#barely edited btw

[wordsofyore]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem. Reader

You know this isn't really normal.

It would have been one thing if this was just a good old crush. Typical stuff, as far as crushing on someone usually goes for you--someone forever distant, forever unattainable--the perfect candidate to pin all your hopes and dreams on for a time, until you inevitably become lucid and tear down the billboard-sized image of the man in your heart. Rinse and repeat. The distance keeps you safe and comfortable.

And a part of you dares to admit the quiet part out loud--you enjoy the yearning. The sting, the bittersweet soup of emotions and what-ifs.

But now, that all-important distance is the very thing you are breaching without even deliberating on it, a compulsion akin to a moth being drawn to a flame. Perhaps it wouldn't have been a big deal if it had been any other man. Yet, it is.

Because you're crushing on Lieutenant Simon fucking Riley.

It isn't hard to miss the guy, with how he is, of course. The forever skullface-masked behemoth of a man has a habit of drawing one's eye to him the moment he enters a room, without having to utter a word. Half the time he merely grunts anyhow, but your ears pay their due attention any time he deigns to quip something in his no nonsense Mancunian accent.

And your poor little battered heart sings in delight, every single time.

Of course, as a lower ranked service member, your schedules don't really match with someone of his tier, so you make sure to linger around the gym and common areas, and certain entry points to catch sight of him, whenever you can. Observing. Noting habits and preferences. Carefully penning them down in the personal journal you like to hide under your pillow. He's a creature who's as enigmatic as it gets, and the mask makes it that much harder to get a read on him. It's only when you're 20 pages deep into your journal, recording your stream of consciousness in the dead of night, that you get the inkling that maybe, just maybe, this might be a little too much.

Stalkers were supposed to be creepy, maladjusted, sinister little characters, preying on their victims until things reached a boiling point. And while you had a low opinion of yourself in many regards, you didn't quite consider yourself to be that level of depraved. Yet isn't this what it was, really? Stalking, despite keeping a sizeable distance between yourselves (because Lord knows being observant is an essential requirement in this line of work, and you are more than aware someone of Simon's calliber would be even more so. The last thing you want is to be caught by one of his mates, or God forbid, Simon Riley himself, in this shameful act).

This rare moment of precious lucidity casts a fog on your spirits, a thick concoction of shame and desire and guilt.

You know what? Yeah.

Maybe this is a bit much. Maybe you shouldn't be leaving little gifts for the guy (fairly practical supplies, really, things like good quality tea brands you couldn't find on base), despite making sure you wouldn't be caught on surveillance. There were things at stake here, important things like your goddamn career and reputation. You might be addicted to pining and habitually putting your heart through the wringer for no discernible reason, but you knew your limits. You had to.

And no, you certainly didn't want his attention on you--you wouldn't know what to do with it, the very thought makes your palms sweat and legs jittery.

The gifts were all unsigned and without notes, at least. And generic enough that he could assume one of his mates left them out of the kindness and generosity of their golden hearts. Something like that.

Reduce the frequency with which you hover around him--another no brainer. And of course, one last, critical step, getting rid of that stupid little journal, regardless of how sad it made you feel.

It has all these cute little tidbits about him, things you like to read over when insomnia grips you in its capricious hold. Some dry joke he muttered to his Scottish sergeant, the way he drinks his tea, a little too detailed description of his lips and jawline the times he lifts his mask to eat at the mess hall. Even a few amateur sketches. And of course, generous amounts of waxing lyrical about his forearms and thighs while he's working out at the gym. Bloody embarrassing.

So the next time you find a chance to finally breathe, you reach for your pillow, flipping the sad little sack over to reveal the incriminating piece of evidence, armed with a pair of cheap scissors. Only for your heart to drop to your stomach at terminal velocity when you find nothing beneath. Your right hand helplessly clutches the scissors while your left pats the bed as if doing so would conjure up the well-loved journal out of thin air. Did you misplace it somewhere yourself? Or were your mates being little shits, snooping around like rats for a practical joke, and accidentally discovered the little paperback? If so, fuck them--you won't be living this down. If not get outright in a little hot water were a senior with a stick up their ass gets word of it. The worst outcome of course would be if Simon Riley himself was to somehow learn of this too, the cherry on top of a shit cake.

