HI EVERYONE!!! my name is rommy (sounds like rawme lol) and I use he/him and it/its pronouns pls. Im an aroace trans guy in practice, but in fiction i do love my men <3 :] im chronically obsessed with the 141, and my main content is hybrid posts, smut, and deaddove! I really try my best to answer asks, but it can be difficult, so please have some grace!
Feel free to use my stuff as inspiration! Pls tag me if u post it!!
As always, I want to keep this blog a safe space, so here's a general rule: be respectful. If you wouldnt say it to someone's face you probably shouldnt comment it, and if you wouldnt say it off anon you shouldn't say it at all!
Finally, some house keeping!
NEVER USE MY WORK FOR AI. NEVER. Im strongly against AI, including those who support it.
THIS BLOG BY FAGS FOR FAGS AND IF U DONT FUCK WITH THAT PLS FUCK OFF.
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Ghost who's infatuated with you meanwhile you genuinely think he's trying to kill you.
Ghost who corners you against a wall, the width of him caging you in, arm above your head. He looks a bit crazed, a bit too animal and a bit too blood hungry when he grunts "i saw a deer on the side of the road, once."
"Legs twisted up in a bloody mess, gravel red underneath. It kept on twitchin', starin' at me." He leans in close, breath hot on your ear. You can feel the body heat radiating off of him when ghosts hand hovers over your bicep, "i killed it. Didn't have a gun, had to use my knife. Quick. Merciful."
Ghost leans back far enough to stare you in the eyes.
"You remind me of that deer," ghosts hand retreats, but he stays caging you in. "Staring at me all the time. Beggin' for that knife."
Now, whenever ghost talks about you, he calls you "sweet doe" and people snicker about his sweet little crush. It makes your stomach churn.
hi rommy! I’ve followed you for like a year but just recently got brave enough to start commenting >-< and I just wanted to say that you truly understand the art of a drabble/oneshot. when you write a character, you capture their essence so well. and even when the story has a completely different tone, you still retain this beautiful understanding of characters. like, toxic price vs price with the teddy bear. same character, but you manage to perfectly paint them in a way that fits the tone and concept of your blurb. idk if this makes any sense but you truly convey character in such an amazing way.
Omg ty!!!! >0<
I like to view characters as more a set of principles and reactions than a "they do this not this" thing yknow? Like I could make anything happen, I just need to show my work on how they got there!
That's why I've never understood the whole "character would never do [insert bad thing]" bc I feel like given the time, someone could make anything in character! It's so cool seeing everyone's interpretations of characters in this fandom(*≧∀≦)
Thinking about living weapon!reader and former living weapon!price...
He got out, proved his worth and survived past his handlers. Price became the man he is today in spite of the programming, the training, the agony. He may have moved from out of the cage into the muzzle, but now he has room to pace and a team to care for.
He also has you. A gift from the higher-ups.
You expected captain price to be like all the rest. You've been through plenty of handlers by now.
But he looks at you, matches up the destruction in your file with the body in front of him. The first time your new handler touches you is a warm hand on the base of your neck, familiar in it's power and different in it'd intent. "C'mon, kid, let's get you settled."
Price...adapts to you. Treats you like the thing you are. Human, but not yet a person.
"Here, stay." He tells you whenever you enter a room, always choosing a comfortable spot with all the exits visible. You notice that it makes ghost frown sometimes in...jealousy? But he just ends up next to you before price grabs your attention with "sitrep, kid, do you need anything?"
You eat your meals in his office, train with him and find you don't need to hold back. Your routine follows his. Price's routine is shockingly similar to yours, but...better? You ache less, you sleep more.
Months later, you won't notice that he's made you more person than weapon all without your intent. Not until he goes MIA and you move handlers like the object you are.
Not until you find yourself disobeying the first command in your life to go find him.
Reader getting the worst callsign on base despite the fact you're not even a soldier.
No one knows your name, but everyone knows you're "ghost whisperer" which, in your opinion, is a shit nickname.
Why that name? Because you're the only one ghost listens to.
If anyone needs anything from ghost, reports, papers, signatures or anything else, they go through you. Because through you it actually gets done instead of brushed off or on rare occasions spitefully burned.
The current rumor is that, being prices kid, you're protected by the captain and ghost has to listen to you.
Other rumors include you and ghost having a...different kind of relationship.
The truth?
Nearly every Saturday you and ghost meet up late into the night at one of the gyms your friend owns, and you beat the shit out of him. As it happens, the way to earn ghosts respect is to accidentally send him to medical at least once every few months.
You still tell people he's sleeping with you, but that's mostly to piss off your dad.
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To this day soap will maintain that it was meant to be a harmless joke.
Something to pull your leg a bit, but nothing more. Tease the new guy who's been getting to know the team, right?
Sure, maybe it was a bit of a juvenile joke, but it only felt fitting. Considering you're the smallest of the team, not quite strong or big as the others yet, affectionately termed 'runt' by ghost.
