Simon Motherfuckin Riley

are you man enough?

Simon Riley is the most self-sacrificing, loyal, and devoted person there is.

He shouldn’t be. The world didn’t owe him shit.

But it was in his nature.

Ever since he was old enough to talk, he’d protect his own. He’d hold Tommy back from arguing with his dad, knowing it would only result in black eyes and tears. He’d watch mournfully from the staircase as his mother took the fall.

He’d be there after, not long after drunken snores sounded from the couch. Simon would have tissues held in his hand, offering it to his crying mother along with a kiss and hug.

“I’m sorry.” He’d apologize, knowing it wasn’t his fault his mother had slap marks on her face, or blood on her lip. He was only sorry he wasn’t strong enough to fight him.

After a couple years, Tommy fell into similar habits, picking up the liquor and any drug he could lay his hands on.

Simon once again took the blunt of the fall. His caring heart breaking at his brother’s anger and decreasing health. He’d throw away the bottles he could find, flushing any pills down the toilet.

He was caught once, arms at his side as his brother screamed at him, shoving him down to the ground. Simon only took the fall, knowing he wouldn’t hurt his brother, not when he knew this wasn’t truly him.

He’d even stick up for Tommy in school, taking on the fights his brother picked up over drug prices. He’d take every punch to the gut, every kick, every blow to the face— one hit so hard he lost his front tooth in a spat of blood.

His mother didn’t have the money to fix it. He told her not to worry, he’d get his own job.

Simon, at the fresh age of 16, received his first job working as a butcher apprentice. He’d stay up late hours working overtime, sometimes even sleeping in the back against the cold meat freezer.

He found it to be a relief to butcher something, imaging it often to be his father’s face, despite his sharp blade only sinking into bloody chunks of meat. Often times he’d take the leftover scraps home to his mother, just so she could have something to eat that night.

He’d never spent any money on himself, until it came to the time to get that tooth fixed, despite the earful his father gave him for not scraping enough change for “rent.” 

He worked hard for two years, hardly sleeping, taking care of others. His hands were now covered in shallow scars, his muscles evening out as he grew to his full height. He was strong, he was tall, but his maturity stayed the same. Simon was an adult for his whole life.

He was at the shop when the news broadcasted, displaying the two burning towers in New York City. He watched the gruesome videos, seeing the terror and fear.

He was filling out his paperwork the next day, going to basic training the next week.

He would never forgive himself afterwards, for leaving behind a grieving mother and angry brother.

When he returned, now a man of potential, all in his freshly pressed uniform, his mother had wept. Proud tears in her eyes as she held onto her pride and joy. Simon had willingly embraced her, nearly squeezing her to death.

“Missed ya, Mum.” He’d sigh, eyes squeezing shut.

He’d ask about his brother, half-knowing it would still be the same since he left. But now, Simon was bigger, he knew how to fight, how to expect the worst. Hell, his sergeants screamed more than his father or brother ever did.

So Simon once again left for his brother, this time throwing away all the drugs and alcohol and watching him like a hawk.

Tommy had never been so angry, falling backwards and into the withdrawling stage. That was the worst of it.

Simon was once again selfless after a trip to the grocery store, buying his mom groceries for the week. A pretty cashier had left her number on the receipt, but instead Simon had introduced her to his brother instead.

They had hit it off, now going on their third date. Simon had never been more grateful for Beth, despite the nagging in the back of his mind that thought, “what if I wanted to date? What if I wanted to be happy?”

But, he’d always put his brother first.

It’s why he found himself smiling beside an alter, putting his whole life on pause to watch his brother dressed in black shed tears as his very pregnant fiancé walked down the aisle.

She gave a cute little wave to Simon, before happily taking Tommy’s hand to exchange vows.

Simon fought hard on his way to the SAS, watching brothers die and serving many tours. He always worried in the back of his mind that he’d become too much like his father. A cold hearted killer, someone who took love and crumbled it in a fist.

He thought he deserved to be punished, the cold meat hook impaled in between his ribs. The bruises, the cuts, the sexual assaults he was too weak to fight off. He deserved it all.

