Mrs.Riley

The fluorescent lights in the briefing room buzzed softly overhead, cold and sharp against the otherwise quiet base. Papers were scattered across the desk in front of you, mission reports half-sorted beside a mug of coffee that had long gone cold.

And standing in front of your desk like a reprimanded schoolboy was none other than Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley.

“You didn’t finish the extraction report,” you said flatly, flipping through the folder. “Page six is missing, your signatures are incomplete, and the intel summary is practically unreadable.”

Simon stood there in full tactical gear, skull mask still on, broad arms folded behind his back like he was being court-martialed.

“You expect Laswell to approve this?”

A low grunt came from behind the mask. “Mission ran long.”

“And?” You looked up at him over the edge of the file. “That’s not an excuse. You know the procedure.”

The room went quiet.

Soap, who had been pretending very hard to organize equipment nearby, slowly backed toward the door. Gaz suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. Price took one glance at Simon standing there getting verbally shredded and muttered, “Right. Tea sounds good about now.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

Cowards.

You sighed sharply and dropped the file onto the desk. “Simon, I had to stay up until two in the morning reorganizing your paperwork.”

His shoulders somehow sank lower.

“And do you know what Laswell said to me this morning?” you continued.

Silence.

“She asked if Task Force 141 had collectively forgotten how to read.” That finally earned a tiny reaction. Simon tilted his head downward slightly, almost sheepish.

Honestly, if anyone else in the world saw the infamous Ghost standing there looking guilty, they’d never believe it.

“You’re better than this,” you said, softer now but still stern. “Fix it by tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The response came automatically.

Professional.

Obedient.

And completely unfair considering how ridiculously attractive his voice sounded when he was being scolded.

You waved him off before your composure slipped.

“Dismissed.”

Simon nodded once and turned toward the door.

His heavy boots thudded quietly against the floor as he left, shoulders slightly hunched.

Like a giant, depressed attack dog.

The second the door shut—

You broke.

A smile spread across your face instantly as you leaned back in your chair, trying not to laugh.

God.

Your husband was such a disaster sometimes.

You pressed your fingers against your mouth, shaking your head fondly.

Because the truth was Simon Riley only acted like this with you.

The terrifying Ghost—the man who made enemies piss themselves during interrogations—had just stood in your office getting lectured over paperwork like he was caught skipping homework.

And the worst part?

He actually listened.

A knock interrupted your thoughts.

Soap poked his head into the room carefully like he was approaching a live grenade. “…Can I come in, or are ye still skinning Lt. alive?” You snorted softly.

“He’ll survive.”

Soap stepped inside, looking deeply amused. “Ye know he walked into the cafeteria lookin’ like someone kicked his dog?” Your smile widened despite yourself.

“Did he?”

“Aye. Sat down all grumpy. Wouldn’t even steal Gaz’s chips.”

That nearly made you laugh outright.

Soap narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “…Hold on.” He pointed between you and the closed door. “Ye enjoyed that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.”

You turned back to the paperwork, hiding your grin.

────୨ৎ────

Across the base, Simon sat in the cafeteria staring down at a cup of coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

Soap dropped into the seat across from him. “She’s still scary, eh?”

Simon exhaled slowly through his nose. “Shut up.”

“Got told off by yer own wife.”

Another long silence.

Then Simon muttered, almost offended, “She smiled after I left.”

Soap blinked. “…What?”

“She thinks I didn’t notice.” And despite the exhausted look in his eyes, Simon’s mouth twitched faintly beneath the skull mask.

Because after years of war, bloodshed, and near-death missions—

Getting scolded by you still somehow felt domestic.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 💤 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You had a problem.

You couldn’t sleep unless you were hugging something.

At home, it was always your pillow—big, soft, perfect.

Unfortunately… you were at work.

The safehouse was quiet in that late-night lull. Team 141 were scattered around the room—Price at the table with a mug of coffee, Gaz scrolling on his phone, Soap half-asleep in a chair, and Simon leaning against the wall, arms crossed, mask on, completely still.

