#Lieutenant Simon riley

[elysianightsss]

Simon sees you and that’s it. You’re all he thinks about, night and day. You’re what he dreams of. He doesn’t even know your name, just the grocery store you shop at a little ways away from his apartment. He thinks it’s fate. He knows it is when he sees you at the local bar he frequents getting shouted at by some asshole you’d refused to leave with. His bruising grip on your wrist is ripped away before Simon beats him half to death (would’ve happily killed him too but he wasn’t about to commit murder in front of his lady) holding out his blood covered hand, he’s suprised you take it but incredible grateful. He has so many plans for you, one of them being; to drive you out to his cabin in the mountains, keep you pliant and exhaust you by burying his face in your pretty cunt until you pass out. Then and only then will he ‘sneak’ outside and puncture a pipe inside his car engine as well as two of his tyres so when you start getting antsy and ready to go home, he’s got himself a damn good excuse as to why you should get your cute ass back into his bed and stay there forever.

[callsignfawn]

18+ mdni.

simon riley loves to eat you out. that man can spend hours between your thighs, big hands pinning you flat to the mattress, spread wide for him to feast on. he doesn't do it just to make you feel good - though that is a wonderful bonus - but to get himself off as well. he can cum untouched, still tucked away in his tight jeans all from having the taste of you on his tongue, hearing your breathy whimpers and gasps, your hands tugging and grasping at his short hair in a weak attempt at pulling him away. but you don't want him to stop, couldn't even form the words to tell him to if you did. he's pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you, your body dwindled down to a sensitive, shaky little mess atop of your soft duvet.

your brain has long since turned to mush, rendering you practically useless as you squirmed under his firm grip, calloused fingers digging into the plump flesh of your inner thighs. you can't form words, how could you when simon's tongue is lapping at your weeping hole, his nose nudging your aching clit. your head is thrown back against the pillows as garbled little whines fall from your kiss-swollen lips, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. one of your hands rested atop his head, fingers no longer gripping onto his blond locks. the other is tightly fisting the sheets, your chest heaving as you gasp for air, desperate for a breath.

simon pulls away, and your body relaxes as you catch a moment's relief from the burning pleasure between your thighs. your core is sopping wet with your arousal and his spit, cunt clenching around nothing. he gazes down at his work, a proud smirk tugging at his glossy, scarred lips. his chin is a mess but he doesn't care, not when he's got you so needy before him, panting for breath. the grip on your thighs has loosened, his hands gently rubbing down to the junction of your knees and back up to your hips. your relief is short-lived when he gathers saliva in his mouth, spitting right onto your sensitive clit. his right hand drops down, gathering the slick to rub through your folds. he dips two thick fingers into your cunt, his free hand tightly gripping your hip to keep you in place as you whine and try to close your legs to no avail.

“i know, i know,” simon cooed, voice breathless and heavy. he groans when he feels you clench around his fingers, and your pussy squelches when he pulls them back out to circle your clit. your thighs spasm as you squeeze your eyes shut, keening. “you going to cum again, lovie? c'mon, give me another.”

[emmster]

Hoping on the new three headed puppy

[octopiys]

Thinking about King!Soap who can defend himself if he wants to, but he's lowkey getting tired of consistently arguing with his council and members of other kingdoms.

So he goes out and finds the worst court jester he possibly can.

Jester!Ghost who's only a court jester because he's seeing how close he can toe the line before he's executed. He's okay at being funny, but he just ends up insulting everyone he encounters.

King!Soap who nabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him to the palace like a wet cat he found on the street.

Ghost is just like "okay, I can deal with this" until MacTavish brings him into a council meeting, knowing that he's not gonna keep his mouth shut, and when another king from a much smaller kingdom says something to put the king down like:

"You know.... I could've easily taken the kingdom when you were all dangly legged and know-nothing.... but yet I still work with you. You've succeeded because l-"

"So you're a pussy is what you're saying." Ghost says at the other end of the table, and a tense hush falls over the room. All eyes look between the jester and the other king, and the other king opens his mouth to have the jester executed, when King MacTavish breaks the silence with a heavy, true laugh.

Like shoulders shaking, chest heaving, gasping laughs erupt from the king, and he knew then and there that he was keeping this jester. Jesus christ, he hasn't laughed in so long.

So whenever MacTavish has some bullshit meeting, the Jester is brought in to put the council back in his place. Now, of course, as much as MacTavish wants to say it all himself, he thoroughly enjoys the looks on their faces when they figure out they can't make the King do their bidding to get what they want, for fear of being socially ruined by his court jester.

[2dnova]

ghoap my beloveds ✨

Maybe Gaz and Price next hmmmm???

Drawn 9/6/24 and 29/5/24

[mvctavish]

idk if u do platonic requests but can u write like a drabble of simon riley and a daughter!reader where she has separation anxiety

𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐗𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐘

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x daughter!reader

notes: hi!! this is my first request ever, so tysm! i love this idea and platonic requests are more than welcome ^-^ i do have to say a quick disclaimer: i am not an expert on separation anxiety, so don't take any of this as fact or advice.

summary: during your childhood, simon often noticed how clingy you were. it wasn't necessary a bad thing (since it ensured you'd never wander off or get lost) but it seemed abnormal. as you got older, it became abundantly clear that you suffered from separation anxiety. it was tough, especially when he had to be deployed.

cw: daughter!reader, my bad writing, descriptions of anxiety and anxiety attacks, reader cries, angst, hurt/comfort-esque fic, mentions of riley (the dog), reader's age isn't specified, word count: 1.3k

SIMON RILEY never thought he'd be a good father. It was in his blood, he told himself, destined to be a grade-A asshole like his own dad. However, when you came along, his whole world shifted. You were the product of a one-night stand and entirely unexpected, but you quickly became the most precious part of Simon's life. From the moment he first held you in his arms in the hospital room, he knew he could never, ever hurt you. You were his perfect baby girl, and he'd gladly die and kill for you if it meant you'd be safe from harm.

