#simon(e)

[hai-nae]

possessive

[ohgeesoap]

TF 141 and how they test your relationship:

Ghost: Bad at apologizing. Will show you he's sorry through actions but won't actually say it out loud. Eventually texts "I'm sorry" or writes it on a sticky note and puts it on the fridge.

Soap: Bad temper. It's not directed at you but it can be a little alarming to watch that switch flip because what the fuck just happened and who is he going to fight?

Gaz: Says things very matter of factly, so it makes you feel like he's leaving no more room for discussion when you still have plenty to say. You have to let him know that you're not done.

Price: Puts his hands up in a calm down gesture when he thinks your emotions are getting the better of you. Instantly sends you over the edge because why does he think that would work on you?

[hatsbuckets]

It's two am and idk why I woke up like on the dot but damn I'm glad I did. Anyway,,,

Johnny waking up from a nightmare, trembling in Simon's arms. Simon holds him, has no other choice as Johnny practically clings to him, with little idea if he's doing it "right."

But Simon doesn't move, doesn't speak. Just holds him, arms wrapped tight around the man shaking against his chest.

And when Johnny can finally breath properly again, voice hoarse and raw, "Tell me something good LT..."

Simon swallows, takes a deep breath of the Sergeant's hair, voice sleep rough, "Mm," he hums, "you're somethin' good, Johnny."

Johnny's laugh cracks apart halfway through. The salt of his sweat mixing with new tears. Simon has a near heart attack, shifting before Johnny squeezes his arms and legs.

"Ye cannae say shite like that" he whispers, voice cracking.

Simon exhales, curling around Johnny just a bit more, "Even if i's true?"

"Aye," he murmurs, "'specially tha'."

Simon's hands freeze where they were moving, soothing at Johnny's back and ribs. One moves to Johnny's chin, catching the Scot between a calloused thumb and forefinger, the rough digit swiping over its favorite little scar beneath his lip.

"Johnny..."

"...Simon?"

"I love you."

The sound that leaves Johnny, half laugh, half aching sob, is swallowed by the soft press of Simon's lips. Gentle. Reverent. Whole.

[temeyes]

answer the question sir

[li77ard]

pacific rim au, you're welcome

[eurodynamic]

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY → ‘Ghost Senpai’ Skin Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II (2022)

[quotethatshow]

[ven-finn]

To me she is an old woman

[mzz1998]

FOREVER (2025) | S1 E5 The Vineyard

[prinkedpork]

[yingtan]

Gong Jun for Harper’s Bazaar China, May 2024

[hatsbuckets]

Soft fluffy tooth rotting Ghoap thought that became a mini fic

Johnny gets put on concussion protocol after a mission. A bad knock to the head, the kind that leaves his vision fuzzy and his mood worse. Medical sends him on leave, off-base and under strict orders to rest. Lights stay off in the flat for days. Curtains drawn. No TV. No music. No cellphone. No work. Just the painkillers, cold water, and the occasional muttered curse when the neighbor’s car alarm goes off.

And Simon—God bless him—is a ghost around the place. Quiet as a shadow, moving through rooms like he’s on recon, not just bringing tea or folding laundry. He cooks in silence, cleans without fanfare, and makes sure Johnny takes his meds on time. Johnny doesn’t have to ask for a thing.

The rain tapping against the window still makes Johnny hiss some days, the light of the fridge makes him squint, but Simon never pushes. Just offers a warm hand and a whispered “You alright, Johnny?” when the migraines hit worst.

And Johnny���dramatic, daft bastard that he is—soaks it all up. He rests, yes, but he also notices. The careful way Simon tucks the blankets around his feet. The way he keeps to soft shirts, no zippers, no buttons, so the quiet isn't broken when he moves. The way he presses one soft kiss to Johnny’s hair each night and thinks Johnny’s already asleep.

So, naturally, Johnny does what any self-respecting man in love would do under these circumstances.

He fakes his own death.

