xyras-maze

[xyras-maze]

price who just misses his wife.

you’ve made him lose his sanity. didn’t know he still had it to begin with- but when he imagined your face in the fallout of an explosion, your features etched in rubble (concrete looks strange- drawing something so soft), he knew he was past any point of return.

but it’s a classic madness. the kind that sits in his breast pocket as a polaroid (favorite picture of you- mid laugh). or the whiskey you got him for his birthday in his desk drawer, drinking it like it came from your lips. kissing his wedding ring before facing fire.

despite how debilitating it feels, to be lost in your memory when he’s trekking gore uphill, he can always rely on it to bring him home.

running, crawling, fuck love he’d learn to fly for you. the hysteria keeps him bleeding and alive because no dead man could go the lengths he does to end up back in your arms.

and the embrace grounds him. when you leap into his chest, hiccuping over the i missed yous and i love yous, he balms. folds into you like if he pulls you close, the world might let him drag this moment long enough for his knees to stop aching.

they don’t. never will. but he forgets about them when he lies next to you. and for the first time in months, he gets it back. sanity replenished.

kissing the hands that kill to return to you.

[xyras-maze]

soap dropping you off at your place after your first date, pointing out the weird guy very poorly hiding in the alleyway next to your building

it freaks you out to the point where you ask johnny to stay the night, your nerves running you ragged because what if this guy tries to break in after johnny leaves? it’s only natural that he calms you down with soft kisses and gentle sex

simon only leaves his place in the alley after he gets a text from johnny, a photo of your head on his chest, fast asleep and his fingers running through your hair

a few seconds later another picture comes through, a pair of frilly panties with a damp crotch

‘a bonus for your hard work :)’

[xyras-maze]

Jinx (Tech!reader) x Ghost

[Masterlist] follow on to this Tech!reader

Jinx used to hate eating meals in the army base canteen, but ever since she sat beside Ghost no one bothers her.

No lingering soldiers asking where she’s from or if she wants to sit with them. She’s searched up their files, wishing she hadn’t and that begins her late night ventures to the canteen an hour before it closes for dinner.

A couple of guys standing in the queue in front turn around to speak to her and jinx keeps her words short and her gaze cast down.

Ghost’s head turned, a few people ahead in line and he walked up to Jinx, taking her dinner tray from her grasp leading her to stand with him.

He’s dishing up her food, adding extra as he fills up his own plate. No words exchanged as he sets the tray down and walks to empty table in the far right corner. The one place he sits every day either by himself or TF141.

Ghost doesn’t sit in his usual seat by the wall, he leaves a space so jinx can sit there instead. He rolls his mask up and rests it over the bridge of his nose, stabbing her fork in her dinner for Jinx to sit beside him.

Jinx sometimes brings a book to read whilst she waits for Ghost to finish his second serving of dinner in the evening.

Ghost can’t believe how fast she eats, as if it’s her first meal in a long time or if someone’s going to pick from her plate.

They sit in comfortable silence and no one dares approach them. A table all to themselves in the corner away from the noise.

She trails after Ghost down the hallway, not a word said as they nod goodbye and go in opposite directions to their rooms.

[xyras-maze]

Task force 141 x Tech!reader

[Masterlist]

Tech!reader that works between two task forces gathering all the nitty gritty intel by hacking into the enemies computers and phones.

Tech!reader whose callsign name is Jinx because she hasn’t had the best of luck up until she joined 141.

Tech!reader that appears on Ghost’s laptop screen by taking over the little arrow and changing it into a black cat. Sometimes even changes it to a ghost so that he can’t see where the pointer is to click on his files.

Tech!reader who has only met Price and Laswell in person. She knows the guys from the photos in their files but never seen them in real life.

Tech!reader that was mistreated by her first unit. So she keeps to herself and works a normal desk in the I.T department, no one knows what she actually does in her little cubicle.

Tech!reader that leaves Price voice notes instead of emails as she knows he hates reading from a screen. Although she does like seeing him put on his reading glasses.

Tech!reader that sighs every time Soap asks if she’s watching him through the webcam right now. (Of course she is when he’s searching for stupid stuff).

Tech!reader who used to go out with her unit, but hasn’t since she broke her arm and got shot in the shoulder when their safe house was attacked.

Tech!reader that texts Gaz the most in between missions/jobs. They both have cats so they send pictures all the time of them.

Tech!reader that checks in on the task force 141 during holidays to make sure they’re safe.

I created this side blog for cod fanfic, haven’t played these games since they were released. Just for fun - Leya

[xyras-maze]

More Price's lil wife

You met the boys once and now you need more obviously

Had you known something in the house breaking meant big strong sexy handsome muscle burly men would come over you would have lived life a little differently. Knowing your husband only sent his team to you because he was out of town meant you had to wait again until he was separated from the rest of 141. A quick phone call to your husband that the fridge wasn’t working (hammer to whatever the pipes and wires on the back were). And an hour later you felt like you were watching Bay Watch or staring at a sexy fireman’s calendar when here comes Riley, MacTavish, and Garrick hoping out of a large truck and strutting down your sidewalk. Tight shirts. Wind blowing. Tools in their hands being tossed and caught one handed why is that sexy? 

“Heard a sweet thing needed some help.” You’re drooling

Aw man, one look at the fridge and they say you need a new one. Too damaged. All staring at you knowingly and the hammer on the counter you definitely forgot to hide. But since their already here, how about some lunch. Soap admits that other than the last meal you made them he had only been eating mess hall foods. “Think of you and your delicious food everytime im eating there.” Now that simply won’t do. When Price gets back you will be asking (demanding) for them to come over for dinner at least once a month (once a week). 

They didn't even make it back to the car when you ran back out. ‘Oh i forgot there's a hole in the garage. (Same hammer from before now covered in drywall.) The power went out. No idea what happened. Lil ol you def didn’t flick every switch until something happened. Easy fix. Wait wait the wifi isn’t working now (unplugged). However many hours later they leave and you get a text from your husband.

“You can just ask for them to come over. Stop breaking things my love.” oops

[xyras-maze]

Price's lil wife Shenanigans

Thank you @goatgoesmbe for this idea

"And for any argument really. Even silly stuff how Price jokingly tutted when you heat your tea in microwave like- he would gladly make a new one, you have a kettle

Without question, the others immediately take your side and defend your microwaved tea. Despite Price knowing full well they used to mock people who do that. They would just go 180° with their opinion for you."

