Y'all know what I realised? Simon's like a spider.
He may scare you at times, looming over you like a shadow with barely a hair's breadth of space between you two; some invisible barrier always keeps him from pressing closer. From grabbing you with his big gnarled hands and pressing you against him hard enough for flesh to meld together. From boring through fat and viscera with bone needles and drawing the threaded sinews tight so nobody and nothing can tell where you end and he begins — an Adam unable to live with the empty void of a missing rib.
But you.
You terrify him. Taunt him. Remind him of everything he can't have, everything he's not allowed to have. It's not your fault a warm smile or a simple whisper of a touch makes him freeze. And wait. And stare at you with dark eyes.
Dread building in his throat like a slowly tightening noose as he waits for you to notice. As he waits for the inevitable swat of the newspaper. Or the temporary cage of a cup before you cast him out into the cold world while you remain in the locked room of human comfort. Because that's where frightening pests like him belong.
And yet he craves the warmth of your comfort, even just for a single moment.
It's not his fault he was born too big, boasting his attributes with anything but shame. Too ugly to be loved. Man made venom leaking from his gums to turn any sweet sentiment into a slow death.
It's not his fault the love he gives comes out covered in blood.
☾ hi! i’m kameron/etzli and this is my writing blog. i usually write whatever i’m hyperfixating on at the moment (currently call of duty) however, i’m mainly intersted in writing for horror slashers
☾ my fics are written for mlm/nblm so if you are not either, dni!! the only exception being a gender neutral fic
☾ my pronouns are in my bio, but i’d prefer my neo prns be used
Ghost doesn't cutesy talk cats, he talks to them like other adult men and it's hilarious.
They're at a safehouse, and Ghost is listening to the radio, Price hears him talking to someone, and he's confused because both of his sergeants are conked out asleep.
So, he walks around the corner and finds Ghost sitting on a step with the radio playing and a stray kitten biting his laces while he talks to her. "I don't believe shoelaces constitute part of a balanced diet."
John just sits down on the step next to him and ignores how his knees click. "What's her name?"
"She's yet to disclose name or rank, but given that she's clearly smarter than those two through there, I'd say she's a lieutenant." He responds so dryly that John can't help but snort.
"Ah, I see. Making her way through the ranks at her young age, impressive." He leans forward to pet the kitten, flattening down the tuft of fur sticking up on her head.
"She's a hard worker, look at those paws. Grubby, she's been busy."
The kitten offers them a mewl in response, and he nods accordingly.
pairing: Michael Myers/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)
reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.
No one wants a murder house, even when it’s absurdly cheap. No one except you, it seems.
In which you buy the Myers house.
word count: 1.7k | ao3 version
warnings: carbon monoxide poisoning, hospitals and IVs, unconsciousness
You knew what you were getting into when you purchased the Myers house in Haddonfield. It had been something of a ghost house for years, lying neglected and practically abandoned despite the countless realtors who attempted to sell it. Supposedly, many of their efforts were waylaid by Dr. Samuel Loomis—who has a bad habit of barging in and dissuading interested parties from buying it. He did the same thing to you: storming into the house just after your realtor gave you a tour, warning you that Michael Myers would likely return to his childhood home.
His little display had scared you for a second, sure. But you weren’t going to let that frighten you off of the one property you could actually afford. Together, the realtor and you managed to get the man to leave—albeit with a lot of grumbling and muttering. Then, the two of you turned to each other and exchanged relieved looks. A few hours later, you were standing in front of the property with the keys in hand and a nervous smile on your face.
Maybe it was a little optimistic of you, though, to buy the house so fast. Your moving process has been somewhat impeded by the basic repairs needed across the space: the cracked toilet, freezing cold water from the shower, broken stove, and shattered windows all desperately need attention. In your scramble to fix the seemingly endless amount of things that don’t work in the house, you forget to acknowledge one appliance: the carbon monoxide detector. The thought completely slips your mind, as you attempt to make your new home more livable and less imposing. You even have to get the garage door painted over multiple times—after a few rebellious kids spray paint “MURDERER” and other flattering messages all over it.
Fortunately, as time passes, you slowly tackle each of these projects. It’s a bit harder than you expected to get plumbers and electricians to actually agree to enter your home, with its reputation. But you finally find some brave (or just uncaring) ones and, before long, you have functioning appliances.
Even so, there are still a few eccentricities to the house. There’s a small darkened red-brown stain in one of the rooms—smeared as if someone tried to clean it up. You resolutely convince yourself it isn’t blood, even though you know deep-down it must be. The floorboards are very creaky; sometimes, the frames on the walls will shake and clatter in impatience; and you occasionally lose track of items you put down, as if someone is sneaking in and taking things. Although these happenings sometimes scare you, you manage to dismiss them as nothing more than coincidences. You’re a bit too preoccupied with making a living for yourself to put much thought into insignificant observations.
The main problem you’ve encountered at this point, after weeks of living in the house, is the unstable temperature. The furnace is kind of shitty and the air conditioning is a complete joke. Even after you get these things fixed, though, you start to notice that you still feel a bit… off. At first, you write it off as some sort of seasonal allergy. But allergy medicine doesn’t resolve the issue, and you’re soon fighting off pounding headaches every day. You’re beginning to suspect that you came down with some sort of bug. Eventually, it gets to the point where you have to leave work early and return home to rest.
When you wake up the next morning, you find that you’re particularly weak and exhausted. You feel as if you’re trying to walk through quicksand. Frowning, you push yourself out of bed and attempt to walk out to the living room—only to collide with the nearby wall as your balance nearly gives out. You press a shaking hand to your forehead, idly wondering if you could have a fever. The cool sensation—combined with the fact that you took your temperature last night, only for it to be normal—convinces you that it can’t be a fever. Maybe you have some sort of head cold. That would certainly explain your loss of equilibrium and dizziness.
You manage to get yourself back to a standing position and take slow steps out into the living room. It’s a very short distance—maybe five steps or so—but your chest is burning from the exertion. Why does everything look so blurry? You blink dazedly and attempt to get to the couch, only for your legs to crumple under you.
You fall to the ground like a puppet with broken strings, feeling like a spectator to your own movements as your vision twists around and you hear a dull thud. A harsh pain reverberates throughout your temple. You think you’re shaking. Your chest still hurts; and the aching in your temple has spread down to your cheekbones and across your face. Your eyes slip shut and you slip into a bleary haze.
You’re not sure how long you’re lying there before you manage to pry your eyes back open. But the effort is really no use—as you’re too weak to even move. Your headache is so strong that you feel the urge to throw up. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a flicker of movement. A shadow passes across your vision and suddenly, there’s someone leaning over you.
Even in your fatigued and confused state, you’re able to recognize them. Michael Myers is leaning over you, his mask secured over his face. A shiver rolls down your spine and you’re overtaken with fear. It seems Dr. Loomis was right. Michael did return to the house. Does he have something to do with this?
All these thoughts and more run through your head, sending a renewed wave of adrenaline through you. You try to push yourself up and crawl away, but your body isn’t obeying any of your commands. A relentless drowsiness is pushing you back to the floor, alongside a dizzying spiral that makes your vision hazy and convoluted. Michael’s blurred head tilts. There’s a horrid ringing in your ears as you make one final attempt to move. A minute twitch of your fingers is the best you can manage, before you’re fading back into unconsciousness.
You wake to the feeling of something digging into the skin of your arm. Wincing, you weakly reach out with your other arm and feel around for the intrusion, finding an object attached to your arm. You attempt to pull it off, but there’s a calm voice chiding you and pushing your inquiring hand away. Blinking away tears at the blinding fluorescent lighting above, you slowly take in the environment around you and come to an easy conclusion: you’re in the hospital. The pain in your arm is from the IV; the voice from before was your nurse.
The nurse hands you a glass of water and you eagerly take a few sips, before they place it on the table at your bedside. You cough to clear your throat, recognizing a lingering pain in your chest. “What happened?” You remember to ask.
“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” the nurse responds with a sympathetic grimace. Damn it—that was what you had forgotten to do. You never replaced the carbon monoxide detectors in the house. “One of your neighbors found you unconscious on your front lawn.”
The front lawn? Your memories of that night are hazy and hard to reach, but after a few minutes of concentrated effort, you recall that you had collapsed in your living room. You frown. You certainly wouldn’t have possessed enough strength to make it out of your home and onto the front yard. How did you get outside?
Before you can ponder the question any longer, the nurse is asking you a series of questions and evaluating your symptoms. When they’re finally finished, they’re about to leave—before they pause in the doorway and head back into the room, a contemplative expression on their face. “It’s a miracle you made it outside.” They say candidly. You blink at them. “Do you remember leaving the house?” The nurse hums.
“No,” you answer, a frown rising on your face. A miracle. You resist the urge to huff in amusement. You can’t necessarily say that succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning was miraculous. And your supposed “escape” from your home is more perplexing than anything else. “I think I passed out in the living room.” You continue.
A strange expression passes over the nurse’s face. “Oh,” they remark quietly, suddenly looking concerned. They shake their head as if to clear their thoughts. “Well, it’s a good thing your roommate found you!” There’s a somewhat forced cheeriness to their voice. But that observation fades to the back of your mind, when you comprehend what they’ve just said.
