eating the mush of the night.

It gets more frequent from there. More noticeable to the two sergeants in the group of four. More touch being given and taken freely.

Gaz will be sitting on the couch watching TV and Ghost will sit next to him with a book, close enough that they have constant contact from thigh to knee. Gaz doesn't move, hardly dares to breath for the first few minutes lest Ghost bolt like a particularly skittish cat.

Soap will get his right ankle trapped more often than not during meal times, looking forward to that one point of contact and food switches trays and finds itself with someone who will not have a hard time getting it down due to texture or other reasons.

Price will get pats on the neck, light touches to his shoulders and upper arms, he seems to be the only one willing to give the touch back, the only one not scared that Simon will run if he gets paid attention to.

It comes to a head one day, the day after a particularly brutal mission where a bomb went off about 5 minutes before it was supposed to. It didn't hurt anyone thankfully, but it did leave ringing ears and smoke-filled lungs and rapidly beating hearts filled with fear in the "maybe" within the silence they're met with before the ringing in Ghost's ears subsides enough for him to hear them and respond that he's not dead, not brutally injured, not bleeding out in the forest somewhere near the facility. Just scratches and bruises.

Ghost is sitting and reading on the rec room couch when Soap and Gaz come in with blankets and pillows, throwing them down on the ground near him and then swiftly covering him from shoulder to toe with the softest one in their collection. This covers his book up and causes him confusion until he sees them grabbing their own blankets to wrap around themselves.

The two sergeants put pillows on one side of the couch against the armrest, then Soap starts poking at Simon to move over to the pillows as Gaz shuffles a few more pillows into his arms for something Simon hasn't quite discerned yet. As Simon rests his back against the pillows on the armrest, book closed and bookmarked and set on the ground near him, Soap tucks an extra pillow between Simon's body and the backrest of the couch, moves the book to the coffee table a few feet away and grabs a strap on the front of the couch to bring out the "bed" portion of it.

At this, Simon starts to understand, lifting his body a little to allow for Johnny to maneuver him and the couch cushions as none of the three of them utter a word to break the silence.

Pillows are piled on the bed portion of the couch near where Simon's head is, and the two sergeants follow quickly behind, wrapping themselves tighter in their personal blankets and spreading another large one over the three of them. Johnny next to Simon, Gaz on the outside, all three in contact with each other from shoulder to knee. Gaz drapes himself over Johnny to press an arm to Simon's, said arm being quickly trapped between Johnny and Simon as Johnny traps Simon's left leg between his own and brings out a Nintendo to give to Simon.

Another Nintendo is produced and both are booted up to play a Mario game that Simon doesn't remember how to play and loses quickly for the first two rounds. The three lay there on their couch bed and play the video game for a few hours, switching off on who plays with what device and when. Until during a heated 3-match face off between Johnny and Gaz, they hear a small snore and turn to see Simon with his head tipped back and eyes closed.

They'll catch hell for being in an unspecified location for a long period of time by Price-who doesn't mean any of it, not when Simon looks the most well rested he's ever been and Soap hasn't stopped dragging fingertips up and down Simon's arm behind him and out of view-when they wake up but for now, Soap and Gaz finish their final race and settle down to sleep.

All three are found in the morning, keeping contact with each other in one way or another, a tangle of limbs well rested and relaxed as Simon rests a hand on Gaz's back with the same arm draped over Soap, who has Simon's left leg still locked between his own two ankles and one hand reaching behind him to maintain contact with Gaz's own arm, still trapped between the two other bodies before him.

Weeks later, another tough but successful mission leads to a meeting in the rec room again, Price there this time as the sergeants bring in their load of blankets and pillows and Simon brings out the bed portion of the couch as if they rehearsed this. They drag Price into the pile this time, him on the couch portion, Gaz once again on the outside and throwing a limb-his left leg leg this time-over the others to keep contact with everyone and his left arm over Johnny's waist to spoon him against Simon, Johnny throwing an arm over Simon to grab Price's wrist and legs trapping Simon's left leg again. Simon's left arm is under Johnny, willing to be numb when they wake up in the morning as long as he can keep a hold of Gaz's unoccupied right hand, unoccupied right leg draping over Price's left underneath Gaz's leg.

