squeamishsstuff - Tumblr blog

squeamishsstuff · 5 months

Text

The Hashiras with a Family | Gyomei Himejima

Word Count: 5665

Setting: Gyomei x gn!reader [established, developed relationship]

Content Warning(s): contains spoilers to Gyomei’s background friend, family discussion, brief mentions of pregnancy, and/or carrying a child.

Summary: headcanons as to what Gyomei Himejima would be like with a family, whether he ever wanted kids, why or why not, what it was that determined he would have a child with you, what he would be like as a parent, and a partner.

There was never a question of whether Gyomei Himejima desired a family. He has always had a natural disposition towards children, towards nurturing the next generation. As though a moth to the flame, he has no will to resist the calling, the gentle pull upon his heart. To care for others comes as naturally as breathing for the Stone Hashira.

Though, it may not have always been his intention to have children of his own. Yet, one cannot deny that he has always gravitated towards a caretaker position.

While other little boys set to work amongst their pretend occupations, the occasional farmer and merchant amongst the would be samurais with sticks at their belt, Gyomei was more than content to accept the duty of caring for the dollies. The warmth of his voice, young and soothed into hummed lullabies, satisfied to rock the playthings to sleep.

Discovered delight in forming little onigiris composed of mud and wild berries for his imaginary family, to greet his pretend spouse from their busy day defending a make-believe castle. Content to live a life of domesticated bliss, to scrub laundry in the rivers, and dry them upon hung lines. Callous of fingers that knew honest work, back that knew labor and the till of the land, and children’s laughter.

It was a desire the Stone Hashira captivated, long before the meaning had proper merit. A dream painted in long nights, in joy of small victories, of first steps, and shoes waiting at the door. Gyomei has never been one to shy away from little ones, such as the way he immediately accepted care for the Kocho sisters upon the loss of their parents, always one to insist in assisting exhausted mothers, and corral rowdy toddlers. Shinobu was a terror as a child, I just know it.

The small press of a smile to his lips, guided only by the sound of their jostled amusement, and the warmth of their tiny hands as the fold into his own, significantly larger palms as though he could hold the entire world his hands and perhaps because to Gyomei, they are the entire world.

As a partner, Himejima is in tune with your needs, with your hopes, and your dreams. He is able to detect from the tone in your voice if he should cook a home cook meal, or just pick up dinner. The Stone Hashira can foresee if there is a need for tea, or if you need something stronger.

There is so much to be said as how overconsiderate of a spouse he is, and because of this, Gyomei was well aware of your desire for a family before it had properly taken form. It was a small smile that had blossomed on your lips on your usual outings. The small coos of an infant during a trip to a grocer that had captivated your attention, drew your eyes in admiration.

Another instance in which a child had been separated from its mother during your tea shop visit, the slight blush met at the touch of realization of how naturally the little one’s hand fits into your palm. The small whisper of hope was the very moment that Himejima became painfully aware of how your gaze lingered for the chubby fingers that bid you farewell when reunited with its mother; the absence of warmth that shattered his own.

The daydreams of a little boy that gave way to the realities of the world as well as the loss of his family, of survival, and little joys of mending ragged clothes, bundled blankets in a rundown temple. A life of blood, sweat, tears, and an empty belly with only the laughter of children to bring meaning to his other wise colorless world. A makeshift family of his own, and for but only a moment, Himejima knew peace. Drew life to his bones, and in the next moment, suffocated him.

Shattered pasts, blistered scars, drudged in planted doubts, insecurities, and the loss of his little ones.

His fault.

To bare witness to the blossom of yearning in your heart… No, no it’s not that the Stone Hashira does not wish for a family. Every aspect of him, has always pined for such a life, dedicated to domesticated bliss, but to dare to dream means to open himself up for the ghost of his pasts.

To face phantoms of those he loved, and those he believed he had damned would only poison his present, corrupt his future. The distant daydream that slipped between his fingers, all too aware of the specters that clasp his heart, and threaten to drag him to the pits of despair. Every time he allows himself to consider the possibility…

The Stone Hashira needs time, and he is all too aware of the scars he bears. As steady as the breath that falls from his lips, the words uttered in quiet shame, asked of your patience. Your understanding. Forgiveness, as he seeks to heal wounds that have only been left to fester. The

To greet the embrace of domesticity, to retire his duties, to know the warmth of children laughter once more. To swallow the guilt of lost lives, of robbed futures to parade upon his own.

No, no Himejima is all too aware of the small fingers that clasped his heart, and now drags him to the pits of despair every time the thought blossoms within his heart. The flow of time to sort out his own feelings, to accept the sorrows of his past, embrace the spirits of the lost to rest with his soul. That to accept that which the Stone Pillar cannot change, the loss of all the love he had captivated, of dreams he had fostered for each of his children, to acknowledge who they were, who they could have been, and what will never be.

To forgive himself.

Grief, loss, and carrying on is never an easy road, and as a partner, you cannot expect him to overcome such devastation with ease. Regardless of how many years have come to pass, and those that will follow, the reality is that they will always be a part of the Stone Pillar’s foundation.

Pieces of his heart, shattered to the night, and even when the time for your family to start, Gyomei will still think of them.

He will hear them in your little one’s laugh, reminiscent of mischief in the middle of the night upon hearing your child’s toes creep against aged wood panels. Danced in wishes across flower petals, childhood games that meet his ears, he will yearn for their hands when your little one folds their fingers of his own. New to the world, and far too small to understand the warmth of love that surrounds it, but it is in these moments, that Himejima can finally… breathe.

Because, you never asked him to forget his children.

If you can find the patience, and compassion for the unique aspect of the man before you, bound to your heart, and tended to scars, you will be more than rewarded. You see, Himejima has no preference for the delivery of your children, or the way that they fall into your lives.

Rather, his only desire is for your children to be healthy. The axe wielder is a patient man, and more than accepting of the world. Over considerate of your needs, he’s just pleased that you both have come to the place in which you are ready to start a family.

In whichever way that may be.

If you are one for the concept of pregnancy, and childbirth, you are in for a pampering, and fretful experience. Gyomei would delight at the round of your belly, his hands naturally drawn to it regardless of the size. Easily captivated between his large hands, one to whisper affection and praise, self-assured that the baby can hear him despite what the taisho era midwives may claim.

In terms of pregnancy, Himejima is perhaps the perfect partner to enter this stage of life with. Bare in mind how in tune he is with your needs, he will be quick to tend to the growing pains of pregnancy. So much so that, you may find it a bit more of a pleasurable experience than others—though you will still have your share of burdens.

You may find yourself frustrated how rigid he can be when it comes to childrearing. Gyomei will take the utmost care to ensure that you are well fed. All midnight cravings satisfied in appropriate quantities, even if it means he must hunt down the tea house owner at 2am to procure your coveted anmitsu with side of pickled plums and steamed silkworms—no he does not understand this by any means, but if it brings you joy, who is he one to question your needs.

Gyomei cannot rearrange the bedding enough to ensure that he has shooed away any of your discomfort, and there will never be enough time to tend to your swollen feet. Fretting, and murmuring over small scoldings to take this delicate time with ease rather than remain steadfast. The early months would only greet the tip of the iceberg. His mother hen ways have only just begun, spent holding your hair, and spending hours dedicated to making porridge. The removal of all potential hazards I know he takes baby proofing very seriously. He’ll remove any potential nausea triggers from your sights and go to extremes to ensure you know comfort.

You will discover all of your original house chores laid to the side, completed without your attendance. Attention to detail has always been a strength of the Stone Pillar, and he will utilize this to provide you with a breezy pregnancy.

If anything, you’re likely to grow bored, and even agitated at how pampered you’ve become. Insisting that pregnancy has not robbed you of your ability to hang laundry.

The second trimester, will only press upon superstitions, the having the joy of sharing your good news amongst the village, and the Demon Slayer Corps. Frequent visits to the shrines, pressed days of Inu no hi, and the insistence that you wear a hara-obi. Fretting over the comfort, and warmth of the baby. He has hunted down the elusive retiree shinobi, requesting locations of recommended onsen—he has heard of the health benefits.

He will shuffle through every Shinobu has supplied him with, and he will delight in any recipes that Shinazugawa recommends, taking extra care of the nutritional value. He is gushing to anyone who will listen about your pending bundle of joy.

The utter devastation upon Mitsuri inquiring if—you would perhaps return to your parent’s home nearing the end of your pregnancy. H-he forgot about that part. His worries, have only just begun, and by the third trimester he is a fretful ball of nerves. Because in the Taisho era, fathers would not have been welcome to be involved in the birth, or the early weeks as they are in the present.

But I mean, is anyone really capable of stopping Gyomei? I mean… bruh.

Should you have zero desires to bear a child no one here blames you, or the inability to do so. Do not worry over your relationship, it is not something that Gyomei would ever be distraught over, nor feel the need to doubt his partner. If anything, it would likely break his heart for you to have ever believed it a deal breaker in your relationship.

It’s true, he would be delighted to see life greet you, but the same joy would be expressed regardless of how your family has begun. He has never placed a high importance upon gender, nor the path to parenting you undertake.

An adoptive child, foster family, all it would suit him just fine. Ultimately, the arrival of your children is only partly determined by you. Should you desire to carry your child, well, the little one will have just as much of his heart and love as the children he adopts. No matter what, you’re adopting some kiddos.

Full disclosure, Gyomei adores children, and it’s only natural that he would welcome as many as could ever need him. Because of this, you will need to be up front, and communicative if you have an aversion to raising, well a horde.

He has always had an open heart as well as an open home policy, and it’s completely okay if you do not. The Stone Hashira favors a bond with his spouse, so much that I imagine he would be wiling to accept the one or two children max policy you have. As long as you are willing to accept that, he will never turn those away in need.

Himejima spent a long, long time selecting a name for your child(ren). Time agonizing over the name, despite the fact that he has a preference for more traditional names.

He adores the nostalgia, the comfort, and would be prone to opting for old school names. I imagine that he would give your little one the same name that the little granny at the grocer has. At the same time, I believe that he would be very intentional with his selection. It would be something with akin to a wish for your child. Something like

Tenmu—heaven, sky, imperial, celestial Kiyomoto – holy, sacred Yoshiko—fragrant, virtuous, beautiful child.