The tea thing yes yes yes. During a helicopter ride or something all geared up, Gaz leaned over to ask how The (their) Missus was and Price muttered that he found out you make your tea in the microwave when he’s not around to do it. All of them audibly groaned, Ghost clutching his lil brit heart at the idea. What are you? a monster? Tea without a kettle? That's the behavior of a true criminal. Untilll they were all over at the house again and they watched you place your cup into the microwave to heat it up and Price is rubbing his face in his hands. 

“Woman for christ’s sake the kettle is right there.”

“Ya but this is faster and it tastes the same.” Price turns to his men looking for back up because No. No it does not taste the same. Their captain is staring at them, but behind him is you. Staring so sweetly. Genuinely confused as to why its such a big deal. 

“Think it tastes good both ways.” Garrick is the first to speak up.

“Maybe even better when you get your tea faster.” Soap adds. The men slowly stepping closer to you and away from Price.

“I always make my tea that way. Not a big deal cap’n” Ghost’s final addition is the nail in Price’s coffin. Turning to see your smug ass face, surrounded by his men. Traitors. Absolute traitors. 

The next time they’re at the base and Riley goes to make tea, pulling the kettle out of the cupboard, Price snatches it aways. 

“No No Lieutenant. Make it like you always do. In. the. Fucking. Microwave.” Standing arms crossed waiting for Ghost to have some sort of comeback. His eyes darting to Soap and Gaz, knowing that if he makes his tea in the kettle they would snitch to you for sure. Fuck. Worth it tho.

[xyras-maze]

Random König hcs

A/N: I have no explanation for most of these but this is just what I think König is like and I'll never change my mind about it lol

He loves to cook. He cooks everything himself when he's off-duty and he's his own biggest critic.

He's a cat person, he doesn't wanna walk a dog and have people approach them

"what a cute dog! Can I pet him" this guy is freaking out. It's already impossible not to be noticed due to his size, so a dog is off-limits. His social anxiety wouldn't stand it.

He has ADHD. Canonically, he was rejected as a sniper for his height and not being able to stay still. Also, he's just giving ADHD lol and you can't convince me he doesn't have it.

Also, I feel like he might be on the autism spectrum. I really can't explain this one, I just feel like he is and he has the biggest hyperfixations ever.

He likes rom-coms, but he'd be so nonchalant about it you literally wouldn't even be able to tell he enjoys them, like he just watches them with no reaction.

HE'S SUCH A GIRLS' GIRL!! I can totally see him giving your girlfriend's dating advice, whether her date is a dick or not etc.

Also, he'd totally do "girly" activities with you. He'd let you paint his nails, do a face mask, gossip. Anything for his girl! That doesn't take away from his masculinity and he knows it.

[xyras-maze]

Something something having a bad day and finally getting home to relax with a comfort food and a drink under your favorite blanket only to spill it all over you. Staining your shirt and soaking the blanket.

Breaking down in tears because why can’t anything go right?

Simon coming home to find his love bawling her eyes out, teary and borderline wailing.

Thinking she’s hurt or someone’s done something to her until you babble to him about work and stress and “stupid fucking motor skills, I can’t even feed myself-“

Simon taking it upon himself to fix everything. Making up a warm bath full of bubbles, candles lighting the bathroom so you don’t have to put up with fluorescent lights.

Scooping you up into his arms like you weigh nothing- it’s laughable when you mutter something about being too heavy. As if.

“Hush,” he murmurs and sets you atop the sink, taking your wet clothes off with a gentleness unlike the large Lieutenant.

He gets you situated in the bath, leaving to return several minutes later with a brand new drink and food for you.

By then you’re embarrassed over the breakdown, peeking at him from your hiding spot behind the bubbles.

He pays it no mind. You’re shy, so what? It won’t stop him taking care of you.

“You’re alright love,” he says in a loving tone that’s reserved for you. Only for you. He’ll sit with you in the silence of the room, not bothering to make you speak or ask you questions. You’re overwhelmed, that much is clear, and you deserve some peace and quiet.

So Simon sits beside the tub with you, feeding you small bites as the soothing water and aromas calm you down. He treats you like a princess, washing your skin and your hair for you. Blatantly ignoring whenever you protest that “I can do that, Si, you don’t have to-”

You’re his baby, his world, and he’ll treat you like so.

He dresses you in his clothes so you’ll feel warm and comforted in his big hoodie and boxers. Staking his claim on you.

He tucks you into bed despite your whines of how early it is, wraps his mountain of a body around yours to keep you grounded and feeling safe. Turns on that show you’ve seen a million times that he bitches and moans about but watches anyways.

And he watches you fall asleep, whispering soft declarations of love and adoration into your dried hair. Never letting you think for a second that you aren’t absolutely cherished.

[xyras-maze]

PLEASE HE WOULD TOTALLY DO THAT AA I LOVE THIS

ghost proposing, a little angst but very very sweet

they have the night off and he’d already be devouring her whole if she wasn’t so excited about going out. it’s a shit bar close to base, but she reasons it’s a good change of scenery.

and boy is it, terrible karaoke heard a mile away. the military wives, or rather soon to be, taken over. a bachelorette party of at least six women, loud and obnoxious.

soap and gaz find it to be the most hilarious thing in the world, applauding a brunette on stage over her disastrous performance of careless whisper. but ghost can’t help but watch y/n, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. throughout the night he silently dissects her, his assumption it being some sort of yearning for female company. but as one of the women come up to their table, asking if anyone from the squad could take a picture of the rowdy group, ghost swallows harshly. y/n jumps at the opportunity, congratulating the bride like they’ve know each other their whole lives.

they never discussed the nature of their relationship. hell, the word relationship was never even voiced out loud. but even a stranger could tell how they moved in sync, his reflection and her shadow. in their line of work it was best case scenario and simon never allows himself to think about there ever being more.

but that is until y/n asks to see the ring. it’s almost comical, the gigantic diamond blinding, making her squint. ghost finds himself scoffing behind the mask, he could easily read y/n’s compliment a lie. she would never wear anything like it.

