#robot simon riley

[lemonwrap]

Thinking about robot Ghost who is fascinated by human Soap and thinks he’s just an incredible feat of nature. He never paid much attention to the intricacies of humans until he met Soap.

He loves touching Soap just to feel the warmth of his skin, loves laying his head on Soap’s chest to hear his heart beat, loves making Soap laugh and smile just to marvel at how expressive he is, and loves watching Soap work just so he can admire how he moves. Ghost is simply in awe of how everything he has to artificially emulate comes to Soap so naturally, and he’s drawn to Soap like a moth to a flame.

[reds-skull]

I am thinking about yet another AU

[sstormyskyess]

wrote some more robot!ghost for @glitterypirateduck's ghost challenge!! i used prompt #81 and pushed robot!ghost in a river >:)

[tiny suggestive warning!]

The sixth month of your service as Ghost's technician was coming to a close, and along with that, autumn was just starting to peter off into winter. The air was colder and the wind bites just a little harder than it did before.

Your breath is visible in the air when you stop to catch it, having exerted yourself on your morning run. Your feet have taken you off base today after deciding to work yourself a little harder. If things went as planned, you would be following the task force off base within the next couple weeks for a longer mission, one where Ghost wouldn't be able to visit as promptly. So, to make sure nothing catastrophic happened with you too far away to address it, you would be going with them.

You wipe the sweat off your forehead as you make a detour into a small cafe on your way back to base, the bell above the door jingling when you push it open. Despite the fact that the little shop was packed for the afternoon rush, things were rather quiet. It was a tad confusing, to be frank.

The cause of this awkward and uncomfortable silence is made clear once you spot a certain hulking man standing next to the front counter, arms crossed over his chest.

You walk over to him with curiosity in your eyes. "Ghost? What are you doing here?" Why would an automaton be in a cafe of all places? Or anywhere that serves food for that matter?

His glowing red LED optics focus on you when he hears your voice and he shrugs in response to your question. "Getting drinks for the others." His voice is plain and deadpanned as usual, explaining himself as though it were obvious and well-known that he served as the task force's personal coffee delivery boy.

You make a little 'oh' noise and glance away from him. Those damn eyes of his continue to send a shiver down your spine every time he stares at you so intently. Expectantly, almost.

The silence is palpable for a few moments before you try to start a more substantial conversation. "So, um... do you do stuff like this often? Getting food for the other guys, I mean."

His voice box makes a low, metallic rumble in response and looks at the queue on the tiny monitor showing what orders were coming out next. "Pretty often. Don't get tired and don't have to work out daily. Got plenty of extra time," he says before glancing over at you and nodding toward the counter. "Might want to get your order in, mate."

Oh. That is what you were here to do, isn't it? You mosey over to the waiter and give them your order, feeling Ghost's eyes on the side of your face while you speak.

When the both of you get your orders--one cup of coffee for yourself and a variety of teas and coffees for the boys--you and Ghost head out together and start on back to base. Conversation flows somewhat easily as you walk as you exchange small stories with each other; most of his consist of various past operations, yours are generally about your clients over the years.

About halfway back, catastrophe strikes.

The two of you are on your merry way when you hear the sound of car horns blaring only a little ways away. All of a sudden, a car is swerving and coming directly toward you. You freeze at the sight and aren't able to react until it's almost too late. Lucky for you, you have a 6'4" automaton bodyguard, one that's able to quickly shove you out of the trajectory the speeding car is taking.

The result is him flying over the guardrail along the side of the river you're walking next to, right into the water.

"Ghost!" You look over the edge, eyes wide in shock. You turn your gaze to the driver of the car that nearly crashed into you. "What is wrong with you?!" You bark at them before trying to find some way down to help Ghost out of the river. You curse under your breath when your search comes up short and resort to climbing over the railing and sliding down the steep drop to the lower walkway.

Luckily, he's already swimming to the side, albeit a bit slow. You take hold of his hand and drag him closer the best you can, helping him onto the concrete footpath.

Now, usually, water wouldn't be an issue for an automaton as advanced as he is, but the fact his chassis was crumpled up by the car hitting him, water was able to get underneath his waterproof outer casing and into his circuits. You call up Price on your phone and he's there to take the both of you back to base within minutes (not before getting the culprits plate numbers and information, though--that person was really going to get it, you already know).

Ghost is stumbling by the time you make it back to your office and get him laying on the workbench to be treated. You have to tell Soap to shut up when he makes a stupid comment about just putting him in a tub full of rice, and he promptly fucks off when he hears the venom in your voice.

You're quick to remove his damaged chest casing and set it to the side. He's instinctively resistant to the action after recently experiencing high levels of trauma, and his hands shoot up to stop you multiple times as you open him up, but eventually he gets too weak to hold you back anymore.

A grimace sets upon your face when you see the water sloshing around in his most fragile parts. Towels first, then you can really take care of him. "I'm gonna wipe you down first, okay? The fabric will probably feel strange or hurt a bit at first, but it's all necessary, okay?" You reassure him while you get the towels out of your tool cabinets. He gives you a strained, glitchy grumble in response.

When you start patting him down, his limbs twitch and he groans softly, his eyes flickering. "Fuckin' hell--" he hisses, his voicebox chopping his words up and his back arching off the table involuntarily. It makes you falter for a bit; it almost sounded like a groan of pleasure instead of pain...