It would be a name that carries so much weight, and adoration, but distant to the touch. A whisper of a name, one that draws a smile to the elder’s faces as it slips from their lips. Reminds them of someone, they used to know, a long, long time ago, and memories that may have been forgotten.

There are those who will struggle with parenting. I mean, most everyone will in some form or fashion. Those who cannot grasp the concept of having someone entirely dependent on them like Shinobu, those who will battle their inner monologues like Obanai, and those who will down right, never have a grasp on disciplining their children in an appropriate way Mitsuri.

However, there are few obstacles that the Stone Hashira would grapple with in parenting. Truthfully, he has faced a few challenges in the past, and in the present raising Genya. He has endured late nights rocking a child inflicted by colic, potty training willful toddlers, navigating the emotional needs of developing children, and the ever-sharp tongues of teenagers.

There is little that will knock the giant from his stance or shake his foundation. If there was ever a parent who soaked in the newborn stage, thrived on the sleep deprivation, and glowed in the early days of parenting, it’s Gyomei. It would greet him well, and verify that this is the very moment, he has waited his whole life for.

The resignation of his loud, thundering heartbeat as comforting as waves coddled n his large arms accompanied by his natural pace falling into a sway that soothes even the restless. Safe, secure. Just imagine snuggling in those arms. In many ways, I believe that if given the opportunity, Himejima would seize the opportunity to be the primary caregiver—to stay home with the little ones.

Delighted to be surrounded by little ones, the sounds of laughter, and wipe away tears. Cuddle the hours away, sooth hair ends, and snub the snot from little rounded noses. To consol and comfort. A stay-at-home parent would suit him well, he is content to remain home and care for the children, to prepare meals, and tend to the laundering.

On the same coin, he is just as willing to ensure the financial well-being of his home, but leaving you is not in his nature, and because of this, he will have to try extra hard to remain steadfast to his cause. He never faltered on his beliefs until your little one entered the home. Yet, he is more than aware that he has a duty, and owes your family dedication as well. Though, the first day Himejima is apart from you, he will fret over every little thing.

Worry over if you have had a moment of peace, if the little one has slept well, if you have had a meal, did he pack enough nappies for the day—all of it? As a father, worrying is his pastime.

Though, he’s not the sort to be a helicopter parent. Rather it’s that he is well aware that looming over their every step will not grant them a happy life. Every aspect of the Stone Hashira desires to become his children’s shadows. To follow their lead, to remain within fingers grasp. To snatch them from certain stumbles, heart ache, and tragedies of lost dollies, but he won’t.

His worries often burden his heart, and his mind, they weigh to him like anchors are always present. However, Himejima is aware that the scars of his past cannot impact his parent. He cannot permit its place amongst his presence. While it may pain the ax wielder to do so, he will relinquish control gradually, allowing them the room for growth, and failure.

To wander from his grasp, to explore their worlds, their identities, to make their own missteps, and discover their destines. Away from you. Away from him. They will scrap knees, they will know heart ache, and failure.

Himejima is the sort of father to accept the agony of his children as his own. To adopt their burdens, and devastation, to welcome them into his arms as they sob into his kimono though they may never realize the depths his heart aches for them. The soothing pat of his large hand gently tending to their tears, offering only the faintest vibration of a hum in the depths of his throat as he chokes back the pain of a father.

Their pain is his own.

In many ways, he is a natural parent. Himejima is warm, and comforting. The shelter against the rain, and the wind that whispers against the wind, he is firm, and protective. He guides and nurtures; the Stone Hashira remains where others would flee.

He has always stood against aversity, and breaths through the storm. Attentive, and quick to rise from slumber upon detecting a small skip in the newborn’s breathing in the dead of night. Adjusting space by the needs of the children simply at the drop of your teenager’s tone. Through puppy love, and heartbreak, Gyomei enjoys observing and noticing all of your little one’s unique traits and strengths.

The small wiggle of their nose when they are upset, the way your youngest’s gaze naturally drifts to the left when they are thinking. The way your middle rocks on their heels when they have a surprise in store, or the way your oldest always tucks a little bite of rice in with his side.

The Stone Pillar notices every little thing, and because of this, he is the first to pick up on change, on growth, and accomplishments. The bend of your infant’s knee, revealing its upcoming crawling days, the dexterity in your toddler’s fingers as they grow capable of feeding themselves.

He’s nostalgic; Gyomei is often easily a victim of reflecting upon his children’s accomplishments, and reflections of their lives. The way your oldest brought home a snake, begging to keep it. How you screamed. At times, his reminiscence are embracing the individuality of your children; other times, it is easy for him to be swept away by prior days and mourn the ones to come.

Easily swept away by memories, and likely to dedicate too much time flipping through old family albums. He will desperately need you during these times. In some of the most bone crushing hugs you can imagine.

Sir has grandpa vibes.

The reality is, the majority of parenting comes easily to him. Almost effortlessly that you may find yourself frustrated with your own lacking in certain areas. His eagerness to care for and teach your children the ways of the world, may grow the tense feelings that perhaps you are not doing enough as their other parent.

He’s dedicated, to ensuring that they are well rounded adults, and far to willing to dedicate his life to the endeavor. His patience with the kids when you are at your wits end; Himejima’s natural ability to swoop end cease tears in their tracks. To remain calm despite the situation, or serious injuries, all of it is easy to feel inadequate next too, and it’s easy to run the risk of feeling a bit bitter at his approach to parenting.

However, if you are open with him about your struggling, the Stone Pillar is quick to search out ways to assist you, even if there just little small things throughout the day such as having your lunch packed, or little sweets hidden for you in your belongings on stressful days.

On one hand, it’s wonderful markings of a father, on the other, it’s easy to feel swept under the rug when he spends all of his time tending to the littles. So much so that he likely struggles to juggle date night, either because he finds reasons to stay home with your kiddos, or because he is fretting over them during your time together and plunging the date down the toilet.

It’s not that the axe wielder intends for this to happen, it is in a sense the occupational hazard of being the primary parent, and you will have to work hard with him to ensure your relationship bonds are secure as ever.

In parenting, Gyomei is the definition of present. He will move mountains to ensure that he is at every recital, every PTO meeting, even the most minor of scrapped knees, he will find the way to be at your side. He is tender, and open to accepting your child’s feelings as they come. Even if at times, they are especially scathing. Kids words cut the deepest.

Ultimately, this is all because he believes that in displaying sincerity in his relationship as a father, that the same trait may be passed down to his children. He wants to foster the sort of relationship in which they know they are free to discuss, whatever their little heart desires from the mundane chasing butterflies to the heavy depths of emerging youth he said, she said.

He is prepared for any scrap, and boo boo alike with a plethora of cutesy bandages at his disposal, and even the accommodations should your child find bandaging discomforting. The home is always well stock prior to alignment, the touch of allergies approaching, he is already pushing all the remedies into your systems.

Himejima is quick to offer affections, although it is true that it may not always be verbal. Let’s be clear that it does not mean that he will lack verbal affirmations for your children, but rather that the physical tending to comes far easier to him, but he is the sort to make the extra effort even if it feels a touch foreign.

He is fiercely protective of his children who can blame him, and because of this you will find that he puts extreme care into his environment. All furniture will likely remain secure well into the formative years.

The bright side, if grandkids should be in your future, you’ll never have to babyproof. It’s still present from your childbearing years. You will likely have to petition him from time to time to scale it back as there is no real reason as to why a seven year old needs a baby proofed toilet.

No, parenting is a natural component of Gyomei’s DNA, and it all comes painfully naturally to him on instinctual levels. Coded in the depths of his gene pool, and because of this, you will find that it is in fact, society norms that plague him.

The knitting of old ladies that share their experience, despite how dated their approaches are, to the societal norms in corporal punishments will have him doubting his natural abilities. Causing him to question his abilities as a father, if perhaps he is not stern enough with his children wellbeing. As though an extra pudding will send them to jail.

The little buzzing of influence in his ears will have him grappling with every decision, debating if it is in fact a good idea. The mass majority of societies expect a father to be stern, to be firm, and forceful, a disciplinary and provider, words that do not coincide with his identity, and will easily be confused as shortcomings as a parent.

As a man, he is far more content to stay home with his children rather than seek a paycheck, and if you yourself are pleased by your career, he is the first to offer to relinquish his for raising children.

There in lies a flaw in the societal pressures exerted on him, whispers if he is truly a capable father, a man, or head of the household. He will need your reassurance that gender norms have no place in your home, and you are very pleased with the order of things, but know that every now and then it will seep in.

The doubts, the worries, and often finds it rears its ugly head when it comes to disciplining.

Gyomei hates criticizing his children. To inflict any sort of sadness, no matter how necessary, will inflict inner turmoil and anxiety. Quick to dote, and likely to let more things slide than he should, in a power dynamic with children, he hopes that his children will remain steadfast to their teachings, and he will crumble when they give to peer pressure.

You may find yourself as the one to reprimand misbehaviors, but given enough time, he will strike a balance between discipline and love. Though you may have to suffer in the meantime as he is quick to fold with the smallest of lip trembles.

As a parent, and a partner, it is true that he will initially struggle to find a balance between tending to the children and your relationship. Grapple with letting go of anxieties and worries, and acknowledge that you will still need him as your partner. This will become expedited as he really, and truly cares for you in all aspects, and while it may slip from time to time, he is quick to find his way back to you.

Himejima views his treatment of you, as his partner, as what his children will seek out in their own mates, and because of this, you will find that there may be times where he is pushing himself more to meet some figment of his imagination.

Grand gestures are not his strong suit, yet he will attempt to compete with Uzui levels of displays, and will just need some reassurance that you love him, and things as they are.

101 notes · View notes

squeamishsstuff · 10 months

Text

innocuous [ könig ]

saying im obsessed with this man is an undersatement.

cw: suggestive [ some are a little up front… ], foul language, age difference? [ i mean he is a colonel… ], might be toxic [ idk tho too many hearts in my eyes ], also kinda fem! reader but can be read as gn! reader

Older bf! König, whos not a man you can read, far too experienced with life to let you get in his thoughts, but that doesn’t mean that he could keep himself out of yours.

