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rileyslibrary · 5 months

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

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

———————————————————————

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

You return his wave with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Santa to you.” He replies.

———————————————————————

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

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

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

Just like Santa. Just like Ghost.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x y/n #simon ghost riley #simon riley x gn!reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley #cod ghost #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley fic #cod mw ghost

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erinfern0 · 5 months

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simon "ghost" riley — nsfw headcanons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

masterlist | request info

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley cod #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x gn!reader #gender neutral reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #headcanons #smut #headcanon #cod ghost #ghost x reader #riri writes

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just-a-sewer-goblin · 3 months

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Not A Hero Just A Good Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can audibly hear him gulp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There he is. Hi."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bend down for me?", you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you, luv."

"Always, baby."

...

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

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

#the sewer writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x gn!reader #ghost x gn!reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #fluff #hurt/comfort #cod simon x reader #cod simon riley x reader

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obsolescent · 8 months

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

Woven Together

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

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

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

CRASH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon riley x gn!reader #simon ghost riley x you #cod x reader #cod imagine #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #call of duty x reader #simon ghost riley fluff #simon riley x you #simon riley fluff #the title is from a bible verse about parenting lol lmao

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lethalchiralium · 1 year

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i got a weird question… do you think simon is talkative/loud during sex? 🤭

oooh boyyyyyyyy. i’ve seen so many takes but here’s mine!

MINORS DNI. DO NOT INTERACT. I’LL FIND YOU AND BLOCK YOU. 18+ ONLY.

this man is not silent at all. talkative? depends on the situation. loud? again, depends on the situation. there is a bottom line of ‘he makes noises, no matter what.’

he’ll talk you through things if he really wants you to know that he loves you, or just knows that you need him. he’s sweet then, talking you through how his hands follow the curves of your hips, how his hands run through your hair and how he’s going to hold onto those love handles for dear life. “Feel my hand goin’ down your spine, love? I feel those goosebumps, only for me.”

if you’re in the lead, he will mumble. he’ll let out breathy whines and moans, hands gripping the sheets or your hips - he loves your hips! - as his mouth lets out the most beautiful cacophony of pleasure. “Right- Fuck, there, there there- Lemme- Lemme feel you, baby.”

if he’s tired, whether it be from multiple rounds or just wanting to feel you while he’s half conscious, he won’t talk. he’s all loud moans and biting and licking, making sure you feel the vibrations of his mouth on your skin. he hums when he kissed you or your skin, pressing little “Oh how I could never love you more,” “You’ve ruined me for everyone else.” “I love this part right here.” (He loves hips. Big or small, hip dips or not. He loves love handles. He loves all of you, but mostly your hips and thighs. Man be handling.)

If you’re trying to be quiet, he’ll make an effort to keep his moans to grunts, biting his tongue but he can never stop that little hum in the back of his throat. you make him sing like a little bird when you let him please you.

there was only one time he was dead silent, that was the one night you spent at your parent’s house. you would have never let him live it down if someone in the house heard you.

bottom line, you’ll always hear him. he has to have noise come out of him or else he’ll go crazy.

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random0lover · 11 months

Note

Hello !! Am I allowed to request for maybe all of 141 (If possible with your schedule !! I undestand if its not !!) or just Price and Ghost (separate) with a reader whos a military kid so theyre kinda just used to them going away for long periods of time with deployment. Bonus points if they werent aware of reader being a military kid till they break down and confess as to how abandoned and angry they feel when they leave :,)) Fluffy Hurt/Comfort thats SFW, please :)) Thank you ^^

TF141 x Gn!Reader That Was a Military Kid

Pairings: John Price x gn!reader & Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x gn!reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Angst with Comfort, SFW, reader is mean, talk of parental death, crying, reader is called: sweetheart, love, dove. Hints at depression, John and Simon are both big softies for reader, established relationships. That should be it! Let me know if I missed any <3

Things to know: Some hc’s with mini fic parts. Should be Gn!reader as I tried to avoid talking about readers body or anything that could indicate anything other than gn!reader! Also POC friendly! If you notice anything that makes you feel otherwise please let me know! I never want anyone to feel excluded with/in my work ♡, Also a warning to anyone that decides to follow me- if you do not have your age in your bio or a pinned post I will block you… just a fair warning.

Notes: Thank you for requesting this anon! I loved the idea so much so I hope this does your request justice! I kinda went a little soft with the Price one because for some reason I can’t stand the thought of reader being mean to that sweet man (if you want though send me another request and I can write one that’s more angst filled 😊) although I did bring out the reader being angry in Simons. Another thing, I wrote this for Simon and not ghost but if you want I can write another one that has reader dealing with Ghost but be warned it will be angsty with lots of hurt from both parties! Sorry if the editing is bad I did try though lol and there will be more parts to this!

Tags: @homicidal-slvt (promised I’d tag you so here we are)

Price & Simon (You’re here!), Soap & Gaz, Alejandro, Rudy & König

(I will add the links as I post each part!)

John Price

-I feel like he may have wondered if you were a military kid since you didn’t seem to be phased by him having to leave so often

-There were other things that also made him wonder, like how you always made your bed in the mornings, how schedules were majorly important to you to the point that if you knew you were going to be late, you'd get majorly upset, and how you also seemed to understand military lingo up to a certain point. He never asked though since you didn’t talk about your childhood much so he just figured that if you wanted to tell him that you would -But he started to notice that lately, you started to seem off when you found out he would have to be deployed soon.

John had been awake since the early hours of the morning. He couldn't seem to get much sleep in the few days before his next deployment. He had left the warmth of your shared bed before even the morning birds could be heard outside, hoping not to wake you with his restlessness, but little did he know that you hadn't slept at all.

By the time you stumbled out of bed with bags under your eyes and your mind feeling exhausted from the lack of sleep and your own brain tearing itself apart, it was well past 10 a.m., which wasn’t the most unusual for you, but on the day before John would be deploying it was a little odd since usually you were up trying to help him get his stuff together and would make a huge breakfast since you both weren’t sure how long it would be until he would get to enjoy a home-cooked meal again.

You had hoped to get to the kitchen and make yourself a cup of coffee before seeing John, but he was standing at the fridge, putting groceries away from multiple brown paper bags.

You made your way to the coffee pot that seemed to have a fresh pot being made and got a cup from the cabinet before he started to talk, “I noticed we were getting low on some things so I thought I’d save you a trip to—,” he pauses, causing you to turn to face him, “Sweetheart?”

You were pressing your hands into your eyes, trying to relieve the aching pressure that was remaining consistent behind them, when he made his way across the kitchen and gently cupped your cheeks, “Are you feeling alright, love?”

You didn’t mean to do it, but you flinched away from his hands, taking a few steps back so that there was some distance between you both. You could see the hurt in his eyes before they were overcome with confusion and you hated that he was looking at you as if you were a skittish kitten that would run at the smallest movement.

He reaches an arm out slowly, as if to not startle you.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, pulling your arms tight around you, and try to focus on keeping your breathing calm, like your parents taught you when you were little.

He takes a small step forward so that his fingers are almost grazing your arm but stops when sees you curling in on yourself, “Sweetheart, something is obviously wrong. You're crying, and your body is shaking.”

“Hey,” you finally look up into his eyes, “you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but at least let me help you.”