But there's no time to speculate about whether or not your patient was a masochist. Even if your face started to heat up a bit, both from the shame of thinking about him like that and from the inappropriate thoughts passing through your mind. So unprofessional, you scold yourself.

But after that day, you can't get the thoughts out of your head. Yet another thing about that man that captivates you. This was starting to become a problem.

more robot!ghost on the masterlist!!

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

Why?

Requested: No

Warnings: Light angst, Robot!Reader

A/N: Wow, two preferences in one day? What the hell was in my chocolate this morning?

You couldn’t fathom it. Couldn’t….couldn’t understand it. Comprehend it. Accept it. That this person, this living breathing human being, was really treating you like this. That they seemed to….value you in some way. At first you had thought of it as a joke, a cruel one that they shared amongst themselves. Tease the bot, remind them of their place. It was a game you were all too familiar with, and always ended up with a pain in your chest, right where a beating heart would be for a human being. But this person….they were so nice. So genuine in their actions, so unlike all the others you had met over the years. And they had taken care of you, patched you up and repaired you, given you a purpose in this life after you had been tossed aside like common trash, left to rust and deteriorate in a scrap pile, barely clinging to that last bit of battery life, to consciousness. You remembered exactly what you thought of before the lights inside you dimmed.

I don’t want to die.

And you hadn’t. Something that had been quite a shock to you when you woke up in a dark room. The rust scrubbed from your plates, your gears and joints oiled, your battery in the middle of a long recharge. By a cable no less! You couldn’t remember the last time you had been charged by one of those instead of the wireless charging that had become common over the years.

You were alive. You had been given a second chance. And you were determined not to waste it. But that doubt lingered in you, festered like infection in an open wound. And one day, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking the question that plagued you since the day you woke up in their home.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Treating me like a person.”

Price

Price hummed softly, the question not entirely unexpected. It’s likely that he was already questioning that himself for some time now. Ever since he brought you into his home, started fixing you up, growing so attached to you so quickly. Sitting by your bed as he waited for your servers to turn on, replacing your batteries so many times he lost count. So gentle whenever he had to open you up to fix something. Even giving you your own room, and a bed to lay on. And complete and utter freedom to do…whatever you wanted. Sure he’d always been a bit kinder to bots everywhere, some part of him unable to separate their human faces from their mechanical insides, but with you it was like it was dialed up to a thousand. He looked at you, and he couldn’t see anything but a living breathing person.

“....Dunno, Love.” He’d say, tilting his head as he met your eyes. The clear crystal blue soft and shimmering under the moonlight that shone in through the kitchen window. “You want me to stop?” He asked, seeming pleased when you shook your head. “Good. That’s all that matters then.”

Gaz

“You get bonked on the head again, Love?” Gaz would ask in return, arching his brow at you before bending over to pick up a box left at the front door. A new cooling fan for you, since yours was starting to malfunction. “That’s about the dumbest question I've ever heard. You’re a person. Course i treat you like people.” He says, cutting open the box before pulling out the small fan. “Don’t matter that you need things like this. That your insides are different then mine. You’re a person all the same. And I'd bet my last pound that, if such a thing as souls exist, you got one just like me. One much shinier and brighter, all good and perfect. I just know it.” He tells you, a bright sunshine-like smile crossing his face, and you could feel your broken whirring to life as your circuits malfunctioned and started to burn molten hot, heating up your whole body until your systems had to do a mandatory shut down just to avoid melting anything. Leaving Gaz to panic and damn near tear the house to pieces looking for the tools to open you up and replace that damn fan.

Ghost

A slow blink, a tilt of the head. Cold eyes raking over you in thought. Thinking through every word meticulously, making sure nothing left his mouth until he knew exactly what he wanted to say to you. It took a few minutes, anxiety inducing silence that would have you sweating if you were capable of such a thing. Until finally, blessed finally, he graced you with a soft response.

“You are a person.” He whispered, so soft that you almost didn't hear him. He repeated it, a bit louder when you tilted your head in confusion. “You are a person. To me at least. Maybe not to all those bellends outside, but to me. I’ve seen you laugh, get upset, excited, curious. I’ve never met someone who has so much personality to them before. And it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, because they don’t know you like I do. They haven’t seen every beautiful part of you that you try to hide behind a disguise of being just a bot. I know. And I’ll make sure that you know it soon enough to, so you don’t ever ask any daft questions like that ever again.”

Soap

“Watcha mean, Love?” Soap will ask, head tilted in utter confusion. Like you just asked him something in gibberish, brows scrunched together and mouth twisted in a little pout. “Tha’s a dumb question. You are a person. Course I treat you like one.” He says, shrugging his shoulders before turning back to your dismantled arm piece, adjusting some of the little screws and oiling the gears. It was almost funny how he could say that so casually, as if he wasn’t fixing your mechanics right this instant, his fingers tenderly stroking over metal and silicon, like he was scared he might hurt you if he pressed too hard. You didn’t even get the chance to protest his statement before he was opening his mouth again, effectively cutting you off. “I dinnae wanna hear anymore ah that talk, Lovey. You’re a person, my person. Simple as that.” He says, turning to give you a soft smile, hand reaching out to touch your cheek. His hands calloused and rough, but oh so warm. You could feel your motors backfiring, sensors heating up beneath his touch. And that grin on his face took a mischievous turn when he noticed, leaning in to whisper in your ear. “Glad we had that chat then, Love.”

