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cxlamarisalxmi · 4 months

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how you can help palestine

*i regularly update this post with any new info i find so please always reblog the original post*

Donations

donations currently reaching gaza:

help buy e-sims for people in gaza (PLEASE HELP CONNECT GAZANS TO THE WORLD. if you would like to stay updated, please follow @/Mirna_elhelbawi on twitter)

donate to get food packages to gaza - care for gaza

support palestinians: buy a keffiyeh from the last and only factory in palestine - hirbawi

donate to ahmed (@/90-ghost on tumblr) (he is born, raised and based in gaza. please help him reach his goal of $25K to get his family to safety across the rafah border into egypt. as of right now… it’s 5K per person to evacuate gaza)

secondary donations:

palestine children's relief fund

palestine red crescent society

save palestine - islamic relief canada

send medical supplies to gaza - palestinian american medical association

click to donate - arab.org

donate for the recovery of hisham awartani - gofundme

one of the three palestinian students shot by a racist in vermont for wearing kufiyas and speaking arabic. hisham’s injuries have left him paralysed from below the chest.

help bring down israel's weapon trade - palaction

NOTE: journalists based in gaza are saying a demand for ceasefire is the priority as not all donations are reaching gazans (focus on the donations that are directly reaching gaza). so please contact your local MPs every single day demanding as such. palestine need a permanent ceasefire.

Petitions

petition to investigate war crimes committed by israeli military

demand ceasefire - amnesty.org

open call for immediate ceasefire

american government call for immediate ceasefire

american government to stop funding israeli military

ceasefire and increase humanitarian assistance - oxfam au

petition to get canva to address their pro-israel stance

invoke the genocide convention to call for ceasefire in gaza - world beyond war

location specific petitions

gaza call for ceasefire - oxfam (UK)

end israeli occupation - parliament uk (UK)

email your MP - medical aid for palestine (UK)

protect gaza civilians - islamic relief (UK)

stop fuelling genocide - action network (USA)

@ biden: call for ceasefire now - move on (USA)

ceasefirenow.com - jewishvoiceofpeace (USA)

call congress and demand a ceasefire - uscpr (USA - they provide a script of what you should say, so don't worry about it)

note: you can call everyday. they tally the number of calls per issue. so more calls = higher chance for them to take action. p.s. you mainly go to voicemail so don’t worry about phone call anxiety. fight through it just this once please.

australia call on israel to stop attacking palestinians - apan (AUS)

immediate ceasefire and increase in humanitarian aid in gaza - actionaid (AUS)

email your MPs - stand with palestine (AUS)

sign to send letter to MP for ceasefire - nccm (CANADA)

ceasefire now! - ijv (CANADA)

ceasefire and allow aid to enter gaza - oxfam (CANADA)

call on your local mayor and council to demand ceasefire - LeadNow (CANADA)

cessez-le-feu et un couloir humanitaire - le mouvement (FRANCE)

écrivez aux député-es et sénateurs-trices - association france palestine solidarité (FRANCE)

write to your député - assemblée nationale (FRANCE)

skydda civilbefolkningen i gaza! - mittskifte (SWEDEN)

singaporeans call for immediate ceasefire (SIN)

contact your elected reps and demand a ceasefire (GERMANY)

write to the EU demanding a ceasefire (EUROPE)

template of letters you can send (EU)

guide on how to contact your MPs in EU

p.s. if the template is outdated, just use it as a guide and add a few sentences here and there that reflect the current situation. i can’t find any recent templates so :/ at least this is something

multiple actions you can take to help palestine - plant een olifbloom (NETHERLANDS)

includes: links for donations, emails to MP, emails to media, links to petitions and demonstrations

den haag, maak nú werk van vrede in israël/Palestina - the right forum (NETHERLANDS)

māori call for palestine - ourActionStation (NZ)

special visa for palestinians in gaza with family in NZ - NZ parliament/pāremata aotearoa (NZ)

deem israeli actions as war crimes - NZ parliament/pāremata aotearoa (NZ)

basta ao genocídio em Gaza! - awaaz (BRAZIL)

globo e grande mídia, parem de desumanizar civis palestinos - the intercept (BRAZIL)

Campaigns

friends of al-aqsa

❥ UK-specific

urge your MP to speak up for palestine

hands off al-aqsa

stop administrative detention

petition for UK to stop arming israel

❥ International

boycott puma — email them to end their partnership with israel

boycott coca-cola

palestine action

join the resistance

islamic relief canada

urge your MP to rally for ceasefire

decolonise palestine

poster campaign to raise awareness on the war crimes being committed against palestinians | (very very important please share + read the sources provided)

text/call campaign for people living in USA

text CEASEFIRE @ 51905 to call for a ceasefire

text RESIST @ 50409 to send a letter to your representatives to pass HR3103–a bill that prohibits tax dollars from going to israel

download 5Calls app to contact members of your congress | (more info)

fax campaign for people in the USA

go on this website to send 5 free faxes per day

here’s a link to a pre-written fax copy you can download to send (the first link on the linktree)

here’s a video that explains how to fax your senator (it’s very easy and all you need is a valid email address)

BDS movement

get involved in boycotting companies associated with israel

please let me know if you have any more links. i will add them in. and please reblog the original post!!

UPCOMING PROTESTS

PALESTINIAN LITERATURE READING LIST

#free palestine #palestine #humanitarian crisis #stop israel #free gaza #call for ceasefire

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cxlamarisalxmi · 4 months

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I’ve taken a few edibles and am in the clouds right now and scrolling through conspiracy theories on TikTok.. like I’m deep in that side of it and the history of our world and the answers that continue to evade us is makin’ me trip mad balls.

#just my thoughts idk #the dyatlov pass incident is so fucking weird #and flight mh370 #the real life men in black #missing 411?!#like the fact that people just randomly vanish seemingly into thin air out of nowhere?!#the pyramids #ik there’s scientific fact that can debunk some theories regarding the pyramids it’s more what in those tombs that interest me #but also i’m a slut for egyptian mythology and history so yk potato tomato

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cxlamarisalxmi · 5 months

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Utterly devastated by the news of Andre Braugher’s passing, B99 has been my comfort show since 2014 and Captain Holt especially was a character I’d been drawn to because of personal traumas and issues. I’m heartbroken by the loss of another great soul whom touched the lives of many. I hope his family and friends are well and healthy and I hope he found peace.

Rest In Power.

#andre braugher #b99

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cxlamarisalxmi · 6 months

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He tweeted he was “scared” as if he isn’t living in America, thousands of miles away from the conflict, and posted on his Instagram story promoting stickers saying; ‘Zionism is sexy’, and ‘Hamas is ISIS’, hope that helps

Because of course a privileged, white man living in America would be so ignorant and detached. Of course you can be as Islamophobic and Zionistic as you want because you aren’t going to suffer the repercussions and consequences for it. Especially in a country that would fund the genocide of indigenous people.

Noah Schnapp is so out of touch that it’s extremely pathetic and so embarrassing.