You shuffled out of the side room, hair messy, eyes half-closed.

Laswell glanced up.

“You alright?”

You nodded slowly. “…Can’t sleep.”

Soap smirked. “Try closing your eyes.”

You ignored him.

Instead, you scanned the room like a zombie on a mission.

No couch pillow.

No spare blanket.

Your gaze landed on Simon.

Tall.

Broad.

Solid.

Your tired brain made a decision without consulting you.

You walked straight up to him.

Simon stiffened slightly when you stopped in front of him.

You squinted at him for a second, then murmured softly,

“…You’ll do.”

Before anyone could react, you wrapped your arms around his middle, pressed your cheek against his chest, and curled in, using him exactly like a body-sized pillow.

You sighed.

Content.

And promptly fell asleep.

The room froze.

Soap’s jaw dropped.

Gaz’s eyes went wide.

Price slowly set his mug down.

Laswell blinked. “…Did she just—”

Simon didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe for a long five seconds.

Then—very carefully—he adjusted his stance so you wouldn’t slide, one gloved hand hovering before resting lightly against your back.

“…She asleep?” Soap whispered.

Gaz nodded. “Out cold.”

Price cleared his throat. “Simon?”

“…Not moving,” Simon replied quietly. “She’s comfortable.”

You shifted, hugging him tighter, mumbling something incoherent about pillows.

Soap covered his mouth to keep from laughing.

Laswell sighed. “I’m not even surprised anymore.”

Simon stared straight ahead, heart doing something inconvenient.

“…She usually hug a pillow?” he asked quietly.

Laswell nodded. “Apparently today, you’re the pillow.”

Simon swallowed.

“…Alright then.”

And he stayed right there until you woke up.

Because moving you would’ve been cruel.

And… he didn’t really want to.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 💤 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The streets were busy with passing civilians, the low hum of traffic mixing with distant chatter as the team walked in a loose formation. Ghost lingered near the back, Soap and Gaz arguing quietly over something stupid, while Price walked beside Kate Laswell, deep in conversation.

Laswell’s assistant—you—followed along just behind them, doing your best to keep pace.

Then you stopped.

Not slowed.

Not hesitated.

Stopped.

It took a few steps before Soap frowned and glanced over his shoulder.

“Uh… ma’am?”

The group halted.

Price turned first, scanning for threats—then blinked. Ghost followed, head tilting slightly beneath his mask. Laswell stopped short when she realized you weren’t beside her anymore.

You were standing a few feet back.

Next to a plush stand.

Rows of soft toys hung from hooks and sat piled in baskets, colorful and completely out of place next to four heavily armed soldiers. And there you were, eyes locked on a single item.

A chonky cat plush.

✨Round✨

✨Soft✨

Absolutely ✨massive✨

You lifted one hand and pointed at it, your expression dead serious. Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly turned your gaze to Laswell.

No words.

Just vibes.

Laswell stared at you.

“…You cannot be serious,” she said flatly.

Ghost crossed his arms. “She’s serious.”

Soap snorted. “Look at her. That’s the face of someone who’s already emotionally bonded.”

Gaz nodded. “I give it a name and everything.”

Price sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re on a schedule.”

You continued pointing.

Laswell looked at the plush. Then at you. Then at the four elite soldiers silently watching this unfold.

“…How big is it?” she asked, already losing.

The vendor beamed. “Very cuddly.”

You nodded once, triumphantly.

Laswell groaned. “Unbelievable.” She pulled out her wallet. “Fine. But this is coming out of my patience budget.”

The moment the plush was placed in your arms, you hugged it tightly, cheeks softening into a quiet, satisfied smile.

Ghost muttered, “Worth it.”

Soap grinned. “Best mission detour yet.”

And as the team started walking again, you followed happily—chonky cat plush secured, Laswell shaking her head, and Task Force 141 pretending they didn’t just witness the most important operation of the day.

