#simon riley's backstory

[aary-soap]

Twisted dejavu

Inspired by this amazing fic “Mockingbird” and the og Ghost backstory comic

(Warning?? i guess??: Ghost comic images ahead)

Joseph based on the comic Joseph, and i noticed the little plane so had to add it ahahaha *cries* we love angst in this household 🫠

[bluegiragi]

refocus pt. 1 (aka the boys are finally talking)

early access + nsfw on patreon monster!AU masterpost

[armacheart]

Rescue

[quarterlifekitty]

DUDEEEE older step bro Simon is legit rotting so bad in my brain rn

Mmmmmm

cw: stepcest and fauxcest

Simon is sooooooooo good for this because I think the setup here is really clear lol

His father and your mother. He really pitied you when they got married. Sure, your mother was an unfortunate party, but she had her own issues as a parent and most of all? She was a free adult. She could leave. You didn’t have that luxury and at the time, neither did Simon.

I imagine he was in his teens and you were still a bit young when they got married. And he became your shelter. He was the one who would take you away in his shitbox of a car when your parents were fighting, and buy you some fast food. He let you crawl into his bed. He made you breakfast and took you to school when they didn’t, even when it made him horrifically late to school himself. He was why you ate overcooked scrambled eggs on toast when you otherwise might’ve had to get by on cereal.

It broke his damned heart to enlist, but in his view, it was the only way. He had no path or funds for higher education and almost no job prospects in the shitty little town, much less ones that would pay him enough to move out and support himself and you. So he went away.

You wrote letters religiously. He always responded, though sometimes he could barely push out a single sentence because of how hard he worked himself in the beginning. Occasionally when the times lined up, he’d call. The best nights of your life. He’d send money, sometimes with some simple instructions— advice your parents would never give. Left you his shitty car. Told you to try your hardest to get a flat somewhere far away the minute you were old enough. You didn’t have any credit, and barely any employment or records of your own (it had been its own battle to wrestle yours and Simon’s documents from your parents), so everything was in Simon’s name, and you were fine with that.

He tries to maximize his deployment time. He wants to get benefits and rise the ranks as soon as possible, all for your sake. Before he knows it— between the months overseas, the long nights and weeks in no-communication zones, being taken prisoner for the first time and tortured— it ends up being years before he sees you again. The only sign you have that he’s alive is the deposit of pay to the account and the clearing of the rent and utilities bills.

You were a teenager when he left, and now you’re in your 20s. A job of your own. Kept the flat tidy— a room made up for him, even after all this time.

And all that time sweating and bleeding across the globe, under the mercy and blade of others, he’s a little twisted. Not just in the physical scars, but inside. He’s spent so long neglecting himself, thinking of you— of you being the reason he gets up and the reason he pushes through. He almost reveres you.

And god knows he could never stomach inviting a hookup to the flat that you’ve made into a home for the both of you. So what else can he do but start to covet?

[pricetagged]

fool's gold (pyrite)

Got inspired by gougie's executioner asks and cloth's egging hehe 💖 have some pirate au simon breeding kink~

Content: 18+; breeding kink; dubious consent*; mean Simon; pirates; captured-by-the-crown reader; barest implication of potential soap/reader and future ghoap/reader; POV shift

*in a 'get out of jail' way, so take that how you will.

---------------------------------

It fluttered in your stomach. A nebulous, squirming little thing.

Not the baby, no. The lie.

You felt it, restless and hot. Kicking your ribs from the inside. It made you flushed, it made you sick-

It bought you at least another few weeks to slip the noose, to slide away in borrowed shoes meant to dance a gallows' jig. Maybe it would buy you more, if the stress held back your monthly the way it often did on the ship. Great, long stretches of time with too much work and not enough food.

You wore the lie like you wore your borrowed clothes, a too-tight bodice and heavy skirts. Impractical, sweet. Modest. A poor little dear caught up and brought low. Fallen woman, sunken to the depths before the law fished her out. 

Your thighs stuck together, warm and bare under the skirts. It was sweltering, damp. Clammy in the cell with its stagnant air and earthy, unfinished floors. The wood of your bench –and bedcot–was warped with age, woodlouse burrowed deep into the pulpy grooves. It was enough to make you shudder, sweat dripping down your spine until it soaked into the cotton of your shift.

It did little to cool you.

Nine months aboard The Watcher had spoiled you, coarse rope and sharp, sea air warping you into something new. Something wilder. It was hardtack and hard work, yes. But it was freedom. To toil under a flag of your choosing, to trust the waves and the Captain to take you to new ports and newer treasures–

You'd left your papa's place with little more than ill-fitting breeches and a pocketed purse. You'd passed the scars on your hands and the patches on your shirt as evidence of experience – hardy little stowaway, aren't ye–. The morals didn't bother you the way stolen scraps didn't bother a dog. Street rat or ship rat; at least this way you could put miles between you and your father. Nautical miles, bobbing away with the wood of the ship's log. You watched it often, knots of rope and grains of sand. Hourglass and paper in hand while you stood on the stern.

