#simon and sarge

[deakyjoe]

Random facts that are canon to the version of Simon “Ghost” Riley that I have written:

People pleaser when the mask is off

Farmers’ market attendee

Patrick Swayze super fan

Loves raw honey

Likes jellyfish

Enjoys a rom-com now and then

Thinks Die Hard is the best Christmas movie

Gets on his knees for one woman and one woman only (Sarge)

Can tolerate a child if they’re not annoying

Is scared of piranhas

Is strangely good at making paper chains

Praise kink

Loves chocolate digestive biscuits

[sergeantwoods]

soap: *gets down on one knee* ghost: oh my god its happening soap: *falls over* ghost: the poisons finally kicking in

--

soap: am i going too far? gaz: no, no, no. you went too far about seven hours ago. now you're going to prison.

--

price: i have ten blank notebooks and i have no clue what to put in them. suggestions? soap: put spaghetti in it. price: im literally taking suggestions from anyone but you. gaz: put spaghetti in it. price: im currently taking suggestions from anyone but you two. ghost: put spaghetti in it. price: im no longer taking suggestions.

--

gaz: roach, i'm sad. roach: *holds out arms for a hug* its going to be okay. soap, watching them: ghost, im sad. ghost: mood

--

soap: you lying, cheating, piece of shit!! gaz: oh yeah? you're the idiot who thinks you can get away with everything you do. WELCOME TO THE REAL WORLD soap: im leaving you, and IM TAKING GHOST WITH ME price, picking up the monopoly board: i think we're going to stop playing now.

--

soap: is stabbing someone immoral? gaz: not if they consent to it. ghost: depends on who you're stabbing. price: YES?!? --

soap: self care is actually getting into fights with randoms in dark alleys. price: no, self care is stuff like taking a bubble bath, or putting on a lot of makeup if you like it, or taking a nice warm nap! ghost: self care is the burning heat when rage washes over you!! self care is when you feel the bones crack under your powerful fists!! self care is the fear in your enemies eyes !!!! gaz: lmao self care is me takin your birthday cake so i can just eat the frosting soap: if you touch my birthday cake i will eat your hands. -- soap: do you think you’d actually notice if someone didn’t cast a shadow? or if their limbs were just slightly too long? or if they had just a little too many teeth? like how many times have you passed something on the street and you just didn’t notice it? gaz: stay woke monsterfuckers ur love is out there!!! soap: you know what? that wasn't my point at all, but glad i could spread some inspiration.

[deakyjoe]

HAHHAHAHAHA

I love when people notice things 🫶

But that is my favourite warning for the whole story, it’s hilarious to me 🤭

And I’ve only ever had one person complain that Sarge is British so 🤷🏻‍♀️

Thinking about how @deakyjoe put "Implied British backstory (sorry)" in the content warning of Sarge x Ghost

Every

Damn

Day

I love you EJ fr

[seizethegay420]

Phoenix fathered so hard that the universe dropped an eight year old in his lap

[sergeant-angels-trashcan]

Headcanon Kate gives the 141 kisses and then immediately bites them to show affection like a cat

HOW DO YOU KNOW I'VE BEEN DEEP IN BITING 141 HEADCANONS

It's a love bite!! She just gets so excited by physical affection she has to nom a little. It's fine. Don't worry about it.

Price and Ghost DO NOT make it easy for her. Ghost, obviously, covering his face a lot, but Price has a beard! She can't nip at his cheek or chin, she just gets a mouthful of beard, that's unacceptable. Sometimes she bites his nose. He's smart, though, can tell when she's bitey, knows to pull away so she can't nab him. So she resorts to biting the back of his hand. He has to shave for some reason and after the first round of novelty wears off (babyface Price?!!?!) new novelty appears because NEW BITING SURFACE!!

Kate tried to bite Ghost's hard shell mask once and hated it. He covers up a lot so she can't ever shrug it off like "oh oops i didn't mean to" she literally has to ruck up a sleeve or tug his collar down. this gives him enough time to plan a RETALIATION BITE.

Not nippy ones like she does, either. Full on chomps. His reasoning is "if I have my teeth in you then i know you are not going off somewhere doing something STUPID" Kate is offended by the implication she does stupid things. rude. This does NOTHING btw to make anyone else on base less intimidated by Ghost. rumors circulate about how he bites hard enough to draw blood and that's with someone he kind of likes! (this did happen, thankfully it was not in public because they were both very kind of into it)

feral bastard man Soap adores the love bites. to the point where if he's feeling down, he'll ask for it because it's a nice little dopamine rush. When the ADHD starts ADHDing he will either bite or ask to be bitten. it works, so nobody questions it. Soap is actually more likely to break skin because he's got sharp chompers. Kate likes to bite the top of his ear. Will use the mohawk to drag his head down if she needs to

Gaz gets nibbles. comparatively gentle bites. the guys are talking about their various Kate Bite Bruises Etc and Gaz is like??? wtf are you on about??? Sure there's a bit of a sting sometimes but she kisses it away. Price makes a comment about maybe she bites harder to match the biting the guys do to her (he is correct for the most part). And Gaz is like. you HEATHENS. why are you BITING HER BACK?

This devolves into a very long (slightly horny) discussion of biting as affection, etc. as well as some brief spirals into "why isn't she biting me harder/softer???" (there's a slight chance that Kate comes by Price's office while this is the hot topic in the guys' group chat and Price relays the entire conversation to her, no this is NOT an invitation to bite me right now Katherine!!!! [Price is the only one who can call her Katherine and he's only done it twice])

Anyway Gaz gets Nice Bites until he has a close call, which prompts a very dramatic kiss from Kate followed by a very mean bite to his neck that bruises almost instantly. Gaz is like great! i now see i was not missing out on anything. let's go back to the nice bites please. (he will get nice bites when he stops doing stupid shit, and Gaz thinks that's a bit rich coming from the queen of stupid shit herself, which earns him another, if slightly nicer, bite)

One of them has the top of his ear nicked from an arrow. Not Ghost, his ears are covered, but at least ONE of the others. I'm pretty sure it's Soap but it could be Gaz. that doesn't have anything to do with biting but is important for us all to know.

[uhohdad]

👉👈 soooo who else are you willing to write for?

i mostly write for Konig, Ghost, and Price - but I am more then willing to try and step out of my comfort zone for y’all

thanks for asking hun y’all know id do anything for you <3 <3 <3

masterlist if ya nasty

[sergeantwoods]

hii !! welcome to this chaos 😭😭 i’ll give u some of my favorite writers + fics !!

fics !

what did the werewolf eat after getting his teeth cleaned? by lawfulslab is a great one!! human soap with a werewolf team stuff. not a big fan of smut myself, but this one has some at the end if u want !!

through the fire by crisisbasger !! zombie apocalypse au! er nurse soap and ex military ghost. its 9 chapters long, finished, and the first part of a series. theres smut at the end of this as well!

soft to be strong by oshikiri-toru is one of my all time favorites ((: personally, i’m a big fan of selkie!soap ,, so this one is great lol. selkie soap, human ghost. ghost works at an aquarium, and soap, as a seal, gets moved to the aquarium. its a one shot, but its long lmao

solemn prayer, poppy in my hair by congee4lunch ! who doesnt love the “im going to my crushes house as his fake boyfriend!!” trope ?? (its ghost going to meet soaps family as his pretend boyfriend 🤷‍♀️) eventual smut and long fic !

im your home, you’re my home by oshikiri-toru !! I LOOOVE THIS TROPE OMFG 😭 soap and ghost are friends as kids, then ghost moves away. they meet again in the military !! two chapters long !

note to self: drink in moderation by eggtimelads 🙏 silly goofy drunk simon 🥰🥰

seasons by stinglesswasp !!!! i love this one !! i cant give a very good description of it, but it’s a great one. 7 chapters, and eventual smut!

