#has this happened before??? Has there been other Simons?
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Hey um I'm concerned...
"Is this true, fellow Petrikov?"
Something something about the cycle repeating. đ
#that first line & the way he's so nonchalant about the whole thing strikes me as very suspicious#has this happened before??? Has there been other Simons?#maybe It's just because he's a scientist like PB prime? that's probably what it is; but I'm open to the other possibilities#the way he's just so casual about other Simons existing just strikes me as odd... đ#is there a timeloop going on??? I stg its either I'm tired or theres some vibes of something bigger going on here#I'm curious about who Prismo's boss is still...#I LOVed the animation style change during winter king simon's musical number; it was gorgeous!#mine#op#adventure time spoilers#adventure time#adventure time fionna and cake#adventure time fionna & cake#fionna and cake#simon petrikov#ice king#winter king#ice simon#ice crown#fionna & cake
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i know it's been done many times before, but i just love gross weird creepy awkward simon and his cute harmless bird.
like she's so intrigued by him, so infatuated with this odd man. she giggles at his dark humour and crude jokes, a genuine smile on her face as her shoulders shake from laughing so hard while he's huffing out a sound of amusement of his own. meanwhile, everyone else has an uncomfortable look on their faces, giving them both judgemental stares.
he's the type to tug her close to him and kiss her nasty, uncaring if they're in a public setting. he sucks on her tongue and spits in her mouth, a big hand reaching down to squeeze her ass before disappearing up her skirt. he doesn't really care if others watch or not, and he grips her tight when she tries to escape, swallowing all her squeaky little noises with a satisfied hum.
there's no shame when it comes to him. he lets her know when he's going for a piss and asks if she wants to come, not bothering to close the door (he demands that she leaves it open when she goes too; it's only fair). he uses her hand to jerk himself off when she's busy or not in the mood, heavy groans rumbling from his chest because it feels so much better than rutting into his rough handânot as lovely as her soft, pretty cunt though. he lets his tongue dip low to lap at her asshole and ignores her whiny protests, promising he'll make her feel good in a second, groaning to himself as she grinds against his face.
ughhh he's just so unusual. sometimes he stares at her too long for it to be considered cute, dark eyes burning into her very soul for so long that she has to remind him to blink. he corners her just to get a whiff of her perfume, heavy breathing down her neck like he's getting worked up just from smelling her.
when he comes home from deployment and tells her about the things that happened while he was away (lost one of my good knives in tha' prick), she's sitting pretty on his lap and chirping out her responses, urging him to tell her more. she says it's good for him to get it off his chest, but really she likes hearing his gruesome stories. it makes her heart flutter that he's so skilled and competent.
others have come up to her asking if she's okay and if she's aware of the weirdo following her, and she's like "yeah that's my man :)" she tries her best to drive them away before he starts sulking over yet another person interrupting their parallel play.
she just really loves how strange and off-putting he is.
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mail order bride meeting 141 for the first time đ
mail-order bride
he likes the way this moment sounds. it will end soon, when you both walk out the door, but for now, he sits, and he doesn't want it to end.
it's not just the sound of the television. his favorite football team has finally fucking put one into the corner of the net. the announcers cheer, but this isn't all that he hears.
the cat is in the kitchen. he can't see it, but he hears it (the little fucker). she's pawing at the cat grass that sits above the sink now. when he leans forward, he notices her little nose pushing it around before she takes a bite out of it.
she leaves the basil alone.
and then there's the sound of you. your feet in the bedroom. when you pass by the doorway, he can see you in different states of getting ready. when you pass by this time, he can see your eyeliner is on both eyes now, not just one, and your hair doesn't have clips or pieces to hold it in its style anymore. it lays perfectly now; he did a double-take when he saw it this way for the first time. you're rifling through the closet now. your clothes used to be in their own drawers. separated. socks not touching one another. your half of the closet, and his half. perfectly divided.
he doesn't remember when it happened. he found your bra under his t-shirt today. he was going through the jackets because your dresses were now between them. in the bathroom, he almost stuck your toothbrush in his mouth because they rest side-by-side in the holder.
when he looks around the room, he can't see where you begin, and he cannot see where he ends. he doesn't see where he started.
but he can see where you will go.
you bounce into the living room, holding up two hangers. there's dresses on each of them, one a dark color, the other light, and you hold them in front of simon who's still sitting on the couch, his head in his hand as he concentrates on the game (where he pretends like he hasn't been thinking about you too hard to really focus).
"simon?" you call, and he grunts, looking over at you. "which one do you like?"
he looks over the two dresses before looking at you. he hums, leaning back against the couch. he shrugs before looking back at the telly. you would look like perfection in either of them, but that isn't what you asked, and that isn't the answer you want.
"the darker one. like ya in tha' color."
you smile a little before going back into the bedroom, hanging the other dress back up and laying the other one out on the bed. you rummage through the dresser for proper undergarments, picking a soft lace pair of panties with a matching bra. you slip them on before stepping into the dress.
you reach around for the waist, and when your attempts to grab it are futile, you look over your shoulder towards the door.
"simon?" you call out gently. "could you come here, please?"
there's a shuffle of sound before simon steps into the bedroom. you point to your back, smiling at him shyly.
"c-could you help me? i can't reach the zipper."
he makes his way over to where you stand in front of the mirror. you watch as his eyes roam over your back, as he takes in the sight in front of him. you swallow as he drags a few knuckles down the length of your spine, his eyes flicking up to meet yours in the mirror before he takes the zipper in his hand and pulls it up. when he finishes, he steps a little closer, dipping his head to look at you from over your shoulder. you turn your head to look up at him, smiling.
"everything okay?" you ask softly, and he clicks his tongue, sliding his hand from its place on your back to wrap around your middle. he spreads a big palm over your tummy before dragging you backwards, your backside pressing against his front.
"mmm..." he scrunches his nose a little, running a pink tongue over his teeth. "look fuckin' beautiful."
you giggle, looking away, spreading your palms along your cheeks to try and make it less hot, less warm--fuck, it's so hot, isn't it?
you pull away to go for your shoes, picking them up from the closet. you take a seat on the bed, trying to ignore simon's stare (impossible), and you put the shoes down to slip your feet into them. just as you bend to buckle them, simon tsks, and you sit up as he kneels down in front of you.
"simon, you--"
"shut it," he mutters, reaching down and picking your foot up by the ankle gently. he wraps the strap around it, fastening the buckle, and you open your mouth to say something, but then he bends, giving your knee a soft kiss before reaching for your other foot.
your eyes meet again as he wraps it around your ankle. he smirks, just enough, and your lip wobbles a little as he fastens the next shoe before setting it back down on the floor. he puts his hands on his knee to get up, standing to his full height, and your neck strains as you try and look up at him.
at times, you feel at odds. he anticipates your needs before you even know what they are yourself. he pushes your meals in front of you just as you realize you're hungry. he helps you to the top shelf whenever you need it, picking you up from your waist without even a grunt. he feeds the cat when she cries, he wipes the tears from your face just as they fall.
you want to be more. you want to be his wife. your life is leisure and warmth, you are cared for like a fine porcelain doll, but what are you to him? what do you do for him? what is it that you bring, why are you here, why did he ever even want you if he provides and all you do is take, take, take?
the pub is alive. the lights flicker and glow a warm orange, and there's many crowds around tables, cheering and laughing and clinking pints together. you swallow as you look around; a crowded place with lots of unfamiliar faces. you freeze at the door, blinking, trying to take it all in. just as you stiffen, there's a presence right at your back.
an arm circles around your middle protectively. simon's warm hand rests at the curve of your waist, and you look up at him. he stares down at you knowingly. he's wearing his mask, obscuring his entire face except for his eyes, but you've learned to read him all the same. his hood darkens the shadows over him, but you see what he's telling you easily.
'm right 'ere.
simon moves you in front of him, walking just behind you, and he leans over to murmur in your ear as he guides you forward.
"in the corner, luv."
you barely have time to register that your husband just called you love when you see an enthusiastic wave meant for you out of the corner of your eye.
simon showed you their pictures, but the grainy selfies from his phone don't do them any justice. kyle has a pearly smile and round cheeks (troublemaker, he could get away with anything with those eyes). johnny has an infectious grin and wild curls that fall in a line down his head (a wild card, he's got eyes that you can't read and a leg bouncing from his terrible inability to sit still). and then there's john, hidden under a beanie and a rough smile (all business, all thought, because even out here, he can't stop his mind from wandering back to the papers on his desk and the cries for help he can't ignore).
johnny's smile drops a little when you come near. he eyes the hand that simon has on you, the proximity of your bodies. he raises a brow when you hold out your hand to shake, gawking when he eyes your other hand, the ring that sparkles there.
"ach, LT..." johnny swallows hard. "is this...is she--?"
simon clears his throat. "this is my wife."
"steamin' jesus," johnny breathes, leaning back in the booth. he picks up his drink and knocks back the entire thing, choking a little as he looks between the two of you. "what the fawk?!"
you blink, stepping back, and simon takes a seat beside john, shaking his head.
"fuckin' hell, johnny. behave," simon mutters. "'s not--"
"ye said y'were showin' us yer new lass," johnny quips. "not yer wife!"
you look at simon, laughing a little.
"simon, you didn't tell them you were married?"
"tha' was need t'know," simon mutters, rolling his eyes. you giggle, looking around for somewhere to sit. simon doesn't give you much time to choose--you let out a shaky breath as he picks you up from your hips, sliding you up and onto his thigh. he spreads his legs a little to accommodate you, but he's such a big man.
simon holds one hand at your back, and the other lays flat against the table. it's easy, falling into conversation with them. they don't talk about work. they're infatuated with their lieutenant and his surprise wife. they ask if he owns pajamas. they ask if he takes the mask off to sleep. they ask if simon whittles, if he listens to music, if there's a snack that puts him in a good mood (jaffa cakes, you tell johnny, who cackles with delight).
when simon gets up to have a smoke, you're surprised. simon never leaves you alone in a public place, ever. he's always at your back, even at the grocery store. he likes to take you aisle by aisle, and he doesn't care if it makes the trip longer, because he doesn't like to have you out of his sight for very long.
he gives you that look, one that you can read. you're safe with these men.
you agree. they bring simon home, every single time.
"awwww, no' gonna give yer lass a smooch, LT?" johnny winks. "'s alright, we don't care. won't think ye a big softie cuz o' it."
simon rolls his eyes, pocketing his cigarettes as he stands by the table. he dips his fingers into johnny's pint and flicks him with it before leaning over and kissing you lightly through the mask, a chaste kiss that already leaves you reeling.
you blink, caught off guard, and you blink up at simon so slowly, a syrupy smile falling over your face.
"LT, that wasnae a real one," johnny rolls his eyes. "wut, are ye scared of us?"
"shut your fuckin' mouth, sergeant, i'll make y'do laps tomorrow."
"big baby."
you watch simon take the back door, letting it swing shut behind him. you excuse yourself, following after him, pushing the door open and blinking to adjust to the dark light of the alleyway.
there's stars out. they sparkle, and you pause to stare up at them for just a moment before making your way to where simon leans against a brick wall.
it all reminds you that you're just small. not small, but smaller than simon, and compared to what stares at you across a violet sky, you are nothing but specks in time. you're drifters, composites of organic matter that somehow, for some reason, exist at the same time.
simon's eyes find your own in the dark. it's hard to see; the only light nearby flickers, and it's hard to focus, but you can see his eyes clearly, magnetized even when the rest of him seems so obscure, hiding from your view.
your smile is clear, too. the watery lines of your eyes, they glow, and when you come near, you and simon are in your own bubble, a pocket of the universe that cannot be explained. he has found you, and you have found him, and even when the night sky tries so hard to hide the things you know are there, it isn't strong enough to take away what exists in the in-between.
you slide your fingers under the hem of his mask. this kind of thing is practiced. the same thing you do when he comes home every day. the only acts of service he ever allows, the only things he ever lets you do.
you ask yourself always what it is that you provide. what it is that he sees in you that you can't seem to see in yourself.
maybe it's this. maybe it's the grounding. the gravity he never used to feel, the orbit he could never quite get himself to maintain, the taut line of connection that's been severed ever since the only people he's ever loved were ripped right out from underneath his ribs.
he puts his hands over yours when the mask is over his nose. his palms over the backs of your hands, warm skin over soft, something broken over something seeking.
"you don't want this," simon whispers, and you frown a little, shaking your head.
"how...how can you say that?"
"i'm not..." he flinches a little. "not made for this. 's not wha' y'think."
you're eyes water. you aren't sad. you're upset.
"y-you have no idea," you whisper. "i know what i want. you can always tell when i'm lying, am i lying now?"
"'s not--"
"simon," you stop him. "look at me," you sniffle, and he closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, before finding your gaze again. it's frightening, what he sees. he sees nothing that he expects. no deception. no fear. the honesty, it terrifies him. the reality of accepting what he can't understand hurts inside. it trickles deep, down to his toes, along his spine, a curdling in his stomach that he can't believe because there's no way that someone can love me when i can't fucking love myself. "am i lying now?"
"no," he breathes, and your smile is sickly sweet. he doesn't understand. he doesn't get it. nothing in his life has ever been this easy. nothing in his life has ever been just for him, all for him, just his, and no one else's. there has never been a piece of life that has ever pitied him enough to let him have it exactly as it is, and yet here she is, my perfect girl, arriving on my doorstep.
like you dropped straight from heaven. angels with soft hands and a timid face and a shadow with soft fur and big eyes and terrible little temper.
simon's hand is an anchor on the back of your head. tilting you to the side, drawing you near, until you are on your toes, and your face is canted up.
you kiss in the dark. your mouth slots over his, hands gripping the front of his jacket as you try and get even closer to him. he's a little shy at first, letting you lead while he follows, but it only takes a few seconds for you to feel his hand stiffen against your head as he kisses you feverishly.
you smile between kisses. he smiles, too. you giggle, and he huffs, and he chases you with more kisses as you cradle his face between your hands and whisper between soft presses, i'm sorry and i know and it's all i've ever wanted.
when you pull away, he doesn't let you go. he presses your forehead to his, connecting you somehow, breathing in the warmth that you radiate to try and calm the pulsing of his blood that rushes in his ears.
when your eyes open again, and you look at each other, everything is suddenly clearer. whatever he saw before, everything must have been in black and white.
he sees in color. the stars align. they fall, one by one, sparkling as they form a pattern, one undiscovered by anyone before him, one he will keep all to himself in the time that follows. when he kisses you again, he memorizes that pattern.
he knows it will always lead right back to you.
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost mw2#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#ghost mwii#ghost x reader#cod#call of duty#order up
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Things that I feel like would happen when youâre in a relationship with Simon Riley.
Simon Riley masterlist
1. First off he hates the word âboyfriendâ.
Maybe itâs because heâs in his mid thirties or something but he canât stand being called your boyfriend. Heâs more than that but also not at the same time. You live together, have access to each otherâs bank accounts (which is only because he hates it when you try to fight him about him giving you money), and youâre each others emergency contact. He thinks of himself as your husband. The man wears a silicone ring when heâs home and a necklace with the ring thatâs totally not a wedding band when heâs working. Price has seen the chain once or twice and smirks, shooting him a knowing look but never says a word.
Simon cannot stand it when people get nosy and want to know what your relationship status is. Youâre together and thatâs all that matters. No one needs to know that youâre the beneficiary of his will and life insurance policy or that heâs put you on all of his accounts. No one needs to know that he buys you anything you want but has only ever bought you two rings; a thin gold band with a flower engraved on it and its twin a matching emerald ring. No one needs to know that when he gifted them to you, there were tears and promises of safety, love, and happiness whispered against feverish skin. No one needs to know that he has your name woven into his chest tattoo.
No one needs to know any of that because your relationship is between him and you only.
2. You are not some submissive little house wife. You are a strong independent woman and he prefers it that way.
I know this one goes against what most people say but hear me out on this. Simon has been independent since birth practically. Heâs only had himself to count on for years. Even in the military, heâs only been able to rely himself. Sure the others watch out for him but if it came down to it, heâs the only one whoâs going to get himself out alive.
The thought of someone else relying on him in that way is terrifying. He canât even fathom what it would be like to look at another person and fully trust them in that way. Half the time he feels like he canât even be trusted to take care of himself let alone another human. In theory a sweet docile housewife is great with the meals and clean house but not for him. He needs to know that you can hold your own. He needs to know that you can be independent and carry on without him if something happened while he was working. He needs to know that you will be okay if he doesnât come back.
You have to be okay without him no matter how much it pains him to think about it.
Like I said before, heâs made you the beneficiary of everything so he knows youâll be set financially but thatâs not enough. Heâs made Price promise to keep an eye out for you. Heâs made you promise to let Price do that and you agreed because itâs Simon whoâs asking but youâd tell anyone else to fuck off.
In addition to all of that, heâs installed the best security system the government has to offer in your house. You have a very expensive and large safe in your shared closet that heâs instructed you to only open if you feel unsafe. While you might not like it, you agree to go shooting with him so he can sleep at night knowing that you could protect yourself if heâs not home. Heâs gone as far as to make sure you have all of the licenses and certificates that are needed to legally own firearms in the UK.
Heâs not leaving any opportunity for you to be vulnerable or have your âsafety checksâ, as he calls them, taken away.
3. Simon Riley is a godless manâŚuntil he meets you.
Now this is entirely my own headcannon with no evidence to support it so bear with me.
Simon had a shitty childhood where his mom would pray to a god who never listened and his dad would shout verses at him when he was drunk. God was a mythical figure that he was told stories off with nothing to show for it. He did believe at one point but then his dad never got better, his mom wore bruises of every shade, and his brother found comfort in drugs.
He found himself praying when he was being tortured by the Mexican cartel. Between the flashbacks of his abusive past, he prayed to a god who had failed him so many times before to help him. He prayed again as he dug himself out of that Texas grave with the majorâs jaw bone. He wailed his prayers when he found his family executed after Sparks tried to kill him.
After that he deemed himself a Godless man. Years of praying had passed with nothing. This god had decided that Simon was not worthy of a miracle so why would he continue to worship him?
That was until he met you. He finds himself praying before every mission, every time he has to leave you, every time heâs on his way home, and just about any other time he thinks of you. He doesnât know what exactly heâs praying for other than for you to be there when he gets back.
He whispers his prayers to an absent god against your skin as he worships your body, soul, and heart. He promises to be devoted to you until his last breath and vows to find you again in whatever afterlife awaits you. He pledges to find solace in you and only you when his haunting nightmares return. He makes an oath to your heart that it will never weather another storm alone again for his will take whatever beating that comes your way. He shows you that he will love you in the same manner as a Hozier song; putting you above all else because you have become his religion, his faith, his beliefs, his life.
You have become all that he is and he thanks the god he once believed in for you. He prays again but to you, his heart, his love, and his beacon through the enteral storm of life.
#simon riley x you#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x female reader#simon riley imagine#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley#ghost imagine#ghost call of duty#ghost x reader#ghost cod#ghost#ghost x female reader
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Love is a Verb
Simon âGhostâ Riley x Reader
wc: 3k words
warnings/tags: fluff, allusions to smut, Simon gets in his feelingsâ˘ď¸
It was the first time that you dropped a plate stacked high with heart-shaped pancakes in front of him, that you realized just how much Simon had been starved for love in his life.
