#simon at the end of his tether

[wyrdle]

A very important phone call

Quick doodly comic. I had some ideas about Marceline contacting Simon at the finale episode. Something something reaching out to your suicidal loved ones. The sweater thing was just to pull back to episode 2, when Simon helps re-stitch Marceline's dress button.

For reference:

[ghouljams]

How would fae!Ghost react if Darling somehow got away? Like once in a million chance and left. How would Ghost react? What would he do? How would he feel?

Darling likes leaves the town and moves like to the other side of the world because of how frightened Darling is.

This is extra but how would Ghost react if he knew Darling left him for another human friend/almost boyfriend of Darlings? Same thing, Darling left to the other side of the world to be away from Ghost and to see their boyfriend.

Oh! How would he feel if Darling left him for another fae, possibly one as old or more powerful than Ghost? I'm thinking Price maybe! Oh, course, it's up to you for whatever you want to do with this, but the main thing is Darling leaves/escapes Ghost.

Lovely writing and I can't wait to see more! Good wishes <3

You are trying to get this woman killed...

It would be incredibly hard to get away from Ghost in the early days of the relationship but where Love and Ghost are with their relationship now it would be impossible. Love can run but she can't hide. But let's say she did run in the early days, before she was love. If she decided that Ghost was too much for her to handle and she needed an out I think she could find one but it would hurt a lot.

I do not consider this to be a Love story, it is pure x reader because I trust you all are smart enough to run from the fae...

The fae that burns Simon's mark off of you and rips half the tangled tethers from you is not what you would describe as kind. He seems angry, it feels personal. It hurts more than you expected. You think he hopes it kills you when he rips them out. You certainly feel like you're dying.

It happens quickly. The burn and then the tear. He says it has to happen like this so Simon can't get to you in time, you don't know enough to say he's wrong, but the way he looks at you draws you back to thinking this is a personal pain for him.

"I have a friend," he tells you, "She'll get you somewhere safe." But what you think he means is that she'll keep tabs on you. Ensure that you're somewhere this fae can reach you for payment. This is a serious debt you've incurred and if there's anything you've learned about names its that "Price" must be a threat as well as a nickname.

You think of Ghost, of the mask and the insidious magic he worked on you without regard for your feelings. The ways he kept you docile and stupid, never knowing whether it was him making you forget or if you were truly losing it. The thought that it might be your mind failing you still hadn't left.

He was always so kind, but it was an act, specialized to trap you. Whatever he wanted with you, he'd shown himself one too many times, chased you too hard, tapped you until you felt like you were losing yourself to him.

Your skin is quiet as you follow Price through his home, through the strange door that leads to a silent snowy landscape. The warmth of summer is long gone here. Harsh reality has taken its place. It's strange how you can feel disquieted by normal. Ghost's shadow had never truly settled in you. You'd been holding on too tightly to your freedom you suppose.

You have your name back, at least, as you trudge through the snow, following your silent companion. Well, you suppose Price has your name now too, debts and all that. He turns a hard right and the trees start to slowly regain their color, the snow giving way to green grass and clover.

"Any life you create with the freedom I've given you is mine." Price explains, you nod like you understand. It sounds like a big ask, you don't really have the wiggle room to haggle. You don't really understand how all these debts work, which is exactly how you ended up in this situation.

"Who's your friend?" You switch topics, not wanting to discuss the finer details of your deal with the devil.

"You can trust her." That isn't what you asked, but you suppose it's as good as you'll get.

"She got a name?"

"Laswell."

"Is it her name?"

"Is now." Price hums, his hand slides along your back and guides you forward. You haven't been walking long but your feet feel like they're starting to blister as you hit some perimeter and pass through.

You're steered towards another door, a small fenced garden with a gate overgrown with vines. Price raps his knuckles against the wall and waits.

You don't know this man well enough to make conversation, and he doesn't seem to like you besides, so silence lapses. You both watch the wooden door in the other side of the garden, the one attached to the neat brick house. It opens after what feels like a long moment, a woman in a sleek ponytail stares at the two of you before crossing the distance.

"What's this?" She asks Price, all but ignoring you.

"Ghost's new ex."

-

Laswell is nice. Nice enough at least. You think she sort of... resents having to look after you. The check-ins feel forced, cold, they're a chore that you don't think either of you want to deal with.

For freedom from one fae you sure feel imprisoned by another. How you're supposed to build a life out of this you don't know. It doesn't feel like anything anyone would want as payment, fae or no. Your world consists of your work and your home. Your isolation follows you like a specter of your relationship with Ghost. The tethers that are left make you feel cold, there's deep empty hole in your soul where the tethers were ripped free and you hope every day to find something to fill it. You feel hollow. You thought you'd feel better, you have your freedom, Price hasn't come looking for payment, what more could you want?

You find yourself thinking of your boogeyman. The way he touched you, the way he talked to you, you think of the fear as often as you think of the infatuation. You hesitate to call it love. You don't know if Ghost knows how to love someone. You think about it though, in the wee hours of the morning. You think about how badly you both wanted it to be love.

Price assured you, you'd be safe. Laswell assured you, you are safe. Even the tethers still tying you to Ghost have no pull if he doesn't know where you are. But you'd know Simon blind.

You know as soon as he sets foot in the little Cafe, you don't even have to look up from filling the order. His presence in the doorway draws stares from the other custoners, something you never saw him deal with when you were together. When you look at him it's like you never left. His eyes burn into yours, and your heart clenches, the pathetic leftover tethers giving their best effort at lighting up. He looks bad, worn, like he's been wrung out and left to dry.

You tell your coworker you're taking a break and go to call Laswell. It's all you can think to do. You already know the room when you open the back room door. The hard wood floors and velvet drapes so out of place. An invitation. You close the door, and Ghost's hand closes over yours on the handle. His forehead drops against your shoulder, you wonder when the last time he slept was.

"You left," he tells you, as if you don't already know. He doesn't sound anything, you'd almost hoped he'd be angry if he ever found you. This is so much worse.

"I had to," you whisper, "you would've killed me."

"I'll get it right this time," you press your forehead to the backroom door, and squeeze your eyes shut, "I promise."

[monstertsunami]

OKAY ONE LAST POST ABT THE FINALE. aka: how we almost got petrigrof homura/madoka level timeline fuckery

i had a huge revelation while coping. the final bus stop scene is REALLY important, i have a feeling it was a little more than a visual parallel. golbetty was basically communicating with simon the best she could by hijacking his mind and putting him in situations- the whole bit with casper and nova was her heavyhanded way of explaining to him what shes been thinking about regarding their past . not in a breakup way, not in a "were not good for each other" way, she doesnt regret it. its never been about blaming simon, he was only ever a bystander. shes just telling him how she feels, what would need to change. he realizes this and understands! she takes him to the bus stop and we all know how this goes. he passes the "test" and meets her on equal footing, shes so so happy. and she is SO ready to drag him onto the bus before he stops her. the bus stop is an ultimatum. if he follows her, they potentially both die in the mushroom war. he isnt there to take care of marcy and ooo gets overrun by vampires. every other horrific alternate universe without a simon in ooo could come to fruition if they never pursue the enchiridion. but they could start all over here, with a healthier beginning. they could both be so so happy. betty offers him the chance to go back and fix their mistakes, to study petroglyphs together. but there are no do-overs. not unless youre a god of chaos merged with a woman with a penchant for disrupting time to be with your fiance, that is! i believe this was more than a metaphor, she was 100% ready to pull some timeline bullshit to get a new begining. but this time she lets simon decide if he wants this- a chance he didnt get when she jumped through that time portal so long ago. simon makes his choice: this isnt how it happened. he has people that care for him back in ooo, hes okay with where his life has lead him. he has marcy and finn and everyone else- he doesnt want a do-over. now that hes finally seen betty again hes ready to go back and finally live the life she gave him. shes okay with this. its bittesweet but her wish contract is fulfilled, simons safe now, and she can move on. he chooses to continue his life as it is, and so she chooses to continue hers, wherever her reincarnation leads her, without him for once.

TLDR; the bus stop and the petroglyphs were an offer from betty to pull some timeline bullshit and give them a happy beginning. one last crazy chance to fix EVERYTHING. but its time to end the cycle. its been doomed since the start, and they wouldnt have it any other way.

[tojisun]

!! female reader; dirty talking; breeding kink; slight overstim play; unrealistic sex x’>

thinking about how simon’s the type to keep saying filth to you when he’s balls deep. how, in the throes of his pleasure, so pussy-drunk, simon begins to wax poetry about the way you make him feel.

he’s got you folded in a mating press, his lips ghosting wet kisses along your trembling legs. “god, baby,” simon murmurs, his voice a drunken slur. “i need t’wife you up, i swear.” he punctuates this with a thrust, before his fingers pinch your clit.

you choke at the feeling, your legs kicking from where they’re slung over simon’s shoulders. your head thrashes against the pillow, not knowing how else to tether yourself from the stinging pleasure, your mouth falling open uselessly as garbled moans spill out.

“oh this,” he says, distracted by your reaction. “cute little thing, isn’t it?” he looks at your pussy almost with a starry-eyed gaze.

jesus-

“shu-ut up, si!” your voice breaks, weakened from the moans, but simon’s already looking too far gone, his eyes blown wide and his face flushed because of his pleasure.

“y’just squeezed me tighter, baby.” simon rips his eyes from your cunt to look at you with a sort of giddy trance. “y’like it when i play with–” he circles his thumb on your clit, making you squeal. “this? yeah? oh, lovie, you’re gushing.”

he pulls out, torturously slow, teasing, then he’s slamming back in. your ears ring at the resounding wet slide, his pelvis meeting your own with a goddamn squelch, and you scream, clawing at his back at the sharp pleasure that razes through you.

“going t’stuff you w’my cum everyday, baby.” simon giggles. “going t’make you so full.”

he nuzzles his nose on the side of your tear-soaked cheek. “y’want that, yeah? want t’feel sore because of how much cum’s stored in you? want t’be fucked until it takes?”

what-

“si! si!” you cry, mushy mind trying to understand what he’s insinuating. “wha- wh-…?”

“oh but you’d be so gorgeous, baby,” simon groans, his hand leaving your oversensitive clit to hike up along your body, dancing past your groin to plant just below your belly button. simon nuzzles close again, tracing the shell of your ear with his lips, then, “you’d be so pretty carrying my kids.”

those words make your body lock up, something in your mind just shifting right, and then you’re cumming, squirting all over simon’s cock and spraying on his legs.

simon outright moans, pulling back just enough to slot his lips against yours. you couldn’t even kiss him back, still so busy cumming, all cross-eyed at the intensity of your orgasm. it doesn’t matter to him, anyway, not when simon begins pistoning harder. faster. rougher.

every drag of his cock back in your pussy pushes more gushing squirt from you, and simon rumbles with a pleased groan, looking so blissed out as he leaves open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. you dig your nails at his back but simon doesn’t even register the prickling pain, too busy chasing his own orgasm through your cunt.

“s’right,” he coos. “nothin’ else could make me cum, baby. nothin’ else but y’r pretty pussy. y’r tight pussy. god, it’s such a delicious pussy, baby, how am i so lucky to have you, huh?” his words mingle with the thwap-thwap-thwap sounds of his body slamming against your own. it makes you dizzy with pleasure, ragged rasps of breath is all that is passing through your parted lips.

simon croons. “how’d i chance luck and end up w’such a delight?” another wet sound from your pussy rings amidst his words. “mmm, hear that baby?”

you nod, you think. or you moan a reply. honestly, you don’t even know, not with how dizzy you are at the peaking pleasure because there’s no way you’re cumming again–

“that’s the sounds that a happy wife makes,” simon purrs, replying to his own question, and the weight of his words washes over you like the pleasure that’s racing across your synapses. “that’s the sound that someone makes when they want to be bred.”

“simo-nnnnn!” you scream, the sound guttural and ragged, and your eyes can no longer see anything, and your ears are ringing, and- and–

simon laughs, the sound curling into something so, so fond. “y’r so pretty when y’cum, baby.” he kisses your wet cheek. “one more? f’r me?”

fuck-

[tacticaldiary]

Reader joining 141 for a mission and Simon is not having it and is pissed at price for calling them and all of the other guys are confused about why ghost is so upset till they find out reader is his wife after the mission

Maybe reader got hurt and ghost goes off on price

The Price Of A Secret

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive-"

"This is different." He grits out.

"And why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the table. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

A/N: It's 2:45am and I have no energy to proofread caution advised-

Masterlist

The moment the picture of the intelligence officer joining them flashes on the screen, Ghost puts his foot down.

"She's not coming."