[cod-dump]

Idea: Literal killing machine Ghost.

As in he’s a combat robot built to turn the tide of war. But his AI is still new and learning so they put John “Soap” MacTavish as a handler to help direct him until his AI is more mature. Instead of learning battle strategy and how to lead a team of men, “Ghost” (as Soap nicknamed him so he didn’t have to call him by his serial number) becomes very sarcastic, discovers a love for dad jokes, becomes an animal lover, and ultimately falls in love with his handler.

[circusinthewalls]

I may have gotten way too invested in the overarching plot of this Ghost robot fucking fic, so I hope y'all like your emotional anguish as deep as your penetration

[forsworned]

im wondering if there is at any time any scenes in any of the cod games where simon is smiling behind his mask, like mans cannot NOT have half smirked or even chuckled a bit

[skidspace]

HC that a majority of the 141 are huge nerds and Price never knows what anyone is talking about

(I ran out of steam halfway through sketching this but I thought it was funny and wanted to share regardless)

[sammyrixx]

So I have this au that I recently thought of

I wish I could just draw a comic about it but I'm to lazy maybe I can write it down I really need more ideas about this and more information about robots and humanoids and other stuff ahhh I need to feed my brain

[miryum]

Simon Riley who, when you moved in with him, also had to adjust to your little dog. He loved dogs, as evident by Riley, but your dog was not like Riley. Riley was a war-hardened German Shepard that could sniff out bombs and had survived a bullet wound. Your dog looked like it would pee on the helicopter that was sent to rescue it and bark at the medic before rolling over for belly rubs.

Your dog was all bark and no bite. They were a small, fluffy little thing who you spoiled more than Simon. It took them a while to adjust to Simon, but when they realised that Simon laid heavily on the couch after deployment and was willing to be their personal pillow, your little dog reluctantly accepted him.

As for the dynamic between Riley and your dog, your little pupper was insistent that they were the boss of the house. They barked at Riley when first introduced as Riley just sat there, waiting for it to be over. Soon enough, though, your dog was curled up with Riley, cuddling. That always made you coo and take pictures of the pair, though Simon grumped that he’d rather have you pay attention to him.

Speaking of attention not on Simon, when the hell did your shared bed also become the dogs’ bed? When it was just Simon and Riley, Riley had his own bed and kennel in the living room. And Simon loved you so much. He was so fucking happy when you moved in. Hell, he was happy just to have you in his bed. Waking up with you tucked into his side, protected by him, was something he adored. It was better than heaven. But that heaven was usually interrupted by your scrappy little dog wiggling its way in between you two. He would turn around when you started petting and baby-talking the dog, only to see Riley at the foot of the bed, staring up at him. That’s how both dogs began sleeping in your shared bed.

You adored Riley just as much as you adored your own dog. You loved going on walks with Simon, the dogs on their leashes. Riley was a perfect walker, next to Simon the entire time with such military precision that you doubted the canine even needed a leash. Your dog on the other hand… they weaved all over the path, pausing to sniff and pee every half block. Simon wanted to train your dog like he had trained Riley, but you refused. “Oh, shush. Look at that little face! Perfect already, Si.” Of course, he could never say no to you.

Speaking of Riley’s training, however, Simon could tell that his dog was slowly slipping farther and farther from his strict regimen. With the excessive treats that you slipped Riley, the dog was gaining some chonkiness, just as his owner. As his deployments got further and further apart and his retirement got more and more likely (perhaps because of the ring in his dresser drawer), he allowed himself to stay in bed longer with you rather than getting up to exercise in the wee hours of the morning. You didn’t mind, obviously. You liked the softness that Simon was acquiring and he was always a big man to begin with. Just because his tummy was becoming more squishy didn’t mean that he still couldn’t throw his weight around if someone was bothering you.

Simon, combined with Riley, allowed for ‘scary dog privileges.’ There was a time when a creepy man began following you when Simon was on deployment and you were walking Riley. Your own little dog was getting their hair cut, so it was just you and Riley. You noticed something was wrong when Riley’s ears perked up and his movements got a bit more robotic. You glanced around, knowing Riley’s instincts were never wrong. After seeing the man, you decided to head back towards the edge of the park, where more people were. When the man didn’t give up, though, and got even closer, Riley went full guarddog. He stepped closer to you and turned around to face the man. After a few loud, thundering barks that drew the attention of everyone around, the man scuttled away. Later that month when Simon was back home, both dogs cuddled up to you on the bed, he didn’t know whether to be mad that you didn’t tell him immediately (though he could never get mad at you) or to be proud that Riley protected you so fiercely. Anxiety and fear rushed through Simon, but you calmed him with a small kiss and Riley set his head on Simon’s stomach. Riley definitely earned the scratches behind the ears that he got.

