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midnights-song · 4 months

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Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader - warning: postpartum depression requested by multiple: mama's family

"Where's my baby?!"

You can practically hear your teeth grinding together as you give your aunt a tight lipped smile. "He's due to get up any minute." She sighs, like it's an inconvenience, your mom hot on her heels.

"Hi honey," she says, glancing around your now pristine flat, "how are things?"

"Oh, fine." It's the same thing you've been saying this whole time. I'm fine. I'm good. Everything is great. "Went to the pediatrician the other day, Ry is perfect and healthy." You omit the rest of your news, the sudden reappearance of Simon, the stable, consistent presence in your life, the man who was supporting you in anyway he could.

Even though you absolutely do not want your mom or your aunt to meet him, let alone know about him-

you still kind of wish he was here.

He told you yesterday, regretfully, that he had meetings on base all day today, and you told him your mom and aunt were coming by, but probably wouldn't stay long. It was good, that he wouldn't be around.

Before he left for the night, he made you promise to call if you needed him. Text him to check in. You did as he asked, but didn't hear much. Not a surprise, since he said he wouldn't have a lot of time to respond, but still wanted updates.

"That's great honey." Her smile is genuine, and you know she means it. She does mean well, mostly. It's not her fault you're bad at asking for help, or that since you left home, you've become stubbornly independent. You even spent a few years "gallivanting across the globe" as your sister liked to say, shirking responsibility after uni.

Your family was used to you being a bit of a ghost.

"- don't you think?" Your aunt's voice brings you back to earth, and you nod robotically, unsure of what you're agreeing to. You're about to apologize for missing the conversation when the baby monitor on the kitchen counter lights up, Orion's fussy 'I just woke up mom, come get me' cry crackling from the speaker.

"That's for me." You joke half heartedly with a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. You know the battle with ensue as soon as you come back into the living room with the baby, and you dread it.

"Hi baby." You bend at the waist, scooping him out of his crib. "You're gettin' too heavy for mama, big boy. Don't know what I'm gonna do when you're older." The thought stops you in your tracks, the acknowledgement that he'll get older, that soon he'll be six months, and then a year, two. He'll learn to crawl, to walk, to speak. It's exciting, and anxiety inducing. What if you mess him up? What if you don't give him a good life? What if you're not a good mom, or he gets sick, or there's an accident, or an attack or-

No. You're not going to do this. You're not going to fall into these obsessive what ifs. It will only make you sick to your stomach.

You get him into a new nappy and clothes before slinking back into the living room, cowed with your head down. His head turns against your chest, seeking, and you know he's starting to realize he's hungry.

But the vultures don't care.

"Bring that boy over here, let me hold him." Your aunt croons, syrupy sick voice conjuring a roar of nausea.

"He's probably hungry." You start to warn them that this won't last long as you lower him into her arms, but you know it will fall on deaf ears. "So-"

"Just get a bottle from the fridge dear, I can feed him no problem." You fight the urge to to snap at her, unreasonable rage swelling inside your heart. No one feeds him except you, and Simon. Bottles are fine when you're asleep and can't nurse, or between feedings, but he doesn't eat as much from them. Of course, you've tried to tell them that, multiple times, but it never seems to stick. Your mom knows, but she never stands up to her older sister.

Like mother like daughter, you guess. You've never been a doormat per se, but you don't have a strongest backbone, and becoming a mom has changed you, a lot. You've become even more soft, more sensitive. It's... a problem.

"How are you feeling, honey?" You know she's asking mostly about your body, your stitches, your physical aches and pains, which were plenty considering what you went through when Ry was born, but your mom's voice is gentle, like she senses you frustration, and you give her a weak smile. It's nice she's expressing interest, but that's usually as far as it goes, unless you count the meals she's brought over that you barely picked it, not having enough energy to even feed yourself, or shower, or the suggestion that you give her the baby all the time so you could 'take a break' even though he screamed the moment he was separated from you. Not helpful. Nobody cared that you had scary thoughts, scary moments, scary days. Nobody offered to be here at night with you, when you were all alone with the baby after dark, terrified, crying in the bathroom with your face buried in a towel so you wouldn't wake him. No one was here when you were afraid you might hurt him, or yourself, and no one seemed to hear you when you shrugged over and over again, your lack of interest in everything explicitly clear.

You sucked at asking for help, so you didn't. And when you did, you never got it right, or got the right answers, so you stopped asking. Everything became fine. Good.

"Fine, good." She opens her mouth to say something, ask some question, probably about Ry, when your blood goes cold.

The sound of your front door opening rings out like a bang, your eyes widening in panic, and you nearly run to the kitchen.

Oh fuck. Oh no, no no no-

You turn in slow motion to see your baby's daddy, the man who has a key now, stepping through the doorway. As soon as you lay eyes on him, you split down the middle. You're horrified, because of what's about to happen with the two hens on the couch and-

your libido roars to life. Simon's not wearing his usual jeans or joggers and black hoodie, but a camouflage military uniform. One that he fills out, broad shoulders and broad chest fitted snug inside the material. You think you're staring. Or drooling. Or both.

His lips quirk up on one side with a secretive, almost seductive smile, and he peeks over your shoulder before turning his attention back to you. "Hey mama."

"H-hey. Uh. Hi." Your hands uselessly flit around, like you're trying to swat some invisible bugs away or something. "My mom is still here. And my aunt," you can't help yourself, you take him in from head to toe one more time, "you look... nice."

"Price makes me wear my BDU for on base meetings." He grunts, slightly exasperated. Who?

"BDU?"

"Battle dress uniform. It's... the approved, standard uniform. I don't wear it... in the field." His lips press together, and your mind wanders, curious questions about 'the field' popping up like fireworks, but you push them away. Now is definitely not the right time. His thumb brushes your cheek, under your eye, and he frowns. "Everything alright?"