You force yourself to take a few calming breaths--if nothing, your stint in the military at least taught you this much. It's okay--you'll just have to check every spot you frequent and cross them off your list. At this hour, the juniors will at least be out of your way with their curfew. Silver lining and all that.

_

Except, by the time you make a whole damn lap of the base and come full circle, you're tired to your bones and miserable beyond words. Because no amount of keeping calm and carrying on is helping you when you can't see skin nor hide of your purple prosed diary.

Leaning your forehead against the door of your room, you sigh in defeat, the rattling of your heart loud in your ears in the silence of the hallway. Everyone else seems to be asleep at least, missing out on being an audience to your soap opera.

"Fucking hell..."

Just as another quiet string of expletives leaves your mouth, in what's like the blink of an eye, you feel the presence of a looming figure, causing you to whip around in defense, fists locked, ready to fight.

Except when you have to crane your neck to meet the person's gaze, you already know who it is before you, standing so close, his hulking mass invading your space with the casualness of an aloof cat. Your hands drop uselessly the moment you are pinned beneath his gaze, pressing yourself up against the door in a bid to create some breathing space.

"Lookin' for somethin', love?" Simon Riley gruffly asks with a tilt of his head, placing his hand against the wall next to your head. His very first words to you. Your head almost goes blank.

"Uh," you avert your eyes, voice hitching, "N-No? I'm not sure what you're talking about, LT-sir."

"Is that right, soldier," he more so states, leaning in ever closer, cutting off your viewpoint of anything besides himself. "Been watchin' ya."

You balk at the matter of fact statement.

"Watching... me?" you grimace.

Riley merely grunts, before adding, "Got myself a cute little stalker, ain't I?"

All you can do is impersonate a dying fish as you stare up at him in abject horror, overworking heart beating out of your chest.

"Not seen you down the gym in a bit. Or in the mess," he stops for a moment, as if remembering something, "Or the shootin' range."

"Again, I have no idea what you're implying here, sir," you quickly lick your dry lips and decide to stare at his broad chest with great interest instead, propriety be damned.

"Let's not play dumb, love. You're a smart girl," Simon huffs, almost as if holding back one of those dry laughs, "You like me?"

This time you can't restrain the soft gasp you let out as you jerk up at his frank question.

"What...?" you faintly ask, stomach churning.

"Do you like me?" He enunciates his words this time, as if that was the core of the issue. The corners of his eyes crinkle with what looks to be amusement. His brown eyes almost look welcoming. Like home. Like a warm hearth in the dead of winter.

Of course you like him.

You like him so damn much you don't know what you should do with these feelings. And you do want to be frank, just like he's encouraging you to be. But you're equally terrified of verbally confirming what you've been up to, straight to the man himself. You can't help but want that layer of plausible deniability.

"You," Simon leans down further as if that's somehow possible, with how he's hovering over you, mere centimeters away, "like your egg banjos wi' a daft amount o' raw onion. Listen to the same three songs when you're workin' out," he tilts his head, thoughtful. "Like sneakin' off to that cat shelter when you're off-duty. Even helped 'em name one of the kitties after me."

By this point, you'd qualify as a mute. You feel lightheaded even.

"Want me to carry on, love? Or shall we just sort a proper date instead?" he sniffs, looking a touch bemused. "You got a few things wrong about me in that little journal o' yours. I'll be settin' those straight, don't you worry."

[0fthelake]

tiny little maekar and baby daeron section from a longer one-shot i haven't the time to finish, cause i love my baby

this directly releates to my valaeron fic, but is also at its core just maekar comforting a young daeron after a dream

The piercing sobs of a young boy rang out down the hall as Maekar hurried to fix the robe around his waist. 

Dyanna had offered to go, blessed be her heart, but Aerion was curled up beside her in bed with hand locked so fierce on her chemise, it’d be difficult to remove. 

