SUMMARY: Simon Riley is sent back in time to kill the British parliament
CW: Death, talk of death, mentions of ‘atrocious crimes’, doesn’t go too into the deaths
Simon “Ghost” Riley had seen the impossible during his service with Task Force 141 - unthinkable operations, underground missions in hostile territories, and battles fought in the shadows where they can’t be found. But this? This was beyond his comprehension. One moment, he was in a shitty safe house looking over intercepted enemy comms. The next, a flash of light enveloped him, and he found himself standing in an unfamiliar room - ugly Victorian decor (Simon just didn’t like the look), with gas lamps flickering on the walls and a heavy cloud of cigar smoke hanging in the air.
He blinked, adjusting his mask as his surroundings came into focus. Rows of well-dressed men sat at long wooden benches, heatedly debating something that sounded vaguely political. He wasn’t just anywhere… he was in the British Parliament.
“What the hell…” Ghost muttered under his breath.
A loud bang startled him. Turning to his left, he saw a figure in a dark cloak and a crooked smile. “Simon Riley,” the stranger said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You’ve been brought here for a purpose.”
Ghost’s instincts kicked in. His hand went to his holstered pistol, only to find it gone. Instead, he felt the weight of an old-fashioned revolver tucked into his belt.
“Who are you?” Ghost growled. “And where exactly is here?”
“London, year’s 1834,” the man replied. “The Parliament you see before you is overflowing with corruption, its members complicit in countless atrocities. History calls for a reckoning. That’s where you come in.”
Ghost narrowed his eyes. Time travel? Assassination? It sounded like madness… “Have I lost my shit?” Ghost grumbled to himself. But something about the man’s demeanor convinced him it wasn’t a joke. And if he’d been dropped into this chaos, he had no choice but to play along - for now.
“Fine,” Ghost said. “Who’s the target?”
The man handed him a parchment with several names scrawled in elegant, fancy handwriting - despite the irony he was about to do. Prime Minister Robert Peel, the Earl of Aberdeen, and a half-dozen other prominent figures.
“You’re mad if you think I can take them all out in one go,” Ghost said. “This place is crawling with guards.”
“You’re a ghost, aren’t you?” the man countered. “Disappear. Strike from the shadows. They’ll never see you coming.”
———————————————————————
The mission began as the debates continued late into the night. Ghost stalked the dimly lit corridors of Parliament like a predator, his footfalls silent on the plush carpet. He’d never assassinated a political figure (that he could remember), much less a historical one, but his training kicked in as he evaluated each target.
First was the Earl of Aberdeen, who lingered in the smoking room with a group of sycophants *cough* *cough* arse-kisser, stuck-up creeps. Ghost waited for the group to disperse, then slipped behind the Earl, choking him silently with a garrote improvised from a curtain cord. He laid the body on a chaise longue, arranging it to look like the Earl had fallen asleep.
Next was Robert Peel, the Prime Minister himself. Ghost found him alone in his chambers, writing by candlelight. For a moment, he hesitated. Killing soldiers in the heat of battle was one thing; this felt… different. But then he thought of the stranger’s words: corruption, atrocities. If these men were truly guilty, history would remember them differently.
He crept closer, his revolver aimed. The click of the hammer being pulled back made Peel turn, his eyes wide with fear. “W-who are you?” the Prime Minister stammered.
“A ghost,” Simon replied before pulling the trigger.
———————————————————————
By the time dawn broke, the halls of Parliament were in chaos. Guards scoured the building for the mysterious killer, but Ghost was already gone, melting into the foggy streets of 19th-century London.
He found the stranger waiting for him in an alley. “You’ve done well,” the man said, his grin as sharp as a knife.
“Send me back,” Ghost demanded. “I don’t belong here.”
“All in due time,” the man replied. “But first, there’s another mission. The course of history is fragile, after all.”
Simon “Ghost” Riley didn’t like being anyone’s pawn, but he had little choice. Adjusting his mask, he followed the stranger into the shadows, ready to face whatever the past - or even future - had in store.
@ghost-askblog here’s the story about you going back in time and assassinating the British parliament, cheers mate 🍻
C: SFW, glitter bombs, wholesome, tf-141, goo natured fun
The safehouse was unusually quiet for New Year’s Eve. After weeks of nonstop missions, Task Force 141 was grateful for a rare moment of rest. Captain Price had declared it a “low-profile” celebration - no fireworks, no loud music, just a quiet toast to the coming year.
But for John “Soap” McTavish, that sounded downright boring.
Soap sat in the small workshop he had claimed as his own, a mischievous grin on his face. On the table before him lay his tiny arsenal: tiny spring-loaded mechanisms, colorful packets of glitter, small canisters of compressed air, and precisely cut pieces of wrapping paper. Each glitter bomb was smaller than a golf ball, meticulously designed to fit inside a gift box and detonate upon opening.
“This’ll be bloody brilliant,” Soap muttered to himself as he carefully assembled another contraption. His hands worked quickly, honed by years of experience with explosives. Except this time, his payload wasn’t C4 - it was glitter.
He had spent the last week secretly collecting supplies and crafting his “weapons.” His goal? To give the team a New Year’s they’d never forget. And since they didn’t know about his plan, the element of surprise was on his side.
