currently reading...

[imreadng]

if there is anything i believe in, it's you.

@ imreadng / r — 19 — they . them — seasian

welcome to my sfw blog where i reblog the fanfics that i like. right now, im into cod, most specifically the tf141. i love simon 'ghost' riley, so expect to see him alot! hope you enjoy your stay here <3

navigation : about me . byi + asks . my tags . theme credits

[dead-flight-deactivated20251124]

Overprotective!Simon my HUSBAND.

He's never been worried. Not at home, not when he could fight any assailants off himself. Hell, they'd be fucking loose in the head to think they could take him on. It's not like he had much to show either--he didn't have much in the ways of luxury, simply because he chose not to purchase it.

Until he met you. He was nervous then, suddenly fixing shit around the house he'd let slip by him--the broken security system, the hole in the ceiling where he'd ripped out the smoke alarm because of its incessant 'low battery' beeping. Sure it was dangerous, but he hadn't cared before.

What never changed was the fact he'd had guns all over the house. You told him before that you'd feel sorry for whatever poor bloke thought he could grab a quick check off of your home, and he'd laughed in response, told you not to worry about it. He'd deal with it, after all, should push come to shove.

So he's prepared when he hears rustling from downstairs, and the beeping of the security system he'd had installed beeping away beside his ear--quiet enough for you to never notice, loud enough for him to wake up. He slips out of bed, sooths the crease that forms between your brows when his warmth leaves from beside yours, and grabs the pistol under the bed.

Whoever's broken in is about to feel bloody sorry for even trying.

He's efficient. Makes quick work of checking upstairs, deems it all clear before he's creeping down the stairs--the perpetrator's back in immediate sight. He's rifling through the desk in the study, thumbing through cabinets for cash, or anything expensive.

He only notices Simon when Simon wants him to. It's a firm press of the gun to the guy's head, causing him to jump, flinching under the touch. "What the hell--"

“I’d shoot y’point blank right ‘ere if I could, but the missus is sleepin’ upstairs. So y’ve got thirty seconds t’fuck off before I turn y’into a stain on the carpet," Simon interjects, checking the clock on the wall absently. Like it's just an average weekday to him.

"Hey, hey man, I'm just--" he raises his hands placatingly, dropping the papers he had been holding.

"Aye. Don't give a fuck. Would rather not stain the carpet, though, missus really likes this one. Said it's real soft n' nice on 'er feet."

Simon catches the door as he practically sprints from the home, only to avoid it slamming--he wouldn't want to alarm you, of course. He hums, shuts it quietly, and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

When he's back upstairs, shuffling into the bedroom, your wide eyes looking at him and quietly asking him where he went--how dare he leave you when you were cuddling, he smiles, places the glass on the nightstand and sneakily slips the gun right where he'd first gotten it.

“Nothing, luv, was thirsty, needed t’grab some water.”

[imreadng]

this is so good...!! i am in love with this man UGH

[cod-bin]

obsessively domestic simon headcanons

-he sleeps better when you’re touching. doesn’t matter how—your ankle resting on his, your fingers tangled, your whole body draped over him like a blanket—if you’re not touching, he won’t sleep. just lies there, blinking into the dark.

-he never says “i love you” the same way twice. sometimes it’s “text me when you get home.” sometimes it’s “eat something.” sometimes it’s him holding your wrist a little too tight before he lets you walk away.

-every time you wear his hoodie, he watches you like it’s the first time. like he forgot how good it looks on you. he doesn’t say anything. just tilts his head a little. maybe bites the inside of his cheek.

-he always smells like smoke, metal, and your shampoo. he uses it when you’re not looking. swears he doesn’t. but his side of the pillow always smells like you. it’s better than that shitty 7-in-1 anyways.

-he’s terrifyingly quiet when he’s angry. except with you. with you, he talks. not loud. but honest. “that scared the hell out of me.” “don’t do that again.” “i can’t lose you.”

-he doesn’t take pictures, but he has so many of you. little ones. secret ones. blurry and off-center. your hand on his thigh. your silhouette in the kitchen. your laugh mid-bite. he looks at them when he misses home.

-sometimes he just stares at you mid—conversation, like he forgot everything you were saying because your face is doing something soft. like smiling, or existing.

-when you’re sick, he’s unbearable. no one else can take care of you right. he brings you water, meds, hot tea, his hoodie, five blankets, a knife, and a death glare for anyone who even breathes near you.

-he gets shy after sex. not during—he’s dangerous during—but after, when you’re in his arms and breathing hard, he gets quiet. almost sweet. brushing hair from your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

-he doesn’t say “forever.” but when he fixes the cabinet in your bathroom without asking? when he memorizes your coffee order? when he adds your birthdate to every form he fills out? that’s him saying it.

I LOVE WRITING THESE

☆taglist☆

@little-mini-me-world @eremika104 @trixilove257 @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @lostintransist @avgdestitute @h0lydrag0ns @poshestpigeon @fertilise-me

join taglist in bio

[ashenwraithlow]

“You haven’t even taken your boots off”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

Post-mission | Domestic fluff | Soft!Simon | Comfort

୨────────୨୧────────୧

You hear the door click open – heavy, slow, like the person on the other side is dragging time behind them.