#freepalastine🇵🇸#noah schnapp #he’s still a fucking idiot

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cxlamarisalxmi · 6 months

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Noah Schnapp is so out of touch that it’s extremely pathetic and so embarrassing.

#freepalastine🇵🇸#noah schnapp #he’s a fucking idiot #and it’s so frustrating that he won’t be held accountable for this #nations are waking up and people WILL remember #everyone will remember your take on this conflict #so fuck you kid

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cxlamarisalxmi · 6 months

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— from GH0ULBLOOD on twitter

#the band ghost #ghost bc #nameless ghouls #what a slutty waist #fucking whore #love him so much tho

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cxlamarisalxmi · 6 months

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I’m glad that our president is sending billions of our tax dollars to support genocide but refuses to lower inflation, make living costs as a young adult realistic, and offer free healthcare.

— said fucking no one ever

#freepalastine🇵🇸#america is a fucking joke on god it is #this life can’t be real #old heads in places of power impoverishing young adults need to be put down #working class americans suffer through the worst work weeks of their lives #and then as a secondary spit in the fucking face get that half of their paycheck sent to aid genocide of thousands of innocent people

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cxlamarisalxmi · 6 months

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To stand with Palestine is to stand with humanity. 🇵🇸

As an indigenous person myself I have not been able to idly stand by and watch in silence as this continues. I encourage you all to do what you can to help. I will speak out and I will use my rights to fight for what I believe is right. I will be one of the many voices for Palestine.

Sign petitions, donate if you can, speak about it to anyone and everyone, join protests if you are able and if it is safe for you, call your representatives. Anything. You have a voice and you can help.

#FREEPALESTINE 🇵🇸

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cxlamarisalxmi · 6 months

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𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑳 𝑶𝑭 𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯 [ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

[ɴᴏᴛ ᴍʏ ɢɪꜰ - ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛs ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ]

[𝐂𝐎𝐃/𝐀𝐍𝐏𝐔!𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑]

➤ 𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠: 𝖦𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇－ 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾

➤ 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦: 𝖥𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗆𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝖢𝖮𝖣 𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖠𝗇𝗎𝖻𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 <𝟥

➤ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥’𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘: 𝖧𝖤𝖫𝖫𝖮! 𝖬𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌! 𝖨’𝗆 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗒 ‘𝖠𝗇𝗉𝗎’ 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌－ 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖢𝖮𝖣 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗂𝗑𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗌𝗈 𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽! <3

－

[ᴜɴᴇᴅɪᴛᴇᴅ]

[Y/Name] was no stranger to the deaths that plagued the military. Any branch and any squadron— the career was laced with it. And due to their duties they had to always be there for every one of them. Every single one.

And every single one continued to chip away at the strong and resilient mental fortitudes they had built to keep themselves from falling. From breaking.

Young men and women, a lot of them no older than at least 25. All of them had given [Y/Name] looks, regarding them with pain, sometimes anger.. even happiness in a few particularly unpleasant moments. In those cases they’d only wished those young adults had gotten the help they needed before it had been too late.

Older men and women that in a fit of despair and longing to be part of the living realm once more ask the reaper one of two things.

Did I make a difference? Did I matter?

And the Anubis avatar would always respond with reassurances and promises of comfort. Trying their best to make those aching souls of fallen soldiers pass to a better and more peaceful world.

You made a difference where it mattered. Of course you did— you still do. Look at all those who mourn you, look at all the success that follows your courage. Look at the change you fought so hard for.

It was the most they could offer to those souls, the best they could do at comforting someone who’d just passed on. Someone who was looking at their own body like an astral projection— longing to be settled within it once again. And mourning the fact they could not.

Yes, young [Y/Name] had long since built a thick wall surrounding their weakened heart and soul. To protect themself from the profound pain that transcends beyond their reach whenever they’re tasked with freeing a soldier’s soul from it’s mortal bonds.

Far too compassionate to greet the distressed and heartbroken souls with cold indifference and also far too broken themself to mourn for too long if at all.

A vicious cycle.

Regardless, this shouldn’t have been any different.

“Simon! Stay with me Si, goddammit!”

And yet—

“C’mon Ghost! Don’t die on us!”

—this was absolutely different.

Three men— kneeled down to cradle close a corpse. The fourth man of this task force. An exemplary team of elites fallen to their knees, begging for their brother to reawaken. To breathe a wheeze of pain, to cough as blood crawled up his throat— each one indicative of pain and discomfort but at least it would mean he was alive.

[Y/Name] could feel it. The profound hurt of heavy weighted trauma and the ache of deeply buried and suppressed memories and feelings. They felt the masked man’s pain, like titanium on their bones and swords in their heart.

It was a pain that was very muted, quiet and withheld in the very back of his mind. Kept bound and locked tight behind steel bars and barbed wire barriers. Like a monster of some kind— this man was handling his pain like a trained professional would handle a dangerous animal.

Aware of its presence, aware of the dangerous potential it had of overpowering him and devouring him whole. Aware that if he did not keep it locked up tight that it would eat away at him until he was a hollow shell of himself.

[Y/Name] could tell that he relatively already was, having endured so much damage to his psyche.. to his heart and his soul.

And within the confines of a defended part of his heart they found something interesting, there was vulnerability there. Vulnerability that was tainted with sorrow and pain. With fear.

[Y/Name] figured that this man must’ve built this masked persona to protect and shelter that vulnerability. To keep it safe no matter what, refusing to let it burn out just like the rest of his feelings and emotions— useless and unnecessary things that he let wither to nothing.

Was that why it felt different? Of course, they have encountered their fair share of broken men and women who enlist to be active duty. And they’ve met their fair share of soldiers that have been hurting for a very long time but somehow found the strength to keep going. This man was different, so drastically different from any they’ve met before. And as such, they decided on the calmest and softest approach they were capable of.

You have suffered long enough.

[Y/Name] stepped forward, there was an abrupt whooshing sound behind them followed by a du clink as their Anubis appeared. Only visible to his avatar, and his avatar only visible to the spirits that have passed on. A cloaking technique Anubis had taught them. So they could do their duties without the interference of any mortals that happened to be nearby when they released the souls of the dead.

“Proceed with understanding and the compassionate heart I know you for my little jackal. For this man has suffered more than a soul ever should.”

The avatar didn’t answer, not verbally nor with a tick of their head. Simply nearing the group of men and reaching down to the one on the ground. Cradled close to the chest of the one with a silly mohawk. The man hurting and sorrowful as he held his beloved friend in his arms. Broken and gone.

[Y/Name] swallowed thickly to ignore the stagnant air of despair and grief that punctured through their defenses. Not quite dense enough to destroy their walls but profound enough to give them a little ache in their chests. Reasonably sympathetic— sympathy that was quick to evolve to empathy as they didn’t bother to withhold the pained grimace on their face.

“You are released,” they cited. Dutifully. Monotonously as they gripped the spirit’s hand. Pulling him free from his mortal body with a tug and heave. When they did— the men on the ground surrounding him only became more distressed. Mohawk especially, considering he was the one holding the masked man so close. So tenderly.

