#cod fluff

[simonsrileyhusband]

older bf simon who lets his lovie do whatever to him.

color in his tattoos? already bought a pack of 30 body-safe marker pack that comes with stencils so you can add more drawings on his skin.

he walks around the supermarket, a bow neatly tied around his bicep as he pushes the kart and you put in the groceries.

his nails painted black because even when he loves you very much he wont do any other color, but he allows a tiny pink heart on his pinky. no one daring to comment on it or even glance at it for too long because he is ghost for christ sake and they dont want to suffer the consequences of messing with his lovies work.

he lays on the couch, hello kitty headband on, that doesnt hold anything because his hair is always buzzed, face mask neatly laid on his face as you gently massage it.

"can i hold it while its soft?"

"what the-... baby, go to sleep"

[rawme-price]

Hmmm artic stern!soap who is desperately trying to flirt with wolf!reader.

Its common practice for stern hybrids to gift others food as a form of flirting, sometimes if the person is really serious they bring a homemade meal. So it only makes sense that soap has been bringing you snacks nearly everyday. Gaz says he looks desperate. To be fair, he kind of is, given how madly enamored he is with you.

Unfortunately for him, hes fallen for a fucking wolf hybrid. An exceptionally dense wolf hybrid that thinks all these snacks are just pack-bonding food. You havent even considered soap is flirting, all the snacks and time spend eating together is so similar to platonic pack dynamics that it flies completely under your radar. Soap tries to initiate at least a kiss, but you assume he wants to scent and nuzzle his neck instead.

Its hell. Youre so physically affectionate with soap, but youre like that with everyone in the team. Soap thinks maybe hes just not working hard enough, so he starts going big. Large homemade meals packed into bento boxes for you. He learned multiple new recipes to accommodate your preferences, and even cuts the fruit into nice shapes!

In the end, its not even soap who confronts you about it. While hes content to suffer in the unintentional friend-zone, gaz is not willing to watch it anymore. He all but throws a book about stern culture at you the night after soap serves cooked salmon. You stay up late reading, mortification building as the pieces fall into place.

The next morning, youre late to breakfast. Soap is in the middle of worrying that your meal might get cold when hands grab him by the nape and haul him from his seat. He has hardly a chance to breathe before youre kissing him, tongue licking into his mouth. One of your hands snakes around and dips into the feathers on his back and soap outright moans into your mouth.

You probably would have fucked him there had it not been for price scruffing you, asking that you two at least find a closet.

[digitialwonderland]

I have a little head cannon that reader sometimes has a hard time opening jars. Happens to the best of us. But instead of trying to pry it open with a knife or running hot water over it, they just call for König.

“Big man!” You shouted, staring angrily at the can of pickles. You brought it close to your chest, wrapping your hand around it and trying again. “Mother fucker!” Pain erupted from your hand, leaving bright red indents and even a small cut on your palm.

“Not me! Not me ‘Mother fucker’!” An Austrian, sweetly appalled accent came from behind you. König towered in the doorway, his eyes comically wide under his t-shirt “sniper hood”. His large hand was plastered to his chest, as if he was a Victorian woman clutching at her pearls.

“No no no, not you buddy! Th-the jar.” You released the jars top, shaking out your throbbing hand with a small hiss. “It’s stuck. Can you-“

Before you even finish, he is moving forward with a sort of clumsy lumber that was uniquely his. He mumbled something in German, then finished the sentence with a decided, “angry pickles”. He reached for the jar, taking it into his large palm with the utmost tenderness. Then he pinched the top between his forefinger and thumb, giving it a little shake and then a firm twist. As if having not just fought with your own two hands, the cap twisted off with ease.

Even after seeing it happen so many times, it still disgruntled you to see him do it with such ease. “Thanks, König.” You reached for the jar, but he pulled it away before you could grab it. “Nah ah,” he tutted, reached out with his palm upturned. “Hand, mien liebling.”

You scowled, looking up at the giant as he held your pickle snack hostage. With a small huff you tossed your injured hand towards him. “It’s not that bad.” You mumbled, but quickly went quiet as he finally passed the pickle jar to you.

“Hase…” he grumbled, looking over the angry, irritated impression in your palm. As well as the small cut, which especially concerned him. In one, swift motion, he grabbed ahold of your hips and lifted you onto the counter.

You opened your mouth to protest but he hushed you. “Eat.” He said, grabbing the jaw again and putting it on the counter beside you. Content to finally have your snack, you shrugged and pulled the first pickle from the juice.

You are happily snacking, all the while König fussed over your hand, cleaning it and then pressing a small bandage to the cut.

