#cod hurt/comfort

[rawme-price]

So, food aggressive ghost, but this time its reader having a bad day. (Cw explicit ED discussion)

Sure, you've gotten pretty good at regulating ur emotions, but sometimes something sets it off and u feel like ur back in sophomore year. Simon notices instantly, despite how well you hide it. He's enamored with you, constantly staring, so even the smallest change sets off his alarm bells.

The issue is that hes not sure what to do with the information. His upbringing wasnt exactly mental health positive, and he doesnt have that instinct for comfort that his teammates seem to. So he tries to help how you help him. By being a calming presence.

When you show up for lunch and pass him a portion significantly bigger than your own, he doesnt point it out. Doesnt ostracize you. People always tried to 'save' you whenever they noticed, and it just ended up with you embarrassed and ashamed and them upset that you weren't happy for their 'help'. But simon doesnt do that.

Its a fine line, between gentle acceptance and mean indifference. but you can tell from the way simon is tense that its not lack of care keeping him quiet. He hates when people comment on his eating habits, why would he comment on urs?

But the bad day turns into a bad week, and by halfway through the second when you forego splitting the usual package of fruit gummies simon decides something needs to he done. He spends hours in his kitchen that night, recreating the food you once mentioned was ur favourite but too time consuming to make all the time.

"You dont have to eat it." Is the first thing he says when u sit down at lunch, making you pause. He brings out a container of food, slides it over to u while u slide ur whole lunch box at him, not having packed urself lunch. You cant help it, your tears get wet when you see what he made.

"Simon? I- i thought you couldn't cook? When did you...?" You question, knowing for a fact simon hadn't even known how to make rice just last week. At this, ghost looks away, and without his mask u can see him flush a bit. "Last night. I uh- learned last night."

Your eyes widen, you've never had someone deliberately learn a skill just for you. When u take the first bite, you actually do cry. It tastes amazing, fucking perfect. There's no way he would have made this first try. He probably went through five different batches before this one. Feeding you, making sure you weren't hungry, It was important enough he spent hours last night learning how to cook. Just for you. "...thank you." You mutter.

Simon just nods, eats the food you gave him, and when ur both finished you split the fruit gummy package, just like always. He doesn't say it, not in the way others do, but he cares about you. From then on, ghost brings his own cooked food for you, sharing even as his fingers twitch at giving away food. He's willing to push down the voice that screams to hoard food if it means ur fed.

[romanticintheory]

Hello!!!! I was wondering if you could write an angst with Ghost/Simon where the reader was too clingy after having a bad day and he lashed out on her but he didn't think anything of it because the next day the reader was acting normal. He only noticed after a few weeks when reader became more distant and quiet. Feel free to ignore if it's too weird or you don't like it!!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

this one is dedicated to all the ones who were hurt and never got that apology. hope this alleviates the pain.

simon "ghost" riley x gn!reader || masterlist || request rules

-there was no one specific reason as to why today turned out to be a bad day. it just was.

-from accidentally burning yourself trying to make breakfast after waking up late to having to deal with the most insufferable customers, it just wasn't your day today.

-but it was okay, because you had simon to return to when everything was said and done.

-the frown on your face immediately softens the moment you see him walk through the door to your shared home. as soon as he pulls his mask and boots off, you make your way toward him and engulf him in a tight hug.

-you are painfully (but understandably) unaware of the thin veil of his patience and the frustration that had been brewing within him in the past few hours. he half-heartedly returns the embrace.

-"how was your day, si?" you ask him gently.

-"fine," he responds shortly, hoping there isn't more to the conversation.

-even after you pull away from him, you trail behind him as he moves around the house. this wasn't irregular behavior from either of you. simon wasn't usually the most talkative person in the room, anyway, but he loved to hear your voice. that was one of the things he loved about the two of you together; you filled the space he couldn't.

-today, though, was different. he was pissed off at all different kinds of people. for some reason, couldn't bring himself to tell you that he was having a bad day and needed some space, especially because it was evident you were having a bad one yourself.

-so when he turned on his heel after listening to your rambles for as much as he could take and lashed out at you, he tried not to think about the unbearable amount of guilt seeping into his veins.

-"would you just stop clinging to me for five minutes? god, 's like i can't get away from you or your constant fucking talking!"

-you had heard stories, mostly from simon, about the kind of man he could be when pushed to his limit. mostly, it was of violent, physical acts when it came to work or protecting the ones he loved. other times, he would tell you about when he'd lash out at others just like he did to you, now, and he always told it to you with a quiet fear. there was an unspoken meaning to him telling you about the times he's acted out: i don't want to do the same to you. i don't want to hurt you.

-but here he was, towering over you with a coldness in his eyes and a dryness in his throat from the sheer volume of his words.

-averting your gaze from his, you let out a meek, "'m sorry," and watch as he slams the door in front of your face.

-when he slinks into bed next to your sleeping form later that night, ridden with shame and guilt, he misses the tear-stained face hidden from him. after his outburst, you felt like all of the energy in your body had been taken away from you and retreated to bed early. you cried on and off for hours.

-you always thought you had a clinging problem. it was an insecurity you carried with you starting from childhood. friends would become acquaintances and family would keep you at arms-length. after years of believing the issue was you, simon walked into your life and told you different.

-if you stopped talking because you thought he stopped listening and was uninterested, he'd always turn back to you and genuinely ask why you stopped talking. whenever you apologized for hugging him for too long or asking to spend time with him for the third time that week, he'd always tilt his head at you and say in that low, sincere voice, "but i love you?"

-for all those reasons, you tried to give him the benefit of the doubt despite how much he hurt you. so, when he tries to bring it up the next morning, you do your best to brush it off. he was having a bad day. that was all. no need to make a fuss.

-"listen, love," he calls to you as you pop your piece of toast out of the toaster. "about last night-"

-completely disregarding his words, you look at the clock and stuff your phone into your pocket. "it's fine. honestly, simon," you tell him with the best smile you could muster. "i'm gonna be late. i'll see you tonight."

-you were so adamant on getting out as quick as possible that simon had no time to respond. he thought to himself that maybe he was making a bigger deal out of it than you. maybe there were no hard feelings and you were completely fine. after all, he was always overly worried for you, anyway.

-so, when you came home, he didn't mention it. it was as if last night didn't happen, and the two of you were perfectly fine. there were times where simon thought you were being a bit more restrained in your movements or words, but he tried to chalk it up to just him being overly paranoid. you said it was fine, so it was better not to push you on it, right?

-at first, you were doing really good at keeping yourself from overthinking the situation. however, as time went on and you paid more attention to how you acted around your boyfriend, you began to wonder if you were really that clingy.

-as the week progressed, your state of mind would deteriorate. what if it wasn't just a bad day? what if that was what he thought the entire time and was just waiting for the right moment to tell you? had he just been trying to cheer you up about your insecurities the entire time? and if he was, how much of this relationship was even real, then?

-the more you thought about it, the more distant you became. the last thing you wanted to do was make simon feel like he was being suffocated by you. you slowly stopped initiating physical affection with him, restricted talking about your day to a few sentences, and tried to answer simon's questions in one word when possible.

-he notices. of course he notices, it was like a stranger was living where you were supposed to be, and he missed it. he missed you.

-he asks you about your change when you're getting ready for bed, pulling the rest of your nightshirt over your head. despite being exhausted from work and looking like you were sitting out in the wind, he thought you never looked more ethereal than you did now.

-"(y/n)," he said.

-"hm?" you hummed to him, not turning toward his direction. you sat down on the edge of your side of the bed, turning off the lamp at the same time.

-your lack of emotional presence was starting to eat at him. he sat down next to you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight and forcing you to lean toward him.

-"you alright?"

-"yes. why?"

-"i dunno, you just seem..." his eyes tried to find yours, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. "quiet."

-it was then that you looked at him, and it was scary to simon because he couldn't make out the emotion in your expression. there was nothing he could read.

-"isn't that-" you had to pause to try and stabilize your wavering voice. "isn't that what you wanted?"

-there was a tension-filled silence that settled in the room, and for a second you were worried that what you said was somehow incredibly offensive.

-finally, he chokes out, "i'm sorry."

-again, you try to muster up a smile. "it's fine, i already told you. i should've known you wanted space."

-"no."

-"no?"

-"it was my fault," he explains. "how could you 'ave known? i didn't tell you i wasn't in the mood that day, and that's not even considering the way i talked to you. i shouldn't have- nothing excuses what i said to you."

-still, you were convinced you were to blame. "well, i have a history of being clingy, so," you were trying to come up with more excuses for him. for most of your life, you had decided that you were the issue. it couldn't be any other way, right?

