“This where y’r stayin, love?” Ghost asks, looking from her to the (quite posh) hotel. His stomach tightens a little as she nods, but he’s not paying enough attention to himself to notice. All he can see is the reflection of the streetlamps shining in her eyes as she looks up at him and gives him a bashful, somewhat awkward wave before ascending the steps to the hotel’s main entrance.
“Goodnight, Simon…thank you for everything.” (Name) calls down, one of her hands pausing on the wrought iron railing as she turns back to face him. She almost looks like she’s about to say something more—but doesn’t.
“No problem, get some sleep…and don’ forget to hydrate.” He gives her a stiff, respectful nod before turning and walking back in the direction of the base. Something deep inside him screams at him in a language he doesn’t understand, so he does what he always does, and shoves it so far to the back of his mind it doesn’t register as anything at all. Ghost hardly makes it ten steps before he hears footsteps running behind him. The delicate tug on his jacket sleeve sends a shock of surprise up his spine when a soft hand gently but firmly grasps his.
“Wait! I…I meant what I said earlier, you really made my night…and I like talking to you. Can we be friends?” Her eyes are practically begging him to say yes, all wide and hopeful. How can he say no when she asks like that?
“Yeah, ‘course…” Ghost’s voice is so quiet it’s nearly a whisper, surprise taking the air from his lungs. Friends, wi’ *me*? This bird’s out of her mind. She doesn’t want to be friends with a cold-hearted bastard like me. Didn’ mean to talk to her at all in the first place. He watches her write down her email and phone number on a random scrap paper from the depths of her purse, nearly choking on his own spit when he sees the little smiley face she leaves next to her name. Ghost takes the offered paper gingerly, like he’s scared it’ll disintegrate if he grabs it too hard.
“Let me know when you get back to yours safe, okay? Goodnight…” (Name) bounces back up the steps to the hotel entrance, and before he can utter a word she’s inside and out of earshot.
“G-goodnight…” Fuckin’ hell, mate…Ghost thinks, watching her through the window as she disappears further into the hotel lobby. Wha’ the fuck am I supposed to do wi’ this? His mind can’t, won’t stop replaying the evening as he walks himself back to base, fingers lingering on the repurposed grocery list in his coat pocket. The hand she grabbed burns deep, past his flesh and into his bones. Nobody’s touched him that gently in years, not even medical staff. Can’t bloody well be *friends* with a civilian…can I?
----------------------------
Ghost didn’t sleep well that night, and Soap notices. Soap *always* notices. He’s a good friend teammate like that.
“Feeling alright, LT?” Johnny asks, pouring himself a cup of coffee in the rec room, watching Ghost stare at his phone like it’s about to explode.
“Never better, Johnny.” Don’t start, Soap.
“Expecting a call?” Soap leans over the couch to peer at Ghost’s phone, hoping to catch a glimpse of what’s clearly got his friend Lieutenant worked up.
“Mind your business, Sergeant.” Ghost swipes his phone off the table before Soap’s nosy arse can see anything, his tone sharp and unforgiving. He had sent her one text last night, “back safe.” But Soap doesn’t need to know that.
“So ye are expecting a call…” Johnny’s lips curl up into a smirk, and he slides into the chair next to Ghost’s. Target confirmed, acquisition pending.
“I said, mind your bloody—” The growling words die in his throat as his phone chimes. Ghost immediately whips it out to read it, scowling at Soap’s triumphant snort of laughter. “Shut up, Soap…fuck’sake….” mumbles Ghost. Lieutenant Riley is far too anxious about a text from a civilian woman to care about the tone of his delivery.
----------------
(Name): good morning, Simon :) glad you made it back to base in one piece!
----------------
Ray of bloody sunshine. Is she always like this? Ghost struggles for a moment, eyes locked on the smiley face next to his name. He’s not used to talking with civilians anymore. He hasn’t had *any* civilian friends or anything since…his family. So, he panic-sends her a thumbs-up emoji. Christ, don’t know what the ‘ell I’m doing anymore.
