#simon Riley x gn!reader

[rejectedbytheempty]

♡ pet peeves about him (tf 141 x reader)

don’t get me wrong, i’m sure they’d be great partners but i fear there is a little something that would just irk you about them

price: you love him, you really do, but sometimes he is so condescending. you’re both hanging out and he leans over and you’re thinking he’s gonna kiss or something but then he corrects your posture!! or you’re having an off day and wanting to just lay around in bed and he opens the blinds, “up and at ‘em luv.” he even has the gall to dodge the pillow you throw at him with a shit-eating grin on his face.

ghost: something about him is that he really lives up to his name. you go to the bathroom for five seconds only to come back to the couch and find a simon-shaped spot where he was. just up and left because he thought you were signaling the hangout was over. even worse when he shows up unannounced at your apartment, grabbing you from behind. you later had to apologize to your neighbor who knocked frantically at your door after you screamed bloody murder.

soap: soap is a puppy, a big, overgrown puppy who doesn’t realize how strong he is. at random times he’ll just grab you and pin you to the ground, taking both of your hands in one of his and straddling your hips. sometimes he’ll even start tickling you, not understanding that you’re laughing involuntarily not because it’s fun. if you do manage to escape or try to bite him, it just eggs him on, his eyes lighting up with mischief. he does eventually apologize later, holding you in his lap with bite-marked arms.

gaz: he really loves to take care of you, but sometimes it can be suffocating. when you mentioned something about not eating recently, he constantly asks you if you’ve eaten. even going so far as to make you sit at the table and eat a full meal. or when you’re sick and he makes you stay in bed all day. if you dare try to get up to get some food or water, he hauls you up on his shoulder and puts you back in bed with a scold that he’d get you anything you needed. try to escape too many times and he’s trapped you in his arms, spooning you on the bed.

[circlebuttons]

Sweet boy “Simon Riley” - simon riley x gn!reader

-simon likes being babied and no one can change my mind. also two fluffs in a row srry :p

352 words

-

You’re laying down on your back with Simon on top of you. He makes sure to only have his top half on you in order to keep the weight of his body from smothering you. You mindlessly scratch the back of his head and run your fingers through the shortest parts of his hair while his head rests in the crook of your neck as he faces towards you breathing in smoothly and slowly, trying his best to not make it obvious that he’s slowing being intoxicated by your scent. The rhythm of his breathing and the way his eyes are closed makes you think he’s fast asleep so you eventually stop moving your hand and let it rest on the back of his head. Almost immediately he lets out a low grunt that makes you look down at him, his eyes are closed a little bit tighter, his eyebrows are furrowed, and there’s a slight pout to his lips.

“You okay baby?” you speak softly to him, borderlining baby talk.

He nudges his head against your hand without saying anything and it makes you pause for a second. Simon was not the softest man in the world so pouting for head scratches had not been common you guess until now.

Simon grumbles at your stillness. “Please” he mumbles, echoing your tone and if you listen really hard you can swear his pout is audible.

His softness makes your heart swell so of course you immediately begin to lightly scratch his head again. His expression relaxes and that’s all you get to see before he lets out a heavy exhale and turns his head so that his face buries itself into the skin of your chest and neck. He lets out a quiet content groan and leaves a few soft kisses behind on your skin.

“my sweet boy” you coo at him and press a kiss to the back of his head. You can feel the way he’s melting in your hands and can’t help but see how far he’ll let you go.

[allllium]

I know people say this a lot but Ghost literally gives you everything. I don't just mean buying you things, I mean acts of service, I mean all the happiness you never thought you could have.

When you're his, you're his. All the way.

You want an overly expensive piece of jewelry or something you collect, you're getting it. You want to move across the country, he's packing everything for the both of you.

Anything you ask of him he'll give you, even things you don't even know you want. He knows you better than you know yourself because he focuses so intensely on everything you say.

He wants nothing more than to give you everything he can because he's so scared you'll never know how much you mean to him.

And no matter how long you're together he'll never believe he's doing enough for you.

[mockerycrow]

Frozen Fingertips [2/2] (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist - part one

Summary: Ghost struggles to keep you alive through these harsh times.

A/N: I’m so glad you guys enjoyed part one!! i did not shrink the font of this one because i realized that it may strain some peoples’ eyes. this is not as angsty as i wished it to be, and it isn’t as long as i hoped. i apologize. tbh i don’t like this, but i hope y’all enjoy

[WARNINGS: Descriptions of developing hypothermia and frost bite, delirium, near-death experience(s), angst to fluff.]

THE BLIZZARD WAS not stopping and it didn’t show signs of stopping any time soon, which honestly terrifies Ghost because of your awful condition. Despite his previous efforts, you quickly slipped back into a delirious state of developing hypothermia—a state you weren’t completely aware of, but you knew something was wrong. You could vaguely acknowledge the way that you were fading in and out wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t like you could do anything about it. What you hated was the painful tingling and the weird.. harsh cold entering your lungs every time you took a deep breath. You’re so warm, yet your lungs burn cold.

You only saw times in glimpses—what you thought was likely a matter of hours, expanded across a matter of a few days. The harsh blizzard was unwavering, it’s snow falling from the sky harshly messing with the radio signals. Ghost would sit by the window with his personal radio on his vest, along with the emergency signal radio he had stowed in his pack. He would get small glimpses of other peoples voices—Price’s would come through occasionally, luckily long enough for Ghost to update him about their situation and their whereabouts, your condition; but Ghost was never able to provide an update about an exact location. The windows were frosted over and even when they weren’t, all Ghost saw was endless snow and pine trees far as the eye can see, until they eventually faded from view due to the snow coverage. Every time Ghost suddenly becomes aware of his breath, he can’t help but glance over at you; wrapped up in two sleeping bags, sitting way too close to the fireplace—sometimes shuddering, and sometimes.. not moving at all. His heart drops to his stomach when he doesn’t see your breath in the air. He calls your name loudly, firm and demanding and when you don’t answer, he scrambles from his position by the window. “Fuck,” He utters. “Fuck!”

Ghost ignores the pain in his knees when they harshly bash against the ground as he kneels next to you. He grabs your face by your cheeks, startled by the hue of blue on your lips. “Bloody bell—wake up!” Ghost snarls, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. He holds his breath until he sees your chest slowly yet shakily rise—and then you exhale very slowly, and clearly with amounts of trouble. Relief floods Ghost’s veins, but it’s quickly replaced by frustration and panic. You gasp quietly before you begin to shiver uncontrollably again, and taking Ghost completely by surprise; you open your eyes. Your eyes are glazed over, your eyelids puffy. “[Name]?” Ghost questions, his eyes staring hard into yours, silently noting your dialed pupils. “[Name], can you hear me?” If you do, you don’t make coherent indication. Your tongue darts out and wets your lips before you croak out, “I gotta pee.” Ghost huffs and shakes his head, his hand shooting up and laying on your chest—which is covered by many thicker layers, so disregarding Ghost’s hand, it’s not very likely you could’ve gotten up without help, anyway. “You went an hour ago, yeah? You need to stay layin’ down.” You groan and despite your arms being tucked into your multiple covers, something moves against the fabric as if to swat Ghost’s hand away. Ghost can’t help but swallow nervously; he isn’t stupid, he’s aware you’re in one of the stages of hypothermia, he told Price as much. He’s been able to keep the frostbite at bay, but he’s running out of firewood. It’s snowing way too damn hard for him to even pick up stray logs and sticks laying around. Your slowed heartrate, increased urge to urinate, slow cognitive functions, slurred speech, cold skin—blue lips..

It’s not looking good and Ghost doesn’t want to think about that, but that’s all he can see of you right now, so how could he not? And it’s hard both mentally and physically to stay in this cabin, seeing you deteriorate while he himself is getting absolutely fucking freezing. Ghost has had to shed a layer or two just to keep you alive. He can’t deny the way the cold air is scratching at his skin, seeping through his balaclava and into his jaw, nearly making his bones hurt. Ghost clenches his teeth as he shudders for a moment, eyes fluttering closed just long enough to gain his composure. Fuck. Ghost doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t want you to die here, not like this. Not in a run-down abandoned cabin with shitty insulation, where frostbite is nipping at your fingers and where the cold is finally getting to Ghost’s head. He grits his teeth and sits back on his ass normally with a gloved hand to his head, his vision absolutely swimming. “Stop it,” He grunts quietly. “Hafta stay up.” Ghost takes a deep breath and grunts as he pushes himself to his feet, his boots booming against the wooden floor as he walks over to the area where the firewood is kept. He grabs a few of the pre-cut logs and he makes his way over to you and the fireplace, tossing the logs into the ashes, slowly refueling the dying embers. Ghost sniffles a little under his mask as he grabs a piece of paper and takes out a lighter, lighting it on fire before quickly tossing it into the fireplace to make a better fuel source. He crouches near the growing fire, taking his spot by your feet. Ghost sucks in a shuddering breath and rubs his upper arms, and he can’t help but take another glance at you. You stopped trying to get out of your warm enclosure of blankets, but your eyes were darting around the room slowly, unfocused and hazy.

Ghost’s chest clenches for a moment and he walks back over to your shivering form, and he already did it, but he presses his fingers against your lukewarm skin—nearly cold. Your eyes flutter again and then they vaguely glance in the direction that you think he’s in; which you’re almost right, but a few inches off. You try to speak but a quiet choked noise leaves you, your breathing shaky—finally from fear this time. Ghost puts his finger to his mask in a shushing motion, trying his best to keep you calm. “You’ll be alright, yeah? Gotta wait until the storm’s done brewing out there.” He attempts to reassure your delirious brain, but you can only make another “out of it” noise before your eyes flutter shut once again, you losing consciousness. Ghost feels an ugly and dreadful feeling deep in his gut, scratching at his veins, climbing them until his fingertips are cold both due to the temperature and panic. Ghost has always insisted he doesn’t panic, and he hasn’t—until now. Not until he fears the storm won’t pass over and help won’t arrive until you’re frozen and stiff under your fear, despite his desperate attempts to keep you warm—and alive. Ghost doesn’t want to admit it, but fuck, he’s terrified to fall asleep because out of the two of you, what if he’s the only one who wakes up?

Ghost’s eyelids flutter for a moment before he inhales in a sharp manner and his spine straightens up, his hands clenching together for a moment. “M’not going to fall asleep.” He mutters to himself as he takes his place next to you on the floor and holy hell, the floor is cold—so he silently scoots closer to you and wraps an arm around your body, and Ghost uses his other arm as a pillow. Your chest very slowly rises and falls, and he finds comfort in the sight of a sign of you being alive—you’re still here with him, and that’s all he needs.