âWhatâs this?â He asks, eyebrows scrunching in confusion, staring down at his plate as though it were a bomb in need of defusing.
âBreakfast? Youâd mentioned pancakes the other day and Iâve been craving âem since.â You shrug, walking back towards the stovetop where the next batch are waiting to be flipped over.
âTheyâre- youâve never-â You glance back over your shoulder at him, watching as he appears to struggle to find the words for what he means to say. He looks almost out of place, his large, hulking frame sitting at a breakfast table with flowers adorning it (heâs the one that brought you that bouquet, of course), his bed head on full display. âYouâve never made âem like this before.â
âWhat, like hearts?â You giggle, scooping up the last of the breakfast onto a plate, making your way back to the table, seeing Simon give you a nod in confirmation. âI just wanted spread some love to my love. Is that alright?â
Setting your plate down next to his, you go to take a seat before you feel two muscular arms wrapping around your middle, pulling you backwards and seating you onto his strong lap.
ââCourse sâalright.â He mumbles into your hair, pressing a kiss wherever his lips may land on you. From those two words alone, you can tell his throat is getting scratchy, and you almost think you hear the slightest sniffle coming from him. You canât help the surprised blush that creeps through you. You werenât expecting him to react this way. Youâre willing to bet he also wasnât expecting to react this way.
Knowing that communicating, as well as understanding, his feelings isnât something that always comes with ease for Simon, you decide to give him a moment, not wanting to put him on the spot. You spread some maple syrup across your stack, tilting it in the direction of his plate and receiving a grunt of confirmation before you drizzle some onto his as well. Taking your cutlery in hand, enjoy your breakfast in quiet bliss, taking turns feeding bites to yourself and your shadow behind you, always receiving a loving squeeze to your thigh after each piece you slip between his lips.
âMum never made anythinâ like this.â His revelation arrives just as your chewing on your last bite, stomachs content, hearts even more full. You can count on one hand the amount of times Simon has brought up his family to you. Youâre aware of the circumstances, and while you donât know every detail (nor do you need to), he has over time opened up to you about what happened. âNot âcause she didnât love us. I think she wouldâve if she-â he clears his throat, and you readjust yourself in his lap so that you can wrap your arms around his neck, leaning your head against his shoulders, rubbing reassuring circles into the muscles your hands come across.
You donât want to overwhelm him by looking at him as he opens himself up to you, but you want to reassure him that youâre listening, youâre here with him. He can tell you as much or as little as he wants to, and youâll listen.
âBeth did though. Once or twice.â He adds, resting his chin atop your head, running a hand through your hair. âI mean, Iâm sure she did it more than that but, I saw her do it, once or twice. For Joseph.â Your grip around him tightens ever so gently at the mention of his late sister-in-law and nephew. Youâve never seen a picture of the boy, but you can just picture him, a small little blond head of hair, maybe with eyes like his, running around, keeping his young parents busy. Knowing the fate his family endured, a shiver runs through you, but you donât let it overcloud the moment that Simon is sharing with you. Certainly not when it appears heâs thinking of them fondly right now, reflecting on his past with a happy lens.
âIâm sure he mustâve loved it.â You whisper into the skin of his neck, sending goose bumps sprawling across the flesh.
âHe did. Tommy too.â At that he gives a slight chuckle, shaking the two of you. âEven when we were younger, he could always eat us out of house and home. Was like you couldnât get anything to stick to his bones, either, that kid. More than half the time I wound up shop liftinâ it was to feed his skinny arse.â You sit there together for a moment, holding one another, basking in the newest glimpse of his past that Simon has just offered you.
âThey wouldâve loved you.â He mumbles into your hair, emotion evident in his voice, his grip on you tightening desperately, as though you two might slip through his fingers if he doesnât hold you close enough. âThink you wouldâa liked em as well.â At that you pull away from his shoulder, slipping your hands to cradle each side of his face, bringing his forehead to meet yours.
âThey loved you, Si. Of course I would love them too.â You whisper against his lips, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to each corner of his mouth, the top of his nose, each closed eyelid, before returning to his mouth.
Itâs the next week when you decide to finally tackle the last of the moving boxes. You and Simon finally moved in together a few months ago now, and Simon seems to have placed more priority on âchristening every roomâ (also known as fucking you senseless over each and every available surface in the place) over unpacking.
The handful of boxes that are left are more of the miscellaneous, donât really have anywhere to put them, sort of items that you canât exactly part with but donât have any real use for. Most of it being your stuff. His time in the military has left him without a need for many material items, and so youâre surprised to find a smaller box shoved to the back of the pile labeled as âSimonâ.
Upon opening it, you find it contains a variety of what appears to be memorabilia heâs collected throughout his time in the military, small souvenirs from his travels, old folded up uniforms, and what not. But slipped between two folded shirts, you can feel something more sturdy. Carefully slipping it out of the box, you discover a frame containing a multitude of medals.
In spite of being in love with a Lieutenant, your knowledge of the military is still slim. You donât recognize any of the medals shining up at you, but they are numerous, and you can tell they must be incredibly important, something heâs worked so hard to earn. Why is he keeping this tucked away?
âHey Si!â You shout in hopes that heâs near enough to hear you.
âWhat are you up to now, mischief?â He asks, his tone playful as you hear his footsteps approaching. âChrist, weâve still boxes left?â
âActing as if you donât purposefully walk around them every day.â You tease back, rolling your eyes at him. You stand up, turning to face him with the frame clutched to your chest. He takes you in and raises a brow in question as to your discovery. âWhat are these?â
He steps closer to glance at what youâre holding, shoulders tensing for a moment before releasing, letting out a deep sigh.
âAh. Sânothinâ.â He tries to reach to take it out of your grip, but you swing your arms behind your back, hiding it from his grasp.
âWhat do you mean nothing? Doesnât look like nothing to me, mister award winner.â
âTheyâre not- I donât-â he seems to struggle with his words, and itâs only then that you realize perhaps he doesnât view these medals in the same way you do.
âDo you not like âem?â You ask, bringing the frame back around to your front, glancing down at them with a more quizzical eye this time.
âI just- Iâm not always proud of how I earned em, love.â He attempts to explain, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. âSome I reckonâ I donât mind but- all just seems unnecessary to me. I did my job, all there is to it.â
âAre these like, the kind they have big ceremonies for and then someone pins them on you in front of everyone?â
âSomethinâ like that.â he grumbles, crossing his arms over his large chest.
âAnd let me guess, you never attended any of them?â
âDonât need all the fanfare, lovie.â He says, stepping forward and slowly slipping the frame from your grasp, tossing it back into the box youâd found it in. âAll I needâs right here.â
âI just wish youâd let yourself be celebrated sometimes too, SiâŚâ
âWell if itâs celebratinâ my birdie is wantinâ, howâs bout we go celebrate with you on top of the washing machine eh? Donât think Iâve made you cum up there yet.â You roll your eyes at his changing of the subjects, but canât contain the giggle that erupts out of you when he swings you over his shoulder, apparently having decided the laundry room is exactly where you two are going now. âJust put a load in the machine, only right I put a load in here too.â He adds with a smack to your ass.
Youâre worried youâre about to make an absolute fool out of yourself. No, youâre sure youâre about to look like an idiot. You know how much that man loves you, but even this might be exaggerating. Glancing at the clock above the stove however, you know itâs now or never. The candles around the room have been lit, the lights are dimmed, his favourite meal is cooking in the oven, soft music is playing from the record player, youâre wearing Simonâs favourite dress on you, and you even went as far as to spruce up your hair and makeup for this. In theory, everything is perfectly set up and in its place.
So why then, do you feel so mortified as you hear the sound of keys jingling the lock at the front door? Oh right, because itâs him youâve set this all up for.
âHi sweetheart,â he shouts to you as he walks in, too preoccupied with removing his boots and gear to look up yet. âSmells really good, whatâs-â He cuts himself off upon walking into the kitchen, eyes landing on the unusual scene before him. You watch as his irises glance around the room, taking it all in, before landing on you. Heâs still stood a few feet away from you, but you swear you can see his pupils dilate as his eyes roam up and down your figure.
âHi.â You whisper meekly to him, wringing your hands nervously behind your back.
âHi.â He answers back, taking an apprehensive step towards you. âWhatâs all this then?â
âFirst you have to go get dressed.â You inform him, jutting your chin in the direction of your shared bedroom. The small smile working its way onto his face helps boost your confidence, nerves slowly dissipating.
âIs that so?â
âMhmm. Even laid out your clothes for you, so you donât have to think about it.â
âWe goinâ somewhere?â He asks, beginning to undo his belt already. The movement catches your attention, likely his intention, and his smirk widens upon seeing you blush.
âNope. Weâre just celebrating at home.â
At this, he freezes his movements, belt halfway slipped out of his belt loops. His gaze scans your face, looking for anything he might have missed.
âShit. Did I- did I forget something, baby? I did-â
âNo, no no no!â You cut him off with a slight giggle, coming up to him now to lay your palms across his chest. âNo, youâre okay Si. You didnât forget anything, Iâm just surprising you.â You reassure him, knowing that he only calls you baby when heâs worried heâs in trouble (or when heâs already in trouble, crouched between your thighs attempting to earn his way out of the dog house).
âYou didnât have to do any of this love.â He says, hands pulling the rest of his belt out, before he loops it around you, using it to pull you even closer to him.
âYou donât even know what Iâve done yet, mister. Weâll see if you still like me in a bit.â You stand up on your tippy toes, planting a kiss to his Adamâs apple, fingers reaching up to slowly lift the skull printed balaclava off his face. Your lips follow each inch of skin revealed as you finally slip the fabric off his visage, exposing the face of the man you love. âNow go get dressed before I change my mind.â
With a kiss to the forehead and a squeeze to the bum, your man releases you from his grasp to obediently follow your command, making his way towards the bedroom. Steeling yourself with a deep breath, you turn towards the cabinets, pulling out the secret youâd been hiding, the reason youâre doing any of this.
Minutes later, Simon is walking back into the room, dressed in form fitting black dress pants, and his large hands are finishing up the last few buttons of his white button-up shirt, the buttons appearing minuscule in his grasp. Your eyes land on his figure, and suddenly the smell of the food in the oven isnât why your mouth is salivating so much. He glances up at you, eyes meeting and each of you fights off a small blush and a shy smile, as though youâre seeing your dates for the prom for the first time.
âYouâre so handsome, Si.â You tell him, stepping closer to him.
âThink youâre just desensitized to me at this point, love.â He attempts to deflect, but you see the blush deepening across his pale cheeks. âBesides, I oughta be kissing the ground you walk on birdie, just look at yaâŚâ He reaches a hand out towards yours, spinning you around gracefully, taking the time to admire you entirely.
The look in his eyes is glazing over, as he licks his lips, eyes unable to tear away from each inch of skin you have exposed. Youâre equally become as hot and bothered, but youâve got a goal tonight, and you want to see it through, for his sake.
âBefore dinner, I uh- I wanted to do something for you.â You say, stepping back enough that your backside meets the edge of the counter top. Your hands feel behind you for what youâre looking for, hoping he canât see what youâre attempting to conceal for just a little longer. âI donât need to explain to you how hard you work, everywhere you go, youâre always taking care of others, Si. And you donât get even nearly as much thanks as you should, and-â
âLove,â he tries to cut you off, stepping closer to you, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
âHold on, I really want to say this. To do this.â He nods at your interjection, accepting to hear you through. âEver since I met you, youâve changed my life Simon Riley, and I know Iâm not the only person in the world who can say that. You are a good man, a hero to many, a leader to others. Youâre just- you are good, Si. I promise you are.â
You canât help the emotion beginning to seep into your voice now, but itâs important to you that he hears every word you have to tell him, and that he knows you mean them.
âI donât know everything youâve done, and I donât want to. Your job terrifies me, and every time you walk out the door Iâm scared youâre going to get hurt but- youâre so good at what you do, Simon. They couldnât do it without you. Youâre important, youâre needed.â At this, you slip the frame of medals out from behind your back, bringing them in front of you for Simon to see. âThatâs what these are, at least in my eyes. Theyâre reminders that youâre meant to be doing what youâre doing, but most importantly, they also mean you made it back. You made it back to me.â
His warm hand reaches out to brush away a stray tear thatâs spilled over your lashes, his palm staying to cup your cheek affectionately.
âYouâre right, we donât need all the fanfare, all we need is right here. But some occasions call for a celebration. Thatâs why Iâm hoping youâll let me put these on you? Just once, just this one time, I just- I need you to know how important you and your accomplishments are to me.â
Wordlessly, he nods to you, his own eyes appearing to be brimming with emotion. Sniffling, you turn the frame over, opening up the back before carefully slipping it off. Your fingers gingerly pick up the first medal they find, bringing it up to his firm chest. You look into his eyes once more, ensuring that this is okay with him. All you see in his gaze is pure, undeniable love. One hand reaches between the fabric of his shirt and the warm, scarred skin across his pec, as the other brings the medal to the front of the button-up. With all the devotion and tenderness in the world, you secure the medal to his front, slowly slinking your hands away to see if itâll stay in its place.
When the medal does not budge, you repeat the process over with the remaining medals, until one side of his shirt is significantly weighed down compared to the other side, and both your hearts are bursting with affection for the human being stood before you. Sliding your now empty hands up his shoulders, his calloused palms resting on either side of your waist, his eyes communicate to you everything that his lips will never need to tell you. You know him. And you know what you mean to him. Thatâs why as he shuts his eyes and presses a kiss to your forehead, you find yourself whispering the sentence you hope to tell him every day of your life:
âI love you too.â
#call of duty#call of duty fanfic#call of duty fic#simon ghost riley#simon riley#ghost cod#ghost fanfic#ghost x reader#ghost x y/n#ghost x you#simon riley fluff#simon ghost riley fluff#simon ghost riley x you#simon riley x you#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost#cod fluff#cod fic#cod fanfic#cod x reader#cod#readwritealldayallnight
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Cherry Red, Crimson Blood
Chapter 38: Shattered
Summary: Things aren't okay. They never will be again.
Pairing: Poly 141 x reader
Word Count: 7,743 words
Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, medical stuff, injuries, brief description of a possible death, language, mention of weight loss due to medical stuff, emotionally heavy chapter (again), slightly graphic imagery, illness, so much crying
A/N: I just want to make something very clear here since there's a scene in this chapter that might be interpreted this way, but 'mega is NOT suicidal. That's not something that's going to be in this fic, and neither is self-harm. It would have been well warned in advance if that was going to be something coming up in this fic. She's struggling a lot, but she's not suicidal, she's not going to become suicidal, nor will she self-harm even off screen. So don't worry. That's not what's happening. It won't be happening.
Okay, just wanted to make that clear. Enjoy the suffering!
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The scream slices through the silence seconds before chaos erupts.Â
John is on his feet and out the door before Kyle is even fully awake. Simon is on his heels down the stairs, the two of them nearly colliding in their rush. His heart thuds in his chest as he sees your door open, the overhead light on. Itâs bad. It must be bad if the overhead light is on. You hate the overhead light.Â
He barrels in like a bull, ready to fight. The screaming has stopped, but it still rings in his ears. The fear, the panic. Something has happened. Someone got in. He should have made you take the room upstairs. He should have put a barrier between you and the door. That window. Someone could break that easily and grab you before they even noticed.