[lay-z]

Simon Riley be like:

[changenameno]

Haha didn’t expect the ending! Love it😆❤️✨

PLS I NEED TO KNOW WHAT COD MEN WOULD BE LIKE IF THEY WERE THOSE HUSBANDS OF THE WIVES ON THE TIKTOK THAT ARE LIKE 'packing lunch for my husband's 12 hour shift' PLEASE 😭🙏

this.

they would be showing them off at every lunch, each of them proudly displaying the food their sweet birds cooked up either the night before or at the crack of dawn.

definitely fighting over who's is better. they have to make it into a competition about who's bird loves them more.

soap is smug about his, always having to one up the lad next to him. the type to be like "you got a note? well, does yours have a kiss mark? didn't think so."

and to counter that, gaz asks, "is your fruit cut into heart shapes?" which causes soap to sulk because no, his fruit isn't cut into heart shapes.

but he definitely talks to the missus about that one.

gaz chides at the scott because despite his note missing a lip print, his lunch is packed full of love. continues to comment and compare their meals, each one becoming increasingly aggressive in the nature of their competition

price would shake his head at their back and forth banter, telling the lads to settle down because it wasn't a competition (it most definitely is, and price would think he won, hands down).

his wife packed his favorite foods, along with a note and a pack of limited-edition cigars he had been eyeing on his laptop (with readers on).

what more could a man ask for?

sitting silent at the table, balaclava pulled over his nose, is simon. while he does take pride in his full meals that his pretty wife cooks up for him, he doesn't feel the need to show it off.

until the guys turn to him.

"got anythin' good in there, lt?"

"bet the missus didn't pack his lunch like ours do."

because they couldn't believe that simon would tolerate anything of the sort, but they're so wrong. he would tolerate anything if it meant making the missus happy.

in his lunch, he's got a note with hand-drawn skulls and stars, skull print napkins that are the worst quality he's ever used, but it puts a giddy smile on your face, and a little something extra.

"mine left a thong in here."

they all go silent before the other three are muttering under their breaths.

"lucky bastard."

[readwritealldayallnight]

Simon’s never given much thought to babies before.

When he was younger, enough time was spent scorning his father and the childhood he was depriving him of, that any thoughts of becoming a dad himself one day were nonexistent. As far as he was concerned, he was essentially already a stand in parent to his younger brother.

As he grew older and enlisted, his life becoming one that consisted of nothing more than violence and destruction and terror, he thought the odds of him surviving into his 30’s were so slim that he need never bother worrying about having a ‘next of kin’.

That was until, he met you, of course.

Because now that Simon Riley has you in his life, he’s not quite so pessimistic about his existence the way he once was, doesn’t picture a foreboding dark cloud when he considers what his future could be. What a future with you could be.

Still, as much time as the two of you spend actually engaging in the baby making process, Simon really only considers babies as being something that other people have, not him.

Not with his line of work, not with the risks that come alongside the territory, not when he already can barely stand to leave you for deployment, let alone leave you behind with a child on top of everything.

No, Simon is perfectly content with his life where babies are just another anomale.

But then, your best friend announces she’s pregnant. And the sight of you holding a positive pregnancy test in your hands, changes something within him.

Suddenly, Simon is noticing chubby, drooling little infants everywhere he goes.

Fat babies shoved into the uncomfortable looking seats of grocery carts pass by him in the shops, crying babies strapped to their mums on the tube, sleeping babies being pushed around in their prams without a care in the world. Even on base, he notices more people talking about their children, showing off picture of their offspring.

He’s looking at you a little different as well. His gaze on you will darken as you and your friend chat about baby names, casually mentioning the ones that you like for yourself. His grip will tighten around the shopping cart when you wave to passing babies, making them giggle. He’s surprised at the way his cock twitches when you pretend to hold a breast pump up to your own chest, wrapping the baby shower gift you’d gotten her.

It only takes so long for you to notice the change in him as well.

You’ll be strolling through the park on a chilly morning when a young family goes by, Simon muttering something about how the little bald headed infant ‘should have a hat on for fuck’s sake, cold out ‘ere’. You’ll be in the shops, when suddenly Simon returns holding a pair of teeny tiny baby shoes in his hand, appearing comically small in his large calloused palms, wondering if maybe your friend would like them. You’re sitting outside a cafe while a pair of chubby cheeked babies are sat in their strollers staring at Simon as if their lives depended on it. You’re giggling to yourself, watching your boyfriend stare right back at these little girls, when the 6’4” tank of a man slowly lifts a gloved hand and waves at them, earning a pair of gummy smiles in return.

The most evident change in Simon however, is in bed.

Almost overnight, he goes from never having considered children, to suddenly dedicating every effort to getting you pregnant by the end of the year, month, week.

[starryylies]

Your first kiss with Simon

This is so self indulgent and probably ooc but mannnn I love gentle and attentive Simon

He never cared about this shit before, I mean it’s just a kiss. Can’t even remember when he had his

But when you come along he’s sure he wants this one to last

After overhearing your conversation with Gaz on how terrible your first kiss was,

he wants to make sure he will make up for that

Makes plans for a dinner date and a scenic walk in the park underneath the stars.