Ghost is awoken from a banging on the cabin door. He jolts ever so slightly, but he’s immediately hit with chills, his limbs trembling. Fuck, he fell asleep. His eyelids feel like sandbags and and he can’t stop fucking shaking—and he feels so heavy.. so tired. “Ghost!” A familiar voice yells outside of the cabin. His arm wraps around your form tighter when he doesn’t immediately recognize the British accent behind the door, he grunts as he clumsily sits up and pulls you closer, his trembling hand grasping as his hip, taking out his service pistol. The door opens as he attempts to aim it, his weak and low voice hissing out, “I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out—“

“Ghost, it’s Price. We found you. Put the gun down.”

Ghost blinks slowly as he looks at the figure who slowly approaches, two others trailing behind—and it is Price—with Gaz and Soap. Ghost sharply inhaled and his arm lowers, the pistol slipping out of his grip. Gaz rushes over to him and your limp form, taking off his gloves. “We got you, Ghost. We got you.” Price assures, but his lips are pressed together as he watches Gaz. Ghost’s head rolls back for a moment, blacking out for a few seconds—Soap’s hands catching his head before it hits the floor. “They’re alive,” Gaz grunts out, leaning down to pick you up bridal style while keeping all of the layers around your body. “Barely, but we gotta get ‘em both to warmth. Now.”

When Ghost finally comes to, the first thing he notices is the smell—it doesn’t smell like rotting and burning wood; his lungs don’t burn with every breath and he can keep his fingers. The second thing he notices is the ache within his throat and his limbs, and the third thing he notices is that he is not wearing his mask. He still feels heavy, but it’s not the kind of heavy where you want to sleep forever heavy. It’s a.. comforting heavy. Someone laying on top of him heavy. It takes him a hot second to open his eyes, and another second to adjust to the harsh lights of the hospital room—oh, wait, they’re not that bad, his head just hurts. Ghost notices someone laying their head on the bed on top of Ghost, their arms under their head as a cushion. He blinks blearily as he doesn’t register it at first; the hospital gown, two IV drips for two separate patients, and the bandages covering your fingers—it’s you. His eyes widen and he lets out a quiet noise, causing you to lift your head up immediately and look at him with the most vulnerable look you could ever have, your eyes wide and bulging like when a child doesn’t know whether to believe the adult in front of them. “Ghost?” You ask, and fuck, your throat croaks. Your vocal cords sound like they’ve been torn apart and reattached, croaking with relief and pain. He swallows thickly and he nods for a moment, unable to find his voice. Your eyes soften for a moment before you whisper to him. “Hurts to talk, huh? Me too.”

Then don’t, said his silent gaze. Yet, somehow, you manage to catch on his memo. Wordlessly, you reach up to one of his hands—covered in scars and calluses, but you don’t mind. Your hands are similar as you nervously glance at him, grabbing his wrist and turning it over so his palm faces up. Ghost eyes your movements, but makes no move to stop you. You take one of your pointer fingers—the one that isn’t bandaged—and you trace letters into his hand slowly.

T H A N K Y O U

Ghost meets your gaze, and you have tears in your eyes. His hand is grossly limp as he grabs the hand you were moving away, and he instead pulls your hand closer to his face for a closer inspection. The bandages concern him, so he looks at you again. You reach for the clipboard you left by his feet and you place it in his lap, pointing to the part of the medical report about your frostbite blisters. Ghost inhales deeply for a moment before his fingers tap against your hand—rhythmically? Oh, it’s morse code.

Ghost is tapping SAFE over and over while looking at you, to reassure himself—and you. You nod in response and offer him the smile he’s been waiting to see and you tap back to him, SAFE.

[rileyslibrary]

Ghost is forced to dress up as Santa for the day and talk to kids.

You’re ordered to tag along as his Elf and do some damage control if necessary.

———————————————————————

You lean against his armchair, watching the chaos in front of you. Children are crying, tugging at their parents’ clothes, shouting both in excitement and fear, all while looking at you. A young boy keeps waving at your lieutenant, desperate to get his attention, but Ghost is too preoccupied with coming to terms with his new reality to notice.

You return his wave with a smile.

“Try to stay still, Santa,” you remind Ghost as you nod towards the boy. “Kids are watching.”

He snaps back into focus and redirects his attention to the queue. He stretches one last time, pushing on the armrests, before settling into the chair.

“Try not to tell me what to do,” he murmurs and waves back at the child.

You straighten up and tweak your green hat, triggering the bell at its tip to jiggle in your ear. You feel for him; you really do. He’s not supposed to be here; he’s not built for this. Unfortunately—for him or the kids, you haven’t decided yet—the “real” Santa broke his hip at the last minute, and your military base stepped in to provide a new Santa for the local community.

And what better replacement than Ghost, you may ask? Well, literally anybody else.

Dressed in a red costume with white faux fur trim, the lieutenant looks nothing like the man you experienced on the battlefield. His shoulders threaten to rip through the rented outfit, and the seams at the back hold onto each other for dear life. Since his belly wasn’t big enough to simulate Santa’s, you asked him to stuff a pillow under his uniform. Surprisingly, Ghost complied almost instantly, leaving you to wonder if he was using the pillow as Kevlar, a barrier between him and the kids or if he was secretly enjoying this.

You also convinced him to ditch the balaclava for the time being since he would now have plenty of props to conceal his face—a wig, a long beard, glasses, and a red hat with a white pom-pom, to be exact. Additionally, you attempted to trick him into applying some blush on his cheeks, but he side-eyed you and told you to ‘be careful now’—ironic for a man who paints his face daily.

You rub your temples, trying to keep calm amid the chaos of the mall as you prepare for what’s about to happen during the next few hours. You have no idea why Price chose him to be Santa, but you didn’t question it either. Ghost seems to be the least qualified for the job out of everyone in the base. It feels like a last resort, so to speak—a ‘that’s all we have left in the store’ solution.

On the other hand, you know precisely why the captain chose you to accompany him. “To monitor the situation,” he said—“To make sure we don’t get sued,” you heard. And, under normal circumstances, you’d be happy to tag along with Ghost—be it on patrol, on missions, or even transporting confidential documents. But in this situation? Acting as a troubleshooter rather than a teammate? You’d rather be anywhere else than here, with anybody else than him.

You take another look at him while he sits on the chair. He’s tugging at the uniform, scratching his head, and instinctively pulling the beard to his nose.

“Stop doing that,” you whisper. “It’s a beard, not a balaclava.”

“Price would have been perfect for the job, for fucks sake,” he spits. “He has the fucking moustache for starters.”

“Stop with the ‘fucks’ and the ‘fucking’ Ghost; you’re about to talk to kids! And, as for the captain, he said he couldn’t do it.”

“Oh yeah?” He asks, lifting his hands from the armrests. “And what makes him think that I can?”

“I wish I knew, to be honest, but we don’t have time to go through this again,” you murmur, looking at your watch one last time. You approach the barrier, unclip the rope from the stanchion, and turn over your shoulder.

“Operation ‘Santa’ begins now,” you declare. “Ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” He replies, shrugging, and gestures for you to proceed.

And so it begins. Your first ‘customer’ arrives, and many more follow. You guide one family at a time into the enclosure and escort them to Ghost, who handles the rest. Some children are hesitant, peeking out from behind their parents’ legs, while others are much more direct with their intentions as they scream in horror at the sight of him.

On the other hand, Ghost is neither your typical jolly Santa nor the irritated lieutenant you’d expect. He appears to be... understanding. He reassures parents that it’s okay and there’s no need to force their children onto his lap if they feel uncomfortable. He initiates conversations with the kids from a respectful distance. He smiles with his eyes and hunches his shoulders to appear less imposing. Sometimes, he lures the shy ones into a handshake, a fist pump, or a high five by lowering his gloved hand to their level.

And then there are those other types of kids: the curious ones, the social butterflies. The ones who look forward to sitting on Ghost’s lap, diving into full-blown conversations with him. That’s when you stiffen up and switch into damage-control mode to ensure he won’t lash out at them. You begin hovering above them, listening, jumping into their conversations and sometimes interrupting Ghost and replying to the kids instead of him.

You would have thought he’d be grateful to have you managing the situation. Ghost, however, seems more irritated by you than by the little girl who’s currently playing with the pom-pom on his hat.

“Oi, Elf!” he says calmly, yet visibly annoyed. “Emma and I are chatting about how she spilt tomato juice on her Elsa costume and wants a new one for Christmas. Could you please falala off and go wrap some presents?”

“B-but I need to know because I’ll be sewing it for her,” you reply, smiling at the little girl. “Isn’t that right, Emma?”

And, although Emma nods her head, more out of necessity than agreement, you get his point. He’s doing surprisingly well with those kids, even without you. Actually, he’s doing remarkably well, especially without you.

More kids come and go, and Ghost slowly adapts to his new persona. He starts making bets with you, predicting which kids in the queue might ask for a PlayStation or an iPad and even speculating who might wipe snot on his costume. You, in response, adopt a more laid-back approach and let him do his thing. After each child’s visit, Ghost turns towards you, whispering in your ear about their Christmas wishes, as if he’s indeed Santa, and keeps logs.

“My man wants a full-sized car wheel,” Ghost murmurs as the young boy leaps off his lap, “can you believe him?”

“What did you say to him?” You ask, stifling a laugh.

“I told him I’ll get it for him,” he shrugs. “What else should I do?”

“Alright, but what did you really want to tell him?”

“That his dad already has four of them screwed in his car.”

As the day winds down, and the final announcement for the day echoes through the speakers, parents and children walk past you and towards the exit. They wave at Ghost and occasionally at you. The parking lot empties, the stores shut their doors until tomorrow, and the holiday lights that decorate the inside of the mall switch off one by one.

You stretch your back and tap on his shoulder, signalling that both of you should pack up and return to the base.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, grasping your wrist with one hand and tapping his thigh with the other. “You didn’t tell me what you want for Christmas.”

You’re exhausted but still manage to smile as you comply with his request. You sit on his lap, and he leans back to take a better look at you.

“Let’s think about it another way,” you say. “What would you, as Santa, give me for Christmas?”

“Coal,” he replies. “And a muzzle, so you don’t interrupt me while I’m talking. What was that all about?”

“Was afraid you’d say something bad,” you explain. “But you were pretty good with those kids.”

He shakes his head and plays with the fur trim on his sleeve. “Nah,” he murmurs. “I’d never say something bad to a kid.”

“Speaking of bad and coal,” you say, combing his fake beard, “you never asked the typical ‘have you been a good kid’ to any of them.”

“There’s no bad kid in the world, love,” he whispers. “All kids are good, even the naughty ones.”

You smile at him, but he doesn’t look back at you. He’s examining his uniform as if trying to find something else to discuss. He finds some crumbs a kid left on his suit and brushes them off.

“Ready to head back to the base, Lieutenant?” You ask, tapping his thigh before standing up. You extend your hand to him, and he gladly accepts it, helping him rise from the chair he’s been sitting in all day. You begin walking towards the exit, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder. You reciprocate by hugging his waist.

