SNEAK PEAK FOR MY FIC â Piece Me Me Back Together.
materialist if anyoneâs interested
Itâs the sound of gunfire that brings you back to reality.
Your train of thoughts is interrupted by the piercing noise. While slightly dulled from the distance, it was prominent in your ears, ringing out through the dingy hallway that led to stairs, which held unkempt, empty cells, save for the one you were trapped in.
You let out a breath that you kept within your lungs, waiting for something, anything other than the sound of bullets cutting through the air, and the occasional pained yell when one hit its mark. But nothing came.
Not yet, at least.
If this were a different time, sometime years ago, youâd think this was your saving grace. A chance to be rescued, freed from the chains that kept you in place in this hellhole.
Youâd wonder how the sunlight would feel against your skin after so long. Youâd delve into your mind, and try to remember the times you inhaled fresh air into your lungs, the way grass prickled your skin. How refreshing droplets of rain were when they hit your face, rolling down your cheeks, much like tears dribbling down your heated flesh, just not as salty.
However, you werenât that person anymore. Your hopes dwindled into nothingness, into the dark pit in your chest that was once your heart, whole, and not broken into tiny shards, which held a concrete shape so long ago now.
John Mactavish is the type of guy to send you an Instagram reel while you're at work saying "one won't hurt!". When you open the notification, it's a reel of a baby girl kicking her little feet out, babbling with the gummiest smile on her chubby face.Â
It made him feel weak, like he was a little kid again at the mercy of the bastard he called a father. The emotions that he buried deep within him years ago bubbling to the surface as he tried to contain them.
His eyes closed instinctively as a bit of soapy water rolled down his face, shoulders hunched, and meaty legs bent at the knees whilst he sat in the bathtub stiffly.
An apologetic âsorryâ tumbled from your pursed lips, hands running through his short hair as you massaged your scented shampoo into his scalp. You were sat on the edge of the tub, clothed as you helped him get clean, scrubbing the grime, blood, and sweat that lingered on him post-mission.
âTâs fine,â he mumbled back, lids fluttering half-open to gaze at you from the corner of his eye.
He was tired.
Exhaustion clung onto him, weighing him down, his bones heavy, and every little move caused an ache in his joints.
In this moment, Simon was exposed to you fully. Both literally, and figuratively. His heavily guarded trust heart was handed over to your delicate fingers. And in a time of weakness, he hoped that you wouldnât dare to break it.
A long sigh escaped his lips. All the air is pushed out of his lungs as you lean in, placing a gentle kiss to temple. He relished in the softness of your lips against his damp skin before you pulled back, returning to the task at hand.
The shallow water he sat in was growing cold, yet it was the least of his concerns as your touch was warm enough to combat the chilliness, a tingling feeling running down his spine.
âI missed you,â you said, breaking the somewhat comfortable silence that fell over you both.
From his peripheral, he could see the small smile that tugged at your lips, brows just slightly pinched in concentration.
If he was some other man; a man not so scarred, delt with the cruelest cards, one that hadnât seen, gone through the things he had, heâd return the gesture.
But he wasnât that man. He would never be that man.
Not in this lifetime, at least.
Simon swallowed thickly, his lips pulled into a soft frown as his eyes shifted to the wall.
No response came from him, and that was okay. It was to be expected. You were used to the man he was. The wary, scared, conditioned man he was.
So it came as a surprise when his thin lips parted, forming the words that came out just barely audible, quiet, and in the softest tone one could receive from him.
The weak, yet steady beeping of the heart monitor fills your heart with hope, one dulled out over your time spent grieving.
You look like a right mess. Your hairâs disheveled, the whites of your eyes reddish. Dark eye-bags adorn your face, too, cheeks stained with trails of dried tears.
The sharp smell of antiseptic, and chlorine burns your nose. A migraine prods at the back of your brain, and you feel the pounding of your head behind your eyelids.
Light, rhythmic taps of your shoe against the tiles fill the hospital room, and your knee bounces in tandem, unable to keep still.
The body of your lover lays still on the cot. Motionless. Unmoving as you stare. The only sign of life is the gentle rise and fall of his chest, dry lips just barely parted underneath the oxygen mask.