A dull thunk. Gear bag dropped to the floor. Another. Boots. And finally, Simon Riley, slouched in your doorway, looking like he’s been peeled out of war and stitched back together just to come home.

His mask is still on. Eyes shadowed. Posture's like someone who has been shot at too many times and just wants to rest for a century.

“Love?” you say, shifting slightly on the couch.

He lifts a hand in acknowledgment.

The most tired salute you've ever seen.

“You shower yet?”

“Mm.” A sound that could mean yes, no, maybe, or I’ll dissolve into ash if you ask me anything else.

You catch him watching you intently as he stands still, his shoulders loosen – barely – like you’re the only safe thing in the room.

“Food’s in the fridge,” you tell him softly. “I’ll heat it up. Or you can do it, if you feel like–”

“Don’t feel like anything.”

His voice is rough. Brittle. But not unkind.

“Thought so,” you smile. “Okay. Sit first, eat later. But boots off–”

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already collapsing onto the couch.

Already–

“Oh my God, Simon!”

He lands face-first in your lap.

One arm limply draped across your thighs, the other curled beneath him like a kid hiding from the world. His mask nudges your stomach, the weight of him grounding – enormous, solid, alive.

You freeze.

“…Seriously?”

And there's a low groan. Maybe agreement. Maybe defiance.

“You’re dirty. You’re– Simon, you’ve got blood on your sleeve.”

“Not mine,” he mutters.

“That doesn’t help!”

He doesn’t respond.

He’s already out.

Breathing slow. Even. Like his body finally let go now that it found you.

You stare down at him – big, deadly Simon Riley, curled in your lap, completely spent.

With a sigh, you brush your fingers lightly over his knuckles.

He flinches in his sleep. Mumbles something. You lean in closer.

One word: your name.

That’s it.

Just your name. Like a prayer. Like home.

You settle back, resting your hand gently on his broad back. Okay, you think. Shower later. Food later. This… now.

Outside, the world can burn.

But in this quiet corner of the universe, Ghost sleeps with his head in your lap, and that’s all that matters.

୨────────୨୧────────୧

[rawme-price]

Soulmate scars au with ghost who endures torture and war vs civilian reader???

Ghost didnt like to think about his soulmate. At all. For the longest time he thought he didnt have one, a desolate creature destined to be alone. He couldn't fathom the idea of someone's soul being entwined with his own, not after all the abuse hes suffered. First under his old man and now under the hands of war.

In fact, he completely forgot about his soulmate until he suffered a pretty bad injury. Two bullets to the abdomen, an anxiety inducing surgery for his team, and the all clear from the doctors left ghost in his medical room. The private area was an improvement from others hes stayed in, but hes still uncomfortable in the hospital gown and scratchy sheets. Awake in the middle of the night because all the doctors want to give him is mild ibuprofen (for reasons idk im not a doctor).

Pain twists and stabs at his stomach, so bad he almost doesnt notice another stab of pain. This one on his arm, the type of pain he recognizes instantly. Dread curling in his stomach, ghost turns his wrist upwards and nearly throws up. There, in flowering deep violet lines, are his soulmates wounds. Short and long horizontal lines, organized in a neat parallel row.

Hes not stupid. He knows what they are. Ghost actually does become sick, stumbling to the bathroom only to lay with his head pressed against the tile for a long time. He stays there, staring at the violet marks that will soon fade to lavender until kyle finds him.

The sargeant swears, and fast as ghost is to clamp a hand over his wrist, he isnt fast enough. Gently, slowly, kyle kneels down and peels the hand away, his lips purse and his eyes water.

Ghost blinks for a second and opens his eyes back in the hospital bed. Sun shines through the window, well into midday. When he focuses, he can hear his teammates muffled voices outside his door.

"Captain, he has a right to know-"

"No one's stopping him. Simon can put the pieces together himself."

"So what, we just sit on the information? Wait for him to realize and end up like- like *that* again?"

"Im with kyle on this one-"

The voices fall silent when ghost slowly opens the door. He looks like a mess, eyes red and lips chapped. "I should know what?" He asks, hand clamped over his wrist without realizing.

"Its not something youre ready-" Price begins, voice firm, but kyle cuts in.

"your scars are morse code."

Ghosts eyes widen, breath hitching, how- he looks down at his wrist and slowly removes his hand. It takes a moment for his sluggish mind to work over. But when hes does, simon makes a wounded sound. He closes the door, locks it, and just stares. Stares at the marks as water spills over his lashes, knees buckling when he takes a step. The violet marks, series of long and short cuts, a message for him from his soulmate. The only scar ever taken, compared to all the horrible scars hes handed out.

"I love you" carved by his soulmates hand.

[succubusvalentine]

Simon Riley with a wife that loves to cook him lunches. I like to think this is in the same universe as this blurb. CW : None. Pure fluff

Simon loves waking up, having a shower, and then coming downstairs to see a plate of breakfast on the kitchen island, and you, in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts as your pyjamas.

