#tactical debrief

[spartansagas]

Tactical Debrief part 1: Operation COALPEPPER

•OBJECTIVE: Recover Huragok ‘Quick to Adjust’ and his handler Sadie Endesha

•YEAR: 2555

•Location: Talitsa, Sverdlovsk system

•Outcome: Success

EVENTS: Spartan IV team ‘Alpha Nine’ deployed to Talitsa. Made their way on foot to an insurrectionist stronghold believed to be holding Endesha and Quick to Adjust. Whilst surveying the camp, Spartan Crespo went Stolen Gauntlet and betrayed Spartans Buck and Agu, holding them at gunpoint whilst insurrectionists surrounded them. They began to march down towards the camp, when Spartan Buck provoked Spartan Crespo into engaging in a brawl that successfully distracted the insurrectionists long enough to allow Spartan Agu to escape. He proceeded to engage the hostiles with rocks, killing several. Spartan Buck incapacitated Crespo and the insurrectionist leader. The pair then made their way to the compound, recovered the targets and returned them and Spartan Crespo to UNSC custody.

[valyrfia]

This is the thing though, I don't think they are together either but they at least have a crush on each other. I mean it's obvious with all the flirting and never keeping the other out of their mouths. Lando must have a field day teasing Max.

yeah they’re definitely not together but i think crush territory is plausible. obviously not the kind of crush you really act on but is just fun and harmless to have and adds some spice to your life. i think the way they’re just obsessed with each other is very telling and they can read each other/get under each other’s skin better than almost any others, even past teammates and at that point especially given their history there’s going to be really good chemistry that’s just like fun to mess around with.

i like to think the entire grid finds it hilarious and never pass up a chance to tease them

[elixirina]

based on this request! | batsis!reader headcanons

you’ve been bruce’s daughter since you were born (duh!), and honestly, it’s hard to imagine him not being your dad. despite his brooding nature, he’s incredibly soft when it comes to you.

you’re younger than jason but older than tim, perfectly wedged between the two in age—and in chaos. your siblings would probably describe you as their comedic relief. they love the energy you bring.

with bruce and his vigilante lifestyle, he made it a point to keep you safe while balancing being your father. he may be emotionally reserved, but he’s always been fiercely protective of you.

you’ve been trained in basic self-defense since you were young—bruce’s paranoia runs deep—but he’s always been adamant about you having a choice in how involved you are with the family’s activities.

even though you’ve chosen to stay off the streets, you’re part of the family’s mission in your own way. whether it’s gathering intel, coordinating from the batcomputer, or just keeping the atmosphere light during debriefs, you have a knack for making everyone feel grounded. due to that fact, you’ve grown particularly close to barbara.

your laugh is the kind of thing that can cut through tension like a knife. even bruce has cracked a smile on rare occasions, though he’ll deny it if anyone points it out.

as the sibling closest to you in age, tim naturally became your partner-in-crime. you both share a deep appreciation for dry humor, clever banter, and coffee-fueled chaos.

while tim can be a workaholic, you’re the one who drags him away from his screens when he’s pushing himself too far. your go-to tactic? threatening to unplug his computer while holding his coffee hostage.

while physical affection isn’t a strong suit in the family, you’ve always been the exception. you’ll hug damian just to annoy him, ruffle jason’s hair to mess with him, lean on bruce’s shoulder when you’re feeling particularly sappy, and always sandwich between steph and cass when watching a movie.

“not the hair!” jason grumbles when he feels your hand on his head.

you once convinced damian to dress up as a cat for halloween. it took bribery and a lot of persistence, but the photo evidence was so worth it.

“stop touching my sword,” he snapped one afternoon. “i’m just checking if it’s real,” you replied, twirling it like a baton.

while you’re not out on the streets like your siblings, your role in the family dynamic is just as important. you’re the emotional glue that holds everyone together when tensions run high.

after jason returned as red hood, you were one of the first people he felt comfortable opening up to. 

“you’re annoying,” jason muttered after you’d cracked another joke during a mission briefing. “yeah, but you’re smiling,” you shot back, earning a reluctant chuckle.

your bond with bruce is one of the most wholesome aspects of your life. while he struggles to express his emotions, he’s always shown his love through actions—like staying up late to check on you or surprising you with your favorite takeout after a rough day.

“thanks, dad,” you said once, catching him off guard with a hug. his response was quiet but heartfelt: 

“you don’t have to thank me. you’re my daughter.”

moral of the story, love your family. cause they sure as hell love you!!!

[navybrat817]

In a Red Dress

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky has to debrief after a mission, so you decide to stop in for a visit. In a red dress.

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Established relationship, explicit sexual content, unprotected vaginal sex, possessive behavior, dirty talk, flirting, teasing, slight feels (it's me, okay?), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Happy FriYAY! I started this in January for @tumblin-theworldaway and finally finished it today. Love you, Aqua! I hope you can relax soon. Could be considered a follow up to With a Bang. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Your heels clicked along the floor as you left the elevator, reminding yourself for the umpteenth time that it wasn't Bucky’s fault that his team extended their mission for another day. Unforeseen circumstances were to blame, completely out of his control. You also couldn't hold it against him that he had to debrief after he messaged you that he arrived back home safely and unharmed. It was part of the job. Still, you missed him and wanted a bit of attention.

Which was why you showed up at S.H.I.E.L.D. in a silky red dress and Bucky’s dog tags under your coat. No bra, no panties. Which he realized when you walked into the conference room, unannounced, and removed your coat.

It was fun to put the fire in his steel eyes.

“Welcome home, Bucky,” you smiled as the room went silent. “Don’t mind me. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Your burly boyfriend was out of his seat and didn't tear his gaze away from you, the tension thick as you tossed the coat away. Today was a good day for your self confidence. You wore it like a second skin, feeling as beautiful on the outside as you did inside. You knew you looked good enough to eat and you wanted him to devour you.

And as much as you loved him in his black shirt and tactical pants, it hid the wall of muscle you wanted to trace with your hands and tongue.

“Hey, baby. Fancy seeing you here,” he said, his eyes dropping to your chest. Your nipples hardened against the fabric and you wished he’d latch his mouth to them. “And speaking of home, I thought I was going to meet you there.”

Your shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I got impatient since you were late. Plus I wanted to show you my dress,” you said, doing a happy twirl. It was reminiscent of New Years. The soft fabric hugged your body tight like your black dress did, but this one left little to the imagination. “What do you think?”

Steve, ever the good friend, averted his gaze, but a scowl crossed Bucky’s handsome face when you both realized that other agents looked your way. You hadn't expected to be the center of attention for anyone else, but it didn't matter to you if others looked. Why would you want them when Bucky had you under his spell?

At least they were smart enough to look away when Bucky’s metal hand clenched.

“Well? Do you like it? I thought the dog tags were a nice touch,” you added, running a finger along them when he remained silent. “They really do go well with everything.”

“Come here,” he said, beckoning you with a metal finger. You knew he meant business when he didn't use his dominant hand. “Now.”

You maintained an aura of innocence as you walked toward him, watching him his lips as your hips swayed.

“I can see your nipples through your dress,” he said low enough for just the two of you, but poor Steve with his enhanced hearing likely picked up on it. “And I’m pretty sure I didn’t give you permission to wear a dress like that in front of other guys.”

Any other guy who said that to you would've been smacked, but hearing it from him only made your eyes fill with amusement as you tilted your head. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to wear this, Sergeant.”

“Baby,” he whispered. You knew what calling him by his rank did to him.

“I should be able to wear what I want and when I want to. We both know that,” you continued, sliding your finger down his chest instead of poking it like he expected. “But you have my permission to break someone's fingers if they try to touch what belongs to you. Because I do belong to you.”

Your declaration fueled the fire within. There was no hesitation on your part. No doubt. And after being apart for a short time, you wanted him to hear you say you were his girl.

“Yeah, you do. You’re mine,” he said with a raspy touch of confidence that would’ve soaked your panties had you been wearing any. “And I’m all yours, but I still need to debrief.”

You huffed, but the conviction in his tone was admirable. “Fine. I’ll just wait here,” you said when he frowned. Both of you knew the classified information wasn’t meant for your ears, yet no one spoke up for you to leave. Were they afraid of pissing your boyfriend off? “You know, I really do love that grumpy look of yours. It gets me so wet.”

Bucky’s cheek twitched when one of the men coughed. “You're being a fucking tease.”

“Is it teasing if I let you have me?” You asked, tapping your chin. “Teasing you would be letting you go to bed with blue balls.”

Wordlessly, he lifted a hand and clutched the dog tags. He yanked on them hard enough to move you closer, his eyes not leaving yours when you gasped and shivered from the heat-filled look. You considered it a win that you didn’t collapse. Because he was going to destroy you and you’d love every second of it.

“Be very careful what comes out of your mouth next, baby,” he warned.

You smiled, more than ready to give him one more push. “I’m more interested in what’s supposed to go inside my mouth.”

His nostrils flared when you opened your mouth and showed him your tongue and throat. He put a hand on the back of your neck and tilted your head back, lightly nipping at your skin below your jaw. “I should put you on your knees and fuck your throat in front of everyone. Or put you over my knee and spank you ‘til you squirm. Show ‘em that you really are mine.”

You giggled, a soft and tempting sound. “Why fuck my throat when my pussy is nice and wet for you?”

“Gentlemen. I think the Bravo Conference Room is available. Let’s finish this up there,” Steve announced, his chair scraping against the floor and pulling you out of your spell. “Told you that you should’ve just gone home, jerk.”

“Fuck off, punk,” Bucky said, keeping a firm hand on you so you couldn’t look at any of the men filing out. The smirk he gave you was nothing short of predatory once the door clicked shut, leaving the two of you alone. “Since you need my cock so badly that you can’t wait until I get home, bend over that table and let me give it to you.”

Your giggle quickly died in your throat when you realized he was serious. “You’ve never fucked me in one of the debriefing rooms. Someone could walk in,” you reminded him.

Yeah, you showed up wearing what you did. Yeah, you teased him. But it was all in good fun. He wouldn’t actually fuck you on the table.

Right?

Your cheeks grew hot at the next words out of his mouth. “You think I give a shit about if someone walks in?”

He let go of your neck and grabbed your wrist, carefully dragging you to the table. You loved every part of him, but something about his unashamed want of you made your heart soar. Maybe it was because of how much he healed and allowed himself to have a piece of happiness. That some part of him from his past, the man he used to be, surfaced and blended in with who he was now.

Heaven sent and survived the depths of Hell.

“Now, I should spank your ass raw for this little stunt you pulled. Letting them see you in this dress,” he said without any real threat behind his words. “But I won’t do that until we’re home.”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes,” you smiled, expecting him to bend you over. But he brought a hand to your cheek instead. “Bucky?”

His gaze moved to your lips as he murmured, “Not fucking you until I kiss you.”

His mouth met yours not in a frenzy, but with a smile. The kind that told you how happy he was to be back with you. It wasn’t long before he shifted, the hand on your cheek slipping to your chin so he could deepen it. The soft slip of his tongue ignited your entire body, feeling his heart beat faster as you brought a hand to his chest. A reminder that he was alive, home, and loved you.

You loved him, too.

Your eyes stayed shut for a few seconds after he pulled away. “Missed you, Bucky,” you whispered.

“Missed you, too,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “Now bend over.”

The air rushed from your lungs at the switch from want to tenderness to need, your chest pressed against the table as he pushed your dress. Part of you wondered if he would’ve made good on his threat and fuck you in front of the other agents. He liked to toe the line of wanting to show others you were his and not wanting them to see intimate parts of you.

Which made you wonder what he’d do if someone walked in. He said he didn’t give a shit, but would he stop and try to cover your body with his own? Or would he keep fucking you?