You walk up to the parked military vehicle that brought you here earlier, still discussing the day. He opens the door but pauses and turns to look at you.

“Resilience,” he declares. “That’s what I would gift you for Christmas.”

“Why?” You ask, turning to look at him. “You think I need it?”

“We all do,” he replies softly, just like when he used to talk to those kids. “Since I can’t protect you from every obstacle life throws your way, I might as well give you the ability to recover from them.”

“That would make me very happy, Lieutenant.” You say, smiling.

He smiles back at you and reaches for your hat to fix it better on your head. His hand moves to your forehead, and he tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

“It’s Santa to you.” He replies.

———————————————————————

A/N: Bruh, I was so tempted to make the reader pull off a Mariah Carey and say, “All I want for Christmas is you,” when Ghost asked what they wanted, but my gag reflexes kicked in every time, and I was cringing galore.

So, there you go: resilience. That’s what I would like to gift you as well. I wish I could shield you from whatever has troubled you in the past or is currently doing so. To protect you from future worries and make everything ‘falala off’. Unfortunately, I can’t do that, neither for you nor for myself.

But this is why comfort characters and stories exist—so we can imagine, when no one is there for us, that someone actually is.

Just like Santa. Just like Ghost.

[euno11a]

I just ate the juiciest nectarine ever and the juices got all over my chin…ghost would def say something like

“It’s not nice to impersonate people, love. Especially after I made you cum so hard.”

or just really sloppily kiss you, running his tongue all over the juices across your mouth and chin, making sure to taste your tongue for more of those delicious juices.

[erinfern0]

simon "ghost" riley — nsfw headcanons

— gender-neutral nicknames, gender-neutral anatomy, only pronouns used are you, etc.

simon who can't stop himself from making sounds, burying his face in your neck to at least try to do that. soft moans and groans with each thrust, praises falling from his lips every few seconds.

simon who loves to hear your gasps and moans, hating when you try to stay quiet. always encourages you to keep going, to be louder.

simon who hates when you think too much about the way your body looks, how it folds in certain places. he'll praise those parts the most, lingering his fingers over them and kiss them until you forget about any insecurities.

simon who is just obsessed with kissing you. your cheeks, forehead, nose. those innocent little pecks are his second favorite. the absolute winner is obviously your lips, slowly moving against his.

simon who loves to see the mess you two are creating, watching how your combined slick sticks to his hairy thighs.

simon who bites into your shoulder when he's getting close, not too hard. just enough to leave a mark and help him collect his thoughts, keeping the amazing pace of his hips rolling against yours.

simon who adores watching you touch yourself. loves the way you spread your legs and let him watch, especially if you want him to guide you.

simon who chuckles when he gets overstimulated. sometimes he just breaks in the middle of speeding up his thrusts, eyes closed and hazed as he chuckles, too sexdrunk to form sentences.

simon who prefers getting handjobs over blowjobs. he just loves the intimacy of it and how he can hear you talk him through it. is obsessed if you just fondle the tip, the sounds of his precum filling the room.

simon who finds some sort of comfort if you don't shave. seeing your body hair or caressing it with his palms helps him to calm down.

simon who loves casual intimacy that doesn't exactly lead to sex. playing with your nipples while you two are watching a movie or slipping his hand under your shorts while you're washing the dishes.

simon who loves sex in the morning, especially when he has to wake up sooner than you. just the tiniest shifting of him trying to get up makes you wake up too, he apologizes with the sweetest words and starts kissing your neck. after you two are done, he cleans you up and allows you to go back to sleep before he leaves to take a shower.

simon who gets too overwhelmed sometimes. especially if you're together for a long time, he finds himself rambling in your aftercare time, sometimes a few tears will build up in the corners of his eyes while he tells you how good you've been to him. he's just so lucky to have you, so happy.

simon who loves aftercare in general and finds it extremely important. especially if you went through a rougher session. makes sure you're not too sore or you don't regret anything. water and snacks are his favorite part, just eating and enjoying each other's company.

simon who is too touch-starved after he's back from deployment. the first time you have sex when he's back he cums so fast he's almost ashamed of it. you just make him feel too good. after he calms down he makes up for all the time you two lost.

simon who loves the intimacy and vulnerability of giving you head. he gets so lost in your taste and the way you squeeze your thighs around his head.

simon who loves the marks you leave on him, especially when they're somewhere hidden. adores the sting of your nails digging into his forearms or thighs.

simon who loves to involve your inside jokes in dirty talk. he can't explain it but it just makes the whole thing more personal, a special moment between two lovers

masterlist | request info

[just-a-sewer-goblin]

Not A Hero Just A Good Man

Simon Riley x Reader (probably ooc) Simon's home from deployment and he needs his spouse Fluff and very slight hurt/comfort Should be gn!reader, if I messed up anywhere please tell me There is mentions of a girly bodywash that is owned by the reader but... anyone can own those

"I need you to understand that I'm not the nice one out there, luv. I'm not the good cop. I'm not the hero."

You're sitting next to Simon on your shared bed, he's still in his gear, but his mask is in his hands and he's absent mindedly grabbing and rubbing at it.

"Luv, if you knew only half the stuff I've done. The absolute horrendous things I've done to people. And I'd do them again. And I will do them again."

He's growing distressed. His brows are drawn together and his rubbing over the skull part becomes harsh. He'll hurt himself at this rate.

So you get up and kneel down before him, force yourself into his view. Your hands oh so gently take the mask from his and the care with which you put it onto his nightstand chokes Simon up.

You slip your hands into his. He's still wearing his gloves, there's blood all over them.

As he looks down and sees your delicate, perfect hands in his blodied hold, the tears start gathering. He's trying to pull his hands away but you grip him harder. His glistening eyes find yours.

"I didn't marry a hero, Simon. I didn't marry someone who has a nice job or lives in a nice reality."

He's looking to the side trying to avoid your gaze. His hands are still limp in yours, refusing to hold onto you when there's still the gore of his actions clinging to his clothes and his skin.

You're gently easing the gloves off his hands and let them fall to the floor. His knuckles are bloody and split, even under the protective layer.

He swears he lets loose a sob when you bend down to press two soft kisses to the palms of his hands. He's ripping his hands away from you, cradling them to his chest.

"No.", your harsh tone makes his gaze snap back to yours again and when you grab his hands again he reluctantly lets you have them.

"Don't you dare look away from me, Simon Riley." You can see how hard he has to fight to obey your words. You can see his panting breaths get harsher and your grip is so soft, that if he truly didn't want to have you touching him, he could pull away. As if you could ever hold him against his will.

You take one of his hands and press it against your chest, deliberately drawing in deep and steady breaths and waiting until he is following your example.

"I didn't marry a hero, Simon. I married a good man."

You can audibly hear him gulp.

"I married a good man, who is willing to do the ugly work. I married a good man, who gets his hands dirty so the world is just a tiny bit cleaner."

His entire focus is on you as he hangs on to every word you say.

"I married a good man, who does horrible things. But those things need to be done. I'd rather have a good man, like my husband, do them, than someone who doesn't care at all. Someone who finds joy in them. I married a good man. And when you come home, blodied and bruised I will still love you. And when you come home after you did the worst imaginable things, things I don't even know possible, I'll still love you. And when you do horrendous things again, I will still love you. I love you."

He's looking at you and the tears catch in his eyelashes like soft morning dew on the most intricate petals. You have never seen a man more beautiful than your Simon. You have never seen anything more beautiful than the man, he allows you to see through the cracks in his walls.

"Love...", he breathes. And it's reverent, a prayer. As if you are the deity that holds his absolution. As if your words alone can save him from the damnation he suffers.

His hands slowly reach up, cup your cheeks. He's about to pull back when he sees the blood on his hands next to your unblemished face but your hands cover his and you nuzzle into the hold of a killer.

His body bows foreward, into your warmth and his chapped lips fit against yours. As soon as your lips touch he whimpers and your hands find their way to his cheek and neck, holding him close.

You only pull back enough to touch your forehead to his, both of you keeping your eyes closed.

"My Simon.", you whisper into his skin and his arms wrap around you as he lets his head fall to your shoulder, buries his face in your neck and starts shaking.

You grab onto him just as tightly. It's uncomfortable the way you're on your knees half risen to meet him in the middle but you don't care when you start humming and gently swaying.

You don't know if he's crying, probably not, but he's still shaking so you tighten your hold and whisper your love for him into the quiet of your bedroom.

When his breaths start to get quick and shallow again you force him back, cup his face and demand "Simon, look at me."

He does, his gaze is unfocused, and he's panting way too fast, but he's trying to focus on you. He's not too far gone so you check in first "Touch?" He nods in a jerky movement.

Your hands go to his again and you hold both of them to your chest with one, the other one finds his neck and puts gentle pressure there.

"Match my breaths, darling.", you instruct. He obeys.

Today is a good day, as you are able to bring him back from the brink for a second time. Slowly his eyes blink back into awareness and your gentle smile cracks open his ribcage and sets his bleeding heart free.

"There he is. Hi."

"Hi, luv." His voice is horribly rough a splintering sound like old rotten wood breaking apart but he doesn't miss the way your hand on his neck squeezes affectionately.

"Let me give you a shower?" He nods, too tired afer two almost panic attacks to answer. You stand up and offer him a hand which he takes and allows you to pretend to pull him up.

You don't let go of his hand as you pull him into the bathroom, maneuvering him so he can lean back against the sink. You know that he's tired, but you also know that the last thing he needs to see right now is himself, still covered in blood, and you taking care of that mess for him. So you don't give him the opportunity to gaze at the reflection of what's going on in the mirror over the sink.

Once you've eased every piece of armor and clothing off of him, you usher him into the shower, under the warm spray of water before following him.

Once your both under the water, your wrap your arms around him and just hold him. When he sighs you can feel the way his lungs fill up to their limit.

It's a long time before you take the bottle of shampoo into your hands and put some of it in your hands.

"Bend down for me?", you murmur.

Simon gets on his knees before you instead, buries his face in your tummy and relaxes as your hands begin to massage the shampoo into his scalp.

You're careful while rinsing it out and he presses a soft kiss to your tummy before standing up. A thank you and a offering at the altar of the only deity he'll ever worship. Then he's standing again, his hands on your hips, while you begin to lather his body in your own body wash.

You can feel him relax and it doesn't take long before he gives you the gift of his voice, even if it is so say: "Damnit darlin', making me smell like a princess?"

He's grumbling affectionately and you grin. There he is. It's always a good sign when he starts being a grump about stuff he secretly loves. It's always a good sign when he starts with his horrible dry humour.

"No one says that big dangerous men can't be princesses.", you quip back and see the way the corner of his mouth lifts up.

"I'm too manly to smell like...", he squints at the bottle. "Rainbow sunshine." He snorts. "Sounds like something that would come out of a unicorn's ass."

