vesper-tinus

[vesper-tinus]

hiii hope you're doing great! could u pls write sth for Simon with fem reader?? anything domestic, soft and cute tnx sm your writing is beautiful🥰♥️

Hello! I'm doing alright, thank you! I hope you're doing well, too! I'm very busy these days, making it difficult to find time to write (maybe also due to Baldur's Gate 3, haha. I'm hooked). Somebody on Ao3 suggested an ice skating date, so I hope it fills out this criteria too!

𝐈𝐜𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female ! Reader

Summary: A date to the ice-rink with your hsuband. Keywords: Female ! Reader, ice skating cate, happy lovey dovey married couple things!. Wordcount: 1051

“No.”

“Please?” you ask again, the smile widening on your face, brightening your expression. “It’ll be fun!” you continue, gleefully dragging Simon along—your hand curled lovingly around his bicep. Just as he is about to tell you no again, you give his muscle a squeeze, and after a brief period of critical thinking, Simon sighs as he turns his attention from you. 

“...alright.” 

At the agreement, you all but shriek with glee, pulling him downwards to press a lingering kiss to his cheek. “It’ll be fun,” you repeat, “I promise! Thank you, thank you, thankyou—” You pull him along with a quicker pace, practically skipping, and even Simon can’t help but be amused at your open display of joy. 

Happy wife, happy life, as they say, and Simon can’t help but agree. Can’t keep the missus unhappy now, can he? 

As you walk, you attempt to quell any worries you might suspect him of listing in his mind. For all his stoicism, you know his mind is apt to create a million-and-one scenarios that could occur on an outing, with a million of them going wrong. “It’s a very low-key place,” you start, leaning closer to your husband, “my friend is actually co-owner of the ice-rink—along with her girlfriend.”

As you talk, Simon feels your intention, and lowers his arm to snake around your waist instead, giving a short hum of acknowledgement.

“Plus, I’ve asked what days and time-frames it’s less crowded, and today—right now—should be optimal!”

“You didn’t have to go through all that,” he responds halfheartedly, knowing well you did all this for him. “but I appreciate it, love.” The dulcet tone of his voice sends a pleasant warmth through you, and when you stop at a red light, he smoothly tilts your head upwards to share a kiss as you wait for the light to switch. “I’m a lucky husband,” he says against your lips, “to have a wife as thoughtful as you.”

There you both stand, happily sharing kisses as a small crowd passes by the two of you. He presses you closer, and now it’s you that feels lucky when his tongue seeks to deepen the kiss. When you part, you can do nothing but stare warm-faced as the light turns from a bright green to red. “We missed the light,” you note sheepishly, leaning against your husband still catching your breath. 

“Doesn’t bother me much,” he says in turn, his faint smile widening slightly. “Leaves me more time to do this…” And once more, he leans down to catch your lips for a kiss, and you eagerly meet him halfway. 

Eventually, with a few distractions, you do manage to reach the indoor ice rink. 

As soon as you enter the building, you’re met with a chill temperature. Fresh and pleasant, and Simon even seems to welcome it.

You hear the echo of a child’s laughter, and the sound brings pleasant memories of younger days. You coax your husband further inside, passing a couple making their way out. They are slightly red-faced, most likely from the cold, but they look happy and exhausted, and it makes you excited for the things to come. 

“Skates first,” you instruct, and Simon gladly lets you guide him around the premise. He has never told you this, but he loves it when you take charge in areas he is unfamiliar with. You’re always physically connected to him—be it by holding hands or taking him by the arm. Leaning against him so he can feel your soothing presence.

You explain things as you walk, and he enjoys hearing it all. ‘Benches for tying our skates’, ‘there’s a café behind those curtains, they make the best hot chocolate’, ‘I feel flat on my face right over there when I was young...’.

Your friend greets you happily from behind the counter, fishing out a pair of skates for each of you. The two of you catch up, making small talk as Simon stands silently beside you, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back. Your friend wishes you a fun time, waving you off as you, once more, guide him along. “We were neighbours as kids,” you explain as you settle on a bench, “even back then she was skating—always dragging me with her.”

You tie your own figure skates first before offering to do his, only to find that he has already tied them with efficiency. Army training, of course.

Before you even have to time to comment on it, he's already shifting one of your legs over his lap.

"Simon?" you ask, watching him untie your skate, only to re-tie it again. Much better than what you did, you note. Tighter, more secure. When you thank him, his thumb is tracing circles against your clothed, lower calf.

"Can't have my wife slippin' on the ice, now can I?"

Your excitement is evident as you carefully make your way towards the ice. You’re no professional, perhaps even a bit rusty, but you’re confident that whatever skill you might’ve had will come back after a few minutes. 

From an outside perspective, he would appear casual, perhaps even disinterested, but you know when he’s hesitant. You notice when he’s uncertain, when his jaw is subtly clenched. Perhaps he would’ve been more comfortable in hockey skates, and you make sure he knows the offer to switch stands. 

“Almost there, sweetheart,” you say with encouragement, beaming a smile over your shoulder. 

The ice welcomes you like an old friend.

You smoothly turn to face Simon, hands outstretched for him to take.

“What we don’t do for love,” he says dramatically, causing you to roll your eyes with mirth. But he takes your outstretched hands in his own to meet you on the ice. Dare you say, perhaps even with a bit of confidence? He pulls you to him, and there you stand, chest to chest. 

“Why, hello,” you coo at him, head tilting to lure him in for a kiss. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Simon takes the bait hook, line, and sinker, warming your lips as you share a kiss. You continue this exchange of brief kisses and embraces as you skate, like a reward for his progress. A carrot on a stick. It doesn’t take long for him to get the hang of it, though he is never completely comfortable either. He hates the drifting, and readily sass you when the opportunity arises. 

Together, you glide across the ice. Encouraging each other through competitiveness and love. 

Your laughter echoes throughout the, now empty, rink, and Simon can’t help but feel awe-struck by the beauty of your enjoyment. To have you willingly share this side of you, one so eager and excited, with him is… humbling. He matches your efforts in earnest whenever you pick up the pace, and whenever he finds it difficult to brake, you’re right there to slow him down. Time passes in the blink of an eye, and only when you pause to catch your breath do you feel the tiredness in your calves and the cold on your face. Perhaps it’s time to call it quits. 

You wave at Simon,  gesturing for him to rendezvous in the middle. 

“Thank you,” you say as you skate into his waiting arms. 

He catches you readily, even if you cause him to slowly drift backwards. He arches a brow, awaiting a continuation. 

“For joining me, I mean. I… had a lot of fun, Simon.” You pause, draping your arms over his shoulders, your smile softening. “It means a lot to me that you were willing to try.” Your husband’s stubbornness is legendary—both a help and a hindrance, yet he finds it increasingly difficult to say no to you. Though, you know when not to press a suggestion, and he appreciates your willingness to compromise. 

“And you mean a lot to me, love.” He kisses you, leaning down to kiss your jaw next. His nose is cold, and it sends shivers down your spine. “Wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be” Which is Simon’s way of saying he had fun. 

“All’s well that ends well,” you agree, preening at his enjoyment of your shared activity. “Let’s head home to warm up?”

He hums in quiet agreement, letting you guide him by the hand as you skate towards the rink’s edge.

Wherever you go,  he will readily follow. 

Wherever you are, he will meet you halfway.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost cod #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction

[vesper-tinus]

So i had this little idea. What if ghost while putting back something he borrowed from the reader notices a vial of testosterone, assuming its steroids, while they're out on a mission. But when confronted about it it turns out that the reader is actually ftm

Hah, a fun little drabble! Thank you so much for the request, I hope I managed to write something you can approve of 😊

𝐀 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 Platonic ! Simon "Ghost" Riley x FTM (Trans) ! Reader

Summary: Returning a document to your room, Ghost notices a vial he suspects you most certainly should not be in your possession. Keywords: Platonic, drabble, it was not specified if it was romantic, but I assume you would've told your partner about your transitioning! Word Count: 1166.

“Open the fuckin’ door, it’s freezing.”

You roll your eyes but oblige the request from your teammate. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Soap was allergic to a little snow and below 0 temperatures. The rest of the squad piles in after you, six pairs of boots stomping into the bunker, leaving trails of snow that soon melt.

“Why did we get the mission where there’s bloody snow, my balls are—”

“Enough, Sergeant,” barks Ghost, the leader of your makeshift unit, “you two”—he gestures to you and the guy next to you—”first shift. Rest of you, make yourself scarce. And not another fuckin’ word about it being cold.” The lieutenant fixes Soap with a hard stare. He had been the only one complaining about it, and you cannot help but snicker at the ire aimed at him. You fistbump your watch-mate as you leave to take post outside, waving a dismissive farewell to the rest.

The rest of your waiting passes in a blur, and as quickly as you had paired up with your team, you’re separated. You walk shoulder-to-shoulder with Ghost, discussing the dreadful, but obligatory, report you’ve been co-writing. Neither of you particularly enjoy it, but you appreciate his no-nonsense attitude when it comes to work. Ghost gestures faintly to a paragraph as your eyes scan over a particular phrase that freezes your walking, your hand coming up to slap your forehead.