Keep reading

1K notes · View notes

squeamishsstuff · 1 year

Text

the hate in his eyes pt2

simon "ghost" riley x reader

THE ANGST GETS WORSE

warnings: basic cod topic + swearing + one sided relationship ANDDDD...cheating bastard.....

for mature audiences

no use of pronouns, (name) is used (probably not a lot though)

A/N ; cool hospital socks

Simon Riley.

You never understood the man, but you always knew what he could've been up to. Your thoughts would flow like a stream in a valley, all the thoughts climbing up your spine like spiders.

It hurt you, it hurt you that someone could be so inhuman. Your head throbbed, it ached. You try to open your eyes, but the only thing you get out of it is the blank whiteness you saw earlier.

It wasn't comforting, it was excruciating. You wanted to beat the shit out of him, you wanted to show him who he was messing with, who he was playing with.

But you were unable, you were weak and frail, weak and sick. You doubted every aspect of yourself, for your entire life.

You knew you were never going to be able to beat him. But you could beat him with hurt, just like he did to you.

Your eyes finally opened, you heard a faint voice.

Soon you saw a flash, before your vision came back. It was blurry and it hurt your eyes.

You blinked a few times to try and gain your vision back, it didn't really work. You heard the voice calling to you.

You tried to lick your dry lips, but you couldn't bring yourself to, you felt as frail as you did in your thoughts.

Your vision started clearing up. You blinked a few times again, and to your suprise it came to you. You saw a nurse, and... Soap... And someone in the back... They were too far away too see.

You heard soaps voice but very faintly, he ran up to you and hugged your fragile body. You heard the doctors scold Soap and he released your hug.

You could only focuss on one thing right now, Ghost. The man you wanted to sock into a pen full of crocodiles. You tried to talk, but your throat felt hoarse and painful.

You tried lifting your arm to alert them. The nurse knew your request and went away.

Soap sat himself at the end of the bed waiting for a response, soon the nurse arrived with the water you awaited for.

Soap helped you sit up to take a sip of the water. You held the water as you carefully lifted it up to down the thing.

Soap looked at you wide eyes then a chuckle emersed from his lips. You clear your now wet throat and almost hesitate on what to say.

"I-"

"Its okay." Soap interrupts you, but he didn't mean it in a mean way. "As long as your fine its okay."

Your eyes start to well up as you burst into a fit of tears. Immediately Soap motions over to comfort you. He rubs nonexistent shapes on your back as he comforts you with gentle words. "Its okay lass, let it out."

You sob uncontrollably into his shoulder as you sit there wondering how you ended up there. That moment you knew. You weren't in the wrong, he was

A couple of days later you felt energized, refreshed. You felt as if you were a new person, you wanted to start fresh.

You got out of the covers of your own barrack as you went to have some breakfast. You had planned the day as you found Soap and Gaz at the cafeteria with an extra plate.

"Hey guys." You smiled at both of them as you ate what you wanted off your plate. "Mornin' lass how ya feelin'?" Soap looked at you with his mouth stuffed with french toast.

"I'm good thank you for asking." You smile as you take a bite out of your sausage. "Good morning (Name)" Gaz waved at you as you greeted him.

"Hey (Name), me n' Gaz are gonna head out you coming with?" Soap nudged you as you look at your plate then back to them.

"Yeah sure let me just finish this. " You pointed at your food and they nod as they head out into the unknown. You sigh as you continue to eat and suddenly feel a wave of nausea hit you.

You dont know why you got like that time to time. Must've been a defect from the injury?

You continue to eat your food trying to ignore the sudden feeling and as you take a bite of your toast you see that girl who was with ghost a couple of weeks ago.

She seemed to be talking to someone, and then she paced her way towards you. You gulped as you felt anxious, after the injury you felt more like an outsider than ever.

"Hey." You heard the girl say as you slowly turn up to look at her. She stifled a laugh as she saw your anxiety eating face.

"Um so about last week.." You instantly got up ready to leave before a chest blocked your way from fulfilling that.

Ghost.

"I-i apologize for scaring you ill be leaving now." You quickly got up with your plate before you felt those same hands grip your shoulders.

Sudden fear drained you from any confidence you had before. You were practically paralyzed, horrified of what would happen next.

"He wants to talk to you." Then she left.

"Can we... Talk? " Simon looks at you then suddenly grabs your hand and starts rubbing circles.

You felt that sudden rush, that adrenaline, that wave of instant rejection.

So you went with your head, not your heart. Your face scrunched up and you looked at him with no most EXCRUCIATINGLY DISGUSTING STANK EYE you've every given anyone.

"Get your hands off me you slug!" You felt the stares start to emerge from the dark but you didn't care. You were quick to take your hand away and scoff at his nasty gesture.

He looked at you with disbelief, almost a look of sadness. "Baby please-"

"Don't 'baby' me you ninny!" You were quick to walk away as you run away.

You felt relief rush over you as you sat in your room. You chugged two waters and started to believe there was a better person.

That better person,

was you.

someone could've done this better justice but I HOPE I DID IT JUSTICEEEE????????? i really liked the idea but i dont think i did it right. 😞THANKS FOR READING

Reblogs appreciated ♡ requests: open

@v1naco @ghostsfavhoe @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @melodyuu @djloveyou3000 @fruitymoonbeams-blog @mysticalpandabear

624 notes · View notes

squeamishsstuff · 1 year

Text

You awoke in the cold bed, again. You dont know how long you've been waking up alone, couple months? You get up and refresh before making your way to the kitchen, as empty as the bed. You sighed as you make yourself bland coffee and head out the door. You knew it was one sided, you both slept on either side of the bed. You'd seen him with girls at the bar, with girls at the base. You'd seen how much happier he was without your presence. You'd seen how annoyed he got when you got to clingy or too lovey. You loved him. He didn't.

maybe an idea for a upcoming fic.....

reblogs appreciated ♡

386 notes · View notes

squeamishsstuff · 1 year

Text

absolution - prologue

-simon 'ghost' riley x wife!reader

-warnings: canon typical violence, mentions of scars, fluff

-word count: 1.4k

-summary: you're a sniper and hostage negotiations specialist in the military, secretly married to Simon, as the knowledge of your relationship would compromise both your posts. One night he comes home from a mission and you tell him that Price wants you on the team for an upcoming 141 mission.

next chapter

a/n: this is the first time I've written any sort of fic so pls bear with me, there will be smut eventually, I haven't mapped everything out so don't worry there will be spice. also, I'm not super advanced when it comes to mw lore, aside from the events that occur in the new mw2, but I really love this character and I hope I do him some justice. I'm gonna make a part two, maybe multiple chapters but I'm not sure so pls let me know if you'd read more. :)

this fic was inspired by 'The Captain' by @/as-is-above-so-below which is really phenomenal, so please read that if you get the chance.

It was late in the night when you heard the door open, usually you were a heavy sleeper, but you could always sense when Simon came home. He had been gone for six months on his last mission, somewhere in south america was all he could say about it, before packing up and taking off to leave you alone in your shared flat once again. A mutual understanding had been made during the beginning of your relationship, both of you were military personnel, and you understood that it came with perks, months off spent together, but it also came with its downsides, being separated for months at a time, never knowing what condition the other was in, and living in a constant state of worry about your partner. When Simon proposed, he promised to always come home to you, to never leave you alone like everyone else did, and you believed him, trusted him, and he never broke his promise. His footsteps were light when he came into the bedroom, still wearing his mask, but donning his less formal jeans and black sweatshirt, you caught him lingering in the doorway as you moved to flick on the light next to the bed, casting a dark shadow behind your husband. As soon as your eyes met he lifted his arms to pull his mask off, no longer the ghost, but now standing as the man you so loved. A faint smile crept up on your face as you awakened fully, happy to see him in one piece after being away for so long. You urged him over to the bed with a nudge of your head and he so happily obliged you, kneeling down beside your frame to plant a kiss on your forehead, then your cheek, and lastly your lips, a deep kiss filled with longing.

“Hello” you smirked and glanced forward through your eyelashes as he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Hi lovie” he responded in almost a whisper.

“What time is it?” “late, go back to sleep, ill be here in a minute” he said, as he brushed his knuckles against your cheek and left your side. You watched him cross the room into the bathroom, and close the door almost fully, you two never closed doors fully when you were home together, a sort of unspoken law that allowed you to never be separated. As you heard the shower turn on you sighed to yourself and fell back against the pillows, turning off the bedside lamp. Minutes passed before you heard the shower turn off, waiting for Simon to emerge from the steam-filled room. Once he did, he quickly crossed to the closet to find suitable clothes to sleep in. Entering wearing a simple pair of sweatpants, rare considering he typically wore nothing to bed as the man was like a personal space heater, constantly burning to the touch. He settles himself next to you under the covers and turned to his side so he could pull you close. Resting his face inches from yours, looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face as if he could ever forget it.

“Did you buy more pillows while I was gone?” he asked whilst fussing with the various adornments you have thrown onto the bed. You smirked to yourself, “Yes, but only ‘cause I was trying to make the bed comfier” “The bed is comfy” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Not when you aren't here,” you said as you snuggled close to him, tucking your head under his chin and settling your arm over his waist to allow it to wander over the expanse of his back, feeling over his scars, old and new, silently cursing yourself that you couldn’t do anything to stop him from getting hurt.

“Knife” Simon breathes out. You respond by simply tilting your head and quirking an eyebrow at him. “ ‘sfrom a knife, this cartel was big into watching people bleed”. A meek oh was all you could manage, as you thought about him hurt in the field, a literal knife in his back as he tried to survive. “I’m alright lovie, nothing I haven’t been through before.” He was always this way when it came to his wounds, paying no attention to them after the fact, simply regarding them as an addition to the collection of marks that littered his body. You hated thinking of him hurt, but in an odd way, you regarded the scars kindly.

“You think they’re ugly?” He asks while resting his lips on the crown of your head. “No,” you respond without much thought. He tilts your head to meet your eyes, urging you to explain. “They’re reminders..” you say while looking into his dark eyes. “They prove how hard you fight to come back to me.. I could never find them ugly”. He gives you a simple hmm in response before he arched his neck down to place a kiss on your lips.

