#has this happened before??? Has there been other Simons?

[moody-alcoholic]

This Is Going To Hurt

Part 1 - Die Another Day

Summary: Poly141 x reader, established relationship, medic reader, kidnapped reader, mini fic.

CW: Dead dove don’t eat, torture, waterboarding, descriptions of wounds, kidnapping, assault, blood, strangulation.

AN: I'm posting this early. Lets see how that goes...

Enjoy <3

You wake to darkness.

Your head throbs, there’s a stinging down your arm. 

The floor feels like sand, you force yourself to sit up against the wall. There’s sand everywhere, in your mouth, nose, eyes, even under your clothes.

The dark has you disorientated, you can’t remember what happened, you were in the convoy. You remember the drive, the truck ahead of you being blown off the road. You don’t remember much after that. 

You decide to crawl, you need to know how big this place is, find an exit. Maybe you’re at a safehouse somewhere. No, there’s no safehouse you know that has sand for the floor. As soon as you move you cough, your throat is dry, your lips are raw and cracked. 

You bring your hand up spluttering as it sends throbbing pains through your head. A door opens and light floods the room, the coughing stops as you bring your hand up to block the light.

You hear shouting in arabic. Shit, this is not good. You feel round your body, you've been stripped to just underwear and a shirt. The figure moves from the door and you hear more voices. People rush in the room, you don’t have anything to defend yourself with. 

You kick and fight as best as you can. Digging your heels into the floor as the strangers pick you up by your underarms and drag out the room. Your left arm stings, you grit your teeth trying to press your feet down. They just lift you up off the floor, pulling you along. 

You’re taken into another room and thrown on the ground. This room has a light, you look round your head still throbbing, you don’t get time to take in your surroundings or assess damage before the door opens again. A man with his face covered walks in dragging a chair behind him. He places it down in the middle of the room as you back away.

“Sit.” He says in English, you can hear the thick arabic accent. There’s another man guarding the door with an AK in his hands. You swallow hard not moving, They’re going to have to force you if they want anything. 

You can just about see his eyes, that’s all you can see. You don’t know where you are or if anyone else is here too. You hope not, you hope they’re all okay. Fuck. What if they’re here with you, in a different part of this place. You’re not even sure what to call it, it’s barely a building. 

“Sit.” He says again. You hold your ground staring him down. He says something in Arabic before coming over to you. His fist slams into the side of your face. It snaps your head to the side. His hand comes down gripping a fist of your hair. You cry out as you’re dragged over to the chair, your eyes fill with water fogging your vision. 

He lets go of your hair as he and the other man haul you to your feed and throw you into the chair. You blink the tears away. They don’t bother tying you down. What are you going to do? Run? You wouldn’t stand a chance. You can’t believe this, you have assume you’re alone, you have to assume no one is coming for you. 

“British, medic.” He says. You look over at the other man in the room. Maybe if he didn’t have a gun you could take them. You’ve spared enough with Johnny and Simon, they’ve taught you how to fight 2 people at once. You’d be shot before you would even be able to get a good hit off. 

“What unit?” He asks, you look back over to him. You wish you could see his expression, it would give you a better idea of what he’s thinking. Now you can understand why people find Ghost so intimidating. You won’t give him anything. 

You’ve been trained for this. Not much, but you have a better chance than most. 

“What base were you stationed at?” He asks moving closer to you. You can taste blood in your mouth, your arm still stings, you’ve definitely been injured. His fist crashes into your cheek again. You grip the seat of the chair so you don’t fall off. This time you feel your teeth bite down on the inside of your mouth. 

“Let’s try again. What unit?” He’s already raising his voice. You cough clearing your airway. The taste of blood makes your stomach turn. You can feel adrenaline flowing through you now, your head stops spinning, your pain turns into a dull throbbing. You feel your heart rate pick up. 

The man's hand grips around your throat forcing you to look up at him. You can’t breathe your hands squeeze the chair. 

“What is the name of your unit?”He shouts through gritted teeth. You almost want to laugh, you’ll never tell him, you’ll never give them up. But you would like to be able to breathe again. You build up a ball of blood and saliva in your mouth and spit it in his face. 

You regret it as soon as you’ve done it. He lets your neck go though and you suck in a gulp of air. It makes you cough again, your hand going up to your neck, it’s raw, painfull. The man shouts something in Arabic and the man on the door moves. 

You’re still gasping for air when the butt of his weapon crashes into your head. Your body is thrown off the chair to the ground. You squeeze your eyes closed as nausea rises in you, there’s a ringing in your ears and a throb in your head.

He flips you to your back and you look up at him. His hands rap round your throat, his knee pressing on your chest. You try and fight him, scratching, kicking your legs. Black spots start appearing in your vision. 

This is it, this is how you die. You just hope you were right and you’re the only one here. 

Simon, Johnny, Kyle and John, that's who you think about. That’s all you think about in your last moments. 

___

Johnny clenches his jaw, he’s tried to ignore the anger bubbling in him. 

Price hasn’t stopped pacing, Laswell tried to calm him down first. That went about as well as Simon’s attempt. He doesn't know what to say, what to do. For once he’s happy to just wait for orders. 

He hears Gaz walk back into the room. He goes over to the table and puts a file down. Ghost walks over to pick it up. 

“Shepherds on the line.” Laswell says. 

“Put him through.” Price stops pacing and pulls a laptop round to face him. 

“Anything new?” Gaz asks, leaning over. Johnny just shakes his head. 

“Captain it is 2am, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Shepherd's voice comes through the laptop speakers. 

“The convoy was compromised.” Price says. 

“And this could not wait until the morning because?” Shepherd sighs.

“We have one MIA.” 

“Who?” 

“Does it fucking matter?” Price snaps. It makes Johnny’s stomach turns. 

“I warned you taking the medic was a bad idea captain.” Shepherd says. Johnny hears Gaz grit his teeth. “I don’t know what you want me to say?” 

“We’re going after her.” Price says. 

“John. Don’t make me do this:” He warns. He’s not going to stop them, no one is going to stop them. Johnny’s still not quite sure why Price wanted to call him in the first place. 

“How did the convoy get compromised?” Price asks stepping away from the laptop. Ghost hands him the file. 

“You tell me?” Shepherd replies. Johnny looks over at Laswell, she hasn’t moved. 

“You gave us the intel.” 

“You organised the convoy.”  Shepherd says, Johnny can hear the irritation in his voice. 

“Based on your intel.” John turns around handing the folder to Laswell. Now Johnny’s curious.

“What’s in the folder?” He whispers to Gaz. He shrugs, he didn’t look. 

“What happened to the convoy? Were there casualties?” Shepherd asks. 

“5 KIA, 1 MIA.” Simon says, Johnny looks over at him. Ghost was more than happy to lock himself in a room and do Price’s paperwork while Price went on a rampage. 

“No body?” 

“No body.” Price replies. 

“Look again. We cannot push into al-qatala territory. If they have her-” 

“They have her.” Price interrupts him. 

“You have your orders Captain. Clean up your mess, finish the job then we will talk about getting her back.” Shepherd orders, raising his voice. 

“I’m done cleaning up your messes General.” Price says leaning back over the laptop. “Laswell will send you the intel.” 

“Don’t do this John. You’re making the wrong decision.” Shepherd says. Price just lets out a sigh. “If they have her she’s a prisoner of war. We have a protocol for this.” 

“I’m not waiting for you to negotiate. I’m done, we’re getting her back, with or without your permission.” Price says ignoring Shepherd's comments. 

“John.” Laswell pipes up, everyone turns to look at her. She gets up showing him something on her laptop. Ghost looks over his shoulder.

“If you do this, Captain we will have to stop you.” Shepherd says. 

“I’d like to see you try.” Price says, he nods at Laswell and she ends the call. 

“What now?” Gaz asks, stepping up to the table. 

“They have her, she’s alive.” There’s a collective sigh around the room. It only lasts a few seconds, silent glances are shared between them. 

“Gaz, Soap. We need a vehicle. Ghost, we need ammo, explosives. We need to leave here stocked.” Price says ordering people around. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Laswell asks, Price shoots her a glare. 

“We’re getting her back.” John says. 

“He’ll send the shadows after you. I can try and hold them off for as long as I can. I can buy you 48 hours max.” Laswell says. 

“That’s all we’ll need.” John replies. “Don’t sacrifice yourself for us Kate. We'll handle it.” 

___

When you open your eyes again the pain in your head is worse. There’s a bright light above you that forces you close your eyes. 

“Don’t move.” Someone says, this time the accent is not as thick, there is a hint of something there. You turn your head to the side, you see someone’s hands are on you. You see the gash on your arm. It stings as they dab round it. 

You’re laid on something hard, a table you think. You try to move your arms and legs, this time you are tied down. You can feel wet on your back, you can’t tell if it’s sweat or water. You look round the rest of the room. There’s a breeze, you can feel it, cool and refreshing. There’s a sink and a hose, buckets of water and dirty rags. 

You know what’s going to happen. 

You look back at the person. His face is also covered, this time instead of bandanas and scarves it’s just a balaclava. It reminds you of Ghost, Simon, one of the people you promised you would spend the rest of your life with. 

Maybe they’re looking for you, it doesn’t matter you have to assume the worst. 

“They’re going to hurt you. I would recommend talking.” The stranger says,  definitely an accent from somewhere else. You watch as he wraps your arm in bandages. 

If you talk they’ll kill you. Surely he knows that.  

You’re not going to talk, you’re not going to give up the people you love. You try to remember what John taught you. You need to focus on a happy place, something you can retreat into while they torture you. 

Torture you, it makes you swallow hard, fear rises in you. You can’t panic, panicking will make it worse. 

They’re not going to kill you, they want intel. They hit the convoy but they need intel, otherwise you’d be dead. 

Something went wrong, and now they have you. 

The stranger stands up dragging his chair to the corner of the room and coming back with a roll of cling film. You look away as he starts to wrap your arm, fear bubbles in you again, the pit in your stomach won’t go away this time.  

This is going to hurt, it’s going to be hard. You have to stay strong though. If you love them you have to stay strong. 

The door to the room opens and another voice addresses the man wrapping your arm in plastic. You look back up at the ceiling, the light burns your eyes. Someone’s hand pulls your head to the side.

Another covered face. Another repetitive voice. 

“What is the name of your unit?” He asks, you think it’s the same voice from before. You don’t say anything. He lets your face go, you hear the door open again. More people come into the room, more people talking in arabic. 

You turn your head to the other side, the person who patched you up is gone. A hand grips your hair pulling your head back on the table. You’re forced to look up at the ceiling, the light and the grip on your hair makes tears form. 

“What base are you stationed at?” The same voice asks. You grit your teeth, your lips are sore now too, cracked and dry, they won’t be like that for long. 

The sound of sloshing water makes you feel sick. You can do this. 

You close your eyes. You need to find a happy place, somewhere you can focus on. 

Johnny and his smile. The way he looks at you with those pretty blue eyes. 

Johnny and his pretty blue eyes, that's what you’re going to focus on. 

A wet rag is pressed over your nose and mouth, you hear the hose start. 

This is it, you have to be brave. You have to be silent. 

If you want to keep them alive, you have to suffer. 

Your body is already pulsing with pain. This is really going to hurt.

Banners by plum98

[softaestluv]

Breaking Bread

Simon Riley who is quite the anomaly of a man, or human, rather. Your lieutenant who has only spoken a handful of words to you.

Simon Riley who happens to be sat at the only open table in the messhall.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Sergeant! Reader

Tags: Short n’ Sweet, Fluff, Pining, Angst, Slow burn if you squint, Food as a love language, Eventual romance, Eventual smut, Military inaccuracies

Simon Riley who is quite the anomaly of a man, or human, rather. Stands at 6’4, a total of 220 pounds, takes up double the space of most people. Lieutenant of the special forces, done irredeemable acts with his bare hands. A brute. Forbidding. Curt with his words. The terrifying wraith and apparition of many— of you.

Simon Riley who is your lieutenant. Who you’ve seen complete such acts, though they were always finished within a blink of an eye. Blood splattering before you even had time to complete your blink, ordering you to follow behind before you’ve even realized what happened. Quite grateful that you were on the same side as him, any enemy of his faced far worse fate than the nerves that ate at your skin in his presence.

Simon Riley who’s only spoken a handful of words to you. To anyone, really. A man of few words. Nothing more than orders during a mission or training. Muttered gravelly. Low and demanding. Said in such a way that you had no option, but to react, obey. Though you don’t think it’s necessarily a you problem, at least you hope it’s not. He seems to be this way with everyone outside of 141, but you suppose Soap talks enough for the both of them.

Simon Riley who happens to be sat at the only open table in the messhall. Sergeant’s squished tightly onto other tables as if to avoid sitting with their menacing lieutenant. Which is how it usually is, sat alone unless Soap is by his side.

You debate smuggling the food on your tray into your pant pockets and eating in your room in solitude. Not because it would be so horrible to sit with him; you wouldn’t mind sitting in silence. He’s never been terribly rude to you— outside of his usual demeanor.

He just seems social disinterested and you know he wouldn’t necessarily want you there. Make him feel forced to speak if he doesn’t want to or make him angry for disturbing his peace. A wrath you wouldn’t want to face, you’ve seen the laps he’s made sergeants run for irritating him.

For the sake of his comfort you almost turn away, already reaching to unbutton your pants pockets, but before you can his gaze finds yours across the hall. Piercing. Tense.

Your feet move on their own accord, walking towards his table because you think ruining his comfort for a day is better than the rejection he might feel watching his sergeant stuff her pants full of bread and beans just to avoid sitting with him.

"Hi, Lieutenant," You start, pinching the inside of your cheek between words, "Is it okay if I sit with you?”

You pause for a response, but as you should have expected, nothing comes, so you begin to ramble, “I know you usually sit alone. I won’t bug you! I promise, I’ll sit quietly.”

A grunt of approval is all he gives you; a small smile smearing across your lips as you sit down opposite of him.

And true to your word you don't disturb him, don’t even look up from your plate to glance at him. The both of you just eat in silence, no words shared between the two of you. You scarf the food down quicker than Ghost does because training drains you of all your energy. Makes the military food taste like a five star meal even though it’s bland.

Finish your plate first, despite the fact that Ghost started eating before you. When you’re done you stand up, quietly mumbling your gratitude to him for sharing 'his space’ with you before disappearing in the hall.

When tomorrow comes, you walk past his empty table even though sharing lunch with him wasn’t entirely terrible. He doesn’t let you get far, a gloved hand finds your wrist, stops you in your movements. You look down at him with wide eyes.

“Ah, Lieutenant?”

He points to the empty space in front of him, “Your seat.”

Your eyes widen, impossibly so, but still, you sit.

This is an ongoing fic that I am still writing. All the other fics I have posted have been completed on ao3 before I cross posted here, so the updates for this fic won’t be as quick as my previous ones. Please bear with me! I do plan for it to be about 5 parts! Short n’ sweet!

I just wanted to share it as well. Thank you <3

Also if you’re anon who sent me a request yesterday & you happen to read this, I will be doing your prompt! I just need some time to write it :)

[love-byers]

the van scene is going to pay off. THE VAN SCENE IS GOING TO PAY OFF. the VAN SCENE. (where will basically stabs himself in the heart and accepts that he's going to be desperately and unrequitedly in love with mike for the rest of his life) is going to PAY OFF.

DO YOU GUYS REALIZE WHAT THIS MEANS?? ROMANTIC TROPES LIKE THIS CAN ONLY GO ONE WAY

okay okay for example, in young royals (spoilers ahead) season 1 ends with simon and wilhelm at odds because wilhelm denied their relationship to the public despite telling simon he would tell the truth. simon decides he can't be wilhelm's secret and basically breaks up with him.

then, in s2, wilhelm is constantly trying to weasel his way back into being with simon because he desperately misses him, but simon sticks to his word and doesn't cave in. simon gets a new boyfriend and wilhelm fucking SPIRALS and briefly becomes borderline psychotic, but then one night at a dance/party/ball where he properly meets simon's boyfriend, he gives up and accepts that simon is moving on, like simon has been asking him to do all season. he tells simon that he's sorry for bothering him and that he'll leave him alone from now on and his boyfriend seems nice. he does the thing that deeply hurts himself, but he believes will make simon happy. he chooses simon's happiness over his own. he does the right thing. he does the selfless thing.

and guess what happens next? simon follows wilhelm outside and kisses him and they make out in a garden. wilhelm got what he wanted, but only after putting simon's happiness before his own.

and this same thing happens at the end of the season. in s2 simon goes on a journey of learning to understand why wilhelm wants their relationship to be a secret, because at first in s1 he doesn't at all and it makes him very angry. but by the end of s2 he finally understands. he tells wilhelm that he wants to be with him and if that means they have to be a secret, then so be it. simon makes a sacrifice. he lets go of his integrity towards himself and decides to be wilhelm's secret, even though that's not the ideal scenario. he knows it's what wilhelm wants, and if that's the only way it'll work, then so be it.

and guess what happens next? wilhelm goes up in front of the whole country and admits that he is in a relationship with simon and that he won't be hiding any longer. simon got what he wanted all along, but only after putting their love before his own self-integrity.

are you getting what i'm saying?

in writing, sacrifice and making the difficult decision rewards characters with getting what they want. that's what makes it so satisfying, that's what makes it PAY OFF. that's what "pay off" means. hard work pays off. hard, uncomfortable, painful, sorrowful work pays off because something good comes from it. something so good that it makes all the pain worth it, because the pain is what directly lead to it. simon and wilhelm didn't get the happiness they wanted until they sacrificed something they wanted for the overall good or the good of someone else. they didn't get what they wanted until they were selfless.

literally the only way a scene like the van scene can pay off is with will getting what he wanted all along. there is literally no other way i can see this going. it's just unheard of for a plot point like this to end in any other way than in will's favor. will giving the painting to mike is symbolic of him letting go and accepting that he will always love mike and will never be loved back. the painting itself is symbolic of will's feelings. it's wills feelings in a physical form, because after the van scene will does not plan on ever bringing it up again. that's why the painting has to exist, so that will's feelings can come to light in s5, because will is not gonna be the one to bring it up. he thinks it's game over. mike gently confirming to will that it is indeed game over but being an ally to him is not a reward, that's the bare minimum. like i can't stress to you enough how an arc conclusion like that is the exact thing writers are taught not to do, the exact thing we are warned against in school. the exact thing that gets a bad response in a workshop. you just don't do it you don't, especially not with a character as tortured and marginalized as will byers

anyways my point is, the thing will used to accept that mike will never love him and push mike and el together (the painting) is going to be the very thing that pulls mike right back in. this painful and selfless thing that will did is actually going to bring him the biggest reward, the thing he's always wanted. that's just how writing works bro

edit: and i wanted to add one more in here real quick bc ive seen people say "oh so only happy endings make sense??" when bylers say will deserves a happy ending

no, that's not the case at all. "pay off" does not equate to "happy ending" payoff can mean all kinds of things. if a character repeatedly makes bad decisions and it lands them in the shitter, that's pay off. that's good writing. unless you're writing a story just created to make people sad and leave people unsatisfied as some sort of statement, there is absolutely no reason for that.

and another good example of pay off that isn't necessarily happy: the hunger games (spoilers ahead). the hunger games is a story about oppression and corruption and abusive government. it's a commentary on control and abuse of power and how it hurts people. the whole thing is kick started by katniss volunteering for the games in place of her sister, it's kick started by katniss trying to keep her sister alive. so prim (her sister) ultimately dying in the last book can be considered payoff. and though this isn't happy, it works because of the overall theme of the books. it's about abuse, tragedy, trauma, etc etc. and it goes even deeper when you consider the fact that prim was killed by a bomb made by "the good side", because mockingjay (the last book) delved into showing the beginnings of yet another abusive controlling government and how more war and killing only leads to more suffering for EVERYONE. prim dying is UNFAIR. and that's the point. that's why the whole thing, ALL the corruption, even on the "good side" must come down because it only leads to tragedy and unfairness. though this is quite depressing, it is "pay off". it's good writing

okay hunger games ted talk over

[secretlysimpash]

Pt. 1

Pt. 2

It's been a few months since your initial mating, you’ve got three mates and some pups on the way…And Price is left alone with you on the base while the boys are off on some classified business.

