most people ghost worked with had never seen him with his mask off.
but you were the exact opposite. when you'd first met him, you were his nurse. he'd broken a couple ribs and ended up bruising a lung. no big deal, but he had to spend a week in hospital and price made him take another 2 to rest. the mask inhibited his breathing, so off it came. but after those weeks with you, he never really felt the need to put it back on.
it was an aspect of his life that he stopped wanting to bring home. you had split him into two, simon and ghost. ghost stayed on base. everyday, before sliding his key into the door, he tucked the mask into his pocket. his boots stayed by the door, jacket never made it past the coat rack. his home was a sanctuary.
you drop by base one day, looking for simon so you can drop off his forgotten lunch, and tap on ghost's shoulder:
"excuse me, sir? you don't happen to know where I might find simon riley?"
this is just a silly unfinished idea that's been floating around in my head
idk if I'll ever get around to writing something real about it but for now this is it ❤︎ ⋆˚࿔
basically he’s a big ol werewolf but turns into a puppy dog as soon as he comes home to you
ghost is a big scary lieutenant. anyone who witnessed the way that he yelled at the recruits knew it. he was terrifying. the cold stares in the mess hall. the way he seemed to pop up out of nowhere.
yet you seemed unaffected. anytime you were asked about it, you just replied: “simon? scary? no, he’s just a big ol’ cutie.” ☺️
no one but you saw the way he climbed into bed with you after a long day, tugging off his mask and nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as you pulled his gear off.
lowk this isn't even anything but it was just gonna rot in my drafts otherwise so here you go
before you had gotten together with simon, you were always freezing. sitting by the radiator with a cup of tea, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and fuzzy socks to bed, heated blanket freezing. it’s just how you’ve always operated.
so when you feel just how warm simon is, you’re shocked. he strips down to his boxers to sleep, looks at you like you’re mad for wearing socks around the house, and jolts when you press your cold hands and feet to his warm body.
you two cuddle up to sleep, reaching the perfect temperature equilibrium. his warm body cocoons yours as the two of you drift off to sleep together.
thought I'd write something super short super fluffy in honor of the weather getting colder and also because I have absolutely no motivation to write anything else
its almost the end of the quarter so I've been super duper busy lately but also I'm just noooottt here for it idk why even
you live in a pretty shitty neighborhood, but one thing you'd made sure of when apartment shopping was that your building had a doorman. it could hardly be described as a building, even. it was a six story walk up, but the 'lobby' had a little desk and an intercom and it made you feel safer.
doorman!ghost who looked almost comical, squished between the desk and the wall, his ginormous body looking just about ready to burst though the flimsy plaster.
doorman!ghost who only grunted his name in response to your cheery introduction when you first met him, but immediately got up to help you carry your boxes up the stairs, mumbling something about needing to stretch his legs.
doorman!ghost who knew your schedule like clockwork before he even realized he did. knew when you got home from work, knew when you got groceries. knew that every sunday night you brought him a tupperware with baked goods and a very detailed explanation of how exactly you made whatever it was.
doorman!ghost who once carried you up four flights of stairs after you came home stumbling from a night out, doing his best to be a gentleman but that damn dress you put on was making it hard
doorman!ghost who would never have expected the shitty job he got after being dismissed from the military would have such amazing perks
a/n: this is my first time posting anything i've written anywhere and it's kinda nerve wracking lol but lmk if you like it and/or if you want more of doorman ghost ❤︎ ⋆˚࿔
༻ ・ ୨୧ ・༺
johnny mactavish, whose wife is the complete antithesis of him - a pink loving, lace and bow covered, cutesy, frilly, delicate dollop of whipped cream.
the 141 is completely baffled at how he managed to bag such a pretty bird, but soap insists that his charm won her over.
he was constantly playing video games. at first it was just on base, a way to destress after a long mission. but one day he brought a playstation home. from then on, it became ritual for him.
you didn’t mind it so much. it was mostly time you’d have spent on your own hobbies anyways. he was never more eager to play the games than he was to spend time with you. often, you’d end up with your head in his lap as he played, putting your hand on his thigh whenever he got too worked up over the game. you just couldn't understand why he cared so much about it.
but one day he got an idea in his head. and one johnny had an idea in his head, he made it happen. he started you off easy. a two player game. bonding.
“cmon, hen. you’ll like it. promise.”
it was hard to say no to him when he looked at you like that.
you had to admit, you did like it. you two began playing his other games together. and maybe once or twice you picked up the controller while he was away on a mission. just to give it a try.
-
“dove, d’ya think i could get a turn?” his head rested in your lap, looking up at you patiently.
“…yeah. you can play after i lose one.” you relented.
“aww, c’mon! are you serious? did you see that, johnny? that had to be a bot!” you smacked your fist against the couch cushion, annoyed at the *clearly rigged* game.
“yeah, baby, i saw that.” he grinned and held his hand out expectantly, petting your shoulder with an affectionate look. “now you know how it feels.”
you crossed you arms over your chest before handing over the stupid controller.
“i change my mind. this game stinks.”
this has been sitting in my drafts almost finished for longer than I'd like to admit...
