You can find all my work for CoD (MWII) here. Also on AO3. Main is @/blackssuunn-mandoandyodito. Updated: 11/13/23
âĄ=fluff â=smut â§=angst â=dark themes
Requests: open.
WIPs: the subject of love (Ghost)|Pretty Woman (Price)|desire paths (Ghost)
Simon "Ghost" Riley
"the subject of love". Series. Ongoing. âĄâ§â Hanahaki!AU, cis medic!f!reader.
Myriad of colors. Simon falls sick. He decides to let it happen.
Brown. Your side of the story, from MOC to a little bit after.
Seasonal sickness (happens before MOC). Eventual multichapter. The entire 141 fall sick in december. They go like dominos, and it's your job to get them back up.
The cold, the strings. You canât promise life. You decide to do it for him.
Egeiro. He can't promise to avoid stupidity, but he can promise to try and not hurt you with it.
Unnamed. ⥠gn!reader. You let Simon see how much you appreciate him. He has a bit of a hard time processing.
Scars and all. ⥠gn!reader. Simon lets you ask about his scars, and tells the stories he can. He's not used to the attention, but he's learning.
Only the sun. âĄâ gn!reader. You show Simon how pretty he is in front of a mirror.
Flowers. ⥠gn!reader. A rom-com prompts you to ask Simon about his preference in flowers. The conversation leads you to catch a glimpse of his past.
A Bath. ⥠gn!reader. He comes back from a mission, dirty and tired. You take care of him.
Tones. ⥠hispanic!gn!reader. Simon admits he likes when you speak Spanish to him. You tease him a little bit.
Reaching back (for what is not there). âĄ?â§â!! (Please read the TW's). f!reader. You're gone, have been for a while. Simon doesnât know how to let go, and he doesnât really want to. (Request).
By memory. âĄâ§â!! (Please read the TW's.) gn!reader. Simon has scars, he's not unaware and he's not ashamed of them either. But when you distance yourself, he wonders if it may be a problem for you. (Request).
Puzzle pieces. âĄâ§. gn!reader. Simon,surprisingly, opens up about his scars first. You take it as it is, and share your own stories. (Part 2 of By memory)
"Desire paths." Series. Ongoing. âĄâââ§. Simon's relationship with all types of love.
Whipped cream. ⥠gn!reader. Love doesnât come just from words.
Heat wave. ⥠gn!reader. Simon isnât good with heat. You arenât either, but you're coping.
Faiths. ââĄâ§â!! (Please read the TW's.) f!reader. You try your best to hide it. Simon notices and brings it up anyways. (Request).
The salt. ⥠gn!reader. Surprisingly, Simon can bake.
To love is to loose. â§â!! Background relationship with gn!reader. John will never answer now.
Rompope. ⥠gn!reader. Alejandro gifts Ghost something. He gets very drunk.
We need to talk. âĄâ§. gn!reader. Simon overhears a conversation once.
Haunted House Ghost. âĄ. gn!reader. Simon lets you paint his nails.
I fold. âĄâ€â! cis!f!reader. Soulmate!AU. Life, from beginning to end. With and without you. (Request)
Apolo. âĄ. gn!reader. Simon discovers something new about his body.
Unpopular headcanons I.
Unpopular (and some popular) headcanons II.
Very specific Simon Riley headcanons that just feel right and idk why.
Captain John Price
Inmense tenderness, last degree of sorrow. âĄâ§ cis!f!reader. John learns, the hard way, that military life doesnât mix well with domesticity.
Part 1. John has a new neighbour. He doesnât really care about it, until he does.
Coronel Alejandro Vargas
At night. âĄâ§ f!reader. Alejandro comes home. You're there to keep him together. (Request)
Johnny "Soap" McTavish
Red cheeks. âĄâ€â~⧠cis!f!reader. Johnny only goes to you for medical attention. One day, he goes with a different kind of problem. (Request)
Very specific (popular and not) headcanons for Johnny McTavish.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Something to understand. âĄ. gn!reader. Gaz is your best friend. But there are some things of his that are very much yours too, and you donât quite get why.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader. Childhood sweethearts.
