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cheerycherrycandy-resurrected · 1 year ago

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Ghoulette Appreciation Week 7

Also, a little Valentine's Day fic! 💕

back on schedule, babyyy

Week 7: “Can’t you see how much I love you”/love confessions & makeovers/dressing up

The annual Valentine's Day costume ball is coming up at the Abbey, and Aurora can't wait to attend in matching costumes with Mist. One small issue: she has to ask her first.

Rating: T Content: Fluff, Mistrora being cute and in love, allusions to sexual themes Words: 2002

This one got out of hand quite quickly! Happy Valentine's Day if you celebrate! 💕

Read below or on AO3!

At the Abbey, the annual Valentine’s Day costume ball was coming up. Because what said “Satan-worshipping-church” like a debauched disco on a Saint’s memorial day? At these parties, the ghouls and humans intermingled freely, and nights often ended in more than just intermingling. For the ghouls, it was also a night of freedom from their masks, all the more appreciated by the newer ghouls with their oppressive helmets.

Aurora couldn’t wait. This was her first Valentine’s costume ball topside, and if it was anything like the other parties she had been to topside, it would be a blast. From the minute it was announced, she had been thinking of what her costume should be. Halloween had been incredible, everyone dressed some kind of spooky or sexy, or both. Aurora had matched costumes with the other touring ghoulettes Cirrus and Cumulus, going as The Plastics from Mean Girls.

Aurora wasn’t sure if she wanted to continue her chick-flick move theme for this party. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to go as. What she did know, is that she wanted to coordinate with her girlfriend, Mist. Was that even the correct word, Aurora wondered to herself? They weren’t mated yet, but they were… something. The humans had more words than they could possibly need for these situations, Aurora could surely borrow some.

There was one slight issue with this plan, however. Mist famously did not attend costume parties at the Abbey. Aurora figured her best chance at going with Mist was to come up with a costume concept the older ghoulette couldn’t resist.

This was going to be a challenge: Aurora’s aesthetic and media preferences didn’t exactly align with Mist’s. While she would happily go as anything pink, princess-y, or otherwise hyperfeminine with a 2000s movie influence, Mist was quite the opposite. She was more into dark colours, androgenous styles and fantasy novels. Aurora was sure there had to be some crossover to explore though.

Putting aside her initial dream of matching Barbie: The Princess and the Pauper costumes, she tried to think closer to what Mist would choose. Certainly nothing involving a dress or a skirt, she knew the thought of wearing them made Mist’s skin crawl. What about a knight? Heroic, Big Sword, rescue the Princess from a big tower? Aurora wasn’t the sort of Princess that would need rescuing though.

“What about dragons?” she mused aloud to Sunshine one evening, watching the multi ghoulette crouched on the floor sewing sequins onto a pair of intricate butterfly wings.

“I think Swiss and Phantom are doing dragons…” Sunshine hummed, almost cross-eyed with concentration, “something about dragon and dragon rider.”

Aurora rolled her eyes and mimed gagging, as Sunshine looked up from her work to snicker at her reaction.

“Yeah, you might want to steer clear of them all night. Swiss gets a bit carried away on Valentine’s.”

Aurora flopped backwards onto Sunshine’s bed with a huff, “What are you going as? Maybe I can convince Mist to do a ghoulette group costume?”

Sunshine proudly held her wings aloft, “I’m a butterfly, and Mountain’s going as a caterpillar! He’s still got about fifty pom-pom feet to sew to his outfit before the party.”

“They look amazing Sunny!” Aurora looked on with envy. At this rate she was going to end up going as a lonely cat without a date.

“Why don’t you just ask Mist to go to the party with you, Rory? She might have an idea for your costumes.”

“Maybe…” Aurora rolled onto her front to face Sunshine properly, “How should I ask her?”

Sunshine sighed, setting her wings to the side and moving to sit next to Aurora. In times like these she really felt like a big sister to the newest ghoulette.

“The same way you asked her to be your girlfriend, petal. But maybe with less references to movies she hasn’t seen.” Sunshine tossed an arm around Aurora’s shoulders as best she could in their awkward position on the edge of the bed, “Besides, there’s no way she’d say no, Mist is so head over heels for you that Satan Himself could see it from the pit!”

Aurora hoped she was right.

