𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 — 𝐒𝐑.
▸ PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader
▸ SUMMARY: Simon was so used to your presence, so used to you always being there. He’s struggling to cope now that you aren’t.
▸ CONTENT INCLUDES: Major character death, angst, hurt/no comfort
▸ WORD COUNT: 1,033 (+ head-cannons at the end)
Fear was the first and last emotion Ghost ever felt. He was a weapon; cold in the way he burned, poetic in the way he fought bloody and loved the same. He was made of bared teeth and rough hands, carved out of gunmetal and overflowing with carnal brutality. He made fear seem like a carnival performance, like a jester in front of a king.
Watching your body crumble, blood staining the same hands he held not so long ago—hands that felt him—hands that knew him. Yeah, Ghost was fucking terrified.
From blood and tears to tranquil peace. From aching bones to pale skin. From all to none in the blink of an eye. The gunfire ceased, and he spared a thought to wonder why. Maybe it was just him. Maybe he was just too focused on the way your chest didn’t rise and fall. Maybe his heart was just beating so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything else.
Ghost didn’t remember stumbling toward your body, didn’t remember cradling you in his arms, and he didn’t remember shaking you with desperation. No, he remembered your silence. He remembered holding your pale face in his palms, his hands shaky and his voice wavering as he mumbled hushed apologies against your skin.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed your cheek—messy and so fucking painful. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Your neck, your jaw, your forehead. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
For what felt like an army, Ghost was the last face people saw; the cause of many’s demise. He’s heard so many people’s last words, from pleads to apologies and everything in between. He carries so many final thoughts with him, things he never thought he’d care about until he realized that he’d never know yours.
He’d never get to see you smile again. He’d never get to hear your laugh, or the shakiness in your voice when he told you he loved you. He’d never get to take you out, watch you admire the sunset and call the view pretty, and he’d never get to agree while his gaze was still on you. He’d never get to help you fold laundry again, or hear you sing along to the radio, or watch you dance around the kitchen in the middle of the night.
Someone once told Ghost that the greatest ability one could have was the ability to remember.
Someone was a fucking liar.
Simon didn’t want to remember you, he wanted to know you. He needed you here, because the second you were gone he felt homesick. He felt like he was too big for his body, like he was suffocating without your presence to breathe life back into him.
He was his own villain, but love was his betrayer.
Ghost has died many times now; the kind of death that you don’t notice. The kind that can’t be seen. Once when his father made him watch that prostitute overdose, twice when he got buried alive, three when he came home to find his family slaughtered. He didn’t want to think about the fourth. Ghost has died many times, but he’s never felt the cold arms of death impaling him. He’s never wished it would handle someone so softly.
He hoped it was peaceful. He hoped it felt like sitting in your favorite garden and feeling the sun on your skin. He hoped the wind was blowing, and he hoped the porch light turned on when it grew dark. He hoped it wasn’t as cold as he felt without you.
Ghost turned his sorrow to anger. He wouldn’t rest until everyone that had ever hurt you was buried in the ground, wouldn’t rest until he made them statistics. He’d make you a graveyard in his desperation as if it were a sacrifice. As if he could turn in twenty-seven souls for the release of one. He’d find someone to blame, and he’d make them pay for it.
If he had to, he’d even make the gods suffer. He’d make them listen, make them greet his cries with their own while his grief haunts the soil and his turmoil shakes the clouds. They’ll fear him when he rips through the ground with his bare hands, desperate to feel your touch. Your hands would be cold, but he’d take them into his and warm them with the burden of his existence. The gods will have no choice but to pray for his forgiveness and beg for his mercy.
The only thing that could stop him was dead, and he’d return the favor until his body was rotten.
Home never felt so far away, even when he was standing in it. It went from his favorite place to a cage; nothing but four walls and a roof that felt abandoned by your lack of presence. Simon was like a ghost at the table, sitting there just to reminisce on the late nights you’d spend there with him. He almost imagined what you’d say if you were here now. Probably some shitty joke he’d pretend to hate. A shitty joke that he’d tell Soap later. A shitty joke that would live in the back of Simon’s mind until his memory failed him, stored with all the others you’ve told.
He didn’t find comfort in the walls decorated with your love and ideas. Almost desperately, they screamed: you won’t find comfort here. This is not your home anymore. She doesn’t haunt the halls. You won’t find her no matter how hard you look. Your records were still sprawled out on the coffee table, and the puzzle you were working on sat unfinished on the kitchen counter. He couldn’t bring himself to move the things you touched. Couldn’t even stand to look at them.
You were a good person. You deserved a soft ending with him. Curled up on the couch, skin wrinkled with age, a warm cup of tea in your hands. Simon knew he’d still find you beautiful.
He’d find you in the garden, laying in the tall grass and smiling when the sun hit your skin and the breeze flew past.
He’d turn on the porch light when it got dark.
THINGS THAT HAPPENED AFTER YOUR DEATH:
: The recruits learned that Ghost only tolerated them because you were around
: None of the task force sits at the table in the mess hall that you always occupied (except for Ghost)
: Every time someone mentions anything that has to do with you (your favorite movie, favorite subject, etc.) Ghost would lash out
: Ghost would throw himself into his work to distract himself from the silence of your home
: He’d always wear the hoodie that you stole from him, trying to imprint your scent into his skin
: He’d eventually grow old (shocker), and he’d hate himself for leaving you behind
▸ A/N: I genuinely cannot tell if the shit I write is good or not, but I hope whoever read all this isn’t disappointed. It’s late and I’m tired, so I didn’t really go into how others reacted, but I might elongate this in the future. If you can’t tell, I fucking love angst + making indifferent men feel pain, because yes. Just yes. I still have no fucking clue how this shit works, so bare with me please, we’ll get there eventually 😭
P.S, I tried a new color scheme, don’t know if I love it or hate it yet
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That one scene where Whitney puts you in a cock cage but you turn the tables and put it on him instead. Hell maybe even put him in one of the flat ones too. Sorry I was feelin evil for a sec
God I wish.
Shocked look on his face as you turn the tables on him, you, you fucking little shit that he’s so used to toss around like a ragdoll, having the sheer audacity to clasp the cage around his own cock instead. Just know he’ll be shocked for a good couple of seconds before he’s all pissed, cussing you out and trying to get it off of himself but with his insistent tugging and pulling, you can’t help but snicker at the sight. Seriously, Whitney is built on being horny, he has urges, he needs to fuck and for you to do that shit to him, he’s going to be mad as hell. Oh no, he can’t hit anymore. Way too fucking bad, not only that, there’s another way now, Whitney. Your cock may be trapped in that annoying little chasity belt though your hole sure isn’t, free and tight, ready to be used by a good fat fucking cock.
I just see it as an opportunity to show him a whole new world, get him on all fours like a hung bull, y’know the ones that Remy disciplines on a daily basis, slutty little hole on display without his cock for show making it look like he has a leaking pussy more than anything. Fucking watch at the way he’s seething, frustrated huff leaving him as he’s unable to get himself off. No, no, just fuck his ass instead, slamming my hips against his own fucking behind, hammering his prostate till he’s reduced to a dumb moaning slut, whining for a break. Rewire his fucking mind, get ‘im into a mating press just so I can stare at the way his tongue lolls out of his mouth, eyes rolling back and drool uselessly running down his chin. I’ll have him conditioned so he can’t even think about a basic bitch’s loose pussy anymore, just a fat cock drilling his sore hole, already reaching down to finger himself stupid.
Dumb fucking bitch.
Or just blue ball him for the rest of the month, idk lmfao
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