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

[girl-lostconnection]

Acceleration AU (part 2)

Warnings: plus size!fem!Reader x Ghoap, jealousy, unhealthy attachment, Johnny is being a little creepy, no one fucking talks properly here

Soap travels with Ghost back to Manchester practically on the next day after Christmas, bags packed up the day before despite everyone insisting they stay for some more.

But Simon is practically one leg out the door during the whole evening so Johnny just smiles at his family and shakes his head. No, they aren’t staying.

Because Simon sure as hell isn’t staying (and Soap is not staying without him), because Simon has been watching his phone like it was supposed to open up a portal and spit out someone into his hands.

Which obviously didn’t happen.

Which in return obviously didn’t help Simon’s curt demeanour.

But Johnny did.

Soap presses himself into Simon’s side, hip to hip, hand snaking around him, palm resting on his back.

“Yer tense”, Soap notes, knuckles rubbing circular patterns into Ghost’s back.

The room is warm and full of people — laughing and drinking, glasses clinking, lights flickering. It’s a lot. Especially since Simon is not one for the crowds.

But Simon is one for Johnny.

Johnny who smiles in a way that makes Simon’s chest ache and canines itch.

Johnny who is a shining sun. Johnny who is eternal summer — eyes shimmering, world brightening whenever he is in the room.

Johnny who is light and laughter and fiery white hot surge of raw want.

Hungry for more, itching for more, biting and clawing out more.

Johnny is raw determination and sharp eyes and toothy smile and Simon doesn’t fucking know how he can feel this much tenderness for someone who’s this much trouble and who’s still wet behind his ears.

But he does.

And that’s why he drags himself to Glasgow, shakes hands with Johnny’s family and opens up his arms when Johnny gets into his room and bed at night.

Johnny sinks his sharp fucking teeth into Simon and holds on, disturbing everything in the process, knocking over the routines and rewriting the rules so he can worm his way in.

Simon doesn’t mind.

Simon nuzzles into the back of Johnny’s neck, teeth grazing vertebrae, tongue flickering out to collect salt of Soap’s skin.

Simon isn’t sure whether he wants to maul or mount Johnny.

Johnny doesn’t seem like he’d mind either.

So Simon changes his usual routine and comes to Glasgow and meets Soap’s family and deals with the crowd. Because it’s not so bad.

Because he’s with Johnny which makes things much easier.

And he’d be feeling even better if you were here, but you are not coming and he can’t really blame you for it.

After all, how would he even introduce you to Johnny and his family?

His friend? His emotional support person? His home?

Simon isn’t sure there is a word for what you have and at this point he isn’t entirely sure what it is you have. Who are you to each other?

He got so used to having only you on his orbit, so used to know that no matter what you and him are gonna gravitate back towards each other.

And now it’s Christmas and you aren’t here. Why the hell you aren’t here?

Agitation slowly climbs in him, fingers drumming against his thigh, jaws clenching together when one of Johnny’s sisters accidentally brushes against him.

She looks like a nice bird, probably didn’t mean anything by it but Ghost is at his limit and probably there is something in the heavy hover of his brows that makes her stop mid-apology and walk away.

“What’s up with ya?”, Johnny’s brows furrow, eyes flicking between his sister and Simon.

Yes, Ghost doesn’t do crowds but this is something entirely different.

This is an itch he can’t scratch and it makes Soap’s upper lip twitch in a promise of a snarl.

Because that’s not fair.

Because he got so far and now Simon is backing off for some unknown fucking reason and he’s not saying anything but “nothin’, Johnny. All good”.

So Soap snaps his jaws shut and gets onto the train to Manchester. Whatever the fuck it is he will find out soon enough.

Simon doesn’t talk much on his way home, just glances at the phone from time to time.

Hoping that maybe you will text him something about your Christmas. Or a photo of tree you decorated this year.

Or a photo of yourself.

Agitation continues its relentless climb up and he realises his knee was jerking up and down only when Soap presses his hand on it, slowing him down.

He’s not saying anything but there is the same look in his eyes he gets when he isn’t sure whether to do something or let it steam for a bit.

Simon doesn’t say anything but some tension drains out of him the harder Soap presses on his knee, heel of Simon’s boot now digging into the floor.

Pressure feels nice. Pressure feels right. Pressure grounds Simon and he forces himself to breathe slower.

It’s fine. It’s nothing.

You probably had a good time (which for some reason doesn’t seem to make him feel better) and are having yourself a proper hangover sleep-in after celebrating.

Probably that’s why you didn’t answer when he called you in the morning. Just a bit too much fun yesterday.

It’s nothing.

It’s nothing, but Simon is a tight wound spring all the way to the flat, that starts to uncoil only when he unlocks the door and steps inside, noting that your coat is hanging. Your boots are here. You are at home.

It’s warm inside, air smells like ginger and something savoury that makes his mouth water, the Christmas tree is bloody stunning.

And Simon finally feels like breathing again when he hears you shuffling around the kitchen.

Thank fucking god.

Simon shakes off snow and shows Soap where to put his boots and where to hang his coat, suddenly much calmer, tension draining from his shoulders like someone pulled the plug.

Simon pads in the living room announcing “we are home, luv” and plops his and Soap’s bags near the couch before he moves in the direction of what Johnny assumes is kitchen.

It’s strange to see him like that. It’s practically alien and Johnny doesn’t miss the extra pair of winter boots right next to Simon’s. Couple sizes smaller. A coat on the hanger that smells with something faintly sweet. Perfume?

But he doesn’t have much time to think about it because Ghost grumbles “where’s your phone, I’ve been callin’” to someone and Soap feels the creak in his neck with how slowly he turns his head.

But Simon just wraps himself around you, face pressing into the crown of your head, practically rubbing his face in your hair and god, that’s bloody fantastic.

He should have came in person and got you so you could go to Glasgow together.

He should have called you proper and brought you to meet Johnny. He should have come up with something because who fucking cares how he can introduce you? It’s no one’s bloody business who you are.

Simon knows who you are, that’s enough as it already is.

Simon uncurls his hands only when Johnny pads into the kitchen but he still presses a tight kiss to your temple, practically purring out “cookin’ somethin’, sweet’eart? I brought Johnny with me, i’s okay’ yeah?”.

Johnny in question meets your eyes for the first time, feeling an ugly rise of jealousy when you murmur “back so soon, Simon. Go wash, yeah? I’m gonna throw black in next so you can drop your balaclava in the washing machine” like it’s the most usual thing in the world.

Like this is your normal.

Johnny watches a stranger whom Simon cuddled like she was everything and doesn’t know what to do.

She looks back at him, eyes boring into him with quiet intensity he felt before only with Simon.

She looks at him and then her eyes slide down to the nameplate on his uniform and the way her eyes narrow makes Soap feel like he fucked up.

And he doesn’t even know her name yet.

“You are Soap”, she hums, her face carefully neutral but the way she stares him down makes Johnny feel 18 and in his first demolitions training all over again.

Don’t pull the pin out of the grenade when it’s still in your hands. Don’t pull the pin out of the grenade when it’s still in your hands. Don’t-

She is pretty. Wide shouldered and broad, soft sweatpants tighter fit on her hips, dark clearly man’s (clearly Simon’s) sweater a comfy fit on her.

Johnny feels the simmering tension under her skin. Under that bloody sweater.

Johnny feels like there is ticking under her skin, time quickly running out and he has no idea where her wires are.

There is a familiar pump of adrenaline in his system, tips of fingers tingling — twitching to touch. Itching to rub her against the growth of nonexistent fur. Soothe the agitation.

Soap is itching to open her up and see what this ticking is all about.

She looks at him like she’d blow up in his face if he even tries. She looks at him like she’d do it on purpose.

Johnny licks his lips, heart thumping in his ears, phantom ticking of a bomb making him restless, every instinct urging to move, to touch, to see.

Her upper lip twitches and he smiles, eyes dropping to it.

Oh, she doesn’t like him. Why’s that?

Johnny smiles, asking for her name — teeth a flash in the warm lights of Christmas decorations and lamp on the kitchen table.

When she speaks there is an edge to her words, a silent warning not to push, eyes intense and wide open when he tilts his head to the side.

Johnny drawls out her name, savouring every sound, sweat at the back of his neck trickling under his collar when her brow arches, her gaze growing heavier. He can practically hear unsaid “bad dog”.

Pretty.

Johnny wants to crack her open and touch every tiny detail, wants to tug on her wires, wants to see sparks, wants her to vibrate and tick some more for him.

Johnny swallows, his throat bobbing and takes a step to her.

She could hurt him.

He’d probably let her.

“Didn’t know Simon was bringing guests”, she mused and Johnny feels like dropping to his fucking knees and pressing his whole body into her legs, his face in her stomach.

Instead he licks his lips again, eyes sharp as he notes the undertone of “what the fuck are you doing here”.

There is a firework-like cracking inside his scull as he takes another step towards her and watches with strange joy her upper lip raise in actual snarl.

It disappears as quickly as it was shown but it’s already more than he got before.

Soap wants to wrap his palm around the back of her neck and rub his thumb on the hard point of vertebrae.

He isn’t sure whether he’d like to snap your neck or stroke you some more. See what other reaction he can get.

Because you call his lieutenant “Simon”, because you are wearing his lieutenant’s sweater, because you look at Johnny with polite eyes of a lady that never had to deal with mutts like him.

Johnny tilts his head to the other side, neck cracking, strands of outgrown mohawk falling over his forehead.

You look like everything he isn’t, like everything he had to work his arse off to even come close to be, like someone who gets Ghost’s affection without even trying.

“L.T. didn’t tell he had a bird at home”, Soap murmurs, grin widening when your eyes narrow, lashes arrow sharp. Thrill courses though his whole body as he tilts forward. (god does he know jealousy, could’ve wrote thesis on it, could’ve given lectures on it if anyone cared to listen)

He licks his lips again, suddenly realising what is simmering in the bottom of your eyes, his lips stretching even wider.

Hit a sore spot, didn’t he?

Soap breathes you in, forcing you back to press into the counter, scent soft and barely there — no perfumes yet, you probably didn’t leave the house.

Tasty.

“Simon didn’t tell me he’d be bringing you”, you muse back, voice carefully level, lips curling upwards when Soap recoils back, eyes heavier now.

Good.

It’s petty and he haven’t really done anything to you.

But Simon brings him without warning and your whole carefully constructed routine falls apart.

Your plans, your “normal”, your fucking Christmas.

Silence stretches between you two, hovers in the air heavy and thick. But you already gave up your Christmas with Simon to this bloke, you aren’t gonna give another bloody inch.

But it aches, your chest hurting, thorns growing through your veins, curling around your palms and you want to feel nothing but feel upset and abandoned instead.

You don’t look at Soap and don’t see the way his eyes get a little softer when you make no move to stab him with a cookie cutter or smack the daylight out of him.

The phantom ticking stops.

Well, that wasn’t very nice behaviour from both of you. It’s no way to start, isn’t it?

“Yer hoos is a bonnie sight”, he says quietly, stepping back before he extends his hand to you, palm up. “I’m John MacTavish. Soap.”

Your eyes on him are wary and surprised but you still shake his hand, your grip a solid warm presence.

A soft one. A really nice one.

“Thank you”, there’s a pause before you finally say something back, your name rolling off your tongue in return.

Soap hates the way strange trepidation rises in him when you give him a slow blink, shoulders sagging down — fight no longer etched in every line of you.

You look so gentle when you don’t snarl and turn your nose up away from him.

Johnny hums, squeezing your hand one more time and lets it go.

“I’m gonna check on Ghost. Feels like he drowned himself out in yer sink”

To Johnny’s absolute delight you snort, your face lighting up like nothing he has ever seen.

“Bring him back, I’ll put the kettle on”, you shake your head and Soap’s fingers itch again to touch the apple of your cheek. “Fancy some tea? We have different kinds”, you offer to him. A gesture of hospitality.

A peace offering.

Soap rolls his eyes, smirking and breathes out “foockin’ brits and their tea”, but still nods.

Tea is alright. Tea is a start.

Tag list: @thestoriesiread @skeletonsucker

[tojisun]

simon riley x f!reader; uhhh a wedding night kink au blurb or something like that idk anymore

it coalesces — the burning need; the hunger; the itch to touch and to claim. it is seeping into your pores, leaving you parched and heady, your breaths coming out in rasps as you stare at him heave from across you.

simon’s jeans are pooled to his knees and you trail your eyes down from his chest to his flushed cock where it twitches on his thigh. he hasn’t even touched himself yet but it is already an angry red, leaking, and so sensitive, that it has him gripping at the edges of the mattress.

simon has never looked so… debauched as he does now.

he has never looked more subservient to his desires and he has never acted like his hunger triumphs over everything, leaving him as he is now, all sloppy before you. his cold bravado and his walls that drive you out have crumbled. he is so putty now, and you haven’t even done anything. not a whimper, or a tease of a show. you just walked into the kitchen, in the pretty dress which johnny drunkenly confessed that simon bought for you, and talked.

you spoke about your day — about work and your meetings; about the recipe you wanted to try; about the trip to the grocery shop and the limited sale of the ribeyes that simon particularly loves.

you just told him how fun it is to be a civilian again. how it was so easy to fall back into the normalcy of a woman your age, amiably befriending the mothers at the park who shared their favourite recipes with you before ushering their chubby babes back home, or the butchers who were obviously trying to make you buy more cuts of meat than you needed, or even your short meeting with kate that had little substance as you two just fell into a quiet conversation about her wife.

it was a day full of banality, and you shared that with simon. but, somehow, something about it, about you, dragged his aches into the surface because the next thing you knew was that simon was slotting himself behine you, fitting you in the spaces of his arms, before breathing you in.

you stuttered out his name, only for your voice to warble even more when he rutted his hips along the plush of your ass, all purposeful and slow.

“si…” you gasped out, blinking the fog away.

this wasn’t the first time that simon and you fooled around, and you are sure that it would never be the last, but it was never this charged. it was never so—

intimate.

it always happened in quick bursts, like two beasts jumping at each other, snapping maws and showing fangs, like any sign of weakness would end with a throat ripped open. but never like this — at a safehouse, in clothes that are so ordinary that one would never mistake the two of you as spec-ops, and sensual.

it was never a needy rutting nor a slow fever.

it was always an all-consuming passion so this… carefulness left you—

well.

it left you aching.

like the rug had been ripped from underneath you, and you are thrusted into the abyss, only with the heat of simon’s body burning from where he’s caressed maps into your back.

“room,” you remember gasping out. you felt him nod before he planted a kiss on the side of your neck, making you jump, and then he was tugging the two of you to the bedroom.

then here you are now, by the door, watching as he dropped himself on his mattress, his scarred hands tearing into his buckles and his zipper before tugging his jeans down and leaving him bare while you remain there standing, heaving, and your eyes wide open as you drink him in.

“c’mere,” simon rumbles, his voice grave and heavy, and you follow his call because you are enchanted by him.

you fall to his lap, your dress ruffling as you scoot closer, closer, closer. you pause. simon clicks his tongue and pulls you even closer.

“s’right,” simon murmurs when your clothed cunt finally brushes against his leaking cock. “sit on it, pretty.”

he wraps you in his arms, and leaves searing kisses along the cut of your jaw and the slope of your cheek, and it is so, so drunken and clingy that you cannot help but mirror his affections. you cling onto his shoulders, nuzzling close, before humping at his cock, feeling its sticky pre- mussing the cloth of your panties.

“that’s it,” simon sighs, almost dreamily. “such a good wife f’r me.”

oh.

oh.

a mewl leaves your lips as your mind catches up to what made simon like this — you realize now that he’s envisioned something like this before. a life outside of the violence. a life where he dresses you up and you become his pretty wife; dolled up for him, cooking for him, coming home to him.

“yesss,” you keen. “thank you si.”

you hump at his cock faster, positioning yourself so that every brush of the head bumps into your hardening clit. “thank you, husband.”

simon’s hands clamp down on the meat of your ass, and he groans, loud and deep.

“gonna buy you a ring,” he grunts, his voice all sticky with his desire. “gonna make this permanent, baby.”

a soft hiccup leaves your lips, your eyelashes fluttering when he pulls back just enough to gaze up at you.

“y’would love that, won’t you?” he asks just for formality.

“yes,” you gasp out, feeling his hands slide underneath the skirt of your dress and into your panties, his palms rough against the fat of your ass. “love nothing more, si.”

his whole body shivers, like it is singing in pleasure, before he plants a chaste kiss on your lips.

“say i do.” his thumb finds your clit, rubbing in familiar circles.

you hiss for a second, your eyes shutting close at the muted pleasure racing across your nerves.

“so beautiful f’r me,” you hear him say, and it is so breathy that you almost miss it but his benevolence sticks to you and not even an orgasm feels as good as hearing his devotion so you look back at him, your trembling hands cupping his cheeks, before you finally whisper, “i do.”

you lock your vow with a kiss, this one more hungry as hot lips devour each other. and, like a good husband, simon makes love to you all night long.

[sheepispink]

FIX IT SIMON! ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

Pairings: Lieutenant!Ghost x civilian, baker! reader

Part 5 of Sweet As Sugar Series ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Simon’s been put on leave, much to his annoyance, and due to the Christmas period your shop isn’t even open. So he has to wait painstakingly for two days for it to reopen once more, and when it does, he doesn’t plan to leave.

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Finally, he’s been pushed on holiday, by force no less, and his first feeling is that he’s bored— extremely so. The initial plan was to sleep through the entire first day, but he could barely get more than a few hours in before he was awake in a cold sweat. At least back at base he could work it off in the gym, or with a few laps around the muddy track. Here in this apartment, he couldnt nearly do as much as he’d like to, especially with the eerie quietness about it. Usually he could hear Soap snoring next door, or at least Price’s quiet murmurs as he reads over another mission plan. It didnt help that he got let off right on Christmas Eve, which meant today and tomorrow he could barely do anything around town since nothing would be open, especially your cafe.

He could never relate to the other soldiers about the joy of returning home though. They’d groan on and on about how they missed the smell of home cooked food, plush pillows in their beds, being warm on the coldest nights and most of all being fussed over by their parents, siblings or well.. their lover. He can hardly remember where he left the spare toilet paper let alone find comfort in the scent of his ‘home’, nor actually find comfort in his bed. The sheets move around too much, pulling off the corners of his bed every time he tosses, and they're rough against his bruises, not doing anything to soothe his aches.