That's why soap was sneaking up behind you in the gym, using all his SAS training not to be detected while his hands hovered near your gym shorts. He meant only to yank them a bit and startle you, but wildly miscalculated and—
Soap trips and yanks both your shorts and boxers down in front of the whole team.
"Soap! What the hell!" You hiss, face burning as you quickly pull your clothes back on. He gets a firm, thorough kick to the side and ends up wheezing on the floor.
Everyone is dead silent, shocked.
Because somehow, the nerdy recruit who hates confrontation and hardly talks to anyone has a huge dick.
Like, the kind that has gaz whispering in the lockers "it's bigger than yours, ghost." With quiet awe.
They definitely develop a complex about it....and maybe jerk off a bit too often thinking about it.
Every single day, ghost brings a little beetle terrarium onto base. He carries it instead of a coffee like price, and keeps it on his desk while he does paperwork. It houses a single scarab that he talks to constantly, mumbling on and on with it and pausing like it can talk.
Soap genuinely petitions for a psyche eval after ghost claims "that's my promised, johnny. Don't touch 'em."
For a solid few months people believe ghost is honest to god in a relationship with his beetle. Technically, he is, he just never tells anyone that you're a beetle shifter until he brings you to prices place for team dinner.
Thing about ghost is he's the biggest gossip, but no one knows.
He has no interest in bonding with anyone on base, so he mostly keeps to himself. That, paired with the fact he's naturally stealthy, means people don't pay attention to him before spilling their secrets all over the floor.
Ghost has been witness to many phonecalls, arguments, shared rumors. He keeps every bit og information tucked into his front pocket.
Until he meets you, price's kid. In some bar you doesn't frequent, dragged out for your father's bi-yearly socialization so he can still convince himself he's a good dad.
A good dad who is currently on the other side of the bar from you, chatting up some woman who could be your older sister. You sneer at the display, lean closer to ghost to whisper "you know he's been divorced five times?"
To your shock, ghost happily adds "you know two of those were secretaries he met on base? One of them 'cause he got her pregnant."
"No!" You gasp, turn fully to ghost almost too gleefully. No one ever wants to shit-talk your dad. "Seriously? Is that the one who tried to kill him?"
"Mhmmm," ghost nods along. He takes one of the greasy chips from your plate but you don't mind because he points to garrick whom you've met twice before "last one caught him an' garrick snoggin in her own bed."
"Seriously!?" You whisper-shout, too damn happy.
You, the kid who stubbornly says no more than a single word when talking to any of prices friends, can't seem to shut up that night. You and ghost bond for hours exchanging gossip and bitching about others. He learns all about your professors and you learn about government secrets only to gossip about the people involved.
Your dad ends up taking that pretty lady home and forgetting about you, so you and ghost go back to his place to watch movies and pass out.
He's the closest thing you've had to a friend in years, which would be pathetic if it weren't for how nice it feels.
I feel like ghost is the type of guy you need to sneak supplements into his food to get him to take them. Kinda like disguising meds as a treat for dogs.
Quite literally the only thing keeping ghost out of medical were the sandwiches you'd make him Tuesday and Thursday.
An Italian sub, loaded with freshly toasted cheese and meats. In between the lettuce, little vitamins and supplements. Without fail, ghost is too busy scarfing down his food without much chewing to notice the pills you added.
Until he starts leaving bits on the plate, telling you he already ate earlier. For once, you're glad that ghost is actually listening to his body instead of forcing himself to overeat.
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Rommy I'm curious if u notice specific people who like your posts all the time? I'm waaayyy to shy to turn off anon bc I don't want u knowing my account-- but I'm always curious if you see usernames liking your content and go "yay!! The person who likes my writing approves of this one too!!" 😹
I do!!!!
I absolutely notice people who reblog my stuff often! It makes me so happy to see people who've stuck around for a long time and newer folk too!
Ofc, I only get notifications from comments, so I only notice frequent commenter or reblogs with content. But I get all blushy and happy and run around in circles going yayyayy
No thoughts just ghost who only touches you when the lights are off.
When he can't see his own skin next to yours. He stays hidden under long sleeves and and pants even when it's just the two of you. Ghost doesn't believe you when you tell him he's beautiful.
"Ugly fuckin' mug, should be a sin jus' to touch you." He whispers into your neck, bodies still sweaty, hidden in the dark. The web of burned tissue over his chest snug against your back.
"I don't know what you see in me." When your hands wander down the length of his arm. Fingertips jumping over neat rows of raised scars, broken by potholes made of shrapnel and bad nights.
"It's fuckin' disgusting, is what it is." When the side of his face brushes your cheek, his lips kissing your jaw. Words never form quite right with all the scar tissue pulling at his mouth.
He would rather tell you ten times over how wrong you are about him than to accept that you love him. You do. You love him. You love every inch of him, the hills and valleys of scars and the warp of ink over the worst of them, the way he laughs like a broken engine, the way he leans to the left side when he's tired.