He must’ve felt when the man had passed on, there’s no way he hadn’t. And the avatar sympathized once again on his pain, it must not be easy feeling the once living, breathing body in your arms go still. Go cold.

They couldn’t have imagined it was fun experiencing that, and they were understanding of the man’s begging. Of his cries of denial.

But they didn’t dwell for long— they had a job to do.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

They still had their hand clasped in the masked man’s and he gripped them harder when he had gained enough sense to start asking things. He had a million questions and even more conclusions— of that, [Y/Name] was sure. And they would be happy to answer them all, but it was always best to ease them into the truth of what had occurred—

“Is— is that me?”

—or not.

[Y/Name] winced, they used the grip on his hand to squeeze gently. It drew his attention back to them and there was an obvious stitch in his brow, furrowed i’m confused frustration as he regarded them. They softly exhaled through their nose.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

He regarded you for a dull moment, his expression neutral and withheld— strong in his defiance to give anything away. Why it mattered, you did not know.

But then his look changed, like the flick of a switch his eyes were suddenly filled with mournful regret and reluctance. Refusal to accept what he was seeing, what has occurred.

“No, no I can’t— I can’t die.. they need me.”

[Y/Name] felt a twist in their stomach, an itch in their chest that they couldn’t quite scratch. They realized but a second later that they felt sorry for the poor guy, the way he looked broken and beat down. They had to admit they admired his loyalty— defiant in the face of a reaper in hopes of finding his way back to his body. To be reunited with the family he was leaving behind.

“You needn’t worry about them,” [Y/Name] soothed, still holding his gloved hand in their own they squeezed it reassuringly and he found his attention back to them once more. “They’ll be alright.”

“But.. Makarov—”

“They will handle it.”

[Y/Name] watched as he swallowed thickly, a subtle twitch in his brow to display his discomfort without saying it outright. They could tell by the way his eyes fell, the look held within those rich brown irises that he was fighting himself.

Simon wasn’t even sure why he was so reluctant to follow his reaper to the afterlife, he’d known he would die on the battlefield since the very beginning. It was not a new concept to him and it was not something he was afraid of. But still, he felt.. hesitant to leave his team behind. Was it that ever-going loyalty and sacrificial nature he had gained as a Lieutenant? Or did these men really mean that much to him? He hoped it was the former— too afraid of his feelings to admit that in reality it was most likely the latter.

The thing is; he hadn’t really expected to be met with a reaper in the first place. He spent his long, and quite frankly rather miserable existence, hoping death was what he had craved his whole life. Peace. Peace and rest.

If he had a reaper did that mean they were to guide him to that? Lead him to the very thing he had yearned so achingly for since that miserable Christmas so many years ago?

He shouldn’t be reluctant to go, he shouldn’t feel remorse for being selfish for once in his entire life. This is something he wanted.. this is what he was owed.

“Okay… I’m— I’m ready.”

[Y/Name] smiled softly at him and nodded minutely. Then, with the grip they had on his gloved hand, turned and walked away from the scene.

Simon didn’t have any choice but to follow, swallowing thickly once again to push down the ache that had crawled up his throat. He followed the reaper by hand as they walked but he kept his eyes on his teammates— on his corpse as they guided him away from his death.

He felt a sudden ache at the way Soap— Johnny was holding him so close. So lovingly. And as he got further and further away, as their silhouettes slowly became more and more distorted and faded he had only a few words to utter passed his lips. “Forgive me.”

Simon, in some small part of his heart, felt like he was doing the wrong thing. He was in the wrong for choosing to pursue the peace he craved over selflessly giving it up in order to live on. He’d still be unhappy sure, but his team would still have him. He’d be there to watch their backs, offer a shoulder.. be their brother.

He came to the realization that even if he did choose to be selfless— the reaper wouldn’t have granted him a second chance at life anyway.

“Was I to die no matter what? You couldn’t have offered me my life?”

The teenager he was addressing looked at him with a tight expression on their face, unbeknownst to him, this is something a lot of people asked them. People who were not done with their lives, people who begged them for a second chance— to see things beyond their reach, to experience the incredible wonders the world had to offer them. [Y/Name] had no shame in admitting they felt bad about denying them every time.

As the avatar to Anubis they would only release and guide the souls of those who’ve passed. They only encountered those truly dead.. not those who have close calls.

“Yes you were, I could not offer you more time as you do not have any.”

At the confused furrow of his brows they explained further.

“Everyone that is born has a certain stretch of time attached to them, it is essentially a clock on their life. I’m able to see these numbers in accordance with my duties but they aren’t visible to anybody else.”

“And mine—” He trailed off expectantly.

“Reached zero.” They filled.

Simon went silent after that, understanding of his situation and accepting of the fact nothing could’ve been done to change the outcome. He was dead.

In his silence he took the time to gather his surroundings, everything was pure white. Starkly contrasting to his and his reaper’s dark gear. For a brief moment he thought he was in heaven.. but he quickly shot that idea down. There was no way a man like him could ever get into heaven, not with the war crimes tagged to his person and not with all the morally wrong things he’s done in his career.

The atmosphere of the environment still bewildered him, and it confused him enough to want to ask his reaper about it. The reaper whom still hadn’t let go of his hand, of course he wasn’t naive and childish enough to assume it was because they thought he needed the comfort. It was probably the only way they could move his soul to the Afterlife. If he lost physical contact with them he had the inkling of an idea that he’d be trapped here in this blindly white landscape. Isolated and alone.

Still, he felt grounded as he held their hand. And he had no qualms against the action, their touch was comforting and warm against his palm. And he felt at ease as they guided him along.

The question in the back of his remained though, and he willed it passed his lips with an air of muted confusion.

“Where are we?”

“Hm, some like to refer to it as ‘Purgatory’— the path between worlds. The bridge to destinations.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Essentially.”

Their walk continued on in silence once again, and the young teenager had the mind to only speak when spoken to first. Allowing the masked man to quell in his acceptance and smiled when they could feel the muted excitement he held beneath the surface.

They hoped he would enjoy wherever it was they were bringing him to, see, [Y/Name] didn’t usually get to see the souls’ chosen afterlife. Choosing to step back after releasing them and allowing them the freedom they deserved to build their perfect paradise where they could find their eternal happiness.

But again.. this man was different. He was so deeply broken that the Anubis avatar felt somewhat obligated to guide him to his restful peace themself. So they did.

Seconds later he spoke up once more, and [Y/Name] could feel the twitch in his chest, tightly wound and moving uncomfortably beneath his skin.

“I’m— …afraid.” He admitted in a bout of courageous honesty. Effectively breaking the silence between them with his words. They recalled Anubis’ words to them, and approached him as gently as they could.

“Do not be afraid, there’s no more to fear in death than in the changing of the seasons.”

