#char.simon ghost riley

[celenawrites]

You apologize to Simon.

AO3 Version

Three days. 

Three days of silence since you and Simon had a fight over something insignificant enough for you to even forget about it after a night’s sleep. Three days of silence and avoidance due to an argument that could’ve ended in less than an hour had you been more amenable. You can make excuses all you want (and you’d like to, it’s easier than acknowledging you’re the one at fault for a change - easier to ignore the lump in your throat and your shortened breath, or how warm your ears are from shame) - talk about how shitty this week had been, how much of a right cunt your boss was, or how things just don’t seem to go your way no matter what you do; despite your best efforts, life seemed to be holding a mean grudge against you and punishing all your efforts for it lately. 

Paired with all the shitty things in your life at the moment, and one of these days when Simon ends up saying something to you in a tone that you couldn’t seem to take kindly to (you try your best to understand people and what they say to you, you really do; yet your past has never been as kind to you, and sometimes your patience runs thin despite your best efforts) - which ultimately resulted in you screaming your head off at him. Simon has the patience of a saint on most days - years of war, trauma, and abuse had motivated him to be much kinder than his family ever was, urging him to do everything in his power to never end up as the man who sired him. 

But you forget sometimes that he’s a Lieutenant and he has the tenacity and the rage needed to put the rowdy recruits at the base into place just fine. So when his anger snaps and it does when you decide that he doesn’t get a chance to defend himself (you’re judge, jury, and executioner and you have condemned him for a transgression not his own), he matches your cruel word for cruel word - dark eyes sizing you up as he raises his voice at you in a way that makes your lip quiver and your eyes burn with tears of shame and burning anger as you throw him a mean glance before locking yourself up in the bedroom. 

Simon sleeps on the couch that night. 

You feel guilty the moment you wake up and notice the cold, empty space beside you - the lack of his warm body lying beside you is a sight that will possibly haunt you for the rest of your days. You note the time and you go out of the room, hoping to find your boyfriend sitting on the sofa after his morning run as he wipes his damp forehead with a micro-fiber towel, his brown pupils tracking the time just as you hear the kettle on the gas give out a loud whistle, evident of the fact that Simon had made both of your tea to share in the morning before you both part ways. Instead, you find the empty apartment greets you.  You expected as much. 

He’s angry - at you and at himself, and if he was here, you’d have told him you share the same sentiments. But he’s nowhere to be found in your shared apartment. So you whip up a quick English breakfast, put out all the things he’d need for him to brew his beloved Earl Grey when if he decides to come back and then you leave for work in a hurry. Your mind is preoccupied with worry - about work, about your mess of a life, about Simon and if he has eaten yet. The day passes you by in a blur, and you find yourself finally free from the dissociation you have been plagued with since morning, when you hear the sounds of your footsteps on the concrete sidewalk, taking the long route back home despite the setting sun painting the sky a blood orange, bleeding into the soft clouds and reflecting off of the shiny glass windows adorning the buildings around you. You prolong the commute for some reason - not in a rush to head back home just yet, afraid that this fight might have broken the camel’s back; that you’d return home and find him just gone. 

Like a ghost. 

Your fears are unfounded, luckily - you open the door to your house and find him sitting near the dining table with his arms neatly crossed up on the mahogany table, his face covered by a black surgical mask, and his eyes are unfocused as if he’s meditating deep in thought. You’re almost surprised that your entrance didn’t break him out of his thoughts, out of his own head. Your head feels heavy just by looking at him, and the way your throat constricts forces you to skip dinner altogether as you quickly grab a granola bar (or two) and decide to leave for the bedroom just as quickly, dumping your office attire in the wicker laundry basket near your bed. You leave the door to the bedroom unlocked. 

Just in case, you tell yourself. 

Your night mainly consists of tossing and turning haphazardly - you’re free to move due to the absence of those strong, scarred arms that hold you still and provide you the tether you need in order to actually fall asleep; but your restlessness eventually tires you out enough for you to catch at most a measly two-to-three hours of rest that leaves your eyes aching for more respite when the sunlight invades the softness of your room uninvited, blinding you for a solid minute as you try to gather your wits about you. 

When you turn around in your bed, you’re surprised to find it all messy (as if someone had slept in it while you were knocked out) and it smells of him. Him and his pine body wash and the little smoke that clings to him whenever he decides to go out and hang out with his military friends in a seedy pub and drink cheap beer and half-assed whiskey (he wouldn’t dare touch their Bourbon unless it was Kentucky). He slept here. 

It has been over a day since you last spoke to each other, but the idea of Simon still sleeping near you gives you a sense of comfort you weren’t aware you needed. 

You spend the day in and out of the house since it’s the weekend - bringing in fresh groceries from the farmer’s market and laying down all the vibrant fruits in a glass bowl at the center of the dinner table. You find Simon standing near the kitchen with a brush as he oils the hinges of the creaky door. You both acknowledge each other with a soft nod of your heads as you go about your day tackling chores that the busy week has allowed you to neglect till now. 

Then, you place the new succulents you couldn’t resist buying (couldn’t resist as they reminded you of Simon), and you adjust the window curtains so that they get ample sunlight. You turn around to see if Simon’s here; if he’d noticed the new plant pots and manure packets you had picked up - you wonder if he’d shake his head, almost amused as he joins you to tend to the little succulent pots. Instead, you hear the whirring of the lawn mower to indicate that your partner is outside, getting rid of the tall grass that invades the grounds surrounding your little home.

Then you notice that it is already noon, and decide to brew yourself some ginger tea and plate some oatmeal cookies on a saucer plate as you snuggle into the weary green couch with your current read (a book you had heard people rave about on social media, which made you buy it the moment the local bookstore had it in stock) and drape the cozy baby pink blanket over your shoulders. Simon is still outside, still working on the sparse vegetation of your lawn. You’d like him here right now, with you - drinking the tea from your cup and stealing one of your cookies as he pinches your cheek while you whine to him about it; his soft hands playing with the stray strands of your hair and pulling you into him till your head rests on his chest and his soft heartbeat lulls you to sleep with a lullaby of his worn heart. 

Instead, you sit alone on the sofa, and you almost call out to him and your lead tongue weighs heavy in your jaw (makes it tick an awful lot) and you reason with yourself that the whirring of the loud mower would make it near impossible for him to hear you anyway, so there’s really no merit in screaming your head off as you try to call out to him over the noise. 

You excuse your hesitation with technicalities - it has been a lifelong habit.

Reading with a warm cup of tea has made you drowsy (almost compliant) and you don’t remember when you had allowed yourself to close your eyes, your hands loosen their grip on the book as it fell onto the plush cushion beside you. You wake up an hour or so later, to the afternoon sun blinding your eyes momentarily, and you rub them lightly with your fingers as you try to rub the sleep away. You find the house awfully quiet, an anomaly from what it usually used to be  - the background noise of the television playing a repeat of an old season of the baking show you and Simon would watch while holding each other close, the rhythmic ‘thump thump thump!’ of the hammer as Simon works on whatever passion project you have on your mind (you remember when he made you a dresser from scratch, and when you showed him the Pinterest post that inspired you to request his services, he squinted at the small device screen as he probably wondered how he had ended up being your personal handyman), or the sound of scrawling of ball-point pens as he tries to solve the daily sudoku puzzle in the newspaper. You can hear none of it. 

And there is no whirring of the lawn mower in the backyard anymore. 

You look into the bedroom, and kitchen en route to find it empty - the bed is still well made and there is no 6 '4 behemoth of a man hunched over the gas stove as he brews himself another cup of Earl Grey for the day. You decide to climb the stairs, hoping to find your boyfriend holed up in the spare bedroom that you both had renovated into a study room - something Simon can use whenever he’s forced to bring work to home, and when you need to hole yourself up as you try to finish an impromptu project the night before a very important meeting (that never worked out for you) or work on your work reports that truly embodies ‘brevity is the wit of the soul’ with how empty the Word document looks despite you staring at your laptop screen for hours on end, urging yourself to just write something. 

You open the door lightly, cringing as the hinges squeak at the minute movement. Guess he only oiled the kitchen door today. You peer into the room, apprehensive of facing your partner head-on, stealing a glance into the usually empty room with your heels off the floor, ready to take flight at the slightest hint of confrontation. God knows your heart cannot take it. 

Simon is hunched over the mahogany desk, his head is cushioned by his crossed arms (you can admire his tattoo sleeve with the black t-shirt he had decided to wear, despite the sweltering heat) and he seems to be fast asleep. Christ, he’s gorgeous. 

The sunlight makes his hair light up, and his relaxed face along with scars and healing bruises remind you of the vibrancy and lightness that Monet’s paintings possess. You never thought a person could be like art. And then you met Simon Riley. 

He’s snoring out loud, his blonde hair is a mess - strands of hair pointing in all directions (you still need to cut his hair right; his last haircut had ended up with him having uneven layers all over his head - you’d have much preferred that he should’ve just taken a trimmer and given himself a buzz so at least he can regrow his blonde hair right)  and he’s sweating buckets while sleeping on the wooden table.  And while you still hold some anger in your heart for how your last argument went, and yet all you can think about is how much you love him. You don’t blame him entirely for how you both are now - skittish and walking on eggshells, the wounds of your previous fight still fresh and stinging and oozing with crimson. 

You know you're in the wrong as well, but it's hard to make amends with your dear boyfriend because whenever you try to speak to him you feel a lump in your throat that stops you from speaking your true feelings out loud to him. Shame creeps up on you like the weight of the world is on your shoulders alone (is this how Atlas felt?), and the humiliation chokes you off - your tongue heavy with unsaid things and your empty arms aching to forego all niceties and hold him where he truly belongs. 

So you decide to break the silence between the both of you in the best way you know how, because you love Simon. Because you love him more than you love your bruised ego. 

You make him his favorite tea (‘Was it his third or fourth cup of Earl Grey?’, you mused while pouring the hot beverage into a clean mug.) and cleanly cut open a clementine from the groceries you had brought in earlier (your hands are sticky with its juices as you try to separate each piece from its leathery peel), fanning out all the pieces over the flowered ceramic plate, something you had convinced Simon to buy for the house when you first decided to visit a flea market together to stock up on necessary things after your lover finally asked you to move in with him. That was over a year ago. 

Words may be failing you right now, but you hope your actions can convey your remorse and love for him.

You walk back into the room to see Simon awake, his hands rubbing all over his face as he tries to get rid of the fatigue. You freeze, unsure of how to handle your current predicament. You have been hoping that he’d be still sleeping so that you could quietly place the tray near the table and leave without disturbing him. But he’s awake, and as he glances back at you, you wonder if you look like a deer caught in the headlights - your little detour interrupted by his alert as he takes all sensibilities away from your being. 

“You brought me fruit”, he said dumbly.

“Yeah. And tea”, you reply back dumbly. 

You stare for a beat too long and then abruptly cross the room, quietly placing the plastic tray with the fruits and his tea mug on the study table. You notice the manila folders scattered around, some pages strewn around his working space but you avert your eyes to avoid reading anything written on them - you’d rather not read all that he has to deal with on almost a daily basis as a man of the military. In such moments, you truly do not envy Simon. 

“Uh, I’ll leave you to it then”, you whisper to him, all soft as you swallow the words you truly wish to say. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. I wish I could hold you. I cannot lose you. Please be angry, be mad at me, yell as much as you want. Hold me, I miss you. 

You wish you could at least choke on them to save face. 

You leave the room instead. 

You clean up the living room - you fold the blanket and fluff the pillows and you ignore how your back burned with his gaze on you as you left the study room. You put the flowery bookmark where you had last stopped reading and you go to the kitchen to prepare something light and easy for lunch (pasta in white sauce and toasted garlic bread) and you ignore the urge to drop everything and rush upstairs and spill all the apologies you have wished to communicate but have failed to since the day of the fight. 

Your ego has always reared its ugly head in moments like these. What was borne as a means to protect yourself with the wounds your loved ones had inflicted on you has now made it impossible for you to make amends with the only man that matters to you on God’s green Earth. But ego is nothing compared to the love you have for Simon. So when you’re done with the cooking, you take your sweet time cleaning up the island of the kitchen and you go upstairs to invite him for lunch - you hope the food will soften him up enough to accept the apology you will offer him as a white flag later on. 

You peek inside the room, standing behind the half-closed room and you see him sitting in the black ergonomic office chair (you had bought it after you couldn’t listen to his back crack every time he got up from bed, or from the plastic chair that he used to sit in while staying at his desk for hours on end, only agonizing his fucked-up back further). He’s leaning back on the chair and it creaks under his weight slightly, and he stays motionless, eyes closed and shoulders tense. It’s even better since you won’t have to be weighed down by his intense eyes. 