the following months ghost finds himself ring shopping. fucking hell, what is he thinking, really? his tongue can’t even roll the world girlfriend. and yet here he is, glaring at the poor saleswoman like she’s supposed to know none of these expensive rocks are good enough for his y/n.

when the ring is finally chosen, he doesn’t quite know what to do. he’s horrified of y/n finding it so the ring stays on his person at all times, even in the field. he’s less talkative than usual, if that’s even possible, always looking for the right moment. brushing their teeth together in the morning, ghost buried between her thighs in the evening. he nearly does it one late night, y/n perched on the window sill of her room. swimming in moonlight, she looks ethereal. he’s done unimaginable things in his life, taken and saved lives. none of the gore ever phased him, but the sight of her has his stomach turning.

so he chickens out. regret begins to gnaw at him as the very next mission goes haywire. y/n barks at him through the comms, the sweetest sound in the world, even if she’s telling him to get out, explosives ticking in the building. he’s trying, he really is. his gear seems to get heavier by the minute with a broken rib threatening to seize his lungs. he can make out her silhouette by the exit, but it’s out of reach. the floor crumbles beneath him.

when ghost wakes up, he immediately spots soap pacing back and forth, as much as the tiny ward of the hospital would allow him. y/n is passed out in the chair next to his bed, his balaclava clutched to her chest.

“good to have you back, lt.” soap whispers not to wake the sleeping soldier. “how ye feeling?”

“was she hurt?”

“no.” soap shakes his head, knowing how important the answer is before he can move on to his long awaited teasing, pulling out a velvet box out of his pocket. “i suppose it was foolish to question who this belonged to then. didn’t take you for the marrying kind, lt.”

he wasn’t, but if it pleased y/n, he’d marry her a thousand times. and even though ghost wants to be annoyed with the sergeant, he’s already decided to promote him to best man for finding the ring before y/n could.

when ghost gets released, it takes time to find courage to open the velvet box. it’s barely holding together, taking most of the damage to protect what’s inside. the ring is chipped, the intricate band of petite diamonds has at least five distinct cuts. they’re surprisingly neat, but asymmetrical and obvious to they eye. he can only curse, what a fool he was to convince himself that there could be something more.

“what’s that?” y/n is right next to him, her stealth impressive as she appears unnoticed in his room.

he can tell her awe for the ring is genuine, eyes eyes lighting up at the piece of jewelry. she pries it out of his hold, standing close to the window to examine the gems reflecting daylight. she disregards the cracks completely, telling him it adds character to it. the sincerity of her smile makes it hard to breathe.

“so who’s the lucky girl then?” she asks, never once trying on the ring.

“who- who’s the lucky girl? bloody hell woman, who do you think?”

they’re both dumbfounded, y/n by the answer and ghost by the question. and ghost knows he said the wrong thing as y/n shrinks in her spot, her gaze glued to the floor.

“i mean- i- i really don’t know.” she stutters, growing shy likes he’s never seen her before.

“try it on.”

“what?“

“come here.“

y/n allows him to hold her hand, sliding the ring on her finger with utmost care. it fits perfect, just her size and taste. her eyes jump between him and the ring, mind going a mile a minute.

“what do you reckon?“ his voice is low and quiet, and that’s all he says. it dawns on her that he’s really doing this, proposing in the most simon riley way possible.

“i didn’t even know we were dating.” she can’t help the jaw numbing smile that overtakes her, gently squeezing her hand in his.

“‘cause we’re not. we’re engaged.”

[xyras-maze]

Simon Riley who has loved you secretly for years now. He won't even admit it to himself, but he can't deny it either. Maybe if you were single.

He has always hated your boyfriend. From the second he met the guy, he's wanted nothing more than to hit him with a car...at the very least.

But you love him. Something Simon doesn't understand. You insist he's a great guy, that he is perfect. And Simon has no evidence with which to disagree. The man has never hit you, or kicked you out, or physically harmed you in any way.

And then comes the night that you show up on his doorstep, soaked from the rain, shivering in the wind, and sobbing. Simon doesn't hesitate to drag you inside, locking the door behind you before laying his hands on your shoulders.

"What can I do luv?"

He doesn't care what that idiot had done to you, not right now at least. He needed to help you, to care for you the way you should be. He lets you sniffle and suck in choking gasps, staying silent as you tried to find the words.

"He was with...he was with another girl."

Simon pulls you against his chest, wrapping his muscular arms around your tiny frame. With your face against his chest, you can't see the smirk he's trying to hide. You can't see the look of joy and possessiveness in his eyes.

Because Simon already knows. He knows everything that you don't know. Because it takes a manipulative man to destroy another toxic man's world.

[xyras-maze]

declining a ride from simon because your car is right over there and while it isn't brand new, it gets you where you need to go but then he tells you to "go and turn it on, then."

[xyras-maze]

lalala I’m not immune to him… butcher Simon and fem!reader

wc : 882

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

sigh. Butcher!Simon Riley.

You're new in town, you need a job, you need to have something to do. Too bad that no one besides the small coffee shop a few minutes away was hiring, you got the job, but they could only offer you time to work in the mornings.

After the first week, one of your coworkers told you about the butcher shop down the street that could really use some help (even though the owner refused to put up a sign in the window or anything of the sort), it really wasn't an awful idea to give it a shot, yeah?

The first thing you notice when you walk into the small shop is that the man behind the counter is huge, like, stereotypical slasher kind of huge with a few scars on his face to really sell the look. He hardly pays you any mind, just a small glance and "What'cha gettin'?" while he wipes his hands on his apron.

You panic, mumble out that a few slices of pepperoni and salami is fine, then watch him work for a few odd moments before you ask him if there's any chance you could get a job there.

He once again just glances at you before handing the meat off to you and telling you to come back the next day at 4:30.

So– you get the job.

Simon–your boss's name, apparently–figured there was no harm in hiring you, you'd be working in the afternoon and cutting meat isn't too difficult. Plus, seeing your face light up when he told you the good news made him feel better.

The whole thing comes almost naturally, you don't mind the clean-up that needs to be done afterwards and you're good with the customers, it certainly makes everything easier for Simon. Another good thing is that he lives right above the shop, so if there's no customers that day, he'll just send you home, he can come downstairs if someone knocks on the door.