You wouldn't mind either way.

“Spread ‘em,” he ordered, which you immediately obeyed. The low whistle made you shut your eyes before he dragged a finger along your exposed slit. “Didn’t even bother covering your pretty pussy with underwear. Probably best since you would’ve ruined them with how wet you are.”

“You’ve ruined all of my panties, Bucky,” you said, the distinct sound of his belt buckle and pants zipper making you moan. “And I’m ready for you to fuck me.”

“Yeah? Your pussy ready to stretch around my cock?” He asked, making you shriek when he unexpectedly brought his flesh hand down hard on your ass. He only used the metal when you were in real trouble. “You better not have fucked yourself with a toy before you got here.”

“I didn’t! I haven’t even touched myself,” you promised before he stretched over your back. “I just need you in me.”

“That’s what I like to hear. And though you interrupted my debriefing and I may need to stab a teammate or two, you’re still my good girl. And good girls deserve rewards,” he growled in your ear, nipping it for good measure as you moaned. The head of his cock teased your entrance, your core clenching in anticipation. “I’ll fuck you and you’ll come all over me, just like you want and just like I need. And you’ll take it ‘til I’m done with you.”

You reveled in being his good girl, even when you were bad. How no one else could take his cock the way you could. How he made you soak your sheets day and night with your essence because being fucked by Bucky Barnes made you gush like a geyser. It was obscene.

“I’m your good girl and I’ll take everything you give me,” you said sweetly, knowing he’d fuck you whether you said it or not. “So let my pussy welcome your cock home, please?”

The soft kiss to your neck was almost like an apology before he pushed into you, both of you moaning. He’d check later to make sure you weren’t sore since he didn’t stretch you at all, but the slight ache when he bottomed out always bordered more on pleasure than pain. The overwhelming sensations of him inside you made your eyes roll back and he hadn’t even started thrusting.

“So fucking warm. And wet,” he grunted in your ear when he finally moved, his pants rubbing against your bare thighs. “Jesus fuck, you’re soaking me.”

Bucky robbed you of your breath when he leaned up and gripped your hips, hammering into you. You tried to grip the table, but all you could do was let him pull you back and forth. He was relentless like this, powerful, dominant. Making you take it, just like he said you would. Funny how minutes ago you were the one confidently teasing him and now you were a whining, needy mess. All because his cock shut your brain off.

You didn’t need to think like this anyway. You could be his doll, just for him to play with and love. In your pretty red dress or nothing at all.

“Harder, Sergeant,” you begged, your moans spurring him on.

“Not hard enough for you? Needy little thing,” he groaned, the sound of him burying himself inside you over and over echoing in your ears. “Missed this cunt. Missed you.”

Your pussy gripped him tight, the heady bliss making your vision blur. “Missed you. M… Missed your cock,” you slurred.

He chuckled, not slowing his pace as he leaned back down to tickle your cheek with his scruff. “So fucking cute when you get drunk on my cock.”

You wondered some days where he learned to talk dirty before you remembered that you had a large hand in that. He loved telling you how greedy your pussy made him. How he loved watching his spend slide out of you so he could fuck it back in. How he’s shocked some days that he can fit inside you, so he must’ve turned you into a perfect cocksleeve.

His cock made your mind numb, but your pussy made him run his mouth.

“Gonna make you sit on it when we get home. Fuck, gonna make you ruin the sheets when I fuck you into the mattress,” he rambled, making you moan louder. You didn’t care who heard. Let them hear what he did to you. What he turned you into: his needy slut. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you moaned, his thrusts pushing your breasts harder against the table, your nipples hard and aching for him to touch them. He would later. You could wait. But you couldn’t wait to fall over the precipice. “‘M gonna come.”

“Do it. Won’t stop you,” he encouraged. He no doubt felt how close you were with how you clenched around him, your back starting to arch. “C’mon, baby. Come all over me.”

Your eyes fluttered as your body tensed, your walls pulsing around him your orgasm surged like a tidal wave. The ripples tore through you, ebbing and flowing as you moaned his name. If you could drown in pleasure, you’d want his name to be the last word that spilled from your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he praised as your limbs went lax.

You throbbed around him until he pulled out, making you whimper since he didn't come. You wanted him to finish inside you. He had you on your back with your legs spread wide before you could beg for it, keeping your dress up as he speared you once again. He thrust fast, needing his release just as badly as you needed yours.

“Need to see your face when you milk my cock,” he grunted, licking his thumb and bringing it to your clit. You whined, jerking underneath him as he rubbed the swollen nub. “Oh, stay still. You can give me one more.”

You almost denied him before you felt the coil tighten within you again. You never thought you could have back-to-back orgasms until you started sleeping with him. But it shouldn’t have surprised you. He played you like his favorite instrument and you were his good girl.

You could give him one more.

“Come with me,” you panted, staring into his darkened eyes as his face twisted in ecstasy only you could provide him. “Please.”

He couldn’t resist that last bit of begging.

The waves crashed again, adding to your first high, as his mouth opened in a groan, filling you in hot spurts. Watching him tip over the edge was a sight to behold, his cheeks tinged as his hips stilled and both of you tried to catch your breath. He laid across you after a moment, the weight of him making you sigh.

“Welcome back,” you smiled as your breathing evened out.

He stayed inside you as he brushed his lips against yours. You were going to make a mess all over the table when he pulled out, but it was worth any grief either of you got. “Good to be back,” he whispered, his hand on your cheek again in a tender display as his eyes scanned your face. “So beautiful.”

“Me fucked out or the dress?” You smiled.

“Both,” he smiled back, your face warm.

“Thank you,” you breathed, your heart still racing fast. You suddenly wished you were in bed so he could properly hold you. But he’d have you home soon enough for that. “Hope I didn't get you into any trouble,” you added. That was the last thing you wanted to do.

“Steve gets it,” he assured you, briefly closing his eyes when you brushed your fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry we got back late. He’s right. I should've just gone right home.”

Your heart clenched a little at that. Missions were important and not easy on either of you, but it was his job. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you made it home safely,” you said, arching your back. The table wasn't exactly comfortable, but you were too fucked out to care.

You also didn't want to be apart from him since he was back.

He wrapped an arm underneath you to ease some of your strain. “Still teased me by showing up like this. I might fuck your throat and put you over my knee tonight,” he groaned, squeezing a breast through your dress before he straightened out the dog tags. “But then I’m going to hold you after and not let go.”

You smiled, looking forward to it. “Yes, Sergeant.”

And you'd be sure to thank Steve later for clearing out the room so you could welcome your man home.

Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business! Hehe. 😇 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[thewulf]

Wingman's Gambit || Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Summary: Request - idk if you’re taking requests rn, but if you are would you mind doing a Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x FemaleBradshawPilot!Reader? where she’s Roosters younger twin sister and he’s really protective over her. anything else included is up to you! i really enjoy your writing!!

A/N: So sorry about the inconsistent posting. Summer is just doing the summer thing! I made Roosters sister a WSO for the stories sake :) Enjoy!

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.6k+

T/W : Arguing (With roos)

From your first initial brief encounters with Jake "Hangman" Seresin you gathered enough to understand why his reputation for bravado was almost as well-known as his flying prowess. Despite his cockiness, Hangman always treated you with an unexpected kindness and respect that stood out. Particularly in contrast to his usual smugness. Each interaction, though brief, hinted at a depth beneath the showy exterior which intrigued you more than you had ever anticipated. Especially since you knew how your brother, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw felt about the man… how most pilots felt about him actually.

Now, as you stepped onto the prestigious grounds of Top Gun, it's not just as any recruit. You stepped on as a newly minted WSO. The best of the best elite navigators and tactical hearts behind some of the best pilots in the navy. Here, your brother, has already made a name for himself. He was not just a skilled pilot but a protector, especially where you're concerned. The dynamic at Top Gun shifted perceptibly with your arrival. Rooster, your twin and lifelong guardian, watched over you with a hawk’s vigilance. His protectiveness dialed to its peak amidst the competitive pressures of the academy.

The air crackles with a palpable tension as you walk past the rows of gleaming aircraft with Rooster at your side. Hangman caught sight of you both. The easy grin he typically wears shifts into something more measured though his greeting remains warm and inviting. The rivalry between him and Rooster is well-known and your presence as a WSO—not just Rooster’s sister but a tactical force in your own right—adds a new layer to the already charged atmosphere.

During the initial briefings and training sessions you quickly sensed the underlying tension between Hangman and Rooster. Rooster’s protectiveness was palpable. His demeanor shifting subtly whenever Hangman interacted with you. Despite this though you were determined to carve out your own path, proving your skills in the high-stakes environment of Top Gun and navigating the complex dynamics of friendship, rivalry, and the unspoken rules of engagement.

Your journey at Top Gun was set against the backdrop of supersonic jets and tactical challenges where every decision could tip the delicate balance between personal loyalties and professional duties. With Hangman’s occasional flares of interest and Rooster’s watchful eyes your tenure at the academy was bound to be as thrilling as it was challenging.

First Strike

The debriefing room is abuzz as you and the other members of your squadron file in after a challenging flight simulation exercise. As a WSO your role in today’s mission had been crucial. You managed the weapons systems with precision and played a key part in the team's success. The large screens at the front of the room flicker to life as you set down next to Phoenix. It began showing replays of key moments from the exercise.

Maverick who was your teacher and was overseeing the debriefing, commands the room with an authoritative ease. He walks everyone through various segments of the mission, pausing on a particular maneuver — your maneuver — that had decisively shifted the tide in your squadron's favor.

As the replay highlights your actions, Hangman, usually reserved with his commendations speaks out, “I think we ought to acknowledge the sharp tactics from our WSOs today, particularly Ducky,” he begins, capturing the room’s attention and staring right at you. “Her decisions out there were nothing short of critical. Maybe she should take the lead in coordinating our next sim, see what else she's got up her sleeve.”

Your call sign, Ducky, came as naturally as any others and the irony of it being avian themed wasn’t lost on you. One afternoon after a particularly challenging flight where you demonstrated remarkable agility and finesse your fellow WSO jokingly commented that you were "ducking and weaving like a little duckling out there." The room erupted in laughter, and the name instantly clicked. Despite the initial intention of a light tease, the call sign Ducky resonated, symbolizing not only your ability to maneuver with exceptional ease but also your connection to a family known for their distinctive and memorable contributions to the aviation world.

The suggestion by Jake though seems to take the room by surprise, including Maverick, who raises an eyebrow. He was clearly intrigued by this unexpected praise from Hangman. His interest is evident with a slight smile tugging at his lips as he considers the potential of Hangman’s proposal.

Rooster, however, reacts differently. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. His expression tightens, a clear sign of annoyance flashing across his features as he shifts uncomfortably. The protective brother who was always wary of Hangman’s intentions towards you is on edge though he chooses to remain silent. His demeanor speaks incredible volumes though.

Maverick picks up on the tension but chooses to redirect the conversation tactfully. “Interesting point, Hangman. We’ll consider all suggestions. Great work today, everyone, especially our WSO team. Let’s keep the momentum going,” he concludes tactfully before moving the debriefing forward but with a thoughtful look that lingers on you a moment longer, pondering the new dynamics unfolding within his team. With you and Hangman particularly.

After the debriefing concludes the room gradually empties as pilots and WSOs disperse, discussing the day's outcomes and upcoming assignments. You’re gathering your notes when you sense a presence beside you. Hangman leans casually against the table with his hands tucked into his flight suit pockets. That usual mischievous glint in his eyes was showing through as he waited on you.

“Hey, Ducky. Good job today,” Hangman starts, his voice low enough for just the two of you amidst the dispersing crowd. “I wasn’t just blowing smoke in there. You really do have a knack for this.”

