#🐚 arqhmssummer23

[ineylesian]

just thinking about inexperienced ghost cumming early <33 (NSFW ADVISORY)

you’re the first person he’s been intimate with and he doesn’t know how to control himself at all. war is his specialty, not sex, and it takes a while for him to even be comfortable with you in the first place. he was good at concealing it at first, the way you warmed up to him so well, but you’re just too good at pleasing him and he can’t win. as time passes, ghost can’t seem to keep himself from getting hard at the littlest of things when you two are alone, he trusts you and your presence comforts him.

ghost knows how to please you. he’ll spend hours between your legs and fuck you into oblivion because your needs are more important to him than his own. when you finally convince him to fuck you for his own pleasure, he loses it, fast. the feeling of his cock stretching your walls nearly makes his eyes roll to the back of his head. you’re so hot, squeezing his cock so well that he can’t control his volume. soft gasps and raspy moans fill your ears as he sloppily ruts into you, groaning that he’s almost finished. before he can pull out, his balls leak deep against your cervix, and he moans, drawn out and sated.

entirely fascinated, ghost will watch his cum spill out of your spent pussy before placing a kiss on your temple.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess, lovie. Let’s get you clean up, yeah?”

1K EVENT | COD MASTERLIST

[ineylesian]

hey!!!

I was wondering, how would Ghost react to the reader scolding him?? like, something happens that disrupts the mission and it's his fault and the reader scolds him, not aggressively, but still I would like to know Ghost's reaction

Also, the idea that he and the reader have a romantic relationship but he's still a bit strict :)

(I used the translator to write all this!! sorry if there are any translation errors, English is not my native language :D)

WALK AWAY FROM THE SUN

— SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X READER

— AO3 | MASTERLIST | EVENT

— WORD COUNT | 3k

— WARNINGS | canon typical violence, hurt/comfort, mentions of weapons, arguments, mentions of trauma.

— SUMMARY | you often meet ghost at his shortcomings, but nothing serious as this has yet to happen.

— AUTHOR’S NOTE | tysm for the request 🫶🫶 i wanted to expand on this just a lil but made sure to keep the original prompt, i hope you enjoy!! hope the scolding isn’t too strict :)

Ghost thinks he’s having trouble breathing.

He doesn’t know if it’s because of the worry sanctioning in his chest, or the bullet lodged in his ribs. It takes a few seconds, he breathes, and a slightly ragged puff of air crawls its way back up his esophagus. Shallow wounds never hurt him, but ones that fester in the mind nearly paint his vision black. 

It was a bad mission, destined to go wrong the moment Price laid out the plan. Too many HVTs to secure in such a dangerous zone, touched down in a land similar to post scorched earth. Calls of concern were dismissed by Shepherd, this mission was too important to let go, and they were to complete it, no matter the cost.

Nevertheless, things went south, fast. Nearly an entire squad of foot soldiers dead in under one hour, and only 2 out of 4 targets eliminated. It wasn’t long before Price called in evac, the mission’s end along with it. There was always time again to try again. Until the screaming started, and Ghost was nowhere to be found.

It was capture or kill, and it was certain no one was getting captured at this rate. You’d seen it all, the look he gave Price as he was getting into contact with Shepherd, and the miniscule shake of his head as he tightened his gear. The screams were yours, are you out of your fucking mind?-- hair whipping against the wind as you watched him disappear into the flames, yelling for the pilot to touch down. 

Any sane soldier would have shaken their head and waved to confirm exfil, but this was nothing near normal. The 141’s purpose isn’t sanity, it’s loyalty. Price wasn’t going to allow himself to lose more than one soldier, and it was apparent that you were leaving with or without his permission. He strapped a tracker to your vest before you jumped.

Ghost wasn’t expecting to get shot. Maybe the adrenaline kicked in too early, or maybe the opportunity was just too good. The last two HVTs right in his line of sight, running through the open, unarmed. 

Or so he thought.

