dreaminguponlilypads

[dreaminguponlilypads]

Ripped ghost truthers come to my doorsteps to die.

[dreaminguponlilypads]

ID DEFINITELY LET JOHN PRICE CHEW ALL OF MY BUBBLEGUM

[dreaminguponlilypads]

SHOW-OFF.

finally blessing you all with a fic WOOOO I GRADUATE NEXT WEEK

Ghost rubbed his forehead and silently sighed, shifting his grip on the phone pressed to his ear.

For what felt like the fifth bloody time that day, Laswell was droning in his ear again, this time about their favorite obsession — you.

An assassin. A thief. A ghost of your own making.

“Known aliases, two. Real identity, unknown. Confirmed kills: fourteen, maybe more. Last seen outside Prague, then Paris, then Madrid. Every time we get close, she vanishes like smoke,” Laswell explained, like it was the first time she’d said any of this.

“Don’t you think we’re wasting our resources pursuing this one person?” Ghost muttered, voice laced with annoyance. “Even if they do damage, most of it’s private property. Hardly screams national threat.”

“She’s highly skilled,” Laswell pressed. “Untraceable. And frankly… she’s starting to show off.”

He dragged a rough hand down his face. “I know, Laswell. We’re on it. She won’t evade us forever.”

He ended the call without waiting for her response and tossed the phone onto the nightstand with a thud. You had everyone on edge.

And if they ever found out…

A soft creak behind him drew his attention.

“I hear you’re showing off, eh?”

Ghost’s voice was amused — gravel and smoke — but there was a dangerous undertone laced in it. Not angry, no. Just sharp.

You stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around you like a veil. A too-small towel clung to your damp skin, water trailing down your legs. Your hair was dripping, sticking to your shoulders, and your eyes locked with his like you’d just heard every word of the call.

You had.

“That’s rich coming from the man harboring me in his hotel room,” you said sweetly, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were into rule-breaking.”

Ghost leaned back on the bed, arms behind his head, watching you with that unreadable skull-marked mask still on, though his eyes betrayed his calm. Dark. Heated.

“I told you to lay low. Didn’t know you were an exhibitionist.”

“I am.” You stepped further into the room, bare feet silent against the floor. “Just happened to visit a private art gallery. Took a few souvenirs. Left through the roof.”

“You left your signature,” he pointed out. “Again.”

“Of course I did. If I didn’t, how else would you know it was me?” You smiled, catlike. “Besides. You’re the one who told them you’re on my trail. Gotta make it convincing.”

“You’re pushing it,” he said, voice low now. “Laswell’s breathing down my neck.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the drawer where one of his shirts was folded, yanking it over your head. It swallowed you whole, but that didn’t stop you from acting like you owned the place. Owned him.

“I’ve been pushing it since Prague. That didn’t stop you from kissing me in Vienna.”

Ghost said nothing. He didn’t have to. His gaze was locked on you, unmoving, but not cold. He was processing. Calculating. Wanting.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he finally murmured, sitting up. “One wrong move and I’ll have no choice but to turn you in.”

You stood in front of him now, arms crossed. “You won’t.”

“Don’t test me.”

You leaned in, your hands resting on his shoulders, wet hair brushing his jaw. “I already do. Every day. And you love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he pulled you into his lap, wet towel forgotten, shirt half-riding up your thighs. His hands were firm on your hips, his voice next to your ear.

“Tell me you didn’t kill the guy in Madrid.”

“I didn’t,” you murmured. “He tripped. And then I…encouraged gravity.”

Ghost sighed again, but this time, it wasn’t frustration.

It was something much more dangerous.

“You’re gonna get me killed.”

You smiled. “Not before I get you in deeper.”

The silence stretched between you and Ghost, the weight of what you were — the risk, the thrill — settling thick in the air.

He should’ve pulled away. Should’ve grabbed his comms and called in your location. Hell, he’d had a dozen chances since you’d slipped through the perimeter at that safe house in Istanbul. But each time, he let you go. Each time, he kept your secrets.

Now?

Now you were straddling his lap, damp and smug, wrapped in the shirt of a man tasked with hunting you down.

And Ghost — Simon — was doing nothing to stop it.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, voice rough. “Shouldn’t even be seeing you. Let alone-”

“Let alone what?” you whispered, nails lightly scratching over his shoulders through the cotton of his black tee. “Letting me in? Touching me like you don’t care who’s watching? Like I’m not the target?”

He gave a low, almost bitter laugh. “They’ll gut me when they find out.”

“They won’t.” Your breath ghosted over the edge of his jaw. “Because you won’t let them.”

His grip tightened. “You’re playing with fire, love.”

You tilted your head, lips brushing against the edge of his mask. “Then burn with me.”