Makes sure to brush his teeth three times before leaving the house,

And keeping mints in his pocket for emergency.

After the dinner he holds your hand and walks with you, hearing you rant about what constellation is up in the sky

Unable to find a right chance to do it

He acts on instinct and lowers his head and gives you a soft kiss on your lips,

Licking the bottom of his taking in the taste of your bitter cherry lipgloss.

Leans away after a second, scanning your face to see if it there’s any sign of disapproval or disgust

your eyes sparkle underneath the moonlit sky and the corner of your lips turn upwards.

You were the prettiest sight he saw all night

And that makes him wanna kiss you again

this time a bit more deeper and a rougher,

Holding your body and cupping your face In a possessive grip.

Savouring each second,

Connecting his forehead with you after the kiss and smiling tooth to tooth while he cups your face gently and peppers soft kisses over it while you giggle about how he tastes like peppermint.

Extra

Was surprised when you kiss him back though

Kinda fucks up the tongue part since he’s nervous and accidentally bites you jk

But overall, it was the best kiss you had. One worthy of being your first atleast

[skyrigel]

Let me introduce retired!Simon whose life has become cluelessly empty. Morning to dusk he is fixing cabinets, painting fences, oiling cables of his motorbike.

He's seriously so purposeless until, well ofcourse until you move in to the house opposite his, and the first thing you do is crash your trailer into his fence.

“I am literally so sorry ! So, so sorry —” You profusely apologise. Hands on your hip and gaze warmer than the sun.

Simon stands there transfixed, he should say something, he should be angry, he should literally brood, that stuff was painted twice just yesterday. But all he does is watch you get into your car again with a determined streak to turn the trailer.

One, two and — SMASH.

Once again over the fence until it could no longer be distinguished as a fence. Flowerbed mashed all together. Again, you get out of the door, engine dying all over with key gripped in your trembling hands, biting down your lips and head shaking profusely; like you could really use a knuckle knock over your head.

“Da keys,” He grumbles out. His whole heart exploding with the way you looked at him with hope in your eyes.

He has never been more in love.

Masterlist

[changenameno]

Aww this is so wholesome! 🥺😍❤️✨

headcanons: price’s wife & the task force 141

price’s wife is the only person who can make captain john price relax after a long mission. she’s his safe place, and everyone in the 141 knows it.

soap calls her “mrs. p” too but deep down, he sees her as the closest thing to a mother he’s had in years. he tells her about his new tattoos and jokes that price will never be as cool as him.

ghost is surprisingly protective of her. he never shows his face, but he’ll let her touch his arm or shoulder when she’s trying to comfort him. she’s the only one who can make ghost eat properly when they’re home.

gaz adores her cooking. he always compliments her and says she’s “the heart of the team.” he helps her set the table and carries heavy groceries like it’s a mission objective.

whenever the boys come back from a mission, price’s wife hugs them all, no questions asked. ghost stiffens at first, but he secretly loves it.

soap teases price saying, “you’re lucky she said yes to you, cap. i’d have married her if i’d met her first.” price just rolls his eyes but hides a smirk.

she sends small notes or snacks in their gear bags before missions—like “stay safe, lads”—and ghost once kept one tucked in his pocket the whole operation.

price calls her “love” or “darling” in front of the team, and soap pretends to gag every single time, just to annoy him.

when someone gets hurt, she’s the first to scold them gently, like a mom. even ghost listens when she says, “sit down and let me see that wound.”

gaz loves how she listens to him talk about random things, like his favorite music or football matches, and she always remembers the little details.

price trusts her with his life, and the team knows she’s the only one who can pull him out of a bad mood.

[rawme-price]

Deaths–head hawkmoth!reader and ghost....

The first time you meet ghost, its out of uniform. A casual meeting after a two-week long op that left everyone too tired to care about formalities. The first thing people think when they see you is God you look scary. Ghost could understand where that sentiment came from.

Large, dark wings with a noxious splash of yellow sprout from your back. Thick and imposing, making an eery beating sound when they fluttered. You had long claws, too. Long enough you could easily tear through someone's gear and flesh. You dont talk to anyone when you move through the base. A silent looming figure that people avoid.

For the most part, you dont talk to ghost either. That is, until you see him in gear. Ghost is in the middle of going over the training plans with gaz when a voice doesnt recognize gasps "oh my god! Lt, look we match!"

Ghost watches, a bit startled, as you unclasp your vest to reveal your bare back. There, between your wings in a pattern of fuzz, is a skull. Ghost looks at for a long moment until you finally turn back to with a smile hes never seen on you before. Snorting, ghost comments "yep. We do match."

It seems that was all you needed to crawl out of your shell, because suddenly you seem very sociable to ghost. Following him around and always eager to talk. Ghost doesnt seem to mind, offering his own jokes and remarks to your bubbly nature.

