hii! i love ur fics!! can u write something about medical f/reader and her being scared of Ghost and can't look him in the eyes (he makes her really nervous and shy) and Ghost kinda find it amusing:))
an apple a day...
At first, Simon wasn't fazed by the rumors about the cute new head doctor on base; that is, until he realized the effect he had on you - and how fun was it to tease you with it.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Medic Reader
rbs greatly appreciated!
WC: 1,4K
a/n: hi anon! thank you for this ask, i had a lot of fun writing this <3 bear in mind i used the little medical knowledge from my brief pharmacist student era and i actually have no idea how medical regs work in the army so take these inaccuracies with a grain of salt lmao. thank you my love @chaoskrakenuwu for the beta read <333333
tags: profanity, pure fluff, medical innacuracies, female reader, Simon is a smug little shit.
Ghost was many things, but amongst it all, he silently took pride in being good at reading people.
At first, he didn’t know exactly why he was doing it, and later he’d come to realize it was an amusing game for him, oddly enough, considering Simon Riley was never a man to bask in mundane pleasures.
It started with the rumors around the base about the allegedly cute new head doctor. Simon had been around these men for long enough to grow used to their touch deprived selves thirsting over literally any woman that came close to their general vicinity, so at first the talk didn’t stir his curiosity - it almost never did; he didn’t like to gossip. This changed one morning when he woke up with a killer headache, and unwillingly made way to the infirmary to try and get some painkillers. Gingerly knocking on the door and waiting for the approval of whoever was on the other side - which came in the form of a meek ‘come in’ - he had completely forgotten about the rumors going around until he set foot in the room and instantly came across the new head doctor.
They didn’t do it justice. You weren’t cute, you were a fucking spectacle.
He blinked, seemingly expressionless behind the mask, but he embarrassingly had to admit he might have let his gaze wander more than usual as you looked up from the papers you were looking over, clearly confused as to why you heard your door open but not a word out of the person who came in, and, as you did so, he recognized all the emotions people felt whenever they looked at him for the first time: confusion, shock - be it by his sheer absurd size or the mask - and, lastly, intimidation. It wasn’t unusual, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t bother a very hidden part of him, the fact he was intimidating such a small and seemingly harmless woman such as yourself. He had half a mind to speak first, but you beat him to it.
“Oh, uh…Hello, er, Lieutenant Ghost? How can I help you?” You clearly fiddled with your fingers as you stared at him with wide eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. Simon was slightly annoyed you already knew who he was - the whispers about him on base weren’t exactly positive, and he wondered what you might have heard.
“Yeah. Got one fuckin’ headache, I need some meds.” He was aware of how much more coarse his already gruff voice sounded, courtesy of the annoying pain and the sour mood he was already in, and took notice of the way the sound of it made your eyes widen even more. Clearing your throat, you mumbled something in agreement, heading to a cabinet near your desk, and he couldn’t help but watch you like a hawk - entranced by how you looked with the clearly frantic tied up hair and the white lab coat moving in tandem with your body. You looked so small compared to him and the thought made him more satisfied than he’d like to admit.
Finally reaching the drawer you were looking for, you searched it around for a bit until grabbing a small blister with four duo colored pills, hastily making your way over to Ghost and handing him the medication. You gave some instruction on how he should take it - once every six hours, if the pain didn’t go away, but not more than three a day - but he barely registered it, too caught up on watching you from above. Deciding to end your torture, he looked over at the blister on his hand and raised it slightly as if it were a toast.
“Cheers. Thanks, doc.”
With that, he left, not going unnoticed how surprised you were at his cordialness.
After that, he unconsciously made a habit out of it, popping into your office for the stupidest of reasons and he wasn’t even sure why; he’d find himself gravitating towards the infirmary, like a lost dog, to the point you updated his file with the recently known information that he had constant headaches - he didn’t. Simon took some sort of sick pleasure from watching you squirm under his gaze, never able to keep his eye contact for long, even more so when you heard his voice, and things took an interesting turn when he realized you probably weren’t intimidated - but flustered instead. It clicked with him one day as he entered your office in casual clothes before heading to the gym and you thought you were being subtle about the way you ogled his arms in the tight black shirt he was wearing. As he was leaving, he subconsciously turned to grip the doorway above him - not by much - to bid you goodbye, and he couldn’t help but to smirk under the mask when your eyes widened and your face visibly reddened at the motion.
So, he decided to test his theory. That day, he didn’t even need to fake a headache to go see you, he actually had gotten injured when helping out with some maintenance, a moment of recklessness giving him a cut on his hand. If it were another circumstance, he would just have taken care of it himself, considering how desensitized he was to pain these days, but for once he had a good reason to bother you, so that’s exactly what he did. Even if his presence made you so shy, this time you couldn’t help but look at him with worry as he entered the infirmary.
“Ghost, you really have to look into those headaches of yours.”
“Not my head this time.”
He showed you the bleeding cut on his hand, and almost chuckled at the way your eyes widened and you got into professional mode, hastily walking around to gather materials he knew all too well - gauze, iodine, all fun stuff. Simon was used to the sting of stitches, but they rarely felt as gentle as you did it, the way he relished on how close you were while fixing his hand, a focused flash in your eyes, not helping his case one bit, even if it was slightly disappointed how all of your shy nature disappeared the moment you had to be professional. He could appreciate how good you were at what you did, though.
Too soon for his liking, you were done, going around mumbling about a specific anti-inflammatory you were going to give him while he admired the neat work on his hand. Still sitting on the infirmary bed, he watched as you realized where the medication was, which just so happened to be on the tallest shelf of the medication cabinet. You sighed, grumbling about the reckless nurse that always messed with the placement of the medications, too caught up in trying to stand on your tiptoes to reach it that you missed Ghost moving right behind you, noticing only when his torso was inches away from your back and he had one hand gingerly touching your waist, the way you shivered not going unnoticed. He indulged in the way you stilled, turning to look at him with a surprised expression, and he almost chuckled at how adorable your eyes looked when wide like that, but, instead, he only looked down at you for a few moments before effortlessly getting the medicine box from the shelf - which was almost at his eye level - and handing it to you, putting minimal distance between your bodies. Mumbling a small ‘thanks’ you averted your eyes from him, visibly gulping while you quickly found the blister inside the box and handed it to him. However, even after taking it from your hands, he made no move to leave, keeping his stare at you while tilting his head lightly to the side.
“Do I make you flustered, Doc?”
You blinked, processing his words before opening and closing your mouth like a fish and looking to the side, breaking eye contact.
“…Yes. I knew you were doing it on purpose…” You mumbled, embarrassed, and he finally chuckled, not a bit ashamed that you caught him red handed.
He was never so glad to be able to read people so well as that day, when he went back to his room leaving behind a bashfully grinning you and the promise to take you out on a real date whenever you’d be free.
The last walk-in you expected to see in your tattoo parlor in one rainy day was a massive masked behemoth of a man. It came as even more of a surprise when you wanted to see him there again and again; and a final time when he kept coming back.
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Tattoo artist reader
rbs greatly appreciated!
WC: 7K
a/n: listen, as a tattoo artist irl, the first thing i did when i discovered ghost had a tattoo was to think how i had to self indulge. i’d kill to tattoo this man personally. shoutout to @117s-girl, @somnibats and Eddie for the tremendous help when i had writer’s block, and @deafeningcat for the amazing beta read as always <3
tags: fluff, reader being horny for ghost, ghost being slightly ooc, mentions at verbal abuse, slightly suggestive and slight angst.
You remember the first time Simon Riley walked into your shop.
It was a cold and rainy day - like most days in Manchester - and you were idling by, doodling on a notebook by the front desk and listening to whatever was playing on the radio without paying it much attention. Glancing at the clock on the wall where the empty loveseat was, you were starting to wonder if you should go get something to eat while you waited, when the bell on the front door chimed, indicating someone had come in.
At first, you thought he was going to rob you, and in a second you were already kissing your expensive equipment goodbye in your head, cursing the fact you had decided to buy that pricey tattoo machine you were eyeing for so long just last week, but those thoughts vanished when the figure just stood in front of you. Silently, you eyed the skull mask and sunglasses that covered his face, wondering what was this guy’s deal, since it was way too grey outside to be wearing any sort of eyewear. Trying not to let his huge stature looming over you be intimidating, you were about to say something when his gruff voice cut the silence.
“You take walk-ins?”
So he really was a client, you thought. Rummaging through the notebooks in the desk, you quickly glanced at your schedule, seeing your next client wasn’t supposed to come for a few good hours, and decided you were curious about the masked man.
“Well, it depends. What were you thinking of getting?”
He stood still for a moment, and you wondered if he heard you at all, but suddenly he reached for something in the pocket of his jeans, extending a neatly folded piece of paper in front of you. His voice filled the silence again as you unfolded the paper, and you found the thick accent oddly calming coming from him.
“I want it to be a sleeve. Covering my left forearm.”
