#cobalt lt

[officialrailscales]

Two-Tone with Grey & Black

RSBM-P | Sniper Grey

QTR Stop | Carbon Black

HTP MLOK Scales | Sniper Grey | MiniDot Texture

G10 Solo’s | Black FR4 | MiniDot Texture | 1.5-Slot

LEAF DBAL-A3 Sight | Carbon Black

CSMR Button | Carbon Black | Apex Style

- RS

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Blue Violet

NAVIGATION || NIECE!READER MASTERLIST

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley & Niece!Reader (platonic series)

SYNOPSIS: Trust. It was one of the many things that Simon Riley was constantly fighting a war with himself over.

WARNINGS: Angst, talks of death, blood, gore, fires, trust issues, many mentions from Simon's comic backstory, etc.

A/N: You'll need to read this drabble first to understand the plot!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Trust. It was one of the many things that Simon Riley was constantly fighting a war with himself over. Who to give it to—who he could believe wouldn’t put a knife into his gut or a bullet through his skull with little more than words shared. 

Washington. Sparks. All that they had done….they’d ruined what little was left of his mind along with Roba’s torture. But Simon had already explained it before. 

You can’t break something that was already broken a long time ago.

So, trust. 

Trust. 

It was easier said than done, but he was working on it. One-Four-One helped somewhat, but perhaps the one person who showed him that he could try to fix his own head was you. Tommy and Beth’s little daughter. Simon’s niece, who was now under his guardianship. You were the only one to survive the brutal murder of his entire family on that cold night, hidden away; a baby asleep without knowing about the blood staining the hardwood of the living room.

How does he explain to you that you were one of the few things keeping him from slipping off that edge? Easy. 

He doesn’t. 

Simon was never good with words, and soon, the trust of his fellow soldiers was going to be forced to a near breaking point. 

“Who’s the guy with the mohawk?”

“Oh, bloody fuckin’ hell.”

You’re talking up a storm to Sergeant MacTavish, asking him what he does, what he specializes in, what he thinks of your Uncle and his horrible jokes—Simon glares at him, looming above your figure like a bear with his arms crossed. 

Realistically, it wasn’t Johnny’s fault he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, but hell if it didn’t make Ghost nervous. No one besides Price knew about you, and for good reason. Simon couldn’t take the thought of you getting dragged into this. 

Johnny’s face is tight, eyes darting from you up into Simon’s deep browns every so often as if the Lieutenant was about to snap. Though, you were quick to point it out.

“Simon,” you huff over your shoulder, the man carrying the grocery bags in his arm. “Stop trying to light him on fire.”

“M’not,” his glare doesn’t loosen, and you wonder if he’d even blinked from the moment you had dragged him over to say hello to the Sergeant. 

“That’s the same look you give me when I sneak out to the corner store to buy snacks.”

Johnny blinks in confusion, reaching a hand back to itch at his skull while his pack of Irn Bru is still swinging from the other. 

Simon grunts. “An’ if you’d stop fuckin’ doing it, I’d stop lookin’ at you like that.”

The Sergeant graciously interrupts.

“Nice seein’ you, Lt.” Cobalt eyes blink as he clears his throat, looking down at you. “And..uh…”

You cheerily give your name, sticking out a hand and adding on easily, “Simon’s niece!”

Trust, Simon reminds himself, jaw clenching from under his balaclava. 

Johnny chuckles, lips pulling back in a smile as he gently locks his much larger hand with yours. 

“Good to know, Little Lady. Y’can call me Johnny, just like your Uncle, here.” A glance is tossed Simon’s way as you laugh. “You two live around here, then? Haven’t seen you ‘ere before.”

Your eyes spark, excited at the prospect of more friends. “Yea-!”

“Negative.” You blink, confusion poking your chest like a stick. Simon grabs your shoulder and you’re being paraded out of the doors of the Tesco swiftly. 

“Simon!” your feet pad, skidding. “What the hell, man?” 

The man glares ahead. “What I say about the shitty language?”

You shift out of his grip, flailing an arm with an annoyed huff stuck on your lips. 

“You’re embarrassing, you know that? I wanted to talk to someone you work with!” Brown eyes swirl with dull amusement, and you can see his smirk from under his face covering as he continues walking forward down the street. “Why did you do that?”

“We don’t need people knowing where we live, yeah? Bloody give the address away while you’re at it. Only thing worse would be givin’ ‘em the keys.” You know there’s some life lesson hidden in this somewhere—some cautionary tale that you have no interest in learning from a ghost. 

But Johnny had seemed nice, and it was hard to make friends when you two were always moving. Much less one of the men who worked with your uncle.

“Simon,” you growl and hurry after, Johnny left alone in the building blinking at the doors. The highly confused Sergeant shakes his head and mutters under his breath with a growing headache. 

“Imagine that.”

A shocked chuckle spills out, and he slowly heads to the check-out aisle.

When you and your Uncle get back to your flat, you still have layers of steam coming out of your ears, even as you get told to help put the food away. You grasp the bag of crisps and toss them to the counter, Simon sliding you a side glance as he washes his hands. 

Flicking off the water droplets, he huffs. 

“You’ll break ‘em.” Your lips stay firmly shut until many minutes later. 

“Why don’t you trust people?” By now supper had been started, your body standing in the doorway as you had fought on whether to go to your room or stay here and talk. Your own stubborn nature held out; you often thought you got that from Simon if no one else. 

The man in question freezes as he is about to open the fridge, eyes staring blankly at the metal ahead of him. He lets you continue as his chest pulls in with a bit of apprehension. 

“I…” you stutter for a moment but push through. “I get it, really. I know enough about the whole thing to understand where you’re coming from, okay?” Your mind tells you it’s better to keep the references vague—you love your Uncle dearly, but there are some things that you have to call out when you see them. And you’d been seeing them for years. “But, Simon, I want to be able to talk to people.”

Simon’s fingers twitch over the handle, and his browns shift to stare at you over his shoulder. He blinks. 

“You do. A lot.” You look away, expression tight. 

“You know what I mean,” your voice grumbles lowly, losing that confidence as you push out. “I’m not them.” 

Simon admitted that this wasn’t a new point that had been brought up. He was protective of you and your safety to the utmost degree. You were his family, after all; you were all he had left through this. 

The man sighs under his breath. 

“I know that, Kid. Never said you were.” He turns and walks over to you, one of his hands moving out to grasp your shoulder and tilt his head your way. Simon waits until you look at him and he speaks through his gravelly accent when you do—a line in your forehead. 

“You’re my responsibility. And I—” You frown and turn away. Simon grunts, “Hey, right ‘ere.” Your eyes lock with his. The man raises a brow and his dead gaze glints slightly. “I’ve got a lot o’ shit goin’ on, you know that. Rightly, I shouldn't ‘ave dragged you into any of it.”

You open your mouth to disagree, but you’re leveled with a stare. 

“So you let me make the decisions, yeah?” 

“You don’t trust your teammates?” You’re going to be the death of him. 

“Never bloody said that,” Simon defects, moving back as you glare up at him as he leaves to get more of the ingredients he needs. 

“You implied it.” 

“I did not—” You glare, unimpressed as you cross your arms over your chest. 

“I literally just asked you why you don’t trust people and you gave me a lecture like an old man.”

Narrowed eyes pierce you, and a growl is uttered. “If you don’t fuckin’ join that debate club, it’ll be a cold day in Hell, you hear?” 

The sharp smirk that slashes your face makes him hold back his own, a same mirror image that he can’t overlook. 

“Callin’ it as I see it, Unc.” The look you’re given has you scurrying away from the kitchen, chuckling under your breath, but the both of you know that this conversation is far from over. 

Yet, even after you’re gone, your words leave Simon thinking as he begins cutting vegetables. 

He knew he could rely on his fellow soldiers in the field—knew he could tell Price about you when he had been mulling it over years ago. Garrick and MacTavish had both fired bullets for his safety, just as he had for them. Simon knew that meant something, he wasn’t destroyed enough to not realize that. 

But the more people that knew about you, the more in danger you became. Leaving you here alone was already stressful, knowing that something might happen made his hair stand on end like a dog with snarling fangs. And Simon could also admit that he was moving the two of you around more than he had to, never giving you more than half a year in one flat before packing it up.

His knife slows, eyes narrow, and he asks himself the question he thought of often. 