You step to the side, motioning to the living room, where your aunt and mother are whispering fiercely. You roll your shoulders, and take a deep breath. "Do you... want to, say hi?" The question is weak, your voice small. His brow furrows. He looks hesitant, and you don't blame him. They're a lot. It's a lot. He glances down at you again, head tilted in consideration. "Or you could just go. If you ran out that door... well I'd only wish I could come with you." You whisper, and he cracks a smile.

"No. 'm not runnin' from any part of you, sweetheart. C'mon. They can't be worse than..." he trails off, odd look in his eyes before it clears, "they can't be worse than a lot of things."

He follows you around the corner of the kitchen, crossing the threshold of the living room with two large strides.

Your mother gasps. Your aunt makes a sound that you can only describe as a goose being strangled, and Orion starts to cry. Perfect.

"Oh, oh shhh, shhhh." Your aunt tries to soothe him, but you know it won't work.

"Mom," you call over the noise, gesturing to the giant man standing next to your coffee table, and you, "Mom! This is Simon." She stares at you, confused, shocked even. You never told her your one night stand's name, just that you couldn't track him down, so she doesn't make the connection.

Still, she gapes at him. Clears her throat with a question.

"Is this... your boyfriend honey?" Your aunt's expression is not much different, and you freeze. Is he? Is that what this is? You half expect Simon to reject the term boyfriend flat out, but instead-

"Something like that." His hand settles between your shoulder blades, and you lean into it, relishing the comfort. Just the presence of him in the flat is enough to soothe you, lessen the tension you feel building in your chest. "Sounds like he's hungry, mama."

"Yeah, I think he's more than ready." You reach for Ry, eager to pick him up, but your aunt shifts her body, shying away, turning her shoulder to you. You're used to this, the keep away, the way they always try to convince you he'll calm down, to let them hold him for too long, to get him a bottle... but Simon is not.

He goes rigid at your side. You can feel the muscle in his arm turn to stone, and his eyes narrow, upper lip curling. Your mother's eyes go wide, but your aunt remains oblivious. "I can feed him, dear. Go get a bottle warmed up and-"

"No." Simon snaps, rough pitch of his voice dipping deeper into the manc accent, and she bristles. This bitch wouldn't be scared of the devil himself.

"Excuse me?" You watch the muscle in his jaw flex with fascination, wondering what he'll do next. You're brought back to when you met, when he stared down the guy who pushed you out of the way at the bar like he was going to murder him, before calling you over to settle next to his thigh. He put his hand on your waist, shielded you from everyone else for the rest of the night.

You were a goner before you ever had a chance to begin.

"Orion wants his mother. You can hand him over without a fuss, or I can throw you out of this flat. Your choice." His words are hard, cold steel, a sharp knife slicing away, exposing vulnerable parts and smashing them to pieces.

Your aunt has the gall to look scandalized, but when you glance at your mother, she has a different expression. It's warm. Approving. She mets your eyes with a small smile as you scoop Orion up, and then she stands.

"We'll get out of your hair, honey." She tugs you into a half hug before looking over. "Nice to meet you Simon." Your aunt is ranting and raving all the way to your front door, but once it's shut...

"Bloody hell." He mutters, and shakes his head. "I won't let anyone push you 'round like that, sweetheart. Family or not. Especially not in your own home, I-"

"Thank you." It's all you can say. "I um, kind of suck at sticking up for myself, sometimes. It means a lot, that you would do that. For me." He steps close, hand covering Orion's belly and chest, even though he's still crying.

"Kitten doesn't have any claws," he murmurs against your ear, and your eyebrows knit together. Uh... what? "Don't worry, you won't need 'em. Not now that you have me." There's something dangerous in his tone, something lethal and profound. It’s as fervid as his proclamation about his commitment to you, to Orion. Like dark water, bottomless and black, it draws you out deeper, sends shivers up your spine, but doesn't turn you away. It makes you curious, intrigued, desperate to peel back his layers, to dig into him until you know it all, inside and out.

Curiosity killed the cat, isn’t that what they say?

You weren't afraid of him that night, and you're not afraid now. You know Simon is not an ordinary man. You know you've bitten off a lot, by having his baby, rekindling this connection, giving him a key-

but you plan to chew.

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midnights-song · 4 months

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Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader - warnings: discussion of past abuse, Simon’s trauma Request: take your baby to work day

You're wide eyed at the front door.

"You sure you guys will be alright?" Your voice is clear, but your hand trembles on the door handle, bottom lip tugged across your teeth.

"We'll be okay sweetheart. But if you're uncomfortable, or it's too much, you should take him-"

"No, no. I'm fine. You're not supposed to bring the baby to OB appointments anyway. It's frowned upon." You roll your eyes, tipping up to kiss Ry on the cheek. "Just... don't let anyone breathe on him, or kiss him, okay? His immune system is still fragile compared to ours. I packed you like, three bottles so hopefully he'll take them if he gets hungry. Text me if-"

"Mama." He holds Orion in one arm, and grabs your hand with the other. You're frightened, and stressed, and he's driven to comfort you, the need to soothe you throbbing across his skull. "I've got this. We'll be just fine. Text me when you're done. Get yourself a tea or something afterwards, alright? Everything is going to be okay." You nod.

"Right, of course. You're... you're right. And you're going to a military base, I doubt there's a safer place around."

"C'mere." He tugs you into his side, and you wrap your arms around his stomach, nestling in opposite Orion. "I need you to do something f'me."

"What?"

"I need you to swear to me you'll tell your doctor about the dizzy spells." There's been a reminder card about your twelve week postpartum appointment on the fridge for two weeks now, and after you finally confessed you have been getting dizzy since Orion was born, and one time had even fallen, he decided to skip several steps by making the appointment for you. You were... not pleased, but he made it very clear, he's not playing a game with your health. He's planning his battles strategically now, putting pieces in play slowly, working towards his larger goal, but this was something he refused to compromise on.

