#dad ghost x reader

[the-kr8tor]

Hiii! I just wanted to request a Baby's breath and ⭐/❣️ for Simon Ghost Riley for the apothecary. Ghost and the reader could be going on a family trip with their baby to the zoo or aquarium. I'd like to kind of see him stuggle with his past, and wonder why his father couldn't enjoy his time with his kids like he does. I'd also like to see him go to the reader for comfort too.

A Simon req!! Thank you so much for requesting! Hope you like it ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem! reader

Word count: 1.3 k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, dad! Simon, mom! Reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, cw abuse mention, cw panic attack.

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Perks of wearing a mask at work means that no one recognises you once you're out of it. Another pro, is that no one will bother you at the yearly family day that Price shamelessly told his lieutenant that it's mandatory for the entire 141 to join. Even though Simon knows it technically isn't, he still decided to bring you and his little ones to the zoo just because, A. The entrance is free, and B. He gets to spend time with you, little Tommy and baby Ellie, which is rare these days. A win/win for Simon, as long as nobody recognises him and decides to chat him up while his kids are clinging onto him like peanut butter on bread.

The entire zoo's speakers are blaring with random animal noises that irks Simon. Cows mooing, monkeys screeching, dolphin noises and snakes hissing; he has no idea why a zoo would even play animal noises when the animals themselves are particularly screaming in his ears. The sun is blasting on him, making the back of his neck sweat, and his kids irritable. Baby Ellie gurgles on her stroller, shielded by the folding canopy (and her towering dad) with a portable fan clipped on the handle. She's comfortable and happy enough just staring at the colourful parrots flying around. While Tommy is clutched behind his leg, afraid of the pointed beaks, and sharp claws. He jumps when a bird suddenly flaps its wings too close to him. Even with all the sounds and his kid grappled around him, he truly enjoys their company. He smiles down at Tommy, fingers brushing along the boy's soft curls.

His mind wanders back to his childhood, that his own father never showed the same enjoyment when he's out with his family, enjoying his time more with a bottle of amber liquid in between his crooked fingers instead of spending time with them without a metal hanger in his hand.

Simon pats Tommy atop his head, cowering and hiding his face on Simon's denim. “'s alright, just a bird.”

“I know dad, but they're so scary when they fly. I want mum.” He mumbles back, Simon can feel the tears coming as his son's fingers dig into the denim of his pants.

“Mum’s comin’,” he hears sniffles, and he thinks he's not doing a good job at this. “She's gettin' your drink remember?”

Tommy looks up, big brown eyes filled with tears. “I don't like the birds, dad.”

“Okay, let's move along then. Want to look at the giraffes again?”

Tommy sniffles again, pouting but nodding a quick yes. “Carry?”

Simon sighs with a brief smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, surrendering to the whims of his five year old. “Right, arms up, Tommy.” With one swift move, his son is wrapped around his arm while his free hand pushes the stroller away from the bird enclosure. Wheels squeak, and Ellie is out of the trance signaled by her piercing shriek. “Damnit,” Simon whispers, going around the stroller, he takes his crying daughter in his other arm like a professional. “You're okay, El, what's wrong?” Ellie continues to cry, mouth wobbling, eyes that are similar to yours look at him through tears with her fists wrapped around her dad's shirt.

“Dad, the birds!” Tommy hides behind the crook of his dad's neck, crying in tandem with his sister when he realizes that they haven't gone that far from the scary birds.

“Tommy, they're just birds.” His son wails from his accidental cold words, and in turn, making Ellie sob louder. People stare at him, stopping to give him the stink eye, some even stop to stare at where the ruckus is coming from. It's like he can hear their thoughts, ‘look at that dad who can't handle his own kids.’ or ‘What is that big brute doing to his kids?’ He doesn't care what they think of him, but he doesn't want them to think that they're crying because he hurt them. He'd never do that, he'd never be like him.

All the noises, the heat, the pointed stares, and how Simon's heart pounds at every cry of his children, children that he can't even calm down without your help. It all makes his breathing stagger, muscles tightening, and his palms clammy and tingling. Symptoms that he's awfully too familiar with.

He thinks after having two children he'd be good at this, not great or even amazing, just okay, average at raising his kids so they'd grow up normally and well adjusted. Is he even built for this? Is he capable of loving without leaving teeth marks? Without turning out like his father? Or is he ruining everything?

“Lieutenant, is that you?” A sudden voice calls out, a head of dark hair and bushy beard pops out from his peripheral. Great, someone that recognises him without the mask. Just what he needs.

“No.” Simon answers gruffly above the cries while he uselessly bounce his wailing kids in his arms.

“Nah, I know that's you! I can never forget those terrifying eyes of yours.” The sergeant bounds up to him, he remembers him from the last three missions the man was a part of. Simon regrets lending him his lighter once, now that he's all friendly to him. “That your kids? They're adorable.”

“Sergeant.” No, I stole them, Simon wanted to quip back. The man clearly cannot read the room while his babies are bawling their eyes out. He suddenly wants to punch something. Or just walk away, huffing and puffing. “A bit busy here—”

“They look a lot like you! I never thought you had a face under that skull mask.” If looks could kill, Simon has committed murder in the middle of the zoo. In front of the bird enclosure for that matter. “‘The Ghost’ being a dad,” the sergeant shakes his head in bewilderment. “Sounds weird,” he backtracks quickly, “a g-good kind of weird though.”