The silver-gold haired boy had lost a tooth earlier in the day, which was an ordeal seeing as he was hardly three. He’d been too rambunctious and fallen, face first, onto the cold stone stair he’d been playing near. Maekar thought his heart would fall from his body when blood and cries gushed from his youngest sons mouth, but they were assured it was only a tooth and it would grow back as he was so young. 

That hadn’t taken the pain away, of course, and the boy had been clung to his parents ever since. Not even Daeron, who had offered his favorite doll, had been able to soothe him. Which was odd, as Daeron typically was able to soothe Aerion through everything. 

Another sob, a wail, and Maekar cursed the damn robe as he hurried faster. 

The septa was outside the room, the door was open but she had not entered. She looked tired, as she turned to the Prince of Summerhall and bowed her head. Maekar was aware the woman knew better than to go inside when the weeping began, but he still cursed her as well. 

“Useless,” he snarled, and her expression did not change.

They both knew she was, and it was more fact than anything. She could not soothe his son, she could not contain Aerion, sometimes Maekar wondered why she was even here. He did not shut the door behind him as he entered, the woman was barely worth closing out. She’d seen this event more than enough in the past four years. 

Daeron was sitting up in bed when Maekar got to him. His face was so flushed with upset and agonizing fear that he barely looked like himself. There was snot on his lip, and tears falling in rivers down his cheeks. His eyes were swollen, and Maekar wondered if he’d been silently weeping before his cries rose in volume to alert them. 

“My boy,” Maekar sighed, coming to the side of his small featherbed. He reached down for him, lifting him up into his arms.

The blond boy fought for a moment, his little body resisting the lift until he seemed to recognize it was his father and not a monster from his dream. When he finally did, he threw his face hard into his father’s neck, nuzzling and snuffling away the sobs that continued. 

Maekar rocked him in his arms, his knuckles rubbing up and down his spine. Daeron was getting bigger every day, and while he was still a boy, he was hardly small enough to hold like this as often as he did. His legs were long, but Daeron still curled like a babe against Maekar’s chest. 

“Shh,” Maekar tried to soothe him. He tried to calm him, rocking him in his arms, but he knew it would be no true relief to the boy. 

When Daeron was barely a few months old, Dyanna had been able to completely soothe him. She’d offer him the breast, or kiss his sweet head, and his tears would stop. It was so suddenly when nothing longer worked. Maekar had tried, the septa, the maids, everyone. They’d even tried putting Aerion beside him in a cradle, to see if the scent of his brother would offset whatever upset him.

It had taken too long to realize the source of the boys upset were nightmares. 

They’d changed his bed clothing, his blankets, the mattress he slept on, the food he ate, the milk he drank — everything before Dyanna asked if he was having poor dreams. 

Maekar had poor dreams, but nothing like this. 

He walked Daeron around the room, rubbing his back gentle with his knuckles, working out any stress a boy of only four years could have. It pained him, it pained him terribly, that his son was like this. There was no reason for him to wail in the night, nothing haunted the shadows that Maekar would not have removed. There was no explanation for the dreams, save for what Daeron would say when his little body calmed enough. 

By the time such came to pass, Maekar thought he’d walked the same distance around the small nursery as the length to King’s Landing. His legs were tired, but he was young. He was strong.

“Father …” Daeron’s small voice finally croaked out something other than a sob.

“I have you,” Maekar assured him. “There is nothing to hurt you, my sweet boy.”

“Not even the birds?” Daeron whimpered, his voice was almost gone from his weeping but he was close enough to Maekar’s ear he could hear him clearly. 

“I’d never let a bird hurt you.” Maekar kissed his round cheek. “You are blood of the dragon, sweet boy. A bird is nothing to a dragon.” 

Late at night like this, holding his distressed boy, he could let his scent free. Daeron seemed comforted when Maekar did not drench himself in oil to cover up the stench of omega that leaked from his body. It was one of the reasons Maekar had stopped applying them after the evening bath, for nights like this that came far too often. 

Daeron seemed soothed for a moment, at his words. Maekar knew if he took them to heart tonight, the comfort would not last to the next evening. His dreams were so fearful he hardly saw reason when he slept. 