He was a shell, but at least his family was safe. At least he could justify his need to protect his family. He’d take a million torturous acts to protect his sweet mum, or his brother, his sister in law. Their sweet bundle of joy Joseph.

Roba had cackled about killing his family, how he’d destroy them. It’s why the jawbone was clenched between Simon’s fist, dirt filling his lungs as he dug out of the casket. He had to get home. His purpose of being alive, was in danger.

He was a selfless bastard, but he’d never wanted to be so selfish after seeing the blood on the floor. To not feel the horrid pain or hear the hollowed screams his body released involuntarily.

Roba had ripped out Simon’s heart and crushed it to powder. Took his mum, his family, his home.

Simon Riley was a Ghost.

He’d visit their graves every year, speaking of his life and how he missed them.

He’d tell them of his task force, how Man United had won another game. He’d sink to his feet in front of little Joseph’s gravestone, setting a toy plane against the moss.

He found tears were easy to fall.

“You’ll catch a cold out here, Simon.”

An angelic voice had called out to him, a warm hand anchoring him to the gravitational pull that was you.

You knew little of his life, of his service. But you knew him, and the brute cursed himself every day for letting such an innocent and beautiful creature get close to his tainted flesh.

You somehow wormed your way into his heart, healing and patching the tears and allowing himself to be selfish just this once.

He loved you.

And maybe, just maybe he could find himself being a person once again. Tying his soul to you and holding you against his chest like the precious gem you were.

“I’m coming, love. Just had to say goodbye.”

He could be selfish. Just this once, right?

He took your hand.

if i see one more post about headcannons that exclude gaz and replace him with könig, i'm gonna lose my marbles

like yes go play or fiddle with my hand while were waiting for our food in the restaurant

I’m such a slut for casual intimacy. Like yesss rest your chin on my shoulder while we're in line at the grocery store, I live for that shit.

when i want fluff/angst fics and all i’m getting is smut

the struggle is real

OH MY GOOODDDDDD I NEED HIM TO PUT ME IN A HEADLOCK AND RAIL ME AND MAKE ME SUBMIT TO HIM PLEASEEEE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Some sketches about ghosts healing journey…..

(Captain price would listen to his thoughts and calm him if he’s having bad dreams, and ghost would bond mich more with gaz imo)

(Also laswell would make him tea)

Still Home

Pairing: John Price x Reader (Established Marriage)

Synopsis: Years have passed, and the house has changed with time—but the love inside it never has. John Price, older now, slower perhaps, still loves you with the same fire he had when it all began. Through lazy mornings, holidays filled with chaos, and quiet evenings curled on the couch, this is the story of a lifetime of love that never stopped growing.

Warnings: Heavy fluff, established relationship, aging, emotional intimacy, domestic comfort, family life, nostalgia and warmth, implied canon divergence, lots of soft kissing and affection.

The house had aged, but it wore the years kindly. The white picket fence had faded to a mellow ivory. The front steps creaked just a bit louder in the winter. And the rose bush by the kitchen window—planted on a spring afternoon not long after you moved in—now curled up toward the eaves, a cascade of soft pink blooms that never failed to bloom first on your anniversary.

The front room was warm, even in the chill of late autumn. The old couch was threadbare on the corners, soft where it mattered, and still just the right size for two people who never seemed to mind being close.

You sat curled against John’s side, your legs draped over his lap, book in hand, glasses low on your nose. His arm was around your shoulder, warm and steady, his hand tracing lazy circles on your arm like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The kind of touch that came after decades of knowing someone’s skin better than your own.

John sipped from his chipped navy mug, the one that said World’s Okayest Tea Brewer—a Father’s Day gift from your daughter, smudged slightly from years in the dishwasher. His beard was more salt than pepper now, his frame broader with age, slower in movement but still powerful in presence. That same commanding steadiness. That same protective warmth that once made you fall fast and foolishly, back when you were just two young souls tumbling headfirst into a forever neither of you fully understood yet.

“Cold in here, love?” he asked, voice low and warm, eyes flicking to the window, where the wind tapped at the glass.

“Not with you here,” you murmured, not looking up from your book.

He smiled, and it creased the corners of his eyes just like it used to, only now the lines were deeper—earned, not worn. “Still got that silver tongue.”

