Thinking About Patching Up Ex-husband Simon Riley. He Comes In With The Cloak Of Darkness Not Close To

Thinking about exbf!Ghost with Riley who doesn't understand the concept of break up.

One day the dog woke up looking for you, but you were nowhere to be found. You moved out, only your lingering smell remained.

Riley who would whine and gave Ghost a headache figuring out what's wrong.

It went for a while, and Ghost kept trying to please the dog. More treats, more walks.

Riley is a well behaved, properly trained dog. So it really took Ghost off guard when it kept pulling at it's leash until it was snapped. Then, Riley started running

When Ghost catched up to Riley, he found the dog pouncing on you. It seemed that somehow Riley noticed your scent and followed it.

You petted Riley and cooed, smiling happily before your expression changes when your eyes met his.

It was awkward, they had a pretty bad break up after all. But Riley didn't understand, it was just happy to see mommy again.

Somehow, the two of you talk about anything but also nothing about what have been.

Somehow, you unblocked Simon's number.

And now you two are co-parenting Riley (When Ghost finally figured out why it's been whining)

You dogsit Riley whenever Ghost is deployed. Eventually staying at his place again.

You don't really know what's your relationship with Ghost at this point. But you're pretty sure 'just friends' don't cuddle in the bath together with their dog

MEN IN UNIFORM

I can imagine AbsoluteBastard!Johnny keeps his ear out for casualties on base so he can get in on that grieving widow action

He’ll show up to the funeral in his best, tell you some tale about how your man was a good one— saved his ass a few times, didn’t deserve to have things cut short, to be pulled away from such a beautiful woman—

It’s easy for him, in your vulnerable state, to charm you into letting him be the one to take you home from the service. Sits on your couch with you, lets you serve him tea to keep yourself busy, talks about all the things you miss about your man, inching his way closer and closer— comforting hand on your thigh, gently stroking.

It’s not long before his tongue is down your throat and he’s putting the framed photo of your man face down so the poor bastard doesn’t have to watch Johnny ruin you.

toxic ex bf simon who sends you sweet lil vidzz

pt. two

your heart perks, before soaring into the depths of your stomach when the soft pad of your thumb hits the light gray button. and the video starts, playing for you like a record on command.

it’s him. simon. but he’s not his usual dark, brood stature of a man. no he’s laid back, hand wrapped around the pretty base of his cock, pinky and ring finger laid over the soft of his balls.

“i want you,” he speaks, muted slightly from the distance he sits from the phone, eyes trained on the camera. “i miss you, baby, please?”

and his begging comes to a close, hand smoothing up the skin of his girthy length, and his chest shudders, muscles contracting as he pleases himself just for you.

and you’re watching in something of awe and disgust. taking in the video, studying him, his body. there’s new gashes, bone noticeable beneath his thick skin. he’s dropped pounds, face looking something of a tired wreck.

“i can’t move on, honey, i need you.” he huffs, voice strained as if he can barely even begin to speak the words. it’s like he’s reeling through the phone at you, hitting you in the heart and between your sweet legs with his fuzzy words.

“fuckin’ miss you so bad, come back to me, cmon, baby,” he’s gasping, thick fingers working their way up and down, up and down his cock in a quick, steady pace.

and when you look closely, you can see the crystaly tears that drip down his cheeks, glinting and sparkling beneath the dim light. it has you reaching into your panties, has your knees shifting together in a race of goosebumps.

“call me, baby, lemme talk to you, promise im different, ill be better for you, sweet girl.” and when you hear the grit of words, your finger swipes, before tapping the lil phone button on the top to send him a call.

we all been here?

I HAVE AN IDEA :O

Cw: homophobia (brief), fluff, not beta read, he die like Roach.

-

Soap has a stuffed rabbit when he was child, a gift from his mother.

Growing up, the stuffed rabbit was one of Soap’s favorite things in the world. He’d take it everywhere- the park, grocery shopping or even any outings that his family went on.