“Come on, LT…who’re you texting?” Johnny eggs him on, shit-eating smirk still plastered to his lips as he watches Ghost stare at the screen with laser-focus. Anyone else would miss the way Ghost’s nose scrunches as he re-reads his pitiful response, but Johnny doesn’t.
“No one.”
“Liar.”
“Drop it.”
“LT—”
“Johnny…” Ghost’s voice drops to a near-snarl, glaring daggers at the fiendish Scot, which of course only emboldens him.
“Did you meet someone, sir?”
“…not your concern, Soap. Stop asking.”
“Care to share any details?”
“No.” I said “drop it,” mate, bloody hell.
Soap doesn’t back down, and neither does Ghost. Not even when Gaz walks in to refill his own coffee, curiously watching it all unfold with poorly feigned nonchalance. He totally hadn’t been listening from outside the rec room for the last few minutes.
“Came back awful late last night, Ghost…” Soap teases, hoping he can press *just* hard enough to get what he’s after.
“Come off it Soap, you’re just jealous ‘cause it’s not *you* he’s texting.” Kyle has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his own mischievous grin from taking shape.
“Not helping, Garrick.” Ghost growls and shoves his phone into his pocket with so much force he nearly rips the seam. Arseholes, both of ‘em. “You lot had better get off m’ bloody case, or you’ll be running laps ‘round the armory ‘til ya fucking—” His phone chimes again, and Ghost doesn’t waste a second pulling it out to see what it says, already knowing it’s her. “’til you fuckin’ vomit.”
----------------
(Name): got any plans today?
(Ghost): working, got reports to finish.
(Name): damn, are you free this evening though?
(Name): want to meet me back at the pub?
----------------
Neither Soap nor Gaz fail to notice the speed at which Ghost reads the first text. They also notice how he takes fucking forever (26 minutes and 37 seconds, Kyle counts) to send his own, typing and deleting message after message before he makes a decision. Johnny concludes that Ghost *definitely* met someone, and he begins to plot how he’s going to get Ghost to talk about it so he can help. Kyle has never consumed so much coffee in one sitting. He sips often, like he’s fighting for his excuse to stay in the room and watch. He ends up brewing another pot to keep up the illusion. Johnny helps him drink it.
Ghost swallows audibly. He does want to meet her at the pub again. More than he’ll admit, even to himself. He begins to type “for sure, what time?” when Price raps his knuckles on the door frame and enters the rec room. He deletes the message.
“Mornin’ lads. Be in the briefing room in 5 minutes. Shepherd and Laswell have a lead for us.” Price looks around, collecting a round of acknowledgements and “yes, sir’s” before nodding and disappearing back down the hallway.
That sentence would usually elicit a neutral response from Ghost, but today it fills him with dread and frustration. For the first time in years, he hopes this mission isn’t for him.
-----------------------
Johnny notices that Ghost is far more intense than usual. He’s barking orders, snapping at everyone more than he typically does, and cutting through enemies with a ruthless efficiency that puts his usual standard to shame. Whatever happened in those text messages soured Ghost’s mood for days. It *has* literally been four days since the rec room incident, and Ghost hasn’t even cracked one joke. The mission is a success. They eliminated their target, secured the information they were looking for, and didn't suffer any casualties. From an outside perspective, there’s nothing for Ghost to be upset about, so what gives?
“Good work, LT.” He gives Ghost a slow punch to the bicep in the armory, where they’re stripping their gear and changing back to standard dress. Ghost fixes him with a glare that could cut steel.
“You too, Johnny.” Ghost’s glare softens, he knows he’s been a prick the last few days. “Sorry f’ being an arse.”
“I know you didn’t mean it.”
“I did. That’s why ‘m apologizing.”
Johnny laughs and shakes his head.