“Shit, I forgot—Ghost, I’ll catch up with you, alright? I forgot to mention something to Captain Yang!” You are already out of arm's reach by the time he registers what you said, and all he can do is watch you wave your goodbye. “Just… leave the report on my desk, I know you have the key!”

And with that… you’ve disappeared from view, leaving Ghost alone as he rubs the bridge of his nose with mild exasperation and an ink-stained report. Still, Simon is a man of his word, and so, he makes his way towards your private dwelling — a luxury few have the privilege to have in the military, though it’s worth noting that the owner passes from personnel to personnel depending on who’s on base, and right now, that’s you.

The room is quiet as he enters.

It reminds him of a hotel room. There’s barely any signs of living, though you do keep a few personal items, and Ghost would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit curious. The desk is barren, though one of the drawers is pulled out. He rolls his eyes, more out of habit than exasperation, to ignore something as simple as pushing a drawer shut.

He moves to diligently store the report in the aforementioned drawer, but something causes him to pause. 

A small vial. No larger than his palm. 

A sudden bitter taste climbs up his throat, acidic and vile, as he reaches for the unknown bottle of liquid. There’s no telltale sign of the contents—the label is in worn condition, and there are no documents to verify his suspicions. You, a man he trusts, wouldn’t go behind his back on something like this, right? You, who have heeded his command for missions and personal inquiries? Someone he calls a friend? A confidant? 

He clenches the small vial in his palm. He should take it up the ladder right away, but he can’t find it in himself to move his legs. He wants to be wrong so badly, but how could this be explained?

“I didn’t take you for a curious cat.” 

Your voice cuts through the silence with a sudden and unflinching tone. There's subtle accusations behind the words, and why wouldn’t there be? You had just caught him palming your stuff. Stuff that was very much tucked away in a drawer, open, yes, but in a drawer nonetheless.

The lack of response causes you to roll your eyes, you’re annoyed, not upset, it’s more bothersome than anything. You walk towards him with intention, reaching for the vial in his hand. 

He doesn’t relent. 

“Very funny,” you mutter, “give it.”

“What the hell are you thinkin’?” 

You blink slowly, frowning at his response. Your gaze drops to the vial before focusing on your commanding officer. “I’m thinking that, that’s my property, and I—”

“I find it hard to believe you’re thinkin’ at all,” he says, lifting the vial as if it was a piece of discriminating evidence. “You’re damn fuckin’ lucky I was the one who found this—”

Your earlier irritation turns to blatant anger. You’ve received no explanation, no rhyme-or-reason, and it feels incredibly uncomfortable having someone find out about your personal history without having been prompted by you. You’re confused, and fuelled by your flight-or-fight instincts. “My possessions are none of your business!”

“You think it’s not my business whether someone under my command is doing steroids?” he retorts, voice seething with anger, but more importantly, disappointment. 

You stare back at him, slack-jawed. His words echo in your head on loop. Over and over again.

“Holy shit,” you mutter, voice quiet with disbelief. You tiredly rub your face, sensing the faint thrumming of a headache building up. You barely make it over to the nearest chair before you all but fall into it. Simon takes your silence as a confirmation. He takes your cursing as getting caught. He’s about to open his mouth again, you can see the skull-mask subtly shifting in motion with his jaw. You interrupt him before he can even start again, your hand cutting through the air.

“Lieutenant,” you say, mustering every ounce of respect you have left in you, keeping your tone levelled. “That is my prescribed testosterone.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“I have the documents verifying the legit—”

“No, no, you needn’t do that,” Ghost mumbles swiftly, and you can’t help but be in awe at seeing the Lieutenant embarrassed for the first time. Positively mortified, even. 

The label had gotten scratched during transport, and considering you keep photocopies of the label for security measures, you’ve never worried about replacing it. Hasn’t been your first bottle, and it won’t be your last.   

You watch as Simon carefully peels off his balaclava, baring his face to you with an expression of obvious remorse. There’s a slight tinge of red to his cheeks, and you can’t fight back the lopsided smile.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says, shamefaced and genuine. “Not my proudest moment, I’ll admit.” He’s trying to lighten the situation, and you appreciate it, you truly do, but there is also a comedic value you cannot ignore.

“I appreciate you taking the time to confront me privately first, but honestly Simon, do you think that low of me? That I would be taking steroids?” You keep your voice calm and levelled, but there is a subtle disappointment in your voice.

“Don’t tell others about this.” He pauses. “Please.”

“Are you pulling rank on me, sir?”

“Yes.”

You chuckle. “I was going to keep it quiet anyway.”

“I know.”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost cod #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction #trans reader #platonic

[vesper-tinus]

I mean this as a genuine compliment but the depiction of autism in your Simon oneshot was really well written for someone who's allistic (not autistic), you didn't play into any negative stereotypes and while there were stereotypes used you used them respectfully and I as an autistic person appreciate that. I might not experience autism in that specific manner but I could see where I did and I really commend the effort you put into that. (also this is not the anon who sent the ask)

Hello, thank you so much for taking the time to write this message!

I did my utmost to present it as respectably as I could, and I'm pleased it came across as such. Thank you very much for messaging me, and giving me your personal thoughts on the matter 🖤

#vespers

[vesper-tinus]

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 (part 2) Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female ! Reader

Summary: You awake in the hospital, recovering from your injuries, and find that you have not been alone. A continuation of a request that you can read here. Keywords: Minor mentions of hospital equipment (if one is squeamish), happy end, a continuation. I hope you guys enjoy it 😊 Wordcount: 1668. Tags: (my firsts, wow!) @srjksr — @nicoleoeoeoe 🖤

Simon’s eyes stay locked onto yours as he, with hardened yet wavering voice, begs you to keep your attention on him. The certainty from his lips fading with each second you are unresponsive. He moves closer to you, pulling your bloodied and lifeless body into his arms and holding you there protectively—furious and heartbroken—and so alone. 

You feel a sharp pain somewhere in your head, you’re not certain where—did you just think? There’s a subtle buzzing in your ears, under your skin, crawling over you like weevils. You attempt to grasp at the thin threads of your consciousness, but everything you find is fleeting. Logic and experience tells you that you are in some drug-induced state of exhaustion, one that is coming to its end.

You persist.

You persist despite the pain that awakens with each breath. 

As your mind continues to reassert its existence in the waking world, the past few days come back trickling into focus, dripping into being like the IV attached to your arm. A sensation you’ve felt before, and have been hoping to never feel again, alas, a small price to pay for un-death. Gradually, you become more aware, but it’s a fighting battle. Each light re-lit causing new pains to be discovered. Your eyelids feel heavy, resting would be so easy, but you want to wake up. You need to wake up.

You cease your attempts at movement. 

Someone, or something, is holding onto your hand. 

And there’s a noise—faint, but noticeable—that almost rhythmically accompanies the continuous beeping, steady and quiet, but you hear it. The faint inhale and exhale of breathing—not your own. 

Sleeping?

You attempt to move your palm, wiggle your fingers, but waking up your limbs seems almost an impossible task. You inhale slowly, your weakened lungs taking their fill of assisted-oxygen. The hospital room reeks of disinfectant—there’s a staleness in the air that brings no comfort to its visitors. It’s a weighted silence that feels almost artificial to your awakening state. 

You blink to clear the cobwebs, and you are met with a blurry sight. You grimace as you squeeze your eyes shut once more, attempting to will the world to sharpness. The first thing you manage to carve out is the whirring ceiling fan above you, the movement of the lazy blades doing little to help, and so you avert your eyes to whoever has been holding your hand. 

Simon?

You’ve always known him to be a light sleeper, but the depths of his exhaustion comes as a surprise to you. He has always been strict regarding exhaustion and sleep schedules—going as far as to confiscate caffeine when the situation called for it, with Price’s permission, of course. To see him here, sleeping and unmasked, stirs not only relief in your heart, but worry. 

How you’ve missed him.

“Sh-” Your attempt at speaking his name is barely audible, your voice hoarse and unfamiliar to both your throat and ears. 

He startles awake, his grip on your hand tightening as he springs to life. Shoulders squared and the intensity of his attention is solely focused on you. The dark circles beneath his eyes have worsened since the last time you saw him (though you are unclear how long ago that is). He speaks your name with faint disbelief, with wonder, and oh the love. 

You can almost see the weight lifted off his shoulders. Unburdened by the proof of life—by your life. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, pointedly and honest, but without bitterness. His words are accompanied by a gentle squeeze of your fingers. His eyes dart all over you, as if afraid you were a conjuration of his dreams—as if you could disappear at any moment.

What comes out of your mouth is something between a wheeze and a dry cough, and Simon is quick to rest the cup of water by your lips. The cold water feels unfamiliar to your throat, burning the entire way down, but it helps.   

You lick your lips, and attempt to speak again. 

“Dick.” 

You’re rewarded with the quiet sound of Simon chuckling, all too charming on its own, though it soon quiets down—a bit too soon for your liking—and once more you are feeling the weighted silence of your hospital room. 