Simon loves wrapping his arms around your waist as you cook whatever you're making for him.

And it's not as though he demands it, or expects it. Ever since the two of you got married and you got to work from home instead of in the office, you would make Simon lunch.

It wasn't always in the morning, either. Sometimes you would just show up to the 141 base, greeting everyone with a sweet smile. Before handing Simon a still warm container of food.

Simon loved your cooking, but something he loved even more was the ego boost he received from his mates. Johnny especially.

Johnny always commented on what Simon had for lunch. Expressing how good it was and how he wishes he had a 'bonnie lass' at home that would make lunch for him.

Then, Simon made the mistake of telling you about Johnny's words.

Simon had said it in passing while the two of you were cuddling in bed. Chuckling to himself, not even noticing the pout on your lips.

He shouldn't have been surprised when in the morning, he saw two containers, instead of one. One labeled "Simon ‪‪❤︎‬", the other labeled "Johnny ‪‪❤︎‬".

Simon slid the container across the table as he sat across from Johnny. The scotsman looking confused before his eyes lit up.

"She cook this for me, did she?" Johnny smiled brightly.

"Aye. But don't get a big head about it" Simon glared.

"How can I no' get a big head aboot it? sweet lass she is. Migh' have tae steal her from ye"

"don't even think about it"

"She e'en put a heart nex' tae ma name, Simon. She must fancy me"

"I'm telling her you hated the food"

"No! dinnae dae that ye big brute! she'll think A'm a bastard!"

"You are one"

Simon brought home two empty containers that night. Telling you about how Johnny groaned with every mouthful and nearly licked the container clean.

You also started receiving sloppy kisses on the cheek from Johnny whenever you brought lunch in during the day for your husband and his best friend.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

[simrilys]

꣑୧ tummy kisses ─ simon riley soft!simon

you felt simon pull your legs apart, slotting himself right between them. his face pressed against your stomach, his hands reaching for yours and putting them in his hair.

you chuckled softly, the sound filling the quiet room. your fingers ran through simons hair slowly, massaging his scalp softly. he hummed quietly, pressing his face even more into your stomach.

it wasnt long before he pushed your shirt up and pressed his warm cheek against your skin. simon loved being skin to skin, it always felt more intimate, more bonding. (he always called it bonding time)

he pressed his lips on your stomach softly, leaving a very delicate kiss on your skin. you felt his nose brush your skin when he smiled. he kissed your stomach softly, each kiss meaning more and more.

he doesnt look up until he's finished kissing all over your stomach, leaving no spot without his kiss. his eyes met yours and you can see the love he holds for you.

even though he might not say much, you know you mean the world to him. and he means the world to you too.

hes a softie i just know it

[jaesblogstuff]

Probably your other Girlfriend

“Remember that little black ashtray you used to have?” Simon calls out from the kitchen, digging around like he’s gonna find something that isn’t his.

You don’t even look up from your laptop. “Ashtray?”

“Yeah,” he says, rattling a drawer. “ You know, black. Square. You always kept your lighters in it.”

You blink. “Simon, I don’t smoke.”

There’s a pause. The kind where you can feel him stopping mid-motion, mentally scrolling through his own memories like an idiot.

And you’re just sitting there, watching it click behind his eyes. That he’s not technically wrong. You did buy a little black dish like that once. Flea market, two bucks, no thought. Tossed your lip balm and keys in it. Forgot it even existed.

You smirk, eyes still on your screen. “Must’ve been your other girlfriend.”

Throwaway line. Joke. Light. Nothing mean. But of course Simon wants a say in it.

“Yeah,” he says. So fast. Like he was waiting to say it. “Could’ve been.”

Silence. Your head tilts slow as hell.

Just your eyes on him like you’re calculating the trajectory of the beer bottle next to him and deciding whether or not prison’s worth it today. “Ha. Ha.”

He freezes. Still holding the drawer like it’s a shield.

“You keep playing with me.” It’s not loud. It’s not even a threat.

But he knows better than anyone—that’s the danger zone. Because your tone doesn’t change. But the air does.

“You make another joke like that,” you nod toward the counter, “and that bottle’s going in your skull. And not the fun way.”

Simon just stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re bluffing.

You’re not. And he knows it.

Because last month, you ruined a man’s entire bloodline for lying to you during a debrief. Did it barefoot, in pajamas, eating chips. Didn’t even pause the show you were watching.

So no, you’re not the one.

He nods once. “Copy.” Smart.

He moves back to the fridge like nothing happened, but the corners of his mouth are doing that thing, barely-there smirk, like he’s impressed. Like he lives to piss you off.

Because this is foreplay for him.

He wants to see how far he can go before you finally snap and kill him in his sleep. And honestly? You let him.

Because who else is gonna carry the groceries and make you tea and know exactly where your shoulder blades like to be kissed?

He’s annoying. But he’s yours.