“Thanks, Hangman. Just trying to make sure you’re not the only hotshot around here,” you quip with a playful smirk, acknowledging his compliment but keeping the tone light and spirited.

Hangman’s grin widens and he nods towards the doorway where Rooster is lingering. He was clearly waiting for you but doing a poor job of hiding his irritation. “You know, I think your brother might actually laser-beam me with his eyes if he tries any harder,” Hangman murmurs. His voice a conspiratorial whisper that tickles the edge of your ear.

You glance over at Rooster and caught the unmistakable scowl etched across his face. “Yeah, he’s not your biggest fan right now,” you admit while feeling a mix of amusement and familial loyalty tug at you.

Hangman chuckles himself while shaking his head. “Well, if he starts throwing punches you’ll cover me, right? I mean, who’s going to lead the next sim if I’m out of commission?”

His joke eases the tension a bit and you nod, playing along. “I’ll do my best but no promises if he’s really got his heart set on it,” you quip back. Your voice light, teasing.

As you both share a laugh Rooster finally approaches, his steps measured, his expression softening just a touch as he nears. Hangman straightens up while giving you a quick, conspiratorial wink before stepping back to afford you and Rooster some space.

“Ready to go?” Rooster asks, his voice a careful neutral.

“Yeah, just about,” you respond before casting a final smile at Hangman who shoots you a mock-salute and heads off leaving a trace of warmth and a promise of more lighthearted banter for another day.

As Hangman strides away with a confident flick of his hand in farewell Rooster steps closer, his expression serious. “Just be careful with him, alright?” he mutters as his eyes tracked Hangman's departure.

You nod, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes which you let slip anyway as soon as Rooster looks away. “I know, I know. Don’t worry so much,” you reply, keeping your voice light to diffuse any further concern. Despite his protective instincts you're not about to let that dictate your interactions. Not even with someone as notoriously charming as Hangman.

Second Wind

The Hard Deck is buzzing tonight. It was filled with the lively chatter and clinking glasses of Top Gun’s finest unwinding after a week of rigorous training. You’re in the midst of a heated pool game against Payback and the stakes are humorously high. As you line up your shot, the cue ball snapping crisply against your target you sunk it smoothly into the corner pocket. The small crowd od pilots and WSO’s around the pool table lets out a mixture of cheers and groans.

Hangman is the loudest. His voice booming over the others as he claps enthusiastically. “Atta girl, Ducky! Show him how it’s done!” he shouts. The grin evident in his voice. As you straighten up he steps forward while offering you a high-five that lingers just a moment too long. His hand warm and firm against yours. Your smile broadens and a laugh escapes you, fueled by the excitement of the game and the infectious energy of Hangman’s support. Around you the others cheer on, but you catch a glimpse of Rooster at the bar. His glass is halfway to his lips but he’s not drinking. He’s watching. His expression is unreadable, but the set of his jaw and the slight narrowing of his eyes speak volumes.

As the game continues Hangman stays close, his cheers punctuating each of your successful shots. You can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline with each shout. Not just from the game but also from the attention he’s giving you. It’s fun, it's exhilarating, and it’s something you’ve found yourself looking forward to more often than not.

“You’re killing it, Ducky! Payback’s gonna need a consolation prize after this!” Hangman jests from beside the table. His tone teasing but not without a touch of pride.

Glancing over at Rooster again you notice the slight clench of his fist around his glass, his gaze lingering a moment too long on you and Hangman. It’s clear he’s less than thrilled about the growing camaraderie between you two. He was seeing Hangman’s overt praises as more than just friendly support. Despite the fun atmosphere you can’t shake the awareness of Rooster’s protective instincts flaring up, perhaps seeing Hangman’s enthusiasm as a challenge to his role as your guardian.

The banter between you and Hangman grows more spirited as the evening progresses. Each witty exchange draws laughter from the onlookers and adds a spark to the already electric atmosphere of the Hard Deck. “Careful Payback, she’s got more tricks up her sleeve than I've got maneuvers!” Hangman teases loudly, his eyes twinkling with mischief as you line up another winning shot.

“Yeah, and all of them are better than yours,” you retort without missing a beat. The cue stick hitting the ball with a satisfying click as it sends it hurtling into the pocket.

The growing crowd gets into another round of cheers and Hangman’s laughter joins yours, filling the room with an infectious joy. You can’t help but revel in the blissfulness of it all. The ease of the exchange making the night all the more enjoyable.

From the corner of your eye though you see Rooster pushing away from the bar. His demeanor shifting from protective observer to active participant. Without a word he strides over to the piano in the corner of the room. The conversations around you dim as Rooster’s fingers begin to dance across the keys. That familiar tune that you both loved as kids filling the room.

You can’t help but laugh while shaking your head at Rooster’s not-so-subtle way of stealing the spotlight. “Show-off,” you mutter under your breath though the affection in your voice is clear.

Hangman leans closer, his voice low and amused. “Looks like someone’s trying to remind us he’s still the king of cool around here.”

You lean in too, matching his conspiratorial tone with a playful sparkle in your eye. “You know, I think he’s just trying to draw my attention away from a certain someone,” you say winking subtly at Hangman. “But honestly? I’d rather stay here and chat, just to annoy him a bit more.”

Hangman’s grin widens at that. His eyes lighting up with delight. “Oh, is that so?” he chuckles, clearly enjoying the game. “Well in that case, I’m more than happy to provide all the distraction you need.”

The playful exchange hangs between you, adding a layer of light-hearted flirtation to the evening. Rooster’s piano playing becomes a soft background melody to your continued conversation. Each note a subtle reminder of the familial ties that weave through your interactions. Yet, amidst the laughter and music, there’s a thrill in the air. A shared amusement that only adds to the night’s charm, leaving Hangman more enamored than ever.

Third Time’s the Charm (Or Not)

The briefing room is charged with the usual post-flight tension as pilots and WSOs gather for the day’s assessments and comments from Maverick. You and Hangman had recently completed a tandem training flight that not only went exceptionally well but also demonstrated a seamless dynamic between the two of you. The energy from the flight still buzzes between you as you enter the room together, chatting lightly.

Maverick starts the briefing by outlining the objectives and reviewing key tactical points. As the session nears its end, Hangman, unable to contain his enthusiasm, stands abruptly, interrupting the flow. “I just wanted to say,” Hangman begins, his voice filled with a mix of pride and a hint of something deeper, “flying with Ducky here has been the highlight of my training. Honestly, she’s the best wingman I could ask for.” His eyes find yours across the room with a smile playing at his lips. The statement hanging heavily in the air, laden with unspoken implications.

The room falls into a stunned silence with every eye turning to gauge the reactions around them. Rooster’s chair scrapes back loudly as he stands, his face flushed with anger and frustration.

“This is just you trying to get under my skin, Hangman! Every damn time!” Rooster snaps. His voice cutting through the tension like a knife. The accusation hangs heavy, charging the air with an unmistakable intensity.

You feel a surge of frustration, your own temper flaring as you stand to face your brother. “Really, Roos? Is it always about you? Maybe he likes me as his wingman. Have you ever thought of that?” Your voice, sharp and loud, silences the room completely. The weight of your words settling over everyone like a thick blanket.

Maverick was caught off-guard between the sibling spat and simply looks between you and Rooster. His expression unreadable but clearly uneasy with the escalating drama. Hangman, meanwhile, watches the exchange with a look of remorse, realizing perhaps too late the depth of the rift his words have deepened. As the tension reaches a palpable peak you shake your head more in disappointment than anger, and storm out of the briefing room. Hangman hesitates only a moment before following you, his steps quick as he catches up.

Outside, the cool air hits you like a splash of water helping to temper your heated emotions.

Hangman watches you with a concerned expression as you step outside. “Hey, I know that got intense back there. I’m sorry you had to jump in,” he says softly, his tone sincere.

You sigh, feeling the sting of your outburst. “I just... I didn’t mean to blow up like that. It’s just frustrating when it feels like he doesn’t see me as anything more than his little sister to protect.”

Hangman nods while stepping closer, his presence comforting. “I get it. And for what it’s worth, I meant every word I said in there. You really are the best wingman, Ducky.” His voice carries a warmth that makes you look up, meeting his reassuring gaze.

The corners of your mouth lift in a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Hangman. That means a lot, especially coming from you.” You knew full well he wasn’t one to hand out compliments.

His expression softens and he offers a small, encouraging chuckle. “And, hey, if it’s any consolation, you standing up to your brother in there? That was pretty badass. Not many people can make Rooster pause like that. Trust me, I’ve tried” He smirks trying to ease your frustration.

You laugh at that sounding more relaxed now. “Well, I guess it’s good to know I have a hidden superpower: stopping Bradley in his tracks.”

“Definitely a valuable skill around here,” Hangman agrees, his grin infectious. “Look, I know things can get complicated, but I’m here, alright? Wingman on the ground and in the air.”

The simple assurance brings a sense of relief, and you nod feeling the earlier tension dissipate. “I appreciate that, Jake. Really.”

As you both head back inside the conversation flows more easily, veering into lighter territories—upcoming missions, favorite downtime activities, and the occasional gentle tease. With each step you find yourself genuinely smiling. The weight of the day lifting with the shared understanding that whatever comes next you won’t face it alone.

Clearing the Air

After the tension of the previous day, you know something has to give. Seizing a quiet moment in the early evening you find Rooster and Hangman at the base and steer them toward a secluded spot near the hangar. The impromptu gathering under the fading sky isn’t formal but the air is thick with unsaid things.

“Okay, guys,” you start, cutting straight to the chase. “We need to sort this out. Whatever this is.” You sigh, “Rooster, I appreciate you looking out for me, I really do. But I’m not just your little sister here… I’m a WSO in the Navy, and I need you to trust my judgment. Not just in the air but here on the ground, too.”

He tries to bite his tongue, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Listen, Y/N, I’m just looking out for you. That’s my job as your brother,” Bradley insisted. His voice stern and unyielding.

Jake shifted uncomfortably, sensing the rising heat in Rooster's tone but remaining silent. His eyes flicking between the two of you.

“It’s not just about being my brother, Bradley!” you shot back, your frustration with him now boiling over. “I’m not a child, and this… this overprotective routine? It’s suffocating. I’m an adult! A WSO and a damn good one at that. I make life or death decisions every day. I can handle Jake. I can handle myself.”

Bradley’s expression tightened. His jaw clenching as he prepared to argue, but you didn’t let him. “I need you to trust my judgment, Roos. Trust that I know what I’m doing. Trust that I can take care of myself.” Your eyes are pleading now.

The raw honesty in your voice seemed to cut through the tension, leaving a heavy silence. Jake watched, his usual bravado nowhere in sight instead replaced by a look of respect towards your fervent declaration.

Bradley looked from you to Hangman, then back again. The fight draining from his stance. He sighed deeply, the lines of his face softening. “I… I’m sorry. I know you’re capable. It’s just hard for me to not see you as my little sister. But you’re right. You deserve to make your own choices. I’ll try to back off.”

You breathed out a mix of relief and residual adrenaline making your hands tremble slightly. “Thank you, Roos. That’s all I ask.”

Turning to Hangman, your tone softens. “And Jake, you’ve been great, really supportive. But sometimes the way you push Bradley’s buttons doesn’t help things. We’re all on the same team, right?”

Jake chuckles while scratching his head sheepishly. He was immensely grateful you were able to handle that before things got too sticky. “Yeah, you’re right darlin’. I might enjoy teasing him a bit too much. I’ll keep it in check.” He nods his head to Bradley. A truce of sorts.

Relief washes over you as the tension begins to dissolve. “Thank you, both. Let’s remember we’re here to make each other better, not make things harder.”

