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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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Home. (ALT ENDING) || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 3K (this one got away from me, sorry) Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: mentions of psychological issues, mentions of self-harm, mentions of therapy Tags: you/your pronouns, hurt/comfort, ANGST, forgiveness, catharsis. a/n: not proofread. THIS IS THE HAPPY ENDING. I'M STILL NOT HAPPY WITH IT, BUT IT IS WHAT IT IS.

[FIC MASTERLIST] || [MY MASTERLIST]

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Anyone would say that Simon Riley is good.

Good company for going out drinking.

A good partner for duos in training.

A good shot.

A good soldier.

A good candidate.

A good recruit.

A good lad.

But Simon would say he’s a bad, bad man.

Even before he took this job.

Destined to rot from the inside out.

To become the things he’s promised himself to not ever become.

Finding a way out of home, out of the trauma, only works if some of it is not already inside of you.

Slowly eating you up.

Ever-lasting.

All-consuming.

That’s what Simon figured out in the last 15 years.

Grief.

Depression.

Rage.

Antisocial tendencies.

Psychopathy.

PTSD.

Compartmentalization of emotions and trauma.

Tendencies for self-harm and self-sabotage.

Fear of vulnerability.

Trust issues.

An inclination for isolation.

A past muddled by juvenile delinquency and early drug and alcohol use.

An avoidant attachment style in any relationships he attempts to form due to an inability to truly connect with others.

An identity crisis stemming from low self-worth and a disturbed self-image.

The list goes on.

Simon would say he’s got it all under control.

But any Army-appointed psychiatrist would disagree.

And he’s too valuable of an asset to let go of…

Just the ‘depression’ diagnosis would land the average soldier on a watchlist and the ‘tendencies to self-harm’ would get anyone a medical discharge and interned into a psych ward.

Thank God Simon’s not the average soldier.

Price has been pulling strings to keep him around, calling in favors to people for his sake and getting people to turn a blind eye to the fact Simon Riley has not gone to a single routine psych check in the better part of a decade.

In exchange, however, that forced Simon to take a deal with Price and instead see an off-site psych expert. A friend of Price’s, a retired psychiatrist who has no way of getting him discharged.

As such, every time he goes on leave he drives some 4 or so hours from Hereford to a small village in Cumbria up north to see her. He always spends the first week of his leave there, in a chalet right smack in the middle of the Lake District National Park… It’s peaceful and nice. Over those 5 to 7 days, he talks about anything and everything.

At first he hated it, but with time, it did bring him clarity on a lot of his issues without any sort of danger or judgement. In her words, Dr. Armstrong had been dealing with John’s shit for “far too long”, and nothing Simon would tell her would make a dent on the appalling things she’s heard… And true to her word, Simon hadn’t spotted any shock or discomfort in her, even as he spoke of some utterly vile things.

She made him feel heard, understood, welcome… alive, even if more often than not he didn’t quite feel human. He always came in the door like the ghost of his moniker, a shadow, with steps too hard, body too stiff, breathing too tense, eyes too sharp… And left with an ease and lightness uncharacteristic to someone like him… Dr. Armstrong unraveled all the damage during those 5 to 7 grueling days… Only for him return to base and begin the process of hardening himself once again.

He’s thirty-three, you’re thirty-two today.

He dragged himself out of the comfortable bed in the guest house nearby to the chalet, and threw on a hoodie and some slides before he ventured out to the main house across the stepping stone walkway and into the house through the sliding glass doors.

Dr. Armstrong was already at the breakfast nook in the kitchen when he came in. She’s not quite gone gray, but she’s getting there. Her face is steadily getting more wrinkled compared to 10 years ago when this started. She’s wearing a light blue robe and a set of warm pajamas. Her hair cut into a pixie à la Judi Dench. “Good morning, Simon.”

Simon, meanwhile, is all disheveled, hair sticking up from having just woken up, face peppered with a 5 o’clock shadow, eyes still crusty and face unwashed. “Mornin’.” He grumbled as he poured himself a cup of tea and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

“How did you sleep?” She asked him as she regarded him over her green-frame reading glasses, which adorned the tip of her nose. She took a sip of a black mug with a cat’s whiskers drawn in it in white.

“Same as usual…” He replied as he stirred some milk into his tea. He grabbed the plain toasted bread and plopped it into a plate and began to turn to join her at the table when she set down her tea mug and leaned her elbows on the table, giving him a pointed look with a cocked brow.

Holding back a groan akin to a moody teenage boy’s, he set down the plate and cuppa, and grabbed some butter and a knife, spreading it over the toasted bread. He was thankful that Dr. Armstrong forced him to take care of himself, he was… But it doesn’t mean he was happy about it. “How did you sleep?” He returned.

“Slept well, thank you.” She replied and kept a stern watch over him as he reached the fridge and grabbed a yogurt and a small box of raspberries. He poured the yogurt into a bowl, topped it with the fruit and a drizzle of honey from the bowl in the corner of the counter, and then took his slightly more nutritious meal to the table.

She watched him closely as he began to eat his buttered toast, letting him have a moment of stewing in the ‘forced’ meal. She took off her glasses, folding them shut, and set them aside, along with her tablet, and stared at him.

In a way, Simon was more of a son than a patient to her, after so many years helping undo the damage the military and his childhood wracked on his head. He looked forward to the routine, needed it, so much that if he didn’t have these moments with her as often as he had grown accustomed to, he’d start acting a bit erratic. A bit more prone to violence, a bit harder to contain, a bit harder for John to keep a handle on. “What’s on your mind this morning?” She asked him with a cocked brow.

He finished his toasted and wiped his mouth. Then he started toying with the spoon resting on the edge of his yogurt bowl. “That it’s a bad week to be here.” He told her.

“And why is it a bad week, Simon?” She asked him as she leaned her head on her palm.

“There was this girl,” He began to say before he spooned some yogurt into his mouth. He had long stopped wearing a mask while staying over at Dr. Armstrong’s house. His scars were always on display for her to see. “who I grew up with. Her birthday is this week.”

The older woman nodded her head as she watched him closely. “I see. And… this ‘girl’... Was she a friend? A girlfriend?”

“I guess.” Simon said as he ate another spoon of yogurt, brown eyes lowered and focused on the red raspberries suspended atop the fatty yogurt. “We were like…” He trailed off. “She was… erm…” He stopped again and exhaled through his nose.

“I see.” The doctor said as she kept watching him. He kept eating quietly. “And… I assume you don’t talk to her anymore?” She asked.

“No.” Simon replied. “After I joined the Army, she moved away from Manchester and we lost contact.” He said softly.

“Do you still think about it?” She asked him. “About her?”

“Sometimes.” He admitted as he stirred his spoon in his bowl before sighing again and eating another spoonful. “A few times a year… Around her birthday, and mine. And Christmas… And the anniversary of the day we met…” He listed.

“And how does it feel…? Nice? Sad? Bittersweet?” She trailed off, knowing sometimes Simon needed help verbalizing his emotions.

“Sad.” He replied bluntly and ate a couple of spoonfuls of yogurt in a row before pushing the now empty bowl aside with the spoon resting inside of it.

“And cruel.” The woman watched as he rolled his shoulders, a bit tense, and raised his irises to look at her, eyes softened. “It’s been 15 years since she left Manc, left me and I-” He trailed off.

Looking away, he kept talking, and talking. “I still think about her. I think I’m okay, I think I’m doing good, doing better, and then those dates come and I’m reminded that she exists, that she’s out there, that she… that she went off and found herself a place and I’m here, and have nothing to show for it, just some stupid fucking medals pinned to the breast of my suit and blood on my hands that doesn’t wash off in the fucking sink.” He hissed bitterly, his eyes unfocused as he poured it all out.

“She was like me. We did everything together, were basically attached at the hip. She was my partner in crime, like a home away from home. Sure, dad beat me and mum, and scared us all and I’m much better now and I’ve grown up, but nothing feels okay. Nothing feels normal or good. It’s all just… just bullshit!” He hissed, his breathing beginning to grow faster. “I go through the motions but I don’t feel okay, I don’t feel safe.” He turned his head away from Doctor Armstrong.

“The last time I felt safe I was in her arms, looking into her eyes and telling her that I loved her for the first time and making all these promises for a future that didn’t happen. A future I stole from the two of us.” He grumbled. “And the worst part is that I used to blame her for leaving, for seeking out a better life, a better place! Maybe I still blame her… But it’s not her fault. It’s really not.” Simon’s eyes began to water in a way they never have before.

“It’s all my fault. There’s no one to blame but me. The last conversation we had was a stupid fucking argument where I looked her in the eyes, the girl I loved, and told her to stop relying on me… She was looking to me for help, to get her out, to get us both somewhere safe…” He stopped and pressed his lips together to contain a sob. His eyes squeezed shut as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I was going to marry her.” He confessed and groaned. “I came back from Aghanistan and bought a ring, because while I was out there, with bullets whizzing past me and watching my brothers in arms fall like flies, all I wanted was to do was go back to her… And I was completely expecting her to be there… To be waiting for me…” He trailed off. “After I broke her heart and told her to leave… I… I somehow expected her to have been weak… to have stayed. And she was strong enough to leave.” He nodded as he pondered on it.

“And the worst part is that I want to know what happened to her. I want…” He trailed off. “I know it’s been so long and she probably doesn’t think about me and even if she did, she wouldn’t want to ever step foot anywhere near her and it’s not like I want to see her, or to meet with her or to… I don’t know, pick up where we left off?” He ranted more and more. “I just… I want to know she’s okay, I want to know she’s alive. I pray every year that she didn’t turn to hard drugs and die of an overdose on a street corner somewhere… I…” He trailed off. “I need her to be alive and healthy and safe and… happy.”

Doctor Armstrong’s eyes softened as a lightbulb went off in her head. She had finally found the genesis to most of Simon’s issues. The grief of the past, the depression, the antisocial tendencies, his propenture for isolation, his fear of vulnerability, his trust issues, his inability to truly connect with others, the avoidant attachment style to any relationships he does attempt to have…

It was because he was attached to her, whoever this girl he spoke of was. He grieved her, he missed her, he couldn’t pursue a meaningful relationship when he had lost such a deep one… A relationship, an attachment, formed through trauma, unhealthy, sure, but one that resulted in a bond. Any attempts of his to ‘move on’ felt wrong and soured quickly. And until now she couldn’t figure out why that was… thinking he just kept unhealthily self-sabotaging… until now.

That morning was a first in many ways. Simon was speaking unprompted, Simon was voicing his emotions, Simon was confronting his past, Simon was admitting to his mistakes, Simon was expressing his wants. He was not just opening up, but he was actively prioritizing his wants, his feelings… It was huge for someone whose sense of self was as skewed as Simon’s.

It only took ten years… But they were making progress.

‘You just have to write her a letter, Simon. Let her know you don’t mean to impose on her life, but that you simple hope she’s doing well, thank her for having been part of your life. Keep it simple, concise. You can do that.’

Dr. Armstrong severely underestimated Simon’s ability to follow her request. Granted, most of the time he follows them no problem… But when it comes to you? Yikes.

‘Simple, concise’ became 38 and a half pages. None of it proofread. He felt like he passed out and when he woke up he had 38 pages of straight up gibberish, half-baked thoughts and equally half-baked pages. He doesn’t even remember what the fuck he wrote (probably because he was drunk and high, his first time smoking in 15 years).

Trying to read it gave him a headache, so he just transfered it into a Word document, the only file in an all-black slide-out USB drive, and stuffed the USB and a note saying ‘From Simon Riley’ into an envelope. He didn’t even dare send it himself. He simply dropped it off in the mail-out box at base and and called it a day.

That was 3 months ago.