Simon's seething, his blood rushing in his ears as everything overwhelms him. From how Tommy's overalls scratches on his side, from how the sweat flows down on his back, snaking along his spine. And the noise, people chatting endlessly, birds squawking, the fucking speakers blaring— he swallows thickly, jaw tightening, eyes darting along the crowd, alert, and pupils blown out. Then, a hand reaches out to his bicep, warm, soft and comfortably familiar over his searing skin. His heartbeat slows down at the mere sight of you.

“Hi,” you smile, eyes roaming around his ‘deer in the headlights’ look. Squeezing once, twice and thrice for good measure, you quickly place the plastic bag full of cold drinks on the stroller. Without missing a beat, you take Tommy in your arms, easing his cries almost immediately. “You must be sergeant Willems, it's nice to meet you but can we take a raincheck on the pleasantries? A bit busy here.” Smiling sweetly, Simon's subordinate nods, giving you and Simon a curt nod and then scampering away.

Simon gazes upon you with softness in his brown eyes, saccharine affection as he slides next to you closer. Hip to hip, he tries hard not to melt into you. Even if you glance at him with the same tenderness.

“Mummy,” Ellie murmurs, tear stained cheeks greeting you. You pat her back as she lays her head down on her father's chest. Lips still frowning, and nose scrunched, she looks like Simon during Tommy's birth. Her cries subsides, a tiny fist wrapped around your finger.

“I'm here, baby.” You coo, fixing your hold on Tommy while you flick your eyes towards Simon, meeting with his own. “I'm right here, Si.” You seem to always know what's going on inside his head, knuckles brushing along his cheek, you wipe away a bead of sweat. He wants to lean into your touch, if not for the numerous eyes roaming around.

He inhales shakily, a restart button for his breathing. Muscles relaxing, forehead pressed on your own briefly and palm spread across the small of your back, he lets his ugly emotions fly away with the wind as you chastely peck his jaw.

“You're good, Simon.”

[bruhhxiao]

KISSES

You finished night chores in the kitchen after dinner and Simon was laying in bed “enjoying” Manchester match alone, since you were too loud 🙄

Once you get in bed too you toke a look at the screen.

“Unlucky one?” You say softly sitting next to him, he was grumpy, so you kissed him.

He signed not kissing you back, so you give him two more but he leans his head on the side ignoring you.

“C’mon the match is over.”

“No, it’s not. 3 minutes left.” He says pushing your head out of the way.

You kissed him again and again and then again, leaving sweet pecks on his lips. The match was over and he was listening to the after match conference.

“So you’re into this old man more than me? Give me one kiss!” He sighed and bought his lazy hand behind your head pulling you down for a short stamp.

“One more…” You say leaning closer and he kisses you back.

“A bit more…” as you said that he pulls you in a passionate kiss, a slow one.

After you broke the kiss and try to sit back like before, he grabs your arm pulling you down next to him kissing you a few times as he slowly positions himself on top of you.

“Simon it’s already 11:00 pm- Mhh~” he cuts you off.

“Now you got me in the mood, so shut up” he said with his nose against yours looking into your loving eyes before kissing you passionately.

[naivegh0ul]

Thinking about Ghost helping you out when your breastmilk is clogged 🥴

I mean, he was totally obsessed with your chest before the baby, before you were even pregnant, but now? With your tits all swollen with milk, your nipples puffy constantly? Oh, he's completely crazy for you.

He'd be a little jealous of the baby. They get to have their lips on your pretty tits all the time, why can't he? He almost creams his pants just from you asking him all shyly to help you with your milk because it's backed up and you're sore.

You're not getting him off you after that. His head is constantly under your shirt, lips wrapped around your nipple and his hand pawing at your tits, squeezing and squishing them lightly as he tries to coax the milk out, hoping and praying that he'll get to taste some.

He'd slobber all over your chest, saliva spilling down as he moans and sucks roughly on your perky, sensitive nipples.

"Mmh, come on, sweetheart. Let me taste it, be a good girl." He'd mumble, letting out a loud, lust-filled groan as he felt a small but steady trickle of your milk spilling into his mouth.

"That's a good girl. So good f'r me. Perfect."

[tojisun]

!! suggestive-ish; dirty talking n insinuations; simon n his big body <33

"c'mon, sweetheart," simon murmurs, watching you with narrowed eyes. "won't you tell me why you wanna ride me?"

you puff a trembling breath, gaze turned away from him, before replying, "wanna feel you, s'all." you chew on your words, the rumble of your voice is so soft that simon almost missed it.

almost.

he doesn't bother hiding his smirk.

"is that right?" he sounds breathy even to his own ears. "anythin' else?"

he watches as you shake your head, still looking away from him, all shy and docile in your embarrassment. simon almost heaves a saddened sigh, but he sees the way your eyelashes flutter in nervousness, your bottom lip all bitten and nibbled on, and decides to take it easy.

well.

easy on his terms.

"you wanna take me to the hilt, yeah?" simon begins, his voice genuine even with the faint teasing tone. he adjusts the two of you on the sofa, grunting in satisfaction when your eyes flick up to meet his shyly.

"you wanna take control? wanna set the pace and do all the work?" he massages your hips, working his hands to grab fistfuls of your muscle and fat, groaning at the way your skin dimples.

he pulls you close to him, your chest pressing against his own, and simon tries his best not to flick his eyes down just to see the way your tits are all squished up against him. god, even just feeling the softness of them makes his cock stir underneath his jeans.

simon brushes his lips over the shell of your ears, purposeful in their teasing touch. then, "you wanna know how deep i can go in you, huh? wanna take your sweet time – or not, depends."

he lands a smack on your ass, the slap ringing between you two, and simon chuckles at your bit-off squeak. he watches as you tilt your head up to glare at him but simon just grins, teasing and meanly, before pitching forward to press a soft kiss on your forehead.

