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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.

-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

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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.

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.

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.

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.

“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?

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. 

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!!

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.

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.

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…”

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!!

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.