He doesn’t speak further. He merely sits back down to watch you as he traces gentle circles over your hand with his thumb. You’re not even certain he knows what he’s doing, but it’s enough to cause your heart to flutter, so you avert your gaze, peering around to exercise the few muscles that have been still for… who knows how long. You crane your neck, attempting to find any hints to your location. “Where am I?”

“The hospital.”

“Thanks, smartass, “ you reply with a wry smile, “which one?”

Simon pauses, glancing down at your intertwined hands. “... The one you’d be the most comfortable in.”

His response is not what you had expected, and the subtle crease between your brows should be telling enough. You wait for further explanation, but receive none. So you take matters into your own hands, glancing around the room again, but this time with intent. You notice the pattern on the far wall, and the familiar colour of the blinds half-drawn. You notice the little print on the corner of your blanket of a logo you’ve seen before. A memory resurface of an incident months ago. 

“They treatin’ you alright here?” Simon asks, tossing you an unopened cup of pudding as he nears your cot. “I don’t see why you couldn’t just have stayed on base. We have medical personnel for a reason, y’know.”

You roll your eyes, expertly catching the little plastic container with ease. “That’s exactly why, Simon,” you respond, peeling off the plastic spoon attached to the side of the cup, ”because they treat me better here.” You pause, smiling at the obvious disbelief on his face. “They’re… I don’t know… friendlier?”

“Sure, “friendlier”. A military wing in a civilian hospital. How nice.”

“It’s an”—you wave the, now stained, spoon in a circular motion—”acquired taste. Plus, I’ve been here before. I like it better here.”

… you’ve been here before, and Simon knew. He knew and he remembered. 

The realisation must be showing on your face, because Simon clears his throat, diverting your attention. “I should probably let the others know you’re awake,” he says quietly, his warm hand still encasing yours.

“Yeah,” you respond with equal gentleness, “you probably should.”

But neither of you make any further effort to act on it.

The silence stretches on. You notice how his jaw is clenched again, and his shoulders seem to have tensed up. You, yourself, are not free of these symptoms either. Neither of you have forgotten why you’re here, yet neither of you are willing to delve into those memories just yet. But you should, right? For answers? For reassurance? You swallow a breath, steadying your thoughts. 

“Help a girl sit up?” you ask with a wry smile, and with subtle hesitation, he does just that. Cautious hands propping up a stack of pillows behind your back for you to rest against. He’s careful not to disturb the IV tubes, nor the nasal cannula you have become annoyingly aware of. You mutter your thanks and receive a nod in response. 

When he retreats, he doesn’t move far, but he doesn’t take your hand again. The lack of his warmth bothers you more than you'd care to admit.

“You’re smart enough to know what comes next, right?” you ask, attempting to keep a light tone. "What I'm about to ask you?"

“I know.”

You press your tongue against the roof of your mouth. 

“... did you mean it? What you said? When I…”

You take a breath, holding it for three seconds, before exhaling.  When you almost died. When he thought you died.

There’s no need to clarify what you are referring to. It’s been weighing on both of you for a long, long time, though neither of you were keen to bring it up. Perhaps out of fear to change what you had, or maybe it was the risk of losing it all together. 

But it was always there.

“I still do,” he says carefully, pausing briefly to gather his thoughts. “And I almost lost you for it.”

“Simon-”

He interrupts you, rising from his chair in a sudden movement. “I don’t know if I can go through that again.” He's not sure of what to do, and that frightens him, but losing you frightens him more.

Muscle pains be damned, you attempt to sit up straighter, reaching for him. You can’t risk losing him, not when he’s this close. “You don’t think it’s worth trying? I love you, Simon, I’d… I’d like for us to try.” Your hand is weakly gripping the sleeve of his hoodie. Should he wish to, he could easily walk out the room… but he doesn’t. Quietly, he settles down again, easing your fingers apart to hold your hand once more. Silence builds between you again, growing so palpable that it almost feels oppressive.

“Alright,” he says.

“Alright?”

“I’d… like for us to try, too.”

You sigh in obvious relief, carefully falling back into the pillows stacked behind your back. “I can’t believe you made me go through that in a hospital cot,” you mutter, “what kind of boyfriend does that?” Your attempts at easing the atmosphere are appreciated, and Simon eagerly takes the hook you’re offering. 

“The ones’ who’s girlfriends die in their arms.”

“We weren’t dating back then, and secondly, I didn’t die fully.”

“You look like it, though,” he quips back with a fuller smile, more than eager to forget the intensity of the previously exchanged words. 

“You’re such a—”

The banter between the two of you comes as natural as breathing, and it’s a welcoming feeling. One you’ve missed. This is not the end of your conversation, of course, but neither of you are ready for it just yet. 

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost cod #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #reader imagine

[vesper-tinus]

Hello! I hope you're doing well! I just wanted to ask you if you still have many requests you want to fulfill because well... I had a little request and I would love to read it written by you, but I also do not want to overwhelm you with requests because I'm sure you have a lot! So I am just being careful because I know it can get very overwhelming and stressful!

Hello, thank you for your message! I do have quite a few requests I am slowly (but surely) working through. I am not particularly overwhelmed, despite the numbers, and I would be more than happy to write your request. Feel free to write it in, and I will get around to it when my time allows it!

Thank you very much for thinking of my well-being! 🖤

#vespers

[vesper-tinus]

Please tell us you’ll make a part two to “Your Blood On His Hands” 🥹

Well, how can I say no to such a polite inquiry😊There has been a few people requesting it, so I will be sure to write a part two!

Thank you for enjoying the snippet, one and all! 🖤

#vespers #souity

[vesper-tinus]

Could I request a little something with Ghost in which reader (soldier from the 141 also) and him fuck casually “without catching feelings” and in a mission she gets shot and thinks she’s going to die, ghost freaks out and she tells him: ‘you know what I think? I think you’re gonna have to find another fuck buddy’, and he confesses that he had loved her all along?

Hello! You most certainly can! Really putting Simon through the trenches, huh? I hope this is akin to what you were looking for! Enjoy 🖤

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female ! Reader

Summary: Fatally injured during a mission, Simon tends to you in your final moments. Keywords: Reader is a lieutenant, angtsy questionmark? Blood, injury, death (or is it 😏). Wordcount: 1051

“You’ll live, just sit still for fuck sake,” Ghost barks demandingly as you feel his palm press against your hand, pressing your wound. There’s an edge to his voice, one you’ve never heard before. It’s… different. Different from his usual, cool demeanour you are often subjected to out in the field. There are no quips, no one-liners. He almost seems agitated with you. At everything around you. 

Well. You have the perfect remedy for that.

“That your professional opinion, sir? Because from where I’m sitting”—you suck in a sharp breath, clenching your teeth as you almost keel over in pain, exhaustion, and whatever the hell this feeling is—“because—fuck—I think you’re gonna have to find a new fuck buddy,” you hiss, attempting to chuckle. You don’t want him to be like this with you. Not in your final moments. You want him to call you a moron, and make a joke at your expense. Call you thick-headed and stubborn. Something, anything. You think hearing the subtle lilt in his voice as he cracks a joke would be a pleasant thing to hear in your final moments. 

“That’s not funny.”

You attempt to raise your head to look at him, though the blood oozing down your eye makes it difficult to see much of anything. You had almost forgotten the nasty scar running across your forehead. Almost. Adrenaline does the damndest thing to your senses, you haven’t even noticed he’s been wrapping your waist the best he could, to keep the blood from pouring further. 

“That’s not fuckin’ funny, I—” Ghost swallows a breath through gritted teeth. His features are hidden beneath the skull mask you’ve become so familiar with. It’s fitting, almost, dying in the face of death itself—a skull. Your eyes feel heavy as you envision what it would look like. Would he carry you across the threshold back to the team? You, bloodied and dead in his arms, and him a visage of death? Carrying you to the afterlife? 

You let out a gasp as Ghost violently shakes you awake, barking your name like it was an order, like it was the worst thing he ever had on the tip of his tongue. 

You want to stay awake, but it’s so, so difficult.

The hardness of the wall doesn’t feel cold anymore. You feel lighter—lightheaded. Teetering on the brink of nothingness, on the lack of life.

“I don’t fuckin’ want someone else.” His voice is wavering, and his eyes are unfocused. Or maybe that’s just you slipping in and out of consciousness. “So stay. Awake.” Ghost—Simon—steels his voice, jaw clenching, and you can’t help but cough a chuckle. He still orders you around, even when you're half a foot in the grave. Some things never change.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed. “Orders—“ you wheeze a breath, brows pinching together in pain, “orders denied.” Though not for lack of trying. 

You can’t feel your legs anymore. This is it, you think, and you will the last portion of your energy to lift a hand to his masked face. “Tell the team… tell the team m’sorry.” You want to kiss him goodbye. You want to feel the rough texture of his stubble against your skin. “M’sorry, Simon.” Your voice is choked with emotions. You only call him by his name when you’re teasing him, when you’re testing his limits. When he silently knocks on your door after midnight and you welcome him inside with a purr his name. Better times, you think as the thumping of your racing heart gets louder in your ears. 

You don’t want to die.