Simon huffed at that, he didn’t want to think there was anything to be feared in the afterlife. But now that he was face-to-face with his reaper he wasn’t so sure. The Angel of Death had come for him, and he did not know where they were taking him.

He hoped —in a moment of vulnerability— that it was somewhere nice… somewhere quiet. Where he could finally rest and be at peace away from a world of trial and tribulation. Away from a world that had spat on him at every turn, cruel and inhumane was the life he suffered through. Now, he only hoped for peace. That’s all he could ask for.

The change was slow, sluggish as it claimed the white landscape surround him. Colors began to appear, slowly ever so slowly as they walked the world around him changed before his very eyes. And suddenly they weren’t in Purgatory anymore— but standing before a cabin surrounded by forest. It was in this environment when the reaper finally released his hand in favor of crossing their arms over their chest.

“This is the Afterlife?” Simon queried, he wasn’t entirely sure of his surroundings. They were oddly.. homely. Comfortable.

The darkness the night sky overcasted the landscape with was cozy and peaceful. Star shining bright above, stamped into the night sky as dazzling speckles across a spanning space of deep blue and golden clusters of constellations.

The surrounding forest was alive with the background chirping of crickets. Melodically coupled well with the sounds of nocturnal animals croaking and howling, filling the night air with crackled bursts of life. An owl call twists Simon’s head to the woods he and his reaper stood before, the raptor calls again and a sense of serenity abruptly erupts within his chest. Bright and delightfully warm, alight in his chest and settling in his stomach.

But the warmest and most homely piece of this concocted paradise was the small cottage in front of him. Two-stories tall and wide enough to be a home but not too wide it’s size is overwhelmingly obnoxious. There was a wrap-around porch complete with a swinging bench swaying in the soft breeze. The light coming from within was pale and bathed the outside plants and shrubbery at the base of the wooden cottage in a gorgeous, golden glow. Somebody was home— there was smoke coming from the chimney. White fog curling as it flowed out through the gap at the top.

Simon felt a twinge of jealousy disturb that warmth he’d previously felt, and he turned to the reaper at his side slightly peeved they’d bring him here. Show him something he could not ever have before finally delivering him to whatever hell was awaiting him… the hell he knew that he deserved.

“Why did you bring me here?”

[Y/Name] elected to ignore the slight snarl in his tone, choosing instead to focus more on the way his voice lilted with misery and confusion. The soft notes of despondency in his voice as he addressed them. The crestfallen gleam in his eye that glinted at them. “This is the Afterlife.”

Simon’s brow twitched, the previous twitch of jealous frustration now more bubbled into confusion as he regarded them with a furrowed brow.

“What?”

“The Afterlife is however you imagine it to be, I do things this way so wayward souls —lost and hurt— can finally be at peace. Finally find the happiness that evaded them so long in their time being alive.” They explained, all with a soft and understanding look on their face. Compassionate and careful as they looked at him.

“This is my—”

“This is yours.”

Simon was quick to face the small cottage once more, his heart was racing as it beat thunderous in his ears. A childish excitement he hadn’t felt since he was a little boy warming his chest once again. It was when he saw shadows and silhouettes moving through the house that he felt the warmth burst inside. Electrifying him as it buzzed beneath his skin.

He didn’t understand the fundamentals of this being dead thing— surely he shouldn’t be able to feel such things as a wandering soul right?

“It is normal to feel such things.”

And there goes his reaper again, reading him so drastically easy and careful that he could’ve sworn they were inside his head. Maybe they were.. again, he was new to this whole ‘being dead’ thing.

“You may not understand it, and it may not make much sense to you if at all. But your soul is the truest and purest part of you, it’s where your feelings are born and where your vulnerability is kept sheltered and safe. Of course you’d feel your feelings, wether it be excitement or pain.”

For a kid, they’re awfully mature. And that was something he acknowledged silently. He didn’t know when he had turned to face them during their tangent but he found himself staring at the side of their face. He blinked when they turned to look at him, holding strong eye contact and regarding him gently once again.

“Go on Simon,” they nodded their head to the cottage with an encouraging smile. “They’re all waiting for you.”

“Waiting—”

“Just go.”

Simon wasn’t sure. Surely, a reaper —supernatural being tasked with guiding and guarding lost souls— wouldn’t bring him to a place where he would only find more suffering right? He didn’t expect it out of this particular reaper either, regardless of the age they appeared to be they seemed so understanding and kind.

So he pushed down his reluctance and anxiety at approaching the cabin and willed forth the courage and bravery he found in being a soldier instead. Squaring his shoulders and marching down the stone path straight up to the front door.

[Y/Name] watched carefully as he paused at the bottom of the steps and turned back to face them. They gave him a single encouraging nod, and they watched as he took a deep breath before turning to face the front door again. Taking two long strides up the stairs and two more steps to reach the front door.

Again, the avatar watched as he hesitated before he raised his hand and knocked three times on the door.

Simon was so wholly unprepared for the person that answered the door. Seeing her face again, so beautiful and loving as she looked at him in utter shock. A wave of emotion suddenly upturned him, and the tears welling up in her eyes as she reached up to gently cup his face were enough to destroy his dam. Tears of his own aching behind the backs of his eyes as they were drawn forward before streaming down his cheeks in thick rivulets.

“Si?”

“Mom.”

[Y/Name] couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of their lips as they watched the reunion unfold. A traumatized and deeply hurt man reverting back to a little boy in the arms of his mother. This is what gave their job purpose and meaning, this was what they had stuck around as Anubis’ avatar for so long for. This.

“Well done, my little jackal.”

And they were gone, back to the real world with their God and back to the duty of helping others find their peace as they had done for Simon.

Simon who turned back to the forest to thank the reaper that brought him here only to rear back when he saw they were no longer there.

“What is it?”

He exhaled quietly at the disappointment he felt at his reaper’s disappearance but didn’t push it past the minor feeling in his chest. A feeling that was overwhelmed by the feeling of joy, happy finally—

“Nothing Ma.”

“Come inside, everyone will be so happy to see you.”

And Simon followed without fight, no longer reluctant to be here so long as this is the Afterlife that awaited him. Still, mentally he offered his gratitude and hoped somewhere, wherever the reaper was due next.. they could feel it.

Thank you.

You’re welcome Simon.

—

➤ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥’𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘: 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖨 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖨’𝗆 𝖺��𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗒－ 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽! 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 ‘𝖠𝗇𝗉𝗎’ 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾! 𝖨𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗈

#gn!reader #platonic!reader #teen!reader #callofduty #codmw2

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cxlamarisalxmi · 7 months

Note

can you do a ghost version of the Memories of Youth fic you did for price please?

Harvest Storms

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Daughter!Reader

SYNOPSIS: In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, emotionally distant father/Simon, injuries, arguments, mentions of Simon's past, hurt/comfort, fluff near the end, etc.

A/N: I know this might be controversial but I really don't see Simon wanting kids so I tried to keep this realistic but also cute, lmao. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon admitted that having a kid was never on his to-do list, and it wasn’t only his job that caused that. In fact, at any point in his life, the thought alone terrified him.