You walk on your toes, socked feet muted and nimble as they walk across the hardwood floor and you note that he had finished up all the clementine pieces you had laid out for him on the floral plate, and the orange mug is mostly empty - save for remains of sugar residue sticking at the very bottom of the utensil. (You had been surprised to know that the scary, big man you call your boyfriend had a sweet tooth. Luckily, it gave you the perfect excuse to visit the bakery two blocks down on your way back home from work with a paper box of dessert or two.)

You know how hard it really is for him to be at ease, and his tensed shoulders serve as the testimony to that harsh truth. You know sneaking up on him like this will only make him lash out - all in the name of pure self-preservation. And you won’t ever blame him for it.  He hasn’t told you all of it, but between shared silences and a post-coital cigarette on his behalf, he’d open up - the endorphins would make him talk sometimes, and he’d talk of his Ma. Of Tommy. Never his dad. He hasn’t laid down the entirety of his scarred soul bare for you, but you know enough to not hurt him like that ever again. So you gently allow yourself to take note of his uneven hair and say, “I keep forgetting to cut your hair”. 

Your hand creeps up on his neck, eager palm gently running through the golden tufts as they coil around the tips of your fingers. Your attention is on the way his shoulder tenses when you announce your presence in the room. (You’re certain he knew you had come here before, and he knew you were here before you even came this close. He’d never leave himself this vulnerable if he knew there was a threat abound.)

His shoulders stay the same, but you can hear the audible exhale he lets out, and you slowly use your other hand to gently massage the area where his neck meets his shoulder - aware of the stiffness that has been ailing him there for a while now. He groans in relief, and he blinks his eyes open to greet you with brown pupils and a solemn look you fail to decipher.

He looks at you with his head tilted back against the chair, and you focus on the lightning-like scars that cover half of his face, traveling from his temple all the way to the left corner of his chapped lips. “Thank you for the snacks”, he mutters, his eyes trailing all over your face. 

You hum a little, not providing him with a response.

“Would’ve been nicer if you were here to eat them with me…”, he trails off, hoping you’d catch the bait. 

“Yeah. Would’ve been even better if we talked too, no?” You smile down at him, and you gently scratch his scalp as you kiss his temple, murmuring your apology against his skin like a forgotten prayer to an old deity. I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. 

“I’m so sorry for being a cunt. You know that right, Simon?” you ask him, and you can already feel your chest cave in on itself and your eyes burn with tears of remorse. 

“Wasn’t like I was any better, lovie”, he mumbles, and you feel his shoulders sag in relief under your touch. You tell yourself that’s a good sign. 

“Still…”, your fingers gently mess with his hair, “Should’ve swallowed my damn ego, and apologized to you soon”. It’s a learning process. For both of you. 

“Would’ve been easier if you didn’t scamper about whenever you saw me”, there’s amusement in his eyes, and you chuckle at him fondly as you invite him to join you for lunch. He turns the chair around until he’s facing you, and then he pulls your wrist in his hand as he reverently lays down a gentle peck against your knuckles. (You know your skin carries the taste of dish soap on it, and you hope it doesn’t taste too bitter when Simon kisses your hands as if they were God.)

“Missed you”, he speaks against your skin, mimicking your prayer as he looks up at you, and your breath hitches - just a little as you stare down at Simon. Your dear Simon. 

The silence was maddening. 

“I missed you too, Simon”. 

Note -

I got my first apology from a now-close friend of mine when I was 18 years old, and God did it change how I looked at love and people completely. So I guess this piece is dedicated to that friend. Thank you, Voltie. <3

Also, I mainly show my love for people through gift-giving and acts of service and I think Simon is a big 'acts of service' guy…..so here it is - Simon dealing with a girlie who is just as emotionally constipated and can only show her love by doing things for him

totally not inspired by my Asian/Desi upbringing lol

Divider by @/firefly-graphics

[celenawrites]

pretty when you cry

pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

word count - 2.4k

warnings - Ghost is a bit of a dick but he gets better, Reader is a bit of a crybaby here but it's just cuz she's very in tune with her emotions, Simon is emotionally constipated and cannot handle feelings, some fluff, heavy-ish (?) angst, open ending, etc.

Note - Kinda got tired of writing fluffy stuff all the time and my mental health is fraying atm, so I decided to (hopefully) hurt some folks with this little piece. Enjoy!

AO3 Version

Divider by @/firefly-graphics

You cry easy. 

That's what Ghost thought of you when you first joined Task Force-141. 

While he has always been skeptical of any new additions (often temporary) to the team he has come to love and trust after going through hell and back, Price was convinced that your impeccable record on stealth ops, your physical agility, and your skills as a sniper were much needed. 

Reluctantly, Ghost silently accepts his Captain’s decision.

However, time and time again, your sensitive nature had him worried that you might prove to be a heavy liability to the team. 

When you stub your toe against the leg of the table, you let out a few tears of frustration and pain, cursing everyone and their mothers while you hold your injured foot in the air as you comically jump around the kitchen, even though your lack of spatial awareness was to be blamed here. It is almost always a comical sight, Gaz rubbing your back in comfort while you curse and cry, failing to hide his amusement. Soap is not afraid to laugh at your face for it, while Price has this twinkle in his eye as he asks you to sit and eat something for breakfast. 

Simon ignores the flutter in his stomach when you take a seat next to him on the table, your wet hair letting out wafts of jasmine - all for him to smell and keep to himself. 

You cry when you accidentally let the door close on your pinky, dramatic hiccups leaving you as Soap ties up your little finger with white bandages, stroking your hair as he consoles you, "That's a brave lassie, yeah? You got this". (Soap has always been good with people, Simon notes.) Sometimes, Soap will be ‘kind enough’ to offer you to kiss your injuries better and you’d shove him, your face giving away the embarrassment and the humorous jest you feel around the demolition expert. 

You weep uncontrollably when you watch Marley and Me with Gaz in the rec room. Price and Ghost had been passing by, discussing the aftermath of a mission they had just returned from when they heard loud sobs coming from the usually empty room. They peer in to find both of you huddled close in soft blankets, a bowl of popcorn propped up in your lap and a box of tissues in Gaz’s lap, as you munch on the buttery snack and cry over the adorable dog finally being put to rest. You lean into Gaz for comfort and Ghost wonders if you still smell of mud and caked blood like you did on the field. 

Price decides to break up the party as he enters the room, clearing up his throat to grab the attention of his Sergeants. Your lip wobbles as he lightly scolds you, his brow laden with concern as he looks at you and tells you both to go get some much-needed rest. You pass him by as you leave the room, your hand being a feather’s touch away from his and he almost holds onto you. (He still has no idea why he almost reacted like that to you)

One time, Price had been sent to help Laswell out on a crucial mission and all you had accomplished during those three and a half weeks was mope around and wish your Captain were here. You’d be lying on the sofa in the common room and you’d whine to your companions. “I’m so bored. I miss Captain. I wish he was here”, you’d pout and Soap and Gaz would gang up on you, teasing you as they asked you whether you had some unresolved feelings for dear Price. (The idea of you coveting Price like a lover seemed ridiculous to him, really. You and the Captain? Not a chance)

And then there was that one time when you had to go on a solo mission (the first of you being on your own since you joined the task force, really) and when you had come back to him them, battered and bloodied and disheveled but still safe and sound and Price lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as if all the weight of the world has disappeared now that you’re back home, back to your team (where you now rightfully belong). You rush to them, running as if you cannot close the distance between them fast enough, and Price hugs you with steady arms as he lets you cry into his shoulder, wetting his uniform as you all but sob in relief, leaning on your Captain for support as your legs turn like jelly, unable to support the weight of your weary body. 

It must’ve been terrifying - being out there on the field, hostility and death surrounding you in all directions and the only person you could possibly rely on is yourself. Keeping yourself safe and sane as you navigate unknown terrain and fight off the monsters who wear the skins of humans and pollute the very Earth they have been raised on. Blood and gore and gunpowder clinging to you like a second skin as you pray to survive another night and make it back home safely. Back to your team. 

Back to your kind captain, and sergeants you have befriended and a cold Lieutenant who sometimes fails to hide the care he carries for you in his brown eyes. 

Price has a look of sympathy and understanding on his face as he drags you to the infirmary, even holding your trembling hand in his warm palm as you flinch at the sight of the large syringe needle and hiss in pain whenever the alcohol-soaked cotton is applied to your cuts. He soothes you with a gentle pat on your back, mindful of your treated injuries as he softly tells you to clean up and maybe get some much needed sleep, asking Gaz to supply you with something to eat before you doze off due to fatigue and the morphine still floating in your system. 

Ghost found it annoying for the most part - sometimes snapping at you to "Shut up and focus" on bad days and while he’s still irked at the sentimentality you possess, something that he and his comrades have willingly allowed to wither and die in their souls, a small part of him - a part of him that still resembles who Simon was, a mimicry of the humanness he hasn’t felt in his dead soul for years, worried about you. Worried sick about you and your emotions and the lack of lid you have on it. Worried if he had been too harsh on you because he doesn’t do emotions, and clearly he is out of his depth when it comes to dealing with people, but especially when it comes to dealing with you. 

He realizes he doesn’t mind you crying all that much. 

You go out for drinks to celebrate your successful solo mission and you spend the time you had lost on the field with your teammates - you play billiards with Gaz against Soap and Ghost and lose sorely, and then you try out a peg of whiskey the Captain has ordered and Price laughs heartily as you sputter and whine as the drink burns your esophagus. You somehow convince Ghost to teach you how to throw darts and he tries to not lean into your warmth as he stands behind you, his gloved hand holding your wrist as he positions you and teaches you how to throw the wooden dart you hold between your smooth fingers, and tells you all he knows about making sure that the little thing hits the dartboard without fail. 

Simon can smell your jasmine shampoo and your citrus perfume on you as he uses his hands to correct your posture. He can feel how soft and pliant you are under him, eager to obey and please him, and all he can think about is what it’d be like - being your confidante, being the voice of reason for you when you’re drowning in emotions, being a sturdy shoulder for you to cry on. 

And he knows for a fact that you’d be all that and more in a heartbeat if he allowed you to. 

You lean onto Simon for support, your head lolling onto his shoulder as he quietly guides you to your bedroom. You hum quietly as he carefully makes you lie down on your bed, removing your shoes for you and when you beg him to help you remove the little makeup you had applied for the night (Price blatantly ignoring the use of contraband because it’s you), he surprisingly complies. Years of applying camo paint on his face give him the needed experience around using micellar water and makeup wipes as he helps you prepare yourself for a night of mindless sleeping, which will be followed by a hangover in the morning plaguing almost all of them. (He swears he’ll force you to drink the ginger tea he’ll make, no matter how much you’d whine about it tasting ‘yucky’. He’d rather not have you hurling over everything like a cat with a persistent hairball stuck in its throat).

“I’m so happy”, you hum to yourself as Simon tilts your head up. 

“Close your eyes, Sergeant”, he orders and you comply, feeling the soaked cotton pad rub against your eyelids as your Lieutenant removes your pink eye shadow. It’s a pretty color on you, Simon thinks but he never says it out loud.  

You stay silent as he finishes up with your work, his calloused fingertips tilting and moving your head to look at any missed spots he might’ve overlooked in the dim bedroom light. 

“All done”, he scruffs, getting up on his feet and he hears you call out to him as he leaves the room.

“What is it?” he asks, wishing to be in his warm bed on this cold night. 

“Thank you, sir”, you say earnestly with your eyes shining with sincerity and an unrecognizable emotion. 

Simon observes you - you lying on your bed in the clothes you wore to the bar, with most of your makeup removed and your eyes struggling to stay open as intoxication and tiredness tempt you to forget the world and sleep.

A moment too late, he asks you, “What are you thanking me for, rookie?”

Only to find you out cold.

He sighs, draping the thin blanket over your shivering body and leaving you alone in your room. 

When you wake up the next day with a hangover headache, your makeup removed and your blanket draped over you tenderly, you make your way to the common kitchen and you ask your moody superior if he remembers anything from the night before - your hazy memory failing to cover the gaps in your memory. 

He gruffly says out, “No” and then hands you a cup of ginger tea, looking at you intensely as he waits for you to whine about the bitter taste of the tea he’s made for you. Knowing it’s a lost fight, you let out an exasperated sigh and thank your Lieutenant for the hangover cure. He looks at you a beat too long before leaving you to your own devices, exiting the room, and going God knows where. 

It takes him time, with all that he is and all that he has been through, to come to a new conclusion for his first impression of you. Steadily with time, Simon realizes that the reason you cry so easily is not because you're weak. 

It’s because you’re brave. 

Brave enough to express yourself and not fear rejection from others. Brave enough to show that you care, to show that you love life and people and everything life has to offer. Brave and kind and valiant in everything you do, Simon is almost jealous of your ability to be so open and free. He wonders what it would be like to let go and just allow himself to feel. 

It’d probably drown him alive. 

It might set him free. 

He’d never get the chance to know though. 

Now again, you sob as you put pressure on his abdomen wound as you talk to him with a wet, unstable voice, “Stay awake for me, Lt. We will all make it”. You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. (You need that reassurance more than him anyway).

