Cod Writing - Tumblr Posts

simon ‘ghost’ riley is a light sleeper. he’s so well trained to be on high alert that even when he’s not on duty he wakes at the smallest sound.

sometimes you’ll get up in the middle of the night and he immediately sits up. “you alright?” he slurs.

you make a small sound of discomfort or wiggle a little too much and his head is turning on the pillow, his eyes on you. and he always asks if you’re okay. you’ve told him he’s being silly and sometimes you just have to get up to go to the bathroom, but you gave up on telling him that—he’s adamant on checking on you.

and anytime he wakes up, no matter where the disturbance comes from, he’s looking over to your side of the bed to make sure you’re okay first.

and if you ever do need him in the middle of the night, all you have to do is whisper his name. he opens his eyes almost immediately and instinctively tightens his arm around you. “everythin’ alright?”

and one time you couldn’t sleep. your face was buried in his chest as he clung to you, the soft rumble of his snores letting you know he was knocked out. you didn’t want to wake him, but you were crying. you barely even moved as you teared up into his chest. suddenly, his hands squeezed you tighter. “whats’a matter?” he coos softly.

you tilt your head up to him teary eyed. “i didn’t mean to wake you.”

he clicks his tongue. “tell me what’s wrong, baby.” his hand gently caressing your face, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear.

and he’s so protective. if you roll over and out of his hands he’s quick to pull you back into his grip. he likes having his hands on you while he’s sleeping. it makes him feel more secure knowing you’re okay.

when you fall asleep together on the sofa, your body pressed to his, his arms are wrapped around your waist, clutching you closely against him. it doesn’t even matter if he’s too warm, he wants you touching him at all times whenever he’s asleep.

it’s gotten to the point where he can barely sleep when he’s not with you. without you safely in his arms, without being able to physically feel you under his fingertips, it continuously wakes him up. he’s lucky to get two hours in a row without waking.

post that inspired this | my cod masterlist

Ghost rushes to your aid, only this time, it's to help with a pickle jar.

———————————————————————

“C’mere.” He orders, motioning with his hand.

You roll your eyes at him, although a slight grin forms on your lips.

“No!” you retort as you turn your back to him.

He sighs, leans back into the kitchen chair, and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Although he still wears his skull mask, you can imagine a smug expression on his face as he observes your failed attempts at opening that pickle jar.

You wipe your hand on your trousers, then grasp the lid, using your other hand to stabilise the jar. You take a deep breath and hold it in as you squeeze and twist with all your might. But the darn thing doesn’t budge—an oddity since you opened that jar fairly easily yesterday.

“You look like you’re about to fart.”

“Shut up, Ghost.” You snap through gritted teeth.

“What you do clearly doesn’t work,” he states firmly. “Just give me the fucking jar.”

You exhale, relax your grip and shoot him a threatening look.

“No,” you snap again, pointing at him with the jar. “I got this.”

He lifts the fingers that are resting on his bicep and shakes his head.

“It’s too tight, love.”

“It’s not tight,” You reply and knock on the jar’s lid twice. “It’s stuck.”

“Knocking on the bloody lid?” He chuckles softly. “What’s next? Asking the pickles to open up from the inside?”

“Stop making fun of me!”

“I’m not,” he replies softly. “It just needs...”

“-a knife.” You interject.

He follows you with his eyes as you march over to the utensil drawer. You slide it open and pull a knife out.

“That’s a bread knife.” He states.

“So what?” You say, waving the knife, “Bread knives are still knives.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he replies. “There are other ways to open that jar.”

“I’ve tried other ways.”

“You haven’t tried mine.” He murmurs, seemingly unmoved, brushing lint from his thigh.

You roll your eyes again and place the jar on the kitchen counter. Ghost leans further back in his chair to get a better visual of what you’re about to do.

“You’re going to get hurt.” He warns you.

You brush his statement off and focus on the jar. You stabilise it with one hand and put the bread knife between the glass and the lid with the other. You pull on the knife, trying to pry open a small opening. However, the knife loses grip and comes flying dangerously close to your ear.

Ghost pushes the chair with the back of his legs and mutters a sharp “fuckin’ hell” as he rushes towards you.

“You alright?” He asks and grasps your wrist.

“I’m fine,” You reply, defeated.

His hand lets go of your wrist and travels up to your neck. He inspects your ear, making sure you’re not hurt, then grasps your shoulder.

“Why won’t you let me try?” He asks softly.

You sigh, grasp the jar, and slam it on the counter.

“Because you’ll make fun of me just like the others,” you murmur.

“They make fun of you,” He says, pointing at the jar, “for this?”

“For my strength!” You elaborate. “Why do you think this jar is so tight? They’re doing it on purpose, so I ask for their help.”

He chuckles and tightens the grip on your shoulder.

“Nobody is doing that to the lids.” He comforts you. “The refrigerator cools the container and makes the lid shrink.”

You shoot him a threatening side-eye.

“Don’t gaslight me, Lieutenant.”

He throws his head back and sighs.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, “even if they’re purposely tightening the lids, there’s always a better way to unscrew it than hurting yourself.”

“Let me guess,” you sneer, “the solution is to ask you to do it for me instead?”

“No,” he replies, turning the faucet to the hot water. “If you don’t have the muscle—”

“Hey!”

“If you don’t have the grip,” he corrects himself, “you should use your brain instead. As a matter of fact, you should always use your brain first.”

He removes his glove and puts his hand under the faucet. He takes the jar and places the lid under the tap, allowing the water to run on it for a few seconds. Finally, he turns the faucet off, wipes the cap with a towel, and hands it to you.

“Here,” he says, “try now.”

You take the jar and place your hand on the warm lid. You twist it, and it pops right open. You look at the loosened cap and throw it on the counter.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“No need to thank me,” he replies softly. “You did it.”

You study his eyes behind his mask; they’re smiling. You extend that pickle jar to him.

“Want a pickle?” You ask and shrug one of your shoulders.

