A Collection of Short Stories | Simon Riley "Ghost" x Reader

these wicked ways: chapter 1

Ghost had always been intimate with hatred, the kind that would coil tightly around his heart, painting his vision in shades of crimson fury.

Yet, this familiar scorn paled in comparison to the searing intensity that flared within him upon his first encounter with you.

It was a profound loathing that eclipsed all others, casting a shadow over his very soul.

His gaze, sharp and penetrating, found its way to you, lingering with a weight that felt almost tangible.

He was a storm cloaked in human form, his anger palpable, radiating off him in waves that could almost be seen with the naked eye.

It was your appearance, an echo of innocence that seemed to have no place in the grit and grime of war, that drew his ire.

To him, you were an anomaly, an irritation—a vibrant contrast to the muted tones of their reality.

He watched you with a steely gaze, the lines of his face etched with silent reproach.

The sight of you, so discordantly pure in a place where purity had no right to exist, gnawed at him.

It was not just the contrast you presented, but the reflection of something he could no longer claim for himself.

Your very presence was an affront, a mirror held up to his own marred visage, showing him the smudges where there used to be clarity.

Your innocence, whether real or merely perceived, was like a light too stark against his darkness, and it stirred within him a resentment that was as irrational as it was fierce.

To Ghost, you were the embodiment of a world untainted, a reminder of all that had been stolen from him by time and terror.

Each step you took through the barracks was a study in serenity that he had long since forgotten, a rhythm so out of place amidst the cacophony of their daily existence.

Beneath the hardened exterior, beneath the silent snarl of his disposition, there was a tumult of emotions that he dared not examine too closely.

To do so would be to acknowledge the vulnerability he had forced into submission.

There was envy, tangled with a begrudging respect; there was hatred, infused with an inexplicable yearning.

Ghost's stance was that of a statue, but his eyes betrayed the ferocity of his thoughts as they trailed your every move.

The fluorescent light cast an artificial sheen on the room, yet you seemed to be under a spotlight all your own.

The pre-dawn meeting was a symphony of subdued voices as Captain Price set the tone, "Strike at dawn. They'll be blind."

As you listened to Captain Price, your head tilted slightly, embodying a portrait of earnest absorption.

Your eyes would occasionally dance towards Soap, the corners crinkling in a fleeting smile, so out of step with the somber mood of the briefing.

Gaz, without lifting his gaze from the equipment laid out before him, confirmed, "All gear's accounted for. We're good to go."

The innocent manner in which you bit your lip in concentration, pondering the weighty tactics, appeared to Ghost as an affront.

He stood, arms folded, a silent sentinel, but inside, a cauldron of contempt simmered.

Soap, his hand resting on the map's edge, noted succinctly, "Eastern corridor's tight. Needs a distraction."

When you brushed a strand of hair away from your face, it revealed the unlined forehead and bright eyes, not yet dimmed by the harshness of their clandestine operations.