His icy eyes spaced out as the man unstrapped his combat vest in the on-base armory, hucking it over his head with a tiny grunt. Muscles ached; wounds burned.

He’d known having that one-night stand wasn’t right—he should have just stuck to his perfected solitude of dark rooms and middle-of-the-night workouts. But there was only so much you could do before instinct overcame any sort of common sense; add a few drinks into the mix and the concoction had glazed over his mind like a honey-laced dream.

And then nine months later a single text. A photo attachment.

“She’s yours.” His child. His daughter. Simon had a daughter.

It had taken weeks of self-isolation to figure out what to do. There were moments of very real panic—bone-deep worry and hatred. He couldn’t be a father and still be the Ghost that he was now, but there wasn’t a way to reverse his already damaged psyche. Home in Manchester didn’t feel like a real place anymore; home was a gun in his hands and his mask over his face. Slumping bodies and adrenaline-blown pupils. The high he got out of killing could never be topped by the joys of having a family he didn’t want.

But then he remembered his own father and the guilt that had struck him at that moment left Simon physically sick. Head pounding and bile lacing his tongue as he retched over a toilet. It would have been easier to just promise money, and give over some of what he earned to give you a future. He could distance himself but still be a shadow on the wall if it all went south.

Yes, it could have been easy.

Until your mother up and disappeared; leaving you all alone. There was no way in hell he could leave you in foster care. The stories he’d heard…

Simon’s gloved hands flex, joints cracking, before he checks the watch on his wrist with slow-blinking eyes. He needed to be home in two hours.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” A groan escapes, rolling his shoulders twice before grasping at his thigh holster—slipping out the X12 to place it down with a small thump of black metal.

These movements were entirely routine and soon there was a neat line of multiple knives, the pistol, an automatic rifle, frag grenades, med pack, rope, and anything else that Ghost could have even the slightest possibility of needing in a tight spot. Through it all, the mask stayed; icy eyes behind the spread of black face paint numb.

It’s one hour later that he’s done cleaning and putting everything away with tired fingers. Feet shuffle before he’s exiting the armory all together, snatching the large duffle bag near the double doors; a small grunt plays out of his chest. The strap is dragged over his head when Soap passes him in the base’s hallway.

All Simon could do is hold back a groan as a headache already begins to form.

“Lt.” The Scot calls, smile pulling his lips up, “off to go hide in back-alleys, then?”

“Jesus, Johnny, shut the fuck up already.” Ghost grumbles out, hands slipping into his pockets as he continues off down the hallway. Behind him, the mohawked Sergeant belts out a laugh before disappearing into the armory Simon had just vacated.

“Copy and check, Sir!” Sarcasm bleeds out and makes icy eyes fall half-closed with subdued annoyance.

The large phantom continues on until he exits the base and digs his keys out of his pockets—finding his car in the underground parking garage exactly where he had left it two months prior. As if on autopilot, he shuffles open the door and tosses his bag in the back before sitting in the front seat and twisting the ignition.

Reaching into the glove compartment, Simon pulls out a clean balaclava and holds it loosely—his opposite hand slipping up to the skeletal mask of his head and feeling the fibers on his fingertips. Replacing it swiftly, the clean fabric slips over his face with a stiff movement of his arm. Seconds later, his foot presses into the gas.

There are no words spoken, no comments under breath, just a silence that seems to stem from some underlying anxiety completely foreign to Simon on the field. Going home always made him nervous. A soul-digging kind of hesitation.

It takes him the rest of that last hour to drive home—a tiny little country house far removed from Manchester though still leaving it well guarded by local law-enforcement patrols. A perfect mix of safety and distance that had been the driving force in Simon’s initial purchase of it. But it wasn’t his only properly, not by a long shot.

Like a rat, the holes of his paranoia ran deep into the earth.

He pulls the car into the dirt driveway and kills the vehicle. Outside in the darkening sky, his eyes slide to watch over the top of the garden wall; seeing tree branches sway in a subdued breeze. Sitting there for a few moments, the man just ends up shaking his head and shoving open the door with his shoulder.

Veins tighten under his flesh.

“Kid!” Simon raps on the front door with his knuckles when his boots take him over and up the steps, voice gravelly. A house key slips into the lock, turning over before the barrier opens. Ghost stomps in and immediately knows the entire home is completely empty.

He blinks in confusion, looking over the still air and dull noises. The AC unit whirls; the fridge shakes. No feet on the floor—no groan or sly comment.

You were a teenager now, but the absence of your aura was harsh to him. You were supposed to be here. The Manchester man’s lips thin.

“Christ, don’t go and tell me she’s fuckin’ gone again…” Simon kicks the door shut and lets his bag fall from his fingers, feeling his chest tighten slowly. He beelines to the kitchen where, sure enough, a note from the far-off neighbor who keeps an eye on you when he’s gone was sitting with its delicate font.

Fast fingers snatch it like a snake, jaw clenched and tight grip creasing the paper. He reads with a growing disappointment.

“She got into a fight out of school again—black eye and bruised knuckles. I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but I couldn’t get a hold of you to tell you about it. I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father. When you read this, I’ll have tried to make her come back inside but I was unsuccessful. I left supper at the base of the hill and a blanket. I’m sorry. I’ll be at my home if you need me.”

Simon places the note down and runs a hand up and down his face, a deep sigh exiting his lips as his fingers cover his jaw and chin. Like the definition of fatigue, his body lightly bows forward. Slouched shoulders.

This would make the fifth fight this year.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

After a minute of mute irritation, the man drops his hands and goes to the freezer, taking out an ice pack with a small glint of further emotion stinted in his gaze. There are so many things that Simon feels for you—some of which he would never be able to properly express.

He’s not a good man. Not someone to look up to or place on a pedestal. He’s in the 141 because he can do a job; a job that not many others can do simply for the fact that something in him was broken. Shattered beyond repair.

Simon was never meant for this.

The blond placed the ice pack into a rag from the drawer and exited through the back door of the house. Grunt stuck in his throat at the thought of the delinquent activities you seemed to always get up to when he was gone which, admittingly, was more often than not.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

But wasn’t he doing a good thing by staying away? He took you in—provided food, water, shelter, and anything else you could need. What was he doing wrong?

Simon’s brows tighten as the chilled air hits him as a winder wind would. By now the sun had fully set and the darkness was becoming more black than blue by the second; dim twinklings from stars dancing in the pupils of his eyes. His feet take him off the back porch and easily finds a small trail that leads through the barren garden all the way to a hill in the distance.

Icy blue easily finds the tiny hunched being at the very top. His hand tightens over the ice pack.

Ghost was unable to understand, of course, he hadn’t had the kind of childhood people would want—was never around kids in general. No friends with little brats running around, obviously. Was this a normal kind of thing kids did? Start fights?

He’d heard some things about teenagers.