âItâs okay, itâs okay.âÂ
The screaming has stopped, but gut-wrenching sobs have taken its place. He takes a moment to scan the room. Nothing is misplaced. The window isnât broken, thereâs no bodies, no one that shouldnât be in there.Â
âYouâre okay.â Christine soothes you as you sob. âIt was just a nightmare.âÂ
The bright fluorescent overhead light burns his eyes as he stands there, staring at the bed. Christine is right there, having beaten them across the living room, or perhaps she had already been in there, having heard you in your distress before they could. You're tucked in her arms, your face against her shoulder as she holds you.Â
Nightmare.Â
The safety and security the cottage promised has faded, leaving you at the mercy of the horrors your mind can conjure up in your sleep. Something twists deep in Johnâs stomach as he turns, motioning for the others to back up and give you some space. You wonât want them there, and things will only get worse if you notice them.Â
His heart is still thudding in his chest as he stands there, the sharp sound of your scream still ringing in his ears despite his confirmation of your safety. The other three look just as startled as he feels, standing there tensely in the dark living room. He brings himself to move, turning his back on them for a moment to try and gather his thoughts as he flips on the lamp in the corner. It casts a warm light across the living room, far too warm for how heâs feeling. Heâs trying not to panic, trying not to be sick on the floor from the worry. His heart is in his throat, trying to choke him. Heâs trying so hard to be strong, not just for him, but for his pack, for you.Â
He sinks down on one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face. He had been so sure something had happened, that their safe little bubble had been breached and someone knew about their whereabouts. He had been so sure someone was trying to hurt you with a scream like that.Â
Maybe someone was, but not in reality.Â
What is it you dream about now? Your nightmares about your father and your traumatic presentation must seem like nothing now compared to what must haunt your mind. Do you dream of Graves and his torture? Do you dream of them leaving you behind? Do you dream of dying because of their failures?Â
A hand settles on his shoulder, a body sinking onto the couch next to him. Arms are wrapping around him, easing him against a solid chest.Â
Heâs crying.Â
He didnât even realize the tears had started flowing.Â
He can hear the reverberating voice in his head, yelling at him, telling him not to show such weakness in front of his pack, in front of his team. Heâs supposed to be the strong one, heâs supposed to be the stable one keeping the pack afloat and steady. Yet here he is, breaking down in front of them.Â
âItâs okay.âÂ
Kyle.Â
His sweet Kyle.Â
How heâs been neglecting his sweet beta, and yet, how willing Kyle still is to reach out and comfort him in such a time of visible distress. Thatâs what betas are supposed to do. Mediate and balance the emotions of the pack. How have they been coping with all of this? How have Kyle and Johnny been managing in such a time of disarray and upheaval? Have they been managing it? He doesnât even know. He doesnât even know the state of his pack, of the members of his team.Â
What a failure he is.Â
He lets himself lean against Kyle, something filling his chest as Kyleâs soft scent seeps into his senses. Heâs projecting it, not just for John but also for the whole room. Johnny is crying too, soft sobs tearing from his chest as he sits on the other couch. Simon is on his knees in front of him, trying to get him calmed and breathing.Â
Theyâve been ignoring and denying each other for days, fraying the bonds further while trying so hard not to. The pain theyâve been causing in their emotional constipation and intentional neglect is almost worse than the pain caused by their infighting. At least fighting they were feeling something. At least fighting they werenât cutting each other off so willingly.Â
âWe canât do this anymore.â He says, his voice thick and shaky from his tears. âCutting each other off. Itâs not helping anything.â He doesnât move from where heâs tucked against Kyleâs chest, letting the comfort wash over him for the first time in a week and a half.Â
How heâs missed this.Â
âItâs not doing any good for any of us.â Simon says, shifting onto the couch next to Johnny.Â
âEspecially not our omega.â Kyle says, voicing the thought flashing through all of their minds.Â
âWe may not be able to do much to help her right now, but we can focus on each other. That is something we can do.â John swallows thickly, his alpha starting to come back to life, his instincts aware again as he stares at Johnny and Simon. âDoing nothing isnât good for any of us. We need to have something to focus on, something tangible we can do. Denying each other comfort isnât going to help anyone.âÂ
âI full-heartedly agree.âÂ
John whips around, Christine standing in front of your closed door. He hadnât even noticed her enter the room, hadnât sensed her standing behind them. Johnny and Simon are the only two that donât look startled, but they must have seen her come out from their position facing your door.Â
âSorry.â The corner of her lip twitches up in a smirk. âThought you would have noticed.âÂ
John clears his throat. âHow is she?âÂ
âSettled again.â Christine says, moving over to the chair.Â
âHow long has she been having nightmares?â Kyle asks.Â
âSince that first day in the med center in Dallas.â She says, sinking into the chair. How heavy this must all be on her shoulders. âIâd almost call them more sleep hallucinations. Mostly of Graves. Seeing him in the room, being attacked by him.âÂ
âIs there anything that can be done to help?â John asks.Â
âFor these kinds of nightmares? Not really.â Christine folds her hands in her lap. âHer brain is trying to process what happened. Until she feels safe enough to truly begin working on processing the trauma, itâs likely the nightmares will continue.âÂ
âIs there anything we can do to help her feel safe?â Kyle says.Â
Christineâs lips purse as she looks between the four of them. âIâm not sure any of you could do anything right now directly, at least. Sheâs not open to that yet. Working on your bonds with each other, though, could help her omega finally settle and allow her emotions to even out again. That can help her feel safer, remove that instability and the fear of losing control again.âÂ
All of them share looks, John and Simon staring at one another. They hadnât even thought about that. Well, at least he hadnât. Christine had told him months ago that omegas need their alpha when they distress, when their omega takes over. They can come back from it with the help of an alpha...their alpha. Without one, the chances of survival were slim. Yet here you are, trying to do it all on your own. Having to do it all on your own.Â
That ache in his chest starts again as he stares at Simon. He sent Simon after you, he made Simon go through that process of seeing you in that state and scruffing you. He made Simon be the one to help you through that. He made Simon be there when you needed an alpha most because he couldnât face the fact that he abandoned you, he left you behind like you were nothing but another faceless soldier.Â
He wipes his face as the tears start falling again. He truly is a failure of an alpha.Â
Despite Christineâs reassurances, John canât help the automatic reaction to your screams. On his feet instantly, his heart pounding in his chest ready to fight bare handed whatever might be causing such a reaction. Whoever might be causing such a reaction. He canât fight the demons in your head, though, and heâs always greeted by the sight of Christine by your side, comforting you as best she can.Â
He wants to hate her, wants to be angry at her for taking his place, doing what he should be doing. His alpha scratches at his mind every time he sees her by your side, giving you comforts he should be giving, but itâs his fault. Itâs his fault sheâs the one there with you. Itâs his fault youâre suffering so much. Those thoughts send his alpha crawling back into its cage with its tail between its legs.Â
It doesnât matter the time of day, whether it was a nap or the middle of the night, your screams have a pain throbbing deep in his chest. His heart is constantly racing, waiting for that rush of adrenaline at the sound of your terrified scream, at that rush of instinct to protect and fight. Heâs not sure how much his heart can take.Â
He might have a heart attack by the end of their stay at the cottage.Â
Thatâs something heâs been trying not to think about.Â
They canât stay here forever, no matter how much he knows youâll want to, how much the others will want to. Eventually theyâll begin to go stir-crazy, itching for something to do. They still have jobs, and Kate can only keep them off the radar for so long, and can only give so many excuses. Eventually theyâll have to go back. Eventually theyâll have to make that decision of what comes next.Â
Heâs going to delay that as much as he possibly can.Â
They canât go back while Shepherd is still out there. They canât trust that anywhere is safe while heâs still skulking around, while he still has contacts that could put them all in danger. That could put you in danger.Â
Thatâs not a risk heâs willing to take again.Â
But what comes next?Â
What will they decide to do? Can they go back, knowing what the inevitable will be? Can they take that risk of having to leave you again, put you through that constant fear and worry that they might not come back? What if they all leave again? Could you survive the fear that something might happen while theyâre away again? Not to them, but to you?Â
Could they leave you alone again?Â
Those are thoughts for another day when theyâre inevitably faced with the fact they have to return to society and their lives and jobs.Â
They have time.Â
He has to make sure youâre okay first.Â
Youâre not okay.
Youâre so very far from okay.Â
The bedside lamp is on, casting a golden glow around the room.Â
Thereâs nothing there. Thereâs nothing there.Â
Itâs one of the rare times youâve woken before you can react, before you can scream and alert everyone in the house that youâve had a nightmare. Theyâll all come running. All of them.Â
You hate it.Â
You hate the nightmares, you hate the fear, you hate the constant pain and worry and the constant knowledge that your pack is right there. They want to go back to how things were, they want things to go back to normal, but they canât. They expect you to forgive them, to go back to loving them, but how can you after everything?Â
They left you.Â
They let this happen to you and they just want you to pretend like nothing happened. Thatâs what they would do. Go back to normal life after being tortured and forget it all happened because thatâs what they do.Â
Youâre not them.Â
You donât want to be like them.Â
Cold. Heartless. Uncaring. Unwilling to put anyone but themselves first.Â
Fuck them.Â
The only thing keeping you here is the fact youâre bonded to them. That, and youâre an omega. Youâd get picked up off the street and brought right back here to your owner. Or, worse, youâd get picked up by someone looking for a cute little omega to add to their collection.Â
Or worse.Â
Youâd get picked up by someone else.Â
Graves. Shepherd.Â
If youâre lucky, theyâd kill you instantly. Leave your body on the front porch for the others to find. You wonât care anymore. Youâll be dead.Â
You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks, wiggling yourself back until youâre leaning against the headboard. Your shoulder doesnât hurt quite as much anymore. It still throbs, still aches, still occasionally almost puts you on the floor when you try to reach over your head with it. Your throat is healing too. Soup isnât quite as horrible as it was a few days ago. Solid food makes you ache, but at least you can get it down without feeling like youâre swallowing glass.Â
You still havenât spoken to them, though.Â
You can hardly stand to look at them.Â
Fuck them.Â
Just the thought of them makes you want to scream.Â
Dr. Keller says it's normal, being angry. âItâs all part of the process.â The anger, the fear, the pain, the depression. Itâs all normal. Itâs all part of the process. Itâs all necessary. You wonât get better holding it all in. You wonât get better numbing yourself. You wonât get better if you donât allow yourself to feel everything.Â
You hate it.Â
Why should you have to go through all these feelings, all this pain? Why should you be the one suffering because of their decisions? Itâs not fair. They should be suffering. They should be in pain. They should be the ones on the brink of insanity because of the fear and the pain and the suffering and their omega constantly screaming at them.Â
It makes you want to scream.Â
Screaming will only draw them in, force them closer. Screaming will alert them all, make them all come running. You donât want any of them near. You donât want to have to see them again.Â
Fuck them.Â
You let out a huff before wiggling back down the bed until your head hits the pillow. You wonât go back to sleep. You never do. At least you have the pain and exhaustion and tumultuous emotions and your very nature to excuse your constant naps, constant sleeping during the day. They donât need to know youâre not sleeping at night. They wonât care. They donât care. None of them do.Â
Fuck. Them.Â
You want your phone, you want something to keep you occupied. Itâs probably lying somewhere on the side of the road shattered beyond repair. That, or itâs back in the barracks. The barracks. Fuck that place. Youâll rip your hair out strand by strand if you have to go back there. Itâs not safe, itâs not happy. Thereâs nothing good about that place anymore.Â
Itâs just a place of pain. You might as well have been tortured by Phil there.Â
You were tortured there.Â
It wasnât a physical torture, but a mental one. The entire experiment was just torture for you. No one thought of you, no one cared about you.Â
Dr. Keller cares.Â
Itâs her job to care.Â
Still, you canât hate her entirely. Sheâs the only one that understands. Sheâs the only one that can help. Sheâs the only one thatâs been helping. Not just now, but back then. She cared, she fought for you, she did her best with what she had. Sure, she made mistakes, but so did you. Sheâs the only one you can forgive.Â
Sheâs the only one you want to forgive.Â
Fuck the others. Fuck your pack. Fuck those fucking soldiers who were never going to care about anyone but themselves, who were never going to care about anything but their jobs and their duties and the good of the world.Â
You should have been their world.Â
They couldnât put you first. They wouldnât put you first. They didnât want to put you first.Â
They wonât change. They canât change. Thereâs no hope for change.Â
Youâll just go back to the way things were before and be forced to pretend everything's okay and that youâre happy and fine and content. Were you ever really content or were you just trying to make the best of the situation? Were you deluding yourself into believing you loved them and cared about them and that they loved you and cared about you to numb the fact you knew deep down that they never would, that they never could. Were you deluding yourself into thinking everything was fine and dandy to hide the constant pain from the knowledge that you would never come first?Â
The pain begins to burn in your chest again. Itâs hot like acid, rising in your chest to your throat, threatening to choke you. Itâs a deep pain, one nestled right in against your soul. Tears leak out of your eyes again as you squeeze them shut, pushing your right hand against your chest in an attempt to get it to pass.Â
You thought you were dying the first time.Â
You could only be so lucky.Â
The bond.Â
Itâs trying to break, trying to sever itself, trying to free you from the constant pain, but it canât.Â
Maybe because deep down you donât want it to. Maybe deep down you want to forgive them and move past all of this. Maybe you want things to go back to normal, even if normal means pain and distress and fear. Maybe you want to believe them that theyâre finally going to put you first.Â
âMaybeâ is only a doorway to disappointment and pain.Â
Fuck yourself.Â
Fuck your omega.Â
Fuck your pack.Â
Hell, fuck Dr. Keller for not fighting harder, for not doing more.Â
Fuck Graves and his haunting of your nightmares.
Fuck Kate for choosing you.
Fuck Shepherd for creating the initiative in the first place to try and cover his own ass.Â
Fuck them all.Â
You tug the blanket higher around yourself, rolling onto your right side.Â
Fuck. Them. All.Â
You donât want him here.Â
He does it now, usually in the mornings.Â
You hate it.Â
You like it. Itâs nice. Heâs the only one making an effort.Â
He never says anything, surprisingly enough. Itâs silent as he sits there, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Always coffee, never tea. He wonât sink that low. He brings you a cup, but you can never bring yourself to touch it. You feel like a mental patient stuck in a straight jacket. You could free yourself, but that would bring too much awareness, too many questions, too much pain.Â
You donât want to.Â
So instead you sit there in silence, staring out at the sea. Itâs so far away still, yet itâs right there. You can hear it and smell it and see it.Â
The sea.Â
They brought you to the sea.Â
John remembered. He did it for you.Â
The thought has something stirring in your chest, and itâs not pain or anger.Â
You hate it.Â
Johnny leans back in the chair, his eyes on the horizon like yours. He sits there in that chair every chance he gets, usually in the mornings when Dr. Keller takes time for herself and leaves one of them watching you through the sliding glass door. You do feel guilty for forcing so much on Dr. Kellerâs shoulders, yet you need her.Â
Youâre not ready for the others yet, no matter how loudly your omega screams at you.Â
You donât want them.Â
Fuck, you desperately need them.Â
Your eyelids flutter frantically as you try to keep the tears at bay. You canât cry. You canât let him know how close you are to breaking down. You canât.Â
You canât reach out.Â
You canât take his hand.Â
How desperately you want to.Â
You nearly breathe a sigh of relief when the sliding door opens, Dr. Kellerâs soft footsteps crossing the wood planks of the porch.Â
âReady to go inside now?â She asks, pressing the back of her hand against your cheek. You donât say anything, donât react, frozen in fear of everything coming tumbling out in front of Johnny. âYouâre getting cold.âÂ
Johnny glances your way and you immediately turn to look at Dr. Keller, scared to look him in the face. That desperate hold you have on the gaping wound in your abdomen will open and your guts will come spilling out like some gory scene in a horror movie.Â
Disembowelment thanks to your own weakness.Â
Dr. Keller holds the crutch out for you as you push yourself to stand. Your legs are strong enough you could probably walk without it, but itâs still nice to have it in case you get tired.Â
If you fall, youâll never get up again.Â
Itâs the weakness from your liquid diet over the past week and a half. The weakness of being unable to eat solid foods, to properly nourish. Youâve lost weight, your clothes hanging from your body in a way they never did before. Youâve lost the softness that marks you as an omega, but it feels fitting. You donât feel like an omega anymore.Â
You donât feel like anything anymore.Â
Youâre fighting your instincts out of pain and suffering and stubbornness. You keep taping your omegaâs mouth shut despite how loudly she screams at you. You donât want your instincts. You donât want that need. Eventually it has to go away. Eventually it has to recede and your omega has to go back into her cage and sleep. Eventually you can numb yourself to it and force it away forever.Â
That will certainly make things easier.Â
But will it make things better?Â
No. Probably not.Â
Itâll make things worse.Â
But if it allows you to keep your distance, allows you to avoid them, youâll risk it. Youâd take numbness over anything right now.Â
How you miss those long days of depression while they were away. How you took those days for granted.Â
Who knew those hours spent worrying about them and their distance and what might happen to them would be for nothing?Â
What you wouldnât give for all of them to disappear right now.Â
How badly it would destroy you.Â
âSheâs at war with herself. That instinctual need is screaming at her, but that emotional pain is keeping her shut away. If anyone is going to get through to her, it will probably be you.âÂ
âI canât do that.âÂ
âCanât or wonât?âÂ
Simon clenches his jaw as he stares at Christine. As much as he wants to hate the doctor and her ability to see straight through him, he canât deny how necessary her presence has been. Sheâs the only one you tolerate, the only one youâll let close. Without her youâd probably be rotting in bed, stuck and unable to do anything out of stubbornness. You wonât let them close, yet you need them close.Â
Youâre going to rip yourself in half, metaphorically and possibly even literally.Â
He shakes that mental image from his mind. The horrifying images his mind has conjured up over the last few days have his stomach churning. Even his tea no longer looks appetizing.Â
He put milk in it this time. Almost how he likes it. Almost how he wants it.Â
âJohnnyâs the one actually trying.â Simon says, staring across at her. She doesnât shy from his gaze, doesn't even flinch. âYou should talk to him.âÂ
âWhile I agree, reintroducing a beta from the pack is the first step, eventually sheâs going to need an alpha.â Christine says.Â
âShe needs her alpha.â He argues.Â
âShe doesnât want her alpha.â Christine counters. âHeâs going to be the last she lets close, but sheâs going to need some kind of stability.âÂ
âI canât give her that.âÂ
âCanât or wonât?âÂ
Simon clenches his hand around his mug, his knuckles going white. Sheâs infuriating, yet he canât be mad at her. Not completely. The good sheâs doing for you, for the pack, far outweighs his annoyance with the doctor. Sheâs right. He knows it deep down, but he canât. He canât do that, he canât put you through that. Heâs already done enough. He did his part, he faced his fears, he saved your life. Thatâs enough for him. Itâs up to John now.Â
John has to do the work to fix it. He broke it, itâs no one elseâs job to fix it.Â
âMaybe both.â Simon finally says, pushing himself up to stand. âItâs not my job to fix this.âÂ
He leaves his mug behind as he stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. He canât stand being in the house any longer, cooped up with the same five people. Four people and a ghost.Â
He shakes his head, jogging down the steps into the gravel. He should go for a jog. A long jog. He could jog to town and back. That will clear his head.Â
Thatâs a long jog.
