🌷Phillip Graves adopted daughter • 17 VERY soon 18 • Oneshot cod maker + horse lover • An angel dole horse runs this acc🐎 • i block freely and do what i want also.. NO AI 🌷
INTRO! ʚ🩷ɞ My name is Sky / Skyy / Pookie or Apple!! Im 17 Years old. i go by She/Bun/Any feminine stuff!! (＾ω＾) i speak 🇬🇧🇳🇱🇸🇪. Im in a LOT of fandoms but mains are; RDR2, COD, TF, MHA, Bluey, PMMM, LIS.
BYF! ʚ🩵ɞ I see myself as Nejire hado and Kyoko Sakura. I also truly believe im an angel and supposed to be somehow the sky. Dont fact check me, its dumb. BUT im NOT comfortable with being called non human. i see myself human in my own way!!
YUMESHIP! ʚ🩷ɞ Im a familia dad Phillip Graves yumeshipper! sharing, unless you sexualize him a lot. Im also non sharing romantic with Toga Himiko and Roxy Richter. Im also a Red Alert oshi!! I got a yumeserver (currently 575+ members) CLICK HERE!!🌈
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it doesnt matter who you go clothes shopping with it's going to be a nightmare every time.
Ghost doesn't know his size so you're back and forth from the fitting room a million times while he tries to figure out what isn't working this time. the sleeves are too short on one and the neck is too small on another, he's too tall for all the pants and too wide for the tshirts, where the fuck does this man buy clothes???
Gaz is picky, has a very specific style in his mind and doesnt like anything, so you're stuck wandering the store for hours while he complains about the selection and inevitably doesn't buy anything.
Soap always gravitates towards the most expensive part of the store and then balks at the prices, spends the whole time complaining about how much things cost and refuses to listen when you try to pull him towards more reasonably priced sections.
and Price? Price won't even go to the store with you, he gives you a budget and his sizes and expects you to bring back everything perfect. he sighs when he tries something on that he doesnt like or doesnt fit but it isn't your fault he gets everything tailored and has been wearing the same sweaters since the 80s.
Opening your eyes for the last time at the crack of dawn brings nothing but an all encompassing ache.
Every bone you have feels bruised. Your joints feel swollen and the points of pressure where you lay feel raw in a way you've not really experienced before. The couch isn't all that great either.
Better than being torn into scattered pieces by the various wildlife skulking around these mountains, you figure.
The dawn's light is a thin yellow line that peeks through the curtains. The day's first birds are awake and twittering around somewhere outside.
Thinking about the world outside the cabin puts a feeling in your gut like you're standing on a cliff edge. You have absolutely no point of reference for anything outside this little box in the middle of the woods, completely reliant on a complete stranger's word.
Not a complete stranger now, you recall. He gave you his name. Simon.
But it's just another thing he could be lying about. You remember that he never asked for yours.
The cabin is suddenly filled with the morning light as the front door opens. It brings with it the chilly, brisk air and the faint smell of sweet pine sap. It last for only a moment before it's closed again.
Simon walks in from outside, his booted feet making no noise as he does so. You don't think you've ever heard a single step he's taken since he brought you here.
Wearing jeans, a black hoodie, and that same balaclava, he brings with him a full canvas log carrier.
"Morning," he rumbles. He doesn't spare you a glance and instead crouches down to replenish the stack of wood for the stove. When he's done, he wipes the sawdust off his hands on his jeans and crosses the distance to where you lay in one long stride.
He feels your forehead again with the perfunctory motion of checking off tasks on a to-do list. Simon says nothing about what he finds doing so and moves his attention smoothly to your braced leg, making you feel more and more like a medic training dummy.
"Gonna test movement in your hip," he graciously informs you before he does so. One of his massive hands holds you by the thigh while the other cradles your ankle. Without the splint you think he could wrap his fingers around the joint and have his fingers overlap.
As he raises your leg by the ankle there's immediate resistance that has you wincing. He doesn't let your leg go but he lowers it just a fraction when you hiss. When you hold less tension he raises it back up. It goes smoother this time and a bit higher than the first try.
"Any sharp pain? Anything clickin' or crunchin'?" His eyes watch your face for any sign of pain as he holds your leg in the small stretch.
You shake your head. "Not yet."
"Good."
Simon tests the movement of your leg with the same unwavering focus you've seen him do everything else with. Laying for so long has made your muscles feel stiff, compounded with the bone-deep aches that wrack through your body makes you have to just grit your teeth and bear it.
