Johnny "Soap" Mactavish Is The Kind Of Dad Who Throws Your Kids Around For Fun, Tossing Them Into The

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish is the kind of dad who throws your kids around for fun, tossing them into the air and catching them just to hear their infectious laughter, ignoring the worrisome protests that you call out from the kitchen when they get a little too high.

Captain John Price is the kind of dad who convinces your children to ask you for pizza for dinner, acting all surprised when you tell him to call the local pizza place, eyebrows rising with "What's the occasion?" despite the obvious grin that his plan worked. You aren't fooled.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is the kind of dad who chases your kids around with a nerf gun, relentlessly pelting them with styrofoam bullets and ganging up on your oldest son with your youngest daughter. Waits behind the front door for your son to get home from school and immediately fires on him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of dad who holds your toddlers like footballs, your daughter tucked sideways under his arm and dangling your son by his ankle. "Found these mice sniffin' 'round the cookie tin." He says with a deadpan expression, but you don't miss the way his mouth twitches when they giggle and shriek.

Ughh thinking about simon ghost riley in university and you see him drawing a few times one day on campus, sitting on the bench. He wore a black hoodie, hiding his form and hood pulled over his masked face. Lengthy tall fingers held charcoal, all smudged and dirty. He seems so focused you don’t say much, so you eye him & walk away, leaving it to him. But apart of you wonders what’s got him so wound up and focused on drawing. You never took him as the type to draw anyway.

And then next week you see him walking out the gym, balaclava mask pulled up to reveal pink chapped lips, busted from his the boxing class offered at University. He held his duffle bag over his shoulder, biceps flexing as long legs strode down the pathway—most likely to his dorm. The idea that he drew so meticulously and in the dead the night, so serene and wistful—

And then this. An absolute fighting machine, all biceps and a hunk of muscle. Not a single thought behind those eyes as he focused on darting out punches.

Both of it had you eager & melting to know more about this mysterious man.

Part 3 of college au with simon riley x reader 🥺 living for this fic ugh.

Part 1

Part 2

“How much did you hear?” Your voice rang out, although not in a huddled whisper. You acknowledged he at least caught you, but it stung embarrassingly. You eyed him curiously, a whoops floating in your mind. Score one for me for being so clueless—

Before you could finish your thought, he responded and shifted, one shoulder shrugging slightly. His jacket wrinkled. He then walked forward, standing just enough to see your face more clearly. The curve of his nose was hidden from the mask, eyes shadowed by the lamppost. Beside them, large glass windows were revealing the inside of the gym.

“A filthy amount.” Then his smooth voice rang out, eyeing your expression. Goddamnit, what was up with this man? You felt scrutinized and open. Vulnerable under his gaze yet you refused to admit it just yet. Pride? Ego?

You clutched your bag closer, maybe an attempt to shield yourself from his gaze and then turned away, continuing your walk up the path. Even faster this time—an attempt to get away from the situation.

But his long legs caught up beside you, eyes not leaving you. A flash of amusement crossed them.

“I heard y’er window was givin’ a fuss.” He stated. Curses. You almost flinched at the mention of what he heard and cleared your throat. You glanced up to see both your dorm buildings in view, some decorative planters watered and waving with plants.

“And so you did?” You half joked, arms crossing across your chest and not looking at him. Apart of you wonder what exactly he thought of you now, and what he’d been able to figure out from the call. Or maybe it was better to not know.

He strode closer to talk, long legs catching up easily to which you bristled at. And the pathway was small—making his arm brush yours. The contact produced sparks across your body for a split second, then you squashed it given the situation. You were a damn mouse next to his form, and it didn’t help you faintly smelled his cologne— but musky scent mixed together.

“I can give ya’ a hand—those things get all jammed.”

His voice was warmer this time although he couldn’t help the grin itching at him. Trees blurred past them as you finally reached the door to your dorm. You scanned your ID in—and of course he followed.

Because he lived across from you, conveniently.

“Look—it’s fine. I’ll have my friend take a look at it.” You brushed off, walking away and down the stairs. You knew damn well your friend was a skinny lad baring no muscle. A basketball could slap him in the head and he’d fly into the wall like the mosquito he was.

He slowed his movements for a split second, eyes narrowing. Almost like he didn’t believe you—as red rimmed eyes tracked your racing form. “Just thought it’d be faster if I did it. You won’t be freezin’ tonight.”

He followed you, of course having nowhere else to turn. The stony grey building reflected little to no signs of life. White corridors then came into view. He couldn’t lie he found this amusing as hell, watching you race and dart about, all flustered and itching to get away from the fact of what he heard.

“I said—“

“I know what you said.” He cut you off, although his tone was warm. He held no malice, but he figured he liked this little game.

You spun around in irritation, eyes blazing and the corner of your eye twitching. He caught wiff of your perfume and he was momentarily stunned, but resumed his composure. He leaned his shoulder on the wall, hands in his pockets casually and gazed down at you. He was waiting for your response.

“Then if you heard you should probably leave.” You said, glancing at his door that was keyed and merely across from yours.

Simon liked this: a challenge.

He shifted so his shoulder moved off from the wall and he tipped a brow at you. His hand went to his bag strap, adjusting it before saying, “Tell y’er friend I said thank you.”

Oh god. Now you knew he’d never let you live this down.