A few years back, he moved out of Manchester to stay in Cardiff. It didn't affect him much anyway, considering he was barely at his own apartment throughout the year, but it did make it particularly easier on the odd chance he was kicked out of base— part of the rules for the Christmas holidays. He really had tried to argue with Price, but he wouldn't have it, telling him to ‘just take a damn break’. Soap had even joked a few times about dragging him over to Scotland with him, but Ghost wasn't too sure if he could handle another Mactavish let alone just Soap. Plus, any type of family gathering was really not his thing.

So, after surviving his second restless night, he makes the impulsive decision to drive down to your town at seven am, arriving there in half an hour. The bell jingles, early regulars already filtering in and out the cafe for their coffee before their jobs start. He usually either went now or near closing time, trying his best to avoid the busiest hours— otherwise he’d never get to see you.

“Cardamom tea.” He grunts at you before placing a five pound note on the counter, eyes catching onto the mess behind the counter before he raises a brow at you.

“What the hell happened back there?”

You sigh, glancing back at the wet floor sign and the spices hastily swept underneath the cupboards. “The front sink suddenly burst this morning. I've been using bottled water but it’s starting to become an issue.”

You ring in his order though, turning around to dispense the premade tea, the large airpot keeping it warm. It was way better than any teabag, the fresh spices balancing out in his mouth in a way that makes some part of him melt.

“Have you called a plumber yet?” He watches as you strain the spices out before pouring into a cup for him, placing the lid on and grabbing your pen for your signature doodle. It’s not like he wanted to admit he liked them, but you’ve been getting increasingly creative with the mini-version of him who's been up to all kinds of things.

“Ah.. well, the closer it gets to Christmas the harder it is to find anyone. It’ll have to be fixed in the new year.” You give him a shrug as you hand over the cup, obviously looking a little down about having to deal with a dodgy sink on top of running the shop each day. It’d certainly makes your tea products a struggle to produce and he doesn't even need to ask to see you contemplating shutting it down. “Let me ‘ave a look.” There’s not much he could do to make it worse anyway, so you unlock the small swing gate, letting him walk around the corner. Usually , you would’ve helped him inspect it, but a group of regulars returned for their usual meeting and you knew this would be an order you had to handle now. Though, when you finally complete it, he’s disappeared off again.

“Hi, what can I get for you today?” Just like the first day you met, your music is blaring in the background, considering it’s half an hour till closing and many don't hang around till now. Finally you lift your head, meet with Simon’s familiar black mask and you smile, though slightly tilting your head in confusion.

“Oh— what are you doing back here? Wait- did I forget a plan?”

Your face grows into one of panic and he quickly quells it with a firm shake of his head. A soft thud rings out and you look down to see a toolkit he had just placed on the table, what looks to be plumbing supplies.

“We’ll have that sink workin’ by the end of today.”

He had gotten to work immediately, muttering to himself about how bad the previous owners had been to let it get to this state as he crouched in front of the sink cabinet. “Simon, you really don’t have to—“ He shakes his head,reaching into a carrier bag to pull out a flexi hose and other things you don't recognise. “You got a customer waitin’ for you.” You squeak, having not even realised and quickly apologise before taking the order. In no time, your sink is working again, although Simon did get a little drenched when he tested it and the water pressure was a bit too high. The sight had you in fits of laughter as you quickly searched for a towel. Besides that, you marvelled at how he had restored the sink with a bit of diy, cringing at the dirty state of the old pipes and the like.

“Thank you for everything today. I’m thinking about getting a filter attachment for the water so it’s better quality. You’ll be the first to try the new teas, of course.”

That’s accompanied by your usual emoji, that of which is a little smiley with its tongue sticking out. He has no idea why you’re so enthralled by the mini pictures but he’s made no effort to stop you, just replying back in his own usual tone.

“You’re welcome. Filtered water sounds good, tea will taste better too.”

Okay, so maybe he didnt text as nicely as you and had a bad habit of getting straight to the point— you didn't seem to mind too much though, and it’s better than leaving you on read like he’s heard some men have done. A sigh puffs out his chest as his head hits the pillows, looking at the speckles on his ceiling as he thinks over the day. It felt good to be occupied, and not in the usual ‘planning something that could end up killing people if done wrong’ way. His job helped people of course, damn every mission was always for a better cause but something was different with the way you had lit up, grinning at his handiwork. Families had thanked him before— nervously because of his heavy armour but thanked him nonetheless. Yet still he didn't get that rush, the one that made his teeth grit, eyes avert awkwardly and his fists to clench a little. One that made him a little uncomfortable, though sent him reeling all the same. ‘If i didnt fix it, I'd never get my tea for a long while..’ He concludes that must be why he ran out to the nearest home diy store, and definitely not the frown on your lips. it must be.

Despite that, he was seemingly having an internal battle with himself the longer the days continued with little sleep. He just had no excuses for what he was doing anymore, nothing was making sense. Most of all was when the next day he made his way to your shop again, muttering something about ‘The fridge made a loud noise when i was here. It’s annoying.’ before he was stalking around the counter and pulling it away from the wall. He checks all the vents, and clears the dust buildup from many years of use. You confess your parents planned for a new one but you haven't been able to afford it yet.

“I don't need it.” He shrugs as he hands you the military discount card he keeps spare, supposed to be for family members but now he’s giving it to you. It’s still early when he's done with the fridge, and decides to check out the lights in the main kitchen, where all the bakes are made. He’s been here before, when you needed to clean it at closing time and he stayed late again. One of them needs to be replaced, obviously and so he takes it upon himself to do that. Somehow he finds another problem, fixing the squeakiness of the back door.

This carries on until a third day, he had come by after munching down some dinner, and he somehow migrated his problem fixing to your small apartment upstairs. You didn't mind of course, and he hadn't pushed, in fact he sounded more awkward than you when he spoke up. “If your pipes were this rusty downstairs, I think the ones upstairs can only be worse. You should.. get that checked out.” He mutters, his arms crossed over as he crouches before the kitchen water pipes. You have to stifle a smirk, nodding along with his words instead. Whilst he worked, he’d ask the odd question and you had explained that the previous owners barely used the apartment themselves— explaining his assumption.

“Ah.. I really should get someone to check it out…”

It feels fun to act like this— you almost feel like you’re saying no to a kid about buying a toy. He’s sitting there silently but you know he wants to go up and sort it out for you. The reason? You’re not sure, but you have a few suspicions. “You’re on holiday now, right?” You glance at him as he stands from his crouched position, and he nods. “Are you doing anything for it?”

“No.” He grunts almost a little too quickly, the boredom practically agitating his soul now as he shifts, fidgeting with the tools as he places them back in the boxes. “Oh.. well, would you mind checking my pipes out upstairs then? I mean… as long as you're not too busy. You can just tell me what’s wrong and i’ll hire a plumber later—“

“I’ll fix tha’ by tonight.” So, you close up the shop, since it’s late now already, and walk up the small staircase up to your apartment. It looked far smaller on the outside, but you had planned your space well. There was a kitchenette, looking a lot more modern than the bakery downstairs. Rather than the dark mahogany, it was a lighter brown and off white walls, matching the plush leather couch before your tv. It was clear you had done some work on it yourself, or hired someone at least, to renovate the place. He takes his shoes off by the door and you take his jacket from his hands to rest it on a little hook. It was cute to him, to see how you’ve cosied up this space to be one of your own. The first thing he notices is how warm it is, not a sweaty hot but like sitting infront of a fire on a freezing day. It’s welcoming, the warm light rather than the sterile white he’s accustomed to, as well as the little picture frames among the walls of artwork you’ve grown fond of over the years. He even smiles at your key holder, the way a cat pops out as you place the key down.

He’d describe it as a home, a real one. From the small clutter of dishes that you shyly hurry him past, or the blanket still splayed over the couch from a late night movie— hell even the bin full to the brim. It’s full of life, something his apartment has never known. “Alrigh’ let’s see the damage here.”

“Will you be fine here on your own? I still need to clean up downstairs..”

He nods quickly, even going as far as to shoo you away and you laugh hurrying down again.

You come up at eight, wanting to deliver him a cup of the leftover tea from today whilst you washed out the large airpots you kept them in. “Simon?” You call out, looking around until you see him standing before the sink, finally repaired and looking a little.. dazed. “I’ll be finished in a bit, why dont you take a seat on my couch and watch some tv?”

“I should go home—“

“No! ..I mean, I can't just force you to go now after all your hard work. Stay and drink the tea please?” He cant say no to those eyes and so he grunts, letting you tug him over to the couch and sit him down. Then you hurry over to the cabinet, rummaging out a pack of nachos and some salsa. “Help yourself, okay? I’ll be done soon. Promise.”

Then he’s left alone again, sitting there quietly as he sips on the mug of tea you gave him. It’s in a mug that has prints of skulls all over it, and a ghost on the centre with a little ‘boo!’ next to it. He finds it awfully fitting, a bit curious on when you even bought this and when you planned to show him it. Like he said before, your tea is just perfect. The right mixture of sugar, spice and everything else nice. It breaks down a part of him he hadn't known existed, muscles relaxing into the plushness of the couch. He’s got a large cushion behind his back, something you must love since there’s a few more littering the couch too. The tv is quiet, on one those stupid adult cartoons that he’s never found quite funny but the ambience of this is too cosy to deny, too comforting. Has it really been that long since he’s slept? He hadn't wanted to admit it, but he’d been avoiding sleep recently just to escape those nightmares for a bit. This was comfy though, almost too comfy, but you said you’d be back soon— he’s sure the military trained him to wait that long anyway. So he sits there quietly, waiting.

When you return, you call out again, only to recieve silence in response. Confused, you walk further in, seeing him sitting upright. “Lt! Simon! …Ghost?” Still no reply, that is until you hear quiet breathing, and you step closer to see his head is slumped back a little. Carefully tiptoeing around the couch, his blonde eyelashes are pressed against the black cut outs of his mask, lips gently parted as his chest rises and falls. You can see his chin properly for once, the small curves of his lips and the pin prick of a scar near his neck. That makes you swallow sharply, only images of him being near death coming to your mind. For now, you shake it out and try to figure out what to do with the sleeping hunk of a man on your couch. Of course, you’re far from being annoyed but you’d feel extremely guilty if you didn't at least try to wake him.

What if he feels uncomfortable when he wakes?

“Si..” You whisper, the nickname unintentionally slipping out as you gently rub his shoulder. No response is heard, only a deep breath leaving his chest as he relaxes into your couch. “Si, you fell asleep.” This time, you think he’s woken but he just shifts his body, head leaning back further to press into the back of the couch. You sigh, not sure what else to do than to just leave him here until he wakes. There’s no point attempting more drastic measures, knowing damn well you likely cant even lift his arm just from the sheer muscle on it. “You gonna lie down at least? That’s gonna hurt your neck in the morning.”

It had been a murmur to yourself but he had seemed to have the same idea, head sinking a little more in search for a comfortable place to rest. He grunts in his sleep, mask crinkling near his eyes as they squeeze. You tug his arm gently to lead him, and he subconsciously follows, adjusting himself until his head rests on a cushion you placed on the armrest. His arm lazes over his stomach as he gets comfortable on his side, cheek pressing in to the pillow just slightly. Smiling to yourself, you grab the thick throw blanket from the back of the couch and tuck it around him before reaching out towards his face. Your fingers tangle on the fabric of his mask, his nose twitching until you slowly drag down the bunched fabric to his chin. “Sleep well, Si.” The couch creaks as he sinks in further, the light ahead flickering off with the touch of your fingers.

It’s late in the morning when he grunts, though today it’s not the light from the curtains annoying him, nor does he wake up to silence neither. Infact, a soft hum is heard not too far away and he’s almost positive he’s dreaming now. Quickly perking up at the unfamiliar surroundings, he whips his head around only to see you standing in an apron, teeth biting your lip as you concentrate on scooping an egg perfectly in the plate. You practically beam at your own work, finally looking up to see him stare back at you, throw blanket sliding off his shoulders. “What the–” His voice is cold, instantly reverting to his military instincts before you chuckle, the sound easing something in him. “You fell asleep on my couch, silly. Looked exhausted too– have you been sleeping well recently?” He sits up properly now, glad for the mask to cover his warming face, before walking over to the counter you stand at.

“Not my fault your couch is comfy.” He takes the plate you slide towards him, lifting his mask to his nose as he takes a bite of the sausage.

“You’re avoiding my question, Si.” His eyes flicker up, caught off guard by the nickname but any challenge he wanted to give you for having the audacity quickly dies in his throat. He’s not the man for you, but you’re so damn tempting to him. Never has he hesitated to set a boundary, yet here he is letting you call him Si. “Fine, I havent been sleeping well. Just adjusting, tha’s all.”

You don't believe him, but there’s not much you can do, not when he’s being stubborn as it is right now. Despite that, you still couldn't just let him deal with it on his own either, not after everything he’s been doing for you. So you shuffle through your cupboards, grabbing a packet of Chamomile tea and offering it to him. “Take it. It might not be perfect, but it helped me relax when I had insomnia.” Then you’re grabbing a diffuser too, and a few candles, placing everything into a small carrier bag. “If it doesn't work, then I guess you’ll just have to sleep on my couch forever.” He rolls his eyes at your cheeky words, and grabs your empty plate to stack atop his.

“Alrigh’ fine. But I'll hold you to that promise.”

He might have to start praying they dont work.

—————————————————————-

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Taglist:

@hidden-treasures21 @bieberismysoulmate @gallantys @tessakate @galactict3a @krispymagazinepizza-blog @silas-aeiou @kupids-arrow

[paige1722]

Pairing: Phantom!Simon Riley x reader

Warnings: gross behavior from a man, almost sexual assault?violence, stalking

I was listening to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack and thought of this.

900ish words

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-

The Ghost has always been there, watching. Ever since you joined this Opera House as a dancer two years ago. Even though you have never actually spoken to him or seen him up close, the hair on the back of your neck raised with the feeling of someone watching you has been a constant presence in your life, his looming shadow that is always hanging over you no matter where you go, his figure that never seems to leave the corner of your eye. 

When you think about the masked man or Ghost, as he is fearfully referred to as, you can’t bring yourself to be scared of him or feel any hostility towards him as you once were when you first noticed him watching you. Now, you even begin to refer to him as your guardian angel, making you feel safe and protected, knowing that he is always there looking out for you. It all started when he would leave you small red roses with a black ribbon tied around the stem and a small wax skull in the center of your room after particularly rough days, sometimes even leaving food with it when you accidentally end up missing dinner because of dance practice taking longer. 

Some of the other dancers are scared of you, now thinking that you are in cohorts with the supposed Ghost and will incur his wrath if they are seen talking to you. It doesn’t bother you that they all leave you alone now because they were never really the best company to keep around anyways, always getting into trouble trying to sabotage one another for the leading roles in performances besides, you have found friendship with two of the stagehands.

Today, something was different; there had been a strange gut feeling that something bad was going to happen today ever since you woke up, causing you to be more on edge. As you stand in the practice room alone, trying to perfect the newest choreography, the door slams open, causing you to jump in surprise. You turn around to see the newest stagehand smiling creepily at you. You hear your friends talk about him, and they have nothing good to say about him. The door clicks into place behind him, breaking you out of your thoughts as he walks to where you stand in front of the mirror. 

Taking a step back as he approaches fearfully, you ask, “What are you doing?” 

He lets out a deep chuckle, eyeing you up and down, “ I just wanted to introduce myself to you; I have seen you around and thought that we should get to know each other better.” He reaches his hand up, resting his hand around your neck and rubbing his thumb against the side of your neck. 

You let out a panicked sound, ripping the man's hand away from around your neck and stepping away from him, “What are you doing!?”  you shout as you make your way towards the door, but not putting your back towards him in fear for what might happen if you do. 

He lunged forward harshly, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into him, trapping you in his grasp. “Relax, you might end up liking it. You never know.” he sneered before. His heavy breathing fanning over your face, making you recoil in disgust, trying to free yourself from his arms. You begin screaming at the top of your lungs for help, hoping that someone will hear you and come to your rescue. 

 Loud bangs erupted from behind the mirror, and the sound of glass shattering echoed in the room. The man holding you throws you to the side, causing you to lose your balance, falling to the floor and smacking your head against the ground. At the harsh impact, black dots begin to swarm your vision; the last thing you hear as you succumb to the darkness is the thudding of heavy hits like someone was fighting. 

From the darkness, your Ghost had emerged when he heard your desperate screams for help. He had left you alone in the practice room for no longer than five minutes so that he would be able to leave a rose in your room like always, but this time, as he approached the practice room, instead of hearing you dancing around the room, he heard the sounds of your cries for help. Sending fear and anger throughout his body, without even thinking, Ghost threw himself into the two-way mirror, shattering it into a million pieces. At the sight of him emerging from behind the mirror, the man who held you captive threw your body to the ground as Ghost grabbed the man, unleashing punch after punch. The pathetic man tried fighting back, but it was no use; he didn’t stand a chance against the Ghost. 

After a couple of heavy hits, the man lays limp at Ghost's feet; whether he is dead or alive does not matter to him at all. The only thing on his mind was you. He walks over to you, carefully lifting your unconscious body into his arms, checking for injuries, and finding nothing too serious. He stands, cradling you to his chest, walking back to the gaping hole in the mirror. 

Reaching his liar hidden deep beneath the Opera House, Ghost gently places you down on his bed, whispering to your unconscious form, “Don’t worry, no one will ever hurt you again.” 

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-

Price, the owner of the Opera House, lets out a deep sigh at the letter from Ghost in his hands. He lits up a cigar, letting out a puff of smoke before standing and beginning to make his way to the practice dance room, muttering curses under his breath at another mess he has to clean up.

[darkeraurora]

Admissions - Chapter 3

Small Moments

Word count 3617 SFW Spanish translations are at the end.

Content warnings: swearing (our boo does that), and details of how Simon got his face scars.

Image is by NoteszB on Twitter. Look at this beautiful thing and his freaking long blond eyelashes! I didn't see a watermark or anything asking to not repost, and I don't have Twitter (image is from Google), if anyone knows if NoteszB prefers their work not be reposted like Umikochan, or if the watermark has been removed, please comment and I'll happily change it.

“Feels like I’m about to blast off.”

Sereza hummed. “MRIs always gave me Star Trek vibes.”

“Is this thing gonna blow up with me in it?” Soap asked over the mic inside the scanner.

“Uh,” the petite female began. From the back of the room, the silent skull and the captain watched her scroll through several images of Johnny’s head. The team had a vested interest in this; if it went well, she’d said, the drain could be removed and the 141 would be much closer to getting back to their hunt. “Nahhh,” she finally answered back a bit too casually.