“Still fall for you every time,” you replied, soft and true.

He leaned in and kissed your temple, lingering for a second longer than necessary. You hummed. You always did.

Even after all these years, the house held the echoes of your lifetime.

The hallway was a gallery of portraits—framed school photos, vacation candids, weddings, the kids’ graduations. There was one from your thirtieth anniversary in the center of it all: you in a soft blue dress, John in a suit that never quite fit right anymore, your grandchildren laughing wildly in front of you while your children tried (and failed) to pose them properly.

Down in the laundry room, there was a wall that neither of you could bring yourselves to paint over. The pencil lines still climbed the plaster beside the doorway, names and ages scrawled in two different handwritings—Martin and Ellie, their heights recorded every birthday from age one to eighteen. You’d watched them pass each other up, centimetre by centimetre. You still ran your fingers over the lines sometimes when you were down there folding towels, and John always smiled when he caught you.

“They still come home,” you’d said just last week, your chin on his shoulder as you both stood there staring at the wall. “Even now. They come back.”

“They always will,” he said, his voice full of quiet certainty. “It’s home.”

Their rooms had changed over the years. No more posters or glow-in-the-dark stars. The beds had been replaced with guest mattresses, the desks with shelves for books and folded blankets. But there were still old toy boxes in the closets. A few forgotten jackets on the hooks. And whenever the family came over—loud and sprawling and full of chaos—they all still knew where their place was.

The holidays were dangerous in the best way. The grandkids groaned every year about how “gross” you two were.

“Mum, Dad’s staring at her like he’s twenty again,” Martin had complained, mock-suffering, one Christmas Eve while John was cutting vegetables with one hand and gently stroking your back with the other.

“She winked at him. WINKED. I’m emotionally scarred,” Ellie once declared, covering her children’s eyes like it was a scandalous soap opera.

But they always smiled when they said it. Because there was something achingly comforting about the way you and John looked at each other. Like there was no one else in the room. Like the love hadn’t aged a day.

And truthfully—it hadn’t. It had just… deepened. Stretched out into the quiet corners of your life. Into late-night grocery runs. Into slow Sunday mornings. Into the way he tucked your reading glasses into your book when you dozed off, or the way you brewed his tea exactly how he liked it, even after forty years of arguments over the “right” amount of sugar.

Even now, as the wind picked up outside and the lights dimmed in the living room, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of his body under yours, the rhythm of his breathing, and the quiet murmur of his voice.

“Still happy?” he asked you once, voice so soft you almost missed it.

You looked up from your book, tilted your head, and smiled at the man who had loved you through everything—war, children, quiet nights, wild ones, wrinkles and graying hair and all.

“More than I ever thought I could be,” you said.

And he kissed you.

Not because it was habit.

Not because the kids were gone and you finally had the house to yourselves again.

But because after all this time, he still couldn’t help it.

Because loving you was the only thing that ever came easy to John Price.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

nghghgg

Have you seen this man? Now you have!

You always find Simon in the same spot—sitting on his couch with a mug of tea in one hand, the TV on but the volume low, like he’s watching it just for background noise. He barely moves when you come in, just shifts his head a little like he was expecting you, even though you never text to say you're coming.

“And then she rolled her eyes at me,” you say as you drop down next to him, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Like I was the one being unreasonable for asking her to hold the door.”

Simon doesn’t react right away, which isn’t unusual. He lets a second or two pass, like he’s thinking it through, even though he probably made up his mind as soon as he heard your tone. Finally, he hums quietly and says, “She’s not worth your breath,” while reaching over to pat the top of your head in that way he always does.

You don’t even bother hiding how much you like that. You lean into his hand just a little, and for a moment you let the annoyance melt off your face.

It’s always like this between you and Simon. You walk in, already mid-rant about something that annoyed you during training or some dumb argument someone had in the mess, and he just listens. Or, well—he sits there while you go off, mostly quiet, only chiming in with a few words here and there.

But he always makes it clear he’s paying attention. The way his eyes shift to look at you when your voice tightens. The way he’ll hand you a blanket or a snack before you even ask. The way he remembers the tiny details you forget you even told him.