“I made a friend…a civilian.”
“Is that so, LT?” Soap can’t believe his ears. Ghost made a friend?
“She’s gone home to America…left yesterday mornin’.” Ghost grumbles. A deep sigh escapes him and his shoulders sag as he swaps his cold-weather tactical boots for his regular boots. He’s more upset with himself for *being* upset than for having to turn her down. They just met once, so why did having to tell her “no” bother him so much?
“Long distance relationship?” Ghost’s new friend is a lassie, hm?
“She asked to be friends, Johnny.” Ghost states flatly, his voice laced with the unmistakable rasp of weariness that comes from years of profound loneliness.
“Right, and I’m the Queen.”
“Naturally, your Majesty.”
“So when are you going to tell her you’re back?”
“Dunno, why? Can’t exactly meet her for a pint, she’s across a bloody ocean, Soap.”
“Ever heard of a phone call, sir? Or Skype?”
“Fuckin’ hell...” Ghost sighs again, then shakes his head like he's made up his mind about something and shuts his locker. His phone is dead. He’ll have to charge it when he gets to his barracks.
“Just suggestions...”
“Sleep tight, Johnny.”
Ghost doesn’t know what to say to her. He'll probably never see her again anyway. Maybe he should delete her number, forget it all happened….but the memory of the look in her eyes when she asked him to be friends seizes his chest and stops him from doing just that. He must be coming down with something...like a cold, or a mental illness.
What the hell is he supposed to say though?
----------------
(Ghost - deleted): hey
(Ghost - deleted): hello
(Ghost - deleted): hi, (Name)
(Ghost - deleted): good evening
(Ghost): just got back from the mission. how are you?
(Ghost): sorry again for not being able to meet up.
(Name): hi! good to hear you’re back.
(Name): did you just apologize to me for…being deployed?
(Name): you don’t need to apologize for your job, Simon.
(Ghost): what time is it where you are?
(Name): 3:24pm. why?
(Ghost - deleted): do you want to call?
(Ghost - deleted): would you like to call?
(Ghost - deleted): would you like to chat on the phone?
something something Simon wears earbuds under his balaclava at the gym, and has no idea the rest of the 141 have been talking to him the whole time. they all fully believe he’s just ignoring them atp
(Name) watches as the tap water swirls around the basin and flows down the drain to be washed away in the London sewer system. Wish I could wash it all away. Wish *I* could wash away. Make it all stop. It’s too much, everything happens too much. She shuts the tap off, drying her hands with one of those shitty paper towels that fall apart the second they get wet. She frowns as she tosses the crumbled remnants of the paper towel into the overflowing waste bin. Fucking zoned out again, I hope Elle and Sarah aren’t too pissed at me for taking so long. (Name) opens the bathroom door and walks back down the little hallway toward the rest of the pub, stopping when she sees an empty space where her friends had been. Where the fresh fuck are my girls? She wonders, eyes searching the hazy, dimly lit pub for evidence of their existence. They had been at the bar when she slipped to the bathroom, and were still supposed to be there…right? She asks the bartender, a sweet middle-aged man named Sam, if he’d seen them.
“Those two? They left about 10 minutes ago, said you’d agreed to pick up the tab.” Sam shrugs, flashing her an apologetic glance as he installs a fresh keg under the taps.
“Right…that’s fine, I’ll…” (Name) trails off as her phone buzzes, a scowl settling on her face as she reads the message.
----------
Estelle:
Sorry babe~ we sorta forgot you were in the bathroom, haha…see you back at the hotel later, xoxo
----------
“I’ll just go fuck myself, I guess…” She grumbles, letting her phone clatter to the sticky bar top as she plops unceremoniously onto a barstool. “Could I get another drink please, good sir?”
“Sure thing, love.” The bartender gives her a grim, knowing smile; she’s clearly not the first poor soul to be ditched at this pub.