[naptimepng]

ghost and reader who doesn’t like to be touched! had a thought so lemme get it out! will update in a bit

[naptimepng]

touchy 

ghost x gn!reader | 2.6k | AO3

warnings/tags: non-consensual touching but it’s dealt with, heavy pda, soap being a nosy prick, ghost being a petty prick, reader just wants a hug, gaz is Tired of soap, affectionate bullying (they’re all british), someone get price some chamomile tea, lowercase, bad jokes, light poly!141 at the end. cross-posted to ao3 @ sleepytimepng!

it’s a well-known fact within the task force that neither ghost nor you are too keen on physical proximity to others, much less in public, so obviously soap is intrigued (nosy) to see you both sitting a little closer to each other on flights home without so much as a blink. 

*** 

it’s not that you have anything against the people exactly, it just makes your skin prickle when someone thinks they’re well within their rights to put their hands on you. even soap makes sure to leave you your personal space when you’re all squished into a flight home. 

and the entire base knows it too. you’re nice enough other times, pleasant and funny and willing to smile and take it when someone takes the mick out of you, but once a recruit had patted you on the back in the mess to get your attention and you’d swiveled round—face hard, the threat of violence in your eyes spitting like flint against stone as your nails bit into the thin skin of his wrist. the stupid joke you’d been halfway through telling ghost fizzled out on your tongue as your brow pinched in a frown. 

“hey, sarge, just—uh, needed your attention. didn’t mean any harm—”

“i’d advise you”—you glanced at his uniform, keeping your tone very calm—“private murphy, to keep your hands to yourself. not everyone’ll be as nice as me, will they?” you waited with raised eyebrows, adjusting your grip on his hand, squeezing the slightest bit tighter. “will they, private?” 

he paled and managed a smile that ended up looking more like a grimace. “no, no, sergeant. that’s my fault, i’ll—sorry.” 

you nodded, letting go before turning back to your bangers and mash. you stabbed your fork into a chunk of sausage and bit into it, mumbling around the mouthful of food, “as i was saying, d’you hear about the potato that got its head chopped off?”

ghost blinked the hearts from his eyes, and rolled them at you, shaking his head and murmuring dryly, “no, sergeant. do tell, won’t you?” 

you grinned. “it was decap-potatoed.”

the short huff ghost let out around his fork at the punchline made your insides warm enough that you’d neglected to notice that he had stared at you for far longer than your joke warranted. 

anyway—word got round soon after; do not touch you without your explicit permission. 

*** 

two weeks later, the task force was returning to base from a two-day mission stupidly high up in some far-eastern european mountain range. some light recon, nothing too exhausting, except the time difference was having an unusually annoying impact on your mood. 

“waste of fucking time,” you hiss, slamming your m16 under your seat with a huff. “spent four hours on my belly, freezing my fuckin’ tits off for fuck-all and now my hands are fucking sore and everything's fucking hurting—”

your angry muttering makes ghost huff as he drops himself into the seat beside you with a sigh. he rolls his shoulders and glances at you from the corner of his eye. “not a fan of the cold, are ya?” 

“no, i can’t feeling my fucking hands—”

“give ‘em ‘ere, i’ll warm ‘em up for ya.” 

he shifts his gun to his side and takes your hands between his without waiting for an answer from you. he dips his head as he rubs them between his palms, the warm dry skin of his hands making your own heat with goosebumps. you stare down at him, eyes bulging when he hooks his mask over his mouth with his thumb to exhale hot air over your fingertips. 

he ignores your quiet noise of surprise and sniffs. “what d’you call a ghost in the winter?”

you begin to mumble under your breath, rolling your eyes, “a presumptuous prick—”

“casp-brrr.”

“oh, fuck off, that was terrible—” 

“oi, oi, what’s this?” 

gaz ducks into the cabin, shaking snow from his hair. he grins down at you both before slumping into one of two spare seats opposite you. price is riding with nik in the cockpit. “havin’ a little snuggle, are we?” 

“tactical conservation of heat, garrick,” ghost drawls. “avoidin’ frostbite. thought you did medical training.” 

gaz snorts, noting the helpless look on your face. “ah, right,” he nods, playing along. “no, no, you’re right, sir. i do remember summin’ bein’ said about that now that i’m thinkin’ about it.” 

“thought so,” ghost mutters, now massaging your hands. when you shiver again, he asks, “where’s soap gone? been ‘ere far too fuckin’ long, m’balls are fuckin’ frozen.” 

“probably stuck with his tongue frozen to the helo,” you murmur, swallowing heavily when ghost glances up from your hands to meet your gaze. the brown of his eyes crackles with warmth, like a roaring hearth, the wheat blond of his lashes glowing gold in the white light reflecting off the snow. 

the door of the helicopter slams open with a metallic clang and soap stomps in, tossing his nvg’s onto his seat and tugging his scarf from his face; his cheeks are red with the cold. “steamin’ jesus,” he wheezes, breath puffing out in a cloud in front of his face. “fuckin’ freezin’ oot there, isnae much colder’n home, i tell ye.” 

he collapses into his seat then frowns at gaz. 

“shove up, mate, ah’m no’ sittin’ wae half m’arse oot the plane—” he pauses, eyes landing on your hands clasped between ghost’s and a wicked grin breaks out on his face, albeit a little stiffly from the cold. “hello, we all havin’ a wee coorie, are we?” 

