maskedbyghost

[maskedbyghost]

His hands are on you before you even realize how fast he’s moved, the weight of him forcing you back against the wall so hard your breath stutters. He doesn’t bother with slow kisses, doesn’t even ease you in. His mouth is rough, his teeth dragging against your lips, breathing harsh and uneven as he growls low in his chest.

“Think you can tease me all night, yeah?” Simon's voice is wrecked as he’s already dragging your clothes out of the way, big hands pawing at your skin like he’s been holding back for hours and finally snapped. “You’ve got no fucking idea how bad I need this.”

You barely get the chance to gasp before he’s spinning you, pressing you chest-first into the wall, one hand fisting in your hair, the other already tugging your hips back against him. The hard, heavy press of his cock through his pants makes you whine, and he hisses against your head.

“That’s it, make that sound again,” he snarls, grinding against you once before shoving his trousers down just enough. “Gonna ruin you. Gonna fuck you until you can’t think straight, until the only thing in your head is me.”

When he pushes into you, it’s with a brutal, deep thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs. You claw at the wall, at anything you can reach, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust. He sets a rhythm that’s rough, hard, and unforgiving, where every stroke shoves you higher against the wall like he’s trying to drive you into it.

“Take it,” he grits out, his voice breaking into a groan as your body clenches around him. “Fucking hell, you’re perfect. Always so tight for me. My little whore.”

Your protest comes out broken, more a moan than words, and that makes him laugh, breathlessly. “Can’t even talk, can you? Just cock-drunk on me already. That’s what you wanted, yeah?”

His hand leaves your hip just long enough to smack hard across your ass, the sting making you cry out. He grabs a fistful of your flesh after, squeezing until it almost hurts, keeping you exactly where he wants you. The sound of his hips slamming into you is obscene, echoing in the small space.

You beg without meaning to, words spilling out in gasps—harder, don’t stop, please— and Simon loses it, pounding into you so hard your knees nearly give out, only his grip in your hair keeping you up.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls, his lips brushing your cheek as he leans in, voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “Beg for it. Beg for my cock, beg for me to fucking break you.”

And you do, shameless and wrecked, every word ripped from your throat as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. He feels it, too, because he snarls something filthy in your ear— gonna fill you up, every drop, you’re mine, you hear me? mineminemine— and you snap, pleasure hitting so hard your vision whites out, your whole body clamping around him as he groans and grinds deep, chasing his own release.

When he finally spills himself inside you, it’s with a feral sound, every thrust punctuated with curses and promises, his hand still tangled in your hair, his chest heaving against your back.

And even when it’s over, he doesn’t let go. He keeps you pinned, cock still buried in you, his voice rough as he murmurs against your skin, “Not done with you yet.”

----------------------------------------

hehehehe i’m backkkkkkkkkk

[maskedbyghost]

hii!! i’m on a vacation until next sunday (17th) sooo just so you know i’m not dead, i just don’t have my laptop with me and i cant write without it

buttt i have a lot of new ideas so expect some smut when i come back

lyyyyy ❤️

[maskedbyghost]

He sat in the car for a while, longer than he should’ve, just staring at the shop window with his fingers curled around the steering wheel until the leather started to warm under his grip. He kept thinking to himself that maybe this was stupid, maybe it didn’t matter what kind of ring he picked because you'd say yes no matter what, or at least you’d pretend to like whatever he got, because you always told him he worried too much, especially when it came to things you didn’t care about.

Still, the thing was, he cared; he really fucking cared, and that’s why he finally stepped inside, ignoring the bells over the door and the way the woman behind the counter looked at him like he didn’t belong there. Not in a rude way, more in a surprised way, because he didn’t exactly dress the part. Still, none of that mattered because he wasn’t here to impress anyone except you.

He walked around a bit first, didn’t let the saleswoman follow him, and didn’t want her talking at him and saying things about carats and clarity and metals when all he could think about was your hands, the way they always moved when you talked, always expressive and stubborn and warm.

The way they curled in his hoodie when you were cold and always tugged at his mask when you were trying to get him to come to bed, and he remembered how you’d once said you’d never want anything too flashy because you’d lose it in two days or scratch it on the sink or forget to take it off when washing the dog.

He remembered laughing because it was true. After all, you had a box full of tangled earrings and broken bracelets that you never threw away, and he knew you’d want something simple.

So he stopped in front of a small glass case near the back where they kept the plain bands, and his eyes landed on this narrow gold ring that didn’t shine too much under the lights, and he stood there for a long time, just staring, thinking about how this was it, how this little thing was going to sit on your finger and mean everything, because there was no one else.

There hadn’t been for a long time, not since you came into his life and filled it with all those stupid things he used to think didn’t matter—morning texts and grocery lists and arguments over laundry and getting woken up because you’d had a bad dream and didn’t want to be alone, and all those soft, irritating, beautiful things that became the only parts of his day he looked forward to.

He didn’t ask for a box or a bag, just took the ring and shoved it deep into the inside pocket of his jacket, where it stayed even when he got home, even when he stood in front of the mirror in the dark, trying to imagine how he’d give it to you, if he’d do it in the kitchen one morning while the kettle boiled or if he’d wait until you were half-asleep and mumble it into your neck, or maybe he’d just hand it to you and say “you’re stuck with me,” because you always said he made everything dramatic, and you hated big gestures, but you’d love this, you’d love the fact he was nervous about it, that he bought it alone, that he didn’t tell anyone, not even Johnny, because it was supposed to be your moment, just the two of you, and no one else.

And then—

Then there was no moment.

There was just silence.

There was the hospital. There was a phone call. There was a body.

And now, he’s standing over you, trying to breathe through the pressure in his chest, trying not to break the way he already has a dozen times in the last few days, and he’s still wearing the same jacket because he hasn’t been able to take it off since you left, because the ring is in the pocket, and if he takes off the jacket, then it means it’s real, it means there’s no more time, and it means this is it.

You’re there in front of him, surrounded by flowers you would’ve said were too much, all done up by people who didn’t even know you, and your hands are still, too still, and the whole room smells wrong, and it’s cold and you’re cold and none of it makes sense because you were supposed to answer the door when he got back, you were supposed to be barefoot and annoyed that he was late and ask what he was hiding in his jacket, you were supposed to be alive.

His hands don’t work right when he pulls the ring out.

They fumble. They shake.

He drops it once, and the sound of it hitting the floor makes his knees buckle a bit, but he catches himself before he falls, and he laughs under his breath, just once, because of course he would mess this up, of course it wouldn’t go smoothly, even now.

He picks it up and wipes it clean.

And then, carefully, gently, more gently than he’s ever touched anything in his entire life, he lifts your hand and slides the ring onto your finger.

It fits.

Of course it fits.

He stares at it for a long time.

And then, without looking away, he says it:

“Wait for me. I’ll come find you in another life.”

And he means it.

He’ll finish whatever time he has left in this place. Then he’ll go to you. And you’d better be waiting.

You promised.

[maskedbyghost]

He sat in the car for a while, longer than he should’ve, just staring at the shop window with his fingers curled around the steering wheel until the leather started to warm under his grip. He kept thinking to himself that maybe this was stupid, maybe it didn’t matter what kind of ring he picked because you'd say yes no matter what, or at least you’d pretend to like whatever he got, because you always told him he worried too much, especially when it came to things you didn’t care about.

Still, the thing was, he cared; he really fucking cared, and that’s why he finally stepped inside, ignoring the bells over the door and the way the woman behind the counter looked at him like he didn’t belong there. Not in a rude way, more in a surprised way, because he didn’t exactly dress the part. Still, none of that mattered because he wasn’t here to impress anyone except you.

He walked around a bit first, didn’t let the saleswoman follow him, and didn’t want her talking at him and saying things about carats and clarity and metals when all he could think about was your hands, the way they always moved when you talked, always expressive and stubborn and warm.

The way they curled in his hoodie when you were cold and always tugged at his mask when you were trying to get him to come to bed, and he remembered how you’d once said you’d never want anything too flashy because you’d lose it in two days or scratch it on the sink or forget to take it off when washing the dog.

He remembered laughing because it was true. After all, you had a box full of tangled earrings and broken bracelets that you never threw away, and he knew you’d want something simple.

So he stopped in front of a small glass case near the back where they kept the plain bands, and his eyes landed on this narrow gold ring that didn’t shine too much under the lights, and he stood there for a long time, just staring, thinking about how this was it, how this little thing was going to sit on your finger and mean everything, because there was no one else.

There hadn’t been for a long time, not since you came into his life and filled it with all those stupid things he used to think didn’t matter—morning texts and grocery lists and arguments over laundry and getting woken up because you’d had a bad dream and didn’t want to be alone, and all those soft, irritating, beautiful things that became the only parts of his day he looked forward to.

He didn’t ask for a box or a bag, just took the ring and shoved it deep into the inside pocket of his jacket, where it stayed even when he got home, even when he stood in front of the mirror in the dark, trying to imagine how he’d give it to you, if he’d do it in the kitchen one morning while the kettle boiled or if he’d wait until you were half-asleep and mumble it into your neck, or maybe he’d just hand it to you and say “you’re stuck with me,” because you always said he made everything dramatic, and you hated big gestures, but you’d love this, you’d love the fact he was nervous about it, that he bought it alone, that he didn’t tell anyone, not even Johnny, because it was supposed to be your moment, just the two of you, and no one else.

And then—

Then there was no moment.

There was just silence.

There was the hospital. There was a phone call. There was a body.

And now, he’s standing over you, trying to breathe through the pressure in his chest, trying not to break the way he already has a dozen times in the last few days, and he’s still wearing the same jacket because he hasn’t been able to take it off since you left, because the ring is in the pocket, and if he takes off the jacket, then it means it’s real, it means there’s no more time, and it means this is it.

You’re there in front of him, surrounded by flowers you would’ve said were too much, all done up by people who didn’t even know you, and your hands are still, too still, and the whole room smells wrong, and it’s cold and you’re cold and none of it makes sense because you were supposed to answer the door when he got back, you were supposed to be barefoot and annoyed that he was late and ask what he was hiding in his jacket, you were supposed to be alive.

His hands don’t work right when he pulls the ring out.

They fumble. They shake.

He drops it once, and the sound of it hitting the floor makes his knees buckle a bit, but he catches himself before he falls, and he laughs under his breath, just once, because of course he would mess this up, of course it wouldn’t go smoothly, even now.

He picks it up and wipes it clean.

And then, carefully, gently, more gently than he’s ever touched anything in his entire life, he lifts your hand and slides the ring onto your finger.

It fits.

Of course it fits.

He stares at it for a long time.

And then, without looking away, he says it:

“Wait for me. I’ll come find you in another life.”

And he means it.

He’ll finish whatever time he has left in this place. Then he’ll go to you. And you’d better be waiting.

You promised.

[maskedbyghost]

A big thank you to everyone who read, reblogged, commented, screamed in the tags, or just followed along with this story, it means the world 🖤

I’m really grateful for all of you 🖤

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance | MASTERLIST

When you and Simon are forced undercover as a married couple, pretending to live a domestic life next door to your target, the only problem isn’t the mission—it’s each other. Bound by orders and monitored by hidden cameras, you have to act like you’re in love… even though you can barely stand to share the same room. Tension builds over burnt dinners, silent mornings, and whispered arguments behind closed doors. But when the walls close in and the pretense turns dangerous, everything changes. Between bitter snipes and stolen glances, the line between hate and something far more complicated begins to blur. Trapped in a house full of watching eyes, can you and Simon survive the lie before it consumes you both?

