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multifandombitxh · 1 year

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Midnight Massacre

Pairing: Ghost x Reader (tried to keep it gender neutral)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort

Warnings: Depictions of violence/blood/death/k*lling, g*ns, knives, bullets, strong language, mentions of s*icide and PTSD

A/N: And I'd fuckin do it again. I'm playing MW2 and I swear to GOD this man has me in a whole chokehold. Lovin' it. I will not apologize. Enjoy lol

It had taken a few minutes for your heart rate to return to normal, the nightmare leaving you in a cold sweat and pumped full of adrenaline. The dreams were never the same, so you never knew what to expect when they reared their ugly heads. One night it could be slow torture from a faceless enemy, the next it could be fire, horrifying screams, and death.

No matter the context, the scenes haunted your sleep on random occasions and left you feeling weak and helpless by the time you woke up. Tonight's dream, however, was especially traumatizing, and it did a number on your perception of reality.

Once you were fully aware of your surroundings again and realized you were awake, you shook the images away and covered your eyes with your palms. Sweat dropped down your spine, leaving a cold trail. You all but ripped your t-shirt off, searched for a replacement in the dark, and settled on a tank top.

With shaking hands you left your designated sleeping area for the night, slipping on your black cargo pants and boots. Leaving behind all thoughts of blood, gore, and the sounds of your friends perishing, you made your way down the dark, dusty hallway.

You'd only joined 141 recently, but it had been long enough now that you weren't exactly considered new blood anymore. One of the more interesting men in the unit had caught your eye from day one, despite the fact that he had little interest in getting to know you on a personal level. In group conversations he rarely engaged you, but one on one was a different story. There had been plenty of nights where the others had gone to bed while the two of you played a little game to see who would cave and take first watch.

It was usually you.

Ghost had a fucking novel of shitty jokes; some crude, some cheesy, some straight up cruel. Every now and then he'd crack one that would have you accepting defeat and taking the first watch of the night. Granted, he always took the second one if you took the first, and vice versa. None of the others dared to complain about this strange ritual, since it left them each with a later watch.

Tonight, Ghost had caved in first, finding your story about summer camp as a teenager unbelievably boring. It did offend you in a way, but at the same time, you knew it would get him to give in quickly. A man can only hear so much about how to make a friendship bracelet in vivid detail, or how to do a proper French braid.

Because of this, it allowed you to get some sleep first, but that obviously didn't work out. You'd all found shelter in a warehouse that wasn't far from your destination, and had to stay the night since the plan had to take place during the day to work. As you traveled down the hall, using the wall to guide you in the darkness, you finally stumbled upon the main area of the warehouse.

A circle of chairs sat in the middle of the room where you'd all gathered earlier that night, where you claimed your victory over Ghost. He was still there in the dim yellow lighting, arms crossed tightly over his chest and his eyes trained forward. Most of his own gear was absent, the only thing covering his torso a thick black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You shuffled into the room, kicking the concrete floor to make your presence known.

"Your watch hasn't started yet," Ghost stated without turning to look at you.

"I'm aware," You replied, leaning against the hallway entrance.

He looked over his shoulder at you, black makeup smudged around his eyes as if he'd just been rubbing at them. "Come to relieve me early, then? Sweet of you."

"Sure," You said, throwing up your hands in defeat. "You caught me, boss."

"Don't get all soft on me now, Sledge," Ghost said, blowing air out of his nose.

The use of your call sign made you visibly cringe; you didn't even choose the damn thing. After running out of amo and breaking your only knife during a firefight, you made do with your surroundings and found a sledge hammer. Needless to say, the unit was shocked at the amount of damage you managed to inflict with the thing. Thus, your call sign was born, and from that moment forward, you were affectionately known as Sledge.

You hated it.

There was nothing worse than a daily reminder of the carnage you witnessed at your own hand.

Shaking off the memory, you made your way over to a table with weapons and amo scattered all about. Rolling your eyes, you carefully examined the guns to make sure they still had their safety on, and made sure every knife was sheathed. After organizing the mess a bit, you snagged a hunting knife and a pistol, tucking them away and looking for the proper ammunition.