He shakes his head. “You can have ’em,” he says, gesturing towards the door. “I need to start the induction for the recruits.”

You nod as you watch him gather his belongings. He is one of the most ruthless operators on base, and you’ve experienced the violence he is capable of causing on the battlefield. Yet, here he is, offering gentle guidance, advising you to ‘use your brain’ instead of brute force. Not only that, but once he managed to work his way into the jar—clearly twisting the cap with that towel and loosening it—he praised your ‘efforts’, claiming that ‘you did it.’

You take a pickle from the container and put it in your mouth.

How many times has he assisted you behind the scenes, making things easier for you and rushing to your aid, only to later praise your work and efforts, even though he was the orchestrator behind it all? Is that the reason the other soldiers make fun of you?

You take another pickle from the jar and drive it to your mouth, only to stop midway.

The question you’re trying to answer is not how often he acted chivalrous towards you, but...

“Why?” You shout as he walks towards the door, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He stops and turns to you, gripping the door frame. His eyes still smile, but another emotion is lingering behind them this time. He lifts his hand and points to the side of his head.

“Use your brain,” he replies before returning to the door and leaving the kitchen.

———————————————————————

thinking about: reader injuring themselves during training (literally the smallest paper cut) and ghost over-dramatically carrying them to the medics because they “can’t walk” <3 <3 <3

Hey anon, I really liked your request, so I decided to spice it up a little (not in a naughty way, but in the “I-too-was-in-the-mood-to-over-exaggerate-the-living-sh!t-out-of-it-just-like-Ghost” way). I hope you don’t mind. Here, *passes you the story the way grandmas give birthday money*

———————————————————————

It was a goddamn obstacle course, and a simple one at that. They called it “routine training,” aimed to remind soldiers like you of your fundamental training principles while keeping you physically fit and mentally sharp. You’ve done it many times before, so it shouldn’t be a problem now, right?

Wrong.

This time, Lt. Riley summoned you to serve as a role model for the recruits. “Show them how it’s done,” Ghost said in his deep voice, to which you agreed with a seemingly disinterested shrug. It was a cocky, arrogant shrug that you later regretted for many reasons—far more than the number of times you had run that obstacle course.

See, you’ve never practised with so many people looking at you. And although you’ve completed the course with your teammates before, you have never been asked to act as a “demonstrator” in front of a crowd of eager eyes. Eyes that stare at you right now, admiring the seasoned soldier standing before them, waiting to see how you’d perform the track. You were an expert in their minds, a higher-up, so you wanted to give it your best and finish it in record time, just like a proper master would—just like Ghost would like you to.

As Lt. Riley finishes briefing the soldiers, he redirects their attention towards you. You, in response, begin to stretch your neck, arms, and legs and nod at Ghost, signalling that you’re ready. He nods back and blows the whistle through his balaclava.

The obstacle course begins with a row of five walls, each more challenging than the last. Despite the increasing difficulty, you summon all your skills and athleticism, and with a combination of agility and strength, you clear each of the five walls. You turn to look at Ghost, who stands proudly with his hands crossed in front of his chest. Good job, you.

The next challenge is a mud pit with barbed wire on top. It’s challenging if you don’t know the technique, but that doesn’t apply to you since you’ve mastered it. You quickly move through the second course, sliding with your back to the ground and carefully avoiding the barbed wire. As you pull yourself out of the pit, you feel a slight scratch on your knee from the barbed wire, but that doesn’t affect your ability to complete the course.

With the second challenge behind you, you reach the final obstacle: a 10-metre rope with a bell at the top. Climbing the rope and ringing the bell marks the end of the track.

As you pull yourself up the rope, you can hear Ghost’s thundering voice in the background, desperate and distressed, as if the world is about to end. You see him waving you down, but you’re determined to reach the top and shake the bell before sliding down, victorious. Your landing may not be as graceful as you imagined it, since you fell on your back, but that doesn’t matter; you did everything perfectly. You shift your attention to the recruits, who are now looking at Ghost, drawn by his frantic sprint towards you, followed by his dramatic slide to the ground.

“MEDIC!” Ghost yells as he grabs your knee and inspects it, “SOLDIER DOWN!”

You look at your knee to discover the source of all this urgency: it’s a scratch, a teeny tiny one, caused by the barbed wire you just passed. There is blood, as you would expect from a fresh wound, but nothing that would require the services of a medical professional or the attention of a hundred recruits.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT MEDIC?” he repeats and clasps your head with both hands. “Shhhh,” he murmurs, “it’s okay; everything will be okay.”

“Everything is okay, Lieutenant,” you reassure him with your face squeezed between his hands.

But he hears none of it. He pulls down your lower eyelids, peering into your eyes to inspect God knows what. He then turns to face the crowd. ‘Someone call for the medic!’ he cries, shifting his gaze to you and caressing your hair. ‘The poor thing is talking nonsense.’

He removes his scarf and begins wiping the blood off your knee. He starts giving you an impromptu pep talk, saying things like, ‘I won’t let anything happen to you’ and ‘Remember, pain is just weakness leaving the body.’ Embarrassed by the attention, you lie on the ground and cover your face with your hands. So much for the triumphant finale of completing the task.

The medic rushes over, grasping your leg to examine the wound, but Ghost slaps their hand and warns him not to touch you.

“He can’t provide consultation, Lieutenant,” you explain as you throw your hands in the air. “You called for him; at least let him do his job.”

He considers it, then turns to the medic. “Perhaps it’s better if we take this inside,” he says, sweeping you up in his arms and cradling you as if you’re injured beyond repair.

You put your palm to your temple and hide your face in embarrassment as he carries you bridal-style through the sea of soldiers. He yells for them to let him through, and you apologise to the recruits, explaining that it’s nothing but a scratch.

“I can walk, you know,” you mumble at Ghost as you smile at the soldiers.

“Have you tried?” he asks.

“No, you didn’t let me.”

“Exactly,” he replies, “no need to risk it.”