Your heart breaks from the pain you can see in his eyes. In all the time you've been together, you’ve never pulled away from him like this. Usually, you were the one open about your emotions and what you were feeling while having to coax John into telling you what was going on in his mind, “Please, darling.”

You let yourself fall into his open arms at that point, sobbing into his neck. He presses you against his chest, gently speaking into your ear, assuring you that everything is fine, that he is here for you, and that he will always be there.

You mumble into his neck, causing him to gently pull you back so that he can hear you: “What was that, sweetheart?”

You try to concentrate on the sensation of his calm heartbeat against your chest before finally saying, "My parents promised me the same thing."

He pulls away, puzzled, and you notice him looking at you in the corner of your eye, so you burrow your face into his chest and say, "They were both military. They died when I was 14," you finish, taking a deep breath. “They were deployed together when it happened… They said that it was an accident, that my mom got stuck on a timed land mine, and my dad wouldn’t leave her no matter what.”

"Oh, love." You feel his body tense before relaxing.

He gently grips the back of your neck and pulls you back so that you're looking into his eyes; the softness in them is almost enough to send you running as far as possible so that you never have to feel the type of pain that you did the day that you found out your parents died.

“Love, I'm not going anywhere,” you go to speak but he shushes you, “You are my world, the person I’m fighting for.”

He brings his hand under your chin so that he is gripping it gently and says, “You are the reason I’m still alive. The reason why I feel like life is still worth living and fighting for.”

He tips his head down so that his lips are grazing yours, “I’ll always come home, love.”

You push forward so that your lips are fully pressing against his, then he pulls back, “Why don’t we go take a bath, get you feeling better?”

~~~~

The next morning you wake frantically looking around, hoping that he didn’t leave without saying goodbye, when he walks in carrying a tray of food, “John? I thought you had to leave this morning.”

He smiles gently, his eyes lighting up, “Called Kate, they don’t actually need me for another week, and I figured my love needs me a little bit more than my job at the moment.” He sets the tray down on the bed, and you jump into his arms with a happy squeal, “I love you, John.”

"I love you too, sweetheart," he says as he gently kisses you.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

-So we all know Simon is amazing at reading people, but I don’t think he would know that you were a military kid. He could see all the signs that you may have had a difficult childhood, but he personally knows what it’s like to have a childhood you don’t want to talk about, so he never has and never will question you about your past. -Pasts are a hard topic for Simon in the first place, so I could honestly see him being a bit grateful that you didn’t share the bad parts of your childhood, meaning that he also didn’t have to share his. It was almost a silent agreement between you both to not talk about the negative parts of things unless one of you came to the other wanting to talk about it.

~~~~

Back to him being great at reading people: He could tell that over the past few days, your body language had been changing, becoming more standoffish. Not being as open to cuddling and kisses, not even wanting him to walk up behind you and wrap his arms around you, which you usually loved.

He figured that maybe you were just having a few rough days, which was normal for anyone; hell, he knew he had them quite often, and you were always there for him no matter how bad they got, so he wanted to do the same for you.

Today had been the worst day of all, though. You were almost refusing to talk to him completely unless it was one-word answers, which he was able to roll with pretty easily. You would move rooms almost every time he would come in, not even saying anything, just picking up your things and going.

This made him decide on leaving you alone for the most part, other than when he would bring you a fresh cup of tea or was just checking in on you. So he decided on cleaning up the house a little bit, he was going to be deploying again in a week and he wanted to help however he could, knowing that it was a rough transition from having him around to it being an empty house again.

He had just finished cleaning the dishes when he looked at the time and decided on ordering out for dinner, which would hopefully raise your mood a bit and it would also be an easy enough mess to clean up. He found you in the living room watching a movie on Netflix with a blanket wrapped tightly around you and stood in the doorway for a moment just admiring you when you paused it.

When you snap at him, "What do you want, Simon?" Your eyes aren't even on him but on your phone, which is on your lap.

He feels his eye twitch but he keeps himself calm and makes sure that it shows in his tone that your attitude is leaving him unaffected, “I was just goin’ to ask what you wanted for takeout, love.”

You huff and try to pull yourself up from the couch while also trying to unwrap the blanket from around you, almost falling, but Simon rushes forward and straightens you up, but you quickly pull away.

You look at him with fury in your eyes, “Can't you just leave me the hell alone?” Your voice is rising slightly, and your face is flushed with rage. “It’s what you constantly do anyway!”

You can see Simon's eyes widen, but you don't care; the words are just spilling out of your mouth before you can stop them, "You're never actually here when I need you, but when you are, you can't take the fucking hint of when I just want you to leave me alone!"

"Sometimes Simon," you pause, feeling the tears flood into your vision, making the floor blurry, "I wonder why I even stay when you are just going to end up hurting me exactly like he did," you whisper, staring hard at the ground, your chest puffing in and out quickly, trying to pull in air after your large outburst.

The words come out in a whisper, the room becoming so silent that you can almost hear the gears in his head turning, wondering who the hell you were talking about.

You hear him take a step forward on the wood flooring, his voice incredibly soft, “Dove.”

You look up through the tears and see his hands reaching out for you, and for the first time in all the time you two have been together, Simon Riley almost looks scared—not scared of you but as if his world was coming apart.

When his hand gently touches your arm, it pulls you out of your stupor, making you pull away, frantically shaking your head, “Don’t touch me.”

The words come out shaky and broken, but they make him freeze nonetheless, and you can see in his eyes that he’s trying to pull himself together, trying to figure out what he's supposed to do in a situation like this.

He takes a small step back, his gaze fixed on yours, and he holds his hands out in front of him, as if to demonstrate that he is not a threat. "Okay, I won't touch you." He comes to a halt, seeing the fear in your eyes, the look of a frightened animal ready to flee at any moment. "It's okay, love, everything's fine-"