You don’t want to leave him alone. 

Your palm leaves a bloodied trail down the white of his mask as your hand falls. 

“Listen to me,” he all but hisses, cradling your face in his hands in an attempt to keep you from slumping over. “Don’t fuckin’ do this to me. Don’t—” His thumbs clumsily dig into your cheeks as you wheeze another breath, doing your best to keep your attention on him.

Whatever he’s saying is drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears, by your own heart. Had you the strength, you would tell him his mask was muffling him, coax him to lift it enough to kiss you. 

He always had a hard time saying no to you. 

Your surroundings blur, the area around you slowly being overtaken by a creeping shadow. You feel him gently nudging your face in an attempt to lure your attention back to him, the roughness of his voice echoing in one ear, falling out the other. His tactical gear easily blends into this unfamiliar shadow, and soon, the only thing you can make out is the paleness of the bloodied mask. 

He just needs you to stay awake a little longer.

He’d contacted the team as soon as he’d found you, contacting base soon after. He can’t lose you, not like this, not when he finally found you. Somewhere in his heart, he can’t help but think of this as some sort of divine punishment. Cruelly taking you away from him the moment he started caring for you more than he should—more than he is allowed to. 

The moment he prolonged his stays in your bed to bask in your company. When he sought you out on his own accord without guising it under sex and stringless fun. 

His hand cups your cheek as his thumb wipes away a spot of blood, desperately attempting to catch your gaze despite your lack of response. "I love you," his tone is soothing, mellow. "Don't leave me like this," he says, pleading for you to hear his words. Simon is not a begging man, but for you he will crawl on his knees. He will pray to every God imaginable, and take any devil's deal. "Stay awake a little longer." He drops his words to a hoarse whisper as he continues, "That’s an order lieutenant.”

You feel a spike of pain in your heart, and then, nothing.

That’s funny, you think in an attempt to cling to coherency, it sounded like he said he loved me. And the thought makes you want to smile. Your heart is pulling tricks on you even in your final moments. 

Maybe in the next life.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost cod #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #reader imagine

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i love your work! you write so well, and the fact english is your third language!?? that’s impressive as heck! i usually hate requesting, but since i love your writing style i thought why not 🥲

would you be able to make another gaz fic? maybe one where the reader and him preparing for bed, you know like following a little routine and going to sleep. you don’t have to, cuz anything with gaz would be great, he’s not appreciated or written about enough 😭

Hello! Thank you so much for the compliment 🖤 ! I'm honoured you even considered requesting, despite your distaste for it—that is quite humbling! I'd be happy to write something for Gaz, and if it's domestic? Even more so! Beloved Gaz !! I hope I managed to write something you can agree with. Happy Valentines 🖤🌹 !

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader

Summary: After a lovely date night, Kyle and yourself return home and get ready for a well-deserved rest. Keywords: Established relationship, romantic fluff, nightly routine—domestic behaviour. Wordcount: 1149

Kyle laughs, twirling you over the threshold of your apartment door before shutting it closed behind him.

The exhaustion is plain on both your faces, but you are happy, you are in love, and you are oh-so-tired.

A night out was exactly what both of you needed, though perhaps you have danced a little too much. Your calves feeling strained, and your feet having protested the entire walk home. As you hang up your coats, the two of you bump hips—they say lovers are often attached by the hip, perhaps there is some truth to it—and the thought makes you smile with tired amusement.  

His arm lazily snakes around your lower back as you walk through your quiet apartment, no light needed due to the familiarity… and Kyle’s insistence that his ‘night vision’ is better than yours—a joke between the two of you, though you suspect there is a genuine part of him that believes it. 

You only part when you reach the bedroom. Hip brushing hip as he moves towards the bathroom, and you towards the dresser. You exhale a pleasant sigh as you finally get to disrobe, trading your glamorous attire for a more comfortable one. You rifle through the options, eventually picking out your choice for the night. 

Sleepwear now checked off your nightly routine, you move to pick out Kyle’s, only to be paused by his voice.

“Babe?”

You glance over your shoulder, peering towards the open-doored bathroom. You can’t see him from where you’re standing, but you see his shadow dance across the tiled flooring. 

“Did we remember to buy toothpaste?” he calls from the bathroom, his voice closely followed by the sounds of obvious rummaging through drawers and shelves.

“Yes!” you respond in kind, matching his volume, “in the small drawer to the left, next to the cotton swabs!” You wait patiently for confirmation, Kyle’s t-shirt held loosely in your grasp. 

“... found it! Thanks!” 

You snort in vague amusement, gently shaking your head as you drop his nightwear on the bed. You drape your discarded clothes over the back of the chair, the one by the window, before leaving for the kitchen to refill the water bottles you keep on your respective nightstands.

Eventually, finally, you come to stand next to Kyle in front of the bathroom sink’s mirror, bumping hips as you do—purposefully this time—and the gesture is not lost on him, so he bumps back playfully.

“You were right, of course,” he says smoothly, waving the, now empty, cardboard box the tube of toothpaste came in. Only when you begin brushing your teeth does he lean over to press a minty kiss against your cheek. And another. And another, enough times that it makes you laugh, and a drop of toothpastey-spittle drips down your chin.

“The toothpaste is supposed to stay inside your mouth you kn—” 

You promptly push him out the bathroom before he can finish that sentence, trying not to smile wide at his antics and the laughter that rings out in your shared apartment.

Soon, you manage to finish your nightly routine in peace, giving your reflection one last look of approval before heading to bed.

Kyle’s changed into his sleepwear—boxers and a loose t-shirt, the one you picked out—a touristy thing you bought from your outings as a memory. It’s tacky and an eyesore, but he loves wearing it. ‘Because you picked it for me’, as he likes to remind you, and he often does. The boldness often causing your cheeks to warm.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand. He looks up when you enter the room, smiling lovingly at you. "Just setting the alarm—usual time?"

"A bit later, perhaps. We deserve it after tonight," you respond as you move towards the first window, drawing the blinds close, but the second window gives you pause. You crack it open, finding yourself admiring the view before you. Laid out for your enjoyment.

Quiet has settled over your neighbourhood like a blanket as the sun sets. From the comforts of your window, you watch the warm orange of the evening sky, your eyes glancing over the few wispy clouds left behind from the earlier rain. You breathe a sigh, exhaling with a smile on your face as you take in the freshened air. The day's activities and conversations play in your mind, remembering every smile you saw, and every gesture you felt—particularly from your boyfriend. You willingly let yourself get lost to the thoughts, chuckling at the particularly cheesy moments… and there are many of them.

Suddenly, a pair of well-defined arms wrap around you from behind, gently luring you from the memories, and soon your boyfriend’s chin comes to rest on your shoulder. He presses slow, sensual kisses to the crook of your neck, and you laugh at the ticklish sensation. 

“Ready for bed, babe?”

“In a moment,” you reply, tilting your head just enough to press a kiss to his temple. 

Kyle hums in response as he drapes himself over you, waiting, taking in the view. Though unbeknownst to you, his eyes are shut, and the view you suspect him to be enjoying, is rather the presence of you. He pulls you closer, letting you rest against the warmth of him. 

You emit a noise of satisfaction, and he chuckles at the noise, rewarding you with a gentle squeeze of your body. 

By the window you sway together, rocking side to side in a gentle rhythm. Slowly, but steadily, Kyle picks up the pace, eventually leading you both into a chorus of laughter as he swings you away from the window towards your shared bed. There, you fall together, struggling to catch your breaths. Him, because he keeps tickling you with kisses to every sensitive spot on your neck, and you, because you can’t stop laughing. 

“Alright, alright!” you exclaim in a huff of laughter. “I give up! I concede!” You soak up the warmth and love he exudes, prickling against your skin like the softest of silks. Your eyes meet, and neither of you seem able to gaze away. “Target down,” you manage to mutter out between breaths, a knowing smile curling at your lips.

Quiet settles over you, like it did with the world outside, carefree smiles displayed freely on both your faces. What a wondrous thing, you think, being in love, and being together like this. There will be many more memories to make in this house of yours, in this room, but you will forever remember this moment. The walls of your house will remember it too. 

You softly brush a thumb over his cheekbone, eyes practically sparkling with tenderness, and then you lean in for a kiss.

He tastes like mint. 

Kyle gently takes your face in his hands, pouring every ounce of gratitude, of adoration, into the kiss, matching your affections. 

You taste like mint too. 

#kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #gaz #gaz cod #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #reader imagine

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AHHH I JUST READ THE SECOND PART???? of the lovelace x konig and my little heart;-; your writing is so good !!

Oh, wow! I'm glad you're enjoying König and Lovelace's little adventure😊Currently writing on a third request featuring those two!

Thank you very much for the compliment, I'm glad you like my writing 🖤 Much love your way, anon!

#vespers #anons

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Hey can you please do male!reader having Lichtenberg figure and like maybe one day y/n takes off his shirt cause it’s like really hot and tf 141 is just looking at his back at awe ( this what they look like)

Hello, Kimdiedlater! Thank you for the request! Hopefully I managed to write something similar to what you were looking for. A little disclaimer, Lichtenberg figures tend to disappear naturally after a day, or similar, so I cheated a little bit and let Reader have them for a while longer 😉 Hope you, and everyone reading, will kindly overlook that small medical freebie.