“How was it, while I was away?” Simon liked to start conversations later in the night as it meant less time trying to force his body asleep, thankfully you were still awake, which meant he could talk to you rather than staring blankly at a wall or tossing and turning for hours in the hopes of maybe getting a few hours of peaceful sleep.

“Boring” you respond “Went to work, filled out paperwork, trained some new recruits, and practiced grappling” “So nothing interesting happened” he asked. “Well, one thing” you respond moving yourself to look at him. “Price called me” you state, waiting for any change in his face to dictate whether or not you should continue your sentence, he remained stoic. “He wants me for a mission with the 141,” you say. “No” is all Simon responds.

“You don’t even know what it is yet”

“No, you know what kind of missions we get, you’ve seen the paperwork. I don’t want you in any position that could risk your safety”

“Si, every mission risks my safety this wouldn’t be any different”

“Except I would be there, that makes this dangerous”

“How?”

“I can’t do my job if I’m constantly worrying about you, where you are, how you are. It would compromise me”

“Well, what do I tell Price? He doesn’t know we’re married, I can’t just explain to him that my husband doesn’t want me in the field with him, he’ll need a solid reason, and I don’t have one”

“I’ll tell him” Simon grunts.

“You’ll tell him what? That we’re married? You’ll give up that information just because you don’t want to risk me potentially getting hurt, that's bullshit and you know it” you argue as to begin to sit up in the bed, feeling yourself getting angrier at the idea of your husband not trusting your abilities in the field. “It’s not like I would be in the middle of the action, my position is a sniper, I’ll sit on some rooftop for hours waiting for all of you to clear the way before I even think about pulling the trigger.”

“And what if something goes wrong, what if one of us is compromised? What then?”

“Then we deal with it! Like we always have, we’re a team Simon, I don’t expect your full support on this but I expect a little trust in my capabilities, I have never stopped you from going on a mission just because I thought it was unsafe, I have always trusted you. Please, do the same for me.” You beg as tears begin to prick your eyes.

He stares at you for what feels like minutes as you will him to talk. “Okay”, he says finally. “You’ll come, but this, us, stays a secret. I can’t have the enemies knowing I have any sort of weakness”

“I’m a weakness,” you ask.

“Yes, you’re a weakness. Because I don’t know what I would do if you ever got hurt. They can use you against me. I won’t let you be a pawn”

You reach your hand up to hold his cheek as you lay a soft kiss on his lips. “Okay” you whisper as you curl yourself into him, finding comfort in his warmth, as his heartbeat slowly lulls you to sleep.

Simon stayed awake, listening to your soft breathing, feeling your chest rise and fall with every breath. Holding on to you like if he even loosened his grip you would fall out. He lay awake thinking of all of the ways he would cuss out his Captain, all the ways he could try to get you taken off the mission, tormenting himself over all the possible outcomes of you joining him in the field, until eventually, his eyelids became too heavy, and he joined you in sleep.

2K notes · View notes

squeamishsstuff · 1 year

Text

The One where Soap finds Himself in an ✨ Awkward ✨Situation. [ Ghost x Reader ]

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Soap Being Confused, Occasional Profanity, No Pronouns used for Reader Except for ‘You’.

Summary: Hiding out at your house, the 141 are settling in for the evening. Soap ends up hearing something he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t have on his way to the bathroom. But why can’t he seem to stop listening ?

“Gah! Fuck–”

The voice splintering through the door made Soap jump – near caused him to soil his favourite pair of jeans as it rumbled through the wood, practically taking it off its hinges with how the nails shuddered in their slots. The voice was baritone, deep. Grizzled. A carnality slumbered in its tone, rearing its waking head.

Ghost.

“Shh, Simon ! You’re going to get us caught !”

Yours followed soon after, a reprimand Johnny would never dream of dishing to the most lethal man he’s ever known. And yet here you were, doing God-knows-what, speaking to him as if you were in control.

When all went quiet again, just for a moment, Soap stopped and wondered if it had all been a hallucination. One second, then two. A low moan slipped beneath the door. Johnny jumped.

He was just going to walk away. Truly, he was ! He – and the rest of the 141 – saw how much chemistry – history – you and Ghost shared. Although, he’d just never imagined you’d be sharing it with the rest of the house, too.

Well, if Simon’s volume was anything to go by.

Johnny’s eyes drifted from the end of the hallway – where the beloved bathroom was – to the door beside him. He bit his lip, heart beating, still recovering from the fright. His curiosity was far from piqued – it shot through the bloody roof and left an impromptu skylight in its wake. And as imaginary sunlight filtered in through the hole, Johnny begged that divine intervention would tear him away from the scene unfolding beside him so he wouldn’t have to.

“God, don’t stop,” came Simon’s pleading tone, any harshness that was custom to it having melted away. Soap, against all better judgement and higher power, inched closer to the door. He cast a glance over his shoulder, once, twice. Nobody lurked behind looking behind. His ear was almost pressed to the wood. He could hear Simon panting, hear you humming as you did…something.

“I won’t – not until you’re finished.” There was little to be heard in the way of shame in your voice, especially in your gentle whisper: “I promise.” Soap swallowed thickly, then, blinking, began rubbing his ears. He couldn’t be hearing this right. He just couldn’t !

Only, when he had thoroughly cleared the imaginary poison from his ears, the issue remained.

“Shit–! That’s it, right there–”

“God, you’re so stiff, Simon. What have you been doing while you were away ?” There was almost a purr to your voice. Ghost only let out a moan as his response, muffled by what Johnny could only guess were pillows.

Why am I still here?! he all but screamed, remembering that he was no Pinocchio, trapped on this stage, bound by strings. He could have been a free man if he so wished. And trust, he did. So why was it that, when he went to walk away, to scour his ears with bleach, to finally embark upon his uninterrupted journey to the bathroom, that he found himself glued in place ?

Perhaps it was the primal instinct to know all that there is to know, to discern danger wherever it lay. Or, perhaps, he was so eneamoured with the idea of whatever could be happening on the other side of this door – Ghost being human for a change – that he couldn’t bring himself to pass up the opportunity to see him so…vulnerable.

That sounded about right.

“(Y/N),” Ghost’s voice husked, no longer dampened, restricted, by an unknown force. He groaned, long and unfiltered. The way he spoke your name was almost in the tone of love, its softest and most carnal form, as if tasting the gradient of your syllables, vowels and consonants upon his tongue. He all but growled. You gasped.

“(Y/N), you’re so close–”

“You want it there, Simon ?” You didn’t miss a beat. Soap’s breath caught in his throat. He looked over his shoulder to the imaginary camera filming his ordeal.

“Yes, yes, God – yes–”

“Doing so well for me, Si,” you said, soft and encouraging. Ghost’s breathing was at its heaviest now, heaving breaths as if they were bricks, building a tower from which he may never come down. A high he will never beat.

“We’re almost there,” you told him, to which he only let out a thick, strangled noise, bulging beneath invisible chains as he tried to conceal it. His moans only grew longer and more frequent, his jaw presumably dropping open to let them pass when he couldn’t hold them back any longer.

Soap began to wring his hands, thankful for the lack of a keyhole in the door so to spare him the intrusive desire to spy on the situation visually, too. Trapped in his own daze, his hurried, sweating, anxious contemplation was torn open by a sound so sharp and brilliant he never wanted to hear it again.

Ghost moaned.

Straight-up howled, roared, as he came to an end.

Soap’s soul clung to his body as the sheer calamity Ghost’s booming voice brought with it shook the very ground he stood on. Johnny’s hands flew to his racing heart, trying to catch it as it jumped up his throat.

Simon’s voice tapered, muffled after most likely burying his face into a pillow. With every exhale, a sliver of euphoria would follow, eventually baying out like the tide, his breathing returning to a shallow rhythm. And all the while, you paid him words of comfort.

“Well done,” you said, the smile in your voice evident. “Took it so well, Simon,” Your voice was feather-light, belied the illicit nature of all Soap had heard you do.

Though, even in this dazed, mortified state, he couldn’t fathom how you sounded so…normal. As if you’d exerted no energy.

Perhaps (Y/N)’s just…strong…? Johnny’s reasoning left much to be desired, that much he knew. Even Ghost was winded, and he was by far the fittest of the 141.

In amongst his rampant thoughts, the idea to flee the scene came too late as, upon hearing you dismount Ghost, your footsteps fast approaching the door, Johnny’s eyes widened, the state he’d be in if either you or Ghost found him unintentionally spying flashing before his eyes as his life no doubt would later.

He couldn’t scramble away in time. He ran on the spot, a cartoon, his impending doom facing him head-on as you swung the door open. His eyes all but watered as he caught sight of you wiping your hands on a towel. You smiled.

“Oh, hey, Jo-Jo !” You said, his nickname rolling off your tongue as if Simon’s hadn’t been just minutes ago. You gave him a brief nod before walking past him, a spectre. A harbinger of death. Johnny stood, body reeling, mind freezing, as nothing became clearer to him except your blase manner. He released a short, puffed breath.

He saw the inside of your bedroom, your bed just out of sight, hidden by the door.

Breath quivering, Body shaking, Soap knew this was his chance.

His last chance.

He turned. Didn’t even make the floorboards creak as he did so.

“Fuck’re you lookin’ at, Johnny ?”

Ghost’s voice rolled across Soap’s mind like thunder clouds, despite the laxity of it, the slowness. He froze, ice rain slipping down the back of his shirt and making him stand up straight. Rigid.

“Uh…I–” He winced, his voice cracking, showing the uncertainty that lay below his usually obsidian tone.

“N-Nothing, Sir !”

Sir ? We’re not at base now, you daft fool–

“Somethin’s obviously botherin’ you,” came Ghost again. He let out a breath. “So come on.” His voice was free from the cotton-mouth effect of the pillows.

“Say it.”

Johnny swallowed, his voice prickling either with dehydration, tears, or an unsolvable mixture of both. When he said nothing – did nothing – Ghost sighed.