It was you who first spotted the English Man O'War, sluicing through waves with colours hoisted high. Three gun-decks, at least, and coming into port.

"–plead the belly–it'll spare ye the choppin' block. Might even get lucky and be sent t' the reformatory– ah heard they do that f'r expectant mothers–" you couldn't quite hear him over the ringing of the cannons and the ringing in your ears.  "–plead the belly, and I'll try tae come back for y–"

They echoed now in your sweltering cell, suspended in the humidity. The boatswain's last words before he was violently wrestled away.

You remembered him as you counted the bars of your cage. Iron-wrought and cruel. As cruel as the chain tethering you to the wall, cold metal biting into your bare ankle.

'–I've got the keys, girlie, if you want freein' from it. Don' have to sit against that wall, all shy. C'mere an' I'll make you a deal–'

You stayed silent, stone-faced. Weathered the taunts and jeers of your gaolers like a battered old rock. The guards took it as arrogance, the other prisoners took it as invite.

The priest took it as shame.

You let them all believe it, lips pressed tight lest you let loose sobs–giggles–something– as days passed and your sentencing drew closer.

You'd heard about him before you saw him. The Ghost. The last face you'd see before facing the faceless. The pitch-black eyes that would watch as you jigged to the jeers of the crowd.

It was the last face you'd see and it was only a mask. More macabre than the usual executioner's hood– a skull motif, bleach-white bones and empty sockets. A nasty minikin mockery of the reaper. It was gristly; it was sick.

But so was he.

A butcher, some said. Fingers caked in blood no matter to which job he attended. A pirate, according to others. One pressed into service, earning his freedom by sending others to the pits. 

And now you heard him for real.

The low, resonant whistle. The heavy tread of his boots.

It had you curling your fingers into your palms, nautical superstitions and fishwives' tales nipping at you like fleas.

–quit yer whistlin', you'll anger the winds and summon a storm–

                                                 –it's good luck, don't worry. It'll make the winds blow strong and steady, you'll see–

–I wouldn't do that if I were you. Cap'n'll think it's code between mutineers–

                                                                                                                                    –taboo–

The whistling stopped, a cheery solitary note wavering in the air before silence. Even the gaoler's dog had scarpered off, keys jingling around its neck until you couldn't even hear the echo.

A gravel-rough voice cut through the swirling tempest of your mind.

"Was told 'got a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage."

That pulled you from your reverie, neck-stiff as you turned towards the voice. It was more of a twitch than a conscious motion, a sudden flaring of deadened synapses as his voice rasped over them. Still, you didn't speak. Didn't even look at him fully, the hulking thing in your peripheral.

It was silent, now. Eerily so, like all the air had been sucked from the prison. Sitting in the eye of the storm, too calm and too quiet. You could hear the drag of his boots as he shifted closer. The rolling clank of iron scraping against itself, your cage creaking open.

The shadow in your peripheral became mass, then man as he stepped closer.

You risked a glance up.

He'd still be large, sturdy, even without you curled up on your dank, spongy bedcot. Tall enough to duck as he sauntered into the cell. Broad enough to block out the flickering oil lamps by the warden's desk. In the lambent glow of dusk it was already dim, hazy with sea-spray and the oppressive heat of wet season. But with him in front of you it was pitch-dark. A pall cast by his sheer size, all light swallowed up until you could just about make out his blurry edges.

The ghostly white of the bones bleached onto his mask moved and his voice rumbled out.

"Well, g'nna show me?"

You stretched out weakened muscles, unfurling as slow as a wind-battered sail. Joints creaked alongside the iron of your shackle, tight from where you'd clenched hard. Dug your blunt little fingernails into the pulpy, malleable fibers of the aged ironwood below you.

Standing was like finding yourself unmoored, sliding off the buoyant driftwood keeping you afloat. Your legs got tangled up in your borrowed clothes, damp petticoats and overskirts clinging as your feet finally touched the straw-strewn earth of the cell floor. It was cumbersome, made more difficult by the sliding of the heavy chain against the bench. You felt the weight around your ankle, anchoring you down.

Though you could barely see it, you felt as he studied you from top-to-toe. Flat, dead eyes followed every curve and dip of your body as you stood before him, your traitorous chest rising and falling in a way that made you grit your teeth. You used that force to steel your jaw, to look straight ahead and keep your arms lax and loose by your side.

Let him look his fill. Let him– your judge, jury and executioner.

He hummed. Circled you like a shark in a balmy waters. It was funny– you'd never felt more exposed than now in all your layers. Not even under the punishing sun in your loose, men's clothes. No, his eyes stripped you bare. More than cotton and linens, he peeled the flesh from bone. Flayed you open, eyes slicing through your skittish guise. Through your rabbity gaze hopping around the walls, the way you tried to arch your back and poke out more of your soft belly.

"You a liar, then?" You could hear the low, mocking note in his voice. "Or got a case of wishful thinkin'?"