"Okay." You whisper, burying your face in his chest. "I will." He lands a kiss to the top of your head.

"We'll see you soon. It'll be over before you know it, and maybe we can get a takeaway for dinner?" Your lips crack into a toothy smile.

"Sounds good to me."

"Alright, lad. Let's go see daddy's team." Orion stares at him, brown eyes curious, and watchful. He’s still not used to it, this feeling. This life, with you and his baby. Everyday, he has to stop to ground himself, anchor himself. Break from the cycle of a downward spiral, obsessive thoughts playing with his mind, counting down the million and one ways he could lose you, or fail you, or both. He’s careful, he’s diligent, he’s in control. He’d never make a mistake like he did before, the error of judgement that cost him his mother, his brother and his family-

But the incessant fear never ceases.

Fortunately, his anchor now is you. You, when you let him carry you to bed, when you watch him rock Orion to sleep as you stand in the doorway, you who curls up next to him on the couch now, fingers curled into his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear. Your touch heals. Your words comfort. He can't fathom a future without you, or Ry, now.

If he thinks back on it, he wonders if he knew all along. If all the things he felt the night he met really meant forever, just like he had wished. A fantasy turned reality-

to have and to hold.

His stomach turns, wondering if his father ever felt this, if he ever loved, or if he was always just a monster, the ouroboros of victim turned abuser, the man who terrorized his mother, his brother and himself, long past the time Simon finally tore him to pieces, cracked his ribs, beat him into the ground.

Tommy broke the cycle, and from the moment he laid eyes on his son he knew.... he would too.

Price's secretary looks like she's seen an actual ghost. "Hey, Lindsey. Is he in?" She's staring, flicking back and forth to Orion and then up to his face, mouth slightly agape.

"Y-yeah he's..." she points over her shoulder at his closed door. "Lieutenant, did you... is that... is that your baby?" He nods, mouth curving into a proud smile, stepping close enough so she can get a good look at him. She almost jerks back, clearly not used to being so close to him. He's been here and there, off and on base all week catching up on a backlog of reports, but hasn't said a word to anyone, and he keeps everyone on base at arm's length except the 141.

"It is." Her shocked expression melts, hesitantly reaching her pointer finger towards Ry, allowing him to wrap it up in his chubby little fist. "This is Orion." She smiles at him, and then the baby, kindly.

"He's beautiful." She excuses herself when the phone rings, and he settles the tension burning between his shoulder blades. He didn't mentally prepare for this moment, didn't believe he had to. The expectation of Price's acceptance was assumed but now, his trepidation is a surprise.

He told his captain he needed to take leave for something really important, but never said for what. All he told him is that he'd loop him in soon, and that he was sorry he wouldn't be available for the next op. If John was curious, he didn't let him know, didn't push him for more info, didn't pester him. He just sent the forms to Simon's email to be filled out with a postscript:

Looking forward to hearing what this is all about.

And when Simon crosses the threshold of his office, baby in one arm, backpack stuffed with nappies and bottles in the other-

John Price laughs.

It's not the huff of a chuckle that Kate usually gets out of him, or the rolling guffaw that he gives the guys sometimes when he's particularly amused.

No, this is different. It starts in his belly and then rolls upwards, all the way until his shoulders are shaking and he's wiping his eyes.

Simon scowls, and John holds both his hands up, palms out. Surrender. "This is a good enough reason as any to take a chunk of all that leave saved up." He stands, stepping around to get a closer look. "What's his name then?"

"Orion." John nods thoughtfully. The backs of his fingers brush along the baby's arm, gently, slowly, a flicker of longing, of sadness, arcing across his face before it dissipates.

"The giant hunter Zeus banished to the skies." Organized stacks of paper sit in neat little piles on top of John's desk, authorizations he'd know anywhere. They're moving out. "Where's his mum?"

"At a doctor's appointment." Orion gurgles, and Simon pats his back, bouncing him slowly from side to side.

"You with her?" The answer is immediate.

"Gonna marry her." John's eyes fill with mirth.

"But she doesn't know that yet, does she."

"No," Simon sighs, "but she will. 'ts why I needed the leave. Besides," he motions to the infant tucked in his arm, "this, helping take care of him, taking care of her, I need to get them moved to a secure location. She's in a second level flat right now, with street facing windows. It's makin' my skin itch." Price will get it, Simon knows he will understand. He has his own secret at home, tucked away in a house only Simon and Laswell know about, just in case.

"Take it slow, don't want to spook her. Although I can't imagine she's too skittish if she took you to bed." He smirks. "You've got the time you requested. Had to call in a substitute for this one, but we'll need you on the next."

"How long?"

"Five weeks, maybe more. I'll ring when we're back on base." Five weeks. The clock is ticking, a bomb waiting to detonate, a guillotine waiting to sever his time with his family, his duty dragging him away.

"Alright." He concedes. Cross that bridge when he comes to it.

If Price sees his reluctance, he doesn't comment on it. "Bird'll be here in six hours. Boys are in the rec room, if you want to see 'em." Simon nods, shifting the baby in his arms as he heads towards the door. "And Simon," he turns, locking eyes with his captain, raw emotion plain on both their faces. Price gives him a genuine smile. "Congratulations. You're going to be a great father."

There's a lump in his throat as he crosses the campus to the rec room, his nose dipping across Ry's head, breathing him in as deep as he can behind the black cloth mask. "He's gonna be your godfather, little man. We just have to get Mama to agree, don't we?" He tugs the building's door open, ignoring the streams of chatter suddenly grinding to a halt in the hallway. Once he makes it to the rec room and sees that no one else is inside, just Johnny and Gaz battling it out in an intense game of pool, he slips the mask off his face and locks the door.