-"i know. it's one of the things i love you for," he says quietly. "not to sound cheesy but it's what makes you you, and i don't want you to lose that jus' 'cause i'm still shitty at communication."

-you knew in some capacity he was right. there was no excuse for how he talked to you, but the next words you wanted to say evaded you.

-simon thought about talking some more. instead, he grasped your back with one hand and slid his other underneath your legs, repositioning you on his lap. it was like a silent plea from him, a way of proving that he wanted to be close to you just as much as you wanted to be close to him.

-"you're sure i'm not too clingy?" you ask tentatively.

-"positive," he reassures you, rubbing small circles on your back with his thumb. "you wanna know something?"

-"what?"

-"if i wasn't so fucked up-"

-"you're not fucked up."

-"right." you never let him talk badly about himself. that was something he was still getting used to after all this time. being loved and learning to love himself. "well, if i didn't grow up the way i did and became the person i am, i'd probably be way clingier than you."

-"that's impossible," you deny, unconsciously letting yourself lean into his touch.

-"you don't know how much i want you. if my mind and body would let me, i'd be close to you all the time, showing you the attention you deserve."

-"you give me plenty."

-"agree to disagree," he stops with the circles and pulls you impossibly closer to his body. "but 'm trying. 'm trying to learn to let you love me and to not be afraid to love you. 'm sorry, love. i stopped trying that night, and i think it'll be the death of me."

-you let his words sink in, a thoughtful look on your face.

-"next time you'll tell me, right? what you're thinking?"

-"pinkie promise," he agrees, letting the hand under your legs slide out and raise his pinkie finger toward you.

-in return, you link your pinkie with his to seal the promise, and it feels as though the heavy tension in the air has cleared away.

-"i love you," he says, feeling bold from his previous admission.

-"i love you, too." there's that smile on your face. he never realized until now how he probably couldn't live without it.

-he kisses you on the lips, and for a moment the two of you just stay there in each other's arms, forgiving the past, healing the present, and dreaming of the future together.

[certifiedcodbabygirl]

Simon Riley who realizes how much he fucked up and that maybe therapy isn't such a bad idea

AN: Lil bit longer than usual, but it's been on my mind

Art credit to SubsurfaceChaos on Twitter

Something was off with him all day. It wasn't too noticeable until he began distancing himself, getting irritated at being around anyone. You confronted him, simply trying to see if you could help or maybe provide comfort, and fuck did that backfire.

He was sitting in the living room watching whatever was on the channel, but it's not like he was paying attention to it. Thoughts and feelings of the deployment he just came back from a few days ago build up, irritation filling him like water in a bathtub. He doesn't usually have flashbacks or anything like that, the military would discharge him if he had PTSD, but some days he thinks too much.

He didn't even notice you coming in until you were sitting next to him. He snaps out of his thoughts just to meet your soft eyes. You sat on the other end of the couch, not wanting to crowd him too much while he's like this.

"What." He deadpans, voice devoid of all emotion.

Yeah something's definitely up.

"What's wrong, Si? Somethin' been messing with you today?" You ask gently, not wanting to come off as if you're accusing him.

He gives you and irritated look, suggesting you drop it, "Nothin', 'm fine"

You're not stupid. He tends to need a little push in order to open up.

"I know you're not", tone still soft, "I'm not trying to irritate you or anything, I ju-"

"Well you certainly got an affinity for it" He snaps, "Drop it"

You inhale, trying to not take his words personally, "Si, I'm your girlfriend, it's kinda my job to check in with you"

The bathtub overflows.

"You can't listen, can you? I said drop it, fuckin' 'ell" He stands up from the couch and walks to the kitchen, trying to create distance.

"Simon I'm just trying to help, I'm not here to make things harder for you" You try to reason with him, swallowing the lump in your throat.

You follow him into the kitchen but still give him space. He doesn't say anything back, a small part of him knowing you're right but the larger part won't connect to that. Pouring a class of orange juice, he keeps his back to you.

"Si-"

"Can you shut up for once?! Can you? I said bloody drop it. It's not up for discussion!" He sets the cup on the counter with a thud and snaps at you, "You're always fuckin' naggin' at me, clearly not takin' a bloody hint. Jesus Christ"

That shuts you up. The lump in your throat intensifies, tears beginning to form in your eyes. He's never yelled at you like that before. Sure, he's had bursts of irritation during arguments, but he's worked hard to make sure he never treats you how you don't deserve.

"Why are you yelling at me? All I'm doing is trying to be there for you" You ask quietly, voice not really allowing you to speak louder. a couple tears fall down your face, and your nose begins to get stuffed up. You try to quietly sniffle but he still hears it. He hangs his head down and groans quietly.

"Now you're fuckin' cryin'. Great."

Not wanting to be around him much longer, you turn to leave, "Come find me when you're calmer", Your voice betrays you and cracks a little.

You walk away and go upstairs to your shared bedroom. Once you close the door, the crying begins. His words cut through you like a knife, a deep pressure-like hurt seeping through your chest. Sobs rack your body yet you still try to be quiet, not wanting him to hear. You know he's gonna snap out of it and fuckin hate himself for what he did. You know he loves you, and if he were in his right mind he would have never uttered a single degrading word to you.

You slip into bed and lay there, crying. You guessed he would be up anytime soon and the smell of him on the pillows was both comforting and hurtful.

Downstairs though, Simon was fucking fuming. Seeing you go up the stairs, lip quivering, evaporated every bit of him anger. He groans loudly and throws an arm over his eyes.

'How fuckin' stupid can you be? How the fuck can you speak to her like that?'

He removes his arm and leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. You've stuck through with him since the moment you meet. Never once judged his off stand-ish behavior and learned to find ways to work with him. He cherished you so wholly, feeling what he thought he never would. You came into his life and slowly broke down his walls, allowing you to see him apart from his exterior.

He thought he was going to lose you. Sure, you had arguments before, but he had never purposefully tried to hurt you. Knowing that he did made his stomach churn, nausea kicking in. 2 years of the best relationship (not that there were very many before you) all to be broken down, at least what he thought, because he was pissed off.

'Maybe I should fuckin' go to therapy.'

Let's be honest, he could use it. He tried to go through it before but just quit due to how uncomfortable it made him. He figured he was on his own, all before you, and there was no one to deal with his bullshit besides him. Now he has someone who he cares about so much that it doesn't matter if he's uncomfortable. He'd rather be uncomfortable than never be with you again.

He gathers the balls to go upstairs and carefully opens the door. He's met with the sight of you curled up, your sniffles being the only sound in the room.

"Go away" You call out, although not too loudly. Your voice is wobbly and stuffy.

He'd think it was adorable, had he not been the one to cause it. He walks to the opposite side of the bed and gets in, spooning you. He kisses your hair so gently it would give you butterflies if you weren't so upset.

"I'm so sorry, love. I haven't a clue why I did that to you and you didn't deserve a single lick of it." He feels the small burn in his nose as he starts tearing up a little, "I promise it'll never happen again"

You sniffle as more tears fall, the pain sticking to you despite his words.

"I wasn't trying to piss you off" You whisper.

"I know baby, it wasn't you. I promise it wasn't. Could never be that mad at you" He says softly, a tear falling. He grips you a little bit tighter and kisses the back of your neck, trying to bring comfort to both of you.

"Then why did you yell at me? I've never heard you like that before."

He sighs, "Been thinkin' 'bout what happened while I was gone and it came out at you. 'M gonna go back to therapy 'n try to fix what ever the hell is wrong with me" He kisses your neck again, " 'M gonna do better, gonna be better"

He's not stupid, he knows his words aren't gonna go away overnight. He knows how much you love him, even if he doesn't understand it, and knows hearing that from him hurts more than it would anyone else. He knows you're gonna be affected by them for a bit and he's prepared to fix it. Anything for his love.

You turn around so you're both still on your sides but you're cuddled into his chest. Wasting no time, not even hesitating, he wraps his arms around you and holds you tight. He lets out a sigh of relief, knowing this is your way of accepting his apology. He softly kisses your forehead and cheek, whispering how much he loves you and how it's gonna be better.

He knows he can't run from his issues anymore and for once he's ready to face them.

[brainr0t-landfill]

🌃Mercurial

ghoap x male reader

Chapter Two: Hunger

"...you had these compelling magnetized eyes you must've lost when you got older."

-The Taxpayers, I Love You Like An Alcoholic

(tw: aftermath of violence, poverty, alcohol, implied past addiction)

It started in an alleyway your aching back against the cold bricks, blood from your nose ruined three times over slowly dripping onto your lap, staining threadbare jeans, headlights occasionally blinding your left eye.