Is this what Tommy and Beth would have wanted for you? 

The question made his sleepless nights more claustrophobic than the coffin he’d been shoved into. Simon was constantly in doubt with himself about anything outside of a battlefield, and he was sure that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. 

This would have been so much easier if his mum was here. She’d know what to do. Know what to say. 

Simon hums under his breath, eyes far off, and gets back to chopping. 

You both eat at the kitchen table, and you instantly bring Johnny up as you take a bite from your fork. 

“What’s he like,” Simon’s balaclava is tossed to the side, his scarred face on full display to you. You had stopped being scared of those scars a long time ago, but Simon could still remember the first time he’d shown you them. 

Brown eyes look up, the man chewing the last of the food in his mouth.

“Johnny, I mean,” you casually state, but the soldier can see the interest in your eyes. He kept work and home life separate when it came to you. No mention of missions or targets. For you, it left a big black hole in your chest, which was exactly where this was coming from. “He seems nice.”

“Never knows how to keep quiet,” Simon utters, taking a sip from his water glass. “But he’s a good shot.”

You sigh to yourself, putting your chin to your palm as your elbow rests on the wood, fork released with a tiny clink of the plate.

“We should invite them over one time—your team.”

“No.” 

“Simon, please—”

“I said no,” Simon’s face was stern, serious. He doesn’t look away as he speaks to you. “We’ve had this conversation.”

Your anger sparks, flaring up at the refusal of something so simple. Why did he seem to think that keeping you hidden was the best thing for you? Did he not realize that if he let the people he trusted know about you, then you’d just be more safe at the end of the day? 

Who in their right mind would go against the whole of One-Four-One?

“I want to know who you work with,” you snap, one hand clenching on the table as the other is set down when you move your head. 

Simon grunts, continuing to eat as his arms tense. “You will.”

Your head perks. “When?”

“When I’m dead.” 

“I’m not joking!” You stand suddenly, eyes glossy and face tight. Simon’s expression changes from mild annoyance to surprise, head moving like a dog to watch silently as you grow more animated. 

He forgot sometimes that you were still a teenager. 

“I want to know who keeps you safe!” You glare through the sting, emotions finally catching up and tightening around your throat. Did he not see the real purpose behind this? “I never ask what goes on when you leave,” your nose sniffles, and Simon’s eyelids flinch. “I need to know who I have to put my trust in to help you come back. You’re my family, Simon, and every time I try to figure you out it’s like there’s a wall that I have to break through.” 

Trust. 

Your hands come up to brush along your cheeks as the sound of a moving chair enters your ears, your fingers shake before a firm arm wraps behind your head, pushing you into a large chest. 

Simon doesn’t speak as you lightly cry, your emotions that he didn’t even consider existing in this way leaving his heart tight in his ribs. He really wasn’t good at this. Like an awkward statue, he holds you the best he can—eyes staring forward at the far wall. 

“Didn’t,” the man starts as you calm down minutes later. He pauses, not knowing what to say. “Didn’t know that was how you felt ‘bout it. You don’t have to worry for me, eh?”

“Shut up,” your nose nuzzles into his shirt, voice muffled as Simon sighs long. “You’d worry about me.”

He can’t argue with that. 

“...You know why I can’t let ‘em over.” You shake your head into him. 

“You’re making excuses. If you can’t trust them, then who can you?” He’s petting the back of your head, thumb rubbing circles into your scalp as his jaw clenches, crooked nose shifting.

“I do trust them—”

“Then why are you—”

“What I don’t fuckin’ trust is myself.” You stop, blinking quickly as you pull back. 

Your hands push away your tear tracks. 

“What?” 

Simon’s eyes are far away, body tense. “I don’t know if I trust myself to be able to let other people know about another Riley who survived. If somethin’ were to happen to you, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, Sunshine, you hear?” 

You stare, blinking quickly at your uncle and his larger-than-life pedestal that you’d placed him on. Brown eyes flicker to yours, and the man grunts at your red-veined eyes before letting you go. 

“I would sooner let the devil drag me down right ‘ere than think o’ that.” 

Your mouth opens and closes, struggling to put into words the thoughts inside of your brain. Simon had never been…open with his thoughts about things—he was more of a show-than-tell type of person. Mostly that was due to your age and your separation from all of the more dark aspects of his life. It was good that way, and you’d never complained.

But he was your Uncle—your guardian. In more ways than one, he was the only father figure you’d ever have.

You drag Simon into a hug, squeezing him tightly and wrenching your eyes shut before you can cry again. 

“Why couldn’t you have just said you didn’t want the flat dirty,” you wetly laugh, and Simon’s eyes soften down at you, his arms once more curling around you as his lungs push a huff from his nose. 

“Still can.”

“Fuck you.” 

A squeeze. “Oi.”

“Sorry.” Yet always, you broke the sharp bits of him off one by one. Simon sighs, and in a way, he understands your concerns. They were just like his. 

The man gets to thinking about the two Sergeants, not just MacTavish. They had never given him any red flags or internal concerns—in fact, the two men were some of the finest he had ever worked with; they were promising not only in skill but attitude. 

To go through what they had and still hold smiles and jokes was a feat not many could achieve. 

They were good men. 

And in the case of information leaking, he realized with a slow blink that even if that was the case, Simon Riley was officially dead—he had died in a house fire, his dog tags recovered from the body of Kevin Sparks. Of course, only Simon knew that last part. If there was ever something that happened, someone being captured and tortured, there would be no link to you.

To trust was a dangerous thing, and to be worthy of that trust was even more so.

He would do anything to never see you worry. 

Simon licks his lips, for once in his life making a decision based on no forethought beyond a few measly moments and the weight of his niece in his arms. 

“One time.” You make a noise into his chest in confusion. Simon closes his eyes and grates out, “I’ll have ‘em over one time.”

—

The next day he’s at base, out on the target fields in full gear with Johnny beside him as a spotter. Simon lay on the concrete lookout with the stock of a sniper rifle in his shoulder, the Sergeant kneeling about a foot away.

The Scot speaks unprompted as Simon’s brown eyes blink slowly, gaze steady.

“Jus’ so you know, Lt.,” Johnny’s face is in the corner of his vision, his headgear turned Simon’s way as the man was lining up with the target miles away. “...Your secret’s safe with me.” 

Trust was something that Simon Riley fought a war with himself over. It was a mountain of knives and bullets that he knew he would have to climb one bleeding foot at a time. He would do it, of course. Blood had never made him shy away from anything. 

“I know.”

[hellishjoel]

he with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes

883 words / drabble main masterlist | notifications blog | ko-fi

summary: you've fallen in love with the man with the dark curls who makes your coastal life with him idyllic warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), food consumption, reader is has no physical description, brief smut, frankie fluff

a/n: I have no idea what this writing style is, but it was fun! banners by @cafekitsune <3

frankie has always been a man who 'doesn't need much' he tells you this every birthday, every christmas, every anniversary he's happy with what's in front of him that includes his cottage on the water, his big dogs, and, of course, you there's nothing more he needs than waking up with your warm body curled into his side your features softened with sleep, your arm outstretched along his tan torso wedding ring wrapped around your pretty finger