!!!! MDNI !!!

warning(s): reader is female, typical A/B/O shit (alphas, omegas, betas, mates, marks, scents, pups), pregnancy, lactation, fluff (kinda?? i think this constitutes as fluff)

“I’m sorry, did you say triplets, John?”

Laswell’s incredulous voice came from the other end of the call, and the equally surprised Captain held the phone from his ear for a moment. Inhaling deeply, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You heard right, Laswell…” He confirmed, his voice perfectly calm, even if he was still reeling himself. “The medic found three during the ultrasound. Can’t tell if they’re all Simon’s either.” Not that it’d matter. He added mentally, knowing full well that you and the three men were mated now. Even if it’s Simon’s mark on your neck, Johnny and Kyle are also your alphas in every sense of the word. Heteropaternal superfecundation isn’t common, but not unheard of for omegas in heat, and especially for omegas whose bodies accept more than one mate…Like yours did. 

“Fuck me…So her temporary replacement might be more permanent than I expected.” Laswell said, a begrudging note of resignation laced into her words regarding the flippant alpha filling in for you. A beat of silence stretched between them before she exhaled. “Okay…Keep in touch, I’ll swing by when I’m finished with this paperwork. God knows how long this’ll take.”

John straightened up, humming out softly in response. “Right…Take your time, don’t go completely mad, Kate.” And then the call ends. It went over better than expected, all things considered. She didn’t tear him a new one the same way she did when he informed her that you’d be staying for an extra week after the initial incident roughly four months ago. 

Bringing a hand down his face, John abandons his phone and makes his way to the window in his office. A lot has happened in four months, and he’s still wrapping his head around it. He watched his lieutenant and two sergeants stake their claim on you, taking you on many dates and outings, and just being wonderful alphas…If not a bit overprotective of you. John watched you splitting your nights up between the three alphas, never once asking for your own room (he tried giving you your own room, only to find your three alphas piled into the small bed meant for one, crowding you that morning).

Speaking of the other alphas…All three had to head out of the base early this morning to share notes with Farah Karim and Alex Keller in a classified location, and they aren’t expected to be back until tomorrow evening. They didn’t want to leave their sweet omega alone, nor did they want to wake her up to say goodbye since you seemed so peaceful. So, instead, John listened from outside of Soap’s quarters as they shared hushed farewells with you.

“We’ll be back before ye ken…”

“Captain’ll be here if you need anything, birdie.”

“Stay outta trouble…And don’t give your mum a hard time.”

That last bit from Gaz was aimed at the pups growing inside of you, and was no doubt followed up with a kiss to the growing bump. It warmed his heart a bit, truly…Seeing the three men he works so close with, ones he’s been through hell with, being so content. He watches the budding leaves sway on the tree near his window, exhaling through his nose when he hears something shuffling past his office. Turning his head, he can see the shadow of someone passing by under the door. 

Must be her. He thought as he crossed over to the door. Once it was open, he’s greeted by the sight of you toddling into the kitchen. You’re practically swimming in one of Soap’s shirts, wearing an old pair of pajama pants courtesy of Gaz, and he can pick up on Ghost’s leathery scent underneath the other two. 

“Morning.” John grunts out, making his way into the kitchen after you. When you turn to look at him in front of the fridge, he can’t help but smile. You’re literally barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, practically glowing despite your slightly frazzled appearance. 

“It’s…” You begin, squinting at the time on the clock. “More like afternoon…But hi. My appetite finally caught up with me.”

John hums in response as he fills up the coffee maker before hitting brew. He recalls how you weren’t feeling very hungry in the past few days, having an upset stomach that would only tolerate liquids and the occasional strange pregnancy craving (the sight of you eating pickles with chocolate ice cream will haunt John’s dreams). “Want me to make you something?”

“I can cook…” You respond, shifting through the cabinets. “The boys are amazing, but they haven’t let me cook my own meal since…God, since before they knew I was pregnant, actually.”

“They’re just eager to show you that they can provide.” John explains, taking out a mug for himself and one for you. “It's a thing with us alphas. The macho and dominant part is there, but we want our omegas to know they can count on us to provide for them and our pups. An alpha being soft for their mate and brood is important.”

As you listen along, you pull out some pancake mix, intent on making a nice stack for yourself. You try to ignore the odd feeling in your chest…In your breasts, more specifically. It’s just another side effect of being pregnant with pups, three at that. They seem more tender, sore even. Your mind is set on making and devouring as many pancakes as possible, sore tits be damned. 

John is in the middle of pouring himself some coffee, fixing it the way he likes, but stopping mid-pour of the miniscule bit of milk he usually adds. There’s something about your scent, something different. The usual sweet scent was already faintly noticeable under the three scents of your alphas. But now, it’s growing stronger somehow. Vanilla fills his senses, and his eyes turn to you. It’s almost intoxicating, and he really shouldn’t be eyeing you as you mix together the contents of the pancake batter. But here he is…Staring…And staring…Until he sees it.

“...Did the medic say anything you need to look out for?” He asks suddenly, eyes settled on your chest area. “Changes, or…”

You think for a bit, your caffeine-free brain taking some time to catch up as you squint at nothing. “Uh…Weight gain, cravings, tender breasts, tender…Gums, I think, and…” Finally, you felt his gaze practically burning a hole through your–rather Soap’s–shirt. Your face warms when you see where he’s looking, and your own eyes drop. “Oh…! Oh…Shit. That’s…” You bring a hand up to the damp material, milk staining the area over your nipple. 

John scrubs a hand down his beard, covering his mouth to conceal an amused chuckle. “Was lactation something to expect this soon?” The way your mouth opens and closes wordlessly as realization takes over your eyes, has his answer. “Did you want me to finish with the pancakes…? You could go take care of your…Situation. I won’t interfere.”

You give him a grateful look, setting the whisk down in the batter. “Yeah…I’d like that.” You say before scurrying off to the bathroom. Before you’re too far, you throw over your shoulder, “Add blueberries and chocolate chips…Please!”

At least you didn’t ask for pickles on the side.

…

John made a nice stack of five pancakes for you, not putting the syrup on just yet. He waited for a bit after they were finished, and waited some more. When you didn’t show twenty minutes after, your stack and coffee starting to cool, he got curious. They took a few minutes to cook, so it's been…Nearly an hour since you left to deal with the leakage. So, he followed your scent down the hall and right to the bathroom. Your scent is still there, but faint, and leading to Simon’s room. Inside, he finds you sitting on the bed. You’re sitting cross legged in the middle, a barely audible whine leaving you as you press a damp cloth to your tender breasts.

“Hey…Feeling alright?” John asks, leaning in the doorway as he sets a concerned look on you. His inner alpha is demanding that he go in there and gather you up into his arms. But he holds off…He is nothing if not a very disciplined man.

“The cold compress works but…I…” You avoid his gaze, feeling heated under it. “Didn’t want to just walk out without a shirt on.”

When John hears your stomach growl, followed up by a frustrated sound caught between a whine and a groan, he makes the conclusion. “And you’re hungrier now than before…You know it's nothing I haven’t seen before.”

It’s true, John has walked in on you with one or more of your alphas more than once in some compromising positions. But still, you have some shame. 

John thinks for a moment, exhaling through his nose as he observes your current state. Shirtless, with your hands clutching at your chest with a damp cloth. He mutters out a “stay here” before leaving the doorway. When he returns, he has a plate of pancakes in one hand, and a cold pack in the other.

“Set the washcloth down. This’ll stay cold longer…” He says, offering the pack to you. When you remove the washcloth, he’s met with the sight of your breasts. A bit of near transparent liquid is beaded at one of the peaks, and part of him wants to use his mouth to assist you…But the louder, more disciplined part of his brain is in control. He lets you place the pack over your sore chest, and then he spears the pancakes which he already cut up onto the fork. Once he brings the forked pancakes up to your lips, his free hand hovering under to make sure no syrup drips onto the bed, you realize what he’s doing.

Silently, you take the fork into your mouth, giving him a grateful look. For the next few minutes, he just repeats the process of gathering the cut up pancakes onto the fork and feeding you. As he does, he talks to lessen the tension or any awkwardness of this alpha who’s not mated to you taking care of you. He doesn’t talk about anything in particular, nothing serious. Just about the weather, the news, how happy “his boys” have been since you stumbled into their lives. Your inner omega is calm, at peace, much less worried and uncomfortable than before. 

The blueberry-and-chocolate-chip pancakes are just about finished, the last bit stabbed onto the fork and being lifted to your mouth when the door to Simon’s room opens. You didn’t hear anyone coming into the base/pack house, not over John’s soothing, honeyed voice. And no discernable scent is present…It isn’t until you see a familiar blonde head peek in, blue eyes settling on the pair of you, that you see who it is.

“Laswell!” You chirp out, eyes lighting. It’s been a week or so since she last visited. “Laswell, guess what, I’m having–”

“Triplets.” She finished for you, eyes finally settling on John. The beta wasn’t sure where to look at first. Your topless self, the blue cold pack covering your chest, the syrup drenched pancakes…

John, who’s letting you finally take the last bit of your breakfast into your mouth, gives her a sheepish smile. “I feel like you’ve walked in on your assistant enough in the past few months…”

“Not the worst thing I’ve seen from the past few months either.” She deadpans, leaning in the doorway. Despite her tone, her eyes hold a fondness at the sight before her.

So now you have four…Four alphas who are more than willing to look after you and the three pups on the way.

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Seven: the emptiness has always been here

tw: alcohol, intoxication, sex talk, anxiety, angst, implied past non-con

“Are you sure you should be having another one?” 

The half-raised glass of the fruity drink you’ve ordered stops short of your lips at your co-worker’s question. You almost don’t hear her over the sharp chatter of the bar and the dull music blaring through a set of speakers shoved in some forgotten corner of the building. Cheryl stares at you with her question hanging heavy in her gaze as she glances back and forth between you and your glass while gnawing on her chapped lips. 

“Huh?” you question as you set your drink down on the table. 

“That’s almost your fourth one of the hour. You’re gonna get pissed before Méabh and I even get tipsy,” Cheryl tensely teases. 

“Oh,” you say. You look down at your drink and the liquid that swirls inside like a whirlpool before tilting your head. Have you already had that many? “Yeah, of course. Probably should hold off a bit.” 

The truth is, you’re already starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, and you have been for a while. Fruity drinks seem to be the bane of your existence with their saccharine flavor that lulls you into a false sense of security before dropping you into the depths of some drunken haze. Every time you look around at your surroundings, it’s as if your head keeps moving long after you’ve told it to stop. 

Neither of the women in front of you are very covert in their shared glances at one another. Their concern percolates from the pores in their skin where it drips onto the table in a sopping mess. 

“Cheryl invited you out because she’s worried about you,” Méabh suddenly blurts as her eyes land on you once more. “She thinks you’ve been more distracted than usual.” 

“Jesus Christ, Méabh. You can’t just blurt that shit out,” Cheryl chastises the girl as if she’s her own child. 

“Don’t look at me like that. We’ve been here for almost an hour and you haven’t even brought it up yet,” Méabh retorts. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got my tutoring job in the morning.” 

Really, you never would have expected something like this from Méabh. She’s always been a well mannered, reserved girl. Though she doesn’t sound angry or crass, she’s certainly assertive in airing out any sort of dirty laundry that might be lurking in the depths of this half formed conversation. 

“Distracted?” you repeat. The word feels heavy on your tongue, and your hand absentmindedly reaches out to grab your glass. “As in like… at work, or…?”

Cheryl turns her attention back to you where her gaze softens at the concern in your voice. “Well, not necessarily. It’s just that you’ve been acting like you’ve got something on your mind lately. I guess I’m just a little worried about you because everything with Eric seemed to happen so quickly, and now you’ve got yourself caught up with this other guy…”

Sweltering heat begins to rise in the apples of your cheeks and your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the embarrassment of Cheryl’s words, or the alcohol. Either way, you lift your glass off of the table and raise it to your lips for a quick sip as if your drink can alleviate the burn. 

“Oh. I guess you could say I’m a little distracted, but it's not because of Simon. I-I don’t think so, anyway,” you say, unsure. 

Both women hum and nod their heads in understanding, but their eyes still swim with unasked questions. The silence stretches between the three of you for so long you feel your fingers itch to down the remainder of your drink. 

“Well, how are things with you and Simon, then?” Méabh asks. Her soft smile illuminates the dingy corner of the bar you find yourself in, and it’s almost bright enough to melt the tension in your muscles. “I mean, you certainly seem happier with him than you ever did with Eric.”

Simon.

Simon Riley. 

Over the last few months that the two of you have been together, you’ve learned quite a lot about the man. He likes a warm cup of tea in the mornings, especially on cold or rainy days, though he often isn’t picky about the flavor. Every time you kiss the scar on his cheek, he shivers as goosebumps pucker along his keloid-dotted skin, and you like to trace them as if they’re constellations in the night sky. He hates Christmas, but whenever you try to ask him why, he just tells you that he thinks it’s too tacky. (This is a lie—you’re certain of it—but you’ve always refused to push him on it). If he has a family, he doesn’t talk about them, but he sometimes mentions small details about the members of the task force he’s a part of. 

Despite how reserved he can be at times, he’s absolutely charming, albeit a bit cocky in an endearing sort of way. He’s confident, and showers you with as much love and affection he can offer when he’s not on the other side of the world. On Valentine’s day, he sent you flowers at work (unsigned, of course, but you knew who they were from), and when you had gotten sick with the flu in the spring, he provided you with all the medicine you would need despite the fact you told him not to worry about it. 

He’s tall and looms over almost every other person you know, and he always seems to come back home with some sort of new wound from a mission. In a way, his height and stature should terrify you, yet he’s so soft with you. So sweet. 

He’s everything you could ever want, and maybe more than what you deserve. 

And yet, there’s still something that lurks in the back of your mind. There’s this plaguing, burning feeling that whispers to you day and night whenever your mind begins to wander. A seed of doubt was planted in you long ago by some foul, unkind hands. Someone had taken their trowel to cut you straight to the core where they shoved some terrible, decaying feeling deep inside of you before patting your flesh over the wound and leaving it to fester. Sometimes your throat grows so tight when you get near Simon, you think you might choke. 

But you aren’t about to spill all that to your co-workers. 

“They’re great. Yeah, things are good,” you answer while mustering a tight-lipped smile. 

“It’s the sex, isn’t it?”

Horrified, Méabh looks at Cheryl with wide eyes and mouth agape. “Bloody hell,” she breathes. “You yell at me for blurting out that we’re concerned about her like it’s some scandalous thing, but you casually ask her if she’s getting shagged?” 

“Well, I certainly worded it more tactfully than that,” Cheryl responds with a huff. 

If you weren’t sure where the heat in your face was coming from previously, you’re certain of it now. Once more, your hand grasps around your drink as you shake your head before downing a few large gulps. The sight of you—flustered and sweating—only makes Cheryl grin as she leans her elbows on the table. 

“But I’m right, aren’t I?” the woman pushes. “I’ve been on this earth long enough to know that sex can make or break a relationship. So, what is it? Are your needs not being met, or what? I wouldn’t be surprised if a man like him was all bark and no bite.” 

You avert your gaze and instead turn your attention to the table. It’s made of some overly shiny faux wood that has deep gashes in it from god knows what. The multicolored lights strung up around the ceiling reflect slightly off the dull plastic, but the hues begin to blend together in a shade that makes your stomach feel queasy. 

Maybe you really should have laid off the drinks. 

“We haven’t… we haven’t had sex,” you admit softly as you bite into the corner of your lip. 