You don't look around, you keep your dry, itchy eyes on the filthy floor wondering if they'll finnaly fire you for missing work tomorrow or showing up looking like a battered street cat, you wonder if you'll be able to keep the lights on with whatever measly savings you've got left, you wonder if mom will clear out the basement for you, you wonder if you'll need the E.R if you can even afford that.

The thought of prescription pain meds brings about that familiar spike of excitement, of desperation you thought you had burried a while ago but it's short lived. Your head is fuzzy, almost cloudy with the rush of the recent bar brawl, if you can even call it that when in reality it was little more than you running your mouth in a place you knew not to when in reality it was you getting battered and thrown out of your fifth pub in this town. This is what happens when you stay in one place for too long, you get restless, you get mean. İt's no excuse, it's just how you are.

You hear footsteps approaching and before you can look up a hand is under your scruffy chin lifting your face up.

The first throughout in your head is 'He's beautiful' and he is. Blue eyes and thick baby cow lashes, a well sculpted face, overgrown stubble, thick shoulders and a surprisingly fitting mohawk.

"Ye alive laddie?"

He asks, thick accent and scotch on his breath but all you can focus on us the scar curled like a snake nestled in the scruffy stubble of his chin then you notice the other man behind him, taller or at least you think he is, you can't tell where he ends and the shadows begin untill a headlight passes over, illuminating a juvenile skull mask, thick shoulders, wide arms straining against the sleeves of his jacket.

He seems like a guardian angel, like the grim reaper himself.

"Yeah, thanks mate,"

You groan throat scratchy and dry as you pull yourself up, no energy to dust yourself off as you pat his shoulder.

"Looks like ye could use some help, we'll drop ye off."

You shake your head instinctively

"Nah, thanks, not my first, 'be fine."

He frowns, it's akin to a pout and you're stuck with the thought that he can get anything he wants when he does that.

"Nah, yer in no state to be walkin' home by yeself, plus we insist, don't we?"

He turns to the man behind him who shifts either nervous or stiff and nods.

"Yeah, we do, c'mon."

His words are clipped, voice gravell not that much of a contrast to the other man's like sniew and heartstrings.

You haven't got much left to lose and help is always appreciated -never really deserved - so against whatever better judgement you've got left you let them hold you up by the shoulders and half march, half drag you home.

They're strong, much stronger than you and they carry you with an ease that embarrasses you, you do your best to not look desperate between them, not look needy.

The first one -John- fills the awkward air with small talk and jokes, the other one watches as if he's thinking you through, writing down the pros and cons and although you slur and stumble through your words and laugh way too much you dare to think a favourable judgement has been passed on you when you wake up to a band aid on your busted bottom lip and a note with two numbers on it signed John and  Ghost.

<< Next Chapter / Next Chapter >>

[asherwesley]

“Folded, Faded, Hidden” 

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

He carries your picture. Carries you in silence.

You’d never seen it.

Not once.

Not taped to the wall of his bunk, not tucked inside his wallet, not swiped through on his phone. You used to wonder – just briefly – if he even kept something of you when he left for missions.

But you never asked. Not because you didn’t want to know. But because he didn’t want to say.

So when he tells you – months later, after coming home with bruised ribs and a stitched-up shoulder – it’s not during a moment of vulnerability.

It’s when you’re folding laundry. Quiet, routine, domestic. That’s when he says it.

“I carry your photo,” he murmurs, like it’s an afterthought.

You pause, hands still on the fabric.

“What?”

“Printed. Small. Folded. Sewn into the inside of my vest, right over my heart.”

A beat. Then, “So no one could find it. No one could use it against me.”

There’s no softness in his voice. Just steel.

You realize then – he’s kept you close, closer than you ever imagined.

Not as a comfort token, but as something sacred.

Something worth hiding. Something worth surviving for.

────⊱♡⊰────

Then another night, somewhere miles away —

The mission goes bad.

Extraction late.

Too fast. Too many. Blood seeps down his side, thick and hot. Leaking through the tactical fabric like black water. He’s behind cover, vision graying at the edges. No one’s answering comms. He knows he’s alone.

He doesn’t panic.

Simon Riley doesn’t panic.

But he does press one trembling hand against his chest – right over the hidden seam, the tiny flap of cloth hand-stitched shut by his own needle and thread.

And beneath it: a small picture.

Crinkled from wear. The ink faded. Folded into fourths until your face is barely visible, but it’s you all the same.

You, smiling. Head tilted. Unaware he ever took the shot.

He presses his palm harder. Breathes deep.

“Still with me.”

That’s what he thinks, right before the darkness takes him.

────⊱♡⊰────

When he wakes in the med bay, broken but alive, the first thing he checks is that vest. That hidden seam.

It’s still there.

You’re still there.

Always. First and last.

────⊱♡⊰────

Later on, you find the vest. He doesn’t let anyone else patch it.

You stumble upon the pocket by accident – fingers brushing a seam that feels thicker than the others.

And when you tug the thread free and unfold the tiny square, the photo slips into your hand. Your face. Smudged. The colors faded to warm sepia. Corners worn nearly to tissue.

It’s been kissed. Or clutched. Maybe both.

Simon doesn’t say anything when he sees you holding it.

But he watches you like you’re the only anchor in a storm-ripped sea. Like if he speaks, the weight of that tenderness might crush him.

And still — no “I love you.”

Just this,

“You don’t go in my phone. You go with me.”

────⊹⊱⊱♡⊰⊰⊹────

“The first thing that steadies his breath.

The last thing he thinks about before the dark close in.

It's you.”

[rainyramblesscramble]

this one was a fairly popular one on my other old blog, so I shall bring it here:

Imagine getting into an argument/fight with one partner!John Mactavish, but nothing can seem to bridge the two of you just yet. No horizon yet in sight for forgiveness, each party stubborn set in their perspective no matter which side was in the right.

Imagine putting space between the two of you come bedtime, settling on the couch, unable to kick him from the bed, or lie beside him.

Imagine waking up sometime late into the night, hours after falling asleep but hours still to sunrise. Tangled into your blanket on the couch, but unable to move your legs due to the weight of your partner draped over them, kneeling despite his bad knee, unable to stay separate from you for even one night. Curled over your feet like a kicked and saddened puppy, sleeping despite the obvious discomfort in his limbs.

A puppy. He’s literally a puppy.

[nightcrews]

CoD Prompt 3

━━━━━━ ❖ ☁︎ ❖ ━━━━━━

John MacTavish was the love of your life, and you were his. With your entire lives ahead of you, you spent many late nights building your future. Dreaming of everything that was to come. Creating a life.

Until he leaves for a mission. Until you wake in the middle of the night, swearing you heard him whisper your name. Until John Price shows up at your door to tell you Johnny wasn’t coming home. Your future crumbles. Nightmares become your waking moments. The life you’d been so excited for bleeding out alongside the man you loved.

“If anythin’ ever happens te me, I’m countin’ on ye te take care of her, Lt. I need te know it’d be you.”

That’s the only promise Johnny had ever made Ghost swear to. Never thought he’d see the day he needed to honor it.

At first he does it out of obligation, check in with you when he can. Make sure you’re in okay spirits, that you’re eating, that you’re getting out of bed. He takes comfort in it, feels like maybe by helping you, he’s still having Johnny’s back.

As time goes on, he finds himself making every excuse to see you, and you find every excuse to make him stay just a little longer. His jacket finds a home on your hook, and his quiet voice soothes you in a way nothing else quite seemed to.

When he’s there, the hurt is a little less.

But Ghost hears you call Johnny’s name in your sleep, sees you holding his shirts close when you think no one’s looking, and he wishes for all the worlds that he could switch places with Johnny. Just so you would be happy again. Just so you would stop looking at him like he’s all that’s left.

Every smile is coated with guilt. Every soft look is haunted. Every laugh feels like a betrayal. Because you’re falling for Johnny’s best friend, when you thought you’d never be able to love someone again.

Ghost is falling for you, when that was never part of the promise he made.

And neither of you know how to move on without feeling like you’re leaving Johnny behind.

[yawnderu]

Simon lets out a deep chuckle as he sees your daughter pick flowers from the light, clean grass, her tiny hands barely even managing to gather enough strength to get the stems out of the ground.

“C'mon, that's enough.” His voice is patient, calloused hands picking his daughter up as he brings her up to his chest, a small smile when he sees her holding onto the flowers for dear life, giggles leaving her lips as he starts bouncing her while they walk.

It became a routine, in a way, for Simon to bring his daughter whenever he visits his family. She's too young to understand, so pure, so untainted from the dangers of the world, always kept safe by Simon and you, yet he can't fight off the urge to make his family see her.