“Come on, Johnny,” he said, stark as ever. “Haven’t got all day.”

“W…Well–”

“And come out from ‘round that door. S’impolite not to face the person you’re talking to.”

Johnny’s heart stopped.

No, he couldn’t have heard him properly.

“Are…you…sure…?”

Better safe than sorry.

“What’d’you– course I’m bloody sure. Now stop messin’ about and get in ‘ere.”

Taking a deep breath, and a leap of faith, Johnny rounded the door, the corner. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping and praying.

He heard Simon sigh.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake – at least open you eyes, you daft prick.”

Begrudgingly, hesitantly, Soap cracked one eye open, then the other.

His brain almost couldn’t fathom the dissonance between all that was there, all that wasn’t, and all that he’d expected there to be.

Simon was chest-down on your bed, arms surrounding a bundle of pillows, holding them as if they were collected sticks, his head resting atop one. He watched Johnny from the corner of his half-lidded eye. He was dressed from the waist down, and his back, wet with what Soap had initially come to the horrifying conclusion was sweat, was actually bronzed with what permeated the air: a soothing oil.

Lavender.

Soap’s gaze jumped from point to point, trying to find something – anything – of the reality that had played out behind the door.

“Well ?” Ghost said. “I’m listening.”

Johnny, for the last time, swallowed, rubbed the back of his neck. His frying nerves cooled, though electricity still ran through them.

“I thought–” he gave the room another once-over.

“I thought you and… (Y/N)... were…”

Simon huffed.

“Were…?”

Johnny let out a breath, an almost-laugh. He gave a feeble smile.

“Nothin’ Sir–”

“No, go on,” Ghost prodded, getting up onto his elbows and turning over, now facing Johnny. “I’m curious now.”

John bit his lip, trying to quell the incessant itch there. He could taste the sweat collecting on his top lip.

“I just thought that…” He couldn’t look SImon in the eyes, his gaze bouncing around the room. He could feel Simon’s eyes narrowing, his patience waning.

He sighed. The jig was up.

“I…thought– that you and (Y/N) were…” He looked to Ghost, who gave no indication of understanding what Johnny was getting at, his disposition monotone as ever. Even without the mask, he was no less imposing.

Johnny made a gesture with his fists, bumping them together.

Simon’s eyes widened by a fraction of a fraction.

He said nothing. Soap’s fight-or-flight instinct re-activated. He glanced at the door. The hallway. His narrow chance of escape.

“How–” Ghost’s voice drew Johnny back to the land of the living.

“How loud were we ?”

Johnny grimaced.

“Not really (Y/N), Sir,” he said. “Just…” his hand grew into the shape of what he was trying to say. “You.”

Upon seeing Simon’s eyes widen even more, Johnny’s gaze dropped. And found another, damning detail.

Quick, use your natural humour and charm !

“Though,” he smiled, crooked, sided and small. A start. “I can see something’s made you somewhat excited,”

Simon’s eyebrow raised, and following Soap’s gaze, his shoulders went rigid.

Oh no.

A tent had been pitched in his sweatpants, plain as day for all who looked to see. Johnny’s top set of teeth grappled with his bottom lip, trying to purse his lips shut.

A snort sneaked past, and he slapped a hand over his mouth immediately, as if trying to scoop it back in.

Ghost’s gaze hardened. His eyes concrete.

“Tell (Y/N), you die tonight.”

Soap, smiling widely, simply turned in the beginnings of his departure.

“Course, Lieutenant,” he said. “Aaanything you say.”

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist

Masterpost

4K notes · View notes

squeamishsstuff · 1 year

Photo

Rise & Shine~

2K notes · View notes

squeamishsstuff · 1 year

Text

Yandere Simon "Ghost" Riley Headcanons

Summary: You were just a civilian caught in the crossfire, kidnapped by a cartel and held prisoner. And now, after being rescued by Ghost, you may wonder if you are any safer with him than you were out there.

Warnings: Kidnapping, mentions of physical abuse, memory loss/amnesia, loss of ability to walk (temporary), yandere behaviour, toxic behaviour, possessive behaviour, kind of slow burn, romantic tension, Ghost gets jealous, somewhat angsty in some parts, very fluffy in others (a good balance), mentions of interrogation, Reader showcases anxiety, no use of pronouns for Reader except ‘you’, mentions of games,

Wordcount: 7,581 words

You were a tourist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time - seen things you weren’t meant to see.

And that’s how you ended up here, chained up in a warehouse for what you could only have guessed to have been a couple of months.

You were barely kept alive by restricted rations of food and water the cartel members gave you, needing you alive but just weak enough to not be able to fight back.

They kept you around for their own amusement, hitting you, beating you, humiliating you.

You missed your family, your friends, your old life. You truly believed, with a heavy heart, that you’d die here without ever getting the chance to see them again.

Until…

It had all happened so fast that you couldn’t keep up with it all.

One minute there was a group of men playing poker at a table nearby, the next they’d all been blown away by some nigh-silent, unseen force.

As soon as it had began, it was all over, though gunfire resonated from deeper within the warehouse.

Your heart thudded, your mind hazy and heavy yet just about conscious enough to acknowledge a set of heavy, booted footsteps nearing you.

A walkie-talkie crackled, followed by a deep, gravelly voice.

“One potential hostage found. Commencing collection now.”

The chains keeping you tethered to the metal post were cut and your hands fell.

You barely had the strength to lift them, nevermind your head, which lolled forward, gaze fixed in your lap.

The person who you presumed to have released you knelt down before you. A gloved hand pushed against your forehead, forcing you to look at them.

He was ghastly.

His flesh face was covered by a second, the insignia of his endoskeleton splayed across a dark mask. His eyes were dark and seemed to swallow all light that tried to glimmer within them.

“Can you talk?” he said. His voice was calm yet lacked patience, as if he knew time was short.

You could barely move, barely think.

You said nothing.

The man took your non-answer and moved to lift you, keeping an arm under yours and the other firmly holding his gun.

Now, stood at full height, walking on legs you hadn’t used in months, your body couldn’t handle it.

Your blood pressure dropped and so did you.

The man grunted as your weight collapsed into him, almost taking him with you.

You fell unconscious, and the man rearranged you, slinging his gun over his shoulder and carrying you in his arms.

The next time you awoke, the setting was drastically different.

The dust-filled, sweltering warehouse you had grown accustomed to had given was to a blindingly white facility, the scent of streilisers and medicine filling your nostrils.

You couldn’t move much, body heavy yet soul willing, and your eyes shifted beneath hooded lids.

A machine beeped closeby, one you recognised to be mimicking your heartbeat. The rest of the room was quiet, save for the turning of paper somewhere.

The surface beneath you was plush, encompassing you, unlike the warehouse floor.

Putting the pieces together, your heart began to pound. The heart monitor copied.

A nearby nurse rushed to your side, turning your head this way and that and shining a light in your eyes, talking at you rather than to you.

The rest became a blur.

Doctors visited, recorded your condition. You didn’t know where you were but you knew you were safe. For now, at least.

Some officers came and tried speaking to you, only to find you unable (or unwilling) to talk.

This came as a discovery to you, too.

Soon after waking up, you found that your mind, your memories, were blank. Nothing of your prior self remained save for an overview of your torturous time in captivity, and…

That mask.

The man who’d saved you.

You found it hard to speak, not having done so properly in months save for begging for your life and crying whenever you were alone.

When one of the officers asked you if there was anything you needed, your body acted on instinct, by reflex, and came out with only one word.

“Skull.”

Ghost was stationed by you shortly after that, having been known to be the one who brought you back to Base and the only one to resemble the ‘skull’ you’d spoken of.

The task was…mind numbing, to say the least.

After your singular request for the man who saved you, you went silent again.

No words, no noises, just you sat in the hospital bed, dead to the world.

Nobody could coax a word from you, not even Ghost, as you heard him introduce himself.

The events of the last couple months had forced you into a state of “Dissociative amnesia,” as the doctor had put it. “Rare, but real.”

The doctor said it could take a while for you to regain your memories, and until then, you would have to be kept under supervision.

No permanent thoughts crossed your mind during your period of blankness. They flitted in and out of your consciousness as a phantom would.

Ghost had only tried interacting with you two or three times, the first being his introduction, the others being an attempt at getting any sort of response from you.

Nothing worked, and you were both resigned to sitting in silence with one another.

Days passed, you weren’t sure how many.

Ghost was getting impatient.

He knew you could be a key witness to the cartel’s deeper activities, but he knew he couldn’t force your cooperation. Not while you were practically vegetative, at least.

Ghost sat on a chair by your bedside, all but resembling a mannequin.

He stared into the distance.

“Oh,” came your small, croaking voice. “It’s you.”

Ghost almost didn’t turn to look at you, believing the voice to be a hallucination.

He hazarded a glance and almost considered jumping.

You looked at him, dead into his eyes, conscious, talking.

Another blur of activity surrounded you immediately after, Ghost alerting the doctors to you becoming vocal again and leaving them to do their job not long after.

Tests were run, your memory was tested (of which there was still little), and the better part of a day was spent observing you, trying to determine whether you were ready for interrogation or not.

Luckily, the higher-ups seemed to feel lenient, giving you longer to recover until you were expected to produce answers to their copious questions.

In the meantime, Ghost was assigned to you day and night, both as your protector and observer.

He was…quiet, to say the least.

Rarely spoke unless spoken to, meaning he was of little entertainment to you in your bed-bound state.

This led to you trying to make small talk, regardless of whether Ghost would respond or not.

Little did you know that, despite his lack of participation, Ghost was listening to every single word you said.

During a one-sided conversation, you mentioned colouring, an activity you liked when you were younger.

“Yeah!” you said, face lighting up as you slowly recalled a memory of your younger self, colouring book in tow. “I remember that my grandma had this old, really old colouring book that she gave me. It was vintage, smelled like antique book pages, sweet,”

Ghost watched you, listened. He saw your face light up. You looked at him, eyes smiling.

“It was nearly as old as her when she gave it to me; I was terrified of ruining it so I never coloured in it. Just kept it safely on my bookshelf, looked at the pictures before bed…”

The day after, Ghost came to you with a colouring book and a box of pencils.