affirmative, sir by wixiany !! long fic !!! one of my all time favorites (: mission goes wrong, everyone goes on leave, and then soaps place gets broken into. he gets sent to ghosts place for a while. this one is domestic, fluffy, and angsty !! heavy make out scene(s?) but no smut (yay for me!!) this is really a great fic lol

my heart in your hands keeps going on by fetteeule i LOVE man, this is so fucking funny. i laughed so many times. ex military soap, military ghost. 5 + 1 fic, “five times ghost didnt want to go on leave v the one time he did,” is the only way i can describe it. eventual smut! 6 chapters!

shift my heart, for it is stone cold by nobujr !!!! DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED. MY FAVORITE OF FAVORITES. its a long fic, currently at chapter 21, and it isn't finished. we've been left at an unfortunate cliffhanger, at the mo' 😔

writers !!

im just gonna list a bunch that i've enjoyed their writing of lol

@/oshikiri-toru (ao3 and tumblr)

@/FetteEule (ao3 and tumblr)

@/MeowMeowRiley (ao3 and tumblr)

@/wispscribbles (ao3 and tumblr [THEY DRAW TO AND THEYRE AMAZING AAA])

@/robiinurheart33 (tumblr. despite not having an ao3 acc, i absolutely adore the stuff they've posted on here!!)

@/WhisperedWords12 (ao3 ?? im not aware if they have a tumblr -- as mentioned before, im not a big fan of smut but of the stuff i've read of them they seem to do a lot of that 🤷‍♀️)

@/mothbeast (ao3 -- not aware that they have tumblr either, but i wouldnt be surprised hh)

@/LawfulSlab (ao3 -- same as last two. out of the three ghoap fics they have, theyre all great!!)

--

i hope these find you well! theres a lot of fics i havent mentioned; and all my favorites are bookmarked under the use 'sergeantwoods' on ao3.

have a good rest of ur day/night !! <3

I have fallen victim to Soap/Ghost and I need fic recs! PLEASE send them my way I’ve been browsing AO3 for hours❤️

[deakyjoe]

2am drunk me from last night was a genius for this

I NEED TO FIND SOMEWHERE TO ADD THIS IN TO A FUTURE CHAPTER

I just wrote it in my notes with nothing else 😭

[sergeantwoods]

we love the band aus frfrfrrfrfrfrfrfrfrfrfrf (i need you to that i love them 😭)

Cod band au (first part here)

I got two scenarios of how soap and ghost meet but I’m not sure which to choose

First scenario I was thinking of a meet cute, who is that hunk of meat on stage shredding the shit out of that guitar?? Soap along with Rudy and Alejandro went to like an underground bar place and hearing Kyle’s band for the first time with ghost. He’s excited, nervous, and a little inebriated. He’s chatting along with Rudy, Alejandro somewhere on the dance floor when the lights dim and the crowd starts to get excited. Soap gets up and starts to head to the front, but is pushed back by the sheer energy and amount of bodies in the crowd. He’s getting agitated, annoyed that he can’t even see the band he was previously in, but then he hears a guitar being absolutely shredded and soap’s mouth dropping a little. This guy is fucking good. - buuut it’s pretty cliche and overdone a bit

Scenario 2 is pretty Scott pilgrim inspired. Johnny meeting ghost for the first time during one of their band trainings. Ghost has played with the band a couple times now, gotten their vibes down and decided to stay. He knows he’s a replacement of soap (what kinda name is soap?) but decidedly is kinda unnerved by how nice he is. They play in Farah and Alex’s garage, soap sitting on a ratty couch they need to throw away. Farah plays off the beat with her sticks, and ghost (maybe a little intentionally) pulls on the wire of his guitar, causing it to whine and fade off before the song starts. Johnny sits up immediately- attention snatched by ghost. He doesn’t play guitar, far from it actually but it’s not even the technique he’s using, it’s the way he looks amazing while doing it.

[sergeantwoods]

ghost : why don't emo kids like high fives?

soap : why?

ghost : 'cause they're always left hanging.

soap : nice.

soap : I made a website for orphans. it doesn't have a home page.

ghost : haha.

ghost : why'd my dad go to jail?

soap : why?

ghost : beats me.

soap : simon --

[fic-heaven]

Ghost x witty reader

Good luck's kiss

.

Running through the hall heaving like a dog earned you a few confused looks from the passerbys, but the fact that your lieutenant was in the armory about to leave for a month to a mission you were not quite informed of, made you skip breakfast to at the very least, say goodbye. Because obviously that's what friends do... Not crazy fucks with a big-ass crush.

"Hey! Hey!!" You call out to Ghost who by the looks of it, is not happy at all while rearranging his bag near the exit from where you just busted in.

"Don't got time to humour ya, sarge. We are deploying in a few minutes." The tall Brit growls rushing to collect his things, the heavy bag he previously had on the floor was now being launched to his shoulder as Simon got ready to leave the room.

"Weren't ya leaving in like... Half a week?" You breathlessly said getting on his way.

"Yeah well, change of plans. That's our job, sweetheart."

You crossed your arms with a patient look and that seemed to tick him off.

"You weren't planning to simply leave without saying goodbye, right? That's not something my favorite lieutenant would do."

He busied himself checking his gear for the last time on the crusty, broken mirror near next to you that someone had forgotten to throw away as an excuse to spend a few minutes listening to you.

"What would ya have me do? I ain' got no time to fuck around kissing everyone g'bye."

"Do you need a good luck's kiss, LT?"

That shocked Ghost, but he was obviously not going to openly show it, he knew if he was too obvious he wouldn't hear the end of it with all your teasing, so he stood there staring blankly at your reflection next to him in utter silence and you, always so straight forward, weren't one to shy away from this even if it was only a joke.

You moved the paralyzed lieutenant by the shoulders to face you so you could lean in, to your surprise he crouched a bit to your level when he picked up on what you were about to do, your hand went to his jaw tilting his head a bit to the side with his permission, then you planted your lips to the cold surface of his masked cheek. Ghost's eyes remained open, never blinking in a seemingly bored expression while you smiled in amusement at your lieutenant until you spotted the clock hanging from the wall behind him and realization hit you.

"Y'gotta go, what are ya waiting for? A second kiss?"

That seemed to pull him out of his hidden stupor, he blinked twice, leaned back and stretched his neck. "Thanks for the offer. That wasn't awkward at all..."

"Why! I bet you are blushing under there~"

"On your dreams, I only indulge in your stupidity-"

"Oh, for bonding I bet."

"Not really, it's only for my sole amusement."

"My goodness, Riley. You are cold..."

Ghost was about to leave the armory with his hand ready to open the door until he heard this, he turned to you, took a few rushed steps closer his right hand shooting to grab your nape and pressed the teeth of his mask to your forehead simulating a kiss. It was your turn to look openly dumbfounded. Ghost took a peek your way, said his quick goodbyes and left.

He'll never acknowledge the loud dreamy sigh that scaped his mouth when his lungs deflated once he got to the humvee.

Simon could die on this mission and feel a type of peace only belonging to a man who has seen and done everything on his list. Although next time, if everything goes right and he gets back to you, he hopes you'll give him another kiss but this time with no mask.

[ladyelissarose]

‘Your Touch’

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x female solider reader 

- Callsign; Taryn (meaning Thunder)

Summary; Who knew that the soldier with the callsign Taryn was actually afraid of the thunder? Maybe it’s loud claps shook her to her core instead of speaking to her? Ghost notices this, and decides to make a move on it.

Warnings: it’s really short but it’s lovely believe me. I’m terrified of thunderstorms so I thought I’d do something about it as I’m going through one right now! It’s mostly fluffy.. enjoy ;)🌻

‘CLAP!!.. BOOM!!’