He walks for a few minutes, enjoying the chilly air while his daughter cuddles up to him, one of her tiny hands gripping his jacket, while the other one is still holding onto the flowers. He stops in front of a set of four graves, the familiar pit of dread setting deep within him starts to come out, shaky hands managing to gently put the little girl down on the cold ceramic.

Mrs. Riley.

If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.

Simon was hiding his hurt quite well, managing to sit down next to his little girl, one hand on her back as she started crawling around, finally setting the flowers down.

“Mum?” His voice is quiet, almost cracking, as if he was the scared little boy his mother defended with her life. His daughter looks up at him with curious brown eyes, sitting down and entertaining herself with her own onesie.

“I remember telling you I'd never settle down because I could never get as lucky as Tommy and Beth...” He dragged out, gaze going down to the ring on his finger, the physical representation of your union.

“You've met my wife before, and now I want you to see my kid too.” He's barely managing to speak, words coming out rough and choked up as his hand caresses his daughter's thin hair, making him pause just to examine her features. She's a tiny carbon copy of him, a lovely nose and a set of brown eyes that will never see the horrors he lived.

“She's a proper daddy's girl, but you would've loved each other.” He's sure of it. His mum was always so lovely, so nurturing. A true angel on earth with way too much forgiveness and patience for her own good.

He picks his daughter up, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. Simon thought he cried all his tears when he was a little boy, yet his nose is starting to sting, vision getting blurry for a few seconds until a choked sob manages to escape his lips. He's quick to wipe any tears away, simply trying to focus on the peace and quiet the cemetery offers, his hand running up and down his daughter's back, patting it softly just to hear that little giggle that seems to always repair his broken soul.

“All of you would've loved her, shy little thing she is.” He sniffles again before a quiet laugh leaves his lips, smiling despite the way his eyes are still filled with tears threatening to spill at any moment.

“I'm quittin' the SAS soon, don't want her to grow up without a father. The wife's happy about it, too.” Simon lets out a small sigh, looking down at the graves of his family, all buried next to each other. He shakes his head softly, his free hand quickly wiping off his tears before he goes back to holding his daughter, rocking her with care.

“I'll come back with her next time, jus' wanted to talk to you today. Let you meet this lovely girl.” Big brown eyes meet his gaze, instantly cheering him up despite everything. He pinches his cheek softly only for the little girl to smack his hand away with a giggle, only making his smile grow wider at how hot-heated she is. Just like her mother.

[rawme-price]

A small pt 3 of food aggressive simon and reader :)

it was meant to be a joke, youre sure, but its a cruel sort of thing to joke about.

you and simon are in the gym, hes sparing with some other soldiers and ur on the treadmill. you dont work out often, it brings back unpleasant memories, but its too damn hot out to walk right now and youve been feeling restless. thus, treadmill and eavesdropping on simon. its been months since ur new lunch sharing tradition started, and youd like to consider him a friend.

which makes it all the worse when you hear "damn ghost, i dont remember you being this big. maybe we should keep an eye on those lunches, eh?"

simon doesnt react, but you have to catch urself from eating shit on the treadmill when u froze, horrified. you suddenly really dont want to exercise, and although no one else can see it youve learned to recognize the subtly tensing of muscles along ghosts back. you stride over, lips pursed, and gently lay a hand on ghosts forearm "hey, you ready to go? i need to get those papers turned in."

you dont ask if he's alright, it would be pointless.

except, next lunch, its like all the progress you made is out the window. hes hunched over, shoveling food into his mouth, warily glancing at you every second. you purse your lips, not reaching for him but wanting to help. "simon," he doesnt react, "simon, stop for a second." you try again, hand coming to rest on the table, but not straying close. still, he flinches away, taking the plate too.

"simon, im not gonna take your food." you say, direct and pointed. you cant afford to dance around the subject with him. "im serious. can you just look at me? tell me if i did anything to make you anxious? did...did i accidentally hurt you?"

his eyes widen, sitting up straight "no! no its not-" he rushes out, pausing to sort his thoughts. "i just. you heard what they said." he finally settles on, you know exactly who hes talking about. "i thought...youd probably agree. i know i take too much."

you let out a pained whine, unable to stop it, and simon finally looks at you. your vision blurs with tears, but you reach out to cup his face anyways "simon. listen to me. you are never too much, you hear me? you deserve to eat as much as you want. you deserve to enjoy your food." youre properly crying now, overwhelmed. "you deserve to feel safe, okay?"

simon doesnt look away, but his face scrunches up and he nods. "...okay." you nod, a thumb coming out to wipe away a tear from his cheek. "i mean it, simon. food isnt something you earn, its not something people can take from you. you deserve it, and anyone who says otherwise i will personally beat the shit out of."

that earns a chuckle, simon glances away, picks his plate up, and slowly takes a bite. "...as if you could." he retorts, trying (and failing) to subtly wipe his tears.

"for you? i could do it easily" you retort.

[certifiedcodbabygirl]

I need Simon Riley who realizes just how much he loves you when he has a night terror.

He shoots out of bed with a shout, quickly looking to your side just to see it empty. His heart quickens even faster, images of your dead body, blood pouring out of your mouth and ears, eyes frantic before they still and glaze over. Remembering the scream he lets out as he shakes you, begging you.

"Please, please don't fuckin leave, love. God, not you. Please, you promised!"

He's having a panic attack and before he even processes it, he's running to the bathroom. Throwing him head into the toilet bowl, puking everything up as if his entire body is rejecting the very possibility of you no longer being there. He can't stop the tears ripping out of him and his fast, suffocating breaths stinging his throat as if the vomit isn't even there.

He doesn't even register your hand on his back, your panicked calling out to him.

"Baby? Baby what's wrong? Please talk to me" You beg, brushing his hair back, trying to hold onto him.

His wide, tear filled eyes meet yours and he throws himself into your arms, holding onto you like a lifeline. His crying doesn't stop, the intense emotions still overwhelming his senses.

"God please never leave me. I swear to god I'll be the best for you. I'll keep you safe, nothin's gonna happen to you" He swear as if he'd be your own guardian angel.

"Baby what happened? Did you have a nightmare?" You pet his hair, beginning to realize what's happening.

"I can't lose you, I can't. Not you. Please, I can't." He cries into your shirt, trying to calm down but he feels genuine fear that he doesn't feel outside the battlefield. You hold him as his breathing slows down, exhaustion overtaking him. You settle against the wall, fingers combing through his hair as you both fall asleep. Safe to say he doesn't have anymore nightmares that night.

(Friendly reminder that traumatized men aren't always fully numb and military men can have feelings !!)

[killerpancakeburger]

KNIGHT IN SHINING KHAKI

Gif by @bastardcompany

SUMMARY: You've angered the wrong officer. You think you're a goner when Johnny sweeps in to save the day.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader ("her" is used to refer to reader once, that's it) (+ Reader's hair is long enough to grab)

TAGS: Civilian!Reader, Depressed!Reader, Insecure!Reader, Angry!Soap, Protective!Soap, GuardDog!Soap, canon violence, hurt/comfort, swearing, blood mention. Ghost makes an appearance as a matchmaker lol. The love is requited they're just insecure idiots. Making Shit Up for the Plot/military inaccuracies.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

A/N: My original prompt for this was: civilian!reader sees Soap in action and gets Horny. No Scared Just Horny.

Then I found out that Soap canonically beat up an officer. I am also obsessed with this video.

Part 1. Part 3.

This is it, you thought to yourself. 

This is how I die.

The day had unfolded like any other. Your shift was over and you were locking up your office, as usual. Your attention was focused on your hands’ motion, your guard dropped, your back exposed.

This explained why, when the stranger grabbed your hair and bashed your head against the door mercilessly, you didn’t see it coming in the slightest. The fact that you had zero combat experience while the person manhandling you was a decorated military officer obviously made matters worse, but at the moment of the assault, you didn’t know that.

The thud of the collision was eclipsed almost immediately by the pain exploding in your face. Half-stunned, all you could comprehend at the moment, every single signal sent by your brain was compacted in one word: suffering. Sharp, all-encompassing. You yelped, your hands vainly pushing against the cold, hard surface to get away.

“I've finally found you, you little snitch. Didn’t think you'd get away with it, now did you?”

Despite the blood thumping in your ears, and how groggy the hit on your head made you, his words reached you perfectly. They were seeping with fury and disdain. His voice didn’t ring a bell, so you tried to turn your head to glimpse him, if only at the corner of your eye, and he granted you some leeway to do so.

Perplexity filled you as you finally caught sight of your aggressor: you've never seen that man before.

“I don't even know who you are,” you winced.

Talking back in your situation would be judged stupid and reckless by a majority of people. Laying low assured more chances to avoid harm.

However most people hadn't been mugged at knifepoint like you had been, and most people valued their lives way more than you did.