By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, Soap’s glitter bombs were ready. He’d wrapped each one in a carefully chosen box and labeled them with the team’s names: Captain Price, Ghost, and Gaz. The gifts were perfect disguises - innocuous, thoughtful, and completely unsuspected.
The tricky part was getting them under the still up sad looking Christmas tree without anyone noticing. Soap waited until the early morning hours, when the rest of the team was mostly asleep. Moving with the stealth of a seasoned operative, he crept into the living room, slid the presents under the tree, and slipped back to his room, grinning ear to ear.
By 10 p.m., the team had gathered in the living room. The fire crackled warmly, and Price poured glasses of whiskey for everyone. Gaz was fiddling with the radio, trying to tune into something festive, while Ghost sat silently in the corner, as always. Soap, meanwhile, tried to act casual, though his eyes kept darting to the tree.
“Alright,” Price said, leaning back in his chair. “We’ve got an hour to midnight. Let’s do the gifts now.”
Soap’s heart raced as the team moved toward the tree. He had to suppress a laugh when Gaz picked up his box, shaking it curiously.
“Who wrapped these?” Gaz asked, narrowing his eyes at the perfectly folded paper. “They’re too neat to be Soap’s work.”
Gaz opened his gift first. Inside was a tactical flashlight - Soap had included a real gift to avoid suspicion - but as soon as Gaz lifted it, a small glitter bomb activated. With a soft pop, a cloud of gold glitter exploded into the air, covering Gaz from head to toe.
“What the… SOAP!” Gaz yelled, coughing and frantically brushing glitter off his face.
“Happy New Year, mate!” Soap howled with laughter.
Ghost was next. He opened his gift cautiously, as if expecting trouble. Inside was a black combat knife - practical, sleek, and exactly Ghost’s style. But as soon as he touched the knife, a second glitter bomb went off, sending a shower of silver glitter all over his mask and gear.
Ghost froze, staring at the glitter stuck to his gloves. “You’re dead, McTavish,” he said in a low, menacing tone.
Price, ever the skeptic, took his time inspecting his box. “If this thing explodes, Soap, you’ll be running laps till next Christmas,” he warned.
Soap feigned innocence. “C’mon, Cap. Would I prank you?”
Price opened the box, revealing a fine bottle of whiskey. For a moment, he looked impressed - until the bottle released a puff of blue glitter straight into his beard.
The room erupted in chaos. Gaz was still trying to shake off the glitter, Ghost was muttering threats under his breath, and Price was wiping his face, glaring at Soap with a mix of annoyance and amusement.
“You’re a menace, McTavish,” Price said, shaking his head. “But I’ll give you this - it’s creative.”
Soap grinned, raising his glass in a toast. “To the best team in the world - and the sparkliest New Year’s Eve ever!”
Despite the grumbling, even Ghost couldn’t entirely suppress a chuckle. And as the clock struck midnight, the team raised their glasses, surrounded by glitter and laughter. Soap’s secret mission had been a success, and Task Force 141 had a New Year’s celebration they (and their clothes) would never forget.
@ask-soapmactavish I’ll make you a real bomb story after new years a little 2-in-1 for ya
SUMMARY: Simon gives you one of those trendy bracelets made for couples on Christmas Day. Literally saw an ad for it and immediately thought about this.
CW: SFW, wholesome, Soft!Simon, Christmas Day, established relationship, non gendered reader
The room was quiet except for the soft crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of wrapping paper. Snow fell lightly outside, the sun making the snow glow with a beautiful sheen. You and Simon sat close together on the living room floor, surrounded by open boxes and torn ribbons. The morning had been filled with laughter and surprises both big and small, but Simon had one last gift for you.
He reached behind the couch and pulled out a small box, wrapped in baby blue paper and tied with a simple white string. His fingers paused on it for a moment before he handed it to you, his eyes holding yours.
“This one’s… different. Don’t know if you’ll like it,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.
You tilted your head, as you took the gift. “Different how?” You say examining the box and the little white snowflakes printed on the thin paper.
“Just open it,” he grunted, his gaze unwavering.
With a small smile, you tugged at the white string and peeled back the paper, revealing a sleek black box. Lifting the lid, you were met with the sight of two bracelets nestled inside; sleek, simple, and modern. One was slightly larger and blue, clearly meant for a bigger wrist; Simon’s wrist specifically. While the other was smaller and white gold - with a small skull printed on top (he had to stake his claim somehow lol) designed for a smaller wrist - yours.
“Wait… are these what I think they are?” you asked, glancing up at him.
“They are,” he confirmed, his tone gruff but softened by the emotion in his eyes. “Thought it’d be… useful. For when I’m not here.”
You picked up the smaller bracelet, running your fingers over its smooth surface. “They’re the ones that send a signal, right? To let the other person know you’re thinking of them?”
Simon nodded, his forearms resting on his thighs as he leaned forward watching you. “Yeah. You press the button, and it buzzes on the other end. Subtle. Nothing flashy.”
Your chest tightened as the weight of the gesture sank in. He wasn’t the type to voice his emotions often, but this - this was his way of saying he wanted to stay connected, even when countless miles separated you.
“I…” You trailed off, trying to find the right words to express your aching heart. “Simon, this is… it’s perfect.”
He shifted slightly, reaching for the other bracelet and sliding it onto his wrist. “It’s not much, but I figured… if you ever needed… or um missed me… or maybe if I wanted you to know I’m thinking about you - this would help.”
