Rosemary

She/her | WOC ❤︎︎

[urmomschocolatemilk]

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[rassvetsky]

The Anatomy of a Weapon | Part 4

simon "ghost" riley x reader

series masterlist

“I held it, Simon.” you murmured, voice dropping to an honest whisper as you whispered a half-inch closer into his space. “Held my lane, because I knew you were on the other side.”

Simon stared at you for a long, breathless moment, jaw setting as he processed the words. His eyes closed when your palms found the sides of his face, cradling it, whilst he exhaled a breath so deep he must’ve been holding it for decades.

“I’m always going to be on the other side.”

[5k] HOLY SHIT ! mission chapter, trapped/separated, tearing down walls (literally and emotionally), first-aid/caretaking, FACE REVEAL?? simon riley is devastatingly beautiful and samuel roukin is my face claim because. would. heavy eye contact, mutual trust, allat allat this is sweet!!

The 0600 briefing had been brief, clinical, and entirely too early in the morning for anybody’s liking. 

Price had laid out the schematics on the digital screen, harsh blue light illuminating the subterranean veins of an abandoned border town. Operation: Deep Water. Intel had pinned down an underground subway network being used by a hostile cell to smuggle chemicals. The team’s directive was to descend into the flooded transit line, locate the crates, neutralize the cell, and get the hell out of there.

As you sat at the edge of the long mess hall table, staring down at your untouched plate of plain eggs and toast —which you sprinkled whatever spice you could find on top, so not entirely sure how plain it’d taste— the details of the briefing kept looping in your head. 

Subterranean. Close-quarters combat in pitch-black conditions. Water up to your knees.

A proper fucking nightmare, in short.

Your mind instinctively mapped out the horrors. Subway stations meant endless blind spots, tiled corridors what would make every splash of water and footstep echo like a damn gunshot, narrow, flooded tunnels with absolutely zero room for error. A tactical meat grinder ready to make a whole burger out of you. Yeah.

A few years back, the mere thought of being trapped in a dark, windowless underground labyrinth would have made the walls of the room close in on your chest, making your hands shake before you even touched a mag. 

But today, your hands were perfectly steady. Perks of the task force.

Heavy scuffs of a boot broke your train of thought. You didn’t have to look up to know who it was, his gait was a perfect tell, and lately, one person over anybody else kept seeking you out. The sheer physical gravity of his presence always seemed to reach you a second before he did, too.

Simon slid onto the low wooden bench next to yours, his choice of sitting beside you rather than across noted down somewhere in your head, his massive frame instantly blocking out the noise of the waking mess hall. You loved how he kept creating a quiet, private pocket of space just for the two of you whenever he was near. He was stripped down to a simple black shirt, scarred forearms bare against the edge of the table. He hadn’t brought a tray. Just a fresh mug of steaming black coffee.

Without so much as a word, he rolled the bottom of his balaclava up past his chin, exposing the sharp line of his jaw and the pale, soft skin —save for a few days’ stubble— framing his mouth. He didn’t turn away to take his first sip, like he did for many months before. He just sat there, completely unbothered, letting you take a small look at one fraction of a man behind the Ghost because he knew you wouldn’t hold a shred of pity in your gaze.

If anything, you were staring right at his lips, and you could only break that trance when you noticed them curling into a smirk.

“You’re tearing that toast to pieces,” he murmured, his deep rasp incredibly low, meant strictly for your ears.

You blinked, looking down to realize your fingers had mindlessly shredded the piece of bread into a pile of crumbs on your plate. A small, faint ghost of a smirk tugged at your mouth as you dusted your hands off. “Jus’ mapping out the subway lines, Simon.” on the clock, technically, but you couldn’t possibly think of insubordination whilst half his face was in your view.

“Mm. Quiet tunnels,” he spoke casually, taking another slow sip of his coffee. He leaned his weight back against the edge of the table. “No wind, leaves rustlin’ or such. Just you, the sightline, and whatever’s in front of your muzzle.”

“And freezing shit water up to our knees.” you reminded him, turning your head slightly to meet his icy blue eyes.

“Good thing I patched the seals on your tactical boots last night, then,” he said, his tone entirely deadpan, though the faint smile on his lips told you what you needed to know. 

Your heart did a sudden, sharp flutter behind your ribs. He hadn’t told you he’d done that. While you were asleep, he must’ve quietly gone into the locker room, taken your gear, and ensured you wouldn’t be freezing in the dark. Carrying his side of the weight of the life that you shared.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Simon didn’t answer with much, settling for a single, firm nod, rolling the balaclava back down to cover his jaw after draining the last of his mug. The small talk was over. Off the clock comfort faded slightly, making way for the cold, lethal synch of the 141.

“Finishing your breakfast?” he asked, rising to his full, towering height.

“Done,” you said, standing up with him, knees tracking right beside his as you left the mess hall behind. 

The armory cage was dead quiet compared to the rest of the base, the metallic tang of solvent and gun oil filling the air— a smell that no longer made you feel sick. You and Simon worked at the main steel workbench side by side, with no words between you. When you reached your left hand, Simon placed a heavy-duty tactical flashlight into your palm. When he leaned back to adjust the tension on his heavy plate carrier, you stepped into his space without asking, fingers moving efficiently to tighten the heavy nylon straps over his shoulders, pulling until the vest sat perfectly flush against his massive chest.

He didn’t stiffen like he used to. Now, he’d only stand perfectly still, like he was used to the proximity already.

You picked your rifle up, sliding the bolt carrier group back with a sharp clack. You checked the alignment of your red-dot optic, hands entirely steady as you locked a fresh magazine into the mag well. Simon watched you from beneath the shadow of his skull plate, eyes tracking every functional movement of your fingers. He reached into his drop-leg rig, pulled out an extra breaching charge, and silently slid it into the side pouch of your vest. Blink, and you’d miss the way his gloved knuckles lingered for a fraction of a second against your chest plate.

“Ready?” his deep voice rumbled through the cage, Simon letting the Lieutenant, the Ghost, man, myth, whatever, take the reins. 

You slid the small earpiece into your ear, tucking it there until it was solid. “Born ready, LT.”

“Good,” Ghost muttered, picking up his own weapon and slinging it across his chest with an easy grace. He caught your eye one last time before heading toward the exit. “Tarmac in ten. Let’s go turn the lights out on ‘em.”

The roar of the transport plane’s engines was a deafening, vibrating wall of sound that rattled straight through the soles of your boots and into your teeth. 

The interior of the fuselage was bathed in a dim, tactical red glow, which casted long and eerie shadows across the metal ribs of the aircraft. Outside the small windows, a thunderstorm was tearing through the night sky, throwing the massive plane around like a toy. Every few seconds, the aircraft would drop into a pocket of turbulence, forcing your harness to bite hard into your collarbones.

You sat on the netting seat, knees almost brushing against the heavy crates of equipment strapped down in the center aisle. Across from you sat the rest of the 141. Gaz was methodically checking the seals on his waterproof kit, Soap was tapping a rhythmic beat against his thigh, and Price was chewing on an unlit cigar, his eyes fixed on a digital tablet displaying the maps of the sunken metro. 

And right beside you was Simon. Or rather, the Ghost.

Even in the cramped, shaking belly of the plane, his frame was an unyielding anchor. He sat perfectly still, rifle resting flat across heavy thighs, large hands resting over the handguard. The printed balaclava and the skull plate were back in place, blocking out the humanity you’d seen in the mess hall hours ago. He was the Ghost now. Cold. Unshakeable. Lethal. But as the plane took a violent lurch to the left, his heavy shoulder firmly pressed against yours— as deliberately as it could be without being too obvious. You didn’t look at him, he didn’t look at you, but the familiar heat of just having him near you instantly cleared the baseline anxiety rising in your chest.

Price tapped the screen of his tablet, blue light reflecting off his rugged features as he looked up at the team. 

“Listen up,” the Captain’s voice barked through the internal comms loop, cutting through the engines. “We’re five minutes out from the drop zone. The storm is knocking out the local power grid above ground, which means the subways are going to be pitch-black and flooded, up to the knees if we’re lucky. Hostile cell is dug in deep near the central maintenance junction.”

You reached up, tapping the small button on your headset to dial into the frequency, adjusting the microphone close to your lips. “Comms check. How’s my read, Captain?”

“Loud and clear, kid,” Price replied, giving you a sharp nod.

“Got ya loud and clear down here, sunshine,” Soap chimed in, cutting his eyes toward you with a quick, subtle wink that told you he was glad to see how high your head was held. How you sat with more confidence than ever. You flashed a grin at him. 

“Solid on my end,” Gaz added, adjusting his night-vision goggles down over his eyes.

“Ghost, status?” Price asked.

Simon reached up, gloved fingers tapping his headset with a slow click. His deep rasp flooded the comms loop. “Green across the board. Comms are secure.” he turned his head a fraction towards you. “Weapon’s hot. Ready to turn the lights out.”

Price nodded, sliding the tablet into his vest pocket and gripping the overhead ceiling rail as the plane took another bounce. “Alright. I want us moving in tight, two-man elements to clear the sectors before we converge on the chemical crates.”

Price pointed his gloved finger toward Gaz. “Gaz, you’re on point for the western maintenance stairs, I’m pairing you with—” then, his gaze found you.

“Negative.”

The word cut through the comms like a snapped wire. It wasn’t loud, no, but the authoritative gravity of Simon’s voice made the entire cabin go dead quiet, even with the loud engines.

Gaz stopped mid-motion, his hand pausing on his visor. Soap’s jaw was practically dropped, eyes darting instantly from Simon to you, a massive, knowing grin completely taking over his face. Price slowly lowered his hand, eyebrows shooting up beneath the brim of his boonie hat as he stared at his Lieutenant.

“Excuse me, Ghost?” Price asked, his tone dropping into a dangerous, questioning rumble. You don’t negative your Captain’s orders five minutes out from the drop zone. You just don’t.

“She’s with me,” Simon rumbled back, completely unbothered by the sudden spike of tension in the cabin. He didn’t even shift an inch, nor did he offer a polite explanation or a standard request. He was just staring dead-ahead at Price. “We’ve dialed in the synchronization on the breaches back at base. She knows how to sweep without crossing me. Gaz can take MacTavish.”

“Hey! Who said I wanted to be paired with the guy who can’t even clear a room ahead of schedule?” Soap protested loudly, though the sheer mischief in his voice proved he was entirely enjoying the shitshow.

Price ignored Soap, sharp eyes cutting a hard path between you and Simon. He took a good look at you. Your posture. Steady hands. Then at the rigid, protective stance of the Ghost sitting right at your shoulder. A silent communication passed between the Captain and his Lieutenant— one born of decades of warfare.

Price let out a low huff, a quiet, knowing chuckle escaping as he shook his head, pulling his cigar to the side of his mouth. “Alright,” he muttered, reaching to grab the heavy red handle of the jump door as the warning siren suddenly began to wail through the cabin. The back ramp slowly started to lower, revealing the pitch-black abyss of the rain-soaked night outside. “Rosters stand as amended. Ghost, you and the kid take the eastern tunnels. Hold the line, cover each other’s six, and don’t get sloppy.”

Simon closed his gloved fingers tightly around the handguard of the rifle, shoulder giving yours one last bump before he stood up into the roaring wind. “Roger that, Captain,” he murmured, then, his voice dropped an octave and became that rough, honest whisper meant for you. “Let’s get to work.”

You unclipped your harness, standing up in unison with Simon. The plane took a dip as it hit a thermal pocket, but your feet stayed planted. You adjusted your goggles down, the world shifting into a grainier, high-contrast green. Simon stepped up to the edge of the ramp first, and checked his primary weapon, tapped his chest plate, and stepped off into the abyss.

You didn’t hesitate either. You followed him right down the throat of the storm.

The drop was short. Rain hammered against your visor like gravel, the wind tearing at your gear until the static line snapped your chute open. A minute of suffocating, blind navigation through the clouds later, your boots hit the muddy, waterlogged tarmac of the border town with a heavy thud. You cut the riser straps instantly, dropping the canopy into the muck, and raised your rifle, sweeping the perimeter.

Through the green tint of your optics, you spotted him three meters ahead. He was already up, a knee in the mud, rifle locked into his shoulder as he covered your sector. 

“Ghost to Bravo-Six,” after a click on the comms. “We’re on the ground. Moving up to eastern transit entrance now.”

“Copy that, Ghost,” Price’s voice crackled through the static. “We’re hitting the western stairs. See you at the junction.”

Simon rose, giving you a quick, sharp motion with his hand. You fell into stride right behind him, moving like a shadow just like him through the derelict streets. The town was a graveyard of some sort— no lights, no civilian movement, nothing at all. Just the relentless downpour pooling in the gutters.

He led the way to a crumbling concrete structure jutting out of the pavement, the entrance to the transit system. The iron gate had been blown off its hinges, hanging loosely from a single rusted bolt. Below it, the stairwell descended into an absolute, pitch-black vacuum. From the depths, the heavy, hollow echo of water flow could be heard.

Simon paused at the threshold, frame blocking the entrance for a brief second. He turned his head just enough to catch your eye through the visor. “Tight angles,” he murmured over the direct comms. “Watch your step. Water’s moving fast down there.”

“Roger,” you whispered back, heart rate elevated but steady. Your breathing was a calm cycle. Perfect control.

You descended together.

The air turned thick instantly, stagnant, and freezing cold, smelling heavily of rusted iron and stagnant river silt. By the time you hit the bottom platform, the water was already sloshing violently against your shins, the current pulling at your trousers. The white beams of your tactical lights reflected off the slick subway tiles and casted distorted shadows down the length of the tunnel.

It was an echo chamber. Every splash of your boots felt too loud to be safe, but you matched his cadence perfectly, stepping when he stepped, neutralizing the noise as much as you possibly could.

The tunnel stretched out ahead. Ten meters in, the first structural obstacle appeared, a massive, rusted steel doorframe leading into a secondary maintenance corridor. Simon slowed his pace, shoulders dropping slightly as he approached to the left side of the frame. You smoothly transitioned into his right, kept your muzzle low, sweeping the blind spot behind the heavy iron door while Simon took the high angle, his barrel tracking the corridor. The room was clear. No targets.

Simon lowered his rifle just an inch, jaw shifting beneath the skull print as he looked at you. “Thought you’d drop your stance,” he rumbled softly into the comms, throwing the kitchen critique back into the mix.

“Told you, Simon,” you murmured back, a faint smirk tugging at your lips behind your mask as you kept your weapon raised. “I’m adjusting for the space.”

“Good,” Ghost muttered, the Lieutenant returning in a flash as a distant, metallic clink echoed from the far end of the flooded rail line. The hostiles were close. He raised his rifle. “Room’s about to get loud.”

About ten minutes later, the central maintenance junction looked like a subterranean slaughterhouse. 

The initial ambush had turned the corridors into a localized hell. Muzzle flashes detonated in the dark while the deafening roar of automatic gunfire bounced off the concrete ceiling. You and Simon managed to move like a single terrifying entity— but then a desperate enemy combatant had blind-fired a heavy grenade launcher into the structural pillars.

The explosion had been a blinding flash of orange head, followed by the low-frequency groan of collapsing reinforced concrete. The ceiling had caved in with a thunderous roar, dropping tons of debris, steel rebar and dust into the rushing water, completely severing your line of sight from Price and Soap and rendering the main comms loop into a wall of static.

Worse, the shockwave had triggered the emergency lockdown protocols of the facility. A heavy, industrial iron security grate had slammed down from the ceiling with a violent clang, locking securely into the concrete floor. 

You were trapped on the other side. Alone. In the dark. With the echo of approaching hostile footsteps splashing through the water toward your position.

Where is she, where the hell is she?

Inside Simon’s skull, the cold Lieutenant had managed to turn to ash. The moment that iron grate had slammed down, cutting off his view of your tactical light, the hollow vacuum behind his ribs had ruptured into a frantic heat. He couldn’t hear you over the static. He couldn’t feel your shoulder against his. 

He didn’t care about chemical crates at that moment, Price’s orders were reduced to mere afterthoughts. The Ghost persona buckled under the primitive terror of worrying about you. He was losing his mind, the ticking clock in his head deafening him as he heard the distant clack of an enemy rifle chambering a round on your side of the wall.

You, however, refrained from panic. Backing up against the slick tiles, you felt the extra branching charge Simon had tucked into your vest back at the base. You ripped the plastic explosive from your pouch, slapped it against a secondary drywall partition that led into the hostiles’ blind flank, and blew it.

The drywall shattered. You stepped directly through the smoke, weapon hot, and caught the incoming hostile fireteam completely off-guard, systematically clearing the room all by yourself. 

On the other side of the iron gate, Simon didn’t have a breaching charge left.

With a raw, animalistic growl that tore right through his throat and into the dead air of the tunnel, he threw his rifle to the side and slammed his massive, gloved hands into the horizontal gaps of the iron security grate. His boots dug into the rushing water, heavy muscles straining until the fabric of his black combat shirt underneath threatened to rip across his shoulders. He didn’t have time to think about all that, then. He just thought about the ice in your eyes that he’d spent so much time trying to melt, and he refused to let the dark take it back.

With a screeching groan of protesting metal, Simon pulled.

The hydraulic gears inside the ceiling shrieked, sparks flying from the housing unit as he manually overrode the locking mechanism with brute physical force. The iron teeth of the gate ground against the concrete, bending and bucking out of their tracks until the mechanism finally snapped with a loud pop, as Simon heaved the grate forward, showing it into the ceiling frame until it jammed open.

He lunged through the opening, splashing loudly into the water, hand already reaching for the sidearm, ready to tear the room apart.

He froze, instead.

The room was already quiet. You were standing in the center of the flooded space, your boots planted firmly in the rushing water, your rifle raised and covering the far door. Three hostiles lay neutralized around you. Simon stood there, his chest rising and falling in violent, ragged gasps under his vest. He stared at you through the green tint of his optics. He looked like a man who had just dragged himself out of a grave.

Alive. Breathing.

The relief hit Simon so hard it made his knees feel weak beneath his weight—a sensation he hadn't felt since he was a boy. The frantic, screaming noise in his head died down into a thrumming hum, leaving him entirely exposed to the gravity of how much he cared. He didn't have the words to describe it, and he didn't have the manual answer to hide it anymore. He just knew that if that gate hadn't opened, there wouldn't have been anything left of the Ghost to salvage.

Slowly, Simon walked through the water until he was standing inches away from you, towering silhouette blocking out the smoke. He reached out, his gloved hand coming up to rest flat against the side of your neck— exactly like he had in the armory, calloused and utterly unyielding. His thumb gave a heavy twitch against your jaw, his eyes searching yours behind the skull plate, demanding that you look at him. 

I’m here, his eyes meant to say. You did fucking well but I’m here now.

Before you could whisper his name, the heavy crunch of boots and the splash of water signaled Price and Soap finally breaking through the rubble from the western stairs.

"Ghost! Kid! Report!" Price’s voice barked as he stepped into the light, his rifle raised.

Soap and Gaz followed right behind him, their eyes immediately darting from the buckled, ruined iron gate to the way Simon was standing right in your space, his hand still at the back of your neck. Johnny stopped mid-stride, the usual joke jamming in his throat. For once in his life, Johnny MacTavish wisely chose to keep his mouth shut, a soft, serious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lowered his weapon. 

Simon gave your neck one last, firm squeeze, forcing the reality of the present into your bones, before he slowly turned his head toward the Captain. "Sector is clear, Price," Simon rumbled, "Chemical crates are secured. Let's get the hell out of the dark." 

The base was entirely dead by the time the post-mission debriefing finally wrapped at 0300. 

The rest of the team had scattered to their quarters, desperate to wash the stench of stagnant transit water and cordite out of their skin. You’d done the same, scrubbing the mud from your hair under a scalding shower until your skin was raw, changing into a clean, oversized black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Despite the bone-deep exhaustion, your mind wouldn’t shut off.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard the screech of hydraulic gears bending out of their tracks. You saw Simon lunging through the smoke, looking like a monster dragged out of a grave, chest heaving with a terror he never should have felt. 

You knew he hadn’t gone to the med-bay. He’d given Price a flat, clipped “I’m fine” when the Captain noticed him favoring his right side on the exfil chopper. 

You grabbed a small ice pack from the mess hall freezer, wrapped it in a clean dish towel, and walked straight down the silent corridor toward the back of the armory cage.

The lights were off, save for the single, low-wattage desk lamp illuminating the workbench in the very back.

Simon was there, sitting on a metal stool. He had stripped off his tactical vest and combat shirt, wearing only a sleeveless black undershirt that left his chest and shoulders bare. The skull balaclava was rolled up to sit snugly around his forehead like a makeshift sweatband, exposing his entire face under the low light— the sharp, tense line of his jaw, the rough stubble, and the heavy shadows beneath his eyes. The absolute beauty in all of them.

He was holding a tube of muscle ointment in his left hand, trying clumsily to reach over his own back to rub it into his right shoulder blade. His right arm was tucked tightly against his ribs, jaw clenched into a hard, rigid line as his muscles protested the movement.

The short scuff of your sneakers made him freeze, and turn his head away. “It’s three in the morning,” he spoke, seemingly knowing who you’d be without even looking. “Go to sleep.”

“You skipped med-bay,” you said simply, walking right past the threshold of the cage and stepping into the low circle of amber light.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his shoulder giving an involuntary twitch that made the tendons in his neck tighten with pain. "Just a tight muscle. Pack it in." 

You walked straight up to the workbench instead, set the wrapped ice pack down on the steel, and picked up the tube of muscle ointment. You were standing behind him when you clicked the cap open, squeezed a generous amount into your palms, and rubbed your hands together to warm it up. 

Simon’s breathing was deep and measured. For a second, his weight shifted as if he was going to stand up and walk out in typical Ghost fashion. “Sit still, Simon,” you murmured softly. A low, defeated sigh hissed through his teeth. He let his head drop forward slightly, broad shoulders relaxing just a fraction of an inch as you laid your hands flat against his freckled skin.

You kept your touch firm, using the heels of your palms to dig into the tight, knotted muscle. A low groan vibrated deep through Simon’s chest as you hit the center of the strain.

“You’re lucky you didn’t tear a tendon,” you said quietly, thumbs smoothing out a hard knot near his neck. “What you did out there… it was completely against the manual, Lieutenant.”

“For the last time,” he rumbled, voice slightly muffled as he stared down at the floor. “Off the clock, it’s Simon.”

“You shouldn’t have done it. I had the breaching charge. I was handling it.”

For a long, heavy beat, the only sound in the armory was the low hum of the desk lamp. Then, slowly, Simon turned his massive frame around on the stool, forcing your hands to drop from his back. He reached up, his large fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist, stopping you from stepping away as he pulled you a step closer in between his legs. He looked up at you, his face completely exposed in the dim light, intensity of his gaze pinning you right to the floor.

"I couldn't hear you breathing," he whispered.

The words were rough, scraped raw from the back of his throat, carrying a confession so heavy it made your breath hitch. Or rather, it knocked the breath out of you.

The beauty. Oh, how pretty a thing, that he was hiding.

For a moment, you forgot what you had expected to find under the mask. Scars, maybe. Something brutal. Something that matched the name Ghost.

But Simon’s face was not monstrous. It was stark and pale and devastatingly human and oh, so, so pretty. Sharp cheekbones, a strong nose, a mouth set like he had spent his whole life holding back words he never trusted anyone enough to say. His hair was fair and mussed from the mask, skin marked by old violence and its scars, but none of it made him ugly.

God help you, he was beautiful.

Not in an easy way, though. Not in the way men in pictures were beautiful. Simon was beautiful like a blade was beautiful— cold at first glance, dangerous, finely made. And then his eyes met yours, blue and bare and uncertain, and all the danger seemed to fall away.

You saw him then. Not Ghost. Just Simon.

And he looked almost afraid of being seen.

"The comms went to static, the gate went down, and all I could think about was the dark in that room," Simon continued, his thumb giving a slow rub against the inside of your wrist, feeling your pulse there. “I would tear that bloody wall down brick by brick if it meant getting you out.”

You looked down at the hand on your wrist, then back up to his icy blues, realizing the weight of what Johnny had told you in the hangar. Being human again is a bloody terrifying thing for him. 

“I held it, Simon.” you murmured, voice dropping to an honest whisper as you whispered a half-inch closer into his space. “Held my lane, because I knew you were on the other side.”

Simon stared at you for a long, breathless moment, jaw setting as he processed the words. His eyes closed when your palms found the sides of his face, cradling it, whilst he exhaled a breath so deep he must’ve been holding it for decades.

“I’m always going to be on the other side.”

hiiiiiiiiii!! please lmk what you feel. i love you.

@goapgrim @simonrileys-wife @sheepispink @jbugee @ynight14 @missj609 @a66-1 @mafeexe @skeletoncrew19 @crystal-star36

[graywrenhart]

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: Simon “Ghost” Riley x female!reporter!Reader

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: You've landed an exclusive interview with Simon "Ghost" Riley. But due to his frankly unfair height, you have to get creative. Simon usually hates the press, but he could get used to this...

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩: [cute fluff] [language] [a steamy little makeout scene] [suggestive language] [height difference] [no depiction of reader's height. I just choose to believe (especially with his gear on) he's just really that tall] [meet-cute] 3k words

a/n: saw a video on instagram of a girl standing on a stool to interview a hockey player and this idea was born lol

“I know the mask stays, but you might want to lose the sunglasses," you say, nose stuck in your notes, barely acknowledging the six-foot-seven soldier standing in front of you. 

“Negative,” Ghost replies gruffly.

The thickness of his accent seems to echo off the high ceilings of the airplane hangar, sending a small thrill down your spine.

You suggested this location, assuming the public would appreciate an interview in front of the very same jet Task Force 141 used for the rescue mission. 

It was a good suggestion. 

Not only is the hanger itself is impressively large, with decent light pouring in from the open far wall, but it allows the cool morning breeze to rush in. You’re thankful for the way it brushes your warm cheeks, even if it does keep crumpling your notes over themselves. 

“Okay,” you sigh, folding up the paper and reaching for your pocket mirror to check your makeup, “but my director is pretty insistent about eye contact—”

A shrill whistle cuts you off. 

“Oi! Big man!” Charlotte shouts from behind the tripod, blonde ponytail swinging. “Glasses off, please!”

Ghost sighs. 

A moment later, his sunglasses come into view next to the gun holstered at his thigh, pinched between two gloved fingers. 

You smirk into your reflection. “Told you.”

Snapping the kit closed, you try to ignore the butterflies swarming in your stomach.

You should be used to this by now. The camera. The spotlight. But for some reason, your nerves are hot like a live wire. 

Granted, this is a big one for you. Really big. 

But you’ve worked hard to get here. There’s no reason to be intimidated by the armed, masked, beast-of-a-man in front of you whose voice kind of makes your knees feel like jello. 

Maybe you just need to cut down on the caffeine. Two iced coffees by eight a.m. can’t be healthy for anyone. 

That must be it. 

You’ll be fine. 

Straightening your shoulders, you turn to your crew. “Alright, how are we doin’? Charlotte? Lighting good? We should be on the air already.” 

"So...little problem," your camera man says, stepping back from his viewfinder and scrubbing a hand over his beard.

You sigh. “Okay, what is it, Jeremy?”

"Well, it's just..." he gestures toward the screen unhelpfully. "You're not in frame."

You frown. "Like...at all?"

“Not at all."

“Wha—how tall are you?” You huff at Ghost, squinting down at your footwear. 

He grumbles something unintelligible and turns towards the back of the hangar where the rest of the task force sits, watching. You follow his gaze. John McTavish and Kyle Garrick are sprawled out on the extra fuel tanks, elbows slung over their knees, while their Captain stands off to the side, arms crossed over his uniform. McTavish gives Ghost a cheeky thumbs up as he looks their way. 

“What a day to forgo the heels, hmm?” you mutter under your breath, turning your attention back to your surroundings.

Charlotte shakes her head. “I’d lend you mine, but we aren’t the same shoe size.”

"He could…sit?" A wiry, dark-haired intern suggests. “I mean, you both could sit down, obviously—”

You shake your head, eyes still scanning the room for anything you could use. "No, that's not really the energy of the piece. We’re doing a national hero story here, we’re not…fuckin’…Jimmy Fallon. What about that chair over there? Too tall?”

Ghost shifts his weight as the word ‘hero’ falls from your lips. 

He’s no hero. 

In his mind, he’s not the one who should be up here like this. One of the others. Johnny, for one, could talk an ear off a dog. Gaz is calmer under pressure. And Price…well…at least he has a face to show the camera. 

He can’t help but glance again at his team lounging in the shadows, sending them a look that feels a lot like one you’d give your partner as he passes you, strung out on the battlefield with a shot leg.

“Got somewhere else you need to be, lieutenant?” You quip. 

Ghost just grunts. 

Again, with the grunting. 

Hopefully he’s a little more talkative on the air. 

“I’ve got something!” The intern calls. You’ve got to learn his name. It’s Brian, right? Briar? 

Br—something—is holding a foot stool. 

It’s one of those extendable ones that can either be one step or five, the kind they use in the back rooms to reach high shelves.

“That’ll work,” you say as he places it on the ground next to you and slinks back behind Charlotte. “Thank you, I — ooh!”

You’re not entirely sure what happens, but one second you were firmly on the ground, and the next, you’re standing on the first step. 

You're vaguely aware of Ghost's arm around your middle, and your arms fling out for balance, hands immediately finding his broad shoulder. 

God, is he made of bricks? Damn. 

For a second, you nearly forget where you are entirely, so consumed by the heat of his hands through his gloves and your shirt. 

“Good?” He asks, voice low and muffled behind the mask. 

You nod, looking down blankly as someone places a microphone in your hand. “Sorry. Just—little afraid of heights.”

Ghost scoffs. “You’re barely off the ground.”

“Yeah, well I’m not on the ground, now, am I? And—” Irritated, your eyes snap up to meet his, but the view makes the words die on your tongue. 

His eyes are beautiful. 

You’re face to face now, perfectly level, and close enough to see the pink in the creases of his skin, stark against the black paint he uses to blend in with the mask. Somehow, it makes the color of his irises pop even more.

They’re a beautiful, rich brown that reminds you of that luxury chocolate—the kind you can only buy in Paris, wrapped in fancy gold foil, with the pieces that make a soft click sound when you sink your teeth into it. 

Suddenly, your breathing turns shallow. That breeze, once cool, now feels too warm, your blouse feels too tight, and your hand’s starting to sweat, making the mic all slippery. 

You shift your weight, momentarily forgetting you’re on a stool, and it wobbles beneath you. Charlotte gasps, Brian rushes forward, but Ghost’s hand is on your elbow before you can blink. 

“Sorry, just got dizzy for a sec,” you call out, suddenly remembering where you are. “I’m good, guys.” 

You wave off a helping hand and stand up straight, clearing your throat for good measure. 

Normally, you’re a very levelheaded reporter.

You're good at listening when you need to, asking the right questions in the right moments, and being just witty enough to win the audience without outshining the star. But something about standing eye to eye with Ghost from Task Force 141 has you flustered, and a just a little off kilter. 

“Air thinner up here?” Ghost teases. 

You laugh, despite yourself. “Yeah, how do you survive it?”

He chuckles, and the sound sends a blush climbing up your neck.

“We’re rolling in ten,” Jeremy calls out. 

People clamber into position. Heels click against the concrete. The lighting crew calls out last-minute directions. Your fingers itch to pull out your pocket mirror one last time, but you’re trapped in chocolate eyes, drowning beautifully. 

Jeremy counts down until you’re live, and it’s only at the last second, that Ghost finally remembers to remove his hand from your arm. 

You kind of wish he hadn’t. 

And as the light on the camera turns red, you think now might not be the best time to consider that you might not be as levelheaded as you thought you were. 

Simon hates the press. 

They swarm the place like bees. Pushy, loud, mics always bumping into shit, cameras flashing everywhere.

The task force has gotten some attention lately after a few rescues went global, and after recently retrieving the governor, well, the swarm has only gotten bigger. 

It’s really not fair. He runs a good, clean op, and then he gets punished for it. 

However, if his punishment looked like this every time…he might could get used to it. 

He’s trying to listen. Really, his is. But watching that pretty mouth move right in front of his is a bit of a distraction. 

Your eyes bounce from the paper in your hands and back to his. 

Always back to his. 

He’s never seen a woman his same height before. 

And for some reason, he can’t get over how different it is. He’s used to seeing the part in their hair, the way their lashes brush their cheeks, that shine on the tip of their nose. 

But with you in front of him like this, he sees everything. 

The way your lips catch the edge of your teeth, the slight blush in your ears, how your cheeks twist up like that when you smile…

“…and walk me through the moment you discovered the Governor wasn’t where you thought he’d be?”

You’re looking up at him expectantly, holding the mic out to him. 

Bloody hell, you’re all business now, aren’t you? 

Your voice gets a lower, tighter pitch to it when you’re in front of the camera, and he can see your throat bob with each word. It drags up dangerous images into his depraved mind. Dark thoughts. Like what your pulse would feel like against his tongue. Or your collarbone between his teeth. And those lips…

Shit. What was he supposed to say?

“Got complicated,” he grits out. 

A smile tugs at your lips. “Could you elaborate?”

A few chuckles echo through the room, mixed with the clicking of cameras, pages rustling with the sudden breeze blowing through the hangar. 

Simon clears his throat. “Just—barged in. Found some bodies, none of 'em what we were lookin' for. Then Gaz came over the comms, and said we missed something downstairs.”

You nod along. “We heard there was some kind of trap set on the lower level. What was it?”

“A rigged door.” He shrugs. “We had to decode it.”

“You’re saying ‘we.’ Did someone help you decipher the code?”

Simon shifts onto his back foot, tucking his thumbs into his combat vest. “No.”

“Right.” You looks pleased with herself. “So you figured out the code. And what exactly would have happened if you’d failed?”

“We wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation.”

You don’t miss a beat. Even with how difficult of a conversationalist he is (he never promised to be good at this) you ease back into the flow like it’s the most natural thing in the world. As you tilt your head to the side to take a quick glimpse at your notes, your hair slips out from behind your ear, and he has the most insane desire to brush it back. 

Christ. He’s on camera, for fuck’s sake.

Just the reminder makes his shoulders stiffen. 

“You’re pretty modest about single-handedly saving an extremely high-risk mission,” you say breezily. 

He fights the urge to look back at the boys again. 

"Didn't do it alone."

You look at him for a long moment, something like interest flashing in your eyes, before falling back into your next talking points. 

The next few questions fly by. These are easier. You talk to him about the aircraft behind you, and he answers. He even runs his mouth for longer than necessary about the jet’s self-flying abilities, but you steer him back so effortlessly, the audience would hardly see the seam. 

You’re good at it. Very good. 

At one point, he even looks down to find his arms uncrossed, hands hanging loosely at his sides. 

When did that happen?

Suddenly, a light behind him goes dark. 

Simon swivels on his foot, instincts honed from years of surprise attacks, but all he finds is one of the lighting crew members. The guy freezes mid-step when the mask turns on him, as if he’s afraid to keep taking down his own equipment. 

“That’s a wrap, Ghost,” you say proudly, stepping down from the stool. “It’s all over.”

Simon blinks down at you. Wait—the interview is over? 

He steps back with a shake of his head. By the end of it, he almost forgot he was on camera. He was just having a conversation with you. 

And watching that little tilt of your lips, the slight bend in your neck as you read the next question, the way your fingers gripped the mic tighter every time you looked at the ground. 

He’s not quite ready for it all to be over. 

“I’m just gonna take ten,” you call to Jeremy. “Let me know if we need to rerun anything.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Nah, we got it. Great job.”

Simon looks down at the sunglasses hanging lifelessly from his gloved hand, and when he looks back up…you’re gone. 

Something tugs deep in his chest. It pulls on his spine, urging his feet in a direction he doesn’t know yet. All he knows is, he’s not quite ready to let you go.

The boys still sit next to the only exit from the hangar, other than the open door, so he heads in that direction. 

Price nods approvingly at Simon as he approaches. 

“That’ll do,” he says, leaning back against the fuel tank. 

“Yeah, that’ll do, L.T.,” Soap chimes in, mimicking the Captain with a snicker. 

Simon wants to send them all a withering stare, but his eyes won’t leave the dark hallway behind them. 

“Did she—” he starts. 

“Yeah,” Gaz says, folding his arms across his army green T-shirt and stepping in front of entrance. He adjusts his camo ball cap and jerks his head back toward the dark hall. “Go on. You’ve got three minutes.”

Gaz barely finishes the sentence before Simon is already moving, shoulder bumping his as he passes him with a hurried nod of thanks.

When you turn a corner down the dark hallway and you’re bathed in the pale blue glow of an Aquafina vending machine, you may as well have found the fountain of life in the middle of a desert. 

You nearly groan in relief as you lunge for it. Being that close to Simon Riley was doing things to you. You haven’t been that tongue-tied since your first day on a morning talk show fresh out of college. 

But despite your nerves, he was surprisingly easy to talk to. 

There was a chemistry there—at least for you. And it’s something you haven’t felt in a long time. 

The water bottle cap twists off with a pop and you’re guzzling the water down when the sound of boots on concrete makes you jump. 

You turn just in time to see Ghost round the corner. 

He’s advancing fast, his skull face stark against the darkness. You step back instinctively. The empty water bottle hits the floor with a hollow crunch, and your back barely touches the vending machine before he’s there, towering over you.

Your mouth parts on an inhale as his arm lifts, bracing high above your head, gloved palm flat against the glass. Pulse hammering in your throat, you can’t help but notice the way the blue light reflects on his mask, and catches in his lashes.

He makes a low, disgruntled sound, and then he’s reaching down. His back muscles ripple under his black henley, and you barely get a chance to be distracted by the sight before his hands settle firmly at your hips, hauling you up until you’re level with him. 

A startled gasp leaves your lips and you cling to him, knees parting on instinct and he steps in between them. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically to hold yourself up, but it’s not necessary. His large palms spread over your ass are doing a great job of that on their own. 

“There,” he mutters from behind the mask. “ ’s better.”

He smells good this close. Like gun powder, leather, and a hint of a dark cologne that has your head spinning. 

“That’s—what?” you breathe, heart hammering as you catch the dark gleam in his gaze. You can’t pretend you don’t feel it, too. 

Despite yourself, an amused breath leaves your lips. Your eyes dart between his, so close and level with yours. It’s almost exactly how you were throughout your entire interview. 

“Why?” 

He shrugs. “Easier.”

“Easier?” you echo, confused, watching as his fingers grab the edge of his mask and tug it up over his chin. “Easier to do what—”

You only catch a glimpse of a sharp jaw, golden stubble, and the beginnings of what looks like a scar before he leans in…and his mouth meets yours. 

Oh.

He swallows your surprised inhale with an answering groan from his chest. That vibration alone is all it takes for you to melt into the kiss, your body going soft under his large hands as he pulls you closer, pressing you back into the vending machine. 

Your fingers clutch at his vest and you fall into an easy rhythm, mouths meeting and parting in unison. 

When his tongue tangles with yours, heat strikes the base of your spine, and a whimper rises from your throat. 

He tastes like whiskey and mint. Sharp, and clean, and…sweet. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers against your lips, chasing your mouth as you tilt your head to kiss him deeper.

You haul him closer, desperate and eager—for what exactly, you don’t know—you just know you need him closer. Need more—

A voice sounds down the hall, pulling you both from the trance. 

You break apart, chests rising and falling against each other. 

He pulls his mask back down in a quick, practiced motion and sets you down gently. But his hands don’t leave you right away. They stay on your thighs, your hips, wandering like they haven’t quite caught up to his brain yet. 

“Next time,” he says, “no cameras.”

You feel like your brain short-circuits. “What?”

He leans in slightly, and the air seems to shimmer between you. Drawn tight with the tension of things still unsaid. 

“You want a proper interview, don’t you?” he mutters, voice low and rough enough to send chills down your spine. “One-on-one?” 

You’re nodding before he even finishes the sentence. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, like he already knew your answer. 

He presses something papery in your palm before abruptly turning and striding away.

“What’s this?” You call after him.

“My number.” He doesn’t look back. “Use it.”

⋆. 𐙚˚ simon riley masterlist | buy me a coffee | come say hi 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

a/n: see? this is the problem with writing cutie little one shots, because now all I can think of is a part two...

taglist: @xoxocelestial

[urmomschocolatemilk]

Simon Ghost Riley + Your all I Need by Radiohead

Because let's be honest, this man is a fucking loser. A sad, disturbed loser at that.

Simon really doesn't have a life outside of work. His fridge is practically empty. Its contents consist of the last day's takeout and a twelve-pack of cheap beer. The only thing that he keeps consistently stocked. He doesnt have a social life either. Yeah, he has Price, Johnny, and Kyle, but when he's on leave, he doesn't see them, doesn't text or call. Instead, he holes himself up in his sad little flat.

So when he meets you, his world is completely flipped upside down. In the best way possible, of course.

Simon doesn't think he's ever felt more loved, or seen, or cared for than when he's with you. Even if you don't always express it the most directly, he feels it. He feels it with every touch, every home-cooked meal, every warm smile you send his way, every understanding word, and patient nod.

And it melts him.

He's so absoultley love struck.

He can't imagine losing you. Just the thought tears him up.

Simon can't pretend that it's not something he worries about regularly. He knows his line of work is dangerous. Not just for himself, but for the people close to him. For you. The idea of putting you in harm's way, of not being able to make it back to you. It makes his heart twist in his chest, and his stomach churn nauseatingly.

The night terrors are even worse. They're downright brutal; he wakes up thrashing and crying regularly. Images of your lifeless body, surrounded by gunfire and screaming soldiers, seared into his eyelids.

You're always there to ground him after. Reassuring him that you're right here, safe next to him, while you hold him. Lulling him back to sleep with your hands in his hair and his head against your chest, hands gripping your waist tightly as his shoulders shake.

[ryebreadgf]

real yearners miss shit that never even happened

[urmomschocolatemilk]

cowboy!ghost x reader

This one is a little longer than what I normally post. Also, I'd love ideas for more cowboy!ghost stuff, I'm lowk obsessed rn, so my inbox is open to hear ur guys 'thoughts.

Your carriage rolls to a stop. Wooden wheels halting with an abrupt jerk over the gravel and dirt of the rocky terrain. It’s abnormally hot today. The canteen of water you've been carrying has long gone. Emptied since early noon. Despite it, your thirst has not been quenched.  

You reach for the window on your right, pulling back the curtain to look out for a quick moment. Horses stand tied up to wooden gates. The dull sight of scuffed blue jeans and a dispersing dust devil has never excited you more. 

A rest stop.  

You push the door open, climbing out and rounding to the front where your driver sits in the coach box.  

“I’ll be quick,” you tell him, "just want to refill my water and stretch my legs for a moment.”  

He nods in acknowledgment. You turn away, giddy at the way the solid ground feels under your feet after hours on the road.  

Your excitement is fleeting, though. As you get further into the cluster of tall, muscled men, you can only become a bit uncomfortable. Especially when you can feel the way their eyes glue to the back of your head the moment you pass them.  

It feels like the rural town you stopped in the other day all over again. At least here, the scenery is pretty enough to distract you.  

High mountains, reaching into the clouds, cluttered with patches of green that look small enough to be pushed under your thumb, alluding to the vast expanse of wilderness inside of them.

It’s funny how such large things can seem so small from a distance.  

You keep your focus in front of you, head raised high as you walk to the well pump that sits attached to a small brick wall. The ground around it is soft and slushy. Mud smears over the pristine white of your heels. 

There are fewer people here, their voices fading into the background, masked by the sound of gushing water as you twist the tap head open and push your metal canteen under the stream.  

A horse huffs a few feet in front of you, and your gaze shifts momentarily to look up. You catch sight of two large brown creatures. Two men stand to the side, holding onto their reins, conversing quietly. 

You look back down, moving your canteen from under the stream of water and twisting its cap back onto it.

A frown forms on your face, and your eyes flick back up at the two men.  

One man sports a baclava, similar to the man named Ghost whom you met at the bar. You stare, trying to make out if it’s truly him or just another cowboy with a face covering. As your eyes trail over his figure, everything about him seems too similar to Ghost.  

The way his arms fit tightly into the leather of his jacket, and the ingrained patterns of his belt that glint beneath the sun behind large, rough hands. No doubt calloused by years of rough work and travel. Something about the way the edges of his eyes crinkle slightly and the rumble of his chuckle as his gaze finds yours sounds all too familiar- 

Oh shit.  

He’s laughing. At you.  

You were so caught up with ogling him that you’d failed to realize you’d been caught staring. 

“S’ good to see you again, too, sweetheart.” He hollers out to you, his deep voice ringing through the desolate space and making your cheeks warm.  

You open your mouth, fishing for something to respond with, but embarrassment has gotten the better of you, and you can't even seem to muster up a ‘hi’ in reply.  

Ghost passes the reins of his horse to his friend, beginning the short trek toward you. He looks like pride himself as he walks. Kicking up dust behind him with each step, his broad shoulders set back and his head held high.  

He stops before you, eyes roaming over your figure as one hand comes to rest on the buckle of his belt again. You watch as his eyes come up to meet yours, and for a moment, he just stares as if he can see into your soul like this. Your blood feels hot under your skin, boiling with an electrifying nervousness that makes you want to tear your gaze from him and hold it all at the same time.  

Finally, he speaks, relieving the tension between you.  

“You still got that light I left with you?”  

“Y-yeah.” You sound breathless, like a star-struck idiot. You reach into the pocket of your dress, fumbling for the small metal box as it slips through the grasp of your gloved fingers. It takes you a moment before you're able to finally get a grip on it and bring it out, jutting out your open palm to him.  

You don't have to look at him to know he’s smirking under the damned mask he wears. You can practically feel the amusement rolling off of him as he plucks the lighter from your hand.  

At least he has the decency to restrain his chuckle.  

He opens a metal case lined with neatly rolled cigarettes and pushes it towards you in offering, “Care for one?” 

You nod, reaching for one and sliding it out of the prongs that hold it in place.  

You glance up at him, smiling politely, “Thank you."  

He grunts in response, pushing his balaclava up and placing his own cigarette between his lips. A couple of clicks of the light, and his cigarette glows to life. He passes the light on to you, and you follow suit, placing the stick of tobacco in your mouth and lighting it.  

“You’re not happy to see me, or are you just not much of a talker?” He asks. Smoke leaks from his lips as he speaks.  

“I’m just not sure how much I should be telling a stranger.” 

“Stranger?” He grunts, “I’d hardly say we’re strangers' sweetheart,’” He pauses, thinking for a moment, "although I never caught your name now that I think ‘bout it.”  

“Y/N” 

“Y/N...” He rolls it over his tongue as if trying it out, “S’ a pretty name.”  

“Thank you,” you murmur, casting your gaze to the ground and flushing at the compliment.  

Ghost chuckles at the sight of your cheeks turning rosy again.  

“You gonna make a habit of seeing me at every place I stop?” He asks, his gruff voice tilting in a teasing manner. He leans down, his voice lowering to a rough, gravelly sound. You can hear the smirk that tugs at his lips as he speaks again.  

“Or are you tryin’ to follow me, sweetheart?”  

Your eyes snap to him, blushing furiously at his insinuation. You shake your head quickly.  

“No, I-” You stutter, your tongue twisting around itself in an attempt to explain yourself. His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement, and he chuckles deeply. A rich, hearty sound that makes your heart flutter despite your embarrassment.  

“S’ not like I’d mind.” He begins, his eyes raking over your face, “Not f’ a pretty thing like you.”  

Ghost smirks at the way you blink up at him, cheeks flushed, too flustered to respond to his flirting. He flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his boot. 

“You can return that to me next time, yeah?” He nods to the lighter in your hand. Your eyes snap towards his gesture. You’d completely forgotten he hadn't taken it back.  

When you look up again, his back is already turning towards you, and he’s making his way back to his horse. Grabbing the reins from his buddy, he swung his body over the animal.  

His eyes fell to yours, his fingers coming up to pinch the tip of his hat and tip it towards you again, as he snaps the reins and trots off, his friend in tow.  

You press the cigarette to your lips, watching them disappear back onto the dirt road. A small smile spreads across your lips.  

This was exactly the kind of man your daddy had warned you about. The type of man you should never be involved with, not a high-class lady like you.  

God, you hoped you’d see him again. 

[s-ghost-r]

The last thing Ghost heard before the charges went off at your feet was his own voice yelling your name.

The sound of the tunnel collapsing is apocalyptic, as if the mouth of hell had opened up to swallow the both of you. The ringing in his ears as thick as the dust and smoke choking him out. It takes him more than a moment to realize that he's still alive. Another to realize he doesn't know if you are.

His first attempt at calling out for you is cut short by the lungful of debris he has to cough through. The second attempt is better, his voice ringing out into the cramped wreckage the world crumbled into.

He barely notices you initially, your body covered by the dust and rock of the tunnel. He's crawling over to you once he does, finding you on your back. You stare dazed, eyes unfocused as he tries to dig you out. A wheeze escapes you.

As he frees your torso and directs his attention to the other half of you, the ringing starts back up in his ears, deafening in its intensity. The cave in begins right where your ribcage ends. He won't be able to lift that off of you. It may be the only thing holding you together.

Your attention follows his and starts to shift downwards to where your lower half disappears into the rubble.

"No," he grabs your face with his hands, "just look at me. Only at me."

He finds the way your blood slowly drains out from the ruins like there's no such thing as urgency discordant to the desperation that jolts through every nerve of his.

For a moment, images of living without you by his side shoot through his head like a bullet and he feels the timeworn grief that sits like rot in the very core of him start to spread, dark matter pushing away every shred of warmth and light in his life. Looking to the sky and watching all the stars blink out of existence one by one. A freezing, endless abyss unfurling before his eyes.

He had once escaped from a grave. Was a dead man haunting this world until he was resurrected the first time you smiled at him. Now he finds himself in another. Yours, his. Two hearts beating in this tomb. Yours, his, both of them belonging to you. Either you were getting out of this tunnel with him or neither of you were.

You had made it seem so easy, to bring a man back to life, to take a cold dead heart and make it run strong again. How worthless he feels now, unable to do the same for you.

"Si…" Flashes of bloodied teeth behind your lips.

His thumbs sweep your cheeks over the tears tracks carving rivers through the dust that cakes your face.

"I'm here. I'm right here." He wants to crack open his ribcage and hide you in it. Wants you to walk out of here with him. Wants you to see the sky again. "I'm not leavin' you."

He is with you. You are with him. There are worse places to die.

[urmomschocolatemilk]

I'm writing this part 2 to the cowboy!ghost and I'm planning the part 3 guys, and im thinking that the p3 should have some smut but i've never written smut and idk how to write smut. So like, what should i do, guys help.

[howyoulovelikeweaponskill]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

[urmomschocolatemilk]

Cowboy!ghost

Trust there will be more parts. I do intend to continue this

You feel so out of place here. Since the moment you stepped into this rundown rural town, you swear there hasn't been a single pair of eyes that hasn't stared you down as you walked through the street.  

You know their gaze is not flattery; you just stick out like a sore thumb. Dressed in a pretty white coat that falls to your ankles, a pair of heels that are one wrong step from breaking on the uneven pavement. Your white gloves that clutch a rather expensive looking purse. You’re quiet a sore sight for the men and woman who are used to seeing plaid shirts under leather jackets, thick satchels and dirty jeans.  

Your father had warned you not to make any stops until you’d crossed the state borders, but you stupidly hadn't listened to him, claiming that a drink and a cigarette were important enough to take the chance on.  

Now all you wanted to do was run away, back to the safety of your coach cart. You were already here though, and you werent one for tucking your tail between your legs and running at the first signs of discomfort so you stuck it out. Holding your head up high and ignoring the holes being stared into your back. Swinging open the door of the first pub you pass by and walking up to the bar like you owned the place.  

Which if you had any interest in such a thing you could have but that was beside the point.  

The place smells like cigarettes and beer. The sound of drunk laughter much to loud for you’re liking. Every other table is cluttered with cards and poker chips, and liter handles of beers. The place is much to full for a Thursday afternoon in your opinion, but who are you to judge how these people live.  

While the booths and poker tables are jammed, the bar is almost empty, saving you from the discomfort of having to cram next to some grimy stranger.  

 You slide into the seat furthest away from the only other person sitting. Some brooding bloke sporting a cattleman hat and a balaclava that covers his face entirely. Theres a pistol tucked into a satchel clipped to his belt, and a black leather jacket slung over the back of his chair. The sleeves of his flannel shirt are rolled up to expose his forearms, and you try not to stare at the way his veins pop and the muscle their flexes as he picks up his glass.   

The bartender moves to you before you can fully situate yourself, grinning at you widely and showing off the few teeth, he has left. Forcing your attention away from the stranger across from you and onto him. Something about his demeanor is horribly off putting. You think it's the mischievous look in his eye that contradicts the genuine nature of his smile. It makes you feel as if you're staring up at a predator. 

“What can I do you for lil’ lady?” He has a thick southern accent, and his voice sounds raw. Probably the fault of cigarettes from the way the smell of Tabacco rolls of his breath in an unpleasant wave.  

“Um,” you hesitate, “You guys wouldn't happen to have any wine, would you?”  

His grin widens, and his eyes darken as they look at you and you immediately regret asking such a stupid question. A booming laugh comes from his lips, as he mocks you “Does this look like a place that’d sell wine lil’ lady.” 

You flush, looking down at the sticky wood of the bar counter, then glancing around for a moment.  

Your eyes catch on the man a couple seats down from you, who’s been watching the interaction since you’d sat down. Determined to not make a fool of yourself once more you point to his glass and speak.  

“I’ll just have what he’s having then.” You mutter, glancing at the bartender quickly, “and a cigarette.” you add more sternly.  

The bartender nods, laughing once more as he turns to reach for a glass and pour you a cup. He sets the dark liquid in front of you, placing a cigarette next to it. Then rounds to the other side of the counter, leaving you to sulk in embarrassment.  

You pick up the glass, pressing the edge to your lips and prepare to take a sip before a deep voice a couple seats down the counter interrupts you.  

“Bourbons a long way away from wine sweetheart.” The stranger rumbles. Your head snaps towards him. You flush again, looking down to toy with your glove, unable to meet his intense gaze. He smirks under his balaclava.  

“I’m just...” You sure for an excuse, clearing your throat and looking back up at him once you’d found one, “just trying something new.” You nod at your words, as if trying to convince yourself and not him.   

He chuckles, lifting his mask so it rests on his nose to expose a deeply contoured jaw and plush pink lips. He takes a sip of his own drink, then pulls the cover back down.  

“Where’r you from?” He asks, gruffly. There’s a tilt of an accent to his words that you cant a quiet place.  

“Nevada..” You answer hesitantly, not sure how much you should be telling this strange man. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all the way out here?”   

“I’m heading to Texas and I just wanted to stretch my legs...get something to drink before I get back on the road.”  

He pushes up his face covering again and takes a long swig of his drink. “Didn’t your daddy warn you not to make stops along this part.”  

You avert your eyes back to your glass, flushing in embarrassment at the mockery laced in his tone.   

He chuckles at your reaction, pushing himself out of his chair and slapping a couple bills on the counter for the bartender to collect. Thick fingers move to roll down the sleeves of his shirt, and you watch them unintentionally as they work. He smirks at the way you stare at his hands. 

The sound of his voice snaps you out of it. You blink, looking back up to meet his eye as he speaks. “M’ headed the same way luv.” His hand falls to the large silver buckle on his belt, resting on it comfortably.  

“I never caught your name,” you state, watching as he slides on the jacket resting on the back of his chair and gets ready to go.  

“M’ Ghost.” he introduces. His hands tuck into his jacket pocket, pulling out a thin silver box. It shines in the late afternoon light that filters in through the bars windows. He pushes it towards you and you watch as it skids a across the wooden countertop, stopping just before your glass. Its a pretty lighter, with a floral pattern carved into steel on the front.  

You look up at him, brows furrowing in confusion as you open your mouth to ask another question, but you beat you to it. Pinching the front of his hat with his thumb and pointer finger, he tips his hat towards you and grins cockily.  

“I’ll see you around, sweetheart.” 

[urmomschocolatemilk]

Cooking up some evil ahh cowboy!ghost shi rn. Be ready guys😛

[urmomschocolatemilk]

Hi guys so ik I’ve been dead for awhile but I rlly wanna come back to this blog. I love this blog sm and can never truly walk away from it. That being said I unfortunately do not have the time in my current life to write 💔

However I’m hoping to get some new works done in the coming week(s), finish up old requests and come back to you guys with new material

All the support I’ve gotten since opening this blog two years(?) ago means a tremendous amount to me. Thank you all! ❤️

[manicrouge]

Your daughter wants to know where Uncle Johnny's gone [Dad!Simon x Reader] cw: angst, a lot of angst, canon typical violence, major character death, hurt and comfort, discussion of death

The moon is in the sky, and his second cigarette is hanging out his mouth. A bad habit, he remembers remarking to you on your first date together, and when the baby came, he swore he would quit it. But swearing and doing are two different things, and he knew that then, and he knows that now.

Some nights are difficult, though, painfully so. Even worse since... Johnny. He'd thought it would have been him who went first, and when he heard the sound of the gunshot ring in those tunnels, he'd hoped it be anyone else - anyone but him. The job doesn't work like that, and when he finally made it to the Captain and Sergeant, he felt a rush of cold, and then heat as he watched blood gush out of the wound in Johnny's head - ruining the god-awful haircut he'd mocked for years.

Seeing his best friend die was awful. But the worst thing was telling his daughter what had happened.

For a while, you and him had been able to brush past the topic, explaining that 'uncle Johnny' was just away on another super duper secret mission. And, for a while, she would nod her head and continue on with her playing or colouring.

The questions shifted, however. It was no longer, where's uncle Johnny? No. And the first time (and last) time she asked Simon a different question, she'd approached him, small socked feet dragging against the ground, holding a folded page in her hand.

"I made this." She said. Holding it out for Simon to take. And he did, brows furrowed as he cast his eyes upon the image of two stick figures - his daughter in her pretty pink dress, and... Johnny.

"Sweet Pea-"

"To say sorry to him, c- cause, he must be mad if he doesn't wanna come see me."

You walked into the room just in time to see your daughters efforts to reconcile a loss that wasn't her fault. And you were there to watch as Simon broke down into a fit of sobs. He tried to shield it, like he'd done when he was a child, covering his face. Only, the gaps of his crooked fingers gave way to a horrible sight, as he saw his daughters face twist, her lips drew into a pout, doe eyes welling with her own tears.

You told her that night, while she was tucked into bed, Simon lurking, the only thing he was good for in a situation like that. He watched as she stared at you, childish tone ringing out, rattling off questions: so, uncle Johnny's not gonna be comin' here no more? A- An' he's gone forever? But... he wasn't mad at me was he - that's not why he can't come see us no more, right?'

And you: you marvel, you goddess, you light. You took all the shots, kept Simon from answering a single one of the questions, so gently, while petting her head.

Until the final one - the one that has him lighting his third cigarette.

"So daddy's not mad at me either?"

That question had him in her room, standing in the centre, "I could never, ever, be mad at you, sweet pea," he said, his throat swelling. His mouth twitched and he glanced to the side as his eyes began to sting again, "jus'... daddy's sad, cause he... misses uncle Johnny."

Her response, in spite of her confusion, much too old to wrestle with mortality, was to take hold of her prized stuffed animal - the sheep Johnny had gotten her for her third birthday, and hold it out to him. "Lassie makes me feel better."

Her kindness, just hours before, meant that, as he's sitting on the steps on the outside of his home, he's not sitting alone. Like a child, he sits with his knees close to his chest, stuffed animal tucked under his arm as he takes a long drag out of his fresh cigarette, looking up at the moon, wondering whether or not Johnny's laughing his arse off at the sight.

Probably, he thinks. Hopefully.

[readwritealldayallnight]

You had never seen him look so utterly human before

Laid up amongst the scratchy, thin sheets of the hospital bed, with only a plain surgical mask covering the bottom half of his face, everything else above Ghost’s shoulders exposed to your eyes for the first time, while his own eyes have been shut for nearly four days straight now

You had never seen your Lieutenant without the signature mask that haunts the dreams of even the deadliest foreign mercenaries, had never seen him look anything less than intimidating, commanding, powerful without so much as even trying to, his presence alone striking fear into those who’ve heard whispers of the fearsome Ghost

Now however, with an IV hooked up to his arm and a nurse that comes to check on his vitals periodically, it’s hard to picture him as such a gruesome soldier, rather than a simple man who bleeds like any other human

In spite of the evident vulnerable position he finds himself in, his pale skin appearing nearly translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital, there was no denying that Ghost remained someone to be feared

A particularly nasty blow to the head during a field op gone wrong had knocked the burly soldier out cold, and though doctors were optimistic he would make a full recovery, they couldn’t exactly tell the extent of the damage done until he woke up

You and the men that made up the remainder of the 141 had been taking turns remaining by his side, not wanting for Ghost to wake up alone, whenever that would be exactly

You wonder how he would feel about this, the fact that you are currently the one on shift for the unofficial rotation of visitors who’ve stuck by his bedside throughout his injury

You’re well aware of the fact that the Lieutenant doesn’t like you, has never liked you, and probably never will, though you’ve never been able to get a straight answer as to why

From the moment you’d met him, he’d been cold to you, distant, making no effort to get to know you nor welcome you to the team, opposite to the way the Sergeants and Captain had welcomed you with open arms and hearts

No matter how much you poked and prodded at them for an answer, some sort of inclination as to what you could possible have done wrong to have Ghost dislike you so much, the men always bit their tongues

You saw the way they exchanged knowing glances and sly smirks, believing they were being more cunning than they really were, insisting to you with carefully chosen words that it wasn’t something you should worry about too much, that the LT had a different way of expressing his feelings than most

“So long as he doesn’t wake up and want to ‘express his feelings’ by punching me in the face for being the first thing he opens his eyes to.” You thought to yourself, glancing up from your book at his still sleeping form, shaking your head at your silly thought

No, he’d never been particularly kind to you, but he’d also never gone out of his way to be cruel to you either you supposed

Perhaps he found you to be more of a nuisance than anything else, a pest he couldn’t seem to swat away hard enough, an annoying pimple he couldn’t quite pop

Your eyes scanned over his face once more, cursing whatever Gods might be listening that the man hiding beneath that Ghost facade had to be so … intriguing

You could see old scars running across his face, some of them peeking out from under the surgical mask while others ran across his brow, his crooked nose evident even under the fabric of the mask

He was handsome in his own, rugged way, a fact you were displeased to learn when you first saw him laying here, switching off with Soap who’d been sat at his side earlier

Ghost may not care for you, not that he had given you many reasons or chances to care for him, but you cared about your remaining members of the task force, and knew how important Ghost was to them, and so for the 141, you’d do your duty and care for a Ghost who apparently wanted no such love and tenderness from you

You looked the large man over, brows furrowing when your eyes landed on his neck, noting that the pillow supporting his head was getting a little flat

You stood from your chair, setting your book down, and approched him carefully, almost as though any sudden movements would somehow wake the comatose man from his slumber

As gently as you could, you attempted to adjust the pillow behind him to hopefully be more comfortable, quickly realizing just how heavy he was when he was nothing more than dead weight

You slowly slipped your hands behind his shoulders, pulling him forward as best as you could until you were able to adjust the pillow one handed

Slipping your hands back down his shoulders to ease him back into the bed, your palms naturally ending up sliding onto the back of his neck, the tips of your fingers brushing against the hair at the base of his skull, an involuntary shiver running through you at what you realized too late was a bit of an intimate touch with a man who’d been touch starved for years

It was hard to say who was more stunned at first, with how quickly things transpired, when you suddenly felt a pair of strong hands reaching up to grip your wrists and hold them in place

You hadn’t even realized you had let out a gasp as your eyes flicked down and met none other than Ghost’s own wide open orbs only inches away from you, staring right at you as though he was seeing a ghost

Stunned into silence, worried that you truly were about to end up on the receiving end of Ghost’s anger for having invaded his space like that, you barely had enough time to process that he’d somehow woken from his coma when his grip on your wrists tightened further, and somehow, whether it was a trick of the light or you imagination, his gaze softened before his scratchy, out of use voice said:

“Love.”

Your ears were ringing, hardly taking notice of the way a flurry of alarms and bells had gone off as soon as Ghost had woken up, his heart rate soaring through the roof and alerting staff

Medical personnel rushed into the room before you could wrap your mind around any of what was happening, Ghost’s grip on your never loosening until the doctor finally approached you both, sensing the tension in the air

“Lieutenant Riley,” the man said, gently landing a hand in Ghost’s bicep to hopefully help him ease his strong grip on you. “Let her go.”

His grip on you disappeared instantly, as though your skin had suddenly burned him, but his eyes never wavered from your own, even as he began mumbling unintelligibly beneath his medical mask

“What was that?” The doctor asked, trying to bring calm back to the room and ease Ghost into a state where he could be properly examined

“My girl.” The Lieutenant’s gravelly voice echoed throughout the sterile room

“Pardon?”

“My girl.” Ghost repeated, never once breaking eye contact with your now widened eyes

“Do- do you know who this is, Lieutenant?” The doctor posed the question, slowly gesturing towards you with a confusion that was spreading amongst you all

“‘Course I do.” Ghost spoke with certainty. “That’s my love.”

[urmomschocolatemilk]

"my girl." AGH

[urmomschocolatemilk]

Cowboy!ghost 😼

[urmomschocolatemilk]

you should totally write abt domestic dad! simon ♥♥♥ and how like having kids just made him love reader more ♥♥♥

“Mama!”  

The door to your shared bedroom bursts open, breaking the peaceful Saturday morning silence and abruptly waking you and Simon. His arm is thrown around you loosely, but your bodies have drifted to opposite sides of the bed overnight.  

You groan, still sleepy as the two toddlers come running in after one another, launching themselves onto the bed, and landing with a thud in between you and your husband. 

“Mommy! Daddy! Wake up!” They yell, scrambling to stand from where they landed on their bellies and knees and beginning to jump up and down on the mattress. You should scold them for jumping on the bed but you’re too tired.  

“We’re up, we’re up.” Simon reassures groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Since the moment they were born there was always a fondness in his tone when he spoke to them, whether he was scolding them or listening to them babble about their day. Even now, when he’s half asleep, you can hear it laced into his words. It's subtle but prominent.  

He pushes himself to sit up, while you stay cuddled under the blanket, trying to savor the warmth of the pillows and blankets

Your daughter giggles, jumping onto Simon. He lets out an exaggerated groan, closing his eyes and sticking out his tongue as if dead. A moment later he pops open one eye. “You’re going to kill your old man if you're not careful sweetheart," He warns her. She grins lopsidedly at his words.  

“You’re not that old daddy," she assures him, and he shakes his head with a chuckle, turning to watch their much calmer son, who's shuffling his way under the covers. You open your little cocoon of blankets, lifting it and allowing him to slide in next to you. 

“Mama,” he starts once he’s comfortably situated, “can we make pancakes for breakfast?” His eyes are big and pleading as he asks. It makes you smile at him. How could you ever say no to such a look?  

“Yes, baby we can,” you lean over pressing a kiss on his forehead. He beams.  

“I want to stir!” He exclaims excitedly. Simon holds back a chuckle at the way you wince at such a loud statement so close to your ears. His eyes gleam with love.  

“No, I want to stir!” Your daughter protests with a pout.  

“You guys can take turns,” you decide for them. Your daughter grumbles a bit but quickly shrugs it off, sliding off Simon and jumping off the bed.  

"The last one in the kitchen is a rotten egg!” She calls, beginning to run out of the room. Hearing her words, her brother quickly clamors out of the bed next to you and runs out behind her.  

The little boy shouts behind her in protest, “Hey! That's not fair. You got a head start!”  

You sigh exasperatedly, watching them go, then glancing at your husband. His eyes are already on you, watching with adoration.  

“What?” you ask, catching his sweet gaze. You can't help the smile that etchs its way onto your face under his eyes. You feel like a school girl with a crush again.

He doesn't respond, reaching for you and gently pulling you towards him so he can cradle your face in his hands. For a moment he just looks at you, a small, soft smile forming on his face as he strokes his thumb on your cheek. He swears he can feel his heart grow tenfold every time he looks at you.

If you had told Simon fifteen years ago that in due time, he’d be married with two rascal toddlers running around his cozy home he would have laughed in your face and called you crazy. He had given up on the idea of a wife and kids for a long time but you changed that. You brought back those dreams and turned them into reality.  

Simon leans down to kiss you gently, a soft whisper leaving his lips.

“I love you.”

[urmomschocolatemilk]

Thank u to the ppl who sent me some fic ideas, I’ve been super busy but I’ll get to them soon!! I’m so excited to write them hehe