He sits slouched against a wall, the hand clamped over the bullet’s entryway growing progressively more damp as the minutes pass. He should’ve expected someone with a target on their back to run around with a gun, anything lethal, even, especially after watching his friend’s jugular fly from his neck. Pointed a gun and blindly shot. A rookie mistake that put him and his whole squad at risk because of some halfhearted words Shepherd hammered into his head. 

He believes in no matter completely. Maybe that’s where he comes short.

Frankly, Ghost isn’t even worried about the lingering pain in his abdomen, or the fact that the last target escaped. He’s worried about the person coming to find him. Something in the back of his head grows into a throbbing pain in the frontal lobe and he closes his eyes, hoping it’s not you that’s coming.

Who could he be kidding? Of course you were going to come for him. You always did, and always will. It’s a danger that follows when you happen to love someone you run into the frontlines with. Something that was going to get one of you killed one day, purely because he knows he’d do the exact same thing.

Ghost curses under his breath. You’re just like him sometimes, blindsided and hard headed as they come. 

Falling debris and the thud of boots join the rasp that serves as his breathing. You’re here, and it looks bad, worse than he expected. Your eyebrows are knit tightly together, and he can see the dribble of blood that rolls down your chin due to how hard you bite your gums. Your skin is laced with sweat, and you’re panting, hard. 

He’s only been bleeding out for three minutes. With you here, it feels like an eternity, and the grasps of something much worse than death are holding time still. When he finally shifts his lips to speak, you shove a cloth against his ribcage, hard. All that comes out is a strangled grunt, and he falls silent. No one renders him as speechless as you do.

He hasn’t felt so small since his father. It’s deserving, every last bit of it. He let go of himself and you still came to save him. He should be feeling nothing short of gratitude, yet he only feels as though someone dragged him into the undertow and left him to drown there. The way you refuse to meet his eyes strikes harder than any other bullet, and for the first time, he doesn’t know what to do. 

All he can feel is the fear that you have instilled in him, and his consciousness slips before he can think of anything else.

—

Forgiveness is a hard thing to earn. In the 141, it seems more rational to die than seek it.

Ghost doesn’t consider death. He’s considered nothing, not since a bullet put him into a coma for a week. In that time, he dreamt of choppy waters and black riptides. The slosh of imaginary waves greeted him more times than your voice did.

He only remembers it once. You asked one of the nurses how he was doing. When she said he’d wake up, you left.

You don’t wait up on people, Ghost knows that. No part of him holds the expectation that you would’ve cared just a little more and stuck around. You knew he’d live, and that was the end of it. You walk away from the sun when it burns you.

When it comes to the battlefield, you’re cold as ice and follow rational orders to a tee. You keep your head on straight until you don’t, because taking care of others feels better than sprinkling soil over an empty grave. The way you think is profound yet humanity never fails to escape you, it’s what dragged you to him, stone-eyed and indifferent on the surface. 

People around him always say it’s impossible to get attached in the military. He almost believes them, but he thinks of you and all else fades. Like a moth to a flame, he knows you’d follow his trail into hysteria. He knows it frustrates you, habits such as those are hard to shake. You’ve spent too much time by his side to quit. Couldn’t shake you even if he wanted to.

It reminds him of three years ago, with you curled up beside him in the depths of Syrian mountains. You’d offered him some bourbon for the pain– he’d been stabbed in the leg, covering up with the excuse that it’d help with the cold. You knew how to tempt him, just one drink turning into the whole bottle empty at your feet. Only you could make him succumb to something like that, listening to you ramble on about how careless he was to get stabbed, hours of it, the coziness of you and the blankets drilling static into his head.

Ghost could hold his alcohol better than you. Barely felt a buzz from the drinks in his system. But this.. your head lightly bobbing against his shoulder, haphazardly checking on his bandage before kissing the exposed skin beside it. You were right, his whole body was on fire, so enamored with you, the feeling of home creeping along his skin in short, fatigued breaths.

He vaguely remembers when you turned to your side, hands hot on his pulse and sinking underneath. Everywhere, you were everywhere. You had taken him by storm and the buzz of the bourbon heightened his senses to a point where it was nearly unbearable. It took every fiber of his willpower to listen, straining against the irrevocable hold you had placed on him, fighting to restrain himself.

