𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Hello! My name is Dusty, or you can just call me Rose since it’s my IRL nickname. I’m 18 and currently in university, so I won’t always have time to write.

I love writing about Call of Duty and I’m always looking for growth in my writing—helpful criticisms are welcome. All of my posts with reader are all gender neutral unless stated otherwise. I’m an SFW blog and I will never write smut.

Asks ARE open, I don’t bite, I promise 🫶

Oh, and fuck AI 🚫

But, Johnny had a knack for food. That Scottish fucker knows when someone is cooking. So, you weren’t fairly surprised when you saw his big head peeking from the commons kitchen corner.

“Aye, is that food I smell?” His cocky voice lilts in the quiet space, aside from the sizzling on the pan. You hung your head for a moment in defeat. Your ‘ruse’ was up.

“Yeah. It is,” You don’t offer him some. You flip the pan. A simple omlette, Johnny could gather. Delicious. “I thought you lot wouldn’t be back for another day or two.”

“Finished the mission early,” Suddenly, he materializes beside you, and your omlette was gone in an instant. “Thanks, lass.” He says cheekily. Your mouth dropped, about to hurl an insult and he had left as quickly as he came. That bastard.

“Sweetheart?” Kyle called out, his brows furrowed as he made his way towards you. You had just let out a heavy swear from the kitchen, and then nothing. Thoughts raced through his head. Were you dead? No, no, that wouldn’t have made any sense, get a grip, Kyle. Were you—?

He rounds the corner.

In all your glory, you had a bloodied rag pressed against your palm. Your face was eerily calm, aside from the light trickle of tears making its way down your cheeks. He paused, assessing you. Before he could ask any questions, you beat him to it. “I’m going to need a first aid kit. Preferably.” You grimaced, gesturing towards your hand as if Kyle wasn’t aware of its existence. “I may have cut my hand.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, his hands finding yours. “I can see that,” He carefully peeled back the rag. “How’d you manage that, hm?” The slice wasn’t particularly deep, but the amount of blood pouring out of it was definitely concerning.

“I was washing the dishes, and it just slipped.” You watch him disappear for a moment before returning with the red boxed savior. “I was being careful, I swear. It’s this new soap, I think. It’s extra slippery.”

Kyle snorts. “Extra slippery, hm?” That was one way to put it. Yesterday, you fell down the stairs, and blamed the stairs. A week ago, you swore the cobblestone you tripped on was deliberately placed like that. “I need you to get your hand underneath that water before I start wrapping it.”

The rag was gone soon after, far too ruined to even attempt to save it. “About bloody time” he had muttered. He presses a light kiss to your newly bandaged palm, his wide eyes meeting yours. “I think you’ve got to start being more careful,” He starts, like he hasn’t said it at least a hundred times by now. “It scares the shit out of me whenever you go quiet like that.”

“I’ve been trying to be more careful—“

You gasp awake, sitting up and nearly hitting Simon in the process. Blood stains the walls. Your eyes flit across every entry point in the room. Cries pierce your ears.

You hardly notice your husband awaken, caressing your arm with his thumb. “It’s early, lovie.” He grunts. “Too early to be up like this.” He was no stranger to nightmares.

“I—“ You didn’t realize you started crying before you felt a heavy lump in your throat. Your chest heaves. “I was back there.” He shifts, wrapping his arm around you, and his other combing through your sweat matted hair.

“It’s okay. Just a bad dream, hm? Nobody’s gonna hurt you,” Simon mumbles into your hair, pressing a kiss into it. “They’d have to go through me first.” You let out a strained, almost forced chuckle. You knew he was serious, but it felt so silly imagining your burly husband acting as a wall.

Laswell slides an inconspicuous folder across her desk. You give the cover a quick once over before cracking it open, meeting her eyes. Before you could even ask what was in it, she speaks first.

“You’re being reassigned.”