Later that day, Aurora steeled herself to ask Mist to go to the Valentine’s ball together. She found Mist where she often was when she didn’t have duties, sat reading on the stone bench next to a small, secluded pond. Mist looked up when she heard footsteps approaching, and seeing her wide smile as Aurora approached made her heart stutter in her chest.

“Hi Moonflower, I thought I’d find you here.” Aurora sat down next to Mist, the pair instinctually shuffling as close together as possible, pressed to each other like magnets; shoulder to hip to ankle.

“Hello Sweet Thing, come to keep me company?” Mist set her book down to snake an arm around Aurora’s waist and press a kiss to the corner of her lips, seeking permission to deepen the kiss. Aurora giggles against her lips, happily losing herself in Mist’s embrace.

When they eventually broke apart for air, Aurora remembered why she had some come find Mist in the first place.

“So…” she started, trying her best to sound casual, “are you going to the Valentine’s ball?”

“Why do you ask?” smirked Mist, “are you inviting me?”

Aurora forgot what she was going to say, not expecting Mist to see straight through to what she was asking so quickly. She was flustered, stuttering out some sounds that could possibly have been interpreted as a “yes”. No one else could manage that quite like Mist.

“So, what are you going as then?” asked Mist, reaching out to play with a piece of hair behind Aurora’s ear.

“I’m not sure yet, I was hoping you might have an idea actually. I want us to go as something we both like.”

“I’ll be happy in anything, as long as you’re there.” Mist cooed in her ear, “I’d turn up with nothing but my unglamoured fins, if that was what you wanted.” Her cool and delicate fingers traced over Aurora’s neck, where gills would be if she had any, and Aurora gave in to the carnal distraction of Mist’s smooth tongue and fingertips. The costume party didn’t seem so important anymore.

Stuck polishing the wooden pews in the chapel the next day, Aurora thought more on Mist’s comment. Unglamoured fins. Creatures of the Sea. She started formulating a story in her head. She could still be a princess, but how about a mermaid princess, with the alluring voice of a siren. Mist often called her my sweet siren after all. Mist could be a beautiful pirate queen trying to pillage the mermaid’s lands, but ending up beguiled by her song convinced to go adventuring upon the high seas together.

Mist would hopefully like the costume too, a blouse loose enough around her gills, not an overly “girly” costume, but still badass. Rory lost herself in her daydream, fleshing out her perfect Halloween costume idea and backstory, until she realised that she has been polishing the same armrest for ten minutes.

This idea seemed perfect for them; dressing for a story no one but them knew. They’d tried to keep their relationship a secret for so long, even though they later learned that they hadn’t been in the least bit subtle, and their respective packs had seen through them near instantly.

She dropped by Mist’s pack dorm on the way back to her own quarters, to suggest her idea. If she’d been surprised by Mist’s enthusiasm to accompany her to the ball, she was even more astounded by her interest in the costume. Mist had all but begged to make her own, and to keep them a surprise from each other until the night of the party.

For the rest of the week leading up to the party, she spent her spare evenings in Sunshine’s room, joining her on the floor to sew sequins onto her own costume. Sunshine was predictably now making Mountain’s costume for him, attaching fist-sized pom-poms to a green zip-up hoodie. She had asked Cirrus and Cumulus if they wanted to join their crafting sessions, but they had claimed their own costumes, the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch, were already finished.

Little did Aurora know, that Mist had already enlisted the air ghoulettes to help her with her own costume, showing her how to stitch frills and ruffles to the cuffs of a blouse, and embellish the rest of her outfit in a way befitting of a pirate queen.

The evening of the Valentine’s day ball finally arrived, and Aurora was buzzing with anticipation as she waited for Mist to knock on the dormitory door. She had insisted on coming by before the party to collect Aurora. Eventually, there were three sharp raps on the door, and Aurora had to force herself to count to ten before she threw it open.

"Ahoy! I be here t’ collect me Princess!” Mist grinned widely, flourishing a plastic cutlass bedazzled with crystals. Aurora looked at her outfit in wonder; Mist looked ferociously beautiful. The delicate linen fabric of her blouse rippled in the breeze from the hallway, showing off the numerous gold swirls stitched along the frilly cuffs. The cut of her tight leather pants was enough to make Aurora’s mouth water, her long legs emphasized by the tall boots she was wearing, also decorated with rhinestones and gold. But nothing quite compared to the costume jewellery she was practically dripping in; body chains, hooped earrings, hammered metal arm cuffs. She looked every inch the terrifying pirate queen she was meant to be.