They set an alarm to wake them up in time for duties this time, there's no games, barely even any conversation, they all just fall asleep one at a time, Simon last as he contemplates and thinks about how he's got a family again, and this time he'll burn the world down before they can be hurt.

[obsidiangravity]

Nikto Gets A Cat

I saw this lovely artwork by @quimera-cami and it possessed me to drop all other WIP to write this.

Summary - Spetsnaz are tasked with guarding a remote location. Can’t ask for a simpler operation really. The only downside for Nikto is having to endure the stifling presence of his teammates. Maintaining what’s left of his sanity in such a tiny house is an exhausting challenge, but at least they all get their own sleeping quarters.

Until Rodion returns from a weekly grocery run with a companion.

Word count - 3.9k

Tags - Fluff, Alcohol, Nikto being nice.

It’s no secret to the closest people in Nikto’s life that he despises cats.

The incessant calls for attention. The hair that seems to overrun everything one owns. Their need to mark and ruin upholstery. His disdain for those common house pets are seen as irrational. Perhaps it's a childhood trauma long forgotten, the unsavoury memories regarding these animals locked away in the dark corners of his mind.

But he disagrees. The extreme hatred is warranted. How could it not? What do they provide other than misery and annoyance. He’s grateful to have been spared the torment of living around one since he joined the military over a decade ago.

So the man is rendered temporarily speechless and imobile when Rodion calls out from behind him on the armchair, “Look at what I found outside the supermarket!” and five kilograms of hissing fluff and fury is dumped on his thighs. 

The feline snarls and bares its teeth at the person that dropped it. Long razor-sharp claws dig into Nikto’s flight suit, poking his skin.

He winces, gaze narrowing at the youngest Russian. “What the fuck is this?”

“Mm, it’s a cat,” Rodion mumbles over a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie as he searches for the TV remote and brushes stray crumbs onto the ground. It makes Nikto’s fingers twitch. “Siberian I think?”

Dmitry looks up from his task of chopping potatoes in the scantily sized kitchen, amusement ghosting the corner of his eyes. “Oh, it could be, but they are usually a little bigger, no?”

The cat, in a blur of unruly fur, launches itself off Nikto's lap, nails screeching and scraping the wooden floorboards as it skitters across like one of those rats caught out in the light in this shithole of a house. In a second, the creature vanishes behind a doorway to a bedroom. The one belonging to Maxim.

Rodion clucks his tongue. “Well, someone tell Maxim he has a new roommate when he’s back from patrol.”

An acidic scowl is hidden behind his balaclava when Nikto notices the strands of hair and filth left on his uniform. “Are you soft in the head? Why did you bring it here?”

“Saw her scavenging in the garbage as I was about to return. I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“Get rid of it, or I will shoot it.” His voice low and coarse. It is the only response Nikto gives before he stands up, readying to leave for a shift change with Maxim.

Nikto returns twelve hours later after a quiet night, slips out of his worn leather boots to find his single bed occupied.

The feline saw fit to curl up on it and rub dirt on his clean white blankets and pillows. Of course it would be in here, his room is the only empty one.

He’s able to get a better look at it as it sleeps. Dust clings to its matted and tangled cream-coloured fur. Its scrawny figure and ribs are barely concealed by its thick coat. Thin, elegant, almost silver whiskers a contrast to the extremely bushy unkempt tail.

Three small lines of scar run from its right cheek to its velvet-like ear. This is no pampered house pet, it may have been once, however those times were long gone.

He lightly shoos the cat away. It startles from peaceful sleep and hisses, tries to gouge his hand with the tiny daggers on its fingertips, but ultimately scampers off and hides under the bed.

Nikto sighs, long and drawn out. Questioning if he should bother using the back of his rifle like a stick to force it out of his room. He reaches for it, then decides it’s not worth potentially hurting himself from an accidental discharge.