"no one's stoppin' you, princess." the words are mumbled into your skin and simon revels in the way you breathe in sharply, fingers trembling from where they are fisting his shirt, before groaning in quiet pleasure when he feels you rutting down onto his chub.

yeah. simon's gon' ruin you tonight.

[yawnderu]

Currently thinking about neighbor!Simon with a sweet thing who keeps shamelessly flirting with him.

Ghost, the soldier who has been basing his life in self-control and discipline, knocked down a peg or two by his younger neighbor. He doesn't even respond to the flirting, simply replying with a grunt or a "thanks" so quiet you can barely even hear it before he disappears into his house.

Neighbor!Simon, who initially moved to your quiet neighborhood for some peace and quiet— and he gets just that, with one glaring exception.

Neighbor!Simon, who is forced to listen to your moans and whines as you bounce up and down a dildo, filthy nonsense escaping your lips whenever it hits a sensitive spot.

Neighbor!Simon, who seemed amused about it at first and ignored it, but after a few times started feeling his jeans tighten up.

Neighbor!Simon, who cups his throbbing boner over his jeans, trying his best to stop himself from jerking off, yet your whiny moans are taking away any semblance of self-respect he has.

Neighbor!Simon, who timed his strokes with the sounds of your squelching cunt, imagining it's him going in and out of you.

Neighbor!Simon, who pathetically came all over his stomach when you moaned out his name, filthy and overly loud words leaving your lips because you know he can hear you.

Neighbor!Simon, who since then was less of a Ghost in his own neighborhood, actually trying to reply to your attempts at making conversation with him.

Neighbor!Simon, who told you one of his awful dad jokes just to hear the loudest sigh ever, the corners of his lips threatening to tug up at your reaction.

Neighbor!Simon, who eventually started tagging along for anything you did— Grocery shopping? Paying bills? Going to the park? Shopping? He's coming with you, claiming there's lots of creeps around.

Neighbor!Simon, who accepted your offers for dinner, looking at you moving around the kitchen and helping you, imagining you're his pretty little wife.

Neighbor!Simon, who got enough courage to kiss you after being 100% sure you were interested in him.

Neighbor!Simon, who couldn't keep the surprise from showing on his face when during one of your make out sessions, you took him to your bedroom.

Neighbor!Simon, who was a groaning mess underneath you as you rode him, calloused hands holding onto your hips with a bruising grip.

'' 'S what you wanted all along, love?'' He manages to grunt out between his deep groans and moans, hypnotized by the way your tits bounce while your tight cunt takes all of him.

''Since I first saw you.'' You reply with honesty, leg muscles tired from riding him, but his thick cock feels way too good to even think about stopping.

''Good girl.'' He praises, eyes closing as his hips start to thrust up, meeting you halfway while you bounce on his cock, angling up your ass so he hits a more sensitive spot that has you moaning on top of him, his grip on your hips going to your ass while he moves your smaller body up and down his cock, thrusts getting rougher while you finally collapse on top of him.

''Cum inside.'' His hips falter for a moment as he looks at you with raised eyebrows, your hushed confirmation of being on birth control enough to keep him going even harder, driving himself into your cunt at an unlawful pace, heavy balls slapping against your ass as he thrusted deeply, the room filled with the smell of sex, walls bouncing with the sounds of your combined desperate moans as he shoved himself as deep as he could, filling your womb with his thick, fertile cum. It doesn't matter if you're on birth control, his seed is much stronger.

Husband!Simon, who got to come home from deployment to his missus, stomach swollen with his baby.

[lunamoonbby]

I know for a fact Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley would produce some CHUNKY babies so chunky people would think his Lovie is carrying twins but nope it’s just one CHUNKY ASS BABY and Simon would want a whole herd of babies and people would see the toddlers and young children and look at lovie and be like oh you poor mama

[lovelyghst]

simon riley would be running around the house playing airplane with his daughter perched on his shoulders and then get distracted, probably by your pretty voice coming from another room asking for his help. he comes to your aid, as always, but ends up so fixated on finding you that he forgets to duck through the doorway and your kiddo wounds up with a wall to the face, doorframe bonking her in the brow hard, the little thud echoing through the room.

you gasp, dropping everything you’ve got in your hands to join simon in cradling her with endless sympathy and ‘sorry’s, smoothing over the little red mark appearing quickly on her skin.

and, oh, he feels guilty. like, painfully so. this is worse than any war crimes he’s committed, by far.

he’ll break the geneva conventions a thousand times over before even daring to put a single scratch on his precious family.

but your little girl doesn’t cry, at all. not even for a second.

all giggles and smiles as she rubs her forehead and exclaims faux disappointment in her daddy, and simon takes so much pride in that. claiming he only raises tough girls, you included as he’s ruffling your hair. you kiss both their cheeks and hum in agreement, opting not to suggest that maybe she’s like this because the exact same thing has happened more times than you can count, to a t.

[chaosandmarigolds]

newbornDad! Simon Riley

Simon! Who insists on carrying the baby carrier through the threshold of the house when you get home from the hospital

Simon! who spent nine months training Riley to be gentle with the baby

Simon! Who carries the baby around showing them the house with little whispers, 'annnn this is your brothers room, he's had your grandads right now but don't worry sweetpea, you'll meet him soon'

Simon! Who strongly believes the baby needs skin to skin, so...are you complaining about him walking around shirtless with a baby held to chest, not at all

Simon! Who is so worried when Ollie holds the baby for the first time because yeah Ollie is six years old at that point but anxiety??