he'll lean over and kiss the crown of your head before blindly reaching to his side table where dirty coffee mugs and half-read books pile up your portrait eyes meet his own honeyed amber once the dogs join the fray, jumping onto the bed and loving licking your sleepy faces, you're both as awake as you'll ever be if it's not raining and not too cold, you'll both sit on the bench at the end of the pier, wrapped up in a slate gray wool blanket as you drink a coffee in a spirited mood, frankie will fish the moody water ripples upon the hook plopping into the cobalt water frankie tugs the bait along until he feels a subtle drag before you know it, you're fondly smiling as he reacts to catching a fish as if it's his first time leashed up and wiggling with excitement, you walk the dogs along the water their noses are glued to the ground, snorting and sniffing with curiosity your boots dig into the ground and slosh with each step the dirt is still loose and wet from the recent rain that's come through you make small talk and capture pictures of your life to send back to your family and friends leaving home was difficult at first, but your coastal life has been such a dream and with frankie, you've come to realize you've never needed much else for dinner, frankie cooks the fish he caught earlier in the day you're his sous chef, working in your quaint kitchen with fuzzy slippers on, candles lit and glowing the somber home to an orange, flickering haze the dogs lay tiredly on the rug, and watch with sleep-happy eyes the cast iron skillet sizzles upon frankie flipping the fish while you work on the sides of mashed potatoes and asparagus your kisses grow lazy and sweet by the end of the night the silver moon dances across the midnight water, lighting your bedroom in a pale pearly film frankie kicks the bedroom door closed with his boot blindly, his pretty mouth smirking he always touches you like a delicate petal at first, anyway he likes to feel your skin, his palm attaching to your hip under your shirt as he walks you backward toward bed you let out a silken moan as frankie's lips work their way down to the column of your throat his teeth graze the soft skin that grows goosebumps in his wake his stubble scratches and it's just yet another reminder of how perfect he feels without trying your body has become his home being his home has become your sanctuary his hips bracket between your pretty thighs he thrusts languidly in rhythm with your heartbeat the drag of his thick cock causes your back to arch he traps you with his thick arms, your hand clutching to his bicep blinded by pleasure, frankie moans sweet nothings in your ear he whispers how much he loves you how perfect you are how amazing you feel how dedicated he is to you how happy you make him how much he loves you, again your fingers weave into his nest of dark curls, loosening the hat hair from earlier in the day his actions cause sweat to glimmer across your skin bodies glittering like the waves under a full moon the coil in your stomach is close to snapping your pleas and moans for him to finish inside of you sweetly echo in his ears he groans, feeling so lucky to have someone to spill into someone to make his own and paint in his name you reach the edge of the universe together shaking, clenching, squeezing, crying, kissing

frankie brings you back with gentle kisses, breath lost in your lungs, now retrieved you can't help but smile as he presses his forehead against your own, pulling the bedsheets up to your chest he coasts his fingers along your body mindlessly memorizing the curves, slopes, and dips like a beautiful map to his favorite place lips meet, hands hold, noses nuzzle, I love you's exchanged more than once it's a sweet mantra at this point to tell someone you love them this much, yet the meaning only grows stronger despite sharing the same three words and eight letters over, over, and over again it only heightens the sentiment frankie is reminded that he doesn't need much what else could he ask for when this is his life? how much more perfect could this get? there was no waiting to win the lottery waiting for a big, well-deserved raise waiting for his life to feel complete 

because at the end of it all when summers burn and the days are long he feels grateful to spend them with you he with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes 

[definitelynotstable]

Trouble [Ghost x fem!Reader]

AN: hurt/comfort will ALWAYS be my fave.

Synopsis: You find yourself caught in an explosion during a mission. Ghost looks after you. Words: 1.2k Warnings: swearing, injuries Ghost x fem!reader (callsign Fern): Not explicitly romantic but there’s certainly a spark. SOFT GHOST <3 Slight hurt - lots of comfort. 

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

You knew something felt off about this mission. But you weren’t gonna sit this one out based on a mere hunch. Maybe you should’ve. Because now you were buried under a heap of rubble, ears ringing and head heavy. 

“Fern?” A voice called from somewhere in the distance. You didn’t know what was up and what was down. Gun shots echoed nearby.

You swallowed, coughing as dust clogged your mouth and nose. “Y-yeah?” You rasped as loud as you could. Comms were useless. 

“What’s your status, soldier?” Ghost.

You wriggled slightly, stopping as a flash of pain radiated up your leg. 

“Leg’s fucked, might be broken and a concussion.”

“Can you move?”

You bit your lip as you tried again, nothing budged. “No, sir. Something’s got me pinned.”

“Alright,” his voice called back, calm and stoic as usual. “Price? We need backup, Fern was caught in the blast, need some extra hands to move rubble.”

You couldn’t hear the reply. Your comms hissed with static in your ear. Blood dribble from your temple, down your cheek and into your mouth. The sounds around you were fading. Everything ached. You could rest, right? Just for a moment?

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

You woke to a searing pain with a cry. Someone was moving the beam which compressed your leg. 

“Fern?” A Scottish accent called out from somewhere behind you, “we found what’s got you pinned. Try not to move while we shift it.”

You groan as it shifts again. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to, Sarge.”

The scot huffs, chucking a chunk of concrete into the pile behind him. “Humour me, Fern.”

You cough again as a cloud of dust forms from the moving rubble. “Where’s LT?”

There’s a heavy thump and Soap groans with effort, finally uncovering your twisted form. He squats in front of you with a grin, patting your head lightly. “Getting a spinal-board - you sure are trouble.”

You squint up at the man and mirror his grin. “So I’ve been told.”

“Soap!” 

The man in front of you turns to the side and you see Ghost running, gun across his back and a spinal-board tucked under his arm. Soap gestures to where you lie amongst the debris.

“Hey LT, look who I found!”

Ghost doesn’t laugh, pushing past the scotsman and coming to kneel beside you. He pulls his glove off, tossing it to side. His scarred hand brushes your hair from your eyes. 

“Always gettin’ yourself into messes, aren’t ya?” He murmurs, fingertips ghosting the laceration on your temple. You wince but your lips quirk up. His hand lingers on your cheek for a moment, cobalt eyes intense as they meet yours. 

He stands, hand dropping away as he turns to Soap. 

“We need to get to EXFIL now, I’ll need your help to move her.”

Soap nods, shifting his gun to sling it over his back and out of the way. “What do you need me to do, LT?”

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

They manage to roll you onto the stretcher, Soap mumbling apologies while Ghost swears lightly under his breath at each noise of discomfort you make. 

They manage to get you to the truck waiting at the extraction point. Gaz is behind the wheel, engine running, while Price squats behind the open side door, his gun poised. 

You make to get of the stretcher, Ghost holds you down, eyes stern. “We’ve gotta rule out a spinal injury, Fern. Stay down.”

There isn’t room for argument in his eyes, Soap helps the Lieutenant slide the stretcher into the bed of the pickup. Ghost settling in beside you, his gun now in his lap as he surveys the area behind you. Soap joins the Captain and Gaz in front and the vehicle spurs forward. 

It doesn’t take long to get to the safehouse but everything feels bruised twice over by the time the truck comes to a rolling stop. 

“Please tell me I can get off this fucking slab of plastic, LT. Everything hurts.” 

Ghost looks down at you, eyes softening slightly. “Just let Gaz look you over first. Then I’m sure we can find you a bed or a couch to settle on.”

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

There’s a bang as someone lowers the side of the pickup bed. 

“Let’s see the wounded soldier then,” Price’s voice barks, his hat and beard coming into view, smiling but his eyes worried, “what’ve you done this time, love?”

Soap and Ghost slide the stretcher off the pickup and make for the safehouse. You look up at the Captain with a sheepish expression. 

“Picked a fight with a wall.”

“Oh yeah? Who won?” Price inquired, holding open the door for you, looking down with a grin.

“The wall.” Ghost interrupts as him and Soap lower you to the floor, Gaz brushing past with a med kit. 

You scoff as the younger sergeant wraps a cuff around your upper arm, taking your blood pressure.

“Put up one hell of a fight by the looks of it,” Gaz quips, moving your neck gently from side to side and getting you to squeeze his fingers and wriggle your toes. He cleans and wraps you leg quickly, a scarred and pale hand squeezes your shoulder as the antiseptic burns. Ghost.

“Thank you Gaz,” you huff, letting him ease you up as he gives the ok. Ghost silently moves forward to wrap an arm around your waist and helps Gaz deposit you onto the rugged couch against the wall. 

Price and Soap’s laughs echo from the makeshift kitchen, cupboards opening and closing as they look for food. Ghost settles on the arm of the couch and you slump against him, too tired and sore to sit up straight. He stiffens slightly before relaxing, moving to shift you over and slides off the arm of the chair to settle next to you.

Gaz rustles around in the med-kit before popping a few pills into his hand, offering them to you as Soap appears next to him with a glass of water. 

“Take these, I’ll give you more in a few hours. They should tide you over till RTB.”

You swallow them, sculling the water. Ghost takes the empty  glass from your hands, handing it to Gaz who returns to the kitchen with Soap where Price has managed to turn on a radio that looks older than you. 

Jazz crackles through the cabin and the hiss of a kettle sings as dishes clink. You sigh, sinking deeper into the couch and the warm body beside you.

Ghost clears his throat. You look up, pulling back. 

“Oh shit, sorry, LT.”

“’S’alright,” his chest rumbles, an arm pulling you back into his side. “Rest, Fern. You did good.”

