FandomTrashSammy

Call Of Duty

Series

A Step Series Masterlist - completed - Price x fem!reader

…But, Not Really Series Masterlist - completed - Price x fem!reader

Atlas Series Masterlist - ongoing - Ghoap x fem!reader

Comfortable Series Masterlist - ongoing - 141 x fem!reader

To be Decided Series Masterlist - on hiatus - Crossover fic.

One Shots

Captain John Price x reader

Pretty Girl

Good Sergeant

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x reader

The Fight - Prequel to Comfortable Company

From The Ground Up

Scars

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader

Sick

Haunted Bird

Makeup Remover

Dry Bones

Too Good To Be True

Soulmate

Back To Bed

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x reader

Mommy

Headboard

Risk It

Ghost x Reader x Soap

Stay - TW

Ghost x Reader x Gaz

Axe Throwing

141 (Poly and Platonic)

Barefoot and…

Deserve It - TW

Hugs from your boys

Making dinner for your boys

Unwell

Burn-out

Any Character x reader

This, I Vow - TW

Always

Nightmare

Ghost x Gaz

Similarities - TW

Asks

Unsent Letters - Price x reader

Gaz’s Game - Gaz x reader

S/O’s Tattoo’s - Ghost x reader

Collector Soap - Soap x reader

Clubbin’ - 141 x reader

For Benefits or For Worse - 141 x reader

Lawyer GF - 141 x reader

Drunk 141 - 141 x reader

Medic - 141 x reader

Skeleton or Ghost - 141 x reader

Low Self-Esteem 141 x reader

Ramblings/Drabbles

John and your tummy - Price x reader

Read to Him - Gaz x reader

Blueprint Boyfriend - Gaz x reader

Husband Simon - Ghost x reader

Caring for Simon - Ghost x reader

Soft Ghost - Ghost x reader

Yours - Ghost x reader

Her - Soap x reader

Headphones - Soap x reader

Baking - Soap x reader

Dad Hugs - Nikolai x reader

Sassy/Stoic - Konig x reader

Piercings - 141 x reader

Domesticities - 141, Nikolai, Alejandro, Konig x reader

Soulmates? - Ghoap

Ghost and his family

Ghost and his family 2.0

Writing Prompts

Prompts and Things

Mountain and River

Marvel

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes x reader

Series

To be Decided Series Masterlist - On hiatus - Crossover fic

One Shots

“Simon?” you mumble, reaching for him, but you only manage to brush your fingers over his hot, sweaty wrist before he pulls away.

“Go back to sleep,” is all he says, finding clothes in the dark and leaving you alone, the same way you’ve been for the last two weeks. 

You lie there in the rumple of blankets and try not to get your feelings hurt at how desperate he was to get away from you. You know he doesn’t like to be touched after a bad dream, or a rough mission, but you can’t help second guessing yourself. 

Soon there’s the muffled thump, thump, of Bob getting the living daylights knocked out of him. You should turn on some white noise and go back to sleep, if not for your sake than for Simon’s. He’ll want you rested and happy later, when he’s feeling better and wants some girlfriend time. It’s not fair to him for you to try and find ways to blame yourself for his triggers. It’s not your fault. It’s already hard enough for him to deal with everything in his own head, he shouldn’t have to reassure you every five seconds on top of that. It’s not your fault. 

Sighing, you get up and use the bathroom, turning on the lamp because you know you won’t be able to sleep now. You throw on the hoodie you stole from Simon ages ago, and walk barefoot across the house to the garage, opening the door as quietly as you can to peek in.

He’s not wearing the mask, at least. The muscles across your boyfriend’s shoulder blades roll and bunch as he takes the next swing at the human-shaped punching bag, followed by a rapid set of jabs and huffs of air. As if he can sense your eyes, he lowers his gloves suddenly, straightening up to look at you across the cluttered gardening supplies. Clocking you.

“Do you want company?” you ask, burying your hands in the front pocket of his hoodie.

Simon gives a stiff shake of his head, unable to meet your eyes as he wipes his glove over his mouth. 

‘Go away, leave me alone, I don’t want you here, I can’t stand to look at you.’ 

He’s never said any of those things, but that’s what flashes through your head, settles in that wounded spot of your heart. You nod and retreat, not wanting to say anything that would make him feel obligated to reply, or lie to you. 

The sun has already come up by the time he slides back into bed with you. He smells of cigarettes, but his movements feel more like his normal self, so you don’t give a fuck. He wraps you up in his arms, buries his face in your hair and breathes you in. 

“Hey, baby,” you mumble, pulled out of the light doze you’d finally managed to fall into.

“Mmmm. You smell like something of mine.” His hand splays across your stomach, pressing you into him. 

“I am yours,” you whisper, too sleepy to remember that you’re not wearing his hoodie anymore. 

He follows the relaxed line of your inner arm on the mattress, smoothing his palm over yours to intertwine your fingers. “You know I take care of what’s mine?”