Soap is the first one to see him. "Steeeamin' jesus, LT is that a bairn!?" Kyle chokes on his water.

"Is that your baby, Riley?" They both scramble forward, Johnny whistling in disbelief.

"Aye, he's got to be. Look at the size of 'im."

"Johnny." Simon gives him the 'settle down' look, but the Sergeant only grins impishly.

"He's hers, innit he?" Gaz reaches, and Orion watches him with interest. "The girl from the bar. The one who lives close to me." Johnny's eyes go wider than globes.

"Ach Ghost, ye been busy wit' that boa-"

"Johnny." He hisses, and Kyle barks a laugh, reaching. Simon doesn't balk about handing Orion over, even though you were cautious about letting other people be around him. This is his team. He trusts them implicitly.

"He's a heavy lad, isn't he?" Kyle bounces him back and forth, all the while Ry stares at him with his head tipped back, mesmerized. "Looks jus' like you."

"Maybe a wee bit more handsome." Johnny's leaning around Kyle, his hand on Ry's back. They're mooning over him, two decorated, strategically brilliant sergeants, cooing at a baby like a bunch of sooks, as Johnny would say.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, a text from you letting him know you're finished, and heading home.

>Has he eaten?

>No, hasn't seem interested.

>Thank god.

Knowing you're probably in pain makes him antsy to get back, and he glances at the guys. "You movin' out in a few hours?"

"Aye, lookin' for some sort of stolen intelligence. Shouldnae be too long. Got a rent-a-Lieutenant and everythin'. Ye'll be back for the next?"

"I will. Stay frosty out there. I expect you all back in one piece."

He triple checks the carseat, testing the straps and the strength of the seatbelt before finally deciding it's secure enough, for the hundredth time today. He takes one last look, and presses a kiss to Orion's head. "Ready, bub? Let's go home and see mama."

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midnights-song · 4 months

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Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader requested by multiple: doctor visit

The pediatrician's office is very bright.

Bright walls, bright furniture, bright toys. The hallway is painted a bright blue, dotted with wispy, spongey clouds, spiraling in patterns from floor to ceiling.

The exam room is not much better. It's yellow. Supposed to be soothing, you tell him. It's anything but.

The bright colors unsettle him, but he shoves it down. Swallows the gnawing anxiety brewing in the back of his mind, forces away the spiral attempting to swallow him whole. He falls back on what gives him comfort, what allows him to sleep at night, what makes him feel whole. The only one who doesn't make him feel torn to shreds. The one who can touch his bare skin without making him shake. You.

You're nervous too. It started when you got the baby undressed, and has only gone downhill from there. He can see it in the way you pace back and forth in the room, holding Ry to your chest, bouncing him, rubbing his back. There's dread scrawled into your expression, grim unease radiating from your bones.

"C'mere mama." He reaches, pulling your forearm and tugging you close, resting his chin on top of your head. You relax, but barely. "Everything's going to be alright."

"He hates shots."

"He's a baby, course he does. Can't blame 'im. Huh bub?" He strokes Orion's chubby and round cheek, tilting his head to press a kiss to your temple.

Someone knocks on the door, and it creaks open.

"Hi!" A young woman in a white coat smiles at them, giving Simon an odd look before stepping forward. He swallows the acid burning the back of his throat.

"Hey, Dr. Marsh." You greet weakly, face pinched. She says hello, and washes her hands, keeping a stream of chatter until she's seated on a rolling stool with an iPad in her hand.

"How's our big man?"

"Still big." You quip drily, and she laughs, glancing up at Simon. You look at him too, and then your mouth drops into a little o. "Sorry, this is Simon. Orion's dad." She stands, extends her hand. He takes it, careful to not squeeze too tight before letting go and hanging his own rigidly by his side, tense, like he's priming for a fight of some kind.

"I guess we know where he gets his size from." Fingers tap across the screen, and then she sets it on the examination table. "So, how is it going?"

"Fine, good, I think. He's still feeding every three hours. I feel like he's gained ten pounds since our last visit." She nods. "I've been trying to pump as much as I can but... there's just... not as much."

"That can happen. If you're still happy with breastfeeding, I don't have any concerns. Of course, if you want to stop, that's more than okay. As long as he's getting what he needs, there's no wrong way to feed him." You nod, rubbing his back. Dr. Marsh asks about any other concerns, and after you say you have none, she reaches for him. "Let's see if our guy is still a ninety nine percenter, huh?" Simon frowns.

"Ninety nine percenter?"

"He's uh, in the ninety nine percentile. Very big."

"Very big, and very tall." Dr. Marsh says from over her shoulder, where she's now got Orion on the baby scale. "Born at what mum, four and a half kilograms?" Simon blanches. Bloody hell. You haven't really told him too much about the birth, and he hasn't pushed you on it. Maybe this is why. You don't have a c-section scar, and he winces thinking about you giving birth, naturally. He should have been there. Should have held your hand, told you how amazing you were. How strong. The familiar feeling of regret resurfaces, and he gives you an apologetic look. You shrug with a little smile.

"He looked like a giant in the nursery, next to all the... regular sized babies." Dr. Marsh laughs, but Simon grimaces. Guilt settles in his stomach like a rock.

"Sorry, mama." He apologizes sheepishly, squeezing your hand, and you rub your thumb over his knuckles.

"It's okay, I kinda," your eyes sweep over him from head to toe, "expected it."

"Alright, so," Dr. Marsh brings Ry back over, handing him to you, but Simon intervenes, pulling him into his arms. He worries about your back. She smiles again, types something into the tablet, and then clears her throat, "growth is slowing down."