You don’t have the energy to refuse. He is so warm and safe. You feel yourself drifting off, the murmur of voices in the background lulling you into a peaceful haze. You feel him shift beside you and your limp arms are threaded out of your vest. Someone tosses a blanket into your lap and Ghost whispers harshly at them to fuck off. Probably Soap. The lieutenant shakes it out before tucking it around you.

A hand brushes through your hair.

You sigh.

Everything fades to black.

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

Masterlist

[rhettabbotts]

happy birthday, mr. president - bob floyd

pairing: president!bob floyd x wife!reader

summary: after a hard week, the last thing bob wanted to do was attend his birthday party. so instead, he plays out one of his biggest fantasies with you.

w/c: 2.4k

warnings: 18+ only. SMUT. bob eating you out in the oval office. slight bondage. slight degradation. dirty talk. mention of cameras. edging. p in v. unprotected sex. breeding kink. riding. title kink? (calling bob mr. president). drinking.

a/n: brought to you by me rewatching scandal and losing my mind. also haven’t stopped thinking about @therebeccaw’s beautiful president bob moodboard <3 also for @lt-bradshaw! thanks for bringing up president bob on the dash last night.

Bob hated parties. No matter how many balls and galas he attended, it never got any easier. He fussed with his bow tie for the umpteenth time before finally giving up, letting out a huff of frustration as he buttoned his cufflinks. 

His head snapped up at the sound of the bathroom door opening and the sight before him made him weak in the knees. You floated into the room with such grace, completely ignoring the gobsmacked look on his face. You fiddled with the back of your diamond earring, struggling to fasten it in place. 

“Baby, can you zip me up the rest of the way?” You asked nonchalantly. You moved to stand in front of him, finally catching his cobalt eyes in the cheval mirror. 

“You look beautiful,” Bob professed. His hands curved around your front to rest on your stomach, pulling you tight against him. His eyes darkened as they traveled over your body, lingering on the way the bodice hugged your breasts, pushing them up enticingly. “How am I supposed to make it through the night with you looking like this?”

“You’ll live. Now, zip me up so I can fix your tie.” 

His bottom lip jutted out slightly in a pout, causing you to playfully roll your eyes. As he moved the zipper up the last couple of inches you couldn’t reach, he pressed a kiss to the top of your spine. 

“Do we really have to go?” Bob questioned as he rested his chin on your shoulder. One hand moved back around to your front, sliding up your chest and groping you through your dress. 

“It’s your birthday. You can’t miss it. Behave, Bobby. You’ll have me all to yourself this weekend when we go to Camp David,” you asserted. “It’s just for a couple of hours. You’ll survive.”

“Highly unlikely,” he muttered as you busied yourself with his tie. You had it knotted in no time, looking pleased with your work. 

“There. All done,” you said, patting his chest before turning away. He caught your wrist, tugging you back to him swiftly. He looked down the bridge of his nose at you, eyes squinting in the way they did when you defied him. A challenging look that made you burn with desire. 

“Can we do that thing we talked about a few weeks ago?” He spoke quietly. Between the grip he had on your arm and the way he was looking at you, you were ready to say screw the party and tear his shirt buttons off with your teeth. But you knew you couldn’t do that. You didn’t get the luxury of skipping out on these things anymore. 

“The thing…”

“It is my birthday, you know,” he quipped, the corner of his thin lips twitching up into a devilish smirk. You were about to respond when Charlie knocked on the door, letting you know guests had begun to arrive. 

“Mr. President. Ma’am. We’re ready whenever you are.”

Bob dropped your wrist, linking your fingers together and squeezing your hand once. He let go to slide on his suit jacket and you brushed out any wrinkles that appeared, straightening the pin he wore on his lapel. He took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, craning his neck from side to side. 

“C’mon, darling. Let’s get this over with.”

You slid your arm through Bob’s, holding on tightly as you walked through the corridors of the White House. You knew he still got nervous being around so many people. But he never let it show. He was poised, a true leader. The road to the White House was not easy but you believed he was doing what he was always meant to do. Be who he was always meant to be. It made your heart swell with pride to see your husband succeed. 

“Quit starin’,” Bob muttered, sneaking a glance at you. You pinched his arm in response. 

As the doors opened to the East Room, applause erupted and you felt Bob tense ever so slightly. He was whisked away by a few senators, a champagne flute placed in his hand as they tried to schmooze him into passing their bill. He looked over his shoulder apologetically and you waved him off. You knew how these things went. You’d find your way back to him eventually. 

It took exactly forty-five minutes before Josh, Bob’s chief of staff, came up to you. He pulled you aside and leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“We’ve lost him.”

You tried to bite back a smile, surprised he lasted as long as he did. 

“I know where he is. Thank you, Josh. Do me a favor… keep the West Wing off limits.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at you. 

You wandered through the long hallways, taking your heels off halfway to the Oval Office. For the duration of the walk, you considered what Bob had asked for earlier in the night. He had mentioned that he wanted to try something different. You had discussed everything beforehand so you knew exactly what would play out. 

You would stumble into his office, he would take you over the desk. He’d be trying his best to avoid the cameras, but if you didn’t… The thought of sneaking around, the thrill of potentially being caught, it turned you on tremendously - and Bob knew that.

There was a soft glow coming from the large room as you entered through the side door. Bob was sitting in his leather chair, feet propped up on the cherry wood desk. He was nursing a glass of scotch, the amber liquid swirling around in the crystal as he finished his sip. His tongue darted out to catch a rogue droplet from the corner of his mouth. He looked so powerful sitting behind that desk. He could bring the whole world to their knees if he just asked. 

“Good evening, sir,” you said meekly. Even after a year in the White House, it still made you nervous coming into the Oval Office. Bob’s neck craned towards you and there was a lazy smile on his face. The lamp cast shadows over his face. From where you stood, you could see the sliver of grays at his temple. They started appearing more and more as the days went on, much to Bob’s dismay. Stress, you would inform him at the end of a long day.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he slurred. He straightened himself in the chair, setting his feet on the floor before standing. Your heart pounded against your ribcage as his dark eyes devoured you without saying a word. 

“I’ve been looking for you. You promised me a dance.” Your husband hummed, taking one last swig of his liquor before rounding the desk. His tie was hanging loose around his neck, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. 

Your mind ran wild with salacious thoughts as he unbuttoned the cufflinks. The slight clatter of them being haphazardly set aside was the only noise that filled the room. He rolled up his sleeves messily, veiny forearms being put on display. Your mouth dried up looking at his hands, wishing they would reach out and touch you already. 

Bob walked slowly towards you, pinning you in place with his gaze. 

“Mr. President,” you breathed. 

“I like it when you call me that,” he indicated. “Say it again.”

“Mr. President,” you purred this time. He circled you, stopping behind you like he had earlier in your room. “We shouldn’t-“

“I think we should. I think it’d be a wonderful idea.”

“But the cameras…”

“Let them watch,” he muttered in your ear. “Let them see you beg your president to let you cum.”

You whimpered at his words, pressing back into his warm body. You were already begging, a silent plea for him to take you. He wasn’t going to give in to you that easily.

Bob started shuffling the both of you towards the desk, pressing you forward until the edge dug into the tops of your thighs. You could feel how hard he was in his slacks. You knew he needed this. It had been a hellish week and he spent his birthday in meeting after meeting, leaving no time to see each other until you were crawling into bed. 

His strong hands gripped your hips and spun you around to face him. His expression was devious, you knew what his plan was. He whipped the tie from his collar and you obediently held your wrists out. 

“Good girl,” he said, pressing a searing kiss to your lips. As he pulled away, you chuckled softly. A smudge of red lipstick adorned his mouth. 

“I think you just like me tying your ties, mister,” you said. Bob had expertly knotted your wrists together with the black satin material. His response was a cheeky grin and a shrug of his shoulders. 

Maneuvering you onto the wooden surface was a small feat, he manhandled you with such ease it made your head spin. Papers scattered everywhere as he shoved them aside. He pressed against your sternum until you were flat on your back, bound wrists dangling above your head. 

He made slow work of kissing down your body, mouthing at your cleavage. Sucking small love bites into the tops of your breasts. He dropped to his knees with no preamble, diving under your dress and moving up until he landed between your thighs. He pulled your lace panties to the side and buried his face into your soaked cunt. 

