bluberri 🫐

And it’s not saying that those fics are (entirely) bad, they can be completely fine when the mood strikes but if you’re looking for any alternative kinks, or comfort fluff, or angst-comfort, or angst, or literally any other cod character that isn’t the top four (ghost, konig, price, soap) you’re pretty much left with scraps.

And whenever people complain about it, it’s met with a dismissive “well why don’t YOU write those fics? Writers don’t owe you anything, you selfish prick!” Which A, rude, and B, we ARE.

I consistently try and make the content I personally want to see more of. More sub characters, different characters that aren’t the same four, more angst and comfort, more fluff. And I get lucky if I break 100 notes because that content is pushed to the bottom of the bucket. But my poly 141 stuff? The smut with soap? My top posts of all time. You know, the ones that I didn’t put actual effort into and spat out on a phone.

may all your favorite fanfic writers never lose their hyperfixation and love for your blorbos so they keep writing fanfics about your blorbos forever

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It is, by any metric, a small country masquerading as a city.

It governs more lives and more wealth than most nations. If democratic socialism — housing reform, public banking, equitable taxation — functions here, it obliterates the myth that such governance can’t work at scale. The fear isn’t ideological. It’s empirical. Because if Mamdani can keep the lights on, reduce homelessness, and maintain economic growth without catering to Wall Street, then the capitalist gospel collapses under its own dead weight.

What terrifies the establishment isn’t failure. It’s feasibility.

If it works in New York, there’s no reason it can’t work in Nebraska. If it works in Queens, it can work in Kansas City. And once proof exists, belief becomes irrelevant. The ship of democracy, fully refitted, will keep sailing — and no one can claim it isn’t American."

Anyway the 141 and your pelvic floor exercises

Ghost will absolutely give a dead-eyed stare, holding a stop watch almost menacingly to time how long you squeeze for. “Only eight seconds love, yeh were meant to do ten.” And his favourite phrase “Again.”

Gaz would be the kindest, reminding you to breathe while holding the long squeezes, squeezing your hand in time with the pulses and counting aloud so all you had to do was focus on your exercises. “Keep breathing love, keep going, doing so well.”

Soap would be the most enthusiastic, offering to watch your muscles squeeze and relax “tah make sure yeh’re dooin’ it right.” Always reminds you to do them at the most inconvenient times, like right before bed.

Price is no-nonsense about them, he never lets you skip a single night. His resolute gaze meets your pouty one. He is unmoved by your whining. “Thank me later doll, do them now. And squeeze for two, three, four,” He does the hand gestures to make you feel less alone.

When you are ovulating, Simon’s cock weeps from overstimulation, but he never complains.

You’ve been riding him for who knows how long, and he’s on his… actually he can’t even remember how many times he’s cum. You’re feral, truly feral, bouncing up and down his length, sitting down fully until his tip is pressed against your cervix and leaking precum. Grinding down on him, your hands fall to his chest, digging your nails into his skin to steady yourself as he writhes beneath you.

He’s a whimpering, whining mess, cursing under his breath, with his eyes rolling to the back of his head when your pussy clenches down on his length. Every time your ass slaps against his thighs a breath of air is knocked from his lungs, leaving him gasping and clutching the bunched-up sheets around his limp body.

“C-can’t take anymore l-lovie,” he stutters, placing both hands on your hips, but instead of moving you away, his own hips buck up just to feel more of your warm, wet walls around his aching cock.

Your station acts as an added layer of security, encrypting the route the channels take in the event they are hacked. Sure, you work with other teams but the 141 are your main group.

One...small caveat of being in charge of their comms, is that you have to actually listen to their conversations in case they request a patch to someone.

Which leads to you hearing...way more than you'd like.

Gaz: sir. Stop poking it. Soap's waitin'

Ghost: think he had health issues. Look at his femur, odd texture.

Gaz: oh shit, really? Let me see—

Followed by far too graphic descriptions of the poor blokes leg. You had to skip lunch that day. You do most days they have missions, gross fuckers act like you can't hear all the shit they say.

Meaning, of course, that you hear too damn much about their sex lives or lack thereof due to missions. It's nothing new, and given you know what they look like, it doesn't paint a bad picture.

But this time? You're shocked by the subject of conversation.

Soap: ahm tellin' you, it's been too damn long. The poor lass is crying for attention!

Gaz: why not the guy from IT? He's eager enough.

Soap: no. Not really feeling that right now. Actually, you know who sounds nice?

There's that characteristic smirk in soaps voice you've long since learned to identify. You absently hear ghost prompt him to continue, wondering how the hell price tunes them out so well—

Soap: our waypoint.

You choke, splutter. Your own coughing making it impossible to hear gaz and ghosts reactions, but when you tune back in soap is viciously defending himself

Soap: no, no! Listen! Have you heard that voice?? Christ, just that and I could get a better wank than I've had all month! C'mon, ghost, I know you agree—

Ghost: you know they can hear you right now, johnny? Got anything to say?

Gaz: *chuckles* besides asking to get his dick wet? Maybe beg for a moan or something?

....silence

Soap: ....hey waypoint? You there?"