“Oh,” Cheryl says, dumbfounded. “How long have the two of you been together again?” 

“A couple months? Maybe… four or five?” you throw out a guess, unable to think straight between the pressure of the conversation and the alcohol rotting in your stomach. 

The woman nods her head as she reaches up and shoves some of her greying hair behind her ear. “Well, that ought to be plenty of time. Are you just nervous?” 

“God, wouldn’t you be?” Méabh interjects with knitted brows. “You’ve seen the size of that guy. He’d probably break the bed and her goddamn hips with it.” 

Cheryl throws the girl a look of warning as your face falls into your hands. A groan emanates from your chest as you rub at your bleary eyes. “I don’t even wanna think about that,” you slur. 

Leaning across the table, Cheryl gives your shoulder a firm, motherly squeeze while offering you a sympathetic smile. “What’s the matter then, darling?” 

Your hands fall from your face and you stare at the table once more as you run through the countless thoughts bogging down your mind. It feels like it’s all you ever do these days—think. Think, and think, and think; and it is getting the better of you. Worms infest your brain, whispering terrible lies and sickening worries so much so that their thoughts have begun to replace your own. 

“I just, I dunno. After everything with Eric, I guess I’m maybe a little apprehensive?” you ramble. “Which is, like, stupid because they’re nothing alike. Like, I know Simon looks scary, and he’s in the military and he’s quiet but… fuck he’s…. He’s so good to me, you guys.” 

Eric was… less than perfect. The scar on the corner of your lip is a testament to that, but even before all that had started—back while you two were still in the honeymoon phase, before everything started going wrong—he had always put his needs above your own. There was no aftercare, or a gentle cooing of praise. Once he was finished, then so were you, and you were left behind to clean up the mess he made of you, and everything else. 

But Simon is different. He has to be different, because in reality, you’re terrified of getting that close with someone again. Of being used and tossed aside. So you panic as your mind rots and screams at you that if you don’t give in soon, mabe Simon will get bored of you, and you’ll end up all alone in this big city in your big apartment that you’re struggling to afford on a teller’s salary. 

Oh no—are those tears in the corners of your eyes? 

Once more, the rim of your glass comes up to your lips as you take another thick gulp to distract yourself before quickly blinking the moisture from your vision. Whatever horror that had been painted onto Méabh’s face has been replaced by the same worry that Cheryl wears. 

“Hey, it’s alright to be anxious,” Méabh assures you. “Eric was a right prick, you’ve got every right to be worried.” 

Cheryl nods in agreement. “But at the same time, don’t let that hold you back if it’s what you want. Keyword, what you want. Take all the time you need, but you can’t let that arse control you forever.” She takes a moment to pause and look you over, and she isn’t too shy about the smirk that appears on her lips. “Or, just dive headfirst into it. I think you’ve got enough liquid courage coursing through you for that.” 

It’s a joke—and a poor one at that—but you’re thankful for it nonetheless. You laugh a silly, unfiltered giggle as the two women beam at you. Whatever concern they had for you previously melts away as they change the spotlight of the conversation away from you and onto something else. 

Still, as they share stories of their own failed relationships—in an attempt to make you feel better, you’re assuming—nothing can quite smother the disquiet in your brain. Your anamneses haunt you in some insidious way. You can recall Eric’s hot breath against the back of your neck and how the duvet felt against the side of your cheek. Not even the alcohol can rid you of this terror. 

Eventually, the three of you stay so long that the bartender stares at you with eyes begging for you to let him go home, so you down the rest of your drink before shuffling through your bag for a bit of cash. Having gotten enough to cover your drinks and give him a fair tip, you rise from your seat, but the moment you stand it’s as if the floor has begun to move underneath you. Old carpet sways and slithers beneath your shoes, and your stomach twists. 

“Whoa,” Méabh warns as she gently pushes you back into your chair. “Take it easy. I’ll take the cash up for you.” 

Huffing, you oblige. It doesn’t take them long to pay for everything and return to retrieve their bags. “Do you need a ride?” Cheryl asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah, I walked here.” 

Both women freeze, and after sharing glances with one another, they cross their arms. “You’re taking the piss if you think we’re going to let you walk yourself home,” Cheryl chastises. “Now, you either come with one of us, or you call that boy of yours to come get you.” 

A small scoff escapes your lips as you rummage through your bag in search of your phone. “Boy…” you mutter. Pulling your device out, you scroll through your contacts until you find Simon. “Six foot four, and you’re calling him a boy.” 

Simon picks up on the third ring. Even after all these months, you can’t get over the sound of his voice—deep and gravelly enough to scratch that itch in the back of your mind. The poor audio quality of the call doesn’t do him full justice, but just hearing the lilt of his accent alone nearly has you falling out of your seat. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” 

You swallow hard. “Hey, erm… I went out with a few friends from work, and uh… I know it’s late, and I’m sorry, but-”

“Need a ride?” he interjects, cutting you off in the middle of your drunken ramble. Not in a rude way, but in a way that was more finishing your thought process, like he’s privy to your own mind. Or maybe he could just tell what you were working up to asking by the slur in your words. 

“Yes,” you say with a breathy laugh. “Yes please.” 

“I’ll be right there,” he assures.

Once you two say your goodbyes, you look up at your co-workers with a toothy grin before they leave you to go back to their own homes and families. The noise of the bar has waned as the bartender washes up and hums to himself, but your eyes can’t help but wander back to the empty glass in front of you.

Had that really been your fourth drink? Or, was it your fifth? You can’t remember, but all you know is that you drank it too quickly. A crushing backlog of all the liquor you had chugged is finally beginning to hit you with fuzzied thoughts and poor motor function. Your stomach begins to spin as fast as your head, and you find your lungs stuttering as you suck in a deep breath in an attempt to steady your frayed nerves. 

Or, just dive headfirst into it. I think you’ve got enough liquid courage coursing through you for that. 

“Fuck…” 

It takes Simon a little over ten minutes to arrive, and his eyes land on you the moment he walks through the door. They widen slightly when he watches you stand from your seat and stumble to him as if the ground shifts beneath your feet with each pace. He makes no mention of your inebriation as he helps you into the car. You settle into the seat and chatter away like a mourning dove for the entire drive back to your apartment, and though you’re not sure if he even responds to half of the things you say, you find that your heart doesn’t lurch quite as bad as it did before. 

Things aren’t much different by the time you arrive home. Stairs prove to be a challenge for you, and you find your breath being stolen away as Simon rests his hand on your lower back to keep you steady. He trots a few steps behind you, watching you carefully in case you should fall. By the time you make it to the landing, he has to be the one to put the keys in the lock for you as your fingers can’t quite articulate the direction they need, and you keep scraping alongside the deadbolt. 

The very moment the door swings open, you toss your bag in some forgotten corner on the floor before making a beeline to the couch. If you stay on your feet any longer, you’re certain you’ll fall over, and you’re not trying to embarrass yourself that much in front of Simon. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you sigh as your body attempts to sink into your rocky sofa. “Sorry it’s so late.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Simon assures as he locks the door. “I don’t want you to ever hesitate to call me if you need me.” 

A soft hum rumbles in your chest as you watch Simon walk into the living room as he adjusts the straps on his mask. The sight of him alone sends your mind spinning worse than the liquor tainting your blood. His mussed hair looks like raggy ocean waves that you want to dive right into and drown in. Those broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his shirt have you wishing he would engulf you in a simple squeeze, and that smoky tattoo peeking out from underneath the sleeve of his jumper has your mouth watering. 

Simon doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of you, towering over you like some gargantuan beast, but his height is suddenly halved when he kneels in front of you. He eyes your feet with a sigh. 

“Gonna muck up the floors,” he mutters. 

You watch him with curious eyes as he reaches for your foot and hoists it up, placing it on his knee. Thick fingers work at your laces where he tugs on the double knots with ease until he’s able to slide your foot out of the shoe. He sets the disembodied item aside before gently lowering your foot back to the ground, and your heart pounds so violently in your chest at his softness that you swear you feel it palpitate. 

“It’s fine. I can always mop up later,” you say as you wiggle your toes. 

He smirks. “I doubt you’re going to want to do much of anythin’ later.” 

Once he starts on your other shoe, you find yourself enamored with his face—or, what you’re able to make of it through his mask, anyway. With it nearing summer, he isn’t wearing the balaclava as much and has instead opted for that same surgical style cloth mask he always wears to the bank. You like this one more because it shows his hair. 

But what you really want to see is his face. All of it. The slight stubble on his chin, the cheeks that you love to pepper with kisses and caress with your thumbs…

Before you’re able to make sense of it, you find your finger hooking underneath the fabric of his mask. Simon pauses only for a moment before he continues as if nothing happened, and he slides your shoe off with ease. When your feet are finally free, he looks up at you with shining eyes as you continue to tug on his mask. 

Reading your mind isn’t difficult—not when you’re all but begging for him with your hands—and in one swift motion, Simon pulls his mask off before setting it on the arm of the couch next to you. A grin cracks over the features of your face as your hand instantly makes its home against the flesh of his cheek. Your thumb could trace the scar on his skin for the rest of eternity. 

“You’re so handsome,” you coo. 

He doesn’t break eye contact with you as his hands slowly retrieve your shoes before he stands to his feet. “I know.” 

You scoff as he shoots you a playful smirk before walking towards the entryway where he dumps your shoes next to his boots. You watch him carefully—taking in how small your shoes look in his hands, how the fabric of his sweater stretches against his back as he leans forward, the way his hands rub at the back of his neck as he vanishes into the kitchen. 

“You’re awfully modest, you know that?” you call out, tone dripping in sarcasm. 

Simon huffs, but it’s quickly smothered by the sound of running water. “Haven’t been called that in a while,” he muses. Moments later, he returns back to your side with a cup of water in hand. “Drink.” 

Cool liquid washes over your tongue as you sip away at your drink, but you find yourself pausing when Simon lowers himself onto the sofa next to you. It’s the usual thing the two of you do whenever you’re craving a night in. Slight cuddling on the sofa, popping in something to watch on the TV while trying not to fall asleep—but this time, you can’t look away from him. 

His arm stretches along the back of the couch like a sprawling cat where his hand rests right behind your head. The thin fabric of his shirt stretches over the expanse of his chest, and you can trace the curves all the way down to the softness of his stomach. You wet your lips with your tongue as he adjusts his hips, rolling them along the cushion as he sinks further into the couch. 

“See something you like?” he asks, head tilting to the side as he goads. 

Why do you feel so… queasy? That twisting in your stomach and the spinning in your head has returned to play with you again, and not even several rapid fire blinks can force them away. Is it the alcohol? No, it’s never made your heart lurch like this—it’s never made it beat so fast that it feels like it’s going to rip itself to shreds. 

Is it Simon? 

Just dive headfirst into it. 

You take your eyes off Simon long enough to set your cup on the side table, and then you’re swinging one of your legs over him to straddle his hips. He looks up at you with his lips parted in surprise as he watches you settle yourself onto his lap. Cautious hands rise to rest on your waist, helping to steady your swaying body as you rest your grip on his shoulders. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he warns, voice low as his eyes scan your face. 

Something in his eyes softens as he looks at you. Whatever playfulness or cockiness that had been there before melts away as his grip on you becomes more firm. His eyes are beautiful. Sometimes, when the sunlight hits them just right, the dark brown color brightens to that of sweet honey, but you find that you also like it when the color of his eyes are dark. Nothing but caliginous voids that invite you in, beckoning you closer so that they can swallow you whole. 

But everything starts to fall apart when you make sense of the fluttering in your chest. Panic manifests as an incessant trembling in your legs and a painful pressure building behind your eyes. Everything is too fuzzy. Too bright. Too soft. Too loud. Deafening. It’s too much. Too everything. It’s everything all at once. 

Except for Simon. He’s beautiful. So beautiful. So soft. So careful. 

Oh, how you want to fall into him. To fall, and fall, and let his arms catch you. To hold you. To pin you. (Pin you, and pin you, and pin you). How you want to feel his teeth graze against you and take. (And take and take and take and take and take). Fingers squeezing, bones fracturing—would it… hurt? 

Do you want it to hurt? 

Don’t you want it to hurt? 

Didn’t you like it when he hurt you? When you were with him? Him. Eric. 

Face first into the mattress, palm of his hand pushing you down (and pinning you, pin you, pin you, pinning you). He was always so greedy (and greedy and greedy and greedy and mean). Duvet suffocating you, pules muffled, tears soaked up so fast it was as if they never existed (but he likes when you cry, and cry, and cry, and beg). Didn’t you moan as if that’s what you wanted—what you enjoyed? 

You can’t let that arse control you forever. 

In a last ditch attempt to get your nerves under control, you grip the collar of Simon’s shirt with both of your hands before descending on him with your eyes shut tight. Flesh collides with your lips, but it feels empty. It’s algid, and biting. It’s not like the kisses Simon usually gives you. 

It’s wrong. 

When you work up the courage to open your eyes, you find that you haven’t even made it halfway to Simon’s lips because of the hand on your mouth. It presses firmly against you, holding you away from him as if you’re some animal to be contained. He’s created a barrier. A line—one he won’t let you cross. 

“You’re drunk,” he says, shaking his head. 

This is his answer. This is him saying no. 

His hand lingers on your mouth for a moment and he refuses to pull it away until you nod. A part of you feels ashamed. No, all of you feels ashamed. Everything from the strands of your hair to the marrow of your bone is riddled with contrition as if it’s a major compound of your molecular makeup. What were you thinking? Had you even been thinking at all? Is he going to see you as some idiot—some daft girl who doesn’t know any better?

You fucking minx. 

“Sorry,” you stutter out. “I, erm… I don’t know what I was… I didn’t mean to…” 

Simon shushes you as moisture begins to plague your face. His hands reach up to cup your cheeks where he wipes at your tears with his thumbs. “C’mere,” he urges, pulling you closer. 

Before you know it, you’re laying against his chest as his hand holds the back of your head, keeping you firmly tucked underneath his chin. While his thumb rubs soothing circles into the nape of your neck, his other arm stays wrapped firmly around your waist, making you feel secure against him despite the fact that everything feels as if it’s rotating into a black hole and trying to drag you along with it. 

You don’t want to cry, but you do. It spews out of you without any concern for you or Simon’s shirt. He doesn’t say anything, and you’re glad he keeps the silence unbroken. You don’t need to be questioned, or talked through anything—all you need is the firm reminder that you’re here with him. 

Once your sniffling and hiccuping stops, Simon’s hands slowly begin to move down your body. His fingertips run along your spine in smooth, solid motions, and you feel your body begin to go limp in his arms. The weight of alcohol begins to shut down your nerves in a rolling blackout, and eventually everything is obtund. 

Never have you felt so empty before. Never have you been aware of the gaping absence in your chest like you are now. 

No, the emptiness has always been here, looming somewhere in the dark chasm of your chest. You’ve just filled it with so much junk—so much nonsense—that you were able to forget about the lugubrious hole left where your stomach is supposed to be. But Simon has reached inside of you and ripped that unnecessary effluvium from your ribcage and is now staring right at that vacancy inside of you. 

For some reason, he doesn’t seem scared. 

Why isn’t he scared? 

The two of you stay like this for longer than you can count. Your knees begin to ache as you continue to straddle his wide hips, and your face feels raw as your cheek stays pressed against Simon’s damp shirt, but you ignore the discomfort. Eventually, the movement of his hands stops and he just holds you. There’s nothing but you, him, and the beating of his heart. 

Of course, there is still the festering wound in your chest that eats you alive from the inside out, but for a moment—a short, fleeting moment—you pretend that it isn’t here.

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[hellvst]

OFFSEASON – quinn hughes

featuring ; quinn hughes x fmc (sydney gray)

✮⋆˙ warning & content ; swearing

✮⋆˙ word count ; 4.7k

✮⋆˙ previous chapter – series masterlist – next chapter

a/n ; quinn is playing + canucks won yesterday against la? we are soo back! i kinda forgot to give simon a face claim...oops! but, i did have an idea or picture him to look similar to kevin fiala or roman josi, i just can't find a face claim for him. it's up to your imagination as well! happy reading <3

CHAPTER TWO

SYDNEY

My alarm went off multiple times within the past fifteen minutes, and kept hitting the snooze button each time it did. So much for wanting to wake up early this morning.

I fluttered my eyes open, adjusting to the natural light through the window.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the dull ache in my right leg. It wasn’t a sharp pain–more like a persistent stiffness, reminding me that no matter how much progress I made, and lots of physiotherapy sessions, I wouldn’t always feel one hundred percent.

There was no point in dwelling on it. I had a busy day ahead, and self-pity wasn’t on the agenda. Not today.

I ungracefully got out of bed–did some stretches, single-leg squats, and hopped on one foot.

Nothing some movement wouldn’t fix.

The discomfort usually disappeared once I got my body moving. Truly odd, but if it got me through the day, I was not going to complain.

I moved through my morning routine with muscle memory. A quick shower, skin care, matching black compression set, an oversized hoodie thrown on without much thought, and tied my hair into a ponytail.

By the time I made it to the kitchen, the coffee machine was already doing its magic. As I waited, I flipped the TV on in the living room out of habit as I did every morning. 

The post-game analysis was still running from last night’s Canucks-Oilers’ game. I wasn’t surprised that this was the first thing that popped up on the screen, considering it’s been a while since my hometown, Vancouver, had made a playoff appearance. It was a huge deal for the city.

I caught a whiff of the last few minutes after getting home late from the studio–just in time to witness the whole debacle unfold. 

My brother, Simon, and his teammate.

The miscommunication. The puck hitting the post. The loss.

A blown play that cost them a ticket to conference finals. 

Now, every analyst, reporter, or fan was commenting and dissecting it.

“This was a complete breakdown,” one of the reporters began. “Simon Gray and Quinn Hughes were on totally different pages the entire game. You can’t have your best forward and your top defensemen out of sync in the most important moments–”

I turned the TV off and took a sip of my coffee, already knowing how that played out. My stomach was tightening at the sight of Simon after the buzzer went off.