Most dog owners took their dogs out for one last pee before bedtime and Simon was no exception. You always made Simon take the dogs out because you were usually cuddled up in bed or in the blankets all cosy. He never once complained, either tugging on his jacket if it was windy out, or pulling on a hat if it was raining. He would do anything for you, even if it meant braving thick snow that crept into his boots. Riley always went quickly, even though both owner and dog knew that he could withstand the freezing temperatures. Your little idiot, on the other hand, would take their merry time, sniffing and trailing around the yard (which you had asked for when you and Simon moved out of his apartment and into a real house on the outskirts of the city). There were even times when another dog would be walking by and your canine would bark and run after them. Simon was always quick to jog after and scoop the dog up. Once in a while, Riley would give a deep bark as well, as if telling off your dog. Simon would then trudge back into the house, muttering curses under his breath, your dog under his arm.

But, as much as he pretended to hate your dog, there was always a soft spot there. Soon enough, “my girlfriend’s” dog became “my wife’s” dog and then “our” dog.

[lemonwrap]

Hi, I'm Lemon! I write Ghostsoap—sometimes longfics and sometimes just drabbles, often with a healthy dose of angst ;) All drabbles and most writing stuff is under the tag #lemonwrap writes, and most of my other stuff is under #lemonwrap’s misc tag.

My Ao3

My Twitter (rarely used)

Drabble Masterlist (roughly in order posted)

Merman Ghost/biologist Soap

Brokeback Mountain AU

Jackalope hybrid Ghost

Werewolf Ghost and Soap

Neighbors AU

Permanent Mask AU (Full version: I’ll Take A Quiet Life)

Graveyard AU

Classmates AU

Omegaverse, Ghost without scent glands

The Last of Us AU

Dishonored AU

Ghost with trust issues

Brainwashed/dog Soap AU

Sad 09 Soap/22 Ghost

Soulmate AU

Trapped Merman Ghost/dog Soap

Timeloop AU

Mistletoe Mishaps

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 6

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

It’s barely seven in the morning and Simon is already on his third steaming cup of black tea after yet another night of barely any sleep, where he instead indulged in his most primal urges for the first time in what felt like ages.

Two more times he’d done it after his steely resolve had crumbled at last. His balls feel lighter than ever but his cock, now sore and more sensitive to the slightest touch, makes him wince and clench his teeth whenever it chubs against the fabric of his underwear.

Worse than that though—it’s a reminder of what he’s done, just as much an evidence of him losing control of himself as his cum-stained hoodie still neatly folded and hidden behind a couch cushion until he’s able to bury it between his other dirty laundry.

He hasn’t thought about it before, but when the door to his bedroom creaks open, announcing that you’re awake, Simon becomes all too aware of the heavy, gut-wrenching knot of guilt now lodged in his intestines. How the bloody hell is he supposed to look you in the eyes after what he’s done?

When the sound of your bare feet padding along the floor reaches his ears, Simon doesn’t know what to do, how to behave, and he quietly curses Price, curses the brass, and curses the whole bloody universe again for continuously putting him in situations out of his control and comfort zone. He didn’t ask for any of this, doesn’t want to end up treating you like everyone else previously has—though he certainly didn’t ask for you like they obviously did.

“Good morning, Simon,” you chirp entering the kitchen, your voice still husky from sleep in a way that makes his hackles raise like a mutt’s.

Lifting his tea up to his lips, he mutters a gruff mornin’ into the black ceramic mug, not bothering to face you yet. He clucks his tongue, suddenly feeling like he owes you an explanation. “Didn’t ah–Didn’t know if ya eat breakfast, so I… didn’t make any.” Bloody Christ, Simon thinks, I just sound fucking daft at this point.

“I do like to eat breakfast,” you reply with a soft chuckle and he nearly jumps like a skittish kitten when your arm comes around him to rest low on his hip, your warm palm pressing lightly to urge him to move aside, away from the stove—your touch scorching his skin even through the fabric of his sweatpants.

Simon moves stiffly like a robot, grip tightening around his mug while he grits his teeth and wills his blood from rushing south again. So goddamn sensitive, he bites the tip of his tongue, afraid he might groan if he doesn’t stop himself.

“How did you sleep?” you ask casually enough to pull his mind out of the gutter as he finally manages to look at you while you continue talking. “I slept fine, but your bed is… oof… something else.” As if to emphasize your slight discomfort, you lift your arms and clasp them together above your head, stretching thoroughly with a yawn while your sleepshirt—still his bloody shirt—rides up high, exposing the front of your white cotton panties—and just like that, he loses control again, glances down, and gets a full view of the thin fabric perfectly moulding itself to your mound.

Simon curses under his breath, and right then, he fears he might faint from how fast his blood is rushing down to his cock. He grits his teeth, slams his mug down on the counter hard enough to make you flinch, causing you lower your arms at once while your ears flatten at the loud noise.

“Yeah, it’s… shite,” he rumbles in reply, furiously ignoring the questioning look in your doe-eyes, the furrow of your brows coming from the fear that you might have done something wrong again—it makes his mind cloud with anger and disappointment at himself, but it’s not enough to quench the throbbing arousal building deep in his gut.

“…‘scuse me,“ he mutters gruffly, already pushing past and fleeing from the kitchen before you can begin to say another word to him, though he can feel your eyes staring at his back as he retreats, internally cursing his cock currently straining in his pants again.

Shame seems to follow him throughout the day—whenever he catches sight of you, it turns out, and the flat that seemed perfect while he was alone, seems even smaller now that you’re here. There is nowhere to hide. You’ve marked your territory too well at this point, he figures, when he walks into his bedroom and finds your scent clinging to his bed sheets.