Simon! Who hates that he has to go on a mission, even if for two weeks because they are sooo so vital and he doesn't want to leave you alone and-

Simon! Who tells Oliver to take care of his little sibling and to look after you

Simon! Who hates his job sometimes

[gloomwitchwrites]

There was this tiktok trend where kids and their mums would pull a prank on their dads by telling their mums to shut up...141 with a teenage son who tries it?

Anon, I am very aware of this prank. If mom is in on it, I consider it all in good fun, but omg, these guys would be absolutely stressed if they heard their teenage son tell mom to "shut up." Heads would absolutely roll over that!

Price is certainly old enough to have a teenage son on the older side. I would even say the same for Ghost. Gaz is old enough for a younger teenage son. With Soap's age...that's stretching it. BUT SUSPEND DISBELIEF Y'ALL. I'm aging Gaz and Soap up a bit for this one.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Presented in two double drabbles and two triple drabbles.

Task Force 141 x Female Reader (w/ children)

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, pranks, domestic, dad!141, brief suggestive themes, marriage

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Ugh. Shut up, Mum.”

There is a brief pause between mum and when the television remote hurtles across the room. Your son doesn’t duck in time, the hard plastic hitting his shoulder before bouncing onto the kitchen island with a loud clack.

Before your son turns, Kyle’s baseball cap with the Union Jack, soars through the air like a frisbee. This one your son manages to avoid, but it’s quickly followed by a slipper. It flies past his head, and you catch it out of the air before it makes contact with the front of the microwave.

You and your eldest son turn in Kyle’s direction as he manifests in the kitchen entryway, the other slipper in hand, poised to launch it at the first sign of any movement.

“Wanna repeat yourself, mate?” Kyle appears calm and poised, but you notice the subtle tension in his jaw.

“It was a joke, Dad! Promise!”

Kyle’s arm holding the slipper starts to rise.

“Kyle,” you say. His gaze flicks to you. “Just a joke. No harm. I was in on it.”

His shoulders immediately sag. Kyle shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. Heading for the fridge, he opens it up, grabbing a can of his favorite beer.

Kyle sets the beer down on the island, pointing the slipper at you and then his son. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out, just an exasperated huff.

Kyle snatches up the television remote and sticks it into the pocket of his grey sweatpants. Keeping hold of the shoe in one hand, and his beer in the other, he gives the two of you his back, heading into the living room.

“No one bother me until the game is over,” he says over his shoulder. “And someone bring me my bloody slipper!”

John Price

"Fucking hell, Mum. Shut it."

John is up and out of his seat so fast you hardly see him move. He strides over to his son, yanking him off the stool by the scruff of his shirt.

"John! It's a prank!" you say quickly, reaching for his arm.

The boy is dangling in the air, toes just shy of touching the ground. "A prank?" asks John skeptically.

"Mum is in on it. Promise."

John sighs heavily and slowly lowers his son to the ground. The moment his feet touch ground, he tries to step away, but John holds firm, keeping his eldest child immobile. He leans forward a bit. Lowers his voice.

"Prank or no, you never talk to your mother, your sisters, or any woman in that manner again. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy." John releases his son. "The lawn needs trimmed."

"Yes, sir."

Your son scurries away. It isn't until the door to the garage opens and shuts that John moves toward you. His arm drapes over your waist, hand landing firmly on your ass, squeezing hard.

"You're coming with me."

"To do what?"

He presses his lips to your ear. "For a different sort of punishment."

John "Soap" MacTavish

"You’re off your head, lad.”

With Johnny’s cold tone comes a tension to your son’s shoulders. He becomes rigid, sliding down into his chair like he can escape from his father by cowering underneath the table. Johnny comes around the corner, a bit of sweat on his brow. He's been building furniture all day for the nursery.

"Want to repeat that for me?" asks Johnny.

Your son’s voice cracks. "It was just a prank, Dad."

"It was what?" Johnny strides forward.

"It's a prank. I'm in on it. Promise," you say, attempting to soothe Johnny’s anger.

Johnny crosses his arms over your chest. "Is it?" He glances between the two of you and sighs, muttering, “Am pure done in.”

He disappears down the hall, returning with a stack of instructional manuals, dropping them into his son’s lap. "You're building furniture."

"But I—"

“You right scunner. C’mon.” Johnny yanks his son out of the chair, the stack of instructional manuals goes flying. Your son reaches for them all, desperately clasping them against his chest.

“Johnny," you call out, walking around the counter to intervene.

He glances over his shoulder, frown gown, sly smirk on his face. “Deal with you later."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Oi, Mum. Shut it.”

Your son is a wonderful actor. You’ll give him that. Even you almost believe him. Not that he would—he’d never—but his delivery reminds you of a completely pissed football fan ready to throw a punch at a member of the rival team.

He should consider theater.

Simon, your husband, is watching a rugby match in the living room. The television is on but at a low volume.

Within seconds of the words leaving your son’s mouth, Simon appears like a phantom guardian in the entryway. In one he holds the remote like a weapon. The other arm cradles his infant daughter. She looks like a small bean. Slightly curved as she snuggles closer against Simon’s chest as she sleeps.

He's not looking at you. He's staring at his son, gaze intense and full of fire.

You’ve seen that look before.

Mission abort.

"He's joking, Simon. It's just a prank,” you soothe, knowing you need to get ahead of this.

Not that Simon would hurt you or his son, but he rarely takes any shit. This prank was a gamble, and you’re completely regretting it.

"Don't mean it, Dad."

Simon just stares for a long minute. His daughter squirms and that is when he glances down, severing the connection. Observing her must change something in him, because his gaze returns to the two of you, and there is a calmness now.