I was also too lazy to edit it so it is sincerely bad but wtv wtv its okay ❤︎⋆˚࿔
absolutely inspired by this lovely post by @sc3ptre
reader who lets slip that she wears day of the week panties. she was made fun of for it by a past boyfriend maybe. yes, she always matched them to the actual day of the week. no, she didn’t really care to explain the reason. it was just a nice routine. one less decision to make every morning.
when simon riley hears that the 141s cute little secretary loves tuesdays because that’s when she gets to wear the pink ones, he makes it his mission in life to ruin every single pair of those panties.
you've always been introverted by nature. being alone suited you. so 8 years ago, when the lighthouse keeper got sick, you really didn't mind stepping in. the routine of it was nice. get up every morning, make sure the lamp was functioning fine, log whatever the weather was. then you'd tend your little garden. it wasn't much, but it did reduce the frequency of your trips to the mainland, as you could pretty much eat off of the island. if you needed meat, you would hunt. if you needed new clothing, you would sew. otherwise, you spent most of your day in that little room up at the top of the lighthouse, shining the light and guiding the passing boats away from the sharp rock on the coast and into the port on the mainland.
every once in a while, a storm passed through. today's was a particularly treacherous one. you donned a plastic poncho that flapped in the wind as you ventured outside to bring in anything that wasn't bolted down. as soon as you got back in, you let out a sigh of relief. it was freezing out there, rain coming down hard and harsh winds. anyone still out on the water today was certainly unlucky. you climbed up the coiling stairs into the lantern room, lighting a candle to warm yourself up as your settled into your chair and looked out into the ocean.
˚.⋆𓂃𓊝
as you gazed out into the empty blue haze, you saw something strange... was that... no. couldn't be. as the foggy silhouette got clearer, your initial theory was affirmed. there was a boat, struggling against the aggressive waves. you thought it would be completely impossible. any crew unlucky enough to be caught in this storm, would be swallowed up immediately by the ocean. somehow, though, this boat was hanging on.
the waves tossed the vessel at their whim, crashing it dangerously close to the jagged rocks on the coastline of your small island. you knew your stupid light would do the sailors no good at this point, so you just watched in abject horror, unable to do the very thing you were devoted to.
as the boat got closer, you began to make out a few figures on the boat. you counted four. four innocent men. you felt something being torn from your chest. how could you just stand by as the water swallowed those poor sailors up?
you rushed down the stairs, donning your poncho and fighting the wind all the way down to the beach. when you spot the ship, crashing closer and closer to shore as the tide carries it into the island, you shriek. the hull got caught on a jagged rock. there’s no way they survived.
your heart is beating at a hundred miles a minute, and hot tears stark streaking down your frozen cheeks. you should go inside. in fact, you already feel yourself catching cold, the tips of your fingers turning from red to purple. but… how could you just leave?
as you’re about to leave, a voice calls out to you.
“watcha crying over, hen?” you jump, the unfamiliar scottish voice shaking you from your frozen position. you turn around to find four men, all drenched and shaking from the cold.
two of them are holding a small wooden boat between them, tucked under a shoulder each.
“are you… is that… was that your boat?” you finally manage, pointing out at their lost vessel with quivering fingers.
˚.⋆𓂃𓊝
you lead the four men, whose names you've now learned, up the hill to your lighthouse. or more accurately, they lead you. somehow less shaken by their near death experience than you, they help you settle down the whole way up. once you've all settled inside, you begin to get your affairs in order.
"okay... um. ok..." you look around, as if there will be a hint in your surroundings. how to house four men in your lighthouse: for dummies. the beginners guide to avoiding mental breakdowns. you find no such help.
"sorry. it's been a while since I've had company."
"no worries, dove." the one with the beard - john - reassured you. "we're not picky."
"you all want to shower!" you realize, your gaze finally landing on their soaked clothing. "you should shower. um... okay. the bathroom is down there." you point down the hall. "there's only one, but... um... yeah."
"thank you, love." you guessed he was the spokesman of the group. maybe the ships's captain? anyways, he was speaking to you the most.
"right. I'm gonna go try to find dry clothes for you all. and sheets. I need sheets. um... I think I can fit two of you in my bed. it's a queen. and then the couch, maybe? err... that makes three. we need five. so two can sleep on the floor somewhere." you were rambling now, you couldn't help it. you couldn't think of the last time another soul, aside from the previous inhabitants, had been in this lighthouse. and now four men were in the middle of your living room, making themselves easily at home. and you were on a nervous tangent about bedding arrangements.
you hurried yourself off to the basement, digging through the possessions that had been left behind throughout the years of lighthouse keepers. you managed to find a box full of men's clothes labelled 'Harrison,' as well as a very cute sweater that you may just have to keep for yourself. you made a mental note to go through the basement more thoroughly and returned upstairs to the four of them wrapped in towels, sitting on your couch.
cool. that's cool.
baaahhhh this is lowk bad....
part two is coming at some point eventually I just thought it was getting too long to put in one part and wanted to finally post this because I have sooo much sitting in my drafts
sometimes you felt silly complaining about the stupid stuff. things that still got under your skin, even though you’d been convincing yourself for years that it’s no big deal. the way your t shirt lays siege on your peace, all abrasive fabric and tags scratching at your skin. the lack of food in the kitchen, even though there is food, because the legendary beast that is cravings can never be understood, least of all by those plagued with them.
after all, price spent most of his time in gear far less comfortable than any of your clothes. you whining about food probably annoys him, when all he typically eats is mess hall food and rations.
john, however, doesn’t mind it at all. he loves how gentle you are. taking care of his sensitive soft girl. hates when you hold back your problems, biting your tongue rather than being honest.
when you grumble about the decline of fabric quality while grabbing at your shirt, he’ll tug the tee off of you, returning with your favorite soft one of his, the familiar scent of cigars and soap lingering.
when you just can’t figure out how to satisfy your craving, he’ll make you your comfort food. warm and safe and always delicious with a cup of tea.
I am cursed with one billion drafts and no motivation to finish any of them ❤︎ ⋆˚࿔
just more self indulgent fluff instead of finishing any of my other drafts because who's gonna stop meeee >:)