Amidst the haze, you asked him if he would do something for you. In that state, Ghost thinks he would’ve tried to overthrow the entire planet if you wanted him to. Instead, you uttered something short of ten words, and he made one of the biggest mistakes of his life when he answered.

“Promise me you’ll look out for yourself, Simon.”

Your inquiry seemed small, fragile, and simple to be compliant with in the moment. He shuns himself for failing to remind you of who you were, what you were fighting for, and that looking out for yourself is a restraint only some can hope to afford. It’s a luxury that separates people who want to save the world from those who do.

“Alright, then.”

Drunk or not, he made a promise. Broke it just as easily. He resists the urge to bash his head against the wall as consciousness returns to him, opting to thank the nurse with a few words scribbled on a napkin before disappearing. 

As much as he wants to scrub the sickening scent of antiseptic and illness from his skin, Ghost can’t bring himself to visit your room right now. He knows you’ll check the infirmary soon– despite what you say he knows you stop by, even if it’s for a second, yet he opts to leave base regardless if you come to find him or not. He’d rather speak to you when you’re on those terms. Guessing by the freshly washed sweatshirt that sits zipped up to his neck, you probably don’t want him dead. 

He’ll cut his losses there.

—

The early hours of the morning creep along the skyline, spilling over the roads below. You walk, dismissing the dull ache in your feet from miles of dug up sidewalk and the scorching ground you had run across some days ago. It’s not long before the breeze picks up the scent of saltwater, light ripples rock calmly against marsh and you sigh.

You knew he’d be here. Always came when tragedy struck and life wasn’t fair. It reminds you of a homage after nights of terror in Urzikstan, peaceful, and nothing else. Somewhere you go when you can’t quite reach the ocean.

Ghost sits with his back to the sun, perched against a dock overlooking the water. Your legs come to a stop, and you stand still, wondering if this was all a mistake. Maybe you should just turn around while you can, run to the safety of a home that only carries a lingering scent of him. Here, the breeze makes you nauseous. 

Everything here is riddled with sorrow and buried in tears. The cycle repeats, you think you deserve to cry.

You take a look to the sky and the clouds point you offshore. Saline winds pull you farther and it’s too late to reconsider leaving when your foot creaks against the dock. Ghost catches you in his peripheral, approaching slowly, the distance polarizing. It feels like glass is lodged in your feet. The gap waged feels something like No Man’s Land. 

Ghost sits on the edge, one leg hanging over the water while the other sits folded at the knee. You lean against a support beam across from him, one glance and you think you might choke. Flashing rays dawn over the baclava settled over his face, drawing light to the skin bridged above his nose. Eyebags crawl and tear at paint ridden skin, blond eyelashes fluttering against smudged black, over the one part of him that feels normal. Nothing else does.

He stares ahead, umber hues washing over ripples cast by fish in waiting. You feel like you do everytime you come here, except sadness is held back by frustration, boiling underneath your skin and rising to the surface. Moments pass, the breeze dies down and beckons for you to speak. 

“You broke your promise.” Pressure settles within your chest. Hurt floods the atmosphere and Ghost’s eyes leave the water. He thinks, you lie in wait, arms crossed defensively over your chest. 

“You can’t rely on intoxicated words.”

It’s fair, yet completely unfair at the same time. You know it was an unreasonable thing to ask, came straight from the alcoholic worry that seethed in your mind. Normal people don’t make promises they know they won’t be able to keep. People that care too much ask of them.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts.”

Ghost says nothing. You know he wanted to keep that promise. Held it over his heart for three years, let it slip under his sleeve as all other things do. Something that happens when war is all you know. He knew you, too, but warfare is different from anything else. You understand that.

The smell of antiseptic reeks off of him, the sun licks at black paint and chips crumble. He’s nonchalant on the surface like always, but you know him. Underneath blood stains the hole in his abdomen that put him here. He leans toward it as if pain has become him.