"Is that bad?" You sound alarmed, and she shakes her head.

"Not bad, considering he's been outperforming in height and weight since he was born. This happens, it's normal, there's nothing to worry about. However, he's still in the nineties. Just shy of eight kilograms."

"What's normal?" He's curious now, wondering how big his son is really, compared to others. He'd even feel proud, if he wasn't worried about the trauma having him may have caused you.

"Fiftieth percentile is around six. Now," she rests her hands on her thighs, and levels a serious look at you. "How are you? Sleep getting any better? Are you keeping up on hydration?" Simon peeks down at you, lips tugged into a firm line.

"He still feeds every three hours, and I'm the source so... not really."

"Any more dizzy spells?" What? His head snaps your direction. Orion gurgles, and he pats his back absentmindedly. Dizzy spells? Why haven't you said anything?

"Uh, not really. Maybe a few."

"Breastfeeding can take a lot out of you. It uses a lot of metabolic energy, so try to make sure you're eating enough and drinking a lot of water. It's normal to feel exhausted or fatigued, but taking care of your nutritional needs will go a long way. I know I sound like a broken record but, I think it will help. You might also try talking to your OB, since you know... I'm only a little human doctor." You swallow.

"Okay." She gives you a serious look, and you nod.

"Alright then, let's move on to everyone's favorite part."

He holds Orion for the entirety of the rest of the visit. He squirms and screams as he gets his shots, crying at the top of his lungs, and Simon closes his eyes at one point to take a deep breath. He's okay. He's safe. They're both safe. They're here.

You take him afterward, lips to the top of his head, eyes closed as you whisper. "Shhh, I know baby, I know. It's over now. All done. You were so brave." Simon's heart aches. It hurts to know you're struggling, that you see yourself as a failure, when it's so blatant that you're anything but. He's going to fix that.

You stop at the reception desk, lingering until the girl behind it gets off the phone. "Um, can we update Orion's emergency contact list? I want his dad to be on there, too." Simon looks down at you, momentarily dumbstruck. Sweet, sweet girl. Sweet little kitten. The receptionist smiles brightly, taking the information he provides, phone number, back up phone number (work cell) and his name.

The two of you head towards the elevator, and you give him a hesitant look as you step inside. "You don't mind right? I didn't want to overstep but... you're his parent too, I thought you might want to be-" You don't get to finish before he's swooping down with a hand at the small of your back and another on the baby's head, slamming his lips to yours so fiercely your breath hitches.

"Mama," he kisses your forehead, and then cups your chin. "You and Orion are my family now. You're it for me, and I'm chuffed you'd think to put me down as an emergency contact." You jerk back at his words, eyes wide. Too much? Too soon? Too strong? He doesn't care. He needs to start easing you into it, getting you used to the new reality, before he's moving you and the baby out of your flat and giving you a new last name.

"Simon." You whisper, but he shakes his head.

"I told you. I wanted you the night we made him, and I still do. You're everything. You're mine. You and our boy." You don't say anything, and the silence kills him until you reach for his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. "An' we're going to have a talk about you getting dizzy and not saying anything to me. Alright?" You gulp.

"Alright."

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midnights-song · 4 months

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Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader requested by multiple: doctor visit

The pediatrician's office is very bright.

Bright walls, bright furniture, bright toys. The hallway is painted a bright blue, dotted with wispy, spongey clouds, spiraling in patterns from floor to ceiling.

The exam room is not much better. It's yellow. Supposed to be soothing, you tell him. It's anything but.

"C'mere mama." He reaches, pulling your forearm and tugging you close, resting his chin on top of your head. You relax, but barely. "Everything's going to be alright."

"He hates shots."

"He's a baby, course he does. Can't blame 'im. Huh bub?" He strokes Orion's chubby and round cheek, tilting his head to press a kiss to your temple.

Someone knocks on the door, and it creaks open.

"Hi!" A young woman in a white coat smiles at them, giving Simon an odd look before stepping forward. He swallows the acid burning the back of his throat.

"Hey, Dr. Marsh." You greet weakly, face pinched. She says hello, and washes her hands, keeping a stream of chatter until she's seated on a rolling stool with an iPad in her hand.

"How's our big man?"

"I guess we know where he gets his size from." Fingers tap across the screen, and then she sets it on the examination table. "So, how is it going?"

"Ninety nine percenter?"

"He's uh, in the ninety nine percentile. Very big."

"He looked like a giant in the nursery, next to all the... regular sized babies." Dr. Marsh laughs, but Simon grimaces. Guilt settles in his stomach like a rock.

"Sorry, mama." He apologizes sheepishly, squeezing your hand, and you rub your thumb over his knuckles.

"It's okay, I kinda," your eyes sweep over him from head to toe, "expected it."

"Is that bad?" You sound alarmed, and she shakes her head.

"What's normal?" He's curious now, wondering how big his son is really, compared to others. He'd even feel proud, if he wasn't worried about the trauma having him may have caused you.

"He still feeds every three hours, and I'm the source so... not really."

"Any more dizzy spells?" What? His head snaps your direction. Orion gurgles, and he pats his back absentmindedly. Dizzy spells? Why haven't you said anything?

"Uh, not really. Maybe a few."

"Okay." She gives you a serious look, and you nod.

"Alright then, let's move on to everyone's favorite part."

"Simon." You whisper, but he shakes his head.

"Alright."

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midnights-song · 5 months

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The Awakening

P.t 1

Warning: This may contain potentially triggering depictions of wounds, course language, mention of potentially traumatic themes, read at your own risk!

It had taken days, weeks even before you had been snapped back into your newest reality.