“not wiv you,” ghost grumbles, shifting in his seat to turn his back on soap. 

soap shuffles forward in his seat beside gaz and splays his arms over the back in a loud stretch. “och, playin’ favourites, lt?” 

“maybe,” he murmurs. he glances up at you, slow blinks like a cat and presses his mouth to your fingertips. the skin there tingles in a way you want to blame on the imminent frostbite. ghost hums lowly, blowing hot air across your hands before throwing over his shoulder, “what’s it to you?” 

“jes’ wonderin’ when ye were plannin’ on tellin’ me ah’ve been oosted from favourite subordinate, s’all.” 

“tantrums aren’t a good look, soap,” gaz says, grinning and shoving his arm from his shoulders. 

“neither’s suck-up, ya sleekit bampot—“ 

“soap havin’ trouble managing his big boy feelings, is he?” you chip in over ghost’s shoulder, delighted to see the man in question erupt at your words. 

“right, so ye all fuckin’ hate me, do ye?! never thought i’d live ta see the day, all of ye gangin’ up on me like this—” 

“want someone to hold your hand when you cross the road too, do ya?” 

“right bastard, ye ken ah don’t—” 

“will you muppets shut the fuck up? cloggin’ the radio,” price’s voice comes crackling through the headsets. soap actually sticks his tongue out at you before violently shoving two middle fingers up at you both and grumbling to himself the entire flight home. 

*** 

after that, the two of you begin to find yourself seeking the other out for a little oxytocin boost. you let ghost rest his chin on top of your head at the back of the room during briefings, he pulls your legs into his lap on the sofa, his hand at the small of your back, your fingers hooked in his belt loops as you pass him, a shoulder squeeze, until it becomes routine. 

ghost finds you in the rec room on a thursday evening, a file open on your lap and the pen in your hand spinning through your fingers as your other hand busies itself with curling and uncurling the corner of the page you’re on. when he steps around the side of the sofa, your eyes are unfocused and glassy. 

hm. 

he dips his head to meet your eye and frowns when you don’t react. only a slow, tired blink and that very british tight-lipped smile that says i’m good, mate; you? before you look back down at the file. he sits down beside you and sighs through his nose when you make no move to get closer. 

“c’mere.” 

“huh?” 

“come here,” he repeats. shifts back against the sofa, opens his legs and pats the space between them. “can’t ‘ave my favourite subordinate fallin’ asleep on the job, can i?” 

you huff out a tired laugh, shuffling back against his chest and letting out a small sigh when he drops his hand gently to the crown of your head in a light pat. 

“don’t let soap hear that, sir. might actually get some tears from him this time.” 

“oh, he knows, love.” 

his chest rumbles against your back as he speaks, makes you think of a cat purring, or the low roar of an idling engine. 

“been more’n obvious about it, haven’t we?” he asks, pulling the files into his own lap and resituating the pen in your hand. when you don’t pick them up after a moment of resting your head against his chest with your eyes closed, he squeezes your knee. “go on; work. i’ve got ya.” 

*** 

“look at ‘em, all snuggled up, it’s giein me the boak,” soap bemoans, covering his eyes. he’s hiding behind the rec room door, half-crouched under the window to sneak a look at two of the (currently) most irritating members of his team. 

“not botherin’ you, are they?” gaz replies, shoving soap’s head out of the way and dodging a retaliatory fist to make his way into the room. 

“aye, on’y stolen my fuckin’ sofa,” soap mutters to himself, making sure to keep his hair out of sight when ghost glances up at gaz as he enters. 

after a long day of barking at recruits, and an even longer wait in line for some grub, all soap wanted was to have a wee nap. so, he padded into the rec room, expecting his sofa to be free but no. you and ghost had robbed him, all tangled up and lazy and taking up the entire fucking length of it with ghost’s stupid long legs. a file of reports lies open on the floor by ghost’s feet, the pages spread like they’d been dropped carelessly. 

ghost has your legs pulled over his lap, one hand kneading the muscle around your knee while the other rests on top of your head, slow scrunches against your scalp that make you lean closer to him, the furrow in your brows relaxing a little. ghost’s attention is on you, but yours seems to be focused on the device in your hands, thumbs moving over the screen in a way that reminds soap of higher-stakes moments in the field. and while it isn’t life and death on the line now, it may as well be because everyone knows that’s his fucking sofa. 

he goes to step out from his hiding spot behind the door, but then there are footsteps behind him that he notices too late and a hand grips him by the collar to tug him away. 

“told ya on the way back,” price grumbles, “leave ‘em alone, you hear? not doin’ any harm, are they, sergeant?” 

at soap’s eye roll, price doubles down, dipping his chin to his chest and raising his eyebrows in a way that makes soap bristle because it reminds him of his ma. 

“no, cap… was jus’ sayin’,” soap starts, voice suspiciously close to a whinge, “we’ve never got to cuddle so how’s it fair he gets to? prickly bastard elbowed me in the bawsack other day fer pattin’ him on the shoulder, an’ now he’s all cosy—”

“none of our business, that, soap. as your co, i’d advise you to keep your nose out of it. it’s good for ‘em both," he says, squeezing his shoulder with another emphatic look. "trust me.” 