If something happens while heâs away, he wonât get back in time. Itâll be his fault because he took the time to do something selfish. He can picture it, coming back to find five bodies laying in pools of blood, dead because he wasnât there to help, because he wasnât there to fight.Â
Itâs a ridiculous thought. Thereâs three other highly trained soldiers in the house. If anyone tried anything, they wouldnât make it past the door. He can see it now, Priceâs alpha coming out in a rage because someone dared try to enter and hurt his vulnerable omega. Heâd probably win in a fight ten to one if that happened, and he has Kyle and Johnny to back him up. Christine would take you and run the first chance she could. She wouldnât let anything happen to you. Not again.Â
Still, he canât shake that fear. If he canât sprint back, then it's too far. If it will leave the pack too vulnerable, he canât.Â
To the beach and back, then.Â
Sheâs like an angel.Â
The soft sunlight streaming through the clouds makes her glow. You wouldnât be surprised if the sun was shining just for her, sending down a beam just to illuminate just how ethereal she is.Â
The Garrick beauty is genetic.Â
Kyle is beautiful in terms of a man. He shares the same ethereal glow as his sister, but Ashley? You donât feel worthy of looking upon her.Â
âKyle never mentioned an omega, but then again, he never says much about his job.â She gives another dazzling smile, your heart rate picking up just slightly. âCanât, I should say. You havenât been with them long, huh.âÂ
âAbout nine months.â You say, your voice still a bit hoarse. Itâs not quite healed yet. It might be that way forever.Â
âSuch a short amount of time to go through so much.â She says, giving you a soft, sympathetic look. You donât know how much she knows, though itâs still fairly obvious youâve been through hell. That youâre still going through hell. âChristine told me a bit about what happened. I donât blame you one bit for being upset at them. I would have left them, but I know. In a perfect world, right?âÂ
You make a quiet sound. Indeed in a perfect world where omegas have rights and can make their own decisions and could leave and have support in doing so. Youâd leave with Dr. Keller or even Ashley, even though youâve only known her for ten minutes. She has the same magnetic energy as Kyle, so much so you donât mind the way the scent blockers burn your nose. She probably smells like something warm and soft, something comforting.Â
âSo, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do?â She says, settling in the chair. Itâs cool outside, but she doesnât seem bothered by it one bit.Â
You scramble for something, anything. What is it you like to do? What are your hobbies? Youâre drawing a blank, your mind searching through its filing cabinets to find where you shoved all the things you like to do.Â
âI like to read.â You finally say, remembering the stack of untouched books on the dresser across from the bed.Â
âOh? What do you like to read?â She asks.Â
What do you like to read? What is a genre? What are books?Â
âOh, I read anything, as long as itâs interesting.â Is that the truth? Youâre not quite sure.Â
âI see, I see. Well, thereâs quite the collection on those shelves inside. Iâm a reader too. Read through those entire shelves over the years.â She grins at you. âWe could do a little book club, if youâd like. Read some books and talk about them over some tea. We could get Christine in on it too. Have a little thing just for us girls.âÂ
You nod, staring at her in awe. This is the first time someone outside of your little circle has offered to do anything with you, for you.Â
You want to do it.Â
You want to spend time with someone who isnât your pack, who isnât Dr. Keller.Â
âOkay.â You say, still staring at her in awe.Â
âI could come over on the weekends, or we could do a call if youâre not up to seeing anyone.â She continues, and youâre not sure if she made this plan before she came, or if sheâs coming up with it on the spot. Regardless, you're still impressed by her and her dedication to a complete stranger.Â
âWould...would that be too much?â You ask, your brain starting to wake up again, the wires connecting once more.Â
âNot at all.â She shakes her head. âI live and work in Exeter, so Iâm not too terribly far away.âÂ
Youâre not sure where Exeter is off the top of your head. Your mental map isnât even sure how far away London is...or even where you are on a map of England. Are you even in England right now?Â
âWhat do you do for work?â You ask, realizing youâve been silent for an awkward amount of time.Â
âIâm a finance lawyer.â She says. âMum used to say âyou love to argue so much, you should become a lawyer.ââ She laughs. âSo I did.âÂ
âYou must make a lot of money.â You say. You donât know how much lawyers make in England relative to the US.Â
âI make enough to be comfortable.â She says. Enough to travel back and forth every weekend. âSeriously, though, if you need or want anything, let me know. Iâm more than happy to come sit with you and give you a break from those stinky men.âÂ
Youâre not quite sure what happens to your face. It contorts, muscles shaking off the dust and starting to move before you even realize it. Your lips are tilting upwards instead of downwards. Something is happening. Something that feels good, something that youâve been missing.Â
Youâre smiling.Â
Youâre smiling. You havenât smiled in a long time. Weeks. Not since the cameras. Not since your pack left. You havenât felt like smiling in so long youâre certain you forgot how to. But yet, here you are, smiling at Ashley. Itâs not a genuine smile, one that crinkles your eyes and shows joy, but itâs a smile. It almost hurts your face after so long.Â
Sheâs funny too.Â
Stinky men.Â
They are that.Â
Your smile falls as soon as the sliding glass door opens, your head whipping around to look. Ashley turns to look too, perhaps out of instinct at your sudden movement.Â
Youâre half expecting it to be one of the guys, maybe Kyle out to ruin the moment, but itâs only Dr. Keller.Â
âHow are things going?â She asks, stepping up beside you.Â
âGood.â Ashley says. âWeâre planning a book club.âÂ
âOh?â Dr. Keller raises a brow, looking between you. âI think that would be fantastic.âÂ
âYouâre welcome to join in if youâd like,â Ashley says, giving Dr. Keller a smile.Â
You stare up at Dr. Keller, watching the way her lips turn up a smile, her eyes shining with...something. Her hands open and close, tugging at her pants almost nervously. Your brows raise as you look back up at her face. She almost looks...flustered.Â
Oh.Â
Another grin forms on your face as you stare between them, Ashley still smiling and Dr. Keller still looking a bit flustered.Â
Oh.Â
âYou could join us if you want.â You say slowly, still looking up at Dr. Keller.Â
She seems to snap out of her daze, her gaze darting down to you. She gives you a soft smile, back to her composed, professional self. âIf thatâs what youâd like.âÂ
You nod. Even though you see her constantly every day, youâre not tired of her existence yet. Sheâs the only one whose existence in the house doesnât make you want to gouge your eyes out, the only one you want to talk to, to see, to have around. If you had the choice, youâd be here alone with her.Â
Thatâs not possible. You know itâs not.Â
âA thing for just us girls.â Ashley says. âOn the weekends. No pressure whatsoever.âÂ
âI think that would be fantastic.â Dr. Keller says. âA nice little distraction.âÂ
âA nice break from those stinky men.â You say.Â
Both Dr. Keller and Ashley erupt in laughter.Â
Another smile tugs at your lips.Â
You donât want to be here. You can feel him staring at you from behind. He hasnât moved since Dr. Keller left, still just standing there like heâs not sure he can approach you or not. You hope he doesnât. You want him to.Â
You donât say anything, still staring out at the ocean, but you can see him reflected in the glass, obscuring your view of the horizon. Hatred burns inside of you as you have no choice but to stare at him, even when youâre trying not to. Heâs like a ghost, always haunting you. He always will be.Â
âI didnât want to try to rush into this.â He finally says, knowing youâre not going to say anything. You wonât greet him, welcome him into your space. It already feels like an intrusion into your safety, him being here.Â
Is this becoming a safe space? A nest? No, not that far. Itâs becoming sacred to you, though, and having him in it without invitation feels wrong. It makes you uncomfortable.Â
You hate it.Â
âBut I just wanted you to know that weâre all feeling the weight of what we did, Iâm feeling the weight of what I decided to do. We all feel guilty for putting you through that, for forcing you to endure things you never should have.âÂ
He swallows thickly, falling silent for a moment. You almost feel like laughing at his attempt at an apology, another attempt at an apology. Why is he even bothering? He knows you wonât forgive him. Heâs probably doing it for himself again, to make himself feel better.Â
âI know itâs not an ideal situation, being forced in such a small space together, but we all wanted you to know that youâre the one setting the boundaries. If you donât want us to be somewhere or do something, then you can tell us, or have Christine tell us. If you donât want to see us at all, we can make our best attempts at that.âÂ
âThat would be ideal.â You say, breaking the silence youâve held for days. Itâs the first time youâve spoken to him since the hospital, since his first sad attempt at an apology.Â
It shocks him to stillness and silence.Â
The words hurt, burning your throat like acid as you stare at his reflection in the glass. You hate it, how pathetic he looks standing there. Whereâs the big, tough alpha? Whereâs the strong protector? Whereâs the person thatâs supposed to take care of you and care about you?Â
He never existed.Â
He left you behind.Â
He never cared.Â
Anger begins to bubble within you.Â
âIâm sorry.â He says, his voice shaking. âI never meant for this to happen-â
âYou think your sad attempts at apologies are going to work?â You hiss at him through your teeth. You push yourself to stand, turning to face him. âYou left me. You fucking left me there knowing full well what was going to happen!â Youâre shouting now. All the quiet movements on the other side of the wall in the main area stop.Â
Theyâre all listening.Â
Itâs not like youâre giving them much of a choice not to.Â
Fuck them.
âI know,â He says, his eyes wide as he stares at you.Â
âDo you? Do you know?â Your voice is wavering, your throat starting to ache but you canât stop. Not now. Itâs all coming out and thereâs no stopping it. âYou. Left. Me. You willingly turned your back on me time and time again even when I was being tortured! You leaving was torture enough and you still chose me second. Iâve always been second. Iâve never mattered enough for you to even question anything!âÂ
You let out a sob, the sound cracking in your throat. It hurts, but it will always hurt. Youâll always carry this hurt with you, so you want him to hurt too.Â
âI asked you once if you would ever leave for me. You said if things got dangerous, if my life were ever at risk because of you, youâd leave in a heartbeat.â The tears are falling, streaming down your face. âWas that a lie?âÂ
He doesnât say anything. He just stands there, staring at you. Does he even remember that conversation?Â
âWas that a lie?â You shout, making him jump.Â
His eyes drop to the floor, his scent souring. Good, you think. Let it hurt.Â
âAnswer me.â You say, pushing him to give some response to your question. You need to know. You need him to say it.Â
âI didnât intend for it to be.â He says quietly.Â
âYou didnât intend for it to be.â You say, bitterness coating your tone. âWhat the fuck does that mean? You said you wouldnât let me go even if the initiative failed. Was that a lie too? Was it all a lie to keep me happy and complacent? âThe job always comes first,â even when my life is in danger, right? The job always comes first over everything, even me. You lied to me.â You swallow the sob threatening to come up. âI want to hear you say it.âÂ
He stands there, tears brimming in his eyes. He hasnât moved hardly a muscle, still frozen like a statue.Â
âSay it!â You scream at him, your throat tearing around the words. Youâre surprised youâre not tasting blood yet from how raw it feels.Â
âI lied.â He says, swallowing thickly. âI lied to you and I couldnât keep my promise. And Iâm sorry-âÂ
âDonât apologize.â You cut him off starting to pace as the anger burns hot in you. âDonât you fucking apologize to me, you donât deserve to apologize. You donât deserve the chance at forgiveness. Youâre a shitty alpha and you always have been!âÂ
You let out a sob, wiping at the tears streaming down your face. Thereâs a tear sliding down his cheek, and it brings you some sort of relief deep down. So he can feel things after all.Â
âI donât know what I expected, though.â You let out a sardonic laugh. âYou military men are all the same. Itâs always about the job and the image and the âgreater goodâ and making sacrifices, even if that means sacrificing your pack. Youâre just like my dad. You never wanted an omega, you never wanted me. You cast me out and let me suffer when I needed you most.âÂ
The anger burns hot in you again, shooting through your veins until itâs choking you as you stare at him standing there pathetically. He thought he could apologize, he thought his groveling would mean anything to you. Fuck him. Fuck them all.Â
âYou left me.â You grit out, your hands starting to shake. âYou left me! You abandoned me, you let me get hurt! You didnât care, you never cared about me!â You storm over to him. âFuck you!â You scream, hitting his chest. âI fucking hate you!â You shove him back, sending him stumbling. âGet out!â You shove him again, pushing him back towards the door. âGet out! I never want to see you again!âÂ
He stumbles back out of the door and you slam it in his face so hard it shakes on its hinges. You click the lock as you sob in pain, pain both physical and emotional. Your chest aches, a tearing feeling burning through it.Â
The bond.Â
You donât care. You donât give a fuck anymore. You hate him, you hate them all.Â
The tears and sobs threaten to choke you but you donât care. You donât care anymore. You donât care about anything anymore except the anger burning hot through you, making your hands shake. Your legs give out and you slide to the floor against the door, sliding until youâre laying down on your back on the hardwood. Itâs cold against your skin but you donât care. You canât care anymore.Â
If you fall, youâll never get up again.Â
Her hand presses against your forehead, wiping some of the sweat beading on your skin. Despite your shivers, youâre burning hot. A fever. You worked yourself up too much earlier in your outburst. She had been proud of you for finally releasing some of it and showing some emotion, but she knew the consequences of getting so worked up would be high. Your omega is still unstable, on top of still trying to physically recover. You hurt yourself doing that, even if it was necessary.Â
She shushes you as you whine, fingers grasping at the blanket clumsily. She pulls it higher over you, your body shuddering underneath the pile already stacked on top of you. Sheâd put every blanket she could find over you, and yet you still shiver. Worry floods her again as she stares down at you, your eyes pinched closed. You must be aching, your show of anger taking its toll.Â
It was necessary, but at what cost?Â
If your temperature continues to spike, the risk of distress heightens. You canât handle distress in your current state, which would mean your omega would come out, finally be freed again from the unprotected cage it's been pushed back into. If your omega comes out, that will require John to help, which may only drive you further into distress.Â
She needs to try and stop this before the situation continues to deteriorate.Â
But how?Â
How can she move you past this without the help of your pack? She canât give you the comfort you need. Medicine or any therapeutic methods can help solve the issue at its core. Sure she can try and lower your fever with medicine, but you need your pack. You need that comfort and stability that only they can offer.Â
You need someone, and it canât be her.Â
If your omega comes back out, they might never be able to get it back in. Itâll be the end of you. All of your recovery, the fight youâve put up against your body and your instincts and your mind will have been for nothing.Â
You need someone.Â
An idea begins to form in her head, her hand resting against your forehead. Itâs hot under her hand, your skin burning. You might hate her later for this. Itâs risky, but sometimes risks have to be taken in dire situations. Sometimes those risks pan out in the end. What will happen if it fails? The inevitable thatâs going to happen if she doesnât try. Itâs a lose-lose situation, but if it works, it could be a win-win.Â
She canât help you, but maybe she has someone who can.Â
She tucks the blankets around you, cocooning you in an attempt to keep you warm and still while she steps away. She wonât be gone long. Â
She leaves your door cracked open just in case, even though she doubts youâll be moving much while sheâs away.Â
Just in case.Â
One can never be too careful.Â
She heads up the stairs quietly, going slow to avoid startling any of them. Sheâs intruding on the safe space theyâve made in their solitude. It feels like invading sacred grounds, but it's a necessary invasion. Their omega is in danger. Theyâll forgive her.Â
The bathroom door is closed at the end of the short hallway, a light on inside. The lights are on in both rooms too, glowing beneath both doors, and she takes a gamble. Based on the heaviness of the footsteps above the kitchen she can guess the room on the right is the one Simon and Johnny are staying in. If sheâs wrong, sheâll have some explaining to do before sheâs ready, and she knows John will have his thoughts about this. Though, with what happened earlier, perhaps heâll agree. You wonât see him, but maybe...just maybe...Â
She lets out a deep breath before knocking firmly, waiting a breath before she calls out. Â
âJohnny, I need your help.â
She just hopes you donât hate her too much later.Â
NEXT ->
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#call of duty#call of duty fic#task force 141 x reader#poly 141 x reader#John price x reader#captain price x reader#Kyle Garrick x reader#gaz x reader#Simon Riley x reader#Ghost x reader#John mactavish x reader#soap x reader#alpha/beta/Omega dynamics#a/b/o#omegaverse
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DUKEDOM!141 AND MY LIFE IS YOURS đđđđ (/nf please and thank you :])
Original post
Enjoy!! :D
Something all of them like to do is doll you up, and it becomes almost a private little routine between you and them.
John, as your husband (can you tell I love referring to him like this?), steadily takes control of deciding what you wear for the day even long before your request. Itâs something that just⌠happens. He comes into your bedroom early in the mornings, and your maids scatter away to leave you both be with little giggles, excited at the prospect of you two finally getting âcloseâ.
John doesnât care for them. He greets you with a soft good morning (a few weeks later, heâd greet you the same but would gently caress your face with the back of his hand, the touch so gentle despite his roughened skin. It makes you into a blushing mess, though you tell yourself itâs just so that the peeking maids wonât suspect anything) and then goes straight to your closet, sweeping through the rows and rows of delicate, soft dresses with a discerning eye to select what attire youâll wear for the day.
Of course, he does ask you what you feel like wearing, how you feel today in general, where you plan on going or meeting- everything to ensure the dress heâll choose for you would be perfect. John doesnât wait to see you in the dress, though.
He knows heâll be seeing you all adorned and dressed up later, when you come down to dine with him. He can compliment you and pat himself on the back, then.
If he makes sure to match his cufflinks with the colors you are wearing, it will simply make whoever notice it think you two are such a lovely couple. And he still hopes that your maids will accidentally not tighten or cover up your hemline just so he can fix it himself for you.
John aside, Kyle takes care of your hair and jewelry. He makes you sit on the vanity, still alone and with none of your maids around, and then he begins the tender ritual of brushing your hair (if itâs not too curly for daily brushings). His hands, warm and careful and gentle, would then take care of oiling each strand. No oils or butters have been spared in the efforts of tending to you, and Kyle himself often turns the routine into a simple, but so effective, head massage session for you.
(Later, Kyle wonders what he needs to say and do to take over the job of the maids who help you bathe. You are always complimenting how good his hands feel on your hair, and he can show you how much better he is at using them for your body.)
Johnny eventually begins doing your makeup, on certain occasions. Once the truth comes out, the two of you are closer, and on one night, he tells you about his big family, his sisters and how theyâd make him and his brothers help them get ready for events and parties.
Itâs a simple question born out of your curiosity- whatâs the makeup like where you were born, Johnny?- that has him in your bedroom often now, the other chefs taking care of the kitchen while his hands, clean and gentle, dab creams and whatnot on your face so delicately- like you are one of the cupacakes he decorates for your tea time.
He wants to kiss you so badly. You look so pretty like this, eyes closed and expression peaceful, patient and so trustful of his ministrations. He really, really wants to kiss you and see if the lipstick heâd applied on your pretty lips tastes as sweet as it smells.
Simon, though, is the one who slowly begins adding more and more to your dresses. John already supplies you with so much, but Simon is the one largely in charge of the silk and fabric importation and he knows well what styles will be popular next season, what styles will looks better on you and which colors suit you best. Itâs not just dresses, but also matching fabrics and ribbons to go in your hair for when Kyle or your maids style, and for your pretty neck during more casual tea parties.
Not occasionally seeing you in the dresses he sends doesnât bother him; you will be spoiling the others with the sight, and he can listen to them thank him in several ways afterwards and rest with the thought of you all dolled up, happy and thriving with them.
#cod#cod x reader#cod x you#tf 141 x reader#tf 141#tf 141 x you#cod imagines#john price x reader#poly!141 x reader#noona.writes#noona.asks#noona.posts#ghost x reader#soap x reader#gaz x reader#ghost x you#kyle gaz x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#call of duty x reader#poly 141#simon ghost riley x you#johnny soap mctavish x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#kyle gaz garrick x you
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BREAK MY HEART INTO TWO ᥣđŠ ⤡ next
pairing: Simon âGhostâ Riley & fem!reader
synopsis: Ghost has been feeling pissed off lately, and happens to lash out on you
tags: slight angst, misunderstandings, very slight mention of violence
He knew he was not in the right headspace. With the newly added task of training new recruits, the dead-end mission, and overall exhaustion. Ghost could feel his patience nearing nothing and he could feel it in his bones that he wouldnât be able to control himself from lashing out soonâ even if it was you.Â
Thatâs why he started to distance himself and avoid you like the plague. Only responding with grunts or one-word answers. Itâs not the best action but he couldnât think of anything else. Despite the frustration clouding his mind, he still vows to never hurt you. He promised you that; reassured you that he would never ever raise his voice at you, his hand stroking your back and kissing your temple, after you told him about your past one drunken night.Â
The first time Simon came home and didnât immediately wrap his arm around you, nosing the crook of your neck, you knew something was up. You didnât push the matter though. Brushing it off as something trivial and proceeding to go your usual routine. You did notice things that you never brought up with him: heavy footsteps, the lack of teasing from him, and uncharacteristically never clinging onto you Â
What finally pushed you to visit the base was when Si, your husband who would go through all levels of hell just to be close to you and never lets a night pass without you with him in bed, suddenly tells you he will be sleeping on the couch. It baffled you. This is the same man who wrapped all his limbs around to keep you from leaving after a big fight. The same man that acts like a big baby when you tell him youâre gonna be away on a work event. Suddenly, the idea of him getting bored of you and finding entertainment with another woman intrusively swirled in your mind.Â
Were you too loud? Too chatty? Clingy? Maybe you didnât satisfy him enough. Maybe he wanted a wife available to always cook for him after work. It scared you. You love him; love him enough to change just to keep him.
You needed to talk to him. Whether he likes it or not.Â
âPrice, please. Just call him for me?â The captain looks at you, hesitating. Even though he was aware of Ghostâs thinning temper and didnât want to put his comradeâs wife in a position that could result in a fight, he also knew that you needed to solve this. He scratches his beard, nervously looking at you.Â
âSweetheart, I donât know. The man.. he.. he hasnât been the best these days? Maybe you should go home and wait for himââ. You cut him off, âhe doesnât want to talk to me! Please, just 5 minutes and I wonât even cause a scene. I promise!â With a sigh, he finally relents and tells you to stay there while he calls for your husband. You crack a smile, nodding and feeling a sense of relief wash over you.Â
Moments after being alone, a new recruit (you assume considering youâve never met this man nor did Simon ever mention him) approaches you with a low wolf whistle. His hands find your waist before you can even comprehend whatâs happening, pulling you close to his chest.Â
âWhatâs a pretty little thing like you doing here?â You freeze, and disgust starts to bubble up inside of you. You plant your hand on his chest in an attempt to pull away in fear that Simon would witness this and think differently. Before you could say to leave you alone, a voice booms out. A voice you know too well.Â
âY/N!â Simon takes three strides and he was near enough to pull the recruit away from you and land a punch. Scandalous gasps went around while the yells of other members went inaudible to you. You stood there in horror as Price stepped in, pushing Ghost away and yelling to stand down. This was not your Simon. Your Simon would never be this violent in front of youâ he was too scared to frighten you and do something to push you away. These werenât the same hands carried you as if a delicate flower he plucked as well. The hands that routinely offers to brush your hair every night and washes you every sex session while he kisses your shoulders, showering you with endless praise with a voice filled with adoration.