Everyone in the room pauses, Price staring at Ghost mid sentence. It's the usual 141, and then it's her. Sitting there with a mildly frustrated look, refusing to look at him because she should have known he'd try to pull some shit like this.

"Why not?" Price folds his arm, narrowing his eyes. "Is there an issue, Lieutenant?"

She was supposed to work from the inside, drawing out data and cracking through defences that they then passed on to people like the 141. An integral part of the process of running the whole task force, but not once was she involved in hands-on field work.

It's not that she's incompetent. No, not at all. Ghost would have his head bit off if he even remotely implied that because it simply isn't true. She got the top scores in almost every part of her training exercises, and yet she chose the intelligence part of the military to serve in. His wife was as competent as they got.

His wife.

"This is a covert operation, the fewer people the better." That's what he goes with. Not because his heart picks up at the thought of her being anywhere near what they deal with every day.

"I won't have the range I need to retrieve the data from their servers if I'm not close to them." She speaks up, and their eyes meet from across the room.

His determined, hers resolute.

Sometimes he really hated that she was so fucking stubborn. It had been the same stubbornness that cracked down the iron grip he'd had on the walls in his mind and around his heart, but if that stubbornness was what got her killed Simon would give up this joy in a heartbeat.

He'd do it for her if it meant she kept on living.

"This isn't up for discussion, Ghost." Price states, "She's part of this operation on my authority."

"Price-"

"End of discussion. You settle whatever you have going on outside this room." And fuck, he can't refute a direct order like that, can he?

Ghost sees her release a long exhale, and he knows he won't share such a relief until this damn operation was over and done with.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her body is so limp it scares the ever-loving shit out of him.

Ghost grips her so tight it's as if he himself is the only thing tethering her soul to her body, boots thumping hard against the muddy ground as they retreat back to their extraction point, data successfully retrieved.

Successfully, not smoothly.

The plan was simple. They'd flank the building while she camped out near the edge of the woods, retrieving the intel they needed. A couple of fuckers slipped out of the building and went straight for her.

Ghost's stomach turns when he remembers how he found the scene. She wasn't answering through her comms, but he knew he wasn't able to leave his position until the building was secure.

Waiting felt like an eternity, he could feel Soap send troubled glances in his direction at the way Ghost was unusually silent and more brutal than.

When the building was finally secure, they'd gone to reunite with her position and found three men dead, bloody seeping into the ground in a crimson mess. The last one standing hovered over her unconscious form, over his wife with a knife raised ready to slit her thought.

The only thought Ghost had as he ripped the man away with his hands was that he was going to take the one good thing in his life away, and he would not let that happen. Not her. Not like this.

"Bleeding wound to the head, unconscious but still breathing!" Gaz called out while Ghost shoved the man's own knife into his throat. Tossing the gurgling body aside like a ragdoll, he's immediately by her side, assessing before carefully lifting her up in his arms.

It's the most emotion Ghost has ever expressed in front of the others, but he couldn't give a fuck about the looks or the questions right now. Her heartbeat against him settled him the slightest bit with the reassurance that she was alive.

Angry does not begin to describe what itches under Ghost's skin as they scramble into their exfil airship.

"Medic!" He barks the second they lift off. Setting her down, he brushes the bloody strands of her hair away from her face.

Despite the urge to stay by her side, the medic gingerly requests for him to take a step back so he could work. Ghost obliges but his eyes never leave her face.

He's painfully aware of his wedding ring pressing against his chest, strung onto a chain long enough to be tucked under his uniform. A matching one to her own.

Nobody speaks.

Perhaps they recognise the anger washing off of Ghost in waves, because if they'd just bloody listened to him, she wouldn't be laying there with a head wound.

The atmosphere is heavy and sombre. Even Soap keeps his mouth shut, too confused by the outward, uncharacteristic way Ghost was acting to make fun of it.

It's only when the medic announces she's stable that the suffocating knot in Ghost's chest loosens. There's audible relief from everyone in the place.

"Bloody hell." Price breathes, and something in Ghost snaps.

"I told you to dismiss her from the op." He says coldly, turning to the man.

"We got what we needed, son." He sighs, deep and tired, and part of Ghost understands that this was their life. But he's too worked up to care.

"At a fucking cost."

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive, that's all that matters. Nothing permanent, yeah?" He glances at the medic, who confirms with a nod before slipping away.

"This is different." Ghost grits out.

"Why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the metallic walls. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

How long had it taken for Ghost-...no, for Simon to let someone crack open his defences until he was coaxed out and allowed himself to love again? Four years they've been married, and four years he's kept it a secret.

It's not that he doesn't trust his team. He trusts them with his life, would lay his own down for Johnny, Gaz, and Price any day.

But this? This was bigger than him, she was the most precious thing that had ever happened to him, and the safest way to preserve that was the keep it on a need-to-know basis.

She'd agreed with him, of course. In that soft, patient way she always has with him. She'd seen the paranoia in him, recognised that he needed this one thing for himself, and she'd been more than happy to oblige.

What was outside validation about her relationship worth when she got to crawl into his arms at the end of the day? Be granted the pleasure that comes with being loved by someone as protective, intelligent, and sharp as Simon Riley? She adores all of him, even the jagged pieces that cut into her from time to time, because he's always there to take care of her afterwards.

"She's my wife." He repeats quieter, sitting back down. Exhaustion lines the slope of his shoulder's dark circles well present under his mask.

"You're married." Soap is the first to speak, incredulously. "You? Ghost? You're married?" His eyes flicker down to Ghost's left hand, and then to Gaz and Price who look equally as surprised. "I mean, congratulations?" He trails off, knowing it's not really the situation to celebrate.

"Thanks." A tired, small voice has everyone's attention back onto the figure on the bed. Ghost is on his feet in moments, by her bedside. "It'll be five years in...what, a month?" She cracks an eye open, giving Simon a tired, smile.

"Two months." He corrects with a mutter, and Johnny looks like he might just collapse. "Sitrep?"

"We're not on the field anymore." She groans, pushing herself to sit up. Ghost's hands fly to her immediately, helping her sit up. At his blank, insistent stare, she relents with a deep sigh. "My head's killing me but other than that just a few scrapes and bruises." Her hand travels down to grab his at her shoulder, squeezing briefly.

"I'm alright." Her voice turns into something soft and reassuring, and it's only then that a quiet, shuddering breath comes out of Simon's lungs. "I think I'll sit to working from the inside though." She jokes weakly. "Leave the dirtier work to you brutes."

It lightens the mood as intended, eliciting a snort from Gaz. "Yes, ma'am."

He'd make sure she got checked out properly when they landed, but for now he takes his place sitting beside her. The others fall into a hushed conversation after a while, but he makes no move to join them.

A warm hand intertwines with his, hidden beneath the bulk of their combined gear.

"I'm alright, Simon." She mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear.

Simon squeezes her hand in response. "Fucking hell, love." He breathes.

And it's enough to convey everything he's thinking. Humming, she tips her head against his shoulder and lets her eyes slip shut. The warmth of his body, even through the tang of copper is enough of a familiar comfort to drain the tension from her body.

She's fast asleep against his shoulder a minute later, and the devil himself couldn't make Simon move lest he wake her now.

He wasn't a publicly affectionate person by any means...but he trusted his team enough for this right now.

Letting his own head press against the metal wall behind them, his eyes shift to meet Price's. A softer, knowing look from the Captain is all he needs to hook his chin over her head and turn his attention outside the small window.

And if he counts her breathing while she sleeps for his own peace of mind? Well, that's no one's business but his.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

(10/09/2023)

[dashofghost]

explosions

◇─◇──◇─◇

when an explosion goes off in the field, simon's mask comes off

part of the unmasked!simon universe

next part

◇─◇──◇─◇

The explosion rocks your entire world, literally. You spit up blood as you push yourself up on your elbows, a dull throbbing blooming behind your eyes as you force them open. The sunlight blaring in your eyes dims for a second, and your head lulls back of its own accord as a dark shadow looms over you. Ghost. 

His lips move, and you hear the words behind a veil of ringing and dust. They’re muted, like he’s speaking underwater. You try to push yourself to your feet, but your head spins and you land back on your elbows. 

Something sticky clings to your uniform. You move to wipe it away, and the fluid soaks your hand, strangely warm. When you bring it up in front of your face, you find it soaked in blood.

Your head swims, and something grabs your arm, tethering you to the rough ground underneath you. You cough, watching as more blood splatters across your uniform. You hear Ghost swear as he crouches beside you, yelling something about a medic into his radio. 

“Stay with me, private,” he orders gruffly. His brows are furrowed in determination as he presses one of hands against the wound in your side that you’ve just begun to feel, the adrenaline starting to wear off. 

You see it before he does: a shell dropping out of the sky, landing with an innocent clink. You cough again, trying to clear your throat, desperately pulling at Ghost’s sleeve. 

“Ghost,” you choke out, blood coating your gums, “there’s a-”

He throws himself over you as the second explosion detonates: rocks swirl through the air and the ground ripples like waves. Ghost’s eyes screw shut, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he braces himself. 

Wait. His lips?

As the aftershocks set in, you lookup and realize that Ghost’s mask is gone. 

He’s just as shocked as you are: the black eyepaint setting off the confusion in his dark eyes, framed with pale blond lashes. His cheekbones are set regally high, between them, a nose that’s been broken at least a few times. Scars and freckles sweep across his cheek, ending at his too-full bottom lip. The wind whips honey strands across his forehead, back towards his ears, into his eyes. 

“You’re blond,” you cough out. Ghost’s hand reaches up, pressing into his bare skin, splaying out over his hollowed cheeks. He looks like he’s touching it for the first time, lashes almost brushing his cheek as he looks down. He cradles his cheek, covering as much of his face as he can. Caught between devotion and destruction. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. His fingers push harder against your wound, gloves soaked with blood as he swears again, and you notice his teeth toying with his lips again. 

The roar of a helicopter rings out from the sky, and Ghost’s head whips around. His fingers skitter across the ground to scoop up his balaclava, shaking as he pulls it back over his head. It’s messy and out of place and his soft look of shock is tattooed into your brain. 

You cling to his neck as he picks you up, eyes squinting against the roar of the blades as Ghost carries you to the helicopter. The sound goes in and out: one moment, you can hear Ghost's voice booming frantically as he wraps a bandage around you, the next, only a ringing silence. The chopper bleeds in and out of focus as you start to hyperventilate, head throbbing. 

The last thing you remember is Ghost gripping your hand. 

When you open your eyes, Ghost is there.

He’s curled up in a medbay chair he’s way too big for, head lolling against his chest. He’s stripped out of his gear, wearing only basic issue cargo pants and a black thermal top. His mask is still on, though his eyepaint is lighter. 

His face flashes before your eyes again. 

You shift, and his eyes snap open. He looks around for a second before his eyes land on you, and he pushes his chair next to your bed. 

“Hey, love,” he whispers, and you shift onto your side, facing him. You try to control the blush fanning out over your cheeks: if only you didn’t have the biggest crush on your own lieutenant. 

“Your face,” you blurt out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to see it,” you trail off, and Simon snorts, brows pinching together.

“Get nicked in the side and the first thing you do is start fuckin’ apologizing,” he grumbles, “s’not your fault, lovie. Besides,” he starts, lowering his head, “if there’s anyone I’d want to know what I look like, it’d be you.”

◇─◇──◇─◇

this is shit I swear I can write better than this. more updates soon.

[cherryredstars]

Hiiii.

Could you do headcanons or something of Simon would be finding out his girlfriend is a virgin and/or their first time together maybe.

I totally understand if you don't feel comfortable writing it or don't think it would fit the character.

You're my favorite Simon writer and tbh I use your interpretation of him as a basis for my daydreams lol

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Losing Virginity, Penetrative Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex, Praise, Fluffy Sex

Summary: Simon takes your virginity in the most beautiful way.

A/N: I got TWO requests for this and I love it so much, I jumped for my laptop!! And that’s so sweet!! I’m glad my Simon has a special place in your heart!!!

Word Count: 3.8K (Not Edited)

His hands are shaky.

His large, steady hands that he has used to kill men and handle sniper rifles are shaking. He might be more nervous than you are. But he wants this to be good for you. He wants to be good to you. He wants it to be perfect and sweet and painless. He wants it to be everything you've ever dreamed of and he wants it to be everything you deserve. He wants you to enjoy it and ease your mind of all the pretty little thoughts stuck in your head. 

He doesn’t want you to regret this. Regret choosing him.