He doesn't even finish his sentence before you're flying down the hallway, grabbing your bag from the hooks by the front door and bolting out the door, slamming it loudly behind you, leaving him standing halfway down the hallway, his mouth slack-jawed, unsure of what the hell just happened.

~~~

After nearly ten minutes of fast walking, you finally slowed down and stopped in the nearest store to clean your face of tear marks and, hopefully, make yourself look presentable. You sent a quick text to Simon, letting him know that you were safe and that you didn't know when you'd be back. You left your phone on long enough to see him read the message and the text bubble pop up before you shut the phone completely off and tucked it into the bottom of your bag.

You spent the next two hours wandering aimlessly, wondering if you'd just ruined your relationship with the only man you'll ever love, when you came across the small Italian restaurant where Simon had taken you on your first date. You remember the way you tried to pay for your half of the dinner, but he quickly slipped his card to the waitress before you could even argue, saying something about how if you decided not to go on a second date with him, you deserved to at least get a free meal from it, and you teased him by asking him if there was a reason you shouldn't want to go on another date with him.

The memories make your stomach queasy, making you want to kick yourself in the back for being so stupid, but you walk in and order your and Simon's favorite dishes and try to keep the food as warm as possible on your walk back to your shared home. One side of you hopes you’ll find him there, not an empty house, and the other side wants to avoid this conversation for as long as possible.

You walk up the steps, and most of the house seems to be dark except for the living room, where a single light is on. You unlock the door and try as quietly as possible to slip your shoes off while also trying not to drop the food.

You make your way towards the living room to find Simon sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. You look over to the coffee table and see bags with your favorite restaurant's logo tied off, trying to keep the heat in the bags, making your heart ache with the fact that he still thought of you after you treated him like complete trash.

He was the first man ever to treat you with so much love. Even while he was deployed, he was making efforts to show you that he cared, like scheduling a delivery of your favorite flowers to show up on your day off with a little note, paying for over a month's worth of your order at your favorite coffee shop, and bringing back little trinkets from the places he was deployed too.

You knew him being deployed wasn’t his fault; it was part of his job. You knew he wasn't your dad and that it wasn't Simon’s fault that the man who was supposed to love you treated you as if you weren't even his child but rather just another one of his soldiers.

It wasn’t his fault that your dad wouldn't be home for months on end; it wasn’t his fault that the last time you ever saw your dad, you told him you hated him for never being home; it wasn't his fault that the day your dad was supposed to come home from a four-month deployment, instead of hearing him come home, there were four hard knocks on the door; it wasn't his fault that two soldiers were standing at the door; it wasn’t his fault that they were holding a folded-up flag with your dad’s military dog tags on them.

It. Wasn’t. His. Fault.

Yet you treated him as if it were. You didn't know which was worse, the fact that he didn't already know about what happened to your dad or the fact that you wished he did so that he could have a reason to hate you for lashing out.

You step into the room, setting the food you got by the food he ordered. “Simon?”

He doesn’t move for a second, then he looks up at you, and you feel your heart shatter for the umpteenth time tonight. “Oh, Simon,” you whisper, moving so that you’re standing in front of him and drop down onto your knees, “I am so fucking sorry. I don't even have the words to tell you how sorry I am. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you… I should’ve just talked to you instead of letting it build up.”

You move your hands up to gently cradle his face in both your hands and connect your eyes with his molten ones, which usually provided you with comfort. Now, though, all you can see is the look he gave you after you yelled at him, “I— I never should have let my feelings bottle up about me being upset about you having to be gone. I know it's not your fault. I knew what I was getting myself into when we made things official all those years ago. I knew what your job would bring before then; I made the choice to be with you. I'll never regret that.’’

You move your eyes across his face, trying to gauge his emotions, but you get nothing.

“Si, baby?” you whisper.

His eyes move away from you. “Who were you talking about when you said I'm just going to hurt you like he did?’’

You look away, your eyes settling on a loose string on his pants. “I was talking about my dad.” You take a deep breath before continuing, knowing that you have to tell him, “H– He was military like you.”

His hand reaches out to gently lift your chin, bringing your gaze to his. “He died,” you continue, “He died and the last time I ever saw him, I told him I hated him because he was always gone. He…I let him go that day without saying goodbye or telling him I loved him, and the next time I saw him, his body was in a casket."

"Love," he says with a gentle frown.

"No, Simon," you say, shaking your head. Just because I’m scared—no, fucking terrified—of that happening again with you doesn't give me the right to treat you that way. I am so sorry.”

He leans back in the couch and pulls you up into his lap; once you're comfortable, he brings his hands up so that one is cupping your cheek and the other trails down your arm to hold your hand. "Dove, I know what it's like to lose family. I know what it can do to you. I understand that pain more than you know. Pain like that is unlike anything else.”

Tears well up in your eyes, and you blink them away quickly before they fall. "You've lost family, too?"

He nods gently, and you can see deep emotions that seemed to have been buried for a long time beginning to surface. “My mum, my younger brother Tommy, and his wife Beth.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, they are filled with unshed tears. “My nephew Joseph.”

You can feel the back of your throat starting to burn from keeping your tears in, but you push your forehead against his anyway. “Simon.”

He looks into your eyes before whispering, “I wish I could tell you it would stop hurting eventually, but I can’t. I’m not going to lie to you and say I’ll always make it back home to you; that's not something I can guarantee, but one thing I can promise is that I will always try my damn hardest to make it back. I will always fight with everything in my soul to make it back to you.”

Tears are softly running down your face at this point, falling to land on Simon’s hoodie. “I love you so much, sweets. I never want to lose you.”

You let out a choked cry before you kissed him gingerly, and you could taste the saltiness of your tears mixed in with all the flavors that reminded you of Simon. Of home.

“I love you so much too, Si.”

He leans in to kiss you again with a light press of his lips to yours before he pulls away and looks at the forgotten food on the coffee table and lets out a light chuckle, “I see we both had the same idea.”

You let out a shaky laugh and nod your head before snuggling your head into the warm crook of his neck. He runs a large hand up and down your back, slowly stopping at the bottom to rub gentle circles into a spot that usually bothers you. "Well, why don’t we eat, and maybe in the morning we can talk a little bit more.”

Yawning into his neck, you pull back and ask, “Can we finish the movie I was watching earlier? It was just getting to the good part before I stopped it.”

He nods, and you excitedly get out of his lap to get your blanket and the TV remote before he pulls the coffee table closer to the couch so that he can start opening the containers. Once you start the movie, you look over to Simon to find him already watching you with a soft look, and all you can think is how thankful you are to have found a man who loves you through all your faults and you through his.

You were grateful for ever getting the chance to be loved by Simon Riley, a man who truly believed that he couldn’t love and that he wasn’t worth loving. You knew that it would probably take your whole lives to heal from the things you've both been through, but as long as you were together, that was all that mattered.

Hi my lovelies, I hope you enjoyed this hc for Price and Simon! Feedback is appreciated but not necessary. As always I hope you have a great day/night. <3

Requests are open so feel free to send in some! I cannot promise when or if I will write them, but I do prefer requests that are slightly more specific as I find them easier to write but it's not required. Thanks for reading my darlings! ♡

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tomurderornottomurder · 1 year

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sleeper; ghost/simon riley

pair. simon "ghost" riley x gn!reader

summ. you fall asleep on ghost's shoulder, he doesn't know how to react

gen. fluff, angst