Raising a kid on his own wasn't easy by any means. Who would've thought a hardened lieutenant would spend his afternoons playing tea parties and barbie dolls and beanie boos? You were the one thing that kept him going. Whenever times got tough, whenever Simon found himself in a grueling situation on the battlefield - you were what lingered on the back of his mind. He had to make it home to you.

As you got older, and your personality warped into a unique soul, one thing stood out. Your separation anxiety. You tried therapy and journaling and breathing exercises and just about every coping mechanism under the sun. It helped, but not on days when Simon would leave. His work kept him away for months at a time, leaving you a nervous wreck that rarely left your room.

Simon hated leaving you, knowing just how much distress it caused you. But unfortunately, life wasn't fair, and he had to make sacrifices. His job was one of those. After years of dealing with your anxiety, he'd learn the best ways to cope with it. Telling you days in advance of his deployment never helped, as you were stuck stressing yourself out and marking the days on your calendar like a countdown to the end of the world. Simon preferred to tell you the day of his departure. It was at least a little easier that way.

The door to his bedroom was left cracked open so Riley could enter and exit as she pleased. The old German Shepherd often made rounds around the apartment, so Simon didn't think much of it as he packed up. He'd only been home for five days, but a call from Price let it known that he'd be needed soon. Simon always, always hated leaving you, but he knew it had to be done.

His black duffel bag sat atop his freshly made bed, unzipped and being filled up with clothes and other necessities like his toothbrush and whatnot. It was still early in the morning, the sunlight just barely beginning to filter in through the half-opened blackout curtains on the window. He hadn't even started to brew his early morning coffee, head fuzzy from sleep. It was quiet and peaceful, for a few passing moments.

Simon's trained ears quickly picked up on a soft gasp of breath. He froze his movements, waiting (it wouldn't be the first time his mind was playing tricks on him). It wasn't until the sounds of shallowed, sharp little breaths did his heart sink. He knew that sound all too well. You were standing in the doorway, clearly having caught your dad packing up for deployment.

“Dad?”

Your voice, small and shaky, is what finally made Simon step into action. He crossed the bedroom in a few long strides, quickly taking you into his arms as your eyes well with tears. This was exactly why he hated leaving. It made his chest ache, his heart hurt, seeing his child so torn up because of him.

“Shhh, it's alright, yeah?” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, a deep timbre taking on a gentle tone made for you alone. One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers delicately brushing through your sleep-tousled hair. The other rests on the small of your back, his hold on you strong and tight but not suffocating. He'd done this dance a thousand times before, comforting you when you need it most. “I'm right here, sunshine, I'm not going anywhere.” Yet.

Hazel eyes darted down to look at you. It's then that he realized your gaze was still focused on his duffel bag, tears trickling down your flushed cheeks in thick globs. Simon was leaving. Your dad was leaving soon, but you needed him home. You were shaking, trembling hands clutching onto the front of his wrinkled sleep shirt. It's quiet. He counted your breaths, coming in and out far too rapidly. Your heart was aching, and your chest felt too tight, making each breath painful. You couldn't get enough air in your lungs, even as you let out a pitiful sob.

Simon's heart shattered at the sound. His daughter, his sunshine, was in pain. You hadn't had an anxiety attack this bad in months. He clenched his jaw as he carefully dropped to his knees, knowing the smallest of movements could startle you. “Look at me.”

When you don't listen right away, his hands, calloused from years of training and military work, come to cradle your cheeks. His touch is soft and tender, handling you like a porcelain doll. “Hey,” Simon speaks again, the single word sounding just a bit more serious than before. Sometimes, a firmer hand is needed. He gently guides you to look at him, teary, red eyes meeting his own. His grip on your cheeks keeps your head in place, not allowing you to look anywhere but at him.

“Take deep breaths, baby,” Simon coaxed, inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through chapped lips, hoping you'd soon follow suit. His thumbs gently brushed under your eyes, collecting your tears and wiping them away. He keeps up the slow breathing. “I'm here. I'm right here. You're not alone, sunshine. It's okay.”

“I don't-” you choke on a breath, more tears replacing the ones he'd just wiped away. Another sob falls from your lips. “I don't want you to leave.”

God, the sight of you nearly breaks him. He's a soldier, but you're his weakness. Your brows furrowed, eyes widened, and your chin quivering. Simon feels his throat grow tight as you gasp and struggle for breath. “I don't want to leave, either,” He states, thumbs rubbing the apple of your cheeks to try and ground you. Your hands reach up, gripping onto his wrists. If it weren't for his focus of trying to calm you down, your nails digging crescents into his bare skin would've been painful. He didn't mention it. If that's what you needed, then let it be.

