I Think All My Problems Would Be Solved If I Could Make Out With A Mentally Ill Man

oh my god. OH MY GOD

BARRY SLOANE MADE A PLAYLIST FOR PRICE?!?!?!?!?!? AHHHHHH

the music on the playlist is so good and i fucking knew he was a rock/metal dad!!!! I am going to dieeeee

do i need to say anything??

soap with long hair yessir!!

AAAAAAJWJAJAAAAAAAAAAAAA ty for feeding my delusions

dad!Ghost

nobody can tell me that young john price wasn’t a fucking whore

this baby faced mother fucker got so much pussy i’m talking real shit

Simon Riley who hates his tattoos because he got them done when he was really young, back when he still believed that he could actually be a real person someday.

He's been empty, as long as he can remember, all long limbs and nothingness, but all those years ago, back when he turned 18, he had a fleeting, foolish notion that he could turn things around. He joined the army, got the tattoos, a bit of a "fake it till you make" it thing, except he never quite made it.

He hates looking at them more and more as the years go by. When he becomes Ghost, when he starts wearing the mask, the tattoos feel like a joke. It almost hurts to look at them and be reminded of the time when he didn't really mind being seen.

But then you come along, and it's slow, a bit hopeless at first, but something blooms there. It takes time, so much of it, but when you finally get a good look at the tattoos, you like them. Enough that he starts to kind of like them again too.

You trace the fading lines when you sit together on your couch, sometimes absently, when you're watching some reality show he pretends to hate, and sometimes more purposefully. You sit on his lap, his heavy arm draped over you, and you name the skulls, give them backstories. When you take him to bed and let him hold you through the night, he sees the tattoos in the moonlighting spilling in through your window, and they're not so bad like this.

Maybe one day he'll even get some new ones. Your name, your children's names. Or could be something more subtle, like your favorite flower, tucked somewhere in the old sleeve with all its death and destruction.

It's kind of nice, he thinks, the thought of something growing there.

Simon Riley who took you home after a night out, expecting sex but you couldn't go through with it.

You were both already naked, your hands on his chest, straddling the large man when you just ... couldn't do it. Being a virgin at this age felt embarrassing, and tonight you wanted to get rid of the title.

Simon, saw the dismay on your face and wrapped a blanket around you. Your face was bright red from embarrassment, god, what was holding you back?

"it's alrigh' love."

You felt the need to leave. You hadn't given him what he wanted...so you guessed it was time to hit the road.

So, both of you got up to do very different things.

You started putting on your dress and shoes, but when Simon turned around, he had a pair of his shirts and large sweat pants for you to wear.

His gruff voice was so gentle.

"You don't 'ave to leave..."

You weren't expecting this. There were no alarm bells, nothing in your stomach to say 'run.' But Simon Riley knew the dangers that women faced and he never wanted to make another woman feel that way.

"I uh, just want you to know, you can do whatever you like. I just ... fucking hell. What I'm tryin' to say is, I'd like to spend more time with ya...if that's alrigh' by you..."

He offered you a shower, and god did you want one. Surprisingly enough, Simon had pretty good products in his bathroom. None of that 30 in 1 shampoo. Clean towels. Everything was in perfect order; neat, tidy.

When you had changed into the perfectly oversized clothes (he is like 6'6?), and walked downstairs, Simon was waiting on the lounge with various drink options, and a sheepish grin.

"Thought you'd need some water, but I also have whiskey, coffee, tea..."

"Oh, thank you! Um, I'm fine with water...and maybe a tea."

"Woman after me own heart," he said with a grin and went on to make the best cuppa he's made in his life.

dad!Price

ghost who always have a grey, heavy, uninterested air about him but one day he comes to work, and he's got something behind his ribs clawing to be let loose. his teeth are clenched, his eyes sharp. his orders bite harder, his patience runs thinner, and the recruits feel it but don't understand it.

and it's all because you couldn't lie back and get eaten out like every other morning. it was routine. ingrained. automatic. ghost slips under the covers, dips his head between your thighs, and laps at your sex until you leave the mess he loves best— the slick, saturated spot he'd sniff while still wet. (can't blame me, luvie. it's sweet.)

you'd gotten up, thrown your clothes on in a hurry, and had been out the door, keys in hand, before he could get a word in.

unacceptable.

(kyle later catches him and asks him if he skipped breakfast or something. not by choice is what ghost tells him.)

⌖ simon quits smoking for you / headcanon & drabble

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist

it took one injury. one, minorly life threatening injury. a knife to the gut, twisted as it was ripped out. fuck, he could taste the smell of blood.

he only remembered the evac, and then the prattling of the cart wheels of his stretcher as they pulled him in for treatment. as simon comes to, the rhythmic beeping of the IV is accompanied by the quiet sobs beside him, the fabric of the hospital gown damp on his shoulder. looking over, his eyebrows furrowing.

he almost drops to his knees there, begs you to forgive him for being so careless when he sees the grief-stricken look on your face. like you'd almost seen your entire future wither away, because you had.

and the way you listened so attentively to the medic as they taught you how to change his bandages--he could've cried.

when he was finally allowed home, you were so careful around him. didn't hug him too hard, didn't let him carry heavy things--you were terrified he'd reopen his wound, that something else would happen to hurt him.

so when you watch him with that same look, that terrified, i-don't-want-to-lose you look, your eyes pleading with him as he steps outside for a smoke, he almost throws the entire pack on the floor.

simon smoked, yeah. he never cared that it'd shorten his lifespan, that he might cause his own death with it... he didn't think he'd even live long enough to see that happen. surely it was more likely he'd be killed in the line of duty than a nicotine stick.

but those eyes made him want to stop. made him careful, made him consider.

simon had never had a future before you, just battle after battle and hopes that one day he'd be killed honourably. but the day you gave him those eyes, he signed himself up for a help program.

because fuck him, if he doesn't do everything he can live for you.

Reblog this if you slept with my ex-wife Susan.

Trying to prove a point to my divorce lawyer.