Simon has to do a little jump so he can fully pull his pants up.
You're not quite sure where he got the habit from, but he tends to make himself small whenever he's changing clothes. Always hides away in the corner of your bedroom, looking down at his feet the entire time. Stares at his hands while he pulls the jeans up his legs, only raises his head when he gets the shirt on, risks losing balance as he puts socks on because he doesnât dare to lean against something.
It's quite a view.
"Think you need a few adjustments to fit all that, soldier."
His entire face turns bright red, tips of his ears a pretty pink. You take pleasure in watching it spread down his neck, his shoulders, his chest. The way his hands start fidgeting slightly every time you dare tease him, how he bites back nervous laughter. He never, never looks up. On the rare ocassion you manage a whistle, his clothes fall off his hands and he covers his face while muttering curses and bending to grab them back, which of course just gets you talking about his back, his shoulders, his ass. Red, splotchy spots paint a pretty picture all over his skin while he shakes his head and restrains himself from begging for mercy.
But you knew him before this. Before Sergeant Riley, before Johnny's Lt, long before this Captain Riley that seems to be bursting out his clothes.
He was so lanky when you were young. He'd always been big, towering over every single classmate, even some of the older boys. After a certain point, he was even taller than the teachers.
But you could see his collarbones whenever he pulled down his too small shirts. His hand felt almost fragile wrapped around yours, his jaw too sharp, his eyes sunken. Pale skin, pale lips, blond hair. On the worst days, you'd hold his hand tighter in fear of a strong breeze blowing him far away from you.
You'd go a little hungry during lunch sometimes. He rarely packed anything, so you always split yours in half. Even then, more often than not, you'd give him your part and pretend you werenât starving until you were out of school. There was always warm food waiting for you at home, but you didn't know if Simon even knew what that was like, that it was a possibility.
"Never stop fuckin' teasing, do you?"
Watching him grow into this huge man was one of the most amazing things life had gifted you. See how his shoulders started bulging, how you couldn't wrap your hand around his biceps anymore, how he had to change his entire wardrobe because not a single thing fit him.
"Why would I? I've got my own striptease at home, all for me."
Simon shakes his head again. You take the time to appreciate the color that paints his skin, the muscle that covers him all over, the softness on his belly from having second and third servings when he gets home to you and sits down to eat. You marvel at the body that has kept him alive through literal hell, the same one that's gentle and loving and so soft if itâs next to yours.
"Eighth Wonder of the World right there, Si."
He groans, throwing his sweatshirt at you. You pull it down, laughing at how flustered he is.
"Please shut up."
But he laughs too, embarrassed and happy, so it canât be that bad.
He doesnât remember a single holiday where he had a genuine nice time. Not when he was 3, not at 10 or 15 or 22. Always hidden under the bed to avoid name calling, or dodging drunk punches, or standing guard overnight with under 10 Celsius. The last one though, at least he had some peace.
But that was before, he has to keep reminding himself. That's a different him, a different life.
This time, he spent the whole day seeing you run from one corner of the house to the other, yelling at him and at Johnny once he arrived, then Price and then Gaz too. They were covered in flour and Hell knows what else by the end of it, slightly traumatised by how harsh you were inside the kitchen. Simon is so used to it he lets himself make fun of the rest of them, ignoring the glares.
Kate simply sat at the corner, holding his baby between her arms while playing with his little girl too. Johnny's little sister, Alba, helped you get the things inside the oven with a significantly gentler tone from you. She would get bashful whenever you smiled at her, hiding her face behind her long locks. Simon canât really blame her. Staring at you is like staring at the Sun.
The people invading his house barely said their thanks before they stuffed their faces full. He grabbed the baby and sat him on his knee, while the little princess played with Gaz and Johnny, making silly faces and giggling. The baby, who he realizes now is more of a toddler (Jesus Christ) was not as nice.
He doubts he will get the smell of lasagna out of his clothes anytime soon.
"Price is six seconds away from falling asleep, Si."
What he really hears you say is Either make him go to the spare room now or risk having to carry him later, Si.