You lost your breath while your brain short circuited, causing you to almost drop your heavy rifle to the ground. You unfortunately got jump-scared by nature’s screams; Thunder. Loud, screaming thunder, the one that could kill you and wake up the dead at once. It made your heart beat faster and your bones tremble deep in your core. The clouds cried rivers as you did your best to lift every foot completely off the ground as your stepped deeper into her puddles of tears. Thinking about the sun or sunshine didn’t help take your mind off of what scared you the most. Thunderstorms. Yeah, perhaps you were part of the most lethal group in the world as known as the 141 Task Force, but you still had fears. But you didn’t fear what others did, like chains, blood, needles, or even death. 

  No no... what terrified you to the point of tears and wrecking sobs begging to be released from the cages in your throat, was the sound of thunderstorms. It sounded like screams of a mourning mother and worse than the earth-shaking bombs of the military. Ever sense you were a little girl they scared you, it’s sound terrified your little heart until your mother came to embrace you through the night to sleep. But now without your mother and out in the field as a tough soldier, you did your very best to cover it up and handle it like a champ, though there were occasions that the tears would slip, and your lips would quiver, but you blamed it on the cold-chilly rain to be the reason to your reactions.

   So no one in your teamed didn’t know about this this fear of yours... plus, your call-sign or nickname per say was ‘Taryn’, meaning ‘thunder’. But that was only because you had a loud presence, a voice that spoke over others with reason and power. There had never been one to shut you up for they feared being swallowed by your thunderous words. (And those that did- well let’s just say they never did it again:)

Anyways, you’re on night watch with Ghost, he was your sniper, you were his eyes. In complete stillness almost being unseen as the ghost he was, Lieutenant Ghost laid on his tummy beside you as you stood next to him with your special night binoculars, looking for any sight of unwanted intruders. Your eyes kept strong and open, making sure you saw past the rain to catch lingering figures, Ghost’s hands rested on the handle on the rifle as his finger laid delicately on the trigger, he was in position to be ready to aim where you told him too, then he’d snipe them out on your call. 

  But as your were busy you didn’t realize that Ghost had caught onto you almost dropping you gun seconds ago and how your legs were trembling beside his head, but he knew it was not from the cold- no no no... from fear. He had felt and trembled to that fear before, when he was beat by his father, witnessed the sight of his family’s dead bodies, being tortured closely to death and even buried alive- so yes... he knew fear. 

  Ghost knew you had a fear, but thunderstorms? Who would of thought? So to keep you calm and steady, as he wished you to be, he tried to call you back to reality. After clearing his throat and noticing the way his balaclava stuck to his skin, he asked softly but still with that deep, British voice,

“Sarge? You good?”

You snapped for a second and stayed still as you replied as calmly as you could, not wanting to give off how on the edge of fall apart you were,

“Yes sir. All good.”

“Hmm... don’t let the rain make you drop your weapon, you could damage a piece then it won’t work properly.”

“Oh. Yes sir. Apologies.”

“No need, just be careful eh?”

“Affirmative.”

“Hmm.. Hmm...”

‘Oh boy...’

Ghost’s ‘hmm hmm’s’ were sounding a little off today, they didn’t sound like of approval or satisfaction, but more like he didn’t believe you. 

*bright ass lightning*

It was so bright you could see Ghost so clearly that you even saw the way his black paint around his coffee colored eyes was wearing off. Nonetheless you still thought of the future,

‘Oh fuck no... incoming bitch-‘

‘CLAP!!...’

‘no no no-‘

‘BOOOOM!!!’

“Shit!”

Your whole body jolted like if you had been electrocuted. Now streaks of warm tears fell down your face and blended with the cold ones from the rain, even a soft and small sob left your lips, Jesus it was really getting to you now. But you believed your cries were all blocked off or blended well by the sound of the raging storm. Oh it all just ripped you apart from the insides, your inner child was screaming for mama to embrace you and keep you close, away from all the danger. You didn’t feel like a brave, combat soldier who was like the thunderstorm herself... you felt like kid, a kid who needed a hug, and saving. Your hands trembled slightly as you lifted the binoculars to scan again, and thankfully nothing was out, so you put them back down for now, that’s when you felt a soft tug on your pant leg. Your heart skipped a beat with panic of who it was considering you were already traumatized, but your mind reminded you that it was Simon Riley by your leg, seeking your attention. You blinked away the tears and looked down, as you unintentionally whimpered,

“yeah Simon?”

“C’mere.”

“m?”

“down here. come.”

You right away knelt to the ground and felt the cold rain quickly soak your pants on the knees, but weren’t bothered by it as Simon’s words clouded those thoughts,

“Want to hide under my cape?” 

You frowned and pointed at his large Grim Reaper cape cover him nicely, signifying that if that was what he was talking about. He leaned onto one elbow to look up at you as he nodded and repeated,

“So you’re going to come?”

‘Oh ok I’m not crazy he actually wants to share his cape!!’

“oh! You sure-“

He grunted and got back on his tummy,

“Don’t make me change my mind pussy-“

“Ok ok!”

With a short giggle at his choice of words which were usually saved for Soap, you then found refuge on your tummy too but with security under Ghost’s large cape, almost feeling untouchable by what’s out there as you huddled close to him and held your binoculars tightly. You left an inch between him and yourself for respect of course, though you wish that didn’t exist so you could be almost glued to him. Ghost was such a strong, bulky man, a human bear that was both cuddly and deadly, and Damn you were addicted to that combination. Simon then nudge your arm with his elbow as he suggested,

“Come closer Tar.. I don’t bite dove.”

‘No fucking way!! Sweet!’

Of course, you didn’t have to be told twice, in milliseconds you were pressed up against him, propped on your elbows mirroring his position, but what warmed and exploded your heart with awe, love, warmth and lust- ehem.. well what really got your broken and scared to death heart was the feeling of Simon’s hand wrapping around yours tightly. You gasp lowly at his action but nonetheless acted upon it when you cuddled his hand closer to you, relishing in the comfort of the smallest touch he could ever give. You always believed that under all of Simon’s deadly facade as Ghost, he had a soft spot... somewhere inside where he tried to be soulless like a Ghost.. he was still human with a good heart... and this just proved you right as he warned you,

“Never tell a soul about this or I’ll tell them your fear and give them the right to haunt you with it. Understood?”

You nodded quickly and leaned your cheek on your clasped hands as you promised,

“I won’t... thank you Si.”

“It feels nice.”

“It does... should we-“

He locked eyes with you and finished your suggestion with his words,

“Every time. When we feel scared. We can hold one another’s hands dove. If we’re together nothing can touch us. that’s what my mum used to do...”

He ended the last part with sadness in his tone, which you caught and squeezed his hand for extra comfort as you smiled sweetly, but it faded quickly when you saw it,

*deadly ass lightning strike*

Instinctively Simon pulled you practically under his chest with your ear pressed against him where his heart would be. He then covered the side that was opened, but not before saying into them kindly,

“It can’t touch you remember? I got you.”

*.... thump.. thump.. thump.. thump..*

The beyond, calming heart of Simon soothed your troubled soul, and also joyed you when you didn’t hear the terrifying sound of Mother Nature but instead the gift of life in Simon’s body. When it had passed Simon kissed your head through his mask and let you go to get back in position, which you did but still found his hand again without skipping a beat. 

“Mm mmm.”

Now that, sounded like the delightful humming of Simon, he was pleased, and peaceful... you too were now. You took a quick glance at him but saw how his eyes were on yours first before he looked away shyly. You blushed a little and looked ahead feeling better, and so secure with him. It was probably the beginning of the best night watches and life you were going to have.. as long as you had Simon Ghost Riley by you.... and Simon believed the same thing, when he felt his heart beat differently but nicely at the touch of your hand in his, and also how you reminded him of his loving mother, who with just touch... he was a healed and protected kid. You both healed your inner child at one another’s touch.

[radiojamming]

Prompting you for anything with Tartnell

hi i'm DJ and i and i want to write all the missing scenes i wanted to see in the terror.