So, he’s soft. Feather light touches that make your body crave more and more. His hands are like clouds, making your naked body float as he sets you down on the pile of pillows on his bed. You sink into them, the white fluff cocooning your body. It keeps you warm, caressing your skin when Simon can’t. It warms your heart seeing how caring he is. How he takes these extra steps to make you more comfortable. How, even with something so all-consuming like sex, he still lets his world revolve around you. It makes you take a shaky breath, love and trust replacing the oxygen in your body.

Simon is slow as he crawls over your body, thighs planted on either side of your body. He hopes you can’t see the slight tremor in his hands as he brings them to your face, brushing hair behind your ears before cupping your cheeks. Your face is warm against his rough palms and he gets lost in your eyes. They are so powerful, sucking him in and refusing to let him go. They sparkle, shades of color twirling and dancing in your irises. In the natural glassiness of your eyes he can see himself. For a moment, he can see what you mean when you tell him how beautiful he is. He holds onto that image of himself, collecting another piece of you that will forever tether itself to his soul. 

He hopes when you look into his eyes, you see how devastatingly gorgeous you are. He hopes you see what he sees. 

His eyes grow heavy as he traces your features, his eyes drawing up a map that he explores every second he is away from you. His eyes catch on your lips, plump beauties that always make his lungs contract to the point that they ache. He leans down, his lips brushing against yours but not quite kissing. His thumbs rub at your cheeks, and his eyes flutter shut the second his lips press against yours. Your mouth moves against him, and he presses against your body. His hands stay gentle on your face, even as his eyes squeeze tight and his lips become more bruising with passion. 

His heart pounds against his chest, desperately wanting to escape and hand itself to you. His mind is a swirling storm of colors, reds and pinks and oranges that mix and pulse as his tongue invades your mouth. Your moan that he swallows drips down his throat like the sweetest honey, warming his stomach and giving his starving soul the motivation to go on. His whole body buzzes as he exchanges love with you, his tongue collecting yours as yours collects his. It coats his mouth until all he can taste is you. It feels like the end of the world when the two of you part. 

His chest is heaving at the same pace as yours, love suffocating both of you in the sweetest of ways. Your lips are swollen and glossy from spit, and they stretch to the most heart wrenching smile as you stare up at him. 

“You’re stunning.” He whispers into the quiet space, his hands leaving your face so he can see all of it unobscured. 

Your cheeks flush, and he notices how it travels and colors your whole body. Your body with its soft skin and perfect imperfections. He can’t stop his hands from tracing over them. Every dip and bump and mark. Tracing the paths of beauty marks, stretch marks, and the faded remainders of scars. Your body shivers over the little touches, and he can’t help but smile down at you. It is a fucking miracle someone like you wants someone like him.

As his eyes go further down, he notices the shifting of your hips. Picks up on the ways you try to subtly press your thighs together to stop the pulse ache in between them. It chokes Simon, and his hands come to rub the top of your thighs. You instantly relax into the touch, sinking into the pillows as he calms you slightly. He travels down your body, his body half on the bed. You squeak when he slowly parts your legs, revealing the glistening between your thighs. Your face burns as you become self-conscious with him so close to your folds. Your legs instinctively try to close, but Simon keeps them open. From over your mound, Simon looks up at you, a reassuring look on his face.

“I know, love, I know. But I have to prep you first. I want to make sure it doesn’t hurt.”

The words are soft and caring, sinking into your skin. You bite your lips shyly, whispering out an ‘okay’. You relax your body into the pillows, taking deep breaths to try to keep the rapid beat of your heart at bay. Simon praises you, encouraging you to continue to relax with soft coos. Your breath hitches the second his lips press into your inner thigh, getting you used to the feeling of his mouth around your sensitive areas. You whine from the sensation, hips wiggling the closer and closer he gets to the aching area. One of his hands comes to rest on your lower stomach to keep you still, only applying the necessary amount of pressure and not an ounce more. 

“Shh, baby. Just grab my hand if you need to, okay?” Simon mummers, his breath ghosting over your clit. 

You can simply nod, your two hands instantly playing with his fingers as you fidget. Simon smiles, turning his head to hide it into the side of your thigh as your cuteness warms his chest. You can feel the curve of his lips against your skin, feeling the slight puff of air he lets out. Seeing him so easy going calms your nerves, and he can feel the moment your body completely relaxes. He pulls away from your skin, his hand holding your thigh squeezing the skin reassuringly. 

He warns you with a gentle kiss right above your clit, and you hold your breath in preparation. It instantly escapes you as your mouth drops open with a sharp gasp when his lips press against your clit. Your hips jolt at the sensation, your hold on his hand tightening as he gives it a kitten lick. His lips rub against your bud, eyes looking up at you to study your expressions. Your mouth is dropped open with panting as he continues his ministrations on your clit, kissing and licking and sucking it into your mouth. When you become used to the sensation, his tongue drags down to your folds, licking the skin around them. You moan at the feeling, squeaking when he licks along your slit. 

“Si!” You cry out, hips arching off the bed as his tongue pokes at your entrance. 

His hand on your stomach brings them back down to the bed, and he moans at the rush of arousal that coats his tongue. His eyes are dazed, drunk on the liquid sugar between your thighs. His nose bumps against your clit as he moves his face up and down so his tongue can take it all in. You’re a moaning, whiny mess as he continues. Simon’s tongue begins to penetrate you and the two of you groan at the sensation. Your walls instantly clench around his wet muscle, and he can’t help but notice how tight you are. Too tight for you to be able to take his cock. 

You cry out when he pulls his face away from you, heavy breaths parting from your lips. You look down at him, worried you did something wrong, but the calm look on his face calms you down instantly. 

“I gotta stretch ya out, lovie. Can’t take m’with how tight you are right now. I’m going to have to stretch you out on my fingers, okay? Nice and slow.” Simon communicates, and your walls flutter at the idea of him fingering you. 

“Nice and slow,” you repeat back to him with a nod and he rewards you with another kiss to your sensitive clit. 

He leans his face back down to your cunt, resuming his addicting sucks and licks. It relaxes your body, only stiffening slightly as you feel his fingers. They don’t penetrate you, not yet. Instead they slide against you, collecting your slick to use as a lube. They’re glossy quickly, covered in your divine scent and smooth glaze. It takes everything inside of him not to instantly suck them into his mouth out of greediness. 

The warm pad of his hands leave you for a moment, and you breathe out when you feel them placed right under where Simon laps at you. Your breaths become slightly shaky, anticipation flowing through you as he teases the entrance. Your hands bunch into the pillows, eyes closing when the very tip of his singular finger slips inside. It parts your folds smoothly, and your walls tighten around it the deeper he pushes it. It's like your walls are trying to suck him in and push him out at the same time. 

Unlike what you’ve heard from other people when they've been fingered for the first time, it doesn’t hurt. There is definitely some pressure, but it feels more uncomfortable than anything. Simon moans against you when he knuckles out, your walls fluttering to welcome his digit. He curls it slightly to see how much room he has to move, and you moan as his blunt nails caress your rigid walls. As Simon expected, there isn’t a lot of room. You’re too tight and your body is dead set on suctioning itself around him like a second skin. 

His mouth wrapped around your clit, coaxing it to make your body cooperate. He sucks on it, long and hard, making your body tense up as you feel a band in you suddenly snap. You cry out, hands desperately clutching onto Simon’s head as your hips buck. The orgasm floods through you, temporarily drowning all your nerves in pure pleasure. Simon can feel the wetness surging around his finger, and he uses it to his advantage as he begins curling and thrusting his finger. 

With your body so relaxed with your climax, your walls have slackened just a bit. Simon tilts his hand upwards, making the finger inside of you apply pressure to your top wall. You whine out, slightly sensitive from your release. Simon pulls his face around from your thighs, and your cheeks flame at the sight of his glistening chin and lower face. It distracts you just enough to ignore the feeling of a second finger entering you. The uncomfortable ache gets stronger, and you wince from the foreign feeling. Simon instantly stops, eyes asking you if you want to continue. You don’t hesitate to nod. 

Simon’s hand on your stomach slides down, just enough for his thumb to reach your bud. The rough calluses of his thumb swipe over the wet pearl easily, and you mewl as your body sinks down into soft pillows. Simon’s second dinger slides in almost instantly, sheathing it within you. Simon’s eyes are intensely trained to where his fingers meet your opening, focused on making you as comfortable as possible. Slowly, he curls his fingers inside of you, pressing up on your walls to coax them to loosen. You moan out, hips slightly grinding in time to his curls. 

“That’s it, baby. Good girl, just keep doing that. Taking it so well, so proud of you,” Simon praises, mind numb from the way the sound of squishy flesh and arousal fill the room.

You whimper, walls slightly clenching around his fingers. It makes his heart soar knowing how much his words affect you. To reward you, he slowly begins to scissor his fingers inside of you, parting them as far as they can go before bringing them back together. It’ll help stretch you out, and the sounds of pleasure you make in response are musical gold. 

“Think you can take another, sweet thing?” he whispers up at you. 

You're tempted to shake your head no. It would be too much for you, would feel too good. It would break you in seconds, and you know your body would give out before coming three times. But you shyly- oh so shyly- nod your head. Simon smiles encouragingly at you, kissing along your thighs and legs. It makes a dopey smile cover your face, slight giggles escaping you as you feel his ticklish stubble. Simon withdraws his fingers half-way, pushing them to one side as best as he could. You can feel yourself pulsing, whimpering when Simon’s ring finger slips into the empty space. You’re too tight for it to slip anywhere past his second knuckle, so he works you there. The palm of his hand slides against your clit, adding on to the delicious pleasure consuming you. You can’t help the small gasp and whimpers that leave you, and you moan out in surprise when his third finger fully slips in. 

He pauses, not moving his fingers and letting you adjust to the feeling of being so full and stretched. It burns just slightly, but it isn’t unbearable. In fact, it turns underwhelming all too quickly, your body already craving more. You sigh as you begin rotating your hips sloppily, humming as it forces his fingers to rub against your walls. Simon is in a trance as he watches you take your pleasure, and he curls his fingers to aid you. Your stiff movements become more fluid as your walls open up to him, the slippery sounds of wetness filling the room again. You can feel an orgasm snowballing in your lower stomach, and your thighs begin to shake. But just as it’s about to peak, Simon pulls his fingers out of you. 

Your breaths are shaky and you make a sound of betrayal as your orgasm dies away. Simon coos down at you, sympathy in his eyes as he comes up. He leaves apologetic kisses around your face, scattering them down your neck until they reach your collarbones and shoulders. Your mind quickly forgets the failed orgasm as you feel the oozing tip of Simon’s cock rub into your inner thigh. The precum it smears on your skin is warm, and you can feel the stickiness of it. You shift your thigh slightly, rubbing it against him. Simon moans against your skin, pulling away and panting into the junction of your shoulder. He pushes himself up, one of his hands grabbing yours. Instinctively, you squeeze it. 

“You ready? You still want this?” Simon asks you. “It’s okay if you change your mind, we can stop here if you want.”

The idea of stopping makes you want to cry, and you frantically answer him before he stops, “I want this. Please, Simon.”

Simon rubs your hand reassuringly, shushing you as his other hand guides him to your entrance. Slick instantly connects him to you, and he bites his lip as he rubs the head of his cock up and down. Your hips chase him, and your hand tightens around his. He chuckles at you, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. His forehead rests against yours, and he ever so softly asks you to meet his eyes. You do instantly, hips stilling and eyelashes fluttering. He smiles down at you, bumping his nose against yours. 

“This next part is going to hurt a bit, baby. I wish it didn’t, but it will. Just… try to breathe through it, okay? Squeeze my hand as tightly as you need to and we can stop if it’s too much.”

His words and tone are so caring that it makes your heart ache. You nod, whispering out an ‘okay’ when you see from the look on his face that he needs a verbal agreement. Simon kisses your forehead before he pulls away briefly. His eyes scan the pillows, and he grabs on from the outer edge of the pile. He lifts your hips gently, placing the pillow under them. It gives your lower body some height, and you think it’ll make it easier for him to slip inside of you. In no time, his forehead is back against yours, and his fingers are tangling with yours. You breathe deeply, focusing on his eyes as you feel his tip press against your entrance. 

Your breath hitches as his tip penetrates you, the crown slipping in. It makes your head dizzy, and Simon’s breathy exhale warms your chin. You blink rapidly up at him, mouth refusing to close as his head pops inside of you. Your body instantly tightens around him and he moans. His hand squeezes yours, trying to fight the urge to push more of himself inside of you. He takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a second before continuing. His eyes meet yours again as more and more of him enters you. Your breath is still seized in your chest, hand tightening around Simon’s. Through the buzzing in your brain, you feel Simon’s breaths hit you. Your eyes leave his face to his mouth, realizing he’s exaggerating his breathing for you. Your eyes stay to his lips as you begin copying him. 