Once the confusion and incredulity subsided, the pain still vivid but manageable, you were left with frustration and anger towards your interminable bad luck and the man behind you. His aversion was harder to take seriously when it seemed to have no foundation.

The grip on your hair tightened, making you grit your teeth.

“I'll refresh your memory, then.”

One part of you managed to be pleased to know that this mystery would be solved; the rest was ringing alarm bells when hearing the underlying threats in his tone.

“Weeks ago, you filed a report for embezzlement.”

You frowned, having no recollection of his claims, before a memory emerged. You saw them in flashes: the sudden, abnormally high spendings, the certificates full of anomalies, the incoherent dates; all this lead you to complete a reporting form, just as your job required you to. It was just a formality. You hadn't even even paid attention to the name attached to the expenses, therefore the officer was still anonymous.

Your aggressor scoffs menacingly, easily reading on your face that you remembered.

“They're gonna strip me of my rank and throw me in jail because of you. I'll make you pay even if it’s the last thing I do.”

That last sentence was finished in an almost shout, making you flinch, wishing you could pass through the door.

You quietly resigned yourself to your fate. No one was coming for you. You were no stranger to the inner workings of the military - no one would dare cross an officer that high-ranked for your sake. 

I've lived a good li- well, no. A pretty shitty life, actually. But at least I can say I did the right thing.

Just as you closed your eyes and braced yourself, hoping this wouldn’t drag on, a Scottish-accentuated roar resonated in the empty hall.

“Get yer hands off her-”

You had never heard Soap sound so enraged, nor his pitch so gravelly. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, blended with gratitude. Tears stinged the corners of your eyes.

All of a sudden the unyielding grip on your hair was gone, the sound of something violently hitting the wall punctuating your newfound freedom. 

“-ye fucking bastard!”

You immediately turned around to see what was happening, leaning against the door behind you. Your legs were too shaky to be reliable. The harmed side of your face was throbbing in pain as you took in the scene with wide eyes.

Johnny had pinned the officer against the wall with one forearm across his chest. He dealt him a punch to the face powerful enough that the resulting thud made you grimace, despite not feeling any sympathy for his target.

He managed to administer a second blow before his adversary snapped out of his stupor, and the advantage he gained from taking him by surprise ran its course.

As your assailant defended himself with the strength of someone backed into a corner, you couldn't help but fear for Soap's safety for a moment. Despite knowing that one's rank didn’t reflect their fighting prowess, a rush of anxiety passed through you at the idea that he could lose that confrontation.

Nonetheless, he quickly put your mind at ease as his skills proved to be largely superior. The gap between the two was deep enough that it was obvious even to a neophyte like you.

Paralyzed, you couldn’t do anything but stare at the display of violence with a mix of morbid fascination and sadistic satisfaction. Honestly, if you could borrow Soap's body, you would without a doubt inflict the same treatment on that man. Maybe worse. Fair payback for the threats, the smashing of your face, the probable trauma you'd get from this. Maybe not that fair. But maybe for once you'd stop trying to act like a paragon of virtue.

You should have been scared, you realized. You had never been involved in a fight before. You had never witnessed firsthand the brutality Johnny was capable of, despite being aware of it, between his status as a soldier and the reports you read. The dog tags jingling from his neck and the khaki of his uniform were like so many visual reminders that he was a killing machine. His ferocious wrath, his yelling and his punches should have made you cower in fright.

However the only feeling inhabiting you was safety, as paradoxical as it sounded. Soap was safe, you were convinced of it, consciously or not.

This whole ordeal felt like it lasted an eternity and a minute at the same time. You blinked and out of nowhere, Johnny was straddling the officer on the floor. Blows kept pouring in but they were one-sided - the sergeant had gained the upper hand. The rhythm of his strikes seemed attuned to the beatings of your heart. Each resonated inside of your ears with your skull as their echo chamber. The noise was loud enough to cover your own thoughts.

As you focused on your breathing, you managed to slow down your heartbeats, and the blood-fueled pump between your ribs no longer felt like it could burst out of your chest at any moment. You failed however to contain the tremor in your hands.

You chose to focus on Soap's hands instead. They were soaked red from blood spilled, but not his. Specks of crimson sprinkled his hair, his face, his neck, his t-shirt.

There was a certain sort of lethal beauty to this brutal display that you couldn't help but contemplate in reverent silence: the way his bicep swole when he threw his arm back before hitting his target. The tightening of the muscles beneath the tanned skin of his arms. His icy stare. The harsh line of his jaw. His stern, inflexible expression, one he usually wore in meetings or after Price gave the order to leave.

The expression of someone who would stop at nothing, provided a bleak little voice in the back of your mind. The idea didn’t bother you nearly as much as it should have.

“Not gonna make him stop?”

The familiar grunt of Ghost's voice almost made you jump out of your skin. You pivoted and the behemoth of a lieutenant was there, in casual clothes, right by your side. You had no idea when he arrived or how long he's been standing there, quiet like a shadow.

Something dark flashed in his brown eyes as his gaze lingered on the hurt side of your face.

“Why would I show mercy to someone who would have granted me none?” you scoffed bitterly.

“Someone's bloodthirsty.”

“You're one to talk.”

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You turned your attention back to Soap and Ghost did the same.

“I doubt he would listen to me.”

“He would,” stated the masked man, with the assertiveness of someone announcing a conviction. 

“But if ya don't believe me…”

A beat, then.

“Oï, Johnny!”

The shout was nonchalant, like it was something he did often, calling off his sergeant from some prey like the Scotsman was his personal attack dog.

The effect was immediate.

Soap abruptly froze, blinking a couple times as if awakening from a trance. Then he perked up, and turned around, eyes searching. The first sound that left his lips was a call of your name. His gaze latched onto you and didn’t let go as he stood up and rushed towards you. The naked vulnerability, the raw openness in his voice and on his face were so earnest that they felt like a Cupid's arrow shot straight between your lungs. It left you devoid of speech and motion, so as Johnny reached for you, all you could do was try to convey your reassurances through your eyes; that you were mostly fine, and so grateful, but worried for him, that he made everything better-

His arms closing around you made the outside disappear, and suddenly the whole world came down to Johnny, and only him. His embrace was enjoyable for a second before the pressure of his body against your face woke up your contusions. You let out a muffled cry of pain and he released you immediately, swearing and apologizing. However his hands didn’t leave you, grasping your shoulders.

“C'mere hen, lemme have a look at ye.”

“Oh, I'm fine, you should worry about-”

Your voice pathetically died in your throat as he cupped your face, leaning over, way too close for your heart to not start stammering uncontrollably.

The combined attention of his fingertips on your skin and the turquoise of his eyes roaming your visage turned your cheeks into a blazing inferno.

Unable to maintain eye contact, your gaze wandered over his own injuries, a split lip and a couple of bruises.

Suddenly he grabbed your chin between his thumb and index, tilting your face one way and the other. Your skin flared up at the contact, pleasant yet nervous tingles scattering all over your body.

“Ye sure he didn’t hit ye on that side? Yer a wee bit red.”

You bit back a whine of complaint at that comment. He couldn’t be that oblivious.

“Yer makin’ it worse, Johnny.” sneaked Ghost, the amusement manifest in his voice - at least to you.

Soap looked up to him, frowning in incomprehension, indignant. 

“The hell ya on aboot L.T.? How am ah makin’ it worse?”

You panicked.

“Shut up Riley!” you hissed, in a desperate attempt to put a stop to his shenanigans, forgetting that you were supposed to be severely intimidated by the masked man.

That drew a gruff chuckle out of him. Your sudden outburst caused Johnny to release you.

“Not that I'm not glad to see you, but why are you two even here, anyway?”

You were kind of proud of your ability to change the subject.

“Was comin’ tae get ye fer a game,” smiled Soap, and it reminded you of a pet proudly presenting its owners with its findings.

“This one wasn’t coming back, and neither of you were answering your phones, so we figured somethin’ went wrong. And we were right. This poor fucker is wanted. Called in reinforcements to deal with him.”

Footsteps’ noises caught your attention. A group of soldiers in uniform seized your aggressor and brought him to his feet, before unceremoniously shoving him in the direction opposite of you.

“Gotta tell Gaz the game ain't happening tonight.”

By the time you took in what Ghost had said, and turned away from the procession, he had already disappeared.

“This isn’t over,” menaced the officer, passing by your spot as he was hauled away. “When I get out-”

“Shut the fuck up,” snarled Soap instantly, protectively positionning himself in front of you.

“Found yourself a faithful guard dog, uh?” the other man taunted.