“But I have to, baby. I swear to you, I am always comin’ back home to you.” His thumbs keep working, wiping away each tear they can manage. “You need to calm down. Deep breaths.” And Simon continues the breathing he'd done before.

“I can't-”

“Yes, you can.”

It was easier said than done. The anxiety you felt swallowed you whole, trapping you in a headspace that was hard to escape from. It occupied your every thought, tainting each happy moment and turning it sour. Despite your doubts, you did your best to breathe, chest heaving and hiccuping until you managed. All the while, Simon held you and whispered gentle praises.

“There we go,” Simon whispered, wiping away the remainder of your tears. “Good job.”

Your cheeks were wet and splotchy, sticky tear streaks staining your skin. The rims of your eyes were red and puffy, and your breath still stuttered every once in a while, but you had managed to pull yourself up from the throes of your anxiety attack. Simon remained in front of you, thick brows furrowed in worry as his hands left your cheeks, resting on your arms. His hands rubbed up and down, soothing you completely and keeping you present in the moment.

“I know you don't want me to leave, I know you're scared,” Simon continued after a few beats of silence. “It's alright to be scared, sunshine, but this is something that I have to do. You won't be alone when I'm gone, and I'll call you and text you every day as many times as I can. How's that sound? Good?”

When you nodded, his lips twitched, forming a brief remnant of a smile. “Good.” He repeated and nodded as well. “Now, what d’you want for breakfast?”

[grimm-cod]

Simon is DEFFFF a GIRL DAD.

Simon and you had identical twin girls, and THEY ARE THE LIGHT OF HIS LIFE.

Simon would do anything for his girls.

tea party with stuffed animals? done.

painting his nails? done.

when Soap asks him why his nails are bright pink when he takes his gloves off, Simon just gives him a glare in response, and Soap decides not to press further.

When he gets home after a mission, and his girls are already tucked into bed, Simon goes into their bedroom to press soft kisses against their foreheads.

If one of the twins had a rough day at school, he would always be the first one to comfort them, which is odd because he's a big, broody, war machine, but he has a heart goddamnit.

He would name his twins: Sage and Saffron.

"They keep calling me the 'other Sage', dad." Saffron would tell him one day after a rough day at school.

"You're my Saffy, sweets. dont let 'em mess with ya." Simon would reply.

if one of the twins got sick, you and him would nurse her back to health, but soon enough, the other twin had the same damn thing, so now, you both are stuck dealing with moody, sick, identical twins.

"Dont wanna take my medicine, dad." Sage would argue.

"Dont care, love. gotta take it." Simon would reply after an hour of arguing with her, getting her to try and take her medicine. Saffron on the other hand, she had taken it instantly, no matter how bad it tasted.

AND OHHH GODDD. if Soap were to ever find out that Simon had twin girls at home, and he was really a big softy behind closed doors, THE TEASING WOULD NEVER END.

Soap would tell anyone he came in contact with.

"Y'know, the Lt. has little twin girls? he treats them like princesses. he's a softy under all that mess." Soap would tell everyone.

And dont even get me started when he meets you and the twins for the first time.

Immediately takes on the role of "Uncle Johnny". Price would be "Papa Price", and Gaz would be "Uncle G", cause the twins couldnt stop calling him Gas instead of Gaz.

"They'll get the accent soon enough." Soap tried convincing Simon that the twins would get his scottish accent if he spent enough time with them, but Simon immediately shut that down.

Simon didnt want his precious girls around anything military related.

Simon had to pick the girls up from school one day, and the other parents couldnt stop staring at him because he was in full uniform, having left from base.

Simon's uniform would definently make the younger kids cry. I would cry too if i saw a 6'4", muscular, british guy in a skull mask and military uniform and tactical gear.

Simon did feel bad though.

[winterangelss]

~Random Ghost Hc drop~

☆|haven't really done much writing on here yet but I have made hcs for cod characters for fun, so enjoy!

~-----------------------♡------------------------~

☆|He's quite the handyman, something broken? He can likely fix it.

☆|He's mastered moving quietly to the point he just appears in places, scares the shit out of everyone without fail.

☆|Enjoys being in the presence of animals, has pet a few stray cats on the street.

☆|He's likes his tea with no sugar and a splash of milk, strong but not too strong.

☆|Not a massive football fan but he watches it regularly.

☆|Enjoys Banksy and his art a pretty average amount, he appreciates the deeper meaning in his art and his wishes to remain anonymous

☆|Resting bitch face under that mask, even when he has it on, he looks like he's glaring through your soul, even when he doesn't mean to.

☆|Trust issues. It's why he seems so closed off but even at that, he's not entirely against taking off his mask, he'll take it off more often than you'd initially think.

☆|Prefers savoury over sweet foods, salty snacks over sweet ones.

☆|absolutely savours having a bourbon after particularly rough missions. (There's been a few times he took a drink and forgot his mask was on)

☆|Dad jokes, absolutely loves them, the dumber the joke, the better, he knows it pisses half the team off and that in itself is almost even better than the joke itself.

☆|Cannot sew for the life of him, the only thing he's ever sewn was the skull onto his balaclava and he's never picked it up since.

☆|Don't ask him about the beatles (or do if you want to hear him go on a tangent), he despises them, this became known after it came up in conversation once randomly and he surprised the team with how much he could rant on about his distaste for the band.

~❄️

[nicoleeblossom]

Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley Pt.2 …💀

Lt. Riley Recs Part 1 | main masterlist📌

*·˚Don’t forget to reblog, follow, like, and comment on the authors’ or artists’ pages. Show them some love!