tw. mentions cod typical violence themes and topics, sleep deprivation, trust issues

wc. 1k

note. recovering from top surgery and this man has infected my brain i love him <3

- it had been a long mission. a 78-hour mission to be exact. all 78 hours stuck in a sniper's nest all for one target. but that's a part of your job and at least you had ghost to take shifts with and soap watching your and ghost's six. plus ghost and soap's banter had kept you quite awake and entertained.

- though there were those long moments where you all had to keep quiet and hold your breath. those moments that lasted for hours where you just had to stare through your scope in hopes your target would pop his head out. those moments where you were ready to just jump from the roof.

- but there were also your little breaks with ghost where you two momentarily stepped down the stairs to stretch out before switching places. ghost and you would share a look or two and sometimes soap would chime in over comms usually teasing one or both of you. you'd both roll your eyes before taking your places again.

- there was also ghost's terrible sense of humor and soap's incomprehensible accent. but through it all, you made it. and maybe those things are endearing about them. just a little bit.

- basically, it was a long mission. and you were extremely tired. so was soap who was already passed out sitting across from you on the plane and you knew ghost had to be though he didn't show it. he never did.

- you'd seen him sleep before on those week and month or more long missions. but it was almost rare. he always seemed to be the last to fall asleep, like he had to be. but you had seen him sleep. it wasn't exactly anything special, he looked like any of the other guys sleeping but it was nice to see him get some rest.

- you, too, had that habit of needing to be the last asleep. at least usually. you could go without sleep far longer than most of the squad. and that habit is what gave you the rare view of a sleeping ghost. again, it wasn't exactly anything special but it was a nice sight. it helped you sleep, too, knowing that he could. you trust his instincts and if he felt safe so could you.

- but back to the present. soap snores from the other side as you slowly blink, trying to keep awake just till you get back, you think. but it's not working. not at all. the hum of the plane mixed with your lack of sleep in the past three days, the presence of two of your closest and most trusted friends, and the mind-numbing boredom taking over hit you like a train.

- you kept blinking, trying to keep yourself awake but you couldn't fight it anymore. you gave in to sleep, closing your burning and dry eyes, immediate relief flooding your body. soon after that, your body slumps a little, leaning onto ghost.

- as soon as your head touches his shoulder, he looks over at you. he's not expecting you to be passed out on his shoulder and he's actually at a bit of a loss. he doesn't want to wake you, you deserve the rest but he isn't the greatest at dealing with social interaction. especially an interaction where someone is so close to him (and he's not stabbing them with a knife or gunning them down).

- at first, he tries to ignore it sort of, just sit there and let you rest without acknowledgment and keeping his eyes forward and on soap who somehow is just peacefully snoring away. then again he thinks it's better this way, soap would just tease him or say something stupid (which really aren't that different from each other).

- then, seeing as the only other person around beside you and him is asleep, he looks at you for a little while. ghost thinks it's nice to see you sleep. he knew you were just like him, able to go forever without sleep, and yet in this moment you were slumped against him. he knew you had seen him sleeping before. he knew that some nights, long nights where he could hear you unable to stop moving around or just audibly unable to sleep that you'd watch him, the rise and fall of his chest, and after a little while you, too, could finally fall asleep. he wondered why. he hadn't noticed you do the same with anyone else. so why him?

- he knew probably too much but he couldn't answer his own questions. he didn't feel like he could ask you for some reason. like leaving it unanswered was better. for the both of you. more for himself. it was difficult being close to people. he wouldn't want to get too close too fast though now that he thought about it, he hasn't thought the same about soap or anyone else on the squad really—just you. for some reason.

- ghost looks back over to soap who is still asleep, thank heavens, and then back at you again. he turns away before the pilot can announce that you'll all be back in three hours.

- ghost sighs and turns to you yet again before accepting his fate. this shouldn't be so bad. you're just sleeping on his shoulder.

- you trust him enough to sleep on his shoulder.

- that hits ghost like a ton of bricks. he trusts you too of course but- he's gotta let it sink in and he does, pondering in silence as his two partners sleep soundly.

- he won't go to sleep himself. he never can that easily but for another reason too. to protect you and johnny. make sure the plane lands where it's supposed to, you get where you're supposed to, and no possible stowaways could surprise any of you.

- so, he gets a little more comfortable -just a bit- as much as he can with you on him and settles in for the plane ride. he is still on alert -as he almost always is- but he smiles beneath that mask of his as you seem to scoot just a little closer. he can't help it. and it's not like anyone else would see it.

#murder writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x gender neutral reader #ghost x gender neutral reader #simon riley x gn reader #ghost x gn reader #simon riley x gn!reader #ghost x gn!reader #ghost my beloved

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nocturnesmoon · 3 months

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You could dream

A/N: Lil short story based on a concept I dreamt about, I have no clue if this makes sense, also I wrote and edited this with a massive headache so excuse the mistakes- I just had to write about it before I lost the train of thought about it.

The soft click of him opening your door, stirs you to life. Feeling the alcohol swirl in your stomach, your head barely keeping up with the spinning room when you try to push away from him.

"Let me go Simon," you slur your words, yelping when he does as you ask, and you crash against the back of the couch. You groan trying to find your balance, using the armrest to keep you upright.

Despite your intoxicated state, you felt your mind clearing up little by little now that you realized you were home. Even with your blurred memory, it wasn't hard to remember the surprise you had felt when Simon had shown up to ruin your little night out with yourself.

It was a bit ironic in reality, you had gone out to forget about him, your pathetic attempt to stop your weary mind from thinking about him. It had worked wonderfully together with the alcohol until the bastard himself showed up.

"Ugh, I can't believe you," you mumble drunkenly in his direction. You grimace at the feel of your stomach protesting, the predictive feeling that you might soon throw up. You try to hold it back, not wanting to throw up on your carpet once again, you doubted you would feel good enough to clean it up.

You find his silhouette in your swaying vision, suddenly moving forward with a determined haste. He catches you before you collide against his chest, loose fists trying to push him backwards, but there wasn't much strength behind it. "You can't just…just….just do that," you stutter through your words, jabbing a finger right in the center of his torso.

"You can blame me all you want, but I wasn't going to let you go home drunk with some bloke you don't know," he says harshly to get his point across to your wracked brain. He was being mean, not the first words he's said to you tonight, but the only ones you're going to remember, "And I'm not going to apologize for saving you from a situation you know you would have regretted." You still against him, trying not to think about the heat he radiates, the presence that was once yours to bask in.

In your mind, he had come between you and a potential good time, but it didn't take a genius to see that he didn't feel the same in that aspect. The guy you had met that evening filled all the criteria, stronger, broader, taller. A figure fit for the military, and a nasty, brooding personality you could just get behind after he bought you a few drinks.

All in all, not a bad choice for your drunk brain.

Feeling a flare of anger give your energy back, makes you push yourself a few steps away from him once again. "What if I didn't want to be saved, huh!? You think about that?!" You're being loud, but the part of you that would've stopped yourself from yelling left when the buzz got to your head.

He lets you stray away, out of his grasp, like you did a few months ago. You hate the prickling feeling on your skin from the loss of contact, the way you ached for him to touch you again, even if innocent and brief.

You didn't want to admit that you were happy to see him, because why would you be. He cast you out, he was the one to say you were too much. He distanced himself, got himself hurt and you in turn. He had enough of you, right? That's why he left you, why should he care now what you did to sabotage your own life.