You love him and it's never enough. You'll keep loving him.
No thoughts just tarantula hybrid!ghost who's known for being terrifying.
He's a high presentation hybrid. Chelicerea hidden under mask, spinnerets on his wrist, two pairs of legs from his back that look ripped straight from a giant spider. Hybrids with half the traits he has are avoided by most.
The worst part is the legs. Giant monstrous things.
Ghost tends to keep them folded behind his back, but they cramp and ache and it's hard to read his environment without feeling vibrations or sensory through them. People put up with it on base...barely. he knows what they say about it behind his back.
That is, until he meets you.
You, some new mechanic that he's half-convinced is connected to nik somehow. The first time you see his extra legs, you gasp "wow! Oh my god, those are so cute!"
Before ghost can really react, you're reaching out to run your hand along the last segment of one of his legs. The sensory input makes his brain freeze long enough for you to flip it and run your hands along the underside "aww! It's just like cat paws!"
"W-what." Ghost stares, blank, confused. No one's ever called him cute.
"Your legs! Awww and you even have little kitty claws!" You smile, hook your finger under his claws. Ghost blushes down to his chest at the compliment, unused to ever being seen as anything other than creepy.
So what if he's constantly looming behind you all the time now? You're the only person who touches him without fear. Sure, maybe you don't realize you'll be his mate soon, but he's already made up his mind.
Ghost who's been working himself half to death in the gym on base for hours, right?
Not the usual insane ghost workout that makes newbies cringe, but the kind that has him spilling blood onto the mats underneath the punching bags. Knuckles raw and red, face turned into a deep scowl.
Stood of to the side in the doorway, you sip a coffee. Gaz finally tilts his head after staring, having watched ghost push himself too far on the weights "he okay?"
"Yep. He just needs to get it out of his system." You huff, mostly here to babysit your boyfriend. A younger you would have begged him to stop, but you know there's really no avoiding when he gets like...this. "give him a bit to even out."
"What happened?" Kyle tears open a bag of crisps, hands you one.
"He dropped me while we were fucking against the wall." Your ass still hurts like hell from it. Gaz splutters and chokes next to you, doubles over to cough on his just eaten snack. "I told him it was fine, but he hates seeing me hurt."
"Christ— seriously?" Across the room, ghost returns back to the weights. You smile knowing you'll get to massage his biceps tonight. "I didn't think the guy could get it up."
"Oh he doesn't struggle with that, I promise." You chuckle, cast a glance at gaz.
He's light enough, you're sure. You know ghost better than he knows himself, and you explicitly remember how he and gaz spar on weekends. "hey, you ever been fucked against a wall? I'm sure si' would want to practice without hurting me."
"WHAT—" gaz flusters, more embarrassed than you've seen him...ever, really.
"I wouldn't mind it!" Ghost calls from across the empty gym, rough and low and more growl than anything else. "Cute ass, I've been dreamin' aboot it!"
Gaz makes a very significant squeak in his haste to retreat. You'll pick him up for the night next week.
Recently became so obsessed w punisher and discovering Jon Bernthal is a zio was devastating 🥲🥲🥲 currently on A03 reading as many punisher fics as possible washing away the sadness. I really liked him as punisherrrr 😭😭😭
Bro I've gotten multiple asks about this. Like. 10+ asks abt it. and guys do you know where you are rn.
Thats right. You are on the COD MW porn blog.
I feel like we should all know how to separate actors from their characters, given what horrible people the cod actors are. Who gives a fuck if john bernthal is a dickhead i am NOT lusting after him im lusting after frank castle my wife. John can kick rocks the punisher would kill him anyways
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reader: mama, hlep!! there's a random man in my house!! (☉｡☉)!╭☞
ghost (both the mama and the man in question): where?! >:( lemme at 'em!!
[Based off this blurb] hehehe yessss it's so easy to trigger ghosts mama instincts.
Even after he's hormonally evened out, he'll go full mama bird if you come running to him with wet eyes and unhappy scent. He's extremely in-tune to your emotions and will absolutely "respond accordingly"
Meaning he does in fact try to strangle price the first time you meet the alpha because he made a mean joke about omegas from his time. You're sat in the nest lookin like (;;) because price joked about omegas not knowing how to be independent.
Yes, they physically fought and that was the first time you heard ghost honest to god growl. Price walks away covered in bruises only after he apologizes to you, and decides maybe kyle should handle the more...delicate situations with you and ghost.
The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”
“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
“Right,” Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
“Forensics?”
“Lorazepam, sir.”
“What dosage?”
The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”
“I know what lorazepam is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesn’t.
“Zero point five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”
“No, sir.”
“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”
Price says nothing.
“Do you want us to assemble a team?”
“No.”
There is a pause.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”
“Has he?”
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”
“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. “Sir?”
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“Administrative work.”
“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
“Sir.”
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”