Thats another thing, you are unexpectedly extremely cheery. You smile often around ghost, to the point that seeing you withdraw around others feels odd to him. Hes long since learned to carry extra sweets on him and stock energy drinks in his office. If he doesnt, there's a near garuantee youll take whatever food was planned for him.

From the outside, you two look like a pair of the meanest, deadliest soldiers on base. Rookies turn the other way when they see you two approaching. What people dont know is that twenty minutes ago you were dying laughing on ghosts floor because he stubbed his two and ate shit on the corner of his bed.

Two of the deadliest soldiers, sure. But the meanest? Only if someone gives you a reason.

[demothers-empty-blog]

here have this, because my hormones are out of wack :')

cw: fluff. könig pms comfort

truly a terrible thing has befallen you this week and painkillers could only take you so far… even considered ripping your uterus out at some point. you didn’t feel like yourself.

you’ve tried everything you could think of, pushing a boulder over a hill felt more manageable than this. daily house chores were the farthest thing from your mind, all you could think of was the discomfort.

you broke into a sweat, the pain unbearable. reaching for the phone with a trembling hand, you dial a number from your contacts. the call lasted about a minute before König came rushing.

he spends the next hour pampering you to the best of his abilities.

thick fingers laced together over your gut, warm hands that have always been a source of comfort begin to soothe the ache that came and went as it pleased, wincing with you when a cramp became too much to bear alone.

Shhhhhh… Alles ist gut, ich bin hier, he’ll whisper words so tender under your ear, lips ghosting over your skin with every word uttered into your neck, his heart hurting for you. he doesn’t like when you’re in pain. trust that König can stomach quite a lot, seeing you in any type of distress however and his chest physically aches. in some odd, empathetic way, he felt what you’re feeling.

he kisses the sweat off your burning skin, murmuring sweet nothings in his mother tongue while he watches his angel on earth finally drift off so peacefully in his arms.

I’ve got you, mein Herz… forever and always. Shhh… rest now, my everything. Schlaf schön.

[yunyuu]

　　　　.⠀⠀⠀ ू❀𝆬　𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑　．　∔

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀domestic life with simon. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀　being⠀ simon's　⠀wife⠀ ⋮

Simon didn’t think he could be a father. Not because he didn’t want to be—he did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed he’d live long enough for it. He didn’t think there’d be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world. But then you came. And then… she did.⠀𓆉

He was terrified.

When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, still—the kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.

He didn’t say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered so quietly, it could’ve been a prayer.

He wasn’t there when she was born.

Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. He’d torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anything—cursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.

But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding her… saw her pink and alive and real in your arms…

He broke.

He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his past—something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you replied.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.

Simon was awkward at first.

He held her like she might detonate—arms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.

He wouldn’t say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldn’t stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.

He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought you’d see.

She follows him everywhere.

Like a little ghost of her own.

He doesn’t let many people see her. Doesn’t post pictures. Doesn’t talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.

She’s curious. Smart. A little quiet—like him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like she’s decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.

He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when she’s bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:

“She wanted to. Didn’t wanna say no.”

He teaches her how to be strong—not cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, he’s there before she can even call for him.

And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That it’s okay to be soft, but it’s also okay to be careful.

And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.

“Look, Daddy. I’m just like you!”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, and this time, he does smile—small, but real. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”

Simon is a man full of ghosts.

But when he’s with her, they quiet.

You’ve seen it.

The way his shoulders relax when she’s in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, “You be good for Mum, yeah? I’ll be back.”

He hates going.

Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.

But every return—when she runs to him screaming “Daddy!” and tackles his legs with her little arms—that’s what mends it.

He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. He’s always afraid he’s too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him he’s the safest place she knows.

And sometimes, when the house is quiet and she’s asleep in the next room, he’ll hold you close and whisper,

“Thank you.”

She’s eight now.

She tells people her dad is a superhero.

Simon doesn’t correct her.

He doesn’t know what version of him she’s seeing—what stories she’s crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of. To her, he’s just… strong. Invincible. Safe.

He doesn’t deserve it. But he lives for it.

There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and she’s tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.

And he’ll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.

He listens to her breathe.

He doesn't know why he tortures himself like that—why he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams she’s long since outgrown. Maybe he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe he’s waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.

He’ll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.

Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like there’s a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap he’s too smart to fall for.

She was never supposed to see it.

An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. She’d plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.

She didn’t say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.

“Daddy… you hurt bad people, right?”

He froze.

“…What’d you see, love?”

“Some men. You hurt them. But… you were saving someone, weren’t you?”

There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.

Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever done.

“Yes,” he said. “I hurt bad people. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I’d never want you to see. But I’ve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.”