You reach the medical facility, and he gently places you on the hospital bed.

“They need a tetanus shot,” he orders the medic. “They scratched themselves on the barbed wire.”

The medic carefully listens to Ghost’s instructions and nods. He asks him to step outside so he can proceed with the treatment.

“I’ll be behind that curtain if you need me,” he informs you and walks behind the partition.

As the medic checks your wound, Ghost peers through the curtain, assessing the procedure. He makes unnecessary comments to the medic, asking him if “he’s sure he’s doing it right,” and the doctor reminds him that “he’s been patching up soldiers for years now.”

“It’s okay, Ghost,” you shout, trying to diffuse the situation. “The medic knows what he’s doing; let him work in peace.” You turn to the medic and lower your voice. “I’m really sorry,” you whisper, and he chuckles.

“That’s alright,” he says, putting on his gloves. “That’s how the lieutenant is, you know: he wants to look tough, but when he cares about someone, he goes all out.”

“Is that it?” You ask and look at Ghost’s shadow at the partition, eagerly pacing back and forth.

“Trust me,” the medic whispers, “you’re lucky to have him on your side.”

“Huh. I never thought about it that way.” You contemplate, “If we involve him in the process, do you think it will help him relax and stop biting his nails through his covered mouth?”

The medic lets out another chuckle. “It’ll certainly help,” he admits, “but it’d be best if you did it.”

You nod and straighten up. “Hey, Lt.?” You ask, and he immediately pops out of the curtain.

“The medic is about to apply some alcohol solution on my knee, and he said it might hurt a little,” you explain. “Would you mind sitting next to me for support?” You ask and pat the bed,

Without giving it a second thought, Ghost hurries over and sits beside you. He takes your hand in his and looks you straight in the eyes.

“You’re safe,” he states and turns to the medic, who is trying to suppress a laugh, “let’s do this.”

———————————————————————

Ghost is training you on interrogation techniques and thinks you’re a lost case. He’s wrong.

———————————————————————

He unfolds a case of what looks like surgical equipment on the wooden table.

“Are you going to check my teeth for cavities, Lt.?” You joke, but he doesn’t laugh. He never does.

He picks up something that looks like a wrench and shows it to you.

“What’s this for?” He asks, to which you reply, with the utmost confidence that it looks like that tool your grandfather used when you were a kid to break the bathroom door because you locked yourself in there.

He shuts his eyes and holds his breath.

“See, I didn’t want to eat my vegetables, and-”

“Enough.”

“That’s what I told them; no more veg-”

“Stop with the focken veggies.”

“You don’t like them either, huh?”

He lets out a long exhale and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t think you’re fit for this.” He finally says.

But you are. There's a reason why you are here, and it’s because you’re damn good at your job. Sure, you never learned how to conduct an interrogation the way Ghost understands—in a physical and rather brutal manner—but, you had your ways.

“I beg to differ, Lt.” You oppose him.

“You can beg as much as you want, soldier,” he replies, “but you’ll never be able to make someone beg for mercy.”

You look at the interrogation tools on the table and point at them. “These are unethical, by the way.”

“These,” he says, “serve a purpose for the job and are perfectly legal.”

“So is farting in an elevator,” you reply. “Totally legal to do, yet sorta sucks for everybody else.”

“You should have gone to law school if you’re so passionate about ethical matters,” he says, “but you’re definitely not fit to be here.”

“The captain thinks otherwise.”

“The captain is wrong.” He mumbles under his breath.

“What’s that?” You ask, cupping your palm over your ear, “Are you defying the captain now, Lieutenant Riley?”

“No, I’m jus-”

“That’s against the Army Leadership Code,” you state and shuffle through your bag to get the rulebook. You open it up and clear your throat. He looks at you with that tool in his hand, eager to start plucking your fingernails one by one. Instead, he chooses words.

“I know what the guide says-”

“PAGE 45, PARAGRAPH SIX,” you shout like you’re reporting for duty, “IF AN OFFICER DISOBEYS THE-”

“Stop this instance!” He cries, but you hear none of it. You carry on undisturbed by his roaring voice. You’ll recite the entire book if that’s what’s needed. He leaves the tool on the table and approaches you, posing as an authority figure and yelling in your face. You stop for a minute and turn to look at him, explaining that what he’s doing right now is also against the code, and continue reading out loud.

“FAILURE TO OBEY A MILITARY ORDER BY A HIGHER UP-”

He throws his head up, closes his eyes, and raises his hands up to his temples.

“For the love of god and all that is holy, soldier,” he cries, “please stop talking.”

You close the booklet and throw it on the table. There’s dead silence. You approach him with a smug face and lower your gaze—but not your head—to the ground.

“Well, guess what, Lt.” You ask, and he opens his eyes to look at you.

“You just begged,” you whisper, “and I didn’t have to use any of your,” you gesture with a sneer at the tools on the table, “cheap cutlery.”

He keeps looking at you, confused. You pick a scalpel from the case.

“I thought you didn’t like my tools, soldier.” He says.

“I don’t,” you reply and pull an apple out of your bag, “but I need to cut my fruit.”

He throws his hands to his sides and looks at you, defeated, as you peel the apple.

You stop midway.

“Is the scalpel sterilised?” You ask.

“Of course, it’s sterilised!” he shouts, “we always sterilise our tools as per the rulebook!”

———————————————————————

Welcome Home

Pairing: Simon Riley X Reader

Summary: Nothing shatters the tension of a fight quite like needing your boyfriend to rush home to save you from people who would do you harm.

Warnings: Angst, Language, Fighting, Fluff, Kind of mean!Simon but not too bad, very minor violence, home invasion, I think that's it...?

Word Count: 1.5K

A/n: we're gonna dip a toe in the COD water and see what happens. I love ghost and Konig so we'll see what else I do there. For any and all COD stuff, I use Canadian Military as a basis for the readers background.