He’s sluggish, the blood loss and pain makes it hard for him to focus on your blurry face and the skull mask on his face doesn’t help him either. He’s immobile, despite trying his level best to raise his hand up so that he can wipe away the stray tears on your cheeks. He parts his lips to tell you to please stop crying, to tell you how he’s not worth the worry, he’s not worthy of your tears - not when he has vehemently admonished you for them all this time. 

But all he can do is let out a low moan of pain, his eyes rolling back in his head. He can hear your voice, can hear the worry and fear and panic as you call out to him, but everything is hard and he can hear you but comprehending your words is near impossible with the ringing in his ears and the whirring of the helicopter that came in to rescue him and his team. He’s aware of his teammates sitting beside him - he can imagine their solemn faces as they cope with the possibility of him succumbing to his wounds before they make it back to safety. But he focuses on you instead - sweet, radiant you who worries about everyone and everything; who wears her heart on her sleeve and still holds onto the hope that he will make it out of this ordeal alive, even though he can feel his life slipping away from him like the sands of time.

Each breath of his is labored, and Simon wishes for nothing more than to wipe away your tears or to maybe hold your soft self against his injured body, cradling you close to his heart as he vows to survive this for you. Only for you. 

Through black spots and dryness, he blinks up to look at you and he has this realization, a moment of pure ‘Eureka!’ as he observes your worsened state of being. 

You have never been prettier than this instant, crying over him and praying to any kind of deity who’d grant him the boon of life. 

Satisfied with his discovery and suddenly extremely tired, he allows himself to close his eyes, letting the fatigue win and the last thing he sees is you crying for him to stay alive and fight. 

The last thing he hears is your sobs as you beg someone, anyone to save your Lieutenant. 

Note -

Title is thanks to the song 'Pretty When You Cry' by Lana Del Rey, although I wasn't actually listening to the song while writing this.

[celenawrites]

I wanna sit on Simon's lap while he's manspreading on a sofa and feel him grope me with his rough hands like I'm a doll <33333

[celenawrites]

late night drive (m.)

Summary -

After a stressful work day, you spend the night with two handsome men.

Pairing -

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish x F! Reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Warnings -

Explicit smut (18+ only), slight praise, usage of nicknames (good girl, sweet girl, lass, etc), Oral sex (F, M receiving), Reader has self-esteem issues and it shows heavily, slight angst.

w.c. - 6.5k

masterlist || ao3 vers.

MINORS DNI, or I'll bite your ankles. This stuff is for adults only. 18+ folks only.

You have met them both at a seedy bar set a little off to the left from the heart of the city. 

Johnny and Simon. You remember them sitting at the bar, glasses half-filled with Kentucky bourbon, faint murmurs of their conversation flowing like a gentle stream between them and their hands tenderly drawing mindless shapes on their scarred skins. (as if they were writing their soft declarations of love with their fingers on each other, invisible to the eye and yet etched into their souls.)

You are uncertain how you caught their eye. You are not sure if there is something in you that they had caught in a passing glance, and decided to open their hearts (and their beds) to you for this one night as a result. 

You had been there after bombing another promising job interview, pissed at your failed potential (you were an A plus student - honors call and all, until you weren’t anymore) and the dead-end job of yours that had you feeling miserable for the past three or so years. It didn’t help that any time you fiddled with your phone, you’d be bombarded with pictures of your schoolmates and college friends marrying, or going on vacations and having a family of their own - growing older with someone, anyone; their lives full and moving and vibrant with colors that usually hurt your eyes. 

Meanwhile, you are just living. 

A day at a time. A week at a time. 

Day to day to day has always been the same. You wake up, work, cook and clean for one and you indulge in past hobbies in order to capture the joy that has somehow slipped past your fingers the older you grew. You have no furry companions you can use as an excuse to go out on a walk, no lovers to send raunchy texts to, and no friends who would abandon their children and husbands to give you company while you wallow in your eternal misery as you drink your pain away with a beer bottle with condensation settling down on its neck, leaving your palms wet and slippery. 

You don’t even try to think about your family. 

So there you are, an untouched glass of pink gin kept in front of you and your hands nervously raking through your oiled hair and your rumpled work outfit (a sky blue blouse paired with black pencil skirt) ostracized you further from the patrons of the bar. And then you’re approached by Johnny who eyes your colorful drink with mild interest. 

Johnny with his wild mohawk and kind brown eyes and kissable lips - who wondered out loud what a pretty little lady like you was doing in a place like this (you almost snorted derisively at the casual compliment, but the fatigue had you more amenable to flattery) and then he asked you about your disheveled state, and you tell him that everyone with a job feels like this on a usually busy weekday. He nods like he understands you, and then he invites you to join him and his boyfriend for some drinks. 

Who are you to refuse free drinks and such handsome company?

The conversation is freeing in a way that it allows your mind to forget that the world exists outside of this temporary, delicate bubble that consists of you, Johnny and Simon. Johnny fills the space with his warm voice, enveloping you in comfort and safety as he talks about anything and everything - he tells you that both of them are in the Army (But none of them would budge to answer any questions of yours. “If I answered that, I’d have to kill you”, he joked, but his hardened gaze told you that there is some truth to it.You decided to not let your curiosity guide you anymore.), the football game on the television hung up on the wall, the movie that came out last week, the bourbon they have been nursing for the past half hour or so (“Simon only likes it when it’s Kentucky”, he says and you understand the need for some delicacies of this life staying the same, no matter what.), and then he asks you if you’d like to eat something. 

You and Johnny share a plate of cheese fries. 

The fries are oversalted(the perfect drunk food, but unfortunately you haven’t even worked up a buzz with your neglected drink), and the cheese is too gooey for you to not eat without getting your hands messy. You cringe at the stickiness, and Johnny laughs at your predicament and you wonder if it is possible for radiant, burning stars to be born as mortals. 

His boyfriend, Simon, does not join you in eating the food. 

His face is covered by a black surgical mask, and he is mostly quiet - letting his more jubilant counterpart lead the conversation. But conversation lulls between satiating your hunger and Johnny encouraging you to drink from his glass. (“Try it, bonnie. Real booze hits different”, he offers hospitably, and then he chuckles as you sputter and choke at the liquid burning your throat. At least he’s kind enough to pat your back, and then he orders a tall glass of water for your poor throat.)

Simon shakes as he dryly chuckles at the antics of his partner, and you feel heat travel down your stomach at how rough and rich his voice sounds. You find it oddly comforting against the commotion of the busy bar tonight. 

After you made a fool out of yourself, the masked man (with his dirty blonde hair and white scars that ran all over his face, only for half of it to be hidden by his black surgical face mask) is much more receptive to having a conversation with you. He seldom talks, but he doesn’t shy away from cracking a dark joke or two that almost make you choke on your own spit. His eyes are dark and intense, and sometimes when your own gaze meets his own, you find it almost impossible to look away from him - afraid that the moment you do, you’d find yourself alone and miserable at the bar again. 

There seems to be a pleasant silence settling between you three, and with a warm face and heavy limbs, you lean into the warm hand that cradles the small of your back and let it gently spell something illegible yet almost affectionate into your skin, the fabric of the blouse acting as a poor guard between your sensitive body and the touch you were not aware you craved until now. 

You look on with heavy eyes as the couple has a secret conversation between them with their eyes alone. Warm, lovely eyes that were scattered across the different spectrum of shades of brown. Eyes that pierced you and stripped you naked until you were nothing more than your deepest yearnings and fears. Eyes that carried a never-ending love for each other, and each other alone. 

They talk in furtive glances, and all you can do is give up on deciphering their language and let yourself enjoy the circles being drawn onto your back by Johnny’s teasing fingers. (You possibly cannot expect to unfurl all of that history and love between them just because you get to be a part of it for a few hours, can you now?)

After they have made a decision and with a nod of mutual acceptance, Johnny turns back to you and you straighten up due to the sudden attention. He looks at you with something akin to desire, and you can only feel your mouth turn dry as he asks you:

“Wanna get out of here?”

They hail a taxi for the three of you. 

Johnny is curious and impatient with his hands as he fondles you and leaves fluttering kisses up your neck. You should be mortified; getting frisky with a man you have known for only a few hours, in a taxi no less. But the attention makes it easier to swallow the humiliation that tries to consume your thoughts. Your back is pressed up against Simon’s side, who is all the more satisfied with watching his boyfriend paw at you like a cat fascinated with his new toy. You tilt your head back, and curse out when Johnny’s lips touch a spot that makes your knees buckle. And then you feel a hand engulf your throat, squeezing you gently and you think you might as well just forget to breathe all together. 

“Such a pretty girl”, Simon whispers against the shell of your ear, and you are glad that the only source of light on your way to their place are the shitty streetlights, because you cannot school your expression into one of indifference. (You like the praise a little too much.You like it out of Simon’s mouth even more.)

After what seems like an eternity of being teased and taunted by sweet words and lazy actions, the taxi finally comes to a stop and you send out a prayer to any deity out there who might be awake at this odd hour and willing to lend you an ear, because you’re sure that this night will leave you ruined. 

You get out of the vehicle on wobbly knees and Johnny is all the more willing to support you while he guides you to the apartment complex where he and Simon currently reside. Simon throws the crumpled bills on the lap of the driver, along with a generous tip for putting up with his frisky lover and the sweet girl they have taken home and for not kicking them out in the middle of nowhere late at night. Simon joins you both in the elevator, and Johnny is all the more eager to pin you against him and finally kisses you on the lips. 

You moan into the kiss, your hands finally tugging on his mohawk and bringing you closer and closer to his body. (Not close enough, your body screams. Never close enough, it screams again.) His hands are all the more eager to explore every soft curve of you; restless fingers groping your breasts and making you arch into him even more. 

“Fuck, bonnie.Yer so soft”, he remarks after breaking the kiss, and you can only pant at how breathless one kiss from this man had left you. You can only wonder what more he’s capable of making you feel. 

You are turned around to face Simon, who looks at your crumpled blouse and your messy hair and the neediness that drips from your eyes and your swollen lips. He holds your chin and tilts it to look at him, before commanding you, “Open up, sweetheart”. 

You comply without any complaints, wanting nothing more than to obey the masked man. 

You open your mouth, letting your pink tongue tease your parched lips as you wet them and he pries your mouth open wider with a firm hand on your jaw. His dark eyes look down on you, and you feel as if you’re going to be sacrificed and all you can hope is that he likes the offering you have in store for him. (You you you, you offer him all of you.)

“Suck on it”, he orders and you swallow the thumb he offers you - letting you soothe your oral fixation while you impatiently resist the urge to tap your foot against the floor as you wait for the elevator to finish its ascent. 

You twirl your tongue around it, wetting the finger in your mouth before you let it out with a resounding ‘pop’, a thin string of saliva connecting your soft lips and the thumb. Your eyes look up at him in reverence, pleading with him to reward you for your good behavior. 

“Fuckin’ hell”, he rasps out, and he almost leans forward, almost closes the distance between you both when the elevator lets out a ring and stops on the designated floor. 

Through drunk giggles and impaired body coordination, you follow the men as they lead you to their apartment. The moment the door closes behind them (locked carefully by Simon, while Johnny guides you inside), they’re back onto you - clinging to your body like you’re the anchor that grounds them in the storm of life. 

And it feels nice to be needed like that, if only for a moment. 

You’re on your knees on the floor as you wait for Simon to do something.

You are naked - your clothes peeled off from your body after Simon unzipped it for you and Johnny had been all the more eager to palm your breasts in his hands - warm and calloused and greedy for more. 

Your blouse is discarded somewhere on the floor long forgotten.

(“Lovely tits”, Johnny had groaned as he had undressed you, and you thanked yourself for wearing a somewhat decent bra today. )

You sit waiting - a paragon of virtue and patience as you look up at the men who would be ultimately ruining you tonight. They talk in eyes again, and you feel a pang of irritation at your inability to decipher all that is said between them with just a single look. 

Your arms are folded across your chest - a decision you had swiftly taken after feeling a wave of self-consciousness hit you in full force. You can feel your ankles getting numb at the posture - the pins and prickles forcing you to momentarily shift your weight from the ball of your feet to your knees, taking the lack of notice from either men as an incentive to ensure you don’t end up with numb legs while you wait for them to finish whatever secretive talk they are having without words. 

Simon turns towards you and notices you struggling on your knees, and then he reaches for one of the pillows scattered near the headboard of their Californian-sized bed. He asks you gently, “Get up from the floor, lovie”, and you do, wincing as you feel the blood circulation return to your sore feet. He puts the pillow on the ground near your feet, bending down to fluff it up a bit for your disposal. You thank him for the considerate action, before assuming your position below him again - the pillow cushioning your knees and providing you much needed relief from the hard marble floor. 