"I know you're not actually here to take your watch," Ghost said, his voice dangerously close to your ear. "What's goin' on?"

"Nothing," You shrugged, "Concrete floors are hard on my shoulders. Makes it hard to sleep."

"Sure, sure," Ghost hummed, "Wanna tell me the real reason you're up, Sledge?"

"Quit calling me that, you know I hate it. And no, I'm not telling you."

"Shame. Was hoping you'd tell me Johnny's talkin' in his sleep again."

You threw him a half-hearted smile over your shoulder, now fully aware of just how close he truly was. "Maybe you should go check on him, then. He might be."

His eyes locked with yours and you felt your insides shrink. It was easy to feel small under his gaze, considering he was a brick house of a human being and looked like he ate bullets and nails for breakfast. The mask certainly didn't help, that was for sure. Feeling uneasy with the eye contact, you returned your attention to the table of weapons.

"Y/N, look at me," Ghost whispered.

Hearing him say your name was enough to make you shiver, his accent making it roll off of his tongue like silk. It was nice that he listened to your request to stop calling you by the nickname you despised, considering you'd normally be taunted for expressing your distain for it. Even still, you did your best to ignore him.

"Do you remember which amo we use for these?" You asked, hoping to change the subject and gesturing to your empty gun. "Can't remember to save my life."

"Don't try this with me. Won't work and you know it."

"I always get them mixed up."

"Y/N, look at me, that's an order."

With some reluctance, you turned on your heel, leaned back against the table, and looked up at your lieutenant. His arms were still crossed over his chest, and you couldn't help eyeing the tattoo you hadn't seen before on his forearm. How long had that been there? Realizing you still weren't looking at him, Ghost placed his index finger under your chin and raised your head to meet his gaze.

"If something's going on with you, I need to know," He explained, "If you're not okay, that's something we have to take into account."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," You muttered, shaking your head. "Is anyone in this unit actually okay? I mean, really. I'm pretty sure everyone gets nightmares every now and then, Ghost. I'm fine."

"So it's nightmares, then," He said with a nod, "Could'a just said that."

"Didn't feel relevant."

"Come sit down."

Groaning like a teenager about to be grounded, you followed him over to the circle of chairs, sitting down beside him and crossing your arms. He leaned forward on his knees, his hands clasped together in front of him. You waited patiently to get the scolding of the century about 'paying attention to your mental health' and 'you know what happens when a soldier starts displaying signs of PTSD'.

But it never came.

Instead, an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. The only sound you could make out was the faintest rain drops that began splattering the old windows of the warehouse.

"Go on, tell us about it," Ghost said after a few moments.

"The nightmare?" You asked, raising an eyebrow. "You're joking, right?"

He didn't respond.

With a deep breath, you turned your head to the side, focusing on the many different objects that dotted the floor before you began.

"It's always different," You sighed, "I'm used to them by now, I can shake them off just fine usually. But this one... I don't know. I woke up, but I was still dreaming. Everyone was here, just talking like normal. These soldiers came out of the shadows and stood behind everyone. One for each of you. They all had guns, and one by one, they just..."

Tears welled in your eyes at the images that flitted through your head, forcing you to shake them away. You rubbed the back of your neck anxiously, taking a small breath and willing away the pain. A large hand closed over your knee, startling you.

When you looked up at Ghost, he had turned fully in his seat to face you. His arm was outstretched as his gloved hand sat carefully on your knee. The gesture made you shift in your seat, and you unintentionally found yourself facing him as well. Something in your subconscious knew he was safe, despite your efforts to avoid this whole encounter.

"Tell me what they did," Ghost said, his tone soft like you'd never heard it before. "Go on."

"Do I really have to say it?" You asked in a weak voice.

"Trust me."

You drew in another shaky breath before continuing, "They executed everyone."

"Sounds pretty serious," Ghost said with a nod, "Then what?"

"I was trying to stop them, but I couldn't move," You recalled as you fought back tears again. "It was like I was stuck in quicksand. I was just... Frozen. All I could do was watch."