You slipped your own bracelet onto your wrist, marveling at how well it fit. “It’s more than enough,” you said softly, pressing the small button on the side.
A faint vibration buzzed against Simon’s wrist, and his eyes crinkled at the edges as he glanced down at the bracelet. Without a word, he pressed his own button, and you felt the gentle pulse against your wrist in return.
The exchange was silent, but it spoke volumes.
“This way, you’ll never be alone… even when I’m not there for you,” he said his voice breaking and filled with a rare tenderness.
You reached over, placing your hand on top of his. “And neither will you.”
The two of you sat there for a while, the fire place crackling as the fire danced. The world outside seemed to slow, as if the world was giving you this moment to savor.
“Merry Christmas, Simon,” you whispered, squeezing his hand.
“Merry Christmas, love,” he replied, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
The bracelets weren’t just a gift but a promise. No matter where he was, or how far apart you might be, you’d always have a way to reach each other. A silent signal that said, I’m here. I’m thinking of you. And for both of you, it was everything you could ever ask for.
SUMMARY: Your a recently new member spending your first Christmas with the team.
CW: SFW, wholesome, Christmas Day, includes brief mention of alcohol, non-gendered reader
Their newest member, who was a corporal, had been with the team for only a month. You was still learning to navigate the eccentric personalities of your teammates, especially when it came to their “festive rituals.”
“Alright, buddy,” Soap MacTavish announced, clapping you on the back. “First tradition of Christmas: the Tactical Gift Exchange.”
“What’s that?” You asked, glancing around the room at the others with a confused look.
Soap grinned. “Think Secret Santa, but tactical.”
“Last year, Gaz gave me a stun grenade disguised as a snow globe,” Price muttered from the couch, his cigar smoldering in an ashtray.
Gaz smirked. “And you gave me a pair of socks with ‘left’ and ‘right’ stitched into them. Very practical.”
You were eventually handed a camo-wrapped box. You opened it cautiously to find a…. grenade-shaped coffee mug? “Nice,” you said, holding it up.
Soap beamed. “That’s from me! You’re always half-asleep on patrol, mate. Now you can caffeinate in style.”
The night progressed with the next tradition: Ugly Balaclava Contest. Each team member had been tasked with customizing their own balaclava to be as ridiculous as possible.
Price entered the room wearing a balaclava adorned with blinking Christmas lights. Gaz’s had a reindeer nose attached to the front, complete with floppy antlers. Soap’s was covered in garish tinsel and glitter, while Ghost - who was ever the minimalist a simply painted a single red stripe across his usual skull design, claiming it was “Rudolph-themed.”
But it was you who stole the show with your improvised snowman design: black fabric poorly painted white, a carrot nose, and coal shaped buttons stitched on the front.
“Alright, you win,” Soap admitted, laughing so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “But don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the next round.”
“The next round?” You asked, suspiciously.
Price stood, stretching. “Christmas Feast Prep. And let me warn you—Soap takes his haggis turkey very seriously.”
You soon found yourself in the kitchen, peeling potatoes while Soap wrestled with a bird that had been stuffed with… questionable ingredients to say the least. “Haggis gives it flavor,” Soap explained, gesturing with a ladle.
“Flavor or a heart attack?” Gaz quipped from the counter, where he was assembling what he claimed was a ‘tactically superior trifle’ that was (poorly) decorated with fruit.
Meanwhile, Ghost lurked in the corner, quietly icing cookies shaped like grenades. He caught you staring and simply said, “They’re festive.”
After dinner came the final tradition: the Tactical Snowball Fight. You all split into two teams and took to the snowy field outside, using anything and everything as cover.
Soap launched a perfectly aimed snowball at Price, only to receive a barrage in return. You quickly (but not quick enough) learned that Ghost was unnervingly good at ambush tactics, materializing out of nowhere to pelt his opponents.
When the fight ended in a snowy stalemate, they trudged back inside, soaked and laughing. Price poured them each a glass of whiskey (beer for you, since Soap claimed you “hadn’t earned the good stuff yet”), and you all sat around the fire.
“You did alright tonight, mate,” Price said, raising his glass. “Welcome to the family.”
“Yeah,” Soap added. “You’re officially one of us now. Which means next year, you’re making the haggis turkey.”
You groaned, but you couldn’t stop smiling. It wasn’t the Christmas you had expected—but it was one you’d never forget.
SUMMARY: Simon has nightmares about his past experiences
CW: SFW, comfort, vulnerability, unspoken relationship, gender neutral reader, based on the COD comics, unspoken trauma
The nights were always the worst.
During the day, Ghost carried himself like a wall—tall, impenetrable, unflinching. He was the man people relied on, the shadow in the room that no one questioned. But at night, when the world was quiet and the noise of war subsided, the cracks in his armor grew wide enough for the darkness to slip through.
You’d learned to notice the signs. The subtle way his shoulders tensed just a little more by evening. How his voice, always rough, dropped to something quieter, as though speaking too loudly would disturb the fragile grip he had on himself.
Tonight was no different.
You’d seen it in the set of his jaw when he mumbled, “Don’t wait up for me,” and retreated to his room, shutting the door behind him. But you did wait. You always did. You sat on the old couch, book in your lap, your ears tuned to the silence of the safehouse.