He flips the switch off and collapses on the mattress.

~~~

He wakes up before everyone else again, the sun heating his face through the dusty window. Nikto blinks against the early morning rays and stretches his stiff muscles with a content groan. His toes collide with something furry and soft, and that brief moment of peaceful serenity is disrupted by a sharp scratch to his bare calf.

The half asleep man jerks away from the sting — accidently rolling off the bed. A shoulder and knee takes the full brunt of the fall and the greater pain jolts him fully awake, a “Blyat,” escaping his scarred lips.

The feral animal dashes around the small room, emerald eyes wide, fangs showing and claws unsheath. It howls and arches its back as it realises its trapped between the closed door and him.

Nikto scrambles to his feet, swearing a string of colourful curses that echo against the concrete walls. His jaw tightens. He wonders if he can turn the doorknob to kick it outside without being inflicted with any more injuries.

Goosebumps form on his arms when a deep rumble emits from it, as if it’s charging up an attack. He eyes the AK-47 propped against the wall on the other side of the room. Of course the one time he leaves a firearm out of reach is when he needs it most.

Tentatively, he takes a step forward and in a whirlwind, the infernal creature resumes its frantic scrambling.

It throws itself up onto the bed, rumpling the messy sheets further and jumps on his nightstand. In its rampage of destruction, it knocks the full bottle of vodka over.

It shatters loudly on the oak floor. Large and tiny shards of glass scatter in all directions as the liquid seeps through the planks.

Nikto, who is usually able to repress his anger and known for his stoic composure, lets his vision go red and a roar of unrestrained rage erupts.

He will gut this mangy stray then dump its entrails on Rodion for putting him through this. He has done far worse for less.

The bedroom door creaks open and Devil Incarnate finally dashes out.

A dishevelled Maxim peeks his head and a broad shoulder in, sleep clouding his eyes. “Can you not make so much fucking noise this early?” Then his gaze shifts to the spilled alcohol and groans. “You’re not wasting anymore of the vodka again,” he says and slams the door shut with a resounding thud before Nikto could redirect his fury at him.

He is left to simmer in the aftermath and he swears to drag Rodion’s face across the broken glass if that imbecile doesn’t clean this up.

~~~

It seems an illness has overtaken his comrades.

With its fur clean and brushed, they dote on the cat at every chance it decides to show itself. Regal grace that laid beneath the grime is now allowed to shine. It moves with the arrogance that all cats possess as it struts around the house.

“Oh, what a cute kitten.”

“Look at its shiny gemstone eyes! What a pretty girl.”

Running their fingers through the fur as they coo and play with it. All three of them mull over what to name it. As if it’s a newborn baby and they’re first time parents.

“How about Mishka?” Dmitry asks as he strokes its back. “Look at its silky coat! Nikto, you have to feel this.”

Maxim scratches his stubble. “I prefer Nina.”

“Satan,” Nikto offers, gaze not leaving his book.

“It’s a girl,” Rodion’s faraway voice interjects from the bedroom.

“Baba Yaga.”

“Doesn’t really suit her… Princess?” Maxim suggests.

Nikto flicks to the next page. “Gluttony.”

“I think Anastasia fits this beauty.”

“Garbage Eater.”

That night, he pulls the covers over him with the feline nowhere in sight.

But dawn finds that yet again the whiskered intruder found its way onto the bed near his feet.