Sighing heavily, Simon shakes his head, completely exasperated. The eye roll is so apparent it’s like a shout.

In the moment he was pissed—livid. But now he’s over it, more annoyed and unamused than actually mad.

Turning on his heel, daughter still cradled in one arm, Simon returns to his recliner, settling back into the soft cushions to finish watching his rugby match.

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[yeyinde]

(sighs dreamily) i loooove the way you write fucked up and gross simon. the size kink and somno drabbles have been living rent free in my mind for almost two weeks now. the recent stalker piece was also so deliciously terrifying, i actually had a dream/nightmare today that was a mixture of stalker!ghost and not-dog!soap 😭

are you planning on writing any more for either of those?

ahhh thank you!!!! this had me wondering how i could maybe blend the two and this happened.

stalking. HEAVILY implied noncon somno. size difference.

Simon decides your dog, your baby, needs a man in the house. and since you like to call yourself his 'mama,’ then it’s only right that he becomes the daddy both of you need.

Your dog does not like strangers.

He's a rescue and the sort of life he lived until now, until you, is mostly a mystery. You found him on a rainy day, panting under your awning - a gnarled mess of matted fur glued to bone. Too skinny to survive another winter. You took him in right away and gained his trust. His love. But whatever he had left to spare (lots, it seems) is strictly reserved for you. Everyone else is a threat, a worry. Even the vets he's known since you found him all those years ago still get the same wary glances, the same growls then they lean in too close to whisper something in your ear.

He's just—special. The sweetest thing ever when it's just you. Your baby. People joke—slightly nervous—that he treats you like his mother. Following you closely with his big, glossy eyes tilted up to stare at you. Loving. Cuddly. Rests his big head on your lap at night with a great, big sigh. Tired from a long, hard day of protecting his house from squirrels and the stray delivery driver.

But when it comes to others—anyone, really—he’s aggressive. Territorial. All the vets and trainers say that it's his breed. That he just needs to be trained. Exposure therapy. Behavioural. And it works for all of two weeks before he's back to his stubborn self. Snapping at anyone who gets too close to you.

You post warnings on your fence. Your front door. Take precautions when you walk him. Warn anyone who gets close that he doesn't like anyone. Full stop. No exceptions. And it works. Helps ease the stress. He still goes to therapy. To training lessons. But he's smart enough to trick them into thinking he's learning.

And it's fine. People can't get too close to you. To his house. His territory.

Or so you thought.

But he's been acting strange lately.

You caught him barking at something through the fence a few months ago; spittle flying from his muzzle as his lips peeled back, snarling and vicious. If the fence wasn't reinforced, you think he would have broken it down to get at whatever was behind it.

It continued like this for a few days. Each time you went to check and see what was there, all you find is littered cigarettes. The teenage son of your neighbour, you think. He likes to hide in the dense woods so his parents can't find him. You'll talk to him about it later. Ask if he can do it a little further away from the fence so he isn’t disturbing Baby. 

As the days grow, his growls and snarls diminish before stopping outright. In the interim, your unease grows.

It's small—at first. 

He wants to be outside more. Always whining at the back door, scratching at it with his paw. When you let him out, he runs right to that spot by the fence. Sits down, and just stares. When you go out to look, there's nothing there. Just a dark, sprawling coppice. Cigarettes on the ground. But something catches his attention. Keeps it. Holds it.

He leads you to that spot sometimes, too. Nudges you with his big, furry head to your thighs. Shepherding you to the fence, and then sits back, clearly preening. Proud.

"You're mama’s silly boy, aren't you?" you coo, scratching his ears. It must be the neighbour. Maybe a stray deer wandered by. You catch a flash through the tree line. Twin puddles of black peering through the tangled weeds. Your dog perks up, looking towards it. A deer, you think. A stray buck. You huff, patting his head. "Made a new friend, huh?"

But you can't shake the feeling that something else is out there. That something is staring at you.

Nothing, you tell yourself, fighting off a shiver. It's fine. Fine. He sneaks off at night sometimes. You hear him playing in the hallway. Wandering around the house. The tack-tack-tack of his nails against the hardwood as he walks back to your bedroom lulls you back to sleep. You feel the bed dip. Something warm against your back. You sigh, melting into the sheets—

There's nothing to worry about.

He'll protect you.

But the next morning, you find him locked outside. The patio door shut. The deck is dried from the sun, but his fur is wet. It rained last night. You drifted in and out to the patter of it on your window. The soothing weight of his body curling around you—

He must have gotten out in the morning. Rolled around in the grass. But when you put him in the tub later to scrub the rainwater off of his cost, his belly is dry.

It's nothing. He was in bed with you last night. It's fine. Fine. Everything is easy to explain away as coincidence. Nothing usual. The feeling of being watched. The missing food from your fridge. The creaks of the old house at night. Things shifting around—keys missing only to turn up somewhere else. Rodents chewing through your landline. 

The panties you shed, tossing into a corner before getting into the shower going missing—

They’re just—lost in the wash. You must have thrown the leftover food away when you cleaned earlier and forgot. The lingering scent of cigarettes. Smoke in your bed. The cloying scent of loam, humus. Fresh dirt. The stains on your bed. The strange smear in the gusset of your panties when you peel them apart.

Something thick, firm between your thighs—

Fine. You tell yourself. Everything is fine. At best, it's a gas leak. At worst—well.

Baby will protect you. 

Always. 

But the next day, he brings his favourite toy to the back door, asking to be let out, and this isn't—

It's not normal.

He's possessive over his toys. Keeps them on his daybed and refuses to let anyone touch them. Only you. He doesn't bring the. Outside, either.