Ghost whips his head. His cold stare made you falter, taking a step back. Something you never thought youâd do when faced with him. You could see his mask move, undoubtedly hiding his disappointment and furrowed eyebrows.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â He seethes, roughly gripping your arm tight enough to leave a bruise.
âI-I... I wanted to see youââ Before you could even finish, Ghost groans with frustration. âI fucking told you to not come to the base. Were you even thinking? Use that pea-sized brain of yours once in a while! Just.. leave me alone and go home.â
Silence. The whole base quiets down with his words, a tense atmosphere building up. You freeze. From the corner of your eye, you notice Priceâs contort with concern and hesitation if he should meddle.Â
The pain you felt was indescribable. It was as if Ghost took your heart and crushed it with his bare hands. Your breathing got labored, your eyes flicked down, taking deep breaths to hold back tears. Before the realization has fully settled, you pull away from Ghost, mumbling something incoherent. In that moment, Ghost knew he fucked up. He hurt his darling flower. He hurt the only person he treasured. The person that stayed with him through thick and thin. The person he married, vowed in front of God to love forever and to never hurt.Â
âNo, babyâ I didnât mean toââ
You cut him off, telling him you were going back just like he wanted. You didnât even call it your home. You always do. Saying it with pride to have something to call home with him.Â
God, what has he done?Â
ę°á â ŕťęą: dare I say this man needs a break :} Second part is out. Little detail: I use âSimonâ during Y/Nâs pov and Ghost for the rest, but used Ghost for her after he yelled at her. :3
dividers by @cafekitsune
Please reblog!! Ask is open!
⢠taglist is open!! Comment if you want to be tagged in the next posts.
check out my other works in the masterlist: ŕ!
#simon ghost riley#ghost cod#ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon ghost x reader#cod x reader#cod mwii#cod modern warfare#cod mw2#cod#simon riley x you#simon riley cod#light angst#ghost mw2#ghost angst#ghost fic#simon ghost x you#canaryâs melodies
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HIIII!!! I just wanted to say that i really love ur writing! I've read ur traitor series and I can't wait for part 4! I'm a new author, and english isn't my first language, so it's sometimes very hard for me to write bcs i'm stil not that good, but ur fics have helped me improve<3đ!
thank you so much!𫶠im glad youâve enjoyed the series! and speaking of part four, here it is :)
ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE
simon didnât turn to watch you leave the gym.
he stood there, eyes forward, mask clenched in one fist. he could feel the blood drying on his skin. he made no move to wipe it away.
he didnât blame you for your angerâ he couldnât. he understood the rage. had felt it himself a time or two.
but he couldnât take everything lying down.
did he deserve your wrath, your fury? yesâ and he knew that. there was no making up for what he did; he realized that, but why couldnât you understand?
heâd never fully taken his walls down around you, and that was no fault of your own. he was a guarded man, and his past gave him every right to be.
he had been burned and broken too many times. heâd seen the people he loved murdered because of him.
he swore he would never let that happen again. he put those walls up, and you knocked some of them down.
but there were some youâd never gotten through, at least, simon told himself you hadnât. there was always something he was holding back, a piece of himself he wouldnât give freely. he told himself it was because he couldnât stand to love you so deeply and then watch you leave.
but really, it was because he needed an out. he needed a way to justify his leaving if something ever happenedâ and thatâs what got him here.
simon trusted the 141 with his life. he trusted his captain with his life. price had never led him astray; john knew his face well before any of the others. well before you.
and when someone you trust so deeply, someone youâve followed for years, tells you that the person you love has betrayed your team?
you canât help but believe them. and thatâs what simon did.
the evidence was coincidental at first. wrong place, wrong time. but then, everything started to seem like more than a coincidence. pieces of a complicated puzzle were fitting together. things only you and the rest of the 141 would know were leaked.
and all the signs pointed to you.
and although he didnât want to, simon couldnât help it. the second price had confided in him that you may be the rat, simon began to distance himself. you had been confused, but he had offered no explanation.
price was the one to question you first. it was a heated conversation in his office, consisting of him showing you the evidence and you becoming furious at the accusations.
johnny came to you next, buttering you up with his flirtatious and unarming words before asking if youâd leaked information.
then there was kyle, who pleaded for the truth. he told you that a case was being built against you, and that if you came clean now, things wouldnât be so bad.
simon never tried to talk to you about it. the other men would tell him what youâd said, but he had never gone to talk to you himself.
maybe it was pride. simon wasnât trusting, not after his past. he had let the 141 in, had let you in. and now you were a suspected traitor, and he was angry at himself. angry he hadnât seen it sooner; angry heâd let you in at all.
but maybe it was hurt. hurt that youâd done this to him, to the team, after knowing everything theyâd been through. after stitching up wounds on the battlefield and taking bullets for one another. after sharing simonâs bed and whispering you loved him.
all he knew was that he trusted price. and as evidence built, so did the distance between the two of you, until you were tied to that chair.
and simon had taken his hurt, his anger, out on you. he wasnât proud of it, and he knew now that he was wrong. but he was still a little angry. angry because you couldnât see his side of thingsâ not like he could see yours.
so, he was an ass. he didnât apologize. he snuck flowers to your bedside but kept his distance. he told you to watch your tone because you were still part of the team, and speaking to price like that was only something an outsider would do.
and he told you that heâd spared your life because he had. anger had consumed him, and truthfully, you were lucky he hadnât done worse.
even if heâd smothered his feelings for you with rage, he still harbored love for you, and thatâs why some part of him held back.
he knew you would probably never forgive him. he had made his peace with that.
but he couldnât stand the fact that you couldnât understand why heâd done what he did.
the creak of the gym door opening broke simon from his thoughts. he pulled his mask back on before turning around and making his way to the door.
it took one firm knock on the door for price to answer.
the door clicked open, and price sighed when he saw simon, scrubbing a hand over his unruly beard before letting the taller man in. price turned, walking back to his desk chair, while simon closed the door behind him and locked it.
âthis is a bloody mess,â the captain said, falling heavily into the chair. it squeaked at the sudden weight, old leather crinkling and crackling.
âdoc came and saw me earlier, âfore she left for the night. told me about some new injuries, and yelled at me for letting that happen.â
simon didnât speak. priceâs eyes met his, and he sighed again.
âfuckinâ hell, simon. what the fuck did you say? doc said she had to stitch up both their hands.â
âdoesnât matter what I say,â simon spoke, eyes still on the captain âthey wonât fuckinâ listen.â
price shook his head. âthatâs not true, ând we both know it,â he sounded tired as he spoke, dark bags under his eyes. he paused for a moment, then spoke again.
âspoke to laswell after you left earlier. she said sheâll try to speed up the transfer process. tryinâ to avoid more fuss, and im not fightinâ it any longer.â
âtheyâre part of our team,â simon spoke, tone rough.
price shook his head. âthey are, but I canât keep doinâ this. canât keep pushinâ off transferinâ because of you lot. it may be better for us, but not for them.â
the room fell quiet. simon inhaled, exhaled. his fists clenched at his sides before quickly unfurling once more.
he didnât have a right to be mad at you for leaving, but he was.
âlaswell say anythinâ else about thaâ transfer?â simon asked.
price leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. ânot much. no word on where or with who, but even if she knew, doubt sheâd tell us. for their sake.â
simon gave a small nod and made to turn, but froze as price spoke again.
âshe did say she didnât know if it would go through. theyâd have to pass another eval.â
they both knew what that meant. if laswell said that, then she didnât believe the transfer would happen. kate wouldnât outwardly say it, but price had known what sheâd meant.
pushing the transfer through wouldnât matter if you couldnât pass a physical and psychological evaluationâ and laswell didnât think you could.
although he wouldnât admit it, price was unsure, too. torture was something that took an incredibly devastating toll on the mind and body.
but torture at the hands of your team? there was no telling the damage that that would do to someone. to you.
an honorable discharge was more likely. and, if that was the case, then your rage would likely grow tenfold.
you career, your livelihood, taken from you by the hands of the men you trusted the most. your family, cutting you up and pushing you out.
damned by your team and your country, regardless of everything youâd done for both of them during your service.
you were just another cog in the machine, one that had been damaged and discarded, and a discharge couldnât make that any clearer.
he thought back to what you had said in the gym earlier, before youâd left.
âyou should have killed me.â
maybe he should have.
thanks to everyone for your patience! also just incase you didnât see my post about itâ
im no longer doing a taglist! my side blog @troiastitans will reblog my works from now on, so if you want to know when I post, follow that account and allow notifications!
as always, thank you for the love! (also I hope you all enjoyed a little peek into simonâs head!)
#cod mw2 fic#captain john price#gaz call of duty#soap call of duty#ghost call of duty#captain price#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty#simon riley x you#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley#johnny mactavish#john soap mactavish#johnny soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#kyle garrick#John price#simon riley x gn reader#simon riley angst#ghost x gn reader#ghost x you#ghost angst#ghost x reader#ghost cod#141!reader#141 x reader#task force 141
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an. part two of this | masterlist
You tell him you broke up with your boyfriend while heâs away for work, bunked up in a safe house in the middle of nowhere with shit reception, hearing your words as clear as day as if they werenât the chopped-up version coming through his burner phone.
âIt justâŚdidnât work out.â
It didnât work out.
He pretends his stomach doesnât pleasantly twist because heâd expected it to happen eventually. Heâs not happy about itâalthough it does make the desert heat more bearable in his heavy tactical gearâand tells Soap to fuck off when he comments on it.
It was a one-time fuck because Simon doesnât date. Heâs tried in the past before he met youâthe flowers, the late-night dinnersâbut with him being gone almost every other month (sometimes longer, shorter if heâs lucky), it never works out in the end. Sleeping with you twice would fall under that category, the quasi-relationship kind, and make everything messier than it needs to be.Â
Just some fun, no strings, those are the words he promised.
If only he believed them.
He does, for all of two weeks until heâs home again, and itâs summer, so youâre wearing a flowy dress that shows off the long expanse of your legs.Â
(Heâs a gonerânot even sure why he tried to think otherwise.)
That one time heâd promised turns into a second, both of you stumbling into your apartment after a night out. The music from the pub still thumping loudly underneath your floor as he pushes you against the front door, hands in your hairâon your waist, underneath your skirt, down your thigh to hitch it over his waistâteasing your mouth open with a swipe of his tongue across your bottom lip.
You make this delighted little noise in the back of your throat, arching into him, and his hand spans down your stomach, beneath your underwear, to nudge your messy clit with his knuckle, wanting to hear all the sounds you make now that he has you alone.Â
A whiny cry of his name rewards himâjeans tightening around his waist at the soundâwhen his fingers go down, down until they press against your tight little hole, one finger pressing inside slowly. "If I make you cum, I get to fuck you here.â
You smile prettily, and it disarms him. âIf you make me cum, you can fuck me however you want.â
Neither of you makes it to the bed, falling asleep on the living room floor instead, the blanket from the couch draped haphazardly over both of you with his arm curled over your waist.
That night had been a slip of judgment, a product of wanting something warm and soft after several months of only having his hand for company.
It happens again and again, and he keeps letting it happen until thereâs no more hiding under the guise of just fun because it somehow turns into a lot more than that.
Simon canât explain how it happensâmaybe becoming something he can touch and hold and think about oftenâbut he finds himself in an exclusive relationship with you that isnât exactly a relationship because heâs unsure of the ins and outs that they entail.
(Always has been.)
His father was a shit role model, and it was always easier finding someone new who didnât know his name or care about his scars and only wanted a nice fuck. There had never been any point in shooting for something serious when it was always out of the question for him, until now, that is.
He takes you to that over-rated restaurant overlooking the Thames Marcus never brought you to. A picture of you and him with the sunset in the backgroundâyour smile almost blinding in the photoâbecomes his home screen, and he finds he doesnât care when Soap has something to say about it.
He lets you do nonsensical shit, like buying small plants for his house that are surely going to die from him being gone before he comes up with the great idea to give you a key. Itâs just a key.
(Itâs more than just a key.)
Simon finds himself asking if he can come over more often throughout the week, which slowly moulds and shifts into nights filled with things other than sexâsleeping after a long day of work, cuddling on the couch, cooking together, going to the moviesâhe doesnât try to make a big deal out of it because you used to hang out all the time without sex.Â
(Somewhere, thereâs a but in there.)
Thereâs still no label to whatever this is, and he wonders if you want him to be the first to say the thing youâve both been dancing around for a little overâŚhe canât remember, but he knows itâs been long enough for your things to mix in with his at his house.Â
Be with me because Iâm yours, and youâre mine, thatâs what heâs trying to say, and itâs never the right time. Men like himâa little broken, rough, and jagged around the edges sharp enough to cutâarenât good with words like that.
(Thatâs what he thought.)
If he hadnât seen you talking to a guy at the pub, eyes crinkling in that same sweet way whenever Simon makes you laugh, he wonders if he wouldâve been the first to break from the start. He knows itâs your job as a bartender to be nice, but his jaw clicks at the sight of the guy leaning over the bar and into your space, almost too close.
The feeling doesnât go away until he has you spread out on your mattress under himâclothes haphazardly peeled out of the way for him to put his mouth on youâyour lips pursed tight around two of his fingers to give you something to focus on as his other hand works between your thighs, pressing down on your tongue when gurgled little sounds slip out.
He teases you with a small, pink vibrator he found inside your bedside table, your legs kicking out and toes curling into his calves.
âMine. This is mine, love,â he groans, pressing you further into the bed with his weight. âDo you understand?â
You nod, tears pearling and leaking from the corner of your eyes.
âLemme cum,â you whine, words muffled. âSimon, I want to cum. Please.â
He wonât lie that heâs close after jerking into his fist to the sight of you writhing on the sheetsâswears he can feel his heartbeat throbbing against the back of his fingersâtakes in your surprised expression when he pushes forward, impaling you on the first few inches of his cock.
His stomach twists from the squeal that escapes your throat, and fuck, your cunt, so hot and tight with little pulses that drive him crazy, only growing tighter when he turns up the speed on the vibrator.
ââMm, gonna cum. Iâmââ
He grits his teeth as you start to flutter around his cock once heâs rooted inside you. âGo onâfuckâgo on, love. Let me feel it.â
You look so perfect like this, like a dream: lips parted into an enticing little O with his name tumbling out in breathy mewls, tits hanging out from the bra he shoved to the side, eyes glassy and unfocused.Â
âSo fucking pretty.â He kisses your throat, panting into your sweat-slick skin, and itâs not long before heâs falling over the edge with you.Â
Next time, heâll have the courage to tell you: that youâre not someone he calls for a meaningless fuck on the weekend, that Simon misses you when heâs gone and canât wait to come home, that he wants to try with youâexcept not when heâs balls deep and trembling inside your heavenly cunt.
But the smile he feels against his shoulder makes him think that maybeâŚ
Maybe you already know.
#simon riley smut#simon riley imagine#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#cod smut#cod imagine#cod x reader#mw2 smut#mw2 x reader#mw2 imagine#ghost x reader#ghost imagine#ghost smut#.things i write
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Thoughts on the first time you give your man a back rub after a long day. (Some of them are nicer about it than others.)
nsfw/mdni/18+/daddy stuff
Simon - He's never been touched like that before. Who would voluntarily reach out to offer him comfort? He doesn't exactly scream "pet me, I don't bite." It makes him ticklish, but he's not the type to giggle and shy away. No, he doesn't want you to stop, but he doesn't know what to do either. So, he just tenses up, grits his teeth, eye twitching under his mask, skin crawling as you run your fingertips over the skin of his back, his shoulders, down to his waist.
After a minute or two, you realize he's more uncomfortable than when you started, so you pull back. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to help."
"You know how you can help me, lovie?" He unbuckles his pants and pulls out the only part of him left that feels anything uncomplicated.
Kyle - He's upset, at the unfairness of it all. Ranting and raving about the mission and the particulars. It should've been easy, people could've been killed. But as your hands move in wide circles along his neck and his spine, he quiets down. He forgets what he was so angry about. His breaths slow and his eyes close. His head rolls back until you think maybe he fell asleep.
So, you stop, just for a minute. Until he moans your name and kisses your wrist. "Enough about me, baby. How was your day? Want to go out for dinner?"
Johnny - The second you lay your hands on him, he starts to boss you around. "A little to the left." "Ah, that's it, lower." "Don't be shy, use your nails." "Harder."
Before you know it, you're playing 'Whack-a-mole' with the itch running around his back muscles and across his chest. He's stomping his foot like a dog and leaning into your touch. You're behind his ears and under his arms, down the waist of his boxers.
He's moaning like you're giving him the best fuck of his life, and when your roommate happens to poke their head out from the kitchen to see what the commotion is all about, it's just the big Scot with his shirt pulled up around his neck and your legs spread across his lap for better access to his hairy abs.
John - Like Simon, physical touch is a mixed bag for him. Most people who sneak up behind him want him dead, so he's more prepared for a knife than a kind pair of hands.
But he trusts you, he reminds himself. And he has a lot of hair, so it does get itchy. Especially in the heat after a long day. He pays for your maintenance--hair, nails, clothes--so it's only fair that he gets to enjoy everything his money gets him.
"Do you like this, daddy?" You knead his knotted muscles with your thumbs and mindlessly run your meticulously filed nails through the coarse salt and pepper curls along his back and chest.
Maybe the nicer you are to him, the nicer he'll be later.
#call of duty#john price#captain price#captain john price#price x reader#simon ghost riley#141 x reader#kyle gaz garrick#kyle garrick#johnny mactavish#johnny soap mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick x reader#simon ghost riley x reader
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continuing my big simon x single!mom reader bullshit :P
-> more here
There's a frantic knock on his door.
It's insistent. A peculiar sound to hear near the end of his day during the late evening. Visitors are a rare occurrence, and if he does get them, he usually knows they're coming.
The knocks persistent. Audacious. Bold. Demanding. He approaches the door, not overly concerned with who it may be, but with a healthy dose of caution. Knowing his history, he brings along a small glock.
When he unlocks the door and cracks it open- this complex doesn't have peepholes- his gaze drops down, and he moves to tuck his gun into the back of his jeans, widening the door.
It's your boy, his little name twin. Alone. Scared. On the verge of tears. Like another little boy he knew in another life. A boy he once was. He drops down to one knee, placing a hand on the lad's shoulder.
Little Simon is trembling. He scans the hallway behind his young visitor. Empty. Void of life except for this child in front of him, clearly seeking his help. A tiny storm about to break in this ostensibly lifeless building. The neighbors wouldn't even know it. Then, he cracks. A warning before the lightning strikes.
"S-Simon-"
He cuts the lad off before he can get anything else out. Before he breaks. "Where's your mum? What happened?"
The tears fall and your boy throws himself into his chest.
"Mama won't wake up!"
-
He carried you from the couch to your bed.
You're sick. Really sick, but Simon doesn't think you need to go to the hospital. Not yet. He places a hand on your forehead. Still hot.
He checked your temperature once he got you settled. Thirty-eight degrees. Simon's no medic, but he'll continue to monitor your status throughout the night. Make sure you don't overheat. Take you to the hospital if you need it. He can do that much. A simple mission compared to anything else he's faced.
There's a creak from your bedroom door, and he drops his hand from your forehead, looking up at the little prowler.