“I don’t have a roommate.” You’ve lived alone for as long as you’ve stayed in that house. But the nurse’s remark does jog your memory, reminding you of the one presence who made himself known that night: Michael Myers. Goosebumps rise along your skin. The nurse seems to notice and pulls the blanket over you, which does little to quell your mounting fear.
Then they seem to process your remark, and a somewhat patronizing smile rises on their lips. “Sounds like you have a guardian angel, then.” They don’t seem to believe you. But before you can ask any more questions, the nurse exits, leaving you to your growing confusion.
Just what happened? You suspect someone saved you… but who? And why? You continue to contemplate these questions as you recover in the hospital; after a few days, you’re discharged from the hospital. You return home to find a note on your front door, wishing you a quick recovery and saying that the property has been aired out and cleared of carbon monoxide. A small smile rises on your lips and you remind yourself to thank your neighbor.
The house is a bit brisk and cold, evidently thanks to the windows being open for so long. Otherwise, it looks entirely the same as you left it. Relief courses through you as you explore the house, double-checking that nothing looks out of place. You’re about to relax when your eyes find something on the kitchen counter: boxes of new carbon monoxide detectors. And through the nearby window, you catch a glimpse of a masked figure between the trees, watching you.
A disbelieving, frightened laugh crawls its way from your lips.
thanks for reading! <3
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general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat
friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!
pairing: Brahms Heelshire/Reader, minor Malcolm/Reader
reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.
You're Brahms' new babysitter. What you expect to be a laughably easy job quickly turns into something much more complicated.
word count: 2.3k | ao3 version
warnings: canon-typical blood/violence/stalking, non-con kiss (on the forehead)
author's notes: the pacing of this fic is a bit rushed, but it's fine.
also, the title is from dollhouse by melanie martinez because it fits too well.
You’re starting to think the Heelshires didn’t offer you nearly enough money for this. As you stand in the stately halls of their home, you have to second-guess why you came here. Sure, you need the money and your job search recently hasn’t been successful. But does all of that justify caring for this doll, Brahms—one the Heelshires adamantly treat as a real boy? You don’t think so.
Regardless, you’re here now—and you’d feel guilty for leaving the Heelshires’ home unoccupied in your departure. So, like it or not, you’re stuck here for a few weeks: until the elderly couple returns from their vacation. That excuse had been a bit confusing—when you asked them about their plans, they were strangely tight-lipped. But you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth: as you agreed to get paid thousands of dollars for doing virtually nothing.
At least, that’s what you thought. Then Mrs. Heelshire had given you a list of absurd rules… and you started to question things. They started off with innocent tasks, like reading Brahms a bedtime story every night and dressing him each morning. But they quickly grew strange and inexplicably strict. You’re not allowed to leave him alone or cover his face; you have to kiss him goodnight each night; and you’re forbidden from entering the attic. The Heelshires leave soon after they list these rules, leaving you with no rational explanation for this strangely humane treatment of an inanimate object.
Now, you’re left alone in the house with nothing but a creepy doll for company. You have to admit it—the thing is unsettling. His eyes are sculpted wide open; his hair is weirdly realistic; and his clothes are reminiscent of a schoolboy’s. You immediately decide the Heelshires’ rules don’t mean a damn thing: the doll isn’t real. And you’re not going to do things you’re borderline uncomfortable with—kissing him goodnight, for example—just for their sanctity. Besides, they made no indication that they’d be monitoring your behavior—instead simply trusting you to comply.
The thought brings a sarcastic huff to your lips. You roll your eyes and pick up the doll by the arm carelessly, walking into the nearest drawing room and placing him in the armchair. Taken with a strange sense of spite, you pat the doll on the head sarcastically before promptly exiting the room and closing the door behind you.
Now, you’re just left with one question: how are you supposed to spend your time here? You settle for exploring the house and looking for entertainment. The library looks particularly promising, and you spend quite a bit of time simply looking around in there.
When you emerge from the library, the clock strikes 6 p.m. and you realize you’re growing hungry. Frowning, you head out to the kitchen—only to find the door to the drawing room cracked open. That’s strange. You know you left the door shut, promising yourself to leave the doll in there and never return. Frowning, you glance into the room—only to find things exactly as you left them. Dismissing the strange occurrence, you head back to the kitchen and begin to make yourself dinner. At least, that’s your plan… until you notice the refrigerator door is slightly ajar. You shake your head in disbelief, shutting it and promptly scolding yourself for attributing any significance to the sight.
Your first night passes without much fanfare. You wake up the next morning to find the door to the drawing room shut, which is a welcome and relieving sight. You must’ve just been paranoid earlier. Everything in the house looks exactly the same. (Although, why should you have expected otherwise?)
You split your time between reading, watching television, and making meals for yourself. It’s all horribly mundane, and if you weren’t getting paid for it, you think you’d be complaining. But you are getting compensated—as you’re reminded by the arrival of Malcolm one day, a man who seemingly works with the Heelshires. He gives you your first week’s pay and some groceries, before staying for some conversation. You have to admit, it’s rather nice to have some company. And Malcolm seems nice enough. The “no guests” rule does flit about in your mind, but you manage to push it aside. Malcolm leaves with the offer to call him if things ever go awry.
Left to your own devices once more, you walk about the house in boredom. The drawing room door is exactly as you left it- Wait. You see a shadow pass across the ground in front of the door, as if there’s someone moving inside. Unnerved, you try to move away—only to hear the unexplained sound of music growing louder. There’s no one else in the house… and you haven’t played music since you arrived. Confused and a bit concerned, you remain standing in front of the door for a bit. Then, out of nowhere, the door slowly creaks open.
The first thing you notice is that Brahms isn’t in the armchair anymore. Instead, he’s positioned with his back facing you—as he faces the open window. Swallowing past your growing unease, you decide to retrieve a blanket from your room and throw it over him. Then you firmly close the door and promise yourself not to go back.
But it doesn’t seem to matter what you do: the doll keeps moving, as if it has a life of its own. When you walk past the drawing room after a mid-afternoon snack, you’re shocked to find the door open once more. And even worse, Brahms is standing in the doorway with the blanket fisted in his hand. You flinch in surprise as you’re greeted with the sight, your heart racing quickly. Brahms is still and unmoving. You crouch down and look into his eyes, which dispels any of your doubts. It’s just a doll. So why is this happening…?
Is this some sort of karma for not enforcing or following the rules? Maybe the Heelshires are crueler than you thought, and they’re playing some sort of joke on you. You’d think they would have better things to do, but what do you know? Shaking your head in disbelief, you come to the unfortunate conclusion that you need to start treating Brahms as if he’s a living child you’re babysitting. Then, maybe, this weird behavior will go away—and whoever’s watching will stop messing with you.
In the next week, you become the doll’s unofficial caretaker—doing everything from feeding and dressing him to reading him a bedtime story and kissing him goodnight. You’re not particularly happy about that last part, but you don’t want to take your chances and trigger any more pranks or jokes. After all, that’s really the only rational explanation for the doll’s movements. Besides, that conclusion puts your mind at ease. You don’t want to think about any of the other possibilities, because they’re both disturbing and increasingly fantastical.
For a while, things are normal. Malcolm begins to stop by more frequently and the two of you get to know each other. He’s a pretty nice guy—and just about the only human company you’ve had throughout your time in the home. You’ve noticed that Brahms—or, moreover, whoever’s monitoring your behavior—always seems to act a bit restless when Malcolm is around. It must be due to the rule against guests; but, honestly, you’re not sure if Malcolm can be considered a guest, since he works for the family.
When Malcolm reaches out to kiss you one night, you don’t stop him. Maybe it’s because you’re lonely in this house; maybe it’s because you’re bored. Or, hell, maybe it’s just because you’re starting to like him. Safe to say, you certainly don’t object to this new development—and soon, he’s backing you onto the bed of one of the guest rooms.
Before things can escalate much further, however, the lights in the room flicker. You freeze; when they return moments later, the doll is lying on the bed next to you. You immediately flinch and Malcolm does too, the two of you quickly getting off the bed as any romantic tension in the air promptly dissipates. Both of you are weirded out by Brahms’ sudden appearance—a feeling which is only further amplified when you enter the main hall to find a message written on the floor.
“NO GUESTS” is written in a troubling crimson hue. You only need to take one more step forward to recognize the coppery scent of blood, combined with the scattered corpses of rats from the traps laid around the house. Nausea stews in your gut; fortunately, Malcolm seems to have enough self-preservation to realize he shouldn’t be here, as he takes one look at the display and promptly flees the scene. You don’t blame him—and, honestly, you wish you could do the same. But the moment you take a small step towards the entryway, you recognize the uncanny sensation of breath hitting your neck. You whip around, only to find yourself staring into brown eyes behind a doll mask.
A man stands in front of you, with dark messy hair and sweat-sheened skin. Your ears are ringing as you recognize the porcelain quality of the mask secured over his face—it’s horribly similar to the doll’s sculpted face. The man stares at you for several moments, tilting his head to the side and regarding you with interest. Your heart is thundering in your chest as you make the connection that has been eluding you this entire time: this man is Brahms. Brahms Heelshire isn’t dead—he’s been alive this entire time, residing within the walls of this house. And he’s standing in front of you.