“Not very convincing Lass,” the Scot griped.

 Slender fingers flicked past several more images. “I’m like, 67% sure it'll be fine.”

“What?!!”

“Steady soldier,” Ghost’s deep voice commanded. Dark irises looked down at the woman when she shivered. An eyebrow arched, inquisitive.

“LT don’t let me die in here!”

Fucking hell, so dramatic. “Keep it tactical Sargeant.”

“Ugh, fine. But I want my chest candy for this!” Soap wagged his finger in their general direction.

“Best I can do is let you keep your grippy socks,” the peanut replied dryly. Price barked out a loud laugh. Even the stoic Brit shook a bit with a silent chuckle before reaching out and patting just above her ponytail. Silent praise for her quick wit.

Both men straightened and came to attention as Raphael rounded the corner, knocking his knuckles against the open door. “Vete a la chingada,” Sereza snapped.

The major smirked. “Well that’s not very nice.”

“Don’t care.”

“So spicy,” he crooned, lifting an arm toward her hair.

Sereza swatted his hand away viciously. “Ya te dije que no hicieras eso!” The corner of Simon’s mouth tugged upward beneath the mask. It seemed the tiny peanut could also be quite the spitfire. It further fascinated and amused him.

Raphael jumped back, wearing an affectionate grin. He enjoyed teasing his sister. “You’re in a mood today. I come to apologize for this morning, like a good big brother, and you’re being mean to me,” he lamented, then ducked to the side as a pen flew at his head.

Perks of being his sister, the Brit thought to himself with a hint of envy. There had been a few majors and others over the years he’d have liked to sling something at.

Price waited. And waited some more, discreetly watching Ghost’s profile. But the skull remained silent and only observed the siblings’ banter. Hm.

 “Cállate, now get lost,” the pint-sized female ordered. “Unlike you, I have work to do. Lárgate.”

“Bloody hell, who you yelling at Lass?” Johnny cut in.

At his interruption, the major gave up and left his sister to her work. “Absolutely nobody important,” she answered into the mic. Price chuckled as he explained to Johnny that he’d missed the squabble and his best guess was she’d told her brother off.

Johnny gasped. “Told off the major?!”

“Yo no dije nada, si eso es lo que estás pensando,” Sereza replied innocently with a shrug. “Now, back to your brain.”

The captain took note. No direct interaction between the younger man and the doctor to speak of, but what hadn’t happened was telling. Despite having no idea what was said, she had been made clear her brother was not allowed to pat her on the head, yet she hadn’t objected to Simon doing the same in the hallway the other day and again just a moment ago. And another, more fascinating thing was missing:  Simon’s customary ‘speak English’ remark.

The Scot was constantly chastised whenever he spoke Gaelic within earshot of the Brit but Sereza, it seemed, got a free pass. And Ghost was not known for giving free passes. To anyone.

How very unlike him. In John’s experience, people speaking another language made the lieutenant uneasy. He needed to know precisely what was going on around him at all times. But he’d stayed calm with her; not a single annoyed remark or complaint.  

What exactly are you doing here, son?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Morning drifted quickly into evening, the arctic sun setting several minutes earlier each day.

The masked lieutenant stood outside Sereza’s office. For a moment he watched her, observed, while her mouse cursor flew across the screen. Head propped up in her other hand.

Unaware of the silent shadow, the little one gathered her long honey-hued curls and rapidly twisted them, exposing the back of her delectable neck, coiling her hair on the back of her head and securing the mass in place by shoving a pen through it.

Simon always wondered how women were able to do that. And so deftly.

It was fucking adorable.

Bloody hell. Such a pretty kitten.

He felt like a damn stalker.

Annoyed with himself, the Brit cleared his throat.

“Holy shit!! Ghost!” The little one jumped in her chair. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“You’re jumpy.”

“And you wouldn’t jump if another one of you just materialized out of fucking nowhere!?”

“No,” the skull deadpanned.

“Ugh!” Sereza moaned dramatically, tossing her head backward and slapping her hands over her eyes. She let out a deep sigh, muttering something under her breath in Spanish, then turning to him with her professional face back on. “What can I do for you sweetie?”

The Brit almost filled the doorway as he walked in. “Anything on Johnny?” he asked, improvising on the spot.

She clicked through several screens. “Nothing official for you yet; still waiting on the report. But I can tell you that I didn’t see anything that would make me want to leave the drain in longer. In my personal professional opinion, it’s ready to come out, however I’m not a radiologist, so-” she waved away the rest of her sentence.

Simon nodded. The peanut drew her legs up and folded herself into her chair, making her appear even smaller. His gaze roamed over her, memorizing her, until he stopped at the socks barely peeking over her shoes. “Your socks are really small.”

“Very random Ghost.” She shoved the edge of her desk, spinning in her chair around to face him, “There is a substantial size difference between the two of us, you may have noticed.”

He chuckled until Sereza held up her palm to him. Confused, the skull stared momentarily. Eyes flicking between hers and her outstretched hand.

“Come on, let’s see,” she prompted, wiggling her fingers.

She wants me to touch her?

The Brit, moving almost as if he might scare her off, pressed his gloved hand against her palm and as expected, he completely dwarfed her. A quiet laugh tickled his ears as she pushed back against him, turning their hands from side to side. Simon found himself captivated. Her smile, expression sparkling with her amusement, the feeling of her – touching her –  and the warmth of her seeping through the glove to his…

Sereza fell silent and looked up, meeting dark eyes that had softened and crinkled at the corners. “Ghost? Are you smiling?” she asked, tilting her head to one side and grinning wider at him.

“…Yeah,” he admitted. Somewhat reluctantly, but dammit that beautiful face…

It made him want to tell her things. Things he knew he probably shouldn’t.

Most definitely shouldn’t.

“I bet you have a nice smile under there.”

Ah shit, here it comes. Cue the same old tired lines about his balaclava followed by the pressure to take it off then the endless questioning about why he wouldn’t. Honestly, he had been starting to wonder when this was coming; it always did eventually. People’s curiosity about his mask was understandable, of course, and a few courteously-worded questions were fine, but he didn’t understand their inability to take no for an answer. Removing it was out of the question.

Sereza noticed the change in his expression, how the hidden smile dropped and his posture changed, curling inward almost imperceptibly. Protectively.  He really didn’t like that, but… I don’t think it’s about his smile... “Not that I think you should take it off or anything; it was just an observation. I’m just happy I’m learning how to read you,” she explained. Lacing her fingers through his, she gave Simon’s hand a quick reassuring squeeze before breaking their contact and turning back to her work.

His metaphorical mask was firmly fixed in place. All his defensive walls were up and ready to field yet another attack on the object that provided him a sense of comfort, safety, and anonymity in this god-forsaken world.

Except for once the attack never came.

“Why aren’t you asking about it?” he couldn’t stop himself from saying. Surely she wanted to; everyone had something to say about it. Some unsolicited and unwelcome bit of advice. Or they’d have something to say behind his back at the very least.

Those lean shoulders casually shrugged, “I didn’t have anything to ask, honestly. I think you’re expecting me to bombard you with questions about it but I don’t have any. And before you ask why not I suppose that’s because, in my view, you’re an adult making an adult decision and therefore whatever I think doesn’t matter.”

But do you hate it too?

Simon’s chest began to hurt and he realized that, surprisingly, it would actually really hurt him if she hated the balaclava. Hated this part of him.

“Maybe it’s the surgeon in me that makes me partial to skulls but, for what my opinion’s worth, I think it looks nice on you. Both your styles.”

Like skulls, do ya’ Lovie?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was one instance where Simon disliked his masks – when his facial hair grew too long. He’d never cared for it, even before he began covering his face. Almost as soon as he started growing peach fuzz he’d started shaving.

How John willingly put up with all that hair on his face Simon would never understand.

Ghost could go about two weeks between shaving before the stubble became annoying, but he could still tolerate it when he had to. Long missions in the middle of nowhere had given him plenty of practice. By four weeks his face was beginning to really piss him off and at five he was willing to use his combat knives to get rid of the hair, the resulting razor burn a price worth paying.

Shredding his skin wasn’t necessary this time. Luckily for him and his face, the commissary at Westforge was pretty good. Shave cream, pack of decent razors, body wash he didn’t think would leave him smelling like a goddamn fruit basket after a shower – perfect.

Movie night was in just over an hour; might as well knock it out while he waited. Maybe she’d be there… He shoved the thought away.

Dark gaze roamed from his fingers in the running water, waiting for it to warm up, to his balaclava staring back from where it lay on the edge of the sink, down to the walking boot protecting his fractured foot, and coming to a stop at the bruises and scabs his bone gloves had kept concealed. Remnants of a fight. One that had turned out to be his opponent’s last.

Large hands cupped the warm water over his face and applied shave cream. This part of shaving was an almost automatic task for him; not requiring much focus. His mind began to wander…

Her laugh faintly played in his ears.

The sound of her accent when she’d told him the name of her hometown.

Feeling her touch him while she traced his tattoos. And holy hell that smile.

“I bet you have a nice smile under there.”

She’d held his hand-

Ghost blinked away those thoughts. Fucking hell, get your head on straight. Picking up the razor and taking the first swipe, each stroke revealed more of the disfigured face. Simon rinsed his razor. He exhaled resentfully, having come to the parts he never liked doing – around the scars. The tiny nicks from fighting or the typical mishaps as a kid were negligible. He could, and very often did, completely overlook those.

Others…

The line near his temple where no hair grew from a time his father had backhanded him, causing Simon’s head to hit the corner of a table. His mother hadn’t been allowed to take him to get stitches until the following day.

As shit as his father had been, he hadn’t been the one responsible for most of his scars…

Small pieces missing from his ear.

Old burns on his neck and chest where they’d put out their cigarettes.

Narrow lacerations through his eyebrow, one extending down across his nose and to the corner of his inner eye.

The corner of his lip sliced through.

Rough, red scars crisscrossing his cheeks.

What remained of a gash extending from in front of his ear, underneath and behind, then up into his hair. Carved into his head by one of his torturers.

A sunken, cross-shaped scar Roba had personally cut deep into his cheekbone. That was probably the worst thing marring his face.

He rinsed the razor and took another swipe. Then stopped.

Or was it his eyes? Dark as coal, just like his father’s, his mother had always said.

“They’ll always be a piece of him in you.”

Simon rinsed the clean razor again. Pausing in his task, the haunting glare at his reflection intensified.

His nostrils flared. With a fierce yell, he hurled the razor across the small bathroom, the plastic shattering against the tile wall. His palms slammed onto the edge of his sink, the porcelain groaning under his white-knuckled grip. Head hanging, teeth clenched, eyelids squeezed shut in an effort to stop other, weaker, signs of emotion from leaking out.

No sense in lying to himself.  He would disgust her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Simon was going to go insane.

If he didn’t get out of here and back to work soon…

Two weeks. Two more fucking weeks, he mentally reminded himself. His heavy footfalls stopped in the middle of the hall leading to the common room. Now what? Rolling his eyes, he backed up a few paces and looked around the corner. He’d been hoping his sight was deceiving him, but no. Simon wasn’t that lucky.

He frowned behind the skull balaclava as he surveyed the room. A herd of random people, gathered beneath an open vent for… what reason exactly? Just as he was getting really curious one of them yelled into the ceiling, “Got it?”

Is there a fucking person in the damn air vent?!

“Almost, not yet,” a feminine voice echoed back from the darkness.

No...

The onlookers had begun teasing, oblivious to the shadowy lieutenant looming behind them, urging her to “get a move on.”

“Could you have some damn patience?”

“Bet I could be faster.”

“Bet not. There’s no way you’d fit in here. It’s like being in a damn coffin, even for me.”

Simon’s pulse raced, his feet carried him into the room and through the crowd until he stood directly under the vent, people scattering out of his way at just his presence alone. Not that he paid them any attention; he was only vaguely aware of them at best.

Alarm spider-walked up his spine. The little one… in the dark… squeezed into a space the size of a coffin. The room felt like it was spinning. Sound became muffled.

He wanted her out, and out right fucking NOW.

His mind screamed at him to get to her, to tear the fucking ceiling apart if need be. Whatever it took to pull her back out into the light where she belonged.

A loud bang almost made him flinch, followed by the hum of the air system as it came back online. “Got it!” she called from within the ductwork. There was a round of clapping and ‘atta girl!’ but Ghost stood still and silent as a statue in the middle of it all, the gaze drilling into the black void in the ceiling. She was taking too long…

The others began wandering off, back to whatever business they had, but the lieutenant stayed resolutely adhered to the floor, wide eyes trained on the vent. There was the rest of the world and everyone in it, then there was her – his little one – and it was taking every ounce of his self-control to not bring the entire ceiling down. Finally, a flash of movement in the darkness; the black sole of her shoe as Sereza worked her way out. Simon could almost breathe again, but not until she was safely back on the ground.

Moving slowly since she couldn’t see where she was going, Sereza shimmied backward out of the vent. Large arms wrapped around her thighs, easily taking her weight, then a steadying grip on her waist lowered her the rest of the way out. She blinked rapidly as oppressive darkness gave way to those stupid fucking florescent ceiling lights she hated. Her hands held onto broad shoulders for support as she was lowered to the floor. Looking up, hazel irises locked with worried dark ones hidden behind eyeblack and a bone balaclava.

Ghost was almost panting, his gaze rapidly skimming over her face and frame. He was worried about her? But there wasn’t even a second to ponder on that before she was crushed against a hard chest, his arms wrapped across her back and masked face buried against her hair. Ear to his chest, she could hear his heartbeat pounding away.

Dios mio… He smelled divine.

Gunpowder, naturally, woven among the scent of leather and the outdoors. Another more subtle scent – cedar? His choice of body wash, she supposed. And buried beneath it all, his natural musk that she could only describe as unmistakably, intoxicatingly, and deliciously male.  No human should be allowed to smell so good, she decided. Smiling to herself, Sereza sighed contentedly and curled her fingers into his hoodie as she snuggled back against him.

For right now, nothing else mattered. She let herself be surrounded by Ghost, his warmth, and his presence.

In the back corner of the room, behind a cigar, bright blue eyes narrowed at the pair.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Not until the group reached the common room did Simon manage to peel himself away from the little one’s side comfortably. He still trailed after her, but she headed for the bathroom and he was forced to fully separate from her. Goddammit.

He sunk into one of the ancient, sagging couches. A spot on the outer edge to keep him away from the chattier crowds and also protect his broken foot from getting accidentally kicked, an armrest at his left preventing too many people from sitting beside him – not that they did to begin with… Simon couldn’t have a better spot. A bone glove palmed the contents of his pocket.

A feminine sigh from behind him made his eyebrows rise high on his forehead. To Simon’s complete surprise, the peanut headed straight for him, weaving past Soap and Garrick. Sereza folded herself up and squeezed between Ghost’s side and the threadbare armrest, tiny feet perched on the edge of the cushions.

“She’s like a damn pretzel,” Gaz remarked to the other sergeant.

Sereza pulled her legs in closer. “If I fits, I sits.”

Simon was positively chuffed to bits.

The little one yawned. Fucking hell that was adorable, like everything she did. “Long day?” he asked.

She covered another yawn as she nodded, “Long and very, very early.”

The lights clicked off as the opening credits began playing. Before the show could get started, he dug the noisy package from his pocket and sliced it open with his knife. Sereza’s head tilted his direction. “Yes, Peanut?” his deep voice whispered, laced with amusement.

She shivered again. Was she cold?

Didn’t feel cold in here. Then again, she was a gnat-sized little thing with almost no meat on her bones. Maybe she was.

“N-nothing,” she quietly squeaked.

Ghost’s dark eyes twinkled in the light from the screen. He tipped his hand, offering her the open bag. That smile – that fucking gorgeous smile – spread across her face as she pulled out a gummy worm.

“I love sour gummy worms!” she murmured.

Deadpool was pretty good and Simon didn’t care that it was a bit of an older movie. He wasn’t usually one for the superhero genre but he enjoyed the character’s sass. The mix of action and dialogue was good too-

He started.

A small weight had dropped onto his shoulder.

The little one’s head.

Oh sweetheart.

Her breaths were deep and slow. Poor thing must have been more exhausted than she’d let on. That or she felt safe enough to fall asleep in a room full of men. What a luxury it must be to feel that safe. That included many guys on her brother’s team who also saw her as their sister, but still. Such a thing was beyond Simon’s comprehension.

Midnight eyes looked over the tiny curled-up figure. Even as a few of the lights came back on she didn’t stir. Definitely sound asleep, which meant she was entirely vulnerable. The urge to watch over her consumed him.

Looked like he was stuck.

The room cleared out. Simon waved off offers to help get the little one to her room and shot his most murderous glares at those who tried to wake her up. Johnny smiled and passed him a throw blanket. The Brit slouched back into the cushions, stuffing his hands in the front pockets of his hoodie and getting comfortable for his watch. For as long as she needed.

A new, warm feeling bloomed in his chest as she let out a soft sigh and pressed closer to his arm.

…I want to hold her.

Spanish translations:

“Vete a la chingada.”        

Go to hell.

“Ya te dije que no hicieras eso!”        

I’d already told you not to do that!

“Cállate.”                                                                   

Shut up.

“Lárgate.”                                                                   

Get lost.

“Yo no dije nada, si eso es lo que estás pensando.”  

I didn’t say anything if that’s what you’re thinking.

[lyraa-kill]

Sick and Twisted Bastard

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 l Chapter 5

Tags: Stalker Simon "Ghost" Riley, Trans John “Soap" MacTavish, Top Simon "Ghost" Riley, Bottom John "Soap" MacTavish, Dom Simon “Ghost" Riley, Sub John "Soap" MacTavish, Stalking, Consensual Non-Consent, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Masturbation, Vaginal Fingering, johnny can't make himself cum, Kidnapping, Knives, John is okay with Simon's stalking, John is a little freak too, Voyeurism, Hidden Cameras, Bondage, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Spanking, Painplay, Internalized Transphobia, Self-Harm, Murder, They really match each others freak, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Biting, pussy slapping, Face Slapping, Blood, Choking

——

Johnny has been living with Simon for two weeks now, meaning the end of their combined three week leave is up. He tries not to think about it, but he can’t help but wonder what will happen. Is this whole thing temporary, will he be forced to go back on base and resume his job? He hopes not.

He’s proud of being Sergeant MacTavish. He fought tooth and nail to get out of his home and become the man he knew he should be, and made a damn good name for himself too. But it wasn’t him. He never wanted any of that, he only did it because he had no other options. He was forced to be someone he knew he wasn’t all over again. Sure, it was better because at least this time he was a man, but it still wasn’t him.