You may be limp and unable to keep your eyes open, but your belly still knows to dip when he starts talking to you like this. “Mhmm.”

Simon nuzzles his lips into your hair, squeezes you tight for a long moment. “Such a lovely little thing to find in my bed. Like a butterfly in the garden.” Exhaustion roughs up his voice, making him sound older than he is. 

“Go to sleep,” you whisper through your smile, squeezing his hand. “No point in being poetic if I’m too tired to remember it. I’ll make you a cup of tea when you wake up.” 

“Alright. Won’t sleep long, and then we can be lazy arses for the day.”

“Okay, baby,” you mumble, knowing good and well that you’re going to disable his alarm when you get yourself up in a little bit. 

He can’t sleep with anyone touching him, so he must be just putting it off now, finding more pleasure in holding you against him and running his thumb in slow sweeps over the back of your hand. 

--------------------

You take his phone with you to the bathroom, when you get up later to shower. It’s something you’ve been doing for a few months, and he knows you do it, and doesn’t seem to care. It’s just that when he’s this tired, a spam call or random group text can ruin his sleep for no reason, but he also needs to be woken up if he’s called into work. So no big deal, you just carry his phone around with you for a few hours and field communications. 

He’ll need far more sleep than he allotted for himself, based on the alarm he set. Like, five hours more. It’s the weekend, so you set about doing some tidying up that doesn’t require access to the bedroom, and you’ve just started the dishwasher running when a text dings on Simon’s phone:

JM: Fucked my ankle running. Can you get me?

Your body thrums with excitement, realizing in all of two seconds that you could actually let Simon sleep and help Johnny yourself. You could be useful, for both of them. You could have a mission.

You reply:

Yes. Where are you?

JM: Check the location you fucking dobber.

Oh. They share location with each other, that’s adorable. You’re pretty sure Simon has no idea how to actually use it, and this exact same conversation would have taken place if he’d been awake. 

Johnny’s just about ten minutes away, in a residential part of town with neighborhoods. You send off a giddy, “On my way,” and hurry to put on shoes. 

Nine minutes and change later, you make the last turn and smile to see Johnny in sweat-soaked running clothes, propped up against a lamppost like he’s trying to pretend he’s there on purpose. His eyes flick up when he sees your car, and then go back down to his phone when he doesn’t recognize it. 

You come to a slow stop beside him, rolling the window down and doing an impressive job of stifling your smile. “Hey, Johnny.”

He frowns, straightening. “Where’s LT?”

“Sleeping. He had a bad night, I didn’t want to wake him up.”

Johnny makes an acknowledging grunt and limps towards your car, and you swear his face looks a little more flushed than it was a minute ago. 

He gives you directions before you have to ask, and he doesn’t sound too embarrassed, so maybe it was just your imagination. He’s got that “work voice” on, as you call it when Simon talks like that. No inflection, concise and confident. So you take that as your cue to shut up, and dutifully drive him to his apartment.

Except when you get there, you happen to see his eyes quickly glance to the upper story, in a way that no one who lives on the ground level would do.

“Do you need help with the stairs?” you ask, killing the engine. 

“Nah. Thanks for the lift.” Stubborn, and definitely embarrassed. 

Rolling your eyes, you get out and meet him on the other side of the car, slotting your arm around his back like a side hug. 

“You don’t know about my injury fetish,” you tell him solemnly, waiting to feel his arm on your shoulder. “I get my kicks from this.”

Johnny lets out an amused huff and relents, putting out his arm to give you some weight as you hobble together to his place.  

The stairs pose less of a challenge than you feared, thanks to sturdy railing and absolutely disgusting upper body strength. You feel like you’ve barely done anything when you get him to his door, and then there’s suddenly that same awkwardness as when a first date walks you home.

“LT gonna be okay?” Johnny asks, unlocking his door.

“Yeah, I think so. Nightmare got him. A bad one, I think.”

He just nods, inclining his head towards his place. “Coming in?”

“Um…” you hesitate, wondering if coming over like this would break some loyalty line with Simon. “Sure. Do you have anything frozen for your leg?”

“Should have.”

You bully him onto the couch and quickly search through the freezer, taking in as much of his apartment as you can without appearing to snoop. Jesus, that’s a lot of french fries. 

“Has he ever told you about his dreams?” you ask, handing over a frozen bag and a water bottle. 

Johnny looks suddenly wary, like he definitely wasn’t expecting an interrogation. He takes a few good swallows of water before answering. “A wee bit.”

You never intended to hover like this, but you do, chewing on the inside of your mouth and considering. A wee bit is still far more than Simon has ever shared with you, and you’re just so tired of being afraid of it, afraid of yourself.

