csbat

[csbat]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 — 𝐒𝐑.

▸ PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x AFAB!Reader

▸ SUMMARY: Simon wanted you, even when he pushed you away. Even when you left because of it. Even when he let you.

▸ CONTENT WARNING: Hurt/no comfort, explicit sex

▸ WORD COUNT: 1,320

Simon was a voracious man, and he’d eat himself to perdition just to have a taste of you.

When he buried himself in your neck, tasting your supple skin with an ephemeral greed, he wasn’t apologetic. He chased the soft sounds spilling from your mouth, swallowing them with scarred lips. Canorous. Dulcet.

He took what you gave him, and then he took more, digging for scraps when you arched against his palm.

Pretty little thing, trapped in the throes of his maw, pragmatic as he tore you apart and put you back together. He was rotten work, he knew that, selfish when he burrowed into you, finding home in the heat that burned him to the touch. It was never more, fleeting intimacy hidden in vicious thrusts, rough palms. Demeaning. Better for the both of you.

“This is the last time,” you drew, your voice ripping down the crest of his stomach. There was a finality in the line between your eyebrows, pulled together with disdain as you kissed his shoulder. “I’ll let you go after that.” It was biting, and it tore through him.

You didn’t lean into his calloused hand, and you didn’t look him in the eye. Distance. Detachment. A mere release of frustration, a carcass without the spark.

If it was what you wanted, it was what he would pour out. Anything, all of it, behind a veil of derisory. Leaking from his chest, from his fingertips when he pulled you into him.

Neither of you could withstand the weight of something more than what you had. Forever too wishful, too good for someone like him. Maybe if he was different. If he was made to hold something other than the hilt of a knife, the barrel of a gun.

He didn’t mean to get caught up, really, didn’t mean to brush your hair behind your ear with such reverence. He liked you this way, mused. His. Where he could keep you caged in his ribcage, where you could make a home out of him. You were written in his blood, even as you bit it from his lip. He’d let you devour him, would let you crawl inside of his skin until you got tangled up. Until he couldn’t separate from you.

When he pushed inside of you, it didn’t cure the ache in his bones. He held your bleeding heart in his palm, your blood on his hands when he bottomed out. It felt like hearing your favorite song, like driving through the night. It felt like black coffee, like heavy rain against his skin, like a breeze on a scalding day.

A superposition.

“This could’a been more,” he breathed, a finger pushing at your jawline, his hands spanning to your temple. Tiny little thing. It forced your head back against him. Forced you to acknowledge him as he hooked his chin over your shoulder. Pliable. Malleable.

His chest was pushed against your back, curling over you, keeping you caged in like a sheep to slaughter, a bird to catch. You were his to detain.

A hand slipped under your hip, sliding up your chest to push you back against him, his free hand pinned above your head. You wouldn’t escape him. He wouldn’t let you.

“You could’a been mine.” His dick pulsed inside of you like a heartbeat, watching as you sucked him in like a breath.

You met his lips in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue as you clashed, indecision painted in every line of your body. You held onto his voice, held onto something you thought was empty. He’d never been more honest. There was too much between you, irremediable even when he snapped his hips into yours like it mattered. Like it’d change your mind.

They could’ve had a nice house in a field, somewhere the stars were visible so you could watch them from the porch. A big room where the sun filtered in so you could bathe in the light every morning. You’d curl into his chest, searching, and he’d pull you into him with a hand on your spine. You’d trace his tattoos, and he’d trace the column of your throat.

“Could’a had you,” he mumbled into your sweat-slicked skin, pushing you down into the bed with a hand between your shoulders.

You looked back at him with a wide-eyed gaze, allowing him to lay you on your back, hooking a thigh over his shoulder. A catharsis as he kissed your jawline. Your cheek. Your eyelid.

You made him feel like Icarus, flying too close to the sun. Like he was too big for his body. You were burning his wings. Like he would let you if you stayed.

“Could’a loved you,” he whispered into your ear, a confession shared between gritted teeth, as if it fought its way out of his throat. A bolted lock. Rusted metal, acidic to the touch. Rotting away with every thrust inside of you.

