When I Want Fluff/angst Fics And All I’m Getting Is Smut

Sniper besties

'bury all your secrets in my skin'

I think all my problems would be solved if I could make out with a mentally ill man

It's so crazy to me when people write John Price as old and incapable of understanding technology because this man is literally in the special forces. I think not knowing how technology works would be a huge hindrance to his career lol. I live near a military base and have met a few service members who are Price's age or older and they are usually better with technology than I am lol. But yet I'll still see people writing in fics that Price likely needs help to send texts because he doesn't understand it.

For real. He's probably super savvy with tech. I mean all that gear they use, night vision, heat vision and all sorts of things.

I think it must come from young writers, when you're like 18-20 someone almost 40 is "old".

I'm in no way trying to dissuade people from writing for him or him being the older man in the x reader story, I just find it a bit frustrating and unrealistic that people write someone his age as some bumbling idiot with technology and other modern parts of life.

I see a lot of childhood best friend headcanons for gaz, soap, and ghost, but never price.

I need that old man running into “the girl next door” that he lost touch with ages ago. The one that got away after you both grew up and life got busy. I need him making contact after 10, 15 years. I need him pulling you into a tight, overly familiar hug when you meet up at an out of the way cafe. I need him reminiscing about long summers spent together as kids and teens: riding your bikes all over town, swimming at the community pool, buying ice cream with your pocket change, all while you smile and laugh. Because, honestly, you haven't been this happy in ages.

Stalking your socials didn’t quite scratch the itch for him like it used to. It used to be enough to swipe through your photos and imagine being there. On dates in cute little pubs and parks. Taking you on surprise sunny little holiday getaways. Putting a ring on your finger.

That one hurt. Really fucking hurt. He tried to be happy for you, grimacing as he swiped through picture after picture, one gushing congratulation after another. He really did. You’re almost too beautiful in your wedding pictures; airbrushed and photoshopped to perfection in your white gown as you gaze lovingly at your new husband on the chapel steps. Bastard doesn't know how lucky he is.

Well, was.

So what if a sick part of him twists when suddenly that album is deleted, hubby’s name disappears from your profile, and your relationship status updates to “single”? He lays careful traps, small bits of bait to lead you right where he wants. Then, he waits patiently for the noose to tighten, the cage to clatter down around you. You tell the whole sad tale as he nods, pretending not to know every detail already. How you tried to make it work. About your regrets. Maybe things moved too fast because you pushed for a commitment, you say as you laugh through tears.

Or, he suggests as he lays a heavy hand over yours, maybe he wasn’t right in the head because he’d marry you in a heartbeat. Your laugh then is musical. His heart soars. He let you slip out of his hands once, when he was too young and stupid to know better, but he won’t let that happen again. You let him wax poetic about life and loss. He knows what it really means to have your life on the line, he says, to fight like hell and somehow come out the other side. So, he continues, eyes casually following the swirling dregs at the bottom of his cup with your hand still clasped in his, you'd never have to fight for him. Never.

something something being dragged to a bar by your friends for one of their birthday’s or something and being content enough to sit at the bar and read/write/whatever solitary thing while they go off to do their own thing

but you can feel someone sit next to you and when you turn to look he has the most piercing blue eyes and oddest hair cut you’ve ever seen but— if someone forced you to admit it, you’d say he’s cute at least.

anyway johnny of course tries to woo you and take you home with him that night but you cut him and his attempts off with a good natured laugh,

“heh, i’m sorry, but i only sleep with my husband. i don’t do romantic flings.”

“but ye don’ ‘ave a ring?”

“mhm, i’m not married yet.”

“yer single?”

“that’s right.”

and now he’s even more determined to get you home and covet you all to himself, for someone so sweet can’t possibly be adored by anyone else but him.

(it’s a problem when his task force’s eyes start to wander to you, though.)

What if Ghost really was a ghost? They say that sometimes a ghost attaches itself to a person rather than a location and this often happens early in life. What if Ghost had picked you at some random point in your childhood? He’d be protective beyond the boundaries of any normal, physical person, preventing harm from coming to you.