That had you looking up, meeting him dead in the eye. Your hands hovered above the slight swell of your stomach, fingers twitching in an abortive gesture–

–you wanted to cradle it, the fluttering in your empty belly. Push down the sick, swirling terror and face the ghost you'd summoned, because you had summoned it–

He grabbed by your wrist, meaty paw pulling you close enough to brush against his expansive chest.

–Hadn't you? Bad luck. Malefic omen, having you on the ship. No prophets, no redheads–

There, in the cradle of his arms, you were frozen. Your wrist felt fragile, bird-like under the firm grip of his thick-knuckled fingers. You weren't weak, you'd rigged topsails in tempest winds with those wrists. But that was then. That was weeks ago, when you were part of a crew on the open seas. Here, it was just you and the beast that had sent stronger than you to their graves. The warnings from persnickety old seadogs tolled death knolls in your mind–

–no women. And now the sea had swallowed you up. Sent you down to the belly of the beast. A Jonah, locked behind something stronger than whalebone. Trapped. Unless–

Wishful thinking.

He chucked at your chin, calloused fingertips arching your head further back until your neck strained. Your heartbeat rushed past your ears, sending your head spinning. Dizzy, docile. An artificial calm; buoyant lifeline in the raging currents. He turned you slightly, left then right. Like he was measuring you up, the line of your throat. The fluttering of your pulse. That treacherous throbbing, sending oxygen to your brain that you were too erethic to feel.

He spoke again, rough and coruscating. You noticed that he didn't blink, just stared down at you. Dead-eyed as a fish, blond lashes spiked around dark irises. He kept you arched, unable to escape as every syllable struck you like a storm. You balanced on bare tip-toes, butterfly-soft fingers spread across his hairy forearm.

"The Beak's happy to let ya swing if it means 'e can catch the rest of y'r crewmates. And, 'round here, the only good pirate is a dead pirate," he must have felt how your fingers tightened, a futile brace against his butal strength and harsh words. "So, I tell him y'r a liar, get paid to do my job, and keep the governor happy."

He shrugged, bulky shoulders popping as he rolled them back. He shrugged like it meant nothing to him, just a matter of fact. The fisherman, fingers deep in guts and gristle. The butcher, hands stained copper and hardened on cannon bone. The executioner, calloused from rope neckties and the deadweight of the condemned–

But you catch the way his eyes follow your flinch. The way his lips move under his mask too as your mouth opens and closes. Hesitant. Dry.

You could only look up at him with wide, naïve eyes, dilating in the dark. The jejune jailbird. Doe-eyed. Caught.

The jig was up.

"Please," the words stuck in your throat, cracking and broken. "Please don't–"

He lets you go. Not a gentle action, no. No careful caress; he lowers you abruptly, chuckles as you scramble to face him. Stunned, you rub at your throat. Still there, still unadorned with the necklace of rope you swear he wants to place there. Coarse twine and hessian brown, constricting tighter until– no. You can't think on it, anathema to the lie you've worked hard to maintain. If he doesn't believe the plea of the belly, you'll– you'll–

You'll make it so.

As he settles his massive frame on the thin, wooden slat against the wall you wonder. Why did he come here in cover of night. Why did he need to see for himself what the priest confirmed as a priori truth? The seal of confession melts away, your moribund admittance flakes and crumbles under his heavy hand. He knows.

Solid legs spread wide, he makes himself comfortable. You follow the bulge of his thighs, easily as thick as your skull–more–, as the bench groans and creaks worse than the brig in a storm.

You worry that it can't handle the weight.

Even sitting, he dwarfs you. Stepping up between his thighs is like willingly stepping off the stern into still waters. It's terrifying, thrilling– your belly swoops and head feels light. You know there must be something lurking in the depths, some undulating hydra ready to slide its malignant limbs around your ankle and wrench you down–

He clamps a filthy boot down over the length of chain across the floor. Keeps you tethered to him, unable to pull back even if you wanted to.

"Clever enough t'come up with the scheme, clever enough t'get out of it." It's an offering, albeit a twisted one. Alms tainted by the greedy slap of his palms against his thighs. Rough, scarred hands frame the growing bulge between his legs.

Even in the dark, you see it. Heavy, perverse, Fattening enough to strain against the seam of his trousers. You can't look away, can't escape the muggy heat in the air and the scorching burn of his eyes on you. Incendiary, it sends heat pooling to your own belly. The damp, stickiness between your thighs seems cool now, sweat superseded by the slick gathering in your core. It's filthy, it's wrong–

It's blazing hot, shame seared away by a want that is not entirely born of desperation.

At first you think it's a tit-for-tat, your mouth stuffed full in exchange for his staying closed. Kneeling before him, you're suddenly grateful for your skirts. Matchsticks of dried straw and dusty smithereens dig into your knees, legs bent awkwardly as he keeps his boot on your chain. He's content to let you paw at him, to tug at the drawstrings and fumble with his waistband as he offers no help.

Eventually, he must grow bored.

"Don' need me to tell ya that's not how it works."

"What–?" He has you frozen, tableau vivant of a wanton grisette. Pupils-blown and lips-parted, you tremble up at him. Try to read the desire that he hides beneath harsh words and heavy breaths.