The first flick of his tongue against your clit caused your hips to buck and your mouth to fall open. Bob knew how to eat you out like no other. He sucked and licked and nipped against your most sensitive parts until you were a quivering mess. 

Your mind wandered back to your previous thought about how he could bring the world to its knees. And yet here he was, the most powerful man, on his knees for you. It made your breath hitch and your thighs shake. His wanton moans vibrated through your entire body. You couldn’t see him, not with the way he had his head shoved under the skirt of your dress, but you felt every move he made. Every shake of his head, every indention his fingertips were leaving. 

You were babbling nonsense. You weren’t even sure if it was words. Variations of ‘Bob’ and ‘Sir’ and ‘Mr. President’ spilled from your lips and it seemed to make Bob that much hungrier. 

“Bobby, please. Please, I’m so close. I’m so-“

And then he stopped. 

He pulled away so quickly your hips chased his mouth and you whined desperately. His hair was a mess, loose curls that were once slicked back flopped onto his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his lips wet with your desire. 

“You bastard,” you mumbled, trying to steady your breathing. You had been right on the edge. But you knew that’s what he wanted. You knew what he had in store. 

He said nothing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He said nothing as he moved you off the desk and around the back of it. He said nothing as he nearly broke the zipper on your gown, practically tearing it off of you. A small pleased noise escaped him as you stood before him in your underwear, wrists tied and breasts on full display. 

“Such a dirty slut, aren’t you? Letting me take you in here where anyone could walk in. You like that though, don’t you? Yeah, I know you do.”

He moved to sit once more in his chair, thighs spreading wide as he palmed over his cock. A whimper caught in your throat when he pulled himself out. You’ve said it a million times before but Bob Floyd had a pretty dick. And you would never tire of the sight.

“Want you to ride my cock, pretty girl.”

Bob pulled you into his lap and onto his cock without much warning. The stretch never failed to make you gasp, no matter how many times it had been. He settled you until he was to the hilt, full of him. He reached down to untie your wrists and you tangled your fingers through his hair instantly. 

You couldn’t move much on your own so Bob took matters into his own hands and bounced you. Hands holding your hips tight enough you were sure there would be bruises by tomorrow. It was quick and messy, your thighs were burning and you couldn’t hold back your moans. 

“Gonna fill you up. Gonna finally make you a momma. We'll have little babies running around this place before you know it. Fuck, sweetheart. I’m the luckiest man alive,” Bob rambled. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed throughout the room and you silently prayed Josh listened to you before. 

Your nails clawed at the part of Bob’s chest that was exposed, slipping your hand inside the half buttoned shirt to scrape against his nipple. It caused his eyes to roll back and his hips to stutter. 

“Moan for me, Bobby.” He did. Loud and unabashedly. 

The fast rhythm had both of you close in no time. His mouth attached to your breasts once more and that was it for you. You clenched around him tightly, throwing your head back and nearly screaming as he continued the brutal pace into you. It took him a few more thrusts before he was releasing inside of you, filling you full of him. 

You slumped against his chest, hot breath washing over his damp skin as he rubbed up and down your spine. 

“I can’t believe we just defiled the Oval Office. We could be arrested,” you joked. 

“Not the first time,” Bob said. “Thank you for indulging me, honey. I love you to the moon and stars.”

“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” you giggled. A weak groan tumbled from his lips as his dick twitched inside of you. 

“Don’t do that to me right now.”

“Is that an order?” You challenged, rolling your hips teasingly. 

“You little brat,” he muttered against your lips, picking you up and walking you over to one of the couches. It was a long and glorious night. 

Several weeks later you stood in the en suite bathroom, with four positive pregnancy tests sitting on the counter. You couldn’t stop yourself from getting tickled. 

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Timeless - II (Bob Floyd x Reader)

A/N: Hi besties! Lil early birthday treat from me (I'm hoping to write part three on my birthday but we'll see) with part 3!

pairing: Lt. Robert Floyd x reader

warnings/content: no warnings, extra cute Bob. mutual pining, OC's mom meddling but it's cute, Bob swears like once.

word count: 1.8k

one - two -

The Taylor home was practically humming with noise as your family prepared for Thanksgiving festivities together. Your mother was in the kitchen, channeling her inner Food Network tv personality as she made the holiday meal. Your younger brother was home from college, and your teenage sister had brought a friend over for the day to meet everyone and watch the hours-long football marathon that began early in the afternoon that day, following the thanksgiving day parade. Just as the Commanders were taking on the Cowboys, your doorbell rang. Despite there being several other people in the room with you, you appeared to be the only one able to hear it ringing. You sighed and rolled your eyes as you stood up to answer the door. In your doorway stood Bob, in a football jersey and jeans, a casual look that you remembered well from high school. He laughed softly as you answered the door, a warm, friendly smile on his face.

“Hey Krissy, Ma sent me over to see if your folks wanted any pies, she made these apple pie tarts and she made enough to feed the entire naval base, but I don’t think they’d fly back with me very well.” He let out a soft chuckle and shook his head, “Although, I’d love to show Hangman what a real apple pie tastes like. He swears the ones in the store are the same thing. You’d think being from the south, he’d know better.” He laughs again, his cheeks blushing as he speaks about his current life. 

“Hangman? Your friend’s name is…Hangman?”

“No, it’s a callsign, all of us have one. His real name is Jake. Then you have Bradley who goes by Rooster, Natasha is Phoenix-”

“Ok then, what’s yours?” You raise an eyebrow with your arms folded across your chest.

“Bob. I got kinda confused when they asked me when I first started…so I told them my nickname and it stuck. Although now if you ask Hangman, he tells you it stands for “Baby on Board” because I’m the youngest out of the team.” He shakes his head laughing softly before looking up at you, his deep cobalt blue eyes meeting yours. God, you could get lost in those eyes for hours. 

“I’m sure my mom would appreciate them, she’s sort of up to her eyeballs in cooking right now. I think she’s aiming to compete with yours for who can make the most food,” you laugh as you step aside to let Bob in, “Come on in, we’re just watching football, Ma’s banned us all from entering her kitchen.”

Bob laughed and walked inside your family home, the home he was so familiar with as a child, where you’d play hide and seek in the different rooms, sipping lemonade on your mother’s porch swing on the veranda out front, sneaking treats upstairs to your room when you were little, hiding while you devoured them way too close to dinner time. Helping you sneak in through your bedroom window late at night after a party you weren’t supposed to be at, driving you home in his dad’s beat up old pickup truck that had a habit of always getting stuck in the mud. 

Your house hadn’t changed hardly at all since your family moved in all those years ago. A coat of paint here and new furniture there and that was about it - it was almost identical to how it was when Bob was inside it last. The time he’d taken you to prom because your date canceled on you the day before. Bob had seen you crying at school and was comforting you the entire drive home that day, and he had offered to take you, because he hadn’t found a girl he’d like to ask yet. Part of you felt like Bob just felt bad for his best friend and didn’t want to see you upset, but the other part of you had hoped it was because he wanted to ask you.

“Bobby Floyd, how’re you doing? ‘Suppose we should be calling you Lieutenant now, shouldn’t we?” Your dad’s booming voice echoed through the house as he greeted Bob. Bob smiled warmly and nodded his head once as he spoke.

“I’m great, Mr. Taylor, and just Bobby is fine, I don’t really use the rank outside of work. We both know my Mama wasn’t going to be calling me Lieutenant when I got home,” Bob let out a hearty laugh as he turned to greet your younger siblings, “Wow, Megan, haven’t seen you since you were about 5 or 6, you must be like, 16 now? And Nate, Ma said you just graduated college? What did you end up going for?”

As Bob played catch-up with your dad and siblings, you quietly excused yourself to the kitchen where your mother was. You noticed your mother’s sly smirk on her face as she kneaded the pie crust she was working on.

“I hear Robert’s come to see you?” she hummed as she set the crust in the baking dish, trimming the edges as she spoke, “That was awfully sweet of him.”

“Mama, don’t start,” you warned quietly, shaking your head, “I told you, I don’t think Bobby feels that way.”

Your mother sighed and wiped the flour off her hands onto her apron, shaking her head. She gave you a pointed look. “Kristen Taylor, you know that Robert’s had eyes for you since he was six years old - don’t think that he’s changed his mind.” 

“What makes you so sure? What are you, an expert in how he feels now?”