Closing his tired eyes for a moment, Simon silently walks past the plate of food at the foot of the hill but snatches the fluffy blanket that had been beside it. If you don’t want to eat he won't force you, but it was getting cold out quickly.

Simon wasn’t letting you catch a bug.

He huffs as he ascends the slope, all the aches and pains finally making themself more known in his thighs and abdomen.

You hear him coming when he’s three-fourths of the way there.

Your red eyes widen in shock, hands that had been trapping your legs to your chest rising to wipe the tears on your cheeks away aggressively; frantic. Three seconds later a heavy fabric hits your head and you tense, widely looking up into the dead eyes of your father.

The blanket thumps to the ground beside you in a heap.

“Put it on,” he grunts from behind his balaclava and your surprised expression slowly sours.

You turn away with a growl. “Don’t want to.”

“Bloody ‘ell, just put it on,” there’s no acidity behind the words, but the annoyance is clear. “Asking to get fuckin’ sick at this rate, are you? I’m not cleanin’ up your vomit from the floor when you're hunched over like a mutt on drugs.”

Not a stranger to his humor, but with a venom-laced look, you grab the blanket as Simon sits next to you and end up throwing it over your shoulders. Your face hurt too much to talk for long periods—right eye swollen and radiating heat; hands weren't that much better, the knuckles puffy and blood-flooded under the skin. It made you flinch when you had to clench your fingers.

You’re acutely aware of your father’s presence. How he sits with his spine bent with one hand behind him; legs laying out flat. You should be happy he’s back safe in one piece, but in reality, there would be little change if he never showed back up at all.

The house was always silent anyways. Dead. Simon was as much a stranger to you as he was to everyone else.

“What did I tell you when I went away, eh?” The man asks you lowly when you’ve settled, and you grit your teeth and look out over the landscape, long grass swaying in the wind. “Kid.”

“Don’t get into any more fights.” Words are stiff, reflective of both of your muscles and hearts.

“Affirmative. You want to explain to me what you did?”

“Got into another fight.” An icepack is tossed near you, bouncing in the grass. You scoff but take it, softly applying it to your face with a concealed flinch. Shame permeates in your ribs, a desperate need to prove yourself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s not an excuse.” Simon glares at you from the side of his eye, utterly serious. “When I tell you something, you listen, yeah?”

“...Yeah,” you grit your teeth and clench your hands, a bitter huff leaving your lips. “Sure.”

A tense silence keeps you in its clutches, the kind of silence that stems from two people who really have no idea how to speak or understand one another.

“No more fighting,” Simon grits out, “now show me.”

“It’s not that bad—”

“Show me it.” Your face burns as you slip the ice pack away and turn your face his way, meeting your father’s gaze head-on and seeing his lids slightly pull back. You spy his hand clenching in the grass, ripping strands out like hair from a head.

“Happy?” You sarcastically ask, turning back forward and putting the ice pack back into your socket.

It’s a long while before he speaks to you again, and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face when he does. Your heart rampages at the deathly slow and tiny voice.

“Why?” The question makes your body flair with anger and you grip the pack tighter, feeling the ice shift in your grip as you clench it violently. You feel your fingers twitch when you answer, unconsciously closing into fists.

“Why?” You glare at him, “Why the hell do you care?”

Simon’s eyes go blank, brows going up his head. Gazes lock and you’re suddenly standing to your feet, chucking the ice pack right into his chest. It only makes you madder when he catches it easily, glancing down at the object before slowly shifting his numb eyes back to you.

“You’re never fucking here, what’s the point in telling you anything about me?” Your father’s face is covered, but the mask is more than just physical—it’s a part of him in every sense. You don’t know what he is, but you see his lungs going still in his ribs. You splay your hands around you as the blanket hits the ground at your feet. “It wouldn’t even make a difference if you never came back! Even when you’re here it barely even matters beyond who’s dishes are in the sink.”

Bitter tears spring to your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, a tight itch in your skin. Slight guilt hits you when you shove out such harsh words, but you don’t care enough right now to think about what you’re saying. Everything just hits a breaking point. Shaking your head you scoff again, weaker this time. “You don’t even know the first things about me and you want me to try and explain why I do the things I do?”

Simon watches and listens, stone still. It’s as if he doesn’t even breathe; his pulse doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. If you would have been able to see it, you’d have noticed the way the large man’s lips were slightly parted.

He wasn’t averse to arguments, he yelled on Ops and cursed aggressively on duty, but he had made a stark promise to himself to never yell at you. If there was one thing that reminded him of his father—it was that. Explosive fights that only ended one way.

What you were saying was everything he knew to be true. This came to him in a slow and silent realization of growing pain. Simon didn’t know your favorite color or what food you loved. Your interests or your goals.

He knew how much you spent on snacks at the store, but didn’t know what you bought.

Ghost clenches his jaw and watches your resolve deteriorate with a heavy heart. What was he supposed to do? He was your father, sure, but…he didn’t know the first things that went with anything beyond giving you items and objects.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

How could he be a father to you?

Simon clears his throat, for once in his life completely unable to pull on any sort of skill to rectify this situation. You take his silence as blatant disregard.

With a burning face, you sniffle and twist on your heel, speed-walking down the hill back into the house. Your brain is pounding in your head, just as fast as your heart when you finally stomp through the garden and shove open the back door.

Simon doesn’t tell you to stop.

Left on that hill, he watches your back disappear into the house and gets a rabid pain in his stone heart. You were his daughter. You were hurt; neglected. He’d never felt like this before.

Simon had failed the only job that he knew was far more important than any other. Blue darkens into a color reminiscent of storm clouds.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Standing, he snatches at the ice pack and the blanket, lightly jogging down the mound of earth. In no time he’s standing in the house again, having completely forgotten about the plate of food outside. It’s the tense set of his shoulders that really give away how unprepared he feels. How out of his expertise.

Give Simon a gun and he’d be able to take it apart and reassemble it in one minute; a knife and he’d have it sharp in seconds.

Simon Riley has no idea how to be a good father and he’s suddenly very aware of how fast the window is closing to try. You were his blood and his responsibility. He can’t end up like his own father.

The thought almost makes him sick again, stomach rolling with anxiety.

Inside the house, he tosses the items in his grip onto the couch and whispers past into the hallway to your room. Fingers twitching, he grabs at his balaclava before ripping it from his head; stuffing it into his pants pocket. Stopping in front of your room, Simon raises a hand.

Just as he’s about to shove open the door, he instantaneously stops himself with a sharp thought.

Daughter, not soldier. Home, not barracks.

Hand lowering, he takes a long and deep breath and waits a moment; gathering himself. He still didn’t know what to say…but…

God, your words hurt, but he needed to hear them because they were true.

Simon’s knuckles rasp on the wood, a series of three dull thumps that echo over the stale air. There’s a shuffling of sheets and a dull, “God, just go away!”

Cursing quietly under his breath, Simon runs his fingers through his hair tense-like; pushing back blond strands.

“Open up for me, yeah?” He tries, awkward as his hips shift weight. “Need ‘ta talk to you.”