*·˚Broken link or @? Pop a note in the comments or my ask box.

Bodyguard!Simon by @inkbybambi

Single Dad Ghost x Baker!Reader by @xoxoells

Baker Simon by @fishsinsareacknowledged

Roadburn by @vivwritescrappythings

Teach Him to Cook by @the-melancholic-human

Ex-Husband Ghost by @stargatenova

Simon Has A Home by @dmitriene

A Ride You’ll Never Forget by @thexsilentxwordsmith

Just Like Dad by @gloomwitchwrites

Ghost Goes Viral by @actionnerdgamerlove

Traitors Among Us by @dawnwriterimagines

Dilf!Simon Pt.1 and Pt.2 by @nighttimealone

Café Oasis by @arrloww

Professor!Simon Riley x Professor!Reader by @idyllcy

Boydad!Simon by @kismetarchive

Natural by @kyletogaz

Bartender!Ghost x Waitress!Reader Masterlist by @writersdrug

Good girl. My girl

ghost x (lowkey unhinged) sunshine f!reader by @heedthetenofwands

Silly Girl by @miamimint0

Tap Out Pt.1 and Pt.2 by @khioneee

SimonxSingleMomReader by @sunni-stuff

Carrion by @charliemwrites

The Riley Family by @superhoeva

“Simon, are we…dating?” by @oceantornadoo

POW!Ghost and EnemyMedic!Reader by @hyperfixiation-station

High Rise Office by @391780

Gone for Months by @leviathanleva

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

[serialkilluh1996]

☠︎︎𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄☠︎︎

Possessive-Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female-Reader

Request (summarized): Possessive!Boyfriend!Ghost

Requested anonymously

Themes: fluff

୨୧ Stay in for the night. Ghost doesn't want you to go out alone. Besides, he'll spoil you rotten anyway. ୨୧

CW: use of '☆☆☆' in place of reader's name, implied age gap (it's up to you how big it is) possessive behavior (obviously),Ghost is a little rough with you, mentions of drugging, Contact me if I need to add more.

Ghost had issues. Mommy issues, daddy issues, anger issues; you name it, he's struggling with it. But, God, did my guy have trust issues. He had a habit of checking both your phones for the time just in case one of your devices were off by a minute or so. He initially couldn't help being this way. He's just so anxious. And it makes him...possessive.

Ghost sits leaned back on the couch, legs spread like warm butter on a pancake, still in uniform as he was too lazy tired to take it off. His hands are clasped together as he stares blankly at the TV, not even fully focused on whatever bullshit 90s romcom rerun was playing. He couldn't think about that right now. Not knowing you were in the other room, doing God knows what.

Simon had a heavy urge to burst in to see what you were doing, wondering if he'd find you sexting some random guy on tumblr (or whatever other social media platforms you had), but he knows even the slight implication that he thinks you're cheating will piss you off, so he stays in place, brown eyes hazed with thought.

His head whips instantly, his mind processing as you walk past him in some skimpy cheetah print (favorite color) dress, some chunky black heels, and your favorite necklace. He gruffs lowly, standing to his feet as you reach for the door.

He grabs your hand, turning you around.

"Where're you goin'?" His voice is low, yet animated, pointing out his frustration at your lack of even acknowledging your own boyfriend's presence. "Out." You answer flatly.

Ooh, he did NOT like your attitude. His grip on your wrist tightens. "Aren't you a smartass? Out where, love?" His tone is more sarcastic. "My friend's house. She's throwing a party." You respind, now frowning at his grasp on you.

Oh. Hell. No.

"Tell her you can't make it." "What?" "Ya heard me, love. Cancel. You're not going." He looks down at you, his towering stature adding a certain predatory feel to his serious gaze. "You can't decide if I go. You're not my dad." You pouted.

His brows loosen at that, eyes widening a bit. "You always do this, Simon. I'm not your little girl, I'm a grown damn woman. You think you can just boss me around cause I'm younger and shorter than you but you cannot keep doing this to me. You keep me locked in this house like a pet. You don't trust me." You snatch your hand away, folding your arms.

"...☆☆☆... baby. I do trust you. You're the only one I trust. It's everyone else I'm worried about. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let you go out and something bad happens when I can prevent it." He explains, his hands easing into his pockets with guilt. He knows your right. He's always like this. Keeping you on such a tight leash.

You sigh, your gaze flickering between his eyes, seeing the shame. He was like a puppy being scolded for chewing to shoes. "...fine. I'll stay." You give in, walking past him and back up the stairs. He sighs, turning to watch you leave.

You lay in bed, arms folded as Ghost rests his head on your tummy. He looks up at you, pretty brown eyes filled with love as his thumbs caresses your hips. He's finally in something more comfortable, the fabric of his shirt between your thighs feeling oh so warm and cozy.

Neither of you spoke a weird, unsure if you were even able to talk to eachother. You were still a little cranky about his attitude, and he was still trying to suppress the guilt of pressuring you to stay.

"I'll make it up to you, love." "I'm sure you will." You respond flatly. "Don't be so uptight. I'll take you to your favorite restaurant tomorrow and we can get you a new band shirt from Spencer's." He rubs a hand across your stomach. "Bribery doesn't work on me, Simon." You turn away.