---

In a memory with no date, they are children. It is a honey-gold day with sunlight playing on the river, a wood-warm scent in the air from the fences around the orchards. John carries Tom on his back down the road from the Burnt Elm farm, the corner of John's mouth still stained purple from the blackberries they picked out of the hedgerow. Tom's fingers are dyed the same shade, and their mother will surely have a few words to say about the stains on their clothes.

But for now, Tom is full, warm, and happy. There is sweetness in his mouth and the sun on his back, his brother to his front, the sound of magpies chattering in the trees around him.

John hums a tune. He's not a particularly good singer, but Tom likes to listen to him anyway. It's a shanty—one that they've heard at the Dockyard when they run down to see their father and walk home with him. Tom thinks it's about ladies; most of those songs are. He tries to hum along, but the sway of John's gait makes him too sleepy to try.

Instead, he yawns and asks, "Can we do this again tomorrow?"

"Sure," John replies, hefting Tom up a little further up his back. "We ought to bring a basket, though. To take some home."

Tom nods and turns his head so his cheek is pressed against his brother's back. He watches the Danbury farm slowly give way to the Simon orchard, and he counts the rows of trees until he gets to the one that was hit by lightning last summer. Eventually, he closes his eyes.

There's not much meaning to this memory. No lessons learned, no part of Tom's life altered. What's important is that John is there—a child, thin, tall for his age, keeping Tom close and safe. Walking so Tom doesn't have to.

No. This memory means everything.

---

They fight only once. Truly fighting; not just the general struggle of being brothers with only two years' difference between them.

Tom doesn't recall his exact words. All he knows is that he's angry. Angry that John keeps himself cloistered in the same job that's slowly killing him, that he exhausts himself day after day to make ends meet without a care for himself, that Tom's certain he'll come home on leave only to find John's headstone beside their father's in the churchyard.

(He's scared; not angry. But it's so much easier to mask it as anger than to ever admit he's frightened.)

But Tom's words are coarse, scoured over with years on the Volage and deckled on the edges with every gunshot or dying wail of a comrade in his ears. He curses in a way their mother would scold him for, but he can't take the words back even as he sees John go milk-pale at the sound.

He remembers only one sentence. The only one that matters.

"You're so selfish," he snarls.

(It's not true. It's never been true. John doesn't know how to be selfish. His life has always been attached to someone else, for someone else's benefit. His mother's, his brothers', his sisters', Mister Sarge's, Jane's. Selfish people don't lose sleep like John has, don't wince when they move their hands the way he does.

But all the other words Tom wants to say don't come out. They change shape, consonants, vowels. They turn into something awful.)

He sees the whites of John's eyes, and as soon as his brother takes one step forward, straightens himself out of his perpetual slouch, Tom remembers how much taller John is.

"Shut your mouth, Thomas," John says. His voice has always been low, a little scratchy like he's in need of clearing his throat.

And never—never has he used Tom's full name.

John takes another step forward.

(Where they are, Tom can't remember. There's a wall of a building. Home? Church? The Inn?)

And another.

(He remembers John's shirt, stained at the wrists. Shoemaker's black.)

And then John's hands are on Tom's shoulders, and he shoves. Tom reels back, catches himself before he can hit the ground. He knows he should step back and apologise. He knows there's so much more he could do or say that could fix this. But he's a sailor, and there's this awful crashing noise in his head that he simply can't quiet. He balls his fists and before he can think clearly, he swings.

At his fucking brother.

(He remembers crying into John's shirt at their father's grave.)

He has to aim up because John's so much taller.

(Remembers John standing under the lychgate into St. Mary Magdalene's, fist pressed to his mouth, biting his knuckles so he wouldn't cry.)

His fist connects with John's upper lip and nose, causing his brother's head to snap back. Something crunches under Tom's knuckles, and his stomach twists in a fierce knot at the feeling. He sees blood—orchard fruit bright red—on his hand when he draws it back.

(Remembers John in bed, gasping with breath that simply wouldn't come. A bloodstained handkerchief clenched in his fist. Their mother weeping as she watched their father dying of the same affliction.)

John doesn't make a sound. No yelp of agony, or gasp, or curse. Just silence. Agonising silence that makes a minute into an hour. Tom only sees him stagger a little, blood pouring freely out of his nose and onto his mouth, his shirt collar.

(Their mother scrubbing blood out of his shirt.)

It drips onto the ground. Slow. Raindrop-heavy.

(The bed linens on the line. A blossom of blood visible, drying in the breeze.)

He says nothing. Instead, he raises his head and sniffs once. Hazel eyes in skull-deep sockets. Exhaustion bows his back again as he nods.

"Alright, Thomas," he says. Another sniff. "Alright."

And he walks away.

(Where does he go? Where does this happen? Tom wishes he knew, wishes he would have run after him and begged his forgiveness. They never fight again after this, but Tom can't shake the memory of his brother's blood on his hands.)

---

They join up together. It's easier this way—two incomes flowing into their house, right when Charlie's on the cusp of joining up as well.

"I can help," says Strickland. He bounces on the balls of his feet as John signs his name in the allotment book. "Mum says she doesn't need the full amount or nothin', but I think Aunt Sarah would like it."

"No," says John, mostly to the book and to Mister Helpman who's watching the whole family scene with amusement. "Good Lord, Stricks. Why would we make you do that?"

"You're not makin' me do nothin', Harts," Strickland retorts. "I'm contemplatin' doin' a kindness, you joyless thing."

Tom doesn't have to see his brother's face to know he's rolling his eyes.

"Well, tell your mum so," John replies, then steps back and gestures to Tom just as Mister Helpman turns to a fresh page. "You're next, Tommy."

Tom walks up to the book and tells Mister Helpman all the details he needs to know. Where his pay goes, to whom, what's the relation, where does he hail from. He watches Helpman's quick hand neatly record every word.

"Sign here, sir," Helpman says.

Behind Tom, Strickland grunts in a way that suggests John has him in another headlock—his favourite method of subduing anyone. "Lemme go, you big oaf!"

"Come now, Mister Strickland," John says primly. "Is this any way for a member of Her Majesty's Navy to behave?"

"I'll show you Her Majesty!"

"That doesn't make sense. Actually, that sounds right obscene." John pauses, just as Tom finishes signing his name. "I'm just sorry, Mister Helpman. He's usually a good boy."

Helpman stifles a laugh and shakes his head. "Well, you lot will surely keep the ship entertained. Now, please release Mister Strickland so he can give me his details."

"You heard the gentleman, Stricks," John says, releasing Strickland who darts forward, sand-brown hair a mess. "Do we need to remind you how to spell your name again?"

Strickland gives him a very unkind gesture behind his back where Helpman can't see.

Tom returns to John's side and grins at his brother. People often comment how they look nothing alike, save for their smile. John gives him a perfect reflection of it now—playful, tilted up at the left corner, eyes squinting in happiness.

"You gonna behave yourself on this trip?" he asks John.

"Of course," John replies. "I have to be the responsible older brother, don't I?"

They laugh.

As if John's been anything else.

---

John starts to get sick in November.

It comes on slow. Coughs stifled in his fist or elbow. A wheeze he can pass off as simply poor lungs struggling in tight quarters with far too much pipe smoke in the air. Begging off early for bed even when they're deep in a game or a book.

Then he falls off a ladder, and Tom knows something's wrong.

John's never been particularly graceful. Uncle Hoar used to compare him to a colt that wasn't quite sure of its own legs. But in the rigging, he's a different creature entirely. It's as though he's waited his whole life to get off the ground, to see the world from some place higher than the world he'd been relegated to. His grip is always sure and steady, his footing secure. Only a few years in the Navy and he's done well by himself.

But it's the ladder—the damn ladder that does it. Just the one to maintain the lamps on deck. Only a few rungs. A few steps. It's not so very far to fall.