“I may not be, but I’m very good friends with someone who is. And she tells me that Robert specifically asked how you were doing and if his mama had seen you recently. You don’t ask about a girl after 10 years unless you want to see them, Kristen.” Your mother laughed softly as she put the pie in the oven. After a moment of silence while you tried to wrap your head around this new information, your mother shook her head.

“Kristen, his mama and I just want you kids to be happy. But let’s face it, he didn’t come here just to see if we wanted some extra apple pies. And his mama did not “accidentally” make too many.”

“How did you know why he was here?” You laughed and raised an eyebrow as you folded your arms across your chest, watching your mother intently as you awaited a response.

“I can’t reveal all my secrets to you now, can I, Kristen?” Your mother smiled warmly as she looked towards the doorway. You followed her gaze, turning around to face Bobby, his cheeks turning pink as he stood in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning his hip against the door frame. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, a nervous habit of his for as long as you’d known him, and smiled.

“Hi Mrs. Taylor, you look lovely, Mama wanted me to come by and see if you wanted some apple pies…but I’m guessing she called you ahead of time to tell you?” He laughed awkwardly, obviously having heard the last half of your conversation.

“She did, Robert! And congratulations, it sounds like you’ve become quite the accomplished Naval lieutenant while you’ve been gone. Your mama’s been filling me in on what you’ve been up to. She’s very proud of you, but I’m sure you know that already.” Your mother nodded her head as she smiled. 

“I do, m’am, she’s very glad I’ve come home for a few days. I don’t get leave too often now with everything going on back on base, but I try to come home when I can. Last few years we just went to Texas and met halfway at my brother’s house in Austin. This year though my brother and sister have brought all the little ‘uns up here, so poor Ma’s got all 3 of us kids up here, plus my brother’s two and my sister’s two, and their partners. It’s a bit of a full house. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad to escape when she asked me to come by.” He laughed softly, “I love my nieces and nephews but boy, do they know how to tire you out.” 

“I can imagine! Actually, while you’re here, could I steal you to help Kristen for a moment? I need the serving trays brought down from the attic, but I can’t trust Nate to carry them without dropping one, and Megan’s terrified of going up there,” your mother laughed as she discreetly shot you a smirking glance. 

“Oh, I’d be happy to, Mrs. Taylor. Krissy and I’ll get them down for you.” Bob smiled as he took your hand playfully and went off upstairs with you. It felt just like old times, his hand leading you up the stairs to the attic where the two of you used to hide and play in as kids. You’d turned it into a clubhouse of sorts for the two of you growing up, a sanctuary away from the chaos of having a big family and school work and chores - a place for just the two of you. 

Bob sighed happily as he looked around the attic. The two of you had so many memories of being in here together, and for you, it felt like they all came flooding back at once. 

“God, I haven’t been in here in years,” he said as a soft chuckle escaped his lips, “Remember that time you hid up here when we ate all of your mama’s apple pie she’d baked for the school bake sale? She was madder than a wet hen, and we thought hiding up here would be the smartest choice. Then, sure as shit, she found us laughing and covered in apple pie filling.” He laughed again, shaking his head. “We both got grounded for that one, I think that was the first time my mama ever had to ground me, and it was because of you in the first place!”

“Hey, I didn’t make you eat it,” you laughed as you held your hands up innocently. “I just encouraged you to join me. Not my fault that you did.”

Bob shook his head and smiled thoughtfully at you, his eyes meeting yours once again. You hadn’t noticed how closely you two were standing to one another until now, your bodies only a few inches from each other, close enough to feel each other’s body heat radiating. You instinctively bit your lip - your own nervous habit, and Bob gently stroked your cheek with his hand. He pulled you in closer and smiled softly. 

“God, I’ve missed you, Kristen.” He said as he gently wrapped an arm around your waist, his other hand still gently stroking your face, “I really, really missed you.” 

[drachonia]

𝐥 𝐨 𝐯 𝐞 𝐬 𝐭 𝐨 𝐫 𝐲 .

Chevalier Michel Fluff notes: felt like writing this one just to get some Chev brainrot and general headcanons out of my head. nothing too serious or crazy here. excuse my (literal) french or lack thereof. it's been awhile since i've spoken or written any of the language, so i may be a little out of practice. feedback in messages is always appreciated. otherwise, i hope you forgive me for any mistakes. &lt;3. content warning(s): written with OCs in mind, established characters/OCs, wholesome, sleepy little tiger babies.

A yawn pierced the silence of the royal palace of Rhodolite, the brutal beast getting to his feet and glancing at the candle on the windowsill before lifting it up to his lips to blow it out with a hushed breath, quietly closing the door behind him as he left the office. The king was lead down the hallways by a soft humming melody. The beast followed the melody like a siren’s song down the halls, the faintest of smiles upon his face as he peered into their bedroom, taking note of his wife, his Belle, singing to the two young boys as she rested her head against the pillows, letting them curl up with her. Her eyes closed in a blissful sigh, only opening up to meet his own arctic blue depths in the most loving gaze. She beamed as he moved across the room with a quiet stride, crouching down to rid himself of his gloves and slip off his shoes, climbing into bed and looping his arm behind the pillows that rested against the back of his sons’ heads. Olivier tiredly rubbing at his eyes as he yawned and smiled up at his father, drifting off quickly. It reminded Chevalier much of a certain brother of his, gently brushing the wavy pale blonde locks back from his little brow as he snored quietly. “Chevalier…” his beloved whispered to him, gently nodding at the elder of the boys, eight year-old Arsène, reading their large storybook quietly in the bright moonlight that illuminated the bed from the window behind it. His tiny fingers gently leafing through its pages as he quietly brushed at the wetness of his tired little cobalt eyes. The very picture of his father, if quite small. Chevalier smiled lightly, the smallest quirk of his lips as his eyes narrowed at the little boy that had subconsciously snuggled into his father’s side as he’d joined them to venture into dreamland. He gently grasped the spine of the book, fingers pressed between the pages as he lifted the book out of his eldest’s arms, feeling Arsène’s reluctant grip as he resisted. “Mon petit, you managed to wake before me, it is time for you to rest.” Chevalier gave another gentle tug on the book, feeling the young prince’s grip slacken, but not relent. “I was just reading the part where…wh-where…” his eyelids drooped and fluttered in fatigue as he started to drift before his body jolted slightly. He pouted and frowned up at his father, only to be met with the same smile as always. “Arsène, c’est l’heure d’aller au lit.” Chevalier hummed, leaning over to kiss his forehead, moving to do the same to Olivier’s as younger brother slept curled into his mother’s side. Arsène whimpering and letting go of the book to his father’s grip. Chevalier reached to the bedside table, plucking up one of the boys’ bookmarks and placing it between the hardcover pages. His hand gently setting the collection down and turning back to give the final goodnight kiss to his wife before resting his own head against the pillows. “Papa…?” The beast’s eyes flickered in the moonlight down to Arsène’s matching ones, full of childlike admiration, “I love you.” Some say that the rarest expression on the brutal beast was a faint smile, reserved only for his darling queen. But that wasn’t entirely true, for he had just as bright of a smile when he was reminded just how truly loved he was.

“I love you too, mon petit.” He murmured, drawing his family close as the four of them held each other tight.

lace headers by saradika.

[elfpylon]

tag people you want to get to know better

HEY @twigg27 thanks for tagging me ILY &lt;3

last song:

currently watching: nothing, actually. I am gonna see Dune Part II in IMAX today though and I’m stoked.

three ships: shinnoi, otasune, samhiggs

favorite color: a deep, vibrant, almost cobalt violet

currently consuming: I just finished a cup of red bean chia pudding I came up with.

first ship: when I was sixteen… kylux 😏

place of birth: meme state, USA

current location: the Mystery Flesh Pit

relationship status: single :3

last movie: the Dune Part I rerun in IMAX a couple weeks ago

currently working on: studying for my classes over spring break like a fuckin’ nerd

I tag

@c8h7n3o2 @ocelhiraballs @electrosquash @raiden-brannigan @angelofchiralium @metalgeardimir @atticweb @vantasei @bruisesnglitter @thepaleelf @lealdog @theowlseye @6xextinction @barbecutie @bidonica @randamhajile

or if you see this and want to do it!

only if you wanna, ofc!!!!!