As the conversation winds down, the mood lightens, and Bradley claps you both on the shoulders. “Alright, let’s get back to it then. And maybe I’ll try to keep the drama for the simulators,” he says with a reluctant grin.

As your brother walks away Jake lingers, his smile genuine. “So, now that peace is restored, how about we grab dinner? Just you and me. I owe you one for being the peacekeeper around here.”

Your laughter echoes lightly in the cool evening air. “Sounds like a plan. Just promise it’ll be a drama-free meal.”

“Scout’s honor,” He grins as he fell into step beside you. As you walk towards the mess hall together the easiness between the two of you feels restored. And maybe, just maybe, you feel things a little bit deeper than before.

“Y/N, I wasn’t just trying to get on your good side earlier, you know?” Jake adds as you reach the door. “You really are the best at what you do.”

You nudge him playfully, feeling the last of the day’s stress melt away. “Keep that up and I might let you win at the next sim.”

Hangman laughs loudly. It was a sound you were coming to enjoy. “Deal. But only if you save me a seat next to you at dinner.” As you step into the warmth of the mess hall you can’t help but feel optimistic. With everything laid out and understood the path forward seems a lot clearer. And having Hangman at your side doesn’t just feel good. It feels utterly right.

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[duck-a-doodle]

COD IMAGINES

TACTICAL BUDDLE BUG 4/4

Chapters 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

TF141!reader x 141

WARNING: Angst, Death, Comfort

A/N: I could not think of any other way for Ghost to accept your hug. I apologise for the trauma in advance. :'-)

Masterlist

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The most serious member of the 141 is secretly a very affectionate person.

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The mission was rough, one that pulled you under and dragged your bloodied knees through dirt and gravel.

It was a ground search and rescue operation which lasted for weeks on end, and one which tested the limits of the human body, bending your sanity to the brink of a clean snap.

The streets were coloured in violence, and the grounds were a tangle of rubble, vehicle parts and severed bodies.

Wherever you stepped, there would lay a limb or a head, of which you could no longer tell if they belonged to an enemy or hostage. It no longer mattered, not when your boots must travel the roads of a thousand stripped souls.

You saved several hostages from the scene, but there was one that you know would haunt you til the end of your days.

It was a little girl. Small, young, with her favourite doll that was caked with remnants of dirt and coagulated blood, the latter of which should never have made its mark upon such a pure soul.

You had to coax her to climb down from the roof, to bring her to safety, and you had failed to realise that you were not the only one to notice the child.

A bullet tore through her chest, and another through her side, bringing her down from the roof, soft and limp into your arms.

Not every hostage can be saved. Not every enemy will be found. Ghost, who buried the young girl you in the aftermath, had watched you ruin every unfriendly sight with a fury unmatched.

He witnessed the angry flames that swallowed up every dead man as you pulled them straight down to hell with you.

Your body had moved blindly when you heard the roaring sound of your captain's orders to return to the plane.

Gaz was adjacent to you, resting quietly while Johnny sat on your other side, watching you carefully; you refused to look at him, knowing that his eyes would look right through you.

The captain said nothing, and Ghost, who propped himself opposite to where you were, was unreadable.

There was no banter, no questions, and only a silent prayer remained.

You cannot remember whose hands have rested on your arms or shoulders in an attempt to calm you; all you recall was the chill and bile that rised from within you. You could not remember the debriefing that felt like seconds but passed like hours.

You could not remember how you got back. Not how you got into your fresh clothes, not how your wounds — once bloody and inflamed — were now patched, and not how you found yourself standing at Ghost's door, waiting.

Why were you there? What were you waiting for? And as soon as the question arose, the answer made itself clear; because of all people, he would know.

As if sensing a presence, the room opened with a click, and Ghost appeared in the doorway, taking a moment to register your presence. He moved to one side. Stepping in silently, the door closed shut behind you, enclosing you in a box of white noise.

He stood before you, saying nothing. He did not need to say anything. In fact, he need not even ask. He simply knew.

"You did what you could."

The reality of his words were a dagger to your beating chest. You lived. You lived, and you were grateful. But you lived at a cost, with the price of blood on your hands.

You took one step. Then another. And Ghost, who did not anticipate what you were about to do, stilled as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight.

Fingers tangled tight into the fabric of his shirt, and you press your face deep into his body, seeking — begging — for a reprieve. The darkness was a comfort. He was a comfort.

For once, you want to feel a life that you can hold in your hands, that will not disappear under your touch, that is living and breathing. To hear the heartbeat of a soul, to get rid of the memory of cold, colourless skin that rest unmoving against your arms.

"Breathe, cub."

You could not move. You did not want to move. You cannot bear to move. Not an inch, not away from him who you knew understood better than anybody. His hands were placed on your back. Warm. Alive.

There were no use for words as both of you held each other in silence, resting in the comfort of a feeling near-forgotten.

That was your last memory of that night before you knocked out cold, and in your sleep you dreamt of a hand that wiped the warm corners of your eyes, rough yet gentle.

Unbeknownst to you, a storm in Ghost had calmed when you chose him of all people to seek comfort in, and silently grateful he was for the team to have a most sensitive heart on board.

You were the most affectionate person of the 141, and you cared and loved unconditionally. Those qualities made you the most lethal one of them all, for despite any rankings or titles, you commandeered them all with a piece of your heart — and the day your heart dies is the day they raise hell in your name.

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FOOTNOTE(S):

Ghost likely has only hugged the captain once or twice and Johnny, several times but not of his own volition.

Your heart reminds him of his better days with his brother Tommy and it makes him want to punch you (cuteness aggression), but he will take that knowledge to his grave.

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #40

A Fool’s Gold

Imagine dis…

Booster Gold is the name of a hero that we are all familiar with both in and out of the comics.  He is commonly heard as the joker of the group, the time traveler who came with a robot to keep him updated on the latest information.

I just made this, cause I noticed that writers focus more on the Batfam, Supers, Arrows, and the Flashes when it comes to time travel in DC when we have another time traveler that hasn't been talked about too much so here we are….

…

The Watchtower’s main hall is buzzed with activity as different JL members come and go towards a mission or merely fill out paperwork. Here we see Booster Gold leaning against a console, idly flipping and folding what looks like his report from last week that should have been already filed, turning it into a paper airplane into the air and letting it pile around him.

His bright suit makes it so everyone can notice him even when Batman had already put the guy in a time-out corner until he finished filing and writing down his reports but it looks like boredom won over.

On his left, you could see the main monitor playing a replay from last week's news. Booster Gold is the main star of said news, as he is seen and captured by a news crew waving and interacting with countless fans surrounding him, screaming and awing at the sight of him, some even dared to throw themselves at said hero. Him interacting with his fans with every body language of his screams of arrogance paired with his cocky grin plastered on his face even though he should be providing support to an undercover op that is happening just a few blocks away.

Superman exchanged a glance with Wonder Woman as if to ask a silent question about Booster’s latest issue, with her answering the man of steel with rolled eyes as she seems to be fed up with the gold hero. Even Flash, the most laid-back of the team, muttered something under his breath about Booster being insufferable.

Batman on the other hand is holding Booster Gold’s last month's debrief that is filled with doodles. Gripping said reports to the point of almost tearing said reports into shreds, while also practicing deep breathing tactics to calm himself down. As much as he would want to lecture Booster he knew that Booster would have in one ear and out the other.

Besides the morals of the heroes, his knowledge of the future in ways that the Speedsters cannot comprehend is the only thing keeping him inside the JL.

…

Unbeknownst to the entire League, even from Batman’s prying eyes, Booster Gold’s true purpose and where his loyalty lies far beyond what the JL expected of him. His persona, the self-absorbed, fan-pleasing, buffoon, was meticulously planned and crafted to fit into his role.

Behind the scenes, Booster created and operated a deep network of informants made out of allies and ghosts. Many of them pose as fans of his that only pass on information using this method to fool everyone from the main members to the JL, to their hidden enemies, especially his ghost informants who needed to fit and control a husk of a humanoid-shaped android to pass on as humans and information. Thick make-up and wonky movements made them occasionally throw themselves towards Booster as to suspect no one.

Each interaction in the spotlight served as a secret exchange of information between two parties. Skeets, his loyal robotic companion, despite having all future knowledge in its database kept on changing and updating itself as to each change that he and the Speedsters made.

But Booster remembered, He always remembered.

…

He remembered the original timeline, a time and place where the love of his life Daniel “Dan” Phantom was his lover. In the apocalypse of a future when he used to live in, he and Dan have each other’s back, despite the rumors of a monster roaming around the streets killing every living human there is. So imagine his surprise and heartbroken when he learned that the reason they all live in this desolate future was all because of him.

So imagine his surprise when he encountered Dan in this timeline. Booster Gold was just trying to take a peek, a glimpse if you will, the life before he turned into Dan.

There he was, Dan who was reformed and wary, guarded especially with his younger self, Danny, his clone, and older sister, who is still alive and part of his little world.

It took a while but Dan’s family warmed up to Booster, recognizing that the man was being flocked by fans on the television than the one who looked at them with nervousness and anxiety while holding a tray of cupcakes to earn the approval of Dan’s family.

Booster took it upon himself to dismantle the GIW as it threatens not only his lover but also his new family that he slowly builds for himself. Through his human informants with new ghostly informants, he slowly but surely uncovered hidden bases, weapons caches, and classified operations.

Yet the progress was slow. Too slow.

…

The day Booster’s world shattered began like any other, it was another assigned to a space mission far away from home. The moment he stepped foot back at the Watch Tower Skeet; 's alerts began flooding his visor, message after message marked important and urgent from his informants all sending him out messages about how the GIW  had a raid on the Fenton household. By the time Booster returned to Earth, it was too late. Jack and Maddie Fenton are already dead, having sacrificed their lives to protect their children. Dan, Danny, Dani, and Jazz had been captured by the GIW.

Rage consumed Booster, gone was the carefree hero who smiled for the cameras and flashing lights. In his place stood a man filled with grief and fury, he tore through the GIW facilities with ruthless efficiency leaving trails of destruction with each step he took. The media caught wind of his destruction towards unidentified facilities and buildings, some even caught on tape his rampage broadcasting footage of the hero Booster Gold of the JL leveling a building. The Justice League watched in disbelief as the man they had dismissed as an airhead fought with ruthlessness.

Superman was the first one to confront him as the JL thought that Booster Gold might have been mind-controlled and sent out Superman to not only subdue Booster but also limit the destruction that Booster did.

Booster having known that they had sent Superman to subdue him immediately attacked, their fight was swift and unrelenting leaving the Man of Steel unconscious and bloodied in the center of a smoking crater. One by one, various JL members were sent out to subdue him, but none could capture him. Always outmaneuvering and using his technology and suit from the future to fight off each member.

…

Just as the JL thought they had cornered Booster and now arrived at another confrontation between them and Booster, the scene made them all stop in their tracks.

There, they discovered a scene that would haunt them. A massive facility painted white is now in ruins, with black smoke emanating from it, implying that it was just destroyed, most likely by Booster, known for destroying structures and facilities with similar appearances. There he stood, Booster Gold, his suit burnt and missing pieces displaying his bloody skin, his body beaten, cradling two bloodied babies in his arms. A huge monstrous creature with red-blooded eyes coiled protectively over Booster. Fangs bared, claws extended, he hissed low and menacingly at the League, his every gesture exuding a primitive need to defend. A red-haired teenager lay nearby, her head resting on Booster's thigh as a makeshift pillow, breathing shallow but steady.