Your clammy hands grasp one of his limp ones, not even the smallest twitch in his rough fingers.
The familiar, calloused skin of his palm reminds you that he is tough, resilient. That he could will survive this. That the bullet that pierced the side of his skull wouldnât leave him in an indefinite coma â stuck within his own body like a captive, but not quite dead.
Your teary eyes settle on his face. A long-healed scar runs down his chin, almost covered by the light brown stubble that littered his jawline. His head, however, was wrapped in a pristine, white bandage, while his hair was cropped for better access to his wound.
âYou better wake up, Johnny..â A bittersweet chuckle tumbled from your downturned lips, your quiet voice cracking at the end, the words escaping the tight knot that formed in your throat. âDonât think I could live without you, yâknow..?â
His job was dangerous, and you knew that.
Many times did he return bruised and battered, yet, luckily, never handed to you in a plain box of his belongings. There had been instances, scares, when you were called to the hospital due to injuries he suffered on the field, but during your entire relationship, it wasnât ever this bad.
Your fingers trembled as you held his own in your grasp, his hand only lying there limply. Your sleek engagement band brushed against his warm skin as you swallowed thickly.
Your shoulders slumped in exhaustion, hunched forward in the uncomfortable chair beside his hospital bed, and your nose scrunched up with a sniffle.
Feeling your eyes burn with tears, you let them fall closed. You wondered if he could hear you, feel your presence beside him in this comatose state.
You were never religious before this, but youâd turn to any god just for him to wake up, even if just for a mere moment, a passing second, at least.
So itâs no surprise he wakes to even the smallest of noises, the quietest disturbances that wouldnât bother most.
The soft creak of the door is what rouses him from his slumber this night, and as his eyes blink open tentatively, adjusting to the darkness within his bedroom, he could just barely notice the silhouette of his little girl.
He lifts his head from the pillow with slightly squinted eyes, watching as she makes her way towards his bed. Her feet padded softly against the floorboards, a stuffy you got her when she was just a newborn held tightly in her arms.
âWhatâs wrong, sweetâeart?â
The endearment tumbles from his lips easily, his voice gruff with sleep, yet complemented by a gentle undertone that was reserved only for his child, one filled with adoration.
âNightmareâŠâ She whispers, her bottom lip trembling into a frown.
Simon holds back a sigh as she stops by the foot of the bed. He shifts, the bed frame groaning quietly under his weight, and lifts up the comforter that covers him as an invitation.
He tried to give her a small smile. âCâmere,â he muttered in the most comforting tone he could muster.
He couldnât quite see the red that rimmed her brown eyes, yet he could sense its presence from the shakiness in her voice, laced with sleepiness.
Without hesitation, she climbed into the spot beside him, curling into his chest with a sniffle. Her small body fit against his as a large arm circled around her, rubbing circles on her back over the material of her soft pink pajamas.
âWanna talk âbout it, sweet?â He asked, his brow barely rising in question as he let her snuggle up to him.
His hand found its way to her cheek in the darkness, a calloused finger wiping away the dampness that remained on her supple skin. She shook her head, gripping the ghost plushie tighter.
Silence fell between them, and he rested his eyes for a brief moment, adjusting the comforter to rest snugly just under her chin. He understood her unwillingness to explain. He, too, never favored talking about the things his mind decided to make him relive.
âTâwas âbout mum,â the seven year old uttered after a while, the words barely reaching his ears as she said them so quietly, tears welling in her eyes once again. Simon sunk his teeth into his bottom lip as he listened, and moved to hold her closer. âI miss her..â
He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, dipping his head slowly to press a small kiss to the top of his childâs head, her ruffled hair tickling his skin.
âI miss her, too.â
It has been hard since your passing, the loss so sudden. But it was the reality he had been given.
The shake in his hands is almost imperceptible, but still there as he holds his phone in his large, calloused fingers.
After years of active service, countless years of handling a sniper rifle, youâd think heâd be completely still at all times. And he is, but the emotions bottling inside him prevents it.
He hits the record button on the camera app the second his seven year old steps onto the stage, dressed up in a costume for the character she was playing as.