As he lays in bed after dinner, he silently hopes to God that you’re ignoring him and tossed out the USB drive without even reading the mess of text in it… Or even that the address Laswell’s analysts found for you in Scotland was wrong.

But he also can’t bear to imagine someone else opening the envelope, checking the USB drive and finding that letter and-

A buzzing awakes him from his thoughts and he looks across the room to his phone which is charging on his desk in the corner. He moves across the room swiftly, finding a number he doesn’t recognize has sent him a text.

It has to be you. He’s careful with his number, he doesn’t give it out willy-nilly. Only Price, Laswell and Nik have it. And you, since he included it in the document.

Taking a deep breath, he clicks the text on the screen, his brown eyes screwing shut as if it was about to explode. Or maybe it was just his heart racing that made him feel that.

He was afraid.

Simon Riley was afraid.

The Ghost wouldn’t protect him now.

Not from you.

Or, rather, not for the way Simon might react when it comes to you.

Deep breaths, Simon told himself.

Deep breaths.

In…

… and out.

Throwing open his eyes, he looked at the screen, finding one tiny little paragraph in the bright green chat bubble:

hi riley… read your letter a bunch of times… truth be told i didnt know how to answer it, been trying to find what to say for weeks on weeks now and coming up short. if ur free anytime soon can we just have a call over the phone? might be easier. if not then im glad to hear ur fine and that u found success x

Simon reads and rereads your text over and over and over…

And then something in him snaps. He clicks the phone button next to your unsaved contact and then stares at the screen, eyes wide and frantic, not even considering that you might not be ready, that you might be busy, that you asked for ‘one of these days’ and not ‘right now’...

The call connects.

Simon holds his breath.

And so do you, he can hear your little gasp.

The counter at the top of the screen ticks by.

00:01

00:02

00:03

00:04

00:05

00:06

00:07

00:08

00:09

00:10

00:11

00:12

00:13

00:14

00:15

Simon’s eyes begin to well up with tears, he can hear your breath on the other side, but he’s too much of a coward to say anything.

00:16

00:17

00:18

00:19

00:20

00:21

00:22

00:23

Thank God that you’re not.

You’ve always been stronger than him.

“Riley?” You whisper his name.

Taking a deep breath, he opens his mouth to speak… But all that escapes him is a stupid little “Hm?”

You pause again, your breath catching in your throat again… before you say it:

“I forgive you.”

His world nearly collapses at that moment and a sob escapes him, a sound so pathetic and weak that he wants to beat himself over it before Dr. Armstrong’s words ring in his head:

‘You can’t keep suppressing your emotions, it’s okay to cry.’

And so he does. He sobs, audibly so, big fat tears running down his face as he lets his back hit the wall and slide down it until he’s sat on the floor.

“Riley…” You whimper, and it sounds like you’re on the verge of crying as well.

He doesn’t want to make you cry. He really doesn’t…

But he can’t stop…

For the first time in forever, he feels exactly the one thing Dr. Armstrong has told him he deserves to feel:

At peace.

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TAGGING ANYONE WHO READ/COMMENTED THE FIC (there's only like... 10 of you total, I'm so sorry)

taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving , @lyralein , @heavenlyrivers , @depressed-but-make-it-cute , @myhomeworksnotdone , @captainquake42 , @waiting-so-long , @erensonly , @pieckyghost

Thank you so much for reading this fic, to the people who've read it here and on AO3! Your support mean the world to me!

#ikea writes 💚#home cbf!simon fic #cod fanfic #tw psychological issues #psych diagnosis #time skip #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #childhood best friends to lovers #cbf #cbf!simon #teenage love #masterlist #catharsis

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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Home Pt.9 - END || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: E Words: 1.8K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: death, death of a CHILD, house fire, corpses, grief, cemetery, some smut. Tags: you/your pronouns, SOME SMUT, ANGST, HURT NO COMFORT, heartbreak, grief and loss, loss of identity, canonical Ghost backstory, UNHAPPY ENDING. a/n: not proofread. THIS IS THE END (it WILL be angst and nothing else... but I'll write a happy ending alternative soon).

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Is it macabre to attend your own funeral? Probably.

Nonetheless, Simon Ghost found himself standing near the back of the cemetery, watching on.

His family wasn’t particularly well-loved in the neighborhood… but when a tragedy like this happens, especially one involving a boy so young as his nephew Joseph… everyone and their mother comes out to pay respects. It’s the “proper thing to do”, they say, even though it’s only out of pity.

However, he has to admit that seeing Oliver, Archie, Jack and Harry, his old mates, come to pay respects, accompanied by their respective families, pulled at his heartstrings a bit. Especially when Archie tapped Oliver in the back while the latter cried.

He’s been here the entire time watching the people come and go, flowers being thrown down into the holes of the Riley family communal grave, and other arrangements being spread all over and around the headstones. Four holes in total. First, ‘Simon’, then his mum Joanna, then Tommy… Then Beth and Joseph in the same one.

It was close-casket, the bodies too badly burned to allow anything else. The fake Simon has the cheapest coffin he could get, leaving the best for his mum, Tommy and Beth… And he had forced himself to pick a beautiful little white coffin for Joseph. He didn’t even think they made coffins that small.

Per his request, they lowered Joseph into the hole first, Beth’s larger coffin covering the little boy’s. Just like she was when Ghost found them. Her lifeless body curled over Joseph’s, cradling him tight to keep him safe below her own chest… It was fruitless.

Ghost allows himself to take a deep breath as, finally, the last few people have walked off. The sun is starting to set and people can only pretend to grieve for so long before the cold wind and the darkness makes them go back home.

In his skull-printed balaclava, black beanie, and black hoodie, Ghost basically blends into the shadows that are starting to take over the cemetery, standing under a tree as his eyes trace the last people walking away from the open graves.

Just days ago Ghost himself was in one of these… buried alive. That’s the night Simon Riley died, he’d say, though, officially, he died in the house fire that took his entire family… A faulty heater during Christmas Eve, you see?

Lost in thought, Ghost doesn’t realize it until now that someone lingered behind. A woman. She moves slowly, tentatively, in the direction of the graves, carrying a couple of bouquets.

More of the same, he thinks… Though he secretly admires the commitment to stay here as the sky is darkening and the air is cooling down.

She places one of the arrangements near the headstones, somewhere amidst the mess of all the other ones…

She flicks on the torch on her phone, to read the names on them… And very gingerly crouches, right in front of ‘his’ grave. She lowers the second bouquet onto it and tosses it carefully on top of the coffin.

Then, she lays her forearms on her knees, letting her hands hang between her legs as she remains crouched in front of his grave. Only to then watch her fold her hands and bring them up to her mouth, to hide the fact she’s crying. He can tell from the way her shoulders rise and fall and and her whole form shakes.

From this distance, he can’t hear her speak, and with the darkness, he can’t see her face.

But he knows.

He knows it’s you.

He watches you fish something out of your pocket and, slowly, toss it down onto the grave too.

He feels his breath being taken away torturously slowly… It feels like someone has grabbed his lungs and forcefully wrung out the air from them like water off a wet rag.

He’s suffocating.

“Merry Christmas!” You cheerfully squealed as you tossed your arms around his neck from behind, strangling him a bit and, shaking him from side to side.

It was freezing outside and you had rushed out in the early morning so you could exchange gifts.

You were twelve, he was thirteen.

“Bloody hell, Y/N, are you tryin’ to kill me?!” He complained playfully as you let go and fake pouted… Then you both broke into laughter.

He tossed a bag of Cadbury mini-eggs at you, which you caught with a giggle. Then, you carefully handed him a little box with a Terry’s chocolate orange in it.

It was all either of you could afford.

“Merry Christmas, you pain in the arse.” He grumbled at you… As if he didn’t have a massive crush on you.

You were thirteen, he was fourteen.

“Merry Christmas, Sleepin’ Beauty.” He said it first, as he watched you sneak out the door carefully at 1:30 A.M. You had agreed to meet at midnight but you took your sweet time because you accidentally overslept.

“Shut up, you tosser.” You scoffed as you stopped in front of him, exchanging your gifts.

Terry’s chocolate orange, Cadbury mini-eggs.

“Go back inside, it’s freezin’.” Simon added as he watched you shiver in your pajamas. Poor thing, he thought, as if he hadn’t been here, in the freezing cold, waiting for you for over an hour.

“I will, I will!” You announced dramatically. “Merry Christmas, Riley.” You added as you reached up and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and rushed back inside. Leaving him outside... but the chill in his bones was long forgotten.

You were fourteen, he was fifteen.

The wall clock at your local pub announced it was midnight.

“Merry Christmas, love.” He told you as he surprised you by dangling the Cadbury mini eggs bag in front of your face.

You leaned up and stole a kiss off his lips, his mouth melting into yours. Your friends around you complained in mock disgust at your PDA.

You pulled away and stuck your tongue out at them, mocking them back, before you turned all your attention to Simon.

You reached into your little shoulder bag and pulled out his chocolate orange, handing it to him. “Merry Christmas.” You told him and smiled sweetly.

You were fifteen, he was sixteen.

You were cuddling in the backseat of his dad’s Renault Clio, smoking together.

You had dozed off a couple of times by now, feeling warm and cosy in his arms, as usual.

Simon looked out of the window, enjoying the sight of the empty farm fields, lightly speckled in white snow.

“Darlin’?” Simon called for you and you stirred awake again.

You lifted your head from his chest, ever so slightly, where you had been lulled to sleep by his rhythmic heartbeat.

“Hm?” You murmured groggily.

“Merry Christmas, lovie.” He whispers as he kisses your forehead.

“Merry Christmas, Riley…” You return as you nuzzle up to his neck, your nose rubbing against his skin.

You’d exchange your gifts before he dropped you off at home…

You were sixteen, he was seventeen.

It was tight in that backseat, his body no longer fitting lengthwise across the backseat and yours just barely fitting too.

Simon thrusted into you, holding one of your legs over his shoulder, while the other wrapped around his hip. His knees were bent and his head was pressed flush against the smooth roof of the car.

Your moans were loud and almost pornographic, forcing him to have to kiss you to shut you up. But even then, he kept up a hard and unforgiving pace, his hips slamming into yours feverishly.

It all stemmed from the undeniable hunger you felt for one another after three months apart while he was in Basic Training.

He couldn’t get enough of you, the way you looked up at him with those tear-filled eyes, your face red from the heat, your breaths erratic, your forehead dripping with sweat…

“Been… thinking… about this… for so long…” He grunted through the strain of trying to hold back his orgasm.

“Simon!” You moaned, your voice jumpy and high-pitched as he kept the rhythm that was driving you both to the brink of exhaustion.

“Three… bloody… fuckin’... months… without you…” He groaned. “God…” He grunted. “Keep moanin’ for me, darlin’... Show me who you belong to.” He demanded.

And you did. You made sure to make yourself heard, calling his name and whining, desperately so, as he made you both reach your limits.

As you both winded down, your weak legs wrapped around his hip, his head lying on your sweaty breasts, he looked up at you. “I love you.” Simon told you.

Your eyes softened when you looked down at him, his brown eyes seemingly even more beautiful that night than they ever had been. “I love you too.” You told him softly.

He pushed up and kissed you sweetly and, after glancing at the dash clock out of the corner of his eye, he chuckled against your lips.

“Merry Christmas.” He murmured. You probably replied something of the sort as well, though he kissed you back into silence.

You would exchange your gifts soon after.

You were seventeen, he was eighteen.

Simon was at the mess, shoulder-to-shoulder with his fellow Corporals, squeezed tight so they could all fit at the table.

His rifle hung around his back, as he lowered his head like an obedient dog while shoveling mashed potatoes and slices of roast turkey into his mouth.

The CO had barked a hurried “Merry Christmas” to the troops before allowing them to dig in.

They hurried to eat.

