hiscrimsonembrace

[hiscrimsonembrace]

Ghost watches you give away pieces of yourself to everyone, always helping, never asking for something in return. It really gets to a point, you know? So, he does the only thing he can—makes sure you have no choice but to stay with him.

Doesn’t make a big deal out of it, he invites you over to “watch the game” since Soap bailed last minute (Ghost was the one to cancel, literally had to bribe him away). The perfect excuse, making you think you’re doing him a favor.

It’s your first time visiting. His apartment is bare, not much to show that someone’s really living here. But there’s food waiting on the table (takeout that arrived minutes before you did) and the sports channel already playing. He tells you to sit on the sofa, leaving just enough space between the two of you so he doesn’t risk making you uncomfortable. The quiet presence is enough.

Really, he just wants to give you a reason to slow down. A day to rest. Even if you don’t realize it.

(alternatively, chef!Simon cooks for you, making it a whole show. you sit on the tall kitchen stool, talking about anything and everything. “weren’t we supposed to watch the game?” “oh—right.”)

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“doll” y’all so unnoriginal

🫤

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Wow! I’ve been so productive these days! I surely hope I’ll be able to keep it up and won’t experience the worst burnout imaginable any time soon!

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I’m a firm believer of brown-eyed Ghost.

There’s something about that rich hickory brown eyes with the slightest auburn undertone, adding just enough warmth to his face, in perfect balance with the intimidating skull mask that might otherwise make him look cold, expressionless, unapproachable. But his eyes tell a different story. He’s distant with most, but with the people he cares about—his team, you—there’s something softer there. You just have to be close enough to see it.

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i need that yandere ghost RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!! puh-leaseee with a cherry on top

Will try to write it tomorrow!

Until now I’ve been refining past conversations with my bestie and I’m kinda running out so it’ll take a bit longer! Also busy with the job hunt these days so updates might be slow, but thank you for the interest!! I really appreciate people looking forward to my ramblings. Will get to it soon ♡

Have to make an introduction too (just writing this here so I don’t forget lmao)

[hiscrimsonembrace]

cw: no boundaries, possessiveness, spit marking, mild coercion

Give me a Ghost who is absolutely down bad and disgusting for you. Never heard of the term called boundaries in his life.

Teammates? He steps outside to clear his head—craving fresh air, only to find you with a cigarette between your fingers. Asks for a drag, but pushes it aside when you try to hand it over. Instead, he leans in, big grin plastered on his face, lifting the mask just enough to expose the tip of his nose. "Blow." You hesitate. He doesn't. A firm grip on your wrist ensures you won't slip away. Mouth open, waiting, he insists that every drag you take isn't for you. It's for him.

Neighbours? After months of absence, you find him waiting on the stairs of your apartment complex. He doesn't talk much, but you know he listens. You tell him about how you've been, what's changed. Maybe you mention someone new. Maybe you don't. Doesn't matter. He doesn't hold back—just sinks his teeth into your neck, sucks at the tender flesh with the intent to leave a mark. With his task completed, he cups your face, gazing down at your big doe eyes and mouth wide open in surprise. Takes this chance to spit in your mouth, marking you inside and out. "Sorry, doll. My scent wore off since last time. Had t' sort that out'."

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Just thinking about Simon comforting you.

His eyes scan your face, your body language, every small tell you try to hide. It's instinct—years of training telling him to assess, analyze, act. But this isn't a battlefield, and you aren't a mission. His rough exterior, the ghost of a man he is, all of those fade when he reaches for you. His touch betrays him. Warm and caring, meant to pull you back to him.

“You alright, doll?” his voice is low, soothing hands trailing down your back. He doesn't rush you, doesn't let the moment pass too quickly. He lets you feel—lets you grab at him, tug on his shirt, squeeze his hand as tight as you need to. And when you do, he's already there, arms wrapped around you like armor.