"Tryin' t'make me a liar, too?" He grunts, brushing aside your confused, hurried protestations. "Gonna make me a liar when I go out'nd tell them there really is a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage?"

He pats at his lap, palming at himself and hissing through his teeth. Sound is muffled by that grotesque mask, but you catch it all the same. Every flash of the man beneath– of the desire wrought by your artless, ingenue fumblings– sends you reeling. You are not a creature of flesh and blood, not when both are fever-hot and itching. You can't breathe in your body under sweltering layers and sultry air. And he can sense it, too. The beast you let into your cage, bars bending as easily as your will to his.

And, through messily-tugged drawstrings, you see it. Tugged through the opening you'd hastily torn open. The thick, ruddy head of his cock is already leaking.

And as you slide into his lap, it all slides into place.

You think of– no, not now. You can't think of him now. When he comes back for you, if it takes, you could pass the baby off as his. He was sweet on you, you know it. A breezy, comfortable kind of affection. Small, just barely burgeoning but still there. He's a good man– You'll claim that you were telling the truth at your capture– that you and he already– He's a decent man– maybe you wouldn't even have to lie. He'd take you in, little stray and the seed that kept her off the scaffold–

Thoughts slip away, sea spray in the wind, as you work yourself open in his lap. You're drenched beneath your skirts, slick running down your thighs and into his. You're spread so wide across him that it burns, pinned open by his bulk. You can feel the power of his frame, coiled muscle holding you up from the worn wooden bench. The soft pudge of his belly presses into yours as you lean forward, shakily lining up with the swollen head of his cock.

It's already weeping, thick globs of his slick mingle with yours as he slides between your folds. Like he can't wait to be inside you, leaking his spend at the barest touch of your cunt. Like he can't wait to put it inside you, to make good on his word and yours and put a baby there.

You shiver, biting back a gasp as he nudges the aching pearl at the apex of your thighs. His chuckle rumbles through his hulking chest into yours. It jostles you, hitching you just right over his length until it notches against you. You press down, hole clenching against the initial pain, until you feel the throb of his slit inside. It's deep, sending your back arching as you grip his shoulders with white knuckles. And there's still more–

"Tha's it, tha's it, birdie," his voice is impossibly thicker, desire dragging it down until he growls at you. "Gonna have t'take more, gotta make it all fit if you want this baby–"

"Yes, yes, please," you babble at him. Voice high, whines catching on every breath you work yourself lower. You can feel him in your stomach, every inch sending sparks dancing along your spine until they're all you can see when you close your eyes. The sparks, and the spectral imprint of his ghostly mask.

He grunts below you, swallowing back groans behind a jaw that you know is clenched tight. Avaricious brute, he needs you closer. Hands that were meant to measure you for the drop dig into your hips, working you lower and lower. He forces you down to the root, bare thighs on hessian cloth, until you cry out. Shaking at the spread– the stretch– you pant in his ear. Hot little breaths, heady against the crook of his neck.

You can hear it, the obscene squelch of your greedy cunt. The creaking of the bench beneath you as you ride him with shaking legs, chasing pleasure that's already beginning to pool in your belly. You feel heavy with it, moaning behind your clenched fist. Through bleary eyes you catch his, cimmerian and heavy-lidded. His head is thrown back against the wall, guttural filth spilling as he waits for you to come undone.

"Want it, don't ya? Want my baby so fuckin' bad, just look at ya," he growls it, frothing with a hunger so biting it reads as rage. "I'll put one in ya, keep you stuffed full. Keep this chain around y'r ankle, too, keep you shackled to me–"

Eyes-watering as you lose yourself in it. In the sounds that that send blood rushing to your head, the deep ache in your core, the desperation– make him come, make him come, want to come, need to come–

---------

At first, he was happy to watch you. To sit back and watch you work yourself up, to perform for him until he sees you drop the mask. You wear the mantle of captive soubrette so well, sweat-damp petticoats clinging to curves that he wants to trace with his tongue. With his teeth. He saw the craft in your sweet, open face. You're a flighty thing, aren't you? Trying to slip the noose and slip past him. Luckily his grasp is strong.

He saw the scheme slip away as he got you speared open on his length. He can see it in your eyes, feels the way you suck him in–. You're dripping down into his breeches, sloppy and squeezing him so tight. Desperate, wanton little naiad. Riding hard like your life depends on it. He huffs out a laugh as he squeezes you tight, rough fingers digging into peach-soft flesh.

He doesn't tell you that you're already free, that the Royal Navy is already in hot pursuit of The Watcher and the pregnant, little skivvy is of as much importance to them as the ship's rats. No, you're a nuisance they're willing to hand off to him. Too big, too blunt, too bloody to find a respectable wife.

(There was a time, once, when he had no need of such comforts. Lieutenant aboard The Larimar's Revenge, he'd docked in many-a-port. But he'd always come back to those blue eyes. The haircut that had even the natives of Port Royal looking twice– Cheeky, cocksure pirate.