Before the game, I sent him a short and simple ‘good luck!’, and haven’t heard from him since. Fair enough, given the outcome of the game.

Simon was going to be miserable for days, maybe weeks, more likely the entire summer. My brother was going to be impossible to deal with after that. And if history has taught itself, he was going to blame others for his mistakes. He always did.

I looked at the time, almost choking on my coffee, “Shit.”

I was running late for my first private session of the day, and Phoebe–one of my regular clients–was going to get there before me. Again.

If someone had asked me years ago what I saw myself doing, being a Pilates instructor wouldn’t even make the list. But life has a way of throwing you in places you’d never expect.

It started after the incident, I don’t talk about it much–there was nothing left to say. It happened. It definitely changed things. And for a very long time, I felt lost in my own body, like going through motions without purpose.

Doctors and my physiotherapist gave me exercises, stretches, and a never-ending list of things to “try”. Nothing clicked. Nothing felt right.

Until, I stepped into my first Pilates class. I remembered feeling a bit skeptical at first, convinced it was another trendy workout–the one all the girls tried out. It was the first time in a long time I felt connected to myself again. 

I kept going. I got better. And then I got really good. Good enough that one day, the owner of the studio I’d been training at, pulled me aside and asked if I ever thought about teaching. 

I laughed at the time, but the idea lingered that it stuck. And here I was: an instructor at Lumé Wellness–the top studio branch in Vancouver–fully booked for the summer, doing what I love.

The studio wasn’t that far from my apartment, twenty minutes tops without traffic which most days I was thankful for.

By the time I made it to the studio, sure enough, Phoebe was already inside one of the private rooms, stretching on the mat.

She raised an eyebrow at me as I put my bag down. “Would it kill you to be on time for once?” Phoebe teased, pulling her dark curls into a bun.

I rolled my eyes and started stretching beside her. “It’s five minutes.”

She shrugged and wiggled her brows, “Five minutes that I spent wondering if you were late because a guy kept you up last night.”

“Oh my God,” I groaned with a smile. “Don’t start this again, Phoebe.”

All she did was grin, absolutely delighted at the sight of my suffering. Phoebe was in her late forties, a social butterfly with too much energy for the morning slot, and too much curiosity for her own good. 

Plus the fact she was newly single and thriving in the chaos of her impending divorce, loved to poke at my non-existing dating life. She was a sucker for drama, and if my love life–or lack thereof–could provide her entertainment, she’d without a doubt take it.

“Oh come on, humor me, Syd. There has to be someone,” she said, settling onto the reformer. “You’re giving off the ‘I’m seeing someone new’ glow.”

I scoffed at her. “That ‘glow’ you’re referring to is just the new overhead lighting.”

She snorted then sighed dramatically as I adjusted her stance, “You know, you should really make time for some fun.”

“I have fun.” I argued.

“Pilates and binge-watching The Office at home doesn’t count.”

She got me there.

We continued on with our session. Usually with Phoebe, time flies so fast when all she did was rant about her life–pestering me about mine–but she eventually let it go once we began the harder exercises.

I barely got a moment to breathe before moving on to my bigger group session. To my luck, this group was breeze to get through as they followed my exercises on the reformer with ease. Not to mention, the music blasting through the speakers in the studio allowed them to get into that rhythm which was helpful as well.

Just when the last song ended, the group of ladies’ chests heaved, the room was filled with breaths of exhaustion, and a few went straight for their water bottles.

“Alright, ladies! Great work today! Hope to see you in our next class.”

They all left one by one, saying ‘bye’ on their way out, until I was the only one left.

Two or three classes to teach in the mornings usually had me working around lunch.

And by then, I was starving. 

My routine was pretty much the same, there was not a lot to do with an hour break. But, most days consisted of grabbing a quick meal at the nearest bistro or cafe with my closest friend. As I was about to pick up my things off the floor, my phone in my pocket buzzed.

Speak of the devil herself.

“Hey, Diane,” I answered, tucking my phone in between my ear and shoulder as I packed.

“Are we still on for lunch? I’m already at the café.”

I heard the faint lively sounds of the city of Vancouver in the background. “Yeah, I’m about to leave the studio and make my way–”

“Sydney?”

Right as I was trying to make a beeline to the doors, I turned to see Grace–the owner of the studio–peeking out her office door. My stomach dropped.

“One sec, Di.” I lowered my phone, ending the call. “Everything alright, Grace?”

“Can you step into my office for a minute?”

Fuck. This cannot be good. 

I followed her inside. It was a rare sight to see any of the studio employees in Grace’s office, she usually came to talk to me after my classes, never the other way around.

She never gave off vibes that ever intimidated me. I have never seen her upset with anyone, unless they truly pushed her buttons. The word ‘nervous’ wasn’t enough to express how I was feeling right then and there.

“Have a seat,” she gestured to the empty chair across from her. I gave her a smile, but beneath that was a wave of anxiety washing over me.

I tried to figure out what I might have done wrong. Did someone complain? Did I mix up the schedules or bookings? Did Phoebe finally rat me out for showing up late most of the time? The idea of me getting fired was not on my list of things today.

Grace sat behind her desk, clasping her hands together. “I have some news for you.”

Oh God. This is it. I was getting fired.

“I know your lunch break just started, so I’ll just get straight to it.” Grace had always been forward when she spoke. “There’s an opportunity with the Vancouver Canucks. Their management reached out about a summer cross-training program. They wanted us to coordinate it.”

I blinked at her, “And…?”

“And I told them you’d do it.”

As if my eyes couldn’t get any wider than it was. I stared at her in complete and utter disbelief, waiting for some sort of punchline. “You’re joking.”

Grace smiled, “Nope.”

I would have never imagined she’d say those words. This might be worse than getting fired.

There had been a few occasions when I had worked with soccer clubs, and a few college football players for cross-training. But, I had never done a session with the professional leagues such as the NHL. This was way different.

“Grace, I’m flattered but–” I thought about my words carefully, “I have a full schedule this summer and–”

“I am aware of your busy schedule,” she said, waving a hand. “I already adjusted your schedule accordingly to accommodate for this.”

Of course she did..

I opened my mouth, then closed it. This conversation was already headed towards the direction I dreaded. “There are other instructors here that I think are more qualified–who have worked in this studio for much longer that are more deserving for this job.”

Grace raised a brow at me, “Do you think I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you were more than qualified?”

Shit. I had that coming. I basically dug that hole myself. 

I stayed silent for my own good, Grace knew she was right and she sighed. 

“They want you,” she said simply.

“What? Why?”

I answered a bit too quickly, unknowingly raising my voice an octave or two. I shift in my chair, clearing my throat having just panicked in front of my boss.

“Well, given that you have a good background on hockey, I thought you were perfect for the position. Not to mention that their head coach, Rick Tocchet, had also referred to you. And if it helps, it’s not the entire team you will train with. Just two of their players.” Her lips twitched as she leaned in her seat. “One of them being your brother.”

My stomach twisted. I should have seen this from a mile away. Why didn’t I make that connection instantly right when she said ‘Vancouver Canucks’?

After all, my older brother Simon was one of the top forwards for the team.

Although, he may be my family and I would do anything for him–I wouldn’t train him or anyone on his team for that matter. Hockey was Simon’s thing, and I had my own so we stayed out of each other’s lane. And we like to keep it that way.

Plus, I wasn’t all that into men that played hockey. They weren’t my go-to type. But, I would be lying to myself if I didn't think there were some head-turners, but nothing too crazy of the sort. I have never dated a hockey guy.

I blinked, tapping out of my short trance. My brain was processing the fact that I was going to spend all summer with my brother and his teammate. 

Which led me to another question for Grace. 

“So, if I’m training my brother–” I said, dragging out the last word. “–who is the other?”

She took a moment before she replied, “Quinn Hughes.”

That brought me to a full stop. What?

My eyes were nothing but bloodshot, “Quinn Hughes?” There was absolutely no hiding my distraught expression, even if I tried my hardest to contain it. “That’s asking for the impossible, Grace. It would take a miracle for those two to work together.”

Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover what I was feeling.

Simon hated Quinn Hughes. I have spent the last few years listening to him ranting about how Quinn came in a year after he was drafted and ‘ruined’ everything–climbing the ranks, breaking franchise records as a defensemen, and taking the spotlight. 

I never truly understood the obsession. Simon had never acted this way growing up, especially towards another teammate. Now, he’s spent years resenting Quinn, blaming him for everything that has gone wrong in his career. I have asked multiple times specifically why he hated him so much, all I got was some half-assed answer.

And I’ve never met the guy, but from what I’ve seen, he seems alright.

“Your job is to make sure they don’t kill each other,” Grace continued. “I told Rick Tocchet you’d do it. And of course, you will be paid. More importantly, the Canucks’ are willing to invest in our studio. We’re growing and this would help fund more studios to expand, Sydney.”

Wow. It would be a great deal for Lumé Wellness now that I think about it. After adding the brand new Pilates reformers and more intensive sessions, our class attendances shot through the roof. The space in our studio was limited and we were growing in numbers as waitlists were piling up. 

What kind of Pilates instructor would I be if I didn’t want that for the studio?

I exhaled a sigh, “What about the media? They will be a problem–”

“We will handle it,” Grace cut me off. “After what happened last night, there’s no doubt that the press will track two of their star players’ moves throughout the summer. That’s why Rick, the Canuck’s team, and I will ensure that we will keep the training sessions on the down-low to prevent the media from talking.” 

That reassured me to an extent, but I was still skeptical. This was a bad idea.

It was easy to figure out why this arrangement was set in the first place. Those two, especially my brother, needed to stop acting like children and start acting like grown adults. Play like real professional hockey players. 

After the loss last night, it was only a matter of time when their team did something about it. I was surprised that it took them long enough. A few years ago, I wondered why they hadn't forced them to be stranded on an island together. Maybe surviving off an island together surely would have allowed them to work together at least.

The look in Grace’s eyes were telling me that there was no way out of this. Even if I came up with more excuses or tried to find a replacement, her (and apparently Rick Tocchet) mind was already made up.

I leaned back in my chair, my head was spinning in constant circles. “Is there any way for me to get out of this?”

“No.”

Damn. A complete shut down.

“Of course not,” I mumbled.

She gave me a knowing look, “Everything will be fine, that I can assure you, Sydney. Sessions will begin in two weeks.”

And just like that, my fate was sealed. Great.

I nodded my head as Grace dismissed me out of her office, gave her a small wave. I stepped out of the studio, took a deep breath trying to process what just happened in the last few minutes. I still couldn’t believe it.

My phone went off. Four missed calls and numerous text messages from Diane.

I called her back, and the second she picked up, she was already yelling. “Where the hell are you?”

A dull throb in my temple ached. “I got held up, I’ll be there in ten.”

“What happened?”

I sighed and began walking down the sidewalk. “You’re never going to believe me if I told you.”

The café was already packed by the time I got there, the low hum of conversation blending with the clinking of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine.

I spotted Diane almost immediately, she sat by the window, with a half-eaten bagel and small bits of crumbs on the table. She glanced up just as I approached her and instantly raised a brow.

“You’re late,” she said, pointing at me with her bagel in hand. “Again.”

“Sorry, I got held up.” I told her as I dropped into the chair across from her.

She playfully scoffed and held up her now empty cup, “Enough that I already finished one latte.” She smirked before setting it down. “Alright, spill. What was so important that you hung up on me and left me hanging here?”

“Grace.”

Diane’s eyes widened at that. She knew how rare it was for me–or anyone in the studio– to get caught up in Grace’s hair to get sent to her office. There were only good things I have told Diane about my boss over the years. Like the time she gave all the studio employees a gift certificate to the infamous spa in the north side of the city. It was generous of her, but it was quite expensive.

I took a deep breath before explaining to my friend of my new summer plans. Having to say it all out loud made me realize how real this was. It was going to happen and I wasn’t just dreaming in that office.

“Wait. I’m sorry, what?” Diane nearly choked on her coffee.

“Yep,” I popped the ‘p’, and nodded at her. “You heard me.”

For a split second, there was silence. 

Her face lit up accompanied with a squeal. Oh no. Here we go.

Diane’s expression was something between shock and excitement, “Syd, are you serious? That’s freaking nuts!” Unaware of her volume, she earned the glances of other customers in the café. We were both quick to give them apologetic nods. She leaned closer across the table, her voice quieter this time, “That’s huge, Syd!”

I scoffed, “I wouldn’t call it that.”

Diane grinned, “Are you kidding? You get to train professional athletes. NHL players. Do you know how many people would kill for that opportunity?”

She was right. It’s not everyday that you get to work with athletes in the big leagues. Anyone in the studio could have easily taken this job and taken the news a lot more lightly and professionally than I did. But no, oddly enough I didn’t have any other choice or say in the decision.

I shook my head at her, slumping into my seat. “It’s not that simple.”

Diane tilted her head as if I grew another pair of eyes, “What’s not simple about that? You get to train with your brother and I don’t think that’s all too difficult, right? Shouldn’t it be easier since he is your brother?”

As much as I loved my brother, we liked keeping our lives separate from each other. He had his career, and I had mine. Not saying that I wasn’t proud of him or embarrassed that my brother was one of the hockey stars in the league. I was very proud that he achieved his dreams, why wouldn’t I be? I just liked supporting him from the sidelines. 

“Me and Simon are close but–” I paused, tracing the rim of my coffee cup with my finger. “We don’t mix our careers or get involved in each other’s business. Now, I’m being thrown right into it and it just…complicates things.”

Diane watched me carefully, “Is that really a bad thing?”

I hesitated before answering her. “I’ve never really been a part of his hockey world, this was totally unexpected. Hell, I don’t even know if he knows about it. He hasn’t texted me since yesterday before the game.” 

“Okay, so you’re only training your brother. Big deal. It’s not like you’re training with the whole team.” She waved a hand, acting like that was the only issue I was dealing with.

I shot her a look, I accidentally left out a big piece of information while explaining to her.

“And Quinn Hughes,” I added flatly.

Diane’s jaw dropped to the floor, “Wait–Quinn Hughes? As in, the captain of the team and the best defensemen in the league ‘Quinn Hughes’?”

As far as hockey goes for Diane, she had no interest in the sport, unless there was eye-candy on the team. When it came down to the NHL, the only names she was familiar with were the ‘good-looking’ guys, my brother, and Quinn Hughes. 

I nodded, then took a quick sip of my coffee, “Apparently, my job is to make sure they don’t kill each other during the summer.”

“Wow. That’s definitely…something.”

“Exactly.” I crossed my arms. “I barely know Quinn. But, Simon? He’s been going off about the guy for years. And now I’m supposed to train them. Together? That’s a shitshow waiting to happen.”

Diane shrugged her shoulders, looking at me thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s an opportunity.”

My brow raised at that, “To do what? Watch my brother have a meltdown? Yeah, no thanks.” 

“But–”

I groaned, “Diane.”

She was teasing, and she never fails to get away with it. “I’m just saying, maybe this isn’t the worst thing. You’ll be challenged. You’ll make new connections. And–” She paused. “Who knows, this might just be the most interesting thing going for you right now since the accident–nevermind, sorry.”

Ouch. That stung.

But, Diane was right. As much as I’d like to think that my life was perfect and everything was going the right places, deep down, I knew it wasn’t. Ever since I got hurt and went through months of recovering, the course of direction my life was heading towards took a hard turn.

Now, I have ended up here. But, I wasn’t not grateful as things could have been worse, very worse. Over the years, I had to learn how to go with the flow and accept it.

I knew she didn’t mean to say that with bad intentions. Diane always wanted what was best for me, and I was glad that she felt that way since I would do the same with her. She was my longest friend for as long as I could remember.

She gave me an apologetic smile, “If anything, maybe your brother can introduce you to his teammates or–”

I playfully shook my head, then stood up with my empty cup in my hands. “I’m getting more coffee.”

She laughed, “Fine. But, I am not done talking about this.”

I gave her a look over my shoulder before heading over to the front counter. The café was even busier now, and I had to squeeze past a few people waiting for their orders. I handed my cup to the barista, tapping my fingers against the counter as I waited.

Diane’s words lingered in my head. Maybe this was a big opportunity, Maybe I was overreacting. But there was still that anxious feeling in my stomach, my subconscious telling me that I was not ready for this.

The barista handed me the the refilled cup, and I turned back towards our table–

Only to be met with a sudden, solid force.

The next thing I knew, the warmth of hot coffee spilled down the front of my hoodie. I sucked in a sharp breath as the heat seared against my skin right through the fabric. “Fuck!”

The impact rattled me, as I staggered back, barely managing to keep hold of the cup and maintaining my balance. I looked down at the damage, dark brown stains spread across the pale gray fabric.

I clenched my jaw. Just perfect. 

“Shit, I–”

I glanced up, ready to give whoever it was a piece of my fucking mind and–

I froze. No, it can’t be.

Quinn fucking Hughes.

Stood right in front of me, low and behold, looked just as surprised as I did.

Up close, he was taller than I expected–maybe I was just short– lean but solid, his broad shoulders filling out his fitted black hoodie effortlessly. His dark hair was slightly tousled under his hat; damp at the ends like he’d just finished practice or a workout, and completely blended with the crowd of people as if he wasn’t one of the biggest NHL players in the league.

I blinked, my brain lagging for a second. I’ve seen him on TV, many times before, in clips that Simon had angrily sent me after a few bad games, but seeing him up close was different. Very different.

He had his own unique attractiveness, I won’t lie. He had the light scruffy stubble around his jaw–sharp jawline, and piercing greenish blue eyes that made him look intense, but there was a softness in the way that he blinked at me, momentarily thrown off.

What was he doing here of all places?

He didn’t seem to realize that I wasn’t saying anything and ran a hand through his hair, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I, uh–” He hesitated, looking vaguely horrified at the sight of my hoodie. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t paying attention.”