It was cruel, and he knew it. You both did.

He couldn’t stop, even when you looked up at him like that. Like it meant something. Like you knew. Like he was everything you ever wanted. Like he was the one thing that could’ve been yours. He did this, he knew, but he held you with a shaking fist. He kissed your tear-stained cheeks, held them as if it was his last chance at heaven.

You shied away with a broken sob, but Simon wouldn’t let you. Not now. Not like this. Not when it could be the last time, when he was losing you before he had the chance to recognize that he had you in the first place. Simon needed to burn this into his head, he needed to remember something other than blood and decay. Something other than nothing. “Don’ hide from me,” he muttered, pushing his chest into you to keep you rooted.

He worshiped every part of you, even those he couldn’t see. Smart little thing, clenching around him in that way he liked, dick scraping against your walls.

He could’ve been better for you. Would fight his way out of the dark void in himself, the one that sucked the life out of you. He saw it when you looked at him. This was ruining you both, but he’d let you rip him to the bone, make a mess out of him. Use him as you wanted, he wouldn’t complain.

Incoherent moans fell from your lips, something that sounded like I love you. It made his muscles tense, made it hard to hold back, to taint your insides with his spend. You said it like it was a goodbye, like it would be the first and the last time he pulled it out of your chest. Fuckin’ hell.

“Say it like I’m not losin’ you,” he bit, rough palms gripping your hips to push you down on his cock. “Like your mine,” he continued, breaths rugged against the skin of your breast. His tongue slid over the bud, teeth scraping against the peak.

“I love you now,” you whimpered, broken, hands tangling in his hair, pulling his head back to look at you, “and I’ll love you when I let you go.” His pace stuttered, his hands rough as he gripped the sheet above you.

He could feel it before he saw it, your pretty pussy gripping him, your toes curling. You came around him, and he realized with a brief moment of horror that you were dragging him down with you.

Not yet, he wasn’t ready.

And God, you were a sight. Skin riddled with sweat, eyelashes kissing your cheek, hair mused and sprawled around you. You were a mess, and he wanted it all. Cupping a firefly in his palms, chasing an unending stream. Simon wasn’t ready, and he would never be. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

He never did see you again.

▸ A/N: WHAT IS UP GUYS!!!!! i genuinely have not written anything in so fucking long, so i apologize if this is absolutely shit, but if you got this far i suppose it was okay. life has been absolutely bonkers, but i had this idea and wanted to get it out of me and actually do something with it. little short, would like to make it longer but my brain is absolutely frriiieeeddd. now that i think about it i don’t think i’ve ever let simon be peaceful… oh well!! shawty loves a little angst

[csbat]

𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 — 𝐒𝐑.

▸ PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

▸ SUMMARY: Simon was so used to your presence, so used to you always being there. He’s struggling to cope now that you aren’t.

▸ CONTENT INCLUDES: Major character death, angst, hurt/no comfort

▸ WORD COUNT: 1,033 (+ head-cannons at the end)

Fear was the first and last emotion Ghost ever felt. He was a weapon; cold in the way he burned, poetic in the way he fought bloody and loved the same. He was made of bared teeth and rough hands, carved out of gunmetal and overflowing with carnal brutality. He made fear seem like a carnival performance, like a jester in front of a king.

Watching your body crumble, blood staining the same hands he held not so long ago—hands that felt him—hands that knew him. Yeah, Ghost was fucking terrified.

From blood and tears to tranquil peace. From aching bones to pale skin. From all to none in the blink of an eye. The gunfire ceased, and he spared a thought to wonder why. Maybe it was just him. Maybe he was just too focused on the way your chest didn’t rise and fall. Maybe his heart was just beating so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything else.

Ghost didn’t remember stumbling toward your body, didn’t remember cradling you in his arms, and he didn’t remember shaking you with desperation. No, he remembered your silence. He remembered holding your pale face in his palms, his hands shaky and his voice wavering as he mumbled hushed apologies against your skin.