[officialrailscales]

Two-Tone Thursday Loadout 🎨

RSBM-P | OD Green

HTP MLOK Scales | Honeycomb Texture | OD Green

HTP MLOK Scales | Honeycomb Texture | Black

QDX Sling Mount | Carbon Black

CSMR Button | Apex Style | Carbon Black

- RS

[berlinini]

Have you recently registered? https://www.tumblr.com/berlinini/717423129564217344/coacoac-writing-credits-as-per-aotv-coacoac?source=share

Song registration is the responsibility of the publishing company. They register the songs written by the artists (writers) that they represent. Publishing is for the composition of a song - the lyrics, the musical melody. It is not related to a recording of the song.

Performing Rights Organization ("PROs") collect royalties when a song is broadcasted or performed publicly. The PRO will pay the writer and the publisher the royalties that they're owed. They have reciprocal agreements with international PROs so they can collect royalties from all over the world.

A publishing company is different from a label, even if most big labels have publishing arms.

Louis is with BMG for his records, but has his own publishing company (LT Publishing Ltd), however his publishing business is dealt by Cobalt Publishing - because it wouldn't make sense for LT Publishing to employ someone to oversee the administration of the royalties, etc. So they subcontract to a bigger publishing company that has more tools and resources to reconcile IDs, deal with payments and do the registration. In return, Cobalt takes a share of the royalties as payment.

So song registration is very important for artists to get paid, as well as for claiming rights (copyright) on a work.

[dragon-tamer-1]

I posted 30,275 times in 2022

344 posts created (1%)

29,931 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@lover-of-skellies

@lunarreaper-ut

@snowy-bones

@scuddle-bubble101

@cobalt-snowdin

I tagged 1,218 of my posts in 2022

#ask - 210 posts

#reblog - 192 posts

#dragon talks - 175 posts

#my art - 120 posts

#nightmare - 75 posts

#anon - 74 posts

#my writing - 68 posts

#aftermare - 52 posts

#flighteningverse - 51 posts

#&lt; - 50 posts

Longest Tag: 137 characters

#people like that don't understand what the difference between what's considered 'stealing an idea' and 'having their own take on an idea'

My Top Posts in 2022:

#4

Oh yeah, forgot to post this

See the full post

62 notes - Posted October 31, 2022

#3

@rainbowsans He's here! And finally reunited with his brother Sir! Thanks for the boi!

74 notes - Posted June 13, 2022

#2

I got the bois!!

Sir and Vice came in!!! @rainbowsans thank you! I get the gentleman and friend! They're a little smaller than I thought, but their size is all the more lovable!

Size comparison with Nightmare plush ^

I'm going to cherish them <3

81 notes - Posted January 26, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

@nozapuns I finished it!! This was fun to do!

203 notes - Posted February 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[cardtorius]

Welp wish i could say it was fun or even real fun cobalt lt but your production year confusing me besides that nothing about you particularly stood out. My dodge dakota saw more use and im talkin outside of driving, like i lived in that truck momentarily. I didnt even take a pic as you were hauled off while i still appreciate you hauling my ass these years i have found another discarded old person vehicle to use from now on. See ya.✌️ (All that being said i dont think i like chevrolet)

[definitelynotstable]

Camomile pt. 3 [Ghost x gn!Reader]

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10

AN: Can’t stop, won’t stop <3

Synopsis: You and a tired and injured Ghost enjoy some camomile. Price has put him in charge of drills while he recovers ...oh shit. Words: 798 Warnings: minor injury Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign Rags): No explicit romance. Fluff as per usual. Relationship development. Soft Ghost <3

Not proof-read (I never ever proof-read).

✧.*

It was unspoken of, these midnight meetings. You would slink into the kitchen and fumble around with the kettle, setting out two mugs of camomile and shortly after the Lieutenant would appear. He would usually bring a book or some paper work and you would doze in your chair, watching over the rim of your mug as he concentrated. 

You had only been with the task force for a couple of months and the Lieutenant had proved to be the hardest to get to know. Soap and Gas wore their hearts on their sleeves, joking and laughing - they were easy too read. Price was kind and fair with a good sense of humour; eyes sparkling whenever he watched his team get together. 

But Ghost was different. The mask made him difficult to read. You prided yourself on subtle observations but the only way to assess the man was through his eyes. Cobalt blue. Hard with furrowed brows on missions, almost black. Softer when Soap was attempting to rile him up, and almost eager with Price. Like a boy searching for validation from their father. You knew that feeling all to well. Most didn’t end up in the Military without some type of familial dysfunction.

The Lieutenant was quiet but calm. You had spent most of your time in the team trying to gauge whether or not he even liked you - his mannerisms were so hard to crack. But after the first night he had wandered into the kitchen to find you sipping from a mug with a stolen teabag it became some type of ritual. And slowly but surely you were getting to know the man you fought side by side with.

✧.*

You hadn’t expected him to join you tonight. The mission had been a success but a tough one nonetheless. You were all a bit battered and bruised, Ghost more than the rest. Price had forced the stoic Lieutenant into the infirmary straight off the tarmac, giving him no chance to escape. It must be a habit of his, you surmised, ignoring wounds and ailments. The curse of needing to be strong all the time. 

So when he shuffled in at quarter past one in the morning, an arm wound tenderly around his ribs, it gave you a scare. You had been dosing on the couch closest to the table, mug of tea tucked in the crock of your arm; lukewarm and forgotten. 

A pale hand wrapped around the mug, pulling it softly out of your grasp. You jolted awake at the movement. He was wearing black neck-muff, covering his face from just under his sharp blue eyes, his white-blond hair tousled. 

You blink blearily up at him as he tilts his head, now having fished the mug out of your grasp. 

“Sleeping durin’ tea-time, Rags?”

His voice is soft and there is a teasing glint in his eyes as he watches you shake yourself awake. 

You push your hair back, stretching slightly. “Sorry LT, didn’t think you would show.”

Ghost nods, walking over to the sink to rinse your mug. You watch him tiredly as he flicks on the kettle.

“How’re the ribs?”

The man in question folds his arms, hip against the counter in his signature pose. “Sore. Price won’t let me train for a few more days so I’m back to runnin’ drills.”

You can’t stop the huff that escapes you. Ghost’s drills were lethal. The Lieutenant raises a pale eyebrow. His cool tone doesn’t fool you, there’s teasing in his eyes. “Somethin’ wrong Sergeant?”

You cough shaking your head, pulling yourself off the couch and sliding into a seat at the table. “No sir, your drills are great sir.”

He scoffs quietly, turning back to face the kettle. “You’re a shit lier, Rags.”

You don’t bother arguing. It’s true. He casts a look at you over his shoulder. Your cheek is resting on your fist, eyelids fluttering. He smiles a little. You don’t notice, too busy focusing on staying awake.

“Anotha’ tea, love?”

“Yes please,” you mumble. God you’re so tired.

A steaming mug is pushed into your hands. Ghost settles into his usual seat opposite you with a small groan. 

“Fuckin’ ell” he grumbles, resting his elbows on the table, mug to his lips. 

You quirk an eyebrow. “Feeling old, LT?”

His eyes snap to meet yours through the wafting steam. “Somethin’ like that.”

You yawn, stretching your arms over to rest behind your head. “Go easy on us tomorrow?”

Ghost’s eyes narrow, he can tell you’re tired. You all are. He takes a long sip of his tea, watching you carefully. “No promises, Sergeant.”

You nod, following suit. “That’s enough for me, LT.”

✧.*

Masterlist

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[shopmyworld]

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[bradshawssugarbaby]

Lunch Break - Lt. Thomas Keefer x Reader

A/N: I don't own this photo but it's the only one I could find 🙃 credit to the original owner!! I know we all go feral for Bob but like, Lt. Keefer over here??? ugh.

pairing: Lieutenant Thomas Keefer x f!reader (The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial)

warnings/content: pretty much plotless smut / p in v / fingering / praise kink

word count: 1.9k

minors dni!

“Lieutenant Keefer,” you stood from your seat in the Admiral’s office, giving a polite salute as he entered the room. 

Lieutenant Thomas Keefer was a tall man with light brown hair and the most hauntingly beautiful blue eyes you’d ever seen in your life. He gave you a polite nod, his lips turning up into a smirk as he looked you up and down. As a civilian aide to the Admiral, you weren’t a stranger to dealing with the various personnel on base, and especially not when it came to dealing with Keefer and all of his flirtatious charms. He dropped the stack of reports on your desk, sitting on the corner of it as he looked at you, gesturing for you to take a seat.