I also apologise to everyone for the radio silence 🖤 Who knew a new year would be so busy?

𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 Platonic 141 x Male ! Reader

Summary: You got fried by lightning on your last mission, and the team only now see the consequences during a hot day. Keywords: Platonic, male reader, as always I make Price the team dad, mentioning of being struck by lightning, and there is medical inaccuracies. Wordcount: 1098.

“Fuckin’ hell, what’s this weather about?” Johnny complains, fanning himself with a magazine he nicked from Kyle five minutes ago. He’s splayed out on a cheap folding chair, comically reminding you of a plethora of renaissance paintings portraying women in all sorts of emotional states. Grief, mostly. 

Sweaty, sweaty grief. 

“Jesus,” you mutter in solemn agreement. Your shirt is starting to feel clammy, and the more you think about it, the more constricted you feel. The fabric is clinging to every curve of your muscled flesh, and it’s icky to say the least. You glance around at the others and their varying states of distress. 

Out of your ragtag team, Simon seems the least bothered.

He’s sitting near Johnny—a choice he probably regrets at this point—tattooed, muscular arms folded over his chest in silence. You have your suspicions that he’s enjoying the warmth, or maybe he simply enjoys Johnny suffering. If anything, he looks peaceful. Eyes shut closed, but with a subtle furrow to his brow. You haven’t seen him this peaceful in a long, long while. 

A little off to the side of Simon, Kyle and Price are discussing something you can’t hear, nor something you particularly care about. It’s too hot for thinking, especially on a day where you’re all off duty.

It’s only a day, but you’ll take any R&R you can get with the team. Fortunately, or unfortunately, you’re granted a longer rest than them.

Unnecessary, in your own opinion, but Price wouldn’t hear a word of it.  

Your attention drifts to Kyle who's pulling at the collar of his shirt, attempting to find solace in the billowing fabric. Given his expression, you doubt it was fruitful, and Price wipes his brow with a cool, damp towel. Fanning himself with his boonie hat. 

Johnny seems to have the right idea. He tossed his shirt minutes ago, leaving it to hang somewhere with little care. Something Price reprimanded him for, but who’s picking a fight in this heat?

So you follow suit, peeling off your olive green t-shirt, grimacing when you notice the blotches of sweat decorating it. At least you’re free from it now. You haphazardly hang it from one of the tent’s wires to dry—to get it out of the way—before rolling your shoulders. Better. Freer. 

“Holy shit!”

You peer over your shoulder, brow arched at the sound of your teammate’s surprise. You find Johnny slack-jawed and with eyes as big as a bug’s. It would have been endearing, had he not been a grown man—alright, maybe it’s a little endearing.

You can’t really blame him. What you have on your back is a unique phenomenon.  

A beautiful, fern-like pattern is spread across your back, spidering over your skin in an almost haunting manner. The spiralling branches have long since faded against your skin, and soon, they will remain a memory in your mind. 

At a glance, many might chalk it up to an ageing tattoo.

“Best close your mouth, Johnny, or you might catch a fly,” you tease, earning you a chuckle from your Kyle. A deserved one. Price watches over the team with mild amusement, shaking his head before returning his attention to the mission brief.

“Does it hurt?” Johnny asks, and when you look over your shoulder again, you see him watching your back, still bug-eyed, and still with the fascination of a child. “Is it permanent?” He’s closer now, hunched over, and you feel the ghost of his breath against your bare back. You can almost feel his fingers dancing across your skin. Almost. 

“Fuck sake, Johnny, give him some space, will you?” Simon lazily, but swiftly, kicks one of the flimsy plastic chairs towards the two of you, and it catches Johnny off guard enough to cause him to stumble into you. His warm hands now, positively, on your back.

Luckily, you’re a soldier with your feet firmly in the ground. There’ll be no falling over today. 

You snort in vague amusement, keeping your back turned to the group. “No, it’s not permanent.” You feel Johnny trace the intricate lines of your injury. The rough texture of his fingertips makes you shiver. 

“It’s called a Lichtenberg Figure. It’s the result of being struck by lightning,” you explain, recounting what had been told to you, the moment you woke up. “Apparently.” 

“Huh,” Kyle says, mildly impressed, “inflammatory response?”

“Got it in one.”

“Looks good on you—glad you're alright, though.”

You sit a little straighter with your sore muscles and preen, absorbing the compliment like dry soil does rain. You click your tongue as you send a wink Kyle’s way, subtly nodding your head in thanks.

“When did this happen?” asks Simon as you turn to face the crowd, rolling your shoulders. He’s wearing a casual mask, obscuring the lower part of his face. It’s unnecessary, really, you have all seen his face, but you also know it brings him comfort. You also recognise the telltale tone of concern in his voice. 

Annoyed concern, if anything. 

He doesn’t like being kept out of the loop, especially not when it comes to the team. 

There’s a subtle fluster on your cheeks as you avert your eyes towards the tent’s roof.

“During my last mission? There was a reason I got rushed to the infirmary when I returned.” You pause, crossing your arms across your chest. For someone who was struck by lightning, you are unnervingly casual about it. “Mostly to confirm I was alright after the initial checkup. Which I am.” You part a hand from the fold, gesturing in John’s general direction. “So if you could tell our dear captain here, that I’m fine enough to join you guys on the miss—”

“Nice try. You ain’t goin’ nowhere except to the infirmary for daily checkups,” Price counters, chuckling at your childish expression of disbelief. You know his firmness comes from a place of care, but you’re not appreciating the smug aura that lingers behind it. Was it not for this heat—and that he was your captain—you would flick the hat off him. 

“Whatever,” you mumble, settling back into your chair. 

“Whatever what?” 

“Whatever, sir;” you correct, attempting to keep the smile off your face. 

“Atta boy.”

The time passes slowly in the heat, and a part of you can’t help but appreciate it. You hate leaving the team behind, but what’s worse, is when they have to leave you behind. Your frown is subtly hidden behind the bottle of water as you take a sip, eyes casually watching each of your teammates. Your friends. 

Just come back safe, guys.

#cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #reader imagine #captain price #john price #captain john price #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #gaz #soap #ghost #141 #team 141 #kimdiedlater

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I wanted to compliment you! I love your writing, it's very beautiful and smooth, such a pleasure to read! When I read that English is not your first language I was surprised, because you're very good! It's not mine either, but I read a lot in English and I often see various mistakes (even easy ones like your/you're) made by English people, but in your stories I've read none of that! Keep up the good work! Have you ever thought about opening an Ao3 acc for your fics? They would be easier to find!

Oh, thank you so much! What a lovely message to receive! 🖤

Heh, do not be fooled, sometimes my mind fogs over, and I hit myself with the your/you're mistakes. I try my best to write it as clean as possible for a smooth experience! Glad that it's paying off!

I do actually have an AOE3 account that I made to store all my snippets (though I am quite lazy on uploading…), my name on there should be "Matt_AKA_Vespertine", and share the same profile picture as the one I have on tumblr!

#vespers

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I was wondering if you'd be up to write about ghost having an autistic partner, I feel like he'd be the most understanding about it. Especially if it's anything about hanging out with a group of people

Hello! Thank you for the request, and thank you for trusting me with it! I would like to start with a little disclaimer. I am not on the spectrum, but I did my best to fulfil the request in the most respectable way I could. It is not anyone's job to educate me, but if there is anything misinterpreted or offensive, please reach out and I will correct it! Autism is a spectrum, and all autistic and neurodivergent people present differently, and will have different traits and different aids!

With that being said, I hope you'll enjoy the snippet!

𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 Simon "Ghost" Riley x Autistic ! Reader

Summary: You experience sensory overload while attending a brunch, and depart for home with your boyfriend in tow. Keywords: Established Relationship, over-stimulation, anxiety and being overwhelmed. Wordcount: 1262

It’s a gradual falling that worsens with each noise. Everything is overlapping in an uncomfortable, itchy way. Your own breathing, the constant murmur of chatting guests, and the rattling of a tea cup. A sharp laughter makes you jump, and you feel your skin crawl at someone’s consistent crumbling of plastic wrapping. The lamplights are white-hot, and even when you shut your eyes, you feel blinded. 

It’s too much.

You attempt to count on your fingers. One, two, three, four, as you make your way between partygoers, keeping your eyes cast downwards to hopefully convey you are not interested in being stopped for a chat. You flex your fingers, aching for something malleable to soothe your distress with distraction. You brought stimming aids with you for this exact situation, but you need to find the wardrobe first, and you need to open the stupid bag, and you need to get out of here. You want to go home. And Simon. You can’t forget Simon. 

You easily spot him lingering by the far wall. Arms crossed and uninviting, the sleeves of shirt rolled up to his elbows. His head is tilted downwards, giving the impression that he is not interested in his surroundings, but you know he’s paying meticulous attention to detail. To partygoers and conversation, but most importantly, he’s been making sure you would have no difficulties finding him. 