Subtle yet sweet like candied fruits with a hint of your natural musk—and his pupils blow like a shark catching a whiff of fresh blood in the depths of the ocean.

A shiver goes through the entirety of his spine, the phantom sensation pooling at his tailbone—uncomfortably familiar whenever he gets particularly excited or agitated—and a horrific reminder of what he is and which abhorred parts of him you bring forward so easily.

Eventually, he picks up his pillow and glances over his shoulder, guilt already clawing inside his chest while he listens to you still cooking breakfast in the kitchen, blissfully unaware of his degeneracy, before he takes a cautious sniff, then buries his nose deeper into the soft fabric before he finally smushes his whole face into it with a low, guttural groan.

His cock throbs harder in his briefs, painfully sensitive now, and his fingers twitch with restraint, digging harder into his pillow as if short from ripping it apart, when he feels the meagre excuse of a knot at the base of his shaft begin to swell, too.

Synapses start firing in his brain and something ancient awakens in himself—a primal instinct that urges him to possess, and protect, and claim you. It makes his gums and canines itch with the need to bite, makes him snarl into the pillow while his mouth starts to salivate, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the tiny, still normal part inside his brain screams at him to get a bloody grip!

It’s your melodic voice cutting through the fog in his brain that drags him out of his pathetic frenzy. He drops the pillow haphazardly, cheeks flushing and shoulders heaving as he tries to control his ragged breathing.

“Simon? Breakfast is ready if you’d like some,” you call out again, all soft and unsure, causing Simon to hate himself even more fiercely.

Simon enters the kitchen with his mask of stoicism fixed in place and his boner gone once more, though the scent of you, all warm and sleepy, keeps lingering in his nostrils, taunting him. It mixes with the mouth-watering aroma of a proper English breakfast and a fresh mug of tea next to the perfectly arranged plate—for him. You’ve cooked for him, again. He didn’t ask for this, didn’t have to, and you did it anyway.

When he sees you standing in front of the sink, scrubbing a pan in soapy dishwater, still only clad in his shirt while the morning sunshine peaks through the kitchen window and casts you in a soft, golden glow, it’s a vision of unfamiliar domesticity that makes his chest feel tight and his mouth go dry with emotions he dares not to name.

The chair scrapes over the floor as he pulls it back before taking a seat and staring down at the plate. His stomach growls on cue and Simon’s eyes flicker up to glance at your back again, noticing how your tail lifts the tattered shirt up, exposing your rear to him without a single care in the world—as if he wasn’t just a stranger to you, but a man you trust already.

And in this moment, Simon Riley makes a secret vow to himself.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it genuinely, and he expects you to turn around, to flash one of your warm smiles at him, but you don’t though the light wagging of your white tail is telling enough.

Catastrophe strikes, when Simon returns home from the base gym in the early evening, secretly hoping for another homemade dinner, but finding his flat eerily quiet and cold instead.

The sun has already set and the temperature along with it. His thick hoodie clings to him like a second skin despite the sweaty tac shirt he’s wearing underneath, and with his balaclava still securely in place, he lets his gym bag drop to the ground, leaving it by the front door after locking it behind him.

His footsteps are measured and silent as he stalks into his living room—only to find it empty with a heavy sigh.

Did you leave while he was gone? No, highly unlikely. You know that’s against the rules, against the bloody hybrid law, actually. Simon shakes the thoughts from his head, ignores the tiniest flutter of panic in his chest and decides to simply call out your name instead—like a big boy.

“Since when are ya hidin’ from me?” he quips uncharacteristically, having pictured you greeting him with a wagging tail and sparkling eyes when his mind had slipped again on his short walk from the gym to the apartment complex, though he’s reluctant to even admit it to himself.

When he finally finds you, Simon freezes in the doorway to his bedroom, blood running cold with a whole-body shiver while his eyes widen comically behind the safety of his mask at the sight that greets him.

He’s been through hell and back multiple times, has witnessed—and done—the most horrific shite in both his military career and cursed childhood, and yet none of it could’ve prepared him for this.

You, sitting at the end of his bed right across from him, clutching his  painfully obvious cum-stained hoodie from last night against your quivering chest like it’s something precious instead of his despicable dirt, fat crocodile tears shimmering in your eyes as they flicker up to meet his.

For once in his life, since crawling out of his own grave, Simon Riley is too stunned to speak.

Why? Why? Why?! Why are you doing this to me?

“Simon,” you sniffle pathetically, sitting there clad in your pretty white knit dress. “Simon, do you–do you h-hate me?”

All air rushes from his lungs with a harsh exhale as if punched in the chest at the sound of your meek voice asking him this. Hate you? Bloody hell, he really should.

However, his mouth merely opens and then closes with something akin to a choked complaint, though it’s muffled by the black cloth covering his face. He’s thankful for it as he feels the searing heat of embarrassment creep up and settle on his cheekbones.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses under his breath before lunging forward in a fit of panic to snatch his hoodie out of your grip while his heart thumps violently against his ribcage. “Gimme that!”