"I'll add on a new handbag and a little sweet treat too." He offers in a singsong voice. "Well,...I do want a little sweet treat." You run a hand through his dusty blonde hair. "Good." He squeezes your hips. "I'll buy you anything you want as long as you let me keep you safe." He smirks. You couldn't be mad at him forever. Not when he was so cunning.

୨୧ You can support me by liking, commenting, reblogging, and/or cashapping me @fundsbrownie. Donations are optional, but much appreciated. Have fun! And remember, take care of yourself.

[iifishizzleii]

sad thoughts of gaz being the only one left.

after soap’s death, ghost wasn’t the same. somehow, it was possible for that man to become a mere phantom of who he was before; the jokes stopped because he felt there was nobody else to tell them to. he never lingered anywhere for too long of a time because there was nobody there to linger with. he started getting trapped in his head more and more, but the worst part of it was because there was nobody around to pull him back out when he was drowning. not anymore.

the guilt price carries eats at him from the inside out. it festers, heavy and horrible, keeping him from sleeping at every hour of the night. making it difficult to keep down any food when he can barely stomach his own mistakes. and in the day, when he feels that warm sun on his skin and the cool breeze in the air, the only thing he can think of is how someone else deserved to feel the sun, to breathe that air, more than he ever did.

and gaz. he does his best. he picks up the slack after price, stepping up to what he can when his captain starts losing steam. when ghost gets reckless, dangerously so, it’s gaz who’s pulling him back, catching the last two pieces of his family team by the frays and desperately hoping he’s enough to keep them together.

but, he’s not.

years later, he’s sitting alone at a diner. the waitress there is new, and she only knows about the old man through stories told by previous and older/current workers. he always sits alone in a booth big enough for four, seated on the inner left side. he only ever orders tea. whenever he comes, it’s with a cigar he never smokes for himself. instead, he lights it and lets it burn in an ash tray besides him. and he’s thumbing across dog tags in his hands, three in total.

the waitress only manages to catch a glimpse of what they say; ghost, soap, price.

the workers call him looney. they make up all kinds of stories about the old man who sits alone in his booth. that he was some crackhead who found those dog tags off the ground, considering how old they looked. that he was just another old man who found himself in a world with no family or friends to depend on, forced to live day by day off of whatever money he can find.

because his only family lives through memories, now. stories. but, he can’t even share those.

[peachetteprice]

Req for Simon x Reader, Reader never got their feelings validated growing up. Simon and reader fighting over something dumb but Simon eventually understanding how Reader feels and validates Readers feelings and they dont know how to react.

Completely self indulgent, but would be more than thankful. 🤍

Hi, lovely! 🤍 🧡 I can absolutely do that for you, I love self-indulgent asks, even if they aren't mine to indulge in! Thank you so much for your request, I've been waiting for someone to utilise that button. Single quotation marks for speech because I was feeling dead British today...

Here's your order! Enjoy, gorgeous! 🧡

Some Days - Simon "Ghost" Riley

On some days, Simon doesn’t think. On the worst of those days, he reminds you of your father.

That being said, on a particular one of those worst days, there’s a tinny clanging from the dishwasher as he loads plate after plate with a passive aggression that seems to forget its ancestral passiveness to instead bolster firmly on the aggression; he grinds out a lungful of air when bending to input a dishwashing tablet – supposing it isn’t the miraculous day his knees have recovered from crawling out of that ditch in Peru – and again when he lifts the door to close.

They never get done, he mutters, they never bloody get done, and a part of you riles as he whispers to himself, for you know he can choose to be quieter than that, near-silent when he whispers, and is therefore only doing it for the sake of riling you up – and it’s nevertheless working. Simon hears you enter the doorway; he knows the sound of your arms crossing before your chest, the gentle thwip as the fabric of your cardigan smooths over itself, but he doesn’t budge, slamming cupboard doors shut to make himself a mug of tea and nigh-whipping the fridge door into the path of your nose.

Bloody milk never has its cap screwed on tight, he mutters, and this time he’s sure to make it clear to you that he wants you to hear him that time, because he knows you’re there, to call him out so he has the conversational leverage by which he can whine and moan about the other chores that haven’t been done to standard. And you would grit back about the sodding pile of gear he leaves at the front door that, by way of “protecting” his “lovie”, you are denied the actuality of moving, for he posits it to be too hazardous for a little thing like you to have your hands over, lest one of the guns goes off and sends a bullet straight through your abdomen, and he has to attend your funeral knowing it was his bullet from his gun that murdered you, but that’s by-the-by because he’s never had as grave an issue with it when he arrives home barely an hour after landing, having booked it home like a man encumbered with flesh-eating revenants, to swirl you around in the air and beg you to pull it off him so he can focus on undressing you instead, no, he’s never had an issue with your hands on his gear, then, but as soon as it’s off and on the floor in the hallway it’s a coal man’s mineshaft and you aren’t to enter; you truly would grit back all of that, but his retorts cut harshly, and you’d rather not hear them, for it’s one of the worst of one of those days, and you can’t be expected to deal with it.

‘Don’t you ever think of me, Si?’ Slips out of your mouth. It simply does, for there is no reason why it shouldn’t have slipped out. It was at the right time, and it wasn’t much of an outrageous thing to say, considering.