When it came, the sound was faint; a low, strangled whimper, caught halfway between a breath and a cry. It didn’t stop. It never did.
You pushed open the door, slow and careful, the hinges creaking just enough to announce your presence. Moonlight shining through the half-open blinds, drawing lines across the room. Ghost was there—tangled in the sheets, his large frame twisted like he was trying to fight something invisible. His breaths came in gasps, panicked and ragged, the soft words spilling from his mouth barely coherent.
You stepped closer and touched his arm softly. “Simon.”
The moment your hand touched, he bolted upright. His chest heaved as he tried to orient himself, his eyes: wild and full of something hollow, snapping toward you. He wasn’t wearing his mask; he never did at night tucked away in bed. The glow of the moon highlighted the sweat on his brow and the sharp lines of his face, the exhaustion and panic etched into him.
His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white. You didn’t move closer, giving him space to pull himself back to the present.
“It’s me,” you said softly, as if speaking any louder would shatter him. “You’re here. You’re safe Simon.”
It took a long moment before the fight left his shoulders. His breathing slowed, and his head dropped into his hands. You waited, watching the tremors in his fingers; the ones he tried so hard to hide.
“Can’t- get it out of my head,” he gasped quietly, voice hoarse and breaking with emotion. He sounded like he hated the words, hated giving them air, but it was better than silence. Silence always made it worse.
You sat down at the edge of the bed. Not too close, but close enough that he’d know you weren’t going anywhere. “You don’t have to talk about it,” you said. “But I’m here if you do.”
For a long time, there was nothing but the hum of the night outside. Simon’s breathing evened out, though his hands still shook faintly as they fell to his lap. When he finally spoke, his words were barely above a whisper.
“Sometimes it’s like I’m back there,” he said. “Pinned. Helpless. Can’t breathe—can’t fight.” He whispered, jaw tightening, as if he couldn’t force the rest of the words out. He didn’t need to.
Your heart ached, but you didn’t let it show. You knew Simon didn’t want pity. He didn’t want promises that it would be okay, that it would go away, because you both knew better. Some ghosts didn’t leave; they just lingered, quieter but no less real and terrifying.
“It’s not happening now Simon,” you said softly, as steady and comforting you could manage. “You’re here. With me.”
Simon lifted his head, just slightly, and for the first time, his eyes met yours. In the dim light, they looked almost unfamiliar-stripped of the hard edges he usually wore. There was something raw in them, something vulnerable he would never show anyone else—only you.
His hand moved toward you, hesitant and slow, until his fingers brushed over yours. The touch was small, tentative, but it was enough to say what he couldn’t.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You sat there together, his hand resting against yours, the weight of the night pressing down- but it wasn’t unbearable. Not with him here. Not with you here.
Finally, Simon exhaled a long, shuddering breath. His shoulders, still heavy with the past, seemed just a little lighter.
“Thank you,” he murmured, so quietly you almost missed it.
You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and the silence settled between you; not uncomfortable, not heavy, but calm. A space where the nightmares couldn’t reach, if only for a little while.
SUMMARY: You are recruited into TF-141 and see what you didn’t expect from a supposedly elite team
CW: SFW, gender neutral, first time meeting TF-141, VERY SHORT
The door to the briefing room creaked open, and the new recruit - you - stepped in. Your posture was ramrod straight and your uniform pristine - no doubt because you ironed it at least 5 times before you showed.
You cleared your throat loudly, freezing the room mid-chaos. “Is this… Task Force 141?” you asked, your tone steady and professional, as if you half-expected to be told you had walked into the wrong room. Price, who sat at the head of the table with a cigar dangling from his lips, smirked. “Aye, that’s us. Welcome aboard,” he said, motioning to the empty chair. “Don’t mind them - they take their jobs very seriously.”
You hesitated, your confusion obvious as you watched Soap attempt to stuff a crumpled piece of paper into Ghost’s hood while Gaz egged him on. “I was under the impression this was an elite unit,” you said cautiously and unsure, as though you were trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces and with both arms tied behind your back. Ghost finally looked up, his voice deadpan. “We are. That’s why Soap’s the way he is. Keeps the enemy guessing.”
“Or guessing how we haven’t blown ourselves up,” Gaz added, grinning. You blinked, utterly baffled, but nodded slowly as you sat down in a nearby open chair. “Alright… I’ll just… adjust my expectations,” you muttered, earning a quiet laugh from Price. “Good call, rookie,” the captain said. “Now, let’s see if you survive the next hour without a headache.”
SUMMARY: Morning after a eventful night Ghost makes you breakfast
CW: soft!Ghost(???), morning after sex, SFW, heartwarming, should be gender neutral(tell me if it’s not lol), domesticated!simon ghost riley
The first rays of sunrise had crawled through the window, casting a soft glow across the room.
You stirred, your body heavy with the memory of having slept so deeply, the scent of Simon - leather and the faintest trace of gunpowder - lingered in the air. You shifted under the sheets, feeling a smile tug at your lips as the events from the previous night flashed through your mind. It had been… perfect.
You stretched, cozy in the aftermath of a night spent in his arms, and just as you started to stand from the bed, you heard the sound of dishes coming from the kitchen.