“Thanks.” (Name) props her chin up on her fist, and stares blankly at the rows of liquor bottles lining the bar back. “What’s the good of traveling with friends if they just leave you alone in a pub at night in a foreign country?”
“Not much, I’d say.” Sam chuckles. “This one’s on the house.” He slides her drink over, waving her off as she tries to protest the pity gift.
Gotta leave him a real nice tip. Do people tip in the UK? Should honestly know that by now…bit embarrassing not to know that after two weeks…She begins typing the question into her browser, rising from her barstool. She’ll find a corner booth to haunt…lurk in the shadows like a ghost while she questions her friendships. Better that than be forced into small talk with a stranger. She turns a little too quickly, her surroundings a mere afterthought, and is met with a support pillar that she could have sworn was another few feet to the left. But it’s…not a pillar. It’s a man. A very tall, very muscular man. Oh shit, he’s scary as fuuuuck…is that a *skull* on his mask?
“…You alrigh’?” His voice is deep and gruff, but not unpleasant. Like a crackling fire or a distant rumble of thunder during a summer storm. This tank of a man stares down at her with furrowed brows, waiting for her to express a sign of life.
“Yeah…yes! Yes, I’m so fucking sorry!” Her eyes flicker down to his chest, now soaked with whiskey thanks to her lack of awareness. Shit, idiot. Dumbass. Spill a scary guy’s drink—on him no less, great idea. “I should have been paying attention…I’m so sorry, so, so fucking sorry…” (Name) laughs nervously, and grabs some napkins from the basket on the bar. She frantically tries to soak up the amber liquid seeping into the man’s shirt, glancing back up at his eyes to check how angry he is.
“S’ fine, shit happens.” He lets out a nearly imperceptible huff of laughter, watching her hands shakily try to mop up the bourbon on his chest. He slowly, gently takes the napkins from her, and half tries to finish the task before giving up with a nonchalant shrug.
“Uh…please let me get you another of whatever that was, sorry again.” Mumbling, she turns back to the bar and weakly waves down Sam. God I sound pathetic, I should just go back to the hotel and call it a night. “Sam, I spilled this guy’s drink all over him, would you pour him another and put it on my tab please?” Sighing, she runs her hands over her face and slides back into the barstool she had just been occupying.
“Sure thing love, I’ll just be a moment.” Sam calls from down the bar.
“Y’ say tha’ like y’ make a habit of spillin’ drinks down blokes’ shirts.” Tank Guy sets his empty glass down on the bar and raises an eyebrow at her, looking her up and down like he’s not sure what kind of odd creature she is. “So, do ya?”
“No, first time actually.” She shakes her head and turns to offer him a weak, pathetic smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Rookie mistake then…” His eyes shift, turning just a little softer. “M’ Simon. Wha’s your name, love?”
“(Name). Is this the part where we shake hands? I’m new to this.” Whatever sound she was expecting him to make, that snort (if you could call it that) wasn’t it.
“We can shake ‘ands if y’ want. Or, I can pour y’ drink down your shirt and call it even…”
It’s her turn to suppress a snort of laughter.
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t, but I suppose it’s only fair…Do you get drinks spilled on you very often?”
“First time, actually…” He chuckles, warm and low, rotating his empty glass on the surface of the bar. He shoots her a quick, friendly glance before his gaze falls back to his glass.
“Rookie misfortune, then.” Good, he’s not mad at me…seems pretty chill actually? He’s got a fun sense of humor, maybe tonight isn’t completely fucked.
Silence settles between them, comfortable in the heavy sort of way that rests on your chest like a cat curling up to take a nap.
“D’you live ‘ere, or just visiting?” He asks, tapping his fingers on the side of his glass.
“Visiting. It’s our last week here. Four more days before we fly home to the States.”
“Wha’ d’you think?”
“About which part?”
“All of it.” Simon gives a small “Thanks, mate” to Sam as the bartender refills his glass. He settles on the barstool next to her, a respectful distance away in a clear attempt to not be intimidating.