Simon has only just put the teabag in when it slips out, however, and if he lets it stew for too long, he’ll have a bitter cuppa, and he doesn’t want a bitter cuppa, because he doesn’t like bitter cuppas, so he can’t let it stew for long, but the words that slipped out seem important: important enough for him to abandon his cuppa on the worksurface for just a moment and hope it isn’t bitter by the time he returns to it with a clean teaspoon and milk.

‘Think of you every day, don’t I?’ He says. Because he does – think of you every day, that is; it’s true. And Simon only says things that are true, unless he says something that isn’t true, in which case, it’s a lie, and in the same case, he won’t say it unless he needs to. He adjusts the handle of his cuppa so it faces outward: so he can grab it quickly to fish the teabag out, so that his cuppa isn’t bitter when he has the time to get back to it. ‘Why’d ya think I don’t think of you?’ He tacks on.

Thwip. Your arms unfold. ‘You’re antsy about the housework.’

‘I’m not antsy about the housework–’ he reasons, but realises it’s a lie, and knows he shouldn’t lie to his missus, for Simon doesn’t and shouldn’t lie to anyone unless he needs to, and he doesn’t need to, because you’re his missus, and no good man ever needs to lie to his missus– ‘alright, so there’s dirty dishes near the sink, then – that's all it is, dove.’

But that isn’t really all it is, and Simon knows it isn’t all, and he thinks himself a liar again, and he’s a good man, not a liar, so he explains that there might have been dirty dishes near the sink, but that’s quite alright every once in a while, even to his jingoistic standards, and, yes, there’s a trail of grass and muck from your wellies by the front door that’ll settle into the wood if you’re not careful – and he says you should be careful, because nobody wants a trail of mud on their genuine hardwood flooring – and the tumble dryer has been brewing a warm set of clothes that are going to get cold if you’re not attentive – and you should be attentive, he says, because you like a nice set of warm pyjamas and he doesn’t want to hear you complain that they aren’t when it was your job to put them away – and the washing machine has a similar problem to groan about – and he does groan about it, because he’ll have to put them on a fresh cycle if they get musty – and there’s the matter of the umbrellas that haven’t been tapped and dried and lined in the umbrella holder, the bathroom bar of soap hasn’t been replenished, the carpets haven’t been plucked and sucked and dried and vaccuumed, the sealant in the bathroom hasn’t been bleached and spritzed and wiped, and above all that, it truly isn’t alright for the dishes not to be done every once in a while, as they should be done to his militant standards, which isn’t when you like it, because for matters of the house, he’s always right and you’re always wrong, and even though you despise his nagging, you should just bloody deal with it.

In the inevitable and oppressive heat of your silence, he does as he should have done before you said anything and fishes for the teabag, replaces the lost levels with a dash of milk, takes a sip, and, when he realises it has gone bitter: pours it down the sink. He grumbles a bit following the displacement to his routine, reiterates to himself that he isn’t a liar and that non-liars such as himself would still like a cuppa, flicks the kettle back on and refreshes a tea bag into his mug.

‘Would it kill you to be nice for once about this, Simon?’

‘I’m being truthful’, he notes, because there’s no nicer quality in the world than being truthful, as his mother used to say, though Simon can see from the incongruent frown on your face that your mother mightn’t have used to say the same, even though it clears both of his exclusive two stern criteria of being both truthful and reasonable, and he surmises that you might not like things being both truthful and reasonable at the same time, so he picks one and lies about it – for now is the time to need to lie.

‘It’s alright,’ he nods, fishing the teabag out before it gets too bitter, ‘s’ not the end of the world, lovie.’

Though you don’t quite seem to like the non-truthful part of the opposing version of his truthful and reasonable criteria into which all of his statements fall, as there’s an even lengthier shadowed kink in your cheek from the frown on your face, and you’ve since adopted a stance that reminds him of his mother, which he thinks is odd, because he’d only just concluded that you were quite unlike his mother.

‘You remind me of my mother,’ he says, because it is truthful – and just so happens to be reasonable, too – and has absolutely nothing to do with the former crux of the argument, so it shouldn’t be a problem.

‘Really? Then, you remind me of my father.’ You refute, and Simon takes a moment to stare at you, really stare, to see if you’re telling the truth, because if he were you, he would not be telling the truth, because he doesn’t suppose he would remind himself of your father.

‘I don’t.’ He grumbles.

Simon does, you double-down, though in the manner of saying “you bloody do”, because you rather think you’d be the judge of that, having spent the past two decades as his lowly wet-nurse, cleaning his bed-pans and forever having to neglect the memories of him passively-aggressively cleaning up the messes that were only ever yours to clean, slapping your mother when he was upset that he had to clean the messes that were only ever yours to clean, slapping your mother again when you did clean the messes that were only ever yours to clean, before they ever became messes, and despising you all the while through.

‘M’sure I don’t.’ He disagrees; he doesn’t think you should be the judge of that, actually, as he’s just imagined himself in your shoes, looking at himself, attempting to be truthful, and finding that he wouldn’t remind himself of your father.

Rather than go around in circles, as Simon much prefers to do whenever you argue, you stand your ground, stamping your foot into the kitchen tile, then huffing, remarking, ‘You don’t once think that perhaps I’m tired, too, do you? That, maybe, I don’t want to clean up after myself when I spend the entire day looking after that sod of a father?’

‘I don’t think about that’, he remarks back; it’s another one of his truths, and you know it too by then, only there is a solemn comfort in his acknowledgement of the fact, which leads him to his next criterion, for which he says, ‘never thought of that, ever, an’ I don’t think it’s right.’