“Mist…” Aurora whispered, in awe, “you look incredible!” Mist broke character to blush at the praise, full of compliments of her own for Aurora’s sparkling bodice and mermaid “tail”.

Their tender moment in the doorway was interrupted by the boisterous entrance of a sparsely-clothed dragon and his equally underdressed rider, off to join the other ghouls that were pre-gaming in the kitchen.

“Woah Mist, you look awesome!” hollered Swiss, clearly already in the party spirit. Mist straightened her spine, and glared mock-haughtily at the multi-ghoul,

“'Tis yer Royal ‘ighness Cap'n Mist t' ye, ye rum-soaked scalawag!” she leered at him with a dangerous grin. Swiss looked like he was torn between being terrified and turned on, but was saved from having to justify either reaction by Phantom dragging him away to the kitchen. When the door closed behind them, leaving both ghoulettes alone in the entrance hall of the dorm again, they collapsed into each other’s arms in peals of laughter.

“His face Mist! You’ve given the poor guy a pirate crisis!” Aurora managed to catch her breath just enough to talk between fits of giggles.

“It’s not him I feel sorry for, think about Phantom!” they both promptly dissolved into laughter again. “Poor Bug…” mused Aurora, as she dragged Mist by the hand to her room, before they had to leave for the party proper in the Abbey’s main hall.

“You really do look amazing, Waterlily.” Aurora smiled at her as her bedroom door swung closed behind them.

“So do you, my Songbird, you’re always the most beautiful thing in every room, but tonight you look exquisite.”

Aurora pulled her onto the bed and into a kiss. They had time for a brief distraction while the other ghouls drained their liquor supplies.

“I can’t believe you went to all this effort!” pulling away, Aurora ran her hand down Mist’s arm to admire the little details of her outfit. “I didn’t even think you would want to go at all!”

“Can you still not see it?” asked Mist, raising Aurora’s chin with the tip of one long finger, “This is for you. Everything is always for you. I’d do anything just for one more smile from your beautiful lips.” She brushed across them, soft and gently parted, with her thumb. “Can’t you see how much I love you?”

#ghoulette appreciation weeks 2024 #ghoulette appreciation weeks #the band ghost #ghost #nameless ghouls #nameless ghoulettes #ghoulette appreciation #fluff #mist ghoulette #aurora ghoulette #mistrora #mist x aurora #ghost fanfiction #ghost band #ghost bc #em writes #ghost valentines day

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sunni-stuff · 5 days ago

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All they could give you was a symbol—a medal, small yet unbearably heavy in your palm, its weight nothing compared to the grief settling in your chest. It was meant to be an honor, a token of his sacrifice.

There was no uniform, no familiar scent of oak and Ives lingering on fabric, not even remnants of his mask worn and frayed from years of use. Nothing tangible to hold onto, nothing that felt like him. Just this medal, cold and unyielding, a poor replacement for the man who had once filled your world with warmth. ��

The air felt thick, suffocating. Price stood before you, his head bowed, hands clenched at his sides, unable to meet your eyes. Maybe because he knew—knew that this wasn’t enough, knew that no medal, no folded letter of condolences, no words could ever replace the life that had been stolen from you.

Your fingers tightened around the medal, nails digging into your palm as if holding onto it tightly enough could somehow bridge the impossible gap between the past and now. As if it could bring him back. But it couldn’t. Nothing could.

The questions flowed before your tears. How? When? Where? Was he absolutely sure that Ghost—no—Simon, your Simon, was truly gone?

There’s a loud silence, the kind that bounces off the walls with its intensity. Gaz stares at your weeping form, or more accurately, stares through you, steeling his gaze upon you as he says—

"Confidential."

Gaz's voice was steady, but the weight of that single word shattered everything. It rendered your questions useless, left an empty void where answers should have been. There would be no closure, no understanding of why—just a truth you weren’t ready to accept.

Johnny shifted uncomfortably beside you, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee before he spoke. “His pension… it’s there for you.” His voice was gentler than usual, words carefully chosen, but they felt hollow.

As if money could ever fill the gaping wound Simon left behind.

Your gaze flickered toward the stairs, toward the only piece of him that remained—the little one asleep upstairs, curled beneath a starry blanket, blissfully unaware. Too young to understand that his father would never be coming home. Too innocent to know that the world had just taken something irreplaceable from him before he even had the chance to hold onto it.