For a beat, everything stopped.

Then his mask was halfway off — just enough for his mouth to claim yours, hot and punishing, like a man torn between instinct and orders. You kissed him like you had a death wish. Like you wanted to be caught, just to see if he’d betray you.

He didn’t.

His hands slid under the hem of his shirt you wore, exploring your skin like he was memorizing it in case he never got the chance again.

“I should arrest you right now,” he muttered into your mouth.

You smiled, breathless. “But you won’t.”

[dreaminguponlilypads]

guys if you send me asks, please be interesting

[dreaminguponlilypads]

For those who were asking for a yearning Simon fic… enjoy, my loves.

You always said it with a laugh or a shrug—“He’ll be fine,” or “He doesn’t get attached.” God, if only you knew. If only you knew the mess you’d made of his head, the way you’d slipped into his bones and made a home there, the way he sat alone in his flat, in the dark, tracing the outline of your name in his mind like a fucking brand.

He’d replay every conversation you two ever had like some lovesick teenager, except he wasn’t a teenager; he was a fully grown man, a soldier no less, and here he was—yearning.

Pathetic. He was pathetic.

He’d think of calling, thumb hovering over your name on his phone, but he’d talk himself out of it every time. You were probably busy. You always were.

And he couldn’t risk hearing you sound distracted or annoyed, couldn’t bear the weight of you asking, “What’s wrong, Simon?” when the only thing wrong was that he missed you like air, and he was too much of a coward to say it.

You’d always been easy with him, bright and teasing, calling him “Riley” in that tone that made his skin tighten, poking at him when he got too serious. And God, he missed that. He missed your voice. He missed the way you’d glance up at him through your lashes when you were pretending not to be flirting. He missed everything.

And it wasn’t like he was subtle about it. Everyone in his unit probably noticed the way he’d check his phone during downtime, the way he’d get quiet after you called, and the way his face would go soft and stupid when he thought no one was watching.

He wasn’t stupid; he knew how he looked. He knew that Price would probably knock his head off if he found out he was falling for someone so hard it made his chest ache.

But it didn’t matter. Because you weren’t his.

And that was the worst part.

He was used to wanting things he couldn’t have—he’d grown up that way, used to pressing himself into the background and pretending he didn’t need or want.

But you? You made it impossible. You made him think, just for a moment, that maybe he could have something soft. Something real. And now he was stuck in this loop of almosts and maybes and if onlys, stuck in the quiet that filled his flat when you weren’t there.

He’d pace sometimes, hand running over the back of his neck, thinking, Just call her. Just tell her. But the words always caught in his throat.

Until tonight.

He was standing in his kitchen, staring at his phone, and he just couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t stand the silence, couldn’t stand the weight of his own wanting. So he called.

It rang once. Twice.

Then your voice came through, a little breathless and surprised. “Simon?”

His mouth was dry. “Yeah. Uh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to call so late.”

“No, it’s fine. Are you okay?”

He let out a shaky breath, leaning against the counter. His chest hurt. His whole body felt tight, like he was holding something too big inside him.

“I just—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I just missed you.”

The silence stretched out between you two until you said softly, “I missed you too, Simon.”

And it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough, of course.

But for the first time in months, he let himself breathe.

He could’ve said more that night; he could’ve let the words fall out, but he’d bitten his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Couldn’t risk scaring you off. Couldn’t risk the silence that might follow if you didn’t feel the same. So he just stood there with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to you breathe, telling himself it was enough.

It wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Days bled into weeks, and he was no better off. Every time you messaged him—just something stupid, a meme or a “Hey, did you see this?”—he’d feel that sharp sting behind his ribs, that warm pull like gravity.

He’d reread your texts over and over, memorizing them like a man starving for scraps. He’d type a reply, delete it, type it again, hover over send, and then finally hit it with a deep breath. You probably thought he was calm and collected, sitting there on the other side of the screen, when really he was a mess of nerves, thumb trembling, heart hammering so loud it echoed in his ears.

The worst part was seeing you.

When you two met up, it was just casual for you—two friends having a drink, just a quick catch-up. You’d sit across from him in the booth, your legs brushing his under the table like it was nothing, your laugh cutting through the air sharp and clear.

He’d nod along, trying to keep his hands steady, trying to act like his pulse wasn’t racing every time you looked at him. You’d lean in to show him something on your phone, and he’d catch a whiff of your perfume, something soft and warm that made his throat tighten.

And then, just when he thought he might get his shit together, you’d glance up at him with that look, that easy smile, and he’d feel himself unraveling all over again.

