#ghost angst

[ghostedink]

Compared to you.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

You hated when people looked at you after they looked at Simon.

Because it always happened in that order.

Their eyes would land on him first— broad shoulders stuffed into dark clothes, that permanently tired stare, the kind of presence that made rooms quiet without him even trying — and then they’d shift to you.

And every single time, you swore you saw the same flicker of confusion.

Them?

It made your sick.

You knew Simon didn’t notice it. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. But you noticed. God, you noticed.

Especially at the pub near base.

You worked there most evenings, weaving through crowded tables with cheap trays balanced on one hand, apron dusted with flour from the kitchen because the cook kept dragging you back there to help plate when things got busy. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t important.

You were just… you. A waitress.

And Simon Riley was him.

Lieutenant. Decorated soldier. Feared. Respected. The kind of man people whispered about before he even entered a room.

The kind of man who looked absurd sitting in your tiny apartment kitchen at two in the morning drinking tea from a chipped mug while your socks slid across the floor.

You still didn’t understand why he stayed.

“You’re staring again.” Simon muttered one night from your couch.

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “Sorry.”

He watched you from beneath heavy lashes. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”

“Nothin’.”

A lie. Simon always knew when you lied.

He sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”

You obeyed automatically, crossing the small apartment until he tugged you between his legs. His hands settled on your hips, warm and heavy even through your clothes.

“You’ve been distant all week..” he said quietly. “Talk.”

You tried to shrug it off. “I’m tired.”

“Try again.”

Your chest tightened.

You hated this part. Hated saying things out loud because they sounded even stupider once they existed in the air.

Simon waited patiently.

That made it worse.

“I just…” You laughed weakly, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“This.”

One of his brows twitched.

“You.” Your voice got quieter. “Us.”

Simon stared at you like he genuinely didn’t understand the question.

Which was insane.

“You could have anyone.” you murmured. “Anyone, Simon.”

His grip on your hips tightened slightly.

“And you’re with…” You gestured vaguely to yourself with a self-conscious smile that hurt more than it should’ve. “Me.”

Silence.

Not angry silence.

Not cold silence.

The dangerous kind — the kind where Simon got very, very still.

“You think I’m too good for you?” he asked finally.

Your face heated immediately. “When you say it like that it sounds—”

“Answer me.”

You swallowed.

“A little.”

Simon leaned back against the couch slowly, eyes never leaving yours. There was something awful in them suddenly. Something wounded.

Like you’d hurt him.

“You think I come here because I settled?”

“No—”

“You think I look at you and see someone lesser than me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you think it.”

You looked away.

That was answer enough.

Simon exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tightening beneath faint stubble.

“Christ.”

Your stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.”

That made his head snap up instantly.

“There you go again.”

“What?”

“Apologizin’ for existing.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Simon’s hands slid from your hips up to your arms, gentler this time.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head.

“I see someone good.”

You almost laughed at that.

But Simon continued before you could.

“I see someone who remembers how I take my tea. Someone who works ten-hour shifts and still manages to smile at strangers.” His thumbs brushed absentmindedly against your sleeves. “Someone who treats people kindly even when they don’t deserve it.”

His eyes softened.

“You look at me and see the rank. The size. The scary reputation.” A humorless huff escaped him. “You don’t see what I see.”

“And what’s that?”

“A soldier.”

You frowned immediately. “Simon, I’m literally a waitress.”

“Aye.” He nodded once. “And every day you deal with rude customers, drunk men, shitty management, sore feet, exhaustion, bills…” His gaze locked onto yours. “And you keep goin’.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“You think strength only looks like violence,” Simon murmured. “Like guns and combat and knowin’ how to kill.”

One hand came up to cradle your jaw carefully.

“But I’ve seen men in the military weaker than you.”

Your eyes burned.

“Simon…”

“I mean it.” His voice dropped lower now, rough around the edges. “You walk through life soft. Do you understand how bloody difficult that is?”

That finally broke you a little.

Because Simon said it like softness was something sacred.

Something rare.

You looked down quickly, embarrassed by the sudden sting behind your eyes.

“I’m not special.”

Simon’s expression twisted like the sentence physically hurt him.

