RAIN

you: wait, babe… we can’t fuck yet… you aren’t wearing protection…

your vampire lover: protection? what do you mean prote- oh ok so fuck you first of all

you, holding these:

Yoo guys im rewatching Marble Hornets rn and i drew Tim

Im also sick and i hate it here

Hiiii congratulations in 1k you deserve it so much!

not sure if this is how to request a prompt for your 1k celebration but can I get "reader gets injured" with Simon please

1K Prompts

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: Injury, Hospitals, Angst with Happy Ending, Indirect Mentions to Simon’s Abuse

Summary: He hasn't done it in a long while.

 Word Count: 1.8K (Not Edited)

There is nothing in the world.

It all disappears in a blur as his mind races. His mind, his thoughts, are faster than the car. He can’t make out anything zooming past his window, barely even recognizes the colors or the feel of the wheel under his hands. He’s jittery, highly agitated as he yells and slams on his horn. He doesn’t even process the words he’s saying, doesn’t even know if they’re even words. Maybe they’re just sounds, grunts and wordless screams. He doesn't know, doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter right now. Nothing matters right now. Nothing will matter until he makes it to the hospital. 

He needs a new car, he thinks. This one is too slow. It’s max isn’t fast enough. At this point, it’d be faster for him to get into a car accident and be driven in an ambulance to the hospital than this piece of junk truck. It makes him grit his teeth, swerving in and out of lanes and breaking traffic laws he doesn’t care to keep count of. He can vaguely make out Price’s car behind him, Johnny in the car behind Price’s. Don’t say that, he can hear Price say in his head, Don’t say that, Simon. Especially not now. 

Great, now his own fucking thoughts are making him feel guilty. 

He doesn’t really park, he runs over the curb actually. It causes everyone to jump back, throwing mean words at him that don’t land. The keys are still in the ignition, trusting Gaz will take care of it. Who gives a damn about that fucking car anyways, Simon thinks. He’s already made up his mind that he’s getting a new one. A sports car maybe, not for the looks but for the speed. He’ll have to do research on the fastest car money can buy when he’s home. When both of you are home. 

The cold air of the hospital makes him shiver once he runs inside. He looks lost for a second, eyes scanning the new environment for his goal. His eyes skip over the reception desk before rapidly darting back. Once his eyes lock on it, he walks with purpose. His eyes don’t stray, effectively maneuvering his body around the busy waiting room and lobby until he’s right in front of it. He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until he plants them on the desk. His fingers tremble and jerk, skin flinching with the feeling of absolute dread running through his body. 

“How ca-”

“Last name Riley. Car accident.” He cuts the receptionist off. His voice has the hard edge he uses with the recruits. It doesn’t faze the receptionist. 

He’s impatient as they tap away at the computer, their eyebrows furrowed and they ask Simon for more information like your first name and sex. Simon gives them irritably, almost blowing a fuse when they ask for his relationship with the patient. 

“Spouse.” 

He has never been annoyed to declare that to someone before. But he finds little reason to be prideful and happy right now. 

“Still in surgery, but you and your group can wait in the waiting room to the left. A surgical doctor should be out shortly with news.”

Simon turns around, not even noticing the rest of 141 standing patiently behind him. His eyes scan them, nodding before he turns and walks robotically to the waiting room. Price politely thanked the receptionist for him before following after Simon. Simon throws himself into an empty seat, leg bouncing against the floor. His eyes find the doors that lead to surgical suits. His arms wrap around his chest, attempting to keep his racing heart in his chest. A harsh breath is exhaled from his nose, getting caught under his balaclava. It gets a few stares from some of the families in the waiting room, some clutching their smaller children closer to them. Simon would usually take it off for the sole purpose of not drawing attention to himself, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Or, he doesn’t feel like he can. It feels like it's the only thing keeping him together right now. If he takes it off, he’ll come crumbling down. The fake composure will die away with the exposure and he’ll die before knowing if you’re alright. Depending on the answer, he might not make it through the night. 

A cup is placed in front of his face and Simon follows the hand up to the face of Johnny. Simon takes it, the warmth feeling strange against his skin. He doesn’t drink from it. Johnny and him don’t exchange words, turning to take the seat across from him and next to Gaz. Price is in the chair next to Simon, all four of them silent. Johnny stares at Simon, Simon stares at the floor, Price flips through outdated magazines from the coffee table beside him, and Gaz is surveying the space. All of them are still clad in their military gear, just gotten off the plane when Simon-- when Ghost-- got the call. Gaz cracks his knuckles and Simon has to bite his tongue to rest the urge to tell him to shut up. 