I exhaled through my nose, forcing myself to calm down despite the feeling of coffee soaking into my hoodie. “Yeah, no kidding.”

 He pulled a handful of napkins from the counter and offered them to me, “Here.”

“Thanks.” I took them from his grasp and attempted to clean the stain, knowing it wouldn’t do much but tried anyway. 

“I can buy you another one,” Quinn offered, nodding towards the counter. “Or, at least a new hoodie?

I shook my head, frustrated that the napkins were making my hoodie worse. “I don’t need anything from an NHL player, alright–”

Oh shit. My eyes widened as soon as the words slipped from my mouth. 

That caught him off guard, and so had I.

Quinn’s expression lit up and brows furrowed instantly at that, curiosity flashing in his eyes. “So, you know who I am?”

“Yes, I do.” I said in a tone indicating that it wasn’t a good thing. 

He studied me for a moment. Probably thinking that I was a hockey fan or whatnot.

“Can I at least get your name or number?” He paused, scrambling to rephrase what his intentions were behind that question. “To replace your hoodie or pay for dry cleaning, anything to fix what I caused.”

He sounded pretty genuine and his intentions were nothing but pure, hopefully.

I gave him a look, “I’m not making you buy me a hoodie. I can take care of this–” I looked down at the mess. “–myself. So, I think I’ll respectfully pass up on that offer of yours.”

As I was about to turn my back on him, his fingers found the material of my sleeve, and swiftly pulled me back. “Hey look, I’d feel really bad if I left here without making it up to you.”

“Oh, really?” 

He only nodded, which amused me.

“I think I can survive without your help, but thanks.”

Quinn’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but thought the better of it before I turned around.

I felt his eyes linger on me as soon as I made my way back to Diane. She watched the whole thing and she looked like she was about to lose her damn mind once I sat down.

I glanced over my shoulder back to where Quinn stood. I was so lost in that interaction that I hadn’t noticed two other of his Canuck buddies were standing behind him. I watched them laughing–most likely teasing him–about what they witnessed. Great, that was just great.

“What the actual fuck just happened, Syd?” 

I wish I knew.

all rights reserved © 2025 hellvst. please do not copy, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[simonsrileyhusband]

Would you be willing to write angst?

Like MReader who is with Ghost in the military but not in the same unit? Taskforce?

So they don't see each other a lot and have to worry about one another on every mission the other is on. Then MR got hurt and Simon doesn't find out until he's back too?

Hope you have a wonderful day💝 Sorry if it's a bit scrambled, a lot of noise around me right now

(im not the best at writting angs, but i tried. also dont apologize! <3)

simon looked at the floor of the compacted van, to his right gaz was asleep, snooring and drooling all over himself. he tries to keep his mind busy, but its hard now that he isnt running from bullets and shooting at enemies.

now his mind can only wander to one thing, one person. usually you two dont go on missions at the same time, but that week was different. simom had to leave a day after you went into the field, he couldnt wait home, he couldnt be st base monitoring the mission, no. he was in the middle of nowhere without a clue on how are you.

and he cant stop himself from thinking the worse, he tries to breath. he remembers the way you would touch his chest and ask him to take deep breaths with you. the van stops, everyone gets down, he rushes to your barrack, empty.

he walks to search for your coronel, your captain, your medics, someone of your unit, anyone who can tell him where you are.

"mate... you dont know? he is on the medic wing..." one of the sargents of your unit mumbles nervously, simon feels like he was shot, no, worse, he has been shot a lot of times, this felt a thousand times worse.

his mind was lost, images of you in pain flashing before his eyes, were you awake? how bad was it? were you shoot? who did it? are they dead? were you alone? is it a cut? did you fall? and then he is in your room, three nurses trying to hold him back.

"what happened?" he whispers, walking to you, who laid on the bed a weak smile on yout face.

"hi handsome..."

simon sighs, walking besides your bed and kneeling om the floor, taking your hand in both of his, kissing your knuckles.

"wha-... are you okay?"

"im fine... im okay" he nods, closing his eyes as you grab his face genlty, rubbing his cheek. "im here, see?" he nod, nuzzling into your palm.

"i know, i just-... i panicked" he opens his eyes, looking at your eyes.

"i have been worse... bastard shot me on the thigh, lucky me he had bad aim and it didnt hit properly." you speak softly, simon hums.

"si... ill be fine"

"i know... i just..." he sighs "i cant do it without you"

[mar3ggiata]

the night of the tarantula - 6

simon riley x oc

'do not put an innocent or honest person to death, for I will not acquit the guilty'

Like her encounter with Ghost gave ger new strength, Eva was back to the interrogation room the following evening, and she looked like a fucking tidal wave. It never failed to amaze him, how good looking she was, how her makeup, her earrings, the wave of her hair, it made her look like a painting, like she was made of glass, like she was an actress.

He had some work to attend to, he wasn’t put in charge of surveillance when she came back to base to work. She had 3 patients that day. He knew cause he looked at her schedule, he knew everything. It was an obsession at this point, knowing. And filling the gaps, she must have skipped lunch that day cause she had an hour at home after ballet, after he saw her, she must have showered and changed and he didn’t know if she had time to eat. And it made him think. In normal settings, he might have wanted to bring her tea or something. If he knew she was starving at work. His mind wondered to what might have been. If they, you know…

Anyways that was gone now. Where was I?

Ah, yes. Eva.

She wore a blouse and a black suit that looked fancier than any suit Ghost had ever owned. She had make up on, she had black under her eyes, like a cat-lookin eyeliner look. Her cheekbones were defined, a pink rosy blush on her cheeks. Unreal, incredibly beautiful, she looked fierce, mad and cruel, like when he first met her. She looked like Jude.

Salvo wasn't there that day, thank God. It was just him and Price. He had a conversation with his captain before the interrogation.

'You know, you can go back to work for now, I can have someone else overseeing the interview…' he had told him. He felt offended, like the captain didn't want him to be present. He felt offended he wanted to choose someone else. He was in on the plan, he knew the details of what they were gonna offer her. And, let's be honest, no one knew Eva like he did. Not even the captain, for Christ's sake, not even Price knew Eva like Ghost, come on…

'I don't mind', he had replied.

The captain still didn't budge. 'I mean it, there is no requirement for you to -'

'I know.' He cut him off.

Price finally raised his eyes from the papers he was signing, looking at him through his eyebrows. He knew. They have had this talk before and it wasn't something that happened ofter between them.

'Listen Simon, I trust your judgement. I don't want to know where and when you talked to her, but we have a job to do…' he tried to interrupt, but he kept going. 'No, no don't worry, I don't want to know about your personal life, to be honest it would be nice to see you settle down and she really is a nice girl…'

He felt the air heavy around them, embarrassment settling in in his stomach. Giving this kind of information out wasn't easy. Admitting it, wasn't easy.

'What's going on?' Asked the captain. As if he didn't already know.

'What, sir?'

'I'm sorry, let me rephrase that, has something been going on?'

He bit his tongue before he could say no. He didn't like to lie to Price. And something had definitely been going on. His silence was an answer for the captain. He had eyes. He was a wise man, he knew already. Simon was good at hiding, was a discreet man. It was one of his most honourable qualities, how composed he kept himself. Jude, however. She was a lot to take in. She had a captivating personality. She was well spoken, she was elegant and clever, she was passionate about her work, she had strong values… It was truly fascinating to be in her presence, and he supposed she was fun to be around outside of the workplace. She had been spending more time with his men, he had guessed they got to know each other. It wasn't an issue if Simon had feelings for her, not in the slightest, quite the opposite. The captain didn't blame him, she was a nice girl.

Well…

'So… How is she holding up?' He asked, as if he knew Simon might have access to more personal information about Eva. Maybe he knew everything already, how many times he went to see her, everything.

'She's angry.' He replied, keeping it vague.

'She mad at you?' The captain signalled the chair in front of him. He opened a drawer in his desk, where he kept cigarettes. Sometimes, the situation called for it and a cigar was just too much work. He needed the quick fix of nicotine to calm down, and possibly, make his Lieutenant feel more comfortable to open up.

'At the situation.' Simon replied, lighting the cigarette offered by the captain. He had, almost instinctively, rolled his mask over his nose. Price nodded silently, taking in long drags and exhaling the smoke in the direction of the windows behind him.

'When she first came to us we didn't even know how she managed to find Laswell.' Simon's eyes found the captain's when he realised he was telling him something he never told anyone before.

'We had no idea who she talked to to get an interview with her, she has always been very… persuasive?' He stubbed his cigarette bud in the ceramic ashtray on his desk. 'She said she had intel about the mob in New York's East Harlem. She knew about a plan to kidnap and execute the Governor of New York, I think it was Andrew Cuomo at the time…' He waved his hand in the air, as if he had lost his train of thought. 'We asked for proof, she had evidence, but she asked us to trust her. She predicted time and place of the attempted attacks and we followed her lead, just to be safe. It was all true.'

Simon nodded, he knew where he was going. He wasn't justifying her actions, but still. Everything exists in its own context. Even Eva.

'She gave us a bunch of information about the Black Hand. It was a type of Italian extortion racket from the eighteenth century. By Italian immigrants in the US. It targeted business men and basically anyone involved with politics, they were threatened with extortion. They would send a letter to the victim threatening bodily harm, kidnapping, arson, or murder. The letter demanded a specified amount of money to be delivered to a specific place. It was decorated with threatening symbols like… such as a smoking gun, a bloody knife or…skull…' He raised his eyes for a second.

'When we asked how she knew all this stuff she said she couldn't tell us, cause she was a refugee.' Price sighed and shook his head.

'It was a mistake to give her asylum. She called herself 'pentita'. The people that were in a mafia clan and decided to get out, they're called pentiti. In exchange for the information they deliver, they receive shorter sentences for their crimes, in some cases even freedom. In the Italian judicial system, they can obtain personal protection, a new name, and some money to start a new life in another place, possibly abroad. She had applied for a job here at base as a therapist under another name and got an interview, she knew she wanted to stay. She told us she would disclose everything, but she was hiding from her family, she needed protection… '

Simon let his mind travel. He imagined her, in a white blouse, or a black turtleneck. In that long skirt she once had on, with her shiny boots. Bold and clever and courageous. And scared, fleeing from her country, away from her family. She imagined her getting her apartment, and feeling unsafe in her own house. She imagined her alone, for Christmas, for New Years, her birthday. When was her birthday? She imagined her taking a deep breath, a sigh of relief. Her new life, protection from the government, a new passport, new name.

She got her dog to keep her company…

'So, that's when Alba was born. Alba Antamoro, born in Southampton, of Italian heritage cause her British accent wasn't so good two years ago. She went by Jude at work, she was a good therapist. Good coworker. She helped us out with some more on the Italian American mob situation, then we agreed on never speaking about her past again.'

Price relaxed into his chair, laying back. Simon indulged in the comfortable silence and reflected on the captain's words. On Eva's story, on the creation of a new identity, her moulding herself into another person.

'What does her family know?' He asked.

Price shook his head. 'Not much, they haven't seen her in seven years as you know. They don't know where she is, nor do they want to know. Her sister tried to contact her three or four times and she didn't reply…' He sighed. 'She's dead to them, Simon…'

His chest was suddenly heavy with anger, and jealousy. She had a family that loved her, alive and well and she decided to waste their love like that. Dismiss of the love of a mother, a sister. Didn't she know many people would kill to get to have a sister or a mother? His thoughts were soon interrupted again.

'You guys dating or…?'

'No, no.'

'Ah, sorry. Thought you… you know, you seemed close.'

'I… I've asked her out, before…'

'Before shit went down?'

'Yeah.'

'Ah, I get it. Sorry. I mean I would be happy for you if she wasn't…'

'But she is.'

'Yeah, y'right…Mind if I ask you about something?'

'Go on.'

'Were you with her on Christmas Eve?'

'At her house. Dinner.'

'Good. T'was good?'

'…had dinner.'

'Oh yes I meant, I wasn't implying you two…'

'No we didn't…'

'Yeah, never mind.'

Silence filled the room again, but it wasn't conformable anymore. Simon knew the captain expected excellence from him, discipline. He couldn't get distracted like that, he couldn't lose his focus over a girl. Nonsense. And he never considered anything more important than his job, he really never had anything else to think about, his family maybe. But that was a long time ago.

He got up short after, and remarked he wanted to be in the interrogation room. The captain didn't oppose.

'She did what she did. Even if it was a long time ago, she was brought up a criminal, she's daughter of her own environment.' Simon was already at the door when these words were spoken. Was he trying to convince him it wasn't that bad? Or was it a warning?

''m sure you'll make the right decision.'

Hearing the last sentence, he knew he had to leave.

Like her encounter with Ghost gave ger new strength, Eva was back to the interrogation room the following evening, and she looked like a fucking tidal wave. It never failed to amaze him, how good looking she was, how her makeup, her earrings, how the wave of her hair, it made her look like a painting, like she was made of glass, like she was an actress.

'I want to negotiate.' She stated as the door closed behind Price. Simon was almost startled, hearing her speak after a long time. And speaking loudly, like she was used to, her voice bright and loud and clear. And that weird fucking accent of hers, not from the north, nor the south, not Australian, not American, that incredibly annoying accent.

'I want to negotiate.'

Price turned around. 'What?'

'You heard me.' She was back. Simon felt a shiver of excitement travel from his ears to the back of his neck, down his spine, (in his pants).

Price crossed his arms, his lips parting in a small smile. 'This is not a negotiation, Eva. You can't…'

'Then I choose jail.'

The two men both stood silent. Cause she was serious, they were sure. Price had never in his life heard her make a joke. They looked at each other, then back towards her.

‘Why?’ Price asked.

She shrugged her shoulders as if she was saying the most normal thing in the world. 'You're asking me something I can't do.' She murmured. Without Laswell, without Salvo, she had only herself to rely on, no protection, no allies. It was really all in her interest to… behave.

'I'm asking you to do the right thing for once.' Price argued. Eva's eyes fell on the table in front of her, she timidly shook her head. 'I am asking you', Price resumed, 'to do something to redeem yourself, to make the right choice, your family…'

'Do you really think I'm that fucking stupid?' She stopped his speech, she did as she usually did when she felt even the slightest bit of frustration, raise her voice. 'You're not asking my help because you want me to make the right decision, you need me!' She smiled, her pearly white teeth glistening under the neon light.

Fucking sadist bitch, she was always right.

‘You think i’m dumb? You think I don’t know you need me on the inside? Mh? You need me cause I got connections, I got respect, I know my people.’ She raised her eyebrows, fixing her posture, shoulders back. 'Think I don't know? What are you gonna do kill them all yourselves? Nah, better, you wanna trust the government, you gonna call the police? Hu?' She let her eyes linger on the captain, before turning her head towards Ghost. 'You're just gonna trust the police no? Easy. Get them arrested'. She teased.

Now, Simon gathered, at this point, not only the authorities in the south were very much aware of the mob activity, they were pretty much ignoring them. They were the mob. All of them connected. Because of fear, corruption, something of that sort. He didn't know Price's plan, but according to Eva, if justice was never really made in Italy, there was a reason. He had done some research. To understand the situation better, the history. And understand her. The south of Italy was divided in regions, his research led him to learn about four major mafia groups, in four different regions. Camorra, that was the name of the one based in Naples. He learnt about the families, how people born in clans generally are affiliated with criminal activity from a young age, almost brainwashed. He learned they assert complete dominance over the territory, with extortion, fear, death. If you keep silent, you're protected. If you pay, you help out, you're safe.

What was the business, ah. They had good business.

Trade in counterfeit products, drugs, weapons, gambling, smuggling of foreign tobacco, illegal betting, online fraud, tax fraud, pollution of the economy, transport management, infiltration of the public administration, former production of energy from renewable sources, agriculture and livestock farming, illegal waste disposal, cement cycle, animal fights and clandestine races, illicit trafficking of works of art, you fucking name it.

They were everywhere, in the economy, government, public administration. So she was, as always, right. They did need her. Her knowledge, her connections, her knowing the area, her knowing the language and the business… This was really... something big.

Price let her finish before he sighed quite loudly.

'Do you know what you're getting yourself into?' For once, in their exchange, he sounded genuinely concerned.

'No, you don't know John.' She stated. 'You're not gonna win this.'

There was sadness in her eyes. 'These families have history, and I don't even know how many affiliates. Everyone's corrupt. It's just how things work, you don't just go and change it. Whatever you want to do you're not gonna stop them, people could die. Innocent, people.'

She furrowed her eyebrows and bit her lower lip in distress, she had calmed down, her anger transformed in worry. 'And you can't ask me to go back. They wouldn't want me anyways, John, they would kill me.'

'No, I-'

'Yes!' She yelped.

They indulged in a moment of silence and thought. They pondered, she probably had her mind full of images of death, of all she had to do, all she was exposed to at a young age. The kids that died, even on accident. Her mom, her legacy.

The men, on the other hand, were used to succeeding, pretty much all the time. They knew loss, and bargaining and adjusting their shot, but they managed to always win. This time, something else they had to take to account. It was well, the people. Their feelings of helplessness and how they complied. The fear. They wanted to send her there and use her as a mole on the inside. And risk getting her injured, at this point he believed she could have been in danger.

He believed her, as crazy as that sounded after all that happened, he found himself worrying this wasn't the right thing. Keep her safe, maybe it was better this way, if her safety was at stake... He found himself considering all he had thought of her, he found himself regretting being such a dick and... arrogant almost. This was her country, her people...

'Okay, why don't we..' Price tried to regain control of the situation. He took a folding chair from the corner of the room, two chairs one for himself and one for Simon.

'Why don't we tell you the plan, sound good?'

notes: guys I'm alive. I'm sorry I haven't been posting and I don't even know if someone is reading this but this story is important for myself as well and I really want to write it even if nobody cares. anyways what is happening in my life? here:

new uni courses, one is about history of Italian mafia lol

pressure to do well in uni cause who am I if I don't get top grades?