After making sure you can still move from the hip joint, Simon removes the cushion that your leg has been resting on and instead places it on the couch.
"Let's get you upright, yeah?" Simon stands up straight for a moment, looming over you. Before you can start to think of a way to make that happen, he kneels down at the side of the couch. He slides one arm under your knees, the other behind your shoulders, effortlessly supporting your weight.
You're essentially tucked into his chest, secured against him so soundly that you don't doubt for a minute that you're not going to be moving in any other way than how he wants you to.
He starts slow, a gentle twist that starts pointing your feet to the floor and your head up to the backrest of the couch. The change in pressure immediately has you wincing as the ache in your lower back flares anew.
"Little bit more," he murmurs not stopping the motion until you're fully sat up. When you are, he takes the blanket that's been tucked around you for the last couple of days and rolls it up so he can stick it between you lower back and the back of the couch.
The change in elevation, albeit a painful one, is not totally unwelcomed. One step closer to being a little less helpless. Even though it reignites the full body soreness and makes your heart beat a little harder, the thumping echoed in the throbbing in your head.
"All right?"
You grunt, neither a denial nor a reassurance. You close your eyes for a moment against the weakness that descends on you, making you rest your head back.
Sure that you're not going anywhere fast anytime soon, Simon stands and retreats to the kitchen. You take the chance from your new vantage point to get an actual picture of what that looks like. Turning your neck to look behind you makes your vision black out for a moment, but a little readjustment frees up the nerves initially pinched from the motion.
It is a kitchenette, like you suspected. A sink, a fridge, a small countertop taken up mostly by a gas powered hotplate with just enough room for an electric kettle.
You watch Simon through heavy eyelids as he almost systematically starts taking out dishes and ingredients from the cupboard. He fill the kettle and clicks it on while he lights the stove and starts heating up a pan on it. By the time he moves to reach into the fridge, looking behind you like this starts to make the pain in your head reach just this side of unbearable, so you give up on watching him and sink back into the worn down couch.
During your dozing Simon comes back carrying a plate and a mug. He drags the little side table closer to you with his foot and places the dishes on it. A piece of lightly buttered toast, a couple of saltine crackers, and a steaming cup of tea. A very beige, non obtrusive meal meant to be the least taxing as possible to eat.
Simon at least lets you feed yourself this time as you take little nibbles. The tea is mild and expertly brewed with just the slightest hint of honey added to it. The salt in the butter feels like it hits every craving you didn't know you had. Even though it's nothing more than a slice of pan-browned bread this piece of toast is the best damn thing you think you've ever eaten. That or just the days of not eating have given you a deep appreciation for actual food that's not just hot water.
Throughout your reintroduction to solid food, Simon has been… patrolling if you had to put a word to it. He's not stayed in one place for long, going window to window and just looking out into the forest. He's not frantic about it so it doesn't really bother you all that much. Besides, your focus is more on this toast and tea than anything else.
Taking a sip of tea to wash down the last nibble of toast, you speak as Simon stations himself at the next window from the last.
"Is there a bathroom in this place?" Your voice finally drags his attention from the outside over to you.
"You're in luck," he says and strides over to you.
Simon pushes the end table out of the way and kneels again, his arms sliding into their familiar places behind your knees and back. Your arm tucked against him instinctively comes up to grab his shoulder. You brace for the moment he lifts you off the couch but you still can't help the hitch in your breath as gravity takes hold of your leg.
It's like your weight doesn't even register to him with how nonchalantly he gathers it to his chest. The change in elevation is a bit jarring and threatens to bring about another bout of vertigo.
Simon carries you the short distance across the cabin, stepping through a short and narrow hallway to one of the two doors attached to it. He nudges the door open with the toe of his boot and brings you into the dark room. It's dark enough you can't really see anything, but Simon must be used to the place because he traverses the darkness with ease. He sets you down on what feels like a closed toilet lid before reaching behind him an flicking on the light switch.
Dim, orange light fills the ridiculously small bathroom. With enough space for a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a shower you're not sure Simon can even fit in all that well, you're more inclined to compare it to a refurbished closet. And with Simon's mass taking up damn near every inch of available space, it feels about as claustrophobic as one.
"Can you manage?" he asks, gesturing with a nod presumably to your pants.
Surprised he would offer this little bit of dignity for you to keep, you nod shakily. "I'm pretty sure."
"Right. Holler when you're done." And he's gone, closing the door behind him and leaving you alone.
As you get yourself situated and take this piss break as a moment of recentering, you start to think that maybe you should be more concerned than you are.