He stood abruptly, forcing you to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Big hands framed your face completely.

“Don’t do that.” he said sharply.

You startled.

“Don’t tear yourself apart in front of me.” His voice cracked slightly around the edges now. “Not when I love every part.”

The room went silent.

Simon wasn’t good at saying things like that. He showed love easier than he spoke it. Through quiet touches. Waiting outside your work after late shifts. Fixing things around your apartment without being asked. Standing between you and the world like a wall.

But this?

This was raw… and terrifyingly honest.

His forehead pressed against yours.

“I don’t need someone impressive.” he whispered. “I need you.”

Your chest ached so badly it almost hurt to breathe.

“You make my life quiet.”

One of his hands slid into your hair carefully.

“You make me feel human again.”

Your eyes finally spilled over.

Simon caught the tears immediately with his thumb, looking almost angry at them.

“Don’t cry.”

“You’re being too nice.” you whispered shakily.

A small, disbelieving laugh left him.

“Too nice..” he repeated. “That’s what did it?”

You laughed weakly through tears.

Simon stared at you for a long moment before pulling you against his chest so suddenly you nearly stumbled.

His arms wrapped around you tight. Protective. Certain. Like there had never been a question.

“You are not lucky to have me.” he murmured into your hair.

His grip tightened.

“We’re lucky to have each other.”

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Thank you @madddzshady for this request!

[dr4cul4f4ng]

Post-mission Simon “Ghost” Riley who refuses to sleep in the same bed as you, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s certain that one bad dream, one flash of training, one second of not being in control will turn him into something you can’t wake up from.

So he stays in the chair.

Every night.

Fully dressed, mask still on, boots planted like he’s still on duty. Like rest is something other people get to have without consequences.

You notice it in pieces at first—the way you wake up slightly too warm, then slightly too watched. The way the room is never fully dark, not really, because there’s always that faint outline of him across from you, completely still, like a statue carved out of restraint and guilt.

He never speaks when you catch him. He never moves, just watches.

That slow, steady attention fixed on your chest rising and falling, like he’s counting every breath to make sure it still happens. Like if you stop, he’ll finally have something to panic about.

Sometimes you pretend to stay asleep longer just to feel it—his presence sharpening, like he leans forward just a fraction when he thinks you’re not aware. Like you’re the only thing in the room keeping him anchored to anything human.

He tells you once, in a voice so low it almost gets lost in the dark, that he can’t risk it.

Not you. Never you.

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. The words sit heavy between you anyway, full of things he’s done, things he’s seen, things he still hears when everything else is quiet.

After that, you stop asking him to come to bed.

But you don’t stop waking up.

And every time you do, he’s still there, perfectly still, perfectly alert, like sleep is something he refuses to earn if it means you might not make it through the night without him watching.

[cyberdrream]

simon coming back from deployment in some country, back to his little apartment in manchester. back to home, that was once cold and miserable, now full of a child’s laughter and your cooking. something wonderful is cooking on the counter, it smells delightful, and his stomach growls. your daughter’s old enough to run now, and she was always going to be a daddy’s girl. she runs up to him as she hears his voice at the door, “dada!!!” she cries out, as she toddles up to the door, almost tripping over the rug.

simon unlocks the door, and sees his pint sized daughter by his knees, grabbing onto his legs to give him a hug before he drops his big bag in the doorway and picks her up. her blonde curls are a little darker than his, but she cuddles up to him, and he kisses the top of her head.

you look at him with a soft smile, apron on you, a dusting of flour on your cheek as you walk out the kitchen. simon’s always been averse to touch, it’s just how he’d grown up. touch didn’t mean love to him, not before the 141, or you. and now with your daughter, he clutches onto her so tightly, like he’s afraid that she’ll slip away. violet’s always been her father’s favourite person on earth, even more than you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“i got you something,” he says, kissing her curls again, “when daddy was away he found a necklace for you, want to see violet?”