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

[sgrplumditz]

Blame the storm. (Simon Riley)

“Fuck you, Riley” she scoffs. Her hands heavy and aggressive while she removes her tactical gear. She’s angry, tired — no, exhausted from being out in the field for the last two weeks. And it definitely doesn’t help that her bullet proof vest tugs and chafes on the back of her neck from all the weight she carries. She’s got many reasons to be angry, but nothing infuriates her more than being underestimated, “You used me as bait” she continues as she finally rips off the vest that’s been tugging at the already red and sensitive skin — she doesn’t make her case any better when she begins rubbing the area with urgency. “Practically got me killed, but anything as long as the original four are fine, right? You unbearable prick” her words dripping with venom. She was fed up with him, she was able to tolerate him for the two years she’s been on the task force, but one can only poke the tigress so many times before she reacts. Captian Price, Soap and Gaz had witnessed the pair bicker back and forth plenty of times — it was nothing new. The three gave themselves a subtle glance as they exited the debriefing room well after the meeting had ended. The only one that seemed to have enough energy to utter words for argument was her, and the only one willing to listen was him.

“You’ve hardly got a scratch on you” is his reply. His tone flat and distant as his eyes are set onto her, watching her emotions get the better of her. “Your priority is the mission. Our priority is the mission. Everything went fine”, he added. His tone now tinged with annoyance. Of course, she is not surprised by his response. She expected his devaluing of her experience.

she continues angrily rubbing the back of her neck in frustration. He was right — and she hated that he was. If it wasn’t for the dried blood tainting the outside of her ears, the rash on the back of her neck and the pounding headache all from the commotion from the two weeks spent in the field, she would be completely unharmed. But that wasn’t enough to soothe her anger. She still couldn’t believe that he would take it as far as he did, placing her in a predicament that only put her in danger. Sending her into a house that hadn’t been cleared in an area where they were surrounded was a new low for Simon — at least that’s what she thought. “Unbelievable. You don’t even bother to pretend that you at least tolerate me being on this task force. I could have died” she said with gritted teeth. Her eyes landing on an unopened bottle of water on the oval table in the room. With one hand still aggravating the tender skin, and her other hand reaching for the bottle she was fully prepared to throw it at him.

Before she could even feel the bottle leave her hand, Simon had stood up and approached her. His height allowing him to take long strides. His hands firmly wrapping around her wrists. His grip strong, but not strong enough to harm her, but firm enough to make her release the bottle. “Look at yourself” he said as he placed both of her wrists into one hand, using his now unoccupied hand to hold her chin, turning her head to the left. Simon leaned in slightly to look at the redness on her neck, a low and soft growl escaping his lips as he realized how undone she had become, “What you need is rest. Save your breath and quit biting my damn ankles”.

She scoffs, “Stop pretending as if you care about a single hair on my head. And let me go”

“Let you go and let you spiral even further?” he asks his tone tinged in annoyance and slight concern. The rolling of her eyes prying more words out of him, “You think I sent you in that house thinking you wouldn’t be able to handle yourself? Don’t be so bloody dense. A reminder that you’re not here just because you’ve got a pretty face, Sweetheart” the muscles in her jaw relax slightly as he tugs her wrists closer to his chest, causing her frame to jolt closer to his. His gaze sharp as he looked down at her, their difference in size more noticeable now that they were in such close proximity, “You think I’d let anyone lay a hand on you? Especially those waste of space pigs? God help them if anything had happened to you”

Her eyes soften with curiosity and her breathing mellows as Simon reassures her. “As long as I live, nobody lays a hand on you, nobody touches you, nobody even stares in your general direction” he continues. His grip relaxed around her wrists, but still she did not bother to move. They both stood in silence staring at each other with a gaze that is unfamiliar to the both of them.

He suddenly steps away from her, his hands coming up to his balaclava. With one swift movement he pulls it off his head revealing the dirty blonde locks stiff with dried sweat. Simon runs a frustrated hand over his face as he stared at the floor, “Leave your neck alone will you?” is all he says to her before leaving the room with urgency.

—————-

Several days have passed since their unusual interaction. A part of her was relived that they had received a week off to rest and recover from the their mission, but the other half of her wanted answers. She had so many unanswered questions about Simon’s words, but avoidance was her best trait. She had been spending the last few days avoiding Simon as much as she possible. Considering that they lived in the same apartment building she found herself successful for the time being.

But she hated being indoors. She was growing restless by the minute. “Who needs that much rest anyway?” she shrugged as she tied her running shoes. A run would suit her best. She would get some fresh air, release some pent up energy, and the sun was setting, so she would have a nice view without the sunburn.

——————

Nobody lays a hand on you. Simon’s words repeated in her head over and over. Nobody looks in your general direction.As if the pace of her breathing matched the pace of his words ruling over her mind. The now scabbed over rash on her neck stung from the sweat dripping over it, the sensation snapping her back to reality. She glanced at her watch noticing the time — she had been running at a controlled pace for an hour and a half. Her body was drenched in sweat as she stepped inside her building. While waiting for the elevator she took notice of a familiar scent — his scent.

“Late night run?” muttered Simon in his usual flat and disinterested tone. They both stepped into the elevator.

“Yeah. I got enough rest” she responded cordially, “and I hate being stuck inside”.

She felt Simon’s icy stare run down her sweat covered body. Suddenly she realized how revealing her outfit was. A black sports bra with white running shorts is all she had on. Simon only released a subtle “Hm” as he took in her appearance, “You went out at night in that?” he questioned her pointedly — no hesitation in his words.

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his question. The one time she thought they could have a civil conversation he completely ruined, “Yes. This. There’s nothing wrong with my choice of clothing” she muttered with annoyance now coating her verbiage. She was bothered by his choice, obviously. She figured he was underestimating her, “I can take care of myself”.

“Never said you couldn’t. You’re more than capable” he shrugged as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, “Just making an observation”. His jaw ticked the moment he inhaled softly, as if refraining from saying more to her, but his eyes remained on her. Not in an uncomfortable, or predatory manner, but in a state of slight annoyance and possessiveness. As if she was his to look at. And for his gaze only. She could feel her pulse in her throat. There was correlation, the longer his eyes remained on her, the harder her heart beat. Her lips parted slightly and she inhaled deeply as if her body needed the extra oxygen.

The elevator door opened on their shared floor, but they both stood frozen. The tension between the pair made the air in the elevator thick, but her legs were frozen. Stuck in the same position for a few seconds as a familiar warmth settled into her core. The sound of the elevator door beginning to close shook them both out of their trance. Her breath hitched as Simon’s arm suddenly stopped the door from closing completely. He motioned a “cmon” with his hand, letting her exit first. Right before they parted ways he cleared his throat, his hands still in his pockets, “Be careful going out at night. You can handle anything just fine, but try to not to put yourself in situations that need handling”. He then casually began walking toward his apartment across the hall from hers. She hated how correct he could be. She especially hated how warm and slick he had her feeling. Simon Riley, the man that got under her skin, and right into the center of her attention.

——————

A couple days later the entire building was advised to stay inside. A hurricane had been swept into the city. It’s winds reaching over 60 miles per hours, and the streets flooding.

She sat with her mug of morning coffee watching the storm run it’s course. An uncomfortable feeling settling in on her as she realized she was stuck inside her apartment for the next few days. As if being stuck inside wasn’t bad enough, she now had no escape, not outage prepared to take on her restlessness. She wondered if he was feeling the same way. While her thoughts drifted to him there was an unfamiliar knock on her door.

She was used to being on her own whenever she wasn’t at work. With the storm booming outside, she definitely wasn’t expecting any visitors. She stood by her window in a short tank top and boy-short panties and a robe to cover herself. She sighed and wrapped the robe securely over her body as she made her way to her door. She opened it to find Simon with a bag of takeout in his hand. She hated to admit that she was pleasantly surprised, and it didn’t help her situation to see Simon’s blond hair soaked and tussled. His coat being waterproof, but nothing suitable enough for the storm raging outside.

She raised a curious eyebrow at him and patiently waited for an explanation as to why he even bothered showing up. However, the reason quickly became clear when thunder rattled the rainy skies. His demeanor was tense, and rigid. Simon who was typically calm and collected seemed panicked and slightly disturbed. She identified the signs immediately and stepped aside without muttering a word. At the end of the day they were teammates, and she wasn’t going to turn a blind eye to him struggling.

Simon stepped inside closing the door behind him and walked into the kitchen immediately. The layout of the apartment being the same as his, explaining why he knew his way around. “Why are you wet?” she finally asked as she followed closely behind. She was now watching him unpack a selection of breakfast items.

“Exposure therapy” was all he replied with — again his tone as flat as always. She wasn’t one to pry about personal struggles, so she only nodded her head and decided to take advantage of the fact that she no longer had to cook herself breakfast.

————

Couple of hours had passed and the storm only seemed to worsen. She had closed her blinds a few minutes into Simon being at her apartment. She spent a fortune on sound proof and blackout curtains when she realized that her apartment overlooked a popular bar. Something she was more and more grateful for everyday. She was sure Simon was relieved now that the sounds of thunder had become a dulled rumbling in the distance thanks to them.

They both settled on the couch in silence. Their eyes landing on one another every few seconds. It was clear neither of them were used to having visitors or being a visitor, but oddly enough having each other during the storm was comforting.

Comforting until her thoughts strayed to the night after their most recent mission. The way he held her wrists. Comforting until her thoughts stayed to the night in the elevator. Simon’s thoughts also in the same well of memories. Again, she felt the familiar warm knot forming in her core.

Her robe had loosened causing it to drape over her shoulder slightly, and just like the night in the elevator Simon had the same look in his brown eyes. Annoyed, possessive and now hungry. The air in the room became thick, his eyes burning holes into hers.

She couldn’t handle it, “You gotta go. Or I have to go. This” she motioned between the two of them, “Whatever this is can’t happen”.

She stood up abruptly and walked towards him. Simon remained in a relaxed position on the couch with his legs spread open and his hips inched forward. He only stared up at her. He heard what she said loud and clear, but seeing her from that angle only made him wonder how she might look sitting on his lap, taking every inch of him. “Did you hear me?” she scoffed. Her mind telling her to stand her ground, but her body reacting to him.

Simon nodded his head as his eyes remained glued on her. Her robe now fully open while she stood directly in front of him. Simon sat up, his gaze still on her. His large and calloused hands made their way up to her hips. his thumbs massaging them with a gentle touch. His jaw muscles tightened, his eyes trailing down her body — slowly in manner that made it clear that he was admiring her — right before resting on her face. She audibly gulped, and willing took a short step closer to him. Now she stood directly in between his legs.

“You want me to go?” he questioned her while already fully aware of what her answer would be. She shook her head slowly. A slight smirk touching his full lips as he guided her to his lap. Her legs straddling him — she was exactly where he wanted her. His lips skimming her neck and collar bone, teasing her with every warm breath he let out, “Say it, Love. I want to hear it”. He beckoned her with his words. A serpent leading Eve to the forbidden fruit, “Use your words and tell me exactly what you want” he continued.

Her breath hitched, his growing member pressing on her throbbing cunt, “I-I need you to stay right here. With me” she finally answered after painfully forming her words into a cohesive sentence. Her hips desperately grinding to relieve the ache, but no that wasn’t enough. She needed him. All of him.

Simon couldn’t help but groan, her slick making it’s way past her panties and past his sweats. He couldn’t resist her anymore, he had spent years repressing himself. With ease he stood up, keeping her body in his arms and began making his way to her bedroom. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his torso.

Upon entering her neatly decorated bedroom, with her still in his arms, he slid his sweats down his legs, finally kicking them off before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. With urgency he pressed his lips onto hers, a soft “Hm” leaving his lips as she parted her lips, giving him full access to her mouth.

She tugged at the hem of his shirt before completely pulling it over his head and off to the side. With one hand he held the base of her head and entangled his finger into her hair to give him a secure grip on her and with the other he moved her panties the side and out of the way.