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

01. Welcome to Hell, Mrs. Riley

02. New Faces on the Block

03. Sparring Partners

04. Dinner at Seven

05. Smile for the Cameras

06. A Week of Silent Battles

07. Midnight Knows

08. What Now?

09. Hello, Neighbors

10. When Everything Falls Apart

11. Fading

12. Sign Here

13. After Everything

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (13)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

You walk back to your room with heavy steps, with your jaw tight, your shoulders tense, and every part of you buzzing with that specific kind of anger that doesn’t burst but simmers, low and constant and consuming.

You can’t stop thinking about him, can’t stop playing it all over in your head... the way he looked at you when it ended, the way he didn’t say anything, the way he just let it happen and walked away like it meant nothing, and no matter how many times you try to talk yourself out of it, no matter how much you try to rationalize it or blame the job or the stress or the timing, it always circles back to the same thing: you thought it meant something.

He made you feel like a fool for it. You tell yourself fuck him again and again, because it’s the only thing that helps, even if it doesn’t last more than a few seconds at a time.

Fuck him for walking away, fuck him for making you carry it alone, fuck him for not having the decency to say it to your face, and fuck him most of all for making you think you mattered to him in a way that no one else ever had.

You weren’t hoping for promises, you never wanted some fairytale ending where it all works out perfectly, you just wanted something said out loud so you could fucking breathe again instead of being stuck in this weird silence that feels worse than if he’d just said he didn’t care.

You were willing to fight for it, whatever it was, but he didn’t even give you the chance, and now all you have left is this bitterness, this loop of regret that keeps clawing at your chest every time you try to let it go. And by the time you reach the door, your hand is already pushing it open harder than necessary, your body moving ahead of your thoughts, and the second you step inside, you freeze because he’s there, standing in the middle of your room.

You don’t even hesitate when you speak, the words already climbing up your throat before your hand has the chance to push the door fully open. “What the fuck are you doing here—”

But he cuts you off, voice calm in that way that makes your chest clench even tighter. “Take the ring off.”

You stop and just stand there. Your mouth’s still half-open like you’re about to keep yelling, but your eyes drop to your hand and you just stare at it, stare at the silver band sitting there on your finger like it belongs. You forgot about it. Honestly, you did.

You’d been wearing it since the beginning of the mission, since the fake couple act, since you were pretending not to give a shit while slipping it on every morning. And now, after everything, it’s still there like some sick little reminder that none of it was real, or maybe worse, that it was.

You rip it off, fast, and without thinking, you throw it at him. “There. That’s all you fucking wanted, right?” you spat. “You can go now. Get out of my room.”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. “That’s not the only reason I came.”

You scoff and laugh without humor. “Oh yeah? What, you wanted to make sure I remembered what a fucking joke the whole thing was?”

He opens his mouth, but you keep going before he can say anything. “You could’ve just talked to me,” you snap. “You could’ve said anything. I didn’t need some dramatic bullshit, but you couldn’t even look me in the eye after everything?”

There’s a flicker in his face then, but before you can place it, he actually fucking chuckles.

“I hate you, Simon,” you say, but your voice breaks in a way that makes you furious all over again.

“Good,” he says, stepping forward just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Wouldn’t want our second marriage to start any differently.”

“Whatthefuck,” you snap, the words leaving your mouth in one breath. “You know what? I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see you, I want you to get the fuck out of my—”

“You think this was easy for me?” he growls, stepping forward before you can finish.

“Oh, fuck off, Simon,” you bark, voice rising right with your heartbeat. “You don’t get to play victim when you’re the one who—”

“Let me speak, woman,” he snaps, actually raising his voice now, something raw in it, like it’s the first time he’s ever let the leash slip in front of you.

“I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want your fucking excuses—”

And then he’s on you without warning, or time to react. His hand wraps around your arm, and he’s pulling you forward, crashing his mouth onto yours so hard your teeth click together. You make a sound of protest that dies the second his tongue slips past your lips, and then you’re gripping his shirt, clutching at him even as you try to push him away. It’s messy, angry, and perfectly fucked up.

He only pulls back just enough to growl against your mouth, “You stubborn little woman. Let me speak.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, biting his lip before he can kiss you again.

“Oh, I will,” he breathes, voice low and filthy, and before you can say anything else, he’s got you pinned against the wall, his body flush against yours, one hand sliding up your side while the other braces by your head.

“You think I planned this?” he says, breathless between kisses, lips brushing over yours every time he speaks. “You think I wanted to walk away? I was fucking wrecked when they took you into surgery, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t fucking think, I thought you were gonna die and I didn’t even—didn’t even tell you how I felt because I was too much of a fucking coward—”

You shove at his chest, but your hands don’t leave him. “You ruined me,” you breathe, voice shaking. “You ruined me and then left me alone to clean up the fucking mess!”

“I ruined myself the second I let myself love you,” he bites out, mouth back on yours before either of you can say something crueler.

“You scared the living shit out of me, baby,” he continues, voice low and strained, forehead resting against yours as you both try to catch your breath.

You scoff, still breathless from all the yelling and kissing and crying, and shove at his shoulder weakly. “Yeah? Good. You deserved that after the way you treated me. You think you get to break my fucking heart and then come back like nothing happened?”

“I didn’t come back like nothing happened,” he says, still smiling, but it’s that tired kind of smile, the kind you’ve missed, the kind that only shows up when he’s not pretending to be someone colder than he really is. “I came back ready to finally do something about it.”

You narrow your eyes. “What the hell does that even mean?”

And then he does it. Just drops down onto one knee like it’s the most normal thing in the world and reaches into his pocket like he’s been planning this for weeks, and suddenly there’s a ring in his hand. A new one. Not the stupid fake one they gave you for the cover story.

“I got this after the medics said you were stable,” he says, eyes on yours, voice soft in a way that makes your chest feel too tight. “After they told me you were gonna pull through, I—I went out and bought it, because I knew if you woke up, I wasn’t gonna waste any more time. I wasn’t gonna let another fucking day go by pretending like we don’t belong together.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out, because you didn’t expect this, not here, not like this.

“I think we’ve hated each other long enough,” he goes on, chuckling a little like he can’t believe he’s actually doing this. “I think it’s time we try the other thing. You know… the part where we get our stupid happy ending.”

Then, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, he looks up at you, and he says it.

“Will you marry me?”

You blink at him, stunned for a second, staring at the ring in his hand and the bruises on his jaw and the stupid way he’s still smiling even after everything you screamed at him.

And then you snort, arms crossing tight over your chest.

“No,” you say flatly. “Absolutely fucking not.”

His smile falters just a bit, but you see the way his eyes narrow, the way his head tilts.

“You’re gonna have to earn my hand in marriage, Riley,” you add, stepping closer and snatching the ring from his fingers, holding it up between you both. “You don’t get to ghost me for days and then waltz back in here with a speech and think that’s enough. Try harder.”

He laughs with that rough kind of laugh that shakes his whole chest, and stays on one knee like he’s not in a hurry to get up.

“Guess I better start groveling then.”

“Oh, you will,” you say, tucking the ring into your pocket like a little menace and turning away before he can even stand.

And behind you, you hear him mutter, “Jesus Christ, I love you.”

You don’t say it back.

Not yet.

But you don’t give the ring back either.

-

You don’t even remember agreeing to this trip. He just showed you the tickets, told you to pack your shit, and next thing you knew, you were sweating in a rental car that smelled a little, driving up a dirt road toward a cabin that apparently had “a view worth not killing each other over.”

You’re still not convinced.

He’s driving with one hand, the other resting lazily on your thigh like he’s trying to win points for being calm and domestic, but you’ve already caught him checking the GPS five times in the last ten minutes.

“We’re lost, aren’t we,” you say, not even bothering to make it sound like a question.

“I’ve got it handled,” he replies, like that means anything when you’ve passed the same crooked tree stump twice and your phone’s had zero signal since the gas station two hours back.

“Mhm. You said that the last time we were being shot at and ended up face-down in mud.”

He laughs through his nose, tapping the brakes as the road gets even rougher. “Yeah, but we lived. That’s a win in my book.”

You roll your eyes, dragging your hand down your face. “So the plan is survive first, figure out directions later?”

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” he mutters, and there it is again, that little grin that drives you insane because it means he knows he’s pissing you off on purpose.

You don’t even argue this time. Just lean your head against the window, staring at the trees flying past and muttering, “Next time I plan the vacation.”

He hums. “You’d take us to some overpriced spa and yell at me for snoring during a massage.”

“I’d take us somewhere with actual roads and Wi-Fi.”

“Oh yeah, real romantic. You checking your emails while I die of boredom.”

You flip him off without turning around, and he squeezes your thigh in response, thumb brushing lazily against your skin.

And even though you’re hot, annoyed, possibly lost in the middle of nowhere, you’re still here, still next to him. Still breathing the same air, after everything.

The cabin is small, definitely old, and smells faintly like dust and pine, but the view from the porch is enough to shut you up for once. The trees stretch for miles, the sky is beautifully blue, and there’s not a single radio, rifle, or report in sight. Just the two of you, a half-unpacked bag tossed onto the couch, and the sound of him whistling low under his breath while he fumbles with the damn fireplace.

You stretch your arms over your head, sighing as you lean against the kitchen counter. “You want coffee or tea?” you ask, flipping open the cabinet door and squinting at the faded labels. Someone left a whole collection of mismatched mugs in there, one of them says #1 Dad, and it makes you smirk a little, for reasons you don’t even wanna unpack.

He grunts from the other side of the room, finally getting the fire going with a triumphant little “There we go, you bastard.”

Then he stands. “Tea,” he calls out. “As long as you’re not gonna drown it in sugar like last time.”

You scoff, flicking the kettle on. “Oh, come on. It was one time.”

“You put five sugars in one cup,” he says, walking over and leaning his weight into the counter beside you. “I thought you were trying to end me quietly.”

You shrug, not looking at him as you grab two mugs. “I thought I’d tortured you enough that day. Wanted to give your blood pressure something new to worry about.”

He laughs, and it makes your stomach twist just a little. You hand him his mug a few minutes later, nudging it into his chest until he takes it from you.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, deliberately syrupy.

You narrow your eyes. “Call me that again and I’ll spike yours with vodka next time.”

He sips, eyes locked with yours over the rim. “Worth it.”

You smack his arm lightly, and he just grins, setting the cup down and pulling you in by the waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re still not used to this version of him, the one who doesn’t flinch when you touch him first, the one who kisses your forehead just because, the one who doesn’t look over his shoulder every five seconds like something’s about to be ripped away again.

You wrap your arms around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder as you breathe him in. “We should ruin this vacation.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, brow raised. “Ruin it how?”

You smirk. “I don’t know. Break something. Start a fire. Get banned from ever coming back.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Or,” he says, brushing his lips over yours, “we could just… enjoy it.”

You pretend to consider it for half a second. “Boring.”

He kisses you anyway.