Loss had never felt so deafening.

He was gone. Just like that.

The one who had carved his name onto your heart with stupid jokes that always made you roll your eyes, with brown eyes that saw through every guarded piece of you—vanished. No warning. No final words. Just a pebble sinking into still water, disappearing beneath the surface while the ripples of his absence spread endlessly outward, touching everything, unraveling everything.

His absence wasn’t just an empty space—it was something alive, something that pressed against you from every direction, filling in the cracks he left behind. It clung to the air, heavy and unshakable, an echo of him that refused to fade. And it was everywhere.

The house still smelled like him. Coffee and cedarwood, the faint trace of his cologne that had seeped into the fabric of the couch, the sheets, the very walls. His mug sat abandoned in the sink, a ghost of a morning that would never come again. His jacket hung by the door, his shoes still beside yours, untouched. As if he had only just stepped out, as if he might walk back in at any moment.

It was absurd, really, how the world dared to keep spinning when yours had come to a violent halt.

Grief wasn’t loud, not like they made it seem in movies. It wasn’t a storm of screaming and crying, not always. Sometimes, it was the unbearable silence that pressed against your chest in the middle of the night, where his warmth used to be. It was waking up and, for one blissful second, forgetting—only to remember again with a force so brutal it stole the breath from your lungs.

And what were you supposed to do now? Go on? Move forward? How, when every step away from this moment felt like a betrayal? Like you were leaving him behind in a past that no longer existed, while you were forced to exist in a future he would never see?

For the first few months, you put one foot ahead of the other, treading through grief as if carrying a wounded soldier through combat. Each step was heavy, weighted with loss, but you took them anyway—because what else was there to do? Grief wrapped itself around you, clinging like a second skin, suffocating yet familiar, a constant presence in the quiet spaces he used to fill.

But so did hope.

Faint at first, like a flicker in the dark, barely there. It lived in the steady rise and fall of your son’s chest as he slept, in the way his tiny fingers curled instinctively around yours. It was in the mornings you forced yourself to wake up, in the days that stretched forward even when you wanted time to stop. In the darkest nights, when the weight of loneliness pressed down on you like a suffocating fog, you held onto his words, the ones he whispered against your skin, against your lips, when he was still here—I’ll always come back to you.

You'll stay waiting.

Every night, every morning. Through birthdays and quiet moments at the dinner table, through the scraped knees and bedtime stories. You told Leo his father was out there, fighting his way home, that one day he’d walk through that door like no time had passed. You painted a picture so vivid, so real, that sometimes—just sometimes—you could almost believe it yourself.

And Leo, with his father’s sharp eyes and your steady heart, listened. He never questioned. He never doubted. He simply *believed*, because you did.

Even as the years passed, as his baby fat melted away into the angular features of a young man, as his voice deepened and his stance mirrored the quiet strength of a man he never met, you held fast and he never once asked you to stop telling those stories.

Simon would return.

He had to.

And until he does, you'll wait, even if your skin begins to wrinkles and your memory begins to fade.

You were told to let go, that your endless waiting would be for naught, that the man you called your husband wouldn’t be stepping through the front door anymore. Some were gentle in their suggestions, others blunt, but they all carried the same message—move on. Remarry. Start over.

They didn’t understand.

No man could ever be Simon Riley.

You shut it down swiftly, time and time again. To every well-meaning friend, every hopeful stranger, every persistent suitor—you made it clear. You were not interested. You were still happily married. The ring on your finger was proof of that, a quiet testament to a love that neither death nor time could erase. Your beating heart, steady and unyielding, was an extension of the hope you carried deep inside, the belief that somehow, somewhere, Simon was still with you.

The years pressed heavy on your shoulders. Doubt crept in like a shadow, whispering cruel what-ifs in the dead of night. But you refused to acknowledge it. Instead, you clung to his words, the ones he left behind, spoken in the deep rasp that had once been your home. Words of love, of promises made, of a future you had built together.

And so, you waited. Not because you were lost in grief, not because you were afraid to move forward, but because love—real, true love—did not simply fade.

Because he never lied.

And if he wasn’t back yet, it only meant one thing.

He was still trying to find his way home.