You stiffen when he stops inside of you, his tip meeting resistance as it presses against your hymen. Simon swallows, breathing deeply. He looks pained as he looks at you, like he dreads what’s next.

“Hey, love. You still with me?” He asks you gently. When you nod, he smiles slightly and continues. “You’ve been doing so good for me so far, baby. But, there is one more thing I need you to do for me, okay?”

The undertone he uses makes you unease and your body squirms. It causes him to press harder against the barrier inside of you and he hisses. You instantly stop. You bite your lips nervously, squeezing his hand. “What is it, Si?”

His hand squeezes yours in return, but his smile drops slightly. “This part is going to hurt the most. I’m gonna have to thrust into you with a bit of force to break through, okay? I need you to take a really deep breath for me. Can you do that?”

You can feel your body break out into a sweat as your nerves flare. But you nod hesitantly. Your hand has a death grip on Simon in preparation. Slowly you take a deep breath in, as Simon begins to slide his cock back slightly. Your chest puffs up with air, and it rushes out of you in a choked, high-pitched noise as he thrusts back in. His hand instantly comes to grab your other hand as you let out a small scream, and he peppers kisses around your face as he apologizes over and over again. 

“I know. I know, I’m so sorry. I know, bunny.”

He’s all the way to the base, and you feel so full. You’re breathing heavily, nails digging into Simon’s skin. Your eyes are glassy with unshed tears. Simon’s lips are at your temple, muttering reassuring words to you until you calm down and that initial pain and burn disappear. You sniffle, eyelashes blinking away your tears. Your hands loosen from Simon’s slightly and he pulls his face away from yours. 

“You okay? You want me to start moving?” he whispers to you, pushing sweat drenched hair away from your face with a soft smile. 

You squirm slightly, wincing a tiny bit, but nod. “Just… go slow.”

Simon mumbles an ‘of course’, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before pulling out slightly and giving you a slow and shallow thrust. You squeak at the feeling, your hands falling to Simon’s shoulders. Simon keeps that slow pace until the slight discomfort fades away. You moan as the pleasure starts registering, and soon you find yourself asking him to go faster. Simon obeys, beginning to pull out more and more until he’s thrusting into you at a good pace. 

Your mouth parts with soft moans and gasps, throwing your arms around Simon’s neck. Simon’s arms come to wrap around your body, burying his head in your neck and pressing kisses to the skin. The drag of his cock against your walls feels heavenly and the knot in your stomach begins to tighten. 

‘I- oh my god, Simon!” You moan out as he goes faster, the fluttering of your walls driving him mad. You feel amazing, tight and warm around him. He has to take deep breaths to not blow his load in the next second. 

“Gods, love. You feel so incredible,” he moans out, pulling you closer to his body. Your walls clench even tighter around and his eyes roll to the back of his head. 

“Si, I’m gonna-” You cut yourself with a moan as you throw your head back, arms tightening around his neck.

Simon’s face drops to your chest, sucking and kissing. “Go ahead, I got you baby. I got you.”

You’re done in an instant, moaning out his name as you come. Your walls pulse against him rapidly, and his pace turns desperate. His face slackens as he stills, spilling his own release into you. He slumps forward, pressing the two of you into the pillows as he twitches inside of you. Your hands rake through his hair, your combined panting filling the room. Simon places lazy, open mouthed kisses on the skin he can reach, each one followed by a slurred praise. You hum in content, your hands pulling his face up to yours. You have a dizzying smile on your face, and Simon loses his breath all over again. Your lips capture his, and he’s more than willing to kiss back. 

When the two of you pull back, your cheeks warm. “Thank you, Simon. That was amazing.”

You can see Simon filling with love and pride, a smile spreading on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You giggle as he attacks your face with playfully kisses that leave wet marks in their wake. You laugh and squeal as you try to push him away, head thrown back with delight. Simon could die like this, he thinks. He would give up everything in the world to stay in this moment with you for the rest of his life. He smiles down at you, pressing another kiss to your lips.

“C’mon, let’s get cleaned up, love”

My heart is warm and fuzzy!!!

Join Cherry’s Discord Server

[sinkovia]

The idea of losing you

Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Angst, Mentions of suicide, Violence, Blood.

The mission had been intense, with bullets whizzing past and adrenaline pumping through your veins. You and Ghost were working together, taking down enemy operators one by one. Amid the chaos, you called out for Luna, your loyal German Shepherd, who had just finished killing an enemy operator attempting to flank your position.

With a simple command, you beckoned her over, and she trotted to your side, her ears perked up and her gaze locked onto you, awaiting your next orders. Ghost was at your side, urgently calling for reinforcements as you watched from a distance. The tension in the air was thick as you both knew that this mission was far from over.

The faint sound of approaching aircraft grew louder, and you looked up to see an ominous sight—a squadron of fighter jets streaking across the sky. Then, it happened in a heartbeat. The building where your brother was located, the very same building you had just passed moments ago, was engulfed in a fiery explosion.

Time seemed to slow as you watched in horror, the world around you muted by the deafening roar of the explosion.

Your heart shattered as the realization hit you like a tidal wave. Your brother, who had always been there for you, your rock in the tumultuous sea of your life, was now gone. The airstrike had claimed him, ending his life instantly. Beside you, Luna whined, as if echoing your grief. She felt it too; she sensed his presence vanish, and in her own way, she mourned the loss.

For a brief, agonizing moment, the mission, the gunfire, the chaos around you all faded into the background.

Ghost's firm grip on your shoulder pulls you back from the brink. He turns you to face him, and his eyes convey a stern determination. He knows you're hurting, but he also knows that there's a mission to complete. In that silent exchange, Ghost encourages you to hold on, to push through the pain. The mission is still in motion, and you can't afford to lose yourself to grief, not now, not here. With a deep breath, you muster the strength to nod, acknowledging Ghost's unspoken command.

In the days that followed your brother's funeral, your life had taken a downward spiral. Grief had consumed you, making it difficult to eat or sleep. You had distanced yourself from the team, retreating into solitude as you grappled with the loss that weighed heavily on your heart. Your teammates understood, giving you the space and time you needed to process your pain.

Through those dark days, Luna never left your side, her presence was the only thing that seemed to tether you to reality. She stayed by your side, a silent companion that understood your pain better than anyone else. On one sleepless night, you took Luna for a walk. The night air was cool against your cheeks, carrying a faint scent of pine and earth. Luna trotted beside you, her warm presence a comforting reminder of the life that still existed, despite the overwhelming grief that clouded your heart.

As you wandered deeper into the quiet night, you stumbled upon Ghost. He sat on a bench with a cigarette in hand. His gaze was fixed on the mountains in the distance. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, the soft ember glowing in the dark. You approached him, Luna at your side.

"Mind if I join you?" you asked, your voice a fragile whisper in the stillness of the night.

He glanced over at you, his eyes reflecting the dim moonlight. "Be my guest," he replied, his tone a mix of weariness and understanding. You took a seat beside him, the night air cool against your skin, and for a moment, you both sat in silence, staring at the mountains in the distance.

The weight of the world seemed to press down on your shoulders, but here, with Ghost beside you and Luna at your feet, you found a moment of respite from the relentless storm that had become your life. Finally, Ghost broke the silence, his voice tinged with concern that he couldn't conceal.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes shifting to study your face in the faint moonlight.

Ghost wasn't one to readily express his feelings, but his worry had been gnawing at him ever since you started pulling away from the team. He would never admit it to you, but your absence had left a void, and he missed the sound of your voice, the liveliness you brought to the group. Your presence had, in its own way, always been a comfort to him, a reminder of life beyond the shadows of his past.

You grounded him in a way he couldn't quite explain.

You took a deep breath, you decided to be honest with him. "To tell you the truth, I thought about ending it. Several times actually, with one quick bullet to the head. But I realised I couldnt give up, Luna needs me." You softly patted the top of her head and smile as she looks up to you. Ghosts eyes never left you, his gaze scanning over your features, lingering when he noticed the deep bags under your eyes.

"My brother gave her to me after our parents died. She’s all I have left of him. She was just a puppy when she was thrown into this hellish world of war. I can’t leave her behind. Im trying to pull myself together for her sake. Shes the only reason I havent given up."

Ghost listened, his gaze never wavering from you. He saw the pain in your eyes, the weight you carried, and he didn't know what to say. But when you looked at him, he met your gaze with sincerity. Breaking the silence, he spoke gently, his voice a calming presence in the still night.

"You're not alone in this, Y/n. The team, we're all worried about you. We care about you, and we're here for you whenever you need it."

Ghost's gaze remained on yours, his eyes reflecting the concern and genuine care he felt. "Don't push us away, we care about you more than you might realize."

Don’t push me away… I care about you more than you realize…

Words he would never dare speak to you.

"Thank you, Ghost" Your smile, though faint, warmed his heart.

The horizon began to shift, the first soft rays of the rising sun peeking over the distant mountains. Together, you and Ghost sat in the comfortable silence of the early morning, Luna at your feet, as you watched the sun rise.

A couple days after your talk with Ghost you were thrown into another mission. You were meant to infiltrate a building, and the team had split up to cover more ground. Luna was at your side as you cautiously opened a door, not anticipating the nightmare that awaited on the other side. In a fraction of a second, the situation went from under control to utter chaos. Luna leaped into action, her training taking over as she swiftly neutralized the enemy in front of you. But you failed to realize that it wasn't just one target; there was a group of them inside.

Two of them emerged from behind the door, pinning you to the floor before you could react. You struggled against their weight, your heart pounding in your chest as the situation escalated. Panic surged through you as you saw one of them raise their weapon, aiming it at Luna. The deafening gunshot pierced the air, and you watched in horror as Luna was struck, the bullet tearing through her leg. She cried out in pain, collapsing to the floor beside you, her once vibrant eyes now filled with agony. You screamed out as two men began kicking her.

"Please stop. Please dont do this!"

You were mere inches away, your arm slipped from the mens hold on you. You outstretched your hand, fingers trembling as you desperately tried to reach her, to offer any comfort you could. But they were quick to grab your arm, pinning your hands behind your back. All you could do was watch helplessly as she lay there, her gaze locked with yours, a silent plea in her eyes. The pain and guilt gnawed at your insides, the anguish of being so close yet utterly powerless to save her.

"Luna please get up."

You watched as one of the men took the pistol from his holster aiming it at her head.

"Im begging you shes all I have left please dont do this. Please just let her go."

Luna who had been looking at you the entire time lets out a low whine. All you can do is look at her.

"I'm so sorry" was all you can say before the deafening gunshot pierced the air.

The rest of your team burst into the room, and in a flurry of gunfire, they took down the enemy operatives. Ghost hurried to your side, but the tears continued to fall silently as you stared at Luna's lifeless body. Ghost positioned himself in front of you to shield you from the lifeless form her. Gently, he lifted you, cradling you in his arms, and carried you away from the room, heading towards the medevac.

Ghost had been there for you every day, his presence unwavering after the loss of your brother and your Luna. He remembered the words that had echoed in his mind, how Luna had been the last thing keeping you from ending your own life, and that thought scared him to the core. He couldn't bear the idea of losing you.

So, he checked on you constantly.

He would bring you tea at random times of the day, ask you to training sessions , and do anything he could to prevent you from being alone for extended periods. You looked okay, you had accepted every cup he brought thanking him with a small smile, joined him for training sessions, watched movies with him and the team in the rec room. He knew you were faking it, putting on a facade to shield him and the team from your pain.

Then, one day, you finally told him that you were okay.

"I'm okay, Ghost. I'm trying my best to pull myself together. It's just... a lot, you know?"

Ghost nodded, "I know," he replied, his voice gentle. "And I'm here for you, always. Dont forget that."

Ghost, ever the soldier, wanted to believe you. He wanted to believe that you were strong enough to overcome the grief and trauma that had engulfed you. But deep down, he had a nagging feeling that you were still hurting, that you weren't as okay as you claimed to be. He knew that healing from such profound loss took time, and he wished he could do more to help you through it.

You guys had just finished watching a movie in the rec room, the two of you were walking back to your rooms. His room was right next to yours, he stopped in front of his door. The nagging feeling in his heart was screaming out to him to not leave you alone. His mind flashed back to you laughing at the movie with Soap. You had made a joke that Soap thought was hilarious.

He thought that maybe you were trying your best to be okay. So he turned saying goodnight to you before stepping into his room and closing the door. He couldnt fall asleep, he had been tossing and turning for an hour. His mind wouldnt let him rest, he was worried about you. Something had kept screaming out at him to knock on your door and check on you and so he threw the covers off himself.