You laugh and slap his chest. "You are the worst, Si. Guess you gotta suck it up and smell like unicorn ass."

"The shit I go through for you.", he grouses and you can hear the grin in his voice.

When you've rinsed him off again he puts his arms around you again and pulls you into him, resting his head on yours.

"Thank you, luv."

"Always, baby."

...

"Now get your unicorn ass out of this shower so I can dry you off and cuddle with you."

He laughs roughly and slaps your backside. "The only one with a magical ass here, is you, luv."

[honeysickledream]

Overloaded - Simon Riley x GN!Reader

Tags: SFW (minors and ageless blogs dni as always), established relationship, reader's mentally overloaded/overstimulated, fluff and comfort by way of acts of service

Simon entered the flat right as the clock read 1900 on his phone. He'd perfected his schedules and commute to aligned perfectly with yours. You had a thirty minutes at the flat all to yourself to decompress from all that people (and life) threw at you, and he had his thirty-minute decompressing walk around the neighborhood. Except something was different about tonight. The TV wasn't playing your favorite movie as you did something in the next room, the flat didn't smell like whatever you'd made for dinner. It was silent, stale...tense.

He moved to the living room after taking off his boots, keeping his steps as quiet as possible. There you were, perched on the couch and doing your best to take those deep and supposedly calming deep breaths every mindfulness person swore by. It was obvious you'd been crying: tissues were piled up beside you on the couch, the collar of his your shirt stained dark in some spots from your tears. Your breathing was uneven, a sign you were right on the precipice of more tears, and your hands shook subtly as you gripped your knees to ground yourself.

Something--a lot of somethings--must've happened with no time for you to acclimate, he figured. He'd gotten so used to you poking your head out of the bedroom or the office, welcoming him with a smile and kiss and a plea for him to tell you all about his day. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and sent a quick message to let you know he was home as he made his way to the kitchen to begin dinner. You padded into the kitchen five minutes later with a crumpled tissue in hand. He patted the counter space beside him, trusting that you would reach out for him in what ever way when you were ready. The two of you stood in silence, watching the microwave as the frozen meal slowly heated up. Simon had chosen your favorite out of the selection in the freezer and even fished out the emergency stash of your favorite snacks from the cupboard.

He slowly draped his arm over your shoulders when you leaned against his side, smiling to himself when you sighed softly. It wasn't the kind of heavy sigh you made when you were frustrated. No, it was the one you let out when your mind was finally quieting, your body no longer on such high alert. Simon only moved away to fetch the food from the microwave, putting it on a plate and handing you your utensils before he ushered you to the couch. He made sure you were settled before he put his own dinner in the microwave, popping his head into the living room like some mother hen before he sat beside you, digging into his own meal No words were passed between you as dinner was eaten. Simon occasionally added a new point to the daily recap he was writing on the back of the grocery list sheet, not missing the way you tried to skim the paper before he quickly turned it back over. It wasn't until you were cocooned on the couch after finishing your meal, now munching on your snacks, that you slowly opened up. You told him about your whole day, pausing to give yourself a chance to settle down when your frustrations grew, and Simon listened attentively the entire time--like he always did.

And you, like always, returned the favor when he gave you his recap. You cooed at the newest picture he took of the prissiest dog in the neighborhood and laughed when he told you, in great detail, the newest way Soap had caused trouble. When he suggested watching a movie to end the day, you agreed brightly and scrounged up all the snacks you two enjoyed during movie night.

Simon ended up falling asleep halfway through the movie (after he'd promised he wouldn't), but you didn't mind. You thanked him softly for his patience and snuggled up to him as you rewound the movie so you could fall asleep to it, too.

[rejectedbytheempty]

just saw a video abt ppl in the military sleeping anywhere they can and i have the cod brainrot so obviously thought of tf141

ghost and you just about to get down and dirty but he had to do a quick bathroom trip. next thing you know, you hear snoring coming from the bathroom and he's leaned against the wall, eyes shut.

price promising that he'd watch the whole movie, because it was one of your favorites. but lo and behold, you barely get past the opening scene and he's laid back with his mouth hanging open.

gaz making dinner for the both of you. you smell burning from the kitchen and find him face down on the counter, spoon in hand as the food blackens in the pan.

soap trying to give you a massage because you've had a hard day. turns out it relaxed him instead because minutes later he's collapsed on top of you, drooling onto your back.

[kivino]

OUT OF THE SHADOWS I || SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY X SHADOW!GN!READER

Word counter – ~6.9k words

Tags/Warnings – Gn!Reader, Shadow!Reader (it’s not for long lol, don’t get your hopes up), murder of civilians/corpses/blood mentioned, physical fights, reader likes to throw fists, Reader’s callsign is Bug to pay tribute to my original idea.

Summary – After the betrayal of Task Force 141 and the slaughter of civilians in Las Almas you decide to leave Shadow Company on the spot, which works out sideways, leaving you with simmering hate towards the man whom you used to look up to and new interesting figures in your life. 

also available on my ao3!

a/n after the fic because they’re too long. but just know that this is the first chapter of the series, feel free to let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part. enjoy!

Everything was calm. The sound of rain covering up the murmur of trucks helped you wind down after the adrenaline rush, and a sense of accomplishment for a job well done swelled in your chest. You already anticipated a long sleep and maybe a night out with your friends when you’re back home from the job. Maybe you’d even get a bonus from Graves and buy something nice for yourself. 

In all honesty, you didn’t even mind being crammed into the backseat along with those 141 guys. Working with them was a pleasure and they seemed like an interesting sort of crowd. Especially that man with the skull mask. Ghost, was it? He certainly attracted your attention the most, with his huge size, booming voice, and undeniable skill in what he did. You were willing to admit that the way he took out the enemies with ease and swiftness was mesmerizing.  And…your train of thought that consisted of pure fascination was interrupted by the abrupt stop of the convoy in front of the base gate. 

Everything was calm until you were surrounded by shouting and then eventual gunshots, along with muffled screams of your brothers in arms. You didn’t understand how it all escalated so fast. One moment you were sure about Shadow Company and Task Force 141 being on the same side, but now you didn’t know what to think of it all. And from Graves' words, it was apparent that Shepherd was behind this too. So naturally you, and many other shadows, the lower ranks, had no fucking clue what all of this was about. One would care to tell a mindless weapon where to shoot, but not why. Blood rushed through your veins and pulsed in your ears, turning the pleasant buzz in your body into strained sharpness. You hurriedly pulled up the rear sight to your eye level. Two bodies dropped to the wet asphalt with soft thuds right in front of you. You felt your heart sink right down to your feet. Instead of firing your shots, you hesitated, backing out to hide behind the bumper of the truck, while hearing agitated, aggressive shouts. You weren’t able to tell who was shouting. So, you leaned out and felt yourself freeze in place. 

And there he is. Ghost, eyes locked right on you. He sure has a…strong presence. And instead of shooting you he just…looks. You don’t like the stupid flowery language, but in this split second, it really feels like he is staring right into your soul. Or like someone is sticking metal rods right through your chest, with how hard breathing becomes in an instant. 

You knew that if you were to shoot him right now, you’d never forgive yourself, all because you were kept in the dark about the whole thing Graves had planned. And you were not willing to get blood on your hands because of some “mistake”. If you pull the trigger, there will be one less person who’s able to make a change. One less person who’ll be willing to get their hands dirty and save people. 

So, you lower the muzzle of your rifle and nod to the side, urging him to start his getaway, before other Shadows and Graves decide to check the perimeter. You see his dark eyes blink, or at least you think you do before he disappears into the darkness. Like he was never there in the first place.

In the end, you didn’t get even a single scratch. Three other Shadows were K.I.A.

Your head buzzed with so many different questions you wanted to ask Graves, and more importantly, the guilt you felt from whatever happened in front of the threshold. You had no idea what happened with that Los Vaqueros base or what was up with your CO, while you were escorting him and those 141 guys along with several other Shadows for this mission. Why was he taking it? What was he even thinking? You wanted to pull out your hair and claw out your eyes just thinking about all of it. Which, you weren’t paid to do, but that didn’t mean you weren’t concerned with the moral side of things. Unlike the majority of the Shadows, as you came to find out.

Confusion bubbled up inside of your mind, eyes burned by the white synthetic light of the gate when you looked up at it just to feel something aside from sheer distress and bewilderment. You didn’t want to believe that your Commander was the type of person to sell himself out, and you didn’t expect him to be, from all the time spent working with him. The man was nothing short of likable and friendly, with his beaming smile, confident attitude, and outgoing way of communicating… a natural-born leader, that was the first thing that came to mind when you thought about your boss. And with how Graves treated you and all other Shadows like you were more than just his employees, the realization was even more painful. Of course, you didn’t want to think about how he could so easily turn his back on people who trusted him.

It raised many questions in your mind about the price of his word, as well as made your stomach churn with acidic, flesh-eating poison full of doubt and suspicion. If it was so easy for your CO to cut out the men someone he told you all to think of as your brothers, then how long will it be before he sells you and other shadows out for…whatever was offered to him? 

“Find ‘em!” Graves barks and your chest swells with bitter disappointment. You thought you knew him before (as much as a subordinate can know their superior), but how can you even begin to understand him now?

You hear Shadows mutter a quiet “Yup-yup”, more to themselves than to your CO, and you could almost feel the doubt settle over them in a thick, transparent blanket. From the conversations you can pick up on while Graves is out of earshot, you guess that some of them don’t think betraying the 141 guys and trying to hunt the two of them down is the right thing to do. But it didn’t seem like they were going to do anything about it though. You, however, want to help. You know that it’s not right, so…screw it. You can always find another job, and if it comes down to it, 141 seem like an okay sort of people, the type that would have your back if you had theirs. At least, you have hope for it.

So maybe you could hold out until they come back for Los Vaqueros. And you were certain they’d do that, no way they’d abandon all these men. You haven’t seen how the things were on said base that was taken from them, but you were certain you could do more on the inside than if you were to leave right now. Maybe you could break Colonel out of there, or help the Task Force sneak in, you were sure they could use any help from you. 

That was the plan before you saw what Shadow Company did to Las Almas.

The picture that Shadows were painting with innocent blood on the rainy landscape was horrifying, to say the least. The metallic smell hit your nose the moment you jumped out of the truck right onto the flooded pavement. That was the exact moment when you realized you couldn’t stay with Shadows any longer. You were supposed to help these people. It was your job. Instead, you felt filthier than the dirt on your boots. Traitor. Backstabber. You choked on your breath behind the mask each time you noticed the bodies of the victims in every dark corner of the city, nausea coming up your throat when you could see rivers of crimson streaming down the road and right into the sewers. Your Shadow Company patch felt like the mark of a killer, etched into your skin permanently, instead of just being part of your uniform.