Your endless rejections stirred whispers in the neighborhood. Boys—never men in your eyes, not with their arrogance—took turns trying to woo the widow who remained steadfast in her belief that her dead husband would return. They called you insane for waiting on a ghost, convinced that one of them should rightfully claim the hand of someone as beautiful as you. But if your cold no wasn’t enough to deter them, Leo was.

Your son stood tall, a quiet force of nature. His glare alone was enough to send would-be suitors scurrying, the cold glint in his eyes promising consequences for anyone foolish enough to try and take his father’s place. Yet, for you, his mother, that steel melted into something soft. Devotion ran deep in his veins. Whether by your side or not, he was always protecting you.

That much was clear when, on his way home from school, he was stopped by Anthony—the worst of them all. Ruthless, persistent, always flanked by lackeys who clung to his every word. Leo tried to sidestep him, choosing to ignore the man who had been a thorn in your side for years. But then, Anthony’s voice cut through the air, crude and dripping with mockery.

"When is your tramp of a mother gonna find a new husband?”

Leo froze mid-step. The words, crude and venomous, burned into his mind, igniting something primal deep in his chest. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he slowly turned to face Anthony.

The older man smirked, arms crossed over his chest, flanked by his usual lackeys who snickered behind him like hyenas waiting for a kill. They had always been vultures, circling, waiting for you to break under the weight of grief and loneliness. But you hadn’t. And neither had Leo.

He met Anthony’s gaze head-on, eyes sharp and unyielding. “Say that again,” Leo challenged, his voice eerily calm, the kind of calm that sent a chill through the air.

Anthony scoffed, stepping forward, puffing up his chest as if his age alone would be enough to intimidate Leo. “You heard me, kid. Everyone’s sick of watching her waste away, waiting on a dead man. She needs someone real.” His lips curled, voice dipping into something cruel. “You need a father.”

The crack of Leo’s fist connecting with Anthony’s jaw echoed down the street. The man stumbled, caught off guard, his cronies recoiling in shock. Leo didn’t stop. His knuckles struck again, again, fury pouring out in sharp, brutal movements. Years of biting his tongue, of standing guard while men like Anthony circled like wolves, all of it exploded in that moment.

Leo was outnumbered, but that didn’t stop him. He threw every ounce of his strength into his punches, his breath ragged, his body shaking—not just with rage, but with something deeper. Something that had been buried since the day his father disappeared. The bruises blooming across his skin were nothing compared to the weight he carried on his shoulders.

Then, suddenly, he was yanked backward. A strong grip seized his collar, wrenching him away from the fight. Leo's head snapped back, his teeth bared, ready to snarl at whoever dared to interfere—until he saw him.

Uncle Price.

The older man's weathered eyes were dark with anger as they took in the scene before him. He didn’t need to raise his voice; the look he shot at Anthony and his crew was enough to make them hesitate, stepping back just enough to feign innocence.

"Come on, son," Price said, voice firm but steady.

Leo exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his bag. He cast one last glare at the group, knuckles still throbbing, heart still pounding. But it didn’t matter.

He had a home to get back to. A mother to protect.

You were devastated when Leo came home, his face a bloody mess. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. Without thinking, you rushed to him, a damp cloth in hand, gently cradling his face as you pressed it against his bruises.

Your lips parted, ready to demand what had happened—but the look in his eyes told you everything.

This was the consequence of your refusal. Of your unwavering devotion to a ghost. They wouldn’t come for you. No, they would take their anger out on your son—the boy who had done nothing wrong, who only wanted to protect you. The thought turned your stomach.

You couldn't allow this to continue.

So, in the days that followed, you devised a plan. A challenge.

If the men wanted to prove themselves worthy, they would have to earn it. Earn being your husband. Bring back game—the largest boar they could find. But there were conditions. It had to be taken down with a single shot, clean and precise. And it had to be done using the same model as your husband’s prized hunting rifle. No knives. No second chances. Just one bullet.

However, you knew—none of them had a shot that clean. Not these half-men who could barely hold a rifle, let alone wield it with precision. Their hands were too soft, untouched by real work, never having held anything heavier than their own egos.

They would try, of course. Driven by pride, by the foolish belief that brute force could replace skill. But you had no doubt—each one would fail.

Maybe then, they would finally understand.

Much to your surprise, over the course of weeks, some of them actually tried. And, as expected, they failed spectacularly.