Less scratching and hissing this time. He’s able to expel it with only an attempted swat at his arm and minimal destruction. No caterwauls of wildness, or pointed teeth and claws tearing at his blankets thankfully.

~~~

They take pictures and record videos of the nuisance doing the most inane drivel and send them to each other, including Nikto. As if he can’t see the damned cat himself. At this rate, they would probably snap an image of its excrements and praise it for defecating outside by the end of the week.

The cat takes the greatest liking to Dmitry. It’s no mystery why. Twirling about his legs for food at all hours of the day that it’s not sleeping.

And the meowing.

It doesn’t shut up. Always whining, always mewling. Like an alarm siren demanding more and more meals.

The short period where it is not doing that, usually when one of the Bale brothers has the little gremlin on their lap, massaging the soft fur around its ears  — it purrs loudly. Impeccably imitating a broken lawnmower.

Nikto has no trouble tolerating most discomforts — the filthiness of a barracks, the lack of sleep during a long operation, numbness from the biting cold of Russian winters. He would endure all of it again over this.

Nobody else seems to be agitated by it. Madness has infected everyone but him. No longer can Nikto read a book or relax with a good bottle of vodka in peace. He enjoyed his lone shifts a little more than the rest of the team before. Solitude is always freeing. 

Now, it’s his only solace for true rest.

His equipment, his bed, the whole house, is filled with stray strands of fur. Irritating his nostrils and ruining his clothes. He briefly considers murdering the cat and the idiot that brought it home when he finds a nonhuman hair in his half eaten soup.

The last straw that solidifies their insanity to him is when the living embodiment of chaos vomits a wet furball on the sofa.

They will throw the cat out now for sure. Nikto has no doubts about it.

Except, that does not happen.

They did not throw the cat out.

They mutter words of comfort and pat it on the back, cleans up the mess and offers it a treat.

Nikto occasionally catches the feline watching him from some dimly lit corner. A spark of intelligence in its big round eyes. As if it secretly taunts him, before prowling away.

The following night, he scours his room, getting on all fours to check under his creaking bed frame. His bloodshot eyes strains against the darkness and finds only dust bunnies. No furry form with a demonic glint in its jade irises. Satisfied, he switches off the light and crawls in, the chill of the night seeps through the small crack in the window.

Yet, come morning, the relentless animal inhabits his sheets, purring with satisfaction.

It amazes him that it is able to burrow up so close as he slept again — with him being none the wiser, considering how much of a light sleeper he is. Nikto makes a mental note to seal the window. Clearly the sliver of opening for fresh air is too much to ask for.

He lets out a bone weary sigh, running a hand over his scarred face and rubs his temple. It can stay for now.

It’s not being overtly infuriating. It barely takes up any space. The man observes its sleek fur shining almost golden in the sunlight. Is it as soft as they all say it is?

He reaches for it, his fingers lightly brushes its tail and it lets out a groan of discontent, hopping off the bed, onto the windowsill. It slinks away, landing on the bushes outside.

Nikto watches the raised fluffy tail disappear past the treeline and he pushes the pane fully shut with a resounding snap for tonight.

“She’s nearly done with her moult,” Dmitry comments as he sweeps the tumbleweeds of fur out the front door. There are clumps of it stuck on foliage, mixing with the twigs and leaves.

It’s visually revolting.

When asked why he doesn't simply throw it in the trash, Dmitry says it makes the birds happy to use it for their nests. 

Birds don’t nest this close to winter, you moron. Nikto would have loved to retort, only, he realises he doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.

The one upside to the neverending mountain of inconveniences is there seems to be a decrease of rat sightings inside. Perhaps, it’s not as lazy as Nikto originally thought.

He scowls at the empty packet of potato chips left by Rodion on the coffee table. The cat is now far from being the most useless individual in the house.

He lies awake in his bed, watching the shadows of the tree branch right outside his window dance on the wall as the wind jostles it. Sleep has trouble taking him like most days.

As he is about to drift into unconsciousness, an ear grating yowl echoes in the living room through the walls, loud enough to wake the dead.

Nikto huffs and rolls onto his stomach.

It continues. The sounds of the kitchen’s trash can being rummaged and the occasional meow of discontent prevents him from dozing off.

He’s determined to ignore it, maybe yell at someone else to feed it but realises it’s probably useless. Dmitry can sleep through a bombing. Maxim is likely comatose from drinking and nothing less than a gunshot will wake him.

He sits up, fingers reaching for his balaclava, fully intending to throw some biscuits in its food bowl so it can leave him alone.

The moment he pries open the door, the feline sprints in and beelines underneath his mattress.

Nikto narrows his eyes, tired brain is slow to process what exactly occurred. A defeated exhale leaves his lips and pushes his door shut, returning to bed.

He has grown to expect the cat to claim the territory beside his left foot and is careful not to nudge it come morning.