He'd thought about him, sometimes. On that godforsaken island with just a pistol and one shot for company. 'Mutineer', he was branded. Traitor to King and Crown. Lower than scum, not worth even a keelhaul. But not even grapeshot can kill a ghost–) 

He feels you reaching your end, thighs trembling from more than just exertion. His mask is damp, sultry air mixing with your musk into something that scatters his desultory thoughts. His belly tightens as he feels you clamping down, whining behind the knuckles you’ve got stuffed between your teeth.

When you're home, together in his bed, he'll bite down on those knuckles. Show you what real toothprints look like. Or maybe he'll let you slip his hand into your mouth instead. Let you whet your blunt little teeth on something with more gristle. His appetite for you cannot be satiated on mere flesh. He's got to pierce you, taste you, feel you from the inside and leave a part of himself there–

For now, he holds you down. Forces you to ride out the wave of pleasure-pain as he sets his own pace. Your thighs tremble, whole body seizing around him. He can feel the fluttering in your cunt, the way you shudder and drip until his cock is soaked and his coarse hair turns sticky with your release.

He ignores your whisper of another man's name– John, or Johnny, it's hard to catch with the way you swallow your whimper–it doesn’t matter. Not when he's the one pumping you full of his spend. His belly clenches hard, balls tight and heavy with the come he's going to give you. Going to force it in, plant his baby in you and still leave thick, white, globs leaking out of your poor, abused hole.

He's filled you up, is going to fill you up again. He'll take you back to his house and do it as many times as he wants. Make you grateful for it, for saving your life and giving you the baby you’ve been begging for. Keep you stuffed so full of him that the only name he'll hear from you is 'Simon'.

(And if you help lure Johnny back, well. It's been a long time, but good dogs come home when called.)

---------------

Well, there is it. Shoutout to my beloved stelle and woolie for listening to me whine about pirate ship names 💖💖💖

[giotanner]

🧼: «So how'd ye become 'The Ghost'?» 💀: «I saw a ghost, once»

New tiktok available (yes, it's about Ghost 09 backstory, Roba and Found Family)

Please support me with a REBLOG to be in Call Of Duty circle here on tumblr, thank you!

ko-fi

[crsssie]

ring - professor!simon riley x professor!reader

"Professor Riley, what's the story behind your tattoos?"

Simon raises a brow at his student, staring down at his sleeve as he hums.

"Most of them are from between the dispatches."

"Sorry, I meant to ask more directly. When did you get the bite tattoed onto your ring finger? It was not there before."

You choke in the back, coughing as you turn to the side to hold back a laugh.

"The missus got jealous."

"Hey." You point at him. "You asked for it. Sorry, he tells everyone it's my fault."

The student laughs, waving her hand. "It's alright."

"He wanted me to bite him on the collar." You click your tongue. "Said I ought to mark him so his students stop trying to hook up with him."

"Luvie, is this my office hour or yours?"

"Sorry." You snap your laptop shut, hopping out the door before he can grab you for good.

"Back to your question for the paper."

"Why the ring finger?"

"So even if I forget my ring, I'm married." Simon raises a brow. "Your paper?"

"Y-yes!" She scrambles to point at what she wanted to get his input on, a muffled chuckle slipping past his lips at her panic. "Oh, I'm sorry for asking by the way. The class bet me 20 bucks in the discord if I ask about it."

"Give me a five and I'll forget you ever asked."

"Bet."

He'll grab you a drink with it to tell you later.

[ghcstao3]

ghost almost always has at least one knife hidden on him for ‘just in case’ purposes, and while soap has found it actually proves pretty useful—not even just for combat, but also stupid, minor things like cutting stubborn loose threads off clothing—it becomes a small pain when soap has to wait for ghost to shed himself of various knives before climbing into bed every night. just when soap thinks there couldn’t possibly be another one on ghost’s person, there most certainly is, and half the time before ghost finally lays down soap is already falling asleep

[timetothirst]

Simon Riley would talk about you like this btw

ESPECIALLY THE FIRST ONE LIKE HELLO?? can you hear me sobbing

me when he’s English, buff as hell, has an abusive father, joins the military, gets traumatized while he’s there, mourns the death of his loved ones who were killed tragically, becomes so hell bent on revenge that he doesn’t care what happens to him in the process of getting it and subsequently gets recruited into a super secret team that’s backed by the united states government: 🥰😍

[4me2knowandyou2wonder]

A thought popped into my head and now you all have to suffer with me <3

What if, Ghost is a bad kisser. I doubt he’s had much opportunity to practice. From a home where all his energy was focused on staying safe, straight into the military where he wasn’t interested in pursuing anyone. By the time he has his real first kiss it’s late in life, and a big bulky guy like that? You just know the kiss was stiff and stilted. I bet his first kiss out right tells him it was awful.

So Ghost doesn’t know how to kiss.

When he and Johnny finally get together the confession happens though a mask. Soap, being respectful, kisses him through the mask. And for about a week that’s how they share all their kisses.