One managed to hit himself in the nose from the recoil, clearly never having held a rifle in his life. Another showed up at your door grinning ear to ear, proudly presenting a pig instead of a boar. You slammed the door in his face without a word.

Anthony was the one who nearly had you convinced—his boar was of fair size, impressive even. But one look at the wound told you everything you needed to know. The bullet hole was too wide. A different rifle. A different shot.

The door slammed in his face, too.

This little game of yours went on for some time, keeping them preoccupied and keeping them far away from you and your son. That's what mattered.

Days after his rejection, Anthony grew restless, his anger festering like an open wound. He was a storm barely contained, his temper so volatile that even those who usually followed him began to keep their distance.

Seated at the bar, he gripped his drink so tightly it was a wonder the glass didn’t shatter in his hands. Around him, the air was thick with frustration—every man in this room had either failed in their attempts to win your hand or was still trying. Their collective agitation simmered beneath the weight of another humiliating failure.

Anthony’s voice slithered through the murmurs of the bar, wrapping around the ears of every man who had tasted rejection at your hands. His knuckles flexed, still white from how tightly he had gripped his drink moments ago.

"Can't you guys see we're being played?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the room like a blade. He sneered, his lip curling. "How she holds us down while her bed gets colder. Holds us down while that boy gets bolder?"

The flickering candlelight caught the edge of his grin as he leaned forward, watching their faces twist with realization.

"Here and now, there's a chance for action."

That was the hook. He had them now. A shared glint of hunger flashed in their eyes, their minds shifting in unison. Some sat up straighter, others exhaled slow and deep, as if steeling themselves for the promise of something wicked.

Anthony pushed himself up onto the table, boots thudding against the wood. He stood tall, eyes dark and wild, his tone dropping to a low whisper despite the fact that every soul in the bar was already watching him.

"I say, we deal with the kid first. When he walks back from school tomorrow, we hold him down."

A pause, letting the weight of those words settle over them like a shroud. His grin widened, teeth flashing in the dim light.

"We hold him down while I break his pride, his trust, his faith—" his fingers flexed, miming a snap, "—and his bones."

A slow, creeping murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. The men weren’t just listening anymore. They were envisioning it.

"We cut him down into tiny pieces," he continued, voice thick with malice, "then throw him where she'll never know."

A few heads nodded. Some sipped their drinks, lips curling with a sick sort of anticipation.

"And when she wonders where her dear son has gone, only the earth and the trees will know."

A hush fell over them, as if nature itself was listening, horrified.

"When the deed is done, she'll have no one to stop us from breaking her door. No one to stop us from taking her love..." He let the last words drip from his lips, dragging them out like poison.

"And more."

If any of these men had an ounce of sense—if they had learned from the old tales whispered by their grandfathers about watching the dark, about never turning their backs on the unknown—they would have known to be afraid. They would have felt the weight of something beyond their understanding, lurking just outside the glow of the dim lights.

But none of them did.

None of them noticed the figure standing in the corner, veiled in shadow, unmoving, listening. None of them realized that the dark had teeth, nor that it had been waiting.

Anthony barked out a laugh, a cruel, vile thing that reeked of arrogance. The devil inside him knew no limits, no fear. "Tomorrow, my frien—"

The words barely left his tongue before the gunshot cracked through the air, a sharp and deafening roar.

The bullet found its mark with merciless precision, punching straight through his throat. His body jolted, hands flying up as if to claw at the gaping wound before his knees buckled, sending him collapsing onto the table. Blood gushed, dark and pooling fast, soaking into the wood.

The bar plunged into silence.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

They all stared, wide-eyed and frozen, at the lifeless husk of the man who had been standing, laughing, just moments ago. His glass, still half-full, teetered on the edge of the table before toppling over, the liquid spilling into the growing crimson.

Then—movement.

Eyes flicked toward the corner, toward the place where something had lurked unseen. A figure moved, gliding toward the light switch, silent as death itself.

The room plunged into darkness.

Gunfire.

It erupted like a storm, a relentless barrage that tore through the heavy air, each shot finding its home in flesh and bone. The men barely had time to scream. Shadows danced with the flashes of gunshots, their shapes twisting and writhing like specters, like the very vengeance that had come to claim them.

Retribution had arrived. And it showed no mercy.