You rolled out of bed and padded barefoot down the hallway. The smell hit you first, something delicious: eggs, bacon, maybe pancakes. You blinked, still half-dazed, as you reached the kitchen and saw him standing at the stove.
Ghost. Your Simon Riley. He was wearing his black t-shirt and sweatpants, his skull mask missing so only his ruggedly beautiful face remained. His back was to you, his large frame filling the space as he worked with surprising skill. The image of the hardened soldier who could take on any mission with cold efficiency seemed so wrong right now. Instead, the man standing in front of the stove-cooking breakfast-looked like someone ready to care for the person he loved.
Morning," you said, your voice still hoarse from sleep.
He turned, his face softening when his gaze landed on you. That rare, almost blinding smile was tugging upwards. "Morning," he replied, his voice low, gravelly, as though not to break the silence of the morning. "How'd you sleep?"
You smiled, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe. "Better now. You're making breakfast?
He nodded, turning back to the stove, where a sizzling pan of bacon and eggs was cooking. "Figured I'd take care of you. After last night… you shouldn't have to do anything today."
You raised an eyebrow. "You know you don’t have to do this for me, right?"
Simon shot you a look over his shoulder, eyes dark but soft in such a way that only he could manage. "I know you're perfectly capable. But I want to do it. You've been through enough. You've got enough on your plate as it is, the least I can do is help around.”
It was just a statement, but it meant so much more. He wasn't talking about breakfast anymore. He was talking about everything: the nights you spent apart, the missions he couldn't tell you about, the burdens he carried in the silence of the world. And here, in this moment, he was making sure you didn't have to lift a finger. It was just so… Simon.
"Well, you're doing a good job," you said, stepping closer, trying to hide the way your heart squeezed at the sight of him so effortlessly taking care of you. The man who'd walked through war zones, survived hell on earth, and now? Now he was making sure you had a hot breakfast.
"You should see the way I handle MREs," he said with a smirk, flipping the bacon with military precision. "But I've been practicing. Can't have you thinking I don't know how to cook."
You laughed softly, and leaned against the counter as you watched him work. "I've got to admit, I didn't expect this when I met you."
He shrugged, still looking into the pan. "I'm not always the guy you think I am."
There was a silent sincerity in his voice that would catch your breath. You knew him better than anybody, saw the parts of him no others ever would, and sometimes it still surprises you. His kindness, how he'd always make sure you had what you needed, even down to the smallest things-like making me breakfast after a night of passion-was something I hadn't expected when you first met him.
You stepped closer and slid onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. "You're something else, you know that?"
Simon glanced over his shoulder, that rare smile tugging at his lips for the second time this morning. "Only for you."
He sets a plate in front of you: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, buttered toast, and a warm cup of coffee. The smell was addictive, and one could tell he'd made it with care. Your stomach growled in appreciation as you picked up the fork.
"How did you make it so…. well?" You asked, cutting into the eggs.
"Like I said," he replied, his voice softer now, "I've been practicing.
You took a bite, savoring the flavors. “Well, I’ve got to admit, you’ve bested yourself.”
Simon leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with a look of contentment. He was so used to being the one giving the orders, the one who does the protecting, but this? This felt more him than anything. Caring, thoughtful… loving. He was letting you see all of him and you were falling harder every day.
You'd just finished breakfast, and as you looked up at him, your heart squeezed. "You really don't have to do this, you know."
He raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "I want to. Don't argue with me on this."
You smiled and put your fork down, rising to your feet to close the distance between you two. "You're something special, Simon Riley.
His gaze softened and he pulled you close, brushing his lips over your forehead. "Not special. Just yours."
And in that moment, you knew you’d never let him go. Because Simon, the soldier, a deadly lieutenant, the man who would fight to the death for those he loved - he was also the man who believed you shouldn’t have to do anything for yourself because he’d do it for you.
Dating soft!König would be like navigating a quiet storm. On the outside, he’s all muscle and scars - a man who’s seen things, done things that have hardened him - but underneath the skin is a quiet softness, like the calm after a storm.
At first, he might be reserved, hesitant, or unsure of how to let his guard down. Not used to someone being there for him, so when you show up, he almost doesn’t know what to do with the tenderness you offer.
He’s the type to care deeply without showing it all at once. He’ll remember the little things like how you take your coffee, the way you like your clothes folded, the songs you hum when you’re content. His love is quiet but strong. You’ll catch him staring at you sometimes, not in a possessive way, but with this quiet, almost surprised look - like he can’t quite believe you’re real. And when he smiles - really smiles not that half assed stuff - it feels like a reward, making the wait worth it.
König isn’t a man of big gestures, but when he does something for you, it’s with a thoroughness that speaks more then he does. He’ll make you tea just the way you like it, hold the door open for you, or pull you in a little closer when the cold hands of anxiety grip you tight at night. He’s not one for words of affection, but his actions - the gentle touches, the protectiveness, the way he listens to you even when he doesn’t have much to say - show you that you’re everything and more to him.
Sometimes, he’s a little awkward in his own weird way. He might not always know how to say what he feels, but you can tell by the way he looks at you, how his hand lingers just a little longer than necessary when it touches yours. And when he does open up, it’s like the floodgates of heaven open, and you’ll get a glimpse into the soft, vulnerable side of him that he keeps hidden from the hard world.