~~~

Frantic scratching on worn oak is like fingernails on a chalkboard, agitating Nikto's taut nerves. It wasn't just the sound, but the urgency behind it.

He’s not the only person home, someone else can let it out.

He tries to ignore it and focus on his task. Cleaning firearms is a silent and soothing experience. It helps to clear his mind when he needs it most.

The scraping intensifies.

Nikto unclenches his jaw — gently places down the bolt carrier and oil stained cloth, and stands up.

Boots thudding on the floor as he marches to the source of the noise. 

The cat paws at the front door and wails. Wanting to be let out. It looks at Nikto as he turns the corner. Its face saying, please I need to leave.

I need to leave right now.

He unlatches the steel lock and pulls the door open. The feline hesitates, its miniature nose twitching, testing the cool air and the scents wafting in.

Frosty blue irises flash in anger. “You wanted to leave? Then go!” His free hand gestures to the open space outside.

Seconds stretch into a minute.

It stands there. Peering outside. Then, with a flick of its tail, turns and walks away, returning to its favourite spot on the kitchen counter by the window.

Nikto watches it, a mixture of confusion and realisation settling in his chest. It gives him a side eye that speaks volumes before it lays down and gazes out the glass.

He had served this creature. Catered to her whims. Ungratefulness aside, he feels used.

~~~

Nikto leaves for his shift just like any other night. Familiar weight of his rifle in one hand. Vodka in the other. Stars glittering in the sky.

He settles down at his usual spot in the outpost overlooking the area he’s meant to guard. As he’s about to peel back the fabric of his mask to take a sip, a crunch of dry leaves alerts him to a presence not too far from his left.

Drink forgotten, muscle memory and instincts take over, he raises his gun in the direction of the intruder. Two glowing orbs look back at him, and then an inquisitive meow.

Low and behold, it’s Garbage Eater.

Exasperation washes over him. He lowers his firearm and stares at it.

The cat saunters up to his feet, rubbing its face on his boots.

Nikto silently grieves his allotted hours of privacy robbed away and sits back down. How did it even follow him? He was not as alert as he usually is compared during a mission, but for it to have not been detected since he left the house is a feat.

Surprisingly, it keeps a respectable distance. Choosing to lick its hand an arms length away.

He finally gives in. The Russian reaches out to run a hand over its back. A throaty groan of protest erupts.

Nikto stops. Fair enough. He doesn’t like being touched either.

As the night deepens, he offers little bits of chicken from his food container while they sit in tranquil company together. He will never admit to it if asked, but the presence of decent companionship is something he craves. Dmitry is pleasant and respectful, however he can be a little too worried more often than not. That man is not subtle. Nikto catches every glance of concern, every time his lips pull into a hard line.

Animals don’t do that. They don’t have any questions of his mental state barely held back on the tips of their tongues.

Sometimes when it gets too quiet, his thoughts can be overwhelming. Fragmented memories from his past come slithering back. Lately, he has been unable to keep them at bay.

Every now and then, a new door opens, and he often doesn’t like what comes out of it.

Maybe it senses his mood, or maybe it’s just cold, it inches closer to sit beside him for the remainder of the shift. Its green eyes full of concern.

When they return to the house together, the cat doesn’t have to sneak into his bedroom.

~~~

Tiny gifts in the form of dead rats are deposited in his quarters every so often. He could dispose of it normally, but he throws them into Rodion’s room. It grants Nikto a small bit of satisfaction whenever a screech of disgust sounds throughout the house, usually after that man returns from his shift.

A week passes and Nikto wakes up with a feather duster-like object in his face.

It seems that the cat, perhaps emboldened in the darkness, gained some courage and moved upwards long past midnight. She sneaked up close beside his chest as he was sleeping. Her padded foot, soft and warm, rests against his bicep with an easy pressure, tail tickling his cheeks.

She had stuck to the end of his mattress every day before this.