"What would you have done?" He asked, "If you could've moved, what would you do?"

Anger bubbled in the pit of your stomach, overtaking the sadness. You balled your fists and dug your nails in hard. "I would've killed them myself. I don't care how long it would take, I'd do it. I wanted to, I'd make them suffer."

"I know you would," Ghost said with a small laugh, "I've seen you take big groups out for less."

"But I didn't," You said, lowering your head.

Ghost stood from his chair to move in front of you, crouching down on the floor in the space between your legs. He had to crane his neck to look up at you, and when you avoided his gaze again, he gently took your chin in his hand and held you in place. With no other choice but to stare into his eyes, you gave in, your shoulders slumping.

"It wasn't real," He said slowly, "If it was, none of those soldiers would have made it out in one piece. But it wasn't real, and it didn't happen."

"That doesn't really make me feel any better," You said with a small, broken laugh.

"How can I make it better?" He asked, his voice just above a whisper. "Anything, just tell me."

"Why do you care so much?" You asked in return, puzzled by his question. It wasn't like him to act like this, and you wondered to yourself if this was some kind of prank. "It was just a dream."

Ghost released your chin and let his hand slide down to your arm, slowly trailing downward until he reached the palms of your hands. When his fingers began lacing between yours, heat flooded your body and you tensed. Sensing this, Ghost loosened his grip and used the pad of his thumb to stroke your knuckles.

"Like it or not, I do care about you," He explained, and you could swear he was smiling beneath his mask. "Nightmares are serious business. I've seen soldiers off themselves over nightmares more times than I can count. I don't want that to happen to you."

"I wouldn't do that," You scoffed, "I don't think I'm capable of that sort of thing, anyway."

"Keep it that way," Ghost said, his tone firm. "You even start thinkin' like that, you come straight to me. That's an order."

"You sure like dishing out orders," You joked, allowing yourself a small smile. "When are you gonna quit telling me what to do, huh?"

"When you start listening," He shot back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Definitely a smile under there, you were sure of it now. "Head back to bed, yeah? I'll take your watch."

"You don't have to do that, seriously-"

"I'm not asking, I'm telling," He cut you off, standing from his spot in front of you and pulling you up with him. "You've had more than enough excitement for one night."

Before you could further protest, Ghost did the unthinkable, pulling you in close by your wrist so you were flush against his chest. Your breath caught in your throat as he looked you over, his eyes trailing over your face, down your nose, and landing on your lips. A different hand snaked around your middle and you froze, his palm pressed flat against the center of your back. When it began sliding downward, you thought you were going to pass out.

For the first time that night, you were just fine with maintaining eye contact, waiting for him to do something, anything. His hand traveled lower and lower until it reached the hem of your pants, one of his fingers lacing through a belt loop.

"Make me a promise, yeah?" He asked in a deep, gruff voice.

You swallowed hard. "Depends on what it is."

Ghost leaned in close until he reached the shell of your ear, his hot breath barely grazing your skin through his mask. Your head was running marathons as you tried to comprehend what was happening, but for whatever reason, you didn't want it to stop. Using what little bravery you had, you dared to reach up and lay your hand over the left side of his chest. Even with the thick fabric in the way, it was easy to make out every detail of the muscle there. He tensed under your touch and held his own breath for a moment.

Ghost released your hand and raised it to his own face. You were sure what he was doing until you felt warm, chapped lips ghosting over the skin of your ear.

He pulled his mask up.

"Promise me you'll keep this between us, love," He murmured, his tone close to that of a purr. When he spoke, his lips made contact with your ear, and goosebumps raised on your skin.

"What if I don't?" You dared to ask, feeling bold.

He fell silent, humming once as the hand on your lower back abandoned its position. For a moment you thought you'd gone too far, and when he removed your knife from it's place on your hip, you took in a sharp breath. It clattered to the floor beside you, the protective case around the blade muffling the sound slightly. Next he took your still empty gun, placing it in his own holster and making a point to shove it in roughly.