A few hours ago you were ready to die (as if you had any choice in the matter), you've been stuck in the woods with a man who dresses like a B-movie serial killer, you're probably on a missing persons list somewhere, you have no idea where any of your things are, and the aforementioned masked man fights you every time you bring up proper medical care at a proper medical facility.
A well person would probably be scared out of their mind. Or would be trying to come up with some kind of escape plan. The logical part of you knows that being frightened would be the appropriate response to any of this.
But when you genuinely try to identify your feelings on the situation, you just can't muster up even a shred of anxiety.
This entire trip was a surprise, and not the falling-off-mountains kind. After years of thinking about it, you applied and got accepted into grad school for the upcoming term. These few months were to be your last free ones until you were roped back into a world of deadlines and late nights buried in research.
Going back to school was a sticky topic between your boyfriend and you. While he never actively discouraged you from applying, it was obvious it was something that he didn't hold value in.
The word "scam" made several appearances during these conversations.
Never mind the fact that the main appeal it held for you had nothing to do with the cost/gain aspect. And that no matter how many times you argued that that pursuing education is a reward in and of itself and that bettering yourself intellectually is never a scam, nothing seemed to get through to him.
You did it anyways, to the lukewarm "Nice," from your boyfriend. But you couldn't help but notice those scholarships and grant rewards shut him up real quick.
As a celebration, and as a way to use these months as a transitional break, your boyfriend surprised you with a trip to Alaska.
Your time spent here thus far has given you some of the most treasured memories of your life. The land is beautiful in a way that could make you weepy if you think about it too much, and the remoteness of some of the places you've visited have settled something deep in you that you didn't know was broken.
And then you nearly died a slow, painful death.
And now you're pissing in a hunter's cabin in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with a man who could twist your head off with the ease of a bottle cap off a beer.
If your injuries and distance from civilization don't scare you, then Simon should.
Masked man. Unknown motives. Not the greatest communicator. Always armed. You just may be that dumb, airheaded character who always dies first in the movies.
The truth of the matter is that Simon has had ample opportunity to do countless awful things to you and, to your knowledge, he hasn't. Unless he gets his sick kicks from someone who can actually fight back or run away, it wouldn't make much sense for him to put this much effort into keeping you alive just to skin and eat you later. He's letting you piss in peace, how bad can he be?
Besides, he's your only way out of here regardless.
Finishing up, you manage wrangle your pants back on eventually and try to project your hoarse voice through the door.
"Simon?"
"All done?"
"Yeah."
The door opens and Simon steps in, immediately filling up the small space.
He silently brings you back to the couch where he sits you down. Next to you on the arm of the couch one of his hoodies (practically identical to the one he has on) is laid across. When his arms are freed again he takes the hoodie and hands it to you.
"Here, put this on."
You hesitantly reach out for it.
"Why?" you can't help but ask.
"We're going outside."
The idea is an overwhelmingly welcome one so you fumble around with it to do just that. Like the man it belongs to, the thing is massive. It swallows you whole and feels less like you're wearing an article of clothing and more like you're buried in a blanket. It's surprisingly soft and moves in the way that well-worn fabric does. As it passes over your head, the smell of cut pine and something almost herbal fills your senses and lingers when your head pops through the neckline.
Simon opens the door while you get situated and you immediately know why he wanted you to put a jacket on. He scoops you back up again and you finally get your first look of the outside for the first time in days. You understand now what Simon meant by you having to be able to get through the forest before anything else.
The cabin sits in a small clearing surrounded by thick forest. So thick that it gets darker the farther from the cabin even though the sunrise has doubled in intensity since you last saw it. You've seen some pretty remote places during your trip, but this place takes the cake. It feels like it's on a different planet entirely.
The trail you fell from wasn't that far out, you remember. Either you fell way farther than you thought you did or Simon carried you a long ways to this cabin.
He must've had to go fast. You can't imagine you would've survived the time it had to take to get here otherwise.
Outside, there's a single plastic chair with the blanket from inside folded up in a cushy square on the seat and this is where Simon puts you.
For the first time since you got hurt, the sigh you let out is one of relief. The fresh air invigorates you, cutting through the stubborn haze of fever that refuses to go away entirely. The sun on your face is a revelation. You close your eyes, listen to the birds, and sink into your body.
"I called a friend," Simon says all of the sudden. "He should be here sometime today."
"What?" is the most coherent thing you can say to that piece of new information.
"He'll be bringin' something we can use to transport you to the road where his vehicle will be." Simon stands with his arms crossed and his eyes scanning the forest. "You'll need more help then what is available here."