"You mean to tell me you wouldn't have a panic attack from regret when you wake up tomorrow in a bed you don't recognize?" he crossed his arms as he looked at you. His scars tugging on his skin when he raises a knowing brow. You wanted to slap him, run your fingers over his face to force his eyebrow back down, to make him stop looking at you like you were an open book to him.

It was one thing to be tossed aside by the only person who had truly cared to get to know you, but when that person came back and still pretended to know you so well, it only measured to piss you off. This time you wanted to yell at him, you wouldn't care if you screamed so loud the neighbours would be concerned.

Yet nothing comes out of your mouth as you stare at him. He takes the breath from your lungs just like he always does, he renders your brain useless, and he steals the words that wanted to come off your tongue.

"Look I know you don't want anything to do with me," he speaks, and you scoff because of course you want everything to do with him, yet also nothing at all, "but I saw you and while we aren't together anymore, I still care for your safety."

You imitate a shocked laugh, "Me? Wanting nothing to do you with you, Simon, you're the one that wanted me gone!" He flinches at that because he knows you're right. He was the one to get rid of you, the one to tell you to stop contacting him, that there was nothing left to find in him.

He says your name, in that soft, quiet way that used to get you weak in the knees. It doesn't fail to do the same now, but the weakness is filled with disdain of its usage. "That's not fair love…" he sounds hurt, confused, and you don't understand why.

"Not fair? Not Fair!?" you feel your own sobriety come from how appalled you are from him. His entire presence is not fair, what does he mean you aren't being fair?! "Simon, I have been trying to move on from you for months now! The first time I actually found someone that even bothered looking my way, you show up and ruin it all!!"

He stands quiet as he lets you yell, he lets you get your emotions out of him, he stands and takes all of your hurt, all of the pain he unintentionally caused you. "I know dove…" he tries to speak, but you make it known you're not done.

"Do not call me that!! I am not your dove, I am not your love, you made it clear you didn't want me anymore, so don't even pretend to care that someone else might want to do what you couldn't!!" you promptly shut up when he stalks forward, grabbing hold of you by your elbows.

You don't know what he wants, what he intends to do, but the action alone makes you keep shut, staring up into his eyes that show more emotion than you've seen from him in so long.

"I'm not pretending," he sighs as he looks at you, "but we're not having this conversation while you're intoxicated." His thumb rubs tentatively into your exposed skin, a soothing action he doesn't think is working.

You dig your nails into his skin subconsciously, your brain works hoops trying to comprehend what he just told you, what the tone of his voice and what his body is trying to tell you. "What? No, what does that mean, Simon, you can't just-"

"Look I…" he sighs deeply, "I've had a lot of time to think when we were apart, I meant to call you up earlier, explain myself, at least give you the chance to make your own decision instead of me making it for you." He looks you at you so tenderly, but you don't fail to see the anxious desperation.

"I'm a coward, love…"

You stare at him dumbfounded, trying to see what he meant by those words. Was he seriously suggesting what you thought he was? Was he really about to make all the time you had spent crying over him for nothing, that he didn't have to leave you thinking you weren't worth the time of day.

Or was he just saying that he had come to his senses, that he realized things in your absence that he wouldn't have otherwise? You feel your mind overload with questions and information that you're in no state to handle. It hurts to speculate, prodding and digging to try and find a meaning. Fat tears start to pool in your eyes as you stare at him, his hand coming up instinctively to wipe them away as they fall.

"That's not fair" he frowns gently, looking on quietly to see if you would elaborate. Though he knows you're confused and emotional, thinking too many thoughts that does nothing but ruin you further.

And when you don't come with an explanation, all he finds himself muttering is the soft assurances.

"I know"

"You're not being fair" you continue, hiccuping in-between your choked back sobs. You don't want to fall apart in front of him. A part of you doesn't think he deserves it. Why should he get to see your tears when he caused them. That's not right, none of this feels right.

"I know"

Yet you can't help but want to crash in his arms because you know he will catch you. No matter what he's said in the parts, not even when you guys used to fight, he would never shut you out should, you need him. He has always been there at the ready for whatever you need from him.

"I hate you" you utter the lie in hopes you can hold onto the last of your resolve, but it quickly disintegrates when you curl yourself around him, and he accepts it like no bad thing has happened between the two of you. He holds you close like he used to, giving you that old nostalgic feeling of when he used to promise to never let you go. But he let you go, didn't he?

"I love you" the words are no longer hollow in your ears; his voice vibrates in his chest against you. His warmth engulfs you, his scent, his being surrounds you in a way that was once suffocating, but now the nicest blanket you've ever had. Maybe you could dare to dream, that he has an explanation, that there were reasons for his behaviour, that it's not all lost.

You could dream.

#noctmoon fics #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x gn reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x gn!reader

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mockerycrow · 8 months

Note

What about helping Ghost wash his hair? Like him being so vulnerable to let you see him like that, ha hang on my chest hurts thinking about it

Soft Moments: Ghost Edition (GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist

my fourth installment of the soft moments miniseries!! this might be the last one, or i might do one more for one of the girls <3 and ghost is blonde in this because i’ll die on the hill of reboot!ghost w/ brown eyes + blonde hair, and 09!ghost w/ blue eyes and brown hair!!!

consider supporting me on ko-fi? trying to pay for college, no pressure!!

[WARNINGS: Slight allusion to angst, 100% fluff!]

Simon had a hard time being, well.. Simon. Off of the field, when he’s on leave, he struggles deeply with the change in routine. He struggles with the vulnerability, and you would think when he’s on the field, he would have a hard time putting up the Ghost persona—he doesn’t, because it’s become his second skin. It took him a very long time for him to be comfortable without his mask for long periods of time. He pushed Simon down inside of him a lot, for a very long time—Simon and Ghost were the same, but with you? Simon has come back to him. Obviously, Simon and Ghost are the same person, but his military mentality slips away from him just long enough to show Simon, disregarding his engrained military habits. So, when Simon has you sitting on the edge of the tub, his tired eyes looking back at you, face bare—you realize how much trust he has in you. You have the shower nozzle in your hand, spraying warm water, testing the temperature with your hand.

“Tilt your head back.” You murmur, and he quietly complies. He tilts his head far back for you, and he closes his eyes. It’s funny to see such a big, muscular man sitting in a tub with his knees to his chest, but you love the sight. How relaxed his shoulders are, how he trusts you enough to close his eyes without the mask on—you gently spray the water through his short, blonde hair, the warmth of the water traveling down his scalp and traveling down his back before dripping down into the tub. He lets out a muffled, quiet groan as you let the water run down his scalp, and you cup your other hand to avoid any stray water droplets from going into his eyes. You shut the water off, allowing the shower nozzle to hang beside his head. “I’m grabbing the shampoo, alright?” You say softly as to not to disturb the peace that has settled across you two. He nods, and Simon does not open his eyes. He appreciates you verbalizing your actions—he’s done a lot with trying to trust you with his eyes closed, and you being so willing to verbalize what you’re doing means a lot to him, even if he doesn’t know how to say him.

You open the shampoo bottle and you squeeze it into your palm, until you close the bottle with one hand by pressing the lid against your palm and pressing down, the bottle closing with a click. You set it aside, and you rub the shampoo into both of your hands before you lean down and your fingers run through his scalp and his hair, apply slight pressure to scrub. You watch the tension in his eyebrows melt away, and you can’t help but take this chance to admire his face while his eyes are closed. You thoroughly scrub his scalp and his hair, making sure every inch is lathered in soap. “You’re staring again.” Simon rasps without opening his eyes, you smile. You don’t respond with words—you simply lean down and press a quick and soft kiss to his cheekbone, and you swear his upper lip twitches, almost into a smile for a second. “I’m going to wash the shampoo out now, Simon.”