The crowd outside the ring was still buzzing after Simon’s last match of the year. Sweat still slicked his jawline, his grin rare but real as fans pressed up to the barricades, arms full of gifts wrapped in bows and shiny paper.

“Alright,” he rumbled, voice low and gravelly through the mic, “which one should I open first?”

The fans erupted into a mix of cheers and pointing fingers, shouting different boxes and bags. Simon’s eyes tracked the chaos with faint amusement…until he saw her.

Front row, not pointing or shouting. Just standing there quietly, bundled in a big coat, hands clasped together, eyes following him like she couldn’t decide if she should look away or not.

‘Cute. Really cute.’

He hummed, eyes lingering a second longer than necessary before picking a random box. “This one, yeah?” he said to no one in particular, shooting her a wink that she probably thought was meant for the crowd.

The paper tore under his gloves. Inside was—he snorted, a foldable metal chair.

The fans burst into laughter. Someone shouted, “USE IT IN THE NEXT FIGHT!” and Simon just chuckled, shaking his head.

But he wasn’t thinking about his next match. He was thinking about the quiet girl in the front row, still blushing like she’d been caught staring.

An idea sparked.

He walked straight to her, the crowd parting instinctively. Up close, she looked even more nervous. eyes wide, lips parting as he leaned closer.

“Mind if I pick you up, love?” His voice was gentle but teasing, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips.

“Oh, um—no! I mean, I’m too heavy, you don’t have to—”

Before she could finish, Simon just shook his head, voice dropping low. “Weight doesn’t scare me.”

And with that, he scooped her up—effortless, like she weighed nothing at all. The crowd gasped and cheered as he carried her to the metal chair, unfolding it with one hand and setting her down like she was made of glass.

“There,” he said, stepping back with a satisfied look. “Perfect fit.”

Her face was redder than his Christmas trunks, and he could swear he saw her trying not to smile.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

And with that, Simon went back to the ring, but his grin lingered—because he already knew which gift he’d be thinking about for the rest of the night.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The plan was flawless.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you crouched behind the back seat of Laswell’s jeep, barely containing a snicker. You’d been waiting for her to return from her meeting, planning the perfect ambush to finally catch the ever-composed Kate Laswell off guard.

A little harmless payback for all those times she’d made you jump with her silent entrances.

You tucked your knees closer to your chest, whispering, “She’s gonna scream. Just once. That’s all I need.”

You heard footsteps…Multiple…Boots crunching gravel…

‘Huh. Maybe she’s with a driver?’

Then—voices. Deep, gruff voices.

“Laswell, this the transport?”That was Price! No mistaking that steady rumble.

“Yeah,” Laswell replied. “Should fit all of you. We’ll leave the gear in the back.”

‘All of you!!!?’ You froze.

Then you heard another voice—Scottish, loud, entirely too close.

“Nice ride! Bit clean though, don’t you think?”

‘Soap.’

You bit your tongue to stop from laughing.

‘Oh no. Oh no, no, no—she didn’t say anything about bringing the whole damn task force!’

A heavy thump shook the jeep as Ghost tossed a duffel bag into the back—right next to your hiding spot. You could feel the weight of his stare even through the window tint.

“Something’s off,” Ghost muttered. “Thought I saw movement.”

Panic surged. Abort mission. ABORT—

Too late…

Soap leaned in to drop another bag, humming off-key. He was practically nose-to-nose with you through the gap between the seats.

You yelped, “BOO!”

The reaction was instant chaos.

Soap screamed—a sound you would replay in your head for months.

Ghost swore loudly, reaching for his knife.

Price ducked and cursed, cigar flying.

Gaz tripped over the curb trying to backpedal.

And there you were, wide-eyed, trying not to laugh as you peeked up from behind the seat like a guilty cat.

Laswell sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Gentlemen… meet my assistant.”

There was silence. Four sets of eyes staring at you like you’d just crawled out of a warzone wearing fairy wings.

You offered a shy little wave. “Uh… surprise?”