He feels proud.
Watching her as she so confidently says her part aloud, shifting into her role easily with an elated smile tugging at her lips once she notices his presence in one of the many seats before her.
Simon, being the tank of a man that he is, stands out amongst the crowd, surrounded by the parentsâ of the other kids that came to witness the performance.
All goes well, and as the play comes to an end, and the parentsâ cheer while the children on stage take a bow, he stops the recording. It pauses when he zooms in on your little girl, his lips quirking up in a rugged smile underneath the black surgical mask he wore.
His gaze drops, fingers tapping away at the screen as he closes the app, opening another, and finding your contact at the top of the list of the limited people he had saved.
He barely manages to send the messages before his daughter runs up to him from the stage, along with the other kids that rushed to their own parents, and clung onto his thigh, staring up at him expectingly with a face that resembled yours closely.
Attachment sent
Look at our little girl love Sent 16:48
He stuffs his phone into his pocket, brown eyes crinkling in the corners before he lifts her up into his arms, and she squeals in happiness.
It was for moments like these that he continued fighting.
Wish you were still here we both miss you Sent 16:49
Summary; Ghost rid himself of his past years ago, left behind his life and identity as Simon Riley in the past, buried deep within the confidential marked files of his dossier.
However, when a person from his past he thought was long gone reappears, he finds peace with what occurred alongside her. All while helping her regain all she lost during her torture.
Or
Captured for years, tortured and stripped from your sense of self, your rescued by Simon Ghost Riley. The man, you later remember, who was supposed to be six feet under, alongside your traitorous CO.
Paring; Simon âGhostâ Riley x Fem!Reader
Warnings; You/your pronouns. Angst. Torture. Blood. Medical/Military inaccuracies. Swearing. 09â Ghost backstory. Slowburn. Trauma. (More will be added as the fic progresses)
Updates will unfortunately be random, with no set schedule.
Another warning; I am no professional writer. Please donât expect this to be a literature masterpiece, Iâm just doing this for fun.
Itâs the blinding, morning sun that pours past the curtains, and into the bedroom that wakes him from his slumber.
The duvet was thrown off to the side during the night when it got too warm, a gentle pressure on his chest as it rose and fell with every intake of breath he took through his nose.
It was peaceful, quiet; no unpleasant thoughts swarming his brain. No sound of distant gunfire, or shouting he could make out within the comfort of his apartment, the four walls he called home.
His gaze soon shifted to you, and blinked the tiredness from his eyes, tongue darting out of his mouth to wet his dry lips, idly tracing over them whilst he admired the image before him.
You were tucked to his side, the side of your face resting against his bare chest with your hair splayed out messily, tickling his skin. It was a sight he wouldnât change for the world, one he loved waking up to each day, knowing he wasnât alone in this life, even if he didnât deserve it.
Ever so slowly, he lifted himself up slightly using his arms, careful to not disturb you too much as he did so. Simon tilted his head before pressing a quick, affectionate kiss to the top of your head, the smallest of smiles forcing its way onto his lips.
He lowered himself when he felt your stir, a soft groan escaping you as your eyes squeezed shut. He chuckled, and his hand moved to the back of your neck, rough fingertips lightly massaging the area.
âMorninâ, love.â
His voice was deep, gravelly, yet it held a tinge of softness; an adoration that already shone in the look he reserved for only you.
Your eyes languidly fluttered open, cringing at the brightness you were met with. âWhat time is it..?â You muttered, lids falling back closed.
âPast six,â He replied after throwing a short glance at the clock settled on the bedside table.
At his words, your brows pinched, and your lips pulled into a frown at the early hour. It was a normal time for him to awake, a routine he grew used to after years of service. However, on days like these, where you werenât forced to go into work, you liked to sleep in.
You rolled over, your back facing him as your head hit the pillow. âWake me up at nine,â You grumbled, and he rolled his eyes in response.
âOh, come on,â Simon huffed, shifting closer to you once you moved. His hands landed on both sides of your torso, tickling your sides, effectively making you squirm.
A small giggle was forced from your lips, legs threatening to kick out if it werenât for the weight of one of his own on top of yours.