"Guess I'll have to make it an order, then."

#im not even sorry #or ashamed #im on my knees for this man #i have smut in my drafts but we'll see how this one does first #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost imagine #simon riley imagine #mw2 imagine #ghost mw2 #ghost fluff #simon riley fanfic #simon riley fluff #mywriting #q

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ravensmadreads · 1 month

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What Love Means

A/N: so remember when I said I wasn't gonna write again? Yea I'm a lying liar who lied.. anyway, this came from me screaming about my unhinged love for David York to @chronically-ghosted , who then once asked me what I thought love meant to David and the thought sent me in a spiral. It's not really so much a fic as it is a stream of my own consciousness. If anyone cares though, there definitely is a whole fic about these two and their backstory.

Warnings: uhhhh bad writing? So David is probably ooc (but this version of him is my comfort character sorry), description of a panic attack, mentions of canon violence, and like the barest hint at smut.

Taglist: @chronically-ghosted (sorry ily) @fuckyeahdindjarin (i know Dave is not really your thing, but it felt wrong not to tag you- feel free to ignore tho no pressure! )

He gasps awake. Panic creeping slowly at the edges of his consciousness until it lunges and swallows him whole. He's not even sure why. The lingering effect of a nightmare he can't remember anymore. Shadowed figures drenched in blood and violence have been a part of him for so long that it's hard to distinguish the memories from the monsters. He bites his lip to stifle a cry. Fists holding tight onto flowered sheets and jaw clenched tight as he tries to remember to breathe. In and out right? It's simple.

His eyes fall shut as he swallows the bile that threatens to choke him. He's well versed in the art of fighting alone. He's been training for years. They've drilled him so hard, for so long, that he can pick an enemy apart in the dark and not make a sound. His fight or flight has been torn down and beaten until the only option he remembers is fight and win. The voices inside him never rest. Never go quiet. The pressure in his chest tightens. Was breathing always this difficult?

And then.

A movement.

He can't make out the sounds, but he knows someone's coming. His heart is pounding. It's inching closer still. Soft, steady footsteps just on the edges of the room. And yet he can't move. Can't open his eyes. Can't breathe. The voice in his head spits venom: Coward. A thud on his nightstand. A dip as the bed shifts and the world tilts a little.

A gasp that he can't hold back; and suddenly his eyes fly open.

Deep laboured breaths. Blurred vision. Every muscle on high alert. There's someone in front of him. He can't move. Fight or flight? A blink. Fight or flight?! Another gasp. Fight, you coward! But he can't move. Fight! He can't breathe. Would it really be so bad if he stopped?

"Dave!"

****

He blinks. There's another voice now. But it's outside the raging in his head. Outside the voices screaming for blood. It's soft. Softer than anything he knows. Anything he deserves. It's you. He can't make out the words but it's enough.

Another gasp.

Another blink.

You.

A lungul of air.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

One more time.

He's well versed in the art of calming himself down on his own. He doesn't have to though. Not anymore. Not when your arms hold him like he's the most fragile thing in the universe. He'd scoff at the thought if he could breathe.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

He can feel again. The tingling in his skin slowly being replaced by soft warmth. Soft lips on the side of his neck. Gentle hands running through his hair. Fistfuls of cotton fabric in his hands. Strands of your hair on his cheek.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Strawberry scented shampoo. Vanilla bean candles from the corner of the night stand. Something inexplicable that he can never name but that he knows is undeniably you.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Whispered assurances in his ear. The gentle hum of the air con. The rain pattering on the window and the wind that's slowly settling down now.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Metal in his mouth because he bit his tongue trying not to scream. The aftertaste of the last cigarette he had before bed.

Inhale.

He can't open his eyes. What if this is the dream? What if he wakes up alone again? Fingers clutching tighter. Nails digging into skin. You feel solid. Warm. Present.

Hold.

His eyes blink open. Starry glow from the nightlight you've turned on. The pulse pounding steadily in your neck. The birthmark in the hollow of your neck.

Exhale.