“Look at me, lovie”, he commands and you follow him eagerly, tilting your head up to meet his dark eyes. He looks godly, hovering above you like an ethereal deity - his scarred hands and intimidating gait only gives your body the incentive to feel the thrum of desire in your bloodstream as it flows south, making you ready for him. 

For both of them. 

“A little help here, Johnny?” he beckons and the other man stands in front of Simon, shielding your view of him with his back as he helps the masked man take off his shirt, and if the muffled groans are anything to go by - they’re both kissing and you cannot even see Simon’s face. After a moment, he unzips his pants and lets the garment fall down to his ankles - leaving him in nothing but a dark pair of boxer briefs. 

Johnny falls down to his knees in front of him and Simon has his mask back on. Kneeling below him, he uses his mouth on his clothed cock, peppering him with soft kisses filled with drool and lust. Simon groans above him, letting his fingers card through the man’s mohawk as he encourages him with throaty noises to continue his actions. Eager to feel all of him, Johnny slides his thumbs into the band of his briefs as he slowly slides down the garment from his hips, letting it pool around his ankles as well. From where you’re seated, you can see how thick Simon is, and you cannot help the way your mouth waters at the idea of being used by him. 

You snap out of your thoughts when Simon pulls Johnny onto his feet by his mohawk, forcing him to bare his neck to the taller man and you swear you can hear him whimper when Simon catches his throat with his other hand before giving it a light squeeze. 

The sight before you is nothing short of heavenly. 

“Eager, are we?” he taunts him, taking his breath away with just a squeeze of his fingers and he lets out a throaty hum as he eyes up his partner, noticing the semi he’s been sporting in his jeans ever since he got a taste of you. 

“But it’s her turn”, he motions to you and you straighten your back as both men look back at you. 

“C’mere love”, he calls out to you, and you get down to your hands and knees, willing to crawl to him if that is what it will take for him to let you touch him, feel him under your fingertips. 

He shakes his head, stopping you in your tracks.

“No, bring that pillow with you too”, he orders you, “Don’t want your knees to get sore now, do we?”

You feel his hands pull at your hair gently as he brings out his still hard cock out of the confines of your soft mouth. Your lips are sheen with spit and pre-cum and the running makeup paints a debauched picture of you before these men. 

So perfect. So ruined. And all theirs for the night. 

You look up at him with teary eyes and longing and Simon is almost tempted to allow you to keep going, to let himself finish in your warm, soft mouth. But he has quite a night planned for the both of you(You and Johnny, Johnny and you - consuming his thoughts and mind and even his heart.), and he’d rather not finish in a handful of pumps before you. 

“Don’t pout at me, pretty girl”, he chides you playfully, his chest heaving as he takes in deep breaths to soothe the fire in his lungs that you have invoked within him.

You whine noncommittally, eyes focused on him and only him - and it almost shakes him to his core how much he likes having your attention all for himself. (Greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy-)

“Gotta get you ready for the both of us, yeah?” you nod eagerly at his statement, and then you feel a pair of arms around your waist lift you up in the air and you shriek as you’re thrown on the soft mattress, bouncing lightly at the impact as your head falls back on the bed. 

“Johnny!” you scream out in surprise, almost tempted to scold him for scaring you but his calloused fingers trace your curves and they tickle your skin that makes it hard for you to control yourself. You let out a soft giggle as the man hovers above you, letting his hands map out every little scar, every little mole, every little mark on your soft skin. 

He grins at you, before bending down and taking your lips in a soft kiss - growling a little as he tastes Simon on your lips. Pulling away, he looks down on you again as he cages you between his arms. 

“Hi there, bonnie," he whispers breathlessly. 

“Hi there, handsome”, you whisper earnestly, before turning your head to the side and kissing the inside of his wrist. 

“Johnny will help you get ready. Won’t you, Johnny?” Simon asks, and Johnny groans as he lowers himself down over your body till his eyes line up with the hem of your soft black panties. You exhale soundly in anticipation, propping yourself onto your elbows so your head is up and your eyes gaze into Johnny’s warm brown pupils. You let out an audible exhale when you feel his hands grab the meat of your inner thigh, before he leaves a tender kiss on it, letting out his tongue to taste your skin. Your head falls back on the pillow below you, and your hands find purchase in the luscious locks of his mohawk as Johnny lets his tongue rile you up by licking and kissing every inch of your exposed skin, avoiding where you needed him the most on purpose. 

“So sweet”, his teeth lightly bite the meat of your inner thigh, and you wince at the pain before whimpering. 

“So pretty”, his fingers play with the flimsy fabric covering your cunt, slowly tugging them to the side and revealing how needy you are for him. For both of them. 

“Johnny, please”, you beg him so sweetly with your fingers tugging on his hair, that he finally gives in to your demands with no further ado. 

It isn’t long until Johnny is fucking you with all he has. 

You have your face buried sideways into the pillow and a leg propped up on his strong shoulder, the position offering him a chance to fuck you deeper that your fingers or any half-hearted partner ever has. 

The pillow is wet from the sweat and spit and tears it has soaked up from you, and you bite the fluff of it, trying your best to mute your incomprehensive noises down - lest the nice couple fucking you right now get a noise complaint from their neighbours tomorrow - but to no avail. 

It’s like Johnny is on a personal quest to make you scream for everyone to hear. 

It also helps that Simon has taken it upon himself to fuck his boyfriend dumb, and what a sight it must be - Johnny fucking into you desperately and letting Simon control the rhythm of his hips as he fucks into him. You’d beckon that he probably has his tongue out - no man can survive fucking someone and getting fucked at the same time without letting it dumb him down like a mutt in heat. 

Too bad the room is pitch black for you to witness the filthy sight. 

At least the dark room allows Simon to take off his mask, even though it stings to know that you may never know the man behind the mask - may never remember the man who is giving you the best night of your life before you return back to your mundane life of spreadsheets, burnt coffee in styrofoam cups and manila folders the next morning. 

You feel your legs shake - the lethal amalgamation of pleasure and exhaustion coating your bones as you feel Johnny hit the spongy spot deep in you that makes you keel and beg into the mattress for the much overdue orgasm that has been building up inside you for the better part of the hour. 

He bends down, letting his tongue lick your neck and his sharp incisors drag over the taut skin as he mumbles about how pretty you sound when you’re fucked dumb. None of that matters to you right now, not when you’re this close to relief - but Johnny doesn’t oblige; either too dumbed down just like you to understand what you need, or denying you what you need on purpose - which is probably the cruelest thing he could fucking do to you tonight. 

You feel another pair of fingers slide up your thighs before said fingers finally map out your swollen clit amongst the mess of sweat and limbs and Simon uses his calloused fingertips to gently rub you until you’re crying and arching your back before you slide down back into the bed, your limbs sagging with relief as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

“Fuck, bonnie”, you hear Johnny grunt out, feel him fuck you rougher and feel his hands grope your breasts roughly, but you’re far away now - floating away in a strange, hazy headspace as you hear his groans before his hips finally stutter to a close and then he slumps forward, letting the brunt of his weight fall down on you. 

Simon follows him soon after, slowly pulling out from his partner with a soft ‘Fuck’.

You whine at the impact, pushing at his shoulders weakly as you urge him to get his weight off from your sore body. You sighed out when he eventually obliged, letting himself fall into bed beside you, his fingers gently playing with your messy hair. You feel his stubble tickle your face as he lands a soft kiss against your jaw, “You were so good for us, lass”. 

You preen at the praise, letting his soft words and touch comfort you as you slowly feel yourself regain control of your body and your mind, already missing how you felt just a moment ago. 

You can hear the running faucet in the bathroom next door, and listen to the doors creak and soft footfalls before Simon returns to the scene with a wet washcloth. He taps your knee and you part your legs obediently for him - feeling the wet cloth drag over your innermost parts as he wipes you clean before offering you a few face wipes kept near his nightstand, which you take gratefully and you wipe away the smudged makeup, smearing the ruined mascara all over your cheeks. You hear Simon sigh before he gently pries the thin wipe from your hands, taking it upon himself to help you clean up nicely. In the dim moon light peeking through the windows, you notice he has his mask back on, and you feel disappointed at how you haven’t been able to look at him. You feel Johnny’s fingers gently massage your scalp, and the tension in your shoulders leaves you promptly, making you sag into the soft mattress as he coos at you, occasionally kissing your cheeks. It’s almost enough to put you at ease. 

It’s not long before the boys clean up after themselves before they join you back in bed. Sandwiched between the two men, you feel exhaustion and the afterglow lull you into a false sense of security - and you almost feel like you’re cared for. 

You hadn’t been able to fall asleep, despite your best efforts. Your thoughts have been nothing short of cruel, and you only feel shame creep under your skin the more you think about how this night had transpired. 

You have desperately gone home of two stranger men (who are together, no less), sat down on your knees like a desperate whore (and liked it), had gotten naked for them (and let them see all of your curves and rolls and blemishes), and let them fuck you dumb till you almost forgot your damn name. 

And now you lie between them, unable to put your mind at ease and sleep away the second thoughts.

Mortification seems to be the least of your worries at the moment. 

The worst part seems to be the fact that you wished for nothing more than to prolong the facade of love and gratitude they had for you when they cleaned you up, only for it to be redirected to each other as they checked in on each other with hushed whispers and soft kisses, their intermingled hands serving you a bitter reminder that you cannot overstay your welcome. 

It’s them first. And then you. 

You are just another body they had invited to warm their bed for the night. 

You are quick to wiggle out of the bed, feeling your ears burn in embarrassment as you try your best to locate your discarded clothes on the cold bedroom floor. You find your skirt near the legs of the bed, your cotton panties not far off from there. Your blouse and bra lie near the door, and you’re almost dressed when you hear a light click and see the light of the table lamp illuminate the room in a soft yellow. Johnny blinks, still sluggish from his interrupted sleep as he rubs away the sleep from his eyes, and you stay standing, frozen in your step. You almost feel guilty for waking him up. Were you not quiet enough?

You feel like a child who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar by her mother. 

“Yer leavin’?” he asks with a helpless look on his face, and you almost walk back into his arms.

Almost go back to the space they have created for you - between them. 

The clock reads a quarter past three when they both offer to drive you home. 

It’s not long before Simon wakes up from the commotion. (You turn around and train your eyes on the wall, waiting until you’re certain that his face is covered - having taken the hint that he would not welcome the idea of revealing his identity to you yet.) Soon enough, they’re both asking you why you’re up and leaving and the sincerity in their voices almost convinces you that they want you here. 

But you use work as an excuse to go back home, and despite how obvious that lie is, Simon insists on driving you home nonetheless. (You almost turn him down, but Johnny pipes in, “There’s not gonna be a whole lotta cabs for ye to hail. Let us make sure our lady reaches home safe,”, and you feel your walls crumble slightly, feel your very foundation of self-hatred and pity shake at how he addresses you as theirs. As if you’re now a part of them, like they’ve been a part of each other for years.)

They ask you to stay anyway, promising to drop you off to your home first thing in the morning - bribing you with promises of cuddles in your sleep and breakfast in bed; promising you intimacy you’re wholly undeserving of, and you cut them off swiftly as you tell them that you’d rather be at home right now so that you can wake up later and go straight to office - no detours welcomed. 

Reluctantly, they comply.

So you let them both escort you out of the apartment building and you stand with Johnny while Simon revs up his car and lets the engine warm up before letting you both sit inside. Johnny naturally assumes his place beside Simon, sitting in the passenger seat and you sit in the backseat. You almost feel apprehensive about telling them your address, but your rattled brain cannot seem to care about it - too tired and strung up to give a shit about ‘stranger danger’. 

Simon types out your address on the phone and he soon follows the path - the soft hum of the engine making you succumb to the tiredness you feel and you lie down on your side, the leather seat of the car cushioning your now-throbbing head and you cannot help but close your eyes just for a moment. 

After a few minutes, you hear Johnny talk about buying groceries and he asks out loud if his boyfriend would like to add anything to the list. Simon softly replies back with a few additions - whey protein, some bananas, pancake mix, shower gel and a room freshener spray. Johnny mulls over it before recalling some more things they need to buy soon. (“Dusting cloths. Manure. Oh, gotta get some stuff from the hardware store too!” “Don’t forget to get some cereal and protein bars.” “Roger that, Lt.”)

The conversation lulls. And then it begins anew. 

Simon asks Johnny if he’d like to have biscuits and gravy for breakfast, and he lets out an almost disappointing groan at his atrocious food choices. (Or so he tells him.) Instead, Johnny suggests they have some hash browns. (“Gotta get that carb in for the long day ahead!” and Simon just chuckles dryly at his reasoning.)

Then, they talk some more - about work and people. About how they’d need to go back to work, and how they’d miss staying home together. About how they should get some cigars for ‘Price’, whoever that may be. About how ‘Gaz’ is vacationing in Italy with his family. About how they should have a vacation the next time they get a break that lasts them more than a week. 