*** 

it’s twenty minutes into a long meeting of butting heads with government officials and price’s subtle cutting insults that even ghost has to appreciate when you squeeze through the door, holding up an apologetic hand to price and shuffling around the table to sit by ghost. he nudges the chair back with his foot and lets his legs fall open when you settle, knocking his knee gently into your thigh. he's half-reclined, hips shifted forward to the edge of the seat to let him lean comfortably back in the chair. he gives you a brief glance, then refocuses to the front of the room, where a blueprint of some facility they’re meant to be scoping out in a week’s time is being projected on the wall. 

a few minutes later, ghost makes up his mind. shuffles to sit straighter in his chair and quietly clears his throat to get your attention. you glance at him then look back at price, fingers hidden under the table as they pick incessantly at the tender skin of your nail bed.

you’re jittery. your knee has been bouncing against his since you sat down. he won’t look at you again for fear of drawing any more attention to you because he knows you’ll quash any outward expression of fatigue or anxiety if you notice his observing, so decides to give you another outlet. 

he unfolds his arms and settles a warm, heavy palm on the back of your neck. rubs his thumb into the tense muscles and feels your shoulders lower as the tension seeps out of you. he doesn’t look at you; keeps his gaze straight ahead but you appreciate it and squeeze his hand under the table. he flips it palm up and lets you fiddle—tugging at his sleeve, pulling at a loose thread, kneading the meat of his palm. 

across the table, soap’s attention has drifted—which, in his defense, it was bound to at some point—to the slow pulse of ghost’s hand around the back of your neck. he sees your forearm too close to his under the table and frowns. gives gaz a less-than-subtle nudge that earns him a hard kick to the shin. he spits out a steamin’ christ before price shoots him a look and he quiets. a minute later though, he’s elbowing gaz again, nodding to you and ghost with wide eyes. 

gaz takes a glance then looks back at soap, shrugging and shaking his head with raised eyebrows. don’t care. when soap looks back, ghost meets him head-on, the full force of his glare hitting him in the chest. he raises his eyebrows in a challenge that soap glares at, a scowl forming on his face. soap relents a moment later, eyes burning from the impromptu staring contest and makes a point not to look at ghost for the rest of the meeting, knowing he’ll see an infuriating smirk on his face. 

*** 

months later though, he has noticed an improvement in your mood after bad missions. you don’t disappear into the isolation of your room as much to lick your wounds in peace, instead preferring to settle on the sofa with your head on ghost’s shoulders and his big hand between yours. except now, gaz will take ghost’s place, or price will sit at your back, his chin resting on top of your head. soap’s far less obvious about his… distaste (jealousy) now. only gives you an understanding smile before settling on your other side, drawing your legs into his lap. 

and in the dark of his room, with your head pillowed on his chest and his arm around your back, he curses quietly to himself. loath as he is to admit it, it seems price’s observation was correct. it does end up improving his mood. 

[imreadng]

the way i was SQUEALING the whole time i was reading this... i have SO MANY THINGS to say!!

first of all, the tags are so goofy LOL BUT ITS SO ACCURATE I LOVE IT. the jokes? the silly bullying and banter? id say poor soap but honestly i was laughing the whole time LMAO

the writing has such vivid and creative descriptions and it's like WHAT. HOW. IT'S SO GOOD... especially the part where we were trying to endure the cold. ghost's features were written so beautifully, and i feel like that really intensified the feelings of intimacy and safety

i also really liked the part where we were restless and anxious during a meeting. the timing is crazy to me actually because before i got to that section, i started feeling anxious myself LOL i really love the way ghost cared for us during the entire fic though. i like how he isn't at all embarrassed about it and even goes out of his way to initiate a lot of the touches. i also love the light poly!141 at the end... everyone gets to cuddle and i love that so so much!!

... now please excuse me as i go scream at my pillow

[dawnofvenus]

smaller!reader

thinking about how the more time you spend with john (price), the more you notice he's so much like a damn bear.

during winters, the time on leave he gets for christmas is predominantly spent snoring with you tucked under his arm. if you even attempt to get up, price'll groan and whine about how you can sleep in just a few spare minutes with him. once he's finally up and out of the tangle of blankets and sheets, he'll pester you about taking a nap on the living room couch with him.

or how he uses the door frames around the house to sate his constant need to itch his back. pressing the between of his shoulders to the trim, letting out little grunts that sound suspiciously close to a bears huffy growls as he rubs back and forth against the wood.

the man is also a brute. broad shoulders that roll like the hills of moors; a chest that flexes and softens with nearly every breath. when you press your hand to him, your nearly stunned that you two are the same species solely based on how he's built.

but most of all, his forests of hair on nearly every expanse of flesh. the downy fur that adorns his chest, or the dark blankets that wrap around his forearms like armored cuffs.

it's part of his charm, you suppose.