Soap gawked. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me. That’s your assistant?” Price arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you hired jump-scares, Laswell.” Ghost was still glaring. “You nearly got shot.”

“Yeah,” you said sheepishly, “that’s… fair.”

Laswell smirked faintly. “Next time, maybe don’t launch a surprise op inside an occupied vehicle.”

Soap was already grinning, disbelief melting into amusement. “Well, I’ll be damned. The wee thing’s got guts.”

Gaz chuckled, shaking his head. “More than Soap, apparently.”

“Oi!”

You laughed then—awkward but genuine. Laswell only sighed again, sliding into the driver’s seat like this was somehow normal.

“Buckle up,” she said dryly. “Before one of them decides to run background checks on you.”

“Too late,” Ghost muttered.

And with that, the jeep rolled out—141 still buzzing, half-curious, half-bewildered about who exactly this mysterious, ridiculously cute assistant was who’d just nearly given them all a heart attack.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

__ ✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚__

The little café sat at the corner of a quiet London street — warm lights, old brick, and the smell of coffee drifting out the door.

The team had stopped in for a rare break. Price led the way, Soap and Gaz arguing about who made the worst tea, and Ghost trailing behind, silent as always.

The bell over the door chimed softly.

You looked up from behind the counter, eyes wide. You weren’t used to… this. Four heavily built men in tactical gear didn’t usually come in for cappuccinos.

You gave them your best smile — nervous but kind.

“Hello… um… welcome!”

Soap grinned. “Aye, this’ll do! Smells better than base coffee, eh, LT?” Ghost only gave a low hum, scanning the menu.

Your English wasn’t perfect. You’d moved to the U.K. only a year ago — enough to get by, but sometimes the words tangled. When you tried to ask what they wanted, your accent thickened with nerves.

“Uh… you want… um… small or big?”

Gaz smiled gently. “Large, please.”

You nodded quickly, scribbling on the pad. “Large! Okay. Four coffee?”

“Three for us love,” Price said kindly. “He’s more of a tea man.” He nodded toward Ghost.

You blinked, glancing up at the tall man in the mask. “Tea? Ah! Okay, okay. One tea.” Your pronunciation made Soap snicker softly, but not meanly. Ghost gave him a warning glance that shut him right up.

When you turned to make their drinks, Ghost watched you quietly. The way your sweater stretched comfortably around your curves, the way you hummed softly to yourself as you worked, the concentration on your face when you tried to remember the English words on the menu.

It wasn’t pity in his gaze — it was… softness.

When you set the tray down, Soap immediately tried to tease again. “You sure this wee café lass can handle us, LT?”But before Ghost could answer, you frowned in confusion. “Handle… you?”

Gaz chuckled. “He means, uh, you’re very brave. Big soldiers, small café.”

You blinked — then laughed, a shy, bubbly sound. “Ah! Big soldiers, yes! Coffee make strong, okay?”Soap laughed out loud this time. “Aye, bonnie, strong coffee for strong men!”

You handed Ghost his tea carefully. “Hot… careful,” you said softly, fingers brushing his gloved ones. His voice rumbled low. “Thanks, love.”

You froze for a moment, eyes wide — then smiled so sweetly it almost hurt. “You are… welcome.”

Price paid and thanked you, but Ghost lingered a moment before leaving. He looked back once — you were behind the counter again, trying to remember an English word while wiping a cup, tongue peeking out in concentration.

Soap nudged him as they stepped outside. “You’ve got a soft spot for the café girl, eh?”

Ghost didn’t answer. He just took a sip of his tea and muttered quietly,

“Maybe.”

__ ✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚__

The sun was merciless, hammering down on the city like it meant to burn through the concrete itself. Even the air shimmered—too hot to breathe properly.

Simon wasn’t made for heat.

He could handle mud, snow, rain, cold that bit down to the bone. But this? The oppressive weight of summer pressing against his skin until sweat slid down his neck? No. He was bloody melting.