I'm starting an incredibly cool traineeship and I couldn't be happier best thing of the year and sometimes you have to thank yourself, mare you did good. for once. I hope it's the start of my career honestly.

i'm starting a new part time job, guess what I do, literally guess.

I'm writing my thesis, wow that's a lot of work uuuh so so so hard but I love my subject so much I really wanna do well. do you ever cry cause you like a research topic too much?

I'm having friendships trouble, the worst. at least I'm learning something about myself everyday, and I have new boundaries every day.

all this to say, I'm fine but also a wreck.

enjoy this chapter!!

taglist:

@random-fandom-smoothie @lucienofthelakes

@ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006 @my-therapist-hates-me @asteriadisera @sigynxlokiwifelover

[lost-to-science]

"Sorry about laughing. Just...kind of weird hearing someone say they'd uphold the law around here. Like the department heads aren't feeding people to some of the more feral bigger bodies, that incidents resulting in death don't occur, or that Sawyer basically has an attack dog at his beck and call. Though Yarnaby isn't exactly a dog."

But that meant a lot when someone did want to uphold some form of order. Hold fast to their principles down here. It meant a lot more to her than words could express. Though she was sure Poe would try. They always did their best to put the abstract into words.

"And I do want to give you a chance. But I wouldn't be promising too much to some of the others. Especially Simon. He...will take it seriously. And if your boss says no to us coming all the way up to Playcare than it might...not sit right with him."

There was a knock on the door to indicate that they didn't have much more time left and Rabie sighed before she got up and stretched. Normally she just clung to the ceiling and rocked back and forth. This time she had actually sat for most of the session.

"I can't speak for all of us when I say this, but...being like this isn't as bad as you'd think. Only bad part about it is being referred to as a number, or a name you no longer identify with. It would have been better if they had been up front with us about what would happen."

She'd go to open her arms but paused for a moment as she hesitated, and than just wrapped her wings around herself. She wanted a hug. A genuine hug this time. But she didn't feel comfortable with it. Not yet.

"Would you mind if I just called you doc or Gemma?"

Starter for @drgemmadawnnightingale

Another day another pointless session with someone who wanted to 'treat her', which annoyed her. Rabie had decides to throw away her life before now. Not even going by her name of Valerie. Who she decided was a different person. After all, Valerie's life had basically ended. And her life now was as Rabie Baby. There was no changing that, but it didn't mean she had to be happy with what had been done to her

Though when someone she had never seen before walked into a, admittedly nice, interview room she was already thinking of ways to manipulate this one.

"Hello. Here to go rooting around in my head? Well, knock yourself out. I usually have you shrinks ready to give up after a month."

[r0semultiverse]

Hey um I'm concerned...

"Is this true, fellow Petrikov?"

Something something about the cycle repeating. 👀

[moody-alcoholic]

Sub Ala Angeli

Part 5 - Miracle Worker

Summary: Ghoap x fallen angel!reader, mini fic. Sub ala angeli - Under the wing of an angel.

CW: suggestive content, intimate touching, mention/talk about death, near death experience.

Previous - masterlist - next

Enjoy <3

Johnny leads you down the main street, you walk past all kinds of different stores. There are plenty of people around too, sometimes you get the glimpse of other angels, guardian angels following people around. 

Johnny leads you into a store, a bell rings and an old woman behind a counter smiles. 

“John, Simon, it’s nice to see you again.” She says she has a strong accent like Johnny. 

“Miss McBaine.” John says bouncing over to the counter.

“Mary please. Who is your friend?” She asks looking over at you. 

“Angel.” Johnny says. 

“Pretty name.” She gushes. You smile at her, something feels wrong. You look round the store, it’s filled with clothes. Johnny lets go of your hand and you go over to a hanger of fluffy looking jumpers. Your hand runs over them as you hear Simon come up behind you. 

Johnny is still talking with Mary, you just can’t shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen. 

“What do you think?” Simon asks. You run your hands down the arms. 

“Anything I get we have to cut the back off.” You say letting go of the jumper. 

“Guess it was easier when you didn’t have to wear anything.” He says. You nod thinking back to the angels you’ve seen on Earth, they’ve all been covered in some way, shape or form. Loose fitting flowy robes. Or light shines off them so bright you can’t make out any features on their body. 

Simon takes you over to get some pants and shoes though, you pick what's comfy and Simon recommends other things. You hear Johnny still talking, the occasional laugh fills the store. It makes you smile. 

Maybe you’re just being paranoid, it was probably the cryptic warning the angel gave you. Simon brings some shirts over, everything is oversized so you can cut a hole in the back. When you go over to take a look at dresses theres a sudden chill in the air.

Simon feels it too, you watch him shudder, goosebumps rise over your body. Dread pools in your stomach. 

“Feels like someone’s just walked over my grave.” You hear Mary say. You swallow hard looking over at her and Johnny talking by the counter. 

You reach out for Simon’s arm as her angel appears next to her. 

“Simon. I think something bad is going to happen.” He frowns at you for a second then looks over at Johnny and Mary. You turn back to look. It’s like the scene before you is muted, the temperature of the shop drops. 

Things happen quickly, Mary slumps against the counter. Johnny straightens up, Simon is already moving as Johnny reaches over the counter to try and help her. The silence of the room is broken by the gentle humming of her angel. It makes you feel sick, you know that tune. 

She’s going to die.

You walk over to them. Simon is bent down by her head, you watch as the angel stands over her. 

“Ambulance Johnny.” Simon’s voice brakes through the humming. Your heart is pounding in your chest. 

“You’re going to let her die?” You ask the angel in your head. They look over at you and smile. They can’t do anything, you know what they’re feeling you’ve been here before. You look down at Simon, he’s hands are pressing on her chest. 

You feel your fingers start to tingle, you could save her. You can save her, you have to believe. You walk over to them, Johnny is on the phone, you ignore him focusing on the tune the angel is humming. 

You bend down by her side, Simon looks up at you. “Let me.” You say placing your hand on his. You look up at him. He looks confused but he stops, moving his hands away. You place your hands on her chest. 

There’s no heartbeat, it feels wrong. You remember feeling Johnny’s hand under yours, for a second it feels like your own heart skips a beat. This could be him, if the warnings are true, you could end up in this same position only with him below you. 

You close your eyes and let out a breath. The angel stops humming. You’ve only ever done this once before. On a child, not a fully grown person. You concentrate putting all your energy into praying for her heart to beat again. Your hands feel warm, your energy, your lifeforce being transferred from you into her. 

You pray, pray for her to live, it feels like you’re willing the life back into her. You can feel yourself getting weaker, your head starts to swim, it’s becoming harder to concentrate. You don’t want to give up though, you won’t give up. 

You feel a warm hand on your shoulder, you get a sudden burst of energy. The feeling of dread goes away, the weakness subsides and you feel calm, a warm feeling travels through you. When you feel her heart beat again you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. 

“Thank you.” You hear the angel say. Their warm hand leaves your shoulder along with the feeling of calm. You open your eyes looking over at Simon, you sit back on your knees, and smile at him as it feels like all your energy has just been pulled out of you. 

Simon presses her fingers into Mary’s neck, he looks up at you shocked. You turn to her angel stood by her head. 

“John is very lucky to have you watching over him.” They say. 

“I’m not his guardian angel.” You reply. 

“Ambulance is here.” You hear Johnny call as the sound of sirens gets closer. When you turn back the angel is gone. Simon comes over to you wrapping his arms around you and helping you to your feet. You lean against him, your legs wobble, your whole body feels heavy. 

You’re not even paying attention to the random people rushing into the store. Johnny talks to them as Simon takes you out the way over to a chair. As soon as you sit down and lose the support of his arms your head swims and you slump to the side.

“Easy, easy.” He says his arms coming back round you, you lean against him. You straighten up as best as you can. You grit your teeth, you have to keep your wing hidden. 

“Simon,” you breathe. He looks down at you as he pulls you tighter against him. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this for.” 

“C’mon,” he says, helping you to your feet. You can still feel a chill in the air. You lean against him, Johnny sees you moving and comes over to you. 

“What happened? Are you okay?” He asks, his hand coming to rub your arm. You nod and it makes your head swim. 

“We’re going to the car, how much longer do you think you’ll be?” Simon asks, Johnny quickly looks back at the paramedics loading Mary onto a stretcher. 

“Not long.” Johnny says. “I just have to get someone to mind the store, call her daughter.” 

She’s alive, you did that, you broke the rules again. And you’ll do it again if you need to, especially for Johnny or Simon. As Simon guides you out the store people are coming over to look. Small town, probably the biggest thing that’s happened in a while. By the time you make it to the car you can barely keep it together. 

“Si-” his name catches in your throat.

“Almost there, c’mon you can make it.” He encourages you, hitching you up against him while he fishes his pocket for the key. You grit your teeth using the last of your energy to grip onto him while he opens the door. 

Black spots flash across your vision. Simon turns you sitting you down in the back of the car, you can’t hide your wing anymore. Lucky Simon is blocking anyone from being able to see in. Simon’s hands rest on on your shoulders holding you up. You hear the door open behind you.

“I got her.” You hear Johnny say pulling you back against him. Simon picks your legs, putting them in the car, and closing the door. You shiver as Johnny wraps his arms around you. 

“She’ll be okay.” You say. 

“Will you be okay?” Johnny asks. You don’t know what to say, you've never felt like this before. You feel tired, your body is heavy, you can’t keep your eyes open. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you Johnny.” You say as your breathing slows. 

“What's that love?” Johnny asks, he shakes your shoulders, it jolts you and you look over at Simon in the front seat. He looks worried, you smile at him as you relax further against Johnny. 

“She’ll be okay.” you repeat closing your eyes. 

___

You think you’re in a dream, for the first time ever. You wake up back in heaven, it’s just not quite right though. It’s like you’re there but not there, the colours are faded and the sounds are muted, you're not quite sure how you got here. There are angels all around you, Archangels and Seraphims. 

You’re in the judgment hall, towering gold and iridescent structures surround the massive space. In the center there’s a collection of other angels, messengers, other guardian angels all watching you as the higher angels decide your fate. 

You hear doors open behind you, you turn to see two angels come out and stand behind you. 

“Judgment has been decided.” One of the Seraphims says, their voice echoing round the space. You’re holding your breath. All you can think about is Mary, her lifeless body under your hands. 

“Take the other wing.” One of the Seraphims says. You feel sick, tears start rolling down your face. You need your wing, you can’t protect Johnny if you lose one more thing that makes you who you are. 

“What about Johnny?” You ask, stepping forward. You hear mumbles rise up.

“You sealed his face by saving the woman.” The same Seraphim says. 

“No!” You shout lunging forward. Arms grab you pulling you back and forcing you to your knees. It hurts sending shooting pains up your legs. You hear the growl of a dog. 

“Please save him!” You plead. “Send me to hell, take my wing but please spare him!” You’re begging, sobbing at them. You know it’s not going to change anything you know it’s not going to make them think any different. You fight out the grip of the angels holding you and rush forward. 

“I love him! Simon loves him!” You’ll destroy them both!” You shout between sobs. The Seraphim turns back to look at you as your arms are pulled back again. To your surprise they fly down. You’ve never seen one so close to you before. They’re bigger than you ever thought they were, their 6 wings make them look even larger. 

“You’re an angel, you know nothing of love.” They spit, there’s emotion in their voice, anger, disgust. 

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” You say to them. Their eyes widen and they float away from you. 

“Take the wing!” They shout. You smile up at them as you hear the patter of the hellhound's feet rushing towards you.

You let out a scream as its teeth sink into your flesh. 

…

Your body jolts up, you look around franticly. You’re in their house, their bed, you look out the windows, it's dark now. Your body is covered in a layer of sweat, your heart is pounding rapidly in your chest. It feels like you can’t catch your breath. 

You panic, pulling your wing round holding it in your arms. You let out a sigh of relief stroking down the feathers. You swing your legs out the bed throwing the duvet back and stand up letting your wing go and pressing it back against you. 

Now you need to see Johnny, you need to make sure he’s safe. You walk out the bedroom, you can see them on the sofa Johnny laid in Simon's arms. As soon as they hear you Johnny gets up to his feet coming over to you. 

You feel tears forming in your eyes as you rush over to him, throwing your arms and wing around him, pulling him against you as you sob into his chest. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. What’s wrong?” His hands rub your back. You pull your face off his chest sniffling. 

“I had one of those dreams, it felt so real.” You say looking up at him. His hands come up to your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. He leans down to kiss you, it feels good, safe. He’s gentle, his hands brushing your cheeks as the tears escape. You break from the kiss as a sob rises in your throat. 

“Come sit, talk to us.” Johnny says, you nod, dropping your wing and following him to the sofa. You sit in between them. Simon’s hand lands on your back while Johnny rubs your thigh. 

“What happened today. With Mary?” Johnny asks. 

“I don’t know how to describe it.” You say hanging your head. 

“Can you bring people back from the dead?” Simon asks. 

“No, but if we’re quick enough, and have help, like today. We can essentially stop death.” You explain. 

“Help?” Johnny asks. 

“Mary’s guardian angel helped me. I wouldn’t have been able to save her on my own.” You say.

“How?” Simon asks. You look up at him.

“The energy angels have, we can channel it, use it to bless people or heal people. Normally just cuts and bruises, It’s only in very specific circumstances we can use it to- for example- restart a heart.” You let out a sigh, you still feel exhausted. “If we use too much energy it will kill us.” 

“I thought you were immortal.” Johnny says.

“Immortal not invincible.” You say. Johnny squeezes your thigh. It feels good calming, just like Simon’s hand rubbing your lower back. 

“You saved her life. She’s going to be okay.” Johnny says. You look up at him and smile. 

“What was your dream about?” Simon asks. 

“They were taking my other wing for saving her, like I saved the kid I was ordered to watch over.” You say leaving out the part about Johnny. It doesn’t work though. 

“You were mumbling in your sleep. You called out for Johnny.” Simon says. 

“In the car, you said you wouldn't let anything happen. Is something going to happen?” Johnny asks. You look between them. You feel a lump rise in your throat. Everything in your body is telling you not to tell them. 

Maybe telling them will ruin it. You remember what the Seraphim shouted at you in your dream ‘you sealed his fate.’ You open your mouth but you can’t think of an excuse. Whatever you were going to say is replaced with a sob and you throw your face in your hands. 

“I met Johnny’s guardian angel. They warned me you’re going to die.” His grip tightens on your leg, Simon’s hand stops rubbing your back. You look up at Johnny, there’s worry in his eyes. “They told me to save you. When we went to the town, another angel warned me that your fate isn’t sealed. They told me to protect you.” 

You don’t expect them to say anything, Simon lets out a sigh and his hand runs over your missing wing. It sends chills down your spine. 

“How-” You watch Johnny swallow. “How will it happen?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see the future, no one can.” You say. 

“So how do you know he’s going to die?” Simon asks, there’s an edge in his voice

“We can’t see the future. We’re told the information we need to know.” You say. 

“Did they say when it would happen?” Johnny asks. 

“They said a week.” You reply solemnly. His hand comes up to pull your chin to look at him. He smiles, tipping his head and kisses you. 

“Nothing bad is going to happen.” He says brushing his lips with your thumb. 

“But-” 

“No. You saved a life today, you’re a miracle worker. You said my fate is not sealed.” He looks over at Simon quickly then back to you. “That means I have a chance.” You nod. 

Simon’s arms come back around you pulling you against him. You stretch your wing out wrapping it over the back of the sofa and around Johnny who shuffles into it running his hand over the tip. 

He smiles at you and leans against it. He reaches down and pulls your legs up over his thighs. Simon's arm wraps over your chest. 

“It’s going to be okay.” Simon says as he presses a kiss on the back of your head. 

“We’ve faced worse odds and come out on the other side.” Johnny says. You believe them, at the same time you don’t know what might happen, Johnny rubs your leg. You can feel Simon’s heart beating against your back.

You don’t mean to fall asleep but sleep comes anyway. You feel Johnny stroking the feathers of your wing resting round his shoulder.

You’ll keep him safe, you’ll keep them both safe. 

…

“Johnny.” Simon whispers. He turns to see you sleeping in Simon's arms. “It’s going to be okay.” 

“I know.” He replies looking back at the TV. 

“Want me to call the cavalry?” Simon asks. 

“Yeah,” Johnny scoffs. “And tell them what? Hey Gaz, you’ll never believe this; an angel landed in our backyard and told me I’m going to die in a week.” 

“Johnny.” Simon sighs. “What does that book of yours say about fate?” 

“Everything is already written.” He says. 

“Sounds like bullshit.” Simon replies, tightening his grip around you.

“Up until a few days ago you didn’t believe in anything.” He reminds him, running his hand through your feathers. 

“I believe we make our own fates.” Simon says. 

“Let’s go to bed.” Johnny says turning the tv off.

“What about her?” Simon asks as Johnny stands, your wing goes limp and your snuggle further against Simon’s chest. 

“I can pull the bed out?” Johnny asks. Simon looks down at you brushing the hair out your eyes. 

“No, let’s bring her to bed with us.” Simon says. 

“You sure?” Johnny asks. Simon’s already moving, pulling you up in his arms. Johnny smiles, going to help him tucking your wing over Simon’s shoulder. He follows close behind, watching as Simon carries you through to the bedroom. Your chin rested on his shoulder, legs hanging round his waist. 

“Maybe she can talk to heaven or something?” Johnny says. 

“If she could, do you think they would listen?” Simon asks, walking round to Johnny’s side of the bed. Johnny doesn’t say anything, Simon lays you on your stomach, pulling the duvet over you. Simon sighs, coming over to Johnny and wrapping his arm round his waist. 

“I’ll lock up. You get into bed.” Simon says, pressing a kiss into his neck. 