Fucking finally, you want to say.
"You have cell service out here?" is what comes out instead.
"Satellite phone."
"Oh."
The both of you fall silent but you hardly notice. You're finally leaving the cabin. You're just a few hours away from getting out of this forest and back home. But none of those things do anything to quell the shiver of unease slithering under your skin.
No thoughts just ghost getting a text from a number he doesn't recognize, right?
He usually ignores them, has no interest in much of anything besides when he'll be sent back to base and what he'll eat the next day. But the words that only flick across his screen have him pausing, opening the text.
Unknown number: dad? Cam you pick me up(? My frriends dirched me and I feel weirf
And the thing is, ghost is no vigilante, hardly even a good person. But he knows too well what sort of situation this is. Has seen it, has played it, has been bystander to it. So he grabs his keys, checks his knife, texts back
You: where are you, kid?
He receives a location pin in return. Shit. Bad part of town for whoever this kid is to be in.
Ghost turns a thirty minute drive into a ten, though it doesn't feel fast enough. Rolls to a stop outside of some club, and spots you.
You, clearly more than drunk, supporting yourself against a fence while two men lean over you.
Ghost will make sure to call price about the bodies. Tried hard enough to make it look like a robbery gone wrong...the smashed in heads may prove that hard to believe. Whatever, not his problem, he's legally dead.
No, ghost is more concerned about you, blinking up at him without a hint of recognition "dad? ...m sorry."
"It's fine, kid," ghost grunts, pulls you by the hand until you can support yourself against him. "Let's get you someplace safe, yeah?"
In retrospect, putting the stranger who was definitely drugged alone in his bedroom without a note wasn't his brightest idea. Ghost doesn't exactly have a guest room, and having you sleep on what is functionally a concrete couch just seems cruel. So he spent the night covering up some impulsive decisions, then panicking when he realized he had no actual food in his apartment and running to the closest 24/7 shop.
Which is how he ends up dropping eight grocery bags on his apartment floor in the attempt to dodge a frying pan.
All credits to you, it leaves an extremely impressive hole in the wall. Lot of force for someone hungover and coming out of being drugged. You glare, wide-eyed, terrified and looking far younger than you had last night "who the hell are you?!"
Ghost, grunts, puts himself on the other side of the room, "I'm dad, apparently."
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Price finally gives in and agrees to movie night, but only if everyone follows three rules: no talking over the movie, no throwing popcorn, and nobody gets to pick horror movies 3 times in a row. Ten minutes in, Soap is quoting every line, Gaz is laughing so hard he can't breathe, Ghost pretends he isn't paying attention while secretly watching the whole thing nearly crying over an animal dying in the movie, and Price falls asleep with a cigar hanging from his mouth, before the opening credits finish. Nobody has the heart to wake him. Instead, they quietly throw a blanket over him and finish the movie together.
The team are driving home from the pub when soap nearly causes price to crash in his haste to frantically point at the sidewalk.
"Hey! Hey, is that the kid?! It's fockin' three am!" He exclaims far too loudly for an enclosed space like the car. Ghost, irritatingly sober, shoves soap back into his seat.
"No, that's not the fuckin'–" he pauses, eyes widening when he looks at the person soap had pointed out "oh shit. That's the fuckin' kid. Cap. Cap it's the kid."
The kid in question being you, the secretary they've all grown fond of after you yelled at price for spilling coffee on you before realizing who he was. Young, obnoxiously kind, with horrible humor. They couldn't help but be a little parental about you.
You, who's currently trekking through snow in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a compression shirt. Price slows to a crawl next to you, and mentally notes to teach you basic self-preservation when you don't bolt. As it is, he rolls down the window "hey! Kid, the hell are you doing out here?"
You startle, eyes wide, as if only now noticing the car that is in no way quiet right next to you. There's heavy bags under your eyes. "Uh..." it takes a moment for your brain to catch-up "going to the gym. There's a 24 hour one near here."
"Yeah, six miles away." Soap interjects, having rolled down his window. He seems to habe sobered up upon taking in your condition. "You couldn't wait for bus during the day?"
You don't say anything, fidgeting uncomfortably with the strap of your backpack.
Gaz, who's been startlingly quiet this whole time, speaks up "the gym has heating. And a shower."
Ah. There it is. The sudden, horrified look on your face is enough confirmation for the team. They don't ask for your explenation, soap already shoving the door to the car open.