Limp bodies that didn’t even have the time to grow cold yet, scattered around warm homes. Some of the killed were probably already in their beds sleeping, coming back from work, watching TV, or cooking dinner when they got dragged out under the rain and massacred…Everything felt like a blur, your thoughts were a jumbled mess of whys, while you were led further into the town, to continue the revolting, disgusting crimes of your brothers-in-arms. You couldn’t stand to spend another minute in here. You need to get out before you do something you’ll never be able to forgive yourself for. You were many things, but you were not willing to go that far. Not here, not anywhere. 

“Hey. Where’s Graves?” You tap another Shadow, your “close colleague” with a callsign Kruk, on the shoulder. He turns to you, while you see several other soldiers passing by, yellow streetlights barely illuminating their swiftly moving figures. You knew why it was hard for you to even look in their direction. Kruk points towards the building to the left of you two and croaks something about “briefing the rookies”. You nod and thank him, stumbling in the general direction he pointed you to. 

“Commander, with all due respect, I think it’s time for you to discharge me.” You only came to your senses when you stood in front of your CO in the cramped space of someone’s living room. Wallpaper, creamy in color, dulled lights, tons of decorative cushions on the couch… Your voice is quiet, but firm, not leaving any space for compromise when you speak up to the blond man, and your politeness is as fake as this copy of “Guernica” you could see hanging on the wall. Blood pulses in your ears. You want to leave, you want out. Out of here.

“Bug, now’s not the time for jokes, I need you on the field now. We’ve got our orders.” Graves barely raises his eyes from tapping something on the tablet, that usual scowl that you got used to present on his face. His actions are as ugly as he is. Him not taking you seriously sure does a number on your confidence. But that only reassures you in your decision. You need out. 

“Do I look like I’m joking? I’m leaving, because I don’t think what we’re doing is right.” You try to stay calm, you really do. But how can you, when out of something so vile he makes a joke? Makes all these people a sick joke.

A crease lies between your brows, and shadows falling over your eyes make your face look similar to a carved statue. Before talking to Graves, you decided to take off the eyewear that obscures your face and pull down the thin mask, the signatures for Shadows who are lower in the chain of command. You’re the faceless sort, after all.  “And I don’t think you know your place.” You’re instantly taken aback by his sudden outburst, but you don’t let it show. “I point and you shoot. I sign your paychecks, Bug, and you take them.” You feel something inside of you flinch at the way he mutters your callsign. “I’m in charge. You don’t have a say in what we do.” With each statement, his gloved finger points from him to you, making the rage and frustration boil inside of your chest. You trusted Graves and he led all of your colleagues, along with you to dragging out unarmed, innocent people in the dead of night out of their houses on their streets and executing them. Hell of a leader he is. 

“Well, I’m stepping down. If that’s what we do, I don’t want to take part in it.” You wanted to tell him a lot more, give Graves a piece of your mind on war crimes and killing people in their own homes. On how drowning Las Almas in blood won’t fix whatever the fuck he was trying to fix right now. Instead, you kept it to yourself, tightening your fists just so you didn’t spit in his face or punch him.

“You’re putting a target on your back. Do you not understand how what you’re saying makes you look?” Graves leans in closer to you, the low volume of his voice making it even more threatening, similar to the hissing of a snake. Give him a minute and he will start spewing real venom right in your face. 

“You know that whatever you’re thinking is not true.” To be completely honest, you didn’t care what he thought right now. Graves’ mind and morals were clearly in the wrong place if he considered all this bloodshed justified. 

“Do I really? A moment ago I was sure that you were my subordinate, now I’m not even sure what to make of you.” You’re barely able to resist rolling your eyes at this. Your heart is picking up the pace with each minute. Getting more and more desperate to leave your body altogether, just so you don’t have to listen to his bullshit any longer. You wish it was that easy.

“I’m not taking orders from you. Not anymore.” Saying this took a lot more out of you than you expected, you felt your chest tremble when you met your CO’s eyes.

“Well, would you just look at that, you happen to be a fan of our local drug lord too?” If eyes could kill, Graves would’ve dropped dead right this moment. He smiles, his sharp canines peeking from under his top lip. He knows he’s making your skin crawl and your stomach flip from this interaction, which, if you’re lucky, would be the last for the two of you. “Helping the cartel and corrupt police won’t look too good on your resume”

“I see you’re just making it up as you go.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you held in your chest. Shaky. Uneven. Infuriated. Your eyes are drilling Graves’, a deep frown between them as proof of how much you despise him now, for the baseless assumption too. After a moment of silence, you add. “You know what my stance on this is. Whether I get your approval or not, I’m leaving.” Graves finally withdraws from your personal space, sliding the palm over his face with a heavy sigh, as his lips tighten into a thin line. You knew that this combination meant he was trying to calm down. After a moment of silence, he speaks up again. 

“Look, Bug, you’re a smart kid and frankly, I like you.” he makes a short pause, sighing. “So, I’ll give you a fighting chance. Five minutes – if you’re not out of the city, then you’re a target.” He wasn’t that fucking courteous with the civilians that lay dead a few meters away. Shot on sight. Without any questions. You grit your teeth.

What are you supposed to do with that? Those five minutes didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, most likely, you’ll be rotting in the ditch somewhere shortly after your time runs out - too little to get out of the city or find the Task Force you so desperately wanted to help. Graves won’t leave any witnesses. And you are one. He knows it’s not going to be easy for you to just turn on the Shadows like that too, even though you despised what they were doing while following his orders. They still were your family. Dysfunctional and disproportionately big, but family, nonetheless. Even if they deserved it for their lack of action to prevent what was happening now, you don’t turn on your family like that. What he’s doing is forcing your hand.

Regardless, you have no choice but to take Graves up on his last “generous” offer.

“What are you waiting for, hm? Get out of here while you can.” You didn’t need to be told that twice. So, still balancing your rifle on your arm, your free hand reaches for that patch on your shoulder. Tearing it off in a quick motion makes the sound of Velcro strips snapping open almost echo from how quiet it is. It felt like a whole mountain dropped off of your shoulders when you threw the patch on the ground and stormed out of the building right into the pouring rain.

You felt goosebumps and tremors creeping up your spine as you ran through the dark streets, getting more and more soaked with each second. You didn’t feel much better though. The resentment for Graves grew each second, with all the steps that sent ripples on the surface of the deep puddles, and every raindrop that fell from the copper-colored clouds. But now wasn’t the time to wallow in your misery. Although you wanted to. It did feel like the loss of a person you used to know, of someone you looked up to. The only thing is, he was still living and breathing, and the only thing that died was that idealized image of him in your head. 

There was a cold hollowness somewhere in your chest. Gaping with the darkness that, and you were sure of it, will eat you alive soon enough. Even though you backed out of the Shadow company, it won’t bring back all the people who are not here anymore. You won’t fix it, no matter how hard you try. That bitter guilt snaked its way into the back of your mind and it was there to help stay. 

You managed to pull yourself out of this to make things right. But why do you feel so helpless still?

Your footsteps get faster and faster, as you maneuver through the narrow alleyways, staying out of the range your former colleagues were in. It was easy to hear them, gunshots and voices echoed throughout the city in a weird cacophony that your ears got used to after a long time working for the Shadow Company. They were not afraid, probably feeling like masters here. Somebody has to give them a scare, you thought. So they know better in the future. But it wasn’t your job at the moment. Right now, you needed to get out and do it as soon as possible.

Stopping and coming up with any sort of plan that would help you was not an option - hang in somewhere for too long and you’ll be found. And you were sure you wouldn’t be shown any mercy. 

So instead of staying on the street, where you can be easily spotted with the help of the dim light of a flashlight, you decide to alternate between the corridors of empty homes, with doors wide open for anyone seeking shelter, and the maze of alleyways crawling with Shadows. It felt wrong, invading someone’s homes like this, but you knew if they were unlocked and lights beamed around them, giving out a warm glow the inhabitants were most likely not coming back.

You felt that tingle on the nape of your neck, ready to hide or flee in case you heard any sudden movement from any direction. It’s dead quiet, except for occasional radio talk from the shadows, which you tried to listen in on when you could. It didn’t give you much on where 141 could be. You would start losing hope if you had any left after Graves. But you continue your search nonetheless, reflexes instead of thinking, pure determination instead of hope, and fire in your veins, instead of blood.

That is until you quietly step inside another warm hallway, and you’re met with a wide-eyed stare from another Shadow that makes you freeze like a deer in the headlights. Something inside of you starts to churn with terror from the looming understanding – only one of you will walk out of here alive. Your eyes trail down to the raven patch on his tac vest. It’s Kruk. You want to ask what he is doing here, but you already feel his gaze studying you too. And as soon as he sees that the Shadow Company patch is missing from your uniform, the muzzle of his rifle points right at you. Fucking shit.

“Drop your gun, Kruk!” You warn the man, pointing the weapon in his direction too. He only shakes his head, refusing to stand down. With each second air is laced with tension more and more, you were sure that soon enough it’ll be so thick even a knife wouldn’t cut through it.

“You drop yours first.” His voice is shaky and unsure like he can’t believe what he’s doing right now either. “Commander gave us an order. You’re an enemy now too, Bug. Better get used to it.” Kruk started slowly approaching you, while pulling something out of the bag, strapped on his hip.

“Oh, fuck that!” You swing towards Kruk, trying to approach him in your momentary rage, but you’re immediately met with the warning “Don’t” from Kruk, who doesn’t stand down. “You know what they’re doing here. It doesn’t matter to you?” The man is silent. You don’t see his face behind his mask, so you’re left with even more questions instead of answers. Regardless of what he was thinking right now, you didn’t want to hurt him. So, you bend down and put your rifle on the ground with a quiet clack. If he needs a gesture of goodwill, he can have it. “Your turn.” Kruk only shakes his head.

“Turn around.” So, it was a mistake to trust him. Naturally. Your gullibility will be your downfall. You can almost feel the bitter taste spread inside of your mouth when you look at Kruk. Fucking asshole. But you comply, although reluctantly. He grabs you roughly by the wrists with one hand and by the neck with another, leading you toward what looks like a kitchen in the dim lights falling through the doorway. You get lowered on your knees and then pressed into the dirty floor. And it hits right then and there. He’s going to execute you. Oh, shit, shit, shit.

“You know that I don’t want to do this.” He says quietly so that any shadows passing by don’t hear him. You feel your heartbeat shake your whole body and nausea so intense like you are on the verge of throwing up all of your internal organs, but giving up is just not an option right now. So, you try to prevent him from tying your hands together with all the strength you have.

“Then don’t fucking do it!” He does not answer this as you continue squirming in his hold, trying to make it as hard as possible for him to restrain you. He only grunts but keeps a firm grip. Your head was a mess, you thought Shadows were a family. But all it took was one order from Graves, now they’re scouring the town like damn bloodhounds for you too.