You opened it to find a surprisingly intricate design, and it seemed like whoever did it made it with the intention of actually getting it as a sleeve. Not taking the masked guy for an artist, you found a signature on the bottom of the page, a chicken scratch that read “Tommy Riley”. Usually, you’d make light conversation and ask about the design, especially when it looked important, but something told you not to pry into this man’s business. Assuming he’s this “Tommy” fella, you just smiled politely, deciding you could fit the first session of it into your work day.
“Sure. It should take a few sessions, though, is that alright with you?” He simply nodded, wordlessly, and you decided that was good enough of an answer.
Leading him into the procedure room after getting his approval on the price, you made sure to give him a consent form for him to fill out and sign while you traced the design to a stencil - making sure to cut the right adjustments to wrap around his visibly huge forearm. You wondered if he was a weightlifter of sorts, or maybe just a gym rat.
Transferring the stencil to his skin and prepping your materials for tattooing was a completely silent ordeal, and your client seemed more than content in just letting the silence linger for the remainder of your encounter, and even if you were getting antsy by it, you were glad he didn’t comment on how visibly nervous you were when you wrapped your gloved hands around his arm to make the stencil stick - feeling his warmth and the protruding veins even through the latex that covered your own skin.
“You have any other tattoos?” You asked, stepping on the machine pedal to make sure your tattoo machine was at the right voltage while he got comfortable setting his arm on the arm rest.
“No.”
“Cool.” God, you felt awkward. “I’m gonna start now, tell me if it hurts too much.”
“Right.”
You felt stupid saying that to a man that had arms the size of your head and was at least 6,4. As expected, he didn’t even flinch when the needles touched his skin, but you weren’t about to give up on your mission to make conversation with your mysterious client. While tracing it with the machine, you analyzed the design a bit closer.
“That’s some interesting art.” It wasn’t. It was tacky as hell, all missiles and skulls and other edgy elements, but you were not going to say that to him. “You like guns?”
“Something like that.”
You gave up trying to chat him up shortly after. Even with the weird dad sunglasses on, you could still feel his stare on you, unnerving at best, and you wondered what was up with the mask. In your line of work, you’d met some interesting individuals, and you considered your shop a safe haven for all outcasts and misfits; you’d known, after all you did decide to pursue tattooing as a career. Still, something about this man - Tommy? - made you feel an itch to see what lied beyond the mask - both figuratively and literally. At least it would take a few more sessions to finish his piece, hopefully he’d say more than five words at once to you at some point.
It took you two hours to finish tracing it, and you deemed it was good to go and begin shading another day. Getting into professional mode, you gave him directions on how to care for it and asked him to come back after a month to start on shading it, and, as expected, he only nodded to you. Going back to the front desk, he handed the bills containing the price you had settled on, and turned around, leaving without another word. Out of curiosity, you picked up his file. The first thing you noticed was that he had left the “Occupation” space blank.
The second thing you noticed was that the signature read “Simon Riley”.
☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆
Simon didn’t come back after a month.
A good few months later, you just figured he’d given up and was now walking around with an unfinished tattoo, or, worse, he had picked another artist to finish the job, and the thought made you angrier than you’d like to admit. Despite your annoyance, whenever you’d organize your clients files, you’d find yourself lingering on his, weirdly curious and feeling like he was a puzzle you were dying to solve.
A long time passed - you don’t know how much, but you’d say it was more than a year - before he showed up again, and, once again, it was unannounced. You were finishing a client’s tattoo when your friend - and coworker - knocked on the procedure room door, and when you’d told her to come in, she looked like she had seen a ghost.
“There’s a guy in the waiting room asking for you. Said you were doing his sleeve…” She quietly announced, and you just stared at her quizzically, waiting for her to continue. "He 's…Big. Tall guy with a creepy skull mask.”
She whispered the last part so he wouldn’t hear it, even if he was a good corridor distance away and the metal music coming from the radio would drown it out, and after a few moments you realized she was talking about Simon. You remember answering something to her and finishing the tattoo on auto pilot before heading to the front desk, and, sure enough, Simon was standing there menacingly, in his whole huge aura, seemingly unbothered by how his height, frame, and mask were making the other clients in the shop regard him with uneasy looks. His eyes met yours once you showed up. You noticed he wasn’t wearing the sunglasses anymore, and his fabric mask had been replaced by a simpler balaclava and a hard skull mask on top that you hoped was made out of a synthetic material.
Now bare, his gaze revealed its intensity to you, the dark hues following your every move in a way you supposed you could find intimidating if a small, very weird part of you didn’t find it attractive. He seemed tired, eyes cast downwards and with bags surrounding it, and you wondered what had happened when he was gone.
“Hey.” You breathed, straining your neck to look up at him and completely forgetting about the other people in the room. “Riley, right? I’m guessing you’re here for the sleeve?”
He seemed slightly surprised you remembered his name, but the impression of seeing emotion in his eyes was gone in an instant as he simply nodded at you.
“Yeah. You got time?”
You didn’t. But you’d make it work, you weren’t about to send away the man who had, for some reason, plagued your thoughts so much for the last months.
“I got a few more clients, but if you don’t mind waiting, i can fit you in?”
You hated how uneasy you sounded, your hands fiddling with a stray loose line of your ripped jeans as you waited for his answer.
“That works.”
With his gruff reply, he turned and sat down in the waiting area, and you released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
The hours went by, the clients came and went to and from your procedure room as well as your colleague’s, yet, every single time you left the room to go to the front desk have a sip of water or check your next client’s name, Simon was still there, patiently waiting, the loveseat seeming oddly small under him, and his all black, dark getup blending perfectly with the black walls of the studio. If anything, it made you even more intrigued, since most people would have left by now, considering how long a tattoo takes and he could just come back another day, but he didn’t show any signs of having anywhere else to be. The people traffic started to wind down, and soon enough, you dismissed your last client of the day as you were the only artist left in the shop and the sun had already hid in the horizon.
“Glad to see you again. I was wondering if you had gotten another artist.” You laughed somewhat nervously, taking a breather by the glass door while Simon finished filling out another responsibility form, and you had to ignore how nervous you felt when he turned to glance at you with those dark and intense eyes of his.
“Got busy, that’s all.” He murmured, setting the pen down on the front desk and turning to the wall where your flash pieces were displayed. “And I like your work.”
Feeling your eyes widen, you tried to conceal how flustered the comment made you feel behind a cool chuckle, but something told you Simon could see right through you. Going back inside and pointing him towards the procedure room, you briefly glanced at the fresh consent form and realized he filled out his occupation this time, the words “Army” surprisingly not phasing you one bit.
Simon was the same as the last time, quiet as a grave. But, seeing as you were wrapping up the shading quicker than you’d anticipated, you decided this time you would not let this mysterious man walk out of your studio - possibly forever - without at least getting one piece of information out of him.
“So…does it mean anything?” You nodded towards his arm, trying to play it cool. Being in this field, you quickly realized not everyone gets tattoos that mean anything, and most of them are really just for aesthetics, but the signature below the original design had you wondering, even if the newfound information that he was in the military made the over the top missiles and dog tags inked on his arm make a lot more sense. He stared at you from behind the mask for a moment, making you feel queasy under his stare and suddenly very aware of how much you were draped over his arm trying to get the shading on one particular skull to look just right.
“Yeah.” After a few moments he replied, a wave of sudden relief washing over you upon realizing you had not, in fact, crossed a line. “My brother made it.”
“He’s quite the artist.”
“He really was.”
Oh.
You decided to drop the subject after the implication.
“And what branch are you in?” Not looking at him, you spoke in a low tone, too concentrated on the machine in your hands to realize you were maybe asking more than he was comfortable talking. “You know, uh, in the army.”
“Special Air Forces.” You realized he tensed almost imperceptibly, relaxing once you only hummed.
“Cool. I’d reckon you guys had tattoo parlors closer to base, though.”
“We do.” He huffed. “But I know the guys. Not nearly as clean as here.”
At that, you chuckled gently, missing the way Simon’s eyes softened at the sound.
You continued the piece in comfortable silence, distantly registering the pitter-patter of the rain that had just started falling on the street beyond the front doors. Finishing it up, faster than you would have liked, you decided the corny design looked good - really good - on him, and he might have been the only guy possible to pull it off, which could have been related to how big and strong his arms looked. Wrapping the tattoo in plastic film and reminding him to not keep it on for too long, you had to focus on acting professional and not let him know you were ogling at the recently inked piece of skin. The long sleeve shirt he had rolled up to his forearms did not help you one bit, nor did the way his eyes followed your every single movement.
When you got back to the front desk - relieved to find the rain had stopped - you expected Simon to just pay and leave silently the same way he did the last time, but he actually lingered, letting his eyes wander through the flash pieces displayed in a neat corkboard in the waiting room - this one with your name written on top. You actually don’t know when he got your name - something told you it was when he asked your coworker for you. He seemed quite interested in one particular design that had been gathering dust for a long time on the board, considering how big it was.
