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luvissues · 15 days ago

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thinking about graveyard groundskeeper!ghost x reader

notes: cw for death/murder?? kind of

His rugged boots have long since dug their soles into the mud of the sullied ground, treads worn and tired (somehow, the steel toes always shine spick-and-span, rain or shine).

He walked a familiar path each day, the hours lapping into one another- a rhythmic lull. Every morning, for as long as he’d counted, he’d take the path that stretched miles and miles around the length of the graveyard.

And then, when he stopped counting, he kept walking it anyway.

It wasn’t just walking, though. Simon did everything. He did everything for the rotting bastards buried deep beneath the soil, because the families and friends and lovers who had rightfully left them to be forgotten wouldn’t.

Regrettably, it was his home, tethered to him by the macabre work he’d found himself in. It wasn't so much a tie to the job as much as it was a metal chain anchoring him there.

Yet, there was no iron ball at the end. Only the weight of hundreds of gravestones, dirty and ugly and languishing, just like him.

There's nowhere else in the puzzle of the world he could possibly fit himself into. In the service, the only difference was that he walked amongst still-warm bodies.

Now, they were cold and long-gone, but the principle stayed the same.

He knows the name they all give him. It’s from the people who do come back; stupid sods who keep themselves indebted to remains far gone, to a soul that rests much lower than where the body was ever buried.

He doesn’t mind it. Doesn’t speak to them, anyway. Somewhere along the way, he’d started to associate with it, too. They’d done him a favor, ridding him of his name- because no person would ever work this job, would ever keep themselves so close to the dead, that even something as human sleeping was reduced down to shortening the hours until he had to work again.

They called him Ghost, and the name rested well for the man who seemingly never left the graveyard.

Regardless of what they call him, he does the job well.

The grounds are always clean. Not pretty, but oddly well cared for. He doesn’t respect the people who lie underneath his feet, no, but he was never one to half-ass a job.

The iron fence shines. The grass is always trimmed, weeded. The gravel path is a neat, straight line, the only out-of-order being the marks scuffed into it by one hefty pair of boots.

At the end of the day, there’s always a fire burning in the house that lies just behind the thick canopy of trees at the yard’s border. Because even though they call him Ghost, he hates the way his cold fingers tremble as if he’s just seen one when he tucks in for the night.

For some reason, he doesn't offer his house the same diligent upkeep he allots to the cemetery. Perhaps that’s why maybe you presumed the home to be abandoned; for how orderly the graveyard was, the residence seemed not to warrant the same type of care.

It wasn’t like you had ever seen anyone roaming the grounds yourself, anyway. That was the kind of privacy you needed.

Naturally, Simon notices when there seems to be a second pair of footprints along his daily route.

The grit was wet and muddy after the previous day’s rain, and it only made the marks more apparent. What was more concerning, though, was the long streak of mud that followed right beside the tracks.

Not that the groundskeeper was deterred one bit. He followed the marks in the same way a hunting dog would follow the spoor of its catch, attention unwavering. When those prints veered off course and into the grass, he was sure to follow.

The rush had grown long and thick over weeks of sporadic rain, never seeming to dry enough for him to go in and crop it. Water caught on the rough fabric of his jeans as he waded through the overgrown blades, passing through the rows and columns of headstones, following the thick line of mud that had sprouted off the pathway.

Strangely, it stopped in front of his house.

Not that his home was very visible from here, not with the stocky blanket of forest that enveloped it. But you had lead him all the way to the end of the acres, past the fence and into the encompassing woods.

Simon wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected to be at the end of his hunt. Maybe some vermin had dragged it’s sorry meal through the winding field, or a sorrowing lover had carried with then a memorial of sorts when coming to visit their spouse’s grave. But you?

No, he can’t say he expected you to be standing there; wet, cold body lying helplessly at your feet. Living up to his name, Ghost doesn’t say a word or move even an inch as he watches you bring up your shovel, only to use all your strength to haul it back down over the poor cadaver.

It’s admirable, really. He notices the blades of your shoulders flexing with each swing, muscles tensing and straining. If anything, you’ve piqued his morbid interest.

Yet, he knows that any successful chase lies in the wait. Active duty had hammered that in. So, he watches on with a sick curiosity, simply surveying the way that this corpse is becoming more mangled and unrecognizable with each blow you throw at it.