He knows what he wants now. He wants to be Johnny. He wants to have a small, quiet little cabin with Simon and spend his days doing what he chooses, not what he’s being commanded by a superior to do.

Now, his head lays on Simon’s lap as they cuddle on the couch, a movie playing on the TV. They’ve been doing a lot of that. Laying around, watching something. Occasionally taking breaks to eat or fuck. Johnny’s happy at finally being relaxed, but it’s getting quite boring.

He shifts his head to look up at Simon. “Can I ask you something?”

Simon runs his hands through Johnny’s Mohawk. “What is it baby?”

“We’re due to go back to base soon. What’s gonna happen when we don’t show up?”

Simon smiles down at him. “Don’t worry about it. No one will bother us to come back.”

“But-“ Johnny gets interrupted.

“I took care of it, Johnny.” Simon leans down and gives him a peck on the forehead. “No one will bother us. Just be good for me and don’t worry about it, yeah?”

Simon’s a bit nervous for when he eventually has to tell Johnny what he did. The man has always tried to minimize civilian casualties. He’s a protector of the innocent, and Simon had to kill and dismember two very innocent people to fake their deaths.

It was hard to find two people similar enough to their body shapes to kill. Even then, Simon had to behead them and cut off any body parts that would be a tell-sign that the bodies weren’t really them. He had to hack up the rest, leave their IDs at the scene and whatnot. He thinks he faked it pretty well, if he has to be honest. He’s seen his fair share of murder scenes in the past and tried to replicate it as best as he could, for both their sakes. Him and Johnny both would have either drowned in their own misery or been killed in combat if they stayed.

“Alright,” Johnny sighs, turning back over to look at the TV, “I trust you.”

Simon smiles and kisses Johnny’s hair. As he looks down at his perfect boy, he knows he doesn’t regret a thing he did. He can already see how they both are healing, becoming more themselves than they thought possible. Simon is less angry, less closed-off, finds himself wanting to be alone less and less. He discovered that he loves to laugh. He loves to be held and cuddled and treated softly and gently. He never knew that about himself, because no one had ever done it before. Now that he’s had a taste of it, he’s not sure how he ever lived without it.

That monster and creature, the Ghost, he had been forced to be is fading. It’s no longer clawing at his insides to escape; it’s asleep and quiet. Maybe the claw marks it left will always be there, but eventually it’ll be gone for good. All thanks to Johnny.

Johnny no longer cries every night. He did for a little bit, but Simon was there to help him through it. The scars on his legs are healing and fading away, no new ones have been added. Though, that’s because Simon locked away any sharp objects so Johnny couldn’t get to them. The only one that will be leaving marks on him is Simon.

They watch the TV for another half hour, both of them not really watching but focusing more on each other. Eventually, Johnny turns back around.

“I think I want to draw. Paint. I don’t know.”

Simon hums and smiles down at him. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Always wanted to. I drew all the time when I was a kid. Got yelled at, so I hid it for a while. Couldn’t really do it while I was enlisted and whatnot. But… I’d like to now. I always really enjoyed it.”

“I can get you paper and pencils if you’d like, Johnny.”

Johnny nods. “I like writing too. I used to keep a journal on me before my dad found out about it and burnt it. I wanna do it again.”

“I can buy you a notebook too.”

Johnny nuzzles his face into Simon’s stomach. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. I want you to be happy, baby. And if that will make you happy, then I’ll gladly do it for you.”

Johnny smiles as he looks up at Simon. “What about you? What do you like?”

Simon cocks his head. “What do you mean?” The only thing he can remember ever being passionate about or wanting is Johnny. In fact, the only thing he can remember remotely liking is him.

“Is there anything you wanna do? Hobbies? Activities?”

“I think my favorite activity is you, love,” Simon teases, kissing Johnny’s forehead and making noises like he’s pretending to eat him.

Johnny laughs, pushes Simon away, then says, “I know that very well by now you insatiable fuck. But… I want you to be your own person too. I want you to be someone outside of me. I want… I want you to be Simon and me be Johnny, and be our own people while also being in love with each other.” Johnny cups Simon’s face. That perfect, devastatingly handsome face. “I wanna know Simon. I wanna know what you’re interested in, what makes you laugh, what your feelings are, what your thoughts are. I wanna know you. Not Ghost. Not whatever you’ve been told you should be.”

Simon tears up a little bit, but manages to hold him back. “I want that too,” he says, “just as long as Johnny can belong to Simon.”

“Of course,” Johnny says back, “As long as Simon can belong to Johnny too.”

Simon smiles and kisses Johnny, on the lips this time. “Of course.”

They lay there and kiss for a while, eventually Johnny finding his way into Simon’s lap so he doesn’t have to keep bending over. The kisses don’t feel sexual, like they’re going to lead to something else. They only say “I love you. I love you so much and I want to know you and be with you”.

Simon breaks the kiss apart. “I’m… I’m honestly not sure what I’m passionate about. I never had a hobby or interests growing up- I think. I can’t remember my childhood. It got tortured out of me along with most of my humanity. And afterwards, I was Ghost. The military didn’t need a guy that wanted to be a person and pursue what interested him, they needed a weapon. So that’s what I was. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“Yes you do,” Johnny says lightly, his face mere centimeters from Simon’s.

Simon furrows his brows in confusion.

“You do know how to be something else other than Ghost. I’ve seen it. You love making stupid fucking dad jokes about the army. Every Tuesday at 5pm you find time to sit in the common area and watch that show you like. I always catch you whittling at pieces of wood when we’re camped out and waiting for an enemy.” Johnny strokes the side of Simon’s face. “Maybe you havent found yourself fully. But I think you will. And I think you’ve found more than you think.”

Simon softly smiles and nuzzles his face into Johnny’s hand. “Thank you.”

Johnny kisses him again, gently and passionately. Maybe it’s a bit of an oxymoron to want them to belong to each other and also be their own person, but it makes perfect sense inside their heads.

They break apart and smile into each other’s lips, laughing a little bit. Johnny peppers Simon’s face in kisses before saying “I’m so happy you love me back.”

Simon laughs and holds Johnny’s hands that are cupped over his face. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re perfect.”

Johnny kisses him one more time on his forehead before saying, “I was just scared. No one’s ever loved me before you. I would have little crushes on guys in school and they’d always reject me because they either wanted a girl or they wanted a real man. I was expecting you to react the same. I also… thought that you were out of my league a little bit.”

Simon kisses Johnny fiercely. “Never. I’ve only ever seen you for who you are, Johnny. You’re a brilliant, beautiful man. Doesn’t matter to me one bit what you got between your legs. I love you, so I’ll love whatever’s down there too.”

Simon can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t love Johnny, which makes it hard to understand Johnny’s old fears. Loving him feels as intrinsic to his being as, well… breathing. Blinking. His heart beating in his chest. He hadn’t thought of the idea of ending up with a transgender man, hell, he had only ever heard of trans women before he met the guy. But that hadn’t mattered to him. Johnny is a man, and Simon is in love with him. What parts he did or didn’t have didn’t change that fact.

Johnny’s heart skips a beat as Simon says those words. God, he’d been waiting to hear someone say that to him since he was 14 and got rejected for the first time. He’s laid awake at night dreaming about a man feeling that way towards him, until eventually he stopped dreaming and gave it a rest, declaring himself forever single.

Maybe he never really stopped dreaming.

“I love you too, Simon.” Johnny says, “And I haven’t said it yet, but by god you’re right bonnie too. When I woke up and saw you laying on me that first morning you took me here, the first thing I thought about was how gorgeous you are. You’re fucking devastating to look at.”

Simon is all smiles. He never thought he’d feel good about being called beautiful, but hearing Johnny‘s words makes his heart sing.

His face would be unappealing to most. He has a big nose with a bump in it, downturned eyes, and his lips are thin. Not to mention the scars that adorn his cheeks and chin, making him look like a mottled beast. But Johnny likes it, loves it even. Maybe he is beautiful after all. Maybe it doesn’t matter if everyone else thinks he’s ugly. Who cares if no one would want to see him on a magazine cover? Johnny loves the way he looks, and really, that’s all that matters to him.

“I remember when I first saw you on the tarmac after getting off the plane,” Simon stars, “it felt like all the tendons and fibers in my heart were attaching themselves to you. I think I made a plan that night to hack into the base’s security cameras so that I can keep an eye on you all the time. And I think a week later was when I went into your room to watch you sleep and steal your underwear.”

Johnny laughs. “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”

Simon smiles. “Yeah. But I don’t think you mind it very much.”

“No, I really don’t.”

Simon grips onto Johnny’s hips as they start to kiss again, forcing him to grind down on him.

“Fuck-“ Simon grunts, “I can’t remember how many times I jacked off to pictures I took of you when you were in your room, the shower, on missions…”

Johnny laughs into his mouth. “I’d love to see those pictures sometime. I gotta make sure I look pretty.”

“You always look pretty.”

They go back to kissing, Johnny grinding his sore cunt down into Simon’s hardening package. He has no idea how two men in their thirties are able to fuck so many times a day, but for some reason he’s been insatiable, like his body hasn’t got the memo he’s not 16.

Simon deepens the kiss, deeply breathes in Johnny’s scent, then snaps and throws him onto the couch on his back. He climbs on top of him and covers his entire body with his own. He loves how much bigger he is than Johnny. It makes him feel like he can shield him from the entire world as long as he’s in his arms.

“Sure your cock ain’t broken yet?” Johnny teases, “You’ve gotta be shooting blanks after this morning.”

Simon growls and bites down on Johnny’s neck. “You cannot comprehend how much I need you all the fucking time. It’s not possible for me to go dry around you.”

Johnny gasps and digs his nails into Simon’s back through his shirt. “Your dick is gonna end up killing me, Si.”

“You can take it,” Simon says, “I’ll make sure you will.”

Johnny bites down on his lip as Simon starts to add more bite marks and hickeys to his neck, joining the ones left there from that morning.

“Yeah? Gonna fuck me till I can’t think?” Johnny breathes, “till I can’t walk or open my eyes? Don’t think you can.”

Hearing that, Simon wraps his hand around Johnny’s throat and squeezes, cutting off his air supply. Johnny’s hands fly to Simon’s wrist to try and take it off, but it’s a futile struggle. His legs kick, but they can’t move very much under Simon’s body.

“Not so cocky anymore, are ya Johnny?” Simon teases, his mouth curled into a wicked smile. “Can’t be such a little shit with my hand around this pretty throat of yours, huh?”

Johnny struggles to get out words as his vision starts to get a little fuzzy. Even though Simon is more than capable of killing him right now, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his life.

Simon releases his grip, but keeps his hand on Johnny’s throat. Johnny gasps and huffs as his face starts to return to a normal color and his vision becomes clearer. He smiles.

“Do it again, Si.”

Simon slaps Johnny across the face as his hand slowly starts to squeeze again. “Who knew my boy was so dirty? Who knew John MacTavish was a little fucking slut that likes to be smacked and choked?”

Johnny smiles as his vision starts to fog up again. He wants to say, you knew. You knew I liked this and I needed you and that’s exactly why you’ve done all this.

Simon smacks Johnny across the face one more time before he takes his hand off his neck so he can take off his pants. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he bothered to bring clothes for either of them. They just seem to get in the way.

It’d be much better if Johnny was naked and on display for him all the time, like his little trophy.

“You think a little bit of choking and smacking is gonna do me in? I don’t think so,” Johnny laughs, trying to egg Simon on so he gets harsher, “You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

Simon grunts and rips off Johnny’s boxer briefs, which are now soaked with his slick.

“I think these pants of yours tell a different story,” Simon grins, “How ‘bout I use them to shut your lying mouth up so your other pair of lips can tell me the truth, yeah?”

Simon shoves the underwear into Johnny’s mouth, the taste of himself flooding his taste buds. Fuck. He never thought being forced to taste himself would be such a turn on for him.

Simon shoves three fingers into Johnny’s hole, making him scream through the gag and grip onto the couch. He’s still pretty relaxed and loose after that morning, but taking three of Simon’s thick fingers with no warning still made his cunt burn and ache. He’s starting to fall in love with it.

Simon jackhammers away at Johnny’s cunt, his other hand wrapped nicely around his throat. He isn’t choking, just telling Johnny that he better behave, or else he knew what was coming. Although, the promise of being choked would probably make Johnny act up just so he could get it. There really is no way to punish his boy.

Well, actually, there’s one way.

Simon keeps abusing Johnny’s poor hole, until he sees the signs of his orgasm coming up. He stops just before the moment of climax, making Johnny writhe and buck his hips to try and chase his hand.

Johnny’s eyes widen. So they’re going to play this game again? That’s fine. He can take it, no problem. Edging really isn’t that big of a deal. Or at least that’s what he tells himself so he doesn’t have to admit to himself that his defeat is imminent.

Simon laughs. “Not so cocky and bratty now that you know I’m not gonna let you cum, huh?” Simon slowly strokes Johnny’s cock, making him twitch. “I’ll make you break, boy. You’ll be a mindless begging slut here soon.”

Johnny smiles through the gag and shakes his head.

Simon tears his hand from his throat and smacks him across the face, then backhands him, then puts his hand back where it was to choke him as hard as he can. Red prints in the shape of Simon’s hands are starting to bloom on his face. Simon loves seeing his marks on his boy, although a piece of him wishes they were more permanent. He’s sure there’s something he can do to satiate that craving.

Simon shoves his fingers back in, relishing in the way Johnny’s body twitches as he starts to fight for air. He loosens his grip on Johnny’s neck and lets him breathe as he really starts to pound away at him again. He doesn’t want to hurt him, after all. Just rough him up a little bit.

Just as Johnny reaches the edge again, Simon takes away his fingers. Johnny whines through the gag as his eyes start to water. Fuck, he really hates edging.

“Aww, are you ready to stop being a fucking brat, Johnny?” Simon coos, his voice demeaning.

Johnny thinks that Simon has to be a fool to think he’ll give in that easily. He shakes his head and spits the gag out. “In your dreams, Si.”

Simon sneers and quickly pushes Johnny onto the floor, grabbing his arms and pinning them to his back.

Deep down, Johnny knows he’s going to give in. He doesn’t even really want to be a brat or a little shit, he just likes when Simon gets rough with him, and being an ass is the best way to get it. He really could just ask, as he’s sure Simon would do anything to make him happy, but that’s not nearly as fun as watching him get angrier and get more violent with him because of it.

Simon spanks Johnny with as much force as he can give, which is a metric fuck ton. Johnny gasps and his back arches from the pain. Fuck. That felt like it’s going to bruise his goddamn bones.

“I know you want my cock. And you’re not gonna get it until you start apologizing and begging.” Simon spreads Johnny’s legs apart and cups his cunt with his hand, then smacks him as hard as he can.

Johnny yelps and releases noises he has no control over as Simon lays down more smacks to his throbbing pussy. His body is twitching and turning in ways he couldn’t stop if he tried, involuntarily trying to get away from the pain unleashed on his most sensitive area.

When Simon relents, Johnny is a twitchy mess with drool pouring out of his mouth. But he’s not completely mindless yet.

Simon shoves four fingers in, stretching Johnny as wide as he’s ever been. His cunt is gushing around the digits, trying to suck them in and keep them there so he can cum. As Simon fucks him with just one hand, the other raining down smacks to his ass before gripping onto his hair to pull his head back, Johnny’s tongue lolls out of his mouth and his eyes roll back into his head.

“Dirty fucking bitch,” Simon grunts, “should tie you up with a nice dildo and vibrator and leave you there for a few hours. That’ll teach you not to be a fucking brat.”

Johnny shakes his head and pushes his ass into the air.

“Want- want you Simon, please,” he says.

“Is that begging, Johnny?” Simon asks, taking his fingers out just before Johnny can cum, “Are you gonna be my good boy, then?”

Johnny nods. “Y-yes, good boy- good boy just f’you, fuuuuck.”

Simon smiles as he lovingly caresses down Johnny’s sides, admiring his bright red ass and dripping cunt.

“I know you are. You’re always my good boy,” Simon says, leaning down to kiss Johnny’s shoulder blade, “You just like when I get rough with you, yeah? Think you gotta be a brat to get it?”

“Mhm,” Johnny hums, incapable of speech.

Simon laughs. “I know, baby. I know you better than you know yourself.”

Johnny nods again, because he knows that fact is unquestionably true.

“You’ll get what you want. Gotta make my boy happy, afterall.”

Simon grabs his cock and lines it up with Johnny’s hole, and pushes it in with no resistance. He’s buried to the hilt in a matter of seconds, his fingers having done a good job to loosen his boy up.

Johnny whines as he’s filled up again, a dumb smile appearing on his face. Simon grabs his arms and pins them to his back again, his other hand grabbing Johnny’s hair and tugging his head back.

He starts to fuck into him, not bothering to be gentle at first. His boy can take any abuse Simon puts him through.

Johnny sees stars and the light of heaven as Simon pounds away at him, making the burning in his core dissipate and instead replacing it with the best pleasure he’s felt in his life. He can’t think, can’t speak, can only lay there and take it, let himself be used.

This is what he’s been needing his entire life. Someone to treat him softly, take care of him, treat him like the special and fragile thing he is, but also know when he needs to be beaten and fucked within an inch of his life.

“Look so pretty like this,” Simon grunts, “I love seeing you become my little plaything, baby. Love seeing you be my good little boy.”

Johnny nods as drool continues to dribble out of his mouth and down his chin. His body tenses as he start to cum, squirting all over Simon’s legs and the floor, but Simon doesn’t let up. He continued his brutal pace, sending Johnny into the waters of overstimulation and making him even more brainless than he was before.

Johnny cums twice more before Simon finishes for the first time, but Simon is just as insatiable as him, and once is not nearly enough. He has no idea how many times he’s climaxed when Simon relents. He doesn’t even know what his own name is or where he’s at.

Simon pants heavily as he pulls out of Johnny’s sopping cunt. He watches as his cum leaks out of his hole and mixes with the literal puddle of Johnny’s cum spread over the floor.

He smiles as he admires the way Johnny lays there, boneless and nearly passed out. A state of being that only Simon can put him in.

He has absolutely no regrets over anything he’s ever done, because all of that has brought him here, admiring his fucked out boy that makes him happier than anything else on the planet ever could.

[r0semultiverse]

Hey um I'm concerned...

"Is this true, fellow Petrikov?"