You immediately try to back away, but he swiftly reaches out and clamps a hand on your wrist. Then Brahms pulls you towards him, his hand rising to hold your jaw as he stares at you with an uncomfortably scrutinizing gaze. For several seconds, you’re frozen beneath his grip: entirely pliable as he studies you.
What happens in the ensuing moments is a blur, as you’re easily manhandled into following behind him as he sneaks through the walls of the house until you’re somehow standing in the attic. The Heelshires’ rule immediately comes to mind: Never go in the attic. They knew about Brahms the whole time, didn’t they? Are they even coming back to the house? How long will you be stuck here?
Immune to your frustrated thoughts, Brahms leads you towards his bed and silently gets under the covers. Then, he stares up at you expectantly. You look down at him in disbelief. Honestly, you’re still reeling from the thought that Brahms is actually alive—and has been hiding in the walls this entire time. You can barely comprehend that, let alone whatever the hell he’s doing right now.
Clearly growing annoyed, Brahms yanks you forward and onto the bed—to the point where you have to shoot a hand out to catch yourself from falling into him. You’re now positioned over Brahms awkwardly, his hand on your collar tugging you closer to him. He’s staring at you expectantly, before he reaches out with his free hand and points to his forehead. You feel a shiver roll down your spine as you realize what he wants: a goodnight kiss.
You’re not sure how long you hover there, fighting off your fear and apprehension, before Brahms grows impatient and harshly tugs you towards him. You quickly kiss him on the forehead and lean back, pretending not to notice how tightly he’s still holding you.
In hindsight, it was foolish of you to think you could leave after tucking him in. Because somehow, even after you’ve complied with the rules, you haven’t done enough. You try to enforce some distance between the two of you, but Brahms growls and his grip on your collar tightens until he’s pulling you down again. A bolt of pure fear runs down your spine as you’re deftly maneuvered into a reclined position on the bed, lying next to Brahms.
Your heart is roaring in your ears and you’re breathing hard. If Brahms senses your anxiety, he doesn’t seem to care—as he instead breaches the distance between you and promptly fits himself against your side. His arm stretches out to wrap around your waist and you choke on a shaky breath. You can’t so much as adjust your posture even a minute amount, because he’s pushing you back into the mattress with an absurd amount of strength.
You’re not sure how long you lie there, staring up at the ceiling, before you chance a glance at Brahms. His eyes are closed and his breaths are calmer—he must be asleep now. You still have no hope of escaping: even a small shift in your positioning is enough for him to press into you further.
It’s growing late, but you know you won’t be able to sleep at all. You’re only growing more restless as time passes, waiting for the inevitable moment when Brahms grows bored with you and kills you. After all, that was the entire reason behind his confinement, wasn’t it? He killed a friend at a young age; and his parents trapped him here in order to keep him from going to jail.
The reminder is enough to send a renewed fear crawling up your chest. You don’t realize you’re crying until there’s a calloused hand wiping tears from your cheeks. Somehow, in your distress, you must’ve woken Brahms. He turns to the side and looks down at you for a long moment, before leaving inexplicably closer. Quick as lightning, he’s reaching down to press a goodnight kiss to your forehead—his porcelain mask almost cold against your skin. Then Brahms stares at you for several minutes. You’ve never felt such a stiff and oppressive silence before.
Finally, after what feels like far too long, Brahms settles back in and closes his eyes once more—leaving you to your conflicting emotions and the uncompromising darkness. You’re not sure of much right now, save for one thing: it’s going to be a long night.
thanks for reading! <3
check out my other works, sorted by fandom.
general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat
friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!
pairing: Sebastian Solace/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)
reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.
summary: “Where are you going?” You ask suspiciously.
“Following you, of course,” Sebastian answers, as if it’s a stupid question. It’s a bit of a tight fit with the two of you in the submarine, considering Sebastian’s gargantuan tail. It wraps around the space and you find yourself standing uncomfortably in the middle—feeling akin to prey trapped in the coils of a snake’s tail.
word count: 2.4k | ao3 version
warnings: canon-typical injury, violence, and death
author's note: ty anna for the beta <333 @connorhasabigtip any remaining mistakes are mine!
“Any particular reason you’re following me?” You finally ask, stopping in the twentieth room and turning around to stare at Sebastian. The hybrid usually greets you after your death, providing you with research on the creatures that roam the Blacksite. He also sneaks in around level 47 to sell you items. But he’s never actually followed you like this before—appearing at the submarine dock and accompanying you on your exploration. You were under the impression that he was a wanted man—but, then again, he does have that weird transmission jamming device to keep himself undetectable…
“Just monitoring your progress, is all,” Sebastian shrugs, tapping his fingers restlessly. He’s clearly bored. You haven’t bothered to engage with him until now—instead pretending as if he isn’t following behind you. But you can only pretend for so long. You’ve always performed these expeditions on your own and, despite your annoyance, it’s nice to have some company for once. Even if that company takes the shape of a human hybrid who seems to hate your guts. Sebastian’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “Besides, it’s more fun to be up close and personal. Watch your guts spray everywhere and all that.”
You grit your teeth and ignore the macabre remark, instead continuing through the Blacksite and searching for items. Right now, you only have a small handheld flashlight—and the battery’s pretty low. If you want to get to the crystal, you’ll need more materials. Of course, Sebastian could be helping you look. Instead, he’s only hovering behind you ominously. He has virtually no concept of personal space, as he practically breathes down your neck each time you pause to rifle through drawers.
“You’re even smaller in person, you know,” Sebastian remarks, apropos of nothing. You feel that familiar irritation rising in your chest once more, but you quickly suppress it. He’s just trying to provoke you.
“You’re ten feet tall,” you remind him. You’re human—of course he’s going to tower over you.
“And?” Sebastian drawls. You just roll your eyes and keep searching, valiantly pretending you don’t have a relentless annoyance watching your every move. You enter the next room, only to hear the overwhelming sound of rushing water. Shaking your head, you keep exploring—occasionally glancing behind you warily.
The next hall is dominated by the same sound of rushing water. The lights aren’t flickering, so you think there aren’t any anglerfish. At least, until Sebastian’s voice breaks through the static in your mind. “You’d better hide,” Sebastian suggests with a smirk, his last word drawn out for effect. “Unless you want to be fish food.”
You freeze and try to listen for a moment, before deciding to trust his advice. You run for a locker and hide in it, just barely making it in time before the pink anglerfish is rushing past. Surprised that Sebastian was actually telling the truth, you wait a few seconds for it to pass before exiting the locker. The hall is dark now, and there’s no sign of Sebastian. Shrugging, you feel your way around in the dark and manage to find the door to the next hall. The metal slides open, only to reveal Sebastian leering down at you. Your heart jumps out of your chest and you can’t hide the surprised gasp that crawls its way out of your throat.
Sebastian cackles, before moving away from the doorway and allowing you to enter. And to think, you were just about to thank him for saving your life… You shake your head in disbelief. You really don’t understand this guy.
Admittedly, Sebastian’s presence is rather distracting. It’s hard to focus when he’s looming over you menacingly. You try your best not to show your wariness, because you know it’s just what he wants to see. Even so, you’re finding it difficult to focus on your surroundings. And when the lights flicker in warning, you’re too preoccupied with finding a locker to notice the anglerfish is only a mere few rooms away. Before you can hide, you’re promptly attacked and killed.
As your vision fades to black, you hear Sebastian’s laugh echoing in your mind. When you open your eyes to find yourself sitting at that desk once more, you glare at him. He could’ve warned you about the anglerfish.
“Hey, I helped you once,” Sebastian shrugs noncommittally. “Besides, I’m not your little buddy.” His voice drips with venom as he slides the anglerfish research document across the desk. There’s nothing new on the document.
You just sigh, pushing the file away from him and heading back to the submarine. It’s only when you turn the corner and make it to the dock that you realize he’s following behind you. “Where are you going?” You ask suspiciously.
“Following you, of course,” Sebastian answers, as if it’s a stupid question. It’s a bit of a tight fit with the two of you in the submarine, considering Sebastian’s gargantuan tail. It wraps around the space and you find yourself standing uncomfortably in the middle—feeling akin to prey trapped in the coils of a snake’s tail.
“I thought the novelty had ‘worn off,’” you manage to finally say, once you see that Sebastian is remaining still.
Sebastian just stares at you in an eerie silence. You shake your head and keep quiet as the submarine emerges from the water. Then, you start investigating the nearby drawers and cabinets, before heading through to the first door.
And so it continues. You open a door, look around in the hall, and enter the next room with Sebastian on your heels. When you hear an anglerfish approaching, you jump in a locker; you remember to routinely look behind you for Wall Dwellers; and you search for resources. But you can only fight off your curiosity for so long. “Why haven’t you been doing this the whole time?” You ask Sebastian. He could’ve been helping you from the beginning.
A laugh. “Can’t make things too easy for you,” Sebastian answers. “Besides, this is your job, not mine.”
That’s right. Sebastian isn’t helpful. He doesn’t serve anyone except himself. The only reason he’s accompanying you now is because it benefits him in some way. “Right, because your job is just to provide me overpriced weapons and mediocre advice,” you mutter darkly.