[imreadng]

this is an update that's way long due, but in case anyone's curious, ill continue being on hiatus until around the first few weeks of june. i still have a lot of things going on in my life right now to the point that i still can't read fanfics as much as i used to. hopefully i get everything in order soon and i can come back again like i have always used to :')

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost: I've never had a best friend Soap: I'll be your best friend! Ghost: Ghost, turning to Y/N: I've never had a spouse either

[luvbabydoll]

crack blurb inspired by this post @sigh-tofm

you were just trying to enjoy your drink.

maybe flirt a little. maybe not. it was one of those nights—bored enough to entertain a conversation, but not quite desperate enough to start one.

so when the guy with the thick scottish accent slid up beside you at the bar, all easy charm and cocky grin, you didn’t immediately wave him off. he was cute. smug, but cute.

“my husband thinks you’re attractive,” he said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

you blinked. “your what?”

he grinned, sipping his drink. “aye. told me to come over an’ say somethin’. said you’ve got nice eyes.”

your stomach dropped a little. husband? plural? open marriage? what kind of sitcom were you walking into?

he tilted his head toward the other end of the bar. “that’s him, by the way.”

you followed his gaze.

and immediately wished you hadn’t.

standing there like they owned the building—6’4, easily 250lbs of pure intimidation, wearing a goddamn skull balaclava in public like it was fashion week. black combat boots. gloves. arms crossed. and staring at you like you’d run over w dog and laughed about it.

you turned back slowly. “that’s… your wife?”

he nodded, like a proud husband. “ghost.”

you stared at him. “ghost?!”

“aye,” he said, like you were the one being weird. “don’t worry, they’re lovely. bit quiet. but he likes you.”

you risked another glance.

ghost hadn’t moved. hadn’t blinked. just stood there. watching. like they were waiting. and if you so much as breathed the wrong way, you’d be eating through a straw.

“he… doesn’t look like he likes me.”

johnny chuckled. “nah, he’s just thinkin’. probably already planned how he’d carry ye out the bar. over his shoulder, princess-style.”

your whole soul left your body.

“i think i’m good,” you said, already stepping away. “tell your wife thanks, but i’m not ready to meet god tonight.”

“he likes a challenge,” he called after you, way too cheerfully.

you didn’t stop walking until the air felt less murdery.

[callsignpxnguin]

John Price and his Sleepy Wife

AO3

You had always been a sleepy person. Dozing off on John’s lap in the car, nuzzling quietly into his side during films, and just enjoying sleeping on him in general.

But just imagine John telling some story about his glory days as he liked to to the rest of the squad, and he’s just rambling on as you sit next to him on the couch, but you’re half asleep. So he’ll talk a bit — adjust his sleepy wife who’s drooping off of his shoulder — and then continue like nothing happened.

But then it would happen again. And again. And again. You sliding down, boneless, eyelids fluttering weakly, snuggled into John like he was your own personal furnace. And none of the boys would say anything (apart from Soap’s quiet laughs), because it happened every time, and they knew the drill — keep a close eye on you to ensure you didn’t fall to the ground, but not close enough to make you feel uncomfortable or to annoy Price, because as much as he trusted them you were still his wife.

“Infiltration wasn’t—“ A pause for him to give up repositioning you and just pull you onto his lap, eliciting a quiet but content sigh from you as you buried your face into his chest “—that much of a challenge, but you forget that there were about a hundred men, yeah? So…”

Meanwhile, having already heard all his stories a hundred times over, you had progressed from half-asleep to out cold, and by the time it got late enough m for everyone to start heading to bed, Price had to carry you bridal-style to your shared bedroom. Not that he was complaining. The missus always got her every want and need provided for, always. Especially when it involved her using him as her pillow.

[imreadng]

your teeth sinks into the firm flesh of simon's forearm, leaving deep indents that nearly threatens to draw blood. in your poor attempt to gain the upper hand, you thrash around in his arms, which only causes him to let out a laugh that booms through your entire back.

“simon!” you cry out, but his hold on you refuses to falter. the contours of his bare torso presses on your figure so tight, you'd think that he's trying to fuse the two of you together. it's not everyday that he gets to act this way, but as clingy as he can be, now is just not the time.

not when it's scorching hot!

“i swear to god si!” you whine, all while pushing at his arms. the simple action made the sweat on your forehead drip, and you're convinced that the shirt you're wearing is now damp with perspiration.

“mhm...” simon hums, and it took everything for you not to groan. he's lucky he has you bound or you would've already punched him in the face.

“jus’ wanna be wit’ you ‘ere, lovie...” he mumbles from under his breath before sighing at the nickname. “is tha’ too much for me to ask?”

you could tell from his voice alone that he has his eyes closed, acting all peaceful as if he doesn't have you trapped in his arms. if you move your head just a little bit to the side, his lips would be caressing the shell of your ear, and the thought involuntarily made you shiver.

with no more energy left to escape from simon's hold, you finally lay yourself limp on top of him. the heat in the room is no match for his own radiating heat, and at this point, your body has learned to accommodate to the temperature... somehow.

“wasn't so hard, was it?”

god, he's so annoying.

[tojisteddy]

Phone calls | cw: fluff, age gap (reader mid 20s, John late 30s), part two

John Price who absolutely loves his phone calls with shy!reader.