âSi-Simon..!â You struggled, hands pushing at his in a futile attempt to stop his attack, eyes squeezing shut as you writhed. âStop that!â
âOnly if you promise to get up.â He said. You felt his warm breath next to your ear, and you could almost hear the smirk in his voice.
You nodded hastily, breathless. âFine, fine!â
It was only then that he relented, giving the shell of your ear a playful nip.
Finally, you could only think as you sighed in relief, panting as you regained the ability to properly inhale and exhale air from your lungs.
Once you begrudgingly sat up on the mattress, Simon followed as you threw your legs over the side. Your feet touched the cold floorboards, and you shivered, tossing your boyfriend a pouty glare.
âAsshole..â You swatted his shoulder, the sound reverberating, yet the bastard only chuckled heartedly at your pitiful attempt to be mean.
You swipe it from the bedside table with a sluggish hand as your bleary eyes blinked open, and you cringed from the light emitting from your screen. Your fingers scrambled to accept the call, pressing the speaker option as soon as you did.
âHey, love.â
The familiar sound of your partners voice hits your ears, and you immediately perk up, snapped out of your sleep induced haze.
He waits patiently for your reply, knowing the late hour over in England, finding himself on the other side of globe. He hears the rustling of the sheets as you briskly sat up on the bed. âSimon..!â
A sleepy smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes crinkle in the corners as you stare down at the âNo caller IDâ across your screen, hearing him once again after a longer period of zero communication.
The high profile mission he was sent on with his team left you even more clueless than ever. With no estimated return date and little to no contact, you could only await any possible information about his status.
You hear him shuffle further away from three men whose voices you could make out in the background, and a deep, hearty chuckle makes way past his lips, making your tone fall soft.
âI miss you,â you mutter.
The way the words leave you has a warm feeling spread through his chest, a small smile of his own curving underneath the balaclava he wore.
His eyes dropped closed for a brief moment. âMiss you, too..â
A comfortable silence followed, drawing out longer than normal as he searches for words to say, rough fingers tightening their grip on the burner phone that he holds to his ear.
âMissionâs dragginâ out.â Simon finally said, using the tone he reserved for you, hoping to not break your spirits of his quick return. âDunno when Iâll be home, darlinâ.â
He heard you sigh, and a sense of guilt replaced the warmth he previously felt.
His job kept him away from you, for months on end, at times. Yet you never outwardly complained. Not once.
You frowned at his words, idly drumming your fingers alongside your phone. Anxiety coursed through your veins. What if he didnât come back this time at all? âYeah?â
âOkayâŠâ Simon exhaled a long breath as your voice wobbled, brows pinching in thought.
He gave a small shake of his head, âyeah. Sorry.â He shifts on his feet, just barely kicking a stray stone beside him.
He couldnât think of a way to ease your worries. Uncertainty was a part of the life of a soldier. Especially one working for an anti-terrorist unit like Task Force 141. For all he knew, he could take a bullet to the head in the next shootout, and not even make it to the hospital. You could be greeted with Price (or Soap) at your front door, with nothing but a plain box of his belongings being handed to you.
His gaze settled somewhere in the distance, watching the sun rise above the horizon slowly as your end went quiet.
A soft scoff left your lips, wanting to tell him off for apologizing for something he had no control over.
âItâs not your fault.â You only shrugged it off. âJust... Be careful out there..â
The mere thought of him dying out in the field made you shiver. A rational fear due to his career. It was what he did, you had to remind yourself continuously. He wouldnât be out there with such an elite task force if he were inept.
A rugged smirk bloomed on his weathered face, brown eyes sparkling with amusement.
Warnings; Nightmares. Blood. Mentions of torture. Death. 09â Ghostâs backstory.
The scene Simon is met with was not one he hadnât witnessed a milion times before, yet it didnât stop the way his blood ran cold.
Itâs grotesque, chilling, revolting; something that could make even grown men hurl. Something he, personally, had grown desensitized from due to his job, the things heâd seen, the things heâd done.
Heâs frozen in place as only a spectator, finding himself within the walls of his childhood home, the place he despised, a place he wished to never return to.