You let out a high-pitched whine and duck your head submissively as he towers over you briefly, but Simon ignores your reaction in favour of his own quick retreat—not a Special Forces soldier but a coward falling back in this very moment as he swiftly turns to leave again, get as much space as he can; clutching the fabric tightly so he won’t end up punching a wall on his way out—and potentially scare you even worse.

Shame sinks and settles deep into his bones along with the freezing cold engulfing his flushed body once he steps out into the darkness, leaving the apartment complex behind him after throwing the wretched fabric into the nearby rubbish skip next to the large building.

Rucking his balaclava up over his nose, he puts a cigarette between his cracked lips and lights it methodically before taking a greedy drag on his way over to HQ—your file now safely tucked under his left arm.

[kitkatscabinet]

Don't feed him he'll come back

simon riley x neighbour! reader

summary: The ghost that lives in your apartment is a solitary man, people tend to stay out of his way, giving him a wide berth. You can't help but think he seems a little bit lonely, cue pestering him with bad jokes and food.

word count: 1.6k

part 2 here

There’s a ghost that lives in your apartment block. Though it feels more accurate to say he’s an occasional visitor. He comes and goes, like a lost spirit, unsure and aimlessly wandering. He slinks silently through the hallways like a wraith in the few instances when he is there. 

The first time you see him is just a glimpse from the corner of your eye, a large hulking shadow standing at the door next to your apartment as you step out from yours. 

Your feet stutter to a stop, the landlord had mentioned a neighbour but in the 3 months you’d lived there you’d never seen him. As if sensing your eyes lingering curiously on his form, deep brown eyes turn to meet yours. You can make out no other details of his face, the black material of his balaclava obscuring most of his features. 

A century could have passed in those few seconds and you doubt you’d have noticed. Despite the weariness in his gaze, you found yourself pulled into the deep pools of those stunning eyes. Like a predator, his gaze never moves from your body, even as you offer him a friendly smile and wave before walking down the hall to continue your day. 

You’d heard the uneasily whispered tales of the Ghost that haunted the apartment next to yours from some of the older tenants, though you’d never put much stock into the idle gossip. His burning gaze bores into your back and follows until the doors of the elevator close and you suppose you should feel intimidated. 

It’s hard to conjure up any such feelings, even with the knowledge of the wariness he elicits in others. It’s hard to fear the hulking figure of the Ghost when he had such sad eyes. 

He hid it well but you recognised the loneliness that lined his shoulders, the bone-deep exhaustion for life that managed to slip through tiny cracks in his self-imposed shield. 

You suppose at that moment that even Ghosts can be haunted. 

Maybe that’s why you found yourself knocking on his door later that evening with the tray of pasta bake. Initially, you’d made a large batch to have a few days left over for yourself. Yet just as you opened your fridge you’d hesitated, mind flashing to the man next door. Did he have any food for himself? There was likely nothing fresh, and he’d seemed too exhausted to pull himself to the grocery store during the brief encounter earlier. 

Donning your Crocs, you’d marched over and knocked on his door before it properly registered that you were in pyjamas. The door swings open and your eyes trail up, the balaclava is gone, replaced with a simple black face mask letting you glimpse blond hair. 

“Sorry if this is a bit intrusive, but I figured you probably didn’t have any food so…” you trailed off, pushing the tray towards him, expectantly waiting for him to grab it. It took a few seconds before he robotically took the tray, probably out of sheer confusion more than anything else. Stepping back before he could return the food you offered one last smile before fleeing to the sanctuary of your apartment. 

Two days later you exit your apartment to an empty and cleaned tray, a small note with a simple ‘thank you’ placed within. 

His name’s Simon, and apart from an introduction and the occasional dish left at his door, you don’t actually interact with him again until nearly a month later. And that had simply been a case of forced proximity a la broken elevator style. 

Simon remained unflappable as ever, and it’s at that moment you decide to try and get a reaction that isn’t stoic silence. 

“A bear walks into a bar and says give me a whiskey and …cola” Brown eyes turned to look at you curiously, brow raised to let you know he was listening. “Why the big pause? Asks the bartender. The bear shrugged. I’m not sure, I was born with them.” 

The joke doesn’t land, silence is the only reward for your comedy genius. “Ok, playing hardball. Alright then… Why did Susan fall off the swings?” Again, there is no answer, but a glance at his relaxed posture indicates he’s listening. “Because she had no arms.” 

No laugh but you blaze ahead. 

“Knock knock.” It takes a few seconds but with a playful glare, he responds quietly and with a tinge of amusement. 

“Who’s there?” It’s not the first time you’ve heard his voice, but it still births a serious case of butterflies in your gut that takes more than a few seconds to fight down and regain your composure. 

“Not Susan.” You can’t stop the peal of your giggles at that one, and while you swear you see the corner of his cheek curve upwards a little it’s not enough for you to be satisfied. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this, but I guess it’s time for the big guns. You better prepare yourself Riley 'cause I’m done holding back.” You pause for a few seconds to let the anticipation settle. 

“What is… Whitney Houston’s favourite type of coordination?” You take a deep breath before positively belting out, “HAAAAAAAND-EEEEEYE.” Whether it’s the shock from the sudden musical number or the joke itself you’re finally rewarded with a faint chuckle. 

“Aha!” you shout in triumph, a smug grin splitting your face, “I heard that laugh, you can do more scowl!”