Bodies lay sprawled across the floor in twisted, unnatural positions, men crumpled in their final moments, their faces frozen in shock and agony. Those still alive—those still breathing—scrambled in the chaos, tripping over their fallen comrades, their movements frantic, uncoordinated.

One of Anthony’s right-hand men, a stocky figure with a buzzed head, his eyes wide with panic, reached for a pocket knife. His fingers fumbled in desperation, clumsy as the adrenaline surged through his veins, his body bracing for a fight he knew he was never going to win. His hand was shaking, but he gripped the hilt with a last-ditch hope, his stance poised for the slash—except it never came.

A blade—cold, precise—pressed against his neck, the tip sinking into the flesh just below his ear. The faintest shift of pressure, and it would be over. The edge of the blade kissed his carotid artery, the promise of death within a breath.

He froze, eyes wide, unable to even speak as the weight of the situation crushed him. His body trembled as the reality hit—there was no escape, no hope of survival. Not anymore.

"I’m sorry!" he gasped, his voice trembling with desperation.

His hands shot up in surrender, palms facing out, a desperate plea for life. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. The blade remained at his throat, unwavering, a constant reminder of his impending fate.

A scoff brushed against his ear, low and humorless. The sound alone sent ice down his spine. Slowly, with the caution of a man facing the reaper himself, he turned his head just enough to see—

Those eyes.

Weathered, sharp as broken glass, burning with a vengeance too deep to be mortal.

A ghost.

A man they had long thought dead.

The knife against his throat pressed just a little harder, just enough to let him feel the edge of death. His pulse pounded beneath the steel, his breath coming in frantic, uneven gasps.

He swallowed hard, sweat beading at his temple. He had been so sure Simon was dead. They all were. It had been years—too many years. The man they had spoken of in past tense, the man whose wife they had planned to take like a prize, was supposed to be gone.

But here he was.

And the look in his eyes…

Those were not the eyes of a man who had merely returned. They were the eyes of something risen from the grave, something that had crawled its way out of hell itself.

“Please,” the man whimpered again, his hands trembling in the air. “Please, have mercy.”

A scoff. Low. Cold.

"Mercy?" Riley's voice was rough, hoarse from years of silence, of waiting, of watching from the shadows. "You want mercy?"

The man could only nod, his throat too tight for words.

Riley leaned in, just enough for the stench of blood and sweat to mix between them. His grip on the knife never wavered.

"You were gonna take my boy from me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, yet it carried more weight than any gunshot. "Hold him down. Cut him into pieces. Make his mother beg."

The man's lips quivered. He tried to speak, but the words refused to come.

Riley exhaled slowly, the sound eerily steady, controlled. "You prayed on a widow. Plotted against a child. And now you’re askin’ me for mercy?"

The man's whole body shook. He opened his mouth to beg, to say anything—

But the blade slit his throat before he ever got the chance.

A wet gurgle bubbled from his lips as his knees buckled, and he hit the floor, his hands grasping at the wound in a desperate, useless attempt to hold in what was already lost.

Simon stepped back, his expression unreadable, watching as the life drained from the man's eyes.

Then, silence.

The only thing left in that bar was death.

The rain was a heavy, persistent downpour that splattered against the windows, casting an eerie, wavering glow across the room. The knock came again, soft but insistent, like a warning or a plea. It tugged at you, pulling you from the safety of your quiet home, the stillness of the night broken by this unexpected disturbance.

The rain pounded relentlessly against the windows, its rhythmic assault filling the silence of the house like a constant whisper. The storm outside was a living thing, roaring in the night as though it, too, were trying to get your attention. And then that knock. Soft at first, almost imperceptible under the storm's roar, but then again, louder, more urgent, as if something—or someone—knew you were inside, knew you were awake even though the rest of the world seemed to be asleep.

You hesitated, standing at the base of the stairs, your eyes glancing at Leo, curled up on the couch, oblivious to the world around him. He looked so peaceful, his steady breathing a stark contrast to the storm. You could feel your chest tighten as a wave of protectiveness washed over you. Quietly, you crossed the room and covered him with a blanket, smoothing the fabric over his slouched form as you whispered a prayer under your breath for his peace, for his safety. You didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to risk something happening to him while you were gone.

But that knock—it pulled at you. It felt like a summons, a call from somewhere deep within your soul, urging you forward, pushing you away from the comfort of your quiet home. With a soft sigh, you moved toward the door, the floor beneath your feet creaking with each step. The coldness of the wood seemed to bite into your skin as you walked past Leo, your steps careful and measured, as if the house itself was trying to hold you back, to keep you safe.