He's stopped by the coffee shop a few times, too, he normally makes a comment along the lines of "Busy girl, aye?" or "See you in an hour." but it’s easy to brush off.

It’s only after a couple of months when Simon really starts to talk to you, before it had just been him asking about your day or talking about shipments and customers, but now it’s asking about your favorite movies and if you’ve gone to that nice restaurant just outside of town yet, if you’ve got any plans for the weekend and “Wanna know somethin’ funny?”

Turns out he was in some kind of military, you only found out when he had leaned over the counter when someone was ordering and a pair of dog tags slid out from the front of his shirt. Simon tucked them back under his shirt when the customer left, so you thought it was better not to ask.

Anyway, he keeps getting friendlier with you. Telling you that you could take more of the tips from the tip jar was, going out to get lunch for the both of you and evening bringing you food he made from time to time, offering to walk you home, normal things. What you considered a bit odd was when he’d start helping you adjust your jacket whenever you’d put it on to leave or when he’d bring you actual gifts like earrings and sweaters that he said he didn’t need anymore.

Even though you thought it was strange, you liked it, Simon’s a lot sweeter than he looks.

Watching him work is great, too. You’re in no way complaining that you get to see the muscles underneath his shirt flexing nearly everyday, the doting and pet names he calls you are another added bonus.

Once you’ve been working there for nearly a year, he starts inviting you up to his apartment for dinner and insisting that you should just stay with him when the weather is bad. You just brush it off each time, saying you don’t want to intrude and that a little bit of snow wouldn’t hurt you, but the look in his eyes makes your gut twist and you almost say yes.

If that wasn’t enough for you to want to go home with him, then maybe the soft touches would be. Whenever Simon’s hands were clean, there’d always be a steadying hand on your back or a gentle squeeze to your hip when he passes behind you.

Besides, the time Simon decided the shop was closing early when it was almost time for you to go home for the night had been special, but that’s because he asked you, “Y’doin’ anythin’ tonight?” when you were putting on your jacket.

You never do much of anything at home, so you thought nothing of it when you shook your head and turned to the door, but once again, his big hands found their way to your waist and a kiss was planted to the corner of your eye before you could really process that Simon was ushering you out and walking beside you.

”Then we’re goin’ out tonight, ‘kay? Proper like.” You weren’t going to say no, and his hand that squeezed more made it feel like he was planning on keeping you.

[xyras-maze]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

It's your birthday

You should have been happy today. Your friends and family had gathered to celebrate your birthday, there were smiles, laughter, and a cake with your name on it. But no matter how much you tried to enjoy the moment, there was an ache in your chest, a shadow lingering at the back of your mind.

Simon wasn’t here.

You knew he had a mission. You knew his work wasn’t something he could just walk away from, even for your birthday. But that didn’t make the empty space beside you feel any less cold.

Throughout the day, you kept checking your phone, hoping for a message—something. But the screen stayed dark, and with every passing hour, the heaviness in your heart grew.

By the time you said your goodbyes and stepped into your empty home, exhaustion and disappointment weighed you down. You dropped your keys on the table with a sigh, kicking off your shoes, ready to just crawl into bed and forget this day even happened.

But then you noticed something.

The lights were dimmed, and there was a soft glow flickering from the living room. Your heart skipped a beat as you took slow steps forward, eyes widening at the sight before you.

Candles. A bottle of wine. And on the coffee table—a small black box with a note resting on top.

Your hands trembled as you picked up the folded paper, recognizing Simon’s handwriting instantly.

"Happy Birthday, love. Sorry I couldn't be there to celebrate with you. But turn around—I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Your breath caught as you turned sharply—only to be met with the sight of Simon, standing in the doorway, his gear still on, his mask pulled up just enough to show the smirk playing on his lips.

“Miss me, sweetheart?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing.

For a second, you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The weight of the day, the longing, the disappointment—it all melted away in an instant.

And then you were in his arms.

Simon caught you with ease, his strong arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against his chest. His scent, his warmth, the solid feel of him—it was all so overwhelming that you barely noticed the tears welling up in your eyes.

“You came home,” you whispered against his shoulder, gripping onto him like he might disappear.

“Told you I wouldn’t miss your birthday,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Had to pull a few strings, but I’m here now.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands cupping his face. “Best birthday present ever.”

His lips curved into a smirk, his eyes dark with something deeper, something possessive. “That’s not your present, love.”

Your breath hitched as he reached for the small box on the table, pressing it into your hands.

“Open it.”

With shaky fingers, you lifted the lid, revealing a delicate silver necklace—a small charm in the shape of a skull hanging from the chain.

Your eyes flickered up to his, your heart pounding. “Simon…”

“It’s mine,” he murmured, taking the necklace from the box and moving behind you. His fingers brushed against your skin as he clasped it around your neck. “So even when I’m not here, you’ve got a piece of me with you.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time, they were from something warm, something overwhelming.

You turned back to him, your hands fisting in his jacket as you pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss. Simon groaned against your lips, his arms tightening around you, as if he needed you just as much as you needed him.

“You gonna cry, love?” he teased against your mouth, his voice rough, amused.

You sniffled, laughing softly. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, brushing his lips over yours again. “Good. Means I did something right.”

And as he led you to the couch, pulling you into his lap, you knew that no matter how far away he had been, no matter how long the distance—Simon Riley would always find his way back to you.

[xyras-maze]

This is so well written, I'm so impressed<3

Caffè Crema

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!FemReader]

Excitement for your morning coffee turns to panic when you bump into a mountainous stranger in a grey hoodie, sporting a skull mask. Sputtered apologies become a conversation in a corner of the café. And he’s so beat up, battered and bruised and scarred that you can’t help the words that leave your lips:

“Do you want to come home with me?”

[5k words ]

Chapter 1 "Caffeine Rush"

Airpods in your ears, music vibrating through your soul, you were ready for the world outside.

Sweet Saturday morning, after a week of work and barely any time for yourself, you’d decided on a treat to start off the weekend. You’d slept in late, phone alarm turned off and sleeping mask tugged on, new sheets prepared the night before because it was so comforting to wake up to the subtle smell of detergent. And once you were finally up, you’d decided fuck it, go out and get a nice steaming hot coffee in a cute paper cup from the local café, listen to Lofi or Lana Del Rey or whatever Spotify had prepared for your daily suggestions on the way, cozy up in a warm winter jacket and a thick scarf. Bless the crisp December air, it nipped at your cheeks and filled your lungs with sharp frosty air. It numbed your nose too and made your eyes water, but those weren’t as positive as the previous two affixes.