“oooh!” she gurgles, squishing his cheeks with her small hands, “me? me? give! give!” she’s always been vocal about things she wants, something you and simon have taught her (something simon was desperate to teach her, to give her everything she’d ever want in her life.)

he pulls out a small necklace, with purple beads, wooden and of different shapes and shades, a small amber circle pendant in the center of it. “i saw it at a market,” he says, dangling it in front of her, “isn’t it lovely vi?”

she grabs it almost as quickly, staring at it with her big brown eyes – “me?” she asks again, looking up at her father.

“for you.” he says, kissing her forehead, “it’s violet, just like you.” 

his eyes spot you, standing by the kitchen, looking at the two of them with. with. with – he’s so in love with you.

“i got you something too.” he says, beckoning you to come closer, and you do. he holds out a necklace with blue glass beads, that shine prettily in the lights of your house, a silver heart pendant on yours. “it made me think of you.”

blue like the forget-me-nots you used to press and send him in the days before your marriage, when he was away on assignment. blue like the sapphire that sparkled on your ring finger, and blue like the pillows you’d insisted for your bed. blue like your favourite colour in the world. 

“i remembered you like silver.” he blushed as you took it, held it up to the light.

“and blue.” you smiled, putting it around your neck, “you remembered.”

“always will.”

[kkusuka]

this is probably riddled with spelling mistakes

royal portrait artist simon riley who is given a wife from the court to ensure his position in the kingdom. but he didn’t want a wife; he had no interest in entertaining some spoiled bird from the capital, so he just ignores you.

and you spends a few years married, no romance, no children, barely any words spoken between them, until you die young, a childhood illness that was never cured. and simon is left having to explain why your funeral portrait is one from before your union and not one he would have painted after. or a wedding portrait that he’d never even considered making until he realizes that he doesn’t have a single portrait, sketch, or watercolor of his betrothed.

even worse when he takes it upon himself to organized your belongings and he comes across your diary. a detailed recollection of your life and your decision to marry him because you know of his aversion of touching but you admire him and his work so much that it is worth the cold shoulder, and that it isn’t like you had much time left anyway, so you might as well spend your remaining years in his presence.

so that leaves simon, clutching to shakes memories and despair, to desperately try and replicate your essence in a portrait. for weeks, months, and years but none of them are worth any admiration. your eyes are the wrong color, your hair flows in the wrong direction, and your skin doesn’t have the glow it once did. it drives him mad, unable to rest until he can finally have you with him again.

[yousummonedme]

“Tie me up.”

Just thinking about Simon’s wife, who’s been sexually abused. So whenever things get heated between them, she freezes or fawns because of her trauma.

Simon knows how the world is towards women. He knows how he appears, big and threatening even though he’d never harm an innocent person. He’d especially never lay a hand on or so much as yell at his wife.

But trauma is trauma, and she still can’t get over the memories or the emotions that come with it. It clings to her like a leech latching onto skin and ripping blood out.

She froze when he said it. He’d said it so easily, without a hint of gestation or resentment. For a few moments, she was stunned into silence. She studied his face, and she trembled slightly. Was this okay?! She felt evil for even needing— but Simon repeated himself. His voice was a gentle rumble, and his eyes were so tender. “Tie me up, love. If that’s what it takes to make you feel safe.” And he offered his hands up like a vow.

[a66-1]

Your head was heavy against his shoulder, eyes puffy and red from the tears that have stained your cheeks. Your hands lay palm up on your lap, the strain of feeling exhausted you to your core. Simon had kept quiet, eyes ahead at the wall for the past hour, letting you cry since he told you he was leaving the next month. He'd mentioned the military before, but you thought he'd never be serious enough to commit to it. He'd never been serious enough to commit to you.

"Fuck, Simon." Your voice croaked, your head lifting enough to meet his eyes. He swallowed, blinking slowly at you. He didn't have the words for you, he never had the words. He didn't think you'd.. Be like this.

"I.. I just.. I thought I'd tell you. You, uh, you took it harder than I expected." He mumbled, eyes squinting softly. The words twisted your gut, as you pushed off him. You managed to shakily stand, sniffling as you wiped your nose with the back of your hand.

"Took it harder? What does that means? We've—I've been—Haven't we been-?" You gestured between the two of you, confusion slowly creeping on his face.

"... Been what?" He softly glanced at the furrow between your brows.