Simon "shoulderss" Riley

Part 5 of college!simon x reader 👀 hope ya’ll enjoy feel free to like comment and reblog to help this blog grow. Your comments mean a lot to me!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Ever since the window incident you hadn’t seen him around as much. Your classes got so busy. You got caught up in studies—Arabic class was kicking your ass. All these letters, different conjugations on writing it in its initial, middle and last form. It was swirling in your head. You were dazed, walking late in the night from the library, a hot cocoa in one hand. You were your fluffy ear muffs, a beanie, and fluffy gloves to stay warm.

November was rearing its head—it had gotten so much colder. Thank god your window got fixed. Not that you’d admit that to him though. As you walked, you caught a shadowed hunched figure on the bench, hidden from the lamp post. His head was down, and brows furrowed. He wore a fur lined afghan jacket, black and zipped. Hands—red and stiff from the cold worked deftly holding a pencil.

Simon?

You stood for a moment, seeing the sketchbook in his lap and before you knew it—your legs carried you over. You stepped over the pathway and onto the grass.

“What are ya drawing?” You ask, foggy air blowing out your mouth.

He’s stunned and lifts his head up, mask pulled up to reveal just his chapped and swollen lips. He didn’t expect to see you at this hour of the night—and judging by the weight of your buckle bag—you’d been studying.

“You draw—I-I just happened to see you and…” Damn it. You trailed off awkwardly, hands stuffed in your dingy zip up sweater, hair blowing slightly in the cold wind. Behind, the tall towering university library stood. Illuminated with passerby’s and chatter.

He then clears his throat, shifting.

“Yea, tattoos. Ain’t it elegant, rough and pretty.” His smooth baritone voice responded, eyes flickering to his sketchbook, then you. His eyes were rid rimmed and lids dropping. You found his natural features breathtaking. The corner of his lip tilted slightly, but then faded just as quick as it came. For a second, you thought you’d seen it and gazed at his face for a moment. The wrinkles under his eyes ceased.

“I like them. You should keep up with it.” You said, knee shifting slightly to lean your weight onto one leg. He was hunched over sitting on the bench, sketchbook in his lap. Evangelion tattoos cover the page and surprise flickers in your eyes. You’d seen his canister of pencils before but this was interesting.

“She sittin’ real pretty…gonna finish er’ and make a final sketch.” He said, eyeing his artwork. Just then, a sudden thought crossed his mind as his fingers worked deftly with the pencil.

Pretty like you.

He stiffened up, fingers clenching the pencil, eyes flashing to his sketch. He then looked up at you, head tilted slightly. You didn’t seem to pick up on his movement, just sipped your hot cocoa, muffed hands holding the cup. White gloves, he observed.

“How long have you been drawing?” You asked, curious. You tipped your head down to look at him, cheeks flushed and lips parted. You sniffled a bit as the cold was getting to you.

“Eh—a while now. Jus’ have all these ideas in my mind. Ya know.” He said, although eyes discreetly looking away as if holding something in. Memories of being late night at base crossed his mind—bedside lamp lit, sketchbook in his lap. Soft snores of Johnny sounded. Nothing but endless thoughts of rage and war on his mind, yet when he picked up the pencil, it settled. Like water lulling against the shoreline.

You picked up on his subtle movement—and gazed at him, rocking slightly on your heels.

“You don’t have to be ashamed of it.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what’s on your mind?” You asked, brows knitting together. You wiped your glove under your nose, sniffling, shifting in your spot.

“You should get inside, lass.” He said bluntly, not moving from his spot. He continued to draw and you chewed at your lip, seeing how cold his fingers were. Careless man, not wearing gloves. At least something to keep himself protected. You knew he dodged your question—and you wondered what he possible could be hiding.

“You’re going to get sick.” You said.

“And if I do let me be.” He responded, eyes still staring stubbornly in his sketchbook. Fingers moved softly, in long brush strokes.

You sighed and shifted in your spot and then decided to leave your hot cocoa beside him. Lipstick marks kissed the mouth, and his head jerked up, confused and slightly surprised. He watched you, icy eyes peering up. “What d’ya think y’er doin’?”

“Leaving that for you. Fine, if you don’t drink it. Im not nasty or whatever. But its hot enough to keep your fingers from falling off.” You scoffed, then shoved your hands into your pockets, seeing his brows slightly raise.

He seemed surprised and wordless for a moment—and that made you amused. Kindness seemed to stump him. Although you felt entertained at the scene unfolding, apart of you wondered why this was odd for him. Something so simple as sharing hot cocoa on a cold night.

Maybe he lacked this kindness.

Something warm radiated in your chest and for a brief moment the amusement faded away—something softer forming in your eyes. Simon cleared his throat and then looked back down at his artwork.

“Get goin’, yeah? And don’t get me sick.” He ordered, although voice sounding lighter. Of course he had his usual bite, but you could tell something has eased up.

“Why? Afraid of a lil’ runny nose, cap?” You joked, the corner of your lip tilting up. You bounced off, boots crunching on the reddened leaves.

Cap, he repeated in his mind. Why that nickname? Even more, why the hot cocoa?

He stared at your retreating form, confused and bewildered. His brows couldn’t stop that pinching it always did—and that slight crazed look in his eyes was quite entertaining.

“Bloody lass…leaving er’ drink. Wot she think? M’ gonna’ drink this?”

Then he muttered and hands clumsily held the cup. His hands were freezing. His fingers barely registered the warmth first—and he thought it was plain cold. But when he sipped—right over where your lipstick marks were, it was hot.

“Yea, right. Hot cocoa my ass—“

He grumbled, still clutching and holding it. He hoped to god lipstick did not smear on his lips.

Maybe the night just got sweeter.