One one hand, that last remark wasn’t so far from the truth - he had been acting a lot like that: barking threats, baring his teeths, standing between you and the menace, reducing a man to a bloody pulp for hitting you…

But on the other hand, letting that piece of shit talk to Johnny this way was simply out of the question.

Before thinking, you found yourself walking in front of the sergeant and retorting.

“What, jealous he's ten times the man you'll never be?”

Fortunately for you, he was dragged away before he could snap anything back. That didn’t prevent you from regretting your snarky comment immediately. It had been a purely impulsive urge, the kind that could make you feel heavy remorse for days, if not years. As if this seasoned combat expert needed your aid to defend himself. The idea was ludicrous.

You didn’t get a moment to mope around however, as Johnny proceeded to grab you by the hips and press you flush against him with a jubilant smirk. You couldn’t do much except prop yourself with both hands on his pectorals to avoid stumbling.

“My hero.” he praised like a smitten damsel in distress.

“Look who's talking.”

You lowered your gaze despite yourself, mumbling your reply, a half smile on your lips, embarrassed but amused.

“Going after bastards is mah job, not yours. You gutsy little thing.”

You refrained a sarcastic laughter at the nickname - gutsy and little were two things you have never been called, as far as you can remember. But you weren't about to argue with the man who just saved your sorry ass.

His fingers pressed into your flesh, sending tickles at the bottom of your spine.You were about to ask him to let you go, the position too incriminating for this public setting, when you noticed how dilated his pupils were. He had to be high on adrenaline from the fight.

You may have let yourself get lost in the blue pools of his eyes, until his expression turned grave.

“Ye sure yer good? Yer too calm about this. No need tae put oan a brave face fer me, aye?”

The genuine, serious concern in his eyes made the inside of your stomach twist.

“I'm good. You arrived just in time,” you assured.

How peculiar it felt to be the one to comfort Johnny, rather than the opposite; that the lionhearted, superhuman sergeant Mactavish might even need such a thing; that he might require it from you, of all people.

“He didn’t get to do much.”

His pretty features contorted into a scowl at the reminder of your attacker.

“That sonuvabitch… raising a hand on ye in broad fuckin’ daylight… if he ever touches ye again, I swear I’ll…”

As he kept fulminating against your assailant, you couldn’t stop an endeared smile from spreading on your lips. Listening to one of Soap's rants brightened your mood; it was familiar. The sincerity in his words and his tone was welcome. He wasn’t able to fake those emotions even if he wanted to; they spilled out of him like a waterfall. His honest worry and righteous ire towards someone who hurt you was… flattering, in a sense. It made you feel cared for, like you mattered.

Then red started dripping.

“Johnny… your nose is bleeding.”

He wiped it negligently with the back of his hand, only succeeding in smearing it over his face. You couldn’t hold back a snort.

“Bend over. It will stop faster.”

“Buy me dinner first.”

He punctuated his quip with a suggestive wriggle of his eyebrows. You rolled your eyes.

“Let's just go to medical already.” you grumbled, starting to walk decisively, albeit stiffly, in the right direction.

“Aye, aye,” acquiesced your savior, jogging a bit to catch up to you.

[asherwesley]

“I do listen”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

Some men wear silence like armour. He wears yours like home. He guards your nights not with guns, but with every counted breath.

────────୨ৎ────────

It’s a quiet afternoon.

The kind of quiet that comes softly like dust – warm, and still, and settled. There's rain taps against the windows, and there's a cup of tea cooling between you and Simon on the coffee table. 

Simon's perched beside you on the couch, half in shadow, flipping a knife between his fingers with ease. The motion is like muscle memory, not thought.

You watch him. Chin on your knee. Curled into a blanket that still smells like him.

The question slips before you can stop it.

“Do you ever listen to me sleep?”

His fingers still mid-flip.

His eyes don’t move to meet yours immediately. He stares at the knife, at the reflection of your shape in its metal curve. 

“Why d’you ask that?” His voice, when it comes, a low, cautious breath of sound.

You shrug, gentle.

“It just… sometimes I wake up and you’re already looking at me. And I wonder if you even sleep at all.”

He doesn’t answer right away. As if weighing the words first.

Then, slowly, he sets the knife down. Quiet. Careful. Like it might shatter the moment if it lands too hard.

You watch him breathe. Watch the way he leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as if he’s holding something in, or holding himself up.

“I do. Listen to you.”

It’s so soft you almost miss it.

“Every night?”

You don’t tease. Don’t prod. Just ask.

He huffs – something close to a laugh, but it falls flat before it can turn into anything real.

“There were nights,” he says, “after bad ops… after blood and noise and shit I couldn’t scrub out of my head–”

His throat bobs.

“– and the only thing that made sense was hearing you breathe.”

Now he looks at you.

Eyes shadowed. Bruised with sleep he never seems to get.

But there’s a softness in them too.

Raw, vulnerable in a way he rarely lets show.

“I’d count them. Every inhale. Every exhale. Over and over.”

A breath.

“Felt like… if I kept track of yours, maybe I wouldn’t lose my own.”

Something in your chest twists.

He looks away.

Eyes drop to his hands again. They’re steady, but not still.

“Didn’t plan on it,” he muses. “Just happens. I’ll wake up and your hand’s on me, foot tangled wi’ mine, and the world’s not so bloody loud anymore.”

Another pause, this one smaller.

“Could sleep anytime. Just… rather not.”

“Don’t wanna miss it.”

You don’t speak.

Instead, you shift closer. Press your head to his shoulder. Your hand finds his, and he holds on tight.

“That’s not weird, innit?” he mutters, voice gruff.

“No,” you whisper. “That’s love.”

And he just looks at you, really looks, like you've just said something dangerous. Something he doesn’t know how to carry. Something he’s not sure he deserves.

And for the first time that day,

he lets his eyes close.

Not from exhaustion.

But trust.

────────୨ৎ────────

For a man built from scars and shadow, trust is louder than any vow.

────────୨ৎ────────

It wasn’t sleep that saved him.

It was the fact he could sleep at all – with you near.

[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited) simon's punishment [connected with this!]

“congratulations on your beautiful baby girl.”

simon's gaze remains fixed on the swaddled, wriggling pink bundle held by the nurse, until his focus shifts to your motionless form lying amidst a sea of medical professionals. your stillness is haunting, your body devoid of life as you lay in the hospital bed, with sweat-soaked hair clinging to your forehead and parched lips cracked and dry.

he wonders briefly if this was some sort of punishment, karma for thinking he could have a dash of normalcy after a life of killing. he couldn't breathe, couldn’t move, he could hardly think or process what was happening. this wasn't real, it couldn't be; you were just sleeping— tired from pushing out an infant for hours on end. but the monotonous sound of the heart monitor flat-lining, tells a different story. gone, you were gone. what now? where are you?

“sir?”

simon jolts and pans his gaze to face the nurse who still holds his child. she softly thrusts the newborn in his direction, countenance grim- and it ages her young, round face even more than it already was from working at a hospital. simon had hardly looked at the child since she’d been born, couldn't bring himself to— not while you were laying there, dead. it was his fault.

eyebrows furrowing and moving robotically, simon lets the nurse position his arms properly before she places the wailing baby into them; the infant quiets almost immediately. in that moment, simon's world narrows down to just two things - the fragile bundle of life in his arms, and the lifeless figure lying before him. the contrast between the beginning and the end, the hope and the despair, is almost too much to bear.

he reluctantly flits his eyes down to finally catch a glimpse of the newborn, and as his gaze lands on the tiny face, an overwhelming wave of sorrow engulfs him as he weeps, witnessing the uncanny resemblance the baby bears to you.

i cried writing this one.😓

[nerdygirlramblings]

I have a vision

Like reader and John are married for god knows how long (probaly since he was just a Sergeant) so it's obvious that reader knows Ghost, or rather Simon since John is like a father to him.

So when John comes home after a rough mission, Simon is with him. Usually Simon would sleep on the couch or the guest room but this time it's different. He's on the edge of a breakdown and reader offers him to join them in bed for cuddles, John doesn't mind that.

It ends up with Simon bare and vulnerable and reader and John taking care of him

If you wanna include some smut it's your choice, you're the author

Also the gender of reader because Idc about that

Thank you for this ask! This one took a few different journeys in my head before we got here, but this is the version that felt right. I hope you enjoy the result!

an: I delved into asexuality here, but if I misportrayed the acespec experience, please lmk! This is a new space for me, and I want to get it right.

Simon's known you since before he made lieutenant. You've been Price's since forever. Simon likes you because his Captain loves you. Simon loves you because you support his and Price's relationship.

The first time it had happened, they'd been on base less than an hour, wrung out from the mission and staring down the barrel of after action reports. Price was sitting at his desk, paperwork splayed out and only half finished when Ghost had come in and nearly dropped from sheer exhaustion. He couldn't tell if the weariness was mental or physical or some combination of both, but Price served as a grounding force.