She nodded slowly. And then—God, kids are strange—she just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said softly. “You’re my hero.”

And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.

He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him too—arms around his neck like an anchor, like she’d never let go.

She gets more clever every year.

She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous places—like the freezer, or under her bed—just to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims it’s to “keep him home longer.”

He pretends to be annoyed.

“You’re a little brat,” he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.

“I'm baby!” she giggles back, kicking her legs.

They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When she’s nervous at school, she touches her wrist twice—it means “I wish you were here.” When he’s home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen table—it means “I waited.”

She tells him she wants to be like him.

A protector. A fighter.

He tells her she already is.

But inside, the thought terrifies him.

You’re the one who packs his bag now. She won’t help anymore. Not since last time.

She’d cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised he’d stay longer. That “longer” shouldn’t mean “only six days.” She was angry in that way only children can be—grief-stricken and pure.

“I hate the army,” she said, clutching the edge of his vest.

He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.

“You don’t have to understand, love. But I hope one day… you’ll forgive me for missing things.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and ran to her room.

He left anyway. And it broke him.

He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.

It’s still there.

And when he comes back, It’s always late.

You’ll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. She’ll fly out of bed before you can stop her—barefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.

He drops everything to catch her.

She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesn’t even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and she’s whispering “I missed you I missed you I missed you” like a spell.

“I missed you too, sweetheart.”

He holds her like she’s the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.

Teenage girls are loud in their silence.

Simon learned that the hard way.

She doesn’t slam doors or scream. She doesn’t yell “You don’t understand!” or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.

She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesn’t even look up from her phone.

She’s fifteen.

And sometimes, Simon thinks she’s slipping through his fingers, and he’s got nothing left but shadows and memory.

It started small.

She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.

He knew it wasn’t personal.

It was growing up.

But that didn’t make it easier.

“Give her space,” you told him gently. “She’s figuring herself out.”

He tried. He really did.

But he couldn’t help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldn’t sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.

Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.

It came up one night, out of nowhere.

She was setting the table. He’d been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:

“Do you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?”

He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.

He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.

“No,” he said after a long pause. “I wear it because I used to think I was already dead.”

She blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

He almost regretted being honest.

“But then…” His voice caught. “Then I had you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.

And then she whispered:

“You’re not dead.”

He cleared his throat, chest aching. “No. Not anymore.”

She set down a fork.

Walked over.

And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.

He didn’t let go for a long time.

The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isn’t leaving. It’s letting her live.

She’s starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t sleep well on those nights.

You can see it—the way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.

“She’s not a target,” you remind him. “She’s a kid.”

But in his world, innocence doesn’t mean safety.

And light doesn’t mean there’s no danger.

When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:

One look over her face.

A glance at her hands.

Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.

A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesn’t even notice.

But he does.

Only when he’s sure she’s safe does he let himself exhale.

The first time she really breaks—it’s quiet.

She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: “I don’t think anyone really likes me.”

Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.

But he puts it down immediately.

And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesn’t cry. He doesn’t pry. Eventually, she says, “I feel like I’m too much for people. Too weird.”

He looks at her then. Really looks.

And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:

“You’re not too much. The world’s just too loud.”

She leans into him.

He lets her.

She’s taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.

“I don’t know how to be normal.”

He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

“Good. Normal’s overrated.”

She laughs, watery and real.

It’s the sound of his heart stitching back together.

Simon isn’t great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.

But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.

In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.

In the way he gives her his old hoodie when she’s sick and lets her keep it.

In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.

She doesn’t say “I love you” as often as she used to.

But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles “Dad” like it’s home…

He knows.

He knows.

She’s not a child anymore.

But she’ll always be his little girl.

And he’ll always be the ghost at her back—quiet, watchful, loyal.

Not haunting her.

Protecting her.

Always.

He never taught her how to drive.

You did.

She insisted.

He didn’t mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.

So he let you take her.

Watched from the window.

She waved at him once from the driver’s seat, grinning like she owned the road.

And he waved back. Small, barely-there.

But it was enough.

It was always enough.

The house is quieter now.

She’s twenty-three.

Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.

She comes home when she can, which isn’t often. You say that’s normal. That’s what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesn’t come.

He still sets her place at the table when you aren’t looking.

You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You don’t ask.

She doesn’t call him "daddy" anymore.

That’s what time does.

It sands things down.

She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if she’s feeling playful.

He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you don’t remember the moment it captured.

There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesn’t cling to him anymore. Doesn’t bury her face in his neck. Doesn’t fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.

Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.

She’s brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.

And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to be—cheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.

Then the moment fades.

And she’s grown again.

He doesn’t go on missions anymore.

Retired now. Officially.

He didn’t tell her right away. Wasn’t sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.

But when he finally said it over dinner—softly, plainly: “I’m done. Hung it up.”—she looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You were always more than that.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and realized she hadn’t seen him as a soldier in years.

