teaching ghost how to make paper cranes but he keeps messing up with his huge ass hands <3333 (gn reader please! love your work❣️❣️)
*taps microphone* one “Ghost struggling” with a side of “Japanese paper folding art” coming right up. (A/N at the end)
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“This is even more annoying than Soap.”
“It’s not Soap’s fault you have sausages for fingers.” You murmur as you finish your tenth paper crane and set it on the conference table.
He examines the back of his hand as if he had just received a manicure. He then flips it over, palm facing up, and curls his fingers into a fist before releasing them.
“My fingers are not the problem,” he argues, “it’s these sheets; they are way too small.”
“Did you say ‘shits’ or ‘sheets’?” You quip, and he huffs at your comment. Yet, he picks up another piece of paper from the stack to try again.
You observe him as he leans over the table. He is pretty crafty when it comes to surviving in difficult situations; he can light a fire by creating a bow drill, build a shelter out of branches, and navigate the woods with a needle as a compass. But when it comes to these types of crafts, he struggles.
He starts folding again, a little gentler than before. Every time he completes a step, he pauses to assess his progress. He occasionally lets out a self-motivational hum and nods to himself.
But then something happens, and he loses it—a misaligned fold caused by his large hands or a paper rip as a result of his inexperience with handling such delicate materials. Sometimes he just feels discouraged, anticipating another failed try, and gives everything up.
Looking at his current attempt, you know the paper crane will fall apart. He completes his final folds and, as you anticipated, it comes loose. He groans and crumbles the paper.
“You can do it,” you assert. “I’ve seen you train unruly recruits with much more patience.”
“For fucks sake, Y/N,” he shouts, throwing his head back, “recruits are easier to shape into soldiers than moulding a fucking Post-it note into a duck.”
“It’s a crane,” you correct him; “ducks have another technique.”
“What’s the difference?” he complains. “Why do they have different folds if they are both birds?”
“For the same reason, an AK47 and an MP5 need different types of ammo, I guess.”
Despite his disappointment, he picks up another piece of paper and folds it again.
“Patience, Lt.,” you encourage him, “treat it as a recruit.”
He pauses for a minute, contemplating your advice, before he begins. He does not treat the paper as a target this time. He carefully pinches it with his fingers and folds it with his nails. In his eyes, the paper has taken on the appearance of something far too fragile. Something that needs to be helped and taken care of. It’s not against him, but with him—they’re allies working towards a common goal.
He completes it and places it in the palm of his hand, stretching his creation towards you. It’s not perfect, but nothing is.
“Excellent work, Lieutenant!” You cheer, and he proudly places his paper crane next to yours.
“It’s relaxing and meditative,” he admits; “all this folding and aligning makes you forget about things.”
“Things?” You ask as he pulls another sheet from the stack.
“You know,” he replies, staring at the paper in his hands, “bad things.”
You can see his emotions shifting through his eyes—they’re half-lidded as if they want to forget the atrocities they witnessed. His hands are fiddling with that paper; they are shameful hands in his mind—hands that participated in the worst horrors imaginable. They’re not worthy of making paper cranes.
“Paper cranes symbolise hope,” you comfort him, “and there’s a Japanese legend that says whoever makes a thousand of them will be granted a wish.”
His eyes light up, and he opens his lips to say something, but Soap enters the room. “What are you doing here?” He yells and sits on the table, right next to your paper cranes.
Ghost rolls his eyes at the sight of Soap but continues with his little project. “I’m making a thousand paper cranes to fulfil my wish.” He replies.
“What are you going to wish for, Lieutenant?” He asks, and Ghost replies with a stern “for you to get off my fucking back.”
You make quiet shushing noises to calm him down, and he inhales deeply.
“What is it that you want, Sergeant?” He finally asks, and Soap begins to report every problem around the base that would require Ghost’s attention.
“And the fridge broke last night, and all the meat has gone bad,” he concludes, “so it looks like we might have to eat a plant-based diet until we fix it.”
“That’s alright,” Ghost shrugs, “as long as we get our nutrients, we’ll be fine.”
Soap looks at you, dumbfounded. “Wow, Lt.!” he shouts, turning to Ghost, “these paper cranes have turned you into a bloody monk, haven’t they?”
“Paper crane, paper crane,” Ghost begins to chant as he folds, “go away, or you’ll end up with a fucking cane.”
“Ghost!” you cry. “Where is the patience and meditative state we discussed earlier?”
“I’m sorry,” he apologises and turns to Soap. “Namaste, sergeant,” he says and waves his hand in dismissal, “now fuck off.”