Soap thinks it’s just a boundary for Ghost. Ghost really wants to kiss Soap normally and not through the mask but knows he’s a terrible kisser and doesn’t want to scare Johnny off.

When the truth does finally come out Soap all but cackles. ‘You mean I get to teach you how to kiss?’ ‘I only see this as a golden opportunity, L.T.’

Later

‘Oh, yeah, we’re going to have to practice (pregnant pause) a lot.’ (Waggles eyebrows)

Not sure if Ghost ever gets better at kissing, being a terrible kisser might just be set into his bones by now. but Soap doesn’t seem to mind at least.

[cntloup]

they should definitely make a show about my love my man simon

[lottielovelace]

Ways Ghost describes himself in the comics

He describes his pre-Ghost/Robas life as being built upon "Discipline, precision, control". I definitely still see remnants of that in Ghost, even if his PTSD has made it less of a guarantee.

After his family's murder/faking his death, he describes himself as "a dead man (with a mission)".

Before settling on "Ghost", he workshopped called himself "Death" (and Robas referred to him as Mr. Death).

He also (post-family massacre) calls himself "a high-functioning wreck". I think this is very telling.

But he starts moving onto Ghost pretty soon.

Panels/exact quotes (in the alt text) below the cut

[giotanner]

Lt. Simon 'Ghost' Riley wasn’t always a ghost. His past is something murky and horrifying, erased from every record and file except his own memory.

When Sergeant John 'Soap' MacTavish tries to ask, Ghost always has a new, outlandish answer with a hint of truth ready for him.

The past is burned, but the future has offered him Captain John Price’s outstretched hand and Task Force 141, and he’s holding onto it for all it’s worth.

(Entire video on tiktok if you wanna support it!)

(Please REBLOG IT, it really helps to be in Call of Duty circle, thank you!)

[adoringsin]

0 Stray Pup

When teetering on the edge of destitution, you become a hefty burglar's accomplice.

This is the backstory to the series Partners in Crime, you can read episode one, Arising Tensions, here.

Note: I don’t know the cost of food of the U.K. since I’m a red 40 eating American so I based it off how much it would cost in the U.S.

Criminal!Ghost x Partner!Reader | 860 words

Content Warnings: Cursing, threats from Ghost

How you and Ghost, or Simon Riley, met was an unique experience.

You were starving, you had five euros in your bank account and fifty cents in your pocket, and flies were practically flying out of your wallet. As if your situation couldn’t get any worse, your landlord, who you thought really really liked you, kicked you out of your tiny apartment out of the blue, which you’re still sure is not legal… Not like you’re familiar with the laws anyway.

Speaking of laws… In this economy, even chips and a drink cost at least six bucks now. So what choice were you left with except borrowing some food from your local convenience store?

You tried to walk in as casually as possible, greeting the store owner at the cash register as you usually did. You noticed a burly man in black, loitering around the back, near the fridge of cold drinks. You disregarded him, despite his skull balaclava already imprinted in your mind. You headed for the sandwiches, a chicken sandwich cut into two triangles, your go-to. You thought about getting a drink, but that masked man was covering the coffee you craved, and you weren’t going to risk your life for some temporary satisfaction. So you silently sighed, turned around, and started to pass the chips, the cookies, and headed for the door.

“Hey! You forgettin’ to pay?” The store owner warned. Looking back, you froze in place. “Uh, I… I kind of don’t have any money—” You stuttered. The owner furrowed his brows, “Either you pay or get lost.” He stepped down from the cash register and walked towards you, attempting to snatch your oh-so-dear sandwich away from you.

“Noooo,” you hollered, “I haven’t eaten in like two days man!”

Without warning, the man from before sprinted towards the exit, and gripped your wrist with gnawing strength, dragging you along with him. You hissed in pain, cursing, “What the fuck are you doing?!”He dragged you along, grip never faltering, to an alleyway far from the deli. You looked at your other hand, half of your sandwich had fallen out… “Shit!” You groaned, glaring at him, even if your heart was thumping at two hundred beats per minute at his frightening appearance.

“What in the bloody hell were you thinking of doing?” He leaned into your face like you were his next prey. “I was stealing… a sandwich.” You noticed how embarrassing that was to admit. “Like that? No strategy? No technique? No wonder this place’s crime rate is 60%.” He scoffed.

“Why did you pull me here?”

“You want to go to jail?” He quipped.

“No, obviously,” you retorted, “but why did you help me?”

“Felt nice.” He admitted, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, and throwing a lighter at you, which you had almost failed to catch. “Light,” he ordered. After his cigarette lit, he snatched the lighter back, opened a door beside him, and entered the broken-down apartment complex. You didn’t know what to do, so you trailed behind him.

“Why are you following me?” He asked with annoyance, not looking back. “Uhm, well, I was wondering, since you helped me—you’re kind, right? I hope so… If you would be so kind as to let me stay with you for a bit, I would gladly appreciate it…” You stammered over your words (and your feet), hoping he would pity you enough to let you room with him.