You wash the shampoo out just like you said you would, making sure none is left. You keep the water a comfortable, warm temperature for him. You let him know you’re going to apply the conditioner now, and when you turn back to him, his eyes are open. You pause for a moment as you make eye contact, wondering if you did something to startle him—but he’s staring at you with such a.. soft look. A vulnerable one. He motions for you to continue and you obey, lathering your hands in the conditioner. He hums when your fingers touch his scalp, reaching up and grabbing a wrist of yours, and his thumb strokes the inside skin of your wrist. You smile and nod, because you know he’s thanking you—for washing his hair, for accepting all of him.

You wouldn’t have him any other way.

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rileyslibrary · 6 months

Text

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

———————————————————————

“My office, 5 pm,” he said.

And that’s precisely what you did.

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

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

“Lieutenant Riley?” You say out loud.

Silence.

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

Nothing.

You recall his orders. My office, 5 pm.

You check your watch. It’s 5 pm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A snow globe.

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ghost!” You shout.

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he nods. “For my collection.”

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

He stops fiddling with the papers and looks at you.

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

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

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

“That’s what I said.” He replies.

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle, and he turns to look at you.

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

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

“An homage to the country?”

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

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

“It’s pretty.” You whisper.

“You like it?” He asks.

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

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

“No, Lt.!” you shout. “I’d never-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————————————

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

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x y/n #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley fic #simon riley x reader #simon riley x gn!reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #simon riley #cod ghost #ghost cod #call of duty

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sstormyskyess · 6 months

Text

Medical Evac

author's note: i'm not sure i'm the best at writing whumps [i love hurt/comfort so i may write a part two to this but we'll just have to see]

cw: whump, mentions of blood, injury

word count: 1600+

Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN!Reader "Nails"

If only every operation could just go smoothly. Unfortunately, in the world of TF-141, the dirtiest work was the norm. With the dirtiest work comes the nastiest repercussions when things go horribly wrong, after all. "Ghost, I need you to open your eyes for me. Please,” You plead with the hulking man laying in your arms. Your voice is muted as you choke back a sob, your eyes shut tight. The sound of Ghost’s pained groans is both disheartening and promising at the same time; at the very least, he's still breathing.

The corner you had dragged the both of you into was dark, dusty, and dicey, similar to the situation you found yourselves in. The room you're in was surrounded by enemy forces: the ones who reduced the almighty Ghost to a half-dead heap on the filthy concrete floor smeared with layers of blood, old and new. Your eyes moved frantically between Ghost, to the door of the hovel you’d created, and to the barred window on the other side of the room. Evac was supposed to be only a few minutes out and it had been almost fifteen minutes since you called for it. What could possibly be delaying them?

Ghost had stopped squirming in pain at this point. His breathing is slow, labored. It's almost impossible to tell if his eyes are open or not, and the pitch black eye paint certainly doesn’t help. “Ghost?” You shake him a bit. No response. “Ghost?” Your voice begs him for a sound, a twitch, anything to show you that he was still alive. “Please, you can’t leave me— I can’t lose you now.” You whimper quietly as you hunch over to press your forehead against the hard plastic plate of Ghost’s mask. All you can hear was the crackling flames and heavy boot steps just outside the room.

A heavy hand meets the back of your head, causing you to flinch up and look at Ghost. His eyes were finally open again. It was only just a fraction and it seems so forced that it hurt, but they were open. The hand holding your head so gently was tense. His grip tightens and loosens in time with his strained breathing. The tears in your eyes finally fall and drop down onto Ghost’s mask, prompting him to squeeze the back of your head just a bit harder. “It’ll—” Your voice breaks as you speak, feeling choked by the smoke and your own tears. “It’ll only be a little longer, Ghost, just— please, please,” You nuzzle deeper into his hold. “Just stay alive…”

Your shaky hand shot up to your transceiver and your desperate voice blurts out quickly, “What’s the status on evac?! We need to go— now!” Ghost’s hand grips even tighter, trying his best to ground you. Smoke had started to seep under the door. The footfalls outside had seemingly begun to grow louder, louder…

Until, finally, you see the heli approaching your location. You look down at Ghost for a second. Reluctantly, you set him down, carefully, as though he was made of porcelain. You scramble over to the barred window and scan for the best vantage point to… there.

Your foot comes up and slams into a rusted part of the bars and breaks them open, along with some of the bones in your foot. But that wasn’t important right now. A sudden burst of adrenaline courses through your veins from the mind-numbing pain you just inflicted upon yourself and you suddenly find yourself dragging Ghost along the floor and over your shoulder and jumping through the window to the grassy ground around the building. You wince when you felt him take a couple impacts on the way out. You adjust him the best you could, not wanting to make things worse. The last thing you needed was for things to be even worse than they already are.

You haven’t been able to breathe properly for the past six hours. Your mind has been entirely preoccupied with thoughts of Ghost. He hadn’t stirred once since you made it back to the small temporary base TF-141 had settled into for the past few weeks. Even though pain has been radiating up your ankle to the rest of your leg, you haven’t let anyone near to assess the damage. You haven’t even let Price, Soap or Gaz approach you. Whenever anyone would close in on you, your chest tightened. It was as if a boa constrictor has wrapped itself around your chest, squeezing as tight as it could. You just couldn’t stop yourself from snapping at the medics and your colleagues. You knew deep down you’d regret it later, but that was far from the front of your mind.

Really, this whole situation was your fault. It was the most simple mistake, one that even a rookie wouldn’t make. You caught your foot on one piece of debris and Ghost had to help you up. Then, next thing you knew, he had been riddled with bullet holes and he was bleeding everywhere, and he was dying, he was dying—

“Nails…” Ghost’s voice was rough, the sound of it grating on your mind. You can’t bear to keep hearing it playing over and over in your head. It's painful. It hurt to hear him like that. “Nails.” You silently beg for it to stop. His voice was like sandpaper, digging into your skin down to your heart, into your lungs. You couldn’t breathe—

“Nails!” Ghost’s insistent voice finally breaches past your spiraling mind and you jump to attention. You hadn’t realized you were crying again, hunched over and sobbing into your lap, the tears falling down upon your still dirtied cargo pants. You meet eyes with Ghost. You stare at each other for a couple more seconds until he coughs and winces in pain. Apparently, shouting like that really did a number on the back of his throat, parched after the many hours of not drinking.

Words continue to go unexchanged for a few more seconds that seem to drag on for hours. Before you choke out, “I’m sorry,” over and over again. You hunch back over, unable to look Ghost in the eyes. All you could keep seeing was the pain in his gaze under his mask and eye paint. Ghost’s firm hand lands on your head, caressing you with his now ungloved hand. You lean into him quietly. “I almost got you killed…” Your body trembles, your voice broken and breathless.

Ghost’s hand tenses. “Stop that.” He grumbles through gritted teeth. He hates this self-flagellation you were subjecting yourself to. You didn’t deserve that pain, that sole responsibility you tended to leverage upon yourself. You're too good for that. “Look at me.” His voice is gruff and gravelly as he vies for your attention, watching you despair in front of him. Your eyes are finally pulled up to Ghost’s; they're red and saturated with tears, your eyelashes catching the droplets.