He opened his door and walked over to yours, he raised his fist to knock on your door when he flinched.

The sound of a gunshot made him flinch.

"Y/n?!" he tried opening the door but of course it was locked. He started to ram his shoulder against it until he finally broke through. He saw you laying on your bed, your eyes were open.

They were far away.

In your hand was a gun.

And you lay in a growing pool of your blood.

Ghosts breathing was labored as he looked at your eyes, you had been crying in your last moments. If only he had come sooner, if only he had listened to the gut feeling that screamed out at him the second he left your side. His eyes went to the small piece of paper in your hand, he carefully grabbed it, slowly opening it. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes read over the letters.

Im sorry Simon.

You noticed how hard he had been trying. Your conversations with him were always one sided before your brother and Luna's death. He was always the one listening, he never bothered to start conversations, never bothered to make plans, never offered you tea, never went to the movie nights.

He had tried his damn hardest to make sure you would be okay but it still wasnt enough.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

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.

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

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

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

[statusexile]

[tw: narratophilia. quotes are excerpt from “Dirty Pretty Things” by Michael Faudet]

“To slap you, is to touch you. Scream for mercy. Beg for more,” Simon’s thick, husky voice echoes through the room, sitting on the couch across from you as he casually read a sentence of a book. He takes long drags from his third cigarette of the day, exhaling the smoke slowly, while you’re naked and helpless bound to the bed with sweat dripping down your body from hours of overstimulation as you press a vibrator against your clit. You’ve lost the track of time a long time ago.

“To bite you, is to kiss you. Tied and tethered, on the floor,” Simon continues, occasionally throwing a glance at you as he keeps reading. You writhe on the bed, lost in a haze of pleasure, unable to form any coherent sentence. His words and voice are like a drug, coursing through your veins as you desperately pressing the vibrator even deeper, begging for release from this sweet torture.

“To loathe you, is to love you,” Every nerve in your body is on fire, aching for release as the knot in your stomach tightens, threatening to burst. Your mind races with desperation. It’s only a matter of moments before you reach your breaking point, uttering desperate pleas under your breath as you come undone with gasps and shudders. “Pretty princess,”

Just a little bit more.

“Dirty whore.” Simon’s final words send a jolt of electricity through your body, lighting every nerve ending and igniting an inferno inside you. Your back arches off the bed as your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, consuming you in pure ecstasy. Your screams echo off the walls as your body trembles violently, your vision blurring to white as your ear drums ring from the overwhelming pleasure.

Simon’s eyes linger on you, his amusement turning to a hunger that glints in his gaze as he watches you tremble and quiver through your orgasm. He puts down the book and takes one final deep drag of his cigarette before putting it out on the ashtray next to him. He stands up from the couch and walk towards you, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants slowly as he stands at the edge of the bed, ready to destroy you.

“Dirty fucking whore.”

[ghouljams]

Salt In An Old Wound Tags: hurt/comfort, Ghost x F!oc/reader, explicit mentions of Ghost's backstory, panic attacks, body horror, buried alive, fae au Summary: Ghost's wrapped you up so tightly you don't know where you start and he ends. Your feelings are his, and unfortunately his feelings are your as well.

You're somewhere small and dark. Somewhere you have to breathe shallowly to avoid the onset of claustrophobia. A body presses against your back, crawling, swarming, wiggling with life that isn't its own. A coffin and a corpse. You jolt away from the body, slamming yourself against the wooden wall of the coffin. Your breath comes quicker. Your body, your everything hurts. Moving is a new trauma. You broken bones and overworked muscles screaming at you for even the shallow breaths you try to maintain. Why do your ribs hurt like someone tried to pull them from your chest? 

You don't know what to do. You don't know where you are, what country you're in or how you got here. The smell of rot squirms in your nose, or maybe that's a maggot. You gag, try not to vomit. You think that might be the only thing that could make this worse, laying in your own sick. You wiggle your arm up to your chest to try and get some leverage, doing your best to avoid the rotting corpse behind you. You bang your fist against the coffin wall with all your strength. It feels pointless, your fist barely makes an indent, not enough wind up.

Your gloved hand clenches, trying to keep the panicked bile from rising in your throat, trying to tamp down the rage. The body behind you shifts, wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer into the wriggling mass of larvae. You scream and thrash against its grip, push against its hold with all your might as broken sobs force their way out of your chest. 

You hit the floor and scramble away from the bed, panic grips your chest, you scrub at your arms to try and get rid of the squirming feeling. Your shirt sticks to you, uncomfortably damp with sweat as you cry. Simon stares down at you from the bed, chest heaving and sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. His eyes are wide, mirroring your panic.

Blood pounds in your ears, your vision hazy and disfigured from the tears pouring down your cheeks. You tug at your shirt, Simon's shirt, your skin so itchy it feels raw. Your heart feels like it's about to pop out of your chest, and you can't piece a thought together besides a desperate clawing need to escape. You pull at your tethers, you need help, you need someone to help you.

Simon presses his hands against his face, his eyes glowing with fury in the dim light. Smoke and shadow swirl around him in aggravated spikes of sharp movement. His mask collects in awful darkness around his fingers, his teeth shining dangerously under the darkness. You curl in on yourself, trying to take breaths around the sobs that wrack your body. You can still feel the bone clenched in your hand, the teeth and rotted flesh digging into your palm, the dirt under your nails. Simon is still frozen on the bed, eyes fixed on you but unseeing, unfeeling. He trembles just on the edge of something.

It's him. It's him. He's the one laying with corpses. He's the one feeding you piecemeal panic through your hooks. Each tether between you looping back and doubling the feelings that grip you and won’t let go. You don’t know where you start and Simon ends. It’s your memory, it’s his memory, it’s Roba strapping you down and trying to wrench your skull open, it’s snakes and fire and hooks in your ribs that don’t leave you. There are hooks in you now and you can feel every single one of them as they light up a terrible bloody red.

He’s scaring you. Ghost is scaring you. The way he hunches his shoulders and stares through your soul like a wild animal, saliva dripping from between his teeth, rabid with panic and rage. You press your feet against the floor, pushing yourself further against the wall and away from open air. Open is bad. Wall is good. Safe. Small and safe. Ghost's smoke weighs down the air in the room, cloying at your lungs as you draw in desperate breaths. He moves and you feel all of your muscles freeze, waiting for the inevitable pounce of the predator in your bed. His hand shakes as he grips his chest, mirroring your own pulling, but it’s not your chest that pulls tight under his fingers.

Ghost says a name, his lips moving around consonants and vowels that don’t make their way to you. You hear a noise like the quiet before a storm, the last hiss of air before the sirens start, the dead silence the predicts a tornado. A man grabs the back of Simon's neck, and presses his hand hard against his forehead until he goes boneless. Simon's hands fall from his face as he leans heavily against the man holding onto him. Safe. Safe, Safe, Safe. It hums through your tethers like plucked strings. He shifts his grip to hold Simon's head against his shoulder, turns his own head to speak to him in a low tone you only hear the buzzing after effects of. 

He turns his attention to you, and you don't know whether to push yourself further into your corner or hold your arms out to him. You want safe. You want these feelings, these memories, out. The man crouches in front of you in between blinks, his eyes sympathetic, understanding, pitying. His mouth twists into something akin to a smile, it’s comforting. He’s not mad at you. You don’t- you don’t know why that’s important. It’s Simon’s, you think.

You reach for him, he’s sturdy where you grip his shirt. Everything about him seems made to draw you in, to make you want to sit in his lap and be praised. The tears are still coming, still dripping off your jaw. You can still smell the burnt flesh of your family, feel the scars across your skin being cut open again and again. The memories still echo in you, unsure where to go when your connection to Simon is quiet.

"You're not mine sweetheart," he tells you in a low rasping tone, "not sure what I'm allowed to do with you."

"Make it stop," you whisper, the sobs have stopped but your body still shakes like it's been thrown in a blender. 

"Dammit," he whispers, and reaches towards you. You close your eyes and feel him tap your forehead.

It’s strange how dreamlessly you sleep. So still and quiet. The gentle drip of water into a shallow pool is a constant lull to keep you deep under whatever spell is being woven over you. You feel wrung out, emotionally drained in a way you’ve never experienced before. But. It’s lonely here. You’re not used to being lonely anymore. You curl up in the darkness, let yourself float with the drip, drip, drip of water. Smoke wraps around your mind, soothes you, sections off the parts that aren’t yours and pulls them like thorns from you.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight against the morning sun that streams through your bedroom window. 

“The fuck are you still doin’ here?” Simon grumbles not at you, you feel his arm reach for you, fingers hesitant as they trace over your cheek. It’s enough reason to open your eyes, only to shut them again when Simon rubs some of the sleep from one. You get a glimpse of the bearded man from last night sitting between you and your husband, fully dressed and unbothered by the both of you.

“Keepin’ you two separated,” Price says, flipping the page on one of your manuscripts, “least until you woke up.”

“No shoes on the bed,” You mumble. Price glances down at where you’re cuddling closer against his side. He’s got that nice cool feeling Simon has, and a similar smokey scent. You like it.

“She serious?” He asks Simon.

"Always," Simon hums, thumb rubbing your cheek with open affection. There’s a rustle from the blankets moving, a quiet huff from Price, and then Simon’s lips against your forehead. Wiping away the last of the magic that was worked on you. It’s pleasant, like shaking off a weighted blanket you feel like you’re able to move more freely. If you wanted to. You’re not inclined to do much in the mornings, you leave that chore to Simon.

Simon sighs watching you tug the blankets up, burrowing down to get more comfortable. Something small and needy in the back of his brain scratches at him. He can still see your panicked face in his mind, he needs you safe. Small and safe. He hesitates a moment before moving your head to rest on Price’s lap. That’s about as safe as he can think to make you without locking you up somewhere.

“Just a dream Ghost,” Price reminds him, hardly bothered by the intrusion to his space.

“She shouldn’t have to see that,” Simon shakes his head, drips some extra sleep over your brain as he pushes your hair back.

Price glances down at you, the way you glow with Simon’s affection, “Seems fine to me.”

He sets the manuscript down and grabs Simon’s chin, keeping him close, keeping him teetering over his lap. He squints, searching his gaze for any lingering noise, any anxiety still clinging to Simon. Simon lets him, keeps still for his captain even as his thumb rubs against his cheek. Soothing affection, gone as quick as it came. 

“I like ‘er.” Price relents finally, letting Simon go to settle back against the pillows.

“Figured you would,” Simon sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He needs a shave, and a shower. He can still feel smoke clinging to his skin, shadows shared between him and Price to ground him.

“She’s pretty.”

“And mine,” Simon glares, catching the tail end of Price’s smile.

[foreverunraveling]

I kind of love the use of dirt in S1E4? 

When the episode starts, Wille is laying his head on Erik’s casket. He reaches out for some dirt on it as the last conversation they have when Erik leaves Wille at Hillerska in episode 1 plays in the background. The words' dual meaning becomes obvious.

Wille touches the dirt, feels it. The dirt is real. There's not much of it, but it's real. And he's losing it. He's lost the one thing in his life that is real--his relationship with his brother, Erik.

For most of his life, I’d imagine that Erik was the only person in the world with whom Wille could be fully real. And Erik was probably one of the only people who was real with Wille back.  The only person with whom he could have a real relationship.  Who didn’t expect a polite, respectful prince and nothing else. Who would tell Wille to run on the count of three during a boring photoshoot and slip down the muddy hill with him.  

And then Erik dies. The only real connection that Wille can ever remember having in the world is gone. And Wille is realizing that he pushed the very last glimmer of a real connection away.  And nothing feels real any more. So Wille goes to the football field where he was with Simon, a place where he felt truly normal, looking for something that will make him feel real. And all he finds is astroturf—no real dirt. He realizes that without Simon, there’s nothing real left in his life. No one who sees him and accepts him for who he really is. No one who knows the real Wille, who is messy and dirty, and still cares for him regardless.

And it sinks in. Without Erik, there’s nothing tethering Wille to this earth any more. The rest of the world seems further and further away.  Fake, as Wille discovers the astroturf on the soccer field is.  So, Wille reaches out for Simon, the one person who can ground him again. 

The only real thing that Wille has left in his life is Simon.  He’s the only person left who would ever be fully real with Wille. Tell Wille that he’s actually the country's biggest welfare recipient. Give Wille shit when he tries to hide from August. Discreetly laugh in August’s face with him. Dare him to evade the cousin he hates for an evening to experience something totally normal with real people.