(It is. It's only ice and hard wood under his back when he lands. He's in so much pain by the time Tom, Sullivan, Tadman, and two Marines on duty get to him that he can't speak.)

He recovers for a few days in the sick bay until he can stand without wobbling on a weak ankle again. Doctor Stanley gives him some concoction and a few terse instructions. Mister Goodsir diligently follows up a few minutes later to advise on the dosage and how much rest John should get.

John improves.

And then he doesn't.

December comes in with a howling gale that sings in the lines holding the tent to the deck. And it comes with an awful sound rattling up from John's lungs.

It comes with blood on a handkerchief.

(Scrubbing it out of a shirt.)

---

"They say one of the stokers on Terror's got it, too," Tadman tells Tom in confidence. "He's barely conscious."

Tom stares down hard at the floor.

"You don't think he's been sick all this time?" Tadman asks.

Tom's quick to say, "He hasn't. He'd have been sent back by now."

Outside, on the stony shore of Beechey, two men sent by the captains of both ships make note of a particularly flat spot of land. Good for graves, they say.

"He'll make it through," Tom says.

---

In the doorway, Tom watches as Mister Weekes makes measurements of John. His height, the width of his shoulders, the width of his knees side-by-side. As he does, John sleeps fitfully, a pinch between his brows and sweat beading his top lip.

Weekes doesn't know Tom's there. He finishes his work, penning some numbers down in a little pocketbook. Then, he turns and sees Tom at last. His eyes go wide.

"Ah," he says. "Mister Hartnell."

Tom doesn't reply. Anything polite is caught in his throat. He only nods.

Weekes seems sheepish, apologetic. He fights for his words, but in the end only says, "A good evening to you," before walking by Tom.

Tom silently walks to John's side, looking his brother over now with new eyes. His height (for the coffin's length), his shoulders (for its width), his knees (tied together). But his eyes move restlessly under their lids, his cheeks are flushed, his fingers twitching as he dreams.

Then, he jerks away. He gasps, sputters, coughs. His glassy eyes cast about the sickbay until they catch on Tom's image, and immediately he settles.

"Tom," he croaks. Even sick as he is, he manages to smile. "S'dreamin' of 'alifax."

Tom forces a smile and pulls up his usual chair. He hasn't slept in two days, afraid of sleeping through what now seems inevitable. "Were you now?" he replies.

"Mm."

"Which part?"

John closes his eyes and grins. "You much for guessin'?"

"If it's what I think, then I'd rather not."

"Hah." He coughs out a laugh, and Tom tries his damnedest to ignore the rim of red on his bottom lip. "No. I was dreamin' about 'olystoning a bloody deck."

"You were dreaming about work?" Tom asks incredulously.

"Right?" John cracks an eye open. "I'm dyin' in a sickbay and that's what I dream about. S'awful."

Tom goes quiet then. John's never said anything about dying before. Up until now, it's been quiet reassurances that he'll make it through this again. As a veteran consumptive, he knows all the right strategies. He's made jokes about it.

John looks at him, his expression hard to read. If anything, he seems to try to read Tom's, searching his face for something. He clears his throat and looks away. "They plannin' anything for Christmas out there?" he asks.

It takes too long for Tom to comfortably respond. Eventually, "Yeah. Full-on feast or the like." He cringes, but manages to wrangle it into a weak smile. "Don't suppose there's a Goldner's Christmas Meal in one of those cans, d'you think?"

John laughs again, and it crackles in his throat. "I'd love to see it if there was."

"You will," Tom says. Maybe a bit too fiercely, too defensively. It takes him by surprise as much as it seems to take his brother. But he reiterates it, "You will."

"Sure, Tommy," John says. He nods, and a single drop of blood drips out of the corner of his mouth. He doesn't seem to notice. "I will."

---

By Christmas Eve, Mister Goodsir kindly tells Tom and Strickland that John's not doing well. It's soft sympathy, meant to cushion a blow that Tom's felt continually since November.

"He's not taken much by way of meals," Goodsir says. He fidgets with the cuffs of his shirt, apparently eager to do something with his hands. "I've managed with a little broth and some medicine, but he's gotten... Well, he doesn't seem particularly pleased with it."

He's gotten combative, Tom thinks. He's seen John's reactions lately, the way he strikes out at nothing, snarling at the ceiling like something there personally offends him. Tom can only imagine John trying to hit Goodsir as the man feeds him, like a temperamental, colicky child.

Strickland's hat is in his hands, and he's squeezing it so hard that Tom worries he'll crush it.

Goodsir goes on, saying they'll keep him comfortable, try to keep him fed, medicate him as needed.

Never once does he say John will get better.

---

They bury the stoker on New Year's. Tom doesn't see it—no one sees much of anything from the ships, as dark as it is. But he hears about it from Billy Orren.

That's how he learns about the open grave right next to the stoker's.

---

Tom sews a pillowcase. His hands are quick at this sort of work, learned from years of watching his mother and sisters, his aunts and cousins. He's always had a knack for sewing and mending, which is why some of the men on Erebus come to him for repairs. John was always—

John is good at it, too. Shoemaking and all.

He uses his fingertips to crimp the frills around the edges of the pillow, sewing them firmly into place. He's already got some cast-off rags and such to stuff it with, provided by some of the other Chatham boys who felt they needed to contribute somehow.

They've all been to see John—anyone who knew him in any capacity. Any man who didn't know him directly but who hailed from Kent and felt they needed to see their man off properly. Mister Armitage came the night before, offering his quiet condolences to a fellow St. Mary Magdalene congregant.

They paid their respects.

Tom swallows hard, blinks harder, and keeps sewing.

Then he pricks his finger with the needle, hissing at the contact. It stings, and he immediately sticks the tip of it in his mouth until he tastes copper. It seems to spread in his mouth, at the same time he notices the pin-sized droplet of blood on the pillow.

He stares at it for a long while as the bow of Erebus creaks and groans around him, as the sound of men enjoying the New Year carries down to his ears, as blood spreads across his tongue.

---

He doesn't want to remember this.

The high pitch in his ears, drowning out the ship, the Arctic, the world. His heart rampaging in his chest, throttling itself against his ribs like a prisoner. Tears ember-hot in his eyes.

No.

No, he doesn't want to remember this.

(He remembers it in sections now.)

The grief—

(John, still. Cold. Bloodless.)

Good God, the grief—

(Hands cold in Tom's. Unmoving. Callouses on his index fingers and thumbs from all those years of work.)

The way he cries out to nothing, to no one—

(Lips still, but slightly open. The barest shine of his teeth. Like he got caught on his last breath and forgot to shut his mouth after.)

The way his knees hit the floor—

(The blankets are damp with the sweat of a dead man.)

The way his whole body shudders, wracked with an animal noise—

(He can't look at his brother's face.)

And his forehead in his hands, like he's trying to hold himself together—

(Or the blood on his clothes.)

---

Tom shaves John's face. Orren trims his hair. Strickland cuts his fingernails. They wash him down, quietly trying to find something to joke about.

"God, remember when we were in Plymouth together?" Strickland says. His voice wobbles as though he's caught on a laugh and a sob. "That whole time he was trying to get Betsy off the breakwall. Like watchin' someone try to get a cat out of a tree."

Orren snorts and trims a piece of hair from behind John's left ear. "I heard about that," he replies. "The same time he fell in the water, yeah?"

"Absolutely," Strickland says.

"I'd have paid good money to see it," Orren goes on, brushing the hair off John's gansey. "This poor scrump absolutely soaked like a drowned rat."

It's easy to disguise a sniff as a laugh. "He's hardly a scrump, mate," Tom says.

"Eh, it kept him humble to say so."

They keep working in silence. Tom carefully shaves away the last of John's dark red stubble, the only part of him other than a smile that he shared with his brothers. He's clean-shaven save for some whiskers on his chin that he would no doubt be damned to see off.

Quietly, Strickland says, "I think he looks right proper, eh?"