“Get…off of me!” You grit through your teeth. You feel a zip tie slide over your hands and turn your head. The rifle he previously held in his hands was gone, probably so he could tie you up properly, so you take your chance and deliver a hard kick to Kruk’s stomach. He chokes out a pained gasp and finally lets go of your hands. You scurry to get up from the floor with wide smears of rainwater and dirt decorating it, but you get grabbed by the leg, which causes you to stumble and fall once again. You turn your head and kick Kruk with all your might, while attempting to take off the zip tie off your wrists, which, thankfully, he didn’t have the time to close.

You manage to shake the man off of you, as you scramble to your feet, knocking over a corner table with some decorations on it. Yet when you see Kruk fumbling with his hip holster you immediately tackle him to the ground, which causes him to drop the handgun. The whole fight is just a mess, nothing but blinding rage is pulsing in your temples, melting your bones and muscles into something no better than an animal. You get up again, while Kruk is on the floor, searching for the handgun in the darkness. You feel the heavy metal press against your boot and you kick it behind you. You hear it slide across the floor and here it is. Kruk’s eyes, are directed right at you. His hands claw at your leg, trying to drag you down to the floor. And then you black out completely. Kicking, punching, pained wheezes and screams are all you hear, a stuffy abyss with little to no specks of light surrounding you.

You come back to your senses when you don’t feel the familiar weight of your handgun pressing against your hip and then you see it again. Kruk managed to grab it while you were in your anger-induced frenzy. Everything around you slows down. His shaky fingers pull on the safety, but you reach out and grab his hands, pulling them up, not letting him aim at you. Kruk grunts and you see his eyes focused on you in fear, and desperation, as he tries to overpower you in the struggle. You see his weakened state, but the self-preservation is stronger than any compassion towards him at the moment. Kruk will take your life if you don’t take his. That’s just the gist of it. You can’t let him walk away.

Your hands tremble when he manages to overpower you momentarily, but it’s all in vain when you press the handgun harder and harder into his frame, feeling his hands start to yield more and more with each second, strength leaving him. The fear in his eyes is directed at you and only you, but you try not to look. The muzzle of your gun is pressed snugly under his chin. Your gaze trails to his eyes once again. They burn you with terror. Your fingers hook around the trigger guard. You hear a faint whisper.

“Please…”

Gunshot rings in your ears for another second, despite the earmuffs in your helmet.

“Fuck! Fuck…I’m so sorry…I’m sorry.” It all came crashing down on you in one moment. You wouldn’t feel guilty if it was the enemy, you wouldn’t care. He was an enemy now, so why do you feel so guilty, why is it starting to corrode and eat you alive even more? Your palms cover the profusely bleeding gunshot wound, going through his neck and cranium, hot blood pouring out with impossible speed, staining your hands, gear, and skin. Staining your whole being. How could you do something like this? Shadows are family. Killing an unarmed man who’s pleading for his life?

You’re no better than Graves.

The gunshot alerts the Shadows and they start scurrying around on the street. You have no time to mourn Kruk or search for your rifle in the dark, so you yank your handgun out of his hands which only started succumbing to rigor mortis, and sprint out the backdoor, desperately attempting to get away. You can feel your heartbeat booming in your ears, wet hair sticking to the nape of your neck, as you hear distant commotion and a chase stirring behind you, as you dart inside another building and run through the hallways, searching for a way out.

Back on the street, rain droplets are so cold that it feels like they’re splitting your skin open, you can barely feel the pain in your ankle from adrenaline pumping through your blood flow. You start slipping on the slick pavement, but you still refuse to stop, diving inside another doorway. Your head hurts, your lungs feel like they are about to explode, and you think you stepped into a puddle of someone’s blood. No time to ram through the locked door, so you jumped out of the second-story window and landed on your foot, twisting it in the process and swallowing the sob that welled up in your throat. You needed to move.

That bought you some time to get up and dip into the dark alleyway before you heard the loud footsteps approaching the window that you used to escape. You let out a heavy exhale, propping your back against the cold stone. You’re not completely safe, but…that’s better than nothing. The commotion of shadows quiets down and you hear it become more and more distant with each second. 

After a moment of silence, you continue moving, albeit slowly, trying to get used to the hot pulsing in your leg, that shot up right through your nerves with each step you tried to take. You wince and whine in pain, dragging your leg behind, grabbing at the moist stone walls, clinging to them for any sort of support. However, it’s not much of a help. 

Your escape is cut short when your legs finally give out, causing you to stumble and fall while crossing the church garden. Although it probably looked magical in the daylight, right now it was far from it, the smell of metal and smoke still lacing the darkness. You already feel your ankle swelling and some bruises forming under all your gear. You see the lights on the exterior of the church blend into the ribbon of lights and shadows and the thought crosses your mind. You can hide there.

You almost fly up the stairs despite the hurting leg, fumbling with the door for a second, before it creaks open. You shuffle inside with light steps and close the door behind you as quietly as you can. Your knees tremble as you slide down the cold wall and crawl further inside the building, barely feeling any strength left in you. God, you are so drained. Strained gasps are ripped out of your throat every second. You want nothing more than to lie down right there in this church and just let the darkness overtake you in a peaceful slumber. That would be so easy.

Your calm moment is interrupted by someone yanking you up on your feet, to which you let out a surprised yelp. You can’t see the person, but you can feel their hands tugging on your gear roughly and dragging you somewhere. It takes you a second to weigh your pretty limited options given the fact it’s so dark that you are barely able to make out your surroundings. So, you decide to take this fight head on and your heavy boot comes down right on their foot, which prompts the person to grunt, revealing a pretty low male voice, and let go of you.

You tear out from his grasp and almost tumble down to the church floor, bunching up dust with your loud, uneven footsteps. Your back is hunched as you look up at the dark figure from under your eyebrows, ready to deflect any blows if he decides to attack first. You stay silent, feeling like a cornered animal in his presence, small, feeble. Weak. Of course, you were at a disadvantage here, taking a beating, running from Shadows, twisting your ankle, and losing your rifle certainly didn’t help your chances to win, but you were ready to claw your way out of here with your bare hands, breaking your nails and skinning your hands if you had to.

But any punches or kicks you try to land the man easily deflects or blocks, not trying to attack or overpower you however, opting to just take up the defensive position in the fight. Which is, admittedly, a lot easier than taking the offensive one. Maybe he was aiming to exhaust you and then, when you are at your lowest point, he would attack. That seemed like a solid tactic, but you don’t want to let that happen. However, before you can think of anything you end up rolling with the man on the floor. You can hear him huff in frustration and exertion, the wood pressing harshly against your ribs and all the bruises on your lower body pulsing with pain.

After some struggle, however, you managed to tackle the man to the ground, pressing him down to the floor with your weight. Your hands snaked their way onto his neck as you glared at him, resisting the urge to bare your teeth akin to a stray, abused, and betrayed dog, crawling with fleas and parasites. Choking him out obviously wasn’t a nice thing to do, but you were trying to send a message here, that if you continue being followed, you will use your strength. If violence was the only language Shadows understood (and that’s who you believe the man was) then you were ready to become fluent.

“I swear, I’ll fucking kill you!” You press him into the floor harder, hands squeezing the man’s throat, your vision going blurry. You feel his hands grasp at your wrists, but he does not resist. Why is he not trying to shake you off? Why is he letting you choke him like this? Why is he not fighting back? 

“Let go, Bug.” The man’s voice is strained, but familiar, he whispers through his closed jaw. You can hear the way his throat tenses up, or his Adam’s apple bobs under your thick gloves, the warmth of his skin, and the moisture that seeped into the mask. Mask. More light falls through the window thanks to the momentary flicker of the streetlight. Skull. Eight lines on his chin, two on the forehead. Dark brown eyes.

Your hands shoot up like his neck is on fire. Guilt settles in your gut and your throat, pulling you in like you’re some puppet with no free will. You try to get up from the man’s midsection but tumble down on your side from trying to do it too quickly. It’s Ghost. How the hell did you not recognize Ghost?

“I’m sorry. I’m not…myself right now.” You were now sitting on the floor, palms resting on your face, wet from the rain, skin burning up, either trying to regulate the temperature or from all the exertion. Either way, it didn’t matter right now.

“Yeah, you made it pretty obvious.” Ghost coughs, trying to shake off your attempt to cut off his air circulation just seconds ago, as he gets up from his lying position. “At least now I know you’ve got a good grip.” He lets out a deep chuckle which only earns him an eyebrow raise from you. He was joking at a time like this? Must’ve hit his head pretty hard too.

“I could’ve choked you. Why did you not fight back more?” You were royally confused about that. He could’ve stopped the fight before it even began and avoided some bruises along with the sore neck if he just told you who he was or fought back. But he didn’t.

Ghost wants to say something, but stops himself right after opening his mouth. You see it in the way he looks at you. The pause stretches for an endless amount of time and you feel your skin crawling with anxiety while his eyes study your face.

“I was going easy on ya.” Ghost says in a rather blunt manner, which didn’t answer that many of your questions. Well, if he was going easy, he should’ve been at least going at you, which wasn’t true – you saw him only defending himself and blocking some of your blows. Did he?.. Was he trying not to hurt you? Okay, the more you thought about it, the wilder it sounded. Maybe you should just drop it. “I don’t suppose you came here to wash your sins away.” You want to scoff from the bad taste. “Lil’ birdie told me you ditched the Shadows. Any particular reason why?” The man inquires, turning to you. Sitting like this on the floor with him felt unusual, like some sort of weird church sleepover. Give Ghost a minute and he’ll bring you some ice cream so you two can watch some wacky TV shows together.

“Did your little birdie also tell you that Graves is hunting me down too?” You ask while pulling your drenched mask over your face. It brought some comfort and familiarity that were gone the moment you spoke to your CO in that living room. And, well, it would be awkward if Ghost was the only one in the mask.

“I guessed by the gunshots, some racket, and a horde of Shadows taking a night run through the neighborhood close by.” The man chuckles and you feel your face burn up in embarrassment under your mask. You try not to let it show, however. You knew that it wasn’t a very sleek move that you pulled with Kruk, but you were desperate and you didn’t need motherfucking Ghost telling you it was stupid. 

“You’re just hilarious. Is that how you became a lieutenant, by cracking jokes left and right?” You roll your eyes and hope he won’t notice it in the darkness. This banter was pointless, you knew it but…you needed it. It was not easy losing something familiar, so you desperately wanted to feel that camaraderie you experienced in the Shadows.

“You’ll find out once you’re a lieutenant yourself.” And Ghost indulges you. Which, you are thankful for. Isn’t such a scary guy after all, huh?

“Yeah, if I’m alive long enough.” You scoff at his concealed attempt to comfort and reassure you, but you can’t help that warm feeling in your chest. Weird.