“See something you like?” You followed his gaze, realizing it was a ram skull chest piece you had completely forgotten about; it looked too dark and menacing for most people looking for walk-ins and flash tattoos. “That one was meant to be a chest piece. Works for the back, too.”
Simon studied it for a few moments. What was up with this guy and skulls? Finally, he turned to you.
“When can you do it?”
☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆
The third time Simon Riley walked into your studio, it was, by far, the most memorable one.
Unsurprisingly enough, he had decided to set an appointment for the chest piece to be the last one of your day, a week later; whether he enjoyed the night time better or just wanted to not be bothered with other people around, that was a mystery to you. There was a third option in the back of your head, but you told yourself it was delusional, and your fascination with the masked man was, in fact, one sided. That didn’t stop you from greeting him with a cheery smile as you looked up from where you were doodling on your notebook on the front desk, pretty much like your first encounter. However, you didn’t think too much of what exactly the chest piece implied as you headed to your procedure room with Simon in tow. It hit you like a ton of bricks when you freezed for a second, holding up the carbon stencil in your hands.
“Uh, you might wanna…take off your shirt. It’ll be more comfortable for you.”
Preparing the stencil gel, you tried your best to ignore him and not let your eyes wander too much as he lifted the unnecessarily tight black t-shirt over his head, careful as to not remove the balaclava and skull mask combo, folding it neatly and setting the piece of cloth over your table before standing next to you in front of the full body mirror.
I’m a professional. I’m a professional. I’m a professional.
If you thought Simon was huge before, that was an understatement. 6,4 feet of pure, naked muscle stood inches away from your much smaller body, and you were extremely relieved to realize that he had, probably out of consideration for you, shaved his chest beforehand - the same couldn’t be said for the faint happy trail very clearly peeking from his jeans, sitting way lower on his hips than you’d like. Scolding yourself over and over for fawning like a horny teenager, you hoped the nervous tremble in your hands as you delicately smoothed the gel over his collarbones wasn’t as obvious as you felt it was. Even through the latex gloves you could feel the heat coming from his pecs, as well as a few minor scars that shouldn’t give you too much trouble. You decided to ignore the very visible and very big bullet scar on his side. As he adjusted his dog tags to hang behind his neck so as to not get in your way, you finally peeled the stencil off, trying to calm your frantic beating heart as he analyzed it in the mirror to make sure it was in the right placement.
It got worse when he actually laid on the tattoo table - comically dwarfed under his enormous frame. Sure, you had tattooed a fair share of chests along the years - both men’s and women’s - and it never really flustered you, after all, it was your job, seeing skin was a very big part of it. However, as you lowered your torso on the bed and tried to adjust your hand to sit as comfortably as possible on his chest, you thanked the gods it was such a big tattoo; you had no idea how you wouldn’t mess it up if it was a tiny one. But you doubted Simon would ever get a tiny tattoo. Above all, you could appreciate how he maintained his breathing slow and steady and, again, didn’t even flinch as the needles touched him, making you like him as a client even more.
“I’ve heard you guys in the army got…codenames?” You started, desperate to start some conversation before your intrusive thoughts won. “What do they call you?”
Slowly, you were getting used to his brief silence before answering you. It seemed like his way to decide if your question was worth answering or not, and you were glad he had found them all to be so far.
“Ghost.”
“Very fitting.”
You were surprised to hear him exhale in a way that resembled a very weak laugh, and you felt giddy knowing you made your ever so quiet and serious client laugh - or something like that. Feeling calmer, you continued the very big piece, strapping in for a long next couple of hours.
They passed quickly, your hand working almost in autopilot as you traced the tattoo’s lineart and made light conversation with Simon - Ghost. You learned he was a Lieutenant, liked bourbon and the mask never came off. Granted, it was mostly you speaking and him answering, but you were glad he was entertaining your nervous ramblings, and you were only slightly embarrassed to admit to yourself you found his southern British accent very soothing on his deep, gruffy voice. In turn, you told him a little more about yourself; why you got into tattooing and even a few funny stories from dealing with past clients.
Finally deciding it was enough strain on his skin for one session, you set your machine down and admired your work, smiling under your mask. Taking a generous amount of the tattooing balm on your fingers, you swallowed your nervousness before gently spreading the substance on his chest so it would heal nicely, not missing the way he relaxed under your touch. If you weren’t so busy panicking by having your hands on such a massive and attractive man, you could ponder on how he seemed to be enjoying that as much as you were. With your approval, he got up to examine the piece on the mirror, and you caught yourself staring into his strong, chiseled, and scarred back, before averting your eyes, choosing to focus instead on cleaning up the inky mess you made on your trolley. You once again went through the now familiar ordeal of him silently thanking you, paying, and leaving into the night.
As Simon Riley left the studio that day, carrying an unfinished piece of your work right on his chest, you realized something clearly had changed in the air between you two. You just had no idea if it was a good or bad thing.
☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆
The next time Simon showed up, a month later, you were stressed out of your mind.
You were booked, so you didn’t really have any open spots next to closing time the way he liked it, so he had to settle for coming a bit earlier than usual, which meant there were actually other people in the studio for once, including the one on the front desk yelling in your face.
You couldn’t really remember what he was yelling about, just that you were suddenly regretting your decision of working with people and wondering if it was worth it to stoop down low and insult him back the way he was doing to you. You figured the moment he started yelling about his already finished tattoo that it was most likely another scam attempt coming from him, but it didn’t really matter anymore once you zeroed in on the hulking figure that showed up unexpectedly behind your unpleasant client in the form of your masked savior. For a moment, you were scared things were going to get violent, but Simon didn’t have to do much. It took one glower from him, his gaze sharp enough to cut from way above the smaller man, and he was suddenly stuttering apologies and leaving the studio in a hurry. You ignored the looks the other people in the waiting room were giving the two of you, offering a tired, but extremely grateful smile, to Ghost.
“Hey, Riley.”
He was still staring at where the man had left, and the annoyance on his usually so stoic gaze came as a surprise to you.
“What happened?”
You were already heading into the procedure room, too shaken to deal with the stares of the people in the waiting room any longer, and shot him a sheepish look from over your shoulder.
“Just a rude client being difficult. Not the first time he gave me trouble, either, but it happens.”
Simon didn’t seem too happy with your answer, but he let it slide, for the moment. Heading into the room and closing the door behind you, the air fell into a familiar silence, broken only by the cluttering sounds as you set up your supplies, and, to you, your still frantic heartbeat in your ears by the less than pleasant interaction just a few minutes earlier. It was unlikely, given how observant he was, but you hoped Simon didn’t pick up on just how shaken you were. Still, you took a few moments to calm yourself down as you tested the machine with your feet; Simon had already made himself comfortable on the table, and soon enough you fell into the rhythm of inking him, the same way you had grown used to in those last few months. Focusing on a particularly stubborn piece of skin where the ink didn’t paint as easily, you were lost in thought when his voice pulled you back to reality.
“Are you scared of me?” You heard him ask quietly from above you, instantly knowing he was referring to the way your earlier client had run off on the sight of him. Pausing your ministrations, you looked up from his chest to find him already staring at you in a way that made your heart skip a beat. Since you were currently working on the details on his collarbone, you haven’t realized how close you actually were to his face, and suddenly you were hit with the realization you could feel his breath through both your masks; and an intoxicating scent of cigarette smoke and cologne. Caught in a trance by his dark gaze, you realized a little too late you were gawking and not really answering his question, which made you feel very glad for the surgical mask covering your suddenly very red face and flustered expression. Looking down to continue your work, you tried to find your words once again.
“Not really. I mean, the mask was off-putting at first, but I've had some odd people as clients. You’re cool, though. You remind me of those big, scary guard dogs, but in a good way.” Cringing at the lame answer, you felt like a kid talking to her crush in middle school all over again, and the huff-slash-chuckle that left Simon only made it worse. It seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t, and in your flustered stupor you couldn’t find any words either, so you just let the air around you fall into a comfortable silence over again. If it were anyone else, you’d be wary of the constant quietness, but, for some reason, Simon’s presence was enough to make you content, even if no words were exchanged.
Blacking out the parts that had to be inked was a piece of cake for you and your enormous needle - which you were glad was being used on Simon, since, most of your other clients would have been crying from the pain only halfway done with the black - and soon enough you were heading out to the front with him, readying yourself to bid him goodbye and, disappointedly, only see him again in the next month, once his tattoo was healed enough for another session, however, as you approached the waiting room, he made no move to leave. You thought maybe he was, again, inspecting your work displayed on the wall, the prospect of continuing to tattoo him after his chest piece was done getting you giddy already, but he was looking nowhere but in your direction, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask.
“I’ll wait until you close. Who knows if that asshole won’t come back expecting me not to be here anymore.”