The fire’s low now, just a flickering orange glow that casts shadows across the cabin walls, and the only sounds are the creaking of the old wooden floorboards and the soft rustle of sheets as he moves over you, slowly, as if he’s still convincing himself you’re really here.

He’s got one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing down your thigh, fingertips light over your skin, like even now he’s scared of pushing too hard and shattering whatever this is between you.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs against your neck, voice filled with something between lust and relief. “Every time I touch you, it’s like—I still think I’m gonna wake up and find out you didn’t make it.”

You exhale, hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him closer until your lips brush his jaw. “I did,” you whisper, voice soft but sure. “I’m here, Simon.”

He presses his forehead against yours, his thrusts slow and deep, each one pushing the air out of your lungs in these broken moans. It’s not rushed, he’s not chasing a finish line. He’s savoring you, devouring you, and letting himself feel everything.

“You don’t get it,” he breathes out. “Thought I lost you for good. And now I—fuck, baby—I can’t get enough of fucking my wife.”

You snort softly, breath hitching as his hips roll deeper, lazy and precise. “Technically,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m your ex-wife now.”

He pauses for just a second, chest rising against yours with a short laugh, and then he dips his head, kissing you hard. “Not for long.”

You grip his back, fingers dragging down the muscles there as he picks up the pace just a little, but still slow enough that it feels like an apology.

Then he says against your lips. “You wrecked me, you know that?”

“You deserved it,” you whisper, and he groans at that, not angry, just desperate.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, thrusting deeper now, each stroke more hungry than the last, “and I’d let you ruin me again and again if it means I get to keep you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower down your neck, over your collarbone, anywhere he can reach like he’s making a map out of your body, just in case he ever forgets how it feels to love you like this.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, and this time, it’s not a demand. It’s a promise. A quiet vow in the dark, spoken into your skin as if he’s stitching the words into your bones.

And you don’t say anything this time. You just wrap your legs around him tighter, pulling him impossibly closer, and let him say everything else without ever stopping.

-

The next few months aren’t some perfect fairytale, but they feel more real than anything you’ve had in years. You still argue about laundry, about the way he leaves his boots by the door, about how you always forget to turn off the bathroom light, but you also laugh more.

You find comfort in the routine, in the way he always pulls you closer when he thinks you're asleep, in the way he starts keeping sugar in the cupboard now even though he swore he never would. You go grocery shopping together and somehow end up bickering in every aisle, but he always lets you win, even when you're wrong, just because he likes the way you smile when you get your way.

He still looks at you like he can't believe you're real, like he’s memorizing every part of your face in case he loses it again. And sometimes, when you catch him doing it, you roll your eyes and say, “You’re being weird again,” but you don’t really mind. You like it more than you’ll ever admit.

It’s not always smooth, and there are still moments when it hits you, what you went through, what it almost cost you, but then he’ll wrap his arms around you from behind while you’re brushing your teeth or pull you into his lap while you’re pretending to work, and it reminds you that this, whatever it is, is worth it.

And the proposal doesn’t happen in some dramatic way like the movies would’ve liked. Actually, the kitchen smells faintly like burnt garlic because you forgot the heat was on, and there’s tomato sauce on the floor because he knocked the pan off the counter while trying to pull you in for a kiss.

He’d asked a few more times since that night in your room, and each time was more ridiculous than the last. Once while you were brushing your teeth. Once when he caught you halfway asleep on the couch. And once, half-laughing, half-serious, when you yelled at him for finishing the last of your favorite snack.

Every time, you rolled your eyes and said something like “nope,” or “try harder,” or “marriage sounds like a trap.” He never pushed, never got upset, and just kept looking at you like he already knew the answer would change eventually.

So now, standing barefoot on the sticky tile floor, both of you half-covered in sauce and flour, something just clicks.

You’re laughing, breathless from the mess and the way he keeps wiping his hands on your shirt instead of a towel, and when your eyes meet, he stops. You don’t say anything at first. Just reach into the drawer next to the sink, where you’d kept the ring since that first night.

You press it into his hand without a word, and his eyes go wide. He stares at it, then at you, like he’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“Do it,” you say, just barely above a whisper.

His hands shake a little when he drops to one knee, not out of nerves, but because his heart’s in his throat and his eyes are stinging and he’s trying so fucking hard not to let it show.

“Baby,” he says, voice low and shaky, “will you marry me?”

You nod, slow and certain. “Yeah,” you say. “I will.”

And the way he holds you after that, the way his arms wrap tight around your waist like he never wants to let go, the way he buries his face against your stomach and just stays there for a second too long, feels like the beginning of your happy ending.

-

The second time you got married, you did it right.

Without a courthouse or rushed vows. This time, it was real. It was loud and messy and beautiful in all the ways that mattered. You stood outside in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by the people who mattered most—some in suits, some still hungover from the night before. The flowers were crooked in their vases, the playlist glitched halfway through the ceremony, and Soap cried more than anyone else, even though he swore he wouldn’t.

You wore white. A dress that made you feel like yourself. Hair half-up because you couldn’t be bothered with too much fuss. And Simon stood at the end of the aisle, in a dark suit that somehow made him look even more dangerous and even more like home all at once. He didn’t smile, not the way people usually do, but his eyes never left yours, and his hands shook just slightly when he held them out to you.

The vows were short and a little clumsy in places, because neither of you were good with words when it really mattered. But you didn’t need a perfect speech to tell him you’d walk through hell for him, again and again, if it meant ending up back here.

And when it was over, when the rings were on and the kiss was done and the crowd was cheering, you leaned in, close enough that only he could hear you, and whispered, “I love you, Mr. Riley.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand found your waist, his forehead touched yours, and he said it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I love you, Mrs. Riley.”

You didn’t even make it to the end of the night before dragging him away, laughing as you kicked off your heels and told him he looked better out of that suit anyway.

Your story wasn’t easy, but it was yours, and in the end, that’s what mattered most.

THE END

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[maskedbyghost]

working on part 13 and i think it will be the last part

but i was thinking of writing a few bonus scenes for this series if you are interested in that

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (12)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

The first thing you noticed was the weight of something that sat right on your chest and wouldn’t let go, even when your eyes cracked open and the too-white ceiling came into focus.

Everything felt muffled, not because it was quiet, but because your head couldn’t seem to catch up, your thoughts dragging behind in some fogged-up corner of your mind that still hadn’t fully realized you were awake and alive.

Alive.

You were alive.

And it didn’t make sense at first, not the room, nor the soft beeping, or the sharp sting in your side when you shifted, but then it did, and when it all came back, it hit hard and it hit fast.

The warehouse. The blood. The smell of gunpowder and burning. Mark. His face. The panic in Simon’s voice. The cold floor underneath you and the way your fingers couldn’t stay closed around his. The way your voice wouldn’t work when you tried to tell him you were scared. The way you thought you’d never see him again.

Your throat hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your whole body ached, but you were still here.

Barely.

You didn’t know how much time passed before the door opened, just that it startled you enough to turn your head even though it felt like someone had driven a metal rod through your neck. It was slow, everything was slow. But then it was him, and none of it mattered anymore.

Simon stood in the doorway and didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, chest rising in a way that made you think maybe he hadn’t let himself breathe until now, and you stared back at him, not really sure if your heart was beating faster from relief or fear or whatever the hell had taken up permanent residence inside your chest since the moment everything went sideways.

And then, because the silence felt too full of things neither of you could say yet, you tried to fill it, even if your voice sounded worse than you expected.

“Well,” you said, and it came out rough, broken, but still yours. “Guess I ruined your plans.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there.

You tried again. “You were probably halfway through drafting your dating profile, huh? A brooding Lieutenant seeks an emotionally stable woman who doesn’t bleed out in his arms—”

Still nothing. His hands were clenched, jaw tight, eyes locked on you like if he looked away for even a second, you’d vanish.

“You can’t be mad at me,” you continued, forcing your voice to stay light even though your vision kept swimming and your chest burned more from emotion than pain. “I mean, I saved your life technically. So if anything, I think I deserve a medal. Or a vacation. Or maybe just a cup of coffee and for you to stop looking at me like I’m about to flatline again.”

He took a step, and you blinked, not really sure if you imagined it. But then another, slower than the last, his boots scuffing against the floor like it took everything in him to keep moving.

“You’re freaking me out,” you muttered, trying to force a smile even though it was weak and shaky and not fooling anyone. “At least tell me you got the guy.”

You couldn’t keep going after that, and not because you ran out of things to say, but because suddenly he was there, right in front of you, taller and broader and more real than anything else in the room. And when he leaned down, when he bent until his forehead touched yours, when his breath hit your face and you felt the way his hands hovered near your arm like he wanted to touch you but couldn’t trust himself to stay gentle, everything in you just stopped.

Just the sound of both your breaths, shallow and uneven, filling up the space between you.

And for the first time since you opened your eyes, it didn’t hurt as much.

His forehead stayed against yours, unmoving, as if he was trying to breathe through you now, like he’d spent the last however many hours with his lungs locked up and only now was starting to remember how air worked again.

You could feel the weight of him, and that made you want to cry, if you weren’t still so dizzy and half-numb and floating a little from whatever pain meds they pumped into your veins.

You didn’t say anything at first because for once you didn’t know what to say. There was a tightness in your throat and some awful pressure behind your eyes that you didn’t want to let out yet because it felt too early, as if your body wasn’t ready to feel things all the way yet.

But then the silence stretched on and you didn’t like how it made your chest ache, so you started rambling instead, voice scratchy and too quiet but still stubborn as hell.

“Well... I guess death’s gonna have to wait, huh?”

Simon didn’t move, but you swore his hand twitched slightly against your blanket.

“I mean... sucks for Mark. I was kind of hoping I’d get to haunt him, you know? Like move his furniture just a little to the left every night, or whisper really annoying shit in his ear while he sleeps. You know, classic stuff.”

Still nothing from him.

“And now you’re stuck with me, again. Bet you were secretly hoping I’d die just so you could finally get a moment of peace.”

His eyes shut for a moment, his brow furrowed, and you could feel the tension radiating off him, but still nothing.

“Are you gonna say something, or is this your new thing now?” You smiled faintly, though you knew it probably looked more like a grimace. “Brooding in total silence while I do all the talking? Classic Riley move.”

You were still going, because it was easier than being still. Because the second you stopped talking, you were going to have to think about how close it all came, how real the pain still was, how you could still feel the warmth of your own blood on your skin if you thought about it for too long.

Simon moved. Just a small shift, just enough to pull back a few inches, and his eyes opened finally, meeting yours. He didn’t speak, not yet, but his hands were moving now, checking the line of your IV, straightening the edge of your blanket where it had slipped down, adjusting your pillow, brushing your hair off your forehead with such an aching gentleness.

“God, you’re being weird,” you whispered, but your voice cracked on the last word, and that’s when you realized your eyes were watering for real now. The kind that came with fear and relief and that ugly feeling of I almost lost everything.

Simon grabbed the cup on your tray with one hand, filled it with water from the jug next to your bed with the other, and held the straw to your mouth without a word. You stared at him, but you took a sip anyway because your throat did hurt like hell.

He watched you the whole time. Like if he looked away for even a second, you’d disappear again.

Then, he sat down on the edge of your bed, hands braced on either side of your legs, and stared down at you like you were the only thing left in the world worth staring at. There was something haunted in his face still.