“I’m sorry.” He kissed your cheek—messy and so fucking painful. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Your neck, your jaw, your forehead. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For what felt like an army, Ghost was the last face people saw; the cause of many’s demise. He’s heard so many people’s last words, from pleads to apologies and everything in between. He carries so many final thoughts with him, things he never thought he’d care about until he realized that he’d never know yours.

He’d never get to see you smile again. He’d never get to hear your laugh, or the shakiness in your voice when he told you he loved you. He’d never get to take you out, watch you admire the sunset and call the view pretty, and he’d never get to agree while his gaze was still on you. He’d never get to help you fold laundry again, or hear you sing along to the radio, or watch you dance around the kitchen in the middle of the night.

Someone once told Ghost that the greatest ability one could have was the ability to remember.

Someone was a fucking liar.

Simon didn’t want to remember you, he wanted to know you. He needed you here, because the second you were gone he felt homesick. He felt like he was too big for his body, like he was suffocating without your presence to breathe life back into him.

He was his own villain, but love was his betrayer.

Ghost has died many times now; the kind of death that you don’t notice. The kind that can’t be seen. Once when his father made him watch that prostitute overdose, twice when he got buried alive, three when he came home to find his family slaughtered. He didn’t want to think about the fourth. Ghost has died many times, but he’s never felt the cold arms of death impaling him. He’s never wished it would handle someone so softly.

He hoped it was peaceful. He hoped it felt like sitting in your favorite garden and feeling the sun on your skin. He hoped the wind was blowing, and he hoped the porch light turned on when it grew dark. He hoped it wasn’t as cold as he felt without you.

Ghost turned his sorrow to anger. He wouldn’t rest until everyone that had ever hurt you was buried in the ground, wouldn’t rest until he made them statistics. He’d make you a graveyard in his desperation as if it were a sacrifice. As if he could turn in twenty-seven souls for the release of one. He’d find someone to blame, and he’d make them pay for it.

If he had to, he’d even make the gods suffer. He’d make them listen, make them greet his cries with their own while his grief haunts the soil and his turmoil shakes the clouds. They’ll fear him when he rips through the ground with his bare hands, desperate to feel your touch. Your hands would be cold, but he’d take them into his and warm them with the burden of his existence. The gods will have no choice but to pray for his forgiveness and beg for his mercy.

The only thing that could stop him was dead, and he’d return the favor until his body was rotten.

Home never felt so far away, even when he was standing in it. It went from his favorite place to a cage; nothing but four walls and a roof that felt abandoned by your lack of presence. Simon was like a ghost at the table, sitting there just to reminisce on the late nights you’d spend there with him. He almost imagined what you’d say if you were here now. Probably some shitty joke he’d pretend to hate. A shitty joke that he’d tell Soap later. A shitty joke that would live in the back of Simon’s mind until his memory failed him, stored with all the others you’ve told.

He didn’t find comfort in the walls decorated with your love and ideas. Almost desperately, they screamed: you won’t find comfort here. This is not your home anymore. She doesn’t haunt the halls. You won’t find her no matter how hard you look. Your records were still sprawled out on the coffee table, and the puzzle you were working on sat unfinished on the kitchen counter. He couldn’t bring himself to move the things you touched. Couldn’t even stand to look at them.

You were a good person. You deserved a soft ending with him. Curled up on the couch, skin wrinkled with age, a warm cup of tea in your hands. Simon knew he’d still find you beautiful.

He’d find you in the garden, laying in the tall grass and smiling when the sun hit your skin and the breeze flew past.

He’d turn on the porch light when it got dark.