On the tough days, when he gets quiet and distant, it isn’t because he doesn’t care. It’s because he’s trying to protect you from the reality of everything he’s been through, even if it means retreating into himself for a while. But he always comes back, like the way a bird comes back after migration, ready to show you, in his own funky way, that he’s there for you.
Dating soft!König is like your bed after a hard day - a place where you can be yourself without judgment, where you know without a doubt, that he’ll always protect your heart in the quietest, most loving way possible.
SUMMARY: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick lies dying on the battlefield (had to edit the post cause I kept getting gaza messages)
CW: Describes the last moments of life, death
The battlefield was silent now, except for the wind moving across the destroyed earth, stirring the dust and smoke.
The sounds of battle had faded, replaced by a stillness that seemed haunting, too lonely. Gaz’s vision blurred, a veil of red creeping in at the edges as his body sank deeper into the mud, heavy and unyielding. The cold seeped through his uniform like it was part of him, pressing in on all sides, eating at the flesh and bone. It wasn’t just the cold of the night or the chill of death creeping close - it was something worse, a bone-deep chill, as if the world itself had forgotten him.
Gaz tried to focus, but his thoughts were slipping, disjointed, like broken shards of memory scattered across the battlefield. His fingers twitched, half-numb, trying to grasp something... anything… but there was nothing left. His rifle lay a few feet away, no longer needed now. The fight was over. There was no one left to fight for, no comrades to call out to, just the void of death.
I’m so cold, he thought. The realization settled over him slowly, almost peacefully. The cold had no beginning, no end. It was just there, a constant presence that ate away at the edges of his mind and soul. Is this what the cold hands of death feel like?
His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, each breath coming slower, more painful. His heart - still beating, though barely - seemed to beat with the distant rumble of thunder. He tried to recall the faces of his family, the ones who had seen him off all those years ago, the ones he swore to protect. But their faces were fading, too, becoming blurs in the darkness of death. His thoughts scattered, drifting like memories that seemed more like dreams - his mother’s hands, warm and inviting; the smell of fresh bread in his childhood home; a kiss from the woman he loved once, long ago.
But now, all of that felt so far away. The cold was all that remained. It suffocated him like an old, silent enemy, sacrificing him to the earth, into the unknown.
Gaz tried to move, to get up, but his legs wouldn’t respond. The pain had dulled into a numb throbbing, like his body had begun to forget it was ever alive. A small part of him wanted to fight it, to hold on, but it was so tiring, an all consuming exhaustion. There was no strength left to resist the hands of death.
I’m sorry, he thought, as his mind began to slip from reality. His lips twitched, but no sound came out.
The cold was inside him now, a part of him, as if his blood had frozen. It was the only thing he could feel. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, letting the stillness take him. He wondered if anyone would find him… If anyone would care. But it didn’t matter anymore. The world felt so far away - like the fabric of space and time had stretched - and in the end, the cold had won.
It’s quiet, he thought. And that was the last thing Gaz thought before the darkness swallowed him whole.
CW: Mention of death, fem!reader, friends with König
König stood at the edge of the battlefield, his towering figure casting a long shadow over the dying earth. The smoke from burning villages curled into the sky - the scent of iron and ash hung in the air - suffocating all. His heart, however, remained slow, like the stone beneath his boots. The war had raged for years, but today, something felt different… Off. The wind was silent, as if the world was holding its breath.
His armor, torn and destroyed, shone dully in the beautiful sunset of reds, pinks, and oranges. It had been untouched - before - a symbol of his power and strength, but now it was just another layer of the past, worn through by seemingly unending conflict. His helmet, a dark steel, hid his face, but his eyes - those eyes - spoke of countless battles, of comrades lost, of victories and losses.
“ König” a voice called from behind him, soft and clear amidst the chaos. You, his lieutenant, a young woman who had followed him into battle since the first skirmish years ago. “They’re retreating. We won.”
König didn’t respond immediately. He had heard the same thing a hundred times before, but it never felt like victory. Not in his heart. He turned slowly to face, his movements deliberate, as though considering the very weight of the word.
“Retreating…” König repeated, tasting the word as if it was a stranger to him. “Victory, is it?” His voice was deep, the quiet voice of a man who spoke only when there was something worth saying. “How many of our men died today?”
You shifted uneasily, your eyes glancing to the ground. You had seen Konig like this before - cold, detached, always questioning the price of every win with the bodies that lay after.
“Too many, sir,” You admitted, your voice almost a whisper.
König nodded slowly, his gaze once again drifting to the horizon, where the last traces of daylight were slipping away. “Victory,” he murmured again, almost to himself. “If it comes at this cost, is it truly worth it?”
You didn’t have an answer. No one did. You had fought for so long, for so many things - honor, loyalty, survival - but in the end, it felt like there was nothing left to win. Just more death and sorrow.
For a moment, the silence between you and him was loud - deafening -, and then König spoke again, his voice softer now. “Tell the men we’ll rest for the night. Tomorrow, we will continue.”
You hesitated, and then nodded slowly. You knew better than to question your commander.
König looked back to the horizon, his thoughts shifting back to those who had fallen in combat, to the death still to come, and to the truth that weighed heavy in his heart: war had always been a cruel disease, and he had stopped trying to understand it long ago.
But in the end, there was always one thing that kept him going: the promise that, maybe one day, the war would end. Until that day he would carry on. For as long as he fought, he would hope.