“Sometimes…” you trail off, watching his fingers untie the laces on his injured foot. “Sometimes when he has a really bad one, he doesn’t want to be around me. Doesn’t even want to look at me. And it makes me wonder if… if I’m the one hurting him in his dreams. Forcing myself on him or something. Like maybe seeing me f…. fuck you… and stuff… is going to activate that part of his brain even more, and make it worse.”

Johnny’s jaw flexes, wrapping the bag of frozen fries around his ankle and staring at it with unnecessary intensity. 

You open your mouth to apologize and tell him you don’t need to know, but before you can get a sound out he says, “It’s the opposite.”

The opposite of what? 

It takes you a few seconds to comprehend what he means, and then with the realization comes a confusing flood of emotions. A sick feeling, when you inevitably picture it. A heavy wash of understanding, making some of Simon’s habits and reservations click into place for you. And a little bit of relief, that it really isn’t your fault after all. 

“That’s…” you stutter, “that’s normal, right? Well, not normal, but, you know. Common. After that kind of trauma.”

“Aye.” 

It makes sense that he wouldn’t want to tell you. In fact it’s one of the only reasons that would make sense, considering how open he is about everything else he’s dealing with. 

Johnny leans back on the couch to really look at you for the first time today, and it’s your turn to feel embarrassed. You feel like he’s somehow seeing more of you than is comfortable, and it makes you look away, towards the bright sky out the window. 

“I should be getting back,” you deflect, tugging the keys out of your pocket. “I switched phones with him, and he might not like that when he wakes up.”

Shit, you’re going to have to act like you don’t know about this. You went behind his back to find out, and now it’s like this secret between you and Johnny.

“You can tell him if you want,” Johnny says, as if he can divine the worry out of your head. “Not afraid of ol’ LT, and you shouldn’t be, either.”

You make a nervous little laugh, scanning the room again. “Do you need anything before I leave?”

“Nah.”

“You should come over sometime soon,” you offer. “Tomorrow, if you’d like. Not for sex. Just, you know, to hang out. I’ll make Simon cook.”

“Okay. Don’t see me doin’ much else. Get goin’, now.”

“Okay. If you need anything, please let me know.”

You’re half turned away before he says, “I don’t have your number.”

Oh. Yeah. It’s always been Simon who’s contacted him. You’ve been quite content to have him handle that part. 

Something about the look on Johnny’s face gives you pause, like he’s feeling you out in some way. You almost want to say you’ll talk to Simon about that first, but… you’re an adult. You can make an executive decision that doesn’t hurt anyone, and you definitely don’t want Johnny feeling objectified in some way. 

“Here, I’ll send it.” You punch in Simon’s passcode and text Johnny your number with a little smiley face at the end. “See you tomorrow, or else.”

“Thanks again. You’re an angel.”

------------------

Simon is still asleep when you get back, so you throw away your note and turn on a show, slowly processing all the new developments. 

Your phone dings, and it’s an unknown number asking if he should bring anything tomorrow. Your write back:

Wine, if you can limp to the store tomorrow. Otherwise no. :)

A second later:

Red or white?

---------------------

Simon wakes up with his expected grumbles about letting him sleep too late, but he shuts up pretty quickly when you tackle him onto the bed and do your usual MMA routine. He pretends you’re strong enough to hold him down, and you pretend to know how to put him in a headlock, giving his cheek sloppy kisses while you do it. 

Simon insists on showering before having that cup of tea with you. He smells like your shampoo when he finally sits down at the kitchen table and drags you into his lap, giving your nape tickly kisses until you insist that his tea will go cold. When will he ever appreciate your hard work?

You tell him about Johnny while he drinks it, and you were right in assuming he doesn’t care much that you took that task upon yourself, other than a little gripe about “having all the bloody fun” without him. 

He seems to sense that you’re holding something back in the later part of the story, and when he prods, you do as Johnny suggested and tell him about the conversation. 

Your boyfriend goes rigid against you, and his voice gets that precise edge that tells you he’s scared shitless. He really thought he’d lose you over it. Silly little English boy, he can’t get rid of you that easily. 

You tell him about some of your most fucked-up dreams, and that makes him shake his head a little, beginning to relax again. He would never hurt you, and you both know it. 

When you kiss him, there in the kitchen with your arms around his neck, his mouth tastes like toothpaste and black tea, and only a little bit like cigarettes. It’s the weekend, and now you get to be lazy arses and make out as long as you want. 

You kiss him until you’re sure that he knows you’re okay, until his breathing turns labored and his hand tightens on your thigh, like he wants to pick you up and find somewhere a little more comfortable to kiss you. You kiss him until you’re in love with his mouth, until you know that if he slid his hand between your legs, he would find you wet. 

Then you ease your mouth away to rest your head on his shoulder, uncaring that he’s probably quite uncomfortable in the wooden chair, while you have these thick thighs and arms to cradle you. And you tell him how much you love him, that you’re happy to be his little butterfly because his garden is just so nice. 

Sloppy lil chapter for your Saturday! I did not proofreadddddd! We’ll get back to smut next chapter.