“Easy there, shrimp,” Sebastian says, his eyes flashing in warning. You roll your eyes and keep walking, trying to pretend as if he isn’t there. It’s proving to be an increasingly difficult task, between his towering form and frequent sarcastic comments.
In the next few rooms, you find a flash beacon. You know it’ll come in handy when you inevitably reach the halls with broken lights. And it doesn’t take long before you find yourself needing to use it. Feeling turned around, you reach down and send a flash across the space. You can just barely register the layout of the space: three halls branching off from one another, each leading to a different door. Then you see Sebastian out of the corner of your eye… he reaches out… and everything goes dark.
When you find yourself in that ever familiar dark room once more, you can’t contain your annoyance. “What the hell was that for?” You immediately snap. Sebastian just looms over you, looking rather pleased with himself. He just killed you for no reason.
“I warned you,” he says.
“No, you didn’t,” you argue. “And I didn’t even flash it in your direction!” Sebastian just shrugs. You sigh heavily and head out of the room, not even waiting for him to place the file down. Somehow, it appears he’s still benefiting from this arrangement—he must be, since he’s still following you into the submarine again.
You’re quickly growing frustrated and impatient with your companion. Sebastian is constantly talking; he doesn’t seem to know what personal space is; and he enjoys seeing you in pain. You thought it would be nice to have company, but Sebastian is quickly proving to be nothing more than a meddlesome distraction.
“It’s almost like you don’t want me to get to the crystal,” you mutter darkly, after he attempts to scare you. You concentrate on searching through the remaining three drawers, before moving onto the next room.
Then you pause in the doorway, understanding crashing down on you. Suddenly everything makes sense: his inexplicable, almost childish behavior; his insistent presence; and his never-ending amusement. “You don’t want me to escape,” you realize aloud. Your blood runs cold and you feel a shiver run down your spine. The fluorescent lighting above hums loudly.
“Took you long enough.” He remarks. Your back is turned, but you just know Sebastian is smiling. “You’re stupidly trusting. Naive. It’s almost cute… but mostly pathetic.”
The lights above flicker in warning, but there’s a tense silence descending in the air. You’re still frozen in the doorway, listening for anglerfish. After a few moments, you conclude there aren’t any. Your fists clenched at your sides as you come to terms with Sebastian’s deceit, you try to keep walking—only for his voice to stop you.
“You forget yourself.” Sebastian whispers, his voice dark and deeply unsettling. You can’t see anything, but you can hear him moving behind you. His tail sounds as if it’s right behind you—like he’s coiling around you, ready to strike.
You grab your flash beacon in a tight-knuckled grip, ready to throw him off with a bright burst of light. You’re not sure how long you wait, entirely silent, before deciding to take a step forward. You wait a few seconds, then take another step. The room is drenched in darkness, and without the metal paneling on the floor to guide you, you have no idea where to go.
A whisper of a laugh and the sensation of breath at the back of your neck makes you whip around and fire off your flash beacon. It’s annoyed him in the past—it seems to take him off guard, at the very least. Maybe you can stun him long enough to make an escape.
The flash is blinding and your eyes water, sending tears down your cheeks. You can barely recognize Sebastian’s silhouette in front of you, and you can only hope that he freezes, or just lashes out at you-
The light fades and you’re left in the dark. You blink neon spots from your eyes, only to find two unmistakable blue orbs in the dark, a mere step away from you. “Did you really expect that to work?” Sebastian laughs cruelly.
Suddenly the flash beacon is ripped out of your hand and smoothly crushed, crackling in the air. You can hear the moment the fragments hit the ground, the impact echoing throughout the space. Your heart is roaring in your ears. Then, something disrupts the silence: the telltale shift of a door falling open. You turn around to find a green “56” illuminated on the wall. You’re almost paralyzed in fear, torn between making a run for it and staying in Sebastian’s sights.
He seems to sense your indecision, because he hums thoughtfully. “I’ve decided to be generous.” Sebastian says vaguely. Before you can wonder what that means, he’s continuing. “I’ll give you a twenty second head start.”
Twenty seconds isn’t nearly long enough for you to run away. You stare at his piercing blue eyes in disbelief.
There’s no way for you to discern the expression on his face in this darkness, but you just know he’s smirking. “Nineteen…” He whispers, sounding dangerously close to your ear. You instinctively bat at the space just next to your face, but there’s nothing. “Eighteen…”
It’s hopeless. That’s not nearly enough time to put a significant distance between the two of you. Not to mention, you have no idea what the next rooms contain. If they’re submerged in water, you’re really screwed.
“Fifteen… fourteen…” Sebastian’s voice jolts you back into reality. Adrenaline running through you, you race towards the next hall.
It doesn’t matter where you choose to go—you know he’ll find you. And Sebastian knows the futility of your attempted escape, if the malicious laugh echoing down the halls is any indication.
There’s no telling what he’ll do when he finds you.
…And he will find you.
You clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing and close your eyes, pretending you’re absolutely anywhere else. But you can only stay in the cramped locker for a few moments, before you’re beginning to panic. When you exit the locker, you can hear him in the distance. Gritting your teeth, you decide to just keep running.
Eyefestation is in the next hall, attempting to drag your attention towards it. You instinctually fight it off, at first, until you come to a realization.
You don’t want to give Sebastian the satisfaction of catching you. You don’t want to participate in this perverted game of his.
And, if you’re going to die anyways… you might as well have some control over it.
Mind made up, you turn back towards Eyefestation and stare right back at it—until your vision is flooded with blinding green and countless blinking eyes. You fall to the ground, and the last thing you hear before succumbing to darkness is a frustrated scream.
You wake slowly, as if wading through a thick sludge. When your eyes finally manage to open, you find yourself in the same room as always, sitting in front of Sebastian’s desk. There’s a harsh sound as Sebastian slams his hand on the desk in frustration. He doesn’t even give you the file on Eyefestation, instead glaring at you furiously. His fists are clenched so tightly that it looks as if he’s shaking. Despite the fear coursing through you, you still feel… satisfied. You didn’t allow yourself to be a pawn in his game.
And he knows it. There’s tension written all across his face. He almost seems to surround the entire space, his tail swishing violently behind him. “Get out.” Sebastian orders, clearly displayed. His voice is raspy and smooth all at once. There’s a dangerous calm in the way his body stills as he locks eyes with you. “Before I rip you limb from limb.”
You’re not sure if that’s an empty threat or a founded one, and you decide you don’t want to find out. You don’t hesitate to get up and run out the door, your heart racing as you sprint to the nearest submarine. Even when you’re enclosed within walls of metal, you can’t get rid of the goosebumps prickling along your skin—and the unquestionable notion that you’ve just made a terrible mistake.
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hii, i love your page, it’s so cute!! i was just wondering, can we have a fic where ghost/the 141 forgets the readers birthday?
tysm,
~ 💖.
A/N: Apologies for the delay, anon! Also, I hope that didn't happen to you, but if it did, happy belated birthday. Here’s your gift, I hope you like it.
———————————————————————
Type, type, type.
That’s all you’ve been doing since this morning.
Replying to emails, developing the recruits’ training programme for the next week, preparing reports, and going back and forth on that group chat with the engineering team about that stubborn drone that refuses to take off but is mandatory for the next mission.
They wished you a happy birthday. Yes, it was through a faceless and impersonal message, but at least they did.
Unlike him.
He’s been sitting across from you all day, doing the same—typing, typing, typing.
Not at the pace you’ve been going, though. He’s much slower compared to you.
His fingers hesitate as they hover across the keyboard, lacking the speed and confidence he usually has in the field. The keyboard feels foreign in his hands—it’s not an MP5, you see.
His eyes, trained for action, struggle to adjust to the screen in front of him. He types, pauses, looks up at the screen, and then resumes typing. Yet his posture remains rigid like he’s ready for action at any given moment.
“Do you need help?” you ask, noticing his struggle to find the right shortcut for copying and pasting.
“I need a cigarette,” he replies, standing up from his chair. He opens the window, turns his back to you, and lifts his mask halfway.
He opens the packet and bites down on the cigarette filter to extract it from the package. Tilting his head to the side, he lights it up and takes a deep inhale.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Shit.” He swears and shouts at the door to “wait a fucking minute.”
He extinguishes the cigarette, pulls down his mask, and returns to his desk. You wait for him to sit down before inviting the person outside to come in.
Two recruits currently assigned to your team enter the room.
“Happy birthday!” says one, and the other repeats the wishes more timidly.
You give them a warm smile and thank them.
Their eyes, however, often drift from you to him. They look like they regretted coming into the office. Like they’d rather be anywhere else but here.
You empathise with them—you, too, were scared of him when you first came to the base.
You decide to relieve them of their discomfort.
“There are cupcakes in the kitchen,” you say, “please help yourselves.”
You can’t tell if they are too excited about the cupcakes or relieved that they now have a reason to escape the trap they’ve gotten themselves into. With a nod, they quickly exit the room and shut the door behind them.
You turn to the computer screen and continue typing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You slightly turn your head towards him while keeping your eyes on the screen.
“Why didn’t I tell you what?”
“That the sky is blue,” he replies sarcastically. “That today’s your birthday, of course!”
“That’s not the kind of thing you go around telling people, Ghost,” you explain, “besides, you already knew.”