She’d seen the man.

The father.

The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.

He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.

But she’d been watching him—all this time.

Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.

One night he got sick.

It wasn’t life-threatening. Just a flu.

But he hadn’t been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.

She came home that weekend without asking.

Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, “You look like shit.”

He coughed. “Nice to see you too.”

But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.

She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.

He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.

And for a second—just a flicker—he wished she were small again.

Not because he didn’t love who she’d become.

But because that time was so brief.

So unbearably sweet.

And it was gone.

It was raining.

She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

It was his brother’s grave. The one he used to visit alone.

“I wish I’d met him,” she said quietly.

“He would’ve loved you,” Simon replied. “You’ve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.”

She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever miss being young?”

He didn’t answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.

“I miss you being young,” he finally said.

And she didn’t speak again. Just held his arm tighter.

One day, it happens.

She calls him—voice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know who else to call.

And Simon?

He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.

He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didn’t ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.

She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.

Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.

And he just held her.

Kept one hand on the back of her head.

The other over her heart.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,

“I didn’t want to call you. Thought I was too old.”

He shook his head.

“You’ll never be too old to be my girl.”

And one day…

One day, it’s just the two of them on the porch.

You’re inside baking. The sun’s going down. Her eyes are softer now.

She says, “Do you ever think you could’ve had a normal life?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just watches the wind move through the trees.

Then:

“This is normal. For me.”

She leans her head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.

“You were always enough, you know,” she says.

He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.

And then she adds, quieter, “You saved me. Even when I didn’t know I needed saving.”

He closes his eyes.

Because in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s done.

Who he’s killed.

What haunts him.

Because this is what remains.

This girl. This woman. This life they made.

And that… is enough.

He never thought he’d grow old.

Never imagined it.

He used to think men like him didn’t make it past 40 — not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it — like his bones expected to be abandoned.

But now?

Now his body aches in new ways.

His knees click when he gets up too fast.

The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.

But you’re still here.

Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.

And it guts him. Every single time.

That you stayed.

That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.

Your love has changed.

It’s not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.

It’s quieter. But deeper. Warmer.

It’s how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.

It’s how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet don’t touch the cold floor in the morning.

It’s how you never ask where he’s going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though you’ve seen them a hundred times.

There’s a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.

A knowing.

A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.

You’ll brush past him in the kitchen, and he’ll place a hand on the small of your back — not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself you’re real. Here.

Still his.

Sometimes he just watches you.

He won’t say it out loud. He’s too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when you’re reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just right—

He stares at you like you’re something holy.

Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought he’d never understand.

He’ll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whatever’s in his hands — but he’s watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.

Because he knows.

He knows time takes things.

He’s lost too many people to pretend otherwise.

So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.

You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

He shrugs. “I always do.”

He still has the mask.

It’s in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.

You told him he didn’t need it anymore, and he agreed.

But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.

You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.

You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him.

He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

“I wore this to keep the world out,” he said. “But somehow, you still found your way in.”

And you leaned against him.

And he let you.

And neither of you moved for a long time.

He loves you differently now.

Not less. Not softer.

But heavier.

There’s a weight to it now. A depth.

He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay — what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets he’s safe even now.

And he sees what it cost you, too.

He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasn’t home.

Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why “daddy” missed her school recital.

Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.

He never said thank you. Not enough.

So now he shows it.

In every slow dance in the kitchen.

In every cup of tea made before you ask.

In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.

He asks you one night.

“Do you regret it?”

It’s late. The moonlight’s dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. You’re half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.

You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.

“All of it,” he says, quietly.

And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.

“I’d do it all over again,” you say.

And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.

You fall asleep like that — your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.

And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...

Simon smiles.

Because in the end, despite everything he’s done, everything he’s lost—

You stayed.

And that made all the difference.

It starts with small things.

Keys. Names.

What day it is.

Where he left his book.

At first, you joke about it. Call it “old man brain,” and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.

But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.

Asks where your daughter is — even though she just called.

He forgets the kettle is on.

Leaves the tap running.

Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.

And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.

“She used to chew on this,” he says, quiet, “didn’t she?”

You nod.

“She’s twenty-seven now, Simon.”

He blinks at the toy.

“Oh.”

You learn his patterns.

He doesn’t like loud noises anymore.

Doesn’t like too many people in the house.

Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.

But he’s still him.

He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what they’re called — even if he doesn’t.

“Is that one the… the purple one?” he asks.

You smile. “Lavender.”

“Right. Right, I knew that.”

He didn’t.

But he likes when you pretend he did.

Sometimes he has bad days.

Days where he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is.

Days when he looks at you and his face folds — not in anger, but in heartbreak.

“I’m supposed to know you,” he says once, voice shaking. “Aren’t I?”

You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.

“You do. You always have.”

He breathes in, trembling.

“I’m scared, love.”