Something something about the cycle repeating. 👀

[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.

[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.

[bi-writes]

mail order bride meeting 141 for the first time 🙏

mail-order bride

he likes the way this moment sounds. it will end soon, when you both walk out the door, but for now, he sits, and he doesn't want it to end.

it's not just the sound of the television. his favorite football team has finally fucking put one into the corner of the net. the announcers cheer, but this isn't all that he hears.

the cat is in the kitchen. he can't see it, but he hears it (the little fucker). she's pawing at the cat grass that sits above the sink now. when he leans forward, he notices her little nose pushing it around before she takes a bite out of it.

she leaves the basil alone.

and then there's the sound of you. your feet in the bedroom. when you pass by the doorway, he can see you in different states of getting ready. when you pass by this time, he can see your eyeliner is on both eyes now, not just one, and your hair doesn't have clips or pieces to hold it in its style anymore. it lays perfectly now; he did a double-take when he saw it this way for the first time. you're rifling through the closet now. your clothes used to be in their own drawers. separated. socks not touching one another. your half of the closet, and his half. perfectly divided.

he doesn't remember when it happened. he found your bra under his t-shirt today. he was going through the jackets because your dresses were now between them. in the bathroom, he almost stuck your toothbrush in his mouth because they rest side-by-side in the holder.

when he looks around the room, he can't see where you begin, and he cannot see where he ends. he doesn't see where he started.

but he can see where you will go.

you bounce into the living room, holding up two hangers. there's dresses on each of them, one a dark color, the other light, and you hold them in front of simon who's still sitting on the couch, his head in his hand as he concentrates on the game (where he pretends like he hasn't been thinking about you too hard to really focus).

"simon?" you call, and he grunts, looking over at you. "which one do you like?"

he looks over the two dresses before looking at you. he hums, leaning back against the couch. he shrugs before looking back at the telly. you would look like perfection in either of them, but that isn't what you asked, and that isn't the answer you want.

"the darker one. like ya in tha' color."

you smile a little before going back into the bedroom, hanging the other dress back up and laying the other one out on the bed. you rummage through the dresser for proper undergarments, picking a soft lace pair of panties with a matching bra. you slip them on before stepping into the dress.

you reach around for the waist, and when your attempts to grab it are futile, you look over your shoulder towards the door.

"simon?" you call out gently. "could you come here, please?"

there's a shuffle of sound before simon steps into the bedroom. you point to your back, smiling at him shyly.

"c-could you help me? i can't reach the zipper."

he makes his way over to where you stand in front of the mirror. you watch as his eyes roam over your back, as he takes in the sight in front of him. you swallow as he drags a few knuckles down the length of your spine, his eyes flicking up to meet yours in the mirror before he takes the zipper in his hand and pulls it up. when he finishes, he steps a little closer, dipping his head to look at you from over your shoulder. you turn your head to look up at him, smiling.

"everything okay?" you ask softly, and he clicks his tongue, sliding his hand from its place on your back to wrap around your middle. he spreads a big palm over your tummy before dragging you backwards, your backside pressing against his front.

"mmm..." he scrunches his nose a little, running a pink tongue over his teeth. "look fuckin' beautiful."

you giggle, looking away, spreading your palms along your cheeks to try and make it less hot, less warm--fuck, it's so hot, isn't it?

you pull away to go for your shoes, picking them up from the closet. you take a seat on the bed, trying to ignore simon's stare (impossible), and you put the shoes down to slip your feet into them. just as you bend to buckle them, simon tsks, and you sit up as he kneels down in front of you.

"simon, you--"

"shut it," he mutters, reaching down and picking your foot up by the ankle gently. he wraps the strap around it, fastening the buckle, and you open your mouth to say something, but then he bends, giving your knee a soft kiss before reaching for your other foot.

your eyes meet again as he wraps it around your ankle. he smirks, just enough, and your lip wobbles a little as he fastens the next shoe before setting it back down on the floor. he puts his hands on his knee to get up, standing to his full height, and your neck strains as you try and look up at him.

at times, you feel at odds. he anticipates your needs before you even know what they are yourself. he pushes your meals in front of you just as you realize you're hungry. he helps you to the top shelf whenever you need it, picking you up from your waist without even a grunt. he feeds the cat when she cries, he wipes the tears from your face just as they fall.

you want to be more. you want to be his wife. your life is leisure and warmth, you are cared for like a fine porcelain doll, but what are you to him? what do you do for him? what is it that you bring, why are you here, why did he ever even want you if he provides and all you do is take, take, take?

the pub is alive. the lights flicker and glow a warm orange, and there's many crowds around tables, cheering and laughing and clinking pints together. you swallow as you look around; a crowded place with lots of unfamiliar faces. you freeze at the door, blinking, trying to take it all in. just as you stiffen, there's a presence right at your back.

an arm circles around your middle protectively. simon's warm hand rests at the curve of your waist, and you look up at him. he stares down at you knowingly. he's wearing his mask, obscuring his entire face except for his eyes, but you've learned to read him all the same. his hood darkens the shadows over him, but you see what he's telling you easily.

'm right 'ere.

simon moves you in front of him, walking just behind you, and he leans over to murmur in your ear as he guides you forward.

"in the corner, luv."

you barely have time to register that your husband just called you love when you see an enthusiastic wave meant for you out of the corner of your eye.

simon showed you their pictures, but the grainy selfies from his phone don't do them any justice. kyle has a pearly smile and round cheeks (troublemaker, he could get away with anything with those eyes). johnny has an infectious grin and wild curls that fall in a line down his head (a wild card, he's got eyes that you can't read and a leg bouncing from his terrible inability to sit still). and then there's john, hidden under a beanie and a rough smile (all business, all thought, because even out here, he can't stop his mind from wandering back to the papers on his desk and the cries for help he can't ignore).

johnny's smile drops a little when you come near. he eyes the hand that simon has on you, the proximity of your bodies. he raises a brow when you hold out your hand to shake, gawking when he eyes your other hand, the ring that sparkles there.

"ach, LT..." johnny swallows hard. "is this...is she--?"

simon clears his throat. "this is my wife."

"steamin' jesus," johnny breathes, leaning back in the booth. he picks up his drink and knocks back the entire thing, choking a little as he looks between the two of you. "what the fawk?!"

you blink, stepping back, and simon takes a seat beside john, shaking his head.

"fuckin' hell, johnny. behave," simon mutters. "'s not--"

"ye said y'were showin' us yer new lass," johnny quips. "not yer wife!"

you look at simon, laughing a little.

"simon, you didn't tell them you were married?"

"tha' was need t'know," simon mutters, rolling his eyes. you giggle, looking around for somewhere to sit. simon doesn't give you much time to choose--you let out a shaky breath as he picks you up from your hips, sliding you up and onto his thigh. he spreads his legs a little to accommodate you, but he's such a big man.

simon holds one hand at your back, and the other lays flat against the table. it's easy, falling into conversation with them. they don't talk about work. they're infatuated with their lieutenant and his surprise wife. they ask if he owns pajamas. they ask if he takes the mask off to sleep. they ask if simon whittles, if he listens to music, if there's a snack that puts him in a good mood (jaffa cakes, you tell johnny, who cackles with delight).

when simon gets up to have a smoke, you're surprised. simon never leaves you alone in a public place, ever. he's always at your back, even at the grocery store. he likes to take you aisle by aisle, and he doesn't care if it makes the trip longer, because he doesn't like to have you out of his sight for very long.

he gives you that look, one that you can read. you're safe with these men.

you agree. they bring simon home, every single time.

"awwww, no' gonna give yer lass a smooch, LT?" johnny winks. "'s alright, we don't care. won't think ye a big softie cuz o' it."

simon rolls his eyes, pocketing his cigarettes as he stands by the table. he dips his fingers into johnny's pint and flicks him with it before leaning over and kissing you lightly through the mask, a chaste kiss that already leaves you reeling.

you blink, caught off guard, and you blink up at simon so slowly, a syrupy smile falling over your face.

"LT, that wasnae a real one," johnny rolls his eyes. "wut, are ye scared of us?"

"shut your fuckin' mouth, sergeant, i'll make y'do laps tomorrow."

"big baby."

you watch simon take the back door, letting it swing shut behind him. you excuse yourself, following after him, pushing the door open and blinking to adjust to the dark light of the alleyway.

there's stars out. they sparkle, and you pause to stare up at them for just a moment before making your way to where simon leans against a brick wall.

it all reminds you that you're just small. not small, but smaller than simon, and compared to what stares at you across a violet sky, you are nothing but specks in time. you're drifters, composites of organic matter that somehow, for some reason, exist at the same time.

simon's eyes find your own in the dark. it's hard to see; the only light nearby flickers, and it's hard to focus, but you can see his eyes clearly, magnetized even when the rest of him seems so obscure, hiding from your view.

your smile is clear, too. the watery lines of your eyes, they glow, and when you come near, you and simon are in your own bubble, a pocket of the universe that cannot be explained. he has found you, and you have found him, and even when the night sky tries so hard to hide the things you know are there, it isn't strong enough to take away what exists in the in-between.

you slide your fingers under the hem of his mask. this kind of thing is practiced. the same thing you do when he comes home every day. the only acts of service he ever allows, the only things he ever lets you do.

you ask yourself always what it is that you provide. what it is that he sees in you that you can't seem to see in yourself.

maybe it's this. maybe it's the grounding. the gravity he never used to feel, the orbit he could never quite get himself to maintain, the taut line of connection that's been severed ever since the only people he's ever loved were ripped right out from underneath his ribs.

he puts his hands over yours when the mask is over his nose. his palms over the backs of your hands, warm skin over soft, something broken over something seeking.

"you don't want this," simon whispers, and you frown a little, shaking your head.

"how...how can you say that?"

"i'm not..." he flinches a little. "not made for this. 's not wha' y'think."

you're eyes water. you aren't sad. you're upset.

"y-you have no idea," you whisper. "i know what i want. you can always tell when i'm lying, am i lying now?"

"'s not--"

"simon," you stop him. "look at me," you sniffle, and he closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, before finding your gaze again. it's frightening, what he sees. he sees nothing that he expects. no deception. no fear. the honesty, it terrifies him. the reality of accepting what he can't understand hurts inside. it trickles deep, down to his toes, along his spine, a curdling in his stomach that he can't believe because there's no way that someone can love me when i can't fucking love myself. "am i lying now?"

"no," he breathes, and your smile is sickly sweet. he doesn't understand. he doesn't get it. nothing in his life has ever been this easy. nothing in his life has ever been just for him, all for him, just his, and no one else's. there has never been a piece of life that has ever pitied him enough to let him have it exactly as it is, and yet here she is, my perfect girl, arriving on my doorstep.

like you dropped straight from heaven. angels with soft hands and a timid face and a shadow with soft fur and big eyes and terrible little temper.

simon's hand is an anchor on the back of your head. tilting you to the side, drawing you near, until you are on your toes, and your face is canted up.

you kiss in the dark. your mouth slots over his, hands gripping the front of his jacket as you try and get even closer to him. he's a little shy at first, letting you lead while he follows, but it only takes a few seconds for you to feel his hand stiffen against your head as he kisses you feverishly.

you smile between kisses. he smiles, too. you giggle, and he huffs, and he chases you with more kisses as you cradle his face between your hands and whisper between soft presses, i'm sorry and i know and it's all i've ever wanted.

when you pull away, he doesn't let you go. he presses your forehead to his, connecting you somehow, breathing in the warmth that you radiate to try and calm the pulsing of his blood that rushes in his ears.

when your eyes open again, and you look at each other, everything is suddenly clearer. whatever he saw before, everything must have been in black and white.

he sees in color. the stars align. they fall, one by one, sparkling as they form a pattern, one undiscovered by anyone before him, one he will keep all to himself in the time that follows. when he kisses you again, he memorizes that pattern.

he knows it will always lead right back to you.

[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.

[girl-lostconnection]

The thoughts consume me again but König who meets you as a teenager, before army, before becoming mercenary.

We know that he was badly bullied from canon but what if he had himself a little friend who had to leave him not out of their own volition but because something happened (parents moving or smth else).

And he, who experiences care and warmth for the first time is devoid of it again, something in him cracking further. Making him recoil back inside of himself.

Because Simon may have been an angry teenager but König would be a quiet one. The child that flies low under the radar, trying to stay out of trouble as much as possible.

Always in the back of the pictures and the back of the class and in the back of people’s minds. He’s a good kid, he’s diligent and he tries hard, he’s just very unfortunate.

Never lucky enough to find proper friends, never approachable enough for other people to befriend him — too tall and “weird”, due to lack of proper socialisation.

And then you appear and you are warm and kind and fiercely protective of him. Your German is shite because you just arrived to Austria but you try hard.

And König latches onto you with a desperation of someone who was alone for so long they’d take anything they are given. No matter what it is.

You walk to school with him, share lunches with him, you choose him to pair up for projects and games. You are an actual friend, one that inserts themselves between his bullies and him.

It doesn’t matter that he’s the tallest person in school and it looks funny to people. He could be the tallest person in the world for all you care.

He is your friend first and foremost.

König is in awe. König has teenage innocent crush on you because you are strong and you are smart and you are kind. And you do your best to protect him, German awkward and all but still stubbornly saying to him that he deserves better.

He is good. You like him. He is a friend. You will protect him.

But then you are gone. Ripped away from him without as much as any time for him to process it properly — he can still feel your hands around him when your parents’ car pulls away.

His T-shirt is still wet from your tears.

The pain comes later — blinding and consuming, wreaking his mind, shattering him over and over.

Bullying gets worse and he gets worse.

Before innocent crush starts twisting into obsession because when no one was safe and no one was warm — you were.

Maybe you got taken away because he was too weak? Maybe you got taken away to show him that he doesn’t deserve you if he can’t keep you?

He’ll get stronger then. He’ll get bigger.

He will get his little friend back. And no one will ever rip you away from him again.

Over his dead fucking body, Schatz. You just wait.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Love is a Verb

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 3k words

warnings/tags: fluff, allusions to smut, Simon gets in his feelings™️

It was the first time that you dropped a plate stacked high with heart-shaped pancakes in front of him, that you realized just how much Simon had been starved for love in his life.

“What’s this?” He asks, eyebrows scrunching in confusion, staring down at his plate as though it were a bomb in need of defusing.

“Breakfast? You’d mentioned pancakes the other day and I’ve been craving ‘em since.” You shrug, walking back towards the stovetop where the next batch are waiting to be flipped over.

“They’re- you’ve never-” You glance back over your shoulder at him, watching as he appears to struggle to find the words for what he means to say. He looks almost out of place, his large, hulking frame sitting at a breakfast table with flowers adorning it (he’s the one that brought you that bouquet, of course), his bed head on full display. “You’ve never made ‘em like this before.”

“What, like hearts?” You giggle, scooping up the last of the breakfast onto a plate, making your way back to the table, seeing Simon give you a nod in confirmation. “I just wanted spread some love to my love. Is that alright?”

Setting your plate down next to his, you go to take a seat before you feel two muscular arms wrapping around your middle, pulling you backwards and seating you onto his strong lap.

“‘Course s’alright.” He mumbles into your hair, pressing a kiss wherever his lips may land on you. From those two words alone, you can tell his throat is getting scratchy, and you almost think you hear the slightest sniffle coming from him. You can’t help the surprised blush that creeps through you. You weren’t expecting him to react this way. You’re willing to bet he also wasn’t expecting to react this way.

Knowing that communicating, as well as understanding, his feelings isn’t something that always comes with ease for Simon, you decide to give him a moment, not wanting to put him on the spot. You spread some maple syrup across your stack, tilting it in the direction of his plate and receiving a grunt of confirmation before you drizzle some onto his as well. Taking your cutlery in hand, enjoy your breakfast in quiet bliss, taking turns feeding bites to yourself and your shadow behind you, always receiving a loving squeeze to your thigh after each piece you slip between his lips.

“Mum never made anythin’ like this.” His revelation arrives just as your chewing on your last bite, stomachs content, hearts even more full. You can count on one hand the amount of times Simon has brought up his family to you. You’re aware of the circumstances, and while you don’t know every detail (nor do you need to), he has over time opened up to you about what happened. “Not ‘cause she didn’t love us. I think she would’ve if she-” he clears his throat, and you readjust yourself in his lap so that you can wrap your arms around his neck, leaning your head against his shoulders, rubbing reassuring circles into the muscles your hands come across.

You don’t want to overwhelm him by looking at him as he opens himself up to you, but you want to reassure him that you’re listening, you’re here with him. He can tell you as much or as little as he wants to, and you’ll listen.

“Beth did though. Once or twice.” He adds, resting his chin atop your head, running a hand through your hair. “I mean, I’m sure she did it more than that but, I saw her do it, once or twice. For Joseph.” Your grip around him tightens ever so gently at the mention of his late sister-in-law and nephew. You’ve never seen a picture of the boy, but you can just picture him, a small little blond head of hair, maybe with eyes like his, running around, keeping his young parents busy. Knowing the fate his family endured, a shiver runs through you, but you don’t let it overcloud the moment that Simon is sharing with you. Certainly not when it appears he’s thinking of them fondly right now, reflecting on his past with a happy lens.

“I’m sure he must’ve loved it.” You whisper into the skin of his neck, sending goose bumps sprawling across the flesh.

“He did. Tommy too.” At that he gives a slight chuckle, shaking the two of you. “Even when we were younger, he could always eat us out of house and home. Was like you couldn’t get anything to stick to his bones, either, that kid. More than half the time I wound up shop liftin’ it was to feed his skinny arse.” You sit there together for a moment, holding one another, basking in the newest glimpse of his past that Simon has just offered you.

“They would’ve loved you.” He mumbles into your hair, emotion evident in his voice, his grip on you tightening desperately, as though you two might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold you close enough. “Think you would’a liked em as well.” At that you pull away from his shoulder, slipping your hands to cradle each side of his face, bringing his forehead to meet yours.

“They loved you, Si. Of course I would love them too.” You whisper against his lips, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to each corner of his mouth, the top of his nose, each closed eyelid, before returning to his mouth.

It’s the next week when you decide to finally tackle the last of the moving boxes. You and Simon finally moved in together a few months ago now, and Simon seems to have placed more priority on ‘christening every room’ (also known as fucking you senseless over each and every available surface in the place) over unpacking.

The handful of boxes that are left are more of the miscellaneous, don’t really have anywhere to put them, sort of items that you can’t exactly part with but don’t have any real use for. Most of it being your stuff. His time in the military has left him without a need for many material items, and so you’re surprised to find a smaller box shoved to the back of the pile labeled as ‘Simon’.