“Don’t take too long.” Johnny replies. Simon smiles and leaves the room. Johnny changes scooting into bed next to you. You’re completely passed out again, your body is like a lead weight has he moves you a little giving Simon more room to lay next to him. 

Simon comes back, turning the hallway light off and closing the door to the bedroom behind him. Johnny watches as he pulls his clothes off in the dark then crawls into bed wrapping his arms around him and pulling him up on his chest. 

“Johnny.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Hell will freeze over before I let anything happen to you.” Simon says his hand coming up to stroke Johnny’s cheek. “God will have to come down here himself and get you.” 

“It’s going to be okay. We have our own guardian angel.” Johnny says, wrapping his arm round Simon’s waist pulling him against him. Simon hums leaning over to kiss him. Johnny’s fingers dig into his waist. Johnny hums in his mouth moving one of his hands round to the front of Simon’s boxers. 

Simon pulls away from the kiss. “We’re not alone Johnny.” Johnny hums wrapping his hand round Simon’s cock feeling it twitch in his hand. 

“You’re all pent up.” Johnny whispers his lips brushing Simon’s. Before Johnny can go any further you turn behind him. He feels your arm slip over him. He freezes looking up at Simon as your wing stretches, resetting over them both. 

He feels the heat coming off the wing, he moves his hand back over to Simon’s waist. 

“I love you Si. We’ll figure it out.” Johnny says, pulling himself against Simon’s chest. 

“Yeah we will. I love you too Johnny.” He replies, kissing his forehead. Johnny smiles hearing Simon’s heart beat against his ear and the warmth of your wing covers them all. He doesn’t feel fear, worry, he doesn’t feel anything. Just the warmth of your wing and his husband's arms.

Banners by plum98

[simonbrain]

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 hand—not 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.

[girl-lostconnection]

Concept of a concept time:

Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.

Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.

Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.

Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.

These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.

Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?

Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.

So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?

Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.

Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.

Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.

Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.

Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.

Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.

Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.

It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.

John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.

John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.

John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.

Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.

And it’s not fair.

Continuation

[gaysindistress]

Things that I feel like would happen when you’re in a relationship with Simon Riley.

Simon Riley masterlist

1. First off he hates the word ‘boyfriend’.

Maybe it’s because he’s in his mid thirties or something but he can’t stand being called your boyfriend. He’s more than that but also not at the same time. You live together, have access to each other’s bank accounts (which is only because he hates it when you try to fight him about him giving you money), and you’re each others emergency contact. He thinks of himself as your husband. The man wears a silicone ring when he’s home and a necklace with the ring that’s totally not a wedding band when he’s 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. You’re together and that’s all that matters. No one needs to know that you’re the beneficiary of his will and life insurance policy or that he’s 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. He’s only had himself to count on for years. Even in the military, he’s only been able to rely himself. Sure the others watch out for him but if it came down to it, he’s the only one who’s going to get himself out alive.

The thought of someone else relying on him in that way is terrifying. He can’t 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 can’t 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 doesn’t come back.

You have to be okay without him no matter how much it pains him to think about it.

Like I said before, he’s made you the beneficiary of everything so he knows you’ll be set financially but that’s not enough. He’s made Price promise to keep an eye out for you. He’s made you promise to let Price do that and you agreed because it’s Simon who’s asking but you’d tell anyone else to fuck off.

In addition to all of that, he’s 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 he’s 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 he’s not home. He’s 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.

He’s not leaving any opportunity for you to be vulnerable or have your ‘safety checks’, as he calls them, taken away.

3. Simon Riley is a godless man…until 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 major’s 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 he’s on his way home, and just about any other time he thinks of you. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s 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.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Ten: silent night

tw: gore

You’re dreaming of your dad again. 

Crooked fingers grip the steering wheel in front of him as he sits in the driver’s seat, maneuvering through swirling streets with faceless pedestrians. You’re cuddled in the back seat, covered in heavy blankets that weigh you down like you’re chained in a prison. They’re tight, serpentine binds. So much so you find it hard to breathe. Fat snowflakes flutter past the window as the engine revs, speeding through London with no regard for traffic lights or stop signs. If there were other cars on the road, your dad would have crashed long ago. 

Quiet megrim suffocates you as your ringing ears attempt to make sense of the song playing on the radio. Static drowns the notes, fuzzies them until you can barely hear it. Your dad hums the tune in a different key. Sweet, and off beat. He’s always been tone deaf. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

The acrid scent of blood fills your nose the moment you find his eyes in the rearview mirror. Thick patches of it stain his face, crusting around fat lacerations on his eyebrows, lips and nose. It dries; flakes off his skin just to be replaced by a fresh stream. Pulled stitches fray at the ends as they protrude from his skin like grotesque teeth, being devoured from the inside out by wounds he can’t outrun. Wounds that will never heal. 

“Comfortable?” he asks. 

Your legs squirm as you try to shift but the cocoon of blankets grows tighter around you, hugging your limbs close as if you’re trapped in a straightjacket. It’s so crowded that your ribs have trouble expanding, and a breathy cough leaks from your mouth. It burns, like smoke in your lungs or mint on your tongue. 

“You should slow down,” you warn him. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” The song repeats. You don’t think you’ve heard it make it past the first stanza. A bent record, forever scratching, doomed to repeat a song and never finish it. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he assures you. 

“Dad, please slow down.” 

The engine sputters and quiets down as the brakes engage with a gentle tap. Wheels dwindle and slow until the car halts in the center of the road. Traffic suddenly dashes by with quiet whooshes, as cars appear out of nowhere. Maybe they’ve been following you the entire time. They’re all black—like a funeral procession. Exhaust mixes with iron. The concoction is enough to turn your stomach as the scent sears your sinuses. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

“Are you afraid I’m going to end up like him?” your dad asks. Disfigured, bent, and disgusting fingers still grip the steering wheel despite the motionlessness of the car. You try not to stare, but the horror of it has you transfixed. “Like Aelin’s dad?” 

Your bottom lip juts out and trembles. “You already did.” 

He laughs at you, and it’s warm like velvet. Comforting just like it used to be when you were a kid. It reminds you of when he would read you stories before bed, keeping his tone even yet engaging—just calming enough to get your eyes heavy. Your skin itches to throw the blankets off of your body and wrap yourself in his mirth instead, but as usual, you are not strong enough. 

“I’m right here, darling,” he chuckles. “I know the accident was hard on you, but it’s not your fault. It could’ve happened to anyone. You don’t have to be afraid of it.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

Leather seats shift under your dad’s weight, and his eyes no longer look at you in the rearview mirror. You want to ask if he looks away in shame, but the question doesn’t quite reach your tongue. 

“Are you mad at me?” he asks softly. 

You swallow. “I don’t know. I just… wish you didn’t leave me like that.” 

“But I didn’t leave,” he assures. 

“You did! You died! You’re dead and now I have nothing,” you retort. 

There is no denying that you are aggrieved. Betrayed in some aching way that still haunts the marrow of your bones and the ridge of your spine. He smiles and speaks as softly as he did when he was alive, but your father’s shadow looms over you, heavy and thick like a brume you can’t outrun. You’re not sure there has ever been a moment of your life where it hasn’t followed you. 

You’re not sure it will ever stop. 

“Silent night, Holy night. All is calm, all is-” 

The radio dies just as the engine does and a wave of tinnitus rings so loud you’re certain it can’t be coming from inside your own head. Someone else must be hearing this agony; it can’t just be you. You blink and witness in abject horror as your dad twists in his seat, hands leaving the steering wheel, torso turning so that he can fully face you. 

He looks just like he did all those years ago. Clothes perfectly pressed, dress shirt steamed, cuffs neatly creased. He always joked about how the first time he would ever wear a suit would be at your wedding—instead, he wore his first suit at his own funeral. They did a good job at making him look normal. Human. At covering the abrasions and scratches. At setting his fingers and nose straight. Still, there’s something wrong with his skin. There’s no fresh blood, it’s all pooled in his body. Heavy. Weighing it down. 

The mortician did a good job, but no amount of wax can fix the chuck of bone and flesh missing from the side of his skull. 

“Dad, please,” you beg. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“Sorry, darling,” he says, but his voice is warped. Wrong. Gargled like his vocal chords decayed long ago. “There’s not much you can do. Not anymore.” 

Your only solace is the alarm on your phone. 

It vibrates next to your head where it echoes throughout your box spring mattress like a hollow cavern. It kickstarts your heart until it pounds so violently in your chest that you’re certain your sternum will shatter. You need it to stop. Need it to shut up. Need to kill it. Sucking in a shuddering breath, your hands fumble with your phone as you tap on the screen, shutting off the alarm and plunging your apartment into silence. 

Throwing yourself on your back, you stare at your water damaged ceiling as you try not to deliquesce into the bed. You can already feel it happening. Muscles convulsing until they liquify, bone marrow seeping out from your pores, soft duvet soaking up the essence of everything that once made you human. You feel the pillow beneath your head and the cotton of your pajamas as you try to ground yourself to the earth that threatens to crush you everyday, but your mind is always stronger. There is nothing you can do to free yourself from the heat of a car engine, or shattered glass in your lap, or the gunshot pop! of an airbag—

Once more, your phone buzzes. It’s soft, and non-intruding. A gentle nudge that pulls you back into your bed just as the heater kicks on with a quiet hiss. You breathe in the scent of your apartment. It’s stale. Stagnant air and old dish soap. You’d like to invest in a candle or wax warmer—like the ones your mom used to have. Maybe that way you could pretend that you’re still with her, if only for a moment. 

Everything feels lighter when you force your mind to remember where you are. That doloriferous anxiety wanes until it’s nothing more than a dormant beast in your chest. Sighing, you twist your body to grab your phone. It’s just before eight in the morning, and a text from Simon has your heart fluttering. 

Good morning sweetheart. I’ll be there in an hour. Need me to pick up anything for the trip? 

Not even the primal terror lurking in your chest can stop the small smile that pulls at your lips as you read his message. Always so proper. So kind and considerate. For a moment, you forget all about crooked fingers and half formed skulls. You swallow back any tremulous sensation as you type your response back to him. 

no thanks, should be good (: excited to see you

You push your anxiety into submission—it’s Christmas Eve, and you have somewhere to be. 

A quick shower is all it takes to get your mind functioning properly again. Lukewarm water washes away the nightmare sweats and leaves you with a clean slate. Fresh, untouched skin. There’s a draft that seeps through the gaps of the bathroom window, causing your skin to prickle and tighten as you dry yourself off in front of the foggy mirror. On windy days, you can hear it whistle as it seeps through the gap. The cold prompts you to get ready with a sense of urgency, and it isn’t long before you’re swaddled tight in comfortable clothes as you shove last minute items into your travel bag. 

Simon arrives just when he said he would, and you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but his jumper seems to hug tighter around his shoulders than usual. Muscles shift in his shoulders as he rolls out the morning tension, and you find your greeting tumbling out of your lips on a tongue that suddenly feels too fat. He stares at you with careful eyes, always assessing you like the good worker he is. He soaks up the buzz tingling through your nerves as you fiddle with your travel bag. Heat drenches your skin so thickly he can almost feel it from where he stands. 

Smirking, he reaches forward, fingers brushing against yours as he slips the bag out of your hand, leaving you no choice but to relinquish it. He keeps the straps firmly in his hand as he steps back, gesturing to the stairs. 

“After you, sweetheart.” 

Breakfast and warm tea brewed in a to-go cup waits for you in Simon’s car. It’s the very first thing you notice when he opens the door for you, and the sight has you biting into your lip. You try to mutter something about how he shouldn’t have, but he only shushes you as he ushers you inside. Really, it makes a good distraction. Focusing on trying not to leave crumbs as you devour a bagel sandwich leaves you little time to worry about why he didn’t bother to get anything for himself. 

It’s good. Better than good. Perfectly toasted bagel, melty cheese, seasoned avocado—it’s something too fancy for you to have ever ordered on your own. The tea is still warm by the time you hit the motorway, and a comfortable silence settles over you as the engine hums along the road. Towering grey buildings dwindle into quaint homes which then shapeshift between natural scenery and city views in the distance.

You try to remember the last time you left London. Escaped the prison that’s held you by the throat for the last few years, even if it were only temporary. Nothing comes to mind, and you feel your blood sing in excitement. 

Simon shifts in his seat next to you, and your eyes dart over to him. He’s only adjusting himself, getting his legs comfortable for the long ride ahead—he mentioned something about arriving around one—but your eyes can’t help but wander. You glance at the roll of his hips and the way his thighs fill out the fabric of his jeans. His stomach is soft, and it expands slightly as he sighs. His lips sit in a tight line while his eyes scan the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, thick fingers wrapped around the edge—

You blink and they’re crooked. Bruised, bent, and wrong. Compound fractures—bone piercing flesh. Jagged knuckles, fingers like the ridge of a mountain; you feel your stomach twist as that nightmare continues to haunt you. 

Before its tendrils have the chance to wrap around your spine, your hand dives into your pocket. Frayed string brushes against your skin, and you hook it like a fish on the end of your line before yanking it free. It’s the same distraction you always end up running back to. It keeps you moving and your mind focused on formations as you twist them into designs—always flowing, never stagnant. 

Even now, you can hear your father’s voice. You can feel his hands guiding you just like he did all those years ago when he taught you how to play. Move your left hand. They’ll cross if you don’t.

You move your right hand, and it knots; candle sticks now a cross. 

“Cat’s cradle?” Simon asks. 

As you unwind the string from your fingers to begin again, a nostalgic smile creeps on your lips. You don’t think you’ve ever had someone recognize it before. “Yeah. I play it sometimes to keep myself occupied.” 

“Didn’t know you could play it by yourself,” he admits. “Always thought you needed someone else.” 

“You can’t do as many moves as you can with another person, but it’s still fun,” you chuckle sheepishly. 

He hums as he adjusts the position of his hand on the wheel. His free arm rests on the center console next to you—his fingers twitch. “You should teach me.” 

A breathy laugh escapes your lips; you think he’s joking. It’s a stupid game with string. Nothing that means anything. Yet when you look at him and find his eyes flickering to you—his dark hue reading your expression—you realize he means it. 

You swallow, then smile. “If you’d like.” 

He shifts once more, leather seat creaking beneath his weight. You try to ignore the way your heart hurts at the sound. “I’d like doin’ anythin’ with you.” 

The whole ride feels warm after that. Bubbling mirth lurks beneath your skin, lighting it on fire, heating your cheeks and the tips of your ears until you swear you can feel the skin melt from your bones. It’s that same feeling that afflicted you the previous week after Christmas shopping. This fervor. This want. It continues to fester and metastasize until it lurks deep in your brain where it whispers. The susurrus gets louder the closer you are to reaching Manchester as the reality of your situation hits you. 

You’re going to be meeting his family. 

But as a friend, or something else? 

That question plagues you as Simon pulls up to a small home with effulgent lights lining the rooftop. They illuminate the sparse layer of snow that coats the city in crystalline sparkles, and for a moment you’re convinced you’re seeing stars. A thick evergreen wreath adorns the front door, and the sight of it is so nostalgic it nearly hurts. A tremble ails your knees as you climb out of the car, useless joints turning into jelly as you watch Simon retrieve both of your bags. Your hands reach out, ready to receive yours, but he raises his eyebrow as he closes the door with his elbow. 

“C’mon,” he urges. “Freezin’ out here.” 

Your legs shake with each step you take up the stairs to the door. A TV drones from somewhere inside of the house as quiet chatting mixes with whatever programme is playing. Giggles blend seamlessly into faint music and fuzzy, Old-Hollywood dialogue, and a faint sillage of cinnamon bleeds through every pore of the house. Voices cease as Simon clumsily knocks on the door, bags hitting against the wood as he attempts to balance everything on his own. A high pitched gasp bleeds through the door, followed by what you think is someone asking for Uncle Simon. 

You swallow your heart thudding in your throat as the door swings open and you’re met with a mess of bright blonde hair. Simon was right—Tommy isn’t bigger than him at all, yet he still towers taller than most. He grins at his brother, crooked teeth and all, as he slaps his hand on Simon’s shoulder. 

“About time you showed up. Joey’s been beggin’ for you all morning,” he teases, though he can’t quite mask the way his eyes flicker to you as you stand meekly to the side. “C’mon in. We just started a game of Candyland.” 

The moment you and Simon step through the threshold of the house, you’re enveloped by the aroma of fresh cinnamon and the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas. A fat evergreen tree sits in the corner of the living room next to a coffee table that sports board game pieces and snacks strewn about its top. You recognize Joseph and his mother, Beth, who sit next to the table on the floor, rug cushioning their knees from the wood. The very moment his eyes land on Simon, little Joseph bolts to his feet. 

Suddenly, it’s a reunion. Everyone stands on their feet to exchange hugs and kisses while Simon attempts to return them with his hands occupied with bags. The walls echo the laughter shared between everyone, and your left ear buzzes and rings. Still, you stand there with a quiet smile, soaking in the familial love as you stay out of the way. Joseph clings to Simon’s leg, white teeth on display as he looks up at his uncle, and you swear you’ve never seen Simon smile or laugh so hard before. 

“Simon?” a voice speaks up from the kitchen. 

You turn to find a grey haired woman drying her hands off on a lighthouse themed tea towel. She’s short; surprisingly so for the two boys she’s brought into this world. Rose tint dusts the apples of her cheeks as she slowly crosses into the entryway, arms spread wide to envelop her son as best as she can with her frail frame. 

“Missed you, mum,” Simon whispers as he returns the hug. 

“It’s always good to see you,” she says, pulling away to look up at him. Her lips tighten as her fingers squeeze the side of his arm. “My sweet boy.” 

It isn’t long before her eyes begin to wander. They’re drawn to you, and she doesn’t even bother to fight against the magnetic pull. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think she was eager to see you. She removes herself from her son as she approaches you, hands reaching for yours as she pulls you away from the door and into her home. 

“It’s so good to meet you, Chip,” she says, hands patting yours. 

She already knows your name. 