He lifted her temporarily before he slowly sank her aching, warm and drenched cunt onto him. Of course he took his time. He was well aware of his size and girth, and being her neighbor he knew she didn’t have guys over — as if he would ever let that happen. He guided her down slowly, and gently. He felt her walls tightly grip onto his throbbing cock, whilst simultaneously stretching around him. His brown eyes now focused on her as he watched her expressions to make sure he wasn’t harming her. Not because he was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to handle him, but because he despised watching her hurt.

Every time she thought that was all of him he would keep introducing more of himself into her. Her eyes slammed shut and her head leaned back sending her into a blissful state of pleasure and pain as her cunt molded itself around him. Small whimpers left her plump lips with each inch he filled her with. Finally she felt herself gently land on his thighs.

“Fuck” he groaned as he guided her hips into a slow and steady rhythm. Soft breaths escaped both of their lips, his face coming forward and burying into the crook of her soft neck. His arms desperately wrapping around her significantly smaller frame in a manner that made him feel like he needed her closer.

She on the other hand had an arm wrapped around his broad shoulders and the other one firmly gripping his forearm. The rhythm becoming more sloppy and desperate as each second went by. Her robe was hanging on by her elbows, the whole situation was desperate. But not in a pessimistic manner.

Simon brought a hand up to hold her neck. He wasn’t choking her, but holding her head in place. He wanted to look at her. He wanted to watch how well she was taking him. “Let me see those pretty eyes of yours” he spoke in a slurred voice. Her eyes fluttered open as she listened to his every word, “So fucking pretty” he added. Her walls began to gradually tighten around his pulsating cock. She was nearly there, and oh god was she arriving to her climax quickly.

He didn’t change the pace, he continued moving her in the exact same way. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she felt the knot in her stomach becoming undone, “No, no.” he shook his head and tightened his grip on her face, “Eyes on me, Love” he demanded. She forced her eyes to lock onto his and it was in that moment that her walls completely clamped shut around him. A surge of her juices flooding her cavity adding onto the increasing pressure she was already feeling. Simon whimpered, his own eyes going lazy before closing as a familiar pressure was released within his thick and drenched cock. His thick and warm seed pumping deep inside of her. There was no denying that she belonged to him now. But maybe she always did.

Or maybe it was the storm to blame.

[shotmrmiller]

since i'm rambling about self inserts? (is that it?) now you're miserably turning over on the bed, pulling the comforter over your head because you wasted a whole whopping 70$ for MW3 only to get an unfinished game and a piss-poor half-assed shock value main character death.

You fall asleep thinking about what you'd do differently- how johnny wouldn't die so needlessly, maybe even convince Captain Price to let Johnny put a bullet in Makarov's head in that helo.

And when you wake, your surroundings are different. The bed is too small when yours is a king, the innerspring mattress creaks when you sit up, even though you explicitly bought a memory foam.

The walls are spartan instead of the personalized decor you had. Looking over the edge of the bed, the floor isn't carpet. It's an ugly, white vinyl tile.

Where the fuck are you?

Your hands are callused but the only time you even got one was when you tried your hand at gardening, only to eventually realize you could kill a cactus with your brown thumb.

Hopping out of bed, you beeline to your bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror. Almost everything is the same. Eyes, hair, body, height.

Only difference is your flesh. It's littered with scars- both old and new. A thick, pink jagged line across your clavicle (a blade?), a puckered star shaped keloid above your hip bone (A gunshot wound?)

Stepping back out into the room, you carefully survey the space around you. A tac vest you swear you've seen before hangs on the back rest of your small chair.

Two black glock-19's sit on the desk. How do you know that? You don't know lick about weapons.

There's a large sheathed blade by your nightstand table. Didn't Rambo have one of those?

Suddenly, it hits you like a ton of bricks. You're dreaming. Jesus. Maybe you should start reading some smut fanfiction before bed to get Simon in your-

A knock at your door pulls you out of your degenerate thoughts.

oooookay.

Padding quietly to the door, the metal of the handle feels shockingly cold. How wildly vivid.

"Ye- what the fuck?"

What the actual fuck?

"Language."

...

Your mouth gapes in utter disbelief. "Simon?"

His dark eyes narrow behind his skull mask. "Chummy, are we?" He steps forward, forcing your neck back at an uncomfortable angle to keep your eyes fixed on his. "You and I, Sergeant, ain't friends. It's Ghost to you. Clear?" he snarls.

You swallow thickly. "C-Crystal, sir."

He tips his chin forward. "Get decent, I'm to take ya to the debriefin' room."

what?

"Now."

Spinning on the balls of your feet, you hastily dress, and grab the vest on the chair. UK flag on it. Tactical. Heavy as hell.

Your hands move on their own, and fingers smartly clip buckles, pull up zippers and close the pockets- as if you've been doing this your whole life.

What is happening?

When you get to wherever it was you were going, you're met with more recognizable faces.

Captain Price stands in front of Laswell, bulky arms crossed as he speaks to her in a hushed tone.

Gaz sits on a chair with his head hanging back as he blankly stares at the ceiling, trademark cap in place.

And then there's- "Bonnie!"

Johnny.

"Good to see Simon dinnae eat ye on the way here."

Simon Ghost doesn't react to the jibe at all.

Why are you sitting in the middle of the 141 listening to Laswell debrief about Hassan? Why aren't you waking up yet? You're lucid. The sharp sting of your nails digging into the palms of your clenched hands isn't dulled.

"Good hunting."

This can't be happening.

This isn't real. The heavy helmet strapped to your head. The weight of the bulky tac vest full of equipment. The painfully tight straps around your thighs. The way the rifle feels in your hands, solid and dense.

Not real.

Until you're offloading with Bravo Team in Al-Mazrah on the search for Major Hassan. The tall grass grazing your pants, the NVG's over your eyes to help you see in the dark. The harsh recoil of a weapon you've only ever used in a video game. The gurgling sounds of the enemies as they choke on their blood by your feet. The bullet whizzing past you, clipping your cheekbone. The burning sting of it, white-hot pain.

Real.

It feels fucking real.

[sinkovia]

Yes, Lieutenant: III

Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Violence, angst, blood.

Yes, Lieutenant Masterlist

You sat alone in your dimly lit room, the harsh words Ghost said echoing through your mind like a relentless chant.

You're not my type.

You're always following me around like a lost puppy, always watching my every move, and it's annoying as hell.

His words crushed your heart.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, soaking into your pillow as you sobbed in silence. It felt like the walls were closing in on you, the weight of rejection pressing down with an unbearable force.

He was the one to make a move on you first. Yeah, you harbored feelings for him deep down, but you always told yourself you would never act upon them because it was unprofessional, and you were okay admiring him from afar.

How could he have been so cruel? You had let your feelings show, and it had only resulted in heartache.

As Ghost stood at your door, he couldn't help but notice the telltale signs of your sadness. Your eyes were puffy and red, your cheeks stained with tears that you had fought so hard to hide. It crushed his heart, seeing the pain he had caused you etched across your face.

Deep down, he felt a crushing weight of guilt. He knew he had hurt you, and it tore at his conscience. But he also knew he needed to push you away, to keep up the facade of a calm and cold demeanor. His own internal struggle was hidden behind a mask of detachment, a facade he had become a master at maintaining.

It was a battle within him, torn between his feelings for you and his desire to protect you from himself. The guilt coursed through his veins like poison, but he couldn't let it show.

"Price wants everyone in the debriefing room," he said, his voice carrying an undertone of regret.

You fail to catch it.

"Is that all you have to say?" You couldn't hide the bitterness in your voice.

Ghost hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor before he quietly replied, "Yes." He turned away, leaving you to grapple with the pain he had caused, all the while carrying the heavy burden of his own remorse.

Leaving you alone with your shattered heart, the room once again enveloped in the heavy silence of your unspoken pain.

Price had debriefed us on a mission that Laswell was sending us on. It would take place in a couple of hours; we were going to breach a safe house not far from here. Laswell had received an intelligence report that the enemy was supposedly using the building to transport cargo underground.

You quickly changed into your tactical gear before heading down to the storage locker. As you walked in, you bumped into Ghost as he was walking out.

He didn't say a word, only shooting you a cold glare before walking away.

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the desolate street where the safehouse stood. The building, a nondescript two-story structure, was tucked away in a dimly lit alley.

Your team moved with calculated precision. The air was frigid, each exhale visible as a ghostly vapor. The mission had a sense of urgency, a feeling that time was of the essence. On the flight over, the team had received intel that a high-ranking operative was holed up in the safe house, and extracting valuable information from him was paramount.

The plan was simple, in theory. Breach the perimeter, gain entry without alerting the guards, and capture the operative before he had a chance to react. But in the world of covert operations, simple plans often took unforeseen turns.

As you approached the entrance, your heart pounded in your chest. The adrenaline coursing through your veins was a constant reminder of the danger that lay ahead. The silence of the night seemed to amplify every breath and rustle, heightening the tension.

With a subtle hand signal, Ghost gave the go-ahead. You moved like shadows, silently closing in on the safe house. The breach was executed flawlessly, the door swinging open with a well-timed kick, and the element of surprise on your side.

Inside, the safehouse was dimly lit, the air heavy with anticipation. As you cleared room after room, you could hear faint murmurs and hurried footsteps from the operatives inside. The tension escalated with each passing moment.

The sound of muffled voices ahead signaled that you were closing in on your target. As you pushed forward, you couldn't help but feel the weight of dread pressing down on you.

As you slowly opened the door, silently walking through, you pointed your suppressed pistol at the man standing next to your target. But in the rush of the moment, you failed to realize that there was another man waiting behind the door.

A strong hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your startled gasp. With a swift, calculated move, he managed to pin you down onto the floor. Your heart sank as he took both of your hands and zip tied them. You attempted to scream out, but he quickly taped your mouth shut, your cries stifled.

The target slowly walked over, laughing.

"What do we have here?" he sneered as he kneeled down next to you, harshly grabbing your face and scanning your features.

"You have such a pretty face." His words dripped with malice as he raised his fist and brought it down, striking you hard across the face. The force of the blow sent shockwaves of pain radiating through your body. Your vision blurred, and the room seemed to tilt dangerously. You attempted to scream for help, but all that escaped your lips were muffled groans.

Panic surged through your veins as the unbearable pain consumed you. You squeezed your eyes shut, struggling and flailing in desperation, attempting to get up from the floor. Adrenaline surged through your veins, but it was no match for the overwhelming force of your assailants.

They would just kick you down again...

And again...

And again.

Pain flared in your ribs and jaw, making it difficult to breathe or defend yourself.

Panic set in as oxygen became a rare commodity, and your vision darkened at the edges.

Desperation fueled your adrenaline. With one last surge of strength, you managed to land a solid strike with your foot, pushing back one of the men. But it was too little, too late. The damage had been done, and your body, battered and overwhelmed, finally gave in. 

As consciousness slipped away, you felt a sense of helplessness, a silent plea for someone to intervene and save you from the relentless onslaught.

You felt the blood seeping from your nose...

You felt your blood seeping everywhere.

They continued to beat you as your eyes began to flutter close. Your consciousness slipping further and further away. Suddenly the pain had stopped all at once and you heard a voice.

They kept trying to tell you something,  but your ears were ringing.

A sense of weightlessness overcame you. It was as though you were floating in a vast, featureless void. Unseen forces tugged at your consciousness, pulling you deeper into the abyss.

And then, like a beacon in the night, a presence emerged from the shadows. Strong arms enveloped you, cradling you with unwavering support. The warmth of another human being pressed against you, grounding you in the midst of your descent into the abyss.