~*~

"I've had enough of this. I'm not gonna argue with you about somethin' so stupid," he hisses, glaring at you with hard, cold eyes.

"It's not stupid, Simon, you just don't want to ever entertain the idea of talking about things that might make you slightly uncomfortable!"

"Oh fuckin hell." He drags a hand down his face and shakes his head.

"Everythin's always gotta end with you being right, doesn't it?"

You frown at his absolute lack of any sort of understanding or empathy.

"This isn't about me being right, this is about you at the very least hearing me out!" You try.

"You knew what you were getting in to the moment you met me, m'not sure what you're expecting of me now. S'not like I can go and change the way things are, now can I?"

You narrow your eyes at him and his blatant ignorance.

"I understand full well, Lieutenant. I've been there, which is something you seem to conveniently forget."

He lets out a humourless chuckle and shakes his head, "don't go put yourself in the same category as me now, lovey. You know you weren't exactly at my level when you served."

His words are a slap in the face.

Sure, you were never quite JTF2 or SAS level, but that doesn't mean your time in the military is any less valid than his.

Seven years of your life you devoted to serving your country, the medical help for teams like his, and all he can do is turn his nose down at it as if it means nothing to him.

"You know what? Fuck you, Simon. I never even insinuated that we were at the same level and for you to try and..." you stop, pinching the bridge of your nose as anger fills you.

"What? Got nothin' to say now? That's a shock."

It takes all your strength not to lash out at him and even more to stop your bottom lip from quivering at just how mean he's being.

Sure, he's always been a little rough around the edges, a little harsh and brazen, but never has he been so downright mean to you.

"Get out."

"What?" This seems to genuinely catch him off guard, his arrogance faltering for a moment.

"Get out. Leave."

Simon Riley isn't a man who gets scared. He's been chewed up and spat out of hell before. Nothing on Earth can get the jump on him and nothing can scare him.

At least, that's what he thought.

His palms tingle and he needs to grind his teeth together a few times to collect himself before speaking.

"So that's it then?" He asks, his deep voice barking the question like he would an order.

You two have had your fair share of fights in the time that you've been dating, even more since you moved in together, but none where he's thought you might end things.

"I'm not gonna stand here and take a verbal beating from you, Si. Get out and come back when you've had a chance to fucking cool off."

He stares at you for a long moment, testing your resolve, waiting to see if you really mean it.

When you hold his glare, not backing down, he grabs his coat, mask, and keys and storms out of the house without another word.

You stand there in the kitchen for a long moment, the silence ringing heavily in your ears before you storm up the stairs to take a shower and, hopefully, argue out all your hostility in private.

The warm water runs over your tense shoulders for a few minutes and you try your hardest to relax, to let the anger seep out of you and run down the drain, but when you hear the front door open you're filled with rage once more.

You stand in the shower silently, waiting for the door to open and close again, signalling his departure, but instead you just hear boots on the kitchen floor.

Scoffing and shaking your head, you start to seethe.

As if he's wearing his shoes in the house on top of everything else.

You yank the shower curtain aside and step out onto the mat, not bothering to turn the shower off.

A crash from the kitchen makes you freeze.

Simon is never this loud.

Like a deer on the highway, you stay still, silencing your breathing as you listen to the noises coming from the kitchen.

Instead of calling out to him and potentially causing more trouble, you take a silent step to the counter where your phone lies.

You grab it and hit his icon quickly, listening to it ring for a while before he sends you to his voicemail. A loud beep sounds tauntingly in your ear and you huff out an angry breath.

You hang up and call him back, grinding your teeth together when he sends you straight to voicemail again.

The noises in the kitchen continue, and your heart jumps into your throat.

Answer your phone, Simon.

You shoot the text off quickly then immediately call him again, your stomach settling when the call connects.

"Are you home?" You waste no time on pleasantries, and instead hear him sigh heavily.

"You told me to get the fuck out, didn't ya? Why would I be home."

Your breath hitches and you press your back to the bathroom door, turning the lock silently as panic fills you.

"Simon, someone's here."

The fear in your voice has his blood running cold, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter as your fight gets shoved from his mind.

"What do you mean 'someone's here'?" He asks, his voice lacking the anger it had only moments ago.

"I heard the door open and I can hear someone in the kitchen."

You hear his tires screeching on the pavement and his engine roaring as he speeds home.

"Where are you right now?" This isn't Simon talking now. You recognize the change.

This is Ghost.

"I'm in our bathroom. Door locked and shower on."

"Good. Keep that water running. As long as they think you don't know they're there, you should be okay until I get home."

"Okay." You feel a little bit safer knowing he's on his way home.

"Keep me on the line."

"Okay."

There's a few seconds of just breathing before you speak again.

"How far are you?"

"Two minutes away."

"Okay... After you deal with these guys we can go back to yelling at each other," you whisper, wrapping a towel around your body and leaning against the wall across from the door.

He chuckles softly and the sound makes a small smile tug at your lips.

As much as he pisses you off and even sometimes hurts your feelings, deep down you know you'll never love anyone the way you love him.

You don't realize you've been quiet until he calls your name softly.

"You still with me, dove?" His voice is soft and you hear him turn the car off.

"I'm here."

"Good. I'm home now, don't come out of the bathroom 'till I come get you, understood?"

"Understood."

Sometimes living with Simon reminds you of being on base, and there are times when you despise it.

And then there are the times when you don't mind it as much. This is one of those times.

You hear the muffled sound of what must be him putting his phone in his pocket, and you close your eyes as you hear the soft click of the door handle through the speaker.

His footsteps are silent, even through the phone, and you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you'd hear it if he came home.

You can hear him as he takes down one intruder, and then what must be a second one.

He says nothing to them, that you can hear. But a series of dull thuds echo through the house before silence remains.

A few minutes go by of nothing, but you don't dare speak or open the door.

Ghost gave you an order, and you have no intentions of disobeying.

There are a few more moments of silence before you hear a crisp knock on the door.

"Lovey? You can open up now."