He’s always been like this, body hungry for violence, mind begging for reconciliation. It’s how his mind is wired, shutting doors on people makes them want to close it in another’s face. You learned to coincide with it, but there’s still a line. The fact he crossed it so easily sparks the worry within and you fight the tears that push against your sockets.

Anger resides and reels back in, lapping at the shore and bringing you to your knees. You fear you’ll lose him that way.

It’s all you think about.

“What made you think that was a good idea?” You bark, grasping his chin to face you head on. “You think putting yourself in danger is no big deal, don’t you? Worried everyone sick because of a stupid HVT.”

He sees right through you. Worried me sick, he hears it as he would an echo. It’s a profession of worry, he knows you worry because you love him. 

“We all have to make sacrifices.” His response is a dull front, you hear the guilt laced within. “You know that.”

You do. Things stay strict on the battlefield and remain that way. Until it’s him. When there’s Ghost, there’s always Simon. You learned to make that exception because you understood that. Ghost is not afraid to die. Simon is.

“What good are you to anyone if you throw yourself in the line of fire?” You spit, pointer finger snapping to hover above his wound.. “There’s no guarantee that someone will always be able to save you when things go wrong. You know that.”

He knows that, and he knows you. 

You know there’s a darkness that lingers within him. It’s inevitable. Something that festers, building up until it’s strong enough to lash out. It’s selfish, cares and waits for no one. A walking death sentence that hangs over his head no matter the value he places in his life.  It chases him in his dreams, trails a dark shadow over his head that turns him into the person he fears he’d become. Adapted him so the only thing he feels when he pulls the trigger is recoil.

“We win together, and we fail together, Simon. It’s not your responsibility to change that.”

He hates that side of his head that made him think otherwise. Hates himself more when he makes you worry. 

Old habits die hard. It’s not easy to take, the way he knows those parts of him linger. You know when it comes, the front he manages with surgical precision shatters and he breaks down into hysteria because it’s too much for one person to handle. 

Regardless, he tries. You love him for that. He loves you because you walked into his life and it gained purpose.

All that’s good in his life comes from you. The first nights in his life he felt welcomed to sleep because you were in bed beside him. Days fly by and he changes. You change with him. The small room he occupies at base doesn’t seem so lifeless anymore because you’re always in it. 

He damns the way you smile at him, infectious, a snapshot memory he keeps in his thoughts. Thoughts that draw a compass in his mind that routes home to you.

Every part of him feels selfish for making you feel this way. It tears through him as a knife does and his nerves flay from the heat.

“I’m sorry, lovie.” It feels like he’s suffocating, drawing on the tears that slide down your face and drip onto your hands. He takes dampened skin and holds onto it as if he’ll lose you forever if he lets go. “‘M so sorry that I made you worry. Bastardish thing to do.”

His accent is heavy, dripping with resent and pleading for composure. It’s everything and nothing all at once. Your tears stain his hands and he feels like he always does when things go wrong. Except, it’s always you who quells him in the midst of nightmares. His mind races at the stutter of your breath, hands fumbling to push stray hairs out of your eyes.

“I love you, so much. Wouldn’t ever wanna make you worry, yeah?”

Silence passes for a minute. Seagulls chirp and water sloshes against eroded rocks.

Your eyes peek out from his hands, slotting your arm between his, reaching up. You tug and his mask bunches up at the nose, fingers smoothing over the surface of his skin, warm, grasping for affection. You yearn for his touch and he gives it to you without question.

Ghost tastes of gunpowder and the bask of the sun. It reminds you of home, slightly chapped, never wanting more than what he can give. He’s gentle, canines gently poking against your lips, perfectly still. You sigh inwardly at the feeling, reveling in all that he is until you can breathe no longer.

“You’re such an idiot.”

Your chest heaves, breath leveling with a rough scoff. His eyes crinkle like they do when he notices you packed extra eye black for him. Mouth parted, a ghost of a smile curving at his lips.

“I know, can’t seem to get myself sorted.”

There’s an underlying meaning to it. Passes through like the wind that cards through your hair. Guilt rides the waves, but you don’t want to cry anymore.

You just want to heal. Ghost understands that more than anyone else.