Upon opening it, you find it contains a variety of what appears to be memorabilia he’s collected throughout his time in the military, small souvenirs from his travels, old folded up uniforms, and what not. But slipped between two folded shirts, you can feel something more sturdy. Carefully slipping it out of the box, you discover a frame containing a multitude of medals.

In spite of being in love with a Lieutenant, your knowledge of the military is still slim. You don’t recognize any of the medals shining up at you, but they are numerous, and you can tell they must be incredibly important, something he’s worked so hard to earn. Why is he keeping this tucked away?

“Hey Si!” You shout in hopes that he’s near enough to hear you.

“What are you up to now, mischief?” He asks, his tone playful as you hear his footsteps approaching. “Christ, we’ve still boxes left?”

“Acting as if you don’t purposefully walk around them every day.” You tease back, rolling your eyes at him. You stand up, turning to face him with the frame clutched to your chest. He takes you in and raises a brow in question as to your discovery. “What are these?”

He steps closer to glance at what you’re holding, shoulders tensing for a moment before releasing, letting out a deep sigh.

“Ah. S’nothin’.” He tries to reach to take it out of your grip, but you swing your arms behind your back, hiding it from his grasp.

“What do you mean nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing to me, mister award winner.”

“They’re not- I don’t-” he seems to struggle with his words, and it’s only then that you realize perhaps he doesn’t view these medals in the same way you do.

“Do you not like ‘em?” You ask, bringing the frame back around to your front, glancing down at them with a more quizzical eye this time.

“I just- I’m not always proud of how I earned em, love.” He attempts to explain, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “Some I reckon’ I don’t mind but- all just seems unnecessary to me. I did my job, all there is to it.”

“Are these like, the kind they have big ceremonies for and then someone pins them on you in front of everyone?”

“Somethin’ like that.” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his large chest.

“And let me guess, you never attended any of them?”

“Don’t need all the fanfare, lovie.” He says, stepping forward and slowly slipping the frame from your grasp, tossing it back into the box you’d found it in. “All I need’s right here.”

“I just wish you’d let yourself be celebrated sometimes too, Si…”

“Well if it’s celebratin’ my birdie is wantin’, how’s bout we go celebrate with you on top of the washing machine eh? Don’t think I’ve made you cum up there yet.” You roll your eyes at his changing of the subjects, but can’t contain the giggle that erupts out of you when he swings you over his shoulder, apparently having decided the laundry room is exactly where you two are going now. “Just put a load in the machine, only right I put a load in here too.” He adds with a smack to your ass.

You’re worried you’re about to make an absolute fool out of yourself. No, you’re sure you’re about to look like an idiot. You know how much that man loves you, but even this might be exaggerating. Glancing at the clock above the stove however, you know it’s now or never. The candles around the room have been lit, the lights are dimmed, his favourite meal is cooking in the oven, soft music is playing from the record player, you’re wearing Simon’s favourite dress on you, and you even went as far as to spruce up your hair and makeup for this. In theory, everything is perfectly set up and in its place.

So why then, do you feel so mortified as you hear the sound of keys jingling the lock at the front door? Oh right, because it’s him you’ve set this all up for.

“Hi sweetheart,” he shouts to you as he walks in, too preoccupied with removing his boots and gear to look up yet. “Smells really good, what’s-” He cuts himself off upon walking into the kitchen, eyes landing on the unusual scene before him. You watch as his irises glance around the room, taking it all in, before landing on you. He’s still stood a few feet away from you, but you swear you can see his pupils dilate as his eyes roam up and down your figure.

“Hi.” You whisper meekly to him, wringing your hands nervously behind your back.

“Hi.” He answers back, taking an apprehensive step towards you. “What’s all this then?”

“First you have to go get dressed.” You inform him, jutting your chin in the direction of your shared bedroom. The small smile working its way onto his face helps boost your confidence, nerves slowly dissipating.

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm. Even laid out your clothes for you, so you don’t have to think about it.”

“We goin’ somewhere?” He asks, beginning to undo his belt already. The movement catches your attention, likely his intention, and his smirk widens upon seeing you blush.

“Nope. We’re just celebrating at home.”

At this, he freezes his movements, belt halfway slipped out of his belt loops. His gaze scans your face, looking for anything he might have missed.

“Shit. Did I- did I forget something, baby? I did-”

“No, no no no!” You cut him off with a slight giggle, coming up to him now to lay your palms across his chest. “No, you’re okay Si. You didn’t forget anything, I’m just surprising you.” You reassure him, knowing that he only calls you baby when he’s worried he’s in trouble (or when he’s already in trouble, crouched between your thighs attempting to earn his way out of the dog house).

“You didn’t have to do any of this love.” He says, hands pulling the rest of his belt out, before he loops it around you, using it to pull you even closer to him.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done yet, mister. We’ll see if you still like me in a bit.” You stand up on your tippy toes, planting a kiss to his Adam’s apple, fingers reaching up to slowly lift the skull printed balaclava off his face. Your lips follow each inch of skin revealed as you finally slip the fabric off his visage, exposing the face of the man you love. “Now go get dressed before I change my mind.”

With a kiss to the forehead and a squeeze to the bum, your man releases you from his grasp to obediently follow your command, making his way towards the bedroom. Steeling yourself with a deep breath, you turn towards the cabinets, pulling out the secret you’d been hiding, the reason you’re doing any of this.

Minutes later, Simon is walking back into the room, dressed in form fitting black dress pants, and his large hands are finishing up the last few buttons of his white button-up shirt, the buttons appearing minuscule in his grasp. Your eyes land on his figure, and suddenly the smell of the food in the oven isn’t why your mouth is salivating so much. He glances up at you, eyes meeting and each of you fights off a small blush and a shy smile, as though you’re seeing your dates for the prom for the first time.

“You’re so handsome, Si.” You tell him, stepping closer to him.

“Think you’re just desensitized to me at this point, love.” He attempts to deflect, but you see the blush deepening across his pale cheeks. “Besides, I oughta be kissing the ground you walk on birdie, just look at ya…” He reaches a hand out towards yours, spinning you around gracefully, taking the time to admire you entirely.

The look in his eyes is glazing over, as he licks his lips, eyes unable to tear away from each inch of skin you have exposed. You’re equally become as hot and bothered, but you’ve got a goal tonight, and you want to see it through, for his sake.

“Before dinner, I uh- I wanted to do something for you.” You say, stepping back enough that your backside meets the edge of the counter top. Your hands feel behind you for what you’re looking for, hoping he can’t see what you’re attempting to conceal for just a little longer. “I don’t need to explain to you how hard you work, everywhere you go, you’re always taking care of others, Si. And you don’t get even nearly as much thanks as you should, and-”

“Love,” he tries to cut you off, stepping closer to you, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Hold on, I really want to say this. To do this.” He nods at your interjection, accepting to hear you through. “Ever since I met you, you’ve changed my life Simon Riley, and I know I’m not the only person in the world who can say that. You are a good man, a hero to many, a leader to others. You’re just- you are good, Si. I promise you are.”

You can’t help the emotion beginning to seep into your voice now, but it’s important to you that he hears every word you have to tell him, and that he knows you mean them.

“I don’t know everything you’ve done, and I don’t want to. Your job terrifies me, and every time you walk out the door I’m scared you’re going to get hurt but- you’re so good at what you do, Simon. They couldn’t do it without you. You’re important, you’re needed.” At this, you slip the frame of medals out from behind your back, bringing them in front of you for Simon to see. “That’s what these are, at least in my eyes. They’re reminders that you’re meant to be doing what you’re doing, but most importantly, they also mean you made it back. You made it back to me.”

His warm hand reaches out to brush away a stray tear that’s spilled over your lashes, his palm staying to cup your cheek affectionately.

“You’re right, we don’t need all the fanfare, all we need is right here. But some occasions call for a celebration. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll let me put these on you? Just once, just this one time, I just- I need you to know how important you and your accomplishments are to me.”

Wordlessly, he nods to you, his own eyes appearing to be brimming with emotion. Sniffling, you turn the frame over, opening up the back before carefully slipping it off. Your fingers gingerly pick up the first medal they find, bringing it up to his firm chest. You look into his eyes once more, ensuring that this is okay with him. All you see in his gaze is pure, undeniable love. One hand reaches between the fabric of his shirt and the warm, scarred skin across his pec, as the other brings the medal to the front of the button-up. With all the devotion and tenderness in the world, you secure the medal to his front, slowly slinking your hands away to see if it’ll stay in its place.

When the medal does not budge, you repeat the process over with the remaining medals, until one side of his shirt is significantly weighed down compared to the other side, and both your hearts are bursting with affection for the human being stood before you. Sliding your now empty hands up his shoulders, his calloused palms resting on either side of your waist, his eyes communicate to you everything that his lips will never need to tell you. You know him. And you know what you mean to him. That’s why as he shuts his eyes and presses a kiss to your forehead, you find yourself whispering the sentence you hope to tell him every day of your life:

“I love you too.”

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 38: Shattered

Summary: Things aren't okay. They never will be again.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,520 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, medical stuff, injuries, brief description of a possible death, language, mention of weight loss due to medical stuff, emotionally heavy chapter (again), slightly graphic imagery, illness, so much crying

A/N: I just want to make something very clear here since there's a scene in this chapter that might be interpreted this way, but 'mega is NOT suicidal. That's not something that's going to be in this fic, and neither is self-harm. It would have been well warned in advance if that was going to be something coming up in this fic. She's struggling a lot, but she's not suicidal, she's not going to become suicidal, nor will she self-harm even off screen. So don't worry. That's not what's happening. It won't be happening.

Okay, just wanted to make that clear. Enjoy the suffering!

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

The scream slices through the silence seconds before chaos erupts. 

John is on his feet and out the door before Kyle is even fully awake. Simon is on his heels down the stairs, the two of them nearly colliding in their rush. His heart thuds in his chest as he sees your door open, the overhead light on. It’s bad. It must be bad if the overhead light is on. You hate the overhead light. 

He barrels in like a bull, ready to fight. The screaming has stopped, but it still rings in his ears. The fear, the panic. Something has happened. Someone got in. He should have made you take the room upstairs. He should have put a barrier between you and the door. That window. Someone could break that easily and grab you before they even noticed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” 

The screaming has stopped, but gut-wrenching sobs have taken its place. He takes a moment to scan the room. Nothing is misplaced. The window isn’t broken, there’s no bodies, no one that shouldn’t be in there. 

“You’re okay.” Christine soothes you as you sob. “It was just a nightmare.” 

The bright fluorescent overhead light burns his eyes as he stands there, staring at the bed. Christine is right there, having beaten them across the living room, or perhaps she had already been in there, having heard you in your distress before they could. You're tucked in her arms, your face against her shoulder as she holds you. 

Nightmare. 

The safety and security the cottage promised has faded, leaving you at the mercy of the horrors your mind can conjure up in your sleep. Something twists deep in John’s stomach as he turns, motioning for the others to back up and give you some space. You won’t want them there, and things will only get worse if you notice them. 

His heart is still thudding in his chest as he stands there, the sharp sound of your scream still ringing in his ears despite his confirmation of your safety. The other three look just as startled as he feels, standing there tensely in the dark living room. He brings himself to move, turning his back on them for a moment to try and gather his thoughts as he flips on the lamp in the corner. It casts a warm light across the living room, far too warm for how he’s feeling. He’s trying not to panic, trying not to be sick on the floor from the worry. His heart is in his throat, trying to choke him. He’s trying so hard to be strong, not just for him, but for his pack, for you. 

He sinks down on one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face. He had been so sure something had happened, that their safe little bubble had been breached and someone knew about their whereabouts. He had been so sure someone was trying to hurt you with a scream like that. 

Maybe someone was, but not in reality. 

What is it you dream about now? Your nightmares about your father and your traumatic presentation must seem like nothing now compared to what must haunt your mind. Do you dream of Graves and his torture? Do you dream of them leaving you behind? Do you dream of dying because of their failures? 

A hand settles on his shoulder, a body sinking onto the couch next to him. Arms are wrapping around him, easing him against a solid chest. 

He’s crying. 

He didn’t even realize the tears had started flowing. 

He can hear the reverberating voice in his head, yelling at him, telling him not to show such weakness in front of his pack, in front of his team. He’s supposed to be the strong one, he’s supposed to be the stable one keeping the pack afloat and steady. Yet here he is, breaking down in front of them. 

“It’s okay.” 

Kyle. 

His sweet Kyle. 

How he’s been neglecting his sweet beta, and yet, how willing Kyle still is to reach out and comfort him in such a time of visible distress. That’s what betas are supposed to do. Mediate and balance the emotions of the pack. How have they been coping with all of this? How have Kyle and Johnny been managing in such a time of disarray and upheaval? Have they been managing it? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know the state of his pack, of the members of his team. 

What a failure he is. 

He lets himself lean against Kyle, something filling his chest as Kyle’s soft scent seeps into his senses. He’s projecting it, not just for John but also for the whole room. Johnny is crying too, soft sobs tearing from his chest as he sits on the other couch. Simon is on his knees in front of him, trying to get him calmed and breathing. 

They’ve been ignoring and denying each other for days, fraying the bonds further while trying so hard not to. The pain they’ve been causing in their emotional constipation and intentional neglect is almost worse than the pain caused by their infighting. At least fighting they were feeling something. At least fighting they weren’t cutting each other off so willingly. 

“We can’t do this anymore.” He says, his voice thick and shaky from his tears. “Cutting each other off. It’s not helping anything.” He doesn’t move from where he’s tucked against Kyle’s chest, letting the comfort wash over him for the first time in a week and a half. 

How he’s missed this. 

“It’s not doing any good for any of us.” Simon says, shifting onto the couch next to Johnny. 

“Especially not our omega.” Kyle says, voicing the thought flashing through all of their minds. 

“We may not be able to do much to help her right now, but we can focus on each other. That is something we can do.” John swallows thickly, his alpha starting to come back to life, his instincts aware again as he stares at Johnny and Simon. “Doing nothing isn’t good for any of us. We need to have something to focus on, something tangible we can do. Denying each other comfort isn’t going to help anyone.” 

“I full-heartedly agree.” 

John whips around, Christine standing in front of your closed door. He hadn’t even noticed her enter the room, hadn’t sensed her standing behind them. Johnny and Simon are the only two that don’t look startled, but they must have seen her come out from their position facing your door. 

“Sorry.” The corner of her lip twitches up in a smirk. “Thought you would have noticed.” 

John clears his throat. “How is she?” 

“Settled again.” Christine says, moving over to the chair. 

“How long has she been having nightmares?” Kyle asks. 

“Since that first day in the med center in Dallas.” She says, sinking into the chair. How heavy this must all be on her shoulders. “I’d almost call them more sleep hallucinations. Mostly of Graves. Seeing him in the room, being attacked by him.” 

“Is there anything that can be done to help?” John asks. 

“For these kinds of nightmares? Not really.” Christine folds her hands in her lap. “Her brain is trying to process what happened. Until she feels safe enough to truly begin working on processing the trauma, it’s likely the nightmares will continue.” 

“Is there anything we can do to help her feel safe?” Kyle says. 

Christine’s lips purse as she looks between the four of them. “I’m not sure any of you could do anything right now directly, at least. She’s not open to that yet. Working on your bonds with each other, though, could help her omega finally settle and allow her emotions to even out again. That can help her feel safer, remove that instability and the fear of losing control again.” 

All of them share looks, John and Simon staring at one another. They hadn’t even thought about that. Well, at least he hadn’t. Christine had told him months ago that omegas need their alpha when they distress, when their omega takes over. They can come back from it with the help of an alpha...their alpha. Without one, the chances of survival were slim. Yet here you are, trying to do it all on your own. Having to do it all on your own. 

That ache in his chest starts again as he stares at Simon. He sent Simon after you, he made Simon go through that process of seeing you in that state and scruffing you. He made Simon be the one to help you through that. He made Simon be there when you needed an alpha most because he couldn’t face the fact that he abandoned you, he left you behind like you were nothing but another faceless soldier. 

He wipes his face as the tears start falling again. He truly is a failure of an alpha. 

Despite Christine’s reassurances, John can’t help the automatic reaction to your screams. On his feet instantly, his heart pounding in his chest ready to fight bare handed whatever might be causing such a reaction. Whoever might be causing such a reaction. He can’t fight the demons in your head, though, and he’s always greeted by the sight of Christine by your side, comforting you as best she can. 

He wants to hate her, wants to be angry at her for taking his place, doing what he should be doing. His alpha scratches at his mind every time he sees her by your side, giving you comforts he should be giving, but it’s his fault. It’s his fault she’s the one there with you. It’s his fault you’re suffering so much. Those thoughts send his alpha crawling back into its cage with its tail between its legs. 

It doesn’t matter the time of day, whether it was a nap or the middle of the night, your screams have a pain throbbing deep in his chest. His heart is constantly racing, waiting for that rush of adrenaline at the sound of your terrified scream, at that rush of instinct to protect and fight. He’s not sure how much his heart can take. 

He might have a heart attack by the end of their stay at the cottage. 

That’s something he’s been trying not to think about. 

They can’t stay here forever, no matter how much he knows you’ll want to, how much the others will want to. Eventually they’ll begin to go stir-crazy, itching for something to do. They still have jobs, and Kate can only keep them off the radar for so long, and can only give so many excuses. Eventually they’ll have to go back. Eventually they’ll have to make that decision of what comes next. 

He’s going to delay that as much as he possibly can. 

They can’t go back while Shepherd is still out there. They can’t trust that anywhere is safe while he’s still skulking around, while he still has contacts that could put them all in danger. That could put you in danger. 

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take again. 

But what comes next? 

What will they decide to do? Can they go back, knowing what the inevitable will be? Can they take that risk of having to leave you again, put you through that constant fear and worry that they might not come back? What if they all leave again? Could you survive the fear that something might happen while they’re away again? Not to them, but to you? 

Could they leave you alone again? 

Those are thoughts for another day when they’re inevitably faced with the fact they have to return to society and their lives and jobs. 

They have time. 

He has to make sure you’re okay first. 

You’re not okay.

You’re so very far from okay. 

The bedside lamp is on, casting a golden glow around the room. 

There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. 

It’s one of the rare times you’ve woken before you can react, before you can scream and alert everyone in the house that you’ve had a nightmare. They’ll all come running. All of them. 

You hate it. 