The doors suddenly open with a ding and Simon pushes off the wall, but not before rolling his eyes playfully your way. Silence once again descends during the walk to your respective apartments, yet it’s not uncomfortable. Swiping your key card it’s just as you step through the threshold that you hear it, 

“Why did the chicken go the seance? To get to the other side.” Whipping your head around, you are met with the sight of his door closing behind his large frame, but a win is a win and you celebrate mentally over the exchange. 

The next time you leave a dish at his door it comes with a written joke. Sure enough, a few days later you received one back. The months start to blur, and your Ghost comes and goes, but the jokes remain. 

Month three sees you snagging his number, a daily joke sent his way even when he can’t respond. Because as much as Simon Riley tried to hide his hurts from the world, he couldn’t hide them from you. 

You’ve loved a soldier before in your brother, can see the signs and smell the gunsmoke and blood from miles away. Apart from his team, it becomes obvious the man has nobody left, and believes he doesn’t deserve to be cared for.

You’re not foolish enough to think you can be that for him, but you are understanding enough to give him the choice. So you continue to send him jokes, puns, pictures of your cat Bingbong and anything that you think will get him to at least smile.  

Three months turns to six turns to eight. He’s not physically there most of the time but you take every opportunity he is to coax him from the loneliness of his apartment like a stray kitten.

Once-a-week dinners at least. Freely sharing your life’s story without expecting anything in return. One evening you’d plopped your chunky tuxedo cat down on his lap and watched him freeze, hands hovering with wide eyes as he considered the ball of fur making biscuits on his thigh. 

It was cute. He was cute. Even when he whipped around to glare when you took a photo, the corners of his lips downturned and tugged at the scars on his face. His bare face wasn’t necessarily a new sight but it causes your breath to hitch nonetheless. 

Something you think he notices given the way his lips quirked up suddenly in a smirk. Rolling your eyes you huffed before plonking yourself down next to him on the couch. Bingbong doesn’t scramble onto your lap like you expect, instead deciding to remain on his new favourite human, traitor. 

You pay very little attention to the movie even though you’d chosen it, too acutely focused on the large bulk of Simon next to you. Your shoulder rests against his arm, his body heat emanating from beneath his hoodie and absorbing into your skin. 

You’ve never been one to fall asleep during movies, but there’s something about Simon’s presence that soothes you, lulling you into a restful slumber as you slump against his chest. Bingbong meows his discontent as you accidentally squish him, jumping away with a huff, none of which you notice. 

It’s the sun shining straight onto your face through the open blinds that wakes you the next morning, a groan of confusion leaving your lips as you stretch and look around to orient yourself. 

Sitting up, the blanket that you just now realised covered your form fell down to your waist. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes your phone falls to the floor when you stand, the screen flicking on to display the time. 

It’s not until you sleepily stumble into your bedroom, plugging your nearly dead phone in and face-planting onto your pillow that you realise Simon must have tucked you in. The smile that covers your face is so wide it is painful and you fall asleep once more, dreaming of the phantom sensation of his arms wrapped around you.

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley/female reader This is the last part before the epilogue

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise honey, remember?” You nod, but your eyes stay glued to the windshield, tracking the raindrops sliding on and off the glass. “Hey,” he reaches for your hand, pulling it into his grasp, “it’s okay. You’re safe.”

“I’m with you.” You repeat the mantra, the one you repeat in the shower, in bed, in the living room. I’m safe. I’m with you. 

He wants to look away from the road so badly long enough to see your eyes, really see them. It’s how he knows where you are, if you’re there, or here, or somewhere else. Just in case, he reminds you. “The kids are with Gaz and Cami. Soap is sleeping in the guest room. They’re all together, and they’re safe.” You nod again, but answer as a robot.

“They’re safe.” He can’t do it. He pulls the car over and you turn in alarm, watching as he steps around to the passenger side door and pulls it wide, dropping to his knee.

“Look at me-“

“You’re getting wet!” You sputter, grabbing at his jacket, but he stills you.

“Look at me, mama.” Your eyes are full of tears, and he cups your cheek. “Where are you?” Your lip wobbles.

“That room.” He pries your fingers open and places your palm over his chest.

“What’s that?”

“Your heart.”

“Your heart, sweet girl. It’s yours. Count them for me.” You shake your head, clenching your eyes shut, and he squeezes your knee. “Deep breath. Count them.”

“O-one, two, thr-we, four…” he does it with you, quietly, supporting, but not coaching. Not leading. You have to do it, you have to bring yourself back. “F-ive… five, six, seven, eight, nine…” each beat steadies your voice until you’re sitting a little straighter, breathing a little deeper.

“There she is. There’s my girl.” He wipes a tear from your cheek, “that’s it.”

“Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…” you reach twenty five, and then give him a nod. He is thoroughly soaked now, but who cares. It’s not even close to what matters.

“Where are you?” He presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

“I’m here, with you.” You meet his gaze, clear and focused, and he nods.

“Okay.”

“You could have told me.”

“Not as fun, mama, I wanted it to be a surprise.” You’re standing in the middle of the room, looking around, smiling. It’s the same room he brought you to years ago. The room where he put the ring on your finger, the room you told him you’d spend the rest of your life, his life, together. The curtains are the same, the decor, even the bedspread.