THINGS THAT HAPPENED AFTER YOUR DEATH:

: The recruits learned that Ghost only tolerated them because you were around

: None of the task force sits at the table in the mess hall that you always occupied (except for Ghost)

: Every time someone mentions anything that has to do with you (your favorite movie, favorite subject, etc.) Ghost would lash out

: Ghost would throw himself into his work to distract himself from the silence of your home

: He’d always wear the hoodie that you stole from him, trying to imprint your scent into his skin

: He’d eventually grow old (shocker), and he’d hate himself for leaving you behind

▸ A/N: I genuinely cannot tell if the shit I write is good or not, but I hope whoever read all this isn’t disappointed. It’s late and I’m tired, so I didn’t really go into how others reacted, but I might elongate this in the future. If you can’t tell, I fucking love angst + making indifferent men feel pain, because yes. Just yes. I still have no fucking clue how this shit works, so bare with me please, we’ll get there eventually 😭

P.S, I tried a new color scheme, don’t know if I love it or hate it yet

[csbat]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍’𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐘 — 𝐒𝐑.

▸ PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

▸ SUMMARY: Time expanded slowly; the long weeks becoming months that soon turned into searing years. Your only silver lining—the basis of your hope and love—was the familiar yet fleeting knock on your door.

OR, in which; every first day of the month, a delivery of flowers shows up on your porch.

▸ CONTENT INCLUDES: Major character death (mentioned), angst, hurt/no comfort

▸ WORD COUNT: 2,560

The promise of Simon’s inevitable absence would always be a tough pill to swallow, no matter how many times it was forced down your throat. You were well informed of his duties, and with that came the sleepless nights and long mornings when you were left alone with your thoughts. Left alone to ponder the possibilities and risks he’d always have to take. To have him meant to accept that he was made to be a warrior, a soldier, a machine.

Distantly, you can still recall his words, whispered in the dark and followed by his rough hands rubbing over the skin on your hips with a supple grace that shouldn’t be known to him.

We have to get our hands dirty to keep the world clean. He said it with resignation, as if it were final. As if it were something that couldn’t change. You now know that he was right.

You don’t have to ruin yourself for people that don’t deserve it. You wanted to shout, to plead with him.

You’re a good person and you’ve suffered enough. The words were on the tip of your tongue, begging to be heard, begging to screw into his head.

You deserve to rest. You would’ve said it if you knew it would have made a difference (it wouldn’t).

Simon wasn’t the type to outwardly show affection. Maybe it was because of the past, maybe it was because no matter how many times he washed his hands they always looked bloody, or maybe it was just who he was. The answer was unimportant because he found other ways of showing his love, his appreciation, his devotion. The displays varied from one to the next, but your favorite was easily the pretty bouquet of flowers that would show up on your porch at the start of every month. He would fein innocence, claiming that he had no idea where they came from, and you would fein ignorance, pretending not to see his name on the tag.

When he left with a kiss and a promise to be back soon, you tried not to think about it. You tried not to remind yourself that anything could happen. You tried to trust that he would be okay. He’d be home soon enough, and you could go right back to folding laundry together in silence, or making those (according to him, awfully long) trips to the grocery store. He’d be fine and you’d feel silly for worrying, just like you always did.

He never did come home.

𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑

It had been a month since you last saw Simon. You weren’t panicking; you were used to his missions lasting longer than expected and by now learned not to get your hopes up. The lawn started to grow out, but you pushed the thought to the back of your mind with a small reminder that he would take care of it when he got back.

It was midnight when your attention was torn away from the book in your lap. A knock on the door, one so quiet that you had to question if it was even there, disrupted the still silence. With a sigh and a quiet groan after you stood up to stretch, you made your way to the door with a solid idea of what you’d find.

A pretty arrangement of flowers sat in a vase on the porch; a figment of all your love wrapped in a pretty bow. With a small smile, you crouched down, finding the unmistakable name of Simon Riley printed on the card. You weren’t worried because you knew he was coming home, but the gesture still eased the tension in your shoulders and softened the heaviness in your chest.

Feeling much lighter than before, you ventured back inside.

Simon,

I know you’re busy because you have a job or whatever, but don’t you know it’s rude not to deliver flowers in person?

Kidding, they smell very sweet and I’m glad you went with the roses this time. They remind me of our first date, how you showed up at my door with a couple of dead ones and told me you forgot to water them. I think I still have them somewhere actually.

I don’t know when you’ll come back or if you’ll even read this, but I miss you and I guess I was feeling lucky.