“I’m alright.” Ghost’s voice is hoarse as he did his best to comfort you. He grabs your hand and squeezes it tight, bringing you closer to the present and further out of your mind. “Ghost, I— You almost died. I don’t want to lose you…” Your voice is weak. You look at Ghost almost as though he isn’t real. You feel as though maybe this is all just a dream: a hopeful dream where Ghost was still alive, a dream where you’d actually succeeded in keeping him alive. Maybe he's dead and gone, and you’ll wake up just to see that you failed. “I can’t lose you.” The tears start to return. “Are you… are you gone?” You whisper.

Ghost’s cold, icy heart has been cracking ever since he met you. It's been getting harder and harder for him to tell himself he doesn’t care, and that you're just a coworker, maybe even a nuisance with how persistent you are in trying to make friends with him. No matter what he did, you're always there for him, ready to help and ready to care for him if ever he needs it. Even if you knew that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. Ghost sighs. “I’m here. I’m not dead.” He moves his hand up your arm and squeezes your shoulder. “You’re not gonna lose me, Nails.”

You sit there quietly for a few minutes, only the sounds of Ghost’s heart monitor and your labored breathing occupying the room. You sigh and look up from your lap. “I should get the nurse.” You force out, still trying to choke down the tears welling up. You grip the armrest of the bed and stand carefully, but you don’t get far before your knees buckle and you fall to the floor with a cry of pain.

Ghost is up and at attention immediately, grabbing hold of your arm. “What’s the issue, Nails?” You whimper and try to force yourself up again. “My—” You clench your teeth, your brow scrunching up. “My foot. It’s broken, I think…” You mutter, waiting for his admonishment. Ghost squints at you. “Why haven’t you gotten it treated, sergeant?” His voice is firm, masking the genuine worry hiding beneath it. He watches as fresh tears start rolling down your cheeks. “I didn’t— I-I was worried about you…” You whimper.

“Bloody git…” Ghost groans both in pain and in frustration. You sniffle and get yourself sat in the chair again. “I-I have to get the nurse. I’m sorry.” You wipe your face with your sleeve. Forcing yourself up again, you keep your eyes off Ghost and squeezed shut. With shaky legs, you limp and stumble on your way to the door. Ghost sighs and settles back into his bed to shut his eyes after watching you leave.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon riley x gn!reader #ghost x gn!reader #ghost mw2 #ghost modern warfare #ghost cod #mwii #modern warfare ii #mw2 2022 #cod mw2 #mw2 #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #storm's creations #sstormyskyess

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criminalamnesia · 3 months

Note

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

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ghouljams · 3 months

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The Ghost distribution system... He really is like a stray cat, or a bear that learns minivans have food in them, he just keeps coming back no matter how many times you try to send him on his way. It doesn't matter how it happens but any scrap of kindness and he just determines he's going to attach himself to you.

Maybe he offers you a hand moving your couch when he passes your place and hears you swearing. You offer him dinner and Ghost has never been the sort to turn down a free meal, so he sticks around. It's weird that he doesn't even pretend to refuse, just takes you up on it immediately and even offers to help cook. You send him home and he's... there again the next day, waiting on your doorstep with a box of pasta asking if you could do anything with it. He's going to come back, he's going to keep coming back.

Maybe it's from meeting you at a bar. He's the biggest guy you can grab when your ex walks in, and somehow he seems approachable despite... well, everything about him. Fake boyfriend for a few hours at the bar is one thing, having him show up the next day to fix your sink because you mentioned offhandedly that it was leaking the night before is another. Having him sit in your kitchen and peal an orange for you because you said you were hungry is really driving home that this guy isn't leaving.

Hell maybe it's just a one night stand that never seems to end. You wake up and Ghost has already made breakfast. The two of you sit at your little table and eat quietly, Ghost scrolling his phone while you eye him warily, trying to figure out his game. He asks what you want to do today and somehow you can't find the right way to ask when he's planning on going home. He just sort of moves in, you realize he's printed a key for himself while you're grabbing groceries. It's nice he offers to pay, but you don't know when having him around became your normal.

Ghost sees you, he wants you, you're his. He's not leaving, he'll come back. He knows that this house has food and warmth, he knows that families forget to tie their trash up off the ground. He's a man of instinct, and you are going to be his perfect match.

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lethalchiralium · 1 year

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Hey, I loved "No more" :) Could you maybe write something where Ghost and reader got real close and personal on their leave, but the reader worried their closeness might make things harder on the field so they distanced themself from Ghost and it hurt him more than he thought he would ever allow himself? I'm a slut for angst

Don’t Leave Me Like This | Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

a/n: bro i gotta stop getting distracted cause i wrote like most of this and then was like “mmmm family fic” and evaporated . ALSO IGNORE THAT I HAVENT BEEN POSTING I AM WRITING I PROMISE

warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Mentions of sex, of death. Heavy arguments.

Summary: You we’re trying to keep him at arm’s length, knowing that karma was coming for you - but you unknowingly unleashed something much more harmful: Betrayal.

You had only been sleeping with Ghost for five months when you brought him home with you. You forcibly made Laswell cough up leave days for you since you were promised them years ago, and had been saving. A month period out of the field would do you good, so you forced Ghost out too so you could see what he was like.

It was the best month of your life. Granted, it took the Brit a while to get used your simple life outside of the military. A small apartment in Berlin with a normal routine of riding subways and exploring the city. But you didn’t do it more than once with Ghost there, you stayed cooped up at home with a man twice your size fucking you so hard that it was hard to even stand.

He cooked dinner. And he was a surprisingly good cook, you didn’t go to a single restaurant the whole time he was there. It was like you two had lived together the way you waltzed around each other.

You would say that it was just fucking. Just points in time where you cross paths with Ghost and spend twenty minutes getting high off of each other’s bodies, but that month? It was different.

It was the little things. Tracing the plush skin of your hips, tongue licking from your sternum to your jaw - hands staying on you longer than ever before. You thought he was taking his time now that you had all the time in the world. He was wrapped around your finger every moment he spent placing feather light kisses to your beautiful skin, every moment he pressed ‘Mine’ into your neck. Even the way he pushed himself deeper into you had changed - it was soft, graceful; a complete 180 from his usual roughness to get you both to cum as fast as possible.

The days flew by, but they ticked down like a doomsday clock. You felt a tug in your chest one night, his masked face nestled into your neck as he silently slept. Your eyes watched your ceiling fan turn, the wafts of cold air hitting your half covered body.

This couldn’t persist when you were back at work. You liked him, you really did - but you liked your job too. This was wrong, you knew it. A medical sergeant sleeping with their lieutenant broke a slew of rules, but you didn’t want it to end. You didn’t want his touch to depart from your skin ever again, but you knew it had to be done.

So you had the best sex of your life that next night, then you were back on base in England at 0600 the next morning. Everything was perfect for a while, and everything hurt when he finally had enough. You had began to loosen your ties with him, getting more involved with work and staying later and later, to the point where you locked yourself in your office to sleep instead of the barracks.

You knew he had come to see you sometimes, but you never let him in.

So, he was more rough with you. Almost giving you concussions when he slammed you down on the training mat, growling, “Do better.”

He gave you the cold shoulder back, it was hard not to know that he was fuming. Even Soap was concerned, trying to get you to talk so he could play the middle man, but you were closed lipped. You figured it would be better for both of you in the long run if you stayed detached.

You’ve been the last man standing for too many teams in your career, karma would come back in full and take you too. You didn’t want him to shatter when karma pulled you down into Hell.