You swallow. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Riley,” you stutter back in response. 

Everything falls into place after that like a perfect line of dominos. Simon vanishes for only a short moment to put your bags away in some unseen room, and he returns just in time for Joseph to drag the two of you into the living room for a board game. There’s hardly any time for proper introductions as Joseph directs the game all the way down to what color pieces everyone uses—both you and Simon are assigned green—and despite your apprehension, it’s like you’ve been here the whole time. Instantly welcomed and assimilated into the Riley Family like you’ve never belonged anywhere else. 

So much information is shared in such a short amount of time that your brain begins to throb with the knowledge and fatigue. Questions are thrown about as everyone takes turns drawing cards and moving pieces along the board. You learn that Joseph’s favorite color is red because it reminds him of his mother’s hair, and how Beth works with school aged children as a teacher. Tommy works as a mechanic and is one of the reasons why Simon has a motorcycle, and the two brothers can banter well enough to go pro, especially with one another. The table erupts into laughter and playful cursing more often than not. 

They ask questions about you, too. They gently poke, prod, and peel back the layers you try so hard to wrap yourself up in. They don’t allow you to hide, and after a few hours of games, snacks, and movies, you start to think you might not want to anymore. Tucked into Simon’s side, lazy arm around your shoulder as he chuckles and laughs with his family, you start to realize this is the most at home you’ve felt for a long time. 

You attempt to remember the last holiday event you attended that you enjoyed, but the memories that emerge taste sour on your tongue. 

Halfway through How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Simon squeezes your shoulder. It’s soft—a gesture that warns you he’s going to move well before he does. He removes his arm from around you, body shifting forward on the couch, yet he makes sure to replace the airplane themed blanket on your lap that Joseph gave you because you look cold. You blink at him with heavy lids. 

“Gonna step outside for a smoke,” he assures. 

“Okay. Well, I’ll keep our seats warm,” you smile as he stands. 

Manchester is bitter and dark when Simon steps out into the backyard. His skin tenses and trembles through the fabric of his jumper as he lights the cigarette sitting between his teeth with a shudder. A hiss bleeds between his teeth as he exhales, hands burrowing deep into his pockets to stave off the cold. 

Truly, he is happy to be home, but those walls make his skin crawl. Old scars burn and itch every time he sees those photos hanging up on the walls, or when the wood floors creak a certain way. No amount of pine tree pollen or holiday cinnamon can fully cleanse the stale alcohol that permeates every pore in that house from shattered bottles and spilt cans. Each time he visits, he tries to override the memories. He tries to erase them and let them decay—create something new from the lingering pain. He’s tried to convince his mom to let him buy her a nicer place, or at least fix that damn bathtub, but she refuses every time. 

He swears that he’ll one day tear out every tile in that bathroom. 

A squeak sounds behind Simon as the sliding glass doors open, then quickly shut. He hurriedly exhales the smoke in his mouth before turning around, not at all surprised to find Tommy approaching him with his arms hugged to his chest. 

“Tryna bum a smoke?” Simon asks as he shoves the cigarette back between his lips. 

“What, and have Beth maul me in my sleep?” Tommy chuckles as he jams his thumb over his shoulder. “Been clean for nearly six years, and I don’t plan on throwin’ that away any time soon.” 

Dead grass crunches beneath Tommy’s feet as he approaches, but Simon’s chuckle drowns it out. “Good man.” 

Tommy hums as he stops next to his brother, still a good distance away so as to not get the stale scent of nicotine on him. Blue eyes keep flickering to the door where you, Beth, and Joseph continue to watch the movie, idle chatter filling the gaps of the film you’ve seen a million times over. He smirks, and it looks an awful lot like Simon’s 

“Didn’t realize you were bringin’ a girl,” he admits. “No wonder why mum seemed extra adamant ‘bout cleaning. How long have you two been together?” 

At that question, Simon takes a particularly long drag. It expands in his lungs; fills the space until there’s nothing left. When he exhales, it’s slow. Long. “We’re not together.” 

“Oh?” Tommy questions with a poorly restrained grin. “So, you just brought this completely random bird home to see the family? Nothin’ more?” 

“It’s complicated,” Simon deadpans. 

“Ah. Complicated. Bullshit,” Tommy retorts. 

The brothers fall silent as laughter bleeds through the doors behind them. Both men turn to find Joseph wrapped in Beth’s arms, swaying side to side as he points at the TV. You cover your laugh with the palm of your hand, but Simon catches on to the way your shoulders shake with the movement. 

“When are you gonna settle down? Start a family of your own?” Tommy questions, eyes still on his wife and son. “Sure mum’ll appreciate you gettin’ married before she’s too old to know where she’s at.” 

In an attempt to hide his laugh, Simon chooses to scoff instead. “I couldn’t do better than you ‘n Beth.” 

“Couldn’t you?” Tommy challenges. 

For a moment, Simon entertains it—the thought of a family. The thought of you. He’ll admit, he thinks of you often, but he can’t determine if it’s because he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, or because he’s still trying to solve the mystery of you. Of Andrei, of your reclusiveness; of everything. He can’t tell if his heart quickens because of you, or what might be chasing you. 

What a silly idea. With his line of work, and your obvious anxiety, he’s certain you’d want nothing to do with him if you ever found out what he does for a living. 

He doesn’t think he’d see you again if you ever caught sight of the blood that stains his hands. 

“I mean it,” Simon says, standing firm. “Buildin’ the life you did after everythin’ you went through, findin’ an amazing woman and havin’ a good son… I’m proud of you.” 

Tommy scoffs at Simon’s adulation like he’s about to spew something sarcastic at the man, but instead his lips pull into a reverent smile. Nodding, he sighs, breath spewing out in a fit of frost that’s quickly smothered by the bitter air as it rises and vanishes. An airplane flies overhead, its lights gently winking in the distance. 

“As the older brother, I think I’m supposed to be praisin’ you but… yeah. I’m proud of myself, too,” he admits. “To think about all the shit I had gotten caught up with. Fuck, surprised Beth ever saw anythin’ in me. Nearly got myself killed over drugs. Over that stupid fuckin’ debt. Needed my little brother to come save my arse. Still, I’ve got them. Somehow… I have them. Wouldn’t change that for the world.” 

Hot embers begin to burn too close to Simon’s fingers, and he discards the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and stomps out what remaining life it has left. He looks up at Tommy, but his eyes are focused on the smoldering remains of ash at his feet. 

“Do you run into him at all?” Tommy asks. 

“Who?”

“Marco.” 

Ravenous acrimony eats away at Simon’s chest at the name alone. Memories resurface—an overconfident prick with beady green eyes. He rubs at his knuckles as if he can still feel the way they split all those years ago. He presses against his fingers until they shift; their crack echoes dully off the dead grass and glass door. 

“If I did, he’d be fuckin’ dead,” he assures. 

Tommy chuckles, clearly caught off guard by his brother’s bloodthirst. “Well, I wouldn’t ever ask you to go that far, but… the cunt would deserve it. Besides, with your line of… work, I reckon it’s not too difficult to make people vanish.” He coughs, clearing his throat of any lingering second-hand smoke before he continues. “Speakin’ of that… does Chip know?”

“Know what?” 

“That you run with Price? That underground shit? The fuckin’ mafia?” Tommy clarifies. Simon’s silence is the only answer he needs. “You haven’t told her?” 

“It’s complicated,” Simon reiterates. 

Some facetious response dances on the tip of his tongue—Simon can see it in the way his mouth twitches—but Tommy stays silent. He sighs, then nods before looking back through the door. Their mother is on her feet, slowly maneuvering around the living room in a slight waddle in order to open the door. 

“Yeah. I know it is. Just… be careful,” he mumbles just as the door slides open. 

“Dinner’s ready! You two should come back inside. It’s freezin’ out here,” their mother urges. 

Both men glance at one another with a curt nod before trudging through the grass back to the house. The very moment they step back into the warm embrace of their childhood home, everything else seems to fade away. It vanishes the moment Simon looks at you—still curled up on the couch, ready for a cat nap. Any worries—any sour memories and old scars—all of it lingers in the backyard with the smoldering remains of Simon's cigarette; unimportant, and long forgotten.

[ghostedbunnie]

trouble comes in fours; simon's ver

you are trying to scare off your ex and who better to send him running than a masked burly guy you've met at a bar and who bulldozed his way into your bed.

simon riley x fem!reader nsfw, minors do not interact!! warnings: dub-con (drinking), fingering (fem!receiving), car sex, exhibitionism, oral (fem!receiving), doggy style, creampie, manhandling

prologue // other versions (TBA)

Everything that happened after Johnny invited you over (which really meant he pulled you by the hand before you could back out) was a blur. You found yourself sandwiched between the masked guy and the pretty boy who introduced himself as Johnny, speaking with a sexy, thick Scottish accent. You couldn't help but steal glances at the masked guy. He said nothing, merely dipped his chin in greeting and met your gaze with an unnerving stare.

From this close-up, you noticed parts of his blonde buzzcut where he had nicked himself with the razor. He had done it himself without a mirror, resulting in some slightly uneven spots. On someone else, this might make them appear unkempt, but for this giant of a man, it seemed just right—almost endearing.

Everything about him screams danger. His thigh is pressed against yours, and you're already sweating because he and Johnny feel like walking furnaces. When you try to pull off your hoodie, the alcohol courses through you, and your head spins. As you finally manage to take the garment off, you accidentally grab onto something solid and hard for support. Too late, you realize that your hand has latched onto the blond's muscular thigh. You immediately let go, as if you’ve been burned by the touch.

You almost swear you hear him snort under his mask. When he finally speaks, your thighs clench. “I think it’s time for you to head home, doll. Come.”

It sounds as if he is talking to a dog, and you feel a sense of indignation rising within you. "I'm not a dog to give orders to. Besides, I don't even know your name."

He rolls his eyes at you. "Simon. That better now?"

"Not really. How do I know you're not some serial killer?" That gets some laughs out of the rest of the table.

He leans down closer to your ear, and you can almost sense the smirk in his voice when he says, "You don't. It adds to the thrill." It could be the alcohol coursing through your veins or the way his voice, with its rough British accent, sends shivers down your spine, but you find yourself agreeing. In some twisted way, it does add to it.

You discover that Simon doesn’t actually drink; the beverage you saw in front of him was just plain water. When he drives you home, he looks absolutely ridiculous in your small car, taking up all the space. He grumbles about your seat being so close to the steering wheel. When you ask him how the other guys are getting home, he simply replies, “They’ll walk,” along with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

He doesn't touch the radio, and you're too nervous to reach for it. You soon realize that he's not much of a conversationalist. He only answers your questions but never offers any additional information that would prompt you to ask more. After you've exhausted all possible conversation starters, all you can do is sit and look out the window. You swear you see him chuckle at your fidgeting whenever the silence becomes oppressive. As you finally arrive home, you can hardly wait to bolt out of the car. The tension is so thick that you need some fresh air to breathe properly, trying to push away thoughts of the consequences of your actions.

Before you can act on those thoughts, a heavy hand grips the back of your neck. "You think too loud. Stop it." A retort dies in your throat as you're pulled into him so quickly that your head spins. You barely register him removing his mask; you can’t even enjoy the fact that his face is finally visible. He latches onto you with the hunger of a man starved, kissing you deeply and urging you to stick out your tongue more.

Just by kissing him, you can feel the scar running through his lips. There's another scar, one that you noticed before, that runs through his eyebrow. When he finally pulls away for a moment, you see that his nose was definitely broken at some point, and he never bothered to get it fixed. You can't help but wonder what it would feel like to sit on his face.

Unceremoniously, he pulls you over the center console and onto his lap, which causes you to squeal in surprise. He doesn’t even bat an eye as he manhandles you into position, making you think about how your ex couldn't even carry two bags of groceries without complaining about the weight.

Something must have revealed your train of thought, or perhaps it was simply the fact that you were still lost in your thoughts, because Simon growls in response. You can feel the sound reverberating through your hands, which rest on his impressive pecs.

"Stop. Thinking." Every word is punctuated by a grind of his hips. To his great amusement, your mind goes blank immediately.

He guides your hands to his zipper straining under his hard-on. "What if someone sees?"

He only replies with "They'll get a hell of a show then." before he drags the pads of his fingers over the wet patch on your panties underneath your skirt that has already ridden up to your hips. He pulls the crotch of your panties to the side and pushes up to a knuckle, wasting no time and making you cling to him for dear life. After he adds another and starts hitting all the spots that make you whimper into his thick neck, he chuckles. It sounds a little mean but it still shoots right to your pussy anyway. "Finally shut that brain of yours up, doll."

He pulls up your shirt with his free hand and drags the cups of your bra up as well before sucking a nipple into his mouth. In reaction you push further into him, making him hum. He ends up alternating between bites to the side of your tits and sucking angry red marks into your collarbones and neck. Every part of you will be sore tomorrow but that's something you'll deal with later.

He lets you ride his fingers, scratching at his back and shoulders, fisting his hoodie and when you finally let go and the orgasm makes your eyes roll back into your head, he pulls you back into him for a kiss. It's messy, all teeth and tongue. When he pulls back there is a string of saliva connecting you two and if your mind wasn't currently wiped by the mind-blowing orgasm you would be embarrassed by the pornographic imagery. Simon forces you to look at him, his big, rough fingers holding up your chin to make you meet his gaze. You finally see the color of his eyes: brown, with pupils dilated wide. "We're nowhere near done," he says.

Simon is a whirlwind; he makes decisions, and you find yourself following them as if they were orders. He doesn’t wait for an invitation; instead, he stands behind you, his chest against your back, providing support as your legs feel like jelly. The drinks you had are wearing off now.

When you take too long to get out of your shoes, Simon tosses you over his shoulder. "You're taking too damn long," he says. You give him directions to your bedroom, and before long, you're dropped onto the sheets. You’re about to call him a caveman for his methods, but the sight of him pulling off his hoodie, revealing he’s not wearing anything underneath, leaves you speechless.

His skin is pale, but you can still see angry-looking scars on his torso and arms. Some of them resemble cigarette burns, while others look like bullet wounds that didn't heal properly. All of that should make you reconsider the kind of danger you’ve just invited into your bed, but as your gaze wanders lower, following his blond happy trail, you find yourself unable to think about the consequences.One of his hands is tattooed up to his elbow, and you can't really tell the design in the low light but it only adds to his appeal. Something possesses you to act, you end up reaching for his zipper before he can and he only gives you a wolfish grin before you pull him out.

He's not wearing any underwear. Your mouth dries up at the sight of him. That's never going to fit. Only after hearing him laugh did you realize that you had said that out loud. He was already hovering above you, caging you in against the sheets. "We'll make it fit."

Your skirt and shirt with your bra soon follow his pants and are lost to the shadows of your bedroom floor. Your eyes are drawn to his dick, you can't help it. He's big and thick you can already imagine the stretch, there's a vein on the underside that makes you wanna follow it with your tongue all the way to the top to catch the pre-cum already gathered there but he doesn't let you. Instead, he drags you to the edge of the bed and throws your legs over his shoulders. You almost want to argue that you hadn't showered, it's been a long day, and he doesn't have to do this but one look at the intense stare makes you swallow all of that down. You don't want to mention that you've never had anyone go down on you before. Your ex-boyfriend wasn't one to reciprocate.

There is no time to think about how miserable your sex life might have been. A bite to the inside of your thigh serves as a warning, both to stop thinking and not close your legs. In your defense, you didn't even realize you were doing it. His eyes are almost unnervingly focused on you before he dives in. He's always been a bit of a messy eater; the sounds he makes in the back of his throat are nothing short of animalistic. If you weren't shaking from his ministrations, you might think he's enjoying himself even more than you are.

He only moves a bit to lock eyes with you and tell you how sweet you are, juices dripping down his stubbled jaw. "Come on now, gotta make sure you're ready f'r me, doll." He alternates fucking you on his tongue and sucking on your clit, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs to keep them open for him. He's only barely controlling his strength so you know there will be bruises on your hips and thighs tomorrow but you can't bring yourself to care especially not this close to another orgasm. He can feel you twitching, getting closer and closer. There's a second of fear that he'll stop but he doesn't. Instead, he adds a finger and pushes on that one spot that made you see stars. That was all it took to wring the second orgasm of the night out of you.

Boneless, you let go of the sheets you were gripping. You only get a second of rest before he's repositioning you on the bed again; it would be infuriating if you could actually move properly.

He presses you into the mattress with his body, his scarred lips brushing next to your ear. "This will be a rough ride for you, don't say I didn't warn you." that's all you get before he bullies the ruddy head of his cock inside of you. You have half a mind to pull away but his weight keeps you in place, when he finally bottoms out there are tears in the corner of your eyes from the stretch, he only drops a few open-mouthed kisses to your shoulders before he rises to his knees and pulls your ass to him.

Everything after that is a blur, you're going crazy from the echo of the slapping of skin against skin, and your arms gave out on you midway so all you can do is scrunch the sheets in your hands and moan out his name like a prayer, to slow down? To go faster? You don't know. If he set out to make sure you can't think he achieved it. Your brain is fuzzy, your legs are shaking and a knot is unwinding in your lower stomach again. It's all too much and not enough at the same time. One of his hands finds your clit and it's over for you. "Come f'r me, doll. That's it." You can hear him hiss from the way you tighten around him as you come. He doubles down chasing his own orgasm now, balls slapping against your pussy even harder. There is a split second of clarity that he didn't use a condom (even though you are on a pill) but as soon as the thought registers he's filling you up with a groan before again squishing you underneath him, cock still lodged deep inside you, keeping his spend from leaking out. When you try to move from underneath him, he only chuckles before his hands find your tits and knead them, making you moan. It will be a long night for you. You've invited a ghost into your bed, and now you must deal with the consequences.

The picture you took with a large black shadow looming over you in the mirror, with a tattooed hand resting on your neck, might help you get rid of your ex who keeps creeping on your social media posts.