My Contribution To The Selfshipping Community 🫡

if i survived a slasher it’s because i fucked him

drink some fucking water

i need new simon riley fic accounts so pls use this post as a little chain and tag your favs hehe 🤭

ohhh myyy godddddddh, we literally NEED him in our lifes 🙁

what 141's military personnel file looks like

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NOTE: NOT CANON! most of the information is based off of the wiki/my medical file post

summary: So what exactly were in those dossiers Price gave to Laswell at the end of MW 2019? Here's a look into those, along with some reminders/sticky notes. Answering this ask :)

ALSO! the ages were such a headache this post did a great job explaining how confusing the wiki/some statements are so please check it out

warnings: medical inaccuracies, mention of wounds/wound care, mentions of depression, medical terminology

a/n: these came out better than i thought! also 2004 was such a bad year for Price and Ghost

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thinking of you becoming price's personal lucky charm :)

cw: f!reader. slightly nsfw. very rushed/unedited. idk shit about casinos or card games lol. 1 | more casino!141

when your friend begged you to dress up fancy and go out with them, a casino was not what you had in mind. especially not an underground one, entrance hardly visible in the dimly lit street, where you even needed a password to get in.

despite being far from your definition of a night out, you decide to give one of the games a chance. the roulette seemed the easiest, with seemingly less rules to learn, and to your surprise, you're crushing it. starting with safe outside bets, you make your way to straight bets and stay winning every single one of them. 

at your winning streak, you sense two sets of eyes on you, almost burning your flesh with the heat that crawls to your cheeks. you peek over your shoulder and meet two burly men, one with an icy stare and half-covered face, the other with an adorable boyish smirk and a mohawk. still, both glare at you with an intense puzzled gaze, laced with curiosity and an underlying hunger that makes you shiver. 

suddenly, you feel a rough hand settling on your lower back, nearly making you jump on your seat, “what does the pretty lady think about heading to the vip section?” the man says, pearly smile doing a perfectly good job in luring you in, “all that luck needs to be put to good use.”

you ponder for a second, fearing that once you’re in, all your fortune will slip out your fingers and the beginner’s luck will be gone forever. but his sweet brown eyes are too convincing, and you nod, taking his hand and walking through a mysterious door.

“i– i don’t know how to play poker,” you stutter, brows knitted together at the sight of a round table with piles of chips in the center.

"don't worry, love, you're not here to play," a bearded man says, gruff voice followed by a puff of his cigar. he seems a bit older than the one who brought you inside or the two observers, ocean-blue eyes looking at you tenderly, but the sly smirk on his face doesn't go unnoticed.

he pats his thigh, gesturing for you to sit, "my men say you've been quite lucky out there," a smoke cloud forms in front of him, mingling with the strong scent of his cologne, "let's check."

hesitantly, you comply, plush thighs meeting his firm one. he chuckles at your shyness and pulls you closer to his torso by your waist, positioning your ass right above his growing bulge and you bite back a squeal, "name's John."

the game restarts and you watch the dealer distributing the cards. you glance at his hand and he holds five cards, all hearts, which must be a good sign, given the way he squeezed your hip, certainly hard enough to leave a bruise. not that you minded, considering the damp spot forming between your legs.

"would you look at that, straight flush," he flashes you a grin, cigar dangling from his lips as his laugh echoes amongst the annoyed huffs of other players.

his fingers trace your spine, teasingly edging the waistband of your skirt as you try your best not to squirm, "mighty luck you have, love," he whispers in your ear, beard gently grazing your neck.

he hands you one of his golden chips, "for you, as a thank you," your eyes widen at the number 1000 etched in the back, promptly pushing back the gift. he shakes his head, palm sneaking its way to your inner thigh, "there's way more where that came from."

it's safe to say you might become an avid gambler after tonight.

babe let’s break dating stereotypes by replacing hookup culture with medieval romance. you write poems for me and then i d!e in a war for you

simon riley x fem!reader

i need him in a way that is concerning everyone around me. yelling, screaming, biting my fists, and crying real tears.

simon riley definitely brings back souvenirs from all the places he's been during missions.

he mostly does it so you get distracted and not fuss over him gaining a new stab wound or bullet scar every time he comes home. and he thinks he does a real good job, as he pulls it out of his bag and shows it to you. but you're not stupid, and you end up scolding him for thinking you wouldn't notice his limping.

his favourite souvenirs are magnets — your fridge is filled to the brim with them — and shirts or hats that have some kind of pun with a country's name, or just the simple i love [city name].

he'll never admit it, but he spends way too much time (when he has it) trying to pick a gift. tells the employee to wrap it carefully and does his best not to break the easily breakable things. watching your smile, bright and wide, when he shows you what he's bought, keeps him going.

Calm down Riley, no one will take him away from you.