He had slept with it too, kept his nightmares at bay. But as he grew older he felt ridicules for having such ties with some inanimate object- at least that’s how everyone else felt.

“Don’t you think it’s time you’ve moved passed that stupid thing John? You’re growing up to be man, you got act like one.” His father had told him one night, as Johnny cradled his stuffed bunny in his arms. He was six at the time.

He still slept with it, but he hated the glances his father would give him. He hated hearing the conversations between his parents. How his mother would always say “John’s just a boy, let him grow up on his own.” His father would always just scoff and say that it would be her fault that he would have a gay son.

John didn’t really know what that meant at the time, but he was scared of disappointing his father, so he stopped.

He stopped carrying the stuffed bunny everywhere, stopped sleeping with it. And sure, maybe the nightmares became more prevalent, but he was being more of a man now, right? He was being what his father wanted, right?

Eventually, John found himself thinking less and less about the stuffed bunny, somewhere in his closet.

Life went on. He got through school, watched his older sisters go off to college and he himself into the military.

It wasn’t until a long while later, that Soap remembered the stuffed bunny once more. He had been part of the 141 for a little longer than a year, and dating ghost for five months.

They had a gap between missions, about a months worth of down time, something incredibly rare for their line of profession. This time off landed, in a dark ironic way, perfectly as Soaps father finally kicked the bucket.

Soap would be going back to Scotland for the funeral, and with the best puppy dog eyes Ghost could muster (a sight that will never get old given it’s coming from a walk of a man) Simon would tag along.

Soap was relatively quiet about his dad, but what he did speak about made him realize he really didn’t like the guy. Growing up, Soap tried not think about his father, about the disappointment that always seems to radiate off of him, how he was never good enough for his father. And you know what, yeah he is gay, so what?!

Soap showed up for the funeral and was filled with an almost sense of joy at how neither his sisters or his mother looked distraught over the ‘loss.’

Of course, Soaps mother was over joyed to see her son and be introduced to Simon, which was a fun scenario to watch Simon maneuver around in.

The night, despite the day of the funeral, was cheerfully fun. Soaps mother made a wonderful meal, that screamed nostalgia for Soaps, and his sisters who shared every single embarrassing story about Soap’s youth to Simon.

By the time they all felt their energies zapped from them, they retired for the night. For the first time in years, Soap stepped into his childhood room. The posters are still the same, along with the bedding and the books on his bookshelf.

“Never knew you played football.” Simon says softly, his eyes carefully looking over the few medals Soap has acquired from his school years.

“Aye.” Soap started, moving their luggage into his closet to make more space.

“Was a goalie. Coach didnae lemme’ play offense, said I was ‘too rough. Wasnae all bad though, I actually-…” Soap had started with a light tone the memories flooding back to him. He hadn’t meant to create a lull in his words, and really only realized he did when Ghost called his name, now behind him.

“Johnny?”

“Ahm fine, sorry I just…” At this point Simon’s eyes drift to where Johnny’s are looking- at a worn, slightly dust covered stuffed bunny.

Soap felt like he was a kid again as he saw it. Felt that same happiness, but felt that same tension. If he picked it back up, would he still be good enough. He knows his father was a dick, but it’s hard to erase the words from his mind.

What catches Soap out of his thoughts, is when ghost carefully picks up the stuffed bunny, so gently he might as well be holding a new born baby.

Soap ready’s himself for some comment making fun of him for having a stuffed animal, but instead he’s met with Simon’s soft look. Of course Simon would never say anything like that to him, now that he thought about it.

If Soap ends up taking the stuffed bunny back with him, his mother says nothing but gives a knowing smile.

And if and when Johnny and Simon retire Johnny sleeps with the bunny hugged between the two men, that’s for him and his husband to know.

-

Lmao this was actually so wholesome. I also typed all of this out on my phone and I’m tired so please ignore typos, I’ll fix those in the morning.

