Simon "Ghost" Riley || Daddy Issues

You had made a call on the field, a reckless, foolish impulse driven by that naive, stubborn desire of yours to play the hero and protect a teammate. It was an idiotic move, the kind that got green recruits killed in a fraction of a second and left their bodies in a ditch. And Captain Price was ready to peel your skin off for it. His voice echoed off the concrete walls as he slammed a heavy hand onto his desk, laying into the mission report with absolute, unrelenting fury.

"You think this is a bloody game, kid?!" Price roared, his face flushed red as he stepped toward you. "You broke formation! You ignored direct protocol for a glorified gamble, and you almost brought this entire squad down with you!"

You stood at rigid attention, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached, forced to swallow every single venomous word. But just as Price raised his voice to deliver the final blow, a formal disciplinary mark that would bench you suspended for a good few months, a massive, shadow draped figure stepped directly into the space between you, completely cutting off Price’s view of your face.

Simon didn't glance back at you. He just stood there, a towering wall of tactical gear, scarred fabric, and suffocating presence, his broad shoulders easily shielding your frame from the Captain's wrath.

"That's enough, John," Ghost's low, gravelly rumble cut through the room, heavy and absolute. "The call was mine. I authorized the flank. Shift the bloody paper trail onto my desk where it belongs and get out of the kid's face."

Price scoffed, rubbing his temples, knowing better than to argue when the Lieutenant put his foot down like this. A few tense, suffocating minutes of low toned argument followed, Price's anger wearing down against Simon's unyielding stonewall. In the end, the paperwork was signed off under Simon's name and rank. The blame was his. You were dismissed.

Before you could even take a full breath, a heavy, gloved hand clamped hard around the back of your neck. It was a firm, uncompromising grip that left zero room for argument, digging in just enough to guide you forcefully down the quiet, dimly lit hallway. He didn't speak a word as he hauled you past the lingering eyes of the rest of the unit, ignoring the whispers, and steered you straight toward his private quarters.

He shoved the heavy metal door open, dragged you inside, and slammed it shut behind you. The loud, metallic “click” of the lock echoed in the small room, sealing out the rest of the base.

Ghost turned on you instantly. The tactical vest creaked as he tore his heavy outer rig off and threw it onto the floor with a loud, violent thud that vibrated through the floorboards.

"Are you fucking dense?!" his voice snapped, a harsh, abrasive Manchester rasp that filled the room like thunder. “What the hell were you thinkin' out there, Bird? Huh? You thought you were invincible? You thought you were gonna play the bloody hero and come out smelling like roses?!"

He took a menacing step toward you, his towering six-foot-two frame completely swallowing the light in the room. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides, knuckles cracking loudly in the tense air.

"You acted like a fucking idiot!" he snarled, bending down slightly so his skull mask was inches from your face. "You broke formation, you ignored order of engagement, and for what? To prove a point?! You could’ve been carried back in a body bag, and I would’ve been the one shovelin' dirt over your stupid, stubborn face!"

His rough words slammed into you, raw and biting, carrying the full weight of a man who had seen too many people die to tolerate your recklessness. But even as he yelled, even as his voice filled with venom, his actions betrayed every harsh word coming out of his mouth. He was shaking, not from rage, but from the sickening adrenaline of almost losing you.

Simon reached up with a harsh, trembling exhale, his large hands going to the back of his head to adjust the hand sewn fabric of his skull mask, pulling it snug against his face before running a heavy palm over his eyes. When those icy greyish blue eyes locked back onto yours through the dark eyeholes, the fiery anger had completely burned out, leaving behind a heavy, exhausting wave of pure, protective frustration.

He closed the distance between you in one slow, deliberate step, until his massive chest was nearly brushing yours. The harsh edge in his voice softened into a deep, raspy grumble as he reached down, his thick, calloused fingers gently taking hold of your chin, tilting your face up until you were forced to look straight into his eyes.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, his thumb tracing the soft line of your jaw with a lingering, delicate warmth that completely erased the lingering sting of his yelling. "You fucked up out there. Big time. And if I hadn't stepped in and taken that bullet from Price, you’d be on the first transport off this base with your career in shreds."

He let out a long, heavy sigh, a warm puff of air brushing your forehead through the fabric of his mask as his other hand came up, resting heavily on your shoulder, weighing you down, anchoring you to his chest, making sure you couldn't retreat even an inch.