Blinking up at him, it took you a few moments to process what he had murmured under his breath, and, in an instant, your heart rate shot up as you tried to wrap your head around the implications. Had it been any other client, you would have laughed it off, telling him not to worry and that you could take care of yourself, but it wasn’t just about anyone. It was him. And for some reason, the fact made you only wordlessly agree with a nod of your head and wide eyes, certain he could now see how clearly flustered and red your face looked. An intrusive part of your brain was screaming at you that he was just being nice, and that the protectiveness was just because of his job and nothing else, but you’d entertain these thoughts later - if ever.
So, much like the second time you’d met him, the rest of your afternoon was spent with seeing Ghost’s massive figure patiently waiting in the way too small loveseat in the front room of the studio, living up to the scary guard dog imagery you had joked about to him, except, this time, in between clients you’d sit besides him to catch a break and make light conversation, the deep rumble of his voice soothing all of your worries in a minute.
As the hours went by, it was way past nightfall when you closed up, everyone else had already left and you were exhausted after washing the studio on your own. True to his word, Simon loomed behind you like a shadow, quiet and intimidating, refusing to leave until he had walked you to your car in safety. You remember thanking him profusely, and him not making a big deal out of it, and the way your heart thrummed in your throat as you drove on autopilot to your house, trying to ignore the way Ghost’s figure walking besides you on the quiet sidewalk a few moments before felt just right.
☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆
It was early August when you woke up in a very good mood that one morning.
Later you’d realize it was because it was the day of Simon’s appointment, but at the time you had chalked it up to just being a sunny day that brightened your spirits.
Business as usual, you went along your day, anxiously waiting for the place to empty out and you’d get your newly discovered favorite customer, not that you’d admit it outloud to him, or even to yourself. It was actually a slower day, with a big break between clients, which you were glad about, so between coffee and water breaks and chit chatting with your coworkers, soon enough the sun went down and the enormous figure of Ghost could be seen crossing the threshold of the studio’s glass door, responding your enthusiastic wave with a nod of his head, eyes relaxed behind the mask. As usual, he followed you inside the procedure room, and you remembered something.
“Lemme see how your sleeve is healing.” Extending your hand, you smiled cheekily at him, giddy after seeing his half-hearted eye roll, and he gave his left forearm for you to inspect. With his busy way of life, you’d have expected to be worse, but it was actually very well taken care of. “Wow, this has healed up perfectly, good job, Simon!”
You beamed up at him, but your smile faltered once you saw his eyes widening at the praise. Oops. He grumbled something in response and you decided to save him the embarrassment, releasing his arm with a chuckle.
No matter how many times he did it, every single time Ghost took his shirt off it made your brain short circuit, but you remained professional and fell into the familiar routine of tattooing him in comfortable silence, only this time it was broken not only by you talking first, but also him. It surprised you to hear him ask you questions first or tell you some non-compromising stories about his job, - making you chuckle a few times hearing about the shenanigans of this “Soap” friend of his - but you weren’t about to complain. You were lost in the familiarity of it all when you realized that you were actually almost done with the shading - meaning his chest piece would end one session earlier than expected. Trying to mask your disappointment, you wrapped it up, forcing a smile to a suddenly very confused Ghost.
“I thought we were going to need another session but, uh, turns out it was…faster than i expected!” You gave him a slight, nervous chuckle, and you swore you saw his eyes widen behind the mask.
As usual, you wrapped the ink in the plastic film - finding it very hard to make the masking tape stick to his large pecs - and gave the same instructions in a robotic way, following him to the front desk where he finished paying for his piece, all in absolute silence and with unreadable eyes. As the transaction was finished, he lingered, standing silently in front of you, looming. You couldn’t meet his eyes.
“So, yeah, i guess that’s it…” You gave another chuckle, offering him a gentle smile. “Hey, don’t be a stranger-”
“Do you want to go out with me sometime?” He blurted out, shutting you right up, and that stopped you dead in your tracks. You stared up at him, unsure if you had heard him correctly, and were waiting for him to say something else or even backtrack, but that never came.
“Uh. Yes? I mean, yes, sure! I’d love to!” You stammered, certain you were wide-eyed and a flustered mess, not expecting him to be so straightforward, or, even say anything at all. Simon seemed a lot more composed than you, even if the way he blurted his question out made it seem like he could be slightly nervous. You doubted he ever got nervous, though.
“Great. Does this weekend work for you?”
Thinking back on your schedule, you remembered that no, it didn’t.
“I’m booked with work…But, the next one I should be free.” You hated how awkward you sounded.
He nodded, and took his phone out of his pocket to extend it for you, and you assumed he was asking for your number in the Ghost-est fashion possible. You unlocked it, noticing the lack of a password and the factory wallpaper, realizing it was probably a personal and barely used phone, punching your number in and saving the contact. As you returned the device to Simon, you found solace in realizing he probably felt as awkward as you did.
“I’ll see you in a fortnight, then.”
With a last nod of his head, he left, leaving you flustered, confused, but extremely giddy, and with a heart pounding against your ribcage.
☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆
Simon came back a week before he was supposed to.
As usual, you were closing up shop when he showed up, distractedly walking around the front room of the studio as you organized everything for the night, the sound of the heavy rain outside covering up the creaking of the glass door, so when you turned around, his presence startled you.
“Hi Simon! You’re early.” You chuckled once you recovered from your scare, but he didn’t match your energy. He was just standing there, stiff as a plank, and staring silently at you. Growing increasingly worried, you were about to ask if he was alright when he beat you to it.
“I’m leaving for a mission. And i’ll be gone for…some time.”
Your heart dropped, and you could only stare at his mask trying to process his words and find words, but ultimately settling on a quiet and disappointed oh. He finally approached you, and in less than a second he was standing towering over your figure, holding you in that familiar eye contact you’d grown to look forward to so much, even if you'd realized by his gaze that he seemed just as upset as you.
“Will you…be in danger?” It was a dumb question, but you couldn’t help yourself, everything you told yourself the days about moving slowly and waiting for your first date to decide how much you cared flying out the window as you openly worried for him for the first time. Ghost sighed, and suddenly you were hyper aware of how close you stood.
“I always am.”
Not breaking away from his intoxicating gaze, your words lowered to a whisper, a plea.
“Be careful. Please.”
The air stilled around you, thicker in tension that got worse with each passing millisecond, all of those feeling like hours. Simon’s height had never seemed so intimidating, and you never chastised yourself so much before for liking how his intense aura made you feel, something that increased tenfold once he boldly got even closer to you. Opening and closing your mouth like a fish, hoping something would come out eventually, you stilled upon feeling his gloved hands gingerly touching your face - dwarfing you in them - and you swore your heart was about to leap from your chest to your throat in a matter of seconds. His steely gaze flickered downwards briefly before returning to your eyes, asking for permission for something you didn’t even know quite right what it was, but that you’d give him regardless. The rough texture of his gloved left hand reached your now slightly parted lips as he traced the bottom of them with his thumb, moving his other hand to slowly lift up his balaclava just enough to expose his - unsurprisingly - sharp, stubbled jaw and full, lightly scarred lips. You barely had time to admire what you could see of him before his face was merely inches apart from yours, your breaths mingling together from both of your parted lips.
“You don’t even know what I look like.” He mumbled against you. A silent beg for you to stop him now, but you wouldn’t even dream of it.
“I don’t care.” You breathed back, voice barely above a whisper, and that seemed to break his resolve, as in the next moment he was leaning in and finally capturing your lips with his.
Kissing Simon Riley in real life was so much better than what you imagined. His height made it that he had to lean down an awkward amount to reach you and you actually had to stand a bit on your toes, but none of that mattered as you finally felt his lips move against yours, surprisingly slow and gentle for a man that looked like that, but you supposed he was always full of surprises. He moved his hands from your face to your waist, gripping with a little more force when you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, encouraging him to kiss you harder - it would be a waste not to feel just how strong those huge arms of his could get wrapping around you. Groaning into your mouth, his touch soon became ravenous as he tasted you like a starved man, both of you now knowing it might as well be the last time you’d see each other, but you didn’t want to dwell too much on it, choosing instead to focus on the way he gripped the back of your thighs and lifted you onto the counter as if you weighed nothing, getting even impossibly closer to your smaller frame, never breaking the kiss. You felt like you could stay wrapped up in his arms for hours, but at some point you had to part your lips, keeping your foreheads touching and looking at each other without saying another word.
He waited until you closed up and walked you to your car again; except, this time, as you watched his retreating figure from the rearview mirror, your chest felt constricted, the unsureness of if he’d ever come back alive clenching your throat in fear.
☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆
The late june spring air smelled good, and you were in high spirits.
You hummed contently, cleaning with a paper towel wet with soapy water the last smudges on the inked skin, leaning back to admire your work. The black crow on his upper back turned out particularly good, and you found it amusing how its edgy nature went along well with the other tattoos already on his body. Spreading the hydrating vaseline to wrap the piece up took a little more than you’d take with other clients, since you were busy admiring and feeling up the strong, scarred back beneath your fingertips.
“All done!”