He shifted against the shade of a shopfront wall, tugging at his plain shirt. Civvy clothes for a civvy op—blending in, watching, waiting. Except he could feel his body threatening mutiny, heavy and slow, like an ice-cream cone left too long under the sun.

That’s when she appeared.

A shy little figure weaving through the crowd, clutching something in both hands like she was protecting it. She hesitated before stopping right in front of him—soft eyes lifting up to meet the shadow of his mask.

Her voice came quiet, but steady enough.

“Um… you look like you’re really hot. I mean—the weather hot! Not—um—” She bit her lip, clearly regretting every syllable, then held out a sweating cup. “Here. This helps.”

Cold drink. Condensation dripping down her fingers. A small kindness.

Simon blinked, caught completely off guard. Nobody just gave him things. Certainly not strangers. Not in the middle of a mission where he was meant to disappear into the background.

“…For me?” His voice rumbled, roughened by heat and the fabric of the mask.

She nodded quickly, cheeks pink. “Y-yeah. You looked like you were gonna… melt.”

Simon huffed a laugh before he could stop himself. Melt. Bloody hell. He accepted the cup, the cold shocking against his overheated palm. One long sip under the mask nearly made his eyes close—sugar and ice sliding through him like relief itself.

When he lowered it, she was still there. Fidgeting, twisting her fingers in her shirt, watching him like she wasn’t sure if she should stay.

“…You’ve saved me,” he murmured, eyes crinkling above the mask. “From turnin’ into a puddle.”

Her smile bloomed—small, shy, but brighter than the sun overhead. Then, with one last glance, she gave a little wave and hurried back into the crowd, vanishing as quickly as she came.

Simon stood there a moment longer, drink in hand, staring after her like an idiot.

That’s when the comms lit up.

Soap’s laughter came first, loud enough that he had to slap a hand over his mic. “No way. No bloody way. Did that just happen?”

Gaz snorted. “Did a stranger just take pity on Ghost? Mate, she saw you melting and thought you were about to collapse!”

“Couldn’t have timed it better myself,” Price drawled, voice rich with amusement. “Our Ghost—rescued by a cold drink and a kind girl.”

Simon growled low in his throat. “Shut it.”

But the drink was still cold in his hand, and the warmth in his chest hadn’t faded. Not even their teasing could touch that.

_______________________________________________

The mission briefing was simple: sweep through the town square, collect intel, and keep a low profile. Price made it very clear.

Low profile.

But the moment Johnny MacTavish’s eyes caught sight of you in the crowd — chubby cheeks glowing in the sunlight, hair bouncing as you adjusted the bag on your arm — Soap forgot the mission, forgot the crowd, forgot everything.

His fiancée. His dove. Right there, strolling through the market like a scene from a daydream.Soap’s heart went kaboom!!!. His whole face lit up, grin wide enough to split his cheeks.

“(Y/N)!!” he yelled, voice carrying like a damn megaphone as he jumped up on the curb, waving both arms wildly.

“Johnny, what the fuck are you doing?” Ghost hissed, tugging at his tac vest. But Soap was already darting across the cobblestone street like an overexcited puppy, weaving between carts and civilians.

“Love! Lass! Over here!”

You turned at the sound of his voice, blinking in shock. Then your whole face softened, lips curling into the sweetest smile.

“Johnny?!”

He didn’t stop until he barreled into you, scooping you right off your feet. You squealed in surprise, laughing as he spun you around in the middle of the street. Your cheeks flushed pink as he kissed you — once, twice, three times — before burying his face into your neck.

“Oh, Christ above, I missed ye!” he mumbled into your skin, clinging to you like he hadn’t seen you in a thousand years.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Across the street, the 141 watched in stunned silence.

Gaz’s mouth literally fell open. “That’s his fiancée?!” He blinked, then whispered, “She’s… she’s gorgeous.”

Ghost tilted his head, arms crossed. Even behind the mask, his stare lingered on you — on the soft curve of your waist as Soap spun you, your round cheeks glowing as you laughed.