Well, not really. But he does lie dramatically limp and still on top of the duvet, arms flopped out like he’s in a Shakespeare play.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon. Simon’s just come home with groceries and chicken soup ingredients. And Johnny thinks it’s time he got a little extra affection. He has been through a traumatic brain injury, after all.

Simon pads into the room a few minutes later, that low, soothing voice he’s been using all week curling around the words: “You wanna eat, Johnny?”

Johnny doesn't twitch. He keeps his breathing slow and even, though his lips are fighting to stay straight.

Simon doesn’t push, just assumes he's sleeping again. He sets the food down and walks in closer, brushing a hand gently along Johnny’s knee. “Food’ll get cold,” he tries, coaxing but quiet.

Still nothing.

Simon stands there for a beat too long. Then his chest shifts with a breath that’s a little sharper than the rest, barely audible. He leans down, carefully, fingers soft against Johnny’s jaw, brushing over cheek and temple. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just a few bites, yeah?”

Still, no movement.

And then Simon’s jaw ticks. Something in him flickers. Worry, sharp and sudden. The kind that grips the spine and squeezes. He leans in closer, too close to dodge, taps Johnny’s face again, firmer now, a touch of urgency. “Johnny.”

And that's when Johnny strikes.

Arms snap up, legs curl around Simon’s waist like a fucking koala, and he yanks the poor man down with him—Simon lets out a startled grunt—only to get a mouthful of laughing, smug Scotsman pressing a kiss right to his lips.

Simon blinks, wide-eyed and floored. Johnny just grins, stupid and pleased, still holding him tight. “Caught you.”

“Mm."

“Yooohhh were worried,” Johnny sing-songs, clearly delighted. “Felt the panic settin' in. You were picturing my obituary, weren't you?”

Simon doesn’t even deny it, just sighs, long and put-upon, forehead pressed against Johnny’s. “You’re lucky you’re still concussed or I’d drop you.”

“I knew you cared,” Johnny whispers dramatically, then kisses him again, softer this time.

And Simon, despite himself, melts right into it...

They stay there for a beat—Simon braced awkwardly over him, caught between exasperation and affection, and Johnny clinging like a barnacle, head tilted back against the pillow with the smuggest smile in Scotland.

“You’re a child,” Simon murmurs, but there’s no heat behind it.

“A very injured child,” Johnny corrects, fluttering his lashes for good measure. “One in dire need of affection.”

Simon rolls his eyes, but his hand’s already smoothing over Johnny’s side, tucking under the hem of his shirt to check for warmth. “You need to eat.”

Johnny hums. “I need you to cuddle with me. My head still hurts. Emotionally. Spiritually. And a little physically.”

“You faked being unconscious, Johnny.”

“I said I was injured!”

Simon huffs out a breath, like he's two seconds from laughing. “We’re eating first.”

“Fine,” Johnny relents, but not without a dramatic sigh. “But I wanna eat in bed.”

Simon raises a brow. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” Johnny says, already smug again. “My body’s weak. You said that. Fragile. Like a Victorian maiden. Don’t you want to be my sturdy war husband and bring me soup in bed?”

Simon does laugh at that. Just once, quiet and dry, before leaning down and kissing Johnny’s forehead. “Alright, love."

A few minutes later, they’re tucked under the blankets again—tray balanced on Johnny’s lap, bowl of soup in Simon’s hand, one spoon shared between them even though they definitely own more. Johnny rests his head on Simon’s shoulder between bites.

And when the food’s finally gone and the dishes are abandoned on the nightstand for Future Simon to worry about, Johnny snuggles in closer with a groan.

“You said cuddling,” he mumbles into Simon’s shirt.

“I meant it,” Simon replies, already shifting to pull Johnny into his arms.

Quiet falls and the rain starts up again outside, but Johnny doesn't flinch quite so hard.

[temeyes]

kinda missing cod lately

[tsukiwemi-wtf]

Bebe

[glafifo]

[jawsofhellanytime]