Decorated for the holidays, the Christmas spirit floated throughout the apartment, along with the muted smell of freshly baked, gingerbread cookies. Yet he couldnât focus on the warmth he shouldâve been able to, but what was presented before him.
A corny film played from the tv, tucked in the corner of the living room beside a messily decorated Christmas tree, but itâs drowned out by the ringing in Simonâs ears â his eyes trained on the four corpses spread across the carpeted floor, unable to look away from the sight.
Itâs almost an unfortunate coincidence for him to have forcefully kicked out his bastard of a father, the only one deserving of such fate, a few months prior.
His mother. His brother, Tommy. Beth, and little Joseph. Dead, a bullet lodged deep in each of their skulls, staining the light carpet underneath a crimson red. His young nephew, somewhat cradled within his motherâs arms, held in a loose embrace, the poor boy not excluded from the same demise his parents suffered.
Even years after he returned to witness this event, it still haunted him; stayed buried in the back of his mind waiting for the right time to come forth, reminded him of all he endured to that point and how he couldnât have a moment of peace in his god awful life.
Weirdly enough, for the first time he could remember, the image shifted.
From a lively â yet gory scenery, it changed into one resembling a holding cell. A cell he could vividly recall from ages ago and carried, both mental and physical scars from.
But it wasnât the same to his luck, yet his guard remained high, head turning to examine the musty room.
It was dark, damp, an old-ish wooden table pushed up against the wall next to the heavy, steel door, shut close in order to prevent the person inside from potentially escaping.
A multum of weapons topped the surface, choices upon choices for a tool of torture, dried blood sullying the shiny metal. It all hit close to home. Uncomfortably familiar, painfully so.
But his heart stopped when his eyes landed on a sight he never hoped to see, fingers unconsciously flexing as a lump formed in his throat and his body itched to rush over.
A chair was placed, dead-center of the room. Rough ropes bound someone to it â you, head hung low, wounds and bruises marrying any skin visible on your person, making his breath hitch in his throat.
He was finally released from the mental bounds that held him in place, feet moving in long strides to get to you. Simon could feel his pulse in his ears, his heart pounding against his ribcage almost painfully.
âLove..â He muttered, voice barely audible as the words slipped from his lips, knees bending to crouch before you. âFuck,â Trembling fingers curled softly under your chin as his eyes surveyed the damaged done to your face.
A split lip, a bloody nose, and a black eye, along with other, smaller cuts littering your face. But it wasnât what made him fret. It was the coldness of your skin, cool to the touch.
Your name fell from his mouth in a frantic whisper. âNo, no..â Simonâs hand slowly fell from your chin to your jugular, the rough pads of his fingertips hesitantly pressing against your pulse point. Only to find none, confirming his fears.
Itâs then that he finally awoke in a cold sweat from the terrors his mind conjured up. He sprung up, breaths uneven and ragged as he took notice of his surroundings, brought back to reality.
His eyes grew used to the darkness within the bedroom, the gentle glow of the moon seeping in through the gaps of the curtains. The comfortingly familiar vicinity eased his raging nerves, clammy hands curling in the sheets.
It reminds him that he is safe, that what he just experienced was nothing but a cruel nightmare as his gaze falls to your sleeping figure beside him.
You look peaceful, he thinks.
Simon watches as your chest rises and falls with each gentle breath, eyelids shut and lips ever so slightly parted. Your hair was ruffled, spread across the pillow. But even so, you never looked prettier to him.
Youâre safe.
The image he saw within his dream flashed before him; you, held captive, most likely due to the connections you held with him, tortured for information you couldnât possibly have. It frightened him. For it wasnât impossible for the situation he was faced with moments before to happen.
It was just a nightmare, he reminded himself.
His tense shoulders sagged in relief, a long sigh pushing past his tight-lipped frown. Under the sheets, he shifts his body and turns onto his side, the side of his face meeting the plush pillow as a burly arm slowly curls over you, bringing you close to his chest.
A chaste kiss is pressed to your forehead, Simonâs eyes briefly falling closed as he finally relaxed. His brain is swarmed by thoughts, yet one took precedence as his leg lightly nudged yours in search of the warmth your touch provided.
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