Your voice is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, still so small even though you’ve been dating for a couple of months. He loved hearing you talk because when there’s a lot of people you’re as quiet as a mouse, so he lets you ramble on and on about whatever comes to mind for how ever long until you’d try and crawl back in your box again.

“ ‘M sorry, I’m talkin too much, aren’t I?”

“No dove, let me hear more of you, yeah?”

And you’re attentive too, always have a follow up question to any of his stories. Giggles filling his ears when you laugh together. God, it just gave him that perfect burst his aging heart needed every single time.

His favorite thing to do though?

The old man would call your house phone when he’s right outside your flat, leaning on his car and looking up to the 5th floor, right where your apartment is. He’d see your gorgeous silhouette in the curtains, you’d pick up that old yellow rottery phone that you’d gotten from him as a replacement for the one that broke.

“H-Hello?” You’d squeak out, disgustingly cute, twirling the line with your fingers.

“I’m downstairs, thought I’d see your face before I left.”

“Where?” And you’re quick to uncover the blue and white embroidered curtains, revealing yourself on the baloney, curls touching just above your shoulders, only in your damned underwear and a tight top, with your nipples peeking through. If he told you about the way you’d look right now, you’d leap out of your skin.

But John just loved how he was the only thing on your mind when he called. Your big brown eyes searching the street for the bearded man, and he’s right there. Giving you a wave with a smirk he just can not hide.

“Hi John,” youre breathless through the phone, love sick on that dream boat of a man.

“You’re fuckin gorgeous love, always so beautiful.”

You yanked the phone away, hiding your face with your curls as you squealed, stomping around cute as ever. John could so easily get you all flustered, you peek down at him and he’s tapping his phone, listen.

You put the phone to your ear again, “Don’t have long. Just wanted to see your face.”

And it’s clock work, John would tease you every time he wanted to see you by threatening to leave. As if he wouldn’t climb up the damn apartment with his bare hands like you were fuckin Rapunzel. But you’d believe him every time, eyes widening and mouth opening and closing, words fighting to get out.

He’d get your heart pumping even more as he turned to his car, “I-I- dont you wanna come up John? Just for a tea?”

He turns, to look back at you, eyebrow raised, he hums, “Not sure love, gotta be up early.”

“It’ll be five minutes! I swear John.” And your pretty bottom lip is out, pouting— the man couldn’t resist you for long.

It wouldn’t be five minutes, it never was, just as the older man had planned. He’d agree, just for tea, with a grin. Practically zooming through your complex to get to you and taking you in his arms.

His sweet girl.

It couldn’t get any better than you.

a/n: did I write this cause I haven’t done a proper part two to a certain price fic? Well— but this was fun!!

shy!reader masterlist most recent

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon fixes your sleep schedule

Simon hadn’t realized just how fucked your sleep schedule was until he moved in with you. His birdie.

Waking up in the middle of the night or at the ass crack of dawn only to find you curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around you, phone in hand, eyes barely open. Sometimes, you’d be watching a show, other times scrolling mindlessly, and on rare occasions, half-asleep but refusing to actually get up and go to bed.

And then, without fail, you’d spend the next day complaining about how tired you were. You’d drag yourself around the apartment, yawning every five minutes, rubbing at your eyes like a petulant child. And when he told you—plain and simple—that you needed to go to bed earlier, you had the nerve to roll your eyes at him.

“Okay, dad,” you’d say before walking away, completely ignoring his advice.

No amount of reasoning could convince you. If anything, the more he brought it up, the more stubborn you became.

So, Simon took matters into his own hands.

First, he switched out your usual tea for chamomile, hoping it would knock you out easier. Every night, he handed you your favorite mug, tea bag steeping inside, always a different flavor, something new to throw you off. Just in case you started getting suspicious.

You never noticed. Never questioned it. Just sipped at it, curled up in your blanket, completely oblivious.

Then came the melatonin sleep spray. He practically doused the corner of the couch where you always nested, soaking the blankets and pillows in the scent, ensuring that once you settled in, sleep would come whether you liked it or not.

And slowly, it started working.

You began dozing off earlier. The nights where he found you awake at ungodly hours became less frequent. You stopped yawning every other sentence. Stopped rubbing at your eyes like you were seconds away from passing out on your feet.

The dark circles under your eyes faded. Your complaints about exhaustion became fewer and farther between.

He never said anything about it. Never told you. Just watched in silent satisfaction as his plan worked.

But his favorite part? When you passed out on the couch instead of the bed.

Because that meant he got to pick you up, carry you to bed, and watch you sleep peacefully for a moment before pressing a kiss to your forehead and climbing in beside you.

It was selfish, really.

Because, sure, fixing your sleep schedule was technically for your health. But he couldn’t deny that he loved the way you curled into him when he slipped under the covers. The way you nuzzled into his chest, warm and pliant, letting out a soft sigh in your sleep as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer.

And, well better sleep also meant more cuddles.

And Simon loved that most of all.

Ik your sleep schedule is fucked. Go to bed.

[imreadng]

currently running on 3 hours of sleep right now after having slept at 5am last night ( or morning...? )

yeah... i definitely needed this LMAO