They hold hands - at least Johnny does, and he brings his partner’s hand to his face, softly kissing his knuckles, and that is when your curiosity wins over as you open your eyes to witness the sickly sweet scene of two men, two souls being in love. Johnny looks at him like Simon’s his entire universe - and 

You shut your eyes quickly, feeling like an outsider between them both. 

That’s maybe because you are one, your brain supplies you with this thought rather unkindly and you dig your nails into your palms to distract yourself from it. 

The scene oddly enough reminds you of your parents when they were still in love and when you were young and sleeping in the backseat after an exciting evening at the city fair. It is far too domestic and tender for an outsider like you to intrude upon, and so you keep your eyes shut - unwilling to witness them and get your heart broken again. 

As their conversation fades to silence again, you bravely open your eyes - squinting in the dark as the only source of light are the street lights outside. You witness Simon with his hand on Johnny’s thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles against the soft cotton of his black joggers. You witness Johnny humming to himself with a satisfied smile on his face as he occasionally looks at Simon with love in his eyes. Pure, unconditional love brimming in his brown, almond eyes. And when you look at Simon, his eyes reflect the same - unfiltered affection and absolute devotion; all these emotions reserved for the love of his life. His only love of his life. 

It makes you sick. 

Sick with yearning. Sick with the green monster of envy. 

You’re so sick with it all. 

This time when you close your eyes, you feel a tear drip down your nose as you let the soft whirr of the engine and Johnny’s humming act as the lullaby you needed to hear before you sleep.

You feel someone shake you softly by your shoulder when you come into consciousness. 

“Wake up, dove”, you hear Simon call you, “We’re here already”. 

You stare up at him as he hovers over you from outside the car. His masked face gives little away about how he’s feeling at the moment, but you feel embarrassed all the same - for intruding upon them and for sleeping in their car as they drove you home half-asleep and still in their pajamas. 

You get up and use the back of your hand to wipe away any drool, snot or tears you might’ve let out while you were out like a light in the backseat of their car. The opened car door lets in the chilly night wind, and you shiver at the drop in temperature. 

“Here, have this”, he offers you a windcheater jacket - and you gratefully take it and zip it up till the collar of the clothing lightly brushes your chin.  He extends his hand to you, and you take it  - letting his calloused palm warm up your cold fingers as he escorts you out of the vehicle. Once you’re out on the concrete pavement, you notice Johnny leaning against one of the many lamp posts scattered across your street. He’s rubbing his hands for some warmth, and the yellow streetlights act like a halo around his tousled mohawk. He’s angelic. 

The steady echo of your footfalls catches his attention, and he turns to look at you with such warmth in his eyes that you falter in your steps for a moment. His kind, blue eyes look at you like you’re the moon - like you’re something familiar and he’s known you forever. 

You do not know what to make of it. 

“Had a nice sleep, lass?” he asks you casually, and you feel the tip of your ears warm up in embarrassment. 

You nod demurely, before responding, “Yeah, I did. I’m so sorry I troubled you with escorting me back home”. 

“Don’t apologize”, Simon speaks up as he rests a gentle hand on your left shoulder, before he joins Johnny in standing in front of you. He looks at you with an unreadable look, and you worry that he can see what you don’t wish anyone to notice. That he can tell. 

“We had to make sure our bonnie reached her home safe”, Johnny quips, and you feel your resolve crumble just a little bit - his honeyed words coaxing you to hug him and it catches him off guard, just a little. To feel your arms wrap around his body, to feel your heart beat so fast before falling into synch with his

“Thank you”, and you mean it - for taking care of you, for making you forget your shitty office and your shitty job for the night, for driving you back home, for showing you what love is (even though it burnt you from inside to see what they have and know that you’d never have that). 

You’re thankful to them for a lot of things. 

You’re curled up on your side on the bed as you try to catch some sleep before the sun greets you from between the curtains over your window, but all attempts to go back to sleep fail you. 

You almost wish you hadn’t been woken up. You almost wish you were still in their car, letting them drive and talk to each other. You almost wish you hadn’t left their bed - letting their rough hands gently caress her into a peaceful slumber, feeling their love for each other fill her up. 

You should’ve at least gotten their number. 

It was worth a shot, and if they didn’t want anything to do with you after tonight, you’d have been able to console yourself with the possibility that you won’t have to see them in the future and get taunted by the very notion that you have been all too desperate and all too needy for someone to love you. 

But you didn’t, and you caress your own arm with light fingers as you convince yourself that it was all for the best that you hadn’t done anything about it. 

This was all for one night. They just needed someone to warm their beds for a night, and you did just that. Wishing for it to be something more is just plain stupid on your part. They’ve loved each other for a lifetime, and you’ve known them for only a night. You cannot fathom carving a place for yourself between Johnny and Simon. Simon and Johnny. 

Not without becoming an unwanted third wheel - tolerated by the couple since they’re too courteous to tell you off. Not without becoming a placeholder - a human paperweight until a better man or a better woman comes along to be where they rightfully belong. With them. 

So you hug yourself tight with your nails digging into your arm, and gently rock back and forth in the same place on your bed, as you soothe yourself with empty words and tell yourself that what you did was a brave thing - and this was all for the best, even if it makes your chest feel like a hollowed out tree, empty from within. 

Note -

Got inspired by the poem - 'After the Threesome, They Both Take You Home' by Sue Hyon Bae cuz it resonated with how I have always been a bystander or a temporary placeholder between friends and couples alike - always fearing that I will never be able to experience love. Started writing this fic fuelled up on my personal thoughts and projections. Then, October came and seasonal depression knocked my ass out. Got back into writing it. Couldn't handle it well, so I rushed the ending. Bon apple tit, y'all. Or whatever the fuck they say in France.

[celenawrites]

this reminds me specifically of @ceilidho's posts about the dynamics b/w Ghost and Price.

collection of posts for a very specific dynamic

[celenawrites]

After Hours: CH1 — Another Work Day

Pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader, previous! Phillip Graves x F!Reader

Warnings - Office AU, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Sexting, Praise Kink, Dry Humor, etc.

Summary -

Life has been out to get you ever since you found your ex cheating on you. To add salt to your wounds, your beloved pet dog goes missing while you try to recover from your nasty breakup and your company has been overloading you with piles and piles of paperwork you can never seem to finish; along with a bunch of babbling interns who can never take a hint when it comes to shutting the fuck up, along with a scary, firm-handed supervisor who seems oddly interested in getting to know you better, despite your reluctance. 

Chapter Summary -

Just another day at work with your unique team.

Read on AO3? | Masterlist | Navigation

As you put up the final poster of your missing dog near a park, you ruefully recall how this wretched week had begun. 

You were two months clean of your no-good, chauvinist manwhore of an ex when you decided to leave your beloved golden retriever behind at your empty one-room apartment as you set off for a long commute to work. Granted, your life has become lonelier than usual with the remnants of your estranged partner scattered around the space - like his red toothbrush in the bathroom stand, the ukulele still hung up on your cream walls, or the crystal ashtray he used whenever he decided to smoke a cigar and set off the smoke alarms in the small (you prefer to call it ‘cozy’, despite his many protests) living room, forcing you to open up the windows and air out your room, hoping that the neighbors don’t lodge a complaint against you in the RWA.

But you have set up a routine, which is not perfect by any means - yet you make do with it. It also helps that your dog Butters is just an absolute ray of sunshine, always up for a walk and playing fetch to cheer you up whenever you get off work. After a long day of work, playing with him was all you had been looking forward to - until you noticed your ajar door and felt your world come to a standstill. Fearing the worst, you burst inside and frantically check around for any stolen valuables you may have to report to the police. So much for a chill night after work. 

Luckily, it had seemed no one had broken in and you had just forgotten to lock your doors in your hurry to catch the morning train. But the silence and the lack of your furry friends sets off alarm bells in your head. You quickly call out his name, hoping to catch a glimpse of that golden fur, but to no avail. Frantic, you rush out of your apartment as you yell for your companion. When you fail to locate him anywhere in your block, you resort to asking your neighbors in case any one of them had spotted him throughout the day. Some of them are peeved at you disturbing them, but they’re quick to pity your dejected figure, tears welling up in your eyes as the day catches up to your weary body. 

With aching legs, you make your way to the park you often frequented with Butters and in the plethora of crowd of people and pets alike, you attempt to search for your dear doggo and it is all in vain. With defeat weighing you down, you quickly dial for the police and lodge a report for your missing friend. Noting down your case number and the names of the staff in-charge, you sluggishly go back home and prepare a half-hearted dinner of heated frozen pizza, which you eat with virtually no appetite to satiate and go to sleep on the hard couch with swollen eyes and a migraine blooming between your temples as the empty bedroom still haunted you with not-so-fond memories. 

A week has passed since then, with no plausible leads to Butter’s whereabouts. The cops have even suggested you give up and get a replacement for him, which just made you all the more angrier at their blatant apathy. With each passing day, you lose your hopes of ever reuniting with your beloved fur baby; but you hope for Butters to be alright, wherever he is. 

Whoever has him, please take care of my baby, you silently wish as you stare at the blank screensaver on your desktop, activated due to your prolonged inactivity. Snapping out of your thoughts, you quickly press on the spacebar thrice until the Excel spreadsheets are visible again. Sighing at the banal tasks assigned to you, you quickly check your phone for any texts. Family and friends and classmates you occasionally stay in touch with;they all have texted you something or the other - a greeting, a link, a meme. And then there’s your ex, who has left you ‘on seen’ after you texted him to come and grab his box of belongings two weeks after your breakup. Whether it is because he is in denial over you growing a spine and breaking up with him when you caught him cheating, or because he believes that you would come crawling back to him and beg him to grace your life with his presence(which is a tempting thought that you frequently entertain, especially during lonely nights when you crave rough hands to caress you into a lull), you do not know and you don’t have enough fucks in order to find out either. 

“How’s my bonnie doin’?” a familiar Scottish voice asks, and you whip up your head to find Mactavish standing in front of your desk, all sunshines and smiles and mohawks as he greets you. 

“Hey Johnny, I’ve been better”, you rub the sleep from your eyes as you look at him with a slow smile of yours. John ‘Soap’ Mactavish was the first coworker you had befriended when you decided to join the tech security company One-Four-One. Director Laswell had asked him to give you a tour of the place and help you set up your work devices and he had taken on that responsibility with a toothy grin and a loud pat on your back, promising to show all there is to be seen and help you out whenever you find yourself stuck. With his easy going attitude and helping nature, it didn’t take you long until you found yourself looking forward to attending office, if only to spend some time with your coworker-slash-friend. 

“Worried about Butters, huh?” he somberly asks you, gently rubbing your upper arm in sympathy. 

“Yeah, I am just worried about him. I hope he’s okay”, your nose prickles with the fresh onset of unshed tears in your eyes and you bury your face in your hands as you try to take deep breaths and calm yourself down. Crying at the workplace never really ends well for you. 

“I know, lass. But I also know that Butters is a smart boy, he’d take care of himself just fine till he comes back home, yeah? So don’t you worry”, he consoles you, picking up your empty mug as he leaves you to collect yourself. 

“I’ll get you a new brew, and we can talk for a bit, okay? Be right back.” 

And then he leaves the common floor, hopefully going to the break room to get some new coffee brewing for the morning.

Seeing your distraught state, Kyle Garrick, the temp hire, gets up from his desk and drops off some raisin cookies at your desk to go along with your cup of oncoming java. When you protest, he winks at you and asks you to save the treat for yourself - all the more exasperated with Johnny and his grubby hands that are always eager to snatch away his snacks. That makes you laugh a little, and he smiles at you as he makes a beeline for the bathroom. 

Feeling a little lighter, you decide to work on the neglected spreadsheets just a tad bit longer till Johnny comes back, each hand holding a cup of coffee and a grin on his face that tells you he has some much needed gossip to keep your mind off from your constant worries. 

It is an hour before lunch break when Joseph, the new intern, approaches you at your desk. 

“Hello-”

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”, he whines out, and you are reminded once again that he’s still a college student, despite his monstrous height and unusually deep voice. 

“You don’t have to”, you reply, your eyes barely leaving the screen as you typed away and responded to him, “I can tell you have come here to bribe me into doing your work again, and my answer is no. I am too busy to deal with you.”

“You don’t have to do anything, I swear! I already did the work!” he claims, and you turn to face him with an arched eyebrow and a speculative expression on your face that gives away that you’re having a hard time believing him. 

Joseph is a nice enough guy - he always greets you and is kind enough to use his height to pull down things for you that are kept on the too-high cabinets, and he is intelligent enough to keep up with almost all the technical jargon being passed around by some of your haughty teammates during daily meetings and project discussions, as well as suggest some truly out-of-the-box innovative ideas that has transformed how the team worked for the better. But he’s a terrible procrastinator, often finding himself finishing tasks at the eleventh hour; while prolonging tasks until the last minute does lead to him coming up with amusing and original ideas, it leaves room for him to commit quite a few silly mistakes and errors that one might overlook on an initial run, unless a senior staff member is asked to review it. 