He groans quietly and pushes himself up from his place next to you, immediately missing your warmth. You curl up to where he was sat, sighing and closing your eyes. A little smile shows up to brighten your face. He has to take a deep breath.
"Captain," he calls, trying to keep his voice even and gentle. With the way John startles, he's not sure he managed.
"I'm up, I'm up. Wh-wha'...." he clears his throat. Simon has to bite back a smile. "What do you want?"
You, of course, don't have nearly enough spare bedrooms to house so many people, not by pairs at least. You and Simon just let them fight it out, which ended up with Kate and her wife getting the bed but with Alba and an air matress on the floor, so Gaz and Price kept the other bedroom and the bed, Johnny at the ground with some blankets.
You giggle from behind him. "Time for bed, John."
Price blushes slightly, nodding. He gets up and stumbles his way through the stairs, then a door opens. Not long after it closes back again, both of you can hear him snoring and Johnny swearing. Simon does laugh this time.
Well, that leaves the two of you.
"You think the kids will sleep the night through?"
You open your arms, and he doesnât rush to curl up next to you again. He doesnât, okay? He doesnât.
"I sure fucking hope so. Kate didnât chase them around all day for nothin', love."
He doesnât dare mention how you all noticed her wife looking at her misty eyed and smiling. That's theirs to talk about.
"You know, I wish I could tell you we can have some fun now, but Si..."
He laughs softly against your neck, "I'm beat too, sweetheart."
You pull him closer, rubbing his back while playing with his hair. Jesus, if one of the men come down and see him purring against you, he's done.
"Maybe tomorrow, Si. Fuck, I hope so."
His laughter echoes against your skin, infecting you with it too. You hide your face against his hair to keep from waking the batallion upstairs.
"Happy New Year, Si."
He murmurs it back, kissing your neck and relishing in your squirms.
Build a support network. Take deep breaths. Hold onto each other, hold onto yourselves. Help whoever is next to you, allow others to help you. This may be rough, but if there is anything that's gonna make it easier, itâs your community. If you don't have one, build one or find one, this is not the time to embrace individualism.
Fuck Trump, stick it to all of that fucked up group by loving your people as much as possible.
I'm not a US citizen but, as I've said before, I'm mexican, so your elections are... quite the big deal here too. It makes me anxious, so I can barely imagine what you're all going through rn. Just letting you know you can dm me if you'd like to talk about it or about anything else. Take a deep breath, close your eyes for a bit, be gentle with yourself. Sending you love đ
i have to add on this since people want to say she doesnât actually care about Palestinians
Rashida Tlaib's guest for Netanyahu's address was an UNRWA USA staffer who says his "bloodline is being eliminated" by Israel
âMy information is online, theyâre welcome to [reach out],â he added. âThe only person that reached out while my family was being genocided was Vice President Kamala Harris.
Harris had spoken with Almadhoun in mid-November. She also wrote to him after his brother was killed, which he says he appreciated.
Coming back from my hiatus (?) to beg you, my U.S. friends, to PLEASE vote, and PLEASE don't vote for the weird fucked up orange man. I'm mexican and unfortunately your country holds quite some weight with us AND with the rest of the world. Please vote, make them hear your voice, your opinions, your anger. Vote so you can do so in the future. Go out and VOTE.
would it be okay to ask what you think Ghost looks like for you personally? Is there a piece of art, do you prefer his actor, or are their bits and pieces of him that you like to put together?
oooohhh all bits and pieces of various artists' interpretations. general size is probably somewhere around 6'5, 300 lbs. big dude. nice layer of padding over his muscles because he has to eat a lot for his size and his job, like he needs the calories to function. blond buzz cut. scars and burns and nicks all over his face and body. like he looks like someone tried to jam him through a wood chipper - he's just fucked up. brows kind of sloped over his eyes a bit. thin lips. nasty scar that almost tore off half of his upper lip. cauliflower ear (at least one). not VERY hairy, but definitely keeps whatever hair he can grow, except his face, which he keeps shaved.
he's right down the middle of kind of ugly and super hot. there's just something brutal and off-putting about him that keeps most people at bay, but man he walks like he has something heavy between his legs :((
He also does it when heâs upset, or sad, or happy, or tired, or... well, he kind of does it whenever something feels strong enough to turn his head into a pressure cooker. It's silly, he knows, but he guesses his mind must take the smoke as a way of relieving said pressure.