The man got up, admiring the crow in an awkward angle in front of the full body mirror, and you couldn’t help but keep staring at the muscular back and pecs that you could see from your position in your chair.
“Quit the ogling.”
His voice sounded gruffy, but slightly amused, which made you chuckle and get up, stopping by his side to lean against his huge arms and stare back at him through the mirror.
“Quit being hot, then.”
Simon rolled his eyes, but you knew he was smiling under the mask and possibly had the slightest red dusting his cheeks - since he was so pale, you’d always notice it when he had his mask off, and in turn, he’d always notice how you’d stare at his face with a smug smile. He looked over the tattoo once more before you wrapped it up, past the stage of giving him the instructions, all of them already second nature to him, considering it had been so many years he started getting tattooed by you.
“You know” You started as he followed you to the front door of the mostly empty studio, the only other sound being the tattoo machine of a single other coworker that was staying late in their own procedure room. “You don’t have to wait for me, you know I still got another client and it should take one or two hours more.”
Ghost huffed, turning to you with his hands on his jacket pockets, the height difference between you never failing to take all the air out of your lungs.
“Nonsense. He’s not supposed to be here for another half an hour, right? I’ll go grab us some dinner from that place you like and I’ll be right back. I’ll help you close up then we can go home.”
You shook your head with a giggle, watching as he came closer to you, and were about to protest more but he gave you a look that left no chance for you to be stubborn, shutting you right up. Taking one hand out of his pocket, Simon lifted his mask just enough for you to see his jaw - which you had already admired that morning while he was shaving - and his lips, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on your cheek. You smiled, feeling him murmur just so you could hear it.
“See you in a minute, love.”
With that, he left, leaving you to watch fondly his retreating form from the glass door, as you chuckled dreamily one last time and went back to your procedure room.
a/n: this is v self indulgent and the sources are the voices in my head thanks
CAPT. JOHN PRICE → 1970 Ford Mustang
☆ I can see Price being all about classics and old cars, so it makes sense that he would have a Mustang.
☆ However, if we had to think more british, alternatively i could see him with a Ford Capri, the british equivalent of the Mustangs.
L.T. SIMON "GHOST" RILEY → 2021 Jeep Wrangler
☆ Ghost couldn't care less about what he drives. He doesn't care for car brands, looks, and, let's be honest, my man's a terrible driver.
☆ With that in mind, he decided it would be better to have a sturdy car, for harsh terrains, and something more familiar to what he is used to driving in missions.
SGT. JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH → 2017 Honda Civic
☆ I can't justify this one. It's just the vibes.
☆ It might be a basic car, but it's reliable and looks cool, so i think that would be his reasoning. Gaz would laugh at him for it though.
SGT. KYLE "GAZ" GARRICK → Audi A8
☆ Kyle is the youngest of all of them, and we can assume he gets one fat paycheck by being in one of the most elite taskforces in the world. Plus, he's rarely home, so he's got to make his rare driving worth it.
☆ So it's plausible he would blow a big part of his payment on an expensive car, but that's ok because he would look incredibly hot while doing so.
KÖNIG → 2013 Honda Pilot
☆ Listen. It wasn't his first choice. König hates being noticed, so, logically, he doesn't like big cars at all.
☆ However, he was forced to get this one since it was one of the very few cars that he could fit inside comfortably, considering how absurdly tall he is, so he just accepted it and grew fond of it.
At first, you regretted agreeing to going to the game with the boys. Turns out a hockey game can be a lot more interesting than you thought.
Or; You and Price get caught on a Kiss Cam.
Pairing: Captain John Price x Reader
rbs greatly appreciated!
WC: 1.5K
a/n: i have no idea how a hockey game - or the military - works. anyways. this was written in an hour, is barely edited and not beta read lmao
tags: just pure fluff and Soap being a smug lil bastard :))
Sighing, you looked at yourself in the mirror one more time, accepting that yes, you did look as tired as you felt, but at that point you had no choice but to make your peace with it and try your hardest to rock those dark eye circles. At least you supposed your outfit looked presentable enough, since even if you were incredibly tired, you still felt like putting some effort into your appearance, telling yourself it was for no particular reason - or person - at all.
It had happened a couple of hours before. Sitting inside the bar across the street from the dingy hotel you and your teammates were staying after a successful recon mission, Soap and Gaz had disappeared for some time, returning later with a couple of tickets to a local hockey game. You found it best not to question how they got those, and, to be honest, you never pegged either of them to be into hockey, much like yourself, but Soap seemed so excited that you didn’t have the heart to tell him you were not looking forward to it one bit. Admittedly, you suspected the same thing happened with Price, who accepted the invitation somewhat hesitantly - you knew north american sports weren’t really his thing - and you admired Ghost for just saying ‘no’ to Soap’s face before returning to his cup of bourbon without another word. So that led you to where you stood at the moment, regretting falling into Soap’s trap and longing for your hotel bed that looked oh so comfortable. A knock on your door took you out of your reverie. Opening it, you found the devil himself standing outside with a smirk on his face.
“Hey, L.t. Ready to go?” You rolled your eyes playfully at Soap’s nickname for your rank, humming in response while you fetched whatever you needed to go out from your room - making sure to grab a coat.
Gaz and Price were already at the end of the corridor, waiting for the elevator, and, after greeting them both with a wave of your hand and a smile, you had to pretend to be very interested in the instructions written on the fire extinguisher by the wall to avoid gawking at your superior. It wasn’t often you got to see Price out of tactical gear and without his beloved boonie hat, and the sight of him in a basic and slightly too tight t-shirt under his jacket was doing things to you. Being pushed close to him in the impossibly small elevator once it arrived, too cramped for four soldiers to fit comfortably into, did not help you in the slightest.
A short car ride later - and somewhat silent, since Soap had lost his aux cord privileges after the last time - you stood in front of the arena, swerving your way between the other attendees, except clearly less excited to be there. As the four of you looked for your seats, you wondered how long it would take for them to notice if you bolted to go back to the hotel and sleep, but decided against it. Soap and Gaz took the first two seats side by side, leaving you to sit at the other end, with Price on your left, and you found it both a blessing and a curse. As he removed his coat, clearly feeling too warm with the amount of people around, and left his bulky (and hairy) arms visible to the world, you decided it was more of a blessing. Not feeling like committing an HR violation, you scolded yourself to stop ogling at your unaware superior, too lost in your musings to realize he was side eyeing you with a knowing smirk.
The first period flew by. You had no idea what were the teams names, you just know they were currently sitting at 1x0 when the first intermission rolled around, and, surprisingly, you were having a lot of fun. The crowd’s high energy and Soap’s enthusiastic cheering - even though he had said in the car he had no idea who was playing - was enough to make you momentarily forget how tired you were from the mission, and the fact it happened altogether. It was very rarely you got to enjoy some down time with your teammates, and that alone made you feel glad you accepted Johnny’s invitation.
Checking the time on your phone, you started scrolling through the various notifications, getting so immersed in the screen that you didn’t notice the way people around you were suddenly staring in your direction. Feeling observed, you looked up to the sight of people hollering and cheering around you, and, for some reason, Soap was angling his body out of his seat to look smugly at you, to which you only replied with a quizzical arch of your brow, receiving a nod upwards in response. Looking at the direction he nodded, you realized the huge screen in the middle of the stadium now displayed a banner written “Kiss cam.”
Directly under a live feed of you and Price.
That definitely could not be happening.
Your blood froze, and you felt like you were both on fire and ice cold at the same time, trying to process what was going on in seconds. Instantly your brain conjured images of you watching with a side eye as Price rejected you publicly to the camera, probably sneering and making a “cut it out” motion with his hand, as if kissing you was something incredibly unimaginable. However, none of those visions came true, since, when you gathered the courage to actually look over to him - with what you imagined was a very wide eyed and flustered expression - he was actually calmly chuckling and smiling with that damn good looking smile of his. Looking this closely you could swear you saw a faint hint of red on his face as he turned to you with a very gentle gaze, clearly considering the idea and giving you a silent chance to back away if you didn’t feel comfortable with it. Of course, you knew that you would never even dream of shying away from an opportunity to kiss your very attractive Captain who you absolutely did not have a huge crush on, but he didn’t need to know that just yet.
So, seeing no resistance from you, he leaned in closer and brought one of his huge hands to rest delicately holding your face, as if you were made of glass, and you felt like your heart stopped beating. Up close like this he smelled faintly of the cigar he liked to smoke and cologne he must have put on when you returned from the bar to get ready to leave for the game, and his blue eyes never looked so intense. You saw him smirk when you leaned in to meet him halfway before letting your eyes flutter close and your lips finally meet.
Kissing Captain Price was even better than you imagined. His mustache tickled your top lip and, in the background, you could hear the cheering of the crowd - particularly Soap’s hollers and someone, who you imagined was Gaz, wolf whistling - but you drowned it all to focus on the feeling of John’s lips moving against yours in a kiss that lasted a second, but felt like an hour inside your head. As you expected it, he did taste exactly like the cigar he smelled as, and a hint of mouthwash, and you found yourself embarrassingly sighing into the kiss.