A simple “Breathe, love. Nice and slow. I got you” when you're shaking, legs giving out on you. He's a shield between you and the world, you swear you could lose yourself in those arms.

“You're with me. Don't have to pretend.” when you let out a nervous laugh. He is not waiting until you get home to talk about this. Needs to know you're fine.

“Hey, look at me,” he says softly when you try to avoid his gaze, “you're safe. Just focus on me, yeah?”

He takes a slow, controlled breath and you follow his lead. Drawing in a deep breath of your own, you feel the tension start to ease. His eyes never leave your side.

Later—when you have a moment alone, the frustration creeps in. It shows in the way your steps land heavier. You set things down with a little too much force, your restless pacing filling the room. And Simon senses it. Drops everything he's doing and comes to you. Invites you into his embrace, slowly kneeling down and pressing his forehead against yours. “I know. You got every right to be pissed. Just don't carry it alone.” The weight of it all crashes down, every bottled-up emotion spilling as you cling to him. “That's right, doll. Just let it out.”

He will always be there. You can never shake him off, but at least you'll never have to face any of it on your own.

don’t mind me, I’m reposting an excerpt of what I wrote for a request that might have some visibility issues </3

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I recently read your most recent request and I have to agree with my fellow Anon, I saw how you portrayed Ghost and said aloud to myself "yes, yes, this is good indeed, I must add this one to my rotation" and I say saw and not read because you paint a such good picture of him I can practically see him take up space; very tasty, I shall look forward to reading more :]

Hahah the talking to yourself about what you read part is so relatable, I’m really glad someone else does that for my writing as well! 🥺 Thank you so much :D

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Ah... I see other writers making a separate post when answering the fic requests in their asks... Is this what I am supposed to do? I imagine it's better for visibility? Genuinely not sure what the way to go about it is.

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cool username! is it ghost related or what does it mean?

It wasn’t related to him at first. But now it is! It’s the title of a longer fic I’m working on. As for what it means… 👀 (really not that hard to guess innit)

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hiii, not sure if you take requests or not, but i think that you just GET simon and his different personas. it's amazing. you understood the assignment! could i please request simon's reaction to reader being sexually harassed by someone? how would he react? how would he try to protect the reader?

I'm open to requests if I have the time, if they sound interesting or I get an idea in my head after reading them! I've never done this before but I love interacting with people, so ask away! <3 (not going to describe it in detail and will instead focus on his reaction, also I don't wanna dictate exactly how the reader feels since it's a very personal thing, so I'll give you some options!)

First off, whenever you and Simon decide to venture out together, you become the center of attention—that's for certain. Maybe it's his sheer size, the way he towers over you no matter your height. Maybe it's how he goes out of his way to stay concealed, always in black, cap pulled low and mask covering most of his face. Your own personal bodyguard. Or maybe it's the way he carries himself, the contrast between his imposing presence and the way he softens around you clearly too stark not to notice. But not everyone sees that side of him. To them, he's unapproachable. A walking danger sign. Not that he minds, he's used to it. Easier that way. One time he picked up your coffee order and managed to scare off the barista by telling her she got it wrong. Of course, he didn't mean to, but that poor woman must've thought a hitman had been sent after her and it was her last day on Earth. Simon doesn't even have to raise his voice, there's an unshakable authority in every word he speaks and in the way he carries himself. A man carved from stone. Both an immovable object and an unstoppable force. Second, not many people would ever dare confront him. His presence alone is enough to keep fools at bay. He knows you don't like making a scene—so he won't start one. They get the warning by witnessing him simply stand there, and they leave, too scared of being burned alive by his fiery gaze. After that, he'd want to make sure you're okay. Won't press if you brush it off, just squeezes your hand once. A simple question. You sure? If you squeeze back, Yeah, I'm sure. Still, he makes a note to check in properly later, when it's just the two of you, in the comfort of your home, where you can be as honest and vulnerable as you need to be. With him, you're safe. No one dares to look at you the wrong way. Hell, most don't even make eye contact, too afraid of whatever might be lurking under that mask. Nobody—while he's by your side. And Simon rarely leaves your side, only if necessary. A quick errand, a bathroom break. At the grocery store when you send him to help a kid grab cereal off the top shelf and you looking for the milk, or when you're out with your friends and have him fetch the drinks. It's fine, he'll bring them to you then go back to the boys, standing just far enough to give you space but close enough to keep an eye on things. But that's when it happens. He returns, drinks in hand. Sees you standing there, between your friends and some bastard who doesn't know when to quit. You learned from him, taking the role of the protector, holding your ground. But that makes you the easiest target. The guy leans in too close, lets his hand wander. A nasty comment, a brush against your shoulder, a grab at your waist, a touch— No. Simon doesn't sit this one out. Drops the drinks, makes a mess. Doesn't even think twice about it.