He looked back and squinted his eyes at you, for a good ten seconds, before he turned around, and kept walking down the hallway. “Is that a no? Or a yes?“ You asked, with little hope and a lot of desperation in your voice.

He unlocked the door leading to his apartment, swung it open, and waited for you to enter. “One thing,” he looked down at you, “you must do me a favor.” He got walked over to a drawer, and pulled out a rolled up sheet of paper, he unrolled it, and revealed a blueprint of a building.

“What is this?” You asked. He glanced over the paper, “A plan for how we’re going to rob the city’s largest bank.”

“I can’t even steal a sandwich and you want me to rob a big ass bank, you’re out of your mind big foot.” You hesitated at his plan. “I’m not giving you a choice. I’m telling you,” he admonished, barking, “so you better agree to do this or I’m putting a bullet through your little, tiny ass skull.”

After some a lot of banter and threats, you had agreed to his plan. “I’ll teach you. Robbing a bank isn’t a one-person job.” He grunted, flattening the sheet of paper onto the table once again. “Yeah?” He looked at you for confirmation.

There was a moment of silence, where you just stared into his face, analyzing his almond eyes since everything was covered. The current golden hour highlighted his magnetic eyes, making his generally hickory eyes seem cognac. “Oh- Uh, yes, yes, deal.” You blurted out, falling out of your reverie as you realized you never asked for his name. “Mister…?”

“Ghost.” He sighed, rolling up his paper.

Check out my masterlist here!

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

I'm talking like.... chaste kisses and handholding for like 6 months or smth. Cuddling gradually gets thrown in the mix but like... idk trust takes time. Like the relationship is progressing at the pace of couple of middle schoolers.

And like theres a heart to heart about what ur cool with, what Simon's cool with.... if one of you is uncomfortable for any reason or just straight up don't want physical contact u guys don't find it rude to full out say "hey don't touch me rn." "I love ya but I don't want a hug" "I need personal space"

THAT SAID SOMETIMES YOU GUYS ARE STUCK TO EACHOTHER LIKE BARNACLEs

-🔪

FUCK IT. I'M DOING IT.

words: 750~ cw: 09 Ghost backstory (implied)

Slow.

Not in a torturous way, no.

It's a peaceful kind of slow.

Because you're sort of like him, aren't you? You don't want to be touched blindly and constantly.

You don't need to.

So it's slow.

Sitting on the couch with a gap between you.

A gap that gets smaller and smaller.

You see it happening.

Like a stray cat who inches ever closer to the human that feeds it on the street every day.

Slow progress. One inch at a time.

That's Simon Riley for you.

One day your knees brush together. His doing.

The next, slowly, his whole leg presses against yours.

Then his shoulder and arm.

The skin where his glove doesn't quite meet his sleeve, exposed, rubs against yours on accident one time. It was warm, sent a tingle down his spine.

He sets his hand on yours, open palm against yours, fingers pressing on yours, not intertwined, just touching, wrists rubbing together, seeking a friction he never quite knew he wanted to feel.

Then his fingers lock onto yours.

From then, he begins carefully bringing your hand up with his, fingers tangled resting on his knee, his arm laced with yours.

He very carefully holds your hand in public, making sure you don't get lost. Fidgets with your fingers when he's bored. Takes it with progressively more confidence.

Then, he starts putting his head on you, tentatively so, causing you to freeze every time he does it, regarding him from the corner of your eye like he might get spooked and go away if you move.

He sets it on the crown of your head the first time, then, on your shoulder, always looking away, feigning disinterest, his thumb, meanwhile, rubbing your knuckles and palm and back.

Then he sets it down on your chest one time, very tentatively so. It's Simon's favorite spot, you've come to notice. Hearing your heartbeat, your breathing, feeling it rise and fall.

Then, he's on your lap. A head setting there as he watches TV, trying to act like he's not vibrating inside, with both anxiety and pleasure.

He takes your hand one day and sets it on his head. You leave it be, simply holding him there, as dead weight...

Until he starts softly rubbing against it, seeking your fingers, your palm. Then, you start caressing his hair. You do it anytime now.

His own hands seek you out very gingerly. He holds your waist, or your hips, or your wrists more often than not, like it's fragile material, that might break under him.

He resumes his little head exploration. Mostly setting his temple against yours, his forehead on yours, his nose on yours. He closes his eyes for those, not quite wanting to see...

Simon nuzzles his large nose against your cheek one time, very gently so, and your lips rub together, and he presses in, like he's fearfully stepping into a minefield.

It feels warm, and nice, your lips are soft and give under his, never pushing back too hard, letting him set the pace.

You start kissing all the time from then on, his hands carefully holding some part of you, chaste kisses, and nuzzling into you like a cat trying to leave his scent.

It's not like he doesn't know what he's doing, before everything, Simon had had his fair share of 'escapades'... But it's all different now. So much different.

The first time his lips part and carefully swipe at your bottom lip, it surprises you. Months worth of chaste kisses suddenly cut off by a new advancement. He liked the sound you made. So he started doing that more often.

His tongue would swipe at your lips, until slowly it breached them, poking inside to find yours and, and, with a sigh that sounded like a weight off his shoulders, rubbing them together softly.