“It’s very green.”
“Green?”
“Yeah, people always joke about ‘the grass is always greener on the other side’ but I think that’s got some truth to it here. Must be all the rain, it’s good for the plants.” (Name) swirls her drink around in her glass, staring into the liquid like it has answers. It doesn’t. “Back home the grass always looks healthier after a good rain.”
“Never ‘ear anyone say anythin’ nice ‘bout the rain ‘ere.” He looks at her incredulously. “Who the bloody ‘ell likes rain?”
“I do. Means my flowers will be happy.” She smiles softly, a self-indulgent chuckle slipping past her lips.
“Got a lot o’ those back home?”
“Just a few peony bushes, the groundhogs do wicked work on everything else I try to plant.” (Name) rolls her eyes. “They dug up all of my tulips and irises last year. Ate all the heads off my Black-eyed Susans, too...dickheads…”
“Tha fuck is a ground’og?” Simon turns slightly to face her a little better, fully engaged in the flower drama.
“Big rodent, bit bigger than your average house cat,” she explains, animatedly gesturing the approximate size of a groundhog with her hands, “They dig holes and burrow in your yard, sometimes under your shed or your porch—anything they can live under. Then they eat all your fucking vegetables and flowers and there’s fuck-all you can do about it…” Their eyes meet, and a smile begins to spread across her face. She wonders if the slight squinting of his very pretty eyes is because he’s smiling too. “Well, you could kill them I guess, but cruelty isn’t my cup of tea….they were there first anyway, not their fault my house is in their natural habitat.”
“Sounds like a pain in the arse.” Simon lifts his mask and turns away to sip his drink.
“They are, but so are a lot of things. What’s a few beheaded flowers between God’s creatures?” (Name) averts her eyes to respect his privacy, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. Okay, so he’s reserved…I vibe with that.
“Sounds like y’ve got a mutual understandin’ with y’r ground’ogs.”
“Sure do, they live under my shed and eat my flowers, and I let them.” She sips her own drink as he lets out another gruff chuckle. “Do you have a garden, Simon?”
“No. Not really a place for it on base. Got a bit of a black thumb anyway.”
“On base, so you’re in the military?” (Name) asks, eyes filled with curiosity.
“Tha’s right. S.A.S.” Simon straightens his shoulders a bit, and his gaze slips back to hers.
“Sorry, ignorant American here, what…division? Branch? Is the S.A.S?” Her cheeks redden slightly in embarrassment, feeling a little silly.
“Special Air Service, take on the hard shite—terrorists, covert ops n’ the like.”
“Hardcore, that’s no joke.” She clinks her glass against his and takes a sip of her drink, her eyes somber with realization. He’s reserved because he has to be, probably seen some gnarly shit too.
“D’you want to hear a joke?” His gaze meets hers again, eyes glittering with a hint of mischief.
“I’d love to, let’s hear it!”
“Two goldfish sit in a tank,” he pauses, and takes a nearly imperceptible inhale, “one of ‘em turns to the other ‘n says…d’you know ‘ow to drive this thing?” Simon feels a small smile settle on his lips as she laughs heartily.
“Oh my god…I love it.” She struggles to rein in her laughs, then asks “why do Norwegian ships have barcodes on them?”
“Barcodes?” Simon looks at her with confusion, still caught up on the high of successfully landing his own joke. He watches a cheeky grin spread across her lips, and he can’t help but stare a little.
“So they can…scan-da-Navy-in.” Her grin widens as he lets out a low, appreciative chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
Minutes turn to hours, but neither of them move to leave, their drinks long forgotten as they continue exchanging corny jokes and light conversation.
“Love, I’m about to close up the pub, would you mind paying your tab?” Sam asks politely, and she looks around the pub to realize it’s mostly deserted aside from her, Simon, and a few lingering drunk patrons who mosey toward the exit.