Take care,

your favorite person ever

𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑

It had been two months since Simon’s departure and your routine had never felt more repetitive. The colors around you were dimming and sound turned to static and empty noise. You felt heavy, like your body was trying to tell you something that your mind didn’t know. You almost felt guilty at the need in your chest and the desperate voice in your head that willed his arrival. He was out there saving the world, saving people (that would never appreciate it), but the longer he was away the more persistent the voice became.

So when the singular, very anticipated knock came at midnight, it also came as a reminder of everything you were waiting for. It eased the voice and begged it to stay quiet. Begged to be at peace, at least for a moment.

Simon,

What did the farmer say when he lost his tractor?

“Oh no, I lost my tractor!”

I’m almost embarrassed to tell you how long I laughed at that. Anti-jokes are a lot funnier in person though, and I have a whole list lined up for when you come home.

Hope you’re okay,

still your favorite person ever

𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑

As time failed to stop, Simon’s absence became more infamous. With it edging on three months, the hole he left was more noticeable than ever. Christmas would be coming up soon, and you didn’t feel the familiar childlike joy that you did last year. You didn’t want to decorate, or make cookies, or really do anything. With Simon being deployed, you had no one else to celebrate with.

You had no interest in the upcoming holiday, but against your instincts, you willed yourself to put up a tree and decorated it haphazardly. You put up the lights—the ones you bought two years ago and still used despite the fact that half of them were out (because they were his favorites). When he came home, because he would, he’d be greeted by the warm atmosphere and a few presents awaiting him under the tree. He wouldn’t have time to get you anything, but his return was the only thing you wished for.

When Christmas eventually did roll around; with the grass covered in white, snowflakes falling from the sky, and the nearest lakes all frozen over, you sat in his favorite recliner and sipped at the cup of warm tea in your supple hands. You waited, and waited, and waited, ‘cause what else were you supposed to do?

As the twenty-fifth morphed into the thirty-first, you realized with aching bones that he wouldn’t be coming home soon enough. That would be fine, you could wait and so could the Christmas music and bundle of gifts. It could never be too late to celebrate, right?

You sat on a stool in the kitchen, the time growing closer and closer to your favorite hour. And as predicted, when the clock struck midnight, a quiet knock rattled the door. Quickly, you scurried toward it, opening it with haste to find the same beautiful bouquet waiting for your attention. It was bigger than usual, more flowers shoved into the vase and brighter colors in your vision. His return was the only gift you asked for, but as long as these showed up, you supposed that would have to do.

With hesitant movements and a heavy frown, you took the vase inside.

Simon,

Christmas feels weird without you. Might be a strange way to start this letter, but I really miss you and I’m too tired to feel subtle about it. Since you weren’t here to help me decorate, I did it myself, even though it honestly looks like shit. I can never reach all the high places that you can, you fuckin’ giant.

I’ll keep everything up until you get home so that we can still celebrate. I know you hate opening gifts, but I couldn’t help myself this year. I just see things and my first thought is ‘mm, I bet Simon would like that’, which leads to me getting it.

I really miss you. I hope you’re safe wherever you are, and I hope whatever you’re doing is worth it.

See you soon,

your person

𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘

It was a new year, but time didn’t feel any different. Each day hope diminished, each day felt longer and each day your heart plummeted when he didn’t return. He would though. He had to. He still had unopen presents and there were still so many things you had to say to him.

When the familiar time came, you rushed to the door, nearly beating the mysterious knock. Despite how fast you were, you could never catch the person who dropped the flowers off. You tried searching for proof of his existence in things that held no answer, and as you shuffled through the bouquet in search of that damn tag that would have his name on it, you were surprised when the only one you found was much different than before.

Not only was it handwritten, but it was in a different style than Simon’s messy handwriting. It read two words that nearly made your heart sink. I’m sorry. That was it, no explanation, no answers. You tried not to think about what that might mean. Tried not to think about the fact that it was Price’s handwriting you were staring at.

Simon,

It’s been 103 days since you’ve left and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I feel like I’m either constantly waiting for your return or sleeping the dread away. What’s keeping you from me? Are you safe? Are you ever going to read this?