He's on the bastard in seconds, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him hard against the wall. Absolutely livid. Got him handled in a matter of seconds. “Walk away while you still can.” Doesn't matter if the guy puts up a fight or not, sorry fella will end up with just enough bruises to get taught a valuable lesson.

The second he's gone, Simon's focus is solely you. It's like the whole room ceases to exist. Pulls you to the side when you're visibly shaking. You can't downplay it this time, he sees right through you. He's not a man of many words, but his actions say enough (though that can only mean his words carry a heavy amount of weight when spoken). His eyes scan your face, your posture, every small tell you try to hide. It's instinct—years of training telling him to assess, analyze, act. But this isn't a battlefield, and you aren't a mission. His rough exterior, the ghost of a man he is, they all fade when he reaches for you. His touch betrays him. Warm and caring, meant to pull you back to him. "You alright, bird?" His voice is low, soothing hands trailing down your back. He doesn't rush you, doesn't let the moment pass too quickly. He lets you feel—lets you grab at him, tug on his shirt, squeeze his hand as tight as you need to. And when you do, he's already there, arms wrapped around you like armor.

A simple “Breathe, love. Nice and slow. I got you.” when you're shaking, legs giving out on you. He's a shield between you and the world, you swear you could lose yourself in those arms. “You're with me. Don't have to pretend.” when you let out a nervous laugh. He is not waiting until you get home to talk about this. Needs to know you're fine. “Hey, look at me,” he says softly when you try to avoid his gaze, “you're safe. Just focus on me, yeah?” He takes a slow, controlled breath and you follow his lead, drawing in a deep breath of your own, letting the tension start to ease. His eyes never leave your side (and that's the day his teammates see a side of their lieutenant they haven't met before).

Later—when you have a moment alone, the frustration creeps in. It shows in the way your steps land heavier. You set things down with a little too much force, your restless pacing filling the room. And Simon senses it. Drops everything he's doing and comes to you. Invites you into his embrace, slowly kneeling down and pressing his forehead against yours. “I know. You got every right to be pissed. Just don't carry it alone.” The weight of it all crashes down, every bottled-up emotion spilling as you cling to him. “That's right, doll. Just let it out.”

He's there. Always will be there. And you'll never have to face any of it on your own.

[hiscrimsonembrace]

The way I wrote my first fic was inspired by my fav writer and even tho I wrote it in a day, the editing part took WAY too long. A measly 1k words fic. THREE DAYS. After three entire days, the fic had changed completely. English is not my first language and I found the confidence in my skills diminish with each sentence I wrote. I must say...even though I'm pretty okay with the result, I'll be taking an easier approach with my future attempts from now on;;

[hiscrimsonembrace]

Pookies in love

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pathetic simon. that's it. send post. pathetic simon

like, imagine he accidentally makes you sad bc of his tone (he can't control it, he's just stupid), and your relationship is still new so you're at your own home, and it's been exactly two hours and you haven't texted him back after he fucked up over the phone. he knows you need space but he can't have that bc what if you don't like him anymore? what if you wanna leave him bc you realized you're just too good for him? and you are!! he swears!!