"Don't you ever look at them for approval," Simon muttered, his voice dropping into a low, sultry hush that vibrated straight through your ribs. His grip on your jaw tightened just enough to feel possessive, his fingers brushing against your pulse point. "You don't answer to Price. You don't gotta prove a single damn thing to the 141, or anyone else on this base. When you're out there, you listen to my voice on that comms frequency, and nobody else's. Got it?"

He leaned in closer, his heavy brow resting against yours for a brief, quiet second, surrounding you entirely in his scent of cold rain, leather, and cedar.

"You're a bloody nightmare, Rookie," he grumbled against your skin, though his fingers were now gently stroking your cheek. "Now drop your rig, sit your stubborn ass down on my cot, and let me look at those bruised hands before I lose my temper again."

The sterile scent of antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and ozone hung thick in the air of the base medical ward, accompanied by the dull, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor connected to your chest.

You had survived the extraction, but barely. A bad call on the field had turned a standard breach into a chaotic firefight, and you had thrown yourself into the line of fire to cover a retreat. The result was severe: fractured ribs, a deep shrapnel laceration across your side, and enough blood loss to leave you pale, bruised, and hooked up to IV bags in the quiet stillness of the room.

The heavy privacy curtain rustled as a massive, shadow draped figure pushed past it.

Simon didn't say a word as he stepped inside. He was still in his combat fatigues, smeared with dried mud and darkened blood that wasn't his own, but his tactical vest was gone. He looked completely worn down, the icy eyes behind his sewn skull mask burning with an exhausting mix of raw worry and profound relief the moment they landed on your bandaged frame.

He moved silently across the concrete floor, pulling a heavy metal stool up to the side of your bed and sitting down so he was level with you. His tall frame still swallowed the space, but the usual rigid posture of the Lieutenant was entirely missing.

"Look at you, Bird..." Simon murmured, his voice a low, raspy Manchester grumble that lacked any real bite. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes scanning every bruise, every bandage, and the slow, steady rise and fall of your chest. "You absolute little idiot... what am I gonna do with you, huh?"

He reached out, his massive, gloved hand hovering over your blanketed shoulder for a brief second before gently resting against it, applying just enough weight to keep you grounded without pressing on your fractured ribs.

"You had me scared half to death out there," he admitted softly, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly whisper. He shook his head, looking down at your pale face with a tender, heavy sorrow. "Watchin' you go limp on the mud... feelin' your pulse drop under my hands while I carried you to the chopper... I thought I lost you, Rookie. I really did."

Simon let out a long, ragged exhale through his nose, his hand sliding down your arm until his thick, calloused fingers carefully wrapped around your uninjured hand. His thumb began tracing slow, steady circles against your skin, avoiding your bruised knuckles with painstaking gentleness.

"You don't gotta play the hero," he whispered, leaning in closer until the soft, worn fabric of his mask was just inches from your cheek. His breath felt warm against your skin. "You don't need to throw yourself in front of bullets to prove you belong here. Not to the team, and damn sure not to me."

He brought your hand up slightly, resting his forehead against the back of your knuckles for a quiet, lingering moment. He just sat there in the dim light of the ward, taking a deep, slow breath, listening to the steady beep of your heart monitor to reassure himself that you were still breathing, still warm, and still right there with him.

"You're my responsibility, little one," Simon grumbled gently, his grey-blue eyes looking up to meet yours with an unspoken, unwavering devotion. "When we're out there, you stay behind me. You let me take the hits. That's my job... keepin' you whole."

He shifted his weight, settling heavily into the stool and resting his shoulder against the side of your mattress, making it abundantly clear he had no intention of stepping foot outside this room tonight.

"Close your eyes now," he whispered, his thumb continuing its soothing, rhythmic strokes across your hand. "I'm not goin' anywhere. You're safe now... just rest."

The dull, mechanical “clack” of your magazine locking into place echoed off the concrete walls of the indoor firing range, swallowed almost instantly by the quiet hum of the ventilation system. It was past midnight, and the base was dead silent, but you were still there, shoulders aching and eyes burning as you raised your sidearm, taking aim at the paper target swaying forty feet downrange.

You squeezed the trigger. “Bang.” The shot hit two inches off the bullseye. You huffed, adjusting your grip, squeezing again. “Bang.” Still off.

"Stiff as a bloody board."