"Get in, kid." He prompts, and the team silently echoes the sentiment with the expectant looks they give you. "We're going to John's for dinner, c'mon. I owe you after last Wednesday."
Nevermind the fact they have already eaten, or that they were planning to pass out upon getting to price's house. You end up sat between gaz and soap, trying not to think about how nice it feels to soak up their body heat. That familiar banter from work starting up easily.
You also try not to cry when ghost sets a plate of warm pasta in front of you. It's the best damn food you've had in months. No one asks about what you were doing, if you need a ride back, why you managed to eat three servings.
It's what they do. Soldiers adapt.
You're given fluffy blankets that smell only a bit like they've been dormant in a closet for too long, shown to a guest room. You wait for them to tell you when you'll have to leave. Maybe in the morning, maybe they'll drive you to work.
Weeks later, still john doesn't tell you to leave. Not that you know it, but he wouldn't let you if he tried. Who would handle all his paperwork if his favorite secretary froze to death?
You're stuck with them, whether you like it or not.
How I think the 141 would act if Nurse!Reader gives out stickers to all the soldiers they patch up on base: This is my first headcanon
Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish absolutely fucking loves the stickers, like he's lowkey obsessed with getting one. His sketchbook is covered in the stickers you give him and if there's no more room for the stickers that's okay. He'll just buy a new one. Lowkey gets pouty and sassy if you forget to give him a sticker after patching him up.
And we are done. Good as new
Soap wait's patiently with his hand stuck out
What are you waiting for Soap?
Fur mah sticker. Obviously
Oh shit. Sorry, I forgot
Whit dae ye mean ye forgot? dae ye nae care aboot me anymair
Grow up you drama Queen
Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick Is a bit like Soap in a way he loves the stickers. They make him happy in this fuck up world, when he get's his sticker for being a brave boy, as you say, he wears the sticker all day as a badge of honour but if he looses the stickers randomly in the day he gets kinda pouty when he asks for another one
Can I have another sticker please?
Did you loose yours already?
I didn't mean too! I think Soap stole mine. Pretty please can I have another one
You know the rules. Unless you're injured I'm not giving you a stickers
Cue puppy dog eyes
Goddamit Kyle. Fine, here's your sticker but don't loose it
Captain John Price felt a bit silly at first when you gave him a sticker. He's grown man, he doesn't need a sticker for getting patched up but he very quickly grew to love receiving a sticker off you. He asked if you'd tare the paper the sticker is on, they're easier to save then. He doesn't stick them anywhere but has a small box in his office where he stashes them. For safe keeping.
Why don't you wear the stickers?
Because it ruins them
Ruins them?
Yeah. I like to hold onto them
Do you stick them anywhere?
Nope. I have a small box specifically for the stickers you give me
Simon 'Ghost' Riley thought the stickers were a stupid idea, he's a grown ass man. Why would he want a sticker for getting patched up? He isn't a child. That's what he tells you but secretly he adores them. He'll moan and grumble as you slap one onto his chest but the moment he's in his room, Ghost will carefully peel it off his shirt and stick it in a scrapbook. Once got a little upset you didn't give him a sticker, he left the infirmary pretending he didn't care but 1 hour later he came back
Why didn't you give me a sticker?
Because you don't like them. You said they were stupid
Well. That's because they are. M'not a child
Then why are you asking why I didn't give you a sticker?
People don't believe you when you tell them you're a wolf hybrid, not that you don't expect it.
After all, you're a low-presenting hybrid. Lacking really any hybrid characteristics besides your instincts. Something that used to bother you, being the odd one out in a high-presentation family.
Nowadays, it only makes you cock your head at gaz in an imitation of your brother's with their ears "what do you mean you've got a proper wolf on the team?"
"Ghost, our wold hybrid," gaz shrugs all casual, even a bit braggy "not sure he'd like you going around claiming to be one, though."
You doubt that, Given you still smell like a wolf. All hybrids have a certain smell to them that's hard to cover all the time. "Where is he?"
"Probably in the gym– what– hey!" Gaz makes to grab your wrist, then seems to think better of it. Some newbie getting chewed up by ghost is none of his concern...he'll make an effort to keep your blood inside after a few weeks. "...don't be an idiot!"
The gym is empty this late into the night, most lights off except for the section by the punching bag. There, you spot him.
As it turns out, ghost is the highest presentation wolf you've seen yet. He's also in horrible condition.
Matted fur, ears pinned back. You're sure his tail aches to move with all the knots pulling at skin, and by the way he holds himself you wonder what else hurts. You don't get to inspect further, because the second you step closer a deep growl bursts from his chest, eyes catching on you.