And not only that, but Simon is the only person left in his life who Wille can be fully real with at this point. No one else has any idea about the sexuality crisis that Wille is going through or how that plays into any of his feelings about ascending to the role of Crown Prince.  No one has any idea about what happened between him and Simon.  No one knows that he doesn’t really like August, or the school, or his role.  Except Simon.  Simon is the only one left who sees Wille for himself—a real person rather than a personification of his title.  

And, as Wille points out, what he and Simon have—what he feels for Simon, at the very least—is real.  Wille has tried to fight it, but the sheer reality of it rips through the paper-thin fake layers with which Wille tries to shield himself. “I’m not like that” and “I can’t do this any more.” But alone, out on the field, where Wille expected to find the normalcy he felt when he went to Rosh’s game, he’s surrounded by only reminders that nothing left is real.

So Wille reaches out for Simon—the only one who can ground him again. Because unlike the astroturf on which Prince Wilhelm's life is built, dirt is real. What they have is real.  And real life is messy, it’s dirty, and you can pretend otherwise, but you’ll end up falling down in the mud either way.  And Wille is choosing to grasp at the only thing left that he sees in his life that is real. Simon.

[tojisun]

(holiday special - christmas eve)

simon ghost riley x fem reader - in multiple aus ^v^

star dividers by @/plutism <33

biker!simon who gifts you your own bike and takes you around the bloc to ride it. it doesn’t go well at first – you keep stumbling and the sputtering engine of your own bike scares you, but simon’s there, ready to catch you and to switch off the ignition before you can topple.

you two spend hours just familiarizing yourself with the bike before you finally manage a one-minute run without tipping over, simon shadowing you from the back with his own. laughter spills from your lips and simon grins, feeding off of your giddiness.

(you don’t know it but simon’s been filming your progress, sending updates to the group chat when he can.

ghost: peanut’s learning

ghost: [video attachment]

soap: today of all days? ok weirdo. anyways, what time are you both gonna be here for the party then????

gaz: LMAO JOHNNY)

the sky’s stretching into darkness (it’s just four in the afternoon) when you wheel your bike back to his garage.

“y’had fun?” simon asks, tapping your visor lightly with his gloved hand, his eyes crinkled in happiness.

you nod, placing your palms on either side of your helmet to tether it from all of simon’s jostling.

“i did!” you cheer, beaming up at him. “thank you so much, baby.”

simon smiles before he bumps his helmet on yours, his palm closing around your wrist where his thumb begins to rub soothing nothings.

“‘s good to hear,” he says, his voice a touch quiet. “i’m so proud of you, lovie.”

you are still shy, avoiding his eyes as your cheeks continue to thrum with heat at simon’s reverence, when you and simon rev away towards johnny’s place.

-

baker!simon who is knocking on your apartment door at 3 am and, when that fails, is calling you consecutively until you answer.

“fuckin’ what?”

you’re groggy from sleep, voice still scratchy from having just been woken up. simon can practically see your eye bags from the other line but he doesn’t have it in him to be sorry. you did ask to be picked up for the day’s long haul.

“wakey wakey,” simon greets with a straight face. “time for cake…y.”

there’s silence from your end, stretching into uncomfortable minutes, before the door is ripped open and there came you, squinting up at him.

“what?” you ask again, this time less angry. simon realizes the call’s been dropped so he pockets his phone back.

“good mornin’ love,” is what he says instead because it is. because every morning with you is good. “y’still wanna help out with the shop today?”

you blink your squinted eyes for a while, processing, then, “ah! oh-em-jee, yeah, of course.”

it’s kind of comical how your face eases up with the dawning realization before you scramble back inside to your place. there’s a pause, shuffling of feet, and the door swinging open again. you shoot him a sheepish smile. “come in?”

he chuckles and steps forward to finally crowd you, his lips cool as they brush against your warm cheek. you burrow in his warmth and you two breathe each other in before you amble back to prepare for the day.

(simon stares at the bloody ceiling.

“mactavish,” he barks out. “how did you fuckin’ launch the batter up there?”

it’s only your loud laughter that saves johnny from being fired – “you can’t fire a friend! bro-code!” – and simon stops glaring at him to turn and watch as you try to stop the giggles.

there’s a stray peppering of flour on your face and on your hair, your apron a whole wet mess of egg and batter, and your hands sticky with cookie dough. but even then, you still look so beautiful, so perfect, as you stand there amidst the mess.

“keep starin’ and lassie’ll melt.”

simon elbows johnny in the stomach hard.)

-

bimbo!reader who worryingly calls simon because something is wrong with the mashed potatoes you’re preparing. simon answers the call within the first ring, leaving the towel that he’s been using to dry his hair to fall limply on the floor.

“hey, sweets,” he says. “how-”

“simmy!” you cry out, cutting him off. “they’re ugly!”

“oh? what is, sweet pea?” simon asks, not even batting an eye.

he gets a facetime call and eagerly answers it. simon almost lets out a croon at how gorgeous you are, all dolled up for the night out with your friends – and even when you aren’t dolled up, even when you’re only in his ratty old shirts, you are still so beautiful – and wishes he can see you in person already.

simon’s not really a patient man when it comes to being away from you.

“hi, my sweet girl,” he says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

the worry in your face melts just a bit, your eyes flicking down shyly.

see? his sweet girl, indeed.

“uhm, i,” you begin, clearing your throat when it cracks. “they’re ugly.”

“who is?”

simon doesn’t expect you to flip the camera to show him a pot of… chowder?

“i fucked up my mashed potatoes!”

a heartbeat passes before simon’s peeling laughter comes through. he disguises it as a cough, thumping his chest when the chuckles refuse to be smothered.

it’s just- he can’t look away from the fucked up potatoes, not even knowing where to begin to tell you how you screwed them up. did you add more milk than needed? why’s it so wet? did you add water to it too?

what-

simon’s thoughts stutter to a halt, his giddy laughter petering into quiet puffs.

“sweetheart?” he asks and simon’s blessed with the sight of your beautiful face again. “aren’t you supposed to be out with your friends tonight? why’re you making food?”

your lips jut out in a pout, your nose scrunching as you look away. it takes a heartbeat before you reply, your words chewed on as though you don’t want him to hear.

but simon did. and his heart is left to melt in the weight of his love for you.

“i asked if we could reschedule because you just came back and i wanted to, you know, have dinner with you.”

“oh,” simon whispers.

you sniff.

simon doesn’t hide his smile. “i’ll be there in ten, yeah?”

he catches you nod before simon’s off, running to his room to dress up, before snagging his car keys and the wrapped gift he prepared for you.

he swears that he carefully managed to go past the speed limit as he drives to your place. very carefully.

-

(extra)

dbf!simon who watches as the minutes go by as his message remains unanswered.

> you free?

he sees the notification that it’s been read. he waits to see if you will type up anything but the chat box remains an empty slate and the seconds of waiting turn to minutes.

to hours.

simon’s fist tightens around the box in his hand.

(johnny sees the diamonds and snorts. “tryna win her back with a rock, really?”

simon glares at him and johnny raises his hands in mock surrender.

he sighs and pushes the gift to johnny. “just take it. i’ve got no use for it.”

“anymore, you mean,” johnny adds, snickering even when he pockets the ring.

simon grunts and turns away, ignoring johnny as he tries to drown out the yawning in his heart.)

: this was supposed to be posted yesterday ahhh im sorry for the delay :(( merry christmas to those who are celebrating it!! happy winter break to those who arent ^v^ i love u guys soooo much <33

[soulofapatrick]

Domesticated - Jace Herondale x Female (Daylighter) Reader

Summary: this is a 5 + 1 of all the times you and Jace act like a couple even before you admit feelings for each other

Words: 6k

Warnings: injury, bleeding, blood drinking

Y/N’s POV - 

Part One

I’m not really sure when Jace appearing at random hours of the day in my apartment became a normal things. He’s dirty and covered in ichor from a demon hunt the Clave sent him and Alec on and he’s grumbling to himself as he shrugs off his leather jacket. There’s dried blood on him from wounds his iratze rune probably healed and he’s toeing off his shoes before grumbling more about the demons. 

“I’m going to shower.” He tells me, voice gruff but there’s a softness to it as he addresses me. 

“Alright Jace.” I respond, turning back to the show I was watching, waiting up for him to get back as it’s nearly 2am. Being a vampire is weird, especially a daylighter like Simon as at first I was nocturnal and now, suddenly, I’m back to daylight hours. It was weird getting used to humanity again but ever since Jace has been coming round it’s been easier somehow. 

As I listen to the sound of the water running in the bathroom, I can’t help but think about how effortlessly Jace fits into my life. We’ve been…friends? Yeah, friends for so long, and lately, it feels like we’ve crossed some invisible line into something more. But whenever I’m around him, my heart would be pounding if it could still beat and there’s a stirring in my undead soul, a flutter of excitement I though I had long forgotten. 

If it weren’t for Jace, I might have left the Shadowhunter world behind altogether, taken Magnus up on whisking me somewhere far away, maybe Canada, Clary and Simon, my own best friends, seem to have forgotten about me again, lost in their own adventures and relationship. And Luke, the only parental figure in my life, is more invested in his pack than checking up on me. But somehow, Jace always manages to find his way back to my doorstep, like a guiding light in the darkness. 

I remember the first time he appeared on my doorstep, how he looked at me with those piercing golden eyes and saw something in me that no one else seemed to. He didn’t treat me like a monster or a freak because of what I had become, but instead, he saw me for who I truly am—a creature worthy of love and friendship.

And now, sitting here on the couch, waiting for him to remerge from the bathroom, I can’t help but wonder how the hell we ended up here in this weird dance and routine, so domesticated. One moment we’re battling demons and next, we’re lounging on the couch like a couple of teenagers on a lazy Sunday afternoon. 

Finally, after what feel like an eternity, Jace remerges from the bathroom, looking surprisingly innocent and boyish in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a graphic tee-shirt that I’m pretty sure is either mine or my brothers. His hair is still damp from the shower, tousled in a way that makes him look disarmingly handsome. Despite the exhaustion tech into his features, there’s a spark in his golden eyes that never fails to draw me in. 

Jace collapses onto the couch beside me, his head finding its place on my shoulder, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. His weight against me is comforting, like an anchor tethering me to reality amidst the chaos of our lives. I close my eyes, revelling in the warmth of his presence and the steady rhythm of his breath against my skin.

As exhaustion finally catches up to him, his breathing evens out, lulling me into a sense of peace. I listen to the sound of his steady inhales and exhales, a gentle melody that soothes my restless mind. And as I drift off into sleep, I'm enveloped in the cocoon of his scent—sunshine and something uniquely Jace, mixed with the subtle fragrance of my shower products. It's a comforting aroma, one that fills me with a sense of belonging and contentment.

In the depths of slumber, I feel his warmth beside me, a constant presence that eases my fears and worries. But when I wake in the morning, he's gone, leaving behind only a hastily scrawled note on my coffee table. My heart sinks as I read his words, explaining that Alec called him in early for paperwork and debriefing on the previous day's hunt.

Despite the pang of disappointment at his absence, I can't help but smile at the thought of him, out there in the world, fighting alongside his fellow Shadowhunters. And as I rise to start the day, I carry with me the memory of his presence, the echo of his warmth lingering in the air like a promise of his return.

Part Two

I awake to a crashing and the grumbled cry of Jace, my panic immediately vanishing at the sound of his voice. My phone reads 7.03pm and I’m realising my nap was longer than I had planned or anticipated, having tried to stay awake for Jace who had messaged me to say he’d be home in time for dinner. 

As I groggily process the situation, something within me stirs at the realisation Jace used the word “home” to describe my place. It’s a simple word, but coming from him, it carries a weight that sends a flutter through my un-beating heart. I push aside the covers and pull myself sleepy from bed, feeling the fabric of a shirt that definitely isn’t mine brush against my skin as it reaches mid-thigh. 

Shuffling towards the kitchen, I’m met with the sight and smell of chaos. Jace is in the midst of a culinary disaster, his brow furrowed in frustration as he grumbles to himself. The scent of burning food fills the air, assaulting my sensitive vampire senses, But despite the mess and the mishap, there’s something oddly endearing about the scene—the way Jace is so determined to make dinner for us, even if it means nothing is going according to plan. 

As I approach him, I can’t help but smile at the sight of him, his hir tousled and his expression a mix of annoyance and determination. Despite the chaos, there a sense of warmth and familiarity in the air, a feeling of him that I’ve come to associate with him. 