so he does his best and grabs your favorite candy, buys you flowers but— oh wait you don't like flowers, so he gets your favorite meal instead! he drives to your house and he's ready to get on his knees and beg for you to forgive him pretty please he was an idiot and he didn't mean to snap that's just how his voice is

and when you open the door he realizes you were just taking a biiigggg good nap and you weren't actually mad, you just fell asleep

but you can't complain bc hey that's a free meal! so you end up eating on the couch with him between your legs, patting his head and stealing his drink

[hiscrimsonembrace]

The lieutenant is a force of nature. Unyielding, efficient, always in control. He moves with purpose, every step calculated, every decision final. Orders come in, strict and precise, his voice devoid of hesitation. There’s no room for doubt in the field, no space for any weakness. You don’t question him, don’t expect warmth. The mask stays on. Always.

Ghost is different when it comes to the quiet moments between missions. He lingers longer than he should. Doesn’t speak much, but his presence is grounding. A guardian. There’s a rough sort of care in the way he nudges a plate towards you at meal times, in how he keeps watch when you can’t sleep. He’s still a shadow, but less of a phantom, more of a man.

Simon is the person beneath it all, the one you weren’t sure you’d ever meet. His voice softens when he says your name, and his once hesitant touch becomes something deliberate. There’s a weight he carries, one he never speaks, but in the dark, when the world is quiet, he lets you bear some of it. Lets you in. And when he finally presses his forehead to yours, when his breath hitches like he’s afraid of the closeness but refuses to pull away, you realize—

Your husband is the one who comes home to you. The man who drops his gear by the door with a heavy sigh, exhaustion apparent in his features. The one who takes off his mask and lets you cup his face, lets you see him— truly see him. The man who curls around you at night, holding you like he’s afraid the world might take you from him. The one who, despite everything, despite the pain and weight of his past, whispers I love you like a prayer.

[hiscrimsonembrace]

Not Alone | Ghost x Reader

hurt/comfort where you are hurt because I need this man to comfort word count: 1.1k

A slow, pulsing ache drags you back to the surface, pulling you from unconsciousness. The weight in your skull shifts as you stir and the room tilts in response. One sluggish blink, then another. A bright light passes through your eyelids and the sheets beneath you feel softer than they should be.

Not your bunk.

The faint scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, making your nose scrunch. It’s familiar, but it feels wrong. As your vision finally focuses, you notice a large figure, slumped against the bedside.

Not alone.

Ghost’s chin rests against his chest, breath slow and steady. Mask still on, but his guard isn’t. Exhaustion settles over him, and yet, his hand finds its way next yours on the mattress. Not touching. Just there. Close enough to feel the warmth of his skin.

Your gaze drops, searching for the source of the throbbing pain. Bandages peek from beneath the blanket, layers of red-tinged gauze snug around your hip. You freeze, your mind trying to piece things together.

“…Ghost?” you speak out, voice hoarse and uncertain.

His head jerks up so fast it makes the chair creak beneath him. Fierce eyes locking onto yours, narrowing as if to ground himself in the sight of you awake. The book on his lap is set aside with a quiet thud. His fingers twitch against the sheets, then, without thinking, he takes your hand. A firm, steady squeeze, his warmth seeping into yours. Neither of you make the effort to acknowledge the gesture. You're afraid that if you did, he'd pull away.

“Easy,” he murmurs. His voice is rougher than usual, like he hasn’t used it in a while. “How you feelin’?”

Grimace twists across your face as you make the slightest shift. “H-hurts like hell.”

A subtle smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, his exhale resembling laughter. “Figured it would. You did take a bullet to the gut.” He quickly glances at your wound, then looks back. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything vital.”

His hand moves, carefully brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch is fleeting, almost hesitant, and when his hand falls away he doesn't put it back.

A hush settles between the two of you. The fluorescents above give off a soft hum. An IV drip clicks, drops falling one by one. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks.