You hate the nightmares, you hate the fear, you hate the constant pain and worry and the constant knowledge that your pack is right there. They want to go back to how things were, they want things to go back to normal, but they can’t. They expect you to forgive them, to go back to loving them, but how can you after everything? 

They left you. 

They let this happen to you and they just want you to pretend like nothing happened. That’s what they would do. Go back to normal life after being tortured and forget it all happened because that’s what they do. 

You’re not them. 

You don’t want to be like them. 

Cold. Heartless. Uncaring. Unwilling to put anyone but themselves first. 

Fuck them. 

The only thing keeping you here is the fact you’re bonded to them. That, and you’re an omega. You’d get picked up off the street and brought right back here to your owner. Or, worse, you’d get picked up by someone looking for a cute little omega to add to their collection. 

Or worse. 

You’d get picked up by someone else. 

Graves. Shepherd. 

If you’re lucky, they’d kill you instantly. Leave your body on the front porch for the others to find. You won’t care anymore. You’ll be dead. 

You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks, wiggling yourself back until you’re leaning against the headboard. Your shoulder doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore. It still throbs, still aches, still occasionally almost puts you on the floor when you try to reach over your head with it. Your throat is healing too. Soup isn’t quite as horrible as it was a few days ago. Solid food makes you ache, but at least you can get it down without feeling like you’re swallowing glass. 

You still haven’t spoken to them, though. 

You can hardly stand to look at them. 

Fuck them. 

Just the thought of them makes you want to scream. 

Dr. Keller says it's normal, being angry. ‘It’s all part of the process.’ The anger, the fear, the pain, the depression. It’s all normal. It’s all part of the process. It’s all necessary. You won’t get better holding it all in. You won’t get better numbing yourself. You won’t get better if you don’t allow yourself to feel everything. 

You hate it. 

Why should you have to go through all these feelings, all this pain? Why should you be the one suffering because of their decisions? It’s not fair. They should be suffering. They should be in pain. They should be the ones on the brink of insanity because of the fear and the pain and the suffering and their omega constantly screaming at them. 

It makes you want to scream. 

Screaming will only draw them in, force them closer. Screaming will alert them all, make them all come running. You don’t want any of them near. You don’t want to have to see them again. 

Fuck them. 

You let out a huff before wiggling back down the bed until your head hits the pillow. You won’t go back to sleep. You never do. At least you have the pain and exhaustion and tumultuous emotions and your very nature to excuse your constant naps, constant sleeping during the day. They don’t need to know you’re not sleeping at night. They won’t care. They don’t care. None of them do. 

Fuck. Them. 

You want your phone, you want something to keep you occupied. It’s probably lying somewhere on the side of the road shattered beyond repair. That, or it’s back in the barracks. The barracks. Fuck that place. You’ll rip your hair out strand by strand if you have to go back there. It’s not safe, it’s not happy. There’s nothing good about that place anymore. 

It’s just a place of pain. You might as well have been tortured by Phil there. 

You were tortured there. 

It wasn’t a physical torture, but a mental one. The entire experiment was just torture for you. No one thought of you, no one cared about you. 

Dr. Keller cares. 

It’s her job to care. 

Still, you can’t hate her entirely. She’s the only one that understands. She’s the only one that can help. She’s the only one that’s been helping. Not just now, but back then. She cared, she fought for you, she did her best with what she had. Sure, she made mistakes, but so did you. She’s the only one you can forgive. 

She’s the only one you want to forgive. 

Fuck the others. Fuck your pack. Fuck those fucking soldiers who were never going to care about anyone but themselves, who were never going to care about anything but their jobs and their duties and the good of the world. 

You should have been their world. 

They couldn’t put you first. They wouldn’t put you first. They didn’t want to put you first. 

They won’t change. They can’t change. There’s no hope for change. 

You’ll just go back to the way things were before and be forced to pretend everything's okay and that you’re happy and fine and content. Were you ever really content or were you just trying to make the best of the situation? Were you deluding yourself into believing you loved them and cared about them and that they loved you and cared about you to numb the fact you knew deep down that they never would, that they never could. Were you deluding yourself into thinking everything was fine and dandy to hide the constant pain from the knowledge that you would never come first? 

The pain begins to burn in your chest again. It’s hot like acid, rising in your chest to your throat, threatening to choke you. It’s a deep pain, one nestled right in against your soul. Tears leak out of your eyes again as you squeeze them shut, pushing your right hand against your chest in an attempt to get it to pass. 

You thought you were dying the first time. 

You could only be so lucky. 

The bond. 

It’s trying to break, trying to sever itself, trying to free you from the constant pain, but it can’t. 

Maybe because deep down you don’t want it to. Maybe deep down you want to forgive them and move past all of this. Maybe you want things to go back to normal, even if normal means pain and distress and fear. Maybe you want to believe them that they’re finally going to put you first. 

‘Maybe’ is only a doorway to disappointment and pain. 

Fuck yourself. 

Fuck your omega. 

Fuck your pack. 

Hell, fuck Dr. Keller for not fighting harder, for not doing more. 

Fuck Graves and his haunting of your nightmares.

Fuck Kate for choosing you.

Fuck Shepherd for creating the initiative in the first place to try and cover his own ass. 

Fuck them all. 

You tug the blanket higher around yourself, rolling onto your right side. 

Fuck. Them. All. 

You don’t want him here. 

He does it now, usually in the mornings. 

You hate it. 

You like it. It’s nice. He’s the only one making an effort. 

He never says anything, surprisingly enough. It’s silent as he sits there, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Always coffee, never tea. He won’t sink that low. He brings you a cup, but you can never bring yourself to touch it. You feel like a mental patient stuck in a straight jacket. You could free yourself, but that would bring too much awareness, too many questions, too much pain. 

You don’t want to. 

So instead you sit there in silence, staring out at the sea. It’s so far away still, yet it’s right there. You can hear it and smell it and see it. 

The sea. 

They brought you to the sea. 

John remembered. He did it for you. 

The thought has something stirring in your chest, and it’s not pain or anger. 

You hate it. 

Johnny leans back in the chair, his eyes on the horizon like yours. He sits there in that chair every chance he gets, usually in the mornings when Dr. Keller takes time for herself and leaves one of them watching you through the sliding glass door. You do feel guilty for forcing so much on Dr. Keller’s shoulders, yet you need her. 

You’re not ready for the others yet, no matter how loudly your omega screams at you. 

You don’t want them. 

Fuck, you desperately need them. 

Your eyelids flutter frantically as you try to keep the tears at bay. You can’t cry. You can’t let him know how close you are to breaking down. You can’t. 

You can’t reach out. 

You can’t take his hand. 

How desperately you want to. 

You nearly breathe a sigh of relief when the sliding door opens, Dr. Keller’s soft footsteps crossing the wood planks of the porch. 

“Ready to go inside now?” She asks, pressing the back of her hand against your cheek. You don’t say anything, don’t react, frozen in fear of everything coming tumbling out in front of Johnny. “You’re getting cold.” 

Johnny glances your way and you immediately turn to look at Dr. Keller, scared to look him in the face. That desperate hold you have on the gaping wound in your abdomen will open and your guts will come spilling out like some gory scene in a horror movie. 

Disembowelment thanks to your own weakness. 

Dr. Keller holds the crutch out for you as you push yourself to stand. Your legs are strong enough you could probably walk without it, but it’s still nice to have it in case you get tired. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

It’s the weakness from your liquid diet over the past week and a half. The weakness of being unable to eat solid foods, to properly nourish. You’ve lost weight, your clothes hanging from your body in a way they never did before. You’ve lost the softness that marks you as an omega, but it feels fitting. You don’t feel like an omega anymore. 

You don’t feel like anything anymore. 

You’re fighting your instincts out of pain and suffering and stubbornness. You keep taping your omega’s mouth shut despite how loudly she screams at you. You don’t want your instincts. You don’t want that need. Eventually it has to go away. Eventually it has to recede and your omega has to go back into her cage and sleep. Eventually you can numb yourself to it and force it away forever. 

That will certainly make things easier. 

But will it make things better? 

No. Probably not. 

It’ll make things worse. 

But if it allows you to keep your distance, allows you to avoid them, you’ll risk it. You’d take numbness over anything right now. 

How you miss those long days of depression while they were away. How you took those days for granted. 

Who knew those hours spent worrying about them and their distance and what might happen to them would be for nothing? 

What you wouldn’t give for all of them to disappear right now. 

How badly it would destroy you. 

“She’s at war with herself. That instinctual need is screaming at her, but that emotional pain is keeping her shut away. If anyone is going to get through to her, it will probably be you.” 

“I can’t do that.” 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

Simon clenches his jaw as he stares at Christine. As much as he wants to hate the doctor and her ability to see straight through him, he can’t deny how necessary her presence has been. She’s the only one you tolerate, the only one you’ll let close. Without her you’d probably be rotting in bed, stuck and unable to do anything out of stubbornness. You won’t let them close, yet you need them close. 

You’re going to rip yourself in half, metaphorically and possibly even literally. 

He shakes that mental image from his mind. The horrifying images his mind has conjured up over the last few days have his stomach churning. Even his tea no longer looks appetizing. 

He put milk in it this time. Almost how he likes it. Almost how he wants it. 

“Johnny’s the one actually trying.” Simon says, staring across at her. She doesn’t shy from his gaze, doesn't even flinch. “You should talk to him.” 

“While I agree, reintroducing a beta from the pack is the first step, eventually she’s going to need an alpha.” Christine says. 

“She needs her alpha.” He argues. 

“She doesn’t want her alpha.” Christine counters. “He’s going to be the last she lets close, but she’s going to need some kind of stability.” 

“I can’t give her that.” 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

Simon clenches his hand around his mug, his knuckles going white. She’s infuriating, yet he can’t be mad at her. Not completely. The good she’s doing for you, for the pack, far outweighs his annoyance with the doctor. She’s right. He knows it deep down, but he can’t. He can’t do that, he can’t put you through that. He’s already done enough. He did his part, he faced his fears, he saved your life. That’s enough for him. It’s up to John now. 

John has to do the work to fix it. He broke it, it’s no one else’s job to fix it. 

“Maybe both.” Simon finally says, pushing himself up to stand. “It’s not my job to fix this.” 

He leaves his mug behind as he stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. He can’t stand being in the house any longer, cooped up with the same five people. Four people and a ghost. 

He shakes his head, jogging down the steps into the gravel. He should go for a jog. A long jog. He could jog to town and back. That will clear his head. 

That’s a long jog.

If something happens while he’s away, he won’t get back in time. It’ll be his fault because he took the time to do something selfish. He can picture it, coming back to find five bodies laying in pools of blood, dead because he wasn’t there to help, because he wasn’t there to fight. 

It’s a ridiculous thought. There’s three other highly trained soldiers in the house. If anyone tried anything, they wouldn’t make it past the door. He can see it now, Price’s alpha coming out in a rage because someone dared try to enter and hurt his vulnerable omega. He’d probably win in a fight ten to one if that happened, and he has Kyle and Johnny to back him up. Christine would take you and run the first chance she could. She wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not again. 

Still, he can’t shake that fear. If he can’t sprint back, then it's too far. If it will leave the pack too vulnerable, he can’t. 

To the beach and back, then. 

She’s like an angel. 

The soft sunlight streaming through the clouds makes her glow. You wouldn’t be surprised if the sun was shining just for her, sending down a beam just to illuminate just how ethereal she is. 

The Garrick beauty is genetic. 

Kyle is beautiful in terms of a man. He shares the same ethereal glow as his sister, but Ashley? You don’t feel worthy of looking upon her. 

“Kyle never mentioned an omega, but then again, he never says much about his job.” She gives another dazzling smile, your heart rate picking up just slightly. “Can’t, I should say. You haven’t been with them long, huh.” 

“About nine months.” You say, your voice still a bit hoarse. It’s not quite healed yet. It might be that way forever. 

“Such a short amount of time to go through so much.” She says, giving you a soft, sympathetic look. You don’t know how much she knows, though it’s still fairly obvious you’ve been through hell. That you’re still going through hell. “Christine told me a bit about what happened. I don’t blame you one bit for being upset at them. I would have left them, but I know. In a perfect world, right?” 

You make a quiet sound. Indeed in a perfect world where omegas have rights and can make their own decisions and could leave and have support in doing so. You’d leave with Dr. Keller or even Ashley, even though you’ve only known her for ten minutes. She has the same magnetic energy as Kyle, so much so you don’t mind the way the scent blockers burn your nose. She probably smells like something warm and soft, something comforting. 

“So, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do?” She says, settling in the chair. It’s cool outside, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it one bit. 

You scramble for something, anything. What is it you like to do? What are your hobbies? You’re drawing a blank, your mind searching through its filing cabinets to find where you shoved all the things you like to do. 

“I like to read.” You finally say, remembering the stack of untouched books on the dresser across from the bed. 

“Oh? What do you like to read?” She asks. 

What do you like to read? What is a genre? What are books? 

“Oh, I read anything, as long as it’s interesting.” Is that the truth? You’re not quite sure. 

“I see, I see. Well, there’s quite the collection on those shelves inside. I’m a reader too. Read through those entire shelves over the years.” She grins at you. “We could do a little book club, if you’d like. Read some books and talk about them over some tea. We could get Christine in on it too. Have a little thing just for us girls.” 

You nod, staring at her in awe. This is the first time someone outside of your little circle has offered to do anything with you, for you. 

You want to do it. 

You want to spend time with someone who isn’t your pack, who isn’t Dr. Keller. 

“Okay.” You say, still staring at her in awe. 

“I could come over on the weekends, or we could do a call if you’re not up to seeing anyone.” She continues, and you’re not sure if she made this plan before she came, or if she’s coming up with it on the spot. Regardless, you're still impressed by her and her dedication to a complete stranger. 

“Would...would that be too much?” You ask, your brain starting to wake up again, the wires connecting once more. 

“Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I live and work in Exeter, so I’m not too terribly far away.” 

You’re not sure where Exeter is off the top of your head. Your mental map isn’t even sure how far away London is...or even where you are on a map of England. Are you even in England right now? 

“What do you do for work?” You ask, realizing you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time. 

“I’m a finance lawyer.” She says. “Mum used to say ‘you love to argue so much, you should become a lawyer.’” She laughs. “So I did.” 

“You must make a lot of money.” You say. You don’t know how much lawyers make in England relative to the US. 

“I make enough to be comfortable.” She says. Enough to travel back and forth every weekend. “Seriously, though, if you need or want anything, let me know. I’m more than happy to come sit with you and give you a break from those stinky men.” 

You’re not quite sure what happens to your face. It contorts, muscles shaking off the dust and starting to move before you even realize it. Your lips are tilting upwards instead of downwards. Something is happening. Something that feels good, something that you’ve been missing. 

You’re smiling. 

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long time. Weeks. Not since the cameras. Not since your pack left. You haven’t felt like smiling in so long you’re certain you forgot how to. But yet, here you are, smiling at Ashley. It’s not a genuine smile, one that crinkles your eyes and shows joy, but it’s a smile. It almost hurts your face after so long. 

She’s funny too. 

Stinky men. 

They are that. 

Your smile falls as soon as the sliding glass door opens, your head whipping around to look. Ashley turns to look too, perhaps out of instinct at your sudden movement. 

You’re half expecting it to be one of the guys, maybe Kyle out to ruin the moment, but it’s only Dr. Keller. 

“How are things going?” She asks, stepping up beside you. 

“Good.” Ashley says. “We’re planning a book club.” 

“Oh?” Dr. Keller raises a brow, looking between you. “I think that would be fantastic.” 

“You’re welcome to join in if you’d like,” Ashley says, giving Dr. Keller a smile. 

You stare up at Dr. Keller, watching the way her lips turn up a smile, her eyes shining with...something. Her hands open and close, tugging at her pants almost nervously. Your brows raise as you look back up at her face. She almost looks...flustered. 

Oh. 

Another grin forms on your face as you stare between them, Ashley still smiling and Dr. Keller still looking a bit flustered. 

Oh. 

“You could join us if you want.” You say slowly, still looking up at Dr. Keller. 

She seems to snap out of her daze, her gaze darting down to you. She gives you a soft smile, back to her composed, professional self. “If that’s what you’d like.” 

You nod. Even though you see her constantly every day, you’re not tired of her existence yet. She’s the only one whose existence in the house doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out, the only one you want to talk to, to see, to have around. If you had the choice, you’d be here alone with her. 

That’s not possible. You know it’s not. 

“A thing for just us girls.” Ashley says. “On the weekends. No pressure whatsoever.” 

“I think that would be fantastic.” Dr. Keller says. “A nice little distraction.” 

“A nice break from those stinky men.” You say. 

Both Dr. Keller and Ashley erupt in laughter. 

Another smile tugs at your lips. 

You don’t want to be here. You can feel him staring at you from behind. He hasn’t moved since Dr. Keller left, still just standing there like he’s not sure he can approach you or not. You hope he doesn’t. You want him to. 

You don’t say anything, still staring out at the ocean, but you can see him reflected in the glass, obscuring your view of the horizon. Hatred burns inside of you as you have no choice but to stare at him, even when you’re trying not to. He’s like a ghost, always haunting you. He always will be. 

“I didn’t want to try to rush into this.” He finally says, knowing you’re not going to say anything. You won’t greet him, welcome him into your space. It already feels like an intrusion into your safety, him being here. 

Is this becoming a safe space? A nest? No, not that far. It’s becoming sacred to you, though, and having him in it without invitation feels wrong. It makes you uncomfortable. 

You hate it. 

“But I just wanted you to know that we’re all feeling the weight of what we did, I’m feeling the weight of what I decided to do. We all feel guilty for putting you through that, for forcing you to endure things you never should have.” 

He swallows thickly, falling silent for a moment. You almost feel like laughing at his attempt at an apology, another attempt at an apology. Why is he even bothering? He knows you won’t forgive him. He’s probably doing it for himself again, to make himself feel better. 

“I know it’s not an ideal situation, being forced in such a small space together, but we all wanted you to know that you’re the one setting the boundaries. If you don’t want us to be somewhere or do something, then you can tell us, or have Christine tell us. If you don’t want to see us at all, we can make our best attempts at that.” 

“That would be ideal.” You say, breaking the silence you’ve held for days. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him since the hospital, since his first sad attempt at an apology. 

It shocks him to stillness and silence. 

The words hurt, burning your throat like acid as you stare at his reflection in the glass. You hate it, how pathetic he looks standing there. Where’s the big, tough alpha? Where’s the strong protector? Where’s the person that’s supposed to take care of you and care about you? 

He never existed. 

He left you behind. 