Then that turned into more confident touches, fingers digging in, into your body, waist, hip, thighs, arms..., and guiding your hands to places he trusted you to touch and knead at. His shoulders, his biceps, his hip.

Simon'd slot all his weight atop of you, trapping you to the couch or mattress and make out with you, shuddering as your thighs softly squeezed his hip. His hands sliding up and down, caressing, slowly, mapping out where he could and should go.

He never felt so safe as when he had his hands slotted on your body, kneading greedily onto you, yours caressing up his back, his mouth busy with your tongue, and his mind void of any thoughts other than the sound of your breathing and the way your chest rose and fell against his own.

(I GOT LAZY FOR THE SMUT PART, SORRY)

[pyuisi]

headcanon:

roach is a huge one direction fan. he loves how simple the lyrics are and how pure love sounds in their songs.

everyone in tf 141 finds it endearing that whenever they have to go in any vehicle with a radio, roach fights for the shotgun seat to play one of their songs. he mouths out the lyrics and bops his head like he’s in a concert.

before he lost his voice, he’d sing the songs 24/7. that was before he joined 141 though, so no one knew until price found him sitting on the kitchen counter one night at 4 am and singing to “little things” playing on his phone at minimum volume.

roach’s voice was a whisper, which was all he could force out of his throat. price didn’t make a big deal out of it, but roach did and freaked out when price showed up. but price didn’t say anything, just leaned against the counter beside roach and handed him a cup of hot chocolate because price thought roach’s throat would hurt from forcing his voice out like that.

roach told him that night that he almost gave up listening to the band because it reminded him of his lost voice and he didn’t want to panic in front of the team. price just hugged his shoulder and listened with a sad expression while roach sobbed silently against him.

couple days later in another mission, soap beat roach to the shotgun seat and just when roach was about to sulk, soap played “18” and sang obnoxiously on top of his lungs, making up lyrics in parts he didn’t know.

roach had startled into a laugh. soap lit up at that laugh. “this one’s for you, gare,” soap said afterwards. roach blushed so hard after that.

laswell gave him a signed autograph for his birthday. when he signed at her with barely contained tears to ask how she got it, she lied through her teeth that her daughter accidentally got two of them during a fan sign event. she has no daughter and they all know it. roach had no idea how she could’ve found a way to get an autograph in their line of work but he didn’t ask.

gaz asked roach about the band and was successfully converted into a fan. the two of them would take one earbud each and listen to the songs together when off-duty. gaz told roach that his voice sounded nice, when roach dared to whisper-sing one time.

ghost didn’t do anything in particular and tolerated soap’s singing. but he was always staring when roach listened to the music, face uncharacteristically soft. roach would tease him for it.

[i’ve never heard you sing before], roach would sign.

ghost would shake his head. “i’m a really bad singer.”

roach would bother him for a bit before giving up, and settle with just curling over ghost’s shoulder and listen to soap sing while humming along.

after roach died, gaz stopped listening to the songs much like how roach was after losing his voice: the memories were too painful to remember. price would get up randomly at 4 am and play “little things” while drinking hot chocolate and leaning against the counter. he always made two cups. soap stopped suggesting they have karaoke nights, but he’d still listen to the music from time to time, preferring to keep his memory of roach alive. he found himself looping through “something great” and “if i could fly” all too often. ghost would remember that he’d refused to sing for gary and tear himself apart with regret, but even after learning the lyrics to roach’s favourite songs, he couldn’t get his throat to work, even when he was alone.

in an alternate reality (the only one i’ll accept), ghost gives in and sings for roach. hes not a bad singer at all, and because it makes roach happy to sing he does it more and more often. soap is absolutely delighted to have a singing partner and at one point ghost will become comfortable enough that he’ll randomly start shouting lyrics mid-mission into the comms when things are peaceful. ghost and soap play finish the lyrics during the alone mission in mw2, and roach scares the shit out of them when his voice appears out of nowhere and starts whispering along too. when the three of them rendezvous at the church and ghost snatches the car, soap slides into the shotgun seat, fiddles with the radio to get it to play music while they’re being shot at, and him and ghost scream the lyrics to “no control” as ghost drives like a madman. roach almost dies wheezing at the backseat.

price finds the three of them at 4 am one night ballroom dancing to “little things” playing through roach’s phone. they don’t have anything formal, but they’re dressed in their nicest casual clothes (simon in a plain black hoodie, soap in a crumpled up polo shirt, roach in a warm jumper). they’re not singing, but there are plenty of sounds: johnny’s aborted curses when he almost steps on roach’s bare feet, gary’s giggles when simon twirls him in a circle, simon sighing contently into soap’s shoulder.

price looks down at the two cups of hot chocolate he’s holding, frowns, and returns after five minutes with a tray of four cups in total. he makes his presence known and smiles fondly when his three grown special forces children who are among the most dangerous soldiers in the world immediately abandon their activities to grab his hot chocolate and argue over whose mug has more of it.

god, he loves his sons.