He stands up from his chair, and you turn to look at him.
“Why didn’t you remind me?”
“What should I say, Lt.?” You ask, “Hey, by the way, it’s my birthday today, in case you’ve forgotten?”
“Yes!” He insists, lifting his hands, “Yes, you should have told me that! Then you should have added a ‘you fucking idiot’ to complete the sentence.”
You look at him with furrowed eyebrows and a smirk.
He sighs and drops his hands to his sides.
“Come here,” he says, waving his hand for you to come closer.
You look at him, amused, and your smile widens. Yet you remain seated, and lean back to your chair.
“Come here!” He repeats and starts walking towards you.
You stand up, and he immediately wraps his arms around you, locking your arms to your sides. You hug his waist.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers and leans down, planting a kiss at the crown of your head.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” you reply, your words muffled against his chest.
“I’m such an idiot, aren’t I?” He murmurs, his lips lingering against your head, “I’m sorry.”
You chuckle and push yourself away to look at him.
“No, you’re not,” you reply, “these things happen.”
He releases you from the hug but keeps his hands on your shoulders.
“Thanks for the cupcakes, by the way.”
“You had one?”
“Two,” he says, letting you go and returning to his desk, “but I didn’t know who they were from.”
You sit back in your chair and continue to type, type, type.
Synopsis: You’ve recently been transferred to a UK base and struggle with British currency. Your lieutenant is mortified—and rightfully so.
Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader
Word Count: 1,286 (approx. 5-6 mins reading time)
Notes:
I thought it was funny when I wrote it, okay? It’s a crackfic. There’s some teasing and playful banter in there, but I can’t label it as fluff.
Warnings: Profanity. Lots of it.
More A/N at the end.
———————————————————————
You’ve been trying to escape the lieutenant’s grip for the past two hours.
The upcoming mission requires close combat skills, he said. You’ll need to infiltrate a facility with minimum weapons and immobilise—but not kill—the targets for interrogation.
You admitted to him that you hadn’t practised in a long time and your combat skills were a little rusty. But Ghost assured you this wouldn’t be a problem and offered a refresher course in ground fighting and submission techniques.
You never imagined this would be an issue when you agreed to it. On the contrary, your lieutenant was an expert in combat, and training with him could be considered a masterclass.
Looking at it now, with your cheek pressed against the floor and your body twisted like a nautical knot, you wish you could take it back.
The mats have become your second skin. Ghost relentlessly pins you to the ground and immobilises your limbs while explaining the mechanics behind each hold. Sometimes you wonder why he gets into so much detail since you can’t hear shit and are practically knocked out.
Yet, he doesn’t give up on you. He advises you to feel the weight shift, urging you to exploit the slightest openings, encouraging you to break free. Whenever he sees you’re struggling or senses you’re uncertain, he taps your hand or leg, giving you clues to help you.
He immobilises you once more, but he pats your back this time.
“Alright,” he says, standing up, “that’s enough for today.”
He walks to the bench, picks up his towel, and pats his neck. You roll on your back and spread your arms.
“I feel like a pretzel.” You whisper.
“Yup,” he confirms, “that’s Jiu-Jitsu for ya.”
Drenched in sweat, you push yourself off the ground and slowly walk to your bag. You extract your towel and begin rummaging through your wallet to find spare coins for a water bottle. You manage to find one pound, but unfortunately, you fall short.
“Lt.?” You call out.
He turns halfway to give you his attention while tugging the velcro straps from his gloves.
“Do you have fifty pennises?”
He stops midway and lets go of the velcro strap. It can wait. His eyes have formed two thin lines, and his eyebrows almost touch each other.
“Do I have fifty what, soldier?”
“I need fifty pennises.” You reply, this time louder, “Do you have fifty pennises?”
His eyes have changed. They’re not squinting anymore. They are bulging. He frantically looks left and right, bringing his index finger to his mouth.
“Shhhh!” He whispers and runs towards you, waving his other hand in front of your face. “Shut your mouth!”
He closes the distance between you and looks behind him.
“What is wrong with you?” He whispers.
You raise your eyebrows and blink rapidly.
“No,” you reply, “what is wrong with you?”
He lets out a sigh and looks at his surroundings once again. He scratches the side of his chin and clasps his hands in prayer.
“Tell me exactly what you want,” he requests more calmly this time, almost begging you, “Make a sentence out of it.”
“I’m thirsty.” You explain.
“Obviously.”
He’s starting to get on your nerves. You open your palm and raise it to his eye level.
“Look,” you order and point at the coin, “I have one pound.”
“I can see that.” He replies and puts his hand on yours, pushing it down so he can look at you.
“The vending machine needs one pound and a half.”
“Say it.” He commands and swallows hard, “The vending machine needs one pound and fifty...”
You clench your jaw and look at him dead in the eyes.
“Pennises.”
He lets out a snort and clasps his hand at the bridge of his nose. He turns his back to you and takes a few steps away. His shoulders move up and down.
“Ah, soldier,” he replies, still looking the other way. “that’s a lot of pennises.”
You run a hand through your hair and sigh.
“I know my pronunciation is probably wrong,” you state and shut your eyes, “but I need them.”
“Don’t say that,” he says between gasps, “you don’t need that many.”
With your eyes still closed, you start babbling about how wrong he is and how you wish you had a million of them so you could escape this hellhole and retire on an island. He squats to the ground and covers his masked face with his hands.
He sounds like he’s whimpering. You might have assumed he was sobbing if you hadn’t known the cause of his stance. But you knew why he was half crying, half laughing. It sounded hideous. It was hideous. You just can’t remember the word.
What’s it called, what’s it called...
You open your eyes. Ghost is walking towards you, wiping away tears from his eyes. He retrieves a fist of coins from his pocket and, muttering something under his breath, chooses two. He pinches a silver hexagonal-shaped coin with his fingers and shows it to you.
“This,” he says, “is fifty pence, or 50p.”
“Pence or p.” You repeat.
“That’s right.” He confirms and pinches a smaller coin with his other hand. “Now, this little one is a penny. Fifty of these are called fifty pennies.”
“Pennies,” you echo and slap your thighs, “See? Was it that hard to explain?”
“Oh yes,” he replies and nods slowly, “yes, it was that fucking hard.”
You lift your palm. “Can I have the big one?” You ask.
“Say it first.” He commands you.
You roll your eyes. “Can I have the 50p, Lt.?”
“Of course, you may have the 50p.” He says and places the coin in your hand, “What you absolutely may not have is fifty….” He stops and lets a repressed chuckle out.
You press your lips together and bite your cheek to not respond to his teasing. But you can’t.
“…pennises, I presume?” You sneer.
“Yeah, no.” He says and vigorously shakes his head, “You don’t want that.”
You wince and rub the back of your neck. Ghost tries to comfort you, telling you it’s ok and you shouldn’t feel bad, but he doesn’t believe it himself. He’s smiling beneath that mask; you can tell by how the grimace alters his voice. You thank him for the coin and walk to the vending machine.
“Soldier,” he calls out, “how many times have you said that word since you came to the UK?”
You tilt your head and try to recall.
“I can’t remember.” You conclude.
“You can’t remember if you ever said it, or there were so many occasions that you can’t count them?” He asks with a trembling voice.
“No, Lt.,” you reply, defeated, “I don’t remember asking another person for that.”
He looks relieved. He lets out a long exhale and rubs his masked face with his palms.
“I never thought I’d ever say this,” he says, “but I’m glad I was the first one.”
———————————————————————
A/N: I wrote this in March, along with this story (yes, they’re very similar). Although I liked the idea and thought it was funny, I initially discarded it because it felt stupid, and chose to post the other one (not like the other one is pure genius). It remains as such, but as I said, it’s a crackfic. I’m not researching how to improve human welfare.
Since Ghost forgot readers birthday, let's maby turn it around? How is the lieutanants big day celebrated on base? I know he scolded reader for not telling him that it's their birthday, but I really can't see him running around with a party hat, giving out cupcakes and demanding birthday wishes either to be honest...
Birthday?
What birthday?
He hasn’t celebrated in a long time—the days passed, and he treated that special day just like any other.
What was there to celebrate anyway? He took lives. How audacious it would be of him to celebrate his own.
He buried that day deep within his subconscious, alongside all the other memories he wished to forget.
But occasionally, the memories would blend together and manifest themselves as nightmares in his sleep. He was a little boy in them, blowing birthday candles on a pile of corpses while other soldiers on the battlefield were running for their lives.
Price was the only one who knew Ghost’s birthday. After all, he was the one who removed that date from his file.
You asked him about it one day when Ghost wasn’t around. You and the rest of the team were joking about Zodiac signs and wanted to know what Ghost was.
But the captain clicked his tongue and told you he couldn’t disclose such information. You asked why he was so secretive about it, and he smiled. It was unlike the smiles you were used to seeing from him. It was a smile of pity—like the one you give to a stray cat who’s curled up on your car’s roof on a cold night.
He said he had wished the lieutenant a happy birthday a few years ago, and it didn’t go well. So Price kept trying to find more indirect ways to celebrate with him—ways that would make him feel more comfortable.
He remembered that one time when he invited Ghost for a couple of beers at the pub, but Ghost became suspicious.
“Why today, of all days, brother?”