You decided you could spend a good few hours just kissing your Captain, but any second longer would be positively awkward for your audience, so, regrettably, you broke the kiss, almost going insane by the way he chuckled lowly against you before leaning back as well, giving the camera an uncharacteristic almost bashful smile. So much for not committing that HR violation. You didn’t find the courage to look anywhere, much less the damn camera, so you pathetically stared at your shoes instead, very aware of the way your face felt like a thousand degrees and you must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Distantly, you felt Soap’s eyes on you, burning holes in your face with what you imagined must have been the smuggest smile ever, but you didn’t turn to confirm your suspicions.
Within seconds, the kiss cam had moved on, as well as the entire crowd, and you were the only one still dwelling on it as everyone cheered on another couple put on display. Trying to convince yourself it meant nothing, you shook your head and tried to pay attention to what was going on in the arena, something cut short when John Price himself discreetly leaned over for your ear, not turning his body or taking his eyes off the screen above you.
“You know,” He started above a whisper with his deep, gruffy voice. “If I knew you were such a good kisser, I’d have done this a lot sooner.”
With that, he leaned back into his seat, hand crossed above his stomach and a satisfied smirk on his face as he pretended not to notice the way you stared at him with wide eyes and your mouth gaping open like a fish.
She moved like a desert creature: skittish and wary. As the years went by, she'd discover not even the sweating on her palms caused by the listering heat would wash away the blood on her hands; but even the most hostile wasteland could have a few minutes of pleasant weather and warm sunshine.
warnings: angst, mentions of death, grief, antimilitarism, slightly implied simon 'ghost' riley x oc
a/n: i wasn't going to post this because idk but the girls over the uselss server convinced me to <3 anyways this is one of my cod oc's (2,3) angsty backstory that i wrote for funsies and thought maybe someone here would enjoy reading or whatever!!!!
Some might say the environment you are in, shapes you, be it for better or for worse. Although the desert can be hostile, cruel, and unforgiving, Charlotte liked to think she had inherited its warmth.
She used to take great comfort in the outback’s scorching heat. In the desert, not so much.
Most days she felt she could blend in with the scenery, like a lizard would, all warm colors and quietness. Tan skin, blonde hair, warm eyes. However, as she trailed the sand on an otherwise uneventful evening, fresh out of a long train ride, her body had never felt more exposed; ashamed, even. The sun burned the back of her neck - the long ponytail not working as well as she wished in cooling her down - and the pamphlet on her right hand might as well deteriorate with the amount of force her trembling grip had on it. The backpack on her shoulder felt like pure lead - much like the rest of her.
A familiar beige house came into view. What would Mr. Harvey say of her decision? An optimistic part of her mind liked to think he’d approve. Of course, he had passed a long time ago, but his legacy lived with her for as long as she would get up early in the morning to punch dried out trees until her knuckles bled, his tutoring voice always in the back of her head, praising her whenever she felt her kicks rattle the bark with more force than intended. It was not like there was much else to do around these parts, but if it meant she would have the strength - and the muscles - of a grown ass bodybuilder being only an 18 year old woman - hey, she would take it.
She doesn’t remember getting home, but reality seemed to kick in upon meeting her mother’s gentle gaze from across the garage. The once comforting gray, cold walls suddenly felt constricting, and she had to tear away from her blissfully unaware gaze, choosing to acknowledge her father’s legs from where he laid below his truck, the only part of him that was visible as he tinkered away. Charlie briefly wondered how her mechanic skills suit her on the path she chose a few days earlier. But again, her mother always scolded her for being too impulsive.
“I’m leavin’.”
Heart beating crazed on her chest, she found solace in staring at the barren wasteland from beyond the garage door, a pregnant silence stilling the air until it was broken by her father’s awry chuckle.
“And where are you going, Charlie?”
In hindsight, she couldn’t tell if they at first thought it was a joke or if it was just denial, but the condescending tone made her shame burn even worse in her veins. As an only child, she knew it was selfish, and yet, she had no counter arguments that didn’t make her look even worse as a person.
“I’m joining the army.”
She was sure her mother went through the five stages of grief in front of her very own eyes in a matter of a minute. Screaming ensued, or not, her memory’s fuzzy on the details of this altercation - the brain tends to do that when it’s confronted by a traumatic event. Charlie just remembers her parent’s teary gazes and hoarse voices begging, pleading for her not to be stupid and throw herself out there in amidst of a brewing war; but Charlie liked the thrill, and she wanted more than the dusty landscape of the outback she called a home. With the propaganda pamphlet still clutch tight against her - uncreatively similar to the American’s one, with the Aussie version of Uncle Sam at the front -, she remembers packing her things and leaving. She always hated how cold the nights in the desert were, and a bittersweet taste took over her taste buds as she stared out the train window, the place she once called home fading into nothingness.
——————————
Her back hurt.
Scratch that, her whole body hurt, and the noon sun above her glistening skin wasn’t doing her any favors. Still, she took a moment to regain her breathing before getting up, eyes fiery with determination as she took yet again a fighting stance. Despite standing at 1,75 meters tall - above average for women - and made out of pure muscle ever since she was 15, her opponent managed to be even bigger than her, sneering down at Charlie as if she were a bug under her sole. Still, a hint of pride could be seen in her eyes.
“Not good enough, Morricone. Again.”
Grace Morgan, Corporal. She stood tall, menacing, and intimidating, and was as stern as they came, with arms the size of a small child, but, even if a rebellious part of her wanted to, Charlie couldn’t feel anything other than respect for her superior. Clearly not expecting hand to hand combat expertise from a recruit, the older woman had underestimated Charlie’s strength in training, and after the first victory, she was out to get her, putting her in her place as a rookie over and over again as the other recruits watched, with wide eyes, two behemoths of women fight over no prize in particular except an inflated ego. Not one for being prideful, Charlotte could appreciate the snide remarks on her stance and the flaws on her kicks, improving where she could whenever she’d strike next. A strand of long, dirty blonde hair fell on her eyes, the tight bun it was originally in already giving up after being thrown around so much and with so much violence, and it seemed Corporal Morgan had the same train of thought as she did. Grabbing her hair forcefully, she had Charlie on the ground in a second, tired, spent, and slightly humiliated, and as she felt the coarse training grounds scratch her face, she could hear a last remark from her superior.
“You’re pretty, I'll give you that, but long hair is a liability. If one of the bad guys grab you, they won’t be as merciful as I am.”
With that, she observed Charlie’s silent form under her for a moment before getting up and leaving under the hushed whispers of the recruits. As she sat up, she could hear a few remarks about how pissed Morgan was for having a recruit beat her up, and amongst that, a few snickers directed at her battered body, but she paid no mind to either of them, silently watching the woman’s figure retreat with great class, and deciding that, if she were to be like anyone else in base, it would be like her.
A few hours later, she stood by the communal bathroom’s mirror, looking at herself for a good few minutes, a scissor laid forgotten on the sink. People would often comment on her eyes when she was a kid - a brown so light it looked ethereal, and always so bright and full of life - and she vowed to never let her lifestyle harden her gaze; it was the only thing she had left from her mother, after all. Her hair was a gift from her father, and she’d wonder how was she going to do this without majorly fucking up. Gears were her expertise, hair, not so much.
Most women in the barracks were at the mess hall at that hour, so she’d taken solace in the fact that there was no one else around to see her in her predicament, but that hope was cut short when she heard the door opening, head snapping to it immediately only to be greeted by the sight of her bunkmate. Charlie gave her a small smile and a wave before returning to her staring contest with herself, paying no mind to the other woman’s quizzical gaze.
“You took Morgan’s advice to heart, eh?” She chuckled, getting close enough to see the scissors by Charlie’s hands. “I could do it for you.”
The blonde eyed her. Avery Zhao was a tiny thing, with a Chinese background and kind eyes, and they had both clicked the instant they were assigned the same bunk in the barracks. Charlie found it endearing how the top of her head barely reached her chin, and, oddly enough, her cheery demeanor awoke a primal instinct of protectiveness over her. Analyzing her black pixie cut, she hummed, having seen the other woman cutting her own hair a few times in the same bathroom they stood in, in the end deciding it couldn’t end up worse than if she did it on her own. After agreeing, the grin on Avery’s face made her feel both giddy and fearful.
A little over 40 minutes later, Charlie stared at herself in the mirror again, now with a heap of blond locks lying on the floor, and tried to wrap her head around the neck length hair framing her face. She was pretty sure it didn’t get too along with the hair rules, but seemed practical enough. Reaching up with the elastic on her wrist, she pulled the top into a half ponytail, content with the way it felt. Looking back at Avery, she found her friend already grinning at her, and was unable to stop herself from smiling too.