Simon was one of the first to stand up and rush his tray to the tray return trolley, and then slap his helmet on.

Then, he dashed out the door to join his platoon in the frontlines, swinging his rifle forward.

There was no Terry’s Chocolate Orange that time…

There was never going to be another one.

By the time Simon Ghost finally catches his breath again, you’re pushing back up onto your feet. He imagines you’re about to walk off and leave… But you don’t.

The sun has fully set by now, bathing the cemetery in darkness… And there you are. Still standing.

Grieving over him.

His chest hurts, his heart squeezing with the realization that you are not taking his death well… Even after 15 years.

He wishes he could go forward… To tell you he’s not actually dead… that he just needed to pretend.

He wants to ask you how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to, to tell you how grateful he is that you came, how proud he is that you’re alive and healthy, by the looks of it.

He wants to tell you about his regrets, he wants to apologize, he wants to tell you he wanted to marry you, that he's never loved another woman like he's loved you.

But he doesn’t.

He simply continues to watch you from a distance as you hang around for a long, long time. Longer than anyone else. Hell, longer than Oliver did.

He watches your figure seemingly take a deep breath… And then… you start walking off toward the car park

He’s tempted to follow after you, even if just to watch… just for a moment more.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks up quietly toward 'his' grave, spotting what you threw into it easily.

He recognizes the shiny foil of a Terry's Chocolate Orange amidst the flowers without any issue.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before turning and walking away.

There was a time when you found a home in each other's arms...

But that's dead and buried now... Just like the chocolate orange will be.

And that's for the best.

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taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving

Thank you so much for reading this fic, to the people who've read it here and on AO3! Your support mean the world to me!

#ikea writes 💚#home cbf!simon fic #cod fanfic #tw child death #tw death #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #childhood best friends to lovers #cbf #cbf!simon #teenage love #masterlist #angst #heartbreak #time skip #graveyard

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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Home Pt.3 || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 2.2K~ Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: none? Tags: you/your pronouns, jealousy, a bit smutty (if you squint), ANGST (at the end), teen romance, underage drinking, British slang (attempted). a/n: not proofread.

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You remember the first time Simon got jealous. It was sudden and unexpected. It was just a couple weeks after your first kiss (and dry-humping session), when you were still somewhat uncertain of where you stood, of what you were.

All six members of your friend group were hanging out at a pub you knew. A little hole-in-the-wall spot, whose owner/bartender was an old fart not quite fussed about the idea of having underage kids inside, nor about serving them alcohol.

Simon, your cousin Oliver, Archie, Jack, Harry, aka the same boys you met that night a few years before, and Emily, Olly’s girlfriend. Simon and you had been somewhat avoiding each other. You still hung out, but less so in private, too embarrassed and awkward to properly face each other after what you did.

Most of the lads were playing pool in the corner leaving you and Emily to your own devices, parked in a booth in the corner, chatting about all sorts of random things, gossiping, drinking cheap beer, and eating roasted peanuts. The seats all around the two of you were strewn with coats and keys and wallets, belonging to the blokes, which you were unofficially tasked with watching over.

Emily was in the middle of telling you a story about some girls over in her school, the same one Simon went to. Her voice was dramatic and boisterous as she chewed her peanuts a bit too loud and waved her hands and head around, her hoop earrings catching the light a little bit.

You had no clue who the girls she was talking about were, but the way Emily was so determined to tell you about all their transgressions made you hate them by proxy, so you reacted accordingly, shocked and angry, which made Emily giddy, happy that you agreed and saw it as she did.

Emily was your portal for figuring out what exactly the blokes were like when they were in school, something you couldn’t see because you went to a different high school. She told you all about the shenanigans the boys got up to, the fights and arguments and their grades, especially because they were all the same age, a year older than you, and therefore shared many classes.

It was thanks to her that you found out that Simon was good at English Lit, History, and Geography. Simon himself would never admit to liking literature (and you made sure to ask!). You also found out that he loved P.E. class, often being the first out of the locker room to do warm-ups, even if, most of the time, their P.E. class is just the blokes playing football.

You liked Emily and she liked you. She was a bit of a chav, sure, wearing bold make-up, hair greasy more often than not, and chewing gum loudly, but she was nice and chill. She was a recent addition to the group but she treated you super well, always saying that she was a “girls’ girl” and you both made sure to put the boys in their place when they got too rowdy. Not like some of the other girls the lads dated before, who got jealous over your mere existence/friendship.

It was while you were lost in thought, enjoying Emily’s vibrant personality and wild gossip about some girl at their school who got knocked up, that it happened. A couple of tall figures came to the edge of your table.

“Oi babes! What's the craic? Fancy some company?” asked a voice above the two of you. You looked up to find a couple of blokes, about the same age as you, smirking as they leaned into the booth next to you.

“Oh, thanks, but we're okay.” You said politely, your face showing disinterest.

“Just the two of you?” His friend said. You gave Emily a look and then tried to look between the two lads, just barely catching sight of the five blokes that composed your friend group standing around the pool table… completely clueless.

“No, our mates are around. We’re just having a little quiet time for ourselves.” Emily added as she glanced at the blokes, chewing her peanuts quite loudly.

“Quiet? Boring, more like. We know how to liven things up!” One of the blokes said and smirked, nudging his buddy with his elbow.

“Yeah, come on, don't be like that. We're just here to have a laugh!” The second one said, his voice playful and seductive (or his best attempt at it).

“We're good lads, promise.” The first bloke added, to which his buddy nodded in agreement. “I’m Josh, and this is Liam.” He introduced the both of them.

“Yeah, we can see that. But we're really just here to catch up with each other.” You replied bluntly, your voice losing some of the politeness it held until now.

“Catching up, eh? Well, we're good at that too!” Josh said while sliding down onto the booth next to Emily, forcing her to scoot away.

“Got some stories that'd make you laugh for days,” Liam added, scooting into the booth next to you, an arm coming to wrap over the back of the booth, dangerously close to setting around your shoulders.

“I'm sure you do. But really, we're fine. Cheers.” Emily replied as she tried to shoo off Josh with a dismissive wave. But neither of the blokes was taking a hint.

“How about a dance then? I reckon we'd be the best dance partners you've ever had.” Liam suggested as he began leaning close to you.

His hand began sliding across your shoulder, which was exposed in a spaghetti-strapped top. You smacked his hand off you and scooted away as well. “What's the rush, darlin'? We're just trying to be friendly!” Liam said defensively.

As Josh and Liam exchanged confident glances, thinking they'd make another attempt to charm the two of you, the atmosphere shifted. Simon had suddenly joined the scene, Olly was already jogging up behind him, as the blond lad stood ever imposing in front of the booth.

“Everything okay here, ladies?” Olly asked as he glanced down at Liam and Josh. He didn’t look pleased by the scene, just like Simon. He was double as protective, with you being his cousin, and Emily being his bird.

The two other lads damn near paled at the sight of Simon’s sheer height standing inches from them, hands in the pockets of his hoodie and a serious face framed by the black hood on his head.

“Yeah, we're good, Ols. They've just been trying to chat us up.” Emily replied, her lips morphing into a playful smirk. She was probably trying to make Oliver a bit jealous.

“Yeah! They even offered us a dance.” You piped up, joining her. You could see the veins nearly pop in Simon’s neck, his left eye twitching ever so slightly as he heard you.

You knew then that he was pissed, feeling jealous of the fact a lad was chatting you up. It was the first real sign you got that his avoidance of you wasn’t due to malice, but awkwardness for the feelings you both had for one another.

“Is that so?” Simon finally asked, his brown eyes sliding across all the people in the booth, but growing especially hard at the sight of Liam’s hand on your shoulder.

Slowly, you felt Liam’s hand slip away from you while he forced some distance between the two of you by scooting away. “Yeah, just offering some company. No harm done.” Liam said defensively.

Josh seemed to pick up on the fact Liam was scooting off, and he did the same, standing up and showing his hands while muttering a “Yeah, just bein’ friendly.”

“That's good to hear. We're a friendly bunch too, you know. Just wanted to make sure you're aware these lovely ladies are taken.” Olly said while he looked at the two other lads who were attempting to chat up his girlfriend and his cousin. “So, how about you two lads move along?” He suggested.

Simon, meanwhile, kept glaring at the other lads, his height posing an advantage as he stood a few inches taller than them. “Yeah, before things get more complicated than they need be.” He added.

Josh and Liam exchanged a somewhat concerned glance, not exactly panicked or scared, since they were also cocky teenage boys high on nothing if not hubris… But they muttered something else apologetically and made themselves scarce.

Olly took Josh’s seat next to Emily and wrapped his arm around her, checking on her with a “You alright, love?” before dropping a kiss onto her mouth, making the girl giggle.

Simon, meanwhile, looked at you while still standing by the booth. You fixed the thin straps of your top and bra while looking up at him as well. He reached a hand toward you and beckoned you to take it. You did.

He reached into the booth and grabbed his parka and yours while muttering some type of warning to Olly that you couldn’t quite make out, and your cousin probably couldn’t either because he was busy shoving his tongue down Emily’s throat.

Simon tossed your coat at you, which you pulled on, and grabbed his belongings (keys, wallet, phone). Then, he dragged you by the bicep out of the pub. You knew what was about to happen. You could feel it, warming up in your tummy… He made sure that Josh and Liam could see the way he took you, glaring right at them, as you desperately sped up the pace to keep up with his large strides, your cheeks a bit flushed and warm as he walked you both out.

Next thing you knew, he had your front pressed against the passenger side door of his dad’s car, your chest rubbing against the window. Simon was behind you, his left hand holding your jaw to keep your face turned back, his lips pressed onto yours, his tongue taking over your mouth.

You didn’t remember much about your first kiss with him. It had been only a couple weeks prior, but you were both high. Sure, you remembered it happening but all the sensations had been heightened in the moment and had nullified after you had sobered up.

But if this kiss was anything to go off of, it was a great kiss. Simon’s lips on yours were making you see stars, his taller body pressing you so hard against the side of the car that you couldn’t help but shiver. The car’s surface was ice cold against the skin of your lower tummy and collarbone, which your top didn’t quite cover.

Then, Simon’s right hand pulled up the back of your parka holding it out of the way as his fingers gripped onto your hip, so he could rut his cock against the curve of your ass.

He refused to break the kiss, his lips greedily sucking onto yours, his tongue claiming your mouth as his. He would mumble things here and there, little whispers showing his enjoyment. “Blimey, can’t get enough of you…”, “Killed me seein’ those blokes chattin’ you up...”, “Almost knocked their teeth out…”, “Fuckin’ hell…”, “Your kisses… so fuckin’ good…”, “All I can think now about is kissin’ you…”.

Truth be told, you had been going wild for him, the distance painful not just because of how awkward it felt to see him around your mutual mates and not be able to be ‘close’, but because of how much you liked him and missed him.

But now you got to have him again. Awkwardness be damned, you were finally kissing again, finally dry-humping again. And it felt glorious. You’d never regret this, you knew it deep down.

You think of that as you stand in the train station. It’s 4:59 A.M. and your tired, sleepless eyes are locked onto Simon as he sits inside, backpack sitting on his lap, his hair recently buzzcut.

You didn’t sleep at all tonight, neither did he. You spent the last few hours you had together in each other’s arms, kissing and holding each other close, and even having sex in the back of his father’s car, as usual.

And now, here you are, holding the keys to his dad’s car in your hands. A gift he’s leaving behind, a way to keep yourself safe and way from your own dad, so you can sleep somewhere else.

The announcement system warns of the departure of the train he sits in, with a destination to Harrogate. In a couple of hours, he’ll be at the Army Foundation College to start his military career…

Your lips are swollen and red, and so are his. you kissed too much. Too hard. You take a hand up to feel them up with your fingers, almost like you're trying to hold on to the feel of him.