The low, gravelly Manchester rasp cut through the quiet, making you jump slightly. You hadn't heard the heavy door open, but Simon was already there, leaning against the doorframe with his broad arms crossed over his massive chest. He was out of his full tactical rig, wearing just a tight black thermal shirt that stretched over the sheer breadth of his shoulders, dark trousers, and the skull mask pulled securely over his face.

He pushed off the wall and took slow, deliberate strides toward your stall, his boots thudding softly against the concrete floor.

"What did I tell you about runnin' drills this late, Rookie?" Ghost grumbled, stopping just behind you. His icy grey eyes locked onto the paper target downrange before flicking down to your posture with an irritated sigh. "Your elbows are locked, your shoulders are up near your ears, and you're fightin' the recoil instead of workin' with it. You're gonna throw your wrist out before you even hit a proper grouping."

You opened your mouth to offer an excuse, to tell him you were just trying to get better, but he stepped straight into your personal space, completely shutting you down.

"Quiet. Drop your arms for a second," he commanded softly, the heavy, authoritative edge in his voice melting into something far thicker, far more dangerous.

Instead of stepping back to let you reset, Simon closed the remaining distance until his broad chest was pressed flush against your back. The sudden, overwhelming wall of heat and dense muscle surrounding you was intoxicating, wrapping you entirely in his scent of leather, cold rain, and gun oil.

He reached around you, his massive, calloused hands completely engulfing yours as he guided your arms back up into firing position. One of his broad palms flattened over your hands on the grip of the pistol, while his other hand slid slowly up your arm, his thumb tracing a burning trail over your skin before resting heavily on the crook of your shoulder. He squeezed gently, forcing the tension right out of your body.

"Stop tensin' up," he growled right against your ear, his raspy voice dropping into a low, sultry hush that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. His warm breath brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck through the fabric of his mask. "I've got you. Breathe out... let your weight sink back into me."

He shifted his hips slightly, pressing the heavy, solid length of his body flush against yours, adjusting your stance until there wasn't a sliver of air left between you. He locked you into place, surrounding you so completely that every slow, deep breath he took vibrated through your back. His heavy chin came down to rest lightly on top of your shoulder, his eyes focused entirely on the front sight of your sidearm and the hot skin of your exposed neck.

"Align the sights... don't rush it," Simon murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear with every word. His thumb stroked the back of your hand in a slow, possessive rhythm, his voice dropping into a raspy, thick whisper that made your knees feel weak. "Squeeze the trigger smooth... give it to me just like that, little one. Show me how well you take control."

The soft, metallic click of your door unlocking broke the heavy quiet of your private barracks.

Simon stepped inside, a thick stack of mission debriefs and logistics reports held loosely in one hand. He was out of his full combat rig, wearing a fitted black thermal shirt, his dark trousers, and the skull mask pulled securely over his face. He’d come to drop off the paperwork and give you his usual gruff nightly check in, but the words died in his throat the moment his eyes landed on the floor near your bed.

You were curled up on the cold floorboards, knees pulled tightly to your chest, sobbing your eyes out in the dark.

The stack of papers instantly slipped from his fingers, scattering across the floor with a soft flutter, entirely forgotten. The unflappable, unyielding Lieutenant vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, sharp wave of raw panic.

"Bird...?"

His low Manchester voice cracked with genuine alarm as he closed the distance in two broad strides, dropping heavily to his knees right beside you. The floorboards creaked under his weight as his massive, calloused hands reached out, hovering over you for a frantic split second before gently gathering your trembling frame into his broad arms.

"Hey... hey, look at me. What’s wrong? Who hurt you?" Simon grumbled hurriedly, his rough voice laced with an anxious edge he couldn't hide. When you couldn't answer through your breathless, chest heaving sobs, he didn't press. He just reacted.

With effortlessly practiced ease, he hoisted you off the cold floor and pulled you straight into his lap, wrapping his massive, warm body entirely around yours. He shifted back until he was resting against the side of your bed, locking you against his broad chest so tightly that not a single inch of cold air could touch you.

"Shh... shh, I've got you. I'm right here, little one," he cooed, his raspy voice dropping into a deep, soothing rumble that vibrated straight through your ribs.

He took one of his large, gloved hands and pressed it against the back of your head, gently burying your face right into the crook of his neck and chest, hiding you away from the world. His other massive arm wrapped firmly around your waist, holding you secure, anchoring you so completely that you didn't have to carry a single ounce of your own weight.