“Right, of course…here—thanks again, Sam.” (Name) digs through her purse, and hands her card to Sam with a sweet smile.
“Any time, hope you enjoy the rest of your trip.” Sam hands her card back, then nods amiably to Simon. “You’re all set son, see you next time.”
She and Simon finish their drinks, and make their exit. The crisp London night air hits her lungs, and she lets out a slow exhale, watching the cloud dissipate.
“Well, I suppose this is goodbye, Simon.” She gives him a small, almost rueful smile as she turns to walk back to her hotel to meet up with her friends. It’s about a 3km walk, but after the £200 tab she just paid…not about to pay for a fucking cab, too. It’s not that bad of a hike, right? “You made my night, thanks for hanging out with me…sorry again about your shirt.”
“You walkin’? Alone?” His brows furrow, and his voice dips low with concern. “Don’t worry ‘bout the bloody shirt, it’ll wash ou’ just fine…S’ not safe to walk alone, let me get you a cab.”
“No, really, it’s fine, I don’t want to pay for a cab.” She waves her hands out in front of her and shakes her head, eyes wide.
“Who said *you* were payin’?”
“I cannot let you pay for a cab for me, Simon…don’t you have to get…back to base?” (Name) catches herself before saying don’t you have to get home, who is she to presume where home is?
“I’m off duty, no curfew f’me tonight…is it alrigh’ if I walk you back to where you’re staying? S’ not right t’ let you walk all alone, ‘specially this late…” He takes a tentative step closer to her, worry etched into his eyes.
“It’s a bit of a long walk, you sure?” Damn, he’s a gentleman too…what a guy…
“S’ no bother, ‘ve been trained to handle long walks.” Simon shrugs nonchalantly and shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s S.A.S. for Christ’ sake, he can handle a half-hour walk.
“Alright then, soldier, I’ll let you walk me to my hotel.” She gives him a soft smile, and motions for him to follow her.
Simon falls into step without hesitation, maintaining a respectable distance as they walk back to her hotel at an almost leisurely pace.
…would anyone read an slow (ish) burn idiots friends to lovers Ghost x reader? idk I don’t write fics like ever, and haven’t really written anything in years but this man is living rent free in my little brain
I do wanna address what's happening right now outside of the building. There are ruthless attacks that are creating fear and chaos in our communities in the name of law and order. Trump is using military forces to stop a protest — and I want y'all to consider what kind of government it appears to be when every time we exercise our democratic right to protest, the military is deployed against us. What type of government is that? People are being swept up and torn from their families. I feel it's my responsibility, as an artist, to use this moment to speak up for all oppressed people, For Black people, for Latino people, for trans people, for the people in Gaza. We all deserve to live in hope and not in fear. I hope that we stand together, my brothers and my sisters, against hate and we protest against it.
browsing social media in 2025 feels like this. ragebait. fearmongering. ragebait. ragebait. misinformation. straight up lies. ads. engagement bait. more ragebait. doesn’t matter. don’t care. cute cat picture
If you're a TERF you're a gender fascist. No other way to spin it. You claim your ideology is about protecting women and children but what it actually necessitates is an overfixation on people's genitals and the persecution of a minority group that does not actually hold institutional power. You insist on fitting humanity into two strict boxes that do not reflect the true diversity present among 8 billion of us. The moment you start talking about "large gametes"--what the fuck are you doing?
All fascists cloak their actions in protective language. But unless you're going after the white male billionaire class that actually holds the most power and does the most harm to both humanity and the planet, you're not protecting anyone and your "resistance" is not worth anything.
Halsin joining our camp to see that the guy who played with the tiefling kids is now a devil, some pasty elf is biting people in their sleep, a githyanki and goth girl are slapfighting, there's a tiefling on fire, and that wizard just ate a pair of gloves.
stormborns
2087
izzy806
romaincrisis
gracieabrams
tangentwithtanner