The doors to the train close and a mechanical hiss is heard. Simon’s eyes are set on you and squint through the glare of the lights inside the train versus the darkness of the station outside. You hope he can’t see the way your eyes are welling up with tears.

Simon was your first in all the ways you could think of. Your first crush, your first boy best friend, your first kiss, your first time…

And as his train pulls away from the station, you think to yourself…

He’s your first heartbreak too.

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#ikea writes 💚#home cbf!simon fic #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #cbf #childhood best friends to lovers #teenage love #cod au #masterlist #fluff #angst

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 3 months

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Home Pt.2 || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 2K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: child abuse (toward reader - REFERENCED), physical injuries, violence (REFERENCED), military enlistment references (NOT PROPAGANDA), crying. Tags: you/your pronouns, fluff, ANGST, teen romance, teenage rebellion, British slang (attempted), poverty, Simon Riley’s family (mentioned), Reader's family. a/n: This one made me cry y'all. Also, wrote this instead of eating dinner. On AO3 this fic is ✨doing numbers✨ (per my standards).

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“I’m here, I’m here.” Simon said as he pressed a tall beer tin against the bruise on your cheek and temple area. It was basically piss in a can, but it was cold, and God knows you needed that against your warm, throbbing bruise.

Your eyes were so beyond cloudy with tears, you couldn’t even see a foot in front of you. Hell, you couldn’t see him and his pretty face. The only reason you knew he was there was his constant reassuring words and his warm breath on your face, scented of nicotine.

He was glad you couldn’t see him, because if you did, you’d see the wince in his face and the way he struggled to straighten his left hand to cup your cheek with a gentle touch while his right hand held the drink tin to your wound.

A couple of his left fingers were definitely broken. Should he be going to A&E right now and getting his hand checked out? Probably. Was he going to? Absolutely not. Not unless it was to drive you there. The bruise on your face was swelling nastily, your skin not used to taking a beating. Not like his was.

“You’re alright… Don’t cry, darlin’, you’re alright…” Simon kept trying to calm you down while he did his best to caress your face with a gentle, hurt hand. “You’re alright, pet…” He kept cooing at you. But you just kept wailing.

As usual, Simon had come to get you at 9 P.M. You only lived a couple of streets over and he never let you walk the distance. Not after dark; it wasn’t safe. It already wasn’t safe during the day, but at night it was so much worse. But this time… Oh, how he blamed himself. Maybe if you had walked to him, you would’ve escaped this mess.

He had shown up to see you waiting up the street, rather than at your door. Weird.

He slowed his dad’s Clio to a careful idle which he held with his foot on the clutch and the other on the brake pedal. He stretched over the center console to pop open the door from the inside, as he usually did, but you beat him to it, opening it from the outside. Weirder.

You weren’t cheerful as you slunk into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut, sulking quietly in your seat. Weirder x2.

Suspicious of your behaviour, he clicked on the overhead lighting of the car… And the sight he got of your face filled him with a rage he didn’t know he could ever feel. The throbbing bruise on your temple: swollen, red and still hot to the bloody touch… And the way you looked at him, brows furrowed, watery eyes, nose dripping, lips set into a frown so tight that your chin scrunched up with wrinkles…

It all had him seeing red.

“What happened?” He demanded, his voice hostile, but not toward you, but regarding whoever did that to you. You couldn’t answer. You broke into wails, fat tears streaming down your face.

And he didn’t need words to know. Your crying did all the talking.

It didn’t matter that you were fifteen. Every innocent kid who gets beaten beyond a simple spanking or belt whooping to the arse has the same reaction, regardless of age: They cry and scream. The pain is unlike any they’ve ever experienced before. It’s the mix of taking a punch to a tender temple/cheek that has never known violence, and of seeing your father’s face on the other side of the fist… That’s what does it.

Simon pulled up the handbrake with more aggression than he meant to, the car stuttered with his motion. He turned it off and threw open the driver’s side door, tossing his legs out and exiting the car.

“Riley!” He heard you call after him, your voice choked up, as he marched up the street to the brick-front house you live in. He could hear your hurried footsteps after him and you were able to grab his arm to stop him for a second.

He looked back at you with an unbridled level of very poorly-contained fury in his brown eyes. He softened a bit when he saw your crying face again, but then, his eyes were once more drawn to the now bruise that you sported on the left-side of your face. You now had a matching bruise to his… Something he never wanted you to ever know. And that only renewed his rage.

Simon grabbed you by the shoulders and made you sit on the side of the road. He hurried at shrugging off his parka and tossing it over your shoulders, his hands guiding your own arms into the warmth of the thick sleeves, and fixing the faux fur-lined hood to sit a bit more flush to your neck.

He wanted you warm. He wanted you warm and safe and healed. And right now you were only two our of three. And he couldn’t provide the third one. But he’d provide something better.

“Stay here.” He demanded, his voice freezing you onto the pavement where he sat you. You brought your knees to your chest, still sobbing in pain.

You looked back at him and watched as he made himself as big as he could, his shoulders squared as hard as they could be, and his chest puffed up, all while he was pounding a fist on your front door with one hand while the other pressed the doorbell repeatedly.

Even at 16, Simon was already much taller than most grown men in the area, and certainly taller than his drunk and druggie of a father. It’s no wonder the old bastard now thinks twice before raising his hand at Simon, not that that stops him from trying to throw his weight around with his wife and even Tommy. That’s why Simon still finds himself covered in bruises that never quite heal before he’s getting new ones.

When the door opens, your mother is on the other side, trying her best to cover her own face as well. Poor lady is just as battered as you, the testament of a night where her husband finally lost it. She has to look up at Simon, just like you do, his height imposing abover hers. Her face looking paled and afraid.

It’s not like she doesn’t know you have a “boyfriend”. She’s covered for you many times when you snuck out to be with him, has seen him drop you off late at night plenty of times, especially when she was worried about what you were up to… Long before she noticed that you were just being teens and never in any real danger.

In fact, she knows Simon quite well. Even from before you became whatever it is you are now, he used to stand at your door, at 8 A.M. every weekend, waiting for you, so you could go out and ‘play’ around the neighborhood. She had waved you two off plenty of times with a reminder to be home for dinner.

But she’s never seen Simon quite this way before. Hell, neither have you. But the look in his eyes told her she should just stand aside and let it happen. And so, she did… simply using her head to wordlessly point out that her good-for-nothing husband was upstairs in the bedroom. The teen boy gave her a curt nod as he marched upstairs.

Your father was shorter than him and fat. He was also drunk. The moment he entered the bedroom, the old bum had struggled to even roll up from the bed where he was watching footie on an old box TV. He shouted at the unknown teen in his home… trying to be intimidating. But he couldn’t do shit against Simon’s rage, didn’t even stand a chance.

The violence he impinged on your sleazy father that night had come surprisingly easily to him. It was like an itch he finally got to scratch, releasing years of pent-up aggression onto a man that was an almost direct copy of his own father (minus the drug abuse).

That was the first night the ‘Ghost’ ever came out.

By the time Simon came back out the door, his knuckles were bruised to shit, and covered in blood, his left hand in so much pain that he knew he’d broken a couple fingers. He had taken one of your father’s cold, cheap beers from your fridge to use as an ice pack for you, your mum having told him she didn’t have any frozen ice in the freezer.

He sat by your side in the pavement, his hands holding your face and icing your bruise the best he could as he whispered reassuring words at you while you cried all you needed to. Then, his words turned from reassurance to promises. None of them empty.

“We’ll get out of here, lovie.” He promises you. “I’ll get us out of here.” He kept repeating while he wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead with chapped lips while you sobbed against his chest.

“How…?” You asked him, your lip trembling as you resist falling into another sobbing session on his chest, your head craning up to look him in the eyes. “We’re both skint…” You choked out.

“I’ll find a way.” Simon said as he rubbed his busted hands through your hair, the best he could, trying not to wince and grunt at the pain in his broken fingers. “I’ll… I’ll join the military if I have to.”

“Simon…” You said in a hush, your eyes already welling up with tears. It felt bizarre to say his actual name, almost as bizarre as hearing him talk about enlisting.

“I’m serious, darlin’.” The blond lad tells you as he looks down at your eyes, his brow furrowed a bit as he once again takes in the size of your bruise. “The recruiters came to my secondary a month ago… I nabbed one of their sign-up sheets… Just in case.” He explains as he rubs your hair.

“It’s just… three months.” He assures you. “Basic Training is super quick and I’ll start getting paid from the start.” He says. He doesn’t seem excited, despite the fact he’s trying to convince you of how good it’ll be.

You’re not excited about the idea. What if he gets sent out to foreign land? What if he dies? What if…

“I’ll start to save up. I’ll send you money every month… And as soon as you graduate secondary next June, I’ll rent out a flat down in wherever I end up, really… and I’ll get you out of here… And you’ll come stay with me!” He assures you with the most confident in himself that you’ve ever heard him have.

“Simon…” You whine a bit as your eyes well up with more tears. The idea of living with him, just the two of you, away from all this, it sounds so nice… The peace you’d get.

“I’ll call all the time, I’ll write, I’ll come visit when I can, and I’ll pay for you to go visit too when you’re on school holiday.” He keeps promising.

“It’s going to be just you and me, lovie.” He assures you as he presses loving kisses to your mouth. “I’ll get you out. I’ll get you to safety.” He continues, his own eyes softening with tears. “Okay?” He asks you.

Your eyes are still watery and your bruise hurts, but you see the look in his eyes, and the promise of peace and quiet and a life of love and affection by his side makes the fire in your heart burn just a little bit brighter.

You wanted to tell him you love him. He wanted to say it too. But neither of you do. It’s not the time. Or maybe it’s the fear.

So instead, you find yourself returning a sheepish “Okay.”

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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Home Pt.4 || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 1.2K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: financial abuse, fear of being home. Tags: you/your pronouns, a bit angsty, teen romance, underage smoking, British slang (attempted), British military (attempted accuracy). a/n: not proofread. ALSO: If the cursive is illegible for you, check image description/alt text to be able to read the postcard below better!

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You never met Mr. and Mrs. Riley. And the only time you met Tommy was one time when you were 13 and you and the group went to get Simon from home on a Saturday, only to find out that he had to stay home to look after the then 10 year-old, his mum having taken on an extra shift at work.

Simon didn't talk much about his home life for a long time. Not that he needed to. And you also didn't need to ask. You were smart and aware enough to know what he went through. He only really told you about it when the two of you started sneaking out at night in his dad's car.

You were 14. He was 15.

You sat on the passenger's seat. You had taken your trainers off and had your knees pulled up to your chest while your back leaned against the door.

Simon sat across from you in the driver's side, with the seat leaned all the way back and an arm behind his head. He had a spliff between his pointer finger and thumb, and he was taking a long, deep drag from it.

He passed it over to you as he puffed out the smoke and finally spoke. “I'm gonna kill my dad, one of these days.” He told you. He had been eerily quiet the whole night, and hadn't even wanted to make out, so you thought that maybe something was on your mind. You couldn't be more right.

“What happened?” You asked him as you began to take your own drag of the spliff in your hand, watching as Simon shifted around in his seat, eyes already bloodshot from the weed.

“My mum's been talkin’ about leavin’ my dad. Takin’ me and Tommy with her somewhere else.” He explains, his eyebrows twitching. You knew how to read him by now.

Brow twitches meant he was frustrated and displeased. His jaw clenching meant he was mad and holding back on nasty words he wanted to say. His left eye also twitched sometimes, and that one meant he was pissed (and sometimes jealous).

“That's a good thing, right?” You asked tentatively as you glanced at him while passing him the spliff.