You make a beeline towards him, and he responds immediately by meeting you halfway. He extends his arms towards you, and you subtly shake your head. 

“Out,” you all but hiss, and Simon frowns at your obvious distress. You take his hand, attempting to distract yourself by following the intricate lines of the tattoos on his forearm. You press a trembling finger against one of the patterns, tracing it the best you can. Distract, distract, distract. 

“Headphones?” he asks, and your answer is immediate. 

“Please.”

You put your jacket on in record time, fixing the hood to accommodate for your noise cancelling headphones. You pull the cuffs over your hands. You don’t want any of the noises to touch your skin. You are not a stranger to Irish Goodbyes, and neither are your friends. And apparently, Simon had been doing it for a long, long time too. While there is a lot rattling in your skull, there is also a subtle sensation of relief knowing that your friends are understanding and supportive.  

You made an effort, and that’s all they can ask of you. Though you worry, sometimes. 

Effortlessly, Simon steers you out into the open street, and when you feel the chilling wind, you cannot help but gasp for the air. There will be other brunches, but today is not a day for one it seems. 

Simon extends his arm towards you, and you accept, clinging onto him as you walk towards your shared flat. You squeeze your eyes shut as the noise cancelling headphones work their magic, letting Simon guide you forward. He’s mindful of your steps, gently steering you to avoid any unnecessary bumps or cracks in the road.

It feels a little like floating. 

It’s a relief when you can drop your mask, letting it crackle away as you begin to unwind and unravel like a tangled piece of yarn. Little by little you get to become yourself again.

When you are within the safe walls of your home, you untangle yourself from Simon, slipping away to be alone for a little while. Removing yourself from the brunch helped, but your heart is still beating too fast, and your mind, despite the aid, was still overwhelmed by the bustling afternoon crowd. You feel it in your throat, you know you cannot reliably communicate your feelings, so you remove yourself.

Simon understands, and occasionally, he needs that too. 

So he hangs up his jacket, and makes a cup of tea. Warming enough water for the both of you, in case you’re feeling thirsty later. He has been surprisingly adaptive to your relationship. He quickly took notice of your triggers, and what you did to soothe yourself when overwhelmed. He learned your mannerisms and body language, and with your assistance, he learned more of what it means to live with autism. 

He encourages you to share your interests with him, no matter the weight of information. He is not the most outgoing or vocal of partners, and neither are you, so while communication occasionally fell through, eventually the two of you managed to find a middle ground that was comfortable for the both of you.

His humour is difficult to understand sometimes, but he takes the time to explain, if you ask. It’s not necessary, most of the time, but it comforts you knowing that you will have the context if you are subjugated to the same joke in the future. 

In your room—your private room—you pace the floor, humming a high-pitched tune to yourself.

You flex your fingers as you flap your hands back and forth. You take in your surroundings, finding familiar sights, and your eyes hone in on the array of sensory aids on your desk. You pause, your pacing coming to a stop. Your shoulders feel lighter now, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you reach for something to fidget with. The worst have passed, and now you just need to ride out the little you have left. 

You find Simon sitting by the kitchen table, absentmindedly playing with a stimming aid you gifted him half a year ago. A fidget toy of stainless steel that clicks when you slide it. You were a little worried what he would think, or if he would even use it, but to your surprise, he has become incredibly fond of it. He told you the clicking reminds him of reloading a gun, and that is a noise he’s very familiar with. A way to ground himself when he is feeling removed from the line of duty. 

He sits straighter, and speaks to you with a gentle tone. Low and welcoming and positively relaxing. He beckons you towards him. “Everythin’ alright, love?”

“Yes,” you respond,” yes, better. I just thought to ask if you’d like to join me for a nap?” After a brief pause, you offer him a tired smile, the exhaustion plain on your face. “I could use the weight.” 

He smiles—smirks—as he moves towards you. He arches a subtle brow, and you nod, and only then does he lean down to press a kiss to your lips. Together, you walk towards your shared bedroom. Your hand is still working the sensory aid, but slower. 

You all but jump into bed, dragging your boyfriend with you. 

“You sure?” he asks, partially shifting his body to cover yours. He is still wary of leaning his entire weight on top of you.

You gently pat his shoulder. “Positive. Plus, it’s not like I’ll die instantly, you know?” you reply with a slight laugh. It’s kind that he’s careful, but it’s difficult to explain that you’d like a weighted blanket that weighs as much as a truck. If not more. You coax him closer to you until he is, more or less, pressed fully against you. He holds you tightly, and the pressure does wonders for your nerves. You don’t feel constricted, you feel safe. You feel loved. 

You feel his breath against your ear as he mutters a quiet, “Love you.”

You smile, swiftly pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“Love you too,” you respond in kind, ready to have the best nap of your life.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost cod #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #reader imagine #autistic reader #autism #neurodivergent

[vesper-tinus]

Wow the könig x Lovelace fic was amazing! I’d die to know more about those two if you’re willing to write more, whatever you can think of! Your writing is impecable, and I love the dynamic those two have. You could make it in a way in which könig is in love with her and she’s just trying to do her job but also feels things for him!

Hello! Thank you so much your kind words and love for the snippet 🖤 Been pleasantly busy this new year, but hopefully I managed to write something you can appreciate! I apologise for the long wait.

𝐆𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐠 König x Female ! Reader

Summary: When did you allow yourself to become so familiar with König? Keywords: Protective König perhaps? Reader's callsign is once again "Lovelace", subtle continuation of previous snippet with the same callsign. I did not mean for it to be... sort of sad? Wordcount: 1356

It has become somewhat of a ritual. A normalcy in the abnormal lives the two of you are experiencing each day. Whenever you grace the shooting range with your presence, König keeps you company, all sevensome of him. You are not used to this sort of attention, and more often than not, you work alone. You live alone. You practise alone… and yet, you cannot find it in yourself to dislike it. 

It's almost peculiar how well he reads you. 

The way he knows which nights—always nights, you never practise during the day—you’re feeling talkative, and which ones you’re feeling less inclined to.

Sometimes, he remains a silent observer, a fly on the wall. But you see the calculative gaze. He’s putting your moves to memory, your tactics and preferences… but sometimes he looks for something more. Sometimes his eyes linger on your face, or on your figure. How your lips upturn when you hit a bullseye, or the way your eyes briefly flicker to him to gauge his reaction. 

When you are reflected in those expressive eyes of his, you wonder what he sees? 

Other times, he’s vocal and daring, matching you shot for shot. Boldly and purposefully provoking reactions from you to see what makes you laugh, or God forbid, what makes you embarrassed. It backfires occasionally—often—but you’ve noticed that he’s not against it. Not at all. With each subtle remark, he grows more bold. 

You find yourself not completely against that either. 

And in the rarest of times, you forgo the practice all together. Instead, you settle against the wall. Shoulder to shoulder, knee brushing knee. Those are the peaceful moments. Fleeting glances, careful words and feathery touches. How your hand lingers on his elbow as you guide his shots, and how he rests a heavy palm on your lower back when escorting you past the threshold of the door. 

Tonight is no different. 

With the exception of König’s arm being confined in a sling. 

Thankfully, his injury was less severe than you had all originally come to believe, and should reach a full recovery within a few days of rest—granted that he does not strain his arm. The mission you had been brought in for was a success. With your team’s recent discoveries, there is no further need for action on your part. Leaving you with a few days waiting for approval, and then, you will be on your way to the next mission. Away from KorTec, and away from König. 

He knows this, and you suspect that’s largely why he remains stubbornly silent. Silent with a furrowed brow, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. Perhaps it is his way of prolonging your stay, making the time pass at an excruciatingly slow pace. You don’t want your final days with him to be like this. 

“That reminds me,” you say, piercing the lingering silence as you turn on your heels to move towards the satchel you’ve left leaning against the wall. König follows you closely, like he does, a habit you have become frighteningly fond of. “This”—you pull something out before offering your palm to him—“belongs to you, I believe.”

As a consequence of König’s injury, his sleeve had been mauled beyond recognition, but you managed to salvage the Austrian patch that decorated it. The threads have been slightly loosened, and the white has been bloodied, but from your years of service, you know many soldiers feel some sort of attachment to their flag. You tried mending it the best you could, carefully scrubbing it with a damp handkerchief, but you did not want to risk unravelling it. 

When did you become so sentimental? Perhaps it’s because you have no flag of your own. The details surrounding your personal life have been, more or less, erased. You are a sniper, and a sniper is all you will be. Nothing more, nothing less… and it’s especially not because it belongs to him.  

“You… saved it?” he asks, almost bewildered that anyone of your renown would even think of picking it up from the dirtied and bloodied ground. 

“Yes. When the attacker slashed—“

“My arm… by the staircase.” He takes the patch, turning it and inspecting it in his large palm. Silence settles between the two of you again, and you watch him with trained eyes. Trained eyes that see the slow rise and fall of his chest, and how his eyes subtly widen at the gesture. He is at a loss for words, and you do not blame him, for you, yourself, are uncertain as to what to say. You smooth down the fabric of your trousers, waiting.