“Not exactly vintage, but it’ll do,” he said, laying the book and the utensils on your bedside.

You smiled up at him as he settled into his seat.

“Thank you, Ghost,” you said, smiling. “I mean it.”

Ghost offered minimal input whenever you spoke to him, which you still did while you coloured the pictures.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

After that, over the course of a week, more memories came back to you.

They were small, inconsequential at best, but they were evidence that you were making a fast recovery.

And Ghost was there to hear every single one of them.

Whenever you came out with something new, he’d write it down in a Base-issued notebook, telling you to slow down whenever words failed you, your mind wrapped up in splinters of who you were - who you are.

And you would glance at his notes every now and then.

“Wow,” you said, suppressing a smile. “Your handwriting’s worse than mine.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Ghost replied, barely casting you a glance.

You reached for the pen, which Ghost withheld from you until he realised what you were trying to do.

Now, equipped, you turned to a new page in the notebook and tried writing something.

It came out like a doctor’s signature, merely cursive scribbles that meant nothing to the untrained eye.

Ghost eyed your work.

“What you tryna write?” he said, accent rough.

You bit your lip, trying to focus all your efforts on making what was in your head come out onto the paper.

“My name,” you said.

Ghost seemed to straighten up at that.

The memory was weak, a fawn stumbling on its wiry legs, trying to find purchase.

But it was there, behind frosted glass. You could vaguely make out the letters which would be the key to your existence.

You kept scrawling, muscle memory having weakened significantly, until you hit upon a familiar pattern.

The ‘letters’ were indecipherable, even to yourself. The memory of your name began to fade, and, though you grasped at it, you were left with nothing as it was consumed by darkness.

You stopped writing, defeat overtaking you.

“Why’d you stop?” Ghost asked, looking up from the notebook to you.

You felt tears fill your eyes, tried to keep them in.

“I forgot again,” you said, voice cracking.

The pen lay limp in your hand, and Ghost removed it, putting it down.

The fabric of his glove against your skin sent a jolt through you, unexpected but strangely comforting.

“Well,” Ghost said, a temporary solution coming to him. “How ‘bout we give you a new name, just ‘til you find your real one.”

You sniffed, tried smiling at the gesture, and nodded.

You went back and forth for a while, trying to think of a name that would suit you based on the limited information you had about yourself so far.

“It needs to be nice,” you said. Ghost gave a slight inclination of a nod. You kept thinking.

“Fawn,” Ghost said.

His eyes bore into you, though you suspected that was just his disposition rather than him intentionally trying to spook you.

“How’s that sound?”

You tried the name on your tongue, then, you beamed.

“I like it,” you said, giving Ghost a grateful smile.

From that day on, Ghost referred to you as Fawn, a name that the rest of the Base staff called you, too, having nothing else to call you.

Ghost never told you why he picked that name. Perhaps he saw something in you that resembled your namesake. Your newborn optimism, perhaps.

At your bedside night and day, Ghost became the first and only witness of your memories as they slowly revealed themselves to you.

Some were light-hearted, some were filled with the natural sorrow found in human life, and some were downright embarrassing; all of which gave Ghost gradual insights into who you are.

He eventually seemed comfortable enough to make fun of your more embarrassing ones, such as the time you went to a store your crush worked at, only to find that you had toilet paper stuck to the heel of your shoe the entire time.

This became somewhat of a joke between you and Ghost. One that the staff seemed to find confusing.

Whenever staff escorted you to and from the bathroom, Ghost would look down at your feet.

“No toilet paper to worry about this time,” he’d say.

Your face would burn at the memory, but you’d laugh regardless.

You also forced him to listen to music that came to you as visions from another time, tunes which you’d hum to Ghost, who recorded them, took them to whoever, and would come back with the song it originated from.

Soon, you had three or four CDs which contained music you’d enjoyed before your amnesia.

They all felt and sounded familiar. Comforting.

You’d implore (guilt trip) Ghost to listen to them, too.

His face - his eyes, really, the rest of it was covered - were blank as you passed him the headphones, preparing himself to listen to whatever you’d found that day.

He gave no indication of whether he enjoyed it or not.

“I can see why you like it,” is all he would say, passing the headphones back to you.

“Oh?” you said once, laying the headphones on the bed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Ghost leaned forward onto his knees, elbows propped upon them.

“It means,” he began, “that I’m not surprised this is the type of music you listen to.”

You feigned hurt, having slowly regained your ability to utilise humour after your diagnosis, the days getting easier.

“Well, I bet I can guess what type of music you like to listen to.” You held a smile on your face, just bordering on smug.

Ghost gave you a look. “Oh yeah?” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Go on, then.”

You pretended to think for a moment, already having thought this question through many times before. Ghost was elusive, that much was plain to see, yet you imagined him in ways that made him familiar - human - to you.

“I bet you like metal,” you said. “Heavy.”

Ghost gave a sound that may have been a laugh.

“Am I that easy to read?” he said, a smirk vague in his tone.

“No,” you replied, innocently. “I’m just not surprised that’s the type of music you listen to.”

Ghost gave a slow, sarcastic, demeaning clap, muffled by his gloves.

“All right, well done,” he said, the smirk in his voice growing.

The two of you played board games together, too.

Initially, he let you win, claiming that life in the military had left him “No time for leisure.”

Translation: “I haven’t played board games in an age.”

You picked up early on he was letting you win and insisted on having him play fairly.

There was something deeply enigmatic about watching a trained soldier try and mask his frustration when he lands on Mayfair for the third time in Monopoly.

Whenever you’d lose you’d challenge him to another game, thus continuing the cycle of celebration and condemnation, with you claiming he was “cheating” when he won.

“You told me to play fair,” Ghost would say, a smugness in his voice.

Not all times with Ghost were light-hearted, however.

Even if his presence reassured you, there was the overwhelming feeling that you were missing out on something.

You knew you had family, if they were still alive, but you didn’t know them.

Friends, too. You wondered how many you had.

If you had a crush, that meant you interacted with people on some scale, right?

And it was in times like these, times when you just wanted to go home, wherever that was, that Ghost was there for you.

More often than not you’d end up in tears, trying to stifle them.

Ghost said nothing as you wept, chiming in only when he deemed the onslaught over.

“Why don’t blind guys skydive?” he said once.

You sniffed, wiping your nose, and looked at him.

“What?” you said.

“I said, why don’t blind guys skydive?”

You looked down, as if the answer lay in your hands. You shrugged.

“Scares the shit outta their dogs.”

Silence for a second. And then, a laugh.

You gave a laugh, airy at first but firmer the longer it went on.

You put a hand over your mouth, as if to hide your growing smile from Ghost.

Wiping the streaks of tears from your cheeks, you looked at him.

“Thank you,” you said. “I feel a little better.”

“S’what I’m here for.”

About two weeks into your rescue, your physical training began.

Having fully recovered from malnutrition, Base wanted you to start learning how to walk again, both for your convenience and theirs.

Ghost attended each meeting you had to go to, watching from the sidelines as a nurse guided you between two wooden poles.

The sessions were tough. Very tough.

You felt useless, responsible for your own suffering.

“If I’d done more, if I’d fought harder-”

“Then you’d be dead,” Ghost would insist whenever you questioned your choices.

“Types like the ones who kidnapped you don’t enjoy people who can easily fight them off. Trust me, you did the right thing.”

After sessions, you were usually tired, opting to try and push for an extra hour or so to get back your ability to walk quicker.

The nurse would insist you rest immediately afterwards.

One evening, you wanted to push yourself.

“I need to do this,” you told Ghost, pulling your legs over the side of the bed. He stood by your bedside, waiting to catch you if you fell.

“I need to-” you slid off the bed, lost your balance, and fell into Ghost’s arms.

His chest was rock solid, and he held you by your arms, close to him, helping you back up.

“You need to rest,” he said, trying to guide you back to bed.

“No!” You yelled, immediately regretting it.

Still in Ghost’s arms, you looked away, shame overtaking you.

“I’m sorry, Ghost, but I- I really, really need to…”

You didn’t finish your sentence. Ghost remained silent for a minute, then nodded.

“Alright,” he said, pulling you away from the bed.

“I’ll help you.”

In your room, Ghost walked a few laps with you, his hold emigrating from your underarms to your elbows, and then to your hands.

You took uneven, shaking steps, but they were steps in the right direction.

You smiled back at Ghost as he stood behind you, helping you.

Another couple of weeks passed. Ghost would give you secret after-session sessions, helping you walk wherever you pleased (within the confines of the room).

You were still shaky, very weak in certain areas, but you were getting stronger, more reliable.

You got to know Ghost more whenever you were resting in your room.

“My favourite colour,” you began one day, “is…[f/c].”

Ghost gave a brief noise of acknowledgement.

“What’s yours?” you asked, continuing to colour.

Ghost spoke plainly. “A secret,” he said.

You blinked, wondering if you’d misheard him.

“Huh?” you said, looking up at him.

There was no humour in his eyes. He was dead serious.

“Aww, come on!” you said, oddly hurt by his lack of willing. “You don’t trust me?”

Ghost’s eyes said everything and nothing at the same time.

“Depends,” he said, diplomatically. “D’you trust me?”

“Yes,” you said, without hesitation and with all the certainty of someone who felt nothing but trust and blind faith.

Ghost’s eyes widened for a second, as if he wasn’t expecting your answer, or maybe the light was playing tricks with your eyes.

Sensing he wasn’t going to say anything, you tried to cover for his absence.

“I mean, it’d be hard not to.” You looked down at your colouring book. You became warm, as if confessing something personal.

“You saved my life, you protect me, you’re always there when I need you,”

“Because it’s my job.” Ghost’s declaration came out as if it were an attack, a deterrent for you to not pursue this line of thinking any further.

You swallowed and continued on.

“Yeah, you could say that,” you said. “But you took this job.”

“I was assigned-”

“No, no, not this one,” you said gesturing to the room, looking squarely at him. “I mean as a soldier.”

Ghost said nothing, only watching you.

“Why would you take a job protecting people if you didn’t see yourself as trustworthy enough for them to rely on you?”

Your question was simple yet revealed a lot. Too much for Ghost’s liking.