“Well, you’ve already surpassed my expectations by staying alive until now.” The man stands up from the floor with a low grunt, pressing an arm around his midsection, right around where you might’ve pinned him to the floor with your body. “Let’s make sure it lasts, eh?” He extends a gloved hand toward you in an open, inviting gesture. Your eyes trail over his huge figure and land on specks of light in his eyes.

His eye black is all smudged and messy.

You have to shake off the sudden thought, observation too close and intimate for your liking, as you grab him by the forearm, trying to ignore the way your skin burns up when you feel his warmth through his gear. Ghost pulls you up to your feet, but doesn’t let go of your arm once you’re up. You don’t let go either. The silence rings in your ears. God, he’s so warm.

 “Are you like a human furnace or something?” You joke to fill the excruciating silence. Which you immediately regret. You wish it wasn’t so dark so you could see just how his face stretched the fabric of a skull mask, which you clearly heard happen by a small shuffle very close to you. Who knows, maybe he cracked a smile?

“Why? Need someone to warm you up at night?” Okay, this is terrible and stupid, and so damn corny, and why do you feel your cheeks grow hot and breath get stuck in your chest? Maybe that’s just how awful his jokes are. Ghost clears his throat and reluctantly lets go of your forearm, fingers still clinging to your sleeve as he pulls himself away too quickly for it to be something nonchalant or casual.

“So, are you answering my question, or do I have to use torture?” Fucking hell, his jokes are morbid. You almost forgot in those several hours you haven’t interacted with him. Although that would be quite hard, he leaves quite an impression, after all.

“Well, I suppose you’ve seen the…the civilians?” You can’t call them anything besides that. To call them corpses is to take away from their whole being. To call them dead would just be a lie. They were still alive in the walls of their homes, in the memories of their breathing relatives and friends, and in the pictures, their traces are everywhere. Ghost silently nods to your question, prompting you to continue. “Then here’s your reason.” You didn’t want to explain your feelings in great detail. And you didn’t feel the need to; you saw the compassion in his eyes. “Plus, the whole thing with the Los Vaqueros base.” If you saw Ghost’s face now you’d note how the expression darkened in a single moment. However, you do feel the temperature in the room fall several degrees lower, so you decide to joke again. “Pay wasn’t that good anyway, so…”

“Fair enough.” The man chuckles while rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll keep an eye on you though. Don’t think you can just waltz in here like this and be completely trusted.” Well, that’s understandable. If you were him you wouldn’t trust yourself either. Although you did hope that the mercy you’ve shown him earlier would influence his decision making. At least a little bit. “And you better toss that thing. Or else.” He points to the radio, still strapped to your tactical vest. You unclasp the device, detaching the small microphone that was holding on by a thread, and hand it to Ghost.

“You’re welcome to get rid of it for me.” And he doesn’t waste any time, dropping the radio on the ground, stomping on it so hard that the sound of it breaking echoes through the church. You assess the scraps of wires and plastic on the floor with a pitiful gaze, coming to a conclusion that you wouldn’t want to end up under Ghost’s boot. Or maybe you would, but under different circumstances. “Well, that’s…effective.”

“You good with the sniper rifle?” The man ignores your previous remark, immediately firing back with the question.  

“Decent.” You were a lot better in close quarters and preferred a more hands-on approach. But a sniper rifle wasn’t that bad. As long as he doesn’t ask you to use it without a scope.

“You’re on the lookout with me then. Don’t screw it up.”

Oh, you’re absolutely not going to.

check out my masterlist or send me a request!

a/n – first of all, thank you for reading this fic, and if you enjoyed it, consider dropping me a comment, i’ll really appreciate it! SECOND OF ALL.  I’M NOT A GRAVES HATER, DON’T COME @ ME. segment with him also was written before the campaign release, so in case there are some inaccuracies with the plot/his character – let me know, so I can fix it. all of this is a huge rework of the series that I started but never posted. Originally, it was supposed to be Graves x Reader, but for multiple reasons, moral mostly, it didn’t quite sit right with me. So instead of letting 6k words first part that I’ve written and abandoned go to waste, I decided to remake it into something else here, based on the idea of @mockerycrow (ily you have such a big brain)! so yeah, that’s it for now!

[allllium]

🖤 Best Simon "Ghost" Riley Fics On Tumblr 🖤

Part One • Part Two • Part Three • Part Four

♡ Fluff ♡

OlderBf!Simon

Can't Get It Up

I Need to Follow Orders [Fluff, NSFW]

↳ @heavenbarnes

Viking!Simon [Dad!Simon]

Viking!Simon [Angst]

Duke!Ghost

↳ @dante-mightdie

Pregnant Wife [Soon to be Dad Simon]

Secret Wife

↳ @slater-baby

Let Simon Riley Cry 2024 ~ @themotherofhorses

Pizza ~ @euno11a

This is... Love? [Smut] ~ @codtrashsammy

Marriage ~ @void-my-warranty

He's Drunk :/ ~ @notspiders

Edibles ~ @httpsghostie

Can't Perform ~ @euno11a

Body Type ~ @oceantornadoo

Old Wound [Hurt/Comfort?] ~ @cntloup

Rough Mission ~ @lunarduty

Traumatized [Hurt/Comfort, Suggestive] ~ @3amfanfiction

Cat ~ @majinbangus

Gentle ~ @puff0o0

Grumpy ~ @luvlystarr

Animal Crossing ~ @gild-ui

Bracelet ~ @duskedpens

Huge Sap ~ @timetothirst

[mockerycrow]

this is really self indulgent oopsie — ghost x gn!reader

imagining being a civilian in a relationship with simon riley where both of you are oddly detached. neither of you really crave to see each other despite the distance—you’ve had friends and/or family sit you down with concern because you never express that you miss simon; and that’s because you truly don’t. you love him for sure and of course you’re always worried about safety, how could you not be? but you know when if he returns home, you two will pick up from where you last left off.

with simon, you don’t feel like you gotta fake anything. your reunions when he comes home are just as long, but quiet. standing by the front door, quiet as you share a long, silent hug. the weight of his arms, the squeezing and how heavy he breathes is everything you need to know from simon. you don’t ask about his deployment—he doesn’t say much, anyway. not unless it’s truly important. a few stories here and there, maybe some complaints but it’s nothing you need to know, which you’re fine with.

this does not mean you two don’t love each other, though. this doesn’t mean that the long kisses shared in the doorway aren’t a thing, nor the way you two cuddle at night in such a way where neither of you know where the other starts, AND ends. you two love each other immensely; it just looks a little different than others would think. little kisses shared in the morning, bringing simon to the bathroom and helping him apply his skincare as his face has some minor issues due to wearing a mask all of the time.. you two love putting your hands up each others shirts when they’re cold, making the other jump with a quiet swear.

you and simon aren’t worried about marriage at the moment, no matter how many years it’s been with you dating the man. you’re both a bit skiddish about it and you’ll both come to your own terms with it in the end, but simon sees the nervousness flicker in your eye when a relative makes a joke. simon’s heart never sinks when you’re unsure about marriage because in all honesty, he’s also worried about it. he never takes it as a “you don’t love me” sign because simon gets it. he always gets it.

he gets you, even when you’re not sure how to communicate something.

[rileyslibrary]

You discover Ghost’s secret collection. (platonic and a little bittersweet)

———————————————————————

“My office, 5 pm,” he said.

And that’s precisely what you did.

It’s 5 pm sharp, and you’re standing outside Ghost’s office. The worn wooden door stares back at you, and you knock on it twice, pausing for a few seconds before swinging it open. It’s such an odd ritual, this brief interlude between acknowledging one’s privacy and invading it—a fine line or, in this case, two knocks away, between respect and intrusion.

Or, at least, that would be the case if someone was inside to intrude on. Because, peeking your head through the door, you realise your lieutenant is nowhere to be found.

“Lieutenant Riley?” You say out loud.

Silence.

“Ghost?” You say again, this time louder.

Nothing.

You recall his orders. My office, 5 pm.

You check your watch. It’s 5 pm.

“Simon?” You finally whisper as you enter the room, closing the door behind you.

You approach his desk and sit on the chair across from his; your go-to chair whenever you come in here to talk strategy, report on various matters, or vent when something doesn’t go as planned, and you need someone to lend you an ear. He does the latter exceptionally well. Apart from when he decides to serve you with cold, hard truths such as “It was your choice though, wasn’t it,” or “ah, but you started it, so why do you whine now.”

Your gaze drifts to the clock on his desk. You grab it, turn it towards you and peek at the time, thinking that your watch might be in the wrong and you’re indeed intruding. But no. It’s a few minutes past five; he should have been here by now.

You hear footsteps right above you, where the captain’s office is located. They’re not heavy steps but firm. Steps from someone who doesn’t need to assert their presence; they already know who—or what—they are. It’s him, you think. He is up there. Price must have kept him busy; that’s why he’s late.

You adjust your position on the chair, straightening your back and stretching your neck. Left ear to left shoulder, right ear to right shoulder, rotating your head to the right, towards the window, and then to the other side, where a bookshelf is located.

And then, something on the bookshelf catches your eye amid the files and maps stacked on its shelves. You squint, trying to figure out its shape as the sun’s rays reflect on its surface.

You stand up and approach the bookshelf. Your back creates a barrier between the object and the sun, revealing its proper form.

A snow globe.

You trace your fingers on the shiny exterior. Although the scenery portrayed inside the globe is cold and uninviting, the sun has warmed the glass up. Isn’t that how he is? Cold on the outside, uninviting. Touch his insides, those depths of his psyche that he hides so well, and he’s warm. Almost kind. Almost.

You lift it from its position. Heavy. There’s a wolf inside, sitting in the middle. Lonely.

You shake the globe and stare in a trance as the white flakes fall on the miniature wolf. You look closer; it’s not a wolf. It looks more like a...

“Siberian Husky.” You hear his voice from behind you.

Your hands twitch, and the snow globe almost slips from your grasp. Reflexes kick in instantly, and you regain control, gripping the snow globe’s base with both hands. You bring it closer to your chest.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ghost!” You shout.

He closes the door behind him and walks towards his office chair. You place the snow globe on the shelf but keep staring at it.

“A gift?” You ask, pointing towards it.

“No,” he says, opening his desk drawer and taking some papers. “I bought it.”

“You bought it.” You repeat, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes,” he nods. “For my collection.”

“For your collection.” You repeat, raising your other eyebrow as well.

He stops fiddling with the papers and looks at you.

“Is this how we’re going to keep this conversation going?” He asks.

You look at him, then back at the snow globe.

“S-so you collect snow globes?” You ask.

“That’s what I said.” He replies.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?” he shrugs. “Souvenirs.”

You have so many questions. So, so many. As if a stray snow globe in the lieutenant’s office wasn’t peculiar enough, now you have the words ‘collection’ and ‘souvenirs’ adding to your confusion.