And ever since Laswell went on leave and appointed Price as the acting Director in her stead, you have been swamped with towers of paperwork and meetings while also managing meetings, work sprints and other team issues - basically acting as Price’s right hand as he tries his best to manage the team without letting it implode on itself. Add in your messy personal life and you are already tired enough to sleep at your desk by the time the day is over and hope to never move. (Price has at times found you slumped up against your keyboard, softly snoring with dark eyebags as he noted how you probably needed a much-needed break from it all, despite knowing very well that your absence in the office for more than a day would probably cause unending chaos he won’t be able to manage on his own.)

“I have finished the report. I just need you to go over it once to make sure I haven’t messed up anywhere, else Simon would tear me a new one!”, he pleads with you, and you recall that his uncle, Simon Riley, is one of the founding members and is responsible for overlooking the interns they had hired and tracking their progress. You also remember how the behemoth of a man had almost made you pee your pants when Johnny first introduced him to you, all in his brooding glory. 

You have half a mind to reject his request on that basis alone, afraid to attract his attention onto you. But then Jo looks at you with his puppy brown eyes(a complete opposite from his uncle’s brilliant blue eyes) and furrowed brows, his lips downturned as he looks at you with pure hope and you find yourself sighing as you finally acquiesce, “Fine, just mail it to me before you leave for lunch, and I will send you the finished file before the deadline.”

He fistbumps the air and promises to you, “I will pay for your coffee! And a snack too! For a week! You’re the best!”, before he leaves you to your own devices. 

You sigh out in exasperation, leaning back into your ergonomic chair and feeling your back stretch in discomfort. You swear Joseph might give you a few gray hairs by the time his training period is done for good.  

You check your drawers for spare snacks, well aware that you’d have to skip lunch if you want to complete your pending work and help Joseph out with his report. 

Skipping lunch proves counter intuitive when you find yourself in the common break room and groan at the empty coffee jug, half-heartedly making a fresh batch for yourself and for your forgetful colleagues as well. While you wait for the java to slowly percolate and drip down into the empty pot through the freshly-changed filters, you look inside the freezer in hopes of finding some frozen food you can microwave, or at least find a spare ice cream for you to munch on. 

Unsuccessful in your search, you instead nibble away at the granola bar you found stuffed inside one of the spare drawers, when one of your coworkers decides to join you in the break room. You pause as you see Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, the cyber sec guy, enter the room and stand a few feet away from you as he eyes the whirring coffee machine with interest. You find it hard to even exist in his larger than life presence, as his giant stature almost compels you to hunch your shoulders and curl in on yourself - a poor attempt to hide away from his intimidating figure, like a doe-eyed prey trying to shy away from an apex predator, and futilely hoping for it to forget about you if you try your best to blend into your bland, uninteresting surroundings. 

You always feel odd whenever you interact with Riley. Mostly, you do not know what to feel about him. He’s silent and deadly, and the horror stories you have heard from the fresh batch of interns about his anger and his need for perfection has cemented his image as a strong and fearsome, unapproachable figure into your mind just fine. Standing at 6’2 with broad shoulders and veiny arms visible thanks to his summer tees and thick thighs that bulge whenever he wears those tight black jeans that only makes you all the more curious-

The ‘mindless’ rambling aside, his appearance is enough to put the fear of God into you. Add his rough and not-so-friendly demeanor along with his deep voice, and you have got one very attractive asshole who you can never approach no matter how much you’re compelled to make a move on him. You almost thank him for it, because mixing pleasure with business will only ever land you in trouble, if you’re being honest with yourself. 

He nods at you and you are forced to acknowledge him with a calm greeting, as your fingers silently drum against the marble island of the kitchen. 

“Didn’t have lunch?” he asked you with his gravelly voice, and you wonder how many girls have swooned (and possibly gotten their panties wet) when he addressed them so casually. You’re pretty sure he can read a grocery list and make a girl wetter than the Atlantic just fine. 

You shake your head, “Had some catchin’ up to do, sir.”

His eyes appear darker than usual, despite being his softest feature yet, “Skipping meals won’t do you any good, you know. Better to eat a proper meal than whatever you’re having right now.”

“I know”, you tell him, well aware that whatever excuse you use here would just land you in hot waters with the weirdly overprotective man anyway. You’d rather not get lectured by the man today. 

Whether it is because he might make you cry, or turn you on - you do not know and are not eager to find out either. 

The ceasing of the brew trickling into the glass pot allows you to divert your attention to the caffeine concoction you have just created. Pouring some of the hot liquid into your cup, you see someone push their mug beside it. Looking up, you see Simon standing beside you with an amused look on his face. You blink at him in confusion, and he gently shakes his glass, begging for some much-needed coffee. 

He explains himself, “Had some of the early morning brew, tasted like dogshit.”

You laugh at his sudden crassness, finding it too funny to clarify that the morning brew was made by his beloved friend, Johnny. Mactavish would’ve chewed him out for that if he was there, but he’s having one of those few days wherein his meetings made it hard for his schedule to sync up with Simon’s. 

Taking a slow sip out of white mug, he replies with a wry smile, “Yours always tasted better anyway.”

And then, he exits the scene and leaves you in a puddle of pure confusion, with one question looping in your mind - When has he ever tasted your coffee?

You’re thankful Simon has already left and cannot witness your flustered state at his sudden remark. 

Author's Note -

Happy breaking out of writer's block to me!

Finally able to write and post something after a month of inactivity and contemplating about abandoning this blog all together. Glad I persevered through it though.

I came up with this after reading a dozen or so fanfics throughout the week while worrying about landing a job where I am interning. Very original, I know. I also think this would be a relatively shorter series, given how it is more lighter than some of my other works and WIP materials.

Also, I am hoping to stick to a schedule in order to hold myself more accountable and write more consistently. So expect new updates every 2nd and 4th Sunday/Monday :>

Until then, have a great week ahead. I have to sleep if I want to wake up on time and start work. ;-;

[celenawrites]

thinking about retired, dilf!soapghost and the young neighbour reader who occassionally babysits their kid(s) and dogs when they go out - for work, for date nights, emergencies, etc.

only for them to try staying at home as much as possible as they try their best to woo you - smitten with your kind nature and how you dote on their child(ren) and dogs, always gracing them with honeyed words and gentle touch, which makes them all the more eager to get you in their bed (and in their life).

[celenawrites]

₊˚ෆ soulmate au, wherein you get to see the world through your soulmate's eyes and experience what they're feeling at that moment

awful editing(no beta), a lot of pov shifts, loads of grammar mistakes, description of violence, smut below the cut. 

just an idea i have been marinating in my drafts this month. 

MDNI.

the first time Simon Riley realizes he has a soulmate, he's 24 and well on his way to becoming a lieutenant. it's an early winter morning, filled with white fog and chilly breeze that seeps through the balaclava he wears while off duty. he's in the cold, congested room that has been assigned as his office and he's trying to catch up on the stack of paperwork that had accumulated while he was risking his lives on the front-line just to feel something.

the scene shifts with a few gradual blinks and he realizes he's not in his office anymore.

he's she's standing in the kitchen, brewing up a cup of tea while humming an old melody. he's awfully out of place here, and he almost thinks his mind is tricking him with a sudden daydream and then she pours out the tea into a green mug, and exits the kitchen - finally sitting down in what he assumes to be a living room.

she turns on the tv to watch some melodrama he doesn't know, as she carefully blows onto the mug to cool down the steaming liquid before carefully taking a sip. he feels the green tea trickle down his throat, warming him from inside. he can feel the cushion behind her back and the glasses that rest on the bridge of her nose. he can feel the tag on her shirt scratch the nape of his nick uncomfortably so.

the scene is serene and unfamiliar and he feels out of place - it is homely and clean and pure, not tainted with blood, violence and avarice. it is uncomfortable for him to watch her be good and domestic and kind, almost feels like he doesn’t deserve it after the life he’s led. and yet, with time, seeing the world through her eyes is warmly welcomed after a dud of a day doing what he's best known for - being a ghost.

and he almost feels sorry for her, whoever she is. he’s sorry for the man he is, for the soldier he is. he’s sorry that she gets a one-way front ticket to seeing him kill people without remorse. 

most of all, he’s sorry she had to end up with him. 

for you, seeing the world through your soulmate's eyes has been nothing short of a grim nightmare. every time you'd shift, you'd almost pray to God and cross your fingers to avoid seeing any of the gruesome scenes that he encountered almost on the daily. you cannot see his face, but you can feel how heavy the protective gear is against his body, how taut his shoulders are and you can feel the synthetic fabric of the gun strap dig into his shoulders and chest. you feel his hands touch the steel barrel of the weapon and your blood runs cold. it’s not long before he’s aiming the said gun at a man before shooting him dead without hesitating. the first time you witnessed him doing something this abhorrent, you ended up having a panic attack - still able to feel the weight of the gun in your hands, convinced that you’re the culprit who shot someone in cold blood. 

it’s not long before the scenes you witness through your soulmate’s eyes follow you even in your sleep. you’re taking melatonin, chamomile tea, antidepressants - anything to help you cope with the fact that having a soulmate like him means being haunted by gruesome visions for the rest of your life. it’s not long before your co-workers comment on your baggy eyes and frail health - even uniting together to urge you that taking a break would probably do you some good, but you turn them all down with a gentle shake of your head. 

and then, you meet Soap through him. scottish, demolition expert, part of the military. wild mohawk, likes to draw, always the victim of your soulmate’s dry jokes. Gaz - british, a sergeant, youngest of the lot, always willing to help, but has enough snark to keep up with Soap about the most ridiculous of things. and Price - captain of his team, with impressive mutton chops and loud sneezes. 

you see them relax around each other, see them drink tea, see Soap and Gaz banter and compete with each other at the training grounds - and this change of pace is far more welcomed than seeing people die on the battlefield. 

and then there’s him, a pariah. everyone he comes across calls him ‘Ghost’, which just sounds ridiculous. no one knows anything about him, but there are moments when you are where he is and you see Price’s eyes twinkle with something - but your lack of physical presence always hinders your curiosity about the subject. no one has really seen his face, and you fear that you’d never get to know the man who’s destined to compliment you in all aspects of life. 

there are moments though, when sharing vision and emotions with you, gets awfully overwhelming for him. it takes a lot to get a man of his stature to waver in his step, but you do that job perfectly. he sees you one day, in your bed with soft satin sheets failing to cover your body. he sees your hands trail down your body and his breath hitched when he feels you play with your cotton panties - before sliding them to the side and rubbing soft circles on your clit. he swears under his breath, trying to hold onto his sanity as it slowly slips away from him when you use your other hand to tease your nipples with skittish touches. it’s not long before Simon has locked himself up in the bathroom stall, using his hands to relieve the tension he has all because of you - matching his rhythm so that he comes at the same time as you. 

he wonders if your hands would feel softer. if you’d kiss him before begging him with those doe eyes to make you feel good. if you’d tell him that you love him. if you’d love him enough so that he can be anew  - without his past dragging him through the mud. 

if you’d lose yourself to him and let him piece you back together with the adoration he carries for you. you’re practically a stranger, and yet you’re the only person who can get to him. 

divider by @/cafekitsune

[celenawrites]

This is so Simon-coded it hurts.

obsessed with characters being saved against their will. being knocked unconscious and carried away from a danger they won't stop trying to fight. being shoved through a portal somewhere far away and safe right before it closes. trying to self-sacrifice only to have the exact person they're trying to save swap their places at the last second. getting the only cure to the disease or curse bc the person administering it loves them too much to give it to anyone else, including themselves. being thrown to safety right as they had accepted dying. someone else they thought had gotten to safety running back to drag them out of danger. it's so fucking tasty

[celenawrites]

After Hours: CH2 — It's Friday then…

Pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader, previous! Phillip Graves x F!Reader

Warnings - Office AU, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Sexting, Praise Kink, Dry Humor, etc.

Summary -

Life has been out to get you ever since you found your ex cheating on you. To add salt to your wounds, your beloved pet dog goes missing while you try to recover from your nasty breakup and your company has been overloading you with piles and piles of paperwork you can never seem to finish; along with a bunch of babbling interns who can never take a hint when it comes to shutting the fuck up, along with a scary, firm-handed supervisor who seems oddly interested in getting to know you better, despite your reluctance. 

Chapter Summary -

Your week cannot get any better (or any worse).

Read on AO3? | Masterlist | Navigation

<- Chapter 1

Your day comes to an end with relatively no new disasters springing up on you. 

The lack of chaos almost has you suspicious, but you overlook it in favor of clocking out earlier than usual, which is a good half an hour after almost everybody has left the office. You are quick to email all the edited files to Joseph, leaning back in your weary chair as you end your day with a pained groan. About time you get that memory foam mattress, you think to yourself as you clean up your workstation and call it a day. 