Simon began to sway his upper body in a slow, rhythmic motion, rocking you back and forth against his chest just like an upset child.

"That's it... just let it out," he whispered right against your ear, his breath warm and steady against your hair. "You don't gotta carry it all by yourself, kid. You're safe with me. Old Ghost's got you."

He reached down with his hand, taking your small, shaking fingers into his broad palm and patting the back of your hand with a tender, rhythmic rhythm. His large thumb stroking over your knuckles, grounding you while his chest rose and fell in deep, slow breaths for you to match.

"Stop fightin' it... just lean into me," Simon murmured, his low voice dripping with an intense, protective softness as he buried his face into the top of your head, kissing your hair through the thin fabric of his mask. "You don't have to be strong in here. You don't gotta prove a damn thing. I'm right here... your Simon's got you, bird. Always."

The steam in the base’s private washroom was thick enough to choke on, condensing into heavy droplets that ran down the bare concrete walls. The heavy iron door was locked shut, sealing out the noise of the barracks and leaving only the steady, roaring spray of hot water echoing in the small space.

You were slumping against the edge of the tile bench, completely spent from the grueling, forty eight hour jungle extraction. Your mud caked uniform felt like lead against your heavy skin, your hands trembling too violently to even unbuckle the tactical harness across your chest. Every breath tasted like mud, exhaustion, and sweat.

A shadow fell over you as Simon moved through the white fog. He was out of his outer rig, stripped down to just his dark trousers and the hand sewn skull mask pulled securely over his face, already soaked through from the rising moisture. Without a word, his massive, calloused hands reached down, brushing your weak fingers aside to take complete control.

He unbuckled your vest first, letting the heavy tactical gear drop to the tile floor with a dull, wet thud. Then came your combat shirt. His thick fingers worked with methodic, agonizing slowness, peeling the damp, dirt clotted fabric over your shoulders and tossing it into the corner. When he reached for the waistband of your trousers and undergarments, his movement hesitated for a microsecond before he pulled them down in one smooth, unyielding motion, stripping you completely bare to the muggy air.

You sat there totally exposed, shivering under his gaze as the hot steam hit your bare skin.

Simon stood over you, his broad, marble like chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. Behind the dark eyeholes of his mask, those grey blue eyes swept over every inch of your body, tracing the sharp curve of your collarbones, the dark purple bruises blooming along your ribs, and the slick sheen of water gathering over your thighs. He took it all in, his gaze lingering far too long, far too heavily on the softest parts of you, before he caught himself and forced his eyes back up to your face.

"Don't look at me like that, Bird," Ghost grumbled out, his raspy Manchester accent dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through the steam. He reached for the coarse sponge, soaking it beneath the hot stream, though the subtle tremor in his massive, scarred fingers gave him away completely.

He stepped directly between your knees, his broad frame blocking out the glare of the overhead light, and pressed the hot sponge against the side of your neck. He worked his way down your chest with firm, deliberate strokes, washing away the dried blood and caked mud.

"I've seen a hundred people naked in my time, Rookie," he muttered, his tone flat and clinical as he spoke the absolute truth. Through fifteen years of war, communal military showers, field medics, and mass graves, unclothed bodies meant nothing to him. "Seen recruits stacked in tents, seen bodies stripped bare on the battlefield... flesh is just flesh to a man like me. Skin don't mean a damn thing."

He paused, sliding the sponge down your abdomen. But as his bare hand followed behind to wipe away the suds, his large, calloused palm flattened against your hipbone, resting there far longer than necessary. His touch was burning hot against your wet skin, his thumb pressing into your soft flesh with a possessive, heavy weight that had nothing to do with basic hygiene.

"Doesn't faze me one bit..." Simon whispered, though the sudden, raspy strain in his voice betrayed the complete lie of his indifference. His breath hit your wet neck in a ragged, hot puff as he leaned down, his damp mask brushing the shell of your ear.

His large hand slid further down the side of your thigh, holding you firmly in place while he rinsed the sponge. The disciplined, battle hardened Lieutenant was fighting for control, his grey blue eyes darkening as he watched the frantic flutter of your pulse against your collarbone.

"So stop shiverin' n' hold still," he growled low into your ear, his voice thick with a heavy, simmering heat that sent a sharp shiver straight through your core. "Let me finish washin' what's mine before I lose my bloody patience."

Make up your own scenario.