You didn’t know how to say it. You didn’t even know what it was. The thing between you. The fear, the blood, and the silence. All of it tangled up in your chest and in the way his hands couldn’t stop shaking slightly, no matter how calm he tried to look.

“Hey,” you said, voice barely more than a breath now. “You can talk to me, y’know. I’m not—I didn’t—I’m still here.”

And finally, finally, his fingers curled around yours again and stayed there.

He still didn’t say anything. But the way he held your hand felt like a prayer.

-

He didn’t say anything then.

Nor the next time he came, when he showed up with the rest of the squad two days later, standing quietly in the corner while Soap made some joke about how he thought he’d find you hooked up to a bionic limb or some sort of superhero shit, and Gaz brought you a small stuffed dog from the hospital gift shop and refused to admit it was his idea. Even Price tried to act normal, leaning against the wall like he wasn’t itching to ask a million questions or say something vaguely fatherly and kind.

But Simon? He just stood there, watching. Arms crossed, mask over his face even though it was only the four of them in the room, even though you knew they’d all already seen whatever exhaustion or pain was carved into his face, even though he’d looked at you earlier like he couldn’t believe you were still breathing and now he wouldn’t even meet your eyes. He didn’t speak, didn’t reach for you, didn’t sit down.

And the thing is...you didn’t really blame him. Not then, not in the days that followed. You didn’t take it personally that he couldn’t touch you, or talk to you, or even sit too close. Because something had cracked open in both of you, and it hadn’t stopped bleeding yet. It still felt too fresh.

So yeah. You didn’t press.

Instead, you spent those first few days drifting in and out of sleep, jaw clenched against the nausea, body limp and unfamiliar with how stiff everything had become. The bullet wound wasn’t fatal but it was deep, and the fever that followed had been worse than the pain itself, disorienting and mean, like your own body had turned against you for surviving.

Your throat was always dry. Your back ached from the shitty mattress. And the nurses kept saying things like “you’re lucky” and “you’ll be walking again soon,” but all you could think about was the way Simon’s hands had shaken the first time he brought you a glass of water, and how he still hadn’t said a single word.

You were healing, technically. Every day they let you sit up a little more, eat a little more, do things like lift your arm without wincing or try to stretch your legs without blacking out. But it wasn’t fast. Nothing about this was fast. Your skin still felt tight around the stitches. Your ribs still hurt when you laughed or coughed. And the boredom was starting to drive you insane, from the hours spent watching shadows across the walls or counting how many times the old clock above the door clicked out a second.

You kept yourself sane by talking to whoever came in. Soap was the easiest, always trying to get a laugh out of you, saying shit that was way too loud for a hospital room and getting scolded by nurses every time he visited. Gaz brought books, though you could barely focus on a page without zoning out. Price stayed mostly quiet, but when he did talk, it was always about things such as upcoming deployments, changes to protocol, and updates on the team.

Everyone treated you like you were going to be fine. Like this was temporary. Like you were going to walk out of here soon, and everything would go back to how it used to be.

But it wouldn’t. And you knew that. And so did Simon.

Because he came every day. Every single day. Even if he didn’t say a word.

Even if all he did was sit in the corner with his hands clenched and his eyes on the floor, even if he looked at you sometimes like he was still waiting for the monitors to flatline.

He didn’t touch you again, not for a while. Not until that one night when the power flickered from the storm and he stood up so fast from the corner you thought something was wrong, only for him to check your IV like he’d done it a hundred times in his head and just needed to make sure with his own hands. His fingers brushed yours then, barely, but it was the first thing you’d felt that day that didn’t ache.

And yeah, he didn’t say a word. But he didn’t have to. Because you could see it all over him.

He’d been holding his breath since the day they dragged you away. And just like you, he still didn’t know how to let it all out.

-

It felt weird being back to the quiet buzz of base life, the occasional boots stomping past, and the low hum of voices behind closed doors. Still, something about walking these halls again made your stomach twist, like your body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that you were okay.

You hadn’t expected to be called in so soon. You were still stiff, still bruised in ways you weren’t ready to admit, but you’d been cleared, and Price didn’t seem the type to wait when something needed saying.

But you didn’t know Simon would be there too.

He was already in the office when you stepped in, standing against the far wall, arms crossed tight over his chest. He looked… not tense, exactly, but like he’d rather be anywhere else. You couldn’t really blame him.

“Sit,” Price said, barely glancing up from the file in his hands. You dropped into the chair across from his desk without arguing.

Simon didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

Price finally looked at you properly, closed the folder and set it aside.

“You did good,” he said. “I know you’re not gonna want to hear a speech, but I’m giving it anyway.”

You gave a slow exhale, a tired sort of smile tugging at your mouth. “Figured.”

Price leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.

“After you passed out, the team got there quick. You were bleeding out, barely hanging on. Simon said you got one last swing in before everything went sideways. Hit Mark hard enough that he was still on the floor when they found him. You damn near cracked his skull open.”

You didn’t say anything. You barely remembered doing it. Just the weight of something in your hand and the rage in your chest.

“Michelle was already dead when they arrived,” Price continued, voice quieter now.

You didn’t look at Simon, but you could feel him watching you now.

Price tapped his fingers on the desk once before continuing. “They took Mark into custody. He’s been locked up since.”

You blinked once, kept still.

“More important than that…” Price opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside it, there was a small USB drive.

“This was in Michelle’s pocket.”

Your stomach turned.

“It had everything,” he said, and there was a sharpness in his voice now. “Names. Contacts. Payment trails. Surveillance logs. We’re still combing through all of it, but it’s all there. Every dirty deal, and every connection. Every bastard who had a hand in what happened.”

You stared at the drive, the weight of it hitting harder than you expected. You’d been right. You told them to look for it, and they found it.

“We’ve already coordinated with international task forces,” Price said. “Raids started two nights ago. Eight arrests so far. Five more expected. They’re talking, giving us even more names. It’s falling apart faster than any of us thought possible.”

He leaned back again, folding his arms.

“This—” he nodded toward the USB, “—was the last thing we needed to bring it all down. And it was in her damn pocket.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you let it out slow.

Price’s tone softened a bit then. “It’s done. Not all of it, of course, there’ll be loose ends, there always are, but the core of it’s dead. You helped end it.”

Your throat felt tight. You nodded, because you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Price stood up, grabbing the file again. “I’ll send you the full briefing later, but I wanted you to hear it from me. Not from a screen.”

He lingered for a moment, like he was debating whether to give you two a second alone or if he already knew there wasn’t much left to say. Eventually, he let out this low exhale and crossed back over to the desk.

“Before either of you run off to that long overdue vacation,” he said, opening one of the drawers and pulling out a file that looked too familiar for comfort, “there’s one last thing we need to tie up.”

He laid the file down on the desk with a dull thud and tapped the top of it twice with the side of his hand. “Don’t look so surprised. You knew this was coming.”

You didn’t move at first. You just stared at it.

The papers were already neatly arranged. Stapled in one corner. Your name typed out in clean, dark print. Simon’s name too, sitting right beside yours.

Price stayed quiet for a second.

Still, you didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.

You hadn’t thought about the papers in weeks. Not since you got shot. Not since the cold, wet feel of your own blood had soaked through your clothes and left Simon clutching you like he could hold your life in his hands if he just pressed hard enough.

And maybe you’d assumed… maybe you thought things had changed. Maybe you thought there’d be some conversation, at least. Some discussion about what this meant now, after everything.

But you hadn’t even gotten that.

Because before you could say anything, before you could take one step closer to the desk or open your mouth to ask if now was really the time, he moved.

Simon didn’t look at you.

Didn’t speak.

Just walked up, picked up the pen like he’d already made peace with it, and without a single flicker of hesitation, he signed. Page after page.

When he was done, he set the pen back down.

Turned toward you, and finally spoke.

“Sign the papers.”

Then he walked out.

Didn’t pause, didn’t glance over his shoulder. Just opened the door and left you there, like the past few months hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t taken a bullet. Like he hadn’t carried you out himself. Like none of it had ever meant anything.

You blinked once.

Then again.

The papers blurred a little in front of you, just for a second, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek so hard your teeth ached.

Price hadn’t moved.

He wasn’t saying anything either.

You could feel his eyes on you, but he didn’t rush you. He didn’t push. He just waited.

You let out a soft, humorless laugh.

God. Fuck him.

Your fingers curled around the pen before you even realized what you were doing. You didn’t look at the lines. Didn’t bother reading the details. You just signed every page he’d signed. And when you were done, you pressed the pen a little too hard on the last one, just to make sure your name stayed.

You pushed the file away.

Sat back in the chair.

And didn’t say another word.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[maskedbyghost]

Are we ready for part 12? 😊

[maskedbyghost]

Hi lover! How do I get added to your tag list? 🫶🏽

I’ll add you in the next part ❤️

[maskedbyghost]

I NEED PART 12 PLEASE 💔💔💔 (i love ur works brw)

Thank you, love ❤️

I’m working on it rn 😊

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (11)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

Simon had been through enough shit in his life that most things didn’t shake him anymore. He’d seen bodies torn apart, teammates blown to pieces, friends bleed out in his arms while he just sat there pressing his hands down harder and harder, like pressure alone could fix a gut wound.

He’d walked into buildings full of smoke and screams and blood and came out with his pulse steady, his eyes dry, and his mind already moving to the next objective. Fear had stopped being something he acknowledged a long time ago. Maybe somewhere between the fifth or sixth time death brushed shoulders with him and didn’t bother looking back.

But this…This was different.

Because no amount of blood in the field, no amount of bodies, no mission gone sideways or ambush or bullet tearing through skin had ever prepared him for the way his own fucking chest caved in at the sight of you on the floor, bleeding out faster than he could process what the hell had just happened.

And it was stupid because he knew what a gunshot looked like. He knew what it meant. He knew how much time you had. But for a few seconds, he forgot every protocol, forgot every training, forgot everything he ever learned about trauma response, and just… stared.

Because the second you hit the ground, it stopped being a mission. It stopped being war. It stopped being survival.

It became personal.

And it wasn’t even the pain in his shoulder that registered; he’d been shot, sure, blood still soaking into the side of his shirt, and yet it was like none of it mattered, none of it even touched him. It was the sound of your body collapsing. The way your eyes fluttered and couldn’t focus. The way your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first, and then it did, a choked inhale, a twitch of your fingers, and he felt it, that pain. But not in the wound, nor in the bone or the muscle or the nerve.

In his chest. Right there in his fucking chest.

Because your eyes, the ones he avoided looking at for so long, the ones that burned every time you challenged him, the ones that didn’t flinch when he barked at you during training, didn’t blink when he insulted you, didn’t soften even when he tried to make you walk away. Your eyes were fading now.

And for the first time in years, he was scared.

Not of dying, not of pain, but of losing you.

He’d always told himself it was easier to hate you. That keeping his distance was the only option. You were reckless and too loud. Too stubborn, intense, and too good. He told himself that, let himself believe it.

Every time you laughed with the others, every time you made a joke that got under his skin, every time you did something risky on the field and didn’t even look back to see if he was watching, even though he always was, he reminded himself why he needed to keep the wall up.

Because he felt things he wasn’t supposed to feel. Things that scared the shit out of him.