But when you peer outside a few minutes later, the toy is lying by that spot near the fence. He's sitting down, tail wagging. Happy. Excited. It continues like this for the next few days. He brings his toys to the fence, coming in later, licking his lips. When you brush his teeth at night, you smell something gamey on his breath. Meaty. 

Getting out of bed a few hours later and playing in the hallway. Going to sleep with you at night, but somehow getting out in the early hours of the morning, waiting for you on the patio when you remember the huff of his breath over your neck less than an hour ago—

No. You're just—

Getting the time wrong. It's fine. He'll protect you. He doesn't like anyone but you.

You hear footsteps in the hallway at night next to the click-clack of his nails. When you jump out of bed to check, it's just him. Sitting by the back door, head craned over his shoulder when he heard you coming. His favourite toy is sitting on the ground in front of him. You fight a shiver. The feeling of eyes burning into you churns your stomach.

"I'm going crazy, sweetheart," you coo, but feel the threads of your sanity begin to snap one by one. "But you'll keep me safe, right?"

His tail wags. You pretend not to notice the gap in the patio door. Opened just a crack. You shut it, forcibly telling yourself to remember to close it next time and fight the memories of locking it before settling on the couch to watch old re-runs. You drag him back to bed, burrowing your head into his fur, listening to the thud-thud-thud of his heart in your ear. 

When you dream that night, it's of a big, scarred hand making its way between your thighs. A rasping, masculine voice in your ear commanding you to be good—

You wake up with your thighs sticky, wet. Your cunt pulsing. There's an ache there; a sting. It twinges when you move, tapering into a sore throb as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, woken up by the strange dream—fingers between your thighs, a head resting on your belly, calling you a good girl—and a noise.

A low murmur comes from the living room. You wince with the first several steps, forcing yourself to ignore the uncomfortable feeling between your thighs. The wetness that drips down your leg, some of it already dried, sticking to your skin. It’s fine. You just had a—

A wet dream.

—everything is fine. Fine. Your heart lurches. Lodges in your throat. Each beat feels like a fist against your tissue trying to break down the prison of your flesh to flee. 

You slowly inch toward the hallway, the sound, making excuses for the fear that curdles in your belly. The itch in the back of your head that calls you stupid. Demands you go back to bed. To sleep. You’ll wake up in the morning to Baby slobbering over your chest, drooling as the time ticks away in a slow crawl towards his usual breakfast. 

It’s tempting. The sleep congealing in the corners of your eyes, weighing heavy—molasses-thick—over your sense of awareness: cobwebbed in that strange, uncanny realm of sleep and wakefulness; hypnagogia turning shadows on the walls into human shapes. The whisper of wind into the brassy drawl of a voice. 

Through it all, the prickle rears. Says something isn't right. Hasn't been right for a while now. It's fine. Everything is—

It doesn't make sense at first. Your brain tries to wrap around the images your eyes feed it. Untangling the dizzying sense of confusion that runs along your hindbrain like a jagged knife; grazing tissue, scraping over nerves. The picture comes together quickly. There's no misinterpreting the shapes.

A man is lounging on your couch. Legs kicked up on the coffee table, ankles crossed. The remote is held in one hand as he lazily flicks through the channels on your television screen. The picture of ease. So relaxed, so comfortable in your space, that you begin to feel a little bit like an intruder. A voyeur peering between the curtains.

This feeling is reinforced when you peel your eyes away from the horrifying mask on the man's face—a black balaclava—and find your dog lounging beside him. Resting with his head over this stranger's thick thighs. His head perks up when you approach, tail wagging, but he doesn't get up from his spot. Content to bask in the half-hearted attention the man doles, a hand buried in his fur. Dragging over his ears. Down his back. Monotonous flicks of his thick wrist, nearly the same width as the barrel of a baseball bat.

And that just trembles down your spine in the worst way.

He's the same height as you are sitting down. Takes up two cushions on the couch with his absurd bulk. Massive, you think. And then it all rushes through you. The knife slips into your cognisance.

There's a man in your house. Petting your dog,

your dog who tries to bite the same vet he's had for years. Who trusts, who likes, no one but you—

You make a noise. Something strangled in the back of your throat. Muffed, unable to escape through the clot of your heart getting there first. It tangles around your pericardium and is too late to take back. To swallow down. 

It doesn’t matter, though. 

The man has been watching from the beginning. 

Dark eyes (a dark, black flash between the leaves—) drill into you. Staring. That familiar, unease feeling is back again, creeping up your spine. It's been him the whole time, you know. The thing behind the fence. Must be. The same brand of cigarettes you found on the opposite side is sitting on your coffee table, right beside his feet.

His chest expands with his inhale. You smell stale smoke. Something wild. The scent of the forest after a summer's rain shower.

"Finally up, are you? Thought you were gonna sleep all day." His voice is deep. Brassy. The growling roll of an approaching thundercloud. You shiver. Jerk back, but—

Baby growls.

He's never done that before. Never barked. Never snarled. Never nipped.

But right now, his teeth peel back, muzzle wrinkling as he lifts his lips. And you know it's playful. Seen this look on his face when you throw the ball across the yard. It's just him being his silly self. He won't attack you. Won't maul you. 

The man lifts his hand and your dog limbers up. Shakes. He jumps off the couch and trots toward you. Nothing is threatening in the way he moves. It's the same lumbering gait, the same happy wag to his tail, but he moves himself around you. Stands between you and the only escape.

"Baby—?"