Your black pump heels click against the smooth marble floor as you try your best to join the world outside the gray confines of your company walls.  The usual path consists of making an obligatory patrol across the west wing of the building, checking in to ensure nothing was amiss before taking the elevator down to the ground floor and punching out by tapping your ID at a weird angle on the automatic scanner. 

The west wing seems to be almost empty, save for the dim glow of an active computer at the very back of the technical staff room. 

You rarely paid this place a visit, mainly burdened by your duty to keep the office running and putting out all dumpster fires Price cannot deal with. The few times you have been here has been solely due to your need to share lunch with Johnny on relatively slower days. 

With quiet apprehension, you walk towards the object of your attention - only to find Simon hunched over his desk, with squinting eyes as the screen is reflected in his square blue glasses. Underdressed is a word that seems to describe his style - unbothered enough to never dress up when he has to show up for work, you find the man slouching in his chair while wearing a frayed beige hoodie with some gray sweatpants that make it almost impossible for you to look at him without feeling your cheeks heat up in mortification. 

Clearing your throat to grab his attention, you meekly meet his dark eyes as you inquire, “Not going home today?”

He shakes his head, almost as if he’s waking up from a nap and you almost find him endearing in this moment. He responds, “No, have some work. Will lock up and leave in an hour.”

“Okay.”

Silence follows your short dialogues with the senior staff member, making you tap your foot against the floor thrice in order to comfort yourself before you offer him, “I can make you another brew. Should last you until you finish your work.”

He averts his eyes away from the screen and looks at you again, and you feel yourself shrink under his inspection - almost like a timid bunny. You can see him contemplate your offer seriously for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Don’t bother, I haven’t got much left here anyway.” 

“Oh, okay.”

That is all you can manage to tell him before you leave the room, eager to just crash on your awful bed and end your day early. 

The calm that has befallen your office has you on edge, for you are not accustomed to spending your days without being forced to juggle Herculean tasks every hour of your work day. 

Even when you’re on edge with it, you come to appreciate how the almost sluggishness of days filled with nothingness allowed you to just be. A sudden breather in your busy life, one that you appreciated very much. 

Of course, as life would have it, it all comes crashing down Friday morning once you check into the office and find Gracie, a new intern, pacing near your desk back and forth. The moment she spots you she corners you against your workstation, frazzled as she plays with the threads of her sweater sleeve, unraveling just like her. 

“It’s all gone to hell, I tell you!” she tells you, before quieting down as she realizes how loud she’s being. She whispers to you, “It’s a hellhole and all because of him!”

You find yourself awfully confused by her crypticism, so you ask her to elaborate - already preparing yourself to add another petty matter into your long list of events to attend to. Fridays seem to be unusually long for you solely due to the fact that people seem to either forget to work in their eagerness for the weekend, or some ‘emergency’ pops up when all you’d like to do is drink your coffee, answer some emails and force Price to attend his weekly meeting before he fucks off to who knows where. 

“Joseph made a simple mistake. A small one really. We’re interns, for god’s sake! Of course, we’ll be dumb and make mistakes every day. And I don’t know who that man thinks he is, cuz the next thing I know”, Gracie pauses to anxiously chew at her thumb, red hangnails and raw skin evident of the anxiety that’s been plaguing her all morning. 

“Next thing I know is Simon’s losing his head over something and he’s chewing us all out for being ‘incompetent fucks’, and he takes it out on all of us. But it hits Joseph the most, and the next thing I know is he hasn’t turned up for work today”, she finishes her anxious ramble, looking at you with doe eyes and you mentally note to check up on Joseph when you have the time. 

“Don’t worry, Gracie. He’s probably taking a day off in order to cool down. I’ll talk with him”, you reply to soothe her worries and she looks at you as if you’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky for her. 

Her sudden hug catches you off guard, and after profusely thanking you (“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re such a doll!”), she waves you adieu as she exits the floor and you are soon seated on your desk, groaning at the sight of your filled calendar and unanswered emails being reflected on your screen. Joseph will have to wait, you think as you massage your temples - your body betraying you with a migraine for only having iced coffee for breakfast.

You decided to tackle the mountain of unfinished workload, hoping to at least catch the last subway back home before it gets too dark. 

After three hours of uninterrupted screen time that made your eyes water and your back creak whenever you shifted in your chair and an hour after having a cold lunch of leftover salad and toasted bread with gummy cheese, you finally find yourself with a few minutes of leeway to finally look for Price. Not just because you wish to talk to him about Joseph, but also due to the pile of unsigned documents you currently carry in your hands that need his immediate approval. 

After a few minutes of mindless walking to and fro and asking your co-workers of any sightings of your boss, you finally find him exiting one of the conference rooms located on the upper floors and there’s another man alongside him. 

They both seem to be extremely close, and John claps the other man on the back and laughs heartily with him, but you’re too focused on the tip of your shoes to hear their conversation. Everything sounds static to you for now. You blame your anxiety for it. 

“Oh, it’s you”, John’s eyes widen slightly in surprise and he mockingly clutches his chest, “You’d give me a heart attack one of these days with how sneaky you are.” 

You are just unusually quiet around unfamiliar people. You roll your eyes at him, unamused, “Ha, ha. Quit those cigars and I promise you, your heart and lungs will thank you.” 

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling with radiance. 

“You worry about me too much”, gesturing you inside the meeting room, he asks you. 

“What brought you here?”

“Well, the project deal with Crofters underwent its final review for the proposal and I needed your approval for them before I gave the team the green light. And there’s some more files that could use your ink”, you point to the stack in your hands and he beckons you to sit in the seat beside him as he takes the pile from you and clicks at his fancy little golden pen, skimming through the documents and signing them. 

While he does that, you muster up the courage to talk to him about Joseph. This could’ve been an email, but you decided you owed him that much. Moreover, feeling as if your contribution in ‘proof-reading’ his work could’ve led to him getting unfairly scolded by his superior and his uncle makes your throat dry out constantly. 

And there’s only so much water you can drink before you’re forced to take a bathroom break. Or a few. 

Clearing out your throat in order to begin talking leads to Price to look up from one of the files, as he eyes you with a scrutinizing gaze.

“Yes?”

You gulp, not being used to ‘complaining’ about one of your coworkers behind their back. You have rarely had any problem with anyone that required you to directly report your higher ups or HR about them. And doing this to Simon, of all people, who has never really troubled you….

“Well, you know Simon can be a bit stern.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you know how he can expect a bit too much from others…”

“I know how Simon is. Please get to the point”, he rubs his eyes, already sighing out in anticipation. 

“One of the interns came to me this morning, and she told me that he kind of went off on them for messing up. Things got pretty rough, and another intern hasn’t shown up to work today. So I was a bit worried”, you trail off, hearing John groan audibly in frustration. 

“Who’s the intern?”

“Um, it was Joseph.”

He curses, wiping at his forehead with his palm and tucking away stray hair as he tells you, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have a talk with Simon. Things have been…tough with him. And he’s only this strict because he wants to believe in the absolute best of people. You check up on Joseph and see that he’s alright.” 

“Will do that”, you promptly pick up the signed documents and exit the room, already dialing Joseph on your phone - hoping for him to pick up your call and not ignore you. 

You are at your desk and at your third call when someone picks it up. 

“Hello?” a nasally congested voice asks, and you sigh out in relief as you inform him it’s you who’s calling him. 

“Are you okay, Joseph? Why didn’t you come today?”

“Gracie told you, huh?” 

“Yeah, she was worried sick. She’s a sweet girl.”

“Had to take a day off, or I’d have thrown fists at him.”

You don’t know how to react to that. You haven’t expected Joseph to be angry still. 

“I get it can be frustrating to work in such a stressful environment, and Simon expects perfection - which may make it all the more harder for you to make mistakes. But I hope you realize that the senior staff genuinely wants to help every intern develop themselves so that they can be ready for the industry after graduation.” 

“...”

“It’s okay, take your time. Hopefully you will feel better after the weekend. Take care, Joseph.” 

“Goodbye.” 

A click. And the call comes to an end. 

You exhale through your mouth, not expecting all this to drain you out already. 

And you still have four hours to go. 

Sitting back at your desk with a hot cup of black coffee, you stir the drink with the wooden stick after dumping a small packet of sugar in it. The afternoon sun is sublime, shining through the windows and getting reflected off of the photo frame you have of you and Butters, kept on the desk to curb your nostalgia of your furred friend. 

Almost a week of futility, of just work and no sign of your dog in sight. The police have been essentially useless in the search and you have had to design missing posters to put up around your street and at the dog park you used to go with him, hoping that someone would eventually spot him and bring him back home to you. But still, to no avail. 

Sipping on the warm drink, careful to not burn your tongue, you are happy to spend the last two hours of your work day just organizing some things for Monday and playing card games to kill some time - happy to clear up all the major events and tasks before the day ends. You think you might be able to leave a little early for home, planning on getting some takeout for dinner and watching some trashy late night reality TV until you snooze off in your cozy bed. 

And then the chatter in the room dies, which is strange as everyone around you has been jovially conversing to make the last hours of the day pass by faster. You look up to see Simon standing in front of you and he looks pissed. 

Guess that talk with John did not go well, and this is when you’d tuck your tail and make a run for it - if it wasn’t for Simon already anticipating that and blocking any possible escape for you. Your widened eyes meet his, and he takes it as his cue to go off on you. 

“How dare you?” he grits out, his jaw ticked and voice tense with restraint. 

“How fucking dare you? The fuck you think you are, going behind my back and bitchin’ to Price?” His voice booms around the room, and the few people who were pretending to be busy with work are now looking at him with unbridled trepidation. 

“I-”

“Who are you to say what’s right or wrong?”, he goads you, towering over you with such dark eyes you were scared they’d suck you in and never let you out. 

“I didn’t mean to-”

“They’re my interns, and if they fuck up, they better own up to their shit. They’re mine to manage, and your coddling isn’t going to save them either”, he spits out, looking at you with such resentment in his eyes you wonder if Price had said something to tick him off more than usual. 

“It’s not your bloody job to mother them, and it sure as hell is not your job to bitch about me. If you have that much of a problem with me, say it to my face and stop being a damn coward about it.”

There’s eyes everywhere, and they’re trained onto the scene Simon has caused with you - and you take a shudder of a breath before getting up and standing to face him head on. Your lip wobbles for a moment, before you look at him and tell him, “You’re a dickhead for this, Simon.” 

And with that, you just swiftly leave the office space and make your escape; almost short of running in your block heels as you quickly lock the bathroom door behind you, leaning against it as you wipe away the few tears of frustration that escaped your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup. 

Your life has been a shitshow for the past month or so, and god forbid, you let another man ruin the weekend for you now. 

You gently wash your hands and clean up after yourself, deciding on leaving much earlier than usual for a change. There’s no way in hell you will stick around the office after getting humiliated like that. There’s a knock on the door, and Gracie’s there as instructed (by text), holding your purse for you. 

She meekly glances at your weary face, and begins, “I heard what happened. Are you okay? I know how much of an ass Simon can be, but he probably didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You decide to not respond to her, not feeling up to the task of psycho-analyzing your colleague and his short temper. That’s not your bloody job. 

“Thanks for getting my bag”, you send her off her way after that, and shooting off a quick text to Price, you quietly exit the office - all the more eager to gorge yourself on some takeout, watch TV and get drunk enough to forget that this day happened and ignore all texts and calls you get tonight.

Note -

After a month of inactivity(cuz I was busy interviewing in different places and studying for it) and writer's block, I finally updated. Updates will be sparse, but I will try to be more consistent.

[celenawrites]

Mornings like these are rare. 

You wake up and look outside the window, seeing the dawn rise on you as you estimate that you only have an hour until the sun shines through the beige curtains of your room. An hour before you have to get up and leave for work. 

You yawn audibly, and then you turn to face your boyfriend, Simon. He’s sound asleep, which is a first, especially since he’s usually up and running - years of serving in the military ingrained in him a sense of strong discipline, something that even soft domesticity cannot break him out of. He was always up by four o’ clock(maybe out of habit, maybe because he couldn’t sleep as well as he wanted, maybe because he had a nightmare he wouldn’t burden you with)  and he stayed in bed for ten minutes or more, until muscle memory forced him to leave the soft bed and take a cold shower to get himself awake. Then he’d eat a protein bar from the pack you had ordered for him the week before he was supposed to come home, and then he’d put on his running shoes (all clean and nice due to you) and he’d go for a morning run with his face covered with a black surgical mask instead of his usual balaclava or skull mask. 