The air in the room suddenly goes cold and the opened file clatters back to the desk. “Pardon?” You swallowed thickly, immediately schooling your shocked expression. You weren’t sure what you did wrong. You were a great fantastic member of a subdivision in the Task Force so why would she—

“It’s not you,” She speaks your name in a hushed tone, as if noting your frantic thoughts. “We—I—think your abilities would be useful elsewhere. I’ve already spoken with them and you can start first thing Monday morning.” Your stomach lurched. You finally peaked at the file and big red letters caught your eye: Bravo Team.

You weren’t sure when your hatred for John Price started. You just know it’s always been there. In some sort of sick way, you were his moon to his sun. Where ever he went, you inevitably followed.

It started in the Royal Military Academy, when both of you were young, dumb, and incredibly competitive. The competition between who got higher marks shifted to sabotage by the second term. You failed your Army Officer Selection Board at the end of your third term. You beat him up for it.

Price hasn’t changed a bit as you stand in front of him, aside from the obvious aging. 25 years and the bastard still has a smug expression. “Captain.” You greet with a handshake, albeit reluctantly.

“Captain.” He echoed. You both ceremoniously shuffle feet before he breaks the silence with a cough. “It’s been what? Five years since I last saw you?” Around seven but who’s counting?

“Something like that,” You gave him a tightlipped smile, nothing sincere or polite. “They haven’t promoted you yet? Shame.” His fist clenched.

“I’m getting there.”

“You’ve been ‘getting there’ for a while, Cap.”

“Oh, fuck off, you’re the same rank as me!”

“True, but I’m not the one who’s been suspended multiple times.”

His face heats to a tomato red. He was so cute and pathetic when he’s angry. You had figured his temper ran quick when you both were younger, and you still run with it. “Those were—“

“Completely your fault? We know.” You taunt.

His finger jabs you in the chest and his brain almost short circuited. “We have a briefing at 09:00. Don’t be late.” He muttered instead, pushing past you.

Simon.

He had come home mere minutes ago from deployment, and still smelled like gun powder. Much to your chagrin, you couldn’t deny the fact that you very much loved your husband’s scent.

His gloved hand floats above your head for a moment before removing the gloves entirely. Only then did you feel his warm hand caress your cheek. “Such a pretty bird, hm?” He murmurs to himself, letting his finger brush away hair strands from your face.

He stays there for a minute, watching your closed eyes flutter every now and then, before changing clothes. Changing into something safe.

When your eyes opened, the sun was peaking through the blinds. All you could feel was warmth from the body next to you, warmth you haven’t felt in weeks. You roll over, as much as you could in his tight grasp, and met his eyes.

“You’re back,” You said groggily, burrowing your face against the crook of his neck. “I thought you were supposed to come home next week. When’d you get in?”

“Few hours ago, love,” He pressed a kiss against the side of your head. “Price let me off easy.” Another kiss. And another. God, you missed it when he was this clingy.

“Good. I would’ve had a word with him if he didn’t.” You mumbled threateningly. Of course, he knew you had meant it. You took his job very seriously.

He made a small acknowledging sound in return. “Sure you would’ve, lovie,” His hand trailed up and down your spine in useless patterns. “Would’ve expected nothing less from my Sleeping Beauty.”

“Pick up four.” You smirked, slamming down the plus four Uno card on the stack. Johnny gasps dramatically, his eyes practically bulging out of his head. The one night everyone had off and you automatically decided to choose violence; there are no friends during Uno.

“Bonnie, how could y’ do this teh meh? I’m heartbroken!” Johnny wails. “Ah, shite. One of these days…” His threat trails off as he picks up four cards. He leans back in his seat in a defeated manner once he realizes he has no good cards to play. “Your turn, Gaz.”

Kyle rubs Johnny’s shoulder in faux sympathy as he checks his own cards. He glances towards Simon. “Ghost, now, please don’t kill me for what I’m about to do,” He places down another plus four. “I am so sorry.”

Simon’s eye twitches and you let out a sharp cackle, kicking your feet in glee. This murderous back and forth goes on until Price surprisingly sets down his last card.

“I think I’ve won, right?” Price scratched the back of his head. You all stare at him for a silent moment, your brain flashing through each interaction with him.

You let out a slow, knowing grin.