Orren agrees. "Hardly a sailor no more. Looks more a'like one of those ponces in the high parish."

Tom silently agrees. Something about seeing John like this—shaven, trimmed up, relaxed—it almost doesn't look like him. For a moment, Tom thinks of what his brother would have been like if he'd been born anywhere else, to anyone else. If he'd just had more of a chance to be a child, to have a job he didn't hate and only find one he loved when it was far too late.

He hears Strickland sniffle beside him, and he wonders what he must be thinking. Of all their cousins, Strickland looked up to John the most. Proud to share a name with him, to sign his name alongside his, eager to follow him anywhere.

And now this.

Tom clears his throat. "He's to be buried in the morning," he says. "Sir John wants to say a few things then an' have a proper service."

"Feels wrong to just leave him tonight, though," Strickland replies quietly. "Should one of us stay?"

"No," says Tom. "I need— We need the rest, I think."

"Right," says Strickland at the same time Orren says, "Of course."

---

Fucking Christ, he doesn't want to remember this.

He sees his brother's chest open, blood bright on Goodsir's hands. He sees—

A heart.

His brother's heart.

Gore has to hold him back—

(Graham Gore, handsome and proud and practically glowing on the deck of the Volage. "You're a good man, Mister Hartnell," he'd once said.)

Restraining him by the chest, pinning his arms behind his back. Someone's hands are on Tom's shoulder, and someone else is yelling in his ear.

He feels delirious with it. The sight of Goodsir holding his brother's innards in his hands like he's simply been playing about in his chest. Oh, look what I've found, he imagines Goodsir saying. A liver. Ought we check if he drank overmuch?

Rage now.

(Not fear.)

Pure, bloody fucking rage.

(What could he be afraid of?)

He gnashes his teeth and wails. He snarls. He begs. He tries everything he can just short of clawing his way past all the men holding him back to shove the doctors and surgeons away and let his brother fucking be.

("They say men don't go to heaven if parts of them are amiss.")

Then he's on the floor, half-compressed under Gore's weight as he bodily holds him in place. "Hartnell, I know. I know," Gore says into his ear.

(Which Hartnell? he wants to snarl.)

"It has to be done. You know it does."

The person behind him hauls him back by the shoulders, and only then does Tom see that it's Armitage, his own eyes wide and face sickly-pale. He doesn't say a word to Tom, but Tom knows he's just as appalled. Only he's trying to keep Tom from getting a lashing or worse for acting out like this.

Tom moans in agony, the weight of this crushing him. He's steered away, the last sight of his brother open on the table like he's nothing more than a specimen to be studied.

Blood on the fucking linens.

---

Tom feels nothing on the day they bury John.

He's spent too much of himself. He feels like a candle guttering on its last supply of wax. Just smoke and air, now.

All he thinks to do is help cover John up a little more. His shirt, monogrammed, dated, wrapped around John like it'll keep him warm in the grave. That maybe something will change if he carries Tom's name on him to wherever it is he goes.

("They say men don't go to heaven—")

He doesn't hear Sir John's service, or the words of sympathy the officers give to Tom. He hears them say how John was a good man, and Tom wonders how they could possibly know that. How could men who scarcely leave their comfortable bedrooms and wardroom, who grew up in gilded halls with servants and cooks who made them wholesome meals that no one had to share—how could they know?

That's uncharitable. They're being kind.

But they don't know how this feels. The sensation of a heavy stone in his hand that he has to throw onto the navy-blue coffin lid, listening to the sharp tock as it makes contact, resounding in the half-filled hollow below.

He hopes to God they never have to bury one of their own.

---

Much happens after. Too much, too quickly. The world ends. A gun goes off.

Nothing happens at all. Not in this part of the world.

---

"Go be with your brother now."

---

John is carrying him back up the knoll. The air is summer-sweet, birds singing in the morning air. It rained last night, and John leaps over puddles while Tom shrieks in laughter.

They get to the hedgerow, still dripping with rain. John carefully lets Tom down and hands him the basket. "Remember to mind your fingers, Tommy," he tells him.

Tom eats more berries than he stores away. They stain his mouth and fingers again, and when he looks at his big brother, he giggles at the sight of berry stains on his face as well. They laugh together, their smiles identical.

When the basket is half-full, John pats Tom on the shoulder and motions for him to hop up on his back again. "Let's go home," he says.

[sevs-corner]

HC for: Gary "Roach" Sanderson (CoD MW2)

Could be for like, my actor AU or alt timeline AU but generally, this is how I imagine this man outside of combat

He is the silly silent type of person

If he was in MW2 (2022), he would definitely be a part of the silly trio with Soap and Gaz

The "3 Stooges of Sarges", Price would mutter as he finds himself in one of their schemes once more with Simon giggling at the side

As per rule of threes, Soap is the loud extrovert, Roach is the silent introvert, and Gaz is the balanced out ambivert-- which can either lead to him convincing the other two to stop or... encourage them with better ideas... maybe.. sometimes? Most of the time

As per silent protag rule, he has immunity! Well, more like a very high threshold for tolerating pain that it looks like he instantly heals after getting shot

(Dont worry he just gets knocked out for a second but is back right at it- which is a cause of concern of the crew)

Though is scares the dickens out of the enemies when they were so sure that they shot him down but just simply arises from the dead

Spookin' them and acting as the distraction for the other two to finish the job for him

(In which they immediately treat him or call for medevac while Roach pouts, saying that he can still go on)

But seeing that pool of blood follow him doesn't really help his case here now

Roach is also one of the top shooters in the range and during the missions, always having the highest kill count and the bragging rights that come with it

(Ghost is actually jelly and tries to compete for it when they get sent in a mission together)

He's also just so knowledgeable when it comes to handling and making weapons

That he full on bellows at the poor attempts of Soap trying to make tools back in the "Alone" mission in Las Almas

Ghost shrugged, albeit smirking underneath, at how he consolidated Johnny boy- saying it was his "first time" and all that but he too had to face palm a couple times during their comms with each other

Roach is the type to loot an enemy's body for bullets, weapons, frags- just to use it against the enemy and make them confused

I'm pretty sure that, even one time, he had swapped his clothes with a foot soldier-- easily infiltrating their base and destroying it from the inside then out

He IS the go-to man for information retrieval and silent infiltration ops because of it (but is actually dubbed his specialty, as per Price's compliments)

For some God forsaken reason, if you ask Roach to grab or shoot at something-- he is ON it like,

"Take down that AC-130 from above with a nail and rubber Sarge-" *BOOOOMMMM*

"Say less, cap'n."

So yeah, just dummy n' silly word vomit hcs 'cause I kinda wanna see more of Roach as part of the current 141 hehe

[slyvester101]

Tucker was starting to drive Wash crazy. And not in the “Stop sleeping naked, Tucker” or “Stop flirting with the adult recruits, Tucker” or even a “Stop being an idiot out in the field so I don’t have to worry my head off wondering if you’re going to come out alive” way.

No, Wash could handle that kind of crazy.

This. This was way worse.

Tucker was currently chatting with Grif and Donut, animatedly complaining about the training he had to do that morning with Wash. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Except Tucker was wearing one of Wash’s sweatshirts, the fact emphasizes everytime he moved his arms, showing off the way the sleeves swallowed up his hands. 

Wash had known that Tucker was a chronic clothes thief. Had seen him in Caboose’s massive blue sweaters, had seen him flaunt about in Church’s old shirts, had seen him wearing Simons’ fancy compression braces over his knees and elbows before putting his armor on, had watched him lounge in Sarge’s never ending supply of tank tops and Donut’s bright pink and super fluffy socks and some of the high quality bonnets he’d steal off Grif. Hell, Wash had seen him in some of Carolina’s sweatpants at one point. 

But seeing Tucker wrapped up in his shirts, seeing him cuddled up in the familiar faded colors of his old sweatshirts. Well, it certainly brings up some strong feelings. Feelings that tend to stray a bit lower than Wash is comfortable with. 