Price wasn't a mind reader but he was an expert in body language, and he'd taken one look at Ghost and known exactly what was wrong. He beckoned the younger man over. It took coaxing and a promise that things would be better to get Ghost to kneel at Price's feet and put his head in Price's lap. Price slid one hand off the paperwork he'd only been half-heartedly completing and ran it up under Ghost's mask, pulling the balaclava off. Thick fingers scrubbed through the sweaty hair and eventually began a light pet.

"You're safe here Simon. I've got you," he rumbled, voice gruff from the cigar on his desk. Simon's not sure how long they were there, Price's hand keeping him grounded while giving him the space to let go. It could have been seconds or days. All he knows is he had never felt as free as he did by the time Price roused him off his knees and shooed him back to his own paperwork.

After that, mission debriefs began including quiet time for Simon and his Captain where the older man would help the younger come back to himself. For someone as touched-starved as Simon had always been, Price's comfort was a blessing.

He doesn't remember what mission they'd come off of the night you found them, but he does recall the startled gasp you made when you walked in with dinner for your husband only to find him with another man in his lap. You'd only met the lieutenant once before. He couldn't, wouldn't, get between Price and you, but he didn't know how to find the strength to leave.

Thankfully, you kept an open mind. Let your husband explain that there was nothing sexual or even romantic to their relationship. Smiled at Simon as he stumbled through how it felt to not have to worry just for a little while. And, when all was said and done, opened your arms and beckoned Simon into them.

For years now your house has been Simon's safe place. He has his own bed in what you tell others is the guest room, but several years back you decorated it in Simon's favorite colors with little touches to help him feel grounded. The kitchen cupboard has his favorite tea, and the crisps he likes are always in the pantry. He has a key to the front door and knows he's always welcome no matter the time, so he thinks nothing of slipping in after midnight, finally back from a solo mission, his humanity hanging on by a thread.

Of course John hears the door the moment the lock rolls back on its tumblers, Simon's heavy tread carrying quietly in the still air. He tries to get out of bed without waking you, but you never sleep well when he's not there, so you notice immediately. Bleary eyes find his as he stands half in the doorway, says, "Simon's just got in. Going to go check on him."

You nod as John slips out of your room. He had given you what few details he could about Simon's mission while the other man was gone. You worried about him, how big a toll this would take on him. So moment after John leaves, you slowly climb out of bed, slip into your robe, quietly pad down the hall. You can hear your husband's low rumble and a sound that rocks you. Crying. You don't think it's John, the timbre's off, but despite hearing it, you struggle to believe Simon is crying.

You didn't believe there was anything that could ever make his lieutenant - the Ghost - cry.

You ease the door open, catching Simon so very human. Broken. Hunched over, head between his knees, hands clasped tight behind his neck. He's still in most of his gear. He must have come straight from transport. John rubs his hand up and down Simon's back, but the man barely reacts. He doesn't seem to realize John's there.

Both go suddenly still at the change in the air when you come into the room.

"Simon," you whisper. Like your husband, you want to comfort him. Unlike your husband, this isn't something you've offered before, not a comfort Simon's been allowed.

You kneel in front of him, gently reaching out for a boot. In the thin light from the window, deft fingers pick apart knots so the boots are easier to slip off. First one then the other thuds to the floor behind you. You run gentle hands up his chest, unclipping the tac vest. John pulls it off Simon's shoulders. Shirt and trousers follow, the two of you working seamlessly, silently to help Simon shed Ghost. When he's down to just his pants, you slip your fingers under the edge of his mask.

"Is this okay?" Your whisper feels like a shout in the darkness.

Simon grunts and dips his chin further into your palm. You take it as permission, pulling the knit up and off. Cupping his cheeks in your hands, you run your thumb through the eye black. You can't say what possesses you to do it, but you lean forward and drop little kisses on Simon's eyelids.

When they flutter open, it's like seeing directly into Simon's soul. The brown cracked with pain and desperation. A fear too big to name.

You stand, reaching one hand down to John and the other to Simon. John comes willingly, no questions. Simon needs reassurance. "It's okay, Simon. You're safe here. We've got you," you tell him. You have no idea how much you sound like John did all those years ago. It's that echo alone that allows Simon to follow you back to the room you share with his Captain.

John understands your intent immediately, ushering first you then Simon into the bed. You slide into your usual space against the wall, holding the covers up as Simon stiffly joins you. He lays on his back, ramrod straight, as John sinks into the mattress on his other side. The hand next to Simon fumbles a moment, finding his, and interlacing your fingers together. Your other hand comes to rest on Simon's chest. You curl towards John and he towards you, one hand covering yours over Simon's heart. You breathe slowly, pressing the rhythm ever so slightly into Simon's lungs.

Tension is thick for a moment. Two. Three. By ten, Simon is breathing in time with you, shuddering as silent tears slip out. Lips brush his cheek as you whisper again, "We've got you."

You do. And he knows in his bones you always will.

main masterlist

[drgnflyteabox]

a little continuation of this. john price x cashier fem!reader. verbal abuse, anxiety, yelling, hurt/comfort, price comes to your retail rescue<3<3 1.4k words

The only good part of a 5am wakeup is watching the sunrise slowly climb the sky.

There’s a quiet sort of tiredness that lets you appreciate it more — and though the lot associates have made a joke about the morning crew and their sunrise photos, there’s an element of truth there that’s both funny and a little beautiful.

It’s a drag to wait outside the doors for a manager to open them, trying not to make eye contact with the early-bird oldies and the impatient contractors who think they should just be allowed in before everyone else based on the amount of money they spend.

When the doors open and the 6am hardware warriors stroll in, ready and chipper, you’re half asleep leaning against your counter.

Another good thing about the early shift is the lack of uptight managers. None of them want to wake up before ten, so you’re safe to lean and lounge while waiting for customers.

A call comes through your earpiece after a few customers, nearing the cusp of 8am.

”Hey, we’ve got the guy coming your way,” your head cash – Lisa – says, voice crackling in the mic. The guy is a rude jerkoff, some contractor who thinks abusing staff is the way to get good service and better prices.

What’s worse is that your managers allow it. In fact, you get warnings like this all the time. The guy is here, the guy has a big order, make sure to cash him out fast or he’ll start shouting. Be pleasant. Smile.

The guy is walking down the store lumber aisle with a pinched expression on his face and two other employees dragging his stacked carts behind him.

You try to ignore his caustic vibes, thinking instead of the pink, purplish sunrise you’d seen earlier. Clouds like magic, cotton candy, floating above you 

You ignore the incessant tapping of his feet, the annoyed groan he makes when you lift a package of insulation up and find flat saw blades.

Sure, you can’t accuse him of stealing. But you can make a cheery, passive aggressive comment–

“Oops, I guess you forgot these!” you chirp, scanning them a little slower than necessary. It’s not mature, but it does make you feel a little better. Nice try, bozo.

Playing the idiot cashier helps with these types. Why are you mad, sir? I’m just a cashier? And though you could answer more questions than you do, you don’t. Playing the ditz makes life easy.

Lisa’s definitely judged you for it, but hey. She’s not stuck at the register like you are.

Sometimes, it works. You get a scowl, but they’ll go quiet. Sometimes.

Today, it backfires.

“Excuse me?” 

Oh here we go, you think. It’s way too early for this.

“What was that, sir?” you play dumb, voice squeaking.

“Are you accusing me of stealing?” his volume raises. You see redness crawling up his neck. Fuck.

“No, no, I only meant–” you try to backtrack. Fuck, fuck. This is the result of your hubris. Your reasoning flies out through the massive lumber area doors as his rage climbs.

“No? No? Because I think you just accused me of stealing. Do you understand how much I spend here, you moron?”

“I do, I didn’t mean to imply–”

“Get me a fucking manager, now,” he snaps. God, you have no clue if he acts like this to get his way, to get discounts, or if he’s really this angry half the time he comes in.

Regardless, the effect is real. You’ve never been good with anger, and you’re shaking a little as you press the call button on your pager.

“C-Can I please have a manager down to lumber cash?” you broadcast to the store.

All you can think of is looking away from his angry gaze while you wait. Oh, a bubble bath – you have an aloe and green tea bubble bath packet at home waiting for you.

Hot water. Bubble bath. Manager to fix this mess. Maybe a hot chocolate after work?

A couple minutes pass. Longest minutes of your life.

No answer. The guy taps his foot, sighing loudly, angrily. You try again.

“Can I please have a manager down to lumber cash?”

Oh fuck, is that someone else in line? You turn away bodily, speaking again into your mic. Trying to look like you’re doing something about the wait.