——————————
Sitting in a lone crate in the already busy base - despite it being 5 am - , Charlotte wished she still had the propaganda pamphlet so she could set fire to it. They’d sworn she’d be a hero, but, a few days after coming back from her first deployment, she certainly didn’t feel like one while she woke up in cold sweat, plagued by nightmares of her blood stained hands every night. With trembling hands, she lit a cigarette, a terrible habit she didn’t have before joining the army, and sighed, letting the nicotine smoke fill her lungs in hope it would kill her sooner; that is, if a bullet didn’t first. Lost in thought, she missed the figure that sat down besides her.
“Rough night?”
Charlie scoffed, not turning to look at her friend.
“You know it, you were just on top of me.”
Avery laughed, even if a bit strained.
“That sounds wrong, mate.”
Charlie huffed something akin to a chuckle, and they stood in silence, content in just basking in each other’s presence and watching the fellow soldiers and base staff running around, glad they didn’t have anywhere to be for at least a few hours. Once again, after a few minutes, it was Avery who broke the silence.
“Do you miss home?”
Charlie hummed, thinking about the last time she’d seen her parents, surprising herself with the apathy she felt over the memory.
“Not really. Do you?”
“Nah.”
She didn’t pry, but from tidbits of conversations here and there, Charlie had realized Avery didn’t have a family anymore, and occasionally she would wonder how that felt, as opposed to having a family but knowing you can’t go back to them. Her dark eyes turned to Charlie again.
“I’ve never been to the outback. What do you guys have that’s interesting out there?”
“Nothing. Just dust.”
Avery chuckled, and Charlie couldn’t stop her own smile from forming upon seeing her friend in such high spirits. She didn’t expect to care for the fellow soldier as much as she did when she first enlisted, but it was well known by now that their life in the military was anything but predictable.
“Well, there was you, too. Unless you are also, just dust?”
“Might as well be at this point. Feel like it.”
Getting up and fixing her pants, Avery held a hand out, grinning mischievously.
“Well then, Miss Dust, let’s stop wallowing in our sadness and run some laps, yeah?”
Charlie accepted her hand, but not without shooting her a displeased look under an arched eyebrow as they left in the direction of the training grounds, footsteps easily falling into rhythm together.
“Miss Dust? Seriously?”
“Don’t fight it, darl’, you’ll make it worse.”
——————————
It was hot.
She was no stranger to the desert, but experiencing the summer Egypt sun while in tactical gear was certainly something new. For the first time in forever, she was actually glad for the deployment; it meant something to get her mind off things since going to the gym or running around the base until her feet bled wasn’t doing it anymore.
Avery’s dog tags were heavy on her right pocket, a grim reminder of the life she chose seven years before, taunting her with the thin metal of their nature that might as well weigh a million kilos. Leaning against the tank she was currently close to, she sighed, fishing her breast pocket for a cigarette, when her fingers brushed against a piece of paper. Gingerly taking it out, she stared at the picture for a few moments, expressionless. It was another recruit that had taken it during basic training, a very tired, yet starry eyed Charlotte stood beaming next to an equally giddy Avery, everything in their appearances being complete opposites, and yet, they looked like they were friends their whole life. She wondered how much more dull her eyes must have been as opposed to the picture, deciding she wouldn’t like the answer. Charlie missed her long hair sometimes. She couldn’t cut it as well as Zhao did.
“Corporal.”
She heard the authoritative voice of Morgan call her, instantly stiffening up to greet her superior - now a Sergeant, but her hand stopped her in a motion to relax as she leaned against the tank beside her. Eyeing the picture still clutch tight on her subordinate’s hand, the Sergeant hummed.
“You looked good here. Happier, too.”
Charlie scoffed, refusing to even pretend to smile for once.
“I guess war tends to do that to people, eh?”
The Sergeant, for once, stood quietly by Charlie, content with just watching the movement around them before speaking again.
“There’s no time to regret your actions in this line of work. Regret leads to overthinking, and overthinking gets you killed.” She hummed wistfully, and Charlie could appreciate her odd way of trying to comfort her. “Being bitter and feeling guilty won’t change shit. If you want to honor her, deal with it the way she would have asked you to; with the same annoying cheeriness you both shared first thing in the morning everyday.”
She mulled over her superior’s harsh words, hating how right she was. Of course, she could argue that maybe if she was there, Avery wouldn’t have stepped on that mine. Maybe it was supposed to be her instead. Or if she’d convinced her friend to leave the army altogether like she wanted to, they wouldn’t be having that conversation. But she’d never know. Staring at the picture, she remembered Mr. Harvey, who so kindly dedicated so much of his time to teaching her how to fight when he could have been enjoying his old age peacefully. How many more dead people could she carry on her back? Even so, who would carry her on their back when she was gone too? Not that it mattered. Avery used to always say how much she liked Dust’s ‘sunshine behavior’, as she called it, so if that’s what it took to make her friend immortalized, then so be it. Pocketing the polaroid once again, she managed to give Sergeant Morgan a forced smile, to which she hummed in response, satisfied.
Gazing into the Egypt sunset, sky colored by orange hues that reminded her of the warm desert back home, she decided it was time to bury Charlotte Morricone in the sand, leaving only sunshine Corporal Dust.
——————————
Dust remembers as clear as day the day she met Lieutenant Ghost.
She had heard of the 141 before, the taskforce famous for being made out of only the pure elite, however, the rumors didn’t do it justice as she got out of the heli in an unfamiliar base to greet Captain Price. Being overly cautious as ever, she quickly glanced around everywhere to take in the sights of the base, the other people, the 141 members present, and, most importantly, the absolutely gigantic skull-masked man silently watching her every movement. She’d heard many things about him, but nothing prepared her for the fascination she felt being in front of legend himself. His mask instantly caught her attention - and she remembered her odd collection of animal skulls she encountered randomly back in the Australian desert. That seemed like ages ago.
He reminded her of a Desert Death Adder, with their thick bodies, intense eyes, and sharp fangs full of venom. Most people who’d have the misfortune of encountering one would quake in fear, but Dust was always fascinated by snakes, especially the venomous ones, since they weren’t that different from the harmless ones, to an extent - neither of them chose to be more or less lethal. And, they wouldn’t attack you unless provoked. She knew better than to provoke the Lieutenant, but a part of her wanted to know if his venom was as strong as they said his bite was. She had been bitten by a Desert Death Adder as a child, but the only thing she remembers from that day wasn’t the frantic trip to the nearest hospital - still too far away -, but the regret she felt of not having seen the snake in better detail. Her mother would always say her curiosity would be the death of her one day, as had the other soldiers in her old base warned her to steer clear of the British man when they’d heard her services as military hire were being needed in the taskforce, but she was willing to take her risks. Alas, she’d always been attracted to danger.
His eyes were on her, dark and wary, unwavering even once she bravely retributed the eye contact - she was never one to back down from a challenge, even if it came from a superior - and a part of her found it endearing how expressive he could be, considering his hues, covered in black paint, were the only visible part of his face. Clear as day, he was her complete opposite: dark, and all cool tones and sharp edges. Her mother would have giggled and told her about how ‘opposites attract’, ever the hopeless romantic. No, thinking better on it, she wouldn’t; she would be horrified to see how intrigued her daughter was with such a scary, colossal killing machine of a man.
A friendly smile was plastered on her face - as usual - and she quickly fell into witty banter with Sergeant Soap - what kinda name even was that? - while they headed to the debriefing room, the looming presence of the Lieutenant right behind them. In the distance, she could see a few other women, in particular a tall-ish redhead - who was wearing what looked to be a pilot uniform - and a short Asian girl who looked a lot like Avery catching her eye. They both looked at her direction, feeling her gaze; The redhead gave her a sweet smile, waving, and the short one gave her a nod in acknowledgement, the feminine presence of them easing Dust’s nerves considerably. She’d have to find the two of them later.
As she made her way around base, she was hit with a dejá-vu, as if she had walked the light concrete of the unfamiliar base floor before, and an odd feeling filled her chest, something deep in her gut telling her she would be making a home out of those gray, cold walls and the small task force surrounding her.
You had joked with Ghost before about getting married, never with a tone serious enough for it to be taken into account, even if it was something you dreamed about whenever you were alone with your thoughts. What you hadn’t expected was the question to come up at such an inopportune time.
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Sergeant Reader
rbs greatly appreciated!
WC: 2.1 K
a/n: i hate giving my fics titles so just assume the song in the title is the vibe i want the fic to have lmao. also this is unedited and not beta read so beware of typos and shit
warnings: estabilished relationship, profanity, whump, description of wound, mentions of death, badly timed marriage proposal, medical inaccuracies, fluff, happy ending
It’s cold.
No, scratch that. It’s fucking freezing.
God, you hate the cold. Considering how much you despise it, it amuses you to think you might have been a desert creature in another life. A lizard, maybe. The types to scurry really fast and eat small insects all day. What a life.