You felt your chest tighten, a soft burn behind your eyes, "Well, I-I just thought.. Together?"

He blinked back a little shock, and to you it felt like a blow to your heart, the beginning of a shatter. You two have hooked up but, it wasn't ever specified.

You should've asked.

"Love, I.. This isn't—wasn't anything," he paused, standing when you took a couple hesitant steps closer to the door. "You knew that, right?" His voice came out unsure, waiting for the confirmation he knew he wouldn't get. You felt the tears boil under your vision, and you hiccupped, clutching your chest. You swore those nights meant something. They had to have.

In the back of your mind, it made sense then. How it was so easy to leave, then, for him. He had no strings to you, yet you'd knotted all of yours to him. You stood taller, swallowing the spit in your mouth.

"You knew it meant something." It came out sharper than you had intended. He furrowed his brows.

"You knew it didn't," He took a step forward, his own expression.. Angry, directed at something in the confinement of his mind.

"Simon, we talked about it. About agreeing to eye contact, to being less sexual and more snuggly, I-I gave you everything Simon. It's not funny, this is a joke, you're a joke, you—"

"I didn't ask for it!" He spat out, the crack in his own composure showing. He bit his tounge, squaring off his shoulders. "I didn't ask for it. For you to be like this, I-I agreed to a stress relief."

You stared at him, a small piece of hair falling in front of your nose. He didn't ask for all of you. He wasn't.. Wasn't wrong.

There was no regret in his face as he turned back to his couch. He started to fix the blanket you had messed up, fixing the cushions as you stared a hole into his back. Who ever really wanted all of you? Not when.. Not when your body had become enough?

You did it to yourself, really.

"You're mean." You hiccupped, angrily wiping a stray tear off yout cheek.

"And your obsessive! God, really, I-I can't do anything without pissing you off. It's why I don't date, a-and why I would've never even dated you!" He left in a hurry, over explaining himself of why he just could never be more for you because he didn't want more of you.

It had been a while since someone did, anyways.

- part two

hi I'm back 😘 sorry I feel no joy so nobody gets to feel joy. Unedited Bai love u

[itsoutrageouss]

It’s the first time Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sees you cry that something in him changes profoundly. You had always had your different skill sets out on the field, it was what made you such a powerful duo for the task force. You were sly, agile, a killer in the dark and he was a brute show of force and strength, able to kill with his bare hands. You argued a lot, though. Your differences that made you work so well also made you clash time and time again. He found you annoying. You found him arrogant.

But after a mission, Ghost finds you collapsed on the floor in an empty building— Crying. He’d never seen you do that before, but he knew you were a softer more sensitive soul, you were just good at hiding it.

He was moving before he realised it, crouching down in front of you, eyes narrowed as he tried to find your gaze that was lost in a heap of warm tears. His hands got clammy and his throat dry because how could he make it stop? It was like the sight had reached in and seized a part of him long gone, maybe one he’d never found before now.

“Stop crying.” He said foolishly, but his tone had lost its usual edge, and the very rare lilt of pleading had laced into his voice. Why did he suddenly grab your shoulders and press your trembling body into his? He had no clue but he wanted to shield you from whatever had made you look so vulnerable before him.

A part of him didn’t like seeing this, didn’t recognise the garbled sound of soft sobs, the way your body’s strength seemed to evaporate into a fragile, soft one that he wanted to pick up and put back together. Another part of him was sucking in this moment, afraid it would get lost and maybe feeling a bit guilty about it. But this feeling of… was it protection? Protection, yes. He’d never had it like this before. Usually, protecting means killing and hurting. Right now it meant nurturing as your small hands reached around his neck and you curled into him. He reacted immediately, sitting down and scooping you into his lap.

He closed his eyes, his chin resting on your head with a sigh. He had no idea what came next. This had to change your dynamic in some way because he couldn’t ever look at you the same. He saw your softness and maybe he fell in love with it right there, and wanted to be the one you showed it to. Only him.

“Im sorry” You whispered into his chest. His hands flexed around you, fighting the urge to smother you even more against him.

“Dont say that. Just keep holding onto me.” His voice was more hoarse than usual as his fingers unconsciously combed through your hair.