“Please, you don’t need to stand on my account,” he nodded, that smirk still solidly plastered on his lips, “I’m not here for any real professional reason, actually,” He hums as he speaks, his cobalt blue eyes not leaving your body, instead wandering up and down it, as if he was taking all of you in at once.

You took your seat and let out an awkward laugh, cocking your eyebrow upwards into an arch as you looked at him. You could feel his body heat radiating from sitting in such close proximity to him, the scent of his cologne, an almost delicious woodsy smell, notes of sandalwood and cedar filling your nostrils. His demeanor remained playful as he looked around the office, craning his neck as he leaned himself backwards slightly, scanning every possible inch of space in the room.

“They leave you here all alone today?” He smirked, an eyebrow raised.

It was no secret how you felt about Lieutenant Keefer. He was handsome, charming, confident, with just that hint of cockiness that made you crazy for him. You were inexplicably drawn to him in every way imaginable, and there was part of you that hoped, that prayed that he felt an ounce of desire for you as well. The way he was sitting on our desk, so completely relaxed and nonchalantly, while still maintaining an air of authority about him. God, he was perfect. You couldn’t help yourself as you instinctively bit your lip, looking around the room to avoid his gaze that you knew would have you breaking into a cold sweat, making your heart race. 

“Mhmm, meetings off base today. I’m here to hold down the fort, sort of thing,” You responded as cooly as you could, trying to not make your admiration for his intoxicating personality known to him.

“What a shame, a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left to hold down the base’s administrative affairs alone, now should you?”

He reached forward to tuck a lock of your hair behind your ear, his face the closest to yours that it’s ever been. Fuck, there was no way he didn’t know how badly you wanted him. You saw his eyes fill with the same lustful expression you figured yours were showing at this moment. You felt your breath hitch in your throat as he placed his hand on your cheek gently, his voice a low raspy whisper as he spoke now. 

“You have beautiful eyes, has anyone told you that?” 

You felt your cheeks turn pink and hot as the blood rushed to your face, your mind almost completely unable to form a singular thought as you felt his touch. You shook your head gently, the only response you were able to elicit from yourself. He stroked your cheek gently with his thumb, leaning in even closer to you, your faces now merely a hair’s width apart from each other. 

“Aw, what’s wrong, pretty girl?” He cooed, clearly enjoying the fact he’d rendered you speechless. His cobalt blue eyes continued to hold their gaze on you as he watched you practically fold under his touch, unable to concentrate or speak. “Don’t tell me I’ve got you all hot and bothered?”

As if on instinct, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his in a hungry, fervent kiss. His lips met yours, passion brewing between the two of you as your mutual desire became even more apparent to one another. He pulled away ever so slightly, hovering his lips above yours as he smirked at you, watching as you desperately tried to press your lips to his again, his mouth teasing you as he spoke. 

“Someone’s eager, aren’t you?” He grinned as he hopped up off of your desk and approached the office door. He turned the lock before turning back to you and nodding. “If anyone asks later, you’re on a lunch break, got it?” 

You nod obediently and sink your teeth into your own kiss bitten lips as he approaches you again. 

“That’s my good girl,” he responds as he starts strategically clearing off your desk. He hoists you up around his waist, his lips once again finding yours, this time refusing to break contact even as he spun you around to lay you down on the desk behind you. His lips hungrily left a trail of hot wet kisses along your jawline and down your neck. He quickly unbuttoned the buttons of your blouse, kissing the newly exposed skin as he undid each one. His hands explored your body, finding their way up the hemline of your skirt. His fingers tauntingly dragging against your thighs. The way he calls you his girl makes your heart race to a speed you didn’t think was possible, driving you to desire and crave him even more.

“Look at how perfect you are, my sweet girl. You let me know if you want me to stop, ok?” His voice was gentle and reassuring as he spoke, waiting for you to give him a sign of confirmation, granting him permission to continue.

“Please, Lieutenant Keefer, I -” you began as you started asking him to give you what you wanted.

“Just call me Thomas, babe, it’s less of a mouthful,” he chuckled softly as he stroked your hair gently, his eyes full of what could only be described as admiration and lust for you. 

“Thomas, please, don’t tease me,” You nodded as you bit your lip again, “I want this, I want you.”

His eyebrow raised as he looked at you, his lips turning up into that devilish smirk again. Grinning at you, he slid his hand that was resting on your thigh upwards until his fingertips found the lace outline of your panties. He dragged his fingers over the outside of the fabric, feeling the wetness of your arousal that was quickly soaking through your underwear.

“Who’s got you all hot and bothered like this, baby?” He purred at you as he shoved your underwear down off your legs. He quickly slipped his fingers between your wet folds, feeling your arousal gathering on his fingers before he began tracing circles over your clit, biting his lip as he felt your hips push themselves forwards, as if you were instinctively trying to get him to apply more pressure to your sensitive bundle of nerve endings. 

“Y-you,” you managed to squeak out inbetween moans of pleasure at his touch. 

He smirked as he pulled his fingers away, sliding them into his mouth as he cleaned them off with his tongue. Thomas quickly undid his belt, dropping his uniform khakis to the floor, his boxer briefs tenting in a way that you were convinced couldn’t have been comfortable for him. 

“Do I need anything?” His eyebrow raised as he looked at you.

“N-no,” you stuttered, trying to desperately focus your brain on talking, unable to stop yourself from being distracted by your overwhelming desire for him, “I’m clean and on the pill.”

He nodded his head once as he slipped his boxers down off his toned legs, a sign of all the military workouts he’d been completing over the years since he enlisted. His hardened cock sprung forward, and you felt your eyes widen in surprise. You had never really anticipated any size in particular, but he was definitely bigger than what you’d ever dealt with before. He let out a soft chuckle as he saw your reaction and shook his head. He positioned himself between your legs and ducked his head down to whisper to you.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll take it slow for you. Just tell me when you want me to speed up or slow down or anything, ok?” He said reassuringly before kissing just below your ear, a soft groan escaping his lips as he slid his tip along your wetness before pushing it forward gently. 

You exhaled sharply as he paused to let you adjust to his size, his lips sucking at your neck as he waited for you to tell him to continue. As cocky and unbothered of a demeanor that he gave off, Thomas was truly trying to be mindful of you as best as he could be. 

“P-please, need you.” You nodded as you managed to spit the words out. 

Thomas slowly began to thrust his hips in and out of you, filling you out completely as he thrusted. You could feel your body stretching to make him fit, clenching down on him tightly as he pumped himself in and out of you. He kept his mouth on your neck so he could continue to leave hot, breathy kisses and words of encouragement in your ear.

“That’s it, pretty girl, you’re doing so good, taking me so well, baby.” 

You felt his muscles tense as you dug your fingernails into his shoulder blades as he picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster and harder as you drew closer to your climax. His name fell from your lips, part of a rambling mess of curse words and compliments that you managed to moan out. You felt him moaning against your neck, a low grunt as his lips vibrated against you, his hot breath on your sensitive skin pushing you closer and closer to your breaking point. 

“Come for me, pretty girl. You can do it baby, I know you’re so close,” His words of encouragement alone would have been enough to take you there, but that, coupled with the movements of his hips, the sensation of him reaching your g-spot with each and every thrust, you couldn’t help but lose all control. Your back arched, your head tilted back and Thomas’s hand gently went over your mouth to help you muffle your scream as you reached your boiling point. Thomas followed suit, his thrusts becoming sloppier and less calculated as he climaxed, a low, primal grunt escaping his lips as he spoke.  

“Shhhh, baby,” he hissed as you reached your climax, moaning loudly into his hand, “that’s my good girl.” 

Thomas waited a moment before pulling himself out of you slowly, making sure you felt every movement he made as he finished. He smirked as he pulled your underwear back up slowly before standing to his feet, getting himself dressed again. As you buttoned up your blouse once again, he leaned in to kiss your cheek gently. 

“So, I think I have more reports I’ll have to drop off tomorrow, would that be alright?” He smirked as he helped straighten the paperwork that he’d removed from your desk moments earlier.

[windy-trickster]

im doing very good, my cranky cobalt companion :3

-> He lets out a small sigh of annoyance "My blood color is "Midnight", not cob a lt. But I'm gl a d you're doing well for yourself, Mik."