Ghost gave no response, his gaze travelling elsewhere.

You dropped the conversation.

The room returned to silence.

“Green.” Ghost’s voice came out of nowhere, low, making you jump.

You looked at him. He said nothing else.

You swallowed, looked down at your box of pencils, and withdrew a green pencil. You passed it to Ghost, who took it reluctantly, and turned the colouring book so he could reach it.

You coloured the rest of the page together.

Then, the interrogations began.

What memories and names Base didn’t gather from your notes, they tried extracting from you in ‘interviews’.

They were simple enough at first: what did you see during your time with the cartel; what were the names of the people you encountered (ones which you hadn’t already alerted them to); how long were you in the cartel’s captivity, etc.

The interviewers were firm yet didn’t push too hard in areas which were still hazy to you.

You gave every detail you could remember and passed on every memory, no matter how small, about your time in captivity.

It brought back unwelcome feelings, the fear, the hunger, the shame…

You were offered psychological aid, which you found to be of some help, though there was an itch the psychiatrist couldn’t quite scratch.

One that you spoke to Ghost about.

“It’s like…it’s like they’re going by a script,” you said, walking with Ghost around your room, leaning against him as you navigated the circuit.

“Like they’re trying to help, they want to help, but…”

“But?” Ghost’s voice was heavy behind you, like a wall. You stopped shambling and Ghost came to a stand-still behind you.

“But…they don’t know how. They don’t know how to help me because they’ve never-”

“Been in your situation.” Ghost finished your sentence.

You turned to look at him, mouth agape as you heaved laboured breaths, your exercise having taken it out of you.

You felt a shiver crawl up your spine. Recognition.

“Yeah,” you said, exasperated. Finally, someone understood!

Ghost nodded. “I know how it feels.”

You both sat down, you on the bed and Ghost in his seat. You shifted, watching him. He searched for something to say.

“I know how your situation’s affected you,” he said. His gaze flitted from your eyes to anywhere else. “And I wish I could say it gets better. But…”

His eyes looked hard, dark. His gaze finally settled on you, penetrating your soul.

“Look, the only way you can start to rebuild your life is to talk to someone.”

“You mean…” You dared not let your gaze slip.

Ghost gave a fractional nod.

“I know these shrinks ain’t much good when it comes to our kind of trauma, but talkin’ to someone who’s been through what you have might make you feel like you’ve not lost the plot.”

You felt like a breakthrough had been made. Something, maybe excitement, crawled up your throat.

“Our?” you said, quiet, as if sharing a secret. A small smile tweaked at the corners of your lips.

Ghost gave no confirmation. But the silence was enough.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, alongside recovering more menial memories of your past, the interrogations became harsher.

You told and retold the interrogators everything you knew, any new developments which had occurred to you, forced to relive everything which had reduced you to your current condition.

But they weren’t satisfied.

They thought you had something to hide. That you were covering for the cartel by withholding names and knowledge.

The second you were back in your room, you broke down.

You ranted and raved to Ghost, who listened intently, his attention solely on you.

In one hand you squeezed your fist, looking for your stress ball; the one that, ironically, was given to you by the same people who had caused you to need it now.

You couldn’t find it. You turned to Ghost.

Hyperventilating, in your panicked, angered state, you reached out to him.

“Can I squeeze your hand?” you said, words spewing out faster than you could think about them.

Ghost seemed rigid.

You swallowed thickly.

“Please.”

Ghost took a step towards you and, slowly, he raised his hand to you.

You took it, squeezing it, trying to stamp out the anxiety pulsing through you.

With your eyes closed and breathing evening out, you held Ghost’s hand close to you, your grip lessening with every minute that passed.

After your attack, as you got ready for bed, outside of your field of vision, standing just outside your room, you didn’t see Ghost.

Didn’t see him look down at the hand you’d so intimately held, squeezed, close to your chest.

He could feel your remnant, phantom warmth encompassing it.

He clenched his fist, as if trying to hold your hand, the memory of it which swam around his like fish in a pond.

A couple days later, you were set for another interrogation.

While you were holed up in that room, Ghost remained in yours.

He searched for your stress ball, the image of your tear-stained face in the forefront of his mind.

Somewhere within his psyche, as he scoured the space for that little yellow sphere of temporary distraction, your voice echoed.

It thanked him for finding it, held him in its grip, drove him.

The warm gratitude you’d express plagued him, encompassing him in a similar, diluted warmth he’d felt when you held his hand.

He glanced under your bed. And there it was.

He plucked it and turned it over in his hand.

The gratification of seeing your face light up when he presented it to you fizzed in his mind.

And then another, heavier thought crossed his mind.

The feeling of you close to him, holding, gripping him in your time of need…did something to him.

He’d be the last to admit that he hadn’t felt warmth like that in a long time. And to forfeit it just for a moment’s gratification seemed a waste.

Ghost glanced at the ball. He deposited it deep into his pocket.

He told himself he’d return it to you later.

Later. Later.

Later came as you hobbled down the corridor with the help of a frame.

You seemed stressed. In need of release.

Ghost slid his hand into his pocket. Squeezed the ball.

“Did you find it?” you asked, hopeful. Your optimism was difficult to ignore.

Ghost shook his head. “Negative,” he said, a habit he’d picked up. Slow and intentional. He knew what he was doing. “But I’m here if you need me.”

And need him, you did.

You ended up confiding in him how the interrogation went, how the interviewers had made you feel like you had something to hide.

All the while, you clutched Ghost’s hand.

No amount of pressure you could muster could possibly hurt him, yet Ghost could tell you were holding back what little strength you had - both physical and mental.

“Don’t be shy,” Ghost said, voice cutting through your anxious ramblings. He looked down at your conjoined hands. “Squeeze harder.”

Something in the way you looked at him, with a look that said ‘I don’t want to hurt you’, crossed your eyes.

A look Ghost had nearly forgotten in his line of work.

You eventually fell into a comfortable rhythm wherein you would squeeze Ghost as hard as you could, leading to him faking injury at one point.

You chided him, you both laughed (or, Ghost nearly laughed), and you rested against your pillow.

“You know,” you said, turning to Ghost, “one day, I hope we won’t need a military.”

You were exhausted. Ghost could tell. He humoured your sleep-deprived ramblings regardless.

“So that people like you don’t have to fight for us.”

“Oh?” Ghost said. He’d be lying if he said his curiosity wasn’t piqued.

You nodded, movements growing sluggish, lethargic.

Your hand still held Ghost’s, resting it upon your stomach.

“You’re people, just like us.” You said, yawning. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Ghost felt an unfamiliar warmth spark in his chest. He ignored it.

“Not gonna happen, I can assure you that.”

“Which part?” you asked, eyes shutting.

Ghost leaned to mutter in your ear: “I’ll always be here to protect you.”

He didn’t know if you’d heard him.

When he withdrew, you were asleep. Still holding him.

He pulled his seat closer to your bedside, unable to bring himself to dislodge his hand from yours.

And that’s how he found you the morning after, awaking from his rigid sleep, still conjoined.

And thus, a habit was born.

After each interrogation, or psychiatrist visit or physical rehabilitation session, you would return to your room with Ghost and squeeze his hand until your anxiety dissipated.

All the while, your memories had begun returning at a quickened pace.

Ghost was learning more about you day by day.

Your favourite food, your home country, the names of your family members.

Your real name.

When he’d heard you say it for the first time, he swore the room got brighter.

It was beautiful and personal in ways that ‘Fawn’ could not compare.

It gave him a place to start searching for traces of you elsewhere.

Social media accounts, certificates, places of work and education - he knew he could find it all.

To make sure you were better off at home than you were at the Base is how he’d justified this interest to himself.

He still called you Fawn when you were alone, the name an inside joke between the two of you.

Speaking of, Ghost exchanged many jokes with you.

Regardless of how illogical or downright plain they were, you laughed each time.

Genuinely laughed.

Ghost wondered if you’d have reacted the same had you not been in the situation you were in right now; practically tethered to him and needing him for everything.

Well, almost everything.

After a few months of physical rehabilitation, you could just about walk again.

Your balance was a little off and you still needed the frame, but it was a start!

Ghost was there with you to celebrate, which, despite their best efforts to make you feel like a caged bird, the Base celebrated, too.

You’d been incredibly useful to them, having turned up many new leads for them to investigate.

As a reward, Base let you do something which caused Ghost to wonder if this was really the best decision.

They let you go to a bar with the boys.

To clarify, they said you could leave your room, the news of which travelled around the Base until it reached the ears of Ghost’s team.

“When were you gonna tell us?” Soap said, Alejandro nearby.

Ghost’s face was blank.

“Didn’t deem it necessary,” he said. And left it at that.

Naturally, Ghost’s team came to visit you and asked if you wanted to go to a bar with them.

“All that alcohol might help you remember something,” said Gaz, looking between you and Ghost.

You looked to Ghost, who, under the silent scrutiny of the other Force members, knew he couldn’t deny you of this freedom.

“Sure,” he said on your behalf. His eyes found yours and, while yours were filled with hope, Ghost’s seemed to exhibit a darkness never before seen by you.

You squeezed his hand that night you were set to leave.

“What if they don’t like me?” you said. “What if I was a terrible person and I remember all the bad things I’ve don-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Ghost’s voice came as a welcome distraction. You looked at him, swallowing your nerves.

“So what if they don’t like you? S’not like you’ll ever see them again.”

Ghost realised what he’d said wasn’t what you wanted to hear when your eyes widened, at which point he cleared his throat and tried again.

“What I mean is that they’ll like you regardless. Hell, they’re excited to just meet you after you’ve been holed up in confinement for the last few months.”

“You think so?” you said. Ghost nodded. And squeezed your hand back.

“I promise.”

The bar was nothing spectacular, being dimly lit and made solely out of wood, it seemed. But it was a change.

Creaking into the room, Alejandro spotted you first, throwing a cheer your way, followed by the rest of the Task Force, turning to face you.

Ghost was your shadow, large and wall-like behind you.

You held onto his wrist, daring not to let go, your other hand on the frame.

“Welcome, (Y/N),” said Gaz, lifting his drink in your general direction before taking a swig.