Whatever had happened, he was sure you felt it too, or you would’ve never let him this close. And he wished for everything you would let him again one day.

series masterlist

[khioneee]

tap out.

simon doesn’t expect anyone to tap him out. a ritual where loved ones step forward to release a soldier from duty, creating a chance to reconnect.

based on this.

simon stands in formation, a soldier among countless others, each bound by discipline, each carrying their own story beneath a stoic exterior.

in the unyielding line, he’s silent, gaze fixed forward, while around him, families reunite: sons embraced by tearful mothers, women lifting their children into their arms, couples lost in long-awaited kisses. joy and relief fill the air, carried on quiet laughter and murmured words of love.

but simon is an orphan now.

there’s no one to step forward for him, no one to break his stance. he watches it all, standing alone, feeling like a stranger in this crowd of reunions, this world of connections he never belonged to.

over the years, the military has stripped him down, rebuilt him into something hardened and unbreakable. this new self is his armor, a wall between him and the life he left behind.

the tap-out tradition is a formality he’s only ever heard about, something he’s watched from a distance but never expected for himself.

he stands motionless as soldiers around him are tapped out by loved ones. he watches quietly, feeling a distant sense of satisfaction for them, grateful that they have that in their lives.

maybe soap would tap him out after he’d seen to his own family.

no matter how many times simon tried to keep him at arm’s length, he’d come to accept that soap wasn’t leaving him behind. coerced into the friendship or not, soap was a friend. until soap has been tapped out, there’s no one in simon’s life to come pick him out.

still, simon knew he was alone in ways he couldn’t change. or so he believes.

then he feels it—a subtle shift in the air, hesitant footsteps halting just in front of him, carrying a weight he doesn’t understand. his breath catches, but he doesn’t move. he’s trained to hold his position, but something in him almost falters as he senses a presence just inches away. slowly, he lets his gaze shift, barely, enough to catch a silhouette he thought he’d left behind a lifetime ago.

it’s you.

you. his childhood best friend. the love of his life.

you. the only person he thought of when he escaped his broken home. you. the guilt that wracked him when he ran, unable to say goodbye after the night he barely escaped after being beat nearly to death. you. the only reason he wanted to be alive, and the person he hadn’t been able to look back for.

—you. you. you.

and now here you are, standing before him, eyes wide with hope and uncertainty, tears gathering at the corners like unsaid words held back for too long.

he doesn’t understand, not fully. he thought he’d locked that door, left that part of him sealed away. and yet, here you are, holding everything he thought he’d left behind.

you hesitate, the weight of the years pressing down between you, unsure if you’re allowed to do this. if you can reach out to him after all this time, to be the one who taps him out.

he senses your uncertainty, feels it as if it’s his own, and in that moment, he lets a flicker of vulnerability break through—a slight furrow in his brow, a subtle nod. silent permission.

and you know, in that instant, it’s okay.

with a trembling hand, you reach forward, closing the distance. your hand hovers over his shoulder for a heartbeat, the air between you heavy with everything left unsaid.

then, gently, you tap him out. a simple touch, light and fleeting, yet it breaks something open in both of you.

in an instant, simon moves. his arms come around you, his grip unyielding as he pulls you close, lifting you off the ground. the soldier falls away, and he’s just simon again, holding you as if you’re the only real thing in a world that’s constantly shifting.

his head lowers, his face buried in your shoulder, and he breathes you in, lets the walls he’s held up for years fall away.

‘you’re here,’ he murmurs, voice rough, thick with emotion he can’t hide anymore.

his hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, each touch soft, a silent promise. the weight of years and regret presses against him, but he holds you tighter, as if to make up for every moment he was gone.

you feel the warmth of his tears against your shoulder, silent and raw. he pulls you closer still, as if afraid to let go, his voice barely a whisper as he breathes, ‘i’m sorry, lovie. i’m so damn sorry. i’ll never leave you behind again. i promise.’

and in that moment, surrounded by echoes of lives left behind, he’s just simon again, the boy who belonged with you.

. ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ an. i know the tap-out tradition isn’t common in the uk and is usually done at the airforce but oh well. read part 2 here.