He’d come back around six o’ clock, all sweaty and heaving as he sits down on the rickety armchair in the living room as he catches his breath. He’d look at the clock and notice the time, slowly making his way to the kitchen to brew two cups on Earl Grey tea and he carefully pours it into the mugs with cute puppies scribbled on them (you got them for a steal from a flea market, and all he could do when he saw your shopping bags was huff in amusement with eyes twinkling as he aids you into arranging the small trinkets, utensils and potted plants around the house). He’d take out your favorite cookies to serve along with the hot beverage, plating it up on the tray like you usually did and he’d enter your room again, softly running his scarred hand through your soft hair as he’d gently ask you to wake up and share some tea with him before the day begins. 

This small window of time, where you and Simon do nothing, speak nothing but let the tea and the love you have for each other warm you up was the highlight of the day for the both of you. 

Then he’d send you off to work while he busies himself with all the overdue handiwork needed around the home you share with him. Fixing creaky doors, mowing the lawn, putting nails in the wall so you can hang up more paintings, hooks - anything that would make this place more homely than he ever remembers it to be. On days you didn’t have work, you would stick around him - half a dozen steps away from him as he went around the house and worked to fill in the hours before lunchtime. Sometimes you’d make him lemonade to drink in the scorching heat, and other times you’d rope him in to watch a movie with you, only to end up sleeping on his shoulder as he gently shuts off the television and whisks you off to the bedroom, holding you in his arms and letting himself have the much-needed rest his brain refuses to let him have at night. 

If he wakes up before it’s evening, he’d gently urge you to grab some lunch, maybe an early dinner before curling up beside you while you read your book as you gently muss up his badly cut hair, promising to him that you’d help him fix the uneven cut he’s had to give himself while he was deployed. He hums contently, letting himself feel like he deserves this as he dozes off in the night. Like he deserves you. 

Today he does none of it. 

It is rare for Simon to sleep through the night uninterrupted, and even rarer for you to wake up before him. So you soak up this moment, hoping that the memory that follows it will do you justice as you try to remember the few times you got to admire your other half the way he usually gets to do with you. You count his soft eyelashes, your eyes squint as you look at his hair as the sunlight shines upon his head like a halo. Terrifying as he may be with his persona as Ghost, you were certain that this is another sign that Simon, your Simon, was nothing short of angelic. You sigh as you look at his crooked nose, broken by a very violent bar fight he had engaged into when he was young and brash and thirsting for senseless violence and blood. (He won the fight, despite his inexperience. He had told you so with a dry chuckle, and you tried not to let your amusement show through as you shook your head in disappointment)

You look at the scar that runs from his temple down to near his left earlobe, white and thin like lightning as if Zeus had struck this behemoth of a man for being mortal and still putting all the heroes of past eons to shame.  You look at his lips - pink, dry, thin and scarred, and you almost let your fingertips touch them as you memorize this rare visage of your lover. But you know Simon’s tired (oh so tired), and you’d rather give up on the opportunity to admire him than interrupt him when he’s finally asleep after fighting fruitlessly to finally rest for the past three weeks. 

However, your attempts at being quiet fail you anyway. 

Suddenly, as if he can almost sense your awake state,  his eyelids flutter and his breath picks up as he blinks awake. Brown pupils meet yours as he intently stares at you with sleep-laden eyes, his blonde eyelashes flickering whenever he tries to blink off the fatigue plaguing his weary bones. You smile at him kindly, letting your hand gently rest on his face as your fingers curl up into the blonde tufts of hair on his head. He leans into your touch, softly kissing the inside of your wrist as your fingers trail over his head, around his face. 

“Good morning, Simon”, you greet him softly, and his breath hitches slightly as he looks at the love you carry in your eyes for him. At the love that drips from every word you say to him. 

“Would you like me to make you some tea?”

Note - I felt like writing some domestic fluff with our beloved Lieutenant right after watching Barbie, so here we are. Hope you enjoy.

Divider by @/firefly-graphics on Tumblr.

Find me on AO3!

[celenawrites]

— a soft life: unofficial prologue

Summary -

Retired and domesticated, Johnny and Simon look forward to the next step in their life as a couple - parenthood. However, initiating this process turns out to be a lot trickier than usual.

And then enters you, a tired grad student who is desperate and willing to be their surrogate for some much needed cash. Needless to say, they find themselves orbiting you - like planets to the burning sun.

Warnings - A/B/O dynamics, Metaphorical ramblings of 'killing' parts of one's personality, reader is implied to be an immigrant and POC so expect topics of misogyny, sexism and threats of forceful marriage/parenthood to pop up in later chapters, Unbeta'd and unedited contents so mistakes are inevitable, etc.

Word count - 1, 128.

series masterlist || read on ao3

Your eyes burn. 

The black cursor blinks against the empty white expanse of your Word document, taunting you and your incapability to muster up anything to write for your thesis. You shut down your laptop after staring at the blank document file for what seems like hours, barely mustering up the concentration needed to finally name the topic of your research thesis. 

You lean back against the black ergonomic chair and it creaks under your weight, and you can feel the way your back cracks as you stretch your arms over your head. You take off your glasses, and then let your palms rub at your aching eyes as you contemplate what more you could do to distract yourself from your imminent doom. 

Between your laptop and piles of printed papers, textbooks and notes lies an opened manila envelope that has delivered devastating news to you at a crucial point of your life. 

The education system is unfair in many ways, and going into academia and research is definitely not going to be a walk in the park for you. But your passion for the subject had you undeterred - leaping at the first chance of pursuing your postgraduate degree from one of the most prestigious universities in all of the United Kingdom. And yet, the printed letter you had received last week is threatening your dream and you do not know if there is any way for you to salvage it. 

You have rapidly applied for financial aid, scholarships, internships and even odd jobs - but most of the potential employers have either ghosted you or put your name on a never-ending waitlist. You cannot wait till next year to know if they would hire you for minimum wage, damn it. 

By the time they reach out to you, you might already be well on your way back home. And you do not want to go back home. 

A few tears of frustration bubble up in your eyes, leaving hot tear tracts on your skin as you try to wipe them away. You need a break. God knows when was the last time you had slept. 

At moments like these, when life was too much and the stress made the idea of death all the more inviting to you, your inner voice - your Omega, someone you have suppressed and killed with your own violent hands, would resurface into your life like a phantom and she would haunt you with incredulous ideas and sweet impossibilities. Need someone, need Alpha, she would whisper to you all sultry, Wanna be taken care of. Too much, too much, too much-

And you would bury her remains again. 

You cannot be soft. You cannot be kind. You cannot let people know you care. 

It would only get you killed. Or worse. 

You get up to leave the room on shaky legs and your knees buckle after staying so still for hours on end. You enter the small kitchen, put the kettle filled with water on the stove and turn it up to high heat as you lean against the island and rub your hands over your languished face. You’re so tired. So fucking tired. 

The kettle simmers over the fire, letting out a small hiss from its spout. You pay it no heed. You think and think and think of all the possible ways you can salvage this mess of a situation - only to end up with nothing. 

The market hasn’t been kind, and you do work as a TA and some freelance work online as an editor to ease your financial worries, but it is not enough. 

You can always take up more shifts at the floral shop, but that can also possibly interfere with your academic schedule - which is the last thing you could possibly want. You can always call back home, but the very idea of it fills you with dread and makes your stomach turn and sicken you even more. You could-

The kettle lets out a loud whistle, steam oozing out of it rapidly and the mobile phone in your jeans rings at the same time, startling you into action. You turn and hurriedly turn the stove off, letting the kettle rest on the island as it lets out all the steam stored in the ceramic vessel. 

You abandon the pot of leafy concoction, opting to go outside into your living space to finally pick up your ringing phone. You wipe your clammy hands on a hand towel lying nearby before you swipe the green button to pick up the call. 

“Hello?” you state your name, “Who is it?”

“Good afternoon, Miss” the feminine voice greets you over the mobile, “This is the Larksky Fertility Clinic”. 

Your heart stills. 

You read the email the clinic representative had sent you after you got off the call with her. 

Alice was her name. Alice sounded like a kind woman. 

You read through the attachment files in the mail. The pamphlet outlined the vision and works of the fertility clinic, highlighting their doctors and the various fertility testing and treatments they offered to people and couples alike. The other attachment files consisted of the bare minimum information about the couple that are currently seeking you out in order to conceive. 

Mr. Simon Riley and Mr. John Mactavish. 

Both are ex-military - one of them is a personal fitness trainer and the other runs a security company. They’re willing to negotiate the price for your ‘assistance’; which is something you’re grateful for, even though you’d have done it for free once upon a time. 

While you have always been unsure about parenthood being the right path for you (and your personal aspirations and fears wouldn’t necessarily allow you to indulge in such ideas just yet), you have always wished to help people create the families they deserve. And you believe this call to be some sort of sign, corny as it might sound to some. 

Maybe it's divine intervention. Or manifestation. Or some spiritual signal. 

You have always been willing to help others out in any way possible - from taking on extra workload and sharing necessities to blood donations and volunteer work. At one point, you had been looking forward to helping people out with completing their families - eager to see them so ecstatic about becoming parents. The idea of doing this for money solely leaves your mouth dry, as if you have swallowed cotton - and yet, yet. 

It wouldn’t hurt to try, anyway. Sending out a response through your email, you confirm the time and date of the meeting with the clinic. You console yourself  and reason with your heart (or what is left of it anyway) - you need the money, you always wanted to do this, now is a good time anyway. 

A/N -

I decided to post this almost scrapped prologue in hopes to motivate myself and to keep on writing some more. Hopefully, I will be able to post more in May. Also, forgive the few grammatical errors in this piece, I haven't been too keen on correcting such errors at the moment. I will eventually clean this up later on. I just wanted to put this out there so that I can work on the later parts of this series.

[celenawrites]

cw: slightly obsessive simon, enemies to lovers(?), dark thoughts, possessive!simon, slight NSFW, slight angst.

Imagine this prompt but with Ghost and an ex-soldier who hates his guts now. You drag yourself to the steps of Simon's place, almost instinctually. Bleeding, shivering and battered up, reaching out for Simon as you whisper how you don't have anyone else to turn to for help, before crashing.

Simon, feeling a multitude of emotions. Unsure of how to handle the person who just fainted on his household steps. The same person who cursed out his existence over a betrayal, a misunderstanding...wishing him nothing but misery as they walked out of his life. Only to end up here, years later... fighting for their life, begging him to help - having no one but him in their corner.

Simon, who takes you in and nurses you back to health, for old times' sake. Touching your feverish skin, feeling his fingers tingle at how touch starved he feels for you. How much he wishes you stay here, sick and weak, so he can care for you - make up for all the years he had to live without you. He feels his heart stutter when you snuggle up to him, arms cradling him as if he's fragile. As if he's worth something.

Such moments only make him hungry for more. He can only imagine how your lips must taste.

He wonders how you'd be like, writhing under him as you beg for more. How you'd greedily absorb every love, every little praise he has to offer to you. He only hopes that you let him worship your body - scars and all, the way you deserve.

Hell, you can cry, scream, hit him, try to run away all you want and he'd let you. But all he wants is to finally close the distance between you and him, hoping that fate would be kinder to him now - allow him a chance to explain himself, to finally come clean and get rid of all misgivings before asking you to forgive him, to begin anew with him.You didn't just end up here of all the places in the world for nothing.

He'd make sure that this counts for something.

You, a supervillain, answer a knock at your door, only to find your superhero nemesis shivering, bleeding, scared, and slightly dazed (as if drugged). They appear to have been assaulted. The hero mumbles “…didn’t know where else to go…” before collapsing into your arms.

[celenawrites]

— a soft life (masterlist)

Summary -

Retired and domesticated, Johnny and Simon look forward to the next step in their life as an unconventional alpha couple - parenthood. However, initiating this process turns out to be a lot trickier than usual.

And then enters you, a tired grad student who is desperate and willing to be their surrogate for some much needed cash. Needless to say, they find themselves orbiting you - like planets to the burning sun.

(a/n - summary bound to change eventually. slow updates.)

Pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader x John 'Soap' Mactavish

unofficial prologue | part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x...

[celenawrites]

After Hours(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader) — masterlist

Pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader, previous! Phillip Graves x F!Reader

Warnings - Office AU, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Sexting, Praise Kink, Dry Humor, etc.

Summary -

Life has been out to get you ever since you found your ex cheating on you. To add salt to your wounds, your beloved pet dog goes missing while you try to recover from your nasty breakup and your company has been overloading you with piles and piles of paperwork you can never seem to finish; along with a bunch of babbling interns who can never take a hint when it comes to shutting the fuck up, along with a scary, firm-handed supervisor who seems oddly interested in getting to know you better, despite your reluctance. 

Read on AO3? | Navigation

CH 1 - Another Work Day

Just another day at work with your unique team.

CH 2 - It’s Friday Then…

CH 3 - …And the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day 

CH 4 - Bearing Grudges

CH 5 - ???

[celenawrites]

something something ghost having the field medic as his soulmate and not knowing until he gets gravelly injured and realising that the medic treating his wounds is flinching due to the shared pain through their bond, now knowing that the reason his beloved is in pain is because of him and his recklessness.....