Another couple minutes. Despair washes over you like a cold blanket of snow.

“Need a manager at lumber cash,” you try.

Typical, really. Lisa is likely on break, and you have no idea who’s managing the store at the moment.

You imagine it’s likely Cody, who’s good with contractors like this because he's personable but he’s also lazy it almost cancels out. Also, he takes a smoke break every 5 minutes.

And never takes his pager.

“What the fuck is taking so long?” you hear behind you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, turning. “My manager is busy at the moment but–”

“Busy?” his voice is like a gunshot in the airy space, an absurd volume for the time.

“Yes–”

“Do you know–”

A third voice cuts in.

“Think you better learn a little patience, mate,” British?

Oh, shit. It’s that guy from before. He’s got one hip a little cocked, a frown on his face like he’s smelled something bad. His boonie hat is titled down, nearly covering his eyes. You can see them because you’re shorter than he is.

“Excuse me? And who are you? Mind your business,” the guy says.

“I think you’d better let the nice girl check me out while you wait,” he motions for you towards the parallel cash desk, and you’re grateful to just follow.

You scurry away from the guy faster than is appropriate, calling out again as you cross the open space towards the other cash desk for a manager.

You can only hope they arrive while you’re helping this one. John Price, you think his name was. He's a memorable man. Him and his moustache and his expensive company.

John Price has left the guy flabbergasted. He also has twice as many carts as him, and when your eyes widen to see them he just says take your time in a smooth, deep voice.

Oh man.

You do take your time, already calmer for John’s presence. Strange maybe to feel safe in the company of a stranger, a contractor no less, but it’s a nice change of pace.

Beep, beep. You scan methodically. John has no hidden items, and he doesn’t pressure you. He leans up against his lumber order and watches you check underneath things, under the cart, doing everything you’re trained to do.

“Start early?” he asks.

“Hm?” you lift your head. “Oh, yes. 6am.”

He whistles.

“Hard worker, I see,” he helps you lift a heavy bag of concrete.

“Thank you,” Marx look away, you think. Your face is only a little hot.

Cody strolls in the lumber doors missing his apron and – you guessed it – his pager. You fix him with a look as he smiles in greeting.

“Need a manager when you’re free,” you rush. Cody is nice, but you’re kinda miffed now.

“Oh, sure,” he says, walking by you toward the breakroom.

John Price raises a brow.

“Not everyone’s up to the task, eh?”

You feel hot again.

“It’s just early.”

John smiles. He looks remarkably silly doing it, you think. His facial hair makes him look approachable, cuddly. Like a teddy bear.

John’s order totals double the guy, which isn’t really a victory for you but it feels like one. Ha! See, you aren’t the richest guy here. You feel vindicated. Cody looks miserable cashing him out, which makes you just a little guilty.

“Will that be cash or card?” you ask, finger hovering on the POS.

He pays with card. You certainly do not notice how he cradles the machine. You aren’t that down bad.

Only you are, and his fingers are huge. His knuckles are hairy.

When you go to hand him the receipts, printed twice for record keeping, he manages to slip a 50 into your hand before you notice.

“Oh, no! I’m not allowed to–”

He folds those big bear paws over your hand, enclosing the cash in it with a sh sh sh as you protest.

“For the trouble,” he winks.

“You didn’t give me any trouble,” you try. The warmth of his palm, the roughness of his calluses. You’re a goner.

He chuckles, and you wonder how he can be both so intense and so disarming.

“You know what I mean, sweetheart,” he squeezes your hand, pushing it gently back towards you until you can put it in your apron pocket.

“Thank you,” you squeeze out.

“Don’t let him get to you,” he says.

“I’ll try,” you thank God or the universe or whoever that Cody and the guy finished a while ago.

“Attagirl.”

Yeah, you’re a goner.

[thenerdyselfinsert]

You're Home (Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN! Reader)

After John Price came to your home a few months ago and told you Simon was MIA, you thought your entire world was ending. You feel yourself going mad, crazy without your partner. Sometimes you feel yourself hallucinating, imagining he's there. One morning, the hallucination feels more real.

Word Count: 876

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN! Reader

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Not beta read, reader is a crybaby (but a valid crybaby)

The sight of John Price at your door wasn't unusual. Sometimes Simon would invite him over for drinks, or you would invite him and the other members of TF141 for dinner. But here, on one of the cloudiest days of the year, it created knots in your stomach.

You had felt weird when you woke up this morning. At first you thought you were just being paranoid, a symptom from missing Simon. He had been radio silent for the past couple weeks, said he was supposed to be going on a solo mission and wouldn't be able to contact you until it was over.

But now, with John Price at your door, you knew your feelings were not unfounded. Price stood at your door, a somber look on his face. He wrung his hat in his hands, and though he was stoic and still, you could tell he was just as distraught as you.

"John," you said softly, "I... where's Simon?"

Price reached out a gentle hand towards you, "I'm sorry-"

"John-" you recoiled, shaking your head and covering your mouth, "John, please no-"

"Simon is missing in action," Price said softly, his hand resting on your arm, "The mission in Urzikstan went side-ways and-"

"He's not dead?" you asked, a little too hopeful.

Price's face softened, "I- we don't know for sure. I don't... I don't want you to get your hopes up..."

Your eyebrows furrowed as tears welled in your eyes. Price opened his arms, silently offering you a hug which you took. Sobs wracked your body, fear and grief washing over you like a tidal wave.

"I'm sorry," was all Price could mutter as he rubbed soothing circles on your back. You sobbed until you collapsed, the energy sucked out of your body.

That night with John Price was five months ago. Simon still hadn't come back, and each day that passed made you feel more and more hopeless. It drives you crazy, your brain playing tricks on you.

Sometimes, in the deliriam of another restless sleep, you swore you could hear his footsteps in the hall, or hear him murmuring sweet nothings in your ear.

Sometimes it brought comfort, letting yourself pretend like he had come home to you safe and sound.

But sometimes, it just cut open old wounds and left you sobbing hysterically. You tried everything to bring yourself comfort. You sprayed his pillow with his cologne, hugging it tightly as you tried to fall asleep. When it got cold, you chose his pair of skeleton print gloves over your own. Nothing worked.

One night, the hallucinations felt all too real.

You layed in bed, tossing and turning, drifting in and out of reality. As you lay in the dark, you heard the sound of the front door open, a heavy set of footsteps following the sound.

You've had nights where this has happened before. You hear the shuffling downstairs before heavy, tired footsteps approach the bedroom door. It squeaked open, and in the dark bleary night, you open your eyes just slightly to see the hulking figure standing in the doorway.

"Simon?" You mumbled softly, like you had a few nights before. Sometimes the hallucinations spoke, sometimes they don't.

"It's me, love," the hallucination said, his voice sounding as if he was holding back tears. You hold your hand out to the hallucination, inviting it into bed with you. Through your impaired vision, you could see the hallucination shuck off its shirt before climbing into bed with you. It radiated a familiar warmth, one that was…different than usual. Strong arms wrapped around you, making your eyebrows furrow. You turned in the hallucination’s grasp, staring at it through bleary eyes. You rubbed your eyes, blinking a couple times. Though that usually chased away the visions, this one held firm.

“Si— Simon?” you asked in disbelief. His hand came up to caress your face, his thumb running along your cheek. You reached up to hold his face in your hands, tears welling in your eyes after landing on the solid planes of his face.

“I missed you so much,” Simon whispered, tears welling in his eyes as well, “Every. Single. Day. All I could think of was returning home to you.”

Your bottom lip quivered, one of your hands running through his hair.

“You’re real…” you whispered in disbelief.

He let out a breath of laughter, taking one of your hands in his, a smile gracing his face.

“It’s me love,” he said, “I’m here, and I’m real.”

You let out a sob, your arms wrapping around him as you buried your face into his chest. He smelled like fresh Earth, sweat, and a hint of his cologne. You inhaled, reveling in the familiar smell.

Simon’s arms instinctively pulled you in tighter as he buried his nose in your hair.

“I— I thought— I thought—“ you sobbed, holding him tightly, as if letting go would make him disappear once more.

He shushed you, rubbing your back as he pressed firm kisses to the top of your head. He gently took your face in his hands, tilting your head so he could kiss you properly. His lips were warm and desperate, kissing you over and over again to make up for lost time.

When he pulled away, you looked up at him through tears.

“I’m— I’m so glad— I’m so glad you’re home,” you hiccupped.

He pressed another chaste kiss to your lips before he said, “I’m glad I’m home too, love.”

And with his body pressed firmly against yours, you could feel yourself relaxing. You moved yourself to lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a firm reminder that he was here, in your arms. And for the first time in a long time, you both slept easy.

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