When you reached the door, it stood like a shadow before you, dark and looming. The doorknob was cool in your hand, as though it had been waiting for you to open it. You paused, your heart hammering in your chest, a knot of unease twisting in your stomach. It was an unnatural feeling, a sense that something was not right, that this moment was different from all the others before it. Another knock came, more forceful, more demanding.

Something inside you stirred, and with a shaky breath, you turned the knob. The door opened slowly, the creak of the hinges loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Standing before you, drenched to the bone, was a man—a shadow of a person. His clothes were stained in dark red, the blood soaking through the fabric in patches, his hair matted and wild, blown in odd directions by the wind. His face was pale, a look of exhaustion and pain etched across it, yet there was something eerily familiar about the figure in front of you. His body swayed slightly, as though he didn’t have the strength to stand on his own.

But it wasn’t the blood, nor the state of him that caught your attention. No, it was the nose. That crooked nose, bent in a way that only one person in your life had—one person you hadn’t seen in years. A person you’d thought lost to time, to memory.

The tears welled up in your eyes before you could stop them, the sobs catching in your throat. The man’s eyes—wide, filled with a pain you couldn’t quite place—met yours, and in that moment, your body went cold, then warm, then cold again.

It was him.

The man you've been waiting for.

Your arms wrapped around him without a second thought, the years of waiting, of hoping, of believing that Simon would somehow return, crashing into you all at once. The blood staining his clothes, the heavy scent of sweat, dirt, and blood—none of it mattered. He was here, in front of you, breathing, alive.

“Simon,” you whispered his name like a prayer, clutching him tighter as though he might slip away if you let go. Your fingers dug into his back, feeling the cold chill of his skin beneath the wet fabric. It wasn’t real, you told yourself. This couldn’t be real, could it? But the steady beat of his heart, the warmth radiating from his chest, told you it was.

He was home.

The words barely formed on your lips, your throat tight with emotion as you lifted your face to meet his. His eyes were distant, clouded with confusion and pain, but there was recognition there—faint, but it was enough. His arms, weak and trembling, slid around you, holding you with a sense of desperation that mirrored your own.

“I—I never stopped waiting for you,” you whispered, voice shaking. Tears ran down your face, unbidden, falling into the rain-soaked fabric of his shirt, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that Simon was here. He had come back to you, to the family he had left behind. Your heart, which had once ached with the loss, now soared with the joy of his return.

He didn’t say anything at first. There was a beat of silence where all you could hear was the heavy rain, the sound of his shallow breathing, and the thudding of your heart. He was here, alive, but something was off. He wasn’t the Simon you remembered. He was different—haunted, broken. His fingers gripped your arms, his touch gentle yet firm, as if afraid to let you slip from his grasp.

“I never… I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead,” you murmured, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I never gave up on you, Simon. I knew you were out there.”

The way he stiffened in your arms made you pull back slightly, your hands still on his chest, your eyes searching his face. The blood, the grime, the weathered look of him—he was a far cry from the man you had kissed goodbye all those years ago. The memory of his mission, the last time you had seen him before the war had swallowed him whole, gnawed at your mind.

“I—I didn’t want you to wait for me,” Simon finally rasped, his voice raw, broken. His words trembled in the air, caught between a confession and regret. “I never meant to come back like this…”

You shook your head, brushing his hair from his face gently, as if touching him could somehow undo all the pain of the years you’d spent apart.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm that raged inside you. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

But even as you spoke, something in his eyes flickered, a shadow passing over them, making you wonder if this was truly the Simon you had known. Had the years away from you broken him too? Had they taken away more of him than just his body?

But before you could ask, his hands reached up, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as though he were memorizing your features, like you might disappear at any moment.

“I won’t leave you again,” he whispered his promise hoarsely, his voice full of something too raw to name.

“Good,” you murmured, leaning into his touch, your own hands trembling as they cradled his face, pulling him closer. "Because I’ll never let you go again."

For the first time in years, you felt whole. Simon was home, and despite the blood, the rain, and the years apart, nothing else mattered and when Leo awoke, the unfinished chapter in their lives for so long would finally close.

-- Dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #happy valentine's day #anyone who can tell what this is based off of gets a kiss

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