I head straight for the fridge to grab fresh ingredients as soon as I get the gist of what he was trying to make by the minced meat and the spaghetti, catching the way he looks at me. There’s a softness in his gaze, a silent appreciation for my presence and the way I effortlessly step in to salvage the situation. But when I reach for the pasta sauce, Jace stops me, holding up a jar of red liquid. 

My heart tries to burst out of my chest when I realise what it is. Jace wasn’t just trying to make dinner for us; he was trying to recreate a meal I loved as a human, altered for my now vampire self. It’s a small gesture, but it speaks volumes about his thoughtfulness and the depth of his care for me. 

“Raphael said it was the best of the best and told me how to prepare it so it doesn’t…” Jace waves his hands around trying to think of the word Raphael used, “Separate?” 

I can’t help but laugh softly at the face Jace makes as he says the word ‘separate’. It’s moments like these that remind me of just how endearing he can be, even when he’s trying his best to navigate unfamiliar territory like helping a vampire like me. 

Stepping closer to him, I wrap my arms around him in a hug, feeling the tension in his muscles as he hesitates before finally relaxing enough to return the embrace. His strong arms wrap around me, pulling me close as he buries his face in my hair. In the moment, with the scent of blood and spices lingering in the air and the warmth of Jace’s embrace surrounding me, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love for the man standing in front of me. 

Reluctantly, Jace finally lets me go, suggesting we try cooking again. As I try to assist him, he’s suddenly spinning me back to face and him and gripping my waist in his strong hands, lifting me and sitting me on a clean area of the counter top, “You’re to just sit there and look pretty while I work this out.” He says with a smirk, a hint of redness colouring his cheeks. 

I can’t help but let out the most embarrassing giggle at his sudden shyness, feeling a warmth spread through me at his playfulness. As I watch him move around the pitch with practiced ease, a sense of contentment washes over me. Despite the chaos and mishaps, being here with Jace feels like home. 

And as I sit on the counter, watching him cook, I cant’t help but feel grateful for moments like these—simple, ordinary, mundane moments that remind me of what I could have had when human. Surrounded by the warmth and aroma of our makeshift meal and Jace’s soft humming as he cooks, I know that no matter what challenges may come our way, as long as we have each other, we'll always find a way to make it through.

Part Three

The library is quiet as I slip inside, the familiar scent of old books and parchment greeting me like an old friend. Alec had given me permission to use the Institute as a safe haven whenever I like, and I often find myself wandering towards the library. It’s become my sanctuary, a place where I can escape the weird world I’m now a part of and lose myself in the pages of novels and histories. 

As I roam the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of countless books, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. The library is a treasure trove of knowledge, and I’ve made it my mission to learn as much as I can about the Shadowhunter world. I immerse myself in the histories of the Clave, learning about the battles fought and the heroes who rose to prominence, the history of the main families in this world. 

Eventually, I pick a book off the shelves, one that Alec had actually recommended to me during one of our conversations. It’s a thick volume filled with tales of Shadowhunter lore, and I can’t wait to delve into its pages. With a contented sigh, I sink into one of the soft loveseats scattered throughout the massive library, feeling eh weight of the book in my hands as I lose myself in the pages. 

For the rest of the afternoon, I’m lost in a world of magic and mystery, my surroundings fading away as I become immersed in the story unfolding before me. The hours pass in a blur, but in the moment, surrounded by the knowledge and history of the Shadowhunters, I feel a sense of belonging and purpose that I’ve been searching for since the day I was turned. 

My attention is momentarily drawn away from the pages of the book in my hand by the faint murmur of voices approaching. It takes a moment but I’m recognising the voices, the cadence of their speech familiar to me even from a distance with my new hearing abilities. But it’s the sound of the library door opening that truly captures my attention, and when I look up, my heart skips a beat at the sight of a familiar blonde figure standing in the doorway. 

Jace. 

His golden eyes scan the room, searching, until they land on me. A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that never fails to make my heart flutter like it’s still beating, “There you are, Mouse,” He greets, using the stupid pet name he’s decided for me, “You weren’t at home.” 

As he strides over, my attention is captivated by the way his muscles ripple beneath the fabric of his tight black shirt, each movement a testament to his strength and grace. My pulse would be skyrocketing if it could, and I can feel a flush from the recent blood I drank creeping its way up my neck as he stops in front of me, his presence commanding and magnetic. 

“Hey Jace,” I manage to say, voice betraying the flutters of excitement I feel within me. 

He smirks, golden eyes dancing with amusement as if he knows what he’s doing to me, “What were you doing here all alone?” He asks, tone teasing yet filled with genuine curiosity. 

I just shrug, attempting to maintain an air of casualness despite the turmoil of emotions swirling within me, “Just needed the quiet.” I reply, my voice soft. 

He nods in understanding, his expression softening as he reaches out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The simple gesture sending a shiver down my spine, igniting a rush of sensations that I struggle to contain. His proximity, his touch—it's all too much, and yet not enough.

“Hey, listen,” He says, his voice warm and inviting, “We’re all heading to the Hunter’s Moon to hear Simon sing, You wanna join us?” 

The thought of being surrounded by so many voices, sounds and smells—the overwhelming sensory overload—has me shuddering involuntarily. I feel a knot form in my stomach, a wave of anxiety washing over me at the mere thought of venturing out into the bustling world beyond the quiet of the Institute currently. 

With a shaky breath, I shake my head almost aggressively, “No, I think I’ll pass.” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper, “I’m… I’m not really in the mood for crowds tonight.” 

Jace nods in understanding, his expression sympathetic, “Hey, that’s okay,” He reassures me, his voice gentle, and he’s surprising me by leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, “You do what feels right for you. But if you ever change your mind, we’ll be there.” 

I offer him a weak smile, grateful for his understanding, “Thanks Sunshine.” I murmur, the weight of my anxiety slowly easing with his words of reassurance and his sweet actions. 

As Jace turns to leave, I watch him go, feeling a sense of longing wash over me like a gentle tide. His departure leaves an ache in my chest, a yearning for something more, something I can't quite name. But then, I feel the lingering warmth of his kiss on my cheek, a fleeting touch that sends a jolt of electricity through me.

Despite my reluctance to join them, a part of me wishes I could be there, sharing in the camaraderie and laughter with Jace and the others. The thought of being by his side, laughing and joking like we always do, fills me with a bittersweet longing. 

In the moment, as I sit alone in the quiet solitude of the library, the whole interaction feels strangely domesticated, as if it’s something we’ve done a thousand times before. Jace’s kiss was casual yet intimate, like it was a natural extension of our friendship, and yet it leaves me yearning for more. 

I can’t help but replay the moment in my mind, the sensation of his lips against my cold skin, the warmth of his touch. It’s a memory I want to hold onto, to savour and cherish, and yet it only serves to deepen my desire for him. 

As I sink back into the soft cushions of the loveseat, the ache in my chest lingers, a constant reminder of the feelings I can’t shake. I want him to kiss me again, to make me feel alive in a way I never thought possible. And as I close my eyes and let out a heavy sigh, I know that despite the risks and uncertainties, I can't deny the pull he has on my undead heart.

Part Four

I honestly have no idea how I ended up in the training room with Jace but I definitely know how I ended up on my ass glaring up at his laughing figure. Jace decided that he was going to teach me how to defend myself as Alec wants downworlders to help Shadowhunters on patrols to bridge the gap that had formed since Valentine. 

So here I am, climbing to my feet and glaring at Jace who readies himself for another round and my body is already aching. Jace is already readying himself for another round, and I steel myself for the onslaught, determined to at least make him break a sweat. As he lunges at me, I use my vampire speed to dodge and jab him in the back with my elbow with precision. But before I can revel in the small victory, he’s already spinning around and swiping my feet out from underneath me again. 

I hit the ground with a frustrated grunt, the air would have been knocked out of me if I were still breathing. I let out a sound of pure annoyance as I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling so goddamn angry that I haven’t managed to get Jace down once. 

“Come on, Mouse,” Jace says, offering me a hand up, “You’re getting better, I promise.” 

I take his hand and pull myself to my feet yet again, but the weight of defeat still hangs heavy on my shoulders. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to measure up to Jace's level of skill and agility. It's frustrating, disheartening even, to constantly fall short despite my best efforts.

With a heavy sigh, I get back into position, expecting Jace to do the same but instead a small gasp is drawn from me when I feel his body practically pressed to my back as he adjusts my positioning. I feel a rush of warmth as he nudges my feet into a better position and adjusts my arms, guiding them a little higher. 

His touch is firm yet gentle, his hands moving with practiced precision as he adjusts my stance. And then, his hands fall to my hips, twisting them slightly to improve my balance before he steps back, satisfied with his work. 

I’m left standing there, the lingering sensations of his touch sending a shiver down my spine. Despite the lack of a heartbeat or any physical sensations, I can’t deny the way he makes me feel. Safe. Protected. As if, just for a moment, the weight of the world is lifted from my shoulders and I can simply be. 

With a renewed determination, I square my shoulder and focus on the task at hand. As we being sparring again, I find myself moving with a newfound confidence, each strike more precise than the last. And then, miraculously, it happens—I actually manage to get Jace down for once. 

I just watch in disbelief as he hits the ground, a surprised laugh escaping him as he looks up at me with sparkling eyes. In the moment, his laughter is like music to y ears, lighthearted. As Jace lies there, sprawled on the ground with a grin that could light up the room, I can't help but feel a rush of exhilaration. His boyish charm and playful energy are infectious, making me forget for a moment that we're supposed to be training. But as he starts to rise, that cocky smirk forming on his lips, I know the challenge isn't over yet.

With a twinkle in his eyes, he beckons me forward, goading me to try again. His confidence is palpable, almost tangible in the air between us. And I, of course, take the bait, eager to prove myself once more. 

But, as I unleash my vampire strength and speed, throwing my self into the spar with all I’ve got, I quickly realise that Jace has activated both runes, his agility now matching mine. His speed rune makes him a formidable opponent, dodging and waving with ease, always one step ahead. 

In the blink of an eye, he’s behind me, sweeping my feet out from under me with a swift motion. I feel the ground rushing up to meet me, but my reflexes kick in instinctively. As I tumble backwards, I grab onto Jace’s shirt, pulling him down with me. 

We land in a tangled heap, laughter bubbling up between us as we lie there, catching our breath. For a moment, time seems to stand still, the world around us fading away until it's just the two of us, tangled together on the ground. I can smell how sweet and like sunshine Jace’s blood smells in his veins and feel the way his heart is pounding as he buries his face in my neck. 

And in the moment, I realise just how much I enjoy being with him, the easy camaraderie and undeniable chemistry between us, making me, again, realise just how domesticated we are with each other. 

Part Five

The rain is coming down so hard it’s bordering on hail and as overwhelming as my senses are, the sound of it hitting the windows of my apartment is actually very comforting. Jace is in the shower again, coming back from another demon nest hunt and he’s told me he ordered pizzas on his way home as he invited the others around to jin us for the movie night before he jumped in the shower. 

As grateful as I am for his presence, a flicker of anxiety creeps into my mind at the thought of the others joining us. Alec and Magnus have always been welcoming, their easygoing nature together putting me at ease from the start. But Simon and Clary, lost in their own bubble of love, often seem oblivious to anyone around them nowadays, especially me their childhood friend. And Izzy.. well, Izzy can get anyone she wants with a bat of her eyelashes has me a little jealous. 

As I wait for Jace to emerge from the shower, the sound of the rain drumming against the window grows louder, echoing the turmoil of my thoughts. I find myself questioning whether I’ll be able to navigate the dynamics of the evening, whether I’ll be able to hold my own amidst the company of the Shadowhunters and Downworlders that make up Jace’s inner circle. 

But then, as if sensing my apprehension, Jace appears, a towel draped casually around his waist and a smile lighting up his face. It’s as if time itself pauses for a moment, allowing me to drink in the sight before me. His presence is like a beacon of light in the dimly lit apartment, his golden eyes sparkling with warmth and mischief. With his damp hair tousled and his skin glistening with droplets of water, he looks every bit like an adonis, a vision of strength and beauty. 

The towel draped casually around his waist hangs dangerously low, teasingly revealing the beginnings of his happy trail. My gaze is drawn to the tantalising glimpse of skin, the curve of his hips, the sculptured muscles of his abdomen. It's a sight that leaves me breathless, a reminder of just how effortlessly attractive he is.

But it's not just his physical appearance that captivates me; it's the way he carries himself, with a confidence that borders on arrogance yet somehow remains endearing. His smile is like a beacon of warmth, infectious and irresistible, drawing me closer with its magnetic pull.