As, though everything Simon said up until that point was either truthful or reasonable, and on the more frequent occasions, truthful and reasonable, not everything had been solely reasonable, and it takes your reasoning for him to come across that conclusion. And it isn’t an easy conclusion for him to come across, the man too raptured by the shine of his boots, the angle of his tie, and the tilt of the picture frame on the wall. It’s hardly an easy conclusion for you to come across, either, that you’re hurt, anguished by his words, for it’s all too easy to become complacent with things that serve you only pain, especially for those that may hurt more to address.

‘M’sorry’, he acquiesces, with both truth and reason, for there’s no better words he can give that’ll mean the same.

‘Your teabag’s been in too long’, you rebuttal, because his cuppa looks like it’ll be a tad bitter.

| Masterlist |

[emmster]

Chapter 2 pt. 2 💀👀

[call-of-duty-incorrect-quotes]

Overheard at the training grounds.

Ghost: Remember: every human being is like a planet.

Ghost: And not every planet has intelligent life.

[confused-wanderer]

Ghost knows a secret.

Soap cannot handle terms of endearment. He guesses the other man must not be as used to it growing up, but he’s noticed that when Price absentmindedly calls him “pet” , the split second where Johnny’s breath catches, eyes widening ever so slightly as his brain short circuits is an adorable sight. It’s only a second of course, and he just stares off into the distance later when no one’s watching, processing the past few seconds after he talks to Price.

Or when Gaz asked if anybody had a sticky note and Soap without hesitation pulled one out of his bag. Gaz just responds with a quick “thanks darling” before taking the note and scribbling furiously on it. He gets to see the look again, the subtle freeze he does, the rapid blinks and wide eyes, along with the smile he’s fighting off slowly forming which the latter doesn’t notice. There’s not a lot of things that catch Johnny MacTavish off-guard, so seeing something so casual just throw him off with that look on his face is something Ghost considers priceless.

So he tries it himself. After a mission, when everyone’s at a bar and the volumes so loud you can barely hear what the others saying, he looks at Johnny whose carrying their drinks, and takes the drink the other man extends with a “Thanks, love.”

The glorious red flush is reward enough, Soap caught so speechless he actually stammers, stammers for a response while his hands fumble, eyes refusing to meet his. And he notices afterwards how Johnny keeps mouthing that word to himself, over and over again, bit of the earlier blush creeping back over his neck. He swears Johnny lets out a sound, burying his head in his hands while his hands grip the Mohawk.

He thinks he quite likes this little secret Soap keeps.

[southernbluebellereader]

Being Chosen...By A Baby

Lt. Simon "Ghost" Riley x F! Single Mom (COD MW(2/3))

Warning: Fluffy stuff, Baby Fever, MAJOR BABY FEVER

Summary: Simon Riley isn't too particular about babies, until he meets yours.

Word Count: ~1,670 words

Master List | Tag List Request (Tag List At The Bottom)

A/N: I loved writing this, it's been on my mind for a while. I didn't like the ending because I didn't know how to end it lol

Edit: Pronouns and names were all over the place but it should be fixed lmao thanks for letting me know

Imagine being chosen by someone. Someone intentionally looking at you and thinking - contemplating, deciding - and choosing to pick you. It’s as simple as picking you to ask for directions, ordering a cup of coffee, and begging to touch your skin.

But it’s something special when someone as small as a little child is looking at you and choosing you. No one knows what goes on in their mind, behind those curious eyes, those rosy and chubby cheeks, that little button nose, that babbling little mouth with teeth fighting to make way. No one knows what those cute little chubby cherubs think when they decide to reach out to grab anything and everything in sight.

The grip of a child is mightier than anyone Lieutenant Simon Riley has ever seen.

Lieutenant Simon Riley - the infamous Ghost. He’s not supposed to exist. The enigma.

Yet… out of anyone who could have found him and had a mighty grip on his gray fleece jacket was your little chunky cherub made of a can of Pillsbury crescent rolls, looking at him with big curious eyes, absorbing information like a sponge. Your little infant son of nine months old, sitting comfortably in a little wrap carrier so that he can comfortably lay against your chest, he has seen Simon and reached out and grabbed a little handful of his gray fleece jacket with no intention of letting go.

It was a quick day for you so you didn’t need the baby carriage today, the wrap keeping your son against your chest would suffice, you liked having your baby against your chest anyways. In the city, it was easy to get around by walking and public transport, but you needed something in the next town over so you had to take the train. The platform for the train was nearly empty, you were early, so you had some time to yourself and your little boy giggling and babbling away, occasionally wiping his nose and talking to him about the plans for the day.

Slowly but surely, people started to pile in as the time went on, the train would be arriving soon.

Even a ghost needs a place to stay, right. On the occasion that he is home, he tends to stay out of his home, usually to replace food that had spoiled while he was gone. Simon arrived at the train station and waited on the platform. It wasn’t too cold, but chilly enough to wear his gray fleece jacket.

It was nice and quiet until more people started to pile up onto the train station. Usually he didn’t mind until people started to get into his personal space, which rarely happened anyways. Even in more civilian clothes, in a place where people barely recognize him, despite him living there, people tend to stay away from people who look mysterious.