It certainly didn’t help that he tended to wear fuck else whenever he was wearing Wash’s stuff, always picking his shortest, tightest shorts to wear underneath. And then the hem would fall over the length of them and make it look like he really wasn’t wearing anything else underneath. 

Wash always had to do a double take at the sight, freezing up at the sight of Tucker’s long, strong, thick legs being out for all to see without the cover of pants or armor in the way. Of the sight of him looking like he’d just come fresh out of Wash’s room like they were- like they had- 

It made Wash feel a certain way. And Tucker fucking knew it too.

If he sensed Wash watching him, his hips would sway a little bit more or cock it to the side in a way that made his shirt slip up a bit more to show off the curve of his ass. He reached his arms up like he was showing off his apparel for everyone to see, unashamed of what connotations come with wearing Wash’s clothes like that. 

And then he’d swerve his head behind him, looking every bit of a fucking model that Tucker knows he is, and smirk at catching Wash watching him. Again. And keep on having a normal conversation like he wasn’t doing all that. Like he wasn’t actively driving Wash up the wall. 

God, Wash wanted to fuck hi- fucking kill him. He wanted to kill him. Because he was driving Wash crazy and honestly being so inappropriate, they were in a war zone for fuck’s sake, why was he half naked all the time? Showing off all his glowing skin that looked unfairly soft even with all the scars criss-crossing over dark skin leading down to his actual glowing fucking scars across his stomach– fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Something wrong, Wash?”

Wash looks up to see the smug look on Tucker’s face, head tilted oh so innocently as he looks over Wash with this glint in his eyes that sends a jolt down Wash’s spine. 

“I’m fi-” Wash coughs over the break in his voice before trying again. “I’m fine, Tucker.”

Tucker’s smile only grows as catches Wash’s eye. “Really? Because you look a little red.”

Damnit. 

“Yes. I’m sure.”

Tucker hums in response, low and long as he looks over Wash and then the paperwork Wash had completely forgotten about while he stared at Tucker’s ass– while he observed Tucker’s conversation with the red team. 

“You need help with that? Looks like you’re having a hard time. Bow chicka bow wow.”

Wash rolls his eyes before finally looking away from Tucker. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“You sure? I don’t mind helping you out.” Tucker crowds into Wash’s space, hovering over his shoulder and basically whispering in his ear.

Wash coughs again and ducks his head down to hide the blush he feels spreading down his neck. “Yeah, I’m almost finished anyways.”

Tucker wrapped his hand carefully over the back of Wash’s neck, rubbing circles into the side of his jaw with his thumb. Wash’s head goes completely blank at the motion, unconsciously tilting his head back into the pressure. Tucker lets out another hum, whispering over the shell of Wash’s ear. “I could help you finish faster. It’d be more enjoyable if it was the two of us working at it too, don’t you think?”

“Oh my god, get a fucking room!” Wash startles, suddenly remembering the presence of the other two captains. 

Donut smacks Grif on the arm, earning a yelp from the larger man. “Shh! It was getting good!”

“It’s unbearable, Donut.”

Tucker scoffs at that, gently pulling away to fold his arms across his chest. “Oh, like you and Simons are any better.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tucker.”

“Make me, bitch.”

“And I’ll take that as my cue to leave.” Wash gathers up the papers and tablets he has scattered over the table, fully prepared to book it the moment any kind of chaos comes anywhere near his work. He’s already spent too much time on them to start over again.

“Wait, I can-” Tucker whips back around to Wash to slow down his leave, but Wash is already half out the door before he can properly stop him. “Goodbye, Captains.”

Wash is not running away from... whatever the fuck that was. He's making a tactical retreat because he's honestly a little frazzled at how easily he fell into Tucker's hands and how he's definitely half hard under his codpiece with half a mind to turn back around and ask Tucker to do something about it.

Yeah, tactical retreat.

Definitely not embarrassed. Or overwhelmed. Or head over heels for that stubborn, overly horny, sarcastic, gorgeous piece of shit he left back in the other room.

Definitely not.

Not at all.

"So, who's the guy that's got you blushing like that?"

"Don't even, Carolina."

[angelstate]

“Devotion And Death”

Genre: Angst. No comfort.

Pairing: Simon Riley x Sargeant!reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warning: Suicidal ideation, Mention of Death, Religious symbolism. (is not used in regards to dictate reader's or character's religion in the story but with the intent of a more dramatic and poetic narration)

Synopsis: “Devotion to loving causes souls to grieve, even the one's who haven't died yet. Devotion and Death walk side by side in the heart of those who have been hurt by lost.”

disclaimer: this is not the finished product, I'm attempting to finish it soon but i thought it would be nice share what I've written so far! xx

“Death catches up to everyone.”

Simon could feel your stare on him, hear your tears hit the floor, breaking the silence of the ambient in a heart wrecking way that made his entire soul twist in pain.

He took a deep breath at this, it was the middle of the battlefield, it was the middle of a horrible war and there you were. Crying silently, the now wet soil in front of your feet being the only other proof that your tears were falling.

Simon couldn't move, couldn't breath, couldn't grip his rifle any tighter than he already was. It was like he was stucked in time, not being able to react to the sight infront of him.

he saw the way your hands shook in each side of your tired body, the way you couldn't stop blinking repeatedly to try and get rid of the wet liquid falling from your eyes like an open faucet.

Oh, how he hated the sight before him...

You looked so unbelievably lost, like a child searching for it's parents on the amusement park, so many things that were beautiful becoming terrifying before your eyes. The night sky feeling like monster ready to creep up on you and swallow you whole.

You were as conflicted as he was, as dumbfounded, as tired, as wrecked...as lost.

It felt like a betrayal to be in the middle of this place, bullets decorating the floor, perforations on the few standing walls around you made by said discarded bullets.

It was nothing like home and yet, the only person you needed to feel like at home seemed to be...not anything close to a safe place.

"Are you alright, Sarg?" Simon asked with his usual cold tone, not being able to put an ounce of emotion for your so obvious need of comfort

You nodded once but then stood there, like a kid who had a nightmare, waiting to be noticed, to be called, to be coddled, cuddled, to be lulled to sleep.

Sometimes you wished you had never become a soldier, that you had stayed in college, made friends, got a normal job...got a life where the closest you were to war was what you saw on TV...Too far away to go into the battlefield, too safe to ever see a gun.

You shuffled in your place, not facing him anymore, your side profile only visible for him in the darkness drowning your bodies, the wetness of your cheeks noticeable by the moonlight shinning on your face.

Simon didn't knew how to comfort you, didn't knew how to dry your tears, feed your soul, ease your mind, put you to sleep..he didn't knew anything at all and it was as traumatizing as reliving the inflicted wounds of his childhood. He felt as if he was hurting his younger self in you, how much you resembled that poor boy...he saw himself on you.

He saw the purity of your soul being ripped away from your chest the same way his had been ripped away from him.

Your hand moved to rest on your gun hostler, the cold metal icing your warm skin and suddenly, the palpable opportunity to...to do something about the misery felt tempting and yet so out of touch.

Complicated, conflicted, lost.

Simon noticed the weapon now at your reach, and for the first time since you met years ago as rookies, he didn't trust you with a gun...

Such a different reason now on his mind, the scenarios running through his head, sending chills down his spine as he took one unstable step closer to you before stopping...

"Resting is important for a successful mission" he began to speak, his tone nonchalant but his feelings felt heavy on his chest. Like something was wrong.

“Death catches up to your loved ones.”

Nothing felt right after that night, nothing felt right after seeing you so close to the end.

Nothing felt right after seeing how you were ready to do it infront of him

Simon felt broken, like a partner grieving their lover's death, staring at an empty casket because their body were not to be moved from where it fell that cold winter night.

It would be a crime to touch your cold body, to move you from where you were finally put to rest.