And who are you to tell him what to say or how to behave? You, too, are a project yourself, just like these cranes lined up in front of you. You look at the trash bin with all the papers he crumbled before completing his first successful paper fold art. Today he learned something new and joyful. Something that makes him feel content and proud rather than something that wakes him up in the middle of the night or, worse, prevents him from sleeping. Making a thousand paper cranes is so much better than watching him with that thousand-yard stare he gets after every mission.
Soap grabs one of your paper cranes, places it in his pocket, and leaves you two be.
Ghost completes his second successful paper crane and grabs another sheet. “Nine hundred and ninety-eight more to go,” he states, “you know, for that wish.”
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A/N: I had no idea how to make a paper crane, so I wanted to teach myself first in order to write this. And yes, I did it on a Post-it note (but not a sticky one). Also, this piece is 1000 words.
I NEED MORE ANGSTY HCS WITH SIMON !! like it was so good, your writing is 🤌
Headcanons of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley in a relationship with you ( and eventually, out of it )
headcanons : of Simon ‘ Ghost ‘ Riley struggling and failing to maintain a relationship with you
rating : m for mature and suggestive themes
pairing : f!reader / simon ‘ghost’ riley
tags : angst, a lot of angst, he won’t be a good boyfriend no matter how much you want him to be, mentions of sex/smut, descriptions of arguing that might be anxiety inducing, he is definitely toxic ( but my favorite color is red )
fandom : cod mwii
warnings : cursing, suggestive themes, mdni (minors don’t interact)
01 | Arguments with him were the worst. Simon never denies that he has a temper, and even if he tries his best to hold back every time, there are moments when the most vicious and vile words will fly out of his mouth. As if his body knows just what to say to hurt you and keep you at arm's length. He doesn't have to curse or raise his voice while doing it. He only has to look you in the eye and drop his voice — a sentence enough to send your eyes brimming with tears. And even then, he doesn't comfort you; there was no makeup kisses or remorseful hugging, just him, stiff as a rock, watching you cry silently. The closest thing he ever did to apologize was placing a hand on your shoulder, kneeling to your eye level as you struggled to stifle your crying. " I don't want to keep hurting you." His words lingered in the back of your mind, and in your heart, you knew the only person hurting you was yourself: you were the one who decided to stroke his hand and forgave him, despite having accepted that things will never change.
02 | He doesn’t know how to express his concern. Simon worrying about you will always end with a heated argument. You know it comes from a place of good intention, yet it doesn't change how he would go on and on about how reckless and selfish you were. As if his heart couldn't take the weight of loving and losing someone, he was always trying to push you away first; you knew this was one of those moments. There was a lot of yelling, screaming, and begging from you, but even when you were already sobbing, Simon doesn't stop. Whether it was a conscious decision or not, each word out of his mouth — poisoned with the intention to hurt and punish you for scaring him. You can feel his remorse the night after an argument. With your backs against each other, you tried to convince yourself that he regrets it. Yet how can you cling to that thought when there was no reassurance, no communication, and certainly no comfort from him?
03 | Simon doesn't make love: he only fucks you until your legs are sore and your mind addled with pleasure. Yet it always leaves you empty by the morning. Because you know that when the sun sets and it's just the two of you, bodies pressed close to each other with his teeth and tongue running against your skin, that will be the closest you'll ever get to intimacy. Even when you lay next to each other, somewhere into the night, he will move to be on the furthest edge of the bed — as if avoiding you by creating this gap you can never bridge. You would have found the situation ridiculous, if not heartbreaking — because it really was like loving a ghost: Simon is an apparition that appears every once in a while yet never long enough to lay himself open. He was barely there, a shell of a man that continues to haunt you. Yet even then, you still love him ( and you hate yourself for it.)
04 | You were starting to understand that loving Simon was like gripping onto sand: the harder you hold, the faster he slips away. So you couldn't help but feel irritated that even after you've mustered the courage to leave the fighting behind to start again, Simon still haunts you. A ghost that follows you around in the shadows, lurking, waiting, watching. You feel like you're going insane, hallucinating about your ex that you left years ago. But everyone was right: it was nothing time could fix. And you wanted to make amends and end it on a good note, so you invited him — even if you didn't expect him to show up. Yet, nothing could ever prepare you for seeing him again for the first time in ages — out of his mask and uniform, he almost looked sad. Back when you lay with him, you've always found yourself guiltily dreaming of this moment: of walking down the aisle to him. What a shame that when the moment does come, you had to walk past him and instead stand next to the man you wished Simon could have been.
a/n : you're so sweet !! thank you 🥺 i'm so happy to hear you enjoyed my writing <3 here are more angsty hcs and imagines of our man. i’m also such a sucker for the trope where : one of exes have to watch the other one get married and move on... literally what years of kdrama does to a mf... i hope you enjoyed this !
imagine the ‘exes who still love each other but know that being together is too painful’ trope + simon ‘ghost’ riley
gracieabrams
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