Price acted shocked as if it was a coincidence and Ghost rejected his invitation. He had something else to do.
On that day, every year, the lieutenant would go to his mother’s grave instead. He would take a few flowers with him, sit in front of her grave, and think. His mind often wandered, and other painful memories threatened to resurface—memories unrelated to war, engraved in his mind from an earlier stage in life when a child’s only job was to have fun. And he did anything but that.
Inspiration struck you then, and you came up with an idea.
You decided to create a card for the lieutenant. It was a plain white sheet folded in half—nothing special on the outside, but its beauty lay within.
You all wrote him wishes and expressed gratitude for his guidance, teachings, and the countless times he came to your rescue. You placed the card in an envelope, sealed it shut, and handed it to him on a random day. You told him that, even though you didn’t know when his birthday was, the card was there, and he could open it whenever that day arrived.
He took the card home and left it on the coffee table. Sometimes we’d look at it, and other times he would use it as a coaster, hoping it would get ruined so he wouldn’t have to confront his feelings.
And that day came, and he followed the same routine: he went to work, visited his mother’s grave, and then returned home.
But there was something else waiting for him at home; that card. It was stained and warped, but it was there for him, just like all of you were.
He opened a fresh bottle of bourbon. And then he opened that card.
He smiled. Yes, he rolled his eyes and facepalmed himself, but he smiled.
He hid it in one of his nightstand drawers, and every now and then, he would revisit it. Lying in bed, he would pull open the drawer, retrieve the card, and read it like a bedtime story.
It was just like his mother used to do every night—his mother, who gave birth to him that day and tragically passed away.
But, within the card, he found another kind of family—a silly group of Zodiac sign-pestering nuisances, but nevertheless, his family.
———————————————————————
A/N: I didn’t expect this to turn out that way. But I’m glad it did.
hello! recently my cat went missing (but i luckily got him back!) and i never felt so hopeless. I had to search for him while it was raining, put up missing posters and honestly, the whole thing looked like a rlly sad movie 💀💀 so why not giving you a hint of a request with reader x ghost, where he helps reader find their missing cat? Or comfort them? I love to imagine Simon dealing with rather normal life challenges instead of life threatening ones for once <3 i love your writing so much, your whole blog is like a gold mine ♥️
Oh, nonny, nonny, nonny. As soon as I read “my cat went missing”, I went into panic mode and completely disregarded the brackets saying that you found the little rascal. You said Ghost x Reader instead of Simon x Reader, so how about we change the request a little bit? Let’s say the military base has adopted the cat, and reader has a special bond with it.
———————————————————————
You’re down on all fours, peering under the tanks in the garage.
“Pspspspspsps,” you murmur.
“He’s not here.” Ghost’s voice echoes through the vast space.
You glance at his feet from under a tank; he’s pacing around and knocking on vehicles as if that’s the right approach to attract a cat.
“Can you stop that?” you ask, frustrated. “He won’t come out if you keep making loud noises.”
Ghost stops, and you see his feet turning towards your voice. His left foot crosses over the right, and you hear a thud as he leans against one of the trucks.
“Cat’s not here,” he repeats.
“The cat has a name, you know.”
He scoffs. “What’s his name again?”
“Baba,” you remind him.
“Baba,” Ghost repeats, then shouts at the top of his lungs, “OI, BABA! C’MERE YA FUCKER!”
You immediately spring up from your position and rush towards him. You place your index finger on your lips and put your other hand on his mask, where his mouth is supposed to be.
“Ssshut your mouth, Lieutenant.”
“What?” he asks, his voice muffled by your hand. “He’s not here anyway.”
“How do you know?” you inquire and put your hands on your hips.
“Because,” he shrugs and looks around, “there’s nothing interesting for a cat here.”
“Cats love to get into car engines,” you counter.
“When it’s cold, they do,” he replies. “But it’s a thousand degrees out there.”
You sigh and start pacing around, nervously biting your nails.
“What if he’s thirsty with all this heat?” You cry. “What if he went elsewhere to find water and can’t find his way back?”
Ghost straightens up from leaning on the truck. “They always put fresh water out for him,” he reassures you. “There’s no way he wandered off to find somewhere else.”
You turn to look at him with watery eyes, and he meets your gaze.
“It’s been two days, Ghost.”
He tilts his head to the side and glances over his shoulder. “I know,” he murmurs, scratching his cheek over his mask.
You lean on a car, observing him as he walks amidst the vehicles in the garage. He takes a pack of treats from the front pocket of his tactical vest and starts shaking it under the cars, trying to coax Baba out of hiding, threatening that he won’t give him any if he doesn’t “surrender.”
“You like him, don’t you?” you ask him.
He stands up straight and cups his ear. “What?”
“I said you like Baba,” you repeat, this time louder.
“I like my living quarters to be mice-free; that’s what I like,” he mumbles.
“Oh yeah,” you tease, “is that why you have a bag of treats on you?”
He looks at the bag and rotates it as if it had magically teleported into his hand.
“Ah!” he exclaims. “Well, that... that cat...” he says, snapping his fingers.
“Baba.” You remind him, trying to hide your smile.
“Right; Baba likes treats, apparently.” He replies and lowers his voice, “Unfortunately, these are salmon, and he doesn’t like salmon, or so I heard, but that’s all they had at the store today.”
“So you like Baba,” you state, and your smile widens.
He mutters an angry “whatever” under his breath, dismisses you, and retreats deeper into the garage to continue his investigation.
You and Ghost comb through every nook and cranny for the rest of the day, checking behind equipment, under parked vehicles, and calling out Baba’s name. Unfortunately, there’s no sign of him.
As you continue the search, you feel like giving up and occasionally break down in tears. On the other hand, Ghost refuses to show any signs of worry; his approach is pragmatic. He knows crying won’t bring Baba back, so he does his best to keep you grounded and focused on the search. Although frustrated by the lack of progress, he channels the energy into brainstorming new strategies, such as placing feeding stations around the base and instructing whoever is on patrol that night to check the stations for any signs of Baba.
Once he finishes the announcement, he shuts off the comms and turns to you.
“Do you know if Baba is neutered by any chance?” He asks.
“I don’t think he is,” you reply, furrowing your eyebrows. “He’s impossible to be captured, let alone placed in a cage and driven to the vet. Usually, the vet comes on base to give him his shots.”
He nods and takes a few seconds to process the information.
“Well,” he says, tilting his head, “that might explain why he’s been missing for a while.”
“You mean…”
He nods again and raises his hands. “Maybe Baba went to find some-”
“Nuh-uh.” You warn him, showing him your palm. “Don’t you dare say it.”
“It’s a possibility,” he says, shrugging. “If he’s not neutered, he could be out and about, following his instincts.”
You sigh and lower your head. You rub the back of your neck and turn to look at him.
“I just want to find him,” you whisper.
“I know,” he replies. “Me too.”
“You do?”
“He’s good for pest control.” He states and gestures with his head towards you. “And if that makes you stop crying every quarter of an hour, so be it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he chuckles. He pats your head and ruffles your hair.
“Don’t worry,” he says gently. “Either we find him, or he’ll return from wherever he’s gone.”
“What if we don’t find him, though?” You ask, “Or what if he doesn’t come back?”
“Baba always comes back.” He comforts you. “In the meantime, we’ll keep making announcements through the comms and print some posters to disseminate around the base.”
“I don’t have good pictures of Baba for the posters,” you say. “He never stays still.”
“That’s alright,” he replies. “I have a couple where he looks dapper.”
———————————————————————
Baba came back the next day. His fur was a tangled mess, covered in foxtails and burrs, and one of his ears was bleeding, so you summoned the vet to tend to his wounds. The mystery of where he had ventured off to and what he did there remained unsolved. Ghost claims he must have gone on a mission by the looks of him. You were both happy he was back, although the Lieutenant was slightly more pleased, knowing how much it meant to you to have Baba back.
*manifests from the void and slaps Monopoly money on the desk*
Going from the sheer panic he felt during Solider Down, how would Ghost react if reader actually had gotten seriously injured during a mission?
Oof, that’s a tough one.
Honestly? I believe he would try to hide his emotions and downplay the severity of the situation so the reader doesn’t understand how bad it is and panics.
But it hurts, and reader knows damn well what a flesh wound feels like as opposed to what they’re currently experiencing. His bizarre reaction says it all; there’s something else, far more severe. How come he was screaming bloody murder because of that minuscule injury at the obstacle course, but now he’s acting as if it’s nothing?
Something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.
And Ghost? He’s all, “It’s nothing but a scratch” and “Stop acting like a child,” but he’s dying inside.
He tries to keep the reader awake, applying pressure to the wound while hiding all the blood and pretending like everything’s alright. His defences kick in, and he cracks a joke or shares his experience on how he was injured on the same spot once and thought he would die too, but no, it just happens to hurt a lot there. “It’s your brain playing tricks on ya.” That’s all.
However, the reader becomes unable to understand anything because of their state, and Ghost scolds them for not laughing or paying attention. “Stay with me, fuck’s sake; please stay with me.”
And when the reader goes in and out of conscience, Ghost yells at the comms, threatening whoever is listening on the other end—the medic, the entire rescue team, even his own teammates—that if they don’t arrive soon enough, he will execute every single one of them; for not being there on time, for leaving you to die, for taking you away from him.