He’d catch himself staring at your lips, at the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, at the way you’d brush your fingertips over the rim of your glass like you didn’t even know what you were doing to him. And he’d hate himself for it—hate the way he wanted you, the way he craved something he couldn’t have.

You were so close. So damn close. And yet, you weren’t his.

He’d lie in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling, the dark pressing in around him. He’d picture you, picture the curve of your smile, the warmth of your laugh, and the softness of your skin. He’d imagine what it would feel like to just reach out and pull you into his arms, to bury his face against your neck and breathe you in, to finally, finally let himself have what he wanted.

But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

So he’d turn over, press his face into the pillow, and will himself to sleep.

The next day, he’d put on his mask again, and he’d text you back like everything was normal, like he wasn’t dying inside. And he’d tell himself that it was enough. That this yearning was all he was ever going to get.

PART 2

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@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog

[dreaminguponlilypads]

Verification post so we know you’re real?

how the hell am i supposed to verify? 😭 someone explain guys im very much real

[dreaminguponlilypads]

Concentration?

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biggest sucker for accents award goes to me

[dreaminguponlilypads]

I never expected someone who writes video game x reader fanfiction to be attractive. Like you're actually very conventionally attractive. I thought we were all chopped 😭 I'm so jealous.

thats so sweet of you thank you so muchhh 💕💕 you must be beautiful too

[dreaminguponlilypads]

An update of the whore 3rd dimension spectrum

Gaz has fuckboy-ed so hard he's out of the spectrum, i repeat, he is not a whore

Pretty privilege smh

[dreaminguponlilypads]

almost immediately into dating, simon riley would buy you a gun.

probably a 9mm. matte black, no frills, utilitarian. nothing bigger than needed. comfortable enough to hug your palm, heavy enough to remind you of the implications of what you carry.

and really, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to you.

you knew he was a soldier, knew he kept closets full of gear and could disappear without a sound — appear the same way too. you knew how he moved, how his eyes never slowed until they met yours. knew there was something unsaid about his skill level, redacted parts he left out on purpose. but even above that — you knew the truth of him. under the mask, under the muscle, under the scars of his past. the boy who grew up with vigilance as his only defence. you know enough to know you don’t survive what simon has survived and come out normal.

you come out disciplined. dangerous. prepared.

simon doesn’t believe in luck. won’t leave his trust in the cavalry showin up in time when that’s already failed him many times before. simon doesn’t deal in safe.

he deals in preparation. for the worst. for even the most unlikely.

love comes in many forms. and maybe for simon it’s not candle lit dinners or couch cuddling movie nights (though of course you bribe him into those anyways. he’s never quite been able to say no to you) it’s making sure he does everything in his power to make you capable.

and he does it with all the patience he’s got to offer. there’s no expectation no pressure no timeline — god knows simon isn’t expecting you to become a super assassin overnight. he takes you out to some half-forgotten range an hour outta the city, tucked in nice between the pine and fog. sets up the targets and has you aim at them empty, watching the way you hold tension in your tendons. teaches you how to force it out through breath. how to work the weapon like an extension of yourself.

the rundown is quick and simple. caliber, kickback, magazine release. then he steps back and tells you to shoot.

you exhale the breath like he taught you and pull. when you miss, he nods once and says again. you go through three full mags and miss each one. it isn’t long before your palms burn as bad as your cheeks do with the humiliation of it — but it’s all forgotten when you land just a tap off the bullseye and simon walks over with his hands up.

“that’s how it starts, sweet’eart.” he murmurs, smirking against your mouth.

simon riley is a man of many talents, but his greatest achievement yet is loving you. and maybe it’s not always voiced by ‘i love you so much baby.’ — but instead it’s running you through drills around the crooked ikea furniture in your living room until the sun has set and the moon is out. or blindfolding you and telling you to unload and reload the mag. or leaving sticky notes with unlikely scenarios scattered around the house and quizzing you on your answers while youre cockdrunk against the counter.

you’ve learned his language by now. hes protective and realistic and a little bit cynical. but god does he make you feel alive for it.

you know by him teaching you how to use this gun it’s his way of saying i will do everything in my power to keep you alive because im in love with you and i wouldn’t survive a fuckin day if i lost you.

[dreaminguponlilypads]

hi guysss!! i made a twitter acc @sleepyponds if you wanna follow.. please do.. i want mutuals.. 🙏

[dreaminguponlilypads]

Riley. That it

[dreaminguponlilypads]

everyday

[dreaminguponlilypads]

Send biceps 🎀🙏🏼

[dreaminguponlilypads]

RAAHH sick day everybodyyyy ft. shirt that makes me look like im wearing a potato sack.. did u guys know my hair isnt actually this brown i dye it lolol.

[dreaminguponlilypads]

I want a grown man to be obsessed with me.