As he moves closer, the scent of his shower gel fills the air, a heady mixture of musk and citrus that sends a shiver down my spine. I find myself mesmerised by the play of light and shadow on his skin, the way the droplets of water cling to his body like liquid diamonds. He brushes a gentle kiss against my cheek, his touch reassuring in its familiarity, a warmth spreading through me, soothing the lingering traces of anxiety that had gripped me moments before. His touch is a familiar reassurance, grounding me to the present moment and easing the flutter of my nonexistent heartbeat. 

But before I can fully lose myself in the intimacy of the moment, a sharp knock at the door interrupts us, shattering the fragile bubble of privacy we’ve created. With a playful smack to Jace’s arm I stop him from heading to the door, “Go get some damn clothes on, I’ll answer it.” Before I’m striding over to answer the door, cheeks flushed with a heat that most likely betrays the intensity of my emotions. 

As I swing the door open, Jace is ducking into our room and I’m met with the amused gazes of Alec and Magnus, their eyebrows raised in teasing curiosity. Magnus’ playful smirk hints at the mischief dancing in his eyes, while Alec's expression is a mix of amusement and affection. 

Despite my embarrassment at being caught in such a vulnerable moment, I can't help but smile at the sight of them. Their presence is like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds, casting a warm glow over the room and dispelling the tension that had threatened to linger.

Suppressing the urge to bury my burning cheeks in my hands, I offer them a sheepish grin, knowing they heard what I said through the door, hoping to deflect their teasing with a lighthearted remark. But as Magnus's eyebrow quirks suggestively, I know that my attempt at nonchalance has fallen short. So, with a sigh of resignation, I step aside to let them in, knowing that there's no use in trying to hide the flush that still colours my cheeks

As I step aside to let them in, Alec hands me a DVD with a knowing smile. I can’t help bit roll my eyes fondly at his choice—Dracula. It’s become somewhat of an inside joke between me and Jace so I just know Jace told him to bring it. But before I have a chance to protest, Magnus is interjecting, his tone unreadable as he tells me “I’m afraid the others won’t be joining us tonight,” 

But Magnus’ words cut through the light-hearted banter, his tone carrying an unexpected weight as he informs me of the absence of our other friends. A pang of disappointment courses through me, a subtle ache in my chest as I realise that Clary and Simon won't be joining us tonight. They were more than just friends—they were my childhood companions, the ones who had been there through thick and thin. Their absence feels like a tangible loss, a reminder of how much our lives have changed since those carefree days of youth.

As I put the DVD in and get it ready, sinking into the couch with a heavy heart, I can't help but feel a sense of longing for the comfort of their presence. But I push aside those feelings, focusing instead on the company of Alec and Magnus, who have become like family to me in their own right. 

I sink into the cushions, allowing Alec and Magnus to take the other couch as we wait for Jace to return with the pizzas. Despite the disappointment lingering in the air, there's a quiet camaraderie between us, a shared understanding that in times of need, we can always rely on each other.

As the anticipation of Jace's return hangs in the air, the sound of the door opening signals his arrival. He appears just in time to answer the door, a grin spreading across his face as he enters with pizzas in hand. The sight of him brings a flicker of warmth to my heart, dispelling the lingering disappointment of our missing friends. 

Jace sets the pizzas down on the table with a flourish, his presence injecting a sense of energy into the room. With a casual ease, he joins us on the couch, seamlessly sliding in beside me. Without a second thought, he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me snugly into his side. The gesture both  comforting and familiar, a silent reassurance of his affection for me. I lean into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against mine as he adjusts the blanket to cover us both. It's a simple act, but it speaks volumes about the bond we share—a bond that transcends words and barriers, connecting us on a deeper level.

With the remote in hand, Jace settles back against the cushions, his gaze fixed on the screen as he starts the movie. As the opening credits roll, I feel a sense of contentment wash over me, grateful for the warmth of Jace's embrace and the company of friends who feel like family.

Despite the disappointments and challenges we may face, in this moment, surrounded by laughter and love, I know that we'll always have each other. And as we lose ourselves in the world of Dracula, I find solace in the simple pleasures of friendship and companionship, knowing that no matter what the future may hold, we'll face it together, as a team.

Plus One

I’m not really sure how it happened but one moment I’m walking home from a day at the coffee shop and the next I’m being thrown into a wall. A wave of disorientating pain washes over me, leaving me gasping for breath and struggling to make sense eo what just happened. My sense reel, the world spinning in a dizzying blur as I try to focus on what just hit me. 

For a terrifying moment, I’m convinced that this is it—that I’m facing my end, torn to shreds by whatever unseen force assaulted me. Panic claws at the edges of my consciousness, threatening to consume me as I brace for the final blow. 

But then, as suddenly as it began, the assault ceases, leaving me trembling and shaken in its wake, unable to heal as I’ve lost too much blood. Slowly, I stagger to my feet, the world still spinning around me as I struggle to regain my bearings.The realisation that I’ve lost too much blood to heal hits me like a physical blow, leaving me lightheaded and unsteady. Every step is a battle against the dizziness and weakness that threatens to overwhelm me, but I push forward with grim determination. 

With each faltering step, the distance to the institute feels impossibly far, unable to use vampire speed without passing out. Panic sets in as I realise that Jace, my lifeline, is at the Institute today, and he hasn’t called to tell me he’s on his way home. Fear grips me like a vice, squeezing the breath from my lungs as I struggle to keep moving forwards. 

The world around me blurs as I stumble out of the alleyway and into the desired streets. My vision swims, the darkness closing in around me as I fight to stay conscious. Each breath is a struggle, my lungs burning with exertion as I push my body beyond its limits. 

Time loses all meaning as I continue to trudge forwards my footsteps echoing in the empty silence of the night. The Institute looms in the distance like a beacon of hope, its towering walls offering the promise of safety and sanctuary. But with each passing moment, it feels as though I'm slipping further and further away, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness.

Desperation claws at the edge of my consciousness as I force myself to keep moving, driven by the fear of what awaits me if I don’t reach the Institute in time. Every step is a battle against the darkness that threatens to engulf me, but I refuse to give up. 

With every ounce of strength I can muster, I push myself forward, determination fuelling my movements as I draw upon the last reserves of energy within me. As I approach the looming doors of the Institute, desperation spurs me to action, and I unleash the full force of my vampire speed. 

The doors fly open before me with a forceful momentum, swinging wide as if welcoming me home. But even as I breach the threshold, I trigger the wards surrounding the entrance, setting off alarms that echo through the empty halls. Before I can fully comprehend the situation, Jace appears before me, his weapon raised in a defensive stance. The sight of him, strong and unwavering, fills me with both relief and a sense of impending doom. I choke out his name, my voice barely a whisper as I struggle to remain upright. 

My knees give way beneath me, threatening to send me crashing to the unforgiving tiles below. But in the blink of an eye, Jace is there, his arms wrapping around me with lightning speed, catching me before I can hit the ground. The seraph blade clatters to the floor, forgotten in the urgency of the moment as Jace sinks us to the floor, cradling me in his arms, his eyes filled with concern and a hint of fear. I reach out to him, my fingers trembling as they brush against his cheek, a silent plea for reassurance. 

Despite my initial resistance, Jace's urgency is palpable, his wrist pressed insistently against my mouth as he pleads with me to drink. Fear courses through me as I shake my head, the thought of losing control terrifying me to the core. But as the scent of his blood fills my senses, a primal hunger takes hold, overpowering my rational thoughts. With a grip on my hair that borders on painful, Jace guides my mouth to the wound on his wrist, his other hand pressing against the back of my head. The taste of his blood is like nothing I've ever experienced before—warm and intoxicating, with a sweetness that rivals the warmth of the sun. 

As I drink, the fog that had clouded my mind begins to lift, clarity returning with each swallow. Guilt washes over me in waves, but I can't bring myself to stop. Jace's blood is a lifeline, grounding me in the present moment and soothing the ache of my wounds. I feed until I can feel the worst of the wounds stopping bleeding, my tongue lapping at the skin on Jace’s wrist to seal it shut. The taste of his blood lingering on my lips, a bittersweet taste. 

With a sigh of relief, I collapse against Jace's safe chest, my body trembling with exhaustion and relief. His touch is gentle yet firm, his hand cupping my jaw with a tenderness that tugs at my heartstrings. I feel his thumb under my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his, and as I look into those golden eyes, I see the raw emotion reflected in their depths.

Tears glisten in his eyes, a silent testament to the fear and concern he's been harboring for me. His voice is soft as he checks if I'm okay, the sound of it like a soothing balm to my battered soul. In that moment, I realise just how much he cares, how deeply he feels, and the thought fills me with a warmth that transcends the physical. 

As he leans down, his lips ghosting over mine with a hesitance that speaks volumes, I can feel the tension building between us, a palpable electricity that crackles in the air. My heart would be hammering in my chest, a rhythm that matches the erratic beat of his own. A small whine escapes my throat, a sound born of longing and need, and in that instant, his resolve crumbles. His lips crash against mine with a fervour that steals my breath away, a kiss so full of passion and intensity that it leaves me reeling. 

In that moment, I feel alive in a way I never have before, as if every nerve in my body is on fire with the intensity of his touch. It's as if he's breathing life back into me with each caress of his lips, each touch igniting a fire that burns brighter than the sun. 

“Maybe don’t almost die to act upon mutual feelings.” Jace is mumbling against my lips, earning a weak smack from me. 

“Shut up.” 

“Make me.” He retorts, kissing me softly once again. 

“Later I will.” 

The Shadowhunters Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[sapphic-agent]

Why is Simon able to see Maddie?

I've been thinking about it for a while, and I think I might have an answer.

*SPOILERS AHEAD*

Let's start with what I don't think it is. I'm 99% sure that it's not because Simon's dying. There's speculation that he has a tumor or undiagnosed cancer causing him to slowly die and that's why he's able to see Maddie. But I have two issues with that:

Why is he only able to see Maddie? If him approaching death is what enables him to see and talk with a ghost, why is that only extended to one ghost? At the very least, wouldn't he have some kind of connection with the other ghosts? Maybe if not outright seeing them, then sensing their presence or something? But he's never given any indication they're there, we've seen that. If he was dying, he'd have a connection to the entire metaphysical plane, not just Maddie.

Why does he only start seeing her at that exact moment in season 1? If he was dying, wouldn't it have been sooner? Maddie was "dead" for three days before Simon saw her. And it was only at this specific time that he was able to do so.

What this tells me is that this isn't possible because of anything from Simon's end. Or, not completely from his end.

To answer this question, we need to look at the only other instance of a living person and ghost interacting. What enabled Maddie to see Janet and Mr. Martin arguing? What allowed Janet to steal Maddie's body in the first place?

I think it's a combination of things. Mr. Martin says to Janet, "What did you feel? You have to tell me." This implies that she did something that was completely unexpected by him. We don't know what it was exactly, but we can assume that it has to do with blurring the lines between life and death even if it was just a little. But I don't think it was just this that allowed Maddie to see her and Mr. Martin.

When Maddie describes her altercation with her mother to Simon, she says very deliberately, "She killed my spirit." Maddie wasn't just feeling upset in that boiler, she was broken. A lifetime of being battered down by her mother's alcoholism and negligence and this was the final straw. She wasn't physically dead at that point, but emotionally she might as well have been.

I think that these two things happening at the same time created a sort of passageway between Maddie and the metaphysical plane. The hollowness Maddie was feeling coincided with whatever Janet had done to blur those lines, and that's how Janet was able to push her soul out.

Now, if I'm right about all of that, what does that have to do with Simon?

Well, remember what Simon said to Ms. Fields, "I don't know how I'm going to survive this place without her." It's important to remember that Simon had a feeling she was dead, or at the very least seriously hurt/in trouble. He accepted the possibility of her being gone as fact, which is why he never questions her being a ghost. It isn't such a stretch to assume that he was feeling the same hollowness that Maddie was concerning her mother.

(This also answers why he was the only one. Sandra and Nicole still believed Maddie was alive, they weren't broken in the way that Simon was. And when Sandra did receive the news that there was a good chance Maddie was dead, she was at home, not the school. So her and Maddie wouldn't have been able to connect the way her and Simon did. Also, Maddie's relationship with her mother is very complicated. They don't have anything close to the bond that her and Simon do)

But like I said above, the connection has to be on both sides. Not only did Maddie watch him have this breakdown and was probably feeling similarly to him in that moment, she also had a tether to the living world; her body. So, the combination of their emotional bond, Simon's emptiness when faced with a world without her, and Maddie still technically being alive allowed them to connect past the limitations of death

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

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

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

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

-------------------------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve healed, you’d say. 

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

So why does it hurt so much?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this is new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would you not?” He retorts earnestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-------------------------------------------------------

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

taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving