A Dark World (an Ache To Live) | Simon "ghost" Riley

a dark world (an ache to live) | simon "ghost" riley

summary: ghost fears death (because he has you). soap is there to make him a promise. tags: *ghost d words*, pregnant!reader/fem!reader, death, blood, gunshot wound, just angst a/n: this is very dramatic I'm sorry and it has nothing to do with my other fics. dad ghost is alive and well in those.

Ghost is quiet.

The Sergeant is not.

In middle-of-nowhere Russia, two souls trudge through the sleet. One leaning into the other. One talking to keep the other awake. With each step, their boots drag with more resistance. With each step, it becomes more of an impossible task for Soap to keep the weight of his comrade up.

Red footsteps follow.

Shimmering red. It catches the sunlight behind the clouds. It’s a crimson shade they are both all too familiar with.

Ghost, never one to accept help, now digs his gloved fingers into the Sergeant's shoulder for support. The heel of his other hand presses into the dressed wound at his torso, applying as much pressure as he can with his fading strength. Ghost’s deific strength— always a staple they could rely on, even at the worst of times.

But now—

His strength doesn’t seem to be quite enough. Not when the gauze has already been soaked through without mercy.

“Keep your eyes open, Lt.”

A grunt.

“Don’t think that’ll help.”

There’s something etched into the gravel of his voice that frightens Soap; a lilt of panic that he’s never heard from Ghost. Because Ghost doesn’t bloody panic, ever. Soap’s eyes flicker to the wound on his partner and he comes to a quick halt when he sees the growing stain on his uniform. He hisses a swear under his breath that pools smoke into the air.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Lt.”

Skeletal fingers pull back from the gore for inspection. They’re soaked and stained. Ghost is used to that— the red bones on his glove. Though, usually, it’s the blood of others.

“Gotta keep in every drop, ‘member?” Soap urges, and reaches over to press the wound for him. “Let me fix it up again. C’mon, hold yourself up for a sec.”

But Ghost only leans into a deeper slouch. The Sergeant stumbles from the immense weight of it.

“Would if I… could, Johnny.”

Soap doesn’t like that answer.

He keeps one hand on Ghost’s shoulder and abandons the wound with the other hand, only so he can dig through his med pack. Before he can grab the gauze, his Lieutenant is collapsing to the icy ground.

There’s nothing Soap can do to stop it.

“Alright, fuck,” the Sergeant hisses. He bends down. Ghost has slumped into a haphazard pile of muscled limbs and weighted tactical gear. “I’ll just take care of ya down here, Ghost. Stay with me, yeah?”

Frantic, urgent denial.

Soap drags the man’s legs out. Tries to get him more on his back so the wounded region is flat. He pushes up the bloodied shirt of Ghost’s uniform and swallows a lump in his throat when he sees the reality of it. So much blood— too much. He fumbles with the gauze but a lazy hand grabs his wrist.

“Don’t waste…” slurred breaths, “…my time with that, Johnny.”

“What do you—“

A tired scoff.

“M’dead weight. M’not… gettin’ back up.”

“We have to fuckin’ try.”

“Can’t… feel anything.”

“Jesus, think of Y/N. Think of your kid, Ghost,” Soap finally sputters out. He’s been trying his damned hardest not to think of you, nor the swell of your stomach that he noticed the last time he saw you. He worried he might fall apart if he did; he couldn't get them to help if he was broken.

“Tha’ is what… I want,” Ghost’s eyes dig shut. “To think of ‘em. So… don’t waste my time.”

A final order from his superior. One that travels through broken glass and shuddering ribs. The sunlight dips behind a grey cloud and they’re left together in this moment of gloom where time seems to slow down, two souls stuck in tar, and all Soap can do is obey his partner’s wishes.

Because he knows; they both know.

“Alright,” Soap mutters with a swallow of acceptance. He drops the roll of gauze. Moves a hand back to the bullet wound, presses it in vain, and nods his head. “Talk to me ‘bout them, Simon.”

Simon.

Ghost hears it. His real name.

A weak hand tugs off his mask. Underneath lays a face that his comrade has only seen once or twice before. Somehow, this face looks more like a ghost than the skull he'd ridden himself behind. A face with eyes that open in hollow, uncharacteristic fear. A face with pale lips that can move only enough to let out slurs.

"M'gonna have a son," Simon says quietly. Soap sees it now— the dribble of blood at his mouth. "She's... givin' me a son and I won't meet him."

"Jesus, Simon," Soap croaks. He reaches for his hand— holds it as a friend. A forlorn grip that Soap keeps close to his chest. "He's gonna be a good lad, alright?"

“I hope he... stays in school."

"Course, he’s gonna be smart.”

A weak smirk.

"Hope he gets... her looks. Not mine."

"I'm sure he will. She's beautiful, Lt."

"I know. Miss... her." His smirk fades. The notch in his throat trembles and bobs. Fear shakes out a whimper from him. "Wanna see her again, Johhny."

It seems only fitting, with his blood dripping onto the sleet, that the truth of him would drip out, too. A man rumored to be a beast lays here, whittled down to the version of himself only you ever got to see.

A version of himself that was afraid to die.

After years of aching for death's company, it has finally arrived. A reaper coming to collect him only after he'd changed his mind. For Simon ached for something else now: for you, for his family. He ached to come home and bury his face in your hair. He ached to touch his hands to your stomach and feel the fluttering kicks of life.

He ached to live.

And his comrade, with drying lips and salt in his eyes, could see this ache in each of his struggled breaths.

"Talk to me 'bout her, Simon," he begs, gripping his drenched shirt. "Somethin' good. Somethin' you love."

"Everythin'," his Lieutenant shudders. He doesn’t feel the pain or the cold. He just feels lingering adrenaline push out his throat in quiet spurts: “Her hair, her laugh... Fuckin'... hell. Love everythin'. Tell... her fo' me."

"I will."

"Tell her... Johnny. Don't want some," Simon softly wheezes and closes his eyes again. "...some random fuck doin' it."

"Fuck, I will," a wet promise. Soap wipes the salinity on his cheeks. "I'll tell her, Simon."

And soon a dark world begins to breathe into Simon's vision. He used to hang out in the darkness. Your light had gripped him by the shoulders and tugged him out. Now—

It finds him again. Old friends.

-----

A promise arrives at your door.

A solemn, dignified promise arrives with a folded flag, a sealed envelope, and a chain with two metal pendants: a dog tag and a ring. They clank together in his hand. And here, at the doorstep of his Lieutenant's home, a beautiful woman steps out with an unassuming smile and a hand rested atop the curve of her belly, and Soap doesn't even have the chance to say anything before your eyes gather the information you need, and the smile chips away into something horrific.

All you know how to do is scream.

And all Soap knows how to do is grab your hand, like he did for your husband.

Heyyy hope you have a great day! Love your writing so muchhhh

I have a request that could go either way (angst/fluff) for ghost. So reader and him go way back to sas training and were either friends or even lovers. Canon when his family died he died on paper and she attended the funeral. Several years later she had to work along with 141 and there he is. I don't think she recognises him but he def does

A/N: omg thank you so much!! Ahh!! Hope you’re having a good day too!!

PLSSS THIS HURT, THIS HURT, BUT ITS TOOOOO GOOD🫢🧌 Hope you enjoy, thank you for the wonderful idea to write!

P.S. I know that the timeline is messed up in my writing. TF 141 comes before certain things that I write in this post. You’ll see, but you should be able to understand when things are.

Eaten Up

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of violence, murder, suicide, mistreatment (all only very briefly though!) Not final draft yet. Also, I know nothing about military or special forces💀

Part 2: ⋘ 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡... ⋙

⋅⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆💀⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ ⋅

As the days went on, the sun still rose and the wind still blew. The birds still chirped and the curtains moved. Yet everything felt much grayer over the years. A dull ache encapsulated the young person’s heart for what would feel like an eternity.

It was an entanglement of rosebuds that didn’t have enough time to bloom. The passionate romance was lost in an instant on multiple occasions. Had it been when they were deployed in completely separate parts of the world? Or perhaps when he and his entire family were murdered? Was it when he subtly revealed his feelings for the young special forces officer? There were so many questions left unanswered in the two’s past, but not enough time or clarity to answer them.

7 years ago…

A young Simon Riley stood amongst the sea of recruits, eyeing up the young ones he had been similar to just three years ago. Their bright expressions and wide eyes gazed over at the masked individual. He walked around with just a painted balaclava on and muscles growing from his new knowledge of special forces workouts.

It was a sea of eager men; tall, a little too skinny, and acne-ridden to be SAS yet. One person caught his eye amongst the crowd. There stood a young woman with a stoic look on her face. He noted that she must’ve been popular amongst the young men, likely enduring some type of mistreatment that had been cast aside by her superiors. Her rugged look likely the result of her mistrust of the men around her.

Smart little thing, he thought.

Her hair was braided neatly, and her uniform tight against her waist.

She’ll be eaten up here, he thought again.

In a few swift movements, he was out of the crowd of recruits, sitting far away on the sidelines, watching the training administrators work their magic on the young people. They all sweat profusely, some even throwing up or gagging from their bodies’ overuse. One that he kept his eye on though was the young woman from before. Every coherent boy from the group would gaze at her like a piece of meat, but this seemed to not affect her performance one bit. If she was given the task to slam a 6’4 240lb man to the ground, she’d somehow do it, despite the piggish chirps from the crowd.

Months went by and Simon had learned that she passed. Made it into the special forces with resilience and grit. He admired the girl, seeing her as a force to be reckoned with, especially her mind. He learned that she was smart and that her name was Y/N, but had been deemed “Slag” by her nasty colleagues and “Maiden” by those she actually worked with.

Simon would observe her quite frequently if they were stationed or deployed together. Not once did he see her even communicate with another SAS man unless he was injured, serving her food, or her superior. She often read books, ranging from classics, to ones clearly containing inappropriate literature he probably shouldn’t pry into. She liked to do braids in her hair. She would do them mostly for efficiency and safety, but also to look pretty in a field that was overflowing with testosterone. She liked her coffee very sweet. She also liked sitting on any hilltop on base and enjoying her alone time with her headphones on. She was a very good soldier too, never missing a shot on the large rifle she brought with her on missions.

Simon felt as though he knew all of her, yet none of her at the same time. She liked keeping a face covering on quite frequently, but that didn’t stop the large SAS man from admiring her pretty face and eyes.

To Y/N, the “Simon Riley” was an enigma and not one to bother. She admired his ability to scare off nearly everyone simply because of who he was, only allowing some to see beneath his exterior.

The two had developed some form of relationship working closely together on missions. Y/N’s specialty was on intel missions. She was skilled with a sniper rifle and blessed with knowledge that was beyond his comprehension. She knew how to gather information and she did it well every time.

The pair had worked together on a mission in Ukraine where he had been caught by terrorists. She had been one of the team members to free him and the children. The moment the doors to the school opened and he spotted his team, he could see the pretty young woman amongst the bulky men. Despite the balaclava, he noticed the little stray y/h/c hairs sticking out. Your eyes sparkled but had a sense of nervousness within them.

Their commanding officer had requested that Lieutenant Y/L/N help out with freeing the kids, hoping that her soothing nature would be somewhat nurturing to them at that time. Simon watched as she guided the children out with a soft voice and light hands. They found comfort in her, always having a hard time letting her gloved hand free. Even if she was masked and covered in tactical gear, the children felt her aura and trusted her. Simon couldn’t tear his eyes away despite the constant questioning from his peers. He answered in short phrases, still gawking at the way she so gracefully gave the children back to their mothers outside.

Once every child was returned to their families, she felt a heavy hand pat on her shoulder. Turning around she heard a simple “Good job.” It was so fast that for a second, she thought that her ears deceived her.

Quite a nice voice, she thought.

“Thank you sir.”

Quite a sweet voice, he thought.

The pair had become somewhat closer over the course of a year or two. He liked keeping the weapons the team used very clean, and to keep his brain occupied, he oftentimes visited the weapons locker to clean them. It wasn’t a very fun job, but a crucial one to keep him and his team safe and capable. One day though, upon his usual visit, he saw that the weapons had been cleaned already. The floors were mopped and the tables were wiped down. He left thinking nothing of it.

It started happening more and more though, and his hobby had been taken over by some other person who clearly shared his attention and appreciation for detail. He had finally caught the young woman, now with a little more battle knowledge, in the weapons locker, taking a q-tip to the blood that had splattered across someone’s pistol.

She looked up at him, unmasked with wide eyes, almost as if she had been caught. “Oh hi L.T..”

“I take it you’re the one that’s been taking care of our weapons as of recently Lieutenant Y/N?”

“Yessir.” She almost said shamefully.

He nodded, devoid of really any emotion. “Need any help?”

She looked back up, “Mind sweeping the floors? You’ve got longer arms than I, you can reach a larger surface area.” She asked giggling a little bit.

His eyes seemed to crease a bit behind the mask. He nodded and silently grabbed the broom and got to work.

Over the course of a few months, the two would complete this little routine of theirs after every big mission.

The two grew close, with her even learning a bit about his past. She knew he had quite an abusive father, but that was mostly it. He kept to himself mostly, but he himself noticed that normally, he wouldn’t tell anyone who he had really only known for two months about his father, let alone anything from his personal life.

He was vulnerable to her, and he was quite uncomfortable with that, but that fact couldn’t help but fill him with warmth as well. He would lay awake at night, tossing a ball in the air when he couldn’t get any sleep, thinking of her. He would think of the different style of braid she did that day. He would think of the way she gained a few freckles when the mission would take place in a hot, sunny place. He couldn’t help but think she was beautiful.

She would think of him in a similar way, despite not knowing what he looked like. She would lay awake thinking of the way his eyes slightly scrunched when she made a joke he particularly liked. She would think about the way his eyebrows slightly furrowed when he took a drink of some strong whiskey. She would think of the way he’d anxiously tap his leg when he was on his way to a mission.

Simon was the one to make the first “move.” The sudden shift came one morning where he asked her to accompany him on a nearby hillside for breakfast. He brought her a nice egg bagel and some orange juice. To her, it tasted like heaven, and being with Simon on that hill was just the cherry on top. Both of them could tell there was less than platonic intentions to the meeting, but neither felt the need, or rather confidence, to act on this fact. 

She finally saw his lips and jaw as he bit into some apple slices. She made the conclusion that he was a handsome man, even just by seeing the lower half of his face. He felt vulnerable, but comfortable, and almost giddy as he caught her staring at him in the corner of his eye. All this time the two had watched each other from a distance, and platonically in some contexts, but now, he knew that once he came back after his leaves, he’d be happy to see her on base again, to maybe hug her, or even kiss her in private. The idea of waking up next to her, holding her hand on the streets of England without a word spoken, introducing her to his family back home all felt possible. His heart soared at the fact, and for the rest of the day after that breakfast date, he couldn’t help but find himself smiling under his balaclava. 

It was the night before many soldiers were to leave for their Christmas break. Simon, for once, got to go home and was actually excited to go home. He would finally be able to see his family who was improving day by day. He’d see his nephew that he told Y/N she’d love, and he’d be able to kiss his mother on the cheek, finally seeing her smile after so long.

Y/N had finished her chores for the day and she was about to turn in for the night. As she dried her hair from her previous shower, she heard a soft knock at the door, it almost sounding hesitant in a way. She was confused but opened the door nonetheless. 

There stood Simon who looked quite nervous, his balaclava off and his hair messy. He saw her and was struck by her pure beauty, seeing her in her natural form with cozy pajamas on, hair wet, and a wonderful smelling body mist. He was nervous and she could tell. 

“Simon you alright?” She touched his arm and he flinched slightly, but didn’t move from the touch. He was still nervous, so she decided to make a move, pulling him by his arm into her grasp into the room. “Simon, speak to me. Do you need help? Are you hurt?”

“I-” He started, but stopped soon after. She waited for him, lightly rubbing her thumb against the exposed skin on his arm. He sighed at the soothing movement. “I’m nervous about seeing my family. It’s been a while and I don’t know how to greet them after all we’ve been through.”

“They love you Si, your mother is going to be ecstatic. Your nephew gets to see his favorite uncle again.” She placed her hand on the side of his face and lightly tugged it up to make him look at her. She could see the dark blush of frustration and sadness on his cheeks. “Oh honey, c’mere.” She pulled him into a tight hug and surprisingly, he let her embrace him. He grabbed her tightly, fully immersing himself into her existence. His anxiety still plagued his mind, but he felt much more comfortable with her. 

There was a deeper shift in the mood between the two. Instead of just a comforting hug, it became a loving embrace from the girl he really liked. For her it was a loving embrace from the man she really liked. Both of them could feel it. 

However, she didn’t feel like acting on it with Simon already being overwhelmed with emotions. A distraction was good, but she didn’t want to force more anxiety on the man. The two both pulled away, looking deeply into each others’ eyes, hands still wrapped around one another. In this moment, they acknowledged the shift in tone, but both understood each other enough to not embrace those emotions right now. 

“Stay here tonight Si. You can sleep next to me.” She whispered, pulling his hand over to her bed. 

“Yes ma’am.” He whispered.

He laid down and remained stiff as the woman laid next to him. She looked at his face, the two still not breaking the barrier of feelings while still noting of the loving gaze from one another. She blinked, forcing herself out of the lovesick state. She pulled herself into his chest, cozying up to him with her head pushed against his chest and both arms around his waist, the one under him bound to fall asleep at some point in the night. After a few beats he wrapped his arms around her figure in response. His head dug itself into her drying hair and he squeezed her tight. 

“G’night Simon.”

“G’night sweet girl.” He whispered in his husky voice. 

The next morning she awoke to an empty bed with a large yellow note on her pillow. “Thank you for making my dark moments brighter. I’ll see you when I get back. Merry Christmas Love -Simon.” 

The best part of the note was that she couldn’t tell if he meant Love Simon, or if he just gave her a really sweet nickname. She blushed and packed to go home for Christmas herself. 

A few weeks later...

Y/N came back from leave, refreshed after seeing some family and friends. She walked with a little extra pep in her step knowing that she would see Simon once again, he too, hopefully well-rested and refreshed after seeing his family. 

She had said Happy New Years to a few of the men she trusted on base, enjoying the smiling faces of many that actually had their leave. There was one face she didn’t see though, and it was his, the man she had been eager to see for weeks. It was a large base with many soldiers though, and it wasn’t guaranteed he was coming back the same day as her. So, in an attempt to keep realistic, she suppressed her worry for a few days. 

It was a little over a week and her worry had taken over. The base felt empty and her chores actually felt like chores instead of fun activities she would do with her once friend. 

She went to lunch that morning, sitting in the dining hall with her fellow soldiers. “Did you guys hear about Riley?” A young solider said, standing behind the men at her table. Her head whipped around, looking at the man expecting an answer.

“No what’s up?” Someone responded.

“Killed his entire family.” Several people shouted “WHAT” around the cafeteria. “Apparently, he killed his family when he got home on Christmas. AND THEN! A few days later he blew up a building and committed suicide.”

No fucking way, she thought.

“Damn he really was cold huh.”

“There was always something off about him. I thought he was weird, but not that weird.” At that moment, and with everyone’s offensive words flying around her, she couldn’t muster up the strength to comment and fight for her friend. He loved his family and there was no way in hell Simon would go out that way.

She prayed it was just a rumor, but over time, and after her denial phase, she knew she’d have to accept it at one point. But she never did fully accept it, and there was always something in her brain and in her heart telling her that it wasn’t true.

Many years later in a conversation between Kate Laswell and Captain John Price…

“Ah… Y/N L/N, goes by Maiden. Real good with a gun. Communications and intel too. Could be a real good leader if she sticks with the forces.”

“I like her already.” Kate says with a light smile on her face.

“There he is. Simon Riley.”

“There’s no picture-“

“Never.”

Current day…

“Laswell says they call you Ghost.”

“Actually I believe he prefers-“

“That’ll do.”

“Ah… señorita. I hear they call you Maiden no? Eres una fuerza a tener en cuenta!” The colonel giggles.

Simon’s eyes slightly widen, slowly turning to the “señorita” Alejandro was referring to. There he saw the young woman he saw so many years ago. 

She wasn’t eaten up, he thought.

IMPORTANT A/N: There’s obviously gonna be a part 2, and it’ll be more specific to the request ;)

Part 2: ⋘ 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡... ⋙

MY RIGHT PERSON, OUR WRONG TIME

☾ ─ summary. wanting to start a new life, y/n suggest to her lover running away, but he obviously disagrees. he soons regrets not begging her to stay a little more.

☾ ─ contents. fem!omaticaya!reader, hurt no comfort, wc: 1.5k

☾ ─ notes. i fucking love hurt no comfort hihi👹👹 also this sucks, but i have over 8 unfinished drafts, so i'm trying to get rid of 'em :pp

THE ECLIPSE WAS getting closer, and with each passing second, Y/N's worries only grew. It was now or never, Y/N reminded herself, as she harshly bit her lower lip. Her body tensed upon the sudden sting. She swallowed the taste of metal, wiping away the small amount of blood leaking from her mouth with the back of her hand.

Y/N took in the view front of her, sharply inhaling. The tree of voices. It was a strange place to simply hang out at with your lover, but Y/N had a reason for bringing Neteyam there. This night might be the last one in their village, and Y/N wanted to cherish it. After all, she grew up there. It was the place where she met Neteyam, the person who changed her and her life forever.

All her memories begun to replay in her head, causing Y/N's eyes to flutter, as tears begun to form in her eyes. Letting her eyelids fall, Y/N harshly blinked the tears away, finally taking her eyes off the tree. "Nete..?" She whispered over her shoulder in an attempt to wake up the older boy. Almost every day, the duo would hang out late at night and Neteyam would fall asleep with Y/N in his arms, while she silently adored him, playing with his hair or just taking in his beautiful features. His back was pressed against one of the many trees, while his arms were loosely wrapped around Y/N's body. Her back pressed against his chest, sitting between his legs with Neteyam's head resting in the crook of her neck.

"Mhm? Is everything okay?" Tiredness laced his voice, as Neteyam finally raised his head to look at Y/N. "Yeah, yeah... I--" Y/N couldn't help, but already miss his warm touch, as she sat up and turned to face the older boy, his arms falling freely to the ground. "I need to talk to you about something." Y/N confessed, playing with the dead skin around her fingernails anxiously.

"You can talk to me." Placing his hand on top of hers, Neteyam explained, as he rubbed his thumb over the bracelet decorating Y/N's wrist. No matter the amount of love Y/N held for her clan, Neteyam and his family, who took her in after she was left all alone, her past continued to haunt her. Every place in the village she'd lay her eyes upon reminded her of unpleasant memories, and with that, Y/N came to a conclusion. She needed to get as far away as possible with the hope of finally leaving her traumatic past behind.

A lump grew inside Y/N's throat, as she grasped Neteyam's hands in hers. "Let's run away." Silence fell over duo, as Y/N desperately looked in her lover's eyes. Neteyam could see the forming tears in her eyes, signalling what she just said wasn't some kind of a prank. "I'm serious, Neteyam, let's get away from this place. Just the two of us." Y/N begged, as a single tear ran down her cheek. Her stomach twisted with anxiety, when Neteyam only stared at her in silence with an unreadable expression.

"What are you talking about, Y/N?" Neteyam furrowed his brows in confusion, before pulling his hands back. Y/N's heart dropped at his move. "This is our home." He added, as Y/N quickly shook her head from side to side, gulping down. "No... You're my home, Neteyam. Please." Once again, Y/N reached out for his comforting touch, but Neteyam dodged away. Swiftly standing up, he looked down at Y/N with a strange expression, his own heart beating fast.

"Is this... about what happened?" Neteyam begun, "Y/N, I understand it's hard to live in the same village all those awful things took place, but you cannot just- just run away from your past." As Y/N got up from the ground, hugging herself while desperately searching for even the smallest bit of comfort, Neteyam held out his shaky hand, but Y/N only looked at him with a dejected face. "Neteyam, you don't get it. We have to get away. I have to get away." Y/N tried to hold back her tears. "So what? You expect me to leave me family here? I'm the next Olo'eyktan, I have responsibilities-- I can't leave." Neteyam's voice grew louder, as he begun to get upset over his lover's request. "I love you, Y/N, I truly do, but..." Shaking his head from side to side, Neteyam averted his gaze.

Staring at his distressed expression and hearing his words echo inside her ears, Y/N felt her stomach drop. She didn't think about it that way. She only thought about herself and her own feelings, as she wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow her whole at the moment. Her expression falling at the sudden realization, Y/N begun to uncontrollably sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." She muttered, before Neteyam took a step closer, pulling her into his chest. His touch gentle, as if Y/N was about to fall apart any minute. He understood her struggle and wanted only the best for her, but he couldn't leave his parents and siblings behind. "I'm so selfish, I wasn't thinking--" Y/N continued to cry into his chest, as Neteyam caressed the back of her head. "It's alright. But please don't say stuff like that anymore." He attempted to assure her.

With her face hiding in the crook of Neteyam's neck, Y/N opened her mouth, but closed it as soon as no words came out, just another painful sob. She wanted nothing more than to tell Neteyam how much it pained her to have her past follow her for every second of the day, even in her sleep.

Few minutes have passed and Y/N's crying begun to calm down. "Y/N?" Neteyam softly whispered, as she looked up at him with tear-stained face. "Promise me you won't leave?" At his words, Y/N felt her chest tighten. She couldn't lie. Especially not to Neteyam, so instead, she pulled him closer for a kiss. But this kiss wasn't like any other ones they've shared. And it didn't go unnoticed by Neteyam, the way Y/N held him like he'd disappear the second she lets go.

"Let's go home, okay?" Gently caressing her cheek with his thumb, Neteyam offered, earning a nod from Y/N. Intertwining their hands, Neteyam begun to pull Y/N with him, as she stole one last glance at the tree of voices. "I'm sorry. Forgive me, Eywa." She quietly whispered, the wind carrying her words away.

Y/N gave Neteyam's hand one last squeeze, before they parted, each taking off on their ikrans. With an aching heart, she watched as Neteyam slowly disappeared into the dark night, before letting out a long shaky breath. "We're gonna be alright..." Gently caressing the side of her ikran, Y/N muttered, more to herself than to her ikran.

"Neteyam!" A hand waving in front of the older boy's face snapped him out of his thoughts, as he threw a confused look at his brother. "What's going on with you, bro?" Lo'ak nudged Neteyam's shoulder, expecting a snarky comment in response, but instead Neteyam's eyes fell to the floor once again, as he stayed silent.

Ever since the moment he woke up, Neteyam had a strange feeling growing inside his stomach - like something bad was about to happen, yet he couldn't place his finger on it. Looking around, he made sure his parents and siblings were all nearby and well, and they were. Furrowing his brows in pure confusion, Neteyam got lost in his thoughts once again.

He thought about everything over and over again, desperate to know why he felt so strange. His parents and siblings were barely a few feet away from him and okay, he wasn't late to a training nor forgot any of his chores, and Y/N, who'd never break a promise, promised she wouldn't leave- Y/N promised...? The last night played on repeat inside Neteyam's mind, until he realised one thing. Y/N did in fact not promise anything.

Eyes widening, Neteyam's heart skipped a beat as he jumped out of his bed, before running as fast as he could towards Y/N's place. She wouldn't leave, would she? Neteyam questioned himself, ignoring the worried calls of his name. Thank Eywa, Y/N lived quite close, meaning it only took Neteyam about a minute to get to her place, especially with how fast he was running.

Heavy breaths escaped Neteyam's lips, as he frantically looked around Y/N's place, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but he didn't. Instead, his eyes fell on the bracelet laying on top of Y/N's bed. The same bracelet Neteyam was looking at last night - the same bracelet Y/N never took off. "No, no..." Gulping down, Neteyam muttered to himself, quickly grabbing the bracelet, before desperately looking around once again.

The realization begun to set in, causing his heart to painfully ache. His knuckles turned white, as the grip on the bracelet grew stronger. But Neteyam couldn't care less how the beads pricked at his skin, because all he could think about - is how he should have begged her to stay a little more.

Dad Ghost resisting the urge to beat up a 7 year old after finding out they’re mean to his kid

ghost resists the urge to beat up anyone who picks on his kids

It’s late. Your eyes are fluttered shut already, but you’re laying your head on his chest and mumbling sleepy, random updates to him. Pieces of information you might’ve forgotten to share over the phone. He’s only been back for a day, but with two kids and an unplanned third on the way, there are so many little things to fill him in on.

“Did she tell you about that boy at school?”

A muscled chest stiffens beneath you. His fingers pause in your hair and he groans.

“Jesus, no. What boy now?”

Your daughter is only five, yet she is quite the talker, constantly sharing with you two details about all her friends and school activities. Simon always did his damned best not to say anything… wrong whenever she mentioned the boys at school. He understood it was normal for her development, her curiosity (yeah, yeah.) That didn’t mean he didn’t hate the growing idea of it, and that he didn’t let a few things slip just to you.

But this time, you sigh and prop your chin on his chest. “Well, he’s this new boy,” you murmur. “And he’s two years older than her-“

“He’s… what?”

“Listen, Simon. This isn’t one she fancies.” You sigh and touch the side of his inked arm gently. “He was… picking on her a bit this week. In the school yard-“

“Picking on her?” Simon repeats, words slipping out slow through tightening teeth. You see a scowl furrow. “How?”

“Well, she told me that he was teasing her about her hair on Monday. But then it turned into him calling her some names-“

“What the fuck?” You feel him shift underneath you, carefully lifting you off his chest only so he can sit up straight. Roughly now, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” you mutter softly. Slipping a hand in his cropped hair. “And I already had a word with her teacher about it.”

“And?”

“She says she’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Keep an eye on it? Bloody hell.” His hand clenches. “What’s the kid’s name, huh?”

“Simon-“

“Maybe I’ll keep a goddamn eye on it-“

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Calling our girl names? Christ, m’gonna fuck him up.”

“You will do no such thing,” you whisper firmly, fitting a hand over his arm. “Let’s just see if it gets better. If not, you can talk to her teacher.”

“M’gonna talk to her damn teacher tomorrow, anyway.”

Your hands gently guide him back to laying down, but his scowl doesn’t soften.

“Gonna talk to this kid, too.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You were just talking about hurting him.”

Through flared nostrils, he sighs. Loops his arms back around you and softens a bit.

“I won’t, I won’t,” he mumbles, pressing a firm kiss to your hair. “Just gonna talk to him, yeah?”

“How about you just talk to your daughter instead?” You lay your head back to his chest, hearing the steady pounding of his heart. “Talk to her about standing up for herself, okay?”

And he does. Simon has a long talk with his little girl the next day before school, perhaps not in the way you meant for him to. Right here, dove, he murmurs to her quietly so you can’t hear, grabbing her little hand and guiding it gently to his nose. Go for him here if he bothers you again, alright?

Could I ask for ghost x fem reader, or just reader in general. They're dating but she's extremely scared of bugs and Simon is just laughing at her as she yells for help because there's a spider in the bathroom? Sorry if it's too much or away from your rules. I don't know what your rules are. :) :/

simon riley with a gf who has entomophobia

tags: entomophobia (obviously), established relationship, fluff, protective! simon

a/n: aaa dw this is fine!! as someone with a phobia of moths i can write this easily haha

✞———————❖———————✞

as soon as this man hears you scream then call his name he’s running to the bathroom

he’s thinking the worst like there’s a home intruder so he’s 100% ready to fight

instead he finds you cowering in the corner with a hand on your chest, your eyes are wide and you look like you’re about to start crying

he’s immediately by your side asking what’s wrong

when you tell him about the bug he just blinks and stares at you for a moment

instead of teasing you or anything like that, he simply stands, locates the bug and puts it outside

when you’re more calm he asks about your phobia, wondering where it came from

you just state it’s been there since you were a child and you can’t stand bugs being near you

from there on out he prevents any bugs from getting near you. this man has a personal vendetta against them at this point

before any critter can even get into your line of sight he’s got it and putting it outside/killing it

if you’re in the task force with him he’ll tease you a little, joking about how he’s seen you take down fully grown men yet you’re scared of butterflies 😭

never lets soap find out, bc that man would chase you around with fake bugs for fun let’s be honest

learning about your phobia leads him to open up about his, it’s a nice bonding experience :)

weyy idk if ur taking reqs rn but if u are… ik youve already wrote this prompt like twice but can we have more argument angst w ghost 😭😭

simon struggles with anger (you struggle to help him) —tags: brief gore mention, cursing, angst, argument, established "situationship" —a/n: i tried my best to think about his characterization/backstory from the comics. simon is not perfect. i will likely make a part ii.

His fingers find the crest of your waist in the dark, holding you against the side of him as shallow breaths pound in his chest. Your lips are puffy and red. You wipe your hand against your used mouth and curl up into the warmth radiated from the colossal form beside you.

"Fuckin' hell," he murmurs, a low rasp. "I swear... Where'd a pretty thing like you learn all that, huh?"

But, with a flush to your cheeks, you barely have time to part your lips before he grumbles into your hair:

"Don't answer that."

It's a quiet order. One that rumbles low under his heavy breathing. Because Simon is full of orders. Demands. In bed, it thrills you, incites a thrum in your veins, an urge to follow and please him. He will take, and demand— until your legs are sore and your skin is chafed. But sometimes this persona bleeds into life outside of his bed. You try to be patient. You try to understand how difficult it must be to adjust to being just a person, here with you, and not a SAS lieutenant.

Especially for him.

But where Simon is rough and demanding, he is also quiet and thoughtful.

He moves his hand to the underbelly of your jaw. Softly now, he mutters, "Need water?"

"Yes, please," you answer, hoarseness in your voice.

And soon the warmth beside you ghosts out of his bedroom to fulfill your request, leaving you with a few moments to feel the tiredness in your limbs. He'd kept you up longer than you anticipated. He usually did.

But a sharp ding from your phone widens your eyes.

A message.

Your phone— casually placed on his desk in the corner of his room.

You hadn't meant to leave it there, not when his desk was particularly off-limits to you. Another order of his: don't touch my stuff. Even though Simon wanted you over every night, he didn't want you meddling in the crevices of his privacy. You did your best to respect that, but in the heat of removing your clothes, the phone in your pocket had ended up on the nearest surface.

You tug on just your shirt. Bare feet against cold floor. But when you reach for your phone, you carelessly brush a hand against the notebook beside it, nudging it off the desk.

It sits on the floor with the spine propped up, pages parted.

It's terrible, the curiosity that itches from the sight.

You reach for it with your tongue poking your cheek. You shouldn't look. A whisper of warning echoes in your mind. His privacy, his trust— you valued those things. But perhaps it's the fact that Simon is still such an enigma to you, or perhaps the fact that you immediately notice penned sketches on the paper, but you pick it up and can't stop yourself from taking a peak at the opened page.

The inked images stun you.

Only for a second can you bear them.

A brief second filled with... horrid things. Gruesome things. Things you knew, deep down, he'd seen, but you never wanted to entertain the detailed reality of. The sight spurs something in your stomach: nausea, maybe. An unease that twists and churns and urges you to clamp the notebook shut with a gasp.

You shouldn't have looked.

And you're about to set it back down—

But a presence makes itself known behind you.

"What are you doin'?"

His voice is quietly tense. Enough to snap you out of the images brandished in your mind. If the moonlit room is a river, then his words are a stone— splintering the surface.

"Oh, I—" you stutter, looking at the notebook in your hand. "I was just—"

But you can't finish. No— there's a hand ripping it from you.

"Just what?"

In the dark, you turn to face him. He sets down the glass of water on his desk; flicks on the small lamp. The light reveals to you the pits of inky black in his eyes, notebook gripped tightly in his hand.

"I was just trying to grab my phone, Simon," you explain in a murmur.

"Right," a click of his tongue. Animosity presses against his teeth. You see it, you feel it. And you wish you could clamp your eyes shut and return to the moment, not so long ago, when he'd been holding you with warmth.

He holds the notebook up. "Does this... look like your phone?"

"No, it just fell—"

"Liar," he interjects, cold and low. "You were going through my stuff."

"I wasn't," you insist, shaking your head. "I mean... I may have taken a peek but only because it opened—"

"You..." a sharp inhale. "Took a peek, huh?"

"I'm sorry."

"How many times do I have to—" he closes his eyes for a moment, but they reopen with a hollow flame. "You never fuckin' listen, I swear. Do you have a thick skull?”

And maybe it's the way he is staring at you, or the lick of venom in his insult, but you mumble: "Well, maybe you shouldn't have me stay here if you can't handle people touching any of your things."

"No," he grits. "Maybe you need to be more obedient."

He holds your stare.

A presence that nearly smothers you.

But you squint your eyes through the tension. "Obedient? Really? I mean— do you hear yourself? I am human and I accidentally dropped your book—"

"Don't," he breathes through his nose, a flare under the mask. "Don't give me that. Goin' thought my shit when I told you not to. Now you wanna stand here with bloody excuses. You are so..."

"So what?" you snap softly. A hand grips the end of your shirt to properly cover yourself because right now, you're not sure if you want those eyes looking at you.

But he doesn't finish, just pinches the bridge of his nose and stares off at the wall behind you. Muscles beneath the fabric of his mask twitch and ripple and shudder with a curl of rage.

"I told you," he repeats, more to himself than to you. "I told you so many goddamn times. Fuckin' hell, you make me... I want to just— Jesus Christ. Why can't you listen to something so simple?"

"You know, Simon," you retort under your breath. "You have so much to say when you're pissed, don't you?" You huff out a breath. "Somehow you have no problem finding the right words to tell me I've done something wrong. But when it comes time to tell me you care, that's so hard, right? When was the last time you even said it? You can't find the words for those feelings?"

"Shut it," he orders— no, barks. The curl of anger flickers and seethes and looks back at you, staring you down as if you are an enemy who has gotten in his way. His free hand clenches. You regret everything you've said. "Shut up, I swear to God. You went through my shit. You have no fuckin' right to talk about how I feel."

And then he is pacing around, a short trajectory of thunderous footsteps. His chest heaves. Ragged breaths claw up his throat until his voice raises to a level you haven't heard before:

"You want me to talk about how I fuckin’ feel? I feel nothing."

The snarl of his words is loud but easily drowned out by the sound of the notebook hitting the wall. It's a sudden sound that jolts you.

And maybe, maybe now you see it— how much of a lie he has shouted. I feel nothing. But there is so much feeling, so much unadulterated anger and pain thrown against the wall that it causes tears to quiver at the rims of your eyes. And your stomach churns, not with nausea this time but with something else, a feeling that grips your shoulders and tucks you a few steps further away from him.

Because at this moment Simons scares you.

And with all his orders, all his demands, he has never truly scared you before.

And if the fear wasn't there, you might've realized why he felt this way. You might've realized the images in his notebook were pieces of himself he was so terrified for you to see, and it angered him more than anything that, despite his efforts, he couldn't hide them from you forever.

He only snaps out of it when he sees you.