“Yeh. Yeh. Good.” He said with a nod while mindlessly taking another drag.

“Then why do you look so mad?” You retorted as you looked at him a bit closer, taking in the way he looked.

“She has a second account at the bank. She puts a few quid in it whenever she has extra… to save up to leave.” He told you.

Simon then turned to look at you, his eyes still just as red but now looked a lot more likely that he was holding back tears.

“She checked the balance this week… she was so confident she was gonna have maybe 800 or so pounds in it…” He explained and pulled in a sharp breath through his nose.

“But it was empty?” You finished the sentence for him and his eyebrows fell at the corners, furrowing in barely contained sadness.

“He's such a bloody parasite, Y/N.” Simon whined and then dipped his head, rubbing it with his hand while his elbow rested on the window. “He takes and takes…”

“I'm sure he probably spent it all at once too, the leech!” Simon complained, raising his voice a bit. “You should've seen the way my mum looked when she saw the bank statements.” He whined.

“The way she cried… we were lucky Tommy was asleep and my dad was out… but she was just… just…” He trailed off. “I want him to die. I want to kill him.” He groaned and rubbed his face.

You didn't know what to say about it. As bad as things were in your own house, you never did get the feeling of wanting your dad to die (not back then, at least). You didn't support it fully. All you could do was try to understand and comfort him.

So, you pulled your legs down from the perch on the seat and slowly climbed onto his lap over the centre console. You wrapped your arms around his neck in a big, tight hug. He wrapped his arms around your waist and tugged you against him hard.

He burrowed his face in the crook of your neck, his nose grazing your hair and he sniffed you, almost like having you in his arms and feeling your scent made everything easier to bear. You probably didn't smell that good… of cheap shampoo, bodywash, deodorant and weed… But he liked it. He always liked it. Always liked you.

He sent you some cash. It isn't much, just 150 quid. It's less than the amount he usually sends you biweekly. But as always, it came with a little postcard. A true testament that a couple years ago Emily wasn't lying when she said Simon liked English Lit.

It's the 12th postcard you've gotten. Once every two weeks. You don't mind that he sent less. You haven't been spending it either way. In fact, you care more about the postcard with little bits of his writing than you care about the money.

It's hard to believe 6 months have gone by without him. It was supposed to only be 3, but that's only for 18-year-olds, you later learned. At the ARC, Basic Training lasted 42 whole weeks. Now you were going to spend nearly a year without him.

But, he's already come to visit during Christmas break... And he'll come again. And by the time he's done, at least, you'll have graduated.

You sit in the driver's seat of his dad's car, the windshield wipers working overtime due to the rain outside as your fingers gently rub over the postcard he sent you, looking for traces of him.

You’ve parked, as always, at a little viewpoint just outside of Manc. You and Simon used to come here with your friends, sitting on the picnic tables across from the parking spaces and play cards while drinking beer and smoking.

The clock on the dashboard says it's just past 1:30 A.M. You wonder if Simon’s asleep at this time while you sit here, wide awake, smoking a hand rolled cigarette.

Deep down, you know he is. You don't know much about the military, but you know they wake up at the crack of dawn… 5 or 6 A.M. He's probably dead asleep so he can get up early.

He hasn't told you much from training, not since the first couple of full-fledged letters he sent, in his first month. But in one letter he mentioned how sore he was from “doing drills”, how the routine was hard, how he couldn't smoke anything, and it was taking a toll.

In another, he mentioned how he put on some weight, though he doesn't know if it's fat or muscle. You found yourself wondering how much stronger he must be now. He was never a weak bloke, just a bit skinny. But now? He must be so bulky and strong! You wish you could see it... run your fingers over him...

He also told you about how they already had him shooting rifles. How he was apparently “really good” at it. How he was even asked if he had ever shot a gun before by his instructors because of how accurate he was. How he liked it.

All you know is that, for now, he's safe. They can only send soldiers overseas or something when they turn 18. Until then, he's just training.

And for now, as you blow the smoke of your cigarette out of the window of the little Clio Campus, instead of being at home in your bed, you're safe too.

God knows how long that'll last for you both.

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#ikea writes 💚#home cbf!simon fic #cod fanfic #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #childhood best friends to lovers #cbf #cbf!simon #teenage love #light angst #masterlist

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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Home. - Fluffy Ending (not canon) || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 2.8K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: none. Tags: you/your pronouns, reconnecting with family, wedding guests, second chance romance, time skip. a/n: not proofread. I didn't like the way I wrote this ending but I figured I should share it either way. It's too fluffy/forced for my taste. The actual alt ending will be better. ALSO: Was listening to Chemical by Post Malone on repeat while writing this. Idk if you wanna do that too while reading...

[MASTERLIST]

You're twenty-eight, he's twenty-nine.

You swore to yourself you wouldn’t step a foot back in Manc, not even if cows flew!

You swore to yourself you wouldn’t keep in contact with anyone, not even if someone died!

(Which your father did. Thank fuck.)

You broke those promises so many times.

You were unable to keep away, though you tried…

It’s your own fault, really.

You stalk your old friends and family on Facebook sometimes.

Other times you check the local news.

Others you check the obituary and marriage sections on the news.

You beat yourself over it every time. Even though seeing the lack of changes through your cyberstalking and the news made you feel immense relief, you still ended up closing the pages on your browser with more aggression than you should and sulking in your bed.

And yet, you still go and do it again a few weeks later.

And then another few weeks later.

It’s pathetic, really, but maybe it provides you some comfort. Maybe helps you sleep at night.

You should’ve figured out that someone would have made you eventually.

I mean, naming your blank Facebook profile after the one mean neighbor you had, who called the police on you and your mates once for being too loud while hanging out in the street, and died years ago? Yeah, they’d make you eventually.

Luckily for you, it was Olly who did.

All things considered, it could’ve gone much worse.

Maybe… Maybe you should follow his advice.

It’s been a decade.

Your mum deserves at least a letter to let her know you’re still alive, that you’re healthy, happy, and safe. She’s owed that much…

It was very strange to be inside your childhood home after almost eleven years.

Four days ago, your mum had openly sobbed as she threw her arms around you, and you had found yourself sobbed with her, both of you falling to your knees at the front door.

She held your face so gingerly and kissed your forehead so many times, her face severely more aged than the last time you had seen her.

The letter you had sent her 8 months before was 23 pages long, a bulk so large you sent them unfolded and stapled together inside a manila envelope rather than folded neatly into a standard one, and had detailed everything you figured she should learn about your life.

Where you went.

What you did.

Who you did it with.

How you felt.

What you learned.

How you changed.

You apologized for running away, for worrying her.

You assured her you loved her and missed her.

You asked, tentatively, if she could find a way to let you be a bit more present.

You reiterated you wanted to remain living where you were in Scotland… but that you could allow yourself to be her daughter again if she so wanted it.

You know she cried reading it. Hell, you cried writing it…

You didn’t expect anything, you didn’t want to cause her any more grief by coming barrelling back into her life. She’s your mother, you didn’t want to manipulate her. You weren’t surprised when she didn’t answer for a few weeks…

But then her letter came. A simple half-a-page response that said, in no uncertain terms, that she missed you, that you were always welcome in her home and her heart, and she wanted to have her little girl back.

It all culminated in today.

Adjusting your red gown with one hand, you walk up the aisle, the other holding your 10-month-old daughter who’s clad in a pale yellow tulle dress. She’s kept flush to your chest, her chubby legs wrapped around your hip.

You and your mum find a spot near the middle and sit down, though you scoot yourself as far on the pew as you can, making sure that you can step off to the side just in case Evelyn starts fussing. Though you doubt she will.

The ceremony is being held in the middle of the afternoon and she has been calm and sleepy this whole time, softly dozing off in your arms, her little face nuzzling to your neck, since it’s close to her nap time.

You sit Evie down on your lap and place a hand on the back of her head while you and your mum speak softly, still waiting for the wedding ceremony to start.

You still can’t believe that you’re here…

Wythenshawe still looks as crappy as ever, you still know the streets like the back of your hand, though a lot of it has changed, shops went out and into business, and people moved away.

You met up with your old mates at your local just a couple of nights ago, and after a lot of tears and some drinking, you gossiped all night about your lives and everyone else’s.

In a way, it feels like you never left…

You were so afraid that they would hold a grudge at you for leaving, for not staying in touch… But they never did. You were welcomed with open arms…

It’s… nice.

The ceremony doesn’t take long to start.

You nearly cry at the sight of Emily in her wedding dress, having deemed her a close friend for the better time of your formative years. And Olly, as emotionally detached as he tries to pretend himself to be, cries at the sight of his bride.

The ceremony is long and a bit tedious, as most weddings tend to be, but you’re still happy to be there… Happy to be back.

It’s nearly 45 minutes into the ceremony when Evie starts fussing a bit. You’re quick to take the nappy bag onto your shoulder and rush out of the church while shooting some apologetic looks to the guests around.

Once outside, you find shade under a tree and begin to bounce Evie a bit, knowing she isn’t fussing because of her diaper or hunger, but rather from the fact she’s teething.

One hand balances the infant, the other sets down the nappy bag on a low wall and you begin rummaging for the teething ring toy amidst the pockets. When you find it, you give it to her, which she gladly takes, though it doesn’t do much for her pain, only quieting her down a bit by allowing her to bite all over it.

“Shhh… it’s alright, pet…” You whisper to her as you kiss her smooth forehead and nuzzle your nose against the crown of her head.

You keep softly swaying and bouncing with her in your hip, moving about, side to side, while she drools all over the toy, her hands, and your dress as she softly headbutts your chest while chewing.

You’re lucky your dress is a dark enough shade of red and made from a fabric as forgiving as chiffon, so that the wetness will dry quickly and discreetly.

It’s in the midst of your pacing and bouncing the infant on your hip that you spot him.

His pale jawline peppered with a well-trimmed stubble, his blonde hair cut short and hidden under the beige beret, his strong build wrapped in full military dress…

You almost didn’t recognize him…

You leave your bag right where it is and beeline for him before you can stop yourself.

And he makes no motion to move from his resting spot, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, and looking right at you like you’re sure he has been doing for the past 15 minutes or so (you wouldn’t put it past him).

“Fuckin’ hell…” You hear yourself saying as you come to stand in front of Simon.

He tosses his cigarette down on the floor and puts it out with his brown boot, blowing the smoke away from your daughter on your hip.

“That how you greet people now?” He retorts while looking down at you through his fluttering eyelashes.

His voice is so much deeper, rough and strong than it used to be… You don’t know how to respond at first, your mouth has gone dry and your brain has blue-screened.

You’ve had dreams about this before… Nightmares too.

You’ve imagined that one day you’d cross paths with him on the street and you’d stumble all over yourself. That he’d ask you how you’ve been or what you’ve done with your life and you’d have nothing to show for it…

You thought you’ve healed from your past, but here comes Simon Riley to indirectly tell you “HA! Think again, dumbass!”.

“You surprised me is all.” You end up saying, your voice carrying a maturity and a strength you didn’t know it could. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Didn’t think I would either. Got lucky this coincided with my leave.” He remarks. “Could say the same to you, though.” He adds.

You can’t tell if he meant to offend with that comment. Olly had told you through Facebook that he told Simon about you vanishing off the face of the Earth and that Simon didn’t take it well. You knew he, rightfully so, expected you to stay gone.

“Got back in touch with Olly and the rest of my family.” You remark simply and shrug.

He keeps looking at you with those brown eyes of his, with a certain coldness behind you that forcefully reminds you that this is not the same person you used to know. The boy he was and the man he is are forcefully different people.

“Cute kid.” He adds after a beat of silence as his eyes flit to your daughter who’s still very much in her own world with her teething toy.

“Thanks.” You reply.