You shouldn't. Christ you shouldn't respond.

All comms are recorded, and waypoints should only talk when absolutely necessary but— but the 141 comms are wiped every 24 hours and...

You lean close to your mic, voice weaker than you'd like.

{ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ} "ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2"

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

It has been two months since that night, and things have changed... a lot.

You survived, but at what cost? Severe blood loss and nightmares that hunt you every night.

The attack left a scar on you, not just on your skin but on your mental health too, but you try to hide it, because that accident made you realize that no one has your back except yourself and yourself only.

You stopped caring about what Simon thinks of you, or how you act. You stopped trying to initiate small talk or any other kind gestures.

Why? Because you feel so stupid for trying to make this more than just a beneficial marriage on paper.

You feel so stupid for trying to make him open up, for trying to make this feel less suffocating than it already is.

And that night changed everything.

And Simon? Well, let's just say the roles have turned.

Simon hasn't been more attentive and caring than ever before.

He helps you around the house, makes sure you take your medicine, helps you take care of the wound, even when you refuse.

He even stopped leaving at night. He never does it again, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to.

He speaks... not speeches, but he actually speaks. He asks you if you need anything, asks about how you're feeling...

Because he thought losing you was going to solve the heavy, confusing things he feels for you.

But when he actually faced it, he realized he has never wanted to keep something for himself this badly.

He knows it's unfair to you. He knows he has no right to push himself into your life when you had clearly given up, but he can't.

He just can't.

Because the image of you when he found you that night on the edge of dying made something in his heart crack.

Or maybe... it gave something in his heart life.

He doesn't try to annoy you, he keeps it respectful.

He just lurks like a shadow, trying to make you believe that he is trying, that he cares, even in the shittiest ways possible...

So tonight, in his room, unable to sleep, he lays on his bed, one arm behind his head as he stares at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette while his mind drowns in thoughts.

Then he hears some noise coming from the bathroom.

Without hesitation, he stands up and walks toward it, his protective instincts rising instantly, alert for any danger that could ever be near you.

His footsteps are silent as he reaches for the door, which was already slightly cracked open, light leaking out from it.

Then he sees you, standing by the sink, looking at yourself in the mirror as you trace the scar on your belly.

A jagged scar rests across the lower part of your stomach, faded slightly after two months but still pink around the edges, a permanent reminder of that night.

He watches you as you place the bandage over it, clenching his hand at the sight of you changing it without his help.

Then he speaks.

"Why are you changing it alone?" he asks, even though he already knows what the answer will be, and he hates it.

You look at him through the mirror, slightly startled by his presence, then you speak.

"You were asleep."

"I wasn't," he says quickly. "Even if I was, you could've woken me up."

"No thanks," you say quietly as you pull your shirt back down, washing your hands in the sink while avoiding looking at him.

Simon stays quiet, just watching you, his hands aching to reach out for you, but he's scared. So scared.

Then you walk away from the sink, passing him as you leave the bathroom, making your way toward your room.

And that's when something in him snaps.

"Y/n..." he calls out, and you have never heard his voice soften the way it does now.

You stop in your tracks and turn to look at him, your face a silent question.

He freezes for a moment, unsure of how this is going to end, but then he remembers how he found you that night... and if there is one thing he knows—

Life is too short.

Not just with you, but throughout his entire career in the military.

So he starts walking toward you, stepping closer and closer until he's only an inch away.

You tilt your head up to stare at him, and those eyes... those eyes you always saw carrying so much baggage are now filled with something else.

Regret... guilt... and something so, so close to yearning.

You take a shaky breath as you wait for him to speak, but you don't say anything.

Then, without warning, he lowers his head and buries it into your neck, hugging you so affectionately that you can't feel anything but his warmth.

You freeze at his actions. Him? Simon Ghost Riley? This man hugging you?

He squeezes you gently in his arms, careful not to hurt you, and buries his face deeper into your neck.

You can feel his warm breathing, his stubble tickling your skin in the most comforting way possible.

But you don't hug him back, and you try so hard not to soften for him.

Then he speaks again.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry for everything," he whispers, his voice barely audible. You swear if he wasn't this close, you wouldn't have caught what he was saying.

You stay quiet for a moment before speaking.

"Don't apologize."

He shakes his head. "No... it's my fault. It's all my fault."

"I'm not your responsibility."

That makes his breath hitch slightly. He pauses for a moment before loosening his hug just enough to look at your face.

He cups one of your cheeks with his palm, the contrast between your soft skin and his rough one making his heart skip a beat.

"You are... you are my wife."

"Just by title, Simon..."

He stares at you for a moment, knowing that's true. So painfully true.

"I know... but I won't let you down again."

You stare back at him. You know he's being truthful, but the ache left behind after something so horrific and traumatic makes you wary of everything.

You don't want to reject him, but you also don't want to deal with this... whatever this is between the two of you.

So you just give him a slow, polite nod, breaking free from the hug as you step back.

"Go back to sleep."

You say quietly as you walk back to your room, closing the door behind you.

And Simon? Well, he knows sleep will not come tonight. Not after this. Not after everything.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 3