I just know its a pain to get that face paint off…🥲💀

Simon Riley got his fingers fucked up. Time spent under Roba's torture messed up the joints, made his digits barely able to flex and curl and left him with chronic pain, especially once the temperatures start to drop. It's alright, not the worst thing he came out of that encounter with, he can live with it. Doesn't bother him even that much.

It's just that Simon Riley used to love knitting.

Soft, creamy white, thick yarn turning into volumunous sweaters with huge warm collars his mother and his brother's bird could wear, safe from the nasty winter chill. Stripey socks, comfortable hats, long fluffy scarves - he could and would do it all.

Roba took it from him. Knitting needles became almost impossible to hold properly, struggling over the yarn mess for more than 15 minutes pisses him off and makes him never want to pick it up again. He can barely make a couple rows of a shitty excuse of a scarf, let alone finish a single thing.

And then Soap brings his LT over to his family home for their joint leave - two whole weeks in a household full of bustling life, hearty food and loving banter. In the evenings, when Johnny and all the younglings of the family have already spent their buzzing energy and are snoring in their beds, sometimes piled up like tired puppies, Simon and Mama MacTavish both are kept up by their insomnia. In a pleasantly dimly lit living room, this beautiful woman with white hair and noble profile sits, kitting - soft white wool of Highlands' best sheep turning into a sweater in her hands.

Simon comes to sit with her, calmed down by the sounds her needles make and the hypnotizing movements of her hands. First couple of nights he just lets it lull him to sleep before Mama MacTavish sends him off to wam bed with her snoring son already sprawled across it like a starfish.

Then Simon picks up needles himself. It's a slow, torturous process, his grip slipping, threads coming apart, frustration and anger at his useless fingers building - yet Mama's hands always come to rescue. She soothes the pain in his fingers, helps fix uneven loops, tells him stories of Johnny's childhood to distract Ghost from his angry mind. It works.

By the end of the leave he presents Soap the ugliest knitted hat with pompoms stitched to it in a row resembling a mohawk, and you bet Johnny wears it all the time, flexing in front of everyone who sees him in this monstrosity. He takes it to all the places he shouldn't, stubbornly unwilling to part with the gift, and loses pompoms - yet somehow Simon constantly sees new ones pop up on the hat.

It's Mama MacTavish stitching them on, because she knows, Simon needs a little help with this painstaking work for now.

Thinking about being a little too good at getting Johnny off. The way he grits his teeth as he thrusts into your fist, whining and begging: “Not yet—fuck—please not yet.” Brain begging for one thing, body begging for another. Hmmm

Why the group chat hates him

Gaz: You’re always talking about nice things he did for you. Like sending pictures of the bouquets he gives you (which he does like once a month!) or of souvenirs he brought when he comes home from deployment or romantic notes he left you in your flat. Like I’m pretty sure Jesus said it was a sin to flaunt your wealth in front of the less fortunate or something.

Ghost: On the surface, he looks like a pretty textbook bad boyfriend. Doesn’t ever speak to your friends at gatherings, you’re always the one that plans dates, and you’re always mothering him a little when you go out (asking if he’s comfortable, if he’s still hungry, if he’s tired).

Soap: when he gets drunk (not at all uncommon) he’s constantly angling for a threesome. What they don’t know is that he does it with his friends as well as yours. Equal opportunity whore.

Price: he’s older, and he’s kind of low key a chauvinist sometimes, so it’s really fucking awkward to hang out with him, but because of his more traditional values he does insist on paying for the whole table when you go out somewhere as a group. So they have to put up with him.

Nikolai: Unbearable amounts of PDA. He’s the one who mothers you. Asking if you’re cold, if you’re tired, if you need help opening things. Kissing your forehead, petting your cheek, rubbing your thigh, nuzzling noses. God it’s fucking awkward.

Graves: Acts too familiar. Kind of like an overbearing relative at a family gathering.