You could sense the urgency in the touch, the desperation of the one who held you. Faint words and pleas reached your ears, but they were like distant whispers, struggling to penetrate the thick fog that enveloped your senses. Your vision remained shrouded in darkness, your ears ringing.

He gently cradled you, his heart pounding as he tried tried to wake you up. Your pulse was weak. Desperate words spilled from his lips, as he was running to the med evac. 

You remained unresponsive, caught in a world between consciousness and oblivion.

"Y/n it's me please look at me" As Ghost gently, but firmly, holds you in his arms, he cups your face in his hands trying to get you to open your eyes. Your body was limp in his arms. 

"Y/n open your eyes it's Simon, Please just look at me. Please just open your eyes." Despite his pleas, you were still unresponsive.

"Fuck."

In a few minutes you had landed being put on a stretcher as you were rushed into surgery. 

Five hours of stitching you back together.

The night had turned into a battleground of emotions for Ghost, and as they transferred you into a room, Ghost dragged a chair next to your bed, carefully holding your hand in his. The only signs of life were the rhythmic beeping of machines and the steady rise and fall of your chest as you lay in a deep coma. 

He scanned over your face, you had stitches going across your eyebrow into your hairline, you had stitches on your cheek and lip. Your shoulder had been dislocated and you were bleeding internally. 

You were still unconscious , the doctor had told Ghost it might take awhile for you to wake up but that he should talk to you, to help your consciousness find its way back to your body.

With each passing second, he spoke to you. Talking about the missions you had went on, the nights spent in the rec room, the time Soap had rammed his head into a glass display at a bakery. Any fond memories that he could think of. 

His voice, soft and laden with emotion, filled the room like a whispered secret, the words falling on your unconscious ears. His hand rested gently atop yours, a warm anchor in the cold, sterile room.

"Remember that mission in Prague?" Ghost began, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "It was pouring rain, and you slipped on that wet cobblestone, but you didn't let it slow you down. You just flashed that stubborn grin of yours and kept moving."

A brief pause followed, as if he were savoring the memory. "And those late nights in the rec room, when you'd talk about anything and everything until the sun came up. Those were some of the best moments I had with you. Just listening you talk about all the things you loved."

He shifted in his chair, his eyes never leaving your form. "I need you to wake up, Y/n," his voice trembling with vulnerability. 

"I need you to hear me out. I said some awful things, things I regret more than anything. I... I didn't want to ruin you, to drag you into the darkness that clings to me like a shadow."

The weight of his confession hung heavily in the air. "But when I realized you felt the same way about me, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope, a ray of light in all this darkness. I want you to know that I love you… I have for a long time, more than I can ever put into words. And that's why I pushed you away, to protect you from me."

The room was filled with the unspoken words that lingered between you, the raw emotions that had finally found their voice. Ghost's gaze never wavered, his grip on your hand never loosened, as if he hoped his love and remorse could transcend the silent chasm that separated you.

He was praying that you would hear him, he prayed to a god he no longer believed in, prayed that you would open your eyes and be okay.

You heard every word. If you could smile you would. 

Your heart swelled with warmth at his confession, an overwhelming desire to hold him close, to reassure him that you weren't afraid of the darkness he spoke of, that you were willing to run into it together. 

As his words hung in the air, your inner voice echoed your silent response. You fought with all your might to wake up, to bring your consciousness back to your body, to reach out and tell Ghost that you were there, you wanted to tell him that you were willing to stand beside him, to face whatever darkness the world had to offer together.

But you couldn't speak or move, you could only feel. You felt the touch of his hand on yours. You felt the sincerity in his voice, the love that had remained hidden for too long.

With every word, you fought to regain control, to claw your way back from the abyss. Ghost's confession had breathed life into your soul, and you were determined to answer in kind.

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

Rex: I know you work with Cody sometimes, but who do you guys report to?

Hunter: Hmm... good question. Can't say I've got an answer.

My headcanons about the reporting:

Tech writes up a full mission report after every single mission the squad completes during the Clone Wars, even though the higher ups stopped asking the squad for detailed written debriefings almost two years ago, after their first few ops.

(Echo started helping to write up the reports when he first joined the squad, only to be absolutely flabbergasted and lowkey horrified that the generals/commanders never ask for the reports, they just want to know whether a mission CF99 was assigned to ended as a success or failure.)

The reason why no one ever asks for the reports is because, after Commander Cody first called in Clone Force 99 for a tricky operation involving rescuing a dozen key hostages from an overwhelming amount of Separatist forces, Obi Wan was the one who reviewed the exceptionally professional and detailed report describing the squad of 4 clones rescuing the hostages by rappelling smack dab into the middle of the enemy forces and wiping out two entire battalions of droids (including the tactical droids) within 30 seconds with a crazy plan involving one bomb (the bomb wasn't even used on the droids themselves, it was used as a distraction), a knife, a rifle, two small mirrors, the Star Wars equivalent of duct tape, and "CT-9903's impulsive nature."

"Cody, are you sure this mission report is... accurate?" Obi Wan asks in concern.

"Yes, General. Three of the hostages corroborated the story even before the report itself came in. And CT-9902 - the one they call Tech, who writes the reports - apparently records everything, too, so I can verify..."

"No need. I ask only because I thought orders were for this to be a stealth operation."

"Right, well, the sergeant said his squad decided the most effective way to fulfill the "stealth" stipulation would be to not leave any droids operational, so the Separatists will never know exactly what happened."

Thus Obi Wan, realizing the sheer madness that would likely ensue should Anakin ever get his hands on one of these full reports - Anakin doesn't need ANY more chaotic ideas or incentive to go rogue - decides to simply record the mission outcome as "all objectives successfully met." The other generals (and, by extension, their commanders) soon pick up on Obi Wan's strategy and adopt it themselves, though for slightly different reasons (because imagine reporting that a squad using a plan called "rockslide" succeeded where a company + Jedi could not).

And so whenever Clone Force 99 is given an assignment, they are only asked in the debriefing whether said mission has been a success or failure.

(And then Cody calls in the Bad Batch for a mission that ends up involving Anakin, and Obi Wan is just sigh "I suppose this was inevitable. Yes of course this mission ended with Trench's entire fleet blowing up. No, Anakin, I will NOT recommend that Clone Force 99 be assigned strictly to the 501st. We're trying to keep the galaxy intact.")

[comatosebunny09]

tw: profanity, blood, torture, implied minor character death notes: up late again. i started thinking about a guard dog au again and spat this out.

“You still let that sick fuck control you!” Carlos spits. Voice gurgles, blood puddling in his throat. For someone on the edge of death, he sure likes to talk. “He’ll kill you when he no longer finds use for you, you stupid bitch!” 

You ignore his monologuing, more concerned with the speck of crimson flying from his mouth to stain your shirt collar. 

You fret over it, smearing the bloodstain with your thumb. Your brow ticks as you attempt to rub it clean. No dice. 

You really like this shirt.

Sucking your teeth, you twirl the tactical knife in your hand before driving it into Carlos’ thigh. He screams bloody murder. You wince; you’ve never known a man to cry like that. He’s not the one with blood on his favorite shirt. 

You pop up from your spot crouched before him. Wipe your hands on your thighs, heaving a sigh. You circle the chair Carlos is bound to, deceptively gentle as you clasp his shoulders once you're behind him. 

“I no longer have a use for you,” you whisper, squeezing his arms with a reassuring smile. You bend to ear level, Carlos’ blubbering simpering as your lips graze the shell of it. “But they might.” 

He follows your line of sight. You wordlessly signal to two brutish-looking men Sylus left at your disposal, framing the door.

You pat Carlos’ shoulder. “Good luck,” you say, stepping around him and between the hulking guards. You tell them to have fun, tossing your bloodied gloves over your shoulder on your way out. 

The steel door slams shut behind you. You straighten the lapels of your blazer. A muffled scream erupts from the room you just exited. They didn’t waste any time getting to work.

Carlos is in good hands, you think, exiting the warehouse. You throw your leg over your motorcycle seat after you turn it on, stuffing your helmet onto your head. You’ve got some debriefing to do. They can handle the rest.

—

The twin doorknobs are cold in your palms. 

You exhale as various masculine voices filter through the door leading to Sylus’ office. He’s in a meeting discussing things you can’t be bothered to follow. You don’t want to interrupt, yet the twins told you he wanted to see you immediately upon your return. 

You look down at your clothes. They’re bloodied and streaked red. Damn Carlos. Who knew someone could bleed so much? You can’t go in there like this. Not when you have a reputation to uphold. 

Shutting your eyes, you focus on controlling your breaths. Home in on a flicker of energy collecting in your solar plexus. You tap into it, a stream of it steadily bleeding out. It pulses through you, a cooling sensation wading over your skin. You don a glamor, a veil to hide your disheveled state until you can shower and change your clothes.

With a surge of confidence, you push through the heavy doors, a cool gust of wind kissing your molten skin. Six sets of eyes settle on you. The conversing peters to dull murmurs as you make your way to your boss, your heels clicking soundly over the marbled floors and a smile cresting over your lips. 

He’s sitting down at the head of the table. Tapping his temple in mock contemplation. He seems annoyed if the tense line of his shoulders is anything to go by. Maybe some good news will help lighten his load. You angle yourself to earshot, your torso brushing his shoulder. You get a whiff of the warm scent he carries. Try not to let it deter you from your mission. 

“It’s done,” you murmur. He smirks in your periphery, glancing at you with eyes the color of a wildfire. It’s a brief exchange, enough to warm you from the inside out. He dismisses you with a waggle of his fingers. 

You try to ignore how your heart swoops when you step back, a hand over your bosom as you bow tersely. You’re halfway to the door when he calls to you, stopping you in your tracks. 

“Make sure you clean up before your show this evening. Wouldn’t want to scare off our guests now, would we, darling?” 

You stiffen. Heat prickles your cheeks. Of course, he can see through your glamor. The aether core embedded in his eye allows him to do so. 

The businessmen sprinkled around the table exchange hushed words, unsure of what Sylus is on about. You look impeccably polished to them. You bow again, tamping down your bashfulness. You’re mortified. “Understood.”

You exit the room, mouth drawn into a rigid line. If no one else, you never want to look unkempt in front of your boss.   

[olailamajnoon]

Jason, after a dangerous mission: You're all welcome.

Cassandra: But no one said thank you.

Jason: I know, I know. Yall are too proud to thank me for saving your asses.

Dick, tightly through his teeth: It was a team effort.

Jason, his eyebrows raised: That's okay kiddo. I won't dispel any belief that makes you happy.

Dick (incredulous): Kiddo?!

Bruce: To give credit where credit's due. Jason, you got us out of there with your semi-automatic. But you also shot and killed three cops.

Jason: Corrupt cops! Again, you're welcome. *smiles and bows with a flourish*

Tim: Just great. We're never gonna stop hearing about how you saved the day with guns, are we?

Jason, smiling widely: No.

Stephanie: Clearly you're the devil.

Jason: Well. *blushes* I wouldn't say that. But if that's how you feel, then...who am I to say you're wrong?

Damian: It wasn't a compliment, fool.

Jason, twirling his guns and smirking: Buddy, when a girl calls you the devil, it means she likes you.

Stephanie: Ew no! I wasn't—

Bruce: Enough. Red Hood, I recommend you disappear for the rest of the day. Just until the team has regained its...stability.

Jason: You mean convince yourselves that there was another way out, and that you all are responsible for my actions. Fine, I'll leave you people alone to your idea of fun. *turns to go*

Jason: Just one thing.

Dick, pinching the bridge of his nose: Oh no. What now.

Jason: You geniuses celebrate with a debrief involving all your mistakes. I celebrate by getting shitfaced with Kori, and teaching her some Earth customs. So, you know. Enjoy.