You joke sometimes that you adopted him. That you took in this emotionally unavailable soldier who barely likes people and decided that he’s your best friend now, whether he wanted that or not. He never complains. He never tells you to leave. Even when you steal his cookies or fall asleep on his couch, he just lets you stay.

He’s quiet, sure, but he’s also dependable in a way that makes everything feel easier when you’re around him. You can talk to him for hours and he won’t interrupt, won’t judge, won’t try to fix it unless it’s something he can fix. And when it is, he usually does—without making a big deal out of it.

So when you started seeing that guy from base, Simon didn’t say anything. You thought maybe he just didn’t care, or that he wasn’t the type to get involved in stuff like that. He didn’t ask many questions. Just nodded and said, “He treatin’ you right?” in that low voice of his that didn’t give much away.

You smiled and said yes, because at the time, it felt like the right answer.

He stayed the same after that. Still your go-to person for venting. Still the only one who ever made you feel like you could talk without holding back.

But every now and then, you noticed something shift. He wouldn’t look at you as much when you brought up your boyfriend. He’d change the subject quicker. And when you said something like, “he forgot our plans again,” Simon would just sigh and hand you tea or cookies or whatever he had nearby, like he didn’t want to say what was really on his mind.

You remember one night clearly, when you showed up outside Simon’s door after a long shift. You were quiet, which was rare, and you didn’t even try to hide the frustration in your eyes.

“He forgot again,” you mumbled, pulling your knees up onto the couch. “Said he’d pick me up, and then just... nothing. Not even a text.”

Simon didn’t say much in response. He just handed you the remote and tapped your shoulder once, like that was his way of saying you deserved better without actually having to say the words out loud.

But the breaking point came later. One night, you showed up to his room without even thinking, your eyes red and puffy, your hands trembling a little as you wiped at your face. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He just stepped aside and let you walk in, like he’d been expecting you again, like he knew this was coming.

“He cheated,” you said, and the words felt so bitter and small in your mouth that you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

Simon pulled you into a hug before you could even finish the sentence. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer advice or tell you what you should’ve done. He just held you, solid and quiet, with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other smoothing over your hair. You didn’t realize you were crying until your face was already buried in his shirt.

At some point, he moved you to his bed. You weren’t even sure how, but you ended up under his blanket, wrapped in warmth that didn’t come from the sheets, and you felt safer than you had in weeks. His voice was low when he whispered, “Don’t worry about it,” like he was promising to carry the weight of it for you.

You didn’t know it then, but he didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up until you were out cold, then got up quietly, left his room, and came back a few hours later like nothing happened. What you also didn’t know—what he would never admit unless you asked him directly—was that he had counted every single tear that rolled down your face. Every shaky breath, every time your chest stuttered with a sob. He remembered the number. Kept it in his head. Then found your ex and hit him that many times. One punch for every tear you cried.

A few days passed, and word started going around base that your ex hadn’t been seen. Missed duty. No one could get ahold of him. You didn’t ask Simon anything. You just looked at him across the mess hall, saw the way he was nursing a cup of tea with a blank expression and fresh tape wrapped around his hand, and something in your chest clicked into place.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and he looked back, and that was enough.

Later, after things calmed down, you found yourself back in his room. Same spot on the couch. Same blanket. Same you and Simon. But this time, out of nowhere, he said, “I’m in love with you.”

It wasn’t dramatic or emotional. He said it like it was just a fact—like he was finally telling the truth after hiding it for too long.

You blinked at him, not even sure you heard him right. “What?”

He shrugged a little, like it didn’t matter if you believed him or not. “Figured you should know.”

You didn’t know what to say right then. There was too much in your head. But a few days later, he took you somewhere quiet, away from base, with a folded blanket under his arm and your favorite cookies packed in a tin. He made tea and handed you the mug like he always did, and when you sipped it, it was just the way you liked it—strong, with that little bit of honey he adds even when you don’t ask.

You sat next to him, legs stretched out on the grass, shoulder pressed against his. After a while, you turned to look at him and said, “You’ve been looking at me like that for a long time, haven’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m your whole world.”

Simon didn’t answer right away, but the look on his face said more than words ever could. Then he reached over, patted your head like he always did, and said, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

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@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212