Rudy: this one is really petty but. He doesn’t blink enough.

König: you’re always turning down invites because of him. You won’t go anywhere slightly loud or slightly crowded because “König doesn’t really like places like that”. Bitch he doesn’t like going anywhere!!!!

trim

MDNI

pairings: nameless male character (probably reads best as ghost) x buzzcut reader (implied afab) words: ~700 summary: he trims your hair. warnings/notes: some gender feelings but mostly comfort, got a silly transphobic anon a couple of days ago and wanted to ~write it out~ then read this heartwarming drabble by @secretsynthetic and was inspired :3

“hair’s gettin' long,” thick fingers card through your short hair, blunt nails scratching lightly at your scalp a moment later. the words are barely a murmur, but they make you shift uncomfortably.

“i know.”

“you growin’ it out?”

“do you want me to?”

you don’t know why you ask. he’s never given any indication that he cares about the length of your hair. no “wish i could run my fingers through it” comments while you’re cuddling or “miss having something to pull” during sex. in fact, he’s always been supportive of your little routines, the ways you make your life easier.

“up,” he demands, a quick swat to your thigh before he rises from the bed, leaving you to mirror him. you would do just about anything he told you to, especially on his first day back on leave. “get the chair outside, y’know the deal.”

with a small smile you slide your desk chair away from its spot in the bedroom, carefully carrying it around shelves and furniture until its strong legs plant into the grass in the backyard. the old towels are stacked in the hallway closet and you dig out the one smudged with hair dye from his last leave. you can’t remember what it was for, tinting his roots or your brows. but it smells like your favorite fabric softener and the slight musk of being locked away as you pin it around your shoulders and settle back into your chair outdoors.

he’s already waiting for you, your preferred guard – marked with a small heart in permanent marker – secure on the clippers as they hum to life. “look up,” he instructs, and as you obey you’re met with a clear, blue sky before your eyes close and you allow yourself to relax.

he starts at your hairline, sweeping back in long, straight strokes, perfected from the trims you’ve requested over the years. almost every two weeks, schedules permitting, ever since you described the hassle of getting it done at a shop. the buzzcut was a matter of convenience most days, but others a symbol of an identity hovering over the tip of your tongue. it was meant to make your life easier, and yet every time you sat in a chair and adorned one of those shiny black capes, the nosy questions and patronizing compliments would wipe any semblance of peace from your mind. the horrible disappointment that came when one hairdresser looked you in your reflected eye and said, “it'll look better with earrings.” the glances of disapproval or sympathy, questioning whether you’re sick or just odd.

what if you were neither? what if it were just hair? it’s not, unfortunately, but you wish it were.

“chin down,” he hums and you follow.

the base of your skull is always your favorite. when the sound of the large clippers die out and the smaller, almost tinny buzz of the trimmer fills your ears, your bare toes happily tap and dance over the ground. he chuckles, reminding you to settle before his cool fingertips meet the skin of your nape, holding you in place while he works on the finer details.

the area always proved difficult to trim when you were on your own, struggling to get the angles right between the reflection of two mirrors. but his movements are muscle memory, ritualistic. it can’t be more than half an inch of hair that he shears away, but you feel lighter, brighter, the sunlight warming the crown of your head.

he sniffs when he’s done, flipping the trimmer off and carefully peeling the hairy towel away from your shoulders. “shower?”

“will you come, too?”

“'course,” he scoffs, shaking the towel out over the grass as you make your way back inside, desperate to rid yourself of the thousands of tiny little hair fragments itching at your neck and chest.

you prefer the water to be too hot, but he never complains. just slides in behind you and waits his turn, lining up the products you use in their correct order. he likes lathering the scalp scrub, smiling when you hum about feeling better already. he holds you steady as you step back under the shower head, tugging him with you into the stream. your troubles wash away in the current, like water off a duck’s back, spinning down the drain to never be worried over again.

life is easier.