“…Huh.” He finally muttered, voice flat but thoughtful. “Didn’t think Johnny had the charm.”

Price, however, was rubbing his temples. “Bloody hell, he’s blowing our cover.” But even he couldn’t stop the twitch of a smile when he saw how happy Soap looked, hugging you like he’d never let go.

When Soap finally (reluctantly) set you down, you fussed at him immediately, smoothing down his vest and swatting his chest.

“Johnny! You’re supposed to be working! What if someone saw you?”

“They did see me, hen. Everyone in the bloody town saw me.” He beamed, eyes sparkling like a fool. “And I don’t care. Let ‘em all know I’ve got the bonniest lass in the world.”

Your cheeks warmed even more as he planted another kiss on your forehead, proudly keeping you tucked against his side.

When Soap finally marched you back toward the team, the rest of 141 were still staring — half in shock, half in awe.

“Erm… lads,” Soap said proudly, puffing his chest out. “Meet my fiancée.”

You gave them a shy little wave, smile sweet but nervous. “H-hi. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Gaz quickly recovered, grinning ear to ear.

“Nice to finally meet you? You’ve been hiding her from us, Johnny!”

“Didn’t think she was real,” Ghost muttered under his breath.

Soap immediately bristled, holding you closer. “Aye, well, now you see she’s real, and she’s mine. Hands off.”

Price sighed, but his eyes softened. “Well, Soap, can’t say I blame you for bragging. She’s lovely.”

You flushed crimson, hiding your face in Soap’s shoulder while he puffed up with pride like the cockiest man alive.

And for the rest of the mission? Soap was utterly useless. Couldn’t stop grinning, couldn’t stop holding your hand. Price swore up and down he’d have his hide later — but even he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the rare, pure joy in Johnny’s eyes.

The team may have thought Soap was reckless… but now they understood. The man had found something worth every risk: you.

_______________________________________________

Dessert Disaster

Genre: Humor / Protective / Jealous vibes

The team had been laughing and trading stories over dinner, finally free from missions and chaos. When dessert arrived, the plates looked too good to touch—until the waiter suddenly scooped up a spoonful of Y/N’s cake and, with a grin, held it to their lips.

Y/N froze, wide-eyed, but the spoon was already there. Out of sheer panic (and maybe curiosity), they leaned forward and took the bite.

The table went silent.

Ghost’s head turned sharply, the dim light catching the glint of his eyes behind the mask. His voice was low, dangerous.

“Did they just—feed you?”

Price leaned back slowly, stroking his beard like he was assessing a threat. “I must’ve had more whisky than I thought. No way I just saw that.”

Soap nearly knocked over his glass. “Oh, they’ve got some nerve. Some massive nerve.” His accent thickened as he pointed at the retreating waiter. “Do we need tae have words with ‘em? Because I’ll go.”

Gaz leaned in closer to Y/N, whispering, “You okay? You didn’t look… unwilling, just surprised.” His raised brows suggested he was already bracing for Ghost or Soap to cause a scene.

Ghost’s gaze lingered on Y/N for a long moment before turning back toward the waiter disappearing into the kitchen. His hand flexed on the table like he was holding himself back.

“…Not funny.”

Soap crossed his arms, glaring after the waiter. “I’ll give ‘em funny. Who does that, eh? Feeding someone else’s teammate like they’re on a bloody date?”

Price cleared his throat, clearly trying to ground everyone. “Alright, settle down. Y/N, you enjoyed it?”

Y/N’s face burned. “I—it just happened so fast! I didn’t—”

Ghost cut them off, voice sharp. “Don’t apologize. Not your fault.”

The others went quiet at the edge in his tone. Even Soap smirked knowingly, leaning toward Y/N. “Oh, aye. Someone’s jealous…”

Ghost shot him a look that shut him up immediately.

The team eventually moved on, but the tension lingered in the air. And one thing was certain: that waiter had no idea how close they came to starting World War III at the dessert table.

_______________________________________________