[ineylesian]

i’ve seen a lot of cod hc posts on tiktok recently- the ones about ghost are just???? so many people are saying he’d be an outright abusive partner and since you’re really good at writing him i just wanted to know what you think.

yeah, i’ve definitely seen my fair share of them too.

in the new, reboot version of modern warfare two, simon “ghost” riley does not have a cannon past. the 2009 version is what many people look to as ghost has a series of comics dedicated to his story, which include many clauses that can be used to make headcanons. i’m about to display some of what are technically my own headcanons here, but i want to debate certain points made about ghosts based on logic.

“GHOST WOULD BE ABUSIVE.”

— ghost would not be an abuser. he is a man built off of the horrors induced by his father and wants to be nothing like him. ghost lets old habits die hard along with his father, and wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on anyone he cares about. it’s not his style, at all. any and all pent up violence he holds against his upbringing is taken out on his enemies.

“GHOST DOESN’T CARE ABOUT OTHERS.”

— many people say ghost doesn’t care for others’ emotions whatsoever. this can be proved false, considering how he develops quite a bit of altruism throughout reboot mw2, as we can see in missions like “alone” and the cutscene “no one fights alone.” ghost is very capable of providing support to those he sees struggling and cares about the welfare of those close to him. he even decides to humor soap in “alone”, he knows his teammate is in a rough place and tries to help him relax out of free will. we can also see this point dispelled in the ghost comics, as simon willingly helps pull his brother out of addiction and helps him get his life together.

“GHOST WOULDN’T TOUCH ANYONE OR LET ANYONE TOUCH HIM.”

— something that’s on the more difficult side to discern is whether ghost allows himself to be touched/and or touches others. in the ghost comics, he was violated many times, which, in my opinion, falls into line with things more related to sexual trauma. ghost doesn’t serve much of a reaction when he‘s touched in the reboot, rather it seems he’s just not used to it happening. many people think ghost is horrifying and want to stay as far away from him as possible, which is why he isn’t touched often. as for others, i think it would take a while before he’s comfortable with the idea of casual touch, as adding to the last point, not many people get that close. being social isn’t something ghost is super big on, so he wouldn’t touch others unless he’s sure the timing is appropriate and they’d be alright with it.

“GHOST WOULD NEVER BE IN A RELATIONSHIP.”

— being in a relationship with ghost takes a lot of encouragement. this is something beyond causal ideals, which opens an entirely new door in his head. ghost does not allow many people to get close to him, choosing to act closed off to prevent others from finding too much out. he doesn’t talk much, so the effort of others to peruse him is uncommon. however, if you happen to find him intriguing and push, he wouldn’t be so fast to shut you down. of course, people genuinely wanting to get to know him is a rare concept, and he’ll be quizzical as to why you’d choose him to talk to out of everyone else. he might even ask you why, and if you decide to flatter him, he might just laugh.

— building a relationship with ghost requires a lot of trust, and frankly, he has to be sure you’re not trying to stab him in the back (if we’re consulting the comics, this has happened numerous times). ghost believes in actions over words; throwing yourself in the line of fire for others means so much more than promises. when he’s sure he can trust you, prepare to be accompanied by him a lot more often.

— something i definitely agree with that i see on some headcannon videos is what happens after ghost commits to a relationship. there’s no magic light switch that turns on in his brain when he becomes someone’s partner, and he treats life the same way that he usually does for a while. having had such a rough childhood, ghost most likely wasn’t interested in relationships as he wasn’t stable enough to handle them. because of this, he’s not entirely sure where his duties lie and has to learn that it’s more than just loyalty that brings two people together. when ghost sees how happy you are to simply be around him, he makes an effort to see you more. the fact that you care about what he thinks touches him, and he learns to be more social outside of the field because of it. it takes a lot of time and built trust for him to be open to things like taking his mask off and sleeping in the same bed, but he’s definitely capable of it, just as he’s capable of being a human being, as many people fail to see.

[ineylesian]

BURY ME WITH ROSES

— SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X READER

— AO3 | MASTERLIST | EVENT

— WORD COUNT | 1.3k

— WARNINGS | angst, character death, mentions of weapons and violence, mentions of trauma and abuse

— SUMMARY | ghost remembers the time you asked him what his favorite flower is.