It's so sudden you instinctively back off, head tilted back, whining the best you can. Not for the first time, you wish you had proper ears and tail to convey what you mean. Instead, you resort to your voice and whisper "sorry, sir. Just wanted to introduce myself. I'm....I'm the new wolf on the team."
The growling continues for an excruciatingly long moment, warning or show of power you don't know. But between one breath and the next you're being shoulder checked by a body much bigger than yours, stumbling embarrassingly far.
"Stay away from my pack, runt." Ghost glances back at you over his shoulder.
The intimidation is ruined by a better view of those mats, of the claw marks barely peaking out from his shirt. He just looks...bad. unwell.
You wonder why no one's helping him, if he claims them as a pack. You wonder how much you'll have to sacrifice to help him. Christ, that poor lonely wolf in you can't tell danger from opportunity and just wants to bond with something like it.
...decision made, you slink to your barracks and resign yourself to observe ghost for a few days before making a move.
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Ghost is the type of person to wait for you to tie your shoes.
Not because the rest of the team is neglectful, but Simon just lives life a little slower than the others.
When you fall back to kneel down and fix the untied laces, everyone else is still chattering excitedly about the time off and end up getting a bit ahead. But when you look up from your shoe, Simon is right there, body tilted toward you and waiting.
“Ready?”
Kyle is the guy who will bring the conversation back to your point after you’ve been interrupted.
Some bar fight breaks out and everyone gets drawn away from the conversation, and you don’t expect to be able to continue where you left off until,
“What were you saying, love?”
Price will make physical space for you. Hanging out with some of the buffest guys the UK has to offer sometimes means they get a little pushy. Especially at the pub with alcohol in their system. So, John will shove his broad shoulders around to broaden the circle for you, making sure you don’t get pushed out.
“There ya are, sweetheart.”
Soap will make sure you are explicitly invited to plans. When everyone is talking about going out after work and you’re just kind of…also at the table, you might be inclined to think you’re just an eavesdropper of the conversation. That is, until Soap turns to you with his excited eyes.
“Yer comin’, aren’t ya? We want ya there!”
It’s these little habits that you don’t think they even realize they do. The ones that heal that bit of your soul from when you were a kid and felt invisible. You never thought you would find a home in a place like this, but they keep making space for you.
John price way of confessing his interest is silently placing his hat onto your head and walking away.
cue to you, ripping it off and launching it back at him cause you know that thing hasn’t been washed for decades and is collecting a herd of lice between its fiber.
Hey! I’m really enjoying your 141 x reader fics. I just read the crying one and I was wondering if you would be willing to write the boys’ (men?) reaction to seeing old self-harm scars? As in: all healed, remnants of a "previous life" so to speak. I know that’s a sensitive topic and I would hate to make you feel like you’re under any sort of pressure to write that.
Looking forward to seeing more of your writing! Have a good one :)
they see your old scars | 141 x reader
Price: He doesn't ask for an explanation. If it's something you left in the past, there's no reason to bring up old memories. Price has never doubted you before and he won't start now. His priority is to make sure that you remember your value and your strength.
Gaz: It would be important for him to have a conversation about it. If anything, he just wants to confirm that you're in a good head space now. Gaz would be very careful on how he addresses it though because he doesn't want you to see it as a weakness.
Soap: He is a protector, first and foremost, so it would be hard for him to see evidence of a time that he couldn't be there for you. Soap would tell you he's sorry, over and over again. He knows he can't fix the past, but he can be here for you now. And he will be.
Ghost: Scars are familiar to him. He knows what it feels like to be in a dark space, so it wouldn't change his opinion of you. He has always admired your strength, more than anything, and that reverence can be felt in each kiss he presses to your skin.
I love the idea of just a very cold deep winter... (Yes ik its summer rn ｡°(°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)°｡)
They/Them reader + platonic/romantic whatever you want + implied poly??
Reader being warm and cozy in their apartment. Sleeping peacefully under the warm and oh so so cozy blanket.
Tf141 coming to their apartment from base. Apparently the heater broke at base and its cold asf there and reader being the only one who doesn't live on base.. its the best to warm up there!
And that's how a sleepy reader woke up to their boss in their bed, 2 sergeants on the ground on some old mattress and a Ghost asleep on their desk chair. Thats something ꉂ૮(°□°'˶)ა
Quickly written.
F2U this idea to turn it into a full fanfic.. just tag me so i can read it too( ˘ ³˘)♥︎
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