Your throat is dry when you finally manage, “How long?”

“Twenty-two hours.” His hand drops to rest beside yours on the bed, thumb slowly tracing circles against the bedsheets. “You’ve been out the whole time.”

You blink, mind scrambling through fragments of memory. Gunfire, the mission, the moment the pain swallowed you whole.

“I…slept the whole time?" you question. "H-how did I get to med—? The mission! What happened to the—”

“Had to pull your ass outta there,” Ghost interrupts. “Didn’t trust anyone else to come for you but me.”

He looks away, just for a second. There’s something in the way he stiffens, as if the memory of what happened still haunts him. “Brought you here. Doc patched you up. And I’ve…” His voice trails, almost as if he’s only just realizing the weight of his own words. He waits a moment, then clears his throat. “I’ve been here. Making sure you were safe ‘til you woke up.”

The mission. It doesn’t matter anymore. Of course he handled it.

Your chest tightens, too many thoughts pressing at once.

“…Thank you.” You swallow.

Your fingers tense, your hand reaching out to meet his. He doesn't pull away. He just stays there, like a stone. You have to hold yourself back from tracing the scars that cover his hand.

“No need." His tone shifts. “If…If that bullet had hit a little more to the left, you could’ve bled out, and I…” He stops. His throat bobs, fingers flexing. But he still doesn't take his hand away.

“You what?” you ask, curious as to what more the masked man could be hiding.

His eyes darken and you try to make out what it is—but his expression swiftly smooths over, locking away whatever almost slipped through.

“Nevermind,” he gruffs, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just… rest, alright?”

You open your mouth, ready to contest, but something hits—

A memory.

You remember.

A voice in the haze of pain, pulling you back when you were slipping away. A try, a bargain, a desperate plea, anything to keep you there with him.

His name.

Your digits tighten slightly around his, your voice is quieter this time. The word delicate, like it might shatter in the space between you.

“…Simon.”

His reaction is instant.

His head snaps up, eyes widening. His entire body goes still. Too still. The air between you shifts, tension filling the room as he just stares.

“Don’t,” he grits out. “Don’t do that. Call me Ghost.”

“But you told me,” you say insistently, eyebrows pulling together. “Out there. On the field. You—” Your voice wavers, a breath hitching in your throat.

“I—” He stops you before you can say anything more. His gaze drops away from yours, calloused hand pulling away. A slow retreat. You feel the loss immediately.

“You were dyin’,” he growls, clenching his hand into a fist. “I didn’t—” Another pause, his expression unreadable through the mask. “I don’t wanna talk about it. Alright?”

But you can tell. He's fighting the urge to reach back. You could push. You should push. But—

“…You know I'd never,” you say instead, quiet. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

Ghost’s head tilts, a quiet scoff beneath his disguise. “You don’t say shit like that right after…” He blinks a few times, broad shoulders dropping the slightest bit. “Christ, you’re fuckin' ann—”

The word cuts off before he can finish it. But you hear it anyway. You finally got to him.

You swallow, tightness pressing in your chest. “Can I at least call you that when it’s just us?”

He hesitates. His eyes briefly linger on your face, as if weighing something.

“Just…” His jaw tightens. His hand moves a little, resting on the sheets beside yours. Then, finally—finally he reaches back. Just barely. His thick fingers brush yours, squeezing gently. “Only when it’s us. Understand?”

You squeeze back.

A promise of unspoken feelings.

A faint smile forms on your lips. “Yes, sir.” You lift your free hand in a mock salute, a glimpse of your usual self peeking through.

Ghost sucks in a breath, then releases it sharply. The smallest, briefest huff of laughter escaping as he rolls his eyes. He shakes his head, looking around before his voice drops, softer now.

“It’s Simon.”

Not alone.

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This is super frustrating, I'm unable to post my fic :/ I've been trying for the past few hours. The same error message keeps popping up. LET ME FREE MY THOUGHTS.