Times between your work shifts were spent in the sterile white room you’ve grown accustomed to seeing your boys in. You felt as if you were watching your life flash before your eyes in third person, endless consults with different specialties, hours of therapies, many a tear shed in everything ranging from frustration to fear. You could see yourself being strung along like a puppet on a string, overseeing wound checks, bandage replacements, infusions of antibiotics, growth and regression of skills, sedations, everything that had to be done.

You watched Simon become a shell of a man for the first month and a half, sitting like a stone at Johnny’s bedside. Eyes darkened, emotionless, nary a single movement from him other than the everlight breathing he was subconsciously doing. His own wounds had been watched closely, treated, and healed all before Johnny had even had a chance to open his eyes. Simon’s refusal to leave had made it even more difficult, you swore when they came in to move Johnny down a few rooms that the chair would have a permanent Simon shaped imprint on it.

Before you knew it, the second month had come, and gone. The third month creeped up on everyone, a new visiting schedule established amongst the 141 as you finally convinced Simon to start coming home with you during the nights. It had been difficult, almost leading to a fight until you told him your true feelings on the subject. He wasn’t doing Johnny any favors by staying the way he was, nor was he doing himself any favors by neglecting his needs regardless of if it was unintentional or not. You missed him, you missed them both, but you had one right in front of you while the other was slowly healing. Then one day, it wasn’t so difficult. You slowly started to return to your normal self, happier moods and brighter smiles, cheerful mornings abundant.

On that day, you decided you were going to go in on your day off and go visit your boy. You had a mental checklist of things you planned on doing, grabbing some lotion that you got specifically for massaging his arms and legs, even going so far as to grab some pillows from home to help give more support on his back and neck. What you didn’t expect was to be greeted with cracked blue eyes staring back at you from the bed. It all happened so fast that you don’t know what happened first, your cries of his name falling from your lips, his panic at waking up intubated and restrained sending his heart rate to the sky, your coworkers flooding in as they pumped him full of sedatives to put him back under.

Gripping your phone, you called Simon. He had a right to know after-all, of course something happens the one time you convince him to relax at home while you check in.

‘Lovie.” His voice was raspy, he must’ve been getting ready to lay down in bed when you called, taking a morning nap on a whim.

“Si, you need to get here, now.” Your voice left no room for argument, staring back into the room that was now filled with nurses, the respiratory therapist, physical therapy, everyone that was going to be there for his treatment during that time. “He’s awake.”

The silence on the other end of the line made you think that the call had dropped, until you heard a thud followed by several expletives and even more thumping. You could hear Simon struggling to get everything on at the same time, the whoosh of wind through the speaker telling you he had made it outside and was making his way to his truck. Today was supposed to be Gaz’s and Price’s rotation, but you had called them earlier to let them know you were going to go first.

It wasn’t long before Simon was there, not bothering to check in at the desk since he knew his destination by heart now. He came quickly, dodging the corner and coming up to meet you outside the door. You had hung up earlier once he informed you he was there, but glancing up at him you could see the stress lining his face through his mask.

“They had to sedate him, but they’re thinking of lowering it over the next few hours to see how he tolerates the vent tube. They don’t want to remove it until he’s ready.” You rubbed his back out of a newly formed habit, fitting yourself into his side. “He was staring at me when I came in, I almost didn’t notice but then he started to panic.” There was nothing harder than seeing Johnny panic the way he did, fighting to try to get the tube out of his throat. You could understand why that had scared him, after all if your last memory was being shot and extracted you would probably react the same way.

It took about an hour before they let the both of you back into Johnny’s room, positioning him into a little bit more of a reclined position and making sure that his restraints were tightened as much as they could justify. You went to one side, Simon went to the other. You both began your ritual of combing his massively overgrown mohawk out, massaging lotion into his skin to help prevent sores and retain some of the muscle. Biting your lip, you decided you wanted to try something new.

“Johnny? I know I usually only talk when it's just us, but Simon and I both are here honey. You’re in the hospital in the Bay, you’re safe now. You’ve been asleep for a while now and things might be a little scary when you come to, okay?” You began rubbing his shoulder softly, looking at the bright pink scar on the side of his temple. Proof that he had fought to remain earthside, proof that he was willing to go through hell to come home to you and Simon.

“Johnny,” Simon began, softening his voice as he rubbed Johnny’s forearm down to his fingertips. “It’s alright to be scared, but we can’ have you panic and rip the tube out. You can’ hurt yourself, we are here with you, you aren’ alone.” A small finger twitch came in response, an acknowledgement. That was promising!

After shift change had come and gone, new nurses coming in to check in, attendings going for their rounds visiting, and even a second visit from respiratory, the consensus was to wean the sedation off and wake Johnny up slowly. No one knew exactly how bad the damage was yet, if he would be able to fully recognize everyone, or if he would be able to recognize anything at all. Sometime during all the commotion you sent a message off in the group chat, telling Price and Gaz to get there as soon as they could so everyone would be on the same page regarding Johnny.

The next morning was chaotic. Pure, utter, chaos. They had weaned the sedation off enough that Johnny was able to open his eyes, still not fully aware, but aware enough to follow prompts as they tested his mental capabilities. Once he was stable enough, the tube came out. Hissed whispers of curses spilling forth from his lips as they went around removing unnecessary iv lines and gauze pads.

Absolutely nothing on this Earth could have prepared you for what came next.

A/N: Damn that took a hot minute! I'm sorry y'all! I was so burnt out from school and everything else going on irl that I kinda put everything on the backburner. I hope that this helps make up for it!

#cod x reader #john soap mactavish #soap cod #modern warfare 2 #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #johnny mactavish x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #ghoap x reader #ghoap au #ghoap #ghoap reader

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midnights-song · 7 months

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(x)

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midnights-song · 7 months

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Look man, life has me in a stranglehold right now. Why not.

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midnights-song · 7 months

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Reblog if you want your followers to anonymously ask you one thing they want to know about you.