"Simon," he greets and the lad curls in on himself, hesitating before edging closer in the room, walking up to where Simon stands. He stares at you with eyes too haunted a kid his age should have.
"Will Mama be okay?"
His voice is hoarse and his eyes are red. A puffy mess from crying earlier. Simon doesn't shame the boy for it, and he won't lie about your condition, but...
"I'll make sure she is," he promises.
Your boy turns to him then, eyes suddenly sharp. Protective. A cub ready to fight for his incapacitated mother. The resemblance almost makes Simon pause. Makes him think back to when he wore a similar look a few times when he grew up, though your Simon wears the look a lot younger than he ever did. Is braver than he ever was as a child. His own words echo in his ears.
A good lad.
Your boy holds out his little finger, and Simon stares. His little name twin glares at Simon with something akin to judgement. A test. "Pinky promise?"
It's no question what he does next.
Simon reaches out and curls his own pinky around the lad's. "Pinky promise."
A smile breaks out on your boy's face.
Test passed.
-
It's 03:03 when you wake up.
Simon is ready and attentive. He's been taking a nap beside your bedside every other hour in a chair he brought from your kitchen table. Not the worst place he's ever slept and not the worst sleep he's ever had. He's certainly thankful you have cushions for your chairs.
You're groggy. Shivering a little, but Simon knows your fever has gone down slightly since he got here. He's been changing out the cool, wet towel on your forehead every time he woke up, keeping you elevated, making sure you can breathe.
You panic a little when you see him, scrambling to create some space between each other,
"What the-?!"
He turns on the lamp on your nightstand, holding up his hands in a non-threatening manner. "It's just me. Simon came and got me when you wouldn't wake up. I've been keeping an eye on you."
You stare at him, the aghast in your eyes still there, but slowly calming down as you get your bearings. "You're- you're-"
"Big Simon." He cracks a wry smirk, lowering his hands again, giving a lazy bow of his head. "At your service."
He doesn't hold back his snort when you squeak, adorably indignant for someone so sick. "You're not gonna let me live that down, are you?"
"'Course not," Simon drawls and it goes silent for a few seconds as you take him in, studying him with eyes that look just like your boy's did when he made him pinky promise, except your eyes hold a certain level of caution the lad should learn. You shift in your nest of blankets, adjusting them around your body when a particularly harsh shiver runs through you.
"Simon got you, you said?" You finally speak up, voice scratchy. Tired but guarded.
He nods. "Told me he tried to wake you up after that movie you were watching together."
"And you brought me here?"
"Made sure you didn't choke on your snot, too."
The offended squawk that escapes you is hilarious, as if you truly had a high opinion about your runny mucus. Maybe it's because you see Simon as a brute who has no room to talk. Maybe it's because you're embarrassed at being seen at a weak state.
You have no rebuttal, choosing to huff instead, looking down at the blankets covering you, sobering in contemplation. Simon waits for you to speak again.
"You really did that?" You eventually ask, voice quiet, not looking him in the eyes.
"Yes," he answers bluntly, and you look up, trying to get a read on him, but Simon gives you nothing, staring back with a blank look.
You break first, breathing out a slow, wheezy sigh. A yawn escapes you next as you sag onto your elevated pillows. "... Thank you, Simon. Not just for tonight, but also for last time. For being kind to him. Simon wouldn't shut up about you the whole time we were shopping."
He snorts. "Made quite the impression on him, did I?"
You give your own small noise of amusement. "Think it's because you share the same name."
"Like I told your lad before: it's a fine name, innit?"
You bark out a laugh, a few coughs slipping in here and there, but you nod your head. "It is. I wouldn't have named my son that if it wasn't."
A smug smirk stretches across his face, and you grin back, falling into a comfortable silence, staring at each other. The peace and quiet of the night settling in the air. A special kind of tranquility being shared between two people who are still practically strangers. It goes undisturbed until you yawn again, and Simon shifts, getting up to refresh your towel and grab water and the medicine your boy showed him where to find earlier.
He comes back and hands them to you. When you're finished taking the medicine, he offers, "I can leave right now if that would make you more comfortable, although I'd recommend you call someone to look after you if you don't think you need the hospital."
You take a slow slip of your water, keeping your face carefully blank. Thinking. Contemplating. Then, you place the water on your nightstand and shake your head. "No... um, stay. Please. I... you..."
You can't finish your sentence, breaking off with a tired exhale, but you don't need to. He understands.
"Sleep." Simon turns off the lamp and leans back into his chair, getting comfortable once more. "I'll watch over you tonight."
You say something back.
He almost misses it in the darkness of the room, but the words linger, permeating the air. He doesn't think the words are entirely for him. They almost sound like a secret. Like it was meant for someone else. Shared with him only because he happened to overhear.
It doesn't offend him. He wasn't the only one who helped you tonight.
Thank you, Simon.
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I imagine that Johnny's "uncle" instincts are so strong that he would do anything for the MOB and Simon's kids, it doesn't matter that "the kids" are cats. Also i think Simon would have a talk with MOB (and Soap) along the lines "if something happens to me he is the person who would take care of you". ~ i spend to much time daydreaming about this fic
mail-order bride
johnny watches with a careful eye as simon disassembles his rifle. he's methodical about it, very careful. he has a clear desk in front of him, and every piece that comes out has a place on the surface, a special spot that it must go.
"ye called fer me, LT?" johnny asks, knocking on the door gently. simon nods, not looking up from where he's sitting. he motions to the chair in front of the desk, and johnny takes a seat, hooking his thumbs into his tact vest and spreading his legs as he sits there. "what do ye need?"
"'ave somethin' ta say," simon mutters. "'n i'm gonna say it, and y'r gonna keep quiet and not interrupt me. and when i finish, ya aren't gonna say anythin' about it. and we aren't gonna talk about it ever again. say ya understand me, sergeant."
johnny swallows, shuffling in his seat before nodding.
"aye," he says lowly. "roger tha'."
simon sniffs, picking up the barrel and using a microfiber cloth to rub it clean. he leans back in his chair, not meeting johnny's eyes.
"tha' last op got me thinkin'," simon mutters. "thinkin' a lot." he sighs, deep from his chest. "wot would happen to my girls. if somethin' were to happen to me."
johnny purses his lips, his palms getting a little clammy. but he doesn't speak, because he's been ordered not to.
"and if tha' happens," simon continues. "i don't want anyone else lookin' after them except for you, johnny."
their eyes meet finally, and johnny swallows hard. it's a long gaze, and they hold each other there for a few moments to get an understanding of one another, to speak without speaking.
johnny stands, shaking his head. it's hard for him to believe that simon could die. he's unkillable. he's ghost. he's a man too capable of staying alive, too good at crawling out of early graves, that he doesn't understand truly what it is he's seeing in his lieutenant right now.
the thing in his eyes, he's just never seen it before. it's fear.
"simon."
your greeting as he steps through the front door immediately makes his shoulders relax. you're in the living room in nothing but one of his old shirts, standing there with a big smile on your face. his eyes rake down your body, over your bare legs and socked feet. your smile is bright and contagious, and he drops his bag off as you come closer to him. as always, your hands find the hem of his skull mask and slip it up and over your head, and you giggle when he blushes as you look over his face.
"you're so handsome," you whisper, and he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. you lean up on your toes and kiss him warmly, smoothing your hands up his big arms and wrapping them around his neck. simon can't help himself; he slides his hands down your back and slips them up the hem of the shirt you wear, cupping your ass in both gloved hands and squeezing hard. you laugh into the kiss, pulling away slowly, meeting his eyes. he looks tired. he looks...sad. "simon...is everything okay?"
you swipe your thumbs under his eyes, smudging the eye-black there, and he just shrugs. he doesn't lie. it isn't okay, he isn't okay, and you kiss him again to say you're sorry, because you don't know if he would want to hear that.
"i, uhm...ordered a pizza," you say softly. "thought we could watch a really bad movie and eat gross."
simon smirks, leaning his forehead against yours.
"i'd like tha'."
as you're plating up greasy slices of pizza, simon passes a piece of paper to you. it's an index card with a phone number on it and an address. the address is far, really far, and you lick the sauce off your finger before looking up at him.
"what is this?" you ask, taking it from him.
"tha's johnny," simon murmurs. "if anythin' ever happens...if ya ever need me...'n i'm not 'ere--" you open your mouth to say something, but simon shushes you gently. "--if somethin' ever happens to me...you call johnny."
you purse your lips, meeting his eyes for just a second before looking back down at the card.
"nothing's gonna happen to you, simon--"
he cups your face in his hands, shaking his head. he's staring down at you, pleading, asking you to just do this for him, to just say yes, to not fight him on this one thing because he needs this.
you press the index card to your chest gently, nodding finally.
"yeah...okay..." you whisper. "i'll call him, simon. if something happens...i'll call him."
if something happens, if something happens, if something happens--
"simon," you whisper, grabbing his eyes again. he blinks, and you compose yourself when you see that glaze over his eyes, the slight shake of his bottom lip. you have never seen him this way. you have never seen him shake ever before. this was your husband. simon riley, made of nothing but dense rock and steel. but his thoughts are far away. his thoughts are somewhere else, seeing a scenario in his mind that you imagine may not be hard to think about, as if he's lived something like it himself.
the unknown. the despair. the aftermath.
the inevitable.
"simon."
your voice brings him back. he's back in the kitchen. he's back at home. he can hear the cats in the living room, the little bells on their collars ringing as they chase each other in little chaotic circles.
he's back with you. in his little bubble. he's praying to a god he doesn't believe in that it won't burst so easily.
"dont worry, simon. i'll...i promise i'll call."
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost mw2#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#ghost mwii#ghost x reader#cod#call of duty#order up
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Home
Simon âGhostâ Riley x Reader
wc: 1.6k words
warnings/tags: fluff, kinda barely angst
Soap has to bite his lip to keep himself contained, absolutely itching to make another comment, take another jab at the Lieutenant sitting next to him who couldnât seem to sit still. Ultimately he decides heâs rather fond of keeping his nose intact, and refrains from teasing Ghost further, for the sake of not being punched with a little over an hour to go until they reach base, if nothing else.
As excitable as the Scot usually is in any circumstance, he does have a point though, even Price has never seen Ghost so antsy to return from a mission before. The skull faced man keeps checking his watch every other minute as though it would motivate the seconds to tick by faster, he canât seem to stop bouncing his leg in impatience, casting quick glances out the window every so often. He wants, no, needs this jet to land back at base already.
âSomewhere you need to be LT?â Soap feigns ignorance, a smirk across his face, apparently having refrained himself long enough since the last joke all of ten minute ago.
âDonât ask me to take you to the medics when we land, mate.â Gaz comments casually, not bothering to look up from where heâs fiddling with a deck of cards in his hands, equally trying to pass the time. âYouâre askinâ him for it.â
âAch, Iâm just curious to know whaâs got the big man in such a haste to leave his dear olâ mates behind, ya ken? Almosâ as if he has somethinâ waitinâ for him back at home.â The blue eyed sergeant replies, casting a mischievous sideways glance towards the man in question.
âReckon itâs more about whoâs waitinâ for him.â The Captain pitches in himself, sending his own knowing glance at the Lieutenant.
Ghost canât be bothered to acknowledge any of the conversation happening around or about him, checking his watch again. Not when heâs on his way home after being deployed for three months. Not when this is the longest heâs had to be away from you yet. Not when it feels as if a piece of his beating heart was ripped out from between his ribs and had made a home for itself in the fissure tearing through yours, leaving him feeling as though he was wholly and irrevocably missing a piece of himself.
Simon thinks he could spend the rest of his life learning every language thatâs ever been spoken my mankind, and never have the proper words to explain how much your absence has shaken him to his core, how much heâs missed you. Utterly and simply, missed you.
The first month apart, he found himself missing the more obvious things. He missed your smile, your laugh, making you laugh. He missed your voice, hearing you hum in the shower, sing in the car, recount your day, talk in your sleep (you refuse to believe him when he tells you this, but he swears itâs true). He missed holding you, you holding him. Missed your touch, your kisses, your body. Missed the way you feel, the way you make him feel. Missed falling asleep to you and waking up to you.
The second month, he found that he was really starting to miss the little things. He missed the smell of your hair fresh out of the shower. He missed the way you always ask him to crack the eggs when baking because you insist heâs just better at it than you are, gets less shell in it. He missed you teasing him about his driving, holding your hand over the console, opening the door for you to watch you smile and roll your eyes every time.
As the mission dragged into its last month, Simon found he just missed you. Simply you. He missed watching you get ready for the day, getting dressed, going about your routine. He missed existing in the same space as you, hearing you move throughout the flat, always there even if he canât always see you. He missed seeing traces of you, finding strands of your hair everywhere, tripping over shoes left in the doorway, seeing both your mugs together on the drying rack. Evidence of a life lived, together.
The nature of the 141âs work meant that things had to be kept extremely tight-lipped and on the strictest need to know basis, especially in ensuring the menâs safety. This meant never being able to know where Simon was going or was at any given moment. It meant not being able to speak on the phone, because even with the very best protection and programming, phone calls can be tapped, and traced. And while that one isnât a precaution that everyone strictly follows, taking the occasional quick phone call to a loved one on a secured line, but Simon has been through too much, seen too much to every put you at risk, no matter how minuscule the risk may be. He simply wonât take it. Not with you.
And so you take up the next best thing, a tried and true method through time. You write him letters. You tell him that you donât expect him to write back, you understand that he wonât want to write down an address someone could track you to, you havenât put down a return address either, adding that youâre not even sure when and if heâll be able to read or receive them.
You love this man with every fibre of your being, but you really do know next to nothing about this part of his life that takes up so much of his time. It feels like theyâre stealing your time when they call him away, stealing time spent with him. The no contact was especially difficult for you in the beginning of your relationship. It had been the cause of your first fight with him.
Youâd told him the time apart (a month, the longest youâd gone through back then) was too much, you missed him too much. Seeing you hurt, and hurting himself, equally as tense about the periods of long distance, Simon had angrily lashed out. He wasnât used to this, someone caring about him this much, caring about you more just as much. Not only was the intensity of these feelings foreign, but you were wanting to talk about them now.
Heâd asked you if you wanted him to leave you then, not wanting to go on hurting you if it really was too much, to which you replied that no, the solution to you being too sad when heâs gone isnât to leave you permanently. Neither of you knew how to actually navigate this, and Simon was still harbouring deep, slowly healing wounds that made navigating this uncharted territory an endeavour that left him feeling vulnerable, exposed. The last thing he ever wanted to do was to leave you, but the thought of hurting you was equally as bothersome.
You two idiots in love had your first proper fight, had your first proper makeup, and eventually came up with a sort of placeholder solution. It wasnât perfect, nothing about Simon being gone was ideal really, but for the two of you, it worked. While heâs away from home you write him a letter, not every day though, per his request (âSo that I donât start to feel more like homework, yeah?â), only when something worth writing comes to mind. It winds up being about a letter every other day, anyway.
You mail them to their permanent base, and he either gets to read them when theyâre delivered, or heâs rewarded with the sight of the envelope atop his desk upon returning from wherever else they may have been temporarily based for the time. He reads them, every single one. Over, and over, and over. He has them essentially memorized, as numerous as they are. Every squiggle of your pen, each little doodle you add in on occasion, depending on the story you might be telling. You usually try to keep them lighthearted, happy, something that can brighten his mood and reassure him youâre doing okay. But sometimes youâre honest, you admit when days are hard and his absence is especially difficult.
In turn, Simon writes his own letters. His process is a little different than yours is. While youâre writing yours as the days of his absence pass, he often arrives back on base to discover multiple envelopes piled atop one another, a sight akin to Christmas morning in his eyes. Still, he always diligently reads through each letter of yours, and for every one you write him, he takes his own pen to paper to write his response to each and every line you draft for him. He adds in comments, witty remarks, the occasional joke or fun fact, sprinkles in stories if he has any that fit. He tells you how he misses you too, wishes he could put these letters in your hands himself.
He will soon enough though.
He has his letters, papers that might seem so insignificant to anyone else on this jet, tucked in between a pair of extra clothes in his pack, in hopes of keeping them as safe as he can. The majority of your letters are carefully stuffed in there as well. The most special ones however, the ones youâve written for him with your penmanship etched upon page after page of writing, with your lipstick stained kisses across them, with your perfume sprayed on them, those he has neatly folded and tucked under his vest, just above his heart.
Soon as his feet are back on solid ground and heâs dismissed, heâll be making his way back to you. Where heâll take out each and every one of those letters heâs written in response to you, and heâll read them to you as he holds you in his arms, feeling your hearts beating against each others again, where they belong, and thatâs how heâll know heâs home.
#call of duty#call of duty fanfic#call of duty fic#simon ghost riley#simon riley#ghost x reader#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#cod fanfic#cod simon ghost riley#cod simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon fluff#simon ghost riley x you#simon riley fluff#ghost x you#ghost fanfic#call of duty ghost#ghost cod#ghost#readwritealldayallnight#call of duty fluff
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Cherry Red, Crimson Blood
Chapter 32: The Tragedy
Summary: Don't trust anyone. That's the advice you were left with. How much should you follow that advice? How much will you have to follow it?
Pairings: Poly 141 x reader
Word Count: 8,058 words
Warnings: ANGST, heavy emotional turmoil, very detailed descriptions of depression, ANGST, panic attacks, lots of thoughts of death and crisis, distrust, anxiety, ANGST, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, ANGST, betrayal, weapons, guns, blood (barely), brief violence at the end, drugging (more sedation than anything), ANGST, hurt/no comfort, incorrect medical stuff again, oh and ANGST
A/N: Sorry
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The world is painted in grey as you stare at the wall. Your eyes trace over the pencil lines on the paper as if it might bring you some sort of comfort, as if it might bring them back to you.Â
Johnny put the drawings up after your heat, ones he'd done while watching over you as you slept the days away. Strawberries, rolling hills, you asleep in a field of flowers. Visages of the outside world, a place that seems almost foreign to you.Â
Despite their absence you're still a prisoner, still locked in your tower. Dr. Keller is your guard now, dutifully watching over you as she had promised Simon and Johnny she would. Sheâs done it successfully before, or at least she was as successful as you allowed her to be, as you had kept her in the dark just as much as your pack. Obviously they trusted that she hadnât known, otherwise they wouldnât have left you here with her.Â
Itâs not like they had much of a choice.Â
She's moved into the spare room temporarily so you're not alone. Your pack's barracks are far more spacious than her own room in the barracks with the rest of the medical staff. You almost wish you'd gone to stay with her. Anything would be better than your grey prison.Â
You get to leave now, only long enough to walk to the mess and back, and occasionally to the med center. You donât get to eat in the mess, staying just long enough to grab food before youâre ushered back to your grey prison. You've gone to Dr. Keller's office twice, but even then it had been a short stop so she could grab some paperwork before you returned to the barracks.
The grey and white of your home has never affected you in such a way before. You've been able to look past the sterile halls and prison grey walls of the rooms until now, until youâve become a bit stir-crazy. Youâre afraid you might actually go crazy, driven to insanity in your isolation.Â
There's been no word on when your pack might return. There's been no word at all from them.