As more people pile into the station, he slowly moves towards the center of the station. Huffing slightly to himself, he glances slightly at the giant clock. The train would be arriving soon. As he waited, he’d hear bits and pieces of conversations from people about their lives.

He didn’t mind it, he felt more human.

After a while, he heard something he didn’t hear often.

An animal?

No.

A baby.

The baby seemed to continue to babble, getting louder as he moved again. For some reason it made him curious. It’s not that he wasn’t fond of children, his childhood was pretty fucked up, but a child was an innocent being in this cruel world. Sometimes he wondered what he’d be like if he’d spent more time around children - or what things would be like if he had children.

But that’s just a random thought in his mind. A man like Lieutenant Simon Riley - with the sins and atrocities he’s been through and committed, he has no business having children. He is the one mothers tell their children to stay away from. He is the boogeyman underneath a child’s bed.

Hearing the babbling again, he instinctively turns his head and looks around for a moment, then looks down, seeing the source of this little creature.

An infant child, probably no more than 9 months old, a drool covered fist in his mouth, the other arm flailing in every direction. And you, holding your child wrapped in a long cloth and tied around your waist, Simon couldn’t figure out how you held the chunky child on your chest with just a scarf. 

You were on the phone with someone talking about baby related things. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you and your baby. Such a mundane sight. A mother and her child. He glanced at your hand caressing your child’s chubby and rosy cheeks. No ring. Single mom? No wait, that’s rude. 

Cracking a small smile at the sight, he looked at the child for a moment, finding amusement in how you tried to sooth your child as you talked on the phone, swaying your hips slightly. You kept your eyes on your little cherub the entire time, playing with your son’s cheeks, making him giggle and smile, occasionally acknowledging him, calling him your honey bun.

Then you got caught up with your conversation and looked away. Your child looked around for a moment, content and happy. Simon didn’t know what he found so amusing and intriguing about this child. When he thought about children, he thought of crying little messes, unruly children, little rascals who were nothing but trouble.

This little dough-boy? He had an urge to just poke his little rosy cheeks. You were holding your son, Simon practically stood right next to you but he couldn’t tell you what you were talking about. Your little cherub had dampened his senses.

More people started to fill the train station. The train would soon arrive. Simon was practically next to you. At this point, he didn’t mind being next to you and your baby. As more people surrounded the three of you, you glanced up at Simon and smiled sheepishly and mouthed ‘Sorry’ in an attempt to apologize in case she’d bumped into him. Simon saw as you wrapped your free arm tighter around your baby that was tightly wrapped against your chest.

It’s ok. You’re fine. He didn’t even know you, but he didn’t want anything to happen to you or your baby. 

He knew the train would be arriving soon so he looked up at the time and looked to see if the train would be coming soon. Staring was rude. He had manners.

Not even a moment passed after he looked away did he feel a slight tug on his arm. Suddenly aware of his surroundings he looked down again. Your little munchkin demanded attention from the behemoth of a man named Simon. You were still on the phone, looking away.

Simon smiled at the sight and sighed in relief. You little rascal. Their eyes met, for such a cute little thing, your son looked at Simon intently, studying him. Simon was wondering what he was thinking. The little hand that had such a strong grip on his fleece jacket tugged at him to come closer.

“Curious little thing, aren’t you?” Simon said, using his other hand to wave at your child, making him smile slightly and let out a gleeful sound.

You turned your head at the sound and laughed at the sound of your son laughing, then blushed when you realized he was pulling on Simon’s sleeve. She quickly said her good-bye on the phone and hung up, then looked up at Simon, smiling sheepishly.

“I-I’m sorry, sir-” You gently pulled on your baby’s arm to try and get him to let go of his arm.

Simon let out a small chuckle as he waited patiently, smiling at the sight, “It’s fine. He’s got a mighty grip, alright.”

You chuckled as your child started babbling at Simon, as if he could be understood, refusing to let go despite your attempt to make him unhand Simon, “Once they got you, they don’t want to let go.”

You glanced up at Simon, seeing a small smile on the man. He reached up also with his free hand and gently held the child’s wrist, “I ain’t going anywhere, you can let go of me now. I think we’re going on the same train.”

Your child finally let go but continued to try and reach out for Simon, instantly taking a liking to him. You sighed as you looked up at Simon, the train finally approaching, “I’m sorry again, sir-”

“It’s fine, really. You’ve got a cute one.” Simon smiled at you and your child, who was still mesmerized by him.

You smiled up at him in return, glancing down at your son, then back up at Simon, “Haha yeah, he is something.”

Once the train doors opened, people quickly exited the train as quickly as people entered.

“This is my train-” You looked up at him and then toward the train, then attempted to walk forward. But people rushed around them. You kept your arms around your child and Simon felt the need to stay close, this way people would actually walk around you as you and Simon stepped into the train. 

Once inside, you found a seat and sighed as you sat down. The seats filled up quickly and Simon ended up sitting opposite of you and your baby.

Smiling awkwardly at each other, you apologized again for your son grabbing onto him.

“It’s fine, really. I like his determination.” Simon looked at him as you turned slightly so Simon could see her son’s face, who smiled when he saw Simon again. “What’s his name?”

“Joseph. But I think he likes being called Joey.” You said as she caressed little Joey’s cheek as he cooed at Simon.

Simon gave her and Joey a genuine smile this time. Joseph… Tommy’s son…

“I’m Simon, what’s your name?” He looked up at her.

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you, Simon.”

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