This feels awkward. You’re finally standing face to face (more like face-to-chest, goddamn is the man tall) after a whole ten years. Are you even friends? No. But are you acquaintances? Also no. And you have too much of a history to be strangers.

So what are you?

“What’s her name?” He asks as he looks back at you.

“Evie.” You answer. “Evelyn.” You correct yourself before adding. “Evie for short.”

“Hm.” He remarks unemotionally. His eyes flit over you up and down, taking in… everything about you.

You are a confident person, you’d say. You feel good in your own skin. You like your reflection when you see yourself in the mirror. And you feel like a million bucks in this dress, which wraps around your body beautifully, the fabric making you look delicate and soft.

But under his scrutinizing gaze, you feel anything but confident.

So, you take a breath and return the same scrutinizing gaze, up and down, taking in every inch of him, your eyes just as strong and confident as his own. He notices, because of course he does, and he puffs out his chest and raises his chin, to allow you to keep looking at him, showing himself off a bit proudly.

He’s wearing a khaki formal uniform, or full dress as you remember it being called, and although it's been ten years, you still remember some things about all the stuff you investigated about the British Army, so you could keep up with him, impress him with your knowledge.

A brown waist belt with a sash across the right soldier means he’s an Officer… The buttons are gold and shaped like winged parachutes, and he wears a beret instead of a cap. A beige beret to be exact, which means he’s no longer in the Parachute Regiments, who wear maroon ones. There’s a cap badge on the beret and the Excalibur on it tells you one thing: he’s special forces. You don’t remember which one… but you know he’s something big, bad, and important.

“Special Forces.” You muse out loud, showing off what you noticed.

His eyebrows raise, impressed by you, and then he nods. “Somethin’ like that.” He adds.

“Done well for yourself, then.” You add and he nods again and blinks while smirking, as if trying to humbly pat himself on the back for it.

“She have a dad?” Simon asks while shooting Evelyn a look. The words escape his mouth quicker than he wanted and sound a lot more judgemental than he meant for them to.

The way your eyebrows raised at him, the same way they used to when he’d say something bloody stupid as a teen, told him you weren’t pleased and that he had put his foot in his mouth.

“Sorry.” He says though it’s clear he doesn’t mean it. “Came out wrong.” He tells you.

You might have gone ten years apart but you knew Simon like the back of your hand at one point… And you knew sometimes he’d say things aloud when he meant to keep them as thoughts. It’s clearly that’s a habit he still has.

“I know what you meant.” You reply bluntly as you fix your grip on the infant, swiveling her a bit to sit on your other side.

“What’s the answer then? She got a dad?” He probes as he dips his head a bit to the side, his arms hanging by his side as he looks you up and down.

“Aye.” You end up replying, the Scottish word slipping past your lips then you meant for it to. You still speak English with a Manc accent, just like him, but there are little quirks like this one that you’ve adopted after living in Dundee for ten years.

Simon’s eyebrows cock up as well at the sound of Scottish word, and you can tell he finds it odd, but he doesn’t comment. “Where’s he, then?” He retorts. “No ring on your finger.” He adds.

Your eyes drift down to your left hand which is wrapped around your daughter now, the splayed fingers showing a distinct lack of a wedding ring. He sounds just as judgemental. But you don’t let it ruffle your feathers.

“Separated.” You reply maturely. “No ring on yours.” You say and nod toward his own left hand which also lacks a ring.

“Married to the job.” He replies and you can’t help but let out a snort of a chuckle, which makes him chuckle dryly too.

“‘f course you are.” You add in reply.

“Could’ve been married to you.” He retorts with the same casualty of someone saying ‘Nice weather today’.

You scoff and shake your head. “Really?” You add.

“Ye.” He adds. “Had a ring and everythin’.” He quips. “Then Olly told me you ran off into the night.”

You scoff again, mostly out of disbelief, and look away from him, your eyes flittering over the courtyard in front of the church.

The ceremony should be finishing soon enough.

“Dodged a bullet then.” You remark dryly, smiling a bit in amusement.

“You or me?” He retorts and you find your eyes drifting upwards to him again.

For a moment you just both stare at each other in silence…

Your eyes are locked in the same way they used to whenever the two of you were about to throw themselves at one another as teens…

Then, he breaks into a grin, and so do you, the both of you looking away for a moment. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You’re both amused at the cheekiness of your comment.

“How long are you stayin'?” He asks you once you both glance at each other again.

“Goin’ home on the 26th.” You tell him. “How long’ve you got leave for?”

“‘Till the 27th.” He replies and dips his head to the side a bit.

This is definitely crazy.

You secretly wonder if you’ve gone mad.

A decade has gone by… But there’s no mistaking the electricity in the air.

That light buzzing of goosebumps that prickle at your skin, making the hair in the back of your neck stand… Like lightning is about to strike…

“Take me out to dinner.” You demand abruptly and narrow your eyes at him.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek again in amusement. “Are you askin’ me on a date?” He retorts.

“No. I’m tellin’ you.” You add, watching how his brown eyes swiftly light ablaze with a certain fire you never expected to see after so many years apart.

“Tomorrow?” He suggests.

“Tomorrow.” You add.

“I’ll pick you up at 9.” He adds.

You know damn well that 9 P.M. is too damn late for dinner… But you also know that in reality, your ‘dinner’ will be grabbing Nando’s and cheap beer, and eating in the backseat of his car in that one side road you always used to go to… talking into the night… and probably definitely fucking each other’s brains out.

“Like the good ol’ days.” You remark.

“Mhm.” He adds.

Then, the church doors open and the guests come pouring out, forcing the two of you to separate.

But you can still see the smirk on his lips from afar as you walk off to grab your nappy bag, find your mum, and get ready for the rice toss.

[MASTERLIST]

taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving

#home cbf!simon fic #cod fanfic #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #childhood best friends to lovers #cbf #cbf!simon #teenage love #masterlist #time skip #second chance romance

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

Text

Home Pt. 7 || cbf! Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 1.9K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: vomitting. thoughts of hurting someone. Tags: you/your pronouns, time skip, heartbreak. a/n: not proofread. also, I lied. It's a triple-chapter sort of day.

[← Previous] || [Next →] || [MY MASTERLIST]

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Maybe it’s the heartbreak over you.

Or the lack of distractions in the shape of your countless 3, 4, 5-page letters, like you used to send during Basic and ITT.

But the fact of the matter is that Lance Corporal Riley dived headfirst into the job, taking out enemies with an efficiency and bravery many of his COs have never seen before.

Something about Simon Riley makes him too good at his job.

The type of good that his COs can’t part with, and therefore made them circumvent rules to keep him in the field, instead of sending him on leave.

The type of good that means he’s progressing up the ranks scarily fast, getting commendations left and right.

The type of good that attracts attention from all sorts of people in all sorts of high places.

Six months turned to twelve, turned to eighteen, turned to twenty-four…

In a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, by the time Corporal Simon Riley notices, he’s twenty-five, and passing selection for the 22nd Regiment of the SAS.

He throws punches in the training room, the other newcomer he’s fighting with narrowly dodging them. His aggression is coming out more than usual, almost like he’s having trouble keeping a lid on the boiling pot that are his inner thoughts.

He needs to let out frustration. He needs to hurt someone.

That’s all he’s been able to think of since he woke up this morning and saw the date on his calendar.

The calendar is a funny thing. The days keep going past, coming and going, another page, another month… Time moves and he feels he’s standing still.

Sure, he got bumped up the ranks, he got accepted into the SAS, he went back to Manc for the holidays, celebrated his birthday, his wins…

But that didn’t stop his heart from aching as the calendar showed the anniversary of your first kiss, the anniversary of your first time, your birthday and his…

Today is October 5th. The 13-year anniversary of the day you two met.

And you are all he can think of.

He was nineteen, you were eighteen.

He had just gotten himself out of base and took a bus to the train station. Eight months. Eight months he had spent in Afghanistan.

He had gotten nothing from you, not once hearing “Lance Corporal Riley, phone!” as he got brought into the tent to pick up a phone call from you… And much less a letter of yours dropped at the foot of his bunk in the few times he had enough downtime to sleep.

He had time to think. Nothing else but time, he felt like. Time to realize that, maybe, he was wrong in the way he left. Maybe he shouldn’t have said the things he did. Even if he still thought you needed to hear them.

He missed you. Point blank.

He got himself to the station early, over an hour left for his train to Manc to leave.

He found himself meandering in the streets nearby, killing time. A bergen pack on his shoulders, hands in his pockets, muscular arms on display in a t-shirt that clung a bit too tight to his body. A few fresh scars on his arms and hands from the recent service.

His brown eyes were drawn to a shop window, a jeweler’s. He told himself it was just because the items on display are shiny.

He went inside. He told himself it was just because he had time to kill.

The jeweler, a kind old man, spotted the fatigues he was wearing, and showed him the engagement rings without even being asked. He looked at them all, going back and forth between all the designs. He told himself it was just to amuse the elderly man.

But as he disembarked the train in Manchester hours later and walked toward the cabbies across the street from the station, his hand tapped at the little ring box in the top right pocket of his cargo pants.

When he got home, his dad’s car was gone. Good. It meant you were still driving around with it. He forced himself to go inside, to greet Tommy and mum, dad not being home when he got there, thank God.

Once they were both asleep, he took mum’s car out. It was a shitty little Vauxhall Vectra. He made a mental note to buy her a new one once he had enough money as he drove out to the viewpoint he knew you spent your nights in.

But you weren’t there.

He drove back down to Wythenshawe and took the car in a slow drive-by past your house. The car wasn’t there either.

So, he drove to your local, the spot you both spent so many nights with your mutual friends at. It wasn’t there either. In fact, no one’s car was there. Not even your old mates… Even though it was a Friday night.

As a last resort, he drove to Olly’s house. The lights were on. His dad’s car wasn’t there, but Olly’s was. So, he parked the car and went up the steps, knocking on the door.

A very weary-eyed Olly opened the door, wearing a dirty undershirt, as he seemed to have just gotten home from work. “Riley?! Oi, bruv!” He greeted Simon with a half-hug and pat on the back, which Simon returned. “How you been?”

“Can’t complain.” Simon replied. “Just shipped back from deployment.” He added, stepping inside the house. “How’ve you been?” He returned the question, even if he didn’t care.

He felt stiff inside Olly’s house, even if he was the one mate of his that Simon was closest to, other than you. He felt like he didn’t belong there.

“Been alright. Workin’ construction now. You know how it is.” He remarked as he offered Simon a beer from the fridge. But he didn’t take it. The brand was the same cheap shite your father used to drink. He didn’t need it.

“I need to see your cousin. Just been by her house but she wasn’t there.” He added as he watched Olly drop himself onto an armchair in the sitting room. Simon remained standing, arms crossed over his chest.

Oliver’s face immediately turned to look at Simon, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Oh, bloody hell, you didn’t know, did you?” He asked.

“Didn’t know what?” He asked and cocked a brow, moving his arms a bit as his blouson jacket scrunched under the strain of his crossed bulky arms.

“Y/N vanished. Packed up and left a few months ago. Didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Drove her mum and mine up the bloody wall panicking that she was gone.” Olly explained, his voice a bit more solemn.

Simon’s blood ran cold as he heard what Olly said. “Wha-” He choked on his own breath and coughed a bit as Olly kept going, saying something or other about how you didn’t even pick up your last paycheck from the little job you were working. How you had only scheduled a letter be sent from the post office to your mum to promise her that you were alive and safe, and were going to find someplace better for yourself.

The blond lad didn’t even dignify your cousin with another word. He simply turned and marched out of the house, slamming the door behind him as he returned to his mum’s car.

It felt like the engagement ring he had bought you suddenly weighed a ton, and like it was burning a hole through his pocket and onto his stomach, searing hot, mocking him.