“The birds …” Daeron’s little voice trailed off. His grip was still tight on his father’s robe, but lessening slightly. He would fall back into slumber soon, and if the gods were kind to his little son, he would not dream until morning. 

“They’re just dreams, Daeron,” Maekar said, purring gently. “Dreams have never hurt you.” 

“Aerion’s tooth?” Daeron questioned, pointing out the obvious in a childish way. “I dreamed he’d spit blood, Father…” 

“Anyone could have dreamt that with the way he toddles about the Keep.” 

Maekar turned towards the window on the next pass of the nursery. He stopped there, and tilted back slightly with his thumb underneath Daeron’s chin to get a look at his face in the moonlight. 

On the morrow he’d have to ask Maester Tercel to put a cold cloth to his little face. The swelling was strong tonight. Perhaps Aerion’s injury had upset Daeron more than they’d thought, and been a poor catalyst for his nightmares. But, Daeron did not dream of his brother spitting blood tonight. He dreamt the same dream he’d been having for weeks now — the dream of birds. 

“Does your face hurt?” Maekar asked, gently. He ran one thumb over the raw skin beneath Daeron’s eye, as the little boy nodded. “You poor little thing.” 

Daeron nuzzled gently into his father’s palm. Maekar moved from the window to the basin of water, kept fresh for the septa in the morrow to clean their little bodies of nightly sweat. He gathered the resting towel with a bit of water, and began to kindly wipe snot, sweat and tears from Daeron’s face. Daeron scrunched up at the wetness, but did not fight even when the rough cloth passed over his sore cheeks. 

“Does that feel better?” Maekar asked, gently as he placed the cloth back down. “Do not cry again, little dragon, or you will undo your fathers good work.” 

The blond boy giggled, barely a breathy bubble, and laid his face back upon his fathers shoulder. He seemed to obey, though his tears had already stopped. Maekar felt his lashes flutter against his neck, and took the sign that he was calm at last. 

The omega walked his son over to the small featherbed. He sat on the edge, and when Daeron stiffened, he kept him in his arms to assure he wasn’t leaving. Had Aerion not been so upset in bed, Maekar would have taken Daeron to go rest alongside his mother as well. But it would do no good for either boy to bother the other. 

“Father,” Daeron’s little voice called again. Maekar assumed he was speaking without meaning and hummed in acknowledgment. Daeron, however, continued. “A bird cannot hurt a dragon?”

“No, sweetling,” Maekar assured. “Dragons are far too large, their scales too thick. There is no bird that could think to harm one.” 

The boy was silent again, nodding lightly as he pressed his nose against his father’s pulse, no doubt drawing comfort from his scent. 

“The birds …” Daeron started, hesitantly as though he didn’t know if he should speak. His little hand had finally let go of Maekar’s robe, and was now in his mouth as he sucked on his fingers. “Is that why you do not you help the dragon?”

“What is that, Daeron?” Maekar shifted how he held Daeron, putting him into more of a cradle despite his growing body. Daeron blinked up at him, the sleepy lavender eyes half open as he suckled three of his fingers between his lips. 

“The birds,” Daeron yawned, his teeth nibbling his knuckles anxiously. “The birds, when they eat the baby dragons. You don’t help them?” 

“There are no baby dragons,” Maekar was frowning now, having heard the same dream enough to know his boy would hardly give up despite what he was told. “Birds cannot harm a dragon.” 

“You don’t believe me,” Daeron’s voice cracked. “Father …”

“It’s just a dream,” Maekar sighed, taking Daeron’s hand from his mouth. He used his sleeve to wipe away the saliva, getting him clean once more. He bounced his knee slightly, rocking him to try and get him soothed back to sleep. “I cannot help birds who cannot harm a dragon in a dream, sweetling.” 

“Just a dream …” The little boy trailed off, blinking up at his father. Maekar released Daeron’s now clean hand, and lifted his own to rub soothing touches upon the bridge of his nose. 

“Just a dream,” Maekar said again, assuring him. He used the backs of his fingers to close Daeron’s eyes, the boy’s lashes fluttering a moment before staying closed. Maekar gently touched over his cheeks, before smoothing back his sleep mussed hair.