You gave him a slight wave, a shy smile crossing your features.

“Come, take a seat with us!” Alejandro hollered, waving you over.

You cast Ghost a glance over your shoulder. He nodded stiffly and you made your way to the group.

Ghost came to your side, with you gripping onto his arm.

His hulking mass beside you relieved you somewhat.

And, though he wouldn’t admit it, having you cling to him brought back the same feeling he experienced whenever you squeezed his hand.

Was this perhaps…liking?

The cheers of the team cut his thoughts short.

He knew you’d be safe with his team if he just left. And, with your warmth radiating through him, he felt that he needed to take a step outside to rid himself of this growing affliction.

He made a move to detach himself from you, and, quick as lightning, your hand was atop his.

“Don’t leave,” you whispered to him, eyes pleading as you snapped to look at him.

His heart jumped. Something in him stirred.

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t.”

“Hey,” came Alejandro’s jovial tone. “I can see why Ghost’s been hiding you away and keeping you to himself all this time.”

You felt your face heat up at the implication, then feigned oblivion. Just in case you were misreading the situation.

“Oh?” you said, tone inquisitive.

Alejandro nodded. “You’re very attractive.” He gave you an eye smile.

Your face felt as if it were on fire.

“Ah, look what you’ve done,” came Soap, emerging from the group. “You’ve gone and embarrassed (Y/N)!”

All the while, Ghost was beside you.

He seemed…rigid.

“That’ll do.” Ghost’s stern voice came, cutting through the chatter of the bar.

You nuzzled further into his side, as if trying to cover yourself.

You and Ghost settled into a quiet section of the bar after that, Soap, Alejandro and Gaz coming to pay you a visit whenever they brought you a drink, chatting for a minute or two before feeling ghost’s icy stare on their backs.

That night, laying in bed, you cast Ghost a tired smile.

“M’sorry I’ve been so clingy recently,” you said, Ghost tucking you in beneath the covers.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, trying not to make eye contact with you.

Leaning back into your pillows, you reached for Ghost.

“Nervous?” he said, placing his gloved hand in yours.

“No,” you said. “Just want you nearby.”

Ghost’s heart spiked. He ignored it.

You fell asleep with his hand on your chest, hands holding his.

Ghost couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep without taking you in.

Even in the darkness, your features struck him as ethereal, your temperament and trust enrapturing him in ways he’d never been before.

He sat beside you, your loyal guard, watching over you through the night.

At some point, perhaps lulled to sleep by your rhythmic breathing, he joined you in a world far from this one, in a house you’d never seen before yet had lived in for years. You were happy, with Ghost behind you, unmasked, holding you.

Whether you shared this dream or not was irrelevant to Ghost. The only thing that mattered was that this, for now, felt real.

And yet, dreams can only satisfy the human lust for that which they do not have for so long.

The next day, more confident in your physical ability, you asked Ghost something which held an implication you weren’t yet aware of.

“Play Twister with me,” you said. You had a small smile on your face, one which Ghost was finding more and more difficult to deny.

After much pleading and begging, he eventually relented, more fond of the idea than he’d let on.

However, there was a stoic hesitance about him.

“I might hurt you.” His voice was sincere, yet his tone felt blank, as if he were protecting himself from the thought of injuring you.

You just smiled. “Never,” you said. “I trust you.”

Ghost scarcely contained the warmth seeping through his chest, threatening to make him smile.

He suppressed it.

“Fine,” he said.

Half an hour later, you were tangled together, neither relenting as your competitive nature got the better of you.

You span the dial, then called to Ghost: “Right foot, yellow!”

You tried. You really, really tried. But being pinned under the weight of a 6’2 ½ man and only just getting your strength back didn’t exactly give you an advantage. And stretching yourself too far, spreading your strength too thin, caused you to crumble.

You yelped, falling onto your front, winding yourself.

Ghost remained stationery on top of you.

You turned over onto your back and looked up at him, laughing.

“You can let go now,” you said. “You’ve won.”

“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

You gave a breathless laugh, hands either side of your head.

Ghost lowered himself onto his knees, your legs caged between them.

He didn’t notice until he felt your thighs touch the inside of his legs, at which point he became aware of the position you were in.

His hands were on either side of your shoulders, trapping you beneath him.

You went quiet, the only noise being your laboured breathing as you regained your breath.

You were so close, you noticed, able to see Ghost’s dark eyes searching yours.

Neither of you spoke.

Slowly, cautiously, Ghost leaned down, drawing closer to your face.

You watched, frozen by your own indecision.

Sure, you liked Ghost, but did you like like him?

Your body decided the latter as you tried to meet him in the middle. Instinctual.

The material of his mask just grazed the tip of your nose when a hurried knock came at your door.

Your heart jumped and you gasped, both you and Ghost turning to look at the door.

You regained your breath, chest heaving. “We should…um…” you struggled to find the words to say, sliding out from beneath Ghost.

“Yeah,” he said, getting up. He offered a hand to you, which you took, and hoisted you up.

You landed on his chest, his hand still gripping yours.

You couldn’t bring yourself to let go, and neither could Ghost, by the looks of things.

But alas, the doctor was persistent, calling your name through the door.

You parted without another word, leaning onto your nearby frame. Ghost assumed his usual tall posture, shaking the situation off his shoulders as if it were snow.

A couple weeks later, the foundations upon which you and Ghost had built your friendship came tumbling down.

Base had announced that they were sending you home, having gotten in contact with your family.

More of your memory had resurfaced, as had your strength; enough to reduce the risk of you getting injured somehow during transit.

Upon hearing this, you and Ghost had very different reactions.

Your heart swelled and you cheered, the thought of reuniting with your family again making your body light up.

Ghost remained quiet, no different from usual. But something about his quietude felt…off.

Cold.

Base would discharge you within the next day or so.

You related your plans of what you would do when you returned home.

“I’m going to go to the beach, I’m gonna read more, I-”

Ghost tuned you out, watching you with a vacant stare.

He knew he should have respected that you were bound to leave eventually, as all good things do. But…something about you made this separation more difficult than it needed to be.

Perhaps it was his ego, so inflated with your reliance on him that he could scarcely see himself having any value outside of it.

That was his first and final line of defence against what the real issue was.

As he watched you get excitable to get away from here, from him (he told himself), his resolve began to crack.

It had been chipped and scathed by other occurrences, sure. But this pressure, this final obstacle, threatened to destroy it entirely.

“What do you think, Ghost?” your voice tuned in as if it were re-emerging from water.

“About what?” he said. He saw little purpose in feigning interest now.

“About me being able to go home.” You wore a smile, a genuine smile. Ghost had seen enough to be able to identify it.

“Good,” he said. “Finally be out of my hair.” There was a venom in his tone that made you double-take.

You tried to ignore it, tried to focus on what the future held for you, but something in Ghost’s demeanour had changed. You sighed, dropped your previous train of thought.

“Ghost…” you said as you slid off the edge of your bed. Your balance had improved, making the trip to Ghost easier than it used to be. He reached out to grab you on instinct.

Standing before him now, you gazed into his eyes, trying to find the root of the issue.

“I wish we got more time together. Under different circumstances, of course.”

Of course, Ghost wanted to say, but he remained mute.

You placed gentle, cautious hands upon his chest, smoothing them over the fabric.

“You’ve been so good to me, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.”

Your hands inched their way up to hold the sides of his mask. He made no move to remove you. His eyes bore into yours, soft in a way you’d never seen them before.

He placed his hands upon your waist, pulling you closer to him, slowly, methodically.

Your mind flashed back to your game of Twister. How close you’d been then and how close you were now.

Without thinking, urged by some sorrowful desire, you pulled Ghost into a tight hug, burying your face into his shoulder.

You sniffed, feeling tears sting your eyes and throat.

Ghost’s arms gingerly encompassed your frame, sliding around your waist, securing you.

The aversion he had to physical touch seemed to dissipate from him as you felt his weight pile on top of you, no longer holding back.

Neither of you spoke.

In your mind flashed a future without Ghost, a very real possibility. In Ghost’s, a future of only you and him. A silent promise he made to the both of you.

It took some time but the two of you eventually separated, with you wiping your nose on your sleeve.

Ghost watched you, hesitant to leave. Hesitant for you to leave.

You went to sleep that night as you never had before; Ghost laying in bed beneath you as you rested on his chest.

In his pocket, Ghost squeezed the stress ball, having found more use for it than you had.

In his haze, overwhelmed by the scent and presence of you, came an idea.

Later that morning, as you prepared to leave the Base, Ghost returned your stress ball to you.

“You found it!” you exclaimed, taking the ball and holding it close to your chest. You beamed up at Ghost, though there was an evident sorrow within you. “Thank you.”

Ghost offered his hand to you as he had many times before. And, for what you believed to be the final time, you took it, squeezing it.

You didn’t want to let go.

And neither did Ghost.

You were escorted onto the aircraft, Base fearing that you may be a target for any remaining cartel members while in the country, thus issuing you with a more discreet method of air travel home; a small helicopter.

You watched as Ghost grew further and further away, waving to you as you did to him, until he was gone.

In your hand you clutched your stress ball. Looking down at it, you turned it over in your hand.

There was something on it.

Looking closely, you saw the unmistakable outline of a phone number written in black ink, along with the word ‘Ghost’ below it.

You smiled, the crushing dejection you’d experienced for many hours before evaporating, replaced with a feeling you had grown all too familiar with.

Hope.

Meanwhile, Ghost got straight to work on tracking your location.

He wanted to know where that aircraft was going, when it would land, and approximately how long it would take for you to get home (and call him).

You may not have been able to see him anymore, but Ghost was watching over you.

This would be far from the last time you’d see him, he’d make absolutely sure of that.

Please reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself out tremendously :-)

Masterlist

Masterpost

A/N: Due to tumblr's 4,096 character limit per text box (paragraph), I've had to separate the whole post out like this to be able topost it. I've tried putting the breaks where there would be a time skip so that reader immersion doesn't suffer too much.

Thank you for your patience :-)

Taglist: @yagipeach @deddoea @ghostsbrooklnbabe

4K notes · View notes