Is this what relief feels like? What safety means to him now? Does he even deserve a taste of either after all that he has done?

He blinks, and it's you. It's all you. He's surrounded by you. Your scent, your walls, your colours, your skin, your presence. The one holding his hand. The voice in his head. Talking him out of the terror. Walking him out of the darkness. It's you. But then again, it has been you since the moment he fell off of that cliff. The only fragment of his life that remains. The only thing from before that he can hold on to.

Your hands cup his face, and he smiles. It's a small thing. Twists into a grimace far too quickly. He opens his mouth to apologize. For all that he is, all that he can never be, and all the horrors he darkens your doorstep with. For all his scars and all his pain. Even if he does deserve every single one of the demons wreaking havoc in his head and trying to tear him apart from the inside.

But you know him too well. Know what he's thinking. And you're already shushing him before the words can even form on his tongue. Pressing gentle kisses over his forehead. A warm smile and soft eyes staring back at him. He has never known quite what it is you see in him. Has tried to convince you of the monster that resides within, but you refuse to acknowledge his self flagellation anymore.

He grabs you tighter and starts to lie back down. Your heart beat against his racing one. Your arms around his neck. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Maybe he can pretend. Just for a minute. That he's someone worth saving. That he's someone worth loving? He falls before he can finish the thought.

****

He wakes up in your arms. It startles him. The normalcy. The state of nothing. He's not used to silence. Not the comfortable kind anyway. If ever there's silence with him around, it either beckons death or follows it. And he's been drilled in the art of war for as long as he can remember.

He's not entirely sure what to do now. With hands on soft skin. A quiet mind. Who is he when the sun comes up? In the gentle breeze of dawn? When there's no list of names waiting to be scratched off; and when the sun filtering through the curtains chases away any shadows where monsters like him may lurk. When your breath tickles his neck and he can wake you with gentle hands and small kisses.

"Hey." A hand through his hair. "You okay?"

Trust you to start worrying about him the minute you wake up. He smiles, and it's a genuine one this time. The muscles in his face ache from disuse. He's been smiling more and more now, even if it feels unreal, like a skin he's trying to put on. You've been relentless in chasing them out anyway, and he's still surprised every time he finds a reason to smile.

He doesn't really remember what happiness feels like anymore. Small echoes of it maybe. From a distant past. Of army buddies laughing in the trenches, two little girls giggling around him, a leader that felt like an anchor and a mentor who felt like family- now all gone; too quickly, too violently - he shakes his head. It doesn't matter anymore. You're all the reason he needs now.

****

There's a word on the tip of his tongue. It lingers there. Quiet. Subtle. Just a little bit out of reach. It comes to him in the quiet moments. When your hand is in his hand, your head on his chest. When you listen to music and he pretends that he's not watching the dimple in your cheek. When you sway as you cook a meal and he forgets to remember that he's forgotten how to smile.

It comes to him in other moments. When he's on top of you, surrounding you, clinging to you. When your eyes are on his, your nails leaving delicious marks on his back. When your hands pull his hair and the only word you speak is a quiet and reverent David. He has always hated his name, but he's learning to crave the way you say it when you're overwhelmed by him.

It comes to him in the afterglow. Lingers on the edge of his consciousness. With your hand over his heart, his arms wrapped tight around you and his lips on yours. He's sinking into sleep. The warm embrace doesn't scare him any longer because no monsters in his head could never win against the light in your soul. He reaches out to hold it, that word, the one word he never had, just as his eyes flutter shut. He smiles into the kiss. He'll tell you tomorrow. You'll understand. You probably already know. You're the reason that word exists after all. And he knows you'll keep it for him until the day he dies.

Safe.

#david york x reader #dave york x reader #dave york #raven writes #remember when i was hinting about my dave york agenda #well guess what #im just gonna throw this in the void and run btw #im not even sorry #ok im a little sorry #anyway i love david and i WILL give him a redemption arc #unfortunately i have anxiety and low self esteem #anywayyyyyy #uhhh enjoy?#im gonna wake up to zero notes arent i #sbzjwbdjehdh bye

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