He never cared. 

Anger begins to bubble within you. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice shaking. “I never meant for this to happen-”

“You think your sad attempts at apologies are going to work?” You hiss at him through your teeth. You push yourself to stand, turning to face him. “You left me. You fucking left me there knowing full well what was going to happen!” You’re shouting now. All the quiet movements on the other side of the wall in the main area stop. 

They’re all listening. 

It’s not like you’re giving them much of a choice not to. 

Fuck them.

“I know,” He says, his eyes wide as he stares at you. 

“Do you? Do you know?” Your voice is wavering, your throat starting to ache but you can’t stop. Not now. It’s all coming out and there’s no stopping it. “You. Left. Me. You willingly turned your back on me time and time again even when I was being tortured! You leaving was torture enough and you still chose me second. I’ve always been second. I’ve never mattered enough for you to even question anything!” 

You let out a sob, the sound cracking in your throat. It hurts, but it will always hurt. You’ll always carry this hurt with you, so you want him to hurt too. 

“I asked you once if you would ever leave for me. You said if things got dangerous, if my life were ever at risk because of you, you’d leave in a heartbeat.” The tears are falling, streaming down your face. “Was that a lie?” 

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at you. Does he even remember that conversation? 

“Was that a lie?” You shout, making him jump. 

His eyes drop to the floor, his scent souring. Good, you think. Let it hurt. 

“Answer me.” You say, pushing him to give some response to your question. You need to know. You need him to say it. 

“I didn’t intend for it to be.” He says quietly. 

“You didn’t intend for it to be.” You say, bitterness coating your tone. “What the fuck does that mean? You said you wouldn’t let me go even if the initiative failed. Was that a lie too? Was it all a lie to keep me happy and complacent? ‘The job always comes first,’ even when my life is in danger, right? The job always comes first over everything, even me. You lied to me.” You swallow the sob threatening to come up. “I want to hear you say it.” 

He stands there, tears brimming in his eyes. He hasn’t moved hardly a muscle, still frozen like a statue. 

“Say it!” You scream at him, your throat tearing around the words. You’re surprised you’re not tasting blood yet from how raw it feels. 

“I lied.” He says, swallowing thickly. “I lied to you and I couldn’t keep my promise. And I’m sorry-” 

“Don’t apologize.” You cut him off starting to pace as the anger burns hot in you. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me, you don’t deserve to apologize. You don’t deserve the chance at forgiveness. You’re a shitty alpha and you always have been!” 

You let out a sob, wiping at the tears streaming down your face. There’s a tear sliding down his cheek, and it brings you some sort of relief deep down. So he can feel things after all. 

“I don’t know what I expected, though.” You let out a sardonic laugh. “You military men are all the same. It’s always about the job and the image and the ‘greater good’ and making sacrifices, even if that means sacrificing your pack. You’re just like my dad. You never wanted an omega, you never wanted me. You cast me out and let me suffer when I needed you most.” 

The anger burns hot in you again, shooting through your veins until it’s choking you as you stare at him standing there pathetically. He thought he could apologize, he thought his groveling would mean anything to you. Fuck him. Fuck them all. 

“You left me.” You grit out, your hands starting to shake. “You left me! You abandoned me, you let me get hurt! You didn’t care, you never cared about me!” You storm over to him. “Fuck you!” You scream, hitting his chest. “I fucking hate you!” You shove him back, sending him stumbling. “Get out!” You shove him again, pushing him back towards the door. “Get out! I never want to see you again!” 

He stumbles back out of the door and you slam it in his face so hard it shakes on its hinges. You click the lock as you sob in pain, pain both physical and emotional. Your chest aches, a tearing feeling burning through it. 

The bond. 

You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck anymore. You hate him, you hate them all. 

The tears and sobs threaten to choke you but you don’t care. You don’t care anymore. You don’t care about anything anymore except the anger burning hot through you, making your hands shake. Your legs give out and you slide to the floor against the door, sliding until you’re laying down on your back on the hardwood. It’s cold against your skin but you don’t care. You can’t care anymore. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

John stares at the wood in shock. The slam of the door still echoes in his ears as he stands there, frozen. He knew the chance of a negative reaction was high, but something like that? Something to that magnitude? 

Your words cut into him like a knife, searing his skin and leaving blisters behind. 

Hands push him out of the way. He stumbles to the side, his brain still catching up to his body. 

“Sweetie, I need you to open the door.” 

The words are muffled from the ringing in his ears, the ringing of your screams as you cursed his very being. 

Liar. 

His legs are shaking as he turns, his body moving automatically towards the door. The other three members of his pack are frozen, watching him as he crosses the living room, as he wraps his fingers around the handle of the sliding glass door, as he pushes it open just wide enough to slip through. 

The thud of it closing feels like a seal being stamped. He’s cut himself off, fraying that bond forever. 

Your words still ring in his head as he stands in the middle of the porch numbly. 

Liar. 

He is a liar. He made a lot of promises that he couldn’t keep, promises that he broke because of his decisions. He should have made you feel comfortable enough to reveal those cameras right away. He should have gotten you off base as soon as you revealed them. He should have never trusted Shepherd, or even Kate in that moment. He should have fought harder, he should have sent you away from base as soon as he made that decision to leave. 

So many things he should have done differently. 

You can’t change the past. 

Liar. 

He left you when you needed him most. He proved time and time again that he’d always choose the job over you, no matter what he promised. You’re not a soldier. No matter how much he tried to prepare you, train you, you’d never be able to fight like them. 

Not without taking drastic measures. 

He saw the blood. He saw the bodies. He saw the proof of an omega pushed too far, an omega forced into its primordial state. 

You did it because they left you. 

You did it because you thought the abandoned you. 

Those words ring out the loudest in his mind. Above all the others those words linger, replaying over and over again. 

‘You let me be tortured.’

Christ. 

He runs a hand over his face, the realization shocking him as a cold chill settles under his skin. There’s a weight dropping in his stomach, threatening to sink him straight through the planks of the porch and into the ground below. 

You think they left you. 

He turns on his heel, shocked to find Simon standing behind him. He can’t read his face, hidden behind the mask that hasn’t come off since they arrived at the cottage. He doesn’t need to see his face to read the giant alpha. He’s known Simon long enough to be able to read him just based on his body language. 

He’s angry, frustrated. John half expects him to start yelling too, but that’s never been Simon’s style. He only gets loud when he needs to. Instead he’ll stew and glare and darken the room with his rage. The target of his anger will feel it and know, and that’s almost worse than if he’d express that anger through words. 

Despite the cold chill of Simon’s stare, John’s mind is reeling too much to care. It all makes sense now. Your distance, your turmoil, your own anger. 

“She thinks we left her.” The words come tumbling out before he can stop them. 

“We did.” Simon says, the words short and sharp. 

“No, no,” John shakes his head. “She thinks we left her with Graves.” 

Simon shifts on his feet, the planks of the porch creaking under his weight. 

“Of course Graves would fuck with her head, make her feel like she had been abandoned. It was never about following orders for him. He would have tortured her no matter what.” Anger burns hot in John, at himself, at Graves. Of course you’d assume the worst, of course you’d believe Graves because he was playing on your own doubts. 

They left you so easily at the barracks, of course they’d leave you to be tortured. 

“She’ll never believe you.” Simon says. The squaring of his shoulders has deflated a bit. 

“No, she won’t.” John shifts on his feet, staring straight at Simon. “But I’m not going to be the one to tell her.” 

Her hand presses against your forehead, wiping some of the sweat beading on your skin. Despite your shivers, you’re burning hot. A fever. You worked yourself up too much earlier in your outburst. She had been proud of you for finally releasing some of it and showing some emotion, but she knew the consequences of getting so worked up would be high. Your omega is still unstable, on top of still trying to physically recover. You hurt yourself doing that, even if it was necessary. 

She shushes you as you whine, fingers grasping at the blanket clumsily. She pulls it higher over you, your body shuddering underneath the pile already stacked on top of you. She’d put every blanket she could find over you, and yet you still shiver. Worry floods her again as she stares down at you, your eyes pinched closed. You must be aching, your show of anger taking its toll. 

It was necessary, but at what cost? 

If your temperature continues to spike, the risk of distress heightens. You can’t handle distress in your current state, which would mean your omega would come out, finally be freed again from the unprotected cage it's been pushed back into. If your omega comes out, that will require John to help, which may only drive you further into distress. 

She needs to try and stop this before the situation continues to deteriorate. 

But how? 

How can she move you past this without the help of your pack? She can’t give you the comfort you need. Medicine or any therapeutic methods can help solve the issue at its core. Sure she can try and lower your fever with medicine, but you need your pack. You need that comfort and stability that only they can offer. 

You need someone, and it can’t be her. 

If your omega comes back out, they might never be able to get it back in. It’ll be the end of you. All of your recovery, the fight you’ve put up against your body and your instincts and your mind will have been for nothing. 

You need someone. 

An idea begins to form in her head, her hand resting against your forehead. It’s hot under her hand, your skin burning. You might hate her later for this. It’s risky, but sometimes risks have to be taken in dire situations. Sometimes those risks pan out in the end. What will happen if it fails? The inevitable that’s going to happen if she doesn’t try. It’s a lose-lose situation, but if it works, it could be a win-win. 

She can’t help you, but maybe she has someone who can. 

She tucks the blankets around you, cocooning you in an attempt to keep you warm and still while she steps away. She won’t be gone long.  

She leaves your door cracked open just in case, even though she doubts you’ll be moving much while she’s away. 

Just in case. 

One can never be too careful. 

She heads up the stairs quietly, going slow to avoid startling any of them. She’s intruding on the safe space they’ve made in their solitude. It feels like invading sacred grounds, but it's a necessary invasion. Their omega is in danger. They’ll forgive her. 

The bathroom door is closed at the end of the short hallway, a light on inside. The lights are on in both rooms too, glowing beneath both doors, and she takes a gamble. Based on the heaviness of the footsteps above the kitchen she can guess the room on the right is the one Simon and Johnny are staying in. If she’s wrong, she’ll have some explaining to do before she’s ready, and she knows John will have his thoughts about this. Though, with what happened earlier, perhaps he’ll agree. You won’t see him, but maybe...just maybe... 

She lets out a deep breath before knocking firmly, waiting a breath before she calls out.  

“Johnny, I need your help.”

She just hopes you don’t hate her too much later. 

NEXT ->

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[beloveds-embrace]

DUKEDOM!141 AND MY LIFE IS YOURS 🙏🙏🙏🙏 (/nf please and thank you :])

Original post

Enjoy!! :D

Something all of them like to do is doll you up, and it becomes almost a private little routine between you and them.

John, as your husband (can you tell I love referring to him like this?), steadily takes control of deciding what you wear for the day even long before your request. It’s something that just… happens. He comes into your bedroom early in the mornings, and your maids scatter away to leave you both be with little giggles, excited at the prospect of you two finally getting ‘close’.

John doesn’t care for them. He greets you with a soft good morning (a few weeks later, he’d greet you the same but would gently caress your face with the back of his hand, the touch so gentle despite his roughened skin. It makes you into a blushing mess, though you tell yourself it’s just so that the peeking maids won’t suspect anything) and then goes straight to your closet, sweeping through the rows and rows of delicate, soft dresses with a discerning eye to select what attire you’ll wear for the day.

Of course, he does ask you what you feel like wearing, how you feel today in general, where you plan on going or meeting- everything to ensure the dress he’ll choose for you would be perfect. John doesn’t wait to see you in the dress, though.

He knows he’ll be seeing you all adorned and dressed up later, when you come down to dine with him. He can compliment you and pat himself on the back, then.

If he makes sure to match his cufflinks with the colors you are wearing, it will simply make whoever notice it think you two are such a lovely couple. And he still hopes that your maids will accidentally not tighten or cover up your hemline just so he can fix it himself for you.

John aside, Kyle takes care of your hair and jewelry. He makes you sit on the vanity, still alone and with none of your maids around, and then he begins the tender ritual of brushing your hair (if it’s not too curly for daily brushings). His hands, warm and careful and gentle, would then take care of oiling each strand. No oils or butters have been spared in the efforts of tending to you, and Kyle himself often turns the routine into a simple, but so effective, head massage session for you.

(Later, Kyle wonders what he needs to say and do to take over the job of the maids who help you bathe. You are always complimenting how good his hands feel on your hair, and he can show you how much better he is at using them for your body.)

Johnny eventually begins doing your makeup, on certain occasions. Once the truth comes out, the two of you are closer, and on one night, he tells you about his big family, his sisters and how they’d make him and his brothers help them get ready for events and parties.

It’s a simple question born out of your curiosity- what’s the makeup like where you were born, Johnny?- that has him in your bedroom often now, the other chefs taking care of the kitchen while his hands, clean and gentle, dab creams and whatnot on your face so delicately- like you are one of the cupacakes he decorates for your tea time.

He wants to kiss you so badly. You look so pretty like this, eyes closed and expression peaceful, patient and so trustful of his ministrations. He really, really wants to kiss you and see if the lipstick he’d applied on your pretty lips tastes as sweet as it smells.

Simon, though, is the one who slowly begins adding more and more to your dresses. John already supplies you with so much, but Simon is the one largely in charge of the silk and fabric importation and he knows well what styles will be popular next season, what styles will looks better on you and which colors suit you best. It’s not just dresses, but also matching fabrics and ribbons to go in your hair for when Kyle or your maids style, and for your pretty neck during more casual tea parties.

Not occasionally seeing you in the dresses he sends doesn’t bother him; you will be spoiling the others with the sight, and he can listen to them thank him in several ways afterwards and rest with the thought of you all dolled up, happy and thriving with them.

[ghostsprincess]

I can't stop thinking about how much you would miss Simon while he's gone....

This is a continuation of part one and part two.

warning: adult language

💀

You were dreading going to work. Your arms felt heavy as you applied your makeup with a pout on your lips. No matter how hard you worked at it, your eyeliner looked a little smudged and your lipgloss was dull.

Simon was leaving tonight. 

He'd never been inside your apartment. He'd never seen you in anything but your work clothes. He only interacted with you on nights when you had a shift at the pub. But you thought about him so much, it was like he had seeped into every aspect of your life. But he was leaving, and you knew he wouldn't give you any details. But it had to be for work. A new military assignment. All you knew for sure was the gnawing feeling in your gut that he would be risking his life.

Most of your shift has passed before he squeezed his shoulders through the doorway and found a stool at the bar. There was a smile plastered on your face all night, but it wasn't until you saw him that it was genuine. 

"Simon," you sighed, already reaching for a pint glass to keep your fingers busy when pure happiness bubbled up inside you.

"Hi, love."

Everytime he called you that, his soft eyes lingered on your face. You didn't know when anyone would look at you that way again. His drink was set down, and his money was pushed away. You wouldn't take it. He drank his pint slowly, glaring at any other man whose gaze lingered your way for more than the barest few seconds. Than you let him know it was time for your shift to end. 

Tonight both of you were silent. When you reached for his hand, he wrapped his fingers gently around yours. When you stood on your front step, shivering in the damp night air, he wrapped you up in his grasp.

"Ya' be good, love. Take care of yourself." His voice was so deep and warm, you shivered even more. "Tell Soap if ya' need something. He knows to take care of ya'."

There were so many questions brimming in your mind, but they were all silenced when his lips skimmed along your temple. You whimpered before Simon put a foot of space between your bodies, an intensity in his eyes you'd never seen before. Maybe he already knew what he meant to you by this point, but you couldn't say the words as tears stung your eyes.

"Please stay safe," you whispered, and he nodded toward your door.

"Get inside, love. I won't be gone long."

But he was.

At first, you smiled when Soap or Gaz showed up at the bar at the end of your shifts. They weren't anywhere near as imposing looking as Simon, but you knew your ex boyfriend wouldn't be lining up to mess with either of them. They seemed to rotate who walked you home. Conversation was easy with both of them, and they never touched you. When you asked them about Simon, they assured you he knew how to handle himself. 

But one week turned into two and then three. You were starting to worry. "Have you heard anything from Simon?" you asked Soap one particularly cold night.

"Nah. He'll be back when he gets back. Try not to worry too much."

You paused before you asked him, "What did he say when he asked you and Gaz to make sure I got home safely from work?"

Soap's face split into a grin in the glow from a streetlight. "Hey, now that's between friends, ain't it?"

You weren't exactly sure what he meant, but you could feel your brow pucker with concern. "You really think he's okay?"

Soap laughed heartily. "That feckin' arsehole ain't gonna to miss the chance to keep walking you home from work. Trust in that much."

You nodded and unlocked your door, bidding him a good night before closing and locking it as tears burned your eyes.

Next thing you knew, Simon had been gone for six weeks. It was hard to keep up the chitchat with Gaz and Soap when each time you saw them, it was a reminder of who was missing. What if he never returned? Who would even inform you if something happened to him? Were you supposed to fret like this and curl into a tight ball alone as you fell asleep for weeks longer?

You daydreamed about what it would feel like to kiss Simon. You imagined his warmth snug against you in bed, heavy arm wrapped around your body. You thought about his voice, rough but sweet, telling you that he felt the same way you did.

But two months was a long time to go without his meticulous attention. And while it made you ache to see him again, perhaps it was having the opposite effect on him. Maybe he hasn't thought about you much, if at all. He was probably busy working around the clock, dedicated to the task at hand. His mind wouldn't be on the silly bartender back home who could barely handle herself around him.

It was hard to smile at work tonight. It wasn't very busy now that winter had fully arrived. Everyone seemed to prefer to huddle up at home this late when the wind was blowing. You'd prefer to be there right now too, instead of pouring a double whiskey and a glass of wine. 

You were getting really close to the end of your shift, and there was still no sign of Soap or Gaz. Occasionally they arrived just in time to walk you home, but usually they got here early enough to plop down on a stool for a drink or two. You were longing for your bed, and the idea of having to hang out and wait for the escort you probably no longer needed felt daunting.

Your hands were tired from polishing the glassware, stacking it up below the bar top to help you pass the time. When the door opened, the brief rush of cold air made you shiver as you turned to greet the newcomer. But he was familiar in a way that made a smile break out on your face as a shot glass landed a little hard on the shelf when it slipped from your fingers.

"Hi, love."

He was back. He looked terrible. Bruised cheeks and a black eye decorated his face, but seeing him in person was still better than your best daydream. All you wanted to do was touch him.

"Simon!"You rushed through the opening in the bar, launching yourself into his arms. "I missed you." Without thinking, you ran your hands gently along his face. Without another word, you pressed your lips against his.

💀