It was nine at night, you had finished your shower without seeing anyone. You were dressed in some old sweats, a band tee from your high school days. You had left all of your shower supplies in your locker in the shower rooms, all you had in your hands was your towel - which you were using to dry your hair.

Ghost was extremely rough today, almost pulling Soap’s shoulder out of socket and almost giving you a concussion. You let out a little sigh, rubbing your scalp with the scratchy towel - he’d get over it. Get over you, he just had to let out some steam, right? It’s been three weeks and he was still almost breaking bones with everyone on the sparring mat, never losing a single time. Even Price wouldn’t enter the ring, even with you, Soap, and Gaz throwing down a hundred dollars each. He pulled the superior card, stood and watched as his ruthless Lieutenant looked like a rabid dog, fighting for its life. And for as long as he stared at Ghost, Price stared at you, knowing that something happened to make Ghost turn into an animal. Rabid. Deadly.

You pushed your key into the lock, turning it to find that it actually wasn’t locked. It didn’t raise any sort of alarm, you were so damn tired that you must have forgotten to lock it behind you when you went to the showers. Your shoulders ached, sides throbbed - your fingers hurt from typing reports into the computer earlier. Sleep was going to be a saving grace.

You pushed open your door after you pulled your key out, shutting it behind you with your foot. You turned towards your door, hand reaching for the wall to turn on the light. You flicked it on before using both hands to dry your head. You turned back around, yawning.

“Why are you doing this?”

You jumped out of your skin so hard that you tripped backwards, your back slammed against your office door. Your eyes moved from the floor to across the room, where Ghost stood up from your cot. That explains the unlocked door.

“Ignoring me.”

He stood tall, shoulders back and arms across his chest. Your hands pulled the towel from your wet hair, moving to settle it against your chest as your back was still pressed against your door. Heartbeat in your ears, you struggled to take in a breath before whispering, “I’m not ignoring-“

“Bullshit!” His voice was sharp, almost like throwing knives into your skin - sharpened to leave marks on your bones. You stood there, frozen - his eyes bore holes of ice into your head.

“Ghost…“ The voice that left your lips did sound like you, but it sounded like an echo; small, scared.

“Fuck!” His hands went to his masked face. He took a step forwards, begging, “You can’t just-“ He held his hands up beside his face, taking in a breath through his teeth, “Let me in and when I come back, just slam the door in my face without a reason why.”

You wanted to take a step forwards, step closer to the man you did love - but you couldn’t move. Your legs felt like stone, solid and unmovable. “Please, Simon, try to understand-“

“No, fuck you for makin’ me feel like I’m allowed to be loved. Fuck. You.” His finger was pointed straight at you, he took three steps towards you while you took four steps to the side, your fingertips brushed against your locker.

Tears stung at your eyes, your heart hurt as you observed his anger. His eyes flooded with fury, maybe hatred, but you knew he felt betrayed. He had shown you his most intimate pieces, letting you hold them but you crushed them in your grip. You swallowed the thought, knowing that you had already hurt him but you couldn’t let him get hurt because you died. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

“Hurt by fuckin’ what? You?” He scoffed, hands flung out to his sides. “There is nothing that-“

“When I die in the field.”

Your voice sounded so sure that it gave Ghost whiplash. The metaphorical knife you wedged between his ribs twisted as you turned your back to him, opening the locker you kept your civvies in. If you looked through his clothes, you’d see his chest wide open - ribs cracked and exposing his heart and lungs, pouring out blood that only he could see.

You grabbed an old sweatshirt, tears falling down your face. Your hands furiously rubbed at your eyes with the sweatshirt, trying to stop the flood of tears.

“You’re not gonna die in the field.”

You whipped around to him, holding your sweatshirt in your hands as you snapped, “Every one of my friends have died in the field,” Your hands tightened on the fabric, almost wanting to rip it in half. “It’ll be my time sooner or later, karma is nothing but punctual.”

He took a step towards you, his voice lowering and calming down - even just a little. “That’s stupid that you think I wouldn’t be there to protect you.”

“You can’t protect me every single second, Simon!” Tossing the sweatshirt to the side, your arms out wide, signaling that you were wide open for any attack - verbal, emotional, physical, if need be. Your eyes were soft, tears dripping onto your undershirt that almost felt like acid. “You’ve had everyone in your family die, your friends betray you, I can’t let myself be another tally on the board of people who have hurt you.” You took a step back, feeling your calves bump against the door of the locker and your hand flung back to keep yourself steady. You closed your eyes, taking a breath to steady yourself as you whispered, “I don’t want you to grieve me.”

The hand he had outstretched fell to his side, the puppet string that held it was cut. The gaze from underneath the mask felt pure - a gaze sharpened underneath a blade and ground to a point. Meant to hurt, injure. It was meant to kill. And it had turned cold.

“You hurt me more than any of that did when you turned away from me without a fucking word.”

He chuckled to himself, turning away. His footsteps were soundless as he turned to the cot, swiftly sitting down and spreading his knees to place his elbows upon. Your hands felt like stone too, chipped and worn. Was it wrong to want yourself to walk to him, kneel between his legs and beg him for forgiveness? To take his hands into your own and plead? But was it wrong to want him to find someone who wasn’t military, someone who would wait for him at their home and love him like you have?

“Did you mean it?”

You moved and grabbed your sweatshirt off of the floor, wiping your tears with one of the sleeves. “Did I mean what?” You mumbled, knowing he was only trying to get a rise out of you to continue this battle.

“When you told me that you loved me.”

You remembered it clearly.

His head was settled on your chest, stubble dug into your skin as your fingers drew shapes into his scalp. His breathing had evened out a long time ago, your eyes were settled on the ceiling fan in your bedroom.

You were halfway asleep, the comfort of his weight on your body made you so cozy, warm - you felt safe. You had mumbled the words to him, too scared to look him in the eye when he told you that he didn’t. You had to say them, they were fighting to be freed of the cage that was your heart.

You couldn’t lie to him now. “Yes.”

He wiped his nose, keeping his head down as he spoke, “You aren’t supposed to hurt people you love.”

“Me dying would hurt worse.”

“No, it fucking wouldn’t!” His head whipped up so fast, you kept your back to the locker as he stood again, hands flying out as he snapped, “Watching you live without me hurts more than any wound I’ve ever had,” His hands fell to his side, hands clenched. “losing you would haunt me more than any of my mistakes!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

“‘Cause no one loves me.”

The look he gave you was going to haunt you for forever, the look of absolute offense. He was offended that you would even say that. “I do! I fucking do, that’s why I’m in here - asking you to come home with me. Please.” He took your hands as he dropped to his knees in front of you. “Please, please put me back together. It hurts so much,” He buried his face into your hands, squeezing them. “Please, Riot.”

“Take off your mask.” The words you mumbled made him look back up at you. His hands left yours, moving to pull off his mask. As soon as he did, you could perfectly see his face that you’ve only seen twice before. The silvery scars that littered his face, the tears that fell down his face made him seem like a work of art. “Now you don’t have to keep lying.”

“Why don’t you believe me?” His hands took yours again, his dark eyes observing yours intensely, looking for any indication that you were joking. “What do I have to do to prove to you that I love you? What do you need from me?”

You gazed at him, tears falling down your cheeks. Every one of your friends had died when they were on the same team as you, two separate teams, two separate situations in two different parts of the world. You had become a medic after the first team had been killed by an unexpected ambush, but there was nothing you could do for the second team being blown to high heaven by an IED. You joined Task Force 141, prayed that the third time’s the charm - that this team would live.

Karma was a vicious beast, disguised as a haunting specter, roaming the Earth and following ten paces behind you until she decides to pounce. You were scared to die. You were scared that you would die before you could live with him.

“Don’t let me die without you.”

His eyes softened, squeezing your hands. “You’ll live as long as your heart allows when I’m around, my love. I’ll defend you until my last breath.”

———

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