The streets were buzzing, a rare sight of the sun peeking through a blanket of grey clouds was shining down on you.

All in all, it was going to be a good day.

You waited impatiently for the light to turn green before crossing the street with a horde of nameless individuals, keeping in tandem with them.

Snow was still a no-show, you could only hope for its appearance at least on Christmas. The holidays without a fluffy coat of white powdering over everything from trees to rooftops just didn’t sit well with you, but at the end of the day, it was up to Mother Nature, not you. Anything but the ice rain you’d had the week prior; you weren’t ready to skate to the store again.

The bell above the café door shakes to life, signaling your entrance. You tuck one airpod in your pocket to listen in on the chatter in the comfy, coffee bean scented establishment, and also because you didn’t want to miss anything the cashier said. You were the anxious type after all, didn’t wanna miss a thing ever.

The heating system is blasting, cranked to the max, steam comes in large waves from behind the oak counter, be it from warm beverages or baked goods fresh from the oven, it lingers long enough for you to get a whiff before being diligently sucked away by the range hood. You unzip the top part of your jacket before getting too stuffy, loosen your scarf and take off your gloves. The staff, donned in their creamy yellow aprons, zip back and forth between tables like worker ants and you step into the line of waiting customers to keep out of their way.

The hardwood floor is licked spotless, looking down, you can almost see your reflection staring back at you. The hum of the large coffee grinder fills your exposed ear and you decide to turn off Spotify for the moment and bask in the café’s ambience instead.

The line moves, it’s almost your turn and you glance up at the display monitors listing off all the choices on the menu for today. Lattes, milkshakes, espressos, you decide on a large cappuccino, leave experimenting with unfamiliar drinks for another day when you’re feeling more courageous.

“Large cappuccino, please.” You say with a polite smile and fish out your wallet from your pocket.

Coffee is cheap here, cheaper than in most cafés and that’s one of the things that keeps you coming back to this place. It’s not easy to afford treats when you live on your own and have to pay the bills and groceries alone. However, you manage, and being able to afford a coffee or takeout once in a while is all the sweeter when knowing you owe nothing to nobody.

You take your cup and nudge your chin for the barista to keep the change before stepping away to the sidebar littered with plastic lids, sugar packets, and cheap wooden teaspoons for stirring your drink. After a brief consideration, you decide not to sweeten your coffee and only take a large lid, pop it over your cup and after zipping your jacket back up, you’re about to turn and walk out.

A walk through the park where you can sit down and enjoy your drink suggestively passes by your mind. Deciding that’s exactly what you will do, you palm through your pocket for your discarded airpods while nursing your paper cup to your chest.

And maybe it was your fault for not paying enough attention because you were buzzed to have a nice relaxing weekend. Or that you’d already achieved your first goal of the day and you were about to have a nice vibey stroll while hurrying to stuff your ears with music before you left the café. Maybe you’d jinxed your Saturday by confidently thinking it would be a swell time and nothing wrong would happen for once.

You should have known better. You should have suspected something would go wrong.

Something always goes wrong.

You whirl around with the intent of being on your way, expecting the glass doors to be in view, but they aren’t. A mountain of flesh and muscle stands before you. And your reaction time is too slow to save yourself or your coffee.

You jump, your hand flinches and the paper cup goes flying, a gasp upon your lips so loud it turns heads. You can only watch in horror as it makes contact with a wide chest clad in a grey hoodie, the lid pops off from the force of the impact and the hot contents inside go in every direction.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my freaking God.”

One hand goes up to cover your agape mouth while the other clutches at the zipper of your jacket as panic crawls up your neck and prickles your scalp.

The worst part is that your coffee wasn’t the only casualty. The poor guy had dropped his beverage to pull his hoodie off his chest the moment your scalding beverage had soaked it.

There was steam coming off it. It was boiling and you’d spilled it on him.

You wanted to die.

And he’s fucking terrifying too. Easily two heads over you and built like a truck. The intricate skull mask obscures the lower half of his face and you can’t discern if he’s absolutely pissed or just mildly uncomfortable with the large stain plastered on his top.

His eyes are sharp, trained on his ruined hoodie, crow’s feet crinkled, and you’re grateful they’re not directed at you because you were a step away from breaking down on the spot.

A stone lodged itself in your throat.

If he didn’t curse you to oblivion, he’d either break you in half, or worse, sue you.

You can’t get fucking sued. You don’t have the money to get sued.

So much for having a good day…

“Oh my God, I’m sorry.” You sputter out and grab a handful of paper towels from the counter. You’re glancing up at him every now and again for fear of his patience running out. “I’m so so sorry.”

Shaky hands are tapping away at his top, soaking in the liquid as best you can while trying to keep from breaking down. Your tongue is arrested between your teeth, bitten down on hard in a self-soothing attempt. Your fingertips are stained with coffee because there‘s so much of it that it’s turning the paper towels to mush. You couldn’t care less about that or that you were practically sweating bullets under your jacket.

All you hoped for was that you hadn’t caused the poor guy a burn.

“ ‘s okay.” He murmurs in a thick British accent while watching you fuss over him with growing anxiety. The jitter in your movements would be almost comical if not for you practically hyperventilating on him.

“Excuse me, are you alright?”

“No.” You whine, before you can stifle your voice to normalcy, and turn to the cashier peeking from behind the counter with watery eyes and a deeply carved frown. “No. I’m so sorry, we spilled our drinks. I mean, I spilled - ” You take in a breath to compose yourself and brush a hand over your forehead, shoulders slumping. You’re giving your best apologetic expression, practically mourning over the mess you’d made at your feet and of the man looming next to you.“ – I’m sorry. I can clean it up if you have a mop.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, miss. We’ll mop it up.” The cashier replies, bless her, and signals for one of the waiters to fetch the cleaning supplies. The friendly smile never wavers from her balmed lips; neither does the caffeinated twinkle in her eyes.