Another “why” escapes your lips as you trace the snow globe with your fingers. He sighs, slowly standing up from his seat and walking towards the bookshelf. He probably thinks you won’t get to the actual nature of the meeting if your questions aren’t answered.

“Why do I collect snow globes, or why do I collect things in general?” He asks, now standing next to you.

“Snow globes,” you state. “Why snow globes?”

“It’s a small world, innit?” he whispers, lifting it from the shelf. “They are not empty bullet shells or loots from a dead civilian’s house. Plus, I fucking hate keyrings.”

You chuckle, and he turns to look at you.

“When did you start collecting them?” You ask, leaning on the bookshelf, watching him play with the globe.

“Since I began going on missions,” he explains. He lifts the globe higher, towards the sun. “Every time I visit a country for the first time, I buy myself one.”

“An homage to the country?”

“Sort of like that,” he nods. “Especially if you buy it from an old lady who probably needs the money.”

You both look at the globe, reflecting the sunlight towards you. No wonder you mistook the husky for a wolf. People often mistake Ghost for a wolf. Yet, here he is, collecting snow globes and supporting small businesses. He’s a husky; loyal and protective. A smile threatens to escape your lips, but you suppress it.

“It’s pretty.” You whisper.

“You like it?” He asks.

You nod, this time unable to keep your smile concealed.

“You can have it,” he says, extending the snow globe to you and releasing it in your hands.

“No, Lt.!” you shout. “I’d never-”

“Ah, nonsense!” He shouts back, already walking towards his desk. “I’ll be going again next week, so I’ll buy me another one.”

“B-but this signifies your first time there!” You retort.

“And this might be my last,” he replies. He sits back on his chair and pulls it close to the desk as he motions for you to do the same.

But you don’t comply. Instead, you stand where he left you, holding the snow globe close to your chest. You look worried. He looks content.

“Is that why you visited Price before coming here?”

He nods. His eyes have formed little creases at their corners; a hint he’s smiling under that mask of his.

“Sir, please, don’t say that,” you whisper, “you’ll have plenty of first times again.”

He lets out a sharp chuckle and leans back on his chair.

“We, as soldiers, rarely think about our first times,” he explains. “For most people, first times are good. They make them reminiscent of the past. To us, first times are rarely good. Think about it: first time getting shot, first getting captured, first time killing someone.”

“What about winning?” You ask as you approach his desk. “First time winning a war?”

“Ah,” he sighs, “winning.” He interlocks his fingers and lowers his eyes to his lap.

“Yes, winning.” You state, sitting on the chair across from him and placing the snow globe on the desk. “Wars against drugs, against human trafficking, terrorism.”

“Winning a war is a fallacy.” He whispers.

“Lt., what are you saying?” You chuckle nervously, baffled by his response. “That’s war for you; there’re always winners and losers!”

“We’re all losers in war,” he says, raising his index finger to the air. “All but one.”

You furrow your eyebrows and tilt your head at him. “Who?” you ask.

“Death.” He replies. “Death is the one and only winner; the rest of us are just playing his game.”

———————————————————————

A/N: This was a WIP for a loooooong time. I remember answering an ask a few months ago, hinting at something to do with snow, but I couldn’t find the inspiration to finish it. And then, be it the events of MWIII, be it the Frozen Tundra, it finally clicked. I hope you enjoyed it and I didn’t make you sad. Ghost will return from his trip, and we’ll get to annoy tf out of him again, so don’t worry.

[obsolescent]

I definitely imagine ghost like this when he comes back from a few months away and he’s just absolutely pissed that reader hasn’t being taking care of herself to take good care of the little ones😭https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJsu6BM3/

Woven Together

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x AFAB!GN!Reader

Author’s notes: Ough I am a sucker for domestic Simon. Honestly, after all he’s been through I feel like he would be a wonderful father and would want to be one, too. To set an example and show that he can and will be different from what his father was. Oops I’m getting carried away, I just love letting characters heal lol. Thank you for your request! Also…Gender neutral names for a parent are kinda hard to find, lol.

Content Warnings: Marriage, mentions of pregnancy, reader has given birth, reader has been neglecting themselves a bit, just in a forgetful way. Reader is called Mapa, a mixture of mama and papa.

CRASH

The sound echoes throughout the house. Your feet are moving before your brain realizes. You clutch the sling that your infant is nestled into close to your chest, trying to keep them asleep while rushing to your other child. You begin to hear them starting to cry and quicken your pace.

You round the corner into the living room, spotting your child. Your oldest, your son, is in the stage known as the “Terrible Twos,” which is an understatement. He’s so curious, getting into any and everything and it’s hard to keep up with him now that you’ve had your other child, your daughter. She’s just turned four months old, still quite small and sleeping throughout most of the day with feedings every couple hours. You have her in a sling secured around your chest while you made lunch for your son, before the sudden loud noise occurred. 

You see now what’s caused the loud racket and his sobbing. The lamp that was on the end table is now broken on the floor, likely due to him running and bumping into it. “Uh oh!” You exclaim, coming towards him with outstretched hands. He runs into your embrace, while hiccupping an “Uh oh” back to you. It’s something you’ve been able to teach him to say when something like this occurs, whenever he makes a mistake or gets hurt, you’ve realized it helps him calm down and to let him know that accidents happen and he isn’t in trouble.

While cooing in his ear and rubbing his back, you hear keys slide into the lock at the front door. Your head snaps to the sound and you watch your husband, Simon, walk inside. He had been able to be at home for the birth of your daughter through paternity leave, but had to leave again after those six weeks ended. He had been gone for a month now and you were so glad to have him home again. Your son also looks toward the sound, now excited at seeing his father home. “Dada!” He yells, rushing towards him. 

He sets his duffle bag aside and crouches down with his arms wide. “Hello, my boy!” He says, scooping him up and hugging him. You beam at the display, before making your way to them both. “Hello to you, too, my loves, " He says, bending down and giving you a quick kiss to the lips, before crouching further to plant one on his daughter’s head. He holds your cheek in his hand, studying your face. He must notice the bags under your eyes, unruliness of your hair, the rumpled clothing. You wince. “Darling…” He trails off, narrowing his eyes at you. 

 “It’s been a rough month without you, honey,” You answer honestly. No use in hiding it, you reckoned, for it was bare to his eyes. “Sit.” Simon instructs you, putting an arm around you, directing you towards the couch. You take a seat, while he sets your son down. “Hold Esther while I put the sling on,” He says, waiting for you to hand it to him. You look up at him, confused. “You need rest, love. Let me watch the children while you relax.” “But you just got back from a mission–” He stops you by cupping your face in his hands. “No arguing. Now, the sling, please.” You grumbled under your breath while slipping your daughter out from the cloth.

After unwrapping yourself from the sling, you hand it to Simon, who begins to place it around himself. Once finished, he scoops up Esther and places her against his chest, safely securing her inside its hold. She begins to fuss, but soon settles after Simon begins rubbing her back and cooing to her. You can’t help but smile at the display, your heart full of love and warmth for your little family. 

Simon grabs your son’s hand. “Timothy, we’re going to let Mapa take a break, alright? Let’s go have ourselves a snack, yeah?” Your son eagerly nods his head, tugging him towards the kitchen. Simon looks back at you with a smile, “Enjoy your break, darling.” “Thank you, Simon. I love you.” “Love you more.” You stand up from the couch and head towards yours and Simon’s room. Slipping into your pajamas, you crawl into bed, sleep gently taking you. 

Waking with a start after feeling the bed shift, you feel arms wrap around you. “Simon?” You asked groggily, looking over your shoulder. “It’s me, love. How was your nap?” “It was wonderful, thank you, honey.” You sit up and wipe the sleep from your eyes, blinking a few times as your eyes adjust to the dark, slivers of moonlight poking through the curtains. “How long did I sleep for?” You asked, remembering it was around one o’clock in the afternoon when Simon arrived home. “It’s nine now,” He replies, running his fingers through your hair. Nine?! 

“Oh my Lord, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep that long, I must’ve been worn slap out.” You feel guilt gnawing at you for leaving Simon alone with the children for so long, before he says, “It’s fine, didn’t want to disturb your rest, you needed it.” He kisses the back of your hand. “The children are asleep, just me and you now.” Oh. You return to his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss. 

“What would I do without you, Simon? Thank you for today,” You say, now running your hands through his short blond locks. He hums with a grin, “Bare minimum I could do, was glad to have the time with the little ones anyways.” He was never one to accept praise. “Now, I want to spend my time with my spouse. Are you hungry?” The mention of food causes your stomach to growl, loudly. You both laugh, before Simon pulls you from bed. “Let’s order some takeout and watch a movie, yeah?” You grin and nod, excited at the prospect of an at-home date with your husband. 

After ordering food, you settle down to wait for the delivery, nestled against each other on the couch. You lay down while Simon’s situated against you, his head on your chest while holding you close. You don’t take for granted the time you have with Simon. Always glad to be in his company. It’s times like these you cherish the most, able to make the most of the time allotted to you two. “I love you,” You whisper to him, brushing your fingers against his cheek. He turns his head up to stare into your eyes, his honeyed gaze filled with adoration. “Love you most.”

[homicidal-slvt]

[These Are My Tunes]

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141 (Individually) x GN!Reader

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Warnings: None - just fluff.

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Summary: The guys walking in on you listening to music.

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Requested by Anonymous

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Kyle Garrick

You were minding your own business vibing in the living room, music turned way up... Kyle walks in on this, having not warned you he'd be home early.

"Dancing without me, dandelion?" He all but purrs the words, chuckling when you nearly jump out of your skin. "Sorry, sorry."

Apologizes by giving you many kisses and dancing with you.

Simon Riley

Sneaky bastard was on the other side of the house when he heard your lovely voice singing to yourself. No, don't argue. He loves your voice.

He creeped in on you - purposefully remaining quiet so he could watch you. It just brings him such bliss to see you so relaxed.... Till you turn around finally.

"FUCK - SIMON!!!" oops.

John Mactavish

Singing in the shower with this man around is just - an experience. He will be in there with you instantly if you let him - otherwise you'll just hear him outside the door.

"Beautiful voice-" "Johnny!!!" "What?"

No such thing as privacy in this damn house. A fuckin' menace.

John Price

He'll hear the music playing in the kitchen, carefully making his way in to not disturb you at first. He loves watching you hum to yourself while cooking.

Reaches over to your phone and switches the music to something slow and classical, finally gaining your attention. "John-" "Just want to dance, love."

Arms around you to sway or slow dance in the kitchen.

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{Gave up on writing anything long right now. All requests will be finished but in short versions. Sorry <3}

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{ @sofasoap @soupbinsoup @sarraa-26 @gothgirl6-6-6 @caramlizedtomatoes-deactivated2 }

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