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midnights-song · 8 months

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me: *chewing on a new wip*

main wip: “what’s in your mouth?”

me: *starts chewing faster*

main wip:

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midnights-song · 8 months

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smoke break

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midnights-song · 8 months

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Prev part (The Ghost Distribution System) tw violence

It's funny how something that once was almost comforting can now feel so unfamiliar in his arms.

Ghost readjusts his hold on his rifle for a third time, tries to find the same comfort in the cold unforgiving metal that he finds in the soft curves of you body. He's never been twitchy like this before. The novelty is wearing off fast. He's a sniper, he's not made to twitch. He tries to think about you, but somehow seeing your face in the midst of a battlefield isn't the comfort he'd hoped it would be.

He spends hours in stillness, in silence. Your voice haunts him, and silently he prays for your absolution. The violence he commits, the job he preforms, the sins that he racks up on his tally board, it would sicken you. The voices of his team chirp in his ear, begging for response and only getting the barest response. He tries, gives and takes a few jokes, but his mind is elsewhere. Ghost has never been anything but present. When the present is all the matters, all he can plan for, he doesn't have any reason to exist in the space around it.

Except now. Except for you.

His motions are mechanical, practiced. Ghost drags the bolt on his rifle, loads ammunition, breathes, eyes fixed down the scope. He is silence, he is death, he has a job to do. One that lets him draw the line where he needs to. One he hopes you never know the details of. A job that, once done, leaves him silent in a helicopter.

The spray of blood used to bring him some sort of purpose, but without you... Without you it's all meaningless. Who cares for the world when he finds it in your arms, when he sees it in your eyes, when he sees your face in every passing moment? He hardly breathes without you, it's all etcetera.

He has to get out of here.

Soap bumps his shoulder against Ghost's, jogs the man from his silent penance with a smile and a, "You alright LT?"

"Fine," Ghost tells him, he feels the words rough on his tongue. Too many hours spend in quiet.

"Cummon yer actin' like a ghost," that gets a soft huff of a laugh from the man, "what's got ya tied up?"

"Found god," Ghost grumbles. Soap and Gaz exchange a glance before the dry sarcasm triggers some sort of recognition.

"You got someone back home," Soap says, almost in disbelief. Ghost gives a short nod and Soap lets out a low whistle. There's a beat of silence, the air humming with curious anticipation. Soap and Gaz weigh their options, staring Ghost down like he's grown a second head. Price shifts where he's leaned back against the wall, fixes his hat down over his eyes to pretend he isn't listening.

"What are they like?" Gaz asks finally, and Ghost realizes that for all his worship, for all the salvation you've offered him, he knows you as well as any follower knows their god. What are you like? What do you do when he isn't there? What are your interests and hobbies, what do you worry over, what do you treat yourself to on bad days, do you separate your whites when you do your wash? He knows your name, your phone number, he knows that you hate the cold and love salty snacks, he knows that when he's with you everything seems to make sense. He knows that he feels safe with you.

"Kind." Ghost supplies the only word on his lips, feels it sting in his throat. Benevolent, he wants to say, the very ground they walk on is holy to me, their home a temple, their laughter my hymns.

"They do anything when they aren't dealin' with ya?" Soap chimes, grinning as he leans against his knees. The helo jerks, the cabin moving with the wind.

"Take in strays," He lets his eyes drift to the floor, the grated metal feels as foreign to him as his rifle did. Not long ago this was a familiar life, how different the world seems now. Gaz and Soap silently exchange a glance.

"Sounds nice," Price rumbles from his repose.

Somehow it's easier not keeping you a secret. Being able to talk about you feels like a weight off his chest. Not that Ghost is particularly forthcoming with the details, but it's enough just knowing he can talk. It makes it easier to do his job. Makes it hurt less getting patched up while waiting for extraction when Soap tells him, "Got someone to get home to, yeah?"

The risks don't scare him. The job doesn't scare him. Death doesn't scare him. He's survived long enough to feel the sting of homesickness again. Something he never thought he'd feel after he lost his mom. It's enough to keep him going, to keep him focused. He has to take care of himself, has to get out of here and back to you.

He posts up in a derelict hospital, smiles under his mask as he tracks Soap through the street. His mind is quiet save for your gentle humming, the ghosts of your fingers carding through his hair. He could spend hours like this, held still by the memory of you.

"How 'bout this one then," Soap buzzes low in his ear, keeping his voice down as he moves, "General is at a ball chattin' up a bonnie lass, she asks him 'when's the last time you had sex?' General tells her '1945' and she gasps, 'oh my god! Well how about some now?' General looks at his watch, tells her 'ma'am it's only 2030, I'm gonna need a minute.'" Ghost snorts, he can hear Soap smiling on the other end of the comms, "Thought you'd like that one."

"Two dinosaurs having lunch in the park, one looks at the other and asks, 'you think that big rock up there's gettin' closer?'" Ghost responds, rolling his shoulders to get some of the tension out. Keeping still starts to wear on him after a while. Nothing he can't deal with.

"Aye, like that one," Soap chuckles, Ghost hums, "Your somebody like your jokes?"

"Some of 'em." Ghost smiles to himself. The image of you laughing at his jokes, wiping at your eyes and pushing his shoulder. The worse they are the harder you seem to laugh. It's one of his favorite things about you.

"Quiet out here," Soap mumbles. Ghost can see him sweeping around corners, checking his six.

"Careful Johnny," Ghost tells him, his heart feels lighter, "bad luck sayin' that."

It happens all at once, as these things usually do. The door behind him opens and Ghost turns to throw a knife, hears the soft sick 'thunk' as it sticks in its target, before a smoke grenade is tossed through the opening. The hiss of it is almost as bad as the fumes it lets out. Choking smoke.