He walks away, whistling.

Bruce, turning to the group: So. Let's go over some contingency plans for the next time we're faced with such difficult tactical decisions. Rest assured, there was another way out. Jason was wrong.

The rest of the Batfamily, looking at each other with draining enthusiasm: Uh huh.

[rileyslibrary]

This is a short Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader fic for @lauraliisa and @pasta-m1lk who requested a part 2 of the Hot Seat fic. I won’t be making a part 3 for this; I prefer to leave the rest to your imagination (sometimes I, too, like to torment the ones I love 😈) The fic is SFW, I promise.

Yesterday at the morning debrief, he was back to his usual self, dressed in his military uniform, with his signature skull balaclava, tactical boots and gloves. He eyed each of you independently and gave orders for the day’s duties.

Toilets. That was your day’s duty. Cleaning the fucking toilets.

And as if that wasn’t enough to torment you, he turned in front of everyone and yelled your name.

“Y/N,” he said, “will be quite tired after cleaning duty, don’t you all think?” to which everyone replied with the “sir, yes, sir,” including yourself.

“To thank her for her service,” he continued, “she’ll receive an exceptional deep tissue massage treatment after she fulfils her duties,” and added a “lucky her.”

Soap was standing behind you. “What the fuck did you do this time,” he whispered, and you discreetly asked him what a deep tissue massage meant. He smirked and said, “you’re about to find out.”

Under normal circumstances, a deep tissue massage would have been revitalising with the occasional “good hurt”.

This “deep tissue” massage was like a compact hell week; there was no relief from pained muscles, and full of “bad hurts.”

He made you run 8km with your bergen, do a fuckton of reps consisting of press-ups, burpees and sit-ups, then wash, rinse and repeat.

“Again.” He ordered, and you obeyed.

“Again.” He commanded, and you did as you were told.

“Again.” He said one last time, and you warned him that you were about to throw up, to which he replied with a simple “good.”

He might have thought you were over-exaggerating, but you couldn’t hold it anymore. You stood up with all the power you had left, ran to the nearest trash bin, dipped yourself halfway in, and began to gag. The smell of rotten food didn’t help.

You didn’t hear him approaching, but you felt his glove brushing the stray hairs off your forehead, his other hand gently patting your back.

He didn’t speak until you wiped your mouth with your hand.

“Better?” He asked.

“I didn’t mean to make a fool out of you, sir,” you explained in between gasps, “on the contrary, I was trying to be,” you got another gasp, “discreet, sir.”

He kept stroking your hair and back until you were finished talking. He then helped you up and held you by the shoulders.

“Seems like you’re not well, soldier,” he said in a low voice, “I would suggest requesting a sick leave.”

You were covered in sweat, your hair all messed up, you smelled like a trashcan, and your body ached in places you never knew existed. But you stared at Ghost, dumbfounded. This could have easily been a trap.

“I’m not si-“

“I’ll give you tomorrow off,” he stopped you, “how’s that?”

You opened your mouth to say something, but he squeezed your shoulders and shot you a meaningful look. He kept nodding, signalling for you to answer in the same manner.

“Yes, sir.” You replied, looking at him hesitantly.

He patted your shoulder. “Good,” he said, “now, what are you up to tomorrow?”

Your mouth dropped to the floor. “I, um, I’ll be home, I guess, sir.”

“So,” he tilted his head, “no plans for tomorrow?”

“N-no.” You replied, still in disbelief.

“Huh, what a coincidence,” he said, putting his hand on his hips, “I’m on leave tomorrow as well.”

“C-cool…” You muttered. What the fuck was he up to.

“Would you like to go for a coffee tomorrow morning?” He asked, “or tea, in your case, because,” he gestured at the miserable state he brought you in, “you know, you’re sick.”

You kept staring at each other. You couldn’t see Simon’s expression, but you looked like someone picked you up with a giant claw and dropped you right in the middle of a David Lynch movie.

“Should I take your silence as a- “

“Yes,” you nodded vigorously, “as a yes, sir; you can take it as a yes.”

He came this morning with his motorcycle and picked you up; he brought an extra helmet for you and secured it on your head.

He drove you to a café close to the pub you first saw and identified him without his mask, the reason behind all that hazing you’ve been through. The reason why you’re both here now.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you tell him.

“Why not?” He asks, “you’re sick and on leave.”

“I’m not sick,” you whisper with a smile, “and neither are you.”

He shrugs. “Oh, but I am sick,” he opposes you, “sick and tired of serving and ordering and,” he looks around, “killing.” He whispers.

You nod empathetically. He diverts his gaze from you and looks at the street, almost embarrassed for admitting it. You think of his mask; he doesn’t wear it to cover his good looks as you first thought. Ghost is a persona for the battlefield—for serving and ordering and killing. This, right here, sitting in front of you, is Simon.

“Hey,” you snap your fingers to distract him from his thoughts, “you promised me coffee.”

“Tea,” he corrects you, and you shake your head.

“I hate tea.” You say.

He shoots you a death stare and looks up at the sky.

“Why?” he wonders out loud and smiles, “why didn’t I ask you about that before taking you out on a date?” And gestures at the waiter to come and take your order.

[postm0rt3m]

working out with the 141 guys.. isn’t for the weak.

price will make you stay on the mats for hours on end while gaz takes countless jabs and punches targeted towards your weak spots because “jus’ one more round won’t hurt, hm?”

soap will gladly spot you, but won’t lift the bar up until you’re practically suffocating under the weight because “ye’r stronger than ‘at, private.”

and ghost.. ghost likes to train on his own, usually. so it’s pretty rare you see him in the gym with everyone else.

except for today.

you and the rest of the men are training for one of the biggest missions yet. you’re not positive on all the details; but you know it has something to do with a rather large set of nuclear missiles. you didn’t press further when price was debriefing it.

soap and gaz are currently tearing each other apart in the boxing ring, and price is occupied with a punching bag that looks like its seen its last days.

you’re currently doing bench presses, and decided you didn’t need a spotter today considering you almost died last time! (thanks johnny.) you know your limits! …right?

1…

2…

3…

4…

as you continue lifting, your reps have gone by so far without so much as a hitch in your breath. its not too bad, and you’ve got the weights just heavy enough to make your muscles burn but not to the point of quick exhaustion.

but.. you don’t notice the sweat quickly producing on your bare palms.

no, not until you slip.

you feel the heavy bar slide out from your sweaty palm right above your face, instantly freezing and squeezing your eyes shut to brace from the impact, mentally kicking your own ass for not wearing wraps or chalking up.

‘damn it, damn it, damn it, damn-‘

your repeating thoughts are cut off when you feel a whoosh of air over your sweat slicked face rather than the crushing weight of the metal bar.

you’re still slightly too nervous to open your eyes, thinking maybe that was god just taking it easy on you and killing you off before you go through the harrowing embarrassment of your teammates finding you half suffocated because you were too stubborn to ask for help again.

when you finally come back to, you can hear heavy, deep breaths from above you. you can see the way the light is blocked by a massive figure from behind your closed eyes, and smell.. him. that familiar scent of expensive cologne, cigarettes and gunpowder.

oh. thats not good.

you’re still hoping whoever is up there might take a little mercy on you.

you peek your eyes open, clenching your jaw to hold back an audible reaction just at the sight above you.

lieutenant riley himself, standing above you with the 120 pound (54 kg?) bar above your face. in one hand. ONE. HAND.

not just that, he’s not in his regular tactical gear. oh, no. he’s in barely anything at all, actually.

you can’t see much from your view, but the oh so delicious tan, sweaty, meaty brick of an arm right above your face. past it, you can slightly make out the edge of his mask, and his massive pecks (lets be real, they’re titties at this point.) barely being covered by the grey, hooded muscle shirt he’s sporting.

you can’t tell if you should be giddy for your knight in a skull mask or absolutely turned the fuck on.

you choose both.

he lets out a deep sigh, his arm still not budging as it holds the weights above your head.

“tryin’ta get y’rself killed, private?”

he practically grumbles the words out, that same bleak tone he always has supporting his gruff accent, although it sounds slightly.. amused?

of course. that means you’re not living this down.

“sorry, sir.”

you mumble and huff in response, your hands that were still hovering in the air falling to your sides as he lifts the bar up with ease, slotting it into the supports with a grunt.

you sit up with a quiet huff, slinging your legs to the side of the bench and watching as he walks over, crossing his big arms over his torso, pronouncing the muscles just a little more.

you find your eyes roaming down, down, down.. all the way to his bright green shoes, up his strong calves and meaty thighs barely being covered by the (slutty) shorts he decided to wear that do nothing to cover up the bulge going slightly down his right leg.

further up to his torso, his abs unfortunately covered although you can definitely imagine them. his oh so biteable pecks sticking just a bit out of the (also slutty) cutout shirt.

then.. to his arms. you decide then and there you definitely have a thing for big, manly arms. the way his muscles ripple and flex as he tightens them over his middle, the long veins that aren’t too deep but just deep enough to be there. the way his shoulders are practically the size of your head.

his hands? you have to force yourself to look away from the veiny and tattooed parts, your thoughts instantly going to the way his meaty fingers would look wrapped in your hair.

“if ya needed a spotter, coulda just asked.”

you look back up to his eyes, the smirk evident in the way one eye crinkles slightly more behind his mask and in his tone.

“or i could give’ya a spot in sum’n else.”

————

you can’t tell if you should be giddy for your knight in a skull mask or absolutely turned the fuck on.

imagine “love on the brain” vs “slut me out”

that was the inner turmoil i imagined for that line 😇

also thank u all for 500 likes :3

TIKTOK THAT INSPIRED THIS POST!! creds to the og creator for making this masterpiece of a video

[fortheb0ys]

CLOTHED SEX WITH GHOST

Making men slutty without taking off their clothes🧘‍♂️ FEM+MINORS DNI!!

To much of your convince, clothed sex was a big turn on for Ghost. Not having to shed all the layers of tactical gear just to have some fun definitely made things a it easier for you both.

It was easy to manhandled him. You'd simply grab him by the straps of his vest and throw him at the nearest wall. Before he could get a word in, you tongue would be halfway down his throat and your hands making quick work of his pants. He'd rut against your leg like a fucking dog.

Ghost pants lowered just enough for your cock to settle tightly in his ass cheeks. He'd cum in his pants from your cock gliding in, catching against his rim.

He loved feeling the added weight of gear on your already bulky frame as you fucked him rough from behind. The heat from both your bodies, made breathing a challenge. Ghost felt like he was being choked as his body was bent over the debriefing desk.

You always rewarded Ghost for his good work on mission. Maybe that was why he was such a good soldier. The promise of you fingering his ass while jerking him off in front of the shower mirror while he was still covered in his enemies' blood that soaked his gear, well surely that was enough motivation for him.

Continuing that thought, having Ghost covered someone's blood was somehow unbelievably sexy.

The smell of iron mixed with sweat still lingers as you hungry look at him just waiting for the moment you're alone so you can add cum to the mix of smells. He'd love the way his clothes stuck to his body.

You'd have him suck your dick while he still had his mask on. His eye makeup smudge while tears stream down his face. Something about seeing such a honoured and dedicated soldier at the end of your cock just stirred something deep inside you.

The legendary Ghost reduced to a cock hungry slut. A slut whose so impatient that he can't even wait enough time to take off his blood soak military gear to get fucked till his legs shaked.

You'd have to give him a little kinda hard light slap on the face to get him to open his eyes. Your bitch was completely lost in pleasure that it was hard to keep them open.

You'd pull out just to cum on his face, soaking his mask. Hell, he'd keep it unwashed just to use as masturbating material while you were apart. A feared symbol reduced to a cum rag.

God was it hot.