— AUTHOR’S NOTE | saw elliot knight’s comment about MW3 and wanted to give you some food for thought <33 sorry in advance 🫠

Ghost of thinks about death often. The concept nearly consumes him. He is surrounded by death and at that it is, and whenever he pulls the trigger, he can feel it in the recoil. Such a natural concept never seems to escape him.

Death is common in the military. War is everywhere soldiers go, and it follows them wherever they roam.

Even home base, it seems.

There’s a funeral, preparation for one, at least. One of the soldiers Price mentored, his name familiar in the golden plaque it’s engraved on. Ghost happens to pass by as they unload the setup, and something in the back of his head brings his legs to a hold.

There are flowers. A lot of them. There’s something captivating about the way they flourish; a myriad of colors bringing life to a declaration of death. Ghost forgets you’re beside him in those moments, and you find yourself following his gaze amongst each stem and petal that decorate the soldier’s casket. It makes you curious, so you ask.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

His gaze snaps away from sharp thorns and glistening anther. You see the way his eyes sweep across the room before he continues walking, almost as if he’s checked if others noticed his behavior. Doesn’t want others to think he’s grieving, life is too short and death is too prominent.

He doesn’t answer until you’re long gone from the scene; you’re perched against his headboard, his gear ruffles the sheets.

“Never thought of it.”

—

Ghost ponders your question for a while. He studies every flower that passes him, not many, being that he’s nearly always away from the comforts of normalcy. Yet, when he does find one, you’d see him crouched down beside it, simply gazing, nothing more.

He never touches them. When you ask why, he shrugs, going silent for a moment before turning his gaze away from you.

“Don’t wanna ruin ‘em.”

Hands such as his hold so much blood that he fears they’ll taint everything they touch. You feel the same way, sometimes. It’s a dangerous way to think, and it worries you.

After a strenuous deployment, you decide to buy some seeds from a department store, and take him out to a barren plot of land on 141’s base. You remove your gloves before poking some holes into the soil. The crumble makes you grimace, but you begin tearing the tops of the packages off regardless. Ghost’s eyes land on the picture laminated in the one you hold; the flower is blue with a yellow stripe in the center.

“You like these?”

You smile, motioning for him to take his gloves off as well. He hesitates for a moment, a few to be exact, before placing them beside yours. A sigh of relief holds itself within your chest when you see it.

“I do.” You answer, dumping a few into his palms. “I was told the blue ones represent hope. Isn’t that sweet?”

He nods, pinching seeds and dropping them into the ground. His hands shake. You smile regardless, and he continues. When he’s done, you cover them in soil, a warm feeling arising in his chest as you do so. It scares him, but it comforts more.

In a few weeks, you check back, and a tiny patch of blue decorates an otherwise dead field. He doesn’t think of them as his favorite, but he finds himself staring at them when you fight. It makes the hopelessness he feels seem a little more bearable.

Little did he know, you were calling him the entire time, and he didn’t answer. When he’d found out you’d been injured, he promised to answer whenever you called, even if he couldn’t be there.

After a rough mission some time later, you wake up to find a bouquet of blue lilacs staring back.

—

You find yourself wandering amidst the small patch of land months after planting the lilacs. Flowers grow in neat clusters everywhere you look, and you can see Ghost attending to a fresh batch of buried seeds. Barren hands run gently against tempered soil, eyebrows furrowed lightly against bone. You crouch down beside him, glancing at the small pile of packets that lay at his feet.

His eyes carry a look of solemn, and he’s focusing as hard as he does when he draws a weapon. You say nothing, opting to rest a hand against his shoulder instead. He softens at your touch, turning to you once the seeds have disappeared into the earth.

“Roses were my mum’s favorite.”

Simon Riley remembers when she would buy them for herself when days were hard. Ghost remembers the nights they were torn up and squashed under a dirty boot. His father would rather decorate their home with bruises and nightmares than flowers.