She’s most likely seen this sort of thing plenty of times, but for you, it’s a first and it’s your fault to top it off. It’s not an easy pill to swallow and despite the atmosphere being anything but hostile, you can’t help but still feel guilty.

Of course, this had to happen to you of all people. You weren’t allowed a single day of peace and tranquility.

With the main cause of disturbance taken care of, you turn back to your victim, who’s joined you in trying to dry off his hoodie. Your stomach churns at the sight, and you’re afraid to look around in case all eyes are on you two. You can’t bear the scrutiny, even though most people have probably resumed their dwellings by now.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? I’m so sorry, sir.” You ask and reach for more paper towels, pressing them against his chest more so to show you’re very apologetic and trying to fix the situation rather than actually fixing it because most of the coffee has already come out.

You glance up at him after mustering up the courage, curious as to what awaited you next. He returns your gaze with one of indifference or calmness, you can’t tell, blinks at you slowly, as if he’s just now taking your flustered form for the first time, then he speaks, more clearly this time.

“It’s fine.”

A server arrives with a mop in hand and you both step away from the mess to let them clean it up. You take the lead unintentionally and guide the stranger towards one of the vacant tables in the corner of the café, away from prying stares.

You pick the chair next to the wall that has a large ficus partially looming over the seat. Maybe with enough luck, you can disappear inside it.

Finally, unzipping your jacket because you’re about to faint from the stuffiness, you lay it on the cushioned backrest of the chair and pat it down to make sure you’d not accidentally dropped any of your belongings during the accident. You tug at your sweater to air out the thin sheen of nervous sweat that’s formed over your skin, brush off the strands of hair that have come to stick to your face and take off your scarf.

The stranger sits on the opposite chair, paper towel still to his chest and sucking out any leftover residue. The stain won’t leave your vision no matter how hard you try to rip the two separate. It’s the worry gnawing at your gut that keeps you rooted to your spot, wanting to approach but too afraid to do so.

But so far he’s been a nice guy, hasn’t said one single bad word to you.

Your mind reels with how red and irritated his skin must be, praying it hadn’t blistered up already. You have half a mind to ask him to take off his hoodie so you can take a look.

A fresh wave of panic wraps its dainty fingers around your neck in squeezes, sends needles to prick over random places on your body.

And all this time, you’ve been sputtering out apologies like a broken record, his dismissal of your regret not even reaching your ears let alone registering.

“Should I call an ambulance? Oh my God, I’ve never had to call an ambulance in my life…” You ask, mumbling the last part to yourself as the realization hits you square in the face. For a brief moment, you forget how to dial the emergency line because you’ve never had to use that number before. “I’m sorry, sir – I – I didn’t mean – ”

You continue to blabber while searching your jacket pocket for your phone. The guy might have said nothing at your suggestion, but you wanted to be safe and have your phone at the ready anyway. And you’re too preoccupied going ballistic with panic in your own little world to hear him repeatedly tell you that everything is fine and you’ve done no big deal, he doesn’t need an ambulance and that he’s fine.

“Hey!” He grabs the crux of your elbow and pulls you before him, a large knee on either side of your thighs. A startled noise crawls up your throat but you make no move to step away. You’re staring at him as your hands disappear inside his and he jerks them slightly, his voice lowering now that he’s caught your attention finally. “Relax. It’s alright. Happens.” His comfort is rough. His voice gruff and sounding more like a scold than anything. He shakes you a bit too hard, not used to handling something as delicate as you, and pulls you down enough to make solid eye contact. “Alright?”

You nod and avert your gaze away, soggy paper towels left in a pile on the table making your fingers twitch with the need to do more. Apologies simply aren’t enough, not when he’d probably need to apply ointment on his chest for a few days after your little fiasco.

Why did have to be such a hot mess all the time?

“At least…Let me buy you another drink. On me? It’ll make me feel better.” The frown is still tugging on your lips as you speak, shyly looking at him from under your lashes. “Please?”

He sighs softly at your relentlessness and shrugs before letting your hands slip from him, having kept them in his grasp for longer than he should.

“Sure.”

He leans back in his chair and readjusts both his hood and the cap poking beneath it before resting his elbows on the table.

“What did you order?” You question while fetching your wallet.

The innocent look you toss him has him forcing himself to stop staring at you like a creep. He clears his throat and rubs over his tired eyes tenderly before answering.

“Black tea with milk.”

And so you reorder your cappuccino, get him his tea and decide that a simple butter croissant as an apology is enough for the moment. Every time you turn around to glance at him, nervous that he’d simply slip away from your overbearing presence, he catches your stare without fail. Heat gathers around your ears and your lips purse unintentionally every single time and you quickly turn back to the cashier, pretending you hadn’t just been discovered ogling him.

The chair looks too small to encompass his hulking frame comfortably, the table is no different, but you guess he’s used to it by now. A man of his stature isn’t a common occurrence here. Poor thing probably has to bow to enter through most doorways and have his shirts custom-made with how wide his shoulders were. If he wore shirts at all that is.

He looks like he’s brooding when you return with the order, fingers linked together and thumbs dancing around each other.

You set the tea by his side, note the callouses and scarring around his knuckles, the roughness of his skin. Your first thought is that he’s a construction worker, it would explain his size, the biceps that are as big as your head and straining against the stitches of his hoodie, the casual clothes, and the dark circles under his eyes that make it easy for anyone to guess that he doesn’t rest enough. But then he pulls his mask down and lets it rest under his chin as he takes a prolonged sip from his drink. You note the crookedly mended nose after a trauma so potent it made your eyes water at the thought of what pain he’d endured. There’s a gash running along his thin lips, multiple ones that stand out from the light stubble peppering the lower part of his face, deep ones, ones that you guessed had needed stitches and took forever to properly heal.

Now you’re not so sure he’s a construction worker.

“So what do you do for a living?” It rolls off your tongue before you can stop it. You laugh nervously and raise a hand in a soothing motion before he even has a chance to answer. “You don’t have to tell if you’re not comfortable. I’m just curious.”

The mug of tea pauses before his lips and he gives you a skeptical look.

“Military.”

“Oh.” You blurt out and awkwardly take a sip from your coffee, nearly choking at how hot it is.