Breathing out a sigh of relief, you open the bathroom door and are immediately engulfed in Simon's strong arms.

He walks you backwards into the bathroom and squeezes you to his chest, mask hiked up over his nose so he can breathe in the scent of you.

"You all right, love?" He asks softly, his voice gruff and ever so rough.

"M'okay, Si. Thank you for coming home."

"S'my fault anyway. I shoulda locked the door before leavin' in a huff the way I did."

You frown and shake your head, pulling away to look up at him.

"This is in no way your fault, Simon. I could've easily locked the door after you. I'm just happy you got home in time."

Though you're not sure what the intruders really wanted, you're glad you didn't have to find out alone.

"I'll always come home."

And with those four words, he puts to rest not only the intruder situation, but also your argument from earlier.

Because he will. He'll always come home to you, regardless of what he needs to do, he'll make sure he comes home to you.

OML YOUR KEEGAN CONTENT HAS ME WEAK!!! pleeeease how would Keegan react if you were taken hostage/kidnapped 🙏🥹

Awww omg I love the prompt and it’s so angsty

IM LITERALLY LISTENING TO WHITE FERRARI HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME

Notes: not proofread, I kept this gn, so lmk if there’s accidental mentions of a specific genders, I don’t think there’s any mentions of it though

warnings: mentions of: blood, bloody noses, bruises, kidnapped/taken hostage, going missing, being tied up, being heavily wounded.

Summary: You were taken hostage when Keegan was on his deployment

AFTER THE STORM

Keegan would’ve never left that day, if he had known that you wouldn’t be there when he returned. He would’ve been by your side, nothing would’ve happened to you, maybe if he didn’t convince you to stay at home; resign from your job and relax, maybe then the day would be different. You would’ve been home when he was returning from his deployment.

Maybe if he had stayed home; did as you asked in the morning to be call in sick, even if Merrick would be upset, he could’ve stayed in bed; fallen asleep and have his arms wrapped around you tall morning.

Keegan made his work his top priorities, he left for work that day, he’d only be gone for a few days, just like every other day, this shouldn’t have happened.

You shouldn’t have been tied up to a chair, bloody and beaten all because the federation soldiers used you as bait. You should’ve been asleep on the couch; a movie playing when Keegan walked through the door that night he came home.

He walked in through the door and could see the the messed up pillows that had been tossed around the living room, the few drops of blood on the wood floor, the messed up bed, and you were nowhere to be found, he tried calling you, your phone was in the bedroom on the floor.

Keegan couldn’t think of anything else to do other than call merrick and ask for help to find you, you were the love of his life, he’d do anything to see you, alive and see that smile again.

The three weeks he spent looking for you with his team was crucial, he could barely get into bed at night but Merrick forced him to sleep, Logan could see the difference in Keegan’s mental health, physical health. The way dark circles appeared under his eyes, he drank more coffee than usual.

He couldn’t bare those three weeks anymore, without you he felt like he was nothing, he always said you had his heart.

And now you’d taken it with you while you were gone.

Nightmares began and he couldn’t fall asleep even if his body needed it, his mind couldn’t rest, not when you were away.

The blood drops on the floor of your guy’s home only made him feel worse, he couldn’t even clean it because it was the last trace of you other than your phone.

Maybe if he smelled your shirt he could feel better but he couldn’t enter that house without feeling a sharp pain in his chest. He didn’t protect you and that’s all he’s ever tried doing since you too have been together.

Finally when they did infiltrate the building he found you, Merrick following behind him, your head hung low as you your were bruised up and had a bloody nose, several wounds were visible; Keegan couldn’t even stomach what kind of wounds would be under your clothes.

All he could do was hope you’d hear him and smile, wake up, hug him again.

The two men quickly untied your hands from the chair and Keegan pulled the blindfold off of your face, the light alone was blinding, you opened your eyes only to close them again, before you recognized the same deep, and raspy voice you loved to fall asleep to.

“Y/n” his voice so soft, the same tone he used when he woke you up, “keegs?” Your voice was weak, your voice was strained from the shouting and screaming in pain you had been through.

“Yeah it’s me honey” he whispered and picked you up, he noticed the squint in your eyes when your tried looking up at him. He took you out the room and finally you could look at him without that bright white light behind him.

You could see his eyes were red from the nights he’d cried his heart out, all you could do was hug him back, as tightly as you could, and he did the same kissing your cheek gently, your head tucked into his shoulder, his grip was firm but he made sure not to hurt you, he could never forgive himself if he hurt you.

He felt healed, happy with the way you kissed him gently. It felt like the breeze after a storm.

Bartender Simon when a customer yells at reader for a mistake?

I love the way you guys think LOVE keep em comin!!

It starts when he's restocking his bar, carrying crates with fruit, bitters, coasters, and straws. He comes down from the pantry upstairs to a decently relaxed lunch crowd, when he hears the second half of the customer's tantrum.

"You expect me to eat this?! It's bloody raw!"

"I'm so sorry, I can take it back aga-"

"You already did that - went to the kitchen and stuck it under the warmer for a few seconds and thought I wouldn't notice, huh?"

"No sir, I gave it to the che-"

"I don't want to hear fucking excuses, just go fix my damn burger. I'm paying for this shit, aren't I? And you're working for my tip. So fucking work, cunt."

Humiliation isn't enough to describe what you feel - there isn't a strong enough word for it. Claiming you're a liar, saying you grovel for tips, yelling at you in front of your other tables, calling you a cunt - it makes your eyes sting with oncoming tears, staring at him and using every muscle in your jaw to keep from spitting insults back at him. You want to throw the food in his face, but instead, you grab his plate and storm off to the kitchen before he can see you cry.

The man scoffs, looking at his watch. "Fuckin' great..."

Simon's still standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding his crates and staring daggers at the man. He knows what it's like, being berated by customers. He says "that's customer service for ya" and moves on. But for this wanker to berate you - he sees red. He sees his next target.