For all you know, theyâre dead.Â
You've gone numb to that thought, the tears not even stinging at your eyes at the idea. You're empty, the only thing you're capable of feeling is the steady churning of your stomach. It's been two months since you revealed the cameras and you're still sick, still in pain.Â
What if they don't come back because they hate you? What if they've abandoned you here?Â
You're not sure you could even react to that if it does happen. You canât even react to the thought of it happening. Thereâs no drive to, no instinct to be upset by the idea of being abandoned. For all you know itâs already happened.Â
You turn over onto your other side, facing the room. Itâs Johnnyâs room youâre in, the most welcome place in the barracks. Itâs the place you spent the most time before they left, isolated just to Johnnyâs arms by Simonâs anger at your betrayal. Heâd only cared for you out of necessity, the progress you made with him all wiped out because of your own stupidity.Â
Those thoughts donât even bring a tear to your eye anymore. He never wanted you, he wouldnât have chosen you.Â
So why did it hurt so much?Â
Dr. Keller is worried, but it's her job to be worried. You've shut down, shut out everything. You're not capable of much more than laying around numb and depressed. The scents are fading, quickly disappearing and being replaced by the bitter scent of your depression.Â
Depression. That's what Dr. Keller said. Not surprising given the circumstances. You're not surprised either. Then again, you can't feel much of anything anymore. Thereâs no hope left, the memories of them fading as fast as their scents. Theyâve moved on, or theyâve died. Regardless, theyâre not coming back.Â
Youâre alone again, abandoned by those you loved, those supposed to take care of you.Â
You can only count leaves on the plant hanging from the ceiling of Dr. Kellerâs office so many times. Youâve given up sitting, instead curled up in a ball as you stare at the plant, counting leaves up and down the vines. Dr. Keller is at her desk, writing and shuffling papers, doing what she normally does during the day. Doing what she had last time you had been left alone.Â
She had the idea that leaving the barracks might be good for you. A change of scenery, a more comfortable and warm setting, might help your depression. Escaping the oppressive grey walls of your prison for some fresh air might aid in her efforts to help you wallow less in your misery. Being free of the suffocating walls of the barracks might help free you from the constant memories of what was, what might have been, whatâs left you behind.Â
Your stomach still hurts. The ache had intensified as soon as they told you they were leaving too, that John and Kyle were so desperate for backup they had to call everyone in. It had made you uneasy, the idea of being alone so soon after everything, the idea that things might be going so badly that they need help. The memory of what had transpired while you were alone the first time makes you nervous.Â
What if it happens again?
What if something worse happens?Â
You wonât be stupid this time, you told yourself. If anything is off, youâll notify Dr. Keller immediately. Youâre not making that mistake again. If you did make that mistake, the consequences wouldnât just be dealt out by whoever is so desperate to get to you, to watch you. Your pack will leave you, will mark you as untrustworthy and give you up, or worse, throw you in a cell until you can be sent back home, back to the institute. Maybe they would be merciful and send you back to the CIA. What would the CIA do though? They couldnât send you to another pack, not in the initiative, not with you already having been claimed. They wouldnât take that risk when the severing of those bonds would destroy you and everything that you are.Â
Maybe if youâre lucky, itâll kill you. Save you from the pain and mental anguish after the severing of a bond.Â
âHungry?â Dr. Keller asks. Itâs close to lunch, you think. Time is meaningless, the only routine you have left the necessary mealtimes Dr. Keller insists on keeping. Even then, if it wasnât for her, you wouldnât know when those were supposed to be.Â
âNo.â You murmur, still staring at the plant. The leaves have begun to blur, blending together as your eyes unfocus.Â
âYou should eat.â She says.Â
âNot hungry.â You say. âStomach hurts.âÂ
She sighs softly, pushing her chair back before walking over to you. She drops to a knee in front of the couch, staring at you. âHow long has it been hurting?âÂ
âWeeks.â You say, still not looking at her.Â
âWeeks?â She sounds surprised. âYou didnât say anything. Nausea? Any headaches?â She asks.Â
âUh huh.â You nod.
âAny fever, body aches, congestion, dizziness?â She asks.Â
âBody aches.â You say, finally looking up at her.Â
She hums, staring at you for a moment. Her face is the usual clinical mask she wears when sheâs in doctor mode, but you can make out the slight furrow of her brow as she thinks. She puts a hand on your forehead, your skin cold instead of the warmth it would usually have. Even youâve noticed it in your numb state, your fingers and toes aching constantly from how cold they are.Â
She removes her hand, letting out a quiet breath. âWell, my dear.â She says, staring down at you. âIâm diagnosing you with stress.â She says, resting her arms on her knee. âItâs been a long few weeks, and then with your alpha leaving on top of it, Iâm not surprised by your symptoms. I know you may not feel like it, but eating will help. Youâll be no good to your pack when they return if youâre wasting away.âÂ
âIf they return.â You say, not even able to sound worried like you did last time. Thereâs no tears, no panic, not even a hint of worry.Â
âThey will.â She says, pushing herself up to stand. âThey know what theyâre doing and all we can do is trust their skills.âÂ
âYeah, yeah.â You murmur, taking her offered hand to get yourself up off the couch. Youâve heard it a thousand times. âI know.âÂ
âCome on,â She says, giving you a smile. âLetâs get some lunch and then we can eat in the barracks again. Watch some dumb daytime TV show for a while.âÂ
âYeah.â You say, trying to sound excited as you follow her out the door. Itâs been your routine for weeks. Youâre growing sick of it, but what else is there to do? Read? Sleep? Lay numbly in bed staring at the ceiling until it blurs together or until you inevitably pass out from exhaustion?Â
Your life has become sad and pathetic, and itâs all your fault.Â
The days continue to drag on, every one without a single word of your pack driving you deeper and deeper into the hole youâve already sunk into. Youâre not drowning anymore, not clawing desperately to the surface, praying you can cling to hope long enough to drag yourself out of the depression. Now youâre just sinking, letting the weight of your numbness drag you down until the pressure becomes too much and you implode.Â
You miss them so badly it hurts.Â
Do they miss you? Do they think about you? Have they even thought about you? Did John and Kyle ask about you when Johnny and Simon arrived? What did they ask about? What did they say?Â
Or perhaps they just mutually agreed this was the opportunity to leave you, the chance to move on and make the job 100% of their lives again. No more worry, no more stress, no more distraction, no more needy omega clinging to them every minute of every day.Â
Maybe you should have been less needy, less reliant. Maybe you shouldnât have gotten so close. It would at least have been easier on you. The job comes first. Why couldnât you have kept yourself under that rule, distanced yourself to make this pain less severe?Â
Why didnât you just tell them right away?Â
âHow are you doing over there?â Dr. Kellerâs voice breaks through the endless haze of thoughts.Â
Youâre in the rec room with her, your most frequented place over the last few weeks. You might as well have moved in there. It would almost be better than the four places that only serve as constant reminders of what is gone. You could sleep in your room, but itâs been tainted, ruined. Itâs not safe anymore. Even with your pack you hadnât felt comfortable to be in there longer than it took to grab clothes.Â
âThey left me.â You say quietly, voice muffled by the pillow your face is pressed into. Youâre on your stomach on the couch, a blanket thrown over your back.Â
âNot by any choice of theirs.â She says. Sheâs sitting in the chair, Simonâs chair, but you canât bring yourself to tell her. Heâs gone. Itâs not his place anymore.Â
âTheyâre not coming back.â You say, fingers digging into the front of your sweatshirt where theyâre tucked under you.Â
âYou donât know that.â Dr. Keller says, closing her book. âThose men would fight from the brink of death to make it back to you.âÂ
âThey hate me.â You say, nails digging into your palms from how tightly youâre gripping the fabric.Â
âThey donât hate you.â She says softly. âThey may have been a bit upset, but theyâd never hate you.âÂ
âSimon does.âÂ
She lets out a quiet laugh. âLieutenant Riley is his own beast.â She pushes herself up to stand, taking a seat on the edge of the couch next to you. âHeâs in his head just as much as you are. In my professional opinion, he could use some therapy as well. Some extensive therapy.â Her hand comes to rest on your back, rubbing it gently.
Youâre thrown back to the times you were sick when your mother would rub your back, almost as if she was trying to ease the sickness away. You are sick. Sick in your own grief and disappointment and anger with yourself. The depression is its own sickness eating away at you. Youâre not even sure your packâs return could cure it now. You might be too far gone, your brain too convinced that theyâre not coming back that you wonât believe it when they do. They wonât return for you, they wonât be happy to see you. They wonât be real.Â
Dr. Keller lets out a quiet sigh. âI donât think any of them are capable of hating you. Even Lieutenant Riley. They love you too much to abandon you like that. I donât think theyâre capable of abandoning you at all. Iâm sure theyâre just as worried, just as eager to get back here.âÂ
She pats your back before holding her hand still. Itâs warm through the fabric of your sweatshirt. Itâs almost comforting, almost seeping through the chill thatâs taken over you despite the warm summer air outside.Â
âIâm sorry you have to go through this.â She continues, her voice soft and laced with emotion. âIâm sorry this is happening to you. You donât deserve it. Itâs not good for you mentally or physically. Itâs downright cruel. I thought maybe at first that youâd be taken care of, that youâd be taken into consideration as much as they are.â She scoffs. âI was stupid to think theyâd ever give an omega the decency of being considered a human being.âÂ
Her voice is determined, almost angry. Sheâs not angry at you, sheâs angry at the program, at the initiative, at those above you making the decision, pulling the strings, controlling every part of your pack. You can almost feel it, the passion, the compassion for omegas that she carries. She knows firsthand what itâs like. Even before she became a specialist she knew. She could have presented as an omega herself. Instead she was blessed with presenting as a beta, able to be seen as a human being, able to have rights and make decisions for herself.Â
âIâm not going to give up on you.â She pats your back gently. âOnce your pack returns, I think we need to have a long discussion about the future of this initiative.âÂ
âAre they going to take me away?â You ask.Â
âNo.â Dr. Keller says. âYour pack will fight for you. I will fight for you. But this isnât good for you. Itâs making you sick. Iâm worried about what might happen if it continues.âÂ
You slide your arms up, wrapping them around your pillow. âTheyâre not going to give it up, their jobs. They wonât. I hate it.â The words come tumbling out before you can stop them. âI hate that they donât put me first. I hate that they have to hide things from me, keep things from me. Why is it fair that they can keep things that might put me in danger hidden, but I canât do it without them getting mad at me? I hate that they have to leave, that they can just leave so easily. I hate their job, I hate what they do when theyâre away. I hate them sometimes because they donât even think twice about hurting me.â The nausea churns in your stomach, threatening to rise again. âIt hurts a-and tâs not fair!âÂ
Dr. Keller shushes you gently as you press your face down into the pillow, tears pricking at your eyes for the first time in almost two weeks. âI know. The CIA should have had an omega expert in on this from the start. There should have been someone that could advocate for the omegas they want to throw into these positions. I hate this too, what they do to you, what they put you through,â Her voice goes quiet, so quiet you almost canât hear it. âWhat they will put you through.â She runs a hand over the back of your head, trying to soothe you. âAll we can do is cling to the hope that word will come in soon that your pack is on their way home.âÂ
You want to believe her. You want to believe sheâs telling the truth, that they will be coming home. You want to have that hope, but hope has long faded from your mind. You donât have hope anymore, as much as she tries to instill it in you.Â
The days continue to drag on. Thereâs been no word on their status, no calls, not even a text. Dr. Keller has tried to get ahold of Kate, but sheâs been unsuccessful. It hurts. You feel abandoned, even by those that were supposed to be available, those that were supposed to help you. It all feels wrong. Thereâs something happening. You can feel it.Â
Something is changing, something is ticking at the back of your neck. It could just be the paranoia, the fear, the unease brought on by the isolation and the separation from your pack. Itâs not normal. Johnny and Simon promised theyâd do everything in their power to get a hold of you when they can.Â
Unless they canât.Â
What if theyâve been trying but no messages are getting through? What if thereâs something along the line blocking them? What if thereâs someone purposefully keeping those messages from coming through? Purposefully isolating you from your pack.Â
The thought has a chill running down your spine. Thereâs things happening behind the scenes you canât even fathom. Things beyond you, things beyond Dr. Keller and even John. Someone had those cameras put up. Someone was watching you, even after you found them and hid them. Someone wanted to see you, wanted to watch you with your pack.Â
Why?Â
It all seems too coincidental. John and Kyle being called away and then Johnny and Simon weeks later, isolating you from your pack. No word has been coming through, possibly no word from anyone getting to them. They wonât know what state youâre in, they wonât know something is wrong. If anything happened to you, they wouldnât know. Theyâd have no idea until it was possibly too late.Â
Youâve been isolated on purpose.Â
All five of you.Â
What if itâs Kate?Â
You donât want to believe it. You donât want to even think about it. Who has contact with them during their missions, though? Who has been in control of relaying messages back and forth to everyone? Would she do it? Was she capable of such betrayal? John trusts her more than anyone besides the members of your pack. Theyâve known each other for a long time, why would she betray them like this?Â
You canât trust anyone.Â
The nausea churns in your stomach, threatening to choke you for a different reason this time. Youâre beginning to panic, and while itâs nice to finally feel something, this is almost worse. Youâd prefer the numbing depression, the emptiness, the inability to think. This is worse. Itâs so much worse.Â
So many thoughts are flying around in your head, your stomach aching as you begin to panic. Youâre not safe. Youâre not safe here alone, not even with Dr. Keller. Thereâs too many chances. Youâre too open and exposed.Â
You canât trust anyone.Â
What if your pack is in on it? What if they were responsible for all of this? What if they knew Shepherd was coming and hid it from you on purpose? What if they had the cameras put up to watch what you do when theyâre away? What if theyâve been surveying you to report to the higher ups about your progress and the initiative?Â
What if they pretended they didnât know to see how long youâd hide it, how youâd take it if they were upset at you, how far they could push you before youâd crumble?Â
What if they left on purpose to make you crumble?
You canât verify it. You canât even know if those orders were real, if they ever came in. Youâll never know because you canât because they have to keep you safe. What if Kate doesnât even know theyâre gone? What if theyâre sitting in a pub in Hereford watching you fall apart at the seams? You want to leave, you want to run there, comb every inch of town just to find them and scream at them. What if theyâre too cowardly to force you out themselves? What if they want you to leave, and theyâre pushing you to the point you want to?
âHey,â Dr. Keller kneels in front of you, her hands on your shoulders. âI need you to breathe for me.âÂ
You stare at her face, the furrow of her brow, the worry in her kind eyes. You feel sick, your stomach churning. You want to vomit, you want to puke up all the worry and the depression and the stress. You want it all to be over with, you want it all to end.Â
âCome on.â She says, squeezing your shoulders tighter. âIn and out, nice and slow.âÂ
You canât. You canât breathe. The world is falling apart around you and thereâs nothing you can do about it. Your breaths catch in your throat, stuttering as your lungs spasm. Youâre beginning to tense, your joints locking into place. Itâs not all that different from a few weeks ago in the rec room with Simon as you panicked.Â
Only thereâs no alpha to help you this time.Â
âCome on.â Dr. Keller says, hauling you to your feet. Itâs like trying to move a mannequin, your joints locked into place, dead weight as she half drags you down the hall and into one of the exam rooms. She manages it, stronger than you thought as she moves you easily into the private room. Itâs the one you spent your heat in, still set up just like it had been then.
She gets you into a chair, wheeling over the oxygen. Itâs cold as it hits your face, a clammy sweat covering your skin. Your hands close around the arms of the chair, fingers clenching until they pop and ache, shaking from the force but you canât let go. You cling to the chair like itâs the last thing keeping you sane, keeping you in place, keeping you from floating away.Â
Maybe then theyâll come back. Maybe then theyâll feel guilty for doing this to you.Â
Dr. Keller approaches with a syringe, wheeling the tray closer before setting it on top. You stare at it, tears slipping around the mask before dripping onto your chest. âItâs a sedative.â She says, putting a damp paper towel on the back of your neck. Itâs cold, still dripping water. âIf you go into distress, our only option is to put you under and hope it calms your brain fast enough that youâre not going to lose yourself to your omega.âÂ
You almost wish sheâd let you. It would be an easier end than finding out your pack was involved in all of this. Youâd fade away, let your omega take over until the toll was too great on your body and you died before you even knew what happened.Â
It almost sounds blissful right now.Â
âEasy.â Dr. Keller says, cupping your face. âDonât think too much. Thatâs just going to send you spiraling even more.âÂ
If only it was that easy.