During your mission, you had been carefully picking off bodies, one by one, from your sniper’s nest outside. And when the dust settled, and the gunfire stopped, you were asked—no—ordered to rendezvous inside the building with the others. You are rarely, if ever, asked to leave your position before pickup arrives, so begrudgingly, you snuck your way towards the rest of your team. It left a sour taste in your mouth, but what could you do? Most experienced or not, defiance against orders is not something you are willing to risk staining your “resume”. 

The fight had been chaotic.

Windows blown out of their hinges, shards of glass staining every inch of the wooden floor. Splinters, blood, and everything in between. Broken doors and a makeshift bomb in the making, crowded by your team. It’s too close compared to what you are used to. The smell, the heat. You are meant to stay at a distance, never within an arm’s reach. 

Nobody expected there to be a secret compartment built into the staircase. Nobody expected there to be someone inside. Nobody expected someone to brave a squad of armed soldiers, but rage makes men blind. And you felt his disdain. You heard it when he called you a ‘sniping bitch’, tearing through the flimsy, concealed door like it was a B-Horror Movie. 

König had shoved you without warning, taking the brunt of the attacker’s ire. A flurry of desperation and glistening metal. You’ve seen it plenty of times before, though never this close, and never with it aimed at you. The entire confrontation took no longer than a few seconds, with you ending it with a shot the assailant’s head out at point blank. König was bleeding, you were unscathed, and the aggressor was lying dead on the floor, and partially on the wall. 

You recall König growling obscenities at your squad leader, shoving him against the wall, fist tightly gripping the collar of his tactical jacket. Almost hoisting him up due to their height difference. His arm was bleeding, and he didn’t care. He was furious. 

He was furious for you. 

Had you not talked him out of it, you have no doubt that the team would resort to physicality to get König to release his grip. But he needed medical attention, and you wanted to get out of there. Everyone looked at the two of you differently, from this point on. The sniper and her guard dog. The world-renowned sniper and the man willing to tear into his squad leader with his bare teeth, allegedly, for her. Another reputation to pin upon your back.

In the shooting range, König lifts his head to watch you, but startles belatedly when he finds you staring back at him.

“I…” he says, his throat feeling drier with each turn of the patch. “Want you to have it, Love.”

A beat of silence.

You find yourself waiting for the latter of your callsign, but it never comes. 

When did he start to see you—know you—as ‘Love’. 

“To remind you of me when you leave.” Heavy lidded eyes, pale blue, pour over every detail they can find in your expression, flitting from one feature to the next. Will you accept it? Do you find it distasteful? Clingy? He takes a step closer to you, pressing the Austrian patch against your palm, gently closing your fingers around it. “Please.”

You wish he didn’t look at you like that. 

Like he could love you.

#könig x reader #könig #könig cod #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #reader imagine #female reader

[vesper-tinus]

I may or may not be slightly obsessed with your story's. Then again im obsessed with any story's 141 related (which is surprising because i haven't ever touched or watched a CoD game)

And honestly for someone whos first language isn't English your English is amazing. (Tho that doesn't really mean anything considering it's not my first language either and im completely fluent in it anyways)

Anyway back to the topic at hand, I've been obsessed and decided hey why not introduce myself to them, so hello! Im Icarus or Emery (i use both names so either is fine) it's very nice to meet you.

Hello, Icarus! It's a pleasure to meet you 🖤 but I will have to gently disagree! The fact that we can learn new languages is incredible! That's amazing! Even if it's your second, third, or fourth! It's awesome that you're fluent in it, take pride in that!

Thank you very much for enjoying my writing, and I think we can all agree, that we're all into 141 here😏 and I appreciate you taking the time to say hello!

— Matt / Vespertine

#vespers #icarusthefoolish

[vesper-tinus]

No request, just wanted to drop by and say you’re an AMAZING writer and it’s v generous of you to be writing for everyone’s prompts

I love the way you round out the cod characters with little details and your writing style is flawless!

Oh, wow!! Thank you so much 🥺🖤 ! What a lovely message to receive!

I try my best to deliver what is entrusted to me, and I'm glad that my writing is coherent enough to be appreciated 😊 Hopefully, I will keep getting better with each piece, and continue to have fun writing all the requests! The little details are definitely the one of the fun parts to write, and it's awesome that you can differentiate between them!

Thank you again for the kind message, Vic! May 2023 be a wonderful year for you 🎇

#thank you so much! #victoria10h #vespers

[vesper-tinus]

Hello! I was wondering if you’d be willing to write smth with a military reader where they’re a sniper as well, but they see König or Ghost and go “I want that one” and where they’re normally sarcastic and a little shit, with them they’re soft and like here’s your coffee, exactly how they like it or whatever? Sorry this is a little ramble-y

Hello! I'd certainly be happy to try! Hopefully I managed to capture the personality you were looking for, though I admit I struggled a little trying to encapsulate it!

𝐒𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐇𝐢𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤. Simon "Ghost" Riley x Sniper ! Reader

Summary: You settle down with Ghost for some tea, when he reminds you of when you met, and the aftermath you get to experience every day. Keywords: Established relationship (but hidden!), Soap - Reader - Ghost is a chaotic trio fr fr, reader's callsign is "Grifter"/Griff for short, and also quite popular with the grunts 😉 Wordcount: 1290

“One tea,” you call out, voice sing-song and light, as you place the ceramic mug in front of the masked soldier. Ghost rarely, if ever, lets anyone fix him a cup, and you can’t help but preen at the trust he puts in you… or the fact that you might be damn good at making tea. 

Meanwhile, Johnny whines like a child left to thirst, a pout taking over his features as he slouches forward in his seat. “Why does he get tea, and I don’t?” He attempts to throw Ghost puppy eyes for pity points, most likely to leech a sip or five, but is only met with a scoff. If anyone were to be immune to Johnny’s wiles, it would be Ghost. With you as a strong second contender.

“Do I look like a barista to you, Soap?” you ask, brow arched as you gesture to yourself—dressed semi-casually, but obviously military personnel now that you’re back at base. You roll your eyes heavenward at his theatrics as you settle on the bench, fighting back a smile at the friendly bickering. It's quite the norm between the three of you, and you would have it no other way. Even if it means being called out for your hypocrisy.

“Not their fault you’re too lazy t’make your own cup,” Ghost chimes in, muttering a thank you your way as he shields the mug, warming his fingers. He is still masked, but you have no doubt he’s smirking at Johnny’s misfortune. You, yourself, find it difficult not to. 

“Blatant favouritism!” 

“Proper dickhead. Aren’t you running late for your meetin’?”

“Get tae fuck,” Soap replies with a half-groan-half-laugh as he stands from the table with poorly concealed haste, rolling his shoulders as he offers the two of you an informal farewell—his middle finger. “You’re lucky I’m needed elsewhere.” And he’s lucky that he has you two to remind him. 

“Don’t fall asleep during debrief like last time, Soap!” you call after him, and before the Scotsman turns the corner, you hear a muffled “Shut it!” which only makes you cackle like a hyena. 

With your newfound privacy, your leg brushes against Ghost’s as you sit shoulder to shoulder on the metal bench. A casual gesture that means more to you than meets the eye.

“...and then there were two,” you say, grinning from behind your cup as you turn to look at Ghost. Your expression softens as you see him peel off the balaclava, a tinge of embarrassment flustering your cheeks. You should be used to this by now, his face, yet somehow it always manages to take your breath away. Perhaps it is the trust he has in you, to bare his face so casually, that makes your heart flutter. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says before occupying himself with the tea you’ve kindly provided. 

You let out a light laugh. “Really? We both know you’d delete them off my phone within a minute—you’d probably destroy the phone, too,” you tease, but avert your eyes from him out of politeness. You know he can get uncomfortable after prolonged staring. So instead, you pivot in your seat, leaning back on your elbows to watch the entrance. This way, you can warn him should anyone unfamiliar enter, leaving him ample time to put on his balaclava. 

From out of the corner of your eye, you can see him watching you for a brief moment; seemingly satisfied with what he finds, he stares forward once more. He takes a swig of tea, stifling a smile at the taste before taking another. 

“Remember when we met?” he asks with a deceivingly casual tone. 

How could you forget?

Your team had been ordered to assist with coverage—a last minute, panicked detail. The mission was accomplished, but 141 had gotten separated during escape. You had been told the mission could be considered a “high risk, high reward”, and now the mission was cashing in the risk. Luckily, your unit excels at extraction. 

You remember catching the telltale skull mask skulking in the shadows, almost unnoticeable. Not to you, of course, you had been trained to watch for these things. Faces in the shadows, movement where there is none. You watched him through your scope—the infamous “Ghost”—and you remember smiling when you spoke up.

“I see you, Ghost. You got two marks dead ahead of you in conversation, and two just around the corner blowing smoke. You could manoeuvre around them, or...” You pause, faint amusement evident in your next few words, “We could exercise some teamwork.”

“Grifter,” Ghost responds cordially, and through your scope, you see him roll his shoulders. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

A laugh startles out of you at the memory, and the consequences that befell you both afterwards. “Yeah, I remember,” you muse with a smile. “I remember getting scolded like a teenager. For taking too long. Everyone was waiting for us. They blamed me more than you.” But you also know that he spoke up for you in private. You must’ve impressed him during your short, but eventful, time together, and not just because of your skills as a spotter. 