He swiftly crosses the restaurant floor, boots thudding against the old wood as he drops his crate behind the bar. Soap's already yelling about the asshole when he pushes his way into the kitchen.

"Order it fuckin' rare and ye get fuckin' rare, bloody clipe- talkin' mince, bawface bastard-" he slams the burger back onto the grill with a tense arm, continuing to grumble as it sizzles. "Cookin' ye a nice strip o' shoe leather-"

You're sitting on an overturned crate, sobbing into your hands, pen and notepad on the ground beside you. Price is on one knee, one arm around your shoulder and the other on your leg - you'd never officially met the owner of the pub, but now was as good a time as any, you suppose.

"Wot happened?" Is all that Ghost could say without going off on a rampage. He's saving that for later.

"He fucking embarrassed me, that's what happened!!" You snap, looking up at Simon. Your eyes are red and puffy after only crying for a minute or two, cheeks wet from your tears. You hug your arms around your middle and choke on a sob. "Told me his fucking burger wasn't cooked, so I sent it back- then he tries to say I never even gave it to Soap?! Calls m-me a cunt in front of my tables?! Make me fucking work for his money - I don't want his goddamn money!!"

Price shushes you, worrying your anger might be leaking through the kitchen door - he doesn't want the same customer to hear you bad-mouthing him, although it's rightfully deserved. He rubs your back gently as you drop your head into your hands again, shoulders shaking as you cry.

Simon's seething - he's already moving before his brain can catch up, still stuck on the picture of your teary face. He marches behind the line and reaches across Soap, picking the burger right off the grill.

Soap makes a shocked sound. "Ye gone mad, LT?!"

"Table six?" Ghost asks, holding the sizzling burger patty in his hand, grease dripping onto his forearm.

You stare between his face and the patty - your crying stopped, your face now replaced with a stupefied expression. "Uh- yeah."

And like that, he's off; he shoves himself back out onto the floor and makes his way towards the customer who yelled at you. The burger burns his hand, but he doesn't even notice the pain. He drops it onto the table in front of the man, who yelps in disgust. "What the fuck-"

"Better?" Ghost says, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he looked down at the man, now stuttering and blubbering in shock. Specks of grease are freckling his white dress shirt.

"Are you- is this a fucking joke?"

"It's your fuckin' burger."

"I can't believe this-"

"Then get the fuck out my pub." Ghost growls; he grabs the man by his arm, ripping his blazer off the back of his chair, and drags him to the front door. The other customers look with wide eyes as he busts the door open with his shoulder and throws the man onto the sidewalk. He wheezes as he hits the ground, and Ghost throws his blazer at him next.

"If I ever see your face in 'ere after this, 'm throwin' you out again and keepin' your bullocks as a fuckin' souvenir."

The man stares at him, flabbergasted, as Ghost walks back inside. People are focused on their meals now, heads down and pretending they didn't see Simon body a man to the ground - the guy deserved it, after all.

Simon huffs, picking up the burger from the now-empty table. His hand stings a bit, but he has years of callouses built up to keep any real burns from settling in. He gently kicks the chair back into place and starts heading back to the kitchen, when he sees you.

You're staring at him with wide, wet eyes, standing in the entryway to the kitchen and mouth slightly ajar in awe. You've fully stopped crying, but there are still tears on your face from before. Eyeliner and mascara are smudged a bit, but it only makes Simon's fondness for you blossom.

He gently nudges your shoulder with his elbow as he pushes past you. "Take a fifteen. I'll watch your tables."

You stare after him as he throws the burger into the trash, grabbing a fresh towel and wrapping his hand. Wide back facing you as he looks at Soap, who stares at him with a frustrated sigh.

You're horny now. Horny for Simon - and you're definitely relaying this entire shebang to your friends tonight.

Bartender Simon, who cuts of a drunk costumer. The costumer is angry and begins insulting Simon, particularly his looks. It doesn't bother Simon but how does Waitress!Reader react?

Alas... the much-awaited ktih

Warnings: making out, groping, dry-humping

It was only seven pm, and Cole was already drunk. Simon knew this would happen - it usually does, at least every Friday night. He comes in, drinks for a solid two hours, until Simon finally has to cut him off and steer him in the direction of his apartment. The man at least lets him add twenty percent auto gratuity if he has to be sent home like that - and, more often than not, it's every week.

Today, however, is a different story.

Cole had come in at four, right when the pub opened. He gave you his usual, tight-lipped smile, making his way to the seat he took every Friday evening. Simon was already pouring his beer by the time he removed his coat. The conversation continues (mostly one-sided on Cole's part), as does the night, and he never ceases to tip the beers back - rattling on about how much money he makes, only getting louder when a group of women walks by.

Around nine at night is when he began to get drunk enough that the numbers on his tab begin to blend together. "A'aight- 'nother one for good fortune." He smacks his empty glass against the bartop, making you jump slightly as you did your tips at the end of the.

"Not tonight." Simon says, hovering over the POS and punching buttons on the screen. "You got 'nuff for good fortune. You can pick it back up next week."

"Bahhh, c'mon - I'll pay double." Cole slurs, leaning over the bar.

"What's your wife's name?" Simon asks, turning back around and leaning against the liquor shelf.

"... Sharon."

"Ya not even married, Cole."

He laughs, eyes glassy as he smacks the bartop and wheezes. "Tha's good! Real good- ya got me. Can't keep a woman 'f I tried."

Simon doesn't comment. He slides Cole's receipt across the bar, before promptly turning back and grabbing a glass.

Cole sighs, crumpling the receipt in his fist. "Y' don't want business?"

"Don't want you gettin' lost findin' your Uber." Simon replies, polishing a glass.

"Y'know..." Cole leans back in his seat, very adamantly refusing to leave, "I know you're strugglin' t' bring in the money with... whatever ya got goin' on behind the mask."

Maybe when he was a lieutenant, constantly dealing with jabs and stabs towards his ego, it would have gotten to him. But Simon just huffs in annoyance. "This what you resort to when you can't get a beer?"