She gently peels your fingers from the arms of the chair, crossing your arms over your chest. Your hands close around your arms, squeezing until it hurts, until youâre sure youâre going to have bruises. Itâs a comforting position though, even without anything pressed against your chest.Â
You miss your bear. You miss having John wrapped around you, offering you comfort only he can. You want him back, you want to be in his arms again. You want your safe space back, your nest, your pillows and stuffed animals. You want your alpha no matter what. Even if he is behind this or not, if heâs involved, you donât care. You need your alpha again.Â
The air in your lungs rattles as Dr. Keller replaces the paper towel on your neck. It drips down your back, sliding down your spine. Goosebumps rise on your skin but it begins to calm you, shocking your system out of the edges of distress it had been rapidly falling towards. It makes you miss being numb. Numbness was at least better than the dangerously high panic of distress.Â
You canât even be stressed without being in danger of your own body.Â
The churning in your stomach intensifies and you rip the oxygen mask off, bending forward as you take deep breaths. You donât want to vomit, especially not on Dr. Kellerâs nice shoes. Your hands grip the arms of the chair again, eyes squeezing closed as you breathe.Â
âGood.â She says, rubbing your back. âKeep breathing like that.âÂ
She steps away for a moment to grab another wet paper towel as you continue to focus on your breathing, in and out. You pretend John is there, breathing with you slow and even. You can hear it in his chest, feel the rise and fall as he inhales and exhales with you. The steadiness of his heartbeat that never seems to raise, even when heâs stressed, thumps under your ear. Heâs always so calm, always so aware, always so capable of acting even in the most stressful situation.Â
A strength he possesses thanks to his job.Â
âI miss my alpha.â You whimper as your joints begin to unlock, muscles relaxing.Â
âI know.â She says, replacing the cold paper towel. She squeezes the back of your neck gently for a moment, sending a cascade of cold water that soaks into your shirt before she releases you. Something prickles in the back of your mind as she moves her hand, the back of your neck tingling and not from the cold.Â
You continue to breathe deeply, the hitch in your lungs slowly lessening until it's gone, the air flowing in and out evenly. The air in the room is cold, only made worse by the sweat on your skin. Youâre trembling, the effects of the almost distress coming down, leaving you a mess. More of a mess than you had just been.Â
âI just want him back.â You croak out, the tears still falling.Â
âI know.â She repeats, easing you back so youâre reclined back in the chair. She stares at you for a moment, chewing on her lip before she nods. âIâm going to make a few calls.âÂ
The days continue to go by in a haze. Youâre not sure what to think anymore, the numbness and stress battling in your brain for control. The near distress you went into has left you exhausted and burnt out, yet your thoughts wonât let you relax. You just want your alpha, the need sinking deep into your bones, nearly consuming you now.Â
Itâs getting colder, Fall making its rapid approach. A couple short months and itâll mark a year since your arrival, a year since this entire thing started, since you joined your new pack. To think it might not even last a year. That was the point, though, to test if it would work and how long it would work.Â
Less than a year. Hope youâre happy with those results.Â
Itâs windy today, blowing hard enough you can hear it inside the barracks. The whooshing as the air hits the side of the building, being forced over the top of the immovable object in its path. Itâs grey outside too, the sky cloudy. It might rain, though itâs hard to tell. Itâs been grey for the last couple days, the weather always seeming to be in tune with your emotions.Â
Youâre seated on Johnnyâs bed, knees pulled up to your chest. Itâs been so long since youâve seen your packmates, since youâve seen your alpha. They almost feel like a distant memory, thoughts of them floating around the empty barracks like a ghost, haunting your mind. All of them seem like ghosts now. Youâre scared youâll forget what they look like, what they smell like, what they sound like. Your brain is being clouded by your own roiling emotions, slamming up against the sides of your brain like the wind outside.Â
Itâs confusing, the violent rocking of your mind between numbness and stress in the storm thatâs raging in your amygdala. It would be nice if it could pick one, choose a direction and send you head on into the storm or the doldrums. You want the numbness back, the clouding of your thoughts, the slowing of your body to a crawl. It would be a relief over the alternative point where you risk distress every minute.Â
Thereâs no help for you.Â
âReady?â Dr. Kellerâs voice sounds through the door as she knocks quietly. Itâs lunch, the usual time the two of you go. Early enough the mess isnât as crowded. The last thing you need is a confrontation, or for you to panic like you did the day you revealed the cameras to Simon.Â
Dr. Keller could help you, would know how to help you through that, but youâre not sure you could handle that stress, that embarrassment of falling apart in front of the soldiers that already send judgemental looks your way. Falling apart again.Â
Not when you canât trust anyone.Â
The words still float through your mind, one of the last things John had said to you before he left. Before he abandoned you.Â
Donât trust anyone.Â
Anyone could be a threat.Â
Dr. Keller knocks again, calling out your name softly.Â
You force yourself off of Johnnyâs bed, your joints cracking as you stand. Youâve been in that position far too long. Your body has stiffened, losing the flexibility you once had in the weeks since John left. Youâre not even sure you could run as fast as you used to. Thereâs no space to do it in the barracks, and with how numb youâve been, you have no drive to even reach down and touch your toes anymore. For all you know youâll fall forward onto your face and break your nose if you try.Â
You open the door with a sigh, looking up at Dr. Keller. Youâre sure you look like death...you have probably looked like death for a while. The constant rocking between stress and numbness has made you feel that way, and has likely made it worse. Itâs been a long time since youâve looked at yourself in the mirror, youâre not even sure you remember what you look like.Â
You donât care anymore.Â
Thereâs no one to impress here.Â
The less alive, the less enticing you look, the more likely it is to keep audacious alphas away.Â
âReady?â Dr. Keller asks, her brows furrowed slightly as she looks down at you.Â
You nod, knowing you have no choice. âYeah.âÂ
She nods. âOkay, I-â Sheâs cut off as her phone begins to ring, the loud ringtone slicing through the air. She keeps it on at all hours in case someone calls about your pack.Â
For just a moment you feel hope, something coming back to life inside of you as her phone rings. Could it be Kate? Could it be someone with word of the status of your pack? Maybe it is your pack, calling just to let you hear their voice.Â
Maybe for the last time.Â
That hope fades as Dr. Keller frowns. âOne second.â She steps down the hallway to answer, leaving just enough space between you, you canât hear whatâs being said on the other end.Â
You donât really care to hear, leaning against the wall as you wait. Itâs not about your pack, obviously. The thought stings. Still thereâs been no word, not even a text. The drop of excitement is almost worse than the numbness, the acceptance that youâre not getting any word, that had begun to form in your mind.Â
Dr. Keller walks back up to you, the frown on her face deeper than it had been. It had been a short call, most of the talking done by the person on the other side, you assume. Her answers had been short and simple. Whoever it was...it must not have been good judging by her face.Â
âI have to run to my office.â She says. âI need you to stay here.âÂ
Your heart rate picks up at her words. Sheâs leaving you alone? Youâve gone back and forth with her so many times, why does she have to go alone now? Maybe whoever had called wanted to continue the conversation without the risk of anyone listening in.Â
Who called her, and what did they say to get her to break her promises to your pack?Â
âIâll be right back.â She says, sounding anxious to get to her office. âYouâll be okay here? I wonât be gone long.âÂ
You nod. Youâre not sure you have much of a choice but to agree, but youâre also not about to argue. Itâll be the first time youâve been alone since the day you confessed to your pack. Youâre itching for it now, just a second to be truly alone. Just a second to breathe.
âDonât leave the barracks.â She says pointedly. âJohn will have my hide if he finds out.
You shrug. âDonât know where Iâd go anyway.âÂ
She nods, accepting your answer. It is the truth. You wouldnât have left anyway. âYou call me immediately if anything happens. Iâll be just a couple minutes.âÂ
You nod in understanding. âIâll be here.âÂ
âGood.â She seems satisfied by your answer as she turns to jog down the hallway.Â
Good thing sheâs wearing comfortable shoes compared to the ones she normally does.
You let out a quiet sigh of relief as soon as the door closes. You stand there in the silence of the barracks for a moment. Youâre finally alone, the oppressive feeling of being watched, of being held prisoner lifting just a bit. Sure you canât leave, but you couldnât do that before anyway. You head for the rec room, walking as silently as you can, almost as if one of your pack members will jump out from around the corner and reprimand you for being alone. Itâs not your fault. Dr. Keller was the one who left you.Â
You try not to think about what that phone call had been about as you grab a snack, tiding yourself over before Dr. Keller returns. She said sheâd only be a minute, but youâre not sure how long it really will take. Youâre silently glad for the break, silently glad for the ability to rest in silence, even if it is only for a couple of minutes.Â
Youâre not sure what to do with your newfound freedom. Itâs not like you didnât have freedom before, but at least now you feel like you normally do, free to wander around and go to the bathroom by yourself.Â
Youâre going to do just that.Â
Itâs instinctual that you choose Simonâs room. Youâve been using his shower still, comforted by the routine you picked up during the time he and Johnny were still with you. Itâs comforting, so much so youâve made sure you hang your towel where itâs supposed to go, and put your soap and shampoo back in place with his. Heâd be angry if he came back to find his room a mess, the order he exists in disrupted.Â
More angry than he already is with you.Â
You let out a sigh as you leave the bathroom, eyeing the books on his dresser. Youâve read all of yours already, and thereâs nothing new in the rec room. You havenât felt like reading much, and youâve already read all of yours. Now, though, as life begins to fill you again, you feel the urge to do something.Â
The spines of the books are slightly dusty as you run your fingers across them. Youâll need to clean again soon. Youâd forced yourself to do all of their laundry once their shirts lost their scent. It was beginning to stink and after being gone so long, you doubt theyâll want to come back to stinky dirty clothes.Â
Maybe you should clean their rooms too. Dr. Keller has been saying it might be helpful to do something productive.Â
And this way it might help in case they do return. Omegas are supposed to keep house. Itâs what youâve been taught to do. The last thing you want is for them to be upset with you for not doing your duties.Â
You grab one of the books randomly before slipping back out of the room, closing the door behind you. Your steps are still instinctively quiet as you make your way down the hallway. Until you freeze mid-step. Thereâs a sound ahead near the rec room, the wind outside getting louder for a moment before it quiets again.Â
Someone opened the door. Someone is inside.Â
Your breathing hitches as you take a step back, then another moving backwards down the hallway. Dr. Keller did say sheâd be back soon, but why would she go through that door? She knows your pack always uses the door at the front, the door behind you to enter. That door only gets used when the guys smoke outside, or when Simon and Johnny have to leave during your heats.Â
Whoever entered wouldnât know that.Â
Dr. Keller doesnât smoke.Â
You stumble back to the nearest door, fumbling with the handle for a second before slipping inside. You close the door quietly, clicking the lock before pushing the dresser in front of the door. Itâs your room youâve taken refuge in. Thereâs dust coating everything, floating around you as you disturb the stale air. You hold your breath, fighting the urge to cough as you wait, hoping the air filters hide your scent before they make it down the hallway.Â
Your hands are shaking, gripping the book tightly in your hand. If nothing else, you can use it as a weapon. Simon would be proud of that, improvising a weapon to protect yourself. The panic is rising in you as you wait, the silence of the barracks the only thing allowing you to hear the quiet footsteps making their way down the hall. Thereâs a nervous fluttering in your chest as you wait, trying to keep your breathing under control. If itâs Dr. Keller sheâll knock, sheâll say something to let you know itâs her. She wouldnât sneak around the barracks. She knows how much stress youâve been under. She wouldnât try to scare you like this.Â
A scream dies in your throat as the door handle starts to jiggle, forced back by your own panic. Whoever it is on the other side is trying to get in. You're thrown back into the terror of your first time alone, when someone tried to enter your room in the middle of the night.Â
Youâre not going to be stupid this time. Youâre not going to face this alone. Your fingers fumble around your phone, barely able to unlock it as the jiggling of the handle gets more aggressive. Whoever it is, theyâre determined to get in.Â
You press Dr. Kellerâs number, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you lift it to your ear. It rings in your ear, the sound echoing outside the door. Your stomach drops, following your phone as it slips out of your hand, still calling Dr. Keller. The ringtone echoes in the empty hallway, quickly drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.Â
The sudden phone call, leaving you alone for the first time in weeks to run to her office, entering through the wrong door...
No...it canât be.Â
The door shudders as something rams against it. You have to hide, you have to get out. You canât hide in the closet or under the bed. Even the bathroom wouldnât be smart. Itâll leave you too vulnerable. If whoever it is can break through your door, theyâll get through the bathroom easily. You turn to look at the window. You have to get out. You have to get help.Â
There could be others out there, waiting for you to try.Â
You have no other choice. Better to try and fight than to stand there and let it happen. Thatâs what Simon always says.Â
You can defend yourself. You can fight until you get a chance to run. You can run. Youâre an omega. Running is what you do.Â
You barely remember to pick up your phone before you climb onto your desk, not caring as you knock things off. You have to move fast. Whoever it is on the other side of the door probably heard that, probably has figured out youâre going for the window. You have to get out. You have to run. The window slides open slowly, the adrenaline pumping through you, giving you strength you didnât know you were capable of. Youâre not sure youâve ever opened the window in the time youâve been here. You squeeze through the opening just big enough to fit you through. You donât waste time looking back as you take off running, heading in the direction of the trees.Â
Youâre alone, kicking up gravel as you run to the road. You have to find someone to help you before whoever it was catches up to you. Would they be that brave to attack you in the middle of the base? Would they try something with witnesses around?
You canât trust anyone.
Would they even believe you if you did try? Or would they take advantage of your state, tricking you into believing them before dragging you into a dark corner? Even if you try to go to the higher ups on base, who would you tell? How would you even find them?Â
You canât trust anyone.Â
Instead you choose the trees, racing down the road you had followed Price down not long after your arrival. You thank the CIA for making you run, you thank the guys for letting you run laps to keep your strength and stamina as you tear down the road, getting glances as you go. You havenât lost much of your ability, not even in the weeks youâve been almost completely sedentary. Itâs partially the adrenaline, partially your own fear, partially your instincts to escape from danger helping you sprint down the road.Â
Itâs lunch time, most of the soldiers probably in the mess by now. Maybe you should have run there. Someone would help you. Someone would help you.Â
Youâve passed a few on your way down the road, only getting passing glances. If they really cared, they would have followed you, tried to intercept you to ask what was going on.Â
None of them stop you as you reach the trailhead, breaking through the brush. Donât follow the trail. Weave through the trees and double back. Confuse them so they canât follow. Priceâs advice rings loud in your ears as you rush through the forest. Confuse them, and then make for the tower. You can hide there, call Laswell, get help. Youâre not sure how much help she can provide from across the ocean, but if nothing else, sheâll at least know.Â
If she answers.Â
If sheâs not behind all of this.Â
She might rat you out.Â
Maybe going for the tower is a bad idea. Maybe you should double back and head for base again. If you can make it to the gate maybe you can convince one of them to help you, or if nothing else you can force your way through and get off of base. You recognize landmarks well enough you can hike to Hereford, find the police, find anyone that might help you.Â
You canât trust anyone.Â
Your chest hurts as you run, tears burning in your eyes, making the trees around you blur. You canât cry now. You canât let the ache of betrayal settle in yet. You really canât trust anyone. John had been wrong. But why now? Why wait this long?Â
Something has happened to your pack.Â
The whole thing has been organized.Â
You trusted her.Â
You dart across the trail, a sharp pain biting through your calf before you can reach the other side. You yelp as you fall into the dirt, your leg giving out from under you. You push yourself up to look, a roughly half inch wide hole cutting through your jeans. Blood is starting to seep into the fabric, darkening it around the edges of the hole.Â
Youâve been shot.Â
âYouâre a quick little thing.â A voice says, stepping out from the brush next to the trail. âThough, I suppose with all the running they made you do, you would be.âÂ
Tears burn your eyes as you stare at the gun pointed right at you. Will it go off again? Will it rip through your chest, giving you a slow painful death out here where no one will find you until itâs too late? Or will it go through your head, giving you a quick death before you even know itâs happened?Â
âWhy?â You choke out, your heart pounding in fear. You can feel it, the edges of your vision darkening as you begin to panic. Youâre going to distress, youâre going to die no matter what happens next.Â
âMoney.â The gun shifts with the accompanying shrug. âSure the pay in these positions is decent, but itâs never quite enough. And, you know, Iâm all for helping with experiments.âÂ
The gun lowers, but that does little to ease the panic flooding through you. You turn your upper body, trying to claw through the dirt away from your assailant, trying to escape the shoes getting closer and closer. Theyâre tennis shoes, practical and easy for running if need be. Your mouth has gone dry as you gasp for breath, your heart thudding in your ears. Itâs getting dangerously high, the dark edges in your vision continuing to get bigger and bigger. Your muscles are tensing, ready to tighten painfully, joints locking into place. Itâll be too late to do anything, but then again, itâs too late now to do anything.Â
You canât run. If you try, youâll get shot again, and maybe this time it will be fatal.Â
One of the shoes lifts, stepping down on your leg. You scream as pain ripples all the way up to your hip, stopping your movements. Tears slide down your face, dripping down your nose and onto the dirt.Â
A hand reaches out, gripping your chin and forcing you to look straight again. Fingers dig into your jaw, making you whimper with pain. âI always hate when omegas cry.â The hand releases you as their right hand rears back.Â
Pain erupts across your cheek, your body being thrown to the side. You fall into the dirt, your ears ringing as the entire left side of your face throbs. You can taste blood, the coppery tang making you want to gag.Â
âThat was for fucking up the cameras and making me do more work.âÂ
Youâre forced onto your stomach in the dirt, a knee digging into your back painfully.Â
âYouâre going to go to sleep now.â You can barely make out the words over the ringing in your ears. âWhen you wake up, youâre going to wish you had never been picked for this initiative in the first place.âÂ
A stinging pain bites into the skin of your neck, but itâs nothing compared to the throbbing in your cheek and the burning ache in your leg. Tears continue to slide down your cheeks as you lay there, your vision going blurry as the sedative kicks in. Thereâs no help coming.Â
No one even knows youâre out here.Â
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You and Simon are walking home when something frightening happens. One thing about being in a relationship with him, you just KNOW he would be hauling you around like a sack of flour if something dangerous happened.
Cw: ptsd
Itâs been a good day. Simon is home from deployment, the sun has just set and the weather is clear.
Youâve been out running errands with him for most of the day. Your partnerâs been home for a week and this is the first time either of you have left the house. You miss him badly when heâs away but youâd give anything for days like today.
Youâre walking down the sidewalk, hands tangled together as Simon carries the shoulder bag of groceries on his other side. The quiet evening is peaceful, storefront lights beginning to click on as the day winds down.
Youâre not sure exactly what happened. One moment youâre chattering at Simon, telling him about the new recipe you were going to try out tonight and the next youâre being forced against the building, Simonâs hand pressing your head towards your chest while he slams his body into yours, covering as much of you with himself as possible.
You gasp in a stunned breath once your lungs stop seizing before your ears recognize the reverberating boom in the air. You watch with wide eyes as the bag Simon had just been holding spills groceries onto the sidewalk, cans and jars rolling away from the spilled bag.
You yelp as he pulls you away from the wall and half picks you up while keeping you tucked into his chest. He moves quickly into the alleyway you had just passed, keeping himself between you and the street. You shuffle your feet trying to keep up as he bodily drags you.
Si-Simon you gasp breathlessly in shock. What are you doing? But thereâs no response. You look up into his face only for your heart to stutter in your chest. Youâve never seen that look on his face before. Two more booms shake the air before there is a faint crackle.
His eyes are steely above his mask. He doesnât wear his balaclava when heâs home, but dons a blank, black face mask when you need to leave the house. You never thought youâd be scared of him but if he looked at you with that face you would freeze up in a heartbeat.
You realize whatâs going on as a red glow lights up the alleyway before fading back into darkness.
Simon, itâs okay. Weâre okay. It was a firework, baby. Weâre safe. Youâre home with me. Nothing. His gaze is jumping to every shadow, still sheltering you between his body and the wall.
You raise your arm to try and cup his cheek, attempting to bring him back to you but he rips his face away with a snarled stay down before shuffling you further into the alleyway.
His grip on you is tight as he shoves you into a deep doorway, wedging himself in after. You can feel his heart pounding from where your face is pressed against his chest, his other hand still holding the back of your head, pressing you against him.
You try again. Simon. Simon youâre home. Youâre here with me and it was a firework. Some idiot has gone and started setting them off. Thereâs probably going to be another boom here in a minute and then youâll be able to see it in the sky.
Like the universe is listening, there is another explosion right then with a trailing shower of lights afterwards. It casts enough of a glow for you to see his eyes again. Theyâre panicked and darting every which way trying to see where the danger is coming from.
You decide to wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze as hard as you can, hoping the pressure would help bring him back. You start talking, not giving a chance for silence to fill the space.
We were walking home from the grocery store. We were going to make that new pasta dish I was telling you about for dinner. I had just asked you about stopping in at that new tea shop on our way. You know the one, on the corner of 4th? They have a jasmine tea Iâm really interested in trying. And I saw on their website they have a chocolate croissant too. I know how much you love them.
On and on and on. Narrating what youâd done that day, what you were going to do when you got home. The newest show you and him were watching together, how you had trimmed his hair for him yesterday, anything you could think of.
Finally, after what felt like years, his hold on you begins to loosen and his body begins to shake slightly with the adrenaline crash. The periodic booms making him clench back up each time.
After every explosion you made sure to reiterate, that was a blue firework. It looked almost like a weeping willow tree. You know the one . . . trying to bring him into the present and keep him there.
Eventually he stands up straight and youâre able to look him in the eye. He seems almost ashamed of what just happened. Itâs okay baby. Letâs go get our bag of food and then weâll go home. Iâm thinking we order takeout and then cuddle for the rest of the night, how does that sound?
He nods his head before pressing a hard kiss to your forehead through his mask, apology or thanks youâre not sure. You make your way out to the street together, Simon insisting on staying bodily between you and the street still, head on a swivel with every movement that catches his eye.
By the time you get home heâs well and truly crashing. Slight shaking accompanying his movements, eyes beginning to go unfocused. The rest of the evening ensuring some part of you was touching him at every moment.
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