He leaned his hands against the top of the car and leaned his hand down, feeling like he was going to throw up.

What did he expect? That you’d still be around, waiting for him with open arms? That you’d stay after the way he treated you? That was pathetic of him. Hell, you might have been immature and naive, but you weren’t a bloody pushover, that much he knew.

“Riley!” A voice calls out to him, but it’s just far enough that he can tune it out and keep fighting.

The other cadet is winded, stumbling back when Simon throws a harsh elbow to his nose and then sweeps his legs out from under him, landing the other man on the mat.

“RILEY!” The voice is louder and Simon suddenly stops in his tracks, shoulders rising and falling.

He looks back at the source of the voice, Lieutenant Jonathan Price, his C.O.. “My office.” He demands. Simon grunts under his breath and his shoulders drop. He looks back down at the recruit he’s sent sprawling onto the floor. He’s bleeding, cupping his nose with his hand.

He huffs and reaches a hand down, helping the other one to his feet and mumbling a few half-hearted apologies. “Didn’t think you’d be that weak.” He says in banter, trying not to seem so angry, the other guy laughing it off despite the unmistakeable soreness in his back and blood all over his uniform.

Then, Simon rushes off, taking off his black grappling gloves and slipping his body under the ropes of the ring, following after Lieutenant Price.

He enters the office after a brief knock and goes inside, noticing Lieutenant Price on the other side, sitting at his desk, arms crossed. “You wanna explain to me why you’re throwing the other recruits around like ragdolls?” He nods his head out the door.

Corporal Simon Riley, now an SAS Cadet, takes a breath and closes the door behind himself and slowly sits in front of Price.

He has a lot of respect for his Lieutenant, having been handpicked by him specifically to join his Bravo Six squadron. He’d even say he gets along with the man.

“Nuthin’ boss.” Simon replies as he looks away from the harsh blue eyes of the man in front of him.

“Right. Nuthin’.” Price says sarcastically. “Well, whatever that nuthin’ is, you better fix it.” He adds.

If only it was that easy, Simon wants to tell him. But he doesn’t. Instead nods his head sharply. Not much he could do either way. He agrees with Price. He knows he was in the wrong minutes ago. He’s normally so good at keeping a lid on it…

“It’s just a bad day.” Simon replies. “‘ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“I don’t care if it’s a bad day, a bad week or a bad life.” He adds bluntly, display his authority. “I can’t have a tickin’ time bomb in my ranks, understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Simon replies and nods again and looks down at his legs, spread open in the armchair across from Price’s desk, his eyes locked on the black training trousers with the SAS logo stamped on the left leg.

“We gotta rely on each other, Riley,” Price starts to tell him, which causes Simon’s brown eyes to flit upward abruptly, locking onto Price’s blue ones.

“Stop bloody relyin’ on me.”

“If you’re so fuckin’ unhappy and ungrateful of what I’m doin’ for us both…”

“Then grow up and leave. Get yourself out.”

“...so, redirect that aggression.” Price finishes his explanation. “Let it out in the firing range or the field. Not against your own team.” He advises.

“Yes, sir.” Simon adds and gulps a bit, pushing himself up off his chair. He makes for the door in quick, silent steps, without having to be dismissed.

He closes the door behind him and rushes down the hall and out a side door.

Once he’s around the back of the building, he keels over and vomits over his boots.

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taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving

#ikea writes 💚#home cbf!simon fic #cod fanfic #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #childhood best friends to lovers #cbf #cbf!simon #teenage love #masterlist #angst #heartbreak #time skip

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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Home Pt. 6 || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 1.5K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: fear of being home, yelling/arguing, homelessness (if you squint). Tags: you/your pronouns, breaking up, arguments, crying, emotional distance, teen romance (or lack thereof). a/n: not proofread. ALSO: If the cursive is illegible for you, check image description/alt text to be able to read the postcard below better!

[← Previous] || [Next →] || [MY MASTERLIST]

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You’re seventeen, he’s eighteen.

“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE GETTING DEPLOYED!” You shout at him as you wave the postcard in the air in front of his face. You received it a week ago and you had 5 days to stew on it.

And yet you still blew up.

“YOU PROMISED, RILEY!” You said as you waved your hands, your eyes welling up in tears. “YOU SAID IT’D BE HERE, THAT YOU WOULDN’T GO OVERSEAS, THAT YOU’D IN THE UK!”

“WELL, I’M NOT THE ONE THAT DECIDES THIS SHITE, Y/N!” He shouts at you in return, throwing his arms up in frustration. “I GO WHERE THEY TELL ME!”

He begins to pace in front of you, side to side, your eyes following him as the tears you’ve been holding start spilling down your cheeks. You’re tired and overwhelmed, your brain clouded with feelings you don’t know how to express and end up showing as frustration and sensitivity.

You’ve barely slept since you got the stupid postcard, not that you’ve been sleeping all that well for the 18 months, either. “We had a plan…” You whine as you look up at him, your body trembling.

Simon stops in his tracks and looks over at you, huffing loudly and running both hands over his forehead and hair. His fingers are rough. Rougher than they used to be. He’s been working hard, breaking the skin.

“I know we did, darlin’.” He says. He’s forcefully trying to calm himself down as he keeps his hands, fingers interlocked, on the crown of his head. “And we can still keep with it when my deployment ends.” He tells you.

Once again, he’s trying to convince you so desperately that things will get better, his voice trying to hold firmly to his convictions, not that he believes in them. And, frankly… you don’t either.

“And when is that going to be?” You retort as you press your lips together and look away, your eyes taking in the sight of the darkened area around you. The viewpoint you’ve come to call home in the last 2 years since he left… Where you spend the night, sleeping in Mr. Riley’s car.

“I… I don’t know.” He admits and huffs, while looking away, crossing his arms and resuming his pacing. “Six months? Eight?” He adds.

“Yeah, that’s the issue, Riley...” You tell him as you look up at him. It’s getting hard to breathe now. Very hard to breathe. Your chest is squeezing with nothing if not heartbreak all over again.

“What’s that supposed to bloody mean?!” He asks you as he stared at you sharply once more, his voice increasing in volume steadily.

“It’s supposed to mean that I’m tired, Riley! You said you’d get us out of here!” You retort.

“And I am!!”

“NO, you’ve gotten YOURSELF out!”

“Oh, fuckin’ hell, Y/N, really?!”

“Yeh, really! You’ve gotten away from this shit hole of a city, away from your dad, and you’re leaving me behind!”

Suddenly, he’s in front of you, a large hand squeezing onto your bicep as he glares down at you, making you look at him.

“You think goin’ off to Afghanistan to a goddamn warzone, riskin’ my bloody life is any better?!” He asks you, shaking you a bit by the arm. “You think that’s ‘getting out’?” He adds.

At first you can’t answer, all you do is cry. You’re so exhausted.

Things have gotten so much harder at home. Even when you don’t/can’t take Mr. Riley’s car out, you spend your time in the street, or at work, having found yourself a little apprenticeship that keeps you busy so you don’t actively go insane. These days, you barely step foot in your house.

But Simon doesn’t know that. And you aren’t telling him.

“IT SURE SEEMS LIKE IT!” You shout as you look him in the eyes. “ANYTHING IS BETTER THAN THIS, THAN BEING HERE!” You try to shake him off your arm, but his big fingers dig in, preventing it.

You’ve been without Simon Riley for the better part of two years. That, coupled with the lack of sleep and the stress, is taking its toll on you. You’ve found that you’ve got to rely on yourself because Simon has been away and will continue being away.

“You promised…” You tell him, looking up at him, eyes full of tears. “But you’re leaving me behind… Having to fend for myself… over… and over…” You shudder with tears.

“What about me?” You ask him as you sniffle away your tears. “I wanna get out too, Riley...” You remind him.

Simon finally lets go of your arm, turning away sharply and running his hands over his head again, his elbows spread wide as he paces away from you. You can hear him huffing in frustration, filling his cheeks with air and letting it out through puckered, strained lips.

You clearly resent him for going away, that much is clear… And he doesn’t know what to tell you. He wishes he could get you out right now. But, as it stands, he’ll only be able to do so in the future…

And if being an hour and a half away from you (which is now actually four hours after he moved garrisons to join the Paras) was hard enough on you both… He can’t imagine what’ll be like when he’s in a whole different continent and timezone for months on months without any contact.

That’s when the realization hits him like a freight train.

He feels like he grew up… and you stayed the same. He’s a grown man now, a soldier. You’re… still a girl. Still the girl he fell in love with, of course. And that’s part of the problem.

He can tell you’re still the same, still sinking down that rabbit hole of the abuse you’ve been experiecing. You need someone to hold your hand, someone to hold you close, someone to kiss your forehead and make you all sorts of promises. You need to be coddled. And two years ago Simon would’ve gladly done that, beecause you would’ve done the same to him…

But he’s not a child anymore.

He’s got the Army to worry about. He’s going to go overseas and face his death in less than two weeks. The last thing he needs is this argument. He wants it to be done.

Simon turns swiftly to look at you, eyes stern and hard as his hands drop to his side. His spine stiffens and he raises his chin. “THEN LEAVE!” He shouts at you, his words stinging like venom. You find yourself holding your breath.

“Stop bloody relyin’ on me.” He orders, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a coldness you never quite saw before in him. “If you’re so fuckin’ unhappy and ungrateful of what I’m doin’ for us both…” He trails off. “Then grow up and leave. Get yourself out.” He adds, his jaw clenching and his left eye twitching lightly.

Your whole face scrunches, your heart squeezing in your chest at the pain of the things he’s saying, the way he’s acting. This isn’t the Riley you knew. This isn’t even Simon. He’s changed. And you hate it.

You don’t even know what to say. Is there anything to say? You doubt it. You can’t find the words either way, your mind too noisy and tired to make sense of anything else to say.

Huffing one more time, he walks past you and grabs the car keys from his pocket. “Let’s go. I don’t wanna ruin my sleep schedule.” He tells you with a tone so cold and dismissive you’d think that he was talking to his father, and not to you. He gets into the driver’s seat of the car and waits as you shuffle along to the passenger’s seat.

You sulk and try to stop your crying, sniffling away the tears. He drives with his jaw clenched, occasionally letting out annoyed sighs. Neither of you talks on the way home.

Two weeks later, it’s his mum that drives him to the station so he can go back to the garrison and report for deployment. As his mum and Tommy are saying goodbye to him, he checks over his shoulder a few times, his height an advantage to look over other people’s heads and look for you.

The announcement rings over the platform, announcing the soon departure of his train to Colchester. He jumps into the train, finds his seat and parks his bergen backpack on the floor between his feet, while looking out the window.

He waves goodbye to his mum and Tommy and searches for you one last time… but you’re nowhere to be found.

The train hisses and pulls out of the station like it did the last few times he’s had leave. But this time, it feels different.

You’re not there to wave him off.

You didn’t kiss him goodbye.

You didn’t wish him luck.

Maybe it’s for the best.

You don’t seem to be the luckiest of people.

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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Home Pt.5 || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 1.2K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: fear of being home, domestic abuse (mentioned), homelessness (if you squint). Tags: you/your pronouns, a bit angsty, teen romance, underage drinking, British slang (attempted), British military (attempted accuracy). a/n: not proofread. prepare yourselves for angst soon! DOUBLE CHAPTER BABYYYY.

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6:16 P.M.

You kept repeating the time of arrival in your head as you dash into the station, all giddy and excited.

Three months without him had felt lke an eternity.

It was dark out and kind of rainy, courtesy of it being early Winter. But it didn’t matter to you. He was on Christmas leave! He was coming home to you!

You put on something cute today, actually putting in the effort, getting your hair cut and spending a bit of the money he sent you to buy a new outfit, just for him.