“I know,” you whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

And you don’t.

You never do.

But there are still good days.

Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.

When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.

When he tells you a story from the army — one he swore he’d forgotten.

And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Even with the wrinkles?” you tease.

“Especially with them,” he grins.

You cry in the kitchen after that one.

Quietly.

Not because you’re sad.

But because you still get to have this.

And then one morning, he doesn’t know your name.

He wakes with a start. Looks at you.

And doesn’t say anything.

Not confusion. Not fear. Just… blankness.

You speak gently. Smile.

Tell him your name like it’s the first time.

Tell him you’re safe. That he is too.

And he nods.

“Alright. If you say so.”

But later — later that same day — when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

“Do you know who I am?”

He blinks. Thinks.

“No. But I know I love you.”

The days stretch longer now.

He’s quieter, softer — not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesn’t speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and he’s just floating now.

He forgets more often than he remembers.

But he still holds your hand.

Even when he doesn’t know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man who’s known only one comfort in his entire life.

And he has.

You.

He sleeps more now.

Sometimes all day.

You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them aren’t — he wouldn’t correct you now even if he knew.

But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.

Like part of him — the part too deep to lose — still knows you.

And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:

“You’re still here?”

And you always answer, soft and warm:

“I’ve always been here.”

It happens on a rainy morning.

There’s nothing dramatic about it.

No gasp. No panic. No final words.

Just a stillness.

You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed — like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.

He doesn’t look afraid.

He looks young.

Somehow.

Like the weight finally left him.

And for a long, long time, you don’t move.

You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:

“You made it, Simon. You’re safe now.”

You bury him beside the lavender.

The spot he always loved — where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.

Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.

There’s no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.

Just:

Simon Riley

Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.

And you keep living.

Not out of duty.

Not out of guilt.

But because he would want you to.

You still drink your tea the way he made it.

Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.

Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.

Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes — and you swear you feel it:

His hand on your shoulder.

The breath of him.

The warmth.

You speak into the dark like he’s still beside you.

“I’ll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.”

Because real love never ends.

And the life you built together — the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years — it doesn’t vanish when he goes.

It lives in you.

In your daughter.

In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.

Simon made it home.

And home was always you.

You can help me by reblogging my works with the tags and please do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.

[changenameno]

That is gold and so in character, how are they that adorable 😍

Thank you for writing and sharing this❤️✨

Oh how about you trying to sleep on the couch after an argument with the 141 men. How would they react?

Honestly? Not well.

Ghost is grabbing a pillow and a blanket that is far too small for him to sleep on the floor next to you. It’ll be the most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen that you forget that you’re mad at him.

Soap is just as pathetic but in a different way. He’ll stare at you from afar with those beautiful blue puppy eyes. As you continue to ignore him, he’ll creep closer and closer until he’s eventually laying on top of you, asking if you’re still angry with him.

Gaz respects your need for space but doesn’t believe in going to bed angry, or sleeping apart for that matter. He’ll drag out the air mattress, make far too much noise, and then set up beside you, grunting and groaning and tossing and turning and sighing until you give in.

Price puts his foot down about you sleeping on the couch after an argument. Think you’re going to sleep alone? Think again. You won’t even make it to the couch. That man will toss you over his shoulder or drag you back to bed if he has to.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[readwritealldayallnight]

“I also grabbed that oatmeal you liked.”

“Mhmm.”

“You know, the one we tried a few weeks ago, and you were certain you wouldn’t like.”

“Mhmm.”

“Luckily by the time I made it out of the gym they wer-”

“Mhmm.”

You finally glance up from where you’ve been unloading the groceries onto the kitchen counter, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you look to your boyfriend.

Sure enough, Simon’s not listening to a word you’re saying. Eyes locked on the steady jiggle of your tits in your tight new sports bra, as you continuously bend down and bounce back up with item after item.

He doesn’t mean to ogle you so obviously. Well maybe that’s not so true. Really he doesn’t mean to be ignoring you as he ogles you so obviously. But today it appears his lower half is in control of his attention span.

Narrowing your eyes at him, you wonder how long it’ll take him to snap out of his trance.

“So yeah, thought we might start having oatmeal more often now.”

“Mhmm.”

“Maybe three meals a day.”

“Whatever you say, love.” He answers, eyes still fixated on your chest, clueless as to the smirk beginning to spread across your face.

“Might even change my license plate to ‘oat-mobile’, watcha think ‘bout that?”

“Sure thing.”

You’re shaking your head to yourself in disbelief, a smile still splayed on your lips. At this point you’re turning around to put things into their rightful cupboards. But you think there isn’t anything behind you he won’t stare at either? While you’re wearing those workout shorts??

“Looks like they updated the class schedules at the gym too.” You continue, glancing back over your shoulder and seeing that, sure enough, Simon’s gaze has shifted to your ass.

“Mhmm.”