"Position compromised," Ghost growls into his comms, ignoring Soap's affirmative reply in favor of slamming the butt of his rifle into the first unlucky soul to emerge from the smoke. Blunt force against their nose, cracking the dark reflective face shield. Then the knife, tugged from his belt and forced into the side of the man's neck. Ghost is efficient, yanking the knife free to watch the arterial spray, turning to toss it into his next target. It's only when the giant emerges from the smoke that he considers radio-ing for backup.

Ghost knows he's a big guy, but this motherfucker...

The soldier rushes him, a human battering ram that Ghost has no option but to catch, planting his feet and twisting to divert the assault. The man hits the wall and growls something Ghost doesn't catch. He supposes it doesn't matter.

It's Ghost's turn to rush him, shouldering the man in the chest in the hopes of knocking the wind out of him. The giant is too reliant on his reach, swinging for Ghost to try and grab him. It's easy enough to grab his arm and flip him, the same way he does recruits that are all brawn and no brain. The man hits the ground and twists to kick him, catching Ghost in the stomach.

He lets out a pained breath and shakes it off, lunging when the giant pulls his sidearm. The gun is trained on him and Ghost grabs the barrel, his fingers slipping over the muzzle as he forces the gun down and away from himself.

Ghost grits his teeth and reels back to clock the guy, just a moment too late when he pulls the trigger. Pain explodes over Ghost's hand, shoots up his arm and forces the sound out of his mouth. He doesn't have time to focus on the mangled wreck of his hand, the mess of blood and tissue, bones barely strung together. The warmth of it, the bleeding pain, he wonders how many fingers he has left. It doesn't stop him. Worse injuries might, but a hand is just a hand.

He wrestles the gun away from the big fucker and raises it with heavy breaths, firing a quick shot and clipping the side of their head and taking a chunk out of their sniper's mask. The armored helmet stops him from giving it another go. Fucking military for hire. They pick his belt, tug a knife free and reel back to bring it down quick.

I have to get out of here, the thought flashes through Ghost's mind with the deadly glint of the blade. It freezes him and the blade hits his mask, carving its way through the bone's eye socket and into his own. He's lucky it doesn't lodge deep, but his vision is shot. The pain is starting to set in in earnest. He swallows it down and tries another shot, focusing on the seams in the man's tac gear. Any injury is better than nothing.

It's strange that he'd think of you in this moment, that your face would flash through his mangled brain, but he steals the comfort the same way he steals all your other kindnesses. He's been too confident, taken unnecessary risks while he was outside the halo of your grace. It had felt like proof of his devotion each time he skirted death, not it strikes him as proof of your anger. Your punishment for his sins as he's grappled and shoved back, back, back.

The old stories say that Lucifer was God's most devoted servant, the most beloved, before he fell. Even Jesus' apostles betrayed and doubted. The fall is a natural part of faith, as unnatural as it feels.

The sky is blue, and the air is warm when Ghost hits the ground,

And everything goes black.

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midnights-song · 8 months

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WIP WEDNESDAY!!

A little 600-ish word snippet of a toxic ex-boyfriend!ghost x reader fic I've been letting collect dust.

Maybe he found out you’re on dating apps (or maybe he’s had your phone tapped) and he’s been texting you about how moronic it would be for you to start dating again. You’ve been able to ignore it for the most part.

But tonight now that you’re out with some guy whose invite you really only accepted to prove a point, your phone will not stop buzzing. You left it in your coat pocket, but even though it’s slung over the back of your chair, it’s all you can think about. It drags your attention away from your date who’s talking about all of nothing.

So you try to fish it out of your coat and set it on your lap so you can silence it and salvage an already bleak situation. It doesn’t work.

There’s texts and phone calls and voicemails coming through even though you swore you turned it all the way off. To a point where you start to get a little worried that maybe it’s a legitimate emergency?

So you excuse yourself just for a second to take a call out the front.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

You don’t bother even attempting to be cordial. Hissing like the words would sear your mouth if you didn’t spit them out right then.

“Go home.”

He is exceptionally good at matching your tone. You’d worry he was mocking you if you couldn’t so clearly recognize the venom laced in his words.

You hesitate for a moment. Trying to weigh the pros and cons of getting into some sort of bitching match with him. But then ultimately decide to hang up.

Immediately another call pops up. Faster than you think should be possible. You decline and move to go inside, but still another incoming call lights up your screen.

You pick up just to get him to stop.

“Seriously, Simon, sod off.”

“I’ll put him through that fuckin’ table if he puts a hand on you again. Go home. Leave him the-“

You hang up again before he can finish. Fuming. Exercising what little self control you have in you not to tear into him. Powering your phone down completely and shoving it hard into the bottom of your coat pocket.

You go back to the table. Keeping your head on a swivel all the way in. More angry than unnerved, but unnerved nonetheless. You don’t see Simon. You don’t expect to even if he was there.

You get fifteen minutes with your date until he takes your hand from across the table. It makes you tense up. Accidentally dig your nails into the tablecloth. Smile tightly and try to hide the way your eyes dart around at the other patrons. There’s nobody even looking in your direction. You let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold.

Another five minutes pass until your date gets out his phone to show you a picture of his motorcycle. His words die mid-sentence and he goes white as a sheet when he looks at the screen.

“Everything okay?”

It’s mildly genuine concern. Not that you cared to see what he was going to show you, just at his reaction.

“Yeah. No- yeah. Give me- give me just a second. I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t look up from his phone when he talks. He stumbles up. His chair screeches its protest at being so unceremoniously pushed backward.

You twist in your seat and watch him half-jog out the front. He knocks into two tables on his way out, nose still inches from the screen. You don’t know what else to do but push around the half-eaten pasta left on your plate while you wait for him to come back in.

“Hang up that phone on me again n’ see f’I can stay this polite.”

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