Moments pass, and then Simon is looking back at you with wild eyes. Eyes that flicker over you— your hunched body, your hands pressed against the wall behind you because you've backed up so far, the tears in your eyes.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he mutters, quieter now. He drags a hand over his eyes. "Babe, I—"

But when he tries to take a step closer, you flinch further.

"Please," you whisper. A few tears escape. "I want to... I want to go home."

I want to get away from you.

"It's late," he argues weakly, still struggling to control his breath. His anger fizzles rapidly, leaving behind a shell of regret and pain and worry as he watches you reach for your pants.

You're tugging them up your legs with fingers that fumble.

"Y/N," Simon swallows, pressing his hands over his veiled forehead. "Don't. I will— Fuck, I'll go."

And you don't have time to protest. With hands that tremble, Simon begins pacing around the room again, this time not in anger. No— something that has him mumbling quietly under his breath over and over: "I'll go, I'll go."

He grabs his keys and keeps his eyes on the floor. "You stay here, yeah? Don't... don't go out so late."

A bob of his throat.

This order arrives in a voice that sounds frail and hollow.

"Okay," you whisper, nodding.

And he leaves. Tugging on his coat and within seconds, you hear the sound of his front door shut. Simon, the man who was just blistered with anger over his privacy, leaves you here to sleep in his own home without him. And you're too shaken, too exhausted, to wonder where he could possibly go for the rest of the night.

------

Simon was always saying he would quit smoking.

Bad for my lungs, pet, I know it. He would mumble against your lips in a kiss that tasted sour. It didn't bother you, but you noticed how the taste turned thicker during those days he'd shut himself away in his room.

Got to help me, pet. He had said one time into your neck, tucking a pack in your hand. Hide 'em from me, yeah?

(The only request for help he's ever uttered.)

But it didn't really matter where you hid them—

—Simon could always buy more.

And when he returns the next morning, the smell is pungent.

You're already awake. A small bag stuffed with your things, but you are quick to hide it when you hear the front door creak open.

A shuffling of boots.

While his footsteps had been thunderous before, a solemn calm now replaces the storm.

Wordlessly, he searches for you. He finds you frozen in place near the bathroom where you'd just been collecting your things— a toothbrush, a tube of makeup. But your bag is placed on the counter where he can't see.

"Hey," he offers a soft, hoarse greeting. "Didn't expect you to be here."

And then he holds up a bagged pastry and a to-go canister of tea. "Got you breakfast, jus' in case."

It shouldn't be so strange. The sight. His large hands gripping food from some nearby cafe. His eyes: red, worn. He looks like he didn't sleep. The air outside is brittle and already wintery: had he just walked around all night in the cold? And even now, with the hollow pit in your stomach left from your crying, a touch of concern finds you when you notice how pale his exposed skin is. A slight pink creeping from under the mask.

"I don't want a pastry and tea."

Your voice. Is it—?

Defeated.

Because your care and concern can only go so far with a man who slips so easily into anger, but with even greater ease, isolates himself from care.

“Right,” he clears his throat. “I’ll jus’ leave it in the kitchen, then. You could have it later.”

Avoidance.

Is he really just going to pretend—?

“You scared me last night.”

The admission slips out in a whisper. But it's enough. It's all he needs to hear for his eyes to dig shut, a visible flinch rippling through his broad shoulders. His avoidance cracks.

A gruff, "I know."

"You were so angry, Simon. I—"

Dark eyes flutter back open. Gently now, "I would never hurt you."

"But you did. You do." A swallow that tastes salty. "You shut me out. I mean— your notebook. It was... You—"

"Think I'm fucked then, huh?"

Hollow words. The shell of a man speaking to you, with only a little boy inside. And you flutter your eyes because the backs of your lids remember the gore you'd seen. But your stomach has already swallowed and digested the sight, whittled it down to empathy.

"No, I don't," you whisper with a firm shake of your head. "I just think you need help. You deserve it, Simon. And I—" Hushed like a secret that rattles with defeat: "I don't know if I can give you that help."

There's just not much else to say.

The look he gives, pitiful and strained, tugs at your reserve. You have to walk away— you turn around to grab your bag. He sees it now. A sharp inhale sounds from his chest as you begin your journey to the front door with your belongings.

He follows. Sets the food on the table.

You don't really know what you want or what you need, but at this moment all you can think of is space.

"Don't," a quiet, rough plea.

A ghost hovers behind you as your hand wraps around the doorknob. A phantom cloaked in guilt and perhaps, the realization that what he'd expected you to do for so long, was finally coming to fruition.

"It's just space," you tell him in a murmur. "Simon, I just need space."

"Space from me?"

"From this."

"M' sorry," he breathes. "Please... I— it won't happen again. Fuck, I swear it. I'm so..."

And he struggles with the words because, fucking hell, you were right. Words of care, words of apology, always seem to evade him. But military jargon and sharp commands come with ease.

"I'm so sorry," Simon finally says, choppy. "I didn't want you seein' all that. But... bloody hell, I overreacted, didn't I?"

Salt lines your vision as he continues, urgently now, because your hand refuses to let up off the knob.

"Jesus Christ. I didn't mean to. You can't just— Pet, please. I'm sorry, alright? So fuckin' sorry, I mean it."

But his apologies don't do much to soothe the defeat in your chest. You can't look at him so you open the door instead.

A touch to your shoulder, perhaps firmer than he intends—

And you pause only because you think finally he might say what you were hoping he would. Something about care. Maybe even, a tinge of hope for— love.

(But no— he'd given you a clear warning from the beginning that he couldn't give that.)

So instead, he just shakes his head and drops his hand back to his side. The words die on his tongue, turned the same color of ash as his lashes, and he lets you leave.