SUMMARY: This is what friends do right? Think about each other all the time, go out of their way to see each other. You’re just friends right?
CW: Fluff, slow burn, falling in love reader, unaware reader, un-gendered reader, a little bit of smut, gentle!könig
It starts in autumn, (as do all things good in life) at first just little touches here and there, advice given more gently then usual - at least for him, lingering conversations between you two sit in the back of your mind.
You don’t realize it at first just thinking you’ve gone down with something, the doc tells you you’re in good health. You don’t understand at first what’s happening, thinking of him when you’re apart, wanting to make extra lunch just in case he forgot to make his - something he does quite often. Wanting to be around him more, to look your best around him. Going out of your way to see him, even being late to events just to get a few more minutes of time with him, even if you’re not necessarily interacting.
You think that maybe he might be YOUR best friend (definitely not his), growing up as a lonely child you never really had friends before. This is how friends act you think as you leave little snacks on his desk, as you touch yourself thinking of him. His sweet name on your lips as you cum, imagining his hands on you - touching you, kissing you, holding you.
This is what friends do you think as you offer to help him with mechanical work on his truck, when you end up kissing him, end up in his bed as he moans your name like a prayer, when he whispers words of love in your ear as he makes you cum first. You wake in the morning to breakfast in bed - this is what friends do right?
When you make a joke about being friends as he sets the food in front of you, he looks at you like you’re crazy. It takes you a full minute to realize this isn’t what friends do at all. This is what lovers do - or at least two people who are interested in each other. You panic, quickly dressing and leaving him in the dust when he heads to the bathroom.
König catches you on your way out, confused at your sudden departure until he sees the panic in your eyes. He whispers words of affirmation as he sits you down on his couch, passing you a hot mug of coffee. Making you talk about your feelings with him, helping you realize them.
It isn’t until lunch comes around you’re more relaxed, when he refuses to let you help with the chicken noodle soup. Makes you sit and do nothing so he can glance at you every few minutes loving the view. He gives you the bowl with a chaste kiss to the forehead, he doesn’t wear a mask. No need considering you’ve seen his body and he’s seen yours.
For the next few weeks he lingers around you, showering you with affection and taking you on dates. It’s only then he realizes how unaware you are when it comes to love when someone tries to hit on you as the man pays for your coffee (and König’s unknowingly).
“Hey, I’m Jacob. I thought you were cute here’s my number. Call me sometime yeah?”
“Um okay?”
You toss it in the trash absentmindedly a few minutes later when the guy walked away. König just smiles to himself at that and squeezes your thigh as he drives you both to work. Knowing that you would never cheat on him, never get the hints people left in conversation alluding to an interest in you.
No, you would be his as long as he treated you good and kept you happy.
SUMMARY: Morning after cracking a few open with the boys you wake up not alone in bed
CW: fluff, in love Simon (unbeknownst to reader), fem!reader, caring!simonriley, gentle!simonriley, smut?, nakedness
Sweet dreams of the library fade as you wake, the soft crinkling of books and the smell of worn leather leaving your senses. Light spills from the curtains, a dark grey heavy cloth. The sheets around you are warm, dark maroon and soft worn down cotton.
It takes you a moment to stir, your head pounding and body aching, you don’t even remember much of last night. Only cracking a few open with the team, laughing at Gaz’s jokes while Soap ticked off Ghost. Price silently watching the encounters while you all drank after a successful mission. After that it’s all a blur of laughter and pure happiness then nothing.
You roll over in your sheets, body heavy and tired. A hangover sitting in the back of your skull, deep throbbing pain but nothing some Ibuprofen and a glass of liquid IV can’t fix. You catch sight of someone’s back as you roll over, wide and muscular, bearing red scratches and light bruises where nails dug into the skin hard. Scars trace down his left shoulder, jagged and unsteady, probably from some sort of combat knife.
Racking your brain of last night, trying to figure out who is in your bed? Who had the pleasure of fucking you and staying the full night? Instead of being kicked out about a hour after, like you usually did with one night stands.
With a sigh you sit up and put your legs over the side of your bed, pain shoots up your core. A sure sign you had a good time last night, hickeys cover your lower stomach and inner thighs. You don’t look for more, not wanting to try and rack your brain for something you couldn’t remember happening.
As you massage your stiff shoulders, you feel the sheets shift and mattress dip slightly. *The mysterious guest must be waking.* you think to yourself. You look back and furrow your eyebrows a little thinking your mind must be playing tricks on you, cause there is no way Simon Riley is in bed with you… naked and looking just as confused as you are as you stare at each other.
A beat of silence passes, two, three, five, a minute. You just stare at each other shocked and confused and speechless. His chest is worse this his back, deep purple hickeys line his collarbones, a bite mark on his shoulder that is red and raised but the skin not broken. Hickeys trail up his neck, smudged lipstick stain his skin from his face to his stomach, as low as you bring yourself to look with his gaze on you.
Simon POV quick switch
He watches you as you watch him, he rubs his mouth and chin, taking note of the hickeys that line your neck and breasts. Light bruises on your hips, your front still turned away as your upper body is turned to look back at him. Simon can’t see any more signs of whatever you guys did last night but it was apparently intense.