You weren’t just some new recruit. You weren’t just another soldier. You weren’t just some rookie tagging along. You had this fire in you, something that refused to dim even when the world around you both tried so hard to snuff it out, and somehow, that fire kept him going. Every time he thought about walking away. Every time he thought maybe this was the mission that would kill him. Every time he questioned if there was anything left in the world worth protecting. You showed up. Lit up every dark corner of his life without even realizing it.

And he hated you for it. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But now, as your blood seeped into the floor and your eyes fluttered shut and that fire dimmed right there in front of him, the truth slammed into him with more force than any bullet ever could.

He didn’t hate you. He loved you. And he might’ve just lost you.

Help came fast.

Not fast enough, though, but like angels sent from heaven or whatever poetic thing people said when they were desperate for a miracle, Price and the others stormed in just minutes later. Simon barely heard the gunfire, barely registered the movement, the voices, the sounds of boots on the floor, the way someone shouted “clear” down the hallway. His whole world had narrowed to you.

Price was yelling something, Soap too, and Gaz was already crossing the room.

But Simon couldn’t answer, couldn’t even move.

He was still kneeling on the floor, blood soaking into his trousers, hands shaking as they hovered uselessly over your chest, not sure where to press, not sure if he should move you or stay still. His shoulder burned, his arms felt weak, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way your lips were parted like you were struggling for air, the way your lashes barely fluttered, the way the blood wouldn’t fucking stop.

Gaz was the one who finally knelt beside him, didn’t say anything, just looked at Simon and then looked at you, and something in his face changed. He went still for a second, and then he moved, lifting your body as if you were made of glass and whispering something under his breath that Simon didn’t catch.

And Simon followed. He didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t speak, didn’t ask where they were taking you. He just got up, his legs unsteady, hands coated in red, eyes locked on your face as if he were to look away, even for a second, you’d disappear.

Soap grabbed his arm to steady him at one point, but he shook him off. Price said his name, but he didn’t answer.

He followed Gaz like a shadow, one hand still pressed over the makeshift bandage clutched to your side, too afraid to let go. Every time your head lolled or your lips parted or your hand twitched, his heart seized in his chest again.

The hallways blurred. The walls meant nothing. Everything outside the shell of your body and the blood didn’t exist.

He didn’t remember getting into the car, but the next thing he knew, he was sitting inside, and you were in his lap. Someone had wrapped a towel around your torso, someone else shoved med packs into his hands and barked at him to press down hard and keep pressure, Ghost, keep fucking pressure, but none of that registered.

All he could see was your face.

Your eyelids were heavy, skin pale. You weren’t talking, you weren’t even blinking. And Simon... he couldn’t handle it.

Couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t feel his own wound, even as his shirt stuck wet and warm to his skin. He was soaked through with pain and panic and it still didn’t even touch what he felt seeing you like that.

He pressed down harder on your side, whispering things he wasn’t even sure you could hear.

“Stay with me.” “Just hang on.” “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He didn’t beg, but everything in him was screaming, broken screams that never made it past his throat. He just kept pressing down, kept his eyes on your mouth, your lashes, the twitch of your fingers when the car hit a bump.

And then someone else opened the door.

Voices. Shouts. Medical terms. Orders. And Price again.

And then hands reached for you, but Simon didn’t let go. Even as they tried to lift you from his lap, he kept holding on.

“Ghost,” someone said. “You need to let go now.”

He didn’t move. Just stared down at your face like he could memorize it in case—

No. Not in case. You were going to make it.

You had to.

But he still couldn’t let go. Not until someone reached in gently, one hand on his back, the other under your legs, and finally pulled you from his grip. He didn’t fight it. He just sat there with empty hands and blood everywhere, eyes stuck on the way your head lolled against the medic’s chest.

They ran with you. He didn’t move.

Didn’t even feel the pain in his leg or the heat in his shoulder or the wetness of his palms. All he could feel was the sudden loss of you. Like a fucking limb had been torn from his body, like something vital had been pulled from his chest.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

Simon Riley didn’t feel like a soldier. He felt like a man. A man who might’ve just lost the only thing that ever made him feel alive again...

Someone finally dragged him away.

He didn’t remember who. Maybe it was one of the medics who looked at him with wide eyes and blood-stained hands and urgency he didn’t think he deserved. But they took him down some corridor that smelled like bleach, into a small room with too-bright lights.

He sat there on the edge of the table while someone peeled his shirt away from the bullet wound on his shoulder. They asked him questions, tried to get him to speak, tried to get him to lie back and breathe and flinch when they poured antiseptic into the hole. He barely noticed any of it. He let them work and didn’t say a word.

It was just something he had to get through. A checkpoint before he could return to the only thing that mattered.

He didn’t even wait for them to finish everything. He stood up before they were done wrapping the bandage, grabbed a shirt someone brought him, and walked out without looking back. He could still feel his pulse thudding down into his fingertips, could still smell the blood on his hands even though they’d been scrubbed clean. But the pain was still on the other side of the compound, behind a set of doors, beyond the medical wing, where they were trying to keep you alive.

He didn’t care if they told him to rest. Didn’t care if his shoulder split back open.

He made it back to the hallway, to the room where they’d taken you, and sat down just to the right of the door, near enough that if anyone came out and said something, he’d hear it.

And he waited.

Minutes passed, and he didn’t move. He just sat there with blood under his fingernails and every muscle in his body clenched like he could keep you alive through sheer force of will.

That’s when he heard boots.

Price stopped in front of him, his arms crossed, looking down at Simon like he was weighing what to say.

“He’s still alive,” Price said finally, voice low. “They’ve got him. Took him to one of the secure rooms.”

Simon’s eyes didn’t move. His jaw twitched once. “Mark.”

Price nodded. “Yeah.”

“Take me to him.”

“Simon—”

“Take me. Now.”

Price exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re shot.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Simon stood. His legs ached, his shoulder burned, and his whole body screamed to collapse, but none of that touched his voice.

“I’ll rest,” he said flatly, “when I kill him.”

And Price saw it. He saw the fury in his eyes, and didn’t argue after that.

He just turned and started walking, and Simon followed.

Simon pushed open the door without hesitation and stepped inside. Mark was sitting there, tied to the chair, his face bruised but his eyes sharp enough to make Simon’s blood boil. There was no fear in Mark’s gaze, only cold, like he knew exactly how much trouble he was in and didn’t care.

Simon’s jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, watching him, trying to hold back the anger that was coiling tighter with every second.

Finally, Mark broke the silence with a smirk on his face. “You think I’m gonna tell you anything? Not a single damn thing is coming out of me.” His voice was harsh. “You killed my wife. That’s one thing you’ll pay for. And trust me, yours is next.”

Simon stepped closer, eyes locked on him. His voice dropped, low and sharp. “Don’t mention my wife ever again.”

That was the last thread snapping. Simon didn’t hesitate. His fist shot forward, connecting hard with Mark’s jaw. The sound was sickening, a mix of bone and flesh that echoed off the walls. Mark barely flinched, just chuckled through the pain like it was some kind of game.

Simon hit him again, each punch fueled by every secret and every lie, every brutal moment he and you had endured. Mark laughed again, a low, bitter sound, not even trying to defend himself.

Then the door opened, and Soap came in, his voice cutting through the tension. “Simon, the doctors just called.”

Simon’s fist hung mid-air for a moment. His breath caught, muscles tightening and loosening all at once. Mark’s laughter faded as Simon turned toward the doorway, the fight draining out of him, replaced by worry or fear. Whatever it was, it crushed everything else.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (10)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

tw: torture

That sinister look on his face was enough for you to know that Mark didn’t come here just to talk. And another thing you knew was that you needed to get out of those ropes as soon as possible, before something irreversible happened.

“Now,” Mark said, dragging the word out with that smug tone, eyes flicking to Simon, then back to you. “I’ve got a few questions for the two of you… before I get rid of you.”

You didn’t move as you stared. Simon was already watching him too, his jaw locked, blood still dried on his shirt and neck.

Mark stepped closer.

“Who sent you?” he asked. Not really expecting an answer, just to see which one of you would crack first.

You didn’t say a word.

Simon gave a low laugh, rough in his throat. “You always been this paranoid, or did we just bring out the crazy in you?”

Mark’s smile widened. “See, that attitude’s cute when you’re not tied up and bleeding all over my floor.”

He turned to you, slow, like he was waiting for your eyes to flinch. You didn’t give him that.

“You know,” he murmured, crouching down in front of you, “I had a feeling about you. You were too fucking nosy, but I thought you were just bored. Turns out, you were just stupid.”

He reached out and grabbed your face firmly, his fingers rough on your jaw.

The second his hand touched you, Simon’s voice snapped through the room.

“Don’t you fucking touch her.”

Mark didn’t look away. “Is she your weakness?” he asked, still holding your face like he wanted to make a point of it.

Simon didn’t answer.

Mark smiled. “Good to know.”

You tried to jerk your face out of his grip, but he held on tighter, nails digging in just enough to piss you off.

“Let go,” you said, through your teeth.

“You’re the mouthy one,” Mark muttered before he finally let go, standing again. You swallowed, trying not to spit at the floor.

Simon’s eyes hadn’t left him once.

Your fingers kept moving behind your back slowly, feeling for any weakness in the rope. You were sweating now, not from fear, but from the sheer effort of staying still while your mind screamed at you to fight.

Mark took another step closer, but this time toward Simon. “Tell me, who are you working for? I want names.”

Simon stared up at him. “Eat shit.”

Mark raised a brow. “You’re both going to be real fun to kill.”

“Then do it already,” you snapped, heart pounding.

He tilted his head at you. “Oh, I will. But not before I find out how much damage you’ve already done.”

He looked between the two of you, then turned toward the stairs.

“I’ll let you sweat a bit. Michelle will bring the tools. Let’s see how talkative you are after round one.”

You didn’t look away until he was gone.

And then Simon leaned his head forward slightly. “You alright?” he muttered.

“No,” you whispered. “But I’m working on it.”

You kept pulling at the rope, finally catching a slight give under your wrist.

Simon exhaled. “You’re gonna hate me for saying this, but... if you get free, don’t wait for me. Just run.”

You shook your head immediately. “Not a fucking chance.”

There was a heavy pause as you closed your eyes.

Your wrist twisted again, and this time, the rope slipped, just slightly.

Just enough.

The door opened again, slower this time, before you could hear the familiar shuffle of Mark’s boots across concrete. He stepped in, carrying a large black duffel, one that looked heavy the way it sagged in his grip, the zipper stretched tight from whatever he’d stuffed inside. He kicked the door shut behind him, didn’t say anything right away, just dropped the bag in the middle of the room with a heavy thud, and then crouched to unzip it.

Your stomach sank deeper with every inch he pulled back.

Knives, a bat, thick wire, tape, the pliers again, and something jagged you couldn’t name and didn’t want to, all laid out in front of you.

You didn’t say anything. Your breath was already catching in your throat, your fingers already curling into fists behind your back, ropes cutting deeper into your wrists from how hard you'd been pulling earlier.

Mark stood, holding a long knife in one hand. His eyes looked lighter than before, brighter even, in that sick way people get when they’re excited about something they shouldn’t be excited about.