“Do you want to hold her?” Your soft and tired voice sounded from the hospital bed. You held out your minutes old daughter, beckoning him to take her. His feet moved before he could think.

He realized his promise had broken as he stared at his newborn, so tiny in his big arms. He could almost feel his inner child leaping with joy. His daughter yawned and then cooed, her small nose scrunching up.

“You’re no bigger than my arm, hm?” He croons. “Just a little ankle-biter.” His other arm comes up to fix the little beanie the nurses had put on her minutes previously. It was at this moment when he realized he would go through hell and back for her.

It wasn’t from big theatrics (that’s Johnny’s doing), but it came from minuscule exchanges.

You didn’t cower at his height, instead you challenged it appropriately. Straightening your back when he gets too close, head held up high to meet his gaze.

“You don’t scare me, L.T.,” You told him one time, practically backing him into a corner. “Just because you’re a big scary bloke doesn’t mean you get whatever you want.” Simon wanted to raise his hackles, he really did, but something about you made him shiver from excitement. He had to fight to keep his tail still.

The Taskforce had known him to be a massive angry thing, until one night, they saw you dragging him out of the training room by his scruff—for whatever reason. He could easily throw you off, which made them mildly confused. “Is the bastard tame now?” Johnny whispered to Kyle, who only shrugged in response and continued to spar.

Your ears were pinned back to your head and your bristled tail brushed up against Simon’s legs as you led him out. “I don’t understand why you keep pulling this shit, Riley. You’re like a-a feral pup!” You seethed. He shrugged nonchalantly, but his tail was practically a damn propellor.

“I’m melting, Garrick!” You whine, dramatically wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. Inches away from the cracked open window, your body was draped on the peeling leather sofa.

Kyle snorts and offers a sympathetic look. “You’re not melting, per se. Just lightly…”—he pauses—“moist.”

Your upper lip curled. “Don’t describe me as moist,” You huff. “That’s just weird.” It took you a few moments more before you realized you had to do something about this. You stand up a little wobbly before moving your way to the dusty mini fridge in the cooler, Kyle in tow. “I swear, Garrick, this weather is unbelievable.”

You go to bend down towards the handle, well, at least you think you do. Your vision clouds for a second, black dots swimming around as if in a rough current. You sway. Then, your wide glazed over eyes suddenly stare up at Kyle.

His hands were firmly grasping your shoulders, your chest heaving against his. “Alright, let’s move you back on the sofa.” He quickly shushes the protesting sound you make, half supporting your weight and he leads you down.

When did he look so angelic in this light?—

“I’ll get the water,” Kyle comes back seconds later with a nice, crisp bottle. He guides it up to your mouth, motioning you to take a sip with concerned eyes. “C’mon, sweetheart. You wanted a water, right?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I guess I did,” Coldness rushes down your throat. Immediate relief and you almost wanted to thank the heavens. “Shining knight in armor, hm?”

Instead, you got the stupidest callsign: Happy Feet.

The ground nearly swallowed you open mid mission when Simon had referred to you as so. “C’mon, Happy Feet, let’s not waste the day by standing around and lookin’ useless, hm?”

“Happy Feet?!” You trailed after him, your brows raised to the high heavens. All the ones he could’ve chosen, he chose Happy Feet? “I don’t have ‘happy feet!’” Your words fell on deaf ears. Apparently everyone called you that behind your back, Simon was just the first one to tell it to your face.

“Happy Feet seems to be in a good mood, yeah?”

“Ope, look at Happy Feet go, always moving that one is.”

According to them, you subconsciously tapped your feet together in a seamless rhythm; tapped the left ankle two times, tapped the right ankle for three, repeat.

Sure, you might’ve done that one or two times—no, definitely every waking moment of your life.

“Dammit, Ghost—“ As if the higher being up above had some sick humor, you tripped over your own two feet and barreled into your lieutenant. It’d be a lie to say this was the first time that’s happened.

“Like I said, Happy Feet.” His mask hid his expression but you could tell from the crinkle in his eyes, he was grinning. He stabilized you, broad hands holding your shoulders.

“I hate you.”

“I love you too, Happy Feet.”