"Defensive much?" Cole bites back. "You could use the money to fix y'r fuckin' face. Should stop bein' such a cunt n' worryin' 'bout me like you're my mum."

"Hardly - your mom probably wishes she'd swallowed you instead."

Simon nearly drops the glass - it takes him a moment to realize that you had spoken, and another one to process just what exactly you had said. He turns around to find you, staring Cole down with the most disgusted, angry expression he's ever seen you display. He's speechless - mostly because he didn't know you had an arsenal of insults, ready to fire off like this.

Cole chuckles drunkenly, turning in his seat to face you from down the bar. "Don' like it when I insult y'r bank account, do ya?"

"Aren't you supposed to be dumpster diving or something?" You snap, getting up out of your seat - Simon's never seen such a look in your eyes, and he quickly steps out from behind the bar to jog over to you. He places a hand on your shoulder, but you don't back down.

"You realize who you're talkin' to, little girl?"

"Draco Malfoy if he'd gone into British Parliament."

"Oi-" Simon snaps, fingers digging into your shoulder - surprisingly, you swat his hand away. You're fuming at this overgrown cabbage, running his mouth like he actually means something to anyone in this pub.

Cole purses his lips; your insults are getting to him. "You gonna do somethin' with this chick?" he asks Simon - who nearly blows a cap, but you beat him to it.

"Y'know, maybe you should spend your money on fixing those fucking teeth - because I see they're still social distancing - instead of wasting our time here, you grey, fucking sprinkle on a rainbow cupcake-"

"Hey- stairwell. Go." Simon gives you a gentle shove towards the stairs, and you throw your hands up and storm off. He stares after you, wide-eyed and tense, watching as you disappear behind the stairwell door. He's quickly growing hard, concerningly, after witnessing you fire off at Cole with a loaded gun full of wit and anger - it was quite possibly the most attractive thing he's seen you do.

Cole huffs, breaking Simon's focus. "Women - sticking their noses where they don't belong." he looks at him, expecting the bartender to agree.

Simon's holding back the urge to drive his fist into the man's skull. He grabs Cole's jacket from the back of the chair and shoves it into his chest so hard he nearly falls from his seat. "If you're not gone in the next ten minutes, Soap 'n I will make you leave, you understand?" he doesn't even wait for a reply, turning on his heel and stalking towards the stairwell, boots thudding heavily against the ground.

He's got bigger priorities at the moment.

You're standing in the stairwell, chewing the edge of your sweater as you stare at the dustpan and broom. Simon can surely fight his own battles - he didn't seem irritated in the slightest by Cole, why did you step in? Simon isn't yours (unfortunately), you don't need to defend him. You don't have the right to defend him other than the fact that he's your coworker. Manager. And you were definitely doing it based on other, unspoken reasons. It was obvious. Is it obvious to him? Forget possibly losing your job, is he going to be mad that you lost your shit like that? That you put your foot where it doesn't belong? That-

The door to the stairwell swings open, and you stop your pacing. His eyes are lidded. Angry? You can't tell. He looks rather intimidating, tall and tense as the door swings shut behind him, mask bunched into his fist as he shoves it into his back pocket.

You think he's about to let you have it, to chew you out for your outburst. "Simon, I'm-"

His rough hands are around your face before you know it - right as you open your mouth to yelp in shock, he leans down and kisses you.

Your eyes force themselves shut. You don't have a chance to pull away, not with his hand cradling the back of your head. He won't let you; you don't want to. His breath fans across your face, fingers calloused yet gentle as they relax around you, and you sigh into his touch, tilting your head to let him get closer. Your arms rest against his shoulders, squeezing the muscle as you feel months of worry and anticipation melt away-

And then, as quickly as it had begun, Simon has the audacity to stop and pull his head back.

His eyes find yours, still cupping your face in his hands. He looks breathless - good. At least you know he's just as riled up as you are, now. There's a hint of pink on his cheeks, and a need for reassurance in his hazy stare. He needs to know he was right, despite the months of flirting and the little chase you've been leading him in; now that he's finally caught up, caught you in his grasp, he needs you to tell him you want this. Though he doesn't know how he'll survive if you don't.

"You ok?" He pants, brow creased with uncertainty.

You let out a noise of frustration - threading your fingers behind his neck, you pull him back down, sealing your lips against his once again.

He exhales through his nose in relief. His hands find your waist as you part your lips, letting him slip inside and explore your mouth. Your fingernails dig crescents into his skin - he lets out a rather needy-sounding groan, backing you up until you hit the wall. You whine; your tongue flicking across his lower lip sends a shiver down his spine, heat building and twisting and tangling in his gut until you break away for a moment, nipping your teeth into his lip.

His mind short-circuits; he grunts, all the blood in his head rushing south to his cock, where it's getting uncomfortably warm and tight. He grabs you underneath your ass and hoists you up, and you squeak, instinctively locking your legs around his hips. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he kisses you feverishly, desire brewing in your stomach as he presses you into the wall, tongues and teeth clashing, the both of you unable to satisfy the ever-growing blaze. It threatens to burn up the stairwell until there's nothing left but a sweaty, naked mess.

Simon breaks away to latch onto your neck, taking the thin flesh and rolling it between his teeth You bite back a whimper, carding your fingers through his hair; he bucks his hips in response, albeit involuntarily. You can sense the knot in your pelvis tightening, underwear growing slick as you feel the size of his erection with each thrust. Even through his clothes, you can tell it would be a challenge, but you've never been one to back down.

Fingers slide under his shirt, feeling the solid wall of muscle and fat beneath - his retracts a hand and drags it up your stomach, kneading and groping your tit through your shirt, silencing your moan with another searing, wet kiss. He's grinding into you now, hips rolling, cock twitching through his pants as you lock your ankles behind his back, and fuck he's ready to strip you bare right here and fuck you against the wall, ready to get back at you for teasing him for so long, ready to listen to your cries as you take each and every rung of his piercing-

He catches himself, lips moving away from yours to kiss along your chin, all the way up to your jaw. He sighs as he stills his hips, letting his head fall against your shoulder as he leans his weight into you. You feel him relaxing, wondering if he's worried about you again, but you so desperately want this to continue where it's heading.