"Taught 'im a few tricks," the man drawls conversationally—like he wasn't a stranger in your house. "Got a good boy on your 'ands. Jus' needed a bit o'trainin'—”

He snaps his fingers and Baby moves. Bumps his head into the back of your thighs. Pushing you. Nudging you toward the man. It’s so horrifying familiar that you find yourself moving without a thought. Following along. 

"He jus' needed a man in the house, didn't he? A father figure—" 

You're going to be sick. Think you would have been already if your heart wasn't lodged tight in your throat, keeping everything down. 

The man lifts his hand. Curls his fingers. 

"C'mon, mommy," he taunts, voice a derisive roll. "Come sit on Daddy's lap. It's movie night tonight."

Baby pushes you forward happily, tail wagging, wagging—

Happier than you’ve ever seen him as this stranger reaches out, grabbing your waist and hauling you onto his lap. You think about fighting immediately, struggling to get out of his hold, but he moves back and the unmistakable, blunt press of a gun sends shivers rolling down your spine. You still instantly. Back drawing tight. Fear is a wet, hot pulse behind your ribs. 

“Don’t fight it, birdie—” You feel the warm, damp press of his mask against the shell of your ear. The ridges of his lips move beneath the fabric as he speaks. 

You hear him inhale, drawing in the scent of your shampoo—your fear: an oily thick miasma pooling behind your ears, against your nape—and feel tears pool against your lashline when a surge of familiarity wells up at the solid, firm weight of his chest against your spine. His thigh slips between yours, spreading them wide over the arch of his muscle. Limp, dizzy, you fall back into his chest when he pulls you in, slotting a burly arm over your ribcage. Locked in tight. A shackle. 

“Ain’t go’ nothin’ t’worry about,” he continues, hips shifting. Moving. And—

It’s a not gun. You know it isn’t. When you whimper, it throbs—

There’s the echo of a groan in his voice when he huffs, lips pursing into a kiss. “Nothin’ at all. C’mon, Baby—” 

And Baby obeys eagerly, jumping up on the couch beside him. His snout is warm, wet, when he presses it to your arm, sniffing. Please, you think, staring into his eyes as tears swell, pooling down your cheeks. Please—

But the man lifts his arm, and Baby circles the cushion before falling against his side with a deep, content sigh. Hope is snuffed out of your chest in an instant. The man’s hand falls to his head, rubbing his skull affectionately. 

“Good boy.” Baby perks. His happiness is a palpable thing that swells around you as he melts, eyes slipping closed. “Gonna be a good boy while mum an’ dad spend some time together, ain't you, boy?”

His arm tightens around your waist. Chin notches over your shoulder as he shifts back, legs kicking out to spread your thighs further apart.

"Now," he drawls, hand sliding down to the mess between your thighs. You shiver against him, toying with the idea of running, fleeing—but he must know. Senses it, maybe. He lifts his hips, pressing the gun into your spine. A threat. A warning. But with the way he swallows you up—broad chest closing in on you, trapping you on all sides—you know it's futile.

He has you.

Your submission makes him purr.

"Baby's sleepin', so now let daddy take care'o mommy—"

[mactavishsgfandwife]

Dad!Simon Helps Your Daughter When She Falls Over :((

inspired by this ADORABLE instagram reel 💞💞💞

Your 3 year-old lets out a little gasp as she slips over on the ice and after a moment of shock, she starts to cry out. No words, just a stream of tears and wails of pain, frozen on her hands and knees, bare palms against freezing, snowy ground.

"Daddy!" she cries out, by which time her father is already knelt down at her side, "Dada!"

"Hey, baby," his usually gruff voice sounds soft and low as he gently strokes his daughter’s hair away from her tear-stained cheek, trying not to show how much it affects him to see her with big, sad eyes and so clearly in pain.

“Tell Daddy where you’re hurt.”

"M- m- my knees!" your little girl sobs, leaning into her father’s chest as he picks her up and cradles her in his arms, just as he did when she was younger.

Her bottom lip trembles, and she whimpers softly into Simon’s shirt, sniffling and covering him in tears. Her little hands are sore from the fall, and your husband takes both of them in one of his much bigger, stronger, rougher hands, his thumb gently caressing her knuckles.

"Let me see…" he gently rolls her trouser legs up to see her knees, which aren’t bloody but just a little sore and grazed from her fall. Taking care not to hurt her fragile skin, he leans closer and gently kisses her chubby toddler legs better. It looks funny, this big, scary man being so gentle and loving with a little girl in her pink raincoat, but he doesn’t care. Anything for his daughter.

"Need plaster, daddy!"

"You don’t need one, love, you’re not blee-" he looks down only to be met with her big, teary eyes and sad little pout, her tiny heart so sad not to be getting a plaster.

"Alright, y’get a plaster," he chuckles softly, giving her a tender kiss on the forehead, "you’re such a brave girl."

thanks for reading :P

[bruhhxiao]

Do y’all know about that pregnancy prank where the ladies pretend to drink alcohol during pregnancy to see their partners reaction?

Well I imagine Reader filling a bottle with juice/water and pretend to drink it during the most delicate months (from 1 to 3 months) of pregnancy next to Simon making him drop whatever he was holding or doing to take away the bottle squeezing their jaw trying to make them spit it out.

“juice..” Reader says proudly leaning the bottle under his nose.

I imagine Ghost Simon Riley holding his chest laying against something almost about to faint. (Yeah I imagine the big boy shitting the shit out of himself for his partner bullshit)

“ohh once this baby is out…” He says looking at them so pissed as they stand there in front of him with a dorky smile.

[evilgwrl]

It would be the sweetest sight to come home to Simon cradled up in your daughter’s tiny bed, his massive frame curled up against her as he attempts to fit next to her, a book open on the floor littered with toys.