I imagine that Ghost is pretty crafty and as we know already from other stories, he is always eager to help. What if reader asks him for help to assemble some piece of IKEA furniture? Something big like a closet or even a kitchen, the stuff you can't really build on your own (or it's much easier with help at least).
I don't know how much experience you have with this stuff, but oh my god... The amount of time I already spend during my life sorting these bags of screws, losing my marbles over the instructions, getting into arguments with my partner because I wasn't holding something properly for his liking, the giant pieces of cardboard packaging I had to fold and cram into the dumpster... And then ordering pizza afterwards and being proud of what we did and admiring this stupid new dresser we got like it's some piece of art. Oh memories... :)
Indeed, he’s eager to help, but if you’re the stubborn I-need-help-but-let-me-try-by-myself-first type, I feel he would just sit there and watch you make a mess. You probably didn’t revisit the instructions either, did you? What’s that? You read them once, and that’s enough? Tsk tsk tsk.
Well, he holds the manual, just in case. And he reads it, and it takes so much effort from him not to snatch that L tool thingy they give you with the unassembled furniture and start doing it himself. You called him for the heavy stuff anyway, so he should probably wait until you ask for help.
But you don’t, and, as expected, you start projecting your anger towards him.
“You’re not helping.”
“What do you want me to do?” he asks. “Just say it.”
You look at the instructions in his hand. “What does it say?” you mumble and nod at the booklet.
“It says that you’re doing it wrong,” he replies.
You give him that look that you’re about to lash out at any minute, and he changes tactics without being fazed at all by your attitude. He just wants the job done and you to be happy. And pizza afterwards, of course.
He starts walking around your mess, pointing at pieces of furniture and screws, instructing you while reading the booklet.
“Take this,” he orders while holding a piece of wood and stabilising it with his knee, “Put the screw in here.” and points at the hole.
You do as you’re told. The fact that you’re now seeing progress is enough to shut you up.
After you finish your project, you feel triumphant and need some pizza. He’s hungry, too, but something still bothers him. He doesn’t show it and asks if you can order while he cleans up the cardboard boxes you used to lay the pieces onto.
You go to the other room and call your local pizzeria. He, in return, takes the tools and secretly goes through every screw you’ve placed, tightening them so that it doesn’t fall on you.
I imagine that Ghost is pretty crafty and as we know already from other stories, he is always eager to help. What if reader asks him for help to assemble some piece of IKEA furniture? Something big like a closet or even a kitchen, the stuff you can't really build on your own (or it's much easier with help at least).
I don't know how much experience you have with this stuff, but oh my god... The amount of time I already spend during my life sorting these bags of screws, losing my marbles over the instructions, getting into arguments with my partner because I wasn't holding something properly for his liking, the giant pieces of cardboard packaging I had to fold and cram into the dumpster... And then ordering pizza afterwards and being proud of what we did and admiring this stupid new dresser we got like it's some piece of art. Oh memories... :)
Indeed, he’s eager to help, but if you’re the stubborn I-need-help-but-let-me-try-by-myself-first type, I feel he would just sit there and watch you make a mess. You probably didn’t revisit the instructions either, did you? What’s that? You read them once, and that’s enough? Tsk tsk tsk.
Well, he holds the manual, just in case. And he reads it, and it takes so much effort from him not to snatch that L tool thingy they give you with the unassembled furniture and start doing it himself. You called him for the heavy stuff anyway, so he should probably wait until you ask for help.
But you don’t, and, as expected, you start projecting your anger towards him.
“You’re not helping.”
“What do you want me to do?” he asks. “Just say it.”
You look at the instructions in his hand. “What does it say?” you mumble and nod at the booklet.
“It says that you’re doing it wrong,” he replies.
You give him that look that you’re about to lash out at any minute, and he changes tactics without being fazed at all by your attitude. He just wants the job done and you to be happy. And pizza afterwards, of course.
He starts walking around your mess, pointing at pieces of furniture and screws, instructing you while reading the booklet.
“Take this,” he orders while holding a piece of wood and stabilising it with his knee, “Put the screw in here.” and points at the hole.
You do as you’re told. The fact that you’re now seeing progress is enough to shut you up.
After you finish your project, you feel triumphant and need some pizza. He’s hungry, too, but something still bothers him. He doesn’t show it and asks if you can order while he cleans up the cardboard boxes you used to lay the pieces onto.
You go to the other room and call your local pizzeria. He, in return, takes the tools and secretly goes through every screw you’ve placed, tightening them so that it doesn’t fall on you.
(Can i just say i love ur work, i too read them like bedtime stories, u perform a great service to humanity my good comrade)
Also, could i request perhaps Reader needing to go undercover for a mission and getting a bit too close for comfort with some baddies and thus making Ghost worry? He’s certainly not jealous by any means tho, of course not! Nope. Not jealous at all. Not even a smidge.
He is tho. He’s jealous. In his own Ghost way.
Thank you for your kind words, nonny and sorry for being so late!
Reader is an undercover tourist in Paris for this one. No warnings, other than a pretty sulky Ghost. More A/N at the end.)
———————————————————————
He hasn’t uttered a word since you returned to your temporary base. No “good job,” no “well done,” no “thank you for risking your life for the team.” Nothing. He didn’t even stick around for the debriefing. Instead, he stashed his gear in his locker and headed straight to the kitchen.
Usually, after a high-stress operation, Ghost would go to the kitchen to make some tea. Yet, the way he went about his business today seemed more like he was about to sharpen his knives than brew himself a ‘cuppa’.
There is a reason he’s upset, though, and you know it. While you are always prepared to risk your life for the team, your latest actions were pretty... out of character, so to speak, and Ghost took notice of that.
You stare at the closed kitchen door, wondering what’s unfolding behind it, how he feels, and whether he can communicate it without lashing out.
“Maybe it’s best to give him some space,” Price advises, narrowing his eyes. “You did a pretty risky thing back there; no reason to push your luck.”
“A whole kitchen’s worth of space, Captain?” you retort. “I’ll evacuate if things take a turn for the worse.”
“Call for backup if you can’t handle it,” he winks at you. “And don’t tell him I did that,” he says, pointing at his closed eye.
You smile at him, and push open the kitchen door. Ghost sits at the table, his back turned towards you, hunched over a cup of tea. He has his balaclava draped over his right thigh and his gloves on the table.
“Your hair is a mess.” You tease.
You reach to fix the stray hairs hanging over his forehead, but he pulls away from your touch. You lower your hand and go for the kettle instead. This will be much more difficult, you think to yourself.
“Coffee?” You offer. Although you know he’d refuse, you feel it’s a good way to break the ice.
Yet he doesn’t reply. Instead, he reclines on his chair and stirs the tea with a metal spoon. With your back turned to him, you pour the preheated water into your cup, add coffee granules, and cool it down with a gentle blow. The clinking of the metal spoon against the ceramic mug continues until it suddenly stops.
“Are you alright, mademoiselle?” He mocks, with a fake—and quite terrible—French accent, mimicking the enemy guard who “rescued” you when you dramatically pretended to twist your ankle in front of him.
A chuckle escapes you, and you turn to face him, leaning against the kitchen counter. He keeps his gaze fixed on his cup.
“I had to buy some time for Soap and Gaz, Lieutenant,” you explain. “They were inside that safehouse, gathering-”
“Intel,” he interjects. “I was there too; no need to rehash it.”
“The guards were dangerously close, sir,” you press on. “There was no time.”
He shakes his head. “No time doesn’t mean dropping to your hands and knees like a coquette, bawling your eyes out, waiting for a French knight in shining armour to come and save you now, does it?” he spats.
You raise an eyebrow. ‘Coquette’? You? He knows damn well the fall was staged, the tears were fabricated, the vulnerability was an act. The fall did hurt; otherwise, it wouldn’t have been believable. But shedding tears over twisting your ankle? No way. You’ve endured bullet wounds in the past, for heaven’s sake, and barely flinched. Ghost knows that. Yet, he looks more…
“Jealous, Lt.?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.” He murmurs, scratching his forehead.
“Say what you want,” You shrug. “But you must admit: it was a pretty convincing fall.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Nothing says more ‘convincing’ like kissing the cobblestones of Paris.”
“Alright,” you say, leaving your cup on the kitchen counter. You cross your arms in front of your chest and nod upwards. “What would you have done, then?”
“Shoot him,” he responds, his black-painted eyes shifting from the cup to you. “That’s why I was up on the rooftop, remember?”
“What’s the point of going undercover if you’d eliminate the threat like that?” You persist. “And in a public place like that? Come on, Lt.!”
He pushes his cup to the side, places his hands on the kitchen table and stands up.
“Have you ever thought of what would have happened if your cover was blown?” He asks, raising his voice. “How was I supposed to protect you if you were right in front of my bloody target?”
You keep staring at him, his last words replaying in your mind.
How was I supposed to protect you…
You look at your mug on the counter; the steam from the coffee is almost gone. It must have been transferred onto him instead, you think to yourself. Might as well let him blow it off. Let him vent.
“I know how to protect myself, Ghost.”
He sits back on his chair and brings his tea closer, shaking his head.