“I’ve got all night,” he said. His voice was too calm, as if this wasn’t the beginning of something terrible. “And I’ve got nothing else to do. So we’re gonna have a little chat again.”

He turned toward you first, took a step closer, eyes scanning your face like he was deciding where to start.

Simon moved fast, dragged himself forward on his knees, even though his hands were still zip-tied behind his back. His leg was trembling from the strain, from the pain, from pushing past it just to put himself between you and whatever the fuck Mark thought he was about to do.

“Hey. You want someone to bleed? Then fucking look at me.”

Mark froze and looked over his shoulder at Simon.

Didn’t say a word at first, just stared, hia eyes narrowing slightly, as his lips parted like he was weighing something in his head.

Then, finally: “Brave.”

That was all. Just that one word, and his attention turned away from you, just like Simon wanted.

He turned back toward the bag, tossed the knife in with a loud clang, and grabbed something else—the metal bat. He twirled it once in his hand, testing the weight, then walked toward Simon slowly. Just dragging it out, letting the dread stretch between all three of you.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t fucking breathe and your wrists were raw and your legs were still tied and you were stuck on the floor, forced to watch.

Mark stopped in front of Simon, looked down at him, and then slowly lowered the bat until the end of it pressed directly into the bullet wound at Simon’s shoulder, the same one that had been seeping blood on and off for hours now, and still pulsing red whenever he moved too fast.

Simon let out a sharp breath through his nose but didn’t speak. His jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack.

Mark leaned in, pressed harder. “Who are you working for?”

Silence.

Simon’s eyes locked on Mark’s face, and he didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He just breathed through his teeth and held on.

You felt your whole body vibrating with panic, with helplessness, with rage so big it barely fit inside you. “Stop it—stop touching him—fuck you��”

Mark didn’t even look at you. He just pulled the bat back, dropped it, and grabbed a knife again, smaller this time, sharper looking, something you knew would slice deep.

He crouched in front of Simon again and pressed the flat of the blade against his chest, just under the collarbone, slowly dragging the cold steel over bare skin.

You screamed. “Don’t fucking touch him! I swear to God—”

Mark finally turned to you. “You can save him a painful death,” he said, voice eerily gentle. “All you have to do is tell me what I want to know.”

You didn’t even let him finish. “Go fuck yourself.”

He looked back at Simon. “You hear that?” he murmured. “She’s willing to let me gut you slowly for the sake of loyalty. Whatever twisted thing you two have going on.”

He pushed the knife down Simon’s chest, leaving a shallow red line in its wake.

Simon flinched, teeth gritted, breath stuck somewhere between a groan and a growl.

You couldn’t sit still anymore. You thrashed against the ropes, kicked your heels into the floor, felt the burn in your wrists as the knot finally—finally—began to loosen from all your struggling, just a little bit, just enough that you pushed harder, ignoring the sting, ignoring the tears welling up in your eyes from how badly it hurt. You didn’t stop, you couldn’t stop.

Mark was whispering something now. You couldn’t even hear it, your ears were ringing too loudly.

You got one hand free.

Then the other.

Your legs were still bound but your fingers worked fast, shaking as they tore at the knot, knuckles scraped, nails bending backwards from how rough the rope was, but you didn’t feel any of it, your whole body was locked on autopilot, trembling with adrenaline and fury and pure need to stop this from going any further.

You kicked your legs out, finally free, and your eyes scanned the room fast.

And then you saw it, a broken piece of wood from the table, splintered at one end.

You grabbed it, and you didn’t care if it was heavy or sharp or even enough to do real damage; you just grabbed the first solid thing your hands landed on and your body moved before your mind could catch up.

You stood so fast your knees almost gave out beneath you, legs still numb and shaky from sitting still too long, and then you ran because you knew if you gave him even a second of notice, even a breath, Mark would hear it and turn around, and it’d all be over before it even started.

So you didn’t scream.

You didn’t stop.

You just lifted your arms high, wood clutched in both hands so tight. You brought it down with every fucking ounce of weight and rage and panic you’d been holding in since the second that door opened and this nightmare started. The second it hit the back of his skull, the sound echoed through your bones, through your spine, through your chest, as if your body had been holding its breath and only now, only in this exact moment, was finally allowed to let go.

Mark collapsed forward against Simon’s legs, the knife slipping from his hand and skidding across the floor with a dull scrape.

You backed up, breath ragged, the wood slipping from your hands as your arms finally gave out, legs wobbling as you half-fell to the ground next to Simon and grabbed his face.

“Are you—fuck—are you okay? Simon?”

His head lolled toward you, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, eyes still hard but softening just a little when they landed on your face. “Took you long enough,” he rasped.

You laughed a sharp, painful thing that barely made it out.

Then you grabbed the knife from the floor with shaky hands and started cutting him free.

“We’re not dying in this fucking basement,” you muttered.

“Not today,” he agreed, voice hoarse, his eyes never leaving yours.

You had just cut through the last of the zip-tie on Simon’s wrists, fingers still trembling as the last strand snapped and fell away. His arms dropped in front of him, sluggish and stiff, but you didn’t even pause. You were already pushing your weight under his shoulder, trying to help him stand, even though your legs weren’t exactly steady either.

“C’mon,” you muttered. “Door’s there. We can make it.”

Simon groaned, but his hand found your waist. “You alright?”

“No,” you said. “Shut up and move.”

And for a moment, it felt like maybe that was it. You’d survived, you’d bled and fought and clawed your way through hell, and now you were gonna walk out together, limping and bruised and held together by sheer rage and whatever twisted, stubborn thread kept pulling you toward each other.

But then a door opened, and she stepped in.

Michelle.

She had a gun in her hand, and it was already aimed at you.

Simon saw her before you did.

“Down—!”

But the shot was faster than both of you.

The sound tore through the room, loud and deafening, a brutal crack that echoed off the walls, and then you were on the ground, breath knocked out of you so fast. You didn’t even feel the pain at first. Just the heat. The white-hot, terrifying heat blooming across your side like your skin had caught fire.

You blinked and looked down.

Blood, so much blood spreading from just under your ribs. Warm and wet and fast.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, pressing your hand to it without thinking, your brain trying to catch up, trying to move faster than the shock.

Simon was already on her.

He didn’t hesitate.

He just moved, the trained violence taking over as he tackled her before she could fire again. The gun skidded out of her hand, clattering across the floor. She tried to scream something, tried to reach for it, but Simon was already on top of her, hand around her throat, eyes dead and full of murder.

“You shot her,” he said, voice so low and full of hate it didn’t even sound like him. “You fucking shot her—”

She scratched at his arms, kicked, bit, but she was nothing now. Nothing but a last breath, a mistake, an echo. And Simon didn’t stop.

He slammed her head into the floor.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Then again, and again, and again, until the fight left her limbs and her mouth stopped moving and the only sound left in the room was your own breath stuttering through your throat, each one getting harder to pull in.

Simon finally stopped, his hands shaking.

Then he turned toward you.

“Hey,” he said, crawling to you, dragging himself like his legs weren’t working right. “Hey—look at me—fuck, baby, look at me—”

Your eyes were glassy but you blinked, teeth clenched. “Still here,” you whispered.

He pressed both hands to your wound, hard and fast, trying to stop the bleeding, muttering under his breath, every curse spilling from his mouth laced with panic.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said. “You’re gonna be fine. You hear me? You stay with me—don’t fucking die on me now, not after everything—”

You laughed. It came out like a choke. “I just saved your ass. I get to die dramatically.”

“No, the fuck you don’t.”

You were fading. The room was blurring. But you could still feel him and his hands, his voice, the heat of his body close to yours.

And maybe you’d make it.

Or maybe you wouldn’t.

But if you were gonna die anywhere, it was gonna be with his hands on you and that look in his eyes and the knowledge that you made it this far together.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (9)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

The first thing you felt was the cold concrete pressed against your cheek. The second was the pain, a deep, pounding throb inside your skull that made your stomach turn.

You groaned, tried to move, but your arms wouldn’t budge because the ropes were digging into your wrists, holding you against something. That’s when the panic crept in, flooding your chest, speeding up your breaths until it felt like you couldn’t get enough air.

Your eyes fluttered open, vision swimming in and out of focus. The room was dim, lit by a single flickering light overhead, and it smelled like damp concrete and rust.

You shifted your legs and realized those were tied too, your ankles bound tight, back pressed against a cold pipe behind you.

You tried to steady your breathing, tried to think, but your brain was still sluggish, spinning too fast for anything to stick until your eyes landed on him.

Simon.

He was across from you, maybe ten feet away, slumped against the opposite wall. His head was tilted forward, chin nearly touching his chest, and his arms were pulled behind a thick metal post. He wasn’t moving.

“Simon?” Your voice cracked from dryness and fear, barely louder than a whisper.

He didn’t react.

You shifted, ignored the sting in your wrists and tried again, louder this time. “Simon—hey, come on, wake up.”

Still nothing.

That’s when you saw it. His shirt was torn near the top, and there was blood soaked through the fabric around his shoulder. A bandage had been slapped over the wound, messy and clearly rushed, not meant to heal but just to stop him from bleeding out.

Someone had patched him up just enough to keep him alive.

Your stomach dropped.

You twisted against the ropes, heartbeat thundering, and looked around for anything you could use, anything that gave you a hint about where the hell you were. But it was just concrete, shadows, and walls. No windows. No sounds except for the soft hum of that flickering light.

“Please,” you said, barely more than a whisper now, your voice cracking again. “Simon, wake up. Please.”

But he didn’t stir.

Your mind was screaming, thoughts spiraling, tangled between fear and guilt, and the gut-twisting realization that you had no control anymore. You’d followed Mark. You’d kept digging when Simon told you not to. And now you were both here, tied up in a basement, and he was bleeding because of it.

You didn’t even hear the door open, but you heard the footsteps.

You went completely still, head snapping toward the noise as the shadows shifted.

Someone else was here, and they were coming closer.

You didn’t breathe as the door opened fully. The light from outside the room spilled in and silhouetted a figure in the doorway. You blinked against it, eyes still struggling to focus, until the shape stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind her.

Your stomach dropped again, but this time from recognition.

“Michelle?”

“Oh good,” she said, her tone flat but slightly amused, “you’re awake.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Your voice came out louder than you expected, raspier too, your throat aching from dehydration and panic. “Where the hell are we? What did you do to Simon?!”

Michelle gave a small shrug, walked a little closer, and stopped in the middle of the room. “He’s alive, obviously. I’m not a monster.”

“Yeah?” You hissed, yanking against the ropes again. “You shot him!”

“He’ll live,” she said casually, glancing over at him slumped against the wall. “Probably hurts like a bitch though.”

Your jaw clenched. “Let me go. Right now.”

She laughed, not loudly, just enough to let you know how little she cared about your threats. “You’re not in a position to be making demands, sweetheart.”

You wanted to spit at her. Instead, you forced the words through gritted teeth. “Why are you doing this?”

Michelle tilted her head, expression twisting like the answer was obvious. “Because I saw you. Following Mark. Stalking him like a little spy.”

Your heart stuttered.

Then she continued, walking closer, slowly. “Then I saw Simon leave the house not long after. That’s when it clicked. You’re poking your noses where they don’t belong.”

You shook your head, pulling at the ropes again until they burned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please,” she said, voice turning sharp. “Save it. I know exactly what you’re doing, and you’ve both made a very stupid mistake.”