When you were small you never seemed to get the bumps and bruises other children got, almost as though an unseen hand was always there to catch you. In school the bullies rarely bothered you, as strange things happened when anyone tried to shove you. Shoelaces suddenly untied making the bully fall, of bags suddenly opened and their contents spilled. The one time someone decided to actually try to hit you, they flew backwards across the hall but the teacher didn’t believe it wasn’t you and you got in trouble. That’s teachers car then refused to start ever again.

As you got older and started taking an interest in dating things got really weird though. Make out sessions always ended abruptly when your partner suddenly got a bad headache, the atmosphere in the room becoming oppressive and cold, ever single time someone tried to touch you.

It was like the protective spirit wanted to keep you for himself. No one else was allowed to touch you. But when you lay alone, finding pleasure and release by yourself, you always felt a familiar presence, a weight pressing down ontop of you as you touched yourself.

Even though you couldn’t feel breath against your neck you could hear it, a rhythmic faint sound as though someone were mimicking the actions of your hands, kissing your neck without making contact.

On a few occasions you swore you felt something nudging against your hole, something that wasn’t there but sent a cold shiver along your nerves to your spine as you were pressed harder into the mattress by the unseen shape.

And when you finally came, still alone in the sweat soaked sheets, the phantom sighing sounded like someone saying mine.

tea party gone tactical

aka: simon riley, code name: daddy

there’s glitter in the creases of his knuckles. plastic rings on every finger, tea stains on his jeans, and a tiara— pink, crooked— sitting proud atop his buzzed hair. simon riley, six-foot-something slab of elite military steel, has just been declared princess cupcake the third, ruler of the sugar kingdom. and he has orders to attend high tea at precisely four o’clock sharp.

he obliges. obviously.

the living room has been transformed into chaos of the most devastating kind—childhood imagination. there’s a tablecloth made from an old baby blanket, plastic saucers balanced on top of hardcover books, plushies seated like dignitaries from rival kingdoms. one has an eyepatch. another wears his sock. a stuffed unicorn has a crayon drawn scar and a tactical vest made of paper.

across from him, on her little purple beanbag throne, his daughter beams. two missing teeth. a feather boa dragging on the floor. she pours lukewarm apple juice into tiny cups, careful, careful, tongue poking out in concentration. simon watches like it’s a mission briefing. she finishes with a flourish.

“sir cupcake, would you like sugar?” she says, all posh and prim and nearly squeaking with excitement.

he nods solemnly. “two lumps. gotta keep my energy up.”

she plunks invisible sugar into his cup with a spoon the size of her hand. simon pretends to sip. “delicious,” he says, setting the cup down with exaggerated grace. “might be the best cuppa i’ve ever had, actually.”

“better than mummy’s?” she asks, eyes wide, clearly testing boundaries.

he leans in, whispers behind one big, calloused hand, “don’t tell 'er, but yeah. loads better.” she giggles—full, bubbly, from-the-gut giggles—and his heart pulls like a parachute cord mid-fall. she moves on to the cupcakes—half crumbled fairy cakes from the corner bakery you brought home last night, now decorated with more sprinkles than frosting. she smashes one into a napkin, offering it like a truce treaty.

“thank you, commander sprinkle,” he says, accepting the mashed sugar bomb and taking a heroic bite.

“you’re welcome,” she says, eyes shining. “you’re the bravest daddy in the kingdom!”

something warm knots in his chest. not the cupcake— he could take five more of those—but the way she looks at him, like he built the sky with his hands and tucks the stars in at night.

simon clears his throat, glances down at his ring-bedazzled fingers, the glitter on his arms, the juice in his lap. “…i'd go to war for you, y’know.”

she nods solemnly, not entirely sure what that means—but knowing it’s important.

then she picks up her pink plastic walkie-talkie and presses the button. “monster in the hallway. repeat, monster in the hallway! might be mummy coming to check if we ruined the carpet..”

simon stands, dramatically brushing invisible crumbs off his lap. he adjusts his tiara. lifts his plush unicorn with military precision. “on it, commander.”

and then, he charges out of the room, bare feet thudding against the floor, in search of the ‘monster’—glitter trailing behind him like smoke from a flare.