"I'm alright, I'm alright-"

"I know..." he mumbles, his hand sliding back to your thigh and squeezing the flesh there, fingers barely slipping past the hem of your shorts. He wants to go further, to feel the hem of your panties snap against his fingers, but he forces back the urge.

"What's wrong?" you pant, craning your neck to the side to look at him.

"'M not..." he huffs, pulling his head back and gazing down at you. "Not fuckin' you in the stairwell, dove. 'S filthy back here."

Your face heats up even more - the fact that he had to hold himself back from disheveling you right now is an unspoken compliment. "Can we take it upstairs?"

He chuckles and gently sets you down, much to your disdain. "No. Got a bar to run." He says, preening at the way you pout at that. "And I'm takin' you out, first."

"Out?"

"Yea, for lunch."

"Wh- where?"

"You decide. Monday."

Monday - that's deep-clean day. "Don't we have to be here at noon?"

He chuckles. Always worrying about losing your job. "I'll make an exception. Won't fire ya for goin' on a date with me."

Date. God, you could scream. "But what if Price-"

"If that man ever threatens your position at this pub," Simon leans down, gently grabbing your chin between his fingers, "you come to me, n' I'll knock some sense into 'im. Sound good?"

You're too starstruck to register half of what he's said. Simon Riley's just kissed you. AND admitted to wanting to fuck you. Now, he's taking you on a date on Monday. Did you have any plans? Doesn't matter. If you do, they're cancelled.

"Uh huh..." you say, absentmindedly leaning into his touch.

Looking down at you: you, you... god, can he call you his? Is that too soon? The stars in your eyes while you're staring at him, the struggle within himself to avoid both adoration and getting hard(er)... He takes another deep breath, thumb running down the blossoming hickey on your neck.

"Right." he taps your cheek softly, then goes to tuck his shirt back in from where you'd torn it from the waistband. "Go ahead n' take a minute. Come to the bar 'fore you leave."

He grabs the handle to leave, hesitating only for a moment. Both of you seem to have the same idea, sharing a hive mind with each other. You quickly move forward and he leans down as you both kiss again, slower, trying to savor this one. Honey drips from your brain into your chest, every cell in your body screaming in relief, satisfaction, and pure joy...

He breaks away again, laying a kiss to the crown of your head. You sit down on the stairs as he walks back onto the pub floor. He's still hard, and it's plain as day - but he could care less right now. He's got you just as much as you've had him. There's a lightness in his shoulders, a voice in his head that you've finally plucked free and thrown into the abyss, only to be replaced by your own being.

You're still sitting on the stairs, massaging your tits through your shirt as you try to smooth your nipples out. Your mind is racing a million miles a minute. What should I wear? Will Price be upset? Should we try to hide this? Will anyone care? Should I wear perfume or just body spray? Is work going to be weird now? He's not going to treat me differently, is he?

You sigh, biting your lip and trudging up the stairs. Your fingers run over the hickey on your neck. I need to find a whisk.

bartender ghost who takes one of your tables who was argumentative and rude after you begged and bargained with him (he only caved when you said you’d ask soap)

Omg he'd totally think he could make you work for it too - you come up grumbling how table three is being so rude and they sent the food back twice, and they're treating you like you spat on your food or something.

"They'd be much nicer if you took them." You say, leaning over the bar.

"An' why's that?" He replies, pouring the contents of a shaker into a salt-rimmed glass.

"You look like you could set them straight."

"'N that's a good thing?"

"You're not afraid to be mean!"

"You jus' smacked the life out of four uni kids last week."

You huff, dropping your forehead against the bar. "You're mean..."

"Y' jus' said I was."

"Pretty please?" You beg, looking up at him. Simon has to steel his gaze to the shaker, pouring liquor and bitters and ingredients into it as he refuses to look at you. You got him last time with this trick - he'd caved like a tower of cards. But now, he's prepared. His eyes don't meet your pout (or your breasts pushing up against the bar), instead focusing on the drink before him.

"Not happenin." He says, shaking the drink with a strong arm. "This is your job, remember?"

You sigh and give up the act. "You can't even say anything to them?"

"Like wot?"

"Like- I dunno, just go as them 'is everythin' ok?' Like you do, you know, all scary."

He chuckles. "Ya got t' stand up for yourself, luv. Can't fight your battles."

You groan in defeat just as Soap pops out from the kitchen, placing two plates of food in front of you. "Got tae bring out yer own scran, Bonnie - 'm not yer food runner."

"Johnny!" You exclaim before he can disappear back into the kitchen. He gives you a quizzical look.

"Could you bring it to the table for me?"

Simon stops pouring the drinks, frozen in his spot.

"I jus' said nae!!"

"Please? They're being assholes about the food-"

"Oi, lower your voice." Simon barks, and you shoot him an apologetic wince.

"They're gonna complain about the food again if you don't talk to them yourself."

"Bullshit, I'm not doin' tha'."

Ghost smirked behind his mask. Taught Johnny well.

"I'll give you half of their tip."

Soap paused. "Nae, gimme the shot where ye slap me after."

"Deal!"

"No- no deal-" Simon growled, putting his drinks on the bar. He's not letting you drench Soap in water and slap him across the face, because he knows the lad will be more turned on than a lightswitch. "Fuckin' animals you two." He grabs the plates, and glares down at you. "'M not doin' this for you again."

"I won't ask again - promise." You giggle, and he wants to be mad at you, he wants to hate the sound... but he'd make a fool out of himself a thousand times, over and over, just like this, to see you looking up at him with that smile - you know you've got him wrapped around your finger, he fears, grumbling as he goes to have a chat with the bothersome table.