She crouched slightly, now eye level with you.

“You really thought we’d just let you sniff around and get away with it?” she asked. “You thought Mark wouldn’t notice you tailing him like some amateur?”

Your throat tightened. “Why are you involved? What the hell do you have to do with any of this?”

Michelle gave you a tight smile. “Mark’s my husband. Do you think he just magically pulls all this shit off on his own? We’ve been doing this together for a long time. He handles the... logistics. I handle the people.”

You stared at her, disbelief warring with rage. “You’re insane.”

“No, I’m loyal,” she said simply. “You wouldn’t understand.”

You glanced at Simon again. He still wasn’t moving. “He needs a hospital.”

“He’s fine,” Michelle snapped. “We patched him up enough to keep him useful. That’s more than I wanted to do.”

You glared at her. “What now? You going to kill us?”

She straightened back up and crossed her arms. “That’s not up to me. Mark’s on his way. Once he gets here, we’ll figure out exactly what to do with the two of you. But you can bet it won’t be pleasant.”

You tried to stay still, but the panic clawed up your spine. “You won’t get away with this.”

Michelle just smiled again. “Oh, sweetheart. We already have.”

Then she was gone.

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound of a lock sliding into place echoed through the room. You stared at Simon, heart pounding out of your chest, every inch of you screaming to break free.

You had no idea how long you had before Mark got there.

But you knew one thing...you weren’t going down without a fight.

You were sweating now, more from frustration than fear. The rope dug into your wrists every time you twisted, and the pipe it was tied to wasn’t budging. Your arms ached, your back throbbed, but you couldn’t stop. You had to get free. Every second that passed felt like one more step toward whatever hell Mark had planned.

You gritted your teeth and pulled again, trying to shimmy the knot, trying anything.

“Fuck,” you hissed under your breath, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling.

A low groan cut through the silence.

You froze.

Simon shifted slightly, still slumped against the wall, but his head tilted, a rough sound leaving his throat as he blinked slowly into the dim light.

“Simon?” Your voice cracked, hope and panic tangled together. “Simon, hey. Wake up.”

He groaned again, hand twitching where it was zip-tied. His eyes opened fully now, unfocused but alert enough to dart toward your voice. His mouth parted, and for a second he didn’t say anything, just stared.

“…You okay?” he finally rasped.

You let out a breath. “What do you think?”

He blinked again, like he was still trying to figure out if this was a dream or not. “What the fuck happened…”

“You got shot, Simon,” you snapped, voice sharp but shaking. “You got shot because I followed Mark, and fucking Michelle knocked us out!”

Simon’s head leaned back against the wall, eyes closing for a second. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” you muttered.

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know. Some basement? Maybe a warehouse. She won’t say. She said Mark’s coming to decide what to do with us.”

Simon’s jaw tensed. His arms shifted behind him as if he were testing the ties. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Pretty much.”

He looked at you again. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. You’re the one bleeding from the shoulder,” you said, voice cracking again. “But apparently they patched you up enough to keep you alive.”

“Great,” he muttered.

You looked at the rope again. “I’ve been trying to get out of this for—fuck, I don’t even know how long. I can’t reach the knot.”

Simon was quiet for a moment, probably trying to figure out what to say, but the silence made you anxious.

“I shouldn’t have followed him alone,” you whispered eventually. “I should’ve called you. I was just so… I don’t know. I thought I could handle it.”

He didn’t respond right away. But then his voice came low: “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

You glanced at him, eyes stinging.

“We’ll get out of this,” he added, more firmly now. “We’ve been in worse.”

You shook your head, breath hitching. “I’m tied to a pipe and you’re bleeding all over the damn floor, Simon.”

He gave a weak smirk. “Still got a pulse.”

You let out a short laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Fuck, you’re annoying.”

You both went quiet again for a beat. Then Simon looked at you, eyes sharper now.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s figure this out.”

Your wrists burned from the friction, the skin raw from how many times you’d tried to twist free. You gave the rope another pull, jaw clenched, your muscles shaking, but still nothing

Simon was working behind his back too, shifting against the wall, gritting his teeth as he tried to move his arms without making his shoulder worse.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted.

He didn’t stop moving, didn’t even look at you.

“I know you’re probably gonna hate me. And you should,” you went on, chest tightening, the words rushing out now. “I fucked everything up. I left without telling you, I followed Mark like some dumbass, and now we’re here and you’re bleeding and tied up and it’s my fault.”

Simon’s jaw was locked tight. He still didn’t say anything.

“I just thought— I don’t know. I saw him sneaking out, and my gut told me something was wrong, and I didn’t think. I didn’t think about what would happen, I didn’t think about what it would do to you, I just went.”

Still nothing.

“And now we’re here and Michelle’s a psycho and Mark’s coming to probably kill us, and you’re going to hate me even more once we’re dead,” you said, voice cracking into a miserable, tired laugh. “So I figured I’d say it now while we’re still breathing.”

Simon stopped shifting and finally looked at you.

“You done?”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah.”

He looked at you for a long second.

“I don’t hate you,” he said quietly. “I’m fucking pissed, but I don’t hate you.”

You blinked fast, staring at him.

“Would’ve been a lot easier if I did,” he muttered, struggling against the zip tie again. “But I don’t.”

Your eyes stung.

“I know you didn’t mean for this to happen,” he added, breathing heavier now from the effort. “I just—wish you’d told me. Trusted me.”

“I do trust you,” you whispered.

He gave a short nod. “Then let’s survive this. So you can make it up to me properly.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Deal.”

Simon twisted again with a grunt. “Fucker tied these tight. Can you move at all?”

“Barely, but I’ve been working on the knot. If I can shift it to the front—”

“Do it. I’ll keep trying mine.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, and kept twisting, every part of you aching, but this time, with a bit of hope sitting under the panic.

The ropes were slick with sweat now, and your wrists burned from how hard you’d been working at them. You’d managed to shift them slightly, enough to get one hand angled differently. You just needed a little more time. A few more minutes.

Simon was breathing hard, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he pulled at the plastic zip tie again. His shoulder had to be screaming. You kept glancing at him, unsure if the blood was from the old wound or something fresh, and your stomach turned with guilt every time.

“Almost,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

“Keep going,” Simon said lowly, eyes on the door. “We don’t know when—”

A slow creak echoed from somewhere upstairs, making you both freeze.

Then, the unmistakable sound of footsteps came, getting closer.

Simon looked at you sharply. “Don’t say anything unless I do.”

You nodded fast, breath caught in your throat.

The metal door at the top of the basement stairs groaned open. Then, slow footsteps descended one by one. You couldn’t see him yet, but you knew.

And when he finally came into view, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming as they landed on you and Simon, still bound.

“Well, well,” he said. “Hello, neighbors.”

He stepped in, letting the door slam shut behind him. The sound echoed through the basement.

Simon shifted, body tense, eyes locked on Mark.

But Mark just chuckled and walked further in, slow and easy.

“You two really should’ve minded your own business.”

You felt your stomach twist. Your hand was still working, fingers trembling against the knot behind your back, but slower now, more careful. Mark hadn’t noticed.

Not yet.

He looked between you both again, that smug grin still plastered across his face.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (8)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

The taillights ahead of you glowed faint red in the distance. You kept back, far enough that he wouldn’t notice, but close enough that you wouldn’t lose him. Your fingers curled tight around the steering wheel, your foot barely hovering over the gas.

Where the hell was he going?

Your brain was doing laps, chasing every theory, every possibility. Maybe he was just restless, maybe he couldn’t sleep. But then again—who the fuck goes for a drive at midnight?

You shifted in your seat, eyes flicking from his car to the empty road around you. It was quiet. No cars, no noise, just the low hum of your engine and the pounding in your chest.

Your hand hovered near your phone for a second. Maybe you should call Simon and wake him up to tell him what you saw and what you’re doing.

But then you pictured his face, maybe worried, maybe angry. Maybe he’d tell you to go back. Maybe he’d try to come find you. Or worse, maybe he’d get caught up in whatever this was.

No. You couldn’t risk it. Not yet.

You dropped your hand back to your lap and let out a shaky breath.

You could handle this. You just needed to see where Mark was going.

You kept your distance the entire time, watching those damn taillights. Every turn he took made your pulse skip a beat. Out of the neighborhood. Past the town line. Roads got darker and less maintained. Streetlights turned to nothing but trees crowding both sides. You should’ve turned back. This was stupid, adn you didn’t even bring anything with you. Just your phone on silent and your brain on fire.

But you kept going. Grip locked on the wheel, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every instinct told you this wasn’t just a late-night drive. There was a purpose in the way he moved. The way he never stopped to check anything, never slowed like he was thinking—he knew exactly where he was headed.

And that made it worse.

You killed your headlights as he pulled off the road, heart jackhammering. You went a little farther down before turning off and pulling behind a cluster of trees. It wasn’t a perfect cover, but it was enough. His car was parked up ahead, tucked beside what looked like a worn path that cut into the trees. He got out alone, locked the car, and started walking.

You waited until he disappeared into the dark before getting out quietly.

The path was narrow, overgrown, and your shoes crunched softly against the dirt and old leaves. You kept low, ducking where branches stretched too far down, trying not to breathe too loudly. Every sound felt too sharp—your own footsteps, your pulse, the slight rustle of wind through the trees.

It took maybe ten minutes, but it felt longer. And then you saw it.

The building was old, almost swallowed by the woods around it. Cement walls cracked and chipped, the roof half-collapsed on one side, windows busted out like someone had taken a bat to them years ago and no one cared to fix it. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was abandoned.

But light spilled from the inside, just a single bulb, hanging crooked from a wire. Someone had been here recently.

You crouched low, circling around the side until you found a broken window not too far off the ground. Quietly, slowly, you rose up just enough to peer inside.

Mark was in the center of the room, but not alone.

Three other men stood around him. One leaned against a crate, arms crossed. Another was checking something on a clipboard. The third had a phone out, typing fast, then looked up like he was waiting for instructions.

You couldn’t hear everything, not clearly, but some words drifted out through the shattered glass.

“…shipment’s delayed till Tuesday.”

“Security’s tighter now.”

“…can’t risk another fuck-up.”

Mark’s voice was lower than the others.

“Get it done by the end of the week,” he said. “No excuses this time. We’re not getting another window.”

You barely blinked. Barely breathed.

Shipment? Delays? Security?

You squinted through the busted glass, leaning in just a little more, trying to make sense of it all. Your hands were starting to ache from gripping the windowsill so hard, but you didn’t dare let go. Not yet.

One of the men—the one with the clipboard—motioned to a table in the corner. You hadn’t noticed it at first, half in shadow, but now the movement drew your eye. A laptop was already set up on it, humming low. The guy with the phone walked over and sat down in front of it, and started tapping something.

And then Mark reached into his jacket.

You froze.

For a second, you thought he was going for a weapon, and your whole body tensed, ready to bolt or duck or whatever instinct screamed first, but instead, he pulled out something small and silver.

The USB.

You knew it. You fucking knew it.

Your pulse spiked, mouth dry.

He said something, too low for you to hear, and handed it over to the guy at the laptop. The man plugged it in, then started typing again, faster this time. You couldn’t see the screen from your angle. Couldn’t tell if he was uploading something or downloading or maybe just unlocking it. But your gut twisted either way.