You’re lost in your musings but you think there are a few very faint voices calling for you. Where are they coming from? Above? Seems like it. First, you hear their voices getting clearer, and recognize a word. It’s your codename, meaning, it’s your teammates voices. But why do they sound so agitated? Next, you feel pain. Quickly rising, scorching hot pain in your abdomen.
Oh, that’s right. You were shot.
A scream echoes out wherever you are and only later you’d recognize it as your own, in the same moment you recognize Ghost’s own booming voice frantically calling out for you, and the heavy weight of Soap’s large hands holding you down so you wouldn’t trash as much. It had been ironic, really, how much the mission went smoothly, 99% of it being completed without a hitch, but right as you were about to celebrate success, some fucker neither of you had seen before had decided to put a bullet in you - any of you - blindly, and it so happened it would hit you. The offender was long gone, a throw knife lodged in his skull as quick as a blink of an eye in the split second after the gunshot was heard, but the damage was already done. A few seconds before it happened, you had groaned how much you couldn’t wait for evac to come so you could take a hot shower and sleep, since your bones were aching, and Gaz had laughed and called you old-spirited. So much for that shower, you think as you take in the surroundings of what you could see of the abandoned safe house from your position on the blood stained table. It was painful to think about if that same table was used in the past for a family reunion or to gather folks around for good news, before hell broke loose and war tore apart the people, so you didn’t think about it. Ghost called your codename again and you cast your eyes downwards to look at him, the fear in his eyes sending a chill down your spine.
“Hey! Talk to me, don’t you dare close your eyes!”
You had screamed as he was removing the projectile from your flesh, you realized. Was not your first rodeo, a thought that made you want to laugh bitterly, but just the idea of laughing made you wince in pain. His hands were currently trying to stop the bleeding, and after taking one look at the wound, you suddenly felt at peace.
It was pretty shitty you were going to die in an equally shitty safehouse, but that’s the life you chose. So, against your better judgment, you chuckle lowly and decide to follow your superior’s orders.
“Keep talking, eh? Alright.” You groaned once more when he applied more pressure to your gaping wound. “L.t, do you- do you remember when i told you…I wanted to retire early and - fuck - get to the countryside and get a big ass dog?”
He looked up at you briefly, glad you were talking but clearly wondering where you were going with this. You knew he hated when you spoke of the future as if you were going to die - which, right now, you were pretty sure it was really happening this time - but you couldn’t help yourself. Of course he remembers that conversation, it was in the beginning of your secret-not-so-secret relationship. You had asked him what he would do if he wasn’t a soldier, and he had given you a very cryptic and vague answer that resembled a lot like nothing. In turn, you told him your wishes half heartedly, as if thinking of living for 10 more years was a very distant dream.
The relationship between the 141’s Lieutenant and one of its Sargeants was a sort of urban legend going around. People knew it was happening, but didn’t dare speak of it, and no one had ever really seen any proof of it, so, it was best to avoid prying into Ghost’s private matters as to not risk being at the receiving end of his annoyance, and, in turn, you both found solace in having something that only the two of you knew about. It never hindered your professionalism and it had been going on for a few good years now, so it became somewhat naturalized between the folks coexisting in the same space as you and Simon after a while. However, that never stopped the natural curiosity to flourish in a few people - namely, your comrades, who always knew there was something going on given the fact you’d literally look at your superior with hearts in your eyes - so you had to ignore Gaz and Soap’s expectant eyes on you as you spoke so tenderly, the intensity of witnessing the start of what seemed like a very intimate talk momentarily sharing space with the worry they were feeling over you.
“...Yes. I remember.”
He never forgets the things you say, even if you think it’s not important at the time. You hummed, ignoring the pain that came with it.
“Big dogs were never really my thing. I just-” A cough ripped out of you, and you didn’t need to look to know there was blood in it. “ I just thought it was the kind of thing you’d want. Big dogs fit you. It felt less scary to think about retiring once I added you in the equation.”
You were slurring your words and you knew it. As you regained your breath, you briefly saw a very wide-eyed and angry looking Price curse into his comm asking where the fuck was the goddamn chopper. Your codename being barked alongside the word “WIA” to a poor fellow soldier on the other side of the line left you with a bad taste in your mouth. You hate how scared Ghost looked, your big, scary, stoic Ghost, and you can’t help but feel selfish for leaving him, even if being shot was not your fault and wasn’t really in your plans when you left the base that morning.
“Stop talking like you’re fucking d-”
“We could have done it, you know?” Your laugh is, once again, bitter, and you’re acutely aware of the tears streaming down your face. Death has never scared you, but now that you got a reason to stay, you’re terrified. “Could’ve gotten hitched somewhere nice. Can’t really imagine you in a suit, though.”
The pain doesn’t stop, but it gets duller as you feel your consciousness slipping away, and you never fought so much to stay awake in your entire life. Simon yells something to Soap among the lines of getting something from somewhere so he can continue trying to save you, but you don’t register his words. His tone softens once his eyes are back on you.
“I’d wear a suit if you asked me to, sweetheart.”
“I know. I wouldn’t ask, though.”
Not caring there are other people in the room, you smile at him, well aware it must be uncanny to see Ghost be so tender towards another person, but again, you were the lucky one who got to see it every time it was just the two of you, so you got used to it with time.
Your vision starts spinning more and more, and your eyes start to close the moment you hear the familiar, faint sound of a helicopter getting closer, Simon’s big hands suddenly on your face to try to keep you grounded, and he sounds even more exasperated than before. He calls your name - not your codename, for once.
“Stay alive, do you hear me?! You gotta stay the fuck alive so i can take you to the bloody countryside and get bloody hitched-”
“You askin’ me to marry ya’ in my deathbed, sir?” You manage to slur out, your smile growing despite the panic you don’t have the energy to express settling in your bones, and Simon’s eyes widen even more behind the mask.
“Yes, I am, so stay with me, that’s a fucking order-”
You chuckle, closing your eyes as the frantic sounds around you all blur into a garbled mess. Faintly you feel your body being moved around, a strong wind on your blood and dirt caked hair, hear some more shouting, but then,
Silence.
——————————
Feels like the thousandth time you have woken up, and the feeling of coming in and out of consciousness is unbearable at best.
The first time - or the second, you don’t remember - there was a strong light above you, but you had no energy to open your eyes, so it lasted a measly second before you were out again. Later, you heard an unfamiliar voice saying something about an induced coma for a few days for a better recovery. You wondered if they were talking about you (they probably were). This happens a few more times before you actually feel your consciousness coming back for good, and, before you open your eyes, the first thing you notice is how warm it is, and, if you could, you’d smile. The spring air smells good, and you think you catch a whiff of cleaning products while you inhale, suddenly aware of how empty your lungs felt. The third thing you notice is the weight on your hand, and once you open your eyes, you find a familiar set of skeleton gloved hands on top of your own. A few years back you had told him with a laugh the print was very 2000’s, and he had just brushed you off with a scowl, but you’ve never been so glad to see the tacky thing. His thumb caresses your skin as he patiently waits for you to become more aware of your surroundings, and you instantly smile when you finally meet his gaze, which looks extremely relieved.
“Hi.” Your throat feels parched, voice straining as if you’d swallowed a kilo of sand, but Simon thinks your voice never sounded so sweet to his ears.
“Hi.”
It hurts to move, but you do so anyway, slowly sitting up despite Simon’s protests just so you can see him more clearly and grasp his hand a little better. While you are busy cringing at the dull pain in your stomach from the stitches, he extends a glass of water for you, to which you grab and gulp down immediately, quenching your thirst and looking over at your partner with such gratitude an onlooker would have thought he was a literal godsend.
“How bad is it?” Your voice still felt rough from disuse, but at least it sounded a bit more familiar to your ears.
“Pretty bad.” He doesn’t bother you with details; he knows you were never a fan of hearing about your wounds descriptively. “But you’ve always been tough.”
You flash him a grin that has him silently flabbergasted both with how beautiful you are and how quickly you seem to bounce back from a near fatal injury. Suddenly, you remember your last words before you blacked out, and your smile turns shy as you cast your gaze down to where your hands meet.
“...Did you mean it?”
Simon has always been extremely observant and smart, he knows what you are talking about immediately, and you like to think he is smiling under the mask as he goes back to gingerly caressing the top of your smaller hand with his thumb.
“I did, sweetheart.” His voice is low, and every time he calls you a pet name it has your heart doing somersaults. “I’m sorry I don't have a ring yet and I don't know when we would have some time off to have a ceremony, but I want to marry ya’. If you’ll have me, that is.”
Feeling like your smile would grow so big it would rip your face, you beamed at him, acutely aware of how you must have been looking like a mess with a - hospital - bed head and tired eyes, but you’d hoped he could notice the hearts in your eyes as obviously as you felt them. Things always seemed to fall in place with Ghost; no need for extravagance or huge acts, and the fact that your marriage proposal was exactly that, made you fall even more in love with him. You watched lovingly as he raised your hand to press a mask covered kiss on the top of it, and shook your head, laughing gently.