Now you’re debating whether or not to let them sleep, or gently wake up the giant of a man who will no doubt complain about back ache tomorrow if you don’t.

On the field, Ghost is a killing machine, trained efficiently to take out anyone who opposes a threat. But at home, with you, with your family, Ghost doesn’t exist. Just Simon or Dadda.

[the-raindeer-king]

Simon Riley who hates his dad more and more every day after you have a child together. Especially if it's a little boy. Because Simon can see himself (and Tommy) in your son, and will never be able to understand how anyone can abuse their children.

Simon Riley who would move heaven and earth for your son, if it'd make the little boy happy. He absolutely hates seeing your son cry, and going to the store is a losing battle for Simon's bank account.

Just Simon Riley who promised himself, and more importantly you and your son, that he'd never be like his own father. That he'd be better, kinder, loving. He's the kind of father he needed growing up, and he's the perfect father for your kids.

[yawnderu]

cr: @ave661

“I'm tellin' you it wasn't me, love.” Simon shoots you an exasperated look as you eye him suspiciously, eyes narrowing as you try to find the slightest hint of him lying.

“Say that again, sweetheart.” Your eyes soften the moment you look down at your 3 year-old daughter, one of your hands coming up to brush her hair as she looks between you and Simon, a bright smile on her pretty face.

“Daddy bitch.” She repeats, making you look away to hide the way you're trying to hold back your laughter, Simon doing the same the moment your daughter's sweet voice hits his ears.

“Who taught you that?” You manage to ask despite the way a smile is threatening to split your face at any second now, taking a deep breath when she points at Simon. He looks utterly betrayed, knowing fully well that he never cusses in front of his daughter— not since she started saying “bastard” for over a month after she heard him saying it.

“Daddy did?” She nods her head, looking down at the floor, unable to meet your gaze and fidgeting with her hands and feet, clearly lying. You hum softly, crouching down to her level and pretending to think about her words before you decide Simon's punishment.

“I think daddy needs to be visited by the tickle monster.” You whisper in her ear, instantly making her face light up as she nods vigorously. You exchange a look before looking at Simon, running to him with your daughter, watching the way he pretends to plead for mercy as you both tickle him. Simon can't feel anything in the slightest, but for his daughter's amusement? The tickle monster is absolutely killing him, making him pretend to laugh and squirm away from her tiny hands.

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Villain!Ghost x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Your husband wants your company..

A/n: GUYS OMG, I know it's been 1 month and a little more since my last official work. I've been procrastinating on this for so long since I only have less than a week till school again.. Also everyone I love on this app is just disappearing, like @ghost-cyphera just deleted her account 4 days ago and I got the notif but didn't see it in time, I didn't even get to say goodbye. Just wanted to apologize to you guys after being gone for so long as well. Also, another villain!Ghost drabble? 👀

Finding it difficult to walk was one of the least things you've suspected you'd be concerned of upon conceiving, always needing your handmaiden's help in such a mundane task was shameful to say the least but your husband insisted.

If it hadn't been the hand maiden then it would've been him instead, you couldn't keep him from his duties from the kingdom as he carried even yours. Wanting you to turn your attention to the health of the babe growing in you and especially yourself..

"My lady.." you were pulled out of your thoughts by the voice of your handmaiden. You took in a breath from the cool air that blew on your face as you stood by the stone railing..

"Yes, Leticia?" You turned to her..

"The prince consort has requested your company.." Leticia announced, you nod as you removed your hand from the cold stone. You glanced once more to the people of your kingdom, going about their day and life before gently lifting yourself off from leaning on the stone.

Leticia offered you her arm to help you walk more efficiently..

...

"You sent for me..?" You asked your husband, he was sat and signing another set of documents and scrolls. You closed the door, palms gently pushing till you heard it click.

"No, I told them to announce my arrival to you. How dare they exert my wife by giving her false instructions.." he huffed to which you laughed. He wouldn't do anything violent about it, as he so usually does with staff that don't comply but he knew it'd upset you if anything gory were to happen to them.

"I am quite alright, I need to move around too. It's proven to be good for our child." You said, sitting next to the graciously comfortable chair next to his working desk that he had someone make for you.

You felt relief from the pressure previously on your back, hand on the bump of your stomach and with that a sigh came from your lips. Peacefully watching your husband, the sound of the satisfying scratching of the quill on the crisp papers.

You felt his hand grasp yours, he pulled it, lips resting on the back. His affection made your heart beat faster and he felt it, the pad of his index finger on your wrist. The thumping made him chuckle as you smiled and leaned your head on his shoulder.

"You should rest for a while, my love. You'd work yourself to sickness at this point." You kiss his cheek softly. He put his quill down, "If that's my wife wants.." he said.

He wrapped his arm around you, the other hand placed on your baby bump. His thumb gently rubbing, you jolted a bit feeling a strong kick..

It made you groan, how restless the rascal is. Your husband adjusted his hand to feel the next kick.. he'd swear it was a girl, not that he'd care for that sort of thing. He'd kill for them either way, especially for you. He could stare at you all day, swollen with his child.

How glowing you looked wrapped in the finest silk and the gold and jewels in your hair and body clicking upon contact with another piece, he wished he could tell you how utterly speechless you'd leave each man by just walking passed them but to him no word is enough to describe you.

At least he could spend these small intimate moments with just you and you alone, free of the world for even just a few minutes as he needed a break from the work he very much was eager to do to be able to receive praise from his wife..

My CoD Masterlist

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @callsignsnowpunisher @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @iexiam @drewsmusee @konigceo @duck-a-doodle