And that’s precisely the answer Ghost expected. It was a big turnoff for many people when they learned his career path, mostly because the news only displayed the bad outcomes of his work and never the good. He might have saved this entire city a week ago from a bombing and nobody would know.

It came with the territory and he half expected you to think up some lousy explanation as to why you suddenly had to go.

But you aren’t like that at all because of course, you aren’t. Why would it be made easy for him to forget you and move on with his day when you could be sweet and open and give him more reason to burn you into the crevices of his conscience instead? Why would you make an excuse and leave when you could stay and kindle the embers of his humanity and make yourself space to be a permanent memory?

That’s just his typical luck.

“Must be tough.” You muse, absentmindedly taking a napkin and wiping off the milk and tea mustache staining his upper lip, as if tending to a messy toddler. It comes instinctively and you don’t fight it until your fingers are already being poked by his stubble. “But thanks for keeping us normal folk safe.” You give his wide-eyed stare a warm smile, and tilt your head slightly to one side.

You notice the subtle way in which he moves his chin towards your hand, apprehensive of you pulling away. As if he’s fighting his demons to lean into your touch, to rest his cheek against your palm and close his eyes because he hasn’t been offered softness in so long that he doesn’t remember what it feels like anymore.

You don’t mind that his large hand reaches to try and still your wrist, aching for more delicate touches, but stops before coming in contact with your flesh, pulled back by self-deprecating restrain. You almost want to encourage him, he looks visibly altered by your simple gesture, like a dog who’d been beaten all his life and was given a treat for the first time.

“What happened to you, old soldier?” You want to ask gently, pry a little while you cup his face and let him rest on the softness of your palm, close his eyes for a brief moment of respite.

Your heart aches for him.

But then you remember he’s a stranger and the moment shatters.

The smile vanishes from your face, the warmth dissipates and you flinch back.

“Sorry.” You rush to say and crumble up the napkin in your hand before tossing it on the table and trying to brush off the suffocating awkwardness. “You had something there.” You motion to your upper lip before drowning in more coffee, hoping it will ease the discomfort.

Just what the hell had you been thinking?

And he’s not far behind you on that note. The flicker of softness dies in his chocolate browns and the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth stills and dips into neutrality. The exhaustion returns to his features and his gaze flits away from you as he gathers himself back together.

“You should eat tha’ ‘fore it gets cold.”

Your eyes trail to where he’d nudged his chin and you see the butter croissant you’d purchased along with your drinks. You giggle, it turns into a light laugh when his head cocks to the side in confusion because he’s yet to realize you’d gotten it for him.

Because why would he? He’s a soldier, he gets bullets and grenades, not tea and croissants.

Poor creature, sweet scarred sufferer, with so much weight on his shoulders you couldn’t imagine bearing.

“It’s for you.” You push the small plate closer to him and flick your hand for him to dig in, treat himself on your behalf if he won’t do it on his own accord.

“What?” He reels back in his seat slightly at your words, sets down his drink and tenses up. There’s so much disbelief there that it’s almost comical.

It’s like he’d never been treated before.

Maybe he hadn’t been.

Jesus Christ, what if he actually hadn’t been?

“I mean it’s the least I can do after drenching you in coffee.” You say and press the lid of your cup to your lips, hiding the sympathetic smile from view lest he takes it as pity.

You didn’t pity the man, not in the slightest, but from the tired eyes to the worn clothes, sunk-in shoulders and need for anonymity, you guessed he’d not seen much kindness.

It was easily discernable that he wasn’t used to taking care of himself. Coming to a café to get a drink was probably the maximum self-indulgence he’d permit himself.

“Didn’t ‘ave to.” He grumbles out, voice hoarse and cutting off at the end.

“I wanted to.” You say and wave off his meager comment.

Gods, you wanted to bathe him in sugar and softness.

He tugs the plate before him hesitantly, looking over the croissant as if not trusting it or you, then he picks it up. A small bite at first, one of apprehension before the treat melts on his tongue and awakens his taste buds. He finishes it in two mouthfuls, barely chews and you’re inclined to ask if he wants another, you’re ready to feed him the whole bakery stand if he so wishes. But he declines, whether from embarrassment or mistrust, you didn’t know.

You just know he’s hungry.

You give him your name while he’s washing down the croissant with his leftover tea, just throw it out there in the hopes that he’ll give you his. And he does after heaving a sigh.

“Simon.”

“Pretty name.” You note, toss him a friendly smile that’s a silent invitation for him to say more. “Nice to meet you then, Simon.”

But your friendliness doesn’t breach his defenses a second time. He eyes you with an unreadable expression, watches you slurp your coffee while you’re left to wonder if your compliment had been a mistake.

You might have been coming off as too friendly, trying to suck up to him after ruining his top and that was the reason why you were so nice. Or maybe he thought that there was a hidden agenda behind your acts, that you’d want something in return for your kindness and that’s why he kept his guard up.

Action without a need for reciprocation didn’t exist in his world. Nobody was stupidly selfless enough to just give and not want anything in return. But you were right there, proving him wrong and he wasn’t sure that fact was a fact anymore.

Throughout his internal debate, you’re doing your best to remain casual but it’s difficult with those dark orbs boring into your soul. It’s even more difficult when the silence settles, so you decide to ramble and keep the spirits up until he feels comfortable enough to join.

It might come off as annoying, but you’re sure he’ll stop you if you’re becoming too much to handle.

You tell him about your job, a brief summary of how rough your week had been that that was the reason why you’d come here this morning to treat yourself. You tell him you’re clumsier than you’d like to admit, that you can’t imagine drinking tea first thing in the morning. You tell him that you’d love to have a pet one day, but your landlord doesn’t permit any, ask him if he has pets or would want any. Then you ask if he’s more a cat or a dog person.

And throughout the entire time, he’s staring at you with this undigestible look and you have no idea what to make of it.

The caffeine pumping in your veins helps keep your monologue going until finally he speaks up.

“Bothering you?”

“What?” You spit out, cease your rambling and scrunch your brows at him in confusion.

“The face.” He says, motioning towards his partly obscured face like it’s so obvious. “Ain’t a pretty mug to look at.”

You blink at him silently, at a loss for words at his not-so-kind statement. Your mouth parts, struggling to form a coherent reply because you’re absolutely thunderstruck that he thinks so lowly of you as to believe you’d be affected by such a thing.