A cruel laugh exits from under the bottom of the door. “You? Talk?”

Simon keeps his mouth shut and closes his eyes, pulling from the deep pit of patience he holds for on-duty missions and not mastered yet for disagreements and verbal talks. He calms down and rolls his shoulders slightly.

“Please.” A pin could drop.

It’s a long, hot-air moment before there's the padding of feet over the floor and the slight shift of the door handle. The metal jiggles before it’s twisted back with a firm hand.

Your face comes into view through the tiny crack of the door, injured eye on full display in all its swollen glory. A young face is laced with surprise at seeing your father’s bare visage—only the black face paint stuck to his skin—but even more so at his plea. There were only a few times you’d actually seen him and even fewer when you’d hear something like that. Simon stops himself from getting angry at the sight of your wound, staring down at you as his gaze softens just a fraction of a sliver.

He recalls the moment he had first held your form when he had picked you up at hospital years ago. You were so small, squirming in his foreign grip. The nurse had to tell him how to hold you properly—what to do and what not to do.

It had been the first time that Simon could really say he’d been terrified down to his marrow; sweating and lips pulled tight. This being so small it couldn’t do anything by itself had rendered him frozen with unease like he had been stabbed in the heart. Your eyes had looked up at him with trust and love. You hadn’t cried or screamed at his hidden face, even if he thought you should have…you’d done something worse.

You had reached up to his face and placed your little fingers on his brow, slapping his flesh with no strength or hatred. Simon’s gaze never left you for hours after you’d done that, uncharacteristically warm and rendered mute to all else.

Tiny. Weak. Innocent.

How could anybody ever leave you? Hurt you? But the man had been petrified; utterly fearful to the point he would begin shaking when you’d begin crying for a bottle.

In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.

“What?” Your crestfallen voice brings him back and he blinks, expression going blank once more. But he tries.

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t know—are you going to give a lecture?” You ask, eyes red and other hand still holding the door handle. Simon breathes out a grunted sigh.

“Negative, Moppet, no lecture.” He relaxes his posture, eye bags plainly visible. He was so tired his fingers had gone numb. “Jus’ need ‘ta…” Words fail him. What did he need to do?

Simon clears his throat, looking off down the hallway before his eyes drift back to you.

“You land a hit, then?” You blink in silent shock at the graveled question, a hitch in your lungs giving way to confusion.

“I…” your feet shuffle, face burning, “what?”

One of your father’s large hands goes up to rub the back of his neck, fingers creating red lines across his flesh as his chest rises and falls. You could immediately tell he had no idea what he was doing.

But…he was trying.

“A hit,” he vaguely gestures to your eye, staring intensely. “Did you get ‘em back?”

It’s a vague few moments before you respond, oddly touched by the question. Your door opens the slightest bit wider.

“More than one person,” you admit hesitantly. Your father’s gaze darkens but you quickly continue. “T-they look worse than me right now.”

Simon nods stiffly, hands going to slide into his pockets. “That’ll do,” a pause, “...‘cause I can’t beat up teenagers without getting into a fuckin’ heap ‘o shit.”

Your heart lurches with amusement and a small smile grows on your face. You stare, still just a tiny bit confused at the sudden shift, but unable to stop the chuckle you let out. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling in his chest when his ears twitch at the sound of your humor, yet Simon pulls a smirk to his lips. It made him…content, you could say.

“Who said they were teenagers?” you smirk, tinting your head, and your father immediately frowns, unamused. Brows pull in.

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“No, it isn’t. Shut your bloody trap.” The air lightens to a degree you hadn’t experienced before. A silence settles before you break it, vision darting down to spy on the dog tags Simon wears.

“...How long are you staying?” The man hums, licking his lips.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

“I’m off as long as it takes to get you to stop picking fights, yeah?” Your fingers flinch and you stare into eyes that are always like ice, except now try to melt themselves into a chilled puddle.

“Change of heart?” You ask, voice subdued. A bitter hope builds in your veins.

Simon motions with his chin for you to open the door to your room and you do, elbowing it to the side before backing up—letting your father’s large frame enter.

He looks around for a moment at the posters and the bits of personality, glaring internally at himself because he didn’t know what you liked at all. He seems disappointed with his own negligence.

He’d really fucked up.

“C’mere,” Simon goes and snatches your desk chair before he whirls it around, “lemme take a proper look at it.” His hand pats the top of the wood and you listen, going to it and sitting down softly.

Your father kneels in front of you, bones cracking, and he delicately grabs hold of your chin to tilt your head to the side with practiced ease. You avoid his eyes, hands in your lap held tight together in this silence that brews from shared thorns.

Simon has to take a deep breath to get his head out of his rage at the sight of your damaged skin; instinctual reaction to guard you rearing its head even more so now that he can see the injury in the dim light of your desk lamp. His thumb caresses the side of the swelling with intense care.

“Won’t die,” is all he can say, voice hard and strained. “Lucky you, eh?” You scoff and his hands leave—there wasn’t much he could do. “Moppet.”

Eyes slide up to his and his grip finds your bicep, squeezing once. You’re momentarily locked at the sight of real concern in his glinting orbs; a once in a blue moon occurrence.

“Give me your word.” Simon levels firmly, feet shifting. “No more of this. You’re gonna end up gettin’ hurt—badly—you got that?”

“They were calling soldiers cannon fodder.” You glare at your hands in your lap, mumbling out the truth with a burning face mixed with shame and honesty. Your father goes silent. “That they weren’t even good enough for bullets.”

Jaw clenching, you rotate your wrist and feel the flare of pain from the joints. A deep sigh exits from Simon and with a hesitant clench of his jaw, his hand travels to the back of your head. He presses firmly, and your face finds the junction of his neck and shoulder with little fight. Tense in the beginning, you slowly breathe in sweat and tarmac with a gradual loosening feeling in your muscles.

Eyes wide, you slowly begin to return the strange embrace. Your father flinches lightly when your fingers slip along his waist, hands grabbing into his shirt. But like you, time makes him calm—the side of his face connects with the side of your scalp, lashes fluttering closed tightly.

It was you. His daughter. Innocent.

The emotions are so foreign to you that it brings a burning behind your eyes as the minutes lengthen.

Simon can’t even begin to process it, it just felt natural to do such things for you. If there was one thing he did know—it was that he didn’t want to see you in pain or suffering; hurt or eyes filled with pain. His hands slip to bring you up into his arms like you were a baby again, carrying you easily as your nose sniffles with restrained tears. You’re placed in your bed with a delicate plop, icy eyes darting over you until it seems a decision is made with a quick nod.

You watch him leave and return seconds later with a pile of manilla folders in his hands. Your father grunts softly, “Go to sleep. It’s late out,” and drops the items to your desk, sitting down with a huff and a squeal from your chair. The air is warm and you sit in it a moment longer.

Eyes blink at the silhouette before a small smile builds on your lips—genuine and warm like a weighted blanket.