You ducked back down below the window, heart still racing, chest too tight. You didn’t need to hear more. You didn’t want to. Not if it meant getting caught.

But now there were more questions than answers spinning around your head, burning through your nerves.

What the hell was on that USB?

And who the fuck were these people?

You didn’t know.

But you were gonna find out.

You stayed low as the conversation inside started to die down. The guy at the laptop unplugged the USB and handed it back to Mark, who slipped it right back into his jacket, and then they started moving.

You crouched deeper into the shadows, heart pounding in your throat, as the door creaked open from the inside and they stepped out one by one.

Mark led them, still calm as ever. Either he was cocky or he didn’t think anyone would be crazy enough to follow him out here.

You didn’t even breathe until their footsteps faded down the path. You counted a full minute in your head before you stood up.

Still, you waited another beat before you circled around to the main entrance, just in case someone came back. Your hands were shaking as you pushed open the heavy door.

The inside looked even worse up close. Water damage streaked the walls, the ceiling sagged in a few spots, and the floor creaked under your steps, no matter how careful you were. There was nothing on the table except some old tape residue, like they never intended to leave anything behind.

You checked anyway.

Opened drawers. Looked behind crates. Lifted the tablecloth that was half-pinned under the metal legs. Nothing.

You kept searching. The walls, the corners, and the table again.

It didn’t make sense.

Why go through all that trouble to meet up in a place like this, to use the USB here instead of at home, unless they were trying to make sure it couldn’t be traced?

You took one last look at the table and cursed under your breath.

Nothing.

You turned toward the door, ready to leave before someone came back—before the bad idea you were neck-deep in became something worse.

And then—

BANG.

A door slammed open so hard it rattled the walls.

You froze.

The air shifted. Tensed.

Boots. Heavy ones. Close. Fast.

And then there he was.

Filling the doorway like a storm about to break, eyes locked on you and nothing else. His jaw clenched tight, shoulders drawn like he was holding himself back from saying something that’d explode the entire fucking room.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there was no need to.

You were caught.

And he was pissed.

Simon was pissed.

His voice cracked through the silence.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!”

You flinched, actually flinched, because he never yelled like that. Never looked at you like that. His eyes weren’t just angry—they were betrayed.

“I—Simon, just—listen—”

“No. No, you don’t get to do that.” He took a step forward, jaw locked. “You don’t get to sneak out in the middle of the night, alone, without telling me, and then try to spin it with some excuse.”

“I wasn’t sneaking—”

“You left the house without a goddamn word. Without backup. Without anything!”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t even know where to start.

He raked both hands through his hair, turned away like he couldn’t even look at you for a second, then spun back around just as fast. “What were you thinking? You have any idea what could’ve happened to you?”

“I was careful—”

“Oh, yeah?” His voice went sharp, mocking. “Following a bunch of armed men into a fucking building? That’s your idea of careful?”

“I didn’t go in until after they left!”

“That’s not the goddamn point!”

You snapped then. “Then what is the point, Simon? That I didn’t sit back and wait for you to hold my hand through everything? That I trusted my own gut for once and followed it?”

He looked at you like you’d lost your mind. “This isn’t about trust. It’s about not getting yourself fucking killed.”

“I’m not a child—”

“No, but you're acting like one!”

You stepped toward him, eyes burning. “You don’t get to decide what I do. You don’t get to keep me in the dark and expect me to stay quiet just because.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t blink.

Just stared at you like he wanted to shake you, or hold you, or both.

“I installed a tracker,” he snapped. “On your phone. After what happened in his house, just in case. And the second I saw you were gone—”

He stopped.

You stared.

“You what?”

His jaw clenched again. “I was worried. And I was right to be. Because look where the fuck we are right now.”

You swallowed hard. Your chest was tight, your hands were shaking again, but for a whole different reason now.

“So what?” you asked quietly. “You can put trackers on my phone, follow me when it suits you, huh?”

He stared at you, something wild flickering behind his eyes.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, low and harsh. “You think I was mad because I didn’t know where you were? I was mad because I thought I’d lost you.”

The silence stretched.

Then snapped.

He crossed the space between you in two strides, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone completely.

Not soft, nor careful. Just pure, desperate heat.

You didn’t hesitate, didn’t think. You kissed him back just as hard. Because it was too late for explanations. Too late for reason.

But not too late for this.

You shoved at his chest.

“You’re a controlling asshole,” you spat, breath hot between you.

His grip on your waist tightened. “And you’re a reckless little shit who doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed.

“I’m trying to.”

And then his mouth crashed against yours again, teeth and heat, hands already yanking at your shirt like he was sick of arguing but not nearly done being angry. You kissed him back just as hard, biting his lip like you were still mad—because you were. You were furious.

Furious that he found you.

Furious that he followed you.

Furious that you wanted him so badly you couldn’t think straight.

You shoved him back against a pillar, fingers fumbling with his belt. “You’re a fucking bastard,” you muttered, tugging his pants down just enough, not caring if it was rough or rushed.

“And you love it.”

You didn’t answer.

You dragged your nails down his back instead, yanking your own shirt over your head, and his hands were already on you again, bruising, possessive. He kissed you like he wanted to win the fight with his mouth, trying to wipe out every word you’d said that cut too deep. You moaned into it, even while you glared at him.

“I hate you,” you whispered against his lips.

“Good,” he growled. “Hate me harder.”

His hand slid between your legs without ceremony, without asking. You were already soaked and he knew it.

You gasped, tried to grab at his wrist, but he was faster, rougher, dragging you right to the edge with just two fingers and a hard press of his palm.

“This what you wanted?” he breathed into your neck. “Snooping around? Getting caught? You like the danger that much?”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “I like shutting you the fuck up.”

“Then shut me up.”

And you did.

You kissed him again, angry and hot and messy, while you reached down between you to line him up, because talking was useless now. Words had nothing left. All that was left was this: rage and heat and teeth, both of you still whispering “I hate you” in between gasps and curses as he pushed into you, hard and fast, and your nails raked down his arms, and he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t even try to make it gentle.

Because it wasn’t.

It wasn’t about soft.

It was about you left and you lied and you scared me and you’re mine and I hate how good you feel inside me.

It was about control and losing it.

About trust and breaking it.

And needing each other anyway.

Your back hit the cold wall with a dull thud, and he didn’t wait, just grabbed your thigh, hiked it up, and slammed into you so deep it knocked the breath right out of your chest.

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You—” thrust “don’t—” thrust “ever—” thrust “fucking do this again.”

Each word hit harder than the last, punctuated by the way his hips snapped forward like he was trying to bury the anger deeper, like he wanted you to feel every syllable.

“I should leave you here,” he growled against your throat, teeth scraping skin. “Should make you walk home for pulling this shit.”

“You wouldn’t,” you bit out, breath caught on a moan.

He slammed into you again, rough and mean and so deep your legs shook.

“No?” thrust “You sure?” thrust “Wanna test me again?”

You gripped the back of his neck. “You tracked me,” you hissed, voice trembling. “You fucking tracked me like I’m—”

“Mine.”

Your head fell back against the wall, a breathless curse tumbling out of you.

“I hate you,” you whispered, even as your hips rolled up to meet his again.

“I know,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning into yours like he wanted to fight and fuck you into the floor all at once. “Say it again.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Good,” he growled. “Then take it.”

“You could’ve been fucking killed,” he continued, dragging his mouth along your jaw, one hand gripping your hip so tight it’d bruise by morning. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

You couldn’t answer, not with the way he drove into you again, harder this time, deeper, like he wanted to make you feel every ounce of the fury in him.

He grabbed your face, held it firm, forced you to look at him. “Answer me.”

“I—I needed to know,” you gasped. “You weren’t doing anything, you were just—”

“Wrong fucking move,” he growled, cutting you off with a thrust that made your head hit the wall again.

Then softer, like it slipped out before he could stop it: “You scare the shit outta me.”

His forehead dropped to yours again, his breathing ragged. You moaned his name, half a cry, half a breath, and his grip tightened.

“I hate how much I need you,” you whispered.

“Then hate me, baby,” he said, voice wrecked and low, dragging his lips down your throat. “Hate me while I make you cum.”

His hand slid between you, rough fingers finding where you were soaked for him, rubbing hard and fast while he kept fucking you against the wall, hips unrelenting. You clawed at his back, teeth biting down into his shoulder as your body trembled under the weight of it all—fear, anger, need, everything crashing into you at once.

And he felt it, felt you getting close, felt the way your walls fluttered around him, and his mouth pressed to your ear again, tone changing, tender and breathless:

“C’mon, love,” he whispered, “let go for me. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

You broke with a cry, legs shaking, eyes squeezed shut as you came so hard your whole body locked up. And he kept going, fucking you through it, chasing his own release now, breath punching out of him with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he growled, “fuck—you feel so—”

His hips stuttered, pace growing wild, desperate, and then he was right there with you, moaning into your neck, spilling inside you with one last, brutal thrust that made you both gasp.

Silence hung heavy in the air after that. Just the heat of his body pinning you to the wall, his arms still wrapped around you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Then, quietly, he muttered against your skin:

“You’re never pulling shit like that again.”

...

The inside of your car was quiet.

Just the tick of the cooling engine and your fingers clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white. You could still feel him. His hands, his breath, his voice. Your thighs ached. Your chest ached more.

Simon sat in the passenger seat, breathing slowly, looking out through the windshield.

You didn’t dare look at him. Your heart hadn’t slowed down yet, and your mouth was too dry to speak even if you wanted to.

And then, he sighed. That deep, tired kind of sigh that felt like it scraped out from somewhere inside his ribs.

“We’ll talk about this back home,” he said.

He opened the door before you could say anything, stepped out into the dark, and walked off toward the car he came in, and didn’t look back.

You stared after him for a second.

And then you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Hands shaking, you finally put the key in the ignition.

The road back was silent. Just the occasional tap of rain on the windshield and the screaming echo in your head that wouldn't shut up.

What the fuck just happened?

What was that?

What was that?

Your brain couldn’t settle on a single thought for longer than a second. Just flashes of him slamming the door open, of the look on his face, of the way your body reacted like it didn’t care that he was angry, of the way his voice had gone soft for half a second before he kissed you like he hated you.

You swallowed hard and hit the blinker at the next turn.

You didn’t know what you were going home to.

But you were going home to him.

And that alone made your stomach twist.

You pulled into the driveway, the engine’s hum fading as you both stepped out of the car. The walk to the front door felt endless, every creak underfoot louder than it should be.

Simon was ahead, keys in hand, and before you could even reach for the handle, he was already in front of you. Just like that, blocking your way, his eyes sharp and alert.

Then—

A sudden crack shattered the silence. A gunshot.

Your heart stopped.

Simon’s body jerked, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound.

Before you could react, a heavy blow slammed into the side of your head, and everything went black.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[maskedbyghost]

im eating every ounce of in sickness you feed to us

im in so much love 🥹

Thank you so much 🥰

New part coming soon ❤️

[maskedbyghost]

What must a wrecked scribbler such as I endure to earn a place upon thy sacred tag list my lord

😭😭😭

Endure no more, wrecked scribbler. Thou art in.