“Think they’ve got some new trainers or somethin’.”

“Mhmm.”

“Heard one of em’s quite hot. The men’s personal trainer. Maybe I’ll ask if he stretches the women out too.”

“Okay lov- wait what?!”

Got him.

[sc3ptre]

On laundry duty

Pairing: Simon Riley x reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Setting: Military base, 2 a.m., laundry room

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 0.8k

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the otherwise silent laundry room, casting a low sterile glow on the linoleum floor. The machines whirred softly, the only sound besides your own slow, tired breath. You folded a black t-shirt into a tight square, barely noticing which one it was.

Then the door clicked open behind you.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Simon’s footsteps had a rhythm you’d learned without trying. Heavy boots and a deliberate stride, steady in a way few people could be after fifteen-hour rotations.

He stepped inside without a word, carrying slung over one shoulder an empty small duffel he soon filled with warm clothes straight out of a dryer, before the door even shut behind him with a gentle thud and the quiet settled deeper between you.

You didn’t speak until he leaned against the dryer next to you.

“Didn’t know Ghost did his own laundry,” you said without looking up.

He didn’t answer right away. Just dropped his bag on top of the machine, arms crossed and mask rolled halfway up his face, mouth visible and jaw clenched from exhaustion.

“I make messes,” he said finally, voice low. “Figure it’s only fair I clean ‘em.”

You huffed. “That might be the most domestic thing I’ve heard all week.”

He let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh but you risked a glance at him anyway.

Simon Riley, fatigues rolled at the ankle, sleeves pushed up, skin damp like he’d just showered and mouth soft and drawn with sleep…visible for once. You’d seen glimpses before, on the field when he peeled the mask to wipe blood or drink water, but not like this. Not here, not in the hush of fluorescent light.

You folded another shirt, as he threw his pile next to yours and did the same. “Can’t sleep?”

He shrugged, then glanced at the machines. “Too much noise in the head, this helps.”

You nodded. “It does.”

There was a pause, longer and overall heavier.

“‘Sides,” he added, “figured you’d be here. You always are.”

You tried not to react while keeping your eyes on the pile in front of you but your eyes flicked to his working gloved hands. “You watchin’ me now, Lieutenant?”

Simon grunted, noncommittal, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just folded in tandem, close enough to feel the residual heat from his skin. It should’ve been awkward…should’ve felt like silence was a void to fill but it didn’t. It never did with him.

You handed him a pair of folded socks that were his without thinking and he took them without a word. After a while, he reached into the single pile now that his clothes and yours mixed and picked something up, a black graphic t-shirt, smaller than his usual size, brows pulling slightly.

“Don’t think this is mine,” he muttered.

You looked over and chuckled quietly. “Because it’s not.”

He frowned, held it up against himself anyway. “Could be…maybe it shrunk”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for it but he pulled it back.

“I’ll hang on to it. Just in case.”

You paused. “You’re stealing my sleepshirt?”

“Borrowing. Temporarily…for morale.”

You snorted, half a laugh, half surprise. “Didn’t peg you as the sentimental type.”

He didn’t meet your eyes, just folded it slowly and deliberately before placing it neatly in his pile.

“I’m not.”

Sure and yet…You didn’t push. You just kept folding, eyes drifting now and then to the exposed line of his jaw. The way he leaned on one arm, once he was done, like he belonged there, like you were his routine…like this quiet was something he sought out, not something he stumbled into.

You weren’t sure when it had started. The quiet check-ins, the shared glances before missions and the way you always seemed to land laundry duty around the same time but you knew you didn’t want it to stop.

By the time you were done, Simon was already zipping his duffel shut, your shirt carefully tucked inside like a secret and you wondered if he’d give it back if you asked, even when you didn’t want to.

He caught you staring and paused. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said with a shrugged and bit back smile.

He watched you, unreadable, then nodded toward the door. “Walk back?”

You blinked. “You’re… offering to walk me home?”

“It’s past two,” he said, like that explained everything. “Could be gremlins out there.”

“I’m armed,” you wanted to reply but didn’t because he knew. You smiled instead, genuinely this time. “You gonna protect me from gremlins, Riley?”

He held the door open for you, lips stretched into the most attractive grin you’d ever seen, before he could pull the balaclava down. “Yes ma’am.”

[jichu17]

Imagine going camping with Ghost, John Price, Soap, König and Gaz

They know you’re capable of helping them around, but they won’t even let you!!

 Price directs them

“Soap, you’re going to set up the tents with me.”

“Ghost and König, you two chop down the trees for wood.”

���And Gaz, you boil the water on the portable gas stove.”

Then he walks away.

“Hello!? What about me?” 

He turns around

“You, sweetheart, can sit down and relax. You know, maybe explore nature around here.”

“What — “

Then he walks away again.

You stare at them as they get to work, completely unfazed.