“You should’ve waited for the signal.” He says. “We’ve got a plan for a reason.”
“I understand, s-”
“Falling in front of the enemy, letting him scoop you up like a fucking princess in agony, removing your shoe, fetching you ice from the coffee shop wasn’t part of the plan.”
A smile threatens to escape your lips, but you suppress it. You turn your back to him and pretend to clean the counter. There’s no reason to anger him more.
“Sir,” you begin. “What is the problem here: me not following orders or letting the guard run to my aid?”
“I don’t care about that French prick touching your ankle.” He murmurs.
Well, seems that ‘French prick’ touching you bothered him as much as you not following the plan. You stop fake-wiping the counter, grab your mug and turn towards him.
“I apologise, sir,” you say. “It won’t happen again. But you could have voiced your concerns in a less... abrasive way.”
“Wasn’t the pavement abrasive enough?” He snaps. “What’s next? Are you going to cry over it?”
You click your tongue and approach the table, extending your hand for a handshake.
“Alright, enough,” you say. “Let’s make a truce and end this right now.”
He remains still, looking at you. He finally reaches for your hand, but instead of shaking it, he twists it so your palm faces down. With a smirk, he stands up, brings it to his mouth, and kisses it.
“Isn’t that how that fucker would have done it?” he asks, still smiling.
You roll your eyes. At least his anger has died down and you’re left with his—typical—snarky self. You pull a chair across from him.
“Mind if I sit?” You ask.
“Normally, I’d tell you to ‘hit the bricks’,” He murmurs, motioning for you to take your place. “But you’ve already done that.”
———————————————————————
A/N: I keep confusing “ankle” with “uncle”. You twist your ankle, not your uncle ffs.
Stfu! When I tell you I gasped and muffled the sound with my pillow! The way this beautiful writer always catches me off guard makes me feel so stupid every time I end up squeaking, giggling and kicking my feet as if I don't react the very same way every time I read something of her authorship ❤️
can you maybe do something where like, things simon does when he realizes he’s falling for you? :,)
Let me start by saying that I see Simon as someone more accustomed to others falling for him than the other way around. Like, he is the one who tends to be pursued rather than being the pursuer, if you know what I mean? I don’t know why but I feel he doesn’t have to put too much effort into wooing someone (and he probably knows that). A tall, beefy dude with a rugged appearance and that voice of his? The guy has it easy.
Now, what if he’s the one who falls for someone first? Aha! Well, He doesn’t even realise he has feelings for you, but they manifest in other ways, mainly through actions.
Ghost, as your lieutenant, for example, starts assigning you to low-risk missions or insists on accompanying you to ensure you’re safe.
In a more personal context, Simon offers to pick you up from your home so you don’t have to walk or take public transportation. He might even escort you to your car at night to protect you.
He tells you jokes he thinks you’d enjoy. He absolutely loves it when you laugh; he feels defeated when you roll your eyes and even a bit salty when you already know the joke (or fail to “get” it.)
He pays close attention to the details. He remembers your favourite food, how you like your coffee/tea, and your pet’s name. No, he won’t cook for you (yet), but he’s taking mental notes, studying you.
However, he’s not aware of what he’s doing exactly (or why he’s doing it, for that matter). It’s not until the rest of the team notices and insinuates that there’s something more between you two that he comes face to face with his emotions. Emotions he’s not ready to accept yet.
He rejects the idea that he has developed feelings for you and hopes that by suppressing ignoring them, they’ll fade away. But, as my boy Freud once said, “unexpressed emotions never die; they are buried alive and come forth later in uglier ways.”
He begins distancing himself from you. He rebuilds the walls you once torn down and returns to treating you just like everyone else. He had people he loved before, and it’s only brought him pain. His past experiences have left deep scars, and he’s determined not to go through that again. He’s not just doing it just for himself, though; he also wants to protect you from him and the pain.
Him. Pain. What’s the difference?
You, on the other hand, pick up on his behaviour but don’t confront him about it. “You know how the lieutenant is,” they once told you. “Sometimes he’s all jokes, other times he’s just business.” Maybe, you think, he needs his space. So you begin mirroring his actions, pulling away and giving what he seemingly wants.
But he secretly doesn’t want you to do that. Contrary to what he hoped to achieve by distancing himself from you and, therefore, from his feelings for you, he falls even harder.
Once cocky and arrogant, now he’s insecure. He starts projecting his fears onto you, feeling that you’re the one pulling away, even though you’re merely respecting his unspoken need for space.
So he confronts you. He wants an explanation for the change in your demeanour. And you? Well, you tell him the truth; you thought he needed some space. Right?
Who knows. Maybe you were just respectful. Perhaps you were giving him a taste of his own medicine.
It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that he gets it now. Running away from his feelings or those he cares about doesn’t work, just like ignoring his emotions won’t make them disappear. On the contrary, they directly affect both him and you.
Of course, he doesn’t admit it. No, he wouldn’t be caught dead doing that.
Yet, he decides to (re)open up to you, this time gradually, bit by bit, at his own pace. Just for a chance that this calculated, ruthless operator that many perceive him to be can finally transform into a genuinely emotionally invested human being for the first time.
Ghost is exactly the kind of person to go on vacation on to Scotland and never tell their Scottish friend about it and instead wait for them to figure it out years later. 10/10
100% this. And then proceed to act indifferent, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Soap: “What do you mean you’ve been visiting Scotland every year for the past decade?!”
You have a few questions about Ghost’s mask and he has some answers. (platonic, self-indulgent banter)
———————————————————————
You sit side by side outside the medic’s office, waiting for your physical exams. You’ve both just returned from a mission, and it’s standard procedure for all personnel to undergo routine checks upon returning to the base. ‘It’s the protocol’, they said. Boring shit.
Adjusting your shirt, you recline on the chair, glancing at Ghost’s back. He’s slouching, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked together. He turns to his left, looking at something you’re not interested in paying attention to right now.
He’s fascinating.
“Did you make it yourself?” You ask, nodding towards him.
He doesn’t hear you. That, or he pretends he doesn’t do so. You gently nudge his knee with yours to get his attention. He turns over his shoulder, his eyes locking with yours.
“The mask,” you say, pointing at him, then gesturing to your face, “did you make it yourself?”
He keeps staring at you, but not in the same way when he first turned towards you. It’s more ominous now, like a sign in the middle of the road warning you that there’s been an accident ahead. You don’t know what that accident entails, or what you will face if you get closer. Is it a truck that spilt yellow dye all over the road? Is it a major crash with casualties? Do you want to find out?
Yes. Yes, you do.
“I just think it’s neat.” You say, shrugging.
His eyes linger on you for a few more seconds until they end up traveling from your head to your waist. He finally looks away.
You keep staring at the side of his face, studying it; there’s a faint outline of an ear, a barely visible jawline, the skull plate sewn on his painted balaclava.
“Does it get clammy in there?” You ask again, this time louder.
You know he heard you, but he doesn’t turn to look at you this time. He takes a deep breath, his chest rising, and so does his head. He closes his eyes, and with a long exhale, he lets it all out. He stretches his neck to the left and then to the right.
“What is it that you wanna know?” He asks.
“You never removed it during our mission, not one single time,” you explain. “Got me wondering if you ever take it off, that’s all.”
He lets out an almost inaudible chuckle; it’s so quiet that you can’t hear it, but you can see his shoulders rise and fall. He slowly shakes his head as he gazes down at the floor. Hopefully, it’s a genuine reaction and not just an attempt to release the tension building up.
He straightens himself, sliding back in his seat before reclining. His shoulders press against yours, and you make room for him as much as possible. It almost feels like he’s intentionally expanding his presence; otherwise, he might have been more considerate with his posture. On the other hand, so would you with all the drilling.
“I, too, wonder about you.” He says.
“About what?” You ask.
“Whether you ever stop talking.” He replies, turning to look at you.
“I have questions.” You explain as your eyes drift to his right ear.
“I can tell,” He says and gestures for you to go ahead. “Let’s hear ’em.”
You straighten up and twist your upper body towards him.
“Ok, so,” you begin and clasp your hands together. “How does the medic check your ears if you keep them covered?”
“My ears are just fine.” He responds almost too quickly.
“How do you know?”
“I keep listening to you, don’t I?” he replies. “It’s my nerves that need checking.”
“Why?”
“Cause I keep listening to you.” He repeats. “Anything else?”
“What about your mouth?” You ask. “What if they need to check that during the examination?”
“I’m sure you’d manage that for both of us,” he replies as he leans further back, resting his head on the wall. “Since yours rarely stays closed.”
“Is that so, Lt.?”
He shuts his eyes and slowly nods.
“Do you have an answer for everything?” You ask.
“Do you want to find out?”
“Do I?”
“Do you?” He says, opening his eyes and looking straight at you.
You open your mouth to say something but decide against it. You close it and twist your body to the front, yet you can feel his eyes burning through the back of your head.
“You forgot the nose.” He says.
“What?”
“The nostrils.” He explains. “You asked about almost every single orifice in the human body except the nostrils and the arsehole, for Christ’s sake.”
“Do they check those?”
“Only if you have allergies,” he replies. “Or an infection.”
“Allergies in the arse?” You joke. “Never heard of that.”
“No,” he says, pointing at you. “Pain in the arse.”