He studies you still, taking note of your body. Plush thighs and slight rolls on your stomach, most of your body made of muscle from the intense military training while stubborn fat clings. Your breasts aren’t too small but aren’t too big, average sized you usually think when you see your naked body - perfect in his eyes. Tattoos litter your skin, and unsurprisingly the skeleton snake tattoo he always saw in training when your shirt rode up. The tattoo starts from your right lower thigh and goes up your leg, the head of the python on your stomach only a few inches right from your belly button. He looks back to your neck trying to keep some form of privacy even when you both are as naked as the day you came into this world.
Simon feels a slight sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realizes that your relationship will no longer be a simple camaraderie anymore. He searches his mind for any memory of last night but only comes up with drinking more than he should’ve at the hangout and little flashes of intense pleasure and moaning from either him or you, he can’t tell.
Simon mentally kicks himself and his eyes wander around your room on base. Deep maroon cotton sheets, and two matching oak side tables next to the bed. Black heavy curtains blocking out the almost blinding morning light. Two dressers against the far wall near the door. The bed on the other side of the room is bare, you have no assigned roommate. Besides that little tells him about you, only a pair of shark slippers and a bathrobe hanging on your open bathroom door. It has a little dinosaur stitched into it over the heart. A dinosaur he doesn’t recognize like you would a t-Rex or stegosaurus. Meaning you probably have a great interest in paleontology.
Clothes are strewn over the floor, his and your own. His clothes are nearest the door while yours are only near the bed, you were more eager than him or he was more passionate. Simon runs his hand through his hair and clears his throat. “Well good morning.” He mumbles more to himself than you.
POV switches back
As he speaks you feel a wave of calm and slight annoyance, something that isn’t familiar to you. You’re known for your discipline and honesty but not your lack of self control that his body clearly shows. You nod back silently turning your back to him again and continuing to massage your shoulders. You feel his eyes on you.
“You remember last night?” Simon asks slowly and quietly.
“No, you?” You mumble as you work a kink out of your left shoulder
“Nothing, only a lot of drinking.”
It’s silent after that, the sound of fabric and the clink of his belt fill the room as he gets dressed. He sits back down as he slides his socks and boots on, tying them up tightly.
After a few beats of silence he gets up heading to the door and slips out of the room. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. A twinge of annoyance and loneliness bleeds through your heart. You push it away standing up and collecting your clothes. Your clothes are more neat than his, seemingly having fallen off the bed instead of being thrown off. Tossing them in the dirty clothes bin you head to shower.
Turning on the light of the bathroom you barely look at your reflection as you start the shower turning the water to hot. You step in feeling the comforting warmth of the water pelting your skin. Pouring shampoo in your hands, you lather it up until it bubbles and massage it into your scalp.
A few minutes into your shower routine, your bedroom door opens and you startle. Your bathroom door is left wide open, leaving whoever just entered your room the option to enter. Heavy boots sound against your bedroom floor, and the smell of food and coffee fill your senses. The heavy boots walk over to the open bathroom door and you peek out behind the curtain, it’s Simon. He knocks on the door looking at something in your room not noticing you already see him. “Lass, got us some food.”
You pull your head back into the shower, and sigh finishing scrubbing your arms. “Ok” is all you say before he walks away and sits somewhere in your room. You turn the water off and towel dry, you wrap it around yourself and close the bathroom door for privacy.
A few minutes later you leave the bathroom wearing a new set of clothes. A black long sleeved shirt and black sweatpants, a dinosaur stitched in over the heart - a different one than your robe. The sweatpants have a matching dinosaur stitched in over the left hip, you wear black ankle socks and your shark slippers. Glancing around your room you notice he’s changed your bed sheets into black ones. The maroon sheets sit in the dirty bin, Simon has the curtains open as he sits on the ground in clean clothes. He doesn’t glance up as you walk over and sit across from him, he pushes a to-go box in front of you as he eats out of his.
The food is good as you both eat in silence, not looking at each other. Not speaking or moving, the atmosphere is relaxed but a little awkward. You clear your throat “Thanks”.
Simon nods and you feel the need to fill the silence. “Thought you weren’t gonna come back, surprised me when you came back with breakfast” you say as you bite into a pancake.
“Why’d ya think that?” Simon mumbles.
You pause for a moment thinking if he’s really that dense. “Ya left without saying anything, so I figured- ya know.”
He nods and glances up. “Woulda been rude to leave a lady hungry after sleeping with ‘er.”
“Yeah I guess. Speaking of: you can forget about it, a drunken mistake happens every once a while.” You say finishing up your pancakes.
When you say that he just looks at you for a moment, his face twisting slightly in an emotion you don’t recognize on him, due to the lack of never seeing his face before this. “What if I did’n want’a forget this?”
That makes you pause and look back up at him from your food. He just stares back silently waiting for your response.
“Guess I can’t tell a grown man what to do” you say back still looking at him a bit confused at his seemingly sudden interest in you.
But in all reality if you would’ve paid more attention to your surroundings, you would’ve noticed that he’s always been interested in you. Watching out for you on missions and making sure you take care of yourself. Making sure to get you breakfast on mornings you’re too busy to eat. You seem to lack the awareness when someone is interested in you. One of the qualities that make him feel warm and fuzzy when he thinks of you.
He holds his hand out for yours, you place yours in his hesitantly, he brings it to his mouth. Giving each of your knuckles a kiss.