Her forehead nudges his hand, seeking contact, and she rubs her long whiskers against his open palm.

Sundown arrives sooner, the days grow colder and Nikto quickly discovers she likes to be squashed by his arm.

The cat blinks and carefully leaps over him to situate herself in the small space between him and the wall. She sniffs Nikto’s hand curiously and rubs her cheeks against it before rolling into a ball. He buries his fingers into her soft fur and closes his eyelids.

He knows she only pursues his company for his warmth. He doesn’t mind it. His nail traces patterns in her coat and she stretches languidly. Maybe it's not just her seeking him. Maybe he craves the physical touch too.

It has been too long, he realises, since he has hugged another living thing. To feel the pulsing of a heartbeat against his fingertips. It is not so bad afterall.

The even vibration of her purrs lulls him to a dreamless slumber.

He hears the rhythmic clacking of claws on the hardwood floor before the cat jumps onto the armrest. She puts a gentle paw on Nikto’s forearm and meows.

Nikto hums, the words of his fantasy novel momentarily blurring. “What do you need this time?” he grumbles.

Everyone else left ten minutes ago, a rarity. He has plans to finish this book today.

Unfazed by his hollow annoyance, she steps onto his lap and does a few circles before settling down.

He shifts in his chair, trying to find a position that’s more comfortable for them both. “I’m reading a story, do you want to hear it?”

She looks at him knowingly and yawns. Nikto clears his throat, he begins reading with a soft voice that feels unfamiliar, it has been a long time since he last used this tone.

At some point, her eyes drift close and her breathing deepens, yet he continues.

Nikto couldn't help but see the similarities they share. They both exude an independence born out of necessity. He runs a calloused thumb over her old scars. They’re both survivors. No other person he met has understood it truly. Though with the way she regards him, the reserved man thinks she might.

~~~

Nikto takes the last bottle of Five Lakes on a hunt with him before Maxim could — he can have whatever slop is left.

It’s been years since he had hunted, nevertheless, he still remembers how to track deer and rabbits.

Gloved hand securely clutching the cool glass, he ventures further east.

People argue that vodka isn't for taste. Nikto disagrees. 

He values the smooth, barely detectable flavour, a welcomed change to the generic liquor he usually endured on duty. To him, the subtle burn is appreciated. He doesn’t think his alcoholic comrade can tell the difference.

It’s not that he can’t handle the harsh taste, he would simply rather get drunk with a minimal amount of hangover.

He’s not surprised when he hears the rustle of grass and the well-accustomed to call of his four legged companion behind him after he crouches down to inspect the gnawed on vegetation.

She trots up, her sleek form brushing against his thighs and investigates the leaves, sniffing it with a delicate nose.

“Can you hunt rabbits as well as rats?”

She flicks a ear and chirps in response.

Nikto takes that as a yes.

Undeterred by the distant rumble of thunder above, they proceed further, the sparse canopy offers little protection as tiny droplets soon begin to rain down upon them.

Eventually, the soil grows too damp for her liking and she tries scaling up his leg, tips of her claws latching on to his thigh muscle through the thick fabric.

She advances quickly, her pointed nails has no trouble finding purchase on the straps and gear tied to him. Nikto hisses and grips her to his chest with his forearm before she can make it any higher.

She calms instantly, feeling secured in his solid hold.

The mild drizzle subsides quickly, leaving the forest dripping and smelling of fresh earth. However the once stray Siberian forest cat has no desire to return to the damp ground.

He purses his lips and takes a deep breath. “Fine.”

He can’t use his hunting rifle with one hand and he refuses to let her on his shoulders. Daylight is about to leave anyway. Won’t be a terrible decision to return.

As the sun dips below the horizon, dousing the hills with the warm colour of fire, Nikto observes the sky and settles on the grass, Garbage Eater curling up on his lap in content silence — he thinks that having a pet cat isn’t the worst thing in the world.

[transfaguette]

love that balaclavas are coming back into fashion but to make them not look like a bank robber people overcorrect and make them have like cat ears or look like a frog. justice for balaclavas.