Roses are not his favorite. He thinks about if often, but he still doesn’t have one of his own. Not even when he imagines himself six feet underground. In that vision, he sees a mahogany casket, a plethora of blurred faces, and no flowers.

—

Ghost chokes on his breath, spitting a chunk of blood onto his uniform. He feels what his enemies do when he’s paralyzed them with a bullet: Unmoving, heart thundering, mind racing. He feels something that he doesn’t often, and it nearly sends him over the edge.

He’s thinking about you, and he knows what he’s feeling is nothing other that absolute horror. The fear of not seeing you one last time constricts his chest in a manner that has his throat sputtering for the toxic fumes that keep him on the edge of living. He thinks back on the life you spent together, the way you pulled him out the darkness that had consumed him and filled the hole that remained with light. Everything and anything in between.

He thinks about the times he felt most safe in his life, with you in a garden miles and miles away from home. Such a reminiscence touches him deeper than any other memory and he feels as if he’s finally managed to find the respite he’d been searching for.

After what seems like an eternity, Ghost feels the vibrations of your boots thudding against the ground, and you’re at his side within moments. Words fail him as he sees your eyes widen, hands fumbling to rip his chest plate off of him.

It’s a bullet, 50 calibers and lodged into his right lung.

“You’ll be okay, Simon.” Your words are wobbly, and he can hear in your tone that you don’t believe yourself. “Just… push through it.”

Tears start to flow, and you realize sooner than later that he won’t be making it out of this without some sort of divine intervention. Your heart and all that you are ache, hands working deftly to bandage the hemorrhage that fights you. However, the blood just won’t stop flowing, and you cry harder, holding a ripped patch of gauze to your mouth to muffle your sobs.

In that moment, Ghost reaches up, sliding his mask off his face and setting it in your hands. His body defies it, but he pushes himself up nonetheless, wiping stray hairs and streaks of dirt off of your skin.

“Bury me with roses, yeah?”

His voice is weak, laced with smoke and not his. It’s a fight against impending death; he stifles the terror that rips thorough him by clamping his fingers over yours.

“Some irises, too.”

You say nothing. His lips meet yours, and you kiss him until his blood runs cold.

The memories that carry on with him matter more than a meaning that doesn’t, so he chooses to die with his own sentiment.

Roses are not his favorite. Irises aren’t, either. You’d never know, but Simon Riley doesn’t need a favorite, because he loves you, and what you love he loves.

[ineylesian]

— ARQHMS 2023 SUMMER/ 1K EVENT 🌊

STATUS | OVER

EVENT TAG | #🐚 arqhmssummer23

MASTELRIST

“Hey, stay a while, won’t you? We got beers to drink and enemies to fry.” 🪸

— EVENT GUIDELINES | please refer to boundaries made in my DNI and requests posts before you submit an ask.

— WHAT CAN YOU REQUEST? | this event will be focused on drabbles, short one shots, and headcannons. overall, fics will be shorter than usual due to the amount of things i am currently working on.

— DISCLAIMER | for the best turnout of a request, PLEASE make sure you specify what contents you’d like to see and what kind of fic you want (fluff, smut, angst.) if none of these are applied, i will default to a gender neutral reader and you may be upset with the fic’s outcome!!

— CHARACTERS I WILL WRITE FOR | simon “ghost” riley, phillip graves, john price, kyle “gaz” garrick, keegan p. russ, könig, john “soap” mactavish.

[ineylesian]

CONTAINS: ALL WORKS FROM SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER ‘23

WALK AWAY FROM THE SUN

PAIRING | SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X READER

WORD COUNT | 3k

WARNINGS | canon typical violence, hurt/comfort, mentions of weapons, arguments, mentions of trauma.

INEXPERIENCED GHOST BLURB

PAIRING | SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X READER

WARNINGS | NSFW content

BURY ME WITH ROSES

PAIRING | SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X READER

WORD COUNT | 1.3k

WARNINGS | angst, character death, mentions of weapons and violence, mentions of trauma and abuse

GENERIC GHOST HEADCANONS

WARNINGS | spoilers for ghost comics, mentions of abuse