He resorts to counting the seconds that pass in his head. He loses count whenever the steel doors open and a doctor and nurse comes out. His head snaps up, the boys following his line of sight as the doctor peers over at the clipboard the nurse has. He prepares to shoot up when the doctor’s surgical mask shifts with jaw movement. He starts back from one when the name being called isn’t Riley. He thinks his heart shrinks with every name that passes. Price always pats his back with a ‘the next one, mate’. 

Sometimes between the seconds and names, Simon finds his forehead leaning against his folded hands. His eyes are shut tightly and he tries to do something he hasn’t done in a long time, something he has believed to not work for a long time. Simon sits and he prays. He prays. He doesn’t remember if there is a process he's supposed to follow. He only remembers all his past prayers had been rushed, hiccuped statements made after his father left his room or when he heard the yelling in the kitchen. They never got answered.

Is he supposed to start with something? Is he supposed to have a rosary or a bible or something in his hands? His hands are still covered with dirt from the battlefield, he reeks of smoke and gunfire. Is he clean enough to be praying? Does God or whatever up there care? He hopes they don’t, hopes they give him a free pass just this once. He hopes they do it for your sake. He hopes and prays and hopes some more. Is it enough? It doesn’t feel like enough. 

Is Simon supposed to sweet talk them? Butter them up until their egos are fed and find him worthy of listening to. He isn’t good at that. Or does he need to be direct? Demanding what he wants and not backing down until he gets it? He’s really good at that. You would probably know what to do. Even if you don’t, you’d probably have a solution that makes sense. Everything makes sense when it's you. You make everything make sense. Simon doesn’t know how he lived so long without it. He doesn’t want to be reminded. 

He debates getting up. Debates if he should go to the receptionist and ask them where the hospital’s chapel is. Maybe he’ll find whatever the fuck the religious connection guy is and ask them how to pray. Ask them to teach him. Or maybe he’ll ask them to pray for you. He’s sure they have a better chance of being answered then he does. But a fear glues him to his seat. What if he leaves and your name gets called? What if he isn’t there when it happens? What if he isn’t there for you again? He sits and he hopes and he prays. 

Please. Please, whoever, whatever can hear me, don’t take them from me. Stop taking people I care about away from me.

He hopes it is enough. He hopes they hear him and they remember the shit they put him through. He hopes they take pity on him. Simon hates when people feel sorry for him. He hopes they feel really bad and really sorry and really, really awful for what he had to go through. He hopes they find him to be the most pitiful human there ever was to exist. He hopes it's enough to save you. He hopes they decided to be nice to him today. 

And they are. Holy fuck they are. 

The doctor comes out, a nurse with clipboard following three times. Simon gets up the fourth time, before the name is even called. Price and Johnny and Gaz stand with him. 

“Riley.”

He flies. He flies across the room, ‘Here. I’m here. That’s me.’ He doesn’t know if he says those words aloud or in his head. The doctor watches him approach and Simon almost collapses to the ground when his surgical mask moves. He doesn’t catch everything, his mind being too slow to follow. Traumatic brain trauma. Bleeding. Successful. Lucky. Strong. Fighter. Okay. 

Okay, okay, okay. 

He thinks Price keeps him upright when he grabs his arm to pat him in the back. Simon grabs him back, pulling him close and his shoulders shake as he hides his face. He feels like a kid, crying into his captain’s shoulder as relief washes over him. Price squeezes him. The two of them say nothing, and Johnny and Gaz excuse themselves to get everyone food from the hospital cafeteria. 

Later, Simon finds himself in your hospital room. The chair is slightly more comfortable than the ones in the waiting room. The boys have gone home by now, promising to drop by and telling Simon to keep them updated. Usually, constant noise would irritate Simon. But he finds himself thankful every time the heart monitor beeps, praying the noise never stops. He must have dozed off because he’s confused when he feels the slight rubbing on his hand. The sound of the heart monitor is different, still consistent but a bit faster. 

He pulls his head from his arms, propping his chin on his forearm as his gaze drifts to your face. Your eyes are half-lidded and sleepy, face drenched in exhaustion. You are so absolutely beautiful that it's devastating. It punctures his lungs and deflates his body of any breath he will ever take. His heart beats rapidly, hand squeezing yours tightly as his spine straightens. He has to resist the urge to pull you to him and crush you against his frame. 

You give him a dopey smile, one stained with tiredness and the remains of the anesthetic. 

“Hi.”

Your voice is croaky and your speech is slurred. It’s beautiful and the most lovely sound to exist. 

Simon brings your knuckles to his chapped lips. He presses a firm kiss to them, eyes squeezed shut so tightly that a few drops of water drop onto your skin. 

“Hi.”

His voice is just as croaky and just as beautiful.

Got a little carried away with this one.

heyy

i see you

are any of them capable of sport ? Hopefully

You haven't been having any sort of memory loss, have you?

slowly creeping back to my eyestraining bg phase ew

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