He had left for “Phase One” aka Basic Training in September. It had been rough without him. Many things had changed, even over just mere 3 months.

You watched the train pull into the station and the passengers begin to exit, walking past and around you as you stand under one of the orange-lettered electronic sign announcing the arrival of the Leeds-Manchester train.

It took a second to spot him in the sea of people, but, eventually you did. It was hard not to… Because he’d already begun beelining toward you like a hunting hound, eyes locked in.

You rushed forward as well and just barely evaded crashing onto a random person’s side as you pushed toward him. Then, you threw your arms around him, and he wrapped his around you.

Before you even had time to think, Simon was cupping your chin with his hand and pressing his lips onto yours in a kiss that stole your breath away. It felt like you were floating, finally able to kiss the boy you love after months of not seeing him.

His kiss was hungry, his hands gripping onto you and around you, rough fingers digging into your back, as his tongue wrapped in yours. He leaned forward ever so slightly, causing you to bend back over his arms, in a mock dip.

By the time you pulled away, you were panting for air and absolutely breathless, your eyes welling up with tears as you looked up at him. His lips and yours were equally as red, and the way his shoulders raised and dipped make you realize he was just as out of breath as you.

“Hi…!” You greeted him with a trembling bottom lip while he straightened you both a bit. You could hear the rustling of his bergen backpack as he returned you both to your original positions, standing firmly.

“Oi, darlin’.” Simon replies, his brown eyes trailing over the sight of you. “Fuck, you look good.” He says and burrows his face in your neck and hair for a second, breathing you in.

It made you ticklish, but you closed your eyes while leaning into his embrace, your own face hiding in his strong chest. “I missed you…” You both grumbled at the same time, and that made you both snort a chuckle.

When you finally pulled away a bit, your eyes traced over the sight of him as well, allowing yourself to finally get confirmation of all the things you’ve imagined about his evolution and physical changes after the academy.

“You look different.” You mused, which caused him to look down at himself as well, like he hasn’t noticed the difference between his changes beyond the fact he put on weight.

You were pretty sure he was taller. You knew that you were taller too, but he definitely felt like he grew more than you did. He was also a bit bulkier, his chest and arms and shoulders and neck and hands… All of him, really, felt harder, stronger.

“That a bad thing?” He asked you playfully and you found yourself chuckling a bit. By that point, the train platform was basically void of people, leaving you two almost alone.

“No… Just find it surprising, to be quite honest.” You admitted and he took you by the hand, pulling you close as you began walking out of the station together.

He murmured something about having “other ways to surprise you” while he nudged you along to lead the way to the car in the car park outside.

You think back on the way he was during that Christmas leave while you watch the way he acts around your friend group now, 6 months later.

You’re sixteen. He’s seventeen.

It’s July… And Simon’s different.

Granted, it’s been the better part of a year since he went to Basic Training, but he’s… very different.

In December, he had already begun being formatted into a soldier… But now you can tell that he really is one. He walks around stiffly, shoulders squared, back straight, chin raised… Even when he’s standing about drinking and laughing and telling jokes…

You sip your beer quietly and look at him from across the room as he talks with the lads, telling them all sorts of stories. He stands taller and more muscular than the rest of them. It’s so jarring.

His hair is no longer a buzzcut like it was last time you saw him. But it’s also not the french crop/caeser cut he used to rock before shaving it off. It’s essentially a crew cut now, a bit longer on top, buzzed on the sides.

His face looks better. No longer is there a nasty, permanent bruise on his cheek, or hollowed out cheeks from barely eating and smoking too much weed to make up for it. He still has eye bags but they’re much less prominent. He looks like he actually eats and sleeps decently now.

He’s bulked up even more than he had already. He’s all broad-shouldered and toned, his arms wrapped around yours no longer feeling as comforting as they used to. They’re not as soft… And you find yourself craving that softness again.

You still look the same. Still feel the same.

You’ve just graduated, and have no prospects as of yet. Not that you necessarily need any. The money he’s sent you (which you've been saving) is more than enough to keep you afloat while you’re biding time to follow Simon’s plan.

So, in the mean time, you’ve still been coming here, to the pub, nearly every week, spending time with Oliver and Emily, Archie, Jack, Harry, and the new addition, Poppy, Harry’s girlfriend.

And all other nights, well… you spend them alone. In the back of Mr. Riley’s car, with a blanket and a pillow, catching whatever sleep you can before the sun rises and you’ve got to drop off the car at the Riley residence and rush yourself back home (and to school, up until recently).

Things at home are more difficult. Your dad’s gotten worse. And you don’t want to imagine how Mr. Riley is as well. Simon probably knows, probably gets letters from his mum. You’ve never had the guts to go up to their front door, introduce yourself, and establish a connection. And you don't feel like you should ask.

You miss him a lot every night. You’re sure his mum and Tommy do too. It was simpler when Simon was around. When you’d have him by your side every night, holding you close and kissing the crown of your head, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, making promises, making you laugh.

It’s lonely without him… but it’ll all be worth it! He’s already done with Basic, now he’ll do a few more months of ITT at the Parachute Regiment and then… before you know it, he’ll be 18 and serving the country and you’ll move in with him, like he promised!

You’ve handled a year. What’a few more months?

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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Home Pt. 8 || cbf! Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 1.3K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: death, death of a CHILD, house fire, grief. Tags: you/your pronouns, time skip, heartbreak, grief and loss, reader's new family, canonical Ghost backstory. a/n: not proofread. THE NEXT CHAPTER IS THE ENDING (it WILL be angst and nothing else... but I'll write a happy ending alternative soon).

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He was thirty-three. You’re thirty-two.

It’s all over the news. A two-up, two-down council estate home caught fire in Manchester last night. Christmas’ Eve. All the occupants died inside, a family. Four adults, and one 4-year-old child, though they don’t reveal the names of any of the family members.

You’re halfway through stirring some spaghetti in a cheesy sauce as your eyes turn toward the television screen, already feeling a bit of sorrow for the poor child who lost their life.

But then you realize that the news reporter covering the devastating fire stands in a street you’re all too familiar with… And the cameraman pans through the road, showing the house in question. A house you’re even more familiar with.

You stop in your tracks and drop the spoon and the pan. You feel a pit forming in your stomach, a scream getting caught in your throat, itching to get out. Your mind begins tuning out all other sounds in the home around you, your ears ringing.

You’ve tried not to think about it, about him… But Simon Riley has a way of popping up in your head when you least expect it.

Usually, it’s just a stray thought, a leftover of a life you lived together, of a friendship that spanned your formative years. You see a brand of beer he used to drink, feel the scent of the cheap deodorant he used to wear, or spot a car that looks like the one his dad owned (the one you stole when you left Manchester) and the memories come flooding back for a moment.

You’ve healed, you’d say.

You’ve grown up. You even have your shit together! You’re married to a man you love very much, have a maisonette flat in Dundee, Scotland, your own car, a fairly successful small business as a hairdresser, and a couple of “wee ones” running around, a 3-year-old daughter and an 8-month-old son.

So why does it hurt so much?

“Y/N?” Your husband calls out to you when he notices the way you’ve stood still, petrified, in the kitchen, eyes locked onto the television. You haven’t even noticed you’ve started crying.

He swiftly evades your 3-year-old who’s lying on her tummy on the floor, colouring a Christmas-themed picture with her little tongue out.

“What’s wrong, love?” Your husband, Samuel, asks, his hands gently cupping your face as he stands in front of you, looking down at you with worried eyes.

You shake your head and hang your head, shoulders shaking as you desperately try to control your sobs, to not alert your children. You pull away from your husband and you gesture vaguely, wordlessly.

You’ve been together for just about 6 years now, married for 2. He understands you enough to let you pass him to seek refuge upstairs in the bedroom. You allow yourself to weep into the pillows, clutching them tight.

You’ve lived in this flat, and lied on this bed, for the better part of your relationship. It’s warm and safe, and it feels like home… But now that you know that Simon Riley died, it feels suffocating.

Why does it feel like this? Why does it feel like you’ve just lost your footing? Like you lost all you knew? It shouldn’t feel like a tether has been torn between you.

Simon hasn’t embraced you in 15 years… So why does it feel like it did on those cold winter nights where all that kept you warm was Riley’s embrace, his breath and heartbeat, and whenever he shifted positions he accidentally allowed the cold to seep into your warm skin? Why does it feel like those few seconds of cold before his arms came back… but permanently?

Why can you feel his absence in your bones? Why can you feel his absence tearing up every little string inside your heart?

Why does it feel like you lost your home in that fire?

Samuel dares to venture into the bedroom after a long while. He finds you sleeping, your pillows still peppered wet with tears. He situated the kiddos by finishing preparing lunch for them, and then putting them down for their afternoon nap.

He knows about your past. He knows about your abusive father, your battered mother, your friends, about how you ran away. You’ve made sure to trust him with all of that. He’s seen you torn up and grieving over the life you had, the child you were…

But this is new.

He slowly climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he slowly leans his head closer and presses a couple of kisses to the back of your head, his hand gently caressing your hair.

“Love?” He whispers, which draws you from your light nap. Your eyes are swollen and a bit crusty from the tears, and your head is pounding with a crying-induced migraine.

“Hi… Sorry.” You tell him immediately as soon as you turn a bit to face him. “What time is it?”

“It’s alright…” He assures you and runs a hand over your hair gently, slowly bringing it around to your face and cupping your cheek. “It’s just 2:30 P.M.” He replies. “The wee ones are down for a nap.” He adds.

You nod your head and rub your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry.” You say again.

“Don’t apologize, it’s alright.” He assures you again as he leans in and presses tender kisses to your forehead.

He pulls you close onto an embrace, cuddling you close, your leg intertwined with his, his arms wrapped snuggly around your body, his nose nuzzling against the crown of your head.

You feel yourself relaxing. His embrace warms your soul and you feel the tension and the grief become easier to deal with. Samuel is your husband, he makes you feel safe, makes you feel loved.

“Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind?” He asks, breaching the subject only after a long while of silence.

“I knew them.” You reply bluntly, the words slipping past your lips quicker than you could think.

“The people from that fire?” He asks. Sammy is smart, after all. The man can’t hear the word ‘Manchester’ without wondering if his darling wife is related to it or knows about it.

“Yeh.” You answer and give a curt nod.

“An old friend?” He probes a bit, his voice gentle.

“Best friend.” You tell him and very tentatively add, “My first love.”

He doesn’t say anything, but rubs your back in an attempt to comfort you.

“I’m sorry, love.” He tells you and gently rubs his lips over your forehead, pressing little kisses to it again.

You go quiet again, lost in thought. He allows you to, simply caressing you soothingly.

After long, long minutes of silence, he speaks again. “Do you want to go pay your respects?”

You raise your head from its resting spot on Samuel’s chest and you look into his eyes. “Do you think I should…?” You ask.

“Why would you not?” He retorts earnestly.

It reminds you that you never told him about Simon, about how special he was to you, about how it all crashed and burned…

“Our friendship ended 15 years ago. I never went back to Manc to see him and… well…” You trail off and look away. “It’s just…”

“You think you wouldn’t be welcome?” He finishes the thought for you. You glance up at him again and then silently nod.

“Well, love,” He says as he thinks. “It’s your choice, at the end of the day.” He adds. “But, whatever happened, I’m sure he held no ill will toward you.” He adds. “I’m sure he liked you a lot, just like you liked him.”

You look away again as you push yourself up into a sideways seated position, your hands holding you up in the mattress as you ponder it.

“And I think it would do you good,” Samuel adds as he gently reaches out and cups your cheek with his hand, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “to say goodbye.” He explains. “Find inner peace… make sure you don’t regret it in the future.” He adds.

You simply nod and snuggle up to your husband once more with a deep sigh.

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