You cross one leg over the other, head slightly tilted as you continue to watch the entrance. 

“I still don’t know why you agreed,” you confess, smile softening. 

“Bastards deserved it,” Simon replies factually, “and I was curious.”

“About what?”

“You," he says with no hesitation.

That startles a laugh out of you, mostly of disbelief. “Seriously?”

Simon just hums, slightly amused with the way his lips gently uptick.

“Few things are more dangerous than a sniper with a sharp tongue,” he says, and you arch a brow as you watch him out of the corner of your eye, waiting for him to continue. “A sniper with a soft heart, for example.”

Your face lights up, dimples appearing in the plains of your cheeks as you smirk. So he had you figured out from the get-go? The cheek of him. Your voice drifts into a chuckle at the gentle teasing. “Only for you.”

A brief silence follows, only to be interrupted when you hear the footsteps of a group approaching. The faint sound of laughter echoes as you squeeze Simon’s bicep. Alas, it looks like your time together is to be cut short. 

It often is, but the two of you will make up for it later. 

You often do. 

You feel his hand grasp yours, squeezing back, before he stands from the table. He leans down, pressing his lips to your temple in a kiss before swiftly covering his face with his signature balaclava. It couldn’t have taken more than three seconds total.

“Much appreciated, love,” he says with a dulcet tone, voice low and quiet, just for your ears.

You preen at the attention, knowing that this is a rare occurrence. 

“Best leave now before they circle you for an autograph,” you tease, looking much more pleased than before. You cannot deny the appeal of fleeting touches, and a rogue romance. 

Ghost pushes the, now empty, mug towards you before taking his leave, avoiding the newcomers all together. And like ships in the night, as Ghost disappears, a group of squaddies appear, hooting and hollering amongst themselves.

“Oy, Griff!” one of them calls to you, “got room for us?”

You smile wide, gesturing to the emptiness around you. “Forgot to put your eyes in this morning, Davis? I shouldn't be surprised, considering you nearly shot Instructor Johnson.” The group breaks into laughter as they flock to join you, settling down around with drinks and stories of their own. And so many questions. 

You rub your temple, smiling to yourself with a pleasant warmth filling your chest.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost cod #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #reader imagine

[vesper-tinus]

Hi! requesting a female reader who is an insomniac and nobody knows until they ask “How many hours of sleep did you get” and she’s like “none” she also just falls asleep in the weirdest places like during a meeting or standing up. Maybe people try to start sneakily feeding her stuff that’ll help her sleep like melatonin. Happy new year!! :))

Hello! Happy New Year to you too, anon! I hope you will enjoy the snippet, and that I managed to write something similar to what you were looking for!

𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐲. Platonic 141 x Female ! Reader

Summary: Plagued by insomnia, you rarely find the time to catch proper sleep. The team has noticed this, and attempt to make you comfortable the best they can. Keywords: Platonic, female reader, Price being a team dad, reader's callsign is "Cricket". Wordcount: 1188

When you wake up, you feel noticeably warmer than before. Cozier and tucked away on a couch. You glance down, bleary-eyed, inspecting the jacket carefully draped over you. It’s a few sizes too big, and you recognise the telltale scent of cigar smoke and cologne. It’s Captain Price’s jacket. His civilian jacket, no less. 

How long have you been sleeping?

You fish out the military issued watch from your pocket, eyes squinting as you try to read anything from it. When did you even fall asleep…? Oh, right. You were waiting for Price himself. You had something to discuss with him regarding your latest mission—at least you think so. All you recall was him telling you: “I’ve got something important to discuss with you.” But he was summoned by Laswell, and you thought it best to wait outside the debriefing room for them to finish.

With little else to do, you flip the jacket to wear it properly. Properly being a relative term. It hangs loose on your smaller frame, the sleeves much too long and covering your hands. If you zipped it closed, it could function as some sort of short, unfashionable dress. 

You snort to yourself. 

The base is quieter than usual, you note, walking the empty corridors and vast rooms. The personnel you do meet, offer swift and curt greetings, but otherwise occupy themselves with their given tasks, and you’re thankful you haven’t met any higher rankings that require you to salute. As your body and mind shake off their drowsiness, your steps become more focused, and sooner than you’d expected, you find the rest of 141 situated in the cafeteria. 

You walk towards their table, masking a yawn politely with your hand. The other lazily waving a greeting. 

“Morning, guys.”

“It’s 23.30.” Comes the amused reply from Soap who’s busy toying with a tea bag. Dunking it up and down absentmindedly in a cup that most certainly does not belong to him. 

You shrug, feigning ignorance as you settle down amongst the team, reaching for the nearest mug to warm your hands on. Kyle’s. He doesn’t seem to mind, even gesturing for you to take your fill. He always makes the best cups. 

In your state, you don’t notice the exchanges of glances going around the table, and before you know it, a heavier silence fills the air between you all. You’re about to lighten the mood when the pin drops. Price is the first to speak. 

“You haven’t been sleepin’.”

You arch a subtle brow, peeking from beyond your cup. “None of us sleep, Captain.”

“You know what I mean. You’ve been passin’ out sporadically. Hell, I even found you outside the conference room sleepin’ against the wall.” He fixes you with a stare. “Standin’ up.” He pauses, wetting his throat with a sip of his tea. Lemon and ginger, you note. “Didn’t have the heart to wake you, so I moved you to the couch.”

“Thanks for the jacket, by the way,” you chirp, looking cosier than ever and with no intentions of handing it over any time soon. “Very comfy.” Your tactic of changing conversation falls short, and Ghost looks unimpressed by the attempt.

“Right,” Price says abruptly, standing from the table to tower over the lot of you. “I want suggestions on how to help with this—good ones,” he explains as he plucks his boonie hat from the table. He looks to you, worry evident in his expression, but swiftly masked with the professionalism you have come to expect from your captain. “You know this is serious, Cricket.”

You walked into an intervention, is what you did. You tiredly rub your face. “I know, I know,” you mutter. “But what am I supposed to do? Insomnia doesn’t exactly—” You stop talking when you feel a large palm on your shoulder, and the sudden, but welcome, contact makes you emotional. 

You run on fumes, because that’s what you do best. You run, and run, until exhaustion takes a hold of you. There is no gentle caress of falling asleep. You fall hard and heavy, and it’s a frustrating feeling. But worst of all, it makes you feel alone.

“You’ll be alright, Cricket,” Soap encourages, “you got us, right?”

And so it begins. Over the next couple of days, you and the team try all sorts of remedies, personal and professional.

Johnny offers to share his bed. “Mi casa es su casa.” Human contact can be a powerful thing. Perhaps the sensation of a heartbeat would sync yours to relax? His chest is wide, and makes for an excellent pillow you find. He talks, because that’s what he does best. He tells you of his childhood, and his excellence at being a goalkeeper. His cousin who inspired him to join the British Army, and all the times he got caught being underrage trying out for SAS. He adds flair and theatrics to whatever tale he spins, and it makes you laugh yourself to exhaustion. 

Kyle suggests a podcast with rain noise. He shows you the playlists he has saved, and you giggle amongst yourselves as you peruse them late at night. He has playlists for everything, you notice. When he’s tired, or feeling lonely. When he needs to relax, or when he needs to sleep. So you give it a try, and you count the stars behind your eyes as you listen to ‘A Romantic & Rainy Night Through London’s Empty Streets.’ You asked him why he enjoys the sound of rain so much, and he told you that he finds the consistency soothing. The lives you live are controlled by instability, by sudden orders and quick decisions... but this? This he can control.

Price offers you his office. He lets you rest on the couch while he occupies himself with paperwork. Sometimes in hand, sometimes on the computer. Pen on paper, or mechanical keyboard, it makes you drowsy all the same. He likes to read his reports aloud, mumbling the sentences to himself as he reviews them. You’re not sure he knows how magnetic his voice is. He often looks over at you, checking in, and offers you a tired smile. He goes over the possibilities of medication to help you sleep, but it will be a rare comfort since you can’t use it most nights when you’re charged with missions. The pleasant hoarseness of his voice makes it difficult to pay attention. 

And Simon? Simon listens, and shares little. He, too, was plagued by insomnia in his youth. Fears and nightmares, but he overcame it and now has dreamless nights. You can’t decide if you find it sad. He doesn’t. He told you as much, but you think he deserves to dream of better things. He lends you his hoodies. Black and dull and worn, but his. The hoods are wide and shadow much of your face, shielding your eyes from others and the lights. He often dismisses you, telling you to take a nap. You have responsibilities, you argue, but he dismisses that too, and tells you to let him deal with it. And he does.

And for the first time in a long, long while, you ease into a dreamless sleep. 

No falling, hard edges, or buzzing thoughts. 

Just pure, blissful sleep.

#cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 imagine #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #reader imagine #female reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost cod #cod #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader #fanfiction #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #soap #soap cod #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #gaz #gaz cod #john price x reader #john price