“Si,” your voice wavers, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you against his chest.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

You're surprisingly not nervous at all, though he's not that shocked. You have a few tattoos, medium sized, black and grey like his. No sleeves or anything that extensive, but you picked up a small collection during your travels. 

"Wait... are you serious?" You squeak, eyeing the chair and then the guy sitting beside it, Mark, the same guy that's done almost all of Simon's work. Simon's still not sure how he convinced him to come out here and do this, but he suspects the sentimental piece of this occasion had a lot to do with it. "What... what is it?" Simon glances at him, and then nods, holding his breath as he pulls the stencil out of the binder to lay it flat in front of you. 

It's a ring. Black and grey to match your other tattoos, but the same shape, band, everything, as the one you lost. Except- 

The stone frames three constellations. Orion, Phoenix and... "Lyra." You whisper, tracing the line work. You look up at him with tears in your eyes. "Orpheus and Eurydice." 

"Everyone says it's a tragedy, y'know? That he failed. But those people have never felt the way I feel about you." His throat is unbearably tight, and he swallows to keep it together. "They don't know how I'd go to hell to bring you home, they don't know how desperate I'd be to look back and and make sure you're still there with me," he breathes deep through his nose, chasing away the tidal wave rising in his chest. Mark, thankfully, has decided to pretend to be busy with something else. "They don't know how I'd let myself be ripped apart just to see you again. To spend eternity with you." 

"Simon..." 

"You don't have to do it," he rushes out, squeezing your hand, "just say so, and we'll leave. I won't be mad." You reach for him, tugging him close by his wrist and standing up on your tiptoes, trying to bury your face in his neck, seeking you safe space. 

"I love you. I love... I love you." He brushes your tears away. "I want it. Yes, of course. I want it." 

"You sure?" You cast one last look at the drawing, and nod. 

"Eternity with you." He smiles. 

"Eternity." 

[salbeitraeume]

And they were drift compatible

in another instance of “turn ghost into a creachur”

mech ghost & pilot soap ❤️ (idea babbles on my twitter)

anyway not sure if i love this design but i’m also never drawing it again bc drawing robots is Hell

[bagofshinyrocks]

A Little Bump on the Head

Prompt: As your and Simon’s little man is exploring the living room, he bumps his head. Simon is almost more upset than the baby is. [Requested by anonymous]

Featuring: Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 0.6k

Warnings: none

You were so relieved when the little man started to entertain himself.

Watching birds and dogs outside, building blocks, sorting colorful balls and toys, climbing through a series of tunnels made by his daddy from recycling.

Simon was home as much as possible, deployments never being more than a week, and demanding desk-duty or training on base. But it was still hard to run a two-adult one-infant household with both of you only getting a few hours of home-making between you. 

And sometimes, both of you needed some sleep. Sometimes he had a late night at work. Sometimes baby decided to scream at 4 AM and scare both of you so horribly that you couldn’t fall back asleep even after the baby was all snork mi mi mi.

You were re-reading some comics on the couch, encouraging the little man as he scribbled on his coloring pages or crawled to follow the robot vacuum. Once Simon finished loading the dishwasher, he came in and flopped on top of you.

“Ohhhh, what a comfortable pillow.”

“Heavy,” you grunted, freeing your arms and wrapping them around your husband.

“You callin’ me fat?”

“Just a smidgen. In a sexy way.”

Your baby suddenly sat up and vocalized. A happy smile when his dad waved. With a great heave, he pulled himself up on the chair and started making his way over to you.

Eager coos and cheers from both of you, as he waddled from the chair to the coffee table.

A hiccup! An obstacle! Your son falls on his bum. But he perseveres and pulls himself back up again.

But he misjudges and bonks his head on the underside of the coffee table instead. He falls back on his rear. And his sweet face crumbled and flushed as he started to cry.

Both of you jerked forward, reaching for him and starting to comfort him. Simon rolled off you  and onto the floor and scooped the boy up in his arms.

“Oh, bubba,” he hushed, cradling the lightly bumped head into his chest, “it’s alright. You’re alright.”

You wrapped around your husband and gently rubbed your son’s back. He stopped fussing fairly quickly, just sniffling and holding on tight to his daddy.

The top of your boy’s head had only a slight bump on it; nothing you needed to worry about. A light reddened line where he hit the corner, and not even that raised of an egg. He had done this a couple times before.

You looked to Simon to reassure him that the boy was okay and almost started tearing up yourself. The baby was quietly leaning into his daddy’s chest, and your husband was the one fighting back tears.

“Baby,” you coo, cupping Simon’s face in your hands and kissing his cheek. Then kissing your son’s before he could get jealous. “Baby, he’s fine. Just a little bump. He’s had worse.”

Simon nodded, not trusting his voice, and kissed the top of the baby’s head.

A few minutes later, the boy was crawling through his cardboard maze. Moisturized. Flourishing. Living his best life. And now you had your husband in your arms.

“He’s alright.”

“I know but he bumped his head while coming to see me-”

“Shush. Not your fault.” You leaned him back and pinched his nose.

“He’s just learning his gross motor skills. It happens.”

Simon rubbed his nose. “They’re not gross.”

You almost laughed in his face, but didn’t, you were a good spouse. He was still upset. “As in gross motor skills versus fine motor skills.”

“... Oh.”

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Posted: 2023 December 25