“How long are you gonna be there?” You ask your father, grasping the covers and slipping under as your head hits the pillow; making sure to stay on the uninjured side.

He doesn’t turn around.

“All night. Need ‘ta get this shite done for my boss.” You don’t know why, but you feel like he’s lying. Simon looks over his shoulder with a tone dipping to a whisper. “Sleep, Kid. We’ll get those knuckles sorted in the morning.”

Of course, he’d noticed that, too.

“Dad?” You ask and his spine straightens instantly at the title. It’s a long time before he answers and when he does his emotion is the softest you’ve ever heard him; gravel so deep you almost miss the words entirely.

“What is it?”

“Goodnight.” Simon’s hands shake as they open the first folder in the small stack, small tremors that are both horrible and endearing. He doesn’t say anything until you’re fast asleep behind him—when he stands up and walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pulling the covers farther up to your chin.

Into your skin, he whispers, “...Goodnight, my little Moppet.”

Simon wonders if his daughter likes eggs for breakfast as his pen slides over the first report, one eye forever staying on your slumbering body to watch the rise and fall of your lungs.

TAGS:

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#cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost x daughter reader #platonic reader #platonic relationships

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cxlamarisalxmi · 7 months

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oml hiiii, i rushed here immediately when i saw your requests are open ive been in love with the idea of maybe ghost having a teenage niece (his older brothers daughter) who he basically raised when he wasn't on duty but like none of the 141 knows about it because he keeps her a secret. He's basically her father at this point cause the rest of the family was murdered when she was only a baby. Anyways, you can do whatever you want with this prompt or not if you don't want to. But like I can totally just imagine Soap just seeing them in a Tescos and absolutely losing his shit when seeing a teenager swinging from his Lieutenants arm.

if you choose not to do this prompt that's completely fine!!! thank you!!!

—Sole Survivor

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Your father died years ago, and so you fall under the stiff, and unyielding, protection of your Uncle Simon. But it's not all bad. He can be funny when he wants to be.] ❞

When you were the only one to live, the sole survivor of that massacre, Simon knew he was in trouble.

He’d found you under the bed. The blood was still congealing over the wooden floors—whoever put you there, Tommy, his mother, Beth, or even his nephew, was all a mystery that no one would ever know the answer to. Yet, the larger question was how you, a baby, had managed to stay silent through it all.

Simon had picked you up with panicked breath and tears in his eyes as the sirens of the police had gotten closer, holding you to him as you blinked awake and yawned. The bodies of his family were strewn around the floor, broken and bent; murdered. But you. Little you.

Alive.

It would be best to leave you to be found by the authorities. To go somewhere far away from him and the future that was now stained into his soul—the pact of revenge and horror that would live through him like a brand. It was the right thing to do; the correct thing.

And then he remembers his mother’s eyes, and he’s already rushing to the back window while cradling your squirming body. The rest, of course, passed as the flow of time always did.

“I’m thinking we should have steak,” your voice pipes up as Simon grabs a bag of crisps from the shelf. Brown eyes blink down at you, balaclava tight to this face.

“You have steak money?” You were a teenager now, older and figuring life out one day at a time. He hadn’t told you the whole story, and he won’t until much later, but you know enough to a point that you were comfortable with.

You know your family loved you.

“You’re the one with the job,” he huffs at you as you utter under your breath.

“Exactly,” Simon grunts. “Eatin’ me out of house and home like I never feed you.”

“I,” you point a finger into the air, “am growing. Soon I’ll be just as tall as you, y’know that? I’ll be towering over everyone and giving them that same dead-eyed look that—” brown orbs level with you, unimpressed. You beam, punching his shoulder. “See! That one!”

“Fuckin’ piss off, would you?” Simon grumbles, moving down to the next aisle in his large and darkly-clothed glory. Your laugh trails after him, feet heavy on his heels. “Givin’ me a headache.”

You both walk around the Tesco, Simon getting strange looks while a beaming teenager walks beside him talking about supper, class, and anything in between. He offered short responses, sometimes sarcastic and sometimes serious—it depended, but the point was that he did answer you, no matter how pointless the conversation.

“I think I’m going to join a club this year,” you speak as you gaze at the items your Uncle puts in his basket. A gaze side-eyes you slowly.

“What, then?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, shoulder bumping into his arm and tilting your head. “Were you in any clubs?”

He grunts, shaking his head before a hand descends to your hair, ruffling it as you hiss in annoyance. “Never had time.” Simon hadn’t told you about his father or what he had done, and God help him if he ever uttered a word about it. That wasn’t something that mattered in your story, just his…he’d never place that weight on you willingly.

You frown as your uncle's arm loops your shoulders casually, keeping you to him as other people walk past you. Brown filters over posture and facial expressions—looking for the barest hint of ill-intent. When there’s nothing, and the forms move around you as easily as they had come, Simon’s attention leaves, and he continues on as if nothing had happened.

“Try Debate.” Your face turns to him, curious.

“Debate?” His eyes twinkle, and behind his face covering you immediately find the tell-tale twitch of a smirk.

“Argue so bloody well you could convince a rookie that a P890 can hold 10 rounds.”

You fight the shocked smile that pulls at your lips. “I don’t know if I should be offended or not.” Eyes swirl, and a hand squeezes your arm; jostling you slightly.

“It’s a compliment.”

“You’ve always been shit at those.” You get a firm glare and a grunt from above.

“Fuckin’ language.” Your lips mock his response, making fun of him before he sends a flick of his thumb and forefinger into your temple.

“Hey!” Simon chuckles lowly, walking closer to the front of the store to get ready to pay as you mutter. “Jerk.”

It was a surprise though, that when you had barreled onto your Uncle’s back for an impromptu piggyback ride as payback—which the man didn’t even flinch at, already used to your antics—that the wide eyes of a man with a mohawk met yours. Your head is atop your Uncles, resting there as the lady at the front gives you strange looks from behind the register as Simon places the items in front of her.

He was gobsmacked, this stranger with his hair all done up like that, and your eyes blink at the display of tags around his neck that mirror your guardians. Broad, yet not so like Simon, and muscled, also, not as much as Simon.

“Unc?” You ask, and the man below you hums in question, pulling out notes from his wallet absentmindedly. “Who’s the guy with the mohawk?”

Simon tenses under you, fingers freezing.

“With the what?” It wasn’t really shocking that no one knew about you besides Price—and the only reason he knew was that in the event something happened to him, Simon had made the Captain swear that you would be taken care of.

Imagine his horror when his brown eyes darted up only to find them meeting the cobalt blues of his Sergeant, the Scot's hand outstretched to a box of pancake mix with a pack of Irn Bru in the other.

There’s an immediate sinking feeling in Simon’s chest when Johnny awkwardly tips his fingers in a shocked greeting—eyes flashing up to your curious face before he thins his lips and blinks.

You wave enthusiastically back.

“Oh, bloody fuckin’ hell.”

#callofduty #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #platonic reader #platonic imagine

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