I know you hate it when I worry, but I’m starting to think that this is it. Please come home. Please be here. It’s getting so lonely without your horrible jokes and the silence feels like it’s trying to tell me something.

I’m starting to believe it.

𝐅𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘

After five months of silence, you got your answer, but not in the way you wanted. When February came around, you were more impatient than ever. Your heart was beating out of your chest in the minutes leading up to midnight, and even more so when the time came and there was an eerie lack of sound. You always handled silence well, but found that you’ve never hated it more. It’s never felt this suffocating.

Your heart fell as twelve turned into one, and one into two. The hours dragged on until the sun was shining through the windows, and when the flowers never came you realized that you knew why.

Simon,

I don’t want to be angry with you but somebody has to be. I don’t know where you are, I don’t know how it happened, I don’t know if it was painful. I don’t even know if you regret it. Did you think about me? Did you see me when your life flashed before your eyes? Did it happen too fast for that to even happen?

You can’t be gone. Please come home and tell me this is a joke. Come home and open your presents. Just come home.

The grass was growing out, but you refused to cut it down. Refused to accept what you already knew; he wasn’t making it home this time. Most nights, you woke up in a sweat because he wasn’t there to hog the blanket. You can’t even recall how many cups of tea you’ve had to throw out due to accidentally making another for him in your morning haze, nor can you recall how many times you’ve had to stop yourself from calling out his name when you got home after a long day.

You just had trouble reminding yourself that he was gone. It was strange, one second you had him and the next you didn’t. If you knew his absence would be forever, you would’ve done more. You would’ve held him tighter when you begged for him not to go. You would’ve broken a bone to keep him from leaving; said something to make him stay. How were you supposed to accept the fact that you’d never see him again when you hardly even got a goodbye?

Against rationality, you still held hope that he’d show up on the doorstep in the pouring rain with every part of you that he took with him when he left. With love and flowers and daydreams. You’d let him in without a second thought. You wouldn’t even want an apology for the fear he instilled in you for so long, just his presence. You’d let him hog the blanket and you’d make an extra cup of tea. You would love him and lose him again if you had to.

But time didn’t stop moving, and his arrival never came. Your wish fell on deaf ears and pleading with the sky never worked.

If he lived here he’d be home by now.

Simon,

I don’t know why I’m reaching out again, but you were once my favorite person to talk to and it’s still a habit I’ve yet to break. It’s been 4 years, and I’m still right where you left me. I wish I could say that I’m not who I used to be; that I’ve grown and that I’ve changed, but I’ve learned that healing looks different for everyone.

I just want you to know that I’m not angry anymore. You were doing what you had to do. You always knew that came with sacrifices and I was foolish to believe you would never be one of them. I’m not mad at you for leaving me behind, I’m not mad at you for promising you’d be back, and I’m not mad at you for breaking that promise.

I’m trying to plant new seeds and water new plants, to replace the wilting flowers with bright, new, healthy ones. I’m trying to accept that it is what it is, and I’m trying to stop making it into what it was. It doesn’t hurt to think about anymore. The questions and the memories came and went and settled deep into my conscious where they no longer keep me up at night.

Despite this, I still have all the flowers you sent me. They’re all sensitive and dead now, but they’re in a box under the bed along with all of our pictures and all of our history. You were the first and last person I’ll fall for, and even though you aren’t around to give me those stupid butterflies and tell me those stupid jokes, that time will always be a part of me, which means you will too.

I’ve come to accept that. That even though a part of me died with you, new flames can cauterize the old wounds you left. Thank you for loving me, thank you for teaching me that flowers wither and die, and thank you for teaching me how to water new ones.

▸ A/N: I’m sorry if this isn’t the greatest, I haven’t written anything in a while and I’m writing this in the middle of the night so there may be errors. That being said, I hope you enjoyed whatever the fuck this was! I might make a longer, more detailed version sometime in the future but for now this’ll have to do.

P.S, I’m sort of new to this shit, and generally have no idea what I’m doing or how this works.