Eventually, your shoulders rise and fall in time with your chest. Deep, heavy lungfuls of putrid air he has long grown adapted to.

And like that, you’re walking. Waltzing off as if you hadn’t left a mutilated mess just beyond his overgrown front porch.

He wastes no time closing distance. Before you can even register who it is, you’re turning around at the sound of bulky steps moving through the sod.

When you meet his eyes, you know that your shovel will be of no use against this man.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first. His masks conceals just about everything except for his eyes, deep and brown like the dirt beneath your feet. He makes no attempt to conceal the way they analyze you.

Truthfully, you look harmless. Not the same woman who’d maimed the body at the edge of his woods. In the back of his mind, a voice from years past stirs in his head, a click of a tongue and a murmur about what a wee lamb you appeared to be.

“Y’ve got no business leaving me such a mess to clean,” he gruffs. When his voice finally raises, it’s rough and low, and exactly what you’d expect from a man like him.

The only thing you can think to do in the moment is blink up at him owlishly. Clean up? This was a matter of court, of prison, of the worst crime, and he…

didn’t seem anything more than a bit peeved. His indifference to it all was enough to make the skin at the back of your neck prickle.

“Leave him.” Is all there is to say. You’d beaten that measly man for a reason- he didn’t deserve any more grace. You’d already given him a quick death, an easy regret, and this was making up for it.

Simon doesn’t reply. He’s still trying to figure you out, gears clicking and chugging along in his head.

Your stockings are absolutely filthy, shoes ruined and peeling with mud and grime. The shovel slung over your shoulder is damn near bent ninety degrees with how much you’d put it to work.

Brows pinching together, he tsks.

“Leave ‘im?” He scoffs. “And let the ugly bastard sit t’ rot in my yard? You ‘ad a shovel, the least you could do was bury him.”

Like Simon, your mind is hard at work. He‘s just witnessed you drag a dead body for well over a mile, beat it senseless, and for what? He’s more concerned about digging a proper hole for the grubby remains? You’re half convinced he might pull a measuring tape from his pocket and start mapping out six feet beneath your feet right now.

You shake your head at his suggestion. All thing considered, your voice doesn’t waver as much as you might’ve thought when you answer him. “Doesn’t deserve it.”

The keeper’s gaze darkened a bit at that. He was plenty sure that the man didn’t deserve it- why else would a little thing like you have gotten herself into all this trouble? Still, he can’t let you go just like that.

“You thought you were gonna get away?” He hums quietly. He shortens the space between you easily, gaze steeling.

Once he’s close enough, he leans down to get a better look at your face. The rain that drips copiously from the trees has mingled with your sweat, leaked into the cotton of your clothes.

In any other circumstance, he might’ve passed you up as another ditzy pushover. But all dirtied up, you couldn’t have looked anything but.

Simon had long grown tired of trying to break in whining little women all by himself. He hadn’t considered finding one who was already well-worn to the rugged edges of the world.

“What if I turn you in?” He proposes, and the following silence hangs heavy. He’d have no issue slinging over your shoulder to march you off to the sheriff, and that’s a certainty.

“Then at least it’ll be for a good reason.”

He almost wants to laugh. God, no, you’re no precious lamb. You’re a damn wolf, an ugly little beast, and you’ve fallen right into his hands.

They always said that opposites attract, but Simon can’t help that his tattered soul is becoming determined to pin you down. Maybe they lied.

“Tell you what,” he murmurs, tone deep and steady as if mulling things over. “I’ll cut you a deal. You sit nice and pretty while I clean up yer mess, and we’ll go from there.”

When you don’t respond right away, a gloved hand comes up to pinch your cheeks, pulling your lips pursed together. He’s no fool to think that you’re powerless- no, not after this- but you're playing on his field now.

You’ll be different, that he’s sure of, but the thrill of the chase is familiar.

“Deal?” he presses, pulling you in until you’re near eye to eye. When you do give him a stiff nod, he exaggerates it by bobbing your head in his grip, and he’s quick to let up. Suddenly, he's ushering you along with a big paw heavy on your back and promises of an ashy fire waiting to warm you up at home.

Your tongue is a bit too tied to correct him at the suggestion that it’s your home. You're not entirely sure it would make any difference to him.

#is this anything #this is my ultimate came back wrong idea for ghost #also it reminds me of the game ghost in the graveyard #so silly #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you

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