He's gone through entire packs after missions, one after the other while someone stitches him up and Rudy glares at him from the other side of the room. The same fucking glare since they were kids.
His leg is the one bleeding this time, his ear still ringing from the explotion on a cartel safe house. He doesnât want to admit it, but he thinks he reeks of bad quality coke. It smells just like when people burn tires on the outskirts of town.
"Sigue haciendo pendejadas Alejandro, y nos vamos a morir los dos." (Keep pulling stupid shit and we'll both end up dead.)
Alejandro laughs, but it's forced and resembles a badly oiled engine. It unnerves him sometimes, how well Rudy knows him, how loyal he is. Every now and then he wishes he wasn't, just so he could get killed without carrying the thought of pulling his friend with him.
"Nadie en este pinche paĂs me puede matar cabrĂłn, ya deberĂas saberlo." (No one in this fucking country can kill me, fucker, you should already know that)
Rudy shakes his head and stands up, favoring his left side while he whistles at the med team.
Alejandro rolls his eyes when he sees you coming.
"No estoy de humor, preciosa." (I'm not in the mood, gorgeous)
He searches through his pockets to find the half empty packet of Delicados. Shit, like he's in a fucking mood to smoke Delicados. You always give him shit when he smokes near you, it just gets worse with this brand.
"Coronel, por favor guarde sus cigarros." (Colonel, please put your cigarettes away)
His eyes roll back inside his skull, but he obeys. You're wearing the uniform this time around, and he knows you hate the smell sticking to it.
"Hoy no te tocaba rotar aquĂ, niña. Te trajo Rudy?" (You werenât supposed to rotate here today, girl. Did Rudy bring you?)
You shake your head. He bites back innapropiate jokes when you kneel in front of him, cutting his leg pant open to reveal the torn up skin. You donât even flinch.
He grits his teeth, holding his fists tight when you pour alcohol on it and rub it harshly with a torn piece of bandage, tracing a circle from the inside and out. Fuck, he doesnât think even getting it hurt so bad.
Ever since you went back to Las Almas, you were different. Your eyes were dull, your smile wasn't as bright. He's never seen you cry again, and he has the last time burned into his eyes.
"HĂĄbleme bonito y puede que la escuche, teniente." (Talk nicer to me and maybe I'll listen to you, lieutenant.) He tries his best to sound cheery, or at the very least conceal his discomfort. He doesnât like this. He really doesnât.
You shake your head again, holding his skin together so you can sew it properly. He's numb from the pain, doesnât really feel a thing beyond the pressure of your fingers and the needle pushing before piercing through. A knot ties itself around his throat when you donât even look up.
He's not much older than you, but he remembers your cousin was. Alejandro grew up watching him play soccer on the streets, and he's sure he thought he was one of the coolest people on Earth the first time he went back to town in uniform. Ale couldn't have been more than twelve.
He still remembers the pool of blood he had around his body the last time he saw him. He didnât go to the funeral.
"Procure no abrir las puntadas, Coronel. Es todo lo que pido." (Try not to open the stiches, Colonel. That's all I ask.)
He nods. When you stand back up, his hand shoots out to grab yours. He freezes for a second, not sure what to say.
He'll never admit it, but he gets it. The far away stare, the cold shoulder, the indifference. He doesnât like it because he's been there one too many times.
He swallows, takes a deep breath, and tries for his winning smile.
"No te dan ganas de volverte Vaquera, chula? Dios sabe que ocupamos alguien con tus habilidades." (Donât you feel like turning into a Vaquera, pretty? God knows we need someone with your habilities.)
You're too young to be a Lieutenant, just as he's too young to be Colonel. Too many kills or too many saves, he's way past seeing the difference.
You laugh. His heart drops to his feet, a burning sensation crawling up the back of his neck.
"DeberĂa hablar con su segundo al mando mĂĄs seguido, coronel."
You turn around and walk away, leaving him confused and in flames.