It would be a crime to grieve anywhere else than where you decided to go.

It would be a crime to wipe the dry blood from the floor, it would be a crime to use a old cloth to wipe away remains of his lover.

Simon could smell the rotten meat, the fresh blood. Feel your heartbeat fade in his arms, your skin grow cold. See your soul leave your body, the light on your doe eyes dimming till it disappeared.

Simon could only grip tighter your deceased body, smearing himself with the red liquid that leaked from you, painting the soil in which you rested.

Simon had never wished more to be buried alive once again beside a rotting body.

He had never craved more to hear your voice ringing in his ear, feel the heat of your skin in the middle of a summer night.

He had never craved more to be in an argument with you, alive and kicking. Blood flowing inside your body and not out of you to the wet soil.

Feeding the roots hiding under the first layer of dirt, providing the trees with nutrients to blossom in the spring in all their glory.

Simon wanted your screams, your complains, your warmth, your touch....He wanted you alive.

Why was it so hard for the people he loved to stay alive?

He wondered if peace was an option, if leaving the military was the remedy for the grief. If using the same gun that took your life, a ticket to paradise. If drowning in the scent you left on the bed a solution for the night terrors.

He wondered if there was anything in this world, anything he could do...to forget about the pain, to Emancipate the grieve from his chest.

Simon felt like a haunted house, full of the ghosts of his loved ones, each one of them crowding one room on his heart till it burned in pain.

Was it pain all he had left?

Maybe he was overthinking, maybe he was just running laps around the terrifying idea of ever losing you. Would he ever lose you? Would he allow himself to live after losing you?

Grief was a weird feeling, specially when the person being grieved wasn't dead.

“Death catches up to You.”

"You looked different after that night" Simon thought everytime his eyes fell on you, his heart becoming a desperate void, craving to be filled with your love one more time

You looked tired after that night, at times light flashed through you, dying before anyone could set the fire alive again.

Simon smelled the cigarettes, the alcohol, the sadness, the death in you.

He saw how you were tearing yourself apart, he saw the bruises. He saw the cigarette burns in your arms.

And it hurt him, he saw himself in you, he saw the life being ripped away from you, he saw the tiredness he hid behind stoicism and rudeness showing on full display on you.

It was as if he was looking at the inside of his bruised self in you.

It was heart wrecking to feel grief and love towards a dead soul, trapped in a living body.

He noticed the way your trays full of food were thrown into the garbage, the way you repelled warmth, conversations, connection.

What sort of spell you were trapped in? He didn't knew, was it God punishing you from past lives? He wished it wasn't. Was it suicidal ideations? He prayed not.

He hated the sight of guns in your hands since that night, your finger pressed on the trigger pulling ropes after ropes of panic out of his wrecked heart.

Your eyes lingered in the guns for longer, your finger pressed with more pressure than supposed to on the trigger whenever the barrel was facing you, as if you put to much pressure and shoot yourself would be seen as a mistake.

The team knew you better than that, you were sure of it, they had been your family for years, they had hugged, cried, smiled, laughed along side with you.

They must have noticed the recklessness you used now. Simon had noticed.

Simon had loved you for long enough to notice when you stood differently, when your scent changed with the seasons, when your body language changed with illness.

He knew...he knew.

“Don't do anything reckless” Simon said, tugging your vest down, not trying to adjust it but shaking your body into consciousness again.

He wanted you alive.

Another mission, another chance to die.

You nodded at his words, tired eyes falling on him for just a second before you looked away, hands grabbing your rifle with uneasiness.

Death was a louring creature, and Simon could see it creeping up from behind you like in that night. taking a peek at your tired body, seeing your clock of life ticking more slowly

The night sky of that horrifying night had given clues, had screamed in your faces that it was near.

Death was near

Screams that fell into deaf ears, Devotion never allows death to speak, fearing it's bad news, fearing a loved one was the next to be buried.

“I like you alive, Sargeant” Simon finished speaking with this phrase, his tone cold yet a familiar fondness dripping from the words.

You nodded again, a tired smile on your lips that dissolved like an ice on boiling water.

Getting into the helicopter, getting off from it, scurrying like sewer rats around enemy territory, into the battlefield once again.

This time not with him by your side.

Simon didn't trust you with your life.

You moved around, the sun hitting your skin, overheating your body as you walked slowly, fearing to be heard by enemies.

All you had to do was enter a building, gather Intel and leave.

It was easy, it had been done multiple times by everyone....but something felt off.

You walked alongside your teammates, guiding each other with security, with confidence, you could smell the gunpowder on the alley you were slowly walking through

every step you took made your heart clench, heartbeats loud and quick on your chest, accelerated by adrenaline and anxiety.

getting closer to the building, your team separated for better ground coverage, leaving you crawling your way into the building, gun tucked into your vest.

It was now time to act, to do your job the way you were supposed to because you had to come home, you had to crawl your way back into Simon's arms.

It was an obligation at this point, to make it back alive even when you were supposed to die.

It was devotion to love him in the bed death made for you to lay in...

You had always found interesting how Simon could love you so much and yet persistently run away from feelings.

How he could cradle your face in his hands when you fell asleep in the mess hall while you were in the middle of eating after a mission. Too tired to swallow, too tired to guide yourself to bed.

How he wouldn't wake you up, but wait until the two of you were the only ones left to grab you into his arms and slowly guiding your sleeping body to your bed.

But how in the next morning he would disappear from your sight, becoming the Ghost he was in the battlefield, sneaking around the base without leaving a trace or hint or where he was for days. Until somehow he reappeared, acting like nothing happened.

Simon, always so interestingly mysterious and undeniably hard to understand. He struck your life in a way no one had before, left a mark in all the right corners of your heart that no matter, you couldn't escape him.

He was the definition of a sadistical love, tauntingly painful yet extremely addicting to the receiving end, you. The only one sallowing the pain, your tears and blood being drank by him like it was heaven liquified for his consumption.

the overwhelming feeling of anxiety sat heavily on your chest, maybe it was your instincts telling you something was wrong, begging you to turn around and abandon the mission, it didn't matter to the high moral compass that guided your steps silently across the room.

was it better to die in sacrifice for the betterment of your peers than to do so by your own hand? was it the enemy's merciless weaponry kinder than your own gun?

if Simon was by your side he would have the answer, he would mutter a set of words in such a threatening tone that the worry behind them could not be perceived, he would push you through the mission with a bruising grasp and force you to live to tell the tale of another horrible mission for the hope of a better future you doubt would be even achieved before you perished.

But, Simon wasn't here.

so your knees didn't quit being an unstable support for your weight, the ticking clock that marked your death slowing down as your heartbeat began to accelerate like an uncontrollable force.

with fear clawing at walls of your soul you began to move slowly towards the door, boots softly tapping against the wooden floor, every screech sending waves of panic, the thought of being heard by one of the enemies enough to have blood flowing through your brain in a way that made you dizzy.

but you pushed through the feelings of sheer panic, moving swiftly around the room. opening the door slowly and observing the empty hallway, no sign of people around nor any sort of weapon.

it looked unsettlingly normal in between the chaos of scattered bullets and debris of destroyed buildings on the street.

"please" you muttered quietly a plea of forgiveness, hoping that God would absolve every wrong doing, every death under your belt, every mumbled put curse and every bain use of his name.

you exhaled after a few seconds of holding in your breath, walking outside of the room into the corridor, the wooden floor creaking under your boots but that didn't stop you from moving.

mind somehow clear of the fear, moral driven by the need to complete your duty motivating your limbs to push through the dread stuck in between the creases of your body.

unaware of the danger, unconscious of death knocking on the door the led to your soul and heartbeat.

May God forgive you for your sins, may the angels guide your soul into heaven, may holy mary pray for your the redemption of your hollow devotion.

May every deity able to destine a good afterlife be in your favor.

Because mercy is one way street not many people are allowed to walk on.