Then again, he doesn’t know you, and neither do you him.

But the fact that he’s polite enough to ask while already anticipating the answer tells you that he might have had this conversation one too many times already. Or maybe he hadn’t, maybe the mean comments and ugly remarks were all in his head and he hid his face to stifle those rather than hide from other people.

You don’t know which alternative is sadder.

“No! Not at all.” You say slowly, accenting every word that comes out of your mouth, with eyes trained on his and refusing to blink in case you missed anything. “You’re handsome, really.” You dare to reach out for him and rest your hand atop his, gentle and ready to pull back in case his features portrayed any hint of discomfort with your actions. “Plus your scars mean you put yourself before me to keep me safe, right? Can’t judge you for that.”

Now he’s the one left speechless.

Wordlessly, he twists his wrist, rolls his hand around and slowly unclenches his fingers to let yours through. And your hand is so soft and warm when it slips over his mauled palm, even the skin is a stark contrast because yours is so smooth, spotless, perfect, compared to his.

He runs his large thumb over your knuckles, relishes the tingly feeling it gives him, watches intently because he’s sure that as soon as his eyes move to somewhere else, you’ll vanish and it’ll all be over. Your fingers fall against his wrist where his pulse leisurely beats, only quickening when you shift in your seat because he thinks you’ll pull away.

Manicured nails trace over the scars poking from beneath the sleeve of his hoodie and he shivers, the hairs on his arms rising. He lets you tug the sleeve back, wanting to know how far the violent marks go. Soon enough black and grey ink peeks from under the fabric and a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips at how delighted you seem.

“Oh, I love tattoos…” You hum while tracing the tips of your fingers over it.

“Got any?” He asks absentmindedly, almost mechanically as all his attention is focused on the little hand exploring his own.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out.” You giggle, eyes closing briefly in delight as you bask in the fuzzy atmosphere.

He bites his tongue at that, decides now isn’t the time for flirty remarks, bids you too esteemed to fall for a sleazy comeback that might result in him naked in your bed. No, you were made to be courted, won over with effort and flowers and all the things he hasn’t bothered with in the past.

You were the type of woman that he avoided for fear of messing things up, someone who deserved better than him and he wasn’t ashamed of admitting that. Yet here you were, practically thrust in his arms by chance.

“Do you want another tea?” You ask because his drink is gone and what’s left at the bottom of your cup is two sips at most. And you don’t end this to end, you don’t want him to leave just yet.

“I’m good.” He answers and retracts his arm before standing. “Gonna ‘ave a smoke outside. Cheers for the tea.”

It’s not a goodbye, but it still makes your heart ache and your mind switches to turbo mode to try and think of something.

Your next question doesn’t come from a place of desire or lust. You’ve no intent of trying to get the battered soldier into your bed and use him for selfish pleasure. You’d never let yourself be so cruel.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

You ask because to you, he’s a stray in need of a home, someone to take care of him a little and nurse him back into a better shape before his next big military mission. It’s naïve, stupid really, to think a grown man such as himself can’t take care of himself.

But the way he looks tells you a sad story and you’d spoken before thinking. Now you’re left with a hot face and a fluttering stomach as he stares at you over his shoulder with something akin to surprise.

“I mean…for lunch, sometime. My treat of course.” You say next, trying to salvage the moment before it got too awkward and you were forced to go to the toilets and hyperventilate while beating yourself up internally. “You don’t have to – ”

“ – Yeah.”

And you swear you saw his eyes squint with a smile hidden somewhere behind the bulk of his shoulder.

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[xyras-maze]

Missionary with your fav military man, but his dog tags keep tapping you in the face, causing you to giggle. He scoffs and nips at you playfully before taking the chain in his teeth and thrusting even harder, fucking you up the bed in punishment

[xyras-maze]

Ghost and Gaz are cat people, Price and Soap are dog people

It's the only right opinion and I don't take criticism, sorry not sorry <3

[xyras-maze]

SHOWERED IN HIS LOVE

The water is warm, cascading down your shoulders in slow, steady streams, but it doesn’t quite reach the cold sinking deep into your bones. The weight in your chest is still there, the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

You sit in the tub, knees pulled to your chest, watching the ripples in the water with a distant gaze. The world feels heavy, everything muffled like you’re underwater even though you’re not.

Simon kneels beside the tub, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his large hands moving with careful purpose as he pours a fresh cup of warm water over your back. He hasn’t said much—not in the way most people do—but his presence speaks louder than words ever could. He’s been here all day, guiding you through the motions, helping you where you let him.

“You’re doin’ good, love,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble, as if speaking any louder might shatter something fragile.

You don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either, and that’s enough for him. He grabs a washcloth, lathers it with soap, and starts trailing it over your skin with deliberate gentleness. His touch is light, slow, making sure not to press too hard. He washes your arms, your shoulders, down to your legs, taking his time as if this is the most important thing in the world.

When he reaches for the shampoo, you sigh. “I can do it.”

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment, then hands you the bottle without a fight. “Alright.”

The second you start scrubbing, your fingers are too rough, nails scraping against your scalp without care. You just want it over with. But before you can rinse, Simon’s hands are in your hair, easing yours away.

“Easy,” he says softly, voice patient. His fingers replace yours, massaging the shampoo in slow, careful circles. “S’not a race, sweetheart.”

You swallow hard, feeling your chest tighten for a different reason now. He works through your hair with so much care, as if making sure every movement reminds you that you are loved, that you are here. His thumbs press soothingly at your temples, fingers gliding through the strands, careful not to tug too hard.

“There we go,” he breathes. He tilts your chin up slightly, letting the water rinse the suds away. “That’s it.”

His knuckles brush against your cheek, wiping away the stray droplets clinging to your skin. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek.

“Proud of you,” he murmurs. “My good girl.”

Your throat tightens, and you suddenly don’t know what to do with your hands. He must notice, because he takes one of them in his, squeezing gently before pressing his lips to your fingers.

By the time he’s wrapping you in a thick towel, his arms coming around you, the weight in your chest feels just a little lighter. Maybe you’re not okay yet, not fully. But Simon’s here, holding you close, whispering quiet praise into your skin like a prayer, and for now, that’s enough.